Problems with People by David Guterson Read Free Book Online Page A

challenges and problems because it was surrounded by a fence and reclaimed from land that had been farmed and grazed. Here was one indicative difficulty: the male elephants of Pilanesberg had been culled from a herd at Kruger and were apparently psychotic, having survived a population-control killing operation that had stressed them beyond the breaking point. This was why they were busy, in their new home, raping white rhinos and goring them to death with their tusks. Another example: there was a lion in the park—a rogue, bad, a lone hunter, crazy—who serially killed lionesses averse to his advances and then, repeatedly, copulated with their dead bodies. Was it Pilanesberg that caused this, since, in effect, it was unnatural, a massive zoo?
    They came to a place where there were a lot of elephants, and because of that, a lot of Land Rovers and safari vehicles of the sort he was familiar with from television—open-air four-wheeling one-ton trucks with canvas tops and bolstered bumpers, driven by guides in ranger uniforms, and seated behind them, or standing up, passengers viewing the Pilanesberg elephants through binoculars and camera lenses. The herd milled on a plain of acacias, and as he and his sister idled in her car, elephants moved in front and behind, left and right, slowly, unconcerned, while all around the diesel engines of safari vehicles were shut off, the better to hear the noises elephants made—snorting, trammeling, trumpeting, thumping—as they cracked branches, ate grass, forced their way through brush, and dusted themselves. It was so arresting, so much what they’d come for, that they stayed for a long time,watching elephants and talking, while he took pictures. And then, since it was beginning to get dark, they drove toward the Manyane Gate.
    The gate was closed. They idled in front of it with the entirely reasonable expectation that it would open automatically in the next moment and let them through, but nothing happened for such a long time that eventually they got out and stood in the headlights, talking about what to do next. It’s widely known, he had been told, that, one, darkness falls quickly in Africa, and two, that African darkness seems exceptionally dark to foreign tourists. Already, at Manyane, it was dark in this way, except for the headlights, the stars, and a light on in the squat, modest guardhouse on the other side of the gate. “This is upsetting,” his sister said. “The gate won’t open.”
    The guard finally emerged from the guardhouse, walked toward them, put his hands on the gate, and explained to them that Manyane, like all the gates in the park, closed at 7 p.m., and that it was now—he looked at his watch—7:04 p.m.
    What were they to do? His sister pressed the guard about this. “Obviously you have a key,” she said, “so go get it and open the gate.”
    The guard pulled on the trouser fabric at his thigh, raised his leg, and set his boot on the gate’s bottom rail. He grimaced and shook his head—no. He was a young black man, polite, apologetic, in a clean and pressed uniform and with a pistol on his hip, speaking in a quiet tone: “No, but I don’t have a key,” he said. “I have no key.” He shrugged.
    “No key,” said his sister. “Okay, I get it.” She went to hercar, which was idling still, retrieved her handbag, and brought it to the gate. In the headlights again, she opened her wallet, removed some bills, and held them where the guard could take them through the bars. Her hand was shaking. “What’s your name?” she said.
    “Nelson.”
    “Well, Nelson,” said his sister, “this is wrong of you, what you’re doing here, you know. You have to open the gate right now. You don’t have a choice—you have to open the gate. You can’t just trap people in the park indefinitely. Come on now, Nelson, open the gate.” She shook the money enticingly.
    Nelson shrugged again and kept his distance from the bills. “It’s true, truly, I have no