GOLD FEVER (by Dennis Leete)

No matter what we set out to do, the unexpected takes over.

Frank Heathcote Howeitt (KR891), that legendary tough old character, was driving into Southern Sudan in early 1973, from Lokichoggio, the last police post on the Kenya Border. Peace had been declared in Sudan and foreign donors were flying in to Juba to help reconstruct the war torn country (before the days of donor fatigue). Frank was looking for a slice of the action in road construction, having just escaped from Uganda with all his equipment, by building his own road some 70 km through the bush from Kidepo National Park across the border into Sudan with Idi Amin’s soldiers hot on his tail. How he was back in Kenya after negotiating a contract with the UN, and heading to Sudan to start the job.

The two border posts are about 80 miles apart but the border itself is not defined, and the road was a barely discernible track through the bush and tall grass. As it got dark, Frank stopped for the night beside a dry hugga, opened a tin of corned beef and a warm beer for supper, made a small fire to keep the lions and hyenas away, before rolling himself into a blanket between the fire and the vehicle, where he slept soundly.

In the morning, he tuned in his little portable radio to hear the news, and while listening, a lone Toposa tribesman walked up the lugga. These people are part of the Eastern nilotic race, related to the Karamajong and Turkana, and are wild and fierce. He stopped, came over, and as they do, stuck his spear into the earth, squatted down about 10 yards away and watched Frank going about his business.

After some time, he indicated that he would like Frank’s radio, which was now playing music, so Frank rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in the universal, money counting sign to show him that he would have to pay, and since he wasn’t even wearing a pair of trousers, it was an unlikely transaction. The Toposa stood up and fumbled in the tobacco pouch that they all carry, and produced a pebble about an inch in diameter which was solid gold. Frank hefted it skeptically, while his adrenaline levels shot up. He pointed out that his radio could get Voice of Kenya, Radio Ethiopia, Voice of the Gospel and Juba; and what could that stone do? The tribesman patiently pointed out that he could take it to Juba and sell it to a Hindi duka (shop) owner and get the money. Frank appeared almost convinced, but noted that if he couldn’t sell it, he wanted to know where the fellow lived so he could come and get his radio back. The man laughed and said that the clan was camped about 10 miles downstream at the moment but they covered about 10,000 square miles of grazing for their cattle. Frank asked where he found this stone, and the chap pointed to the lugga beside them, adding that his kids would go out after the rains looking for the nuggets, as they knew the Arabs liked to change them for goods, ammo and food. Frank put on a resigned look, lobbed the nugget into his pick-up and drove off warning the man he would come looking for him if he couldn’t sell it. They parted on that note.

Frank tore through the border post at Kapoeta, then onto Juba – 2 days drive, caught the plane to Nairobi and sold the nugget to Jack Block (KR16) for $6,000. Within the week he was back at the lugga in another pick-up, with 6 brand new radios.

He sat there for 2 days. Not a sign of anyone. He walked up and down the lugga – nothing. Eventually he drove to Kapoeta. The Customs Officer charged him 50 per cent duty on the radios.

He told me the final chapter 2 years later – shaking his head. He should never, never, have let the man have that radio. He had just returned to Kenya along the same track, now a wide but rutted road carrying heavy trucks. Where he had slept was a thriving, shanty village.

Frank asked what was going on, and was told people were panning the lugga for gold. “Really!” says Frank, “What’s the price?” “Well”, replies a local, “It is US $420 an oz. On the London Metal Exchange, according to the BBC at 8 o’clock this morning.”

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