High by Andrew Osmond
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Martin Meek was hearing the name ‘Ghiliba’ wherever he went. It seemed to be the only recognisable word he could make out from overhearing people talking; it was screamed out at him from huge posters plastered on advertising billboards, and also from makeshift flyers stuck to pylons and on notice-boards in bars and restaurants; it was almost as though it was the very sound of the wind itself, such was the ubiquitous quality of the three galloping syllables. If there was one consolation, though, for Martin in encountering such a widespread recognition of his erstwhile drinking companion’s name, it was that he could be left in no doubt that he was indeed ‘travelling in the false prophet’s footsteps’ as had been described for him by the Ifa divination.
On the map - one square centimetre approximately equal to 7,400 square kilometres - the journey ahead of Martin appeared deceptively straightforward. He could remain in Namibia for the larger part of the initial stages of his expedition, taking advantage of the geographical anomaly of the Caprivi Strip* to avoid any necessity for having to cross into Angola, and the potential minefield - ho, hum - of border immigration, before linking up with the Zambezi River and following that mighty waterway due north, straight through Zambia, until it emerged in the Democratic Republic of Congo* from where it looked a relatively easy proposition to pick up the course of the Zaire River. Then it was a right turn at the Mitumba Mountains, and next stop Goma. Easy.
Perhaps surprisingly, the word ‘easy’ genuinely could have been applied to describe Martin’s transverse of Namibia: the roads were generally well made up and it had proved possible to hitch lifts when other means of transport had not been available. Besides that, he still had a considerable amount of what he euphemistically referred to as his ‘holiday fund’ left, in reality a combination of his own savings and money that he had ‘earned’ by pawning a considerable quantity of Garnet Wendelson’s more portable possessions the day before he vacated the Park Avenue apartment for the final time. On the occasion when a rare hurdle presented itself along the course of his chosen path, he found that Namibia’s infrastructure was sufficiently robust that it could normally be overcome by throwing money at the problem.
Martin’s first real problem turned up at the Zambian border and the point where he encountered the Zambezi River for the first time, and this was a difficulty that no amount of money was going to change. The river flowed in the wrong direction.
In his imagination, Martin had pictured himself, Livingstonesque, attired in a white safari suit and pith helmet - not that he possessed the latter - kneeling upright and alert in the hull of a small, single occupant wooden canoe, every now and then idly caressing the surface of the gently flowing waters with the tip of his rounded paddle, purely in order to maintain the optimum navigational course, while the river carried him effortlessly, relentlessly onwards, ever closer to his final destination. Not for one moment did he imagine encountering the monstrous confluence that actually presented itself before him, and far from being gently conveyed in a northerly direction towards the DRC, it was clear that any inexperienced oarsman reckless enough to consign his vessel to this particular river’s whims was much more likely to have it end up as so much match wood to be flushed over the nearby Victoria Falls. How could the map have been so wrong? The thin blue line, wiggling oh so tranquilly across the page conveyed nothing of the teaming, frothing, turbulent reality. Martin hoped that this was not a prelude to the way of things to come. Whatever, it was clear that a change of plan was going to be necessary.
••••••••••
“Name all the countries in the world with a letter ‘z’ in them.”
“What?”
“You heard. I’ll start off. Zambia.”
Martin still sounded doubtful, “Why? Next you’ll be wanting me to name all the states of America that begin with the letter ‘m’.”
The quizmaster replied automatically, without breaking his concentration from watching the road ahead. “Maine, Massachusetts, Montana, Mississippi, Missouri, Maryland, Minnesota and Michigan. We’ll come to those later. First, countries with a ‘z’. Come on, it'll help to pass the time. I’ll give you another one. Zimbabwe.”
“Switzerland?” Martin had offered, doubtfully.
“Yes, good. My turn. Brazil.”
It had initially appeared like a massive stroke of good fortune when the strangely familiar silhouette of a white, Mini Clubman estate car had appeared over the brow of the hill, and even more opportune when it had pulled up to a bumping halt in the pot holes next to where Martin had been standing at the side of the dusty road, thumb optimistically raised in traditional hitch hiking stance. When he had heard the driver’s strong English West Midlands accent it seemed as though someone was truly looking out for him. The Mini was only the third car to have passed Martin in over two hours, and neither of the other two drivers had done so much as change down a gear in order to reduce their speed sufficiently to be able to gawp at the unlikely figure standing at the roadside, before they raced past to merge into the swirling heat haze that hung above the near horizon, like a shimmering vortex into an alternative universe.
“Climb in,” had said the cheery voice. “I’m going as far as Lusaka if that is any good to you?”
Conspicuously lacking any more attractive alternatives, Lusaka had sounded like paradise to Martin. He had clambered eagerly through the open front door of the small car, pushed back the seat to accommodate his long legs, and sat back, happy to be taken wherever the road led.
“Venezuela,” said Martin continuing the South American connection.
“Swaziland.”
Martin was already beginning to struggle to think of an answer, but at the same time had found himself quickly hooked on the simple premise of the challenge and was unwilling to admit defeat so quickly. “How many are there?” he asked, trying to play for more thinking time.
“I don’t know. I can think of... oh, lots more. Do you want a clue?”
“No,” said Martin, definitely and defiantly.
“Another two in Africa.”
“I know,” answered Martin, annoyed now. “Tanzania,” he finally answered, triumphantly.
“Mozambique,” came the immediate reply; the challenge thrust back upon Martin like a perfectly returned volley in a game of tennis.
“Uzbekistan,” replied Martin, surprised by his own powers of geographical recollection.
His companion replied, his voice displaying a mixture of anger and incomprehension, “No former Soviet Republics.”
“You never said that before.”
“I would have thought that was obvious. No former Soviet Republics*.”
The Brummie Mini Clubman owner had introduced himself to Martin as Geoff. His own story, which he had related to Martin at length, when he had first acquired his new passenger, was every bit as strange as the tale Martin could have told of his own recent adventuring - should he have been allowed to get a word in edgeways - and was to reveal that he was also on something of a personal pilgrimage.
“My third trip down here, you know,” Geoff had said, conversationally. “Always come over when I’ve got a problem with the old girl.” He had patted the brown, padded steering wheel affectionately.
“Pardon?”
“The Mini. Been playing up a bit, just recently. Not surprising given she’s going on forty. Cars are like dogs, you know. You have to measure their ages on a different scale to us humans.”
“Really.”
“In human terms, the old girl here would be going on a hundred. Don’t see many like her still around.”
“No.” Martin had had to admit that Geoff was correct in that assessment.
“Do you know how many miles she’s done?”
“No.”
“367,000.”
“Amazing.”
“Do you know how many times around the earth that is?”
“No,” Mart
“Almost fifteen times*. On her third engine she is.”
“Incredible.”
“Still a few years left in her yet. It’s the spares though, that’s the problem. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
“You go into any garage back in Birmingham and say you want a new cam shaft for a 1972 British Leyland Mini Clubman estate, do you know what answer you get?”
“No.”
“Same thing they tell you if you ask for a new exhaust mounting, even if you only want a fresh set of spark plugs.”
“What?”
“Can’t get the parts, sir. That’s what they say. If I’ve had those words said to me once, I’ve had them said to me a thousand times. Can’t get the parts. A thousand times. If I had a pound for every time a mechanic has said that to me, do you know, I’d have...”
“A thousand pounds.”
“Exactly right. Which is why I’m here.”
Martin had still sounded slightly confused, “I don’t think I quite see.”
“You know British Leyland?”
“I seem to know the name. Before my time.”
“Oh, a golden age for British motoring, it was then. Merged with DAF cars, you know, from the Netherlands, Holland, back in 1987, became Leyland DAF. Right.”
“Yes,” Martin had agreed, unsure of his own facts, but quite happy to trust Geoff’s knowledge.
“Got into a bit of difficulty and became LDV in 1993, making vans, and the like.”
“Okay.”
“Well, when they were still called Leyland DAF, do you now where they established a spares workshop?”
Martin had begun to see where his chauffeur’s story was heading, but didn’t want to ruin the surprise of the ending by jumping in with an inspired guess. “Tell me.”
“Here. In Lusaka, to be precise. I tell you, it is like a little gold mine. Minis, Mokes, old Austin Healeys - remember them? - you name it, you can find the spares for it here. I tell you, the fun I’ve had. You know those garages back in Birmingham.”
“The ones that say, can’t get the parts, sir?”
“That’s it. You know what I say now?”
“No.”
“When they say, can’t get the parts, sir, I says to them, oh yes you can, you can get them in Zambia, you can. Shuts them up every time.”
It had shut up Martin too. There had appeared to be nothing more that could be said. Now several hours into their journey to the Zambian capital city, and the distractions of the scenery palling and the limitations of ‘I-Spy’ having been painfully exposed, Geoff’s boundless supply of pub quiz style trivia appeared to be the only source of entertainment.
“Belize,” said Martin, surprised, and not a little embarrassed at himself by just how much glee a correct answer could provide him.
“Good one,” said Geoff, like a proud parent encouraging a slightly backward child, “That’s one that a lot of people overlook.”
“You mean you’ve played this game before?”
“Yes, of course,” said Geoff.
“So you know all the answers in advance?”
“Question of remembering them though, isn’t it,” said Geoff, removing one hand from the steering wheel in order to tap the side of his nose with one finger, “That’s the point. Czech Republic.”
“Bugger,” said Martin. He thought silently for some seconds, before asking, “Are there any more?”
“New...”
“No, don’t tell me. New Zealand. Of course,” said Martin.
“You won’t get the last one,” said Geoff, confidently.
“Don’t be so sure,” replied Martin, the hot blood of competition coursing through his veins. “Give me time to think. One more, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Of course,” said Martin, triumphantly, “Zaire.”
“Well,” said Geoff, “There we are on rather sticky ground, aren’t we. Last week you might have got away with Zaire, but as I understand it from the latest news, Kabila’s men have regained power once more, and it is back as the Democratic Republic of Congo once again. Not a ‘z’ in sight, my friend. Next week the warlords might have seized control again, renamed the place once more, and then you can have your Zaire back, but for the time being, well, rules is rules. So, think again.”
Martin racked his brains for the names of some more countries. He ran over the place names of the destinations he had visited with Garnet; tried to recall the names of all the tiniest specks in the South Pacific, all to no avail. “One more? You’re quite sure?”
“I’ll give you a clue,” said Geoff, superiorly. “It’s in Europe.”
••••••••••
Martin fell asleep without having worked out the name of the missing country. The gentle motion of the moving car, combined with the largely uniform scenery outside and the surprisingly rhythmic rattle of the Mini’s engine, all came together to provide the ideal conditions for peaceful slumber. Martin had been tempted to feign sleep on several occasions earlier, generally when Geoff’s seemingly inexhaustible capacity for remembering useless facts and his annoying habit of recalling and recounting ‘top ten lists’ became too oppressive, but he had forced himself to remain alert after Geoff had informed him that he was glad to have some company because he often dozed off at the wheel during long journeys - “it was how I came to lose my job as a long distance lorry driver”.
As Martin began to feel his head nod and his eyes slowly close, small sound bites from Geoff’s previous monologues began to flash through his mind; tiny nuggets of information about the country to which he was ultimately voyaging: “rumble in the jungle*”; “heart of darkness”. The names of various political parties, each warring with one another now for over a decade, each desperate to control a small corner of the vast African land, now raced through Martin’s head as easily as they had originally tripped off Geoff’s tongue: “Congolese Rally for Democracy”; “Liberation Movement for Congo”; “Hutu Militia”; “Pygmy Power”. Into this melting pot of tension, and conversely through Martin’s agitated brain, were thrown the names of the few neighbouring countries each trying to claim a stake in the region at war: “Rwanda”; “Burundi”; “Uganda”; “Zimbabwe” - and also the names of the mineral resources which gave the fighting its cause, if not its reason: “copper”; “cobalt”; “diamonds”. And, as Martin found sleep finally overcoming him, there was one other sound he kept hearing; a continuous, repetitive noise in his head, swept along inexhaustibly as if carried by the Zambezi itself; a guttural, unpleasant sound, like the gobbling of a turkey, or the mutterings of Tolkein’s Gollum; a constant reminder of what lay ahead: “Ghiliba, Ghiliba, Ghiliba”.
Martin did not know how long he had been asleep. It was only Geoff’s insistent prodding which finally roused him from his unsettling dreams, that and the intrusion of a distinctive West Midlands accent into his nightmare, informing him that they were approaching the “outskirts of Lusaka”. Still it took him some time to become awake completely: the nocturnal images he had conjured of a war-torn Democratic Republic of Congo were powerful, reminding him of news footage he had seen of past conflicts on his own continent: Kosovo and Serbia; Albania and Bosnia. Bosnia? Martin rolled his head from side to side across the headrest of the seat, mumbling something incoherently as he fought to stir himself awake, his eyes still remaining shut, only half aware that he was dribbling slightly in his sleep. Bosnia and...? He opened his eyes, and was confronted by his own reflection staring back at him from the small mirror implanted in the back of the white leather, padded sun visor above the car’s windscreen, which Geoff had thoughtfully pulled down while Martin had slept. He looked a sight: his hair was standing bolt upright as though it had been fixed by gel, and his eyes looked rheumy and unfocused. There was something he had just been thinking about which was important. What was it? It was vital that he remembered it now, before he
“Bosnia and Herzegovina!”
Geoff removed his attention from the road ahead, where the seemingly endless landscape of dry scrub had given way to reveal a few rough dwellings, made from sheets of corrugated iron, and where two teenage boys were kicking a football in the orange dust, to look at his seated companion, admiringly.
“Very good,” he said. “I must admit I didn’t think you’d get it. Now, how about capital cities beginning with the letter ‘k’? I’ll start. Kinshasa.*”