CHAPTER

9

The woods were waking up from an after-lunch nap time. We strolled along, looking up and around, so that if anyone saw us, they’d think we were looking for birds. Knowing what our real plan was, though, I was having trouble acting casual. Suddenly I heard a series of deep bleating calls and then wild ringing chuckles.

I froze in place, but Foghorn flipped through his bird book. “It’s a go-away bird,” he said finally, holding his finger in his book and looking around. “Probably the barefaced go-away bird.”

The bird laughed again.

“There it is. See it, C.C.?” Foghorn pointed to a pale gray bird that had a white breast. Its face was bare and black. “See the crest and long tail. It’s in the turaco family.”

“I don’t care whose family it’s in. Maybe it’s telling us something. Maybe we should ‘go-away’ back to the camp.”

“This isn’t like you, C.C. You’re usually the impulsive one. I’ve gotten you out of several scrapes because you didn’t think before you acted.” Foghorn put a check by the bird’s name on his list.

“This was your plan, remember? And I’ve never had to spy on anyone at the same time feeling like everything in the woods was spying on me. I’m having to watch out for snakes and lions and buffalo and who knows what else?”

“Lions are more often in the grasslands, not in the trees. We should watch for snakes, but they’re more prevalent in the summer. Buffalo are our biggest worry, and since we’re near the river we could happen onto hippos. I understand they’re very dangerous.”

“You’re a lot of help.”

“I try to be realistic.”

The bird bleated and laughed at us again.

“Go away!” I called.

“It is usually normal procedure to be quiet when we’re spying on someone.” Foghorn led the way down a ravine.

“We aren’t anywhere near the village yet.” I stepped over a log and some dead tree limbs. “And we’ll never get there if you’re really going to look for birds.”

Foghorn kept his glasses pointed toward the road. We were walking parallel with it. “This bird has brown trousers and a used-to-be-white shirt.”

I grabbed my own binoculars and focused them. I was just in time to see Julius and his friend disappear. They hadn’t seen us, but were walking toward our camp.

“If the poachers are coming from that village, maybe someone has paid Julius and his friend to keep track of where we are and what we’re doing,” Foghorn said. “We’re making them nervous.”

“Do you think we’ve located the poachers by accident?” It would be a break if we had. We had so little to go on. But I couldn’t get the machine gun off my mind.

Neither could Foghorn. “Why else would they have an AK-47 in camp. Most Masai still carry spears.”

“If Julius is involved with this, do you think Minto knows who’s doing the poaching? Or maybe he’s involved, too. I hate to think that. Dr. Langley said he’s been with him a long time.”

“Just because they’re brothers doesn’t mean they’re both involved. And I suppose Julius could be getting paid to watch us without knowing why.”

“Should we go on?” I hoped Foghorn would say no.

“Why not?” He started walking again, a lot faster.

“You’ve stopped being cautious.” I didn’t mind moving faster. In fact, it was much easier than sneaking. I forgot to look at every tree and bush, every step I took.

“If I’m right, the only persons who would see us coming are behind us.”

The river swung north and the woods started to open up. We stopped on a hill overlooking the manyatta at a distance.

“I should have known we couldn’t get close in daylight.” Foghorn stared at the village through his binoculars.

“We sure can’t come back at night.” I looked around, too. There was a lot of activity. Boys were driving cattle into the circle of huts for the night. Smaller children chased goats. If they were supposed to be rounding them up, they weren’t having much luck.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too dangerous. And I’m not just worried about poachers. Almost all the animals hunt at night.”

“How else are we going to find out who owns that gun and why it’s in the village?”

“It may not even be there now. Whoever owned it may have left. And what do you plan to do? Wait until everyone is asleep and go into the huts looking for a gun?”

“I don’t have a precise plan.” Foghorn squatted down and kept staring at the village through his binoculars.

“The great Foghorn Flattery doesn’t have a plan?”

“I said a precise plan. My plan is to identify the poachers. They probably do most of their hunting at night, too. If we could see them leave from this village, then we could tell the rangers where their base was located.”

I didn’t reply. What could I say? Foghorn had to know that going out at night was dangerous. He was right. I was seldom scared, but we were in very unfamiliar territory here.

“I can come back without you.”

I imagined sitting in my tent, knowing Foghorn was out here wandering around. I would worry even if he was pesky and egotistical and exhausting to live with and …

“You need me along.”

“Name three reasons.”

“It’ll be scarier than you think if you’re alone. I can run faster than you can. And—and I might miss out on something.”

Foghorn laughed. “I knew you’d see it my way. Take a look behind the kraal, C.C. Isn’t that Michael Mugambi?”

“It sure is. He’s just standing there smoking. Maybe he stops and rests for a while at each camp before he moves on.”

“Maybe.” Foghorn kept watching. So did I, but Michael didn’t do anything except look at his watch several times. Was he waiting for someone? After a while he walked back inside the circle of huts and toward the front of the kraal.

“Foghorn, this is just a hunch, but he doesn’t look as if he belongs there.”

“He doesn’t. He’s just passing through.”

“I mean today. He looks nervous.”

“How can you tell from this distance that a man is nervous?”

“Never mind. I said it was a hunch.” How could I explain to Foghorn, who bases everything on logic and facts, that I didn’t feel right about Michael being in the village? It didn’t make any sense to me either.

Foghorn scrambled to his feet. “Let’s get back to camp before anyone discovers we’re not there. Dad’s too smart. We don’t want him suspecting anything about tonight.”

Walking quickly back through the woods, we were able to get very close to Julius and his friend before they heard us. They swung around, a look of surprise on their faces.

“Jambo, Julius,” I said, smiling a huge smile.

“Come have a Coke.” Foghorn invited the boys into camp as if finding them spying was normal.

They didn’t know how to act casual. Not even mumbling, “No thank you” they took off down the road.

“If Julius is supposed to be helping someone or spying on us, I’d say he didn’t have much experience.”

Foghorn agreed as he headed for his tent.

We had planned to let the camp settle down after dinner and go back to the Masai village at eleven, so there was time to kill until then. I felt sweaty and gritty and decided to learn to use the shower.

I went to the kitchen and got a glass of lemonade before I made the attempt, stopping for a little while to watch Minto iron. With no electricity available he had filled a big hollow iron with live charcoal. Dr. Langley’s shirt was spread on a board, and the hot iron smoothed it nicely.

“Rich American girl have someone iron for her at home?” Minto smiled at me.

There was no way I was going to lose that image. “To tell the truth, Minto, I do. But not because we’re rich. My mom died a long time ago, and we have a housekeeper who helps us out. She irons, or sometimes I iron, but most of our clothes are permanent-press—they don’t need ironing.”

“Somebody cook for you, too?” Minto showed me an oven that worked in a similar way to the iron. Several cooks working over open fires stirred big pots. Dinner smelled good. I hoped it would be for a change.

I gave up on convincing Minto I wasn’t rich and grinned at his question. Let him think I was rich and spoiled. “Yes. She makes very good food. Like you.” I lied, but it was good P.R. No way could I tell Minto that his dinners left a lot to be desired, not to mention me hungry.

I had just finished my drink and was heading for my tent when Foghorn appeared between his and mine. His hair was wet, so I knew he’d tried the camp shower.

“How does it work?” I asked.

“You get in, soap up, then pull on that little wire that’s attached to the bucket to let the water come down on you. You pull one side to start the water and the other to make it stop. It’s a very simple device.”

“I might have known.” I wished I had just done it instead of giving Foghorn a chance to more or less say, “You’re really dumb, C.C. Everyone knows how a camp shower works.”

“Leave your clean clothes outside the door.”

That remark didn’t even deserve a smart-aleck comment. I stepped into my tent to look through my bag. Camping Kenya-style wasn’t like backpack camping or even regular camping in the United States. The tents were taller and stronger. Inside each were two cots with sheets and blankets, neatly made up. Between them was a small table with a lantern on it. There was even a rug on the floor. It was braided of some material that looked like rope. Outside on a little stand was a canvas bowl. Minto said we’d get hot water in the morning, and if we wanted to wash small things, ask for water anytime. The porters would do our other laundry like jeans and shirts.

“Very civilized,” Foghorn had said, with a very English accent, when he had first seen the setup.

I looked all around when I got to the shower behind the tents. It was the same size canvas shelter as the bathroom tent. No one was around, thank goodness. I felt awfully funny pulling off my clothes and getting inside. I stepped in, still wearing my underwear. I poked it through the door onto the pile of dirty jeans and shirt I’d left behind. When I looked up at the canvas bucket overhead, I could also see trees and late afternoon sky. I felt like I was in some kind of exotic movie. But then I remembered that when a woman got into a shower in the jungle a snake or a big spider was always mysteriously lowered into the scene. She’d have to come screaming out of the shower wrapped in a towel. I shivered and made a complete inspection of the ground around me. “Silly,” I whispered, and laughed.

The bucket leaked, of course. And enough water had dripped onto me to soap up all I cared to. I didn’t even dream of washing my hair. If it got a little wet it would just curl more, but it took a lot of shampoo and water and time to wash it. I hadn’t had time to get it cut and it was pretty bushy. Why would a Masai want a wife who looked so different from him? I could laugh at that idea, thank goodness. I didn’t think my dad would sell me for a herd of goats.

I was feeling almost human when I pulled on the bucket chain. Getting clean was going to be wonderful. I pulled harder. Nothing happened. Why didn’t it work? I pulled on the other end. Bumped it back and forth, making the bucket swing.

Now what was I going to do? I was trapped inside the tent, all soaped up and the shower didn’t work. I wondered if Foghorn knew there was something wrong with it. But he looked clean. He had even washed his hair.

“Foghorn,” I called in a small voice. Then in a bigger voice, suddenly panicked: “Foghorn! Dad! Someone!”

I had to yell over and over before anyone heard me.

“Missy? That you?”

It was one of the porters. How embarrassing.

“Yes, it’s C.C. There’s something wrong with the shower.”

“I see.”

The bucket rose, pulled higher and higher by a rope outside.

“I see, I see. Just wait. You wait.”

What else could I do? I stood there, fuming, cold, feeling very silly. Then I hugged myself, trying to be very small. Several voices from outside chattered in Swahili. Finally the bucket appeared overhead. It came down and down until I said, “Okay. You fix?”

“We fix.” There was laughter. They thought this was funny.

I pulled on the wire and water gushed out. They fixed.

Quickly I finished my shower, getting the soap off as fast as I could manage. I teetered on one foot, then another, drying off, getting into my clothes. Who knew how many porters were standing outside waiting to see me come out.

To my surprise there was no one outside. I hurried to my tent, brushed my hair, tossed my dirty clothes in a corner and stepped outside again. Hanging my towel on a line by the tent to dry, I started for the dining room.

My dad, Dr. Langley, and Foghorn grinned at me when I walked up. “Have trouble with the shower, C. C.?” asked Foghorn.

His tone of voice made me sure he knew something was wrong with it when he finished showering. “You knew something was wrong with the shower, didn’t you, Foghorn? You knew it and you let me get in there. I asked you how to use it. You could have told me to get someone to fix it.”

“What was wrong with it, smart sister, was one little detail. It needs water to work right.”

“You didn’t tell me it was out of water.” I stomped my foot, wanting to kill my smart brother.

“I assumed everyone knew a shower had to have water before it functioned properly.”

Dad and Dr. Langley didn’t even try to hide their laughter. I stormed over to the kitchen to see if Minto needed help. I wasn’t going to stand around being the joke of the evening. Just wait. There must be something terrible I could think of to do to Foghorn.

No one would let me help with anything. The table was set, the meal was almost finished. Such as it was. The chicken curry had been seasoned by another joker. The rice was lumpy and sticky. Someone had dumped peas and corn into the mashed potatoes—for easier eating, I guessed. Dessert was some strange cooked fruit compote. I longed for a pizza or Mrs. Briggs’ fried chicken. And her apple pie. I’d have given ten dollars for a slice of her apple pie. Right then I was a spoiled American kid and more than a little homesick.

The nicest part of dinner was that no one said anything else about showers, and a giraffe came down to the river just before dark. His long neck was silhouetted against the sky, making me wish I could capture the scene with my camera. But even without a photo, I knew I’d remember the picture of our evening visitor forever.

I lingered over a cup of cocoa, listening to the insects and birds announcing nightfall.

For a few moments I actually forgot Foghorn’s crazy plan. I had committed myself to going out into the African night, looking for the rhino poachers. I told myself I shouldn’t go one step into the woods with him, after his tricking me with the shower. But I knew he would go without me.

I sighed, got up, and started for my tent. I wondered if my dad would be suspicious if I hugged him and said good-bye.

“I’m tired,” I announced. “Guess I’ll go to bed early.”

“Good idea, C.C.” Dad closed his notebook. “We’ll go out early with Dr. Langley to find Pablo and Mia.”

Dr. Langley had talked of nothing else at dinner. He was enjoying teenage rhino-watching. Apparently the Texas gang was mixing well with the Kenya gang. They were still young enough to be no threat to another, older rhino. It was what he had hoped would happen.

I waited until eleven, like Foghorn had said. I was too excited to sleep anyway. Then, getting my jacket, I looked over my gear. No use taking a camera or my binoculars. I filled my jacket pockets with hard candy and a package of gum. Dabbing mosquito repellent on my neck and wrists, I smeared my finger on my ears and forehead to dry it. Then I tied a bandanna around my hair and knotted it on the back of my neck. Unseen branches might catch in it by night. Spiders and bugs, my imagination reminded me. Bats. Does Kenya have bats? What difference did it make now? There were worse things than bats.

As much as I hated the idea of going to the bathroom at night, it was necessary. I gripped my flashlight and slipped out through the tent flap. I stopped, listened, tiptoed softly around behind the row of tents, stopped again. This was not necessary. Going to the bathroom any time of the night was perfectly normal. But if Dad should happen to see me, he would know I wasn’t dressed for bed.

There was a low fire in the kitchen area. The porters were still washing up. They chattered and a couple of them were singing. It was a comfortable sound. They were a happy bunch, laughing and talking at full speed. I wondered how they could have so much to talk about. They were probably discussing the silly tourists. I wondered what they would think about two greenhorns going prowling around the woods at night? They’d have better sense.

“Knock knock,” I said, in case the bathroom was occupied.

No one answered. When I got inside, I laid my flashlight on the ground so anyone outside could see it. There was a tiny stool perched over a deep hole. Every time I came inside I had visions of the stool falling off the edge into the hole with me on it. Carefully I sat down. I had no more relaxed when there was a terrible noise outside.

“Oooooough, ooooough, oooough.”

It was a lion!