‘That’s right,’ George said and nodded absently. ‘Well, nearly right,’ he added with a quiet laugh. ‘There is a gold mine, right enough. But there’s no diamond mines in Ghana. It’s diamond fields they have out here. Surface diamonds. Alluvial diamonds, to give them their proper name. The natives dig them out of the ground.’
‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘You mean they just dig about and find diamonds?’
‘Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ George admitted. ‘But basically that’s it. They just go out and dig.’
‘Can anyone dig for them? Could I have a go?’
He laughed at my keenness, but shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The diamond business is government controlled, part of the national resources. Anyway, they’re not the sort of diamonds you would recognise. It’s industrial diamonds they have out here, not the polished gemstones you see in a jeweller’s window.’
I felt a little deflated at this news, but was still intent on investigating the possibilities I had dreamed about. Industrial diamonds might not be as interesting or glamorous as gemstones, but they still had a high market value and I wanted to see the setup for myself.
‘But I can go and see the place, can’t I?’
‘Of course you can,’ George agreed. ‘Not that there’s a lot to see. Bit like looking over an oversized shale pit.’
‘Are they very far away?’ I asked.
‘The nearest fields are in the Tarkwa district, about forty miles north of here. Mind you,’ he added, ‘the road is a bit rough once you leave the coast. Not much more than a track, as it happens.’
‘I’d really like to see them,’ I persisted, not allowing George’s pessimism to put me off. ‘Do you think I could find them on my own?’
‘You couldn’t miss them,’ he told me. ‘Once you reach Tarkwa there’s nothing else. Why don’t you take a trip up there tomorrow? I would go along with you myself, but quite honestly I really don’t fancy making that particular trip again. I’ll get Sam to prepare a packed lunch and a few bottles of beer for you.’
‘Good!’ I said. Terrific, I thought. Diamonds, industrial or otherwise, suddenly held a great attraction for me. Surely there would be an earner somewhere in this. I happily began making plans for the next day, my mind overflowing with tantalising possibilities.
Chapter Sixteen
All That Glitters
By nine o’clock the following morning, I was in the car heading for Takoradi and the road that would take me to the diamond fields. As George had promised, Sam had prepared me a packed lunch with a few bottles of beer to wash it down. I was feeling quite content as I drove along, dreaming about diamond fields and the possibilities that lay just forty miles ahead. I drove through town, turning right on to the Tarkwa Road just before the airport, then settled down to enjoy a drive in the brilliant morning sunshine. I was barely one mile out of town when the badly maintained metalled surface disappeared altogether and I found myself wrestling with the steering wheel as I bounced and skittered from pothole to pothole like a ping pong ball in a cloud of dust. Even with my speed reduced to less than fifteen miles per hour, it didn’t take me long to realise why George had not been keen to join me on the trip.
After more than three hours of rocking and rolling, surrounded by a constant cloud of red dust, I was almost on the point of turning back when I spotted a lopsided road sign telling me that I had arrived at my destination. It should have been a relief, but when I saw the single-storey, run-down buildings that made up the town of Tarkwa, my spirits sagged. Surely, I thought, nothing of value could possibly come out of this place? However, if nothing else I desperately needed a drink and I kept my eyes open for a bar or café.
At last I spotted the familiar Coca Cola sign and pulled up in front of a small roadside bar, parking my car behind a dust-covered jeep that was already sitting there. It was a relief to get inside into some shade and I was surprised to see a white man sitting at a table. When he looked up and gave me a friendly, welcoming nod, I ordered two beers and went and sat beside him, sliding one of the beers across the table in his direction. The guy accepted the drink, smiling his thanks and seemed pleased to have some company.
After we had introduced ourselves and started chatting, it transpired that the guy, Walter Ellis, originated from Leeds and was working in Tarkwa as a maintenance engineer on the diamond fields. Over another couple of beers, I told him about my ‘job’ in Takoradi and how I had driven up for the day to see the diamond fields. It seemed to amuse Walter that anyone would actually want to see round the place, but he offered to take me back with him and do the honours. ‘Not that there’s a lot to see,’ he warned, as we walked out of the bar together.
I trailed behind him in my own car; avoiding the thickest of the dust cloud the heavy tyres of his jeep threw up. After about five minutes, Walter turned through a gateway into an area of barren-looking earth that was almost black in comparison to the red surface I had been driving on all morning. We rattled along an uneven dirt track for another few miles through a moonscape of desolate, ravaged land, its surface gouged and scraped into long shallow troughs and deep valleys where the diamond-bearing gravel had been stripped clean by man’s continuous quest for the precious stones hidden inside.
Eventually, after a bone-shaking ride along the deeply rutted track, we pulled up outside some dingy-looking buildings. Walter waited until I had parked alongside him then, after picking up a fat-tyred rough-terrain vehicle, he gave me a guided tour of the diamond-extraction operation at Tarkwa. It would be an understatement to say that I was disappointed. In my innocence, I had expected to see diamonds glinting and sparkling on the ground and in my mind’s eye my pockets were already bulging with precious stones. In reality, all I could see for miles around was barren, dark, gravelly earth, every stone and pebble looking just that – like stones and pebbles. As for diamonds, well, Walter had told me in the bar that they had to process tons of earth to garner a few of the things. I had heard his words, but being an eternal optimist I had interpreted ‘diamond fields’ in my own way.
There was no doubt that Walter knew his stuff as he showed me squads of sweat-streaked Africans digging into the surface soil. He explained that as each area became worked out, the security fence was extended and the necessary equipment moved into place on the fresh ground. Workers would then dig deep into the ground, shovelling the earth into scurrying dump trucks that tipped it on to the nearest rumbling spur of a long, snake-like, conveyer belt. From there the raw ore trundled slowly across the landscape to disappear inside the diamond-extraction plant, close to where we had parked our cars.
We climbed out of our vehicle and stood on one of the conveyer belt’s inspection platforms to watch the excavated earth trundle slowly past. It just looked like crushed slate to me. I was definitely unimpressed. I had set out on my tour full of interest and optimism, but that had faded as Walter led me around.
Uninterested now, I watched the dross drift by, listening politely enough as he explained things. But as far as I was concerned, I might as well have been touring a gravel pit in Essex. Even when we made our way back to the processing building, there was nothing worthwhile to see. The loaded conveyer belt simply disappeared behind a screen into a secure area where the diamonds were extracted and taken to the sorting room for grading and weighing. The conveyer belt moved on through the security area to dump the looted soil back on to the earth’s pockmarked surface, where men driving bulldozers scooped it back into place like make-up artists repairing a ravaged face.
I finally got to see some of the elusive diamonds when, on Walter’s request, a security guard unlocked a door and allowed us to pass through into the secure area. ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to see the finished product,’ Walter said as we stepped into the brightly lit sorting room.
At first sight it looked a bit like a laboratory to me. Everything was white – the walls, the tiled floor, the Formica table, even the overalls of the four men intently going about thei
r work, grading and weighing the pickings from the field. Walter walked over to the table and spoke a few words to one of the men who smiled and handed him a small metal tray. ‘There you are,’ he said, holding the tray out for my inspection. ‘This is what it’s all about.’
‘These are diamonds?’ I was more than surprised. Even after seeing the workings and realising that my ideas had been radically wrong, I still expected the finished product to look more impressive than the spoonful of coarse grey grit being held out for my inspection.
‘You’re looking at some of the highest-quality industrial diamonds in the world there,’ Walter informed me, shaking the tray a little so that the largest grains ‘floated’ to the surface of the small heap. ‘Hardest substance known to man,’ he went on. ‘Machine-tool makers, oil-drill manufacturers, even gemstone cutters themselves take all we can produce – and come back for more. It takes a diamond to cut a diamond, you know.’
I nodded my head, listening, but not really paying attention. My bubble had finally, irretrievably burst. Half an hour later, after a final cold beer from the fridge in Walter’s office, I was on my way back to Takoradi, still shaking my head at my naivety. But even though my visit to Takoradi had been disappointing, I was still glad I had made the trip. Otherwise I would be wondering to this day whether or not I had missed out on a great opportunity: if there is one truism in the world of villainy, it is that you never know when the Big One will turn up.
The drive back to Takoradi was hot, dry and dusty, with nothing to occupy my mind other than dodging potholes. Then, ever the optimist, I remembered the gold mine at Obuasi and the fact that George had promised to arrange a weekend there for us. The mine manager was a friend and they exchanged visits three or four times a year for a change of golf course if nothing else. Diamonds forgotten and dreaming of gold, I pressed on in a happier frame of mind.
I had settled into a routine at Takoradi by now. George was always up early and away down to his office by seven in the morning; I would stay in my bed until about half past eight when Sam would bring me in a cup of tea and a few biscuits on a tray. After a shower I would be served breakfast and by ten o’clock I was ready to wander down to the cocoa mill and do my daily ‘tour’.
It was an experience for me to be treated by the workers as if I were someone important, but I am sure that most of them found my behaviour rather strange for a white man. I have always been a gregarious, outgoing person and I chatted away to the labourers just exactly as I would with my workmates in the old shipyard days. Every now and again I would give a hand to someone struggling with a loaded trolley, or help to shift a heavy sack of cocoa beans about. I even surprised the blacksmith in the repair shop by picking up a set of tongs and demonstrating my welding skills. I don’t think they knew quite what to make of me. I’d end up in George’s office in time for a cup of tea, pass half an hour or so chatting with him, then wander about the outer office annoying the giggling female staff.
My only real job each morning was to drive into town and pick up the mail from the company’s PO box at the central post office. This took me about an hour and after I had handed the mail into the office I was free to return to town for a few beers and pass my time exploring Takoradi, or lounging about the pool at the sports club.
Sometimes I would perch myself at a bar where I could watch the incredible hustle, bustle and colour of the huge circular marketplace in the town centre. On these occasions a group of small, solemn-faced children would inevitably gather to stare with innocent wonder at this strange white man. I felt like a king when beautiful, doe-eyed little girls, index fingers to chin, executed perfect curtsies, while serious-faced small boys puffed out their chests and saluted like soldiers in front of me. All this in return for the copper penny pieces I handed them. Small price for the pleasure I got from seeing their chubby black faces break into huge banana smiles, before they scampered back to their waiting mothers. When I had finished my couple of beers, I would take a stroll round the market stalls, always finding it a lively experience. The Ghanaians loved their loud ‘hi-life’ music, constantly swaying to its infectious, pulsating rhythm. I’m sure that if I really searched my mother’s house today I would come across a couple of the ‘hi-life’ records I bought then.
Between my factory walk, collecting the mail and visiting the town, my day was pretty well filled. Now and again I would take a ride on a half-decent road bike I had found in Mr Sloot’s garage, amazing the passengers on the trundling ‘mammy wagons’ I often kept pace with. No Tour de France leader got more cheers than I got from them. When I suddenly thumped into a spoke-bending pothole, their good-natured laughter rose even louder than the cheers.
Around three o’clock I would collect George and we would head to the sports club for a round of golf. I was never a good golfer, not treating the game seriously enough according to George. But I quite enjoyed myself, strolling round the nine-hole course as if I were a champion.
Passing the time in the evenings was another matter. Except for a once-weekly projector-style film show at the club, I found myself spending most of my evenings sitting in the bungalow with George drinking beer. I had rapidly discovered that drinking was an inescapable feature of life in Ghana. At first I wondered why a small table stood at the side of every armchair. I soon learned that they were there solely to hold drinks. The moment we came through the door in the evening, Sam would appear with two large bottles of Heineken and two tumblers and would place them on the tables. We would each take our chair and automatically pour the beer. It was as routine as kicking off our shoes and, except for the film show or a special night at the club, that would be us for the night.
I asked George several times about going out, but he told me that, other than the sports club, there was nowhere else for Europeans to go.
‘What about the bars in town?’ I asked.
He told me that it wasn’t the done thing for Europeans to frequent the local bars. It was considered too dangerous. We could be mugged just for the shoes on our feet, never mind anything else, according to him.
Well, I never had been one for paying attention to what was or was not ‘the done thing’ and one night I told George I was going into town. He didn’t seem too happy about it and refused to come with me, once again telling me it was dangerous. Well, I didn’t mind keeping him company, but I certainly wasn’t going to sit in the house every night because he was scared to go out and I told him so. In the end, I went off into town on my own.
At first I was a little wary, but then I thought about the men in the cocoa mill and all the different, friendly people I’d met during the day at the marketplace. I had never once felt the least bit threatened and everybody had always made me feel welcome. I realised that this talk of danger was all in George’s narrow, clerical mind. And besides, I thought, I’m a villain myself!
As it turned out, all George’s fears were groundless. I had a great time and ended up spending the night with a beautiful black girl. I admit I did hesitate at first when Comfort (a lovely name) invited me home with her. But she was so lovely and such friendly, easygoing company that it was difficult not to give in. Especially since it had been nearly two months since I had enjoyed the intimate company of a female. I had been getting a little desperate in that department, to be honest. Much to my surprise, Comfort’s small apartment was as modern as any I had ever been in, with plenty of flowers and family photographs decorating her smartly furnished living room. And I certainly didn’t expect the modern double bed that met my eyes when she led me into her very comfortable bedroom.
She told me later that her last boyfriend had been a white man who had recently gone home and it had been he who had helped her with the apartment. I was really impressed. When Comfort first invited me home I had visualised a more ‘native’ set-up in her house. I couldn’t have been further from the truth and it taught me a lesson about jumping to conclusions.
As for danger, well – if sexual exhaustion was dangerous, I was in serious trou
ble …
Needless to say, once ensconced in Comfort’s huge bed I was reluctant to leave and it was next morning before I arrived back at the bungalow. What a carry-on! You’d have thought I had been murdered or something. When I blithely turned into the drive, I was met by a deputation of George, Mr Sloot and George Merriman (the engineer). I felt like a naughty lad, as George demanded to know where I had been all night and what I had been up to.
There I was, a man of twenty-six, making up a story about getting too drunk to drive and falling asleep in the car. I felt really stupid and don’t know why I didn’t just tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business. Actually, Mr Sloot didn’t seem to care at all; I think he was really more concerned about calming George down. The other George just gave me a knowing leer and went off, as he said, ‘down t’mill’.
Of course, George had only been worried about my welfare and I should have been grateful for his concern. I apologised and agreed that my behaviour had been very inconsiderate. I still didn’t admit I had stayed the night with a black girl, so I made up a story, partly true, about meeting a crowd of Dutch seamen and ending up too drunk to drive home. With the drink and the humid heat of the night, I had climbed into the car and fallen asleep
It was shortly after that first night out that George finally organised a trip to the Ashanti gold mine at Obuasi. I was quite excited about it and couldn’t wait for the weekend to come.
Obuasi was only about a hundred miles north on the Takoradi–Kumasi railway line and I was surprised when George told me he had booked a sleeping cabin on the Friday night ‘express’. But when we boarded the train and it set off on its journey, I soon found out why he had booked the sleeper. It was still daylight when the little puffer engine steamed slowly out of Takoradi station. I kept waiting for it to speed up, but no, our train just kept chugging away at no more than fifteen miles per hour. I remember looking out of the carriage window, watching palm trees drifting gradually by as we slowly chugged along. Several times I saw dark figures leap from the rattling carriages and disappear into the dense undergrowth at the side of the track. Every now and again, as if to compensate for the deserting passengers, I would spot ghostly figures darting from the greenery to clamber aboard the dawdling train. With three or four routine halts at isolated, unlit stations and a two-hour layover in a siding to allow southbound trains through on the single-track line, the hundred-mile trip took a total of eleven hours.
Armed and Dangerous--This is the True Story of How I Carried Out Scotland's Biggest Bank Robbery Page 16