As I’m sure you’ll agree, dear reader, I was in an incredibly privileged position at twenty-four: wealthy, married to a beautiful woman, deeply in love. The obvious conclusion Terry and I reached was that the only thing that could make life better was having a child. Soon Terry was pregnant and I’m sure she’d agree it was the best decision we ever made. So yes, dear Mikey, you were planned and loved before you even saw daylight. But before I get too sentimental, I want to tell you a cracker of a story from April 1992 a few months before MIkey was born.
I’d heard on radio and TV that Zambia had a new president, Frederick Chiluba, who was open to foreign investment—even allowing foreigners to purchase land. Feeling flush as I was, this pricked up my interest. Who did I know with connections in Zambia?
Charles Funkey, my mate from commercial pilot school, had a brother Jeremy studying agriculture at Cedara, the famous agricultural college in Natal. They had also both gone to St John's which didn't hurt. When I contacted Charles, Jeremy happened to be visiting the following week. We met up, and indeed, he knew people—specifically, he was at school with Wayne Pinkney, son of a wealthy Zambian farming family. As it happened Jeremy was planning to visit them in a couple of weeks anyway and suggested Charles and I fly up to meet them.
Extremely excited, I planned the flight. The day arrived, and Charles and I set off for Lusaka, filing a flight plan north on a quest to buy a farm in Africa. How cringingly naive I was! But I was young, and life couldn’t have been better. (I should add that my mother-in-law Mary was extremely disapproving of me going on adventures while Terry was pregnant, but that’s another story.)
Arrival in Lusaka
Charles and I arrived in Lusaka and immediately changed our US dollars on the black market for kwacha—the local currency—because we’d been advised this was savvy. It turned out to be the dumbest move possible, as you needed a residence permit to use local currency. We ended up changing back to US dollars at a horrendously unattractive exchange rate.
That’s what you get when you think you know what you’re doing. We stayed the night at some hotel, where “chicken in a basket” was the best thing on the menu. Pretty grim. The following day, we flew to the Pinkney farm, Cisera, near Mazabuka in South Western Zambia.
The farm had its own airstrip. The Pinkney family had been there for generations, and it was incredible—tobacco, maize, you name it. We had a fantastic day with Ewan (Wayne's dad) and Wayne showing us around in their four-by-four, drinking gallons of Zambezi lager and getting happily wasted in this colonial paradise.
The Emergency
That evening, back at the homestead, we were basking in alcohol, sun, and camaraderie. They had a citizen band radio that crackled occasionally. When I asked why they didn’t answer, they explained they only responded to their call sign.
Suddenly, Ewan reacted sharply, rushing to take a incoming transmission. His tone told us something serious was happening. He returned looking grave: He came back shortly “Someone’s been shot.”
A South African kid working on a neighboring farm had been shot in a bandit attack and taken to Mazabuka mission hospital. It quickly became clear he needed serious medical help unavailable locally. His family in South Africa were organising a Medi-Vac jet to fly to Lusaka but the still needed to get there. It was hours away on bumpy roads. The obvious solution was becoming clear in my mind—we’d have to fly him out.
I’d had about fifteen beers that day, but adrenaline was sobering me up fast. I needed Charles’s agreement. “Charles, we need to fly him out.”
“But we’ve been drinking,” he said.
“I know, but it’ll be a while, and we’ll get sober quickly.”
He agreed. I told Ewan we’d fly the kid out if they could get him to us.
“But you’ve been drinking,” Ewan said.
“Coffee and adrenaline will sober me up fast. We’ll fly him out.”
He looked at me with huge sincerity: “Thank you. I’ll tell them.”
I went to the toilet, and two things happened: my bowels turned to water, and I started shaking. But with adrenaline came sobriety.
The Flight
We prepared for the arrival of the ambulance by pulling out KAJ’s back seats, and opened her big double doors for the stretcher. Charles and I fired up the engine as the ambulance arrived, its lights bouncing through the darkness.
The kid was wheeled in on a stretcher with an Irish doctor—I think named O’Shaughnessy. I looked down and back over my right shoulder at this young man: wild-eyed with shock, bullet holes like boils across his chest.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay,” I said.
“Thank you, thank you,” he replied.
Ewan positioned himself at the runway’s end with a flashlight. I gunned the engine, and we screamed down the airstrip. Takeoff speed in a Beechcraft Bonanza is seventy knots. At about sixty-five knots, I noticed the light moving right—Ewan getting out of the way. Luckily, I didn’t follow. Seconds later, we hit seventy knots I rotated and were airborne.
The twenty-minute flight to Lusaka was uneventful and very smooth at that time of night. The airport was closed to all commercial aircraft except us. By now it was around midnight. We landed on the massive runway and taxied to the arrivals hall to meet “the Scotsman.” This is the Lusaka local that Ewan had organised to take care of us.
The Scotsman
The Scotsman was unmistakable—the only white man, short, rotund, red-faced and clearly in charge. He greeted us expansively and said the Medi-Vac jet from South Africa would be here in twenty minutes. He said Charles and I should come inside and the doc and Joe remain in the aircrraft. He led us into the arrivals hall, which was full of airport staff sleeping on furniture.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Cheaper than commuting from Lusaka. They just stay the night.”
We grabbed some blankets and took them back to Dr. O’Shaughnessy and Joe. Despite being Africa, it was autumn in Lusaka—and damn cold at that time of night.
An hour later, we heard the Cessna Citation landing. We handed him over to the professional team, who flew him off. Our job was done.
The Adventure Continues
There was no way I was going to fly back to a dirt strip at night, the Scotsman directed us to taxi to the flying club at the runway’s eastern end where we could safely park KAJ, he would meet us there. Charles and I but KAJ to bed but as walked toward the gate, I spotted two Doberman Pinschers charging at us, tongues lolling.
“Run!” I shouted.
We absolutely gapped it, scaling the fence at unbelievable speed. Landing on the other side, we looked back at the snarling dogs.
“Jesus, sorry,” the Scotsman said sheepishly. “I forgot about the dogs.”
In his Toyota Land Cruiser there was a young black teenager in the front passenger seat, fast asleep.
“My car alarm,” the Scotsman explained. “Nobody takes notice of sirens in Lusaka, so you need someone to watch your car. He does great cleaning too.”
Charles and I lookd at each other incredulously and it wouldn't be the first time that night. This was an Africa we’d never experienced.
The Great North Road
At the first traffic circle, taken at fifty kilometers per hour, centrifugal force flung open the left-hand door. The poor kid went flying into the road in a cloud of dust. Thankfully unhurt, he climbed back in, only to receive a slap from the Scotsman: “If you’re going to fall asleep on the job, close the bloody door properly!”
We proceeded down the Great North Road to the Scotsman’s home. He pulled into his garage and told us to wait while he “put the lion away.” Charles and I exchanged astonished looks—at this point, anything was possible.
Soon he returned: “All clear.”
Inside, his Greek wife (Leucothea, I think) greeted us with her parents. She was about forty with the most enormous breasts I had ever seen, while her father Agrippa looked like Rasputin. She’d prepared moussaka and the Scotsman provided plenty of whiskey. We shared our adventure over this sumptuous meal, finally getting to bed around three or four in the morning.
Morning Surprises
Still full of adrenalin I was unable to sleep and tossed and turned on the mattresses they’d laid out for us in the living room, I finally dozed around six. Knocking on the window woke me—I parted the curtain to reveal the face of a Chinese man looking in.
“I’m here for my judo class,” he explained when I opened the window.
“The Scotsman had a late night. I don’t think there’s judo today.”
“Will you tell him I was on time?”
“Sure, but do you know about the lion in the garden?”
“What lion?” Before I could finish, he was over the wall and gone.
An hour later, I woke to “schwack, schwack" I parted the curtain again and this time it was two men practicing archery. It turned out to be the Scotsman’s son and a friend, home from university in England, part of the UK archery team competing in championships.
After a fantastic breakfast of bacon and eggs, the Scotsman took us to the Lusaka Polo Club for a polo match. Anyone who thinks colonialism died needs to attend such an event: Pimm’s, waiters in fezzes—the colonial lifestyle was alive and well in 1990s Zambia and I'm sure it probably still does.
Return and Consequences
We flew back to Mazabuka that evening, shared our adventures with the Pinkneys over a lovely dinner, and returned to South Africa the following day. It had become obvious that my ambitions of owning property in Zambia were pipe dreams.
However, I’d given Jeremy hope and felt obligated to help him get started. I ended up lending him $20,000 US to hire land from the Pinkneys for a maize crop.
Communications weren’t fantastic then. Over following months, via fax, I learned things were going well, then it went quiet. I worried about losing my $20,000.
One day with no prior warning, Jeremy Funkey appeared at our house with $20,000 in cash, still in Federal Reserve packaging. Not only was I surprised, but the chance of forgery seemed massive. He promised it was real.
I took it to my mother’s—if you read her backstory, you’ll know she had experience counting currency. We repeatedly came up $100 short of $20,000. I assumed Jeremy had needed $100 for his trip.
The Return Journey
The money had been loaned from an offshore account, and I didn’t want it in South Africa. After months in my gun safe, Briony visited from London, and I asked her to take it back.
As we approached the airport, the gravity of what we were doing hit us. Getting caught in 1992 with an unexplained $20,000 wouldn’t go well with authorities.
We put her bags through the X-ray machine—my heart was in my mouth. Twenty thousand in hundreds isn’t that big a parcel, and they didn’t pick up anything. For some reason despite the fact that I wasn't travelling with her I was allowed all the way through the check-in area to the final security before proceeding to here gate.
At the departure cafeteria, facing one more security level, I had sudden inspiration. “Hey Matt,” I said to Briony’s four-year-old son, “here’s money for crisps.” I gave him a ten-rand note and whilst he was over at the counter I transferred the money to his little backpack.
Our little mule went through without problems, blissfully unaware of the extra little burden added to his backpack. 20K USD in 100 dollar notes only weighs about 200 grammes.
The Resolution
After Brionyøs departure I was waiting on tenter hooks convinced the money was likely counterfit. About three days later, Briony called: "Coutts just called, there is a problem with the deposit" my heart sank “they say there’s actually twenty thousand dollars, not nineteen thousand nine hundred.” My heart did the return journey.