Chapter VIII: Diama Barrage
Reported location: Not updated.
Next scheduled transmission window in 4 hours.
“I wonder what the speed limit is on these
roads.” commented Mike, his voice raised over the monotonous drone
of the engine. [1]
“Ha! You’d only have a speeding ticket to worry about if we got stopped.” Libby opened another packet of salted peanuts and passed them round. “MY charge sheet already includes abduction of a minor, assault, criminal damage, possession of an unlicensed firearm, proscribed currency dealing - and an unlawful display of public nudity from last night!”
“No-one saw you.”
“I should hope not. In a Moslem country, I'd probably get a longer sentence for that than all the other offences put together.”
Mike munched a handful of peanuts. “Atépa - what do balbuzard eat?”
“Fish.”
“And what else?”
“More fish.”
“Not peanuts, by any chance? How about fruit... potatoes... Waldorf salad... quarter-pounder with cheese...?”
“Sorry, Doctor Mike – it is only fish.”
“Fair enough.” He switched back to English: “Libby, what are we going to do if and when we make it to Senegal?”
“A hot bath, a hot meal, and lots of sex – not necessarily in that order.”
“And what about Atépa here?”
“Oh darling, he's far too young to join in. It wouldn't be right.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Could you just be serious for once? I assume that you had some kind of plan when you got me - and him - into this situation. Now would be a good time to discuss what that plan might be, because I'm going to need a proper doctoring job when I get home and a conviction for kidnapping isn't going to look good on my C.V.”
“The only plan I have is this...” she produced a slip of paper from her bag, “I got involved with some people and they explained to me about a number of things I'd seen and heard, last time I was here in west Africa on the rallies. They said I could use this number in particular circumstances – and I think THIS is definitely a circumstance.”
She picked up the satellite phone handset, and dialled.
“Hallo... my name is Elizabeth Caffrey and I was given this number by a Mr Simon Wymark... No, I am in Mauretania, about an hour's travel north of the frontier... Yes he did, he told me to say half a pound of tuppenny rice... thank you, I'll hold.”
“What people?” Mike asked, “Who are these people?”
“Don't ask me questions I can't answer right now, Mike. Hallo, yes - still here... okay, we have a young male, estimated twelve years of age, possibly from the Diola or Serer ethnic area. Family wiped out by one of the rebel militias during the unrest... no, we don't know when... was trafficked north by stages to where we found him, along with an unknown number of others. Yes, there is substantive evidence at the scene, I will give you the location details later. The boy's name is Atépa, he has been knocked about a bit and is rather undernourished, but otherwise in good health. No, that IS an assessment, there is a doctor from England with me in this transport... no he doesn't know who you are and nor do I... Well, we destroyed the telephone line before leaving but I think we may have outstayed our welcome in Mauretania by now... Yes, I'm listening... Okay we will ask that and see if he agrees, but we could really use some advice and assistance here. Right then, I'll wait to hear from you... goodbye.”
She drummed her fingers on the dashboard for a moment, thinking. Mike waited patiently – he had a dozen questions but suspected that few if any of them could be answered right now. [2]
“All right, she said, drawing a deep breath, “translate this for me... Atépa, I have spoken to a... a friend who has some other friends who would like to help you, if -”
“Hang on. That isn't even English, heaven knows what it'll sound like in French!”
“Just do your best... They will find some nice people for you to stay with – kind people, with children of your age, and you will have good clothes, and will not have to work, and you can go to school. And all of this will be paid for by my friends – everything from a special fund that they have for doing these things. Would you like that, Atépa?”
“I would like that very much.” came the simple response. “But there is another thing.”
“And what is that?” asked Mike, steering to avoid a wandering bullock cart.
“Could the balbuzard come to see me one time or perhaps two time? I think he is my friend and I would be sad not to see him again.”
“Well, I am not sure about that, Atépa. He is a wild creature and he flies wherever he wants to go.”
“But he does not need to fly,” Atépa replied, with irrefutable logic, “you drive him around everywhere in your car!”
At that moment the phone rang, saving Mike from having to figure out a response to this. Libby answered it, then passed the handset over.
“It's for you. Dennis somebody from something Wildlife something in Scotland, I didn't quite catch what he said.”
“Hi... yes this is Mike Retford. Yes, he is sitting up and taking notice now. The treatment appears to have worked and the tachycardia is no longer present, I have no other concerns. But we don't know what to do next... okay, you're the expert... I don't see that on the map, how are you spelling it? D-J-O-U-D-J … Ah, okay – got it now... We will do our best but it's possible that we might be in prison by then... I can't explain at the moment, it's a very long story... Yes, that's fine, I will let you know. Cheers now...”
Libby put a reassuring hand on his knee: “Darling, we are definitely NOT going to prison.”
“Perhaps you should tell that to those guys coming up behind us.”
“What....?” She leaned over to look in the rear-view door mirror. In the distance, blue and red flashing lights could be seen at the limit of the heat haze.
“Put your foot down, Mike!”
“It IS down. This is as fast as we can go.”
“That's what you think.” Libby twisted a control on the centre console. A red light illuminated and the 4x4 surged forward. “The engine is electronically limited. I just switched the limiter off, which gives us an extra 900 r.p.m. in each gear – for a while.”
“And what happens at the end of the while?”
“Umm., well... the transmission oil cooler will overheat. We'll know this by the white smoke coming out and the horrible grinding noises. But it doesn't matter – look, we're only two klicks from the border crossing. It'll last out that long - probably. I'd better get rid of this...”
She took the Glock from her bag and, holding it sideways, flung it spinning from the window. It bounced once on the verge and disappeared into a muddy irrigation channel. Mike snapped his fingers and pointed at her:
“That visit to the souk in Tunis*... you told me you were shopping for shoes!”
Libby pouted. “Well, I did buy shoes – and some other useful things at the same time. Keep your eyes on the road, for God's sake.”
Ahead, Mike could now see the broad sweep of the river that formed the line of frontier between two countries. Spanning this, a roadway ran straight across the top of a wide barrage dam with multiple sluice gates in its face. There were more people and livestock walking alongside the road and he was forced to slow down, listening at every instant for any hint of horrible grinding noises. The pursuing vehicles had closed the gap, and he thought he could hear the sound of sirens.
The Mauretanian border post came into view. Most of the activity was at the customs station opposite on the northbound entry side, but two uniformed guards could be seen lounging in the shade of some trees with their hands in their pockets. As he braked, one of them sauntered towards the kerb and began to raise a hand.
“Don't stop,” shouted Libby, “drive on through!”
“Are you insane? They have assault rifles.”
“It'll be okay – just do it. They'll think we're part of the rally fleet.”
Mike accelerated at the last moment, taking the soldier by surprise and causing him to fall backwards onto the grassy verge. The 4x4 rocked dangerously as it launched out onto the concrete roadway across the dam. The short hairs on Mike's neck prickled as he waited for the burst of automatic fire that would end their journey there and then.
It never came. They passed over a wide bypass lock that gave upstream access for shipping and ahead was the modern, angular building and observation tower that housed the dam's control centre. The Senegalese border post was a low office building opposite, and this time there was a red-and-white pole barrier blocking the way. They pulled up behind a line of traffic and waited. The vehicles ahead were processed with reasonable despatch but, when their turn came, a uniformed official holding a clipboard waved them in to the side:
“Passports.” These were scrutinised very slowly and deliberately, page by page. “Wait here, and fill in this form. Do not leave your vehicle. No smoking.”
“But I wasn't smoking.” remarked Mike to Libby, obscurely offended.
“I wouldn't mind a quick cough and a drag right now,” she replied, “my nerves have had it.”
Mike studied the form with growing dismay. There were a number of boxes that he was unable to complete and – for once – Libby was no help.
On the far side of the customs area, a large white Mercedes-Benz saloon pulled up, did a u-turn, and parked. A woman dressed in multi-coloured traditional costume got out and walked with quick steps towards them. She was small and slim, of late middle age but with the high cheekbones and ascetic features typical of her race. The small crowd outside the customs office parted to let her past and she walked straight up to the official.
“May I be of some assistance, Captain?"
“No assistance is required, Madame. These people are being detained at the request of the authorities over there.”
“And have the authorities over there supplied the correct document – completed in triplicate and countersigned and stamped with the big stamp? I'll wager they have not, they are far too disorganised.”
“Perhaps so, but there are other irregularities. This boy has no passport.”
“The boy does not need a passport. He is a juvenile and a citizen of the State. I have here his identity papers.”
She handed them over. The captain looked startled and then nonplussed. “But these are brand new!”
“No doubt – but are they not in order? Of course they are in order. Where is the problem?”
“Well, er... see here on their form: the visitors have no temporary domicile address, where it says Name of hotel or camp-site, booking or reservation copy must be provided. It is blank.”
“They will be staying with me at my home outside Gandiol which – as you well know – is large enough and has plenty of room. I will fill in the address on your little form... there, it is done. Tomorrow they will travel on to the capital to meet with the rest of their party.”
The captain sighed. This kind of thing was happening far too often in the modern Senegal, where women owned land and property and some ran successful businesses. In the old days he would simply have ignored the interfering old biddy, but now... He made one last attempt to assert his authority:
“I have decided that they are to remain here, pending further clarification. And that is an end to the matter.”
The woman looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye: “But of course, dear Captain: you must adhere to the correct procedures. And these will include the matter of the bird...”
“Bird? What has the bird got to do with anything?”
“This bird, Pandion haliaetus, is a protected species under our laws of Senegal – and as such it must be released in a suitable habitat within twenty-four hours. And this...” she gestured at the surrounding buildings, “... is not a suitable habitat. The law must be complied with in all circumstances, and who will take the responsibility if it is not? But I must not keep you from your official duties, Captain. Goodbye.”
She walked off. The captain stared after her, open-mouthed, with that dread word responsibility still ringing in his ears. Like many people in similar positions, much of the captain's working day was devoted to making sure that he could never be held responsible for anything. Certainly it was true that none of the documents he had so far received meant that these annoying foreigners could NOT proceed – and therefore there was only one responsible decision... he stepped over to the car window and clicked his heels together smartly:
“M'sieu, M'selle... here are your passports. Bienvenue – welcome to Senegal.”
“Ha! You’d only have a speeding ticket to worry about if we got stopped.” Libby opened another packet of salted peanuts and passed them round. “MY charge sheet already includes abduction of a minor, assault, criminal damage, possession of an unlicensed firearm, proscribed currency dealing - and an unlawful display of public nudity from last night!”
“No-one saw you.”
“I should hope not. In a Moslem country, I'd probably get a longer sentence for that than all the other offences put together.”
Mike munched a handful of peanuts. “Atépa - what do balbuzard eat?”
“Fish.”
“And what else?”
“More fish.”
“Not peanuts, by any chance? How about fruit... potatoes... Waldorf salad... quarter-pounder with cheese...?”
“Sorry, Doctor Mike – it is only fish.”
“Fair enough.” He switched back to English: “Libby, what are we going to do if and when we make it to Senegal?”
“A hot bath, a hot meal, and lots of sex – not necessarily in that order.”
“And what about Atépa here?”
“Oh darling, he's far too young to join in. It wouldn't be right.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Could you just be serious for once? I assume that you had some kind of plan when you got me - and him - into this situation. Now would be a good time to discuss what that plan might be, because I'm going to need a proper doctoring job when I get home and a conviction for kidnapping isn't going to look good on my C.V.”
“The only plan I have is this...” she produced a slip of paper from her bag, “I got involved with some people and they explained to me about a number of things I'd seen and heard, last time I was here in west Africa on the rallies. They said I could use this number in particular circumstances – and I think THIS is definitely a circumstance.”
She picked up the satellite phone handset, and dialled.
“Hallo... my name is Elizabeth Caffrey and I was given this number by a Mr Simon Wymark... No, I am in Mauretania, about an hour's travel north of the frontier... Yes he did, he told me to say half a pound of tuppenny rice... thank you, I'll hold.”
“What people?” Mike asked, “Who are these people?”
“Don't ask me questions I can't answer right now, Mike. Hallo, yes - still here... okay, we have a young male, estimated twelve years of age, possibly from the Diola or Serer ethnic area. Family wiped out by one of the rebel militias during the unrest... no, we don't know when... was trafficked north by stages to where we found him, along with an unknown number of others. Yes, there is substantive evidence at the scene, I will give you the location details later. The boy's name is Atépa, he has been knocked about a bit and is rather undernourished, but otherwise in good health. No, that IS an assessment, there is a doctor from England with me in this transport... no he doesn't know who you are and nor do I... Well, we destroyed the telephone line before leaving but I think we may have outstayed our welcome in Mauretania by now... Yes, I'm listening... Okay we will ask that and see if he agrees, but we could really use some advice and assistance here. Right then, I'll wait to hear from you... goodbye.”
She drummed her fingers on the dashboard for a moment, thinking. Mike waited patiently – he had a dozen questions but suspected that few if any of them could be answered right now. [2]
“All right, she said, drawing a deep breath, “translate this for me... Atépa, I have spoken to a... a friend who has some other friends who would like to help you, if -”
“Hang on. That isn't even English, heaven knows what it'll sound like in French!”
“Just do your best... They will find some nice people for you to stay with – kind people, with children of your age, and you will have good clothes, and will not have to work, and you can go to school. And all of this will be paid for by my friends – everything from a special fund that they have for doing these things. Would you like that, Atépa?”
“I would like that very much.” came the simple response. “But there is another thing.”
“And what is that?” asked Mike, steering to avoid a wandering bullock cart.
“Could the balbuzard come to see me one time or perhaps two time? I think he is my friend and I would be sad not to see him again.”
“Well, I am not sure about that, Atépa. He is a wild creature and he flies wherever he wants to go.”
“But he does not need to fly,” Atépa replied, with irrefutable logic, “you drive him around everywhere in your car!”
At that moment the phone rang, saving Mike from having to figure out a response to this. Libby answered it, then passed the handset over.
“It's for you. Dennis somebody from something Wildlife something in Scotland, I didn't quite catch what he said.”
“Hi... yes this is Mike Retford. Yes, he is sitting up and taking notice now. The treatment appears to have worked and the tachycardia is no longer present, I have no other concerns. But we don't know what to do next... okay, you're the expert... I don't see that on the map, how are you spelling it? D-J-O-U-D-J … Ah, okay – got it now... We will do our best but it's possible that we might be in prison by then... I can't explain at the moment, it's a very long story... Yes, that's fine, I will let you know. Cheers now...”
Libby put a reassuring hand on his knee: “Darling, we are definitely NOT going to prison.”
“Perhaps you should tell that to those guys coming up behind us.”
“What....?” She leaned over to look in the rear-view door mirror. In the distance, blue and red flashing lights could be seen at the limit of the heat haze.
“Put your foot down, Mike!”
“It IS down. This is as fast as we can go.”
“That's what you think.” Libby twisted a control on the centre console. A red light illuminated and the 4x4 surged forward. “The engine is electronically limited. I just switched the limiter off, which gives us an extra 900 r.p.m. in each gear – for a while.”
“And what happens at the end of the while?”
“Umm., well... the transmission oil cooler will overheat. We'll know this by the white smoke coming out and the horrible grinding noises. But it doesn't matter – look, we're only two klicks from the border crossing. It'll last out that long - probably. I'd better get rid of this...”
She took the Glock from her bag and, holding it sideways, flung it spinning from the window. It bounced once on the verge and disappeared into a muddy irrigation channel. Mike snapped his fingers and pointed at her:
“That visit to the souk in Tunis*... you told me you were shopping for shoes!”
Libby pouted. “Well, I did buy shoes – and some other useful things at the same time. Keep your eyes on the road, for God's sake.”
Ahead, Mike could now see the broad sweep of the river that formed the line of frontier between two countries. Spanning this, a roadway ran straight across the top of a wide barrage dam with multiple sluice gates in its face. There were more people and livestock walking alongside the road and he was forced to slow down, listening at every instant for any hint of horrible grinding noises. The pursuing vehicles had closed the gap, and he thought he could hear the sound of sirens.
The Mauretanian border post came into view. Most of the activity was at the customs station opposite on the northbound entry side, but two uniformed guards could be seen lounging in the shade of some trees with their hands in their pockets. As he braked, one of them sauntered towards the kerb and began to raise a hand.
“Don't stop,” shouted Libby, “drive on through!”
“Are you insane? They have assault rifles.”
“It'll be okay – just do it. They'll think we're part of the rally fleet.”
Mike accelerated at the last moment, taking the soldier by surprise and causing him to fall backwards onto the grassy verge. The 4x4 rocked dangerously as it launched out onto the concrete roadway across the dam. The short hairs on Mike's neck prickled as he waited for the burst of automatic fire that would end their journey there and then.
It never came. They passed over a wide bypass lock that gave upstream access for shipping and ahead was the modern, angular building and observation tower that housed the dam's control centre. The Senegalese border post was a low office building opposite, and this time there was a red-and-white pole barrier blocking the way. They pulled up behind a line of traffic and waited. The vehicles ahead were processed with reasonable despatch but, when their turn came, a uniformed official holding a clipboard waved them in to the side:
“Passports.” These were scrutinised very slowly and deliberately, page by page. “Wait here, and fill in this form. Do not leave your vehicle. No smoking.”
“But I wasn't smoking.” remarked Mike to Libby, obscurely offended.
“I wouldn't mind a quick cough and a drag right now,” she replied, “my nerves have had it.”
Mike studied the form with growing dismay. There were a number of boxes that he was unable to complete and – for once – Libby was no help.
On the far side of the customs area, a large white Mercedes-Benz saloon pulled up, did a u-turn, and parked. A woman dressed in multi-coloured traditional costume got out and walked with quick steps towards them. She was small and slim, of late middle age but with the high cheekbones and ascetic features typical of her race. The small crowd outside the customs office parted to let her past and she walked straight up to the official.
“May I be of some assistance, Captain?"
“No assistance is required, Madame. These people are being detained at the request of the authorities over there.”
“And have the authorities over there supplied the correct document – completed in triplicate and countersigned and stamped with the big stamp? I'll wager they have not, they are far too disorganised.”
“Perhaps so, but there are other irregularities. This boy has no passport.”
“The boy does not need a passport. He is a juvenile and a citizen of the State. I have here his identity papers.”
She handed them over. The captain looked startled and then nonplussed. “But these are brand new!”
“No doubt – but are they not in order? Of course they are in order. Where is the problem?”
“Well, er... see here on their form: the visitors have no temporary domicile address, where it says Name of hotel or camp-site, booking or reservation copy must be provided. It is blank.”
“They will be staying with me at my home outside Gandiol which – as you well know – is large enough and has plenty of room. I will fill in the address on your little form... there, it is done. Tomorrow they will travel on to the capital to meet with the rest of their party.”
The captain sighed. This kind of thing was happening far too often in the modern Senegal, where women owned land and property and some ran successful businesses. In the old days he would simply have ignored the interfering old biddy, but now... He made one last attempt to assert his authority:
“I have decided that they are to remain here, pending further clarification. And that is an end to the matter.”
The woman looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye: “But of course, dear Captain: you must adhere to the correct procedures. And these will include the matter of the bird...”
“Bird? What has the bird got to do with anything?”
“This bird, Pandion haliaetus, is a protected species under our laws of Senegal – and as such it must be released in a suitable habitat within twenty-four hours. And this...” she gestured at the surrounding buildings, “... is not a suitable habitat. The law must be complied with in all circumstances, and who will take the responsibility if it is not? But I must not keep you from your official duties, Captain. Goodbye.”
She walked off. The captain stared after her, open-mouthed, with that dread word responsibility still ringing in his ears. Like many people in similar positions, much of the captain's working day was devoted to making sure that he could never be held responsible for anything. Certainly it was true that none of the documents he had so far received meant that these annoying foreigners could NOT proceed – and therefore there was only one responsible decision... he stepped over to the car window and clicked his heels together smartly:
“M'sieu, M'selle... here are your passports. Bienvenue – welcome to Senegal.”
 |
| Diama barrage dam, Senegal River. (Looking south) |
* Souk – a traditional market or trading quarter
in north African towns.
[1] A good question. The national speed limit in Mauretania is 80 kph (50 mph) though - like most traffic laws there - the enforcement of this depends on who is doing the driving and how much cash they have on them at the time.
[2] A number of NGO's currently work to combat slavery and its consequences in sub-Saharan Africa, including Anti-Slavery International and the C.R.E.E.R. Operating out of the limelight and often in some secrecy, they campaign against human trafficking, forced and indentured labour, and captive prostitution. Funded programmes include provision for repatriation, rehabilitation, and long-term educational support. More information on this uncomfortable topic can be found at the UNICEF website and elsewhere.
[1] A good question. The national speed limit in Mauretania is 80 kph (50 mph) though - like most traffic laws there - the enforcement of this depends on who is doing the driving and how much cash they have on them at the time.
[2] A number of NGO's currently work to combat slavery and its consequences in sub-Saharan Africa, including Anti-Slavery International and the C.R.E.E.R. Operating out of the limelight and often in some secrecy, they campaign against human trafficking, forced and indentured labour, and captive prostitution. Funded programmes include provision for repatriation, rehabilitation, and long-term educational support. More information on this uncomfortable topic can be found at the UNICEF website and elsewhere.
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