Zambia: Lusaka -> Kitwe -> Lubumbashi (Zaire) -> Kitwe -> Lusaka -> Luangwa Game Management Area
Malawi: Llongwe -> Blantyre -> Monkey Bay -> Zomba Plateau -> Fish Eagle Inn -> Luangwa Valley NP
Botswana: Okavango Swamp -> Victoria Falls -> Chobe NP
11 June, 1977. Lusaka, Zambia. Feeling contemplative, happy with an edge of sadness, self importantly profound, quite stoned. Nicole and Christine have gone to town to see Day of the Jackal, and I am home, listening to soul hits and reading a large format Wonders of Nature book - Good stuff on bird migrations, but Readers Digest only gives the highlights. I guess they figure the optimal attention span of their readers to average five minutes.
We had a lovely, too short trip to Lusaka from Dar, a 36 hour, two night train ride which cost, per person and with an appropriate exchange rate of 16 shillings to the dollar (officially 83 to the dollar), staying in the corridor between the two doors to the head, about $10, figuring out to about a penny mile, surely one of the travel bargains of the world. The train construction, inaugurated in 1970, was completed late last year, three years ahead of schedule, by the Chinese whom we saw at every stop, in their saggy, blue trousers, black slippers, and startling blue shirts (workers), or in short-sleeved untucked white shirts (administrators?) Always apart, in little groups of three, rarely speaking or smiling, they are as mysterious a culture as I’ve come across. More than ever I want to visit China, and I hereby abandon the language requirement.
We were put in separate second class, six person compartments, for the sexes sleep apart in this train, but we sat together most of the day. Each compartment is ingeniously designed to seat six comfortably, three facing three, with a window table and backrest, that swings up to the middle bed at night. Recessed steps, night light, window with lattice shade, nice wooden fixtures, all new, practical, functioning, simple, clever. Meals were OK, but we ate mostly stuff we bought, with an occasional trip to the bar for a beer. One of my two compartment mates was an American Franciscan priest who has been working in Zambia near the Angolan border for the past 18 years, a cheerful fellow from Louisville, who seemed completely unaffected and untouched by his sojourn and that remote corner of Africa - he still wore American style pants, talked with all the American phrases, and kidded our compartment visitors in a completely American style; an altogether delightful fellow, the kind of missionary I don’t mind out there, saving souls.
At about 11 o’clock in the first evening of the train ride, as we were traveling through Mikumi National Park, the train thudded to a halt, the victim of an unfortunate collision with an elephant, which had to be shot to put it away. We otherwise would have arrived on time. Towards the end of the trip, everybody started to change money, including even the Zambian immigration authorities. We change 100 shillings for 10 kwacha, enough to pay for our visas. Later, I located a guy Jeff had used, who, though frightened by the recent government crackdown (including about 100 convictions), changed a $100 traveler check for 160 kwacha, about twice the official rate. I may well sell my camera later, and use the kwacha to buy an airline ticket at least as far as Iran, the saving us all kinds of trouble when we start heading north. I’d like to get rid of the flute, too.
Virtually no mail waiting for us at the American Embassy, but a nice Dutch volunteer, picked us up on the way back to town, fed us, let us sleep on his floor, and we now have a standing invitation to crash. He seemed typically stiff and formal at first, but the next morning was more relaxed; turned out to be a very nice fellow, in fact. Then we visited IBM, and Christine, that doll, took us under her wing. Last night we dined at the Sheikh's house, friends of the Whiteleys when the husband was doing post-graduate work at Stanford. Great dinner of spiced rice, chicken, curry, dahl, ice cream, and yogurt, and some funny stories c/o a guest from London on his adventures all over the globe working for international Planned Parenthood. The wife turned out to be much more fun than her husband, and we spent a good part of the evening quizzing her on her home city of . in Kashmir. Nabbed the address of her grandfather, who deals in antiques, gems, etc., and can perhaps arrange transport for us to Ladakh. Her brother hikes as well - are useful evening.
Lusaka is a nicer place than travelers had led us to believe - very clean, modern, lots of new construction, not crowded, and atmosphere of peace and contrast to the fear I always felt in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi. Hustling almost unknown, no beggars, friendly - a good place to use as a base. Ivory is incredibly cheap, but supplies of basics are far less extensive than even in Dar. Zambia has incredible communication and foreign exchange problems, and nothing dramatizes this plight more than the sad selection of consumer goods in the stores.
30 June 1977. Lusaka, Zambia. Sitting in the patio with Anne (6 ans) and Patrice (2 ans) Gandy. As usual, the sun is out, the weather is fine, except for a bit of wind. Gandy’s servant, a tiny Zambian warm disposition, has served us our morning coffee and baguette (!), and we are enjoying a far ranging discussion with Anne, while Patrice attacks everything which looks edible. Last night, "à table" with the kids and their parents (Genevieve et Jean), Patrice entertained us in the same fashion, methodically attacking and clearing all plates on the table - "the little dustbin", they call him. After dinner, Nicole devoured a few precious French periodicals, while I watched a game of belote, the principal point of interest consisting of a big argument concerning the rules after each hand.
We met Genevieve Gandy yesterday afternoon, while trying to hitch to Malawi - she immediately invited us for lunch, which we declined, and followed it up with an offer of a real French coffee, which we couldn’t resist. What a delight she and her family turned out to be! She deposited us back on the road around 3 PM, and we half-heartedly continued on hitching until five, and then returned to the Gandys for a lovely evening. All was not lost on the road, however: Nicole bagged a rich South African who immediately invited us to go hunting with him for two weeks near Chipata! He’s to pick us up today at 11 - I give it 75% chance to work out.
Some earlier history: we stayed with Christine and her friends Monde and Ngende for about a week, checking in vain for our mail from Madagascar, and applying for visas to Zaire. We spent one day husking corn at the farm of Monde’s parents, but mainly enjoying her mom‘s company, a most amazing woman. She and her husband were born in South Africa, where he became comparatively well off, first as a taxi driver, then as the owner of a fleet of taxis. But he began to become politically involved, and eventually they had to leave for Zambia, where once more they amassed a minor fortune, this time buying land for a farm near Lusaka. Mrs. Monde is a true capitalist, with all sorts of plans for making money (potatoes, corn, vegetables, even mushrooms); they also are constructing their own farmhouse out of baked mud bricks right on their property: unfortunately their children, especially the two elder daughters, care of nothing but leaving home and getting married, so there may be no one to take over the farm when it is finally completed; just one more example, repeated many times over, by the many people we’ve met in this country, of Zambia problems. The general theme seems to be: the country is potentially very rich, with a good climate and enough water for agricultural produce of all sorts (especially coffee and tobacco), but the people just can’t get it together to plan ahead, nor can the government guarantee a steady supply of machinery, fertilizer, etc.; finally, the transport, with the only open route to the sea through Tanzania, which already is flexing it muscles to Zambia disadvantage. Got the picture? Right now copper counts for something like 90% of Zambia foreign exchange, but the world price is low, and expatriots are leaving, the copper belt in droves because of the governmen's efforts at Zambianisation. Too much freedom too soon - but how does one stop an independence movement?
A visitor to the Gandy’s last night sees the only hope for black Africa is an early independence of South Africa, a country so much further developed than the others that it will become a source of black development aid and expertise for years to come. It is potentially the garden of the world, and black South Africa is its potential gardener. Now I see why Zambia and the other “Frontline“ countries are so concerned with South African independence - they all depend on its economic aid so heavily.
It was an experience to pass a week with Christine, but not completely an enjoyable one - her attitudes and manners are a bit too far from Western tastes to be pleasant. She and Munde care for nothing but clothes, so meals were either prepared by us, or not prepared at all. Each girl (Christine,especially) pretty much lives in her own world, concerning herself primarily with her own events and interests, and only rarely concerning herself with others. And each carriee with her an atmosphere of sadness and dullness so that good times and interesting conversations were out of the question.
We were happy to leave for Lubumbashi after a week of this atmosphere. Our first ride was with a good-looking, black Zambian, originally from Mozambique, Mr. Tom Raven, married to a Portuguese, with two precocious children, on his way to Kitwe. A great guy, full of intelligent conversation, completely fed up with his country.
We checked into a hotel in Kitwe that same evening, and while walking around town, met a young English couple who invited us to dine with them at the “miner's mess“ - a great steak meal for about $1.50. Unfortunately, the evening was marred by their intensely negative racial attitudes towards his fellow Zambian workers, an attitude we found repeated by virtually every European we met in Zambia. The next morning, we hitched a ride with Linda Dore, a white Zambian of about 30 who works in a travel agency in Kitwe. She promised to arrange a tour of a copper mine for us, and then drove out of her way to deposit us near the Zambian/Zaire border. Our final lift to the border was by taxi - but free! The other passengers paid. How embarrassing.
The border crossing was anti-climactic, after all the terror stories we’ve heard - we were through in five minutes, and no hassle, no searches. We found a lift with a Japanese doctor from Nagasaki, who drove us to his house in a Japanese compound of perhaps 150 families, which he had been there for over two years now, in connection with a copper mine near the border. We drank green tea and whiskey, exchanged addresses, and, later that day, he drove us to Lubumbashi on one of the worst pothole roads we’ve seen in Africa.
Lubumbashi, Zaire. Parker’s house is a lovely European style two-story affair with a pool, a vast backyard, three servants, and, best of all, two closets chock full of every goody imaginable from the States. Parker looked only slightly older, with a bit less cranial hair, but with the same old attitudes: pre-Peace Core, anti-pomp, 50s tastes, full of friendship, and eager to share his resources with us and anyone else who would drop by. We got stinko the first night on wine, whiskey, cognac, etc.; then began 5–6 days of the good life. Parker had to fly to Kinshasa after two days to find out what his future was in Zaire (He was persona non grata with Mobutu for consorting with one of the Zairean Angol -based rebels, a highly respected local chieftain; furthermore, the US hadn’t given Zaire any weapons - just $3 million in non-military aid -iIn its recent troubles with the Shaba attack). we hung around, using his house to the full, a roaring fire every night, music on his tape reocrder (unfortunately, Zarian electricity is 50 cycles, so everything was slightly speeded up.
We got to know and like Erik and Rose: he is the second in command in the Consulate, and an extremely bright and personable fellow, she a petite, pretty, warm doll. It was a treat to hear all the Consulate/Peace Corps scuttle - It’s the same old stuff. Big debate on whether to get Parker stoned, and if yes, how. Not much older than the rest of us, Parker is clearly a generation away in many ways.
Not much to do in Lubumbashi; the zoo was only about 1/3 functioning; but saw two whale headed storks there! We bought lots of malachite trinkets, subsequently mailed to Irv Brenner along with our Malagasy gems from Lusaka; and Nicole couldn’t resist a purchase of 6 m of local cotton fabric - beautiful. We visited the factory with Rose and Phil (the local Peace Corps rep), where they started with raw cotton and ended up with the finished product. They don’t export - all is easily sold internally. The level of art in Lubumbashi was much the highest we’ve seen so far in Africa, with none of The “mass production” look of the stuff sold in Kenya and Tanzania. We bought two pictures made from butterfly wings as well, and shipped them by sea to Irv with a lot of stuff we’ve been hauling around for the last few months.
No Indians in Lubumbashi! Their place is occupied by Greeks, who came to Lum-bum (As it’s called by the Consulate staff) from Rhodes when Mussolini took it over. There’s also a thriving Italian community, as well as lots of Belgians, of course- over 20,000 foreigners in all. Direct flights to Brussels on DC-10's, etc. The good life continues in darkest Africa.
Hitched back to Kitwe, where we talked Linda (strangely reticent and somewhat unfriendly this time) into arranging a copper tour - what an experience! Three hours tramping around in rubber boots, overalls, and hardhats with lights, 600 m underground, noise, water, sxplosions, heat. A miner begins work at about $80 a month, and can work up to much more. (Our guide, with the company for 14 years, was making over $400 a month), but Hi, for one couldn’t spend eight hours a day underground in such conditions, working my ass off.
We met another British couple in Kitwe, on contract for two years, with the same tale of woe to recount: how stupid the locals were, how they could never take over and work the mines on their own, how difficult it was to bring basic commodities into bloody, Zambia, etc., etc. Nicole and I merely remain silent during an after such tales of woe; we haven’t the stamina to fight back each time, knowing how hopeless that would be. Are we moral cowards? Probably.
We got rides with no waiting back to Lusaka, stopping only to buy two toy wire bicycles outside of Kitwe, at $.75 each. We stayed Saturday night with Ted again, then lazed around the Ridgeway Hotel pool all Sunday, stuffing ourselves with burgers and beer. Monday we got Nicole’s new passport and her Malawi visa, and that evening Nicole cooked up a storm for Christine, Monde, Fedda, and a boyfriend of Christine's: steaks, two vegetables, salad, and carrot cake with ice cream. That evening, we decided to get going as soon as possible, for life with Christine and Monde held very little for us. They are only interested in boys and clothes, and by our standards, they are selfish and rude - harsh words, but true. I don’t know what they think of us. And behind everything is a sadness, a lack of interest in life itself, that makes every moment with them seem dull and listless. So we hung around until Wednesday, and when we still had, not received word from Parker, we decided to hitch to Malawi. Then the good times began to roll once more.
Our first ride was offered by a young French woman, Genevieve Gandi, who immediately offered us a coffee at her place, which we accepted with pleasure. We dawdled there until late in the afternoon, enjoying her company and that of her two charming lads, Anne and Patrice. Then, back on the road, Nicole pulled down a driver who promised to return the next morning and take us on a two week hunting safari! we went to Genevieve‘s place, where we met her husband, Jean, a quiet, warm man, he from the Loire area, who is teaching French to Namibians in preparation for their independence next year.
The best part of the evening was the eating show put on by Patrice, who turns out to be nothing more than a silent, efficient machine for food removal. After completing his own meal in record time, he began to systematically visit all the other plates on the table, cleaning each one until his parents put a stop to it. Then he just sat in his chair, his eyes scanning the table's contents like radar, not missing anything. Patricia is about a year old. The evening was rounded up with a game of Belote, distantly related, I think to bridge, And the emphasis is on rules arguments at each hand's tallying.
The next morning came, and by God, the hunters showed up! So here we sit, on the East Bank of the Luangwa River, in a Game Management (i.e. Hunting) area, blasting away at anything that moves. Kaneky, his brother, and Bootie, are good old boys, all Zambians, but Afrikaans from South Africa. They are full of hunting stories, Zambian gossip, pride in South Africa, fear of communism, contempt for the West and its weaknesses, and, most of all, total racial prejudice. But we don’t laugh at their racial jokes, so they are becoming more infrequent, and gradually we are learning to tread lightly, all of us.
Now, about the hunting thing. We’ve been at it three days, and so far the score stands at four animals killed. (impala - yours truly with a 22), buffalo, warthog, and wildebeest, and about seven wounded who escaped. These guys are allowed one each of about 10 different species, but I guess wounded ones don’t count. For me they do. We hunt from the Toyota, firing from the vehicle, sometimes tracking a bit on foot, rarely more than 100 yards. If the animal runs away, there is a half-hearted effort at finding it, but about always to no avail. Kaneky has four of his farm helpers to do all of the work: make camp, cook, clean and cut up the animals, dry the meat for biltong etc. Nicole and I haven’t lifted of fingers since we arrived, and are beginning to feel fat and lazy: hitchhiking is a lot more strenuous! One good part of the hunting is that all the good meat is out to dry as biltomg (Ed Smith’s favorite food), while the rest is used by the helpers and the local villagers; in other words, none of the meat is wasted. But we have another one and a half weeks to go, and I’ll reserve judgment until the hunting is over.
7 July 1977. Luangwa Valley, Zambia. Sitting in camp with Nicole, the hunters off to check the bait they’ve left these past two days, and perhaps to bag an elephant, kudu, or leopard. We are surrounded by strips of drying meat, the best parts of two cape buffalo and a wildebeest. In addition, the helpers' camp has another several hundred pounds of meat drying on a frame over a fire. The skins will be tanned, the buffalo feet made into ashtrays, the horns mounted - everything is being used. Bootie is even going to make desk holder out of the buffalo's testicle sack!
We are a week into the hunting safari, and so much has happened. I think I’ll just list the highlights. Since I last wrote, we’ve killed a puku, a second impala, a bull buffalo, a zebra, a waterbuck, and two guinea fowl. By good fortune, the puku and impala were two of the animals wounded in previous attempts. We have hanging as bait the zebra, the waterbuck, and the second Impala (the puku we hung two days ago was partly eaten by hyenas, so we dropped it from the tree to use the chains elsewhere). Kaneky wants to hang another Impala as well. The lion and leopard they are baiting for are going to have quite a choice.
We are getting very comfortable in our camp by the river. Each morning I walked to the Luangwa River to say hello to the hippos and the crocodiles on the banks. The birds are noisiest then - Green lovebirds, long tailed starlings, ringneck doves, all trading the morning’s gossip. Then a cup of coffee and a bit of toast, or perhaps some eggs and meat - this morning we ate our first biltong as well. Delicious - like beef jerky, but thicker. The morning game run takes us first to check on the baits, to see if they’ve been touched, and then off, in whatever direction suits our fancy, across country that would stop cold any lesser vehicle than the Toyota Land Cruiser. We return for a big lunch of meat and nshima (boiled corn flour - tasteless but filling), And spend the afternoon cleaning up, reading, watching the animals being cut up, or just shooting the breeze. Then, around 3:30, we are off for the second game run, usually returning after dark. A whiskey or two, another meal of meat and nshima, and we are in bed by 10.
Last afternoon around 5:30 we saw our first leopard - a big male, feeding on an impala injured by Kaneky on the previous day. He stood and watched us for at least a minute, then bounded off in smooth undulations, not making a sound. He said we were very lucky to see one so well. The night before, Kaneky shot a bull buffalo with the 375, and we heard it’s death growl a few minutes later. Unfortunately, the Toyota couldn’t get to it because of an intervening river, so we had to stay until late, first lighting bushfires to find the body. (and incidentally to keep its angry mate away), then skinning and cutting it up into portions to be carried on wooden sticks to the car. With the hyenas whooping in the distance, the hippos giving their laughing grunts, and the sky is full of unknown southern stars, it was a surreal evening. We got a bit potted on whiskey over the fire while the slaughtering went on, and Kaneky apologized for any ungentlemanly conduct of his, then began praising our virtues to the skies. Nicole was so tipsy she could barely communicate. All in all, things are if anything better among us all. Though we still cannot (and never will) accept our hosts' racist attitudes, I think we understand how they got that way, and how difficult it must be to break free from the South African party line on those matters. We have on the other hand, gained much respect for their skills and knowledge of the outdoors, and we at least have the love of nature in common. Their skills at spotting game and tracking animals are almost beyond belief - it never happens that we see something before they do, and often don’t see what they’ve spotted even after they point it out to us. And the hundreds of little bits of lore (some of it, suspect, to be sure) add up to an intimacy with nature only to be won after literally years in the bush. Some examples:
How a leopard, with its soft menacing purr, will climb slowly up a tree to a baboon, who, paralyzed with fright, will do nothing but hoop with fear until he’s caught.
The mother and father hippo take turns grazing, the partner staying with the baby to protect it from predators.
How the hippo spread its tongue with its tail while dumping - Bootie says it’s marking territory.
Hippos make love for a long time, grunting and moaning in a most amazing medley (we heard this one evening).
A leopard will not touch bait for a few days, but once he feeds, he’ll return regularly; and he always eats the soft stomach first.
Baboons ride on the back of impala (well, at least I know the species are often together).
The anopheles mosquito tips up to bite; the non-malarial sits straight, and just the opposite is true for their larva .
The best tasting meat is female warthog; never eat zebra meat (it’s just not fit to eat); waterbuck smells bad and makes bad biltong.
The best jumper is the kudu - Kaneky claims he seen one clear a 14 foot fence standing beside it. I say bullshit.
An injured buffalo always warns of a charge by laying its ears back and twitching its tail in a circle. An elephant warns by tucking its trunk between its legs and laying its ears (a false charge involves trunk held high, ears wide, and maybe a trumpet - like we witnessed yesterday afternoon).
An injured line always growls a bit before striking. An injured leopard is the most dangerous of all: he gives no warning at all.
A lion kills by jumping on the back of its victim, and with one paw on its neck and the other under, pulling sharply back to break its neck (Kaneky tells the story of finding eight bulls in a row on a road near his farm, all with broken necks, and not another scratch on them, the killer lion occupied with eating the ninth victim in the nearby grass).
Every animal, when injured, leaves its group.
Grazing animals associate with each other, for their mutual defense; the Impala coughs, the Puku whistles, baboons bark, when danger threatens; plovers often give warnings.
Vultures eat so much they sometimes can’t fly away; lions eat all night if they can, and will be found near the hit just lying around; leopards crunch up the bones rapidly and noisily.
A leopard will look at you, then turn its head down and advance without its eyes reflecting light. It is the most dangerous wounded animal by far. After shooting it when it comes for bait around sundown, let it lie all night and look for it the next morning - it may even play dead and attack at the last minute. It will tear you open with its front feet in a few seconds.
July 12, 1977. Luangwa Game Management Area, Zambia. We are sitting at the camp table, Nicole and myself. It seems days ago, but it was only nine hours ago, at two in the morning, that a man eating lion attacked our camp, injuring a man, and was shot by Kaneky before it could kill him. I woke from a deep sleep with the sounds of shouting from the help's campsite, not 50 yards from us. Calls of “Bwana! Bwana! “ and yelling and screaming, fright in every voice. Behind it all, a low roar. Bootie is up in a flash, Nicole shakes Konicki awake. Booty rushes around looking for the shotgun for Konicki (he has his own 375 ready to go), trips on my feet, then which finally gets me going. I stumble around with Nicole, getting dressed, as the three hunters try to get their guns - Nicole lights a kerosene lamp; the first of the help running into the tent, screaming, and crying for help. Nicole and I stand together in the back of the tent - we’ve heard “Man eater" by bootie, and we are clutching each other, feeling scared and excited. Robbie and Bootie shoot off four shots. - two with the shotgun and two with a 375 - I learned later that the lion ignored the shots completely. Then they all go off to the camp, three abreast, the help behind. Nicole and I are left alone, with a lamp - she suggests we jump into the mustang and we are in like Flint. Another shot is fired, and people start returning. Kaneky has come across the lion as it had ahold of the victim’s leg. He shouted at it "Rumpf!” but it stayed low, then he yelled ”Rumpf, you bastard!” and it lifted its head to look at him. He quickly changed the shotgun for a 375, fearin he might otherwise hit the victim, and nailed the lion in the forehead with one shot. The man is carried in front of the tent, a pair of large wounds in his upper left leg, with flesh forced out when the lion squeezed his jaws together; some puncture wounds around from claws in his leg. He is moaning very slightly, but doesn’t show he’s in any pain. His only words that night, addressed to Kaneky: “Thank you, Bwana, Thank, Bwana“. General feeling of helplessness. I want to be and look, brave, but how? Stay in the car - what about the others? I got out of the car just seconds after getting in, feeling confused, not understanding what is happening, then Nicole as well. But now lights, people, Konicki, riding back, smiling. “I got him.“ Boodie and I drive the poor fellow to an infirmary 40 miles away, got him admitted (he’ll be out in two weeks), return, talking about the action, lions, hunting. Felt speedy on the way down, but actually slept a bit on the return journey. Returned by 8 AM. Kaneky, Nicole and Rob had been hunting! (they saw three hyenas near the zebra - eaten - then a pair of leopards, and then the three lines we had spotted the evening before. Also a Bushbuck). The fellows from the walking safari camp down the way came by with a game official to look it over - they'll keep the head for the local museum they are starting. And what a head! The lion (a female) was close to starvation, mainly because her lower front teeth had been knocked out with a bullet shot. Her sides and back looked full of shotgun pellets, wounds some weeks old. A bag of skin and ribs, a hideous, old, haunted faced, only giving a hint of its former good size. Had she been any stronger, the old man most surely would have been killed. When I first spotted her, going back with Kaneky shortly after we tended to the man, I thought she was a hyena.
What’s left for Nicole and me, after these two weeks hunting? ? Life will indeed seem a lot less exciting from now. Some highlights:
The elephant killing and slaughtering yesterday.
The three nights spent waiting for leopards in blinds (shooting a young one while it's parent waited beside it).
Shooting an adult leopard that escaped, heavily injured, most probably to die elsewhere of its wound.
The amazing clash of two hippos over their river territories, snorting and blowing, and knocking their teeth together.
The killing of a male kudu with a horn (only about one and a half inches high) in the center of its forehead.
The killing of a big male buffalo at sundown across a dry river bed, inaccessible to the Toyota, necessitating irs slaughter by moon and firelight.
Hyenas and hippos, offering up their background music.
Being led by a honeyguide to some unfortunately dry combs only 50 yards from camp.
Watching our neighboring hunter/poachers take potshots at the 20 to 30 crocodiles attracted to the bait they set up in the river.
The killings, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, the animal running, stumbling, stopping, maybe falling over or more gently, falling to its knees, hardly ever a sound except the last, lung-emptying roar of the buffalo or the trumpet of rage from the elephant as it falls to its haunches like a dog, paralyzed by a bullet through its spine, the other animals careless/curious/unheeding/wandering, then back soon to their grazing.
I feel sleepy and drained now (it’s 11:45 AM), and think I’ll nap with Nicole for a while. I thought about her a lot these past several eventful hours - she really is the most important thing about me.
22 July, 1977. Fish Eagle Inn, Malawi. Sitting in our little cottage, one day full board about $7.50 a person, the lake broad as the ocean, a steady, cool wind coming off at us, mackerel sky. Sweet weather. Hot tea weather. Waiting for Parker to show up (he already has, but he’s been out all day somewhere, and we just arrived by thumb from Monkey Bay ). We stay here a day or two, then stock up and head straight for Luangwa Valley. We should be with him for 2 1/2 to 3 weeks. It will be pleasant. The good life.
We’ve seen a small bit of Malawi in the five days we’ve been in the country: hitched to and stayed in the rest houses at Llongwe, Blantyre, and Monkey Bay, and spent one fine night in the campsite on the Zomba Plateau. Cool weather all along; quiet, peaceful towns, non-threatening feeling about the cities and other people; not much to see, not much to do; only a few other travelers, and very little road traffic - toughest hitchhiking we’ve had thus far (2 1/2 hour wait this afternoon). Everyone here seems tickled pink with Malawi - economy growing like dynamite since independence, tobacco, a big, cash crop, people work, hard, etc. Malawi apparently has the lowest wage scale in the world (this from an expatriate who may have been full of it). Certain however, it is that the average daily wage is around $90 a year. Banda keeps it in line with a solid police and army, and freely trades with Rhodesia and South Africa, and takes aid from any and all. The Peace Corps has a couple of dozen volunteers in Malawi. Ridiculous ban on trousers and mini skirts for women. - Nicole’s been called three times on it already, once by a policeman who made her roll up her trousers so they didn’t show below her wrap-around skirt. She’s furious, and continues to defy the ruling - We'll be lucky to get her out of Malawi before she lands herself in jail.
The towns here are loaded with goodies from all over the world, but goods from South Africa and Rhodesia are expensive: they are taxed, and because there are no land or air connection any longer between Malawi and Rhodesia, goods from the latter country must be first shipped to Johannesburg, and then flown to Blantyre. Result: prices are as high as in Zambia, but with a much wider selection.
The Zomba Plateau was a nice bit of non-African scenery - tall cypress and gum trees, all planted in rows for eventual harvest; rushing streams, reportedly full of trout, waterfalls, etc. - like any nice Oregon or California mountain scene.
July 26, 1977. Luangwa Valley National Park, Zambia. Into the national park this morning, after a day in Luambe National Park, just south from where we hunted. Lovely grass plains with zebra, impala, puku, elephants. Oxbow lakes with storks, herons, ibis. Saw several gorgeous greater kudu, and took one picture. Hippo and crocodile are everywhere. The skies have been cloudy, but this keeps the temperature cool and pleasant. Last night, the three of us camped just outside Luangwa Valley National Park - hyenas all night long. The night before, we stayed at the Lucambe camp - You Bring It and They Prepare it. Nice table with glasses, tablecloth, lanterns, and attentive servant, rendered with all the trimmings. A nice way to camp, but a bit expensive: about five dollars per person. We’ve been eating well since we left Malawi: whiskey and bourbon for a cocktail (orange juice, and gin for lunch), peanuts, tomato purée with spaghetti, or some mixed fresh vegetables, followed by perhaps a fruit salad with rum and vanilla; and don’t forget the South African wine (ordinary, but at least it’s wine). Our only complaint is the vehicle Parker brought with him from Lubumbashi - a Chevy station wagon, with suspension adapted for US freeways, and whiplash steering. Mileage: about 10 mpg. America, why do you do it? The border post officer told us he caught over 70 poachers the last two years in the park - mostly local people trying to get meat for later sale. I guess it’s the same everywhere.
August 3, 1977.Okavango Swamp Camp, Botswana. Sitting at a table next to the bar, electric lights overhead, rock music from a South African station, a cold beer in hand, anticipating a dinner of steak and perhaps grilled fish - quite a change from the past several days of travel.
8 August 1977. Okavango River Lodge, Botswana. Back again at the bar, but after a grueling, five day canoe ride to Chief Island and back. The hot shower, shampoo, joint, and scotch have mellowed me considerably, but my neck muscles are still a bit sore, my skin is all dried out, and my hands will take some days to recover. Pretty much the same action each day in the swamps: rver channel of clear water with reed fields on both sides and small islands of palms, hardwoods, and grasses. Incredible spider habitat - we all collected 20-30 or more near our feet after each passage through the reeds. Nailed only two new birds: pygmy, goose and four colored strike, and the others were not extensive in varieties or numbers. pied kingfisher, fish eagle, white-breasted cormorant, little bee eater, ringneck dove (thrill). Bearded woodpecker, lots of jacanas, go-away bird, blacksmith plover, etc. At the lodge, African Penduline-tit and red-eared fire finch.
The biggest excitement of the five days: the first day returning we canoed to within about 100 feet of a hippo before we noticed each other. The hippo charged us completely underwater, a bow visible above to mark his progress. Our guide told us to paddle straight for the shore, which we did; the hippo passed the rear of our canoe missing us by about 15 feet, and continued another 100 feet up river. I could not believe the speed and power of that animal: it moved underwater as fast as I trot on land. I guess that was the closest call we ever had in Africa.
Victoria Falls, on the border between Zambia and Rhodesia, was kind of a thrill: noisy and misty, and much wider than I expected, almost a mile (!). We stayed in the adjacent campsite and saw the falls in the afternoon, at night, and the next morning, when it cleared up enough to see the bottom. Double rainbow from the border's edge. The geological explanation of its formation is one of the few I’ve really understood. Many millions of years ago, a plug of soft basalt busted up into the area of the present falls. Then, much later, and upheaval reversed the tilt of the land containing the plug, causing the rivers in the area to start cutting back through the plug, and draining into the Zambezi, instead of the Limpopo (I think Okavango Swamp must’ve been caused by the same upheaval). Slowly, the river reached the plug, and cut a wide mouth in the softer material, causing the first of maybe seven falls. Then the water started to cut through the falls fast, and a narrow channel was formed, eventually leading to another falls, the earlier one becoming a gorge. Hmm - not very clear, Sam.
Blew about six bucks a head on a terrible meal at the International. Once more, confirming our belief that the best food is cooked by yourself. The boat ride was a giant ripoff, of course, but tough to say no to. The game park had practically nothing outside of a large clearing with some sable antelope, zebra, wildebeast, eland, and warthog - just another zoo. The town of Victoria Falls was so dead, we couldn’t even find pictures of the falls! No sign of any military presence, although Parker got called on taking a picture of the Zambezi when we crossed into Botswana by ferry. Saw the train from South Africa sitting on the bridge, waiting for the Zambian locomotive to take it northeast with explosives for Zaire's mines.
August 10, 1977. Molepolole, Botswana. Waiting on the roadside for transport to Gaborone, where we hope our visas have arrived at last . Our friend Greg White, the young manager of the Okavango River Lodge, was given our application by Helen and Liz 10 days ago, but he mailed the visas back rather than extend them. Result: an extra week's wait. Angry, but it's not that bad.
The first night we slept out near the railway station, after discovering hotel prices were huge (About $25 for the night for the two of us), And being unable to locate Helen‘s friend, the gay lawyer, and his family. Same story next day, but we managed to meet a Botswanan, who let us camp in his backyard. It rained all night, and we arose cold and moist. The man had not returned catting around, so we spent the morning with his nice wife and four kids. - but realized soon that we wouldn’t take it for long. So off we went to the Holiday Inn, for 20 hours of hot baths, TV, warm, clean sheets, cooking in the room, washing clothes, and a six hour nap that covered Ken and Vicky, Scott and Bardie, my folks, Nicole‘s folks, life, travel, the works.
After the extravagance at the Holiday Inn, we met some PCVs at the Peace Corps headquarters in Gaborone, two couples who let us stay with them at the Peace Corps transit house (hotels are out): a nice change. We even got in a movie, and snacks at the house of the British vice consul, whose daughter is the girlfriend of another PCV. This guy, by the way, had some great dope to share: One of the many pleasures of African travel.
After finding out that our visas had still not arrived, we went to Molepolole with Jerry and Ilene, to stay with them in their teachers quarters, a lovely modern home with all the trimmings, including a nice big dog named Iba (“eagle” in the local language). They left the next day for a vacation in Rhodesia (Sadly - not allowed by Peace corps), and we stayed on through the weekend. Right now we are just crossing our fingers that the golden visas have arrived, but from what we’ve heard of South African mail system….
Never did mention our visit to Chobe National Park: spectacular! A memorable drive along the Chobe River, with lots of greater kudu, and more elephants than we’ve ever seen - at one point, we approached on foot a herd of about 50 crossing the river, the little ones protected by two guard elephants who came to stand between us and the herd until the others had passed safely across. One of those magic African moments. Also went wild and took three photos of a very tame Southern Carmen Bee Eater. Saw lots of water birds in the river, and quite a few Lechwe (Red?), also a Ground Hornbill, who walked right up to the car: I grabbed the camera, clicked, and it walked off. Visited the hotel where Liz and Richard were married, but it was closed - the South Africans are no longer coming to Botswana for holidays, since a couple of tourist incidents occurred on the main road.
Suffering a bit from a cough and sore throat, possibly due to the dry air and dust of the desert country. When the sun is out (and that is almost always.) the place is quite warm, and people tell us the summer is unbearable, 110° to 120°. Thank God it’s winter.
Can’t wait to get to South Africa, and we are actually looking forward to leaving Africa itself in a few months. It just isn’t worth it to stay in a place where you really can’t have anything beyond superficial contact with the people, and where the culture has so little to offer us tourists. Yemen, Iran, and India are looking mighty good right now.
Topics for further discussion (since they occupied Nicole and myself often):
The importance of food while traveling
Backpacks versus day packs versus suitcases
The people we meet and travel with, and how rare it is to truly "click"
Private car versus hitchhiking
Our Rhodesian hunters, with the elephant they shot
The local villagers cut up the elephant for meat
Hippos fighting in the river next to our camp
crocodiles, too: can you see one on the far bank?
The lion that attacked our camp.
Biltong from the animals shot by our hunters
The remnants of the animals shot for biltong
We hung an impala in a tree as leopard bait, and waited in a blind
When the leopard arrived, our hunters fired, and we heard something drop. It turned out to be the leopard's baby, shown here with Nicole. It's mother continued to circle our camp for the next several nights.
Victoria Falls
