ODDS ‘N’ SODS — Divine intervention

In 1989, I was working as an exploration geologist in Canada but accepted an offer from an Italian mining company to spend a year in Zambia reviewing gold exploration licences. I had never been to a developing country, and looked forward to the experience.

The locals, despite having had to traverse the rocky political road of post-independence Zambia, were the most obliging and pleasant people I had ever met. Nevertheless, a small group of Westerners living in a tent city in the bush was bound to draw unwanted attention.

As a precaution (but mainly because labor was cheap), we posted night watchmen at each corner of the camp. None of us, however, was gullible enough to think that the watchmen actually watched anything but the inside of their eyelids.

One night, I awoke at about 2:30 a.m. to the sound of small explosions. In my semi-conscious state, I convinced myself that the generator was backfiring. Soon, I heard one of the watchmen running past my tent yelling hysterically “Cabolalas! Cabolalas!” which, in the local dialect, meant “thieves.”

I switched from auto-pilot to manual over-ride. Running out of my tent, I discovered that those small explosions were rifle shots, and that they were coming from behind an anthill where our water tanks were perched. I later learned that the cabolalas managed to hot-wire two of our three Land Rovers before the nearest watchman woke up.

Our guard escaped, never to return, and Ricardo, an Italian expatriate, and myself were the last people left in camp. As most of the walls there were made of canvas, we made for the brick office for safety. I deftly grabbed a beer or two on my way past the mess, figuring they might be handy to sterilize bandages if the trouble escalated. The cabolalas did not return, which was lucky since we couldn’t have sterilized the end of a Q-tip with the beer we had left by morning.

We made radio contact with Lusaka, and a Sardinian expatriate named Hugo was dispatched to the camp to investigate the incident. Ricardo described to Hugo, in Italian and using much body language, the events of the previous evening. Hugo declared that we must have protection if we were to remain in camp, and recommended that we drive to the nearby town of Mumbwa to see a Catholic missionary, Father Stanislaw. I was skeptical that visiting a priest would ensure my safety.

We met Father Stanislaw when we arrived at the mission rectory. He was Slovenian and had spent some time in Toronto on church business. He was delighted to see a Canuck in his neck of the woods. My initial skepticism disappeared when Stan (as I took to calling him after he insisted I have a cold beer) went into the adjoining room and came back carrying a bundle of rifles and shotguns. He also had three holstered sidearms.

Stan insisted that we take a couple of the guns, and explained that permits were only a formality in Zambia. He made me a copy of his permit to keep with the .308-calibre rifle I selected, just in case. (I always wondered what he wrote in the sections on the permit labeled “Occupation” and “Employer;” I’ll bet it wasn’t “salvation” and “John Paul II.”) Stan also insisted that I take a Russian-made pistol. He said that he would scrounge around for some ammunition and drop it off at camp.

We returned to camp, and Ricardo, Hugo and I passed the evening shooting at targets in an attempt to leave the impression with the neighboring villagers that we were not amused with the events of the previous night.

Of course, we knew that the guns would never be pointed at anything other than the stars if the cabolalas returned. Word got around and, apart from the welcome occasions when we were visited by Father Stan, no one again walked into our camp carrying a gun.

— The author is president of Oakville, Ont.-based North Atlantic Nickel.