Pharmageddon Chapter 13

Washington DC Wednesday 9 February

‘Colonel, it seems like you’ve spent the past month chasing wild geese.’ Baldwin didn’t hear a question, so he didn’t respond. The deputy director didn’t look like he wanted an answer, either.

‘You should know that I’ve received a note from the commander in chief of the Indian armed forces regarding your little operation in the Himalayas. He mentioned the fact that you tied up a company of Black Cats for the best part of a month, along with their radar imaging satellite, and kept a significant part of their military assets in that particular region on high alert.’

Baldwin was ready for the worst. He couldn’t think of anything he would do differently if the same situation arose again, but the director of national intelligence was famous for expecting – and delivering – results, and his deputy danced to the same tune. Baldwin doubted that he’d be taken back into army intelligence, after this. Still, there was his brother-in-law’s standing offer of a place in his private security business in Los Angeles. Some sunshine would be nice.

Then, unexpectedly, the director’s expression softened. ‘Fortunately the Indians were pretty gung-ho about the whole thing. Said it was a useful exercise, and they were impressed by your ability to cut through the administrative crap in their own backyard, and work with their people on the sting operation. Said he wished all military liaison wallahs were as easy to work with.’

Baldwin realized he’d been holding his breath. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Actually I called you in here to thank you, Art. I found the think-pieces you sent me very useful – they helped me to stay ahead of the agencies. Gotta do some butt kicking – seems like they don’t have an original thought between them. This idea of yours may not have worked out, but it was a good one, and it made some good medicine with the Indians.’

‘Thank you sir!’ Baldwin wasn’t planning to tell the director that most of what he’d written was a rehash of the ideas he found on TWO’s pharmageddon forums. It was legitimate research, after all.

‘Looking to the future, Art, I share your sense that, whatever happens next, it’ll involve the UN. So I want you to get your head as far up their fat backsides as you can, and...’ the man seemed to lose track of his own analogy.

‘Keep my ear to the ground, sir?’

The image was so absurd that the deputy director lost his stony façade completely, and bellowed with laughter – a shocking sound closer to a scream than a guffaw. Baldwin half expected homeland security agents to burst in, guns drawn. But either they’d heard the deputy laughing before, or the room was soundproof, or they hoped that someone had stuck a knife in him at last.

‘You go to it, Art! And keep me in the loop, 24/7, d’y’hear?’

Baldwin thought of asking the director whether he said to keep him in the ‘poop’ but thought better of it. No point pushing your luck.

‘Aye sir.’

New York Friday 11 February

‘Weng, you are of course aware of the recent events in South Africa?’

The Indian and Chinese ambassadors were having lunch at UN Plaza – a not infrequent occurrence, since both men had served as their countries’ representatives at the UN for many years, and considered each other to be friends.

In fact this friendship was widely regarded as one of the most important in the world, informally settling countless minor border incidents and facilitating the increasingly broad river of trade between the world’s two most populous nations. Both governments used their friendship as a point of informal first contact. However their regular lunches had been somewhat strained since Weng’s unexpected veto of the resolution for armed intervention in southern Africa, which had been supported by India.

The portly Weng swallowed his food and dabbed his lips with a napkin before answering Duttta. ‘Are you referring to the secession of their Western Cape province?’

‘Yes. Do you think it might be an opportunity to revisit the issue of a peacekeeping force in that country?’

‘Divesh my friend, you know my government has committed itself to support the Pretoria government on this issue...’

‘Of course, and I respect that. But I was wondering whether the secession issue may not pose a window of opportunity?’

‘How so?’

‘What if we propose the use of a peacekeeping force to resolve the secession issue? It is clear the secessionists are expecting some kind of military response to their move, and are prepared to respond in kind. This cannot be a good thing for South Africa.’

‘I agree. But what role would a UN peacekeeping force play?’

‘The underlying reason for the secession is the fact that the Cape is continuing to treat AIDS patients, and they fear a massive inflow of people who cannot get these drugs in the other provinces. But as you know the Pretoria government says ARV treatment is continuing – despite evidence to the contrary – and that there is no basis for this fear.’

‘Yes, I understand their respective positions...’

‘What if UN peacekeepers were to establish posts at the points of entry to the Cape province, and test everyone seeking to cross the border for HIV infection? They could allow those who test negative to pass through the border, and they could provide treatment to those who are positive.’

Weng stared thoughtfully at his Indian counterpart. Slowly his expression changed to a smile. ‘Ah my friend, I am sure you have Chinese ancestry.’

Dutta inclined his head. ‘From you, excellency, that is high praise. The question is whether you will be able to sell this to Beijing.’

‘No, I think the question is whether you could sell it to Pretoria. If they have no objection, I can hardly imagine that my government will stand in their way.’

New York, Monday 14 February

‘So these treatment camps... what would they look like?’ South African ambassador Aaron Gumede was sprawled on the sofa in Dutta’s office, his foot tapping to an internal beat.

‘Tented encampments, run and provisioned by the UN, monitored by your government. When people ask for treatment, we will interview them in the presence of your monitors to find out why they cannot get ARVs from their local hospital or clinic. Your people can use this information to address any problems that may exist in your treatment program.’

‘But I don’t understand why they will be located at the entry points to the Western Cape.’

‘Because they will not only treat people with AIDS, they will allow those who are not infected to pass through the border, which will allow normal trade and travel to resume. Perhaps this is all those people in Cape Town need, and they will drop this talk of secession.’

Gumede’s expression was neutral. ‘Divesh, why involve the UN? Why don’t I suggest to my government that we set up these camps ourselves?’

‘There’s nothing preventing you from doing so of course, Aaron, but it will only work if both sides trust whoever is running the camps. If you send armed people to set up camps on their borders, they may interpret it differently.

Gumede looked thoughtful. ‘What if your... these camps are swamped by people demanding treatment? I mean, like any democracy we have opposition groupings who would not hesitate to exploit an opportunity like this to make my government look bad.’

‘Ah, but all they would do is make themselves look bad. Everyone asking for treatment will, of course, be tested – for HIV infection, for viral load, and for drug resistance. Any attempt at manipulating the process will soon be uncovered.’

‘And if a large number of genuine AIDS patients do turn up? I mean, they may think they will get better quality drugs from you than they do from our own hospitals.’

It was Dutta’s turn to look thoughtful. ‘I suppose that is a possibility, but it seems improbable that many thousands will undertake a long and expensive journey if they are medically stable.’

‘Unfortunately we have a lot of poor people in South Africa. What will you do if they turn up at your camps, looking for food and shelter?’

‘If they don’t need treatment for AIDS, we will turn them away. We will only allow people to stay until they are medically stable, and until they can be sure that treatment will be available when they get home.’

‘But Divesh, what if they cannot be persuaded of this? Why can’t you simply give them, say, a year’s supply of drugs and send them home?’

Dutta knew his counterpart was fully aware that the life expectancy of someone leaving a treatment camp with a year’s supply of ARVs would be very short.

‘I don’t think that idea would fly in the security council, Aaron.’

But Gumede wasn’t finished. ‘Maybe, but I can’t see why these camps should be overseen by armed peacekeepers? Surely they should be run by the World Health Organization?’

‘Ah, but we are dealing with perceptions as much as reality. And the perception is that your armed forces – your police – are responsible for denying ARVs to the general public...’

Gumede pulled himself upright on the sofa, shaking his head, and Dutta felt the deal slipping away.

‘Aaron, I’m not taking sides on this. This plan is designed to reassure everyone... to play a constructive role in overcoming your problems. The WHO are afraid that men with guns – police, army, gangsters, whoever – will try to steal their medications. The only way they will buy into this proposal is if the camps are recognized by your government as international territory, and defended by a neutral army, just like an embassy or UN building.’

Gumede shook his head slowly, but the interest was still in his eyes. ‘Eish, they won’t like this at home. How will it resolve the secession issue?’

‘Well, it could go one of two ways. One is that very few people present themselves for treatment, proving that the Cape leaders have nothing to fear. The other is that many people turn up, giving your government the information you need to identify and fix any... bottlenecks in your ARV delivery systems. Either way, we remove the concern which led to this secession.’

Gumede was now nodding slowly, and Dutta pressed home his advantage.

‘I can’t imagine that anyone will want to live in a tent, in the desert, at the height of summer, when there’s nothing stopping them from going home. We’d be happy to pay for transport to send these people home, once they are assured they will get treatment when they arrive.’

Gumede was on his feet now, pacing absent mindedly. ‘If... hypothetically... we were to go ahead with your idea, we would insist on time limits.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ 

‘A month, two at the most?’

‘Aaron, I’m sure you’d agree that any conditions must promote the chances of success. If very few people present for treatment, but we close down the camps too soon, the Cape will say it wasn’t given a fair chance. If a lot of people arrive, it will take time for you to take corrective action so they are willing to go home.’

Gumede pursed his lips. ‘How long are you suggesting?’

‘I’d suggest a review date of six months from the day the camps open. If all three parties agree, then we close them down. After nine months if any two parties agree, the camps will be closed. After a year the camps will be closed unless any two parties disagree.’

‘Divesh, this is a hard sell, but I’ll see what my government says. Will you present these ideas to the Cape people and let me know how they react?’

The last thing Dutta wanted Gumede to know was that the plan actually came from the secessionists, specifically the fertile mind of Thami Abrahams. Instead he nodded sagely.

‘Of course I will.’

New York Thursday 17 February

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you have all been briefed on the negotiations between the secessionist alliance of the Cape and the government of South Africa. I’m deeply gratified to inform you that today, thanks to the far sightedness of both parties, we have an agreement to establish four treatment camps at the main entry points into the Western Cape province.’

The members of the security council nodded and smiled – this much they knew from the briefing papers they’d received before this special meeting. But Dutta wasn’t finished.

‘I must also advise that we have received representations from the governments of Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe and Mozambique for similar camps to be set up on their borders with South Africa, in order to avoid an influx of people seeking medical treatment.’ Suddenly the room was very still.

‘These countries asked me to treat our negotiations in the strictest confidence, until they were concluded. I am delighted to advise that the South African government has agreed to a further six treatment camps near the main border posts to those countries.’

The surprise around the chamber was replaced by spontaneous applause, much of which was directed towards ambassador Gumede – who looked like a man receiving an oscar at the academy awards. When the applause had died down, the Chinese ambassador indicated his desire to respond.

‘Mr president, I know I speak for the entire council when I offer my congratulations to you for this extraordinary accomplishment. You have reminded us, sir, of the rationale behind the establishment of the United Nations, and in particular this honorable council.’

Without a further word Weng rose heavily to his feet and began to clap slowly. In a moment the entire council followed suit, including the ambassadors for all the southern African nations. Dutta raised his hands and gestured for everyone to sit, but it took several moments before they complied. His voice somewhat hoarse, the president of the security council continued.

‘Before I recognize other members of this honorable council, I’d like to brief you on another agreement, or perhaps it should be described as an offer, which relates to the matter before us. My own government – the Government of India – has a special relationship with South Africa. Some members may not be aware that the largest population of Indians outside of India lives in South Africa, or that the social conscience of our founding father, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, was awakened in South Africa more than a century ago. And of course we are deeply troubled by the fact that the seeds of this crisis were sown by acts of sabotage in our country.’

Dutta could see he had the complete attention of the members.

‘For these reasons I am authorized by my government to offer the services of the Indian army to establish and protect all of the proposed treatment camps, and further to offer Indian doctors and nurses to provide the necessary testing and treatment, under the supervision of the World Health Organization. I may add that the necessary personnel and material have already been assembled and require only the mandate of this council and, of course, an invitation from South Africa, to proceed.’

This time it took no prompting for members of the security council to give a standing ovation to their president and his nation. Everyone in the room knew the greatest challenge facing any UNSC resolution for armed intervention in a conflict was logistical. Sending troops and equipment to foreign countries was a massively expensive undertaking, and few countries were happy to tie up more than a token number of troops abroad.

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‘Jesus – five billion dollars! Does it come from the money the American government already pledged for ARV treatment?’

‘Wouldn’t be surprised, Gipsy. I heard that Dutta struck a deal with them. India would supply the people to set up and run the camps, if the US put up the money. Grogan couldn’t wait to tell everyone, right after Dutta announced his government’s offer.’

Nikki called just minutes after the security council meeting ended, to check whether I’d caught the news yet. I hadn’t.

‘And what about the Chinese? Did they try to save face, after vetoing the original resolution?’

‘Hell no, the Africans regard them as the real heroes. Without the Chinese veto, they might not have got any of this. I mean, it’s really saved their bacon. It gives all their panicky AIDS patients somewhere to go, it reopens the border with the Cape...’

‘And they don’t have to lift a finger.’

She laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have been quite that cynical!’

‘Do you seriously think the South Africans will restore treatment in their hospitals? I mean, what’s the point? First line-meds won’t work any more, and they don’t have second-line...’

‘Oh, sorry Gipsy, I forgot to mention that the European Union offered to help them to kick-start second-line treatment. They’ll do it in stages, starting with a few big hospitals, using limited stocks of ARVs, foreign doctors... until the system is running smoothly again.’

Progress, at last! South Africa, Swaziland and Lesotho may have been in free-fall, but this felt a lot like a parachute.

‘Offered? Are the South Africans going to take them up on it?’

‘Dunno, girl. You may have to do some work yourself.’ Nikki made a show of protecting herself from raspberry juice.

I was back in Cape Town, and BT and Billy were closeted in a meeting so they hadn’t heard the news either. When I told them what Nikki told me, they looked like men rescued from certain death. I realized the whole thing had been a monstrous gamble, but it had paid off.

I spent another day talking to key people around Cape Town to get their reaction. Their joy was no surprise – nobody liked the idea of military action – but what I didn’t expect was that none of my informants seemed in any hurry to re-integrate with the rest of South Africa.

‘Ag Gipsy, it’s been coming for a long time. We’ve always been a bit different in the Cape, and over the last 20 years that difference has been growing. This ARV thing was just the last straw.’

BT and I were sitting on the terrace of a winery where he worked occasionally, when their resident cellar-master was abroad. It was a beautiful spot, looking north towards Paarl mountain, with the slopes of the Simonsberg behind us – the very same view I’d seen from the air the Sunday before last.

A pretty girl approached our table with a bottle in a bucket of ice, her smile fixed on BT.

‘Mr Weiss asked me to give this to you with his compliments – it’s from his private collection.’ BT thanked her and solemnly inspected the bottle, a dessert wine. He told me this area had produced the first of this type of wine in the Cape, modeled after the Sauternes of France. I was expecting cloying sweetness but it turned out to be like lemon and honey, fresh and rich at the same time, with waves of almond nuttiness and a kind of floral perfume. It was exquisite.

BT was staring thoughtfully at his glass. ‘Do you know how these wines are made?’ I didn’t.

‘The grapes are left to rot on the vine. If you’re lucky they get the right kind of fungus, botrytis cinerea. The French call it pourriture noble, and the Germans edelfäule – noble rot. Then we pick them and make wine. And out of that horrible rotten mess we get this... heaven in a bottle.’

I could see he was in a reflective mood, so I just said it was magical. He looked at me, a slight smile on his face.

‘Ja, Gipsy, I think magical is the right word. It’s the right wine for today... to celebrate what’s happened. My country had become so... rotten. But somehow we’re making something magical out of it. Something sweet and fresh. I’m so glad you were here to see it happen.’ He leaned forward and topped up my glass. ‘And to taste this wine!’

Durban Saturday 21 May

Max Cele’s heart sank as he realized the taxi-rank marshal was heading his way. The man’s nickname, Sipikile, meant ‘nail’ – supposedly a reference to his sexual prowess, but he seemed to enjoy bullying passengers and taxi-crews more than chasing women.

‘Cele! I see you!’ The greeting was standard. As was the response. ‘I am here, brother.’

‘I came to tell you we are meeting tonight.’

‘I am driving to Jo’burg tonight.’

‘Not if you value your life, you aren’t.’

‘Hau! Who will stop me?’ Cele, like most taxi drivers, wasn’t intimidated easily.

‘Nobody will stop you, brother, but when you come back you will find you are a stranger here. Tonight we pick sides.’

‘What is this? Football?’

Sipikile gave a humorless smile. ‘You know what it is. Tonight is the night. Nine o’clock.’ With a meaningful look, the marshal moved on, bellowing the name of another driver.

Max wasn’t happy about postponing his departure for Johannesburg. The Warwick Triangle taxi rank, where he stood, was the departure point for thousands of minibuses – known to all as combis – ferrying passengers between Durban and Johannesburg.

Since the rumors of a Xhosa plot to kill Zulus surfaced, business had been good for the combis, which were the backbone of South Africa’s public transport system. In common with the other long-distance drivers, Max had doubled his fares for the 360-mile run but nobody complained – at least not openly – and the huge demand for seats in both directions meant turnaround was very quick. In short, over the past few weeks, he had made a killing.

Max’s nephew Mangaliso came over to say their taxi was loaded and waiting. Although the youngster was employed as his conductor, and had only an illicit driver’s license, Max allowed the boy to drive on stretches of the highway where there were no police roadblocks so he could doze. In this way they had been operating virtually without a break for the past four months, and he had made as much money as he normally would in a couple of years.

However the flood of passengers had slowed to a trickle as everyone who wanted – or could afford – to retreat to their ‘homeland’ did so. Regular travelers were very scarce these days, and this evening it had taken more than an hour to fill his combi. Since it was now 6 pm, attending a meeting at nine – which actually meant ten or eleven, since punctuality wasn’t a local strength – meant delaying his departure for at least six hours. Assuming the meeting only lasted an hour, which was very unlikely.

‘Tell them we are broken down.’

The boy nodded and trotted off to give the bad news to the passengers. They’d be lucky to find a ride now, since all the local drivers would be attending this meeting, but Max didn’t spend any time worrying about them. They were Xhosas, only useful for the money in their pockets. The rank was still regarded as neutral territory, but on the streets of Durban people suspected to be ‘Xhosa’ – or non-Zulu – were now openly taunted, spat upon and mugged.

The same was happening to Zulus in Pretoria, Bloemfontein, Port Elizabeth and countless other towns with non-Zulu majorities. Central Johannesburg was still relatively safe, since it had long been a melting-pot of tribes and nationalities, but each of the hundreds of townships around the great city was now effectively reserved for either Zulus or non-Zulus, and woe betide anyone found in one of those dormitory suburbs who didn’t speak the right language.

As Sipikile said, Max had a pretty good idea what the meeting was about. All the drivers knew it was only a matter of time until they were called upon to play a more active role in defending the Zulu nation against the aggression of the other tribes. Tonight would be the night. He wandered over to the dusty area that served as an impromptu football pitch and meeting place, bought a bottle of Carling Black Label beer from an informal trader, and began to chew over the possibilities with the other drivers.

At 9:43pm two black BMWs and a white Range Rover pulled up, and a group of men joined the assembled drivers, now over 200 strong. Several of the newcomers were well-known political figures, representing both the ruling ANC and the opposition Inkatha parties. One was a senior police officer. Most of the rest were bodyguards. All were in casual street clothes. All were Zulus.

With minimal formalities the meeting was called to order. Sipho Bhengu, the chairman of the Durban branch of the ANC and provincial minister for law and order did the talking. He began, as always in such meetings, by describing the events which brought them together. Or his interpretation of them.

Max was not surprised to hear him say the conspiracy to marginalize Zulus dated back many years, and that a cabal of Xhosas had been manipulating the ANC since the death of the revered Zulu chief, Nobel laureate and founding leader of the ANC, Albert Luthuli, better known to Zulus as Mvumbi.

‘We don’t like to talk about this,’ Bhengu said, his voice beginning to rise, ‘but the Xhosa conspiracy goes back to Mvumbi’s time. Even though he was elected president of the ANC, he was not shown our founding document, the Freedom Charter, before it was adopted at Kliptown in 1955. And Nelson Mandela did not consult Mvumbi before he launched the military wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe, despite what he said in his book. And to this day, nobody has explained the circumstances of the accident that took Mvumbi’s life in 1967.’

These were indeed heresies – the kind of things muttered around a fire, or over a bucket of sorghum beer, but never by a senior member of the ANC, and never to a large group such as this, out in the open, where secrecy was impossible. The situation allowed for only two interpretations – it was political suicide or a political re-birth. Either way, bridges were burning and the taxi drivers, hard men all, were riveted.

‘After Mvumbi we had Tambo, Mandela and Mbeki – all Xhosas – leading our party. It was only when we, the Zulus, mobilized against the manipulations and laziness of those Xhosas that a big man from the biggest tribe was again elected to lead the big party.’

Bhengu dropped his voice. ‘Of course there were those who knew the gravy-train had reached the end of the line, so they ran away to form their own party in time for the 2009 general elections, to see whether the voters would let them carry on gorging themselves at public expense. What happened? The rats got less than eight percent of the vote, while the elephant got more than 65 percent!’

The audience reacted as though iced water had been sprayed over them. The elephant was the royal Zulu symbol, a term usually reserved for the Zulu king. Bhengu’s voice started climbing again.

‘In the 2004 elections, the ANC under Xhosa leadership got less than 1.3 million votes in this province. But in 2009 we stood behind the ANC, under a Zulu leader, and we gave the party another million votes. But in every other province, the ANC lost votes! What this means, my brothers, is that it was our vote – the Zulu vote – that kept the ANC in power. Truly, it is now our party, running our country!

Bhengu waited for the murmurs of amazement at his crystal logic to subside.

‘So of course the Xhosas are frightened! They know we are the strongest! They know we chose the president. They know we won the general elections. They know they cannot defeat us with their votes, because they are too few. They know there is only one way to regain control, and that is to make us smaller than they are. To turn us from an elephant into a mouse.’

The audience grunted in unison, a deep and frightening sound. Bhengu stopped suddenly, allowing the sounds of the city to wash over them. When he resumed his voice was enormous, frightening even the city into submission.

‘They want to kill us, in our millions, my brothers! But they have failed to understand one thing. We have never forgotten who we are. Even before we are South Africans, before we are ANC, we are Zulus! We are warriors! Nobody threatens us, and remains standing! We will fight!’

Max found himself on his feet, adding his voice to the collective rage. Women street traders nearby began to ululate, an ancient sound which quickened men’s pulses and washed away any doubts.

The politician looked grave. After a moment he gestured to the men to sit. ‘Brothers, if you have any doubts...’

‘No chief, we are with you!’ one man yelled out. The others murmured their approval.

‘And I am with you, brother. But it is important you understand how those Xhosas hope to defeat us. To kill us. We all know about this sickness. They are saying we are the only ones who are carrying it, because we do not remove the foreskin. They want us to be like little girls, who run around in the bush in a dress and chalk on their faces.’

The men roared with laughter at the unexpected joke – a reference to the circumcision ritual which Xhosa boys went through to attain manhood. It had long been the butt of humor among Zulus, who said it turned Xhosa boys into girls by cutting off their manhood and dressing them like women, in a blanket, with face powder.

‘Now we know why their drug factory is located in East London – because that is the heart of Xhosa territory! If it was here, as it should have been, we would have protected this factory from sabotage, and even now we would be making sure that everybody gets the medicines they need.’

A short pause to tell them the punch-line was imminent.

‘And now we know why they persuaded the United Nations to locate those treatment camps where they did. It is not an accident that there is no treatment camp in any area controlled by Zulus!’

Once again Bhengu’s voice drowned out everything else. ‘Do not believe anyone who tells you these camps are there to facilitate entry into neighboring countries. Even though KwaZulu has borders with Lesotho, Swaziland and Mozambique, there are no treatment camps in our province! To get treatment, Zulus must pass through territory controlled by the Xhosas and their herd- boys...’

Once again his words had the drivers on their feet. ‘Are we afraid of them?’

‘NO!’

‘Will we sit quietly in KwaZulu until we die?’ 

‘NO!’

‘The time has come to show them who are the warriors, and who are the herd-boys! We have plenty of men, we have plenty of weapons, and we have plenty of reasons to go and get those drugs.’

Again the guttural roar of approval, as the group heard what they wanted to hear – an outlet for their anger and frustration! A way to get even!

‘What we need, brothers, is enough transport to carry our warriors to their door. And that is why you hold the key to the survival of the Zulu nation!’

As the drivers raised their clenched fists and bellowed their support, Max pictured a convoy of combi-taxis loaded with men and weapons taking the fight to the enemy. They would all be heroes – especially the drivers!

Bhengu spoke once more. ‘The founder of our nation, King Shaka Zulu, built an empire by teaching his men to cover great distances at great speed, and still arrive ready to fight. We will move fast – too fast for the herd-boys to see us coming – and we will arrive ready to fight. Ready to snatch their precious prize away from them!’

‘Chief, we are ready to leave!’ The speaker was one of the older drivers, a veteran of the time when state- owned buses were chased off the highways by taxis. The roar of approval erased any doubt that he spoke for the whole group.

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