 
THE OPENING IS CLOSING

William White-acre

Copyright 2018 by William White-acre

Smashwords Edition

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography

*other books by the author:

(Novels)

Surrounded By Mythology

I, The Hero

True For X

Mysterious Logic

Forgotten Faces

Memory 2.0

Heaven On Earth

A Rush Of Silence

Follow The Contrails

Federal Folkways

(Photo Books)

Magic City

Dance

Flesh

Human Condition

Little Fists

Sand People

A2Z

Table Of Contents:

Chapter 1: Boys In The Bush

Chapter 2: Salisbury Nights

Chapter 3: Anthropological Byways

Chapter 4: Vic Falls

Chapter 5: Pfumo Re Vanhu

Chapter 6: It's Raining In Nairobi

Chapter 7: Without Warning

Chapter 8: The Cold Sun

Chapter 9: Where Have All The Pharaohs Gone?

Chapter 10: Khartoum Departure

Foreward:

I was asked to write this bit of a preface or intro because I happen to know both Caleb Chase and Al Marshall. That was the extent of my bona fides, I'm afraid. Went to college with Caleb and knew Al from the writing scene. We were two guys trying to break into journalism at the same time. It was competitive but not exactly cut throat. Not always anyway. I liked Al. He maintained a good sense of himself, using those Mid-West values that had been instilled in him back in Ohio.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I had spoken with both of them before they left for Africa, just another traveling trip for them. If not anything else, that is what I remember about the two of them: always traveling. Caleb, off to often times destinations unknown simply because he was tight lipped about where he was going. Later, I would discover why all the secrecy. His job required it. Information suppressed. As to Al, well, he was often on a plane heading to the next war for the story in the news. Like your garden variety adrenaline junkie, I guess.

That the three of us never connected at the same time is a small miracle when you think about it. Our slice of Manhattan didn't encompass much more than a dozen blocks or so. Still, never happened. Caleb and Al went about their lives not knowing the other existed until they encountered one another in some African country you couldn't find on a map. It was, in its way, some sort of warped kismet, where fate has been altered to fit the narrative.

So Al was legit, if not unconventional, and Caleb wasn't, just another spook without papers, like a spy apprentice or something. Regardless, they were two Americans stuck within the confines of a war trying to manipulate the odds. As Al was fond of saying, war was nothing but how best to cheat the possibilities or work the probabilities angle. It was a calculus that enlivened chaos, giving it all the more vitality. "You got to learn how to live with disequilibrium," he once told me. Sometimes he didn't make all that much sense, especially after a few glasses of brandy, but the man had done his time staring down what constituted mortality on most days. You had to give him that, begrudgingly or not. Had the scars, mental and physical, to show for his time out there reporting on just how much mankind could disturb any sense of what God--any God--might have had in mind when he went into creation mode.

Sent off to do the government's bidding, I can only imagine how it must have gone for Caleb. "Africa," Ben stated, grinning, waiting for a response. Ben, as I would learn later on (probably a pseudonym), was his handler, the conduit to all the madness around the world.

Caleb would have eyed him for a moment, then replied, "What for?" That's how I imagine it would have unfolded, probably in mid-town somewhere.

It was a simple question, but then again nothing was simple when dealing with Ben, the handler, the man that provided him with funds to keep his peripatetic lifestyle going. It was a relationship that dated back almost ten years, back to Washington, DC and an era of political unrest. Caleb had been all of eighteen years old and mostly naive, untested. Ben worked for "the government" as he liked to say, complete with notched eyebrow and a dash of arrogance. Like most around the nation's capital, Caleb knew what this meant. Caleb had told me about his teen years spent down around Washington, a time of unrest around the country to say the least. A revolution was in the works, or, realistically, what passed for one in America two hundred years after Independence.

"Got something brewing in the Dark Continent," Ben says, grimacing slightly, as if it might be hurting him personally what went on in foreign countries. "Shouldn't take all that much time," he adds, smirking, looking around at the passing pedestrians walking down the Avenues of the Americas in New York.

To date, Caleb had probably done some assignments around Europe, including behind the Iron Curtain in Russia. His apprenticeship had been taken up with doing extra-legal things on US soil, with only the barest of constitutional coverage, or so Ben would have most likely excused it in so many words. It was stretching the concept of a gray area to its limit and Caleb would complain about this but get no response. Then again, he was getting paid, in cash. Before the age of twenty-one, there were small scale espionage exploits completed. His work had been assessed and praised, with the one shining attribute being the capacity for expunging a conscience. Not in the job description, Ben had joked, probably the extent of his humor repertoire. He was all business, all the time. There was no time ever to let your guard down. There was a Cold War raging out there, always ready to undermine the American way of life.

To Ben, it really was black and white. Communists were akin to zombies, able to come back to life at any given point in time. The Red Menace was forever. Another battle was just around the corner. Vigilance was its own reward. That made going off-book all the more necessary. Vital even. Congress was always prepared to reign in the effort, watchdogs for a more ethical approach to the spy business. This made no sense to Ben, and others. Self-defeating.

Caleb was, all and all, a free lancer. His small time career in the trenches was negotiable. Not that he wasn't a patriot, but just maybe with a small P. He was also young. His youth permitted him to be skeptical of the geo-political machinations out there lurking. Caleb also instinctually knew that absolutes were a mirage for the most part, often facades that masked the opposite. Human nature ruled and that often precluded most levels of doctrine as applied. Greed, lust, etc., most of the ten commandments, they were the true dictums that dictated an outcome.

"When and where?" Caleb would want to know, dodging a homeless person standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a shopping cart piled high with soiled junk, a motley collection of discarded small kitchen appliances, rusted tools, and assorted clothing.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love your attitude," Ben exclaims, forcing a laugh. "Your country thanks you."

"Yeah, right," Caleb shoots back, rolling his eyes.

Their relationship, now a decade old, was trapped in an almost burlesque rhythm, where the two of them managed to tamp down their mutual dislike of each other enough to complete the task at hand. By now, they had the transfer of information down pat. Make contact. Meet up. Brief. Task at hand. Debrief. Other than that they were two strangers. One man, mid-thirties, cheap suit, tall, lanky, was always late, undoubtedly taking time to survey his surroundings before committing to the situation. The other one, late twenties, average height, thin, jeans, tennis shoes, early, not wanting to miss out on another pay day.

The spy business was never tidy. Mundane plenty of times yes, but seldom without a curve or two to maneuver through. It wasn't glamorous either. Just different or out of the norm. Rules and etiquette couldn't be readily applied because the circumstances were often turned inside out or on their head. You could be looking in or later looking out. Caleb knew this by now, having completed almost a dozen assignments around Washington and New York, enough time in to have to worry about the law, the one that barred him from doing what he was usually tasked with doing. Contract work was born of that wrinkle in Constitutional prohibitions. It made what he did all the more valuable to some. No connections. No strings. No paper trail, ideally. You had to be a phantom. Anchorless. Identity unknown.

Caleb could do that. He was single. No home address. One friend, me, Tomas Soto, from the past still in the mix, a lifeline of sorts, the bridge that linked him with a personal history. Although I knew nothing of his underground career. I thought him mysterious, even from our college days together. Interesting. Okay, strange too. Rudderless and drifting. In fact, many times he kept his unsubstantial belongings in a locker at Penn Station. Always on the move. His family knew little about what he did or where he went. Contact had been severed a good two or three years before. His life was taken up with travel and being prepared to be ready.

Of late, he had been living in Manhattan, holed up in a shabby hotel down in the Bowery. In 1970's New York it was possible to live on the cheap in the city. Stretches of the city hadn't yet been co-opted by big money and were left to rot, abandoned by commerce for the most part. It was neo-apocalyptic in scale. The most vibrant city in the world had an under belly that was neglected. Gaping spaces loomed down below Houston. You could film a dooms day movie there and not have to touch it up any during editing.

This suited Caleb fine. After taking in the sights that a higher education had to offer, he knew his way around the city. It was his home as much as any other place. At the same time, Al was living in New York, in the East Village. Coincidentally, the two men lived not a few blocks away from each other but, as I said, never encountered one another. He had graduated college in Ohio and headed for the Big Apple to be a journalist. It was a simple plan that didn't pan out. He was relegated to freelance status quickly, scrambling to gain a foothold in the no holds barred world of New York City journalism circles. Working hard, he landed his work in print from everything from the Village Voice to New York Magazine. His venue included the gritty underworld of the city, taking him to almost every nook and cranny he could possibly dig up a story at.

In time, Al took his craft overseas, becoming a stringer for the news services covering Viet Nam, Belfast, Beirut, and other hotspots around the world. It was a dizzying array of hostile environments, dangerous, but with a pay off of exposure not only to life threatening moments but career boosting stories. He also thrived on the adrenaline rushes that being in conflict zones always brought with them. It was addicting in its way. Most people didn't understand the impulses that went into inviting danger. Being in harm's way was a monster that became your friendly nemesis. Exploding ordinance. Sniper fire. Unfolding genocide. It was all one recipe for another cruel undertaking that was gripping a region, a city, a nation out there somewhere at any given time.

He lived almost a hand to mouth existence, perpetually in debt. His unique stories had their place and were thought to be worthy of mention, but it didn't offer much recompense. Expense accounts were hard to come by. File a story. Look for the next idea. Move on. War presented problems of course, yet he was adept at manipulating the players in the newest drama playing out. Civil Wars, tribal, religious ones, good old fashioned nationalistic slugfests, he had seen them all. You had to have the sensibilities of a coroner or, at the very least, stomach of one. Seeing devastation up close came with the territory, built into the job description almost. Al kept moving, avoiding the mental instability ingrained in his brain that might be residing there on down the road. It was an occupational hazard that some of his colleagues had battled with, and lost. Returning home shaken, unable to come to grips with the visions, the memories residing in their minds, some would succumb and have to ease their way back into civilization.

Reportage from the battle field picked up considerable speed during the Viet Nam war. Right into the viewer's living room, on TV, in color. Print media wasn't far behind. Along with ghastly photographs came descriptions, words that assembled a tableau of horror and man's part in it. Modern instruments of war brought efficiency. Diabolical precision, which separated life from the living, was on display. The aftermath was a tour de force of destruction that left an unholy blemish on the landscape. Sorrow was wholly inadequate. Bereft, as in bereft of sensibility, Al had seen and written it all after seeing carnage so near.

There he was in Country, hopping rides on helicopters that took him into the teeth of skirmishes, right onto red hot LZ's in Viet Nam. Young, young as most of the grunts there competing against each other to come home alive. Filing stories that many times got kicked back as too graphic or at other times censored by the military as too revealing. Al wasn't one to sanitize war in any way. It brought him trouble with the brass, military officers there to burnish their careers and hope the perpetual stink of mayhem didn't wear off on them. Along with the daily body count came the medal count too. Right on the chest, gleaming, telling a story to all who cared to look.

Al, unlike so many of the young men he saw out there in the field, had dodged the draft through deferments then lucked into a high lottery number. If not for chance he too would have been there humping the boonies, shouldering a rifle, staring down the next ambush from the VC. Now, as fate would have it, he was there in a totally different capacity, there to report on the unfolding madness that had stretched on for so long. Another President had taken the reigns to the galloping beast that was the conflict in Indochina. Still the same though. More dead. More sorrow. Just another month, another year.

His period of covering the war was post Tet, a dividing point in history that detailed just how insane the war effort really was, through-the-looking-glass territory that would confuse even Lewis Carroll on a good day. It was abstract and it wasn't, leaving a sense of disorientation that could make you dizzy The Viet Cong had thrown everything they had at the American apparatus of war and gotten a draw for their troubles. South Vietnam, and the dazed American military machine, still stood, woozy but ready to reload and get back at it. Operas had less bathos, so Al heard a reporter from the London Times say one day over drinks at a dive bar in Saigon.

Navy swift boats still cruised the Mekong, while the Marines kept vigilant up in I Corp, as the Army drew up almost imaginary plans on how to best use their mechanized divisions or standard operating regiments ensconced in maneuvers straight out of a West Point primer notebook. It was a super power that had overwhelming strength but no functioning brain stem. Bringing power to bear had to be oriented towards a recognizable goal. In Viet Nam, there wasn't one. Not a concrete one anyway.

Back in the World, tucked thousands of miles away from the continuing madness, politicians avoided the mirror every single day because they didn't want to see what would be staring back at them. It was a craven disregard for humanity, in so many words. The war was about a hazy concept of combating encroaching ideologies. The architects of the blood letting had hung their rationale on that. Mix in some good old fashion capitalism, where Ike's industrial military complex gets to ring the cash registers, then you had unlimited momentum to keep the 3 ring killing circus in high gear.

Al wrote about that angle too. It didn't make him many friends. HQ wasn't going to be doing him any favors. His baptism under fire eventually got him mentioned as a young writer with a future ahead of him. People noticed and he did land some assignments from the media players that mattered, but no position at the paper, the magazine, the quarterly even. Editors knew who he was but nothing concrete ever materialized.

Didn't matter to him. He was hooked. When the last remaining troops of the Americal Division were pulled out he was already sniffing out other opportunities. The Arabs and the Israelis obliged when along came the Yom Kippur War. It broke out and completely took the Israelis by surprise. Happenstance had Al in the region so he was one of the first on scene. Although it was over in a short time he still got in and filed some well received stories from Tel Aviv. By now, Al was a veteran journalist. After the lunacy of Southeast Asia nothing would faze him any longer. His sensibilities had been well honed, not unlike being in fighting shape a boxer works towards before a bout.

Like Caleb, he had no home to speak of. His parents, back in Ohio, thought there only child was wasting his time over in locales that they couldn't pronounce half the time or find on a map otherwise. Their son would dutifully send off the casual post card here and there, short messages about where he was and where he was going next. He was on a carousal that was going around and around, circling war, and more war. His mother feared for her son's life, while his father tried not to think about the eventuality of what might come next.

That the two men crossed paths was a natural extension of the sheer craziness of their chosen paths in life. War begat its own set of probabilities and possibilities. Fate was forever compressed and lost to the vagaries of mysterious chance. Randomness had a way of sliding into patterns, bracketed by the bending of what was expected. When cruelty was elevated to an art form, organized, with a design and purpose, it became an incubator of the unusual.

Al had been in Zimbabwe, then Rhodesia, for a full six months when Caleb arrived on the scene. He was like the second string to Al's starter status, having only witnessed the incestuous nature of war in Belfast and the unmasking of religious hatred in Beirut before. They met poolside at the hotel they were staying at in Salisbury, now Harare. It was an oasis of sorts, with the war percolating so near by that you could feel the hostility in the air. Two Americans in a foreign land, two young men there to accomplish something. For Al, it was obvious. Caleb, not so much. Al filed stories, hoping to stay one step ahead of the Rhodesian government ministry that controlled the flow of information entering and leaving the country that was entrenched deeply into a war footing. Caleb told people he was there on a Ford Foundation Grant to study some obscure anthropological quirk. As can be imagined, not many people believed him but he continued to try to sell it.

I would have loved to have been there when they first met poolside. How exactly did that go down, I wonder. Americans abroad do tend to gravitate to each other, almost as if their cultural touchstones are magnetized or something. Not only Americans but nominally New Yorkers too. It must have felt like old times for them, as they exchanged personal bios zeroing in on the East Village etc. My name may have even come up perhaps. Maybe not.

In the end, they agreed to go out and see Rhodesia/Zimbabwe together. Taking it on the road in Al's rental car, war be damned. Out for a Sunday drive. I, so far removed from the machinations of actual wartime, can't comprehend what that might have been like. That particular war featured ambushes of whites as its one peculiar attribute of combat. The Africans fighting to relieve the white government of power were called "terrs." There really weren't any non-combatants to speak of. The battlefield could and did pop up anywhere at any time.

This is not a buddy story, per se. Yes, two men do befriend one another and go on to have adventures together, but any similarity ends there. Mix in the perverse and often heinous nature of geo-politics, add some racial components too, and you have a steroidal view of friendship that straddles the divide between what may or may not be considered honorable or even acceptable. One man was there with his very selfish self interest as motivation and the other was there to provide guidance to what might be coming in the future, a future that powerful forces wanted to control. No clean hands here.

With that in mind, I ask you to read on and withhold any judgments. Find pleasure in a view of human nature that while it might not be uplifting in any sort of spiritual way is nevertheless revealing and instructive. World civilizations are global, connected in the sense that they suffer from an intertwined impulse to survive. Africa, the birth place of all us homo sapiens, is also ground zero for the foibles of humanity as well.

Chapter 1: Boys In The Bush

Al sat in his rental car staring at his notes scrawled on a tattered notebook. Another story had been germinating in his mind for several days. Now he was trying to assemble some sort of outline. His head ached from the night before when he had gone into a bar in an out of the way town somewhere in the bowels of Rhodesia, far away from the usual routes traveled by outsiders.

Drinking was sometimes necessary when you wanted to fit in, grease the wheels that would turn in order to get information. This time, as usual, he had bought some beers for a local farmer, born British but raised in the bush. He was rounding fifty and had been growing crops on his land for all of his life. Acres and acres of tobacco mostly, the crop with the highest value. Rhodesian tobacco was thought to be some of the best around, making for a tidy profit when exported. That was before the war though, when the sanctions hadn't been in effect and were pinching everyone in the detested nation that refused to abandon their way of life and exploitation of the Africans.

"I tell you now, Mr. Marshall," the Rhodesian farmer declared, somehow glaring and smiling at Al simultaneously, "this country isn't going to be worth a damn if we give it up."

Al let a smile creep to his lips for an instant, then said, "You think so, huh."

"Yes, I do," he stated, taken a long sip of his beer. "Hell, look at Zambia. It is a shambles after they let the Africans run it. A total mess. Go. Go across the border and have a look. You will see what I mean. You can write about that."

Al had seen what was going on in Zambia, there one day when a riot develop as a train pulled into a station in a small town. The people were starving and there had been rumors the train was carrying food. Violence erupted and was quickly quelled by the military and local police. It was a cruel joke in the end because the train was carrying nothing of importance, just passengers frightened by the angry commotion and government response. He had written a story about it, including the number of deaths at the hands of the overzealous military.

The farmers last bit of commentary was directed more at Al's profession than at him personally. The media had done great harm to the Rhodesian reputation, characterizing the nation as a pitiless colonial dinosaur that was clinging to a 19th century way of life. Some of the stories had been accurate but others had missed the mark and just journalistically piled on by following a theme created by the usual knee jerk reaction. For Al, he knew it was more nuanced because he had been to African countries where the previous landlords had been booted out to only leave behind a deep vacuum that was soon filled by avarice, deprivation, and conflict.

Much of what the white Rhodesians did was paternal, like oversears trying to maintain a bond they themselves designed. Yet the overriding governmental control was instituted and perpetuated by economic motivation. Minerals, crops, they were the driving force, a legacy dating to the time of European hegemony over the continent. Extraction was the backbone of developing. Africa was a giant shopping center for corporations Rare earth items led to conflict eventually.

Al didn't much care for the geo-political machinations at work. He had seen it up close and come away feeling the futility of analyzing any of it. Be it political or religious, even economic, it was all totemistically linked and resulted in hardship and loss of life for a considerable section of the populace. Taking a stand, holding a point of view was often counter-productive for him because he was there to report the facts on the ground and, hopefully, come away with his sanity intact.

He looked over his notes, trying to figure out just what he had written after the interview with the farmer was four or five beers along. Not that he hadn't heard it before. There was that time he stayed with a farmer and his family near the Mozambique border. They had invited him to see how the farm functioned. He knew there was the risk of getting to close to a story. It happened. During Viet Nam he had drifted towards the soldiers point of view. His time spent at the Fire Support Bases affected him more than he liked to admit. Being objective became difficult when you were bunking in the hooches, eating the bad food, and even going out on patrol.

One of Al's first stories he filed, which was run by a prominent British Newspaper, involved a mercenary participating in the Rhodesia War. He was a Viet Nam veteran, a member of a Echo Recon unit. The soldier had been a Ranger in the Army and served two tours in Viet Nam. Al had met soldiers like him before, men who drifted away from society further and further as they became more and more enmeshed in the intricacies of war. They would complete their tours, return home, and before long discover they were in an alien world. Nothing rang true to them anymore. There didn't seem to be any connection that they could establish, including with their families.

This mercenary had come to Rhodesia after a failed marriage and scrapes with the law back in his home state of Texas. Boundaries seemed to be erected every where he went in his daily life. His mind couldn't focus enough to negotiate the twists and turns of regular society. He became withdrawn, then he lost his civilian job. His days were spent thinking about his time back in the Army and he longed for that special feeling of belonging to something. One day he read about the war going on over in Africa and how mercenaries for hire were flocking to the conflict. Several weeks later, after accumulating enough money, he was on a plane bound for London and then on to Africa. Weeks later he was applying his considerable skills towards a war effort he knew little or cared less about. He was back in uniform again and out on patrols. "Different enemy, same mission," he informed Al, smiling briefly. "Destroy," he added a moment later, letting him know so there wouldn't be misunderstanding.

Al knew what wave length he was on. His unit had gone into Cambodia in 1970, a messy, illegal foray into a neighboring country that got Nixon into hot water back home and only intensified the anti-war movement. It was as if the Viet Nam war had spawned an ugly relative, carrying the insanity one nation over. The war effort had been summarily lobotomized and was lurching around uncontrollably, bringing more massive destruction along in its wake.

"Deep down you miss it...Nam," Al commented, staring at the mercenary for a moment.

"It's not so deep," he had replied, grinning.

They were sitting in a bar in Salisbury frequented by most of the cast of characters in the war: mercs, reporters, photographers, Rhodesian Security Forces personnel, prostitutes, con men, swindlers, the list went on. It had become a Cold War proxy killing field, with Russia helping out ZIPRA (Zimbabwe People's Liberation Army) and the Chinese lending a hand to ZANLA, (Zimbabwe African National Union) while even the North Koreans had pitched in with instructions on how to work with explosives. The world as board game had many pieces to move around and the Rhodesian Bush War or Chimurenga or Zimbabwe War of Liberation, by whatever name, was like a homing device sending out a signal to anyone interested it was open season on the villain of your choice.

Decolonization had fostered the cascading symbiotically linked wars around southern Africa. The conflagration was fanned daily by geo-politics and the willingness of some to keep it aflame. Al would write about it and others would appear on the scene to engage in the latest military excursion. It was intractable and was evident throughout recorded history. Men would go to war and others would suffer.

"Can you compare being in the US Army to what you are doing now?" Al asked, fearing what he might hear.

The mercenary thought for a moment, then replied, "Yeah, the rifle I'm using now is way better." He laughed, then continued, "Rules of engagement are on a completely different level here, I can tell you that." He laughed again, and took a swig of beer. "These people," he explained, sweeping his hand around at the other patrons, "they mean business."

"What do you mean?" Al wanted to know.

"This is their home and it is being taken away from them," he answered, staring at Al for a moment. "You know what I mean, don't you? They are cornered. And when you are cornered...well you fight differently."

Al did know. He had seen the carnage out there in the villages. Mercy was weakness. Acts of violence was its own language and everyone understood it. Oddly, many of the Rhodesian fighting force was comprised of blacks. Their army dated to the time before the war when it had a British veneer and was respected by the people. You donned a uniform and it represented an ideal or close to one as possible. Now, after a number of years in, with attrition eroding almost all aspects of the colonial infrastructure to the culture, it really had become black and white, with scant areas of gray. Racial priorities were taking root rapidly. Almost everyone sensed it would all collapse on itself before long. It would, resulting in the Lancaster House Agreement to stop the unmitigated bloodshed, with Britain stepping back in to play referee for the warring parties. It was the last bitter pill for the Rhodesians to swallow before losing their country.

The article about the American mercenary, with the man's nom de guerre being used for privacy reasons, was a success, leading to three or four more stories run by the same newspaper. Al had become almost an authority on the war, the go to guy when you needed information or to be guided in the right direction. This was both good and bad for him. His small time fame led to easier access to some but problems with others in the government.

War had its own rhythm, an atavistic beat that kept time. Battles led to victories. Defeats were overcome. In the background, almost imperceptible, was the real human cost. Sons and fathers died. Sisters and mothers were raped, and killed. Children became orphans. Civilization was durable but vulnerable, able to come back from continual setbacks. Al was sure Zimbabwe would rise out of the ashes of war but it would be scarred, probably corrupted by years of systematic hatred. He didn't want to think about that and hoped by then he would have moved on, leaving yet another conflict behind.

His next story would test his resolve to remain a stringer covering war. He first met her in a bar, as usual. Drinking establishments were often the nerve center for delivering and receiving war information. Al was expert at negotiating the shadows of bar scenes, cultivating, listening, collecting all the rumors that always circulating doing war time. Saigon, Beirut, Tel Aviv, he had done time in many different locations in which he managed to derive enough information to get to where he wanted to go.

Her name was Mandida, probably mid-twenties, and she was a prostitute. Born on a TTL, Tribal Trust Land, she had gravitated to Salisbury (Harare) after being caught in the contours of the war. Her brother was in the RAR, the Rhodesian Africa Rifles, one of several men from the kraal she was raised in. As the war progressed, the insurgents began to infiltrate the kraals and then eventually use intimidating tactics against the soldier's family members. She had been gang raped because of her brother's allegiance to the Rhodesian Army, a warning to anyone supporting the Rhodesian government they would be slated for retaliatory measures if they continued to cooperate.

In time, with no prospects of work on the TTL, she knew she had to move to the capital. The war left her with no choices. She was caught in a bind, with her brother fighting for a cause that more and more Zimbabweans saw as unjust, even criminal. Her sympathies followed a natural path towards the terrs, or what they were affectionately called, the boys in the bush. Family loyalty had been siphoned out of her by fear and hopelessness, leaving her with employment derived from servicing what had now become the enemy.

Men, black and white, paid her and she performed for them. The dynamic was deceptively simple. Sexual gratification and the exchange of money was one of the constants in war, a side diversion between battles, downtime, recreation on loan. She detested them as much as she did herself. The war had separated her from a brother and driven her to moral decay. There would never be any return to normalcy. Her life was over even if she continued to breathe, to eat, to see another day.

"My name's Al," he had said to her in a bar one day by way of introduction. "Mind if I interview you?"

Mandida eyed him for a moment, then smiled and said, "My time cost money."

Al thought for a moment, then replied, "What's the going rate?"

She laughed and repeated his words: "Going rate."

They studied each other for a moment, while around them the cacophony of noise in the bar continued. A few mercenaries in the corner were arm wrestling, knocking over empty beer bottles as they jostled the table they had their elbows on. Others had gathered around and were laying down bets who would win. It was another night in wartime Salisbury, with everyone attempting to forget about the war for at least a little while.

"Yeah, how much are you going to charge me for an interview?" Al asked, smiling. "I'm a reporter, a journalist," he tacked on, hoping to impress her a little bit, influence her decision.

"So, you write for newspapers," she stated, jiggling her empty glass in front of him.

Taking the cue, Al turned to the bartender and ordered her another drink, then said, "I sure do. American...British, you know, all around the world. I bet you have a story to tell about the war. People would be interested to read all about you and the war. You can be sure about that."

She laughed again, pointed a finger at him and announced, "I know about you, mistah. Yes, you are very famous. Right? Very famous. Not very popular with the government though. I might get into trouble just talking to you," she said, teasing, glancing around the bar for effect. "Government spies are everywhere, you know."

"I do," he said in a whisper, holding up his finger to his lips. "You can never be too careful."

The bartender delivered their drinks and she clutched at it for a moment, then took a sip and asked, "Don't you want to have sex with me? Am I not beautiful enough? Tell me...Al."

Al laughed uneasily, then replied, "Don't mix work with play. It's one of my rules."

"I don't believe you," she shot back, grinning, crossing and uncrossing her legs provocatively. "You want African pussy--don't you? All you white men want it. Right? I know what you want. I can give you a good time. Real good. Come on, we go upstairs and then you will see how nice it is."

Al was losing traction in the conversation. He had to steer her away from her profession, at least long enough to establish the outlines of an interview. She was proving to be elusive and he was used to manipulating almost everyone in wartime Rhodesia, everyone from the waiters to the taxi drivers to the mercenaries and on up to the government bureaucrats.

"I'm sure you come highly recommended but I'm on the clock here. His idiom slipped past her for a moment and then she smiled and laughed. "I get paid by the word," he joked.

"Mistah, that is bad, very bad, even worse than me," she kidded, giggling. "Okay, Al, what do you want to know about me? It not interesting. I am me. Nothing more."

She was, essentially, just one more element to the on going war raging out there. Rhodesia, the very idea as well as the physical country, had been born out of the rife abuse and ill treatment by the European mindset from the previous century, a time when wringing every last morsel from the African carcass was expected. In time, Britain had turned its back on the former colony, the deliverer of goods, aligning itself with the new global mood. This was not an option for the Rhodesians, the ones who had been born into the colonial bastard child of European callousness. They were a living anachronism, there existing as a constant reminder of what the previous era had wrought, a blot on national reputations and forever a source of historical condemnation.

Mandida was adroit at producing a result. Her labor was well defined, even precise and she excelled at it. Lying beneath men of every description was mind numbing and, after any religiously dictated morals had been extinguished, it was just another job. Sex by rote. Start to finish. Exchange of money. The transactional parameters dated from before the Bible. Raw commerce at work. Men were, if not anything else, biologically programmed to succumb to their desires. Market forces took over from that point.

"Tell me about where you were born?" Al asked, as they settled at a table in the back of the bar, away from the noise as far as possible. Al was hoping to conduct the interview out of earshot of the bar patrons. You could never be too careful. Al's paranoia had been increasing every since he had been tailed by two men a few weeks before. He had seen them at the bar he frequented and then later on outside his hotel. It was no coincidence. Although they weren't dressed in discernible uniforms they wreaked of the Rhodesian government and were most likely undercover agents of some sort or another. Already twice he had been called down to the police station and warned not to trespass here or there. The second time he was called in he had seen the newspaper from Britain lying on the officer's desk, tipping him off that they were monitoring where his articles were being published.

"TTL," she replied succinctly, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke towards the ceiling.

Al waited a moment for her to continue. When interviewing people he had learned it was best to let the current of the conversation go at its own pace. Too many questions could interrupt the flow, throw the person off and make them suspicious. You had to develop trust quickly. It was difficult most times, even impossible on occasion. Patience also had to be seen as natural, not forced.

"Near the Chesa Native Purchase Area?" he said after the conversation seemed to have stalled. He studied her face for a moment, deciding on whether or not she was going to quit the interview, finding it too burdensome for her. Memories dredged up could be problematic. Life on the TTL were seldom fond ones. They often lived in mud huts and answered to shamans and Chieftans that held sway and ran the tribal area with an iron grip.

She nodded at him then said, "It was a very long time ago."

There seemed to be a bottomless pit of sorrow in that statement and Al noted it in his notebook. He waited a minute, then said, "Tell me something about your family. Father. Mother." He didn't want to mention the brother yet, the one fighting in the RAR. He would have to work up to that.

"My father was a very stern man," she said in almost a whisper. "I didn't care for him all that much," she explained, laughing. "But he was my father," she added, shrugging. "Men are the same," she muttered, neglecting to elaborate and Al was afraid to probe any more on that particular subject.

"You and your mother get along?" he inquired, glancing around the bar, checking to see if anyone was listening.

"My mother was a good person...but not clever," she said as if it hurt to mention her mother. "My father was bad for her and she had many children."

"You are Mshona, right?" Al asked, having forgotten to assign a tribe to her at the beginning of their conversation. They were the dominant tribe in Zimbabwe.

She nodded yes, then asked, "You have seen the TTL?"

"Yeah, I have," he answered, wondering what else she wanted to know.

"It is very pitiful there," she stated angrily, making it obvious who she blamed. "Whites live like kings and we live like pigs."

It was a raw political statement that carried all of the weight of the insurgents cause out there fighting in the bush. Now it was obvious to Al in what direction her sentiments were going. Al thought about this development for a moment, trying to decide which way to direct the interview. Some of the blacks still clung to the status quo, unable to imagine a world where they would be on top of the order and not the bottom. At this stage of the war though most Zimbabweans were well into a vision of a country with them at the helm. Years of conflict had fostered that dream, making it more of a reality in their minds everyday.

"You blame Ian Smith," he suggested, trying to sound neutral as possible, just a foreigner there to make sense of it all.

Mandida glared at him for an instant, then chuckled and said, "Our white father. Watch over us."

Her mocking tone was filled with venom and spoke of what post Rhodesia might be like for all those whites who decided to remain there. Retribution would be harsh and probably merciless. Decades of abuse couldn't be masked, overlooked. People couldn't be expected to turn the other cheek so easily.

"Are you religious?" he asked, expecting a non-answer if any. Christianity existed in the country but was muted or had been co-opted many years ago. The Bible could be interpreted any way you wanted it to be.

She laughed and exclaimed, "Of course. White Jesus is going to save me. I am still waiting for him to walk through that door." She pointed off in the direction of the front door to the bar.

Going off script for a moment, Al asked, "What would you say to him if he did walk through that door."

She thought for a moment then said, "I would...I would ask him if he wanted to go upstairs. Yes, but I would make sure he had money first."

Her sacrilegious comment was followed by a long drink, as if she were giving a toast. Al laughed along with her for a moment. Then he said, "Do you believe in god or a god? Is that something expected of you when you were a child maybe?"

"Not very. My mother knew of the church but my father did not. Don't you know, Mistah, we are afraid of spirits in the night." She was referring to the widely known aspect of African life that revolved around elemental animism. It was attuned to nature and derived its power from ignorance and skillful shamans. "Before, as a little girl, I believed in things but I never believed in a Jesus. White religion has no place for us."

She was correct in her analysis of the religion that thrived in southern Africa, from the Dutch Reform Church to the Church of England. Out of scripture had been carved expositions of apology for the state of race relations, a way to forward the civil agenda and keep blacks positioned below the whites. That it was codified made it all the more heinous. Righteousness was for sale.

Mandida had been caught in the vortex created by war, left to struggle on her own as a whore servicing the actors in the cruel drama that was destroying her life. It was circular. She lived off the money handed to her by soldiers, the very ones out there striving to turn back the historical clock. International sanctions and opprobrium rained down on Rhodesia daily and yet the war effort staggered along. Each person had a part in the continuance. There didn't seem to be an equitable ending in sight despite many attempts at a political solution, a conclusion to the racial division.

Al wrote his story about Mandida and it had been received favorably, another detailed glimpse of wartime Rhodesia, a country in transition to an unknown future. He did his best to portray her as a victim, but also a victim with an inexhaustible spirit derived from equal parts desperation and determination. She was a sympathetic character in the harsh realism, the drama that brought all of humanity's shortcomings to the forefront.

It was the next story Al filed that brought much more attention to the war and to his by line, which also included Mandida as the featured person in the article. Some said it might have just been instigated over money, the payment of her agreed upon fee for services rendered. That made for a neat, tidy explanation. Al didn't buy into that particular government sponsored description of what happened in that hotel room above the bar that served as the conduit for many of the whores merchandising. He sensed it was deeper, perhaps more pathological even.

He was able to dredge up some alternative versions by interviewing some of the other prostitutes on the scene and also some mercenaries who knew the victim of the crime. It was easy for him to envision what may have been a radically different turn of events. Anger, frustration, a general all around sense of futility might have played a larger part in what happened in that room over the bar that night.

Mandida had been heard screaming: "Boys in the bush! Boys in the bush!" It was, in its way, a battle cry, a bestial scream for justice, salvation even. There was no other solutions. Death was final, conclusive. It brought change.

As it unfolded, so Al would learn, Mandida took one of her clients upstairs as she had done hundreds maybe thousands of times before throughout the duration of the war. Exchange a smile at the bar. Have a drink. In the abbreviated, charged atmosphere of a whore's version of sales it was necessary to pare down the extrinsic interactions. Move it along. There was a transaction to complete. The inviolable elements of labor were seldom altered. Bringing a product to completion was the goal and she excelled at her profession. It was a learned talent. Perfected after many, many hours of practice.

The mercenary was a man from the midlands of Britain. He had served in the British Army, having done his time in Belfast serving during Operation Banner. His experience with war had been circumscribed, defined by two religions masquerading as opponents while the source of "the Troubles" was all about power and looking towards the Crown residing next door, across the Irish Sea. Going to Africa had opened his horizons enough to supply him with adventure. Back in Britain his prospects had been minimal so his decision had been made easier to travel to a foreign country locked in a debilitating war. The aspects of the war that were prominent didn't interest him all that much. Like in Belfast, he didn't harbor any animism against either side of the conflict. Catholics wanted this and the Protestants wanted that, it was intractable and left him with a well defined nihilism that he used to conduct his duties. The white/black axis was obvious of course but he saw it as just another conflict with structured reasons to hate.

In Mandida he saw another conduit for entertainment. He had been serving out in the bush, going on missions, doing his job. There had been fire fights, which, for him, was novel, unlike his previous tour of duty when it was all enveloped by urban warfare. The danger aspect was there but on a different level. He was in Salisbury to forget about the war for a while. Leave it behind him. Enjoy himself. He was wonderfully unconcerned and blind to the essence of his immediate actions. That he was unaware of Mandida's race spoke to his mindset and how he really didn't notice that dynamic at play. He was wearing his Rhodesia Army uniform, the camouflaged fatigues that may have made Mandida angry, just another touchstone of war that she had to cope with. His white face, even his unctuous British accent might have been triggers that made her snap.

Everyone could speculate, of course. One of the other prostitutes, who was in the next room at the time of the incident, told Al: "I heard shouting. Loud. Very loud." She had held her hands over her ears for emphasis when she was telling him her version of events. Apparently, Mandida had led him upstairs, to the room, then told him to undress and lie down on the bed. Drunk, unsuspecting, he complied and got naked, ready for the agreed on sexual transaction. She then produced a large knife from under the bed and as he was slow to react sliced his throat. It disabled him immediately. She then stabbed him several times in the stomach and chest. His death came quick as he bled out. It was then she started screaming: "Boys in the Bush!" Over and over she shouted out, long enough for the bar owner downstairs to arrive on the scene and see her standing there holding the bloody knife.

There was no resistance from her. They led her away, right to the police station. Another statistic to the war had been added. Al would go on to follow up on the case, writing about the mercenary, even contacting his family back in the UK. The incident, the murder, was a premature punctuation to the history of the war. Yet it would go on months more before finally been extinguished by exhaustion and heroic diplomacy enacted by Britain. Rhodesia would become Zimbabwe.

February 5, 1978

Tomas:

Okay, amigo, just writing to let you know I'm still here, in Rhodesia-slash-Zimbabwe. They finally added a hyphen. I think they did anyway. You can never tell. Over here (down here) the war makes things kind of upside down sometimes. I mean if you go left everyone else is going right and vice versa. That's asinine but that is often the nature of these sort of conflicts. Sometimes this version makes Viet Nam look logical. Just kidding. Maybe.

Anyway, I wrote before about that favor I wanted you to do and hope it wasn't too much to ask. I owe you one. Hope you are getting it done there with the Voice. Unfortunately, I can't get it down this way but I will catch up on some back issues when I get back to New York.

Listen, if you have the time, check out my latest article I wrote recently. It's in that British publication I mentioned before. Tell me what you think. Somehow this story shook me up a little bit. Alot really. I knew the girl who did it. I did a story on her just recently. It shocked the hell out of me to find out she did it. Read the story. You'll see what I mean.

I guess I'm going to hang on here a little while longer. Got some good stories out of this war so far. If the government doesn't clamp down on me then maybe I will win a Pulitzer. Ha. Ha. Plenty of fertile material to work with. If you weren't such a weanie you'd be over here too. Just joking.

Hope all is going well with you. Tell everyone hello for me. I'll drop you another line real soon. When I sober up maybe. I'm doing my time in the bars around here. That's where the action is. Later.

AM

Chapter 2: Salisbury Nights

This was to be his most ambitious assignment yet. Ben was trusting him with a project that was inherently vague, with little or no boundaries. He had been to Central America and he had traveled in the Soviet Union, but they had been defined missions of short duration. Caleb was now tackling a war, a racial bloodbath.

Geo-politics and power shifts in southern Africa were undergoing dramatic changes during the Seventies. Angola, Namibia and Mozambique were embroiled in war, conflicts defined by tribal antipathy and political persuasion. The absence of colonialism had left a vacuum, which was unalterably being replaced by chaos that was fueled by the power brokers in the Cold War.

Rhodesia was different. The very name of the country said it all. Europeans were locked in a struggle to maintain their grip on an African country. Portugal, France, even England had long forfeited their right to control of any countries in Africa. The days of rife exploitation by colonial powers had passed, eliminated by violent insurrection or peaceful political transfer. By ignoring all historical imperatives, the white run government had cheated time.

Ben had instructed him to research the stability of the standing Rhodesian government. Civil war had eaten away at the infrastructure to this landlocked African country for several years. What were the ramifications? Would South Africa be next? Was there any prospect of a brokered solution? There were so many questions.

Caleb had entered on the stage of this conflict when it was in the throes of its last brutal engagements. Yet another war, with more turmoil, pain, and death; it was an intractable recipe being played out all over the world. The elements of history never progressed very far.

The small white taxi, one of the many Renaults that seemed to be everywhere on the Salisbury city streets, spun around a corner and screeched to a stop in front of a small house. Al paid the driver and tipped him well. The driver grunted and said something under his breath. There was a grinding noise as he jammed the car into gear, then he sped away.

"Such a jolly fellow," Al said in a bad British accent, chuckling.

"Probably a terr in his spare time," Caleb joked.

"I don't doubt it," Al said, strolling on ahead into the house, carrying a bottle of brandy and a six of Castle Lager.

The small party came to a halt when they entered. Suspicion of outsiders was a science in Salisbury. "This is Caleb Chase," Al explained, by way of introduction. The hostess, a first generation Rhodesian, came forward and introduced herself. Behind her a flank of African men sat eyeing Caleb. The hostess' mother called from the kitchen diverting their attention. "Please excuse me, won't you. My mother gets totally frazzled whenever I entertain. We're about to serve dinner," she said graciously, hurrying off. Caleb wasn't hungry.

In the corner of the living room a conversation continued in Mshona. Al handed him a beer, slapped him on the back and said, "Welcome to Rhodesia. You're going to love it here."

Later, after dinner, Caleb drifted outside to the backyard where the majority of the guests were discussing the war, always the war. The hostess urged him to join in on a game of badminton. A tall African on the opposing side took every opportunity to slam the shuttlecock in his direction. Chase managed to snap back a few volleys. They played until he was sweating heavily in the humidity.

Al, a stringer for the news services, was an accomplished diplomat, having practiced many times the art of deflecting hostility in numerous other regions of the world suffering from war. He had been chasing down wars and conflicts for almost ten years and at the age of 33 had a voluminous amount of stories to tell. He had settled into a conversation about Ian Smith's new directional policy to save Rhodesia from defeat with one of the guests; who, for his part, was half listening to what Al was saying. It hadn't taken long for Caleb to realize the Rhodesians had little time for opinions about their country from outsiders.

"You've got to admit it, Smith has been a strong leader," Caleb overheard Al say. He admired Al for his, at times, foolhardy spirit. He never gave the safe and expected answers to comments. They might be in the middle of a racial feud of Biblical proportions, but Al spoke his mind. In transitional Rhodesia-Zimbabwe that could get you killed.

"This is Caleb, the wayward travelogists," Al said in his customary tone of voice, a wonderful blend of irony and sarcasm. "Caleb, this is the guy I wanted you to meet."

The guy he wanted Caleb to meet was a politician, one of the Africans fortunate enough to hold office in a white run administration, and unfortunate enough, in all likelihood, to be the first one to be eliminated when the terrs demolished Ian Smith's regime, along with Rhodesia. The politician smiled and shook Caleb's hand. He had the look Caleb had seen almost every African college student studying in the States exhibit: an air of humble rectitude spiced by an underlining guilt at being caught for striving so much in a whiteman's world. Caleb immediately felt sorry for the guy. It was possible he would end up as one of the new political prisoners wasting away in some hole when the new leaders fought their way to power.

"You will excuse me for a moment if I take him away for awhile," the hostess announced, locking arms with Caleb and pulling him away.

"Indeed," the politician said politely, smiling.

"He's such a bore," she confided when they had gotten inside.

"Oh yeah," Caleb said, laughing. "Thanks for saving me then."

She was eager to chatter about America, a country she had never been to, reserving for her the right to conjure up any number of ludicrous images. Were there actually cowboys? Was California as big as people say? What about the crime! Did everyone in American own a car?

As she asked her inane questions about the fabled land, he wondered how she came to mire herself in an inter-racial marriage. Bridging the barrier between the races was something not done in Rhodesia. Yet she had married an African, a Mshona, and despite the fact he was educated and a successful man in the community, he was still an African. What influenced this woman born of British parents in a colonial outland?

One of their two children, two beautiful girls, approached her mother and complained that her mother hadn't done a promised duty. "I must do her hair," the hostess explained, "or she will pester me forever." She proceeded to brush out the girl's shoulder length hair with long strokes that almost crackled with static electricity. Then she tied a nylon stocking around the little girl's hair, the long slightly kinky hair which gave away her racial mixture.

With a quick buss to her mother's cheek, the girl was gone, skipping off to bed. "She's a terror at times," the proud mother intimated, smiling. Chase thought of her future under a new government. Most of the population would be suspicious of her because of her white lineage, and the whites would distrust her for her African blood. The disorder that was imminent would affect them all.

Al was into the brandy that he brought. His affection for the "stinging elixir", as he called it, was legendary. Soon he would be regaling the party with tales of war's horror made digestible by sardonic wit. Viet Nam, Chad, Lebanon, the list was endless. Some would listen with interest, eager to know of wars beyond their own. Some would not. It wouldn't matter to him. The true raconteur loves his stories not his audience. Caleb had heard most of his stories after several days of bar excursions.

Caleb wanted to leave. The party had dwindled to a small core of neighbors. They were sitting in the living room sliding into sleepiness. Al's voice droned. The hostess was in the kitchen helping her mother clean up the dinner mess. The host was asleep in an easy chair with a peaceful expression on his face. Caleb's badminton opponent was standing in a corner peppering Al with questions about his travels in an accusatory tone, as if to say Al was telling nothing but lies. It didn't bother Al; he continued on. Caleb knew he would have to stop soon because the brandy was almost finished. Then they would be able to go.

A taxi was called. Unbelievably it was the same driver as before. "I guess he has the night off from his terrorist activities," Caleb whispered to Al as they were getting in. Al muttered something and collapsed in the backseat.

From the door to her home the hostess waved good-bye. The host was still asleep in the chair. The driver sped away with demonic abandon. Caleb doubted any snipers would be able to get a bead on them. They made their way back to the hotel, as Al's snores filled the taxi. The driver looked in the rearview mirror and actually laughed.

"War's hell," Caleb announced, knowing his sarcasm would help soothe his mind.

November 29, 1978

Hola Tomas:

Here I am back in Salisbury. Nice city. Very quiet. Tranquil too. You wouldn't know there was a war raging on out there just beyond the city limits. Who could tell anyway after all the brews I downed last night. I feel like somebody stuck a razor blade in the side of my head. Too many Castle Lagers. I'm getting too old for hang overs. Tomas, I don't think you would care for Africa. It's too hot for one thing, and the beer is too light. I'm hanging around with a this American guy at the moment. He's one interesting character. Says he's an anthropologist. (?) He's studying something or other here. Sure. Intrepid and foolish pretty much describes him. Oddly enough we used to live only a few blocks from each other in New York. Small world.

Nice to meet a fellow American though. I got to admit that. There's a pool at the place I'm staying at and as I was sitting there reading a local newspaper this guy comes up to me and asks whether or not it was me he saw down at the Ministry of whatchamacallit. Next thing I know we're in a taxi heading to the nearest pub. Drinking helps, makes the war easier to take. A mercenary I met the other day in a bar told me drink like there is no tomorrow because there might not be. Good advice maybe.

You are probably wondering why I keep showing up in places like this, right? Nothing like a racial bloodbath to liven things up. Actually, I'm just logging more time reporting, keeping it going. You know me, always one to check things out. Tomorrow should be intriguing. I'm taking the "anthropologist" to see this native tribe somewhere in the interior. They are way off the scale, like in another epoch or something, as in very primitive. I've been there before, about three months ago or so. Now that one Anthro course I took back in college is going to come in handy. Can't wait to sample the pot again. That's right, just some local homegrown stuff. Got to go native.

That's one good thing about meeting this fellow American. It nice to have a sidekick once in a while, you know. It gets boring by yourself out there digging up stories. Hey, I've been here going on six months so I needed somebody to share all this craziness with.

Boy you would have loved the flight down here. Talk about long. I thought I was never going to get off that damn plane. Strangely, I haven't seen Tarzan yet. Actually, Africa isn't anything like what the average person believes it to be like. My god they actually have cities over here! This is my second excursion to Africa so I'm becoming quite the Great White Hunter type.

Oh great, somebody is pounding on my door. Probably my new American friend. I'm going to have to change hotels. Take care, friend.

Al

Chapter 3: Anthropological Byways

Kariba was a few hundred miles from the relative safety of Salisbury. It was a lake sanctuary built by man in the viscera of the bush land between Zambia and Rhodesia. There was a bucolic innocence to the region, where wildlife abounded and a beleaguered vacation industry held on to supply the public with a reserve for peacefully viewing Africa's renowned animals.

The war had lent a further sense of adventure to Lake Kariba. There had been several attacks on vacationers by the terrs. Then again, there had been attacks everywhere in Rhodesia.

The car lurched to a stop as Al pulled off the road onto a flat track of dried mud. The rains must be late this year, Al thought absently. Caleb reached in the back and grabbed a water bottle. Some of the cool water dribbled down his chin in his haste to quench his thirst.

"We'll be there in about twenty minutes or so," Al stated, staring at a crumpled map he had pulled from the glove compartment.

"You sure you know where in the hell we are?" Caleb asked, wiping the water off his chin with the back of his hand. In the far recesses of his skull he could feel a headache coming on.

"I told you I've been here before. Twice," Al replied, slightly annoyed. Their 'frontier friendship', as they called it, had begun to fray around the edges somewhat. The war had strung their nerves tight.

"Then why do you need a map?"

Al looked at him with a pained expression and said, "I haven't been here in over three months. This might surprise you but I can't remember every fucking road in Rhodesia."

"I thought you did," Caleb said, smirking.

""Have I told you to kiss my ass today yet?" Al spat out, wiping sweat off his brow. "Would it be too much to ask for these damn rental cars to have AC? It's so frigging hot today."

Al slowly edged the car back onto the road and they continued on into the barren wilderness. As Caleb sat there watching the desolate bush pass by, he couldn't help but think about what he had come to Rhodesia for. He realized he was avoiding what he had to do. His encounter with Al and the subsequent friendship was beginning to interrupt his progress. Although the scope of his assignment was unclear, he realized that time was a precious commodity. Events of the war were moving rapidly, changing daily. The window of opportunity could slam shut at any moment.

Yet in ways he needed Al. He had been there for so many months and knew the customs and ways around governmental hassles. That could be valuable. Wartime brought clamp like regulations that tended to strangle any attempts at subverting normal procedures. Al had perfected the art of "dash," the African equivalent to graft.

Although, unfortunately, Al was naturally curious; it came with his occupation. He had wanted to know Chase's reasons for being in a warzone. Why? Who would want to be present for the coming mayhem? He couldn't avoid asking questions.

Al had nodded his head when Caleb informed him that he was there on a Ford Foundation Grant, to study the tribal order of transitional Rhodesia/Zimbabwe. On the face of it the explanation seemed ludicrous, but Chase stuck by it. Al had eyed him skeptically and just muttered something under his breath.

They were in route to see a tribe, a tribe so far out of the mainstream of Zimbabwean life they weren't capable of communicating with the Mshona or the Ndebele tribes. "I don't even think they speak a Bantu root language," Al had explained, eyes wide to show that it was another deeper level of what being in Africa was all about. As far as Caleb knew, they were still practicing animists, complete with a shaman, and operating within the structure of a patriarchy ruled by an elder chieftan. Caleb realized he would have to fabricate some anthropological jargon and seem genuinely knowledgeable about such things. For Al, these anthropological embellishments were trivial matters. He was there to share in the dagga, the local homegrown pot guaranteed to rearrange reality's priorities.

Al had done an article on the tribe for a British publication, a story, as he told it, painstakingly researched for authenticity. According to his discriminating taste, the dagga was comparable to some of the Hawaiian blend he had during a brief sojourn on Maui. However, as the story goes, an apocryphal account of the chieftan's hex or curse superceded all other dynamics of the article.

This chieftan, with the name of Noon, like in twelve noon, was visited by a lieutenant in the Rhodesian Defense Force. It was an official visit. This young lieutenant was sent there by his superiors to confiscate all weapons from the villagers in that sector. As it turned out, Noon possessed a splendid Ruger hunting rifle given to him long ago by a white hunter of some regional renown.

Predictably, an argument ensued between the dutiful lieutenant and the chieftan, an argument that escalated into rather rough treatment of the chief, which culminated in a forced confiscation of the cherished rifle. Noon, a venerable and not unreasonable man, summarily passed on a hex personally directed at the irascible lieutenant; who in turn scoffed at the chieftan's "primitive nonsense."

The irony of this whole incident is that the Ruger was so rusted that it could never have fired a single shot even if Noon had bullets to match the rifle's caliber. A week after the lieutenant appropriated the rifle he was mauled by a rogue lion and killed. The next day Noon's rifle was returned to him, along with a formal apology. Thus went the interaction between twentieth century Rhodesia and primal Zimbabwe.

Sitting crossed leg in a mud hut, with the hum of a strange African dialect echoing in their ears, Al and Caleb puffed contentedly on a clay pipe packed with dagga. Seated in a circle were members of the upper crust of the tribe, including Noon. He was an elderly man, with a crop of hair resting on his nobby head like a wreath of white contrasting against his black face.

"How are you?' he had asked in a slow methodical way, then smiled idiotically. It was the extent of his knowledge of English. This didn't bother Al, the self-proclaimed expert in hand language and international intercultural congeniality. He got along with everyone.

The dagga slapped Caleb's consciousness almost immediately. It was uncanny how the plant packed a hypnotic punch. "Talk about your auditory sensory altering," he said in a voice hoarse from another passing of the pipe.

Al turned to him and smiled a devilish smile, then said, "Cultural exchange...we've taken anthropology into the twenty-first century."

"What's anthropology?" Caleb asked, giggling.

The pipe made the rounds, stopping here and there for a one of them to take a hit, then exhale a cloud of smoke. Their murmurings seemed to blend together into a chorus.

"How are you?" Noon asked again, his gravelly voice penetrating the darkness of the hut.

"Purely irrelevant," Caleb replied, laughing. The chieftan smiled, then closed his eyes and appeared to be in a peaceful sleep. A few members of the circle carried him to his hut.

"Now that's service," Al mumbled.

Morning came and the inevitability of the fact wasn't lost on a sluggish Caleb, who rose from his earthen bed covered by a fine layer of muddy silt. "My mouth feels like I swallowed a pound of sand," he said aloud to himself.

The hut was vacant, except for a chicken clucking in the doorway. Stumbling outside, going from the dimly lighted hut into the harsh African sunlight, blinded him unmercilessly. "I can't see a thing!" he shouted out, as he staggered to the car, ignoring the stares of the village women and children.

Al was curled up in the backseat of the car still sleeping. He had locked the doors so Caleb pounded on the window. With a start, Al jumped up. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled, "are you crazy waking me up like that. I almost shit my pants."

"I see you let me have the deluxe accommodations, Al-buddy," he chided.

"The blood-budgies were driving me crazy so I--"

"The what?" Caleb exclaimed peevishly.

"Mosquitoes, that's what the Rhodesians call them. Blood-budgies...don't they have a quaint way of putting things? Besides, you know how allergic I am to malaria," he said, laughing.

"You're a real riot, jerk-off. You could have told me about the risk," Caleb shot back.

"You were sleeping so peacefully I didn't want to disturb you," Al explained, smirking.

Caleb ran his hand over a ridge of pimply bites on his neck, then said, "If I get malaria I'm going to beat the crap out of you."

"Goood-bye," Noon said later when they were getting ready to leave, waving, while holding the Ruger in his other hand like a regal scepter.

"Goood-bye yourself," Al retorted, leaving his customary parting gift of a bottle of brandy.

"I see you taught him how to say good-bye," Caleb said, shaking Noon's hand.

"Goood-bye," Noon sang out again.

When they were on the road back to Salisbury, Caleb said, "Wait'll that old fart takes a swig of that brandy, he'll probably put a hex on you for sure."

"I'm not worried about that. You see, for him to deliver a curse he has to know the victim's name," Al explained slyly, pausing for effect. "I told him my name was Caleb Chase."

"You bastard!"

"I wouldn't worry about it. I think the range of his curses only extends in a thousand mile radius. So if you take a flight out of Salisbury tonight you might make it."

"Funny guy," Caleb shot back, laughing.

December 5, 1978

Tomas:

I'm sure I have lung cancer. A few days ago I took Caleb to see that lost tribe that I mentioned and I must have smoked a pound of pot. Old Hippies never die--they just go up in a cloud of smoke. Now I know why people go into Anthropology. No wonder Margaret Mead hung out with those natives for so long.

Tomorrow night I have a date. I met her at--and you are not going to believe this--the local Woolworth's. No kidding. They happen to have one here right in downtown Salisbury. Real strange. Where do you go on a date in wartime Rhodesia? As Capital cities go, the sleepy city of Salisbury ranks right up there with probably Lincoln, Nebraska. At least they have football games to go to. You got to cultivate your sources, as you know. She could be a goldmine of info if I work it right because she works in one of the more sensitive government offices around here.

December 5, 1978 (later on)

Just got back from my date. We went to dinner. I had elephant steak--just kidding. She wasn't the most cheerful of dates. I guess she has a right to be depressed about the situation over here. If I was about to lose my country I'd probably be angry too. Over half the white population has fled. "Taking the chicken run," was how she referred to it as, and none too kindly. She's a proud Rhodesian. Her grandparents were even born here, so she says. She doesn't care if the Africans burn the place to the ground; she's not leaving. I admire her for that.

Sometime this week we're getting together for lunch. Maybe. There doesn't seem to be much prospects there, if you know what I mean.

I had to interrupt this entry for a moment because there was somebody at my door. It wasn't Caleb for a change. It was one of the hotel workers. He works in the restaurant downstairs. Nice guy. I talked to him the first day I was here. He is trying to study electrical engineering or some engineering. Getting a higher education here is just the least bit difficult.

I opened the door and he's standing there in that posture the Africans have before white men. It makes me uncomfortable every time I see it. They stand there like I'm ready to hit them. The guy says, with his eyes cast down to the floor, "Can I ask you something, Mistah Marshall?"

To make a long story short, he wanted to know if I would write him a letter of recommendation for a college in the US. Apparently Caleb told him I was a journalist back in the States. What could I say? We talked for a moment then he went on his way.

The sad thing is the guy is about a second away from being drafted to fight for the whites against his own tribesmen. He'll probably be dead by next year.

Well, I'm getting out of Salisbury for a little bit. Time to see what goes on out there. I got a lead on a new story. That means I have to hit the road, which over here is one dangerous undertaking. People are getting shot up everyday in their cars. Easy pickings for the "terrs." I just remembered that I never told you about my trip up here from South Africa. Took the train like an idiot. I wanted to take in the sights a little bit, maybe get some human interest angle going about the war. Big mistake. Almost anyway.

Everything went okay until we got to the Rhodesia/Zimbabwe border. It would have been nice if somebody told me about the terrs using the train for target practice. What the hell! We hadn't been in the country for twenty minutes when all of a sudden the windows on the train shattered and bullets started ricocheting around the car. Everybody was screaming and hitting the floor. It happened so fast I just sat there for a split second, in shock I guess. Then I hit the deck and hugged the floor like everybody else.

The train fortunately just kept chugging along. Soon it was over. There were bullet holes everywhere. Miraculously, nobody was hurt. Just missed a woman and her baby sitting in the seat across from me. The baby didn't even cry that much, considering. A conductor came along and told everybody every thing was going to be okay. Doubt that was the general reaction from us passengers. I couldn't help but think I was on the wrong train and going in the wrong direction. Like maybe I might want to rethink my travel plans. You might call it the algebra of travel, you know, when you have to figure out what train gets you where you want to go and when. Except now you have to cipher in when and where you are going to die. Got an equation for that? .

Anyway, I'll write later. By the way, glad to hear you got that column you were hoping for. Look out New York. Take care.

Al

Chapter 4: Vic Falls

He felt conspicuous standing at the bar. The lounge at the Southern Sun Hotel was half empty at this time of day. He wished Al would arrive so he could conclude his business.

Al stopped at the front desk of the hotel before going into the bar. He wanted to know if he had any messages. The desk clerk blinked away traces of his recent nap, then made a great show of checking behind the counter. "There would be no messages, sir," the desk clerk said apologetically.

The desk clerk's head had already slunk to the counter top and was propped up on his folded hands by the time Al reached the door to the lounge. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the lounge's dark interior. Al could see him waving to him from the bar.

"Hello!" Al said warmly, offering his hand.

The man looked around warily before shaking his hand. "Let's see if we can get this over with as soon as possible," the man hissed.

"What's wrong?' Al asked casually, now used to the hushed tones of wartime Rhodesia.

"Nothing," the man replied defensively.

"Have another drink. Here, I'll get you a brandy--it's good for you," Al said soothingly.

"Let's get on with it," the man uttered in a whisper, nervously clutching at his tie.

"Okay-okay," Al said, beginning to get irritated. He was building up a distinct dislike for this man, this secretive Rhodesian. "Why don't we take our drinks over to a table, then we can talk in private."

When they sat down, the man said, "I found out what you wanted to know but...well...I'm not at all certain anymore that this is the right thing to do," the man said in a whisper, glancing around the lounge nervously.

"Hey now...what's your name anyway? You never told me," Al asked in a tone of forced camaraderie.

"Doesn't matter. You don't need to know," the man said suddenly alarmed that he might have to reveal his name.

"Okay, I'll call you Mr. X in my article," Al said flippantly.

"Are you sure you're just a journalist and nothing else?" the Rhodesian asked uneasily.

"Oh no, I'm just a part time reporter. I work full time for the CIA," Al retorted sarcastically, taking another long sip of his brandy.

"You can joke about this but I can't. This is my country we are talking about," the man said angrily.

"You're right. Fine. All I want to do is get the facts about those helicopters the Israelis smuggled in here--and how they beat the sanctions to do it," Al said flatly.

"Who said the Israelis were behind it?" the man exclaimed excitedly.

"Come on, buddy, we can be straight with each other--can't we? I'm not the enemy believe me," Al said, trying hard to summon up some charm and to restrain his mounting exasperation.

"You can't be sure about anyone anymore," the Rhodesian muttered forlornly. "This use to be the best country in the world. But now the terrs are murdering everyone and the rest of the world is bleeding us dry."

"I sympathize," Al said in a voice that wasn't too convincing.

"I'm not sure I want to give you the information," the man said in a surly tone.

"Look Mr. X, if you want me to say you are doing a noble thing then forget it. As far as I'm concerned I stand to make some money off this story. I'm not on either side of this fucking war!" Al said, slamming his fist down on the table.

"Keep your voice down, please," the Rhodesian pleaded. "Everyone is looking."

"Let them look. I'm really fed up with this country and its mass neurosis," Al spat out.

"I think I made a mistake in contacting you," the man said sheepishly.

"Yeah, I guess you have," Al said harshly.

"I'd appreciate it if you would keep this meeting confidential," the man said, rising from the table, bending at the waist to speak in a lowered voice.

"My lips are sealed," Al said, zipping his lips shut with his forefinger.

The Rhodesian quickly left the lounge, looking over his shoulder as he went out the door. "Stupid idiot," Al mumbled.

He slowly sipped his brandy, letting the abrasive bite of the amber liquid pause on his tongue for an instant before swallowing it. He could hear two men over at the bar discussing the possibility of taking the train into South Africa. By the time the war's over nobody will be living here, Al thought.

"What's up?" he announced, sitting across the table from Al.

"Hey Caleb," he said, forcing a smile.

"How did it go with your connection?' Caleb asked, sitting down.

"It didn't. The dumb ass," he said angrily. "I came on a little bit heavy handed, I guess. This place is starting to get to me."

"It would me too if the government had threatened to deport me--twice," Caleb said, laughing. "Don't get all depressed on me now."

"I'm working without a permit as it is. They revoked my old one almost from day one; but I couldn't give a shit at this stage of the game. Really. This place is--"

"Come on, Al, you've gotten some good stories out of this war. Not to mention the fact you've made some money doing it," Caleb pointed out. "Besides, from what you've told me it sounds like you broke every rule in the book doing it. No wonder the government is pissed off. Off-limits means nothing to you."

"I know," Al muttered almost dejectedly. "It's just that I've hit a dry stretch and I need something good. Some dynamite info or angle would help. This guy was starting to back out on me so I lost it for a minute. He got cold feet. What can I say?"

"Al, you have been here six months and in that time you have managed to alienate almost every government agency in the country. It might be time for you to move on. Find another war maybe," Caleb said.

"I wanta be here for the conclusion to this asinine war," Al declared glumly, unconvincingly. "Put too much time in already to let it go south on me."

"Naw, there's something else to it, Al," Caleb stated, eyeing him. "Admit it."

"Admit what?" Al shot back almost angrily.

"This," Caleb exclaimed, sweeping his hands around.

Al mimicked him for a moment then said, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It bothers you...your occupation for lack of a better word," Caleb explained.

"What? Really. What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded to know.

"Your job...profession, it has a built in dependency and that involves war," Caleb told him, wishing he hadn't brought it up. "I mean, you know, you write about wars. Not exactly uplifting in the soul department."

"Oh, so now you're a priest. An undercover priest here from the Vatican," Al joked, laughing. "Here to see about my soul are you. Okay. Tell the Pope to fuck off," he said, shaking his head.

"Just an observation, that's all," Caleb said, shrugging.

"So, big deal," Al mumbled, then added in a more forceful voice, "What do you know?" He pointed his finger at Caleb and said, "You know nothing. You're a virgin. Don't know shit. If you had seen half of what I--"

"Exactly," Caleb interrupted.

"What's that mean?" Al wanted to know, puzzled.

"You've seen more war than me for sure but it's not my focus like it is yours," Caleb fired back more heatedly than he intended to.

"Let's see, you are an anthropologist, a priest, and now a psychologist too. Damn how many degrees do you have, Caleb? You must be the smartest guy in the world," he exclaimed, raising his brandy glass as if he were toasting him.

They were silent for a moment. A group of men entered the bar and took a table nearby. After work drinks, Caleb thought, eyeing them for a moment, listening to their conversation. For once, it wasn't war talk but the usual men chatter about office politics and women.

"I've been thinking about going on back up to Salisbury," Caleb finally offered, glancing at Al for a moment, hoping that he hadn't driven a wedge between them.

"Fuck you, Chase. You're not getting rid of me," Al stated, laughing, seemingly back to his usual jovial self. "Forget about all that crap," he stated, waving it away with his hand. "Oh yeah, what about tomorrow? Are you going with me on the convoy to Vic Falls or not?"

"I'm not sure." he replied evasively, scanning the bar patrons for a minute.

"Like you have something better to do. Or maybe you do. You still haven't answered my question about what you're doing here," Al said, staring at him. "Maybe you would make a good story, huh."

"I told you. I'm an--"

"Anthropologist, here on a Ford Foundation Grant. Tell me another one," he sang out. I'm going to find out your game, Mr. Chase. You can believe that."

Caleb suppressed a grin, as he took another sip from his beer. He had just returned from two weeks away from Al and had managed to accomplish most of what he wanted to do. He was making some headway. The Rhodesian bureaucracy was no different from any other one in the world. Paper pushers ruled the world. That's the first lesson you should always learn when you undertake an assignment like this, he thought, chuckling to himself. Give me the courier assignments any day. Facing embittered clerks (clarks as they say here, they're British don't you know) is definitely one of the worse things in life.

Things had progressed rapidly after he established an in. She was a secretary at one of the many Ministries of the government. After several dates, he was on the verge of getting access to some government documents. To Chase's chagrin, he soon realized that the extent of his espionage involved gathering data. Mundane statistics wasn't exactly glamorous.

He had agreed to accompany Al to Victoria Falls for New Years. Caleb knew this would set him back but he wanted to see the area so he couldn't resist the invitation. Even though Ben had cabled him a few days before and pestered him about getting the assignment done, Chase ignored the message and went on to Bulawayo to meet Al.

"Are you sure about the convoy time?" Caleb asked, trying to deflect the subject.

"I already checked...twice. Got the location and everything," Al replied. "All I need to do is get some gas and we're set."

The convoy assembled on the outskirts of Bulawayo for the long trek to Victoria Falls. Following several years of bloody attrition, where brutality reached unprecedented heights, leaving the white Rhodesian with the specter of being ambushed at any time by roving bands of terrs, the Defense Force stepped in to lead convoys on the major roads. These convoys were indispensable in getting from town to town without facing the savage attacks alone.

Al and Caleb sat in Al's rental car and watched the people in the convoy strut back and forth carrying weapons of every description. It was not unusual to see Rhodesians carrying guns. At times it seemed like everyone carried a weapon, from shot guns to sub-machine guns.

"Check that out," Al said, whistling for emphasis. Caleb looked up and saw a buxom blond carrying a FN assault rifle, complete with camouflaged stock and all. She paused by their car and smiled at them, a coquettish gesture rendered farcical by the long barrel of the rifle propped up on her shoulder.

"Make a good NRA poster," Caleb said, laughing.

When the Defense Force arrived, a collection of conscripts whose pimply faces gave away their tender ages, everyone gathered around to hear the routine lecture on what to expect from a phantom adversary and what to do if attacked. The convoy Captain called for everyone's attention, then, in the usual Rhodesian bravado fashion, passed around a few half-hearted jokes about the terrs' ineptitude to break the tension. There were a couple of rejoinders to the Captain's jokes by the more heavily armed people in the convoy. Then the Captain shouted out: "We'll be doing a good 100 k's, so keep up!"

They were the second car in the convoy, just behind the lead Defense Force truck. Caleb could see the young soldier manning the machine gun in the turret. It was a simple structure, circular in shape, and attached to a revolving base on the back of the Datsun truck, which the gunner turned by shuffling his feet. The Rhodesians were always hopelessly under supplied in the war effort, which necessitated them devising their own instruments of war. The young gunner continually rotated the turret and fingered the trigger on the machine gun.

"Hey Caleb," Al said, "check out the glove compartment."

Caleb flipped open the glove compartment and saw a metallic gleam reflected in the sunlight. "What have we here?"

"Protection," Al declared smugly.

"From what--a boy scout troop? How much damage do you think this little thing is going to do?" he asked derisively.

"Better than nothing," Al answered angrily.

"It is nothing. Shit, the thing's only a twenty-two," he said, taking the gun in his hand and examining it.

"Watch it! It's loaded," Al exclaimed nervously. "Aim it somewhere else."

"What are you worrying about, Al? Even if you shot somebody in the head with this thing it would probably only give them a headache anyway," Caleb said, laughing, as he aimed out the window.

"Put it down, Chase. You're making me nervous."

"Okay. Where did you get this thing anyway?" he asked, as he put the gun back in the glove compartment.

"A friend of mine lent it to me while I was in Rhodesia."

"Some friend. You'd be better off with a blow gun," Caleb said sarcastically.

"It'll get the job done," Al stated with a measure more bravado than he intended.

"Come on Al, playing the Hemingway role doesn't suit you."

"I know, but it sure is fun," he said with a smile.

It was a long drive to Victoria Falls from Bulawayo. Time seemed to ooze out from behind the heat waves lingering on the serpentine road that cut through the barren and hostile landscape. The scenery was initially intriguing but became boring, even obnoxious. There was much of this part of Africa that wasn't picturesque. Barren, with only the occasional twisted tree to break up the view, there wasn't anything particularly pleasing about it.

The drive seemed endless. Occasionally an insect would smash against the windshield and cause them to flinch. Then they would laugh, letting the nervousness dissipate, trying not to think about how vulnerable they really were to an attack.

On the other side of the Wanke Game Preserve they made a rest stop at a small cafe and service station. Inside the cafe was a small bar. They made their way straight for it. Ordering two Lion lagers, they sat in the cool of the dimly lit bar. The rest of the convoy spilled into the cafe ordering quick snacks. In the bar, men dressed in safari outfits were caught up in heated discussions.

"That's what I like about the Rhodesians," Caleb whispered to Al, "they're political animals who love to discuss things--anything."

"You mean argue," Al said with a sneer. At this juncture he had his fill of the Rhodesian personality.

"To you it's arguing, he corrected. "To them it's everyday talking."

"They're all a pain in the ass," Al said, laughing.

Too soon for their liking the convoy leader came in and shouted out they were moving on. Caleb and Al were the last ones to get in their car. As they walked down the length of the convoy all they could see were rifle barrels sticking out of windows.

Back on the road, the convoy stretched out, lumbering along at high speeds, a mechanical snake edging its way towards the Zambian border. Caleb had taken over the driving, while Al took photos of the passing scenery. Now, after driving for hours, the pulsating anticipation had dwindled, replaced by the dreariness of driving a long distance.

At first it came as if from a long way off, then the sound materialized and a persistent staccato began. Later Al would write about the incident for a magazine and call it: A menacing percussion of destruction. "Terrs!" Al shouted, his voice sounding oddly pleased.

The 30 caliber went off in front of them, sending out reams of deafening noise to accompany the rounds which peppered the roadside. Something passed overhead. A loud explosion tore away a section of the road. "God-damn it! Rockets!" Caleb shouted, as he clutched the wheel tighter and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

A steady hum of crackling noise from the 30 caliber machine gun cascaded over the car. Rifles were popping off behind them. In less than a minute it was over; the mechanical snake sped on. Caleb noticed the gunner in front of them was smiling.

Caleb caught his breath, then laughed nervously and said, "Al...Al! Quick! Grab the gun and shoot."

Al looked at him. He turned around in the seat and stared out the back window. A moment later he said, "Do you think I could have hit one of them?" They both laughed.

Miraculously no one had sustained a direct hit. The Defense Force escort left the convoy at the Victoria Falls Village check point, where everyone stopped to examine the extent of the damage. Al and Caleb joined in the immediate bond of friendship established by surviving an attack unscathed. The driver of the car behind them pointed out a few bullet holes in his car fender, marveling at how the tires had not been shot out. At someone's suggestion, they all drove to the hotel for a celebratory drink.

The Victoria Falls Hotel was a colonial dinosaur, built in 1905, complete with large verandahs and black servants in livery. Ten minutes after arriving Al and Caleb were on the verandah sipping on lagers and joking about the attack. From their table they could see the mist rising from the falls, and, if the wind had been right, they could have heard the incessant pounding.

As they were sitting enjoying their third lager a commotion attracted everyone's attention. A child let out a scream, then a waiter came running brandishing a broom. There was a scampering along the roof and four baboons came into view. They sat on the roof over the verandah, just out of reach. The child's mother soothed the child, explaining they weren't dangerous.

The waiter, a hapless character in a livery costume reminiscent of the black miniature statues holding lanterns adorning many suburban lawns in America, pursued them as best he could and the comedy began. Taking a ripe mango off a nearby tree, one of the baboons hurled it at the waiter, just missing him as it splattered on the patio below. Everyone laughed, at the waiter's expense, and urged him on. Finally, the baboons scurried across the roof and jumped down into an acacia tree. From this vantage point they glared at the people.

From their hotel room it was a short walk to the falls. Being so close, the village was easy prey for the terrs. Two months before the casino had been rocketed and several people killed. But, as always, the Rhodesians went on with their lifestyles, showing the irrepressible cockiness that Caleb admired.

It was a peculiar feeling for him to interact with the Rhodesians, to experience the war that had torn at their country for over five years, to know what it was like when your life is continually threatened. He had seen it before in other countries, but here it all seemed different. What would be the outcome?

Although he was, generally speaking, a confirmed nihilist after having seen so much turmoil in the world, he came with prejudicial attitudes. It existed this racism he had heard about for sometime--he was certain of that. These misgivings concerning the social policies of the Rhodesians did little to detract from his assignment, a job he found challenging because of its undefined specifications.

Ben had requested an "inductive profile" on this white African nation, a research project which was to include a prospectus on the war's progress as well as an economic forecast. In practice, Caleb was to be inquisitive and seek out then catalogue all pertinent facts; not an easy task in a country where opinion and empirical data could be easily interchangeable. What was "known" one day could be "unknown" the next. In all the unscrupulous madness of the war, it hadn't taken him long to discover this African country situated in such proximity to South Africa was an important barometer of future events for the southern part of the continent.

This whole sector of Africa was embroiled in war. Cuban soldiers were fighting in Angola. Mozambique was imploding, leaving violent and bloody anarchy. Zambia could barely sustain itself as famine loomed. It was a hotbed of geo-political insanity, as the proxies for the world powers went toe to toe in a fight that had no rules--no defined expectations. Racial and tribal manifestations bonded by the social wills of the communist and capitalist merchants led to killing: murder with a cause.

By the time Caleb got down to the pool the next day Al was entertaining two sisters. Al introduced them as Lia and Paula. Caleb politely returned their greetings and settled down to sunbathe, as he read a three week old Time magazine.

When the girls went to take a swim, Al leaned over and hissed: "Krauts."

"Wrong war, buddy," Caleb replied in a disinterested tone of voice.

"Funny," Al said, annoyed. "I was talking about those two. They're Germans...been living in South Africa and Rhodesia for a few years. Not bad eh?"

Caleb lowered his magazine and looked in the direction of where the girls were swimming, then said, "Kind of young, Al. What are they doing here in Vic Falls?"

"They're on holiday before returning to Jo'burg. They use to live in Salisbury. Dad's a bigshot for some corporation."

"Are they here alone?"

"Yeah, they're going to meet their parents back in Bulawayo after New Year's."

"All of a sudden they are getting to look better and better," Caleb said, smiling.

"Oh they do do they," Al said, laughing. "I'm taking them to the casino tonight. I guess you can come with us."

"You're kidding. Thanks, pal," Caleb said, smirking.

They went to the casino after dinner. It was only a facsimile of a small European style casino. To Caleb's surprise, the girls were quite interesting, having traveled a great deal because of their father's job with a European firm. They were both attending the University of Johannesburg.

It wasn't long before they were bored by the gambling atmosphere. Leaning over to whisper in Caleb's ear, Al said, "I think Lia and me are hitting it off. Looks like the other one's yours." He then left with Lia and went into the bar.

Paula and Caleb stayed on at the tables. Paula's luck ran in her favor. When she had won over three hundred dollars, she turned to Caleb and said: "I think I'll play it all at once." "Wait," he said, mischievously. "I got an idea. There's always something I've wanted to do."

He latched onto her hand and led her into the bar. Caleb shouted out to make sure he had everyone's attention. The bartender came to the end of the bar anticipating trouble. "I just want to say," Caleb began, clearing his throat for effect, "Paula just hit the jackpot and we'd like to buy everyone in the bar a drink."

There was a hushed tone, a rippling of disbelief, as if someone had just announced the war was over. The bartender, sensing a windfall of business, moved back to his position behind the bar. Caleb strolled over to where the bartender stood and slapped the three hundred dollars down, shouting out: "Drink up everybody!"

"God, you're nuts," Al said when they got out to the car. "I'm having a peaceful drink with this fraulein and in comes this raving lunatic."

Paula was still laughing. Lia couldn't believe her younger sister would do something like that. The two sisters started trading comments in German.

"Hey Lia, it's my fault. You don't have to play big sister," Caleb stated, still amused by the scene at the bar.

"I do not like my sister doing such things," Lia declared.

"I guess I understand that but--"

"It's alright Caleb, she always tries to tell me what to do."

"I see. Nothing like a sibling rivalry," he muttered under his breath.

"Let's have a nightcap," Al said cheerfully when they were getting out of the car back at the hotel. "How about it? Look, it's not even eleven yet."

"Sounds good to me," Caleb said.

"Me too," Paula chimed in, looking at her sister, who was outvoted and had to relinquish control over her younger sister.

"Okay, it's settled," Al announced happily, while they sat on the verandah listening to the night sounds of Africa. "Tomorrow we take a hike down by the falls. It'll get us nice and thirsty for New Years."

Lia glanced at Paula, as she fumbled with her glass on the table. "I'm not sure if I can go," she intimated quietly.

"What's wrong now?" Al asked, slightly irritated.

"Nothing I suppose, but...it's just that--"

"Tell him," Paula said harshly.

"Tell me what?' Al asked heatedly. "What's the big secret?"

"Let me guess," Caleb said sardonically, "Lia here has a boy friend, who just happens to be coming here tomorrow for New Years. Correct?"

Lia shook her head yes. "He's in the Army now and--"

"Isn't everybody in this country," Caleb exclaimed, laughing.

"Let her finish, Chase," Al said.

"He might be coming tomorrow, if he can," she said, continuing to look out over the hotel grounds, her blue eyes studying the night's blackness.

"I don't know why we're all of a sudden so serious. I've got no claim on you. I just met you," he stated unconvincingly. "I just thought we could have a good time before you have to leave Rhodesia. No big deal."

"He's not really my boy friend," Lia said defensively, turning to look at Al.

"Oh, he's an imaginary boy friend," Caleb said, snickering.

"Shut up," Al said sharply.

Al knew what Lia was facing. The storyline was the same. An attachment blooms amidst the Bush War's accelerated pace, a phase of intimacy which is doomed to the vagaries of dying, of death. A soldier waits--even subconsciously expects--to be slotted, killed: murdered as sanctioned by men reconciled to violent measures for the privilege of change. Lia was stalked by the prospect of failing him, the soldier, in a time when it may be his final expression of tenderness before being drawn away to the war.

It was the unexpected irony of this war. The civilized white man more than accommodated Africa's uncivilized horror, even improved on it. To Al's disgust, his stories chronicled it over and over to such a consistency it alarmed even him. It was something he knew Caleb would learn when his time in Africa had reached the straining point.

"No...he...the thing is I don't see him much anymore because of the army and I...I wish I could say it in German." Lia's voice stalled, then drifted off to a quivering mumble.

"Listen old buddy," Caleb said, patting Al on the shoulder, "I think Paula and I will take a little stroll. Let you two discuss the state of love in the modern world."

Al shot back a look of disapproval in Chase's direction, a look which simultaneously stated: You're a jerk and I know this seems trivial to you.

"Don't go, Paula," Lia cried out as they got up to go, her hands drawn together prayer fashion.

Paula ignored her sister. Caleb took her out into the garden and sat under the stars, listening to the night sounds harmonizing with the dull roar of the falls. Before long, she had put her head on his shoulder and was sound asleep. He sat there relaxed, tranquil, half listening to the abrupt sound of the waiters in the background clearing tables in preparation for tomorrow's breakfast. It was obscenely simple, he thought, to forget about the cruelty lurking in the surrounding Bush at these times.

Caleb had been to Niagara Falls before but this was different, much different. There was a pristine almost atavistic sensation you felt when you saw the cascading water. A steamy mist hung in the air soaking the surrounding jungle. The cries and shrieks of wild birds filled the air. And then there was the sound, the steady thunderous beat that gripped your body with an almost evil reverberation.

"It's frightening," Paula exclaimed, pulling the hood to her rain coat tighter around her.

"No," Al shouted out, laughing, "it's the heartbeat of Africa."

"It's nature's music gone crazy...you know, way too much treble," Caleb exclaimed, as he removed his shirt. He was now totally wet from the mist. He had refused to wear any rain gear.

"You're the one who is crazy," Paula said, laughing.

Caleb reached over and yanked down her hood, crying out, "Let the mist cleanse your soul!" Paula screamed, then laughed as the falling droplets plastered her bangs to her face.

"I think they have gone mad," Lia said, turning to start back up the path.

It happened at lunch, starting off with a few harmless lagers. Before long they were getting a head start on New Years. They were all determined to forget the war.

"Why don't you go up to your room and take a nap," Al was saying, grinning.

"It is not funny," Lia chided.

"I think you look beautiful drunk," Al explained. "You do, really."

"I do not believe you," she said, giggling, staggering away to return to her room for some rest.

Al, Caleb, and Paula sat on the patio playing chess on the outdoor board with meter high pieces. Al, mentally numbed by booze and suffering from a chess game controlled by a static queen with audacious rooks, desperately attempted to outwit Caleb. Paula stood by and jeered at some of their foolish moves.

Caleb, the daring and drunk Field Marshall, stood on a nearby bench to better oversee the battle ground, a patchwork series of black and white cement panels. Frustrated, Al hurled insults to throw off his opponent, while he was now operating with two headhunting bishops. Unknown to them, some of the more sober guests at the hotel were sitting on the verandah amused by the spectacle of three obviously drunk people trying to play chess.

Finally, after sensing the coming demise of his white King, Al sat on his one remaining rook and said mournfully, "I can't go on--the humiliation is killing me."

"Come on buddy, how about continuing on so I can wipe out your castrati King," Caleb taunted.

"Please Al, continue," Paula cooed, then added in mock disdain, "I really love a man who loses."

"Alright! That's it. I continue...and will fight to the bloody end," Al bellowed out.

"Death to the Reporter King!" Caleb shouted, moving his bishop in for checkmate.

Starting at eight o'clock was a dinner-dance poolside, with a band and a layout of food buffet style. The immensity of the buffet table shocked them all. By the time they arrived the party was already in full swing. The music from an African band reverberated out into the bush. A willowy saxophonist played energetic rifts, inciting people to dance.

Al led the way to their table. Passing by the dancers, with their faces revealing a sweaty pallor, Caleb could see the party was going to be like no other. On this night they were in search of salvation. All the racial tension, the unchecked barbarity, the adverse world press and economic sanctions threatening their livelihood worked to dissect their society.

The beginning of the end had passed long before. In a few days time many of them would 'take the gap,' emigrate to South Africa, Australia, or perhaps Canada, leaving behind what they had carved out of a heartless continent with the primitive grace.

Al, in his most incorrigible manner, motivated them to climb back up to a partying level. It was a difficult task. The day's activities had caught up with them. On Chase's part, he felt like someone had embalmed his insides. He had no idea where he was getting his stamina from.

Several hours passed, slipping by unnoticed, blending in with the joyous noise which must have carried to the Zambian side, where Caleb imagined squads of terrs clenched their teeth in rage. The merriment unfolded all around him as Paula encouraged him to dance with her.

The year's end came with a rush of evaporating time. Dazed, Caleb glanced around him unable to focus on the wiggling mass of flexing knees, swiveling necks, and pivoting feet. He turned in time to see a cavalry charge into the pool. Clutching Paula's hand, he just escaped the group baptism. The shallow end of the pool was now host to two dozen people dancing fully clothed as if it were the most natural thing to do.

His feet were beginning to slip on the wet pool deck. More splashes. A middle-aged woman, displaying a whole assortment of expensive jewelry, was carried to the pool and ceremoniously deposited. Her wails of protest about an expensive evening gown and priceless jewels brought screeching ridicule. All the people, wet and dry, had the identical glazed expression, as if they suffered from the same jungle disease.

"It's like the time before the final dawn," Caleb shouted over the music, but no one could hear him.

At Al's suggestion, they transferred to the hotel ball room where another party was in progress. Here an older crowd prevailed and party hats and noise makers were everywhere. Everyone was making the rounds applying and receiving slobbering kisses. It was now 1979 and the anticlimax was beginning to settle in rapidly.

"God, I'm polluted," Al said, slumping down into a chair in the back of the hotel bar. They had gone there to escape the deluge of sloppy kisses.

"I hope I don't look as bad as you," Caleb uttered, looking around the room. "Hey, did you notice how many army guys are in here? With all those jungle fatigues it looks like the botanical gardens in here."

"This has been the best New Year's I have ever had," Lia exclaimed. "I have never danced so much."

"I hate to leave tomorrow," Paula said sadly.

"You mean today," Caleb said, smiling.

"Oh, of course, it is already the first day of the new year," Paula said, grasping his hand on the table affectionately.

"You know what we need it more booze," he announced, holding up his empty beer bottle. The others groaned. "You guys are all lightweights. Can't take the pace," Caleb said jokingly. "Well, I guess you all won't mind if I get myself another beer."

There were a few soldiers standing around their table when he returned with his beer. One soldier was standing over Lia; she was staring straight ahead and her lower lip was trembling as if she might cry at any moment.

"I just thought I'd say hello," the soldier said bitterly. "That is if you've got the time."

"Mark," she began, then lapsed into silence, biting her quivering lip.

"Hope you had a Happy New Year--you cunt," Mark spat out.

"Okay buddy, you said what you wanted to say--now take off," Al said angrily.

"If I were you I would watch what I said," Mark shot back, clenching his fists.

"Stop it!" Lia cried out.

"What are you doing going around with this bastard for?' Mark asked heatedly, his voice beginning to crack under the strain of his anger.

Al stood up, fists clenched at his sides, and said, "Listen, I'm not going to tell you again. Get the hell out of here!"

"Your friend talks on, Lia. I wonder how tough he is."

"Tough enough to get rid of you," Al snarled.

The soldier started laughing, tilting his head back. Caleb was thinking how oddly hollow Al's threat had sounded. In one swift movement Al was on top of the soldier, pulverizing him in the face with his fists. Caleb immediately stepped in to break it up and two soldiers swooped down on him. Five bodies went crashing to the floor, knocking over the table, sending stale beer everywhere. An officer, a Captain, the only officer in the bar, used his rank to break up the fight, sending the soldiers on their way.

Sitting on the floor, rubbing his jaw where a well landed punch had landed, Caleb said, "Happy New Year!"

"Stupid fucker. I would have broken his neck if I had the chance," Al uttered contemptuously in a tone of voice Caleb didn't believe Al was capable of.

"Boy do you know how to have a good time," Caleb joked.

"I would like to leave now," Lia said in a tearful voice.

They all turned to look at her.

"Come on Lia, I'll walk you to your room," Al offered.

It was almost eleven. The morning freshness was already giving way to the scorching afternoon sun. An African band on the patio played music heavy with percussion; the primal rhythms rose lazily. Caleb and Paula sat on the balcony off his room having a late breakfast. From a distance they could see Al and Lia returning from their walk to see the falls for the last time. Nearby, the baboons chattered in the trees.

"Going to be hard to leave this place," he said.

Paula smiled. Rising from the table, she walked over to the end of the balcony and waved to Al and her sister. "They will be hungry when they get here," she said vacantly, her thoughts trailing off to other matters.

"What time is your flight?"

"Two o'clock," she answered without turning around.

"We can drive you to the airport if you like."

"That would be nice."

"How long will you be in Bulawayo?"

"Not long. Perhaps one night only. We will be going on to Jo'burg as soon as possible."

The band stopped playing and as the music died away it was replaced by the sound of the falls.

"Listen," Paula said.

"I hear it," Caleb replied, standing up and coming over next to her.

"The Africans call it musiotunya. It means smoke that thunders. It is a strange, lovely sound," she whispered, not wanting to hear a reply.

The hum of the Viscount's engines droned in his ears. Out the window, gnarled thorn trees stretched for miles below forming an expanse of hateful scenery only softened by the sight of giraffes gracefully loping away, startled by the low flying plane. The pilot was flying the twin engine aircraft low in a tree-topping maneuver to avoid the possibility of a rocket attack from the terrs, mistakenly believing that by flying at such a low altitude the rocket's guidance system wouldn't be able to establish a trajectory to hit the plane. Two other Air Rhodesia planes had been downed during the course of the war, a conflict fueled by the latest in Russian and South African arms, two diametrically opposed political regimes hoping to impose their radically different ideologies on this small African country.

Al was dozing in the next seat, sleeping off another night of boozing. He was starting off the new year on a binge. Caleb suspected he might of been lonely after being in Rhodesia for so long, but he hadn't realized just how much the encounter with Lia had affected him. He had finally talked him into checking his rental car into the rental agency at Vic Falls so they could fly back to Bulawayo.

In a drunken ramble, Al had wanted Caleb to go on to Jo'berg with him. "Are you insane?" Caleb had said. "The girl is in college--get serious will you. When she gets down there everything will have been forgotten. Think about it."

"Chase, you're one first class bastard. Did anybody ever tell you that?" Al shouted at him, as he took another drink from a brandy bottle.

"The girl--and I do mean girl--is barely twenty years old," Caleb said, shaking his head. "Don't be pathetic."

"How would you like me to punch your lights out?" Al sneered.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Caleb asked sarcastically.

"Go fuck yourself, Chase."

"We will have a reality check and then you can try to act like you're normal again, alright?"

"What do you know about reality? Nothing. You haven't seen shit! I...I just wish you could have seen half of what I have, then you would understand something about life. You don't know shit about nothing," he spat out, glaring at Caleb.

Caleb just wanted to forget the ugly scene as he looked down on the roaming animals and marveled at the wide open space. His eyes wandered over to where the "Safari woman" was sitting reading a magazine. "What an incredible specimen," Al had exclaimed when they first saw her at the airport lounge idly downing glasses of straight bourbon. She appeared to be in her forties or late thirties, attractive in an athletic sense, made all the more apparent by the safari garb she was wearing, complete with a hunting knife attached to a leopard skin belt and turned up bush hat. Her blondish hair was pulled back in a tight bun revealing a leather necklace supporting several odd looking colorful stones.

"I've got to get an interview with her," Al declared, breathing hard at the prospect of getting a story with a bona fide colonial hunteress.

"I wouldn't count on it," Caleb stated, glancing in the women's direction. Al grinned back and headed over to where she was sitting.

"Hello, my name is Al Marshall and I was wondering if I might interview you for a European newspaper?" he asked, drumming up as much charm as he could, hoping by throwing in his prospective employer it might impress her.

"Not likely," was all the "Safari woman" answered in response to his request for an interview, turning back to the bar and downing another shot of bourbon.

Disappointed, Al had retreated to the other end of the bar, muttering "bitch" under his breath. It had been awhile since he filed a decent story on the war. His only note-

worthy story of late had been about the farming family near the Mozam border who had returned from Umtali to an ambush by some of Mugabe's assassins.

Although the family had been caught in a crossfire, the youngest member of the family, a sixteen year old boy, jumped from the car with a submachine gun and blasted away. The terrs were so shocked they fled. There had been another statistic of the war though when a stray bullet had killed the grandmother sitting in the backseat of the car. Several papers in the US carried the story, apparently delighted with Al's concise explanation of the bush war's peculiar brand of combat involving civilians and the toll it was taking on them.

Now they were returning to Bulawayo. In the Ndebele language the name meant slaughterhouse. Carnage. It was happening everyday. Just a few weeks before two missionaries had been found in the bush, beheaded. They never found their decapitated heads. Your religion didn't offer any protection here, in Zimbabwe.

Al's tour was coming to an end. He had milked the Rhodesian War for all he could. He was talking of going to Chad, Uganda, possibly Afghanistan, anywhere there was civil strife and war or at least a prospect of it. He had adopted the sensitivity of a coroner. The decaying of the human element had long since failed to affect him. Until now.

The Southern Sun Hotel, as usual, was a refuge for them, an oasis of genteel tranquility; and a place to get drunk. The only nagging obstacle was the archaic regulation requiring men to wear ties in the lounge after 6:00 pm. Both Al and Caleb balked at this. Ever resourceful, Al circumvented this leftover of colonial etiquette by manipulating a waiter with a bribe in the guise of a generous tip.

Upstairs on the second floor landing were several tables inconspicuously tucked away for the guests to write letters or to read. It was there they retreated to avoid the six o'clock rule. An eager waiter trudged up the two flights of stairs bringing their beers, smiling obsequiously while simultaneously criticizing the outdated tie regulation. Al agreed wholeheartedly, then paid the bribe with a grin, hoping the cooperative waiter wouldn't be caught delivering their beers and reprimanded for his zealous pursuit of extra money.

They drank in peace. It was a strange sensation being back in Bulawayo, sitting on the second floor of the Southern Sun again enjoying a few Lion Lagers; but that was the paradox of the Rhodesian War. Unexpected violence followed by numbing serenity and, of course, good manners, was the natural order or sequence.

Rhodesians were there clinging to the vestigial remnants of a discarded social order, mired in a conflict in an African country where they didn't belong, and yet they tried to maintain the status quo. Then again, as they were quick to point out, they had made it their country by virtue of their labor, and at times their blood.

"I guess things were alot simpler in the nineteenth century," Caleb said, sighing as if exhausted by the debilitating thought of sorting out the rights and wrongs, the very moralistic disclaimer his conscience begged him to identify.

Al glanced at him and nodded, not needing any other explanation of his friend's remark. It was something they shared: intangible contemplative decisions which plagued every outsider witnessing the shakedown and dismembering of a functioning system, a way of life.

"Another beer, gentlemen?' the waiter inquired, tray poised in hand, the obsequious smile spread across his beaming black face.

"Better make it a brandy for me," Al said, reaching in his pocket for another installment of the standing bribe.

"Make that two," Caleb said in a low voice, knowing quite well he couldn't stomach the amber liquid that seared his throat, but their disagreement back in Vic Falls had been forgotten and he knew he valued their friendship.

The waiter nodded in acknowledgement and was gone, quietly descending the stairs to serve the men in the bar wearing the ties.

Jan. 15, 1979

Tomas:

Made it back to Salisbury. What a New Years. I haven't had any time to write. Too much celebrating. And, oh yes, I met a nice girl at Vic Falls. I'm embarrassed to say she was a baby. Just turned twenty-one. A full decade my junior. She was legal though. I may stop to see her when I pass through Jo'berg. I doubt it. Maybe. Who knows?

About my American friend, you know, the so called anthropologist I wrote about. Left him back in Rho/Zim, (and that's what I'm calling the place). Because, drum roll, as you can see I am now in Kenya. Pretty weird story. Then again, with me nothing's normal. I managed to break every rule in the book there. When they lifted my journalist credentials I kept "write" on working, (my joke). They even barred me from the wire services, but that still didn't stop me. I just got a buddy to file my stories for me. I also pissed off the government too when I did a story on Nkomo. I must have been drinking too much brandy when I wrote that one, because it came out like Nkomo was a glorified crusader or something. And believe me he's no such thing.

I must have had at least three or four run-ins with the police too. Disorderly conduct, drunk in public, you name it and I violated it. I once punched a cop right in Cecil Square, in the middle of the day. Unfortunately, the anthropologist was with me for that one. We spent an uncomfortable twelve hours in jail that time. Lucky for us one of my fellow journalists bailed us out.

Why did I punch the cop? Well, as I remember it, we had been drinking at the bar in a hotel downtown when I suddenly remembered I had an interview with some government official. I jump up and dash out the door, waving good-bye to my American buddy.

A minute later I'm right in the middle of a confrontation in the middle of the street. People are shouting. Cars are honking. I was so drunk I got into it with some Afrikaner. The guy gets out of his car and starts to scream at me to get out of the way and I tell him where to go. It was obvious from the guy's accent that he was from South Africa. Bad news. I really hate South Africans, especially Afrikaners.

Anyway, a taxi driver behind the South African, who happens to be an African, yells for the guy to move his car. The South African whirls around and shouts: "Shut your 'bleeping' mouth, you kaffir!" Bad news, again. Accurately translated, that's like calling a black person a nigger.

Next thing I know I'm slapping the bastard.. That's right, I just calmly walked over and slapped the guy hard across the face. You kind of had to have been there but it was funny looking. I didn't punch him, I slapped him, hard. You could hear the smack across the street. The guy stood in shock, rubbing his face. Then he takes a swing at me and I duck.

I then taunted the guy, coaxing him to take another swing. We are dancing out in the middle of the street, which is now bumper to bumper with stalled traffic. I didn't see the cop come around the corner but the anthropologist did and he yelled out for me to cool it, but I either didn't hear him or was too drunk to care. He had come out of the bar when he heard all the noise going on outside the bar.

Well one thing led to another and the cop tried to break up the fight. It was about that time that the anthropologist stepped in to calm things down. Not good. The cop ended up on the receiving end of one of my wild swings. Right to the nose. Down he went. Not before he had blown his whistle and more police were on their way. Just one of many misadventures with Al Marshall, journalist extraordinaire.

This time around I really did it. I finally got a hold of the complete story about some helicopters the Israelis smuggled in here. Needless to say, the world out there has had sanctions against Rhodesia for a long time. It's the world's way of voicing their displeasure at a racist government. Don't ask me why the Israelis sent the choppers. If anybody knows what it's like having sanctions against them, I guess it's Israel.

The government came down hard on me when they got wind of what I was snooping around. That story wasn't going anywhere. The Rhodesians only have two friends in the world: South Africa and Israel. They weren't about to let some reporter blow it for them. When we got back to Salisbury they were waiting for me. Luckily they didn't connect me with my American friend or he would have been kicked out too.

Two members of the Defense Force showed up at my hotel and whisked me away. Deported. They practically dragged me out of the hotel. Right by the anthropologist. I pretended like I didn't know him so they wouldn't deport him too. As I got in the jeep I called out to the bewildered guests in the lobby: "Such service, you Rhodesians..."

We had made plans previously. Sort of a contingency plan if anything like this happened. Evidently he wasn't used to this sort of thing. We were going to meet in Nairobi after my stay in Rho-Zim was over.

That will be later though. I didn't have any choice when I was forced to exit. Flight right to Jo'burg. Fortunately, I will be moving on soon from South Africa. Ugh to this place. You can only get so much adventure at one time. Kenya sounds good. At least they aren't at war right now. Besides, it's kind of boring going to the pubs without the anthropologist here in Jo'burg. This place is pretty sterile after being in Rhodesia. He wrote to me and told me everybody in the whole hotel misses me back in Salisbury.

Hope all is well on the home front. Say hello to all our mutual friends. Take care.

Al

Chapter 5: Pfumo Re Vanhu

(Spear Of The Nation)

It was pleasantly warm in Salisbury; not hellishly hot like it had been in Bulawayo. When he thought of the capital of Matabeleland he would remember the sweltering heat which totally dissected your energy, a heat insulated by the miles and miles of Tjolotjo's gnarled thorn tree bushes. Cecil Square was quiet. A mid-day lull had settled over the city.

Chase stopped in the Gardens, Salisbury's main park, and took a seat on a bench shaded by a blossoming jacaranda tree. There was a prevailing coolness still lingering from overnight. He called out to a passing vendor, who sold him something that resembled the Eskimo pies he remembered from his childhood. The African smiled and assured him it was "ex-teemly cold, mistah" in a clipped tone vaguely reminiscent of a British accent.

Salisbury was always so quiet. In others parts of the country farmers were being butchered in their sleep, and children obliterated by mines surprisingly primitive yet deadly accurate; but once within the city limits a soothing calm pervaded like an inviolable truce had been declared making all the acts of this heinous war forbidden.

This had been the situation for all of the war's first years. There had been one incident recently, which left all the residents, black and white, shaken, as they were finally faced with the indiscriminate perils of a terrorist style war. It occurred at an outdoor pub on one of the side streets of the city.

Al and Caleb were sitting enjoying a few beers with some of the mercenaries in the Fire Force they knew from their travels in the bush. The pub was full of soldiers of war in Salisbury on leave. Every table was taken by guys wearing their distinctive camouflage combat fatigues.

Suddenly there was a thunderous explosion, quickly followed by a burst of flames leaping upward and an acrid odor singeing the night air. A group of civilians were dashing towards their car, which had been reduced to a charred lump of blackened metal. Fortunately no one had been seriously injured, but the blasted searing fragments of a burned out automobile were as destructive as any mortar shrapnel.

"Car bombs, always a signal that the rules have been drastically changed," Caleb muttered, having seen it in Belfast and Beirut. In return, he received the bland expressions of his soldier acquaintances, ones to recognize the twisting of traditional tactics.

"One of these days we're going to end up like bloody confetti," Al had said, adding cavalierly, "so what about another drink."

Chase sat there eating his ice cream and enjoying the peace and quiet of the park. Sitting there, it didn't seem possible there could be a war going on. People weren't being slaughtered. It was one of the peculiarities of war that you could seem so removed from it all and yet it existed just a few miles away.

The Federal was a small hotel on one of the back streets in Salisbury. It catered to a multi-national clientele, which meant blacks and whites were permitted. There were only seven rooms, and, although it wasn't exactly exclusive accommodations, the lodgings were highly valued by the mercs and off-beat journalists who frequented it.

Chase had enjoyed the proximity with the nervous system of the war, it being the only place you could simultaneously mingle with the multi-national clan of mercenaries committing the atrocities of the war and the journalists reporting it to the world. The downstairs bar was the focal point for all the exchanges of war news, and more often the exchange of punches. It was a rare evening that passed without a brawl, or two.

It was this frontier spirit which imbued the hotel and its bar with an atmosphere of what Al referred to as "raw entertainment." The war's working denizens gathered there and a natural combustible mixture was formed. Through it all Caleb was able to gather vital information by adroitly steering meaningless conversations in productive directions. Once he began his quiet investigation, he couldn't stop the momentum as information began to mount. It seemed everyone wanted to talk.

Even the whores would chatter on. One would complain about the TTL (tribal trust land), of how she had left there to escape a life of primal boredom and stagnation on the government sponsored reservation. These were primitive warrens which were often times studies in anthropological authenticity, to include imbas (mud huts) constructed along the lines of the kraal or family units, where shamans still practiced openly. She had escaped to lie under drunken soldiers, who physically abused her, contaminated her, and could potentially prove to be her murderer.

Yet another would convey all her hatred aimed at the white man by imperiously commanding: "You finish now, mistah!" Her black eyes would scornfully inform him it had been as awful for her as she would have liked it to be for him.

Caleb would return to the Federal and, with luck, book a room, because for him it constituted the ingredients he needed to sustain him in a hostile region: as if by removing himself from it he would fall out of training and all his instincts would atrophy. Now, with Al deported, he was hoping the hotel's environment would allow him to merge back into the mainstream of the war. His assignment waited, loomed, begging for attention. He had compiled a fraction of the needed data. Transitional Rhodesia-Zimbabwe was a sieve which facts flowed through easily. The guilt of post-colonialism was an obstinate force, a psychological stimulus which powered a culture to expunge their past.

Pfumo re vanhu was Shona for Spear of the Nation. Contained somewhere in that phrase was the entire philosophy of Africa. Rhodesia was steadily falling, fast becoming obsolete. Every week Rhodesians fortunate enough to attain sufficient funds on the black market for their worthless R. dollars, which had no value outside the country, were fleeing. Some would, out of divine luck, make it out. An exodus to South Africa was underway, which, in reality, was probably only a delay in the Armageddon of racial forces.

Caleb had little doubt there was nothing but doom in store for a culture facing the twilight of its principles. Colonialism had died when Great Britain ceased to be an empire. Rhodesia was an anachronism with nineteenth century creeds, a Conradian protagonist enduring a bleak denouement. A country nourished by African sweat would cease to exist. Gone. The Company wanted to be apprised of the situation, a prospectus.

The white Rhodesian, Caleb learned, was a product of pioneering stamina. Civilized by British reserve, they nevertheless adapted to Africa's demands, developing certain necessary reflexive ethics to compete with the African intent on reclaiming a country the world consensus told them was theirs. Chase's travels around the country had showed him historical precedents were as meaningless as historical imperatives. "The earth's land can never be owned, only controlled," a Rhodesian farmer near Umtali had told him as they looked out towards the Mozambique border.

The farmer "controlled" a large farm, a farm big enough to include a school and clinic for his tenant laborers. The parallel between the Rhodesian farmer and the nineteenth century plantation owner in the rural south of the States wasn't lost on Chase. Many of these megafarms were run by farmers who maintained a mostly benevolent rule over their workers: paid slaves who toiled for twenty dollars a month and the benefits of a private form of socialized medicine and education.

It was, in all working proportions, an extended family, with the Rhodesian family passing on their compassion through a regulated environment reinforced by basic amenities the African would never know otherwise. This philanthropic approach to the general management of the land was more good business than any altruism, or so it seemed to Caleb.

The Patriotic Front carried the Spear of the Nation, along with several private armies commanded by charismatic politicians and ruthless bush leaders more closely identified as war lords content to play dictator over tracts of land varying in size. The Patriotic Front, or P.F., as it was referred to out of habit, was just one of the many factions scrambling for a piece of the political pie.

At times it seemed a directory was needed to stay up with the current standings in the war schedule. Caleb learned early on to keep a map with the regions of Rhodesia and the neighboring countries color coded. For instance, Zambia was red, designating the ZIPRA domain, which was Nkomo's Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army refuge. To the east, in Mozam, the color orange designated Mugabe's Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army, or ZANLA for short. Of the prominent private army generals, Sithole controlled a certain area within the country tinted yellow.

Included in the Salisbury section was Bishop Muzorewa, a religious politician with a liberal pro-white platform lacking any grassroots support. The Bishop's assigned color was--unavoidably--white. Using the different colors permitted him to match the color's temperature properties with the organization's degree of effectiveness.

Nkomo was the most dangerous by far. The rotund warrior was from the Nedebele tribe; and, although they were the minority tribe in Zimbabwe, he commanded a sizable army centered across the border in Zambia, within easy reach for jumpoffs into the war front. Nkomo was, as far as Caleb could ascertain through testimonies from auxiliaries (former bush fighters), a man short on reason and long on vengeance.

Fueled by indoctrinated hatred and stocked with communist arms, Nkomo was capable of committing barbaric acts with or without the aid of premeditation. Fortunately for the Rhodesians, Nkomo was a charismatic leader hopelessly lacking as a war strategist. Conducting campaigns of war were beyond him. Spouting nonfunctional rhetoric was his forte. However, he was probably the most ruthless agent in the whole ugly war.

Mugabe, by contrast, was an educated man who had fallen prey to the shifting sands of socialism. Where Nkomo didn't believe his own speeches utopian socialistic content, Mugabe did. This is what made him dangerous in a non-violent sense. Mugabe was also from the majority Mshona tribe and easily claimed a larger following.

Al had written about Mugabe in one of the British publications that published his articles. He wrote: He is a short, bespectacled man with a flat nose and an expanding forehead which makes him more than able to store all socialist/communist clap-trap he believes will save his country from the evils of the white man; who just happens to be a capitalist too. Two strikes against him. Unless God takes Bishop M' credentials into consideration and fixes the future elections, Mugabe will take most of the votes. Then you'll have a problem with Nkomo. It'll come down to your everyday African tribal standoff.

Al went on further to write: This country will have to then contend with a whole line of power hungry politicians. If and when the Rhodesians do relinquish control, and they will with all the world opinion against them, not to mention the sanctions, you wouldn't want to be around when the infighting starts.

Ian Smith, the WWII fighter pilot and war hero, a man secure in his mental resolve to lead a faltering nation, where the ratio is 20 blacks to 1 white, through its time of difficulty, was the embodiment of the Great White Hunter. Smith is essentially an Englishman, right down to the stiff upper lip. He manages to incorporate the characteristics of Cecil Rhodes, Lord Kitchener, and Julius Caesar, molding them into one public image. There is certainly nothing namby-pamby about his approach to leadership.

As the architect of the volatile UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Independence) movement, it is doubtful he will give up Rhodesia without a fight. After battling Great Britain to gain their independence in 65, they had all fought hard for a country that was now being taken away from them.

Al had tuned into the psychology prevalent in Rhodesia. He understood. After five years of war, the prestige of Ian smith's Rhodesian Front Party was rapidly eroding. Pressure from farmers to step up the war was being undermined by the civil servants and towns people who wanted a peaceful settlement. Smith was caught in the middle. The country's fragile economy was holding together by a minor miracle of basic supply and demand finances. For the first time in the war consumer products were beginning to disappear form shelves to never be restocked again. Everyone was feeling the pinch.

The Federal's bartender, a slender, coal black Shona with the improbable name of Wallace, greeted Caleb at the door. He was wielding a mop and lazily swiping at the floor. Wallace remembered him because he had been Al's friend. Al's touch of generosity gained renown very quickly. Around Christmas time he had tipped the hotel's staff with individual sums which exceeded their monthly wages. Thereafter, Al became a canonized guest.

"Wallace, my man," Caleb said cheerfully.

"Hello Mister Chase, are you well?" Wallace replied, his small black eyes twinkling.

"I'm just fine Wallace, and I'll be alot better if you tell me you've got a room for me."

Wallace screwed up his face for an instant as if in rigid contemplation, then said, "Yes. Indeed. Yes, I do have one room. Just vacated this morning. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I believe it is your former room."

Chase secretly chuckled to himself at Wallace's manner of speaking, a style with a vocabulary stuck comfortably somewhere between Chaucer and Jonathan Swift. "Great! I'm a happy man. I'll buy you a drink later on," Caleb exclaimed, following Wallace upstairs.

Stopping at the first floor landing, Wallace turned and asked, "And will your compatriot be taking a room too?"

"You mean Al? No. I forgot to tell you. He's on his way to Kenya. Got tired of the war," Caleb explained evasively.

"I see. He will be greatly missed," Wallace mused, continuing on to the room.

After an afternoon nap and a shower, Caleb went downstairs and found Wallace compulsively wiping the bar down. He was humming a British Army barracks ditty. Wallace had served in Her Majesty's Army, rising to the rank of sergeant.

The bar wasn't very busy at this time of day.. A pile of splintered wood had been swept into a corner, the only evidence remaining of the previous night's brawl. The street noises of Salisbury timidly invaded through the open windows. He had never been in a city with such overpowering quiet.

Over two Castle lagers, they discussed the war's progress. Wallace echoed the people's sentiments. There was a real fear of independence by many would be Zimbabweans. As in a dozen or more other African nations the shedding of colonialism came with a grave price, often times the end result being tribal warfare. Uganda was proof of that.

If it wasn't a tribal war marked by brutal insurrections and mass executions, then it was a steady decline into economic ruin. Zambia was an example of that. It was now a country suffering from social and economic devolution, a total retrograde of societal solvency. That was Zambia's dubious progress.

"If a Mshona kills a Ndebele in the future it will be an African problem," Wallace said to Caleb, taking another drink from a Castle lager bottle. His black eyes darted to and fro gathering in Chase's reaction. "If a European, of which you are commonly linked, kills a Mshona or Ndebele it is a world problem." He paused to take another drink, eyeing Caleb closely. "Why?"

The question stunned him for a moment. "Because somewhere along the line in contemporary history mankind discovered racism," he answered in a level tone. Thinking for a moment, he continued, "Today modern man can find racism more reprehensible than murder, when all racism means, as an applied principle, is a form of selective hatred. And, as you well know, you can find hatred anywhere."

Wallace nodded solemnly, took a long drink, then laughed uproariously. Chase looked at him, puzzled. "You, Mr. Chase, are a philosopher," he said with a beaming smile.

He chatted with Wallace for a while in an attempt to catch up on what was going on in Salisbury. It was Wallace's belief that the war would be over soon. "Then we will have to count the survivors," Wallace said cryptically, staring at Caleb for a long moment.

Later, while the city settled into darkness, bringing a rejuvenating coolness to the air, other patrons appeared. These were the people Al labeled: "Human flotsam washed up on the shores of any war." They all came. There were the hucksters, self-proclaimed clergymen there to save the people from war; and the blackmarketeers, trading in anything of value; along with con men who could separate your money from you before you knew it; and of course the harlots, supplying the same product throughout the centuries. They are all there to "get over," as an American mercenary, a Viet Nam vet, had told Caleb.

The country and circumstances were irrelevant. They were there for profit and the pursuit of adventure, regardless of principles. There were no convictions. The itinerant warmongers followed war from place to place, changing locales in search of the perfect war, that being a time and place where they could get whatever it was they wanted out of it.

Several prostitutes were arguing in Shona at the end of the bar. Wallace excused himself and strutted over to them to deliver a threat. Wallace's often verbose threats weren't taken lightly at the Federal. He was in a position to refuse you entry on the premises. A young girl from down country couldn't survive without access to her business customers. The girls quickly dispersed.

And they were girls, barely eighteen, if that. Whores monetized their bodies, while mercenaries did the same with their skill set and malleable integrity. Everyone was there, during war, to gain advantage for themselves.

Around him at the bar he heard a smattering of different languages. Next to him a guy with a mesomorphic build highlighted by a camouflaged tank top t-shirt was talking in french accented English to Wallace. They were discussing the Cubans, a popular topic after reports had reached the newspapers of Castro's threat to send some troops over from Angola as advisors for the Patriotic Front war effort. Caleb used his skill of eaves-dropping to listen in on their conversation, which had become habitual with him during his research.

Marcel was a merc, a former Legionnaire, who was commissioned by a war lord to maintain a recon platoon for his private army. Marcel was in Salisbury to hire on a few more men in order to complete his unit. The pay was adequate. As in most everything in Rhodesia, there was the element of danger.

Muzole was the war lord Marcel was working for. Chase had heard of him from Al. He reigned over a region in the northeast. Ruthless wasn't an adjective that adequately described him. He had at one time held Al captive for five days in a squalid mud hut saturated by the previous prisoner's excretions. His crime had been to interview Muzole's men without permission.

It was in the interest of the white sponsored government to advocate the existence of these fiefdoms, providing the war lords who controlled them were anti-Patriotic Front. It wasn't necessary for them to be pro Rhodesian-Front. These war lords had as much to lose as the whites. Whether it was intentional or not, Smith's government had fostered an infratribal structure. Although Muzole was a Mshona, he was adamantly opposed to the prospect of adhering to Mugabe's proposed state. To his way of thinking, Mugabe's brand of hackneyed socialism was as unacceptable as living under Ndebele rule. Unlike the other revolutionary candidates, Muzole was a pragmatist.

Al had written in one of his articles: He harbors zero notions about political panaceas or religious bailouts. He doesn't have any instinctual hatred about whites, but only a practical view of exploitation as it might affect him and his little principality tucked away in the Inyanga Mountains.

Physically, Muzole is average in height. His power comes from legend. It is told by his fanatically loyal militiamen that Muzole has the ability to withstand a great deal of pain. The one apocryphal story that is often times repeated is about Muzole's confrontation with a cobra. The snake's venom hit him in the eyes, blinding him. Undaunted, he groped for the snake and when he finally grabbed it he then bit its head off.

A beer bottle crashed to the floor behind Caleb. Warily, he turned to get a better perspective of his chances on avoiding immediate injury. At one of the side tables a British merc was strangling a new African recruit, a member of what the Rhodesians called Mashford's Militia, a macabre reference to Salisbury well know mortuary.

"Gentlemen, see here!" Wallace's voice boomed.

Caleb heard Marcel groan and say, "Mon Dieu, he is one of my men."

The fight was stopped before it escalated into a brawl. Wallace, the experienced referee, separated the two men. A few of the patrons were cheering them on, encouraging them to fight.

"Over a bloody trollop," Wallace said, disgusted, returning to his perch behind the bar. "Marcel, be a friend and take him off the premises."

Marcel smiled weakly then did as he was asked. In a slurred British accent, the merc was cursing at everyone in the bar. Marcel led him outside, guiding him by his shirt collar. The African recruit retreated to a corner nursing his first wounds of the war. He was several days away from either dying on a patrol near Melsetter or living to return here for a session of boasting about it, the slotting of terrs.

Marcel returned wearing a glum expression. He ordered another beer, draining it in several gulps. Wallace was called away from the bar to settle a dispute over a prostitute's designated fee.

Seizing the opportunity, Caleb said, "Wallace tells me you're working in the east region, near Mozam."

Marcel eyed Chase closely, scrutinizing. Divulging information of such magnitude wasn't a habit Wallace readily did. Caleb could sense he was treading on dangerous ground. Eavesdropping, under certain circumstances, could get you killed or at least roughed up.

"Americain?" Marcel asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"I think if you tell me that you are a journalist for the AP I will shoot you," he declared, grasping the handle on his 9mm automatic he wore attached to his utility belt.

Reaching for safety in humor, Caleb replied, "Back in the States, A and P stands for a grocery store chain." He forced a laugh.

"A joke, yes?" Marcel said.

"Oh yeah," Chase replied, a wave of relief creeping up his spine slowly informing his nerves to relax. "I'm nothing more than a tourist here who happened to get caught up in the war."

"It is good I do not need to believe you--eh," Marcel said, smiling for the first time.

"Has the philosopher revealed life's secrets to you, Marcel?" Wallace asked, as he sat back down behind the bar. His interruption freed Caleb from the conversational quicksand he was stuck in.

"The world would be a very much better place if there were no politicians or philosophers," Marcel stated.

"I'm strictly an amateur," Caleb said, laughing.

Wallace's presence helped him edge his way into a conversation with Marcel. It didn't take long before he learned the french mercenary was returning to his work the next afternoon, and that he was short a man because the British merc recently escorted out of the bar was relieved of his contract commitment. Marcel wanted no part of someone who gets drunk in public and then argues over a "prostituee."

"You can shoot a rifle?"

"I've handled a few in my day," Caleb said, cringing at his banal phrase.

"So...you are perhaps an amateur mercenary too--yes?"

"Just a tourist, Marcel, a professional tourist," he answered, laughing nervously.

"You must remember, Monsieur Chase, tourist die also," Marcel said in a stern, portentous voice.

Privately, Chase was amazed Marcel agreed to accept him as the last member of his European contingent. His skills as a mercenary were negligible. Two months of Boot Camp hardly qualified him to go into combat. He wasn't even sure of his resolve to commit himself to fight. Although he had on several occasions been around war battles, he was always there as an observer, an outsider. Nowhere in the specifics of his assignment did it instruct him to undertake such a risk. He was there to watch, to listen, and to report back. But like everyone else drawn to the war he wanted something.

The next afternoon they were bound for eastern Rhodesia in a battered Land Rover. It had been blasted by a mine, leaving strafe marks on the paint and the frame slightly bent. Every time Marcel shifted into third gear the vehicle shuddered violently as if mechanically hemorrhaging. There was a gaping hole in the rear section, giving them a view of the passing road underneath. The replacement part for the drive shaft, scavenged from an assassinated farmer's jeep, wobbled, reverberating loudly when they got to a certain speed.

This perpetual din made it impossible to converse in anything below a bellowing scream. Chase sat back to watch the scenery and to evaluate his new comrades in arms. Besides Marcel, there were two others. One was an Afrikaner, a former Recee, the South African equivalent to a US Army Ranger. The other was a Belgian national, another veteran of the French Foreign Legion. The two french speaking mercs were sitting in front conducting a conversation over the noise in squealing french.

Caleb was left with a series of glances at a stony expression. He would discover very quickly Pieter, the Afrikaner, possessed not a shred of humor. He had come north as a mercenary to use his considerable skills in a one man crusade to abolish all claims by the Africans to their homeland. With a curious blend of theological justifications from the Dutch Reform Church and genetic maintenance, Pieter believed himself destined to lead the battle against the infringing tide of communism and Black Nationalism.

Alain, the Belgian, was a different sort of man, unlike either Marcel or Pieter. He didn't share in Pieter's views of the black race, the swaart gevaar, and he didn't have Marcel's preoccupation with detail. As with most men living life as the finished product of the Foreign Legion's training, Alain was indifference personified. This guy makes Camus' Meursault look like a civics teacher, Caleb thought. Who ever won this war was of no concern to Alain. Life went on. There would be other wars, with other reasons.

The route to Umtali was normally traveled under the protection of a convoy escort. Their protection was draped across their knees and sticking out the windows to let any terrs know they weren't easy prey. Alain was riding shotgun with a camouflaged green FN propped up on the arm rest. The FN was the most widely used assault rifle in southern Africa, and Caleb would grow to hate its cumbersome weight and savage recoil.

When they had passed the slumlike African township on the outskirts of Salisbury, a creation of 1970's Land Tenure Act bringing thousands of Africans near the source of their labor, Pieter reached under the seat and grabbed another rifle, propping it against the back window. Weapons, regardless of effectiveness, were the aegis which all participants of the Bush War swore allegiance to. Many believed capricious fate could be bluffed if you carried a weapon. Chase refused an offered rifle, drawing a look of disbelief from the Afrikaner.

A United Touring Company microbus sped past in the opposite direction full of wall-eyed tourists eager to pay for a glimpse of adventure on a safari outing. Caleb turned in time to see the distinctive zebra stripes painted on the microbus disappear into a cloud of dust raised on the unpaved road of the township. Evidently another camera clicking tourist had requested to see where the natives lived in order to complete his photo album. Even in wartime tourism never faltered.

Chase himself hadn't been inside the township; he had only seen the Zimbabweans returning from work, their oddly mismatched European style clothes clinging to sweaty skin like gleaming reptilian leather. On the buses in route to their exurban existence, close yet so far from the White world, a cacophony of happy voices would glide out from the open windows. Calls of good-bye in the native tongue echoed, accompanied by gregarious smiles which never gave any indication of the taciturn violence enacted everyday. Caleb would never be able to differentiate between the communal African and the African crouching in the bush angrily contemplating revenge.

From Umtali, a small town hugging the Mozambique border, they went north passing through the Rhodes Inyanga National Park. The stopover in Umtali had been a short one, long enough to stock up on certain supplies. Before long they were entering a subtle climatic transformation, leaving the perishable heat for a delicate coolness tinged with diffident rainfall. Columns of mohobo trees swept by the windows. The terrain gradually developed into hills, the foothills of the Inyanga Mountains.

"We're almost there," Pieter shouted over the din, glancing over his shoulder in the general direction of the camp. They were entering Muzole's territory, a domain without borders, only the invisible perimeter designated by the range of his armed patrols. Stealing a glance at the Afrikaner, Caleb could only wonder what someone like him was doing working for Muzole, an African, a black, a kaffir.

This Afrikaner was not unlike most of his countrymen. His functioning tenets were all warmed over fascism, spiced with religious drivel from a church with a bastardized doctrine taken from all the worst elements of Northern European dogma; and yet he went out and fought for an African war lord so he could eradicate the African's claim to Africa.

Caleb was told later by Alain that Pieter had been booted out of the Fire Force for "anti-social war behavior." That translated to mean he was kicked out because he killed some innocent villagers. There had been talk of a trial but then there were no witnesses.

The Land Rover came to a stop. Two Africans armed with FNs materialized from the bush. They wore the infantry web gear which seemed to be the only consistent piece of equipment distinguishing any of them as members of Muzole's army. They broke into smiles when they recognized Marcel. They exchanged greetings in Mshona.

"This is the first check point," Pieter said in a whisper. "Everything from here north to Mtoko is under Muzole's control."

Marcel handed the two guards a paper bag full of candy bars and cigarettes and they drove on. An instant later the two of them had disappeared into the bush again. It was as if the two men had never been there.

"If you give them chocolate these kaffirs will fight forever," Pieter hissed, smiling. It was one of the few times he would see him smile.

Inyangani, a cone of rock, jutted out into the cerulean sky. It was near this mountain where they would camp for the next few days. Marcel insisted on having a mobile bivouac. Not being stationary lent him a sense of security. Fighting a quasi-civil war merited certain precautionary measures.

The base camp, as Chase was to soon ruefully discover, was four antiquated tents aligned in a square. The billets arrangement was for a dozen men. The mess was situated in the middle of the tents, it being no more than an oil drum converted into a makeshift grill. The latrine was wherever you found it, providing it was at least fifty meters away in any direction and preferably down wind.

The quarters assignment was equally disheartening. The two french speaking and former Legionnaires took one tent for themselves, the eight Africans in the unit were divided among two other tents, and Caleb was relegated the remaining tent with Pieter.

He soon learned Marcel held an almost mystical sway over the Africans in the unit. His tenacity during several firefights had earned him their unwavering respect. He used his power with care. It was an undeniable truth they were still intimidated by the white man, the white race which was responsible for bringing them social and economic subjugation. Unlike other Europeans, he knew the value of synchronizing his criticism proportionally when dealing with the Zimbabweans. Dictatorial bullying wasn't Marcel's style.

There was nothing to do that first day. Chase quickly settled in, quietly dreading the prospect of sleeping on hard ground in a musty sleeping bag. After dinner of some unidentified meat and a pile of sudza, the Africans version of grits, Marcel came around to issue him his FN, with orders to break it down and clean it. Reluctantly, he enlisted Pieter's aid in teaching him the working parts of the firing mechanism. He was learning to detest the weapon already.

As he lay in his sleeping bag later that night, he thought: man oh man, an Eagle Scout would cry if he saw this place. I can't wait for breakfast. Probably have roasted ant eater. And what about that shower. Nothing like a rusty bucket of water dumped over you. I'm afraid to go on patrol with these guys because the terrs can probably smell them a mile away.

His first night was spent enduring the Afrikaner's snoring while contemplating the precarious protection of a quarter inch tent separating him from the animal kingdom roaming around outside. Mercifully, the mosquitoes were kept at bay by the mountain air. Nevertheless, after he pulled his stint at guard duty, two hours of flinching nervously at every little sound, Caleb went to sleep smelling of Cutters evergreen insect repellant, which lingered on his neck like a dousing of inexpensive cologne. To the all to near wailing of a jackal, he eventually slipped into a fragile sleep, constantly on the verge of waking.

Powdered milk and stale bread greeted him the following morning, along with the annoying chattering of a nearby family of Samange monkeys. Under Marcel's orders, no coffee was permitted. It was too aromatic and could be detected by unwelcome visitors, animal and human.

Over a map of the region the four men plotted the next recon patrol. Isaiah, Marcel's trusted scout, another African born into White African and given a preposterous Judeo-Christian name, sat nearby listening. He was always listening, Caleb noticed. Being the only Zezura in the unit, Isaiah was forever wary. At the age of only nineteen, he was a skilled mercenary, a fighter for money not purpose. Marcel paid him well to infiltrate the surrounding villages and gather intelligence, to anticipate what the ZANLA was planning. Muzole's men dealt grisly reprisals to sympathizers.

Late that afternoon, when a fine mist of rain had finally lifted, leaving everything in camp saturated, Marcel ordered Caleb to accompany Pieter and Isaiah on patrol. It was to be only a brief one, a reconnoitering of a nearby village. Only routine. He knew Marcel was testing him. This patrol would serve as his baptism in the field.

Caleb followed them into the bush with the unwieldy FN slung over his shoulder.

Isaiah moved with ease, taking long graceful strides, always avoiding any abrupt footfalls. The terror of stepping on a mine was real for Chase; it penetrated his concentration. He had heard the stories of splintered flesh and maimed limbs. His eyes seized on Pieter's movements in front of him, as he determinedly maintained his five meter tactical distance.

They hiked for over an hour, with Isaiah pausing several times to check their surroundings. Secretly, Caleb would evaluate Pieter's reactions. Each time they stopped he would consult the compass attached to his combat watch. Caleb took the time during these momentary pauses to drop his FN to the ground, relieving the pressure on his shoulder.

With a grunt, Isaiah had them moving again, as if they were pursuing the pervasive dusk which was beginning to envelope them. This is not good, Chase thought. Being in the bush after dark didn't seem like the wise thing to do. He switched the FN to his right shoulder. The stock of the assault rifle bore into his side.

Pieter raised his hand. All three of them froze in mid-step postures. A bead of perspiration drifted along Chase's week old mustache, cascading to his lip tasting of salt. Isaiah turned his head from side to side like an animal attempting to track a scent. Pieter unshouldered his weapon in a slow, deliberate motion, flipping the safety off.

There was a symphonic humming in Chase's ears. He dared not move. His right hand had stopped when he grasped the frayed shoulder strap on the FN. Absurdly, he was thinking of how good an ice cream sandwich would taste now.

Isaiah slunk to a kneeling position in one lithe movement. He scanned the bush in front of them with his AK. First Pieter, then Caleb dropped to a kneeling position. They lingered there warily surveying the area, listening. An indistinct sound exploded in Chase's ears--far yet near. He strained his eyes to peer into the gathering darkness.

The anticipating was maddening. He dreaded the first recoil, that primary report of a rifle sending a round out in search of a target. After that it became the random staccato of firepower, a ballistic percussion of firing pins and brass. He remembered the safety lever was still engaged. He must flick it to a released position otherwise there would be the naked, disturbing nulled tweak of the trigger and no response. The simplicity of the mechanism intrigued him. It was the individual's control of destruction.

The sound, the noise, before so indistinct, crackled behind Chase. An electrical pulse riveted itself to his spine. The three of them spun around like three dervishes. There in the overgrown path stood a large serval.

Incredibly, Caleb cooed, "Kitty-kitty-kitty,"

In one sleek bound the serval was gone, vanished, leaving behind only a hastily visualized image. Isaiah laughed and Pieter shook his head half in disgust, half in relief. They could hear the animal scurrying away through the bush.

"I believe you frighten him more, Mistah Caleb," Isaiah exclaimed, laughing, his smile a welcome sight for Chase.

"I was going to yodel like Tarzan but I thought that might attract too much attention," he said, laughing uneasily.

The last remaining strands of daylight were disappearing, leaving behind an eerie blackness to blanket the surrounding bush. Chase's thoughts alternated between the ache in his shoulders from the carrying the FN and what succeeding danger loomed. A festering fatigue edged out any nervousness he had before. Ahead, Isaiah trudged on.

A fiery sunset was being slowly extinguished behind a kopjes in the distance. They had reached an elevated point after exiting the dark bush land. Pieter scanned the area with a small pair of field binoculars. At the foot of a nearby peak stood several imbas, the small huts inhabited by tribal people barely beyond the hunter gatherer stage. It looks like a scene from the beginning of civilization, Caleb thought.

"Isaiah, come here," Pieter commanded in the arrogant tone he reserved for speaking to Africans. Isaiah gazed through the binoculars at what Pieter was pointing out. He muttered something under his breath in Shona. "They're having at something," the Afrikaner stated.

Taking the binoculars and sighting through the descending darkness, Caleb asked, "What are they? And what the hell are they eating?"

"Hyenas, maybe jackals," Isaiah answered matter of factly, as if he had been asked the make of an automobile.

"We'd better find out what it is they find so delicious," Pieter said.

It took them fifteen minutes to reach the kill site where the scavengers were feeding on the remains. The inky blackness of night had arrived. A sliver of a quarter moon shed little light on the path. A sound, the nauseating clacking of teeth and bone, was what they heard first.

"I'm going to risk a light," Pieter whispered. Isaiah grunted in response.

The beam of his flashlight jutted out into the gloom capturing several hyenas shredding sections of half eaten carcass. They were transfixed, paralyzed by the light's intrusion on their eating frenzy. A large male twitched his hairy ears once, twice, then scurried away, followed by the others.

Insects flew through the hazy beam of the flashlight. The halo of light shone on what they could now see were human remains. It was the corpse of a young boy. Whole limbs had been devoured, torn off by sharp teeth and strong jaws. Skeletal fragments protruded. One eye remained in the skull which had been gnawed away by the grinding incisors of any number of animals. A grimace showed on what was left of the boy's lips.

"Muzole?' Pieter inquired in a whisper.

"No," Isaiah answered laconically.

"How can you tell?" Chase asked in a quaking voice that betrayed his revulsion.

"He cuts the man-thing," Isaiah replied in a dull tone of voice, a tone of voice that told Chase he had seen it before.

Caleb found himself thinking: Barbarians! I'm dealing with sadists! This kid can't be more than fifteen or sixteen. I can't believe they executed him and left his body out here to be eaten by wild animals. Talk about your law of the land concept. Nature's crudest instincts are all rewarded here. There's nothing like seeing and smelling a decaying body. Half an arm, no legs, half a skull with one eye peering out into the void of death--a real coroner's delight.

"Termite," Pieter spat out, turning to go.

"What's that suppose to mean?' Caleb called after him in the dark.

"He fight for PF, Mistah Caleb."

"The Rhodesians call them termites," Pieter explained. "Probably slotted by the Selous Scouts."

Chase had heard of their reputation within the ranks of the Rhodesian military and replied, "They make the Green Berets look like Campfire Girls."

"Barbarity is only relative," Alain, the Legionnaire who had seen war from all angles, informed Caleb when he got back to camp and was on the verge of puking. "You must realize the order of things," the Belgian said to him, staring, gauging whether or not this Americain understood. In accordance with nature's order of selection, Isaiah insisted they leave the body out there to be picked clean by the vultures in the morning.

Thanks to Alain, who gave him counseling on the intricacies of war, Caleb managed to hold himself together. It made him aware that these wars, skirmishes, conflicts, whatever the label, were all somehow related. As if there were some underlining universals keeping the bloody dramas consistent in their abhorrent behavior.

Chase was awakened the next morning by the shouts of the Africans in camp. Several of them were chasing something around one of their tents. "What's going on?" he called from his tent. One of them replied in an excited, girlish voice, "Boomslang! Boomslang!"

Finally the cook ended the hunting folly by crashing a frying pan over the snake's head, then neatly sliced it away with a machete. He took the beheaded snake proudly to his mess, where it was skinned, cleaned, and sectioned. Later on, smiling widely, the cook told Chase he was going to make a potion from the snake's viscera. "It make good all that bad, Mistah Caleb," he said, grinning.

A vapory rain lasted only a few hours that day, long enough to depress Caleb as he waited in his tent for it to stop. As usual, Pieter sat on his sleeping bag cleaning the ubiquitous FN, continually swiping at the breech until it was beginning to annoy Chase.

"Caleb, I must talk with you," Marcel announced, appearing at the opening to the tent wearing his usual tank top t-shirt.

"I'm kinda busy right now, Marcel," he replied sardonically. "At the moment, I'm listening to Pieter there clean his rifle for the hundredth time."

"I think your shoes are a problem," Marcel said, picking up one of the canvas boots off the ground.

"I told him it's best never to be caught with your boots off," the Afrikaner said didactically. "Some terrs might come in here and he would be in hell before he got them on his feet."

"This is true."

"You mean they shoot guys without any shoes on," Caleb exclaimed with mock incredulity. "Isn't there some kinda Geneva Convention to cover this war--say maybe the Nairobi Convention or something?"

"He will learn to be serious before too long," Pieter stated portentously.

"It is the markings I am concerned about. They make these little marks so it is very easy to track--yes," Marcel said, holding up one of the boots.

"Marcel, I thought you'd be pleased. Those are Palladiums, they're made in France."

"Yes, yes I know. It is a problem these markings," he repeated, tracing the diamond shape of the design with his fingers. "It could bring trouble for us."

"It's like leaving a calling card on all the trails," Pieter said in a serious tone. "They would be able to know our movements."

"I see what you mean. Yeah, that could present a problem. The only other shoes I have are tennis shoes. Now how would it look for a merc to go around in Adidas?" he asked sarcastically.

"What size do you take?" Marcel asked.

"In metric, a forty-three I think."

"I have some old boots."

"Do you have them in camouflage green?" Caleb asked, laughing.

"For you, Monsieur Chase, I have only brown," Marcel replied, smiling.

"Oh another thing, Marcel, while we're on the subject of changes, I want to trade in this damn cannon you gave me for that Rhuzi in the Land Rover."

Pieter snorted in contempt and said, "That's not firepower."

"Americain--eh, they think war should be convenient. Use the Rhuzi, but you must also clean it as well."

"Mercy, bo-coop, cap-a-tane," Chase said happily, snapping off an exaggerated salute. He knew the Rhodesian knockoff of the Israeli Uzi wasn't as efficient as its namesake, but it was almost half the weight of the FN and would be easier to handle.

Around mid-afternoon a revived sunlight filtered through the mohoboho trees. This particular roving camp location had brought them out of the bush. Chase, hoping to take advantage of the new locale, and to the increasing consternation of the Afrikaner, was sunbathing in a clearing.

Lying on his sleeping bag, his pants rolled up for a pillow, he was "Praising the Sun God," as he told the Africans, who had stared at him inquisitively when he passed them wearing only his Speedo swim suit, with the ever present Rhuzi slung over his shoulder. In deference to Pieter, he was wearing the boots Marcel loaned him, although they were not laced up. After several weeks, the Africans in camp had gotten use to the "Ah-mur-e-con" and his eccentricities.

Caleb was generally well liked by the Africans and tolerated by Alain and Marcel. Pieter was another matter. He barely spoke to him, and when he did he usually ended up reverting to Afrikaans to call Chase what he really thought of him.

His merits as a merc weren't outstanding, but he did as he was instructed. Often times he was bored with the almost perpetual waiting in camp, so he would help the cook with his preparations. It wasn't long before he had them all calling the sudza grits. At meal times, the Africans would beam a collective smile and sing out in chorus at Chase's command:

"Oh no, oh no,

Say it ain't so,

Lord, it's a sin,

Not grits again."

These brief interludes of absurdist comedy aided in relieving the camp's stilted morale. Marcel was well aware of this. When a dozen men spend day and night together for weeks on end certain friction occurs. Caleb's antics sliced through the building hostility. It was advantageous to keep him on contract for that very reason alone.

The sun coated his skin with a cover of warmth. He wanted nothing more than to daydream, to lose himself to fantasy. A dull buzzing swept over him. I was snoring, he thought, amused. Then Pieter was yelling at him to run for cover. He scrambled to his feet, Rhuzi in hand, and ran for the trees. Above, the buzz grew louder.

"Christ! when did Mugabe get an air force?" Caleb exclaimed.

"It's not Mugabe's," Pieter said, his voice implying what a fool Caleb was for asking.

"I give up, who is it you had me interrupt my sunbathing for?"

"That's one of the Rhodesians old Canberra bombers," Pieter explained condescendingly.

"God, it's an antique," he said, shielding his eyes to get a better look at the low flying aircraft. "It's like being back in World War II."

"We don't like them to know where we are. They could have spotted you," the Afrikaner said.

"Can't trust nobody now-a-days," Caleb said flippantly.

"That is something you will have to believe sooner or later," the Afrikaner hissed, turning to go back to the camp.

"Does that include you too?" Chase called after him in a joking tone. Pieter kept walking without acknowledging his gibe. "Stick it," he said under his breath.

Caleb really hated the Afrikaner. His beliefs, his personality, the way he treated the Africans, he detested almost everything about him. During the first week Marcel had chided both of them, insisting that they get along or he would terminate their contracts. The Afrikaner had no where else to go. If he was to fight in this war, this was his last avenue to do so. As for Chase, he was there for reasons even he couldn't specify. He didn't need the money. He didn't need the danger. Perhaps Al had been right when he said people come to Africa to discover "that missing something in their psyche."

Alain had explained to him one day in an earnest, serious tone, "Caleb, you must not anger Pieter. He is a very angry man...very...how would you say--disturbed? Believe me, I know of this type of man. I have seen it before...many times."

"Hey look, Alain, I try to stay out of his way," Caleb said to the Belgian, shrugging his shoulders. "I can't help it if the guy is a lunatic."

"Yes, I know, but it is the way you are that is a problem. What I am saying to you is that you are a person that has not any discipline, yes? Pieter lives by this, and you can believe he kills by this," Alain explained in a low voice, as he stared at Chase.

"I don't need convincing," Caleb mumbled.

Of course the more vital problem was one of race. The ease in which Chase interacted with the Africans was totally wrong to the Afrikaner. At no time was the African elevated to a white man's level; and this included the use of humor. Chase's jocular attitude, including his sometimes mild self-abasement, was, in Pieter's words, "an insane meddling with God's racial structure."

At one point, while he was trying to teach the cook some reading fundamentals so he could understand the labels on the cans of food, Pieter uttered a vile racial slur. Caleb delivered a short sermon on racism, then called Pieter a hairy back, the derogatory term used by Rhodesians for Afrikaners. Pieter's reserve crumbled quickly, replaced by a violent rage. He was on him, viciously punching.

Alain had overheard the conversation and was there to separate them. A slow trickle of blood appeared below Chase's nose. He hadn't landed a blow, yet he knew his verbal barb had done far more damage than any physical retaliation.

Despite their hostility towards one another, they still had to maintain a soldierly relationship. It was critical that they work together on patrols. In the Bush, teamwork was essential in order for them to stay alive.

Chase knew this well. It had been brought home to him on their fourth patrol. Most of the patrols were dreary, complete with annoying insects, heat, and prowling animals. Weariness stalked them. They would hike on for miles.

They were on their way back to camp. It had gotten dark. Isaiah was picking his way through the bush carefully. They were all exhausted because they had broken and set up camp that morning.

All of a sudden they were in the crossfire of an ambush. The distinctive clacking of an AK went off to their right, sending a whole clip load of tracers all around them. Caleb was stunned at first, then scared. He froze in a squatting position.

The Afrikaner instinctively went into action. He dove for cover, did a roll, got to a prone position, fired off a salvo emptying his clip, then rolled again. Isaiah was in front of him in a prone position clacking away with his AK. An instant later Chase began to spray the bushes with his Rhuzi.

Then it was quiet. Dead silent except for the cries of a few birds. Caleb could hear himself breathing. It was impossible to make out any shapes in the blackness of night. Another burst of fire landed near Chase and he thought: Let death be painless.

Caleb let off another burst from his submachine gun and the clip emptied. He hadn't noticed the tracers at the end of the clip to let him know when he was almost out of rounds. He began to fumble with the empty clip. There was a rustling next to him and in a raspy whisper Pieter said: "Get ready to move."

Move. Which way? Where? Caleb wanted to shout. Then there was a thump in the distance, like someone threw a rock, and a grenade went off with a thunderous boom. And they were running. Sprinting. Branches cut into their faces. Chase fell, cutting his knee badly.

They never saw them. Chase knew he would never forget the smell of gunpowder and how hot the Rhuzi felt in his hands. The brilliant arcing tracer trails still lingered in his mind. Later, after they had gotten safely back to camp, the Afrikaner never said a word about the fire fight. The Africans had excitedly questioned Isaiah and with animated descriptions he had retold the story to them. Marcel simply wanted to know the co ordinance of the ambush. It was all routine.

Things returned to normal. Although Caleb could sense that Marcel was worried. This attack had been different. It was at night. Most of the Africans were animists. Darkness brought out spirits, evil spirits. Traveling after dark had been a safe way to move without fear of being ambushed. It had taken months to convince the Africans in his contingent to hike at night. This development could radically change matters.

It was a week later when Alain came to Chase's tent and told him to get prepared for an unscheduled patrol. It had been almost three days since they last did any reconnoitering. Marcel had been away, gone for 48 hours ostensibly to attend a conference Muzole had convened, as he did when the time and place suited him.

"What's up, mon ami?" Caleb asked, smiling at Alain.

"A little something, nothing more," Alain replied evasively.

"If we're going into Mozam tell me now because this store-bought merc ain't going," Caleb joked. "I mean that's definitely not in my contract," he said, gently ridiculing Marcel's use of the word contract to describe the scope of their occupational duties.

The Afrikaner sighed heavily and mumbled, "This American is hopeless."

"We will not go far. There is no problem in that," Alain assured him. "We must meet Marcel in one hour's time."

Chase looked at his Timex with the cracked crystal. "I sure hope we don't miss dinner. What will the Mshona Wartime Glee Club do without me to lead them in the supper chorus?"

To Caleb's relief, Pieter would remain in camp; it was another one of Marcel's compulsive regulations that required a minimum of one European in camp at all times. It would give Pieter and Caleb some breathing space, allow them to relieve the tension between them.

He grabbed his gear and followed Alain down the trail. He was sweating heavily in a matter of minutes. His eyes were fixed on Alain's boots in front of him. Something scurried through the bush in front of them and they froze in place. In unison, they dropped to a kneeling position and trained their weapons in the direction of the sound. Nothing. It was quiet.

Alain slowly stood up, craning his neck to see. They listened. It's the god-damn anticipating, Chase thought. The Belgian turned and waved them on.

When they reached the destination point Marcel was impatiently pacing the length of a clearing. Before they broke into the clearing three of Muzole's militiamen stopped them at gun point and brusquely demanded a cigarette from Alain, who wisely donated his whole pack. Caleb could see in all their mannerisms they were accustomed to acquiring everything from behind a rifle. After lighting their cigarettes, they smiled and laughed demonically. Chase realized this was only the second time he had been exposed to Muzole's men.

He had seen, on several occasions, the remnants of their labor, mostly small scale pillaging of villages. As he looked at these men, he wondered if any of them were responsible for the obligatory rape of the youngest girls in the villages they plundered. Caleb had seen the girls, or rather the incarnated aftermath, a devastated waif sexually abused as an introduction to the war's personalized mayhem.

Marcel anxiously called them over. Caleb had never seen him agitated before. He immediately launched into an intense dialogue with Alain, in French. Caleb surveyed the surroundings. Muzole's men had taken advantage of a natural clearing in the bush to set up a makeshift camp. There were no tents or other camping paraphernalia. They had stopped for a single purpose.

Obscured by a group of villagers standing together forming a circle was the purpose. An African, perhaps in his early twenties, was fettered to four stakes planted in the ground. He was stripped naked. Next to him lay his clothes shredded into tatters. Incongruously, a small cross hung from his neck. A low murmuring emitted from his mouth. He's praying, was Chase's first thought.

"Do we have to stick around for this cruelty exhibition?" Caleb asked naively. Looking up, squinting into the sun dissolving in the west, Marcel's eyes gave the answer.

"He is a mujibas," Alain whispered, glancing around to make sure their conversation wasn't being overheard. "You'll have to see what African justice is, my friend." The Belgian's listless words matched the vapid look in his eyes. "Muzole does not permit any...what is it in English? Benefit of the doubt--yes? It is believed this man helped ZANLA."

"I suppose there is no such thing as a trial for accused collaborators," Caleb muttered to himself.

There were a few garbled commands in Shona creating a frantic jangling of rifles and web gear among the militiamen, then Muzole stepped into the clearing, followed by several subordinates, who glared at everyone with contemptuous scrutiny. So this is him, Chase thought. This man commanded all the respect, and fear, of the entire populace of the region. There was instant silence from the villagers.

Muzole grunted out a series of orders. His features were set in a grim expression, like he was stealing himself for what had become a wearisome task. Marcel, straining to show respect for the war lord and to simultaneously maintain an air of European superiority, greeted Muzole. Alain and Caleb stood on either side of Marcel, unintentionally taking up adjutant's poses.

Muzole stared at them one at a time. So this is the infamous "evil eye" Al talked about, Chase thought, remembering how Al had written a whole article around it. The villagers believed Muzole was capable of passing on demonic curses just by looking at you. He was relieved when the jet black eyes released him from their stare.

"This business is a very bad thing," Muzole stated in a slow methodical tone, then added for emphasis, "very bad."

"The problem is the infiltrators," Marcel said solemnly.

Muzole centered his riveting gaze on Marcel. "It is for you to hunt them," the war lord said sternly. "It is for me to make changes."

The term "make changes" struck Chase as odd. He would soon know what it meant. It was at the very heart of the warring struggle.

Muzole wasn't a tall man. His unassuming stature concealed the extent of his strength, a strength that emanated from a foundation of unwavering conviction and demonstrative sadism. Like most men in a position of power by virtue of violence, he imbued all his actions with Messianic histrionics. In response, his men became more than soldiers, they became followers.

The interrogation of the mujibas followed a plan which had become ritualized, complete with disturbing chants from Muzole's men. Extracting any information was only a secondary concern. It was the display of terror that was important, vital; which would in a few hours time be signaled by the gathering of vultures to scavenge the remains. This was the result of the wrong choice in deciding between the power brokers who administered their fates. The elemental character and basic commandments of the war were woefully simple.

An almost bestial scream punctured the quiet. It was a cry of agony Chase would never forget. The tearful blubbering, the contorted writhing, and the pitiful bellowing would all blend into one continuous howl of excruciation at the hands of Muzole's retribution.

To the encouragement of guttural chanting, Muzole first severed the man's ears, held them aloft like two pieces of bloody offal for discarding, and stated he would hear no more of what he should not. The men chanted louder, jumping in unison to a silent beat. Blood surged down to the mujibas' shoulders, dripping off to form a crimson pool in the soil. He was still calling for his innocence.

The bloodied knife etched a path to the man's eyes, gouging out each eye with a deft twist of the knife. He will not see what he should not see! The chanting grew louder, then quiet, then louder again. The knife passed to the mouth, carving out the tongue in one rapid flick. He will not speak of what he should not. More gruesome chants increased.

Vibrating convulsions riddled the mujibas' body in the last spasms of life. Bright colored blood percolated from the wounds. Moving quickly to take advantage of the man's last strands of conscious agony, Muzole swung the knife under the scrotum and lifted away the penis, flipping the bloody organ to the earth. He will not bring more to life. The chanting grew unbearable.

It was his sixth Lion lager. Long before the beer had lost its taste. Through a drunken haze he heard Wallace telling him something. He stared at Wallace's shining face, finding what he was saying momentarily incomprehensible. But then everything had begun to fall into that category for him. It seemed to be the operative word.

"I attended a butchery," he found himself repeating to anyone who would listen. His witnessing of the feral act had led to a prompt resignation. "To hell with this contract," Caleb had told Marcel, before marching out of camp and hitch-hiking back to Salisbury.

He could still hear Alain's bland tone of voice telling him condescendingly, "War is not for dilettantes, my friend."

"This isn't a war, pal, it's a breeding ground for exterminators," Caleb had countered ineffectually, as if, at this juncture, making a point was of any consequence.

Unfortunately for Chase, Salisbury's tranquility no longer healed his wounds. After enduring long hours in the Federal's bar an inertia had set in. Any trace of humor had been cauterized from his mind. Even the availability of bartered flesh failed to interest him. Caleb was enduring a backlash ordeal that left an abrasive psychological texture to his thoughts, his memories.

"Mr. Chase," Wallace repeated, "you are without a doubt saturated with beer and quite inebriated. Go off to bed. I'll see you are not disturbed." Caleb stared at his honest, shining face. Somehow he couldn't quite understand what Wallace was trying to say. Nothing made sense. "Please, Mr. Chase, go off to bed. Be cooperative," Wallace urged gently.

"Wallace...what was it Al was always saying to me about Africa?" Caleb suddenly asked, slurring his words. "You know, he was always going on about it to me."

"I'm sure I do not know what you mean," Wallace replied, helping Chase off the bar stool and leading him up the stairs to his room.

"Don't you remember? He told me...no he warned me. He said: Don't become part of it. Yeah, that was it. Don't become part of it," Caleb repeated, falling into bed. "Al was so fucking smart!" he yelled out.

"Quiet now, Mr. Chase," Wallace said firmly. "Remember the other guests."

"Don't you understand, Wallace? I became a part of it. No more outsider bullshit. I was part of it," Caleb muttered, as he curled up in a fetal position.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Chase," Wallace whispered, sighing heavily because he did understand.

February, 12, 1979

Tomas:

Location: Capetown. Here I am in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Now if they could only get rid of all the South Africans everything would be perfect.

I write this in a hangover haze as I sit on the beach looking out at the Atlantic. Haven't seen it in awhile. The water is way too cold to swim here. The surfers are wearing their heavy wet suits. The waves are breaking pretty good.

What am I doing in Capetown? I've asked that question a few dozen times. After Rhodesia, I just had to get out. I was always told the Cape was one of the most beautiful areas in all of Africa. It is. Needed some R and R. Seen a lot of beaches in my day and the ones here are right up there.

Tabletop Mt. and the actual city itself are quite nice. There seems to be a lively atmosphere here too. The people are different here than they were in Joberg. Of course that's not saying much.

Found a good pub near my hotel last night. Castle lager took me through the night. And now, her I sit on a crystal white beach with a majestic mountain in the background and deep blue water before me. A beautiful girl in a bikini just walked by and smiled at me. Nice long blond hair. Naturally I'm at a whites only beach. Net Blankes, if you are using Afrikaans. Ain't SA fun?

Heard from the damn anthropologist. He left a message in Joberg at AmExp. He's on to Kenya after he's finished whatever the hell it is he's doing up there. Could just be my next stop. I hear Kenya is a nice place, still has some of the British colonialism hanging around, despite that whole Mau Mau business in the past. I really don't know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. The anthropologist told me once that I have a weird dependency on war and maybe he is right about that. I do rely on it for my livelihood. Now that is just depressing, and disgusting. Has it really come to that? I don't know. I need something to come up for me in NYC. Something domestic. Oh, I stopped in Joberg and saw that girl I mentioned before. Didn't go well. She's in his last year of college. You know what that means, don't you? It means I felt like some old geezer there on campus. Old as hell. She was polite but it was obvious she expected me to move on. Nice knowing you type of thing. Not a good reunion, to say the least. I still have my New Year's memories though.

You certainly don't get a sense of being in Africa when you are here. Maybe California, but not Africa. I know I can't stay on much longer here because, to my dismay, there's a whole country out there populated with Afrikaners. What a species!

I don't want to get into a harangue about a division of the races. I will say though that they sure have developed exploitation into a real science. An entire culture is out there slaving so another one can live at a standard of living that would shock most Americans. It's true.

When I landed here it was sort of like some Sci-fi story, where an explorer lands on a planet in the far reaches of the solar system and is immediately struck by the substratifications of the inhabitants. Planet Apartheid is one clean, immaculate star in which Capt. Kirk would play hell to mess with the powers that be.

I don't really want to write about that though. South Africa has been beaten to death by the pen. The place just stinks. It's a beautiful country though.

Here she comes again. Hello! Man, that bikini is small. I have been in the bush too long. Did I say I hated South Africa?

Had a disturbing talk with a girl in the pub last night. She told me that South Africa isn't as bad as people make it out to be. She went on to tell me about how the coloreds ride the same bus as she does. How do you talk to people like that?

Enough of my preaching. I'll write again soon. Drop me a note at the Am. Exp. in Nairobi. I should probably be up that way soon. Stay well.

Al

Chapter 6: It's Raining In Nairobi

There were voices, many voices, feverishly speaking Swahili. What they were saying was drowned out by the tumult of the morning traffic as it passed below on the city street, which had come alive with the coming of daylight. In the next room, the hotel's lobby, there was the clamoring rattle of empty soft drink bottles. The porter was carrying a case of empties outside.

Soon the coolness of the Nairobian night would be replaced by a piercing, dry heat. Out on Latema Road, the cacophony of another business day's activities disturbed Chase's sleep. He opened his eyes to another thundering hangover.

Slowly his mind began to grasp what he had done the previous night, recalling the memory gingerly in an attempt to avoid the pain of remembering. "Cur-tis--you love me...Cur-tis--you want me this way?" rang in his mind. Her name, what was her name? he wondered. Mary...yes Mary, a black Madonna in a brightly colored kikoy she draped around her well rounded hips and knotted modestly between her large breasts, he thought, recalling the aggressive caress of her meaty lips and ample, voluptuous body reacting to his fondling, accompanied by her ambrosial murmurings in Swahili.

"What tribe are you--Cur-tis?" she had whispered in his ear, unable to find the correct word in English.

"American," he answered, squelching a laugh, not wanting to offend her.

Mary was a wananchi, an uneducated girl from the bush, drawn to the Kenyan capital in hopes of a job: a future less bleak than near starvation on a farm subsisting on crops grown in soil that hadn't been arable for a thousand years. She was a whore, a kahaba. She wasn't one of the artificially cosmopolitan whores who frequented the Thorn Tree Cafe, the ones who postured at the outdoor tables, fashionably dressed to display their sensuous ebony skin, indifferently waiting for the muzungu customer, the white man.

Chase had been approached by her on Latema Road in front of one of the bars catering specifically to Africans. The Mau Mau rebellion may have happened years before, giving the Kenyans their independence, but Nairobi was still a divided city in many ways. There existed an economic personality that carved out racial niches in the neighborhoods. For the equivalent of five American dollars she had propositioned him to come home with her for the night. After over half a dozen Tuskers, with the effervescent Kenyan beer fermenting in his blood stream, Caleb impulsively agreed.

The back streets of Nairobi passed in a blur as she led him to a squalid hotel off Red Road. His shillings bought him, to his horror, a close-up examination of an anatomical mutation. In the course of their lovemaking, while he attempted to master his drunkenness, he discovered how strange the mating of two circumcised genitals was.

He recollected reading somewhere of an African tribal practice in an anthropology textbook. In a painful ritual, the females of the tribes, as with the males, were made to endure a savagely administered puberty rite. At the age of twelve a shaman severed Mary's clitoris in the mistaken belief it would prevent her from being promiscuous after she was married.

The fleshy instrument so many American women's magazines devoted pages and pages to had been literally hacked off, leaving a slightly mutilated version of a vagina. To Mary, whose sexual appetite was fed by numerous encounters with paying customers, there was no point of comparison. She had never known clitoral stimulation. As a result, she dutifully labored to sexually fulfill her end of the bargain.

When they had finished, she jumped out of bed and padded in her bare feet to a small bathroom adjacent to her room. He could hear her splashing water on herself from the sink. A moment later she appeared and demurely sat on the end of the bed and smoked a cigarette. A street light illuminated her in profile. Suddenly Chase detested himself, and her. He quickly dressed and, despite her protests, left. At the door, in an attempt to quiet her, he paid her a hundred shillings. She thanked him over and over.

His whole body ached. He hadn't slept a full night through in weeks. At first the drinking eased his pain, then it began to work against him, leaving him debilitated the next day.

At times it would seem so long ago, as if it happened in another lifetime. There seemed to be so many Caleb Chase personas. There had been so many experiences. He tried not to analyze any of it, dulling his senses with drunken binges. Yet the memory was resilient, and hostile, leaving him wracked with emotional pain.

"I won't do it anymore," Caleb had told Ben in Jo'berg, while they tried to work through his debriefing. Ben had looked out of the hotel window at the high veld in the distance and said nothing. "It isn't worth it," Chase continued.

"Listen, Caleb," Ben finally said, turning to face him, "what exactly do you think all of this is about?"

Caleb stared at him for a moment, then said, "At this point I don't really care."

"So you're quitting?"

"Looks like it," Caleb replied solemnly.

"What exactly are you going to do then?" he wanted to know, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know and I really don't give a shit," Caleb responded, holding his head in his hands, exasperated by where his life had ended up.

"You were born for this stuff," Ben stated, eyeing him closely. "Don't kid yourself, Chase. This is you. You have to admit that to yourself sooner or later and deal with it."

Caleb stared at him for a moment, then said, "I don't know who Caleb Chase really is anymore. I don't. My identity is all fucked up."

"What you need to do is take some time off, relax, then reassess maybe. Your trouble is you think too much most of the time. I've always told you that." The two men looked at each for a moment, gauging the other one's response. "Decompress. That's what you need to do. Think about all the good work you've done for us...for your country. Damn, you can't let that all go down the drain. Can you?"

Caleb thought for moment, then replied, "I'm out."

And now he was in Kenya. His money reserves were dwindling. Caleb had no prospects. It was a long flight back home.

Thunder showers inundated the streets. Outside the store fronts, lines of Africans lingered under the protection of the overhangs. Occasionally a daring person would dash across the street dodging the swift cars and stagnant mud puddles, now agitated by the seasonal deluge.

Chase stood in front of an abattoir, where a laughing butcheress indelicately cleaved away grayish slivers of fat. Moving on, he stopped again, this time in front of a Bata shoe store, one of the many that dotted Nairobi's shopping scene. A salesman took the opportunity to beckon him into the store, hoping for an easy sale from a muzungu. Caleb ignored the salesman's entreaties.

When he reached his hotel he was only partially wet. Thunder echoed in the distance. The storms departure would leave behind a fresh scent of rain which would quickly rot, turning into the thin aired staleness that was Nairobi.

His room at the Iqbal Hotel waited for him like a cocked trap. He dreaded returning to it; but now after turning down assignments from the Company and hanging on in Africa, with no expense account, Chase's choices were few. His money supply was getting low. Inside, the two other beds would hold more surprise lodgers. There had been four since his arrival in Nairobi four days before. It was common practice of the inexpensive hotels to assign strangers to the same room.

"Averaging one new comer a day," he said to himself as he passed through the cafe downstairs, waving to the dour young African who was always manning his post at the cash register, ever prepared to not reply to queries about food, lodging, the war in Uganda--whatever. The young African reluctantly returned Chase's wave, before returning his jaundiced gaze in the direction of another customer and angrily demanding: "Nane shilling."

The shower was dribbling out its generous portion of cold water as he passed by. Caleb could hear a man's voice singing in German. Deutsche...another damn kraut, he thought. Kenya was teeming with Germans. He silently added another entry to his generalized evaluation of Kenya: "Nothing but anthropologists, Peace Corps workers, and Germans."

His door was slightly ajar therefore he knew another newcomer had arrived. That morning the young Indian had left for Mombasa, embarking on a dubious career in civil engineering, a profession he claimed to have learned in Bombay. But he was better than most of them that had been there. The Indian managed to sleep from nine at night to well past two in the afternoon.

Only once had Caleb been forced to endure his conversation, as he pulled the room's only chair next to Chase's bed and launched into a scathing attack on African stupidity, labeling the average Kenyan a kala bandar, a black monkey. Animated, eyebrows deeply notched, he had spoken of the injustices against his people in Uganda spilling over into Kenya. He was certain the Asians would be ordered to leave, just as Idi Amin had done in Uganda.

"Wouldn't Kenya suffer," the Indian stated with finality, almost gloating. "The businesses are all owned by my people. Ah! Kenya would be nothing. Nothing." Caleb had agreed with him with a numbing nodding of his head, imperceptibly cringing at the closeness of this bigot with the curry breath.

He paused at the door, listening. There was a rustling of magazine pages. Let's see, he thought, there's been a prostitute, an African from up country, the Indian, and a German woman who liked to scribble in her diary by candle light at two in the morning. She had been in Kenya six months, traveling around and observing. Her diary had ballooned to four volumes.

Chase marveled at how she was so unlike the German women who flew directly into Malindi for brief vacations with one purpose in mind. A few enterprising Africans had set up a specialized service for these lonely women, women who fantasized about black men. Their only contact with the African continent was a black cock. This girl, an attractive woman in her thirties, was somehow sexless, a Germanic sylph who only wanted to write in her diary and read the inscrutable writings of the Sufis.

The prostitute had been more troublesome. She was a garrulous girl who worked hard satisfying African men for as little as ten shillings a session. For some reason unknown to Chase she didn't pursue the muzungu money, where the going price rose considerably. She wasn't ugly, and she had a good figure. Unlike Mary, she was more sophisticated in her English and in her demeanor. Chase guessed she harbored a great animosity towards the white man.

Towards him she had been indifferent and vaguely hostile. She would sit on her bed and apply endless coats of nail polish to her nails, while singing along to a cassette tape by Donna Summers. American music was inescapable. Curiously enough, she never slept at the hotel. The room and bed just served as a depository for her one suitcase and six pairs of shoes littering the floor beneath her bed.

It was her voice, its volume, which annoyed Caleb. Feeling the need to speak to the hotel manager, she would shout out to him regardless of where he might be in the building. His faint reply would ignite a barrage of shouted Swahili. Then again, she was gone most of the time.

There was no newcomer in his room as expected. The German woman had returned from a short visit to a nearby village. They exchanged greetings: she in Swahili, he in German. Then she returned to the magazine she had been reading.

Caleb lay on his bed with the first two fingers of his right hand pinching the upper bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off a headache. Nairobi's five thousand feet altitude gave him trouble at times, especially with the atmospheric changes before and after thunder storms. He hoped he could take a nap. Turn off his mind. Not think about anything.

It was times like this, when raw contemplation was unavoidable, he dreaded the most. His mind would wander, inevitably gravitating to Rhodesia. He could hear the cries of agony, the wailing horror, even see the blood spurting and smell the putrid scent of death. And the chanting, it seemed to ring in his ears.

"Stop it!" he shouted out.

The German woman looked over at him with a puzzled expression. "Vat is it?' she asked in a concerned tone of voice.

He stared at her for a moment, then muttered, "Nothing. I was thinking of something...that's all."

She returned to reading her magazine as if nothing had happened. Caleb couldn't believe he had actually shouted out. He never thought remembering could have such a razor edge pain to it.

The Thorn Tree Cafe was the focal point for Nairobi night life. It was here the odd assortment of African travelers congregated, where you could find people on safari holiday mingling with Peace Corps workers or prostitutes plying their trade with mercenaries and European businessmen. They all met at the outdoor tables and watched each other.

Before Tanzania closed its border with Kenya and civil war erupted in Uganda, Nairobi was the crossroads for thousands of travelers going overland to South Africa. Placed on the thorn tree that gave its name to the cafe was a message board. Messages from people traveling to all parts of the continent ended up on the board. Travelers with missed connections came there in search of the right message.

Caleb had been there for five straight nights reading over the messages. Before Al left Rhodesia they had made plans to meet in Nairobi. The message board was the only way they could make connections. He read:

AIRLINE TICKET TO CAIRO

1/2 PRICE

CONTACT JOHANN REGENCY HOTEL RM 105

Land Rover in good condition.

Must sell.

Leaving for Europe soon. Leave name and number.

Used camping gear:

tent (dome type), sleeping bags, cooking utensils & stove

100 hundred American dollars

Stanley Hotel, room 15.

Leaving Kenya on the 15th.

Ozzie contact Sam at Am Exp

Need new visa soon. Hurry.

Where have you been?

Zolla, Lamu is off. No good. Check Zanzibar on the 20th at

the usual place.

Al,

Where in the hell have you been? Check rm 8 at the Iqbal.

C.C.

Chase could see some of the messages had been there for awhile because the paper was faded. He was about to give up for another night when a folded message caught his eye. In small, neat print he saw his name. The paper was new, not wilted. Al had folded it several times so no one could read it without removing it from the board. He opened and read:

Jambo Caleb,

Sorry I missed you. Checked at your hotel but you weren't there. On to a hot story in Uganda. Ho-hum, another war story to bore you with later. Be back in Nairobi in a few days. Have a brandy on me and wait. I paid the waiter with the curly hair. Ha!

Kwaheri

Al

Caleb sat down at an empty table nearest the street. He was suddenly depressed. He didn't want to wait in Nairobi any longer. He ordered a brandy. He hadn't had any since he last saw Al. Looking around the cafe, he noticed a few tables over a Somalian prostitute was sitting there eyeing him. She smiled and crossed then uncrossed her legs invitingly. He smiled, then turned away, resisting, knowing quite well after a few more drinks he would be out more shillings he couldn't afford.

March 19, 1979

Tomas:

If this post card comes off as incomprehensible it's because I'm in a stupor, a beer induced one. The beer here in Kenya isn't as good as it was in Rhodesia. It's too gassy. Not that I'm such a connoisseur or anything. I'll drink anything.

It's different here, as you can see by the card. Those are real tribesmen. This is Africa Africa. Before I was in European Africa. Hey, I'm use to it by now. I think I've been to maybe a dozen different African countries. Wait, I just counted the visa stamps in my passport and the number is fourteen. Damn, that's a lot. I don't know how much longer I can hang on. Soon I plan on maybe going to Mombasa. Now there's a name that sort of says it all, real authentic. Although there are rumblings going on in neighboring Uganda. Another war, hallelujah! I do need another payday and soon.

I will write more later when I'm sober.

Al

Chapter 7: Without Warning

Kampala seemed like a city under siege. Martial law had been declared to keep the looting under control. Parts of the city were still abandoned from when Idi Amin had booted out the Asians. What was left of their scavenged shops were shuttered store fronts. No one moved in to fill the commercial void.

Al knew getting stories out of this war was going to be different. Uganda wasn't your ordinary post-colonial country; it was coming off some tragic years at the hands of Idi Amin Dada. A jungle survival mentality ruled in the streets. Bandits, or left over soldiers from the war with Tanzania, were controlling many parts of the country. And now, with Amin having fled before the invasion of the advancing Tanzanian troops, tribal scores were being settled.

Like always, he thought, after year of war's turmoil there was a tendency for atrocities to become normative. Existence is devalued. Al had seen it so many times before. What is and isn't abominable is in question. He knew this inconvenient fact was at work in Uganda, just as it had been in so many other countries. Nothing changed. The psychological effect was evident every where he looked. You could even feel it in the air as he continued to cover yet another conflict in another spot on the map. Different geography perhaps, but the same attributes were always identical. The byproduct of peace lost was a political leveraging that resulted in no redemption for the populace until a victor emerged. To Al, it was disheartening to see each new iteration of war had the same formula. The root of the problem was the insatiable desire for power, often buttressed by ideological trappings that were conceived just to undermine the current governmental framework.

His first night in Kampala, while he sat on his bed in his hotel room listening to the familiar rattling sound of machine-gun fire, Al wondered about the two men in the slick mobutu suits and dark sunglasses who had followed him all day. It was no secret the press wasn't welcome in Uganda. A few press releases had leaked out concerning some of the heinous killings, the murders committed by one tribe against the other, and the authorities were determined it didn't happen again.

"Hujambo?" Al said in his usual congenial way, staring at the two men, who stared back at him coldly with the dark lenses of their sunglasses adding an insect-like quality to their faces. There was no response to his greeting in Swahili. They had been waiting for him when he stepped out of his hotel room the next morning.

"If you guys are going to be my tour guides, you're going to have to be a little more talkative," Al said, smiling.

One of the men smiled then laughed. Al laughed too, then the other one casually punched him in the face. Before he realized what was going on he was on the floor and the two of them were tying his hands behind his back. They yanked him to his feet and dragged him down some stairs, exiting a back door where a car was waiting. He was locked in the trunk.

His nose still stung from the punch and tears were blurring his vision. The car was moving fast down the city streets, bouncing and turning, with the tires screeching. The heat inside the trunk was unbearable. His left elbow ached from where they had thrown him in the trunk.

"What do you guys want?" Al cried out.

As they drove along he could hear the men's muffled conversation. He was trying desperately to comprehend their Swahili. Then they were out of the city and the tires were whining on the open road and he could hear nothing else.

The next thing he heard was the car slowing down, stopping. A gate was opened. One of the men said something to someone outside and they laughed. The trunk was opened and a soldier poked his rifle in Al's ribs. The soldier smiled at him and jabbed the rifle in deeper. Al grunted from the pain. The soldier laughed and waved them on.

The car screeched to a stop and Al heard the car doors open and slam shut. He had been in plenty of tight situations before but this time seemed different. There were no rules here. The government was shifting almost on a daily basis. No one was safe. There was open hostility towards the press. The trunk swung open suddenly and he was being lifted out and thrown on the ground. The two men laughed and roughly grabbed and stood him up.

"Chapuchapu!" one of the men in the mobutu suits shouted, nudging him along by prodding his fingers in Al's kidneys.

"What's the hurry?" Al asked, turning half around and smiling.

"Muzungu-shit," the man shouted, slapping him hard across the face.

Al stumbled then lost his balance and fell forward grinding his shoulder in the ground. "God-dammit! you stupid fuck-head," he shouted out.

There was a swift kick in the stomach which doubled him into a fetal position. They dragged him to his feet again and pushed him into a cell. Al sprawled across two other prisoners who cursed at him in a tribal dialect he wasn't familiar with. It was dark in the cell so he couldn't make out how many were in there.

He apologized in Swahili then switched to English and asked: "Anyone in this hell hole speak English?'

There was silence for a moment then a hoarse voice off to his left said, "Yes. I speak your Eng-lish."

"Thank god," Al said, sighing in relief. "Maybe you can tell me where in the hell I am."

"You are at the Bombo barracks," the hoarse voice replied, coughing violently.

"Are you alright?" Al asked, sliding over to where he thought he heard the voice coming from.

"I believe they have broken my ribs."

"Jesus Christ! Please let me wake up now," Al muttered.

"You are a muzungu. Why have they brought you here?" the hoarse voice asked, coughing again.

"They didn't say a damn word. Just punched me in the nose, then tossed me in the trunk and brought me here."

"I did not think they would do this to muzungus," the man uttered, then trailed off into Swahili.

Al thought he heard the man say kufisha, the Swahili word for kill. The door to the cell swung open and a guard called out a name. A man by the cell door started pleading and the guard hit him with the butt of his rifle across the face.

"Good-bye, my friend," the hoarse voice said and there was a shuffling of feet.

"What are they going to do?" Al called out as he saw the silhouette of the man he had been talking to appear in the door way. There was no answer. A few minutes later he heard the howls, then the gunshots, and it was quiet.

For the next few hours the cell door would open, a name would be called, and someone was taken away. There was no resistance. Each new victim left without a scuffle. It went on all that day then stopped at night fall. Al tried to speak with the others but they spoke no English and his Swahili wasn't fluent enough to get any answers. He eventually drifted off to sleep amidst the groans of pain all around him.

He awoke with a start. The guard was calling his name and angrily motioning for him to follow. His left arm had fallen asleep so he awkwardly staggered to his feet. The bindings on his hands had dug into his wrists. He was led down a narrow hallway and into a small room then ordered to sit on a wooden stool in the middle of the room. A few minutes later a soldier, a young officer, came in.

"Good morning," the young officer said pleasantly.

"That's a matter of opinion," Al replied, craning his neck to look at the young officer who was standing behind him.

"You are a journalist," the young officer said, ignoring Al's remark.

"Yes."

"I see. American?" the young officer asked, producing Al's passport and flicking through the pages.

"Yes, I'm American and I'd like to contact my embassy about this obvious mix-up," Al stated sternly, rotating on the stool to look at the young officer.

"Yes, there has undoubtedly been a mistake," the young officer said sarcastically, smiling.

"I'd say," Al said in an ironic tone. "Do you think you could cut this rope off my wrists. It'd be nice to have some circulation in my hands before they fall off."

"Yes, of course," the young officer said, bending over and cutting the rope with a small pocket knife. "You must understand the government is very concerned about you journalists coming into our country and writing lies."

"I'll tell you what," Al said, rubbing his wrists, "why don't we call it a big mistake and I'll just get on out of the country. We can just forget about everything."

The young officer stepped back when Al stood up, then said in the same amused voice he had used the whole time, "Perhaps yes. I will look into it."

"Ahsante," Al said. "I'd really appreciate it."

"Yes," the young officer said, smiling.

The hunger ache in his stomach had been replaced by the nausea of the smell, the rancid stench of death. One of the other men in the cell had died the night before and the guards just left him in a heap by the door. When they were bringing him back from the first interrogation Al had seen a purplish colored bruise just over his right eye. The prisoner's brain had probably been hemorrhaging from one of the blows, Al thought.

What had happened to the young officer? Al had been led back to the dark cell and left for what was now going on twelve hours. How long have I been here? he asked himself. The darkness, the stink, and the howls of pain were beginning to riddle his nerves.

"That's got to be their game," he muttered aloud. "They want to scare me. Make me an example for the other journalists. Those bastards."

His second night in the cell sunk him deeper into despair. Al knew he was on his own. There were no international rules here. People disappeared all the time--no questions asked. The embassy wouldn't be able to do a thing, he thought, as he stretched out on the dirty cement floor. Next to him in the blackness a man was sobbing. Then there was the stench. The guards had left the corpse to decompose for another night.

There was a sharp kick to his leg and Al bolted awake. "Twende! Twende!" A guard was standing over him shouting commands in Swahili. He staggered to his feet and followed the guard out into the narrow hallway, where he could see daylight filtering in through the small window. His eyes were squinting from the bright sunlight.

It was a different room this time. Stark cement walls with flecks of paint peeling off greeted him. Again he was shoved down on a wooden stool next to a table. There was an odor in the room he couldn't make out, a familiar smell of some sort. The guard quickly left, pulling the door shut behind him.

"What's that friggin smell?" Al asked the bare walls, attempting to stand then collapsing back onto the stool. "Jesus my legs are so cramped I can hardly stand up."

The door suddenly swung open and the two men in the mobutu suits came in, followed by another man wearing overalls and carrying what appeared to be a tool box. They stood looking at Al discussing something in Swahili.

"Hey fellas," Al said lightheartedly, "I thought this was a five star jail. Don't we get breakfast around here?"

"Hapana," one of the men in the mobutu suits spat out.

"Hey, just thought I'd ask," Al mumbled.

The man in the overalls walked over to the table and began to take things out of his tool box. Al started to turn his head to see what the man was doing when one of the others grabbed his throat and jerked him around. There was a large, leering grin in his face.

"Muzungu...what are you looking for? There is no story for you here."

Indistinct laughter drifted over from the other side of the room. Then the choking stopped and Al fell to the floor gasping for air. They immediately yanked him up on the stool again.

"What do you guys want from me?" Al asked in a hoarse voice.

The hand was on his throat again. A sweaty, black face loomed. "You do not ask us anything, muzungu."

There was a rock hard punch to his abdomen and he doubled over. Two strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him back up to a sitting position. Another blow struck his face, then his kidneys. He collapsed to the floor.

Through the blur of pain he felt himself being lifted. Hands were fumbling at his belt and zipper. His back slammed against the table top. Cord was being tied to his wrists and ankles. "You bastards!" he screamed out. There was a resounding smack as a blow landed across his mouth. He spat blood out at them. Another punch rocked his head back. He could feel a dislodged tooth dangling in the front of his mouth. Blood was oozing out of his nose, dripping into his mouth.

"Muzungu," the voice said in a droning tone, with the face leering again, "you are never going to write about Uganda again."

"You stupid nyani," Al spat out. "You're a bunch of--"

A flurry of blows landed on his skull, fueled by Al's use of the Swahili word for baboon. Through a semi-conscious haze, Al could feel tiny pricks of pain around his genitals. The man in the overalls was laboring over some wires, connecting them to a wooden box. Then Al knew what the peculiar odor had been: the smell of burning flesh.

The first jolt riddled his body, seemingly traveling from his testicles to his brain and back. He was flopping on the table like a landed fish. Then the current was turned off.

"What do you want from me?" Al screamed.

The man in the overalls calmly churned the handle on the box and turned the switch. Current raced through his genitals. He was bucking wildly from the pain. Saliva intermingled with blood spurted from his mouth.

"God, what do..."

There was salvation in unconsciousness. Tremors coursed through his prostrate body. One of the men in the mobutu suits angrily passed on an order. The man in the overalls sheepishly disconnected the wires and left. Al's inert body lay on the table like a cadaver for vivisecting.

Two guards carried Al outside and revived him enough to stand him against a wall. The blinding sun scratched at his eyes. He stood drooped over, leaning against the wall. A detail of soldiers high-stepped into the courtyard and stopped twenty paces away. Al watched them march in as if they were in another dimension of time, somehow disconnected from the present.

An order was given and twelve rifles clacked into firing position. There was an interminable pause. Al listened, waiting for the sound.

April 1, 1979

Tomas:

Jambo! Habari? I'm such a linguist. Swahili is a wonderful sounding language. I'm in Kampala. That would be Uganda for you geography challenged types. I decided to check out the war brewing next door to Kenya. Hey, why not? A story is a story, as they like to say. Besides, it ain't that far to drive to. Now that I'm here though I might want to rethink the whole thing. This place gives off one of those vibes you might see in a horror film. You know what I mean, like when you know something about to happen at any minute. Plenty scary. They don't have any good bars around here either. Now that sucks.

Tomorrow I got a lead on some info about the Tanzanian Army and their management of the country etc. Kind of boring but I have to start somewhere. I'd fill you in on some of the details but then I'd just be boring you. Later maybe.

Right now there is the familiar rata-tat jingle of machine gun fire going on outside my hotel room down a block or so. If I finish this note tonight I'll drop it in the mailbox down in the hotel lobby mail box and it should go out tomorrow. Hopefully. You never know what might happen tonight. Whoops, got the full on war opera going on now. There was a loud explosion in the distance. Somebody is shouting down on the street. I'm afraid to look out the window. Don't want to attract attention to my white face.

I tried to get in touch with the anthropologist back in Nairobi but he had already left town. He should be back soon. I know I said it before but it might be time to move on to the coast. I want to see what the Islamic influence or impact was on Africa. I'm such a historical scholar. Sure.

I'll write more later. Take care.

AM

Chapter 8: The Cold Sun

It was hot, that typical equatorial hot, where breathing came hard and sweating easy.

Caleb looked over his shoulder at Nairobi in the distance and wondered about the wisdom of hitch-hiking to Mombasa, which was a days drive across Kenya to the coast. He had been on the road just over an hour and one ride had gotten him as far as the outskirts of the Kenyan capital.

Already his water bottle was half-empty--or half full, depending on your philosophical orientation towards life. He thought of the inane Peace Corps commercial that was playing on TV when he was last back in the States. Then he laughed out loud when he thought about the night before where he had met a group of young, idealistic Peace Corps workers at the Thorn Tree Cafe. Two couples, each having an almost weird look about them: expressions of beaming certitude, as if to say, "Hey, I'm an American over here to save the Africans!"

"You can't be serious," Caleb had said in response to their tales of future accomplishments, finally exasperated by their naivete, as they charged into another round of Tusker beers.

"Why not?" came the reply from one of the girls, a blond with the palest blue eyes Caleb had ever seen, so pale that when they looked at you you had a sense of total vapidness.

"Sure we know what we're doing," one of the boys chimed in with a southern drawl, slightly irritated now, having realized they were being faced down by a well traveled cynic.

"Oh you do you," Caleb said, sighing heavily, suddenly bored by these messengers of America's word. "In Africa for two days and you've got a handle on it. You people are nothing more than secular evangelists. Over here to bring these poor poor Africans the word of America."

"That's a bunch of bullshit," the other girl interjected, surprised by her profanity. The others tittered. Caleb just knew this girl from somewhere in Iowa had never uttered an obscenity in her life. "We have had training in our fields and we know we can help these people."

"Help them to help themselves," the other girl added, her pale blue eyes focusing on her colleague. They traded benign smiles.

"Oh yes, I bet you can, and you will," Caleb intimated wearily, knowing quite well they had yet to witness any of it.

"It's people like you who slow down the progress," the other boy said, jabbing his finger in Chase's direction. He had a scowl on his face, just visible through a scraggly beard which was beginning to take shape.

He'll be the type to browbeat the Africans until he gets what he wants, Caleb thought, and he'll most likely be the first one to be disillusioned. "I'm only a bystander, my friend. I don't speed it up and I don't slow it down."

The boy with the beard scoffed, then said, "You're probably some businessman over here to rape the Africans with your fucking business deals."

"Tony," the girl from Iowa chided.

"Well, it's true. I betcha. Ask him what he's doing in Africa," Tony demanded.

"It's none of your business," Caleb said, laughing.

They hadn't laughed. Each one stared at him accusingly. He was like a heathen not taken into the fold. With an improvised excuse, they left. Caleb paid the bill.

"I wish I had a Tusker right now, even if it does taste like elephant piss," he said aloud, laughing. Overhead the sun bore down on the macadam road. His eyes traced the road out until it disappeared over a small hill, finally engulfed by the vapors of heat rising skyward.

By two o'clock he had made it half way to Mombasa. The last ride, a white farmer, had left him off in the middle of nowhere when he turned left to go northward. "You've done it now," Caleb whispered to himself as he climbed out of the farmer's Land Rover. "Good luck!" the farmer had chortled, as if to say: You're doomed!

He pulled his baseball cap tighter to ward off the sun and took up a position on the roadside. He was now unmistakably in the bush. Before the farmer had left him off, they had seen some giraffes and zebras grazing. There was barely an inch of water remaining in his water bottle. A vicious headache had moved in behind his eyes from the sun; and the heat from the road seemed to penetrate right through the soles of his shoes.

The quiet came over him quickly after the farmer's jeep had dropped from sight over a distant hill. There was virtually no wind. The stillness was maddening. Behind him a row of trees stretched along the road, but they were just far enough away that he couldn't stand underneath them for the shade and still hitchhike. But then hitchhiking at this time of day appeared to be futile. He had not seen a car in either direction for an hour.

In front of him it seemed the entire plains of Kenya loomed, a moonscape of desolation. He began to debate whether or not to use the last bit of water to take some aspirin for his headache or save the water and try to swallow the pills dry.

A whooping screech startled him and he whirled around to face the treeline, expecting the worse. In a challenging stance twenty yards away stood a large male baboon. He was baring his teeth and making an earsplitting screeching noise.

"Sands of Kilimanjaro, Part II," Caleb muttered, wondering what he could use as a weapon in case this crazy baboon gets territorial. They stood facing each other. A tiny bead of sweat was trickling down his nose but he dared not wipe it away because he was sure any movement would cause the baboon to attack. For the first time he noticed there were perhaps a dozen baboon collected in the shade of the trees. The baboon let out another series of screeches, baring his teeth menacingly.

"You wouldn't happen to know Stuart Whitman would ya?" he asked in a trembling voice. The baboon suddenly backed up, startled by his voice, then he screeched again. In the background, the trees were alive with chattering and scampering baboons. The leader began to pace back and forth, snarling.

"I think maybe I should just back up across the road," he whispered. As he began to slowly step backwards there was a rumbling, clattering sound and then the blast from an air horn as a large truck whooshed by. The baboons turned and fled, apparently as frightened by the truck as he had been surprised by it.

"Great! First I'm almost lunch for a bunch of baboons and then I almost get run over by a truck," he said, still shaking from the ordeal.

Instantly it was quiet again. The truck clattered on down the road out of sight. With the exception of a few birds flying overhead, nothing was moving. "I'm going to go mad out here," Caleb exclaimed in an ironic tone of voice, snickering. "Some Masei tribesmen will find me lying on the side of the road raving on like some lunatic. Or, better yet, some hyenas will have me for dinner."

Three hours later his sense of humor was non-existent. He had taken the two aspirin, dry, and as a result he was left with a vile taste in his mouth he could not get rid of. The water was long gone. His skin was itching from the Pre-Sun sunblock he had applied to the back of his neck and arms to ward off the blistering rays of the sun. If he stood in one place he was sure the soles of his shoes would melt.

"I'm going to end up being a religious man any minute now and start praying," he bellowed out, startling a flock of vultures which had settled in the trees nearby, their beady eyes indolently watching him. "I could have taken the train to Mombasa," he announced to the vultures, gesturing northward in the direction he believed the train tracks to be. "But nooo, idiot here has to be adventurous and hitchhike through the bush. See the land up close. Real close, so close I'm going to fry out here and end up as an hors d'oeuvre for you bastards!" A few of the vultures fluttered their wings in response. "I wish I had a rifle right now."

Then, as if by magic, he heard the distinctive sound of a car's motor. It was faint but he could tell it was coming from the west. "Thumb don't fail me now," he sang out, taking up his hitchhiking position on the roadside again.

It was an old Peugeot station wagon, that, even at this distance, seemed to be destined for the junkyard. A steady stream of blue smoke followed it like an undulating tail. "Jeez, burn much oil," Caleb said, groaning. "Probably break down before it gets to me."

He could see there were two men inside, an African and a European. They had noticed him and seemed to be debating over whether or not to stop. The car was easing past him. Caleb was shouting: "Ngoja! Wait! Ngoja!" The Peugeot gave out a loud backfire, shuddered, then came to a stop. Caleb grabbed his bag and ran through the blue haze to the car.

"Jambo!" he said, gasping for air. "I'm trying to get to Mombasa."

"Come in. We are going there as well," the European said in a voice slightly accented.

"Ahsante, you don't know how long I've been standing there," Caleb said, getting in the backseat.

"You're quite welcome," the African replied, smiling, as he jammed the car back in first gear and creeped away from the side of the road. The Peugeot backfired once, twice, then belched out some more blue smoke.

"Nita pende maji?" Caleb asked in a raspy voice. "If you have any."

"Vasser--yes," the European muttered, reaching down and producing a large canteen.

So the muzungu is German, Caleb said to himself as he greedily reached for the canteen. The water seemed to refrigerate his insides as it went down. He wished he could pour the whole canteen full of water over his head.

"Have you been out there very long?" the African asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

"Too long. Maybe over three hours. I was just about to start praying." They both chuckled at his remark.

"I have myself started from Nairobi today," the German said, turning to face him. "I was very fortunate Bwana Lano stopped for me." Caleb chuckled to himself at the Swahili word for mister. It sounded like an old Tarzan movie.

"We will not make it to Mombasa for some time, but we should make it," the African said over his shoulder, smiling widely.

"Maybe I should pray just in case," Caleb said, glancing back at the blue smoke screen.

"Possibly. Possibly," the African said, laughing.

It has just gotten dark when they pulled into Mombasa. Bwana Lano dropped them off in the old part of the city and disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. The two of them stood glancing around at their new surroundings unable to decide what to do.

"Ever been here before?" Caleb asked.

"No, but I know of an inexpensive hotel that should not be far."

"Let me guess, Jimmy's right?"

"Ya. Do you know of it?"

"Yeah, some guy in Nairobi told me about it. Good showers and cheap. What more could you ask for?" he said, smiling.

"I do not know your name," the German said suddenly.

"Caleb."

"My name is Heinz," the German said, awkwardly jutting his hand out. They shook hands quickly.

"Well Bwana, which way?" Caleb asked, pointing up and down the street.

It was another hot, steamy morning. Around them in the market place a thousand stray sounds accumulated to make for an exotic din of noise only Africa could produce. There were Hindus, Muslims, Africans, and two muzungus working their way through the narrow streets, while everywhere people haggled over prices in loud voices.

"It must be here," Caleb heard Heinz shout over his shoulder, as they ducked underneath a chair being carried by a tall Hindu.

"There's three buses," Caleb shouted over the noise.

"They are the buses I am certain," Heinz announced, pointing to a rusty bus, where one man stood on top catching packages that another man was throwing up to him. A spider's web of rope had been weaved to secure a few dozen packages on the roof rack of the bus.

"It's not exactly Greyhound," Caleb muttered to himself.

Heinz began to haggle with the driver on a price to Lamu. He didn't even want to go to Lamu, now here he was getting on a bus that would take all day to go to an island that was no more than a speck in the Indian Ocean. Heinz had talked him into it, spinning tales of the island's fascinating past, a history of Persian conquest and trading in gold, spices, and slaves.

"These people are more Arab than African," he had said, with his ocean green eyes sparkling, thoroughly entranced by the idea of an island so near geographically to Africa yet so far sociologically.

"Twende!" Heinz exclaimed gleefully, apparently happy that he had gotten the price he wanted for the fare.

"Let's go where?" Caleb replied skeptically.

"Lamu," Heinz answered, bewildered momentarily.

"On this thing--dream on, bwana."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is this decrepit bus won't make it out of Mombasa much less all the way to Lamu. It'll probably fall apart before we get down the street," Caleb said, kicking the front tire. The driver looked at him disapprovingly.

"All the buses are this bad," Heinz explained, picking off a fleck of paint from the side of the bus for emphasis. "What's the American expression: beats walking."

"That's debatable."

By the time they were on the outskirts of Mombasa the bus was full beyond capacity. Heinz and Caleb were wedged in a seat for two with another passenger, a small elderly Kenyan, who smiled a toothless smile continually. The aisle was packed with people standing, struggling to hold on as the bus swerved its way through the city traffic.

Suddenly the bus driver began to curse. The elderly man next to them got a look of dire panic on his face. In one jerking motion the driver pulled the bus to the side of the road. There was a rapping on the front doors and the driver reluctantly opened them. A policeman stomped on board and began to pluck passengers off, literally snatching them by the collar and dragging them off. People were scrambling to hide behind seats in order to avoid the policeman. The elderly man had climbed down between them, where he cowered.

"This happens much of the time," Heinz whispered. "Nothing to worry over. They have a law about the amount of people on the bus. These people do not want to be put off because there might not be another bus coming and they will have to walk for many kilometers."

"Oh is that all it is," Caleb said, relieved. "After being in some of the places I've been in, I thought they were taking them off to jail or worse."

Heinz stared at him for a moment with a surprised expression on his face. "Oh no, these Kenyans are very civilized. I've been here three months and I have gotten to know these Kenyans well."

The policeman gave the driver a lecture, one that was obviously delivered before, and they were on their way minus ten or twenty passengers. The elderly man climbed back up on the seat uttering in a raspy voice, "Ahsante. Ahsante."

"He is happy we did not say anything to the policeman," Heinz stated as if the man wasn't even there. The old man smiled a toothless smile, squeezing in between them on the seat.

Mombasa faded from view, left behind to be replaced by the bush. Eventually the passengers thinned out, hopping off periodically in little settlements that were no more than a few shacks. A hot breeze filtered in the open windows, bringing with it the peculiar smells of the African bush. Ostriches and gazelles grazed by the roadside, ignoring the bus as it passed noisily by.

A few hours later the bus pulled to a stop and the conductor on the bus, a willowy man with a demonic smile, ordered everyone off the bus. They had reached a small river and it was necessary to take a ferry across. The ferry Captain was busy charging everyone for the crossing, haggling with the bus driver in the meantime.

"I thought the bus was bad," Caleb said to Heinz, rolling his eyes. "I sure hope you can swim. You'd think they'd build a bridge. The river's not that wide at this point."

"Not possible. Each year when the rains come it would wash away," Heinz said authoritatively.

Caleb then remembered Heinz was in Kenya on an agricultural research project funded by the West German government. He had vaguely outlined his research project the night before over a few beers at a bar in Mombasa. Heinz had been totally unenthusiastic about the prospects for Kenyan agriculture. He had no illusions concerning a land basically non-arable, tilled by a group of farmers unable to grasp even the most elementary facets of land management. Heinz had left himself a few weeks at the end of his tour for unwinding. That was the main reason for him going to Lamu, to get away from his work.

The Captain shouted a few times and motioned with his hands, while the bus driver drove the bus on the ferry that seemed to shudder under the weight. The ferry wasn't much larger than the bus. All the passengers had already been hustled on board and were nervously leaning against the rails eyeing the murky water. The far shoreline, which before had looked so close, now seemed to be miles away. There was a grinding of gears and a grating vibration. The ferry jerked forward and they were underway.

"I sure hope they don't have flatdogs in here," Caleb said, pointing at the swiftly flowing river.

"Excuse me," Heinz replied, puzzled.

"Flatdogs. It's what the Rhodesians call crocodiles."

"In Kenya anything is possible," Heinz said, smiling.

As they got further and further north it was obvious they were leaving one part of Kenya, the part reserved for European influence, and entering another part still imbued with the character of legitimate Africa. On the bus old and new, east and west, were meeting head on. Primitive tribesmen and their silent women would haggle with the conductor over the fare so they could ride something that, in their mind, was way beyond comprehension. If animism was to be believed, then this noisy, smoky object that backfired and hissed at them was surely god-like. They would board with trepidation, their eyes wide with fright, to be met by the rapacious conductor, who was their mediator between modern and primitive.

The tribesmen haggled tenaciously with the conductor. The conductor switched in and out of Swahili, English, and the local dialect to extract a fare, sometimes settling for some produce the tribesmen had carried on or, in one instance, a chicken. It was apparent the conductor enjoyed his position of power, alternately being tyrannical then kindly in pursuing a fare. His astute discretion had been honed to perfection after many bus trips into the bush. He met the tribesmen on their terms, thereby bringing them into his world.

In a few months time the road they were traveling on would vanish, washed away by torrential rains. It was an intractable yearly occurrence, one that seemed to mark time in the bush, where it was as if everything was suspended.

"It's like the concept of inertia in physics," Heinz had said, as he looked out the window at the expanse of gnarled vegetation nearly obscured by the billowing dust from the road. "Things move but they are...im-perceptable. Yah?" Caleb shook his head yes. "There is nothing like it anywhere in the world--believe me." And Caleb believed him because he too had seen it.

The sun was beginning to disappear out over the bush when they arrived at the dock. It was as if the road to nowhere had suddenly found its way to the waters edge. Briefly, near Malindi, they had gotten glimpses of the Indian Ocean, a solid mass of aquamarine stretching all the way to India. To the west, the bush thrived with sounds and to the east the ocean echoed a dead silence.

Two dhows waited dockside. They were ushered off the bus by the conductor, who scampered around them like he was herding cattle, a whistle here, a hand motion there kept his herd together. Then the predictable happened, as both Heinz and Caleb knew it would. One dhow skipper began to coax the passengers into his boat, while the other skipper, in league with the conductor, began to curse loudly. The conductor tried to drive his herd in the right direction but a few passengers had heard the other dhow skipper offering a cheaper fare. The haggling began.

With the obviously partisan conductor as referee, the two dhow skippers exchanged heated words. Some of the bus passengers had drifted into both boats, while the others remained on the dock until they sorted out the argument. Heinz and Caleb had taken up front row seats on a dock piling. These arguments usually had a way of resolving themselves.

"I can see the Arab influence already," Caleb said to Heinz sarcastically.

"Every culture has its bad side," Heinz intimated in a serious tone.

Just then one of the skippers marched off to his dhow, shepherding most of the passengers with him. The conductor was squealing his displeasure with this turn of events. The other skipper followed the group on to his competitor's boat, pushed his way through the passengers, then punched the other skipper in the face. A scuffled broke out. The two skippers were rolling in each other arms across the foredeck, punching, spitting, and kicking like two cats.

"Wow! a sideshow too. I didn't know this was included in our bus fare," Caleb said, laughing.

"Those dummkopfs," Heinz cried out.

Most of the passengers were shouting out encouragement, while the others had turned away, embarrassed by the spectacle.

"We'll never get to Lamu--you know that don't you, bwana," Caleb said. "They'll probably kill each other then we'll be stuck here." He pointed around him at the dirt road, the dock, and the desolate bush land.

"Perhaps we can swim to the island," Heinz said, smiling.

The skipper who's boat they were on latched onto a pipe and swung it wildly. It just missed, taking a small chunk of the deck with it. A few women passengers gasped in unison.

"Time for the muzungu to break it up!" Caleb exclaimed, pushing through the passengers and jumping onto the dhow. "Hapana! Hapana! That is enough," he shouted, grabbing the pipe from behind and tossing it aside. "Show's over." The two startled skippers stared in disbelief. There were a few mutters of "muzungu-muzungu" from the passengers, then silence.

"Why don't half of us go with one boat and the other half will go with the other boat," Heinz announced, stepping up to the front. "Ndio? Okay?"

The bus conductor grumbled, and the skippers cursed, but they managed to convince the passengers to board the two dhows and they began the short voyage to Lamu. Their skipper stood at the helm, sullen, angrily shouting out orders to his one man crew, who scrambled around deck collecting the fare, which had suddenly gone up in price. Caleb and Heinz exchanged glances when they were asked for the fare. "I can't be bothered arguing," Caleb said, sighing wearily.

The dhow was a perfect introduction to Lamu. As they cruised towards the port time began to recede, to take on a different cadence. On the island there were no automobiles, only donkeys. The Islamic religion had firmly grasped the culture and held it for centuries. It was here the Arabic greeting of "Salaam" was used interchangeably with the Swahili "Jambo."

Lamu, the city itself, was out of the Middle-Ages, complete with narrow winding streets and stone archways. As Caleb told Heinz, "This place is around the corner from nowhere." And it was. To the north was Somalia; to the west there was nothing, only hundreds of miles of bush land; to the south the nearest civilization was over five hours by bus, two days by dhow; and to the east the Indian Ocean lay like an undulating pasture of green.

"We're talking isolated here, bwana," Caleb said to Heinz, as he pointed at the island now coming into view.

"This is what I want at the moment," Heinz explained, smiling.

"You might be singing a different tune later on, bwana," he said, laughing, grasping hold of the gunnel while the dhow pitched in the ocean chop.

"You must register, Caleb," Heinz pleaded, his green eyes showing concern. "I know these Kenyans. They are very strict about their ridiculous rules."

"It's so stupid though," Caleb exclaimed, throwing his hands up, disgusted.

"I know. I know."

"Just because you registered the minute you got here. You Germans believe in following all the rules."

"Again. Sheist! Leave Germany out of this," Heinz said irritably.

"I'm only kidding, bwana," he said, smiling.

They had been on Lamu for three days and Caleb had steadfastly refused to go to the police station and register. It was the requirement of all foreign nationals landing on the island. The police wanted to keep tabs on everyone in Lamu. It was a routine matter, but somehow Caleb didn't like the idea.

"It smacks of Big Brother but I'll go anyway," he declared to a happy Heinz. "Twende, bwana."

"It is the right thing to do, Herr Chase. These police could very well decide to order you to leave the island if you do not follow their stupid rules."

"Yeah-yeah, I know. Come on lets get it over with," he sang out over his shoulder, as he began to goose step towards the police station.

"Not very humorous, Herr Chase."

"That's because you Germans have no sense of humor," he shot back, laughing.

A bored policeman sitting behind the desk, where a stale pastry was sitting there collecting flies, eyed them as they walked in. He ignored them for a few minutes while he fumbled through several forms. A fan in the corner whirled noisily.

"And why have you waited to now to register...Mister Chase?" the policeman finally asked, frowning as he glanced at the form. He lazily swatted at a fly that had landed on his forehead.

"Well," Caleb began, pausing to think of an excuse, "I've been...you know...seeing the sights. Nice island."

"I see," the policeman said, while his expression clearly showed he didn't. "Why have you come to Lamu, Mr. Chase?"

"Come to Lamu...because...well because mien freund here, Heinz, convinced me to." Heinz uttered a curse word under his breath in German.

"I see," the policeman muttered, while he perused the form Caleb had filled out. "I will tell you now, the both of you, that Lamu is a very strange place for foreigners. Here we have different customs--unlike your home countries." He stared at Heinz then Caleb, again shooing away the persistent fly. "It is good you want to see our island but I must warn you that if you should cause any disturbances while you are visiting here, then I will deal with it accordingly. Understood?" he stated, staring at them.

"Yes," they said in unison.

"Very well. Have a nice stay then," the policeman said, frowning incongruously.

When they had gotten outside Caleb whispered, "Damnation, I think he means business that guy."

"I believe yes."

"Do you think Islamic law is in effect here? I mean if we get caught doing something we shouldn't are they going to cut off a body part?" Caleb asked apprehensively.

"Possibly," Heinz said.

"Possibly," Caleb mimicked. "Is that all you got to say?"

"What else?"

"What else?" he mimicked again. "All I got to say is I'm leaving the women here alone. I don't want you-know-what lopped off."

"That is wise," Heinz said, smiling.

"Did I tell you I never met a German I liked," Caleb stated, trying not to laugh.

The city of Lamu had stagnated in time. It was a village where electricity had been attached to a eighteenth century facade. With the exception of the police department jeep nothing was modern. In the tiny harbor small dhows, with their hand sewn sails hopelessly discolored, bobbed in the murky water so long polluted by centuries of sewage disposal. The crafts design hadn't changed since biblical times.

Houses and shops were grafted onto one another, spiraling out to form a non-symmetrical village, anchored around a castle like fortress which served as a prison. Daily life went on a stones throw away from the inmates, who could often be heard bellowing out the windows.

The courtyard in front of the prison served as a market place for produce and meat. On a side street behind the prison there was an open air school, madrassa, where the children wearing their small often mud splattered khanzus could be seen studying and often times heard reciting the dictums of the Koran. Another dirt side street was filled with tiny shops, many owned by Hindus, whose ancestors had come from India in the last century. It was life on the medieval plan, short on convenience and long on customs and inviolable tradition.

They passed by the small restaurant where they ate breakfast. There were two or three restaurants on the island. This one was on the water. It was owned by a Hindu. He was a petulant man, who wore an immaculate turban and continually rebuked his African workers. His ridicule was so harsh Heinz and Caleb had taken to double checking their waiter's check so as to avoid any arithmetic errors. The first time they had gone there for breakfast the waiter, the only waiter, had added the bill incorrectly. When the owner saw the mistake he had gone into a long tirade, humiliating the waiter in front of everyone.

That morning, as they were heading to the police station, they had run into the waiter on the street with his family. There were four young children staring wildly at the muzungus. His wife stood behind the children with her eyes cast towards the ground. The waiter formally introduced them to his family in halting English. It was evident he was proud to flaunt his acquaintance with his muzungu customers.

"How in the hell does he support his family on his wages?" Caleb asked rhetorically, jerking a thumb in the direction of the waiter, who was now on his way, happily ushering his family to the market.

"It is a difficult existence," Heinz replied.

They had gotten back to their hotel. It was a stroke of luck getting a room where they had. Their room overlooked the water front. They could sit on the balcony and see the dozens of dhows tacking up and down wind, with their antiquated lanteen rigs straining to pull against the tidal current. For two dollars a night they had a room with two windows, two beds, a balcony, a small table and chairs, and--luxury of luxuries--a toilet and shower in the room and not down the hall.

"Happy days are here again!" Caleb had exclaimed when they were shown the room. "It's got a western style toilet." "Thank Allah," Heinz uttered, "no squatting over a hole." As world travelers, they had both been too familiar with the Turkish toilets, where you squatted over a hole in the floor, then used a hose to clean yourself afterwards. "I realize the other kind of toilet is good for working out your quads, but some modern devices you just don't want to give up," Caleb declared, as he turned on the shower to make sure it worked.

Ahmed stood by the door eyeing them. He was the hotel owner. A devout Muslim, he was suspicious of infidels, but as a businessman he had to make money. He was wearing the traditional khanzus, a long light colored garment that looked like old time pajamas. It was dirty around the middle where he apparently wiped his hands after washing. A few day old stubble obscured his middle-aged face. Standing there, haloed by the light sifting in through the open doorway, he looked like he belonged in a suq in Damascus or Amman.

"How much is the room?" Heinz asked, to which Ahmed gave him a confused look. "I don't believe he speaks English."

"Kammi athaman?" Caleb asked in Arabic.

Ahmed stared at him for a moment and then said in Swahili, "Mbili doe-lur," holding up two fingers and pointing first at Heinz and then Caleb.

"You must be playing a joke," Heinz stated, wearing a feigned surprised expression.

"Oh no," Caleb said, "let's not haggle. He obviously knows the value of a dollar."

"They expect us to haggle," Heinz declared. "They respect us more if we argue over the price."

"Who in the world ever told you that? I mean, really, where is anything remotely like that written?" Caleb demanded to know.

Heinz said something to Ahmed in Swahili and he gave him a look of disbelief, then said something back. "Way to go," Caleb sang out, walking over to the beds and checking on the mattress. Heinz laughed and said, "He will not change his price." Caleb took the money out of his wallet and handed it to Ahmed, saying, "Shukran." Ahmed took the money and sullenly left the room. "You do not understand how to deal with these people," Heinz lectured. "And you do," Caleb said, laughing.

Time didn't move at any normal rate on the island. You didn't feel like you were part of the world. Outside news didn't penetrate the bush easily. It was as if you had removed yourself from the world. Political upheaval, epidemics or natural disasters, even nuclear war, they all were vague concepts after a while. With the Indian Ocean surrounding them they were totally insulated, and absolutely isolated.

It hadn't taken them long to find Tetley's Inn. It was the only bar the village fathers permitted on the island. It was, in its way, the only vestige of British influence on the island. The clientele was the outsiders on the island, and the locals trying to pursue the outsider's money. There was usually a dozen dhow skippers there hoping to drum up business, which often times led to squabbles over prospective customers.

"He's here again tonight," Caleb muttered, jerking his head to the right in the direction of a bearded guy who had just sat down.

"No arguments tonight--please," Heinz pleaded, smiling in the guy's direction.

"What a pompous jerk," he spat out.

"I agree," Heinz said leaning over in Caleb's direction, "but it does not mean we need to argue."

"If he comes on arrogantly telling us we don't belong here again I'm going to punch his lights out," Caleb sneered.

Their first night at Petley's Inn they had met the bearded guy. He was a member of the three things Caleb believed Kenya had too much of. They had had the usual argument about how the white man ruined Africa and the African culture. He was an anthropologist on assignment from Britain, who had gone, more or less, native and decided he couldn't study the indigenous culture because he would be violating it. Talking to him, Caleb could see in his malaria scarred eyes he had gone over the edge and would probably never go back.

It happened. He had seen it in Zimbabwe. Outsiders would become so lost in their ideological and cultural orientations they would sink into a nowhere status, half way between an African and an outsider: not accepted by one side and not able to identify with the other.

Their shouting argument had amused everyone in the bar, except the owner, who demanded Caleb leave. The anthropologist had been accepted to that extent. It was his peculiar habit to collect the bottle caps from the bottles of beer he drank and then at the end of the night use them as a tab to decipher his bill. The owner didn't object because the anthropologist was there every night.

"But the guy is such an asshole," Caleb uttered, glancing at the anthropologist, who had settled at his usual table and was reading a book. "Look at him," he hissed between his teeth. "What an idiot. He doesn't realize the Africans only mock him behind his back. He thinks he's bridged the cultural gap. What a fool."

"Maybe he has made contact with the Africans," Heinz offered, taking a sip of his Tusker beer.

"Don't be stupid, bwana. He hasn't a clue about any of it. Look at him. He looks like some college professor slumming for the holidays."

"He has been in Kenya a very long time," Heinz said, no longer interested in the conversation.

"Yeah, I know, but...but what does he know? Nothing. Zilch. The guy is so wracked by malaria he probably thinks he's back in jolly old England," Caleb muttered, cackling.

"Well, I suppose he knows a great deal more than you or I," Heinz proposed, sighing heavily.

"Are you kidding? He doesn't know shit," Caleb said, sneering. "I know how the African feels about the muzungu and that's all that counts. He's trying to drum up some theories about culture infiltration and fluctuating mores and all that really matters is the white man advanced his culture first then imposed it on the black man and naturally resentment was the result. It's simple."

"Simple, ya," Heinz said glancing around the bar hoping to end the conversation. After several months in Kenya, he wanted no part of analyzing it. He had seen what he wanted to see.

They drank more that night than they normally did. It eased the pain Lamu seemed to draw out in a person. The isolation worked on the mind, highlighting the reasons you were there. On the way back to their hotel, as they stumbled through the dark streets, playing sword fights with the beams from their pocket flashlights, the giddiness from drinking made them almost crazed. They were giggling like two school girls, stumbling and bouncing off the city walls. There was no moon in the night sky, but there was a million stars sparkling. Lamu was stone quiet. A fire flickered on the deck of a dhow in the harbor.

"This all seems so prehistoric," Caleb cried out. His voice hung in the dense night air.

"Shhh," Heinz hissed. "The police station is near."

"Polizia," Caleb hissed back, laughing.

When they reached their hotel all the lights were out and the front door was locked. Ahmed always locked the door each night at 11:00 pm on the dot. He had made it known, as a devout Muslim, he strongly disapproved of liquor.

"What do we do now, bwana?" Caleb whispered to Heinz, who had sat down on the seawall and was shining his flashlight into the water.

"I am sure I do not know," he replied, snickering.

"Great," Caleb muttered. "You Germans are so friggin smart--think of something."

"We will have to awaken Ahmed," he announced, standing up shakily and walking towards the door.

"No, you stupid kraut," Caleb hissed, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back down. "Ahmed will have us executed or whatever they do to drunks in Islamic justice."

"They might cut off our lips so we can not drink," Heinz said, laughing.

"Funny guy, bwana," Caleb said, training his flashlight on their balcony. "I got it. We'll climb up that tree and jump to our balcony."

"You, Herr Chase, are certainly insane," Heinz declared. "I am awakening Ahmed. I will beg for his mercy."

"Come on Heinie, you wimp. It'll be easy."

They shimmied up the tree and then climbed out on the limb that extended over the balcony. The whole tree seemed to be swaying under their weight. A faint breeze rustled the leaves around them.

"Why must I go first?" Heinz was asking as Caleb prodded him on.

"Because you have traveler's insurance," Caleb replied, snickering. "Don't worry, if you fall it's only about twenty feet. Probably only break one leg."

"I do not like you anymore, Herr Chase."

"We'll have a good laugh about it in the morning. Now be a good German and do as you are told."

Showing more agility than Caleb thought he had, Heinz scampered onto the balcony, slipping over the railing with ease to land on his feet. Then came Caleb's turn. Although it was only the second floor, from the tree's vantage point the ground appeared to be a long way down.

"Come on coward," Heinz was calling cockily from the balcony, shining his flashlight in Caleb's face.

"Turn that stupid thing off. Are you trying to blind me or what?"

He crawled out on the limb. Carefully he adjusted his grip so he could swing down past the railing. Heinz was motioning for him to jump down. He swung out and his right hand slipped off the branch, sending him off course. Instead of landing on the inside of the railing he landed on the outside and found himself dangling from the edge. Fortunately he had caught hold of the top of the railing. Heinz was trying to pull him up and over.

"Pull me up you stupid ass!" Caleb cried out, as he glanced down and got a glimpse of the concrete waiting below.

"Take my hand," Heinz was saying in between breaths.

"I'm going to grab your throat, how's that?"

"This is your idea to climb the tree and--"

"Let's discuss it why don't we," Caleb said, grunting as he reached up to grab Heinz's hand.

In one straining motion Heinz pulled him up and over the railing, sending both of them crashing into the two balcony chairs. There was a loud crunching noise as they fell to the floor. They were laughing hysterically.

"Ahmed is going to certainly kill us in the morning," Heinz said, gulping for air.

"I am going to tell him it was your idea," Caleb said, laughing.

"You are not an honorable man, Herr Chase," Heinz said, trying to control his laughter.

It took forty-five minutes to walk to the beach. It was a beach developers would kill for. As you rounded the end of the island the deep green of the Indian Ocean first caught your eye, then next you saw it, a long sliver of beach unfolding a far as you could see, untouched: No cabanas, no condos, and no fast food places. Just pristine sand to walk on, with bush land reaching down to surround it.

"You've got to be kidding me," Caleb exclaimed when they rounded the corner and they saw the beach. "I feel like an explorer who's found a new world. It's Miami Beach two hundred years ago."

The beach was very flat with a radical tidal change, which left pools of sea water stranded on the beach. They waded through these shallow pools as they headed down the beach. It was going on nine and the heat was crippling. They both wore hats pulled down tight over their eyes. Their shirts were drenched in sweat.

"Check out those waves building up out there, bwana," Caleb shouted out, pointing to the surf. "Look at 'em. They're almost perfect for body surfing!"

"Should we try?"

Caleb was already stripping off his shirt and shorts. They were hooting and hollering like two high school kids, seeing who would be first in the water. Although the water temperature was warm it felt refreshing and seemed to revive them after the long walk.

They swam out to the waves and began to ride them. At first their clumsy attempts to catch the waves brought them mouths full of seawater. Then slowly they improved their timing and began to catch the crest of the peaking waves and get long sliding rides. At times, the wave faces reached five feet, and when they caught these waves right they were in for a long bouncing ride, but when they missed-timed it they were tumbled in the breaking waves and dashed against the sandy bottom.

Heinz had never body surfed before, but, after a few lessons from Caleb, he was right next to him kicking out expertly in an attempt to catch the next wave. They rode the building waves for over an hour before tiring out. They collapsed back on the beach, with their unused muscles aching from the body surfing.

"Let's play chess," Heinz suddenly declared while they were lying there resting.

"Yeah, sure, bwana. Maybe you could order up a few beers from the cabana boy too," Caleb said sarcastically.

"No no, we can make a board in the sand and use shells for pieces," Heinz explained.

Caleb looked at him for a moment to see if he was serious, then said, "You're on, bwana."

They drew out a board in the sand and then scavenged around for pieces. There were shells and driftwood all around but they needed some with distinguishing markings to denote which piece was which. After a little while they had all the pieces sorted out except for a queen for Caleb. They went walking down the beach in opposite directions searching for the queen piece.

"I have your queen," Heinz shouted out, running towards him with a pink object in his hand.

"It's a damn baby doll's head," he exclaimed, taking it from Heinz and examining it. "Where on earth did it come from?"

"The sea works in mysterious ways," Heinz said, smiling.

"Really. Where do you think it came from? A ship or what?"

"Yah. Probably a ship."

"It's rubber, so it probably floated a long way. But what ship around here would have something like this on it? A cruise ship maybe?" he said, puzzled.

"I do not believe there are any. It is strange how the ocean currents work," Heinz said, pointing to the ocean.

"It can't be from the village because they don't have stuff like this in the shops. All I know is the thing is kinda weird looking," Caleb said as he held the doll's head up to the sunlight.

They played chess with the scorching sun beating down on their naked bodies. In the background the surf pounded. Overhead some curious vultures circled. In the channel between Lamu and the mainland a dhow beat into the sea breeze. They were alone with their game of chess, trying to concentrate not only on their moves but on what shell represented which piece.

The doll's head moved around the board overpowering the shells with size and intrinsic strength. The eyes seemed to stare at them as it overtook each piece in its path. Despite the mesmerizing power of the doll's head, Heinz was winning the game. His two pieces of burnt wood representing the bishops were dominating with pincer movements. Caleb watched through eyes blurred by a sun created headache. Both of them had draped their shirts over their shoulders to ward off the sun.

"The enfant terrible will soon fall," Heinz suddenly muttered. They hadn't spoken in some time.

"Not my queen, she's a real doll," he said, laughing at his own pun.

"It is inevitable," Heinz announced, moving a pink colored shell serving as his rook over for check, sacrificing it to get Caleb's queen.

"You child molester!" Caleb exclaimed, picking up the stone that served as his king and tossing it into the ocean. "I surrender. It was only a matter of time."

"A wise decision," Heinz said smugly.

"You damn krauts, you're all so analytical," Caleb said peevishly as he tried to control his competitive nature.

Heinz ignored his comment and said, "I think we should start back now because it only going to get much more hot."

"I'll race you to the tidal pool over there," Caleb said in a challenging tone.

"But we have a forty-five minute walk back to the hotel," Heinz protested.

"Ein, swei, dry--go!"

Caleb jumped off to a head start and pumped his arms and legs, churning through the sand. Heinz scrambled after him. When they reached the tidal pool, Heinz dove into the shallow water, purposely tripping Caleb. They tumbled together and rolled in the shallow water, coming up with sand smudged on their faces.

"You stupid kraut," Caleb cried out, laughing. "Now you've gone and gotten sand up my ass."

"Sorry."

"I can't believe we're out here on the edge of the world bodysurfing, playing chess, and wrestling--all in the nude. It's pretty obscene," he said, trying to catch his breath.

That evening they were going to a film at one of the two cinemas in Lamu. One cinema was a small place showing Indian films exclusively. The other cinema was outdoors, where the patrons sat on straw mats and were treated to B movies so bad they had been rejected for late night TV back in the States.

"It will be a...what is it? A cultural experience, I believe that is what you call it," Heinz said, smiling. "We can learn about what the natives leisure activities are."

"Could be interesting. I can't wait to see what entertains these people. And besides, I've got to see what film could make it all the way to Lamu."

The film that made it all the way to Lamu was untitled because the beginning of the film was missing or had been damaged. The sun went down and then they were in New York City, where three black men, former professional athletes, were taking on New York's Finest. There were punches, flying kicks, and karate chops, as dozens of the NYPD were beaten into submission by the three heroes of the film.

They sat in the audience, all conspicuously male, and wished they weren't muzungus. The film was a black exploitation film made in the 70's, a cheap spin-off of the black man against the white establishment theme. This time around the three heroes weren't content with taking on a small section of the white controlled world, they were taking on all of it--and winning.

The editing, cinematography, and direction were horribly done, matched equally by the acting. As Caleb sat there, with the Muslim throng cheering the heroes on to victory, he suddenly realized these people were seeing, on film in cinematic color, what they surely believed was the American way of life.

Above them a million stars lighted the sky and outside, during the lulls in the dialogue and soundtrack, you could hear the jungle sounds. It was bizarre. Only in Africa, he thought, as he sat there on the straw mats looking up at the rapidly aging celluloid splashed on a withering and blotched screen, wondering if the crowd could had the potential to become a mob. Next to him a tall, slender African laughed uproariously when one of the main characters called the police captain a "honky."

The cheering thundered in his ears. The trio of heroes was making mincemeat of the bad guys, managing to verbally humiliate them first before tattooing them with a flurry of martial art kicks. It was karate at its finest, its most absurd. Bruce Lee was an amateur next to these three.

Finally the film was over, sputtering to a stop, freezing the final frames showing the heroes rejoicing. Mercifully they were spared the credits. No one seemed to mind. They all rose stiffly to their feet and, simulating some of the more memorable karate kicks in the movie, kicked their way out of the theater. Caleb eyed them warily as they left, trying to judge whether or not they had believed any of it. He couldn't tell.

Once, while he was in Nairobi watching a film, someone in the audience had jumped to his feet and begun arguing with one of the characters on the screen. It didn't seem odd to him that it was a one sided debate. He had disagreed with something one of the characters had said. It had been a funny, yet weird kind of experience.

"Let's wait until they leave," Heinz whispered to Caleb.

"Why?"

"I think it is best," Heinz muttered.

"Get serious, bwana," Caleb said, laughing. "Are you thinking they might turn on us or something?"

"I have seen some many very strange things, Caleb," he said with his eyes scanning around them.

"Oh okay, whatever," Caleb said, sitting back down on the hard ground. He glanced around him at the unusual theater, which was no more than four walls with an earthen floor. He had already made jokes to Heinz about "no overhead costs." He wondered what entrepreneur had gotten the idea to stick an open air theater out in the bush.

The next morning, as sunlight poured in through the windows making sleep impossible, Caleb lay in bed staring at the mosquito netting over his bed. During the night he had accidentally pulled the netting off, leaving him half exposed. Then he noticed several bumps on his neck and left arm.

"Those little bastards!" he exclaimed, climbing out of bed and marching off to the bathroom to have a look at his neck in the mirror.

"What is it?" Heinz asked sleepily, rolling over to see what Caleb was talking about.

"Mosquitoes," he called from the bathroom. "The little vampires did a blitzkrieg on my neck last night."

"This is bad," Heinz said solemnly, suddenly jumping out of bed and walking over to examine Caleb's neck.

"Nasferatu," Caleb uttered.

Heinz stared at him for a moment and didn't smile. "What happened to this?" he asked, pulling on the netting.

"I must have kicked it off sometime during the night. When I woke up it was all hanging off the other side," he said, sitting down on the bed.

"You must make sure it is secure before you--"

"I know, but it came off."

"You have taken your pills?" Heinz asked, staring at him.

"Nah, haven't taken them in awhile. I got sick of taking them. They'll eat your liver out," Caleb said, forcing a laugh.

"But what about the malaria, Caleb?" Heinz asked in a bleating tone. "You must be crazy to act this way."

"I thought the rainy season was the only time to worry about malaria," Caleb said nervously.

"It is always malaria season. It is something that should never be taken foolishly."

"Great," Caleb muttered. "With my luck, I'll probably get cerebral malaria and die on this island in the middle of nowhere."

Two days later, while they were seated at the restaurant where they always ate breakfast, Caleb saw his vision go fuzzy. A pounding headache had sneaked up on him and was splitting his head in two. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Leaning over the table, Caleb whispered to Heinz, "It got me."

An expression of surprise quickly changed to concern on Heinz's face. "Do you want me to help you back to the room?"

"I think I can walk but man I sure can't see straight," Caleb said, trying to laugh.

He stood up and half staggered to the door. Heinz quickly lent a hand and guided him in the direction of the hotel. He couldn't even feel the sea breeze as they walked along the shore. Sweat glistened on his face and had sketched a dark shadow on the back of his shirt.

"God, bwana, I'm burning up," he called out, as he collapsed on the bed. "I'm telling you, I think my blood's boiling."

"I'll get some ice," Heinz said, dashing down to Ahmed's office.

"I need a freezer. See if he has a freezer I could sit in," Caleb called after him, laughing weakly.

In a moment Heinz was back holding two bottles of soft drink. "I am sorry, Caleb, but all he had was cold drinks," he said apologetically.

"Vunderbar, now we can do a commercial. When you come down with a little malaria, go right out and buy some soft drinks."

"Here, place the bottle against your head. It may help," Heinz said, leaning over the bed. He could almost feel the heat emanating off him.

"I'm too weak to hold them," Caleb announced in a low voice, a voice which had become barely audible.

Heinz held the bottle against his hot skin. He noticed Caleb's eyes had a dull, lifeless look to them. His sweat had already soaked the sheets. He could see the malaria taking hold.

"Three minute brains," Caleb joked. "Poached gray matter. Promise me, you stupid kraut, that if I die you'll burn my body. I don't want the vultures to get it." He then laughed hysterically.

Heinz realized that he'd have to get some help. It was possible for people to survive malaria untreated, but death in Africa came too often. There was no doctor he knew of on the island. After several months in Kenya, he knew the policeman would do nothing, secretly enjoying a muzungu's misery. Malaria, for Africa, was inescapable.

"The anthropologist," he uttered, suddenly remembering. "He has had malaria before. He can be of some help. I am sure of it."

Heinz found him at Tetley's. He was having tea and reading. He openly snickered when Heinz told him about Caleb, only arching his eyebrows as a gesture of sympathy.

"Can you help?" Heinz asked.

"Perhaps," the anthropologist answered, noncommittal.

"He might die!" Heinz almost shouted.

"Let's not get melodramatic. Only one out of four actually die. I'll be along in a minute or two. I know where your hotel is," he stated perfunctorily, as if he were talking about a frivolous appointment.

"I will wait for you," Heinz stated stubbornly, sitting down and staring at him.

"Oh, very well, we'll go now," the anthropologist said fussily. "Come along then."

Caleb had drunk the two bottles of soft drink. His eyes were now two slits and all of the suntan he had accumulated recently had vanished. Where he wasn't flushed red, he was bone white. His hair was matted against his forehead.

"What have we here?" the anthropologist chirped as he entered the room. "Been having a go at the mosquitoes have you." He swept his hand over Caleb's forehead. "Christ! A bit warm aren't we."

"What is this prig doing here?" Caleb asked, glaring at him from behind slitted eyelids.

"What can we do for him?" Heinz whispered, ignoring Caleb's remark.

"Not a whole lot I'm afraid," the anthropologist replied, standing up and looking the room over disapprovingly. "I have some chloroquine. However it is somewhat expensive in this part of Africa so--"

"Money is no problem," Heinz interjected.

"Fine. Excellent. I will go and fetch it and then we will just have to see," he said, smiling.

The medication was slow to work. He was soon enduring severe bouts of debilitating heat and sweating heavily, to be replaced by bone chilling cold, where he would be shivering uncontrollably. The first night Heinz alternately applied frozen bottles of soft drink to combat the heat and then hugged him to ward off the cold. They were both exhausted by morning. There was no way of telling how long the malaria would last.

"Nothing!" he screamed out, awakening Heinz. "Nothing expendable. Totally...totally. Stop it! Please stop it. The blood is--"

Heinz quickly tried to muffle Caleb's screams. Delirium had taken hold. He had to be restrained. Heinz gently rocked him in his arms, trying to calm him. "Quiet now, Herr Chase."

"Al, another fucking brandy!" Caleb shouted out, laughing. "What in the hell happened to Al? Too many wars, Al. Too many god-damned wars. You love war. War-war-war. Death and destruction. The four horsemen of the apocalypse ain't got nothing on you. Ha. Go drink your stupid brandy."

"Shhh now," Heinz whispered. "Sleep. Sleep again."

Heinz sang some German folk song which seemed to soothe Caleb and help him fall asleep. He would shake violently in his sleep and Heinz knew the chills had begun again. Then he would be breathing heavily and thrashing in the sheets. It was painful to watch.

"Ah, you are awake," Heinz said, noticing there was improvement the following day. The medicine was taking effect.

"Something to drink," Caleb stammered.

"Here, have some of this orange drink."

He slurped the drink down, spilling some on his chin, where it ran down onto his chest. There was a sweat stain silhouetting his body on the sheet like a holy shroud. A two day old stubble had sprouted on his face.

He could hear a meuzzin in the distance calling the Muslim faithful to prayer. There were voices outside the window arguing in Swahili. Below their room Ahmed unrolled his prayer rug. Somehow it all seemed totally unreal to Caleb.

"Heinz," he said in a weak voice, "I've got to take a shower. I smell like dog shit."

"I did not notice," Heinz said, chuckling.

"You Euros never take baths anyway," Caleb said, wincing as another headache pierced his skull directly behind his eyes. He squinted from the pain.

"Take it slowly," Heinz warned, helping him to his feet. Caleb stood unsteady for a moment, leaning on him. He felt as if something had completely drained away all the blood in his body.

"I can't see. Everything's a blur," he exclaimed, frightened.

"It is alright. You are just dizzy from the malaria."

He leaned against the wall in the shower and let the cool water run over him. Heinz stood by to help him if he started to fall. The noise of the shower drowned out Ahmed's exhortations to Allah in his office below.

"I'm not helpless," Caleb snapped.

"I will do it," Heinz said forcefully.

"I want to do it."

"Do you, in your condition, want to cut off your nose?" Heinz asked, taking the razor out of Caleb's hand.

Caleb sat on the bed, braced up by two pillows. Heinz carefully shaved him, holding his nose to guide his head in the direction away from the razor. From time to time Caleb's eyes would drift shut and he would try to hold his head up.

After his shower and the shave, Caleb mumbled, "I almost feel human again."

It had rained just an hour before and wet leaves still clung to the table and chairs. A smiling waiter swept them away and then motioned for them to sit down. Heinz ordered two beers and the waiter scurried off to get them.

"Back at the good old Thorn Tree Cafe," Caleb said, looking around at the other patrons. A Somalian woman caught his eye and motioned for him to come over to her table. He shook his head no, then smiled. She turned away.

"It will be strange to be back in Germany," Heinz said, drumming his fingers on the table. "I do not look forward to the long flight."

"I bet."

"It seems Europe is...I do not know what to say about it. There does not seem to be a Europe when you are here," Heinz said wistfully.

"I know the feeling, bwana. Sometimes I can't even remember what the States are like--were like," he said, correcting himself.

"And you, when will you return to America?"

"Who knows? Could be soon," Caleb replied evasively.

"Are you coming to Germany?"

"I'll probably go back through Europe on my way home, so I guess I will," he answered, knowing it was a lie. This was another good-bye, another episode of transitory friendship.

The waiter brought their beers and asked them if they wanted anything else. He winked at Heinz and jerked his head in the direction of the Somalian woman. Heinz glanced over at her. She was talking to a man in a new, freshly purchased safari suit.

"I do not think so," Heinz replied.

"Ahsante anyway," Caleb interjected, laughing, as the waiter walked away.

"I will certainly miss all of this," Heinz declared, sighing.

"You definitely won't forget it," Caleb muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose where the beginning of another headache loomed.

"The pain again?"

"They say malaria is recurrent. Lucky me. I get to take home a real souvenir from Africa."

"You have my address in Frankfurt?"

"Yeah," he replied vacantly.

"I will have to get use to the cold again," Heinz said, taking a drink of his beer.

"You know, I forgot to check the message board and see if Al left anything," he said suddenly, jumping up.

"Caleb," Heinz said, grabbing his arm, "you have checked perhaps two times. It is possible Al is no longer in Africa."

"Yeah, right. Al wouldn't leave Africa without letting me know."

He shook off Heinz's hand and walked over to the message board. He saw the Somalian woman approach their table while he was scanning the messages. She sat down, smiling. Heinz ordered her a drink. She looked over at Caleb and smiled.

"It is time for me to walk to the airline office," Heinz called out, looking at his watch.

"I'll go with you," Caleb said.

"No. That will not be necessary. We can say good-bye here."

"Don't be silly, bwana," Caleb insisted.

"I'm just going to meet the bus to the airport there. This is Jihad," he said quickly.

"Jambo," the Somalian woman said, smiling.

Up close he could see she was truly beautiful. A low cut dress showed off her creamy brown breasts. "Jambo to you too."

"Good-bye then, Caleb Chase," Heinz said, hugging him tightly.

"Wait a minute," Caleb exclaimed but Heinz turned and walked away.

"Bwana Chase," the Somalian woman called out to him.

Heinz had stopped at the cafe entrance and was smiling. "See you, Herr Chase," he said and waved good-bye.

Caleb stood by the table feeling confused, and foolish. Heinz, with his small backpack slung over his shoulder, disappeared down the street. The headache was picking up steam and he thought he could feel the chills coming on. The waiter was standing in the corner smiling.

"What hotel are you staying in?" he heard the Somalian woman ask and he knew he would never forget his time in Africa.

Dear Al:

I am writing this more as a note of record than a letter because I am not at all sure I will ever get out of this crazy place. I will keep this log of events to mark my time stuck here in quasi-prison. Al, if you don't hear from me in a month or two report my disappearance to the appropriate authorities. I would appreciate it.

Dateline: I've forgotten the date and the day marker on my Timex has been broken for almost two months.

Place: Isolation Center, Quarantine section, Cairo Airport.

(12 hours, 1:00)

This might be the last time anybody ever hears anything from me. Just kidding. I hope.

Last night, after getting off a Sudanese Airways flight from god-knows-where, I was treated to the dubious pleasure of having to be told my Yellow Fever inoculation was outdated. I argued with the officials but they wouldn't listen. It seems I've lost my touch when it comes to dealing with the authorities. I didn't have a baksheesh stash either. All I had was a bunch of worthless K. Shillings. You don't get very far without bribe money in the Middle-East.

Therefore, I was led away with a group of other losers in the WHO sweepstakes to what was called "the canteen" by a Egyptian guard, which translates to quarantine. I was sentenced to 7 days of isolation. The accommodations aren't bad if you like concrete and filth. There are 3 meals a day provided--none of them edible unfortunately.

At the moment I'm sitting in the lounge writing this letter to you and occasionally glancing up to take in the view through the patio doors at the two ambulances parked across the dirt parking lot. It's nice to know that if I do get sick I will have transportation to the hospital.

It's a curious thing. Last night, at one in the morning, thanks to Sudan Air's screwy flight schedules, there were maybe twenty of us WHO refugees. And now? Just one. The infidel in the bunch. I tried bribing the guard at the gate. Laa. No.

I was herded in with the rest of them when we got here and told to fill out this form. Name. Nationality. Passport number. That kind of info. This took awhile because most of the contingent couldn't read. Then we were asked to give a stool sample. Must be an ancient Egyptian custom.

With this tenderly accomplished, I handed my sample to one of the nurses, who put it in a test tube and stuck it in a wooden rack. I was then escorted to a cement bungalow by two maids bent on extorting all the baksheesh they could. By 6 in the morning I was just getting to bed in my cell.

I met two of my fellow isolationists this morning. They are mother and daughter and came from Khartoum, where they live. The daughter, Sahir, is in her late twenties and not bad looking. Her English is superb because she works for an American company back in Khartoum. The mother speaks English too and doesn't mind having a laugh at the Egyptian's expense.

The antipathy between the two neighboring countries is legend, so I'm told. They assured me that the reason they weren't allowed to leave was because they were Christians. They're full of stories about Egyptian rudeness.

At least the weather is pleasant enough. Nice breeze at the moment. It's fairly cool overnight, which keeps the mosquitoes away. What am I going to do for the next six days? I have one G. Green novel one quarter the way read, one felt pen threatening to give out, a broken down radio that plays more static than anything else to listen to, and that's about it. Can you die from boredom?

A few years ago I swore I would never return to Cairo I hated the place so much. As the Sudanese girl said: Once you have drunk from the Nile, one always returns. I think the water at this place taste like it comes from the Nile.

(32 hours, 9:00)

Just finished breakfast. Day old pita, cold chai, and jibna, which is the blandest type of cheese in the history of mankind. Luckily for me I was able to eat a little bit with the guard at the gate. He cooks all his meals over an open fire. He made tamir and toasted pita. Not bad. He sleeps in the guard shack so I get to see him all day long as I peer out at the free world. The free world is the airport road with a tall minaret stuck in the median, an architectural reminder that Egypt is indeed a Muslim country, the past not withstanding.

(35 hours, 12:00)

I'm abit sad at the moment. The two Sudanese women have been released. Now I'm alone in the cell block with just the BBC on the antiquated radio to keep me company. I phoned the Am. Embassy by the way, in the hope they could get me out of here. No can do. Evidently this sort of thing happens all the time. The graffiti on the walls told me that. I'm just another laughable statistic.

So now I'm going to read (slowly) my G. Greene novel, The Heart Of The Matter. I think I'll have to read it on the toilet. Since there is no t.p. I guess this book will have to do double duty. Sorry G.G.

(37 hours, 2:00)

I have a new cell mate, a meowing tabby cat that I've named Yellow fever. He has a diseased left eye so I don't plan on petting him. He is definitely hungry. He loves the jibna. I'm sitting back now with Y.F. at my feet, watching my clothes I washed today flutter in the breeze. I'm guarding them so they won't get stolen.

(40 hours, 5:00)

The local muezzin is bellowing out his prayer call nearby. Here in the Health Dept. compound there aren't many hitting the dirt to pray like there were in Sudan. The guard at the gate is rolling out his prayer rug.

Dusk is settling in and the buzzing mosquitoes are on the attack. You wait and see, I'll probably end up getting Yellow Fever from the mosquitoes here. It would go good with my malaria.

There goes another flight out of here. I'm used to the noise now. I think it's a Kuwait Airlines plane. Be plenty of Muslims heading to Mecca for the Hajj soon. Or did they already have that? Who knows? Maybe if I tell the authorities I'm in route to Mecca they will let me go.

Listening to the radio at the moment. Sandwiched in between rapid fire Arabic and static is disco music. You can never get away from good old American music.

(56 hours, 9:30 am)

Almost half way there. I'm listening to Verdi on the BBC. I hate opera. Last night I was treated to some classical music from the Voice of Peace, which is a renegade outfit broadcasting somewhere off the coast of Israel. It's Friday, the Muslim holiday, and I've yet to receive my breakfast. Must be a forced fast day for me. I've got the radio turned up real loud and the opera is floating out over the compound. The guard keeps glancing over in disgust. My singing along with the opera doesn't help any.

Big happenings! A disgruntled Arab youth, nationality unknown, just tried to jump the gate. The staff quickly escorted him back to the head doctor, who, at the moment, is yelling at him. Whoops, he is heading back to the gate. The opera adds good background music to the mini-drama. The guard is securing the gate. More arguing. The doctor throws up his hands. The guard is escorting the Arab youth back into the building. Show's over.

(80 hours, 9:30 am)

Didn't write all that much yesterday. Fell into a stupor and stayed there. Nothing like self-pity. More inedible food. They didn't even bother to bring breakfast. I'm not looking forward to any of the meals, but poor Y.F. sits and waits impatiently, meowing angrily. Before my bowels were on red alert but now constipation stalks me.

Before I went to bed The Voice Of Peace was playing music from the Swing Era, and I was doing the jitterbug all over the patio, dancing with my beautiful partner Betty Broom. The staff was going nuts laughing at me. The last song was a Glenn Miller tune and I really hit it. I ended up swinging Betty thirty feet out into the compound. I think I'm going bonkers.

It's Saturday. Just another day. The planes roar overhead; the flies annoy me during the day and the mosquitoes annoy me at night; taxi horns blare on the airport road; and as always I will try to tune in something on the radio.

You ever think about how irritating the word wait is? I'm becoming an expert on waiting. The waiting will be harder now because I finished the G. Green novel. The hero committed suicide in the end. I guess I could do myself-in in the bathtub, except that the water has been turned off since last night.

Y.F. dropped by for a moment to bum food. They haven't brought breakfast so he sits there disappointed looking at me with his one good eye. Sorry buddy. I'm as hungry as you are.

Breakfast has arrived. One piece of stale pita, a tiny glob of what appears to be jam, the usual jibna, and cold tea. The maid didn't even bother to hit me up for some baksheesh. My pantomime of pulling the empty pockets out of my pants did the trick.

(84 hours, 1:30 pm)

Just had a cold shower and washed some clothes. I don't think hot water exists in this country. I was greeted by some kind of inspector when I was coming out of the bathroom. Two doctors were following him as he made his inspection. Now I know why they came in yesterday and cleaned up. The doctors look worried.

(86 hours, 3:30 pm)

An Arab woman is here from Oman. She's here only for a few hours, just until she can get a flight out. Her family is staying in Cairo and they brought her some real food. She generously offered me some.

She is evidently the mother of one of the wealthy emirs in Oman. She has all the staff here nervous. She knows how to throw a good picnic. I've never seen so much food. The two maids kept looking in through the door to see what it's like to eat good food. I waved while I stuffed my face.

(89 hours, 6:30 pm)

The Omani woman's gone. She had some comments about Egypt but I can't write them here. You should have seen the look on the doctor's face. I was loving it.

The cackle of the radio soothes me. A British accent is talking about some war somewhere. I'm not listening. Just another war for you to go off to report on. Damn it's hot tonight. There's no breeze, so I'm sitting under the punkah fan to keep the mosquitoes away. I wish I hadn't used all my Cutters in R. Man it would be nice to have a Lion Lager right about now.

(93 hours, 10:30 pm)

I'm out of breath as I write this. I just got back from an aborted attempt to escape. Not escape so much as just a short parole. The Omani woman told me that a Sudanese guy escaped last night. The head doctor is really pissed off. So the guards are on alert tonight.

My plan was to sneak to the back wall by going out the back window. This went off alright, although I did tear my shirt crawling out the window. When I got to the wall I found out the guard had changed his routine and shifted to a different position. From where he was stationed he could see the exact spot where I was planning on scaling the wall. I had to sneak back to the isolation building. Not exactly the great escape.

(105 hours, 10:30 am)

Horrible night! Mosquitoes have sculptured at least thirty tiny red mounds on my forehead and behind my ears and neck. It looks like the chicken pox. Those little vampires!

The head doctor, the director of this funhouse, just visited me. He's a kind old man, a Christian actually, who usually works (in of all places) at St. Catharina on Mt. Sinai. He told me I could leave at 9:00 in the morning. Happy days are here again. I have less than 24 hours remaining. One more night of mosquito attacks and static riddled BBC.

Now it's time to do my daily exercises. 100 hundred push-ups and a hallway jog of 200 laps.

(115 hours, 8:30 pm)

I just got through completing a search and destroy mission. The good doctor gave me a can of bug spray and while I was spraying my cell I discovered there were no less than a hundred mosquitoes lurking in the closet. I went on a vigilante rampage. Using what was left of Green's novel, I pulverized the little bastards.

After the blood-letting, I settled down to the news on the BBC. The news in spe-cial Eng-lish on Voice-of-A-mer-i-ca was just ending. I swear, that's the way they talk. It's supposed to be for foreigners learning English, but it sounds like the newscaster is retarded. I went to bed early.

(127 hours, 8:30 am)

Last day. Sitting on the patio waiting for the doctor to arrive. I'm not suppose to be released until 10:00 but I'm ready.

(129 hours, 10:30 am)

The doctor on duty hasn't showed up today and no one else has the authority to release me. I could kill.

(131 hours, 12:30 pm)

It's after twelve and I'm sitting on the patio waiting for the doctor to arrive. I refuse to turn on the radio. I never want to hear the BBC again as long as I live.

Well Al, that was my brief journal from inside the isolation ward. Real fun. I'm sending this from a suspect looking post office on the outskirts of Cairo. You will probably never receive it.

I waited in Nairobi forever but never saw you. I did get your message at the Thorn Tree. You'll have to tell me all about Uganda at a future time. Send a note to me at the Am Ex in London. That's where I am going next. We definitely have to get together back in New York. Keep your head down. Stay safe.

Caleb

Chapter 9: Where Have All The Pharaohs Gone?

He was out of the ridiculous Cairo Airport isolation ward. It had been a comical event, something he would look back on and laugh about; but now it was time to get on with what he had come to Egypt for.

After what seemed like a million formalities at the airport, Caleb was free to go. The bus left him off three blocks from the Nile. Night time had come quickly to the desert. He could see the neon lights of the expensive hotels across the river. As he stood on the opposite bank he could see the well dressed people coming and going, helped in and out of the taxis by eager doormen hoping for a tourist's tip.

Chase took out his flashlight and studied a crumpled map he had stashed in his pack. He could see he was near the Al Gama Bridge. Next to the bridge, by the water, there were people stretched out by the riverside, sleeping. A small fire flickered in the darkness. Although Caleb had the money, he did not have the inclination to cross the bridge, to enter one of the expensive hotels, to check into a nice room with all the amenities.

Slowly he approached the fire. A man, with parched skin appearing scaly in the firelight, pulled himself up to a sitting position as Caleb came nearer. Wary. Chase sat down next to the fire, whispering "Salaam" to the man. The man nodded. They sat there by the Nile, silent. He noticed there were several other people asleep around the fire. Caleb unrolled his kikoy he had bought in Kenya and went to sleep.

Morning brought a suffocating heat. He awoke to the undeflected sun which bore down on him. The fellahin had gone, vanished, slipping into the destitution that Cairo restricted them to. In the harsh day light he could clearly see the disparity between rich and poor. Across the Nile the hotels stood out as a glaring example of the tourist money which never touched most of the population.

He checked the map again and found Talaat Harb Street, where, after a long walk through the crowded streets cluttered by pestilent beggars with staring brown faces, he located a pensione oddly named Hotel Tulip. It was inexpensive. Chase felt more at ease in these types of places where he could meet the locals on their level.

Certain communications had to be made, which took him all over Cairo. Travel plans were booked. Caleb tried not to analyze it, to second guess his actions. Ben had been right. He would come back.

When his money ran out in Kenya, Caleb was left with no other options but to contact Ben. Even in the carefully worded telegram Ben sent him Caleb could detect the smugness. I have no choice, he kept telling himself.

Chase longed for a comfortable sleep after a day of confusing exploration in the city. A tall Stella beer, consistently flat as usual, helped him ease into a catatonic sleep. A few minutes past midnight he was awakened by an unearthly caterwauling. He lay in bed unable to collect his thoughts. He couldn't remember the city he was in. I must have been dreaming, he thought.

Moments passed. A placid silence seeped into the room. Far off the horn of a taxi blared, but was instantly replaced by a buffer of quiet. Then there was a demonic screeching again. He got out of bed and went to the window. He could see into the airspace dividing the buildings, connected by a blackened fire escape which uncoiled its way down to the street.

Another series of screeches resounded piercing the morning calm. He could now see two alley cats squared off on the fire escape two flights up. They were inches apart and a steady stream of terrifying wails echoed down the shaft. One cat pushed the other off the platform in a blinding flash of aggression. The cat plunged three flights until it landed with a sickening thud, where it lay motionless. A tawny blur brought the other cat down the stairs. Again the hostile screeching started.

The vanquished cat, now cowering beneath the step, while the victor pawed his bloodied face, waited for the inevitable. The other cat increased his screeching before finally pouncing again and tearing into the other cat's face. There was a solitary wail.

Caleb trained his flashlight on the battling felines, momentarily halting the combat. The victor raised his head revealing eyes that glowed a virulent orange. Caleb then threw a pitcher of water on them from his window, ending the battle. The loser hid beneath the step slowly licking his wounds.

What greeted Caleb when he first arrived at the Hotel Tulip was a Canadian couple seated on a couch in the lobby complaining about the fact they still had four more days left to stay in Egypt before flying on to Rome. As they holed up in the pensione guest room, debilitated, perilously close to the impact of another catastrophic bowel movement, Chase heard their tales of woe.

"Uh, what's your name again, eh?" the Canadian from Saskatchewan asked, as he cradled his stomach with his two huge hands, which had been obviously gnarled by hard farm work. "Caleb is it...well Caleb I have nothing but pity for you. We can't wait to leave. If you were smart you'd leave too."

Caleb shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm not going to be here long."

"Honey, why don't you just let the man decide if he likes Egypt on his own," his wife chirped.

"Clara, I have had it with this screwed up country. I should've known something was wrong when I found out they called the south part of the country the upper part and the north part the lower part. Even the damn Nile runs backwards." he exclaimed, holding his stomach. "You know we came here expecting to find a country that at least had some kinda hygiene. But no way. They've got every dee-sease known to man--and then some," he said bitterly as he began to massage his stomach.

"Nothing like the world's oldest civilization," Caleb joked.

"Oldest civilization my ass," the Canadian spat out, grasping his stomach as he experienced another cramp that seemed to stitch pain into his lower abdomen. "This place oughta be condemned, then bombed. Let me tell you what happened to me a few days ago. We were down in...what's the name of that god-forsaken place? Luxor...no Aswan...should be called asshole."

"Oh now honey, stop," his wife chided.

"No no, this man should know the truth," he said, pointing at Caleb. "After taking this slow-ass train all the way down there we find that we can't even find a hotel to stay at. We ended up looking all over the place and finally finding this awful place that charged us a fortune to sleep in dinky little filthy beds. I tell you, who knows how many dee-seases we've contracted."

The Canadian stopped for a moment and used a handkerchief to dab at the perspiration that had sprouted on his forehead. A few other travelers hurried through the lobby when they saw the Canadian couple, apparently having already heard their travel tales of misery. The proprietor of the pensione stood behind the front desk and clucked his tongue, wishing the Canadian couple would just go away.

"Anyway," he began again, exhaling deeply, weary, "while we were down there--"

"Do you have to tell him that story, honey?" his wife asked, complaining.

"It's going to embarrass me not you, Clara. I just want to let him know just how screwed up this country really is. The truth is they've got a lot of queers in this country. Their damn religion condones it."

"Queers?" Caleb asked, not sure if he had heard right.

"Yeah, you know, fairies," the Canadian said caustically. "They're all over. And I ought to know because, like I was getting ready to tell you, when we were in Aswan this guy tried to feel me. I mean right on my...you know what."

"Right in public or what?" Caleb wanted to know, surprised.

"Right in the damn bathroom of the hotel we were staying at. I was standing there pissing and this weirdo comes up behind me and reached around grabs ahold of it. I was so surprised I pissed all over myself." His wife chuckled and he glared at her. "What do you think of that?" he demanded to know.

"Pretty awkward situation," Caleb said, trying not to laugh.

"If I'd been able to get my dick back in my pants quick enough I'd a caught the bastard and killed him," the Canadian said angrily.

"It's sort of funny," his wife said hesitantly, stifling another giggle.

"For you maybe, but not me. After that incident everything has gone downhill. As soon as we got back to this hole we both got sick with this damn diarrhea. I didn't think it was possible for one human being to shit so much," he declared, wincing as another series of cramps pierced his insides. He stood up and excused himself, as he hurried to the toilet.

"My husband had a tough time," his wife said apologetically.

"Doesn't look like a whole lot of fun," Chase said, smiling.

"I'd better go and make sure he doesn't die on the toilet," she said by way of excusing herself from the room.

"Or that he isn't molested," Caleb added. He could hear her laughing as she walked out the door.

That evening, his last in Cairo before leaving for Alexandria, he had made plans to go to a cabaret on Sherif Street. A Dutchman he met in the pensione's lobby talked him into it. It had never occurred to him to go to one. "I want to see how the people of Cairo spend their evenings," the Dutchman said, smiling. "Perhaps it will be interesting." Caleb doubted it but agreed to go along even though he knew he had to travel the next day and the Cabaret scene didn't get started until after ten o'clock.

A burst of Arabian music, rhythmically tinted with a feverish scirroco intensity, greeted them at the door. The interior of the cabaret was dark, smoky. A spotlight was shining on the one small circular stage, which was completely surrounded by tables occupied by a constantly changing contingent of noisy men.

A short Egyptian, wearing the traditional galabiyah, showed them to a table. As they were sitting down an older belly dancer was just leaving the stage to a fanfare of loud hoots and jeers from the obviously drunk audience. Moments later, as they were served their Arak, a young belly dancer took the stage. Her reception was a series of crude remarks.

She slowly began her dance, gently rotating her hips that produced an undulation that crept up her body. She was wearing the typical costume that Chase pictured when he thought of Arabian belly dancing, where the mid-section was totally exposed and the waistline hung precariously below the navel. He couldn't imagine how it stayed on with all the jiggling going on.

Although this dancer was young and inexperienced, she was confident in her dancing talent. When she took the stage the desert music had been replaced by a more Western tempo imitative of American Pop music. She moved around the stage, concentrating her attention on various sections of the room. When she came over by their table Caleb could see she was very beautiful.

Then she finished her routine to the drummer's dying beat and disappeared from the stage. The fastidious audience was now unanimously ecstatic. A half dozen men were on their feet shouting out their opinions of her dance routine. One man was on stage holding out money, waving it over his head, tempting the young dancer to return for an encore.

The Dutchman leaned over and shouted at Caleb, "This is very amusing. Do you not think so?" Caleb nodded yes. It was still before mid-night. He had been told by the proprietor of the pensione the best acts came on later in the night. They were drunk before they realized. The unctuous taste of Arak lingered on Chase's tongue. It wasn't long before they were joining in on the revelry.

A progression of belly dancers was periodically interrupted by assorted singers, acrobats, and magicians. Each act was met with shouts of praise or derisive taunts. An enterprising photographer dashed between the tables with the flash of his camera illuminating his path. Some of the dancers--in league with the photographer--would dance over to a prospective customer in the audience and shower him with wriggling attention, while the photographer snapped out a photo to be later delivered to the ambivalent customer for payment.

One such photograph depicted a lurid scene in which the Dutchman was photographically frozen, with his marauding hand having stealthily found its way to the crevice of a cleopatraesque dancer's butt. The Dutchman's lewdness caused a belligerent, and jealous patron at a nearby table to voice his objections, in Arabic. The Dutchman, no longer a practicing pacifist after several glasses of Arak, sent a graphic reply back in Dutch, with hand signals.

The Egyptian jumped to his feet and staggered over to their table. The Dutchman stood up; he was a full head taller than the Egyptian. The Egyptian's aggressiveness wavered, until he was goaded on by his friends and the other patrons, who rebuked him for his cowardice. He had gone too far to turn back.

He took a hesitant swing. The blow struck the Dutchman on the chest. Indignant, the Dutchman looked down at the Egyptian then embraced him in a bear hug and carried him over to his table, placing the frightened man in his seat with an abrupt plop. Everyone jeered. An instant later the Egyptian dashed out unable to endure the humiliation.

The Dutchman, although a foreigner, was an instant hero. A flurry of complimentary drinks arrived at their table. Toasts were made. It was after four when they left to the sound of thunderous applause.

There was a slight breeze blowing along the now barren streets, taking away the smell of rotting garbage. Cairo seemed deserted. As they were rounding the last corner before reaching their pensione, a cadaverous woman, a mother, with her child stumbling along side, approached them--begging. They were startled by the sight of them. The two of them seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. In unison, they whined: "Piasters. Piasters."

"Go away!" the Dutchman shouted angrily, walking on. Caleb glanced around to see them standing there, motionless, hands still reaching out like two sculptures of poverty. Soon they were swallowed up by the shadows.

Caleb had parted ways with the Dutchman at the railway station in Cairo. He was going north, to Alexandria, and the Dutchman was going south, to Luxor. And so as the train sped northward, with the roseate banks of the Nile offering a visual respite from the endless brown of the desert baking for miles in either direction, intersticed by macadam highways seemingly going nowhere, Caleb began to formulate his plans.

After this one last assignment for the Company he would have the money to leave Africa. He hadn't wanted to go back, to return to the old work but his choices were few. It was the only way out of Africa.

Now Alexandria. What he knew of that city was restricted to his memory of reading an underused paperback copy of Lawrence Durrell's Justine. The twisted, almost abstruse words of that author now seemed totally irrelevant. Durrell's Pearl of the Mediterranean would have to be explored. After experiencing the synthetic death of Cairo, he knew no other city in the world would pose a problem for him.

It was Saturday. Tomorrow he would meet his connection, make the drop, and Monday return to Cairo. It all seemed simple. He had done this before.

Caleb checked into a small hotel off Nabi Danyal Street. He had a large room with a small balcony overlooking a labyrinth of winding side streets. He stood out on the balcony enduring the view. It was late afternoon. Lilting in the tepid air was an eerie jingling of bells as the horse drawn jitneys plodded by on Nabi Danyal Street, adding a surrealistic symphonic quality to the night time.

There were certain things to be done. He would have to familiarize himself with the city. He located the Catacombs of Kom al Shuqafa on the city map. It was here, at eleven o'clock the next day, he would pass on the package to a man, a European wearing a red tie. Simple.

This package and the man wearing the red tie were all suspended in his thoughts. Caleb was the disposable link connecting together the pieces of the international stratagem. Inside the package were words printed along side convoluted designs smudged by careless thumbs prints. Chase could only guess what it was.

He got up early the next morning and was at the drop point an hour before the designated time. The flat, executive size envelope adhered to his fingers moistened by the mid-morning heat. He continually shifted the envelope from hand to hand. Relax, he told himself, looking around in the semi-darkness.

There were no tourists to fill the gloomy catacombs with their idle conversation and disrespectful laughter. His pacing footsteps echoed on the stone pavement. Then, as if resurrected, the man wearing the red tie appeared. His out stretched hand snatched the envelope. The drop was over in a split second. They didn't exchange any words. He was left standing alone. It was over, completed.

He could only laugh as he walked around the city afterwards. His normal calm composure had been shaken by the razor edge of uncertainty. It's not the first time I've done something like this, he told himself reproachfully. There had been that time in Damascus, he remembered. And Izmir. Athens. "It's almost routine," he said aloud, as he turned onto Al Gueish Road which ran along the sea past the many beaches. At Muaskar Beach, he stopped at a restaurant bar nestled on the beach overlooking the sea.

There was a soft coolness in the air wafting in off the Mediterranean. The morning sun was warming the sand. Caleb took a seat outside. An eager waiter scurried over to take his order. The waiter recommended an appetizer. He ordered a plate of turshi to go with a Stella beer.

It was done. Now he had funds again. His plan was on track. He would leave Africa, perhaps for good. The pursuit of adventure would make for some entertaining memories. The waiter returned with his beer. The sunlight was reflected through the large bottle of beer.

The restaurant was deserted when he walked in. There was always a sense of sadness in the off-season at a tourist locale. Then a man entered and sat on the other side. He seemed familiar to Chase. The man sat facing the water. He was apparently staring at a small sloop tacking in and out around the Fort Qait Bai peninsula. Caleb strained his memory trying to recall where he had seen the man before. Maybe it was in Cairo, he thought. At the cabaret? It wasn't unusual for Cairoans to come to Alexandria for long weekends.

A sliver of anxiety was born in his mind. He eyed the man cautiously. When the waiter returned to deliver the plate of turshi he had ordered, he casually asked, "Does that man over there come to this restaurant often?"

"I believe no," the waiter replied. "He speaks Arabic but not my country's Arabic."

"Not your country's Arabic," Caleb said to himself, taking a bite of the pickled vegetables. The man was a foreigner, probably from another Arab country. So what if he was, he thought. That's no big deal. Taking a long drink of his beer, he told himself the assignment was over, not to worry.

Here, by the sea, under the warming sunshine, beer in hand, he was nothing more than a tourist, a foreigner in a city out of season. Was that unusual? Maybe. "I know I'm conspicuous as hell sitting here," he muttered. He paid his bill and quickly left.

Alexandria, in the middle of the afternoon, yawned with inactivity. He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Abo-El-Abbas-El-Mursi Mosque. From the mosque, he went to the Roman Amphitheater. He sat at the amphitheater, tired, idly watching the daylight hours giving way to dusk. He was seldom indecisive. Now, however, as he sat among the ruins of a foreign conqueror, he had no idea what to do. Paranoia had taken possession of his mind.

He cautiously walked to his hotel after it was completely dark. "This is insane," he said aloud, as he was hurrying along. "Everything's cool. I'm letting my imagination go wild."

At the hotel he was given his hotel key by a nervous desk clerk, who said "Good evening...sir...Good evening." Caleb didn't notice the sign, the unintended signal that something was wrong. He climbed the stairs slowly, wearily. It seemed so long ago that he had made the connection. The key clattered harshly in the door. He stepped into the darkened room. A slight sound aroused his suspicion. Chase now realized it was too late.

"Turn slowly around," a strangely dulcet voice announced sounding far yet near, as the door was pushed closed behind him and the light turned on. Caleb turned in one painful, agonizing motion. A man, apparently an Arab, dressed casually wearing a light colored jacket, was standing by the door. His black eyes were fixed on Chase's face. There was a gun in his right hand.

"This is some room service," Caleb quipped, trying to laugh.

"You have come to Alexandria for something," the man said, his accent sounding as if it were an amateurish attempt at caricaturing some undefined Arab stereotype.

"Me, I'm just a tourist," Caleb said unconvincingly, now realizing the man still thought he had the package.

There was a sharp rapping on the door which disrupted their patterned exchange. The man called out in Arabic and another man answered from the other side of the door. As the man moved to open the door, Caleb lunged forward. Quickly he locked his left arm around the man's neck and pulled back tightly.

The other man was pounding on the door and rattling the door knob. The door was locked from the outside. Caleb's right hand grasped the cool metal of the Makarov. Before he knew it the man was crumpling to the floor, letting out a gasp of air. There had been no report, just an indistinctive gaseous ballistic cough.

Caleb stood over the man, peering down into his eyes, awed by what he had done. There was another loud thump against the door. Chase backed away from the wounded man on the floor, trying to keep from panicking.

It was a two story jump from the balcony. Caleb scrambled over the railing and climbed to the balcony below. From there he hung down and jumped to the pavement. His feet stung electrically at impact but he got up and ran.

Alexandria was a maze of darkened streets. Every stray sound sent a lightning bolt shiver up his spine. He had no idea where to go. He slowed to a brisk walk. The evening was cool, with the pungent fragrance of exotic cooking in the air. He could hear strange conversations and laughter as he made his way through the unfamiliar neighborhoods.

He was now the hunted. He didn't want to think about what he had done. He had acted on instinct. No choice.

A niche in the wall of Fort Qait Bai became his night refuge. While the Mediterranean lapped at his feet, he settled down to a night of little sleep, while a balmy, insistent breeze stroked his face. Out over the water a ship's beacon light twinkled.

The next morning he laid the framework for his departure from Egypt. He was relatively certain whoever it was looking for him had the ability to prevent him from leaving the country. His options for leaving Egypt were limited to three: by sea, from Alexandria; by air, from Cairo; or overland via the Nile into the Sudan.

A trek southward would be arduous and time consuming, requiring approval from visa restrictions. That was out of the question. He knew of a ship from the Hellenic Mediterranean Line leaving for Europe in a few days. That would require him to hide for a relatively long time. As a foreigner in Alexandria he was too easy a target. His only real option was by train.

The train station would be under surveillance. His first move was to acquire a disguise of some sort. He checked into a small, run-down hotel just off Al Muharza Street. His beard would have to come off. Then he would have to buy a galabiyah. Caleb was knew that there would a record of his arrival in Egypt and that his passport would probably alert the authorities to his whereabouts. He would have to bank on their record keeping being inefficient, slow to place him as departing the country from the airport. There had to be a flight leaving that he could take at the last minute, reducing the chances of him being caught. Any flight, anywhere, would do. There was no time to contact Ben and he doubted he would assist him at this point. Exfiltration would take too long to set up and Alexandria offered little to no place to hide.

A train schedule he consulted told him he had several choices throughout the day. For now, he needed a place to hide until he transferred to the train station. There was a Coptic church not too far from the hotel. No one would ask questions of him there.

The church was abandoned except for a tall priest who was bent over a book in the front pew. Caleb took a seat in the back of the dark church. It was quiet. Every so often he could hear murmurings from the priest. As he sat on the hard wooden pew, and stared at all the religious paraphernalia, somehow Alexandria didn't seem to exist outside.

"Maybe I should pray," he whispered, then added, "oh sure."

It was time. He would have to make his way to the station. With the galabiyah rolled up under his arm, he cautiously walked the side streets, dreading the moment when he would be discovered. It seemed that everyone in Alexandria knew who he was. Were they all staring at him?

To his dismay the train station wasn't crowded. The train to Cairo was just being boarded. He would have to wait until the last minute. Then he saw him. It was the man from the restaurant. Caleb was sure of it. The man was talking to two other men by the entrance. The three men were having an animated discussion. The man from the restaurant was waving his arms and pointing down the tracks.

"This is one of life's fun decisions," Chase said aloud, as he eased behind a baggage trolley. Caleb really had no choices. He slipped on the galabiyah and boarded the train for Cairo, riding fourth class with the fellahin. He sat among them concealed by the suffocating conditions, further shielded by the common belief no one would willingly ride three hours in an open antiquated rail road car under the searing desert sun.

He sat on the floor next to a mother and her baby. On the roof of the box car young boys dashed from one car to the next. "Kerouac would have loved this," he mumbled. The baby was crying.

Chase could hear shouts. There were coming from the platform ahead. Warily, he sneaked a look out the open box car door. They were checking the first and second class sections. The man from the restaurant was issuing commands to several men in uniforms.

A soldier with a submachine gun poked his head in the box car, pointing the gun at everyone. Caleb pretended like he was playing with the baby. Then he was gone. The next five minutes took hours and then there was a mechanical tug at the car and they were moving. Alexandria was fading from view, replaced by a wasteland of sand. Hot, arid wind lapped at his smiling face. He had guessed right.

That night, after surviving the trip, he slept at the Cairo train station, settling in for the night with his train companions who littered the rail yard like migrating animals. He was given some pita bread and a blanket to sleep on. There was an unspoken generosity among the destitute.

Just before dawn, while the dormant mass of displaced humanity slept, he made his way to the airport. He scanned the departure list up on the wall. The flight with the least amount of time margin would be best. Buy the ticket. Get on the plane. Leave. He didn't want any delays.

The only flight that fit his immediate time line was going to Khartoum. The flight was leaving in less than an hour. He purchased the ticket and ran to the gate. A surly airline employee told him the flight had been delayed for an hour when he tried to board.

He now had almost two hours to wait. Time suddenly stopped. He checked his watch every few minutes. He looked around the terminal. Was it safe?

Forty-eight hours with little sleep had left a mark on him. There was a chain reaction of diabolical itches traveling around his body. The crust of the desert was sprinkled on his clothes and his skin. He waited in the security zone collecting stares. While passing a window he had seen his reflection. I'm the incarnation of the international derelict, he thought, laughing. The disheveled hair, the stubbly beard, and the glint of desperation showing in his eyes combined to form the image.

Then he heard a squeaky woman's voice announce his flight. There were no police. No undercover men lurked nearby. "I've done it," he muttered, as he handed his ticket to the flight attendant, who shrunk from him as if he had a disease.

Chapter 10: Khartoum Departure

Inside the airport, on past the officials in drab green Customs uniforms, the sparsely stocked duty free shop was doing little business. Overhead a squadron of punkah fans beat the dense, resistant air. Caleb sat down in the cafe to wait. He was an hour away from leaving the Sudan--hot desolate Sudan. There were only a few people in the barren cafe, where off to the side a phalanx of waiters quietly outnumbered the patrons.

He made it. Survived. He had been elated when the flight finally took off from Cairo. He ordered a beer from the flight attendant who didn't want anything to do with him. The passenger next to him kept averting his eyes when Chase would look over. I must smell like I've been riding a camel in the desert for days, he thought, smiling. He didn't care. He was out of Egypt.

Two Sudanese businessmen gulped down cans of Schlitz beer at the table next to him. Caleb thought it was odd to see that American beer here. One of the businessman ordered two more beers a piece for each of them from a skinny waiter, who delivered the beers and stood obtrusively waiting for the money. Outside the cafe a throng of passengers waited to board the next flight.

The memories of another Sudanese flight still clung to his mind, riddling his confidence in modern aviation. It had been a short, claustrophobic flight from Juba to Khartoum aboard a DC-9, in which every seat was taken by a cast of travelers only traveling in Africa could assemble. While an exasperated flight attendant scurried up and down the aisle dodging discourteous passengers and ineffectually issuing orders, the passengers were carrying on TV sets, radios, baskets of vegetables, furniture, even chickens, which were stuffed in the luggage compartment over Chase's head, leaving a shower of feathers to cascade over him. The plane seemed to groan under all the weight as it took off.

As he looked out the cafe windows at the darkness, he tried not to think about his weariness. Africa had drained him. The heat was ruthless. From Egypt to South Africa the continent seemed to be at the boiling point.

This was his fourth or fifth trip to steaming, contaminated, violent Africa. Why? He knew there was no answer. A friend, a psychologist, had told him it was death's magnetism that drew him there, that in a geographical way he longed for an environment which threatened him, a locale where his skin pigmentation and culture brought him the prospect of conflict. Caleb had laughed at that, for he knew his friend, the psychologist, had never been to Africa.

So here he was in Khartoum's cauldron of viscose heat, waiting. Waiting to travel

again as usual. Two days in the Sudanese capital had been enough. He knew that there was a chance he might be anchored in the Sudan's pitiful soil if he didn't move on: rooted in the strife and chaos that was Uganda, Chad, Somalia, Ethiopia...the list was endless. If it wasn't a tribal war, it was a political war, or racial, or religious; and they all perpetuated the continent's desperate mystique, leaving a residue of contagion which swept along like the current of the Nile or Zambesi.

And now he was leaving. The harrowing ordeal in Egypt was behind him. Memories of Zimbabwe were beginning to fade, finally. The severance pay from the Company would take him far away.

A headache slipped in behind his eyes. "It's the heat," Caleb muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and praying another bout with malaria wasn't coming. The steady whirring of the fans hummed in his ears. Sweat trickled down his spine.

Suddenly it all seemed like a dream to him. He tried to concentrate on what it was like to be back in the States. There seemed no possible connection between this world and any other. None. For all he knew the plane might fly on to another strange, desolate patch of Africa. Maybe Al would be there waiting, sitting at an outdoor bar drinking brandy.

"There is a certain taste it leaves in a person's mind," Caleb said aloud, remembering what Al had said about Africa.

The skinny waiter scurried over as if he had been summoned. Caleb used his last Sudanese pound to buy a drink, something to ward off the heat, then paid the waiter the remainder to wake him for his flight. He put his head down on the table to sleep, hoping the waiter wouldn't forget him, for if he missed his flight he knew he might remain in Africa forever.

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography

