Chapter 1

This day in September was one of those days when the sea was grey, not the usual azure blue, and it was angry. White foam rode the swells, crashing with them into the black rocks near the shore of Rocky Point. The wave trains ran two to three metres high; row upon row of water walls, crashing into the rocks with spray jumping skywards with wet, salty fingers. The thundering sound of the sea reached me here in “Captain Nemo’s Corner Café by the Sea”, a little seaside café along the coastal road.

No boats were out; no, not today. They were lined up and tied to the jetties of the little harbour across the road. Their masts swung and swayed in the relative calm of the harbour. The wind came out of the southeast, biting with a chill that felt like it would freeze my blood inside my body.

In September, it’s supposed to be spring, yet there’s a cold front lashing the Cape with wind speeds up in the high sixties. It was blowing out of the south, where it picked up speed across the vast expanse of open ocean from the Antarctic to the south tip of Africa, bringing in wet, cold air.

Deep dark grey overcast foretold the last of the winter rain will likely come today here on the west coast of South Africa. The overcast blanketed the south of the continent from Cape Agulhas all along the south and west coasts, and engulfed the Cape of Good Hope. It was actually named Cabo das Tormentas by the Portuguese explorer Bartholomew Dias. Yes, Dias was right in 1488; it is indeed the Cape of Storms.

A few stray seagulls were braving the southeasterly wind here in Port Owen. One sat in the leeward shelter of the terrace, watching me devour a distant family member. Yes, I was having chicken pie.

I didn’t feel guilty; why should I? Besides, I don’t like chicken, but here in a fishing community, one tends to get fed up with fish every day, hence the lesser of the two evils: chicken pie. It was quite tasty though, prepared to perfection by the chef; light tasty crust with the inside not too saucy.

Oh, by the way, the name’s Ashwin. Ashwin Windsor. Not related to the Queen, but maybe, just maybe some far-off forgotten branch of the family. The family branch with root rot, I suppose, else I would not be here braving the torments of the coast. I would be lazing around some prehistoric castle in front of that raging fire with some tea. Earl Grey tea, mind you ... not bad at all, I say what, old chap?

As I said, the name’s Ashwin; Ash to my friends and those who dare to get close. I’m getting to be forty-one in the next year or so, but now eighteen till I die. Married? Nope. Not this guy. I don’t need a woman to tell me what to do. I don’t even tell myself what to do. Why should some women do it?

That also settles the question about girlfriends too. Yip, you got me right. I’m unattached right now and planning to stay that way. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of some prettier variety of the human race at any given moment; I’m always good for some chit-chat and whatever comes around. Do you get my drift?

But enough about me. Let’s get back to Captain Nemo’s Corner Café by the Sea, and why I’m here on such a blustery day.

It began a long time ago. Not me and this story, but the circumstances that brought me here while the good citizens of this world would be indoors in front of a huge fire (or electric heater for that matter) with a nice book and a glass of Scotland’s best. Maybe instead of the book, an armful of a pretty girl, or a cat ... or something. But if a cat was involved, the glass of scotch will do fine. But we’re straying again.

So, where to begin, the town of Kimberley, or with the Orange river? Okay, we’ll get back to Kimberley. Let’s start with the river; the longest river inside the borders of South Africa, all 2200 kilometres of its winding, muddy run. The Orange River was named after the “House Of Oranje,” a Dutch royal family many, many years ago. Well these days the “Politically Correct” call it, the Gariep River, a Khoisan name by some of the many indigenous people of South Africa. Makes me wonder: ain’t I indigenous too? I was born here too.

The first diamond was found by a fifteen-year-old boy, Erasmus Jacobs, while playing around on his father’s farm near Hope Town on the banks of the Orange River. That was in 1867. Well, when the boy found the diamond, it was only a shiny stone to him. He liked it, so he kept it. It was only later that a visiting friend of his father saw the stone and recognized it as a diamond.

Diamonds were then found in irregular patterns and ways, and it was not until 1871 that the famous Kimberley diamond deposits were found. There you have it. The town of Kimberley coming into the story.

Don’t ask me how the Kimberley diamonds ended up in the Orange River. I know that a lot, and I mean many diamonds, get washed down the Orange river to end up at Oranjemund in Namibia, only a short walk across the river from Alexander Bay in South Africa. The two towns are just across the river from each other.

For millions of years the Orange river washed diamonds down its path and deposited them at sea. There the diamonds are being dredged by diamond divers and ships equipped to do so. All very legal, if you have a permit and stuff. But also, some divers don’t deliver ALL the diamonds they find, thus making something on the side and fuelling the illegal diamond trade. The government doesn’t like this. No, they don’t like it at all, losing revenue on taxes and such, and the black market, the violence, and human rights abuses.

Alexander Graham Bell was credited with inventing the first practical telephone. Thus, also, he invented the first wrong number. Well, Erasmus Jacobs discovered the first diamond in South Africa, but also by accident started the illegal diamond trade in South Africa. Yin and yang, dualism, good versus evil, the light and the dark of the economy. The one always goes with the other. That is life, whether the government likes it or not.

So this is the reason that I am here; to try and find if there’s any correlation between the diamonds that end up in jewelry stores in Johannesburg, Cape Town, or wherever these pretty little rocks are sold; legitimate, or not. There were rumours on the corner that some of the conflict diamonds from Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast, Liberia, and Angola were ending up on the west coast of South Africa; there being “washed” and then released back into the economy. Most seemed to be washed and then find their way to European and Far East markets. How this was being done, that was the question. I had a suspicion on the ‘how,” but the “who” was still evading me.

The chicken pie was nice for a change, but I stopped short of licking off the plate. Maybe I was hungry, and that’s why the chicken pie went down so well. I Drained my last swallow of mediocre coffee and signalled the waiter for another mug of coffee. Might as well get something to do. I had this feeling that I would be here in the café for a long time to come. The best part of the morning, that is.

Why? You ask. Well, I am waiting on a ship. Okay, a boat. This is South Africa, so what’s the difference between a ship and a boat? Don’t they both swim in the sea? Good! We established that, and that I don’t know too much about ships, boats, canoes, paddleboats, and steamships. If you can make it float, well, you have a ship; something that swims in the sea and keeps me dry if I’m on it, in it ... whatever. Besides, ships have some funny names for pointing out different parts. “Stern,” instead of “tail,” and “bow,” instead of “nose.”

Yeah, you are right; boats are not my thing. I know aircraft; those things with wings that don’t flap and spinney things in front to keep the pilot cool. Yes! Those are the things. I live them, I fly them, I love them.

So, I’m waiting on a boat. The “Albatross II” should have been here already, but I suppose it will be running a little late with the current conditions. Let’s measure time in mugs of coffee and not hours, maybe it won’t feel that long to wait. I looked at my watch. Yip, better measure the waiting time in mugs of coffee. Poor bladder.

I was almost three-quarters through my third mug of plastic coffee when a huge man walked in, dressed in blue denim, wool shirt, and thick woollen jersey with a woollen beanie on his head. Sea boots on his feet completed the attire. He stood about six foot seven in his socks, and his weathered face showed no emotion. His dark eyes darted over the inside of the little café, searching, fixing on me. He stopped in his stride and looked at me.

“You Ashwin Windsor? Must be, else you wouldn’t be here,” He stated, rather than asked, in a low voice.

“Who asks?” I asked and took another sip of my coffee and looked him straight in the eye, meeting his attitude with the same attitude. The big man sighed, took two steps over to my table by the fire, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“Roland Rothman,” he said and reached his hand over the table. I took his hand.

“Ashwin Windsor. Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Coffee?”

“Until the ship comes along, coffee will be fine,” he said. “Else, I’ll have something else on board.”

“Depends on what the something else is. Rum is usual poison for sea-dogs,” I said.

Roland laughed a hearty laugh; screwing his eyes shut as he laughed.

“I can see we are going to work fine together,” he said, “But, no, I have a stash of scotch. The finest single malt.”

“Well then you got me sold, but just what is it you need me for?” I asked.

“How well do you know the Skeleton Coast?” Roland asked, turning serious. His grey eyes searching my face as if to gauge my answer before I opened my mouth.

“Flown over it once or twice, but I’ve never been there. It looks like, how would you say, dead? If it was a heap of building sand, I would hate to see when they deliver the bricks.”

Again, Roland roared with laughter.

“You have a sense of humour! The Skeleton Coast is 16845 square kilometres. With that much sand, you’ll need many bricks and cement!” Roland said, still shaking with laughter, started to cough, and just pointed at me with his huge index finger. “You ... We’ll get along, the two of us.”

“I hope so,” I replied cautiously, “seeing you’ll be a pay-cheque for me. So, the job? What do you require my services for?” I asked.

“Let me tell you a little story first. You see, I have this little niece. She’s about seventeen and lost her mother and father, my brother and his wife. That was about three years ago. They were on a flight from Kleinzee to Luanda in Angola. Somewhere over the Namib Desert their aircraft went down. Nothing was ever heard of them, and it’s believed that they perished in the desert; either in the crash or ... I would rather not say.” Roland looked a little emotional but composed himself.

I kept quiet. Let him speak. I signalled the waiter for more coffee. If I keep this up, I’ll have to visit you-know-where soon. Roland continued.

“Well, a search and rescue operation was mounted, but no sign of them was found. They searched for days until it was assumed that they were dead. Two weeks after they went missing, all hope was lost, and the search and rescue operation abandoned. Angie was devastated; alone and without parents. I took her in and cared for her. Just that she thinks she will never have closure about her parents keeps her from being the lively little girl she was always.” Roland stopped talking and looked out the window. A far-off look in his eyes.

“So, how do I fit into that story?”

Roland turned back to me. “A few days ago, I got to see a satellite photo of the area around Dooievlei, or Death Marsh, if you prefer the English name. It’s a white clay pan near Sossusvlei. Well, near the south side of the marsh there was a spot that clashed with the otherwise white background. I had it enlarged. There, unmistakeable, the outline of a Douglas DC-3. And it still looked intact. No visible sign of any damage.” Roland told me and then stopped to take a swig of his coffee.

“A DC-3? That aircraft’s a little on the old side,” I mused.

“My brother had it revamped; new engines, the lot.”

“So, why me? If you plan on going there, you don’t need a pilot.”

“I plan on going there. I need to find out if their bodies are still there, and to find my sister-in-law’s journal. She was a traveling journalist. Angie would want that. It’s the least I could do for Angie; get her mom’s journal and get their bodies...” Roland said and stared out the window again. His cooling coffee, forgotten.

I felt for the man and his pain.

“I want you along to look at the aircraft. Maybe, just maybe, we could recover it.” Roland smiled.

“That’s a large aircraft. How are you going to cart it out over the desert?” I asked.

“Who said we’re going to cart it away on trucks? If it’s not too damaged, we’ll fix it and fly it out!”

I just looked at him.

“Fly it out! You’re crazy. Even if it can be fixed, that thing needs a runway, fuel, hydraulic fluid, oil, tyres, the desert heat and sun exposure would have perished the tyres by now. How long has it been there, in the desert, three years?” I asked. “And batteries. Those things are dead by now, standing for three years in the desert.”

“Yes, three years. Give or take a few months.” Roland said.

“It’s a major revamp, and you need facilities for that. You don’t take a possibly damaged aircraft, throw some fuel in and fly it. What about sand in the engines,” I lectured. “No, Roland, there’s too many variables and unknowns.”

“Just go with me and check it. It’s all I ask.” he said, nearly pleading.

I felt sorry for the man. He looked like a man that spends his life on the sea, yet he wanted to go into the desert and reclaim something that he had no idea about. Retrieving the bodies of his brother and sister-in-law, yes, that’s good, but recovering the plane, a DC-3, out of a marsh? Nope, not going to work.

And what about the marsh in the desert? Is it more like a dry marsh? Like a salt pan. We’ll have to wait and see.

“Okay Roland let’s talk moolah,” I said.

“I’ll pay you twenty thousand now, and twenty thousand on completion of the job. If you succeed in getting the aircraft out, you can keep it. All that is in the aircraft, all the goods and freight, is mine.” Roland stated, sat back in his chair, and looked at me.

“So, the carrot you are holding out to me is that, If I get the aircraft out, I get to keep it?” I asked.

“That is a general idea,” Roland said.

“So, the aircraft is either a write-off or I have to take a team of engineers with me to get it to fly again,” I said.

“Yes.” Roland simply stated.

“Well, I have a counteroffer. Fifty grand now, and fifty grand on arrival at the aircraft. Plus if the crate is flyable, I take ownership, else you cough up another fifty grand. Take it or leave it.”

Roland just stared at me. “Final offer!” He growled. “Thirty, now, thirty on completion, plus the aircraft.”

“Eighty, plus the plane. If it is a write-off, another twenty.” I countered, “Plus a week’s salaries for whomever I take along to help me.” Again he looked at me, his eyes now slits.

“Deal! Forty grand now, forty on completion plus the aircraft, or another twenty grand. Plus the salaries for not more than two mechanics. Let’s shake,” he said, extending his hand.

I had a feeling that I should have held out for more, but who cares. Even without the aircraft, it was still a bargain for a few day’s work.

“Tell me about the marsh,” I said, sitting back in my chair and folded my arms.

“What is there to tell? It’s a dried-out flat clay pan, near Sossusvlei with a few dead acacia trees scattered throughout the expanse. It falls within the Namibia-Naukluft park. Some of the world’s highest sand dunes surround it.” Roland said, leaning forward onto the table.

“How come it was only found now? I mean, did anyone not visit the place during the last three years?”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty isolated, especially, the south part where the aircraft is located. Only a few people ever go there.”