Killers against Kariba
An Adventure of the
Duncan Watt
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Duncan Watt
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Cover and illustrations by Paul O’Shea
Maps and diagrams by Duncan Watt
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To Don and Judy
In appreciation for so much
ISBN
First published in 1992 by Tynron Press, United Kingdom
Subsequently by Graham Brash, Singapore
Table of Contents
14. The Ngweshi Shows Her Paces
St Basil’s Cathedral, Moscow
1
Alexievich Romanov was standing at the tall windows looking over the vast expanse of Red Square. One hand, above his head, clutched the folds of the deep red velvet curtains. The last rays of the setting sun touched the silver mane of his hair. He studied the multi-coloured, onion-shaped domes of St Basil’s.
“They say it is going to fall down, you know, Michael,” he said
“What’s going to fall down?”
“St Basil’s Cathedral. It’s going to fall down if we don’t do something about it.”
“Ah, yes, St Basil’s, but we’re not here to discuss that,” said the second speaker. “We’ve got something much more important to talk about. Would you like to sit down?”
Giving one last look at the early spring leaves on the distant trees along the river, Romanov turned away from the windows and crossed to his desk. “You say you have a visitor that I should meet?” He poured two glasses of vodka. “Your very good health, Michael Vronsky.” He raised his glass. “Now, tell me about your plan.”[2]
Vronsky put the glass down on the small table beside his chair.
“You may recall that recently we tried to take over the island of St Helena in the South Atlantic Ocean and extend our influence in Angola. Unfortunately those plans were thwarted.”[3]
“By three youngsters. Yes, you told me. Most unfortunate.
You seem to be losing your grip, Vronsky. Two missions unsuccessfully completed! Friendship can only go so far, you know. I should hate to see you fail a third time. We Russians are not a very forgiving people, as you well know. Now that we’ve got rid of Gorbachev[4] and his liberal policies, we’ve got to show the world where we stand.”
Vronsky studied his hands. They were shaking slightly and there was a sheen of perspiration on his bald head.
“This plan won’t fail and the instability that we shall cause will allow us to step in and pick up the pieces. We’ll be able to consolidate our hold over the area much more than we have up to now.”
“Tell me about this area.” Romanov steepled his hands over the leather blotter on his desk. He leant forward.
“The area is the landlocked country of Zimbabwe, in Central Africa. As you know, Zimbabwe is perhaps the most recent African country to gain independence from Britain; 1980, actually, whereas most countries got their independence in the early 1960’s. Zimbabwe’s recent history started at the end of the last century. At that time, the area now known as Zimbabwe was occupied in the main by two African tribes - the Matabele[5], as they were called, and the Shona; the former were a warlike blood-thirsty lot, being a breakaway group of the famous Zulus. The Shonas were much more peaceable. The Matabele had more or less conquered the Shonas and virtually enslaved them by the 1880’s.
“During that period the European powers were scrambling for Africa. The little holdings and trading posts that they had held for centuries along the coasts were no longer enough. Europe wanted markets for its factories; it was no good making things without being able to sell them - cloth, metal goods; and in Africa were thousands of people. And Europe needed raw materials. Who knew what Africa might contain? Diamonds had just been discovered in the Northern Cape and limitless gold in the Boer[6] republic of the Transvaal.
“Explorers like David Livingstone, Stanley and dozens of others had come back from the interior with stories of wide open spaces and the possibility of untold riches. So Europe was ready; there was nowhere else really in the world to expand - South and Central America had already been carved up mainly by the Spanish and Portuguese; and the countries there were already independent republics or rather shaky monarchies. The British and the French were firmly entrenched in the East together with the Dutch and the Portuguese. Australia and New Zealand were accounted for; North America was too.
“That left Africa.” Vronsky paused and looked across at Romanov who had shut his eyes.
“Go on,” he grunted. “I’m listening.”
“As I said, the Boers had the Transvaal where they had trekked to, in order to get out of the clutches of the British.”
“I don’t blame them!” murmured Romanov. “Especially if they are all like that woman[7]; the one who said that she could do business with poor old Gorbachev. Go on. So the Boers had the area to the north of the Cape.”
“Well, the Prime Minister of the Cape at this time was a man by the name of Cecil John Rhodes; an amazing man - the son of a clergyman in England. Told that he would die of tuberculosis, he went out to the warm climate of South Africa, got involved in diamond mining and by the time he was finished he was probably one of the richest men in the world at the time. He had control of the diamond mines in the Cape but what he wanted was the gold in the Transvaal; he thought that if he could surround that country, he would be able to take it over.
“So he sent up envoys to Lobengula who was the chief of the Matabele and by some trickery was able to gain land rights for the people he sent up there - the Pioneer Column. The upshot :: this was that when Lobengula started claiming his part of the bargain there were several skirmishes—the Matabele Wars. Bows and arrows against the machinegun. Naturally the Matabele lost; Lobengula burnt his capital, Gu-bulawayo, and fled north where he died. After that the Matabele, or the Ndebele as they are really called, were under the British heel until the mid-1960s when a group of whites led by Ian Smith broke away from Britain. They said that for a thousand years Rhodesia would be a white country.”
“Sounds reminiscent of Hitler’s boast about Nazi Germany.”
Ignoring the interruption, Vronsky continued, “Recognized by very few countries, Rhodesia survived for a number of years very successfully; but the pressures were too great. The Rhodesian War against the black freedom fighters took its toll.”
“I hope that we had something to do with all of this,” Romanov murmured.
“Oh yes, most certainly. We trained many of the guerrillas and gave a lot of help, and in the end the Smith regime had to admit that it had lost. Britain took control of the country again briefly in order to allow for elections. All the whites hoped that a moderate black leader would emerge; someone like Bishop Abel Muzorewa who had already served in Smith’s last government when the whites saw the writing on the wall. However, when all the votes were counted, our friend the Marxist-Leninist, Robert Mugabe, took power.”
“So what’s the problem? Just having Mugabe in control should be enough.” Romanov opened his eyes and looked across at Vronsky.
“Yes, there should be no problem and we do have a finger in that pie. But the finger doesn’t go deep enough; we don’t have enough of that pie. Mugabe turned to North Korea for assistance and it seems that he has retained many capitalist ideas, because they work, in favour of communist ideas that don’t.”
“Sensible, I would say. He sounds a practical sort of man.”
“But that’s not what we want. We want more influence in the country.”
“And you have a way to bring this about?”
“Yes. The different tribes who made up the freedom fighters who fought the Smith regime sank their differences to achieve their aims. The Ndebele and the Shonas united. The Ndebele formed a party called ZAPU under Joshua Nkomo - the Zimbabwe African People’s Union with their military wing, Zipra, the Zimbabwe People’s Republican Army. The Shona party was ZANU under Robert Mugabe - the Zimbabwe African National Union and its military wing was Zanla.”
“And that I suppose stands for Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army.”
“Yes.”
“Predictable. Everything in the communist world is either people’s this or liberation that! I often wonder about this, when people have nothing to do with it and there is no such thing as true liberty in any of these countries!”
“Now, as I said, in order to fight the common menace these two very opposite, volatile groups merged their differences.”
“Don’t tell me. Since Zimbabwe became independent the old rivalries have emerged. Ah, now that does sound interesting.”
“The Shonas, who make up the majority of the country, have got nearly all the power and the Ndebele are very sore about it. Mugabe, a Shona, is now the president and virtually all his cabinet are of the same tribe. His former comrade-in-arms, Joshua Nkomo, has been offered very minor posts and generally the Ndebele have been left out. There has been trouble; the Fifth Brigade, trained by North Korea by the way, is the elite branch of the army and manned entirely by Shonas.”
“So you think that we should come in on the side of this Nkomo fellow; offer him assistance?” asked Romanov.
“No, because there seems recently to have been a thaw in relations between Mugabe and Nkomo. They are starting to work together.”
“And that’s something we certainly don’t want!” Romanov said cynically.
“I have got something that is even more favourable to us. I’ve got the rallying point for all Ndebeles, and I want you to meet ram.”
Vronsky crossed the room and opened a pair of double doors. “Will you come this way? Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Vronsky said in English.
Romanov looked up and watched the newcomer cross the floor. The first impression he got was that a giant had entered the room. The man who entered was colossal. He couldn’t begin to guess his girth; his height, he estimated, was well over two metres. His gargantuan body seemed to stand on tree trunks and the hand that shook his was massive.
“Please sit down.” He noticed with a smile that Vronsky had thoughtfully provided a chair of suitable proportions.
He looked into the man’s face. Small black eyes were lost above folds of fleshy cheeks and the mouth held a trace of cruelty. Romanov assumed that he was about thirty-five or forty. It was difficult to tell.
Vronsky stood at his side. “Allow me to introduce you to the great-grandson of Lobengula, the last king of the Ndebele tribe.”
There was a glow in Romanov’s eyes as he said, “I’m delighted to meet you. Delighted.”
Vronsky continued with the introduction, “He has taken the name of Lobengula as his own, although he wasn’t born with that name, and as far as we can ascertain he is the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son of Lobengula. He even looks like Lobengula.” Vronsky slipped a couple of old photographs across the desk which showed the former chief in his kraal.
Romanov examined them and studied the man opposite him; there was certainly a marked resemblance.
“And I intend to take over where my great-grandfather left off,” he said, his voice deep and sonorous. It was a beautiful voice, Romanov decided; a voice that could soothe, a voice that could sway, could coax, persuade. He has potential, Romanov thought.
“Tell me about your plans,” Romanov invited.
“With your help, I intend to make my people great once more. I want the Ndebele to be the nation they once were; to take our rightful place in the world. I want the world to know the word Ndebele. I want to right the wrongs that have been committed against my people.”
“Our plans,” broke in Vronsky, “are to back Lobengula so that he gains a following, a following that will grow. To these people we intend to present him as Lobengula the Second; we shall help install him as king to succeed his great-grandfather. Already there are many Ndebele in Zimbabwe who have flocked to him as their redeemer and his following is growing.”
“My people are tired of the state of affairs that exists in Zimbabwe. So I need Russia’s help; you can help financially, you can help by providing the necessary weapons, you can help by advising.”
Romanov closed his eyes and listened to the cadences in Lobengula’s voice; the repetitions that could sway a crowd.
“And,” added Vronsky triumphantly, “we have a plan; a plan that can only succeed.”
“I hope so,” Romanov murmured softly. “I hope so.”
Vronsky looked at Romanov nervously.
The minutes ticked by as the three men talked. The light from the tall windows faded, and the curtains were drawn. Food and drinks were served.
At last, when the remnants of the last dirty dishes had been cleared away, Romanov made his decision.
“Yes,” he said, “we shall help you. You have proved to me that you are a fine speaker, a great orator, and I am sure that your people will follow, but are you a leader? You must prove yourself as a leader; you will have to return to Zimbabwe as the leader of a fighting force, the force that the Ndebele know and have fought for in the past, Zipra. But your force will be called Zipra-AG; Action Group.”
Vronsky nodded his agreement. “You will therefore need to undergo intensive military training which will cover all aspects of command. In five months, you will be able to assume the rank of General, Commanding Officer of Zipra-AG. We shall help design your uniform and insignia.”
“Ah, the insignia. The emblem of the great Lobengula was the elephant, Ndhlovu. The sign of the elephant, therefore, will have to be part of my insignia.”
“Of course,” said Vronsky hastily. “But these are mere details that will be worked out over the next few months. Now, this evening, one more thing needs to be sorted out.” Vronsky leant forward. “You will need an adviser, a right-hand man; someone who will guide you and make your path to kingship smooth. Someone who can go back to Zimbabwe now to recruit people to your cause; the disaffected, the susceptible. Someone who knows what is wanted. He is a man I trust implicitly, and you will be able to do so too.”
For the second time that evening Vronsky crossed to the double doors.
Standing on the threshold was a dapper little man, the light shining on his balding head, but it was his eyes that Lobengula noticed. There was a smouldering fire in their tawny depths as they stared across the room.
2
The sun was just peeping over the distant hills across the lake as three boys, loaded down with rucksacks and boxes of supplies, made their way down to the small wooden jetty. Traces of an early morning mist lingered among the reeds at the water’s edge and there was a slight chill in the air. The deep blue sky above was reflected in the silky smooth water. It was going to be a hot
“Do we really have to bring so much?” complained one of the boys. He was stocky and fair-haired. “These boxes weigh a tonne. It would be much better to live off the land, you know.”
“Knowing you, you’d probably starve! Besides, it was you who stacked all this stuff by the front door and then kept adding more.” The second speaker was Nigel, Bruce’s elder brother. He was dark-haired, taller and more serious. “Quit moaning and carry!”
“Well, I forgot that we would have to lug all of it to the boat! The house is miles away.”
“We’ve done most of it now.” This was Muyunda. Over his shoulder he carried several fishing rods that quivered and jangled with each step he took. Carefully, he stepped from the wooden jetty into the sleek craft that bobbed gently under his weight. He put down his load and reached up to relieve Bruce of what he was carrying and placed everything on the deck amongst all the stuff that was there. The boys had already made several journeys from the house on the hill above the lake.
“Thanks. Those things were getting heavier and heavier by the second.” He shook his hands to get the circulation going.
“We’ll leave you behind if you carry on complaining like this,” said his brother.
“You wouldn’t. Anyway, it was my idea to go camping,” Bruce protested as he too leapt into the boat and started stowing the equipment away.
The three boys, all students at the University in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, were on their mid-year holidays. Muyunda Munalula, from the Western Province of Zambia, had invited Nigel and Bruce Wallace, who lived on a farm outside Bulawayo in Zimbabwe, to visit him and his elder brother, Sezongo.
Sezongo worked for the Zambian Government in the Fisheries Department and this part of Lake Kariba was under his control.[8]
Nigel and Muyunda returned to the house to cart down the final load.
“I wish I could live here. Your brother is very lucky,” said Nigel as they reached the sloping lawns of the twenty-five-year-old house. Shrubs and beds of profusely flowering cannas dotted the grass. A twisted bougainvillea covered nearly half of the red, corrugated iron roof, a mass of deep mauve flowers. A wide wire-gauzed verandah surrounding the house gave a magnificent panoramic view of the lake. Below them was Sinazongwe Inlet there the boat was tied up. The disc of the sun was now well above the horizon, and the boys could see Lake Kariba stretching far into the distance on either hand. Opposite, the Zimbabwean shore was some twenty-five kilometres away and was still in deep shore. “It’s beautiful. He’s certainly lucky,” he repeated.
“If you’re talking about me, you’re quite right. I am very lucky.” Muyunda’s elder brother, Sezongo, opened the front door for them. “I was just going to give you a hand with your stuff, but I see I am too late! You’ve carried most of it down.”
“That sounds like one of Bruce’s excuses,” smiled Muyunda.
“Oh, you’re all right,” said Nigel. “You don’t need to carry anything. You’ve lent us your boat. That’s your contribution. She’s a real beauty. Have you had her long?”
“No, not really. She was delivered a couple of months ago and I’m able to use her for my work. So the Ngweshi is partly for work and partly for pleasure.” Sezongo lifted the remaining box and followed Nigel and Muyunda to the path down to the jetty. “The previous boat I had was getting pretty clapped-out and let me down a few times.”
“What does Ngweshi mean?” Nigel asked.
“That’s a Lozi[9] word. It means tiger fish - the fiercest fish in the Zambezi; not very good eating - a bit bony, but what a fight it puts up.”
“My brother’s even had some black and yellow stripes painted on the hull, as you can see,” Muyunda put in. “So that she even looks like her namesake.”
“I’ve put everything away.” Bruce rushed along the jetty towards the others. He took some of the paraphernalia from his brother and Muyunda. “There’s plenty of space in the little cabin.” He had removed the fitted seat cushions and he pushed the things into the spaces below. “I’ve put the meat and stuff in the little fridge.”
In a few minutes the Ngweshi was ready.
“I wish I could come with you three,” said Sezongo ruefully. “But I’ve got to work. Fortunately for you I don’t need the boat for the next few weeks as I’ve got to go up to Lusaka.”
“Thanks for letting us borrow the Ngweshi. We’ll take good care of her,” said Nigel. He was in the stern pumping the petrol-lead bladder. Two gleaming black Mercury engines fitted snugly on the transom. He leant over the stern and turned on the petrol intakes and a little rainbow pattern of fuel filmed the water. He stood up and tugged at the starting ropes of first one and then the second engine. They rumbled to life and purred almost silently in neutral. He checked that the water-cooling system was working a steady stream of water flowed from an outlet pipe, showing that there was no blockage.
Sezongo untied the ropes and, with a cheery wave, threw them into the Ngweshi which drifted away from the jetty. “Cheerio.. And see you in a couple of weeks. Have a good time.”
“We will,” called Bruce above the purring engines. “Just getting away from it all. That’s the life. Taking photos of game. That’s what I want to do.”
The three boys waved and Muyunda took the wheel. Momentarily, he set the engines into reverse before pointing the bow towards the mouth of Sinazongwe Inlet. He had grown up
with boats all his life, having lived by the vast Barotse Floodplain where, at certain times of the year, travelling by water is the only way to get from place to place, and this had become second nature to him.
Not that Bruce and Nigel didn’t know about boats. They certainly did. Admittedly they hadn’t spent so much of their lives around boats as Muyunda had, but they could handle most craft on the water with a great deal of ease. The bow lifted as Muyunda eased the throttles further forward, and the Ngweshi, her two powerful engines growling, surged ahead. Astern, an arrow-straight, sparkling white wake curled over on itself. A stiff breeze whipped against the low windshield which the three boys were leaning on. In a few minutes they were out of Sinazongwe Inlet and on either side stretched the mirror-smooth waters of the lake. To their left, two hundred kilometres over the distant northern horizon, lay the dam wall.
Muyunda turned the bow to the south.
The previous evening round the dining table, littered with maps and charts of the lake, the three boys and Sezongo had discussed the best places to go camping.
“Sometime last year I had to come down to this area,” said Sezongo. He unrolled a chart of the southern end of the lake where it narrows to the width of the Zambezi River as it comes out of the Devil’s Gorge. “The fishermen were complaining that a couple of inlets here needed attention; there were tree hazards.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nigel.
“Before the dam was built, bulldozers and heavy machinery uprooted vast areas of forest land. Real ball and chain stuff. They knocked down thousands of trees to make parts of the bed of the future lake suitable for net fishing. It was realized that in time the lake would be able to provide tonnes of fish a year if it could be harvested properly.”
“But surely the trees would drown and then rot away,” put in Bruce.
“You would think so. But look at this chart here.” Sezongo extracted a large chart called Lake Kariba Chart 1, North-East Portion. He laid a couple of paper weights to keep it flat. He pointed to several areas, mainly around the coastline.
“They look like trees - little red trees,” said Nigel.
“And the Reference says ‘Tree Hazard’,” Bruce added.
“This chart was produced in 1985 and that means that in spite of being flooded twenty-five years before, the trees are still there: dead stumps sticking out of the water, or more dangerously just below the surface. I’ve hit a prop a number of times!”
“So your fishermen want to try to fish in some areas where there are still a lot of trees?” Nigel asked.
“Yes. Unfortunately, not all of the lake bed could be cleared before the water rose and so that is why I’m going to Lusaka the day after tomorrow. I’m attending a meeting where we are going to discuss the problem to see if there is a way round it. Waste of time, if you ask me. We just have to wait for the trees to rot away to nothing. But as I was saying, I went down to this area.” He pointed to the first chart. “This chart isn’t all that detailed; it’s only 1,250,000, but somewhere here is what looks like a lovely little island near the Chimini Inlet; white sandy beaches and some big shady trees. I’ve always promised myself that I would go there again sometime. And just nearby is an inlet that is nearly completely enclosed, as you can see. You can even go up the Zhimu River some way.”
‘How can we find the island?” asked Muyunda.
“That’s easy. As you head towards the end of the lake keep fairly close in to the Zambian shore when you reach the Binga Basin here. You can’t fail to see a tiny island which is really just a single outcrop of rock with one extremely tall, lonely borassus.
“That’s the palm tree that’s fat in the middle of its trunk, isn’t it?” Bruce asked.
“Quite. Rather like a straightened-out python that has just eaten a hefty meal! Well, within half a kilometre, due west, is this island. You can’t miss it. I don’t think it has a name, but I’ve called it Kubu Island as, at one end in the thick reeds and river grass, I saw a large group of hippos. Kubu is the Silozi word for hippopotamus.”
Bruce’s eyes lit up.
“That’s just what my brother wants,” explained Nigel. “He has been asked to try and get some photos of hippos for a wildlife magazine in Zimbabwe.”
“You’ll find hippo there all right.”
And so it had been decided that they would head for Kubu Island in the Binga Basin.
Muyunda pushed the throttles forward and Bruce felt as though he had been mule-kicked in the small of his back! The bow rose for a moment before settling down as the Ngweshi skimmed the surface. The sound of the two mercury engines crescendoed.
“Look, there are a lot of islands ahead,” Nigel shouted. “They must be the islands that form one end of the Binga Basin.” Breaking the southern horizon lay a string of small islands.
“Let’s explore a bit,” suggested Muyunda. “We don’t need to hurry. We can easily get to Kubu Island before midday. It’s not that far.”
For the next couple of hours the boys nosed in and out of bays and round the chain of islands that formed a line across the lake. Once or twice they saw other boats in the distance; some were African makoros, hollowed out logs that looked dangerously unstable, and fishing boats containing sunburnt tourists.
“I hope we can get away from them,” remarked Bruce in disgust, pointing to an overloaded speedboat. “I want to get away from everyone.”
“From what Muyunda’s brother said, Kubu Island will be just what you want. I should think we won’t see another soul for a couple of weeks. We just need to get out of this area first,” said Nigel.
“I hope so.” Glumly, Bruce watched yet another tourist boat. “This is like a rush hour. Hey, what’s that over there, beneath those tall trees?”
Nigel put his binoculars to his eyes. “Elephants. Let’s go and have a look at them, Muyunda.”
Bruce, his disgust of tourists forgotten, quickly fetched his camera. Hastily he changed lenses. Looking through the view-finder was like using binoculars, so powerful was the telephoto. The little herd of elephants seemed to leap out at him.
With the throttles well back, the Ngweshi glided nearly silently over to where the creatures stood at the water’s edge. Closer and closer the boys approached until they had no need of binoculars and Bruce changed his lenses again.
Showing no fear of the boat or its occupants, the elephants placidly continued drinking. Several were lazily tossing pancakes of sticky mud over their backs with loud plops, and the mud oozed down their grey flanks in black dribbling streaks.
“They don’t want to get sunburn,” explained Muyunda.
Nigel didn’t know whether to believe him or not and looked non-committal.
“It’s true. They’ve got very sensitive skins,” Bruce put in.
“They also get relief from itching parasites,” added Muyunda.
At that moment, the star of the show appeared from behind a clump of mlala palms. He was the baby of the troupe. Less than a metre tall, he swaggered out to see what was going on, all rubbery like a very wobbly jelly; it looked as though his hose-like trunk was going to trip him up.
“He’s only just been born, I should think,” said Bruce. “Within the last couple of days.”
Unerringly, the little creature wobbled over to his mother where he nudged her between her two front legs. When he had drunk his fill, he left her and very cautiously approached the water’s edge. It was obvious that this was the first time he had seen water. With his trunk he touched the surface experimentally. The water rippled away in ever-widening concentric circles. He jumped back alarmed. But this was the last thing he should have done!
The other elephants, in making their mud pancakes, had left behind a treacherous, slippery morass. The poor little baby didn’t know what to do. His little legs slithered this way and that, and he fell flat on his face. But worse was to happen. Before he could work out what to do with his feet - his trunk kept getting in the way again - he started sliding inexorably towards the edge of the water.
There was a little bank at this point and, without stopping, he tumbled over it. If he had been startled by the gentle ripples earlier, he must now have been terrified by the enormous splash that he caused!
As soon as she saw what was happening to her baby, the mother lumbered to the rescue. She wound her trunk round the half-submerged bundle and dragged the baby to the side. There she set him on his unsteady legs and then, with a resounding wallop from her trunk, she gave the infant a hearty slap!
The three boys could hardly stop themselves rolling about with laughter at these antics.
“Better than a circus, any day,” was Nigel’s comment.
One elephant, suddenly noticing the boys, started swaying from side to side, raised his trunk sniffing the air and flapped his great ears. He gave a little squeal and attempted to charge, splashed into the water but soon got out of his depth and all that the boys could see of him was the tip of his trunk! All the bluster seemed to have gone out of him, for he clambered back onto the shore and resumed making mud pancakes as though nothing had happened.
“One of life’s more embarrassing moments,” whispered Muyunda.
“Well, let’s leave them to it and push on. Let’s find a place we can picnic for lunch in about half an hour.” Nigel took over the wheel and gently, so as not to disturb the elephants, headed the Ngweshi south again.
3
For twenty minutes, the Ngweshi raced down the ever-narrowing lake. With the sun beating down hotly out of a cloudless blue sky, the three boys gazed about them in silence. To port, about ten kilometres away, were the smoke-hazy hills of Zimbabwe. The Ngweshi was closely following the Zambian shore, and here and there they could see isolated patches of smoke from bush fires, either accidentally started or started on purpose to clear the bush. Despite the fact that this was winter, the dry season, it was very hot at midday down in the Zambezi Valley, only four hundred metres above sea-level yet right in the heart of Central Africa.
Nigel was at the wheel and he guided the Ngweshi towards a sloping beach of brick-red sand. Some large fig trees threw deep shadows on the grass that grew above the beach. He killed the engines and the silence of the Zambezi Valley engulfed them, suddenly broken by the most familiar and surely the most evocative of African river sounds. Nearby, high in the dead grey branches of a tree that had been drowned by the rising lake, perched a fish eagle. The sun glinted on his chestnut wings which contrasted vividly with his white head and breast.
He threw his head right back over his shoulders and his loud, ringing WHOW-kayoo-kwow echoed across the still waters. Almost lazily he launched himself into a shallow glide and then, with his wings acting as brakes and his talons stretched forward, ankle feathers fluttering, he just broke the surface of the water.
With three powerful strokes of his wings, the primary feathers skimming the water, he rose. In his left talon he held a dripping, wriggling bream. Circling, he returned to the bare tree where he tore at his prey before once again throwing back his head and screaming into the silent air.
“I wish I could catch fish like that!” breathed Bruce as the boat crunched against the sand.
“My brother hardly ever catches anything, Muyunda,” put in Nigel, unloading a polystyrene box that contained their lunch. “And there he was early this morning talking of living off the land!”
Lunch was a pleasant, relaxed meal in the deep shade watched over by the slightly curious fish eagle, which eventually seemed to get bored and, hearing a distant cry, took off. The boys last saw him circling high in the sky with his mate where their dueting cries mingled as they headed further and further away.
“It’s amazing to think,” began Nigel, breaking the silence, “that not really long ago it was just the Zambezi that flowed here, and where we are now was just hill country of the Zambezi Valley. The islands that we passed this morning are really only the tops of old hills that became isolated when the water rose.”
“It was only after the water started rising,” said Muyunda, “that it was realized how much wildlife there was here. Of course, the governments of Northern Rhodesia and Southern Rhodesia had already persuaded the people to move. This wasn’t at all easy, mind you. When the Zambezi Valley Tonga were told that there would be flooding, they said they knew all about that; it happened every year! They just couldn’t understand what a dam was and that the floods would rise but not go down again!”
“Must have been difficult for them,” murmured Bruce sleepily. “Having lived here in this isolated place for hundreds of years with nobody bothering them.”
“Yes,” continued Muyunda, “this area wasn’t wanted by anyone else. In the early years of this century a few missionaries apparently used to come down to the Zambezi Valley in the winter months, and the men used to go look for work in the towns like Bulawayo and Salisbury. Well, anyway, the Tonga were eventually persuaded to move - even though some kept coming back to their old villages and the government had to resort to pretty tough methods, I gather.”
“You were saying something about the animals,” said Bruce.
“Well, it was only as the water was rising did they realize that this area was literally alive with game. With each passing day, hundreds of animals were moving to higher and higher ground out of what they thought was harm’s way.”
“But they wouldn’t know that what started off as a small island might eventually become completely flooded,” put in Nigel.
“Yes, or it might remain an island but a very small one and there would not be enough food for all the animals gathered there. So a massive operation was launched to try and save them, or as many as they could.”
“I’ve read about that,” said Bruce. “Wasn’t it called ‘Operation Ark’?”
“Nearly right; it was called ‘Operation Noah’ and there is a book of the same name by the guy who coordinated the whole thing, Rupert Fothergill. In fact, there’s an island named after him somewhere fairly near the dam wall. From what I remember, they saved over 5,000 animals from almost certain death - they even ferried snakes to the mainland! They used boats to carry the smaller animals, and at other times they forced the larger animals to swim using two boats lashed together with a space in between. It was a race against time. Constantly they had to shift their camps; each time they had cleared a certain area they moved to the next. They even rescued forty-four black rhinos.”
“That must have been difficult,” said Nigel. “Bad-tempered creatures.”
“They drugged them and loaded them onto pontoons. At this time tranquillizing animals was in its infancy; they didn’t really know how much of the drug to administer, so they often underdosed them, rather than risk killing them! This meant they had animals like rhinos waking up too soon! They also carried families of porcupines.”
“How did they do that?” asked Bruce.
“Very carefully!” Muyunda replied with a grin. “But even after as many of the animals as possible were moved it seemed as though there would be even more problems with the new lake. Salvinia.”
“Who’s she?” asked Bruce.
“Not a she; it’s a plant, something like water hyacinth. It’s a type of fern,” said Nigel.
“The Zambezi has masses of the stuff,” explained Muyunda, “and it grows in still, barely-moving waters. I think they have a problem in Florida in the United States. Well, in the new water of Lake Kariba the stuff started growing madly. It seemed that the entire lake was going to be covered with the stuff. Boat engines got fouled and trees were even beginning to grow on the stuff. They even feared that the turbines in the dam wall would be blocked and no electricity could be produced!”
“What a white elephant that would have been!” commented Bruce. “But fiddling with nature is a tricky business. There are all sorts of unexpected side-effects; sometimes beneficial but other times a nuisance. So what happened? We haven’t seen any of the stuff today.”
“There is still some of it left, but nature seemed to correct herself,” explained Muyunda. “When the water first rose so rapidly there were not very many fish and life hadn’t caught up with the new feature, as it were. But as things started to balance themselves, the salvinia found its correct place in the order of things and no longer posed a serious problem. Occasionally you can find beds of floating vegetation.”
With the sun swinging over to the west and throwing the escarpment hills of Zambia into shade, the three boys pushed the Ngweshi out once more and made for Kubu Island which they knew couldn’t be far distant. After lunch they had gone for a short walk along the beach and rounded a small headland, and from there they could just make out the rocky outcrop that carried the one lone borassus palm that Muyunda’s brother, Sezongo, had mentioned the evening before.
Muyunda set the bow due west as they passed the palm tree signpost, and very soon the boys could see the island, which they were heading for, detach itself from the surrounding islands and mainland. In the evening glow, it looked ideal; white sandy beaches ran into shallow water and the boys knew that they would be able to swim fairly safely and be able to keep a look-out for crocs in the clear water. Slowly they rounded the island, looking for what seemed to be the best landing site. At one end of the island there were tall reeds, and what looked like a number of rocks dotted the surface.
“Hippo,” said Bruce.
Muyunda kept the Ngweshi out of harm’s way. Little round ears flickered on the still surface and spouts of spray erupted from their snorting nostrils as the great beasts, nearly totally hidden from view, kept just their faces above the water.
“They’ll most likely come onto land tonight - I shall try to get my photos then,” Bruce promised.
There was a sudden commotion and a flurry of water as one of the hippos opened his huge pink mouth in a gigantic yawn. His great yellow tusks gleamed in the late afternoon sun and then he submerged, leaving circles of expanding ripples.
“We’ll have to hurry if we want to set up our camp before it’s completely dark,” warned Nigel, and Muyunda headed back to the beach they had first seen. This seemed to be the best place for their camp. “I’m glad there’ll be a moon; it’s already in the sky, I see.”
All three boys had set up camp on numerous occasions in the past and so, after a hasty swim to refresh themselves, it didn’t take them long. They decided to leave much of the food on board the Ngweshi in case they wanted to move on to another camp site. The grass was cut to tidy the place, the tent was erected as they expected the nights to be fairly cool, and a pile of wood was gathered for the fire which was soon lit. After vigorous pumping, the hissing pressure lamps were lit and their bright radiance sent the deep shadows fleeing. One lamp hung from a low branch of the tree just above the entrance to the tent, while a second stood on the table near the food that Muyunda was getting ready.
The logs were sending up tall flames as Nigel fashioned a number of wooden skewers with pointed ends which he fire-hardened. These were for the steaks that Muyunda was doing things to. Neither Bruce nor Nigel were particularly good cooks, and this side of things they left to Muyunda who they had found in their previous adventure to be a veritable wizard over the open fire! Once the flames had died down somewhat and the logs glowed red hot, the boys barbecued their steaks while potatoes in their jackets cooked in the hot ashes.
“We’ll have to do some fishing once the meat runs out,” Muyunda pointed out. “Either that or we just live out of tins.”
After dinner, with the fire dying down further and the hissing pressure lamps a mere glow, the boys lay back on their airbeds. The half moon was already high in the sky and starting to dip towards the horizon sending a long path of rippling silver across the lake. In the distance, from the other end of their island, came the rumbling grunts of the school of hippo the boys had circled earlier.
“I’m glad they are over there out of sight,” remarked Bruce.
“Why?” Muyunda looked across the fire at his friend.
“Surely you’ve heard that hippos are incurably curious and they are attracted by fire. They would be out of the water like a shot and would be waddling round us trying to examine the fire.”
Muyunda regarded Bruce quizzically.
“It’s true,” asserted Nigel. “They’re probably the only animal not frightened by fire.[10] I remember a few years ago, Bruce and I went camping and hardly slept at all one night. On one side there was a herd of elephant browsing in the trees and in the water were a lot of hippo. We were constantly either building up the fire or damping it down depending on whether the elephants were approaching or the hippos were!”
“Yes,” continued Bruce, “when we could hear the hippos splashing closer we would kill the fire. And then, of course, the elephants came closer. It was an amazing experience. That’s why I said I’m glad that the hippos are on the other side of the island! Anyway, talking of hippos, I’m going for a bit of a wander. I would like to take some photos of them. Don’t wait up for me!”
“We won’t!” his brother replied.
By the light of the moon, Bruce followed a trail through the trees that he had discovered earlier when out collecting firewood. It led almost directly across the island to where the sound of the hippos grew louder as he approached, and he could hear the creatures splashing about in the water. Cautiously, in case any hippos had already left the water and were grazing, he made his way to the tip of the island through the hippo tunnels in the spiky reeds that fringed the shore.
Before reaching the end of the island, he checked to see that no hippopotamus was yet ashore; he knew that the hippo is extremely dangerous if someone gets between one and the water.[11]
Silently, he settled himself down to watch. The moon was still above the horizon and in the silver light, Bruce watched the hippos cavorting in the glistening water. An old battle-scarred bull had obviously decided that one of the youngsters needed taking down a peg or two. He hurled himself half out of the water and lunged with his wide-open mouth. The youngster dived, leaving the warrior foolishly looking for his adversary. Frustrated, he emitted a loud um-vuvu, um-vuvu that rumbled across the water like a deep bassoon solo. He then drifted lazily towards the island and with a great effort he heaved his two and a half tonnes out of the water. His scarred flanks glistened as he stood on the shore, and then he floundered up the gentle slope to the grassy patch near when Bruce lay concealed deep in the reeds.
It was a magnificent opportunity for Bruce to get the photos he wanted, and the creature didn’t seem to be aware of the flashing camera. He merely grunted and chomped at the thick tussocks of grass. Soon the others joined him, and within a short time nearly the whole school was milling round, completely oblivious of the fact they had a visitor in their midst. In fact, the old bull decided that this was a suitable opportunity to show that this was his territory; he still obviously felt aggrieved towards the youngster and he felt there was a need to assert his superiority After he had finished eating, he waddled to the extreme end of the grassy patch and, wiggling his ridiculously tiny tail at great speed, he scattered a load of dung. He showered the reeds where Bruce sat, hardly daring to breathe; and not wanting to breathe for that matter, either!
Satisfied, the hippo ambled off to another patch of reeds and performed the same operation, some of the manure lodging itself high in an acacia tree. Bruce cautiously tried to remove as much of the stuff from his hair and clothes as he could.
Suddenly, the hippos all seemed to take fright. As one, they all waddled hurriedly back to the water, sending up a great splash as they did so, and then they submerged. Bruce seemed to be left alone with the night and then he heard what had clearly disturbed the great creatures.
There was the distinct purring of an outboard engine. The moon was just dipping behind the hills of the Zambezi Escarpment, and in the waning light Bruce peered in the direction of the noise. He was puzzled. What would a boat be doing out here at close on midnight?
At that moment, he could see a light as the bow of the boat rounded another small island some three hundred metres away. The boat seemed to be well-loaded for the engine was straining slightly and it was not going very fast.
By now, the hippos had completely disappeared, and the boat came closer and closer. Bruce counted about twelve passengers, not including the boatman who sat in the stern. In the waist of the boat were several boxes and a pile of what looked like bulging, overfilled rucksacks. The light in the bow was extinguished.
And then the boat was gone. It rounded the island and headed straight across the lake for the distant Zimbabwean shore, the sound of the engine growing fainter and fainter, with just the gentle wash from the passing wake to remind Bruce that a boat had passed him.
What had struck Bruce was that the occupants of the boat were all sitting low down round the gunwhales as though to keep out of sight, and some of them seemed to be wearing berets and camouflage fatigues. Nearly all of the occupants were holding guns between their legs and, from the distinctive curved magazines, Bruce guessed that they were AK-47’s, the famous Soviet Kalashnikov assault weapons, arguably the finest rifle in the world.
4
Puzzled, Bruce sat in the increasing darkness for some time longer. The moon dropped below the Zambezi Valley Escarpment and it was now just the band of bright stars of the Milky Way, arcing across the velvet sky, that shed any light on the scene. The hippos were silent except for the occasional snort and splash.
Not really knowing what to think, he decided to head back for the camp at the other end of the island and, rather than wake the others, tell them what he had seen the next morning. He wondered if this was a regular patrol on the part of the Zambian government; perhaps to pick up illegal immigrants or even smugglers. But somehow he got the impression that what he had seen was something more sinister.
Standing up cautiously to avoid being scratched by the reeds, Bruce switched on his torch. The bright circular beam of light showed him the hippo tunnel that led through the reeds on the other side of the open grassy area, and it didn’t take him long to return to their little camp. The embers of the fire glowed dull red and one of the logs settled, sending up a golden shower of sparks.
His hopes of not waking the others did not work out quite as planned. Initially everything seemed to go very well. He quietly crawled through the open tent flap and, without removing his clothes, lay down on top of his sleeping bag between the sleeping figures of Nigel and Muyunda.
Suddenly Nigel woke up gasping for breath. “What the heck is that foul smell? This place smells like an unwashed cowshed! Geez, what have you been doing, Bruce? Rolling in something?”
By this time, Muyunda was startled into wakefulness, and Bruce remembered his encounter with the hippo some time earlier. He had, however, got used to the smell and had forgotten all about it. He now realized that he must be coming over rather strongly to the others in the close confines of the tent!
“Gee, I’m sorry, you guys. I didn’t realize that I was quite so high.”
“High! You’re almost flying! You smell dreadful.” His brother had clasped his fingers over his nose. “Whatever happened to you?”
“I had a close encounter with a rather large warrior hippo who was determined to claim his territorial rights. He didn’t see me but his aim was spot on!”
“You can say that again!” said Muyunda. “I think either you’ll have to sleep outside or Nigel and I will have to.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a thorough bath in disinfectant and then getting rid of your clothes. Something much more drastic,” was Nigel’s comment. “You seem to make a habit of this sort of thing! If I remember correctly, you also had a close encounter with a molly.”[12]
“I don’t exactly want to go and have a swim in the dark - you know I’ve had this sort of phobia about swimming in unknown waters at night ever since the Cunene River experience. You remember what happened then?[13] But I’ll take my sleeping bag out of the tent and then I’ll wash at first light.”
“You’d better! What time is it, anyway?”
Muyunda looked at his watch, saying it was about two o’clock. He then suggested that he make some Ovaltine as they were all awake. The fire was still warm enough and so, while Muyunda busied himself with stirring the embers back to life, Bruce pulled his sleeping bag and airbed out of breathing distance!
“Why are you so late?” asked Nigel when they all had steaming enamel mugs of Ovaltine in their hands. “We thought you’d be back ages ago.”
“Yes, I would have but, while I was watching the hippos, a rather strange thing happened. Maybe Muyunda can solve the mystery.” Bruce took a gulp of his drink. “Suddenly the hippos rushed back into the water. They had heard a boat and were startled.”
“Probably some late night fishermen,” Nigel put in.
“That they weren’t,” replied his brother grimly. “It was a boatload of armed men. About twelve of them, all carrying AK-47’s and I could see a couple of grenade and rocket launchers in the bottom of the boat. They were headed for the Zimbabwean shore.”
“Just a Zambian patrol against smugglers or some-thing.”
“Grenade launchers! Against smugglers? Hardly, I would have thought,” said Bruce. “What do you think, Muyunda?”
But he was just as much in the dark as the two brothers. “If this had been some years ago, I would have said they were freedom fighters going in to Rhodesia against the Smith regime.”
“But this isn’t some years ago, this is now. That Rhodesia is over and gone; it’s now Zimbabwe.”
“Of course,” said Muyunda, “there is still trouble in Zimbabwe. Not blacks against whites but tribe against tribe. There has always been a fair amount of trouble between the Shonas and the Ndebele.”
“But hardly this, surely,” argued Bruce. “There is a certain amount of rivalry, yes; that is only natural. The Shonas have all the political power and the Ndebele feel that they, after completely subjugating and dominating the Shonas many years ago in the last century, should have more say in the way the country is run.”
“As you say, but surely they can achieve their objective by democratic means,” put in Muyunda. “I know that there has been the occasional outrage, the odd political murder and suchlike, but there isn’t any movement to overthrow the government in Zimbabwe, is there?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Nigel. “Anyway, I’m getting sleepy again, and do you know, I’ve either got used to Bruce’s smell or it’s wearing off, because he doesn’t smell quite so bad? But still bad enough to be banned from the tent! Let’s go back to bed and then tomorrow evening we could watch for Bruce’s boat to see if it’s a regular patrol, perhaps.”
The three boys were soon asleep and then in the chilly grey light of dawn some hours later, having been woken by the persistent screams of a fish eagle, Bruce slipped across the narrow beach where he washed his clothes, leaving them on a rock to dry. He found the water comparatively warm after the cool air and so took his time bathing.
The fish eagle clung to the top branches of a dead tree which was reflected in the water surrounding it. Time and again, when he wasn’t observing the boy, he threw his great white head back and let the world know that he was there.
“You certainly are a noisy bird,” Bruce murmured, ducking his head under the water to get rid of the shampoo.
And so half an hour later, with the sun peeping over the horizon, he returned to camp. He stirred the fire to life and set about preparing breakfast.
“Ah, that’s a much better smell to wake up to,” murmured Nigel later. “Just what I need: bacon and eggs, and mugs of strong, wood-smoky tea. Perfect.”
All that day the boys lazed round the camp and went fishing off the rocks at one end of the beach. They all felt rather tired after their disturbed night and they knew that they would be up late again. After a hot afternoon when they all slept for some time, Muyunda cooked a delicious meal of the fish they had caught and in the glow of the fire, they waited till they thought it was time to go to the other end of the island. They knew that the moon would be setting about three-quarters of an hour later and so they made their way along the hippo paths to the grassy patch sometime after midnight.
They were disappointed to find that the hippos had gone elsewhere and were nowhere to be seen. With just the moonlight playing on the water, the boys sat down on the grass to wait. Bruce pulled his sweater on and hugged his knees. The only sound came from the crickets and toads in the reeds at the water’s edge. It was a magnificent African night, the stars dim beside the strength of the moon which made everything nearly as bright as day. The moon was slightly bigger than the previous night and was dipping down to the black silhouetted horizon when the sound the boys had been waiting for came across the water - the purring of a motor boat.