The Orchid Poacher

“Your judgment day is here,” sneered the guard. He was quite proud of his position as sole gatekeeper. Thazima gate obstructed the only road into Nyika and the only way back out of the wilderness into civilization. He retained the power of permission and though a fool, he was a prideful and well-ranked fool. The gate was always closed and though he rarely inspected passing vehicles, he had made a particular habit of stopping foreigners. Falsified park entrance fees can be embezzled from even the most well-read travelers. You can’t blame a man for trying. It was Saturday and he was out of uniform on duty, which was unfortunate today, of all days. For today, a poacher in a vehicle full of foreigners had been brought to his gate. What to do? Aggressively jabbing the poacher’s shoulder through the window, questioning him, had not satisfied the appetite. No, he craved a more drastic gesture, worthy of his rank. In skinny blue jeans and a checkered blue short-sleeve shirt, he sauntered to the back door and hopped in. Squatting on the spare Landcruiser tire, the continued interrogation of the poacher provided mere meek responses. Still not enough. The hunger for power turned his insides until he back handed the poacher in the face. The man cowered into the back of the seat, protecting his head under his hand-cuffed arms, writhing in fear of being hit again. Enough. Adrenaline and euphoria coursed through his veins and satisfaction warmed the muscles under his face.

Why did I say nothing?

We hadn’t seen any animals for miles; the plains seemed void of life. Someone had been through there earlier. Controlled burns and invasive grass species left patterned markings on the hills. It seemed like the drive would never end; hill after hill, the tall pines of Chelinda eventually disappeared into the horizon. We stood in the back, clinging to the cab, as the Landcruiser shuddered over the dirt road. Maxon sat behind us, on the back wheel, in his new blue work suit. Another man contained the unfastened, clanking shovels with his feet. Brino scrutinized the landscape, perched on the edge of the bed, clutching the M16 against his calf. The safety was on. It wasn’t until we had reached the Juniper forests that the men jumped up behind us, hollering into the distance, pointing and yelling at two obscure dots scurrying over the hills about a kilometer away. Poachers. The vehicle jerked to a halt and the dust trail amassed a cloud in the rear. The men behind us hopped out in a frenzy, pointing into the distance and commenting to each other. Geoff scurried out of the passenger seat and pulled out his camera from the satchel. The three of us scanned the distance in confusion trying to discern what all the commotion was about. For a moment, everything was quiet as we watched, broken only by Patsy’s inquisition from the driver’s seat.

Brino fired three rounds into the air. Unsilenced, coupled with the side-effects of an old weapon, the shot rung in our ears. The sound echoed throughout the plains for a long moment. One of the dots vanished into a patch of forest and the other ran over the side of the hill. Geoff had missed the thrill of the action and asked Brino to fire again, this time on camera. Two more shots pierced an invisible enemy in the sky. In a flash of fire the moment passed, blood coursed back to a constant pace. The dots had escaped out of sight and everyone boarded the vehicle. Brino unclipped the magazine and mechanically removed the bullet in the chamber, pushing it firmly back into the clip. Maxon was smiling as the others commented excitedly about the sighting. Once we reached the edge of the Juniper forest, Brino led a party into the hills to search for any remaining poachers or any meat they may have left behind in frightened haste. They walked over the hill and disappeared only to return an hour later valiantly escorting a man with a feeble demeanor, his hands tied with shoe laces and trailed by a flour sack full or orchid roots. They sat together on the rocks by the creek recounting the catch to an eager audience, followed by a photo shoot. The photos reminded me of those taken after a successful animal kill.

We are often delighted by learning what we don’t know. One of our most human faults is believing what we’re told, information we ingest for lack of interest in the truth or a fear of further complicating life. Every story has three sides: his, hers, and the truth. And in no place on earth is that more accurate than here: a story is more than just a tale of a sequence of events; it is someone’s truth, someone’s belief. It is easy to believe poachers are bad people that hunt and deplete the abundant natural life in the plateau. It is easy to believe rangers are knights of nature, protecting defenseless creatures and plants. It is easy to side with what the village perceives as good in the fight against what the village perceives as evil. As many officers like to preach: “thou shall not steal,” right? Officers and villagers believe you have God on your side, ammunition powered by the great Unknown, expelling enemies with the aim of the angels themselves, in that eccentric Malawian religious fervor. But where does God reside in the villages bordering the protected areas? In the CCAP church? The Catholic? The Seventh Day Adventist? One would hope that the faith of the congregations in Phoka is equally as good and innocent as the faith of the congregations in Chelinda. This isn’t a battle between good and evil. In truth, it is much simpler than the complex and contorted reasoning people construe to actions driven by desperation.

It is a war, like any other war: fought for purposes unclear and problems inevitably unsolvable by violence or taking prisoners. Rangers, backed by the Malawi government and various western wildlife NGOs, on one side and the elusive, poverty-stricken, poachers on the other. The rangers seem out of place against the vast grandeur of the plains in their vehicles and weaponry. Though, any human presence seems out of place in these lands. The rangers are technically armies, military trained and armed with the aim of catching or eliminating poachers. Originally a program piloted in Kenyan parks, armed rangers have become a norm in parks throughout sub-Saharan Africa, though much seems to have been lost in translation. A poacher catch has numerous benefits to park officers: expensed trip to Rumphi to submit all necessary paper work and registering the criminal into jail, free meals expensed at the most expensive Rumphi restaurant, perhaps a night stay (should the paperwork take longer than anticipated), perhaps some allowances, and an opportunity for shopping with free transport home. Officers and rangers are taught that poachers are scum, sub-human enemies worthy of mistreatment and abuse. With an expensed kicker, this isn’t a fight for the wildlife; it’s a fight for their livelihoods, protecting a way of life rising up to the highest ranks of government.

About fifty kilometers oriental of Chelinda is Phoka. Phoka, like many other villages along the northern border in Chitipa, is home to many poachers. Skilled hunters and laborers that design and produce some of the most intricate and beautiful weaponry in Malawi. Some of the confiscated guns, bows and arrows, made entirely of locally scavenged materials, rival fine occidental arms. The poachers journey into the heart of the plateau by foot, tracking to kill reedbucks, bushbucks, perhaps roan and elon, or to harvest orchid roots and flowers, which they carry back. The meat is then sold and consumed locally, while the orchids are sold in a linked trade route smuggling them through Chitipa into Tanzania. Each journey is not an aimless hunt; it is a calculated risk of one’s life and the livelihood of one’s family. In one of the toughest years for tobacco and a country ranked among worst poverty-stricken nations, poaching isn’t a hobby or a spare source of income, it is a necessity. Some poachers are shot, killed, and injured, along with many rangers, in gun-fire battles or ambushes. Many more are caught and imprisoned in Rumphi. They pay hefty fines or bribes and return to their villages, their families, make new weapons and try again. More carefully next time. People aren’t inherently bad; it’s the world that makes them that way. Somehow, we forget that because it is much easier to assume otherwise. It makes our lives simpler.

But who am I write about good and evil? When a man was being mistreated, even though a criminal by law, I did nothing. I said nothing. Am I not equally as guilty and malicious as the officers that abuse their powers or poachers that destroy wildlife? I sat there with a dumbfounded look of indecisive bewilderment on my face, akin to that of a fool, as a man cowered into the back of my seat. I glanced to the rear, never turning around. I looked to Zebra to my left and Bear to my right, as if asking: what should we do? What should I do? It was dark and cold by the time we returned to Chelinda with the poacher. He was to be transported to Rumphi in the morning. For the night he was placed in the care of Brino, a humble, quiet ranger. Brino escorted him to his house, shared a meal of rice and relish with him at the dining table with his family, and provided him a warm place to sleep. In the morning, while transport was being arranged with the necessary paper work, officers came to offer their astute advice. Jarvis, the head of Peace Parks, an NGO solely dedicated to the eradication of poaching, had come to check on the prisoner and to his astonishment found Brino and the poacher eating breakfast together at the family table. Furious, he lectured Brino on his imprudence and shoved the poacher to the floor. Once he recovered, crawling to a corner of the room, Jarvis harangued him: “You are a poacher; you don’t eat at the table, like humans. You eat on the floor, like an animal.”

Bear: http://murphyinmalawi.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-orchid-poacher/