TANZANIA:

What we know:

LAKE VICTORIA: LAKE TANGANYIKA: MT KILIMANJARO: SERENGETI:
NGORONGORO CREATOR: DAR ES SALAAM: TEA: THE LEAKEY’S NYERERE.

This frontier crossing is into one of the best-known countries of the African continent. Humans’ first upright specimen happened to walked out of here on two legs instead of four to take possession of the world.

Lying between Africa’s highest mountain and largest lake with the second deepest lake in the world Tanzania is about the same size as France. Volcanic highlands in the north descend to the Serengeti to give way to semi desert in the middle and climb once again to the highlands of the south. With lakes shaped by the Rift valley and a coastline shaped by Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Chinese, and Slavery it is no wonder we are excited to have arrived.

The road up to the border tests every nut and bolt that holds Williwaw together.

We, that is modern humans, may or may not have walked out of this part of the world, however a mere handful of Evolution millineu on, we are not going to walk back in with such ease. “Sorry you need a visa.” Fanny’s passport is being handed back. “All British subjects require a Visa”.   “You will have to go back to Harare or Lusaka and pay the $50” A round trip of over 2000 kilometres. (Top TIP: Border crossings are always stressful > Guns, Uniforms, Dingy Buildings, Customs, Foreign Tongues, and not forgetting Invisibility.   It’s good to remember that God must love stupid people he made so many. So don’t get agitated.)

I plead ignorance of the fact that British subjects needed a visa. Quoting from the Bible where it clearly states the contra.  This is not a good move as my passport like Fanny’s has the dreaded South Africa stamp – taboo!   It’s not looking good especially now that two who have done the round trip back to Harare to get their visas join us.

We are all still standing in the blazing sun with no sign of making it into the grey concrete building. I decide it’s time for the might of the dollar.  Handing over my passport with a fifty-buck note inside the back cover clearly visible to our Army uniformed stumbling block.

Twenty long minutes go by before he re emerges with his chief boss. They approach Williwaw. “Your passport Mr Dillon.” It is both stamped and relieved of its additional weight. A quick replenishment of its weight with Fanny’s passport and ten minutes later after a vehicle and baggage search we are on our way. God also loves the dollar.

A good tar road snakes through luxurious country up from the lake floor. Bubbling with the sense of relief from officialdom, the lake slowly disappears.   Progress is slow as we climb up into the Kipengere Range. Cresting the range the road changes from tar back to National Geographical red baked earth with the odd splash of orange. The surrounding trees and lush vegetation suddenly give way to the manicured bushes of tea plantations > Row after row bear witness to the invention of the tea bag.Passing a plantation named the Old Farm House offering camping we stop. Driving in we meet Nick from Mana pools he is a white-haired bearded, mumbling South African of sixty years with a Mercedes Jeep and a new lady friend.   He is on a trip – his first out of South Africa with the intention of driving up to Egypt. Unfortunately for him he has an inbuilt fear of blacks. This is the maximum north of Cape Town he has ever been. When we ran into him in Mana Pools we had written off his chances of ever reaching his chosen destination. We are rather surprised that he had made it this far.

The Old farm turns out to be owned by Ray and his wife Nicola > Inherited by both of them some years before it is a beautiful old world home covered in Fuchsia and Frangipani. “You can swim in the dam, order fat steaks, cold beers, fresh eggs, have a shower, camp where you like, you are most welcome. We stay for three days. Pitch No 100.

Over a few fat barbeque steaks South African style we are introduced to Nick’s travelling partner and treated to his life story.   His Merc is equipped to the teeth everything apart from the Doberman for security. Williwaw looks pitiable tired in comparison. His lady friend a soft butterfly character is obviously fed up with Old Nick’s trepidations of lack of razor wire. We can’t see them lasting much longer together. After few a few balls of Irish whiskey Nick bolts himself in for the night.   We retire well pleased with our day.

Ray arrives over next morning with an invitation to go up to the golf club in the afternoon to watch the All Blacks playing S.A. We spend the morning exploring the farms small dam and its consequential mirror lake. Set in amongst large trees it is one of those dreamlike places in a much as one is both in the lake and on the bank at the same time.

Returning to the house we set off for the club. The drive into the clubhouse a modern building built by tea profits is from beginning to its end through rows and rows of tea bushes. Not a leaf out-of-place. Every minute a new leaf appears it is plucked. Parking we are at once approached by prospective caddie’s. Horror of horrors, some ‘old boys’ are there from the gin and tonic brigade for the rugby match.

Florence meets a new friend during the match. She is a daughter of a farmer turned wildlife artist named Michael who according to Ray, has some world eminence when it comes to his wildlife paintings. “He uses a game park called Ruaha Game Park not far from Iringa which you will pass on your way north for his inspiration.”   Michael spends the next hour trying to put us off visiting Ruaha. “Bad Road, difficult to get to, not the right time to visit.” When pointed out by Ray that we had already driven over half of Africa he became even more protective of what he obviously considered to be his domain. He was afraid that we will fall in love with Ruaha and spoil his muse for future work of art. Ruaha by the way is almost as big as the Serengeti National Park a mere 13,000 km² so we don’t know what he is worried about.

We take our leave and visit a nearby restaurant.   It’s closed, so Ray suggests we visit a friend of his. A quick ring on the radiophone and we are all invited over for a spot of late lunch.   Surrounded on all sides by manicured tea plantations as far as the eye could see, we arrive to be greeted at the door by an English housewife. Surprise, surprise, there is no invitation to enter the house. Her husband turns up and we give him a hand to lower the roof tent on to his Land Rover.

He explains that he is going to explore the Dark Continent outside the tea plantation for a day. The couple have just arrived in Tanzania a few months previously and are still like goldfish out of water. Every thing black is taboo. Ray is obviously embarrassed. After five or ten minutes of waffle talk we leave. Ray suggests a game of golf. Ten minutes later I am standing on the first tee, with my caddie, my drink, my porter, my ball cleaner, my temple wiper. Fanny and Flo follow play for a few holes before returning to the coolness of the clubhouse. Ray and I march on with our contingent of assistances.

The course is unlike any other I have played on. Set in the middle of the plantations, the fairways are encased by the tea bushes. Any wayward shot disappears never to be found again. There is no shade except on the tees and greens, which are surrounded by large eucalyptus trees.   By the time we have played the Typhoo, the Lyons bag, the Strainer, the Tea leaf and the Cup and Saucer, we have consumed ten golf balls each, two gin and tonics and had our brows wiped a hundred times. Ray has also eventually stopped apologising for his friends late lunch invitation and concentrates on his golf.

The day is topped off with a large barbecue with several bottles of Serengeti Classic.  We stay another day.

Florence departs with Michael the Artist and his daughter for the day.   Fanny, Nick and I go fishing at the dam. We spot in the first ten minutes without moving, twenty species of bird. The lake is surrounded by weeping willows and eucalyptus is full of birdsong and reflections, with the odd bullfrog croak.   Overall there is a sense of silence only broken by hiss of the fishing line and the plop of the float. In the tranquillity of a wonderful lazy day no matter what bait we try there is not a bite to be had.

Returning to our campsite Nicks lady friend has fled the coop. That evening over a large bush TV fire, cold beers and Ray’s juicy stakes with a visit from some South African road builders Nick requests our company as far as Dar es Salaam – the ‘Haven of Peace. I am not too keen to have a paranoid South African in tow, however I am reminded by the girls of my Roadies Mantra “If it’s wet drink it, if it’s dry, smoke it, if it moves screw it, if it doesn’t move sling it in the back of the van.” “It’s easier to be kind than cruel.”

With Nick in tow we leave the Poroto Mountains us behind moving into the fertile foothills of Mbeya. Tea turns to cocoa, coffee, and banana plantations. The road turns from hard backed to clay to our first tar corrugations. I’ve long stopped looking in my mirror for Nick. He is attached like a limpet mine.   Michael – the artist’s game park Ruaha passes on our right. We decide not to visit. As I said, in this part of the world it is difficult not to end up in a lake, this also applies to Game Parks.   Skirting the Usangu Flats we leave behind miles and miles of pine forest before arriving at Iringa.

Only a few countries on earth can blow your own trumpet to have dedicated more land to Game Reserves than Tanzania. We stop in The Mikumi National Park, which happens to be on the main drag. Our port of call is a small hospital that supplements its running cost by renting out a few rooms. We secure the last room available for the night. Nick sleeps in his roof top tent. Mikumi Park has a funny sort of set up. It’s positioned on the main drag to Dar es Sala. If you want to get there it is a compulsory visit to the park.   However if you say you are only going into the parks lodge to dine there is no entry fee. It’s a sort of animal toll gate. On the way up for lunch we spot elephant, giraffe and baboon. The lodge is a modern building with a Carte de jour, way beyond any backpacker’s pocket. Nick treats us to lunch. By the time we are finished we decide to spend the night back at the hospital.

On the way back Fanny takes a ride with Nick. Flo and I saunter back stopping to take a close up look at an elephant traffic road sign that warns unexpected drivers to “Beware of Elephants crossing.”  We stop further along the road at a snake farm, which is closed, but for a few hundred Tanzanian shillings we are given a private tour.

Black Mamba, Green Mamba tree dwellers Africa fastest moving snakes both with deadly venom. Adders: Vipers: Asp: Cobra: Egg Eaters: Boomslangers.   Flo leaves with her very own snake-skin and I get to appreciate that there are more than politicians that slither around in the long tall grass.

Early morning we once more are passing through the park. We have not gone far when we pull over to let a lion and his lioness cross the road. On the opposite side a local bus has also pulls over.   Not to admire the king of the jungle, but to let its passengers out to pump ship. Oblivious to any danger down come the knickers at the back of the bus and out pop the watering hoses at the front. Our two wild beasts are not tempted by any of the black asses on show or are they interested in any of the black puddings as they continue on their way into the bush. It is a hilarious sight something one expects to see in a Monty Python show. On the beast being spotted there is a verity of outside bus reactions. Frozen on the spot, knickers half up dash to the bus zips ripping pubic hair, pointing of fingers while trouser legs get sprayed. Inside whopping and hollering rapping on the windows, opening the door and closing till calm settles. Nick in my wing mirror is white knuckled stuck to his steering wheel as if the cats are going to appear in this passenger seat.

We arrive at Morogoro. Reported to have a wonderful vegetable market Nick takes the lead into town in search of the market place.   Bustling with people Morogoro has a pleasant feel to it. We stop to refuel purchasing a new type of raspberry from a street vendor. While waiting to exit the fuel station Nick disappears around a corner. On rounding the bend after him here he is coming down the opposite side of the road. White faced with fear, he announces that he couldn’t find the market place.   I follow him out-of-town until we arrive at a roundabout.   His deep-rooted fears of black Africa have him by the short and hairiest. Damned if I am going to be his nursemaid. It’s time we split. I tell him to stay put until we return.

The town square is a glorious market of wonderful African caricature. We spend an exquisite hour purchasing some fresh vegetables, peanuts, fruit, and a few African kangas or sarongs.  A short cut out-of-town over some bomb crater potholes gets us back to Nick before he has a nervous breakdown. Being left in the big black world all alone is too much for his apartheid mind.

We push on to Dar es Salaam.   The road changes from broken up tar with potholes to corrugations and back again.   Apparently the only place one can leave a vehicle safely while visiting the Spice Islands of Zanzibar is the Silver Beach Hotel up the coast from the Haven of Peace.

Pitch no 101 is to Nick’s liking behind razor wire, patrolled by shillelagh cudgel bearing guards in amongst a dozen Overland Trucks and numerous tents.   We find a spot in this white man’s Belsen.

The only thing that can say favourably about it is that it is cheap. Owned by some Germans who acquired the place from the University of Des es Salaam for a song it has a utility building, a restaurant, bar, and toilets that are only, one-step up from a long drop, and of course a silver beach, which has long turned grey.

In the bar that night over a few beers I secure us a lift into town in the morning on one of the many Passion Trucks (Africa Overland trucks from the UK) parked in the campsite. The excursion into town is to provision the Truck and allow some of its passengers to exchange some money and visit the docks to book a ferry ticket to the Zanzibar.

Boarding the truck I notice that one of the pillars at the back has a bell marked with a code. “One to stop, two rings go, three toilet, continuous ring emergency, I can’t resist added four rings – sex.

The provision stop is at a small supermarket where I help load bags of rice, pasta, tins of various tomato based meals, bottled water, sweets, and all the rest to make for a healthy diet in the wilderness. By the time we are finished with the money exchange it is time to return to Belsen Zanzibar will have to wait.

A swim well away from the campsite washes away the concentration camp blues. With a meal that evening down the road in an Italian restaurant we ready for a trip into town in the morning with Williwaw to properly explore.

Haven of Peace 6° 00 S-35° 00 E is anything but peaceful.   A city and tropical port of over two million souls it has spread itself and its pollution far and wide over its hinterland and coastal position.   A mixture of German, Asian, British and Swahili buildings it is somewhat like a little Bombay.   Known as Jamhuri ya Muungano wa (Tanzania in Swahili) it houses the skull of the Nutcracker Man.

The first problem is getting a safe place to leave Williwaw. There is no way one could leave Williwaw unattended. We tour the dock area and out along the ocean road where the manicured gardens and high walls announce diplomatic land.

We stop at the Palm Beach hotel for a very expensive bit to eat with a Safari lager the cost of which deserved swallowing twice. Across from the hotel the girls find a small shopping centre – not a run of the mill shopping centre – NO, NO. This one is for chauffeur driven cars – you know the type. Yes.   Those immune from parking ticket number plate’s type. The parking attendant looks startled when Williwaw pulls into the enclosed car park.   One hour later we leave with all those things one misses when on the road for almost a year and half.   Marmite, Marmalade, Cheddar plus water biscuits, you name it and it’s in the basket on the way to checkout.

Returning to a suburb we spot a large wood carving market, another meander for an hour or two. How the hell the tourist gets some of this stuff back is a marvel in itself.   Full sized Massai, with wooden balls and spear, tables that weigh a ton, giraffes fifteen feet tall, hippos, some super chess sets, ebony statues many of which need a scratch to see if they are real ebony or black boot polish.   Masks, bracelets, woven baskets – every item is a bargain.

We arrive back late afternoon to brave the muggers of the beach. There is a warning sign saying do not walk down the beach for fear of being mugged. We ignore it and walk down the beach some distance from the campsite to watch local fishermen casting their evening nets. In the wonderful warm clear water we help pull the nets ashore. There is a fantastic feeling of camaraderie when hauling a net and this pull is no exception. The net is paid out by a boat in a large circle and then hauled ashore hand over hand. Their catch to our surprise is quite plentiful with many a scaled friend we do not recognise. We paddle back along the beach without spotting one mugger. Perhaps our swimming togs advertise to anyone watching from the jungle that we had little of value except some tanned white flesh. Sleep came early.

MALAWI

What We Know:
LAKE NYASA. (LAKE MALAWI) POOR. AIDS.

Sixty clicks from the border we arrive in Blantyre. Named after a village in Scotland where Dr David Livingstone was born. To us, it does not matter if it had been named after Joe Soap. After a long boring day of dust; heat, mixed with the anxieties of the ‘Gun Run’ our only interest is in getting our heads down. According to Fanny, the bible says that every hotel in the place is a rip-off. “Guess what?” Horror of horrors the very book itself was once banned for making nit-picking remarks by Malawi dictator Bandaw. He taking umbrage with its printed words

After nine hours driving it is this far and no further for us. We book into the nearest hotel. It turns out to be one of those hotels where one feels safer sleeping in one’s own sleeping bag than between the sheets. A Dump, Don’t let the fleas bite’ joint. Every time I venture out of our room I get propositioned by one of the many lurking house guests.

Taking into account a three-session visit to the bank to get some Kwacha we eventually leave Blantyre with a great deal of relief.   (Top TIP: If you can avoid Banks do so. Asian owned shops are a good bet for a better deal. ) Knowing sweet Fanny Adams about Malawi we set off in the direction of Africa’s third largest lake. All we have to do is to find the right road out-of-town. According to the Bible, everyone heads for the lake. Cape McLear eighteen kilometres north of Monkey Bay is the recommended spot for some R and R.

Passing shed after roadside shed selling beautifully carved chairs which thanks to be god are all too big to post or carry we make that fatal African error. Stop for directions. It’s a known fact in Africa if you point in a direction everyone will agree that you are pointing in the right direction.

You wont be surprised when I say that vast parts of Africa have escaped the pollution of traffic and the need for signposts. (Top TIP: GPS takes the fun out of it. Bring a compass.)

Malawi is one of the poorest countries on the continent. Around 835 kilometres long it is only 80 to 160 kilometres wide with over a quarter of its land mass under water thanks to Lake Malawi 500 kilometres long and up to 48 kilometres wide the lake marks most of Malawi eastern border with Tanzanian and Mozambique. We never the less end up going up-country on the wrong road.

Malawi Lake is also the point where the Great Rift Valley (formed 200 million years ago the rift is 4830 kilometres long) splits in two.   Depending on which way you look at the Rift it starts at Beira on the Mozambique Indian Ocean coast and ends all the way up in the Danakil Depression north of Ethiopia.   Danakil or dalanki?

The Eastern part of the Rift makes its way through Tanzania to Lake Turkana in Kenya.   While the Western Rift passes under Lake Tanganyika (Congo- Tanzania – Buruni- Zambia) Lake Kivu (Congo- Rwanda) Lake Edward (Congo-Uganda) Lake Albert (Congo-Uganda)

Anyway, after a whole day’s driving with no sign of a lake, it is kind of hard to explain how we managed to miss it. But miss it we do.  Instead of heading north up the middle of the country we somehow veer to the west ending up outside Dedza. The lake is hidden some sixty kilometres to our right over a very rough and difficult track.

Wild Pitch No 95 attracts as usual out of nowhere a bunch of kids all with wood carving skills.   Before our very eyes one of them sculpted a model of Williwaw with every addition I made to her is included in detail.

The next day with firm directions as to how to get to the lake and an assurance that “With a strong vehicle like yours, there is no problem,” we end up buying the model. The allure of a swim has us on the road early. We’ve not gone far when we meet another carved land rover. This one being held up by a small youth. Not quite as good as last nights model but on the narrow track there is no getting past. A brisk trade session secures our second model.   We continue on up the mountain track to be eventually rewarded with our first spectacular view of the shimmering water of Lake Malawi.

For the next half hour, we gingerly crawl down our eroded track, every bend has a traffic jam of Land Rover models. Word of our presence must have got out last night resulting in half the mountainside staying up all night to assemble them. The disappointment of no sale on some of the faces as we pass by is hard to bear.

One hour later we down at Lakeside level and are soon turning off for Cape McLear. Right on the turn, we find a small shop, some last-minute supplies. In the time it takes us to do our shopping two backpackers have materialised on the other side of the road. “Any chance of a lift? “   We indicate the roof. “Great.” Out pop two more from the nearest tin hut.   For the next two hours, we lumber in and out of potholes across a small river following a track that sometimes disappears completely.

Eventually, upon spotting a hut with a beer sign, we get to meet our roof passengers: Two English chicks with land Rover features. Two Aussies obviously attracted by the girl’s large shock absorbers, rather than any other finer features. They all down their beers in the firm belief that backpackers are not required to pick up the tab.

By my reckoning, the ride rather than having to hump oversized life support units and backpacks in the blazing sun for sixty kilometres to Cape McLear is worth the cost of a dozen beers.

We arrive too late to set up camp so we decided to rest up for the night in one of the many rondavels in Matabwo’s place – a rip-off but clean. Next morning we pitch near beach. Pitch No 96. It is rather strange to be on a beach after months in the bush. Luckily it’s not high traveller season. Cape McLear is a magnet for backpackers. We soon discover that we have the place almost to ourselves.   There is not much to explore other than the rows and rows of fish drying benches that stretch along the beach shore. It does not stop us from lapping up the tranquillity of the place.

Fanny takes the opportunity to bring Florence up to speed on some missed schooling.   A few extra classes on painting are thrown in by one of our only other visitors. Long evening lakeshore walks punctuated by the arrival of a pirogue back from fishing or a few woman busy with laundry gives the camera some classical African challenges for the photo album.

As you can imagine the lake has a hefty impact on where one goes in Malawi.

David Livingstone who spent fifteen years in Africa rediscovered Lake Malawi in 1858. Thereafter he went from one lake to the next. It was on his second outing in Africa that he came up the Shire River from Mozambique into the Lake Malawi. Lake Nyasa as it was called then. On he went to Lake Mwerv in the Congo and Lake Bangweulu in Zambia.

Not satisfied with those he then had a look at Lake Tanganyika. Richard Burton the explorer with an ideal young army guy named John Speke whom Burton took along for the trip had seen it first in 1858.   Livingston then disappeared until an American newspaper flushed him out in 1871.   At Ujiji on the Tanganyika lakeshore Henry Morton Stanley re discovered Livingstone. Both of them teamed up and popped over to Lake Victoria. Once again John Hanning Speke piped them to the post. He had left Richard suffering from maladies at Lake Tanganyika. He wandered over to the second largest lake in the world, where he rightly guessed that it was the source of the White Nile. For the next six years, until he shot himself in 1864, Burton and Speke brawled openly over whether he was right or not.

Sir Samuel White Baker had sighted Lake Albert in 1864; he bumped into Speke and Grant while going up the Nile from Cairo looking for its source. They told him of a Lake named Luta Ngize, which the Nile crossed. On he went for another three years until he arrived at Lake Luta Ngize which he renamed Lake Albert.

Our man Livingstone was still wandering around discovering Lake Chilwa in 1861, Lake Mweru in 1869 and Lake Bangweulu 1869.   He ended up in Chitambo in Zambia where he snuffed it in 1873 from haemorrhoids infections.   As to how he ended up there is somewhat of a mystery.  His body was carried back to Zanzibar to be finally transported and buried in Westminster Abbey – London.

You would think that all the lakes had been discovered, but Lake Rukwa was discovered by Joseph Thomson another Scot in 1879 and Lake Edward was formerly known as Lake Edward Nyanda by Sir Henry Morton Stanley in 1889.

Lake George or Lake Dweru and Lake Kyoga on and on it goes – it is therefore beyond doubt that in this part of the world one cannot help but to end up in a lake.

A late evening downpour gets sand in every place you can think of. It kick-starts our departure. We retrace our steps back to the main drag. Heading north on an excellent smooth road we follow the lakeshore up to Sanga Bay.   Pitch No 97 is in the grounds or if you like on the beach section allocated by a Dutch-run hotel. After a windy night in the grounds, we pack up and move on.   Sanga has little to offer in the way of any interest.

Along came our trusty newspaper reporter Henry Morton Stanley in 1875. He circumnavigated Lake Victoria confirming that Speke had guessed correctly.

Sir Samuel White Baker had sighted Lake Albert in 1864; he bumped into Speke and Grant while going up the Nile from Cairo looking for its source. They told him of a Lake named Luta Ngize, which the Nile crossed. On he went for another three years until he arrived at Lake Luta Ngize which he renamed Lake Albert.

Our man Livingstone was still wandering around discovering Lake Chilwa in 1861, Lake Mweru in 1869 and Lake Bangweulu 1869.   He ended up in Chitambo in Zambia where he snuffed it in 1873 from haemorrhoids infections.   As to how he ended up there is somewhat of a mystery.   His body was carried back to Zanzibar to be finally transported and buried in Westminster Abbey – London.

You would think that all the lakes had been discovered, but Lake Rukwa was discovered by Joseph Thomson another Scot in 1879 and Lake Edward was formerly known as Lake Edward Nyanda by Sir Henry Morton Stanley in 1889.

Lake George or Lake Dweru and Lake Kyoga on and on it goes – it is therefore beyond doubt that in this part of the world one cannot help but to end up in a lake.

A late evening downpour gets sand in every place you can think of. It kick-starts our departure. We retrace our steps back to the main drag. Heading north on an excellent smooth road we follow the lakeshore up to Sanga Bay.   Pitch No 97 is in the grounds or if you like on the beach section allocated by a Dutch-run hotel. After a windy night in the grounds, we pack up and move on.   Sanga has little to offer in the way of any interest.

Our day passes over too many streams and rivers to mention. Transport us half way up the lake to Nkhala Bay. It is beyond belief that this country once suffered an appalling drought causing thousands of deaths.

We stay in a backpacker’s hostel or in one of their chattel houses, classified as luxury.   Fanny orders some food, which takes forever to arrive. Waiting for a beer we hear two familiar voices. We’ve seen it all. The Germans from Mana Pools are engrossed in conversation “Did you see?” “Did you see?” We saw Mobi Dick and the Loch Ness Monster. They did not see us. That’s what we call luxury.

Morning glistens on the lake. We hear of a little beach over the back of the bay. The hostel owner advises against walking over to it. “You could be mugged.” The thought of being mugged by our ‘Jah’ friends is more terrifying. We set forth armed with a picnic. The track is narrow and steep but well trodden. Dense vegetation on both sides makes each encounter with approaching traffic a startling experience. Ladies on their way to market descend sure-footed balancing their produce on rolled up scarves on their heads. They are all dressed in splashes of vivid colours that would give a painter’s pallet a full work out.

We pass through one village after another > our arrival in each announced by the ever-present dogs. After two hours we emerge onto a beach of some considerable Robinson Crusoe beauty.   A small stream struggling to reach the lake waters cuts the beach in half. Another stream cuts a deep pool against one of rocky headlands that forms the little-sheltered bay. The sand is soft, golden and footprint-free – deserted.

A wonderful day is spent snorkelling. Florence is becoming more and more confident with every kick of the flipper.   A small boat arrives at noon to sell what it has caught. I do a deal with the boat owner to call back later and save us the long hike home.   Florence is joined by a group of village kids. They spend their time playing a game that involves planting a stick in the sand. Then, in turn, each child scoops some sand away from the stick.   The one to make it fall suffers a splashing, accompanied by yelping that could be heard on the other side of the lake.   As promised the boat returns we arrive back not mugged not robbed but embraced by a day of African gentleness.

Next morning the skies open, turning the trackback from the hostel to the main road into a treacherous torrent. We wait until after lunch but there is no let-up. It’s not all that far to the main road. We set off before it gets to the point of being trapped for the night.   Williwaw slips and slides her ways down the track inch-by-inch with mud up to her axles.   Arriving at a small wooden bridge, brown gun grey water hides the bridge from view. The girls bail out and wade across, whilst I take a long look. The bridge is narrow and not in great repair. It’s risky. Although the water is only a half wheel deep it is the unknown state of the bridge that worries me. On the other hand, the water is visibly rising. Wait any longer and there will be no hope of crossing. With a steady hand on the helm, I commit Williwaw slowly. Steady as she goes. She crosses with little bother with me feeling a little nerve racked.

After the negotiated bridge we stop at Salima for a spot of bargain hunting.   The morning downpour has added a keenness on the part of the stall owners to make a sale. Fanny wrangles a deal on a small wooden table that has one of the most enchanting smiles one would see carved into the wood.

Livingstonia is a mere four hundred kilometres up the lake. Set high on an escarpment it commands fantastic views over the lake. The Free Church of Scotland founded here it in 1894. Somehow or other we miss the turn-off and end up in the mountains of the Nyika National park. Pitch No 97 is down a track in amongst eucalyptus trees. It’s cold and damp and as is the case more often than not, when you camp in the wild you have company. This time it is a forester’s family. They watch from a distance afraid to approach.   We pay a morning visit to our neighbours. They are obviously very poor. A pair of shoes for the young one brings a moment of unadulterated gratitude. We break camp and backtrack in the direction of Mzuzu. Descending we pass many men making their way up with long saws over their shoulders. The plank makers cut felled trees by hand and then sawing them into planks, back-breaking work for a pittance.

This time we take the correct turn and start our ascendance up into the clouds. The track has a right angle bend every few hundred meters. The pedestrian backpackers path takes the shortcut straight up from one bend to the next. To hoofing a rucksack up we reckon would take most of a day. With Williwaw it takes us all of two hours to reach the top. Pitch No 98 is on the lawn right in front of the youth hostel called the Stone House. Our tent door opens out on to panoramic views across the lake to Mozambique on the far shore with the border running down the middle of the lake with the odd disputed Island.

We have just settled in when out of the grasses exterior the German binoculars materialize.  They are in such a sweat that their sunglasses are fogged up. They don’t recognise us. Looking totally wrecked they enquire, “Have you seen the Stone House?” We point in the direction of the other youth hostel.   Happily on they plod.

Opening our tent we are greeted by one of those rare overcast mornings. Eating hot bread for breakfast the lutetium grey lake waters peppered with shafts of sunlight present a show of illumination that is spellbinding.

Lake Malawi is home to the world’s largest collection of a diminutive freshwater fish called Ciclids.(cyclids?)   Apparently the females are so impressed with colour that they have driven the males to change colour if they are to have any chance of sex. Some females like green some like yellow and so on. It is a rare ambiguity in natural selection not known in other animals.   Its human drawback is that they are a prized aquarium fish.

Two volunteer guides from the night before re-appear. A short tour of Livingstonia includes its famous hospital, school and its coffee plantations. All of which gives us a feeling of its past glory colonial days. Our guides lead us down the escarpment by way of a narrow track for about four or five kilometres. We emerge eventually at a wooden hut called the Lower Nest. It is a small bar set on the side of a deep densely vegetated narrow valley. Teaming with bird life the bar is well named. Its nesting spot, however, represents the first ominous signs that cuckoo man is about to give our feathered friends the bums rush.

After a few cold beers that go down a treat, we continue our stunning walk along the valley’s side to the Manchewe Falls.

Small yellow butterflies flutter in front of our every step.   They colour the track with vivid patches of yellow that give the impression of being pour out of our glimmering green surroundings.   All of a sudden in a breathtaking jungle setting the falls come into view. Nestled in amongst the dense canopy of vines and trees a pillar of water sixty meters high surges onwards from the very trees tops themselves.   It’s a perfect wedding of nature with a cacophony of sound.

With some pride, our guides informed us that the caves behind the falls were once used as a hiding place. The Phoka tribe’s people, when hunted by Nogoni slavers, took refuge in them. It is no wonder. The falls are spellbinding casting a web of spray with each droplet of water reflecting its surroundings in the sunlight. There is no doubt that it is difficult to enhance the beauty of light. Our camera struggles to capture this gem of natural sculpture.

Our return journey back up the hill is by way of many a house backyard. The odd sweet brings toddlers of all sizes and ages running. Back at the Rest House over a few puffs of Malawi gold, the day draws to a close with one of those African Sunsets that needs no help from a joint.

Over breakfast and our pending departure, we make an offer to buy the place, it is flatly turned down. Williwaw winds her way back down to the lakeshore. (Top Tip One of the benefits of Lake Malawi is that one can acquire a driving licence very much cheaper than in other parts of the world.)  

We spend the day on yet another little beach near Chilumba; an old-world hotel long abandoned overlooking the beach. As always it not long before we are spotted by a passing boat. It’s young skipper offering his services to bring us around to a rock outcrop where he assures us that we will see the famous Ciclids in massive shoals.   Florence with her new-found snorkelling skills and I have a swim around the rocks without much success. Fanny convinced that she is ripe for a dose of Bilharzia (even though Lake Malawi is for the most part free compared to the other large lakes of the beastly little snails) ops for the suntan bottle.

Late afternoon finds us we pushing on up the last of the Malawi lakeshore to Karonga our last port of call before leaving and crossing over into Tanzania.

Here we camp pitch No 99 in the car park of the Government Rest House.

(To be Continued)

Donation News: Its look like I am going to have to put the last chapter into Quarantine till one of my lovely readers makes a donation

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259180. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code: 98-50-10.

ZAMBIA.
What we know:

FORMER NORTHERN RHODESIA. VICTORIA FALLS. CECIL RHODES.

British need a visa 50$, car insurance 36$ and an hour of form filling we are on our way.
Stopping in Livingstone (renamed Maramba) we visit its small museum dedicated to a Scottish born doctor –missionary and explorer extraordinaire David Livingstone and his wife Mary nee Moffat. David, as you might remember, was one of my fantasy ferry acquaintances on our crossing to Africa from Europe. A forerunner of European Imperialism eventually converted to African Nationalism he had come a long way from Shuttle row in Blantyre eight miles outside Glasgow to be the first white man to see and name the falls on the 16 November 1855: Victoria (Known to the Kololo people who lived up-stream as smoke and thunder)

The museum does little to prepare us for what lie’s ahead the world’s widest expanse of falling water. It does, however, leave us with some appreciation of the determination of Livingstone. To put Livingston time in context the light bulb had just been invented one year before he was born. When he first laid eyes on the falls the bicycle still had iron wheels. Sparrows had arrived in the USA and it would be another thirty-nine years before moving pictures were invented. It’s only a year since the charge of the Light Brigade. There can be no doubt that he must have being gobsmacked as his canoe floated towards the lip. It’s no wonder he could not resist the temptation of some twenty-century graffiti carving his initials and date on a tree.
Indian smoke signals of white clouds are like him our only warning that the Zambezi waters are going to nose-dive headlong into a gigantic void. Will we be as gobsmacked? Not yet.

Our first view from the riverbank is restricted. White clouds of spray and dazzling rainbows block any clear view. The awesome power and majesty that captured Livingstone will have to wait till tomorrow. For us, it’s shower time at the Rainbow Lodge. Approaching the Zimbabwean border Victoria is coughing up a cloud every few minutes. Most are crossing in our direction. That is from Zambia to Zimbabwe. Over 95% of tourists arrive at Victoria on the Zimbabwe side. Formalities to cross over with Williwaw are a bit of a nightmare. As always calm, some good humour and the might of the dollar work’s wonders with the car papers causing most of the problems. Stamp, Stamp we over. Our one-day stay in Zambia is over.

ZIMBABWE.
What we know:

FORMER SOUTHERN RHODESIA. IAN SMITH. UN SANCTIONS. MUGABE. WHITE FARMERS. VICTORIA FALLS.  

We disappear one after the other into the tumbling hot water. Heaven in Africa is not difficult to find it’s a hot shower. How give a fuck about one millions of litres of tranquil Zambezi water that plunge over Victoria > Up to 650 million every minute in the rainy season. At this very moment in time for all, we care it might as well be a dribble. Situated right on the river edge just above the falls edge Rainbow Lodge is well named. Reborn we venture down to have another look.
David clean-shaven, sporting a moustache with long sideburns and a receding hairline found the falls while he navigated down the Zambezi in the hope of finding Gods Highway into central Africa. He first saw them some distance further down the river from where we are now standing. In another ten thousand years Rainbow lodge will have to move one and a half kilometres up river if it wants to stay from falling over the edge.

Disturbing two youths who are having an evening wash we emerge onto the very lip of the falls. The view across the leading edge is mesmerizing. Sheets of water reflect a canvas of the setting sun posing for a split second before, spilling over in long vaporizing blocks of water. One can follow individual chunks of water till they break into white drops right in front of your eyes. Further out the falls, the water disappears into large cracks where it gathers energy to make the jump into the unknown void below.

Twice the height of Niagara and one and a half times wider it impossible to get an overall view across the 1.6km width of the falls. Victoria is in fact made up of four falls: Devil’s Cataract, Main Falls, Rainbow Falls and Eastern Cataract. From its highest point at 108m water sprays up to 500m into the air creating a factory of perpetual white clouds that glide up into the sky. The only unquestionably unchanged caricature of the falls since David time is that the Zambezi River now dammed has changed its spirit utterly. On arriving at the edge as a smooth slow flowing river it changes in a wink into the rage of nature that David must have seen.

Returning to the Lodge under a full moon we are treated to a lunar rainbow, dinner and a deep sleep with water on the brain.

By the time we emerge next morning after yet another long shower session the sun is already poaching the land. Armed with some local knowledge the best way to get truly saturated is to head for the Chain Walk a pathway that descends down into a gorge called Devil’s Cataract on the Zimbabwean side of the falls. To fully understand the falls one has to realize that it is forever on the retreat. The present falls is the eight to appear on the river over the last million years. Each falls forming where the river finds a fault in the lava bed of the river. Devil’s crack is the latest and it is already 300m below the main fall line. Eventually, over the next few thousand years, the whole lot will pour down this crack to form the ninth site for Victoria.

Donning some wet weather gear we set off. The unremitting spray of Victoria gives the place its own microclimate. Just as in David’s time the falls are surrounded by lavish rainforest remaining both dramatic and dignified. Not so the hinterland, which has turned into a gold mine bastardized by the ever-increasing tourist commercialization. Now a major world tourist attraction with a population of 72000 living in and around its sides I am sure his Victorian constitution would take a turn for the worst.

Feeling somewhat strange dressed up in rain proofs we pay our entry fees. (Top TIP: Bring a waterproof bag for your cameras.) A trail through deep vegetation leads down to a jutting rock outcrop with many vantage points. Each stop taking ones breath away as the falls make’s public its claim to one of the world’s natural wonders. After the Sahara, the Kalahari and Namibian deserts we find it tricky to get our heads around so much water. God knows the way we are polluting the world drinking water it could be the source of many a forthcoming coming African war.

Around here you eventually realize that all paths lead to craft centres or craft villages and only a promise made at Danger Point overlooking Boiling Pot of lunch in the Victoria Falls Hotel saves the credit card from taking a pounding. The Victoria Falls Hotel is one of the few remaining old colonial old world hotels. Built in Edwardian style 1904 when the Cape to Cairo railway reached the falls it now caters to the well-heeled tourist.

For the second time in our voyage, we feel inappropriately clad in shorts and tees shirts. In the splendid Livingstone Room, they don’t go with linen tablecloths, fine glassware, and an array of forks and knives to tax one’s dining table etiquette. This is made more than obvious by the standing waiter with a tray that is dressed in whites, gloves and red fez. “Madam” “Noilly Prat gin Martine please,” says Fanny “Would you like it served here or on the Stanley’s Terrace.” “Sir” “On the terrace; s’il vous paît; with a large Gin and tonic if you please. Perhaps the craft shop /village might have turned out more lenient on the plastic. To hell with it, this marks the starting point to the second half of our journey. With drinks in hand we watch a bungi jumper launch himself from Over lunch I sign up for a one-day rafting trip in the morning down what called the Botaka Rapids.
7am the next morning “ Please sign the handed out forms.” Indemnities against all accidents and loss of life. Next the safety talk. Long swimmers. Hold on to the ropes on the side of the raft. Do as your raft leader requires and everything will be honkey dorey. Pay now drown later. My group consists of Dutch couple, an Aussie, a brother and sister, two employees of the rafting company and a black skipper. “OK, mount up.” I am sitting beside David our accompanying long swimmer canoeists. He hands out maps of the day’s river decent > Twenty-three rapids in total.

Looking at the map all the rapids are all suitably named to put the fear of God in those who have never done white water rafting before or who will never again. Rapid no 6 Devil’s Toilet Bowl. Rapid no 8 Midnight Diner > consisting of a choice of three runs. On the left “Star Trek” with a hole of 5m reserved for the brave, or down the middle called “Muncher Run”, or the right “ “Chicken Run.” rapid no 9 “Commercial Suicide”, “The Mother” rapid no 13, “Terminators One and Two” rapids no 16 and last but not least “ Oblivion “to name just a few.

Our converted Dutch army truck takes an hour to arrive at our launching pad so I have plenty of time to speak to David. Long swimmers turn out to be a bloke who has been swept some distance from the raft. It’s David’s job to go and fetch the drowning dude in his canoe i.e. long swimmers that are about to stop swimming. Short swimmers are those that pop up beside the raft. They are usually deal with by those who have not fallen out. If there is no left in the raft they should grab hold of the rope and climb aboard whether the raft is upside down or not.
The truck comes to a halt. Our first surprise is not long in coming. To get down to the river there is a long descent down the side of the gorge. Not by a track but step by step on a rickety ladder made from tree branches. With no handrails, it’s a true test of balance. The Dutch couples in front of me are making heavy weather of the decent. Our black captain raising his hand’s skywards in acknowledge of their difficulties. It looks like he has resigned himself to spending more time in the water than out of it. I can’t help sympathies with his premonitions. The Aussie brother and sister are attempting the descent by stepping in-between the ladder rungs. The inevitable happens. Crash! Down goes the long-legged sister chick ripping the ass out of her flimsy shorts exposing two juicy cheeks separated by a pink G-string. The panoramic view of which is not lost on our captain.

One hour later. Issued with life jackets and paddles we are assembled on the Rocky River shore. Raft places are allocated with two moons the sister getting the place of honour in the bow. Our rubber raft tethering on its painter in a backwater pool is then fitted with its steering oar. Twenty meters out from the shore the river boils. Pressure bubbles float into the backwater in long columns to explode like flashbulbs. “All aboard.” “Weil going to go twice around there for some practice.” Tayto > the captain announces indicating the circle with his hand.
OK! “When I shout full steam ahead you are all paddle to getter.” “Good.” “When: I shout on the right.” “Those on the left are to paddle backwards and those on the right are to paddle forwards. “ On the left” those on the right paddle backwards and those on the left paddle forwards.” Good! Good! “High five all the paddles in the air like this.” He holds a paddle in the air over his head with his two hands. “Got It” “All aboard.” Around we go twice. ON THE RIGHT producing a clatter of paddles and ON THE LEFT producing a new command from Tayto, “All together please.” Round two. Not much better. The view, however, has improved with our bow lady throwing herself enthusiastically on Tayto command face down over the bow.

Hitting the main flow with paddles thrashing, Tayto’s legs muscle tense as the current takes the raft. Our first sight is David surfing upriver on a never advancing backwater wave. High five shouts Tayto we have just navigated our first rapid of twenty-three. The high-five apparently is also a team signal of our achievement. Neither of the Dutch Edams got wet. On we go. The next rapid presents no problem or the following three. Smiles with Orange Juice, all around.

The walls of the cannon tower on either side of us. Zambia on one side and Zimbabwe on the other. Next up is Morning Glory our first major rapid. On the bow, cheeks tighten. Toto’s voice disappears as we hit a hole and are swept towards the canyon wall to be dumped into another big hole. While those in the stern of the raft end up in the bow cheeks is catapulted head first into the drink. Toto’s black hand pulls her aboard revealing to all that she has lost the remaining tatters of her shorts. Stairway to Heaven is upon us before there is time for a short change even if she had a pair.
The Stairway is a class five rapid very steep and powerful with heaps of massive waves and holes. From where we are sitting it is an amazing spectacle. Its size and volume distract all eyes from the bow. Over we go in more ways than one. I surface beside the raft, which is upside down. A trusty Black Hand heave’s me out of the water. With some effort we right the raft. All are salvage except the Aussie our first long swimmer. Predictable being an Aussie he arrives aboard thanks to David with stories of never surfacing; see his life in a flash, escaping the jaws of a croc. The Devil’s hole shuts him up.
I am now well into the ride (Top TIP: Don’t miss it). With Toto working hard we enter Gulliver’s Travels the longest rapid. This is the most technically demanding rapid of our decent. Cheeks are in and out over the bow like a Yo-Yo. Accelerating the raft is like a bucking bronco. How we got through without turning turtle is all down to Toto skills. High five’s all around.
“All out here please.” “With this amount of water the next section is too dangerous.”
“You can stay Bob if you want.” Man what a buzz. The Zambezi’s most infamous rapid. This one is a river wide pour-over with a narrow slot less than a meter wide. Well named it is indeed not for the non-tutor. Commercial Suicide. Toto lines the raft to be spat out like a cork out of a bottle. The words, Awe-inspiring and humbling go a long way to describe the next few seconds, from beginning to end. A surge of acceleration a boom of exhilaration it’s no wonder mighty rivers of the world are the blood vessels of nature.
Safely through we pull in to pick up the waiting crew. Toto smile he can’t wait to put Cheeks back in the bow. The raft is given a few extra pumps of air. We pass Gnashing Jaws of death and Overland Truck Eater with on mishaps, other than Cheeks, whose cheeks begin to glow. Now over halfway the whirlies and squirts don’t seem so intimidating. We watch David spinning like a top in a whirlpool popping out to ride some more surf as we go at a speed through the Three Sisters and on to The Mother a massive wave train. Super. The Washing Machine then another wave train leads into Terminator one and two which are also wave trains but on the bigger size.
Toto reminds us all if we should turtle to look around when we surface. “There is always air under the raft if you need a gulp.” “ The Terminators are gigantic. I tell myself if anything is going to happen this is where it is most likely. Toto warns Cheeks to go to watertight. She grabs the lifeline with both her hands and feet.
He was right. The raft goes skywards depositing all in the lap of the River Gods. Toto like the waiting wave has already anticipated two hours previously that his luck would run out. With the agility of a Velvet monkey he somehow or other puts in a backwards somersault like as if he was taking the high jump. He lands on the upturned raft.
I have also seen it coming. There is no way I am going to be sucked into one of those boiling pressure points and burst an eardrum. I had also taken a firm grip on the rafts lifeline.
While two are manhandled aboard a black hand once more heaves me on to the raft. The Aussi surfaces right in front of me. Panic has set in. Looking in the wrong direction he is trashing the water like a hippo tail taking a dump. Luckily I still have hold of my paddle. There is nothing for it but to give him a smack of the paddle in the kisser. Now facing the right way he grips it. David gives the thumbs up sigh. I roar High Fives! No one seems to enthusiast as we plunge out of control in a crescendo of noise and foaming water towards Terminator number two. We whistle through the nearest to whistling down a warp hole in ao Flash Gordon book. Intensely > Spine-tingling > Call it what you want. It’s a hell of a buzz.
The raft flashes over Double Trouble with no trouble to coin a phrase. Oblivion makes it self-heard the last rapid of the day but not the least. This rapid is made up of three waves the last of which is responsible for more raft flips than any other in the world. Only about one in four attempts succeed. Not to worry Toto has it all worked out? We get fucked in the raft flips over we go head first to be flushed out into tranquil waters of a large backwater pool. “Never mind the crocs” “Right the raft.” Toto last instruct.

Righted the raft is now towed ashore where it is deflated by three waiting employees. It is then hoisted shoulder-high and carried at running speed up a similar ladder to the one we descended a few hours ago.

Before our long haul out of the gorge, a small waterfalls flowing over a smooth rock face into the pool catch the attention of a brave few. It inflicts a few extra sore bums to join Cheeks she preferring to stand in the cooling water rather than in the sun. (Top TIP: If you do it > make sure you plaster yourself with waterproof sun lotion and smear your lips with lip-gloss.)
Emerging from the long climb out we now treated to a cold buffet and a few tubes of Mosi a Zambia beer named after the local name for Victoria Falls. The beers go straight to our Aussie friend head he slurring to all in sundry who he was saved by his sister from Davy Jones locker. I did not have the heart to tell him that his sister had balls and it was I who gave him a whack of the paddle in the gob.
Several whiskeys later it is I who has verbal diarrhoea describing to the girls who I had spent the day in the fury of a giant tumble washer.

That evening we move I rather stiffly from Rainbow Lodge to Maramba River Lodge in the Mosi –oa- Tunya National Park and spend the next few lazy days swanning around somewhat reluctant to recommence our travels The Question is do we go around Lake Kariba on Zambia side or the Zambezi. A ferry up the lake from Saba to the Kariba Dam costs over 400$ one-way for two adults and a child with Williwaw. The trip takes over twenty-two hours to cover the 250 odd kilometres that are if the Ferry is running. On enquiring it’s no surprise that the invisible Ferry has not being seen for some time and that it is full. On consulting or maps and Oracle books, we opt for the Zambezi side.
First, we visit a small village outside Victoria. While I was in the Batoka Rapids cycle the girls had got wind off a village where there are excellent woodcarvings. Mad dogs and English men go out in the noonday sun. That is just what we do. Not for the first time or the last time. After several dead ends, wrong villages and near divorce proceedings we arrive. What we find is not wood carvings but an English Educated village Chief.
Parking Williwaw in some shade we are ushered into a large compound housing a large traditional African thatch house. On the clap of hands from inside, we bend on one knee and enter the Royal Chamber. Here we are greeted in perfect public boy school vernacular by his lordship. I have often heard of many a tribal Chief –tee working as a porter in Waterloo station. Here we have one for real, smirks and all. I take an on the spot dislike to his Highness. What follows is surreal. Here is a well-educated bloke exploiting his situation. Out the back of his time-honoured house are parked two top of the range 4×4 and a modern bungalow. You remember our village Chief back in Senegal who ripped off any willing tourist with a tour of this village and his four wives’. He at least had taught himself and providing for his village. This fat bastard was pocketing the lot. Tea and a Royal chat for a small fee if you please.
“What will happen if China invades Africa?” “Why did you not turn down your royal duties and stay in the UK?” “Is there a fee to walk around the village?” I can’t wait to escape this specimen of hip critical African. I leave the girls and take a wander. They emerge shortly after me with two wood carvings a Rhino and a Hippo, which I have to admit, are of exceptional quality but tainted by all he symbolizes.

(To be Continued)

Donation News: Like Victoria Falls they are flowing in. Zero. Be the First.

R Dillon Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code 98-50-10

(Continuation)

The village awakes to the trundling of our convoy crossing the wooden bridge. We stop at the gate where our entry tickets are scrutinized to see if any more Pular can be squeezed out of us by the Gate warden.

He is unable to give us much information on the route up to Chobe other than no one has come down it this year since the rains. However, he warns us that there is no camping allowed between here and Chobe.   According to Warthog, we will have no option but to camp, as it will take more than a day to get across.

At first, the going is painless.

Slowly the track narrows into a deep v rutted narrow corridor.   The Ford driven by Warthog has one wheel in the rut and the other up in the edge of the bush.

The Germans with high ground clearance crawl along from one bump to the next bump fighting the steering wheel. While Williwaw in low range second gear wonders what all the fuss is about.

The ruts grow deeper. The Ford takes to the bush till she hits a root and puts his steering out of kilter. A halt is called. Straddling the ruts is not possible for the Ford so it’s back to one wheel in one wheel out.   I suggest that the Unimog should open his driver window and keep an eye on his front wheels. He would find it easier if his wheels were straight rather than battling the steering all the time. I am very much appreciative of our protection plate (A heavy metal shield attached to the underside of Williwaw to protect her engine sump.) (Top TIP: Don’t go to Africa driving without having one fitted.)

The track eventually flattens out onto a dry sandy ridge called the Magwikhew Sandridge. The going gets easier and we all arrive after a few elephants and pee stops at the southern gate to Chobe called Mababe. 

A stone-faced park warden welcomes us with the words that the camping site is fully booked out.   This appears to be a normal Botswana park tactics in order to squeeze a few extra dollars out of the visitor. “We are not stopping.” “All we want is a transit permit.” A few minutes pass while our man takes a radio call. He returns demanding our exit tickets from Moremi. Warthog has pulled a fast one back at Moremi when we were leaving. He had told the gate warden that he and his Aussie friend were on our Park permit. The Chobe gate is now demanding that I should pay. I blew a fuse and gave Warthog a verbal rollicking.

I can tell from his eye contact that he has not the balls to strike back if I were to lay one on him. They both cough up and all is settled African style. Some shouting, some foreign exchange a transit permit and smiles all around have us once more on our way into Savuti (Chobe National Park) a remote landscape embracing sandvelds, rocky outcrops, and acacia savanna, mopane forest that are highly vulnerable to fire and dry marshlands.   It used to be famous for its high intensity of wildlife. The current long dry spell has more or less put pay to that we seeing little sign of anything on four legs.

Twenty kilometres into the park we stop for the night.   With a transit permit we are not supposed to stop so we pull well off the track into the bush so as any passing wardens will not spot us easily.

Pitch no 86, shows the tell-tale signs of Elephant Activity. Everything is dry as tinder. The slights spark would be whoosh for sure. Unexpected Warthog volunteers to make dinner and more amazingly show off some bush knowledge.   The construct a safe campfire avoiding a bushfire. .

First digging a deep hole he then digs a trench away from the hole at about half the holes depth.   He then inserts the grill of a barbecue into the hole above the trench depth.   Borrowing my machete he cuts some grass and kindling. When lit a large branch is then placed in the trench and pushed along it till the end of the branch is over the fire. More branches are fed down the trench till a good hot amber base is built. It is then covered to form an oven.

(Top TIP: Bush knowledge weights nothing. How to tie slip knots and a bowline is useful. Webbing strap knots > Double sheet bend knot > Splicing > How to read a compass. Buy one of those little SAS Survival Books. An off-road vehicle needs a high jack. You need to know all its applications. Winching and lifting > How to construct different ground anchors > the use of snatch pulley block.)

After an excellent dinner we all sleep soundly, but not before Florence and Fanny’s minds are put at rest about the possibility of any Jungle Trumpeting Patrol crashing out of the surrounding bush.

Chobe is divided into four distinctly different ecosystems. Where we are the Mabane Depression is Elephant land during the dry season. So we were lucky not to encounter some of Botswana’s population of over 120,000 some of which are the largest in body size in the whole of the African.

With the fire hole filled in so there is no chance of creating a bush, we bounce back out onto the track. Late afternoon after a hard drive we arrive at Chobe main port of entrance Sedudu gate.   On the requesting a visiting permit we are informed once more that the park is full.   “Full of what.” “We’ve just driven across the whole god dame park without seeing another human being, never mind an Elephant or for that matter any of its original inhabitants the San people otherwise known in Botswana as the Basarwa.”   It is obviously time to ring the bell and close the park, as the two park wardens are not willing to enter into discussions on the absurdity of their statements. We are marshal to the other side of the lowered barrier pole and told to come back in the morning.

A few miles outside the gate we arrive in Kasane a small town that is situated not more than an hour from Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. Pitch No 89 is in a private house garden. Warthog run foul of me, getting this second bollixing for helping himself to my gin and other items without asking if it’s ok. Not another word is heard till morning when last night’s reprimand is still smouldering. It’s time to go our separate ways before it comes to blows.   Warthog and Rickey roar off in the direction of Livingston while the Germans none the wiser shake hands as we depart our ways.

Returning to the Gate we decide to give Chobe a chance. Once more welcomed with the words, “the Park is full. “ Transit Permit please.” “ Please sign here.” We drive in and when out of sight we duck down a track onto the Chobe River. If there are any animals in this park they got to be near water. Not even a croc stirred. Perhaps they right the Park is full of sweet fuck all. We drive to Serondela campsite, which is supposed to be fully booked. There not a campsite occupied so we choose the best sit overlooking the river. 

Pitch No 90 is under some large trees with the tell-tale bark of Baboons.

Out of the twilight arrive two uniform park wardens on foot. Permit. “This is a transit permit,” I reply pointing to both sides of us. “I know back at the Gate there are no Visiting Permits to be had as the Park is full as you can see.” “You fellows look thirsty it’s a long way back to the Gate.” A drink is accepted and a half an hour later we have two friends for life. It’s agreed that I must return to the gate in the morning and get a permit. A bottle of whisky later our cards are marked as to where all the animals are hiding. With no sign of another bottle appearing they eventually get the message that we wished to retire for the night. Off they swagger into the darkness disturbing the resident baboon and monkey rookery that continues to bark its head off for hour after their departure.

We awake to a cold morning. Florence and I warm up with some monkey/baboon zapping. (Top TIP: A Widows Memory Catapult is an effective weapon against Hyena/Baboons and unwanted camp guests.) I eventually set off back to the Gate by the main track. Not far from where we are camped I pass a ramshackle of a building. It is from where our two friends of last night arrived.   No sign of either of them. I am not surprised. Once more my request for a visiting permit is met with the park is full. With what, I inquire? Fresh air. “You will have to move from site 5.” “OK, anything not to upset the other vacant sites.” On the way back, Williwaw develops a stiff gear change and seems to be overheating.

By the time I get back I am fit to leave Chobe to the maddening crowds. Florence has gone on a rooftop game drive with safari groups who have moved into site four. Fanny is feeding a real Warthog until I remind her that just because it is in a park does not mean it is not wild.

Warthog tusks can rip a lion belly open. They live in small family groups called Sounders; have no sweat glands so they wallow in mud to cover their bodies to keep cool. They have poor eyesight but an excellent sense of smell and hearing.   Run with erect tails up to 50km/h.   When under danger they scarper one following the other into their dens. The youngest ones go in headfirst while the male stands guard. When all are safe and sound he shuffles in backwards so his tusks are always facing any potential predators.  

We stay put on site 5 for the day. I brood over the cost of a new clutch while watching the medley of invisible campers going about their business. Fanny attending to some badly overdue house chores repacks our various boxes > Florence’s, books and education material box > our book box, medical box, herbs and flour, condensed milk and other goodies box. (Top TIP: Make sure that whatever boxes you take are waterproof.)

Manfred and his wife Julian take site 3 out of the thirty odd remaining sites. He turns out to be a German dentist and a keen motor mechanic. A few pushes of Williwaw clutch pedal reveals that it is clutch fluid or the lack of that is the problem.   (Top TIP: Make sure you carry spare transmission/brake/clutch fluid.)   With my gloom lifted we board Manfred Nissan for a short game drive. Three hours and five visits to locations supplied by my two whiskey-swilling wardens, we throw in the towel for a cold beer back at base.

 Before the final splash of the evening, color glistens on the river below us the heat of the days begins to vanish from the land without a trace. The silence is broken by two of Africa’s most recurring sounds, the early evening cricket chorus with the odd forlorn twit to woo of a distant plover. Both are a sure warning that darkness is not far off. Florence arrives back reporting not much more success than us. It seemed incomprehensible with the park so full of visitors that is has lost all of its animals.

A large full moon promises a chilly night. Long shadows in contrast to the ultraviolet rays of the sun that consume one all day long now turn every bush, every tree into ambush hides. In this sort of light, one gets a weird feeling that every sound announces the heartbreaking end to some animal’s life. You cannot help the edgy gut reaction to the slightness Crunch   Even when one take’s a pee you see eyes or movement where there are none.

By the time the girls hit the sack the bush TV is almost out.   We’ve all come to the conclusion that we are all still novices when it comes to spotting large herds of Chobe animals or people.   It’s time to pick up the bagpipes and follow in the footsteps of Doctor Livingstone 1831-1873 to one of the main attractions in the area Musi-oa-Tunya, the Smoke that Thunders, Victoria Falls.

In the bush when there is nothing much going on, one is prone to retire early with a book. I am just going to quench the last of the fire when out of the corner of my eye my two ranger friends are approaching down a long shadow. One looks as pale as the moonbeams, the other gibberish holding a plastic bag full of beers. I am silhouetted both by the moon and flickering bush TV. There is no escape.

It’s not long before eerie stories of Ghosts, Banshees, and Men turning into snakes and off your rocker beasts attacking gullible tourists is in full flow. The piece de resistance comes when I was asked if I believe in Magic. “Of course I do.” Well tell him encourages the gibberish one. Pale face announced that the other night when he had staggered back he had laid an egg. It is hard to keep a straight face as I enquire if it was hard-boiled.   By his looks of summoned up pain on his pale face, there is every chance he had indeed passed a gallstone. I feel somewhat sorry for taking the mic.

Before I surface Mr. and Mrs. Warthog have paid an early morning visit. Fanny takes one look at me calling off our departure. Chobe gets one more day to make public why it is so overcrowded. Due to my fragile state we hold fire until late afternoon to venture forth > Florence opting out.   Another fruitless excursion with Williwaw overheating does nothing to endear me to my loved ones. We arrive back at camp to find Florence has being holding the monkey population at bay. They had already done a job on the tent breaking one of the poles and ripping the foot of the tent. There is one male baboon that has been bearing his teeth at her, the clever little darling taking refuge in the jeep.   I give the bastard a ball bearing in the ass that sends it scarping.   Investigating Williwaw’s radiator for a leak I notice that the Universal joint on Williwaws back shaft needs replacing.   Down come the ammunition boxes off the roof rack. Tools and spares.

(Top TIP: Ammunition box are great for storing spares and tools. Make sure they have strong handles, and padlocks. I passed a chain through the handles padlocking them to the roof rack for security against theft. Buy padlocks that can be opened by one key (bring a spare). There is nothing more irritating than having a different key for each and every lock. Each vehicle needs its own spares/tools. What to bring and not what to bring is the question. The answer lies in many excellent publications on the market or talking to someone who has done a similar trip. The aim is to be self-sufficient as possible. One thing for sure you need your head in gear before tackling problems.)

The leak turns out to be controllable with a dart of Radweld but the Universal joint with a hangover is Another matter: (Top TIP: Like some bush crafts some tricks of the trade can make the difference between you arriving or not. The odd raw egg or curry powder in the radiator to seal a minor leak works.   If the leak is bigger remove the radiator cap to release the pressure. This requires regular topping up so not recommended where there is no water. There are hundreds of others tricks here are a few that are well worth noting. FUEL: Always take more than you think you will need. Use a filter when topping up from jerry cans. Sunlight soap can seal a hole in the fuel tank. If you can’t stop the leak put a Jerry Can on the roof connect with a pipe.   Know how to bleed you systems. ) 

An hour later I have uncoupled the shaft. A rummage in the spares discloses that my head is far from in gear. There is no spare. It’s a case of look before you leap. Nothing for it > Refit the old one and drive into Kasane.   The Four ways garage can’t help; there is a spare parts shop down the road. Eureka!   > Back to Four ways. Two cut knuckles, a throbbing head and the certainty that Murphy’s Law is waiting in the long tall grass blurs my recall of African mechanics. “Can you fit it for me?”   It takes all of three hours with a bill of 600 Pula. (Top TIP: Never leave your vehicle unattended. Mechanics are inclined to use excessive force. Never retighten bolts of nuts properly. Replace your new spares with old. Fry everything when electric welding (Forget to disconnect battery/alternator.)   I’m in no humor to suffer another Botswana rip off. A heated argument followed. “You’re not dealing with a raw prawn.” “I didn’t arrive in the last shower.” “I’ll call the police” have little effect.

Down the road to the spare parts shop > Back with the owner.   There is another half an hour of verbal diarrhoea before my headlights pierce the darkness for home 100 Pula lighter. The gate is closed and locked to keep the hoards in. I make short work of the Chinese lock. With every intention not to wake the girls or more importantly last nights storytellers, I drive the last few kilometres by moonlight.   Straining eyes are examining every bush in expectation of startling some critter. Not a soul moves. With no lights, there are no luminous eyes to be seen.

OK let’s hit the road Central Africa is calling. Zambia, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, not to mention the Democratic Republic of the Congo.   No one is very enthusiast. Some of Africa’s best-known names apart from Lion, Zulu, Famine, Aids, Coup d’état, and Tribe and the like receive a lukewarm reaction. OK! OK! How about? a decent hotel with a hot shower overlooking Victoria falls.

Chobe 11,000 sq kilometres of reserve waits until the final curtain call to show some of its huge elephant and buffalo population.   They have evidently learned that the outer limits of the park are the place stay. Well away from human meddling.   Not expecting to see anything, we drive into the middle of a buffalo herd. The Chobe bouncers. A mute silence surrounds them as they gawk at us as if savouring the moment. Not even the yellow-billed oxpeckers on their back move. It’s a stand-off.

There is no question as to who has the right of way. Standing 1.7m at the shoulder, with massive horns ‘Syncerus Caffer’ to give them their scientific classification can weigh up to 800kg.   Close up these fellows are not to be messed with. Williwaws bull bars don’t look like much of a match against the fifty or so enormous horns all now turned towards us.   After what seems a never-ending period of time we slowly begin to back up only to become conscious that we are now surrounded.   Out of the bush to our rescue has come the Jungle Patrol.

A large bull elephant accompanied by aunties and young are now also disputing the right of way.   Ear flapping, making no distinction between us and the offending buffalos it not long before we receive a mock charge that tests our bodily functions.   Such charges make dramatic footage on TV wildlife programs here for real, it freaks the girls and exposes a definite yellow streak in my upbringing.   This is not the time to be hanging out the window offering bread buns.   Raw nature makes your hair stand on end in more ways than one. Panic!   All advice say’s “Hold your ground it’s only a mock charge.” The ground trembles. The spook buffaloes add an extra shuddering to terra firma. We turned a whiter shade of pale in a bat an eyelid the moment vanishes into the bush. We are left with a sense of sexual pleasure little shudders running up our bodies.   The exit gate to Chobe arrives and goes without us noticing.   For the first time in months, we are back on tarmac.

An hour later at Kazangula still charged with excitement, we wait our turn to cross the Zambezi –  the forth-longest river of the Continent. (3,540 km) it drains an area of 1,300,000 sq km. Rising in northwestern Zambia it flows through eastern Angola crosses western Zambia, along the northeastern border of Botswana, forming the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Creating on its way the world’s famous Victoria Falls and man’s largest made lake – Kariba.   Giving its name to Zambia it crosses central Mozambique to become the only major African river to flow into the Indian Ocean.

Kazangula is one of those places on a map that exudes the idiosyncrasy of colonialism boundary making. Namibia, the Caprivi Strip, Botwswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, all having shares in the dot.   As with all ferry crossings, it is a hive of activity, a gaudy mire of passing news, buying and selling, eating or drinking opportunities. A pickpocket’s favourite hunting grounds.   For us, it is where we leave Botswana, although the frontier crossing is another seven kilometres down the riverbank on the Zambia side of a mile wide rock rim that forms world’s widest expanse of falling water. (To be continued)

Donation News: No change: Be the First. R Dillon Account No 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2 Sorting Code: 98-50-10

( CONTINUATION)

Banked by barren hills on either side the Kunene River widens to accommodate as few small lush islands before plunging down over twenty odd falls all combing into a gaping geological fault which creates the Epupa Falls. Compared to Victoria Falls it is small but its location is breathtaking.   This is a hand on waterfall with Jacuzzi baths pools on it’s every edge deep enough not to be swept over the side.   What more could one want after a long day in the blistering sun than to sit in a natural bathtub? Let the heat flush from our pores to the sound of cascading water, birdsong, all kissed by the setting sun. We can’t wait for the morning.

Back under the trees while darkness mutters too itself without pause our fire glows. The fall’s noise is designated into second place long before the sun peaks over the trees by insect song.

Morning comes with a din of feathered excitement amplified by the valleys vaulted walls. The bird population is having their morning bath> A twitches paradise. The Kunene River at this spot is characterized by dense reed banks and tall trees its life-giving perennially waters attract feathered friends of mind-boggling verity.

Our bird book receives many ticks. Blue-cheeked bee-eaters, Yellow-bellied bulbuls, Spectacled and Golden weavers, Giant and Grey-hooded kingfishers, Goliath heron, Martial and African fish eagles, White and red-billed hemetshrikes, not to mention the Rufous-tailed palm thrush and the Cinderella waxbill two of the rarest birds in the whole of South Africa. This is one of Namibia’s prime beautiful destinations.

As the sun cast its intense gaze from corner to corner the night’s air loiter on our nude bodies, fresh sparkling water pours over our heads into our private bathtubs pools.   We are reborn in an aura of adventure and discovery. Long live the needs for a four-wheeled vehicle to reach Epupa.

Up the bank from the falls, we find a swimming spot with no need to watch out for crocks.    They have a dislike for fast-moving water. We swim surrounded by plants that suck the colour from the rocks. Waving Makalani palms, Baobabs, and wild fig trees soak up the colour mist that wafts up from the gorge that is displaying three to four small rainbows.

Up from out campsite we find the first signs of the desecration to come.   A small luxury under canvas establishment offers visitors who fly in all the comfort of home from home.   Over a very expensive lunchtime beer, we learn that there are plans to dam the river below the falls. The death knell for the Himba and the falls are already in the balance. Epupa isolation sadly is under attack.   Like many an Amazon tribe, the need for protection has been sacrificed for short gains. The Himba need isolation to maintain their cultural vibrancy. Regrettable all the sign of another way of living and dying with or without ancestors is in the process of being consumed by world materialism.

It is a known fact that most visitors to Africa, never see further than the tarmac roads. Millions live in villages to which no roads lead but the current thinking about values: the way we view the world around us and how we behave how we measure costs are influenced regrettably by short-sighted roads without much symbiosis.

For us, the way north is blocked

The prospect of crossing over into Angola and making up to Cameroon crossing the Democratic Republic of the Congo, never mind the Republic of Congo and then Gabon not to mention the last stumbling block getting through Nigeria, is far from reality in the bounds of arriving home safely. We will turn us east and run the Caprivi Strip.

With breathtaking views, the rest of our day is spent climbing over rock washed to a silky and shiny texture exploring the Gorge. We return to our swimming spot for a late evening soak before dinner. A few elderly Himba women wander into camp to sell the family jewels and some home-made Himba dolls.

The power of trade is greater than the iron fist. Beads for gold, oil for dollars, land for peace, grace for heaven, sin for hell.   I wonder will the world end up trading drinking water and air for life or are we already doing it under the camouflage of the World Bank and its like.

The depth of darkness beyond one’s campsite is always a test in Africa. You never know what watching, waiting, is it >  a sting, a bit, a blow, a fright. Here in Kaokoland apart from the man-eating Kunene crocks sadly there is little hope of any animal disturbed your day or night.   Our bible say’s there is a chance of seeing black rhino, giraffe, and ostrich, lion. During our three weeks, we had only one magic moment when we came across in one of Colin Britz isolated spots five or six Hartman’s.  As for the rest, we fear that they are long in the cooking pot or god forbid hanging on some wall. We remember seeing a TV program on the Desert Elephant and can only hope like the Himba that they will both survive.

Morning brings a surprise. We wake to find two groups of South Africans camp on our doorstep. We are baffled as to why they have chosen to pitch camp on top of us when there are lashings of beautiful spots available. Maybe they are afraid of the dark, not the night dark, but the skin colour dark. An after breakfast polite request that they might consider giving us some breathing space is met with boar fuck you from a Burt Reynolds type.   We have long learned to step over dog turds, so rather than argue the toss we decide to pack up and leave the next morning. That night’s rowdiness confirms our wisdom.

Our Colin map shows a track that follows the Cunene up to Ruacana Falls the direction from which our new South African friends came from. We decided to enquire at the encampment as to the conditions of the track. “It could take anything up to three days to make it as far as Ruacana and then there is no certainty of you getting any fuel”.

As if we needed any further confirmation the banging and cursing of tire and wheel changes that last all morning with the look of the South African hired Toyota confirms that it is a long way around by way of Opowo.

Arriving midday the girls visit the only shop to replenish our dwindled stocks as best they can. I in the meantime struggle with a welding torch.   Eventually finding the proper mix to get the torch alight I use one rod after another till the exhaust is sealed with a weld that looks like a loaf of bread. (Top TIP: If you don’t have a clue re-welding a few hours learning might come in handy.)

We camp some twenty kilometres outside Opowo Pitch No 80.

We break camp early. Colin had advised us before leaving Walvis Bay that he would contact his old friend Steven Briane who runs a private small game park on the western side of Etosha called Hobatere Lodge. He would ask him to open the western gate to Etosha, which would save us some considerable dust time.

Heading south we climb over the Joubert Mountains.   Covering 144 kilometres we swelter by Otuzemba, Otjondeka, Okatijura, Okonjota till we eventually at Otikowarbe and are driving down the western boundary of one of Africa’s most famous Game Parks

A hundred and forty clicks off pisé in one day in soaring temperatures takes its toll. We are grateful to arrive and open the gates to Hobatere Lodge. Steven turns out to be less than welcoming. He is in bad need of some PR training. He has heard from Colin but it is obvious that he has made no effort to get the Western gate open. He does not even have the grace to offer us a drink. We return down the track somewhat peeved but notice on the lodge’s entry gates reads – 15 Rand charge to any day visitors should have forewarned us of his unwelcoming attitude to us. Driving out the gates we are tempted to leave the fifteen Rand with a note to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.

With the sun casting its evening palettes of red we turn off at another sign marked camping.   Up a fifteen km track, we come on another lodge. “Sorry the camping is full but we do have a lodge vacant.” It’s late and I can see the girls have had enough for one day. “What for dinner”?   We stay the night.

Prior to dinner, I spend a most agreeable hour in a small bird hide. Dinner is with our host and hostess and a hunting guest in the form of an overweight boring German cop and his wife. After dinner, Florence finds a new friend a Bat- Eared Fox. Grayish-brown with enormous ears it has little trouble in winning Florence’s heart.   Our host tells us that they mainly eat termites, and mate for life. This one they found injured and it is now a house pet.

With the girls tucked up in bed I have a long chat with our host over a few whiskeys. In his late forties, he has been farming the surrounding land for over fifteen years. It is hard living but it has improved with the establishment of Etosha in 1958.   Now all around the park, there are guest farms lodges to cater for the large tourist population that visit Etosha.   He knew the layout of the park like the back of this hand and is pleased to mark the best spots to see the big five the sole ambition of American Tourists > Lion, Elephant, Rhino, Cheetah and Leopard.

Like all farmers, he has a fully-equipped workshop with a car pit. In the morning my bread loaf welding is replaced with a professional job compliments of the house. We depart silent and refreshed.

We’ve not gone a half hour when it is about turn in our own dust and up another track with a sign market Cheetahs.   Flo and Fanny had heard from our overnight hostess that this lodge had several Cheetahs both tame and wild.

They are our first large predator and our first classical Africa animal could not be passed by with all the promises had made to Florence since we had visited the Mole game reserve in Ghana some months ago.   Driving into the lodge we are met by a tame mongoose or to be more correct a Meerkat.

The lodge is constructed in a most strange stone.   According to the owners, it is some form of fossilized algae 600-700 million years old. One thing is sure it makes the bar of the lodge agreeably cool.

Stroking a Cheetah is a large jump up from a Meerkat.   It is the first large cat of Florence’s life and she is more than hesitant to afford it the same affections as she did to Mr Meerkat down the road. This close without any cage bars stoking its back is like petting a stick of dynamite with the fuse burning. The encounter wets our eagerness to get to Etosha (The great white Place.) one of the many Noah Arks of Africa we are to visit.

One can’t help wondering where all the animals of the world will be in another million years. The man has followed them all over the world since time began. Will he ever be able to communicate with them?   If there is no drinking water or pure air will animals outlive man?   Share the world with them. Will there be animal’s half animal half man?   We still have a lot still to learn from them.

Back in the bar, we learn that both the Kowares and the Galton Gate into Etosha are closed. We head for the main gate named Andersson’s gate after John Andersson who discovered the saltpan (the great white place) with Francis Galton in 1851.

The first thing we are struck by on entering the gates and driving up to Namutoni (one of the three designated camping site in the park) is not an elephant but that we are entering a world of big business. Thirty minutes later we arrive at Namutoni a French Legionnaire fort established in 1851 it served as a control post during the rinderpest epidemic now the main complex of the Park. When the epidemic abated it remained as a trading post with the Owanboland.

Destroyed by the Owambos in 1904 it was rebuilt in 1906 when the German First Lieutenant Adolph Fischer took command of the resident German garrison.

He was later to become the first warden of Etosha. Originally named Omutijamatinda in Hero language to describe ‘ the strong water coming from a raised place’ it is now a national monument and a sanctuary for what remains of Namibia’s four-legged creatures who depend on the thirty or so man-made water holes and springs.

Pitch No 81 is under a large Mopane tree with all modern amenities at hand, power point, water tap, and a barbecue. A large communal block with washing basins, showers, toilets resides in the middle of the trees. There are about twenty other campers on site, not South Africans as they are all well spread out.

The Tourist shop photos have Florence more than annoyed that we have to wait until morning. But she is in for a treat as the waterhole near of campsite is floodlit. So after dinner, we join the waiting congregation. We do not have to wait long. Out of the dark, an Elephant lumbers down to a barrage of flashlights and hissing video cameras. Within a minute, another joins it. It’s to be the first of many more Elephants photos to bore our friends with on our return.

Standing on the concrete terracing with floodlights lighting the waterhole is far removed from seeing a wild free animal. It is a thousand times better than a visiting the Elephant enclosure in a Zoo or for that matter seeing an Elephant in one of today’s large extravaganza circuses but there is no getting away from the feeling of the contrived setting.

The waterhole has a magnetic hold on both animal and its human viewers.   Suddenly out of the blue or perhaps more fittingly out of two hundred kilos of vegetable matter with fifty gallons of water a methane bomb explodes. The larger of the two elephants has broken wind. It is a silent and deadly wafting over the terracing. It sends his admirers, tripods, video cameras, and still, photographer’s coughing for cover only a small black and white plover called a blacksmith plover stands its ground.   Pecking at the Elephants feet it defends its patch of territory without a gas mask.

Armed with the rules and regulations, a map, and the latest sightings of the big five we all set out for the morning hunt. To the sound of a bugle announcing sun up and the hoisting of the Namibian flag, we set off. Remembering that the gates to the compound close at sundown, we head west skirting the pan. We’ve not gone a few kilometres when we come across our first giraffe. Although we are less than fifty paces away we nearly missed them. The tallest of all four-legged animals standing at 5.3 meters it is hard to believe that one could drive by without noticing them. They are feeding on tall acacia.

With tongues of up to 40cm long, they pick off the early morning unfurling leaves. Giraffes can go without water for up to a month getting all the moisture required from leaves. This is one of the reasons that you can come across them a long way from water. They are non-migratory with a keen sense of smell and skyscraper sight. They are able to run a 56kmph not bad considering they can weight up to 800kg.

On the trot they look like as if they are in slow motion due to the hind legs reaching in front of the rear legs. Changing down to walking pace they switch to simultaneously moving the two legs on either side. It was the held thinking that the long necks evolved to eat high up but now it looks like they are sex symbols > The longer the better. During the mating season longer neck comes in handy to bash you rival suitors with > Called necking. Female’s necks are now also thought to signal I am the one for you. The female after 15 months produces one calf. The poor blighter all 2 meters of him or her is dropped from a high that would but off anyone having to stand up within twenty minutes. Stand they must if they are to avoided one of their few predators the lion.   They chew the cud like cows. Have valves to pump blood up to their brains, which are a long way from their hearts. Each has its own unique markings like the register plates of a car. These marking get darker as they age. In the wild unlike captivity where they are known to live up to 35 years they live to about 25/26 years. To drink or eat grass is a pain in the neck. They have to adopt a more compromising position – rather like doing the splits with their front legs.

Most of this we did not know until returning to camp and consulting a book called Africa’s Top Wildlife Countries: Mark W Nolting. (Top TIP: A good animal book gives one a far deeper appreciation of what you are watching.)

Our next encounter is a troop of Baboons > A powerful aggressive animal weighing up to 40 odd kg. Not to be tangled with.   There are many different kinds depending on what region of Africa you are in. Ours is a greyish-brown with a green tint along their backs > Known as pig-tailed baboons. They are one of the few animals that have a collection of calls each call signalling a different action. There is one to get up a tree and another to get the hell out of a tree depending on where the attack is coming from. Leopards have a liking for the odd baboon steak. They can distinguish colour and have good smell sense.   Live in large groups for social and protective reasons they avoid forests favouring open ground with wooded areas, rocky outcrops. They are not one of the girl’s favourite’s animals. A snarl, bearing those long teeth sends the heebie-jeebies up one’s spine.  

Etosha by African standards is a very large park originally 80,000k² has now been dwindled down to 20,700sq km of which quarter is a saltpan once a lake until the river disappeared. This Salt Pan gives the park a very unusual setting for its game. The shallow depression is in the middle of the park is classified as a saline desert.   Animals crossing the pan look like they are hovering in the thin air. With a total of over one hundred mammals and a rich bird population of which one-third are migratory, it is a photograph every minute of the day.

We move on towards Etosha middle camp called Halali. The word halali is of German origin. Used to signify that the quarry has been brought to bay and the hunt is over it seems somewhat to fly in the face of what the Park aspires to.   Just beyond the campsite, there is a lookout point that looks out over the pan. We stop here for a bit to eat after which we venture out onto the pan on foot. This is a no; no in the park rules. Only your head and shoulders are allowed outside the vehicle. In the shimmering heat of the pan surface, not a thing moves as far as the eye can see. How anything could live out here is mind-blowing. But we don’t venture far just in case.

We move on up to the last camping site called Okaukuejo the main administration camp.   Okaukuejo originally meaning “The woman who has a child every year.” is where the Ecological research centre has its headquarters. It directs the conservation projects of Etosha. Along with the compulsory tourist shop, there is a large stone tower built-in 1963, and a vast restaurant, swimming pool. It was once a control post to stop the spread of rinderpest disease> A contagious cattle venereal disease which spreads like wildfire. The very same disease decimated the cattle herd of the Masai. 

We return to our base camp visiting a few waterholes on the way. Not another animal do we see. After dinner, the floodlit waterhole is a must. This time armed with gas masks. Out of the darkness, a shape appears. With twitching ears, a Rhino approaches. Very bad eyesight makes it approach agonizing slow. Stopping to smell its surroundings after each step forward it looks like we will be asleep by the time it reaches the water.  This one sure knows how to pose for those waiting cameras. Fully frontal ten minutes, side right profile ten minutes, side left profile ten to twelve minutes. Advance a step and repeat. (Top TIP: Telephoto lenses are essential in games parks. Slow film is the better bet, and it is advisable to fit all lenses fitted with UV or haze filters. Bring plenty of Film and spare batteries. A blower brush, cleaning fluid, lens tissue. Keep uses film in a cool box. Digital great but watch out for dust)

Day two: This time we decide not to go charging from one water hole to another but to stake out one of the waterholes recommended by our farmer friend whom we had stayed with the other night. We head off north to another pan edge, drive to a man-made watering hole named Andoni.   What a day, our first Lion.   He is an old codger that has seen it all.  Not a bit fazed by Williwaw he proudly scents a bush beside us and meanders off with attitude.

Top of the food chain their roar can be heard up to nine kilometres. Standing at 1.3 meters high at the shoulders and weighing up to 250kg they can sprint at 50 to 60 km/h and eat at one sitting up to 44kg of meat. They are polygamous breeding every 18 to 26 months. In captivity, they live for up to 20 years in the wild 12 years. They live in prides or groups of more than one family of up to 35 animals. Some, however, live nomadic lives. When they conquer a pride they often kill all the cubs fathered by their rival.

With the excitement over we move on. Next is a small herd of black-faced impala skirts some problematic bush watched over by the male. Favorite fodder of lions they use scattering tactics to confuse their predators leaping up to 9m and as high as 3m. They can live in herds up to a hundred animals breaking up into smaller breeding groups after the dry season. Those males that are not successful in establishing a territory remain in bachelor groups.

In amongst this small herd, we spot a few Kudu a larger antelope than the Impala it has long spiralling horns of up to 1m. Like the impalas only the males have horns. A shy animal it sticks to the cover of bushland.

Our next waterhole produces nothing except a convoy of safari vehicles. Etosha sadly has a large dose of park language. “Have you seen anything”? “Yesterday we saw” “There is an ——- up the road.”   At waterholes, you are lucky if you have more than an hour on your own without someone arriving either to scare off what you are watching or park their vehicle in front of you.

We decide to leave and try another spot. Out on the pan in the mid-day blazing sun, we spot a group of Zebra. They say their stripes act as heat deflectors. We can only marvel that they can withstand the heat, which bounces off the pan making them appear and disappear in waves of shimmering vision. Their blurred outline standing in such hostile surroundings gives one a twinge of sadness.   We throw in the towel and head back for a swim.

Day three our last and final day:   The girls decide to sleep in, so I take Williwaw out to another waterhole in a more isolated part of the park.   Nothing moves except the flies the tormentors of both man and beast.   An hour passes in silence. It’s like sitting in a block of time with your mind wandering up many avenues of thought but settling on none. Birds, mostly shrike, fuel up for the day. I am thinking to myself that any minute now something will appear and sure enough it does.   An American arrives with his private guide. Dressed in whites he is armed with a tripod and camera big enough to bring down a charging Rhino. We are fast approaching the hour of day 10am when most living things bugger off for the day to rest. I am just about to turn the key and scarper when I overhear him enquire from the guide as to what type of fox is that. Down at the water a mangey side-striped jackal is targeted in the lens of his camera. That is it for me I decide on the way back it is time to push on in the morning. Ark Etosha is a bit too commercialized for us but long may its work continue for there many an African who have never seen an Elephant, Rhino or Lion, never mind a Fox.

That night we witness the glorification of this commercialization with the arrival of an overland truck to dwarf all trucks > A land liner/cruise ship on twenty-four wheels. Out pour thirty ages tourists. God help the stars of the park tomorrow.

To be Continued,