My African adventures - Moeksie

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My African Adventure – Part 1

We found ourselves in the rut of life, the same boring routine of trying to earn a living, and yet living hand to mouth. My brother-in-law was in Zambia on holiday, and phoned us one evening and was just so over the world about how beautiful it was, so much to see, and so wild and untouched. He called us from the harbour town of Mpumulungu, Lake Tanganyika, and told us of a paradise on earth, not touched much by the Western world, and of the tropical fish he saw in the waters.

I imagine that everybody, at some stage in life, has a romantic notion to adventure the wild. If not, then it’s maybe just us, but we thought – what do we have to loose anyway?

One month later we were packed and ready to go, ready to leave our jobs and civilisation behind. We had an old ford bakkie, with a boat in tow, and it did look like we were of on safari. Our budget was shorter than a shoe-string, we had no real plan for the next 6 months, our families thought we had gone mad – but as we drove through the Zimbabwe border I felt a sense of freedom that I never imagined could exist.

I had the most amazing adventure; the experience is something I will never forget. Of course, many things that happened can only happen in Africa, and I would like to share my stories with you.

The main goal

We have always had tropical fish, and it has been a passionate hobby. The main draw to Lake Tanganyika was to catch tropical fish, and bring them back to South Africa to breed with. So, much research was done, and I had made friends with a professor from the University of the North – who gave us tips and advice on how to bring the fish home. The Department of Nature Conservation issued us with import permits, we had hand nets to catch with, snorkelling equipment, special bags and boxes, bottles of oxygen, and the knowledge of what we where looking for - in one of the longest lakes in the world.

Departure

I looked at the bakkie parked in the yard, and thought – jirra we are nuts – but I was way to excited to care anyway. I had supplies to last a lifetime, from toilet paper to BBQ spice, you name it. My medical supplies I found to be most important, and had everything packed in a steel trunk, which included anti-malaria medication, quinine, grand-pa head ache powders, liquid quinine with an assortment of saline drips, suture material (well I have sewed up dogs before) anti-gippoguts remedies - I’m sure I could have set up a hospital. Little did I know at the time, that my supplies would make the difference between my life or death.

I had dried paw-paw seeds to take with, and included loads of vegetable seed to plant on arrival. Husband had made a solar system for hot water, so hosepipes, taps, fittings, pvc pipe, 44 gallon drums, garden equipment and tools were packed. I had a tent made to my specifications – big enough for supplies and us, and mosquito/rain/heat proof. Stretchers, sleeping bags, mosquito coils, jerry cans, maps, Coleman lamps, a plastic baby bath, fold up chairs and tables - a list to long to think about, but although it was 12 years ago, I can still remember the organising, packing and chaos. After all – we were going to ‘camp’ in the middle of nowhere – in Africa – and me? I was ready………..

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My African adventure Part 2

Journey to the Zambezi Valley


We had planned our journey to coincide with the border post times – which meant having to arrive at Biet Bridge for 05h30 and push through Zimbabwe to Chirundu , some 1105 km, to arrive before 18h00 before crossing over to Zambia.

The previous evening we done the last bit of packing, prepared loads of padkos, and we couldn’t settle down. The kids where very excited – like kids are before a holiday, but they worked so hard helping us they just passed out after supper. After a restless few hours sleep, we were up, and left Pietersburg at a two in the morning. We must have looked a sight – this old Ford van piled high, towing a boat which was used like a trailer, and I was dressed in safari gear – khaki shorts, straw hat and flip-flops. It somehow felt nogal odd not to have our rifles mounted on the bonnet. I had my shades hanging from the rear view mirror, maps easy to reach in the door, and all our documents stuffed into the cubby hole.

We travelled in September, and the air was dry but warm. Leaving Messina for the last few kilometres to Beit Bridge at dawn, the land appeared desolate. Not a blade of grass in sight, and the thorn bushes had pre-christmas decorations on them, kindly attached by the wind – pieces of plastic and paper, blown up from the surrounding townships, in all colours imaginable. So early in the morning, only the odd goats and donkeys were about, the air didn’t have its usual divine smell which promised rain and spring. The air smelt lifeless, stale and uncared for, and I was glad to leave it behind.

On arriving at Beit Bridge excitement was again high, we piled out of our van, and went to stand in line to be checked out. Funny places these border posts. I kept on having the feeling of been watched somehow, almost like been on the run, and scared you get seized before leaving customs. Our checking out on Beit Bridge and checking in on Zimbabwe’s side went smoothly, so we drove a short distance into Zims, and pulled of the road for some breakfast. I stood next to the van, a piece of chicken in one hand, mug of steaming coffee in the other, noticed how clear and blue the sky was, and thought – wow – we are on our way. No more dull mundane routine, no telephones, no telly, no noise, no more hopeless one-day-after-the-next existence. But, my moment of quite pondering was rudely interrupted by a shrill cry out of the grass, as onto 10 black youths descended upon us – ‘’Mr Tourist Mr Tourist’’ they shouted with much excitement – with wades of Zim dollars in clenched fists. ‘’We give you good price…..you must buy……we are hungry’’

We weren’t quite sure what to make of this lot, as these shiny black faces stared at us with big innocent eyes and white smiles. We had heard rumours of been robbed, taken for a ride ect. by bands of hooligans on the road looking to make a buck out of stupid tourists. However, we had not changed our rands yet, and the exchange rate on the roadside was very inviting. As we were only travelling through Zims, we didn’t need many dollars, so while myself and the kids kept an eye on our belongings, husband done the negotiating with a calculator and a box of South African cigarettes. This was to be our first experience in a totally free market economy found only in Africa – trading and negotiating the African way.


Our next stop was planned for Chinhoyi, north of Harare, so on we went, putting miles behind us, and just looking around all the time at a different country, different people, and different scenery. We passed police road blocks, but only had to produce our passports on each occasion. The people were tense, and at roadblocks almost aggressive, not even taking part in light banter or courteous greetings. We reached Chinhoyi in the afternoon, and using the advantage of getting 6 Zim dollars to the rand, bought some extra supplies, filled up spare petrol containers, and paid only 6 cents per litre of paraffin. Sandwiches we washed down with very cold Zambezi Export beer, at this stage we were so thirsty, dusty and hot, that we didn’t even feel the effects of the beer, and the kids also had one each, but I thought well, they would sleep all the way then as they were already bored.

At this stage we had decided to overnight in Zims, we heard that there were a few good B and B’s and a hotel closer to Chirundu, once again the exchange rate was in our favour. We stayed at a hotel just outside Chirundu – which cost us next to nothing, it was a pleasure to shower the days travel away, and we settled into bed by ten, ready to make our Zambezi entrance early the next morning.

We were up and ready to leave at 5 the following morning, and it was a chilly misty morning, only then realising that we were still on the plateau. It was only a short downhill mountain drive from there to reach the Zambian border of Chirundu. So, of we went, well rested and anxious to reach the border. We hadn’t travelled far and the mist started clearing, and the scene which unfolded before us, was breathtaking. Far below was a valley – a green carpet laid out in all its natural splendour - as far as they eye could see, heat waves shimmering on the horizon .We had found the Zambezi valley! I wondered what the likes of Stanley and Livingston must have made of the sight which lay before us. I gazed in awe at this beautiful Creation, and at the same time my mind drifted back to the arid desolate earth I had seen the previous day, with the decorated thorn trees, and I felt mournful emotions erupt for Africa.

As we descended into the valley, the temperature rose with alarming degrees, and very soon shoes, jersey’s and long pants were been peeled of. We arrived at the border post of Chirundu at 06h30, and it was already 38deg. This was a sight to see, driving over a bridge spanning the mighty Zambezi River. On crossing over, I sort of wanted to cry – just because we had made it so far, and because it was just beautiful – this was the Africa I had always dreamt of, always wanted to see. Baboons lazed in the trees, and ambled around the parking area as if they themselves were in charge. Massive long haulage trucks had already formed a long line in wait of passing through the border. The buildings reminded me of some dirty Mexican outpost in a Western movie. Paint was peeling of the walls, notices bleached by the sun vaguely said you aren’t allowed to take photos. The floors had cracks all over – but shone brightly polished, and the ceiling fan looked as if it would fall of, as it turned ever so slow – hardly moving the thick hot air. The customs officials sat behind the counter in pristine uniforms, their buttons on their uniforms polished – and worn with much pride.

We passed inspections and a lot of questions .My brother-in-law had applied for us before hand for investors permits – this gave us a special sort of status. If you held an investors permit, it basically meant – to a Zambian - that we had a lots of money, and could employ hundreds of people, in short – we would feed many. However, all this questioning took place with a lot of laughter, and a great atmosphere of been made to feel welcome to their country. Tom was the name of the customs official who processed our entry – I still remember his name, and the fact that he loved South African cigarettes.

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My African Adventure – Part 3

Lusaka

We left the border post, and headed North, through Kafue Gorge onto Lusaka. The type of vegetation was something I had never seen before. Huge Baobab trees loomed like ancient castles in a mystic land; the road bleached white from the heat and sun, and streaked with elephant urine. Although the mopanie trees were mostly green, the earth was baked red and bare, waiting for relief from the first rains. The heat was all consuming, not a breath of air moved – it was as if life had been put on hold, while the seasons changed, preparing for the contractions of re-birth. We couldn’t drive with the windows open – or with them closed – our mouths dried so quickly we even had to stop speaking, the hot air burnt our skin and mouths. Later somebody told us that the valley has a high suicide rate during the hot months – it drives men mad, they said. I can well believe it.

The roads were surprisingly good, and I saw signposts saying who donated what as far as rebuilding the roads were concerned – Japan and Canada – quite surprising. Alongside the road, equipment and machinery stood idle – looking as if everything had been left in a hurry, weeds starting to encroach and rust setting in. The countries who were helping with the redevelopment of the roads, gave the equipment, started some training - and left. There was nobody now who knew what to do anymore – so millions worth of bulldozers and earth moving equipment stood idle, to become fossils like the petrified trees of Kafue.

Lusaka was a vibrant chaotic African city. Not one robot was working, and it was only the bravest to dart across a road – either as a pedestrian or as something with wheels on. Busses drove with reckless speed around the city, kicking up the dry earth, packed high with baggage, furniture and baskets of squawking chickens. The passengers packed liked sardines in a tin. All of the robots didn’t have green glass on anyway – the glass had long since been stolen, broken into bits and sold to tourists as emeralds.

The streets were filled with hundreds of people going in different directions – well dressed businessman wearing Armani suits, beggars on the edge of starvation, women dressed in colourful traditional robes. Scrawny children playing with scrawny dogs. Markets were set up on the pavements, selling a variety of goods, in a hap-hazard fashion. The biggest open market I could ever imagine, called Soweto, sold anything from French letters to spare parts for your car (which would have been stolen of you the earlier the same day). Dirty water was running down the side streets, the main road through the city full of rubbish, and sign posts virtually non-existent. . A few half built buildings had been left for many years – trees and shrub growing through them, as if the buildings now housed mini eco systems, a relic of a colony. At least it was better than graffiti.

In Lusaka you could buy anything, gold, diamonds – whatever you could think of. You could go into a store and barter with emeralds to purchase your goods, or simple sit on the sidewalk and make money - from buying and selling money. US dollars however where the most sought after, and was generally used and accepted. We converted rands to Kwacha at the border post after a good haggle of exchange rate (again with a group of youths), as where we were headed was the outback, no-mans land untouched much by the Western way, and didn’t think US dollars would do much for us. I believe you could buy wild animals, and beautifully carved ivory aswell – this they actually called black market trade – hard to imagine when anything else was so freely available. I did succumb however, and bought a hand made copper and malachite bracelet, and some hand made baskets to use in camp.


Farmers in the city on business, all with land rovers, aswell as the more travelled tourists, had “keepers” looking after their vehicles. Young men desperate for some money would guard your vehicle and belongings with a machete, for only a few Kwacha. It was seen to be a respectable profession, and the community stayed clear – well aware that this person was “responsible”, and by been “responsible” would be held fully accountable by the law, should anything go missing. Not having a “responsible” person meant you could find your vehicle on blocks (well somebody may have needed the tyres) in the time it could take to buy a cold beer from a shop.

We had to meet up with a contact of my brother-in-law to collect our export permits for the fish, and hoped we wouldn’t be held up to long. All the hustle and bustle in this dry dusty city was a bit too much to handle, and I felt claustrophobic, wanting the wide open spaces. We had to meet at a camping site, which turned out to be a relief. We had a shower in the ablution blocks, and met some people who were camping while waiting for permits ect to be issued. I was surprised to find many South Africans – from all walks of life, looking to invest time and money in this country. We heard about a South African farming community in the Mkushi block, and apparently they had been doing very well. They had their own distance learning schools set up, a farming doctor looked after their medical needs, and they even had a dominie. Accountants/lawyers set up practise to help with the red-tape of permits and visa’s, some even offered a printing service, and import/export advise and agencies. Our investors permit meant that, should we stay and start a business or go into farming, tourism or game keeping, that we wouldn’t pay taxes for 5 years, and import duties and taxes would only be applied to goods that could not be made in Zambia – at the time it that was almost everything, except beer and coke. The word was out it seemed – this was the new country of opportunity, and the atmosphere in the camp was one of hope, new found excitement for life, and the brotherhood of standing together. I knew now what it felt like, to explore unchartered territory so to speak, a Klondike gold rush, the Great Trek – and I was high on life.

We left Lusaka early afternoon, and by our calculations should have reached Lake Tanganyika by mid-night. We just wanted to get there now, and with both of us taking turns to drive, thought the next thousand odd kilometres should be a walk in the park, as we were sort of half way. The fellow adventurer’s we met at the camp site had told us of potholes and the bad conditions of the roads north of Lusaka, but we just thought – well, how bad could it be? A word of advise we did take, was to buy a ‘crate’ of cokes, which consisted of 6 250ml bottles – without an empty nobody would sell you a coke (so they said), and that was the only clean, cold drink affordable. So, we weren’t going to take a chance there. After all, a local had told husband “Bwana – this roads is no such beeeg problems” A thousand kilometres later we had learnt very well that when you are told “is no problems”, prepare for the worst as the local chap is just being polite.

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My African Adventure – Part 4

The Great North Road.


Our journey North was to take us up to Kabwe, Serenje, Kasama, Kapiri-Mposhi, Mbala, and back down the escarpment to Mpumulungu – Lake Tanganyika – end of the road. The kids had been so well behaved and patient, but there was so much to see, and we went through phases of singing by ourselves or to tapes we played, or chatting away, sometimes just quietly looking at the scenery, and they slept a lot.

Kabwe is not far from Lusaka, and we found the roads to be alright – nothing like the horror stories we had heard. However, North of Kabwe all civilisations came to an abrupt halt. All of a sudden there was nothing except the road, which had narrowed to single lanes – one going there and one coming back, and scrubland. The scrubland was actually forest, or what was left of it, after been plundered for charcoal, or burnt down for crops. The veldt was green, and we crossed a lot of rivers and streams. I could also tell that this land had not actually been used for a long time, as young saplings were battling their way up. Mounds of ground could be seen on places where wood had been burnt for the charcoal, as if to mark the burial sites of magnificent living creatures cut down in their prime.

We came across a row of rocks packed across the road. Now, this is almost as strange as seeing pink elephants, and wondered, if we stopped, would we be hijacked or something. We stopped anyway – not that there was a choice involved, and two little kids appeared from nowhere, I’m sure they couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7, they only had loin cloths on, and came up to the van with big smiles of their faces. In broken English and husband’s knowledge of a few African languages, we learnt that they had put the rocks across the road to protect us against a pothole further on – and we needed to pay them to remove the rocks. Not a bad warning service I thought, almost like a toll of some sorts, but better, as the locals benefited for a change. It only cost the equivalent of a few rand and a bag of sweets, and they were very happy with the agreed method of payment.

Rocks removed, we travelled only a short distance, and came across the first of the famous potholes. Well, I’ve heard that while travelling in Namibia, when you see ears poking out of a hole in the road that it’s a rabbit. All I can say is that if you applied the same logic to this hole that lay before us – it would most definitely be a giraffes ears. We stood with our hands on our hips, stared at the hole, looked at each other and said – “this hole – she is no beeg problems” and started laughing until the tears ran – this was going to be a long journey.

The travelling was now really difficult, as we could only drive at a snails pace. As soon as we picked up speed thinking the worst was over, we would have to slow down, sometimes stop, actually get out, and first see how we would navigate past. We couldn’t risk loosing a rim, tyre or doing any damage to the van or trailer. Our nerves where shot, we all stared at the road constantly, on the look out for potential disasters. I had become so pre-occupied with the road that I hadn’t noticed the change in vegetation. The grass grew right onto the tarmac, and we found ourselves surrounded by forest, the trees absolutely huge, with little undergrowth except grass and the odd bush. By late afternoon we were exhausted, and so tensed up from the journey. According to the map at least, we weren’t to far from a town or village, so decided to stop for awhile, fill up with fuel, and get our bearings back.
We found the village – which turned out to be a service station of sorts. Basically it was a spaza shop come shebeen, and the sole petrol pump was ancient as it had a lever on the side and you had to pump fuel manually. Rusty coca-cola boards in a 60’s style were nailed to the side of the building. We noticed for the first time then that there was nothing for miles around. No telephone or electricity poles, no road names, no sign posts and no people. We pondered on when last we saw a vehicle approaching or passing us – and realised it hadn’t been for hours. Villages had also become non-existent. We had seen a few, but these had been deserted and broken down. It also dawned on us that, even with the beautiful surroundings we had not seen a living animal/bird/creature since Kabwe, except for a few goats and cattle. The spaza shop owner was a very cheerful old man, his hair peppered with grey, his face wrinkled and thin, and he was quite excited to have tourists visit his store.

We gathered loads of information from him, and learnt that many people had been dying due to aids or malaria, therefore the deserted villages, and due to hunger and poverty everything living had been killed and eaten. He was very happy that Kaunda was now out of the picture, and spat on the earth when he spoke his name. He spoke perfect English, and told us of the horror of Kaunda’s regime, and how thankful the people were with Chiluba in power. He said that he could see things improving, as white people were returning to farm, and creating jobs, and tourists were coming in droves. For this old soul in the middle of nowhere the future looked bright – he had customers.

After having a rest and the last bits of padkos, we studied the maps, and with the information from the old man, realised we had a bit of a problem ahead. As signposts where now a thing of the past, we had to keep a close eye on how far we travelled between towns, as fuel would now also become scarce and at a premium price. If a petrol pump was found, the chances could be that the fuel was finished (and wait a week for the next delivery) or it could be closed after 18h00, or the owner might not actually be at home. We did have spare fuel with us, but didn’t really want to use it, knowing that the further North we travel, the more expensive it would be. According to what we knew, we were a few hours away from Kasama, and decided to carry on.

While we were getting ready to leave, we heard a loud banging noise coming from the horizon, and getting louder. In the distance a huge truck was bearing down the road, going like a bat out of hell – the banging was from each time the truck hit a pothole. The truck came flying past – the driver had his foot on the steering wheel, a beer in one hand, and the other hanging out the window, with a red bandanna flying from his head. We stood by the side of the road, and watched the truck disappear again – speechless. The old man then told a story of a truck that broke down, and the driver stayed for a month with his truck before help arrived, aswell as a family who camped for a week next to their broken land rover.

As we travelled North the road only got worse, and some patches had no tarmac left at all, just a bit of ground with patches of tarmac, and holes caused by the previous rain season. But, we persevered, taking our time and been vigilant. It started getting dark, and that made driving worse, although a cyclist or person walking, would sometimes have been kind enough to lay a log or pile of stones in the road to mark a pothole.

Quite late in the evening we noticed road stalls – well – two poles with a plank on top – piled with eggs, tomatoes and cassava. The tomatoes were in piles of five, and this looked rather strange. As we passed one stall we saw someone standing there, and stopped, asking about these stalls. Well, the eggs were boiled, and all the produce available to buy. All you had to do was help yourself, and leave money behind – whatever you thought would be a fair price.
So, we had supper of boiled eggs and tomatoes, and ate cassava for the first time – which tastes similar to sweet potatoes. A few miles down the road, we had desert of wild banana’s and mango’s, which was like the roadhouses of old, as I helped myself through the van’s window, and left what I thought was a fair price.

It felt as if we weren’t making any headway, it was pitch dark, the road was endless, and we had know idea how far we had to go still. We were tired – and in those conditions, that made driving dangerous. Both of us leaning forward, driving slowly and watching the road was concentration in a big way. Suddenly something flew up in front of the van, leaving a trail of what looked like white silk in its wake. Well – we found ourselves wide awake, and had churning stomachs, as one has when you’ve had a fright. This was just enough for the day, so pulled of the road and decided to get some sleep.

When packing the boat, we made provision for a time such as this, so sleeping bags where close at hand, aswell as a large piece of canvas, with two tents poles, some tent pegs and rope. It didn’t take long to get lamps going, put water on to boil for coffee, and put a bivvy up for us to sleep under. I was standing on the road, a warm coffee at hand, and the silence hurt my ears, there was not a sound, and the starlit sky seemed close enough to touch. The kids were stretching their legs, and walked up the road with a torch – and they found our phantom with the white silk – it was a nightjar, very similar to ones found in South Africa – except that these birds had long silky white plumes on the ends of their wings, and that’s what flew up in front of us. Just before I fell asleep, I heard a nightjar in the distance, and I drifted of without a care in the world.

Dawn came, and with it the sound of a rusty squeak….squeak……squeak coming closer to where we lay. Quite a distance from the van, the squeaking stopped, and a voice called out “Bwaaaaanaaaa………Bwaaaaanaaa……… .is the Bwana heving problems?” We crawled out of our sleeping bags, to be confronted by a corpse of an old man, with most of his teeth missing, holding his hat in hand, and looking at us with great consternation. He spoke fluent Fanagalho, which he had learnt from working the copper mines at Ndola. He seemed to relax when he found out we weren’t in trouble, and chatted away with Husband like there was no tomorrow. We reckoned we didn’t have much farther to travel, and asked the old mans advise as to our location. He knew about the Lake, “The Kapenta are from this place” he said, and indicated with his hand up the road, saying – “No problems” - that it was over the next hill. He only knew the time it would take – by bicycle was one day, and - walking with feet would be three days.

Our excitement was now once again refuelled, and after coffee for breakfast we set of for the last leg of our journey. The roads where horrendous, travel was slow, and after every hill was another, with still no sight of another valley or the Lake. By mid-day we felt a change in the air, and the vegetation became denser, and we crossed many rivers. The town of Mbala was suddenly in front of us, but we just kept on looking to the horizon – how can the longest Lake in the world be so hidden we wondered? Mbala was dusty, and the road down to Mpumulungu was crowded with people, goats, and busses – a highway of traffic to and from the Lake.

If we thought the road behind us was bad, this last piece was the worst, but we drove slowly, dodging goats, cattle and people on the way down. At last we could see big mountains ahead, and although the downhill wasn’t at all steep, we were at least descending. We drove around a bend, and out of the blue there it was – not a feint cloud on the horizon as we had thought earlier, but water, the Lake – and as far as the eye could see. A great expanse of blueness held in the bowl of the Great Rift Valley Mountains.

We arrived in the harbour town of Mpulungu, a bustling town of people and noise, dust flying after donkey drawn carts and busses. The heat and humidity was almost unbearable, and we were travel weary and tired. Amidst the crowds I saw a little blond head bobbing about – my niece - waving frantically at us, her face beaming with excitement. My brother-in-law and his wife had been waiting for us for nearly two days, we jumped at each other, shouting with relief, and all trying to talk at the same time – we had so much to say and share.

Our family had arranged for us all to stay at a build-in-progress camp site, set up by a German and his Zambian wife. So, of we drove following my brother-in-law’s battered land rover. The camp was on the edge of the lake, just on the outskirts of town, and once we had settled down, learnt that our final destination was still 25km over water, but, this was no problem. Or so we were told.

A transport boat had been arranged for early the following morning, so the plan was to take all of our belongings, aswell as our boat, across the Lake. The vehicles would be stored at the Department of Fisheries, no problem. We unpacked a few things like sleeping bags and stretchers, and a few supplies for supper, and decided to take a walk to stretch our aching bodies, and actually take in our surroundings.

I took a bee line to the waters edge, over smooth pebbles, and stood with my feet in the water, which was lapping lazily on the stones. I bent down and sprayed water on my face and arms. Looking ahead I could not see land. The water was heaven on my feet, and I stretched my arms out, smelt the air, took a deep breath, and simply fell in love.

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My African Adventure – Part Five


Spirit of the Lake

Some facts –

Lake Tanganyika is the longest fresh water lake in the world, stretching some 677km north to south, and on average 50km wide. It is also the second deepest in the world, an astonishing 1433m, and 642m below sea level. There are over 350 species of fish found in its waters, and most of them endemic. The Lake can appear as smooth as a mirror, without a ripple or slight movement, and in a short while, can turn into rough surf with waves of over 6m – without a breath of wind, sight of cloud or brewing storm. This is caused from storms far north in Burundi, which has a ripple effect right into the south. However, this surface movement is not enough to stir the deep water, which is ‘dead’ fossil water – having no oxygen, and is thought to be at least 20 million years old. The deeper water only has a temperature difference of about 3 degrees compared to the surface; the reasons are not as yet clear.


The following morning we were up at dawn, the weather was hot, humid and misty. We didn’t want to linger around; we had much to do and just wanted to get settled. So, of we went to the Fisheries small harbour to park the vehicles. My brother-in-law had arranged for 5 locals to help with the massive task at hand – to off load the van and boat, get our boat into the water, and then transfer all of our belongings onto the transport boat. It didn’t take to long, so while waiting for the transport boat, I had time to explore a bit. The scene before me was postcard perfect, with the mist hanging around the mountains, and ancient boats moored on the pier. Every building around the area looked ancient, peeled of paint, broken roofs and windows, some deserted years ago, just left to rot. I thought how sad this was, such beautiful natural scenery around me, but marred by mans imperfections.

In the distance I saw some boats approaching, surprisingly large, like tugs. As the boats got closer, I could see seagulls flying around them and hear their squawking, very strange so far inland, but seagulls have a flourishing nesting colony at the harbour. These where fishing trawlers returning from a nights fishing for Kapenta and shrimp, ready to off load their catch. The Kapenta/shrimp mixture is dried, and called kala-kala. This mixture is boiled and eaten with porridge made from cassava.

In between the commotion of these trawlers I had not noticed another boat approach us – and when I did, and realised that this was the transport boat - I was horrified. The crew waved towards us with great excitement, smile beaming from ear to ear, shouting out to the men who had been helping us. This boat was all of 25foot, driven only by a 25hp outboard motor, handmade, many years old, and had no floor. I thought “What? Me? Forget it – I have expensive equipment, my bikini, documents, food – nooooo way am I getting into this” Somehow I had a different picture of a transport boat in my mind – this did not fit the bill.

I voiced my concerns to all and sundry and was re-assured “Medem this boat she is safe, is no problems” and Husband tried to tell me this is how large cargo’s are transported around, so I shouldn’t worry. Well, again there wasn’t much choice involved, so the boat was packed, our boat, not designed to carry anything other than a few people to go fishing, was ready. After the children scrambled aboard it was my turn, if I stood on the floor of the boat I couldn’t see over the top, and the bottom was slimy, filled with about 15cm of water. I wondered if the damn thing was watertight, and looked for a better place to sit. Across the top of the boat, wooden struts served as seats, so I had to lift myself up onto the planks, pushing my feet up the inside of the boat to get a grip. Once we were all settled, the captain shouted out, and we were on our way. My brother-in-law, along with his wife and child took our boat, as it would be faster and they knew the way. I couldn’t imagine that the captain, crew, ourselves and all our goods fitted with remarkable ease into this vessel, with room to spare.

Even though we had been on the road for many days, a new sense of adventure surged as the land grew small behind us. By this time the sun was high, a cool wind was gently blowing, and the water was splashing up against the side of the boat, creating a cool mist. It felt as if I was in the middle on the ocean, but the waves were small, and we could barely make out land ahead. To the east in the distance were the shores of Tanzania, to the west the Congo, north would be Burundi. It was exhilarating to sit high on this boat, and survey the world, with the wind blowing through my hair, and gently rocking up and town in tune to the water .My attention was drawn again to the blue depths – I could see rocks and fish below, and something was swimming around trailing what looked like two yellow lights – this I thought must be the amazing Ventralis – I had only seen this fish in books, and couldn’t wait to get a better view, as its regarded as one on the most spectacular fish in the Lake.

My concerns about a leaking boat had just sort of drifted from my mind, when I took my eyes of my surroundings and looked down at the floor. The water would have been half way up my shins by now, but just then one of the crewmen produced a plastic bottle, which had been cut in half to form a type of shovel. He jumped down to the floor, and started shovelling water – it was an amazing site, as he done it so quickly, it looked like a solid stream of water been pumped over the side. Apparently this was his job – his sole purpose on this voyage was to bale water.

As we came closer to our destination, I could see that the slope of the mountains were almost naturally terraced, and sheer rock cliffs stretched from about mid-way to the top, which lead onto the escarpment. From the escarpment to the Lake is about a 250m drop. Not far below the cliffs, palm trees grew, as if making a pathway, following the shore line. I later learnt that these palm trees are not indigenous – they originated from the slave trade days, when coconuts were dropped by caravans of slaves, always using the same route. How could a tree that was so beautiful, that produced a product so sought after by society, mark such suffering and misery, I wondered. For the most part everything looked green, even though this was just before the rainy season. The trees looked huge, what we knew as Moekwa, or Rhodesian Teak and Kiaat, amongst others.

The shore grew closer, and while we had a jetty and pier to help us load, I didn’t see such luxury where we were about to dock. The captain gave a shout, and the anchor was thrown out, the anchor was a bag of rocks tied together. A short distance from us our boat was already anchored, and the family waiting on shore. The shoreline here was very rocky, and it was too dangerous to moor the boats closer, lest they get damaged by hitting the rocks when the surf got rough. We were instructed by the captain to go ashore, assured by him that he and his men would carry our goods ashore without harm. The kids thought this was great, and without invitation dived into the water and simply swam to shore. I sat at the back of the boat, and was last to get out. Husband climbed out, and I was relieved to see that the water wasn’t at all deep, and came to just below his chest. The crew had made a line between the boat and shore, and when I was about to venture in wasn’t against a swim as I was hot and sweaty, but to my surprise I was lifted by two men and carried ashore, with only my bare feet getting wet.
I actually felt so embarrassed, as they wouldn’t hear of putting me in the water.

Without further ado, everything was brought to shore, and by the time they left amidst friendly goodbyes it was late afternoon. We found ourselves on dry ground with nothing around us except dry bush, trees and the Lake – and little time before dark to get a big tent up. My brother-in-law had done very little to make his family comfortable, which annoyed me. They only had a 4 man tent, which was put up in haphazard style, with an open fire for cooking. He had been there for three weeks already. He had at least employed a local from a nearby village; his name was Early – because he was born early. Early spoke fluent English, and looked like a man who enjoyed good booze up, I wasn’t wrong, I would discover. We asked him if this area had a name, he said “This is Kapemb-wa-mpondo, it means Spirit of the Lake, because our ancestors are here”


The sun started setting, and the tent was up, and our belongings packed neatly in a corner. We had the chairs out, and sat having a well deserved coffee, exhausted from our day, while we watched the sun go down, and felt a small relief of cooler air. Sitting there I breathed in the Lake, and watched the last of the suns rays play on the water, while the surf made soft chatter noises on the rocks. The fire crackled softly, and I listened to my family’s quiet voices as they shared the events of the last few months. I was dirty and tired, but I was content.

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Six


Discovery

The following morning we were up at 04h00, which was to become the norm over the next few weeks. I woke feeling sticky, dirty and stiff, and I’m sure we did not have a very pleasant aroma about us, so all trundled down to the edge of the Lake, with towels and toiletries at hand. Since seeing this stretch of water I had been impatient to swim and explore, and my chance had arrived. I stood knee deep in the balmy water, and washed the few days of travel from my hair and body, revelling in the freedom of bathing in the wild. I was a bit hesitant at first, but it didn’t look to deep, so put my goggles on and just took a dive to rinse myself.

The vision before me was magical, it felt as if I had been shrunk, and left to swim in a fish tank. The water was crystal clear – visibility at least 10 meters. Where ever I looked, there were fish of all shapes, sizes and colour. Tropheus Moori, Lamprologus Moori, Erectmodus, Compressiceps and many more I didn’t recognise at the time. This was a rock beach, so there was no flora, but the rocks were covered with a green type of under water moss, and the colour of the water in the deep distance appeared mauve. I was totally captivated and amazed at the amount of life, which you wouldn’t imagine existed from above. The beautiful Ventralis made an appearance, a simmering blue body, with a touch of yellow, and two long side fins, which have the brightest of yellow on the points. You could see this fish approach from miles away, just by looking for the yellow ‘headlights’. A school of small pelagic fish passed, only about 10cm long, and as they darted around, the sun reflected of their shiny scales, a flash of neon baby blue. I was mesmerized, and for a moment in time, nothing else mattered or existed – it was just me, the fish and the water. But, there were more important things to do on this day – the Lake certainly wasn’t going anywhere, so reluctantly I tread dry ground, and went back to camp.

Getting started

Over breakfast we discussed plans for the next few weeks, and delegated who was doing what. My brother-in-law had already spoken to the local Chief, who had given us permission to stay as long as we liked – providing we employed a few of the villagers. Early was dispatched with a message to the Chief to set up a meeting, we needed to clarify our position and status, and by doing this the African way, the Chief was to receive a gift of good blessing – a box of sparkplugs, and a 15hp Seagull motor. Early was also to get word out that there was work available, we had lots to do – and needed hands.

The men had the task of getting fresh water to camp, get the tents up more securely, organise an ablution area, and clear some ground for a living area. I had the task of unpacking and re-packing so we could find things, setting up a cooking area – and making a vegetable patch. I reckoned that veggies should grow very quick in the rich fertile soils, and as we weren’t sure how long we wanted to stay, wanted to make sure we had at least decent greens available. I also had a plan to build a miniature cool room. These were just some basics that we wanted done to make our stay more comfortable.

The heat became unbearable to work in before mid-day, but the tents had been secured properly, and I busied myself sorting out linen, stretches and mosquito nets – I was determined to eventually have good comfortable sleep that night. I arranged the tents with separate sleeping and storage area, and unpacked essential items onto shelving we took with, got table and chairs outside, identified my kitchen area. The most important thing of keeping a good camp was organisation – everything had to have a place. The children were champions – they had the task of digging a trench around the tent to drain of the rain, the soil was soft, and it kept them from wondering into unknown territory, and I didn’t want them alone in the Lake. They had their own tent and were well excited about having their own space.

The men had identified a small terrace on which to place the 44gallon drums, this was to be for running water. Just higher up, was apparently a small fountain, so the plan was to pipe fresh water into the drums and then into camp. All the DIY equipment had been unpacked, and the solar panel that husband made in South Africa was put in place – I thought that with the heat and sun, the water would surely be boiling and even in the heat I would relish a hot bath – or something close. They had surveyed the area and found thatching grass and reeds – and as it was before the rainy season these natural resources were right to be used to ‘build a bathroom’ An area close to the Lakes shores was also identified for a veggie patch, aswell as a secluded area just away from camp for ablutions.

By late afternoon we were exhausted, and realised it would take a few days to adjust to the different climate, heat and changes we made to our normal dull office existence. Every muscle I had, and didn’t know I had, ached – and was somehow a good feeling of doing something productive and good with my body. We decided to call it a day, and hit the Lake to cool down and bathe.

After a cool swim, and feeling refreshed, we headed back to camp, and while resting with a cup of coffee, heard singing in the distance. The voices came closer, and brought a lump to my throat, as it was a sad song, in deep tones that rumble the earth, that you will only hear in Africa. The men were lead by Early - this was the workforce he had returned with. There were seven men in all, and my first thought was how would we afford to pay them – we didn’t need so many.

The local people who live next to the Lake are small in stature, with stocky builds. They have been fishermen for as long back as anyone can remember. Trade between the villages is common place, for example one village may have a man who can thatch, another may have someone who makes bricks, and so they barter between themselves with fish, fruit and skill. The people who live on top of the escarpment are tall, and built like Zeus; they are farmers, keep livestock and plant crops. Chiefs rule this whole area, no politics from Lusaka play a role in the rural outback, and it’s a totally peaceful community. The Chiefs rule with an iron fist, if you steal you loose a finger or even a hand – all depending on the severity of theft. If your crime is serious, such as rape or murder, you might disappear, or worse, the Chief will ostracise you, and you will be shunned and left to starve. Nobody messed with a Chief.

Early and the men stood a distance from camp, not moving closer until Husband indicated that they may. When they came closer, they almost crawled, heads down, murmuring respectful greetings, and then sat on their haunches. Husband told Early to tell the men to relax, we weren’t some important Chief’s, we just needed some labour, but Early said it is their way, and they would feel insulted if we didn’t respect their ways. This was going to be a huge learning curve.

A meeting was called, and the men sat in a circle around us, each having fetched a rock to sit on – to sit on the ground would be degrading, but they had to sit lower than the Bwana, all the while this procedure been explained by Early. To my surprise they all spoke English very well, which they had learned from Missionaries, most were around 30 or 35, and for all of them – this was to be their first jobs. They all needed work, money was scarce in these parts, but if we employed all it would mean a huge boost to the village. So, after some discussion it was decided that we could employ seven, and they would be paid according to status in the village, and in the workforce. At the end of the day, our total expenditure on wages and rations would be only R500 a month, each man would be well fed daily, and a 80kg bag of maize meal would be supplied to each mans family along with his paycheque. They thought we had been sent from heaven, and I thought it was a crying shame that these people had nothing.

The men had relaxed a bit, and the meeting turned into a discussion, they had so many questions about South Africa, and the chatting and banter lasted until dark, as we discussed with them what we would be doing over the next couple of days. Early called me one side, and said he had two men who I would need to help me. Fetching firewood and building fire to cook on was as Early described it ‘Medems not carrying these thing of men’s’. So, I met Henry – he was to be the cook and kitchen boy, and Peter, he was to be the fire keeper and security at night. Henry was slightly slower than the rest, and I was sure that Peter had aids, I later nicknamed him sleeping Peter, as all he did was curl up next to the fire at night and sleep, I seldom saw him awake.

We had Early, who as I said before, was born early, and then Firstborn – he must’ve been born first, Henry, Peter, Samuel, and 2 Simons, who we called Simon 1 and Simon 2. The following day a giant of a man came into camp looking for work, his muscles rippled as he walked, he was from the escarpment, proud and tall – his name was Obed, and he joined the team. Each of these men where to touch us in a different way, and I often think of them, and wander how they are.


Over the following weeks many things happened that I will remember forever. These Zambian people have such a great sense of humour, and even though they live for the most part in appalling conditions, and loose loved ones on a daily basis from Aids, malaria, dysentery, cholera or disease, they always smile and laugh, happy and accepting their simple lives. How often don’t we complain that we don’t have enough, but don’t take a step back and count what we have?

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Seven



The Relish garden and bathroom


Next morning, as usual, the sun baked us out of our tents with the first light. I heard the men coming down the path, singing, and their song was added to the morning routines. My first priority of the day was to get vegetables planted. I gathered Henry, Sleeping Peter and some garden equipment, and of we went. The rest of the men were to get water on tap and the solar system on the go.

I had packed seed, ranging from carrots to paw-paw. Firstly we picked a spot not far from the Lake, and I showed them what needed to be done. The ground seemed rich and fertile, and quite soft, so I didn’t think it would take long to prepare the soil. While they were busy, I joined the rest to see what was going on with my running water. At this stage there wasn’t much for the children to do, and they wanted to explore, so Samuel was eager to take charge, and teach them the basics of our surroundings. After Samuel took charge, the only time I ever saw them was when they were hungry.

The fountain that we had hoped to use was dry, as it only ran during and for a short while after, the rainy season. But, as the tanks were situated next to the path back to the men’s village, Simon 1 said that if they each take 25L of water when they leave, the tanks would stay full, as it was only water to wash with, and for dishes. So, pvc pipes were laid from the tanks to camp, and filled up. One tank would feed the solar system, and the men were amazed at this piece of equipment that could make water hot. While this was been done, some of the men set of in search of reeds and poles, that we wanted to use to make an enclosure to bath in. Fine pebbles were hauled up from the beach; this was for a floor in ‘my bathroom’

The garden patch was ready for planting in no time, and I sat with Henry and Sleeping Peter, showing them the different type of seed, and how we would plant. Henry knew all the type of veggies, by recognising the pictures on the packets, he told me they had taught him in school, but he had never tasted carrots or peas, he had never eaten an apple, and was disappointed that I didn’t have apple seed. I had to explain that apples grew on trees, and it was to hot to grow apples. I remembered then that I still had a few apples in the tent, and fetched one each for him and Sleeping Peter. They ate the apples like children having sweets for the first time, with gleeful smiles and juice running down their chins, while shouting over to the rest of the workforce that they had received a special gift from the ‘Medems’ , and this caused loud jolly banter back and forth for most of the day. I left them to plant and water the seeds, hoping that it would be a successful exercise.

I was pleasantly surprised when I saw the progress made back at camp; I had a quaint reed bathroom, totally enclosed, with a reed wall just about my height. Inside was a cool pebble floor, and a tap with running water. I fetched a big plastic baby bath and toiletries and – wow – we had a bathroom, and it even had a mirror hanging from the reeds, and makeshift hooks for towels and cloths. A big stump of wood sufficed as a stool. There was no ceiling, but I thought the clear blue sky was fitting.

When I approached the veggie patch, I saw some chalk writing on a big rock, and it said ‘Relish Gaden’. Sleeping Peter and Henry had been so proud of their achievements, that they gave the patch a name. Anything you can eat with porridge they call ‘Relish’, and as I had told them this was to be a shared garden, they called it the ‘relish gaden’ From that moment on it was never referred to as anything else. They had done a fantastic job, paths had been made in between the beds, and the empty packets of seed stuck neatly onto sticks, to indicate what had been planted where. Between themselves they had agreed a watering routine, and now we just had to wait for the seed to grow. I knew the pumpkins would yield our first harvest, but not the actual pumpkins, the soft new leaves, which are delicious when cooked like spinach.

Before the men left that evening they just had to test the solar system. They yelped and shouted when they scalded their fingers, even after the Bwana warned that the water would burn, but they found it funny and magical, and literally rolled around laughing at each others burning fingers. We all ended up laughing, and the more we laughed, the funnier it all seemed. Henry, Sleeping Peter, Early and Simon 1 had asked to stay in camp as it was to far to walk to their village every night, so they had a fire just below our camp, and slept in the open.

Every night it became routine, that after supper, the men would join us around the firelight, and stories were told backwards and forth about hunting, fishing, the Lake and politics.

I couldn’t wait to try out the bathroom, so left the men to chat and, had a ‘bath’. I had a Coleman lamp for light, and sat starkers in a warm soapy baby bath with my legs over the side, the sky was clear, and the stars close enough to touch, a soft warm breeze cut through the reeds to cool my skin. This was heaven, while I listened to the laughter at camp, as Simon 1 told his story of having to rescue a tourist from a Nile Perch. He had seen people catch something just of shore, and were been pulled around in the boat, so rowed out with his dugout to help them. The tourist had caught a Nile so big, that they couldn’t get it into the boat – and the boat was all of 6 foot long. Simon 1 told his story with much drama and body movement, while the rest of the men gave their two cents worth, amid howls of laughter.

Toilets and kitchens

Sanitation was of major importance. Fresh drinking water was unavailable, and with so many nasty bugs around, we had to make sure that we lived as hygienically as possible. I had water purification tabs, so boiled Lake water, and when it cooled, still added a tab just for good measure. I had water bags hanging in the shade fro drinking purposes, and if kept a bit damp, made for a cool drink. All containers and eating utensils were also rinsed in a weak bleach solution.

The cooking area was built the following day, looking more like an outside braai that you would find in a lapa. The men used flat rocks to build it with, and stuck the whole lot together with termite mound – which had been mixed with water and tramped by foot to create a smooth plaster. It was quite a professional job, and with the heat of the fire, would bake into a virtually indestructible outside oven. They made a table of sorts as well, leaning of a huge tree, to use for washing up, and drying dishes. Henry cleared the whole area, and stocked up with wood .He smoothed the ground, and swept the ‘kitchen’ with branches, and we unpacked pots and pans, hanging them from the table and branches by the tree. I hung a large portion of lace curtains from a higher branch, to cover the area when not in use, as the sand flies where a plague. I don’t know what idea I had in my head when I packed the curtains in – but they sure came in handy. I then noticed a ground pepper like ‘stuff’ accumulating on the lace, and asked Henry what it was, so he promptly climbed into the tree, and brought down a branch with tiny caterpillars on it – ‘ Medems it’s this werms, very good to eat’ – we had set camp on the verge of Mopanie worm season. With the ‘kitchen’ area settled, I felt almost at home. Henry had brought a wild tea for me to taste, and I set about teaching him to make tea and coffee, and he was to be in charge of cooking for the men as well. He was very proud of been the Medems cook boy, despite the men’s teasing.

Next was to arrange some sort of toilet facility, so Husband and the men set about digging a hole for a long drop. This is probably anyone’s worst nightmare – I mean – where do you go to the toilet in the middle of nowhere? The hole proved to be a problem as, although the ground was soft, as soon as you dug deeper, huge rocks prevented any further digging. Obed was as strong as an ox, so whenever a particularly big rock posed a problem, he was called in to lift it, or break it loose from the soil. After struggling for most of the day, it was decided that the hole would have to do. Planks were cut from fallen logs to make a floor over the hole, but the problem was still apparent – how would you squat and keep your balance? The planks covered the big hole, but we still needed a smaller hole too actually squat over. Simon 1 seemed to have some experience with bush toilets, so he came up with the same plan that they used in the village. The whole toilet episode was discussed at length – a person would think this was some new-age architectural project, when all we needed was a place to squat in relative comfort. The same termite mound mixture that was used to build the cooking area was to be used – it is actually the most crucial building material. It is used to make bricks, floors and to plaster walls. Anyway, the mixture was used to cover the planks, and in the centre, a hole was left open. Around this hole rocks were packed and plastered together, until it was a smooth ‘mound’ – the right height to sit on - with the centre been left open, and smoothed to resemble a pipe inside. Poles were then planted around the floor, and covered with reeds. I had a designer toilet – rustic is probably what an interior decorator would call it.

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Eight

Chickens and a Fridge

I heard a scratching on the door of the tent – dawn was about to break and it was already hot. I went to see what was making the scratching sound, and here was Henry, with a tray of coffee mugs. He had given himself the task of getting the family up for the day, with a beaming smile, and of course the coffee. He had also already got a fire going, and a pot of soft porridge was gently hissing away. I was more than surprised. Our breakfast consisted of soft porridge, with melted margarine and sugar, followed by wild mangoes. The Margarine was a problem, as well as some of my medical supplies, as the heat was unbelievable – on most days around 42deg and humidity high – and I needed to find a cooler place for these supplies.

I had read about how pioneer farmers had built cooler rooms with charcoal and wire, and taken advice from my father-in-law, who had one built himself in Tzaneen, way back in the 1950’s.The problem was that I didn’t want a huge building – I just needed a very small fridge size of constant coolness. I sent Henry to find me charcoal and a few bricks– as much as I didn’t want to, as I knew the charcoal would’ve come from one of the amazing huge trees that surrounded the Lake. I then set about modifying one of the baskets I had bought in Zims, and gathered some thin plastic fish tank tube. Henry returned, and we found a small ledge just below the water tanks, in the shade. Again the termite mound mixture was used to make a floor, which was left to dry. I then packed the bricks on small pebbles, for air circulation. I cut a large piece of lace curtain, and ‘sewed’ it onto the outside of the basket, with thin strips of bark. The charcoal was ground quite fine, and the lace curtain then filled up with the charcoal – it was a job and a half, but we got it right. The basket was then placed upside down over the bricks, and the whole contraption drenched with water. I used the thin fish tank tubes to suction water from the main tank, and made holes in the pipe with a needle, so that there was a constant dripping of water all over the charcoal. We placed the tubs of margarine, liquid quinine and saline drips on top of the bricks inside – and with a constant breeze in the shade, the margarine had set again within a few hours. We also used this small ‘fridge’ for drinking water and later, eggs. Henry had also brought a rooster and two hens from the village – the chickens, charcoal and bricks cost me two packets of Rothmans 30 cigarettes.

Sundays

We had been at the Lake for a week, and looking around I could hardly believe that we had made such progress in setting up a comfortable organised camp. It had been hard going, by 12h00 we would be exhausted from the heat, and it was then siesta time – nobody was allowed to work, until 15h00. During this time we would sit in the shade, have lunch and generally do things slowly until the worst of the heat passed. We normally stopped working at around 19h00. Even in this short space of time the Mopanie worms had grown, and we could hear them munching away in the trees, and I was dreading their decent. By this time we had all turned to golden brown and our already blond hair bleached to almost white, all I lived in was shorts, vest and leather thong sandals. We had sent the men home – Sunday is a day of rest, but I missed their morning song and the sound of their deep voices.

We decided to explore, and for the first time since our arrival, took our boat out. I packed wild mangoes and banana’s, tomatoes, cassava and boiled eggs for a picnic. We had to swim to the boat as it was moored quite far out, and while we got our bearings discussed building a jetty with all of the big rocks along the shore. The scenery along side the Lake was beautiful, natural forest was still abundant, although some places had been burnt for crops and charcoal. We just let the motor idle, and slowly made our way along the shoreline. Our rock beach ended abruptly, and we were over sand. The sand beach did look inviting, but crocodiles prefer to use these beaches, and so we steered clear. Looking over the side of the boat I could see a very different habitat in the water, there weren’t so many fish here, but I saw shells laying in the sand, and some flora growing. These shells become very big, and I read that they have been found packed in heaps at around 20foot below, and it’s not yet discovered why. When the shells are found empty and quite small, you would be guaranteed to find Neolamprologus Brevisliving in them – a beautiful dainty Cichlid, having fine blue and yellow colouring on the face and fins.

The whole Lake is naturally divided up into stretches of rock and sand. The fish have evolved to an amazing degree, according to sand or rock beaches. The rocks provide shelter from predators, so they do not venture over the sand. The result is a bio-diversity not seen anywhere else in the world. On one rock beach a species of fish will be black and yellow in colour, won’t be found on the sand, but will be found on the next rock bed – a totally different colour, yet the same species. These colour morphs are endemic to their own stretch of rock beach; this is what makes this Lake so special.

We found a cove, surrounded by forest, over a stretch of rock, and threw out anchor. All of us dived in the water, with goggles and snorkels. My favourite pastime was to sit with a rock on my lap - just deep enough for the top of my snorkel to reach air, and to watch the fish. It is mostly Cichlids found in these waters, and they are very territorial, so a pair will dart around their own little rock, fiercely defending it against anything that swims past. That included me, and many times a fish would dart out from nowhere and try and scare me of. I saw my first Neolamprologus Leleupi and Sexfaciatus in this cove, and I was so excited. I had seen Leleupi in pet shops back home, but they must have been tank bred, as they paled in comparison. These were the brightest of orange, and so sleek.

The Tropheus Moori I had seen at our camp site were what is known as ‘Red Rainbow’ morphs, their stout faces bluey red, and a slight tinge of lime green/red/yellow body. The ones I saw in the cove, known as ‘Red Kachese’ and more yellow in colour. Julidochromus Marlieri was also to be seen, but the spectacular Julidochromis Buschieri and Dickfeldi were in deeper waters, and I had no way of seeing them in the wild without been able to scuba dive. I had an encounter with a Compessiceps, this is a strange but fine looking fish, they are narrow in build, with up-pointing minute mouths, ranging from brownish to yellowish, the latter called Calvus, and although they look identical, are classed differently. If you catch one, it will curl up like an old leaf and freeze, even falling to the bottom, and only moving again when it thinks it’s safe. My skin was all wrinkled by the time I felt I needed some sunlight again, and we basked on the boat, eating our food.

After lunch we ventured further into the Lake, until the shore was just a hint of land on the distance. I was still too unsure of the depth and unknown, to swim here, but looking over the boat I could see schools of fish below, and I was certain they were Frontosa’s. I had only seen them in pictures, and thought they must be beautiful. They are a very pale baby blue, with very deep blue – almost black - horizontal stripes running from head to tail. When explorers started identifying the fish in the Lake, they first thought that the Sexfaciatus were baby Frontosa, until they counted the stripes – Sexfaciatus have seven, and Frontosa six, the Sexfaciatus is also more slender. Frontosa also have a lobe on their heads which get bigger with age, and are found at a depth of 30 odd feet.

There was a company on the opposite side of the Lake that exported live fish in a big way, using a private air strip to fly the fish out. The biggest market been the Netherlands, and there was a lot of money to be made. A healthy wild caught Frontosa of 15cm fetched $250 on the open market. However, the deep fish were not easy to bring to surface. You would have to scuba dive deep, and lay traps or net them, which would be checked daily. Netted fish were then placed in baskets connected to a long rope with a buoy on the surface, and had to be pulled up a few meters a day for decompression. No easy task in an area without any electricity to fill oxygen tanks, or decompression chambers for a mis-calculated dive. Basically if a dive went wrong, and you got the bends, you died, as air lifting would be fatal.






Fisherman’s Tales

Most Sundays we would explore the Lake, and then tried our hand at fishing. We have both always been fond of the sport, and Husband had packed all sorts of lures and equipment but – try as we might, we couldn’t hook a game fish amid the fish-full water. Besides giant Goliath Tiger fish – with teeth 3cm long and a record weight of 80kg, there is a game fish called Nkupi that we were after, and we just had to have the thrill of a catch. Early was voted as the best fisherman, so the men came to camp one Sunday to watch the sports and see if this Big Bwana could actually catch a fish. We went out in a handmade boat of around 12foot – and somehow after a few weeks this was now fun, and no longer daunting.

We had all the fancy gear, but Early only had a bag with rocks in it, and a very long length of gut. He also had a lure which he had made out of a bully-beef tin, having made a tiny propeller for it aswell. I looked at our production line deep-sea lures, and then at Early’s, and knew that we would be loosing the competition that day. So of we set, while the rest of the men sat along the shoreline – with the usual shouts, laughing and banter. As Early rowed, he tied – with one hand – the gut to his big toe, with the lure and bag of small rocks attached to the end, and promptly threw the lot overboard. Husband bravely cast out the opposite side of the boat to trawl. Every now and again Early would jerk his toe up without so much as a hesitation to his rowing, and husband patiently watched to see who would get the first hit. We were out in deep water when Early’s leg shot straight into the air – I just collapsed laughing, it was surly the most hysterical sight I have ever seen. Husband’s mouth just dropped – and I giggled for the rest of the day. Early had caught a big Nkupi, we didn’t have a scale, but it fed 7 of us. The fish in the Lake are the best I have ever eaten, the Nkupi was quite oily, but had firm white fillets and few bones, which we ate with pap, and gravy.

Samuel had done a great job with the children, as they were on the water early everyday on dug-outs fishing and exploring. Very often they would come back with a variety of fish for breakfast, so proud of their catch. I would sometimes see Samuel and the children quite far out, and could pick up the blond heads in the distance. The children also learnt how to cook fish on open fires, and tried the eyes and brains, but I wasn’t so brave. They would also stand knee deep in the water, and swallow tiny fish alive – just to see the horror on my face.

One day we noticed an old man with a dug out, loaded with a massive basket, just off our shoreline. The men told us that he catches fish with the baskets. The baskets are lowered to great depth with the help of rocks and rope, and some bait – like a dead rats, are placed inside. The basket traps are left for a few days, and then brought to the surface. So, we asked that when the old man lifts his baskets to call us, as we wanted to see what he catches. A few days later we were called, the old man had come to shore with his catch. I saw for the first time that this old man was all of eighty, and when I saw the catch, found it hard to believe that he had pulled the baskets up from a depth of around 20m by himself. He had caught 3 Vundu, or giant catfish. The Vundu were about 5 foot long, and laying on the ground, nearly as high as my knee. They were extremely ugly, with lots of whiskers, and well, they just stank. We bought one for our men, and I watched them slaughter it like an animal. It had red meat, was very bloody, and the smell to vile to imagine, but the men were happy. They cut the fish into strips, rubbed salt on, and hung the stuff in trees to dry.

Fresh caught fish became a big part of our diet as fresh supplies dwindled. My favourite had been the Nkupi, but the Bream and Lake Salmon were just as delicious. There is also a pelagic fish, something like a sardine, called Boeka-boeka, these fish were very tasty left whole, and placed over a slow bed of coals until crisp. A local man had heard that white people were living alongside the Lake, and he made good money out of us, as he arrived on a weekly basis – by boat – to trade fish, fruit, vegetables and wild rice. He also tried to trade in raw gold, emeralds and turquoise, but we declined his favours.

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My African Adventure – Part Nine



Going shopping



There were no roads to our side of the Lake; the terrain would have made it almost impossible to build. Some basic supplies started running low, and we picked a day to go shopping in town. We had found that our boat, although fine for slowly coasting the shore, would not really be suitable for a long trip over unpredictable waters, and also with a load to return with. We had already bought a ‘local hand made craft’, which had a 25hp motor, which was made for the Lake, and could apparently withstand any type of wave or weather.

On the planned shopping day, I was woken to the sound of dull thumps coming from the shore, and went to investigate. Here was the boat, hauled out of the water, with Simon 1 hitting the boat with a rock. On closer inspection, I saw that he was hitting bits of cloth into the seams of the wood, with a screwdriver. This he explained, was ‘chalking’, and needed to be done every time a long journey was planned, as it prevented leaks – not having any other materials to use, bits of cloth done the trick. Remember, this was a hand made boat made out of planks of wood, no fancy fibre glass or modern materials had been used in the building process.

The surface of the Lake was like a mirror that morning, the surf didn’t move, and I felt an eerie calm in the valley. For a few days we had noticed a thin line of cloud on the distant Northern horizon. It was also more humid than normal, and the men told us that the big rains would be coming in a few weeks. Until now the water had been quite calm, and to be honest, I imagined that, like a big dam, this is how the Lake would always be.

We packed some food for the day, and set of for town, a trip of some two hours at least. It was a more relaxed trip than the one we had going to our camp that first day, so had the opportunity to look around and actually take in our surroundings. Simon 1 joined us for the outing, and was more than willing to act as a tour guide for the day. The mountains were majestic around the Lake, and dotted with small villages or huts along the shore. There were other boats out aswell, some loaded with thatching grass, others heavy with bricks, and a fleet of fishing boats returning from a nights catch. We had since learnt that there was quite an enterprise here for Kapenta, and these trawlers would have been on the way to have the catch frozen, to be sold all over the country as a basic food source.

As we neared Mpulungu, I was amazed at the islands which I had not noticed before, and they created a protected cove for the harbour. Simon 1 told us they were sacred places, surrounded by crocodiles, and some chief’s spirits lurked on them, so few people ventured near them. We docked at a smaller jetty just outside the actual harbour, as only the big vessels would be allowed in there, and Simon 1 appointed a responsible person to look after our boat for the day.

After the peace and solitude of our camp, we were bombarded by noise and commotion. People were everywhere, having either just arrived, or just about to leave – all by boat, and it dawned on me how much they depended on this mass of water. It provided a means of transport, aswell as basic food, and an influx of currency and jobs into the area.

We headed of to the town centre, the roads made even walking difficult. On the way to town, was a shop that I could only describe as a spaza shop, and we stopped for our first cold Coke that we had had in ages. The bottle was freezing cold, and it felt like the best thing I could ever have had. The owner of the shop was an Indian man called Dennis – how he ended up with a name like ‘Dennis’ I wouldn’t know, and didn’t want to be rude by asking. He ran a backpackers camp, which was apparently quite successful, and he gave us an open invitation to come and see him, or to stay over if we had lengthy dealings in town. It was difficult to get away from him, as he had the talent of talking, and just wanted to volunteer any information he could think of to make our stay easier.

Mpulungu we found, was a very busy place. A big ferry, called the Liemba, transports people and goods from as far as Burundi, calling at ports all along the bordering countries of Tanzania and the Congo. We wanted to do some sight seeing before shopping, so went to the harbour first, to find that the Liemba was in port. There was a ramshackle building which served as customs and excise, and all other building looked derelict and neglected, and rusted beyond repair. The Liemba was an amazing sight indeed - It was built as a cargo vessel, and converted to a military vessel when Germany occupied Tanzania. It was used against British forces in Northern Rhodesia, and bombed by the Belgians in 1916. She has been sunk and raised twice, the last time it was raised by the British, who converted her into a passenger vessel. I just had to get a closer look. We approached a customs official and asked if we could go on board, and after some discussion and a few cigarettes, he introduced us to her captain, and we were taken on board for a tour. The walkways on the ferry were almost hollowed out from so many feet over so many years. Every copper door knob, or piece of beading had been polished well, and it felt as if time had stood still for this beautiful vessel, and she truly was handsome. This ferry could take 500 passengers, and was always full. It also transported cement, bricks and foodstuffs from Tanzania, which would have originated from Dar es Salaam. This same route, and on to Zanzibar, would have been used for the slave trader’s way back in the eighteen hundreds.

We then went into town, and well, it was more of an open market than a town. A circle of shops, with quite high pavements, surrounded an open market, the size of a football field. The pavements and steps had long ago crumbled to almost nothing, but there were bright signs on some of the shops, mostly advertising soft drinks. We came across a shop which, surprisingly, had a lot of South African produce available, Lux and Palmolive soap, Surf washing powder to name a few. The store also smelled of soaps and paraffin – but only a wealthy person would have been able to buy here. A bottle of Klipdrift brandy stood proud on a shelf – for R85, and this was 12 years ago. I would have given my big toe for a brandy and coke at that moment – but these things happen when you see something you can’t buy. We didn’t buy from the shop – the prices were just too high.

Next, we came to a rather large store – it could be described as a supermarket, or the closest to it. It was cool inside, and Simon 1 told us we should buy, as the prices would be right. There were long white steel shelves running the length of the shop – but they were mostly empty. Along one stretch you would find a few bottles of cooking oil, along another some toilet paper. It gave the word ‘browse’ a whole new meaning. I felt sad for Zambia that day, and amongst the basics that I needed, bought a huge packet of sweets for the men back at camp. When I went to pay, I found that they did not have carrier bags – there was in fact – not a carrier bag of plastic or paper to be found in Zambia. You had to buy your own, if you could find any. So, we held out our shirts and packed our goods in, while Simon 1 found another responsible person with a wheelbarrow, to take our goods back to the boat.

The open market was for fresh produce mostly. Women sat on the ground with hesian bags laid out in front of them, packed with tomatoes, potatoes, cassava or onions. The veggies were made up in piles of five items, and if you bought a whole pile, of say five onions, you would get an onion pasela. This was a basic way of trade from all of the traders. Some of the greens I did not recognise, which looked like a type of spinach or cauliflower leaf, so I bought some, aswell as wild bananas. The bananas tasted sort of strange – until I realised that I was tasting what a banana should actually taste like. Peanuts, wild rice, salt and crushed mealies were in big bags, which you bought by quantity – peanuts, rice and mealies were charged for by the handful and salt by a small bottle cap. The rice was grown local, and I had seen the rice paddies from the boat. Our responsible person with the wheelbarrow was all of ten years old – but he was very proud to be seen with the tourists, as the big Bwana ended up pushing the wheelbarrow with him on it, as he wasn’t old enough to cope with the load.

The market had many smells in the air, and I picked up the smell of baking bread. Simon 1 took us to the bakery, which was a dark, very hot room. The floors had been made of cow dung – I knew the colour and shine that such a floor would have. The walls black from years of smoke from the oven fire. Huge loaves of fresh white bread were neatly stacked on the floor to cool – my mouth watered at the thought of fresh hot bread and jam. Outside the bakery was a wooden bench under a tree, and we sat there sharing the hot bread, washed down with a cold Coke – it was a real treat.

The fresh fish market was only to be explored by the bravest of brave. The smell was overpowering, and I had to stop myself from hurling in the middle of the market. Flies swarmed in the million over the fish, and you had to wave the flies away to see what you wanted to buy. It was disgusting, and although the men were keen to find a new species of fish never seen by the western world, I steered clear. I eventually bought some fresh frozen Boeka-Boeka from the fisheries department on the way back to the boat.

It was time to head home; it had been a tiring but exciting day. We set of for the boat with the wheelbarrow loaded, but Dennis caught us walking past his spaza shop, so bought us a beer in exchange for some company. I can’t remember what the beer was called but it didn’t touch sides, and Dennis told us how dodgy the beer was, as one bottle would have virtually no alcohol content, and another would knock you flat. He could apparently tell by the smell of the beer. He was a very funny man.

On nearing the jetty we were horrified to be hearing the sea – that is at least what it sounded like. Well, surfs up as they say, as we found the calm waters of early morning to have turned into 20 foot waves. There wasn’t a cloud in sight or even so much as a breeze. I was terrified, and just wanted to get to camp. Simon 1 explained that although it looked bad, it would be ‘no problems’ to go home with the rough water, as the boat was the right length to cope with the waves. Husband had also explained the wave swell ratio to boat length to me, another reason why our modern boat would not do – but I didn’t care much for the science of it all, it was to scary. The jetty where the boat was moored was in a protected cove, so as Simon1 explained, once we had loaded, he could navigate between the waves, we would be on our way, and we should stay safe.

We managed to get through the worst of the waves into deeper water, and were all drenched by this time. I clung to the side of the boat in despair, and it seemed so surreal. It was late afternoon by the time we set of, and it was slow going with such a small motor. I had been on rough water before, but nothing like this. The swells were huge, and one minute we were in the air way above water, and the next, surrounded by water and not been able to see land. Although I was scared, it was exciting, and made me feel very much alive, so as our journey progressed I felt more at ease with the rough water, and clambered my way to the nose of the boat, and sat there taking in every feeling and movement of the Lake. Once I had done that I was fine, and saw aswell that the children were loving the danger.

It was dark by the time we reached camp, the water had settled slightly, and I felt lost in the darkness, not having a clue as to where we were, or how far land was. I heard Simon1 and Husband talking and pointing – in the distance a row of lights could be seen. The men at camp had realised we would return over treacherous water in the dark, and stood on shore in a line with their lamps burning, like miniature light houses. As the boat approached shore, they put the lamps down and dived into the Lake to guide and steady the boat over the waves – we were going to dock on the rocks. It was tough going, but we landed safely, the men laughing and cheering each other on. Henry stood to one side with his lamp, and held my arm to steady me as I climbed out of the boat, he lead us up the path to camp, and it was a welcome sight that one only has when you are ‘home’. Henry had swept the whole camp sight clean, a fire was burning low with a kettle of water ready for coffee. A pot of porridge had been prepared, with a pan of fresh fried fish. Lamps hung from the trees to light the whole area with a soft glow. The inside of the tents had been swept, the stretcher beds had been ‘made’. I thanked Henry, as we did all the men, as they were not expected to stay overnight. They told us that it was their duty to look after their mother and father, and it wasn’t to be the only time that these people made me cry.

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My African Adventure – Part Ten


Worms and Wind

The weather had so far been very hot and humid, and everyday the distant bank of clouds seemed to be more visible. It had not rained since our arrival, but in the evenings the air felt cooler, and I could often ‘feel’ the rain on the breeze. Full moon brought its own magic to the Lake, as it would shin a long silver path over the water. I had seen trawlers in the distance often, marked only by their paraffin lights which attract the Kapenta, but with the full moon they didn’t go out, as it was just too bright.

The men told us that the rains would come when the Mopanie worms had disappeared. At this stage they were growing fast, and you could clearly hear them munching away at the leaves. Some trees seemed to battle against the feast, and looked quite bare. However, this was now a season of plenty for the locals. Women and children strolled through the bush with buckets and bags, collecting Mopanie worms of the lower branches, like harvesting fruit of trees. Apparently the worms were ready for eating now, having good layers of fat, and still young, although I couldn’t imagine using culinary terms such as ‘juicy’ or ‘tender’ for a worm. My western mind didn’t somehow see the logic.

The children joined in this mass collection, and my eldest son climbed quite high into a tree to collect worms, while he made his brother stand below holding a bucket. This was a sight to behold, as the youngest one stood looking up at his brother, with his mouth naturally open due to the angle of his head, while his brother would be telling him to move a little either left or right – and in the process aim for his brothers open mouth, and drop a worm in to his mouth. I had never seen a worm fight before, but it was pretty soon and the worms were flying between them. In my imagination I could see a worm take flight, and the look on its animated face.

Henry wanted to show me how to cook worms, and the children dared me, so reluctantly I took up worm-cleaning-frying-classes. Basically you break the head of, and squeeze the guts out, give them a rinse in salt-water and you are ready to go. They are then fried in a little oil and salt added for taste. Yeah right. I added my own cooking skills, by using margarine, garlic, a pinch of curry powder and black pepper. This was served with pap, tomato gravy and a tin of spinach. When it came to eating, we all sat looking at each other, wondering who was going to go first, I must say the food did smell divine. The children of course, had the first mouthfuls, along with the laughs and dares, so I had little choice. Bearing in mind that Henry was watching my every move, I tried to blank out the fact that I was about to put a caterpillar in my mouth, closed my eyes and just took a mouthful. I was surprised, pleasantly so, as the worms tasted like something between snails and oysters. The taste I could live with, but not the thought. Needles to say, I have never been able to eat worms again, as mind over matter doesn’t work for me. I earned respect from the men though, as my concoction did taste good.

I looked forward to cool evenings and a refreshing bath under the stars, it made my day complete. All would be quiet, and I loved falling asleep to the sound of soft voices and lapping water. I felt a comfort that I have yet to find again. As the rains grew closer by day, the nights brought stronger breezes and it became cool enough to cover myself with a sheet. One evening we were sleeping soundly, and I woke to the sound of a train storming past the tent. I was really startled, and thought it must have been a dream, but the sound was real – and deafening. Husband also woke, and we went to stand outside the tent, to hear a gust of wind roaring down the mountain, from the top of the escarpment. It was panic in camp.

Sleeping Peter stirred from his fire, and rushed over to us ‘Bwana, this is the mountain of winds – she is calling for the rain’ The soft ground turned into small dust devils around our feet, and you could feel the force of air pressure as the wind grumbled down the mountain – and it smelt like rain and dust. We hurried to collect loose items lying around – but we were unprepared for this force of nature. The wind hit us in one sudden gust, and took with it camping chairs, kitchen utensils and empty water containers – we could hear the water containers making plonk-plonk noises and then splashes as they landed in water. The tents swayed to and fro, and one of the tent ropes came loose, flinging the tent peg into the dark.

No sooner had the wind hit, and it was gone. The world returned to silence as we surveyed the chaos. Sleeping Peter told us the wind doesn’t always come, and when it does, normally only a few times. So, we went back to our tents, everything covered in dust, and my refreshing bath was only a vague memory. The following morning we walked around picking up bits and pieces we could find. There was no damage done, but I made plans to pack things away at night until the rains finally arrived, and the wind no longer posed a threat. For many nights after that, the wind would come down again, and I would lie in the tent, feeling as if I was about to become airborne, as canvas flapped around and tents ropes pulled taught. I also wondered about the rains, as there was almost an excitement in the air, as nature was in the process of preparations.