The current of the Zambezi was strong and fast and I had to push the throttle harder in order to fight it and get to the top of the thin strip of land. It was with relief that I saw the tree stump protruding from the dark water ten metres from the bank at the head of the island. Its bark had long since fallen away and the pale wood glowed silver in the moonlight. I dropped the revs to idle and rushed to the bow of the boat stepping over the writhing body of Dixon Mayuni as we approached. I glanced at the sand bank where I had seen the crocodile as I tied the boat to the tree stump. It was not there but I had no doubt it would be lurking nearby. With the boat secured I turned and lifted the body of Dixon Mayuni into a sitting position and leant him against the hull. His terrified eyes were wide and glowed yellow. His forehead was shiny with drying blood and a deep pool of it was forming around his useless feet. I sat opposite him and we both stared at each other for a few seconds. The cob of corn wired into his jaws had distorted his face somewhat.
“I do recall a conversation I had with you not so long ago,” I said quietly. “I told you to rot in hell and you said that I would be there first to meet you. Well, I beg to differ.”
The man's eyes pleaded with me and he shook his head frantically as I stood up and turned him round so that he once again lay face down on the floor of the boat. Being careful not to slip in the blood I lifted him from under his arms and held him in a standing position with my left hand. I pulled his bound arms up behind him with my right hand and slipped them over the top of the tree stump. The muffled screams became hysterical; almost rabid as I pushed his legs from the side of the boat. It took some manoeuvring and effort on my part but eventually I lowered him into the water until it came up to his chest. I left him there, completely unable to move as I paused and took one last look at him.
“Goodbye Mr Mayuni” I said as I untied the rope and allowed the boat to drift away slowly.
Immediately I went to the motor and tried to start it. I never saw the crocodile attack, but I heard it as I pulled at the starter rope. It came a lot sooner than I expected. Drawn by the blood it must have started with his legs and a few seconds later Dixon Mayuni bit through the corn cob. The frenzied thrashing of the primitive animal and the blood curdling screams of the man split the night. I suspect there may have been more than one crocodile because the screaming soon stopped and all I heard was the whipping and thrashing of tails in the boiling water. Finally, I got the motor started and I pulled away from the island and headed towards the Kafue. The reeds were still parted from where I had pushed the boat out and I pulled in to them at some speed. The front of the boat crunched on the muddy sand and I immediately cut the motor, jumped from the bow and ran up the pathway to the camp. I spent a full hour carrying the tusks from the camp to the boat. As I had estimated there was close to a tonne of them and I was completely exhausted when I threw the last two of them on to the great pile in the boat.
I waded through the mud to the stern of the vessel and retrieved the fuel tank. It was still full and I carefully opened it and walked around the hull as I poured the entire tank on to the tusks and into the bottom of the boat. When I was done, I threw the empty tank back in and retreated a good twenty metres upstream to rest. I sat in silence and lit a cigarette as I stared at the boat with its gruesome bloodstained cargo. When the cigarette was half finished, I opened the bag and pulled the packet of sparklers out. I took a single sparkler and pushed it carefully through the lit cigarette near the filter.
“That'll do” I said under my breath as I turned it in my hand.
I walked up to the boat and ran my left hand down the side of the hull until I felt a crack in the old fibreglass. With great care I forced the wire at the base of the sparkler into the crack until it held firm. As soon as that was done, I pushed the boat back through the weeds into the main current of the Kafue. The weight of the tusks made it hard at first but eventually I watched as it swung around in the current and began its journey. Wasting no time, I headed to the bank, retrieved my bag and ran upstream to where I had left the dugout canoe. It was as I was paddling back across the river that I heard the massive explosion. I turned briefly to see the sky had turned yellow. Satisfied the job was done I turned and pulled harder on the crude paddle.
Chapter 14: Beira, Mozambique
THE MID-MORNING SUN burnt the back of my neck and I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes to counter the blinding glare from the concrete surface of the runway as I walked towards the plane. I had left Kiamba Lodge early in the morning following my 'appointment' with Dixon Mayuni and returned to Ulrika Camp in Lusaka. After booking the flight to Johannesburg for the following day I had slept for eight hours solid only waking at 6.00 pm in the evening. After a quiet dinner I spent the night studying the second part of Hannes' report on my laptop. Imperial Dragon Trading was a huge company owned by a flamboyant Chinese businessman by the name of Charles Tang. The company had offices and warehouses in the port cities of Durban South Africa, Maputo and Beira in Mozambique, Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania and Mombasa in Kenya. Their primary business was importing raw chemicals into Africa and the export of granite and hard wood. The focus of the report was of course, ivory and it centred on the Mozambican city of Beira. My connecting flight there was booked for that afternoon from Johannesburg. The South African Airways flight was full, but it was a relief to step into the air conditioned cool of the cabin. I spent the two-hour flight further studying the report in preparation for my arrival in Beira. Johannesburg Airport was busy but thankfully I moved straight into transit and made my connecting flight to Beira on time.
Two hours later I closed my laptop and looked out of the window as the plane descended into the outskirts of the port city. From above it appeared to be nothing but a sprawling waterlogged shanty town. A maze of muddy and littered dirt roads criss crossed the lush green foliage of palm trees and overgrown grass. Rusted corrugated roofs covered the many thousands of dilapidated shacks and filthy buildings. Great pools of stagnant water filled the small fields between the buildings and it appeared the whole area was close to being submerged. Eventually the city and the coast line came into view and I was relieved to see taller buildings and ordered streets. I gazed down at the gantry cranes, fuel storage tanks and shipping containers in the port as the plane banked around to face the airport. Three minutes later the plane touched down and I looked out at the tired 70's style facade of the airport building as we taxied to a halt.
Even at 3.30 pm the heat and humidity hit me like a tonne of bricks as I stepped out on to the stairway and walked down to the tarmac. The back of my shirt was damp with sweat by the time I entered the building and headed for the immigration section. The visa process took half an hour and after I handed over $50.00 a large sticker was placed on a single page of my passport and I was in. Nearby at the baggage carousel an elderly Indian man was causing a stir shouting that a large amount of cash was missing from his baggage. Thankfully I had the hard drive in my hand luggage and my main bag had been shrink wrapped in Lusaka. I walked through customs with no hassle and found a short, coloured man in uniform holding a sign with my name on it.
“Senhor Green?” he asked as I approached him.
“That's me,” I replied as he took my main bag.
“Your vehicle is ready, sir. If you would follow me, we need to fill in a few forms and you can go.”
With the formalities completed I followed the man out into the car park and to the waiting twin cab Toyota Hilux pickup.
“Does this have air conditioning?” I asked as he handed me the keys.
“Yes sir. Obrigado, Senhor Green,” he replied with a wave as he walked back to the airport.
I started the engine and waited for the interior to cool as I typed the name of my hotel into the Satnav. Although the grounds of the airport were clean and orderly, I was instantly shocked as I took the right turn that lead to the main road to the city. Huge sections of tarmac were missing and there were water filled potholes the size and depth of paddle pools. On ei
ther side of the road, where it existed, there was a sharp drop off of at least a foot and the road sides were a sea of human chaos with tin shacks, market stalls and thousands of people milling around. Loud music blared on either side and young barefoot children ran around free dodging the many three wheel auto rickshaws or tuk-tuk taxis. Great steaming piles of rotting vegetables and plastic waste lay in the sandy mud between the haphazard half-finished buildings and it appeared that the entire area had never seen a coat of paint. Palm trees were everywhere as far as the eye could see. The traffic was painfully slow as the drivers dodged and weaved their way through the many obstacles in their paths. Jesus Christ what a dump. It took a good fifteen minutes to reach the main Beira road which thankfully was a freshly tarred double lane highway. I took the left turn under a flyover and headed towards the city.
Although the traffic moved faster, the road was full of haulage trucks, dilapidated cars, tuk-tuks and pedestrians. The sun glared in my rear-view mirror and on the many occasions I had to stop I was instantly approached by groups of begging street urchins who glared at the interior of the vehicle and held out their hands in the hope of a coin. On either side of the road were thousands of rusted tin shacks and badly built bungalows many of which had plastic sheeting on their roofs. Piles of empty beer crates, used tyres and planks lined the makeshift shop fronts and great tangled clumps of electrical wire hung from the decayed street poles. Everywhere I looked there were people walking and milling around in the heat of the late afternoon.
The outskirts of the city were squalid and the appalling poverty of the country was clearly evident. Eventually I entered what I assumed was the border of the city. The buildings grew taller and I passed various shops, bars, and service stations on either side of the road. If anything, the chaotic traffic got worse as I left the highway and entered the maze of streets and roundabouts of the city. I passed a mixture of grim 1970's tower blocks and old Portuguese colonial relics as I dodged the sea of humanity and the potholes. Not one building appeared to have been painted in the last forty years. All exposed plaster or concrete was stained and blackened by decades of neglect. It appeared to me that the entire city was sinking in pools of dirty water and slowly decomposing in the humidity.
Eventually I left the thick of the city and entered what appeared to be a more upmarket residential area. The Satnav showed I was near the sea and was in an area called Macuti. The streets were wider and the buildings seemed better maintained. There was a lot less litter and the roads were relatively free of potholes. After a while I took a left turn and drove North up the coast road. To my right was the beach which looked clean and I could see the waves crashing into the yellow sand beyond. I passed the famous red and white lighthouse which I remembered from my youth and eventually the Satnav informed me I had arrived at my destination. To my left was the hotel Beira Sands. It was built in a Spanish style with cream coloured walls and terracotta roof tiles. The individual double storey villas were set near each other in lush shaded tropical gardens with Japanese cycads and palm trees. Each villa had a private verandah with a view of the sea through the Casuarinas on my right. The place looked clean and secure. I drove through the security gate after being saluted by the security guard and parked the vehicle. After checking in I left the hard drive in the manager's safe and was escorted down a paved garden path to my villa by a porter who spoke no English at all. The room was like a sauna and I wasted no time in setting the air conditioner to 22c. The ground floor consisted of an open plan lounge and kitchen with a toilet to the side. The walls were finished with rough plaster painted in a Spanish style and the floors were polished terracotta tiles. There was an arched doorway with a wooden frame that lead out to a small enclosed verandah with a view of the ocean across the road. The upstairs area had a double bed with an en suite bathroom and another small verandah. The place was clean and tastefully fitted.
“Obrigado,” I said to the porter as I handed him a tip.
I opened my laptop, connected to the internet and turned on the television to watch the news. After ten minutes I opened the door and sat outside on the verandah to smoke. There was a steady breeze coming in from the ocean and the heat of the day had subsided somewhat. As I stared through the trees out to sea, I began to ruminate on the reason for my being there. Having taken care of Mayuni I no longer felt the same burning hatred as I had done although the murder of Hannes still weighed heavily on my mind.
The pain it had brought to his family had been clear. The blatant impunity that Imperial Dragon Trading operated with angered me and the wholesale slaughter of the Elephants and other animals could not go unchallenged. It was, after all, Hannes' life's work. It had cost him his life as it had very nearly done my own. The main priority was that the report was delivered, made public and the main players exposed. It was surely the most important evidence of organized wildlife crime with state collusion ever made. Not only would it expose the main players, it would also uncover the corruption that allowed it. So why are you here Green? What more can you do? It was the same dilemma I had faced the evening before I decided to go down river to photograph Mayuni and his men. Surely you would be best delivering the report to Geneva and making sure it is published! I sighed as I crushed out the cigarette and leaned back into the chair. Far out at sea a super tanker moved slowly across the horizon. The sun had moved behind the building and it cast a purple tinge on the edge of the clouds above the sea. Above me to my left the fronds of a palm tree rustled in the warm breeze. You need a break Green. You've been through a lot. Stay here for a week. Gather more evidence if possible and then go to Geneva with the report. Job done. With that decided I stood up and stretched. My body ached from the stress of the past few days and I knew I was exhausted both mentally and physically. I walked back into my villa and locked the door behind me. I was feeling hungry, so I took the walk back up to the reception where I found the manager sitting at his desk. To my disappointment I was told the hotel offered breakfast only but that there was a pub / restaurant eight hundred metres down the beach. Feeling the need to stretch my legs I decided to walk. The guard acknowledged me with a nod as I left the front gate and crossed the road to the pedestrian walkway near the beach. The tide had come in and the waves crashed repetitively into the sand to my left as I walked. The beach front avenue was lined with Casuarinas to the left and old colonial houses to the right. Some of them had been renovated and painted and it was clear to me that Macuti had once been an extremely upmarket suburb of Beira. The place had an understated charm and as I walked in the sea breeze breathing the smell of the Indian Ocean I found myself relaxing for the first time in many weeks.
Charlie's restaurant was set on the beach behind a row of trees. There was a car park near the ablution blocks and beyond that was an open area neatly set with tables and a stage for live music. I crossed the concrete floor and walked into the main pub area. To the front was a long 'L' shaped bar with a dining area to the left. The place was clean, orderly, and well decorated. Behind the well-stocked bar was a large flat screen television that was tuned to a music channel. The sea breeze blew in gently through cleverly designed gaps in the wall. To my right, huddled in the corner, were two large Asian men in tight t-shirts and jeans. Both of them had their hair cut short and spiked with gel. Their muscular arms were covered in tattoos and they scowled at me briefly as I pulled out a barstool. To my immediate left at the bar was a portly middle-aged white man drinking coffee and watching the television.
“How're you doing?” he asked.
“Fine thanks,” I replied.
“Can you recommend a good beer?”
“Has to be draft Manica,” he replied. “We do it in pints.”
“I guess I'll have one of those then,” I said.
The man called the barman and made the order for me. As the beer was poured, he turned in his seat and offered his hand.
“Charlie Wilson,” he said.
“Jason Green, nice to meet you,” I replied as I shook his hand.
“You the owner?” I asked.
“I am,” he replied. “For my sins.”
The lager was ice cold and served in a heavy frosted Heidelberg beer mug. It was refreshingly bitter and it it burned my throat pleasantly as it went down. In the dining area to the left were a group of white men eating an early dinner. The bar was empty and the television was annoying me so I thanked Charlie for the recommendation and moved to be alone at the far side. I sat there feeling relaxed, occasionally looking out to sea as I drank. The barman handed me a menu along with a fresh beer and a small plate of bar snacks. The Jalapeno peppers were delicious filled with cheese and deep fried. Perfect with cold beer. It was then I saw the lights of the old open top Land Rover as it pulled in to the car park. Through the trees I saw the figure of a woman walking over the concrete towards the bar. Her powerful legs were long and tanned and she walked with quick confident strides past the tables and chairs outside. Over her broad shoulders she wore a spotless white cotton shirt with long sleeves rolled up to just below her elbows. The shirt was loosely tucked into a pair of khaki shorts held up over her shapely waist by a thin leather belt. On her feet she wore a pair of veldskoens or bush shoes with thin white socks just showing above the heels. She carried no handbag. It was only when she stepped into the full light of the bar that I saw her properly. She was slim and just under six foot tall and if she was wearing make-up it was not immediately apparent. I put her age in her mid-thirties. Unlike the rest of the patrons in the bar who's faces were either red, shiny, or both due to the heat and humidity, hers was perfectly dry and silky smooth. Her skin was a deep olive colour and her nose regal and thin below perfectly formed eyebrows.
The Jason Green series Box Set Page 55