The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure (3 page)

“Will you excuse me?” she asked and disappeared in the
direction of the bathrooms.

“It is about time,” said Grant, addressing Terence, not the
girl.

“The story is this,” said Terence. “Us three guys were just
walking all over the island looking at stuff when we came across this shop that
sells all kinds of things that have to do with voodoo, you know, for the
tourists. We walked in to see what they’ve got and in the corner we saw this
room where you could go for a consultation. We thought what the heck, let’s
have some fun. The woman in there did not throw bones or anything. She just
told us straight that there were four of us and that the one who was not there
was the owner of the boat on which we worked. She told us he was from Africa and
that he was bringing back the curse to the Triangle. Anybody who sailed with
him into the Triangle was going to drown. Just like that. We did not say a
word. We paid her and walked out.   Two days later we saw John leave. Jimmy and
I said that without John it’s just not the same, so we resigned as well.”

“Drat! You were actually considering what this woman had
said to you!”

“Listen, I don’t believe in that stuff either, ok. Nobody
wants to believe in that stuff. Jimmy and I never talk about it.”

“Then why are you talking to me now about the stuff?”

“I just thought you should know, that’s all. Perhaps.
Perhaps it was better not to tell you. Your lady is coming back. I’ll get the
dessert menu.”

Grant thought it over and when Terence returned he laughed.
“Listen Terence, this is a good one. You were always the practical joker but
this one had me going there for a while. I bear no grudges my man. I’ll give
you an extra tip for the fun.”

He repeated the story when he met with the boys over the
barbeque fire, Heineken in hand. Everybody thought it was hilarious. It was
apparently so funny that it spread like wildfire through the entire and rather
large yachting community on the island. As a result his enquiries for crew came
to nothing. People came, realised who he was and politely declined the offer of
employment.

In the end he was forced to find Jimmy and Terence and
pleaded with them to tell the truth – to the South Africans on the lagoon in
the first place. Instead, they took him to the place where they found the
woman. When he walked in she knew who he was without introduction.

“You must go back,” she said. “Go now, today, to Princess
Juliana airport and fly back to your country. Leave and get somebody to sell your
yacht.”

Her words gave him an idea. “I know what is happening here,”
he said. “Somebody wants to buy my yacht and he knows it is not for sale. I’ll
pay double what this person had paid you. Just tell me who it is.”

“Nobody paid me,” she said. “You have the curse, the Curse
of the Mountain.”

“What mountain?” he asked.

She found a piece of paper and drew the outline of a
mountain. Onto the side of the biggest peak she drew the face of something that
looked like a snake, or was it a skull? Whatever it was, it was ugly.

She refused to take his offer of more money and even
declined to take the fee for the session. Something was going on and somebody
was behind it all. Whoever it was, he was getting fed-up with the intrigue, the
mystery and the superstitious minds of the people he had to deal with. It was
time to leave the island – on his yacht.

CHAPTER TWO

Toward the end of the year, early in the eighteenth century,
in high summer but on the cool side of a mountain, two men crouched by a little
stream that ran down a steep gulley. The gulley was filled with ancient
hardwood trees that hid a secret, which was that this was the only place on the
entire mountain where there was water in summer so high up. They were enjoying
the water and the shade and neither of them was in a hurry. In fact, they had
all the time in the world. Slowly they filled several gourds with the clear
running liquid. And they talked in the language of their forefathers, which to
the European ear sounded like the breeze blowing through a stand of reeds, full
of clicks and hisses and low on vowels.

For the most part the old man, who could have been the
grandfather of the younger, did the talking. His audience of one listened
respectfully. Although the old one tended to ramble like all teachers of a
certain age, it was far from a casual conversation. The ancient ritual of the
master and the apprentice was playing itself out. In this secret place where
nobody could overhear them, what was being transferred were also secrets,
deadly secrets. The
KhoiKhoi
nation to which they belonged had an array
of people who operated in the interface of the temporary and the eternal, the
dividing line between life and death, the limited and the unlimited. There were
shamans who dreamed for them as well as for their San cousins, there were
mediums, there were people who told stories of
Heitsi-Ebib
the most
eminent of their forefathers, there were medicine men who could unlock the
secrets of the plant world and save your life and then, right at the bottom, there
were them, feared and despised in equal measure. Because they were the
sorcerers. Their magic was the most powerful but they did not derive their
potions from plants. They got it from human body parts.

The grey-haired elder hung the filled gourds on the sinewy
body of his companion, who clearly expected this because he patiently allowed
himself to be loaded up. His older partner kept one gourd for himself, which he
slung across his shoulders by its thongs of goat’s leather. Then they gingerly
made their way out of the gulley, first along a rocky ledge and then up a steep
incline. They exited the gully some distance below a windswept col that
connected two peaks and climbed up to it. A south-easterly wind was blowing
hard up here and flattened the coarse grass. They did not cross the col but
turned to the left and picked their way over the rocks along a footpath only
barely visible, taking care not to step into the thorny green shrubbery that
covered the ground between the rocks. They progressed along the flank of the
mountain, in the face of the wind, until they reached the cave where they
lived.

Their home was nothing more than a large slab of rock that
had fallen on its side but was stopped on its downward slide by another. Under
its flat bottom was a hollow with an opening that faced away from the prevailing
south-easterly wind and did not let the rain in either. It had enough space for
the master to sleep in the deepest end and for the apprentice to stretch out at
the door. They were not uncomfortable here. For bedding they used twigs from a
bush which had leaves softer than a baby’s touch and to cover them they used skins
tenderised by a process which the Dutch so far did not come close to imitate. They
performed their cooking in the lee of the rock right in front of their cave
home and this is where they put down their load of water containers.  

Water they now had in abundance but food supplies were
running low. For tonight they had the hare that they bagged with a throwing
stick the day before but they would have to start thinking about tomorrow. What
complicated matters was that they never hunted on the mountain. They had to go
down into the valleys and find food amongst the scarce game there. Alternatively
they had to eat bulbs – or beg.

“Down there,” said the master, whose eyes were still good
enough to see in the distance. “What do I see there on that open patch by the
stream?”

The young one squinted his eyes.

“Yes I see them now,” he said. “Maybe four or five. Reedbuck
for sure. They’ve gone down there for the green grass and the water.

“That is where we will take one of them,” said the master. “Before
they turn to come up the mountain. We will have to start now.”

They took up their spears. The old man was an acknowledged
expert at throwing the spear when he was younger and he could still do it on
occasion. The apprentice often missed but he was improving. They also had
poison tipped arrows in their quivers but they did not want to take the chance
of an animal running up the mountain and dying there.

Gone was the leisurely pace that they used to bring the
water. They took the straightest way down, hopping from rock to rock and
jogging in between where they could. The old man knew every foothold and the
youngster watched him carefully. They joined up with the path that led to the
col between the two peaks, the same one they had followed earlier. Only, now
they went the opposite way, which was down. The vegetation became dense. Large
bushes bloomed with red, orange and yellow flowers that looked like balls of
fluff with colourful pins stuck into them. Sunbirds, both large and small,
flitted between the flowers and chirped happy songs.

The beauty was not lost on the runners. “These flowers,”
said the old man, who was not breathing hard at all, “are more beautiful here
on this mountain than anywhere else in the world.”

“I saw these others when it was winter,” said his companion,
who was breathing hard. He pointed to a bush with broad blue-green leaves. “I
could not get my arms around a flower.”

“That is why the Dutch come here all the way from Cape Town.
You don’t find flowers like this on Sea Mountain. He used the word
Hoeri Quagga,
which was the how the
KhoiKhoi
called Table Mountain.  “They have to
come and pick them from our mountain. They even come for the red ones.”

They turned their heads around. From this vantage point,
three quarters down the mountain, one had a view of the red flowers on ledges
high and unreachable. As they both knew, in spring time it was even more
impressive, with flowers often spilling like waterfalls down the cracks in the
rocks.

“There are two kinds,” said the old one. The young one knew
that but then he had to listen to a lot of things that he had heard before or
was aware of anyway.

“You get the one that clings to the rocks wherever there is
a bit of moisture, without needing a lot of soil. That one does not want to
grow at the houses of the Dutch when they take them down. Then there is another
one with bulbs that grow best wherever it finds a lot of soil on the ledges,
especially in dung from the rock hyraxes. That one grows at the houses of the
Dutch. How do I know this? I have been talking to the young
Goringhaikona
that they bring here to climb up where even a baboon will not go. I can show
you a few places here where one can still see their bones.”

“I am
Goringhaikona
,” said the young one.

“Yes you are,” said the old one. “You were named after a
famous king of the
Goringhaikona
, Hadah.”

“Tell me about him,” said Hadah.

Just then the master lifted his hand and turned into the
bushes at right angles. At Hadah’s enquiring look he waved him down impatiently
and motioned to his ear. Hadah listened. He could hear the sunbirds and the redwing
starlings and the wind in the bushes. Then he heard something else. There was
the sound of heavy breathing and footfalls. Somebody, more than one person in
fact, was coming up the steep path and they were in a hurry. They were running.
Master and learner positioned themselves so that they had a glimpse of the path
through the leaves. Three large black men ran by.

“Runaway slaves,” said the master.

Hadah wanted to continue on the way down for the hunt but
the master snatched his arm in that grip that was so surprisingly hard.

“No,” he said. “Somebody will be following, maybe soldiers. If
they see us they might shoot. How many of our people nowadays are shot for no
reason at all? ”

“But we can hide when we see them,” said Hadah.

“Not if they have some of our people as trackers. They will
pick up our presence. In fact, they might lead the Dutch to our home. We have
to get away from this side of the mountain until things are quiet again.”

They backtracked to their cave, lifted a heavy stone to unearth
the rabbit from its cool hiding place, loaded up with the water and set off on
the path. Halfway to the col connecting the two peaks they came across the
three runaways.

“Where are you going?” asked the master, using Kitchen
Dutch, which he spoke fluently.

“We are running away,” said the one in front. They looked
nervous, which was understandable. Running away was punishable by death.
Perhaps they also knew that the
KhoiKhoi
might carry poisoned arrows in
their quivers. You never knew when you met them in their traditional dress.

“Why are you going this way?” asked the master.

“We heard that there is a cave down this path where we can
hide.”

“Too many people know about this cave. If you are followed
they will corner you there and catch you.”

“The Dutch will not know.”

“That could be true but then the Dutch like to use our
people to track. They will follow you there. It will be better for you to
continue on the other side of the neck. Follow the path that goes down. Turn
right at the bottom. Don’t stop. Don’t use the cave down there either. Just
follow the path and go home.”

“Where is home?”

“That way.” He pointed north. “’Go on until you meet up with
our people and ask them the way. Don’t stop. If you follow the path it will
lead you to a break in the Great Mountains, at the place where this mountain
ends.”

The two
KhoiKhoi
watched the runaways go and then
turned
south. They gingerly picked their way over the rocks. The hot side of the
mountain was a totally different prospect from the other side. It was due to
the fact that the mountain was just not high enough. The cloud-carrying north-westerly
winds came directly from the Atlantic Ocean, screamed through the craggy peaks
with a noise that the two would have equalled to hundreds of jet engines had
they lived three centuries later, and stopped dead against the massif of the
Great Mountains on the other side of the valley to the north. For that reason
it rained a lot on the lee side of their mountain, strange as it may seem and
almost nothing along the windward ridge. It had sparse vegetation that the master
had only seen in the desert, many days’ travel to the north, where the black
slaves were headed. He pointed out plants with edible tubers that grew only
here and they dug up several to go with their evening meal.

“Watch out for the puff adders,” he warned. “And tonight we
need to watch where we put our feet. The scorpions on this side of the mountain
can sting so bad they will hear you scream all the way to Stellenbosch.”  They
looked down on the Dutch settlement. It was a full day’s travel way, but from
on top here it looked so close that you had the feeling that you could spray
your water on it when you peed.

***

Grant brought down the spinnaker not only because he needed
to get away from his fellow traveller’s questioning. He reckoned that it would be
prudent to reduce speed for the night, given the lower visibility. He would be
able to pick up other vessels easily enough but logs and half-submerged ship’s
containers were another story. You did not want to hit one of these at full
speed. He hove to and let the sheets fly. Once again it was tough going, doing
it all by himself. As he laboured he realised that it was very ambitious
putting the big sheet up in the first place, with just the two of them on board.
And it was not as if his day was over. There was no change in Madeleine’s
condition and he reckoned with almost complete certainty that he would be alone
on the watch for a minimum of twelve hours. He fervently hoped that his only
crew member would somehow be fit enough in the morning to at least keep a
lookout. He would really have liked to put in four hours of sleep once the sun
was up.

He turned the wheel and watched the sails fill again with
the wind. In order to increase the chances of Madeleine recovering during the
night, he had decided on a slightly new course and pointed the bow northwards. That
way they were not crossing the large rollers at an angle. It was a gentle lift
and fall and he expected the slower speed of six knots to help as well.  

He marvelled at the steadiness of the trade wind. No wonder
people liked to come sail in these waters. If the wind stayed like that, he
reckoned that they could see a seven day journey being reduced to five or even
four.

He realised that Madeleine had disappeared again without him
noticing. He could not keep himself from taking a quick look behind the yacht
for a blonde head bobbing in the waves. There was none. For a moment he
considered whether he should set out a trailing rope with a buoy and its own
beacon at the end. After a particularly robust episode of horseplay on their
way across the South Atlantic they let it out and never pulled it in again
until they had reached St Martin. He decided against it. There was just the two
of them and one tended to stay below while the other knew his way around on
deck. She took his admonitions about the safety harness very seriously anyway.
At least so far.

It was dinner time. Madeleine was nowhere to be seen when he
stepped into the galley. The gourmet chef was missing on her first assignment. Yesterday,
when he was looking forward to this trip, including well-prepared meals by a
real cook, he had not reckoned with seasickness.