site. The absolute silence amazed me – had the people around here eaten all the animals?
It was after one in the morning when a vehicle burst through our toilet paper banners and trimmings. I charged to the road – in the Land Cruiser was Dr Kumzuma of Zambia Nature Conservation, bearing the news that the convoy had been delayed in Lusaka and would be spending the night there. What was more, we were to return immediately – our camp site was three kilometres from the Mozambican border and Renamo troops had killed four people there the day before.
Ferdi and I conferred. The table had been laid, food had been prepared for more than sixty people, everything had been unpacked and it was impossible to cover the 150 kilometres back to Lusaka on bad roads before first light. No, we would take our chances and stay here. The doctor took his leave and an almost palpable silence settled over us again.
What now? Ferdi had been driving all day and needed to sleep. I sent him to bed. I would stand guard. My only weapons were an axe and a spade. I removed the paper decorations and extinguished the fires – all the while knowing that it was too late! There was no way the soldiers had not been aware of us all along. My own wartime experience had taught me that you move away from a “soft target”, look in from the outside and let things develop. The truck – with Ferdi and me, the cheery tables and the pots of food – was one of the softest targets imaginable, and I hoped the convoy would still find us here tomorrow morning.
It was still hot and muggy. I took off my shirt, grabbed my weapons, moved about fifteen metres away and lay down with my bum in a thornbush. If Renamo stormed the camp, my plan was to surprise them from behind, knocking them down with the spade.
The mosquitoes seemed determined to carry me off. Searching for repellent in the dark, I found only a bottle of rum. Dejectedly I emptied the bottle over my back, chest and arms and took up my position again.
Later I heard from Ferdi that he had looked out in the early hours to see if his protector was still holding the fort. In the light of his torch he saw me lying with my head resting on the spade, fast asleep. A cloud of mosquitoes billowed around me, but the strange thing was . . . They settled on my naked torso, gave a few licks and then flew away in a drunken stupor.
And I told him . . .
And I told him: “Fuck off!” He stood around sheepishly, saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth.
“Fuck off, shoo, go away, bugger off!” And from his threadbare pocket he produced two dry heads of maize and placed them on a used paper plate next to the fire and shuffled misshapenly into the bush . . .
Kalie is a farmer, and a successful one too. That was why he and I were able to bum around in Barotseland, Western Zambia, in an expensive air-conditioned 4x4. We did this often, the two of us.
Barotseland is probably one of the poorest parts of Africa that I have ever visited. It’s understandable, actually, for the Litunga, the king of the Balozi, who inhabit these parts, refuses to accept the authority of Lusaka. Kaunda and his successor, Chiluba, have therefore deliberately disinvested in the region. But it is rich in natural beauty, with the mighty Zambezi River rising here, and winding its leisurely way across flood plains to the sea.
Barotseland is to hell and gone, and a lack of infrastructure and the war in Angola have caused efforts at tourism and development to fail. Empty lodges and holiday resorts are the order of the day. One is struck, however, by the friendliness of the people and, despite the poverty, the absence of typically African beggars, with hands reaching out hopelessly at passing wealth.
Our vehicle was loaded with fine food and cold drinks. We drove through the destitution in style.
All efforts at farming seemed doomed here. The mahango and maize fields stood cropless and shrivelled.
Kalie remarked: “Modern technological development and Africa will probably never find each other. Not even a mighty river with more water than all the South African rivers put together is capable of making its people win the battle against drought.”
Actually I was fed up with Kalie. He had brought along bags of sweets and Boxer tobacco to distribute to poverty-stricken Africa. Personally I don’t believe you can save Africa with sweets. You only spoil the people and teach them to beg. Livingstone and his band of missionaries buggered up Africa’s equilibrium like that. I had taken charge of the sweets, and the tobacco was coming in handy because my own supply of smokes was depleted.
I must admit, however, that the poverty was shocking. Every ragged child held a piece of dried maize in his hand, with which he attempted to appease his hunger kernel by kernel. It was the daily ration, we learned.
We travelled deeper into the bush. After we had crossed the Zambezi by ferry, we emerged on the flood plains. These plains are beautiful – devoid of trees and with waving grass as far as the eye can see. The water was rising and the Balozi traditionally move to higher ground around this time.
We pitched camp under a stand of trees. We settled in. Arranged tables and chairs. The fire was stacked high. Drinks were poured and, while the African night engulfed us, we spoke about adventure, about enjoyment and being privileged, about poverty and begging. That was when I shat on Kalie about the sweets.
Snug under my mosquito net, I gazed at the stars and dozed off.
I got up early and started the coffee. Then he came walking through the bush. Perhaps “walking” is not the right word – “shambling” is a more accurate description.
Scarecrow-tattered, face distorted in a spasm, hand lamely deformed. Laughing inanely, he stood there, mumbling incoherently. Not a welcome sight for any traveller on an empty stomach.
I’ll get rid of him quickly, I thought, and shoved a bag of sweets into his hand. “Thank you, goodbye, sela gabotse, auf Wiedersehn,” I waved him on his way.
Foolish and retarded, he raised his semifunctioning hand and shuffled off into the bush, mouth gaping.
As I was lighting my pipe with relish, steaming coffee in hand, he was back again. And I told him: “Fuck off!” And he placed a two-day supply of his own food in front of me and fucked off.
The kukri
His mother and father and I just about grew up together. I say “just about”, because actually our respective fathers were hunting partners. Not hunting in a modern context, in their case. They did it the way it was done two centuries ago. Buffalo and elephant, lion and leopard. Hunting expeditions that lasted for three months, somewhere in German East Africa or Portuguese West Africa.
During those times we came from the Colony to stay with them in the Transvaal. My mom sent us to nursery school with them and we, West Coast children, learned about city kids. They ate grated carrots for lunch and were forced to take an afternoon nap – there was no playing on the beach in the afternoons and bringing home mussels.
The British, in their thirst for world domination, made use of vanquished or colonised nations to serve as canon fodder in their imperialist army. There were the Irish, who “took the penny”, the Indians, who tried to chase the Germans out of Tanzania at Tanga, the Australians, who fell in droves at Gallipoli, the South African Red Tabs, who surrendered at Tobruk, and then there were the Gurkhas. Fearless Nepalese. They were the assassin forces of the British. They were the ones who moved in behind the lines and soundlessly slit the throats of the enemy.
Every man chooses his own path, but paths are known to cross, and we three children of bygone days met up with one another again. The two of them were married with children and I had my own crew. Now that we were older, a firm friendship developed. Our visits usually ended with tales about hunting, guns, knives and other subjects close to an Afrikaner boy’s heart. I was aware of the little boy, listening enthralled to stories about his grandfathers and his father and lovingly stroking a rifle or a beautiful knife.
To kill a man