http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2012/05/10/3500121.htm
Click on the link to hear the podcast interview with Richard Fidler on ABC radio
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Monday, February 1, 2010
World's View
July 1981 and it is a cool, cloudless start to a beautiful day in Bulawayo, the town of the wide open streets where a cart hauled by sixteen Cape bullocks can be turned in the main street. I had been given a car for the long weekend to drive from the asbestos mine at Mashaba to the provincial capital Bulawayo and get my work permit extended. It is a five-hour drive from Mashaba to Bulawayo; so setting off on a Thursday gave me a few days to explore the veldt.
I was brought up in the fifties and sixties, my schoolteachers were 1920s and 30s vintage. Perhaps that accounts for them feeding me with Kipling, W H Davies, the First World War poets and so on. That combined with my love of Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia resulted in my having a strong interest in Cecil Rhodes, he of the British South African Company and the fabulous Cape to Cairo railway. Anyway, Cecil John Rhodes, at his own request, was buried at World’s View in the Matopos Hills to the southeast of Bulawayo, now a National Park. I headed out of the city for the hills and hopefully a glimpse of some African big game. The road was paved for the first half hour or so but then gave way to a single strip of bitumen before becoming a red dirt road proper.
A small, wizened man stood at attention outside his tiny gatehouse at the Park’s entrance. He had probably heard my car approaching up the valley. “Good morning, Bwana,” he greeted me, “welcome to Matopos.” He invited me to sign the visitors’ book and offered me a seat at his desk inside the office. I couldn’t help noticing that the last visitor had been here two weeks earlier, no wonder he awaited my arrival so keenly. I paid the small entrance fee to the park and continued on my journey.
I parked the little Datsun at the top of the winding road leading to World’s View. It was very still and quiet, brooding, neither birdsong nor rustling of leaves in the wind, no motor cars or other sounds of the city.
All around the boulders of exfoliating granite stood like sentinels on guard at the tomb of some ancient, revered warrior. I stepped out of the car and gazed at these strange boulders that perched upon other boulders as if to see further into the infinite horizon. They are such a common sight that the stones are depicted on the national bank notes. Alone I climbed the last few hundred metres over the crazy skarn to the plateau at the top of the Matopos Hills, the final approach to World’s View, a site I had longed to visit since, as a child, I read of the heroic deeds of Cecil John Rhodes in Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia (1921 Edition).
There at the peak, for 360 degrees around the circle, I could see forever, east to Mozambique and the Indian Ocean, West to Botswana, Namibia and the Atlantic, North to the distant terminus of Rhodes’ envisioned railway at Cairo and south to the Cape and Antarctica. Truly World’s View was a most apposite appellation for this splendid vista.
Cecil John’s tomb itself is excavated out of the solid granite at the very peak known to the Karanga people as Marindidzimu ('the haunt of the ancestral spirits'). The huge brass plate states simply:
“Here Lie The Remains of Cecil John Rhodes”
I stood for, perhaps, 10 minutes, or maybe it was an hour, soaking in the grandeur of the scene and thinking of Lord Alton’s words: 'He lies buried on the mountain, the lizards crawling over a massive stone lacking any cross or religious symbol. A haunted, sinister pagan place.' Indeed.
There are times when one feels a supernatural power, such as when one knows absolutely that one is being watched. I heard nothing, for no sound was made. I sensed no movement, for nothing moved but I knew I was being watched. I turned to look towards the track that led back to my Datsun. Then I saw them.
A gang? A herd? A troupe, yes that’s the collective noun. A troupe of baboons. Perhaps twenty of them. Mothers with babies hanging from their bellies and clinging to their backs. In the background standing menacingly in the middle of my escape route, the male, the big ugly, evil-looking dominant male with great yellow, bared fangs. I instantly became a Christian and commenced the Lord’s Prayer – aloud lest He should doubt my piety.
For those of you who might think that baboons are cuddly, benevolent primates, I must confound that misapprehension. They are big, grumpy and dangerous. My position was perilous in the extreme. A troupe of twenty has no fear, it is easily a match for a single human; especially a terrified human. Indeed they are known to attack lion when in such numbers.
What was I to do? I had no weapon. True there were lots of small granite rocks around but as I stooped to pick one up, I had a vision of the creatures mimicking me and each of them grabbing a rock to hurl back at me. This was a very potent vision and I quickly forgot the idea.
The events of the next few moments can scarcely be believed but I swear it happened. The proof being that I am here to tell the story today.
A crested African Snake Eagle swooped down from the heavens and came perilously close to a tiny baby baboon that had strayed from its mother. To this day, I don’t know if the bird was attacking the baboon or had spied a nearby snake – there were certainly many snakes in the vicinity. Whatever the truth of it, the entire troupe ran to the rescue of its young relative. My prayer was answered and I began to move cautiously toward the car. The eagle swooped again. The baby, knowing no better, struck out at the bird. It seemed like a scene from The Jungle Book where the pugilists were cartoon characters.
By now I had covered half the distance back to my Datsun in a tip-toeing, watchful manner. But suddenly the terrible animals were otherwise engaged and I broke into a full gallop. I stumbled and crashed through the low bushes, bounded from granite boulder to granite boulder with all the grace of a mule in a mud swamp. The car presently came into view as I began to believe I was going to make it safely to the sanctuary of my little vehicle.
I opened the door and flew in to the driver’s seat, slammed the door and gave thanks to the Almighty for delivering me from the infidels of the bush. Breathless, with tattered jeans and bleeding arms and cheeks I gave thanks with a passion unknown to me.
I looked up the escarpment to the crest of the plateau and there they were: the troupe that was so nearly my Nemesis. They looked down at me (literally and figuratively!). Some even beat their chests. It reminded me of that final scene at the Battle of Rorkes Drift in the film Zulu. Were they saluting me as the Zulu Impis had praised Stanley Baker, Michael Caine and the South Wales Borderers?
Or were they laughing at a silly Welsh boy who had had the fright of his life?
© Chris Skelding 2003
I was brought up in the fifties and sixties, my schoolteachers were 1920s and 30s vintage. Perhaps that accounts for them feeding me with Kipling, W H Davies, the First World War poets and so on. That combined with my love of Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia resulted in my having a strong interest in Cecil Rhodes, he of the British South African Company and the fabulous Cape to Cairo railway. Anyway, Cecil John Rhodes, at his own request, was buried at World’s View in the Matopos Hills to the southeast of Bulawayo, now a National Park. I headed out of the city for the hills and hopefully a glimpse of some African big game. The road was paved for the first half hour or so but then gave way to a single strip of bitumen before becoming a red dirt road proper.
A small, wizened man stood at attention outside his tiny gatehouse at the Park’s entrance. He had probably heard my car approaching up the valley. “Good morning, Bwana,” he greeted me, “welcome to Matopos.” He invited me to sign the visitors’ book and offered me a seat at his desk inside the office. I couldn’t help noticing that the last visitor had been here two weeks earlier, no wonder he awaited my arrival so keenly. I paid the small entrance fee to the park and continued on my journey.
I parked the little Datsun at the top of the winding road leading to World’s View. It was very still and quiet, brooding, neither birdsong nor rustling of leaves in the wind, no motor cars or other sounds of the city.
All around the boulders of exfoliating granite stood like sentinels on guard at the tomb of some ancient, revered warrior. I stepped out of the car and gazed at these strange boulders that perched upon other boulders as if to see further into the infinite horizon. They are such a common sight that the stones are depicted on the national bank notes. Alone I climbed the last few hundred metres over the crazy skarn to the plateau at the top of the Matopos Hills, the final approach to World’s View, a site I had longed to visit since, as a child, I read of the heroic deeds of Cecil John Rhodes in Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia (1921 Edition).
There at the peak, for 360 degrees around the circle, I could see forever, east to Mozambique and the Indian Ocean, West to Botswana, Namibia and the Atlantic, North to the distant terminus of Rhodes’ envisioned railway at Cairo and south to the Cape and Antarctica. Truly World’s View was a most apposite appellation for this splendid vista.
Cecil John’s tomb itself is excavated out of the solid granite at the very peak known to the Karanga people as Marindidzimu ('the haunt of the ancestral spirits'). The huge brass plate states simply:
“Here Lie The Remains of Cecil John Rhodes”
I stood for, perhaps, 10 minutes, or maybe it was an hour, soaking in the grandeur of the scene and thinking of Lord Alton’s words: 'He lies buried on the mountain, the lizards crawling over a massive stone lacking any cross or religious symbol. A haunted, sinister pagan place.' Indeed.
There are times when one feels a supernatural power, such as when one knows absolutely that one is being watched. I heard nothing, for no sound was made. I sensed no movement, for nothing moved but I knew I was being watched. I turned to look towards the track that led back to my Datsun. Then I saw them.
A gang? A herd? A troupe, yes that’s the collective noun. A troupe of baboons. Perhaps twenty of them. Mothers with babies hanging from their bellies and clinging to their backs. In the background standing menacingly in the middle of my escape route, the male, the big ugly, evil-looking dominant male with great yellow, bared fangs. I instantly became a Christian and commenced the Lord’s Prayer – aloud lest He should doubt my piety.
For those of you who might think that baboons are cuddly, benevolent primates, I must confound that misapprehension. They are big, grumpy and dangerous. My position was perilous in the extreme. A troupe of twenty has no fear, it is easily a match for a single human; especially a terrified human. Indeed they are known to attack lion when in such numbers.
What was I to do? I had no weapon. True there were lots of small granite rocks around but as I stooped to pick one up, I had a vision of the creatures mimicking me and each of them grabbing a rock to hurl back at me. This was a very potent vision and I quickly forgot the idea.
The events of the next few moments can scarcely be believed but I swear it happened. The proof being that I am here to tell the story today.
A crested African Snake Eagle swooped down from the heavens and came perilously close to a tiny baby baboon that had strayed from its mother. To this day, I don’t know if the bird was attacking the baboon or had spied a nearby snake – there were certainly many snakes in the vicinity. Whatever the truth of it, the entire troupe ran to the rescue of its young relative. My prayer was answered and I began to move cautiously toward the car. The eagle swooped again. The baby, knowing no better, struck out at the bird. It seemed like a scene from The Jungle Book where the pugilists were cartoon characters.
By now I had covered half the distance back to my Datsun in a tip-toeing, watchful manner. But suddenly the terrible animals were otherwise engaged and I broke into a full gallop. I stumbled and crashed through the low bushes, bounded from granite boulder to granite boulder with all the grace of a mule in a mud swamp. The car presently came into view as I began to believe I was going to make it safely to the sanctuary of my little vehicle.
I opened the door and flew in to the driver’s seat, slammed the door and gave thanks to the Almighty for delivering me from the infidels of the bush. Breathless, with tattered jeans and bleeding arms and cheeks I gave thanks with a passion unknown to me.
I looked up the escarpment to the crest of the plateau and there they were: the troupe that was so nearly my Nemesis. They looked down at me (literally and figuratively!). Some even beat their chests. It reminded me of that final scene at the Battle of Rorkes Drift in the film Zulu. Were they saluting me as the Zulu Impis had praised Stanley Baker, Michael Caine and the South Wales Borderers?
Or were they laughing at a silly Welsh boy who had had the fright of his life?
© Chris Skelding 2003
No Beer At Lundazi (Part Two)
I was relaxing - if that is the right description for sitting, exhausted after a scorching five hours of Landrovering through the Central African bush - in the lounge of the Castle Hotel, Lundazi. This is truly an astonishing building, a castle built by a German between 1949 and 1952.
The heavy wooden door swung open, "Sorry, Bwana," apologised Banda, "But there is only nshima for dinner, no meat again."
This did not come as a great surprise, I had eaten little but nshima since leaving the capital, Lusaka five days before.
"Forget it, Banda," I said "I will be eating out tonight." As Banda left he looked at me as if I had a touch of the sun, he knew as well as I did that there was no restaurant within two hundred and fifty kilometres. Nevertheless I was determined to go out, but where?
The answer came when Banda introduced a short stocky African wearing an ill fitting grey worsted suit - a more unsuitable, incongruous piece of clothing for this climate is hard to imagine.
"Bwana, this is Mr Lungu, he has a message for you from Officer Bwalya." I accepted the note, bade Mr Lungu sit down and began to read the message aloud:
Dear Mr Chris,
I note your remarks about the shortage of beer in Lundazi and have made some alternative arrangements for tonight. Please collect me at my office at 1700 hours tonight with your Land Rover and driver and we will go to the border post for a drink.
Yours faithfully,
Marcus Bwalya
Officer Commanding
Office of the President (Lundazi)
p.s. No documents required.
It occurred to me that the Gods were perhaps tired of their little joke concerning five parched days in the savanna and were now prepared to smile on me.
"Wena chella Ba Bwalya mina buya na yena pa fivey". I said to Lungu, confirming my intention to join Bwalya at five.
Shortly before five Jonathan braked outside the redstone portico of the Office of the President and I stepped out of the bush battered Land Rover to be greeted by Marcus Bwalya. "Good afternoon, Mr Chris, I am so glad you could make it," he gushed, unable to disguise the politeness and courtesy of the senior civil servant.
"I wasn't doing much this evening anyway, Marcus, the lobster hadn't arrived from Durban and the hotel cabaret has been cancelled."
My sarcasm was not lost on this well dressed, well educated, lithe son of Africa. Marcus had been apprenticed to the European officers of the Northern Rhodesian Police Force and his sense of humour was noticeably British.
We boarded the Landie and under Marcus' direction, Jonathan drove north along the rutted, potholed, crevassed track to the Malawi border post.
It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the frontier which turned out to be nothing more than two brick built huts - one in Zambia, one in Malawi. At the Zambian side Marcus introduced me to the Immigration Officer, Mr Banda.
I am very pleased to know you, sir," said Mr Banda, "you are most certainly welcome and I wish I were able to offer you a cold beer but sadly my stocks are exhausted."
At this point I had to remind myself that neither Marcus nor myself had made any reference to beer. In fact, apart from "Hello, Mr Banda" we had said very little.
Mr Banda's note said:
"Dear Mr Banda,
Please allow one Land Rover
and occupants into Malawi in
search of cold beer.
Kind Regards,
Mr Banda."
It seems that Banda is a common name in this part of Central Africa and is found on both sides of the ill defined International boundary. A number of the local tribes live in groups of villages that straddle the border and passage between the two countries is quite unrestricted.
So it was that we found ourselves at the second brick built border post with our letter of introduction from Mr Banda to Mr Banda. As it turned out this Mr Banda was the duplicate of our other Mr Banda. In manner, in speech, in appearance they were perfect doppelgangers. And there they sat, each one fifty metres east or west of the border. Each one with his set of forms, his peaked cap, his rubber stamps, each upholding the dignity of his respective Nation. Each one with the power to allow one in or allow one out.
Mr Banda was more than pleased to allow us in, never once asking those questions that usually fall from the lips of Entry Officials: "Passport please, what currencies are you carrying, how long will you be staying?" On the contrary, Mr Banda preferred the more direct, practical, helpful approach.
"We have no cold beer at the border post, gentlemen," he apologised, "but if you follow that track for thirty kilometres you will arrive at a small village with a bar that is stocked with six brands of cold beer. The bar is owned by a very close fried of mine and you will be made more than welcome."
I knew I should not have asked the next question but could not stop myself. "What is his name?" I said.
"Mr Banda!" everyone chorused gleefully.
Jonathan crashed the Land Rover into first and we were off again.
The dirt track was narrow with fairly dense foliage on both sides. The road, however, had recently been graded which allowed us to make speedy progress. Just as darkness was falling we reached the village which consisted of about twenty pole and dagga huts, a school and "Banda's Bar and Restaurant".
We entered the gloom of the crowded bar illuminated only by a forty Watt electric light bulb. The Rumba music was deafening as it spewed out of a single turntable monophonic Dansette circa 1956. I was at once excited and a little apprehensive of the sheer power of the African dancing.
It seemed that everyone in the room was dancing: men with men, women with women and more conventionally (at least to Europeans) men with women. Almost everyone held a bottle of beer and more than half the women carried babies or young children on their backs safely secured in the folds of mother's chitenge.
"Mr Chris!" cried Marcus, who had moved up to the bar, "Come and meet Mr Mwale, he is also an officer of the President - the President of Malawi."
I shook hands with a tall, very black African and we exchanged greetings at the tops of our voices. Mr Mwale bought us a bottle of cold beer each and in so doing brought our long quest, our search for the Golden Fleece, to a very satisfactory conclusion. He was to buy all the beer that night - he was the only one amongst us with any Malawi currency.
The enormity of my folly was now beginning to dawn on me. I had no money, I had exported a Government vehicle from Zambia illegally, I had no passport or other documents of identification. I began to imagine my pleading with an unsympathetic Malawi Police officer, trying to convince him that I was a British subject and could I please contact my High Commissioner.
Had I drunk less alcohol such thoughts may have filled me with dread and horror, as it was, I was prepared for anything.
The local ladies began to gather round me and were now smiling and giggling at me and each other. I quickly realised that I was the centre of attraction for the night. Every one of the coal black ladies at Banda's Bar and Restaurant wanted the dubious pleasure of dancing a Rumba with me. I find it hard to remember now but I think I danced with them all, at least that is how I like to remember it!
Many hours and many beers later our Land Rover guided us, well worn and weary, back through the Malawi bush and into Zambia. Both Messrs Banda waved cheerily at us as we passed their respective border posts.
I understand that Mr Mwale visits Lundazi for a cold beer from time to time. I only hope that he receives as much hospitality as we did in Malawi.
The heavy wooden door swung open, "Sorry, Bwana," apologised Banda, "But there is only nshima for dinner, no meat again."
This did not come as a great surprise, I had eaten little but nshima since leaving the capital, Lusaka five days before.
"Forget it, Banda," I said "I will be eating out tonight." As Banda left he looked at me as if I had a touch of the sun, he knew as well as I did that there was no restaurant within two hundred and fifty kilometres. Nevertheless I was determined to go out, but where?
The answer came when Banda introduced a short stocky African wearing an ill fitting grey worsted suit - a more unsuitable, incongruous piece of clothing for this climate is hard to imagine.
"Bwana, this is Mr Lungu, he has a message for you from Officer Bwalya." I accepted the note, bade Mr Lungu sit down and began to read the message aloud:
Dear Mr Chris,
I note your remarks about the shortage of beer in Lundazi and have made some alternative arrangements for tonight. Please collect me at my office at 1700 hours tonight with your Land Rover and driver and we will go to the border post for a drink.
Yours faithfully,
Marcus Bwalya
Officer Commanding
Office of the President (Lundazi)
p.s. No documents required.
It occurred to me that the Gods were perhaps tired of their little joke concerning five parched days in the savanna and were now prepared to smile on me.
"Wena chella Ba Bwalya mina buya na yena pa fivey". I said to Lungu, confirming my intention to join Bwalya at five.
Shortly before five Jonathan braked outside the redstone portico of the Office of the President and I stepped out of the bush battered Land Rover to be greeted by Marcus Bwalya. "Good afternoon, Mr Chris, I am so glad you could make it," he gushed, unable to disguise the politeness and courtesy of the senior civil servant.
"I wasn't doing much this evening anyway, Marcus, the lobster hadn't arrived from Durban and the hotel cabaret has been cancelled."
My sarcasm was not lost on this well dressed, well educated, lithe son of Africa. Marcus had been apprenticed to the European officers of the Northern Rhodesian Police Force and his sense of humour was noticeably British.
We boarded the Landie and under Marcus' direction, Jonathan drove north along the rutted, potholed, crevassed track to the Malawi border post.
It took us about fifteen minutes to reach the frontier which turned out to be nothing more than two brick built huts - one in Zambia, one in Malawi. At the Zambian side Marcus introduced me to the Immigration Officer, Mr Banda.
I am very pleased to know you, sir," said Mr Banda, "you are most certainly welcome and I wish I were able to offer you a cold beer but sadly my stocks are exhausted."
At this point I had to remind myself that neither Marcus nor myself had made any reference to beer. In fact, apart from "Hello, Mr Banda" we had said very little.
Mr Banda's note said:
"Dear Mr Banda,
Please allow one Land Rover
and occupants into Malawi in
search of cold beer.
Kind Regards,
Mr Banda."
It seems that Banda is a common name in this part of Central Africa and is found on both sides of the ill defined International boundary. A number of the local tribes live in groups of villages that straddle the border and passage between the two countries is quite unrestricted.
So it was that we found ourselves at the second brick built border post with our letter of introduction from Mr Banda to Mr Banda. As it turned out this Mr Banda was the duplicate of our other Mr Banda. In manner, in speech, in appearance they were perfect doppelgangers. And there they sat, each one fifty metres east or west of the border. Each one with his set of forms, his peaked cap, his rubber stamps, each upholding the dignity of his respective Nation. Each one with the power to allow one in or allow one out.
Mr Banda was more than pleased to allow us in, never once asking those questions that usually fall from the lips of Entry Officials: "Passport please, what currencies are you carrying, how long will you be staying?" On the contrary, Mr Banda preferred the more direct, practical, helpful approach.
"We have no cold beer at the border post, gentlemen," he apologised, "but if you follow that track for thirty kilometres you will arrive at a small village with a bar that is stocked with six brands of cold beer. The bar is owned by a very close fried of mine and you will be made more than welcome."
I knew I should not have asked the next question but could not stop myself. "What is his name?" I said.
"Mr Banda!" everyone chorused gleefully.
Jonathan crashed the Land Rover into first and we were off again.
The dirt track was narrow with fairly dense foliage on both sides. The road, however, had recently been graded which allowed us to make speedy progress. Just as darkness was falling we reached the village which consisted of about twenty pole and dagga huts, a school and "Banda's Bar and Restaurant".
We entered the gloom of the crowded bar illuminated only by a forty Watt electric light bulb. The Rumba music was deafening as it spewed out of a single turntable monophonic Dansette circa 1956. I was at once excited and a little apprehensive of the sheer power of the African dancing.
It seemed that everyone in the room was dancing: men with men, women with women and more conventionally (at least to Europeans) men with women. Almost everyone held a bottle of beer and more than half the women carried babies or young children on their backs safely secured in the folds of mother's chitenge.
"Mr Chris!" cried Marcus, who had moved up to the bar, "Come and meet Mr Mwale, he is also an officer of the President - the President of Malawi."
I shook hands with a tall, very black African and we exchanged greetings at the tops of our voices. Mr Mwale bought us a bottle of cold beer each and in so doing brought our long quest, our search for the Golden Fleece, to a very satisfactory conclusion. He was to buy all the beer that night - he was the only one amongst us with any Malawi currency.
The enormity of my folly was now beginning to dawn on me. I had no money, I had exported a Government vehicle from Zambia illegally, I had no passport or other documents of identification. I began to imagine my pleading with an unsympathetic Malawi Police officer, trying to convince him that I was a British subject and could I please contact my High Commissioner.
Had I drunk less alcohol such thoughts may have filled me with dread and horror, as it was, I was prepared for anything.
The local ladies began to gather round me and were now smiling and giggling at me and each other. I quickly realised that I was the centre of attraction for the night. Every one of the coal black ladies at Banda's Bar and Restaurant wanted the dubious pleasure of dancing a Rumba with me. I find it hard to remember now but I think I danced with them all, at least that is how I like to remember it!
Many hours and many beers later our Land Rover guided us, well worn and weary, back through the Malawi bush and into Zambia. Both Messrs Banda waved cheerily at us as we passed their respective border posts.
I understand that Mr Mwale visits Lundazi for a cold beer from time to time. I only hope that he receives as much hospitality as we did in Malawi.
No Beer At Lundazi (Part One)
"I think it's about time you went to the Eastern Province, Chris," said the Chief Inspector, "reports of illegal aquamarine mining are coming in daily."
I had to agree with him, for six months or so we had been hearing about the illicit gemstone mines in the Lundazi District. There were approximately twelve licensed small mines in the area but very little production was being declared to the State and tales of Senegalese and Zairian smugglers were commonplace. One had to assume that either the licence holders were telling lies or there were illegal sources of the gems, probably both.
"I have prepared a letter of introduction to the Officer in Charge at the Office of the President at Lundazi," the Chief explained, "if you get into any trouble, he should be able to help."
And with that I made preparations to leave.
I caught the late afternoon flight from Ndola to the capital. Dark was falling as the Hawker Siddeley 748 roared into reverse thrust along the Lusaka runway. The HS 748 had been around since 1961 and there were still a lot of them in use in Central Africa but in spite of the aircraft's age it was a great comfort to look out of the window and see the world famous Rolls Royce logo on the engines.
Jonathan was there to meet me as I emerged from the steamy, dirty, flyblown terminal building that must have been a source of tremendous pride when it was first opened. Now Lusaka International Airport had become a malodorous monument to lethargy and apathy. Zambia's fantastic tourism potential was crushed right here, at the Lusaka International Airport.
Here the visitor from Europe would arrive after a ten hour flight to find a rugby scrum confronting him at the bottom of which he would find his suitcases, if he were lucky. Here he would find the surly Immigration Officer to welcome him to one of the most beautiful countries on God's earth, if only he could escape the International Airport without being cheated out of his foreign currency by the "helpful" cab drivers. Here he would visit the stinking toilets with no water or paper available - having seemingly been in that condition for years.
But what a contrast if that same visitor could leave the International Airport resignedly and go open-mindedly to the bush, the wild, beautiful, harsh and unforgiving African bush.
"Hello, Mr Chris, it's good to see you again," Jonathan greeted me in the warm African tradition, "and how is the Minister's mbushi?"
Jonathan was referring to the goat that the Honourable Leonard Subulwa, Minister for Mines, Republic of Zambia, had given into my care almost eight months before and which had now become a stock joke among the civil servants and anyone else who knew the story.
Earlier in the year I had been honoured to escort the Minister around the famed Zambian emerald field in the Copperbelt Province. As is traditionally African, the welcome we received was warm and rapturous. At each tiny mine that we visited the mine owner had made a car park with parking bays lined with white stones for our Landrovers and Range Rovers and we were feted with soft drinks and snacks.
On the final day of our tour, we were treated to a magnificent feast in a small grass hut at Chief Ngabwe's mine. There was some confusion as to old Joe Ngabwe's title, it seems he had been drummed out of the tribe for bestowing his chiefly favours on the youngest daughter of one of his headmen but I was introduced to him as Chief and so, to me at least, Chief he remained. We ate our fill of the superbly cooked delicacies and the farewell speeches were started. During the final speech a tethered goat was brought, and handed deferentially to the Minister.
My heart stopped as a thought crossed my mind - "are they going to slaughter this poor goat right here in front of us all and just after a such a splendid meal too?" It would be too much to take. Happily I was wrong. Everyone except myself knew that the Minister had a large farm a few miles outside Lusaka and they thought a healthy young billy goat would be a fitting gift to give him. Subulwa accepted the animal gratefully and as is usual with dignitaries, gave the present to the aide standing closest to him - me!
The damned creature wriggled and bucked taking all the attention away from the Minister and his gracious thank you speech. With the help of the Minister's Under Secretary, Mr Nkana, I wrestled the bloody goat into the back of the nearest Range Rover and swiftly slammed the tail gate closed, leaving the beast peering pathetically at me through its long upswept eyelashes.
We eventually headed back towards Kitwe arriving at about seven in the evening. I dropped the Hon Minister at the splendidly opulent Rokana Lodge where he kindly invited me in for dinner and I accepted. Mr Nkana had meanwhile thoughtfully tethered the goat in the grounds of this, the loveliest house in Kitwe. Needless to say, the billy got stuck into the tea roses that had been lovingly tended for generations. Mrs Laing, the austere, long-serving housekeeper was not happy about that and complained loudly to the Minister.
This was the moment that Mr Nkana, the Minister's Under Secretary, had his next brilliant idea.
"Honourable Minister," he said, "Mr Skelding has a farm in Garneton and I'm sure he would be delighted to look after the animal until we are able to arrange transport to Lusaka."
And that's how I ended up as caretaker of the Minister's goat or mbushi in the Chibemba language. Mr Nkana tried unsuccessfully for many months to book a seat for the goat on Zambia Airways, and so, Leonard, as he came to be known, lived happily on our farm servicing my own nannies and eating the curtains.
But I digress. Jonathan, always the faithful, slightly cheeky driver, took me to the plush Intercontinental Hotel where I dined on sirloin steak and drank a carafe of cheap red South African wine. I then decided, in view of the long drive the next day, to avoid the casino and so went to bed.
We made an early start on the following morning, heading out through the eastern suburbs of Lusaka where white settlers in their barbed wired fortresses lived cheek by jowl with the poor blacks in their shanty towns. In high humour we set course for Chipata, Provincial Capital of Zambia's Eastern Province. Jonathan was happy, he was going to his home near Chipata. I too was happy, I was going to the lovely African bush for a few days away from the dirty, sweaty, corrupt cities of Kitwe and Lusaka.
We drove for four hours or so on a good sealed highway and arrived at the little market village of Kachalola: a sort of natural meeting place. There you can fill up with fuel, buy a week old meat pie that is reminiscent of an armadillo and swap gossip with a host of other travellers.
We learned from a party of ragged travellers in a derelict, rusty vanette that up ahead at the Luangwa bridge the soldiers had been giving some of their fellow travellers a hard time, searching them for money and cigarettes and abusing them badly if they found none. A little daunted we pressed on and reached Luangwa village, about two kilometres short of the bridge and paused for Jonathan to buy some fresh fish from the market to take to his people near Chipata. For five Kwacha he managed to purchase about two kilos of the freshest perch wrapped neatly in a banana leaf.
Around the bend and down the winding hill we arrived at the Luangwa Bridge. The bridge is a magnificent structure and the Zambian Government is understandably sensitive about it. On the far side of the bridge is the Eastern Province, a very large proportion of the country's food is grown there and were the bridge to be destroyed again, a major food supply line would be cut. In addition to the Eastern Province grain the bridge is the main southern route from Malawi whence comes a large amount of imports.
The bridge was bombed by white Rhodesian Resistance forces during the war of Zimbabwean Independence and Zambia suffered terribly as a result. It is forbidden to photograph the bridge (or any other bridge in the country), presumably so that South African Intelligence forces are not able to see the pictures and sabotage the bridge. The fact that the bridge was built by South Africans and that the blueprints are in Pretoria did not influence the Zambians' thinking in the least.
The permanent squad of military on duty at both sides of the bridge maintain some sort of order by allowing only one vehicle to cross at any one time, and then at a speed of eight kilometres per hour. The bridge is a large, wide structure built to the cable-stayed bridge design with H-pylons and could easily accommodate two fully loaded juggernauts simultaneously on its 300 metre span. But the Zambian Army insists on regulating things in their own fashion, which of course results in long tailbacks that appear most odd in such a remote area.
We joined the queue of thirty or so cars, trucks and buses that waited patiently while the soldiers allowed one vehicle to cross from the eastern side and only when it had completed the crossing did they allow one vehicle to cross from the western side. Progress was agonisingly slow in the heat of the midday sun.
Finally we were first in the line and an ugly army sergeant came to the passenger window and said, "May I smoke with you, sir?" This is a fairly common request by a scrounging official made the more persuasive by the presence of the AK47 assault rifle hanging upside down from his shoulder held precariously with a tatty piece of electrical wire.
Taking my life in my hands I replied, "Mina aikona funa nyika wena fwaka, ini wena azi enza?"
He stood back, shocked and stunned, I imagine no one had ever spoken to him in that fashion. To refuse to give an armed, possibly drunken African soldier a cigarette is a risky action I know, but it worked, as it had done in the past. He said, "Sorry, sir, it is not compulsory to give me a cigarette please proceed with your journey." And that was the end of it, a ploy I have always used is to stand up to extortion and it is generally successful.
We continued eastward into what seemed like another country. The Eastern Province of Zambia is populated by industrious, intelligent farming tribes - Ngonis, Nyanjas and Tuombokas - who have given the province its reputation as the granary of Zambia.
There were many goats on the roads, small market villages abounded and occasionally a young urchin stood at the roadside displaying a gemstone in his hand in the hope that a passing motorist would stop and make a purchase.
Late in the afternoon just as the sun slipped over the horizon behind us, we entered the provincial capital, Chipata. This pretty colonial town was once known as Fort Jameson after Starr Jameson also immortalised for his ill-fated Raid on Johannesburg in 1894.
Chipata is a pretty, slightly faded town these days, a number of Indian businessmen still run the trade stores and filling stations. Business seemed fairly brisk with locals buying provisions for the outlying villages and travellers to and from Malawi filling up with supplies. The centre of the town is dominated by the presence of both a mosque and a Hindu temple.
Jonathan dropped me at the Chipata Motel, a somewhat flea-bitten hostelry which had the two things I was looking for - a hot bath and a cold beer. The bath was delightful after ten hours rocking and rolling in the Landie, and the beer was very cold and invigorating. In the bar, I sensed an urgency amongst the customers who seemed to be drinking the Mosi-A-Tunya beer as if it was going out of fashion. And that is exactly what was happening - the beer stocks were down to the last crate and I managed to order myself another two bottles before they ran out completely. Beer shortages are all too common in Zambia and even Lusaka has "dry" periods, but here, 800 kilometres from the brewery it was an everyday event.
I went to the dining room and in that cock-eyed African way I was asked if I would like a beer! Thankfully they had reserved a crate or two for diners and hotel residents, and I was content and happy again. I ordered a chicken dish with nshima and sank two more beers before taking a walk through the motel gardens to digest my dinner.
The sun sank swiftly in the direction of the capital as I went to my room, chased a cockroach around the floorboards, climbed into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
In the morning, after a breakfast of baked beans and nshima Jonathan returned to collect me and we went to the Provincial Headquarters to pay a courtesy visit on the Permanent Secretary for Eastern Province. Sadly, the Permanent Secretary had just departed for Lusaka but his Deputy greeted me, invited me into his office and waved me to the sofa that was exuding wads of horsehair stuffing.
He immediately brought up the subject of mining and told me that his Provincial Police Commander had been informed the day before that a death had occurred at one of the aquamarine mines in Lundazi. Would I have time to see the Police Chief before I left, he asked.
"Of course, sir," I replied "the investigation of accidents at mines is a major part of my job and this will probably be the first time an inspector has had an opportunity to study at first hand the sort of fatal accident that one imagines takes place and goes unreported at these illegal mines."
The Police Chief met me and gave me brief details of the accident he promised to radio to his officers at Lundazi and ask them to give me the fullest cooperation. I thanked him and left to return to Jonathan and begin the final leg of the long journey to Lundazi.
The Chipata to Lundazi road is unsurfaced yet fairly smooth in the dry season, the scenery typically savannah scrub bushland blending into barren grasslands as the Luangwa escarpment is reached. There is much activity along the roadsides with the small farms and gardens being worked industriously and the resultant produce marketed vigorously.
With fifty kilometres to go to our destination the road deteriorated to a rutted track that made the journey most uncomfortable. It was about 3.30 pm when we had our first sight of Lundazi and its crumbling, shabby dwellings.
I went straight to the Police station to inform them of my arrival and to make arrangements for a police officer to accompany me to the aquamarine mines the next day.
The steps leading from the dirt of the main street to the Police Station door were rickety and broken and I imagined generations of criminals, ne'er do wells and the plain unfortunate being hurled and kicked against them over the forty years or so since the place had been built.
Oh, how different my welcome here than at Police Headquarters in Chipata. The sergeant was most surly and unhelpful, more or less telling me that I was not wanted here and that my warrant card counted for nought in his domain. Perhaps this is why the Chief Inspector had given me the introduction letter to the Office of the President. I politely bade the policemen goodbye and went to check in at the oddest hotel in Africa.
I had to agree with him, for six months or so we had been hearing about the illicit gemstone mines in the Lundazi District. There were approximately twelve licensed small mines in the area but very little production was being declared to the State and tales of Senegalese and Zairian smugglers were commonplace. One had to assume that either the licence holders were telling lies or there were illegal sources of the gems, probably both.
"I have prepared a letter of introduction to the Officer in Charge at the Office of the President at Lundazi," the Chief explained, "if you get into any trouble, he should be able to help."
And with that I made preparations to leave.
I caught the late afternoon flight from Ndola to the capital. Dark was falling as the Hawker Siddeley 748 roared into reverse thrust along the Lusaka runway. The HS 748 had been around since 1961 and there were still a lot of them in use in Central Africa but in spite of the aircraft's age it was a great comfort to look out of the window and see the world famous Rolls Royce logo on the engines.
Jonathan was there to meet me as I emerged from the steamy, dirty, flyblown terminal building that must have been a source of tremendous pride when it was first opened. Now Lusaka International Airport had become a malodorous monument to lethargy and apathy. Zambia's fantastic tourism potential was crushed right here, at the Lusaka International Airport.
Here the visitor from Europe would arrive after a ten hour flight to find a rugby scrum confronting him at the bottom of which he would find his suitcases, if he were lucky. Here he would find the surly Immigration Officer to welcome him to one of the most beautiful countries on God's earth, if only he could escape the International Airport without being cheated out of his foreign currency by the "helpful" cab drivers. Here he would visit the stinking toilets with no water or paper available - having seemingly been in that condition for years.
But what a contrast if that same visitor could leave the International Airport resignedly and go open-mindedly to the bush, the wild, beautiful, harsh and unforgiving African bush.
"Hello, Mr Chris, it's good to see you again," Jonathan greeted me in the warm African tradition, "and how is the Minister's mbushi?"
Jonathan was referring to the goat that the Honourable Leonard Subulwa, Minister for Mines, Republic of Zambia, had given into my care almost eight months before and which had now become a stock joke among the civil servants and anyone else who knew the story.
Earlier in the year I had been honoured to escort the Minister around the famed Zambian emerald field in the Copperbelt Province. As is traditionally African, the welcome we received was warm and rapturous. At each tiny mine that we visited the mine owner had made a car park with parking bays lined with white stones for our Landrovers and Range Rovers and we were feted with soft drinks and snacks.
On the final day of our tour, we were treated to a magnificent feast in a small grass hut at Chief Ngabwe's mine. There was some confusion as to old Joe Ngabwe's title, it seems he had been drummed out of the tribe for bestowing his chiefly favours on the youngest daughter of one of his headmen but I was introduced to him as Chief and so, to me at least, Chief he remained. We ate our fill of the superbly cooked delicacies and the farewell speeches were started. During the final speech a tethered goat was brought, and handed deferentially to the Minister.
My heart stopped as a thought crossed my mind - "are they going to slaughter this poor goat right here in front of us all and just after a such a splendid meal too?" It would be too much to take. Happily I was wrong. Everyone except myself knew that the Minister had a large farm a few miles outside Lusaka and they thought a healthy young billy goat would be a fitting gift to give him. Subulwa accepted the animal gratefully and as is usual with dignitaries, gave the present to the aide standing closest to him - me!
The damned creature wriggled and bucked taking all the attention away from the Minister and his gracious thank you speech. With the help of the Minister's Under Secretary, Mr Nkana, I wrestled the bloody goat into the back of the nearest Range Rover and swiftly slammed the tail gate closed, leaving the beast peering pathetically at me through its long upswept eyelashes.
We eventually headed back towards Kitwe arriving at about seven in the evening. I dropped the Hon Minister at the splendidly opulent Rokana Lodge where he kindly invited me in for dinner and I accepted. Mr Nkana had meanwhile thoughtfully tethered the goat in the grounds of this, the loveliest house in Kitwe. Needless to say, the billy got stuck into the tea roses that had been lovingly tended for generations. Mrs Laing, the austere, long-serving housekeeper was not happy about that and complained loudly to the Minister.
This was the moment that Mr Nkana, the Minister's Under Secretary, had his next brilliant idea.
"Honourable Minister," he said, "Mr Skelding has a farm in Garneton and I'm sure he would be delighted to look after the animal until we are able to arrange transport to Lusaka."
And that's how I ended up as caretaker of the Minister's goat or mbushi in the Chibemba language. Mr Nkana tried unsuccessfully for many months to book a seat for the goat on Zambia Airways, and so, Leonard, as he came to be known, lived happily on our farm servicing my own nannies and eating the curtains.
But I digress. Jonathan, always the faithful, slightly cheeky driver, took me to the plush Intercontinental Hotel where I dined on sirloin steak and drank a carafe of cheap red South African wine. I then decided, in view of the long drive the next day, to avoid the casino and so went to bed.
We made an early start on the following morning, heading out through the eastern suburbs of Lusaka where white settlers in their barbed wired fortresses lived cheek by jowl with the poor blacks in their shanty towns. In high humour we set course for Chipata, Provincial Capital of Zambia's Eastern Province. Jonathan was happy, he was going to his home near Chipata. I too was happy, I was going to the lovely African bush for a few days away from the dirty, sweaty, corrupt cities of Kitwe and Lusaka.
We drove for four hours or so on a good sealed highway and arrived at the little market village of Kachalola: a sort of natural meeting place. There you can fill up with fuel, buy a week old meat pie that is reminiscent of an armadillo and swap gossip with a host of other travellers.
We learned from a party of ragged travellers in a derelict, rusty vanette that up ahead at the Luangwa bridge the soldiers had been giving some of their fellow travellers a hard time, searching them for money and cigarettes and abusing them badly if they found none. A little daunted we pressed on and reached Luangwa village, about two kilometres short of the bridge and paused for Jonathan to buy some fresh fish from the market to take to his people near Chipata. For five Kwacha he managed to purchase about two kilos of the freshest perch wrapped neatly in a banana leaf.
Around the bend and down the winding hill we arrived at the Luangwa Bridge. The bridge is a magnificent structure and the Zambian Government is understandably sensitive about it. On the far side of the bridge is the Eastern Province, a very large proportion of the country's food is grown there and were the bridge to be destroyed again, a major food supply line would be cut. In addition to the Eastern Province grain the bridge is the main southern route from Malawi whence comes a large amount of imports.
The bridge was bombed by white Rhodesian Resistance forces during the war of Zimbabwean Independence and Zambia suffered terribly as a result. It is forbidden to photograph the bridge (or any other bridge in the country), presumably so that South African Intelligence forces are not able to see the pictures and sabotage the bridge. The fact that the bridge was built by South Africans and that the blueprints are in Pretoria did not influence the Zambians' thinking in the least.
The permanent squad of military on duty at both sides of the bridge maintain some sort of order by allowing only one vehicle to cross at any one time, and then at a speed of eight kilometres per hour. The bridge is a large, wide structure built to the cable-stayed bridge design with H-pylons and could easily accommodate two fully loaded juggernauts simultaneously on its 300 metre span. But the Zambian Army insists on regulating things in their own fashion, which of course results in long tailbacks that appear most odd in such a remote area.
We joined the queue of thirty or so cars, trucks and buses that waited patiently while the soldiers allowed one vehicle to cross from the eastern side and only when it had completed the crossing did they allow one vehicle to cross from the western side. Progress was agonisingly slow in the heat of the midday sun.
Finally we were first in the line and an ugly army sergeant came to the passenger window and said, "May I smoke with you, sir?" This is a fairly common request by a scrounging official made the more persuasive by the presence of the AK47 assault rifle hanging upside down from his shoulder held precariously with a tatty piece of electrical wire.
Taking my life in my hands I replied, "Mina aikona funa nyika wena fwaka, ini wena azi enza?"
He stood back, shocked and stunned, I imagine no one had ever spoken to him in that fashion. To refuse to give an armed, possibly drunken African soldier a cigarette is a risky action I know, but it worked, as it had done in the past. He said, "Sorry, sir, it is not compulsory to give me a cigarette please proceed with your journey." And that was the end of it, a ploy I have always used is to stand up to extortion and it is generally successful.
We continued eastward into what seemed like another country. The Eastern Province of Zambia is populated by industrious, intelligent farming tribes - Ngonis, Nyanjas and Tuombokas - who have given the province its reputation as the granary of Zambia.
There were many goats on the roads, small market villages abounded and occasionally a young urchin stood at the roadside displaying a gemstone in his hand in the hope that a passing motorist would stop and make a purchase.
Late in the afternoon just as the sun slipped over the horizon behind us, we entered the provincial capital, Chipata. This pretty colonial town was once known as Fort Jameson after Starr Jameson also immortalised for his ill-fated Raid on Johannesburg in 1894.
Chipata is a pretty, slightly faded town these days, a number of Indian businessmen still run the trade stores and filling stations. Business seemed fairly brisk with locals buying provisions for the outlying villages and travellers to and from Malawi filling up with supplies. The centre of the town is dominated by the presence of both a mosque and a Hindu temple.
Jonathan dropped me at the Chipata Motel, a somewhat flea-bitten hostelry which had the two things I was looking for - a hot bath and a cold beer. The bath was delightful after ten hours rocking and rolling in the Landie, and the beer was very cold and invigorating. In the bar, I sensed an urgency amongst the customers who seemed to be drinking the Mosi-A-Tunya beer as if it was going out of fashion. And that is exactly what was happening - the beer stocks were down to the last crate and I managed to order myself another two bottles before they ran out completely. Beer shortages are all too common in Zambia and even Lusaka has "dry" periods, but here, 800 kilometres from the brewery it was an everyday event.
I went to the dining room and in that cock-eyed African way I was asked if I would like a beer! Thankfully they had reserved a crate or two for diners and hotel residents, and I was content and happy again. I ordered a chicken dish with nshima and sank two more beers before taking a walk through the motel gardens to digest my dinner.
The sun sank swiftly in the direction of the capital as I went to my room, chased a cockroach around the floorboards, climbed into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
In the morning, after a breakfast of baked beans and nshima Jonathan returned to collect me and we went to the Provincial Headquarters to pay a courtesy visit on the Permanent Secretary for Eastern Province. Sadly, the Permanent Secretary had just departed for Lusaka but his Deputy greeted me, invited me into his office and waved me to the sofa that was exuding wads of horsehair stuffing.
He immediately brought up the subject of mining and told me that his Provincial Police Commander had been informed the day before that a death had occurred at one of the aquamarine mines in Lundazi. Would I have time to see the Police Chief before I left, he asked.
"Of course, sir," I replied "the investigation of accidents at mines is a major part of my job and this will probably be the first time an inspector has had an opportunity to study at first hand the sort of fatal accident that one imagines takes place and goes unreported at these illegal mines."
The Police Chief met me and gave me brief details of the accident he promised to radio to his officers at Lundazi and ask them to give me the fullest cooperation. I thanked him and left to return to Jonathan and begin the final leg of the long journey to Lundazi.
The Chipata to Lundazi road is unsurfaced yet fairly smooth in the dry season, the scenery typically savannah scrub bushland blending into barren grasslands as the Luangwa escarpment is reached. There is much activity along the roadsides with the small farms and gardens being worked industriously and the resultant produce marketed vigorously.
With fifty kilometres to go to our destination the road deteriorated to a rutted track that made the journey most uncomfortable. It was about 3.30 pm when we had our first sight of Lundazi and its crumbling, shabby dwellings.
I went straight to the Police station to inform them of my arrival and to make arrangements for a police officer to accompany me to the aquamarine mines the next day.
The steps leading from the dirt of the main street to the Police Station door were rickety and broken and I imagined generations of criminals, ne'er do wells and the plain unfortunate being hurled and kicked against them over the forty years or so since the place had been built.
Oh, how different my welcome here than at Police Headquarters in Chipata. The sergeant was most surly and unhelpful, more or less telling me that I was not wanted here and that my warrant card counted for nought in his domain. Perhaps this is why the Chief Inspector had given me the introduction letter to the Office of the President. I politely bade the policemen goodbye and went to check in at the oddest hotel in Africa.
No Beer In Lundazi (Part One)
"I think it's about time you went to the Eastern Province, Chris," said the Chief Inspector, "reports of illegal aquamarine mining are coming in daily."
I had to agree with him, for six months or so we had been hearing about the illicit gemstone mines in the Lundazi District. There were approximately twelve licensed small mines in the area but very little production was being declared to the State and tales of Senegalese and Zairian smugglers were commonplace. One had to assume that either the licence holders were telling lies or there were illegal sources of the gems, probably both.
"I have prepared a letter of introduction to the Officer in Charge at the Office of the President at Lundazi," the Chief explained, "if you get into any trouble, he should be able to help."
And with that I made preparations to leave.
I caught the late afternoon flight from Ndola to the capital. Dark was falling as the Hawker Siddeley 748 roared into reverse thrust along the Lusaka runway. The HS 748 had been around since 1961 and there were still a lot of them in use in Central Africa but in spite of the aircraft's age it was a great comfort to look out of the window and see the world famous Rolls Royce logo on the engines.
Jonathan was there to meet me as I emerged from the steamy, dirty, flyblown terminal building that must have been a source of tremendous pride when it was first opened. Now Lusaka International Airport had become a malodorous monument to lethargy and apathy. Zambia's fantastic tourism potential was crushed right here, at the Lusaka International Airport.
Here the visitor from Europe would arrive after a ten hour flight to find a rugby scrum confronting him at the bottom of which he would find his suitcases, if he were lucky. Here he would find the surly Immigration Officer to welcome him to one of the most beautiful countries on God's earth, if only he could escape the International Airport without being cheated out of his foreign currency by the "helpful" cab drivers. Here he would visit the stinking toilets with no water or paper available - having seemingly been in that condition for years.
But what a contrast if that same visitor could leave the International Airport resignedly and go open-mindedly to the bush, the wild, beautiful, harsh and unforgiving African bush.
"Hello, Mr Chris, it's good to see you again," Jonathan greeted me in the warm African tradition, "and how is the Minister's mbushi?"
Jonathan was referring to the goat that the Honourable Leonard Subulwa, Minister for Mines, Republic of Zambia, had given into my care almost eight months before and which had now become a stock joke among the civil servants and anyone else who knew the story.
Earlier in the year I had been honoured to escort the Minister around the famed Zambian emerald field in the Copperbelt Province. As is traditionally African, the welcome we received was warm and rapturous. At each tiny mine that we visited the mine owner had made a car park with parking bays lined with white stones for our Landrovers and Range Rovers and we were feted with soft drinks and snacks.
On the final day of our tour, we were treated to a magnificent feast in a small grass hut at Chief Ngabwe's mine. There was some confusion as to old Joe Ngabwe's title, it seems he had been drummed out of the tribe for bestowing his chiefly favours on the youngest daughter of one of his headmen but I was introduced to him as Chief and so, to me at least, Chief he remained. We ate our fill of the superbly cooked delicacies and the farewell speeches were started. During the final speech a tethered goat was brought, and handed deferentially to the Minister.
My heart stopped as a thought crossed my mind - "are they going to slaughter this poor goat right here in front of us all and just after a such a splendid meal too?" It would be too much to take. Happily I was wrong. Everyone except myself knew that the Minister had a large farm a few miles outside Lusaka and they thought a healthy young billy goat would be a fitting gift to give him. Subulwa accepted the animal gratefully and as is usual with dignitaries, gave the present to the aide standing closest to him - me!
The damned creature wriggled and bucked taking all the attention away from the Minister and his gracious thank you speech. With the help of the Minister's Under Secretary, Mr Nkana, I wrestled the bloody goat into the back of the nearest Range Rover and swiftly slammed the tail gate closed, leaving the beast peering pathetically at me through its long upswept eyelashes.
We eventually headed back towards Kitwe arriving at about seven in the evening. I dropped the Hon Minister at the splendidly opulent Rokana Lodge where he kindly invited me in for dinner and I accepted. Mr Nkana had meanwhile thoughtfully tethered the goat in the grounds of this, the loveliest house in Kitwe. Needless to say, the billy got stuck into the tea roses that had been lovingly tended for generations. Mrs Laing, the austere, long-serving housekeeper was not happy about that and complained loudly to the Minister.
This was the moment that Mr Nkana, the Minister's Under Secretary, had his next brilliant idea.
"Honourable Minister," he said, "Mr Skelding has a farm in Garneton and I'm sure he would be delighted to look after the animal until we are able to arrange transport to Lusaka."
And that's how I ended up as caretaker of the Minister's goat or mbushi in the Chibemba language. Mr Nkana tried unsuccessfully for many months to book a seat for the goat on Zambia Airways, and so, Leonard, as he came to be known, lived happily on our farm servicing my own nannies and eating the curtains.
But I digress. Jonathan, always the faithful, slightly cheeky driver, took me to the plush Intercontinental Hotel where I dined on sirloin steak and drank a carafe of cheap red South African wine. I then decided, in view of the long drive the next day, to avoid the casino and so went to bed.
We made an early start on the following morning, heading out through the eastern suburbs of Lusaka where white settlers in their barbed wired fortresses lived cheek by jowl with the poor blacks in their shanty towns. In high humour we set course for Chipata, Provincial Capital of Zambia's Eastern Province. Jonathan was happy, he was going to his home near Chipata. I too was happy, I was going to the lovely African bush for a few days away from the dirty, sweaty, corrupt cities of Kitwe and Lusaka.
We drove for four hours or so on a good sealed highway and arrived at the little market village of Kachalola: a sort of natural meeting place. There you can fill up with fuel, buy a week old meat pie that is reminiscent of an armadillo and swap gossip with a host of other travellers.
We learned from a party of ragged travellers in a derelict, rusty vanette that up ahead at the Luangwa bridge the soldiers had been giving some of their fellow travellers a hard time, searching them for money and cigarettes and abusing them badly if they found none. A little daunted we pressed on and reached Luangwa village, about two kilometres short of the bridge and paused for Jonathan to buy some fresh fish from the market to take to his people near Chipata. For five Kwacha he managed to purchase about two kilos of the freshest perch wrapped neatly in a banana leaf.
Around the bend and down the winding hill we arrived at the Luangwa Bridge. The bridge is a magnificent structure and the Zambian Government is understandably sensitive about it. On the far side of the bridge is the Eastern Province, a very large proportion of the country's food is grown there and were the bridge to be destroyed again, a major food supply line would be cut. In addition to the Eastern Province grain the bridge is the main southern route from Malawi whence comes a large amount of imports.
The bridge was bombed by white Rhodesian Resistance forces during the war of Zimbabwean Independence and Zambia suffered terribly as a result. It is forbidden to photograph the bridge (or any other bridge in the country), presumably so that South African Intelligence forces are not able to see the pictures and sabotage the bridge. The fact that the bridge was built by South Africans and that the blueprints are in Pretoria did not influence the Zambians' thinking in the least.
The permanent squad of military on duty at both sides of the bridge maintain some sort of order by allowing only one vehicle to cross at any one time, and then at a speed of eight kilometres per hour. The bridge is a large, wide structure built to the cable-stayed bridge design with H-pylons and could easily accommodate two fully loaded juggernauts simultaneously on its 300 metre span. But the Zambian Army insists on regulating things in their own fashion, which of course results in long tailbacks that appear most odd in such a remote area.
We joined the queue of thirty or so cars, trucks and buses that waited patiently while the soldiers allowed one vehicle to cross from the eastern side and only when it had completed the crossing did they allow one vehicle to cross from the western side. Progress was agonisingly slow in the heat of the midday sun.
Finally we were first in the line and an ugly army sergeant came to the passenger window and said, "May I smoke with you, sir?" This is a fairly common request by a scrounging official made the more persuasive by the presence of the AK47 assault rifle hanging upside down from his shoulder held precariously with a tatty piece of electrical wire.
Taking my life in my hands I replied, "Mina aikona funa nyika wena fwaka, ini wena azi enza?"
He stood back, shocked and stunned, I imagine no one had ever spoken to him in that fashion. To refuse to give an armed, possibly drunken African soldier a cigarette is a risky action I know, but it worked, as it had done in the past. He said, "Sorry, sir, it is not compulsory to give me a cigarette please proceed with your journey." And that was the end of it, a ploy I have always used is to stand up to extortion and it is generally successful.
We continued eastward into what seemed like another country. The Eastern Province of Zambia is populated by industrious, intelligent farming tribes - Ngonis, Nyanjas and Tuombokas - who have given the province its reputation as the granary of Zambia.
There were many goats on the roads, small market villages abounded and occasionally a young urchin stood at the roadside displaying a gemstone in his hand in the hope that a passing motorist would stop and make a purchase.
Late in the afternoon just as the sun slipped over the horizon behind us, we entered the provincial capital, Chipata. This pretty colonial town was once known as Fort Jameson after Starr Jameson also immortalised for his ill-fated Raid on Johannesburg in 1894.
Chipata is a pretty, slightly faded town these days, a number of Indian businessmen still run the trade stores and filling stations. Business seemed fairly brisk with locals buying provisions for the outlying villages and travellers to and from Malawi filling up with supplies. The centre of the town is dominated by the presence of both a mosque and a Hindu temple.
Jonathan dropped me at the Chipata Motel, a somewhat flea-bitten hostelry which had the two things I was looking for - a hot bath and a cold beer. The bath was delightful after ten hours rocking and rolling in the Landie, and the beer was very cold and invigorating. In the bar, I sensed an urgency amongst the customers who seemed to be drinking the Mosi-A-Tunya beer as if it was going out of fashion. And that is exactly what was happening - the beer stocks were down to the last crate and I managed to order myself another two bottles before they ran out completely. Beer shortages are all too common in Zambia and even Lusaka has "dry" periods, but here, 800 kilometres from the brewery it was an everyday event.
I went to the dining room and in that cock-eyed African way I was asked if I would like a beer! Thankfully they had reserved a crate or two for diners and hotel residents, and I was content and happy again. I ordered a chicken dish with nshima and sank two more beers before taking a walk through the motel gardens to digest my dinner.
The sun sank swiftly in the direction of the capital as I went to my room, chased a cockroach around the floorboards, climbed into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
In the morning, after a breakfast of baked beans and nshima Jonathan returned to collect me and we went to the Provincial Headquarters to pay a courtesy visit on the Permanent Secretary for Eastern Province. Sadly, the Permanent Secretary had just departed for Lusaka but his Deputy greeted me, invited me into his office and waved me to the sofa that was exuding wads of horsehair stuffing.
He immediately brought up the subject of mining and told me that his Provincial Police Commander had been informed the day before that a death had occurred at one of the aquamarine mines in Lundazi. Would I have time to see the Police Chief before I left, he asked.
"Of course, sir," I replied "the investigation of accidents at mines is a major part of my job and this will probably be the first time an inspector has had an opportunity to study at first hand the sort of fatal accident that one imagines takes place and goes unreported at these illegal mines."
The Police Chief met me and gave me brief details of the accident he promised to radio to his officers at Lundazi and ask them to give me the fullest cooperation. I thanked him and left to return to Jonathan and begin the final leg of the long journey to Lundazi.
The Chipata to Lundazi road is unsurfaced yet fairly smooth in the dry season, the scenery typically savannah scrub bushland blending into barren grasslands as the Luangwa escarpment is reached. There is much activity along the roadsides with the small farms and gardens being worked industriously and the resultant produce marketed vigorously.
With fifty kilometres to go to our destination the road deteriorated to a rutted track that made the journey most uncomfortable. It was about 3.30 pm when we had our first sight of Lundazi and its crumbling, shabby dwellings.
I went straight to the Police station to inform them of my arrival and to make arrangements for a police officer to accompany me to the aquamarine mines the next day.
The steps leading from the dirt of the main street to the Police Station door were rickety and broken and I imagined generations of criminals, ne'er do wells and the plain unfortunate being hurled and kicked against them over the forty years or so since the place had been built.
Oh, how different my welcome here than at Police Headquarters in Chipata. The sergeant was most surly and unhelpful, more or less telling me that I was not wanted here and that my warrant card counted for nought in his domain. Perhaps this is why the Chief Inspector had given me the introduction letter to the Office of the President. I politely bade the policemen goodbye and went to check in at the oddest hotel in Africa.
I had to agree with him, for six months or so we had been hearing about the illicit gemstone mines in the Lundazi District. There were approximately twelve licensed small mines in the area but very little production was being declared to the State and tales of Senegalese and Zairian smugglers were commonplace. One had to assume that either the licence holders were telling lies or there were illegal sources of the gems, probably both.
"I have prepared a letter of introduction to the Officer in Charge at the Office of the President at Lundazi," the Chief explained, "if you get into any trouble, he should be able to help."
And with that I made preparations to leave.
I caught the late afternoon flight from Ndola to the capital. Dark was falling as the Hawker Siddeley 748 roared into reverse thrust along the Lusaka runway. The HS 748 had been around since 1961 and there were still a lot of them in use in Central Africa but in spite of the aircraft's age it was a great comfort to look out of the window and see the world famous Rolls Royce logo on the engines.
Jonathan was there to meet me as I emerged from the steamy, dirty, flyblown terminal building that must have been a source of tremendous pride when it was first opened. Now Lusaka International Airport had become a malodorous monument to lethargy and apathy. Zambia's fantastic tourism potential was crushed right here, at the Lusaka International Airport.
Here the visitor from Europe would arrive after a ten hour flight to find a rugby scrum confronting him at the bottom of which he would find his suitcases, if he were lucky. Here he would find the surly Immigration Officer to welcome him to one of the most beautiful countries on God's earth, if only he could escape the International Airport without being cheated out of his foreign currency by the "helpful" cab drivers. Here he would visit the stinking toilets with no water or paper available - having seemingly been in that condition for years.
But what a contrast if that same visitor could leave the International Airport resignedly and go open-mindedly to the bush, the wild, beautiful, harsh and unforgiving African bush.
"Hello, Mr Chris, it's good to see you again," Jonathan greeted me in the warm African tradition, "and how is the Minister's mbushi?"
Jonathan was referring to the goat that the Honourable Leonard Subulwa, Minister for Mines, Republic of Zambia, had given into my care almost eight months before and which had now become a stock joke among the civil servants and anyone else who knew the story.
Earlier in the year I had been honoured to escort the Minister around the famed Zambian emerald field in the Copperbelt Province. As is traditionally African, the welcome we received was warm and rapturous. At each tiny mine that we visited the mine owner had made a car park with parking bays lined with white stones for our Landrovers and Range Rovers and we were feted with soft drinks and snacks.
On the final day of our tour, we were treated to a magnificent feast in a small grass hut at Chief Ngabwe's mine. There was some confusion as to old Joe Ngabwe's title, it seems he had been drummed out of the tribe for bestowing his chiefly favours on the youngest daughter of one of his headmen but I was introduced to him as Chief and so, to me at least, Chief he remained. We ate our fill of the superbly cooked delicacies and the farewell speeches were started. During the final speech a tethered goat was brought, and handed deferentially to the Minister.
My heart stopped as a thought crossed my mind - "are they going to slaughter this poor goat right here in front of us all and just after a such a splendid meal too?" It would be too much to take. Happily I was wrong. Everyone except myself knew that the Minister had a large farm a few miles outside Lusaka and they thought a healthy young billy goat would be a fitting gift to give him. Subulwa accepted the animal gratefully and as is usual with dignitaries, gave the present to the aide standing closest to him - me!
The damned creature wriggled and bucked taking all the attention away from the Minister and his gracious thank you speech. With the help of the Minister's Under Secretary, Mr Nkana, I wrestled the bloody goat into the back of the nearest Range Rover and swiftly slammed the tail gate closed, leaving the beast peering pathetically at me through its long upswept eyelashes.
We eventually headed back towards Kitwe arriving at about seven in the evening. I dropped the Hon Minister at the splendidly opulent Rokana Lodge where he kindly invited me in for dinner and I accepted. Mr Nkana had meanwhile thoughtfully tethered the goat in the grounds of this, the loveliest house in Kitwe. Needless to say, the billy got stuck into the tea roses that had been lovingly tended for generations. Mrs Laing, the austere, long-serving housekeeper was not happy about that and complained loudly to the Minister.
This was the moment that Mr Nkana, the Minister's Under Secretary, had his next brilliant idea.
"Honourable Minister," he said, "Mr Skelding has a farm in Garneton and I'm sure he would be delighted to look after the animal until we are able to arrange transport to Lusaka."
And that's how I ended up as caretaker of the Minister's goat or mbushi in the Chibemba language. Mr Nkana tried unsuccessfully for many months to book a seat for the goat on Zambia Airways, and so, Leonard, as he came to be known, lived happily on our farm servicing my own nannies and eating the curtains.
But I digress. Jonathan, always the faithful, slightly cheeky driver, took me to the plush Intercontinental Hotel where I dined on sirloin steak and drank a carafe of cheap red South African wine. I then decided, in view of the long drive the next day, to avoid the casino and so went to bed.
We made an early start on the following morning, heading out through the eastern suburbs of Lusaka where white settlers in their barbed wired fortresses lived cheek by jowl with the poor blacks in their shanty towns. In high humour we set course for Chipata, Provincial Capital of Zambia's Eastern Province. Jonathan was happy, he was going to his home near Chipata. I too was happy, I was going to the lovely African bush for a few days away from the dirty, sweaty, corrupt cities of Kitwe and Lusaka.
We drove for four hours or so on a good sealed highway and arrived at the little market village of Kachalola: a sort of natural meeting place. There you can fill up with fuel, buy a week old meat pie that is reminiscent of an armadillo and swap gossip with a host of other travellers.
We learned from a party of ragged travellers in a derelict, rusty vanette that up ahead at the Luangwa bridge the soldiers had been giving some of their fellow travellers a hard time, searching them for money and cigarettes and abusing them badly if they found none. A little daunted we pressed on and reached Luangwa village, about two kilometres short of the bridge and paused for Jonathan to buy some fresh fish from the market to take to his people near Chipata. For five Kwacha he managed to purchase about two kilos of the freshest perch wrapped neatly in a banana leaf.
Around the bend and down the winding hill we arrived at the Luangwa Bridge. The bridge is a magnificent structure and the Zambian Government is understandably sensitive about it. On the far side of the bridge is the Eastern Province, a very large proportion of the country's food is grown there and were the bridge to be destroyed again, a major food supply line would be cut. In addition to the Eastern Province grain the bridge is the main southern route from Malawi whence comes a large amount of imports.
The bridge was bombed by white Rhodesian Resistance forces during the war of Zimbabwean Independence and Zambia suffered terribly as a result. It is forbidden to photograph the bridge (or any other bridge in the country), presumably so that South African Intelligence forces are not able to see the pictures and sabotage the bridge. The fact that the bridge was built by South Africans and that the blueprints are in Pretoria did not influence the Zambians' thinking in the least.
The permanent squad of military on duty at both sides of the bridge maintain some sort of order by allowing only one vehicle to cross at any one time, and then at a speed of eight kilometres per hour. The bridge is a large, wide structure built to the cable-stayed bridge design with H-pylons and could easily accommodate two fully loaded juggernauts simultaneously on its 300 metre span. But the Zambian Army insists on regulating things in their own fashion, which of course results in long tailbacks that appear most odd in such a remote area.
We joined the queue of thirty or so cars, trucks and buses that waited patiently while the soldiers allowed one vehicle to cross from the eastern side and only when it had completed the crossing did they allow one vehicle to cross from the western side. Progress was agonisingly slow in the heat of the midday sun.
Finally we were first in the line and an ugly army sergeant came to the passenger window and said, "May I smoke with you, sir?" This is a fairly common request by a scrounging official made the more persuasive by the presence of the AK47 assault rifle hanging upside down from his shoulder held precariously with a tatty piece of electrical wire.
Taking my life in my hands I replied, "Mina aikona funa nyika wena fwaka, ini wena azi enza?"
He stood back, shocked and stunned, I imagine no one had ever spoken to him in that fashion. To refuse to give an armed, possibly drunken African soldier a cigarette is a risky action I know, but it worked, as it had done in the past. He said, "Sorry, sir, it is not compulsory to give me a cigarette please proceed with your journey." And that was the end of it, a ploy I have always used is to stand up to extortion and it is generally successful.
We continued eastward into what seemed like another country. The Eastern Province of Zambia is populated by industrious, intelligent farming tribes - Ngonis, Nyanjas and Tuombokas - who have given the province its reputation as the granary of Zambia.
There were many goats on the roads, small market villages abounded and occasionally a young urchin stood at the roadside displaying a gemstone in his hand in the hope that a passing motorist would stop and make a purchase.
Late in the afternoon just as the sun slipped over the horizon behind us, we entered the provincial capital, Chipata. This pretty colonial town was once known as Fort Jameson after Starr Jameson also immortalised for his ill-fated Raid on Johannesburg in 1894.
Chipata is a pretty, slightly faded town these days, a number of Indian businessmen still run the trade stores and filling stations. Business seemed fairly brisk with locals buying provisions for the outlying villages and travellers to and from Malawi filling up with supplies. The centre of the town is dominated by the presence of both a mosque and a Hindu temple.
Jonathan dropped me at the Chipata Motel, a somewhat flea-bitten hostelry which had the two things I was looking for - a hot bath and a cold beer. The bath was delightful after ten hours rocking and rolling in the Landie, and the beer was very cold and invigorating. In the bar, I sensed an urgency amongst the customers who seemed to be drinking the Mosi-A-Tunya beer as if it was going out of fashion. And that is exactly what was happening - the beer stocks were down to the last crate and I managed to order myself another two bottles before they ran out completely. Beer shortages are all too common in Zambia and even Lusaka has "dry" periods, but here, 800 kilometres from the brewery it was an everyday event.
I went to the dining room and in that cock-eyed African way I was asked if I would like a beer! Thankfully they had reserved a crate or two for diners and hotel residents, and I was content and happy again. I ordered a chicken dish with nshima and sank two more beers before taking a walk through the motel gardens to digest my dinner.
The sun sank swiftly in the direction of the capital as I went to my room, chased a cockroach around the floorboards, climbed into bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
In the morning, after a breakfast of baked beans and nshima Jonathan returned to collect me and we went to the Provincial Headquarters to pay a courtesy visit on the Permanent Secretary for Eastern Province. Sadly, the Permanent Secretary had just departed for Lusaka but his Deputy greeted me, invited me into his office and waved me to the sofa that was exuding wads of horsehair stuffing.
He immediately brought up the subject of mining and told me that his Provincial Police Commander had been informed the day before that a death had occurred at one of the aquamarine mines in Lundazi. Would I have time to see the Police Chief before I left, he asked.
"Of course, sir," I replied "the investigation of accidents at mines is a major part of my job and this will probably be the first time an inspector has had an opportunity to study at first hand the sort of fatal accident that one imagines takes place and goes unreported at these illegal mines."
The Police Chief met me and gave me brief details of the accident he promised to radio to his officers at Lundazi and ask them to give me the fullest cooperation. I thanked him and left to return to Jonathan and begin the final leg of the long journey to Lundazi.
The Chipata to Lundazi road is unsurfaced yet fairly smooth in the dry season, the scenery typically savannah scrub bushland blending into barren grasslands as the Luangwa escarpment is reached. There is much activity along the roadsides with the small farms and gardens being worked industriously and the resultant produce marketed vigorously.
With fifty kilometres to go to our destination the road deteriorated to a rutted track that made the journey most uncomfortable. It was about 3.30 pm when we had our first sight of Lundazi and its crumbling, shabby dwellings.
I went straight to the Police station to inform them of my arrival and to make arrangements for a police officer to accompany me to the aquamarine mines the next day.
The steps leading from the dirt of the main street to the Police Station door were rickety and broken and I imagined generations of criminals, ne'er do wells and the plain unfortunate being hurled and kicked against them over the forty years or so since the place had been built.
Oh, how different my welcome here than at Police Headquarters in Chipata. The sergeant was most surly and unhelpful, more or less telling me that I was not wanted here and that my warrant card counted for nought in his domain. Perhaps this is why the Chief Inspector had given me the introduction letter to the Office of the President. I politely bade the policemen goodbye and went to check in at the oddest hotel in Africa.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Great Emerald Theft
The farm (as we called it) was a ten acre smallholding in a little settlement called Itimpi some fifteen kilometres from Kitwe. We had moved there earlier that year for a variety of reasons, principal of which was the solitude that it afforded at the end of the day (or week) and the sheer, exquisite beauty of the rural location. Itimpi is the present name for the small township of Garneton which is situated off the Kitwe to Chingola Road on the Zambian Copperbelt. Garneton was established as an enclave for well-to-do European settlers in the nineteen forties and fifties. Almost all the houses are four or five bedroom bungalows built in the colonial style and each situated on ten to fifteen acres of cultivated bushland.
Our farm had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a dining room, a large kitchen and an ever-open bar that let onto a huge open veranda on a terrace which looked out past the large anthill on the left across an unkempt lawn that swept down to a grove of tall trees near the stream at the western end of the property. It was from this veranda that we would watch in awe as six or seven tropical storms simultaneously crashed in violent anger during January and February each year. In these lovely surroundings Jenny and I lived with our sons Jem and Tom.
The unkempt lawn (more like a paddock, really) was a result of the exorbitant price of imported machinery, particularly lawnmowers - approximately five times my monthly salary! We simply couldn’t afford one. This was good news for the gardeners of course, it meant a weekend overtime every month or so. A few days of Remy and Ed with the slashers and the constant attention of three goats maintained the lawn in a sort of respectable condition.
There were three kayas or servants’ houses on the estate where up to forty people lived at times - it often happens in African society that relatives will come and live with those of their family that are working. The practice survives because of the perception that those family members working in urban centres have a better standard of living than those in the rural areas. That perception is not always correct but in this case I feel sure that those who lived with us were well looked after and had a satisfactory diet. We had three servants and each had his own Kaya, Robson the housekeeper and Remy and Ed, the gardeners. The kayas were provided with running water and electricity and our staff settled their families therein. When Jenny’s parent’s came to visit in 1986 they asked if they could be photographed with the staff. It came as a great surprise to both Jenny and me that 47 people appeared in that photograph. They weren’t really servants - they were family.
There was a trade-off for us in that such a large number of residents on the property meant that security was improved to such an extent that we had no serious break-ins during our stay there. When the cost of mealie-meal became prohibitive we provided the families with food (referred to as rations) as part of their wages.
There were a number of outbuildings such as a derelict piggery and a guest bungalow which we converted into a chicken house. We kept ducks, geese, chickens, a family of goats, two cats and at least six dogs - all different shapes, sizes and temperaments. These were the domestic animals but we were blessed with many wild creatures too.
One day while our three goats, Billy, Nanny and the kid were munching away at the grass we were concerned to see the inordinate interest that an overhead eagle was taking in the hard-working little herd. The hundred or more trees at the bottom of the lawn were mostly over thirty metres high and were the natural nesting places for many large birds of prey. The one which was devoting so much attention to our little kid was black and brown, wingspan of about two metres and a with a large rooster-like crest.
We beat a tattoo on a variety of kitchen utensils, waved our arms madly and turned on the burglar alarm as loud as possible - all to no avail. The bird circled around more boldly, getting closer and closer to our precious goats. We looked on in horror as the eagle swooped out of the sky, dropping like a stone with talons ready to seize. It came to ground some three metres from our now, terrified goats and lifted off again with a two metre black snake in its claws. The relief was immense as we realised that the goats were in much more danger from the snakes than from the eagles. It was, of course, a snake eagle.
Sitting on that same veranda one New Year’s Day we spied a waving of the long grass down in the paddock near the trees. It was late afternoon and we had been entertaining a friend to a festive drink. We concentrated hard in case the cheap local brandy was having an effect on our senses. No, the grass kept moving and whatever was causing it to move continued its progress scything along in our direction. The dogs now began to take an interest led by Scion Dhu, the German Shepherd, closely followed by Wombat and Roo, our faithful Bull Terriers. They sniffed around the thing and began barking in a frenzy of mock boldness. The creature kept on coming. We closed most of the verandah doors leaving one door ajar as an escape route (for us). We peered apprehensively as the long grass parted and we saw the great lizard amble nonchalantly up the side of the anthill and begin munching our golden and red azaleas.
The dogs went absolutely wild as they carried on the cacophony of howling and barking, each one trying to appear braver than the rest. They had no effect whatever on the reptile as it dined on our beautiful flowers. The creature was a one and a half metre monitor lizard with shoulders like a burly miner and a tail as strong as a crocodile, fairly common in wild areas of the bush and very much at home in the constantly running creek on our property.
He finally lost his temper with the dogs and cast his head towards them shooting his foot-long, bright yellow tongue in their direction like a rocket. I have never seen a pack of dogs lose their bravado so instantly. They shot off as quickly as you like pretending for all the world that they were doing something else and had never seen the monitor lizard. We saw it several times after that and came to enjoy its visits to our flower patch very much.
In order to enjoy the benefits of living in such a lovely paradise one has the duty to earn them, in other words, I had to work. That too was a pleasure in its own way. It was one of those early December days in Zambia when the true rains had not yet started and everyone was sweltering in the unbearable humidity. Jonathan, my Western Province driver, and I were heading south from the lovely copper mining town of Kalalushi to the emerald gemstone field on the banks of the Kafubu stream about fifty kilometres away.
Prospectors and government geologists had found the emeralds only some fifteen years before. The find had very recently been exploited by local and Asian entrepreneurs, some of whom were competent to mine in the soft, mica-sandy soil, many who were not.
“This road is pretty good, Mr Chris,” remarked Jonathan as he skillfully guided the Land Rover along the rutted dirt track and negotiated another ninety degree bend sending the vehicle drifting wildly sideways. “It’s fine now, Jonathan,” I replied without much enthusiasm, “but imagine how much damage the rains will do next month.” It had been a very long and tiring week and this was the last shift before the weekend so I was looking forward to a few quiet days at the farm with Jenny.
I came back to reality as Jonathan skidded to a halt at the paramilitary police barrier. Sergeant Mulenga greeted me in typical Zambian fashion with concerned inquiries about my family’s health and whether or not I had yet eaten today.
“Mr Chris, you have arrived at the right moment,” continued Mulenga, now moving on to the business of the day, “We have just received a report that the strongroom at Gemka Mine was broken into last night, it seems the bandits used explosives so I thought you ought to be informed.”
Not all the police officers on the emerald field were aware that in addition to being an Inspector of Mines I was also an Inspector of Explosives. Sergeant Mulenga, however, had always taken a keen interest in the credentials of any visiting law enforcement officer. “Thank you, Mulenga, I’ll go straight to Gemka,” I said. If you don’t mind, Mr Chris, I would like to accompany you, I may be able to help.”
“I am sure you will, Mulenga, jump in,” I said, glad of the assistance.
We covered the ten kilometres to Gemka Mine in as many minutes, the guard opening the security gate as soon as he recognised my vehicle. I had told the guards scores of times that every person entering the mine should be challenged but today rather than belabour the point I thought it better to get to the strong room as quickly as possible.
On arrival I was met by Ben, a director of Gemka Mine. Israel Ben-Zvi had spent a quarter of a century working in all the major emerald fields in the world and was widely recognised as one of the top three emerald gemologists on the planet.
“How much did they get away with Ben?” I asked a very sanguine Ben-Zvi.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, we have only just finished discussing whether or not to call you. We were not quite sure but we reported it to your office anyway,” Ben explained.
Ben well understood the point that if the explosives proved to be military rather than industrial or mining explosives then I should hand over the investigation to Mr Phiri of the Bomb Disposal Squad in Ndola. The problem with that was that Mr Phiri would take a whole day to arrive, if he came at all.
“I was waiting for you to arrive before we moved anything, so I can’t yet be sure what is missing.” said Ben as we entered the strongroom together and picked our way gingerly through the shards of glass and steel shrapnel that littered the floor. It appeared that there had been two explosions: the first had blasted the main steel door off its hinges and had caused the bulk of the debris around us, the second blast had opened a jagged hole in the door of the safe itself.
The whole operation seemed to have been incompetently carried out by very inexperienced safe breakers indeed. Whoever was responsible had clearly cut himself badly whilst reaching through the hole in the safe to extract the stones. He had bled copiously as witnessed by the streams of drying blood on the safe and on the strongroom floor. Ben opened the safe door with great difficulty as the locking mechanism had been damaged by the explosion.
“There’s a hell of a mess in here, Chris,” he said “but I don’t think they got away with much.”
A number of white hessian sacks had burst open and hundreds of the beautiful deep green stones lay scattered on the floor and shelves of the safe. “It looks like you will have to sort and weigh that lot again, Ben,” I remarked, “meanwhile I will see what I can find outside. Mulenga, you had best come along with me.” So, leaving Ben to his tedious task of re-weighing, re-sorting and re-packing the emeralds, Mulenga and I began to look around the outside of the strong room.
It immediately became apparent just how badly the thief had been cut. A clear trail of blood lay on the ground in front of us. In a state of high excitement Mulenga and I set off in pursuit of our quarry.
The trail of blood droplets and occasional castaway makeshift dressings of hessian cloth led us down the hillside along a rough track to the Kafubu river. I was fearful that the thief would have crossed the stream at some point and would thus have been lost to us. Fortunately this was not the case. The trail continued along the river bank for about two kilometres before turning up the hillside again, this time winding its way through dense woodland. At the crest of the hillside the forest opened out into a clearing which I immediately recognised as the Gemka Paramilitary Police camp. These were the huts occupied by the very people who were charged with the protection of the company’s emeralds!
I approached a group of three untidy soldiers armed with standard issue Kalashnikov AK 47 assault rifles and asked who the officer in charge was. The tallest of them explained that Inspector Chama was in command but that he had not been seen since the previous night.
“That’s his hut there,” said another soldier indicating the very shack to which the trail of blood had led us - it was empty. Without another word Mulenga and I quickly returned to the strong room where Ben had managed to restore some order to the chaos.
The ensuing twelve hours will forever remain a painful memory for me. I never imagined that I would grow tired of looking at and handling such a beautiful gemstone as an emerald. But I did. Ben and I laboured to sort and weigh and pack four months production of emerald from the largest emerald mine on the African continent and the deepest open pit emerald mine in the world.
In total the stones weighed in at 65 kg of gem quality emerald and 210 kg of beryl. The beryl, although not high grade has a ready market in India and the Far East for the manufacture of less expensive jewellery.
At the end of this back-breaking and eye-wearying exercise, Ben suggested that we double the Paramilitary guard for the night. I took him to one side and explained my fears about the integrity of the Paramilitary Police Force. Ben was shocked and readily agreed to my suggestion to move the stones to town without delay. The time was now eleven p.m. and the tropical night had long since fallen, the cicadas chirruping deafeningly in the surrounding bush.
Ever fearful of an ambush we drove at breakneck speed in a convoy consisting of two of Gemka’s Land Cruisers and my trusty Land Rover and covered the 70 kilometres to Kitwe in under an hour - no mean feat on such primitive roads at night.
I’m afraid we hit more than a few nightjars on the way - they seem to love sitting in the middle of the road and taking flight just before a vehicle hits them, sometimes these beautiful creatures don’t quite make it.
On reaching Kitwe at midnight and finding the Police station closed we decided to store the three million dollars worth of emeralds at my farm overnight. Imagine Jenny’s surprise when I turned up with a phalanx of armed police, six miners and a fortune in gems in the small hours. Much to everyone’s relief the night passed without incident and the gems were deposited at the bank next morning. I then went to the office to make a comprehensive report to the Permanent Secretaries of the Ministry of Mines and the Department of Home Affairs.
As for Mr Phiri and his Bomb Disposal Squad, they didn’t show up to investigate, in spite of the fact that I had informed him that the explosives seemed to be from the military. Inspector Chama went absent without leave and neither he nor my report was ever seen again. Until now!
Our farm had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a dining room, a large kitchen and an ever-open bar that let onto a huge open veranda on a terrace which looked out past the large anthill on the left across an unkempt lawn that swept down to a grove of tall trees near the stream at the western end of the property. It was from this veranda that we would watch in awe as six or seven tropical storms simultaneously crashed in violent anger during January and February each year. In these lovely surroundings Jenny and I lived with our sons Jem and Tom.
The unkempt lawn (more like a paddock, really) was a result of the exorbitant price of imported machinery, particularly lawnmowers - approximately five times my monthly salary! We simply couldn’t afford one. This was good news for the gardeners of course, it meant a weekend overtime every month or so. A few days of Remy and Ed with the slashers and the constant attention of three goats maintained the lawn in a sort of respectable condition.
There were three kayas or servants’ houses on the estate where up to forty people lived at times - it often happens in African society that relatives will come and live with those of their family that are working. The practice survives because of the perception that those family members working in urban centres have a better standard of living than those in the rural areas. That perception is not always correct but in this case I feel sure that those who lived with us were well looked after and had a satisfactory diet. We had three servants and each had his own Kaya, Robson the housekeeper and Remy and Ed, the gardeners. The kayas were provided with running water and electricity and our staff settled their families therein. When Jenny’s parent’s came to visit in 1986 they asked if they could be photographed with the staff. It came as a great surprise to both Jenny and me that 47 people appeared in that photograph. They weren’t really servants - they were family.
There was a trade-off for us in that such a large number of residents on the property meant that security was improved to such an extent that we had no serious break-ins during our stay there. When the cost of mealie-meal became prohibitive we provided the families with food (referred to as rations) as part of their wages.
There were a number of outbuildings such as a derelict piggery and a guest bungalow which we converted into a chicken house. We kept ducks, geese, chickens, a family of goats, two cats and at least six dogs - all different shapes, sizes and temperaments. These were the domestic animals but we were blessed with many wild creatures too.
One day while our three goats, Billy, Nanny and the kid were munching away at the grass we were concerned to see the inordinate interest that an overhead eagle was taking in the hard-working little herd. The hundred or more trees at the bottom of the lawn were mostly over thirty metres high and were the natural nesting places for many large birds of prey. The one which was devoting so much attention to our little kid was black and brown, wingspan of about two metres and a with a large rooster-like crest.
We beat a tattoo on a variety of kitchen utensils, waved our arms madly and turned on the burglar alarm as loud as possible - all to no avail. The bird circled around more boldly, getting closer and closer to our precious goats. We looked on in horror as the eagle swooped out of the sky, dropping like a stone with talons ready to seize. It came to ground some three metres from our now, terrified goats and lifted off again with a two metre black snake in its claws. The relief was immense as we realised that the goats were in much more danger from the snakes than from the eagles. It was, of course, a snake eagle.
Sitting on that same veranda one New Year’s Day we spied a waving of the long grass down in the paddock near the trees. It was late afternoon and we had been entertaining a friend to a festive drink. We concentrated hard in case the cheap local brandy was having an effect on our senses. No, the grass kept moving and whatever was causing it to move continued its progress scything along in our direction. The dogs now began to take an interest led by Scion Dhu, the German Shepherd, closely followed by Wombat and Roo, our faithful Bull Terriers. They sniffed around the thing and began barking in a frenzy of mock boldness. The creature kept on coming. We closed most of the verandah doors leaving one door ajar as an escape route (for us). We peered apprehensively as the long grass parted and we saw the great lizard amble nonchalantly up the side of the anthill and begin munching our golden and red azaleas.
The dogs went absolutely wild as they carried on the cacophony of howling and barking, each one trying to appear braver than the rest. They had no effect whatever on the reptile as it dined on our beautiful flowers. The creature was a one and a half metre monitor lizard with shoulders like a burly miner and a tail as strong as a crocodile, fairly common in wild areas of the bush and very much at home in the constantly running creek on our property.
He finally lost his temper with the dogs and cast his head towards them shooting his foot-long, bright yellow tongue in their direction like a rocket. I have never seen a pack of dogs lose their bravado so instantly. They shot off as quickly as you like pretending for all the world that they were doing something else and had never seen the monitor lizard. We saw it several times after that and came to enjoy its visits to our flower patch very much.
In order to enjoy the benefits of living in such a lovely paradise one has the duty to earn them, in other words, I had to work. That too was a pleasure in its own way. It was one of those early December days in Zambia when the true rains had not yet started and everyone was sweltering in the unbearable humidity. Jonathan, my Western Province driver, and I were heading south from the lovely copper mining town of Kalalushi to the emerald gemstone field on the banks of the Kafubu stream about fifty kilometres away.
Prospectors and government geologists had found the emeralds only some fifteen years before. The find had very recently been exploited by local and Asian entrepreneurs, some of whom were competent to mine in the soft, mica-sandy soil, many who were not.
“This road is pretty good, Mr Chris,” remarked Jonathan as he skillfully guided the Land Rover along the rutted dirt track and negotiated another ninety degree bend sending the vehicle drifting wildly sideways. “It’s fine now, Jonathan,” I replied without much enthusiasm, “but imagine how much damage the rains will do next month.” It had been a very long and tiring week and this was the last shift before the weekend so I was looking forward to a few quiet days at the farm with Jenny.
I came back to reality as Jonathan skidded to a halt at the paramilitary police barrier. Sergeant Mulenga greeted me in typical Zambian fashion with concerned inquiries about my family’s health and whether or not I had yet eaten today.
“Mr Chris, you have arrived at the right moment,” continued Mulenga, now moving on to the business of the day, “We have just received a report that the strongroom at Gemka Mine was broken into last night, it seems the bandits used explosives so I thought you ought to be informed.”
Not all the police officers on the emerald field were aware that in addition to being an Inspector of Mines I was also an Inspector of Explosives. Sergeant Mulenga, however, had always taken a keen interest in the credentials of any visiting law enforcement officer. “Thank you, Mulenga, I’ll go straight to Gemka,” I said. If you don’t mind, Mr Chris, I would like to accompany you, I may be able to help.”
“I am sure you will, Mulenga, jump in,” I said, glad of the assistance.
We covered the ten kilometres to Gemka Mine in as many minutes, the guard opening the security gate as soon as he recognised my vehicle. I had told the guards scores of times that every person entering the mine should be challenged but today rather than belabour the point I thought it better to get to the strong room as quickly as possible.
On arrival I was met by Ben, a director of Gemka Mine. Israel Ben-Zvi had spent a quarter of a century working in all the major emerald fields in the world and was widely recognised as one of the top three emerald gemologists on the planet.
“How much did they get away with Ben?” I asked a very sanguine Ben-Zvi.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, we have only just finished discussing whether or not to call you. We were not quite sure but we reported it to your office anyway,” Ben explained.
Ben well understood the point that if the explosives proved to be military rather than industrial or mining explosives then I should hand over the investigation to Mr Phiri of the Bomb Disposal Squad in Ndola. The problem with that was that Mr Phiri would take a whole day to arrive, if he came at all.
“I was waiting for you to arrive before we moved anything, so I can’t yet be sure what is missing.” said Ben as we entered the strongroom together and picked our way gingerly through the shards of glass and steel shrapnel that littered the floor. It appeared that there had been two explosions: the first had blasted the main steel door off its hinges and had caused the bulk of the debris around us, the second blast had opened a jagged hole in the door of the safe itself.
The whole operation seemed to have been incompetently carried out by very inexperienced safe breakers indeed. Whoever was responsible had clearly cut himself badly whilst reaching through the hole in the safe to extract the stones. He had bled copiously as witnessed by the streams of drying blood on the safe and on the strongroom floor. Ben opened the safe door with great difficulty as the locking mechanism had been damaged by the explosion.
“There’s a hell of a mess in here, Chris,” he said “but I don’t think they got away with much.”
A number of white hessian sacks had burst open and hundreds of the beautiful deep green stones lay scattered on the floor and shelves of the safe. “It looks like you will have to sort and weigh that lot again, Ben,” I remarked, “meanwhile I will see what I can find outside. Mulenga, you had best come along with me.” So, leaving Ben to his tedious task of re-weighing, re-sorting and re-packing the emeralds, Mulenga and I began to look around the outside of the strong room.
It immediately became apparent just how badly the thief had been cut. A clear trail of blood lay on the ground in front of us. In a state of high excitement Mulenga and I set off in pursuit of our quarry.
The trail of blood droplets and occasional castaway makeshift dressings of hessian cloth led us down the hillside along a rough track to the Kafubu river. I was fearful that the thief would have crossed the stream at some point and would thus have been lost to us. Fortunately this was not the case. The trail continued along the river bank for about two kilometres before turning up the hillside again, this time winding its way through dense woodland. At the crest of the hillside the forest opened out into a clearing which I immediately recognised as the Gemka Paramilitary Police camp. These were the huts occupied by the very people who were charged with the protection of the company’s emeralds!
I approached a group of three untidy soldiers armed with standard issue Kalashnikov AK 47 assault rifles and asked who the officer in charge was. The tallest of them explained that Inspector Chama was in command but that he had not been seen since the previous night.
“That’s his hut there,” said another soldier indicating the very shack to which the trail of blood had led us - it was empty. Without another word Mulenga and I quickly returned to the strong room where Ben had managed to restore some order to the chaos.
The ensuing twelve hours will forever remain a painful memory for me. I never imagined that I would grow tired of looking at and handling such a beautiful gemstone as an emerald. But I did. Ben and I laboured to sort and weigh and pack four months production of emerald from the largest emerald mine on the African continent and the deepest open pit emerald mine in the world.
In total the stones weighed in at 65 kg of gem quality emerald and 210 kg of beryl. The beryl, although not high grade has a ready market in India and the Far East for the manufacture of less expensive jewellery.
At the end of this back-breaking and eye-wearying exercise, Ben suggested that we double the Paramilitary guard for the night. I took him to one side and explained my fears about the integrity of the Paramilitary Police Force. Ben was shocked and readily agreed to my suggestion to move the stones to town without delay. The time was now eleven p.m. and the tropical night had long since fallen, the cicadas chirruping deafeningly in the surrounding bush.
Ever fearful of an ambush we drove at breakneck speed in a convoy consisting of two of Gemka’s Land Cruisers and my trusty Land Rover and covered the 70 kilometres to Kitwe in under an hour - no mean feat on such primitive roads at night.
I’m afraid we hit more than a few nightjars on the way - they seem to love sitting in the middle of the road and taking flight just before a vehicle hits them, sometimes these beautiful creatures don’t quite make it.
On reaching Kitwe at midnight and finding the Police station closed we decided to store the three million dollars worth of emeralds at my farm overnight. Imagine Jenny’s surprise when I turned up with a phalanx of armed police, six miners and a fortune in gems in the small hours. Much to everyone’s relief the night passed without incident and the gems were deposited at the bank next morning. I then went to the office to make a comprehensive report to the Permanent Secretaries of the Ministry of Mines and the Department of Home Affairs.
As for Mr Phiri and his Bomb Disposal Squad, they didn’t show up to investigate, in spite of the fact that I had informed him that the explosives seemed to be from the military. Inspector Chama went absent without leave and neither he nor my report was ever seen again. Until now!
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