Oliver Strange and the Journey to the Swamps

By Dianne Hofmeyr and Robert Foote

Oliver Strange’s life in London is all very normal until his father disappears in the wilds of the Okavango Swamps while collecting frog data. When Oliver goes in search of his dad, he is captured and things go from bad to worse. He soon discovers his knowledge of reading maps and his Swiss Army knife are not enough when faced with crocodiles, hippos, lions and dynamite-brandishing crooks with a sinister goal – to collect venom from the most poisonous frog of all – the golden poison dart frog, found only in Colombia. Oliver is faced with not only saving his father – but perhaps the whole world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tafelberg
• Release date: Jul 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9780624054948

Dianne Hofmeyr

Dianne Hofmeyr lives in London but grew up on the southern tip of Africa. She qualified as an art teacher. Journeys with notebook and camera through Botswana, China, Egypt, Russia, Tunisia, Senegal, Siberia, Vietnam and Zambia have led to books that have won Sanlam Awards, the Young Africa Award, IBBY Honour Books and the M-Net Book Prize. Her novels and picture books have been translated into Catalan, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, Swedish, Turkish as well as most African languages. In 2012 she celebrated twenty five years of being published in South Africa by Tafelberg.

Book preview

Oliver Strange

and the Journey to the Swamps

title_chew.jpg

Dianne Hofmeyr

Tafelberg

For Amelia and Jack 

PART ONE

1

Mistaken Identity

The wheels of the Boeing bumped down on the runway and the plane screeched to a halt.

Phew! Oliver breathed out a huge lungful of air.

Here he was at last! In Africa!

His quest had begun. He was ready for it but there was a gnawing-rat feeling in his stomach. In his carry-on case were his emergency spy things. He ticked them off mentally.

A little black notebook.

A folded map.

A compass.

A slim-line torch as flat as a credit card.

For security reasons his special Swiss Army knife, a red Victorinox Explorer with extra fold-out tools – two blades, a wire stripper, scissors, magnifying glass, reamer, screwdriver, corkscrew, hook, toothpick, tweezers and two bottle openers that were also extra screwdrivers – was in his backpack in the hold of the plane.

Pity he had no micro cameras for taking macro shots. Or mini microphones for recording maximum sound.

He peered out the small window hoping to spot a giraffe. Maybe even an elephant.

But no. Nothing except a strip of bare tarmac, some straggly thorn trees and a single, ancient fire engine standing next to a ramshackle cluster of buildings. It was nothing like Heathrow Terminal 5.

The plane nosed forward. A woman on the tarmac waved paddles like orange ping-pong bats. Then a contraption of steps on wheels was trundled towards the door of the plane.

The air hostess smiled. Welcome to Bulawayo’s J.M. Nkomo airport.

Oliver nodded to himself. Geographical location: 20° 1’ 2 south of the equator and 28° 37’ 4 east of Greenwich.

When he stepped out onto the stairway, the heat slammed into him like a solid wave of water. Huge white wads of cloud were piled up against a brilliant, blue sky. Light bounced and dazzled and skittered. He gulped in a deep breath of the hot air and pushed his sunglasses firmly in place and tried to forget the rat that was still gnawing away at his stomach.

He was all set. In his dark shades, he was a spy on a secret mission.

He ripped off the blue cord from around his neck with its plastic tag that stated: UNACCOMPANIED MINOR.

Here he was! Oliver Strange! On a secret mission. All set to find his father. All set to meet an unknown aunt who flew an aeroplane.

He was expecting someone in sensible khaki bush clothes and boots. But no one waved as he peered through the crowd of people milling about behind the barrier inside the airport building.

A crack that sounded like an explosion of gunshot came from nowhere. Oliver spun around expecting to see a hijacker but everyone was carrying on as normal.

Then with a whoosh, rain began to pelt down on the tin roof. It hammered so loudly that everyone had to shout to be heard.

A voice bellowed out over a crackling loudspeaker, Welcome to Zimbabwe! Collect your bags and proceed to passport control.

Oliver rescued his backpack and sleeping bag from the cement floor where it had been dumped under a leak in the roof. Then he leant up against a partition and filled out a small white form for passport control.

Name: OLIVER STRANGE

Country of Residence: UNITED KINGDOM

Nationality: BRITISH

Reason for visit: TO RESCUE MY FATHER.

The man at the passport control desk flicked through his passport and stamped the pages a couple of times. Suddenly his hand froze in mid-air. He adjusted his glasses and looked up sharply.

Just then another explosive crack of thunder split the air. At the same time the lights went out and the building was plunged into darkness.

Take off your cap and sunglasses! It’s an offense to wear sunglasses and a cap when entering a foreign country.

My sunglasses? Oliver reached for them. He had forgotten he was wearing them. No wonder it was so dark inside the building.

We need to question you.

Question me? But before he knew what was happening, someone grabbed hold of him and marched him down a gloomy passage. They went through a door into a room as dark as dried blood. He was pushed into a chair.

In the dried-blood gloom he saw two men in uniform. They began speaking at the same time. But all Oliver heard was the sound of the rain pelting against the roof.

One of them bent closer. Do you hear me? Why are you visiting Zimbabwe?

It was impossible to speak in a normal voice. He had to shout. I’m not visiting Zimbabwe. I’m going to Botswana.

But this is Zimbabwe.

Yes, I know. I’ve landed here. But I need to get to Botswana to find– the rain suddenly stopped as abruptly as it had started – MY FATHER! his voice boomed out into the darkness.

Do not shout.

"I’m not shouting but …"

On this paper you say you’re here to rescue someone, one of the men interrupted. Children are not sent to rescue people. Are you a spy?

Oliver shook his head. "I’m not a spy."

Spies are put in jail.

They stared back at him. In the dark there was no way of knowing what they were thinking, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem friendly.

"I didn’t exactly mean rescue. I made a mistake."

One of the men leaned in closer. A mistake? Then you answered falsely. People who answer falsely are put in jail.

"But 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