Leopard Skies

By A. T. Grant

As David and Marcus travel from Morogoro in Tanzania into the remote Uluguru Mountains, they are immersed in a community facing threats from both the natural and the spirit world.

Apollo, a local game reservist, is tasked to protect Marcus’ group. No longer the ranger he once was, he is haunted by strange leopard encounters on Kilimanjaro and in the Selous.

As some of their fellow travellers get lost in the jungle, an unexpected arrival from the past brings a surprising twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785382352

Book preview

Kilimanjaro

Chapter One

Apollo Mtera wandered off the trail, as he had been doing all his life. He needed a break from the inane bickering of those he was guiding. Soon he was surrounded by tall, frozen pillows of lava, each covered in a rich patina of deep, dark moss. He stopped, wary of getting lost in the mist sweeping up the mountainside from the forest below. He was just about to turn. In a cleft a few feet away grew a crimson daffodil: a scarlet gladiolus. Vibrant, glowing with dew, it was the most extraordinary flower he had ever seen. Instantly he felt calm. Squatting beside it, he traced each line of leaf and petal, and absorbed the sublime contrast in colour and texture to the tortured basalt. This was how it was meant to be, he told himself. What had gone wrong? What could he have done differently, and what on God’s Earth was he supposed to do now?

Chapter Two

The plastic table rocked slightly on the uneven tiles of the café floor. Marcus settled to write the questions he must remember to ask the local tour agent. A tatty table-cloth beneath his iPad advertised a long forgotten community event, hosted by the Young Women’s Christian Association in Dar es Salaam. Flies chased each other across the pattern. Sparrows squabbled over fallen scraps around the clutter of battered white chair legs.

It felt good to be in Tanzania, even though there would be no Kilimanjaro climb. Too touristy, his boss had said when Marcus protested. Let’s take people somewhere really remote this time. Kilimanjaro is like Machu Picchu or Everest base camp, a honeypot for travel clichés. You were the one saying swimming with dolphins in Mexico meant sick animals trapped in old swimming pools. That’s not the Tailwind Adventure way.

Marcus remembered his disappointment, having set his heart on climbing the peak. His boss appeared determined to send him to ever further flung destinations, when the heart of their business lay in the Mediterranean. Must be trying to tell me something, he concluded.

Only a few months previously Marcus had led a group through the jungles of Southern Mexico. It was a first for the company. He had rarely felt in control, but somehow everything worked out and client feedback was ultimately supportive, despite a close encounter with a crocodile. His female assistant on that particular venture had subsequently led her own team back, to even more enthusiastic reviews. The success of the enterprise had cemented the position of Tailwind Adventure within its new parent company, the Carlton Travel Group.

Let’s take our clients somewhere where the locals haven’t met white people before, his boss had declared. That’s the hook we need to get people interested. I was talking to the owner of African Dreams, our new local agents in Tanzania. They said that wouldn’t be a problem, although they also told me we’d never find a place where they hadn’t watched the Prem. There’s a T.V. set with a satellite link in almost every village, apparently. It’s the African version of cinema.

Marcus had made token efforts to protest and even revealed his tendency to sulk, as he was perturbed at going somewhere potentially so far from help. His boss had placed his trump card, revealing that Carlton had raved about the possibility of extending their extensive Kenyan enterprises into Tanzania. Marcus had been forced to raise the stakes in the only way he had left.

My girlfriend’s baby is due.

His boss had put a paternal paw on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus remembered the familiar, almost comforting hint of alcohol on his breath. I’ve already spoken to your young lady. You know her. She’s determined to work almost until she gives birth. I’m not flying you out to the Caribbean just to get under her feet - her words, not mine. For some strange reason she loves you, but you’re both independent people. Unless it’s really early, you’ll be back in time for your baby anyway.

Marcus had shrugged. In one sense, he had been relieved. Supporting his girlfriend through pregnancy was a new and somewhat scary experience, particularly when their most regular contact was over the phone.

Look, if something happens, I’ll get you flown to wherever she is at the time, but you’re going.

The weariness of travel and broken sleep tried to curb Marcus’ concentration. To clear his head he sipped at the mug of thin instant coffee he had coaxed from the indolent girl at the apparently food-free canteen. The irony of such a bitter brew in a coffee producing country reinforced the point that Europe had been left far behind. T.I.A. his mind chanted inanely: This Is Africa.

Reviewing the events of the previous twenty-four hours chipped a little further at his tiredness. The flight experience had been mixed: a luxurious first leg to Qatar in the Middle East offset by six gruelling hours on a much smaller craft from there to Africa. Little leg-room, ventilation or food had taken a toll, but Marcus was experienced enough to know his lethargy to be superficial. He smiled at the memory of smoke billowing from air-conditioning vents, as the second plane sat in fifty degree heat, on the tarmac at Doha. Harmless condensation perhaps, but it had brought home to some of the clients the other-worldly nature of their trip. One or two had shown early signs of panic.

Marcus’ fingers hovered over the keypad as he recalled the names of those he must be quick to reassure. He typed a short list, finishing with a line of question marks as he realised he’d forgotten who one particularly unforthcoming girl was already.

Staggering from the airport terminal, the arrival committee of tall, leaping Maasai tribesmen had provided another break from the norm. It had felt unreal dancing in a car park, ignored by those pulling suitcases to and fro. Marcus had done his best, stretching his aching back to attain his full 6ft 2 in height, and straining stiff legs to break into the air. The chanting had been mimicked appallingly by several of the guests, but at least they had made an effort.

It’s just one night here, isn’t it? David Seymour was standing over him, his thin, white-socked legs supporting voluminous khaki shorts, topped with a matching shirt.

Marcus looked up, absent-mindedly chewing at his pen. One night, but remember this is what people wanted: to experience the real Africa. How’s Phoebe doing, David?

Still throwing up. I think it’s mainly just the long journey. She had a pretty hectic couple of weeks at work too, before we flew. She hates this place, by the way. David took a disparaging look at the pile of breeze blocks sitting in the middle of what should have been a small, shady internal courtyard. I must say our room has all the appeal of a janitor’s closet.

Remember, only drink bottled water. And keep washing your hands. Phoebe too, Marcus instructed.

David held up the plastic bottle dangling from a couple of fingers and grinned. Jenny, Steph and I discovered a supermarket around the corner; you go past that row of noisy street vendors then turn left. We also found a tented bar - had my first bottle of Serengeti lager.

Glad your harem’s filling up nicely, David, Marcus joked, making a mental note of the girl’s name he had forgotten.

I asked if we could eat there this evening, as it doesn’t look like we’ll get anything much around here.

So you’re running this expedition, are you? Marcus couldn’t help but be drawn to David’s enthusiasm, but still found him annoying, particularly as he seemed blissfully unaware that he was only a client.

Now, there’s a cue. Isn’t that the local agent? David gestured towards the diminutive young African girl greeting the lady behind the grill-fronted Reception kiosk.

How do you know? Marcus furtively pulled the reading glasses from his nose and folded them into a trouser pocket.

The African Dreams clipboard is a bit of a giveaway. I hope you’ll be more observant when we want to start spotting lions.

The world beyond Marcus’ table slowly resolved itself. Irené sat down, close and uninvited, sending her immediately back into soft focus. She had tightly-braided black hair, wore a mid-blue company T-shirt and would have looked about seventeen were it not for a serious, don’t-mess-with-me, but somewhat careworn expression.

Karibu. Are you ready?

Both Marcus and David were thrown by her direct manner, before realising that her English must be limited. The language was for business, not pleasantries: a common perception in East Africa, according to the guide book which Marcus had largely failed to digest.

No. Marcus paused to prepare himself for a slow conversation. I’m afraid everyone is tired. Give us half an hour, please.

Irené shrugged. What do you want to see? Her tone was flat, almost disdainful.

Up to you, but a couple of hours out is probably enough, whilst we’re getting used to the heat.

Can we go to the fish market? David interjected, with the impatience of a child.

Irené shrugged again. Both men took this to mean ‘yes’.

One of the girls from the party arrived, proudly placing a large tub of ice-cream from the supermarket in the middle of the plastic table. Another joined her, having extracted a number of bent spoons from the canteen. Both girls were young, slim and attractive, their flip-flops and sunglasses separated by colourful, newly purchased sarongs. The remainder of the party appeared as if on cue, and drew up chairs. All except David’s girlfriend, Phoebe, who sat down heavily beside another table and stared, grey-faced and accusingly at David.

Irené took it upon herself to prise the lid from the tub, as though their prize had been presented to her. One guest sank a little onto a shapely hip, mildly indignant, but then giggled girlishly, flicked her long, dyed-blonde curly hair and passed her a spoon. Multiple pairs of eyes followed the first cool vanilla chunk to Irené’s cherry lips, but she grimaced. Too cold, she complained, hand flapping across her mouth as if she was in pain. Everyone else reached for the proffered spoons and dug in regardless.

Marcus and Irené managed to coax the group from the confines of the hostel once the tub had been scraped, but only as far as the first smart restaurant. It was full of other whites, a rare sight in Dar es Salaam, and there was an armed security guard at the door. Marcus thought to protest, but his party sought home comforts to ease their disorientation; there would be plenty of opportunities to go native later on. He sipped at a spinach and mango smoothie and quizzed Irené about the travel plans for the following day. The other girls fussed around Phoebe, one persuading her to nibble unenthusiastically at a few chips.

***

David shared a map of the city with the three other male members of the party.

All the new glass-fronted, high-rise buildings here are built by the Chinese, one said. The colonial streets are going fast. You can tell the old German and British buildings by the bright paint and date plaques over the doors. There’s massive investment now all over the country - roads, farming, minerals, commerce. It’s a great time to make money, if you’re in business.

Opportunity for Tailwind then, David added.

The man pushed back his sunhat and mopped a pale brow with a sleeve. And a chance for us to see old Africa before she’s gone. There’s half the world’s lions here, in just one country.

Isn’t there a problem with poaching? asked David, whilst idly scratching an itchy spot on his chin.

I’m in shipping, another tourist added. A client runs containers in and out of the port here. He has to check them for animal skins and ivory, otherwise he gets fined. Chinese businessmen bribe the dock workers to smuggle things home, you see: usually trophies of things they’ve shot.

David felt the conversation depressing, levered himself from his chair and went to check on Phoebe. After some debate, the couple decided they would continue the orientation walk, once it resumed, if only to avoid the grim facilities they’d left behind at the YWCA.

The rather recalcitrant team finally rejoined Irené, back on the sidewalk. She shepherded the tourists through sooty traffic and rife, bustling back-streets to the waterfront. Everyone instinctively stayed close. Life felt too raw and too different to engage with comfortably. The party was also attracting attention, although the stares were more curious than threatening.

Yes, people want to know what you’re doing here, Irené confirmed. This is not a tourist town.

The fish market reinforced this perspective. Buckets, crates, carrier bags and tarpaulins brimmed over with the diverse catch of the day; purposeful, urgent huddles formed wherever a deal was to be done.

How is there anything left in the sea? Phoebe declared, grasping David’s hand and looking as though she was fighting back nausea.

David steeled himself to brave the wall of smell and sound for Phoebe’s sake, grateful at least that they were now being largely ignored. Everyone around them was focused on trade, whilst he and Phoebe concentrated upon dodging the blood and slime congealed on the floor. David was drawn to a polished set of gaping jaws, full of shark’s teeth. He smiled at the vendor and pulled out a wad of crisp dollar bills.

Somebody grabbed him firmly by the arm.

Chapter Three

Apollo, how long to dinner? There’s a lot of hungry people inside."

It was beginning to get dark. Apollo could barely make out the leader of the American team, particularly as his head torch was beaming straight into his eyes. The light was excessively bright, making it difficult to think.

Soon. I’ll ask the cook. Apollo rounded the first of the tents where the guides would sleep, instinctively reaching down to check the security of the guy ropes. Damp cloud swirled around him; it was going to be a windy night. His crew were all in the large, open mess tent, gathered around the central stove, uplit like Magi greeting the Messiah. Despite the comforting image, Apollo felt little inclination to join them.

What? You have such a gentle voice, Apollo. I’m never sure what you’re saying. The bald, flame bearded and naturally grumpy leader stood hands on his hips, his elbows splayed.

Apollo didn’t respond, staring instead towards the ice on Kibo Peak - a ghostly presence high above, weakly illuminated by a half-obscured moon. He was drawn to its emptiness and wanted to be alone. There was nothing else the tourists could expect from him until morning. His gaze fell to the tall, wooden, A-frame structure in which the Americans were now safely ensconced. It reminded him of the family church of his youth. A hurricane lamp flared like a Christmas candle at the only visible window, but the sounds were wrong. Instead of song and prayer came the raucous cackle of the over-indulged.

Come on in, Apollo. Our guests are interested to hear one of your tales.

Yes, boss, Apollo whispered sarcastically under his breath, wondering when storytelling had become a part of his job. Too cold to think of an excuse, he knew he had little choice. He would have to wait for his brew and his bed.

Chapter Four

Please put your money away.

S-sorry. David struggled to comprehend who was restraining him. Phoebe put both hands over her vivid green eyes, perhaps wondering how such a bad day could have got any worse.

Your wife, she has lovely hair.

David considered whether he might safely withdraw his arm. The man wore a khaki uniform. His peaked and badged cap made him look even more officious. Although he was clearly not about to assault or rob them both, David decided not to move.

Jambo Bwanas. Habari Gani? The slim, middle-aged policeman bowed stiffly and waited politely for an appropriate response.

Phoebe dared to look again, her expression appealing for David to take control.

What are your names? the man continued, slightly deflated.

Neither responded. The question reinforced David’s belief that they must have done something wrong.

Please, wait here for me for one moment, the policeman asked.

David nodded, as his arm was finally released. He stuffed his money quickly into a trouser pocket and scanned the bustling scene around him for a way out of their predicament. None of the other tourists were visible. He threw a protective arm across Phoebe’s slight shoulders and drew her in, more to seek than to offer comfort. How are you feeling? he asked, unconvincingly.

Like a nauseous person who’s been taken to the foulest smelling place on Earth. God, I love you David, but you really have a way of putting me through it. Her fingers curled mechanically at a corner of her golden mane. She appeared torn between stamping her feet and bursting into tears, or staying rooted to the spot due to what she might step on.

David’s mind tried to linger on what Phoebe had just declared, but he was overtaken by events.

Here, please, can I show you this? The policeman had returned and now held out a cheap, navy-blue notebook.

All three huddled together to inspect the creased pages, as porters, fishermen and merchants flowed around them, as though they were a section of reef.

Look, some English people visiting last week who signed my book. I am right that you are English? The policeman self-consciously tidied his shirt into his carefully ironed chinos, and straightened an impossibly white tie.

Phoebe gave an affirming smile and studied the comments of her fellow travellers. There was praise for the owner of the book, described as a particularly helpful member of the local tourist police, and barely credible ebullience regarding their current location.

Will you sign this for me? I can take you around the market, then return you to the friends I saw you with earlier.

Phoebe took the book and pen, grateful for the opportunity to concentrate on the routine task of writing.

Where are you going to go in Tanzania? The man clearly had them pegged as new arrivals, somewhat to David’s chagrin.

Morogoro, then into the Uluguru Mountains, David said.

The policeman looked surprised. He pushed back his peaked cap and hooked the thumb of his other hand under his belt. That is a remote place, you know. Tourists here go to Zanzibar Island or to the game reserves. People hide in the hills if they are up to no good. You must be careful.

David stole a furtive glance at Phoebe, but she hadn’t heard. Don’t worry, we have local guides. We’ll be fine, he whispered, remembering close encounters in Mexico which felt more like dreams with every passing day. At some stage he must find a way to explain to Phoebe what had occurred on that expedition.

Phoebe looked up, evidently satisfied with her optimistic prose. Some of the colour was returning to her cheeks. The policeman read her offering and blushed visibly with pride. He took David’s hand in his, to the latter’s consternation, and began to lead him forcefully around the site. Phoebe followed with a giggle. She, not David, knew this to be a common gesture of friendship in Tanzania, and gave every indication that she would relish his discomfort and her chance of getting even.

Chapter Five

Giant groundsel grew like fat, stunted palm trees in every direction from the campsite, each one draped in mist, which glistened under artificial light. They were sentinels to the barrens above, mutated weeds grown monstrous by long exposure to solar radiation. To Apollo they looked like giant worms, emerging from the ground under cover of night to suck the stars from the sky. He shuddered. The money was good on this mountain, but he could not get used to the cold. It was like nothing he had felt before. It drew the life from him and led his mind to dark places. He thought again of the flower, like those he knew from home. He wondered whether, if he hadn’t found it, he would still be here. It would be so easy to slip away into the night. But perhaps, after all, there was life and light in this darkness, as the priests of his past had once suggested. It was just that he couldn’t feel a thing.

Apollo! The collective intonation was friendly, but hollow. He had entered the realm of the foreigners.

Good evening, Bwanas. Apollo stood self-consciously in the doorway to the largest hut, then decided to remove his sunhat. It was not something he did often. Without a hat he looked shorter, even a little older. The furrows in his brow were more noticeable and his skin a little paler. A less confident individual had been revealed, one who would find it just a tad harder to hide behind the certainties of his role. He waited patiently whilst his hosts mispronounced various Swahili greetings, each too casual and overly familiar. Then he waited again as the group decided who would shuffle along one of two opposing benches, to let him sit down.

We are hungry, Apollo, someone at the far end of the hut announced. Everyone else stared instinctively at the culinary bric-a-brac on the table.

Apollo wondered why they were asking him. He was hungry too. He wasn’t the cook. You know, it is hard to prepare food at this altitude. It is difficult to get a high temperature, and water boils away quickly.

One or two climbers concurred, sagely. The others swallowed any comment they may have been about to make. Apollo had reasserted his knowledge and his authority.

We’re told you used to be a big game warden, someone announced.

Apollo swallowed. Inside there was panic, but he knew no-one could ever read that emotion on his face. He bit the base of his lower lip and waited for the conversation to move on.

Was it hard to protect the animals?

Sometimes.

Did you carry a gun?

Apollo longed for the reassuring weight of a semi-automatic assault rifle in his arms. It still felt strange to be unarmed. Sometimes.

Nobody took the hint. The more Apollo prevaricated the more it was obvious there was a story to be told. He needed the food to arrive. It didn’t. I was always armed when I went on patrol, not always so when I was with our visitors.

Did you have to use your weapon?

Once again, Apollo was unsure from whom the question came. He did not want to look up. Had these people no sense of privacy? Who were they to quiz him about his past? He didn’t even know most of their names. Nobody here bothered to introduce themselves before asking something of him. Anywhere else in Tanzania such behaviour would be unforgiveable. With tourists, different rules applied - their rules. We shot small game if we were far from base and needed to eat. We shot large animals sometimes, if sickness made them dangerous.

That must have been sad? The sole female member of the group, a doctor from Ohio, sat to one side of Apollo, looking concerned. But even she had caught the interrogative tone. How long have you worked with animals?

Nearly all my life. There was a connection with this girl. She felt his sense of unease - his struggle. I lived on a farm with my parents, between Lake Victoria and the Serengeti. Animals were everywhere: in the house, in the fields, wandering through our crops. Apollo glanced at those leaning over the table, poised to ask him yet more questions, and decided to keep talking. I thought that was the way of the world. The Maasai, our neighbours, live for their animals. I am not Maasai, I am Kikuyu, but still I understand that in Africa the sky is big - there is room for people and animals.

There was silence. He had spoken with increasing intensity and this had caused some to recoil. One or two were slightly unsettled. Lingering behind Apollo’s modest, almost feminine features was a just perceptible sense of menace.

What did you grow on your farm? the girl asked blithely.

There was trust already between the two. Apollo could sense it, but not its origins.

Flowers. Apollo’s answer caught all by surprise, and instantly released the tension. Someone spluttered, trying not to laugh. Others joined in and the room descended into jocular chaos.

The dinner arrived. Apollo took the opportunity to slip away, but not before the girl had placed a reassuring hand surreptitiously upon his knee. For the first time in a long time this was something he could feel.

Chapter Six

Marcus was almost falling over with laughter. David was desperate not to cause offence, but could not free his hand from the policeman’s own. Phoebe was also beginning to cackle maliciously, despite her best intentions. She didn’t look nearly so sick anymore.

The officer was unperturbed. He had seen and heard it all before. You know, when I hold your hand, this is an honour. He wagged a finger of his free hand. It sends a message to people around here. Not everyone has the best of intentions towards our foreign guests. Some have felt this stick before. He gestured to the slim truncheon dangling from one hip