way. We can walk."
They pushed their way through another consignment of American tourists who had just arrived. The noise they were making made both men wince.
"What makes an American so noisy?" Ken asked good humouredly. "Do they imagine everyone around is stone deaf?" Fennel grunted.
"I wouldn't know. Maybe they weren't taught as kids to keep their goddamn traps shut."
They paused under the canopy of the hotel and surveyed the rain sweeping Bree Street.
"If it's going to rain like this in the Drakensberg Range we're in for a hell of a time," Ken said, turning up his jacket collar. "Come on . . . may as well start getting wet . . . it'll be good practice."
Their heads bent against the driving rain, the two men walked briskly across to Plein Street.
Sam Jefferson, the owner of the garage, a tall, thin elderly man with a pleasant, freckled face greeted them.
"Hi Ken! Had a good trip?"
Ken said the trip was fine and introduced Fennel. Jefferson lost some of his sunny smile as he shook hands. He was obviously a little startled at the cold, hard expression on Fennel's face. Fennel wasn't his kind of people.
"I got all the stuff and it's there laid out for you," he went on turning to Ken. "Take a look. If there's anything I've forgotten, let me know. Excuse me now. I've got a gear box in my hair." Nodding, he went off across the big garage to where two Bantus were staring vacantly at a jacked up Pontiac.
Ken led the way to a small, inner garage where a Land Rover was parked. A Bantu, sitting on his haunches and scratching his ankle got slowly to his feet and gave Ken a wide, white toothy grin.
"All okay, boss," he said, and Ken shook hands with him. "This is Joe," he said to Fennel. "Sam and he have collected all the stuff we need."
Fennel had no time for coloured people. He glowered at the smiling Bantu, grunted and turned away. There was an awkward pause, then Ken said, "Well, Joe, let's see what you've got."
The Bantu crossed to the Land Rover and pulled off the tarpaulin that covered the bonnet. "I got it fixed like you said, boss."
Welded to the front of the radiator was a drum between two steel supports. Around the drum was wound a long length of thin
steel cable. Ken examined it, then nodded his satisfaction.
"What the hell's that for?" Fennel demanded, regarding the drum.
"It's a winch," Ken explained. "We're going over some very sticky roads and we could easily get bogged down. When there's heavy rain, the roads over the Drakensberg can be hell. This winch will drag us out without us breaking our backs." He found a small yacht anchor lying on the floor of the Land Rover. "See this? We get stuck, and all we have to do is to slam this anchor into a tree root and winch ourselves out."
"The roads going to be that bad?"
"Brother! You have no idea. We have quite a trip ahead of us.
Fennel scowled.
"Those other two have it the easy way . . . flying in, huh?"
"I don't know so much about that. If one of the fans falls off, they land in the jungle and that will be that. I'd rather drive than fly in this country."
"Boss . . ." Joe, still smiling, but uncomfortable in Fennel's presence, pulled off a tarpaulin that covered a long trestle table standing away from the Land Rover. "You want to check this stuff?"
The two men moved over to the equipment laid out. There were four jerrycans for water, another five for gas, four sleeping bags, four powerful electric torches with spare batteries, two six foot steel perforated strips for getting out of mud, a collapsible tent, two wooden cases and a large carton.
"With luck, I reckon we'll take five days in and four days out to do the job," Ken said, patting the two wooden cases. "We have enough canned food to last us that time." He tapped the carton. "That's booze: four Scotch, two gin and twenty-four quarts of beer. I have a Springfield, a 12 bore and a .22. There's plenty of game where we are going. You like guinea-fowl? Impala? Ever tried a
They pushed their way through another consignment of American tourists who had just arrived. The noise they were making made both men wince.
"What makes an American so noisy?" Ken asked good humouredly. "Do they imagine everyone around is stone deaf?" Fennel grunted.
"I wouldn't know. Maybe they weren't taught as kids to keep their goddamn traps shut."
They paused under the canopy of the hotel and surveyed the rain sweeping Bree Street.
"If it's going to rain like this in the Drakensberg Range we're in for a hell of a time," Ken said, turning up his jacket collar. "Come on . . . may as well start getting wet . . . it'll be good practice."
Their heads bent against the driving rain, the two men walked briskly across to Plein Street.
Sam Jefferson, the owner of the garage, a tall, thin elderly man with a pleasant, freckled face greeted them.
"Hi Ken! Had a good trip?"
Ken said the trip was fine and introduced Fennel. Jefferson lost some of his sunny smile as he shook hands. He was obviously a little startled at the cold, hard expression on Fennel's face. Fennel wasn't his kind of people.
"I got all the stuff and it's there laid out for you," he went on turning to Ken. "Take a look. If there's anything I've forgotten, let me know. Excuse me now. I've got a gear box in my hair." Nodding, he went off across the big garage to where two Bantus were staring vacantly at a jacked up Pontiac.
Ken led the way to a small, inner garage where a Land Rover was parked. A Bantu, sitting on his haunches and scratching his ankle got slowly to his feet and gave Ken a wide, white toothy grin.
"All okay, boss," he said, and Ken shook hands with him. "This is Joe," he said to Fennel. "Sam and he have collected all the stuff we need."
Fennel had no time for coloured people. He glowered at the smiling Bantu, grunted and turned away. There was an awkward pause, then Ken said, "Well, Joe, let's see what you've got."
The Bantu crossed to the Land Rover and pulled off the tarpaulin that covered the bonnet. "I got it fixed like you said, boss."
Welded to the front of the radiator was a drum between two steel supports. Around the drum was wound a long length of thin
steel cable. Ken examined it, then nodded his satisfaction.
"What the hell's that for?" Fennel demanded, regarding the drum.
"It's a winch," Ken explained. "We're going over some very sticky roads and we could easily get bogged down. When there's heavy rain, the roads over the Drakensberg can be hell. This winch will drag us out without us breaking our backs." He found a small yacht anchor lying on the floor of the Land Rover. "See this? We get stuck, and all we have to do is to slam this anchor into a tree root and winch ourselves out."
"The roads going to be that bad?"
"Brother! You have no idea. We have quite a trip ahead of us.
Fennel scowled.
"Those other two have it the easy way . . . flying in, huh?"
"I don't know so much about that. If one of the fans falls off, they land in the jungle and that will be that. I'd rather drive than fly in this country."
"Boss . . ." Joe, still smiling, but uncomfortable in Fennel's presence, pulled off a tarpaulin that covered a long trestle table standing away from the Land Rover. "You want to check this stuff?"
The two men moved over to the equipment laid out. There were four jerrycans for water, another five for gas, four sleeping bags, four powerful electric torches with spare batteries, two six foot steel perforated strips for getting out of mud, a collapsible tent, two wooden cases and a large carton.
"With luck, I reckon we'll take five days in and four days out to do the job," Ken said, patting the two wooden cases. "We have enough canned food to last us that time." He tapped the carton. "That's booze: four Scotch, two gin and twenty-four quarts of beer. I have a Springfield, a 12 bore and a .22. There's plenty of game where we are going. You like guinea-fowl? Impala? Ever tried a
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