Despite its rough past, Crook’s Corner is a peaceful place, with a plaque explaining its history, and a view site where tourists can look across the broad expanse of the Limpopo. We bypassed it and headed into the trees, along jeep tracks used by maintenance crews, cicadas calling frantically. We stopped in a clearing and parked behind several police vans and Park bakkies.

 

As we got out, we were assailed by flies. Officials talked in low voices and there were the unpleasant odours of blood and death. Closer to the scene, I saw vultures gathering in the trees above the hapless elephants. The huge animals looked even bigger when they were lying on the ground, their huge feet frozen in the air, greyish hides merging with the surroundings.

 

The crime scene was cordoned off with police tape. Beyond, forensics teams in protective clothing were working with tape measures, cameras and numbered yellow markers. Evidence was being tagged and bagged. We went over to the tape and Ewan introduced me to a uniformed policeman and two members of the anti-poaching unit. They nodded politely, their eyes on the scene.

 

Arnie Vosloo looked shell shocked. “Hell of a thing,” he said to me, shaking his head.

 

Ewan went to confer with the forensics people and Arnie said he’d speak to me. He told me that twenty elephants had been gunned down, including a couple of youngsters and a calf. “These guys must have been tracking them. The ellies have been moving through the Park.”

 

I said, “Would they have crossed the river?”

 

He shook his head. “It’s unlikely. They’ve been tracking east; we think they’d have gone into the Limpopo Park eventually. In which case, the end result might have been much the same. There’s a lot of poaching when animals cross over.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh yes, ma’am. The folk there don’t have much. Some of it’s subsistence, you know, for the meat and the hide and so on. But most of the killing these days is about the ivory, especially now there are stricter controls at Niassa. I suppose you’ve heard about that.”

 

Thanks to Logan and Wild Frontier Radio, I was able to say, “Yes, I have. I believe the rhino poaching in South Africa has reduced and they say it’s because elephants are being targeted.”

 

He looked at me quizzically. “That’s what they’re saying but it isn’t entirely accurate. You see, there are all these weapons coming in from Eastern Europe...” He started telling me what I already knew.

 

“Ewan mentioned it,” I hastened to say.

 

“Ja. If anything, poaching in general is ramping up. They’re using very high calibre rifles, which are very efficient. The guys aren’t even bothering to cover their tracks anymore.” He nodded towards the forensics teams. “Look what they’re picking up over there. These poachers are blatant, man.”

 

Ewan came over to say I could go into an area that had already been processed to take photographs and talk to someone from the forensics team. I thanked Arnie and he smiled grimly, turning away.

 

I ducked beneath the police tape and was ushered to a plastic sheet, upon which lay rifles, spent cartridge cases, and buckled cardboard boxes that had once contained ammunition. I saw a pair of muddy sneakers too. I took photographs and said to Fikani Cheyeza, who was directing operations, “What have you found?”

 

“It’s what we’re finding more and more - abandoned rifles, cartridges and ammunition boxes. Sometimes we even find clothing and food.”

 

“Ewan Otto says these rifles are coming from Eastern Europe?”

 

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, they are. There are so many now, it’s like a flood. Every time we’re called to a scene, we find them - and the ammunition that goes with them.”

 

I pointed at one of the crumpled boxes.”Those?”

 

“Uh-huh. Um... do you want to look at the elephants?”

 

I didn’t but I said, “Yes.”

 

He took me around the perimeter of the crime scene, to a point where I could clearly see at least five elephants lying in a bunch. One was a small calf, collapsed forever next to its mother, its trunk reaching out to her in death.

 

The scene was macabre, blood staining the ground, the elephants’ eyes glazed, their heads a bloody mass where tusks had been hacked out. Flies gathered on the animals’ eyelashes. The carcasses were starting to decompose and a faint smell of putrefaction rose into the trees. I swatted away flies and took more photographs, guided by Fulani to make sure I didn’t contaminate anything. I felt overwhelmed with sadness and determinedly stifled the impulse to weep, concentrating on what I was doing.

 

Fulani pointed out some elephant footprints as he guided me back to the tape. The wrinkled spoor were particularly large. “See those? We think that’s another elephant, not part of this group.”

 

“I wonder how he escaped?”

 

“We think he came afterwards. See how the footsteps move from side to side...”

 

To my untrained eye, the spoor seemed to merge with the others but I said, “Ja.”

 

“There’s another elephant, a big old one, in this forest. We see those prints sometimes; they’re much larger than the others. I think it heard or saw what happened and came here to mourn.”

 

I thought of a huge, lone elephant conducting its private memorial service and felt a lump in my throat. I swallowed. I was saved from replying when Fulani sighed, “This thing - it’s very sad, madam, very sad.”

 

“It is,” I agreed, as I ducked under the tape. I shook his hand and thanked him for his time.

 

Ewan fetched me and we began driving back to Punda Maria. We didn’t talk much; I didn’t feel like chatting and Ewan obviously didn’t either. It was very hot in the middle of the day and there wasn’t much to see.

 

We got out at Masanje, an artificial water point, and looked across woodlands and grass stretching to the horizon. Ewan got out two rather warm bottles of water and handed me one. A dust devil kicked up sand in the distance. At last, I said, “Where do you see this poaching thing going?”

 

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Don’t quote me but I think it’ll end when the last animal is gone. The appetite in the Far East - China, Vietnam, even Thailand these days - for wildlife products is insatiable. If they’re not eating pangolin steak or shark’s fin soup, they’re wearing animal artefacts or displaying them in their houses.”

 

“Or using wildlife as a cure-all,” I added, thinking about how rhino horn was ground into a powder used to cure anything from hangovers to cancer.

 

He frowned, “This business with the guns is very worrying. It’s moving poaching to an industrial scale. It’s not just small guys trying to feed their families and meeting middlemen on dirt roads anymore. It’s way bigger than that.”

 

I tried not to feel despondent as I said, “Is there anything that can be done to stop this?”

 

“They say they’ve managed to stop it in Niassa. Mozambique has the same problems we do, so I’m not sure how they pulled it off, but they did.”

 

“Let’s hope South Africans can do the same.”

 

A herd of zebras emerged from thorn trees some distance away and wandered to another patch of shade. “You know, the Park has implemented a shoot to kill policy,” Ewan told me. “It does seem to act as a deterrent - at least for the young guys who see poaching as easy money.”

 

“How do the poachers get here?”

 

He gestured vaguely to the east. “They’re brought in by kingpins across the border. They’re given a rifle and some ammunition and left to get on with it. Of course, there are fire fights and dangerous wild animals. A lot die or are seriously injured.”

 

“What happens then?”

 

“As I understand it, the kingpins pay for the funerals. If the poacher returns with rhino horns or a pangolin, he’s given some money and sent on his way. But it’s pennies when you consider what these wildlife commodities fetch on the black market. Take rhino horn. Pound for pound, it’s more expensive than cocaine.”

 

“The whole thing is madness, isn’t it?” Sweat trickled down my back. Ewan seemed to feel the discomfort at the same time because he glanced at his watch and said, “Are you going back to White River today?”