As a white man born and bred in Africa, I have spent much time trying to understand how my black compatriots think and behave. Just what motivates them, what inspires them, what frightens them, and how they arrive at their conclusions—these questions have long puzzled me. And I know I am not alone.
A friend of mine, a Jesuit priest who devoted nearly fifty years of his life to alleviating the plight of the African, was confounded by the same perplexing problem. Soon before he died I remember him looking at me through wrinkled eyes and saying: “You know, it is forty-seven years that I have spent here in Africa working to try to help the African. Soon I will go to my grave knowing nothing about him. If God offered me a wish, I would ask for thirty seconds inside the brain of an African—just so I can end my days in the knowledge that I learned something during my life in Africa.” I have never forgotten those words, and I fear that I am unlikely to make any more progress than he did in solving the mystery.
There is no doubt in my mind that one can never underestimate the importance of homegrown African spiritualism as a force influencing African behavior. Many Christian missionaries have discovered to their great disappointment that in most cases, no matter how diligently they have tried to inculcate a Christian ethos into the African, it seldom, if ever, takes precedence over indigenous animism or parochial supernaturalism. No matter how hard the white interloper has tried to influence and interfere, it seems that, in the final analysis, the African will not be swayed.
* * * * *
During the Rhodesian war, the country’s borders were extensively mined. Cordons sanitaires containing thousands of deadly antipersonnel mines were put in place to try to frustrate insurgents entering the country from Mozambique and Zambia. These fields caused the guerrillas considerable hardship but not enough to deter them. A favorite and effective method of breaching the fields was, simply, to herd cattle through. The unfortunate beasts would trigger the mines, leaving a cleared path in their bloody wake. Sadly, the minefields also played havoc with wildlife that stumbled into them, but there was not much anyone could do. The areas salted with mines simply became no-man’s land.
Soon after the war ended, my boss, Trevor Lane, and I were dispatched to see what had become of the game in the forest area known as Kavira. At that time we were both in the employ of the Zimbabwe Forestry Commission as hunters and rangers. Mines had been placed on the northern periphery of Kavira close to the Zambezi River, and at points within on known entry routes.
Trevor had just emerged from a long and often lonely war and was lucky to be alive. As a combat tracker, he had seen a lot of action, to which his body bore sad testimony. Caught one night in rugged country on the eastern border and outnumbered by a large group of Mozambique-based insurgents, he had been badly wounded and temporarily crippled, his legs shot to pieces by an intense volley of AK-47 fire. In his section of four, three were hit, and it was left to one stouthearted individual to drive the attackers off and protect his wounded comrades through the night, until help arrived.
For Trevor, unlike many reservists, the war did not end when his stint in the army was over. His work as a ranger in Matabeleland was probably even more dangerous. Alone with only a handful of scouts, he fought to protect the wildlife within his jurisdiction. An easy and obvious target for marauding guerrillas, Trevor found his life fraught with danger, and when it was all over, he, like so many who weathered that particular storm, was a changed man. Stripped of the naive innocence of youth, he emerged somewhat dissolute, somewhat distrustful, and holding mankind in very much lower esteem.
Kavira is a rather bleak slice of country bordering on the Zambezi at the point where the river begins to swell as it enters Lake Kariba. The landscape is a hostile one: precipitous ravines, heavily wooded hills, and granite outcrops. There is little flat country other than the flood plain close to the river, where the land opens to reveal an emerald-green grassland that had been home to a variety of game before hostilities commenced. The vegetation within is composed largely of dense Combretum thickets, not terribly friendly to humans but appealing habitat for rhino, bushbuck, and buffalo. There had also been other large mammals, including elephant, lion, leopard, and assorted antelope—mainly impala and kudu. Just what had taken place there during the war years was not altogether clear. We were to go in and find out.
Our brief came to us with instructions as to where it was safe to enter and what sections to avoid. The information was helpful but not entirely reassuring because we both knew that antipersonnel mines, lightweight as they are, can, during the rainy months when the water moves the soil, relocate from the spot where they were originally laid. Also, the available maps were of dubious authenticity, so we proceeded with a measure of trepidation.
Taking no scouts, we set off rather hesitantly from our base near the Victoria Falls. The drive to the area was tedious. It was a blisteringly hot October day made no more tolerable by the heat generated in the cab of our old mine-proofed Land Rover. No speedster under normal conditions, this vehicle was carrying deflective armor plating that made it even more sluggish. Eventually, however, we arrived at our destination and started taking notice of our surroundings. About midday we intersected a path that appeared to head north to the Zambezi. After looking at the maps, Trevor concluded that this was the route we wanted. As for me, I was extremely nervous. I was unconvinced he was right about our exact whereabouts and needed lots of reassurance.
“Are you sure, Trevor?”
“Yes, well, I think so.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“Yes. I think so. It has to be. It’s the only one marked,” Trevor replied.
Far from happy, I went with foreboding to collect my kit. We assumed that no vagrants were anywhere nearby because of the mines, so we simply parked the vehicle in the shade, grabbed our water bottles and rifles, and started walking.
The stifling heat was nearly unbearable. Not only did it bear down from above, but it also reflected off the rocky ground. Sweat flowed freely, and water bottles were soon empty. To add to our discomfort, mopane flies were everywhere, making their way unerringly up nostrils and into ears. We were, however, pleased to note there was fresh spoor, indicating animal life in the area although the place was eerily quiet. I felt very uneasy. The fear of stepping on an antipersonnel mine and losing, at best a foot and possibly my life, was a persistent buzz in my head.
Suddenly the silence was broken by what sounded like a whistle. We both stopped dead in our tracks to listen. The flies continued their relentless whining in our ears. Then came the muffled but unmistakable sound of voices. To our great surprise two raggedly dressed men suddenly came into view. It happened so quickly that our efforts to shuffle into cover were useless.
Poachers were approaching, walking briskly and carrying a pole between them upon which was strapped a warthog. In the course of our feckless attempt to move into cover and set up an ambush, the man in the lead had spotted us. I saw his eyes widen in disbelief. Obviously the war had been good to these two. They had, it appeared, found a secure route into the area and for some time had been enjoying good hunting, undisturbed by law or order. That was now at an end. Their reaction was sharp. They instantly dropped their booty and assorted personal possessions and fled at tremendous speed into the brush.
“Stop!” we screamed after them. We brought rifles into position.
Repeated yells warning them to stop or be shot made no impression. We were fast losing sight of them, and it was clear that we had no option but to give chase. Taking off with all possible speed, thornbushes tearing at clothes and skin, I could feel my anger rising with every pace. One of the two offenders was in plain sight. The other was in a league of his own: With head thrust back and knees pumping high into the sky, he profiled a perfect swastika, showing obvious Olympic potential. That one was a lost cause. His companion, however, was not an athlete of the same mettle.
Despite the excitement, the fact that we were now running through country riddled with mines remained very much a part of my consciousness. Frightened, lungs burning, legs tiring, but driven, I kept up the chase. Although my quarry was not an athlete of the same class as his partner in crime, he was no slouch. I was keeping up but not gaining, and I knew I couldn’t last much longer.
In desperation I stopped and fired a shot in his general direction. That got his attention. He dived to the ground. Furious, I ran up to him before he changed his mind, hauled him to his feet, and punched him hard in the face. Bleeding from lacerations all over my legs and lower body, panting for breath, my clothes in shreds, I could feel that my anger was at an explosive level. It crossed my mind that a neatly placed bullet in his head would not look at all unbecoming.
But loud torrents of abuse with near hysterical threats of death had to suffice. I was trembling with anger. He also shook—not in anger but in abject fear, fully believing his time was short. I quit my shouting only when the need to draw breath made that imperative. Trevor came up to the scene. He was also very tired and very cross. He gave the man a healthy clout for good measure.
We both sat down and slumped against tree to get some strength back. The poacher stood there looking at us, sweat pouring off him, his shirt soaked, and his heart beating so hard I could see it vibrating against his chest. Fear filled his eyes. Small, head bowed, barefoot, clothed in rags, in truth he was a pathetic sight, but sympathy was not an emotion I could muster.
“You,” I said, pointing a shaking finger at him, “are lucky to be alive. You are lucky we did not shoot you.”
He lifted his head to acknowledge the reprimand. If looks could kill, mine would have done so. His eyes flashed momentarily out of a striking face, transmitting a signal I could not fathom. For a moment, to add to my annoyance, I suddenly had the impression that he was not as devastated by recent events as one should expect. In retrospect, I ask myself if that was the moment in which he, in a stroke of instinctive brilliance, summed me up. Native cunning was hard at work. He knew me; I did not know him. He was reading me as easily as tracks in the dirt.
With breath back, we decided to make the walk back to the vehicle. After warning our captive that any untoward behavior would be dealt with swiftly and violently, he was given a rough push and told to walk ahead. We followed his tread carefully. Any mines were to be on his tab.
By the time we reached the vehicle, the sun was getting ready to set. We threw our man unceremoniously into the back of the truck and shackled him by hands and feet to the steel frame. We then made haste to try to find a spot to bed down for the night. Locating a clearing fairly close to the river, we used the last streaks of light in the sky to get ourselves organized. I looked at the forlorn figure in the back of the vehicle, head bowed in submission. Still I felt nothing but contempt.
“What are we going to do with him?” I said to Trevor.
“Tie him to that tree,” he said as he pointed at a tree with a wide girth.
I hauled the prisoner roughly off the back of the vehicle and took him to where he would be anchored for the night, positioning him so that his arms were wrapped tightly around the trunk, joined at the other end by the handcuffs. His position was clearly an extremely uncomfortable one, but sympathy was low on my agenda. We cooked a quick meal, had some tea, and then bedded down.
Tired but unable to sleep, I could see in the moonlight the silhouette of the condemned man lashed to the tree. I tried to ignore him and drift off but simply tossed and turned, wideawake. After a few hours the spectacle got the better of me.
“Trevor.” I tapped his bedroll.
“Yes.”
“Trevor, I just can’t sleep with that bloke on the tree like that.”
“Neither can I, actually,” he said.
I was relieved to hear that.
What made the situation even more troubling was that despite the tremendous discomfort we knew we had visited upon him, he uttered not a word of complaint. It earned our grudging respect and troubled our conscience. I went up to him and took off the handcuffs. He stood in the dark, downcast, awaiting what was coming next. I felt a renewed sense of anger and admonished him again.
“This is all your bloody fault!” I reminded him, so that I could remind myself.
He simply dropped his eyes to the ground, which disappointed me. I so badly wanted him to do or say something that would make me angry again, but no such assistance was forthcoming. Putting the cuffs back on, I led him to where we were lying.
“Lie down there!”
I pointed to a spot between us and then got down beside him, grabbing him by the arm to warn him sternly: “You sleep here between us. If you move in the night we are going to shoot you. If you even think of moving, we are going to shoot you.” I gave him my meanest look. He, being a member of the BaTonga tribe, probably suffered a serious communication deficit, but I believed that he understood me well enough. Wedged between the two of us, he would not be able to move without our knowing. For a while I kept an eye on him, but it had been a long and tiring day. Eventually I drifted off into a deep sleep.
At first light I lurched groggily to life and to my utter disgust noticed immediately that our man had left us. Rage quickly returned. I shook Trevor. “Poacher’s gone!” I whined.
“Sniveling little swine,” he said. “That is what happens when you’re nice to these bastards.”
I lay back again, looked at the sky, and cursed myself. That is the problem with us white men, I thought. We always end up feeling sorry and then getting taken for a ride. We were both lying there thinking what bloody fools we were when I heard a noise in the distance.
“What’s that?”
“Sounds like someone chopping a tree.”
I wondered aloud who it might be. Sound travels well over water, and it seemed possible that it was a wood gatherer across the bay. Rolling out of my blankets, I picked up my rifle and walked in the direction of the sound. In the distance I spotted a familiar figure. Not really comprehending, I walked closer. To my great astonishment it was our prisoner. Obviously he had risen early, armed himself with an ax from the back of the truck, and set off. Now he was chopping wood. Bewildered, and unsure whether or not to be angry, I walked up to him.
“What are you doing?”
In a mix of a few English words and his own tongue, he announced that he was collecting firewood to make a fire so that he could make “the mambos some tea.”
“You what?”
I looked at him, totally stunned. This was the guy I had punched in the head and threatened to kill a few hours earlier. Now, when he could have disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again, he was making me tea. I felt a headache coming on. Shaking my head slowly, I walked back to our camp.
“It’s him,” I announced. “It’s the bloody poacher. He’s chopping firewood to boil some water.”
“He’s what?”
I pointed toward the sound of chopping. Our eyes met. Trevor and I sat down and watched him approach with the wood on his shoulders, the handcuffs still binding his wrists. We both felt like complete bastards. When he got within reach, I took the cuffs off but avoided his eyes. The embarrassment was too much. Then I watched him set about kindling the fire with enthusiasm.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to sound both assertive and confident. I felt neither.
“Bombero,” he replied, with a happy smile.
Now the man’s smiling, I thought. Is he laughing at me? I experienced the anger one feels about oneself when one has no clue how to proceed. He had us in his thrall.
“You know, Bombero, you will go to jail.” I thought it was time to jar him back to reality.
“Yes,” he replied. “Do you know which one?”
For all the concern he showed, I might have been discussing an impending holiday with him.
“Hwange,” I said, putting on my most solemn face.
“Oh—I have never been to Hwange,” he said with genuine interest. He seemed excited about his impending visit. “When are we going?” he asked.
Off balance, I looked at him. Unlike many Africans, he had a sharp nose, high, prominent cheekbones, and smooth black skin. When he looked at me, his eyes came straight at me. I could not see any fear in them now.
“How far is Hwange from here, Mambo?”
“Thirty miles.”
“Ah, that is far. Can I collect my wife and children?”
“No,” I said firmly. “How the hell can you bring your wife and children with you?” He just shrugged his shoulders, looked at me, then looked at the fire.
Now the wife and children came into the equation. The poor bastard, I thought, probably won’t see them for a couple of years, and he doesn’t know it. This was turning into a mental ordeal. Was he saying this because he knew it would unsettle me, or was he just genuinely ignorant of what lay ahead? I had no way of knowing. The BaTonga were not famous for their intellect. I knew that, yet it was very challenging from a psychological point of view. The workings of this man’s mind were increasingly slipping beyond my comprehension.
After tea and a bite to eat, Bombero loaded the vehicle. When all was in readiness, he took his place on a seat in the back looking as happy as the proverbial butcher’s dog. Our plan was to drive to the next camp, about a hundred miles away, pay the staff, and then head to Hwange to deposit our prisoner. There he would be charged, tried, and jailed. We were on the road by 9:00 A.M., and it did not take long for the temperature to heat up.
By midday, we were hot and thirsty. Our route took us past a rough-and-ready fishing camp called Deka Drum. Right on the banks of the Zambezi, it was a popular destination for anglers, but being close to the safari concessions it was also a popular watering hole for people living and working in the districts. It seemed a good idea to stop and get a cool drink before continuing.
We parked the vehicle outside and took the unusual, rather ridiculous liberty of leaving our prisoner, Bombero, to guard our possessions. That was an onerous task. In his custody were hunting rifles and our FN automatics. Also needing to be guarded was the cash box, which had a broken lock following loss of the keys. Inside it was a substantial sum of money. Our prisoner was handcuffed but unconnected to the car.
“You stay here, Bombero. We will be very quick. I am watching you all the time. Do not move one little inch!” I wagged a threatening finger in his face.
“OK, Mambo.” He bade us a cheerful good-bye, assuring us that he would take good care. Looking back, I saw a big smile on his face. I turned to Trevor.
“I can’t figure that bastard out. He looks like he’s having a good time. He’s driving me bloody crazy.”
“Don’t ask me how these dudes think.” He shook his head in wonderment.
We went into the bar and ordered soft drinks, which went down extremely well. Just as we were about to leave, a motley collection of hunters and assorted hangers-on arrived, looking very thirsty and very happy to see us.
“Here’s trouble,” I said.
After much glad-handing, one of the group bellowed for the barman, who came scurrying. The barman knew them well and needed no further instructions. A line of cold beers appeared on the counter. Our genuine effort to make it out the door was blocked. After some protest we accepted “one drink,” and that was that. I looked to Trevor for support in extricating ourselves, but he had got the taste and was not of much help.
“We’ve got a prisoner in the truck, and we have to get to Sijarira to pay the staff. We’re late already.”
“I don’t care if you’ve got the queen of England in the truck. You will now drink beer until I say you can go!” was the rebuke from one of the group.
“Bring!” he shouted to the barman with a flourish. More beers quickly appeared, and my effort to be responsible dissolved. Then more people arrived who were known to us, and a very serious party took shape. Initially, I made frequent trips to the car to check on things, and on each visit I was greeted with a cheerful “Everything is OK, Mambo.” Then caution disappeared into drunken oblivion, and the booze took over. In what seemed a short time the sun disappeared and nightfall was upon us.
That did nothing to slow down the pace of the imbibing, and a full-scale bash with much raucous behavior took shape. At midnight, after a solid twelve hours of hard drinking, the bar was finally shut down and the patrons ordered to leave. With brains fogged by alcohol, Trevor and I had long forgotten our captive. We were soon to be reminded.
“Good evening, Mambos,” he said, obviously pleased to see us. “Are you very happy now?” Drunk and embarrassed, I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.
Through six hours of darkness he had guarded our weapons, money, vehicle, and assorted possessions while his captors went diligently about drinking themselves stupid. Intoxicated as I was, I had to confront the preposterous reality of the situation. Here was a man who had absolutely every opportunity to escape—and not only escape, but disappear with weapons and cash to boot—who for some reason known only to himself had decided to follow our orders and protect the property of those who would soon deprive him of his liberty.
Normal people are vengeful. Why didn’t he hate us? I hated him for not hating us. More than anything, I now wished to see wicked behavior from him so that I could be rid of this riddle that was tormenting me. Whether he knew it or not was beyond me, but the reality was that Bombero had turned everything on its head. He had captured his captors.
Both of us now, ashamed in more ways than one, drunkenly and confusedly entered into an argument about which was the more capable of driving. Furthermore, we were not exactly sure where to head for the night, and there was much incoherent discussion about that. The revelry over, we now had to come to terms with our irresponsible behavior. With both of us trying to capture the driver’s seat a rather unseemly scuffle ensued that Bombero must have found unimpressive.
Here were the two white “bosses,” who enforced the law of the country, so drunk they were unintelligible, barely able to stand, and now fighting over who would drive. After a very firm thrust from my partner, I fell backward and lost my footing. Almost in slow motion, as I went to the ground, I saw the wide, white eyes of our prisoner as he watched my fall with sympathetic amazement. Again I felt like the fool I was.
“Mambo!” he shouted and leapt out of the vehicle to come to my assistance. Quickly he was astride me and helping me to my feet.
“Are you OK, Mambo?”
Limp on my feet, I gazed into this remarkable man’s eyes and hated myself the more. This was the man I was hauling off to prison for killing a warthog. This was the same fellow I had assaulted and abused. And here he was, the loyal servant, protecting my property, my livelihood, my dignity, and now my person. It was all too much. With my arm draped around his shoulder for support, he gently helped me back to the car and settled me into the passenger seat before returning quietly to his post in the back of the vehicle. I looked across the seat at my partner, slumped over the steering wheel.
“Trevor, please, can we take this guy back to where we found him and send him on his way? I can’t deal with this anymore. He has to go. Please, I’ll pay him to be on his way.”
Trevor turned toward me, and I could see his bloodshot eyes. “You feel as bad as I do?” he slurred.
“I want to shoot myself.”
“It’s a long way back to his village.”
“I don’t care if it’s the other side of the world; let’s just get him there! We owe it to him. Here are all our weapons, cash, everything. Imagine if he’d taken one of the FNs—we’d be on the way to the slammer, not him!”
He thought for a moment, then fired up the engine. He stuck his head out the window and shouted, “Bombero, which way back to your home?”
Bombero roared instructions through the side window as we wound our drunken way through the night, back where we had come from. In the early hours of the morning we arrived at his little village in one of the tribal lands. Vehicles were very seldom seen in that remote part of the country, and our arrival created much excitement. We stopped, and his children came running to see their father.
I quickly removed the handcuffs, and he acknowledged the welcome from his family. The old poacher was clearly enjoying being seen by all and sundry in the company of white men, and he engaged in busy conversation with the assemblage. It was as if he had just returned from a successful business trip. The difference was that this time he had not had to walk home.
We gave him some of the money he had so diligently guarded, apologized for our behavior, and asked him not to poach in the Forest Area again. We left the village, embarrassed and confused.
