In the shallow water there is a display of wildlife; long
legged birds stalk the pools, a crocodile lazes half out of the water, a large
lizard-like creature, a legavaan, lurks on the muddy shore. We have a clear
view across the river of the bush which is dense except for a slight opening
where sun filters through. As I watch, the light fades and the shade thickens.
It forms a shape. Like magic, an elephant materializes out of the shadows. It
lumbers forward, trunk
swaying gently, heading for a drink at the river’s edge.
Before dipping its trunk into the water, it stops, ears alert, aware of the
life forms across the river. Its eyes are small for its bulk, but they seem
focussed directly on me.
The elephant doesn’t need words to communicate. I get the
message clearly. “I am just here for a drink. I won’t bother you if you don’t
bother me. Understood?”
“Understood,” I message back silently.
“You do know that I am a mighty, powerful beast and I could
easily cross this puny water and stomp on you?”
“Yes, that’s clear.”
“Good. Let’s not make that happen. Welcome to my land. Have
a good stay.”
A group of guests has gathered to watch the elephant as it
drinks and squirts water over its head. And then it vanishes. One moment it’s a
large looming presence, the next, it is gone.
“What a good omen,” I tell Peter. “The elephant has given us
its blessing to enjoy our time here.”
“That’s reassuring,” he says with utmost sincerity.
It is a good start to our planned ten days of game viewing
in Zambia. Tomorrow we will visit the legendary Victoria Falls and take a boat
ride on the Zambezi River.
A cluster of blue taxis is parked on the main street of the
bustling town of Livingston. Drivers vie for our attention. We choose Mombi,
partly because of his engaging smile but mostly because he offers the lowest
fare. He speaks good English and chatters as he drives. When we ask, he
explains that the taxis coming the other way are flashing their lights to let
him know there is a checkpoint ahead.
“What does that mean?” Peter asks.
“Well, it means that they’re checking licences. Taxis need a
special licence to drive passengers to the Falls.”
“And do you have one?”
“No sir. I don’t. But don’t worry, it will be okay.” He
drives in silence for a while then, “Do you drive stick shift, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” says Peter.
“Well, then sir, I will stop before the checkpoint and you
can drive through it. I will walk and meet you at the other side.”
I am the one who reacts to this, imagining all kinds of bad
outcomes to this plan. “No, Mombi. We can’t do that. Stop here and we’ll walk
the rest of the way.”
“Absolutely not, lady. There are elephants in the bush here.
Elephants can be very dangerous. I can’t let you walk.”
I want to tell him that we have a pact with an elephant. But
that sounds ridiculous even to me.
“Okay, okay. I know what we’ll do. I’ll tell them at the
checkpoint that you are friends of my boss and that he asked me to drive you.”
“Do you think that will work?”
“For sure sir. I will give them the phone number of my boss,
Mr. Maboto, and they can call and ask him.”
“Is that really your boss?”
“No sir. My good friend. But don’t worry. It will be fine.”
And indeed, after some back-and-forth dialogue and a phone call
to Mombi’s “boss”, it is fine. We clear the checkpoint. Mombi cheerfully tours
us around the visitors’ centre, showing us the best souvenir vendors and points
the way to the Falls View walk. It is busy with many families, dressed in their
finest, enjoying a Sunday outing. I remember to ask permission before snapping
photos of a particularly splendidly dressed group of women and their children.
They pose, proud as peacocks in their glorious colours.
On the path to the viewing platform, monkeys chatter in the
trees, swinging amongst the branches and occasionally jumping down to check out
the tourists. An inquisitive baby monkey takes a fancy to Peter and tries to
climb up his leg. Monkeys look cute, but they can bite and are usually infested
with flees and mites, so I clap my hands and say “Scat.” This is enough to send
the young one scurrying up a tree in search of its mother. Clinging to her
back, he looks down at us with soulful eyes. I imagine the mother consoling her
baby, “Don’t worry about the two-legged apes. They are rude sometimes, but they
leave us nice snacks.”
This is the dry season, so the grand Victoria Falls is not
quite the thunderous roar that we have seen in photos, but impressive
nonetheless. It has been months since the last rains and the torrent of water
has been reduced to a series of smaller falls, flowing from the Zambezi River,
over a basalt plateau stretching almost a mile through rugged rock gorges which
rise high above the churning water. A
rainbow spans from shore to shore, connecting the two countries, Zambia to
Zimbabwe. On the plateau, the low water
has exposed pools and rocks. And here and there, we see people walking, amongst
the streams, treading cautiously towards the precipice. This looks like
something we should check out. When we make our way, past the visitors’ centre,
we find that there is nothing stopping us, no barrier to the river. But very
soon a young guy, wearing a Sun Hotel shirt approaches us.
“Hello, my name is Anote. I’m a guide from the hotel,” he
says politely. “It’s dangerous to walk along the river on your own. Would you
like me to lead you?”
Why not? We know we’ll have to tip him but it seems like a
better option than making a misstep that could lead us tumbling hundreds of
metres over the edge. The young man has the grace of a gazelle as he steers us
over rocks, fording streams, threading our way through the water course.
Sometimes he takes my hand to guide me over tricky spots where the water flows
fast between the uneven stones. We walk beside deep pools where local lads are
splashing in the water. Anote doesn’t recommend this. There may be crocodiles
lurking. We can feel the mist of the falls when we stop close to the edge where
the water cascades to the river below. I am awed to be so close to the falls
and marvel at the fact that in a month, when the rains come, if we were
standing here, we’d be swept away in a raging torrent.
The tour ends at the hotel entrance. The sun is at its peak
and as they say, only mad dogs and stupid tourists stay out in the midday sun.
I am wilting and my water bottle is empty. The fee that our guide asks is more
than we anticipated but to walk at the edge of Victoria Falls, to stand at the
precipice and look 300 feet down to the swirling river below, has been so worth
it. We pay up and are politely reminded to add a tip. Which we do. The young
man doesn’t follow us onto the hotel grounds and I very much doubt whether he
has any relationship with the establishment.
It is bliss to sit under the
shade of the Mopane trees beside the pool, quenching our thirst with Mosi beer
and eating a leisurely meal until it’s time for our sunset cruise.
We have booked on one of the smaller tour boats, a jet boat
that can maneuver over the rapids and close to the shore where we get amazing
close-ups of wildlife. Herds of elephants with young in tow, half submerged
hippos displaying their cavernous yawning jaws and crocodiles keep us company
along the shoreline. Colourful birds are abundant, darting over the water and
perched like decorations in the trees on the river banks.
The crew offers us drinks and it feels grand to be sipping G
& T’s while motoring up the Zambezi River. The plan is to stop at an island
for a picnic, but as we approach, a large family of elephants emerges from the
far shore and crosses in front of us, clambering up the banks of the island.
“Sorry, folks,” the skipper announces, “the elephants have
right of way. We’ll have to picnic aboard.” No one disagrees.
I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me, was my
pact with the elephant.
The following day we leave on a local bus for Lusaka to meet
our friend and travel companion, Joe, for rest of our journey to a safari camp.
The projected four-hour bus ride from Livingston to Lusaka, takes six and a
half hours. Twice the bus is stopped at checkpoints by armed guards that search
the luggage compartment under the bus. Looking for stowaways, we are told. No
one is found hiding amongst the bags and eventually we continue on our journey.
We are the only white faces and the only tourists aboard.
The passengers are curious and friendly. At a road side stop, they helpfully
explain how to find the bathrooms and the snack shop. Most of them return
aboard with baskets of fried chicken, filling the bus with a delicious aroma.
We have a bag of crisps and a couple of cokes.
The countryside changes from dry veld to planted fields.
Rural villages eventually give way to urban sprawl. The bus rattles along at an
alarming pace, making up for lost time at the earlier check points.
Our friend Joe and his companion Vernon have waited at the
bus terminal for hours and are immensely relieved to see us. We are whisked to Vernon’s house where a
welcome supper is ready for us.
Vernon loans us a four-wheel drive Toyota HiAce for the bush
part of our trip in the South Luangwa Valley. In addition to our personal
luggage, we load the van with plenty of spare petrol, spare tires and bottled
water. Not enough water. You can never carry enough water when you’re heading
into the African bush. Before we leave, we go to an ATM to stock up on cash.
The Zambia currency has become so devalued, that our wallets are stuffed to
overflowing with Kwachas, since we will need cash for many of our expenses on
the trip.
After the dust and heat of the road, Mama Rula’s Camp on the
outskirts of Chipata, is a welcome oasis with shady trees and a garden
surrounding a small pool. The rooms are basic but clean and comfy. The bar is
the social centre, where we eat, drink and exchange stories with other
travellers.
Early in the morning we are back on the road following
country roads that have more pot holes than road surface. Peter navigates the
smoothest course he can between the many obstacles including cyclists balancing
extraordinarily large loads on their bikes, pedestrians and wandering goats.
Pedestrians, who seem to walk many miles from village to village, politely step
to the side of the road as we go by and wave enthusiastically.
At our lunch stop in a small village we pick up a hitch
hiker who travels with us for about 20 kilometers. He explains that he is a
minister of the church traveling to different rural congregations. As we drive
through a rural landscape, he tells us a bit about the subsistence farmers who
eke out a living on small plots of land, growing crops like maize and sorghum,
often walking long distances to fetch water. It is a hard life. When we come across a series of large branches
placed strategically as a rudimentary road block, he urges Peter not to stop.
“If you stop, you will be asked to pay a tax. These people aren’t legitimate.”
he says. “You are already paying a road tax when you buy petrol.” Lucky that he
warned us. On our journey we successfully by-pass several of these road blocks.
The tsetse fly check point is a different matter and can’t
be ignored. We wait while the guards, rifles at hand, inspect the vehicle for
evidence of these nasty pests. Tsetse flies are a terrible problem in this part
of the world and can cause serious illness in animals and humans, including
sleeping sickness. The inspection is very quick; just a swipe of some kind of
wand around the windows and sun visors and we are given the thumbs up and sent
on our way.
At night after supper, we sit at the picnic table drinking
scotch whisky outside our tent and listen to the night noises as the cicadas,
crickets and frogs tune up. Joe is familiar with these sounds. This is his
happy place and partly why we are taking this journey into the wild. He
recognises the bark of a baboon and the grunt of a hippo. He leans back,
breathes in deeply savouring the smell of African bush. Peter and I are so
happy to see the contented look on his face. It was in Zambia many years ago
that he married the only love of his life. Sadly, she passed away ten years
ago. Now all he has left are memories and the best of these are from the times
they spent in the African bush together. This may be Joe’s last visit to Zambia
and we are so pleased to have made his journey of nostalgia possible and to
share it with him.
The game viewing is beyond expectations. When we are in the
open topped Land Cruiser, the animals seem oblivious to us. Groups of elephants
casually cross our path. Zebras graze in herds and giraffes stretch their necks
to reach the leaves on tall trees. Crocodiles and birds crowd the river banks.
There are buck and antelope of every kind. We encounter monkeys and troops of
baboons.
We have a rare leopard siting. The guide says it’s a young leopard,
still learning to hunt. The puku that it’s stalking darts away which sets off a
chain reaction of startled animals. The herd of pukus scatters. The leopard
seems to give up and climbs a tree where it drapes itself artfully over a
branch and watches us.
When we stop at the river bank for the morning tea break,
flocks of colourful carmine bee eaters flutter busily around their nests in the
muddy river banks. Large crocodiles lie on the shore with mouths agape, as
still as logs. One morning we see a couple of crocs wrestling over a half-
submerged buffalo. Further downstream, a herd of buffalo crosses in the shallow
water, while a kingfisher entertains us, diving into the river, emerging with a
large fish in its beak which it proceeds to slap against a tree branch. I feel
as if I am part of a National Geographic movie shoot.
After dark, a new world opens up. We are introduced to
nocturnal cats and scavenging hyenas. Lions, that lie around sleepily during
the day, are on the prowl at night. We follow a male lion as he tags along
behind the females, who work as a team to track their prey and make the kill.
The male then saunters in for the first bite.
One night we come across the sad sight of seven buffalo that
have become stuck in a deep muddy pond. The lions have already feasted. The
vultures are now at work and hyenas slink around waiting their turn. Despite
being partially ravaged, some of the buffalo are still alive, making low moans
of pain, their tails twitching. It’s hard to watch, but our guide reminds us
that this it is all part of the balance of nature, it’s the way of the wild.
Not far away, the lions have gathered in the scruffy
vegetation beside an open plain. When we get there, they are in stalking
position and are heading towards a family of elephants. The bull elephant
catches their scent and puts out an alert. The young ones are herded
protectively together. The elephants flap their ears and dust rises as they
stamp their feet. The bull trumpets loudly and the charge begins. The herd
thunders towards the lions. It doesn’t last long. The lions turn tail and run.
The guide explains. “If they were really hungry, the lions
wouldn’t have given up so easily.” He tells us, that when they work as a team,
lions are the only animals that can take down an elephant. I can’t help but
cheer for the elephants. How is it that these hulking beasts with their
wrinkled grey hides and beady eyes have become so dear to me?
The morning walks are optional. Not everyone wants to walk
amongst wild animals, but for Peter and I, these are our favourite safari
moments. Joe, with his bad knees, can no longer take part in the game walks,
but he eagerly waits for the reports of our close-up encounters.Each morning our guide, Jackson, drives us to a different
starting point. When the Land Cruiser is parked, we head out into the bush. On
our last morning at the camp Peter and I are the only guests. Led by Jackson
and accompanied by a scout with a rifle, we head to a waterhole where we
quietly watch zebra, giraffes and impala having their morning drink. As we walk
along the trail, the giraffes trail along, keeping pace with us, their heads
peeping above the tall bushes. It feels as if we have an honour guard. When we
come to a spot where a giraffe stands in the middle of the path, blocking our
way, we wait patiently until it decides to move along. Giraffes look so velvety
soft with their big melting eyes and long-egged ambling gait, they seem like
gentle giants. “Don’t be fooled by how docile they look,” Jackson warns us, “a
kick from one of those long legs can kill a lion.”
We are examining an intricate spider web, woven like a net
across a deep imprint, when the scout looks up and says quietly, “Elephants.”
And there they are, a family with several young. Too close for comfort. They
have snuck up on us right here in the middle of an open plain, without making a
sound.
The scout takes charge, rifle at the ready. “Walk backwards,
slowly.”
The elephants are focussed on us. Ears flapping. The bull
stamps his foot. In silence we continue our retreat. Step by step, so slowly,
it’s like torture. For a moment I have a flash of panic. How effective can one
rifle be against a herd of elephants?
Then, a perceptible change. It seems we have retreated a
safe distance. The bull turns away and lumbers off to the far bank. The rest of
the herd follows, calves scampering alongside their mothers. We stand quietly
for a few moments to take stock. Apart for some rattled nerves, we’re fine,
grateful that we escaped being trampled and still on an adrenalin high,
thankful for the raw experience. Again, we are reminded, these are wild
animals, there are no fences between us. This is not a zoo.
I take time to savour this moment; to appreciate what a
privilege it has been to have conversations with elephants, to walk with
giraffes, hobnob with hippos; to witness the private lives of animals in the
wild. I send a silent message of gratitude to the elephant that we encountered
on the first day.
“Now,” says our guide cheerfully, “It’s time for tea.” And
we head back to the Land Cruiser where the thermos of hot tea is waiting.
We’ll have a good story to share with Joe when we get back
to the camp.
Published in BOTANY OF GAIA: A nature inspired anthology compiled by Quillkeepers Press
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