Jackal's Dance (11 page)

‘You have done what you set out to do and given me a future. Without you, I would be herding goats.'

‘Without me you'd have been happy doing just that.'

‘It is too late to look backwards.'

‘I thought I was doing the right thing. I honestly believed that.'

‘Who can say now if it was right or wrong? It's done. I am no longer a simple peasant but a man with a future. For that, I thank you.'

‘But I have stolen your past.'

Chester shrugged. ‘Nothing comes free.'

Helmut shook his head. ‘Don't say that. It's not too late.'

Chester knew that Helmut wanted reassurance but, in his heart, probably realised that anything comforting he might hear would have a hollow ring. But why should Chester lie just to make Helmut feel better? The German had always stressed the importance of telling the truth. Let him hear it.

‘You played God with me, Helmut. You stepped in and changed my destiny. Who knows? Maybe it was meant to happen. Why else would your vehicle break down just where I was tending the cattle? And you haven't stolen my past. Sure, you changed it, but I still have one. I don't resent your interference. In fact, I'm glad it happened. But don't expect me to cling to something I have all but forgotten. Don't ask for loyalties where none exist.
My parents are strangers. That's the bottom line here. If they were dead I couldn't feel further removed from them than I already do. Nothing calls me back to that life. It is gone from my heart.'

The enormity of the consequences of his misguided generosity hit home. ‘Forgive me.' Helmut bowed his head and wept.

Chester could not find it within himself to truly forgive the man. He was grateful, he supposed, though in his case his betterment came at the high cost of not really knowing just who he was or where he belonged. He owed Helmut his bright future but blamed him for his loss of identity.

Confused, Chester entered the Academy ripe for something or someone to latch onto. The inevitable happened. Mixing with sometimes radical students and intellectual professors waylaid Chester's focus on his future.

If ever a person is going to adopt a cause, chances are it will be while they are at university. Before then most are too preoccupied with their maturing bodies. Beyond, the realities of life turn black and white perceptions of youth into shades of grey experience.

Angola was a natural diversion for young, inexperienced and easily influenced minds. South-West Africa as it still was, lay slap bang in the middle of two opposing governments – white-dominated South Africa to the south, and a predominantly communist Angola to the north. By the time Chester arrived at the Academy, the Angolans had been actively seeking independence from Portugal
for something like twenty years. In South-West the people also wanted to break free of South Africa and sever thirty years of administration. Chester had always been aware of these facts but, as he quickly was now discovering, nothing is that simple.

The whole Angolan issue was wonderfully complicated, providing endless hours of student discussion and debate on just about every argument imaginable. Support groups with a variety of political leanings formed within the Academy. And what a choice they had!

The FNLA, or National Front for the Liberation of Angola, had been formed back in 1961 by one Holden Roberto, a bloodthirsty hereditary king of the northern Bakongo tribe. Assistance for the FNLA, largely in the form of military hardware, flowed from Zaire where Roberto's brother-in-law, Mobuto Sese Seko, was State President. Further help originated from the Chinese and a number of Arab states in north Africa. Open support was not for the faint-hearted. Holden Roberto took no pains to deny that his troops, in the course of liberating Angola from the Portuguese, had murdered around seven hundred whites and more than four thousand of their black supporters. Many had died in unspeakable agony. One favoured method involved tying victims to a board and feeding them through the local sawmill.

Further south was the National Union for the Total Independence of Angola, UNITA, led by the anti-communist Dr Jonas Savimbi. Backing came mainly from Zambia but, because of his stand
against communism, something the western world noted with approval but did nothing tangible to assist, most African countries distanced themselves from Dr Savimbi and UNITA. Compared to support for the FNLA, Savimbi was a poor relation.

To further confuse matters, yet another group, this time from central Angola, followed Dr Agostinho Neto. The Marxist Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola, or MPLA, drew its numbers from a large cross-section of Angolans and was backed financially by the Soviets and Warsaw Pact countries. Cuban soldiers arrived to advise the MPLA. With them came a flood of communist arms and ammunition. They became the dominant independence movement.

As with most colonial powers, the Portuguese were reluctant to relinquish control of their mineral-rich territory. In this case it was diamonds. What changed their mind was the systematic slaughter of seven hundred Portuguese nationals and the threat of more violence to come. They finally bowed to the inevitable, declaring that Angola would become independent by the end of 1975. That was all very well, but who would take control? The MPLA seemed more likely than the other two factions, something that was worryingly obvious to South Africa. The last thing in the world they wanted was a communist country practically on their doorstep.

The FNLA was undergoing an interesting spot of bother resulting in the formation of a breakaway faction. Bloodthirsty as they might have been, and
despite Peking's support, South Africa quickly set up a training camp for this splinter group. To hedge their bets, and because of Savimbi's stand against communism, they also established a similar facility for UNITA. But they'd left their support too late. The MPLA had gone on a power-seizing rampage.

By September 1975, the MPLA had taken control of many towns in central and southern Angola. Alarmed by this success, South Africa finally took positive action and launched a direct attack. Task Force Zulu, comprising a battalion of Caprivi bushmen, one thousand of the breakaway FNLA troops and with South African officers, and support from the South African army, was outstandingly successful. Other South African troops joined with UNITA and saw action assisting Holden Roberto's by now regrouping forces. The United States, through undercover CIA support, was also propping up the FNLA.

The wonderful world of politics being predominantly a vote-seeking business, international disapproval of South Africa's apartheid policy had a knock-on effect to their efforts in Angola. Covert approval was given but, lest the public think bad thoughts about those men and women democratically elected to keep the peace, politicians around the world fell over themselves in a vocal rush to distance their foreign policy from open support.

America did a complete about-face and suddenly didn't want to know. Black African countries which had cautiously approved of opposition to the Soviets began to back off. The rest of the world
yelled ‘foul'. South Africa, conspicuous by its solitary stance against communism, did the only thing possible. It withdrew, leaving a significant military presence in its neighbouring protectorate of South-West Africa. Over the next decade numerous skirmishes occurred, border clashes that grabbed world headlines and did nothing to enhance South Africa's international reputation. Apart from a contingent of fifteen thousand Cubans who were still supporting the MPLA, the three warring groups within Angola were left to their own devices. Civil war had erupted.

Over ensuing years the United States played a peek-a-boo game with great political expediency. Support came and went. The FNLA were abandoned in favour of UNITA, who were far better organised than Holden Roberto's forces.

Enter SWAPO, the South-West Africa Peoples Organisation, who with Soviet backing had established a main base camp in Angola. The aim of SWAPO was to free South-West Africa of protection by Pretoria. The aim of Russia was to spread communism until it pressed tight up against South Africa.

Chester Erasmus, after graduating from the Academy, joined UNITA. Although determined to see Angola and his own country achieve independence, the communists, he believed, were not to be trusted. He spent seven years in war-torn Angola, fighting for a cause which he'd become obsessed by as a student. But seven years is a long time and Chester grew sick at heart by what he had come to
realise was more than a fight of good against evil. The suffering, death, brutality, rape, mutilation, starvation, sickness and fear of innocent people which went hand-in-hand with a supposedly noble cause had nothing to do with any desire for independence. It had nothing to do with ideals. It was about power, innate cruelty and financial gain. Disillusioned, Chester rekindled his one-time dream to become a journalist.

Defection was easy. So many were unaccounted for. If a combatant went missing for more than three days he had a mark drawn through his name and was declared dead. Families were rarely notified – the origins of most men fighting in Angola were either unknown or of no interest. Chester simply walked away.

Heading south he made for Kaokoland, only to find that both his parents had died some years before. It was quite by accident that Chester encountered Dan Penman working alone on an inspection of Etosha's northern boundary. For some reason the two men immediately hit it off. When Dan discovered that Chester was looking for work and learned of his qualifications, he mentioned there was a job going as an assistant ranger at Logans Island. All Chester would have to do was demonstrate a knowledge of the bush – not a problem having lived in it for the past seven years – and sit a test. It was worth a try. If only as a stepping stone. Chester figured a couple of years should establish a legitimate employment record and bring in enough money for a return to Windhoek.
That was nearly two years ago. Chester loved Etosha and had quickly been promoted to full ranger. Still, more than anything else, his ultimate objective was to become a journalist. It was just difficult to make the break.

Caitlin McGregor stifled an irritable response to yet another stupid question from a man on the elevated bench behind her driver's seat. ‘There are no tigers in Africa,' she replied.

‘Leopards then. What about them?'

‘Yes, plenty.'

‘Are we likely to see any?'

‘It's possible but they're solitary and largely nocturnal. Leopards lie up during the day to avoid the heat. They only hunt at night.'

‘How much longer will we be out here?' the man's wife asked. ‘I'm getting hungry.'

A murmur of agreement sounded from the others in the game-viewing vehicle.

‘Not long,' Caitlin responded. Normally she'd have included one last loop road, taking another twenty-five minutes to reach the lodge. If this lot wanted to go back, that was fine with her. She had learned fairly quickly that there were tourists and tourists. It was a bit of a lottery as to whether a group would be good news or bad. The couple directly behind her were Canadian on their first African encounter. Probably their last too if the constant string of complaints was anything to go by. The others weren't much better. A bored South African family of four. The husband knew everything,
the wife nothing – she had pointed out ‘a teeny little rhino' which turned out to be a warthog – and their two sons, aged eight and eleven, who clearly disliked each other, weren't above demonstrating their feelings at the drop of a hat. The French pair were on their honeymoon – he groped his bride at every opportunity and she giggled a lot. Why watch the boring animals when there was a perfectly good tit to squeeze or bum to explore? Then there were the Germans, Erica and Walter Schmidt, a middle-aged couple with their fifteen-year-old daughter. He hated the food, his wife didn't like their accommodation and the obviously bored daughter, Jutta, couldn't take her goo-goo eyes off Sean. Unlike the rest who were leaving that morning, the Schmidts had arrived only the previous day for a stay of four nights.

Caitlin pulled up in the lodge's shaded parking area and her passengers climbed down from the back with mingled grunts and groans. Erica Schmidt said yet again, ‘Why don't you make these things more comfortable?'

‘Sorry. It's a bit of a climb, I know.' Caitlin's professional smile sat firmly in place but her thought,
Fat bitch! Why don't you lose some weight?
, was more in line with how she really felt.

Their early arrival back caught the dining room unawares and a longer than usual wait for breakfast gave Walter Schmidt his cue for criticism.

Rangers were supposed to sit with the guests. They were required to answer questions, tell exciting stories and be impressed with a guest's
importance back in whatever metropolis that person came from.
Stuff it!
Caitlin thought to herself.
Rangers are only human.
She left her group in the restaurant, walked to the kitchen via a back entrance and helped herself to food – muesli with plain yoghurt and banana slices, tinned carrot juice, an apple and a bottle of mineral water.

Taking the early morning game drive meant Caitlin had been up since four-fifteen and was now free until lunch. She returned to her quarters, shut the door, and went through half-an-hour's exercise routine before taking a welcome shower. Dressed in shorts, boots and a T-shirt, she picked up a pair of Zeiss binoculars, notebook and pencil, heading for a staff-only area behind the lodge laundry where no guests would find her.

Caitlin loved eagles. There was something wild and free about them that stirred an empathy deep inside her. Of the many types indigenous to Africa, Etosha was home to eight with a ninth, the black eagle, residing in remote mountainous regions of Kaokoland. There was a huge martial eagle's nest close to camp, which she could see clearly through the binoculars. Martial eagles return to the same nest year after year. Each new season the nest is renovated and extended. This particular one was nearly two metres across. Although it was not the breeding season, Caitlin had spotted a mature female the day before. She wanted to see if it was still around.