Zingela’s camp radio telephone shrilled three times before it was anxiously snatched up.
"Hello?" Linda’s voice was strained and uncertain.
"We have found two British," announced the voice on the other end of the line.
From his accent, it was apparent that he was not European—most likely Zulu.
We were expecting the worst.
The message he conveyed was chilling.
Twenty-six or twenty-seven years after Margie and I had returned home to South Africa from England, Rosemary Finnegan succumbed to cancer. Paddy and his youngest son Matthew accepted our invitation to holiday with us shortly after the funeral, and, although it was a sad twosome that arrived in Johannesburg later that week, Margie and I planned to give them an African adventure that they would never forget.
I love labelling an adventure in advance. The name given must set the scene for what is presumed to happen. Initially named "The Great Zebra Hunt", this adventure was to be the highlight of our bushveld trip. It was at Zingela that we planned the zenith of Paddy and Matthew’s trip. Little did we know just what a journey—and what an adventure— it would turn out to be.
Our planning of this adventure took the form of a theatrical production. The line-up of actors cast in their various roles was as follows: Mark and Linda Calverley—the owners of Zingela—were cast as "Master and Mistress of the House", with Paddy and Matthew Finnegan unwittingly cast as "The Innocent Pawns". Bruce and Margie Finnemore were "The Contriving Villains", bent on all manner of disruptive activity, while Bill and Vicky Straughan filled supporting roles in charge of "Equine Perambulation". Our son Mark and his friend Simon were cast as "Youthful Muscle Backup in Case of Calamity". And, finally, there was Mbhele and Jakalaas (Jugs)—our local Zulus—whose contribution filled the roles of "Tracking and Loss Recovery".
With the scene set, the curtain rose on Act One.
The road from the hamlet of Weenen in KwaZulu Natal to Zingela is an adventure in itself, and we used it to our full advantage as we wove the anticipatory threads of this African adventure and the hunt that lay ahead. The road—or rather, the track—suitable only for 4x4 vehicles, petered out suddenly on the banks of the Blaaukrans river. It was here that we announced in grave tones to our British guests that we would henceforth rely on the Zulu porters who would carry us—and our luggage—on their backs across this ribbon of water. We hastened to add that horse-drawn carriages would be waiting for us on the other side to facilitate the onward journey to our destination. These horses could be seen waiting patiently in the distant shade, giving plausibility to our explanation. Paddy has always had an infectious laugh, but it was now tempered with a nervousness that delighted both Margie and myself, our plans having taken them out of their comfort zone and into the unfamiliar African landscape.
The sight of several white folk—or umlungus—on the backs of local porters, crossing a river which was, at best, no more than eighteen inches deep—if you knew the correct line to take when crossing—must have been an unusual sight to the local tribespeople. In addition, it must have seemed additionally strange why they did not simply drive across the well-used drift just a few hundred yards downstream. But, that was our secret, and behaving otherwise would have flown in the face of the adventure that we had planned.
Piet Skiet, a Weenen local of dubious reputation, was the owner of the horse-drawn transport that we had engaged to drive us the ten or so kilometres into Zingela camp. The others would be driven in a two-wheeled buggy owned by Bill and Vicky Straughan, our friends and accomplices from Johannesburg.
Piet was a colourful character who swore incessantly at his equine charges, calling them all manner of names in Afrikaans and Zulu which, thankfully, our British guests could not understand, but which made even the most hardened of us cringe. It was difficult to imagine the affection Piet had for these beasts in the light of his colourful language which he showered incessantly onto them. One can only imagine the thoughts that were going through the minds of Paddy and Matthew as they bumped along through the dense thorn bush over roads hardly passable by British standards, accompanied by Piet’s high-pitched swearing and the sun beating down on this quaint party of intrepid adventurers.
Paddy’s infectious laughter returned as we approached the Thukela and gin and tonics were passed around, lifting the experience of the monotonous, uncomfortable and dusty drive. We—and our guests in particular—were transfixed by the mesmerising sight of the river, the bushveld setting, the aura of Zingela Camp, and the warm welcome of our hosts, Mark and Linda Calverley. Mark and Linda’s unassuming friendliness belied the fact that they were deeply involved in the planning of this great adventure.
Zingela is remote. I would often joke that if one were to get lost at Zingela that the chances of being found were slim at best. It seems that I had jokingly—and repeatedly—aired this view to Paddy and Matthew, and although meant in jest, our location made my comments more real to them than I could ever have imagined. With the manuscript for the days in camp that followed having been well written, planned and rehearsed, the scene prepared itself to play out for real.
Dinner time that evening was marked by one of the legendary meals that were known to miraculously appear from the Zingela kitchen and its Zulu chefs. The hypnotic flames from the campfire and the exertions of the day lulled us into a state of complete oneness with the bush. The blackness of the star-studded sky, the sounds of the river, the mournful howl of the jackal and the answering bark of a kudu or a baboon could not be experienced or imagined anywhere else but in places like Zingela.
It was into this circle of reality and ethereal theatre that the Sangoma appeared, embodying all that fantasy and fiction could conjure up in the minds of the newcomers. The presence of the Sangoma was to bless the hunt on which we were to embark. This pantomime, suggested by Mark, was to set the scene for the following day’s adventure. Spellbound and in awe, we watched as she unrolled her animal skin on the edge of the fire circle, emptying her bones and primal paraphernalia in front of her wizened body and crossed legs. Her clothes made no sense to a Western mind, but, to the culturally informed, each layer, each ornament and each beaded scrap of material gave her an aura of mystical authority, weaving an air of incredulity into the pantomime.
She rocked slowly and rhythmically in tune with the dancing flames. Between her mumblings and rhythmical groans, Mark explained the symbolic significance of her presence and the important role it would play in the events to follow to our mesmerised guests.
From a small cloth pouch, she produced a selection of dried leaves and bark which she placed on a flat stone and lit with a strange Western intrusion: matches. The wispy smoke curled upwards, all the time being wafted by her hands into her face. And then, as if by design, the smouldering bark burst into flame, the smoke disappeared, and her deeply wrinkled face glowed eerily. In a staccato motion, her thin hand grasped at a collection of bones, seeds and assorted objects which she then raised to her forehead in her clenched fist. Her chanting reached an eerie howl as the objects were dashed onto the animal skin, between the smouldering bark and the seed bangles around her ankles.
Silence prevailed. Only the nearby river dared to break the spell.
She repeated her ritual several times, each time murmuring approvingly at the pattern of objects that lay in front of her. After some time—and ignoring the rest of us—she addressed Mark using a few short sentences, and then, with a groan of eerie satisfaction, gathered up her clothes and the almost-hairless wildebeest skin and shuffled off, almost as silently as she had appeared. Nobody spoke.
Mark, sighing deeply and looking intently into the glowing coals, eventually broke the silence. "Okay chaps," he announced, "that’s it. Our Sangoma has blessed tomorrow’s hunt. All will turn out well."
It was impossible to imagine the thoughts that ran through Paddy and Matthew’s minds as they made their way off to their chalet, set amongst the rocks and the trees of this bushveld refuge. How would these Englishmen assimilate the events of the day?
Paddy and Matthew were up early and beat us to our morning rendezvous around the welcome fire. Five o’ clock at that time of the year was icy cold, but the month of June is hunting season and hunters never objected to an early start.
Having confirmed that their accommodation was comfortable and pleasing, Paddy broached the subject if the previous evening’s events. "Was that all real?" he asked quizzically.
"Yes," Mark replied slowly, "she was. Africa is a strange place, and it was important to get her approval and her blessing. What happens today needs to have a good ending."
Coffee, rusks, and a good dollop of porridge later, and after the obligatory brushing of teeth— an essential requirement in the presence of two dentists—we re-gathered around the fire, a venue now busier than before with Linda, Margie and Vicky there to wish us well.
We planned to cross the Thukela and walk up the slope of the adjacent hill to the ridge. This range of hills, the silhouette of which bears a remarkable resemblance to that of a pregnant lady, rose steeply within two hundred yards of the river bank. We aimed to gain the height advantage afforded by the summit of the range before too much light flooded the valley on the opposite side.
"Oh my goodness," laughed Paddy nervously, as we, the intrepid party of hunters, were hoisted onto the backs of waiting Zulu men to be carried, for the second day in a row, across a dark ribbon of water in a style of colonial transportation totally unfamiliar to everyone, barring, of course, our host.
Mark had gained the approval of the local Chief to hunt this wild side before our arrival at Zingela and had sent out little Zulu herd-boys out into this vast country to find the zebra herd that was to be our quarry. Mark led the hunt, with Mbhele as chief tracker. I was the hunter, with Paddy and Matthew the honoured guests. The other members of the group were my son, Mark, his close friend Simon, and Jakalaas, all of whom—as giants of reliability—could fill any required role.
Paddy has suffered a minor heart attack in England a year before this adventure and we, being aware of his limitations—but comforted by his continual reassurances—proceeded at a steady climbing walk up the face of the hill toward the crest. Our camp behind us, we summited the crest of the range of hills and looked back towards the river to see the roofs of our chalets nestled amongst the Tamboti and Thukela Milkwood trees—majestic trees unique to the riverbank in this piece of Zulu heaven. The view into the valley beyond from this elevated position was breathtakingly spectacular—not a building or a hut; not a road, aerial nor any sign of civilisation that could mar the natural beauty of the bush. We stood for a few moments to regain our breath and bank the vista for later recall. With the camp on our right-hand side, we headed along the crest in a downstream direction.
We were told that we would find the zebras within an hours’ walking distance, so we wound our way at a moderate pace between the acacia trees that characterised the hilltops. Our party was, in retrospect, far too large for such a hunt, but there were simply too many of us who had been involved in the planning for anyone to have been left behind. Eight sets of boots tramping through the bush must have sounded like an army of intruders to the animals used to living in the enviable silence of the bush. This unavoidably large group was to become useful later, but, for the moment, it was a distinct disadvantage.
The clear morning sky that greeted our incursion into this wild country had gradually clouded over, with distant rumblings and intermittent flashes of lightning. A fine mist blew up from the valley, and we soon found ourselves running for any cover we could find to shelter us from the torrential rain. Simon—in his typically understated way—later recalled, "I remember we had a brief shower, and then the beautiful African sun peeked through the clouds and warmed us up again."
Mbhele pointed with a characteristically bent finger towards a flat grassy plain in the valley below. There—and I can still see the sight as if it were yesterday—was a group of twenty to thirty zebras sunning themselves in the stillness of the morning. The sun highlighted the contrast of their white stripes, making them more brilliant and evident than ever.
Zebras have been cursed with a natural aiming design emblazoned on their shoulder—the killing spot for the placement of a hunter’s heart-lung shot. It is easily identifiable with its inverted V-shaped chevron, much like the emblem of a sergeant in the US military forces.
"This is going to be easy," I thought confidently to myself. I had successfully hunted zebras before, and this one seemed to be a piece of cake.
The herd was sunning itself peacefully four hundred yards downhill—too far for a comfortable shot. We had to get closer, so we quietly began the downhill stalk. For the first time that morning I realised that our plan was too fragile—to successfully stalk sixty eyes and sixty ears with eight pairs of boots was no mean feat. There was, however, nothing that could be done at this late stage except to continue and to hope against hope that we would succeed.
Fate has a strange way of confounding even the best-laid plans, and little did we all know just how much a hand fate would play in this adventure.
We followed Mark and Mbhele in a single file, senses honed, excitement building. At about two hundred yards, and after what seemed like an eternity, Mark froze. A zebra had lifted its head, unchewed grass hanging obliquely from several still mouths, ears pricked up and eyes searching. We followed Mbhele’s lead and sank slowly to our knees—at least that is what I hoped had happened to the group behind us. I was number three in line, gingerly trying to see past the leaders in front, yet acutely aware of any unnecessary profile or silhouette that I might break. We knelt there, frozen, until the lead zebra lowered his head and continued to graze. Within moments the others followed suit, and we all breathed out slowly in relief.
Mark turned his head a little, and quietly instructed the party to remain where they were while he, Mbhele and I closed the distance between us and the now peaceful herd. All seemed under control. The three of us inched forward towards the cover that would give us the position we needed to strike—a large mound to our left and a Y-forked tree to our right. Mark asked through the use of signs, which I preferred. I have always preferred a prone position to standing, and so I chose the mound. Mark motioned to me, and I slithered forward to the position of choice. That belly-slide seemed to be interminable, but it probably lasted only three minutes. I slowly raised my head, and there, at about one hundred and seventy-five yards, was the closest animal in the herd. Sod’s law decreed that it was a heavily pregnant female—not a trophy of choice. A few yards further back and to the right was a stallion—a perfect trophy—standing broadside on. The military chevron beckoned to me.
I slowly pushed my rifle onto the anthill mound and eased my hunting jacket under the stock. I settled myself and tried to control my racing heartbeat. I worked the bolt action and chambered a 165 grain Nosler Partition bullet. I pumped the scope to its maximum nine-power, and, without daring to hope for anything but the best, I located the stallion through the optics. The crosshairs of the reticule soon settled on the chevron and, controlling my breathing, I squeezed the all too familiar trigger.
The recoil of a rifle, as expected, causes the shooter to lose the sight picture in the riflescope, the discharge and the recoil resulting in a visual loss of the moment of impact. However, and with a confidence borne of many hunts, I fully expected to see the quarry either down or staggering to keep up with the now-fleeing herd. But I saw neither, and horror overtook me.
I turned to look at Mark. He held his binoculars to his eyes as he followed the disappearing herd over the rim of the clearing and further down into the valley until it was out of sight.
We slowly stood up.
"I saw the shot hit," Mark confirmed, "I saw him stagger and quickly recover to join the rest. He’s probably gone down, so let’s give them a minute or two—we’ll probably pick him up over the ridge".
The word probably jarred in my head. What if I had missed?
We motioned to the others to join us and we moved forward—as slowly and as silently as we could—to where the plain dropped away down the hill to where it had previously been out of sight. We stood with our binoculars pressed hard to our eyes, straining, looking for anything that would indicate the fallen quarry. But there was nothing. Nothing at all.
"Luto," I heard Jakalaas whisper.
Mbhele had remained behind, taking in all the signs that the situation presented. He hissed for Mark, indicating towards the blood in the grass.
"Bright red," said Mark, looking at me, "Lung blood. You must have hit a bit high."
We followed the evident blood spoor down the slope and up the other side into bush that was now much thicker and tighter than before. "If only we had brought Diesel or Popinjay," I thought. Mark’s two Jack Russel terriers were past masters on a blood spoor, but it would have been foolish of us to take our dogs onto adjacent territory because it would have been seen as poaching. We followed the trail of ever decreasing blood through the increasingly dense bush, and up an ever-increasing incline. "Dammit," I thought to myself, "Dammit. Why today?"
Our eyes ached as we searched for the tell-tale signs of blood until a wide-eyed Jakalaas tapped Mark on the shoulder. "n’Kosaan" he stuttered, "The Englishmen, they are not with us. I have not seen them for more than fifteen minutes."
Mark quickly assessed the situation and told Mbhele and Jakalaas to retrace our path and bring Paddy and Matthew up as quickly as possible, while the rest of us continued our search for the now increasingly elusive stallion along a blood spoor with ever decreasing droplets of blood.
Thirty minutes passed before we were once again joined by our trackers who woefully repeated that the Englishmen could not be found. The time was now eleven o’clock. We had left camp five hours earlier, reaching the summit of the range of hills at seven thirty. We had located the zebras at nine thirty, and we had last seen our guests at about ten-fifteen. It was a warm winter’s day, but we knew all too well that the weather could quickly change—that, within a few hours, the hills would cast their shadows over the bush and the temperatures would quickly plummet. The sky was clear, the moon was out of sight, and the temperatures were predicted to drop to near zero—excluding the potential wind chill factor. Although we had jackets, not one of us had overnight gear suitable for this time of the year.
I hardly dared to look at anyone. This had been my idea from the start—my romantic vision was to give them an "Out of Africa" experience that they would never forget. Was this to be it? An "Out of Africa" experience, but of the disastrous kind?
Mark, an experienced Professional Hunter, well-schooled in the bush and, with the clear head of his calling, quietly explained his plan to us: we would abandon the zebra’s blood trail and focus on finding our UK guests. Abandoning a wounded animal is not within the ethics of good hunting, yet the situation decreed that there was no alternative to this unfortunate decision.
We were to split into three groups. Mark, Mbhele and Jakalaas would head each group with the rest of us divided to make up the numbers in each. We were to search different areas and, by a code of rifle shots, the leaders would indicate to the others if and when we had news—or potential success. We were also told to call, yell, scream and generally make as much noise as we could to attract the attention of the lost travellers. We were to regroup at two o’clock at a predetermined spot.
Two o’clock saw a despondent group of hunters gather with no news. There was nothing to do but re-plan and once again search the predetermined areas of that desolate bush and to meet back in camp at five o’clock.
I recalled my comments a few days ago about Zingela being remote, and that if one were to lose one’s way at Zingela, there was little chance of being found. How those words—spoken in jest—tormented me as we trudged through the bush, calling their names over and over again. And then over, and over, and over again.
Mark’s group arrived in camp ahead of Jugs, Simon and me. They had explained our plight. I was met by my ashen-faced wife whose anger could not be contained. The true colours of her Scottish ancestry came to the fore, and she berated me in a way that was not in keeping with our normally harmonious marital bliss. She was obviously fearful for their lives and imagining the worst—as was everyone else.
Questions swirled around in my mind. Yes, the hunt was my idea—but circumstances had played a definite role. Were we being punished by the bush for our intrusion? Now was not the time or place to address these questions and try to find logical answers. We needed to find Paddy and Matthew—and quickly.
The camp kitchen delivered—as if by magic—hot soup, fresh bread and a meaty pasta. We collected the coffee flasks, the warm clothing we needed, as well as the warm clothing we may need if—and it was now a big if, we did indeed, and by some miracle, find our lost friends. It was now six in the evening, and they had been lost for almost eight hours. We checked our torches and found extra batteries. We took the camp radios with spare power backup, and with resignation—fuelled by desperation—prepared once more to cross the now black and foreboding Thukela River. The thought of crossing the river again and searching the hostile bush in the dark was a daunting prospect, but there was to be no alternative.
It was just then that Zingela’s camp radio telephone shrilled three times before it was anxiously snatched up.
"Hello?" Linda’s voice was strained and uncertain.
"We have found two British," announced the voice on the other end of the line. From his accent, it was apparent that he was not European—most likely Zulu.
We were expecting the worst.
The message he conveyed was chilling.
This narrative up until now has been written from my first-hand recollections of the hunt. What follows are the narrations of the lost twosome, which I recorded with as much accuracy as my memory allows. It is also—and unashamedly—laced with a little poetic license.
The unyielding, dense acacia thorn bush slope up which the hunting party was making their way would have been challenging under normal circumstances, but the urgency of finding the wounded zebra spurred us on to increased exertions, with only one aim in mind.
Paddy’s cardiac limitations had begun to slow him down.
"Dad," said Matthew, "I think that you and I should take a breather and let the others follow the blood trail. It can’t be long before they find the beast and finish him off. We’ll catch up with them soon."
Paddy, tired and out of breath from this unnatural exertion, readily agreed. The two sat down, and the voices of the searching party gradually faded, with the bush resuming its tranquil silence. Some time passed, after which the two, now rested, resumed their upward climb.
For strangers to this type of vegetation and topography, it soon becomes alarmingly apparent that one tree resembles another, and that one patch of vegetation or clearing soon blends into another to become a confused vegetative vista. Certainty of direction is soon replaced by confusion, and then the dawning realisation of being lost. This reality soon becomes the fuel for panic.
The caring role that Matthew was now taking over his father took a mature line as he finally suggested, "Dad, we should abandon this and head back to camp. I think I remember the way." With no other possibility to consider, Paddy agreed, and the two made their way back down the slope and up to the vantage point from where I had taken that well-intended, but misaligned shot.
They slowly climbed to the crest of the ridge of hills which ran along the length of the Thukela River. Below them lay the glimmering ribbon of water flanked by the river banks, where the tree line gave way to grass and low shrubs. Several Zulu cattle stood near the water, grazing the last of the summer grass which soon would be consumed by the fires that the Zulus would light in preparation for new spring growth. Zulu means heaven, and KwaZulu means in heaven. The people of this tribe are called the aba-KwaZulu—the little people of the sky—unshakably possessed with the knowledge and beauty of their surroundings. It was there that father and son rested, taking in this vista of unimaginable beauty and, the more the visitors viewed it, the more apparent its beauty grew.
With the confidence of youth, Matthew stood up, and, with the river on their right, they turned and started their journey back to camp. Paddy and Matthew had unwittingly begun their homeward trek walking downstream with the river on their right, blissfully unaware that their every step was taking them further away from camp—their only refuge in this vast country of unforgiving and unfamiliar wilderness.
The sun shone warmly on them as they trudged along the ridge, the river on their right, still flowing downstream. It was around midday, and, with some disquiet, they became aware that nothing familiar was beckoning them—no chalet roofs on the far bank, and no break in the thick vegetation that might suggest a road back to camp. At about two o’clock, in the mid-distance, they saw an unmistakable plume of smoke—clearly not a bushfire as it was well contained as it curled upward, dissipating in the cold, clear air.
"It must be Zulus," exclaimed Paddy.
The pair turned and changed their direction, the beckoning smoke ahead of them. It took another hour and a half for them to reach the edge of a neat circle of huts—the neat little beehive-shaped formations so characteristic of these ancient people and their villages. The slow activity of the children and the old men abruptly ceased as they became aware of two white men standing motionless, staring, uncertain of their next steps. Paddy, after a few moments and with new-found confidence, stepped up to an elderly man who was seated on a large polished rock alongside the remains of a still-smouldering morning fire.
"Hello," he blurted out, "My name is Paddy Finnegan, and Matthew—my son—and I are from England." And then, with some afterthought, he added—less confidently, "And we are terribly lost."
They stood facing each other for several awkward moments, the Zulu man neither moving nor speaking—perhaps assessing the situation with some degree of curiosity and confusion. He eventually turned and called out to a small boy nearby in a language unfamiliar to our weary travellers, and issued an instruction. Hesitatingly, the small bare-footed boy, wide-eyed, and dressed in a curious assortment of half torn, threadbare clothes that had clearly been possessions of several previous siblings, slowly approached. Quietly, and with some trepidation, he smiled and, indicating to the old man, said, "He has no English." And then, with newly found enthusiasm, added, "I can go to school."
The small black boy, their only lifeline, was soon joined by three or four other similar age children who unashamedly held out their hands, uttering the all too familiar cry of African children, "Sweets! Sweets!" Our guests were hardly prepared for this reception, but it certainly broke the tension of the moment. Paddy, laughing, reached into one of his back pocket and produced a one-hundred Rand note from his wallet. "I’m afraid that we don’t have any sweets," he said, half-turning to the still seated old man, and hesitatingly, with a politeness so characteristic of our friend, proffered the note and added, "But may we please use your telephone?"
There was no response—just a blank stare.
"Perhaps use some sign language," Matthew suggested. With a curious progression of signs, sounds, and English words, Paddy and Matthew gesticulated—almost wildly—to further blank stares. Just as they felt their salvation beginning to slip away, the small boy’s face suddenly lit up, and, with quizzical glee, half-questioningly suggested, "I-phone-o?"
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Paddy and Matthew in unison, repeating the unfamiliar, yet descriptive word, "i-phone-o".
The boy shook his head, immediately dashing their hopes. However, they quickly recovered as the small child chattered to his elder and gesticulated meaningfully. The one-hundred Rand note had done its bit, the young book took Paddy by the hand and started to walk through the circle of huts and out the other side.
"Come, come," he repeated several times. There was no other option but to be led. It must have been a comical sight—were comical an appropriate word to use in this dire situation. Paddy and the small boy, followed by Matthew, were now being followed by a chattering group of about ten children. Turning to look behind them, they saw that at least ten adults had joined the procession, presumably all wanting to share in the spoils of the one-hundred Rand note.
The path that wound through the bush was wide enough for only one person, but the small boy kept a firm hold of Paddy’s hand and skipped lightly over the rocks and obstacles that lined the way, not wishing, it seemed, to have Paddy navigate anything but the smoothest possible part of the path. The chattering of the children and the conversations between the adults appeared to be an incessant necessity, with tones rising and falling with each curve in the footpath.
Although a novel experience, the walk felt like an eternity. At one point, the group met five women with clay pots on their heads coming in the opposite direction. One of the women was carrying a metal drum with water spilling over the brim, coursing down her dusty, perspiring face. At the sight of these two umlungus and their entourage, the women stepped off the pathway and watched in silence as the curious procession passed by. Shrill voices sounded as the water-carriers interrogated the adults, their answers punctuated by the excited interjections of the children, some pointing wildly at the one-hundred Rand note that was still in Paddy’s hand.
Now entering the pantomime—and as if by design—they were suddenly aware of a row of telephone poles with cable joining the uprights that appeared to the left of the pathway and disappeared over a nearby rise—a lifeline if ever there was one. "We have to be close," said Paddy, as much to himself as to no one in particular, looking intently at his watch. At least that was still working, he thought, the dial looking back at him. 4.48pm was the message on the digital face.
At 5.03pm, Paddy, Matthew and the quaint procession broke the cover of the bush and arrived at a structure with half mud and half rusted corrugated iron walls. A wooden door with a thick chain and a brass lock adorned the front face, and a sign above its entrance proudly proclaimed, "Shop!" They contemplated the locked door, realising that it was just after five—closing time for most stores worldwide. Paddy and Matthew looked at each other in disbelief. Could the gods be conspiring against them to such a degree? The silence of the group was broken by the old man who issued what seemed to be an instruction to the children. The three of them scampered past the shop and disappeared down a path which exited the grounds of the trading post.
A large tree with a rudimentary bench completed the domestic scene. The ground under and around the tree was bare and appeared to be the spot where tired limbs rested—and where important matters of the bush and tribal life were discussed. The weary travellers accepted the implied invitation of the adults and sat on a section of the bench that had been left unoccupied for them, and the group settled down. The children and the other adults sat cross-legged on the sand, chattering incessantly. Paddy wondered to himself what these simple tribes-people could possibly still have to say to each other as their chattering had not stopped since leaving the village more than an hour earlier. Could this British incursion into their world be such an unusual occurrence and novelty? He concluded that this was the only logical explanation.
A small, well-dressed man appeared from the pathway at the rear of the store, accompanied by the children who had been sent to find him. He studied the two white men for a moment, confirming what the children had probably told him, and then with a smile and a nod, produced a noisy bunch of keys from his pocket and fumbled with the lock and chain. The door swung open, and our storekeeper reached for a candle and lit it. The dull glow revealed an assortment of items for sale. This was unlike any other store that our travellers had ever seen. Bicycle tyres tied with string hung from the roof. A rudimentary counter bisected the small shop with packets of sugar, mealie-meal, matches, candles and the other items essential to tribal life in the bush displayed upon it. At the far end of the counter was a gleaming radio, wrapped in plastic, sporting a yellow label, and in capital letters marked, NEW. Why the English word was used was something that Matthew brought up in discussion some time later, reasoning that although none of the usual customers could read English, the word probably gave this modern musical contraption an elevated status. It was only an idea, but what else could the use of this foreign word mean?
The storekeeper handed Matthew the hand piece of the phone, who, in turn, gave it to his father. As Paddy took it, it suddenly dawned on him that he did not know who to call. A chilled silence broke the euphoria of their perceived success. Paddy well knew the dialling code and number of his home in far-away Surrey, but that was useless in their present desperation. He thought that he remembered Bruce and Margie’s Johannesburg number, but that was of no use because they were not home. He paled as he hesitated, and asked Matthew a concerned question, tinged with hopelessness, "Do you have any ideas?"
By this time, the entire group from the village had crowded into the cramped confines of the store, and, for the first time, the chattering had stopped. Everyone looked expectantly at Paddy, wide-eyed and in blank expectation. "I wonder about Fugitives Drift?" Paddy suggested, "I think I picked up a business card when we left." The thought had just dawned on him that prior to arriving at the Blaaukrans River crossing and the meeting with Piet Skiet and his equine charges, they had spent two days at the world-famous Fugitive’s Drift Lodge with its raconteur David Rattray and the oiled Rattray machine that drove their historical offering into the eager minds of international and local history buffs.
Paddy fumbled in his wallet, and from its leathery darkness produced a business card that proudly proclaimed the establishment in question. Not daring to anticipate any good fortune—the day having certainly robbed them of all they hoped for, Paddy carefully dialled the number on the card. It rang several times, too many times, in fact, and was not answered.
Paddy again checked his watch, and resignedly uttered, "Drinks time around the fire. Nobody in the office." He tried again. On the third attempt, a well-trained secretarial voice answered and agreed to fetch David.
The conversation that followed between these two well-heeled gentlemen was nothing short of classical.
"Hello David, this is Paddy Finnegan."
"Why, hello Paddy, how are you and the Finnemores."
Paddy was now confident that he had correctly placed the name and the face in the party that had just left Fugitives’ establishment.
"We’re all in the pink," Paddy replied, and, with a slight hesitation and an afterthought added, "Yes. In the pink. Thank you."
There was an imperceptible pause before Paddy continued. "No, not really, David. Matthew and I are lost. Terribly lost"
David Rattray must have blinked at the response. Lost? Yet phoning me?
The relief of this lifeline conversation became apparent as Paddy outlined their plight and the seeming hopelessness of their situation. He waited.
David remained silent on the other end of the line, processing all that he had heard.
"Who is with you?" he asked, "Let me speak to the storekeeper, I’m sure we can salvage the rest of the day for you."
Paddy handed the phone to the Zulu storekeeper and listened and watched as the conversation unfolded, punctuated by the storeman’s nodding, gesticulating until finally, agreement and a smile. The conversation between the two Zulu-speaking individuals ended, and the phone was handed back to Paddy.
"What’s happening?" Paddy asked, anxiously.
David explained that the store was some distance from the Ladysmith-Weenen road and that the storeman would walk them to it. David undertook to contact the Ladysmith police and request a van to drive the length of the road to locate them. It seemed that, at last, the tide of their bad fortune had turned. "Oh," David added, almost with perceptible embarrassment, "The storeman’s assistance has been agreed at two hundred Rand. Do you have money with you?"
With confirmation of the store keeper’s reward and a few grateful closing remarks, Paddy took leave of his rescuer and ended the call. Before the storekeeper’s mind, or the price, could interfere with their release, Paddy fumbled in his wallet and handed over the agreed two one-hundred Rand notes. With a flourish, he handed another one-hundred Rand note to the storekeeper, and yet another to the small boy who had held his hand along the path to the store. Matthew, watching the lines of tension melt from his father’s face, wondered whether such a considerable sum of money had ever changed hands in so short a time in that little shop before.
With the atmosphere having perceptibly changed, Paddy briefly outlined the plan to Matthew, adding that David would be contacting Zingela camp and arranging for a collection at the Blaaukrans crossing. Almost as an afterthought, Paddy added—somewhat gravely—"I wonder if they will send Piet Skiet?" The Ladysmith police contacted Zingela, and the intrepid duo was finally on their way home.
At 7.15pm, it was not the horse-drawn carriages that met the Ladysmith police van at the Blaaukrans River crossing, but the Zingela camp Land Rover transport. It had not crossed the minds of our guests that this time the river crossing was not on the backs of Zulu bearers, but rather over a rocky drift which posed no challenge to the vehicle. The Zingela crew had come well-equipped with blankets, coffee, and the obligatory bottle of Old Brown Sherry, a beverage that was a most welcome compliment to the cold night air—even though Paddy had remarked that it was "a little different" to their regular British brand.
Paddy and Matthew returned the jackets that the police had lent them to keep warm, and Paddy jokingly commented that he quite liked his image in the uniform jacket of a sergeant, adding that he did not, however, feel that he would have easily assimilated into the KwaZulu police force.
At 8.00pm, after having been lost and separated from us for almost ten hours, the welcome back at camp was a mixture of tumultuous exuberance and relief—exuberance at the return of the lost souls, and relief that we would be able to finally bring our tired eyelids down on the events of the day, knowing that the occupants of all beds were accounted for, and all pillows beneficially used. The camp kitchen once again excelled themselves, although, at this stage of the day’s events, any sustenance would have tasted like a royal banquet.
When all plates had been cleared, and the air was filled with the details of the day’s adventure, Mark beckoned me away from the fire.
"What do you want to do with the dancers?" he asked.
The plans for the day, having been previously and meticulously planned, had included some after-dinner entertainment.
"I think I should consult my boss," was my considered reply, indicating to Margie that she was needed.
With coffee and mug-sized containers of Old Brown Sherry being consumed, Mark suddenly looked up and across the now-black Thukela.
"What is that fire on the other side?", he asked with contrived theatrical urgency.
Shouting at the top of his voice in Zulu, he asked of the bodies visible in the dancing flames, "What is that fire? What are you doing?" These lines had been well-rehearsed, and the returning answer was that they were having a party, and did the umlungus wish to join in?
Mark, in his usual persuasive manner, enthusiastically explained the nature of the fire and suggested that we join the party on the far bank. His proposal was met with welcome enthusiasm, bringing with it a diversion to the trauma of the day, and an excuse—as if we needed one—for more Old Brown Sherry in mug-sized containers.
Coincidentally—and although the fact went unnoticed—four large inflatable boats had been moored close by, and we tumbled into them and were paddled across the river by the camp’s staff. The two hours that we spent across the river were—it has to be said—a culminating highlight of the day with dancing, eating, and the exchange of "happy talk" across inter-language, and intercultural barriers, fueled no doubt by a fair dollop of alcohol.
In all my years visiting Zingela, I have never—before or since—captured such amazing photos of young Zulu dancers in such an authentic setting. The dance party, together with the safe return of the Paddy and Matthew, had almost been scripted as the closing events of this remarkable and unforgettable day.
We understand that Paddy and Matthew’s adventure has been told—and retold—in the pubs and around the dinner tables of friends and family in England over the years. It was naturally an adventure of which I know no equal.
Larry Reilly, Paddy’s longtime exuberant and gregarious friend and dental partner in their upmarket practice on the Guildford High Street, having heard Paddy regale friends and colleagues of the adventure so many times, has—with a certain amount of jealousy at not having been a part of this grand adventure—assumed the authoritative role of story-teller of this particular take. It is believed that Larry, with his strong Irish accent, has gone as far as colouring the already-colourful story with the introduction of wild beasts of all kinds—including tigers, pygmies and head-hunting savages.
Margie and I subsequently visited Paddy in his home in the picturesque town of Cobham in Southern England. Above the main fireplace hangs an enormous photograph of a lineup of Zulu boys and bare-breasted Zulu girls, the dancers whom Paddy laughingly describes as his "African family". In the middle of the dancers, with arms interlinked, stands a pair of beaming Englishmen.