LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Do you think we should make a run for it?’ I ask Sandy. Her reply is a tired chuckle. True, we’re exhausted, have no supplies for survival other than the clothes we wear, The Chatty Parrot, Sandy’s binoculars and two (empty) water bottles. We have only the vaguest idea of where we are and there are two children to protect. For their sake, if no other, the only option is to continue with our charade of nonchalant confidence, and pray. At least the children are unaware of what has just happened. We shuffle along in single file, taking turns to piggyback Seth, Tammy plodding along between us.

      Sandy murmurs, ‘No matter what happens we must refuse to be parted from the children.’

      ‘Yes, even if that means we are killed.’

      I cannot believe the sound of my voice. It’s absurd, a sentence I’d never imagined I’d say. But there is no melodrama in Sandy’s confirmation. If – or when – the time comes, will I have the courage to carry it out?

      I’m processing the awful implications when the silence is shattered by three shrill whistle blasts from one of the boys at the rear. From far ahead comes a faint answering triple call. We walk on in silence for another 15 minutes until, more sensed than seen, I become aware of movement and eyes staring at us from the flanking bush. Soon soft laughter and hushed talk can be heard. Fires flicker into view between trees, their glow a profound and comforting relief.

      We’re ushered from the path into a clearing. In the centre, a small fire stutters and smoulders. Two log benches are positioned on opposite sides of the fire. Before disappearing with the rest of our escort into the darkness, Cyclops indicates that we sit on the ground near the fire. We slump down, grateful to have reached the end of our walk. Our gritty, sweat-soaked clothes cling to our bodies. A grey-headed man emerges from the shadows and hands Sandy a plate half-filled with cold samp and beans. A girl rekindles the fire. The light wakes Seth, who loudly proclaims, ‘I’m thirsty.’ Sandy shows the girl our two empty water bottles and makes filling gestures. She smiles, takes the bottles and disappears into the dark, soon returning with filled bottles.

      Our arrival has caused a stir. While we eat, a shuffling procession of men, women and children stare at us from around the edge of the clearing. I look at my family and feel profound admiration. Within the last 24 hours they’ve weathered a violent storm, been shipwrecked and captured by gun-toting boys. They’ve been marched at least 20 kilometres along a beach, first in blistering heat and then in darkness through a dense forest. And yet we can still exchange smiles and words of encouragement. For the moment, simply being alive is sufficient reason for contentment.

      After eating, we lie back, allowing our bodies to regain some strength. The horror of the past few hours has banished any desire for Sandy and me to talk. Uttering words would just make manifest, and confirm, thoughts we are trying to expunge. So, other than words encouraging the children, we lie in silence, doing our best to cleanse our minds. Tammy and Seth quickly fall asleep, cradled in our arms. The muscles in my legs begin to stiffen. Apart from the occasional soft voice filtering through the trees, borne on warm, smoky air, all is silent.

      Our youngest captor returns and motions us to follow. Painfully, we rise to our feet, lift the children and hobble along behind the boy to a nearby fire. To our relief we are greeted with the words ‘good evening’. A man extends his hand to me. ‘My name, Paul Patrick.’ In the dim firelight, he looks remarkably like a reincarnation of Che Guevara, with a wispy beard and a beret cocked at a jaunty angle.

      Paul Patrick’s English does not extend far beyond ‘good evening’. He sits opposite us while we balance on another log bench. The children are on our laps, folded within our arms. Paul Patrick speaks, but we recognise only the occasional word. Knowing our lives could depend on our responses, we try to fill the void with extravagant, animated gesticulations. I’m aware we must look like ventriloquist dummies as we nod or shake our heads emphatically in response to assumed questioning, or display grins of ingratiation to convey special pleasure or agreement. In contrast, Paul Patrick sits impassive, elbows on knees, staring either at us or into the fire. Occasionally he shows understanding and nods sagely, repeating, ‘I see, I see.’

      Do we represent an unwelcome problem for him? We already know how his troops solve such problems.

      In the middle of his questions, he asks if we know who they are. I shake my head.

      ‘We Frelimo, you no worry,’ he replies.

      Not knowing what to make of this, I gaze impassively back at him, unsure if his is a loaded question. Earlier, Sandy and I had discussed how we should respond in such a situation, and agreed we would not react in any way that showed partisanship or any understanding of the civil war. Best we find out who our hosts are before taking sides.

      A whistle blast close by startles us. The call is distinctive, consisting of three trills, each rapidly rising, followed by a longer descending note. Paul Patrick brings the questioning to an end. His parting words are, ‘No worry, tomorrow you go road to Vilanculos.’

      This is promising and we can’t help but feel hopeful. Vilanculos is the nearest town – and it has an airport and therefore links to South Africa.

      Some teenaged girls who’d been watching from the shadows escort us to another clearing, also with a central fire and seating. We can dimly see a small house built from plaited palm leaves standing to one side of the clearing, while a palisade of vertical tree trunks define two of the other sides. The girls whisper amongst themselves as they lay a blanket on the sand alongside the fire. Sandy is offered a cotton sheet with which to cover us. The implicit message in their kindness does not escape us, and we allow the knotted muscles in our necks and shoulders to relax.

      We have Seth’s Chatty Parrot book, our water bottles and Sandy’s binoculars. The children revive so we lie with our heads towards the fire and Sandy opens the brightly coloured book. The girls immediately join us on the blanket. Sandy begins to read, using gestures to explain the storyline for the benefit of the girls. They giggle and point out to each other the amusing and annoying antics of the talkative parrot.

      The fire slowly burns down until it’s impossible to continue reading in the ever-fading light. We learn our first Portuguese words as the girls depart with gentle ‘Bon nuits’. Sandwiched between us, Tammy and Seth quickly drift off to sleep again. Sandy and I are too agitated to sleep, so we lie staring at the stars twinkling beyond the leaf canopy; a comforting reminder that a familiar world still exists. The last time I’d stared at those stars was from Arwen’s cockpit the previous night. There seems little to say to each other so we lie bound in our private anguish.

      I am filled with fear and a deep, enveloping sense of failure. Our misery is soon compounded when Paul Patrick arrives and sits on one of the benches on the other side of the fire. He brings with him a portable tape player and a 20-litre plastic tub.

      Amongst the many things we’d seen taken from Arwen had been a cardboard box containing our supply of spare torch batteries. Thanks to this bonanza, the tape player is turned up to full volume, the music distorting hideously, as if in pain, as it’s squeezed from the undersized speaker. This appears to cause Paul Patrick not the slightest discomfort and draws a number of his younger cronies. They sit around the fire on either side of us, their smooth faces lit by the dancing flames. Methodically, they pass around a glass that is repeatedly topped up with a milky liquid from the plastic tub. With each circuit of the glass their voices grow louder and shriller. I’m offered a taste. Feeling in no position to refuse, I take a polite sip. My tongue curls up along its edges and my lips pucker at the astringent taste.

      We try to sleep, but the volatile combination of fear and noise make this impossible. In the middle of the night Sandy suddenly calls out in terror. Paul Patrick had nudged her with his boot. Fortunately, all he wants is to ask us more questions.

      From what we can understand, a raiding party has been sent back to Arwen and he wants to know what else is on board. Reading from a list of questions on a notepad, he asks about our radio. What make is it? What’s its power and with whom did we communicate? I explain that it’s a marine VHF radio and only works between ships. Next he wants to know if we have any guns or other weapons

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