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INDEX
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Malawi, Moneysweet and Me: Part One
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The Rhodesian Ridgeback was eyeing me. Well, I was eyeing him as well. But it was his eyeing me which was telling. And it was a tale which had me with my one leg out of the Landrover on the wrong turf, and the other foot nearly there. Power over life and
death lies in the tongue, even if it is sometimes the tongue of your boot, and all about not moving it. Now I had saved many a chicken's life by shooting cats. Saved Sheep as well, and game, and even myself a time or two, shooting bigger things. This was
the general direction of my thoughts, listening to the growl of that Dog. The only wee little problem was that the dog belonged to the Chief Mining Officer of a certain African Country. Our relationship had a very special equilibrium, in the sense that we
would always nod at each other, slowly though, whenever we met during the day. Generally speaking, I did my best not to meet him in the dark. Which he was trying his level best to accomplish.
The Dog didn't understand. He didn't know that the last Elections were democratic, and that I now had human rights as well as Gemstones. That Dog just took me for a Gemstone Smuggler, and being at the right place at the right time, namely his "werf",
then. It is a very very good thing that his Baas came out as he did, right then, from behind his own backdoor. I had the distinct impression from the smile on his lips that he had been eyeing me as well, through the fly-screen, and enjoying it in an
intimate way. It really wasn't a nice smile.
My thoughts were by then noting ugly similarities between Dog and Master. And while this High Governmental Anti-Smuggling Official told his dog " SIT SICKLE!" I remained motionless with my leg like that, lame Pelican like. Only then did I see the other
three dogs on the sides, sly Rubbish every one of them. "Mr Malanot," he said. I put my foot down. "Mr Phiri," I said. "To what do I owe this unexpected Pleasure?" he asked, with a remnant of that ugly smile. I was just opening my mouth to be friendly as
well, when he looked at his dogs, suddenly like, and turned around. I was left with an open mouth, feeling fishy. My business was important though, so I just followed.
But..I had once heard a story about a schoolboy who was told to go and stand in the corner of the classroom as punishment. After a while the teacher called out reprovingly, "Are you still standing Justice?" " Yes," the young boy had replied, "But in my
heart I'm sitting.." The human heart doesn't change much over the years.
The reason for my visit to this Mr. Phiri was rather important. The Democratic Government had bestowed upon this son of the nation the task of looking, among others, after the Gemstone resources of the country, inspecting mining permits, collecting export
revenue and the like. With the World Bank Structural Adjustment Program, times were hard, so I don't know why he was so interested in Forest and Game Reserve Ambushes at night, at all the best alluvial deposits.
I really wonder what would happen when Mr Phiri got angry enough to brave the rain. With the soft soil on a rainy night, he could catch quite a few of the people who supplied me with Gemstones. More to the point though, was the problem of illegal miners
from a neighbouring country. Local people living out the recent low Tobacco prices by mining Gemstones in the off season is not that bad. For me at least. The organised illegal miners from accross the border were bad news though, enough so to have me
come shake Mr. Phiri's hand.
A few of the older Chiefs had come to speak to me, complaining, which was the main reason for my visit. The friendly local Tobacco miners were mostly of a peaceful tribe, Tambuka. And the illegals were not. They had slave raid genes in them, selling off
the women and children {ugly ones} of the tribes which had fled before the mighty Impi's of Shaka, the Zulu Titan. But maybe my own forefathers had done a bit of musket shooting, against Dingaan, the half brother who killed and succeeded Shaka. And this
White African is still around, isn't he. So I relayed the problem of the Illegal-Illegals to Mr Phiri. Mr Phiri just shook his head in a very knowing way. "I See," he said. It was the first time that I had a chance to be in his house, so while he was
seeing I took a look around. "Mr Malanot", he said, catching me looking around. He then kept my eye and told me a sad tale of the Government's cash budget, the low priority that the Ministry of Mines was enjoying and how their travel allowances had been
cut. "So you see, with the high fuel consumption of our ministerial verhicles it is not quite possible to do the neccesary patrolling to stamp out the problem. It would be better to use our resources to lay and wait for all Law breakers." So I
saw.
I also knew about the 4km/l fuel consumption of the Mine Ministry's single Series III Landrover, but couldn't help noticing it being used to ferry him around every day. The Illegal Zambian miners were a threat do deal with though, if I wanted to stay
around in Malawi. A plan had to be made. About three days later I came to be at a private hunting lodge. White people do that, whenever they are in the same area. Now Jan van Rooyen was a "professional hunter" and my friend. We discussed the problem. Jan
had a bit of a history, which I had first discovered while looking at a photo of another old soldier. It depends how you look at it, I guess. The Company's name is Executive Outcomes, and they are the fear of many a Black Dictator, hated in large parts of
Africa. But it is good money, and bad luck, as Jonas Savimbi had recently discovered in Angola. White South African Missionaries really do change a war somewhat. As Herman Malan would say--the amount of shooting that went on in the bush during the first
Month after they went in, reminded him of nothing so much as the First Boer War. And the amount of running away that took place in the second month reminded him of nothing so much as the Second Boer War. Jan was older now, and wiser. He was also richer
and had lost certain of his friends, to the joy of many. We sat around the "kampvuur" discussing things in low tones. He drank Tiger Milk as the Scots do, and I plain milk, as wise men and babies do. His private milking cow had the problem of mooing,
which had caused a lot of Lion Roaring recently, at night. I think she was just missing her calf that got caught. Jan had had a trio of Americans the previous week who had a theory about the World turning around them. Which is why he had brought the cow.
He said that they had walked shorter and shorter distances each day, because the Americans were
walking slower and slower in the bushy parts.
I think it was because the Lions were roaring closer and closer each night, and the Americans were getting up later and later every morning. Lions are like that, you know. Unfortunately the calf was caught, and at daybreak that same day Jan had shot a
Lion near the cow. It is how he is, about calves and cows. We get along well, even if I don't drink. He was unhappy about the Zambians too. They poach. The more I learn about Jan the better it is that I do business with Gemstones, and not Rhino horn or
Ivory. Especially not His Elephants or Rhinos. We used to call it a "Hakkejag" operation. Translates as "Heel-hunting", and it is all about hot pursuit and not stopping when the terrorists cross the border. It works well with Zambian poachers too, the
African Government troops should try it some time. In the meantime the poachers concentrate on Government Reserves, the troops stop at the border and more and more of Africa's less and less animals are found in private reserves. Partly, if largely, thanks
to people like Jan Van Rooyen and other "Hakkejagters", most of them black. They never appear in National Geographic though.
It was about during this part of our discussion that a big male started roaring. It shut me up some, looking at the unskinned carcass of that morning's lion still lying in the camp. "Jan," I eventually said. He looked at me. " We have to do something
about these Zambians." He knew and I knew that having cross border operators in the local pegmatites will see some of them in the Local Reserve as well, soon enough. His reserve. Which is why I was there.
There was a time when I used to do a lot of knife throwing. Still good, especially when I'm angry. But I cannot pick up any kind of knife, even today, without automatically feeling the weight and balance of the knife. It registers in a part of the brain
over which you have no control, even if the local Governments do not like knives. I have this feeling that it is the same for Jan, just different. You cannot change what you are, even what you have become. But he did not say it. That Lion kept roaring.
Would be scaring the game, systematically in a direction, while the females of the pack would make the Ambush and kill, lying in wait. If you want to know where the Lionesses are, check the wind. Game will be driven away from the hearty Lion roar and
smell, right into the ambush.
As I sipped my milk, I looked around at the flames casting shadows inside the Lapa. The vegetable patch were coming along nicely, the roses too. It is another one of those small quirks of a White Ex-Mercenary living in Central East Africa, searching for
peace. He had planted a row of Roses, in his vegetable patch. I brought them for him, from SA, nice pink ones. Think he planted them there because he doesn't fancy watering in two places. And when the Rooibokke and small deer came, he only had to shoot in
one direction. Rooibokke love Roses, and Jan love meat.
The Vegetables grew a bit slow, so one day he invited me along to a nearby cave. "To gather Bat manure," he had said. White friends are rather scarce in these parts, so I went along. When we came out into the sun again, I scooped a handful and asked Jan
how big a big bat is. He showed me saucer size with his hands. I winced -it must have been very painful. "But those "Drolle" are Leopard Dung," he had said, as I looked wide eyed over my shoulder back into the cave.
That Leopard dung gave the Veggies quite a kick. It also kept the Game far away, and Jan now had to go out the camp to shoot meat. But he also had Vegetables and Roses, even if his dogs suddenly had an identity crisis whenever he went to smell the roses.
"Jan", I said. He just looked at me. "I don't think it would be neccessary." To kill, but I didn't say that. He knew. "Ons kan hulle knaters van hier af afknyp." {The literal translation for that is not available}. I explained. Jan only smiled. He also
gave me the use of one dead Lion.
And truly, just the very next morning, as the sun was appearing over the horizon, I tackled that stiff Lion Carcass, knife wise. Off came one pair of King size testicles. It is not wise to encourage the trade in skins or
animal products, which is why the Lion was not processed. So I wasn't very careful wielding that knife of mine, skinning away. In the end, when I got what I wanted, Jan shook his head, chuckled and walked away. I just grinned in my heart and wiped my
hands.
Europeans wear socks. In their boots I mean, but that morning I did too. But I also wore about a pair of Lion testicles in one sock, and some Genitalia in another. My other package I put in the Landrover's cooler box, waved at Jan and drove away. Only had
67 Kilometers to go, but it was the Main road, and full of Potholes. At Mr Phiri's turnoff. I noted the time, early enough still, and got out. I also took the Lion's bladder out, and carefully sprinkled the precious juice on my "Veldskoen-boots" and the
Landrovers tyres. It was time to take the wheel and drive the last 50 meters giving a few Ridgeback honks on the horn. That morning I will never forget, and nor will the Dogs. The four dogs came a yapping while I was still driving through the gate.
Suddenly and very ominously it was on us though, That Silence. They had caught the SMELL. By the time I slapped the door closed it sounded like a gunshot, with two pieces of very loud, shocked silence on both sides of it. But you should have seen the
dogs. They did a curious thing in their attack formation, which the Army used to call "makeer die pas-omkeer!". It has a lot to do with lifting your feet on high, keeping the beat, and a one hundred and eighty degree turn. In that order. Generally you
remain upright though, doing all this, unlike the Dogs.
As he came out of the fly door I greeted him enthusiastically. "Mr Phiri," I said, with true wamth in my voice. He was frowning in consternation at his dogs which were Leopard Crawling towards him, still with the feet keeping the beat. He also noticed the
furrow their tails were scraping in the dust. It did my heart a lot of good seeing his mouth fall open, so I walked closer with an extended hand of friendship.
That was about the time that Sickle became a tricling hoe, that dog of him. This time they broke formation though, Leopard Crawling away from my nearing boots in roughly every other possible direction. Mr Phiri had his hands on his hips, but his mouth was
still open. "Let's go inside," I said, when the last one had mysteriously dissapeared. He stood his ground though, unable to move.
"I just came to came to show you," I said, putting my hand into my short pants pocket, "a new Gemstone Deposit I found." He did not look down at the Gemstone in my hand though, but just kept staring at me with a rather taken back open mouthed expression.
It was only when I lowered my head a little, sort of to look into his mouth, that it snapped shut. "Look what I found," I said, lifting the Orange Garnet on my open palm. Just enough, and then I lowered it again, forcing him to look down. I had his
attention then, consternation or not. It was a big faceted Sparkly Orange Gem. There wasn't any around, this side of the border anyway, even if the same pegmatite belt continued over the border. It was highly possible that there were Orange Garnets, it
was speculated, but it had not been found yet. The one in my hand was an illegal alien though, but he did not know that. So I politely enquired about the possibility of me acquiring a prospecting permit, lifting the captivating Garnet again. "We do not
give permits to foreigners," the stern reply came. He must have seen the joyous flash at hearing sound at the Phiri homestead cross my face. "We also do not give permits to local citizens with firm contacts to the..." and here he looked at me very
suspiciously before his head turned into the direction of the disappeared Dogs. "Underworld," he said, looking back, firmly like, at me. "Aaaah. So the use of local labour is not encouraged," I said, smiled, gave him our slow nod and drove away. After
giving the traditional two high and one low Dog whistle, of course. It is always good to leave peace and silence behind one. Ghe-ghe-ghe.. Rock beats sickle.
Mr Phiri, the chief anti smuggler officer of local Africa was now firmly on my trail. I only had to get on the spoor of the Zambians, and in front of them. He would catch up, eventually. All part of the greater order of
things, according to me. That however, was not to be.
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Copyright, 1997 by Justice Malanot
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Justice Malanot travels through Africa making arrangements for the gemstones that are marketed through Gemaco (Gem Exporting and Marketing Company). He is due back from his current expedition in mid-December. Look
for more Justice Malanot stories in future issues.
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