The Constant Gardener

"Cape Town to Cairo," McKenzie says laconically. "Don't try it."

"I won't," Justin promises dutifully.

McKenzie banks the plane and descends, following its path. The road becomes a valley road, weaving along a ridge of snaking hills.

"Road to the right there, that's the road Arnold and Tessa took, Loki to Lodwar. Great if you don't mind bandits."

Coming awake, Justin peers deeply into the pale mist ahead of him, and sees Arnold and Tessa in their jeep with dust on their faces and the box of disks bobbing between them on the bench seat. A river has joined the Cairo road. It is called the Tagua, McKenzie says, and its source is high up in the Tagua mountains. The Taguas are eleven thousand feet high. Justin politely acknowledges this information. The sun goes in, the hills turns blue-black, menacing and separate, Tessa and Arnold vanish. The landscape is again godless, not a man or beast in any direction.

"Sudanese tribesmen come down from the Mogila range," McKenzie says. "In their jungle they wear nothing. Coming south they get all shy, wear these little bits of cloth. And boy, can they run!"

Justin gives a polite smile as brown treeless mountains rise crooked and half buried from the khaki earth. Behind them he makes out the blue haze of a lake.

"Is that Turkana?"

"Don't swim in it. Not unless you're very fast. Freshwater. Great amethysts. Friendly crocodiles."

Flocks of goat and sheep appear below them, then a village and a compound.

"Turkana tribesmen," McKenzie says. "Big shoot-out last year over livestock thefts. Best to steer clear of 'em."

"I shall," Justin promises.

McKenzie looks squarely at him, a prolonged, interrogative stare. "Not the only people to steer clear of, they tell me."

"No, indeed," Justin agrees.

"Couple of hours, we could be in Nairobi."

Justin shakes his head.

"Want me to stretch a point and take you over the border to Kampala? We've got fuel."

"You're very kind."

The road reappears, sandy and deserted. The plane reacts violently, nosing left and right like a plunging horse, as if nature is telling it to go back.

"Worst winds for miles around," McKenzie says. "Region's famous for 'em."

The town of Lodwar lies below them, set small among cone-shaped black hills, none more than a couple of hundred feet high. It looks neat and purposeful, with tin roofs, a tarmac airstrip and a school.

"No industry," McKenzie says. "Great market for cows, donkeys and camels if you're interested in buying."

"I'm not," says Justin with a smile.

"One hospital, one school, lot of army. Lodwar's the security center for the whole area. Soldiers spend most of their time in the Apoi hills, chasing bandits to no effect. Bandits from Sudan, bandits from Uganda, bandits from Somalia. A real nice catchment area for bandits. Cattle thieving is the local sport," McKenzie recites, back in his role of tour guide. "The Mandango steal cattle, dance for two weeks till another tribe steals them back."

"How far from Lodwar to the lake?" asks Justin.

"Give or take, fifty kilometers. Go to Kalokol. There's a fishing lodge there. Ask for a boatman called Mickie. His boy's Abraham. Abraham's all right as long as he's with Mickie, poison on his own."

"Thanks."

Conversation ends. McKenzie overflies the airstrip, waving his wingtips to signal his intent to land. He climbs again and returns. Suddenly they are on the ground. There is nothing more to say except, once more, thanks.

"If you need me, find someone who can call me on the radio," McKenzie says as they stand sweltering on the airstrip. "If I can't help you, there's a guy called Martin, runs the Nairobi School of Flying. Flying for thirty years. Trained in Perth and Oxford. Mention my name."

Thanks, says Justin again and, in his anxiety to be courteous, writes it down.

"Want to borrow my flight bag?" McKenzie asks, making a gesture with the black briefcase in his right hand. "Long-barreled target pistol, if you're interested. Gives you a chance at forty yards."

"Oh, I'd be no good at ten," Justin exclaims, with the kind of self-effacing laugh that dates from his days before Tessa.

"And this is Justice," McKenzie says, introducing a grizzled philosopher in a tattered T-shirt and green sandals who has appeared from nowhere. "Justice is your driver. Justin, meet Justice. Justice, meet Justin. Justice has a gentleman called Ezra who will be riding point with him. Anything more I can do for you?"

Justin draws a thick envelope from the pocket of his bush jacket. "I'd like you please to post this for me when you're next in Nairobi. Just the ordinary mail will do fine. She's not a girlfriend. She's my lawyer's aunt."

"Tonight soon enough?"

"Tonight would be splendid."

"Take care then," says McKenzie, slipping the envelope into his flight bag.

"Indeed I will," says Justin, and this time manages not to tell McKenzie he's been very kind.

* * *