Miller Caldwell - Caught in a Cold War Trap

‘So, where do I return to be collected, Amadu?’

‘I stay beside my plane to keep unwelcome eyes from investigating it. I’ll be here when you return. Master says you won’t be very long.’

‘That’s good. But where is the factory? In the town? How far away is it?’

Amadu turned some forty-five degrees around and pointed at a compound, which included a tower, some considerable distance away. ‘That’s where the Spanish are working.’

I shook his hand. His information was invaluable and I looked forward to my return trip more than the mundane assignment before me. It seemed strange. Hand over a box of chocolates and return. Why not post them from Accra? Perhaps it was so that I might get to know the Russian Spaniard, Lorenzo? Perhaps chocolates in the post might never reach the recipient. Maybe they would have melted long ago had not Igor kept them in his fridge. I could not answer my own questions.

I must have walked for fifteen minutes as the metal tower grew larger by each step. The sweat no sooner left me than it dried instantly, and soon I needed some water. I drank as if taking my last drink ever and quickly finished my bottle.

As I approached I saw a few trucks and several stationary jeeps. There were four buildings. But first, there was a security gate. I approached. I wondered if it was best to speak French or Spanish, but first I extended my hand and exchanged an Islamic greeting with the man on duty.

‘I’ve come to speak to Senor Lorenzo Desoto.’

‘Ah… Senor Desoto. Yes, he be here.’

I smiled at him and nodded, indicating I knew he would be here. ‘Where do I go find him, please?’

He pointed at the second hut from the left. ‘He dey work in dat room.’

I shook his hand warmly and proceed past the makeshift security gate. I approached the wooden door of the hut and knocked three times.

‘Come in,’ a voice said and immediately I detected a southern Russian accent in his Spanish tongue. I entered and found a slightly nervous, underweight man with a well-bronzed face and greying hair which may have been red at one time. It seemed the heat did not suit him.

‘Good morning, my name is Robert Harvie,’ I said in Spanish, then proffered the parcel and explained that I had met Alfonso in Accra, that I was his messenger delivering this present.

Lorenzo relaxed but no smile came to his lips. He took the box and laid it on his table. He eyed me knowing I, like him, spoke Spanish with a different European accent. I could see the moment was becoming uncomfortable for him. Then he began to question me.

‘How do you know Alfonso?’

‘I met him at the Osu beach, near Accra.’

‘How exactly did you meet?’ he asked. His manner reminded me of an irritated school teacher.

‘Well, it’s an interesting story,’ I began. ‘I studied Spanish when I was at school and university. As I lay on the beach I overheard two men speaking Spanish. I presumed they were from the cargo ships at either Tema, along the coast, or further away at Sekondi-Takoradi.’ That did not end his enquiry and he sat back to hear more.

‘So I was glad to practice my Spanish with them in Accra of all places. One of them turned out to be Alfonso. He asked why I was in Ghana I told him I was going to see the whole country. I said I was first heading to Tamale, then to Navrongo and up to Upper Volta. That was when he told me he had a friend called Lorenzo Desoto and he would arrange for me to bring you something. He came to where I was staying at a rest house in Accra with this box, and so now I am here, to present you with his gift.’

He seemed to accept my lie, which I found uncomfortably easy to deliver. After a few moments, his smile reappeared. ‘You speak Spanish well.’

His shoulders relaxed. Tension left him.

‘I saw a tower on my approach. What’s the work here?’ I asked, hoping to change the subject.

He stood up and walked over to the window, lowering the slanted louvers at an angle for a view through the mosquito netting. ‘Come over here and see.’

‘Over there, Mr Harvie, you see they are drilling?’ he asked.

I kept my Spanish simple. ‘Drilling,’ I repeated in surprise.

‘Yes, for oil.’

‘So, there is oil under the sand here?’

‘There’s oil in Libya and only the desert lies between us. We are hopeful.’

He returned to his desk and brought out a map of West Africa. ‘See Libya here? Sandema here,’ his finger ran between the two points. ‘Sand and oil, nothing more, nothing less.’

‘Aha,’ I said, hoping I showed sufficient enthusiasm for his project. He returned to his desk after closing the glass louvers and increased the speed of the ceiling fan en route. He began to unpack the box. Inside was a tin of Quality Street chocolates. He took out a knife and cut around the sellotape, freeing the lid. I saw his eyes light up at the sight of chocolates. He lifted one. He felt it. ‘I think I’d better put them in the fridge for an hour or two.’

There was no need to inform him of my chocolate allergy. I agreed they would be better chilled. To change the subject I asked a favour. ‘I’d appreciate refilling my water bottle,’ I said.

‘Yaw,’ he shouted and before I understood why the door opened.

‘Yaw, take this box and put it in the fridge. And can you take my friend’s water bottle and refresh it?’ he asked his steward.

‘Yes master, I go do this,’ he said and left as soon as he had appeared.

‘So, where are you heading now, can I ask?’

A true answer was not in my mind. Fortunately, I knew the names of some of the towns nearby. ‘I’ll stay in Navrongo tonight. I know a teacher there.’

‘Navrongo, that’s not too far.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll get a lorry from Sandema. I have an American friend, a mathematics teacher there.’

Yaw entered the room once more with two new bottles of water for me. I thanked him profusely.

‘Then my driver can take you to Navrongo.’

‘That would be great,’ I said smiling at his thoughtfulness. Then I wondered how I would get back to Sandema, the plane and home.

‘Well, enjoy your chocolates. I’ll be on my way.’

‘Sorry about them. Perhaps I can give you a few. They might even have started to set already.’

‘No, that’s alright. Best to have them solid and enjoy all of them.’

He was having none of it. He went out of the room but kept the door open. He returned with a brown paper bag with four wrapped chocolates inside.

‘Enjoy them.’

‘I certainly will. I’ll have them in the car and enjoy the journey more.’ There was no need for a lengthy explanation about my allergy—I recalled Igor’s words to deliver and depart.

Lorenzo went to the door and shouted for his car. ‘Well Mr Harvie, it has been a pleasure meeting you. Perhaps we can meet again?’

‘One thing I meant to ask you Senor Desoto. Do you still speak much Russian?’

‘Could you detect I am Russian?’

‘I thought you had a slight Russian accent. But you are working with the Spanish?’

‘It pays to be bilingual doesn’t it, Mr Harvie?’

Before I could ask more questions of this most enigmatic man, he announced the car was waiting outside. He proffered his hand and I shook it firmly.

I had got used to sitting in the back of cars, as all Europeans and wealthy Ghanaians did to show they were the car’s owner, even if they weren’t. In no time at all, I had passed Amadu, who was resting beside his plane. I was glad he did not see me. I saw the lorry park in the village and told the driver to stop there. I told him I’d like to go on one of the wooden lorries to Navrongo. To travel like a native, I said. It would impress my teacher friend.

‘Ah, you mean the tro-tro?’