The Delta (27 page)

The man moistened his lips with his tongue, as he forced himself to concentrate through the fog of inebriation. ‘Then we are both far from home, madam. I, too, am from Namibia and was forced from my home by the Ovambo.' He hawked and spat in the dust. ‘We have something in common.'

‘You're Caprivian.'

‘You know of our struggle? There are eight thousand of us, refugees, here in Botswana, madam. The world has forgotten us. They care only for Zimbabwe, not for my people. Do you need a gardener, madam?'

‘I don't have a garden.'

‘I don't have a country. But if you have money, madam, I have not eaten for two days.'

No, she thought, but you've drunk half a shebeen dry last night and now you need more hair from that dog that bit you. ‘I'll pay for information, and what you spend your money on is your own business. The CLA – the Caprivi Liberation Army. You know of them?'

Sonja was interested to find out for herself how keen the average Caprivian was to fight for independence, particularly in the light of the disastrous setback at the dam construction site. A recce wasn't just about counting troops and guns, it was also about gauging the morale of the enemy – and that of the friendlies.

‘I am UDP.'

The United Democratic Party, Sonja knew, was the political face of the Caprivians' push for independence, supposedly with no direct links to the military organisation, the CLA. He averted his rheumy eyes from her. He was lying. ‘I can get information on the UDP on the internet, old man.'

The man looked left and right, along the dust-blown street. There was no one in earshot. ‘I know the CLA.'

‘They failed in their attack on the dam upstream from Popa Falls. Why?'

He scanned the street again. ‘We … the CLA was betrayed.'

The drink had produced the mistake. ‘You were there?'

He bent and lifted the right leg of his jeans. The scar on his calf
was ugly – puckered from poor stitching and slow healing. He let her see it then lowered the hem again. She looked at his white trainers – they were spotless – and his jeans, while old and holed at the knees, were clean. His button-up shirt was pressed. He was unemployed and drunk, but he took care of his appearance. ‘Yes, I was there. The Namibians were waiting for us. Many of them. We made no noise, but they used their mortars to light … to enlighten …'

‘Illumination rounds, you mean?'

He nodded. ‘They knew the date, the time and the place of our attack. Many of our men died.'

‘Was that the end of the CLA?'

He shook his head and met her eyes again, defiance cutting through the glaze. ‘We are weakened, but we are not dead. There are younger men who are … who will one day be ready.'

‘Are they in training now?'

‘Who are you, madam?'

‘I'm a safari guide with an interest in current affairs in the region.'

The man smiled broadly. ‘The first safari guide I have seen who hides a Glock in the rear of her pants and the first woman I have met who knows what an illumination round is.'

She turned the questioning back on him. ‘And you are the best turned-out drunken unemployed gardener I have ever seen.'

He belched and put his hand over his mouth. ‘I am not drunk. Not yet, anyway, and to tell you the truth, I hate gardening.'

‘You were a soldier.'

‘I was a warrant officer in the Namibian Army, and I still
am
a soldier.'

She knew it. ‘Why did you join their military?'

‘To learn how to kill them.'

Sonja reached into her pocket and discreetly counted out three
hundred pula. He licked his lips again, and it was as though he could almost taste the booze. ‘What is your name?'

‘Gideon, madam. Warrant Officer Gideon Sitali.' He stiffened, as though coming to attention.

She held the money loose in her right hand, baiting him. ‘Who betrayed you, Gideon?'

He looked both ways again, always watchful. ‘I knew nearly every one of the men in the assault team personally. Nearly every one, that is. It's possible we were infiltrated, but unlikely. We are of the same blood, like family. However, two of the eleven men I was not one hundred per cent sure of were missing after the attack.'

‘And the others?'

‘Dead.'

‘Whose idea was it to go for the dam? Why not raid another police station, or a barracks?'

‘The water is our life blood, madam. We are people of the rivers and the swamps. We always have been. The Ovambo have no more right to take our water than they have to take our freedom. The
mukuwa
said that destroying the dam would also give our cause more publicity around the world than attacking the police station at Katima Mulilo or Divundu.'

Sonja didn't know the dialects of the Caprivi, but
mukuwa
was similar to
mukiwa
, the Shona word for white boy. ‘There was a white with you?'

Gideon nodded. ‘Two of them. They trained us. One of them had fought the Ovambo in the old days. Once the whites were our enemy – I fought for SWAPO during the liberation war – but today the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'

‘Could they have betrayed you?'

Gideon thought about the question for a couple of seconds. His broad forehead was beaded with sweat. ‘I don't see why. One of
them was of your people, ex-
Koevoet
from your South-West Africa days. I cannot imagine the
boer
taking money from the Ovambo. The other was an Englishman. He stayed for a few days before the attack and gave us some final training.'

‘Could he have sold you out – betrayed you to the Namibians?'

‘It is possible, but I can't imagine the Namibian government doing business with a white mercenary, either. They have their own spies and, in the past, we were able to detect them and … to send them on their way.'

Sonja agreed with him, though anything was possible in Africa. She handed the money to him, which he accepted with a bow of his head. ‘Where will you go now, Gideon? Where do you stay?'

He shrugged. ‘I stay in Maun for now, but when my people are strong again myself and others will be called back to the swamps.' He looked up the street again, but this time he was watching a swirling funnel of flying sand and grit coming towards them. ‘I hate this place. It is too dry. A man needs more than a body to live. He needs a soul, and the river is ours.'

The sound of singing lured Sam from the camping ground at Drotsky's Camp. He'd been lying in the hammock, strung between two mighty trees, letting the suggestion of a late-afternoon breeze cool the sweat on his bare chest after finishing putting up the tents. He put down the field guide to African mammals he had been reading and pulled on his T-shirt.

A well-trodden, winding path led him through the thick riverine bush towards the main dining area, a wooden building with a thatched roof and a wide shady verandah overhanging the Okavango River.

He saw a flash of colour through the leaves ahead, orange and bright and bobbing like some exotic African bird. When he emerged in a grassy clearing he saw it was a woman – several, in fact. A singing, dancing, clapping procession dressed in vivid printed dresses and turbans came into view. The lyrics were repetitive but harmonious and melodic. The voices filled the clearing and reverberated off the surrounding trees, which formed a natural auditorium.

Past them walked the newlyweds. Unlike the traditionally dressed guests the young African couple looked like they'd been plucked off the top of a wedding cake. The groom wore a tux made of a shiny grey material, with a burgundy cummerbund and matching bow tie. His shoes were the same colour as his suit, and pointed. His bride's obvious natural beauty was eclipsed, rather than enhanced, by the folds of ivory satin and lace that engulfed
her and the lacy parasol she gripped awkwardly. Her new husband hooked a white gloved finger in his collar and ran it around, clearly chaffing.

The photographer, in a funereal black suit with mildew on the shoulders, organised them on the lawn into the most uncomfortable poses possible while the female chorus kept up their joyously monotonous lyrics.

Like Sam a few tourists had been drawn by the sounds of the wedding party and some of them filmed and beeped away with their digital cameras while the official photographer laboriously snapped, wound and manually focused his battered Nikon, oblivious to the increasingly pained looks of his melting subjects.

Sam loved the spectacle of it. Cheryl-Ann would probably have ordered Rickards to film it, but Sam thought that even the tourists' pocket digitals seemed intrusive. Here was Africa, he thought, as the groom was finally allowed to raise himself from his knee and haul his grateful bride to her feet. Traditional singing and blessings for a couple who had probably blown a couple of months' wages to dress like people out of a twenty-year-old American or British wedding magazine.

Rickards swivelled on his stool at the bar as the wedding party filed in; he waved and Sam moseyed over to join him. ‘Quite a spectacle, eh?'

‘Yeah,' Sam said. He ordered a Windhoek Lager for himself and another Castle for Rickards.

‘Whole clash of cultures thing makes for good vision. I've shot shitloads of that sort of cake and arse crap for docos in the past.'

Sam took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stayed standing, even though Jim had pushed a chair out from the bar for him. He wouldn't have described what he'd seen as crap.

‘Hey,' Rickards said, pointing with the neck of his fresh beer
bottle. ‘Here comes Robo-Barbie. Nice and salty – just how I like 'em.'

‘I'll have another of these,' Sam said to the barman. ‘Excuse me, Jim.' He took both bottles and left the bar.

‘Assume attack formation, soldier.' Rickards raised his Castle in a mock salute, then turned back to watch the cricket playing on a TV mounted above the bar.

Sonja stopped on a grassy spot by the river and pressed some buttons on her watch. She shook her head.

‘Not a good time?'

She looked over her shoulder at him and brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. Her green tank top was camouflaged with black blotches of perspiration and she wore short grey running shorts made of a stretch fabric. The word
ARMY
was printed in white, vertically, on the right thigh of her shorts. ‘Could have been better.'

‘Could be your leg,' he said, pointing with a bottle at the dressing. It was fresh, but there was a small stain in its centre. ‘Any more weakness leaving your body right now?'

She regarded him curiously. ‘It's not too bad. Are you going to drink both those beers yourself?'

He handed one to her and she took a long, deep swallow. He thought the smooth skin of her neck was incredibly sexy as she tilted back her head. ‘Nice view of the river,' he said, to take his mind off other brewing thoughts.

‘Nice breeze, too,' she said, leading the way to the verandah, which skirted the dining area and reception room, where the wedding meal was in full swing.

The setting sun was turning the river into a flow of red lava. They found two chairs made of dark timber slats that were a lot more comfortable to sit in than they looked. She put her running shoes up on the railing and leaned her head back, taking another sip of beer.

‘How far did you run?'

‘Only five or six kilometres, towards the main road and back.'

‘Weren't you worried about wild animals?'

‘There isn't the wildlife on this side of the delta that there is in Moremi and the concessions bordering it. Crocs and hippos in the river, for sure, and maybe the odd leopard in the riverine bush, but not much else.'

‘It's a shame the whole delta and the river can't be proclaimed a game reserve or national park.'

Sonja drank some more lager and nodded. ‘I agree with you, but plenty of others don't. Botswana has a strong commercial farming sector and the panhandle is good agricultural land. Plus, there are the traditional landholders to consider. Some of them, like Chief Moremi III back in 1963, saw there was money to be made by locking up parts of the delta and charging tourists and white hunters big bucks for access. Others are quite happy to keep hunting, fishing or running their goats and cows on the land.'

He nodded. ‘I want to cover all that in the documentary – the competing land uses.'

‘They needn't be competing. Africa's a big bountiful continent, but we humans have made some terrible mistakes over the years in how we've used and abused her gifts.'

‘There's so much to learn.'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘A lot to fit into a sixty-minute TV program.'

‘Hey,
two
sixty-minute programs. And don't forget my survival special – though we may have to reshoot some of that, minus the bits where you try to kill me. Not good for my tough-guy image.'

She laughed, and he was grateful for it. ‘Hey, it's none of my business, but I kind of got the impression when we were headed for Xakanaxa that you were intending on staying at the camp.'

Sonja looked out over the river, all trace of mirth gone from her face. ‘You're right, it's none of your business.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said, meaning it. It seemed that every time he got this prickly creature close to being at ease with him he said something to make her curl up into a ball again. Screw it, he thought, sensing she was about to get up and leave. He had nothing to lose and a lot to gain. She was beautiful, even after a run and streaked with dust and sweat. ‘Stirling told me he'd kill me if I laid a hand on you.'

Her eyes and mouth opened wide as she stared at him. ‘What? What the hell?'

Sam shrugged. ‘All I did was ask him how he knew you. Were you two close?'

She ignored him, obviously stunned by the revelation. She took another gulp of beer. ‘He … the fucking hide of that man. Aargh! How
dare
he say that to you and treat me like I didn't even exist.'