"I am relieved to hear it, Peter, "Craig smiled.
"On the other hand, the little schoolteacher there strikes me as you are the word master give me a word for her, please."
"Toothsome." "Good "Nubile."
"Even better," Peter chuckled. "I really must find time to read your book." And then he was serious again as he went on, "Her name is Sarah. She has four A levels and a high school teacher's diploma; she has qualifications in nursing, she is beautiful and yet modest, respectful and dutiful with traditional good manners did you see how she did not look directly at us men? that would have been forward." Peter nodded approval. "A modern woman with oldfashioned virtues. Yet her father is a witch-doctor who dresses in skins, divines by throwing the bones, and does not wash from one year to the next. Africa," he said. "My wonderful, endlessly fascinating ever-changing never changing Africa." The two young women returned from the outhouses behind the school and were chatting animatedly to each other, while Sally-Anne clicked away with her camera, capturing images of the children with their teacher who seemed not much older than they.
The two men watched them from the Land-Rover.
"You strike me as a man of action, Peter and I cannot believe you lack the bride-price?" Craig asked. "\X%at are you waiting for?" "She is Matabele, and I am Mashona. Capulet and Montague," Peter explained simply. "And that is an end of it." The children, led by Sarah, sang them a song of welcome from the veranda and then at Sally-Anne's request recited the alphabet and the multiplication tables, while she photographed their intent expressions. When she climbed back into the Land-Rover, they trilled their farewells and waved until the billowing dust hid them.
The track was rough and the Land-Rover bounced over the deep ruts formed in the rainy season in black glutinous mud and dried nAto the consistency of concrete.
Through gaps in the forest they glimpsed blue hills on the northern horizon, sheer and riven and uninviting.
"The Pongola Hills," Peter told them. "Bad country." And then as they neared their destination, he began telling them what they might expect when at last they arrived.
"These rehabilitation centres are not concentration camps but are, as the name implies, centres of reeducation and adaptation to the ordinary world." He glanced at Craig. "You, as well as any of us, know that we have lived through a dreadful civil war. Eleven years of hell, that have brutalized an entire generation of young people. Since their early teens, they have known no life without an automatic rifle in their hands, they have been taught nothing but destruction and learned nothing except that a man's desires can be achieved simply by killing anybody who stands in his way." Peter Fungabera was silent for a few moments, and Craig could see that he was reliving his own part in those terrible years. Now he sighed softly.
They, poor fellows, were misled by some of their leaders. To sustain them in the hardships and privations of the bush war they were made promises that could never be kept. They were promised rich farming land and hundreds of head of prime cattle, money and motor-cars and many wives of their choice." Peter made an angry gesture. "They were built up to great expectations, and when these could not be met, they turned against those who made the promises. Every one of them was armed, every one a trained soldier who had killed and would not hesitate to kill again. What were we to do?" Peter broke off and glanced at his wrist-watch. "Time for lunch and a stretch of the legs, "he suggested.
The driver parked where the track crossed a high earthen causeway and a timber bridge over a riverbed in which cool green waters swirled over the rippled sand, banks and tall reeds nodded their heads from either bank.
The escort built a fire, roasted maize cobs over it and brewed Malawi tea, while Peter walked his guests in leisurely fashion along the causeway and went on with his lecture.
"We Africans once had a tradition. If one of our young people became intractable and flouted the tribal laws, then he was sent into bush camp where the elders licked him back into shape. This rehabilitation centre is a modernized version of the traditional bush camp. I will not attempt to hide anything from you. It is no Club Med holiday home that we are going to visit. The men in it are tough, and only hard treatment will have any effect on them. On the other hand, they are not extermination camps let us rather say that they are equivalent to the detention barracks of the British army-" Craig could not help but be impressed by Peter Fungabera's honesty you are free to speak to any of the detainees, but I must ask you not to go wandering off into the bush on your own that applies to you especially, Sally-Anne," Peter smiled at her. "This is a very isolated and wild spot. Animals like hyenas and leopards are attracted by offal and sewage, and become fearless and bold. Ask me if you want to leave the camp, and I will provide you with an escort." They ate the frugal lunch, husking the scorched maize with their fingers and washing it down with the strong, black, over-sweetened tea.
"If you are ready, we will go on." Peter led them back to the Land-Rover, and an hour later they reached Tuti Rehabilitation Centre.
During the bush war it had been one of the "protected villages" set up by the Smith government in an attempt to shield the black peasants from intimidation by the guerrillas. There was a central rocky kopje that had been cleared of all vegetation, a pile of large grey granite boulders on top of which had been bhilt a small, sandbagged fort with machine-gun embrasures, firing platforms, communication trenches and dugouts. Below this was the encampment, orderly rows of mud, and-thatched huts, many with half walls to allow air circulation, built around a dusty open space which could have been parade ground or football field, for there were rudimentary goal posts set up at each end, and, incongruously, a sturdy whitewashed wall at the side nearest the fort.
A double fence of barbed, wire sandwiching a deep ditch, surrounded the camp. The wire was ten-foot high and tightly woven. The floor of the ditch was armed with closely planted, sharpened wooden stakes, and there were high guard-towers on bush poles at each corner of the stockade. The guards at the only gate saluted the Land.
Rover, and they drove slowly down the track that skirted the parade ground.
In the sun, two or three hundred young black men, dressed only in khaki shorts, were performing vigorous calisthenics to the shouts of uniformed black instructors.
In the thatched open-walled huts hundreds more were sitting in orderly rows on the bare earth, reciting in chanted unison the lesson on the blackboard.
"We'll do a tour later, Peter told them. "First we will get you settled." Craig was allocated a dugout in the fort. The earthen floor had been freshly swept and sprinkled with water to cool it and lay the dust. The only furnishings were a plaited-reed sleeping-mat on the floor and a sacking screen covering the doorway. On the reed mat was a box of matches and a packet of candles. Craig guessed that these were a luxury reserved for important guests.
Sally' Anne was allocated the dugout across the trench from his. She showed no dismay at the primitive conditions, and when Craig glanced around the screen, he saw her sitting on her reed mat in the lotus position, cleaning the tens of her camera and reloading film.