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INDEX
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Malawi, Moneysweet and Me.
Part Five
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The thing about smuggling is not how to get the necessary goods out, it is how to get the right things in. During the war, Frelimo outlawed God and most traditional customs and practices. God and the people were not much impressed, and Renamo flourished.
And on the side people like me learned a lot.
Noah really loved his pigeons I think. The Christian Pastors in Mozambique too. At first they had much to fear from Renamo and roaming warrior bands. Later on, the warriors learned that it is best not to anger the Christian pastors, rape their flock,
plunder their grain silos. They had carrier pigeons see.
And in a Civil war being fought in the bush, communication, stealth and movability is everything. The Pastors were stationary, but they had Carrier pigeons, so they had power. If you violated their safe havens, the Lord moved in mysterious ways and you
would suddenly have your position, strength and progress flown out to other unamused people. And it is terrible to fall into the hands of the living God.
The pigeon system worked well. The warring factions could not copy it, for they were on the move. Listening in is also rather difficult, for the Russian technology wasn't there yet. Not for monitoring carrier pigeons anyway, as long as they were well fed
and regularly exchanged. So by swopping pigeons, the pastors made certain rural areas safe. And let me tell you, there is hardly a better way of winning converts in
a war, than the pigeon way. Or rather the "safe haven" that comes with it.
It evolved a lot, and there still were massacres, but later on pigeons came to symbolise the spirit of the people, the heritage of the past. Just the fear of having your movements sent out to other faithful outposts, kept many prowlers in line. Especially
as the safe havens became food havens, and food bought protection from regional warlords. You plunder this community, word and pigeon reaches the following one. Information is what can get you killed, and you really do not want people pointing in your
direction.
So later on even Frelimo's foot soldiers decided that God could stay, as long as he stayed neutral. They also did a wee bit of Bible reading. For much information was passed as Scripture or in a rather Non-Marxist way. When the dove comes, the pastor
would preach about how the Staff of Moses has touched the Red Sea, and that everyone could now travel to the next refugee camp again, in large groups. I will never forget the impact Pigeon Christianity made on me when a bird flew in an Ampoule of
medicine, for me, once. Not quite a Damascus road experience, for the "road" had been mined. But I haven't eaten Pigeon soup since.
Later on pigeons became a sort of paging system. You wanted to speak to someone like Moneysweet's Warlord brother, you went to his Pastor. Nobody messed with the Pastor. Not that the Warlord ever got any spiritual guidance from him, for they never meet.
But every week many pigeons arrive at the Pastor, and people wanting an urgent appointment could apply for one via Pastor & Pigeon. If successful they came to see you. If not, you were in trouble, for you have wasted a pigeon. So the Pastor really had a
wonderful ministry sharing and giving comfort to the waiting amnesty seekers and business bidders.
Even I do not know what other security system were built in on the other side of the pigeon fire wall. Radio maybe, though I doubt it. It gets traced too easily. I had my own own business card to send to Moneysweet's Brother. We had used it in the past,
and it is difficult to decipher, for it is a Gemstone.
Now I can tell you later about smuggling pigeons into Diamond areas, and about what happens afterwards {Just a word of caution-never be greedy, Jackals don't appreciate diamonds, but they love tired pigeons}. Especially on the ground yes, and I know of
someone who had became very lucky that way, because his dog had a habit of bringing him things. Tsk.
In the end I just sent Moneysweet's brother a small roundish alluvial Sapphire. It was pink, and if you did not know, you would think it the Mozambiquen or Zambian Tourmalines often found. Until you test the hardness, and then you know it is from me. It
simply meant that his Brother and Brother's keeper were in trouble, but the kind which they could handle. Just yet. I had given him a Pink Tourmaline before, and our
arranged signal had been that if I ever get a message to him, it would always be with a Gemstone. The wording and Bible text only comes second.
Any Gemstone harder than his Tourmaline meant that he should not get involved, at the risk of exposing his relation to and Moneysweet's existence. Should his Tourmaline easily scratch the softer Gemstone I send though, it means it is the time of the
Trumpet, or the beating of the War Drums. That would only be as a last resort, and a full out calling to arms, sounding of war. As it happened, I travelled the distance South only to send him a Sapphire and have him read Psalm 9:20.
The Zambian Crime Lords became restless in this period. So they sent someone to come see me. It is the way in which Wildebeest fight. They confront each other, mark their territory and snort in the air. Lots of challenge, subtle prancing and lightning
locking of the horns. It was a resthouse, close to Lundazi, in Zambia, where they came. Four of them, Lusaka city types. They were to sound me out, for they grew up without parents or heritage, solely in the shadow of the terror they could install in
other people. They believed themselves to be immune to sorcery, saw it as Old Women's tales, the kind common Villagers believe in. Mmmm.
Wise move on the part of the Hyena people. The city Tsotsi's were expandable, and they wanted to test my readiness in this, THEIR, realm. Hyenas keep on testing the Lion at a kill. Only a full grown Lion can withstand their attention. Once you get
wounded, they take you down.
A white man doesn't drink water in Africa, he drinks Coke. That way he doesn't get Cholera and stomach cramps. And this was exactly what I had been doing, sitting in a local Resthouse bar-avoiding Cholera. The houses in Lundazi were built many years
before, and sort of rest on a high soil mound of at least three meters high. The ones older than 25 years anyway, for then the Lions and Elephants were still a big problem, and height essential. Elephants have trunks, and Lions get hungry, see. The
Resthouse was newly built, and flat on the ground.
It had a wide open porch, with see through clay tiles as an upper outer wall. Cool, cheap and in full view of a big Boabab "Kremetart" tree some way off. Which is where Moneyweet had been concealed at great cost to personal comfort. My arrival there the
previous day had caused lots of local excitement. Because of the way the Hyena poachers had died shortly after the curse border sign went up, I was the only one in the rest house. The owner was rather unhappy, but said nothing. He knew he would make a
killing after I had left, when everyone came to see the place where everything happened. But he also, was afraid, at first. Jackals are like that.
So I sat on the porch alone, drinking Coke. Waiting. And then they came, the ones for the city. Two pulled up in a Land Cruiser, and got out. The way of their getting out was the way of men with an overly high regard for themselves and that which they
carry between their legs. Slow, ponderous and done in a manner calculated to strike fear into the hearts of mortal men.
The Resthouse had only one back door, heavily locked with an ancient slave type iron lock. I had done it myself. The way my table was positioned, you had to approach me from in front to get a good view. Or good shot for that matter. But there was a long
one and a skinny short one. The angle at which they approached did not reveal their back-up, which they were sure to have. First, as always, to talk. "You are not welcome in Zambia", the long one said in his ragged Lusaka gutter English. They were smarter
than they looked, because they remained standing, getting their eyes accustomed to the dim light inside. My view of the world, as seen past their silhouette's, could not reveal any obvious gunmen intent on pot-shots. It is sweet to have Moneysweet
assistance in moments like that.
This time the short skinny one spoke. "We bring a message." Only by this time he had had the chance to see the inside of the porch, and mentally discard the frightened owner in the back. So he came closer, with a measured kind of step. He was the one to
watch, so I picked up the Coke bottle with my right hand. It is a funny thing how moments drag out sometimes, and everything happens slowly.
The one moment it looked as if I was using both hands to grip the Coke bottle, and the next moment it looked altogether different. By then is was evident that the left sleeve of my Bushjacket was only a sleeve, and that the real hand was busy with other
business, and not gloved and clamped around the Coke bottle at all... As previously thought. It held a gun, in a steady way, and sort of emphasised the nod I was trying
with my head.
They must have gotten the "sit down" message, with that nod, for they did sit down, slowly. "To talk," I stated, watching their hands. It is always good to see violent men behave wisely, and when their hands were resting outstretched in front of all
present, I cast my eyes up, fully looking at them for the very first time.
Looking at men you believe to have been sent to kill you, over the open sight of a gun does not make for most favourable first impressions. Even discarding this fact, they were still ugly. The Skinny one had a ferrety "Meerkat" face, and the other one
hooded eyes attesting to his dark soul. The only good thing about them was that they looked deeply unhappy.
"Talk," I said, in the most simple manner. Short of violence, that is. The long one moved his hand a fraction, and what do you know, the gun in my left hand did the same, even as I kept my eyes steady. The fact that they remained motionless and speechless
did not worry me so much as Moneysweet's silence. He was supposed to take out any stray sharp-shooters or stalkers, and signal when done.
"You cannot kill us," the long one said. I looked him in the eye for about half a second. Being what he was, he did have great powers of perception, for he started sweating. Still Moneysweet's all clear signal did not come. Not a warning signal either,
which was just as good as one. So I started sweating too. If I moved back, to present less of a target to any outside shooter, I would give my guests more room to maneuvre. The
gun aiming so resolutely at the left eye of the short Tsotsi on the right, was just where I wanted it. No chance of overturning a light steel table or attempting a quick draw The dragged out tension was immense; for we were all waiting for an indication
of the outcome of the conflict on the outside.
They realised as did I that neither party came alone or in good faith, bubbling over with goodwill. This was no ordinary Gemstone interaction. The only words applicable from 101 Faceting Tips were "Gemstone Rough." With the accent on the rough.
And they had come in overconfident, that was evident. The pressure on me was building. I kept watching them, never in the eye, and they came to the grim realisation that I was contemplating their most untimely departure from this life. They were right. I
hardly noticed them turning grey. Which is the colour of a very worried Black Zambian under the sniffing nostrils of death.
Everything happened so fast after that. I stepped on a switch on the floor with my right boot, and things really lit up. Now maybe I should have told you about the electrical wiring sooner, telling this. I had the electric mains connected to both steel
chairs and the metal table.
Many years before at a South African University, there had been a problem with ablution blocks at the Campus Amphitheater. The men had done a "every tree is a lavetree" against a close by hostel wall. The hostile Electrical Engineering student on the
other side did not appreciate this, especially at noon each following day. So he had erected a chicken wire fence along the wall and connected a electrical wire to it from a wall socket. He brought his point of much contention across most
eloquently.
The two Zambians did a little less spectacular but equally effective straightening out of their lives. This is about the time I let up stepping on that switch, and the short ferrety Tsotsi on the right's nose "changed angle". It is a good thing I stepped
on that electric switch again pulling my right fist back for the Zambian on the left. But I think it is even better that I remembered to let go of the switch again helping his jaw along.
When the puffy fist of much satisfaction started throbbing, I had the Zambiano's down and out, unarmed. They had quite a collection of arms between them. I retreated to the back of the front room, very worried about Moneyweet, but intent on sitting tight.
The flatnose Zambiano had carried a .44 revolver. It had come in very handy when he didn't want to lay still, for it is quite heavy. Tsotsi gun, a first for me. The other one with the jaw that felt as if it is on the higher end of Moh's scale carried a
7.65 Russian Pistol. Three knives between them.
I told the slightly grinning owner of the resthouse what I was going to do, and started plugging the opposite wall. Two tap-tapp shots from the Russian Pistol was no problem, but the .44 Silver Revolver was a mistake. After the end-of-the-world explosion
only a most intimate Zwiinggwwhhhhh remained in my ears. Every other sound was rather distant, as if from afar. My eyes were rather big too, seeing the missing brick
in the wall. Most fortunate thing I didn't get shot. My grim mood darkened.
The way of Wildebeests, is to shoot only one. Through the spine, wounding him only. The rest of the herd will turn back, at his bellowing. They all come back, as long as he bellows distress, and you can shoot a whole herd that way.
A kwe-Vowl is the bird I dislike most. They give a loud KWE! whenever they see a hunter close to any game. The game scatters. You must sit in a tree for three days sometime, awaiting a Kudu, and have a Kwe-vowl Kwe! on you. But I had never been so glad to
hear one before, for it was Moneysweet's signal.
Two Zambiano's, he had taken out. Both armed and intent on making me a "holy" man. The one had circled, the other one taking the entrance, laying point in the bush. Only he is from the city, and Moneyweet had been there first.
It was the other one that nearly got me. He was crawling closer over open ground, to take me from the side should I show any head through the open brick-tile walls. Moneyweet nearly shot him, but the shots I had fired from the inside had saved us from
lots of local legal trouble. The man got up smartly, and approached the resthouse building a little less cautiously then before. Old mistake, Moneyweet said, that he only concentrated on where he heard familiar sounding shots from. Seems a Wildebeest herd
ran over him from behind, sort of.
Only the strange gunsounds made Moneyweet worry, so he had taken the man out rather fast in stampeding fashion. With luck he would live though. Even though we were alright, my dark mood lasted, so I had the Resthouse owner get his camera. We had the four
unconscious men laid out, snap taken, and decided to leave for the sunny side of the Malawian border. Everything in Lundazi looked deserted, thanks to the
shots, but you never know. I left the four Zambiano's their guns, and we cleared out.
It would have been kinder to use the two prepared lengths of rubber hose on their Land Cruiser. Nothing like Ammonium Nitrate and Aluminum powder when you have a difference of opinion with a Silica Rock in a Pegmatite. In my grim state of mind I took a
bet on the snapshot picture taken. They reach Lusaka, tell a different story than what happened with their undamaged vehicle and ordinance. The snap is framed in the resthouse, word reaches the one who sent them... The Ammonium Nitrate would have been
kinder indeed.
Lions love Porcupines. Ystervark in my language (ironpig). And many a fearsome male lion has come to his end due to this delicacy. The quills stick and fester. And it impairs the Lion's movements just enough for the Hyenas to be able to take him out. My
own porcupine was coming up, only it came in another form. It came in the form of a Gemstone Rough. The green type, with the quills you don't see until it is too late.
To be continued next month.
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Copyright, 1997 by Justice Malanot
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Justice is currently in the bush but is expected back near the end of September. He sends African Blessings to all the Rockhounds and Readers, and looks forward to hearing from you.
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