No Stopping for Lions (9 page)

Third Bridge is in disorder. We drive in to find no camp attendant, a broken-down hot-water donkey and no defined campsites, even though we were allocated one when making the compulsory booking. Elephants have destroyed the water pipes and the bridge on the onward road was washed away last year and no one has got around to replacing it yet. This place is wild. There's a sense of prehistory, of abandonment to the ancient order of things, and we all feel the excitement of knowing that anything could happen. While I set up camp, Viv gets her fire going and Neil has a run-in with the advance party for a mobile safari, or flycamp, who want to take over our site. We've just avoided the baboons, who are a marauding nightmare at dusk, when a shout from a neighbour alerts us to in-coming hyenas. Viv grabs the spotlight and does a wide sweep of the perimeter of our site. Nothing. Then we see a shadow moving behind the Troopy and the light picks out a form moving low and sly. This hyena is bolder than most and the reason is soon apparent when we see that he has a deep, infected cut around his neck. A loop of wire hanging from the raw wound tells the story: this sorry hyena has been caught in a snare and it's still with him, cutting further and further into his flesh as he grows. He's sick and desperate, and when we report his plight to park staff, who are supposed to call in a vet, they dismiss it with, ‘Oh yes, we've known about that one for months.' We go to bed aware that he is hanging around close to our camp, and in the morning we see the imprint of his curled-up body in the dust by the ashes of Viv's campfire.

We're out in the Troopy looking for animals when we're approached by Ralph, an affable guide, who is slightly flamboyant in a sort of old world way, a character from a Hemingway novel, who offers a trade. He's seen that the Troopy is Australian registered so if we give him a case of Fosters he'll tell us where two lovely male lions are sleeping. He settles for the location of a black mamba we've just seen, then, ignoring his clients sitting patiently in his vehicle, he admires the Troopy and falls into deep discussion with Neil about its attributes and features. Ralph asks if we'd give him first option when we come to sell and Neil agrees without hesitation. Months later, reading a magazine article about famous guides of Africa, we discover that Ralph is the son of Jack Bousfield, a renowned Tanzanian hunter turned conservationist. We also read that Ralph owns the famous Jacks Camp in the Makgadikgadi Pans. The Troopy is truly the Envy of all Africa, as Richard had predicted.

The next night is spent in Xakanaxa camp, a slight improvement on Third Bridge. We choose a good site right by the swamp's edge, quite a distance from the nearest neighbours and midway between two ablution blocks. We retire early, Viv to the sleeping capsule and Neil and I to the tent and we're all asleep in no time, despite the bright full moon and the continuous calling of lions a short distance away. At some stage Neil and I are woken by ‘Neil, Neil, there's something out there!' coming from Viv in the capsule. He shines a torch in the direction of heavy breathing, and standing 10 metres or so away is a big elephant with broken tusks, waiting patiently for the commotion to die down so he can move on through. Viv decides a toilet stop can wait and we all go back to sleep. A little later, ‘Neil, Neil, hyenas everywhere!' and we look out to see Viv, wide-eyed, scurrying back up her ladder while two or three hyenas patrol the perimeter of our site. Just as I'm nodding off again I hear splashing and wading through water and a barely audible ‘Oh no, not again' from the capsule, but somehow we all manage to get back to sleep. At sun-up we emerge in time to see the tail-end of a hippo disappear into the rushes and we realise the reason for the midnight visitations, and why no one else was camping in this terrific spot: we're right on a game-worn track leading to and from the lagoon. We just can't understand how we could have missed this yesterday when we set up camp.

It's late in the day when we leave Moremi but we decide to drive back to Maun and take our chances at Discovery B&B. We tear along in the dark and get to town in record time. Just as we turn in to Discovery's entrance there's a loud clunk and a splutter but it's not until we pull up in the yard that we realise that the Troopy has a puncture. Our first. The old nightwatchman comes out and a friendly female appears through the main gate. Discovery is also known as Betty's Guesthouse and this is Betty, the owner, and a more affable and gracious host you couldn't find. She serves Viv and me wine and chats about her village background and family. She asks the nightwatchman, whom she affectionately calls Medula, to help, and he and Neil figure out jacks and nuts and get the tyre changed. It's taken a while and Medula does little more than agree with Neil and ah-ah-ah at the appropriate times, but they've forged a bond. After we eat and Viv and I go off to our respective rondavels, Neil sits up finishing off the wine and chatting with the old man. He warms his spent transistor batteries by the fire in the hope of generating new life in them and tells Neil that he was once sought after by hunters as a tracker. They talk about dreams and hopes and he honours Neil by showing him his bow and arrows, his weapon with which to defend us against trespassers. Neil gives him a shirt and a Fanta and retires, unfortunately to the wrong rondavel. I hear Viv's stage-whispered ‘Oh p-leease!' as he tries the door to hers, then we all get the giggles as he stumbles around my rondavel, unable to find the door. Medula, bow and arrow in hand, shows the way.

It's back to Kasane via another overnight stay at Nata Lodge. About three hours out of Maun, on a good straight road with very little other traffic, I'm pulled over by a policeman for speeding. Neil takes over the pleasantries and they have a long polite exchange, man to man, about the flightiness of female drivers. ‘It is like this, Sir,' the policeman says as he hands Neil the fine, ‘womens are not to be trusted with the steering wheel
and
the accelerator.'

Kasane will be our base while we explore the Chobe National Park, home to large concentrations of game, including the world's biggest elephant population. For our first game, drive we've decided not to take the Troopy in but to book a guided drive. We set out in an open safari vehicle in the chill morning breeze, which is turned into a buffeting wind as we charge helter-skelter down the road to get to the park gates before all the other vehicles. Luck is with us as our guide is a senior figure in the guiding fraternity here, and he's good. When a carload of ‘noisy thugs' attaches themselves to us to benefit from his tracking skills, he purposefully but politely drives through a sand bank where he knows the pests are sure to get stuck. He parks patiently by a tangle of scrubby acacias, waiting for a big herd of buffalo to be ambushed by the pride of lions lurking within. His calmness isn't matched by the excited Italians in front of me, who jump up and exclaim at their first sighting of a baby
leone
. When they are asked to be quiet and to sit still, I have to force the man in front of me down into his seat with a firm hand on his shoulder, and the person beside him good-naturedly clamps a hand over his mouth to quell his exuberance. You have to love their vivacity, their
entusiasmo
.

The park is busy and there are many game-viewing vehicles on every detour we take, particularly if there are lions or a leopard in the vicinity. I can see how visitors new to the safari experience are lulled into a false sense of security: there's a hint of the circus to it all, as though at any minute a ringmaster,
da daaa
, will jump ponies through hoops. Secure in the safety of numbers, there is a reduced sense of danger, of being in the wild, even though it is apparent how excited everyone is by what they're seeing.

An organised boat trip late that day along the banks and into the inlets of the Chobe River is wonderful. It doesn't get much better than this, being right here on the river, part of the passing parade of animals as they make their evening pilgrimage to water. There are hippos fighting for elbowroom, buffalo wallowing in a muddy muddle, and at last we see them after weeks of nearsightings — four African wild dogs padding across a sandy bank.

Each evening we are tired and not too interested in food, so we go to the Old House for dinner. A haunt of the permanent Kasane community, it's comfortable and friendly and one of those places where the quirkiness is endearing, not annoying. We sit outdoors at the same table and order the same thing every night: one Greek salad, one large pizza and a bottle of wine between three. The only thing that changes is the topping on the pizza.

It's an early start for Savute, still in the Chobe National Park but a good eight hours' drive from Kasane on a bad, sandy and lonesome road. We've been travelling for three or four hours when we pass signs saying that it is prohibited to carry uncooked meats further. A roadblock stops us and Neil gets out to deal with officialdom. No, we don't have any uncooked meat on board, and yes, they are welcome to check our cooler. Viv and I wander up the road a bit and see that impounded meat products are being burned in a pit by the verge. These men, in the middle of nowhere and with next to nothing for themselves, are not confiscating food for their own use as we'd supposed, but are carrying out their duty despite their own need and in a place where they're probably never checked. We hear raised voices behind us and turn to see Neil biting big chunks from a salami, all the while protesting that this is ‘
salami
, cooked sausage, see, we eat it because it is
cooked
'. He chews away, swallows a mouthful then takes another bite and the salami is almost gone before Viv gets through to him that salami is actually uncooked. The officials are unimpressed by Neil's heroic demonstration and they confiscate what's left.

At Savute the Troopy bypasses the public campsite, which looks hot and dry, and, with a mind of its own, drives straight into the Savute Safari Lodge. This is a glamorous joint, with a swimming pool overlooking a waterhole where elephants wander in and out, and individual chalets that come with designer sitting rooms and large open-to-the-view bathrooms. As luck would have it the managers are a young Zimbabwean couple who are caught offguard by self-driving day-trippers asking for a deal when most of their guests arrive in light aircraft having booked months, even years, in advance. And yes, they just happen to have two chalets free. These are still way over our budget but here is where the three of us want to be and we're soon lazing around the pool as though we're regulars. Other guests, in their swanky designer safari outfits, jokingly give us a hard time, calling us fly-ins and ‘the Griswolds'.

That afternoon and the following morning we're taken on game drives. Savute is famous for the number and size of its lion prides and, having tracked one family successfully the day before, the biggest thrill comes early next morning as we're driving out through grassland crisp with frost. Our driver stops when he notices movement up ahead. Minutes pass with nothing doing and his passengers, sitting restless and cold, are itching for action. Then without warning two big male lions appear on the track a hundred metres or so away, walking towards us, single file. They pad along at a leisurely pace, the one in front occasionally stopping in patches of sunlight for his brother to catch up, and when they reach our vehicle the only acknowledgement of our presence is a flick of the ears as they skirt around. They pass so close that you can see grass seeds in their matted manes and hear them huffing in the cold morning air.

It's so good in this camp that we don't want to leave. Unfortunately we can only afford to stay one night but the manager comes up with a cunning plan. We can pitch our tent out the back for a small fee and take ourselves on game drives. This would have been brilliant for us but head office quashes the idea, believing that a family of ne'er-do-wells in the backyard would lower the tone of the place.

After the great experience Neil and I had in Hwange National Park we've decided to alter our itinerary and return to Zimbabwe with Viv. We are keen to show her Mandavu Dam, a special place for us, and for her to meet Richard. We've been telling her stories of our last adventures there with him and of the many animals we saw and heard during our stay.

On the way we stop overnight in Kasane where we fit in one last lazy cruise on the Chobe River and a final pizza at the Old House. We stock up on food, diesel and firewood and Neil buys batteries and big sacks of mielie-meal for Richard. They're all piled in the backseat of the Troopy next to Viv and we head for the Zimbabwean border.

We drive through that part of Hwange where we saw the lions last time — nothing at all there now. Past the little
vlei
where large numbers of elephant and giraffe had always congregated — nothing; and into the campsite to be met by — not Richard, who is off on leave, but Nelson, another old-timer. He has the hotwater fire all stoked up, the toilets and showers are as spotless as they were under Richard's care, and the dassies are out in force, so Mandavu begins to work its charms on Viv regardless of the inflated build-up it's been given. She's a little put out when Nelson proposes that he'll get a campfire going for us but they soon come to an agreement. He'll light it while we're out game driving, but she is responsible for it from then on. I'm beginning to suspect that her preoccupation with having a raging nightly fire has something to do with the belief that it will keep predators at bay.

Nelson, believing that Neil has two wives, is not sure what to call Viv and me. Viv is ‘the Sir's Madam', while through seniority I become ‘Mummy'. He's also intrigued by our sleeping arrangements and tries not to be caught looking as Viv always climbs up into the sleeping capsule while Neil and I head for the tent.

Neil has given the batteries and mielie-meal he'd bought for Richard to Nelson to pass on, saying that Nelson can have half the mielie-meal if he needs it. Nelson is very appreciative but expresses his unwillingness to take something that belongs to another. Every day he assures us that he has helped himself, thank you very much, and every day when Neil goes up to Nelson's compound the unopened bags of mielie-meal and the batteries sit in a corner waiting for Richard's return.

During dinner lions roar to each other, and with all the water around it's hard to pinpoint their exact location. Just to be sure it isn't really close, Viv does a last check on the perimeter fence with a torch before retiring. Next morning, as we're wandering about camp, drinking coffee, brushing teeth and lingering in the rays of first sunlight, Viv spots the lions drinking at the water's edge just across the bay. Nelson shows me a hippo that has come across to our side of the lake and is lying motionless in the shallow water below our dining area. When I ask Nelson why he thinks the hippo has left the others, he replies pointedly that a young female must have ousted her older rival.

We've left Mandavu and are heading to Makalolo Plains in the south-east of the park. On the way we stop at Masuma Dam campsite for a bit of bird-watching but are distracted when the two young boys in attendance approach and ask if we have any food we could spare. Like Richard and Nelson at Mandavu, they have been stuck here for months and have not been paid in that time, and in this quiet season there aren't enough visitors to give them something to eat. Initially we supply fruit and biscuits, whatever is handy in the front of the Troopy, but these are devoured with such obvious hunger that we empty our cooler as well. One boy asks if we could give him a lift to the next camp 20 kilometres or so further on, where there might be some mieliemeal to spare, so he jumps in the back of the Troopy with me and we set off. He's two-thirds of the way through a packet of Tennis biscuits when he neatly folds up the packet, saving the rest for later. But then he remembers his manners and quietly offers the last of the biscuits to us.

The plight of these boys is just the tip of the iceberg, I know, but our encounter with them is enough to dispirit us and we drive along in silence, each trying to comprehend this wilful starving and displacement of his citizens by Mugabe. Why has it happened, and how has it been allowed to happen? We've heard the rumours: it's ethnic cleansing, corruption, paranoia gone wild, just plain madness. After three months on the road I have grown used to seeing severe poverty, but not in a country that once had plenty, which was the breadbasket of Africa. I can see that Viv is troubled by seeing first-hand a situation which she'd previously only read about, and Neil too is very upset. For once he's speechless and lacks the heart to lecture us or try to explain. We arrive subdued at Ngweshla picnic site where, once again, the Troopy is to be left while we stay at a camp deep within the park, but our spirits lift at the sight of two chubby babies belonging to the attendant here. This family is being looked after by the camp, which supplies food and necessities, just as they keep the pumps at the local waterholes running by donating diesel to the maintenance man.

The big brother to Little Makalolo, Makalolo Plains sits on the treeline of an open grassland a few kilometres away. It is a much larger and more glamorous camp built entirely on a wooden platform, way up off the ground. We're told that this is for Americans, who aren't comfortable down with the wildlife and prefer it to be kept at a distance. The three of us are the only guests in camp for the five days we're there and we do our best to get through the mountains of food that the kitchen sends out. For afternoon tea they prepare at least two cakes and two savoury slices, and one day we are served a huge brunch out by the waterhole under a big shady tree, where the cook fries up a storm on his
braai
and the waiting staff hover, smiling, ready to bat any insects that should fly about and annoy us.

On the second night we're sitting at the dinner table, halfway through a three-course meal when a slurping and a gurgling can be heard coming from the swimming pool at the other end of the deck. Our hostess smiles, puts a finger to her lips and indicates that we should follow her. We all sneak along the deck in the dark and there, at the outside edge of the pool, as if by magic, is a family of elephants, ears back and trunks stretched up to reach the water hovering above them like a lucky dip. All we can see of the youngsters are wayward little trunks reaching up over the lip of the pool, feeling around until they find water. They blow as much water as they suck up, and before long all the others around them are dripping. The older elephants move back once they've had enough to make way for others waiting in the wings and there is no other sound except for water noises. Then two big bulls appear out of the night, foreigners who want a drink too but are wary of their reception. One tries to gatecrash the crush at the trough but is elbowed out, then the other sees an opening at the side and tries the stretched trunk approach. He's politely jostled aside. But after a few more attempts they are tolerated just long enough for them to get a gut full, before the females nudge them out again and they retreat into the night. We've been sitting on the deck not more than 3 metres away and have been completely ignored.

The following afternoon we are taken to a
vlei
that at first glance looks to have a clump of bushes in the middle of the dry winter grasses. As we get nearer we can see that the bushes are in fact lions, a big unruly family of them who at this moment are all stretching and rousing and looking like they might mean business just as soon as they can get their act together. They have heard and smelt what we already know: there's a big herd of buffalo moving through the woodland behind us. The pride is known as the Spice Girls and they have a reputation for being pathetic hunters. But this evening they sense victory and move off in single file down the
vlei
, all fifteen of them, at first nonchalantly then with more stealth as they get closer to the buffalo. Some pause at a waterhole but most are very focused by the time they pass us hiding behind the safari vehicle. They spread out, moving low, and disappear into the woods. It's quiet, too quiet, then all hell breaks loose. There's stampeding, the sound of undergrowth being flattened, the booming roaring call of lions and screams from the buffalo. We can't actually see anything except for the dust and the tops of trees shaking but it sounds like a massacre. Those lions must have finally got this hunting thing licked. Suddenly the buffalo break through the trees in front of us and thunder past the waterhole and over the ridge. There's no sign of the lions. Back at camp we're told by a guide who was on the other side of the woods and saw all the action that the buffalo routed the lions, who once again botched up a sure thing. Their reputation is intact.