Oh Great. The War is Starting and I'm Naked.

Oh Great. The War is Starting and I’m Naked.

     “When you are in the convoy, don’t drive near vehicles carrying soldiers. Don’t get anywhere near the armored personnel carrier either. It’s a good thing you don’t drive a Ford Ranger because they like to shoot at those. That’s the car favored by government officials. Get to the beginning of the convoy early but not too early. If you arrive too early the police will have time to search your car and find something to confiscate or a reason to fine or arrest you.”

     I wonder how long it would take for us to relax in a country where these statements are said to us the same way one might suggest, “Order the lemon herb chicken because the peri peri chicken will give you gas and a runny tummy.”

     We entered Mozambique several weeks ago with a plan to stay at camps along the stunningly beautiful coastline from Maputo to Vilankulos and up to Inhassoro, which folks in South Africa claim is the most breathtaking of them all. Well, the mechanic near the border who filled our almost empty gearbox with fluid and sold us new tires sure raved about it. After Inhassoro, the plan went, we would turn around and drive back the way we came until we could cross the border into Kruger Park. That was the plan. 
     We spent the days swimming in the Indian Ocean and soaking up the sun and Thank God For Ocean Breezes at Xai Xai (Shy Shy), Zavora (best bluff campsite, rescued a crab caught in fishermen net), Inhambane (So-so. Inhamblah), Vilankulos (splash out at Bahia Mar Resort for my birthday, facial, massage, and swim up bar included), Morrungulu (where South Africans next to us who have been coming for 10 years without incident, had their tents slashed and were robbed while they slept) and finally Inhassoro (at the dreamy Dream Catcher Lodge where we sat in the sparkling clean pool until we were pruney all over and watched fisherman lay a five kilometer long net and spend all day pulling it in before dividing it among the community of women who rushed to the beach with buckets or empty maize bags at the end of the day). 
     All of these lodges and or campsites used to be packed to the gills during school holidays and at Easter but these days there are just a handful of guests and minimal staff (except for Bahia Mar which is owned by a Government Minister and has steady occupancy). The drought, the fall of the Rand, and political unrest are to blame for keeping folks away.

     At each stop we asked our hosts about the “troubles” between the Renamo Party in the North and the government party in power. We heard that anyone driving between Rio Save (an hour from Inhassoro) and Muxungwe, about 100 kilometers North, would only be able to proceed in military convoy and that some vehicles had come under attack. This was the main reason for our plan to turn around at Inhassoro, before the Rio Save. I mean we aren’t stupid. A military convoy means that the road runs through an unsafe area, right? While backpacking around the world in 1995, in Laos we hitched a ride with a trucker who was part of a convoy through an area of turmoil and terrorism. What I most remember about that was that we had to wait a long time for the military to arrive and organize the convoy. Also the truck driver needed a shower. So did we. (Unlike this Zig Zag World Tour, our trip in ’95 was The Young and Sweaty with their Two Sweaty Backpacks.)

      When asked why we were turning tail at Inhassoro I explained, “I’ve been in a convoy before and I’m never doing that again. No way, no how. Do I look stupid or something?” But as we drove further and further north, the less we wanted to retrace the same potholed or sandy roads we took to get there. Our ultimate destination was and is Namibia. Driving all the way back to South Africa wouldn’t be nearly as interesting as driving through Zimbabwe and Botswana to get to Namibia.

     We met fishermen from Zimbabwe at Dream Catcher Lodge in Inhassoro who said, “We just came by convoy today! It’s perfectly safe. It was only annoying because they kept stopping so much. The road is bad in places but your Landy can handle that, no problem.”

     “I read in the news this morning that Renamo dug three trenches across the road yesterday to make drivers slow down or stop,”I said.

     “There are big pot holes to be sure but I don’t remember any trenches.”

     I asked our practical, born and bred in Zimbabwe host her opinion.

     “There have been incidences of shootings but a lot of what the media reports is rubbish.” She paused before adding, “Only you can make the decision but I can tell you that I wouldn’t hesitate to go towards Zim by convoy.”

     I posted the question to several Mozambican on-line communities and received a full range of responses from, “Don’t do it! Not worth the risk” to “I did it without incident two weeks ago. Go for it.”

     Scott and I spent two days deciding. On most ballots Scott voted FOR using the convoy to get to Zim. Ninety percent of the time I voted AGAINST mostly because I couldn’t bare thinking about what our families would go through if someone did end up taking a pot shot at us. In the end, on the eve of March 30^th, I looked at Scott and said, “We drive an old Landy not a new Ford. Let’s do it.” I spent the next day reading about the convoy and general advice for driving through Mozambique. Mozambique has a lot of rules; “Don’t carry a knife, or machete, or pepper spray. They are deemed weapons and you’ll be arrested. If they search your car they might find a reason to confiscate your alcohol. Hide all your electronics!” Preparing the car (hiding the pepper spray, machete, computer, and the gin for good measure) and all the stress involved with coming to a decision made me kind of constipated so the next night I had peri peri chicken for dinner.

     On April 1^st we left camp at 6:30 AM so we would get to the Rio Save in time for the 9AM convoy. We arrived with just a few minutes to spare, just enough time for a few policemen to inquire what we had brought for them. More came to the window, even after I used the usually successful line I borrowed from a woman called Alice during an overland trip from Cairo to Nairobi in 2010 when she was threatened with a fine for breaking a mirror in a pub in Ethiopia, “We are but humble travelers.” Finally a red-flag-bearing woman expressed her impatience for a delay that would result in no reward for her and shouted something in Portuguese at the policeman while waving us on to the bridge with the same motion the “Gentlemen start your engines” guy uses to get the Indy 500 Race started.

     We couldn't tell how many vehicles were in the convoy. But we never saw another tourist vehicle. Overloaded semi-trucks and logging trucks were what took up 99% of the convoy. There were of course armored personnel carriers, pickup trucks filled with fully kitted out soldiers wearing helmets and flak jackets and carrying large ass-kicking weapons. Hot in heavy body armor, thirsty soldiers lined the road in random spots along the route. If the convoy was going slow enough, soldiers asked for water and Scott let them drink from his water bottle. In two areas, there were makeshift army camps along the road.

     The advantage of a convoy in Africa, beside the obvious, is that it turns the road into one-way traffic. For the first time in all our journeys in Ndoto, we didn’t have to worry about oncoming traffic or trucks passing us on a blind curve. All we had to worry about were bathtub sized potholes and watching out for the man-made trenches. There were three trenches and I was glad we knew they were coming because if we had hit one at speed it would have meant the end to an axle.

     Sometimes the convoy spread out and we could barely see the truck in front or behind us but most of the time it was an orderly train of semis and Ndoto. At one point the convoy stopped completely. Soon truckers were climbing down and heading to the side of the road for a wee. I was desperate to do the same. I debated going between Ndoto and the truck in front of us but during a rehearsal Scott said he could see my bottom under the car. So off I went into the bushes with my trusty golf umbrella, which I never leave home without. Truckers threw me thumbs up all around when I returned.

     Finally we arrived at the end of the convoy route. Truckers pulled over to rest and buy cashews from street vendors. We bought cashews too but had no desire to linger. We carried on and six hours after we crossed the Rio Save we arrived at the Shop Rite in Chimoio. We needed supplies and I badly needed to use the facilities. While Scott shopped I asked to use the toilet in my best Portuguese by asking, “Toilet?” with unabashed urgency. Soon a young man whose job was sweeping the aisles led me to double doors that led to the bowels of Shop Rite. He handed me off to a woman who guided me through a maze and upstairs to the ladies room. (Word of advice: If you later want to eat the food you buy at the Shop Rite in Chimoio, do NOT look at what is behind the double doors because the bowels of Shop Rite are literally like the bowels of anything.)

     The ladies room had three loos (with doors!) but none of them had toilet paper. “Toilet paper?” I asked the woman. She answered in rapid Portuguese and made a motion as if she were birthing her eighth child, easy peezy, ‘Well, just go.’

     “Uh, I really need some paper.” I thought, Maybe high school Spanish would help. "Papel?" Or was it El papel? Los papeles?

     Hands on hips, losing patience with me, the mzungu woman who can’t pee without paper, she encouraged me again in Portuguese to just go dammit. By this time, I was near panic and broke into a flop sweat.

     “No pee pee. Big business. Number two, you know?" 

     Blank stare. I pictured myself, dejected and horrified, sinking slowly to the employee restroom floor with acceptance of the inevitable like the bride-to-be with sudden, unstoppable food poisoning while crossing the street in the movie Bridesmaids.
     Portuguese, think of something to say in Portuguese! I said sotto voce. I remembered the time I was in Brazil floating down the Amazon in a small wooden boat. The place where the women prepared our meals was just outside our cabin so every morning I greeted them with, "Bom dia!" which I was sure meant good morning. But every morning after I said it they giggled and blushed. Finally, the captain pulled me aside and told me that my accent was a little "off" and that instead of wishing the cooks good day, I was telling them they had nice bums. 
     "Bom! Bom!," I said motioning to my behind, to the area my gentile Aunt Martha called patootie. Not knowing what language patootie comes from, I threw that in for good measure; "Patootie!!"
     Nothing. By now her impatience was turning to fear.

     “For God’s sake woman! I had peri peri last night!”

     At that, she left and returned with a roll of paper towels.

     An hour later we finally arrived at our camp for the night, Msika, a once hopping resort near the border of Zimbabwe on Lake Chicamba. The regular campsites were overgrown from lack of use so they let us park next to a chalet and gave us a key so we could use the toilet and shower. It was Saturday night but except for a few upper class Mozambicans getting their drink on at the bar there were few guests at the resort and even fewer staying over. The young Mozambican couple let me hold their soft baby, which sent all sorts of warm endorphins coursing through my body. The manager said, “If war doesn’t break out, we are set to have a big fishing competition here at months end”, which sent the cozy vibes crashing.

     I was exhausted, sweaty, and desperate for a shower. I grabbed my towel and toiletry bag and headed to the chalet while Scott unfolded our rooftop tent. I peeled off my sweaty, dusty, anxiety-ridden convoy clothes, tossed them in the corner and padded to the bathroom in my birthday suit. Just as I was about to step into the shower there was a massive explosion that shook the building. My heart stopped. I was glad the peri peri was through my system.

     “Oh great. I’m naked and the war is starting,” I mumbled to myself wearily. Back on went the funky clothes. I opened the door to the chalet just as Scott was about to enter.

     “I forgot to tell you. They are blasting the mountain across from us to get fill for the new highway.”

     The next day we read the news. At 9AM the previous day, at the exact time we crossed the Rio Save and joined the convoy, government troops began bombing the hell out of the Renamo base in Gorongosa National Park, the park once filled with animals that went to fill soldier's bellies during the previous war. 
     This is all very bad, very sad news for Mozambique. In addition, there's a shortage of maize and food prices are soaring. Up north, kids are barefoot and their clothes are in taters. In the South, in the area controlled by the government, children have uniforms, shoes, backpacks, and schoolbooks. But there are a lot of children. If you drive through Vilankulos at noon you'll have to weave your way through a sea of blue uniforms. Hundreds of children, all the same age are leaving school, while hundreds more are arriving for session two. There aren't enough jobs to go around now so it's hard to imagine what these children will do when they graduate.

     Tomorrow we will cross the border into the most beautiful country in Africa, Zimbabwe. First stop, the amazing Musangano Lodge at the gateway to the highlands.

    

The Money Shot - Charged by Hippo on the Zambezi River

Excerpt from Safari Jema, A Journey of Love and Adventure from Casablanca to Cape Town. The entire adventure is available on Amazon.

 Flying a micro light over the Zambezi River may have gotten our hearts pumping, but now we were going to do something on the Zambezi that was reputed to be heart stopping – a four-day canoe camping safari. During the day we would paddle amongst hippo and crocodile and at night we would camp on the riverbank with Cape buffalo and elephant.  Scott was very keen on canoeing the Zambezi, and he was extra pleased because he had booked it at a discount.

I was nervous.  I am more afraid of hippos than most any other African animal, and I wasn’t too excited about sleeping with Cape buffalo either.  Because they are so territorial, hippo and Cape buffalo cause the most deaths to humans in Africa. 

Scott tried to convince me that terror could be fun. “Come on Tris!  You love wildlife. It can’t get more wild than this.”

When we arrived in Kariba, Zimbabwe, we were told that others who had booked the trip cancelled at the last minute so it would just be Scott, me, and our guide, “Eddie.” Eddie looked decidedly more frightened than I did.  He also appeared to be about twelve years old.

I looked at Scott and said with my eyes, “There is no way in hell I am getting on the Zambezi with deadly hippos, crocs, and buffalo with a kid named Eddie.” I don’t know why his name bothered me so much but even “Edward” wouldn’t have made him look any older or any more confident.

Scott turned to the booking agent and asked, “Do you have any other tours leaving tomorrow?”

Yes, they did have a canoe safari starting tomorrow, but it was a luxury tour staying each night at tented safari camps along the way and would cost considerably more than our camping safari.

“Would Eddie be leading the tour?” my husband asked quietly.

“Oh no,” said the agent with understanding.  “That tour is led by Maxwell, a very experienced guide.”

We walked away to discuss bending the budget and going on the luxury safari.  I reaffirmed my position aloud, “Scott, there is no way I’m going to put my life in the hands of a kid named Eddie who doesn’t look as though he’s ever even held a paddle before. You go if you like and I’ll be here bird-watching until you get back.”

“Hmmm,” Scott said, his sense of frugality tugging at him trying to convince him that he wanted to go with Eddie, without me.  “Well, I think I’ll see if they will give us a discount on that other trip.”

And that’s what happened.  There was only one couple booked on the luxury trip so the agent decided it would be a better solution for everyone if we made it a foursome, five including the guide Maxwell.

Early the next morning, we met Maxwell along with the Australian couple we would be canoeing with over the next four days.  Maxwell gave us a spiel about what we could expect to hear, see, smell, and taste on the Zambian side of the Zambezi River.  Then he gave a “safety talk.”  

“Leave most of your gear here.  You need very little on the river so a small duffle bag with a few changes of clothes will do.  Do not bring any food, especially citrus fruit.  Elephants are crazy about oranges.”  He paused for emphasis before continuing.  “Never stand up in your canoe.  If you see a hippo, don’t panic.  Paddle single file behind my canoe.  When we stop for lunch or a pee break do not wander far from the canoe – there are elephants and Cape buffalo that come to the river each day to drink.  If a hippo or elephant charges you, don’t worry.  I have a weapon in my canoe that will stop them.”

“Maxwell, have you ever had to fire your weapon?” I asked.

“Only once,” he answered with a frown.  “I had a guest one trip who insisted on bringing a very large hard-sided suitcase with him.  He was traveling alone and kept to himself.  Each time we stopped for lunch or a break he disappeared into the bush with the suitcase.  One day as I prepared lunch, the man came running out of the bush hysterical and without his suitcase.  Behind him I could see a big bull elephant hot on his heels.  I ran to the canoe for my gun and took aim on the elephant.”  Maxwell paused.  “I have never killed an animal, and I did not want to kill this elephant.  But the elephant was coming after the man with steady determination. I made a quick decision to fire my gun into the air hoping to startle the elephant.  It worked.  He stopped charging. He stomped the ground and tossed his head before running away.”

“How frightening!  Why was the elephant chasing the man?” I asked.

“Elephants love oranges.  It turned out that the man’s suitcase had been filled with nothing but oranges.  He would take the suitcase with him into the bush, find an elephant and toss oranges to it until we were ready to leave.  That day he tossed oranges until his suitcase was empty.  Only, the elephant wanted more.  I was furious with this man who almost made me shoot an elephant!”

Before we left I discarded my citrus-scented shampoo.

The lodges we stayed at each night were simple yet beautiful.  Genteel Zambian hosts at each tented safari camp excelled at the art of conversation and made us feel comfortable and catered to.  At the end of each day they greeted us on shore with welcoming smiles and our favorite sundowner.  We had more cocktails at the bar as we watched the sun go down before dining together at a meticulously set table.  We listened to exciting stories about adventurers in Africa as we settled into comfortable chairs around a campfire before retiring to our luxury tents.  All night long we heard the rumble of elephants nearby.  Little did I know, I would soon be telling an exciting Zambezi story of my own around the campfire.

The Zambezi is the fourth longest river in Africa. Through six countries it 

provides food, transportation, and recreation to locals and visitors. Bushy trees and dense brush overhang the Zambezi’s banks like an unkempt mustache. You can hear the animals crashing through the vegetation to get to the river long before you can see them. The main river is wide and there are many narrow channels to paddle in and out of while looking for wildlife. But you never have to search for long. Opportunities to get close to wildlife are a guarantee. It isn’t uncommon to see herds of more than one hundred elephants along the riverbank. Cape buffalo, baboons, crocodiles and many bird species are also in abundance. But the most prevalent animal in the Zambezi by far is the hippo. Canoeing the Zambezi is not for the faint of heart.  Each day we had to weave our canoes among pods of territorial hippos. Maxwell took the lead. When we came upon a group of hippos blocking our path he would stand up in his canoe and hold his oar high over his head “to look big and dominant,” he said. Though Maxwell was little more than five feet tall, to our amazement this usually worked and the hippos would scurry out of the water.  Usually.  One day however, as we canoed through a very narrow side channel, Maxwell spotted a lone hippo some distance ahead asleep in the water.  He turned and whispered softly, “I think if we paddle quietly he will not wake up.  Just follow me and try not to make any noise.”

We went single file, Maxwell in the lead, the couple from Australia following and Scott and me bringing up the rear.  As I watched Maxwell slide past the hippo, the hippo continued to sleep.  As I watched the Aussies glide past, the hippo didn’t move.  As Scott and I neared the hippo it suddenly woke up with a start and sprang up in the shallow water with a look that said, “What the hell! Where did you come from?” We panicked and began flailing our paddles with such desperation that our canoe t-boned the bank directly opposite the hippo. Not more than ten feet from us, the hippo went into territorial mode. First it took a big dump, splattering its poo over the water and bank with a frantic and repetitive wag of his tail. Then it took a bead on us.  We began to paddle as fast as we could.  I saw Maxwell ahead stand up in his canoe and raise his oar high over his head.  The Aussie couple was watching us with eyes wide and mouths agape.  I noticed a look of horror on the face of the Aussie man and a look of excitement on the face of the Aussie woman.  I watched things unfold in slow motion as the woman, not taking her eyes off us for a second, reached for her fancy long lens camera and began to take shot after shot of us and what was going on behind us.

Suddenly Maxwell and the Aussie couple began paddling quickly down the river. Without saying a word, Scott and I continued to paddle as fast as we could. We were too terrified to speak. Soon we were even with the Aussies and in another minute we had passed Maxwell.  I thanked God that Scott had been on an outrigger team when we lived in Hawaii. He really knows how to dig an oar into the water. We didn’t stop paddling until we could see the lodge ahead of us.  Completely spent, I put the paddle down and let Scott guide us in to shore.

The lodge host must have sensed by my expression and limp arms that something memorable had happened on the river because as soon as our canoe hit the bank, she was by my side wrapping my hand around a double gin and tonic. 

“That was bloody terrifying!” said the Aussie man as he strode to the bar.  His wife, who it turned out was a professional film (not digital) photographer, remained on the bank snapping photos, one after another.  She shot photos of the lodge, of the reeds, of the sunset, of my hand clasping the gin and tonic until she slowly advanced the camera one last time with a sick look on her face.

“That hippo,” she said to us.  “It was right behind you.  It had its mouth wide open as it chased you down the river.  I thought it would take Teresa and half your canoe in its mouth.”  She sighed.  “I thought I had a money shot.” 

With trepidation she opened the back of her camera to confirm her fears.  The film was intact, its little tail barely out of it canister.  The entire day, it had never wound on.  She didn’t get a single photo.

I was utterly gobsmacked. “I know you are disappointed, but we could have been killed!” 

Oddly, for the rest of the trip she barely spoke to us.  Somehow it was our fault that she had missed her award-winning photo.

Sample chapter from Safari Jema, A Journey of Love and Adventure from Casablanca to Cape Town

Meat is Meat

Victoria Falls roared nearby while Scott watched a tourist leap
from the bridge between Zimbabwe and Zambia and disappear
into the abyss over the Zambezi River. He couldn’t bring himself to actually lean over the railing because he has a fear of heights. Just standing on the bridge was enough to make his knees buckle. While he waited for the next bungee jumper to vanish from sight, he became an instant trillionaire when he bought a stack of Zimbabwean one hundred billion dollar notes from a man on the bridge. A trillion Zimbabwe dollars didn’t buy much. Inflation had topped 500 million percent and a single one-hundred-billion dollar note would buy little more than a loaf of bread or a few eggs. But the billion-dollar notes had become a commodity. While President Mugabe continued to ruin an entire country, he had inadvertently created a market for Zimbabwe
dollars on eBay. Unfortunately many months later, in Thailand, our backpack was relieved of eight hundred billion dollars along with our beloved Swiss Army Knife. The knife wasn’t your run-of-the-mill gadget with a blade and screwdriver. It was one I had purchased direct from the source in Switzerland. It was called The Superchamp and it had dozens of tools incased within its only-available-in-Switzerland black body. Not
only that, engraved on its side was a personalized mushy dedication to Scott. More than a portable toolbox, its knife and corkscrew alone represented romantic picnics in the Alps and glasses of Riesling along the Rhine. Somehow I think I would have mourned the loss a little less if the Superchamp were being put to use building a bridge in Africa instead of opening a can of beans in some communal kitchen of a backpacker hostel in Thailand.

Billion dollar notes aside, it was tragic what was going on in Zimbabwe. People desperately waited for something to change. There were fuel shortages, grocery store shelves were empty, and farms sat derelict. Those who were able would cross the border into Zambia each day to work—or to sell stacks of Zimbabwe dollars to travelers— before returning at night to a ruined Zimbabwe. Most Zimbabweans seemed to accept their lot with something closer to pragmatism than bitterness. We asked a taxi driver waiting for fares near the bridge how he felt about what was happening in his country and if he thought Mugabe should step down or be thrown out. He answered with a resigned shrug, “It’s better to have the devil we know than one we don’t.”
It wasn’t always like that in Zimbabwe. Until recently it was our favorite African nation. It is a physically beautiful country and we had always admired the resourcefulness of her people. As recently as 1999, Zimbabwe was still considered a breadbasket of Africa, the economy was relatively healthy, and inflation was not yet a major headline. On two previous visits we had been able to travel anywhere in the country in relative comfort and security.

During one such trip we noticed a billboard advertising “Business Days, Zimbabwe Trade Zone,” from our seats on a crowded long-distance bus. As we entered the colonial city of Bulawayo, we decided it might be interesting to see how a trade show in Zimbabwe might differ from one in Silicon Valley and we made a plan to attend. I am sure we were the only tourists there. When we arrived at the entrance they couldn’t decide under what category to admit us. Finally someone handed us badges that read, “Foreign Guest,” and we entered the trade show floor. Salesmen hawked furniture, crafts, and import-export opportunities from within hundreds of tents and booths. In lesser number were agents representing safari and game lodges. One lodge, located in Hwange National Park, offered trade show attendees a full board package including game drives at a place called Ganda Lodge for a price almost too good to believe. Scott gave me a look that said, “What have we got to lose?” We purchased two nights and received an official-looking voucher.

The next day we took another bus to Hwange National Park where we met Happiness, Cuthbert, Fortunate, and Boniface, all part of the Ganda Lodge staff. I wondered who they thought we were because we received the royal treatment. Soon we learned we were the first guests they had had in weeks and that we would have Ganda Lodge to ourselves. After a welcome drink of something orange and cool, we were shown a selection of two-story cottages to pick from. We quickly chose one fronting both the water hole and the swimming pool. This in turn overlooked a grassy savannah shaded by acacia and mahogany trees. In a branch of a thorn tree overhanging a second-story viewing platform, a lilac-breasted roller came to rest not two feet from where we sat. The spectacularly colored bird preened its feathers like an actress preparing for a close-up. It was
the dry season at Hwange and most of the water in the holes had evaporated. Fortunately there was still water in the pond near our cottage and that was what brought thirsty animals practically to our front door.
After we settled in, the head ranger David took us on a game drive. We stopped briefly to watch zebra and giraffe grazing near the lodge, and then headed out into the bush. One hour into the game drive we stopped near a herd of some two hundred elephants. One juvenile elephant immediately performed an impressive mock charge, running at our vehicle with his ears flared out and his little trunk flailing wildly. Then while I held my breath, another young female elephant walked directly over to where I sat in the backseat of our open-topped Land Cruiser and calmly draped her trunk over my shoulder. My heart was beating so hard I thought it would leap from my chest. I sat like a statue even though my insides tingled with excitement. There was nothing I could do to stop the happy tears that ran down my cheeks.
After a few minutes of close-encounter bliss, we continued through the game park stopping again to watch a group of slow-moving impala and giraffe. The air was so hot and parched that the grasses crackled under the hooves of the animals. I felt nearly on the verge of heatstroke.I’ve never been one to handle the heat well anyway, and the temperature out on the savannah was pushing me to my limit. Evidently it showed
because David glanced at my clammy, flushed face and asked, “Would you like to go back now?” As much as I wanted to have another close encounter with an elephant, I knew that driving around in one-hundred-
degree heat in an open-top vehicle might do me in. Reluctantly I nodded at David and said, “Yes, please.”

Back at the lodge we changed into swimsuits and chilled down in the icy cold pool. As we hung on to the pool’s edge feeling our body temperature return to normal, we watched zebra come to the water hole and drink. Boniface brought us cold beers. It was heaven. Though attending a trade show is not something most travelers usually do, it paid off big for us. The price for the all-inclusive stay at Ganda Lodge was only fourteen dollars per person, per night. Total. For everything. At lunch a tall and dapper African named Cuthbert whose every move conveyed style and grace served us a plentiful meal and more cold drinks on a covered terrace. Watching Cuthbert move around the terrace, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the elegant giraffe we had encountered during our game drive that morning. When we finished eating, he cleared the table so effortlessly that it was as if he had just waved his hand over it and made the dishes disappear. He smiled at us more like we were guests in his home than visitors to a game lodge. “Which meat would like to have for dinner?” he asked.
“You mean we get to pick?” I asked. “What are our choices?”
“Chicken, or beef, or pork,” replied Cuthbert.
“Well, chicken sounds good. We’ll have the chicken,” Scott answered for both of us. Cuthbert seemed a little disappointed at our choice.

After lunch David drove us back to a water hole located about forty minutes from the lodge. During our game drive we had noticed a ladder leading to an enclosed platform in a tall tree near the water and asked if we could spend the afternoon alone there. David parked the vehicle directly under the tree so that we could
safely and quickly climb to the platform. Before leaving, he handed us a small box of cold drinks and said, “Be careful, and try not to become overheated.” We climbed the ladder and spent the next three hours
well hidden in the leafy tree spying on elephant and antelope as they came to the water to drink.

Game viewing that afternoon was a vastly more rewarding experience because the animals were completely unaware of our presence. Perhaps they were under the influence of the heat as well, but I have never seen African animals so relaxed. Some even napped. Without half a dozen safari vehicles filled with excited tourists destroying the calmness of nature (“Marge! Did you see that? Look over there. No, over there! Oh, you missed it! He’s gone now.”), we were able to see antelope just being antelope. It was just Scott, the African bush, and me. Because it was so hot and dry at Hwange, animals naturally gravitated to the water hole so it bustled with activity. Some animals drank from the water’s edge then rested in shade nearby before returning for another drink. Adult elephants stood in the pool and cooled their bodies with showers of water from their trunks while baby elephants rolled in the mud or playfully charged one another. The one behavior all the animals had in common was that they seemed reluctant to leave.
So were we. When Happiness and Fortunate arrived to take us back to the lodge, it struck me that their names expressed our emotions of the day perfectly.

At 7:00 p.m, we were called to dinner . Again it was a buffet with copious amounts of food, way too much for just the two of us. And there was plenty of chicken. I said to Cuthbert, “There’s so much
food!” and he responded, “If you eat more, you worry less.” It didn’t take too long for us to realize that the staff of Ganda Lodge and their families would be eating what we couldn’t finish. We also understood
that when there are no guests at the lodge, there are no leftovers to eat. We took small but sufficient portions of food to our table and ate while the staff watched at a distance.
From the terrace we could see impala, warthog, and giraffe come to drink. Gesturing towards the animals at the water hole, I remarked to Cuthbert, “It’s so beautiful! It would be wonderful to have a meal closer to the water hole.”
From the comfort of our bed the next morning, we watched more than eight hundred buffalo cross the savannah before we headed to the terrace for breakfast. Cuthbert met us at the step and swept his arm
around until it pointed down to the water hole. There on the bank was a table for two beautifully set with white linen, china, and a small vase of wildflowers. “Today, you will eat breakfast at the water hole.”
I burst into tears. To this day it is the most spectacular place I have ever dined.
As we finished our eggs, Cuthbert came to our table and asked,
“Which meat would you like for lunch today?”
“Which meat do you recommend, Cuthbert?” Scott asked.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Meat is meat.” He shrugged as if it did not matter which meat was chosen. “But,” he added quickly, “I don’t think you care much for the chicken. I think you prefer the beef.”
Scott looked over at me and smiled. “I think we prefer the beef too,” he said to Cuthbert.
And that is what we all had for lunch that afternoon. There was enough beef on the luncheon buffet table to feed twenty.

After lunch Cuthbert again approached us with, “Which meat
would you like for dinner?”
We smiled at him and asked, “Do we still like the beef?”
Cuthbert smiled back. “Yes, I think you like the beef most of all.”
Two days later when we left Hwange, we stopped back in Bulawayo
and traded facemasks and snorkels (I honestly can’t remember why in
the world we had facemasks and snorkels with us) and a little money
for a graceful wooden giraffe. Almost six feet tall and hand carved by
the seller, I named him Cuthbert.

Meat is Meat

     During a trip to East Africa in 1999 we stopped to overnight in the colonial city of Bulawayo. From our window on the Blue Arrow bus we saw a large billboard advertising “Business Days, Zimbabwe Trade Zone” so as a diversion and to see what business people in Zimbabwe were promoting we decided to attend.

     When we arrived at the entrance they weren’t sure what category to put us in or which badge to give us. After some time we were issued guest badges.

     The tradeshow floor was crowded with  salesmen representing companies doing business in Zimbabwe and a multitude of  import-export companies marketing their furniture, crafts and services. There were also a few safari lodges represented. One, located in Hwange National Park, was offering trade show attendees a full board package, including game drives, at their Ganda Lodge for an incredible price. We paid for two nights and received a very official looking voucher.

     The next day we took a bus to Hwange National Park where Happiness, Shamu, Fortunate and Cleaver, all employees of the Ganda Lodge, met us. I didn’t know who they thought we were but we received the royal treatment. It turned out we were the only guests. Upon arrival at the Lodge we were shown a selection of two story cottages to choose from. We took the one fronting the water hole and swimming pool. This in turn overlooked a grassy savannah shaded by acacia and mahogany trees. In a branch of a thorn tree overhanging the upstairs viewing platform, a lilac breasted roller came spectacularly to rest not two feet from where we sat.

    
     After we settled in, our guide David took us on a game drive. We drove through the park and stopped near a herd of over 200 elephants. One juvenile performed an impressive mock charge and, while I held my breath, another young elephant walked directly over to where I sat in the back seat of our open topped land cruiser and draped his trunk briefly over my shoulder.

     It was extremely hot when we returned from the game drive so we changed into swimsuits and chilled down in the icy cold pool. As we hung on to the edge of the pool we could see Zebra come to the water hole and drink. Cuthbert, the bartender, brought cold beers to the pool. It was heaven. We had paid $14 per person per night. Total for everything.

     At noon, a dapper African named Boniface served us a plentiful lunch on a covered terrace. During our meal he asked us which meat we would like to have for dinner.

     “What are our choices?” we asked.

     “Chicken, or beef, or pork,” answered Boniface.

     We felt like having chicken so that’s what I told Boniface. He seemed disappointed by our choice.

We were called to dinner at 6pm. Again it was a buffet with copious amounts of food, way too much for just the two of us. And there was plenty of chicken. It didn’t take too long for us to realize that the staff of Ganda Lodge and their families would eat what we couldn’t finish. We also understood that when there were no guests at the lodge there are no leftovers to eat. We took modest portions of food to our table and ate while the staff watched.  From the terrace we could see impala and wart hog and giraffe come to the waterhole.

     “It is so beautiful at the waterhole,” I said to Boniface. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have breakfast next to it?”

     The next morning, after we watched 800 buffalo cross the savannah, we headed to the terrace for breakfast. Cuthbert met us at the step and swept his arm around until it pointed down to the waterhole. At the bank there was a table for two beautifully set with white linen, china and a vase of flowers. “Today, you will eat breakfast at the waterhole.” I almost cried. To this day it is the most special place I have ever dined.

     As we finished our eggs, Boniface came to our table and asked, “Which meat would you like for lunch today?”

     “Which meat do you think we should have, Boniface?” we asked.

     “Well,” he paused. “Meat is meat,” he answered with a shrug as if it did not matter. “But”, he added quickly, “I don’t think you like the chicken. I think you like the beef,”

     “I think we like the beef too so that is what we will have,” I answered.

     And that is what we all had for lunch that afternoon. There was enough beef on the luncheon buffet to feed twenty.

     After lunch Boniface again approached us with, “Which meat would you like for dinner?”

     We smiled at him and said, “Do we still like the beef?”

     Boniface smiled back. “Yes, I think you like the beef most of all.”