by Peter Rimmer
“My boss has a safari company. Takes tours walking in the bush. Customers have drinks at sundown round the fire. Some spend the night under canvas. We have a small office. Me, a phone and a typewriter. Problem is, Roy says, there’s not enough to do at the Falls. After half an hour of gaping at the waterfall and getting wet in the rainforest, there’s not much left to do. A day and a night at the Falls then down to the Wankie Game Reserve. Roy says we need riverboats that can cruise upriver with tourists. Sundowner cruises. Drinks and food on board. Trouble is, a boat big enough to carry fifty people would be hell to transport on the strip roads from Bulawayo, and while it was coming up nothing else could be on the single-lane road. Roy says once a boat trailer that size was on the strips it couldn’t get off. But that’s what I get asked for. There’s game on both banks of the river. A riverboat could get close without frightening the animals away. You would see that as a photographer, Will.”
“Why don’t you build a boat right here?” said Will. “All you need is a pontoon with a double-decker superstructure and two big outboard motors. Probably do three or four knots, but what else do you need on a booze cruise?”
“How would we make the pontoons?” asked Betty.
“Out of forty-four-gallon petrol drums. Weld them into a tube and flatten the front one into a wedge. Then weld a frame across two lines of drums. There must be welding gear at the Falls. If not, bring it up. You need two floating decks, one on top of the other, the top for game viewing, and a canopy to keep off the sun. Canvas chairs and tables. Big cool box for the ice and cold beer.”
“Could you make something like that?” asked Betty.
“Probably. Take a few weeks.”
“I’ll talk to Roy… Does Horst here know how to weld?”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind finding out. You’d need a host on board to tell the passengers what they are seeing. Now that kind of job would be right up my street.”
“What was your last job?” asked Will.
“I’ve never had one,” he said into the silence… “You know, I think that’s the first time I’ve been honest to anyone for a very long time.”
Sweet days became weeks became months by the side of the river. In front of their camp, one hundred metres from shore, the Zambezi flowed around an island of palm trees, the oily, heavy water, flotsam of trees and small beds of floating grass-weed, surging the last two miles towards the lip of the Falls. The thunder of water was constant. The small village next to the Falls had grown used to the crazy Russian who was going to sink a line of steel drums to the bottom of the river. No one knew the depth of the water and the crocodiles made sure no one swam down to have a look.
By the time the riverboat was ready to push from its cradle into the flowing water, Will was sure that Betty Gulliver and Horst Kannberg were deeply in love with each other.
Roy had financed the building of the craft, buying the used fuel drums and the steel floor mesh, the thin girders and the two second-hand outboard motors. In exchange, Will and Horst gave their time for nothing, working on the iron monster from sunup to sundown with two hours in the shade of a jackalberry tree at the height of the noonday sun. Roy had written a small contract that gave Will and Horst a half-share in the craft, Will and Horst to run the boat and Roy to bring up the passengers in his small bus.
Down the slope of the riverbank, Will had designed a wooden jetty. Horst slept in a small tent and Will in his Land Rover. They fed themselves by fishing in the river and poaching at night. No one seemed to own the land on which they camped and no one seemed to care. Only a bad dirt road wound parallel to the river, petering out in the bush a kilometre from their camp upriver from the Falls. They were in a world of their own visited by kingfishers and fish eagles, hippos grunting from the cool pools bypassed by the river, crocodiles coming right out of the river to inspect from a distance the strange structure growing high on the riverbank. And always, Betty who pedalled a bicycle the two miles each evening to bring them the cold beers, their reward for the hard day’s work.
Roy, Betty’s employer, was not sure whether a ceremony to launch the ten tons of iron was a good idea that could better be changed to a clandestine push into the water one night when the moon was up, so when the sharp point ploughed the water and carried on down to the mud on the bottom, no one would see his money sink out of sight.
To live in the heat and isolation with the constant thunder of the Falls required a sense of adventure. Everyone who would come were invited to witness the launch. A young impala ram was spitted and turned over the fire for nine hours, the beer, whisky and ice were delivered by the Sprayview Hotel. Betty made four different salads and Will, smiling happily to himself, watched the agonised conversations of his partners.
Betty had found an array of flags with the Rhodesian flag flying side by side with the Union Jack. Unbeknown to the launch party ready to push and pull the iron craft over the logs and into the river, it would be the last time the two flags would fly together in peace. Wisely, Roy had himself three stiff whiskies before he named the riverboat Zambezi Queen. Most of the guests were intoxicated from the drink and pumped adrenaline. A bottle of beer cracked against the last tight drum at the back of the boat and the ropes were heaved and the ironwork clutched and pushed with hysterical abandon.
When the Zambezi Queen reached the lip of the riverbank and tipped down towards the water, the three people either side on the ropes let go for their lives and the back pushers felt the ironwork leap forward out of their hands. There was no need for rollers and the bow of the boat hit the water at ten miles an hour, flushing mud and water high on either side as it tore out into the river, the front under water headed for the bottom at forty degrees. The momentum carried the second deck below water and still the boat was going down. Everyone except Will Langton looked on aghast. The thick rope Will had tied to the stern ran out to its limit of sixty metres and jerked hard against the base of the jackalberry tree and held, jerking hard on the forward plunge of the Zambezi Queen. Sensibly, Will had left the outboard motors on shore to be fitted from the jetty. The flags whipped at the back with the change of momentum and the stern settled back as the prow of the boat heaved itself out of the Zambezi to settle high up like a duck on the water. Gently, Will pulled on his rope and edged the craft alongside the jetty.
In twenty minutes, Will had the outboard motors locked into place, the fuel tanks connected, the roasted impala on board with the last of the booze. Betty placed the captain’s hat firmly on Horst’s head and Roy announced the sunset cruise was about to begin. Forty people clambered on board, both motors coughed and fired and Will untied the craft from the jetty. Horst on the top deck holding the wheel, pushed forward the throttles now connected to the motors and the Zambezi Queen moved out into the stream, turning her back on the thunder of the Falls. Sedately she pushed upriver against the stream. The sun was almost down, glowing rich and red behind the fronds of the palm trees etching the banks of the river. A crocodile slid from a sandbank into the water and disappeared. A hush descended on the people, awed by the river and the surrounding bush. Gently, Horst drove the boat to the side of the island not pushed by the river and Will threw out the anchor. Horst cut the engines and let the peace fall down from heaven.
Four months later, Horst and Betty were married on board the Zambezi Queen by the Church of the Province of Central Africa. The Church of England priest also blessed the boat. Roy gave away the bride and Will was best man.
That night Horst moved from his tent by the river into the village and Betty’s one-bedroom flat over the office, and Will was left on his own. For a wedding present he had secretly given the bride and groom his share of the Zambezi Queen. Horst found the note tied to the wheel saying Will had gone on his way and a month later Roy told them of his gift. For Betty, her dream had come true, a week after her thirty-first birthday. For Horst, at last, he had found a place to rest.
In making his decision, Will had seen the way of things to come in Central Afri
ca. It was not his fight and never would be. The Zambians had closed the border with Rhodesia in defiance of its declaration of independence. The road and rail route out for Zambia’s copper had been closed. The kwacha, the new currency that had replaced the federal pound in Zambia, plunged. Men with guns pointed them at each other across the Victoria Falls Bridge.
Will’s note had said he was going back to England. The intention had been to drive through Rhodesia into South Africa, sell the Land Rover and with the money fly back to England and look for a job. Will took the road out of the Falls with good intentions, loaded with fuel and provisions.
A few miles from the Falls a sign pointed right to Botswana and without knowing why, Will turned the Land Rover off the strips onto an old, badly kept dirt road until he found the border post and passed out of Rhodesia into Botswana. He drove on through into a country where people were outnumbered by the cattle and game ten to one. At the Chobe River, Will found himself in game country more prolific than he had ever seen before in his life. Great herds of elephant watched him from the mopani trees near the river as he made his first camp. Lion roared all around him.
For three weeks, Will lived with the animals, procrastinating. Indirectly, the decision to return to England had been made for him by Horst Kannberg. Over the months of building the Zambezi Queen side by side they had swapped their life stories; Horst’s a litany of successful scams to have other people pay the way of Horst Kannberg through life. The man was proud of his stories of coming out of a bar drunk without spending a penny of his own money which he never had. There were so many women who had fallen for his charm and paid for his board and lodging. The end of every escapade had found Horst moving on happily to a new adventure, a broken heart left to be consoled by the privilege of knowing Horst Kannberg; Horst was always the winner, according to Horst Kannberg. The message came through clearly, the man was going to live off other people for the rest of his life using his charm to earn a living.
Will began to wonder about himself. He had drifted out to Africa to avoid two years in the army, if he was honest with himself. The odyssey had ended with the flood and the new Zambia not wishing to renew his hunting licence. His livelihood had washed away with the river. The Zambezi Queen had been a small interlude while he faced up to the facts of his life. A man had to earn a living through life, had to work. The likes of Horst Kannberg were charming parasites. Will hoped Betty’s happiness would last as long as possible. Maybe, Will thought, marriage was only a mutual convenience, one giving the other what the other lacked. If she was prepared to support him for the rest of her life, turning a blind eye to the inevitable infidelities, Horst would stay around. Will had understood that under Horst’s bravado hid a man on the run. Maybe neither of them, Horst or Betty, had been going anywhere with their lives.
Will was twenty-eight going on twenty-nine with nothing to his name except three guns, a good camera and an old Land Rover. He knew that if he did nothing about his life, carried on drifting, he would end up despising himself. Africa, for the white man, was finished. The ivory money given to Byron would have found its way down the drain by now, the wilder business ventures, Will suspected, a means of milking the investors.
The rains had continued from the middle of January and soon the dirt road would be impossible for a four-wheel drive. The time had come in his life to face reality and find himself a career in England that would take him through life without relying on other people, relying on the likes of Betty Gulliver now Kannberg or the new welfare state.
A man who was a man made his own way through life, Will told himself. Maybe, someday, the new Africa would face up to its own day of reckoning.
Out of Botswana and back on the strip road, Will drove on south, camping on the side of the road, using his money for petrol. His long journey home had begun. Six months later, when Byron was still furious with the Americans for buying chrome ore direct from the renegade Rhodesians, Will arrived back at Tilbury Docks in London. Three times he had been forced to stop and work for petrol money. The airfare from Johannesburg was more than the dealers offered for the Land Rover. The inner cabin, shared with five others, on the Transvaal Castle, matched the Cape Town dealers’ cash.
When Will landed back in London with three guns and a camera he was broke. Even in August it was raining. Plucking up his courage, he phoned his brother Byron at his office.
“Who’s calling Mr Langton?” asked a bright voice.
“His brother.”
“Which one?” asked Madge O’Shea, Byron’s red-headed secretary.
“Will.”
“We thought you were dead.”
“So did I a couple of times. I have three guns in nice cases, a camera and a small bag. No money.”
“Catch a cab to the office and tell the cabbie to come up for his money. Where are you, by the way?”
“Tilbury.”
“Welcome home, Will.”
Byron Langton knew the biggest problem in a rapidly expanding business was good management. The news of Will’s arrival made him think. There were many people in his organisation who would perform when told what to do. Few were able to initiate and carry through on their own. Good management also meant honesty, a creed that was constantly being laughed at by the new generation. The unspoken understanding was if governments could lie, cheat and steal, so could everyone else.
Will had no idea he was a wealthy man and Byron was not sure whether it would be in his own interest to explain to his brother the capital growth in the investment made from the ivory, including Will’s inheritance from Hannes Potgieter. Certainly, under the circumstances, Byron had no intention of divulging the thirty thousand pounds’ worth of gold bullion stored for Will in Zurich from the bonus he had earned after the processing and sale of the crocodile skins. From Byron’s perspective, a man of wealth would not join his brother’s firm at the bottom and learn the trade. No one in Byron’s company came in at the top without experience, however honest and intelligent.
By the time a dejected Will arrived with his few possessions, Byron had decided to downplay the ivory and not mention the gold; thankfully, not once could he remember mentioning the figure invested after the ivory sale. Too much money anyway could damage a man, he rationalised, thinking of Laurie Hall spending for so little purpose.
Will was seated on the leather-bound bench when Byron came out of his office to shake his brother’s hand. It was four-thirty in the afternoon and still wet in the street outside Byron’s office in Pall Mall, next to Cox’s & King’s bank.
“Still raining?” said Byron after the warm handshake. “Come into the office and have a drink. Not quite sundowner time as you would say, Will, but what the hell. Haven’t seen each other for a heck of a long time.”
“Had to borrow from Madge to pay the taxi.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I’m broke.”
“Who cares when you have a family? I’ve been telling you for years to get out of Africa and come and work here. Africa’s a disaster, Will. Colonialism at least gave it some kind of stability. Provided we can get out the minerals we want, it doesn’t matter a damn to us. All this nonsense in Rhodesia caused by a bunch of Englishmen holding on to land which isn’t worth a penny. Glad to see you saw the light.”
“How’s Mother and Father?”
“Both well. Why didn’t you write to them? Mother was hurt.”
“Didn’t really know what to say. Anyway, here I am as you see me. I can sell the guns, I suppose, but don’t imagine many people in England are looking for an elephant gun. Do you have any money from the ivory?”
“There’s something there, have to have a look. Can lend you something now if you want? How about five hundred pounds?”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Good. That’s settled. You’ll come and work here at Langton Merchant Bank. When we’ve had a drink or two, we can go home and introduce you to my wife. She’ll be very happy to know that you’re safe. I’m still in the
same flat, believe it or not.”
The years had not been good to Red Langton, Will’s father. The war and too many financial worries had left him a year short of sixty looking nearer seventy. Leaving behind Langton Manor in the condition he had inherited was his last ambition. Even Red understood the cornerstone of socialist policy, the demise of inherited wealth.
There was always something on the farm heralding disaster; everything from the low price of meat paid to the producer while the men in the middle ratcheted up the price so the average Englishman found it difficult to afford his Sunday dinner, to the weather and disease. Ruefully he thought it easier to sit in a big London office and buy and sell grain on the international market. Those kinds of farmers grew rich without planting a crop.
Will had not seen his parents since the death of Hannes Potgieter had chased him back to Africa. He found them less than the pictures he stored in his memory. The only thing his mother seemed pleased about was her younger son finally taking a proper job and what he had done was playing around in Africa with guns and cameras and living in the jungle with a lot of dangerous animals.
“It’s bush, Mother, not jungle.”
“Whatever. You can’t deny the dangerous animals. Look at those terrible guns you brought with you. All your father ever needed was a shotgun for rabbits and pheasants. You make sure one of those guns doesn’t go off in your room or it will knock down the whole house. You could have written me a letter.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Now, when are you going back to London?”
“I’ve only just arrived.”