29: Kafue – The Book of David (Patrol)

Chapter 29:       Patrol

“We won’t be able to head into Mumbwa tomorrow. Something urgent has come up here, which I need to take care of first.

Lauren looked at me in petulant dismay. “Are you kidding me?” she asked.

“No, Precious brought me the news.”

I gave her a brief outline of the issue.

“So waht are you going to do?”

“That is why I need to speak to Moses. He will understand how to deal with and thwart these fates better than I.

Firstly we need to make sure that Musekela does not go back to the village until we figure out some options.”

“Such as?” she asked.

“Maybe we can get Muskela, and then his family to move to another area. I am not sure if the spirit that they will say has possessed him is location specific. As I said, Moses will understand this stuff. That is why I urgently need to find and speak to him.”

“If that is the case,” Lauren looked at me imploringly, “can I tag along?” I can’t stand waiting here with nothing to do except listen to Narina speak Spanish to the other two.”

I bent forward to unfasten the velcro of my sandal. A thorn had penetrated its hard rubber sole deep enough to be felt by the heel of my foot when any unevenness pressed on the thorns broken shank.

 “I don’t think that is a good idea. If the scouts have already started to sweep downriver towards the confluence I may need to follow them. If so, it may take two days to track and catch up, with another day to get back to the vehicle.”

“Well,” Lauren replied “even if they are heading down to the confluence of the rivers, surely it will be quicker for you to come back here instead of rwalking all the way to retrieve your vehicle?”

I took out my penknife from its belt sheath and used it to dig at the blunt broken end of the thorn.

“Yes, but so what! I need it. It’s not as though we have a taxi service around here to take me back to where ever I want.”

“I would still like to tag along to see the new lodge site” she said. “ If they are already headed south to the confluence, and you have to track them, why don’t you let me drive your vehicle back here? It will be closer and faster to head here, instead of wasting time retrieving it.

I started to summarily dismiss her suggestion, then checked myself. I looked at her carefully, and weighed the options.

Her persistence was faintly annoying. The worst was that she made sense.

“I thought you said you were a city comfort craver. I doubt that you have enough tomboy in you to stand roughing it, even a tad?!” I purposefully wanted to annoy and anger her. I wanted her to react, I was fishing for an excuse to turn her away.

“I take your monikers as compliments!” She unamusedly held my stare, “You have not seen anything yet! My ex left me because he could not keep up for my comfort. We will have to see if you are the same.”

I admired her spirit and come-back at me.

“Okay, we will see. You can drive from here to Kikudji. If there is enough Tom in your Boy, you can drive it back. If not, you will need to stay until I return, with the tsetse fly to bite you, sadza to eat and river water to drink, the real bush deal.”

“That sounds perfect!” she eyed me coldly, steadily.

Sheesh I thought, I better watch out, this woman would be hard to scare away! The fight in her bitch may be bigger than that in my dog.

Suffice to say, it did not take long for her to assuage my concerns about her dirt road driving. It was in the way she handled the long gear lever, palming it to and fro with the open flat of her hand, like an old time long distance trucker, or in the smooth easy slip of the clutch, or confident, timely snatch of a gear change when the wheels sank into sand and needed more power.

“My uncle owned a fleet of old ex-army Bedford’s based in Gwelo.” Lauren now spoke breezily,, she had got her way.

 “Do you remember those big green squat nosed trucks, with a hatch in the cab roof?” His trucking business delivered all over the area, Shurugwe, Umvuma, Kwe Kwe, , Gokwe. Sometimes even further. I think I was thirteen when my legs were long enough to reach the pedals. Remember those trucks? How you had to double de-clutch to change into a lower gear?”

She was in her element. Her self-assurance was palpable.

“I learned to drive on those big old Bedford’s. Not many kids can say that today, especially not girls, even if they are Tom-boy’s.

Lauren amusedly glanced across at me as she accelerated up to the sweet-spot, where the syncopation minimizes the shudder of the wheels over the ruts. She was enjoying rubbing my skepticism of her abilities in my face..

Halfway between the turn-offs to the two camps, as it heads north, the main road makes a gentle side-step as it angles across the low rise of a rocky dyke’s scar which forms the delineation between the watersheds of the Kafue on the eastern flank and the Lunga on the west. In addition to its jog through the somewhat picturesque protruding stretch of the dyke, the road also executes a few desultory sways to avoid the sprawl of the larger Dambos..

It was as we headed through this feature that I again broached the nagging subject.

“Last night you didn’t respond when I told you of my struggles with a moral dilemma. “

Again Lauren didn’t indicate that she heard me.

As you yourself pointed out, our friends Narina and Moses seemed to be forming a relationship, which is fine by me.

However the issue is something they know nothing about, but I am pretty sure of.

Thay are half brother and sister.

“Yes I heard what you said, but it wasn’t the right time, or situation to start discussing that sort of thing. But now if you ask, why would you think that to be the case? Is it made up because her father is an unsavory character?”

“No!” I stated emphatically, “My suspicions are more substantial than that.”

I proceeded to tell her Father Xavier’s tale of Danai, Moses’s mother and the only thing she remembered of the man who raped her, being the shape of his large chest scar. That she had been working as a maid for an Indian family in Lusaka. And it was evident from the hints of fine features that Moses possessed more than only African genes, which was probably why he had never been accepted fully into his tribe, leaving him an aloof loner.

Why are you so worried? She asked, you don’t seem to be one who’s morality, or attitude to right and wrong is driven by high religious standards.”

“No you’re right. I personally don’t really care what happens between them, or if they should be made aware of the possibility of being siblings. If anything, African life has taught me to be more pragmatic about issues, including morality, and right and wrong. When I was growing up religion in the form of the Church was all tied into the mechanisms of the state. We had to say the Lord’s Prayer before the beginning of classes, and some priest would often always be saying blessings before many official functions. But my faith in religion crumbled together with the faith in the state. Today, where does the Church of England feature in communist ZANU-PF life in Zimbabwe? Or the Dutch Reformed Church in socialist South African politics.

The morals which were driven by religions, the very fabric for which we were fighting, for which many of my friends died, was swept off the stage, and replaced with another act, and other actors.”

“So what is it that you are actually worried about?” Lauren slowed down and moved her left hand on the stick shift, to ease into a lower ratio as she coaxed the cruiser through a wash out in the road. “Are you worried about Narina getting pregnant?”

“No. I”m almost as dismissive of the biological dangers. A Chihuahua was once a Siberian Wolf, and a Friesland cow was once an Aruch. I don’t think that it took our ancestors too long to figure out that an Auruch with big udders, if put to her son, and grandsons, would soon be producing daughters who also had big milky udders. So I feel no more qualms about this aspect than I do about the dog breeder producing champion Alsatians with wobbly back legs. I couldn’t care if Naraina and Moses had a kid with recessive squinty eyes.

My concern stems not from my lack of religion, but rather Moses opposite attitude, his deep embrace of faith. He would never forgive himself if he found out the truth, and even worse, that I hit it from him.

If I tell him now, he will immediately leave, removing himself from temptation and the potential for grievous sin.

Thus my dilemma is somewhat selfish. I need his help in bush-craft, and his cultural insight how to handle difficult situations, exactly like the one that is now confronting us.

For me saving the Bush and its wildlife is all that I have left. I don’t know about you, maybe you are younger. Or maybe because you did not do the actual fighting. You didn’t see your friends die, so you’re not as affected by a sense of dispossession that I feel towards the new acts on the stages of Africa.

I belong to the forever defeated. Like almost all of the young men of my generation we were fed a bunch of bullshit propaganda, which we believed. It turned out to be just that, bullshit. From the very beginning there was no hope. The ratios were wrong. Long term It is always a numbers game. There were more of them than us. We were told we were resisting the “Anti-Christ” of communism, they were told they were fighting racism. They were right, we were wrong.

Now I’m too male, and too pale, and most importantly too old to grab at any more of the big opportunities of life. My youth, with all its stamina and strength, was wasted fighting wars that were doomed from the start.

Black empowerment is ensuring that the regimes of sub-Saharan Africa are favoring the majority, which means that the poor whites, like me, are screwed. Every time I am denied a government job, or contract, I know it is somebody believing the reverse bullshit, that they are rectifying past colonial injustices.

That is the reality of my ilk. I am a member of the white tribe of Africa, I cannot, and do not want to escape this sub-continent. I do not have the qualifications of a doctor, or dentist, or some fancy skill. No outside immigration official will even give me a visa, let alone allow me to emigrate. So Africa is my only option. All that is left is for me to choose where to hopefully shape my small little hide away in it.

With that in mind, I don’t think that I should let misguided morality get in the way.

Right now this is my hideaway. It is what is left of my old world, a sanctuary, with all its fauna and flora being threatened by every successive regime that floats up to the top like so much shit.

I get my moral compass from what is self-evident., not from whatever fad of the moment is strutting on the various populist stages. Communism, socialism, capitalism. All of them embracing a belief that everything is subjugated to man’s will.

So the dilemma is should I tell Moses about his sister, and risk having him freak out and leave before we have figured out what’s going on here.

Or should I just let things carry on as is if nothings happened.

And if you want to throw in some conventional morality, there is now a man’s life on the line.”

“Why are you telling me this stuff?” Lauren asked. “It sounds like you have already decided.”





I shouldered the backpack.

I would be traveling light, a waterproof ground sheet, which could be formed into a tent in the event of rain (thankfully the forecast was for dry weather), a blanket to ward off the dawn chill. Only 2 liters of water (I should not be far from the river to replenish), some biltong to chew on, and 4 cans of ultra- sweetened condensed milk for energy.

I slid the sheath of my machete onto my belt, nodded a goodbye to Lauren, and set off.

The scout’s tracks were easy to follow. They were blatant about it. It is excellent anti-poaching deterrence. Poachers, or anyone with nefarious intentions tend to avoid areas where the footprints of authority are prolifically apparent.

However I didn’t stay with their tracks for long. It was soon evident that their intention was to patrol down in a line-abreast extending out from the river’s edge.

I didn’t intend to stay close to the river. The impenetrability of the thick riverine vegetation makes it difficult even for the animals to get to the water. Over the millennia well -trodden path ways cut through these tangles down to the drinking spots, making these ideal places to set snares.

The scouts obviously had some members checking these game axis routes for traps, while the more inland members were looking for the tracks of those who had done the setting.

For the first few kilometers south of the new lodge site, the river makes two big Westward bending sweeps, like the ears of a rabbit. Instead of diligently following the patrol, I would take a shortcut across the hare’s neck, thereby getting a jumpstart of over half the distance to catch up, assuming they had proceeded that far.

Further inland from the narrow riverine thickets, walking through the bush, even in the abundant green gushes of summer, is relatively easy.

In the Lunga River basin, the thin sandy aeolian soils accumulate sufficiently to give tentative breathing space to the tree roots. However the same sandy porosity has leached the nutrients so that the trees are robust, but not spectacular as in other parts further away.

The poor soils also spread the trees and bushes apart, as well as adding an edge of sparsity to the grass cover beneath the relaxed leafy canopy. Every now and then, like gentle waves rolling onto a shallow beach, the trees slowly break their uniformity to subside into a froth of successively shorter shrubs, which finally find themselves with spent energy at the edges of the open dambos, with drowned roots wallowing in the water above the underlying clays imperviousness.

All this made it easy to walk rapidly, and to spot tracks.

I was confident that with my shortcut gambles it would not take too long, or be too difficult to catch up.

It was heartening to note that already, the indirect early efforts of our conservation, even if only yet in the form of lodge construction, were having an effect. The animals were returning. On the edges of the dambos a few small groups of Puku antelope dashed away as soon as I was detected. In the bushy in between stretches, a scattering of Impala did the same. It would take a while before their skittishness was assuaged. But that would probably only occur once regular vehicle traffic was doing the rounds with the purr of diesel engines, and the reassuring clicks of clients cameras, instead of poachers gun shots.

Walking fast soon brought out the sweat in my armpits. The air had warmed quickly. It carried enough moisture to make it muggy. But there was a mindless pleasure to the walking. There is a oneness with the natural world. Communication with oneself no longer needs the medium of speech. Instead the subtle reversion to an ancient state is infinitely more calming and reassuring. Sounds, smells, sensations welled into the mind only as images, where upon their flickering’s surge and fade as if viewed in a muted game of destiny. There is the exhilaration of being, like an animal, at the edge of fight, or flight.

Finally, with an hour to go before sunset, I picked up the very fresh tracks of the patrol.

A long section of Woodland had opened up into a clear Vista stretching for a great distance running parallel to the river, where its floodwaters over spilt its banks and filled flatlands along its sides.

In the distance I could see two members of the patrol about to head into the next wooded section. I increased my pace almost to that of a speed walker.

Half way across I startled a pair of wattle cranes. They, with guttural croaks of protest, opened their huge wings and ran a few paces to gain the benefit of momentum, as they gracefully slid up into the air and stroked in a circle around to settle down behind me.

A member of the patrol had just entered the riverside shrubbery as I closed the distance sufficiently to call out and effect the surprised swivel in my direction of the others, eliciting curious stares at my appearance.

Covering the last few paces, I reached them as the scout who had disappeared into the thickets walked back out and join the others in returning my wave.


I greeted Musekela directly, the leader of the stick. “How goes it?

He pointed to a scouts standing behind the group with a sash of wires drooped over his shoulder.

“We have saved a lot of animals, with this patrol,” he said, “all of these snares have been freshly set.”

As he spoke I looked around for Moses. “Where is Moses?”

“He is following a track.” Musekela answered.

I was surprised, “Alone? Isn’t that dangerous to let one man track one of these poachers? There will be others and he will have trouble.”

“Yes, I know all of that.” Musekela answered rather testily. “But this track was not like any of those who had been setting the snares. It came in from the side, alone, and then left alone.”

Musekela pointed off to the edge of the river bank. “We are still following the main tracks of those that set the snares. They are somewhere ahead. If you go over there you will see the tracks. Three of them.”

Musekela turned towards the river and gestured again to emphasize his point.

“Moses insisted that he followed this one alone. He said he knew who it was. And that he could handle the tracking. That it would be better if he were on his own.”

A sense of unease settled over me. An almost forgotten feeling, but still easily recognizable. It was that awareness of foreboding, when one senses that one is in the killing ground of an ambush.