A Holiday to Die For

by Marion Leigh

‘Just one problem, cara. I didn’t do any shopping.’

  Chapter

  37

  The track stretched into the distance like a ruler bisecting the sandy plain. The vegetation at first was sparse then, as they neared a dry river bed, stunted bushes appeared where the roots had burrowed their way to a little water.

  ‘This isn’t a 4 x 4,’ Carlo said. ‘We can’t cross that river bed.’

  Petra studied the terrain. ‘The track goes to the left, over there.’

  For a while the track continued more or less along the course of the river then it began to bear away and climb. Rocky outcrops, kopjes according to Carlo, appeared.

  ‘If you keep your eyes peeled, you might see a klipspringer – rock jumper in Afrikaans – but I’m not going to stop. I don’t want to get stuck. These tracks are tricky.’

  The track twisted between two kopjes. Petra didn’t detect any movement among the smooth grey rocks. As they came down the hill, she spied a cloud of dust in the distance.

  ‘Looks like something’s coming towards us!’

  ‘So I see. Hold on!’ He turned sharply onto a smaller track leading back in the direction of the river. An illegible sign hung obliquely on one nail from a weathered wooden post.

  The vehicle on the other track slowed to a crawl.

  Carlo crept along for another fifty metres then stopped. ‘We can’t risk going any further. Let’s brazen this out.’

  The driver of the other vehicle, a white Higher Ground van, pulled up where the two tracks converged. He got out and came jogging towards them.

  As he approached, Petra saw that he was spindly and light-skinned. He had a buzz cut and was wearing black jeans with a black T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a rock group she had never heard of. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who.

  ‘What are you doing? This is private property.’ He looked them up and down with pale unfriendly eyes.

  ‘There’s supposed to be a campsite down by the river. I thought that might be its sign,’ Carlo said.

  ‘Well it isn’t. There’s no campsite here. And you can’t just set up anywhere you like.’

  Petra looked pointedly at Carlo. ‘We must have taken a wrong turn. Bad navigation on my part,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll turn round and follow you out.’

  The skinny guy appraised her. ‘All right, but mind what I say. This is private property. Stay off it or there’ll be trouble.’

  After a bit of manoeuvring, they were facing the other way. The Higher Ground driver jogged back to his van and they lurched along behind him.

  ‘OK, so we follow him back to the road. Then what?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘How about doing a little food shopping so that we’re self-sufficient?’ Petra said sweetly. ‘Then we can come back later.’

  ‘You’re determined to do this, aren’t you?’

  ‘You bet. That guy really didn’t want us on the property. There has to be a reason.’

  ‘Other than trespassing you mean?’

  They followed the van onto the paved road and drove for several kilometres until they reached a small town. At the main intersection in the centre of town stood a white church. The van turned into the parking lot in front of the church and the driver got out. He locked the van and went inside.

  ‘Not someone I’d have thought went to confession,’ Petra commented.

  A short way past the intersection they found a small shopping precinct with a grocery store and a liquor store. In just over half an hour they had enough basics for the next forty-eight hours, including a couple of bottles of red wine and some ice for the ice box.

  ‘I’m going to walk back to the church,’ Petra said.

  Carlo waved his hand in a Mediterranean gesture abdicating responsibility. ‘Just be careful. This isn’t Rome.’

  ‘I’m a tourist, remember,’ Petra answered, putting on her sunhat and waving her camera. ‘Anyway, I might be safer here than in Rome. If the van’s still there, I want to take a picture.’

  Petra walked along the road in the direction of the church. Before she reached the parking lot, the white van drove out and passed her on the other side of the road. It continued past the shopping precinct for a short way then turned left into a forecourt where there appeared to be a number of other shops and businesses. She walked rapidly back to Carlo who was waiting in the camper.

  Carlo set off across the road on foot and entered the forecourt. The van was at the far end. He squeezed between two parked cars and made his way towards it, staying on the covered walkway close to the shop frontages. Ten minutes later he was back with Petra.

  ‘Our young man is sitting on a bar stool, drinking and smoking with a bunch of buddies. The barmaid is showing him a good deal of cleavage and warmth.’

  ‘So he’s there for the duration?’

  ‘I’d say so. An hour or two certainly.’

  ‘Come on then. Let’s take a peek in the church on our way.’

  ‘Why do you want to do that?’

  ‘Gut, Carlo.’

  According to the notice board outside, it was a Dutch Reformed Church founded in 1840. The door was unlocked. Petra and Carlo stepped in expecting to find a priest or pastor, but no one was inside. The interior was plain with dark wooden pews and an altar covered in a white cloth with minimal embroidery. A cross stood on the altar but no silverware. For the size of the community, it was a large church. Carlo inspected the lectern and disappeared into a side chapel.

  Petra wandered back towards the door. In an alcove nearby was an impressive font. She caressed the cool green and white marble, recalling some of the Catholic churches she had visited in Italy in the days when she used to holiday there. She jumped as the latch on the door squeaked and began to turn.

  The woman who entered was as startled as Petra. She was wearing overalls and carrying a bucket and a mop.

  ‘My God! Are you one of them that’s having a baby baptized on Saturday?’

  ‘No way,’ Petra said, aghast.

  ‘Shame!’ The cleaner chattered on. ‘Four this Saturday and a new batch every three months, scrawny squawking little things. I wonder if they’re treated properly up there.’

  ‘Up where?’ Petra asked.

  ‘That community farm place, out along the old river. Never any men there, except the father of course.’

  ‘The father?’

  ‘Father Joe. He was pastor here then went off to Namibia.’ She sniffed. ‘All different when he came back with his wild hair and beard. Thinks he’s Jesus Christ, trying to save the world.’

  ‘Who thinks he’s Jesus Christ?’ Carlo asked as he sauntered up to them.

  ‘Father Joe,’ Petra said.

  Carlo raised his eyebrows. ‘Wears a black robe and sandals, I expect, and has a rope tied round his waist.’

  ‘You know him?’

  Carlo shook his head emphatically. ‘No, I’ve just seen lots of pictures.’

  Petra tugged at his sleeve. ‘Come on, Carlo. This lady needs to get on with her work, and we have a long way to go before we get to Springbok. Good luck with the baptisms!’

  Chapter

  38

  Petra filled Carlo in on what the cleaner had said.

  ‘Sounds like a sausage factory to me.’ He drove fast but by the time they reached the farm track the shadows were lengthening. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘I presume this pop-art creation has headlights.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t the kind of terrain you want to drive on at night.’

  ‘At least we’ll be able to see vehicles coming towards us.’

  ‘God help us if we do. We were warned off pretty strongly.’

  ‘Sometimes you’re chicken, Mercutio.’

  ‘Think up your excuses in advance, tesoro mio.’

  ‘Well if Fathe
r Joe turns out to be Father John, I can tell him how fascinated by his community outreach programmes I am.’

  Not long after passing the track where they had turned off earlier to avoid the Higher Ground van, they came to another junction. This time a narrow track led off to the left. It was deeply rutted and, in Carlo’s opinion, unsuitable for either the van or their camper.

  ‘Straight ahead or straight back? Your choice, Petra.’

  ‘You know the answer. I think I can see a gate. Give me a minute to find my binoculars.’

  Although the sun was low, Petra had a good view down the track. ‘Yes, there’s a gate in a tall fence. Then I can see trees and what looks like cultivation – could be vines or some type of vegetable. Definitely a farm.’

  ‘Any buildings?’

  ‘No. They must be farther away.’ She lowered the binoculars. ‘We can’t turn up in this contraption. We’ll have to hide it somehow and walk the rest of the way.’

  Carlo eyed the rutted track to the left. There was a stand of camelthorn at the bottom of a shallow slope. ‘If we get down there, we may never get back up, especially in the dark.’

  ‘We can camp there overnight and leave at first light.’

  ‘As I said …’

  ‘We’re wasting time. Let’s try it.’

  The slope wasn’t as hard to negotiate as Carlo had feared. Once they reached the bottom, he pulled in as far under the trees as he could.

  Petra opened the glove box and found an instruction sheet with a list of equipment. ‘There’s supposed to be a tarpaulin that can be rigged as an awning. We can throw that over the roof if it’s not colour-coordinated with the van.’

  They camouflaged the van as best they could and set off. There was a cattle grid at the gate and the fence was electric. Signs on the gate warned that it too was electrified. To temporarily turn off the power and open it, you needed a key to insert into a button.

  ‘OK,’ Petra said. ‘Why don’t we walk along the fence and find another way in, or at least get close enough to see the buildings?’

  ‘I knew this would be a mission.’

  In short order Petra began to wish she had hiking boots with her. The veldt was uneven and she was worried about snakes. The fence seemed to go on for miles. Then it took a turn and after a while joined a white wall. They followed the wall until it abutted a building. Over the wall they could see the grey slate roofs of several other white buildings.

  Dusk had already fallen. The compound was quiet. No crying babies. No barking dogs coming to investigate.

  ‘Give me a leg up, Carlo. I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Better if you give me a boost.’

  ‘You don’t know what Vicky Dunlin looks like. I do. Mrs. P. showed me a photo. Come on!’

  ‘You’ll hardly be able to see her in this light.’

  With Carlo’s less than enthusiastic help, Petra scrambled onto the top of the wall. She sat on it as best she could and supported herself against the side of the building, which looked like an old stable block.

  For a long while there was nothing. Then in the distance she heard voices. A light came on in a building on the far side of the compound. She tucked herself back into the corner between the wall and the building.

  In the centre of the courtyard was a well with a bucket hanging from a rope. Across the way a door opened. A young fair-haired woman in a short blue robe emerged and began to lower the bucket into the well. She turned the handle strongly but was heavily pregnant.

  ‘Next quarter’s batch,’ Petra murmured.

  Another girl came out of the building. Also heavily pregnant, she went to help the girl at the well. Together they carried the bucket full of water back into the building.

  Petra waited and watched. Carlo was becoming more and more impatient. Finally she realized they would have to go. If Vicky Dunlin was there, she wasn’t showing herself.

  ‘Are you satisfied?’ Carlo asked when they got back to the camper van after laboriously retracing their footsteps with the aid of the penlight on Petra’s key ring.

  ‘No, because I’m certain Vicky’s there, and I haven’t had a reply to the second email I sent Higher Ground from Scheherazade. Now we have to move on.’ Petra shot a sideways glance at Carlo, wondering whether to risk his wrath. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t consider going back there at dawn to take another look before we leave?’

  ‘Absolutely not. What would you do if you saw her? Go in with guns blazing and drag her out by the hair? From what you told me of her letter to Mrs. P., she joined the outreach programme because she wanted to help. It’s voluntary, Petra. So forget Miss Dunlin and concentrate on enjoying yourself. Have a glass of vino. That’ll help you relax.’

  Petra knew she was being unreasonable but couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was deeply wrong. The stable block at the compound was similar to the one pictured in the Higher Ground brochure. The two girls she had seen were white and pregnant. What the hell was going on? And while it was true Vicky had volunteered, she had also spouted platitudes like it being her destiny. Who could have influenced her that much?

  Carlo went to open the back of the van which housed the ice box, water tank, camping stove, kitchen gear, a small sink, and below it a storage area for groceries. For the first time, Petra took a good look at the interior of the camper. She knew that the benches and table inside folded down at night to make one large bed. All the 2-berth campers were similar, so she had accepted that as the price to pay for a self-drive safari holiday in Namibia.

  She peered in. Two lightweight sleeping bags brought by Carlo were rolled up on one of the benches. By day the Namib Desert could be scorching hot; at night the temperature plunged.

  ‘Where’s the toilet and the shower, Carlo?’

  There was a pregnant silence.

  ‘Don’t tell me … the 2ST had one …’

  This was more than she had bargained for.

  Chapter

  39

  Outside the window of the Higher Ground camper van, the Namib Desert rolled past. Henny had no eyes for the stony plains with the jutting mountains that formed one of the oldest deserts on earth, part of the ancient Gondwana continent. Yesterday’s blowout followed by the puncture in the spare tire had taught him a lesson that he swore he would never forget again. Driving the gravel roads required constant vigilance. He adjusted the visor to block out the fierce rays of the setting sun and slowed to stay clear of the cloud of dust that hid the car in front.

  The tire repairs had cost him time and money. They put the van out of commission and forced him to pay for overnight accommodation at the only lodge in the vicinity. The girls had been overjoyed. Egged on by Megan and Hilary, they got talking to a bunch of South African guys. Before he could re-exert any kind of control, they were having their photographs taken, sending messages home, and doing who knew what else.

  When they finally set off again, the group had insisted on visiting the fucking castle. Which meant that instead of being at the campsite in Sesriem where the six young women would be preparing dinner and taking care of laundry and other chores that needed doing, they were still on the road. A day and a half behind schedule.

  Thank God they would be meeting up with another group led by the Master as soon as they reached Etosha.

  Henny swerved to avoid a deep rut that he saw at the last minute. Bloody hell. Concentration was impossible with the incessant noise from the back. Six piercing voices, two more strident than the rest.

  Chapter

  40

  Sandrine Broselli ran down the steps in front of Halfman’s Drift Lodge wearing black leggings and a khaki shirt. The look on her face was priceless: first incredulity, then distrust and disdain. It mirrored the looks on the faces of many of the motorists they had passed during the long drive. She waved her arms and shouted at them to move on, the campsite was five kilometres
away in the Transfrontier National Park. Carlo saved the day by sticking his head out of the window and giving his best wolf whistle. Sandrine pulled herself up short and placed her hands on her hips. Petra collapsed with laughter. The wicked camper had its perks.

  The Brosellis’ lodge was built along the Orange River just west of the National Park. The décor was rustic chic: rough-hewn stone, thatched roofs, wooden beams, flagstone floors, whirring ceiling fans that reminded Petra of the huge mixers at the biscuit factory. As at the wine farm they accepted paying guests who came, Tony said, to take advantage of the opportunities for canoeing, rafting, fishing and hunting. In recent years, he had encouraged photographic visitors rather than the trophy hunters that liked to shoot the oryx and other antelope. Even so, there were plenty of animal heads on the walls. And Petra suspected Sandrine would not say no to organizing the occasional wedding at the lodge. Anything to keep the coffers full.

  As soon as Petra and Carlo had had a chance to clean up, Tony offered to take them on a tour of the property. He seemed more relaxed than he had been at Vredehof.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Petra said, ‘but why is it called Halfman’s Drift?’

  ‘Uncle Tony will show us later,’ Carlo answered. ‘Trust me, you’ll be amazed.’

  First they toured the side of the property that bordered the river. They stopped at an overlook where brilliant blue kingfishers darted from the cliffs.

  ‘This is the longest river in South Africa. It rises in the Highlands about a hundred and fifty kilometres from the Indian Ocean and runs more or less westward to the Atlantic, bringing all manner of things with it,’ Tony lectured. ‘Never underestimate the power of those waters. They’ve carved this land and will continue to do so.’ Below them, the river was a brown torrent.

  ‘Does it ever dry up?’

  ‘Not completely, but in very dry years it might not reach the sea. Because it flows along the southern edge of the Namib Desert, evaporation is huge. The delta is a mass of sandbars. You’ll see how quickly the terrain changes between here and the ocean,’ he added.