by Parnell Hall
Our tour bus turned out to be a converted school bus with all the amenities of an ox cart. Our driver was a little old man who seemed determined to make up for the fact that our other drivers hadn’t shown enough white teeth. Either that or he had just won the lottery, in which case I couldn’t imagine why he was driving this bus.
It was small. We all fit, but just barely. I couldn’t help wondering how we’d have made it if Alice 2 hadn’t been bumped off. No, I did not voice the thought.
We left Victoria Falls, a booming tourist trap, and soon were bumping along occasionally paved roads though less developed areas.
It was our first real experience on an African roadway. From Lusaka we’d flown straight into the middle of nowhere. But now we were driving through inhabited terrain. This ranged from small towns with more traditional, if modest, structures made from recognizable building materials including one-room stores displaying signs boasting of Coca-Cola, filling stations dispensing liters of petrol, and a few private homes, to the outskirts where families lived in one-room shacks and women and children lined the road selling fruit and firewood.
Against all odds, there were occasional traffic jams, probably owing to the narrowness of the roadway and Zimbabwean drivers’ insistence on passing whether there was anything coming or not. Often I would be treated to the horrifying spectacle of four cars racing head-on at each other. Miraculously, none collided.
“Are there ever accidents?” I asked Clemson when I had calmed down enough to take my heart out of my mouth.
“Oh, all the time,” he said. “It’s a real nuisance, because then the roads are blocked.”
“Glad I asked.”
We didn’t crash, and soon we were driving down a dirt road though open terrain. I relaxed and scanned the horizon, hoping for a lion.
“Are there more lions in Zimbabwe than Zambia?” I asked Clemson.
He laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll see a lion.”
“We’d better,” Trish said. “We didn’t come all this way not to see a lion.”
“I’m sure you came for other things besides that,” Clemson said.
“That’s all well and good,” Trish said. “But I want to see a lion.”
We all agreed with that. I continued looking for one, but none appeared.
It was getting dark. I was looking forward to camp. After several days in the bush, I was eager to get back to the luxuries of the first day’s camp with real bathrooms and showers and an actual dinner table.
It certainly would have been nice. Our camp, when the two jeeps that met our bus pulled into it, was a bush camp just like the one we’d left behind, with a campfire, and primitive tents, and, so help me, a straight-drop toilet.
Dinner was chicken and rice. They’d also made a salad, but they needn’t have bothered. No one touched it.
There was also a hot-water-bag shower, but I doubt if anyone used it. Alice and I certainly didn’t. It had been a long day, and we had to be out early on the river.
Just as I was falling asleep, it occurred to me that since we had left Zambia, no one, including Clemson, had alluded to the death of Alice 2.
31
CANOE LESSON
“ALL RIGHT,” CLEMSON SAID. “LET’S try it. Remember, the stern man does most of the paddling. The bow man hardly has to paddle at all. Most of the time you don’t. The bow man watches where the canoe is going, tells the stern man when to turn.”
I wish he hadn’t said that. We were on the river having our first and only canoe lesson. I was in the stern and Alice was in the bow. Suggesting Alice tell me what to do was kind of like enabling an alcoholic.
We were all in two-man canoes. Clemson was alone in his, sitting in the stern. He dipped his paddle in the water, and the canoe shot ahead. He dipped it again, swung around to face us.
“Now, you can’t just paddle on one side or the canoe will go around in circles. But you don’t change after every stroke or you’d wear yourself out. A few paddles on one side, and when the canoe starts to turn you switch over.”
“Paddle left,” Alice said.
I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t even dipped the paddle. This was not going to go well.
It didn’t. No matter how many strokes I did, it was always one too many or one too few. I wouldn’t have known this, but Alice was quick to point it out.
I was not alone. Every canoe had a backseat driver in the front seat, and most were not shy about venturing opinions. Annabel was certain Victoria was trying to tip her out. And Trish wasn’t handing Simon any trophies either. Jason, as usual, couldn’t have cared less, but Keith whizzed along dexterously, trying to impress Victoria. Only the librarians appeared to be learning.
“Well,” Clemson said. “That was terrible. None of you are ready to go out on the river. I’d be insane to take you. Luckily I am insane, so you get another chance. All of you are having trouble keeping the canoe going straight. Here’s a little trick. At the end of your stroke, instead of taking your paddle out of the water, turn it sideways, like this. The water drags against the paddle, acts as a rudder, straightens the canoe out. You don’t hold it there long because it slows the canoe and you’ll turn too far. And you don’t do it on every stroke. A few strokes, the canoe starts to go, you turn the paddle sideways, and you’re right back stroking. I’m not saying you never switch to the other side, of course you do, and when you want to go fast you should be pulling as many strokes as possible and not creating a drag. But paddling along, nice and lazy, turn the paddle, give yourself a rest. Okay, let’s give it a try.”
A full recap of Alice’s assessment of my attempt can be found in Wikipedia under Unmitigated Disasters. She also insisted on demonstrating the proper technique from the bow. The stroke wasn’t designed for the bow. This tended to make our canoe go nowhere. Within minutes, everyone else was on one side of the river and we were on the other.
“Do stay with the group,” Clemson called.
I gritted my teeth, paddled in that direction.
“Now then,” Clemson said. “Right here the river is wide, the current is gentle. But when the current’s strong and the wind is blowing hard, the canoe is going to run into the bank. When the bow hits the bank it stops and the stern keeps going. Do you know what you do then?”
“Paddle on the other side to straighten out,” I ventured.
I shouldn’t have.
“No,” Clemson said. “You don’t do that at all. It won’t work and you’ll just get yourself stuck. Let the stern of the canoe swing around. Paddle to help it along. Let the canoe do a full three sixty until you’re facing forward again. Now, let’s see you bump into the bank and turn around.”
Even with Alice’s instructions I had no problem running into the bank. The rest of the turn was a bit of an adventure. Alice didn’t want me to help it along. She didn’t want me to interfere with the good work the current was doing. The result was chaos.
In this instance we were not alone. The other husband and wife got tangled in a low-hanging bush, Annabel and Victoria’s canoe wound up going backwards, Keith got so exuberant showing off that he overshot and went around twice. Only the two librarians did it right. They appeared to be having no problem whatsoever.
After about twenty minutes Clemson suggested that anyone who wanted should switch seats and let the other one paddle. Only the librarians took him up on the option. The change made no difference. They remained the only team to consistently paddle well.
“All right,” Clemson said, when the lesson was over. “None of you are wonderful. None of you are even competent. Except Edith and Pam.”
Another name learned, I thought triumphantly. Non-Edith Librarian was Pam. That had to be everyone.
“You can all do it to some extent. At least enough not to warrant leaving you behind. If there’s anyone who thinks they really can’t do it, they can go with me.”
“I’ll go with you,” Alice said.
Clemson looked at her in surprise. “But you’re in the
bow. You don’t have to paddle.”
“No, but he does. Trust me, riding with him is not going to be good for my mental health.”
Alice can say incredibly insulting things about me with absolute impunity. By smiling and presenting it in a humorous manner, she has reduced degrading one’s husband to a work of art. She is seen as a tolerant, forgiving, long-suffering saint, coping with her husband’s shortcomings. I am seen as a lovable buffoon.
“Let’s see what we can do about that,” Clemson said. “Is there anyone who feels they absolutely cannot paddle?”
No one confessed to that failing.
“All right,” Clemson said. “Then there is no problem. You can ride with me.”
I must admit I felt a momentary surge of relief at being freed from the clutches of a relentless taskmaster. It was short-lived, however. With Alice riding with Clemson, there was no one to ride with me. And I couldn’t go alone, there weren’t enough canoes. I had to double up.
The only other person who didn’t have a partner was a young Zimbabwean who was going along as Clemson’s assistant. His name was Bono, which I liked, because I could remember it. I can’t say I liked Bono. He was the first sour African I had met in either country. He was particularly uncommunicative and never opened his mouth except to complain. I was not thrilled at the prospect of being partnered with him.
It was worse than I thought. Bono was the experienced canoe paddler, so naturally he sat in the stern. I had to sit in the bow.
I couldn’t paddle at all.
32
ROLLIN’ ON A RIVER
THE EARLY GOING WAS UNEVENTFUL. I’m sure they plan it that way. Launch the canoes in a spot where nothing much is happening.
It was a positively idyllic scene. The blue water, the green vegetation on the banks. Six canoes gliding along single-file. The kind of shot you’d expect to see on the cover of a travel brochure.
I was filming it with my movie camera. I had nothing else to do. I was sitting in the bow of Bono’s canoe, not paddling. I tried paddling for a while, but Bono stopped me. “Don’t paddle,” he said. “I paddle.”
It was enough to give me a complex, first Alice telling me not to paddle and then Bono. In his case I understood. Paddling in the bow can wreak havoc with paddling in the stern, throw an expert like Bono off his course. Fine with me, I had nothing to prove. I dug out the video camera.
I’d charged the battery during the morning game drive, after Duke finished questioning the guests. I’d loaded in a fresh tape, and was determined not to use all of it on my foot. Instead, I shot the river and the canoes ahead.
They were always ahead. Bono’s job, was, as Phillip’s had been on the game hikes, to bring up the rear, which meant he couldn’t pass anyone. And some of the paddlers were slow. Very slow. The other husband, Simon, was remarkably bad. He kept ramming his canoe into the bank. In the canoe lesson, I’d thought he was practicing. Now it seemed he had an affinity for it. All he had to do was drift anywhere near the bank and his canoe would find it.
That slowed him down immensely, created a wide gap between them and group ahead. As this stretched out to the length of a football field, Bono took action. “Go fast,” he counseled.
It turned out the way to go fast, once he managed to impart it—his English was not particularly good, unless he, like Duke, took pains to hide it—was for Simon to paddle very fast on alternating sides of the canoe and Trish to paddle very fast on the side near the bank, in order to attempt to overcome his natural attraction to it.
This method worked to some degree, and I figured that if this was the time for Trish to paddle, it was also an opportunity for me. I grabbed up my paddle and got in a few quick strokes before Bono said, “No, no.”
Even without me paddling, Bono was having a hard time not passing Simon and Trish. Finally he got them caught up to the pack. Trish put her paddle away, relieving me of the humiliation of not paddling while she did. Not that anyone could see me, unless they turned fully around in their canoe.
I’d just had that thought when Victoria dropped her paddle. The young hero Keith was up ahead showing off some stroke or other, and didn’t even see.
Stanley and Bono to the rescue. Or rather Bono to the rescue. He skillfully managed to maneuver his canoe and come up on the paddle so that it was just out of my reach, and floated into his. He scooped it out of the river with one hand, then zoomed up on Victoria’s boat and presented it with a flourish.
I sat in the bow trying not to look foolish.
The cup of my ignominy was full.
Moments later, all that was forgotten as we rounded a bend in the river to an area where grass was lush and animals abounded.
There were four elephants on the left bank, a baby, two females, and a male. Not that I peeked at their privates. I knew from the shape of their heads. Female elephants have more pronounced heads than male elephants. I’m sure Alice thinks it’s because they have more brains.
The elephants had come down to the river to drink, to bathe, to cool off, or do whatever elephants do. They paid absolutely no attention to our canoes. Apparently we didn’t present any threat.
More elephants appeared on the right bank, which we were closer to. I hoped Simon and Trish wouldn’t run into them. It didn’t seem likely. They were trying to stay with the other canoes, which were giving the elephants a wide berth.
Then we were past them and into another stretch of the river where the banks were too steep to provide easy access. An impala appeared on the bank, didn’t seem impressed, and trotted away.
The river widened and the banks became a gentle slope. Up ahead, Clemson was pointing to the left bank. I raised my binoculars to look. Couldn’t see anything. The bank was just a bank.
No, it wasn’t. Camouflaged against the sand was a crocodile. It appeared to be sleeping, but I wouldn’t have bet my life on it. Now that I spotted it, I saw more lying on the bank. One was
even moving, sliding into the water. How big was it? Ten, fifteen feet? It didn’t matter. It was certainly big enough to do the job. I shuddered involuntarily.
Comforted myself with the thought that Clemson wouldn’t be doing this if it was dangerous.
Wrong again.
33
AT LONG LAST, LION
THE CROCODILE DIDN’T EAT US, nor did any of the other crocodiles we encountered lying on the banks of the river. There were dozens of them, eight or ten at a time, sunning themselves on the shore and occasionally slipping into the water.
I wondered what they ate. I know: anything they felt like. I heard tell of the wildebeest migration where thousands would come across and the crocodiles could hang out and pick and choose. That wasn’t happening here. I suppose a few zebras or impalas occasionally decided to cross, but surely that couldn’t feed this multitude of crocs. I would have thought tourist was a popular entrée. But the crocodiles showed no interest. Maybe we just tasted bad. Anyway, they became a familiar enough sight that no one panicked when they appeared, even Annabel who panicked when the sun rose.
That wasn’t all we saw, of course. There were more elephants, occasional zebras, none of whom wanted to cross. That was good. Much as I wanted to film some action, having a zebra torn apart by a hungry croc was not my idea of must-see TV. I wouldn’t have minded if a crocodile had chased them away from the bank, however. A little action without carnage.
We came around a bend in the river where the banks were steep and the crocs were gone. The people in the canoes up ahead were pointing at the right bank. Bono and I were mired behind Simon and Trish, who, even without bumping the bank, had fallen far behind.
Instead of spurring them into action, Bono raised his finger to his lips and said, “Shhh!” and motioned them to paddle quietly up to the others. He did so by making a face, wide-eyed and teeth bright, and miming dipping his paddle silently into the water in an exaggerated caricature of a person attempting to be quiet. It was remarkable. Even sitting down in the canoe, he looked like someone s
neaking into the house at midnight.
The canoes paddled silently after the others and I suddenly saw it. There, standing on the bank, was a lion. A daddy lion, as I used to tell Tommie at the Bronx Zoo. A male lion, with a mane, the King of Beasts. There he stood, calm, unruffled, surveying the terrain.
We paddled up to the other canoes. They were together, side by side, facing the lion. Each person was holding on to the adjacent canoe. Bono and I fell in line next to Simon and Trish. I grabbed their canoe with one hand, my binoculars with the other.
He was sensational. Proud, regal. His eyes swept over us, unimpressed, the king bored with his lowly subjects. That reminded me, Alice would want an action shot. I dropped the binoculars, grabbed the camera. Used my left hand, which was still holding the canoe, to help slip my right hand under the strap. I flipped the screen out, switched the camera on.
By the time I raised it and hit RECORD, the lion had turned and walked away from the river. The bank was high enough and steep enough that he was quickly out of sight.
“Okay,” Clemson whispered to the group. “Let’s see where he goes.” Beckoning for us to follow, he paddled his canoe to shore and beached it on the bank.
Alice, in the bow of his canoe, turned and gave him an are-you-kidding-me? look.
Clemson was already up and crowding her out of the canoe. “Come on, come on. Let’s see!”
Alice hopped out of the canoe. Clemson had rammed it far enough up the bank that her footing was dry. He hopped out behind her, gestured to the others to follow. He tugged the bow of the librarians’ canoe up on the shore, gave them a hand getting out.
Keith was already out of his canoe, herding Jason in front of him so he could help Victoria and Annabel while Clemson helped Simon and Trish.
Bono, like Clemson, expertly ran the canoe far enough up the bank that I could step out with no problem.
In seconds we were all assembled at the foot of the bank.
Alice voiced the general opinion. “Are you nuts?” she said. “There’s a lion up there.”
