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Malawi, Moneysweet, and Me
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Very misty it was, two weeks later, early one morning on the Zambezi. You couldn't see more than 15 meters on any side of you, and I was rather in the middle of the river. There are certain things you do not mention on the Internet, but with a map you
will find it anyway. It is a place where three African Countries meet, sort of like on an island in the middle of the Zambezi. Many, many years ago, some of the greater poachers used to camp permanently on the island. Whenever they would see the Law
approaching in that rather remote place, they would shift the beacon on the Island. Depending on the side from which the Law would be coming, of course.
These days it is rather more difficult moving International African Borders. The beacon is a lot bigger as well, especially. Instability is part of the region, with a smouldering war in the surroundings. It was not my favourite place, meeting someone at
that time at that beacon. Word had come though, and it was not the kind which you let go by.
It had all begun with those Anti-Aids campaigns, going up North in Mozambique. I cannot exactly remember how it had started, but the Italian United Nations were still around. A lot of their equipment was being lost, vehicles as well. They do not
understand very well the way of certain things, the UN. Country is not being held by a great political movement, in contact with one another. It is held by individual warlords, each guarding his own little patch.
So the Italian UN really lost a lost of money paying passage for trucks and things through certain parts. Because they paid it to the leaders, but on the wrong level. Alas, it was very difficult to speak to them at first, with all the advisers.
Somewhere I wisened up a little, moving medical supplies, so it became standard practise to softly murmur that a shipment was due, what it was, and so on. The secret was to relay the info about comings and goings to right person, high enough in the ranks
of Renamo or Frelimo or whatever you call your friendly local warlord.
The rest of the world calls it Gross National Product, but in Africa it is simply called Aid. And it is important that enough Aid fall into the right hands, to be sold, of course, for everyone to be happy. Everyone with a gun, that is. Now my selected
whispering had a lot to do with letting the Bushtelegraph know what was coming up the trail, under those lovely blue sails. Not that it was bad for the Italian UN though. Saved them from unneccesary ambushes and landmines, because the right decision maker
now knew to which camp what was going, and where to infiltrate.
The bottomline is that instead of ambushing and stopping the convoys and Aid, there now was a food tax in the refugee camps. Because the local warlord had moved base. Not that the boys in blue knew. But better an unofficial food tax in a refugee camp than
impassible roads and the Aid getting pilfered on the docks. In the end it evolved a bit though.
Other road warriors moving in. That was when I heard his name for the first time. He was a bit bigger than your normal tax collector. Had many camps under him, and no one took over any of his territory. Very smooth operator, cunning bastard. When he had
most of Zambezia under him, he had so much Aid, he sold it to his former enemies, in other provinces. Quite a network. But he also became greedy, and took out an off-limits medical truck with medicine. It was for a camp with the beginning of a Cholera
epidemic, and would have been just in time. It wasn't.
Put me off big, so I got even. Right info got to right people, and the camp tax stopped. It was time anyway, war was winding down with the warlords making money out of the refugee business. He terminated our agreement, but it had worked well while it
lasted, opening the road into the interior. You should have seen the refugee businessmen take out any stray bandit who messed with the trafic or trucks and Aid flow. As I said, it worked well, but it was time for me to move on to other things. Heard that
after I left there were a few Landmines again, lots of unhappy people. The Italian UN had the necessary Bureaucratic commitment by then and eventually won the Aid war. Then they left.
And now He had sent word for me. If it had not been for the Development Aid racket they had on these days, I'm not sure I would have come. There was a lot of heat when the Food Aid system changed, and I heard enquiries were made about my whereabouts. I
had been specific about that medical shipment though, and lots of people had died in the cholera epidemic. And I had been "die donder in." Pissed off. He as well. And now we were to meet again
.
Simple rules guide these things, really. You come alone, in a Mokarro canoe, and you come unarmed. I was sure he had enough of his men around, but on the Island, he would be alone. I knew. We were to talk, that is why word had come to me in totally
another country, up North. Word of mouth, as always.
A Makorro Canoe is a dug out tree trunk, and bloody heavy. It is also quite stable, requires heavy paddling, and is thus ideal for approaching Zambezi river Islands with. No place to hide someone, because they can be seen from the front. And available of
course. One day, I will put in an electric motor and screw with a Landrover battery to help with the paddling, and silent steering. The idea is to hear the approaching paddling, I guess, so I splashed around a bit as I approached the island.
Couldn't see it through the mist yet, but I felt the change in the water, underwater divide starting. And there it was then, the Island. There is a bit of a squabble about ownership of the Island, between the three neighbours, but it had been that way for
about 30 years, and the cold war was ending anyway. There was also a lot of mist, and the Island was neutral enough, without danger of a shooting match. Three different Armies' camps saw to that, all within 2000 Meters.
But as I said, there always is a lot of mist in the early early mornings. Which is why quite a lot of sensitive meetings have taken place there, between different sensitive people. This was to be my third. Also, blood had never been shed there, as far as
I know, which is part of the lure of the island.
Hundred years ago, when the Lonesome Game Ranger came to the Island, and saw that the beacon made any unfriendliness unnecesary, position wise, he could talk to the camper without any guilt. Share coffee, talk about the rain, game and so. Man can get
mighty lonesome. Months on end in the Bush. And white people help each other, it is the law of the bush. But it was that kind of Island, even today.
And there he was. We held each other's eyes. I got out, and looked. We were alone. Through the mist I couldn't see the other end, but I could feel it. We were alone, standing at the beacon..So we took up each other's eyes again, thinking back. Between us
we had had a little impact on the Italian UN's operations, mostly without them knowing. Smoothing the way, sort of. Starting a business, replacing a war. Buying and selling people and lives, Aid and peace. He looked well.
And he was really angry when word of most of his operations came into the open. I was to blame. So was he, for the Cholera. Business continued though, he took the knock. I had left, and had to be rather careful for a while. Think the seriousness of
Cholera had a little impact on him, after that. It had been a mistake, we both knew it. And we saw it in each other's eyes.
I hear you are doing well with the Gemstones, he said. Now I was based about 2000 Km North, in another country. He would know though, Mozambique is just across the Lake, to the south. "I'm here" I said. Something of the past passed between us. If he
wanted to, he could have had me killed up North. Maybe not as easily as he thought, but easy enough. Eventually. His eyes said he knew it as well. There was a hardness between us, but his eyes also picked up that I knew this time, the one doing the asking
was him. He let the silence drag a bit. "You are starting to cut Gemstones, training people."
The local miners sold me their Gemstones. Some Asian traders really lost a lot of business, sharking up the rough. I had it cut and was starting to export it. I was training cutters. Small, safe and enjoyable, regardless of the Mr Phiri's. It also gave me
time to heal and live, and I wasn't about to give it up. I asked him by name then what he wanted.
"My brother", he said. "Train him, to cut." Of all the things I had expected, this had not been one. He was a leader of men though, not only through sheer brutality, but also through cunning. So he kept quiet while I played his blunt request through in my
mind.
"Trouble..?" I asked. "Trouble," he nodded. We were still looking into each others eyes. His were very dark brown. An understanding passed between us, without need of words, about the life he had lived and the enemies he had made. It had been Civil War,
and he was born in what was to become Renamo territory. Call it predestination. But a Leopard doesn't change his spots, and I still did not trust him, so I raised an eyebrow, slowly.
"What did you come to do in Mozambique.." His voice was low, but there was a fire in his belly. I could see it. Only then did realization strike me, and I turned around. Did not want to have him see my eyes. SIDA. AIDs in Portugese. "You are sure?" "It
was a woman." He looked away.
All my life I have had to fight against certain things in myself. Some struggles I had lost, in some, Justice remained. It was a close thing, or I could have been like Him. Or Jan. There was just grim irony though. Live by the sword, die by the sword, so
many young dogs ready for his place. SIDA. Now he comes to me with the future of his brother. It wasn't about just training a gemcutter, we knew that.
Being the rather young Godfather of a Renamo relative isn't in my book of 101 faceting tips. It may hail a stream of Gemstones from unaccessable Mozambique though, and a few other interesting things that comes with the package. Could set me up. Aaah, I
see. But if word leaked out, or he was recognised, I would be dead. Close family as well. It was not what I had in mind. The mist would be clearing soon, it was time to go.
A moment of truth, they call it, a moment of truth. The old knife edge balancing and disecting everything you hold dear. Who and bloody well what you are. I suddenly felt old and unhappy, and gave a throaty growl. When I turned around, he was gone. And
when I came to the Makorro, there was a teenage Boy sitting in it. I said "Bliksim!" in a thunderous way.
It would have been the last of it, but my next command died in my throat when I saw the tears in his eyes. Just closed my mouth. There is a time for everything, and in my heart, I cursed. Vehemently. All the way downstream.
I wondered, especially that first day, what a few of my Internet Rockhound and Faceting friends would do, in my place. I had met most of them on the Internet when I was recovering from Malaria, in South Africa.
Having access to a great many earthly treasures suddenly. Sort of whatever you want. Meant I could not go there directly, often. But a certain amount of Gemstones would come my way. Good amount. Not for free, and not neccessarliy mined voluntary, but a
good amount all the same. Ivory, Rhino whatever. Guns. Aid. I grimly thought, as many barrels of USAid as I wanted. Not To Be Sold.
The bastard knew I did not want any of it. I suspect that is why he did not try to bribe me. Other than the False Passport, Moneysweet came with nothing, except the baggage of the past. Nice name heh, Moneysweet Tjiengelieng? Not a Portuguese ring to
it, and no one would suspect it to be false. But because of the passport I could take him through the 5 border posts to get home. Would have cost me $250 otherwise, unless I haggled. I wasn't that sure about the passport, and would have used the
alternative system instead, but I was angry. And suddenly I had to pick my enemies rather sparingly. If I wanted to keep any, that is. There had to be a Christian way of disposing of one aspirant gemcutter.
He had not said a word.
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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). Watch for the next installment in May!
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