Ghosts

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Ghosts

You may have some doubts about the importance of ghosts.

You may even belong to this class of people who are willing to openly declare that they do not believe in ghosts.

Let me tell you immediately that I forgive you for this very primitive cultural assertion, I used to belong myself, as a good well trained scientist, to the class of people who would not believe in ghosts.

Until I was hit on the road by a lorry that did not exist.

It was a Sunday.

It was raining.

We, (meaning the three of us, dog, Annie and I) were driving down the main road that goes past the monument to the Glory of the Independence of Zambia, a statue showing a man holding a broken chain, monument named by the inhabitants "Made in Zambia".

We were in our Peugeot 504 that we had imported from somewhere but collected in Durban.

At the traffic light we stopped.

Basically, I do admit that this was a stupid idea, the traffic lights being more a way to stop candidates to car hijacking than a regulator of traffic.

We were all alone on this major road, looking peacefully at the traffic light, in the usual quandary, was it red because it meant to be red or was it red because it had been blocked in that position since yesterday?

I was in the driving seat, on the right, when suddenly the window became all grey and the world exploded.

As from here I am most grateful for the way the human mind is built, I remember nothing, nor does Annie, as to how we suddenly were standing on the road, looking at our wrecked car, looking at the truck that had hit our car. Even more surprising, dog, the little ugly Italian Lilla, was standing next to us.

The truck looked like any truck.

The druck driver looked like any truck driver.

The assistant truck driver looked like any assistant truck driver.

I should have been suspicious.

A truck marked Government of Zambia number plate, on a Sunday?

From nowhere appeared a police car.

The truck driver and the policeman where engaged in deep discussions, with the nasy suspicious mind characteristic of the awful white men, I was thinking that they were both cooking up a pleasant story of the accident that would put me in the role of the guilty part, as would have been done in Italy, the driver and the police having discovered that they had family links.

Well this was not the case.

They did not appear to be very annoyed by the explanation that the truck driver, in a wish to economize on the cost of using a GRZ lorry on a Sunday, had been unwilling to spoil the brakes, if he had any, of the lorry, and had preferred to use my car as a way to stop at the traffic light.

Apparently the policeman was most annoyed at the fact that my number plate indicated that I had the elevated and possibly dangerous rank of belonging to the Diplomatic Corp and appeared to have one overruling obsession, get me away from the accident place.

Which was done.

In some mysterious way the Peugeot 504 accepted to travel all the way to home, even if the speed was limited and the placement on the road somewhat peculiar.

The procedure, even in Zambia, after a traffic accident, was quite routine. It would not create much worry as no driver worth his salt, would have a sufficient insurance coverage, most Zambian driver being convinced that carrying a 10$ policy was quite enough to compensate for any damage.

I did not worry, after all, as a worker under the authority of the Government of Zambia, being hit by a lorry belonging to the Government of Zambia, would facilitate the negotiations.

Until I discovered that I had been hit by a lorry that did not exist.

The number recorded on the number plates was quite genuine.

The policeman had checked the identity of the driver.

But there was no such lorry.

After my acting FAO Representative had contacted the Government it appeared that I could not have been hit by that lorry as it belonged to the Zambian Secret Service and it was a well known fact that Zambia had no Secret Service, even less a Secret Service lorry, even if their building was 500 meters away from my Ministry.

I wrote the classical letter to the Zambian authorities, under cover of my FAO representative.

They must have had a long and succesful training by a French Organization as they adopted the very successful attitude of not answering.

Anyway, how do you write a letter to the authorities of the Secret Service when there is no Secret Service?

I solved the problem by depositing the letter at the gate of the building that did not exist.

Up to that point I considered that I had been rather lucky, I do not know how we escaped from the accident without even a minor cut. Even more incredible that the dog traveling in the back of the car got out of it unhurt and did not run away and get lost as most dogs would have done.

Well the car was damaged, but I had my Italian repair specialist, so I felt quite sure that if the car could be repaired, it would be repaired.

The repairs would have been easier had I been the owner of a real vehicle, while it appeared that in fact I was the owner of a ghost vehicle.

The vehicle having been bought in France ( and delivered in Durban) had official French road documents so everything should have been super OK. The only problem being that the serial number of the car did not correspond to any Peugeot vehicle manufactured France.

Well, it is easy to guess then that Peugeot had found it convenient to deliver a South African made Peugeot, which upon request the South African Peugeot Representative denied vehemently.

So, this is how I became converted to ghosts, I could see my Peugeot which did not exist, I distinctly remember having seen the lorry that hit us, which did not exist.

Then I got the ghost letter.

I was ordered to present myself at the FAO Office on the double. The acting FAO Representative having been replaced by the True FAO Representative, I was informed that I had been very disrespectful of my duties by writing to the Government without the authorization of his Diplomatic Office. Any reference to the fact that his Office had signed the letter was dismissed as morning fog dissipating in the heat of the tension with the non-existent Secret Service.

It all ended very well, I was not blamed for having been hit by a GRZ vehicle, I was not blamed for having ordered spare parts for a vehicle that did not exist.

The spart parts fitted my vehicle as well as my trousers now fit my belly, what is one to say about a few centimeters too much here and there as long as the main duty is covered?

The ghost hit my car once more, much later.

As we were traveling to the Eastern Region National Park, you know the Park where the poachers are so numerous that they have to queue to go and kill some elephant and where the only was to distinguish a policeman from poacher is that the poacher has a more modern gun, well as I reached the National Park, I discovered that my Peugeot had been lighter as the petrol tank had vanished.