After our tangle with the bramble and the broken woodland, Africa has won us back.
We sleep with the hippos that night, their grunts, sighs, hoots, and bellows the refrain of a strange orchestra in the river below. And in the forest near our bed, a leopard's hoarse cough sets off shrieks, screams, and chattering from a troop of baboons. Later, just after I have gone back to sleep, the cool air draining downriver from the mountains of the escarpment carries with it the trumpet of an elephant, and finally the heavy, insistent roar of a lion.
Born in Tanzania, the Luangwa sweeps between fifteen-foot banks and past broad sandbars for 460 miles southwest through Zambia. Like a snake, the river writhes, twists, and even coils back on itself in sharp hairpin turns, its water occasionally breaking through the land neck of a turn, or silting across the mouth of a sharp bend to pinch off an oxbow lagoon. A few tracks, but no major roads intrude on this stretch. It is one of the wildest rivers left in Africa.
During the next three days we make our second airstrip, Serendipity Strip, on a long floodplain near the Mwaleshi-Luangwa confluence. When it is finished, I fly the plane down from Airstrip One, build another bush boma around it, and then by truck and plane, Delia and I begin exploring north along the high banks of the Luangwa.
Every day we are more and more convinced that we want to live and work in North Luangwa. No one has ever done research on animal behavior or conservation here, and it seems a good place to test the concept that if the villagers nearest the park receive direct benefits from its wildlife, they will want to help conserve it. The people of the Bisa and Bemba tribes should be no exception. But every time I contemplate hauling tons of avgas and other supplies over the scarp, especially during the rains, trying to track research subjects through a maze of stream cuts, or persuading a dozen underequipped game guards to protect such a huge area from well-armed commercial poachers, I just shake my head. True, we have made it to the Luangwa; but we are not yet convinced that we can operate here.
We have carried so many spare parts, tools, and extra jerry cans of fuel with us that there was too little space left for food. Our supplies are already low, and we face a major trek back to Mpika for more. Three days after setting off north along the Luangwa, we chart a course back to Serendipity Strip. Two days later, in the late afternoon, we are lying in the hot, shallow water of the Mwaleshi at our first base camp, our toes and noses sticking above the water.
***
The sun is high and hot by early afternoon when we say our good-byes on the riverbank. I check my watch as Delia begins driving to Airstrip One. She will go halfway this afternoon, then camp for the night and meet me there when I land tomorrow. Sleeping again under the belly of the plane, I am both comforted and aroused by Africa's symphony of the night.
My only visitor is a honey badger, who snuffles around my feet as I sit on the plane's main wheel having my cup of early-morning coffee. In the afternoon I fly northwest along the Mwaleshi and spot our truck crawling along below, approaching the Hills of the Chankly Bore. Our timing has been almost perfect; Delia will arrive at Airstrip One only minutes after I land.
But she does not. Standing under the wing, shading my eyes against the late-afternoon sun, I can see our truck and trailer three-quarters of a mile away, entering the steep cut through the last hill before the airstrip. Then it disappears. Half an hour later Delia still has not arrived. Something is wrong.
I walk and then run toward the hills, dodging bushes and stumbling through the chest-high grass. Once Delia started down the cut, she could not have stopped the heavy rig on the slope's loose gravel; one way or another she must have made it to the bottom. But I cannot see the truck or trailer through the undergrowth—until I round the last thicket. The Cruiser is on its side, jammed between the high, narrow sides of the ravine, its roof downslope. Behind it the heavy trailer has jackknifed into the bank. Delia is nowhere to be seen.
"Delia! Are you all right?" I yell as I sprint toward the truck. The only sound is the hiss of battery acid spilling onto the hot engine. "Delia..." A stirring comes from inside the Cruiser.
"Oh no, Mark! Look what I've done! I just couldn't stop it," she moans, stepping out through the driver's window.
"Don't worry about the truck." I smile. "It's easier to service on its side." She forces a weak grin as I hug her.
She tells me that she stopped at the top of the steep ravine, shifted to first gear, and eased the Cruiser forward. But I had forgotten to warn her that I had unlocked the trailer's brake, to make it easier to maneuver in reverse; and as she hauled the heavy rig over the lip of the slope, it leaped forward, compressing its hitch and slamming into the rear of the truck. Jammed back in her seat by the impact, she pumped the brake and fought the steering wheel as the Toyota rolled ever faster into the divide. The walls of the cut were so close to the truck that she could not jump out without being crushed. Trapped inside, she tried to ride it out.
Halfway through the chute and still gaining speed, the truck's right front wheel struck a rock embedded in the wall of the ravine. The steering wheel tore itself from Delia's hands and spun sharply to the right. Immediately the truck turned and began to climb the steep canyon wall. At the same time the top-heavy Toyota rolled dangerously to its left. Delia grabbed the wheel and clung to it, trying to straighten the truck, but was not strong enough.
The trailer forced the truck farther up the wall, Delia still pulling frantically on the steering wheel. The Cruiser rolled onto its left side. Shoved by the trailer filled with avgas, it continued down the slope, its roof leading the way. Inside, Delia was thrown out of her seat, slammed against the roof, an /J battered by an avalanche of toolboxes, food crates, and camping gear. After the rig slid to a stop, she clawed her way out of the rubble. She was dazed, but fortunately not seriously hurt.
***
Using the little daylight left, we organize the jacks and winches that will set the truck back on its wheels, then sleep on the riverbank near the overturned vehicle. Before sunrise the next morning we rig the high-lift jack under the rooftop carrier. I run the truck's winch cable through a pulley that I've secured around a tree at the top of the hill. With poles cut from nearby trees, we fashion a sling for the Toyota's canopy and attach to it a yoke of chains. Then we hook the cable to the yoke.
Before trying to lift the truck, we tie the trailer to another tree upslope from the rig, so that when the Cruiser finds its wheels it won't run away again. Alternately jacking and taking up on the winch, we slowly lift it. About noon it staggers back upright. We fill its battery with water from the river, add some oil to the transmission, and crank it up. Aside from minor damage to the left front fender and the canopy, it is fine. Delia comes out even better, with only a few bruises and scrapes on her left arm and leg.
Nevertheless, turning over the truck seems to solidify all the doubts about working in North Luangwa that have been simmering in our heads for days. Granted, the park is beautiful and it has an incredible variety of wildlife. But we can no longer shake off the thought that, true to its reputation, North Luangwa is too rugged, too remote, too inaccessible. That we are tired and really need to find a place, and that there are few comparable wildernesses left in Africa, does not make the rivers easier to cross or the slopes easier to climb. To drive even a short distance we have to make war on the landscape, mount a major expedition. And this is the dry season. Everyone has told us that when the rains come, we will be flooded out. It is a hard day's trip to Mpika for basic supplies, and aviation fuel will have to be brought from Lusaka, sixteen hours away. The poachers shooting elephants in the park may not take kindly to our plans, and because our licenses have not been approved, we have no firearms. On our limited budget, the nightmare logistics seem almost insurmountable.
The bruised truck standing to one side, we share a can of beans for lunch while sitting in the warm water of the Mwaleshi. Our conversation keeps turning to the hope that our permits for Tanzania will have arrived in Mpika. "If not, I think w
e should just get our things, pull out, and head for Tanzania as tourists," Delia echoes my thoughts.
After repacking the truck, we camp at the base of the Hills of the Chankly Bore. The next morning I awaken to the sound of splashing in the river. Lifting myself on one elbow, I see two big-maned lions thirty yards away, romping across the Mwaleshi, kicking up spray as they whirl and slap at each other. Their powerful bodies reflect the new light of the morning sun and at least for the moment make us forget the rigors of the previous weeks.
Not more than an hour later, on our way to Airstrip One along one of the Mwaleshi's floodplains, Delia puts her hand on my arm and points to a forked tree leaning out from a steep gravel bank. Four lion cubs are tumbling in play around the base of the large Trichelia emetica tree. As our truck creeps closer, they climb a short way up the two trunks of the tree and peer curiously at us with bright, round eyes. Below, the ears and eyes of three lionesses slowly rise above the tall grasses.
When we drive closer, the cubs climb down from their perches. One of the females lowers her ears, turns, and disappears; another lays her ears back slightly and looks away, as if mildly annoyed and determined to ignore us. The ears of the third stay fully erect, and she raises her head a bit higher. Twenty yards from the tree I switch off the truck and we sit quietly, letting the lions get used to us.
All at once the cubs come to the edge of the grassy patch and peer at our truck. First one, then the others, come slowly toward us on stumpy legs, their eyes amber-colored pools. When the first cub is ten feet away, he stops and stares through my window, raising and lowering his head as though trying to get a better look at me. Each cub smells the right front tire and circles the Cruiser, eyeing it up and down. Then they waddle back to sit between the forelegs of the lionesses in the grass.
A little later one of the lionesses leaves the others, climbs a low termite mound, and sits watching for prey. We drive over and park just twelve yards from her. We name her Serendipity. It has been fourteen months since we were last close to lions, and it is as though some drought has broken.
I look at Delia and smile. "How many places are left in Africa where we can wake up with four hundred buffalo around our bed, golden lions romping through the river near our camp, and a lioness sitting beside our truck?"
Although we are down to our last tin of beans and have barely enough diesel to get us up the scarp, we decide to stay one more night in North Luangwa before going on to Mpika. Perhaps we will see Serendipity's pride hunt later this afternoon. We set up camp on the banks overlooking the confluence of the Lubonga and Mwaleshi rivers, in the same spot where we slept on our first night in North Luangwa.
When the heat finally breaks late in the afternoon, we climb into the Cruiser to search for the lions. "Elephants!" Delia points to where the river curves eastward. A small family of six elephants is walking out of the forest, heading for the river five hundred yards downstream from us. The largest female has only one tusk. They stop, lift their trunks to test the air for danger, then take several more steps before stopping again, one foot raised, their trunks swiveling like periscopes. They are nearing the water's edge when suddenly One Tusk whirls in our direction. Flapping her ears wildly and swinging her huge bulk around, she runs back into the woodland. The others follow and within seconds they have disappeared.
The river must have carried our scent to them. We are barely larger than dots on their horizon, yet they vanished as soon as they sensed us. Constantly harassed by poachers, they are so frightened by humans that they will not drink even at such a distance.
At this moment, in August 1986, we pledge to each other: no matter what it takes, or how long, we will stay in North Luangwa until the elephants come to drink at the river in peace.
But to stay we must find a way to survive the floods.
6. Floods
DELIA
Except by the measure of wildness we shall never really know the nature of a place.
—PAUL GRUCHOW
SPEARS OF SUNLIGHT stab through the forests of the Muchinga Escarpment as I steer the old Cruiser carefully down the rutted track into the Luangwa Valley. Riding with me is Chomba Simbeye, a wiry, twenty-one-year-old Bemba tribesman who knows this part of the valley well. Mark will fly to meet us in three days, assuming Simbeye and I can clear Airstrip One for a safe landing.
Instead of being gone for three or four weeks as Mark and I had imagined, it has taken us more than a year to obtain all the permits to operate in North Luangwa. Now it is late October 1987, leaving us only a month to build an all-weather airstrip and base camp before the rains and floods come. Unless we finish the strip by then, we could be stranded for months.
We have been told that the poachers operate on foot and are especially active during the rains. That's another reason why we are determined to get settled in the park before then. We're not sure how we'll stop the poaching, but we've got to find a way.
At the Mano Game Guard Post a few scouts laze about, while their wives suckle infants, wash clothes in brightly painted basins, or pound maize for the evening meal. With a slab of whittled wood, one of the women stirs her simmering stew in a battered tin pot, occasionally flavoring it with a sprinkle of blossoms from a large straw basket.
Because I am unarmed, Mark has insisted that I take a game guard with me into the park. Tapa, a tall, slender man with shy, round eyes, volunteers to come. While he prepares his katundu, or belongings, the other scouts complain to me that they are still not getting ammunition or food from their command headquarters in Mpika. Just hours earlier the warden, Mosi Salama, told me that Mano had been given its monthly rations. I don't mention that we've heard from an honorary ranger that scouts often sell their government-issued food and ammo, or use the weapons to poach. If we are going to stop the poaching in the park, we will have to win the scouts' cooperation. Like anyone else, they need encouragement, equipment, and identity before they will do their jobs. If the government can't afford to give them food, medicine, and decent housing, we will raise the money somehow. Then they will no longer need to poach and will begin patrolling. My daydreams ease me down the rugged scarp.
After three hours of driving the familiar steep, rocky grades the three of us reach the confluence of the Mwaleshi and the Lubonga, that enchanted place where Mark and I vowed to stay in North Luangwa. A herd of puku lie on the sandy beach and a few waterbuck stand ankle deep in the slow-moving current. I would love to linger a while, but we are still two miles from Airstrip One and I want to get there by sunset. The dry season has reduced the Lubonga to a trickle of clear water flowing over ripples of loose sand. The old truck bores through, but the trailer bogs down in the wet sand midstream. We unhitch, and abandon it until later.
Just as the sun melts into the purple mountain peaks, we round a small stand of forest. The wide, shallow waters of the Mwaleshi sweep past tall banks on the far side, and the floodplain on our side opens into a sheltered grassland, tucked between high buffs. Several piles of bleached bones lie half buried in the tall grass—all that is left of Airstrip One.
There isn't enough time before dark to set up a proper camp; we'll just prepare for the night. Tapa and Simbeye gather wood, build the fire under a large fig tree, and set up the chairs and tables. I unpack my bedroll, put water on to boil, then walk the fifty paces to the river to bathe. There is a steep bank between camp and the river, so I have my privacy. I undress, check carefully for crocodiles, and plunge into the clear, shallow water. As I roll along the sandy bottom, the heat of the day and the frustrations of the previous months float away, drifting down the Mwaleshi to the Luangwa, into the Zambezi, and on to the Indian Ocean. I feel free, alone, strong, and happy. I laugh out loud as I splash.
Dusk is deeply upon us when I climb back up the bank, and Simbeye warns me that it is very dangerous to stay in the river so late. I thank him for his concern and lie that I will be more careful in the future. He and Tapa have built such an enormous fire—to frighten away lions, they explain—that
it lights up the entire canopy of the fig tree and makes the already warm camp unbearably hot. The heat drives us to the edge of camp—much closer to the lions, if any are about—where they teach me words in their language until dark.
Simbeye, a cheerful, self-confident young man, is from the village of Shiwa N'gandu, which means Lake of the Royal Crocodiles. In the past the chiefs of the Bemba met at the lake each year for a ritual croc hunt. Simbeye squats by our fire, boiling mealie-meal in a crusted, sooty pot to make n'shima, the staple food of his people. We eat with our fingers, dipping thick pasty balls of n'shima into a relish of beans and onions. Simbeye, speaking in a low, raspy voice, tells me tales of Bemba folklore.
Sometime long ago, he says, there was a mighty tribe of warriors in the land that is now Zaire. One day a strange woman, who had ears almost as large as an elephant, wandered into the village of the chief, Chiti-Mukulu. Most thought she was ugly, but knowing that she would make a good wife, Chiti-Mukulu married her. She bore him three sons, who indeed were very strong but were always getting into mischief and causing much trouble to the chieftain. When they became young men, Chiti-Mukulu banished them from his lands and they were forced to travel far away to the south. Some of the other warriors joined them and they started a new tribe, calling themselves the Bemba. After many months of plundering the villages of other tribes, they came upon a beautiful valley bordered by mountains, where wild animals thrived in thick forests. They chased out the local residents and formed Bembaland, which is now Zambia's Northern Province.
The Eye of the Elephant Page 7
