You stand surveying the water
You gingerly tip your toe in
It’s cold, at the moment
The warmer it is, the colder the water seems
You want to jump in
But some unseen hand holds you back
Once again you try
The hand won’t let go
Finally you manage to break free
For a split second
You are neither on earth nor are you in the water
Then you crash onto the surface
And for a few seconds
You disappear under water
God, it’s cold
You break surface again gasping, laughing and shouting in one
And within seconds you are one with the water
You extol the beauty and enjoyment to all that will listen
Some respond and others smile and turn away
It is not enough to stay in
You have to go through this same challenge
Over and over again
The hand plays with you everytime
Sunday, 13 July 2008
The Watcher / The Watched
The scene unfolded as so many others often had over the years. The Watcher, who thought he was in complete control and on top of the situation, was in fact himself being observed.
The Watched person had been scanning the Watcher even before he took his seat at the bistro. They say, a little knowledge, is dangerous, and this was proof thereof. The Watcher, although he was oblivious to the fact, was in serious danger of being eliminated, purely by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What was really unfolding here was a web of intrigue, politics and espionage that stretched all the way back to the Emperor and his inner circle, with their greed, corruption and lust for power.
Our scene consisted of two pawns in a chess game which stretched across the galaxy, and had as many players as there were pieces, on the board. There was no doubt that this was a complex game, which truly only resembled chess by virtue of it being both strategic and tactical. The greater goal was the primary directive and everything and anything would be deemed to be acceptable in achieving this goal. The stakes were high, with the rewards endless, to the successful players.
It was always interesting to watch the opening gambits, in a new game, put into play by this chance meeting on Bega Centauri.
The Watcher:
His face was well tanned and his skin appeared to have a somewhat leathery texture to it. He was wearing a black poncho with a bright red satin hat, which was held on his head with grey ribbon tied beneath his chin. The hat had fur all the way round and it looked like real fur to me. He was wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses that just about covered his cheeks. He had a a grey moustache and the hint of a smile on his face all the time and his eyebrows remained raised. This caused his brow to be wrinkled and he looked as if he was constantly puzzled by something? He looked oriental although I could not see his eyes. He was not a young man and looked as though he was in his late sixties.
He caught my attention as much by his looks but I think more by virtue of the endless questioning by his raised eyebrows. I casually accessed my comm’s apparatus and scanned the local surveillance camera’s. I locked them onto him and immediately requested an identitly check. I knew that this might alert him to the fact that he was under surveillance or at the very least he would know someone was interested in him. I was surprised at the holographic projection as my comm’s link started giving me feedback. His name was Oblique Tarbesk, a class A – level 5 robot. In plain English this made him a top rate personal security guard. The type of robot assigned to a foreign diplomat stationed on a none too friendly planet. So, I wondered, whom he might be working for here on Bega Centauri. I ran another diagnostic check but it came up blank. I was not that well acquainted with this planet. It had its fair share of eccentrics and industrialists and this robot could be working for anyone of them. It did not particularly interest me, the fact that he was registered and his identity scanned, suggested to me that everything was in order. I am a sort of a roving security analyst, my work entails auditing security apparatuses and procedures on all planets across the Trifa quadrant. I report directly to ISA, Interplanetary Security Agency. The Emperor was due to make a state visit to Bega Centauri in three months time and I was part of an advance guard to audit existing security procedures.
I merely filed an incident report and thought very little of it. I somehow couldn’t help but feel he was mocking me in some way, that hint of a smile, seemed to stay on his lips and he seemed to doff his hat to me as he left.
The Watched:
I saw him the minute he entered the square, I had set my containment field well beyond the confines of the square. I was alerted to his presence whilst he was still half a block away. Combri Avechi was his name and he was a minor security officer in the ISA, Interplanetary Security Agency. He was a level 3 administrative robot and probably believed himself to be human, a quirk of modern robotics. He was not an operative and was therefore not a personal threat. His security clearance was or could potentially be a problem though. I immediately hacked into his comm’s link and intercepted everything coming to and from his apparatus. I done this in a way that would make it appear normal to him. He had to believe that he was accessing the ISA mainframe and this would mean that there was a prefunctionary delay in both dealing with his request as well as authenticating his log-in. We had set up a dummy link and tested this extensively early last week. This was the first time we were going live with this though. The feedback he was getting now would tell him I was a level 5 robot and for all intents and purposes he would think that I was the personal bodyguard for some or other rich industrialist. I watched his reaction and waited to see how he would react to the blank on whom I was actually working for. This was crucial and would turn this situation one way or the other. He filed a routine incident report, which would never reach ISA and seemed to be happy to leave it at that. I had entered a virus on his apparatus which would corrupt everything he had submitted for the last 48 hours and would continue to do so for another 24 hours before it stopped working completely. There would then be no record of most of his trip here to Bega Centauri but more importantly the fault would be traced back to a period well before his contact with me. I hoped this would be the end of my contact with Combri but then again it wasn’t up to me. If the order came through I would have to make sure that the records were dealt with on a more permanent basis.
The Watched person had been scanning the Watcher even before he took his seat at the bistro. They say, a little knowledge, is dangerous, and this was proof thereof. The Watcher, although he was oblivious to the fact, was in serious danger of being eliminated, purely by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What was really unfolding here was a web of intrigue, politics and espionage that stretched all the way back to the Emperor and his inner circle, with their greed, corruption and lust for power.
Our scene consisted of two pawns in a chess game which stretched across the galaxy, and had as many players as there were pieces, on the board. There was no doubt that this was a complex game, which truly only resembled chess by virtue of it being both strategic and tactical. The greater goal was the primary directive and everything and anything would be deemed to be acceptable in achieving this goal. The stakes were high, with the rewards endless, to the successful players.
It was always interesting to watch the opening gambits, in a new game, put into play by this chance meeting on Bega Centauri.
The Watcher:
His face was well tanned and his skin appeared to have a somewhat leathery texture to it. He was wearing a black poncho with a bright red satin hat, which was held on his head with grey ribbon tied beneath his chin. The hat had fur all the way round and it looked like real fur to me. He was wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses that just about covered his cheeks. He had a a grey moustache and the hint of a smile on his face all the time and his eyebrows remained raised. This caused his brow to be wrinkled and he looked as if he was constantly puzzled by something? He looked oriental although I could not see his eyes. He was not a young man and looked as though he was in his late sixties.
He caught my attention as much by his looks but I think more by virtue of the endless questioning by his raised eyebrows. I casually accessed my comm’s apparatus and scanned the local surveillance camera’s. I locked them onto him and immediately requested an identitly check. I knew that this might alert him to the fact that he was under surveillance or at the very least he would know someone was interested in him. I was surprised at the holographic projection as my comm’s link started giving me feedback. His name was Oblique Tarbesk, a class A – level 5 robot. In plain English this made him a top rate personal security guard. The type of robot assigned to a foreign diplomat stationed on a none too friendly planet. So, I wondered, whom he might be working for here on Bega Centauri. I ran another diagnostic check but it came up blank. I was not that well acquainted with this planet. It had its fair share of eccentrics and industrialists and this robot could be working for anyone of them. It did not particularly interest me, the fact that he was registered and his identity scanned, suggested to me that everything was in order. I am a sort of a roving security analyst, my work entails auditing security apparatuses and procedures on all planets across the Trifa quadrant. I report directly to ISA, Interplanetary Security Agency. The Emperor was due to make a state visit to Bega Centauri in three months time and I was part of an advance guard to audit existing security procedures.
I merely filed an incident report and thought very little of it. I somehow couldn’t help but feel he was mocking me in some way, that hint of a smile, seemed to stay on his lips and he seemed to doff his hat to me as he left.
The Watched:
I saw him the minute he entered the square, I had set my containment field well beyond the confines of the square. I was alerted to his presence whilst he was still half a block away. Combri Avechi was his name and he was a minor security officer in the ISA, Interplanetary Security Agency. He was a level 3 administrative robot and probably believed himself to be human, a quirk of modern robotics. He was not an operative and was therefore not a personal threat. His security clearance was or could potentially be a problem though. I immediately hacked into his comm’s link and intercepted everything coming to and from his apparatus. I done this in a way that would make it appear normal to him. He had to believe that he was accessing the ISA mainframe and this would mean that there was a prefunctionary delay in both dealing with his request as well as authenticating his log-in. We had set up a dummy link and tested this extensively early last week. This was the first time we were going live with this though. The feedback he was getting now would tell him I was a level 5 robot and for all intents and purposes he would think that I was the personal bodyguard for some or other rich industrialist. I watched his reaction and waited to see how he would react to the blank on whom I was actually working for. This was crucial and would turn this situation one way or the other. He filed a routine incident report, which would never reach ISA and seemed to be happy to leave it at that. I had entered a virus on his apparatus which would corrupt everything he had submitted for the last 48 hours and would continue to do so for another 24 hours before it stopped working completely. There would then be no record of most of his trip here to Bega Centauri but more importantly the fault would be traced back to a period well before his contact with me. I hoped this would be the end of my contact with Combri but then again it wasn’t up to me. If the order came through I would have to make sure that the records were dealt with on a more permanent basis.
The Waiting Game
The Waiting Game:
Andrew McKenzie
10/11/2004
Here I am at Prestwick airport, it is Friday afternoon, probably one of its busier days. I am never sure if the people I see are leaving Glasgow or whether they have just arrived.
The first thing one does see, on arrival are the long queues at the check-in counters. You usually have to first locate your queue and then join in. It somehow reminds me of a large fast food outlet. It almost looks like a Burger King or a MacDonald’s, except it’s not a happy meal you are ordering. Although, I think that is what some people are looking for.
I have barely finished checking-in and I am walking away from the counter, when I am confronted by someone trying to sign me up for yet another credit card. Yes, these ones have fancy pictures on them, however, the pretty pictures don’t seem to be worth the interest rates they want to charge me. I eventually manage to convince them that I am not interested. I make it into WH Smith, where, I intend to purchase some light reading, to entertain myself. I have a book but I tend to keep this for the airplane. I usually spend quite a bit of time going through the publications, even although I have no intention of buying another book. My resolve is sometimes weakened but not on this occasion. I eventually settle for the New Scientist magazine as an article catches my attention.
I make my way across to the Alloway’s pub. I order a pint and notice a large proportion of the people have blue and white scarves on. I have a Sparta Prague top on and notice their interest in me. I therefore conclude that they are football supporters. I listen and hear them speaking German. I then realise they must be Schalke 04 fans as the team played against Hearts the previous evening. As some of them leave the pub the say something to me, which I couldn’t catch, and probably wouldn’t have understood. I say Schalke and tell them they have a good victory under the belt. Its smiles all round.
There are the usual groups of guys all with the same t-shirt on, someone’s stag party. I see two separate groups at the pub. I am not sure what the t-shirts are about. I wonder if they have a t-shirt for every day they are away? A group of women arrive all wearing pink playboy type ears. They all seem to be going to Barcelona. I am glad that I am not.
Everywhere around the airport are individuals as well as groups of people sitting around waiting. Waiting to leave or for people to arrive. I sense that some people will still be waiting for something long after they have left. From the luxury of my vantage point I find myself watching people, picking up snippets of conversations. Immersing myself in their world, if only for a few seconds. Watching couples and either their familiarity and or strained relationships fast approaching breaking point. Mothers trying to keep bored children entertained. Newly joined couples trying to maintain acceptable levels of decency, in a public place. As an announcement is made whole groups of people leave only to be replaced by more that have just arrived.
After a while, I join the group that has moved from one area to another. I can’t help but wonder, isn’t life itself, just a waiting game.
Andrew McKenzie
10/11/2004
Here I am at Prestwick airport, it is Friday afternoon, probably one of its busier days. I am never sure if the people I see are leaving Glasgow or whether they have just arrived.
The first thing one does see, on arrival are the long queues at the check-in counters. You usually have to first locate your queue and then join in. It somehow reminds me of a large fast food outlet. It almost looks like a Burger King or a MacDonald’s, except it’s not a happy meal you are ordering. Although, I think that is what some people are looking for.
I have barely finished checking-in and I am walking away from the counter, when I am confronted by someone trying to sign me up for yet another credit card. Yes, these ones have fancy pictures on them, however, the pretty pictures don’t seem to be worth the interest rates they want to charge me. I eventually manage to convince them that I am not interested. I make it into WH Smith, where, I intend to purchase some light reading, to entertain myself. I have a book but I tend to keep this for the airplane. I usually spend quite a bit of time going through the publications, even although I have no intention of buying another book. My resolve is sometimes weakened but not on this occasion. I eventually settle for the New Scientist magazine as an article catches my attention.
I make my way across to the Alloway’s pub. I order a pint and notice a large proportion of the people have blue and white scarves on. I have a Sparta Prague top on and notice their interest in me. I therefore conclude that they are football supporters. I listen and hear them speaking German. I then realise they must be Schalke 04 fans as the team played against Hearts the previous evening. As some of them leave the pub the say something to me, which I couldn’t catch, and probably wouldn’t have understood. I say Schalke and tell them they have a good victory under the belt. Its smiles all round.
There are the usual groups of guys all with the same t-shirt on, someone’s stag party. I see two separate groups at the pub. I am not sure what the t-shirts are about. I wonder if they have a t-shirt for every day they are away? A group of women arrive all wearing pink playboy type ears. They all seem to be going to Barcelona. I am glad that I am not.
Everywhere around the airport are individuals as well as groups of people sitting around waiting. Waiting to leave or for people to arrive. I sense that some people will still be waiting for something long after they have left. From the luxury of my vantage point I find myself watching people, picking up snippets of conversations. Immersing myself in their world, if only for a few seconds. Watching couples and either their familiarity and or strained relationships fast approaching breaking point. Mothers trying to keep bored children entertained. Newly joined couples trying to maintain acceptable levels of decency, in a public place. As an announcement is made whole groups of people leave only to be replaced by more that have just arrived.
After a while, I join the group that has moved from one area to another. I can’t help but wonder, isn’t life itself, just a waiting game.
Manunu (Lesotho 3)
Manunu sat nursing his beer, he looked across at me and smiled. We had started drinking much, much earlier in the evening. I had no idea what the time was now and they way I felt at the moment, I couldn’t give a damn.
“Manunu, what ever happened to Precious, that women you were seeing?” Manunu smiled, he didn’t talk much at the best of times and he did not seem enthusiastic to clarify the issue. Aow!, She is no longer here in Lesotho, her father is not well. She was a powerful woman that one . . . he sighs and then chuckles and shakes his head, lost in thought for a moment. He takes another sip of his beer, still chuckling, looks at me and asks me and what happened to your lady, Trinity?” I catch my breath, I hadn’t thought about Trinity for some time and yet it is almost as if I have not stopped thinking about her at all. My memory of her is very vivid, no doubt helped by the alcohol that I have consumed. I realise that I have deep in thought for a few minutes, I look up and I see Manunu is watching me. He smiles and nods his head, “Ja, you still miss her, hey?” I find myself smiling as well, there was no fooling Manunu, he knew she had meant a lot to me. Then the opportunity in Spain had come up and she would have been a fool not to have taken it and that is what I had told her. So barely six months into our relationship she had up and left for Europe. We still exchange emails and we are still good friends. “She might be coming for Christmas,” I said looking at Manunu again. He looked at me, peering over his glasses, which were perched on the end of his nose. “Do you think that is advisable?” I’m not sure, part of me wanted it to happen, a hankering back to what we had shared before, but another part of me was very unsure of what might happen when she came. Was I being naïve, did she have similar feelings for me or was she just looking for a break from Europe’s winter weather. Was it realistic to think that we would be sleeping together again, that we might reach some of those heights of ecstasy again. He seemed to sense or know what I was thinking and told me that I was dreaming again. He held his hands together at the thumbs and flapped his hands, like two wings and then we burst out laughing. I reached into the cooler bag and pulled out another two bottles of Castle lager, his face lit up as if this was a special treat and not just another beer.
I tossed another few logs on the fire, it had snowed yesterday and as beautiful as it was outside on the mountain slopes it was bitterly cold. I have made up the spare room for you. He nodded his head and said that it would be dangerous to try and go down to the farm now anyway, he thanked me. We discussed the football from last week. I was an Orlando Pirates fan and Manunu supported Kaiser Chiefs. We had organised a barbecue the last time they faced each other, with Kaiser Chiefs the triumphant warriors of the day. Lesotho remained in South Africa’s shadow when it came to sports and economics. Both Manunu and myself were not native to this country. Having visited here since I was a young boy, I felt a definite sense of comfort and belonging. So much so that I already knew that I would retire here one day. I mentioned this to my guest and he expressed surprise that I would even consider or think of going anywhere else. This country is in your blood now you will not easily walk away from her, she will haunt you if you do. I thought about what he had said and realised that it was true. Many a day I sit with my head buried in books and don’t even spare a thought for my surroundings. But then again there are days when you just can’t help but drink it all in. The views really are intoxicating and can just take your breath away. What about yourself, what are your long term plans? Manunu took out his pipe and kept himself busy filling it with tobacco, eventually he lit up, filling the room with small clouds of airomatic rum and maple tobacco, his favourite. He looked at me intensely and told me that he hoped to build a cottage further along the trail, near the mountain pool area. The matter had been discussed with farmer Swanepoel, who now kept some money aside each month in a special savings account. The erf had been purchased from farmer Van der Merwe. More importantly Precious was very keen on the idea of living above the rest of the community. He hoped that those days were not too far off. His work as foreman for farmer Swanepoel would continue but he would stay in his own house. And yes, God willing, there would be more mouths to feed soon. A few goats for milk and meat as well as a few staple crops for cooking, would go a long way to making him self-sufficient. Those are my plans my friend and it looks like we will be neighbours.
“Manunu, what ever happened to Precious, that women you were seeing?” Manunu smiled, he didn’t talk much at the best of times and he did not seem enthusiastic to clarify the issue. Aow!, She is no longer here in Lesotho, her father is not well. She was a powerful woman that one . . . he sighs and then chuckles and shakes his head, lost in thought for a moment. He takes another sip of his beer, still chuckling, looks at me and asks me and what happened to your lady, Trinity?” I catch my breath, I hadn’t thought about Trinity for some time and yet it is almost as if I have not stopped thinking about her at all. My memory of her is very vivid, no doubt helped by the alcohol that I have consumed. I realise that I have deep in thought for a few minutes, I look up and I see Manunu is watching me. He smiles and nods his head, “Ja, you still miss her, hey?” I find myself smiling as well, there was no fooling Manunu, he knew she had meant a lot to me. Then the opportunity in Spain had come up and she would have been a fool not to have taken it and that is what I had told her. So barely six months into our relationship she had up and left for Europe. We still exchange emails and we are still good friends. “She might be coming for Christmas,” I said looking at Manunu again. He looked at me, peering over his glasses, which were perched on the end of his nose. “Do you think that is advisable?” I’m not sure, part of me wanted it to happen, a hankering back to what we had shared before, but another part of me was very unsure of what might happen when she came. Was I being naïve, did she have similar feelings for me or was she just looking for a break from Europe’s winter weather. Was it realistic to think that we would be sleeping together again, that we might reach some of those heights of ecstasy again. He seemed to sense or know what I was thinking and told me that I was dreaming again. He held his hands together at the thumbs and flapped his hands, like two wings and then we burst out laughing. I reached into the cooler bag and pulled out another two bottles of Castle lager, his face lit up as if this was a special treat and not just another beer.
I tossed another few logs on the fire, it had snowed yesterday and as beautiful as it was outside on the mountain slopes it was bitterly cold. I have made up the spare room for you. He nodded his head and said that it would be dangerous to try and go down to the farm now anyway, he thanked me. We discussed the football from last week. I was an Orlando Pirates fan and Manunu supported Kaiser Chiefs. We had organised a barbecue the last time they faced each other, with Kaiser Chiefs the triumphant warriors of the day. Lesotho remained in South Africa’s shadow when it came to sports and economics. Both Manunu and myself were not native to this country. Having visited here since I was a young boy, I felt a definite sense of comfort and belonging. So much so that I already knew that I would retire here one day. I mentioned this to my guest and he expressed surprise that I would even consider or think of going anywhere else. This country is in your blood now you will not easily walk away from her, she will haunt you if you do. I thought about what he had said and realised that it was true. Many a day I sit with my head buried in books and don’t even spare a thought for my surroundings. But then again there are days when you just can’t help but drink it all in. The views really are intoxicating and can just take your breath away. What about yourself, what are your long term plans? Manunu took out his pipe and kept himself busy filling it with tobacco, eventually he lit up, filling the room with small clouds of airomatic rum and maple tobacco, his favourite. He looked at me intensely and told me that he hoped to build a cottage further along the trail, near the mountain pool area. The matter had been discussed with farmer Swanepoel, who now kept some money aside each month in a special savings account. The erf had been purchased from farmer Van der Merwe. More importantly Precious was very keen on the idea of living above the rest of the community. He hoped that those days were not too far off. His work as foreman for farmer Swanepoel would continue but he would stay in his own house. And yes, God willing, there would be more mouths to feed soon. A few goats for milk and meat as well as a few staple crops for cooking, would go a long way to making him self-sufficient. Those are my plans my friend and it looks like we will be neighbours.
Pule Walkers Clan (Lesotho 2)
It was early morning I was outside having a cup of coffee and thinking about what I was going to do that day. I heard a noise carried to me by the wind. I looked across at the path and I saw the village children on their way to school. They moved as if they were joined together. The group of children looked like some gigantic snake the way it wound itself along the path. I could hear them laughing and playfully taunting each other. Then suddenly the snake stopped . . . then I heard one voice carried to me and it was as if I was standing close by the group I could hear everything that he said.
I am Maphuphe
My clan is Pule (rain) walkers
I walk this path every day
I am here to see that my brothers and sisters
Arrive safely at school
I am a shepherd
Sometimes sheep,
sometimes children
I am happy with my children
In the morning.
We sing to our ancestors
And rejoice in their name
Everyday we take turns to lead the singing
This is our tribal tradition
Everyone must learn
Stories, poems and songs
Begin and end each journey
to and from school
In so doing the children know
They are leaving and once again
Entering our tribal ground
It is our tradition
I am Maphuphe
Let us start.
There seemed to be a brief silence as if people were collecting themselves and then I heard a lovely young girls voice begin to sing.
We ride the clouds
We stay with the stars
We are closer to the sun and the moon
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And then the whole group burst into song:
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And then it was that same solitary voice again –
The boulders and rocks
Watch us come and go
A generation to us
Is but a day to them
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
Once again the whole group joined in:
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
Back to the solitary voice:
We soar with the Bald Ibis
They are our Spirits
We their body
They watch over us
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And again the whole group
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
I strained my ears but I could no longer hear the words. They were still singing but all I could hear was a distant chant of the group and then silence until the chant was taken up again. I could no longer make it out. I could still see them though. Each person had their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them. This only strengthened my impression of them moving as if they were one person. And in a way they were, as they gave up their individuality and immersed themselves in the clan.
I am Maphuphe
My clan is Pule (rain) walkers
I walk this path every day
I am here to see that my brothers and sisters
Arrive safely at school
I am a shepherd
Sometimes sheep,
sometimes children
I am happy with my children
In the morning.
We sing to our ancestors
And rejoice in their name
Everyday we take turns to lead the singing
This is our tribal tradition
Everyone must learn
Stories, poems and songs
Begin and end each journey
to and from school
In so doing the children know
They are leaving and once again
Entering our tribal ground
It is our tradition
I am Maphuphe
Let us start.
There seemed to be a brief silence as if people were collecting themselves and then I heard a lovely young girls voice begin to sing.
We ride the clouds
We stay with the stars
We are closer to the sun and the moon
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And then the whole group burst into song:
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And then it was that same solitary voice again –
The boulders and rocks
Watch us come and go
A generation to us
Is but a day to them
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
Once again the whole group joined in:
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
Back to the solitary voice:
We soar with the Bald Ibis
They are our Spirits
We their body
They watch over us
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
And again the whole group
We rise above the earth
Not for us the lowlands
The mountains are our friends
We walk in the clouds
We are the ‘Pule’ walkers clan
I strained my ears but I could no longer hear the words. They were still singing but all I could hear was a distant chant of the group and then silence until the chant was taken up again. I could no longer make it out. I could still see them though. Each person had their hands on the shoulders of the person in front of them. This only strengthened my impression of them moving as if they were one person. And in a way they were, as they gave up their individuality and immersed themselves in the clan.
Solitude (Lesotho 1)
Solitude – Andrew McKenzie 24th October, 2004:
Solitude, that is the name of my cabin in the Drakensberg Mountains and it’s truly the place I call home. Unfortunately in order to live I am not able to stay here as often as I would like to. I have not been able to bring myself to rent it out to all and sundry though, as it somehow seems like a violation of my privacy. I know it sounds selfish but to think that someone else might be able to spend more time and derive more pleasure, in using it, than me, does not exactly make me happy.
I live in Yeoville, Johannesburg and I lecture in Political Science at the University of the Witwatersrand. More often than not I only manage to visit my cabin when I am on vacation, which luckily as an academic is more often than your normal nine to five job would allow. I have been coming here ever since I can remember, the cabin was my fathers originally. Back in the seventies we would pack-up, leave our home in Pietermaritzburg, Natal and spend our Christmas’ and New Year here. This is the height of the summer although on a number of occasions we came down the end of June and had great fun in the snow. My father had an old Land Rover, which he needed to be able to visit all his patients in the countryside. My recollections were of an overcrowded, overloaded Land Rover struggling up the Sani pass over the Drankensberg into Lesotho. Then a quick stop in Mokhotlong (the name means ‘Place of the Bald Ibis’), you always knew you were almost at the cabin when you arrived here. Mokhotlong, the closest town to the cabin, was once called ‘the lonliest place in the British Empire’ or so my father told me and I always remembered that, it was a rather desolate place. The Drankensberg has its highest peak, Thabana-Ntlenyana at 3482m (11 424 feet), not that far from where our cabin is. This part of Lesotho is referred to as ‘The roof of Africa’.
As a child I could not have asked for a more adventurous and exciting setting. I used to play for hours on end with Sipho (the son of our house help), Phule and Sibongile (brother and sister from the village), we were all more or less the same age. After breakfast, every morning, Sipho and I would be off and we normally would not walk far on the mountain path before Phule and Sibongile would turn up. With shouts of Lumelang (pronounced Dumelang, meaning, Hullo) we were off playing amongst the trees and streams, clambering over the boulders, shouting and laughing without a care in the world. Those were innocent and carefree days, something, I think, I remember most, when I think back to my youth.
It is sad, but I suppose inevitable that as I grew older, Solitude and my annual sojourn to Lesotho lost its appeal for me. Strangely enough, one of my reasons then, that there was nothing to do, is why it appeals to me now. It wasn’t until about twenty years later that I had a deep longing and felt myself once again drawn to Solitude. I was about thirty five years old by now, my father and mother had passed away by then, I was an only child. I had been married and things had gone really well in the beginning. Then somehow we had grown apart and things had deteriorated until we both realised that it was only a charade of a marriage and we had agreed to separate. If there had been children we might have been motivated to make more of an effort but as it was we had merely drifted away from each other. Helen now lectures at the University of Cape Town’s graduate business school in the Waterfront.
Solitude is very remotely situated in Lesotho with the closest neighbours being roughly eight miles away, although I can assure you, it seems much further, due to the steep gradient from there. The Swanepoels farm is approximately 10 miles from Mokhotlong. I leave my jeep down at the Swanepoel’s farm, my closest neighbour. There is no road beyond their farm and I usually have to negotiate with some of their farm workers to bring some goods up to the cabin, for me, with a pack horse. They are usually more than willing as I reward them generously and have made good friends with Manunu, one of the foremen. He usually brings the goods up the next day and is very fond of sharing all the local news, a willingness which is oiled with a glass of mampoer (local alcoholic beverage) and a cigar or two. This scene usually repeats itself once a week, when Manunu brings the mail.
Solitude is itself virtually invisible until one is almost upon it and then it is often obscured in a mist, which regularly swirls around the mountain slopes. Whilst climbing the steep path, one may catch a glimpse of it, only for it to disappear again. Solitude itself therefore takes on an almost ethereal, mystical quality, as it is only half visible through the haze, and one is never sure whether it is actually a man made structure or a rock formation resembling a cabin.
When I am at the cabin, it usually takes a day or two to rid myself of all the stresses of city life. It is as if I myself transform into a different me, a quieter more peaceful person one who is both happy and seeks nothing more than that which solitude has to offer.
I often sit for hours at the open window gazing at the swirling mist. As it changes, so to do the rock formations that jut out from it. At one point it is as if the whole valley is actually an ocean, with the rock formations taking on the shapes of a fleet of ships, afloat in this imaginary sea. Then it suddenly changes and in my mind it resembles a First World War battlefield, with the gas floating across the field. The various shapes are piles of bodies and or ancient abandoned tanks. At any minute I expect to see a group of soldiers bursting out of the gas / fog / mist.
It is strange how the mist itself seems to intensify the solitude of the cabin, it elevates it onto another level or plane as you can no longer see anything beneath the mist, one is left with the only option being to look up towards the last of the peaks and perhaps a more optimistic outlook on life. I find that, any time I spend in Solitude, seems to strengthen and equip me for the arduous journey that lies ahead. If I know that I have a significant challenge ahead, I always make time for Solitude.
I am almost seen as one of the tribe here locally, they have seen me grow up with their children and accept me as a local. Even although I disappeared for a good few years, this is accepted as a ‘rite of passage’, everyone knows who I am and I am warmly greeted when encountered out walking. For years my father used to run a local clinic whilst he was here on holiday, nothing formal mind you, but it was his small way of contributing to the well being of the community and this has been remembered and appreciated. Sibongile is a teacher now in Leribe Hlotse and often comes home to her village to visit, she has apparently never married. I have seen her and we had quite a pleasant conversation at the story tellers event, last year. I have taken it upon myself to sponsor this festival every year. They have a strong tradition of story-telling, often handed down from one generation to the next. The event that I sponsor, with Manunu’s help, has become a annual event. Shortly after the arrival of the New Year a Saturday is put aside. From about two in the afternoon the stories begin, a sheep and a calf are slaughtered and a variety of liquid refreshments are on hand. There is an accepted sequence, with the younger story tellers starting first, and the more experienced orators on last bringing the whole event to its climax. The meat is cooked slowly over the coals that will simmer for the rest of the weekend and the food is only served well into the night
As each speaker takes his place – he will call out to the crowd ‘U phela joang? (How are you?) to which the crowd will answer, as one ‘Ke phela hantle, Kea leboha’ (I am well, thank you). The story-teller will then launch into his story which often lasts for nearly one hour. I might add that this day is the culmination of events which have taken place over the year, with only the finalists being allowed to tell their stories on the evening. I do not speak Sesotho, other than a few greetings and pleasantries, so I am forced to closely watch the reaction of the assembled villagers, to each story and story teller. They are a very animated group and most stories are very interactive. There is an art to the whole process and from an early stage in their career the more successful orators learn to take their audience along with them, often acting out various parts of their story for emphasis. The crowd love to interject and there is much clucking of tongues and cheering when the heroes are victorious. Some of these stories have been told in their current format for a number of generations, the truly skilful orator blends the traditional with more current affairs and in so doing re-affirms the village’s identity within history and culture of their tribe.
Solitude, that is the name of my cabin in the Drakensberg Mountains and it’s truly the place I call home. Unfortunately in order to live I am not able to stay here as often as I would like to. I have not been able to bring myself to rent it out to all and sundry though, as it somehow seems like a violation of my privacy. I know it sounds selfish but to think that someone else might be able to spend more time and derive more pleasure, in using it, than me, does not exactly make me happy.
I live in Yeoville, Johannesburg and I lecture in Political Science at the University of the Witwatersrand. More often than not I only manage to visit my cabin when I am on vacation, which luckily as an academic is more often than your normal nine to five job would allow. I have been coming here ever since I can remember, the cabin was my fathers originally. Back in the seventies we would pack-up, leave our home in Pietermaritzburg, Natal and spend our Christmas’ and New Year here. This is the height of the summer although on a number of occasions we came down the end of June and had great fun in the snow. My father had an old Land Rover, which he needed to be able to visit all his patients in the countryside. My recollections were of an overcrowded, overloaded Land Rover struggling up the Sani pass over the Drankensberg into Lesotho. Then a quick stop in Mokhotlong (the name means ‘Place of the Bald Ibis’), you always knew you were almost at the cabin when you arrived here. Mokhotlong, the closest town to the cabin, was once called ‘the lonliest place in the British Empire’ or so my father told me and I always remembered that, it was a rather desolate place. The Drankensberg has its highest peak, Thabana-Ntlenyana at 3482m (11 424 feet), not that far from where our cabin is. This part of Lesotho is referred to as ‘The roof of Africa’.
As a child I could not have asked for a more adventurous and exciting setting. I used to play for hours on end with Sipho (the son of our house help), Phule and Sibongile (brother and sister from the village), we were all more or less the same age. After breakfast, every morning, Sipho and I would be off and we normally would not walk far on the mountain path before Phule and Sibongile would turn up. With shouts of Lumelang (pronounced Dumelang, meaning, Hullo) we were off playing amongst the trees and streams, clambering over the boulders, shouting and laughing without a care in the world. Those were innocent and carefree days, something, I think, I remember most, when I think back to my youth.
It is sad, but I suppose inevitable that as I grew older, Solitude and my annual sojourn to Lesotho lost its appeal for me. Strangely enough, one of my reasons then, that there was nothing to do, is why it appeals to me now. It wasn’t until about twenty years later that I had a deep longing and felt myself once again drawn to Solitude. I was about thirty five years old by now, my father and mother had passed away by then, I was an only child. I had been married and things had gone really well in the beginning. Then somehow we had grown apart and things had deteriorated until we both realised that it was only a charade of a marriage and we had agreed to separate. If there had been children we might have been motivated to make more of an effort but as it was we had merely drifted away from each other. Helen now lectures at the University of Cape Town’s graduate business school in the Waterfront.
Solitude is very remotely situated in Lesotho with the closest neighbours being roughly eight miles away, although I can assure you, it seems much further, due to the steep gradient from there. The Swanepoels farm is approximately 10 miles from Mokhotlong. I leave my jeep down at the Swanepoel’s farm, my closest neighbour. There is no road beyond their farm and I usually have to negotiate with some of their farm workers to bring some goods up to the cabin, for me, with a pack horse. They are usually more than willing as I reward them generously and have made good friends with Manunu, one of the foremen. He usually brings the goods up the next day and is very fond of sharing all the local news, a willingness which is oiled with a glass of mampoer (local alcoholic beverage) and a cigar or two. This scene usually repeats itself once a week, when Manunu brings the mail.
Solitude is itself virtually invisible until one is almost upon it and then it is often obscured in a mist, which regularly swirls around the mountain slopes. Whilst climbing the steep path, one may catch a glimpse of it, only for it to disappear again. Solitude itself therefore takes on an almost ethereal, mystical quality, as it is only half visible through the haze, and one is never sure whether it is actually a man made structure or a rock formation resembling a cabin.
When I am at the cabin, it usually takes a day or two to rid myself of all the stresses of city life. It is as if I myself transform into a different me, a quieter more peaceful person one who is both happy and seeks nothing more than that which solitude has to offer.
I often sit for hours at the open window gazing at the swirling mist. As it changes, so to do the rock formations that jut out from it. At one point it is as if the whole valley is actually an ocean, with the rock formations taking on the shapes of a fleet of ships, afloat in this imaginary sea. Then it suddenly changes and in my mind it resembles a First World War battlefield, with the gas floating across the field. The various shapes are piles of bodies and or ancient abandoned tanks. At any minute I expect to see a group of soldiers bursting out of the gas / fog / mist.
It is strange how the mist itself seems to intensify the solitude of the cabin, it elevates it onto another level or plane as you can no longer see anything beneath the mist, one is left with the only option being to look up towards the last of the peaks and perhaps a more optimistic outlook on life. I find that, any time I spend in Solitude, seems to strengthen and equip me for the arduous journey that lies ahead. If I know that I have a significant challenge ahead, I always make time for Solitude.
I am almost seen as one of the tribe here locally, they have seen me grow up with their children and accept me as a local. Even although I disappeared for a good few years, this is accepted as a ‘rite of passage’, everyone knows who I am and I am warmly greeted when encountered out walking. For years my father used to run a local clinic whilst he was here on holiday, nothing formal mind you, but it was his small way of contributing to the well being of the community and this has been remembered and appreciated. Sibongile is a teacher now in Leribe Hlotse and often comes home to her village to visit, she has apparently never married. I have seen her and we had quite a pleasant conversation at the story tellers event, last year. I have taken it upon myself to sponsor this festival every year. They have a strong tradition of story-telling, often handed down from one generation to the next. The event that I sponsor, with Manunu’s help, has become a annual event. Shortly after the arrival of the New Year a Saturday is put aside. From about two in the afternoon the stories begin, a sheep and a calf are slaughtered and a variety of liquid refreshments are on hand. There is an accepted sequence, with the younger story tellers starting first, and the more experienced orators on last bringing the whole event to its climax. The meat is cooked slowly over the coals that will simmer for the rest of the weekend and the food is only served well into the night
As each speaker takes his place – he will call out to the crowd ‘U phela joang? (How are you?) to which the crowd will answer, as one ‘Ke phela hantle, Kea leboha’ (I am well, thank you). The story-teller will then launch into his story which often lasts for nearly one hour. I might add that this day is the culmination of events which have taken place over the year, with only the finalists being allowed to tell their stories on the evening. I do not speak Sesotho, other than a few greetings and pleasantries, so I am forced to closely watch the reaction of the assembled villagers, to each story and story teller. They are a very animated group and most stories are very interactive. There is an art to the whole process and from an early stage in their career the more successful orators learn to take their audience along with them, often acting out various parts of their story for emphasis. The crowd love to interject and there is much clucking of tongues and cheering when the heroes are victorious. Some of these stories have been told in their current format for a number of generations, the truly skilful orator blends the traditional with more current affairs and in so doing re-affirms the village’s identity within history and culture of their tribe.
Early Morning
Early Morning
It’s morning – rush hour
Everyone seems to have one thing in mind
Humanity is a river
Seething this way and that
There is no stemming it
Once it has started
Here and there
Dam walls exist
Other than that
Like water it flows
Now and again a container arrives
And takes some humanity away with it
But it all seems to be a fruitless exercise
More seems available now, than existed before
It’s like a flood out of control
There is no stemming it
People seem to be willing to lose their individuality
Almost as if it is for some greater cause
Become one with the tide
This is the route to survival
Go with the flow
Only now and again
Are choices necessary
Otherwise let the collective decide
I wonder how many are awake
They all seem to have the same glazed look
I think it must be something in the drinking water
How have I escaped
Then I think – perhaps I am the same outwardly
Aren’t we all
How then to be who we truly are
Within the collective
Is this conservation in its simplest form
Conformity helps the world function
Or so it appears
I immediately dislike the idea
I find that it is not easy to go against the flow
And yet, here and there
I catch the flicker of a smile
Or a sense of awareness in the eyes
I am not alone!
(inspired by In a station of the Metro)
It’s morning – rush hour
Everyone seems to have one thing in mind
Humanity is a river
Seething this way and that
There is no stemming it
Once it has started
Here and there
Dam walls exist
Other than that
Like water it flows
Now and again a container arrives
And takes some humanity away with it
But it all seems to be a fruitless exercise
More seems available now, than existed before
It’s like a flood out of control
There is no stemming it
People seem to be willing to lose their individuality
Almost as if it is for some greater cause
Become one with the tide
This is the route to survival
Go with the flow
Only now and again
Are choices necessary
Otherwise let the collective decide
I wonder how many are awake
They all seem to have the same glazed look
I think it must be something in the drinking water
How have I escaped
Then I think – perhaps I am the same outwardly
Aren’t we all
How then to be who we truly are
Within the collective
Is this conservation in its simplest form
Conformity helps the world function
Or so it appears
I immediately dislike the idea
I find that it is not easy to go against the flow
And yet, here and there
I catch the flicker of a smile
Or a sense of awareness in the eyes
I am not alone!
(inspired by In a station of the Metro)
Born to be Wild
Green was his colour
A man of the Earth
He rode his motor pony
Wherever his path led
He lived life in the moment
No time for regret
I’ll always remember him
I am really glad we met
His life was cut short
But it’s not how long
Rather how bright
As so often happens
I never could say goodbye
I believe we’ll meet again
So ‘till that time,
this must suffice
A man of the Earth
He rode his motor pony
Wherever his path led
He lived life in the moment
No time for regret
I’ll always remember him
I am really glad we met
His life was cut short
But it’s not how long
Rather how bright
As so often happens
I never could say goodbye
I believe we’ll meet again
So ‘till that time,
this must suffice
Machu-Picchu
Whilst travelling to Machu-Picchu it is best to base yourself in the city of Cusco. It is 3310 metres above sea level and this will help you acclimitise. Machu-Picchu is 113 km away. There are several ways to get there, helicopter, train, bus and numerous trails if you want to walk. The most popular walk is the classic Inca trail (this includes the Dead woman Pass 4200 m), but there is also the Hiram Bingham trail as well as the Secret road (which includes the Salcantay peak at 5050 m) ..
We thought we would base ourselves at Cusco, which is only 113 km from Machu-Picchu. Cusco is 3310 metres above sea level and if you are not used to it, it can be quite something to experience. It is therefore important that your body adjusts itself. More so, if you are going to go walking up and down the surrounding hills. We were going to split up, as a group, in 3 days time. Members had opted for whatever they felt comfortable with, some were travelling by train, some by bus and the majority were walking. There was the option to take a helicopter but let’s just say that the cost was a bit steep. Sam and I were taking the classic Inca trail, it would take us 4 days and see us climb to a height of 4200 m on day two when we went through the famous Dead woman Pass. Mark and Michelle were following the less strenuous, Hiram Bingham trail, this follows the archeologist’s 1911path. Kurt of course had to be more daring than everyone else and insisted on using the ‘secret road’ among hefty peaks, the highest of which is Salcantay at 5050m.
Whichever way you choose your first sight of Machu-Picchu at 2400 metres is awesome . . .
We thought we would base ourselves at Cusco, which is only 113 km from Machu-Picchu. Cusco is 3310 metres above sea level and if you are not used to it, it can be quite something to experience. It is therefore important that your body adjusts itself. More so, if you are going to go walking up and down the surrounding hills. We were going to split up, as a group, in 3 days time. Members had opted for whatever they felt comfortable with, some were travelling by train, some by bus and the majority were walking. There was the option to take a helicopter but let’s just say that the cost was a bit steep. Sam and I were taking the classic Inca trail, it would take us 4 days and see us climb to a height of 4200 m on day two when we went through the famous Dead woman Pass. Mark and Michelle were following the less strenuous, Hiram Bingham trail, this follows the archeologist’s 1911path. Kurt of course had to be more daring than everyone else and insisted on using the ‘secret road’ among hefty peaks, the highest of which is Salcantay at 5050m.
Whichever way you choose your first sight of Machu-Picchu at 2400 metres is awesome . . .
Blue Peter
I was standing on the beach, at Bloubergstrand, admiring the view. I was looking across the bay at Table Mountain, framed by Devil's Peak and Lion's Head. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and from where I was standing you could have believed that Table Mountain was on an island. It’s true that many years ago large areas of the Cape Peninsula were under water. Most notably the Cape Flats - notorious for its gangsterism and murders.
My name is Drew Summers, my partners were Gadija Samuels and Lundi Ntsimango. Together we ran the Uphendlo Private Investigation agency. I was on my way to the Blue Peter hotel, Gadija was gong join me there for dinner. It wasn't just a social event we were there on business. Piet Nel from Port Nolloth was booked into the hotel, with him a young lady. No doubt Mrs Nel according to the hotel registry, we knew better though. Petronella Nel was at home in Port Nolloth but we weren't really here for reasons of fidelity. There were bigger fish to fry here. Piet had a reputation for moving large quantities of uncut diamonds, not that he had ever been caught or should I say convicted of anything. Smuggling diamonds in Port Nolloth was rife, it was after all the major industry there. Divers had limited life spans, somewhat akin to a professional athlete. When they first start the money is over enough but then the old income effect kicks in, they want bigger houses and bigger cars and so it spirals. Piet is the man that helps you when you reach that stage however, after it’s all said and done they still get peanuts for what they smuggle out and the risks they take. De Beers are the major players there and in the world markets. But as they say in the classics where there is a will there is a way.
It was the first time our agency had undertaken any work for De Beers. Make no mistake they have their own, fairly elaborate security network, as I am sure you can imagine. They have certain mining towns which are completely sealed off from the outside world. You enter by invitation only with large swathes of land surrounding them, which is completely desolate. It is a rather an inhospitable part of the world and they make sure large parts of it stay that way. We had been contracted to do this because they weren't sure whether their operatives were known to Piet or whether some of them were on his payroll. Our job was to keep an eye on things, monitor the comings and goings as well as any contact that was made. Lundi was already working at the hotel, which made things a little easier. We had a microphone hidden at his table and it was on a tip-off from Lundi, who was monitoring his communications as well, that was why we were here. Something was going down. There had been a flurry of text messages between Piet and a mobile phone registered to a Carbon Trading company. We'd run a check on the company but it was a paper trail which ran dry with a chartered accountant in Gordon's Bay who was paid a retainer to do the books of another company which owned that company, you know the story. We had a name Serge but thus far it meant nothing to us, so we wanted a visual and we wanted to know what was being discussed.
So there we were half past seven and Gadija and I had just taken our seats in the upstairs restaurant. We looked out over the bay, the lawn downstairs, in front of the hotel bar, was full of people that had come to watch the sun disappear into the sea, or that was how it looked every evening. Hotel staff weaved in and out of the crowd serving drinks to those seated at the tables. There seemed to be quite a buzz this evening I suppose in retrospect I should have surveyed the crowd more closely but as far as I was concerned it was pure recon and we weren't really expecting anything else. We ordered drinks and took our time seemingly making small talk. Piet and the supposed Mrs Nel were sitting about five tables away and also had a table overlooking the lawn and the bay. I had an audio feed from the microphone as did Gadija if anything was going down we would both know simultaneously. We had been working together for eighteen months now and between the three of us we had built up a rapport and understanding of how we worked and we had an idea of how we would each react in different circumstances. I was comfortable with both of my partners and we had been in a few ugly situations where we had to depend on each other. South Africa has a gun culture which when you are in my line of work you do not take lightly. Some people do shoot first and ask questions later.
The terms of our agreement with De Beers was simple recon as long as Piet was here in Cape Town - hand over the dossier and that was the end of the story. Our being here was merely for the visual identification, to back up our electronic surveillance. We had briefed our De Beers contact this morning on the unfolding developments, that was in our contract as well. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. A tall distinguished looking man entered the restaurant exchanged words with the hostess and was then shown towards Piet's table. Piet showed no sign of recognition but when they person mentioned his name as being Serge he was on his feet. I was surprised at how fast Piet had moved and made a mental note that he was more dangerous than he looked. Mrs Nel left shortly afterwards. Something happened to our microphone not long after Serge had sat down. Was he wearing a scrambler of some sorts, we couldn't detect any interference it had just gone dead. We had a directional microphone and it took a while to zero it in - we had to guide Graeme, my nephew, in by giving him the location – the microphone was in a van in the car park. Reception was not good but we had audio again and they were discussing the economy. Talk then moved onto shares and if I wasn't mistaken this was all a front for the diamonds. We didn't expect any transactions in front of us and we did not recognise Serge. We would sorely like to get his fingerprints but he wasn't drinking so that made things difficult.
I thought of placing a call and having the phone taken to him but I thought that would be too suspicious. Then things became a bit heated between Piet and Serge, they seemed to be disagreeing about which way a specific share was going to react to the market. Serge stood up and said that that was his final word on the matter. Piet was quite red in the face and clearly agitated. I heard some tyres screeching outside and was just in time to see Mrs Nel being pushed, hustled, into a car which barely stopped long enough to pickup its passengers, the car was still rocking from the brakes being applied when its tyres were screeching again as it sped off. Piet froze in his tracks and Serge smiled and donned an imaginary cap and walked out. We had not known but Piet must have had his own goons and we heard a scream from the lawn downstairs followed by the sound of shots. This was followed by the sound of automatic fire which in turn drew more fire. Gadija and I were on the floor, safely behind the wall looking down on the lawn. All hell seemed to be breaking loose as I peered over the wall I picked up at least three armed groups or were they just well dispersed. Then it struck me De Beers were here as well but why were they intervening. Then there was an explosion out back, smoke everywhere followed by even more chaos, people screaming and running in every direction. When we had collected ourselves Serge and Piet were missing. Lundi came running in his hand hovering close to his gun but stooped short of drawing it. He was acting as a concerned hotel staff member ushering people outside and waiting for a chance to ask us what the hell had just happened. Which is what I wanted to know but I had no intention of sticking around to find out.
I gave Lundi a quick run down summary of what we had heard and then Gadija and I made for our cars. As we approached the car park I noticed that the van door was slightly ajar. My heart skipped a few beats as I raced to open the door. There was Graeme lying sprawled on the floor. I felt sick. All I could think of was what was I going to tell my brother. Whilst I was thinking this Gadija was checking to see how Graeme was - she felt for a pulse and told me he was OK probably just unconscious. We could see the equipment was wrecked plus any recordings were now missing. I was getting pretty upset, things were not going according to plan. Graeme came to, as we were bent over him, groaning and rubbing his head. I'm sorry Drew, he started to say. I cut him off and told him to keep quiet and told him that he had better not mention this to his dad if he everwanted to help us out again. Gadija just shook her head and said we'd better be off before things get any worse here. Graeme said he was OK and told us to get a move on. We split up, I headed out of town towards Melkbos and Gadija turned back towards Town. I hit a roadblock just being set up by the Scorpions (South Africa's version of the FBI) and who should be there but Max Diamond who recognised me immediately. He pulled me off and started asking me where I had just come from, whilst listening to feedback via his communications link. I said I was on my way to Malmesbury. He nodded his head and smiled and then asked me whether I had just come from the Blue Peter hotel and told me to think before answering as he was not in the mood to repeat the question. I wondered if I should deny it and then did anyway. He sighed and said that's strange because my colleague, Andile, is talking to Lundi at the moment and he seems to be working at the Blue Peter now? Didn't he used to work with you? Seems like too much of a co-incidence to me? What do you think Drew, your the Private Investigator?
My name is Drew Summers, my partners were Gadija Samuels and Lundi Ntsimango. Together we ran the Uphendlo Private Investigation agency. I was on my way to the Blue Peter hotel, Gadija was gong join me there for dinner. It wasn't just a social event we were there on business. Piet Nel from Port Nolloth was booked into the hotel, with him a young lady. No doubt Mrs Nel according to the hotel registry, we knew better though. Petronella Nel was at home in Port Nolloth but we weren't really here for reasons of fidelity. There were bigger fish to fry here. Piet had a reputation for moving large quantities of uncut diamonds, not that he had ever been caught or should I say convicted of anything. Smuggling diamonds in Port Nolloth was rife, it was after all the major industry there. Divers had limited life spans, somewhat akin to a professional athlete. When they first start the money is over enough but then the old income effect kicks in, they want bigger houses and bigger cars and so it spirals. Piet is the man that helps you when you reach that stage however, after it’s all said and done they still get peanuts for what they smuggle out and the risks they take. De Beers are the major players there and in the world markets. But as they say in the classics where there is a will there is a way.
It was the first time our agency had undertaken any work for De Beers. Make no mistake they have their own, fairly elaborate security network, as I am sure you can imagine. They have certain mining towns which are completely sealed off from the outside world. You enter by invitation only with large swathes of land surrounding them, which is completely desolate. It is a rather an inhospitable part of the world and they make sure large parts of it stay that way. We had been contracted to do this because they weren't sure whether their operatives were known to Piet or whether some of them were on his payroll. Our job was to keep an eye on things, monitor the comings and goings as well as any contact that was made. Lundi was already working at the hotel, which made things a little easier. We had a microphone hidden at his table and it was on a tip-off from Lundi, who was monitoring his communications as well, that was why we were here. Something was going down. There had been a flurry of text messages between Piet and a mobile phone registered to a Carbon Trading company. We'd run a check on the company but it was a paper trail which ran dry with a chartered accountant in Gordon's Bay who was paid a retainer to do the books of another company which owned that company, you know the story. We had a name Serge but thus far it meant nothing to us, so we wanted a visual and we wanted to know what was being discussed.
So there we were half past seven and Gadija and I had just taken our seats in the upstairs restaurant. We looked out over the bay, the lawn downstairs, in front of the hotel bar, was full of people that had come to watch the sun disappear into the sea, or that was how it looked every evening. Hotel staff weaved in and out of the crowd serving drinks to those seated at the tables. There seemed to be quite a buzz this evening I suppose in retrospect I should have surveyed the crowd more closely but as far as I was concerned it was pure recon and we weren't really expecting anything else. We ordered drinks and took our time seemingly making small talk. Piet and the supposed Mrs Nel were sitting about five tables away and also had a table overlooking the lawn and the bay. I had an audio feed from the microphone as did Gadija if anything was going down we would both know simultaneously. We had been working together for eighteen months now and between the three of us we had built up a rapport and understanding of how we worked and we had an idea of how we would each react in different circumstances. I was comfortable with both of my partners and we had been in a few ugly situations where we had to depend on each other. South Africa has a gun culture which when you are in my line of work you do not take lightly. Some people do shoot first and ask questions later.
The terms of our agreement with De Beers was simple recon as long as Piet was here in Cape Town - hand over the dossier and that was the end of the story. Our being here was merely for the visual identification, to back up our electronic surveillance. We had briefed our De Beers contact this morning on the unfolding developments, that was in our contract as well. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. A tall distinguished looking man entered the restaurant exchanged words with the hostess and was then shown towards Piet's table. Piet showed no sign of recognition but when they person mentioned his name as being Serge he was on his feet. I was surprised at how fast Piet had moved and made a mental note that he was more dangerous than he looked. Mrs Nel left shortly afterwards. Something happened to our microphone not long after Serge had sat down. Was he wearing a scrambler of some sorts, we couldn't detect any interference it had just gone dead. We had a directional microphone and it took a while to zero it in - we had to guide Graeme, my nephew, in by giving him the location – the microphone was in a van in the car park. Reception was not good but we had audio again and they were discussing the economy. Talk then moved onto shares and if I wasn't mistaken this was all a front for the diamonds. We didn't expect any transactions in front of us and we did not recognise Serge. We would sorely like to get his fingerprints but he wasn't drinking so that made things difficult.
I thought of placing a call and having the phone taken to him but I thought that would be too suspicious. Then things became a bit heated between Piet and Serge, they seemed to be disagreeing about which way a specific share was going to react to the market. Serge stood up and said that that was his final word on the matter. Piet was quite red in the face and clearly agitated. I heard some tyres screeching outside and was just in time to see Mrs Nel being pushed, hustled, into a car which barely stopped long enough to pickup its passengers, the car was still rocking from the brakes being applied when its tyres were screeching again as it sped off. Piet froze in his tracks and Serge smiled and donned an imaginary cap and walked out. We had not known but Piet must have had his own goons and we heard a scream from the lawn downstairs followed by the sound of shots. This was followed by the sound of automatic fire which in turn drew more fire. Gadija and I were on the floor, safely behind the wall looking down on the lawn. All hell seemed to be breaking loose as I peered over the wall I picked up at least three armed groups or were they just well dispersed. Then it struck me De Beers were here as well but why were they intervening. Then there was an explosion out back, smoke everywhere followed by even more chaos, people screaming and running in every direction. When we had collected ourselves Serge and Piet were missing. Lundi came running in his hand hovering close to his gun but stooped short of drawing it. He was acting as a concerned hotel staff member ushering people outside and waiting for a chance to ask us what the hell had just happened. Which is what I wanted to know but I had no intention of sticking around to find out.
I gave Lundi a quick run down summary of what we had heard and then Gadija and I made for our cars. As we approached the car park I noticed that the van door was slightly ajar. My heart skipped a few beats as I raced to open the door. There was Graeme lying sprawled on the floor. I felt sick. All I could think of was what was I going to tell my brother. Whilst I was thinking this Gadija was checking to see how Graeme was - she felt for a pulse and told me he was OK probably just unconscious. We could see the equipment was wrecked plus any recordings were now missing. I was getting pretty upset, things were not going according to plan. Graeme came to, as we were bent over him, groaning and rubbing his head. I'm sorry Drew, he started to say. I cut him off and told him to keep quiet and told him that he had better not mention this to his dad if he everwanted to help us out again. Gadija just shook her head and said we'd better be off before things get any worse here. Graeme said he was OK and told us to get a move on. We split up, I headed out of town towards Melkbos and Gadija turned back towards Town. I hit a roadblock just being set up by the Scorpions (South Africa's version of the FBI) and who should be there but Max Diamond who recognised me immediately. He pulled me off and started asking me where I had just come from, whilst listening to feedback via his communications link. I said I was on my way to Malmesbury. He nodded his head and smiled and then asked me whether I had just come from the Blue Peter hotel and told me to think before answering as he was not in the mood to repeat the question. I wondered if I should deny it and then did anyway. He sighed and said that's strange because my colleague, Andile, is talking to Lundi at the moment and he seems to be working at the Blue Peter now? Didn't he used to work with you? Seems like too much of a co-incidence to me? What do you think Drew, your the Private Investigator?
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