The Jason Green series Box Set

by Gordon Wallis

  The drive to the hunting outfitter’s shop took twenty minutes through heavy traffic and by the time we arrived I was wet with sweat. I grabbed the day bag that contained the hard drive and slung it over my shoulder as I reached into the back seat for the crutches.

  “I'll be back soon,” I said to the driver who nodded and thanked me.

  The interior of the shop was air conditioned and stocked to the roof with all manner of camping, hunting and fishing equipment. An impressive range of hunting rifles were displayed to the rear of the glass sales counter, but I wasn't there for one of those.

  “Can I help you sir?” asked the young sales assistant.

  “I'm looking for a hunting knife,” I replied pointing at the selection on display under the glass counter. “A big one.”

  The young man opened the cabinet and handed me the largest example he had. I pulled the blade from the leather sheath and turned it in my hand. The polished metal gleamed in the light and I saw my reflection on the surface. It felt balanced and heavy in my hand.

  “This will do fine,” I said still staring at the knife. “I'd like a sharpening stone and some honing oil as well please.”

  I put the knife back in its sheath as the young man fetched my order. Once I had paid, I bagged the lot. thanked him and made my way out into the fierce sun and the waiting taxi. The traffic on the Kafue Road was heavy and it took another twenty minutes to get to the gate of Ulrika Camp. We turned left on to a dirt road and travelled for a hundred metres until we arrived at a game fence and a small brick guard house with a boom. A sleepy looking guard walked up to the driver’s side of the vehicle and after a brief conversation he made his way back to lift the boom so we could drive through. The smooth dirt road to the reception of the camp was two kilometres long and it wound its way through the dappled shade of a forest of Msasa and Mopani woodland. The surrounding grass was tall and green, but I noticed a few Impala and Warthog grazing as we drove. The reception was a huge thatched structure with brick walls painted with African designs set under the trees with a car park to the front. I left the driver sitting in the car as I made my way into the building to check in. The interior was dim and cool and I noticed a bar area with a pool table and television to the right. On the high roof hung the flags of various countries and a barman stood diligently polishing glasses.

  I rang a bell at the reception and immediately a door opened and a portly white lady in her mid-sixties came out to greet me.

  “Hi there,” she said. “Are you Mr Green?”

  “Hi. Yes, Jason Green, pleased to meet you,” I said offering my hand while keeping the crutch under my arm.

  “Welcome to Ulrika,” she said as she peered over the reception desk at my leg. “What happened to you?”

  “Oh, hunting accident,” I replied. “Nothing serious.”

  “I've put you in chalet number five. It's the furthest from here and quite secluded but I'm worried now seeing as you're on crutches.”

  “That's perfectly fine,” I said. “I need the exercise.”

  After the formalities I was given a set of keys on a string attached to a wooden plaque and one of the waiters walked with me to the waiting cab. To the left were a series of thatched A frame chalets each set thirty metres apart stretching off into the woods.

  “Yours is the last one, sir” said the waiter with a worried look on his face.

  “That's fine,” I said. “Let's go”

  I told the driver to follow us and we made our way down the track that led behind the buildings. I opened the back door to the small kitchen area of the chalet as the waiter busied himself collecting my bags from the car. The interior was dark and cool and there was a musty smell in the air as if the building had not been used in a while. I walked back to pay the waiting driver as the waiter made his way inside with the bags to open up. Once the driver had gone, I made my way back into the building to find the waiter had opened the double doors to the front and the building was filled with light and fresh air. Beyond the kitchenette there was a rustic wooden lounge suite upholstered with green canvas cushions on a concrete floor. Scattered around were occasional tables made from rough wood and to the right was a work station. To the left was the entrance to the shower and toilet and above was a deck where I imagined the bed would be. The stairs were wide and shallow so would be easy to navigate on the crutches.

  I made my way through the lounge area and out to the deck at the front of the building. In front was a large grassy glade that stretched off to the tree line a hundred metres away. To my left a herd of Zebra stood with their heads bowed as they grazed the fresh green grass.

  “Is it okay for you sir?” asked the young waiter with an expectant look on his face.

  “Perfect,” I said as I handed him a $10.00 note.

  I spent the next hour unpacking my bags and having a look around the chalet. The upstairs area was small but clean and the bed had a much-needed mosquito net above it. I set up my laptop at the work station connected to the WIFI network and browsed the news. After being cooped up for so long in hospital I soon grew impatient and shut down the computer. I grabbed my day bag and walked out on the deck to the front of the chalet. The open space and fresh air were invigorating and for the first time in ages I felt free and unrestrained. I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to soak up the rays of the warm African sun. My mind drifted as I sat for a good twenty minutes until the reason I was there slowly began to tug at my consciousness. Eventually I sat forward, lit a cigarette and stared across the tree line towards the South where I knew the Zambezi River flowed. The time will come Green. Half an hour later I grabbed the hard drive, locked the chalet and made my way up the track towards the main reception area of the camp. By then I was able to move at some speed on the crutches and it only took a few minutes until I was once again greeted at the front desk by the owner.

  “I was wondering if you had a safe. This hard drive has all of my work on it,” I said.

  “Sure, Mr Green. I'll have that locked up no problem,” she replied as I handed her the device.

  I made my way back out to the car park to decide what to do. In the campsite to my right an overland truck had arrived and there were a group of people setting up tents under the trees while trance music played softly from a sound system in the vehicle. There was no way I could spend the afternoon browsing the internet or sitting on the deck of the chalet. I had been cooped up for too long and my objective was to recover and get fit. I looked down the dirt road that lead to the boom at the entrance to the camp. I knew it was at least two kilometres through the bush, but my mind was made up and I set off.

  I started at a quick pace and put my left foot down lightly every five steps. The deep pain from the puncture wound was still there although it had lessened slightly. I realized it would be some time before I would be able walk unaided.

  By the time I had covered five hundred metres I was sweating profusely and panting heavily. The crutches were chaffing under my arms and the handles were slippery in my hands, but I persevered in the humidity of the afternoon. My walking became rhythmic and repetitive as did the pain in my foot every five steps. I passed the one-kilometre mark totally oblivious of my surroundings as I blinked the sweat from my eyes. The pain became a point of focus in my mind as I went, which spurred me on towards my destination. With my head bowed I pushed and pushed looking only at the tufts of grass that marked the right-hand side of the bush road below. In my mind I saw the face of Dixon Mayuni smiling at me with his gap -toothed grin. With every fifth step the pain in my foot made the vision in my brain pulsate until it began to infuriate me. Faster and faster I went grunting repeatedly and kicking up small clouds of red dust with each step. At one stage I thought I might collapse into the green grass but instead I lifted my head and screwed up my eyes in the sunlight to see the small brick guard house and boom were only two hundred metres away.

  Without slowing I pushed on totally oblivious as to how much I had exerted my wea
kened body. Faster. Faster. I repeated the word in my mind. I lifted my head to see I had almost crashed into the rough brick wall of the guard house. Almost sobbing with the effort of the exertion and the pain I threw the crutches violently into the dust and held up my left arm to lean my head against the wall. I stood there shakily on my right leg sucking in great whooping gulps of air until finally my breathing slowed. With my eyes closed I had no idea I wasn't alone.

  “Your journey has been long and hard,” said a voice.

  I turned my head to see the guard who had lifted the boom for the taxi earlier. I had not noticed at the time, but he was an old man with a grey beard and a wrinkled wizened face. His clothes were scruffy and torn and he wore a a pair of sandals he had made from old car tyres. He stood there looking at me with an open expression and a knowing look in his eye.

  “You could say that,” I replied.

  The man reached inside the open door of the guard house and brought out a worn wooden stool fashioned in the style of the Batonka tribe of the Zambezi Valley. Without a word he placed it near the wall where I stood for me to sit on. Keeping my left leg up I swung around and gratefully sat down with my back against the dusty brick wall of the building. The old man once again reached into the hut and pulled out another stool. It stood about thirty-five centimetres high with a rounded seat and an intricately designed body. Years of wood smoke and constant use had given it a shiny black patina. The old man placed the stool near mine and sat.

  We sat in silence staring out at the trees with the sun beginning its descent like a giant orange orb.

  “You are going somewhere but you are not ready yet,” said the man without looking at me.

  I turned my head and looked at him.

  “I must be ready,” I replied.

  The old man reached down and pulled a strand of dried grass from the dusty soil. He put it in his mouth and sat back against the wall in silence. I resumed my study of the trees.

  “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” he said quietly.

  “And I have taken that step,” I replied.

  The old man nodded and reached into the door with his left arm. He retrieved an old glass Coca Cola bottle that was filled with water. Without a word he handed it to me. By then my mouth was bone dry and I took it gratefully and drank the warm liquid.

  “Thank you Mdara,” I said using the respectful Shona term for 'old man'.

  The man reached into the pocket of his ancient jacket and pulled out a pouch of loose tobacco and newspaper with which to make a cigarette.

  “No, here,” I said as I pulled the pack of cigarettes from my own pocket.

  The old man's smoky eyes lit up as he took one and we both sat back in silence to smoke. A few minutes later I stubbed out my cigarette and reached for the crutches that lay in the dust near my feet.

  “I will see you again, Mdara, my name is Jason.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “My name is Jameson.”

  I took a much slower pace on the walk back to Ulrika camp and my chalet. For the first time in ages I felt free and I knew my health was improving rapidly. I stopped numerous times to rest and take in my surroundings. The afternoon heat was waning, while birds were coming to life and chattering in the trees above. It was 4.00pm. by the time I opened the back door to the chalet and made my way to the front deck to watch the sunset. The grassy glade between the chalet and the tree line had come alive with animals. There were the Zebras from earlier along with a herd of Impala and a trio of Warthogs all grazing together. I pulled the sharpening stone from my bag and placed it on the table in front of me. Next, I opened the bottle of honing oil and squeezed ten drops of the viscous liquid on to the flat black surface of the stone. Using my thumb, I carefully worked the oil into the stone, so it covered all four corners. The blade of the hunting knife glowed bright yellow from the reflection of the setting sun as I turned it in my hand. Once again, I felt pleased with its substantial weight and balance. I held the blade at a shallow angle on the stone and began to sharpen it with a steady repetitive back and forth motion that covered the entire length of the stone. I repeated this motion ten times before turning the blade and doing the same with the other side. I found the process therapeutic and it helped to focus my mind, so I repeated it time and time again until a full hour had passed. When I was done, I sat back, wiped the blade clean and lit a cigarette.

  The heat of the day was gone with a cool breeze was blowing in from the south. I stared out at the tree line as I smoked and thought about the great river that flowed not far away. I thought about the pain and humiliation which I had suffered and the long road ahead. When the time comes Green, it will be worth it. I nodded to myself as I stubbed out the cigarette and reached for the crutches. The Mercer Clinic had supplied me with a number of large plastic bags with which to cover the dressing on my leg when showering. I sat on the rustic couch inside the chalet as I secured one of them and then made my way to the bathroom to shower. The water from the pressure geyser was hot and it blasted over my body as I washed. When I was finished, I dressed and locked the front of the chalet from the inside before making my way through the kitchenette and out the back door. The surrounding bush was filled with the singing of the Cicadas as I made my way up the track towards the reception of Ulrika Camp. I arrived to find the reception empty and a few of the overlanders playing pool and drinking in the bar area. The lighting inside the massive thatched building was dim and there was soft music playing through the speakers behind the bar. I nodded my greetings to the tourists and took a seat on a stool at the bar. There was a tall man in a worn white shirt and tie polishing a glass behind the counter.

  “Good evening sir, what can I get you?” he asked.

  I glanced at the selection of drinks behind the bar and noticed an advert for the local Mozi Lager.

  “Good evening,” I replied pointing at the sign. “I'll have a cold one of those please”

  The beer was served in a chilled glass and I drank a full half pint before placing the glass on one of the bar mats. The beer was good and burned my throat pleasantly as it went down.

  “Is it good, sir?” the barman asked with a smile.

  “Not bad at all,” I replied.

  Over the course of the next few hours the rest of the tourists from the overland vehicle came in to join their friends. The music went up in volume and the pub had a festive atmosphere although I kept to myself in my corner of the bar. A waiter appeared with a menu and I ordered a T bone steak with chips and salad to be served where I sat. The food was good and went down with a glass of South African wine followed by another beer.

  It was 9.00pm when I signed for the drinks and food and made my way out of the pub. The group of young overlanders were in fine form by then and I waved as I walked past them and out of the building. The music faded and the night was cool and quiet as I followed the track to my chalet. After brushing my teeth. I made my way a little unsteadily up the stairs and lay down gratefully on the bed under the mosquito net. I was asleep within minutes. I awoke the next morning at 6.00am. feeling no ill effects from the previous evening’s drinking. I put my left foot on the ground lightly as I sat up and was pleased to feel the usual pain had subsided. After a shower I made my way back to the restaurant for a full English breakfast.

  After the food I made my way out through the back of the dining area to the pool. There were a number of tables set under nearby trees and I sat at one of them to have coffee and smoke a cigarette. I was feeling rejuvenated and strong so afterwards I decided to take the two kilometre walk back to the gate to see the old guard I had met the previous day. I set out expecting the journey to be a repeat of that painful process. but I was pleasantly surprised to find I could put a fair amount of pressure on my left foot without too much discomfort. The journey passed quickly in the cool of the morning and I found old Jameson, sitting on his stool outside the guard house.

  “Today is a better day Mr Jason,” he said with a toothless smile as h
e reached into the room to retrieve another stool.

  “Much better Jameson,” I said as I leant the crutches on the wall and sat. “Much better.”

  I pulled the pack of cigarettes from my pocket and offered the old man one of them. We sat once again in silence as we smoked and surveyed the trees. Finishing, I crushed out my cigarette, grabbed the crutches and stood.

  “I will see you this afternoon Jameson,” I said as I walked off.

  “I will be here,” he replied.

  The walk back to the chalet was slow but painless and I spent a few hours attending to emails and browsing the news. At lunch time I made my way back to the bar and dining area of the main building and ordered a meal of Chicken Kiev with chips and salad. I ate alone outside at the pool area in the shade of the trees. There was no sign of the group of overlanders and I imagined they were sleeping off a heavy night of drinking. Later that afternoon I took another long walk through the bush to the gate and sat with Jameson for an hour smoking. On the way back I was able to put more weight on my foot than ever and I arrived back at the chalet feeling satisfied.

  Like the previous day I sat on the deck and spent an hour meticulously sharpening the hunting knife. Once more it had the effect of focussing and calming my mind. That night I had dinner and beers in the pub as usual and retired to bed at around 10.00pm. I awoke the next morning feeling even stronger and I took the walk to see Jameson, using one crutch only and putting more and more weight on my foot as I went. After lunch I took a taxi through the chaotic traffic of Lusaka to The Mercer Clinic where Dr Preuss examined my foot. Finally, I was given the go ahead to have the stitches taken out and to remove the dressing albeit with a stern warning to keep it dry and not put too much weight on it.

  The dust and heat of the drive back to Ulrika did nothing to deflate my sense of enthusiasm as I realised that I was making real tangible progress and I would be able to put my plans into action sooner than I had anticipated. That afternoon I took the walk to the gate to visit Jameson who also expressed satisfaction with my progress.