MILITARY HANDOVER AT FOXTROT ASSEMBLY POINT continued
In order to be present at this important ceremony I drove, as usual, in my little Ford Anglia, this time through dangerous, guerilla infested country, carrying my photographic equipment. I was determined to witness what was going on out there in the bush but had no idea of the significance of the day until I snapped that picture, capturing guerilla General Rex Nhongo at the moment of his triumph. My photo, a real scoop, was published after I sent it to Peta Thornycroft, a journalist friend, who was then working for the South African Daily Express newspaper. I was ridiculously proud of my achievement at the time.
It had been quite a business getting to Foxtrot Assembly point. There were moments of real fear among my three companions, hitching a ride was a Portuguese journalist from Sao Paulo called George, a Belgian girl whose name I have forgotten and we were accompanied by our official Zanu PF liaison officer guide, a beefy, squat fellow named Elija Gararurimo. Elijah's fear was palpable. He probably knew better than we three ignorant whites in the car with him, just how dangerous was the territory we were entering. I suppose I was too stupid to be frightened. We were travelling ninety kilometers from the small town called Enkeldoorn, once a dubbed `The Repulic of Enkeldoorn’ because, as its Afrikaans name implies, it was a stronghold of Afrikaaner farmers. (The place has since been renamed Chivhu). For me, in the driving seat, the day was to end with heart-stopping worry about getting back before dark in that wild, destroyed part of the country. It was touch and go whether my little old Ford Anglia would make it back to civilization and reach a petrol pump.
I had set off on our epic journey in a tiny convoy with two other small cars, each driven by foreign journalists. They probably thought that I knew what I was doing. I should have guessed at the danger because, considering its news value, the event was seriously under-attended by members of the Fourth Estate. When I went to pick up my `permit' to enter the Assembly point, I found that a former, BBC reporter friend, Justin Nyoka, was in charge of issuing the permits from ZANU PF’s headquarters at 88 Manica Road in Harare. He was clearly on edge, scared stiff about the possibility of a mauling at least and a massacre at worst of white foreign journalists venturing into terrorist/guerilla territory. He was likely to be held responsible for our safety and any deaths among observers could set of a ripple of panicky violence and put paid to the whole peace process. When he saw me in the offices for the first time since we had met in Lusaka five years earlier (I went there to interview exiled nationalist leaders – another story here) he refused point blank, at first, to give me a pass. “You are a local writer – this is not allowed,” he said sternly. Who knows what was passing through his mind. He is long since dead, a tragic victim of a disease that is currently killing Zimbabweans at the rate of three thousand a week. But standing with me in his office that day were two of my colleagues and friends. They knew that I was well acquainted with most of the country’s future leaders through my political contacts (revealed in my published Who’s Who). My new friends ganged up behind me and told Justin that they were determined to go and they would not leave without me. Justin rolled his eyes, shrugged and caved in. Elijah Gararirimo, a former information officer from ZANU (PF)'s Maputo office in Mozambique, was assigned the duty of accompanying us. After the introductory formalities, he planted his ample rear on to the back seat of my little old car. The sight of my ancient vehicle, I realise, with hindsight, was reason enough for Elijah to appear extremely fearful of our prospects of traveling safely through former terrorist-infested terrain. It was almost deserted bush country and the roads were rough.
Just off to the sides of the tarred roads we passed small, rural villages that had been totally destroyed during the seven years of a bush war. The sight of the burnt out remains of the pathetic little trading stores along the route should have caused me to me quiver a bit, but I was only too happy to be able to get my first sight of the war zone. We had been safely insulated in the cities from all but some rare sounds war, the rumble of distant explosions when a very few small bombs had been planted in churches in Harare and a single fuel storage tank had been sabotaged in the industrial sites by infiltrating guerrillas towards the war's end.
Our first sight of a human being came as we neared the Foxtrot assembly point.
A British soldier, serving with the international monitoring force overseeing the ceasefire came out in his military vehicle to escort us into the camp, driving to meet us across a stony river bed that marked the boundary to its entrance. Before we reached the camp and following behind his sturdy, camouflaged vehicle, marked with the white cross of the monitoring forces, our soldier escort had warned us, “Whatever happens, DO NOT STOP, just follow me into the camp”. We were loaded to the back axles with photographic equipment, handbags and effects filling every space inside the car - and Elijah’s girth wasn’t helpful. Unsurprisingly, we got thoroughly stuck on the rocks in the middle of the crossing. Emerging from beneath the trees lining the river banks, a small swarm of guerillas advanced towards us. They swiftly inserted their arms inside my vehicle, trying to grab our bags. Now I understood why Elijah had been sweating so freely; he had seen them in action in the war. They killed people, especially white people.
But the British soldier, as I learned that day, is a brave fellow: Our escort stopped his vehicle and came raging (all alone mark you) towards the would-be thieves. Roaring loudly at them he ordered them to fall back. I doubt they understood the words, but there was no doubting his body language. They shrank back, clearly having been given orders and dire threats by their own commanders about breaking the peace. `Shamwari chete” (only friends) they said meekly and melted back among the trees.
The Moment of danger
All had gone well with the speeches and the final raising of the new Zimbabwean flag, a multi-coloured one - now unfortunately identified as a ZANU PF flag rather than a national emblematic symbol - until after the handshake ...
PART 3 tomorrow
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
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