AFRICAN ADVENTURE 2018 - Chapter 13 - Lower Zambezi National Park - Sausage Tree Camp
We wake up in Victoria Falls at 5.45 am as we will meet Molly for breakfast at 6.30 am. We are hardly out of the shower when there is a brisk knock at the door, its Molly, greeting us in her loud, enthusiastic voice. She is hardly in the door when our neighbour opposite opens his door and in a strong FRench accent tells us in no uncertain terms to be quiet. She gives us a gift of some Zambian tablet mats, made by local ladies, and I give her an Australian linen scarf, a key ring, and a koala bear. We sit in the grand lounge and bar area, and she has a coffee and a pastry, as its too early for breakfast, which starts at 7 am, which is when she has to leave. We walk her to her car, which belongs to Voyagers Travel Agency here in the Falls, part of the company she works for. There are no lingering farewells. Molly loves us, but she is not one for grand displays of affection, we hug tightly and with tear filled eyes, release our hands. I doubt I will see her again, not in this life anyway - this woman, My Old Friend, who scattered some of the ashes of my parents in Monkey Pools in Lusaka after their deaths nine years ago, when I posted a small bag to her. She gets briskly into the car, starts the engine, staring ahead, then puts her head in her hands, and shakes it from side to side. Gerald holds me tight, I too am crying, and we wave as she drives away.
Thank you Molly.
We eat o the verandah overlooking the Zambezi, a feast is laid out in the dining room, with chefs in tall white hats, and staff delivering plates of eggs hollandise and salmon and steaming pots of tea and coffee. The zebra are back, and I am reluctant to leave, but at 8 am we are packed, and in our car, and heading to the airport. Gerald is tense, another flight - a long one, awaits us, and once more there are no tickets, but magically, the African way, a man talks to someone who talks to someone, and we pass through security, customs and immigration without a hiccup. The Livingstone International Airport, which was just completed when we were here five years ago, but had an impressive stairway leading nowhere, was still cement filled, without working toilets and empty shops, is now operating, with a coffee shop, a selection of gift shops, and Munday, a tall, graceful woman wearing golden beads, who tried hard to sell me a set of green ones, to go with my ear rings, but unsuccessfully, tells me that two days ago, they won the BEST AIRPORT IN AFRICA!
We are flying Proflight, and at 9.45 am board our plane, a 12 seater aircraft, and we are the only ones on it! We are flying to Jeki, and both the pilot and the co-pilot, who is taking notes and clearly learning, we are pleased to see, are both young black men. It will be bumpy, they tell us, because of the heat thermals. By 9.50 we are up in the air, flying across massive tracts of water and greenery and the ???????? Escarpment, which is part of the Great Rift Valley. It’s majestic, breathtakingly lovely, and we take lots of photographs. We land and take off twice to pick people up and drop people off, and finally arrive at Jeki around 2 pm, on a bright red dusty strip, the same colour as our Australian Red Centre.
Ryan, a young white guide meets us, and shortly after, another plane arrives, with ten Chinese, who are being greeted by two black guides. They climb laboriously, and spun safely, out of the aircraft, face first, instead of back first, the way one climbs down stairs into a boat. They are all overweight, and one large man is shirtless, he walks to the edge of the track, and unzips and pees, in view of all of us. The guides - and us - shake our head in wonder or is it disgust? - and I feel that these guides will have their work cut out for them. Ryan settles us in a vehicle which has no roof, its open all around and on top, and the sun beats down intensely, he moves slowly off, as one of the Chinese saunters in front of the vehicle. He stops, and diplomatically points back in the direction this man should be walking, but the man doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. Oh yes, they will be a handful for these guides, and I am so so grateful they are not going to Sausage Tree Camp!
It’s another hour in the heat, stopping to see animals, to the camp.
I will tell you more later, but here are some brief notes:
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Brief notes:
Alex Chibutsa - is our guide
Alex’s favourite animals is the aardvark because of its characteristics and its contributions to the ecosystem. Maybe that speaks to his personal character as well? Alex began guiding in 2012 and has hopes of being among the top guides in the valley. He loves to interact with people and is always willing to learn.
Clever is our personal Muchinda - (butler) which means “Attendant to the Chief”. “Your muchinda will go out of his way to ensure your stay is truly special and ;will be happy to share his experience of life in Zambia and the bush with with you. If there is anything you need, then your Muchinda is your man!
Last but not least, its our team of house staff, many of whom have been with the camp for years and are the driving force behind this well oiled ship. It is these ‘behind the scenes’ guys who do the laundry, washing the dishes, sweeping th paths, cleaning the pools, maintaining the boats and vehicles, etc. It is a team of champions that make Sausage Tree Camp an amazing experience.
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Friday 5th October, 2018
Clever’s jolly voice calling “Helooooooooo??” At 5.30 am woke us. There is a wall between our bedroom and the lounge area, with a wide opening which leads to wide n expanse of deck with a pool, two sun beds, a circular dining table, and a large woven couch. It is covered with a arched tarpaulin, metres long - and monkeys scamper over it, hang down and gaze at us, and sit and watch us with curiosity. It is totally private - open to the Mighty Zambezi, but shielded on either side by trees and shelters. In the river, hippos wallow and snort, and elephants graze. Nobody is out there, and if a very rare boat should pass, it is so quiet, that you can hear it for five minutes before it passes, plenty of time to don a sarong.
Jason Matt - an Australian - is the Director of Sausage Tree Camp, Zambia’s most luxurious bush camp. He left Australia and his business degree on a one year round the world trip in 1996. Whilst surfing the coast of South Africa, an opportunity presented itself to help set up a new safari camp in Zambia - Sausage Tree Camp. During the course of building the amp, Jason fell in love with the beauty and the game of the Lower Zambezi. He stayed at Sausage Tree Camp as a trainee guide and soon became qualified. Jason then expanded his experience in the industry by building and managing Sausage Tree’s then sister camp,and also leading mobile safaris into the Okavango Delta, Botswana. In 1999, Jason returned to the Lower Zambezi to manage Sausage Tree Camp and continued to play a strong role in the guiding field. He finally achieved his dream of making Sausage Tree Camp his own in 2000, later building the sister camp, Potato Bush Camp, in 2012.
“The camp features Bedouin style tents, composed of white canvas tents with canvas walls supported by solid Zambezi Teak timber structures. Each signature tent has a private pool and an open air en suite bathroom and a loo with a view. There is a honeymoon suite, and Kigelia House which is perfect for families or small groups. Furniture is made from local Zambezi Teak and the beds are finished with white linen and down duvets. The camp offers a white choice of personalised activities complemented by fine cuisine. The service and diverse activities make Sausage Tree Camp the best in the valley.” (Taken from a brochure)
The ‘tent’ is 13 metres long x 5 metres wide, and luxurious beyond belief. I wanted to cry when I first saw it, and on our fourth day here in paradise, I still pinch myself as I look around, and wonder. It polished concrete floors the colour of elephants, somewhat uneven and imperfect, and so AFrican. A vast expanse of windows which run the entire length of the room face the Mighty Zambezi, across which one can pull white muslin curtains, they trail the floor abundantly, and through which we can still see the river, it just diffuses the light, and makes it even more magical. They have sliding mosquito netted doors, which really do work effectively, easy to slide and they don’t mar the view.The bed is vast in the centre of the room, with more white muslin curtains grazing the ground, and piles of snowy white pillows and linen sheets. There is a leather chair with a footstool which faces the windows. On either side of the room are wooden shelves and hanging space for clothing. Separated by a wall of canvas, which goes two thirds of the way across the room is the lounging area, which is where you enter our tent. A huge door swings on a pivot, and there are no locks and no keys. The only person aside from us who ever enters here is Clever, our Muchinda, our butler. It is furnished with a big squashy leather sofa, which looks a bit weather beaten, sort of shabby chic, and a big armchair alongside of it, and a heavy solid wood coffee table, hewn from a great tree. A wooden shelving unit which hides a fridge and storage space. Here, the windows as in the bathroom, are made of mosquito netting and look out on to the bush and the river.
Clever leaves a tray with tea bags, instant coffee, milk, cups and a thermos of boiling water. The fridge is stocked with wines, tonic, Mosi beer, ice in a silver bucket, lemon slices, and a drawer contains glasses of all kinds, and a large bottle of gin, which I have already put a dent in.
We shower in a bathroom as big as a bedroom - maybe 4 x 5 m, with twin showers over a wooden floor, a huge thick plank on industrial steel legs which contains two basins, an oval bath, both with huge mosquito netting windows overlooking the Zambezi. The toilet is black, there is woven matting on the floor, an industrial metal rack holds huge thick towels. A door leads to a large outdoor shower, overhung by trees, in which monkeys scamper.
It is daylight and we can walk in safety just 50 metres away past one other ‘tent’ - along a dusty path, overhung with trees, in which monkeys swing and hang, absurdly, looking comically at us, as if to say “Who are you??” We pass a water tank, where every day, we see a different monkey experimenting with getting water out of it,cupping their hands, and lifting sweet drops to their mouths.
Clever’s face beams at us, as if we are his favourite people in the world, and enquires if we slept well. He has already made coffee just the way GErald likes it, a spoon of coffee, generous helping of milk, and only then, does he pour the water to fill the cup, and green tea for me. The white hatted and grinning chef presides over a banquet of muffins and pastries, fruits and yogurts, and an array of ingredients ready for omelettes, mushrooms, onions, ham, cheese, sweet peppers and a bowl of brown eggs, with bacon and sausages, fresh loaves of brown and white bread, and jams and marmalade’s of all kinds.
Despite our pleas for ‘small helpings’ our plates are overloaded, even when we ask for JUST ONE EGG PLEASE. Mike, the barman, rushes over with a cushion for my back - on our first night, I removed one from the sofa to put on my dining chair for comfort. Now, every time I enter, he runs to get me a cushion. These are amazing hard workers, men who go out of their way to ensure our every need is met, even before we ask - they are well educated, articulate, charming, and great companions, and I feel so privileged to be here. In 43 years since we left Zambia - almost half a century - life has changed so much. In Australia, men with this work ethic would be promoted, quickly, to positions of management and power, yet here in this country, where 50% of the between 14M and 17M (depending on who you ask) population are unemployed, and there is no social security. Alex says he has a cousin, who lives in the Western Province, who has nine children, a 48 year woman without a man, she lives in a dilapidated structure, and when he visits, he buys shirts and food for the kids. He has told her no more children. He is astonished that so many people in Zambia start having children “without even having a job!” - he says in despair. His own - and only - son, is four years old, and already he has taught him that he has to work very, very hard, that there are ‘masses and masses’ of people in the villages, doing absolutely nothing. His son attends school and he has bought him many books, the power of education and reading and learning is the only way to ‘make a success and avoid poverty’. Alix went to guide school and finished in 2010 - with no job. Undeterred, he went to a camp he knew, managed by a man called Chris, and asked if he could have a job, that he would work for free, knowing he would gain experience and knowledge. Chris said ‘yes yes yes!’ - and Alex did, for a whole season, despite his friends saying he was crazy, for he said ‘I knew I would have the last laugh.’ And look at him now, 10 years later, in one of the finest camps in Zambia, and with plans to be the top guides in the valley. How many young people do you know of today who would do that? I’m humbled by his courage and vision and determination, he moves me to tears. Alex is a shining star; his personality, intelligence, curiosity, humour and obvious pleasure in the company of people, his attitude and determination, hard work ethic and true grit make him stand out in a company of many hard working, good men. I would employ him in a heart beat, and in Australia, if his passion, Game Guide, were a profession, he would quickly rise to the top of his career.
Ruth Westrick, a pleasant Swiss woman, the assistant general manager, greets us as we walk down a few steps to the boat mooring, where Isaac will join us on our canoe adventure this morning. A powerful motor boat takes us on a ten minute journey to where the canoes are stationed at the edge of the river, and Alex gives us a safety talk on how to behave with the animals and in the canoe. There is a cooler box at the back of each canoe with tea and coffee and shortbread, water and cool drinks, there are two seats in each, and I am in Alex, whilst Isaac takes GErald.
We climb in, assisted by these men, and don our safety jackets. The current is strong, and you cannot see through the water in parts, there are huge crocodiles, hippos, buffalo, water buck and elephants in the water, as well as on the shore; this is not a drift down the Shoalhaven River, here you could be trampled to death, or bitten in two (as a childhood friend’s father was when I was 13 years old at the Hippo Pools in Northern Rhodesia. I have never forgotten that). Last night we came face to face with a leopard, her eyes locked with mine, I was closest to her in the land rover, and Gerald reached out to hold me - and later, Gerald asked if I was scared. “I felt a flicker, when I realised she was walking towards me, her green eyes locked with mine. But after that, no. Nothing.” She gazed intently at me from 4 metres away, her face highlited with a powerful torch, then with a flick of her tail, walked elegantly away. But hippos? They really do frighten me, and are, with the buffalo, the most dangerous animal in AFrica, after man. Their tiny ears and pink faces peek above the water at you, looking comical, then they sink below the surface, without a trace, and you have no idea where they are.
Alex has taken us a few metres, he is sitting behind me, and we are the lead canoe - when the tears start to run uncontrollably down my face. This river, this place, is so magical, so impossibly beautiful, so undeniably peaceful, so wildly dangerous, and so deeply touching. The ashes of my parents swim in this water, where I scattered them, in a channel at Victoria Falls, close to Sindabezi Island five years ago. Today we canoe 12 metres down through the stunning Chifungulu Channel, looking up rather than down, and admire the animals and bird life, and Sausage Tree Camp is regarded as the best canoeing section of the entire Zambezi River.
I was in a daze of delight. I could hear the soft voice of Gerald in the canoe behind me, pointing out animals along with Alex, and now and then, I turn around - careful not to upset the canoe! - to see his dear face. He is at his happiest in Africa, in the bush, and he especially loves the Zambezi. If he should die before me, I shall bring his ashes here to join my parents. If he dies after me, Joshua, that will be your responsibility. He is brown in the face, with a floppy dorky khaki hat tied under his chin, clad in khaki pants and shirt, his blue reading glasses on a string around his neck, with his Canon camera, its become another limb for him in Africa, and its always at the ready. He cannot stop grinning, and his eyes are clear and his expression is one of total bliss, this is a happy man. He gives me a look, and nods his head, he is telling me he loves me, he is telling me he is grateful, he is telling me this is the place in the world he most wants to be right now. An unspoken - “Not bad for two kids from Chingola.”
Oh, the animals. There are hippos everywhere, slyly watching with their bodies submerged, and their pink spotty faces noting our every move. They snort and grunt so loudly and spray water and hunker hunker hunker with their mouths wide open, displaying teeth larger than piano keys, and pink gums.
There are several herds of elephants grazing, babies protectively sandwiched between them, and on three occasions we wait as they stand at the sandbank, deciding if it is safe to cross the river. Alex and Isaac paddle to the side and wait, and we watch them, sedately enter and sink their huge bodies into the water, guiding the babies between them. They wave their trunks and flap their ears, and sometimes, when they feel we have overstayed our welcome, scream and trumpet so loudly to tell us to ‘clear off’ that I jump out of my seat.
There are massive herds of buffalo - the ‘Dagga Boys’ they are known as - so called because of their angry, mean nature, they will attack for no reason other than they can, like roaming gangs of ‘Bad Boys’ in the city. Their huge horns curl inwards, they are clad in dust, and they stand, dominating us with their strength.
Birds - oh birds and birds and birds! - fish eagles,
A family of wart hogs, as busy as ever, late for an important meeting, running off to work.
Hundreds and hundreds of impala, leaping and flying through the air, their perfect little faces, their perfect little bottoms, their huge eyes, and their dainty feet which hardly touch the ground, and which look so fragile, they could snap like twigs - watch us intently. It is amazing when one walks in the bush, as we did a couple of nights ago, with the ruts and grooves and holes and trunks and uneven terrain, that impalas do not break their legs more frequently than they do. It was all I could do to stop breaking mine, and I was walking at a sedate pace.
And crocodiles, oh my word, the crocodiles! Many babies, which with my poor eyesight I find hard to see, although Gerald can distinguish them with ease in the middle of a tangle of grasses and trees. But the Daddies! We see three on the river bank, in three different spots, their own territories - Alex says the biggest one was three metres plus, with their prehensile handbag skin and lazy eyes, basking as if unconcerned in the sun, as if they didn’t even know we were there - but ready in a nano-second to slide sinisterly into the river and devour whomever is in their path. Not us, not today.
We spend four hours alone with the animals on the river, us four human beings, the silence split only by the grunts and cries of wild creatures and singing, calling birds. When Alex says we are almost at the point to meet the motor boat to take us back to camp, I protest - I want to go with him on a four day camping, canoeing journey. These amazing men pack up two long canoes, much bigger than the ones we are in today - with tents, food, drinks, beds, a bush shower and toilet, and take two or three lucky people on a safari on the river, where each night they set up camp, and “the bar” and cook food on gas stove by a fire, and sleep in tents alongside the hippos, elephants and crocodiles.
Yesterday, I heard from a dear dear friend, via messenger - which we can get here - that she has been diagnosed with bladder cancer. I’m shocked, her mother died of this about 12 years ago and she is numb with fear. Today she will see the specialist who will give her the results of her tests. I take her with me in my heart today, and when the guides drag our canoes up on to the shore for morning tea, I stand under a winter thorn tree, and a powerful image of her strikes me, and I receive a message - from the Zambezi, I believe, torrents of tears pour down my face, and I know her news is not good. When we return to camp later, I receive this:
“4th October 2018. We have just come home. Unfortunately the news is bad. I have an aggressive anger that has already invaded the muscle wall of the bladder. I have to have a total body bone scan and a lung scan on Monday. If they are clear, I will need surgery in the next two weeks to have my bladder removed. I have told my doctor that I am resistant to chemotherapy or radiotherapy. In my mind they do little given the physical cost associated with them. If the surgery is successful and no global spread occurs it is possible to expect at 85% success rate. So they say!..... I am shaken and devastated. It seems like some kind of horrible dream .... Our ‘little family’ is heartbroken. I worry for Kathy and Robyn. They have been my sisters for the better part of my life. They are good, kind loving people. They have blessed me with their love and support. What a gift.
We will all need to feel sad and bewildered for sometime. But then I must make the decision that life is for living. Whatever that ends up being. I am worried about my “Maestro” Johnny. I love him desperately and I cherish his tender heart. My BFF is heartbroken too but we love each other so we will walk this road together. We must all try to focus on being positive. If this cancer is a big life taker ... I am going to live right up until the time is here. Please keep your prayers and positive thoughts going. Others have beaten this, so I will give it a red hot go. XXX”
Last week, I received this message, from my oldest friend in the world, Michelle. Our mothers became best friends in Cape Town in 1949/50, the years she and I were born, when we were just months old. They met at the Baby Health Centre, and they remained best friends until my Aunty Lydia died about three years before my Mother died - about 2006. My mother flew to Africa to be with her for six weeks, leaving my Dad behind in our care, for she loved her friend so much.
“22nd September 2018. Hello my darling Sandra, so pleased you have arrive safely in Africa, your birth place. I tried writing to you many times and lifted the phone to call you numerous times but knew we would just weep together. Michael was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease two years ago and our life has been in a bit of a turmoil. He does not have visible tremors (which is worse) and he manages each day as best he can, really slow to get dressed or eat, he exercises regularly and we walk everyday. So he is doing all the ‘right things’. I am with him every day but for two days I go into the office (although I still do a little work from home). He is still driving but when we are together, I do all the driving. Our future is very daunting but we remain positive and do have lots of giggles and laughs together, we seem to have become much closer since this has happened. He does have bad days which I immediately sense (he doesn’t share anything but never complains) but I know all the signs, I have exhausted myself researching and reading up on this dreadful disease. It’s just so sad to watch him not being able to do the things he loves. I didn’t mean to bring you bad news just wanted to explain why we could not meet you in Johannesburg. When you have your glass of wine tonight, remember to toast my Mom, your Aunty Lydia, she would have been 94 today, and I miss her each and every day. Have a wonderful holiday my dearest and stay safe. Love and big hugs to you and your darling Gerald. I love you always. XXXX”
I do not mean to dwell on the heart breaking moments in life, nor the pain and sorrow we face in our journey. But I do want to presence the brevity of life, the the cruelty and the beauty of life, and the sheer unexpected, random moment when our lives are upturned and will never, ever be the same again. When we are faced with a challenge that seems insurmountable, way too big a mountain to climb, and who we are and what we do to shore up our foundations and our fragile selves, who we need and where we find support we can count on.
We never know when its our turn.
I hope you take this day and love it, and love the ones you love, that you speak the words you might not normally say, that you touch someone physically and emotionally and spiritually.
At my mother’s funeral, my brother stood, strong and wide shouldered, wearing a suit, something I seldom saw him wear. He spoke to the packed church with such eloquence and such a unique understanding of our Mother, her strengths, her passion and her power, her love of her family and people and children, and how she loved a gin, what a formidable poker player she was, how she loved fiercely and unconditionally, how her lack of education never stopped her making a difference in the world, he spoke with love and truth and respect and insight, of her many wondrous qualities. And he said he chose his beautiful, devoted wife because she reminded him of his mother. I sat, mesmerised by his love and his words. For the one thing my mother yearned for in her life - for all of her life - was an acknowledgement from him, a greeting of love and gratitude, to know her son felt blessed by her and proud of her. But she never heard him utter these words. Not in this world, anyway, that was a gift she was denied, and I wonder if he feels sad about that. I sobbed not only for our loss of her, but for the many gifts she so deserved and never received.
After lunch, Gerald and Alex left for a tiger fishing afternoon - its blistering hot, maybe 38 degrees, and that was 3.5 hours ago. I’m feeling a little concerned. I have cooked off in our little pool, and have soaked in a decadent bathtub run by Clever, decorated with shiny green leaves, overlooking the Zambezi and slept on our huge bed, also decorated by Clever, with the initials STC (Sausage Tree Camp) laid out on the bed in seed pods. I was careful not to disturb them when I had a short siesta.
Now I write. And I am grateful. And I send you love. Did I tell you today how much I love you?
NIGHT DRIVE FRIDAY 5th October 2018
Gerald has been tiger fishing this afternoon for the second time, he and Alex have a competition going, and Alex is winning. Yesterday he caught a Tiger fish, 9.5 pounder, but Gerald’s line was snapped by a gigantic Vumba, who took off like a rocket. He is determined to catch a tiger fish, in the tradition of the Groom Men, ie Greg, Gerald’s older brother, and Joshua, our son, who started “The Competition” 25 years ago on Kariba Dam. But he returns home disappointed, but happy - Alex caught another whopper, and hooked another so big, it dragged the boat off the shore and was drifting towards a clump of tree stumps. Alex yelled to Gerald to take his line so he could rescue the boat, but Gerald yelled back “No! I can’t take another man’s fish!” Alex yelled again “Can you drive a boat?” And Gerald yelled “Yes!” So Gerald took the wheel, and Alex held his rod, but unfortunately, the monster got away.
Half an hour later we are in the Land Rover, headed out for a night drive. What a day its been already! Our 12 kms canoe journey down the Chifungulu Channel, tiger fishing for Gerald, and now a night game drive. We leave later than normal, with Isaac, who accompanied us on our canoe adventure this morning. We drive through thorn trees and scrub, over dusty tracks and around trees, Alex gets out and removes tree carnage from the road where elephants have shredded trees. Isaac spies a single can in the dust and Alex stops to let him out to pick it up. The bush is pristine and these men are keeping it this way. Alex stops to point out an army of Matabele ants, the ones that have strong fangs and bit us painfully many times as kids growing up, that smell terrible when they are squashed. There are the Workers, all carrying tiny pieces of wood back to their nest, all hurrying in the same direction, and the Soldiers, who scurry along either side of the army, protecting the Workers from predators. We watch fascinated, and I am transported back sixty plus years to our back yard in Bancroft (now Chililabombwe) where my brother and I lay on the dusty ground and antagonised them with twigs. Alex carefully reverses the jeep, and drives around the twelve foot army. I love the respect these men afford every living creature here, and am glad we have these Eco-Warriors in our world. When he switches off the motor, the African silence is deafening. Not a sound but for the call of birds, the bark of baboons, the occasional snapping of a tree trunk by an ele, the buzzing of insects.
There is nowhere on earth like Africa. Nowhere.
We stop for elephants to pass, regularly. They have right of way on the Elephant Highway. They shepherd their babies between them, and shake their heads and tusks in warning. They are so close I can almost touch them. But that would be unwise! - and anyway, we have to keep our limbs inside the vehicle - it has no roof and no sides - for the animals see the vehicle as “one” and do not see it as a threat, but if we stand up or move about, or hang our legs over the side, or wave our arms - we become something foreign and a target.
We see herds of elephants, wart hogs, hundreds of leaping impalas (who can extend their pregnancies if necessary to wait for water or optimum conditions before dropping their young),hippos snorting in the river, angry buffalo, just waiting for a reason to pick a fight and charge, and a myriad of bright and beautiful birds, including two massive fish eagles.
We bounce along a dusty track, avoiding thorns and overhanging branches. This camp will close at the end of October for five months, during the rainy season, as the area floods, the roads become impassable, and trees and bushes thrive and tangle and become a thick impenetrable bushland. The camp is locked up, with just two people who stay to keep animals from smashing the buildings, and ensuring no disaster occurs. In May, they return - having eked out a living doing something - for many, nothing as there are no jobs - but Alex has a garden and grows tomatoes and cabbages, which he sells at the market. Then they put the camp to rights, making repairs, clearing the roads of elephant debris, and using a panga, they chop back the bush to make it possible for a vehicle to drive through. The thorns are las sharp as razor blades and when they overhang the road, can slice like a fist full of knives, not something they want for a guest.
Gerald commands - “Stop!” He has seen a kill, an impala, hidden in the undergrowth, and now we an smell it. Alex reverses back and forth and gets us into position to see it’s broken body. Normally leopard do not leave their kill,, so something has frightened her away, maybe elephants, says Alex. We journey on, but will return later, to see if the mother returns too.
We stop at an open plateau for sundowners, chosen as its easy to see if predators approach. The sun is starting to set, the horizon is a wide expanse of Z?????? Mountainous range, there are glorious trees, each one could be a work of art, many look dead, but they are ‘pretending’ - and the moment sweet, precious water drops from the sky, they will immediately ‘come to life’, with green leaves and massive growth - it is amazing how quickly things grow in AFrica when rain arrives. Giant baobabs, up to 800 years old, stand sentinel on the skyline, what life they have seen! Alex unrolls a bundle, unpacks four legs and screws them to a table top, lays out a pristine white linen cloth, lines up glasses, gin, tonic, ice, beer and a ‘tiffin’ of three tiers, when dismantled, each tier contains a ‘snack’ - biltong, nuts, meatballs, crisps, tiny pizzas, an amazing array - the food here is gourmet, and already my pants are tight at the waist. Alex points out ‘the facilities’ - behind an anthill, then walks behind it to ensure there are no lions or snakes (they only come out generally on 15th October, he says, with authority) and claps his hands to chase any wild animal away. This seems an absurd action to take but apparently it works. He leaves, and I drop my pants, I’m busting, and the stream of urine splashes into the hot dust, I can smell it, I am sure the men and the animals can. I wipe with a tissue and place it carefully in my pocket. When I return a minute later, Alex squirts hand sanitiser on to our hands, and makes drinks.
So far I have not had to deal with wanting to poo whilst on a game drive, which is a relief. I wish I was like Gerald, who can poo on command, before an event which may prove poo-ing a challenge. I am so envious of this quality. The American women back in Botswana were averse to peeing in the bush, but I have no problem with that, I think they thought I was some kind of wild, somewhat savage, woman, but I was born here, peeing is fine. But pooing in the bush is something I’d prefer to avoid.
The sun lights up the sky, in one last blazing burst of red and orange and the horizon turns to fire, the flat African earth beneath her becomes a black silhouette outlining tree branches, tree stumps and ant hills. On cue, an elephant close by trumpets as if in farewell to the sun. It’s breath taking, its emotional, it’s Africa and I cry.
We are having an interesting conversation about Zambian politics way back in the days of new Independence - Zambia was granted independence on October 24th, 1964, and I can remember laying in bed with my parents, who along with every white in the country, feared dreadful violence. Men taped up windows with duct tape, loaded up their guns, and kept their families indoors - but it was a peaceful transition. I remember at midnight, lying between my Mom and Dad, and listening to their whispered talk, as “God Save the Queen” was played for the last time as the national anthem of the country, and my Dad gave us a running commentary on what he imagined was happening and in our minds we saw the flag being lowered. My mother cried, and said “Eee, Tom.” And then, the Zambian flag was raised for the first time, accompanied by the new Zambian anthem, which we vowed we would never sing, in loyalty to the Queen. But we all did, and Alex remembers that if you didn’t sing the song, or stand up and stand still to attention, you were in BIG TROUBLE. In those days, the anthem was sung before every film which showed at the tiny ‘bioscope’ in town, now we had to forget God Save the Queen and learn Stand and Sing of Zambia, Proud and Free. I tell this story and then sing the Anthem, and their jaws drop slack, and they in wonder “You still remember these words?” I do, I shall never forget them. Alex says KK was in power for way too log - 24 - 27 years, he cannot remember, and the people were fed up with him, and ready for him to go. He was power hungry, things went only his way, and he got rid of any opposition - despite his friendly demeanour and big white grin, waving his white hanky, he too, was an African despot. Chilombo (?) was the next President, and he was well liked, except he spent money the government didn’t have, and he didn’t last long. We could talk all night, but its dark and dangerous when we are out of the vehicle, Alex says he will bring a notebook to write down the history of what we are saying. It’s quite a moment to be such an interesting part of history that a notebook is required, but he says ‘we have never heard these things’ and he is clearly hanging on to our every word.
As soon as its dark, you have to get in the Land Rover and leave, as you become game for the game. We bounce off in the darkness, Isaac ready with the spotlight, shielded with a red filter which is less obtrusive and doesn’t alarm or glare in the animals eyes. Alex hangs out of the Land Rover looking for footprints, and soon we are on the track of leopard, heading back towards where Gerald saw the kill earlier. The radio crackles, the other guides have seen it too, and are gathering. In minutes we are back at the kill, and in a flurry of growls and screeches, the leopard backs out of the bushes - a hyena has stolen her kill, and even she is afraid of the hyena, who has the most powerful jaws in Africa. She watches, hungry and frustrated, as we see through the leaves the hyena tearing the impala apart, with a gruesome cracking of bones which makes me wince. Isaac shines the red filter and sweeps it from side to side, we are in the open Land Rover and vulnerable too. The smell of the impala is strong, carried on the breeze, and suddenly two leopard cubs appear out of the dark, padding silently towards us, they are nearly fully grown and almost as big as their mother, but still haven’t worked out that if the three of them worked as a team (Tiyendi Pamodzi) they could outwit the hyena. They gaze at us, then lie in the dusk, watching their mother watching the hyena. Waiting patiently for dinner, like kids at a dinner table, or those unfortunate kids who wait outside McDonalds as Mum buys dinner.
It’s mesmerising, watching the food chain play out in the AFrican bush. The heriarchy of power, the fact that everything must kill something in order to eat, that something must die in order for something to live. There is no sentimentality in the bush, there is living and dying, and a short space inbetween, in which mothers get pregnant, give birth and feed their young, fathers impregnate and fight for domination in their tribe, and the young are forced out of the family when they are old enough to fend for themselves in order to make their way, and create their own tribe/herd/flock/tower/dazzle.
The cubs tire of waiting, and take a circular route in order to try to get closer, to no avail, but they are closer than ever to us, and totally unconcerned. And so beautiful, they play like kittens, batting each other, and laying on their backs with all four legs in the air, like Cino does. The hyena has chased off the leopard mother several times, and is down to the last chunks of flesh. There will be no dinner tonight for these cubs.
Reluctantly, we have to leave, the camp is a along way away, and its already 7.30 pm. I could stay and watch this forever, and I think, how many people on the planet EVER get to see such a sight? Alex says there are so many Zambians who have never seen an elephant, and never will, they are now concentrated in game parks and have been poached out, and could never afford to come and see them in the wild.
We bounce back to camp, Isaac flashing the spotlight, back and forth, back and forth, and I wonder if we will ever come back to the land of our birth again. Gerald is going to be 71 in ten days, and I will be 69 in a month. Africa is hard work, its physical, even if you are not doing the driving, the canoeing or the cooking. It’s demanding, early rises and late nights, clambering into high vehicles requires agility and strength, you need stamina to deal with the heat, the wind, the unexpected events, adrenalin courses through your veins, as you expect at any moment, at any moment, at any moment .... something wonderful or life threatening or terrifying to occur. And its emotional, at least for us, returning to the land of our birth, the language, the animals, the bush, the music, the people - all make our hearts beat faster, return us in the blink of an eye to the happy and adventurous childhoods we had, the memories of our parents and our siblings, and as happy as we are with each other and in our bountiful Australian life - it evokes a yearning, despite ourselves, for something long gone, and long past.
A group of nine American men have arrived - the military, says Clever - oddly dressed, and oddly incommunicative. They look like mercenaries. But the next morning, I see one, who is 6’5” tall, in broad daylight, quivering like a week kitten, terrified of walking along the track to his tent. I swing by, wearing a big hat and a sarong, holding a cup of tea, and he looks on in amazement. I want to brag “I was born in Africa!”, but don’t, but swagger a little as I pass him. There is another table of Americans, but they are not loud and do not dominate the verandah, overlooking the Zambezi, and I am grateful.
We eat dinner at a table for two, lit by a lantern and candles - its a gourmet delight, quail on polenta, then Gerald has pork fillet on mash with spring vegetables and I eat tilapia, (bream) with crunch green vegetables, followed by an apple crumble and a plate of cheese. We leave more than half. I now remove half the meal to a side plate, so it is not touched, and ask Clever to ensure it is not wasted. he says “Someone will eat it!”
Our room glows with subdued lighting, the fans are whirring above, the expanse of white muslin curtains are drawn across mosquito netted windows (we never close the doors), the bed is draped like Merryn Steep’s “Out of Africa”, there is a flask of hot water and tea awaiting, and we are in heaven.
Thank you Africa.
Saturday 6th October.
I write this at a desk made out of a chunk of rough hewn Zambezi teak, supported on black metal industrial legs, gazing out of a window the width of our tent - 13 metres of windows, overlooking a wide expanse of deck and a small pool 2.5 m x 1.5 metres made of black slate, and on to the Zambezi River. There are monkies twittering in the trees, and I see hippo eyes floating at water level, accompanied by loud hunka hunka hunka sounds. Gerald left to go fishing at 6 am and I lay in our big luxurious bed and watched the river drift by, drinking tea. At 7 am Clever arrived with breakfast, and says it would be nice to eat on the verandah, but to ‘watch out for the cheeky monkeys who want to steal your breakfast’. It’s a tray of fruit and yogurt, a mushroom omelette and brown toast, on a tray and tells me he was delayed as “There is an elephant on the path outside.” Really?! I pick up my phone and run to the door, and sure enough, just feet away, stands a young male elephant, ripping a tree to shreds. He casts an eye at us, then nonchalantly, turns and continues with breakfast. A minute later, Clever whispers - “Here is another one!” - as another male strolls down the pathway, as if about to knock on our door. We stand silently and still. The ele stops and flaps his ears, raises his trunk, and backs away, grazing on branches and seed pods. He has a very long penis, which almost grazes the ground, and a fine pair of tusks. We watch in awe for a few minutes, then the pair of them move on. Ten minutes later, eating breakfast on the verandah, I hear a loud crash, and a huge tree next to the next tent smashes through the undergrowth to the ground.
Africa is always a surprise.
Gerald has returned, triumphant, with photographs to prove he has caught a beautiful tiger fish, which weighed about 8.5 pounds! He is a very, very happy man. Alex tells me that they sung “Tiyende Pamodzi” together, which was Kenneth Kaunda’s favourite song, roughly translated it means “Let us all pull together”. Alex says he and Gerald worked as a team today and pulled together, and the result was this big fat tiger fish.
On safari, one needs to modify one’s behaviour, our clothes and our sound. Our dress - wear muted colours, preferably the colours of the bush, sage, khaki, brown and beige, certainly no rainbow colours. We must modify our body language and expression, in the back of a Land Rover, you don’t want an arm or a leg breaking the outline of the vehicle - the animals are largely happy with a vehicle, but anything which breaks its shape, becomes something foreign. We need to modify our language, and speak softly, in a whisper, if at all. This is the animal’s land and we must respect that.
A safari is not for the feint hearted, nor the weak. A safari in Africa takes physical stamina, an ability to do without much sleep, a body able to climb up and down the hot metal steps of the Land Rover, sometimes in the dark, the willingness to withstand seven or eight hours a day jolting around in an open Land Rover in blistering heat (with a siesta inbetween) hanging on for dear life, an understanding that the guide is the Boss and how important it is to follow his instructions, that life and death happen easily in Africa, good eyesight, an ability to deal with the rush of adrenalin that accompanies a potentially, dangerous activity, a sense of wonder to be able to fully appreciate where you are and what you are seeing, an ability to be silent or at least quiet, which is an important step in developing one’s awareness in the bush. I have marvelled at how in a few days, our eyes and senses have adapted to slight movements, a tiny variation in colour in the bush, a whiff of a scent, the sound of animals calling an alarm, a prickle of the skin or a sense of intuition, that something wild is nearby. If you’re discussing your emails or bragging about your last holiday or your apartment, you miss all that, and will be better served by a visit to the zoo.
On our last day at Sausage Tree Camp, we came across the nine loud Americans in the bush. We had just passed a huge herd of elephant, and they had seen the lion kill. Our Land Rover pulled alongside of theirs, and our drivers conversed in chinyanja, sharing information. The men didn’t even look up, didn’t acknowledge us (and I never saw them once address their guide), they were busily engaged in conversation. “So I said to him .....” and “I sent them an email ....” and “WHAAAAAAAAT?” Our guides talked for three of four minutes, and these men didn’t draw breath. The testosterone emanating from that vehicle was undeniably male - yet had nothing to do with courage or strength or resilience. It was all about competition, I’m going to talk the loudest, brag the most, my dick is bigger than your dick. I tried to engage them in a conversation yesterday, how was their day, what did they see, and nobody - bar one - looked up. He did, briefly, and said with as much excitement as if relaying a laundry list “We saw everything. Everything. Lions, hippos, baboons.” And went straight back to his email. Do they have any FUCKING idea how privileged they are to be here? To see these animals in this glorious place? Later that day they went out on a game safari, and were back within 45 minutes. ‘Not enough action” - they’d already seen ‘everything’ and now decided they wanted to fish. Arrogant, rude, disinterested men who may be kings in the corporate jungle, but would be dead in five minutes in the African jungle, where ‘real’ men fortunately still live and have survived, men like Alec, our guide and many others like him, and men like Norman Carr and David Adamson, who have a deep respect for the environment, the animals and life itself. I’m disgusted.
TV and social media has led us to believe that we should be able to head out into the wild African bush and see The Big Five and an amazing variety of animals in 45 minutes, the length of a wildlife documentary, which may have taken five years to make, to get the shots of those animals in their natural environment. It takes patience, and these men don’t have any - not only them, but so much of the world today, instant gratification, or let’s move on, and find something else more exciting, more interesting to do. It saddens and maddens me.
We see another Land Rover with an American family passed by later, all dressed in bright carnival colours, the woman in a dress with high cork heeled shoes, and the son, a man in his twenties, was in the passenger seat, with his left leg languidly hanging outside the doorway, a look of intense boredom on his face, as if to say, nothing here impresses me, feigning disinterest. Such a man of the world, this is of no consequence to me. I had to suppress a desire for a big lion or a crocodile to bit his leg off.