Muller Not Child's Play

Captured. Held Hostage. A True Story
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-928420-85-9
Verlag: PublishDrive
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 305 Seiten

What would you do if your dream sailing adventure became a nightmare of captivity? How would you protect your children when surrounded by armed child soldiers in a country torn apart by war?

For David and Sandy Muller, these were no longer hypothetical questions.

When architect David Muller, his marine biologist wife Sandy, and their two young children set sail for Mozambique's beautiful Bazaruto Archipelago, they expected adventure, not captivity. But their idyllic voyage aboard their yacht takes a terrifying turn when they are captured by Renamo rebels and plunged into the brutal reality of the Mozambican civil war.

For 49 days, the Mullers live as hostages, never knowing whether they or their children will survive.

Children lie at the heart of both the Mullers' own children, whose innocence they desperately try to protect, and the child soldiers who hold them captive. Against a backdrop of fear, violence and uncertainty, something unexpected emerges: alongside brutality, there are moments of compassion, humour and startling humanity. The constant tension between violence and gentleness makes this story as psychologically compelling as it is harrowing.

Told through David and Sandy's first-hand account, takes you inside the extraordinary reality of captivity. As they navigate hunger, fear, moral dilemmas and the ever-present threat of death, they must find ways to protect their children while negotiating with captors who can be both terrifyingly brutal and unexpectedly humane.

However, this is more than a story of survival.

Set in a historical context of political changes profoundly affecting Southern Africa. It is also the story of how the Mullers' survival and rescue shaped the final chapter of a nation's war and became the catalyst bringing peace to Mozambique.

Raw, intimate and unforgettable, is a true story of survival that will make you see freedom, family and human nature differently forever.

Get your copy today and witness an extraordinary tale of survival that will forever change your perspective on freedom and family bonds.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Muller, Dave

Leseproben

Chapter One

‘Looks like a thunderstorm this afternoon. Maybe it’ll bring a change to the wind,’ I call down the main hatch.

Sandy is visible in the shadows below, kneading dough. After wedging the bowl into the sink, she sticks her head out of the hatch to see for herself.

‘About time.’ Satisfied by the presence of a few small cumulus clouds on the horizon astern, Sandy withdraws into the cool protection of the cabin, much like the molluscs she studies in her profession as a malacologist.

The persistent northeasterly winds and south-flowing Mozambique Current have forced us to zigzag northward within a narrow band of sea close to the coast. A gentle swell moves from the east, wafted along by unwavering winds. Those same winds flow smoothly across Arwen sails, cushioning her movement as her bow bubbles northward through the undulations. We are sailing along a zig or, to use the correct sailing term, a tack, diverging from the coast. This means we’re headed for the invisible river of south-flowing water that is the Mozambique Current. The black liquid-crystal numbers on the depth sounder show that there are 60 metres of water below our keel. Soon we’ll be entering that south-flowing treadmill. It’s time to turn onto the zag leg of our northward course, this time converging with the coast.

‘I’m about to tack,’ I call. ‘Hold on.’

Arwen’s wheel slides through my hand as her bow swings towards the land. I flick the ropes controlling the jib and staysail from their winches. The weathering sails flap and crack as they pass through the eye of the wind. With a heavy thlump the mainsail fills on the new tack while I wrap the ropes from the foresails around the winches on the port side and pull in the slack. The ropes creak under the tension as the sails fill with wind. Arwen heels slightly to port and a gurgle emanates from her bow as she gains speed. Stability returns to our buoyant home.

Silently I curse these persistent headwinds. Ever since we passed Richards Bay, 600 kilometres astern, we’ve had nothing but northeasterly winds from dead ahead and would have welcomed a westerly gale like the one that had so quickly steered us from our home port. For the past three days, sailing has been like living on a slow tedious pendulum as we tick tack our way towards the tropics and our final destination, the Bazaruto Archipelago.

Two hours later the saline ocean smell gives way to the yeasty aroma of baking bread wafting from below. Tammy sits next to me, scanning the distant Mozambican coastline. Her younger brother, Seth, is safely confined to the cockpit floor, playing with Lego. Through binoculars the low escarpment beyond the thin white line of distant breakers looks mauled, as if the sea has scratched away the green and exposed eroded red and orange wounds. Other than an occasional patch of listless smoke wafting from the low, hazy hills beyond, there is no sign of human life. The land looks exhausted and tired as it slouches towards the coast; very different to the velvet-green hills with their abundant scattering of homesteads and cattle along the coast near our home city of East London.

We knew Mozambique was fighting a civil, but we were assured this was far inland, over 400 kilometres to the north, near Gorongosa National Park. Tourist officials in Maputo had confirmed what we’d heard on the news and read in sailing magazines; that, in their words, ‘The coastline is secure.’ Maybe it is secure, but viewed from the sea it does not look at all inviting. Sandy calls up, ‘Who’s ready for a sarmie?’

Immediately Seth shouts, ‘Toothpaste!’ He turns five in a few days and is still struggling to get his tongue around consonants like f sounds. We know he means fish paste.

‘Peanut butter and honey … Er, no, peanut butter and Marmite … No, peanut butter and honey,’ calls Tammy. At eight years old she already knows enough of the abundance of worldly pleasures to be filled with indecision.

‘The usual,’ I call, knowing this will result in a pile of warm cheese sandwiches.

Soon the whole family is munching in the cockpit, joking over the memory of the bread we’d recently bought in Maputo. The golden billowing tops had looked so appetising in the shop. But when we turned the loaf over to slice while sailing across Maputo Bay, we discovered the underside encrusted with thumb-sized, barb-legged cockroaches that had presumably been feasting on the bottom of the baking pans before suddenly finding themselves entombed, like raisins, in dough. Astern, beyond Ponta Zavora with its white cylindrical lighthouse, which we struggled past in the morning, clouds are beginning to swell up; a hopeful sign of a pending change in the weather.

While we eat, those clouds puff into cauliflower-headed cumulus. In the process they morph and pillow, inspiring the children to visions of penguins, old men with beards and Seth’s favourite – toothy, open-mouthed crocodiles. The carved wooden version with a gaping red maw he’d bought with his wad of metical notes – the result of an exciting furtive money change in the Maputo market – adorns the shelf at the front of the cockpit.

An hour later an advancing cornice of dark cloud slides forward from above the cumulus and edges towards the sun. Soon distant rumbles warn of coming wind and rain. It’s time to prepare Arwen for action and that, hopefully, means lots of wind from astern.

Leaving our wind vane self-steering to guide Arwen, I drop into the cool of the cabin and tap the barometer fixed to the bulkhead. The thin black needle jerks counter-clockwise, confirming a change in weather. The depth sounder below the barometer blinks out the number 28. We’ve crossed the 30-metre depth contour and are heading into shallower water – my trigger to tack back out to sea. I scramble up the companionway stairs and look forward past the mast. The salient headland of Cabo de Corrientes is visible beyond Arwen’s pitching bows. This cape marks the spot where the coastline makes a definite bend to the north and, once past it, the sailing should be easier.

Cabo de Corrientes, or Cape of Currents, is a landmark of no visual distinction, but of great historical significance for East Africa. It is the most southerly point along the Swahili coast to which the early dhow traders dared sail, and therefore defines the southern extremity of Arab trade influence. To venture south past this cape risked sailing beyond the dependable trade winds of the tropics and exposed those wind-reliant sailors to the threat of being swept south by the strong Mozambique Current, into the region of fierce westerly gales that regularly brush the southern tip of the continent. It also defines the southern end of the Mozambique Channel. But for us this headland holds other significance. Once beyond this point we can justifiably claim to be in the tropics, and for me a long-cherished dream will finally be fulfilled.

‘Time to clear the decks,’ I call below. A salvo of rumbles, more felt than heard, warns that time is short before the storm arrives. ‘Hold on, we’re about to tack.’ Arwen’s bow swings seawards and steadies on the new course. I pull in the ropes controlling the sails and reset the wind vane. Sandy’s head appears in the companionway hatch as I step from the cockpit to the side deck.

‘I’m going to put a reef in the main to reduce its area and, just to be on the safe side, drop the staysail. That storm’s starting to look pretty threatening.’

While I clamber about the foredeck, lowering and unhitching the staysail before bundling it down the forward hatch into the children’s cabin, Sandy, sensing the urgency, moves about the cockpit collecting the accumulated detritus of books and toys. With the decks cleared, she shepherds the children below, leaving me alone on deck. I pull a reef into the mainsail, reducing its area and lowering the centre of power. With only the strong yankee sail fixed to the forward stay, and the smaller mainsail, Arwen moves gently through the water.

Sandy reappears at the hatch. ‘Make sure you’re clipped on,’ she warns as she passes me my oilskins and safety harness. ‘I’m going to stay below with the children.’ I pull on the oilskins and harness. It seems as if the wind is taking a deep breath.

I too find myself breathing deeply. The sails flop listlessly from side to side as we wait, becalmed. It seems too still. I look around and sniff the air in anticipation. Even though we are more than five kilometres offshore, there is the sudden, unmistakable smell of wood smoke. Without wind rippling the surface, the sea flattens to an undulating oily green sheen. It’s ominous and I stand up and glance astern, trying to find the source of the smoky smell. More thunder, almost overhead. A dark line on the sea surface indicates the approaching weather front and the imminent return of our motive force – wind.

‘At last!’ I yell to the approaching wind as I turn the wheel to align Arwen’s stern with the invisible wall of air rushing up from behind.

Neither I nor sleepy, lethargic Arwen are expecting it. Her sails fill with an explosive crack as she staggers and pivots in the water, momentarily stunned by the force that hits her. Another flat palm of wind scoops up a handful of spray and swats her onto her side as if she were a dinghy. Fortunately, the wind is still organising itself...