Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  Walters swore at her. With one bloodied hand clamped to his neck he fired again, lower this time; a spout of dirt rose near her right foot.

  Claire kept running and heard hoofbeats, but the pistol fired again. Walters could not have retrieved his wayward horse and be riding and shooting again so quickly. Claire risked another glance backwards and saw that the captain had stopped firing at her. Instead, he was turning and raising his pistol to take aim at another horseman who was charging across the field towards him.

  Claire was almost at the tree line and when she made it she took cover behind a tree and watched as the horseman bore down on Walters. The British officer must have run out of ammunition or suffered a stoppage. He started to run.

  The man on horseback had also run out of ammunition, by the look of it, because Claire watched him draw his own pistol with his free hand and then twirl it on his finger like an American cowboy, so he was holding it by the barrel, like a mini club.

  The rider whipped the reins on the horse’s neck on either side of the saddle and the beast broke into a gallop. Another mounted man appeared behind the first.

  Claire watched, drawing some satisfaction from the wide-mouth look of panic on Walters’ face as he ran in her direction. The mounted man drew back his arm and slashed down with the pistol. Claire couldn’t help but wince at the loud ‘crack’ that ensued as Walters pitched forward into the earth. He did not get up again.

  She could see, now, to her surprise, that the man who had just struck Walters was the Australian sergeant, Blake. The second man, younger and in British khaki, was riding in his wake.

  Behind them both was an officer, with a pistol drawn, and Claire could see that this was Roderick, the man she’d been trying to seduce. He had seen Blake club down Walters and now Roderick was firing.

  Claire thought that Roderick must surely catch Blake, who was slowing as he approached her, but then the other rider with Blake dropped back, wheeled his mount and grabbed Roderick, pulling him from his saddle. Together the men tumbled from their horses. The fight between them soon ended when Roderick gained the upper hand and shot the younger man.

  Roderick fired a wild shot at Blake, who seemed to be fleeing. Claire stepped from behind the tree and stood in full view of him.

  ‘Give me your arm,’ Blake called as the distance between them rapidly closed.

  Claire hesitated.

  ‘Your arm!’ he called again.

  Another shot rang out from behind him and Blake instinctively ducked lower in the saddle. Claire raised her hand.

  Blake holstered the pistol and leaned over to the right. He grasped her by the forearm and she matched his grip. He swung her up and around him, leaning to the opposite side of the saddle to counter her weight. She landed on the horse’s rump behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He spurred his mount into a gallop again.

  There were two quick pistol shots fired in succession behind them, but both bullets flew wide of their mark.

  ‘That’s him out of ammunition now,’ Blake said.

  Looking over her shoulder Claire saw that Roderick had given up all thoughts of pursuing them and was rushing to Captain Walters, presumably to give him first aid.

  ‘Hold tight,’ Blake said as they approached a fallen tree. The horse took the jump in its stride and Claire was thrown hard into Blake’s back as they landed. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘keep riding!’

  ‘I’ve no intention of staying here. Which way?’

  ‘East,’ she said. ‘Towards Komatipoort and the border.’

  Chapter 16

  Windhoek, Namibia, the present day

  Anja’s phone rang. Reluctantly she put down Claire Martin’s report. It was Oom Otto.

  ‘Anja, are you coming to Joe’s? We’re all here.’

  Anja checked her watch. She had been so engrossed in the letters that she had lost track of time. Only now did she notice that the sun had almost set. ‘Sorry, Oom Otto, I’m coming just now.’

  Anja ended the call. As much as she liked her dear Uncle Otto she would much rather have curled up with a Tafel beer in her room and transported herself back to 1902 than make small talk with a bunch of foreign tourists.

  However, her mother’s admonishments came back to her. She did need to get out more and cultivate a social life. Who knew, she mused as she collected her papers and trudged back to her room, perhaps she might meet a nice single Namibian man and settle down here.

  Now that would piss her mother off. She smiled to herself.

  Anja took a quick shower to freshen up then walked briskly along Nelson Mandela Avenue to Joe’s. The building was nothing much to look at from the outside, more like a factory or warehouse with its wire-topped brick wall, but once she walked around, through the car park, she could hear the bar coming to life inside.

  It was not even seven, but the place was already almost full. Joe’s was not so much one bar, but more a collection of dining and drinking areas concealed amid a mass of antiques, bric-a-brac and downright clutter. Its eclectic decor ranged from wooden toilet seats glued to the tops of bar stools to a tiny Fiat car that hung precariously over one of the entry ways. The vehicle had been abandoned by some European travellers who made it cross country as far as Joe’s before bequeathing their ride to the pub.

  Anja pinpointed Otto’s mass of thick grey curls and made her way through a coachload of tourists in khaki and leopard print who were waiting to be seated by a harried waitress.

  Anja was about to call out to him when a man stepped between two tables to her left and, apparently looking the other way, bumped into her. Beer slopped onto her left hand.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, shaking her fingers.

  ‘Oh my, I’m so, so sorry.’

  Anja looked up into the man’s face now that he was looking the right way. He was taller than her, slim, with thick black wavy hair sporting just the right amount of product. He looked fit and was well dressed, not in tourist clothes, but in slim-fit jeans, a pink polo and expensive sneakers.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘It is fine,’ she said. ‘You did not spill too much on me.’

  ‘No, but I feel terrible now. Let me get you a serviette. I’m so terribly sorry.’

  He sounded South African, well educated, as if he had gone to an expensive school. Whatever his background he was strikingly handsome.

  ‘Really, it is not a problem, excuse me.’ Anja finally managed to navigate herself around the polite stranger, who apologised yet again, and made her way through the tourist throng to Otto.

  ‘Hello, Anja!’ Otto was an enthusiast and he greeted her as he always did, as if it had been two years rather than two hours since he’d last seen her. ‘Come meet my new friends.’

  Anja’s inner introvert cringed. As a tour guide Otto was part-showman and a bon vivant. He had already memorised the names of the ten people in his group – something that would have taken Anja a week.

  If this hadn’t been the only chance she would have to spend time with Otto before going back out to the desert, then she would not have bothered. A repeat visitor from Germany began telling Anja about a life-changing experience she’d had in Etosha, when she had witnessed her first lion kill. Anja hadn’t even had a chance to go get a drink, and the woman was just centimetres from her face.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, special delivery. Peace offering.’

  Anja followed the eyes and admiring smile of the tourist and looked behind her. It was the good-looking guy who had just bumped into her and he had two glasses in his hand, one of red wine and the other white.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you liked wine or which type, but I took a guess and ordered a couple of nice ones. I won’t stay, but perhaps you could take one of these off my hands and I’ll keep the other.’

  Anja was taken aback. If the m
an hadn’t been so handsome, and his smile so genuine, she would have turned him away. Still, she didn’t know what to say.

  ‘If you don’t accept a glass of wine from this man, then I will,’ said the tourist.

  Anja also saw the intrusion as a means of escaping the woman. ‘OK, white, please.’

  Otto bustled back to them. ‘Oh, Anja, I see you’ve met Scott.’

  The handsome man smiled at her and held out a hand.

  She took it and shook, then looked to Otto. ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘Just met,’ Scott said, drawing her attention back to him. ‘Otto was by himself, waiting for his guests, when I arrived. I saw his tour guide credentials badge and was picking his brains for good fishing spots on the coast.’

  ‘Oh,’ Anja said.

  ‘My niece defected to Germany with her mother, but she’s one of us, a local, really,’ Otto said. ‘Anja, Scott, can you excuse me, please? I have to keep doing the rounds.’

  ‘I’ll come with you and help,’ said the woman who had been talking to Anja.

  ‘Thank you,’ Anja said to Scott. ‘You may have saved me from a fate worse than death – that is, unless you want to tell me your lion stories.’

  He laughed, showing again his perfect teeth. ‘Oh, I don’t have nearly enough lion stories, though I’m hoping to go back to South Africa with some fishing tales.’

  Anja sipped her drink. ‘You’re here on holiday? Forgive me, but you’re not dressed like a tourist.’

  ‘Well I’m from Cape Town, so, no, we don’t usually get around in floppy bush hats with leopardskin puggarees. Actually, I’m here working on plans for a new housing estate outside of Windhoek.’

  Anja forced a smile. ‘Really?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t look so interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘most people’s eyes glaze over when I tell them I’m a property developer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Anja said. Ordinarily she would have been looking for a quiet corner where she could escape and read, but Scott was extremely handsome and his eyes were the most beautiful blue.

  ‘What do you do, Anja?’

  ‘Part-time university tutor in Munich, fulltime PhD candidate,’ she said.

  ‘What’s your thesis going to be about?’

  ‘It relates to the history of Namibia,’ she said, her instincts making her clam up again. ‘Nothing exciting.’

  ‘I don’t know about that! As if being in real estate isn’t enough, my friends find my hobby can be quite tedious. I’m into military history, particularly the early–twentieth century conflicts in South Africa and German South West Africa.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ she said. It was harder, now, for her to keep her cool.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so? Can I ask what period or part of the country you’re studying?’

  ‘More natural history,’ she said, on guard again.

  ‘That sounds cool. One day I want to take a turn through the south of the country. I’m interested in the Nama uprising against the Germans. It doesn’t get as much coverage as the war against the Herero, and also the campaigns of the First World War, when South Africa invaded.’

  ‘I’m staying near Aus,’ Anja said quickly, suddenly wanting to keep the conversation going. Scott’s attractiveness and his interest in a period that she was currently so focused on were assaulting the barriers she normally threw up to strangers. ‘You should check out the military graves near the old German prisoner of war camp.’

  He nodded enthusiastically. ‘Definitely on my list. I come to Namibia as often as I can, so maybe I’ll see you around there?’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ She started to feel tongue-tied and looked down.

  ‘Do you have any plans? Would you like to have dinner? Unless, of course, you want to join Otto and his band of tourists.’

  ‘Er, no, thank you. I mean, yes, please, to dinner.’ She felt nervous and quite impetuous, agreeing to an invitation from a stranger so quickly, but she found herself not wanting to let him disappear into the crowd.

  ‘Great. I’ll get us a table before this place fills up.’

  While Scott was talking to a waitress Anja made her way through the throng of tourists to Otto. ‘Sorry, Scott has asked me to have dinner with him.’

  Otto gave her a wink. ‘I thought you two might have something in common. I think that’s a great idea. He’s handsome, yes?’

  ‘Oom Otto!’

  ‘I’m pleased to see you socialising with someone other than an old man like me, Anja. Enjoy your evening. I’ll look for you around Aus when I pass through there with my clients.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for your vehicle. I’d be happy to talk to your tourists about the horses if we see each other.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure they would love that.’

  Otto went back to his clients and Scott came back to her. ‘They’ve found us a table in what passes for a quiet corner here.’

  ‘Super,’ Anja said.

  The waitress came with menus and led them to their table. When they sat down Scott was framed by traditional fish traps woven from reeds, old German colonial-era Windhoek road signs and antique streetlights. There were reminders even here in the bar that modern Namibia had not forgotten its rich, varied and sometimes troubled past.

  Scott perused the menu. ‘I’m going to tackle the Eisbein, I think. Otto said it was quite an undertaking.’

  Anja smiled. ‘I’ve seen bigger men than you defeated by that dish.’

  ‘Then I’ll take that as a challenge.’

  The waitress returned and they ordered. Anja chose a gemsbok fillet. ‘They’re such beautiful antelope I almost feel bad eating them, but they’re farmed.’

  ‘Shall we split a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. Anja was already a little tipsy, but she was enjoying herself so far. Scott chose a South African Zandvliet shiraz from the wine list and smiled, showing his perfectly even teeth.

  Anja decided to take a risk and open up a bit about her studies. It was rare to find people outside of the university who were genuinely interested in history, and she realised she could not sit through the entire meal just staring into his eyes. ‘I’m looking at the desert horses of Namibia and where they really came from,’ she said, and then realised it would sound abrupt the way she’d blurted it out, but Scott looked interested.

  ‘Really came from?’ He leaned back in his chair as the waitress brought their wine. He seemed to be easygoing yet confident, and Anja couldn’t help but notice the appreciative smile the waitress gave him.

  ‘Yes,’ Anja said. ‘I’m also doing some volunteer work with the wild horses research project, helping with their study of predation of desert horse foals.’

  ‘That sounds fascinating,’ Scott said, ‘but getting back to the origin of the horses, isn’t the most common theory that they’re descended from military mounts that were either let go or escaped during the First World War?’

  ‘Yes. Most people think they were British horses from a camp near Garub, in southern Namibia. A German military aircraft bombed the encampment – there is evidence they were targeting the horses – and when their explosives detonated, a large number of horses broke free of their enclosure and scattered into the desert. Most were not recaptured.’ Anja paused. ‘However, I think their origins could go further back.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows. ‘To the time of the Herero and Nama wars?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, stopping herself, just in time.

  Their meals came and conversation was suspended while they tucked in. Anja was anxious because she had inadvertently given away the substance of her own research. But Scott was disarming.

  Scott made it about halfway through his huge pork Eisbein, but then pushed his pla
te away. ‘Phew. I’m not giving up just yet, but it’s half-time for me.’

  She laughed.

  Scott wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘What I’d like to find, maybe here in Namibia, is some primary source material about the Nama people’s wars, perhaps some oral history handed down from generation to generation. I want to get out into the mountains and deserts where the war was fought.’

  ‘It is amazing countryside,’ Anja said, in between mouthfuls. ‘It is so stark and . . . what is the English word . . . for-something?’

  ‘Foreboding maybe,’ Scott said. ‘Or forbidding, or maybe both.’

  ‘Yes, that is it. Both, I think. It’s hot and dry, mountainous, rocky, incredibly hard country for men to survive in, let alone fight in. The Germans were hampered by a lack of supplies, especially water and fresh rations, and they were unprepared for the heat and dust.’

  ‘Whereas the Nama guerrillas,’ Scott said, taking up her thread, ‘knew the land intimately, could live in it and off it, and were lightly armed and fast-moving. They used classic hit-and-run tactics like the Boers had.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Anja said, ‘but in the end, like the farmers in the Boer commandos, they were ultimately unsuccessful, not least because their supporters, their families, were rounded up and imprisoned.’

  ‘There are some interesting parallels. It’s ironic that the British taught the Germans all there was to know about concentration camps, isn’t it?’

  Anja nodded.

  ‘Sorry, I hope I haven’t caused any offence?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just refreshing to find someone who shares my interests.’