The Colour of Poverty

Brett and I lingered over our candle-lit dinner, and reflected on our day.  While I had taken the opportunity to lounge the day away, he had ventured out with his camera slung around his neck, intent on capturing the heart of Malawi via his lens. Children had swarmed around him, jumping, posing and begging to have their pictures taken. Laughter followed him around the beach and through the village, as he wandered. The sparkle in his eyes told me that he had enjoyed every minute of it.

I had seen that myself, when he ambled up the beach with his entourage of boys giggling and yelling. They had stopped at my towel where I was reading, and their antics were a sight to behold. Gregarious boys were laughing and running circles around us. Shy girls quietly clung to the outskirts of the circle, a part of the fray, but by their nature, removed. A few daring girls came over to feel my hair and skin, to see if it felt any different than their own black counter-parts. I encouraged their curiousity and admired their beauty as well. It was a delightful exchange and the mirth was infectious. By the time the group dispersed, I was smiling and laughing too. 

Over dinner our conversation was a little more serious though.  While the children had been happy and friendly,  their poverty was all too apparent. They were dressed in nothing more than rags. Excessive wear had robbed the clothes of any colour that they once may have sported. The contrast between their childish glee, was strangely muted by their drab monotonous colour palette. While it did not dampen their enthusiasm, it did diminish our joy.

One image remained in my mind of a little boy in the group that had been wearing a pair of trousers that were bereft of a crotch or bum. His little “chaps” spoke volumes of the standard of living that was so disparate from my own, so far away.  While Brett reminded me that he probably kept his better clothes for school, that could not shake the vision from my eyes. I would not have kept his clothes for rags back home, but here he was running around in public without adequate covering. I am not overly prudish, but his exposure hurt my heart and soul.

 As we watched the last light of the day disappear, we wondered what we would learn the following morning. It would prove to be interesting, as we would see exactly what some of these children did wear to school. It was the last day of the term for the students at Mwaya Beach Primary School. A couple of boys that Brett had met on the beach had invited us to tag along with them to hear test results and tour their classrooms.

I watched the full moon rise into the sky, before being driven under my mosquito net for the night to dream of my date at the chalkboard.

A Stolen Heart

“Sheets,” I exclaimed. “Look, there is actual sheets on the beds!”

“And mosquito nets too,” I added, fingering the delicate gauze material that hung from the roof of the thatch hut.

“Pretty sweet mate,” Brett nodded as he dropped his back pack onto the matching twin bed on his side of the hut.

A man materialized at the door with the lemonade we had requested.

“Thanks Joey,” I said as he placed the tray on the sturdy wooden table and set the two tall glasses down.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked yet again. We had been here a handful of  minutes, yet Joey had already taken our dinner orders, retrieved pillows for our luxurious looking beds and shown us every courtesy he could. I could tell that our 50 kwacha a night was going to be the best money I had ever spent.  

After double checking that we had everything we needed yet again, Joey bowed, then quietly walked back in the direction of the kitchen. I caught sight of the swish of a colourful sarong disappearing around a corner, then turned back to our room.

“This is going to be awesome,” Brett declared as he bounced on the bed with a laugh. “What should we do first?”

“I need to jump in the lake,” I declared.

The sparkling lake beckoned just a stone’s throw from our hut. Brett stepped onto the porch to give me a minute to change, then we headed down to the beach. Dropping my towel, sunglasses, journal and pen, I ran to the lake’s edge and splashed in to my thighs, before diving head long into the warm waters of Lake Malawi.

I burst through the water’s surface and smiled my face up to the sun. In a pure moment of joy, I kicked out and drifted on my back gazing at the Malawian sky that surrounded me. The sandy beach lay behind me, with its cluster of neat little huts tucked amongst green palm trees. Looking further out into the lake, I saw men in mokoros fishing for the myriad of fish that called this place home. I idly drifted my legs back and forth to gently propel myself along and luxuriated in the moment.

There was no place I had to go. There was nothing pressing that I had to do. I did not even have to worry about what to scrounge up for dinner, as Joey was presenting us with seafood crepes that evening. Later, he would trek across the sandy expanse from the kitchen to our hut, with delightful home-made cuisine on a covered silver platter, but right now there was just me and a serenity that I cherished with all my heart. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine.

Joey’s Seafood Crepes (for one)

·         2 small eggs

·         ¾  cup flour

·         Pinch of salt

·         ¾  cup  milk

·         1 tsp baking powder

·         1 Tbsp oil

*Beat the eggs until smooth, then add flour and salt stirring

*Add milk and oil until smooth

*cook crepes and set aside

Filling:

·         Cut-up pieces of kampango or chambo (fish)

·         1 clove of Garlic

·         1 cup of milk

·         1 Tbsp of cheese (white sauce)

·         1 ½ Tbsp butter

·         1 medium onion

*Fry fish and set aside(can substitute chicken or meat)

*Cook remaining ingredients, then add fish back in and simmer for 10-15 min

*pour filling onto crepe, wrap it up and serve

Delicious!

Carved Delights

A constant buzz filled my ears as I wound my way through the stalls. Chickens clucked in the dirt, waiting to be plucked and stuffed into giant woks and served with nsima (the local version of a corn porridge). I had eaten enough of it to find it palatable, only as long as it came with the ever-present tomato and onion sauce that was found everywhere in southern Africa.

 And thank God I liked tomatoes, as the small fruit were one of the few things that were prevalent. Onions and eggplants were also readily apparent in little triangular hills on top of rickety wooden stalls or worse, balanced precariously on a piece of plywood resting atop an over-turned bucket. Mixed with rice and the luxury of salt and pepper, a feast was to be had any night.

For protein, beef seemed always to be tough and pork non-existent, so beans and peanut butter filled the niche. A rare treat of fresh fish infused my vegetarian style diet, but I grew lumpy on the starchy staples that were my fare. Always a good reason to dive into Lake Malawi to swim off a meal or two.

While I did pick up our staple tomatoes to fill our backpacking larder, this shopping trip was centered on a more cultural note. Leaving the greasy stands and piles of glass coke bottles behind, I walked further into the market in search of wood carvings. I did not need the Bob Marley tapes, and while tempted by local tinny music blaring from ancient ghetto blasters, I walked on.

This is where I fell in love. Wooden carved bowls, figures of men, tables, and of course the famous chief’s chairs. They were exquisite and I wanted one of them all. The detailed facial features carved into the dark hardwood were incredible. Elephants, zebras and a wide variety of other animals carefully decorated the backs of chairs. I had no idea how I would be able to narrow down my search for the perfect table, but the first challenge was to not look interested.

A white face amongst a sea of black stands out pretty obviously though. “Sistah, sistah!” were the calls that followed me as I sauntered down the long line of wood carvers’ stalls. Their wares were lined up on the dirt, but their perfection was not marred. My eyes flicked from the intricately carved women balancing parcels on their heads, to ferocious lions snarling their threats. What to choose, I pondered?

Bartering was part of the business though and I stealed myself to try and drive a hard bargain. Who was I to kid anyone though. If you paused too long in front of a stall, a young man would jump up and put a giraffe in your hand and throw a price in your ear. A sparkle of an eye would have the salesman encouraging you to sit in the sturdy luxury of an enormous chief’s chair, no matter that it would have to be transported back home to Canada. My mission was one of the delicate tables that had caught my fancy though. Three long legs carved from a single piece of wood were entwined in the middle and served as a tripod for a flat, round top. I had to have one.

I walked up and down the stalls, lingering here, smiling at a seller’s antics there, but returned to a little stall with some beautiful tables that called to me. The smell of money was strong on me and I casually asked the price of a table with elephants circling the perimeter of its surface. Valiantly, I attempted to feign surprise and shock at the inflated prices, but secretly would have paid whatever number of kwacha was demanded for the artwork. Having shown interest though, now I was committed.

After a small amount of numbers were thrown back and forth, we finally came to an agreement. Done with haggling, I beamed at my new table and small chief’s chair that had been thrown into the deal. The chair would be a wonderful souvenir for my young cousin back home, but the table was all mine. I counted out 600 kwacha (the equivalent of about $60CAD at the time), while the seller gathered up cardboard to package my purchases in. With newspaper wrapped around it all, I headed to the post office, filled out umpteen forms and mailed my precious souvenirs home, hoping that I would find them in one piece when I eventually made it there myself. 

The Magic of the Lake

Brett and I left Blantyre and headed to Cape Maclear. It had been described in glowing terms, and I hoped it would live up to the hype. It would be our first encounter with Lake Malawi. Being a land-locked country, Lake Malawi was an integral feature of this small sub-tropical nation. Also known as Lake Nyasa, the lake runs three quarters of the length of Malawi, at 587km (365 miles) long and 84km (52 miles) wide. And truly, it is beautiful to behold.

The magic of Malawi settled over me in gentle waves. The lure of Lake Malawi was palpable. Its soft waves were forever within hearing distance, if not in sight. The people were friendly with a simple air about them that lent them a most desirable quality. This was probably the poorest nation I had been to, perhaps barring parts of Mozambique, but the people were amongst the richest in attitude. Was it the sunshine? The proximity to soothing waters? Or was it the lack of Aid organizations that brought with them handouts, that in turn turned the people into beggars. Here people were happy with their lot in life and it showed in their eyes that sparkled despite lack of material wealth. Their peace was infectious.

Our first taste of the magic of the waters was from a seat in a mokoro (a hand-carved dug-out canoe of sorts). They were narrower than the mokoros that I had lazed in on the Okavengo Delta, but still a marvel. Brett and I got a couple of locals to row us out to Pemba Island, where we spent the day snorkeling in the blue waters. We spied a myriad of fish, as we slowly paddled about on our leisurely adventure. Lunch was a feast of rice, potatoes, tomatoes and fish that had been caught as Brett and I swam. Simple, but excellent. Dessert of a special banana cake sent us over the moon and topped off a perfect day to soak up the beauty of Malawi.

We spent three nights in Cape Maclear. On our last night, I accompanied a young man to Ba’blue, a small local bar. He introduced me to the game of Bao. It is a local mancala game where beans are moved around a board from a series of dugout holes. You play against an opponent, trying to steal their beans (or whatever the markers are) until you have all of them. Everywhere you looked, a game was being played. Always keen to learn a new game, I insisted on trying to pick up the rules. I loved it and before we left, I had my very own bao game stuffed into my backpack, as we headed off to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. 

Walk This Way

Brett was sitting at a table with a ridiculously huge grin on his face and a beer in front of him.

“Hey Mate!” he exclaimed, as he weaved his way to standing to give me a hug. “Good ta see ya! I’ve been to the Carlsberg Brewery.”

The crooked smile on his face gave proof that the tour had been a good one. I couldn’t help, but laugh. I ordered a beer and sank into the chair across from him to hear what he had been up to since I saw him last a few days ago. The 14-hour bus ride slowly slipped off my shoulders as I watch him giggle and titter. He was pretty soused and very willing to talk. Not sure if it was his silly grin or just being off the bus in general, but I was pretty happy to see him.

“…and then I jumped up on a chair and was just grabbing handfuls of them. The other bloke was waving a net around and catching mitt-fuls of ‘em! It was awesome!” he spluttered.

“Grasshoppers?” I queried. “Why? What were they going to do with them?”

“Why, eat ‘em of course!” Brett laughed.

My face contorted in a grimace and I could not be help but exclaim “ew”

He cackled and slapped his knee. He really was quite drunk and funny to watch.

Brett went on to explain. “They come across the lake this time of year and people go bananas! It is a feast for everyone. They scrape the little buggers off the walls, and floors, and wherever, then toss them into a little oil to fry‘em up.”

“Blah!” I exclaimed, as he shook with laughter again. “How many did you catch?”

“Hundreds of “em mate!” he said. “They were everywhere! It was excellent fun.”

I shook my head and smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Tomorrow, I will take you to the market so you can try some,” he said.

I wasn’t so sure I was interested in trying grasshoppers, but replied “we’ll see” to appease him. We sat in the bar until Brett’s stories became illegible and I had a pleasant glow on. He kept on rambling on about this and that until I had to pack him up and take him back to the hostel. I promised him that I would try grasshoppers when we went to the market the next day, still shaking my head at his animation. The way he talked, they were like manna from heaven, but I would find out for myself.

Oh, and really, they aren’t manna at all. While I did pull off their wings, I was not instructed to pull off their legs, so couldn’t get beyond them “walking” down my throat. Yeah, not my idea of a delicacy I’m afraid. You should try it if you get a chance though. They are a great source of protein! You might like it. 
Blah…

What's a Single Girl to Do?

I feel him kiss me

with his eyes – a warm caress

Every glance I get

Fingers massage a path of discovery

    tender excitement

All in a smile

   understood…

A brushed shoulder is electric

Soft phrases slide closer,

   more probing…

A promise of passion

   with metaphors.

Hands stroked.

Offers made,

   and accepted

Leave a glow in my mind

as I go to bed, tonight

Alone and untouched

   on the outside…

Ah, the false promises! Did I really fall for that? Could I not see through his slick ways? I suppose that loneliness makes for a desperate bedfellow, but really?! Thank heavens that I played coy long enough for him to move off to the next backpacker through the door though. I was getting enough attention, despite the fact that now Brett and I were travelling as a happy duo. No romance complicated our journey, just friends enjoying the open road together. The men of Harare seemed to be drawn to me like wildfire though.

“What’s a single girl to do?”, I smiled to myself as I counted out my roses in a makeshift vase. They numbered 9 and that didn’t include the one I lost, the one I gave away, the one that had wilted too soon and the red one without a stem that I had pressed between the pages of my journal. From many hands they had come, and I was tickled by all the interest.

With so much attention in such a short span (after not having had much for a while), I suppose it was understandable that I was flattered by Dean’s advances. Oh he, with the promise of passion for every lady that walked in the door of his father’s hostel! Was he really any worse than Ian though? They both did nothing more than “talk shit”, as the local guys I met liked to say. As long as I kept my head about myself, what did it hurt? Well… did it hurt Ian that I agreed to be his “woman”, when I was leaving the next day? Hmm. Ach, all a game, I fear.

The lure of romance, the excitement of bars, and city life filled my many days in Harare. I shopped and gathered mail from home, enjoying the break in motion. I dropped off my passport, in order to get a visa to cut through Mozambique on my way to Malawi. A delicious feast at an all-you-can-eat Mongolian restaurant pushed Brett over the edge though. He pushed away from the table fat and declared he was done with city life.

With a travel visa for Mozambique stamped in Brett’s passport, he left me to head for Malawi. My visa would not be in for a few days, so I tucked in to enjoy the ride solo, until we met up again three days hence. With a resolve of steal, I kept myself mostly out of harm’s way and by Tuesday I was on the 14-hour long bus ride from Harare to Blantyre, Malawi myself. Romance and Zimbabwe were left behind in the diesel-fumed dreams of youth.

Showing a Little Leg

Settling back into the familiar setting of Sable Lodge, I reflected on the last few days.  The warm sun shone on me again, as I lazed poolside thinking about what direction my life would spin in now. Brett and I had finally sold Arnie and made our way back up to Harare. It wasn’t near as comfortable a ride, but the taste of new adventure whetted both our appetites for life on the road again. The road was a different thing entirely now.

How did we make our way back to Harare without our beloved van to chug along in, you wonder? Why, by hitchhiking of course! Dear Brett used me as a pawn to attract attention, pushing me closer to the roadway and encouraging a little leg. Nasty bugger, but it worked. We got a ride in Pietersburg that took us as far as Louis Trichardt. Standing beside the highway, we bumped into another traveler that we had met hitching back in Pietersburg. On this section of the journey, we shared a lift with our new friend Deon. Since they had both been pushing for me to flag down a ride for us, I got the luxury of the front of the bakkie, while they got to ride in the back of the pickup wearing every sweater they owned and tucked into their sleeping bags to keep warm. Seemed only fair. Teehee! Mind you, I did have to play up my “relationship” with Brett to keep Alex, the driver, away from pawing at my knees, and beyond! No matter. We arrived in Harare late that night and Deon was good enough to put us up for the night at his apartment. He even cooked us steak and eggs for breakfast. A treat for us poor lot who had been subsisting on dry noodle soup, and peanut butter for the last while.

 With our first taste of hitchhiking behind us, I was able to relax a bit on my constant worried path of where the future would take me. The sun felt good poolside and I smiled at the possibilities that lay before me. A glance at my watch made me realize that for right now, it was time to go though. After leaving Deon’s apartment that morning, we had settled back into our makeshift Harare home at the Sable Lodge. Deon had made us promise that we would return that afternoon to join him and his roommate for a home cooked meal and some TV viewing. As the television had been a foreign object for a long while now, we couldn’t resist. Making a plan for where we would head next could wait for another day, but the Simpsons were a luxury that just couldn’t wait. 

To Arnie

Arnie

1972 VW Kombi Van

January 8^th, 1995 - April 13^th, 1996

He served us well

and always came through

in times of need

∞

·         left Cape Town Jan 15/95

·         filled up at 31 km

·         discovered gas leak, speedo stopped at 81 km

·         got bolt stuck in tire – R10 fix

·         lost starter motor between Durban and Swaziland (near False Bay)

o   later to discover that it was the ignition that was giving us grief all along

·         gashed hole in exhaust in Mozambique between Vilanculos and Beira (see “The Worst Road in Africa”)

o   muffler sealant applied later in Masvingo with little effect

·         various scratches from several game parks

·         some new rust from ocean-side  journeys (and a distinct lack of washing)

·         door slider started to go around Hwange (an up-front and personal account of the ramifications at “Happy Tourists”)

·         losing power on the way to Hwange; revving high, popping out of first gear

o   equated to tempers running high and popping for the occupants of Arnie as well

·         Survived it all!

·         chugged into Pietersburg

·         sold Arnie April 13^th, 1996

That was our Arnie, just a little more faded and worn around the edges

* Picture courtesy of  Michael at http://www.flickr.com/photos/ifhp97/4755649237/in/set-72157624314943542/

Goodbye Arnie

Pietersburg was a town. It had the same amenities you would find in most small-towns in North American; bank, grocery store, gas station. Nothing special. No terribly interesting tourist sites to explore. No handy game parks to scour for ferocious animals. No real reason to go there except for our present one; to sell the van.

We had hit our last stop with Arnie. We crossed the border back into South Africa and travelled to the closest spot to part ways with our last travelling companion. Pietersburg wasn’t far from the border and was big enough to support the potential sale of our van. It wasn't beautiful, but we hoped  it would fill our needs.

 We found a campground on the edge of town and set up camp for the last time. We picked up a few supplies, but were loathe to buy too much, as we would be carrying everything on our backs from here on out. Brett and I packaged and shipped off any souvenirs or other valuables that we wanted to keep, but did not want to schlep around. We needed our camping gear until the van was sold, but it too would go. My sleeping bag would stay with me, but our tent was a luxury that neither of us wanted to carry. It all had to go.

With our possessions thrown out of the van, we drove Arnie to a little carpark that we had heard about. A South African family that was camping across from us had suggested it as a good place to sell the van. Arnie was too old to try to sell to a dealership. Parking the van at the side of the highway with a sign in the window was presented as our best option. It had good potential to be bought and used to transport hordes of people as a local taxi. It seemed a sad fate, after all the love we had pumped into our dear van, but it was time to part ways. We needed the money and that was what Arnie represented now. He would fetch a better penny now too, as the South African family re-wired the ignition system. It would seem that it was not the starter motor at all that caused us to have to push Arnie for the last two months, rather faulty wiring. Within five minutes, they had fixed our ignition woes and installed a new set of spark plugs. No more push starts! Miraculous! It was like being in a brand new van!

“Nevermind,” we told ourselves with sheepish grins. We would now get more money to line our pockets with and memories we could laugh about forever.

A big Thank you! was offered to our new friends. They were a warm hearted lot that you could tell would offer the shirts off their backs. That was, only as long as you were the right colour. We were definitely back in South Africa and the racial tensions were glaringly apparent once again. It was difficult to justify the strong beliefs that were everywhere, but I tried to  just be thankful for the kindnesses of the moment. I could not paint all the people I met with evil brush strokes just because I did not believe in their thought patterns, so I let it go as best I could.

We washed and polished Arnie better than he had ever looked and dropped him off near the highway for his Show and Shine. A box of wine was our reward and final celebration to a remarkable journey. It was also our Easter celebration and we dined like kings on instant noodle soup and tomatoes. The wine and conversation flowed until the thread was lost. At some point, my bladder roused me from a sleep I don’t remember falling into. Crawling out of the tent, I could see the sky beginning to lighten and I knew that it was going to be a long day. I was pretty sure it was not going to be a good one either.

The bright side is that the hangovers that punished us that day served to give us something to do with the idle hours of waiting. Laughter was scant and a painful ordeal, but I didn’t have much mirth as I crawled from shade patch to shade patch with groans or occasionally made the longer trek across the campsite for water. Food might have saved me, but the box of wine that still sloshed a little, offered its accusations by its shockingly empty state. There was plenty good reason for my sour and heaving stomach. No amount of swearing off booze would save that day, but blissfully the sun eventually sank back into the horizon again. I would survive. My prayers and dreams for that night centered on a speedy sale of the van, so that we could leave Pietersburg and its rowdy memories behind.

The Last Journey

More goodbye hugs were upon us. Oliver faded into memory behind us, as Brett and I set out on our last journey in Arnie. Recollections from our last game drive in Chobe would be held close to heart for a long time to come, but Zimbabwe was in our sights now. It was time for us to shed Arnie, our metal companion, and set out on foot.

Bulawayo served as a resting stop to make a plan and regroup. We inquired as to how to go about selling a South African baby blue Kombi and were met with shaking heads. Try as we might, we would have to return to South Africa to sell the van. It was too complicated to try to sell a South African vehicle in a foreign country. Trying to save miles would add more headaches than we cared to fight with.

We took advantage of the city’s amenities  and decided to take in a movie while we were in Bulawayo. A couple we had bumped into on a few occasions in our travels was going to see “Babe”, so we tagged along. We grabbed popcorn and sank into some lumpy seats to let the African continent slip away. For two hours we watched barnyard friends climb into and out of trouble, and I for one was transported.

Upon leaving the theatre, I blinked at the surreal feelings that lingered. I was in Zimbabwe, Africa. Only days before, I had watched a pride of lions stalk a herd of buffalos across the plains of Botswana, yet had just had a two hour taste of North American life. Canada and home were over 6000 miles away though. God only knew how many more months it would be till I saw my native soil again.

An odd feeling of nostalgia niggled at the back of my mind as we walked the city streets back to our hostel. This was a city and despite feeling dated, it was closer to home than I had felt in a while. Thoughts of home and what waited there still left me with questions though. I could feel a frown around my eyes and shook it off as I re-engaged with my travel companions of the moment.

I was in Bulawayo. I was on an adventure of a lifetime that was transforming me with every mile under my belt and every African breath that I took. We were about to sell our beloved van and a vital companion in our travels. For now though, I rejoined the group’s energy sphere and walked this African city’s streets home. 

Happy Tourists

The sound of Arnie’s engine died away. We shifted and jostled in the van straining to see why all the land rovers and overland trucks were clustered in the area. Buffalos were interesting, especially in a herd as large as this one, possibly upwards of 200 head?  I am a far cry from being able to estimate herd sizes, but I was impressed none-the-less. There was an electric hum in the air though. We could hear people in the other vehicles chattering excitedly in hushed tones, but could not see what all the drama was for.

And then we saw them. Lions. Seven big lions slowly sauntered out of the bush. They paid no mind to the humans and their vehicles strewn about. Their objective was the buffalo. They had dinner on their minds and we were privy to the meal plan.

In awe, we watched over the next hour as the lions slowly made their way closer and closer to the ever drifting buffalo herd. The sun made its way across the sky, but still the lions stalked their prey apparently unnoticed by the lumbering bovines. Other vehicles stopped to take in this awesome sight and a festive feeling filled the air as flashes could be seen from a multitude of cameras. We opened Arnie’s slider door to better see and photograph this lion hunt in the process. It was invigorating to watch, even at its slow pace across the savannah.

The lions fanned out keeping low in the scrub grass. Somehow they communicated between themselves and seemed to focus their attention to an area at the back of the herd. I know that predators tend to attack the old, weak or young and we guessed at where they would centre their assault. They inched closer and closer to the shuffling buffalos.

When the lions were about ten feet from the herd, the wind shifted. We were a ways off from the activity, but we could clearly see some of the larger male buffalos flick their heads and look around. Disappointment seemed imminent for all the effort that the lions had put in. We could see the lions tense and tensed with them as they debated making a last ditch attack. A hush had fallen over the human observers, but camera bulbs still flashed.

And then the gig was up. One of the buffalos turned and bristled. Four or five of the bulls broke off from the herd, that now hastened its pace away from the perceived threats behind it. They spied the lions and charged at them. The lions knew they had been beat and skulked off from the running bulls. The massive horns on the buffalos heads were an effective deterrent for most beasts to change their minds on an attack. No dinner would be had for the lions tonight.

My tale does not end there though.

It was thrilling to watch the hunt and just as awesome to witness the defeat of it. The lions retreated back towards the bushes from where they had originally emerged. There was no hurry now, so the big cats sauntered away from their spoiled dinner plans, but headed directly towards the watching vehicles. Again, cameras came to life as the lions drew near for spectacular close-ups. What a treat this evening game drive had been for many a happy tourist!

I watched the lions plodding along in fascination, until my mind clicked. I had the slider door open and seven hungry predators were headed in my direction after missing out on a potential meal. The puny sides of our little tin can would be no match for their razor sharp claws, but it would be even easier to snatch a quick bite with nothing in the way but a few articles of clothes.

I quickly pulled my legs back into the van and scrambled to my knees. I grabbed the handle of the slider door and reefed on it to pull it closed. It slid across, bumped into the side of the frame and bounced back.  The door had not closed. As I peered through the crack in the doorframe, I watched the lead lioness sprawl three feet from our front bumper. Another lay down behind us. Still more plunked down just to our left. My knuckles turned white on the handle of the door and my heart tripped into overtime. I could not open the slider to see if I could slam it shut again. What if it didn’t seal and all I accomplished was gaining the attention of the hungry felines that surrounded us?

A whimper escaped from me, as I clung to the handle. We could not start the van and drive away, as so many of the other vehicle were now doing. The starter had not worked on the van in months. Arnie required a push start  before he would acquiesce to spring to life. There was no way that Brett and Oliver would be jumping out of the van to push the vehicle far enough to have it fire to life. There were lions on either side of the front wheels! A passing vehicle informed us that two more males were lying in the bushes just beyond us as well.

Good  Christ, my mind screamed. What were we going to do!

Limp humour from the front seat did not lift my spirits, as the sun marched steadily towards the western horizon. It would be dark soon. Most of the other vehicles were gone as all vehicles were to be out of the park by 6:30 and it was quickly working its way towards 7PM. Brett called over to one of the straggling land rovers to inform them of our dilemma.

“Mind giving us a push,” Brett shouted. “In a bit of a tricky spot and the kombi is a push start at present.”

They conversed back and forth, then the other driver agreed to give it a go, figuring to shove us with his bush bar. I pictured Arnie’s bumper getting mangled days before we were set to sell out, but I preferred that to becoming dinner.

It was at that moment that the lions decided that it was time to move off. The ladies rose and walked off a pace. Brett and Oliver wasted no time in jumping out to race Arnie down the track and mercifully he sprang to life. As we sputtered to life and began to drive, I pulled the door back and swung it closed with a monstrous effort. With that click, I sank back shaking. I finally breathed a ragged breathe and felt adrenaline coursing through me. Lifting my hand, I saw it visibly shake and knew that the threat had been terribly real. We would not be lion steaks tonight though. We had definitely had the excitement that we had been seeking and could leave stating that we were indeed very happy tourists.

 

Game Viewing in Chobe

I laid my pen to rest and looked at my watch. I could hear rustling outside of the tent and knew that Oliver must be itching to get going. A pang of sadness briefly swept over me, as I was reminded of dear Miki and our bond that we had held. The last time we were to go game viewing, the boys had left us behind. This would not be the case today though. I sighed and tucked my journal and  pen away, to crawl into the afternoon sunshine.

My reminiscing was tucked into a pocket of my mind to be looked at later and I smiled at my remaining travelling companions as I poked my head out of the tent. Of course, they were ready to go. I waylaid them for a moment, with a brief snack to tide us over until dinner when we returned from our game drive. I have to admit that I was pretty excited myself though. I was pushing with all my might when it was time to shove Arnie off into the vast flat plains of Chobe National Park to explore. Arnie fired to life and we chugged off to the main park entrance with hopes of spying lions, cheetahs, jackals or perhaps even a leopard!

A few hours later, we returned to our camp a little dejected. Yes, we had seen the magnificent landscape that was Botswana and driven along the dirt roads that skirted the river. We saw impala, but it was so abundant in any of the game parks that we had been in that it was a bit of a letdown. The best we got was watching some baboons grooming each other in the middle of the road. We were thirsty for something more exciting; something bigger. Our cameras itched to shoot the big game, but we were denied.

Our game drive the next morning was just as disappointing. We searched high and low for sights of a fresh kill being eaten by vultures, a crocodile attacking a zebra too slow at the water hole or even something, anything more exotic than the by now prolific impala. We were jaded and pooh-poohed the beautiful antelope with its warmly coloured reddish brown coat, white underbelly and thin dark line down its back, that further stretched down each hind leg. It could be found everywhere from South Africa to Mozambique, throughout Zimbabwe, Zambia and Botswana, even upwards to Tanzania, Uganda and Kenya. We weren’t interested in impalas. We wanted blood.

Undaunted, we planned on a last game drive for that evening. We headed for the river where we had spotted the most game thus far. My thoughts drifted to what I would do once Brett and I sold the van, as we slowly cruised along the dirt roads in the park. I looked up again when the van slowed. Ahead of us I could see several land rovers scattered about. Immediately I perked up and craned my neck to see what all the commotion was about. Oliver scrambled to grab his camera from the floor of the van and I could see Brett’s eyes growing in excitement. Obviously there was some kind of interesting animals up ahead, as the closer we got the more land rovers I counted.

Brett slowed the van down and I noted that a huge herd of Buffalos was gradually making its way towards the river. It was getting on to evening and they were having a last drink before settling down for the night. Despite Arnie being cantankerous at the best of times, we decided to stop and see what all the fuss was about. The buffalos were incredible to behold, but something even more exciting was in the air. We were about to find out exactly what that was.

To Chobe We Will Go

With Miki gone, we knew our time in Arnie was winding to a close. Our little blue kombi had been good to us, but was sorely battered and bruised. For a goodbye trip, we decided a jaunt into Botswana was in order. Brett, Oliver and I would go to Chobe for one last game drive, then head back down to South Africa to sell the van. I had been to Chobe before, but the game viewing in Botswana’s first official game park had been magnificent the first time, so I couldn’t resist.

I waved goodbye to my friends in Victoria Falls and we pulled out our passports to enter a new country. Botswana was a relatively poor neighbor to Zimbabwe, but it seemed to be comfortable in its own skin. Images of poverty did not slap you in the face and gone were the tourist trappings of Victoria Falls. We were guests in a proud nation that seemed to take care of itself in a way that we had not seen thus far. A feeling of peace filled me as we drove towards the park entrance. I smiled at the dry landscape we passed and the beautiful people in their simply constructed rondavel homes. This was the Africa of my dreams.

While Chobe National Park is not Botswana’s largest park, it does hold some of the biggest concentrations of game. There are massive amounts of elephants. Hippos can be seen lazing on river banks or slowly drifting downriver from the multitudes of hungry crocodiles. Assorted deer species such as impala, sable, kudu, eland, bushbuck and waterbuck are found within the parks borders, as well as many of the Big Five (leopard, Cape Buffalo, elephants, rhinoceros and lion). We hoped to see as many animals as we could while we were there and odds were good in this relatively flat country.

 Our drive into the park heavily wetted our appetite for game viewing. Despite it being mid-day, which is not the best time to spy game, we were treated to tonnes of animal sightings. We saw impalas and giraffes, passed baboons and warthogs, and even spied buffalo and zebras. We were thrilled and anxious to set up our camp so that we could go for a proper game drive that evening. We knew that the best times of day for game viewing was between 6 and 9AM or 4 to 6PM. Most animals prefer to sleep during the worst of the heat of the day. We were not immune to the incredibly dry, hot weather either. After setting up camp, we retreated into our tents to snooze away the afternoon before heading out for our highly anticipated evening game drive after our plethora of sightings earlier that day.

A Goodbye Cruise

You would think all I did was drink while I was in Africa at this rate. Brett and Oliver met back up with us later in the day after Miki and I returned from our canoe safari. Hugs and apologies led us to a makeup date on a booze cruise into Zambia. It was just across the river, but our passports were always hungry for new stamps, so a-cruising we would go. We saw a most beautiful sunset as we chugged along the Zambezi above the Falls with many, many drinks in hand. One too many for poor Miki, as she was a fallen soldier half-way home. Not sure if the border guards appreciated cleaning up after all the booze cruisers that went through that border, but the economy was grateful I’m sure!

Miki’s groans were joined by the rest of us, as we begged for sleep under a blazing light post in the campground where we had set up our tents. At 3 AM we tossed and turned laughing at our fate, but by 5 AM we blissfully crashed again. Brett pushed on to get a view of the sunrise from the falls, but I could not muster the strength to walk, let alone goggle over a new day. Miki and I would make a trek to the falls later in the day to get our fill of the magnificent view and feel the spray of the Zambezi’s water on welcome cheeks.

This was our Coup de grâce for a journey that had spanned just over 3 months. Miki would depart the next evening on a Translux bound for Johannesburg. It saddened me that she would no longer be my travelling companion, but fate had thrown her in my path and for that I would be eternally grateful. When I had concocted a journey to Africa the year before, it had held no one in it, but myself and  relatives to meet. I had never dreamed that I would be back-packing around the African continent with someone I barely knew from high school, an Aussie bloke and whatever other travelers we came across. She helped me to get comfortable in my backpack’s straps and have the confidence to strike out on my own. With a heavy heart I wished her well, but knew that when she left the next evening I would wipe away my tears and turn to the next bend in the road on my African Adventure.

The Mighty Zambezi

Back to Victoria Falls again! Lots of fun memories already, but now Miki and I were set to explore it all over again. With the falls as the main attraction, everything naturally revolved around them. There was a park surrounding the falls that you could wander through to admire the rushing waters as they tumbled into the waiting gorge below. Helicopters flew overhead to give the well-heeled tourists an aerial view of this magnificent Wonder of the World.  Bungi jumping headlong towards the tumbling waters far below was a favourite pastime of the young and brave at heart. I had already had a taste of the white water rafting that was a huge draw to the area back in December, but this time we had something else in mind.

As Victoria Falls is geared towards action and adventure, Miki and I jumped on board with our paddles at the ready. We spent our first night in Victoria Falls as two single ladies on the town, but first thing the next morning we climbed into a waiting jeep to take us to the river. This experience with the Zambezi River would be a little tamer experience than the white water rafting adventures advertised everywhere. We were headed upriver, to take in the gentler waters of the Zambezi via a canoe trip. Life jackets were still provided and the water got a little splashy in spots, but game viewing was the biggest attraction here.

Miki and I stowed our packs in the waiting jeep and settled in to enjoy the ride into the game park. Our cameras lay at the ready in our laps, as our guide chattered away about the landscape and the animals that lived there. We were not idle for long though. Elephants, impalas and baboons were spied by the throngs, as we paused to take in the natural beauty of the space. It is just an awesome experience to see wild animals in their natural environments; ie. baboons grooming each other (picking lice off companions and eating it – protein anyone?), elephants wandering in family herds ever protective of their young, giraffes eating leaves off the highest trees, impalas milling about munching on grasses until with a start they bound away. It is beautiful and surreal to be allowed these visions and an experience I would highly recommend for anyone.

Before long we arrived at the mighty Zambezi. We transferred to life jackets and canoes to paddle the rest of the way to our camp. Small rapids gave us little thrills, but the magic of the trip lay in the scenery. The warm waters buoyed us along, as we spied a myriad of birds and other animals on the river bank. The sun kissed our smiling faces and Miki and I thrilled to be alive in this incredible  place. No thoughts were cast to the ailing van or our missing travelling companions as we soaked up every moment spent on the glorious Zambezi. Even tales of the Nyaminyami river God weren’t enough to spoil our mood (Nyami Nyami is thought by the Tonga people to be the river God of the Zambezi River that controls life in and on the river – his mighty wrath leads to the river running red!). Our paddle down the river held nothing but joys on this day. A picnic on the river’s edge was wolfed down mid-day, before setting back out into the watercourse again. By late in the day, we reached our camp on the river’s edge where large tents were set up for weary paddlers. Outdoor showers helped to wash away the days travails and a hearty meal filled our rumbly bellies. Sipping beverages around a roaring campfire was a perfect end to an amazing day spent on the mighty Zambezi River. 

The Last Game Park

Hwange National Park; The largest game reserve in Zimbabwe, but also the last park for Miki before departing the continent. It was a bittersweet thing, but with the promise of many animals to be seen, we pushed the ailing van to perform once more.

Arnie wheezed into the park and we set up our campsite. The poor van was showing the wear and tear that we had suffered upon it during our overland adventures. We had no speedometer, the putty we had slathered on the muffler did little to abate Arnie’s noisy complaints, scratches were evident from the game park roads we had explored, as well as the beginning signs of rust from our salty ocean-side drives. The starter motor was a distant memory and a steady gas leak meant frequent petrol stops. The most recent woes that had begun to beset dear Arnie were a decided lack of get-up and go when the gas pedal was engaged, and the failure of our slider door to seal properly when closed. We found ourselves having to slam the slider shut  two, three times, or more. It was irritating at best, but Arnie still got us where we needed to go.

As we knew that the potential for game viewing was best at dawn, we settled in for an early evening in anticipation of the myriad animals we would hopefully spot the next day. There are over 105 different mammals that live in the park, as well as 400+ bird species. I had my check list handy, as I drifted off to sleep.

The sun was not quite nearing the horizon, when quiet rustling noises roused me from my sleep. Reflexively, I crunched my eyes tighter shut, not willing to accept the fact that it was a new day yet. Remembering that we were in search of animals that day, I peeled an eye open to inspect the interior of the tent. Still dark, but I could faintly see Miki’s eyes looking back at me. Neither one of us were great morning people (heck, it was still dark!), so no words were spoken in our early hour greeting. The sounds outside our tent were of Brett and Oliver preparing to leave for the game viewing. I pulled the blankets up over my head in protest, but started to stretch fingers and toes in anticipation of movement. Miki appeared to be attempting likewise.

The squeak of one of Arnie’s doors quickly had me emerging from my blanket cocoon.

I started to sit up, as Miki said, “What are they doing?”

We both stared at each other, as it become obvious exactly what they were doing. The soft crunching of Arnie’s tires on the earth let us know that the van was in motion. Brett and Oliver were quietly pushing it away from the camp.

“They’re leaving us!” I exclaimed in shock.

Miki scrambled to the door of our tent, just as Arnie’s engine sputtered to life. I sat up, stunned. She watched them drive away, then crawled back to her sleeping bag. In disbelief, we stared at each other, before a fury of words spilled out of our outraged lips. It was Miki’s last park, and they left us behind to go on a game drive without us. “SEXISM!” screamed in my mind, as we decried their selfish actions. It had been brewing, but we could not believe that they had actually went without us. Sleep was forgotten, as we cursed, questioned and plotted how to handle this turn of events.

By the time that Brett and Oliver returned, Miki and I were both up and dressed, clad in scowls for our friends. Our displeasure plain, we informed them that we would be leaving them. We all needed a brief respite from each other. No amount of apologies or explanations that “we would have been too long in getting ready”, could appease us. A brief mid-day game drive was undertaken, but Miki and  I were packed and headed towards Victoria Falls before the day was done.