(CONTINUATION)

His welcome is warm and genuine and over dinner, we caught up on all his news and learn that he is to receive a visit in the morning in the form of some Vatican priests. They wish to look over his stewardship of Vatican Aid package.   Their pending visit has him in a state of high stress. “How can you explain to these Druids the problems I have here? “ Take for instance the other week I attempted to introduce three tribal chiefs to the joys of eating shell-fish” “ You would not believe the reactions when I put a lobster on the table” > Two of them jumped out the window while the other unsheathed his knife and attacked the lobster as if it was a monster.

While Paulo rolls his fifth joint a change of bedding is secured and the girls retire for the night.

We are late rising. Paulo Papal visitors are getting an ear full as we slip out on foot to give Dirae Dawa the once over.

Established in 1902 to service the rail link from Djibouti to Addis Ababa it was once the second largest populated town of Ethiopia. If you take its name phonically we did not have to explore for long to confirm that Dirae Dawa is indeed a Dour Dump.

Apart from the old part of town with its market, it is void of any charm. It’s no wonder Paulo smokes to escape its hot sticky dust-rasping climate and the sense of desolation it etches into everyday living > A godforsaken corner of Ethiopia.

We take a horse-drawn taxi called a Gari back to the shade of Paulo small garden. We find him in good form. Overall the Papal envoy was pleased with his work even if they are completely baffled when it came to understanding the cultures he was dealing with. “Take the Afar people of the Danokil desert which you are going to cross in the next few days. “ They like lopping off the testicles of intruders they don’t like.” Say, Paul.

We arrive at a government-run Hotel. Paulo’s man turns up looking rather sheepish. I don’t understand a word but it is more than obvious that the Vatican visit is being discussed and that the cover-up operation is being put into action. I am commandeered to drive in the morning to a village named Arabi thirty-five kilometres from the Somalia border. That settled I spend the next hour talking about my coming crossing of the

Apart from getting my goolies cut off by one of the fiercest people in the world. The good news or as the Afar call it the Dagu is that I won’t have to worry about the bureaucracy of getting out of Ethiopia.   Paulo, as usual, is full of information such as don’t tangle with the Ugugumo   > whoever they are. Never mind the dry sand, dry gravel beds, rocky lava flows, burning salt flats, and temperatures of up to 120º F – along with the odd carcase of camels tanks or goat.

I get him to marks out the route on my map. Follow the railway line to Āysha, and on to Ali SabiŽ, from there you cut inland to Wê’a, and then you are home and dry all the way to Djibouti. A mere three hundred and sixty kilometres without any hitches you should drive it in a day. Returning to his house I can’t help but think of the hitches > Punctures, overheating, fuel, water, not to mention Murphy’s law.

While the girls rest I take a run downtown with Paulo to search out one of his helpers. The short car ride after the Papal visit with Paulo is a running commentary a crash course in Ethiopian problems. “You know that when an Ethiopian say’s he would like to play with you he does not mean he or she wants to have sex with you.” All they want is to talk.” “ The problem is that when it comes to aid the Ethiopians are staggering between a good for nothing Western present and a collapsing African past.” “ It’s all to do with the unbridgeable traditions of other cultures.”

Next morning with the wind packing enough sand to scour windshields we set off for Arabi.   In the first few kilometres, all signs of human habitation are left behind. Fanny observing that any cultures that had camped out here, had long disappeared. It soon became self-evident why Paulo had invited us. There was no way his clapped out car could have handled the territorial punishment being handed out.

We bump along with him rattling on about the IMF, the World Bank, and Anthropologists. “You know that almost every project that the World Bank is involved in here 24% of them are failures.” “Why you might ask because they know nothing about the weather and how it affects the bonds of friendship.”

“ The only Aid schemes that work are those run by the people themselves.”

“To be successful you must by-pass the local politicians, the government, tribalism you have to knit into how the people tick otherwise they have no interest in making the Aid sustainable.” “Small is beautiful and young a blessing as they are not yet tarnished by corruption or dim-witted by chat.”

We arrive midday into what I can only describe from a distance as a version of an Ethiopian or Somalia Eskimo village. The obvious difference being that this one is set in searing heat without a hint of white or for that matter any colour other than burnt brown. The igloos are built from cooking oil cans. Like giant CD they glisten in the sun with such intensity that I am sure one could see them from space. As to what Paulo is doing or wants here is anyone’s guess and we are made none the wiser as he disappears with a few shady looking characters.

Williwaw, as usual, is attracting in no time some considerable attention.   What is quite apparent is that this place has a poisonous sense. Once a refugee camp it is now a Timbuktu on the Somalia border. Small arms carried by glazed eye men too dark to be Ethiopians are everywhere. The place imparted a sense smouldering danger.

With an ill of ease nagging feeling of being watched for an opportunity rather than out of curiosity, we are left to our own devices. Keeping Williwaw insight we take a wander over to a few women selling chat. They are less than welcoming. We are not of the tribe, the clan, the extended family, or a Fat cat buying Chat for his loyal subjects.

We are relieved when we eventually depart with a silent Paulo. No matter how I pressed him on the return journey as to what exactly he was doing he gave no definite answer just a load of dribble about how he needed to use his contacts.

Next morning we return to Addis after a long arduous day of motoring.

With a fitful night of sleep under our belts, I am waving Adios to the girls and heading downtown to make my own arrangements. Their journey has come to an end as the vapour trail disintegrates in the blue sky on another day.

I am expecting a long day of regulations which no one knows and which are made up on the spot. The shipping of Williwaw from Djibouti to the UK, my flights back to Addis from Djibouti and onwards home to the UK.

After all, I have heard and read about the difficulties of exiting Ethiopian to my surprise I have Williwaw booked on a ship, my return flight to Addis and departure flight to England all done and dusted before lunch.

I have allowed myself a day’s drive back to Dira Dawa – forty-eight hours to cross what is written by the National Geographic as ‘hard to imagine a more brutal landscape than Africa’s Danakil Desert’ > A day to see Williwaw off return flight to Addis a day’s rest in Paulo house before my departure from Africa in six days time.

I spend the rest of the day trading in Williwaw tyres for a new set of Perrelli’s and giving her a pre Desert check over > Oil Change, radiator, brake/clutch fluids, battery, fan belts, shock absorbers, wheel nuts, tyre, pressure, exhaust, in other words – the works.

At the crack of dawn, I set off knowing the road the long drive back to Dira Dawa.   Wonderful until I reach the Arba Gugu foothills when the sky’s once again open making a mockery of my preparations for a crossing of a desert with an average 47ºC.   Now there is a high likelihood by the time I arrive the Danakil will have returned to the red sea where it came from 10,000 years ago.

For the next few hours, I slip-slide my way along a very muddy road, avoiding miserable looking goats, and the odd donkey mounted by an Ethiopian with white tunics glued to their backs.

It’s hard to imagine that this country suffers from rainfall failures that result in millions dying from famine.

On arrival, there is no sign of Paulo.

Luckily in the morning, it is back to blue skies. Full fuel tanks, sun, and a high sense of adventure I set out for Djibouti. The rough rocky strewn road out of Dira Dawa disappears before the last building is out of my wing mirrors. The ground still has some drying to do after yesterday’s rain.

Following the railway line, the first obstacle is not what I expected to see > A river. Its sparkling brown muddy snaking waters give me an eerie feeling up my spine. There is no obvious crossing point and no signpost pointing up or down to a crossing. The only good thing is that it does not look too deep or wide.

To my right, the railway crosses are on a high bank the water passing underneath through two large concrete pipes. I drive up river and on seeing tracks commit the deadly sin of not walking the crossing before driving in. I am no more than a two-car length into the water when I take a nosedive up to the bonnet > Williwaw konks out to a resounding Fuck, Fuck, and Fuck.

Who is going to believe this?   We have driven across the Sahara, the Namib, up Skeleton Coast, over the Caprivi Strip, around the Kalahari and here I am stuck in water on the verge of the Danakil.   This is just too Irish to be true. Out I get up to my waist, wade ashore and sit on a rock.   One thing is for certain there will be no help arriving.   The last person I had passed was well over an hour ago.   Walk back to town, which would take most of the day, was also a non-runner. Considering my ETA in Djibouti if I was to make the ship, there was nothing for it but to haul her out > Easier said than done with the nearest excuse for a tree some distance from the bank.

My only option is to winch her out. The first problem is that my hijack is bolted to the front bumper that now happens to be submerged in brown water.

One hour later with much cursing and the odd ducking, I have managed to undo it. Next problem is in securing a wincing point.   With no handy tree, and no rocks in a suitable pulling position to jam the high jack behind I have to hammer in my own purchase points for the jack.

Thank god for my rear split pin towing point and more importantly that my chain reached the shore. Click by click, meter by meter, moving and securing the jack for every meter I slowly haul her out. Four hours later the bonnet is open my shorts are dry and now all I need is for the engine to start. A spry of anti-damp a turn of the ignition key, a cough or two and Eureka the lion roars. For once I want to kiss her.

Repacked I head further up the river losing sight of it for a half a kilometre. I eventually arrive at what looks like from the tracks the main crossing place.

This time I wade in up to my waist and explore the footing. All seem well.   Reaching the opposite bank for a split moment I have my second Ethiopian Everest experience.   An adrenalin shot associated with conquering Everest.   Right in front of me is more water I am on a small Island or I am looking at another river. Cresting the bank I shit myself It turns out that the shock is more severe than the crossing. This water is shallow and its existence of the long strip of land can only be put down to yesterday’s rain that has taken a new split divide.

Midday > having spent most of the morning swimming I have not yet reached the outer parameters of the Danakil nor have I bumped into any Ugugumo so I still have my balls.

It’s now one thirty and I am back on track following the railway line.   The next landmark according to Paulo is an outcrop of rocks on a raised foothill that has a sign on it saying if you have a drop of water to spare pour it on the plant.   From here on it is down into the saltpan and then flat-out for Djibouti. To my surprise, an outcrop appears and there is a sign appealing for a drop of h2o.

The view is stunning sweeping away as far as the eye can see, clothed in hues of silver mixed with shades of browns, reds and yellows a vast silent empty landscape dances in the heat.

Djibouti lies Lat 11º: 35´N. Long 43º: 08´E. It is at this point I leave the rail line and become a microdot follow my compass. With windows wide open I disappear into the vastness.

The going is a lot slower than I had expected as my morning dip has put me way behind schedule. Thirty-odd kilometres it looks like I am not going to arrive in Djibouti before midnight.   Slowly the piste gets flatter and my speed picks up. With the driving requiring 100% concentration, I am pretty exhausted and hungry but there is no time to stop.

With a deafening explosion two Mirage Fighters out of the setting sun pass overhead turning into a blip on a radar screen. I am no longer a microdot the prospects of a reception committee are now more than likely. My late arrival combined with the added likely hood of having to deal with unwanted braid make it touch and go that Williwaw will be on the ship for her departure in the morning.

With the ground turning to hard flat salt Williwaw afterburners are full on > An UFO being tracked by heat-seeking missiles on collision with Djibouti. The last sixty kilometres penetrated by my spots lights go whizzing by I arriving miraculously undetected.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Donation News: Hopefully by the time I arrive in Djibouti some generous reader will have donated a few bob to the next trip.

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

Sorting Code 98-50-10.

(CONTINUATION)

We retire to the hotel for a long overdue beer with our heads swimming from images of church paintings, beatified saints, living grey bearded white turban druids either squatting or floating in and out of hidden cold chiselled cracks of light with small crosses, staff, muttering words from consecrated books. After dinner the girls call it a day I venturing out for an evening stroll take in the second half of a football match played on a rock hard pitch. I get invited to the local pub up in the village by Ato wearing green.

Yes you’re right: It turns out to be a stone roundhouse up a very stone steep pathway. Opening the door the stone floor is covered in a fine fresh scenting grass. There is no light and no sign of any other drinking regulars. My new-found friend Ato (Mr) Giday orders two specimen bottles of Tej (That’s the mead stuff made from honey) In his early forties he speaks faultless English. With a sweep of his hand he introduces me to a raised ledge where to my surprise are seated six or seven others. Introductions over a few ishee( Ok) later the unfathomable cultural divide is once again a barrier to any mean full communication. Mr Giday comes to my rescue.

The questions start flying. Where am I from? Ireland. Never heard of it. The grass is swept aside > A map. Ishee Ishee. What to I think of Ethiopia? Where have I been? What religion? Do I like the food?

They find it inconceivable that we have driven from South Africa. By specimen bottle two my round the conversation has turned to politics, the price of things in Addis, woman > Home from home. Bottle three Mr Giday promises to take us around the churches again in the morning. The toilet turns out to be Shita Biete and I am sailing three sheets to the wind.

An old codger is pocking me in the side with his walking stick. He seems to be offering his stick to me, but I am not sure. Five pucks later Mr Giday informs me that the stick is a present to whack the dogs on the way back to the hotel. I don’t quite remember leaving or where Mr Giday said his good nights but man was I thankful for the walking stick. In pitch dark I staggered back to the hotel creating enough noise to arouse very pair of four-legged ivories in hearing distance.

Surprisingly I awake relatively unscathed. Mr Giday is awaiting us in the dinning room. He breakfasts with us out lying the day ahead. Florence is not impressed with another round of the churches she being bribed with motherly know how.

A long day of detail explanations delivered with grace and genuine pleasure brings Lalibela into true perspective than any text could have done. Mr Giday back in the hotel refused to take any monitory payment for his services. However I insist that he should. He is setting up a private guide company to meet the demands of the expected tourists when the airport opens.

Before taking his leave he inform us that if we wish in the morning at 6am we could visit and witness a druid ceremony in Biete Golgolta an experience we should not miss.

We are all somewhat tired so the thought of getting up a 5.30am to see some whaling druids does not appeal to me. Fanny enthusiasms however surprise us so Mr Giday promises to collect her in the morning. The Hotel also has a group of Amhara woman performing a traditional dance, which according to Mr Giday we should not miss.

Later than Fanny would have liked we sit watching one of the most unusual dance form in Africa. A group of five women stand riveted to the floor with the stillness of startled deer’s.   With fixed smiles their shoulders start to shudder in imitation of some sort of exotic mating dance undertaking by our feather friends. Not another muscle moves other than their shoulders, their breasts and necks. The breasts quiver like set jelly while their necks and heads mimic the elastic of any old golf ball unravelling to the rhythm of a rather loud band.

The contrast from rock-hewn churches built by angels too an erotic totally strange dance form makes for an uneasy night sleep.

We awake to find Fanny in a spiritual trance. Her experience has crossed her into another world. The modern world has being left behind. She describes a sensation of being in seventh heaven > A pure and magical event that we lazy good for nothings had missed.   In the cold of the new day she had gone with Mr Giday and stood for an hour transfixed by large drums, tambourines, low chanting priests, frankincense, myrrh all swirling and rumbling around stone walls and pillars. She unlike us had lived the calling of Lalibela. Before leaving we visit the market where low and behold she spots Jesus himself sitting under a brolly.

Fanny still in a haze of beatification we slowly make our way out of Lalibela.

We see our welcoming beggar making his way down from his rocky house to the roads edge. He has heard the noise of Williwaw and knows with our new-found Lalibela haloes he will be showered with gifts. 

Our route back to Addis passed through Dese the capital of the Wolo province. A sprawling forever town it nearly connects to the next town. We cross the Awash River and start to climb up to Debre Birhan where it’s down hill all the way to Addis. Our six weeks circuit in one of the most beautiful countries of Africa comes to and end outside Paul’ House. He has gone to Dire Dawa leaving a message to join him we are thankful for small mercies.

Next morning I call on the bank to collect my US dollar transfer. After a long wait I am informed that it has not arrived. Fax my Irish bank. They confirm the transfer has being sent > Back to the bank. No we don’t have it > Fax. Reply received with tracer number, and acknowledgement of receipt by recipient bank. Back to bank armed with fax. Line up again in queue. One hour later. “No it’s not arrived.” Blow a fuse. Customer behind me, “You think that’s bad I am the ambassador for Sweden, we are waiting on a few million for the last two months.”

Demand to see the manager > another search > Yes it’s arrived > Problem.

They are without the authorisation of the minister of Finance not able to pay me out in US$.   They must pay me the equivalent in Birr. Then I must change the Birr back into dollars. Commission, exchange rates massive loss.

Get into a taxi. Arrive at the Minister of Finance offices > Up to floor four > Open door. Walk in on the Minister. “Have you ever being to Ireland?” Yes.

“Well then you might be aware of what happens when a Paddy looses his temper.”

Explain the problem. Return to bank with letter of Authorisation. Queue. One hour later. Bank won’t accept letter. Ring Minister. State car arrives. Manager red-faced. Queue another hour and half. Teller counts out the dollar bills once, then again and once more for good measure. I recheck count in front of teller.

Hand her a hundred-dollar bill. Change to Birr please (Ethiopian currency). She holds the note up to the light and declares the hundred dollars bill a forgery. I throw a wobbler and all the bills over the counter. Manger Confusion > A recount with each bill scanned by fluorescent light. Having arrived at 8 am I walk out of bank 6.30pm parched.

Very conscious of the wad tucked into front of my jeans I stop at bar. On leaving the bar I start walking towards Williwaw.   Coming straight at me and sticking out like a sore thumb is a dude I had seen lurking in the bank. Out of the corned of my eye his accomplice is standing in a narrow lane way. At three paces with fist closed I run on to him.   Smack > my knuckles sting. Floored his buddy does a runner. I arrive back to the house with four teeth imprints, a headache, and mammoth dislike of banks.

All the next days’ attempts to secure a passage across Eritrea fail. The alternative of circumnavigating Eritrea by way of Sudan is not on the cards so for all inattentive daydreaming purposes our adventure is all but at an end.

The logistics of arranging homeward passage commence. Fanny and Flo will fly back to the UK in week’s time. After the week I will drive the Jeep to Djibouti ship her home as all attempts to sell her have failed, returning to Addis and fly home. Not difficult.

We decide to spend the last few days with a visit to Awash national park and the Filwoha Hot springs along with a stop over in the walled city of Harer one of Ethiopia’s most interesting cities.   We will then go on up and visit our mad Sicilian friend Paoulo in Dire Dawa my set off point to cross the Denakil desert to Djibouti.

Awash park lies in dry acacia savannah land around 200km east of Addis Ababa on the road to Nazert. The road out of Addis has become almost familiar to us, as it is the main exit to eastern Ethiopia.   We have already driven it a few times but the landscape still takes our breath away. Dark lava flows stain the sides of the surrounding small volcanic hills while the northern Rift Valley walls shimmer in the heat as do numerous small lakes of the Aris and Bale highlands before the whole lot is swallow up by the Arba Gugu Mountains.

We follow the French built railway line that connects Addis to Djibouti Ethiopian’s only rail line. God only knows how people travel on this sweat box of a train. It staggers and shutters alongside us from one village to the next at walking pace. Yerer an extinct volcano on our left is envious of the smoke pumping from it engine funnel. We stop in Debre Zeyit a railway level crossing town surrounded by lakes with one lake almost in its center. A herd of long horn cattle with a swarm of goats with a liberal helping of dogs are blockading the rail line so we stop for a drink.

As always it’s not long before Williwaw attracts some faranji hysteria so we decide to give a walk around the lakes a miss.

A half hour later we have passed through Nazret (the Ethiopian for Nazareth) where one exams every donkey/horse-drawn cart for a woman and man called Mr and Mrs Jesus.

Another half an hour we arrive in Awash a mangy forgettable small town that clings to a railway station where long-tongued thirsty train passengers quench their thirst. Our journey leaves the road and enters the Kudu valley in search of the Filwoha Hot Springs. An hour later we bump our way across a small river towards a small bunch of Palm trees that surround ice blue water pool.

There is neither a soul to be seen nor any hint to confirm that this is the Filwoha Hot springs but in the searing heat of the day the water looks refreshing and inviting. 

Without any ado I strip off and plunge in. I can only describe it as the same experience a lobster must get when it is chucked into a pot of boiling water.

My momentum brings me across the pool where I emerge gasping and glowing red with two testicles that pain like hell. Florence the daughter is in stitches, but suddenly goes quite at the sight of two emerging Ethiopians pointing at my man hood. They are also in fits of gleeful laughter at sight a glowing Irish fool who had being looking all day at volcanoes, lava, and who had now dived headlong without dipping his toe in to test the temperature.

There shrieks of hysterics of course attracted the ever-invisible humanoids within hearing distance.  The next commotion comes from Williwaw where my beloved is treating a bloke with bigger knife who has attempted to snatch her handbag. Waving one of our machete she is shouting “You bastard mine is bigger that your.” With my pills stinging we make a hasty retreat all the way back till we arrive on the main drag late in the afternoon.

The entrance to Awash Park is marked by a battered sign and a small hut with an unmanned barrier. It’s difficult to believe that behind the barrier lay a 870 km park supporting 50 large animal species and over 400 bird species.

Our park campsite is up a nine-kilometer long track from the barrier. We see nothing on the way up arriving eventually as what is described in the Bible as a large waterfall carved out by the Awash River.  

The Awash River lamely dribbles over a small waterfall as we prepare Pitch No 118 under huge figs and acacia threes our last and final Pitch of our African journey.

Our chosen site although beautiful soon shows itself to be unbearable with visiting insects and those nuance of all nuances our friend and enemy Blue balls him self the Vervet monkey. There is no choice but to move. Pitch No 119 is back up to a rocky outcrop on raised ground giving us a view out over the river and some cool evening breezes.

While Fanny starts preparing the evening meal I get on with now a very tried and tested routine of setting up our roof top tent, beds, nets, and all the other things necessary to make our camp site comfortable. We have not seen a soul since entering the park.

However while walking around Williwaw I get the feeling that I am being watched. During our whole time in Ethiopia we had not associate it with real African Wild life.   Now here I was face to face with a young lioness that is more than peeved to see me.   In a crouched tense posture sent the hairs on my neck tingling.   With my legs wanting to scamper my mind is telling me not to make any sudden movements. Pointing at the rock I slid back around Williwaw and tell the girls to get on the roof. There is no protest as we all clamber up the ladder.

It takes some time and a large campfire for the girls to relax. Dinner is eaten with a douse of reinsurance that we are perfectly safe. The next visitor is just as much a surprise. A game warden asking for our park entrance fee and insisting that we could not camp where we are.

After two camp pitching’s with highly sensitive balls combined with nearly becoming lion fodder, we or I should say I, am in no mood to move in the dark.   Our refusal turns our park ranger into an aggressive threatening animal, but he eventually leaves us in peace after being told in no certain terms to piss off

The girls hit the sack on the understanding that I stand watch until I hear them snoring. With the sound of the waterfall I sit with my back to Williwaw sipping a beer and sweeping the rocks now and then with our powerful torch.

Out of the darkness to my left a set of green eyes followed by two more sets announces the return of our lioness with two of her girl friends. All three sauntering pass me without showing the slightness interest in my presence.

Their eyes and silent gait nonetheless sends quivers of nerves up my spine until they disappear in the direction of the river. I retire up the ladder with backwards glances over my shoulder. Sleep comes fitful with tingling pills and gaping jaws.

Next morning early we break camp not to avoid a re visit from our lions but to avoid our less than pleasant game ranger.   Arriving back at the park gate entrance we find the barriers down and locked. The rusty chain gives Williwaw bull bars little trouble. We turning right and it‘s not long before we are climbing up the Arba Gugu foothills to our turn off to Harer.

(To be Continued)

Donation News. Still pathetic.

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

Sorting Code: 98-50-10.

(Continuation)

Arriving in Mexico Square my surrounds confirm that I am indeed in Addis Abba and not Mexico City. On the opposite side of the square, a little distance up a wide street with a name (Ras Abebe Aregay) that declares Ras Abebe is Gay is the Bank. A large modern building that proclaims a monitory wealth away beyond the country it stands in. A line of beggars leading to its entrance reinforces the image.

Depending on your point of view banks no matter where you come across them in the world are either a God Send or legalised gangsters. This one is to prove to be the Godfather of Godfathers. The safest way to take money travelling is traveller cheques but when one is on a voyage like this you need hard cash. The complications of having money sent are a hassle in most African countries. Ethiopian proves to be the worst. I enquire as to the possibilities of arranging a transfer to be collected in a few weeks or so. The difficulty is in getting the transfer paid out in the currency that it arrives in such as US dollars. I am assured that there will be no trouble and given all the bank’s details to forward to my bankers.

Next, I visit the post office to fax and post confirmation of my instructions for the transfer. This whole operation takes the best part of an hour and a half of great confusion.   Packed to the doors the Post office is not for the gullible. A magnet for causal pickpockets, rip-off artists, helpful first-rate no gooders I am glad that my loot is buttoned down in the breast pocket of my shirt. (TOP TIP: In high-risk pickpocket areas such as crowded bus stations, government establishments, minibus ranks and the like a good tactic is to stuff some think worthless in your trousers back pocket that look like a wallet from the outside. I have nothing against money belts except they are a dead give away if required to open in any public palace. Also standing looking like you are lost is to be avoided. Always look like and act like you know where you are going even if you don’t have a clue.) On leaving the Post office to shake off any hopeful I walk into the nearest bar for a beer.

Returning to my hotel I pass by the football stadium > Can’t resist having a look. Five Birr later I am sitting in the stands. The round ball has a way of crossing cultural barriers and I am soon supporting the greens. Perhaps an indication that the one gift the Empire gave to the world football brings both the best and the worst out in one’s persona. The greens are trashed, as were the Italians in their attempts to colonise Ethiopia at the battle of Adwa in northern Ethiopia in 1896. Apparently, the Italians with crap maps of the area attempted a night march for which they paid dearly being wiped out by an army of 100,000 after which the Italians recognized Ethiopia as an independent nation. In return for the Ethiopians recognizes Eritrea as an Italian Colony sowing the seed for the day’s present problems.

Landing back in Jinka the sun had not mover much since take off. But it is definitely not shining out of Fannie’s orifice. She has been bitten by a scorpion. Painful but not life threating. I can picture the drama. She was rushed off to the small clique refusing any needle unless she saw it being unwrapped in front of her. She received an injection of Emetine. (TOP TIP: There is no need to state the importance of bringing your own needles and to know how to use one.) Maybe the scorpion is the last defence for the people’s of the Omo region.

Throughout our journey, we have become aware that millions live in villages to which no roads lead living on cassava yams and bananas. Theirs is a life of subsistence. The further one ventures of the beaten tracks unseen by most tourists as they stick to the main roads the poorer Africa becomes. It is evident and indeed sad that the scorpion will not be able to preserve this part of Africa. The AK47s, the runway, rings the bell of extinction of a way of life, uniqueness, an honour, customs and traditions that give a purpose to life.

Fannie’s red welt puts pay to visiting the lower Omo delta region. Trying my hand at cow hurling with the Hamars or competing in a spot of donga stick jostling with the Surma or a session of face painting with a new clay hair bun style compliments of the Karo will have to wait.

As it turned out the company that we were going to do the river delta with is having its own problems due to some diabetic twit that had to be airlifted out. Rumour has it that he had not made known his problem and he was caught short of insulin when the company missing one of its landing spots resulting in the trip being longer than usual. The company was being threatened with withdrawal of its tour licence. Also, it is impossible to get my hands on any decent maps of the area in Jinka. The thoughts of another rolling coaster few days lost on very rough roads against the attractions of Addis had no chance.

First, we have to escape Jinka, which is easier said than done with a spring that refused to be replaced even on the extremities of the high jack. Some creative thinking and extra muscle are required. Eventually, the Peace Corps on seeing my frantic hand language recognizes one of my hand displays as an attempt to demonstrate the ground to air signals for help. They offer their compound. It has a strong-beamed roof. (Top TIP: There is four basic ground to air hand signals. Require Assistance, Require Medical Assistance, NO or Negative, Yes or affirmative are a good thing to learn.)  

The idea is to jack Williwaw up.   Attach my towing band around the beam and with a few strong hands heave her up the last fraction to allow the spring slip into its housing. The downside is the possibility of losing a figure or two. Success depends on no slipping the spring in position before she hit the ground. Bang she hits the ground re-sprung with all fingers intact.

After seeing the terrain from the air I am surprised to find that our descent down to Arba Minch is far less daunting than I had expected. Arba Minch is on the first of a string Rift Valley Lake’s that run all the way to Addis. With the road conditions vastly improved we pass mule riders shrouded in wraparound veils herding goats up to their morning pastures. All the men we pass carry a stick across their neck over which their two arms are draped. This posture of walking is to be one of our lasting memories of Ethiopia.   Arriving well before the setting sun Lake Chamo is dressed in its early evening silver gown. Looking down on the lake we are reminded that we are still deeply in the heart of the foothills.

Arriving in the small town which is the capital of the Gamo-Gofa Providence it is not much to write home about but its setting is breathtaking. Position high in the fortifications of the Rift Valley walls it commands wonderful views of not just the lake but also the surrounding mountains.   In sympathy to Fanny’s throbbing finger, we stay the night at the Bekele Mola Hotel perched on the cliff overlooking the lake. In the morning we learn that Arba Minch is, in fact, two towns > Separated by four kilometres. Of course, there are no road signs so we had no way of knowing. Anyway, it turns out we had spent the night in Shecha which could have being Sikela if we had gone the extra mile.

Today progress is smooth and fast.   We skirt around Lake Abaya and then on to Lake Shala, Lake Abiyata, Lake Awash, Lake Langano, passing through Shashemene to Lake Ziway and Lake Mujo all of which must have been discovered by someone obviously not white as we have not heard of them before.

After Shashemene our surroundings changed from highlands to undulating hills with an ever-arable patch of land under some crop or other. We are now in the quilt country I had seen from the air. Arriving at Nazret Addis Ababa at 2400m is in our sights. An excellent road brings us into the city proper within the hour. We contact our Sicilian Paul from the Lido Hotel. Inviting us over to stay he seems rather surprised that we have made it.

Paul who is living not far from the centre of the city takes some finding. Eventually, with a large helping of perseverance, we arrive down a severely unnamed potted road. Heavy shrubbery and a large door hide his house from view. His welcome is just as exuberant as when we first crossed paths back in Dar es Salaam. We stayed two days during which an extensive tour of Ethiopia is plotted with an invitation to join him at Dire Dawa in two weeks time.

Having arrived from the south-western direction the plan is for us to do the north-east wherein the 1985 famine over a million died and then down the north-west leaving the south-eastern section untouched. According to our maestro, Paul the places to start is right here Addis the Marcato, Addis largest market and commercial hub. “This is where I buy my chat,” says Paul. What’s that? “The Jesuits had their opium in Macao.” “Ad Majorem Dei Glorima.” (Latin motto: To the greater glory of God.) “Ethiopia has Chat to the greater glory of hunger.”

“It’s not a European bird but a green leaf that takes the longing away.” The rest of the circular itinerary sound likes a journey of biblical magnitude in the midst of biblical names. Debre-Mark’ok, Bahir Dir, Lake Tana, Blue Nile, Gonder, Simien Mountains, Axsum, Queen of Sheba, The Ark of the Covenant, Adwa, Adigrat, Eritrea Border, Rock- hewn churches, Mek’elé, Lalibela, Desé, Awash National Park, Hārer.

Over lunch, the map is ignored we getting a compressed history lesson “

You know that Ethiopia was settled by Ethiopic the great-grandson of Noah. It was his son that establishes Axum and a dynasty of rulers that lasted nearly a hundred years.” “Queen Sheba was the last of these rulers.” “While she was on a visit to Jerusalem she got bonked by Solomon and converted to Judaism. “ Producing a man-child called Ibn-al-Malik (Son of the King)” “Ibn-al Malik is where Manelik comes from.”

The story has it that this teenager went looking for his dad Solomon who was over the moon when they met up back in Jerusalem offering him the keys to his roller. For his return journey, Solomon thought Ibn needed some company so he ordered that the tribes of Israel send a crowd to accompany him.”

“The whole mob one of which happened to be Azariah the son of the high priest of the temple of Jerusalem nicked the Ark of the Covenant for the journey back.” Solomon, as you can imagine, was pissed off when he found that the Ark was no longer in his safe.” “He gave chase, till all of them had a dream that it was all God doing.” So the ark ended up locked up in the Church of St. Mary Zion in Axum to this day.” “That why you should visit Axum.”

“Sheba, self-effacing was so highly impressed she gave up her short brakes with five hundred camels to Jerusalem.” “The Solomonic Dynasty ended in 1974 when Haile Selasie the 237^th emperor died.”   “If you don’t, believe me, it’s all in the famous Ge’ez bible called Kebre Negest.”   “However these days you can believe all that you read”. This remark brings the history lesson to a sudden end accompanied with a dismissal to the Marcato.

Driving in Addis Abba as with any major African city requires the following nine skills.

The ability to spot the lurking Rayban clad cop astride his latest aid donated BMW bike that can’t resist the chance to make a few bob on the quiet.

Roundabouts meant only for the bravest of the brave.

The crossing techniques of totally ignored traffic lights.

The avoidance of car proof Pedestrians.

The courage to park whenever, wherever.

The unadulterated use of the horn.

The realisation that indicators are just that.

The ability to breathe in pure fumes, and to avoid smoke windowed Mercedes with fluttering pendants that have total immunity when it comes to killing.

Last but not least, local knowledge of potholes and open drains that need flyovers. Not forgetting the dogs, goats, chickens, horses, donkeys and the odd babe dressed to the nines.

It’s a funny thing about Land Rovers especially ones dressed overall for off-road duties. They receive unwanted attention at frontiers; attract kids like honey, and cops, and army personnel like homing beacons. They receive flashing of headlights from other land rovers to say you’re one of us. They look the part no matter how matter how much Co² they add to the ozone hole. They are one of the few machines that have a magazine all of its own.

We arrive in one piece.   Leaving Williwaw unattended is a no, no. (Top TIP: If you are going to spend a few hours wandering in a large market one of the tricks is to park your vehicle in a highly visible spot. Buy something from the nearest stall and offer to pay extra if they will keep an eye on your vehicle. )    

Equal to Kumasi’s central market in Ghana this is one of the biggest markets in Africa.   It alone could fill the fourteen pages that our bible allocates to the whole country of Ethiopia.   A vast area filled with small shops, kiosks and stalls. It challenges one with strong pungent smells of urine, excreta, mix with rotten eatables, incense, spices, coffee, cooking, cheap perfume, body aromas, strange-sounding language, colour, light and darkness on every turn and in every alleyway. It is the pulse of Addis a con man warren, a pickpocket’s labyrinth, a tourist Aladdin cave, a bag – snatching paradise, a portrait photographer’s dream.

We spend hours wandering in and out of curios shops each one with the Ark of the Covenant for sale, custom-made gold, silver, jade, jewellery, crosses, staff, chalices, wonderful ornate umbrellas, jars, goblets, swords, daggers, rings, necklaces, artefacts from the treasure-house of the Queen, Kings, Emperors too many to name. All of this is just in the outer skin of the market.

On deeper penetration traders of cloth, leather, basket makers, weavers, ironsmiths, potters, carpenters, mingle with butchers, bakers, tailors, and craftsmen whose skills have been handed down from generation to generation work.

Everything operates in a swirling cauldron environment of motion, sound, colour, and chat-chewing, cud spit struggle to make a birr or two.

(Top TIP: The Marcato. Don’t miss it. Don’t be tempted by any of the guides. They are an unwanted nuisance and soon get bored if you don’t purchase anything. With common sense you will enjoy it all on your tod.)

We avoid the temptation to sink our teeth into one of the hundreds of Injera floating on the heads of the seller in large colourful baskets we finish our visit with a Buna espresso-style Ethiopia’s rich sweet addictive coffee.

Running Addis rush hour gauntlet we arrive back in time to meet Paul’s cook, gardener, and night watchman. He shows no interest whatever in whether we went or not to the Marcato. “In the morning we are going to a hot spa on the Awash river.” Say’s Paul before he takes early night refuge in his bedroom.

Crammed into his car we leave Addis at a rate of knots to match Paul’s feverish personality changes. We zoom out past the airport on the Nazret road. He is in better form. “This is the road you will take to visit me Dira Dawa.” Our target is Sodore a hot spring resort that attracts Addis middle-class weekenders for a dip in a large swimming pool. Fifty kilometres from Addis we pass through Debre Zeyit a sprawling unappetizing town that hugs the road surrounded by small creator volcanic lakes. We stop for a coffee and morning pastry. Bizarrely Paul throws a tantrum when the bill arrives> All of US1$.   It’s our first introduction to Ethiopia Faranji prices.

Although we had heard the word before we are unaware that it is common practice in Ethiopia to charge one price for the locals and another for tourists.

A couple of Ishee (OK, Ok) and the price dropped to 25 cents. Back in the car, Paul rattles on about the Faranji frenzy that can lead to stone throwing. “It’s a curse of tourism, in Ethiopia.” “Whites attract every beggar, herds of You, You yelling kids,” and of course Faranji rip off. “It’s the one place in the world where Fuck Off doesn’t work.” “So who do you get rid of a bunch of give me money kids.” I don’t know try Habbishat it will at least get you a few laughs.”

Without seeing one donkey, carpenter, or Mary we pass through Nazret. “We’re now entering Rastafarian land,” Says Paul. I have my suspicions that this is the main reason for our trip to Sodore. Paul is a fond lover of Ganga the wisdom holy weed. He rolls a splif before he has a shit in the morning.”

“Paul warms to his subject. “Rastafarians take their name for Ras Tafari Makonnen which was Emperor Haile Selassie I (Power of the Trinity) pre-coronation title, or – King of kings – Elect of God – Conquering Lion of the tribe of Judah to give him his full titles.” You know that they believe that the Bible was changed by Babylon. (Babylon being the white mans political machine.) ” “They have their own bible the black man’s bible call Holy Piby.   “They also consider one of the Ethiopian holy books the Kebra Negast to be a good read.”   “They believe that they are reincarnated from the lost tribe of Israel and that their redemption is to found on earth in Africa here in Ethiopia where they will re-establishment of apartheid this time the right way around.

I am thinking what next. In the space of week we gone from weird wooden pious statues standing in fields with phallic penis stuck to their foreheads to half-naked woman with lips you could put a pint on, to scorpion bits, to the Queen of Sheba, to the ark of the covenant, to a dead Emperors with a following of dreadlocks that believe they can drive their furry filled cars to heaven in Africa.

Judging from what pictures I have seen of little Haile I am sure before his death in 1975 he had no divine insights as to why he was adopted by Rastaman as their God. His death must have caused quite a crisis for many a Rastafarians. The weed of wisdom I am sure by now has explained his departure in many a puff over a Bob Marley number.

Paul rattles on. “They are vegetarians.” “The lion is their main symbol.” “Their dreadlocks mark their lion attitude.” “Weed smoking is justified in the bible.” We arrive.

A large swimming pool designed back in 50^th looks far from clean. Not to worry about a badly potholed dirt track we drive past up along a small river for a few kilometres. From all the car yak I have great expectations that we are either going to be greeted by Moses or John the Baptist.   Instead, Paul brother and wife with two saplings greet us. Roy his brother is older and heavier with a modern Ethiopian wife who is small with striking jade eyes that don’t miss a trick.

For the next two hours, we part take of the water > Hot crystal clear sulphurous water to cool off in the many cascading pools with beers on the bank.

The journey back to Addis and our pending departure in the morning is in more in the lap of the gods than conscientious driving.

“Enjoy, enjoy one of the most mind-boggling countries in the world.” “If you have problems don’t call me,” Says Paul.

We leave on our planned circuit of Ethiopia three thousands years of historical shaping history. The first port of call is Debra Markos. Climbing out of eucalyptus-clad hills we are trapped behind five trucks that hug the road centre. Everything in Ethiopia is moved by bleaching elderly trucks. The thought of pulling over to allow any passing is obviously an imbued ecstasy not yet learned. On the contrary, drivers take pride in using up as much as the road as possible. Clapped out trucks peppered the roadsides in living proof of failing brakes or wheels deciding to escape their laborious labour.

Three hours anon we reach the end of the winding road emerging onto high moorlands it becoming obvious that we are going to be well short of our intended target Debra Markos. Pas grave.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATIONS NEWS:  It appears all readers so far are skint, but just in case there is one with some spare cash for a budding unpublished author.

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

Sorting code: 98-50-10.

CONTINUATION.

This section is rather a long pleasurable read.

We leave Thunder and Smoke for Binga 17° 34S. 27°E on lake Kiriba. Victoria Falls tourist trappings are not long in disappearing with the road switching back to a more classical African earth road. The long day’s drive is enjoyable and we are rewarded by some hot springs in Binga where we suffer our first Zimbabwe rip off.

Pitch No 91 across the road from the spring is 100Z$ for the night. The extortive price may be more to do with the fact that few tourists pass this way never mind drive up to Mana Pools north of the Kariba Dam. At that price we do not hang around in the morning.
None of our available literature prepares us for the drive that lies ahead of us. One of the most ghastly we were to encounter on the whole of our African Trip. Blistering sunshine, mile after mile of corrugations that rattled you ivories till you thought they would turn to a white powder: The corrugations road of all Corrugations roads.

At sixty kilometres per hour Williwaw‘s grit is tested to the limit.

There is a cut-off point to what one can take so our dust trail comes to an early stop with Pitch No 92 on the roof.   We awake to the singing voices of a group of men loading a lorry with bails of cotton. They get quite a surprise to see a jeep emerging from the bush. Village after small village pass bye. It’s another day of riding a pneumatic drill. Just when you think you have found the right speed the corrugations change width or height. All credit to the girls who grin and bear it hour after hour. Mind you I did give them one all mighty shock on taking a bend a speed I had to take some swift evasive action to steer clear of a grey mass in the form of an elephant > The highlight of the day. Unknown to us we are passing through Matusadona National Park. One of those areas designated a park on the map while on the ground it has no visible boundaries.

By the time we arrived at the turnoff to the Dam we have every intention of giving it a miss. Stopping for fuel I enquire if there is any camping to be had near at hand. The Hotel allows camping in their grounds so we pop over for a drink in the bar.

“Hy where are you from?” Ireland. Before I know it I have accepted an invitation to stay on Free State a houseboat belonging to Amp’s. Fanny is none too pleased. One minute we are camping and now we are following a complete stranger down to his houseboat on Lake Kariba. After 1250 km of driving over corrugations I am not in a sympathetic mood dismissing her arguments. Anything had to be better than having to set up the tent. Half-hour later we are installed on the bridge with large G&T.   Dinner is served. A few after dinner beers and we are all snoring our heads off in no time.

In the morning all I can remember of last night’s dinner conversation is “ Do you know that elephants when swimming across the Lake follow their ancestral trails on the bottom of the lake.”

Amp’s is a Tobacco farmed when he is not wielding his boat.   I spend the day helping him install a new gas water heater while he laments the plight of the white Zambezi farmers under MUGABE. He assures me that the rest of the world will turn a blind eye while the bastard grapples all their land off them. “The same thing will happen in South Africa.” “You wait and see.”

Considering that the whole way up from Binge we never once saw the waters of the lake were immersed for most of the time in choking dust and bounced around by land waves called corrugations.   A lunchtime drink in the yacht club is rather weird.

Here I learn of the lakes birth. Surrounded by untouched wilderness Kiriba was formed in 1958. This is one Lake Livingston did not discover. Covering over 5100km² it is one of the largest man-made lakes in the world. The dam costing around 577 million pounds built-in two stages with no Environmental Impact Study it is owned both by Zambia and Zimbabwe. At a height of 617m it holds water reservoirs of 180 billion metric tons.   Not forgetting because it is built on a tectonic plate since filling up it has caused numerous earthquakes.   Twenty of them in excess of Magnitude 5 on the Richter scale. Its effects are felt down stream as far as the Indian Ocean.

During its construction the local Tonga people believed that the River God of the Zambezi could not be harnessed. With the death of up to one hundred construction workers their belief had a strong case.

However after two massive floods the dam was complete, displacing over 55,000 people, causing thousand of animals to drown it brought cheap electricity to the first of the resettled Tonganees twenty-five years later.   They the Tonga had no say in the building of the dam or where they were resettled.

On a more positive side it is now provided cheap energy, a tourist attraction in the town of Kiriba. Excellent fishing for Tiger fish, Giant Vundu, Cheese, Nkupi to named but a few of the less known.   The creation of the Matusadona National park for the animals saved by Operation Noah our road hogging elephant > an inexhaustible source of water for bird life.   Not forgetting a home for Amp’s Free State. That night we venture out on to the waters to watch the sun set.

Morning we depart for Mana Pools a UNESCO world heritage Park with an assurance from Amp’s that all white Zim welcomes are indeed a Céad Mile Fáilte.

Arriving at the Park’s entrance without a visiting permit we resort to the typical unified homage and the splee that we thought you could get a permit at the gate.   Eventually after a radio call we are waved through the lifted barrier. “On reaching the river please report to the main office.” Seventy-three kilometres of bush penetrating dirt track we eventually emerge on to the Zambezi riverbank without seeing one animal.

Twenty minutes later we emerge from the main park offices armed with our permit, which allows us to, caught one fist a day. Allocated camping site no six > with number three written on the permit we Pitch No 93 on site number five. Williwaw deposits the last of her radiator water in the dust as if to say this far and no further.   Our campsite situated on top of a high ridge is in the midst of large trees of Mahogany and Apple Ring Acacia.   Our view out over the ridge looks out on long grass stretching down to the banks of a slow-moving Zambezi meandering around small islands in and out of large pools and channels.

On the opposite bank of the river steep embankments covered in dense jungle defend the boundaries of Zambia. Prior to the Kariba dam the whole area would have being such swampier with lush river terraces reaching inland for several miles.

We settle in to the sounds of Hippos, Elephants and Hyena not forgetting the ever presents Baboons and our favourite blue asses Vervet monkeys the tugs of the bush.

Our first Manna Pool morning breaks early with a breathtaking view of water buffalo munching, Hippo wallowing, with an Elephant parked outside the gents.   We have at long last found a park where the animals came to you rather than driving around on rumours looking for them. (Top TIP: Invest in good Binoculars 8X3or 9X40.)

The 2190km² of the park has one of the topmost intensities of wildlife on the whole continent.   .

We visit the park ranges lodge to pick up a map of the park and hire two Canoes.   I arrange to use their workshop to have a look at Williwaw.   The rest of the day is spent soaking up our idyllic surroundings.   An early evening drive down to a small lake called the Long Pool involves risking giving Williwaw a dose of Bilharzias > Her radiator requiring topping up from every stagnant pool there and back.

Dawn brakes with a baboon barking announcing the arrival of a Ranger to tell us that our canoes are down on the riverbank.   Equipped with hats, bottles of drinking water, a picnic and a thick coating of sun tan cream we set forth.   On the way over to the riverbank Florence is very distrusting of a large Buffalo that is grazing in the long grass.   She has every reason to be so we give it a wide berth. It turns out that we are not the only ones going cannoning. Standing beside the canoes are a young German couple and two South Africans.

Life jackets on we set off up river. Hippos at a distance look harmless however close up at water level you feel more than defenceless, especially if they yawn. Our first pod of hippos has a young fledging.   Definitely stay clear.   We take a long detour behind a small island down a narrow channel emerging into another pool.   Out of the undisturbed waters up pop a pair of ears and snorting nostrils and up goes the girl’s apprehension.   Hippos can stay submerged for anything up to twenty-five minutes. The thought of one surfacing under our canoe keep us all on the alert.   Twenty minutes late Fanny spots a HMS Hippo on a broadside collision course. “Look its tail is flapping a sure sign it’s getting twitchy.” The girls paddle with renewed vigour. We learn later that tail flapping is not a sign of aggression to be more precise that it is having a dump.   For the moment nothing would convince the girls that we were not under the beady eyes of the approaching head with intent of immediate attack. We shoot across the river to the opposite bank to be confronted by a sleeping Buffalo.   About turn out we go to one of the many small islands already occupied by the Germans.

While the Germans make a reconnaissance of our small island we lunch. Our island krauts are gifted with the on canning gift of seeing herds of buffalo, elephants, and wildebeest when no one else sees a thing.   You name it and they have seen it.   Mind you they are somewhat fortuitously that they did not spot the croc near the canoes when we departed as we are sure they would have freaked.

Who cares what ever makes them happy. For us we had reached the limits of up river paddling. We turn for home. Except for hippo dogging the soothing waters embrace us. The hypnotic silences of our surroundings slice open every now and then by the piercing cry of a Fish Eagle give us cherish moments to remember. Submersed in the setting sun we float back down the mighty Zambezi without much effort to home.

Back at camp with binoculars we watch the early evening parade of thirsty mammals.   Darkness as always arrives unexpectedly.   Out of the night the first set of Hyena eyes reflecting in the moonlight appear and disappear like large glow flies. Followed by a few others they create like the Hippos did a state of land fretfulness in the girls. All the assurances in the world, that the critters are harmless have little effect. That they will stay their distance does not change my ladies they being both being adamant. “Move the tent on to the roof.” “In the morning it’s far too dark now to start messing about.” “Don’t worry I stand guard.” The day’s sun and exercise wins the argument.

Awaking to the sound of crunching metal last night bone-crunching visitors are busy destroying some South Africans campsite. The brainless bastards have gone on an early morning walk (Mana Pools is one of the few parks where it is possible to go on walking Safaris escorted by a professional licensed guide.) without storing away their Cool box, tin food and the like. Right in front of our eyes their campsite is being reduced to ruins. Not a morsel of food is left. The cold box is crushed to smithereens followed by every available tin can.   Even our widow’s memory catapult is a waste of time. Four direct hits have no effect in deterring the raids. The whole affair is spell bounding.

While the casualties pack up what left of their campsite and leave we breakfast.   I wander over to the workshop leaving the girls to their own devices for the day.   With the help of one of the parks workers I remove Williwaw radiator. It is in need of radical repair way beyond Radweld.   Norman Monks the assistant park warden drops in and suggests some putty that they use. He also informs me that in the morning one of his rangers is going to Karoi to get married.   If I have no joy with the putty I could hitch a ride in the back with the bride and a few of his mates. They are leaving a four in the morning.   Just outside the town there is a place that does radiators. The putty is a miserable fiasco. Drop it the new name I have given my assistant is more of a hindrance than a help. He has the happy fondness of dropping all he touches. In the end there is nothing for it but an early rise and a long day with my radiator.

Three thirty in the morning. No sign of the groom or bride to be. I return to my sleeping bag. Five thirty up rolls the wedding party > Better late than never. I climb into the front seat. We call on one of the workers houses behind the Park lodge. Out marches the best man and the bride dressed to the teeth. I am given the short shift to the back of the Toyota. Scrambling aboard with my radiator I am greeted by two black faces in black woolly hats. The morning is cold. I have not notices the cold till I see them. The doors slam and we off.

Ten minutes down the road we come to a sudden halt.   Before I realize what is happening my two accompanying back passengers are up on their feet banging the cab roof.   The horn is blowing at full blast.   Caught like a rabbit in the headlights and spots. Frozen to the ground in the middle of the track is an Elephant.   Taking fright it starts running. For the next two kilometres it trundled along like a locomotive at thirty to thirty-five km per hour. Finally veering off it crash’s into the bush to be swollen by the snapping foliage. With all the excitements over we once more settle down out of the bitter wind to arrive four hours later in Karoi.

There is no offer of a lift back but a loose arrangement to meet outside the bank at 6pm. The first job on hand is to get some cash.   Standing shivering with teeth rattling I await my turn in the bank to change a few hundred dollars. African bank visits have a habit of trying ones staying power. Emerging two hours later I wander over to the garage. “No we don’t handle radiators but leave it with us and we send it up to Chinhoyi to Brake and Clutch”. With no other option I am now looking at hanging about Karoi till 6 pm. I resort to one of my favourite pass times.   Armed with a beer I install myself at a roadside café for a few hours of people watching.

The day drags through the heat. Around midday I am spotted by some Mana Pools acquaintances how invite me for a spot of lunch. Borrowing a jacket I return to my perch outside the bank.   Six pm passing with no sign of my newly married ranger or his friends. Darkness begins to slides across the sky. Just as I am thinking I am stuck for the night out of the gloom Mrs Neville my guardian angel appears at the curb. She has spotted my sitting amongst my plastic bags of provisions. I explain that I am not a new phenomenon in Karoi i.e. the first ruff sleeping white. My predicament is that a newly married ranger has gone on the piss, no way back, radiator god knows where, stranger in town.

Zimbabwe hospitality immodestly clicks in. My angel guardian opens the door of her car excepting no good reason other than I stay the night in her home a tobacco plantation just outside town. A phone call to the girl’s followed by dinner and a late into the night discussion covering all of the Neville’s Zim woes or trips to date and a large bed raps the day up in the land of nod.

I awake to hear Mrs Neville on the phone. “Is there no way you can fly down and bring a young Irish man back to Mana Pools” “No but a group of friends are going for the weekend.” “I can get them to call over.” Mrs Neville assures me over breakfast that I will be back with my love ones by lunchtime.

After a breast-crushing hug her husband John drives me down to the entrance gates of the house. Here we are met by a young man on a shortwave radio.

“Yes I have the beers.” “Yes I’ am at Neville’s place – Be with you in a few minutes.” I am squeeze in to the car. Arriving at a cross roads we meet up with the rest of the group. Each vehicle is stuffed with kids, tents, cool boxes, wives, and friends.   A quick round of handshakes we on our way.

Arriving at the start of the long trail into Mana Pools one of the Toyota develops a knocking in the engine. Nothing dampens the holiday sprite. It’s abandoned with all the gear chucked on top of one the other car trailer’s.

My driver explains that he and another hunter offered the Zimbabwean Government in the region of ten million Z$ for two hunting concessions a year ago. It was turned down in favour of two local blokes, black of course who were given the hunting rights for 60,000Z$. The Reserve on which the hunting would have being done could have done with the extra money but as my driver put it Zimbabweans are no longer looks on as cherished citizens if born white.

The days of white supremacy 1930 -1934 when a land act debarred Africans from ownership of the best farming land, and a labor law which banned them from entering skilled trades of professions are long gone.   They were now however returning on the other foot to haunt us. “Another ten to twelve years and all that we have worked for will be down the swann’y.”

Finding the girls in good fettle I recount all. My provisions go down a treat.

Sticking to our close at hand surroundings I suggest that we venture forth in the morning on foot. It gets a puny response from Fanny and Flo. Perhaps their response is due more to the sign in the Wardens office “Stay out of long grass, look behind you now and again, don’t put water between yourself and a Hippo – Tourists must pay twice the fee as black Zimbabweans.” Or on the other hand I suspect that they are enjoying the company of some new arrivals.

So early afternoon armed with a camera, drinking water, and a few nibbles I set off on my own.   With the setting sun on my back my first surprise is a large Monitor.

Not a computer monitor better known to inhabit European canals and rivers. This one is a fucking enormous Lizard that gives me quite a start. As one is not inclined to look at the ground when walking I had not noticed it till I had almost put my foot on it. (Monitors are related to Mosasaurs that lived 97 to 65 million years ago. One of the largest living lizards they have a long forked tongue with powerful jaws that unhinged in order to swallow large prey.)

With my pulse returning to normal I take a mental note to watch by step. Cutting in land from the river the plan is to go two kilometres straight in take a right turn and walk the parallel distance that I had walked up the riverbank.   Then take another right and end up back at camp.

The way in through the long tall grass makes me feel more and more at risk. My mind sees prying eyes where there are none. I am dinner passing bye on wheels. Emerging soaked in sweat I arrive at a dry riverbed.   Whether I had gone in two or more kilometres was any one guess. It did not matter, as I could not shake the feeling of being watched. I take a breather on a fallen log.

Consulting my compass I am just about to set off on a reciprocal course to the one I had walked up the Riverbank when I spot an Elephant in the bush.   He appeared to be gliding effortless soundless in my direction. Perhaps he is the Elephant we chased down the track or one of his brothers. Elephants never forget. To be on the safe side I move higher up the log. He grows in statue with every unforced step. All indicators say that he has not noticed me or that he is purposely showing little interest so as to put me off my guarded.

On he comes stopping less than fifty meters away from me.   It’s not possible to tell what an Elephant is thinking so I slip off the log taking protecting behind it. This fellow shows all the signs of “You are on my log.” It is written all over his face.   The charge comes with no advance ears flapping.   There is a soiled thud that sends a tremor up my timbers. Abandoning all rationalize thinking I high tail it straight into the setting sun. You can see me for dust.   Any awaiting crouching lion in the long tall grass has only to open its jaws to take delivery of an early Irish morning breakfast. My short burst of Olympic one hundred meters speed Peters out well before the winning tape. Much to my relief there is no following trumping.   In the world of might biggest is always right. I arrive back at camp alive and exulted and exhausted.

Visiting the Wardens lodge in the morning I add a note to the warnings given to one who goes on foot safari. “If you have to run don’t run blind into the sun.” I make a radiophone call to Toyota, which confirms that my radiator has gone on walk about. They have no clue as to it whereabouts. “It’s on its way to Chinhoyi, no wait a minute its in Harare, it’s not here.” The line goes dead. Norman the head warden is not of much use. Like most academicians he is as dozy as hell when it comes to practical advice. There is nothing for it but to go on a radiator hunt to morrow.

Passing some of the canoe tour operator’s camps I enquire without success after the possibilities of bumming a lift into Karoi in the morning. Fanny comes up trumps later in the day. She succeeds in commandeered a long-legged red-haired good-looking chap into giving me a lift in the morning.

We leave early completing the eighty-kilometre dirt track that leads in and out of Mana Pools before sun up. Five hours later after a stop in Kario I arrive at Brakes and Clutches in Chinhoyi. Parting company with my driver an enraged Irish voice is mollify by a cup of tea with an offer of a bed for the night and a phone call by Alan to Harare. “We make a plan in the morning if the radiator is ready I run you up the road to collect it.”   Once more I am experiencing Zimbabwean hospitality regrettably Alan hungry for a sympatric ear to his countries woes, we talks late into the night.

True to his word in the morning we set off meeting another radiator & Clutch man just outside Harare. My revamped radiator, with a new core is transferred into Alan’s booth. By the time we get back it is far too late to continue on down to Mana Pools. I stay another night.

In the morning the bus turns up packet to the gunnels. I climb over one bag after another planking myself down beside a lady wrapped in three blankets, wearing two woolly hats with an ass that only allows one cheek to rest on the seat.

Belching the compulsory cough of exhaust we jolt forward followed by the grating gearbox change into second where it remains for the rest of the journey. Every cross roads renews the battle of getting stuff off and on. With two unscheduled pee stops and six hours of gasping for air I eventually arrive on top of the hill that descends down to Mana Pools. Thump the odd passenger with the radiator I haul and squeeze myself to the front of the bus just in time to indicate I wanted off.

I also make it to the barrier in the nick of time to bum a lift. One hour later I get a warm welcome. “What kept you?” “Nothing much.” Later that evening I have fitted the radiator much to my relief without Drop its help.   We are all set to leave. (Top TIP: To avoid Radiator nightmares fit a fine mesh screen and make sure you reinforce its stabilizing fittings.)

Handshakes all around we once more set off down the dusty trail. The long drive to Harare is done in a hypnotic state of mind.   After a week camping in Mana Pools it’s time to spoil the girls with a night of comfort. Long before arriving in the capital we are booking into a decent hotel. Driving into the city centre the trimmings of a modern city once again enforces my belief that time is being hijacked by the western illusion of speed.

Harare is one of those surprise African cities. Modern with wide boulevards it has all the trimmings and facilities of a European city > Working traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, parking meters, uniformed cops, brass doorplates and all the rest that makes up a pulsating city. We are to get to know it well over the next week but first over lunch I learn that we have accepted an invited to stay with one of our next store Mana Pools Campers. We head out north of the city to visit the Lamin family.

They live in a place called the Headlands and according to the girls they own a Zoo, a Craft Centre, Butchers, a Restaurant, a Bar, Souvenirs Shop, a petrol station, you name and they got it. The whole shebang is called the Half Way House.

After many enquiry stops we eventually drive into what can only be described as an ostentatious estate. A neatly trimmer avenue peppered with peacocks and duck meanders its way through spectacular gardens to the main house. I am beginning to believe the girls. With beaming Zimbabwean hospitality we are met by Margie and Tim. “Park over there.” I park Williwaw along side a mount of tea chests.   “Welcome, welcome”.

“Oula four gin and tonic.” Armed with long cold G&T we are given the tour.

Florence is the first to see the two baby cub lions playing with a large Rockviler. She is in heaven when she hears that all three are house inhabitant.   That night over dinner served by one of the many black servants we learn that the Lamin family is bailing out of Zimbabwe in the next few months for the USA.

We are also promised that we will see at first hand the white anxieties and disillusion about the future of Zimbabwe. Tim our host is a Yorkshire man >   A Long John Silver type – driven by the rattle of silver. His newfound wife Margie although small in statue has a dynamometry nature. As always on these occasions the chat goes on well into the early hours.

We awake late but who cares it the good life for us for a few days. Breakfast introduces the house cook Peter who takes any thing up to two hours or two days to produce the morning meal. We are also introduces to the morning view out the kitchen window > A large black baboon pleasuring itself in its cage. “We rescued him for a Lab in Harare.” Florence is fascinated as she-wolf down her second bowel of Corn flakes. She can’t wait for her sex education to finish so she can make the acquaintance of the two six month lion cubs.

At high noon we set off for Harare in search of a visa to Mozambique. The plan is to take the Tete corridor once knows as the Gun Run to Malawi.   Surprisingly we have little difficulty in finding the Embassy and a transit visa is issued without much bother. On Tim’s advice I call on Mr Hardcover in the Standard Chartered Bank. My namesake Bob Dylan works wonders. Mr Hardcover arranges a priority bank service account and through it a transfer of US dollars from Ireland. “It will be paid out on arrival without any charges or commission.” For once my namesake pulls some weight in Africa. To celebrate our good fortune we lunch in the Bombay duck followed by few pleasant hours of window shopping the day is complete. Avoiding rush hour we slip out of the city making it back just in the nick of time. Williwaws main fuel tank has developed a leak. What next?

The Lamin Commercial Centre situation at the back of the Fuel station houses a Butcher shop with a working garage. Leaving Williwaw parked outside the Garage we walking over to the entrance. We emerge into a paved courtyard overlooked on all sides by two storeys buildings. “What did we tell you? “ A gift shop, a Restaurant, a Pub, a Vegetable Shop, and Bar.   We are introduced to the gathering crowed. With no escape each introduction brings a fresh drink so by the time I am invited to visit the local farmers Country Club I have no hesitation in accepting. Fanny and Flo give the Club a miss preferring an evening swim. I have little recollection of the Club other than meeting Tim father big Jim.

A large hangover hampers my appetite for breakfast and the early morning antics of a frustrated laboratory Baboons. I leave the girls to their own devices and take a ride up to the garage.   Williwaw fuel tank leak turns out to be a glass reinforced fibre job. (Top TIP: Carry a kit. Plus kits for all your cylinders, Wheels, Master Brake Cylinder, Master Clutch Cylinder, and Slave Cylinder.)   It takes me most of the day to remove the tank to effect repairs. It always the same knuckles one cut’s when doing repairs. So by the time I have once more cut the refitting radiator knuckle I am not in any mood to indulge Jim over a well-earned beer.

Jim enshrines all that is white wrong with the country. Arriving from Yorkshire in the fifties he is still a steadfast supporter of Ian Smith and his then regime. He comes across as a conceited bellowing buffoon. One can see straight away why there are aspirations on the black side to rid themselves of such repugnant racist white trash. Two hours are spent telling me about a silver keel and rudder that had fallen off a yacht somewhere in the Indian Ocean. “They are not lost I know exactly where they are on the bottom.” Apparently he had attempted to launder some hard-earned cash out of the country during the sanctions applied by the UN in 1968. “The sanctions were by the way ignored by most western countries.”

“How about a lift home Paddy?” “Sorry I don’t have the time take the short cut around the back of the plantation.”

One hour later I wander into the backyard of the house to hear his booming voice. “That’s your man.” A black worker is being arrested. According to Bwana, Boss, Master, Jim the worthless wanker is on the fiddle. “He steals 60,000z$ of my money pays the fine and then will have the neck to tomorrow when he realised to ask for his job back.” “In the mean time like all blacks he will develop the Craft syndrome of.”   “Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing.”   “It’s no wonder my son is leaving.”

“You are seeing a country under the cosh of the Zanu-pp party.” “Black Zimbabweans are hell-bent on self-destruction with thousands of whites leaving for greener pastures.”   “The economy is two-thirds of the size it was in 1999.” “You are seeing right in front of your eyes a brain bleed dry policy that can only result in a dust bowel.” Jim is far for the best example of devotee white Zimbabwean patriotism he vents however an irrefutable fact that the mass exits is both the symptom and cause of the countries woes.

The whole uproar is a time capsule of African anguish. It acts like a large magnet for all with in hearing distance. The ensuing arrest is heart-rending.   The poor sod is bundled with excessive violence into the waiting police car. The event leaves behind a strong undercurrent for revenge. I can’t help feeling that we as humans have lost sight of earth as a planet where every one and all living things should be given the dignity of life.   With mass exploitation of people and nature, unbridled consumerism, post-modern intellectual nihilism, and new world order one is bound to ask oneself is it possible to have a science for the earth and its people. There is no answer.

Everything is a Science these days.

With most scientists being products of the western culture they reinforce their western world values. Models are used to create reality, to make visual in applied science and technology; both are so linked together that nature takes a backseat. Natural balance has all but gone out the door for the sake of development, the economy, and progress. In Livingston day’s science was about Gods creations.   Modern day science and technology is about manipulation, intervention, prediction and control. Using nature for mans needs has always existed since time began but you would think these days that nature does not exist, only as a product in the endeavours to ignore and change it.

Africa colonialism like most of the rest of the world on decolonisation was left with governments trying and to this day still trying to promote western-style science as the road to economic freedom and political autonomy. Modern science holds nature laws to be space and time invariants, with most scientists considering that the results of their work stand above morality and politics. As far as they are concerned it is up to Society to do as they please with their discoveries i.e. not their responsibility but the responsibility of others.

On the one hand it is not possible to stand outside scientific knowledge. Only natural philosophy can stand above science it not having that human value. Science will have to someday come out of the Laboratory, which is state or industrial supported becoming more transparent.

With Africa turning into the dumping ground of the world’s conscience and the difference between the Islamic and western civilizations and value systems growing it is time for man to pay respect to the diversity of nature and to those who he live within this shrinking world.   It is not possible to measure progress in a world of might. My hope is that over the next millennium of time scientific people will have demands placed on them to cut the cords of industrial and state support.

Let the west have its technology and Asia its mysticism. Africa gift to the world will be in the realm of human relations.

Entering the house my thoughts are shattered by another racket.   Florence has fallen foul of the two cubs. Lounge room stalking has been in play, one unsheathe claw has giving her a deep scratch. Apparently one of the cubs sprang on her back from the sofa, while the other gave her a swipe for good measure. All is repaired with a band-aid with a promise to visit Rosie in the morning.

Rosie turns out to be another Mana pools acquaintance. A friend of Florence with an Irish mother living in the Southern suburbs of Harare.   We set off early arriving to yet another wonderful welcome with an invitation to stay for dinner. Unlike the Lamin this family has neither the means nor desire to escape from Zimbabwe. Unfortunately it is a school day for Rosie but a quick phone call and a spare school uniform save the day – off they go hand in hand.

Our day starts with a visit to a local sculptor. His works in soapstone are thank God beyond our pocket nevertheless soapstone turned into one of those moments that caused me to all but disown Fanny. Not far from the Sculptor gallery she comes across a street vender selling carvings and down market souvenirs. What does she spot? Yes a small statue in green soapstone. Nothing would convince her not to buy it. The whole situation turns into a battle of wills. It weighs a ton, no room in the Jeep have no effect. I have no intention of carrying it half across Africa. Still no effect. Twenty minutes later it is rapped up in a box. Two minutes more and I am standing in a queue in the post office across the road. “The limit in weight Madame for posting is 20 kilos.” The queue gets longer as Fanny unpacks the statue for the third time. On the removal of some string to a round of applause the forth weigh in it scrapes under the wire. We emerge for the post office 19k 999grams lighter. Fanny with, I told you so, I with a large desire for a Mosi, a Rhino, a Bohlinger’s or a Zambezi. (Beers Label)   All is forgiven by the time I get to the Bohlinger’s.

The very word Zimbabwe has it origins in stone. Directly translated from the African Shona language it means Stone house and it Bantu it translates to Sacred House or Ritual seat of a king. While the rest of Africa was using cow dung, reeds and straw to build, Zimbabwe was well on its way to becoming the masons of the continent. It has massive stone ruins in the southeast of the country. Built on 1800 acres in AD1250- 1450 they were first discovered in 1898. They were declared a world heritage site in 1986. Nineteen years later it now looks like the whole country under Mugabe is hell-bent on becoming a ruin. (Our bit of rock arrived back home safe and sound.)

After collecting our Visas for the Gun Run to Malawi we visit one the world’s finest silversmiths Michael Mavros.   His silver miniatures animals are mounted on Zimbabwean ebony and are cast in a painstaking technique called “lost wax” once used in Egypt in the times of the Pharaohs and well-known throughout the ancient civilisations. His uniqueness is in the fact that he carves the original model in ivory. We arrive at his studios set in wonderful rolling hill country. There is no way one can visit this studio without coming out with a purchase. Mavros talent is that he captures in silver every little detail of the living animal. His pieces are made with such immeasurable skill that the animal are portrayed as if caught in a split moment of their living lives. It takes us less than ten minutes to fall in love with a male warthog with two young. The credit card takes a beating. (Top TIP: If you ever get the chance to own one you have a true piece of art.)  

Dinner that night is dominated by the young ladies school day turns into an overnight stay with us arriving back at the Lamins late in the following afternoon. The crates are being packed with guess way?   Soap stone sculptures. It turn out that they hope to set up a shop in San Francisco. For us it time to push on in the morning.

(To be continued)

Donation News: I am beginning to understand why many authors live on fresh air.

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

Sorting Code: 98-50-10       

BOTSWANA.

What we know:

Once known as Bechuanaland, we know zilch about Botswana other than it has a wonderful sounding name.

With four fifths of it covered by the Kalahari it is no wonder that its currency is called “Pula” the Setswana word for rain.
Crossing the frontier near Sehengos we follow the Okavango on its journey to the world’s largest inland delta > (16,835sq km of lagoons, channels and islands before disappearing into the sands of the Kalahari.) Our day is spent avoiding donkeys and potholes, which we were, warned about at the border, not the potholes rather the donkeys. . By the time we arrive at the Island Safari Lodge we are shattered.

On checking in I enquire from less than a friendly moron named Nigel as to where the river is. He seems to think that all campers are only one step above the donkey shit that fertilizes the Botswana roads. I get a grunted answer that it has not rain enough for the water to reach the Island in years. In our tired state Pitch no 84 takes some arguing as to decide under which tree to camp. After a restless night I wake to my fiftieth birthday. An excursion by mokoro better known as a dugout canoe is the ideal present.

First we got to find our departure spot. Passing through the notorious buffalo fence that killed thousand upon tens of thousands Wildebeest and other wildlife. Set up in 1954 in an attempt to separate Botswana’s massive domestic bovine herd from their wilder cousins to stop foot and mouth it is over three thousand km long and 1.5 meters high. It blocked ancient wild migration pathways to sources of water.   A few corridors in the fencing would have saved and spared many an animal an encrusting death from thirst.   Somewhat sore of arsed after two-hour of bumping up and down in the back of our driver’s jeep we arrive out a sandy tongue.

As usual the competition for our business is in your face. Mokoro owners jostle for position each promising an experience of a life time > a trip better and cheaper than the other. All is eventually sorted. Fanny and Flo board their dugout with I in another. Two Canadian fellow excursions follow us out the narrow channel that appears too narrow for the dugouts to penetrate.

Sitting inches from the water this is one of Africa classical experiences. You glide along silently parting the Papyrus that cast their gleaming gold flowering color on clear waters. The feeling of being part of nature is overwhelming. The vast silence is punctuated only by the drip from the long pole as it pushes us out into our first lagoon. The papyrus acts as an immense filtering plant filtering millions of tons of silt and sand. Regrettably because of the buffalo fencing from our entry point, one has to travel a very long way to see wild life. Apparently for days if you want not to see reeds, reeds and more reeds.

Time waits for no man; my Birthday is celebrated on a small island to the cry of a fish eagle and a few egrets the pop of a Champagne bottle and a slice of birthday cake compliments of Fanny. A rendering of happy birthday with a ting of Canadian lumberjack beat breaks the Okavango slow rejuvenation.

With all returning to its relaxed pace I leave the girls to stretch their backs and legs for an hour while I try my luck at catching a tiger fish. Returning empty-handed we glide back to the awaiting bumpy trip back to camp which tests what remains of our best-padded backsides.

(Top TIP:   A dugout canoe has no backrests, shade, or seats. Bring a golf umbrella, some thing soft to sit on. If you have Bad back syndrome? – Steer clear. Golf umbrellas don’t take up much room. They are invaluable in the blazing sun when watching animals, fishing, or in those downpours in the wet season. )

On the dusty road home we decide that the only way to get an overview of the region is by light aircraft. When we enquire as to the possibilities of arranging a flight grunt face at the camping site is as helpful as a crocodile. With my ass having developed a rash from the ride back he gets a bit of my mind.

Next morning at Maun, a young New Zealand pilot welcomes us. From the take off it is obvious that he fancied himself as a bit of a macho kamikaze merchant. Florence turns a whiter shade of pale and sees her breakfast for a second time as we bank steeply after take off.   The hour flight is disappointing animal wise.   We traverse mile after mile of reflecting waters. However it is obvious from the air that the waters of the Okavango are retreating.   “It takes anything up to six months for the water to arrive here from the Angola,” says our pilot, > “The Okavango heartbeat.”

“ It used to be the size of Wales “ Over ten billion tons of water that starts as the Cubango river in the Angolan highlands changes into the Okavango on entering Botswana to be channeled into the panhandle by two ridges fifteen kilometers apart at Seronga.” “ Here under the searing power of the sun it evaporates in a labyrinth of channels, and what left vanishes into the sands of Kalahari or the Kgalagadi as it is known to the Bushmen.”   “ You know that the Kalahari sands cover almost all of Botswana so it’s no wonder that there is a large temptation to siphon off some of the liquid jewels of the Delta. “Look two elephants.”   We bank so steep we all nearly see them in Technicolor.

Back on terra firma armed with the banks manager name I visit the bank, which seems to have the same crowd still waiting for service that were in the Rundu Bank.   Spotting the lesser-spotted manager I give him a shout. There is nothing like inside knowledge. My swollen sense of justice in skipping the queue is obvious for all to see as I leave unable to hold eye contact.

Returning to camp we learn of a pool not far away full of hippo and large crocs. A late afternoon sortie to the deep pool full of stinking green water we encounter our first hippopotami, > Far from the best introduction to the river horse of Africa.

Fossils of hippo have being found in Yorkshire in England. The live wild animal is now found nowhere in the world except in Africa. Weighting up to 1000-4500kg they can stay under water for up to 25 minutes at a time. Close their slit nostrils when they are submerged they can swim up to thirty-five kilometers a day in search of food. Eat 159kg of grass at on evening sitting.

Living in groups that can vary from ten up to one hundred and fifty their tusk-like canine teeth in the lower jaw ( weighting up to 3kg) settle many and argument and terminate many a foolish tourist that get between them and water. Their 5cm thick skin suffers from sun burn the reason they spend the day with only their ears and nostrils above water. Their meat is edible and a soup is made from their hides as well as whips known as an sjamboke. One of the best spreaders of fertilizer they get their name via Latin from Greek, Hippos – Horse+ Potamas – River.   They are the Okavango guardians in as much as they keeping the watercourses open by following clearly distinct pathways.

We slip out of Island Safari camp before sun up after a god nights rest. Moremi Wildlife Reserve located in the northeastern part of the delta and described by Mark Nolting as one of the most diversified and beautiful is our next port of call. Situated north of Maun in the Haila Plateau the hundred odd kilometers on atrocious dirt road is only negotiable by four –wheel drive.

We arrive at the south gate “Have you booked?” No! “We are full” A group of South Africans are also at the gate. “We have paid by bank draft but the bastard has no record of receiving the payment and is now looking for Pula.” “Who the hell is Pula?” Standing in shorts with legs up to her armpits says a blond bombshell while she flutters her eyelashes at all and sundry.

“What’s your name I enquire of the gate warden?” “Moses” “Well Moses you’re my man.” How about 3^rd bridge campsite is that full also? “You should have booked in Maun.”   “They told me that you Moses were the man, so how about it?” Ten to fifteen minutes later with 4/500 Pula lighter we camp just inside the gate pitch No 85 on the roof.

Morning breaks cold enough for Fanny to request our major kit bag.   Luckily the sun saves the struggle to find her thermal long johns. They never see the light of day.

3^rd bridge camp site is forty km up the middle of the 3000 km² reserve of swamp, dryland, floodplains, riverbank forest. On a narrow sandy track under trees that are taking on their autumn colors the drive is stunning.   We emerge onto a small airfield, which we are to see once more and once more. Around and around we go lost. Track after track bring us back to the airstrip. Not one bridge did we find never mind the 3^rd bridge > A light aircraft lands. Fanny takes a prisoner of one of the awaiting driver, who thunders off down at full throttle one of the many tracks I now know as well as he does.   Pointing out the window “Ah that’s where we went wrong.”

Arriving at the wooden bridge the reception – a small group of campers fully understand our need to drive right into the creek. What bliss swimming in the crystal clear water before setting up camp Pitch No 86. The first visitor is a hornbill unfortunately without the bottle of Guinness.

Later that night we awake to our first deep throat lion roar the sound of nobility of absolute authority.   Vibrating in the silence of the night it sends shivers of excitement and fear down one’s backs. It creates a unique atmosphere of menace and expectation. “How near it is dad?” “Are we safe?”   “What if it comes into the camp?” With all the assurance that we are not on its dinner list I am sure that Florence and Fanny listened for a long period like I did before shuteye arrives.

I am up early, keen to get started. Unlike Etosha this is a hand on reserve. Over breakfast our South African south gate friends arrive. A quick look in our bird book confirms that the blond is not such a rare poser or endemic.

Nothing is Africa quite prepares one for your first lion kill.   All the wild life documentaries, photos, you name fall short of the real life event. They like here in these written words are incapable of capturing the smells, the raw senses of survival, the power, the pecking order, the flies, the heat, and the knowledge that you could be dessert.

Rounding a small lake we noticed some commotion in the bush. Lions!   Rolling up the windows we drive off the track closing to within three car lengths of the kill.   Nine furry ones are dining on a buffalo. They are aware of us but take little interest.   We watch for hours. Snarls, snaps, squabbles, yawns, blood stained whiskers, stink, skin and bone. A hundred shots later we leave them in peace determined to come back in the morning to claim the buffalo horns.  

Arriving back at camp those yellow staring eyes remain with us late into the night.   A large campfire with fresh bush baked bread and some monkey theft finishes a day of days.

After a long good look around I open Williwaws door back at yesterdays kill site.   Not a scrap it left horns and all have disappeared. Returning for a spot of breakfast I spot the pride lounging on the other side of a pool.   With ballooned bellies they begrudgingly move when I drive up to them. I could have pushed the stuffed gathering into the pool with the bull bars for all they cared.

Back at camp two new arrivals have parked up > A bran new Unimog with a young German couple and an odd pair in a converted ford. The Unimog is decked out for serious business. Solar panels, winches, 700-liter fuel tanks, fridge, the works. The battered ford in contrast regurgitates a South African and an Aussie the odd couple both with a fondness for the grog.

Before we get trapped in conversation we mount up for our second wander of the day. Unlike Etosha one gets a real feeling of being out in the bush here. There are no speed limits, no times to be back inside walled campsite, no tourist shops, and no swimming pools or man-made water holes.   Moremi wildlife and scenery is much more relaxed without the constant fear of spotting something and attracting a herd of clicking tourist. Moremi offers wildlife on a more personal one to one base.   We have not ventured far when Florence spots a small group of antelope. They turn out to be Greater Kudu. Reddish brown to pale gray in color > white strips running down their sides and along their backs. Standing dead still they watch us with their spiraling horns. Elegant and graceful they go about their business slowly for ever watchful. Not a stone throw away content to allow the Kudu stand sentry a small herd of Impala the long and high jumpers of Africa are also grazing.

The rest of the afternoon spotting taxes our Ornithologist’s appreciate. Fish Eagles; parrots, egrets, kingfishers, herons, to mention just a few we could id. The day is rounded off with a few Hippopotamus with the ever-present crocodiles, and a fleeting glimpse of our first Cheetah to wet our appetites for to-morrow. What a privilege we have undergone. It is difficult to put into words that would justify our sense of living.

Back at camp darkness has not fallen more than a few minutes when over strolls our two Ford friends an Aussie named Rick with Bushy his South African friend.   Bushy helps himself to a beer without asking. He is one of these excellent merchants that the word covet describes him to a tee. Whatever he lays his eyes on is his. I could see that he was going to get up my nose sooner than later. Fanny and I take an instant dislike to him and I agree that he has all the attributes of a warthog.   Later that night around the Bush TV (the camp fire) he endears himself to one and all. We discover that during our absence two Norwegians fresh out of the fiords have joined the campsite. The Unimog couple is quiet and somewhat shy.

The campfire conversation is when, where, and what did one see.   The Norse men saying they saw a leopard up a tree not a mile away when they we driving over here.   A night drive is suggested so one Norwegian, one Aussie, one Paddy and one warthog set out in the ford. With us all looking up into the trees including the driver it not long before we come unstuck or I should say stuck in soft sand.   Warthog informing us that the ford is only two-wheel drive and proceeds to digs in even further.   So much so that we have to take the sand tracks down off the roof.   After a good deal of digging, grunting, and nervous looking around we are eventually back on the track.

On we go until we arrive at a bend to be confronted by the lion pride, which is on the move – yellow eyes dare us to go any further so we turn tail and return to the bush TV.   Over a few beers we learn that our young Germans have just started their dream trip a lifetime. They have driven down the side of lake Kariba at five miles an hour from Harare and at the moment have no real plans of where next. They are both disheartened, the causes of their problems being the choice of transport – the Unimog and the young man’s lack of off-road driving know-how.   Apparently he could not handle the ruts the Unimog acting like a trampoline. I promised to give him a driving lesson before we leave.

Our last day in Moremi confirms that beauty is eternal and wherever one finds it protection is needed.   We visit one of the Reserves Safari Lodges that caters for the richer tourist. Our visit over an expensive beer is accepted with less than a ‘You are welcome’ attitude.

We realize that our camp under stars you could pluck, surrounded by inexplicable stillness of the air, with a sense of being watched by some many eyes of passing animals or abandoned spirits, beats hands down the manicured lawns, waiters with silver trays, buffets, gin and tonics, safari rosters, the smell of anti mosquito aerosol.

We return to camp convinced that we are the spoiled ones.

That night while preparing for an early departure in the morning the young Germans approach us. They inquire where we were setting off too. Our plan is to go north into the Chobe National Park, which according to our map is just a short hop from Moremi north gate. They ask can they join us. “No problem” we’ll see you in the morning.   Somehow Warthog has got a sniff of our plans. The plot thickens. Over he saunters “I’ve been up that way before and I can tell you that from here to Chobe is a mother fucker of a track > Nothing but soft, soft sand.   Later on the bush TV it emerges that Warthog knows what he talking about.

Although Chobe is not more than sixty kilometers away there is no marked dirt road. The option of following the only map-marked road up to Livingston offers over three hundred hot kilometers of corrugations. By cutting cross-country and traversing Chobe we will save over a hundred kilometers. The plan is to enter the park through the Mababe Depression cut through the Savuti an arid region in the southern section of the park named after a dry river that has not flowed since 1981.   The fear of the unknown wins over the Germans. The prospect of some off-road driving combined with some excellent game viewing opportunities wins our agreement. Mark W. Nolting book (Africa’s Top Wildlife Countries) describes the Savuti area of Chobe as excellent for Elephants with large populations of Zebra, Eland, Kudu, Antelope Waterbuck, Impala, Wildebeest, and of course with that lot good lion country.

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Over breakfast the problems begin to surface. The easy part was last night, when we all agreed to team up.   Two bums with a clapped out Ford, two young German lovers with a Unimog decked out to the nines and one Irish man, wife and child with a seasoned Land Rover.   Fuel is the first problem. Where we are going there is no fuel to be had until we reach Kasane over two hundred kilometers away as the crow flies on the other side of Chobe. > The second largest of Botswana national parks covering over 11,000sq km. The nearest possibility is back in Maun. It is decided that the Unimog, which has a large spare tank, will go into Maun and fill up.   We still have over 150 liters but we have learned the hard way that any off-road driving especially in sand burns up more fuel than one assumes.   The last thing one wants it to have to lug a jerry can on foot through bush where there is every prospect you might run into hungry lion. Never mind the distances, the sun, and the impossibility of carrying a full jerry can which would all end in a spectacular failure.

Looking at the two Ford reprobates warthog has a face like a smacked bum as red as a beetroot when I insist that it’s money up front for the fuel. They have just discovered that Rickey’s credit card is missing > “Must have left it in the supermarket in Maud.” “He will have to go back with them and see if he can find it.”

A decision is taken to meet up at the North Gate later that evening. We leave in the late afternoon. Meandering along now with an inner knowledge of Moremi’s tracks we get one surprise an up to the bonnet fording of a large pothole.   Arriving at the North gate there is no sign of the others.   Pitch No 87 is on the roof looking out on a long narrow wooden bridge that crosses over a dried out river to a small village and North Gate.   Florence and I take a wander across the bridge while Fanny prepares dinner. We return with a few cold beers. There is still no sign of the others. Whether we see them tonight is now in doubt. Darkness is approaching fast.   An hour later the alarms of the local monkey population announces the fords arrival to be followed some thirty minutes later by the bouncing lights of the unimog.   The card has being recovered and everything is oxo for the morning.   Both Germans look a little worse for wear. Fanny serves dinner to all.

TO BE CONTINUED.

DONATION NEWS; The good news is that they might break Zilch any moment. The bad news is it look very unlikely to happen, but hope is eternal.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank, 33 College Green Dublin 2. Sorting code 98-50-10