ancient temple, but Thomas still couldn’t find it on the map. He wondered if the petrol company pulled out because of sanctions or the war, or maybe they just couldn’t find anyone willing to work out here in this sun-blasted landscape.
Adjusting his hand positioning, Thomas noted the clammy fingerprints he was leaving along the edges of the paper. He was sweating uncontrollably with worry, and getting hungry, his stomach growling to be fed, making it even harder to concentrate on the map. Soon, he knew, he would have to face up to the others, tell them the truth that he didn’t have a clue where they were.
They drifted alongside a barbwire fence punctuated with the question mark shapes of vultures.
Maxwell honked the horn and the vultures flew off, darkening the sky.
‘Quiet,’ Skeletor said, but with none of his usual menace. He sounded groggy and soon after this gave up on his guard duty, snuggling up to his rifle as though it was a teddy bear and settling in for an afternoon nap, head against the door frame.
Thomas thought that maybe he too needed a break. He lowered the map and looked up to Maxwell, glad to finally be able to speak without interruption.
‘Want to smoke a joint?’ he whispered.
Maxwell wrinkled his nose. ‘No.’
‘I understand. You need to concentrate.’ Thomas reached for another conversational gambit: ‘So, where about in Durban are you from?’
‘Before the army I lived in Chesterville.’
Thomas recognised the name. ‘Hey, we could have been neighbours.’
Maxwell looked at him strangely. ‘Mlungi, if you’re from Chesterville I will eat this steering wheel.’
‘I’m from Westville. That’s just over the hill, isn’t it?’
‘
‘Oh, ja? What did she do?’
‘I am trying to drive,’ Maxwell said, loudly.
Skeletor stirred, spluttered then began to snore, drawing his rifle closer to his chest.
His cheeks burning, Thomas buried his face in the map. He thought first of the tree-lined lanes, glossy sports fields, tennis courts, swimming pools and double garages of his own suburb. Then he thought of the township tucked away like a dirty secret in the next valley, the regimented rows of plain brick houses that he had only ever glimpsed from the back seat of a car as he powered past on the way into the city. They were two different worlds and at the moment Thomas wanted desperately to find a bridge between them.
When the blushing subsided, and he was able to speak again, he lowered the map and gestured at the sleeping Skeletor. ‘I’m not like him, you know.’
Maxwell was silent.
It was only after a distance marker to Windhoek appeared out of the dust, with Maxwell throwing him a wary look, that Thomas knew he had to say something. ‘Um, guys?’
Skeletor snorted and bobbed his head. ‘What?’
Thomas frowned down at the map that was now spread out across the dashboard like a newspaper. His hunger had passed into a dull ache and he was able to concentrate, to work out vaguely where they were. He chose his words carefully: ‘I think we should have turned left at that last junction.’
‘I knew it. You’ve got us lost, haven’t you, surfer boy?’
‘Sorry.’ Thomas squirmed deeper into his seat, wriggling behind the shoulders of his companions, as he prepared for the onslaught he had been dreading since being handed the map.
‘Why didn’t you use the compass?’
‘I tried, but I couldn’t find any landmarks.’
Skeletor ignored him. ‘And you,’ he said, leaning over to get a better look at Maxwell. ‘I thought you knew where we were going.’
‘How many times must I tell you?’ Maxwell said evenly. ‘I’m normally stationed on the other side of the country, the east, near Botswana. If you put me in a car and tell me to take you to Angola from there – no problem. But from this side it’s another story.’ He leaned heavily on the wheel and at the same time pulled on the handbrake.
Throwing out an arc of sand, the truck spun. But Maxwell had this accident under control and mid-spin he re-engaged the accelerator pedal, blasting them off in the direction they had come from.
‘Surfer boy, listen.’ Skeletor yawned without covering his mouth. ‘When I wake up properly, I’m going to kill you.’
‘Look, man, I said I’m sorry.’ It occurred to Thomas that he had been given this tricky task, of finding their needle of a truck in the haystack of South-West Africa, just so that he could fail and give Skeletor another excuse to kak him out. ‘What do you want me to do? Lick your boots.’
‘That would be a start.’
They drove for only a few minutes, following the road through banks of sand and rock that were layered with different shades and hues to mark the ages, before Maxwell began to work down through the gears, bashing the lever with what felt like deliberate malice against Thomas’s knees.
‘Why are you slowing?’ Skeletor said.
‘We need petrol.’ Maxwell tapped the gauge, its needle hovering on the red.
They drifted off the road, onto flat, hard-packed sand, towards the only sign of life in this desolate place: the fat branches of a baobab tree reaching up like the arms of a prophet.
When the tree was big enough to dominate the entire view from the windscreen, Maxwell slowed down further. Then, under its branches, he brought them to a halt.
Thomas followed Skeletor outside, their joints creaking in unison as they stretched their legs, their feet crunching on twigs and dried flakes of sand. The brisk air made Thomas realise just how musty the cab had become, and how much he had become used to it. He watched as Maxwell hauled a jerry can from the back of the truck, undid the lid and sunk in a green hose.
‘Need a hand?’ Thomas asked.
‘He’s fine,’ Skeletor said.
‘I was asking Maxwell.’ Thomas raised his voice a notch. ‘Need any help there, bru?’
‘It is faster if I do it myself.’ Maxwell sucked on the hose, spat red liquid at the earth then shoved the end of the hose into the side of the truck.
‘Fine.’ Thomas spread the map over the top of the cab, preparing to have another go at being navigator.
‘Give me that.’ Skeletor snatched away the map and stretched it between his long arms. ‘You couldn’t find your way out of a sleeping bag.’
While the other two got on with their work, Thomas leaned against the bonnet of the truck, feeling like a spare part. Skeletor openly despised him, which was nothing unusual. But now it seemed that Maxwell had gone off him too, as though their conversation earlier had ignited some doubt about his character that this map reading disaster had confirmed. He shivered, looked up at the few rays of late-afternoon light trickling through the branches of the baobab and did up the top button of his Hawaiian shirt. That was the strange thing about winter in this part of Africa: it too hot in the sun and too cold in the shade. He couldn’t win.
Standing against the truck, hugging himself and wishing he was back in Durban where it was warm all year round, he suddenly remembered the letter. The cold and the frosty treatment from the other two didn’t seem so important any more. He stood up and began to edge away, towards the baobab tree, noting as he moved that its light-coloured, plaited trunk was big enough to hide behind.
Skeletor’s voice boomed out over the map. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Toilet.’ Grabbing his crotch, Thomas mimed the pain of a full bladder. He had been sipping water from his canteen all day, so the act wasn’t too difficult.
‘Hurry up.’
Thomas scampered out of sight behind the tree. He unzipped his trousers, took aim and wrote his initials, TG, in urine on bark. After finishing up and hastily wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pink envelope.
