The Aftermath

which they were to be granted amnesty. So, families of victims would have the satisfaction of knowing what was done to their loved ones, and by whom. But the perpetrators would not be prosecuted. As you might expect, the process didn’t work smoothly. But there were some successes, and the feared cycle of violent reprisal was averted. It was such a beautiful concept.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Herb said. “Isn’t that just another example of your wonderful pragmatism, this time by Mandela and his people? The blacks knew that the police and the army would never agree to majority rule unless they were promised amnesty.”

Deborah smiled indulgently, enjoying Herb’s challenge. “Yes, but it’s a lot more than that. The wonder of South Africa is the absence of the pathological hatred that we find in so many places around the globe. We all know about Rwanda and Zimbabwe. And how about the Balkans, where after hundreds of years, the enmity among Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, and Kosovars blazes undiminished. The Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. And the fundamentalist Muslims in Iran and elsewhere. And… well, you can make up your own list. In this part of the world, a guiding principle of the traditional culture is ubuntu. A journalist once told me that Archbishop Tutu had explained the concept to her along these lines: A person is human by dint of belonging to a community, and the essence of a community is harmony. Since resentment and anger and desire for revenge undermine harmony, ubuntu actually demands that you forgive. When someone refuses to forgive, that person is said not to have ubuntu; that is to say, he is not really human. And this same reporter confirmed that she had heard similar views—generous, forgiving, non-vengeful views—expressed by scores of black South Africans over the years.”

“Maybe that’s why they were spared by God,” Roxy said wistfully.

“I don’t think that we have to bring God into it,” Tom said. “First of all, we can’t say that the people were spared. Clearly, most of them weren’t. I only hope that enough survived to establish a meaningful workforce. If they turn out to be nice people, I’ll be delighted. But, more important, are they competent people? Are they trained?”

“Sure they are,” Richard said heartily, responding to Tom’s abrupt shift from philosophy to practical concerns. “KwaZulu Natal has become highly industrialized in recent years, and the population contains people with every job skill you could possibly want. Plus, as Mary pointed out, because of Christmas, many Zulu men employed in other parts of the country, especially miners and factory workers, would have been here with their families. We may appreciate their muscles as well as their industrial skills. Also, we may thank our lucky stars for the many small farms and cattlepens that are tended in the traditional Zulu communities. If we’re back in the Stone Age, as you engineers keep telling me, then we won’t be needing computer programmers, and other such people, at least for awhile. We’ll be needing many of the skills that modern society has been on the verge of losing.”

“There was once a man who warned about that,” I said. “Remember the book called Small Is Beautiful, written by a guy named Schumacher? He proposed that we maintain our local handicrafts and other low-tech proficiencies. We read some of his stuff in one of my college courses, and I thought he was a bit of a crackpot. Who could have guessed?”

“Well, I think we may be in luck,” Richard said. “Some of the skills we’ll need have been perpetuated in the so-called backward villages up in those hills. And one last thing. If there’s any fighting to be done in this world of the future—for example, if the villainous marauders in Tom’s science fiction books ever do show up—I’ll be happy to have some young Zulu men on my side. They’re incredibly adept fighting with sticks and shields. It’s a popular sport, and also a reminder of their martial heritage.”

“That’s great,” Herb said, picking up a pebble and throwing it out into the water. “But what do we do if someone shows up with bullets? The Zulus might have beaten the British once—spears against guns—but I wouldn’t bet on it happening again.”

For a few moments, nobody said anything. Through the high cloud cover a few million stars peeked down at us forlorn creatures on the beach. Finally, Roxy broke the icy silence.

“Maybe the one good thing about this terrible disaster is that most of the weapons have been destroyed. Even if there are a few rifles or pistols lying around, the ammunition for them won’t last very long. Of course, the engineers will probably start building up arsenals again; but I don’t want to think about that right now. So, okay, we’re back to knocking each other on the head like in caveman days. We can’t do too much damage that way. And, if we make friends with the local inhabitants, everything will be just great.”

On that semi-optimistic note we thanked the Frosts for their conversation and ended our meeting.

“Well,” I said to Sarah as we walked down the beach toward our lean-to, “maybe we’ll luck out with the local gentry, just as we seem to have lucked out with the natural resources. But we won’t know for sure until we hear more news from the expeditionary party.”

Sarah took my arm and murmured, “Doesn’t it sound wonderful? Cooperation and forgiveness instead of conflict and spite. ‘O, brave new world that has such people in it!’ “

“Don’t set your hopes too high,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.

“That’s Miranda from The Tempest,” Sarah responded, ignoring my admonition and taking my fingers into her warm hand.

5

At his first meeting with the Ulundi Indaba, Carl Gustafsson described, with a mixture of politeness and urgency, the state of the dwindling food stores of the ship’s survivors. The very next morning, a supply caravan left a farm outside Ulundi, carrying a large supply of corn and various other vegetables and fruits. Carts, sleds, pack animals, and numerous human bearers made a most colorful parade that arrived at the beachfront camp a few days later. Colorful and exceedingly welcome. Another procession brought freshly slaughtered sheep and steers. A few days after that, a number of milk cows arrived, along with several Zulu youngsters to tend them.

The Queen of Africa kitchen staff reciprocated with a shipment of caviar, from the ship’s ample stock, that went back to Ulundi with the Inlander porters.

From the start there prevailed between the parties a spirit of friendliness, trust, and mutual generosity. Perhaps there had been fears and suspicions, instinctual although undeclared. But once Deck Officer Gustafsson shook hands with the leaders of the Indaba, a bond was sealed. Underlying the relationship was not only empathy and goodwill, but also an awareness that cooperation contributed to the survival of all. In the beginning, the survivors from the Queen of Africa were mostly on the receiving end, since the food shipments literally kept them alive. But lives were saved in return when Harold Carson and his staffers from FEMA were dispatched to Ulundi to supervise sanitation, water supply, and the clearing of wreckage. As time went by, it would have been impossible to say which of the two groups was more vital to the well-being of the overall community.

Once a source of food was assured, the Governing Council’s next concern was to improve the shelter facilities. Hardy and Nordstrom, along with the other Council members, briefly considered moving the camp up into the hills, closer to Ulundi. But the problems inherent in transporting all of their equipment persuaded them this was not practical. When the surveying parties completed their preliminary work, they selected a new site on the shores of Lake Mzingai, about two miles inland from where they first came ashore. The lake is a large body of fresh water fed by underground springs, and their new friends in Ulundi confirmed it as a good choice.

Shortly after news of the relocation became official—subject to approval by the general population, which was forthcoming without incident—the ex-cruise director of the Queen of Africa, Marjorie Waters, declared that the new site, their new home, ought to have a name. Accordingly, she concocted a name- selection contest. Ever since the first days on the beach, Majorie and her staff had been arranging little entertainments—games and contests and the like—anything that might improve morale without interfering with the urgent work that needed doing. It was, in a way, absurd for a community in crisis, on the edge of oblivion, to have a group of high-spirited social directors; and more than a few of the cruise ship survivors were heard to make critical