Oliver Strange and the Journey to the Swamps. Dianne Hofmeyr

I didn’t say I was a spy.”

      The lights flickered on and then went off again.

      The men exchanged glances. “This is serious.”

      Oliver wasn’t sure what was serious – the lights going out, or the fact they thought he was a spy. But he began to feel whatever it was, it really was serious.

      He nodded.

      “So you didn’t mean what you wrote, which means you definitely answered falsely. To answer falsely on a government form is serious. Very, very serious. Do you understand?”

      “Yes …” Oliver’s head was going up and down like one of those plastic, nodding dogs in the back window of a car. He wanted to clamp his hands around it to hold it still. “Yes … but it was a mistake.” His voice came out small and squeaky. Even though it was hot and steamy in the room his teeth began to rattle against each other. The plan was going horribly wrong. He had come to find his father. Now, he was going to land up in jail. And why wasn’t his aunt here to meet him?

      The officials both peered at him through the gloom.

      “How old are you?”

      “Nearly twelve.” He bit his lip. A slight exaggeration. His birthday was eleven months away. “Actually eleven and a bit.”

      The man clicked his tongue. “You’re an unaccompanied minor. Where’s the tag you’re supposed to be wearing? Who’s meeting you?”

      “My aunt.”

      “And what is the name of this aunt?”

      “Dr Hortense.”

      “Dr Hortense?” The men looked at each other and suddenly smiled. “You should have said so in the first place.”

      Oliver bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, You didn’t give me a chance.

      “We’ve got a message for you.”

      The lights suddenly came on and stayed on this time. The men looked quite different now. Almost cheerful.

      “A message?” Thank goodness at last his head had stopped nodding.

      “Yes. We received a message from your aunt. It’s all in this note. She’s been called away. She isn’t able to meet you. You’re to travel by train to Kasane.”

      “By train to Kasane?” Oliver tried to recall the name on his map. He couldn’t remember a place called Kasane. “But …”

      “Kasane’s just across the border in Botswana. Come with us. We’ll get someone to take you to the train station. She’s left a ticket for you.”

      Oliver shook his head. “I can’t possibly. I promised Grandma I wouldn’t go with strangers.”

      At Heathrow airport, Grandma’s glasses had been quite misted up when he’d said goodbye to her. Be careful, Oliver! Don’t take any risks, she’d warned.

      “A very wise woman, your grandma. She’s right. But we are government officials and here’s your aunt’s note. She’s probably had an emergency. Doctors are always having emergen­cies. Read the note.”

      Oliver opened the letter. It wasn’t in Aunt Hortense’s handwriting, the writing that had been on her invitation letter. Instead this one was printed … which was odd. But perhaps she’d written it in a hurry:

      Dear Oliver

      There’s been a sudden change of plan. Please take a taxi to the Bulawayo station and catch the train to the Victoria Falls. Then catch the bus to Kasane where I’ll meet you.

      Oliver read it again to be quite sure there was nothing he’d missed. But no. It was just that.

      Catch a train to the Victoria Falls. And a bus to Kasane. Very casual instructions. No details. Aunt Hortense was exactly like his father. She left out all the small details. It must be a family thing. Which was rather odd, seeing that his father was a zoologist – well actually a herpetologist – and she was a doctor. Shouldn’t doctors and zoologists know better?

      But what now? Should he go?

      He wanted to stop and take out his map to check on the names. He seemed to recall seeing the Victoria Falls and Kasane. How far were they from the Okavango Swamp? But the men were in a hurry to get going. There was no time to open his spy suitcase.

      2

      Strange Travel Companions

      The train station was crowded. Standing next to a huge pile of luggage, boxes and strange contraptions, was a girl who also seemed to be travelling alone. Oliver pushed his way across to her.

      “Excuse me. Is this the platform for the train to the Victoria Falls?”

      The girl didn’t look up.

      He stood in front of her and was about to ask again but then saw she had on earphones and was singing to herself. He tapped her shoulder.

      She frowned as she looked up and slipped the earphones from her ears. “What?”

      “Is this the platform for the Victoria Falls?”

      “I hope so!” Then she laughed as she pointed to a sign. “Unless that sign’s wrong.”

      At the sound of her voice, a furry creature popped out above the top button of her shirt. A small creature with huge eyes.

      “What’s that? A monkey?”

      The girl shook her head. “More lemur than monkey. She’s a bushbaby or night ape. Her Ndebele name is impukunyani. Her scientific name is Galago sengalensis. But I call her Bobo.”

      She tucked the creature back into her shirt. “What’s your name?”

      “Oliver. Oliver Strange. But you can call me Ollie. Most people do.”

      She suddenly shot out her hand and gripped his. “Well dumela, then Ollie! My name is Zinzi.” She grinned at him.

      Oliver fumbled. It seemed odd to shake a girl’s hand.

      “By the way, men and women don’t normally shake hands. So a boy mustn’t reach out for a woman’s hand. It’s impolite.”

      “In England, it’s impolite for a boy not to shake a woman’s hand.”

      Zinzi laughed. “Customs are different here! Come on then, Ollie. Let’s get going. Here comes the train.”

      There was a smell of hot metal and burning coal as the gigantic engine came hissing and snorting into the station like a bellowing buffalo, stampeding hot clouds of steam that swallowed up the crowds on the platform.

      A real stream train! He’d never been on a steam train.

      The platform was chaotic. People with luggage of all shapes and sizes balanced on their heads and tucked under their arms were pushing and shoving their way between people trying to sell oranges, cigarettes and bars of soap, and rattling and dangling plastic toys and coat hangers in everyone’s faces.

      Zinzi hauled out a ticket from the pocket of her shorts. “I’m carriage 2749. Compartment B. What about you?”

      Ollie glanced at his ticket and nodded. “Me too.”

      “Good. They must’ve put us together because we’re travelling alone.”

      Zinzi ran alongside the carriages examining the tickets stuck in holders next to the windows. She shouted back. “Here we are! Stay on the platform while I hop on board. Then pass my stuff up to me.”

      “All of it?” Ollie looked at the huge heap of boxes and crates.

      Zinzi leaned out of a window. “Careful how you handle that big one. It’s