The Delta

by Tony Park

  ‘Deal. Jim, Gerry, get those cases loaded on to the trolley,’ she barked at the men. ‘You, stay away from that, it’s valuable.’

  Sonja smiled as she saw the porter shake his head and turn his back on the Americans. The pilot ushered them across the runway, at a trot to avoid a Cessna hurrying past to make its departure slot. On the edge of the taxiway a white pilot strained as he single-handedly pushed his aircraft up to a fuel bowser. Sonja wondered how many people were diced by propellers here each year.

  The terminal had grown in her absence, as had much of the town, judging by the sprawl she’d seen from the air on approach. The building was now two storeys, brick, and bustling with people dressed in floppy safari hats and khaki ensembles. There was a menagerie of animal-print scarves and puggarees and a jumble of languages in the stuffy room. The tourists reminded her of a herd of wildebeest. She was glad to break free of the crowd, and the film people, if only for a few minutes.

  She walked across the road from the airport entrance gate to the blue-and-white painted Natlee shopping and office complex. As the TV crew’s guide she was also doubling as their driver and Cheryl-Ann had told her the keys to the rented vehicle would be at the Mack Air office.

  Sonja opened the office door and paused for a second, with eyes closed, to savour the chilled air. When she opened them, she saw a weathered face she remembered well. The blue eyes were framed by racoon white patches left by his sunglasses.

  He stared at her, from over the shoulder of a woman sitting at a desk.

  ‘Laurens?’

  ‘Sonja? Is that you?’

  She nodded. He walked around the desk, took her hand and kissed her cheek. He kept hold of her hand for a few seconds. ‘My god, you were just a girl last time I saw you.’

  ‘I was eighteen, Oom Laurens.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t have to call me uncle any more.’

  ‘Why not, you’re still old enough.’

  ‘You always were a cheeky girl. But, yes, we’re all getting old. Hey, I saw your father about a month ago. Up country, way up to hell and gone, near Linyanti. I was taking some mining people up there – at least they said they were miners.’

  Laurens was Dutch, and had been in Maun for thirty years or more. He’d come, like so many young Europeans, Australians, New Zealanders and South Africans, to accrue hours as a bush pilot and had ended up staying. He still looked as fit and handsome as she remembered him. She’d had a tiny crush on Oom Laurens before she and Stirling had discovered each other. ‘We’re not close, Laurens.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, but he’s changed, Sonja.’

  ‘I don’t care. Have you got a vehicle for me?’

  She knew it would be like this, especially in Maun, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. People knew her family’s history the same way they knew who was sleeping with whose partner. Per capita, the white community boasted too many testosterone-charged Alpha male hunters and safari guides, her mother used to say, as well as too many good-looking women, too much heat, and too much alcohol.

  ‘He’s off the booze. And he’s got himself a good woman.’

  ‘It’s a Land Rover, I believe, Laurens, booked under the name of Cheryl-Ann Daffen from Wildlife World. And there was nothing wrong with my mother.’

  He held up his palms in a show of apology. ‘My English … you know that’s not what I mean. Your mother was too good for him – everyone knew that, except Hans. He’s trying to make amends. For lots of things.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She was being as frosty as the office’s airconditioning and it finally sunk in.

  ‘Very well. But it’s lekker to see you again anyway, Sonja. Hannelie, do you have the keys to the Land Rover?’

  The woman was a pretty, thin redhead, and Sonja guessed she was three or four years younger than her. Hannelie opened her desk drawer. Laurens put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, my girl.’ He handed the keys to Sonja.

  Sonja raised her eyebrows. Over Hannelie’s head, Laurens smiled and winked. The old devil.

  ‘Good luck with those TV people,’ Laurens said.

  She opened the door and was met with a furnace blast of air. ‘Thanks, I think I’ll need all the luck I can get.’

  Hannelie caught her eye before she walked out and held up an Afrikaans gossip magazine. ‘That oke Sam Chapman looks hot, hey, and according to this, he’s dangerous, too.’

  Sonja closed the door and walked back to the desk. ‘Can I see?’ There was a picture of Sam Chapman on the front cover, holding up his right hand as though he was shielding himself from the glare of the photographer’s flash. Sonja mentally translated the Afrikaans into English. Clean cut Sam’s shame … star was jailed over friend’s death.

  ‘I haven’t finished reading the article, but it seems he was quite the poephol in his youth.’

  Sonja had no idea what the woman was talking about. ‘Can I take this?’

  ‘I haven’t finished reading it.’ Hannelie cast her green eyes up to Laurens.

  ‘Ag, give it to her, doll, I’ll buy you a new one.’

  The Bon Arrivee Cafe catered for tourists in transit and bush pilots in between flights or recovering from hangovers.

  The decor and memorabilia were all aviation related. The walls were painted sky blue and cloud white, a cool contrast to the hazy grey skies and gritty airborne dust outside. There were pictures of aeroplanes old and new, and reproduction sepia-toned press clippings about Charles Lindbergh and the Hindenburg disaster. A Cessna’s wings and ailerons hung over the brown wooden bar and scale models of jet airliners and military aircraft were gently buffeted in the turbulence of a fan that swirled the hot air from one end of the cafe to the other.

  The smokers were outside under the shade of umbrellas advertising a mobile phone company. Sonja stopped to chat to a grey-haired man in shorts and white shirt, who had just paid his bill and was on the way out as she arrived. Sam watched her, and noticed the way she threw back her head when she laughed. She was wearing the safari shirt and shorts he’d bought for her. She looked good in them. Damn good.

  A pretty waitress in an African print mini dress with pilot’s epaulettes on her narrow shoulders asked Sonja if she would like something to drink, as she joined them at the table.

  ‘I’ve already ordered for her,’ Cheryl-Ann told the girl. ‘Can we get served some time today, please, miss?’

  The waitresses lifted her nose and lowered it in an approximation of a nod and sashayed slowly away.

  ‘African time,’ Sonja said. ‘You’d better get used to it.’

  ‘People in this country are lazy,’ Cheryl-Ann said. ‘Everything takes ten times as long as it should.’

  Sonja shrugged. ‘By African standards, Botswana is a model democracy with low levels of unemployment. Its people are generally well off and the country has the best public health system on the continent. The local people here do things at their own pace.’

  ‘You make it sound like a virtue.’

  ‘It is what it is. You can’t rush around at a hundred miles an hour in this heat,’ Sonja said.

  Their coffees arrived and Sam blew on his latte. ‘Are you an apologist for Africa, Sonja?’

  ‘No way. All I’m saying is that you can’t assume that what goes in LA or New York goes in Maun, or even Gaborone or Johannesburg. The west has been trying to impose its ways, its values, its religion and its timetables on Africa for centuries, but it’s made precious little progress in converting anyone.’

  ‘What about religion?’

  Sonja nodded. ‘Most people in southern Africa would call themselves Christian, but many of those people would still visit their local sangoma – what you would call a witchdoctor – if they want to lay a curse on someone or have one lifted.’

  ‘What about the crime and corruption?’ Sam asked. ‘I think I read somewhere that more people die in gun crimes in Johannesburg each year than are killed in Iraq.’

  ‘That’s probably right
, but you’ve just highlighted what’s wrong with the developed world’s perception of Africa.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘You think,’ she went on after sipping her coffee, ‘of Africa as a “place”, a single entity. Even one of your vice-presidential candidates thought the continent of Africa was a country.’

  ‘Embarrassing, but true,’ Cheryl-Ann said.

  ‘South Africa and South Africans have no more in common with Kenya and the tribes who live there, than, say North Americans and Colombians. South Africa’s problem is crime; Botswana’s may be that its people lack the get-up-and-go needed to capitalise on their wealth; and a succession of Kenyan governments have squandered the country’s natural wealth through corruption and mismanagement in the decades since independence. Zimbabwe showed what can go wrong – anywhere in the world – if one man and one party run a country for too long, and then do whatever it takes to maintain their grip on power. Tribalism rears its ugly head all over the continent – look at the genocide in Rwanda, for example.’

  ‘Lots of problems,’ Sam said. He was surprised to hear Sonja speak at length – but he’d obviously touched on a sore point.

  ‘Ja, sure, but things such as accountability in government, effective crime control and even the acceptance of the need for a free and fair media weren’t always a given in the west.’

  ‘So, basically, the whole world is fucked,’ said Jim, the Australian, grinning over his cappuccino.

  Sonja ignored his comment. ‘South Africa has first world infrastructure, Botswana has peace and stable government, Zimbabwe is the most fertile country in Africa, and Kenya and Tanzania have wildlife paradises foreigners will pay a fortune to see. There is hope for Africa, but the continent still needs time to develop – not only roads and power stations but ideals, such as justice, integrity, honesty and equality. It took you Americans a revolution, a civil war and the human rights movement to get to the stage where you can have a coloured man in the Oval Office.’

  Sam leaned back on his bar stool and studied her. She looked away from them and sighed, as though she regretted wasting the breath and time it took to educate a bunch of spoilt foreigners. When she glanced back at him he saw her green eyes glowing, like a cat’s, as if daring him to disagree with her. What she’d said, however, made perfect sense.

  Sonja put down the rolled magazine she’d been carrying and nodded to the mountain of camera gear and their personal baggage, which had claimed an entire corner of the cafe. ‘We’d better get that lot loaded. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’

  Sam drained his latte and started to stand when he saw the cover of the magazine. He didn’t understand the writing, but he recognised the photo of himself. Rather than hiding from the photographer, as the pose implied, he’d actually been brushing a fly away from his face when the picture was taken, but it had fitted the story so perfectly that it had been syndicated around the world when the latest bit of gossip about him became public. He was sure the story was about him and David. He slumped back in his seat.

  Sonja lowered her cup and saw his reaction. ‘I didn’t know how famous you were. I haven’t read it,’ she picked up the magazine and passed it across the table to him, ‘and I don’t need to.’

  He shook his head. ‘Keep it. You might get a laugh out of it. If it’s the same as the English-language edition of that magazine,’ he recognised the masthead now, ‘then enough of it is true to make me glad we’re filming in Africa right now and not London or LA where the paparazzi would be in overdrive.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll read it. They have stringers even in Africa, you know.’

  ‘I guess. But hopefully not where we’re going.’

  ‘We’re on our way to Namibia, the same country where Brad and Angelina thought they could have their baby in private.’ Sonja stood, then grabbed the handle of the closest black carrying case and started to lift it.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ said Rickards.

  ‘I can lift it, even though I am a woman.’

  He moved to her and wrapped his fingers around hers, forcefully taking the weight of the case from her. She was close to elbowing him in the solar plexus when he said, ‘I’m sure you can bench press one-eighty, love, but it’s my camera and nobody messes with it. OK?’ He glared at her. She let go, but held his gaze defiantly.

  They loaded the Land Rover and climbed aboard. It was a stretched version of the venerable Defender, the one-hundred-and-thirty-inch wheelbase version, with an extended passenger cab that gave a third row of seats. Cheryl-Ann took the front passenger seat, and Sam and Jim were in the middle row. Gerry didn’t get the third bench to himself, however, as the filming equipment cases spilled over from the cargo area onto the seat next to him. Their personal backpacks, along with tents and camping gear, were all stored on a roof carrier, which Sonja secured under a cargo net made of stout nylon webbing.

  Sonja was sweating freely by the time she started the turbo diesel engine. Cheryl-Ann fiddled with the airconditioning controls, but Sonja knew from past experience it wasn’t worth the woman’s time trying to coax anything more than a lukewarm breath from the vents. ‘Better to open your window.’

  Cheryl-Ann ignored her at first, but changed her mind before they had driven less than a kilometre, to the Spar supermarket. ‘OK,’ Sonja said, swivelling in her seat so the rest of them could hear her, ‘I understand you’re eating in the restaurant at the camp where we’re staying tonight, but if you want any food or drinks for the road, now is the time to get them. We’ve got about four hundred kilometres to drive and, short of an emergency, I’m not planning on stopping.’

  ‘Jawol!’ Rickards needed no further prompting. He climbed out and the others filed after him.

  Once the others had left Sonja got out of the Land Rover. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her and took the Glock from the cubby box between the two front seats and slipped it into the waistband of her shorts, in the small of her back. She pulled her bush shirt over the pistol and walked to a small tree and stood in its shade, watching the vehicle. She didn’t even want to think how much the camera gear was worth, let alone whatever they had stored in their packs.

  A dust devil tore down the street, sandblasting half a dozen young backpackers who had just climbed down from an overland tour truck. Sonja smiled as they pulled T-shirts over their faces and spat dirt. Welcome to Maun, she thought. A mangy donkey walked past and brayed with laughter.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ a voice said behind her.

  She turned and checked her watch at the same time. It was five after twelve, though the African man wore no watch. He might have been forty, but he might also have been sixty. His breath reeked of beer and the whites of his eyes were yellowed.

  ‘I am looking for a job, madam. I can be a gardener.’

  Sonja greeted him in Tswana, adding, ‘Sorry, I don’t have a garden.’ She looked away from him, back at the Land Rover, in case he was the decoy.

  Two new Land Cruiser Prados with blue and white Gauteng Province GP numberplates pulled up next to the Land Rover. The South African cars were festooned with every camping gadget in last year’s Outdoor Warehouse Christmas catalogue. Sonja was glad for the arrival of some competition for any thieves in the area.

  ‘I do not speak Tswana,’ the man said in English, even though she had ceased looking at him. ‘South African people have trouble telling the difference between our peoples, but thank you for trying.’

  With the threat reduced and no suspects in sight Sonja turned and lowered her sunglasses. She hadn’t paid enough attention to him first time around. He was too dark, too black, to be Tswana. He looked like he came from the hot humid river valleys to the north, not the sun-scorched wastes of the Kalahari. He was a few inches shorter than she and solidly built. ‘I’m not South African. Are you Lozi?’

  ‘Sorry, madam. We are both quick to jump to conclusions. We are human. Yes, I am Lozi. I speak Lozi or English, but my German is very bad. Whe
re are you from?’

  It was a good question and Sonja knew she should not get into a conversation with a drunk. However, if he was Lozi he was probably from the Caprivi Strip, so given the job she was about to undertake her interest was piqued. She formed her answer carefully. ‘I was born in South-West Africa, but my family had to leave. We weren’t welcome there any more.’

  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.’