SS Glasgow Castle 33 Chapter Thirty Three

It got hot fast. We had both windows fully open but Kross was going too slowly to generate a meaningful breeze. I didn't ask him why he wasn't driving at his preferred breakneck pace; after a while, I decided he probably wanted to hear any oncoming traffic before the traffic heard him.

As it happened, we didn't come across any traffic for quite a while. After maybe ten more kilometers the track ended at a dirt road. Kross turned right and I realized that we were going south, towards the coast. The dirt road was exactly like the one we took on the other side of the river; the yellow gra.s.s was the same, and so was the rusty sky. But things mean what we want them to mean: a lonely tree standing at a crossroads is home to a ghost or minor deity for someone superst.i.tious, and a convenient resting place for a sybarite. In my eyes, each tree or bush held special significance; the cry of a bird const.i.tuted a portent; and overall I felt somewhat like a Spanish conquistador venturing into the jungle in search of El Dorado.

"The road seems very empty," I said after a while, when the atmosphere started getting to me.

"It will get very busy very soon." His voice made it clear he wasn't up for any sort of conversation. And so we rode on in silence, Kross increasing speed until we were racing down the track, and trailing fantails of red dust that no doubt excited comment at the senior levels of several intelligence agencies.

He went so fast that he caused a minor traffic accident to the first traffic we encountered. It consisted of an African riding a bicycle with a back carrier that was piled head-high with suspicious-looking little bundles wrapped in sugary blue plastic. We emerged at him from around a curve, the Toyota sliding in a controlled skid; the cyclist fell off and the plastic-wrapped bundles went flying everywhere. I turned round in my seat but all I saw was red dust. The next piece of traffic consisted of a big ancient Bedford truck, and that made Kross slow down at last.

We hit the highway to the coast a couple of minutes later: an uneven narrow ribbon of s.h.i.+ny black asphalt, ragged at the edges. It was a very tired road, a road that had been pounded by the wheels of innumerable vehicles.

We motored on briskly; the road dipped, bobbed, and weaved like an exhausted fighter trying to survive till the final bell, and the Toyota squealed and whinnied as Kross chivvied it along. Traffic thickened: it was different from traffic in Ivory Coast in two respects. It featured cheap j.a.panese sedans instead of French cars, and the flowing inscriptions decorating the minibuses were in English - most carried religious advice: Jesus Saves, Holy Mary Watches Over Us, and so on.

There was also a number of heavy trucks, and predictably it was these that slowed us down the most. We were stuck behind one - a Fiat loaded with cartons that announced they contained Star Beer - when we came across our first checkpoint. Kross didn't stop. He flicked the turn indicator on and pulled out to pa.s.s the halting Fiat. I couldn't see the road ahead, and thought he was simply overtaking a stopping vehicle. Then I saw the fat, flaming metal barrels on both sides of the road and the camouflage-smocked, green-bereted soldiers fingering the straps of the shouldered a.s.sault rifles.

One of them stood in the road with an imperiously raised hand. Kross smacked the horn b.u.t.ton with his palm and flashed his lights, and the corporal - he had a chevron on his sleeve - stepped to the side, his hand jerking to his head in a sloppy salute. Kross actually saluted him back, with a dismissive all-right-at-ease-now wave when bringing his hand back down on the steering wheel. He had done this a hundred times before. He had done this a thousand times before. I said:

"You've done this a thousand times before. Haven't you. You got those guys thinking we're in the military."

"Yes."

After a pause, I said:

"You don't sound pleased. Have I f.u.c.ked up again? Was my performance okay?" He snorted and said:

"No, it was great. It was just right for a senior base wallah p.i.s.sed off at having to shake his a.s.s in a truck early in the morning."

"Senior," I said wonderingly.

"You're not the one driving."

"I can drive. If that's what p.i.s.sing you off."

"It's not. I'm not p.i.s.sed off." He lit one of those vile-smelling Schwarze Handel cigarettes, and I said:

"How much longer?"

"Four or five hours. Depends on the traffic."

I had more questions for Kross, but he'd cranked his window fully open when getting rid of the b.u.t.t of his cigarette, and the roar of the air necessitated shouting. I didn't fancy shouting at Kross, so I settled back in my seat and watched the countryside go by. After a short while, the back of my T-s.h.i.+rt was wet through. I sat up to let it dry. The air blasting through the window was furnace-hot.

We ran into another checkpoint an hour and a half later. There were no other vehicles in front of us this time, and I saw the familiar flaming barrels a good way off. Kross blipped the horn and flashed his lights when we were about two hundred yards away, and the soldier standing in the road stepped aside with visible reluctance. There were no salutes this time: the five or six a.s.sembled representatives of the Ghanaian military stared at us sullenly as we sped past. I stared back at them and noticed that the camo pants and boots Kross and I wore were identical with the local army issue. They probably actually were Ghanaian army issue. Kross would have made sure of that.

Right after that second checkpoint we entered hilly country, and I saw the jungle. It was slightly startling: one moment we were climbing the incline of a gentle hill, surrounded by gra.s.s and solitary trees; the next we were right in the middle of it, a solid wall of green on either side of the road. Occasionally, we pa.s.sed a man-made clearing: a field burnt out of the jungle, blackened, branch-less tree trunks like limbless corpses sticking out of the quilt of ashes. A couple of times I saw a man working in one of the black fields; he was laboriously chopping away at the debris with a big cutla.s.s.

It wasn't all jungle. We also pa.s.sed through a few villages and a small, sleepy town called Sunyani. Kross bought gas there; it turned out he was supplied with the tens of thousands of cedis, the local currency. He didn't offer to share any with me, although he did buy me a cold c.o.ke. He still refused to all my attempts at conversation, fending me off with gruff monosyllables.

We got stopped at a checkpoint right outside Sunyani.

It was hidden around a curve, and Kross had to brake sharply when the soldier in the road refused to budge following the horn and lights routine. There was a group of soldiers by one of the barrels, and a big army tent pitched under a tree a short distance off the road. A couple of apparently senior military guys sat at a camping table in front of the tent. They appeared to be drinking beer. A green Land Rover was parked nearby.

The soldier that had stopped us walked across the front of the truck and stopped by Kross's window. Kross looked right past him and barked:

"Sergeant!"

One of the guys by the barrel detached himself and walked up to the Toyota. I stared straight ahead, busy pretending to be p.i.s.sed off; but when I heard an unfamiliar rustle I glanced sideways. Kross was handing a small green booklet to the sergeant, a big man with angry, bloodshot eyes. The teenage-faced private who had stopped us seemed apprehensive.

"Sorry to bodah you, major - sir," said the sergeant. "Please have a safe journey." I watched Kross slide the green booklet into the leg pocket of his camo pants. He nodded and said:

"What's all this about?"

"We got word a big s.h.i.+pment of Indian hemp coming through this way," said the sergeant. Kross nodded again.

"Best of luck, boys," he said. He turned back to the wheel and then added:

"What's the name of your CO, sergeant?"

"Captain Sankey. Sah." And we drove away.

I watched the side rear view mirror, saw the sergeant staring after us, saw him break into a trot towards the camping table.

"Trouble," I said. Kross shocked me. He said:

"Yes. I know Sankey and he knows me. But it will take them a few hours to put anything together and by that time we should be well on our way back."

"You think we'll make it?"

"I'm sure we can make it."

"I'm glad that things are in your competent hands. Major." Kross allowed himself a small smile. He said:

"Maybe I'll finally start getting some respect around here."
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