‘No trouble, Lo. Your little bushman friend has found another ancient gold working site. He’s happy to take me to it.’
‘That’s great, Ben. The elephant mine is in production already, and looking very good indeed.’
‘There is only one problem, Lo. It’s in Rhodesia, in the closed area.’
‘No problem, Ben. I’ll fix it.’ And the following evening we spoke again.
‘It’s set up for Monday week. There will be a Rhodesian police escort to meet us at the Panda Matenga border gate.’
‘Us?’ I asked.
‘I’m stealing a couple of days off, Ben. Just couldn’t resist it. You take the bushman with you, go by Land-Rover through to Panda Matenga. I will come in from Bulawayo by helicopter. See you there. Monday week, morning, okay?’
The commander of the police escort was one of those beefy, boyish young Rhodesians with impeccable manners, and an air of quiet competence which I found most reassuring. He was an assistant inspector with an Askari sergeant and five constables under him. His rank and the composition of the escort gave me some indication of the level to which Louren had applied for cooperation.
We had two Land-Rovers, both with mounted medium machine-guns on the bonnet, and the armament of the rest of the party was impressive, as was to be expected on the borders of a country subjected to unceasing harassment by terrorist infiltrators from the north.
‘Dr Kazin,’ The inspector saluted and we shook hands.
‘My name’s MacDonald. Alastair MacDonald. May I introduce my men?’
They were Matabeles, all of them. The big moon-faced descendants of Chaka’s fighting impis, led here 150 years ago by the renegade general, Mzilikazi. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues with soft jungle hats, and they stood to rigid attention as MacDonald led me down the single rank.
‘This is Sergeant Ndabuka.’ And when I acknowledged the introduction in fluent Sindebele, the stern military expressions dissolved into huge flashing smiles.
Xhai was obviously very ill at ease in this company. He followed on my heels like a puppy.
‘Did you know, Doctor, that there is still a field order issued to the British South Africa Police that hasn’t been rescinded,’ MacDonald told me, as he looked Xhai over with interest. ‘It is an instruction to shoot all bushmen on sight. This is the first one I’ve ever seen. Poor little blighters.’
‘Yes.’ I had heard of that order which was maintained as a curiosity, but too faithfully reflected the attitude of the last century. The time of the great bushmen hunts, when a hundred mounted men would band together into a commando to hunt and kill these little yellow pixies as though they were dangerous animals.
White and black had hunted them mercilessly. The atrocities committed against them were legion. Shot and speared - and worse. In 1869 King Khama had enticed a whole tribe of them to a feast of reconciliation, and while they sat at his board, with their weapons laid aside, his warriors seized them. The king had supervised the subsequent torture personally. The last bushman died on the fourth day. With this history to remember it was no wonder that Xhai stayed within arm’s length of me, and watched these colossal strangers with frightened Chinese eyes.
I explained to MacDonald our approximate destination, pointing out the general area on his map as accurately as I could reckon it from Xhai’s description, and the inspector looked grave. He picked a shred of sunburnt skin from the tip of his nose before replying.
‘That’s not a very good area, Doctor.’ And he went off to talk to his men.
It was midday before the helicopter came clattering over the tree-tops from the south-east. Louren jumped from the cabin lugging his own bag.
‘Sorry I’m late, Ben. I had to wait for a phone call from New York.’
MacDonald came forward and touched his cap-brim.
‘Afternoon, sir.’ His attitude was deferential. ‘The prime minister asked me to give you his respects, Mr Sturvesant, and I am to place myself at your disposal.’
We left the track before we reached the ranching country near Tete, and we swung away northwards towards the Zambezi. MacDonald was in the leading Land-Rover with a driver and a trooper on the machine-gun. We followed in the central spot, Louren driving and another trooper riding shotgun in the passenger seat. Xhai and I together in the back. The second police Land-Rover took the rearguard with Sergeant Ndabuka in command.
The slow miles ground past, as the column wound through forests of mopane, and climbed the low ranges of granite. At any hesitation in our advance, Xhai’s arm would signal the direction and we would move forward, jolting and pitching over the rough places or humming swiftly through open glades of brown grass. I realized that Xhai was guiding us along the elephant trail, the migratory road that the huge beasts had beaten out from the river to the sanctuary of the Wankie game reserve in the south. Skilled trail blazers, they had picked a route that required the minimum effort to negotiate. Always it was the easy gradient, the low pass through the hills, and the river drifts with gentle sloping banks that they chose.
We camped beside one of these drifts. The river-bed was dry, choked with polished black boulders that glittered like reptiles in the sunset. There were banks of sugar-white sand, patches of tall reeds and a pool of slimy green water overhung with the branches of fever trees.
Beyond the river the ground rose steeply in another of those rocky ridges dotted with marula trees and patches of scrub. However, on this side the bush was open, offering a clear field of fire around our camp. MacDonald drew the three vehicles into a defensive triangle, and while he placed his sentries, Louren and I, followed by Xhai, went down the bank to the pool.
We sat on the rocks and watched a colony of yellow weaver birds chattering and fluttering around their nests of woven grass that hung from the fever trees over the green water.
Louren gave Xhai a cigar, and while we talked the little bushman’s eyes never left our faces, like those of a faithful dog. The talk was fitful, changing from one subject to another without design. Louren told me about the hotel project on the islands. He was very certain of its success.
‘It’s one of my really good ones, Ben.’ And when I thought about his other good ones - the cattle ranches, the
