we moved ahead, found a suitable camp site at the roadside and unpacked our paraphernalia. Ferdi helped with food preparation and hit the sack. A long day’s driving lay ahead the next day. I served the food, washed the dishes, prepared breakfast and food parcels and packed up everything. It usually took me all night. At first light we served breakfast and loaded the truck. As soon as Ferdi took up his position behind the wheel, I poured six fingers of rum over a three-day-old, fermented lemon half in a beer mug, added two Cal-C-Vita effervescent tablets, topped up the concoction with water and downed it. It knocked me out until lunchtime. I slept like a dead man, knowing that, as long as the good Lord kept our old charger on its wheels, Ferdi would keep it in the road.
It was late afternoon by the time the convoy crossed the border. We were still a good way from Lusaka, where we would be joined by our Zambian counterparts, refuel and change our Rands for Kwachas. The supply truck was ordered to drive along the Chipata road for 150 kilometres, find a camp site and start preparing the evening meal.
No sooner said than done. It was dark by the time we passed the last squatter shacks on the outskirts of Lusaka. We sped on into the night. Ferdi showed his prowess behind the wheel and I remained on the lookout for stretches of tar between the potholes. Those potholes could swallow an entire truck. If you saw any cat’s-eye road reflectors around here, you could be reasonably sure it was a giraffe standing in a pothole! On dark African roads you usually have to keep a constant watch for bewildered, blinded animals, but tonight nothing appeared in our headlights.
When we had covered more or less 150 kilometres, we found ourselves in a dense mopane forest on a road with high shoulders. We stopped and I walked ahead in search of a suitable spot to turn off the road. About two hundred metres into the bush we found a camping spot that would accommodate the convoy.
With the vehicle switched off, an unnatural silence fell over the bush. It was as if the place was devoid of night sounds. The weather was warm and sultry. We soon realised that the convoy would not be able to see us from the road and, chatting cheerfully, we walked to the roadside with two rolls of toilet paper. There we created a white paper Christmas scene. Nobody would pass this way without seeing us.
We unloaded the tables, built huge fires and prepared the meal. By the time we had finished, it was close to midnight and there was still no sign of the convoy. Ferdi went to sleep and I waited, while squadrons of mosquitoes converged on our camp 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.
