Storms Over Africa (28 page)

The lorry was unloaded and everyone given a job to do. Philamon was to dig a pit latrine, then erect the ablutions tent off to one side. Samson unpacked the supplies into a large, open-ended tent, set up the collapsible work table, distributed the various camp chairs and tables, cut wood for the fires, set up his cooking fire and packed the old gas refrigerator they had carried on the lorry with fresh food and beers.

David and Greg shared a tent and went off to find a good place to erect it. ‘Here should be okay.' Greg indicated a spot which had a great view of the river and of the bush on the other side.

David looked over to where Steve and his father were putting up their tent. ‘Back here is better.' He pointed to a cleared area which had trees screening the rest of the camp from view.

Greg shrugged and said nothing.

Penny and her father had argued long and hard about her sleeping arrangements. Richard wanted her to sleep in a tent alone. Penny had refused. ‘Whether you like it or not, Daddy,' she told him, ‘Joe and I are practically engaged. We sleep together.'

He felt he was fighting a losing battle with Penny. Often he wondered what Kathy would have done. Despite her soft ways, she had been much tougher on their daughter than he could ever be. And strangely, Penny had accepted her mother's discipline. It was her father she challenged, keeping alive a fierce competitiveness which she appeared to need. Sometimes he wondered if she actually loved him. There were times he questioned why he loved her. All he knew with certainty was that he was afraid to lose her and it was this thought alone which caused him to give in to her.

Joseph and Penny erected their tent some distance from the rest, towards the back of the circle of trees and furthest from the river.

Samson and Philamon were to share another, which they put up just behind the supplies tent.

It took several hours to set up camp to Richard's liking. There had to be a big fire in the centre so that, in the evenings, they could sit around it and look out over the river. Binoculars, waterbags, tilly lamps and fly swatters were hung in trees at strategic places. The supplies tent, with its gas-operated refrigerator and small paraffin deep freeze on one side, work table just at the entrance, piles of boxes containing dry goods at the back and crates of beer and boxes of wine and scotch
on the other side, gave their camp an almost permanent appearance. A second pit, for their rubbish, was dug well away from the main camp. Richard had brought a small pump and a long length of rubber hose for pumping water from the river to the ablutions tent. They had brought their drinking water with them from Pentland.

When the camp was finished Steve realised just how much organising Richard had done for everyone's comfort. ‘This is brilliant,' she commented. ‘Everything is so well set up.'

‘We used to hunt a lot in the old days.' He was delighted she liked it. ‘We learned by trial and error. One time we arrived and I'd forgotten the shovel. We had to dig the toilet and rubbish pits with sticks. I wasn't very popular I can tell you. Another time Kathy forgot the mosquito coils. That was hell.'

‘Is this where you used to camp?' She did not much like the idea of treading in his dead wife's shoes.

‘I wouldn't do that to you.' He gave her a quick hug. ‘I found this place during the war. I've never camped here before.'

Before it grew too dark Richard repacked the Land Rover with rifles, ammunition and food supplies for the next day.

‘Do you carry the animals you shoot in the Land Rover?' Steve was thinking of the vehicle's almost new interior.

‘The lorry will come with us.' Richard wanted to share every moment with her, wanted her to understand every aspect of a safari. ‘The way it works is this, we get up at first light and go out. By ten you can forget it, everything is resting under the trees. We come back to camp and leave Samson and Philamon to remove the skin and cut up the meat. Then they bring it back, and if we want to keep the skin we have to clean it up and salt it. We save some chunks of meat for the deep freeze and the rest is made into
biltong
. There's a lot to do. We don't go out again until around four in the afternoon.'

‘So if I want to get good pictures . . .'

‘You really should come out with us.'

‘But up at Kariba, and in the game reserves, I took pictures all through the day.' Steve didn't want to go with them and their murderous guns.

‘Darling, they're protected in the reserves. The animals aren't jumpy. This is a hunting block where they're used to being shot at. You won't find anything to photograph in the middle of the day.'

Greg came to her rescue. ‘We won't be hunting all the time, Steve. You'll get plenty of opportunities to get your pictures.'

She shot him a grateful look. Richard was clearly disappointed. ‘I'm sorry.' She tried to make it up to him. ‘I just can't watch you kill
these beautiful animals even though I know it's a form of culling and if you didn't kill them, someone else would have to. Call it a head-in-the-sand mentality if you like, it's just the way I am. I'm one of those people who avert their eyes when they see an abattoir but love eating steak.'

‘Come and have a drink.' He put his arm around her. ‘Just my luck to get lumbered with a soft-hearted Disney fiend,' he grumbled, squeezing her shoulders to show he was joking.

‘I hate Disney movies,' she objected.

‘Actually, my dear, so do I.' Then he added softly in her ear, ‘The bloody things always make me cry.'

And Steve tucked the comment away in her heart, sensing she had just been made privy to a piece of Richard Dunn he usually kept hidden.

Night fell swiftly, after toying briefly with a scarlet sunset. The big fire was lit and Samson got busy with his cooking fire. Night noises of the African bush rose and fell around them. Baboons screeched and fought further along the river. A jackal howled, surprisingly close to camp. The crickets and frogs kept up a continuous flow of sound. Hippos grunted and snorted and gargled to each other as they prepared to leave the water and graze on the sweet grass of the river banks. Hyena, across the river, giggled and chittered over a kill. Somewhere in the distance, an elephant trumpeted.

Philamon lit the tilly lamps. Their soft lights glowed, giving the camp a homely look. Then, with the sounds of cooking and the murmuring of Samson and Philamon coming from the supplies tent, in the best tradition of African safaris the rest of them sat around the fire and told stories, absorbed the atmosphere and felt sorry for everyone else in the world because they were not doing the same thing.

Steve asked if the animals would come into the camp at night. ‘A few might,' Richard said. ‘But most animals have a built-in sense of private space. They don't come any closer than the distance they need to get away if necessary. Lion will come through and sniff around because they're curious. Elephants might walk through but you'd never hear them. Baboons are a nuisance. The rest keep away.'

‘Lions might come through?' Steve was not too sure she liked the idea.

‘I heard about a couple of professional hunters in Botswana who had a lion come into their tent, sniff their heads while they slept, and leave through the other end of the tent,' Greg offered.

‘You're joking.' Joseph Tshuma didn't like the idea either.

‘I'm not joking. They're incredibly curious about things, just like cats.'

‘What about that game ranger up in
Wankie?' Penny reminded them, then, at a look from Joseph, amended, ‘I mean Hwange National Park.' After independence a lot of the old place names had been changed.

‘I don't think . . .' Richard knew the story of Willy de Beer would scare the living daylights out of Steve.

‘What about him?' Steve had goose bumps but she wanted to hear.

‘I really don't think . . .' he tried again.

Greg took up the story, oblivious to Richard's warning. ‘He was camping in a national park and a lion attacked another couple while they slept. First it mauled the woman, then it killed the man. The woman ran to get Willy who went to the hut to help. When he stuck his head through the open window to see what was going on the lion ripped his scalp off but didn't kill him.' Greg was warming to his tale, caught up in an adult version of scary stories like the ones school children tend to tell just before someone dares one of them to enter a deserted house. ‘Then Willy's son-in-law was attacked when he came to help. Somehow, Willy got hold of the rifle and, although he couldn't see anything with his scalp hanging over his eyes, shot at where he thought the lion was. He killed the lion but he also shot his son-in-law's hand off.'

‘Did they live?' Steve asked, shivering. Greg's tale, told so matter-of-factly, was the
most horrible thing she had ever heard. She did not doubt the story, the others had all heard it, that was obvious. She marvelled at these people. She had met a ranger in Hwange who bore the most terrible scars she had ever seen. An elephant had attacked him, thrusting one ivory tusk through his thigh and ripping him open to his belly. The man had been in and out of hospital for three years, his ability to sire children was in serious doubt and yet, when she asked him about his scarred leg and he had told her his story he had concluded by saying, ‘That old ellie was one helluva feller. He's still in the park. He's the most beautiful ellie here.'

She had wondered at the time how he could tell the tale without rancour. It seemed that he respected the elephant for its attack on him. All these people appeared to thrive on being braver, harder, different. But they were not doing it to impress. It was natural to them. ‘It must be because they live with danger,' she thought. ‘This must be the way they cope.'

Greg was answering her question so she stopped her musing and listened.

‘Willy had over 200 stitches in his head but he lived. His son-in-law lived but his hand was damaged beyond repair. The woman also lived.'

‘Maybe it will happen to us,' David cut in spitefully.

‘I doubt it, son. It was a pretty rare event. The lion was starving. They've got plenty to eat down here.' Richard was trying to tone it down for Steve's benefit.

Feeling as though a pride of hungry lions were sharpening their teeth behind her, Steve turned to Joseph, ‘Didn't I read somewhere that young African boys have to kill a lion with their spear before they can become a man?'

‘It used to happen,' Joseph admitted. ‘And it still happens in different parts of Africa, like the Masai in Kenya. Thankfully it doesn't occur here any more.'

‘A lot of young boys must have been killed.' She found it impossible to imagine. It seemed barbaric.

‘That didn't bother the elders,' Joseph told her. ‘If a lad was unable to prove his manhood he wasn't worth anything to the tribe anyway. It was the way of things.'

‘Sounds a bit harsh.' She grinned at her own understatement.

‘If you looked back far enough into our own history you'd find things every bit as harsh,' Greg put in.

‘You're Shona aren't you?' she asked Joseph.

‘Yes.' Joseph, who in the company of these people tried to remain self-contained, never giving a part of himself away, could not hide the pride in his voice.

‘How did your people come to settle here?'

Richard whistled. ‘That's a big question, Steve.'

‘Am I treading on sacred ground?' She looked at him seriously. ‘I don't mean to, I'm just interested in Zimbabwe's history.'

‘This is the writer speaking,' Richard smiled at her.

‘It is,' she agreed. ‘Like most journalists with a story just in front of them, I feel as though I'm pushing up against an empty space, filling it up as I go.' She looked over at Joseph. ‘That's why I ask so many questions,' she said apologetically.

To Richard's surprise, Joseph said, ‘I don't mind talking about it. People should know our history.' And he began to speak, his deep African voice rumbling harmoniously with the night noises around them.

‘To tell the history of Zimbabwe, I have to go back a long way. On the Matabele side, I have to go back to Shaka, the Zulu king. On the other, to the Karanga, my own people.' He looked over at Steve. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this? It's quite a long story.'

‘Please.' She was fascinated.

‘Our people came from somewhere up near Lake Tanganyika,' he began. ‘There was a lot of movement throughout Africa from the thirteenth century onwards. Tribes were travelling vast distances, and nobody really knows why.
Our first chief was Mutota but, after he had fought and destroyed other tribes, he became known as Mwene Mutapa which means “master of the ravaged land”. Somehow, the name changed to Monomatapa and this became the name of a combined people. We were still Karanga as a tribe but the overall dynasty was called Monomatapa.' He leaned forward and said to Steve, ‘Do you understand what I mean?'

‘I guess so,' she said slowly. ‘Is it like a Frenchman being a European or a Malayan being Asian?'

‘Something like that, it's a good comparison. I'm not sure I understand it either.'

‘Please, go on,' Steve begged, ‘this is really interesting.'

‘We lived here for several centuries . . .' Joseph continued. Then he scowled and added, ‘. . . until the Portuguese arrived in the early 1500s. They came looking for the fabulous gold we were supposed to have and their missionaries tried to convert our people to Christianity.' He smiled briefly, ‘They didn't have much luck. There was always an uneasy alliance between our people and the Portuguese and finally, by 1700, we had thrown them out.'

Greg interrupted, ‘You slaughtered them.'

‘Yes we did, every man, woman and child,' Joseph said, proudly. He saw the look of
horror on Steve's face. ‘Please, remember this was nearly 300 years ago and the Portuguese had tried to take our lands.'