Murder on Safari: A Thriller

by Peter Riva

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Only a reality TV producer and an expert safari guide can stop a terrorist attack. Every adventure starts at the fringes of civilization. For expert safari guide Mbuno and wildlife television producer Pero Baltazar, filming in the wild of East Africa should have been a return to the adventure they always loved. This time they'd be filming soaring vultures in northern Kenya and giant sea crocodiles in Tanzania with Mary, the daughter of the world's top television evangelist, the very reverend Jimmy Threte. But when a terrorist cell places them in the crosshairs, there is suddenly no escape and they must put their filming aside and combine all their talents to thwart an all-out al-Shabaab terrorist attack on Jimmy Threte's Christian gathering of hundreds of thousands in Nairobi, Kenya. The problem is, Pero has a secret--he's been working as a clandestine courier for the US State Department for years. If anyone finds out, it may get them all killed. Exciting and expertly plotted, Murder on Safari is a gripping, edge-of-your-seat thriller set in the great wide-open plains of East Africa.

Release date: September 5, 2023

Publisher: Yucca

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER 1

THE AJURAN PLATEAU KENYA, 2002

Every adventure in the wild starts at the fringes of civilization. For a seasoned safari guide like Mbuno, the dirt-filled concrete island separating the car park from the main terminal of Nairobi Airport represented a no-man’s land separating his escape back to the wild and the full-on Western chaos seen before him that he had no desire to cross into. His graying eyes carefully scanned the hustle and bustle of tourists hauling overstuffed hard-sided suitcases with uncertain wheels across the broken pavement as they exited into the equatorial sun from the smelly, packed, customs’ hall. Even from there as he sat cross-legged atop an aging, dented, dark green, long-wheelbase, safari Land Rover, he could smell the baggage porters’ sweat from too many Tusker beers the night before, thin wisps of tourists’ perfume splashed on to disguise ten-hour flight odor, and the pungent smell of sandalwood oil used as polish throughout the airport, mixed odors now outgassing with the stampede of tourists eager to experience the “real Africa” the holiday brochures promised.

Patiently, like the Waliangulu expert tracker he was, his mind’s eye had a fixed image of his prey; the faces, shapes, and baggage of the people he was there to collect. As the late morning sun beat at his back, there was not a breath of wind, not a cloud in the sky, but his eyes never blinked, his gaze never averted.

In the maelstrom before him, the airport swinging glass doors blinked reflected visions of milling people about to emerge. Once outside, the newcomers were descended upon by matatu drivers, unlicensed taxis, and hotel minivan drivers, ready to whisk the passengers away to the eagerly awaited sanctity of the urban reality to be found in Nairobi, the long lost white hunter Mecca of Hemingway, Holden, Roosevelt, and countless other African adventurer legends.

Mbuno had been through the airport customs’ hall many times returning from safari in distant lands outside of Kenya. As he waited, seated on the ticking aluminum shell of the Land Rover’s roof, ever intent on the flickering arrivals before him, he imagined, accurately, what the crew he awaited was facing inside.

Off conveyor belts in the sweltering baggage hall in Kenyatta International Airport, the man he was there to collect, Pero Baltazar was searching for his television production colleagues while keeping an eye out for the customs agent hired to help clear the pile of filming equipment, shipped as expensive checked overweight luggage instead of freight. In the button-down side pocket of his safari jacket, Pero no doubt had the bills of lading as well as copies of the original purchase/rental orders for all the equipment, the commercial insurance, the packing lists for each case and, of course, the certificates of origin. As the lone producer for this television shoot, all this paperwork, as well as the crew’s safety, was his responsibility, Mbuno knew, just as he knew the customs officials hoped to catch a mzungu—a white man—without proper paperwork. Mbuno smiled, knowing Baltazar was surely prepared; he always had been before.

Mbuno also imagined Pero’s partner Bill “Heep” Heeper, somewhere in the melee, one sloped shoulder from decades of video work, possibly secretly illegally filming the customs’ hall chaos, catching the slight panic of some of the tourists at the “otherness” of the people all around them, the jumble of luggage spilling out and off conveyors, and the swagger of the customs officials. Pero would spot Heep and signal him over and, above all, get him to stop filming before someone confiscated the camera.

A tough but elegant and talented Dutchman, with sun-bleached hair, Pero’s partner Heep had been born in the shadow of Hitler, seen his relatives hauled off to concentration camps and, as soon as he could, learned a trade that matched his desire to “get to the land of the free.” Once he had become indispensable to documentary filmmakers in Hollywood, he spent most of his time traveling the world as an award-winning cameraman and, lately, as an equally talented director of the partners’ joint filming assignments. Mbuno liked him and importantly, trusted Heep’s instincts in the wild. Of course, it would be Mbuno’s job to keep the crew from getting injured or worse once they reached remote locations in the bush. Filming wildlife was always risky, but for over twenty years Mbuno had seen to it that his charges were protected.

Heep spoke four languages, Mbuno knew and was, always, under-spoken, professional, and determined. Over the years, Pero had found that Heep wasn’t a man to cross. In the field, if kept supplied with whatever he needed, he stayed happy and efficient. If anyone on a shoot showed any accidental incompetence, he could blow a fuse. Mbuno had worked with them both and knew the score. 

Coupled with the equatorial light dimly filtering in from overhead skylights, the fetid air in the crowded hall and the slightly heady 5,000 feet in altitude would give some people second thoughts about the safari of a lifetime. It always happened—Mbuno and the filmmakers had seen it all before. He watched a woman emerging uncertainly from the glass doors. She was set upon by taxi drivers plying their trade, grabbing her luggage and flight bag. Dressed in Florida pink shorts and pink T-shirt, dropping her oversized sunglasses on the ground, she began crying on the shoulder of her equally garish female companion: “I want to go home!”

Mbuno raised his voice, “Koma! Acha peke-ake!” (Stop! Leave her alone).

The taxi drivers looked towards the car park at the elder sitting on an official Land Rover. Mbuno’s voice carried authority. One tourist was not worth trouble. They backed away from the women and turned towards the next gaggle coming through the doors, Japanese tourists with phrase books open and ready. The woman comforting the crying lady in pink waved and smiled at Mbuno who simply nodded and went back to his vigil.

Mbuno knew that Pero, unlike some of these first time visitors, would be happy to be back in Africa, especially East Africa and Kenya in particular. He loved the fringe of civilization. He always told Mbuno that it made him feel he was about to get off, get out, get away, at least for a while. Mbuno smiled at a memory of the expression both Heep and Pero used: “Stop the world, we’re getting off.”

Mbuno had read the advance material Pero had sent him via mail to Giraffe Manor where he now lived. Every TV or film crew Mbuno had taken charge of always used the same terms: “Filming, indeed even stepping into Africa, is forbidding and dangerous; the Edge of the Wild will take viewers beyond belief.” The more danger they packed in the script, the more likely the sponsors would ante up the money needed to have the cable network agree to send them on filming adventures. Pero and Heep had explained on a time-lag phone line that they wanted to be out in the wilds of Kenya, away from the choking stench of the cities, making contact with native people, animals, and an especially dangerous seagoing crocodile—capturing the last vestiges of the Earth’s wildlife on camera. Every year, “wild” was becoming harder to find. In truth, all three men were a little depressed that, all over the planet, zoos were springing up masquerading as National Parks and wildlife refuges. The whole of Africa was on the verge of “wild” extermination—the result of tourist dollars, industrial powers’ exploitation, and locally rocketing populations.

What Pero’s team were making was supposed to be “commercial wildlife genre” TV. In reality, it was repackaged, in-your-face, human stories in which the animals played only a supporting role. None of the team was fooled. They had cashed the checks and enjoyed the ride before and would do it again. Pero’s personally stated justification was a man has to eat, so he might as well enjoy the process. The awards and Emmy nominations only stroked the ego—even if it was a bit hypocritical. Mbuno knew that as Pero was the creator and producer, he would—sometimes—become the general whipping boy for the cable network accountants fighting over expense billing, even down to the price of bottled water in foreign hotels. Somehow, Pero seemed to roll with the

petty times to enjoy the richness of the last of the wild with his friend Mbuno and his colleague Heep.

From behind the Land Rover, an unfamiliar Indian voice cut through Mbuno’s attention, “Mzee Mbuno?” Using the honorific term “elder” in Swahili made Mbuno smile and wave the man forward, so he could see both him and the crowds. “I most sincerely apologize for keeping you waiting …” The Schenker badge on the Indian man’s jacket identified him as the film crew’s customs agent. The man was, as usual, clutching a folder stuffed with paperwork. “I have arranged for the transfer of the equipment as arranged to Wilson airport within three hours of clearance here. It took about fifteen minutes longer than expected because Mr. Pero and Mr. Heep had to explain all the equipment items to the Customs officials, a very serious waste of time, of course.” Mbuno knew Pero had used this agent before and that all would be delivered, on time, to the private plane charter the crew was catching in three hours. As the agent waved goodbye and hurried off, clutching his folder, Mbuno caught first sight of Pero as the team emerged into the sun. The taxi jackals crowded in for the kill. Mbuno’s sharp ears picked up Pero’s barked “Basi, rufi!” (Enough, go away) and Mbuno smiled and stood up on the roof of the Land Rover, waving slowly.

Pero looked over the heads of the crowd and saw the small car park beyond that was full of the now-usual exotic mixture of European cars and off-road vehicles. Once this would have been the exclusive province of Land Rover, but now there were Toyotas, Nissans, BMWs, Mercedes, Isuzus, and Mitsubishi. The dark green beaten-up old Land Rover with Mbuno waving on top almost looked out of place, a sign of safaris past. To Pero, the seemingly ageless man had been waiting for them to arrive, he knew, his graying hair shining in the morning sun. To Pero, Mbuno was slowly becoming equally anachronistic in the sea of modern East Africa streaming from the Terminal eager to see wildlife from the safety of zebra-painted minivans, AC running, windows firmly closed against exposure to the land. Images, cameras, were everything, the real experience sanitized, safe.

“Mbuno, good to see you,” Pero called and waved.

“And you too, Mr. Pero, and you, Mr. Heep, jambo!” Mbuno answered as he climbed down off the roof, his smile and extended hand showing true welcome. They shook hands, swapped grips to lock thumbs, then grasped forearms, then let go, laughed, and hugged. Clearly old friends, Pero and then Heep patted the aging Mbuno’s back as Mbuno opened the passenger door.

A slim man of thirty-five emerged and said, “Simon Thomson, Kenya Parks Service,” sticking out his hand. Simon was well known in wildlife circles as a crazy Kenyan who studied the flight patterns of birds of prey by soaring with them in a blue hang glider. The extremely long glider was strapped to the Land Rover’s roof. Simon saw Pero and Heep studying it and commented, “Like a bat, with ’er wings folded.”

Pero raised his eyebrows. In anticipation of the unasked question, Simon replied, “Mbuno here has reserved a four fouteeen,” he meant a Cessna 414, which seated ten, “she’ll fit up the aisle, no problem.”

Nodding, Heep replied, “Well, you’re both efficient, thanks Simon, glad to have you on board.”

“Always wanted footage

of me floating up there with the birds, you promised I could have a copy …” In accepting the shoot, he had faxed that he was going to use it to renew his research funding from Princeton University in New Jersey.

Pero nodded, “Yes, I promise. But I’ve gone one further. My father has a friend on the Board of Trustees at Princeton—he’s going to screen it for the committee personally.”

“Oh, that’ll be fine, really fine, I very much appreciate it.”

“And you’ll get your full fee as well. They play fair, Simon.”

He smiled, “So I’ve heard, word gets around. Mbuno here chooses his friends carefully.” Mbuno nodded. “Now, who are these chaps?”

Heep explained that one crewmember was a South African originally from Madagascar, Ruis Selby, the other a friend of Heep’s from Holland, Priit Vesilind. Everyone shook hands and repeated jambos. Mbuno had difficulty with Priit’s name, pronouncing it, “Mr. Preet.”

Priit thought that was fine. “What tribe are you from, Mr. Mbuno?”

In his singsong voice, Mbuno explained, “I am Liangulu, but we are not wanted as a tribe anymore. Our village is now part of national park land.” He said it in a sad way, so the men knew that Liangulu tribal life was probably irrevocably changed, perhaps not for the better. These wildlife crewmen had seen the demise of tribes all over the world, knew the score. Priit, impressed with Mbuno’s command of English and what was clearly Pero and Heep’s regard for this small elder tribesman, had to ask, “How’d you fellows all hook up?”

On the way into Nairobi, Pero explained some of the jobs to Priit that he’d been on with Mbuno. He focused on the ex-elephant hunter story about Mbuno, now turned expert safari and film guide. He focused on Mbuno’s cadre of clients, the high and wealthy, all of whom put their complete trust in the little Liangulu ex-elephant hunter. All true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Mbuno stayed silent.

Simon, of course, knew

Mbuno’s off-the-record story, being a Kenyan. The one where Mbuno saved a herd of elephants from slaughter and his tribe from banishment. That sort of gossip traveled fast, especially when a native managed to outfox corruption at the highest government level. Simon was sure Mbuno was formidable as a friend or enemy.

As for Ruis, he and Pero had been in-country together with Mbuno years ago. Ruis knew bits of Mbuno’s other story too. After all, he had seen Mbuno talk to elephants, calming them, for a better film shot. Ruis was in no doubt; there was more to the man than Pero was explaining to Priit. Ruis, like Heep and Pero before him, knew he could depend on Mbuno’s bush skills, his Liangulu expertise, and his ages-old native knowledge.

Mbuno’s tribe was called Waliangulu, which means “people of the Liangulu.” Waliangulu were traditional elephant hunters, had been for tens of thousands of years. Mbuno could still track, on foot, and hunt rogue elephant with a bow and arrow. This mere man with generational elephant understanding and skills, when stood up against a five-ton African elephant, was more than a fair match.

Before civilization replaced nature’s way of controlling wildlife, Africa was in balance with nature. If a tribesman needed meat, he went out and hunted. The most tender prey is always a young animal. However, a traditional hunter cannot get near to the young, protected by the herd, try as they might, so they settle on what they can approach. When armed with bow and arrow, or spear, on foot, hunters were always faced down by the old male or female protector of the herd. A test of wills and skills took place and, most of the time, the hunter usually prevailed, a tribute to the ingenuity of man. The old antelope or buffalo or elephant was consumed, every bit used, not a scrap left. The ivory was to trade for cloth or grain, the rest consumed or made into tools, hides or jerky. The old hunted elephant was probably sterile. The younger male or female that replaced it as herd leader bred the herd up, not down. Primordial wildlife in Africa once thrived because nature used to be in balance, a contest of skills.

Modern East Africa has different ideas. To preserve tourism, one by one governments had declared all hunting illegal, additionally wiping out the only traditional source of income and a way of life for tribes like Mbuno’s.

That didn’t mean the Waliangulu hunters lost their skills. The greatest of them became trophy taletellers at the National Park campsites and hotels. Some were easy recruiting targets for the poaching gangs using AK-47s to slaughter whole herds. A few of them, like Mbuno, found other employment for their skills, taking people out on safari who wanted to be away from civilization, even if only for a few weeks at a time, on the fringes of the old hunting grounds, where civilization had not quite arrived, yet. He had taken out royalty, billionaires, actors, writers, tourists from Japan and, for many years, Pero’s film crews. Mbuno had outlived all the older Waliangulu traditional hunters. He was now considered legendary. Pero and Heep considered him vital to any filming in Africa. They had been through this type of shooting safari before and knew they could trust him, with their lives if necessary.

Simon drove the long-wheelbase Land Rover with all the vents closed and the heating roaring, until Pero turned it off. It was morning and, being a Kenyan, Simon was feeling the cold. Pero was in the middle and Mbuno on the left. Pero and Mbuno exchanged news. Pero learned of his wife, Niamba, doing well at Giraffe Manor and Mbuno talked about the pending drought. Mbuno learned that Pero had been filming the Great White shark off Durban, which sounded very frightening. Mbuno likes the seaside, sometimes took his wife there, but not enough to deal with such hatari papa (dangerous sharks). Seeing Mbuno’s grimace at the mention of sharks, Pero changed the subject to explain his plans for filming up north and then perhaps a quick stop at Alec Wildenstein’s ranch Ol Jogi, which was not in the script, so far.

Meanwhile, the three on the back seat, Priit, Heep, and Ruis were complaining about the mess in the Customs and immigration halls at Nairobi Airport.

“It is just like always, no?” Priit’s singsong voice always made Pero smile.

Ruis finished Priit’s comment, “And they should film that damn mess one day, Heep, no one believes the chaos there when I tell them.”

Pero answered for Heep, “The Kenyan authorities would arrest you. If tourists saw this on TV, they would never come here. Bad for business. Me? I prefer it this way. If it was efficient and easy, most of the people would come back, then there would be nothing wild left anywhere. Anyway, Ruis, you’re a fine one to talk. Madacascar

is worse, much worse.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that, but they rebuilt this place for millions of dollars.… Couldn’t they have made this work a little better?”

Pero knew what was really bothering him and chuckled, “You get hit with the twenty-dollar fine for a wrong visa again?” Not having American passports, they had no doubt needed to buy the “special visa” on landing, essentially a bribe.

Ruis smiled, shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish, “Yeah, every damn time. They hate us southerners.” And, being old hands at Africa filming, they all laughed.

Heep turned the conversation back to business, “Ol Jogi? You want to film Rudi again?” Rudi was a behemoth of a black rhino who loved sugarcane. The last time they had filmed there, for a car commercial, Rudi had tried to get in the car to steal the sugar cane on the back seat. As the car was doing over twenty miles per hour at the time, driving became more than difficult. A two-ton car is no match for a two-ton determined rhino with a three-foot horn trying to squeeze through an open window. The damage was extensive.

Laughing, Pero said, “No, my friend, we’ll leave Rudi alone. But remember that cheetah pair they imported from South Africa? I thought we might be able to put cameras in the den and watch her give birth. They are due sometime in the next weeks I heard.”

Simon chimed in, “The Park’s team is up there studying them. They say they are perfectly tame, used to being near people. They can’t be touched, run a mile if you try, but you could film them pretty easily.”

The Land Rover had reached the turnoff for Nairobi National Park and Simon turned in. The guards at the gate saluted as the Land Rover approached. There was no need for permits or fees, not while they were in an officially recognized safari vehicle with Park permits on the windscreen. Inside the gate, they stopped for a moment to dole out sandwiches, bottled water, and soda that Mbuno had provided. As Simon drove on again, they started lunch. Simon was on his home ground here, “We’re getting more and more big raptors in the park again. We’ve got three pair of golden eagles breeding now; see there’s one pair over that Baobab.” He paused so they could watch them swooping in a mating ritual. As they drove off again, down the dirt road, they passed a carcass being torn apart, probably a lion kill carcass. “The Egyptian storks are becoming a problem. They have taken to frightening off the hooded vultures even if they get to a carcass late. Very bold and brazen they are.” He honked the horn to demonstrate. The birds didn’t even pause their feeding.

They drove past a pair of giraffe, enjoying a morning feed on the high up leaves of Acacia trees. Just out of their reach on the very top, the five black waiting hooded vultures, backs to the sun, scanned the sky for signs of circling cousins. A warthog mother and six new babies started to scurry across the road.

Mbuno asked Simon to slow,

 so they coasted slowly forward. After the troop had crossed, Mbuno counted, “Now I count to three—one, two and three …” And then came the male warthog, big tusks and all, following them up, scanning side to side as he ran, seemingly on tiptoes. “The male, he never leads, it is his job to protect the family. She in front, he in the back. It is a good sized litter, very big.”

For two hours they drove on, having a private safari guide tour, down the dip of the Athi River valley and up the other side, eventually to the Langata gate. As they came out onto the main road, they turned right, back towards Nairobi. The Park shortcut had avoided the traffic of town and acted as a ring road—an exotic ring road to be sure. After another ten minutes, passing through Langata District, they turned into Wilson Airport, Nairobi’s second airport, on the southwest of town, mostly used for charter flights and tourists hopping to exotic destinations.

Wilson Airport is famous. It is the home of the Flying Doctor service and most of the commercial charter airline companies. There are an equal number of foreign and local pilots here. Every day flights depart to the most remote locations in what once were the real wildernesses or safari jumping off airstrips: Malindi, Mogadishu, Arusha, Magadi, Marsabit, Kisumu, Musoma, Lamu, Maasai Mara, Narok, Nakur, Lake Rudolf, and, of course, Tsavo.

Hemingway, Bogart, Hepburn, Peck, Beard, Gardner, Wilde, Adamson, Douglas, Wayne, Naipul, Leakey—the names of the famous who plied their claim to adventure alighting from Wilson still continued to grow with names like Spielberg, Hanks, Linney, Streep, Redford, Iman, Attenborough, Gates, van Munster, and others.

They pulled up at Mara Airways and saw a sign proclaiming Flamingo Filming Ltd. being held up by a Flamingo travel agent next to a gleaming Cessna 414. Flamingo Filming was really only a desk in the Flamingo Travel Agency manned by a secretary they could rely on, called Sheila Ndelle, sister of the UN security police chief. Being inside a large tourist travel agency, Flamingo had access to all the computer booking services. The agent handed Pero the tickets and vouchers for the camp where they were heading. Pero signed the receipt, locally called a chit, and Sheila quickly said goodbye.

The Kenyatta Airport Schenker customs agent was also already there, supervising loading. “All twenty-seven cases accounted for and complete, Mr. Pero Baltazar, Sir.” Smiling, Pero thanked him and handed him an unsealed envelope he had prepared the day before. It contained one crisp $100 bill. The agent peered inside and beamed. “Thank you, Sir, very, very much, Sir.” He paused and reached down for a small flight bag, “Oh, and this is your private bag, Sir.” He handed it to Pero saying simply “It arrived yesterday, Sir.”

“Thanks for the good work. Regards to Schenker.” Pero extended his hand.

The agent shook it, nodded, and walked off, then turned and waved and disappeared around the corner.

“New man, Pero?” Heep asked.

Pero nodded, “But same company we always use. I was advised this was a new man, seems very reliable. So far things are going well.” Pero glanced at the paperwork, “He managed to get the batteries in without duty, so he’s pretty good.” Kenyan customs were famous for charging duty on all camera batteries. Seems they cannot distinguish between special rechargeable Sony batteries for the Betacam and the ones bought at a drugstore. Or perhaps they chose not to see the difference in order to pocket the duty.

Meanwhile, Mbuno and Simon had gotten the glider loaded down the plane’s aisle. There was no

reason for delay. Pero signed the charter register that the pilot handed him who then handed it to a ground crew member, and everyone boarded. As the pilot went through the pre-flight visual check around the aircraft, Pero took his seat—right seat, behind the controls. As the boss, it was his prerogative. As a safety precaution, it was sensible. The Australian pilot squeezed into his left seat, nodded to Pero, and twanged, “You okay to give me a hand, mate?”

Two pairs of hands, sometimes, are better than one. Traveling to remote locations around the world meant that Pero was more than familiar with most small aircraft. When he was fully seated, lap belt on and tight, Pero found the small cubby hole near his right knee, took out and started to read the pre-flight checklist out loud.

As the pilot started the left and then right engines to full throttle, pulled back the blades’ feather control to allow the engines to warm up, he said, “Thanks for the assist.” Pero nodded, checked the altimeter, saw the horizon even out as it spooled up, and tapped the fuel gauges to make sure they were fully accurate. The pilot nodded, “The right and left tanks are topped up—checked ’em myself. That right gauge is faulty, it’s on my list for the mechanics.”

Pero nodded again—he knew it was not unusual for there to be small maintenance items. He reached for the second radio, “And the frequency?”

“One oh three point two after takeoff, thanks.”

Pero turned the dials until the second radio was locked in, ready to use after takeoff when ground control would hand off to Kenya air traffic control. Then he settled back, folded his arms, and retracted his feet from the floor pedals. Pero was making sure the pilot knew he would not interfere with any controls, unless asked. The pilot looked over at him, smiled, and pushed transmit to ground control, “Mara flight eighty-two, bound for Ramu …”

The takeoff was smooth, uneventful, and as brusque as ever. At this altitude, full speed was needed on the ground before rotating the wings for lift-off. Once the speed indicator showed one hundred ten knots, the plane leapt off the ground, the wheels came up fast to help gain airspeed, and they gained altitude quickly. Heavily loaded with equipment and six people, the pilot had wisely kept the throttles and prop pitch set to full power.

Pero looked back and saw the crew settling in to sleep, with Mbuno in the tail, eyes closed, relaxed, probably dozing. They all knew it would be a bumpy ride; it always was that time of year, in the heat. The film crew was tired. An eight-hour red-eye flight is always tiring, even if they tried to sleep. Fatigue was creeping up on Pero as well, so he asked the pilot if he would be needing help for a while and he responded, “Nah, go on mate, get some shuteye.”

Pero awoke with a start some time later—his nerves re-transmitting memory that there had been a sharp bump in the flight. Pero tried to calm wakened nerves. He turned in the seat and checked the crew. Everyone was dozing, only Mbuno was awake—who smiled reassurance and gestured forward. Pero looked to his left, the pilot was calm, nothing was wrong. But out the front window, he could see, in the distance, the filming target for the next few days. Mbuno knew where they were going.

The Ajuran Plateau is a mesa rising out of the desert nothingness that is Kenya’s northeastern frontier.

 Looking like a small Rock of Gibraltar with a sharply sloping top (down to level on the north side), it glints red in the morning sun, appears dark and foreboding by afternoon. As a climber’s test, the cliff face is formidable, especially if you put a hand anywhere near the vulture nests. As a film location, it is majestic and definitely “not in America, Toto,” as the cable TV execs had demanded.

The pilot interrupted Pero’s thoughts. “We’re coming into Ramu, check your belts please.” Pero turned to check everyone was complying and then read the pre-landing checklist for the Australian.

They overflew the Ramu airstrip, a dirt track about 600 yards long with a few buildings off to the east. There were no animals to scare off and no trees to avoid, so the plane made a tight turn and came around again, landing towards the north. On touchdown full reverse props were applied and the plane slowed dramatically. Pero pointed forward, and the pilot taxied up to two Land Rovers and one driver, sporting a Flamingo Tours baseball cap, standing in the baking sun and dust near the end of the strip.

Mbuno was the first off the plane following the pilot who dropped the door and steps. The pilot greeted the Flamingo Tours driver with “Jambo,” but the man seemed to be in a hurry to address Pero. Somewhat breathless, he quickly proclaimed, “My name is Joshua. I am your driver, I did not know …” Before Pero could shake his hand, from behind him, a man had stepped out of one of the Land Rovers and elbowed Joshua aside. He was wearing a tie, the mark of an official.

“Please to call me Stephen, my name is Stephen Mbdele, I am from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. I am your official guide and have responsibility.”

In his most formal manner Pero turned only to the driver and replied, “How do you do Joshua, good to meet you.” Pero shook his hand. For a moment Pero ignored the other man. Government people, so-called guides, were required of all filming crews in Kenya. They got $100 a day (US currency, of course), were political appointees, and had no merit nor benefit to filming whatsoever. “Joshua, have you received the District Officer’s filming permit?” He handed it to Pero. The $500 fee was marked “paid in full.” With that authority, from the local boss of bosses, Pero could pretty much do what Pero liked.

Pero turned to address the stooge, “How do you do, Sir, glad to have you along, on my shoot. Always glad to cooperate with authorities. Our office arranged your fee okay, did they?”

The man nodded, “Yes, but …”

Before he could add anything Pero interrupted, “Good, that’s settled then, come along for the ride, stay out of our way, and we’ll get along fine. There may even be a bonus for you when we are done.” To soften the tone Pero shook the minder’s hand. Pero refused to use his name on perverse principle. As the man started to reply with the usual official greeting and who’s boss speech, Pero said, “Ah, yes, excuse me, will you, urgent matters to attend to, glad to have you along.” Pero took Mbuno and Heep by the arm and walked out of earshot.

Pero really had no secrets.

but it was always better to keep these stooges in the dark and on the defensive. Pero had seen them stop production just to demonstrate power. Like most petty dictators, if you kept them guessing, they became quite tame, happy to tag along.

“Heep, what say you, Mbuno, and I take one Land Rover and check out the plateau while Joshua and the rest of the crew set up camp and check equipment?”

Heep asked, “Who’s he to go with?” motioning to the stooge.

“I’ll deal with that. You get the plane unloaded and stowed, most in the second Land Rover, okay?” Pero walked back to the government agent and asked if he would like to be in charge of supervising the building of the campsite. He said he very much would like that, yes. Matter settled. Pero pointed him to the Land Rover being heavily loaded with Joshua’s help.

Two hours later, the dust settling in eyes, throats, nostrils, and every nook and cranny of the Land Rover, Pero, Heep, and Mbuno were up north at the base of the Ajuran Plateau. Having reached the far side of the Plateau, the track up the slope was in front of them. They paused, as much to get their bearings as to screw up courage. Thankfully, Mbuno was driving and in low four-wheel drive they inched their way around fallen rocks the size of houses, through ruts that caused the doorsills to grate on the dirt and pebbles, and canted over at alarming angles as they traversed the hillside. It took forty-five minutes to drive to the top. The view was spectacular.

Already late afternoon, the sun was at an angle that didn’t match what Heep wanted, the light behind them, not in their face. “It’ll have to be an early morning shoot, Pero, I’ll need the glider going down from here, see?” He swooped his hand into the void simulating the glider launch. “Then, we’ll have to drive like hell to get down, or maybe have Simon launch a second launch from Simon here after we set up below. That drive down will be scary and dangerous. We need to catch Simon against the cliff face surrounded by vultures and we’ll need the morning red glow of the cliff face to make that shot work.” Pero agreed—they’d be up early tomorrow. It was time to get down off of there, back to camp in daylight.

Before they crested the slight ridge to start the drop down the steep backside, Pero asked Mbuno to hold up. Pero got out, climbed up on top of the Land Rover, and peered through binoculars towards the north towards the Kenyan border. Pero couldn’t see anything unusual.

What Pero hadn’t told anyone was that they had been contacted before the trip by an old Washington State Department contact who had asked him to look out for anything unusual in the border region and also ask around locally for any gossip about activity up north on the border.

Pero had, in years past, carried documents or sometimes smuggled tiny equipment marked as film stock Not To Be Exposed for the State Department. It was risky, but Pero felt their requests earned State Department support credits, credits he may need to cash in one day. Filming in over sixty-five countries involved risks beyond the physical. Sometimes you got on the wrong side of dictators and politicians. In that event State and therefore US Embassy help would be the only thing likely to save you. His contact, now a friend after all these years, at State made the same point every time he asked a favor. But this time, being asked to look out for something “unusual” puzzled Pero. He told his contact, “Hey, look, we’re not a spy outfit, you need intelligence from the Gurreh region, arrange it yourself.”

The man smiled, “Intelligence? Spy? What fancy words, Pero. Look, you’re up there filming

already, right? Save the taxpayers’ money and if,” he stressed the if, “if you see anything unusual or hear about armed insurgents or increased weapons trafficking, or, hell I don’t know, the local chief’s daughter has been defiled by Somali marauders, just let us know. Okay?”

Pero felt he could leave it at that. If he saw or heard anything, he could report it. If he didn’t, he would still have done State a favor. “See something, hear something, I call you. Hear nothing, see nothing, I still did you a favor, right?”

“Right, thanks.”

On the edge of the way down the plateau, scanning the border region through binoculars, seeing nothing, Pero decided he would ask the locals, maybe that night or the next day.

On the way down, the loose sand slid the tires sideways and they couldn’t stop in time, crushing the front fender into the tire on a rock. Surveying the damage, Heep said, “Damn and blast!” So, while they tugged and pried the aluminum fender off the burst tire and changed to the spare for the next hour, it became their mantra: “Damn and blast … heave! Damn and blast … heave! Their muscles ached, their clothes were drenched in sweat, but eventually they started off again, tire changed and no more chafing of the bodywork. As they made the bottom of the slope safely, just as dusk fell, Heep said, “They’ll have to take that descent a whole lot slower tomorrow.”

Mbuno, who had said nothing to this point added, “Damn and blast slower.” Smiles and chuckles helped lighten the mood.

Back at camp, Pero and Heep explained the videotaping plans for the next day. No sooner than Pero was through, the stooge spoke up. In no time at all, in his rhythmic East African accent, he was boring them all with a government lecture, probably page thirty-five of the official stooge-minder handbook. His mouth pursing, lower lip sticking out with every beat of the sentence, he intoned, “not to proceed beyond the track at the foot of the Ajuran Plateau. It is most dangerous! It is not safe! It is forbidden, it is not safe!” No one answered or even looked at him; their eyes were fixed on the flames licking dried, smoky, desert brushwood. Actually, his territorial imperative sounded okay to Pero, there were brigands known to be about, locally called shufti.

Pero had already warned the crew weeks before bringing them up here, that the Gurreh-Ajuran region also hosts a sometimes violent, always sparse, people of the Cushitic language tribes, eking out a hard living in harsh, arid conditions, up here near the border of Ethiopia, about fifty miles from Somalia. Pero had been here before a few times, sometimes with shufti danger just averted when they were filming and tracking the elusive scimitar Oryx. It was Mbuno who had made them stop filming and speed back to base. The shufti followed, but Mbuno’s good sense got them into a defensible position. Pero feared a repeat of the armed attack—it all came so swiftly. Thankfully, on arrival, there was not a Gurreh to be seen, but Pero was sure they were aware of their presence—in this land, the local tribal knowledge is never to be underestimated. His hope was that as “muzungus” (white men), as they were called, seen working busily in the sun all day, they might be considered nuts and hardly worth the effort. Pero chuckled, watching the embers die down, seeing his dusty, scruffy crew, stamping cold feet. They certainly did not look like rich tourists, ripe for plunder, more used to sitting around a pool sipping iced drinks. And tourists never got up at the ungodly hour they were planning for tomorrow, especially not to go up an escarpment, and definitely not to leap off. ...