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INDEX
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Malawi, Moneysweet and Me: Part Three
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My bad mood lasted for a few days. I now had the Moneysweet problem on top of the encroaching Zambians. Can't say that Moneyweet following me everywhere made my mood any better. You never heard him, but he was always there.
Thinking all kinds of problem-erasing thoughts, we came to be close to the Zambian border. The Pegmatite Deposit used to be very good, belonged to a man called Professor Luhana. Very beautiful blue Aqua Marine it was, and the good times really rolled. Or
rather, they did until the Professor took a second wife.
Then they had struck ground water, shortly after the two week wedding feast had wiped out most of the operating capital, and the stream of Aqua's stopped. His work force fell from more than two hundred to twenty, but the easily mined alluvial stones were
gone. He sold one of his three homes, bought a waterpump, and tried again. The Quartz center in the pegmatite did not want to yield, and the gem carrying band stayed underwater.
It was a classic example of rags to riches, without any grooming for it, and so many lessons learned. And afterwards, remaining poor. The pump was not strong enough to take the water over the sheer 10 meter walls which wanted to come down after every
rainy shower. My gut feeling was that there were still plenty of Aqua's left, but it would take a stiff Capital injection and even stricter supervision.
There had been plenty of Wanna-be investors, and the Hotel in Mzuzu really did well for a while. Because that is where certain people stayed and drank while the investment money lasted. Time and time and again, until the memory of the good deposit faded
away, and the ones who knew had their fingers burned, their money squandered. Africa O Africa, dear to my heart.
I stood there, looking at the Pegmatite of former glories, and weighed the prospects. Just then something happened that would change Moneysweet's Lapidary Future forever. He gave me a "Take-Five" signal with his hand, without making a sound, and went
down. When I swiveled around, they were coming out behind me--Zambiano's, illegal miners, everyone of them.
It is like watching South African riot scenes, for me, whenever people corner me in a half-moon like that. It brings back lot of unpleasant memories, with fear and a killing rage rising up my nostrils. There were seven of them though, and by the look of
it, used to breaking rock. The utensils in their hands left no doubt about that, nor the intention written on their faces. And just as always, rubber bullets wouldn't help.
Now I do not know what exactly would have happened hadn't Moneysweet intervened then, but it would have been most unpleasant for me, that is for sure. Seems they knew the source of most of their problems, and were contemplating burying it under Tons of
Rose Quartz. But their leader had scarcely stepped forward brandishing a pick, when Moneysweet stopped him cold.
I thought he came to me with just a False Passport. Surprise, surprise. The Makarov 7.65 pistol is one of the best weapons the Russians ever made. I know. There was no time for renewing old aquaintances though, for Moneysweet cocked that pistol with it's
telltale click just then. We all froze, but I moved first. To the gunny side, of course. I had never been so glad to see a Renamo soldier in my life.
Someone must have made a foolhardy movement behind me, for the next moment a shot rang out and I could hear the Riccochet screaming away as it hit something steelly. The Zambiano's got the message, and they scattered. One went into the pegmatite head
first, seeing the direction of Moneysweet's attention. We were alone very suddenly, and looked at each other, heads turning in unison.
I held my hand out for the gun. It was a moment which brought Moneysweet's past and future to bear. Parting with that gun must have been the hardest thing he had ever done, aside from leaving his brother. Pity he hadn't seen me shoot before that, it
would've made his decision a lot easier. He gave me the gun, and secured himself a place in my future. We ran.
The Zambian border was only about 5 Kilo's behind us, with the Landrover and nearest Village 12. The Zambians had ordinance stashed away, as certainly as the Lord lives. We had about a 2 minute head start on them, the pegmatite diver excluded. Moneysweet
ran like a wild dog, light footed and nimble. I just ran. Our chances against automatic weapons were not good, even if I picked off three of four, so I made for a Rocky koppie nearby. It had an mica outcrop on top, which is why I knew it.
The bushpath led there directly, although the "Waggebietjie" (Wait-a-bit) Bushes were holding us back. Didn't feel a single thorn during that run though. We made the last hundred meters in the open with me snorting for air. The idea of the Zambians coming
out into the open before we reached the rocky ridge kept me going. The plan was to shoot it out there, with the higher ground and better boulders evening things a bit. Until they circled us, anyway.
It was as we hit the ridge that Moneysweet pulled on my "Hemp", my shirt, and told me what we should do. I was concentrating on my starved lungs, but as he talked, I chanced a look. The first Zambian in the open crossing would be a dead donner. The range
was too great, so I squeezed off two shots, Tapp-Tapp, and followed Moneysweet along the ridge, hidden away. He had seen a Rocky plate from above, on the other side, and we were burning away towards it. The Tapp-tapp was just to make them cautious, and
slow them down. The terrain would strengthen that perception, and buy us a few minutes.
We got to the Rocky plate without topsoil, and went straight past, about two hundred meters. There Moneysweet took over. But first the little bugger had us take a whee. It bloody well wasn't easy, believe me. Then we carefully back-tracked in our own
footprints, imprint for imprint, right back down that sandy bushtrack again. Had us come to an overhanging Matoppie branch, and in and up we went. Went down the other side of that wide tree, carefully stepping on rocks and the underside of foilage and
grass tufts, right up to that Rocky plate. We scrambled along it as far as possible, taking care not to make marks or slip on small pebbles or rocky granules.
On the other side, we did the old "Under the Waggebietjie", and with all the muddy streaks we smeared on my face a bit earlier, blending in nicely. Didn't smell too nice, believe me. It turned out to be a long, long wait. Got dark, and eventually, light
again. One of the longest nights of my life. Moneysweet, however, didn't make a sound.
Turns out the Zambians swallowed it, poacher-miners or not. Easier to track a Elephant spoor, I guess. When they eventually found the spoor in the sandy track on the otherside, they went down it in hot pursuit. Had flank runnes as well, taking out all
tracks, untill they found the whee-whee spot where our tracks simply disappeared. Circling didn't flush us, we were too far southeast, and with nightfall, they didn't fancy their chances. They fell back across the border, just in case we came back with a
mob.
That night I had a lot of time to think. I thought a lot about my life then, but I also thought that Moneysweet had the right kind of preforming to make him a good facetor. He was certainly African facet quality material.
Obviously, we stepped up security a lot after that. The house where we did our cutting and living, got a dog. Boerboel ofcourse. One of the problems with the New South Africa, is that no one told had the dogs yet. It was that kind of a dog. And I named
our Boerboel Volkstaat {Afrikaans for a rightwing independent homeland}. A "Guarda" I wasn't all that keen on, but got one. Two, actually. Both Portuguese. At Vilanculos, an AK47 Guarda had once caught someone snatching something out of a car.
Twenty-seven rounds I think it was, they counted in the body work afterwards. Bodywork of three different vehicles, by the way. But he got the thief.
I needed a bit of that enthusiasm, grim or not. Our pre-emptive striking capability increased remarkably. The non-lapidary hardware as well. The Guardas were diversionary, for there was always someone lying point, night scoped and ready. The surrounding
Villages were on alert, and ready with the African Drums. When someone moved at night, we knew, as did everyone else. Ancient rhythm-that of the African Drums, but very effective for boiling up the blood. It was to be a lengthy campaign. We changed our
Modus Operandi, getting more runners to go and pick up Gemstones, spread the word, draw the people in. But we also lost business. And information costs money, outside mining and tribal circles. Slowly a picture about what we were up against formed. I
played every contact I had, pulled every string, drew in every favor. We had an army of ears listen for us.
I went back to see Jan a time or two. The wrinkles next to his eyes crinkled a lot when I told him about our situation. A Leopard had gotten the cow, and his conscience bothered him. He felt responsible, because he had brought it as Lion bait to scare the
three American hunters. Strange heh, when you think about it. Jan had no qualms killing poachers, if that's what it took to keep the peace.
I drank Coke, while he spoke his mind. He closed his big hand into a fist, and croaked, "Those who fight and run away..?" "Will live to fight another day," I finished. I popped another coke. We were thinking along the same lines.
If the Internet has got an edgy rim, we are it. My E-mail had to run through the African landlines of three different Countries before it went out. About two or three times a week E-mail got
out, and in, so it worked much much better than a fax or telephone. Took an hour or so after dark to get a line, but it was the best to be had. Satellite they told me would be $5000 with one US Cent a byte, but at times I thought about it a lot.
Especially in the rainy season when an Elephant scratched an itch against a telephone pole.
Word went out from my dusty 286 to a few Rockhound friends. America was well, they said, just cold. Asked about any new adventures and gemstones. Australia nearly burned down, but Ross had made it. For a while, it seemed as if things were ticking along
well enough. Brooding silence like that I do not trust, so one night I had Moneysweet visit the Phiri homestead, as a test, sort of. How he does it, I do not know, but he brought me back the Landrover's Dieselpump, without a sound or single bark.. Didn't
want Mr. Phiri getting in the way, dying unnecesarily. Knowing the way resupply worked in Malawi, he would be grounded for a few Months at least.
Moneysweet's Lapidary education also started. I had him stand behind my right shoulder, towards the light. "What is wrong with this Gemstone", I asked, lifting a piece of pink Tourmaline that we had bought that morning into the light. Moneysweet didn't
even squint his eyes. "His wife is a Shangaan," he fired promply. Tsk. Trust a Renamo disciple to discard a Tourmaline nugget because of that. The scourge of Africa is tribalism. Add a touch of white, and it is called racism, and the world cries out.
Should read the last paragraph of World Bank Reports though, of failed African projects or plans. Tribalism.
"No, no, No." I shook my head. "See here," and I let my finger cast an intermittent shadow on the Pink Nugget. "See that crack?" Moneysweet did not take that keen an interest though, until I had a E-mail friend looking for some specimens. I had
Moneysweet collecting it, cleaning it and eventually we sent it by runner to the Capital to go by Courier. And when the Dollars American came, I gave them to Moneysweet.
Something clicked right there, because he left awed. I thought it was to spend his new-found riches. Ha. An old Indoena came to see me about two hours later, complaining respectfully with his white peppery hair and slow-sincere British eyelashes.
Moneysweet had press ganged himself a dozen herd boys, and they were collecting anything remotely Rocky or specimen-like. Should have seen the heap of Rocks. I frowned and kept a straight face, for appearance's sake, and decided a lot more polish would be
needed on this Renamo warrior boy.
Internet contact really brought some cultural differences to light. In America, money is power. In Africa, power is money, and you pay tribute to power with money. You give offense when you ask an African whether you can return his gemstone material if it
is not up to your quality standards. In America, the focus is on the quality of the product, and the person with the monetary spending power is the tail wagging the dog. Not so in Africa. The culture revolves around people, not goods or money. You are
rewarding the person, not only for the gemstone material itself, but also because it lays in his power to provide it, and he's graciously doing so. It directly affects his own worth.
So when I bargain, or come to a border post, I always enquire about the person, his health, prospects and family. Important matters settled, we move on to the gemstones. Or in the case of the customs officer, we talk some more. About how the government
has not paid out his salary in three months, his children's school fees and so. And when he realises that I really understand, he goes and collects all the material that he has confiscated from Gemstone smugglers. And we talk some more before I buy them.
It is the same way with miners, the first time. We settle the first transaction, and only when they realise that I will really live up to my part of the bargain, and honour them and my word, do they fetch the real eye-poppers.
North of us lay Tanzania and Rwanda, but I had no urge to see vultures circle in the noonday sun. Heard the people smugglers were making good money, getting people out of Rwanda, across the Lake. The meetings with chiefs, smugglers, travellers and my
runners were starting to point in a certain direction. It came in slowly at first, but I had certain friends in certain places, standing with a finger behind an ear, hearing the right things. The Zambianos we played Ring-a-Rosies with had links to a
Cartel. The gang's name was African, but would translate to something like, "The Heyena's who hunt gemstones."
Incidentally, hyenas are better hunters than Lions, sly, cunning, and persistent, regardless of their cowardice. I have seen a Heyena bite through the white bone of an Elephant's leg without even trying. Very powerful jaws. In these parts, they have
become cocky and have bitten off the hands and legs of quite a few people sleeping under the stars on a warm night. Stolen babies as well. They are hated and greatly feared.
More than $250 Millions worth of Emeralds are mined in Zambia every year, and roughly sixty percent is smuggled out. Those are the official figures, which are never worth much over here. But it called for a network, front men. As always, it neatly
interlinked with a few other shadowy goings on. Info was sketchy, but the way I would have done it and thus read it, was something like this.
The Gemstones were smuggled out and changed into hard currency, which bought sought-after South African cars and goods. At very very low prices of course, them being stolen. But the men of power controlled the borders and Police. Adam Smith calling it a
cake, and slicing it. The cars were smuggled out through Botswana and Zimbabwe, making the Okavango turn through Namibia if neccesary. Zambia and Zaire inevitably beckoned.
Cars and goods were swopped for gemstones and ivory. Rhino horn $80. Elephant tusk $35. AK 47 $25. Angolan Diamonds are roughly a $1000 a beer bottle. Full of course. Business in Africa is all about Politics. And political power is centered in the hands
of very few. Big men with big bellies, lots of medals on the chest.
We only get to see their photos in local Government Offices, sternly looking down at us, for they are mostly at the UN asking for money and the writing off of their semi-personal loans. Back here, though, they control everything. Only about three
democracies in Africa, the last time I checked. And they have a lovely way of preventing competition, called bureacracy. It takes between 545 and 1095 days to lodge a business application in Tanzania. And you have to file 280 reports a year, should you
eventually succeed.
Out of every 5 Dollars earned in Zaire, Mobutu Sese Seko takes out two. Nice heh? His name means, The Always Victorious Warrior Who Leaves Fire In His Wake. One of the ten richest people on earth, he is. But you should come see his country. It is about as
big as from London to Moscow.. In these parts, one man controls Government. Government controls business. The men of the photos control and reward their cronies by handing out the equivalent of a mining permit. Only it is for what would be crime to the
rest of us. These business people become "Untouchable." (Malawi is a bit of an exception is this regard.) Big kick-backs and personal taxes, the syndicates pay. All based on family and loyalty lines, of course.
We were up against one of these Zambian "Untouchables." The Hyena gang worked for him. If we became a problem, our little run-in would ripple along, registering in high offices. (You can see the photo of the one who would frown in every public building.
Old photos sometimes, for he had been in power very long.) When I mentioned the names, my informants didn't answer. They were very afraid. The local problem was a middle-level crime Boss. We could work around him, but it was the one he paid homage to
that bothered me.
It was time, to do what needed to be done. It is who and what I am, apart from gemstones. My opposite number may throw the "Dollosse," call up the Forefathers, Warlock, Neocromancer. Africa really is a place of Ancient rites and older truths, even if most
of it is occult. When I sat on the high place, the annointing came down on me. I stood up.My spirit was heavy with that which I was about to do. When I spoke, it went into the spirit with power and purpose, welding together what was to be. A banner was
raised above us, and a standard put up. Bigger truths and powers were called into play, and the unaligned cursed with that which had been spoken before. It went out cleanly and forcefully.
The next day I was weak, as always, and in a bit of pain, but I gave instructions for a journey that I had to undertake. The wedge that had been laid was not enough, the powers arrayed against us too strong. We needed more power and protection. Day after
that, I left.
The ride across Lake Malawi in the ancient steamer was something to behold, but I had an urgency in me, and did not even get off at Likomo Island. Came the Mozambique shore, I hurried on. There was something to be done. Took me a day and a half to get
there, but when I did, I knew it was the right place.
During the Samorra Machel Marxist years, God had been outlawed in Mozambique. A remnant had remained, as always. My arrival was at a new mission station at an old place. The missionary was ancient, and had given his whole life, quite a bit which had been
in Frelimo death marches. Did a lot of cross-border soul-saving in his time, until he got caught. These days he is lame. He had an annointing though, and tough spirit, which gave me goosebumps when aroused. Then his 80 year old flesh would fall away, and
he would be revealed for what he truly is.
We greeted. There was warmth between us, in spite of past differences. I took him for a holy man, a man of power, of which there are very few. He took me for wayward, but with Destiny bridling me on every side. So I told him what I had come for. Unlike
me, he had to go and pray about it first, but when he came out, later on, there was fire in his eyes. He said I had to wait for the Church gathering the next morning.
The Province is Niassa. Very few people, very bad roads and very very remote. News takes a Month to get there. They were working on the roads, but the Lions kept catching some of the roadworkers, so it was slow going. His life and the Mission station
brought another part of the past back, but I bit on my molars untill my jaw muscles bulged, and waited.
"We are gathered here together", he began weakly. Then the fire took him, and he really started preaching. It was an amazing sight, close to a thousand three hundred black converts were sitting cross legged and attentive at the service. They had appeared
as if from nowhere, in short little rows, out of the myriad of tracks that seemed to run out from the heart in the bush, all out and around like arteries. The representative I came to see spoke with power and conviction. That I can do as well, but there
was a higher authority to be held in the spirit, and he led the way, eighty years old or not.
He then asked them all to stand, and they did. As everyone closed their eyes and bowed their heads I was very, very quiet, within myself, witnessing a great truth revealed. For when he prayed, they agreed in the spirit. In the flesh they had been poor and
black and illiterate, the survivors of war in the poorest nation on earth. They were descendants from occult-meddling ancestors, but they had spritual senses, even if they had been developed on the wrong side, the Witchdoctor's cradle.. And now that they
had witnessed a new power and light, their spirits were aflame. Very little thought to blind their inner eyes, a heritage of spirit over matter. Where they had blind intuition before, they now had light. They had Faith.
The representative who led them, laid my position out and open in the spirit, and called upon them for faith and agreement, as he turned to me. He raised a hand holding a bag, naming it to be a physical sign of the prophetic word he was to speak. I was
very quiet. Afterwards, one thousand three hundred people murmured Amen, and looked up at me, conviction in every eye. And when I got to look into the bag, it was Deep Purple Amethyst. I clutched the bag tightly, and started the journey home.
As I sat locked up, cutting the Amethyst, I thought about these things. Let me explain, for the mind does not take to these things easily. With the problems facing me, I needed higher help, if I was to come through victorious. Therefore I took up my
spiritual authority, and laid claim to certain principles pertaining to my position. Blessing and curse, spoken into existence long before.
It is like a frozen lake or river, and I had spoken and laid certain things out onto the ice. To get these things through the ice in the lower realm, you need power in the form of heat. In this case, the power needed to go from the spiritual realm into
the physical was too much for me. So I went to the ones that could. Sort of the way a schoolboy having trouble with a big bully remember's his big brother's advice about standing his ground and giving a whistle that would bring the big brother in no
time.
The Amethyst I was so carefully cutting, was a focus, token and sign of the Bigger Backup behind this me, sort of like that whistle. I had only to gaze upon it, to be stirred up, and connect through the ones who had given it to me, the higher blessings
and curses available to us in this world, in Africa. The cut? Cardinal, of course. It was to be able to cut six small round brilliants out of the material as well. For I intended to give a Special Gemstone to each of the people working for me, Jan,
Moneysweet and the two cutters. They do not need to understand it, others are holding the banner up over them, in the spiritual realm. But by having a Gemstone, they were affirming the Dominion we had, and could a bit of the annointing on me, come on them
as well. Alas, these things are not easily understood, by those who do not know. Not essentially African, the Chinese have known for generations as well, but African enough. Only the good side. In the end, polish and prophecy done, I!
delivered to each man his Amethyst Gem. In the natural, they looked mighty fine. We were ready for war, although it had been settled that we would be safe for now. Only the local crime boss would be allowed to come up against us.
Maybe I should tell the whole truth then. Witchdoctors use animal and plant substances, as a token and catalyst for spiritual remedies or curses. I use Gemstones, when neccesary. It is an old custom really, mostly used to destroy by curse, using Gemstone
tokens. In the past it has been used with great effect by women against mistresses, normally through a third party. The Gemstone bait would be highly valued and adored, with the curse it would bring unknown.
It is possible to use it as a catalyst for blessings as well, which I do from time to time. The history of Gemstones really revolved a lot around the higher properties they were believed to possess and bring. It was part of the culture, making the
acceptance of spiritual blessings a lot easier. Recently machinery and technology entered the Gemstone business, with the uninitiated taking over the marketing. Most places. The century of De Beers and money, and the shallow glitter. Truth, like
Gemstones, has a way of outlasting civilizations and culture though.
Mmmmm. Admitting to all this, it must sound to the Western mind much like what I do with the sick Africans. They hold great faith in the White Man's medicine and, knowing me as such a man, come to me often for medicine. The Western type, that is. Took me
some time to catch on, but I eventually did, noting the recurring mysterious ailments and diseases and joy of instantatious health. After that I let the aspirin be and gave them multi-coloured vitamin pills, the type you buy in bulk. Their joy is hard to
contain, on receiving a few of these capsules. Recovery is in the eyes of the beholder, sort of, as they dance away. But this is not the kind of watery way I hold my trade out to be. It has survived too many royal families and kingly civilizations for me
to care much for the unbelieving. Which is why I cut two round brilliants extra, out of my token Amethyst. Not for Greekly Sobriety, but as tokens to use with a curse. I polished them well.
I had called the local Zambian crime boss to come to me. Now I only had to wait. He would come, even if he didn't know it yet. Life in rural Central East Africa went on, with its daily chores and joys.
Kiep-Kiep-Kiep!! I called out as Chickens came a running from every direction. They held their wings for better aerodynamics and stuck their necks forward for greater speed. Feeding time! I really wonder what would happen if I were to get hold of British
and American Chickens, and enter them into the race as well. Mine had survived many a hawk and and their ancestors many a chicken thief and jackal. They were the cream of African Chickens, speedwise, even if they were a bit stringy.
Standing there scattering Mealies and corn everythere, I thought about that Russian. Pavlov, I think his name was, who rang a tienge-lingy bell to have his Dogs' mouths water. Looking at Volkstaat, that Boerboel dog of mine, I could see that he wasn't a
Russian Dog. He didn't need any fancy-wancy Bell Ringing to make his mouth water. He just had to see one of my chickens being fed.
Thinking all kinds of scientific thoughts, I remembered an African scientist who had once done a much more relevant study. He had painted a coloured spot on the back of a chicken. It had immediately gone up in the pecking order, from last to number one on
the sleeping rack. Now that really is something, is it not? When I had heard it, I thought about it a lot, feeling really scientific and proud of our local researcher. And what do you know, not long afterwards his experiment really bore fruit. I just had
to adapt it a wee little bit.
It was a troop of Baboons, moving in. They had really done a lot of damage in my Maize-Mielie fields, as only a baboon can do. A single baboon would start walking at one end of the field, picking heads of Maize as he walked. He would then put the Maize
head under his arm, and pick the next one. That is where the "Geneuk" came in. Because as he lifted his arm for the second one to be slipped in, he would drop the first one. Left a trail of Maize heads, every bloody baboon, with the young ones imitating
their elders especially well.
Now I do not know if you have ever heard that great apocryphal fallacy about catching baboons. The greatest Liar in Africa must have thought that one out, because I have tried and tried, and in all my days have never seen any one catch an African Baboon
that way. They say you must take a "Kalbas" and cut a hole in it, or a tin can, and attach it to a chain, pegging it into the ground. By liberally throwing maize about you would soon see the Baboons at the "Kalbas."
That part of the legend is true yes, but that is about the only true part. For when the African Baboons eventually finished off the Maize on the ground, clever Baboons like they would approach the tin or "Kalbas". And I still want to meet the African
Baboon who would stick his hand into that Kalbas, grab a handfull of Mielies in a fist, and then be stuck because his fist is too big to take out again. And who would not let go when I came a running gleefully.
I wonder if it isn't possibly American Baboons who might be so stupid, or Russian ones which had been affected by bell ringing. From the general sound of the story when told to the unsuspecting public, it sounds African enough though. Now I had tried for
three days, 23 different size Kalbasse in the end, without any luck. By that time the Baboons were so tame, having been handfed a great quantity of Mielie Maize, mostly around the Kalbasse of course. But these Baboons were also very clever, for they
left the kalbas Mielies right to the end. But bloody hell, never before they have finished every single Mielie pit on the ground. So every time I was lying concealed in great anticipation, thinking that, "This is the time of the great Baboon
catch."
Later on it became so bad, the Baboons didn't even mind me sitting dejectedly some distance off, seeing them enjoying the greater part of my Mielie harvest. It was during one of these sad, sad moments thinking about the unfairness of life and the
cleverness of baboons that I became very committed. Moneysweet had given me subtle hints at first, but later he became so frustrated he went and came back with an Automatic rifle, wholly intent on delivering me out of my baboon misery. I had decided that
come hell or high water, these Baboons I will teach a thing or two, even if I had to use a bell in the end. I also didn't want to start an in-depth inquiry into the nature or number of arms we possessed.
It came to me as I was building a fall-trap, the kind you catch a Leopard or Jackal with, in a cage with a falling door. The wisdom of that Chicken Scientist just came to me. So we finished our cage, "borrowed" a bit of Mielies, and laid the trap. All the
local Villagers came to watch, thinking my efforts very funny. It made their animated laughter more acceptable, to know that this was taking place with their own Mielies as bait. I could smile and wave right back, even if it brought howls of child-like
laughter.
In the end, we caught a young male baboon, not even weaned from his Mother. Very frightened little fellow, but quick. I painted him stark white. It was quite a wrestle in that cage, and I have to admit that I myself may have been the Whitest man in Africa
for an hour or two. The Africans were rolling in the dust by then, laughing, beating on the drums to call all their relatives to come and view this great spectacle. Volkstaats mouth really watered looking at the white painted "Bobbejaantjie" in the cage,
but I kept the dog tied up.
The baboons did not think all this very funny, so they moved off a bit, with the "Brandwag" giving a few cautionary barks. By this time, I realised that a great deal of my reputation was at stake, as all of Central Africa would hear about me and the
little white baboon soon. Tsk. You should have heard the comments made about "lonely white men" andthe squeals of laughter that brought. It was during such an intense moment that I opened the trap door, much to the surprise of everyone.
Aaah, my friends, you should have seen those baboons hit the road. The young one tried every trick and manoeuvre possible to be reunited with his Mother. "Aaaah." The group didn't quite appreciate the attentions of such a "ghostly suckling, and ran. Like
hell. With him running even faster, not wanting to be left behind after his recent ordeal.
I was still smiling, scratching the stubble on my chin, and feeling very pleased with myself, when the silence registered in my brain. All the Africans were looking at me, awed. And then you should have heard them, laughing.
The last Drummy report we had, was from the far South of the country, two days later. And by that time, the baboons were still fleeing relentlessly. The small one was feeling very rejected by then, but still going strong and determined to catch up.
And so it came to be, that my fame as Baboon exorcist spread through the whole of related Central East Africa.
Telling the story around the fire at night, mention was also made that I'm "the one who weighs Gemstones," and the Baboon escapade really did herald a new Gemstone era supply wise. Unfortunately, some unamused people also heard and moved in to cobb me
off. We were all in for some interesting times.
Have you ever had a handfull of Emerald crystals and nuggets in your hand? It is pretty much like a woman, I think. Emeralds are like that. You are afraid that something might break, fall or go wrong. Anyway, you take special care. Carefully spread
open the sleeping bag in your tent, take your torch, make sure there is nobody around...And then you start putting those Emeralds on the face of the torch, slowly, one for one.
I can still remember the time I went to the river, and came out on the riverbank. It had been a Scandanavian NGO woman taking a bath. But what I especially remember is the way my lungs missed a breath or two. Then I had to shout, because there are
Crocodiles about. Well, anyway, you never know. {And how was I to know she would scramble out of the river like that?} But whenever I put an Emerald on my torch, my heart misses a beat. Pretty much the same, only better. Emeralds are like
that.
It happened just this week again. Not another white women in a river man, tsk, but a big Emerald. One chunk of a hundred and fifty Carats. I thought it was mostly mediocre quality. And then I took my torch. There had only been a small small window
in the mica crust. Emeralds can be very bad for your
heart, I think. Just like women, just like women. Only worse, and better later.
Driving a Landrover, you have to stop every now and again. Take a look at your Emeralds again. Emeralds are like that.
Moneysweet's Lapidary education was coming along nicely as well. It is important to be able to sort material well, detect flaws, quess at weight. He had sharp eyes. Especially for smugglers. We would be driving along, passing an African
Boma-- a Market. Now there you have goats everythere, with people inbetween, stalls, goods and a lively chattering noise and buzz about the place. He would ask permision to go for a "visit", and what do you know, very soon afterwards I would hear
his whistle.
Very imporantant to have a mating call, in Africa. You can't go about shouting each others' names, it is not done. People might hear and remember. And sometimes you need to operate on a higher plane and frequency, especially at night, in certain
situations. It is a problem being white, believe me. Especially with smugglers. And if the white man is a head taller than everyone else, he is even more conspicious. There
are places in Africa where the children cry when they see me - their first white man. And then the whole village comes to watch. Now I ask you, how do you do confidential business with a colour and complexion like that? Or try and go take a whee?
Tsk.
But we had our array or animal yoodles and floating whistles. I would walk through the market, asking about prices, squeezing tomatoes and arguing about quality. The moment I turn to the onlookers, I have the whole market as jury. And in the
case of the People against the Red One Kwacha Tomato, a lot of evidence would be given, with plenty of free legal advice and comments. And while Moneysweet is casually rounding up the smuggling mining types, quite a few other suspects would be
brought to trial. Succelent Onions, fresh fish and ripe Mangos. The food is cheap, it is the plastic bag which is expensive in Africa. And which is where they make their profit. If you want to know what the plastic bag
cost, just double what you just paid for your red half-price tomato.
And afterwards I would be respectfully approached. Now my Landrover has a dashboard like only a Landrover can have. I think Henry Ford called it wide open spaces. Underneath you can find Rose Quartz and Tantalite, my harmonica, Quick-start and spare
parts reflecting my personal opinion of what will
break soon. A lot of confidential information has been passed along inside. Money as well, and a few other things.
The real business is done privately before sunset and at sunrise. With just the meeting place and a few other arrangements settled before hand, at the market. And as it sometimes happens, a token stone would be given. "Net om die bek 'n
bietjie te laat water". To make the mouth water. Honour is very important, and trust. As other people invest in unit trusts and Dow Jones shares, I invest in people. And
sometimes it comes back to you, like with the Emeralds.
When a black man in Central Africa wants something, it is not always easy to get. And as it sometimes happens, funerals have a way of creeping up on one. Now we do not have banks in Africa, of the sort where you can go borrow money. Even if it is for a
funeral, wedding, or your child who is very very sick. So our pension and emergency funds sometimes comes in the form of Gemstones. The local currency is not worth much.
Not next week, anyway.
So in this context it is very important to have someone who can liquidate your assets for you, as in now. Which is where traditionally so many shady general store dealers got their cheap gemstones. When I hear about someone offering material below
field prices, I always wonder who died, what happened. Tsk. But we facetors have a bit of Heyena in all of us, not so?
The Internet holds great possibilities, if only we can get it to work most of the time. I was sitting between a few mining types. I would love to tell you more about them, but it is not really prudent. We were holding an Indaba-meeting of men. The
Zambiano's had tried a few times to take over some of their deposits. So far they have been driven off, but they were just like Hyena's--persistent. Word had it, that they wanted to come pay me another visit. I had sponsored the transport of
the posse who came in whenever they tried to take over a mine. They had heard and understood the beat of the African drums though, and everytime we got there, they had fled. Good for them, or they would have been set alight. It is the Malawian
way.
One of the good things in Malawi is the harmony between the races. But in South Africa we have a legacy of the Black Tribes raiding each other. Now add white cattle farmers, a hunger for new land, Zulu titans, a few massacres and see where
that gets you. And after Gold and Diamonds were discovered, fortune seekers ascended from down below. And then the English came, even worse. Killed half my Nation's women and children in concentration camps. So we really know about war
there.
But in Malawi, the first white man to drop in had been David Livingstone, the Scottish Missionary. And he had done much to abolish the slave trade. Had himself a little
Steamer on the Lake, chasing down Arabian Dows. They had very good Missionaries in those days, who shot at the Arab slave raiding parties. So there is a noble heritage of white/black relations. The country is called the Switzerland or
warm
heart of Africa.
And as I sat between the miners, listening to them air their views, I appreciated this, coming for South Africa. We had between us the potential to work together, form a team. Maybe somewhere else we would have gotten somewhere, but in Africa, we would
simply survive. That is enough.
Honour and trust really made the Gemstone business possible for us. The infrastructure, rains, elephants and great distances meant that nothing happened very fast. Except maybe the running away from a lonely bull or two. The time involved before we
could get our gemstones out is rather long. And with the African banks and exhange control getting our money is not so easy. So we have to trust each other, and keep the faith, in the lean Months.
Quite a few new things were tried out, once we trusted each other. New deposits were found and stones were sent away for valuation, and production could be maintained when my cash ran out. Sometimes something happened, and money would be needed. So I
would give a Gemstone loan. Honour made everything possible.
Not that the people taking out the loans are the kind I would hold out to be the leading moral men in Africa. Ha. Call it honour among smugglers. But even the Scoundrels brought me Emeralds later on. Honour yes, and the fact that there is no other
way.
Sitting in that circle, we had quite a bit of experience and contacts between us. The family network is amazing. Every man would have seven brothers and sisters, if not more. And each one would have a wife, with seven or more other brothers. So you
could say that in one way or another, our group were
related to most of the people in a 500 Km radius. Which is why democracy will never work in Africa. The culture is that family comes first, no matter what. And then the tribe. After that the region. So the biggest tribe will simply rule, with
the most powerful family as leaders.
In our case it meant that we had people everywhere. When there is power in the Capital, we have one radio station, but that is only at times. So people talk. News reaches you by word of mouth. Opinions and perceptions are conveyed through word of
mouth. Among white people, when you have 10 of them
telling the same story to one another, you end up with quite another story in the end. Everyone misses something, or adds something new.
In Africa it is different, especially with family, and the elders. News, history and the past are all conveyed orally. Few people can read. So there is a culture of story telling, conveying to the new generation the wisdom and heritage of the
previous ones and the forefathers. It also means that you
have people used to listening, and remembering what they hear. With every funeral, of which there are many, or wedding, people come together, and they talk. This is where the word spreads, like with that little white baboon. And it
came.
The Zambianos raped her. She was the wife of one the the resisting miners. Word reached me the same day, as it was meant to do. Everyone else heard too, just as it was meant to happen. It is the way of terror. When I heard, I stood looking at
the top of my open hand. Spread my fingers wide. Stood stonefaced, and listened. There was death in me, and it was looking for a way to come out. Who I was and Destiny had
caught up with me.
No war council was called. It is not the way. The rape had been aimed against me, as a warning to all the foot soldiers. This is why Dicatators rule Africa. People fear and follow strong leaders. They love strong leaders. And in the end there
can be only one.
With a bicycle spoke, redhot, I burned the following into a big wooden sign. Translated, on the Internet, it reads:
"I raise my right hand against you, gang called Heyenas, and declare this Word which will not be broken or turned away by any other. -Death and sickness- will not leave you; or the house of the one who commands you, nor calamity his bed. He will
lie down and not stand, untill he declares the right of the one proclaming this. Everything his hand touches, will be cursed, and no one who enters his property will prosper. As a sign, this Amathyst stone is given. Only the one who brought this
curse upon you, will be able to unlock it, holding it in his right hand again. The one uprooting this sign will be uprooted from life.
-- white man JUSTICE MALANOT"
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| Amethyst in Africa can be blessing or curse. |
The Amethyst I put in a bag, and hammered fast, deep into the six inch pole supporting the sign. Driving to the Zambian border, lightning played on the Horizon. It brought me no joy. Next to the border road, where the border fence is broken,
and everyone walks, I hammered the sign in. Four feet deep. I called the word up and out over them. It was done.
It is neccesary to understand Africans, to fully appreciate the gravity of all this. It is the way of war, for many countless generations. Each King would have his own Witchdoctor, raining calamity and curse on his enemy. I rather suspect the
Biblical Bileam drove his donkey in North Africa. Africa yes, Egypt.
There would be a time now, where fear would prevent any big military manoeuvres. The rape had spread fear like a bushfire, but the word of the Curse-Sign would spread even faster. The medium called human nature would see to that. Gemstones, life and the
prize of the local population would go to the victorious. Untill then, the fight was between us, the leaders. It is the way of Africa.
When I came back from the border, Moneysweet was frantic, but he did not say anything. His eyes were big, and black. He gave me a Pistol again, when I got out. I took it. We looked at each other, our hearts heavy. It was time to call upon his brother. We
would have to leave, soon.
Blessings.
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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).
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