Oliver Strange and the journey to the swamps (school edition). Diane Hofmeyr

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      Pre-reading

      The wheels of the Boeing bumped down on the runway and the plane screeched to a halt. Phew! Oliver breathed out a lungful of air. Here he was at last! In Africa! His quest had begun. In his carry-on case were his emergency things. A black notebook. A folded map. A compass. And his slim-line torch. Pity he had no micro cameras for taking macro shots. Or mini microphones for recording maximum sound.

      For security reasons his Swiss Army knife, a red Victorinox Explorer, with extra fold-out tools – two blades, a wire stripper, scissors, magnifying glass, reamer, screwdriver, corkscrew, hook, toothpick, tweezers and two bottle openers that were also extra screwdrivers – was in his backpack in the hold of the plane.

      He peered out the small window hoping to spot a giraffe. Maybe even an elephant. But no. Nothing except a strip of bare tarmac, some straggly thorn trees and a single, ancient fire-engine standing next to a ramshackle cluster of buildings. Nothing like Heathrow Terminal 5. The plane nosed forward. A lady on the tarmac waved paddles like orange, ping-pong bats. A contraption of steps was trundled towards the door.

      The airhostess smiled. “Welcome to Bulawayo’s J.M. Nkomo airport.”

      Oliver nodded to himself. Geographical location: 20° 1” 2” South of the Equator and 28° 37” 4” East of Greenwich.

      Heat slammed into him like a solid wave of water. Light bounced and dazzled and skittered. He pushed his sunglasses firmly in place. Here he was! Oliver Strange! All set to find his father. All set to meet an unknown aunt who flew an aeroplane. But no one waved as he peered through the crowd milling about behind the barrier.

      A crack like gunshot came from nowhere. Oliver spun around expecting to see a hijacker but everyone was carrying on as normal. Then with a whoosh, rain began to pelt down on the tin roof and a voice bellowed over a crackling loudspeaker: “Welcome to Africa! Collect your bags and proceed to Passport Control.”

      Oliver rescued his backpack and sleeping bag. Then he filled out a small white form for Passport Control.

      Name: OLIVER STRANGE

      Country of Residence: UNITED KINGDOM

      Nationality: BRITISH

      Reason for visit: TO RESCUE MY FATHER.

      The man at the desk flicked through his passport and stamped the pages a couple of times. Suddenly his hand froze in mid-air.

      “Take off your cap and sunglasses! It’s an offence to wear them when entering a foreign country.”

      Sunglasses? Oliver had forgotten he had them on. No wonder it was so dark inside the building. And then the lights flickered and went out.

      “We need to question you.”

      Before he knew it, he was being marched down a passage into a dark room. Two men in uniform began speaking at the same time, but all Oliver heard was the sound of rain pelting against the roof.

      One of them bent closer. “Why are you here?”

      It was impossible to speak normally. He had to shout. “I’m going to Botswana.”

      “But this is Zimbabwe.”

      “I know. I’ve landed here. But I need to get to Botswana to find—” the rain suddenly stopped as abruptly as it had started. “— MY FATHER!” his voice boomed out into the darkness.

      “It’s not necessary to shout.”

      “I’m not shouting but …”

      “On this paper you say you have come to rescue someone. Young people aren’t sent to rescue people. Are you a spy?”

      Oliver shook his head.

      “Spies are put in jail.”

      The men exchanged glances. “This is serious.”

      “You didn’t mean what you wrote. To answer falsely on a Government form is serious. Very serious. Do you understand?”

      “Yes …” His voice came out small and squeaky. The plan was going horribly wrong. He was going to land up in jail. A tiny rat began gnawing at his stomach.

      The officials peered at him. “Who’s here to meet you?”

      “My aunt.”

      “What is her name?”

      “Dr Hortense.”

      “Dr Hortense? You should have said so in the first place. We’ve a message for you.”

      The lights suddenly came on. The men looked different now. Almost cheerful.

      “A message?”

      “Yes. Your aunt isn’t able to meet you. You’re to travel by train to Kasane, across the border in Botswana. She’s left a train ticket for you and this letter.”

      Oliver opened the letter. It wasn’t in Aunt Hortense’s handwriting. It was printed. But perhaps she had to do it in a hurry:

      Dear Oliver

      There’s been a change of plan. Please take a taxi to the Bulawayo station and catch the train to the Victoria Falls. Then catch the bus to Kasane where I’ll meet you.

      He read it again to be quite sure there was nothing he’d missed. A train to the Victoria Falls. A bus to Kasane. Very casual instructions. No details. Aunt Hortense was like his father. She left out details. It was probably a family thing. Which was odd, seeing his father was a zoologist – well actually a herpetologist – and she was a doctor. Shouldn’t doctors and zoologists know better? What now? Should he go? At Heathrow airport, his grandma had warned: Be careful, Oliver! Don’t take any risks.

      He wanted to take СКАЧАТЬ