A Sojourn to Our Zambezi Arriving at our camp, at Chirundu, on the banks of the Zambezi, the vehicle lights pick up a lone buffalo as I execute a turn and stop about 100 yards further on. “What are you doing?” Rob enquires most anxiously. We are at camp I reply. Oh no you cant ... you cant stop here ... Rob splutters ... did you not see the boofolo [Yorkshire pronunciation of buffalo] ...- there is a boofolo right here ... he goes on in a voice of extreme apprehension. It takes a long while to re-assure our guest that the lone young buffalo is no threat. After a campfire meal and drinks under a beautiful night sky we retire for the night. No sooner have I fallen asleep when I am shaken awake by Rob who is wide-eyed and anxious as he repeats - what is that ...- what is that ... ? Our camp has been invaded by a hyena which is boldly circling the boat still attached to our vehicle. It is quite unperturbed at the stones I throw at it and the yelling of “booger off”[Yorkshire pronunciation for bugger off] that I encourage Rob to do. Finally it dawns on me that the hyena has caught the scent of a dead spring hare that I had unfortunately run over en route. I retrieve it from the well of the boat and throw it to the animal. It grabs the gift and disappears into the night. Sleep is once again disturbed when Rob wakes me up with another - what is that - what is that - ? referring to a sound emanating from some distance away. My explanation that this signifies the presence of feeding elephants is very bad news for my English friend. It takes some time for me to convince him that the elephants pose no threat to us as they are intelligent animals, fully aware of our presence and doing no more than feeding off surrounding trees. After a stiff shot of brandy we once again doze off. A very deep sleep is disturbed by a sound that I instantly recognize even though I have never heard it before. However I recognize it as I have been an avid reader of biographies of all the great White hunters such as Frederick Courteney Selous, who visited Africa at the turn of the century. It is the sound of the rumblings of the gut of an elephant. As I open my eyes the whole world is filled with the sight of a huge elephant bull standing above me, no more than a foot or so from our heads. My mind goes into a spin as I lie frozen in terror. I envisage, anticipate being gored by one of those huge tusks or being subjected to what George Anderson used to refer to as pachyderm foot massage [definitely not recommended]. I finally decide that the elephant means no harm, because, if he did, he would have long since done us in. This is confirmed by the fact that the animal is in the process of picking up wild fruit that it has shaken off a tree close by. A new terror than takes hold of me. There is every likelihood that my English friend will wake up and jump up, shout scream - or something like that. In my mind the elephant will react, as elephants do, by issuing a warning trumpet. At this distance, so my mind tells me, the trumpeting will be quadraphonic and vaporize both of us. It is not the fear of being gored or trampled on, but the fear of being trumpeted at that now near paralyzes me. All my instincts insist that I crawl into my vehicle which is no more than ten feet away. But I just cannot leave Rob. He will get up sooner or later and then his death is assured. Well that is what my mind tells me. Somehow I contrive to cover his head, whisper to him and then lead him slowly to our vehicle still covered up. Thank God he is obedient throughout and soon we are both in the vehicle with Rob in the front seat with me in the back. Relief is very short-lived as a nightmare starts for both of us. The elephant turns towards us, in the dim early morning light, and in a moment we are confronted, confronted in all our sensibilities by its huge head swaying to and fro, in front of us - its tusks barely millimeters from the windscreen. It is a terrifying sight. It is only a matter of time before his tusks make contact with the glass. In that event, so my mind repeatedly insists, it will assume that Rob has attacked and it will retaliate - with our gruesome deaths assured thereafter. Rob sinks lower and lower in his seat gasping for air as he struggles to breath. I am paralyzed through and through but grateful to be in the back seat. Fortunately my fears are not realized and, after what seems like an eternity, the great animal turns away and resumes feeding. Brandy has never tasted so good before and soon we are jabbering away in relief having been joined by Jaqi, my wifes sister in law, who also become aware of the elephant. She says that it had actually stepped very close to their two-man tent in which her husband, Mark, is still asleep. The next day we launch our boats and make off for our final camp some 45 kilometers upstream. It is always a truly hazardous business piloting a boat to the camp. We soon lose sight and contact of each other when I foolishly take a slightly different route on the river. Only my young son is with me on my boat. Concern turns to anxiousness, anxiousness turns to fear when I repeatedly fail to find the road [deep and navigable channel] in the river and keep colliding with stumps, rocks and sand banks. The road is either easy or difficult to see depending on the position of the sun and cloud. The Zambezi is an extremely dangerous river. Things are going wrong. Because our fuel is finite there is a limit to how much searching for the channel we can do. I decide to make for an island from which I will be able to survey the river and detect the road. As I pilot the boat to the sand island our landing spot is occupied by an enormous crocodile which inexplicably declines to move. This is not normal. Crocodiles always shy away from boats. This one stays put. Such brazenness much surely mean it instinctively knows that we represent an impending meal. I am now in a state of panic; a panic that I dare not betray to my son. A coward does indeed die many times. Hail Mary, full of grace - Panic induces indecision and I fail to implement any avoiding action. Collision with the toothy monster is imminent. However at the last second the crocodile makes off. I try desperately to posture to my son that this result was a consequence of correct action on my part. From the top of the island I finally make out the road. We resume our trip only to find that what I have assumed to be another island, which borders the road, is actually a huge pod of hippopotami on a submerged sand bank. As our boat approaches they start to peel off making for the deep channel that is our road ahead. I have to make an instant decision. Either I accelerate, and attempt to beat them to the road, or I back off. As regards the first option, there is a chance of collision with fateful consequences. As regards the latter, we will be in shallow water infested with these beasts. As a born and bred motor cyclist I instinctively opt to accelerate and beat them to it. I open the throttle wide whilst shouting at my son to look at me and not ahead. My pulse is racing. Nerves are jangling. As we roar past the island, gargantuan reddish brown monsters crash in within feet of the boat. It is hairy and so very, very scary - but we make it through - only just. We finally make contact with the other boat and continue our trip. As we approach camp we hear the calling of human voices on the Zambian side of the river. They know us well, as we often trade items like coco-cola and bully beef with them for live bait, which they have caught in their traditional nets. Incredibly all the teenage girls pull of their tops and start to clap their hands, sing and dance for us. The impromptu top-less concert they put on for us is an expression of joy by simple people eking out an existence in a most natural environment, seemingly untainted by the modern world. More importantly it is their way of saying this is your special welcome. A most astounding phenomena however is that when we finally reach them and engage in conversation they tell us, in clear and confident voice, that Zimbabwe will be one day, not too far off, infinitely worse off than Zambia. It is a most surprising prediction and we are more than bemused especially at how certain these simple folk are about the matter. But they will brook no argument on the matter. They are as certain of it as one is certain that day follows night. Nyaumba camp is a bush camp with absolutely no amenities. That fact contributes immensely to its charms. It is situated at the end of the 15 kilometer long snaking river gorge that starts at the Kariba Dam wall. However it is completely inaccessible except by 45 kilometer boat trip from Chirundu, involving running a most perilous gauntlet of submerged rocks, sandbanks, stumps, rapids and hippopotami. After the arduous business of setting up camp we collapse in our camp chairs to take in the view. It is breathtakingly beautiful with the majestic gorge exiting to our left into a wide gushing, gurgling expanse of swirling water, huge and lazy, going past with an air of timelessness and power - so much beauty - so much power. To our right we see a small group of elephants watering sedately at the rivers edge. My eldest son, takes a camera and makes his way towards the group. Suddenly, without warning, as if from nowhere, a huge bull elephant, followed by two other elephants, steps noiselessly into his path, no more than ten meters ahead. Neither he nor us had seen or heard them approach. He freezes, unable to walk thereafter. Mark and I finally go and retrieve the lad as he now has difficulty in walking. Richard Gannaway, the owner of the other boat, hands me a cold beer. I can truly say that I have never in my life tasted anything so delicious. I now fully understand how man must have first fallen in love with beer. From the far bank our friends wave goodnight as the sun starts to sink as a giant golden orb on the water. We wave back. The world seems to be at peace with its quietude now disturbed by new sounds of the night including the happy crackle of our camp fire. Being in the Zambezi valley is always a spiritually uplifting experience. I spend the evening partly teasing Rob about this equation:- White man + African magic = Coloured folk. He is game in replying that this is hardly surprising, given the welcome we experienced that afternoon. The next day my son catches his first tiger fish - all of 8.2 kgs of electrifying beauty, power and grace. Hydrocynus vittatus, striped waterdog - the most beautiful and ferocious freshwater game fish in the world I tell him. He will never forget it. As his father I will never forget the look of sheer joy on his face. I imagined that it was the look we must have had on some of our faces when we were given our first Xmas party by the Toc H Society of Bulawayo so many years ago. Rob goes back to England but to no avail. The magic of Africa has changed him forever. He returns to Zimbabwe and then settles in Botswana after he is refused residency in my country, even though married to a local girl. In Botswana he establishes himself as the local Bill Gates in the IT industry. We also have something else that is unforgettable - the prophesy of the simple river people of Zambia that our country is going to fail. We are not to know just how well Mugabe is due to ensure its emphatic fulfillment.
Posted on: Thu, 23 Jan 2014 09:53:05 +0000
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