Читать книгу Not Child's Play - Dave Muller - Страница 11

‘I’m bored,’ grumbles Seth. His hair flops in the light breeze and he smells of soap. Entertainment options are limited so Sandy suggests he and Tammy sort the shells they collected yesterday.

Tammy and Seth haul their collection from salt-dampened pockets and lay shiny cowries and sea beans on the white sand. Paul Patrick is fascinated and leans across, pointing to the different shells with a stick, naming each and announcing, ‘This is woman’ or ‘This is man.’ It’s only when he picks up the shells in his cupped hands, throws them across the sand and, with a serious expression, ponders their configuration, that we understand he’s referring to the work of sangomas. We hold our breath, wondering whether there will be an answer to our unstated question, but none comes. Instead, he abruptly stands and says, ‘This’ – he indicates the general surroundings with a sweep of his hand – ‘this is operational area. You go wait safe place. I give.’

We’re pondering what he may have seen in the shells to prompt this response when a group of boy soldiers arrives, Cyclops among them. Paul Patrick is treated with awe and respect by those he commands. One by one the boys come before him, AK-47 held stiff and vertical at their side, and with an exaggerated gesture, raise their right knee to chest level before bringing down their foot with a loud stamp. Although the oldest, Cyclops is the last to present himself, and performs the obligatory foot stamp, raising a small explosion of dust that rises around him in the gentle morning light. From the threatening tone of Paul Patrick’s voice, it’s evident Cyclops is being accused of some offence, and it’s not long before the gloating, all-powerful leader of the previous day is reduced to a whimpering child grovelling at Paul Patrick’s feet. It’s both pathetic and deeply disturbing to witness this arbitrator of life and death, this child who’d butchered two adults 12 hours ago, snivelling, his face streaked with snot and tears. For the first time the complexities of a war fought by children begin to surface, and I struggle with my own emotions and the temptation to intervene.

Two of the boy soldiers, much younger than Cyclops, are ordered to cut thin branches from the surrounding trees. Cyclops is made to stand before Paul Patrick while the boys whip him across the backs of his thighs. He stands there, crying, repeatedly sobbing the same phrase, which I presume is a confession or apology, while the boys thrash him with a relish that either belies their underdog status or a fear of their commander, or both.

With each blow, Cyclops yelps like a puppy. The punishment seems interminable and Paul Patrick works himself into a fury. To my horror, he grabs a nearby AK-47 from where it leans against a tree and cocks it. The two boys back off and Paul Patrick places the muzzle against Cyclops’s head, forcing him to lie face down on the ground, arms and legs outstretched. With the barrel held to the back of his head, Cyclops is compelled to respond to Paul Patrick’s threats by repeating the apologetic phrase ever more loudly until all in the camp hears it.

Tammy and Seth look on, apparently more amused than alarmed by the spectacle, but for Sandy and me it’s deeply disturbing. Whatever Cyclops is alleged to have done, it’s clear who is the guiltier in this exchange. The bonhomie generated by the honey and warm water vanishes and a renewed sense of fear descends over us. Sandy leans across and whispers, ‘Look at his boots.’

Cyclops is wearing my yellow sailing boots. They are smeared with dried blood.

Eventually Paul Patrick lifts his rifle and Cyclops is allowed to stand and slink off to lick his wounds, but not before aiming a one-eyed look of intense hatred in our direction. We hear later that he had been accused of hoarding items taken from Arwen. Paul Patrick evidently ‘knows soldiers’ very well.

Paul Patrick resumes his seat and, with the tired air of one who has just successfully completed some tedious task, orders his first glass of beer for the day. One of the beaters rushes forward to serve him. After knocking back a few glasses, he seems satisfied that equanimity has been restored to his world and offers me a glass. I decline. Apart from the astringent taste, I do not like the look of the dark, fuzzy objects floating about in the murky depths. It does not seem worth the risk of an upset stomach. By contrast, the water we are offered is crystal clear and tastes clean.

For the sake of polite conversation I ask how the beer is made. Clearly, I’ve hit upon a subject close to Paul Patrick’s heart, and he launches into a description that’s beyond the scope of his English or my Portuguese. In the end, all I can deduce is that it’s produced by women in large metal drums heated over a fire. The source of the basic ingredient – oranges – remains unknown for many weeks.

Two new AK-47-toting boys arrive and stamp their bare feet as forcefully as their slight bodies allow. They cannot be more than 12 years old. They, we’re told, will be our guards. We follow them for half a kilometre to the base of a high sand dune on the outskirts of the camp. At the bare summit there’s an even younger boy already standing watch. From the sun’s position, we guess it must be about 9 am, warm enough for the climb to make us break out in a heavy sweat.

We crawl into the shade of a clump of wind-clipped, waist-high shrubs just below the crest and look around. The camp lies concealed under a canopy of mopane in the valley below; only a faint wisp of smoke and the occasional raised voice betrays its presence. The sharp blue sea horizon is just visible beyond the hummocky forest-covered dune field we’d traversed the night before. I estimate we are about two kilometres from the ocean.

Inland, for as far as can be seen, lies what appears to be a broad, dry riverbed running parallel with the coast behind the dunes. Beyond it, low ridges of colour wash from deep green to increasingly bleached blues until the land merges seamlessly into the hazy sky. The gentle sound of women’s voices drifts up from the camp. A hawk circles overhead, riding the sea breeze. One of the two guards returns to the camp; the other lies alongside the small boy and begins picking through his hair. Looking around, I spot other lookouts lounging in the warm sun on the tops of surrounding dunes.

‘Where do you think the Vilanculos road lies?’ asks Sandy. I point vaguely to the horizon beneath the sun where, from my recollection of the chart, I assume the town is located.

‘How you feeling?’ I ask, hoping her gloom of the previous night will have lifted. Sandy does not immediately reply. I know she is thinking of the incident with Cyclops, factoring in the implications. Eventually, her voice sad and resigned, she repeats, ‘We’ve seen too much. I’m sure they will eventually kill us. They have no option.’ I point out they would hardly have shared their food with us if they intended to kill us. It’s a logical rebuttal to her equally logical argument, but the memory of the killing of the old couple remains raw, as though my mind has been eviscerated by this and I cannot scour the gore from inside my head. The fact is, we’re caught in a situation where our lives depend upon the whims of drunken children, and Sandy and I also ‘know soldiers’. I fear for her and Tammy and for my ability to protect them.

Unable to find words of comfort for each other, we sit in silence. Tammy and Seth scrabble about in the sand. As the sun climbs, we crawl deeper into the low bush, searching for shrinking patches of shade.

Finally, Paul Patrick joins us on the dune top, perspiring freely, talking loudly, and making extravagant gesticulations with his hands. With a sweeping wave of his arm, ending with a thump on his chest, he proudly announces that he controls all the land we see. We make suitably admiring sounds. He then turns to the subject of the enemy, Frelimo. His limited English vocabulary more than adequately captures his feelings. ‘Frelimo go fucked! He is woman. We shoot … he run like woman.’

We look sceptical, prompting Paul Patrick to expand. ‘Renamo. Boys no scare. They listen. They listen orders. They listen … no run away like Frelimo women. They no scared die. They fight!’ He steps forward, holding his hands as if aiming a rifle, and then brings them to chest level, palms facing down. With a cynical smile he adds, ‘Small. No easy for Frelimo shoot.’

Changing the subject back to more practical concerns, Sandy asks if we can have some food for the children. Paul Patrick nods. ‘I give.’ With that he turns and hurries down the slope.

‘Did you notice his feet?’ asks Sandy.

‘No. Why?’

‘He’s wearing the boots Cyclops had on.’

An hour later, the young cook from the morning arrives with a plastic box half-filled with cornflakes from Arwen. We show her our two water bottles, which are nearly empty. She cheerfully takes them and disappears down the slope. Tammy and Seth eat the dry flakes with their fingers. We let them consume half and decide we should keep the rest for an emergency. Soon the girl returns with our water bottles filled.

Tammy, ever sensitive, attempts to lift our spirits by trying to light a fire by rubbing together two sticks. Seth plays on the sandy slope, edging ever closer to the youngest soldier. The little guy cannot be more than 10 or 11 years old. His folding-butt AK-47 leans against nearby bushes.

Something red bobbing through the distant bush catches our attention. We recognise it as our first-aid box from Arwen, being carried on someone’s head. This confirms my fears: Arwen is being looted.

Not long after, Paul Patrick comes puffing up the hill once again, carrying my briefcase, which had contained all our personal papers. All documents have been removed, except a letter that arrived in our home letterbox just as we’d been leaving for the harbour. It’s addressed to Sandy and I’d shoved it into my briefcase for attention later. The crest of the Royal Society of South Africa is embossed on the flap of the envelope and Paul Patrick no doubt feels this signifies important communication. With a flourish he opens the envelope, pulls out a crisp, triple-folded letter and painstakingly reads the content, which gives formal notice of the 113th meeting and election of office bearers of the Royal Society of South Africa. It also contains details of a lecture to be given at the same meeting. I stand alongside Paul Patrick, watching his hesitant finger trace over words such as ‘paleoecologist’ and ‘virology’. At the end of each sentence he takes a deep breath and mutters ‘okay, okay’ before pressing on as if on a tiresome linguistic journey. The end comes as an anti-climax. Without comment, he replaces the letter in its envelope, the envelope in the briefcase, and returns to the camp below. We’re getting used to Paul Patrick’s sudden departures.

Once again we’re left with no more than our fears and two guards, wondering what to make of Paul Patrick’s reaction to the letter. The Royal Society of South Africa is a scientific body aimed at promoting scientific research, but we can imagine it being misconstrued as some kind of quasi-political organisation.

It is early afternoon when the sound of jolly voices from below heralds yet another visit. This time a line of men and women, led by Paul Patrick, emerge from the forest and begins the tedious climb. Most of the women carry bundles on their heads. They seem happy.

We’re greeted as though we’re long-lost relatives. With much handshaking in traditional African thumb-grasping manner, we’re introduced to the other male members of the party. Paul Patrick, palms held against his chest in deference, explains that he’s ‘good’ and, as an act of great beneficence, will be returning some of our possessions. A quick glance shows that our medical box contains about a quarter of our medical store. There’s also an arbitrary collection of clothes and bottles from Arwen’s galley and, astonishingly, we are also given our SLR camera and a spare roll of film. With a special flourish, presumably to show that Renamo holds no ill feelings towards South Africa, we’re presented with the South African flag that had been flying, as per international maritime law, from Arwen’s aft stay.

Paul Patrick explains we are to be escorted to the tarred road to Vilanculos. As a final parting gift, he gives me a colour photograph of a young, bespectacled man I do not recognise. The caption below the photo identifies the man as Afonso Macacho Marceta Dhlakama, Comandante em Chefe Supremo das Forças da Resistência Nacional Moçambicana. Paul Patrick translates the rest of the Portuguese text – Renamo, it appears, are fighting for democracy, liberty, justice, and human rights. I don’t take much interest and shove it into the pocket of my shorts. As it turns out, I should have been much more respectful towards the man with whom our lives and future now lay.