CHAPTER

4

We said good-bye and thanks, and Sam flew us in the small plane back to the San Antonio airport. Changing to a jumbo jet in Houston, we settled down for the long flights to New York, London, and Nairobi. Foghorn didn’t seem bothered by sitting for hours. He could read. But I felt like I was in prison. I wondered if Mia and Pablo felt the same way. It would be really scary to be taken from wide-open Texas countryside and stuffed into the belly of an airplane.

A couple of times, when the plane bumped or bounced a little, my imagination ran away from me. I could just see Pablo jumping up and down or Mia running back and forth. Maybe the stewardess would come on the intercom and say, “Please fasten your seat belts, ladies and gentlemen. We’re experiencing some turbulence because the rhinos are restless.” I laughed out loud. Foghorn looked at me as if to say, “Are you losing it, C.C.?”

Trying not to lose my mind, I paced the aisles. I didn’t dare take the jump rope from around my waist and bounce up and down a dozen times. A lot of people were sleeping. As a last resort, I tried to sleep squished up in a seat between Foghorn and my dad. It didn’t work. Even all the food the stewards and stewardesses brought wasn’t enough to keep me happy.

Finally, after twenty-two hours of flying time from San Antonio—changing planes in New York and with only a short break in London—the captain announced that we should prepare for landing at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. Foghorn had told me earlier that the airport had been named after Kenya’s first president.

When we taxied to a stop, I grabbed my stuff and scampered gratefully off the plane. Inside the terminal, I whisked my jump rope from around my waist and started counting. “One—two—” It felt wonderful to be out of the plane and bouncing up and down. I’ve read that some people are addicted to running or jogging. It’s called positive addiction. I confess, I’m addicted to jumping.

“C.C., stop that,” Foghorn said, as we stood in line waiting to go through customs. “Do you want Kenyans to think Americans are weird?”

“They have to meet you, don’t they? Twenty-five, twenty-six.” I continued to jump. People were looking at me kind of funny, but I didn’t care. I was sure now that I knew how Pablo and Mia must feel, cooped up in a cage for over twenty hours. I wanted to snort and run and wallow in a mud bath, too.

Dad waved for a taxi when our luggage had passed inspection, and we headed down the Uhuru Highway to downtown Nairobi and our hotel. I peered out the window, marveling at the huge bushes of bougainvillea which were in bloom.

“Nairobi is called the City of Flowers,” said our driver, who spoke perfect English. He pointed out landmarks, the Nairobi Motor Race Track and the east entrance to Nairobi National Park.

“Is this the Ngong River that we’re crossing?” Foghorn looked at a map he’d bought at the airport.

“It sure is,” said the driver. “Not much water in it now.” He turned down Kenyatta Avenue and pulled up in front of the New Stanley Hotel.

“Almost all of the people are dressed like us.” I looked at the crowds on the sidewalks, feeling disappointed. “Where are the native people? Where are the tall Masai warriors?”

“They don’t live in the cities, silly,” said Foghorn.

“I would imagine those who do come into the city have modern clothes they wear,” said Dad. “Although the Masai people don’t seem to want to move into the cities. They like their nomadic life.”

“So would I,” Foghorn said.

“Oh, you would not,” I teased. “There wouldn’t be any books to read.”

“Maybe you’re right for once, C.C. I just finished reading about that thorn tree.” Foghorn pointed to a huge acacia tree in the center of an outside cafe which was beside our hotel. “The original hotel opened in 1911. Hunters used to come into town and leave notes on the first tree for their friends who were on safari. People still leave notes on this one.”

“Lovers especially,” said the taxi driver, helping with our bags. He winked at me and I laughed. I didn’t plan on meeting a boyfriend in Nairobi.

“Pablo and Mia will go straight to the reserve,” said Dad, “but I knew we’d be tired after that long trip. I told Dr. Langley to pick us up here in the morning. Do you want to eat or sleep or wander around the streets and go to the market?”

Foghorn yawned. “I’m sure C.C. wants to eat, but I’d like to go to the market.”

I actually wasn’t hungry, since it seemed like all we’d done was eat for the whole plane trip. Foghorn’s yawn was catching, though. I put my hand over my mouth to cover a huge yawn.

Dad laughed. “Let’s try to stay awake until almost bedtime. We won’t have so much jet lag if we get on Kenya time as soon as possible.”

We tried. We walked all the streets around the hotel, went in all the stores, then went to the market, a few short blocks away. Dad reminded us how little space we had in our luggage, so Foghorn and I selected small wooden animal carvings for souvenirs. For each of our teachers we got black letter-openers with Masai figures carved on the top. I got my best friend Bev a carved rhino for the miniature animal collection I’d helped her start.

As soon as we had dinner we tumbled into bed, hardly noticing the narrow, lumpy mattresses.

The next morning Dr. Langley, an American wildlife biologist who was working in Kenya, met us for breakfast at the buffet in the hotel. He had stayed in Nairobi overnight on some business, after supervising Mia and Pablo’s unloading from the plane and loading into a truck. They had gone on to the park where they’d live in Kenya.

We filled our plates with all the kinds of fruit and then ordered eggs from the waiter who hovered around our table. Most of the Kenyan cooks had learned to cook Western dishes from the English people who’d settled Kenya, so breakfast was wonderful. I stuffed my mouth while I listened to Dad and Dr. Langley talk.

“You have to understand, Paul, that as terrible as this war to save the rhino is—and it is a war—there is another side to the picture. The native poachers can earn the equivalent of a year’s wages from selling one rhino horn. It’s hard to keep them from wanting to do that. What we need to do is stop the demand for the horn. Unscrupulous traders get extremely high prices for horns. In Taiwan, horn can retail for over thirteen thousand dollars a pound.”

I nearly choked on my juice. “Thirteen thousand! No wonder poachers go after the horn.”

“That’s better than the price of gold,” Foghorn added, sipping his orange juice.

“Sure is, so you can see our problem.”

“What do people want with the horn?” I asked.

“The powdered horn has long been used in folk medicine cures. People think it cures fevers, headaches, and heart trouble, and stops nosebleeds. They make an ointment of the powder for skin diseases.”

“But does it help any of that?”

“You might as well chew your fingernails. You’d get the same results.” Dr. Langley sipped his tea. “The horn is made of densely compacted fibers of keratin, a protein found in hair and fingernails.”

“I read that the horn is also used in crafts,” Dad added.

“Dagger handles made of rhino horn are much in demand in some Arab countries.”

“Do you have any new figures on just how bad the slaughter is?” Dad was taking notes all the time we talked.

“The black rhino is extinct in fourteen out of the twenty countries that had the species seven years ago. In 1970 we estimated sixty thousand animals. In 1980 the figure dropped to fifteen thousand. In 1987 there were thirty-five hundred, and just this year we figure there are half that number left. All rhinos will be killed in the next few years unless we stop the slaughter.”

Foghorn and I looked at each other. I thought of Macho and Pablo and Mia. Granted they were dumb and ugly, but they were like huge, loving pigs. I thought about how long Foghorn said they had been on earth. And now they were almost extinct. I was glad Dad was here to write some articles about what was happening. I was ready to do whatever I could to help save the rhino. I could at least take photos and tell everyone I knew what was happening.

“Well, are you ready to go out to the reserve?” asked Dr. Langley, finishing his pot of tea.

We were, and in half an hour we were loaded into Dr. Langley’s Land Rover, barreling down Uhuru Highway, which had quickly turned into Mombasa Road. The road, certainly not a superhighway like those in the United States, wound through hills, valleys, and empty plains, past small towns, past small clumps of Masai warriors herding cattle. Even from the speeding car I could see they were tall, draped in their red, sort of shift-like clothing. Many carried spears.

Dr. Langley read my mind. “You’ll find lots of Masai people who will pose for your camera if you pay them a little,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I want to stop as infrequently as possible today. I hate leaving the reserve for long. I feel responsible for seeing that Mia and Pablo get settled safely. I wanted to come with them last night, but I felt I should see Dr. Sutto before he left to go back to Nepal. They’ve been pretty successful with reintroducing the rhino there.”

“Ohhh, look!” I said. On our right, the clouds lifted to give us a peek at Kilimanjaro. The snow-covered, lofty peak had always sounded so romantic to me. Foghorn and I had watched two old movies set in Africa on our VCR before we left. One of them was called The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

“That’s the highest peak in Africa,” said Foghorn. “It’s 19,340 feet high, but you can climb it without oxygen.”

“You can. I’m no mountain climber. I wish we could ride that train, though.” I had noticed the track that ran parallel to much of the highway. I loved trains, and the only time we got to ride them was when we were out of the United States. You could take a train from Denver to New York or to California, but since Dad was usually in a hurry, we always flew.

It was after lunch—a picnic, prepared for us before we left by the hotel—when we reached Tsavo East National Park.

“Tsavo is Kenya’s largest national park,” said Dr. Langley. “Tsavo West is open to tourists. We’ve tried to keep Tsavo East pristine, a true wildlife sanctuary. Tsavo’s black rhino population was once the largest concentration in the world. There were probably six, eight thousand. Now we hope there are a hundred in each section of the park. But I doubt that there are.”

“I hope two more got here safely,” said Foghorn, as the Land Rover stopped and we jumped out.

“I can hardly wait to see Mia and Pablo again.” I struggled to get my things out of the car. I wanted a photo right away so I could label them before and after. Mia and Pablo in Texas. Mia and Pablo in their new home in Africa. I wondered if they’d make friends with the other rhinos in the park.

We were interrupted by a tall native boy who ran up to Dr. Langley.

“Bad news, Doctor,” said the boy. “Very bad news. Very bad thing happen this morning. Come around back, haraka, haraka!”

“Quickly, quickly,” Foghorn whispered. He took off behind Dr. Langley and Dad.

Something was obviously wrong, and suddenly I had a very bad feeling. Mia and Pablo. Please, please don’t let anything have happened to them, I prayed. I grabbed my camera and dashed after Foghorn.