Peter Capstick's Africa by Peter Hathaway Capstick

Author:Peter Hathaway Capstick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2011-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

The next morning, we took one of Lusaka’s ramshackle cabs into town to call on the Hunters Africa office, situated in Cairo Road. Super-efficient Ivy Mhinde attended to some business for us while we chatted to Pauline Finaughty whose husband is the great nephew of the famous elephant hunter, William Finaughty. (The first edition of his book, of which only two hundred and fifty were printed, is the pride of my Africana library. It certainly gave me a kick to meet one of his descendants and enjoy a chat.)

That night we were once again to discover that Africa is full of surprises.

As we would be checking out early the following morning to catch our charter flight up to the Luangwa Valley, Paul and I thought it best to remove the cameras and guns from the hotel safe so as to speed our departure in the morning. We duly did this with no trouble, and everything was stored in the bedroom Fiona and I had.

At about ten o’clock that night, Fiona was busy doing whatever women do at such hours—probably smearing her face with some incredibly expensive gunge—which did not require my presence. So, I pushed off to Paul’s room, around the corner, for a nightcap.

Half an hour later, the telephone rang, scaring us both nearly to death. It was Fiona.

“You’d better get back here immediately. The hotel security staff are looking for you!”

“What the hell’s going on?” asked I in not a slight state of panic.

“There’s trouble with your firearms. Get back here!”

“Why?”

“Because you removed your guns from the safe and put them in our room. The security men have demanded that I hand them back to them. I have refused and won’t budge. Get back here!”

Oh, brother.

The front desk had reckoned we were checking out immediately, but such was not the case. Apparently, somebody had reported to them that firearms were being taken into one of the bedrooms, and this is taboo at the Pamodzi. A crowd of security men then banged on the bedroom door, demanding that Fiona open up. She did, in good time, and, on being told that she was to hand back the weapons immediately, she made it exceedingly plain to the security people that she would do no such thing.

“These are my husband’s possessions, duly licensed and here for our early departure tomorrow. Your front desk had no complaints about releasing them to us, so what are you doing here, thumping on the door like the bloody gestapo? We are guests in your country, not criminals. Now get me your night manager!”

They did. And a more charming, quiet-mannered, and efficient gentleman you would be hard-pressed to meet anywhere. I am merely sorry I never recorded his name so I could thank him here for sorting out what could have developed into a vicious confrontation—Fiona’s Irish heritage would have seen to it that they would never have gained possession of those guns.

The night manager explained most apologetically that the problem was one of chronic theft from hotel bedrooms, and that firearms and expensive camera equipment were prime targets.

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