Border Manners
Len Davis
Aubade
Light fades…like life itself, it slowly slips away
But memories remain, ghostly echoes
Carrying me back to younger feckless days
In Phillip Larkin’s poem of that name, daylight brings visions of remorseless death, stealing around his curtain edges. But for me early light awakens memories, faint whispers creeping like fugitives from the night. This particular aubade sings of latitude 6° South and 1967, two weeks shy of my 27th birthday.
* * * * *
MID-AFTERNOON IN JANUARY, and the heat is merciless. We sit on backpacks huddled in the shade of the Border Post. It’s really a shack with attitude. We’re in a clearing alongside a graded red-dirt road. Faint wisps of cirrus float like gossamer against a sea-green sky burnished by a brassy sun. All around are the subdued sounds of the savannah – faint animal noises, high pitched monkey shouts, an incessant rustling, slithering. Inside the shack a lethargic fan drones steadily, counterpointing the endless buzzing of flies. Jill worries about snakes; I tell her they won’t venture into the clearing around the shack.
As a hitch-hiker’s front man, Jill is superb. Dark haired, slim, with legs up to her armpits, she’s a sure-fire siren; her success rate with male drivers is phenomenal. I tell her it’s the only reason I’ve let her tag along, although to be honest this trip is as much her idea as mine. But in a tight spot she could just as easily attract trouble.
She’s worried. The day is winding down and we need shelter overnight. The only alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. But I keep doing just that. One brief glimpse was enough. The nameless ‘turn-around compound’ is 3 miles south of here; it’s where the oil-lift drivers from the north meet those from the south and swop full petrol drums for empties. Thirty or forty men – chancers from half of Africa - all sat around drinking, gambling, arguing. And probably whoring when night falls. I’ve been in some dodgy places – I once had a narrow escape from a Soweto shebeen, and there was that nasty moment in a Gorbals brothel, but I guess this un-named encampment would be worse. God knows what Jill thinks.
‘It’s been a hour already, and nothing’s coming through north-bound, apart from that broken-down jeep with all those chickens. They’re all going south. Surely someone’s going north, if only to Mbeya. What’s that? Thirty miles from here?’ We can see the empty dirt road snaking into a hazy distance.
‘That’s what the map says. There’s bound to be something soon. We just have to be patient.’ I try to sound relaxed, but actually I’m worried stiff. Our ‘map’ is a page torn from a 1951 atlas – hardly Ordinance Survey. It was like those Victorian charts with large blank spaces labelled ‘Here be Lions’. This Border Post is not shown. The nearby village of Tunduma is not shown. We’re about two hundred miles from anywhere, in all directions. The ‘backside of beyond’ Dad would call it. It’s no place to be stranded overnight.
Jill gestures at the battered sticking plaster on her shoulder. ‘Can you..?’ Yesterday’s lift was a seven ton Volvo flatbed that had seen better days; the cab was high up and she’d cut herself dismounting. The weeping sore is a magnet for an endless swarm of tiny black flies. I dig out a fresh plaster while she smears on antiseptic cream. As I apply the plaster we hear a vehicle coming from the south. ‘At last’ she says, but we are quickly disappointed. It’s a large station wagon, coated with red-brown dust from the highway. And we can see at a glance that it’s packed to the eyebrows – clearly no room for hitchhikers.
But at least it’s a break in the monotony and lets us momentarily forget the flies, the heat. We move to view the travellers’ progress through the Border Post. The doors are open to catch the faint Easterly breeze. Jill thinks it must be an on-shore wind.
‘On shore? You’ve got to be kidding. We must be at least 250 miles from the East coast. And come to think of it, even further from the West coast.’ Jill is not really listening, we are both watching the progress of the station wagon. It has reluctantly stopped at the rickety bent pole blocking the highway. A faded sign declares ‘Zambian Border Post - All vehicles stop here.’ A bulky, perspiring, white male alights and heads inside.
The shack/Border Post faces the highway and comprises a long, low room with entrances at either end. A white line on the floor divides the room in two. Each half is furnished with a desk, two chairs and filing cabinets. Seated at each desk are the immigration officers of Zambia (southern end) and Tanzania (northern end). The white line is ‘the border’. Both sets of officials are identically dressed in white shirts, epaulettes, navy shorts, and long white socks.
The driver stomps into the Post and swears in Afrikaans. I catch the words ‘fokken swarts’ He is dressed in bush jacket, chinos, and chukka boots. He has an embittered air of frustrated entitlement. It seems to say ‘if only the world had listened to me.’ His companion (?wife) follows, panting slightly as she climbs the three steps to the entrance. She is short, plump, and exudes a tetchy superiority.
He strides to the desk and glares at the African officials. He gets off to a terrific start.
‘Who’s in charge here? Are you listening, boy? Where’s the baas?’
‘Your passports please, Suh.’ is the only response.
‘Huh! Here.’ He slams down two green RSA passports. The officer examines them closely.
‘Yes. Look carefully. That there’s the great Republic of South Africa, where blacks like you know their place. No wonder Zambia’s such a mess. Thank God we’re leaving. For good.’
‘So you don’t like our country, Mistah, er, de Grote?’ The immigration officer is scrupulously polite.
‘Are you kidding? A jumped up backwater run by uppity nigras. What’s to like?’ The speaker is unhindered by notions of politeness. His bush jacket is sticking to his back, a damp patch slowly evaporating. His wife is sticking to his arm, wearing an expression of fearful disdain.
‘You tell them, Barney’ she trills, ‘Anyone would think we’re the inferiors here. Isn’t there a European baas?’
The Zambian official asks ‘Do you have any weapons, explosives or proscribed drugs, Suh?’
‘Of course not! Not that it’s any of your fucking business!’
‘In fact, Mistah de Grote, zat is exac’ly my, ah, fuckin, business.’ The veneer is cracking. ‘Our Customs officers will examine your car and its contents, just to be sure.’ He rings a small handbell on his desk. Two more uniformed Africans appear and begin to unload the station wagon.
I suddenly realise who de Grote reminds me of. ‘He’s just like Ian Smith’ I tell Jill, ‘You know, the Ian Smith. The Rhodesian PM.’
‘He doesn’t look a bit like him’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s shorter and is losing his hair. Although the long nose is similar, I suppose.’
‘No, no, it’s his manner. Betrayed by the world. At odds with the 20th century. A chip embedded in his shoulder.’
‘Well he certainly looks tightly wound – ready to snap. Was Smith like that? You met him didn’t you?’
‘Yes, briefly. When I was staying with Garfield Todd. Smith tried and failed to get Todd’s approval for his Independence declaration.’
‘Gosh. Was it fraught?’
‘You could say that. Smith carries his anger around like a six-gun. Ever-ready to let fly. Much like this bloke.’
The bloke in question has stepped outside to survey the Customs’ examination of his vehicle. They are doing a thorough job. There is a lot of luggage. The large cabin trunk needs both men to lift it. There are also half-a-dozen assorted suitcases, with clothing and packages stuffed in around them. One by one they are laid out in the dirt, opened, and searched, none too carefully.
de Grote is incensed. ‘Oy, watch what you’re doing. That’s fragile. Goddam swarts.’ The search continues – perhaps they don’t understand? Or don’t choose to … He tells his wife ‘You’d best keep an eye on them, make sure nothing gets accidentally lost.’ He stomps back inside.
Jill grins. ‘It’s ironic, really. If it wasn’t for Smith’s UDI, we wouldn’t be here.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, no UDI, no sanctions. No sanctions, no oil lift to supply Zambia. Without the oil lift we wouldn’t be hitching from Lusaka to Dar es Salaam.’
I nod, start to answer, but am interrupted by shouts inside the Post.
‘P.I.! P.I.? Prohibited Immigrant? How dare you!’ The two green RSA passports have been stamped with the self-same initials that adorn my own passport, courtesy of his great South African Republic.
The senior official tells him ‘Since you dislike Zambia, we have no wish to detain you, Suh.’
‘Well fuck you, and fuck Kenneth fucking Kaunda. We’re off.’
He scoops up the passports and storms across the white line to the Tanzanian desk. Their two officers have watched the whole performance with interest. de Grote has not yet realised; they have played this game before.
With a bright smile the tall Tanzanian officer stands to greet him.
‘Welcome to Tanzania, Suh and madam. May we see your passports? Thank you.’
de Grote is mollified. ‘At last. Some proper civility.’
‘But what is this?’ The official simulates surprise. It’s comical. ‘You and your wife are PI, prohibited In Zambia?’
‘Of course. You just saw, didn’t you?’
‘In that case I’m afraid we cannot allow you into Tanzania,’ So saying he vigorously stamps the two passports with another set of P.I. stamps.
de Grote stammers in astonishment. ‘What? What? You can’t do that, we’re…’
The tall officer continues, no bright smile: ‘As you are not entering Tanzania, there is no need for a Customs examination.’ He rings the same handbell, and the two Customs officials immediately cease their inspection. They depart, leaving luggage strewn across the ground.
Well, as you can imagine there is now one hell of a to-do. The South Africans rage incoherently on the white line. The Zambian officials make tea. To further annoy the travellers, they politely offer them a cup. The wife starts to cry, loudly. She appeals to Jill and me. We raise our hands – we are uninvolved, strangers here ourselves. A procession of large black ants resolutely makes it way over and through the steamer trunk. Two south-bound lorries drive past, beeping their horns and waving derisively.
After 15 minutes of uproar, the South Africans are granted a 72 hour exit visa, back through Zambia. They struggle to re-pack their belongings and stow them in the station-wagon. The tall Tanzanian officer stands watching them, drinking his tea. As they prepare to leave he waves an ironic farewell. ‘Have a safe journey, Suh and Madam’ he calls.
De Grote snaps. He bounds up to the mocking official and knocks him to the ground. ‘Don’t you jeer at me, you black bastard!’ As his victim scrambles to his feet, de Grote kicks out, misses, and hauls back to punch him.
‘I wouldn’t do that’ I say, grabbing his arm, smothering his punch. Others arrive, the fracas is over as quickly as it began. de Grote stares unseeing. Behind his eyes I discern a world of collapsing certainties. The Tanzanian dusts himself down. Only his pride is hurt. He takes de Grote’s arm and roughly bundles him into the station-wagon. ‘Just leave. Don’t ever come back.’
The tall official comes and thanks me. ‘No, no, it was nothing ‘ I say, sitting on my backpack. Jill asks if he’s OK? He nods, leans against the wall, breathing deeply, recovering his composure.
‘You are heading for Mbeya? If you wish, I take you when shift is finished.’ He points to the Sun, low in the gold-green sky. ‘Soon.’ To say we were grateful is a massive understatement. Jill was delirious with relief.
And that’s how we finally entered Tanzania, courtesy of a battered Customs mini-bus. I always say, it don’t do to be stroppy at borders. How do you think I got my PI stamp in Mafeking?
What’s that? You want to hear about the Dar es Salaam beach villa, the Ngorogoro caldera, and my birthday on an RAF Britannia…? Another day, another aubade.
