by Nick Elliott
‘In Kazunda, the Ambundu tribe is the largest – perhaps thirty-five percent of the population. They speak Kimbundu, and those who have been educated also speak the official language, which is still Portuguese.
‘These tribes are further split into clans and it is important to understand the distinction. Clan loyalties are very strong because clan members all know of their extended family ties; so one is loyal to family first, then by extension to the clan. But marriages are normally external of course. I mean outside of your own clan.’
‘To avoid inbreeding?’
‘Exactly. So in Kazunda, President Loma is of the Ambundu tribe, which I suppose is why people have put up with him for so long, because he can get away with it.’
‘And Mendesa?’
‘Ah, Mendesa. He claims to be Ambundu too although he is part Portuguese on his mother’s side.’
‘So how would you restructure the country’s political hierarchy?’ Grant asked.
‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘You know, just because one tribe is more representative than the others doesn’t mean they have the right to govern. There are several fine tribal chiefs who are just and democratically minded, both here in the capital and in other parts of the country. But there is no structure, no system for them to stand in local elections or for parliament. The parliament is a puppet show for Loma to do with as he pleases.’
‘And now it’s all coming apart as we sit here talking about it,’ Grant added.
Mariana was silent for a moment then got up from her chair and stood looking out across the veranda into the mist and the black forest that lay just beyond the garden. ‘There is a clan, a people who are part of the Ambundu tribe. This is an unusual situation but the clan’s chief is a woman. She is known as a princess due to her standing within the Ambundu. She has done much good in her clan’s district. They have formed a local assembly. They work with the elders, with women as well as men. It is like a democracy there. They build good relations with neighbouring clans – even with other tribes. She honours tradition but wants the people to move forward too. I know of her through the foundation I work with in Lisbon. We send medical aid and educational tools, text books and that kind of thing, to the villages. Her name is Nzinga and her assembly is a recipient of our aid packages.
‘They say she is descended from Anna Nzinga, the warrior queen who led resistance against the Portuguese then negotiated a peace treaty with us. That was in the sixteenth century. She was from Angola across the border. Queen Nzinga is remembered for her political and diplomatic acumen, as well as her astute military tactics. She has long been thought of as a symbol of the fight against oppression, and so is today’s Nzinga. And they say she has inherited her ancestor’s fine judgement, and her charisma.’
‘You think she’d really make a viable alternative to Loma?’ I asked her.
‘I don’t know. I only know that she is highly regarded by those Kazundans who want peace and order for their country.’
‘So where is this little Utopia?’ Grant asked.
‘It is up the river, the Rio Chitoka. A long way up.’
‘Communications?’
‘All communications are down now. Radio, TV, the cellular network too,’ said Marco.
‘How do we get up there?’ Grant asked, suddenly impatient. ‘I want to see this woman. We’ve got to make something happen. I can call in military support against Loma or Mendesa but there’s no point in doing that unless we have a viable frontrunner to take their place. Otherwise this country of yours will just descend into further chaos and anarchy.’
Grant looked at me. ‘What do you make of all this, Gus?’
‘I agree. We must talk to someone who commands respect and authority in this place. I trust Mariana’s judgement of Nzinga. And it’s not like we have an alternative.’
‘Okay, so we need to get up there. When can we leave?’
Chapter 16
I woke under a mosquito net, bathed in sweat, my mouth dry. But I’d slept for ten hours and after a cold shower and three cups of Côte d’Ivoire coffee I was ready for whatever lay ahead, or so I told myself.
It was raining with all the deafening ferocity of an equatorial storm. Fork and sheet lightning flashed across the sky accompanied by apocalyptic thunder-rolls. Water overflowed the guttering and splashed onto the veranda where we stood watching the drama.
Grant was determined we should meet with Nzinga as soon as possible. That was until Marco greeted us with the news that the only road to Kintani, the township where she held court, was closed.
‘Any idea why?’ Grant asked.
It was Mariana who replied. ‘They say Mendesa’s men are sealing off all routes into the city to stop people from the provinces getting in.’
‘What about the river?’ I asked. ‘Is it navigable?’
‘There are rapids east of the city but beyond that it’s navigable and boats can get all the way up to Kintani. It’s not used much these days but with the road closed it’s a possibility I suppose. We would need a boat of course,’ she said looking at Marco. I could see from their body language that they were on easy terms which each other, born of their past friendship and a mutual trust.
Marco headed off on a little motorbike to make enquiries and returned after a couple of hours to tell us what he’d arranged. The rain had eased off and we sat out on the veranda where it was cooler and formulated a plan so fraught with risk that Grant insisted Mariana stay behind. She just smiled.
We left at dusk that evening. Marco was driving a decrepit UN Land Rover he assured us he’d only borrowed, with Mariana alongside him and Grant and myself in the back. Marco knew another route away from the main road that would take us past the rapids to a small settlement from where we might find transport upriver. His best guess was that the journey to Kintani would take three or four days, that was if all went well.
We rolled, bounced and slithered our way along a track of red mud heading east with the aim of intersecting with the Rio Chitoka some eighty miles or so from Kazunda City. This would place us at the river port a few miles upriver from the rapids, and it was here we hoped to find the ride on up to Kintani.
Again the rain was incessant, the road a quagmire. Either side of us was dark jungle. Marco was twisting and turning the wheel to keep from getting stuck in the deep ruts left by other vehicles. But on three occasions during the five-hour drive, Grant and I had to get out and lay mats in front of each wheel to provide traction.
We saw little traffic in either direction, which was welcome as with the main road closed Marco had feared our track would be crowded with people from the villages trying to reach the capital. More likely they were staying well away for there were reports of attacks by supporters of Mendesa wherever they met resistance from local tribespeople.
Eventually around midnight we turned off onto a narrow track even more treacherous than the one we’d been on. ‘Not long now,’ Marco assured us.
By the time we reached the river we were weary, hungry and wet.
‘I’d never adjust to conditions like this,’ Grant said, tactfully conveying what he thought of the place.
The river port was little more than a jetty at the end of the track, which itself went no further. Half a dozen ramshackle wooden huts were scattered along the bank. The jetty, or what was left of it, had partially collapsed into the river as its wooden pilings had rotted away. There was no sign of anything resembling a ferry, only a few pirogues beached on the muddy bank.
‘We must wait here,’ said Mariana. We didn’t have anywhere else to go. ‘Marco will ask the locals if they know where we can find a boat ride.’
We waited while Marco went down to the river where a group of fishermen were looking at us strangers with mild curiosity. When he returned he was shaking his head. He spoke rapidly to Mariana, who then turned to us. ‘The boat left this morning. They don’t know when it will return. Usually, they say, within a day or so.’
‘Is there any way we can get a message
to Nzinga?’ I asked.
‘Jungle drums?’ suggested Grant.
‘No. We must wait for the boat,’ said Marco decisively.
So we waited. I was glad to have Marco with us. He was a resourceful, optimistic guy, the same age as Mariana – in his forties – hefty, with a big round face that was more often than not covered in a broad smile. He negotiated the use of one of the tin shacks which was dry inside, though there was little else that could be said in its favour. And he bought some fish from the men down by the river. It was three in the morning by the time we finally ate. Marco barbequed the sweet-tasting fish which he’d prepared with the ubiquitous cassava leaf stew washed down with what we hoped was fresh spring water and glasses of mampoer, local firewater distilled from the maroela fruit.
Little happened the next day. We waited with growing impatience for the boat to appear from upriver. But only the pirogues plied the waters. The highlight of the day was when one of the fishermen hooked a goliath tiger fish. Marco told us the locals believed that if the evil spirit entered one of these things it would attack humans. This sharp-toothed predatory monster was almost five feet long.
We talked with some of the villagers, who were eager for news of what was happening in the capital. They shared their food with us and in the evening we joined some of the menfolk and drank mampoer round a fire they’d lit on the riverbank.
The following day started the same. I went out at first light when the colours of the forest were vibrant shades of green and a mist hung over the river. The sounds of the birds, monkeys and other creatures, echoed as their chattering, squawking and cooing rang out from the dark jungle. For an hour or so it was cool and refreshing, but well before midday the sun was overhead, as strong as I’d ever known it, the heat and humidity at their most suffocating. As I squelched my way through the undergrowth it wasn’t the vividly coloured yet menacing flowers or the hanging creepers that tried to wind themselves around me that I knew I would remember, but the stench of rotting vegetation. The forest was thick with it for no direct sunlight reached here. It was above in the canopy that the wildlife dwelt. I returned to the riverside to join the others. Now, in the flat light of midday, colours were washed out and the river lay viscous and still.
By early afternoon we had all descended into a state of torpor. And I was becoming uneasy as to our reasons for being here. It was a huge gamble to expect that a tribal princess was going to rally to the idealistic notion of democracy and lead this unfledged little nation away from another era of poverty and corruption at the hands of yet one more despot. I didn’t want to sound too my pessimistic now that we were committed, but I prepared to voice my concerns to Grant and Mariana, if only to initiate a discussion. At that point however, one of the fishermen came running up the path to our hut shouting and pointing up the river.
‘It’s the boat,’ yelled Marco and we made our way down to the bank to see a dark grey motor launch appear in the distance, dwarfed by the jungle around it. As it grew closer I could see three crewmembers – two in the cockpit and another sitting in a recess in the bow manning a machine gun. All three were locals dressed in military fatigues.
As it drew up alongside the jetty ropes were slung ashore and a couple of fishermen tied the craft to the decaying wooden bollards. Marco walked down to meet the crew engaging the skipper in conversation as he stepped ashore. There was much pointing in our direction.
‘Let’s join them,’ said Mariana and we walked down to the river bank where Marco introduced us. The skipper spoke Portuguese and Mariana translated.
‘I’m telling them what’s happening at the coast. They have no signal for their phones but some news has reached them by word of mouth. They’ve agreed to take us upriver to meet with Nzinga.’
‘When can we leave?’ Grant asked.
‘They will refuel here. And they have some deliveries to make here in the village. We should be ready in half an hour or so.’
‘How long will the journey take?’ Grant asked.
‘Twenty four hours if there are no delays, maybe a little more. It’s nearly two hundred miles to Kintani.’
Having refuelled and taken on stores it was four in the afternoon when we finally got underway. Marco had paid one of the fishermen to keep an eye on the Land Rover for us, promising him the same amount on our return if it hadn’t been stolen or damaged.
The boat was an old US Navy Patrol Craft or PCF, also known as a Swift Boat. ‘This looks like a Mark III. Nice boat when they’re well maintained,’ said Grant, who was familiar with it from his days in Vietnam and Laos. As we got underway he began to recite its specifications: ‘All aluminum hull, fifty foot long, and a shallow draft for patrolling up the coast. Later we used them for work on the rivers – particularly the Mekong of course. They were part of our brown-water navy. Two General Motors diesels, four eighty horsepower each, and with a range of three hundred plus nautical miles at twenty-one knots, or double that at half speed: ten knots or so, which is what we’re doing now I reckon, just about.’
‘Were they heavily armed?’
‘Sure, ours were: two .50 calibre Browning machine guns in a turret above the pilot house and an eighty-one millimetre mortar combination mounted on the rear deck; plus we fitted an M60 machine gun in the peak tank in front of the forward superstructure; just like this baby’s got, see?’ He was pointing out its attributes as he spoke. ‘These things were used to intercept the Vietcong, but they also moved our own Vietnamese forces around and inserted SEAL teams for counter-insurgency work. Let’s get on board and I’ll show you round.’
Chapter 17
We made good progress that afternoon. Although heading upstream the river seemed still, the current barely moving the sluggish brown waters. As evening fell we pulled into a dilapidated jetty similar to the one we’d left earlier. We clambered ashore and were guided to a collection of huts. Money changed hands and food was produced. Again, cassava stew and this time, bottles of warm beer. The villagers wanted to know who we were and what was happening in the capital. Marco updated them. Where were we going, they asked: to see Nzinga? Yes, to see Nzinga, he said. There was a buzz of conversation. They wanted to know why. There was no doubting that they held her in high regard. After an hour we prised ourselves away and headed back upriver.
There was neither moon nor stars that night. The cloud cover and the looming jungle rendered the night black but for the boat’s searchlight, which scanned the waters ahead looking for mud banks and other obstructions. We moved more slowly now and the jungle closed in on us as the river gradually narrowed. It was an eerie sensation and yet there was a sense of oneness with the natural, unspoilt world around us, undisturbed by man.
I sat with Grant on the after deck. He’d been reminiscing about his days in Laos and Vietnam. Although he’d been rear echelon, he’d been out on plenty of exercises on boats like this one. I asked him to tell me more about Cordeiro.
‘Carlos? Portuguese, some Chinese blood too. Born in Macau. Ex-Air America pilot in Laos. Air America was one of the CIA’s proprietaries. Back in those days they ran a lot of those shady outfits. Carlos was an ace pilot and he went on to join the Ravens. They were mostly fighter pilots used for forward air control - providing direction for the air strikes against communist Pathet Lao targets. They were supporting the Hmong guerrilla fighters up there.
‘When that whole show was winding down Carlos moved to Africa. He fitted in nicely, being Portuguese – a bush pilot ferrying personnel, arms, all sorts, in and out of Angola, mostly from South Africa and Zimbabwe - Rhodesia in those days. The Angolan civil war had already broken out so it was only natural for the CIA to look him up. They ran a covert invasion of Angola back in the mid-seventies. Used Portuguese private military contractors and Cordeiro was one of them. He helped train the troops who went in to support UNITA, Savimbi’s movement. Like I said before, we continued to back them throughout the civil war against the MPLA, who were under the Cubans, and who in turn were proxies for the Sovi
ets of course.’
Mariana had joined us but Grant carried on talking. He didn’t seem worried sharing his knowledge of such matters with her.
‘By the late eighties Cordeiro was running his own private army made up of some tribe. Then he pitches up here and as I told you, he’s providing us with good intel on what’s going on.’
‘Yes!’ Mariana interjected. ‘The Ambundu tribe. That’s how he came to be in Kazunda.’
Grant looked surprised. ‘So you know about Cordeiro?’
‘Everyone here does. He’s close to Nzinga. And she is of the Ambundu people. I told you.’
‘I didn’t know that about Cordeiro though,’ said Grant, clearly shocked.
‘And did you also not know that Nzinga is a Marxist?’
‘What?’ Grant was having trouble processing this. His understanding had been that Cordeiro, as a CIA asset, was fighting the good fight in support of Loma and therefore US interests, thus preserving the status quo. Even if Loma were overthrown and the CIA’s plan to prevent Mendesa taking his place failed, if Nzinga had a Marxist agenda and Cordeiro was close to her, wouldn’t that place them too close to Mendesa and his Russian backers for comfort? Or if that was too far-fetched, then what about the Chinese? They were way ahead of either the Russians or the Americans in terms of economic and commercial investment and influence in this part of the world. A Marxist government in Kazunda might suit them nicely.
‘We need to get a handle on this,’ he said, more to himself than anyone. He could see what was already a debacle turning into a full-blown disaster, with him at the heart of it.
‘I don’t see why this should be such a problem,’ said Mariana sharply. ‘Don’t we want stability and peace here for the people of Kazunda? Isn’t that more important than all your political games?’
‘Sure, sure. You’re right.’ He patted her knee affectionately - condescendingly I thought. We all wanted peace and stability for Kazunda, but what was worrying Grant was how he was going to explain to his masters in Langley why he’d allowed power to be handed over to a Marxist tribal princess and her rogue-CIA boyfriend who, if he’d taken up the Marxist ideology himself, was somewhat at odds with the US way of thinking.