Dave Masson was the quintessential Rhodesian—a huge man of reckless disposition who loved life and people. His needs and desires were simple and uncomplicated: beer, friends, cricket, rugby, and hunting. His biggest fear was being alone. With a friend alongside and a beer in hand, anything was possible. Money and pursuit of matters material were of little consequence. As a result, he was an utterly incompetent businessman who could take the most lucrative proposition and with consummate ease turn it into a financial debacle. To the uninitiated he was a frightening sight. Tall and powerfully built with a full russet beard and long, untended hair, he had eyes of a deep blue beneath his furrowed brow that struck their target like a bolt of light. He looked extremely dangerous and unapproachable, and people were immediately put on the defensive at first meeting. But within a short time those eyes would sparkle, and a personality overflowing with warmth and affection would overwhelm and embrace all strangers.
But a saint Masson was not. Totally irresponsible and oblivious to consequences, he frustrated, even angered, most who sought any sort of serious interaction with him. Mention of his name to those who had tried to do business with him would inevitably induce a reaction of wide-eyed resignation. He dealt contemptuously with incidental matters, such as work, business, commitments, or deadlines, when other, far more important issues such as watching a cricket match or going fishing arose.
Born in the rural heartland of Rhodesia, David was a chip off the old block. His father was already something of a legend, for mostly the wrong reasons. “Popping” out of the house on one occasion to buy bread and milk in the little town of Kwekwe, Barry Masson had chanced to bump into a cricketing pal who explained that they were on their way to Nyasaland on a cricket tour. Barry promptly accepted selection and reappeared home three weeks later. His wife had already sought the assistance of the local constabulary, who were in the process of conducting a nationwide search.
As soon as he could grasp them, David showed an early natural ability with both ball and bottle. An unusually gifted natural sportsman of great physical courage, he was born with all the ingredients required of a rugby player—a sport in which he excelled. Schooled at Plumtree in the parched west of the country, he quickly stamped the game with his own mark.
The oldest school in the land, Plumtree was also one of the hardest. Discipline was harsh, the regimen was physically demanding, and respect for elders was rigidly enforced. It was a toss-up, but most agreed that at Plumtree sporting prowess was more important than academic excellence. As fly-half and captain of the First XV, David had the skills, strength, and leadership ability to catch the attention of the national selectors who marked him for the top. In a game in which kicking and passing are very much a tactical part, David had his own ideas. Working on the theory that it is impossible to score a try without the ball to hand, he gave the following famous instructions to a nervous young wing three-quarter prior to a game: “Listen boy. I’m going to wait for the right time to pass the ball to you. When I do, there are three things you must not do: pass it, drop it, or kick it. If you do, you’re dead!” And that was that. The young wing had a blinder and went on to loftier heights.
Being bright academically and a sporting sensation, the boy was a clear choice for head of the school, but repeated incidents of bad behaviour, including celebrated raids on the masters’ bar, led to his being denied that honour. The headmaster, in his testimonial upon David’s leaving school, summed him up as follows: “This boy is born to lead. Of that there is no doubt. The problem, however, is—where is he going to lead?”
After leaving school Masson shunned university, like most of his school friends, and went into the military, where he took part in the fight against the forces arrayed against Rhodesia. But tiring of the rigours of army life, he managed to befriend members of the Department of National Parks and Wildlife and had himself attached to them in controlling problem animals and hunting to feed the local people. This seemed to be the perfect choice for a person who had spent almost his entire childhood out of doors. He found his job less demanding and more enjoyable than pursuing terrorists, and in the process he developed a love of hunting that was to become central to the rest of his life.
Following the war he, like many of his ilk, had no clear idea what to do next. Released into civilian life, he found himself a little at sea. He thought of a career as a sports journalist, but fate intervened in an unfortunate way.
At the end of hostilities, Dave, like many former soldiers, had come home with war booty, some of which was looted weaponry. Being of a careless nature, he simply strew it around his home. Unbeknownst to him, however, a law had been passed mandating that all items of a military nature be handed in to the authorities within a certain period of time. The deadline had passed, and so, without Dave’s knowing of it, staff on the farm simply buried all the material and forgot about it. Unfortunately, one of those involved in the burying was subsequently fired and in an act of revenge reported the items to the police.
Since David was out of the country, the most obvious white man to arrest was his younger brother, who had happened to be present at the time. David’s brother was summarily thrown in jail, where he awaited trial and a mandatory prison sentence. In a typically selfless act of courage, Masson, who had been in South Africa, returned home immediately when he got the news and handed himself in to the authorities. Being a white man in a Zimbabwean jail facing a long sentence is a very daunting prospect for anyone, and Dave knew that he had a better chance of surviving the ordeal than his little brother. An uncompromising judge handed down a sentence of five years with hard labour.
Soon after the doors slammed shut on him, he asked to be introduced to the prisoner who controlled the institution. The man in question was produced, and in full view of inmates and warders Masson dropped him to the floor. Thus he announced himself to inmates and guards, and all were duly impressed. Masson was given the respect he felt was his due and was placed in the rather comfortable position of man in charge of the prison vegetable garden. Coming from a farming background, he found this task easy, and the garden was very productive on his watch. But while he managed to deal with the days out in the open air, the lonely nights in a dark cell depressed him, and his resolve began to crack. That weakening gave way to total despair, at which point he considered taking his life. However, before matters worsened, friends on the outside worked hard to raise an appeal, with help from supporters in the United States, and they succeeded. An appeal court ordered his release. Loose upon the world again, he began to live every moment as if it were his last.
Initially making use of land he had inherited in central Zimbabwe that was well endowed with a variety of game, Masson set about building up a hunting company. He might have been on his way to a prosperous future but for his choice of business partner. If there was one person who vied with Masson for the title of most irresponsible adult in the country, it was Rufus Darius Snyman of the Twin River Hotel. Irresistibly, fatally drawn to the unsuitable, Masson teamed up with Rufus in what must surely be recorded as a supremely compelling example of how not to run a business.
Rufus had been brought up in that vast expense of arid country in South Africa known as the Karoo. He was born in 1937 in the Western Cape town of Beaufort West, and few people were allowed to slip past without being informed that the world-famous heart surgeon Dr. Christiaan Barnard was a product of the same town. “There was Christiaan Barnard, his brother Marius, and then there was me—Rufus Snyman!” he would proudly explain.
Rufus had grown up steeped in the traumatic history of his white tribe, and the Anglo-Boer War had left its mark on his family. He was Afrikaner to the core and a product of their history. As a man, he was proud but also dissolute. Not a little xenophobic, Afrikaners as a group had long resented foreign interference in their way of life. Essentially frontiersmen and farmers wanting little other than to be left alone, they had struggled to achieve that goal and had ended up a largely nomadic people who moved from place to place to find a homeland free from external interference. Eventually southern Africa proved too cramped, and, with the forces of British imperialism in full flow, they found themselves swamped by the forces of British civil law and order.
Rufus was a product of this culture and history, but whereas most of his countrymen tended to be dour, he was anything but. A large, powerfully built man with a big chest and a full, dark beard under a mass of thick, black hair, he, too, was intimidating at first sight. But his eyes sparkled when he laughed, which was most of the time. And his smile gave him the rakish look of a buccaneer.
Unhappy in South Africa, Rufus was one of a few who decided to throw caution to the wind and strike north into the relatively wild country of Southern Rhodesia. Although Rhodesia was a British colony and settled mainly by people of English descent who were the very people most of his kin were trying so hard to dodge, word of the fertile land and big elephant resonated in his spirit. Not knowing a word of English, he went to Rhodesia and never returned to his homeland.
The young Snyman started off farming in the north of the country, where the diligent were already making fortunes out of the “golden leaf,” tobacco. But farming was dull and demanding, and money was not a big goal in his life. There were also beer to be drunk, women to be lied to, and the Zambezi Valley, pregnant with big game. He and his friend “Swifty” Rautenbach were more often off their farms than on: They hunted, played, and explored. Stories were rife of emerald, gold, and diamond deposits both in Southern and Northern Rhodesia, and they followed all leads, but in the end there was precious little to show for their wanderings. Their farms were unproductive, and the bank manager was losing patience. It was time for a change.
The Twin River Hotel just outside the northern town of Karoi was for sale. For Rufus it was perfect: He could make a living getting drunk with his mates, and the Zambezi was a mere two hours away. After a session with the bank he discovered that he could sell his farm, liquidate his debt, and still make the down payment to secure the hotel. He did.
It is probably more the case in times of adversity, but most societies need a pivot or fulcrum around which to orient themselves. When that is lacking, disarray leading to disintegration becomes a real possibility. In the northern rural society of Mashonaland in Zimbabwe, a rather shabby looking country inn, run by a bighearted Afrikaner eccentric, provided that fulcrum. Through the Rhodesian bush war and into the uncertainty and sometimes downright hostility of the Mugabe era, there was always a refuge to be found at the Twin.
To call the Twin a haven would be misleading; the word haven triggers thoughts of serenity and peace, and that was not what the Twin had to offer. Behaviour was often bad, the language from the bar nearly always loud and profane, the patrons mostly rough, and the interaction within not always peaceable. There were brawls, fistfights, and gunfights. The forces of law and order were frequently in attendance, and the atmosphere was seldom conducive to social intercourse of a refined nature. But it was a place where men could give unhindered vent to their feelings in the company of like-minded individuals without fear of the consequences. Throw in the free flow of strong drink, and the recipe was often combustible. It was rarely uneventful. Thus, “The Twin” under its new owner came to take on a new lease on life, and wild men and some wild women would, over the next three decades, carve a niche for this unusual place of comfort in the history of the country. And from that less than salubrious facility, Dave Masson and Rufus Snyman ran their safari company. As it turned out, they ran it into the ground, but what they created in the process was the stuff of legend.
But the story of The Twin would not be complete without introducing Bosman. When Rufus assumed ownership, the young man was working in the garden of the hotel. Rufus immediately took a liking to the African, who reminded him of the natives of the Karoo. He gave him the nickname Bosman (Afrikaans for Bushman) because he was shorter and slighter than his Nilotic cousins and of a yellowish complexion; soon an unlikely but enduring friendship was born. The little African was destined to become servant, companion, partner in crime, confidant, general factotum, barman, and later, in effect, boss.
Slender, self-effacing, and somnolent, with a bullet-shaped head and downcast expression, he had a despairing look about him. His phlegmatic personality was his defining characteristic. It was as if he had come to terms with the fact that the people it was his duty to serve were insane. His actions showed that he pitied them but that it was a situation beyond his control.
On one occasion an unruly trio drank the bar’s supply of tomato juice, which was used for the Bloody Marys. Having nothing else to offer, a large syringe was soon produced and Bosman was happy to present a vein and make a donation . . . all the while apologizing for the shortage of the artificial variety. It was a remarkable service to expect of a barman, but for him, long exposed to outrageous behaviour, shock had become a redundant emotion.
From the mid-1970s, the Russian- and Chinese-backed ZANU (Zimbabwe African National Union) operatives of Robert Mugabe began working out of the newly Marxist Republic of Mozambique under the protective wing of President Samora Machel and his FRELIMO army. Terror spread. Farm homesteads throughout rural Rhodesia became a focal point of their attacks, and men, women, and children throughout the district were slaughtered in heinous assaults. Roads went quiet because of mines and ambushes, and the lack of passing traffic affected the hotel. But more than ever it became a meeting place for the besieged locals, where they could enjoy the relative security of congregating in one place. With Bosman plying them with liquor and Rufus there to play the fool, it was a major source of entertainment and relaxation in the midst of a deeply troubled time.
When the attacks increased, pressure mounted on Rufus to erect a security fence and take precautions. The Afrikaners were at the top of the list of whites the insurgents wanted to kill. Rufus, who provided a rallying point and important morale boost, was singled out for special treatment. But he was resolute in refusing to make adjustments. Life at The Twin carried on as normal.
“No one will make me put up a fence. I’m here if they want me! The bastards must come and get me,” he proclaimed loudly and repeatedly.
He was utterly unafraid, even on the occasion when a battle raged as the town was attacked at night from a hill just behind the inn. While tracer bullets and rockets screamed overhead, Rufus ordered Bosman to place chairs on the lawn for a better view, and beer in hand he led his guests out of the bar to enjoy the display. The post office, fuel depot, police camp, and the Karoi Hotel in the middle of town were all attacked, but The Twin never stopped churning out good cheer.
As a natural salesman, Masson had no equal in the hunting game. The prospective client, confronted by the sheer bulk, charisma, and personality of the man, was, in most cases, quickly convinced that this was the man. Very few got what they expected, but no one returned from a Masson safari without having had a life-shattering experience. Unfortunately that seldom had much to do with hunting—but it was life shattering nonetheless. What follows is a sample of the Rufus Snyman/Dave Masson modus operandi.
I remember, fairly early in his career, talking to Dave about bringing some clients to him for a short two-day hunt to shoot a couple of kudu. They were a pair of serious hunters who had hunted with me before and whom I valued as clients. I well knew of the risks of booking with Masson but was happy to take this chance, confident that he would not let me down on what was really too simple an affair to screw up. The trip was booked and confirmed nine months prior to the appointed date, and I then stayed in constant touch with him to remind him of the arrangement and reassure myself that we were on track.
Three days prior to the arrival of the clients I spoke to him on the phone, and he assured me that all was well and everything organized. I was simply to collect the clients from the airport and drive to his camp, where he would be waiting to commence the safari. On my way through town, however, I was concerned to spot his vehicle parked outside The Twin. Having been repeatedly assured that nothing of that kind would happen, I entered with trepidation.
My worst fears were quickly realized. Masson was in the bar with Rufus, holding forth amidst great mirth and raucous carrying on. Rufus had recently been in some sort of fracas, for his shirt was in tatters, his general appearance was one of serious disrepair, and it was clear that both directors had been engaged in a long session that had had little to do with running a safari company. Also in attendance was the redoubtable Geoffrey Grimes, who for some time had nailed his flag to the Masson/Snyman mast. Being a man of remarkable intellect, he had overlaid a veneer of intelligence to the operation. When I saw the look of surprise on Masson’s face upon my entrance, I felt a deep sense of foreboding and anger.
“What’s going on, Dave?” I said through gritted teeth.
“Settle down, settle down,” he said. “Just taking the pint with Rufus, Geoffrey, and some associates.”
Rufus and Geoffrey crowded me in intimidating fashion.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“Yesterday. We’ve had a good two-day business meeting, right here,” he proclaimed with misplaced but genuine pride.
I wanted to lunge for the throat of a smaller man.
“Yes,” said Rufus triumphantly, despite his tattered appearance. “We’ve been discussing business here and are not yet finished, so get lost. Bosman here is our chairman, and he has not closed the meeting. Nor were you invited to attend.”
“Well, what about the bloody safari?” I screamed, in a mixture of panic, anger, and serious irritation. Outside, in the car, the two clients sat waiting patiently, having just journeyed thousands of miles at great expense to get themselves here. I did not relish the thought of explaining the delay to them.
“Relax,” ordered Masson. “Bring them in for a beer.”
I remonstrated with him and explained that they had not come here to drink in a dingy damn bar. They were here to hunt. My protestations were to no avail, though, and I was dismissed with a wave of hands. Seeing I had no option, I went to the car seething. Unhappy but with little choice, my two guests entered Masson’s “office,” whereupon he and Rufus wasted no time in hauling them into the throng and plying them with strong drink. I marveled at how quickly he had them relaxed and enjoying the gathering.
In the middle of it all he seized a radio and asked someone to go and do the shopping, to stock the camp for clients who had just arrived. I asked him why this was being done only now and was informed that when he had arrived in town the previous day, it was to do the shopping. But he had gone into the bar to compile his list and then had forgotten about it. I cursed him, but then cursed myself for having taken the risk of relying on him. At midnight, a full twelve hours after our arrival, both clients were so drunk that they could have been in Bolivia for all they knew. The hunt was a shambles, but at least they were momentarily oblivious.
We finally arrived at his hunting camp in the early hours of the morning, and the clients slept most of the following morning away. I was not overly concerned about the loss of time, because I knew that there were a lot of kudu in the area. I was confident they would get what they were after, but more problems were soon to arise. At lunch, with both still under the influence, Masson again started to amuse and ply them with drink. The wheels quickly came flying off, and again it was clear I had lost control. My pleas to him to exercise restraint were treated with contempt, and I was instructed to stop whining. “These men are having a good time,” he insisted. Indeed they appeared to be, but I felt a responsibility to make sure they did more than drink for the duration of their stay.
That night it was more of the same, but everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. I went with the flow, but I made Masson promise that we would hunt early the next morning. He assured me we would, and he was as good as his word. Clients were roused, trackers appeared, and the vehicle was prepared. Much to my amazement, we were out of camp before the sun came up. Relieved, I sat back to enjoy the outing. Seated in the front of the vehicle was my client Jeff, who was an enthusiastic hunter and a man, I had always thought, of sober tastes. In the back, sitting on the high seat with me, was Bill (the second hunter) and the trackers. Bill was a less committed hunter whom I nevertheless watched warily because he had a temper, and I knew there was a limit to the disorder he would tolerate.
Within minutes of leaving camp Masson announced that the name of the game was “spot the kudu.” He then explained that on first sight of a kudu the tracker would be instructed to open the cold box and produce beer. I was disturbed to hear this and indicated my displeasure but was told to shut up. When no kudu appeared, he changed the game to “spot the animal” and within minutes announced having seen a springhare that no one else had noticed. The bar was opened. Beers were thrust into hands and received gingerly, but in his domineering style Masson had the show his way. The sun came up and a warm day was upon us, but that did nothing to relieve me of my concerns.
Masson the raconteur was in full flight. He regaled his guests with wild and humorous stories as he drank, and the more he drank the more our speed increased. Soon we were traversing the plains at pace, stopping haphazardly to take potshots at birds and lesser game while hanging on for dear life. I could see that Jeff was faltering. He was having fun but losing charge of his faculties. Bill was silent, the drink having a calming effect, but I suspected that he was now unsure whether he was having a good time or not.
He made up his mind when we drove into a wooded area and noticed that the road was, in places, lined with elaborate spider webs that shone in the light of the sun. What was troubling was that upon most of the webs we saw large black and yellow spiders with dangerous looking poison sacks and long, hairy legs. Bill made it clear that he wanted no truck with them and ordered Masson to get us out of there fast. Masson agreed and sped up—with disastrous results.
Traveling at high speed through a forest is dangerous, and having a drunk at the controls is doubly so. Suddenly Bill screamed upon realizing to his horror that he was headed face-first into one of the deadly looking insects. On hearing the yell Masson yanked fiercely on the wheel to spare Bill but instead sent him into an overhanging branch that struck him square on the head and sent him sprawling backward into the bed of the truck. Bill was a big man and a great swearer, and blue with rage he launched into a tirade of abuse that had me apologizing profusely but left Masson both unfazed and unrepentant. With the accelerator pedal pressed firmly to the floor, Masson carried on. Then, to add insult to injury, Jeff began to laugh hilariously as he watched Bill vigorously massage his bruised head. The final result was that everyone, possibly out of despair, drank still more and got still drunker, and on we rolled.
At about 4:00 P.M. a magnificent kudu bull presented itself in all its splendour, and we halted. Masson ordered Jeff to shoot immediately, but there was no response. Close inspection revealed that he was in a deep drunken slumber and temporarily lost to the world. Bill’s shooting eye was sporting a large bruise and was nearly swollen shut, so he too declined the trophy. We watched the animal shake its huge head of horn and saunter off into the trees. Another Masson debacle was drawing to a close. Not much blood had been shed—animal blood, that is. The safari ended without a shot being fired.
* * * * *
Masson never left or arrived anywhere on the appointed day or at the appointed time. He had the time and the other guys had the watches. Once he hit the road his gregarious nature took over, and every trip was turned into a search for company and liquor. Travel without loud music was unacceptable, and conventional systems were woefully inadequate. To meet his demanding requirements, two four-foot speakers were strapped to the bars on the back of his truck that made him audible to the world. Between the speakers a barman, crisply attired in white, would be positioned to man the cold boxes and keep the beer flowing. This mobile discotheque also enabled him to organize impromptu parties with whomever he might engage along the way. As a result, journeys inevitably became events, and a trip that should have taken hours might take days.
The roads to the hunting areas passed through sparsely populated tribal areas with small business centres dotted along the way. These were normally no more than a couple of shops selling essentials, but one of the larger of these was called Gokwe, which was a small administrative post with police station and post office. Masson never passed through without a visit to the local tavern. White men were infrequent visitors to these parts, so his visits were significant events that inevitably attracted attention. On one occasion Geoffrey Grimes was in attendance. No more responsible than his friend but a little more circumspect about whom he drank with, Geoffrey generally chose not to associate with the tribesmen on a social level. Masson, however, had no such qualms. Company was needed if a party were in the making, and, after all, this was Africa. Accompanied by his PH, Nigel Theisen, Masson became involved in a particularly long session at the beer hall. Despite repeated invitations, Geoffrey declined to participate; he remained in the driver’s seat of the five-ton truck and read for a while, then dozed off.
At some stage in the proceedings Masson became involved in a feverish discussion with the tribesmen on the subject of testicle size. He explained to a rapt audience that God had, for some reason, given white men bigger balls. That assertion was not readily accepted by his fellow revelers. They insisted unanimously that black men had bigger penises, so it thus followed logically that they also had bigger balls. Masson disabused them of this notion and pointed to the dormant Geoffrey as living and irrefutable proof.
Geoffrey was famous for his “sack.” It was unusually large, hung low below a large beer belly, and for some reason was blue in colour, offering a marked contrast with the pristine whiteness of his inner thigh. Noting that Geoffrey had gone to sleep with legs apart and sans underwear, Masson challenged the skeptical members of his audience to approach the truck quietly to see for themselves. There was a pall of silence as a few slunk off to investigate. Stealthily they approached and hoisted themselves quietly off the ground to look up and inside the white man’s pants. One by one they lowered themselves to the ground, visibly moved.
Suddenly people were running in all directions to tell friends and family about what they had witnessed. No one in the district had ever seen, or even heard of, a man with a large blue ball-bag, and there was consternation everywhere. With the bush telegraph in full swing, people appeared in droves to catch a glimpse. Within no time hundreds had borne witness, and on having done so simply sat themselves down in the dirt around the truck to quietly ponder this startling wonder and to gaze in reverence at the slumbering figure of Geoffrey Grimes.
When the local community had been fully apprised, Masson strode to the cab of the vehicle to the plaudits of his erstwhile detractors. His audience followed his every move as he approached the sleeping figure and watched as he wrenched Geoffrey back to wakefulness, to the cheers of his hundreds of admirers. Grimacing, Geoffrey cursed the gathering. But his disdain did nothing to stem the applause, and Geoffrey made a dusty departure from Gokwe, unaware of his newly acquired celebrity.
* * * * *
The war years in Rhodesia all but destroyed international tourism, but with the formal granting of independence in 1980 and the accession of Robert Mugabe to power, peace returned and the tourists started to drift back. Wankie Safari Lodge, which borders the boundary of what is now Hwange National Park, was one of the facilities that was closed to business during the last years of the war, but it was one of the first to reopen when peace returned. More a hotel than a lodge, and strategically situated on the Dett Vlei (once a favoured hunting ground for Frederick Selous), it overlooked a water hole that consistently attracted a lot of game, providing an ideal spectacle for the guests. Masson was soon attracted not to the water hole but the Waterhole Bar, which was built on stilts under thatch and, being partially hidden in the trees, was a fine vantage point from which to enjoy a drink and watch the animals come and go.
At that time the department of National Parks still boasted a substantial number of white rangers and wardens. Their days were numbered, however, what with the ongoing Africanization of the civil service, and they all knew it. Most were looking for alternative employment in the private sector, and the hunting industry was a logical option. Some of these fellows had approached Masson requesting employment, and he had conditionally agreed, but subject to their performance on a plan sure to cause trouble. He mandated that one of the applicants would have to dress up as a wild and woolly tribesman while the other would simply be present armed with automatic rifle and full uniform.
On the appointed day, the Waterhole Bar was well patronized with mainly elderly English couples who were sipping on gin and tonics and savouring the ambience. They were admiring the view and watching the game when a tall and imposing ranger by the name of Mike Boucher strode in. He cut a fine figure, and with his weapon in hand he attracted more than passing attention. Filling the part of clean-cut, sharp-eyed ranger, he sat himself down to the rear of the bar and kept his eyes peeled. His demeanour led the patrons to suspect that he was on the lookout for something, but they knew not what. The quiet, silent ranger with the steely blue eyes was not giving anything away.
The atmosphere in the bar was calm when suddenly, out of the trees on the far side of the water, appeared an apparition. None of the guests had ever seen a real savage, but there before their eyes one appeared. Black complexion, filthy, barefoot, wearing nothing but a flap of cowhide covering his loins and carrying a short stabbing spear, he came bounding down the incline and halted at the water’s edge, panting loudly. His wild eyes darted around him as animals fled from the arrival of the human intruder.
With that, the ranger with steel in his eyes cocked his automatic rifle with a flourish, and there was a nervous silence as he strode to the front of the bar, weapon at the ready. He took aim at the wild man, now on his knees at the water’s edge. Bewildered tourists looked on, mesmerized by what was unfolding before their eyes.
“What is he doing?” whispered one elderly visitor. Her hands shook, quietly tinkling the ice in her glass. At the question, Boucher leaned out and prepared himself for action.
“I don’t know,” pronounced the ranger, “but if he tries to drink any of that water, I’ll kill him.”
This proclamation fell on unbelieving ears, and people gasped audibly. The awful reality was that they were about to witness a thirsty African tribesman being shot to death for drinking dirty water from a hole in the ground as they looked on with ice-cold gins in their hands.
“You’ll what?” one ventured incredulously.
“I’ll kill the son of a bitch. That water’s for the animals, not these filthy bastards.” The severe look on his face left no one in any doubt that he meant what he said. People looked at one another for someone to tell them this was not actually happening, but relief was not forthcoming. From his position at the bar Masson savoured the surrounding sea of incredulity.
With that the “savage” dived headlong into the water, and his slurps were heard only briefly before a shot blasted the stunned silence. The water thief screamed, rolled over, and lay very still. The rifle roared again, and the body jerked and lay still.
There were two dull thumps as first a lady and then a gentleman fainted and fell to the floor. Then people started screaming hysterically.
Boucher, with a broad, self-satisfied smile, discarded his weapon and approached the bar. “Barman, give me a cold beer, please!”
Then, beer in hand, he spoke to the traumatized crowd. “That bastard will never steal water again.”
Some wept openly at this; others just sat with their heads down, not wanting to look into the eyes of a murderer. There were occasional, fearful shouts of “murderer” and “bastard!”
Boucher then exited the bar. He called to the deceased, who, the show now over, sprang to his feet. The two came sprinting over to ask Masson how they had done.
One of the guests had to be treated for shock. A few left the country on the next available flight.
* * * * *
In the unusual world in which Dave Masson and Rufus Snyman resided, there was a word of which they knew little: tax. They seldom paid it. The company was bereft of any semblance of organization, and managers came and went. Commencing with the best intentions in the world, they all eventually threw in the towel and joined the circus, rather than waste time trying to change it.
In the late 1980s the Australian government sent highly skilled and experienced tax collectors to Zimbabwe as part of an aid programme to assist the Mugabe administration. For reasons best known to themselves and the Australian government, they focused primarily on the small white community. They were extremely effective and wielded awesome punitive powers. Word spread quickly throughout the country, and so did panic as farmers and business people sought to cover their tracks and remedy their mistakes in anticipation of an inspection. Such was the fear that some people left the country rather than face the A TEAM, as they were known.
On one fine day a confident team of Australian taxmen set off to the Midlands. They had Kwekwe and a safari operator by the name of Dave Masson firmly in their sights. They arrived at his residence in the little town soon after 10:00 A.M. on a Saturday. Masson was in the company of friends with whom he had been drinking all night. Music was blasting the morning air, and strong drink was flowing. The smartly dressed Australians approached the din with resolution. They expected their reputation to strike fear into another Zimbabwean tax felon who had been depriving the government of Robert Mugabe of his well-deserved revenue.
One of the revelers wandered outside to see who the unusually smart visitors were. The group introduced themselves and explained that the purpose of their visit was to conduct a tax audit of the businesses relating to one David Francis Masson. The reveler went pale and fled inside to pass on the terrible news
“Who the hell’s the A TEAM?” Masson shouted above the blare of music.
“It’s the bloody Australian tax collectors. These blokes have been hitting everyone in Harare.”
“Well, ask if they want a beer.”
The perplexed reveler shook his head. “Dave, you better get with it. These guys are for real, and they can close you down in a heartbeat.”
Masson sighed and heaved his huge frame out of the comfort of his chair. Outside, waiting patiently, stood the four smartly dressed, somber-looking tax men. Beer in hand, Masson approached them with eyes boring directly into theirs. They adjusted their gaze upward.
“Good morning, gents.”
“Good morning. Mr. Masson?”
“That is I.” Masson looked at the senior official from a position of prominence and held out a large hand in greeting.
“I’m John Richards, and we are members of the Australian Revenue Collection Service, seconded to the Zimbabwe government.” The Australian waited to see the big man start trembling but was taken aback.
“Welcome, welcome!” shouted Masson at the top of his voice.
The Australians were not sure they were hearing correctly. Never before had anyone been happy to see them. They looked on quizzically.
With eyes from above boring into the senior collector and with sincerity bursting from his lips, he announced his delight at their visit.
“It’s a good thing you’ve come, John. I haven’t got a clue what is going on here or anywhere with my business, and I’d be forever in your debt if you and your good men can advise me.”
With that he threw an arm around the bewildered official and marched him into the house, where the mayhem was continuing. The rough and ready types inside did nothing to ease the disquiet of the tax men.
“Hey buggers, this is John Richards and his mates from Australia,” he shouted as he led the now perplexed foursome through the melee. They politely refused the beer that was offered and proceeded with trepidation through the house to the rear of the property, where Masson’s broken down equipment was stacked amidst wrecked vehicles.
“These are my assets,” he announced with great pride.
The Australians looked somewhat askance at the carnage.
“And this is my office.” He indicated the door and ushered the four inside. What greeted them were boxes of papers on a filthy floor. A disconnected telephone sat alongside the boxes. There was a lengthy silence while the scene and circumstances were digested. The four looked at one another, avoiding eye contact with the big man who was searching their faces for a reaction. They looked at the wall. There was a sign there with the words: “NO GENTLEMAN WORKS BETWEEN WARS.”
The silence continued until it was broken by Masson’s loud command as he reached for one of the boxes and tossed it to the senior man. “OK, you buggers, get on with sorting this mess out, and let me know what the hell is going on here.”
The box landed in the man’s arms with a puff of dust that soiled his suit and sent him into a sneezing fit. He dropped the box and fled the office in search of fresh air. The demoralized party followed quietly behind. Once outside, the ruffled leader of the group decided it was time to reassert himself.
“Mr. Masson, we would like to meet with your accountant,” he announced with new resolve in his voice.
“My accountant!? Never been near one of the bastards and never will. Boring bastards!”
“Yes, fine, but where are your books of account?”
“Who knows. All I’ve got is what’s in those boxes, and that is what I hope you’ll be helping me with.”
The officials looked to where the music continued to blast and saw that the entire unruly crowd was watching them with interest. They were feeling very much alone when a visitor arrived in an old Land Rover that had no brakes and came careering down the drive toward the assembled group. In his haste to avoid being run over, one of the tax men stumbled and fell into a flower bed that had been recently watered; he regained his footing covered in mud. Wild eyes stared out at them from inside the house. It was all becoming a little too much for the officials, and they were fast coming to the realization that they had got themselves into a situation that was going to be more trouble than they had envisaged.
“Do you know that you’re supposed to keep books of account, Mr. Masson?” Richard’s voice was lilting with a combination of fear and anger.
Masson expressed astonishment.
“Well, I’m telling you that you must, and it is an offense not to!” His companions nodded in support of their leader.
With that a fight commenced in the house, and all hell broke loose. Bodies came flying out and women screamed. The Australian tax collectors took their cue and fled.
Masson subsequently paid a small deposit fine for failing to keep proper books of account. He accomplished what no one else in Zimbabwe ever managed to do—he beat the A TEAM.
* * * * *
It all ended sadly and too early. This lovable, larger than life character who will never be forgotten by all who knew him died of cancer at the age of forty-four. Life in Zimbabwe has not been the same since.
