Mr Crack

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The two men stared at each other across the beaten laterite floor of the hut. Trekkers across this part of the Sperrgebiet were mustered into groups of at least four before setting out for a gruelling two week march across the Succulent Karoo. The land, owned by the Namibia Diamond Conglomerate, is an area of outstanding natural beauty and part of one of the greatest national parks in the world. Parties of walkers were encouraged. The Conglomerate were happy to let the world see the pristine state of the wilderness over which it presided. But these trips were not cheap. All parties were accompanied by a guide, two or more armed guards, a cook, and at least four porters. Security was extremely strict. At the end of the trek, you were obliged to remain in a kind quarantine until authorities were satisfied that you had not ingested handfuls of diamonds, which reputedly littered the ground. The area was no longer commercially exploited, but supplies must be protected. This was Igglesden’s second such trek. Last time he had seen nothing that resembled a diamond until the guide had shown him some. But he never saw any on his own.

On the previous trip the rest of the party had comprised of a South African couple, amateur and poor wildlife photographers, but serious yompers; a sullen young Russian man with whom Igglesden had shared a tent, without ever sharing a conversation; and a stout asexual Dutch woman, a physics teacher from Utrecht who had become almost a friend, and as unlikely a friend as he had ever had. A few minutes ago, he had been introduced to a party of Spanish birdwatchers, only one of whom spoke even rudimentary English. Igglesden was constantly amazed at how few foreigners actually spoke conversational English. Basil, the guide, had then ushered him into the tin roofed supplies hut to meet his ‘fellow Englishman, Mr Crack’.

‘Mr Crack’ occupied one of two equal and opposite benches which took up the front half of the hut, stitching a strap on his day-pack. Igglesden had opened the door of the hut with his right hand outstretched, pursuant of a shake and “Peter Igglesden, how do you do?” on his lips. But the sight of ‘Mr Crack’ rendered him mute. He remained with his hand stuck out stupidly in front of him, almost as if he held a gun, and circled round the man, keeping him covered with same gun, until he sat or slumped onto the opposing bench. Neither man had spoken but their eyes remained locked together and both jaws hung slightly slack. The moment demanded a great line: both men knew that they should have something profound, or brutal, or desperately witty to say. Both knew not to say, “..I presume.”

Igglesden closed his mouth and licked his lips, wetting his dry tongue, fully aware of the possibility of coughing or choking, “Hillary Malbeck-Creek.”

Malbeck-Creek raised his eyebrows, slightly. “Piggles.” He nodded slightly, “Plus ça change.”

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