Matthews
After a long and dry thirty-eight hour journey,
we eventually arrived at a very full Zambezi river that creates the border between
Botswana and Zambia. Seeing water felt like a mirage as the Zambezi glistened
proudly in its 500m plus, width. Having not bathed since South Africa, I
took off my grey (once white) shirt, and brown-bummed pants and immersed myself
in the dirty, but cool, water. The guards looked on tentatively as the ‘umzungu’
(white person in Bemba) crocodile fodder washed off the long journey in his lime-green boxers.
No sooner was I drip-drying when the ferry
returned, and a huge truck begun to drive onto it, followed by passengers laden with
goods for home. We checked in at the Zambian side where the offices smelt more
like a barbel fish factory than a government building. Bright baby blue taxis
holding eager drivers bombard you as they fight like bulldogs for bewildered passengers.
We are not such and sit down to a cold Coke and Fanta. After asking around, we
hear of a once busy campsite “not too far from here” that is now abandoned and
inhabited by locals who used to work there.
A sandy 3km walk through Kazungula village
turns into a swamp crossing with bags on backs and pants rolled high. Children
play in wooden boats carved out of tree trunks and jump from branches into
deeper parts of the swamp surrounded by green reeds as far as the eye can see.
We pass communal baths as three or four kids enjoy each others company as they
scrub themselves clean.
The old campsite we arrive at has simply
been left to waste. Three young men; Mark, Alex and Gilbert, say we are more than
welcome to claim a piece of grass as our temporary home. Rob and Jords
immediately set up their fishing rods and cast some lines, the sound of the
spinner relaxing in the quiet of the late afternoon. We begin to chat to the
three young men and ask them how long they have been living here. “We don’t live
here” they exclaim. How generous, I think, offering up someone else’s land - relaxed, hospitable Africa at it's best. Despite now being slightly unsure, we
decide to stay. When the true owner comes, we’ll just pass him on to MAG (Mark, Alex
and Gilbert) and they can explain their actions.
Unfortunately this simple plan in our heads
was not as easy to implement in reality. The true owner, Matthews, arrived in a
crisp blue and white pin-striped, collared shirt with the fabric left of the
buttons tucked into his black boxers and the fabric on right of the buttons
hanging out. We begin chatting but he doesn’t seem to
believe a word of our perfectly normal story, even seeming suspect of the names
we have given ourselves. Still shocked a little by his unfamiliar nature, he
summons Jordan and I to his dilapidated cabin and tells Robbie to stay and
watch the bags. He seems almost intent on splitting us up and does so
successfully, as Robbie obeys.
In his cabin Jordan and I are told to sit on his messed up old couch after which he disappears for a moment. Whilst
alone, I glance around and pick up a Christian hymn book. Slightly more at ease,
Matthews returns to announce “I have brought you here to find the truth!”. With
this little explanation, we are asked to give up our passports for
examination. Whilst examining our
stamps he, rather badly, cross-questions us, simultaneously watching our every
move. As weird as the situation may seem I cannot dispel the feeling of being a
character in a comical detective story with it’s own quirky detective.
Despite his best attempts to impose himself
as a powerful person, Matthews is a very un-scary human. With strong hand gestures
I am sent back to fetch Robs. I later find out from Jords that during this time
he was shown countless photos of Matthews as a police and army officer posing
with many different guns, including one with an AK47 - his personal favourite.
When I return, Robs in tow, Matthews seems
a different person. He happily invites us to camp on his lawn, posing as
our new protector. Somehow I know it is more to keep his eye on us. We learn
about the previous owner, Vans, who is now back in South Africa after being
deported for illegal wild animal trading. Apparently he was found 'not-guilty'
and is set to return soon. Matthews plays back a recording of a phone call
between him and Vans, it is evident in his smile that he worships Vans, and
suddenly seems rather small and lonely.
Deciding Matthews is harmless we set up
tent whilst he has some weird, perhaps staged we thought, phone call with
“Inspector” about checking some documents or other. As we are about to head for
bed a figure appears out of the dark, startling us all. He introduces himself as
Chris. In whispers he says “Whoever is your leader must come and meet me at
twenty-two hundred hours”. Wanting to sleep, Jordan bravely asks if we can not
just come now, instead of the scheduled meeting two hours away. This is met
with a simple “No” and the meeting becomes non-optional.
Perplexed by our bizarre second summoning,
our minds begin to wonder. After lying crammed for thirty-something minutes in
our two man tent dreaming up the worst possible scenarios, we decide the whole
situation is utterly ridiculous and why must we pander to these outlandish
demands from people who are in fact squatters on a once magnificent fishing
camp. Thus Jordan and Robs set off an hour and a half ahead of schedule to
confront Chris and put an end to all this nonsense, as I stay and watch the
bags.
Content in my fate, good or bad, I drift
off despite my worries. Whether I am woken by Jords and Robs’ laughter, screams,
or Vans’ cannibal-slave Matthews, matters not as the journey overtakes my
eyelids despite my best intentions of being a good friend and watchman.
Luckily it is Jords and Robs’ semi-worried
amusement that wakes me. It turns out we were pretty accurate in our
assumptions all along. Chris is in fact “Inspector”, a ridiculous name he says
Matthews insists on calling him. The earlier phone call was in fact a coded
message that he was holding us three on his property, intent on calling an
immigration officer in the morning. Chris’
whispering visit was merely to get us, unnoticed, away from Matthews to tell us
his plan. Jords retells of their supper of peanuts with the rest of Chris’ most
hospitable homestead where the word ‘harmless’ was repeatedly used to describe
Sam Matthews. Sam was the name we decided to give him.
The next day all is well that ends well, as
Matthews' attempt to relive his investigative past seems merely an act of paranoia
caused either by his past army experiences, or multiple bouts of malaria, we
decide. Biding him farewell, we present a Bob Marley CD as a peace offering. He
is only too stoked, and immediately puts it on as he changes for work. He comes
out in suit and tie, yet still in boxers, with his pants and shoes neatly folded in
his hands. I now realise that his permanent attire of boxers is due to the crossing
of the swamp, and not his craziness. Our final handshakes are interrupted by, no
doubt, another secret phone call and Sam rushes off to tackle another day and
catch some more innocent criminals.
Smooth criminals
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