by Joanne Glynn
Lusaka, Zambia’s capital, takes a bit of getting used to after being in the bush for many weeks. It’s big and cosmopolitan, with a lot of Asians and Middle Easterners, and of course there are the street kids. A million in total we’ve been told, and nearly all a result of being orphaned through AIDS. The boys at intersections are thin and dirty, and they sniff petrol from Coke bottles and beg for food. They are always grateful if you can give them just a piece of fruit or a biscuit, and their hunger is obvious as the food is gobbled immediately. Every morning we drive past the Manda Hill intersection and notice one particular little boy, matchstick thin and soft-eyed, who always sidles up to the female in a car and takes any opportunity to touch her. Just the soft touch of a hand on her arm, barely there, is what he needs, and we are surprised to see that many ladies allow the contact, perhaps because they are mothers themselves.
Neil says a few words to the boys as he’s handing over apples.
’Where do you sleep?’
’In the drain, Sir.’
’Ah-ah-ah, that’s not good. Who looks after you?’
’Myself.’
’Do you have any family?’
’These are my family,’ said with a nod towards the others. These children are ever polite, with a natural courtesy learnt from a mother with dreams for her young son’s future.
A sobering drive is along Leopards Hill Road, past the Lusaka cemetery. Beyond the official denominational sections is field after field of neat rows of fresh mounds, most unmarked and so close together that there’s barely space to walk between them. We’re told that there is a special place for the young homeless, but we don’t have the will to visit.
Each new day is so totally absorbing, and there’s so much in Africa that is confronting and different. Our preconceptions and beliefs are continually challenged, sometimes on an hourly basis. We go to bed some nights and find ourselves wide awake, full of what we have seen and the stories that people have told us, wondering where in all of this is justice and hope. At first I was dismissive of what I took to be Neil’s cynicism and we would argue the issues for long sleepless hours. Where I saw a lack of infrastructure, he saw mismanagement; when I praised enterprise, he called it corruption; and when I recoiled at the poverty, he said, ‘That’s life.’ But over the weeks I’ve come to understand his point of view, his frustration with the disparity between what is and what could have been. I’ve come to question why quality of life for the majority of the population doesn’t appear to improve when the rest of the world gives so much, and I am learning that tribal loyalties are paramount and determine career prospects and government decisions. I’m realising that the complexities go far beyond drought, floods and big brown soulful eyes.
THE LION KiNG
Driving across to the northern Kafue National Park from Lusaka there’s a lot of smoke around and the roadside grass on both sides is often burning, even inside the park border. The ranger we’ve picked up at the main gate recites the official blurb, that this annual burning in the park is to reduce ticks, minimise the risk of uncontrolled forest fires and to provide green grass for the game. Later on another ranger says that it’s been done now for so long that the vegetation and wildlife have adapted, and ecologists have advised the practice should be continued. Each national park really is unique and has its own pulse and rhythm, sometimes obvious and sometimes noticeable in more subtle ways. Kafue encompasses woodlands, forests and grasslands, and is home to a unique species of waterbuck, the defassa, which lacks the white ‘follow-me’ markings on its rump. We’re looking forward to discovering what else this park has to offer over the next ten days.
Kafwala Camp — what a beautiful spot, right on the last section of rapids in the Kafue River. Although the surrounding ground is bare, the vegetation around the river is lush and green, with palm trees and vines, and from the river comes the babble of water and the humphing of hippos. We’re met by Levus and Bedson who show us, the only guests, to our banda by the river. It’s large and whitewashed and basic inside, but is one of those places where you feel at home as soon as you walk in the door. The boys look after the camp as though it were their own home (which it is, as they work six months on then take six months off during the wet season), and when they’re not sweeping and cleaning they’re providing us with a constant supply of hot water for coffee and for showering. The kitchen is wonderful — a separate spotless little building with blackened fuel stove and hanging utensils, but I don’t get a chance to work in it as Bedson takes over and prepares all our meals, even though we’re supposed to be self-catering.
Day two in the camp, and Levus and Bedson ask us if we’d like to go fishing. We agree so all of us pile into the Troopy and head downstream to a sandy riverbank a few kilometres away and here Neil and I ‘go fishing’ like never before. The boys sit us on a log in the shade, make sure we’re comfortable then go down to the water’s edge and cast a line. We watch, shouting encouragement from time to time while keeping our eyes on the crocs on the bank and the hippos in the water. But we soon get bored and the fish aren’t biting so we drive back to camp over hardened, cracked earth with the boys singing and clucking along to Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Levus has an engaging lisp and he promises to find us ‘rions, repards and harmress snakes’ and he keeps us amused with stories of close calls with wild animals he’s had throughout his life. There are many ‘ah-ah-ahs’ and ‘sures’ and his voice, usually soft and low, gets louder and more precise with the telling. It’s a great gift the Africans have that even someone with simple English can relate the emotion and excitement of an event eloquently and be greatly entertaining at the same time. So often the choice of a simple English word conveys much more than a whole sentence would from a European: Bedson hears leopards singing at night, and a wobbly table dances on uneven legs.
A strange event. I’m standing on a rock by the river, taking last photos before we leave for the next camp in the park, when I’m alerted by a hoot from a hippo and turn around just in time to see him launch himself into a pool at the top of the rapids. I think he’ll surface again in the same place, but suddenly his head pops up halfway down, then again at the bottom of the rocks. He’s riding the rapids — when all the books say that hippos like to avoid fastrunning water. He pulls himself out onto the rocks, waddles upstream and bombs into the water again. Two mates hang around in the top pool, but they’re not going anywhere: they’ve read the textbooks.
Further north, on the banks of the Lufupa River is Lufupa Camp, which lacks the charm of Kafwala but once again the staff are exceptional. Many have been with the camp for twelve or more years and their knowledge of the wildlife is legendary. Barry, for example, takes us on water cruises up the Lufupa, pointing out birds, water monitors and crocs. He’s still enthusiastic after eighteen years and his excited ‘Look, Madam!’ and ‘Look there, Mr Neil!’ is contagious. We get very involved in following the progress of a little malachite kingfisher along the river for hundreds of metres, then Barry calls up a fish eagle and chucks little fish into the water for it to grab so that we can get good photos.
The first day is very hot, the first truly hot day we’ve had. Out on a river cruise the boatman comments on the overcast and steamy weather and senses that rain is not far away. At sundown we sit by the river in deckchairs, feeling clammy and drinking Mosi, and watch lightning on the horizon. The crack and splash of an elephant pushing down trees on the far bank float across and lions call to each other from all around the camp. During the night we lie awake listening to the sounds of elephant, hyena and lion as they wander past. A light shower of rain passes through and we feel the accompanying drop in temperature. The wet season has begun. But next morning the place is dry and it’s apparent that what we’d thought was the noise of the rain was just wind in the palm trees.
An evening drive turns into a marathon for Neil. We’re on the hunt for lion and leopard, and John, a Lufupa old-timer of 24 years, doggedly tracks and stalks for a long time after we should be heading b
ack to camp. It pays off and we find a big old well-fed lion, padding around his dominion. He has many scars, a Mohawk haircut and dribbles a lot but is literally the king of the jungle, having fought off many contenders in the area over recent years to hold on to his kingdom.
Neil, however, has become impatient during this hide and seek ride in the dark, with visibility limited to the sweep of the spotlight and conversation non-existent in our earnestness to sneak up on our prey. He’s favouring a bottle of Mosi by the campfire and a conversation over appetisers with other guests, and he can see the probability of this diminishing by the minute. I, on the other hand, could stay out all night. I’m never happier than when on a game drive; it’s one of my favourite things. Moving slowly through a land where everything is new and unfamiliar — the terrain, the trees, the light and the scents on the air — each drive is a journey of discovery where I want to absorb every whisper of a breeze and every rustle of the leaves. I can sit for hours with a clear head, nothing else to distract me from where I am and what I’m seeing. And always, the possibility that something exciting is waiting to surprise me. I suspect that Neil finds it harder to tune out, to let himself become completely absorbed by his surroundings. He likes to be on the move and is restless to see what is just over the hill. Our big plans of sitting in the Troopy at a waterhole for hours, waiting for something wonderful to happen, have never eventuated as Neil starts to twitch and shuffle in his seat after five minutes of no activity. At first I would protest and insist on staying put, but the truth is that I don’t mind where I am, whether it be waiting by a waterhole or driving over the next rise. Everywhere in this continent is extraordinary and every experience one of wonder.
To deal with Neil’s impatience I’ve come up with an idea that has proved to be brilliant — give him responsibility for one of the cameras. He’s never been too interested in taking photos on previous travels; once he’s seen the spectacular coastline or that herd of zebra he’s ready to move on. But now, mulling over lenses and focusing and framing is a distraction that is turning into an obsession, and Neil’s shots of birds in flight in particular are proving to be the highlights of our collection.
Bad directions find us taking a wrong turn and driving right up the centre of the Busanga Plains to get to Kapinga Bush Camp. The track is sometimes pitted with cracked, dry earth and other times it’s boggy and soft. It is often barely there and it finally peters out in front of some very glamorous tents, the occupants relaxing on their private terraces and trying to take their midday siesta despite the throaty roar of the Troopy’s engine. This must be the glamorous Shumba Bush Camp, built high off the ground on wooden platforms like at Makalolo Plains for the wild-animal-wary Americans. A staff member rushes out and quickly despatches us.
Our destination, Kapinga, is on the edge of the plains and looks out over golden grasslands. The day before we arrived a fire came in from the woodland behind and staff were out all day burning a wide fire break around the camp. Our tent is in a great position: isolated, facing the rising sun in the morning and shaded by large fig trees in the heat of the day. It has a sitting room and a large lounge area outside on the deck, which is where we take our wake-up coffee each morning. The only other guests are two Dutch couples and a friend we made back in the managing company’s Vic Falls office. We like having other guests around and find they are nearly always friendly and fun to be with.
On each game drive, our guide Solomon takes us to a different part of this huge floodplain. Once it’s to the edge of the swamp where lush green papyrus islands hide the elusive sitatunga, a pretty but very shy small buck. Another drive takes us to grasslands so wide that the horizon shimmers with the promise of elephants and buffalo, but they turn out to be just trees when we get closer. It must be a grand sight to see the area during the rains, with just the occasional island of trees poking up from the floodplain. The park has not been conscientiously managed in the past and local fishermen have been allowed to continue damming the deep channels formed in the wet season to catch catfish. Now they can be seen in the evenings riding their pushbikes over impossible terrain, and there they are again in the background of our best hippo-pool photograph.
Another depressing story of poor management in the past concerns the superbly maned dominant lion, who until recently reigned over one corner of the park. He was often seen at night stalking his territory, confident and stately, or in the midday heat sleeping and sidling around the latest of his conquests. Hunting concessions often border national parks under a government’s game-management strategy and these, in theory, protect the park from poachers and village encroachment, which in turn allows for the natural balance of animals to be maintained. But in this case it is thought that the temptation of such a trophy just over the imaginary fence was too great and the lion was either baited into the concession or the hunters came into park territory. Whatever the truth, the old warrior disappeared and shortly afterwards a local taxidermist claimed to have mounted the biggest and most magnificent lion’s head he’d seen in many years.
On our final day in camp we’re joined by a couple of girls, Beauty and Louise, from management’s Lusaka office. It’s a big laugh to everyone, including themselves, that they’re city girls, scared of the bush, and they sleep with their tent lit up like a Christmas tree. They report every noise they hear and are desperate to spot a lion, never having seen one. Solomon takes us on an afternoon drive but, unbeknown to the girls, it’s into the area where we might see sitatungas, something Solomon had promised Neil and me for our last drive. It’s marshy and treeless, not an area where lions like to linger. After a few false lion sightings, Beauty draws our attention to something small and shiny in the distance, moving low. Both Solomon and Neil are preoccupied with sitatungas and they dismiss it as a guinea fowl, or a duck, or a terrapin for sure. Looking through his binoculars Solomon goes very still then throws the vehicle into gear and takes off at great speed. We barrel towards the little animal, bumping and bouncing and hanging on for dear life, everyone except Solomon shouting still more unlikely guesses at an identification. Beauty hopes it might be a baby lion. But no, we draw up a few metres away to see that it’s a pangolin! Not rare, but rare to see one, let alone find one going about its business in daylight. Protected by beautiful shell-like scales, he chugs along on armoured legs, but at our approach he rolls into a tight impenetrable ball. Solomon has been guiding for twelve years and has never seen a pangolin in all that time.
Before leaving Kafue we stay in a lodge on its northernmost border. Built beside the Lunga River, the chalets are more New South Wales coastal than African bush, but they have wonderful shaded decks over the water. It is here that I see for the first time the fabulous paradise flycatcher in all his finery, a small russet and deep-blue doll of a bird with foot-long elegant tail feathers and a very pretty crested face. He flits and hovers and darts about the branches, busy catching flies I suppose.
Because of its isolation most guests fly into camp and one morning a very shaken English couple and their pilot arrive. Their plane lost its undercarriage on landing but they managed to walk away unharmed, albeit pale and too traumatised to coherently relate the experience. Weeks later we hear that the plane’s still there in the middle of the airstrip waiting for aviation authorities to do their inspection. Because no one can fly in or out due to the plane blocking the runway, the officials haven’t come.
Most game activities focus on the river and on one cruise a big tusker enters the water quite near us and begins to swim across. Neil and I are busy taking photos when suddenly our guide revs the outboard and heads straight for the elephant. We swerve this way and that in front of the terrified animal until he turns around mid-stream and heads back to where he came from, his eyes red with fear. Neil and I are very angry; it’s the first time we’ve had a guide teasing the animals just so that we can get good photos and when we return to camp Neil voices his displeasure. But what happened is this: the lodge neighbours a hunting concession and althou
gh it’s out of the hunting season occasional gunshots had been heard over the past weeks. The elephant was heading straight for concession territory and our guide couldn’t bear the thought of this beautiful fellow finding himself behind enemy lines so had scared him away, knowing that he was angering us and, worse, breaking park rules that stipulate no interference with the wildlife.
The way north from the Lunga River is better than expected and we’re soon off the bush track and onto a half-decent road. We wave to children and smile at mothers who must be happy for a distraction, as the only vehicles to pass this way are the occasional trucks from a nearby mine. We give a lift to a quiet young girl then pick up a boy, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen. He speaks softly to his fellow hitchhiker but to us he uses a booming voice, clearly articulating every sentence. He’s all bravado until he tells us that he’s going to the next town to collect documents from a sister then take them to Lusaka where his mother is dying. He is soon to be the guardian of his younger brothers and sisters. His voice is strong but in the rear-view mirror Neil can see two big tears, slow and defiant, roll down his proud, young face. He says that he is expecting his journey to take many days, depending on how long he has to wait between lifts. He can’t afford fares, and there are no mini-buses out here anyway.
