Then, some months later, you pull out a piece of crumpled old card from an inside pocket. A business card from a plastics company with an address in Montevideo, Uruguay and a handwritten telephone number scribbled on the back. It all comes flooding back; the next time you're in Uruguay you're to get in touch. Then you think hard to remember if you offered your hospitality cards in return. That's God's way of reminding you — don't network with strangers in this business. This time, I didn't.
The flight was good so I slept most of the way till the 747's descent woke me up. Unexpected pain was coming from the inside of my mouth. The change in pressure had popped a filling out of a lower molar. As well as nursing a severe hangover (which hadn't gone away, not even after I'd forced down a litre of water later into the flight) I now had to contend with toothache and the acidic bile building up in my mouth. I was thankful that the seat next to me was empty, so I could suffer the descent in silence without some gawking passenger leaning across me trying to look out of the window as we landed.
The aircraft touched down. I was now in Malawi, a country neighbouring Mozambique. No international or local civilian flights would fly into my ultimate destination, so Malawi was to be my first port of call. I was to spend three days there before being driven south to the Malawi Airforce base at a place called Zomba. This was where the team I was joining got regular resupplies and sometimes the occasional mail drop, or so I was briefed.
I hadn't read up on the political climate of Malawi. There hadn't seemed much point. All I knew was that it was a fairly stable place with strong ties with the Brits (whom they liked) and was ruled by some old guy, a Dr Banda, who had been in power for years. That's all I really needed to know — my business was in Mozambique, not here in luxurious Malawi.
There was no arrangement for anyone to meet me at the airport just outside Malawi's capital, Lilongwe. Instructions I'd been given back in London told me to make my way south by whatever means and book into the Bounty Hotel in Blantyre, the next biggest city in Malawi. If I could make contact with the LO, a Mr John Ball, then all the better.
Once through passport control I made my way across to the baggage claim. The airport looked quiet tidy, basic but fairly well organised; not at all what I expected. Passport control was easy, no queues and no questions. If I'd been asked the purpose of my visit, my cover story was that I was working for a giant multinational company, which to be fair was not far from the truth. Their head office in Blantyre was to assist the team with whatever administrative support we required, from sorting out cross-border flights with the Malawi Airforce to booking hotels on R and R, dealing with any medical problems and aiding our resupply of fresh rations. In fact, all sorts of things were expected of them.
At the time it didn't seem in any way sinister, and made quite good sense. As far as I understood from my brief back in London, this was essentially a quasi-sanctioned operation, but on a 'need-to-know' basis. I guessed that these long-term ex-pats were only too happy to help us. They would certainly be the people I would befriend when I got to Blantyre. Their local knowledge of the dos and don'ts, the safe places to drink and areas best left alone would be invaluable, probably even life-saving.
Baggage was now coming through on the makeshift carousel. There was only one in operation so I reckoned every flight's baggage would be chucked onto it. Still, I didn't expect to have trouble identifying my kit. All I had by way of luggage was a small bergen (carried by hand) and my old para bag, which I'd liberated from the Regiment, as hold luggage. Ten minutes later I spotted it. I always got everything in it I needed for trips. Once full and tied together with para cord and two or three bungees it looked more like a giant pumpkin, and one containing nothing of value. Anyway, if someone wanted to get into it for whatever reason, it would take them ages to unstrap it all. Any switched-on baggage thief would have gone for a more upmarket designer case, not my dark green, raglike affair.
There was no trouble locating a trolley usually found at airports, because there weren't any. So with luggage in my possession I proceeded through swing doors into the next part of the terminal. Here it was full of noise, human and mechanical. Most people I saw didn't appear to have any reason to be here. They all looked like locals who'd come in off the street for a chat with their mates. Most were sitting down on the floor in groups of three or four surrounded by primitive cooking stoves, brewing up. One saw me, said a quick one-liner to his mates, got up and came over.
'Hey man, what do you want?' he said.
A strange thing to say, I thought. I want naff-all from you, pal.
'Fuck all, mate. Now do yourself a favour and fuck off, will ya?'
I couldn't think of anything else to say. My answer had put him on his back foot and he turned and sat back down with his mates. They roared with laughter as he relayed his brief encounter. Had I missed something or was it just the Malawi sense of humour?
The terminal itself was little more than a single-storey brick building with the odd ceiling fan slowly jerking round to disperse the smell of those arrivals whose sweat seemed to hang in the air. The decor was 1930s, I guessed, sparsely furnished with a sort of red-oxide paint peeling from the walls. No 'paradise' pictures conveying what a lovely place I'd arrived at. The floor was covered with dog-ends and assorted rubbish, and what litter bins I could see were brimming to the top with days-old crap. I noticed the exit doors had been left open, which let the outside aroma waft in. Not pleasant. It reminded me of the smell of corpses, stagnant sewers and spent aircraft fuel all at once. When mixed with body odours and those of the bins, it made me retch. I made my way through the gathering crowd of African businessmen dressed in wrinkled safari suits holding on to cheap briefcases, and one or two African women sombrely standing behind their man, then I headed off in the direction of the Customs signs. Being a pretty basic airport it wasn't far to walk, I just had to follow my nose and head for the exit. I got in line and waited patiently.
Only one Customs desk was open, and they seemed to be stopping everyone and having a real good sniff inside most cases. This was going to take ages. As I approached I tried to recall if I had any 'naughties' with me. No, couldn't remember. Anyway, it was too late — I was next. I held out my British Passport so the officer could inspect it if he wanted, and to let him know that I wasn't a South African * . He looked me up and down as I approached. 'Hello,' I said. I couldn't ignore him because he was looking straight at me. He nodded. I wasn't stopped but felt his glare bearing down on my back as he waved me through. The only white man in the airport and he lets me go, I thought. Was this part of a bigger plot which I hadn't been briefed about? Any stranger in town carrying an army-style para bag and bergen surely stood out like a bulldog's bollocks.
As I moved towards the outside of the terminal, through hordes of traders offering me their wares — from what looked like barbecued snake on a stick to kiddies' toys made out of old tin cans — I got the feeling that I was being watched from every angle. I wasn't, though; it was paranoia creeping in. This was the first time I'd been out in what was deemed as the 'badlands' as a civilian, without the full force of the British Government behind me, so I guess I was feeling a little vulnerable: the new boy in town. It had crossed my mind that maybe the Customs man had a hunch that I was a mercenary or something, which, of course, I was not.
The word mercenary certainly, in my time, had connotations that derived from the Angola days, when the famous but deceased 'Colonel' Callan commanded a band of white (mainly British) 'crazed, bloodthirsty killers' — as they were described at the time. To some extent it is a misplaced word in my business, but the media always like to use it to describe the sort of people they think are working on any mission like the one I was about to embark on. Any job overseas, and in particular in Africa, that warranted an ex-pat to carry a gun, would be the trigger for them to use the word mercenary. In my business, the only people who get tarnished as mercenaries are those who wish to be called that, and make a point of telling people so, throug
h some misconception that it makes them look 'hard'. I certainly don't class myself as a mercenary and I object to the word strongly when it is used to describe what I do; nor do I class myself as 'hard'. I'm a professional security adviser, with a very limited knowledge of putting in house alarms — if you see what I mean!
I had no idea where I was going in the short term, but in these situations, if you ask someone, 'Where can I get a taxi?' or 'How far to the nearest hotel?' as soon as you come out of the terminal, then you're in big trouble. Putty in their hands. They'll see that you are a newcomer and that means fair game. This could cause trouble if you didn't want to part with lots of your hard-earned currency for, say, a five-minute taxi ride, or even a ten-metre porterage with your luggage to a taxi.
In the past I have made problems for myself by telling these rip-off merchants to 'Fuck off,' or asking sarcastically, 'Where's the airport, mate?' That comment tends to throw them off balance because they're not expecting such a bone question, but it can create a menacing situation. In the relative safety of the airport you can get away with it, but outside is a very different ball game. Most of these types have diddly-squat, so having a go at you is no big deal to them if you drop your guard. They see that as a weakness, then they're in. Actually, it's all a big con. Most of them are of a cowardly nature, so if you understand that, you will only be ripped off a little bit. That doesn't cause me much anxiety; it's all part of travelling. Someone — I think it was a Yank businessman — once said to me, 'Every time you land in a foreign country be prepared to lose 50 bucks because that's the minimum you're going to be ripped off for during your trip. It's an inescapable aspect of the fun of travelling.'
So I found a place to sit, dropped my bag, sat on it and pretended to get something out of my bergen, all the time keeping a wary eye on who and what was closing in. I was quite lucky, most of 'Fagin's' men were hovering around a crowd of well-dressed Moroccan-looking gentlemen who seemed like the Mafia from Marrakech. It was still early morning. The sun wasn't too bad but the humidity was up in the 80s, and I was sweating like crazy. What I really had to do was find a half-decent hotel with a phone, get myself cleaned up, and try and sort out this toothache, which was becoming a real bitch. My hangover was no problem in comparison.
I decided the best plan of action was to jump into one of the official-looking taxis, lined up alongside the terminal building. As I made my way to the front one, two lads aged about nine or ten came up to me, hands out-stretched, begging to be given something. They looked like street children, pretty grubby but not short of the odd bacon butty. I explained I had no money, no local currency.
'Hey Mister, give me something, you give me something,' they chanted undeterred. I looked down at them just about to tell them to scarper, then had second thoughts. I wanted to give them something but I didn't want to delay walking to the taxi. This may seem cynical, but it was only my travelling experience which had taught me to be so careful. I remember one time in Jamaica when the same situation occurred. I stopped to give a child a couple of pence when an older boy came from nowhere and tried to grab my bag. So today I was well switched-on to the old decoy method and kept on moving. At the same time I reached into the top of my bergen and pulled out a T shirt which I always kept handy for that very purpose. As I handed it over they both grabbed it, inspecting it as though they were about to buy it, probably to check if they'd seen the design on it before. As I left them behind they seemed happy enough. Well, it was clean!
Now I reached the taxi, a beat-up, sun-bleached mustard Datsun. The driver, a well overweight man in his 60s with fat forearms as thick as Humpty Dumpty's neck, and wearing the remains of a straw trilby, came round to help me with my bag.
'Sir, sir, please let me, let me take that, sir!' he sung with a big grimace.
Not a chance! I thought. 'I'm alright. I'll hang on to that, thank you very much,' I said quickly. I was still very wary, trying to stay on top.
As we pulled off I saw the two lads continuing to examine the T shirt. They looked up, saw me and waved excitedly.
Ten minutes out of the airport and all it had cost me was that T shirt. Looking at some of the sorts that were hanging around there, I reckoned it might have cost me a lot more if I hadn't been wearing a head on me like the Grim Reaper. Of course it was all an act, but it worked.
I told the driver to take me to the hotel, not knowing what hotel was what and not knowing if there was an Intercontinental or Meridian in Lilongwe. This prompted him to say, 'I take you to the best , sir.' The best, of course, nearly always means the most expensive. That was good enough for me because it meant a clean environment with, hopefully, a workable telephone and staff that could speak half-decent English — anyway, as long as it wasn't his brother's fleapit in some back alley, I didn't give a toss.
I didn't say much to the driver, just exchanged the usual niceties. He sensed that I was not in the talking mood. As the car bumped along, I was going through my options on getting down south. Usually I like to see a bit of the country so try either to hire a car and drive, or travel by coach, but this time I was still feeling like shit. I had to get some oil of cloves (or the Malawi equivalent) to deaden my tooth. I toyed with the idea about a trip to the local dentist, but dismissed the idea almost immediately: What was I thinking? I must have been suffering from a touch of sunstroke or something. A trip to the dentist was bad enough back in the UK — Christ knew what they'd be like over here. If I couldn't get any oil of cloves I would suffer big time. That was one of two command decisions I made on the spot. The other was that I opted to take the easy route down south — flying. So ten hours later I was back at the airport, waiting to catch an internal flight to Blantyre.
Whilst at the hotel I got cleaned up, actually managed to buy a small bottle of oil of cloves for the obvious, and touched base by phone with the team's LO, John Ball, an expat, who had spent almost 20 years in the country. He was going to meet me at Blantyre Airport and take me to my hotel.
Blantyre. 19.00hrs. There was something especially mystical about Malawi. I had felt it even more so when I arrived at this airport. The unspoken threat which I felt and guarded against in most Third World countries no longer seemed present. I put it down to the nature of the people. Everyone I'd met so far seemed to be content with their lives. They had a sense of humour and would laugh at anything. This feeling of being carefree was something I had to get a grip of fast if I was to enjoy my stay here. However, I had a pretty serious job to sort out, and that was in the back of my mind, constantly . To drop my guard before I started would not be professional. As the day unfolded I found the infrastructure of this country was, in fact, very good. For example, the taxi driver back in Lilongwe didn't try and rip me off or create a scene like a lot of them do. Also the telephone system seemed OK. A first-hit call to John Ball with no interference or getting cut off was a plus. From what I saw of the local markets they all seemed to have more than the basics on their stalls. The people were really friendly, not threatening as they can be in some parts of the world. The roads and buildings were all in a good state of repair and my internal flight took off and landed on time. What more could I ask for? I was starting to think I just might enjoy my time here.
John was a short, thick-set man in his 50s, black hair kept tidy, well-spoken and really hospitable, complete with the standard-issue safari suit. We chatted at length about the usual shite when one Brit meets another: what was happening back home; football; cricket; the weather. Just small talk really, but it was nice. He told me that I was to be here for two days and on the third I would be picked up by one of his drivers from outside the hotel and taken to a town called Zomba, a Malawi Airforce base to the north-east, then flown across the border into Mozambique. He didn't say anything about my job over there (which I thought he might have done since he was the LO) so I didn't ask. Going by his tone, I reckoned he hadn't been across the border, so I took it that he didn't really know what the team was up to. That's how I read it, a need-to-know bas
is. I needed to know, he didn't. He also said that what I did on these days off was up to me. He was a bit abrupt, but there was no offence in this, it was just his style.
He dropped me outside a hotel that was obviously used regularly by John's people. The staff knew John very well and expected my arrival. When my bag was lifted out of the car and taken into the hotel, I didn't worry; this was a safe area. John gave me his home telephone number; any problems, all I had to do was call. As he left he said he and a few of his friends were meeting later at Cloggies, a local bar, and I was welcome to join them.
'Just ask any taxi, they know where it is. As regards money to change, the hotel gives as good a rate as any,' were his parting shots.
That was that. A short and sweet introduction, just what I wanted. I don't think I could have handled a long drawn-out 'story of my life' saga, especially any past war stories. I was too knackered.
The room was tidy, with air conditioning, a big bed, hot and cold water, a clean-smelling towel and toilet paper. A bog that could handle toilet paper — another plus!
I needed to get my head down for a couple of hours if I was to be half sociable later, and went to sleep wondering what Cloggies was. Was it a nightclub packed out with the local talent, a bottle shack for the 'Whites' that have 'gone bush', or even a high-class whorehouse? I was intrigued. I hoped John wasn't batting for the other side. Not that I have anything against gays, I say live and let live, but what I needed was some female company, even if it was just to talk to. Because where I was going to in the next couple of days would surely be devoid of the furry triangle.
No Fear: The True Story of My Deadly Life After the SAS Page 3