'Don't shoot!'... words I was hoping to avoid in Africa. It's only a little better when repeated in full: 'Do not shoot the elephant!'. Unfortunately, the park ranger's order comes too late. A guy pulled the trigger two minutes before.
How did we get to this point, you might ask.
 |
| I'd like to see the bouncer who can handle this customer when he's not done with his glass... |
I've had a restful day at the Warthog pub;
watching the final cricket test match in front of me and, between overs, watching
wildlife behind me. The group of
elephants has been browsing the trees around the campsite all day, wandering
gently and causing less trouble to the holidaying South Africans than Stuart
Broad's attempted out swingers.
The pod of hippos have moved off the sand
bank and are bobbing about the shallow edge of Lake Kariba; the fat crocodile
has slipped off unnoticed and a couple of local black lads are now knee deep in
the water fishing for something. It's
picturesque, and I can only assume they know more about the feeding habits of
large crocodiles than I do. 'No, well, the last two didn't...', comes the comment from the barman.
 |
| Contender for the Darwin Award 2012 |
With the cricket bowled I move off towards
my tent, just as Ian the owner of the bar sidles up to me. 'There might be a little excitement shortly',
he says with studied insouciance and a casual drag of his cigarette. I've already noted his khaki safari shorts, light
Zimbabwe accent and the battered 'old school' Land Rover he coaxes around the
site. Ian looks in his early fifties, is
neatly turned out and stays aloof from the increasingly boorish (Boerish?)
behaviour of the whites drinking out the afternoon and evening in the pub. He doesn't carry the paunch or punch of an 'Al
Murray' landlord, and would be more suited as understudy for the Casa Blanca
role.
'Go on...', I reply equally casually. I'm good at the poker face (read: out of
touch with my emotions) and use it when the most likely invitation will be to neck
spirits, hire a lap dancer or legitimise whatever shady 'excitement' the bar
lays on after dark. What he says next
surprises me.
'Well, one of the elephants has a wire
snare on it's leg, so we're going to tranquillise it and cut off the
snare. Might get a bit interesting, I
suppose. Do you want to join us?'.
My mind skips to the photos I have of
today's elephants: four large adults,
eight large tusks. Not-so-tall stories
of elephant's stomping on humans have been circulating all afternoon. I glance at the sun sinking rapidly behind
the hills, and at the heavy trees lying broken on the ground around us. That battered green, open top Land Rover
would be flipped like a beer mat by an angry Nellie. 'Sounds good.', says I.
 |
| Got a sheepdog, anyone? |
Cut to the park ranger's order, thirty
minutes later: it's almost dark now and
the last thing ranger wants is a dopey elephant stumbling around the
neighbouring lakeside lodge - or a stampede of its companions. He should have said that three minutes ago. Ian grins - 'Guess we'll have to continue
now,' he winks.
'She'll drop in a minute or two', he adds,
'and then we'll concentrate on keeping the other elephants away.' Nice bit of forward planning that, mate. He's asking if anyone has a proper torch
(flashlight), which they don't, so the assembled trucks try to manoeuvre their
headlights to illuminate the mobile tusk force.
A wide-eyed French girl and her boyfriend ask
me to explain what's going on now. I
repeat Rob's latest bulletin, and translate (from English to English) that the
tranquilliser dart doesn't appear to be working.
And if Nellie's adrenaline trumps the drug, we can say goodnight to the
circus.
After another ten minutes, the attempt is
postponed for the following morning.
Off we go - with a bumpity-bump (of course)
- and a sorrowful glance back at the shadowy group. If we're wrong, and the elephant now
collapses it probably won't survive. And
tomorrow? Unless they get a dart in the
wounded elephant in the next few days, the officials from the National Park
will come to attend the animal themselves.
Based on past examples, Ian explains, they
won't bring a tranquilliser gun. They
prefer an AK47.
-------------------------------------
Monday morning. Instead of cock-a-doodle-do, I wake to the belch
and rumble of hippo as they waddle back to the water. The air then fills to the shrill of birds and
zippers as I pack my tent and load the bike.
I'm sorry to be leaving the Warthog campsite, but a ferry across the
lake awaits. I don't even learn the fate
of the lame elephant, so hopefully I'll hear that from a camper couple one day.
 |
| Clemence, my personal waiter... |
At the jetty, the bell tolls for me, it
seems. I'm the only passenger on the Sea
Lion and have three decks, ten dozen chairs, a galley, skipper and crew to
myself. The empty vessel noisily
shudders into life on the second ring of the bell and starts on the 24-hour
crossing to Mlibizi, south-west of Kariba.
The giant lake formed in 1955-59 when the huge
Kariba hydro-electric dam was finished.
The dam generates for both countries most of their required power
supply. It seems a great achievement,
and even when the reservoir water level rose relocating the wildlife was
achieved with Noah-like success. Since
then, the lake has proved a draw for house-boaters, luxury lodge dwellers, sports
fishermen and tourists taking the ferry towards Victoria Falls, like me.
The frequency of the ferry (and the crew's
wages) have proven a bell-weather for the Zimbabwean economy. Thankfully, after an eight year suspension,
the twice-weekly service has been operating again for the last couple of years. I'm a little surprised to be the only
passenger, but the crew are cheerful and don't seem to mind. (They'll pick up more people on the return
leg tomorrow.) Meantime, I get to wander
the boat freely, and borrow the captain's binoculars to watch game from the
bridge - a few elephants, antelope, hippo and sea-eagles.
This ain't no paddle steamer, but even if
it were there's nobody to play poker with in the lounge, nor to smoke cigars
with as the bloated Zambizi slides by. So
I chat with part-time skipper / company representative, Rob, a sun-shrivelled
old guy looking towards retirement. I can
tell (more from his silences than anything) that for an ex-farmer Zimbabwe has
proven a painful place to live these past three decades. The rest of the crew are more talkative about
the hard years, and point out the display case in the lounge: the crazy currency devaluation is evidenced
by bank notes that range from one dollar to one hundred trillion dollars... (you know, for when that fifty trillion
dollars bank note just won't cover it).
 |
| One trillion dollars! Mwha-ha-haa (said in the voice of Dr. Evil) |
A quick dip in the lake whilst the crew
check the engines; then dinner on deck as the sun slinks below the
horizon. I feel like a surrounded cowboy
in the movies, as a ring of lamp lights has encircled us. It's the luminous lures on the fishing
vessels - hundreds of them, night fishing for their tiny sprat-like catch.
I select one of the fifty available
mattresses and sleep soundly, waking at 6am, Tuesday morning.
Over my Full English breakfast I watch the
last few kilometres of shore line as we draw into Mlibizi. It's very peaceful; the 'port' little more
than an empty jetty. I swap a 'hello'
with a South African couple waiting (in their 4x4) to board the boat back to
Kariba. So the passenger list has
increased by 200% - the kind of inflation the ferry company will welcome, but
not nearly enough to cover their costs.
 |
| Fishing by lamp light |
I've enjoyed spending time with the crew;
hearing about their lives and learning more about Zimbabwe. Stories about inflation, shortages,
unemployment and the repressive regime have been mingled with nostalgia for the
richness of times past (herds of buffalo sweeping across the plain), and
measured optimism about the future - at any rate, the future will be better
than the recent past.
Sunburned and sated with lake life, I roll
off the ferry at 7.15am and ride a wonderful road towards Hwangay. This remote stretch of Africa is a joy to
behold as the baobab trees point me through hills and valleys, villages and
fields.
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