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.

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.

Surprise!

“Happy Birthday dear Brettski. Happy Birthday to you!!!”

Brett blew out the candles on the cake and looked around at the small circle of faces around him. Noshing on birthday cake and sipping champagne was a great way to celebrate any birthday, but situated in the middle of Matopos National Park was quite another  way to celebrate one’s twenty fifth birthday. Laughter and cheers rang out into the African sky as we raised our glasses in toast.

***

Throwing a birthday party in the middle of a game park can be a bit of a challenge though. We had left Masvingo and dear Oliver behind. Oliver had been travelling with us since we left Durban way back in February. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but in actuality it had just been one month. We had also left the safe confines of Clovelly Lodge, as we headed West towards new adventures. Brett had requested game viewing as his birthday gift, and we were more than willing to acquiesce. Accoutrements for a party were not to be found under an acacia tree though, so Miki and I had our work cut out for us, to plan a surprise party for three.

When we arrived in Matopos, Miki and I went on a recon mission intent on surprising our recently recovered travelling companion. We mustered up birthday candles and a card to surprise him with, as well as a small cake and a bottle of champagne. All of these items we smuggled in amongst the general supplies, before we headed out to the park and set up camp. We were excited to be in a game park again and couldn’t wait to hit the game park roads.   

Early the next morning, with the sun not quite risen, Brett shook Miki and I awake to fulfill his birthday wish. I groaned, but yawned out a mumbled “Happy Birthday”, before slipping into my clothes. Brett was treated to wonderful birthday visions that morning. We spied warthogs and impalas, but the feast for our eyes was spying the elusive rhino. Not just one either; we saw six of them! By the time we headed back to camp for  a belated breakfast we were wide awake and ready to face the day. With coffee into us, we headed over to check out The Rhodes Memorial that claimed it was the “View of the World”. And yes, it was a pretty nice view. Unfortunately, it was clouded by the knowledge that Cecil Rhodes was a racist tyrant, but his place in the history of South Africa and Zimbabwe (Rhodesia back in his day) could not be denied.

We left the memorial and headed back to camp. In discrete moments, Miki and I tried to figure out how we would pull off the surprise that we were planning with Brett around. To our delight, he announced that he was going to go for a walk. We thrilled at the opportunity to set the table with all our goodies, but tried to  mask our outward enthusiasm.  I suspect he knew what was going on though, as he stalled  and putzed, and finally drove us nuts by heading into the tent where we had the cake hidden, with the claim that he wanted to fix his bed. In the middle of the day? Yeah, right. Eventually he left though, and Miki and I jumped into action. We set everything in place, then sat back to relax before the festivities began.  

Brett returned from his walk and we yelled Surprise! to his not so shocked looking face. No matter, he was thrilled with our efforts and the cork on the champagne was popped. The biggest surprise, that neither Miki nor I was aware of, came sauntering into our campsite at just that moment. Oliver, adamant that he had to spend Brett’s birthday with him, walked into our glen like he was stepping off the bus. We were a party of four again and it was the best darn 25^th surprise party that anyone had ever planned in the back countries of Zimbabwe. 

Great Zimbabwe

With our fill of city under our belts and dear Brettski behind the wheel again, we were off to track down history in Zimbabwe. Well fed, showered and up to date with letters and curio-shopping, we stepped back in time. Our destination was Masvingo, where we planned to visit Great Zimbabwe, a ruined city that was once the capitol of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe.

Having toured through Europe the previous year, my sense of history had vastly enlarged in scale. Back home in Canada, old houses were 80-150 years old, but massive trees easily beat out on any man-made historical sites around. In Europe, I had been awed by buildings that had been in existence for hundreds to over a thousand years, many having seen many uses through the ages. A quiet respect filled me to walk through solid rock structures that had seen members of the Roman Empire walk through these same rooms. History became tangible and reachable in ways I had never experienced. We had not seen many old structures thus far in our African journey, so I relished this taste of their history.

The history of Africa is written in the people’s songs and stories. We know that some of the oldest human remains have been found on the continent, but they have typically been societies of hunters and gatherers. That equates to temporary mud and grass huts that are abandoned to follow herds of migrating animals or to escape times of drought. The rondavels I had seen might have been decrepit looking and old, but it was relative and of a people’s ancient history, they gave little story.

Great Zimbabwe was different though. Here was a landmark built entirely of stone and without mortar, that had begun construction in the 11^th century. It existed and thrived as a city from 1100 to 1450 AD, during the country’s Late Iron Age, at which point it was abandoned and fell into ruin. As we wandered through the stone structures, we were given a view of an organized people where upwards of 18 000 people may have lived in its heyday. Now sections of walls were gone and towers were only envisioned through pictures provided by the site. An amazing amount of the walls and towers were still intact though, highlighted by the Conical Tower, which is 18 feet in diameter and 30 feet high.

This was a kingdom ruled by the Shona people long before white faces invaded the lands. With the grounds covering a radius of approximately 100-200 miles and encompassing 1800 acres, I could not help but be impressed by this ancient black civilization. The relatively recent end to apartheid in South Africa had not dispelled the feeling of a racially motivated social tier in the communities we had wandered through. This monument must have felt like a slap in the face of apartheid’s belief that blacks were simple and inferior. Of course we were not in South Africa anymore and quite a bit of the racial tensions had eased just in crossing the border, but they were still in evidence. Spending the day wandering along walled passages and ducking under ancient stone lintels was an interesting experience that gave another picture of time in this land that made me feel more at home with its history in trees and rocks.

After being treated to another home-cooked meal at Clovelly Lodge life was looking pretty sweet. Feeling closer to the people and their land, Miki and I decided to explore further on horseback. We galloped along behind our guide with grins plastered to our wind-swept faces. A big home-cooked breakfast stuffed us again with the delightful taste of leisure. This must be how the other half lived, I surmised with happiness as the sun set on another glorious day in Africa.

The Mountain's Revenge

Dawn had not yet broken, but I certainly felt that I was; broken that is. A glance at the bottle I had been imbibing from the night before pulled a groan from my lips and made my head pulse. I was still feeling the effects from the whiskey, but feared terribly the imminent hangover that threatened. Going to bed relatively early could not prevent that, when my sorry 26er accused me of my indulgences. Five AM seemed extraordinarily punishing for my transgressions though.

No matter, it was rise and shine. Time to face the day and ready myself for the hike ahead of us. The plan; to hike into Chimanimani National Park and camp for two nights in the wilds. I showered with the false hope that this would somehow make me feel more human. While it didn’t hurt, it only served to make me more presentable to my fellow group of hikers. Of course we all were a little ragged from our evening on the piss the night before, but we were still game for adventure, so piled into the vehicle to head out.

We arrived at base camp shortly thereafter and signed in. It was policy that you signed in when entering the park and advise the office of how long you would be staying. If you were late to return, search parties would be sent out to look for you. Despite feeling a little disconcerted by this news, we advised them we would be gone two nights and paid park fees accordingly. From here we would continue by foot, as there were no vehicles allowed in the park. Our trek began.

Our rag-taggle group included Oliver, Rob, Miki and myself, plus a group of three other travelers from the lodge. Later, we would also meet up with three other Canadians, but for now; Allen fashioned himself as our leader and directed our route with arrogant aplomb. I was happy to fall into the pack, slugging at my water bottle for all I was worth.

While the climb up started reasonably enough, it gradually took a steeper and steeper incline the higher we went. I found myself lagging further behind and noticed my breathe had become labored. I remembered stories that my Mother told of her asthma as a young woman and wondered if I too had miraculously developed this affliction while trying to scale these mountains. Mt Binga, the highest peak in the range that spanned over 50 kilometres, measured in at 2,437 m or 7,993 ft, which might as well have been to the moon and back for me at that point. My friends that had occasionally stalled to wait for me, soon disappeared and I struggled on by myself. I stumbled and cursed this vile idea of a nice easy hike that would leave me with my heart sprung open on the side of a mountain. I wanted to stop, lay down and die. There was no going back though. By now we were miles from base camp and I was all alone in the universe, but for the buzzards that swung lazily over my head.

Finally, I found myself clinging to a rock wall. My fingers clutched at hidden niches in the craggy face of boulders. My backpack threatened to pull me off into oblivion, but I gasped and heaved and swung myself up onto a ledge. I stood panting, cursing my body, the mountains, the world, then my gaze flicked down to the world beneath me. Within the panorama, I spied my fellow hikers way down the hill, sitting below a boulder patiently waiting for me. I went limp, then burst into hysterical laughter. The mountain had beaten me and forced more out of me than I thought I had. I had survived though.

After catching my breathe, I made my way down to my friends. The worst of the climb was behind us, as was the worst of my hangover. Chugging back more spring-fed water nourished my body and soul and with that we re-grouped and headed out again. Before long we were pushing through chest-high grasses on a level plateau. The rock cairns that had directed our path became harder to see, but we finally made our way through the field and spied our home for the night. A short scramble up a little rocky path led to the yawning mouth of a cave.

We would spend the next two nights bedding down in this serene cave lit by the stars and moon, and nourished by a stream that gurgled at the back of our dark chasm. Arriving on the little ledge, I gladly threw off my pack in order to investigate. The caves were frequently utilized by hikers and there was grass strewn about for bedding purposes. A make-shift fire pit was in evidence as well. With the stream handy for fresh water to drink and cook with, we had all the comforts of home. After a hard day of climbing, I fell into an exhausted sleep with a smile that played across my lips with my triumph. 

The next two days filled me with indescribable bliss while exploring this magical place. We woke to cold and mist, but luxuriated in the quiet of this world. From my sleeping bag, I could see the surrounding grasses and rocky hills that encircled us. Tranquil repose filled our morning on the stony ledge, but with the mid-day sun burning off the mist, we headed a little further afield for some more hiking. The most delicious meal of our combined canned potatoes, tomatoes, brown beans, veggies, udon  noodles, a handful of rice and curry seasoning hit a high note in my culinary books on our return. Our communal meal and breaking of bread was like a prayer in this little piece of God’s country. Even the trek back down the mountain could not break the spell that I was under. Stopping to drink from a crystal clear stream, reminded me of the pristine beauty of this African park that I was privileged to call home for two nights. I might have broken, but Chimanimani put me back together again

A Little Piece of Heaven

My story resumes with a taste of home. A whiskey in hand, I reflected on days past from the warmth and security of Heaven Lodge in Chimanimani, Zimbabwe. Yes, truly a piece of Heaven after some of the domiciles we had been residing in recently. Mozambique lay behind us now though. It surely was not a dream, but so many of its qualities were too surreal to be believed. The poverty, landmines, potholes and pristine beaches all mixed together with extremely overt begging and acts of remarkable friendliness. Mozambique had been a lesson in living a larger life. Our final journey, ending  in a joyous dance of celebration upon reaching a petrol station, could not be squashed by a closed border for the night a few miles down the road. We still rode the high of triumph and another night in Mozambique could not disperse our success over the road from Hell. The morning sun offered us another example of the people’s warmth, with a man pointing out a nearby hostel where we could rest our head. Gratitude aside, we pushed on to a new country.

Zimbabwe held the promise of many things. My first brush with it, in Victoria Falls months earlier on the overland tour, had captivated me and I had been anticipating my return ever since.  First though, was a stop at Ann Bruce’s (Backpacker) House. Glory be, there was HOT, running water. Almost a distant memory, I reveled in this luxury. We also took in some game viewing, espying rhinoceros, giraffes, eland and ostrich, plus a magnificent sunset to round out the day. With Brett in our mind’s eye, we pushed on though. We assumed that we had time enough for a quick detour, before heading back up to Harare to meet up with him. This detour brought us to Chimanimani and a planned epic hike into the wilds of Zimbabwe. The whiskey warmed me up for the promised trek into Chimanimani National Park. I sat scribbling down my thoughts and adventures in a journal that was thankful for a sturdy table to be laid upon. With creative juices flowing, I was primed for adventure, but the lure of cards stole my resolve. I can never turn aside an invitation to the card table, so tucked my bottle under my arm and became friends with an English bloke and Kiwi couple. This night’s adventure was in runs, pairs and euchres. Modernity lured me in, but the mountains would find their revenge.

The Worst Road in Africa

Conversation stopped. The road engulfed us all. We held our breath, scanning for the pavement to re-appear in vain. I could not help, but glance out the window watching for remnants of other vehicles that perhaps did not fare as well on this stretch of road. I did not want to see fallen remains, but my brain refused to forget the stories of rain drenched tracks that sucked overland trucks and transports deep into the mire. I could not stop replaying tales of vehicles colliding when there was no other path to avoid it. There was no where to look to avoid the images.

The ruts in the road got steadily deeper. We began to hear a scraping noise as we rolled forward over the broken terrain. My heart beat a little harder, even as my breath slipped from me in whispers. The minutes turned into hours and still the road before us lay as a scathing reminder of a country nowhere near healed from the gaping wounds forced upon it. I was horrified at the appalling state of something that I took for granted back home; a simple roadway to take me from point A to point B. This thoroughfare was the main artery to get goods from the capitol and its harbor to the rest of the country. This road linked the two biggest cities in Mozambique. This road was broken beyond any reasonable expectation of repair and yet it was still imperative and  utilized. I sat in shock, unable to truly comprehend this failure of a system. The needle on our gas gauge slowly inched its way away from the large F, as the miles dragged behind us at a painstakingly slow pace.

When we could avoid it no longer, Arnie was gently eased to a halt. Normally one would stop a vehicle, turn it off, open the gas cap, refuel, replace the gas cap, pay for the fuel, then restart the vehicle and be on your merry little way. We had a couple of very distinct issues with normal on that day. For one, Arnie pretty much refused to start by the simple action of turning the key in the ignition. No, in general our vehicle relied heavily on good old muscle power to give it a big push to get it on its way again. With enough momentum built up, Arnie’s engine would fire to life. Stopped in the still muddy rut from a rain storm that was another’s memory, we pondered what to do. We could not hope or dream of pushing a kombi on the unforgiving path. Should we then leave the van running, so that we would not be stuck, but perhaps tempt the fates by fueling a running vehicle? Driver’s ed from years ago told me “no, no!” at the thought of this tactic, but our choices were slim. We might not even be able to get moving again regardless of whether the engine was running or not. The choice was made to avoid what seemed to be the worse fate and we poured in half of our precious petrol to the still running van. No pushing was required at this pit stop, but further down the road we would not be so lucky.

Yes, the road was not kind to our van or our spirits. We clung to our prayers that our lowly van would stick to the road. At points our prayers were answered and we were required to jump out and push Arnie back into motion again. With mud-splattered clothes, we climbed back into our caked kombi and continued our journey of hell. Another road side fill-up became imminent, but again the fates were tempted and we won. And still the trek pushed on.

With the last of our jerry can emptied into Arnie’s hold, we began to search for a break in the tire tracks of mud with earnest. The light of the day was waning and we wondered if perhaps we had pushed our luck too far this day. I forced myself to not think about what would happen if we ran out of fuel in these road ruts. It just could not happen. My hands throbbed as I clenched them ever tighter. The needle on the gas gauge bobbed closer to E. Panic pushed us as a tailwind. As unspoken dread  seemed to mount beyond reasonable bounds, someone noticed something. The incessant scraping noise became quieter, then finally stopped. The ruts were getting shallower. Before we could even throw out a hope, we scraped heavily on a lip of asphalt and were suddenly back on solid land. A cheer erupted from us all, as though we had beaten a fearsome dragon. It was quickly countered by another glance at the gas gauge though. We were not out of the woods yet. We knew we had to reach the T-junction. We had been told that there was a gas station there. Speed was of the essence now and we raced towards the finish line. Would we make it in time? Adrenaline gave us the lift that we hoped we be our saving grace. The needle inched ever closer to E.

There was no denying it. E was for empty and that was where the needle sat. Not certain how long we could fly on fumes, we began to glide down hills that we came upon. Tears almost sprang to my eyes, as a little village hove into site. Again we praised aloud the end of our flight, as we pulled up to the stop sign. Too soon we realized that with salvation at hand, we were still lost. Should we turn left or right? No gas stations were in sight and no signs pointed in the direction that would get us to the closest fill up. Could we make it. A light began to slowly seep red on the dash. Right would take us towards Beira, left the border. Our discussions decided right, but after a scant few miles we suspected our error. We did a wide U-turn and raced back West again. We coasted down hills and leaned forward bodily when mounting the next. Perspiration won as stress levels reached insurmountable heights inside our battered van. With a red light blazing on the dash, we ascended another hill and were met with the beautiful sight of a neon sign announcing GAS. Luck finally smiled upon us, as the station was still open when we drifted onto its beautiful lot. We laughed, hugged  and hooted in a crazy celebration of triumph. We had battled and won the challenge of the worst road in Africa.

Where the road ends ...

With the fresh light of day, we packed up our tents and had a quick breakfast to fill our bellies. The road ahead of us lay heavy on our minds. We had already seen many rough patches of road, so  wondered how bad this new stretch of road would actually be. Little prickles of uncertainty scratched at my brain, but with another new traveler joining us to help with the driving, it seemed that the destination was onward and upward.  We had no way to reach our fallen comrade Brett, so turned to the bumpy road ahead of us and focused on getting back to him however it took.

We had already seen a fair share of potholes on our journeys through Mozambique, but now they got wider, deeper and more frequent as our little Kombi chugged along the highway. The suggestion to stop for gas had been pushed at us heavily before we had left. Stories of buses and transport trucks getting stuck on the road, falling off the road or simply running out of gas along the road  were numerous. We had listened to the stories with growing trepidation and as we saw the petrol station grow in our sites, we paid heed and pulled off to fill our tank. We had even prepared by bringing a jerry can as well. It was filled to the brim and we prayed that it would be enough to see us through to the other side. The horror stories had suggested it was a must. I for one did not want to be left stranded to the elements in the middle of nowhere. Looking at a map, it appeared that no towns or villages would meet us till we reached the end of Highway 1. By all accounts, it sounded like it would be a tight squeeze to make it that far. There were no other roads to take though.

We pulled away from the gas station with  a full tank hoping we were ready to conquer the divide. The road continued to degenerate. Soon we found ourselves swerving all over the road to avoid the ever-growing potholes. Whole sections of pavement slid deep into gullies. Our speed dropped, as we feared the unknown gaps in the road ahead. At points we crawled to a slither to bump into and through more manageable obstructions. Conversation become sparse and was relegated to sightings and suggestions of how to manoeuvre the road. Windows were cracked enough to dispel the heavy breath in the van.  Dust filled our lungs instead.

Just when we thought that the road could get no worse, we eased to a stop. We had just finagled a particularly nasty stretch that saw us careening from one side of the road to the other and scraping our exhaust pipe in the process of avoiding especially deep drops in the roadway. Now as we surveyed the road ahead of us, we began to realize why the warnings had come so thick and fast. A mere metre in front of the van the road ceased to exist. The asphalt road stopped. The path that lay in front of us was two rivets in the mud. No concrete could be seen as far as our eyes could stretch. This was the main highway. The only highway leading from the capital to Beira, the second largest city in Mozambique. We would have to descend into this trench, if we were to get to the other side. I was speechless. There was no other way, but forward. If we met another vehicle on this road, we would be in a bad way. I tried not to let my mind dwell on this fact, as we slowly inched Arnie into the tire tracks that would take us out of this country. If we made it out the other end.

Adventures off the Grid

Another day, another beach.  I wished all the goodness of my heart to the beautiful people I had met in Praia de Tofo, but it was time to move on. We headed North on the only good road in Mozambique and found shelter in Vilanculos. The road was getting progressively worse. We had weaved all over the road avoiding potholes that would have ripped axles, wheels and whatever it could have snatched, right off. We pulled into a little compound by the ocean to call home for a few days. The sight of an outdoor shower in the middle of the walled compound brought a smile to my face. As we had been camping by the sea, with no facilities to speak of in Praia de Tofo, a good scrubbing was in order. On checking in, it was suggested by the people that ran the camp to shower in the afternoon. A morning shower would be cold, as the large bucket was filled every morning. By afternoon, the water would have had a chance to warm up, therefore sun, soap and  sun-warmed water would cleanse our bodies and souls. Point noted. I luxuriated in a warm, sunlit soak later that afternoon and felt like a new woman.

First though, we stowed belongings in our quickly erected tents and went off to explore our new home. Again the locals seemed warm and friendly, with smiles offered from all we met. The charms of Mozambique were certainly working their magic on me. Unfortunately, other factors were working on Brett again though. Our first night there was a sleepless one for him, with little sleep attained by the rest of our travelling band, as we watched him writhe in pain. It was obvious that the kidney stones had not worked their way out yet. He needed to get medical attention. There was a small clinic in the village, but this would not be enough to help Brett.  The problem that we quickly discovered  was that there was not even a telephone here. The closest phone was in Inhambane, which was where we had left the day before; a full day’s drive away. We scrambled around town trying to figure out a course of action and discovered a small airstrip. Our hopes were dashed to discover a flight out, but full up. To charter a flight to Johannesburg would cost $1500 US and without a phone to call Brett’s health insurance company to get them to pay for the flight, it was a moot point. We did not have the cash between us to pay for it and that was the only method of payment they accepted. Brett could barely stand and had trouble catching a full breathe. It was decided that we would get him on the bus back down to Maputo where he could catch a flight to Johannesburg. Miki and I gave him money enough to get him there and prayed that he would be able to withstand the journey that led to salvation.

With teary eyes, we watched the bus depart headed South. In the hurried rush to get our ailing travelling companion attended to, we had made a rough plan. Brett would take the bus to Maputo, then continue on a flight to Johannesburg. We knew there that he would be able to find modern medical assistance to tend to his ills. Once recovered, he would make his way back up to Harare, Zimbabwe where we would reconnect. In the mean time, Miki and I, along with Oliver and a new Aussie travelling companion by the name of Rob, would make our way North. The dreaded highway towards Beira would be tackled and we would veer off towards Zimbabwe and eventually Brett.

Praying that Brett would be recovered soon, but knowing that we would have a stretch before we saw him again, we tried to distract ourselves by taking in the sights. We bumped into travellers that we had met back in Tofo, and they convinced us to take in a dhow excursion to Magaruque.  A dhow was described to us as a local sailboat. While it sounded enchanting, the day was not. The dhow was absolutely ancient and very tippy. The day was sunny and beautiful, but hot. We found shelter under beach umbrellas at a hotel in the middle of nowhere, but got run off by a very angry hotel manager. The next closest patch of shade did not accommodate the seven of us very well, so we moved on to snorkelling. It was magnificent, but we returned to our dhow captains dehydrated and severely scraped by coral, only to find that we had misunderstood our arranged meeting time. We had thought they had said 3pm, but were informed by the angry men that we were supposed to have returned at 13:00. Oops. With a new experience under our belts, we bid adieu to the day. A rough road lay ahead of us and we would need a good sleep to give us the strength to withstand the next leg of our journey.

Teach them to Fish

Another grubby hand snaked out in front of me.

“Five Rand sister!” his voice rang out. “1000meticals. Enough for bread. I am so hungry missus!”

I turned away mumbling, “sorry.”

While I could have produced the change the boy begged for, I could not fix the state of the nation. There were so many here that pleaded for hand-outs. I did not have the money to feed them all. It was over-whelming to see poverty on such a level. Everywhere you turned pathetic  little hands were jammed into your face. Only this morning a boy stopped in front of me in a market we were wandering through. He did not say a word, only pointing to his mouth. Perhaps he could not speak, as his mouth was a misshapen gash. Whether it was the effect of polio, which seemed to survive and thrive here, or perhaps a misadventure with a land mine, I did not know. An image of a macabre jack o’ lantern struck me, as his eyes demanded sympathy. He got the sympathy, but not in the form of money. His errant few teeth and broken lips were another example of the horrors that this country was trying to survive through. It sickened me. How could life have turned so wrong on such a scale? This deformed child screamed of a whole nation contorted by the ugliness of war, greed and misuse. How could one person, or one handful of change make a difference? It could not. Time needed to pass to help heal the wounds so prevalent everywhere. Aid organizations were there offering what they could, but at times it just seemed that they encouraged the need to beg. The people could just sit back and expect that money would be handed to them. I often felt like my white skin was akin to a beacon of riches, booming out my affluence. Just the fact of my presence there screamed of the wealth I had in comparison to the poorest of the poor amongst this shattered world. I walked with all my possessions on my back, but still I had more wealth than most of these people would ever see. My plane ticket home was equivalent to freedom, tantamount to innumerable fortunes in their world. I turned away from him and his horrors with  a sadness that could not be ignored.

While the phenomenal poverty at every turn was a struggle to process, we did try to offer some small alms. A group of children were given some rice. A man that sold Miki a batik, also got our leftover rice salad. Another group of children were offered some slightly stale bread, that we improved with the presence of jam. We tended to live on a small budget ourselves, but we knew that our wealth was more than any of these poor children could hope to have. Our small kindnesses were met with broad smiles and extreme friendliness that did something to warm my chilled heart. Skirting monstrous potholes that looked to measure 6 feet deep and wide at times, I hugged myself and offered blessings again that I had the privilege to have been born where I was. Canada might as well have been on another planet, for the comparisons I could make. I took in the tattered tarps  and scrap lumber that held together market stalls. I processed what I could and took strength from my travelling companions. Brett strode along with a smile on his face. His recent ailment was washed from his face and his countenance held his regular good-will again. I relaxed in the presence of his faith in the world and tried to see hope for this country that was ridding itself of landmines, war, and yesterday’s ugliness. We had to look to the future with faith that life would get better, life would go on.

A proverb struck me as we skimmed across a world not our own;

“Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime”.

These people had fish, but were only just learning how to fish again. I prayed the process would be fruitful for this besotted country.