My African adventures - Moeksie

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My African Adventure – Part Eleven


Armageddon




We had decided to build a sort of jetty-come-pier, as beaching our boat was a problem. At the same time, we needed some level ground around our campsite, to make moving around and packaging live fish easier, when the time came. The idea was to level the terrace around the tents, and push large rocks over the side, which would almost land in the right spot for a jetty. It looked like an easy enough task, as small rocks protruded from the ground, so it was a matter of digging them out, covering the holes left behind – and well, that was the plan.

The men sat around the Bwana, as he told them what the plan was, and after the usual haggle and banter, it was decided how this task was to be accomplished. Clearing the terrace was to be done first, so an area was marked out, and work started. I loved the way the men worked, as they would start singing, and kept a steady pace while they sang. It was truly beautiful to hear. If they got hot, they would drop whatever they were doing, and run down to the Lake and dive in. Simon1 would take a running leap and dive in, and time and time again, would resurface with a fish in his hand. I would just cringe, as there would be no hope of rescuing a bruised tropical fish – worth a lot of money alive – and inevitable the fish would be lunch.

Work progressed well, the ground was quite even, and then it was the rocks which had to be lifted out. Although small portions stuck out above ground, it was a very different matter beneath ground. Simon1 was inclined to be a bit of a show of, so he decided that this one rock ‘is no problems for Simon’, and started digging around it. Eventually all the men were involved, as this was a mountain of solid rock buried in the sand. After a few hours of digging, and using poles to lift it out, they managed to roll the rock over the terrace, and stood clapping and waving as the rock hit the bottom. Simon1 stood proudly with his hands on his hips, and proclaimed, laughing, that ‘it was a small stone’, and was ready for the next one.

Every rock they started on seemed bigger than the last, and each time the rock was proclaimed to be a small stone, amid howls of laughter at Simon1, who was sweating buckets. Obed was by far the strongest of the men, built like a greek god, and used to hard labour with his cattle. But, the men who lived next to the Lake had an issue of pride when it came to asking for help from a man from the escarpment. So, throughout the unearthing of ‘small stones’ Obed kept himself busy with raking the ground even, as it would also have been seen as below his stature if he offered help. Husband was well aware of this, and to keep the peace, always kept the men busy with tasks which would keep them apart. Over a period of three days, we had a good sized level area, and plenty of rocks to build the jetty with. One rock remained, which from the surface, seemed about the same size as ones already uncovered. But, this was not the case. The men dug forever, and still could not get to the bottom of the rock to remove it. Simon1 carried on and on about this now ‘small stone’ which nobody can lift, as Obed looked on, and teased everybody else about not been strong enough. There was much banter and debating about this rock, of all things. However, nobody referred to it as a rock – it was still ‘a small stone’. Eventually Simon1 was digging in a hole so deep around the rock that you could just see the tip of his head – but he was determined. Poles of all shapes and sizes had been cut, and placed around the rock to be able to pry it loose, but this rock was going nowhere.

Husband then told the men to stop – and they looked at him is disbelief, not ready to give up. He told them to fetch firewood – lots of it, and pack it in the hole around the rock, enough to cover it completely. Like children the scattered into the bush, coming out with loads of dead wood and fallen branches. We were going to have a bonfire. Once the rock was packed tightly with wood, it was set alight, and the fire was huge. I’m sure you would have seen the light from Tanzania’s side of the Lake. The rock burned all day and all night, constantly been fuelled with wood.

The next morning the men were told to fetch containers, and form a line from the Lake to the burning rock, so that water could be passed on in a steady stream. This was done, and as water was passed on, it was thrown onto the rock, to cool it quickly as possible. After the second bucket of water hit the boiling rock, the rock cracked, making a sound like a rifle been fired. Simon1 was ecstatic – his ‘small stone’ was reduced to ‘smaller stones’ the men cheered and jumped around, amazed that the rock had cracked into bits. Obed came closer with a long pole, pushed it under the rock, and lifted the cracked rock in one go, while his muscles rippled and shone in the sun, telling Simon1 that this was just a ‘small stone’ which had caused a big problem. The rock was split using bits of wood and hammers, and when the last piece fell down the side of the mountain, Simon1 said ‘Oh Bwana – this is Armageddon’



Ghosts


One Sunday we decided to take a hike up the mountain, instead of our usual venturing on water. We were up early, packed with water and food for a picnic. There was a path of sorts, but we didn’t follow the path, we wanted to see how high up the mountain we could get. From the boat on the Lake, we could see a steep rock cliff, and this was to be our destination. The whole side of the mountain was naturally terraced, so climbing from one terrace to the next was quite a challenge in some places. The forest was beautiful; we came across many Moekwa trees that, even holding hands, we could not fully circle. I wondered how old some of them must be. Because the trees are quite big, the undergrowth is made up mostly of loose leaves and the odd bits of grass, and small shrubs. Moss and lichens grew on the trees and rocks.

A terrible smell was about in one area, and I thought an animal must have died somewhere. As we had yet to see signs of a living creature besides a few birds, we started looking around to see what had died. Against one of the trees we found the source of the smell – and it was in fact a carrion plant. I now know why it is named so, as the smell of death was over powering - amazing how crafty nature can be. I couldn’t stand near it for to long, as I just wanted to throw up, so bad and realistic the smell was.

We had reached quite a height, and through a clearing could see that we still had very far to go if we wanted to reach the cliff. Distance can be deceiving at times. We took a break, and walked to the edge of the terrace to have a look at the view, and I was in awe of what lay before me. I was looking down at the Lake, and from where I was, it looked like a mirror of blue before me. The shades of colour changed with the depth of the water, like a postcard picture of the Mediterranean, all that was missing were fancy yachts of the jet-set crowds, but that would have been out of place here. I could see for miles, and I just sat and enjoyed the view, with a light breeze against my face. A hawk came gliding by on an air current, so close I could see the feathers on his wings, and close enough that I wanted to reach out and touch him.

It was disappointing not to find even the spore of animals, and I thought that it was such a shame, all this natural vegetation and forest, devoid of life. It was around mid-day, and we didn’t think we would make the cliffs in time to return back in daylight, so started back down again. One thing I did see a lot of were insects, and really weird ones that I had never seen before. I saw termite mounds built like mushrooms, so that the rain can run of the mounds properly. Termites had also built ledges against trees, which looked like steps. Wild mushrooms were all over, but I didn’t want to pick any, as I had no clue as to which ones would be poisonous or not.

We had almost reached camp, and found ourselves on a well worn path, so needing a drink, stepped just of the path to sit on a log. There were strange wasp type of bugs flying around, one was the brightest of pillar box red, with little red pom-poms on the antennae – it looked like a miniature alien. Beetles of all shapes and sizes were common, and also in a variety of colours, shapes and sizes. The biggest I had seen so far, had flown into camp one evening, breaking the glass on one of our lamps – it was the size of a saucer.

We heard a soft huummm huumm approaching and here came a young boy of about nine or ten, carrying a big load of grass on his head, and he was singing softly. He looked very nervous, and kept on stopping, looking behind and around himself. This was, after all, Kapemb-wa-mpondo, spirit of the Lake area, so been very superstitious people, could imagine been a child and having to walk here alone. We stepped back onto the path, ready to head of home, and when this child saw us he started screaming. One big roll of grass was thrown into the air, he turned around and ran faster than I have seen a person run before, screaming as he ran. His screams echoed through the forest, and as he ran his voice became loud, then soft, then loud again, as he went over the meandering path. We looked at each other, mouths open – what did we do? Not been able to comprehend what had happened, we set of home.

We reached camp, and had a swim to cool of, and had just sat down for a good cup of coffee, when the local chief arrived – by boat – in all his glory. Well, he was quite a modern chief, so wore a safari suit and shades, and his use of the English language outstanding. I invited him for coffee, and discovered a packet of rusks, well – that’s the closest I had to biscuits. He was not old, probably mid 50’s, but his whole demeanour was one of leadership and respect. Not the type of person a villager would look for problems with. He had a small problem to discuss with us, and our first thought was trouble, as we had just made a child scream forever. But, he found the situation very funny, and explained that many children in his village had never seen a white person before, so the child thought we were spirits. His only request was that we bear this in mind when walking about. I wondered how many fireside stories we had started.

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Twelve


Strong Muti


Henry couldn’t speak much English, but we somehow understood each other, as he basically knew what was expected to keep the camp in order. One Friday night we heard a ruckus coming down the path, and it was a very drunk Early and Henry, both of them hardly able to stand up straight. They ambled into camp very loudly, just to say hello in passing. To my amazement Henry was speaking the most perfect English and Early just giggled at everything and anything. The Bwana managed to get them to quieten down, and they straggled of home. Lucky they were not working the following day, but we wondered what they had been drinking, as beer was very expensive.

On the Sunday Early came into camp, bringing with him a bottle of clear liquid, which to me, looked like a bottle of water. He told the Bwana he had brought a gift, and it turned out to be a potent brew made of cassava. He poured a small amount into the cap of the bottle and offered us each a taste. I first smelt it, and it nearly took my breath away, I was sure this was pure alcohol. Never the less, I felt brave, and tilting my head back, eyes closed - downed the contents of the cap. Well, I didn’t think I would ever suffer from sinus pain after that, and if I had had tonsils, they would have been burnt to a crisp.

Monday morning the men all seemed to be ill, they were sweating buckets, and we learnt that there had been a wedding celebration over the weekend. Simon1 complained bitterly of a headache, and his usual shiny black complexion had turned to ash. So, we called the men to camp, and Husband asked me to fetch some Grand-pa headache powders. The men stood in a half circle around us, waiting to see what this was all about. Husband made quite a spectacle, he slowly unwrapped the Grand-pa, and tapped the powder into the middle of the paper, explaining to Simon1 that this was powerful muti – he – Simon1 – had to keep the powder in his mouth, and move it around slowly with his tongue. Simon1 did so, with all of the men watching him, not sure if they should be laughing or not, so kept on looking at husband and then at Simon1. The Grand-pa powder is of course extremely horrible, and Simon1 turned from ash to green at the bitter taste.

While Simon1 went through this ordeal, Husband prepared another powder, by rolling the powder into its paper wrapping to resemble a cigarette. He then passed some water to Simon1 to wash down the bitterness in his mouth, which at least turned him back to ash. Husband then took out his lighter, and put the Grand-pa cigarette in his mouth, and with perfect timing, blew out the powder, lighting it at the same time. Even I was speechless, as I had never seen this before. A big blue flame erupted in the air as the powder burnt, and the men stood rooted and terrified, their eyes stretched wide. Simon1 first looked at his stomach, then put his hands on it – and proclaimed ‘Bwana I can’t be smoking today’ I thought I was going to collapse laughing. Nobody ever came to work with a hang over again.


An awakening

Every day on the Lake I made discoveries – of nature and people, but most of all of myself. I was no longer in a comfort zone of flicking a switch or driving to the shop, and I allowed myself to look at life from a totally different angle. My days passed from one to the next without any the pressures or stress that modern living seems to create, and it does free ones thinking. Most of the time I spent in the water, and I found that the depth of the Lake had enchanted me, and indeed, would be an enchantment never to let me go.

I had always kept close to shore, and never felt any fear of what I didn’t know was lurking in the water. Now, years after, I ask myself if I would do the same again – and I probably would, even though the crocodiles reach a good 15 foot and more (which I didn’t know then). One day in particular, the water was most calm, without so much as a hint of surf, and having become quite fit, decided to head out to deep waters. I swam slowly, all the while looking into the water, and sometimes diving – just with goggles. I had become good at free diving now aswell, so felt great freedom of just swimming with the fish, lingering on the bottom to pick up a shell or a rock, or to take a close look at anything different. I had not realised how far I was from shore, and floating on the surface, could still see the bed of the Lake clearly, which would have been at least 20foot below. That was too deep for me to dive, so just kept on floating. The bed of the Lake changed, and turned from turquoise to black in an instant – and it was then that it dawned on me. I was floating over miles of empty space, an abyss, totally vulnerable, out in the open and I had no way of protecting myself from any dangers. And was I scared? No, it was more of a ‘wow’ feeling, here I was, and in the bigger scheme of life, what and who was I? Questions that I had never thought of before, and the more I thought about them, didn’t want answered.


I swam back to shore, feeling humbled.

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Thirteen



Bush Hospitals


We had all been having headaches, which is the first signs of malaria. So, daily we drank quinine tabs, and planned a trip to a hospital at Mbala, for blood tests. The boat was corked and ready, and we left camp feeling tired and not well. On landing in Mpulungu, we stopped over with Dennis for a chat and beer then fetched the van to drive to the hospital.

Up we went, and the noise of people and machines after our quite life, seemed to penetrate every pore in my body. The hospital was once a great building, but now looked very neglected and run down. There was no pretty garden or surrounding lawns – although the signs were there that this must have once been so.

People were sitting all over the grounds, under trees or umbrella’s, and along the hospitals veranda’s in the shade. On entering the building the first impression was, oddly enough, one of cleanliness and coolness. The corridors smelt of disinfectant, the old cement floors polished bright red, and although there were very few beds or equipment, everything that could sparkle was clean. The beds were bare, there was no linen, no curtains, and the material on old bed screens torn and broken. The windows had long lost their mosquito gauze covering, so even if you lay here been treated for malaria, the mozzies would still feast on your blood.

After filling out hand written registration cards, we were taken straight to the lab for the blood tests. The lab technician drew blood from each of us, and I made sure he wore gloves, and that the equipment he used came out of sealed containers. He did however, explain his small problem – he had loads of hi-tech equipment, like microscopes, donated by Denmark and Finland – but no electricity to use them. The electricity only came on for a few hours – and we would have to wait until it came back on again, before he could give us any results.

As we carried our investor’s permits, and had to show them for identification, we were considered important enough for an invite with the hospital administrator. Her office was modern and richly furnished, nothing compared to the sp**** furnishings we had seen outside the office doors. Tea was served – colonial style – with good china, and I wondered how the water had been boiled, as there was no electricity. The administrator told us how to treat our malaria, and she produced quinine tabs, and a box of water purification tabs, and some aspirins. I asked for some extra supplies for the men, and by the time she was finished, we had quite a bit of medical supplies to dish out – supplies they would not have been able to get as ordinary citizens from the clinic in town.

The lab technician returned shortly with our results – and yes - we all had a touch of malaria. I was very worried, as before departing SA I had done some research, and spoken to our GP and chemists. Many years ago governments in Africa would spray buildings and villages for mozzies, which did help to a certain degree. However, as African governments had a knack for squandering money, and having infrastructures decline, these spraying programs didn’t exist in Zambia any more. The malaria parasite has also mutated, and there are many strains which are now quinine resistant. The result is an epidemic of malaria which is very often fatal if not treated in time. Basically, I had learnt that you first have a course of quinine tabs, if that doesn’t sort you, you have to have liquid quinine, if that didn’t work, you were in very serious trouble.

We returned to camp, and Husband and the children seemed fine, with just slight headaches and fever. I also didn’t feel too bad, so for the next few days we took things easy, drinking lots of fluids, keeping cool and resting. We had a thermometer at hand, and kept time of raised temperatures ect, as the parasite would multiply every few hours, during which you would have a fever. As the fever intervals got less, it was a good indication that the parasite was dying, and the quinine tabs working. So, it was a relief when I noted the families’ normal temperature return for 8 straight hours, and although the out of danger, they still had to finish the course of quinine tabs.

My intervals of fever had not changed, but I felt fine, and thought that my body was just taking longer to fight the parasite. Over the next few days things were back to normal, Husband and the children carried on as normal, and I was banished to my stretcher. I was not amused, and overheard plots to get me across the Lake to hospital. I insisted that I was going to be fine – I was the healthiest and fittest I had ever been, I felt lean and tanned, and just wanted to wait another day or two, as I had not finished my course of tabs. So, eventually Husband agreed, if my fever did not break totally eight hours after my last tabs, I was going to hospital.

The following morning I drank the last of my pills, and sat about anxiously in camp, telling myself that my fever wouldn’t return. Husband was a way up the mountain with the men sorting some pipes out at the dry spring, in preparation for the rain, and I was lying on a stretcher under my favourite tree. Henry kept the tea coming my way, just to prevent me getting up to make my own. Early afternoon I started feeling very tired, and my fever returned with a vengeance, so I sent Henry up the mountain to get Husband back to camp.

By the time they returned it was late in the afternoon, so we planned to set out to town at day break the following morning. My fever was now staying for longer periods, and was higher that the last few days, so I took myself to bed, without having my cherished bath and slept like a baby. The following morning I woke to feel quite disorientated, and the fever didn’t abate. I could hear the men corking the boat, but also remember clearly the sound of very rough surf, it sounded like the sea. I dragged myself out of the tent, and was horrified to see that the usually calm Lake had turned into gigantic swells. Husband was having whispered conversations with his brother and the men, and it was quite clear – there could be no crossing this expanse of water as planned.

Husband set about unpacking drip lines and the liquid quinine. He was a medic in the bush war, so he at least knew what to do. The saline solution bag was strung up on a tent pole inside the tent, and before I knew it, I had a drip in my arm. Husband made calculations as to how many drips per minute or whatever I needed of the liquid quinine, which was difficult as I had lost so much weight, but at that stage it was kill or cure. My temperature soared, and I drifted of into my own world, and lost a few days in the process.

I vaguely recall a few things between bouts of very high fever. I remember husband sponging me down, and I cried as my skin was so hot, that the cool water hurt. I remember seeing Henry sitting at the entrance of my tent, just watching me, and holding my head up to drink some water. I remember telling husband that I wont allow myself to die just because of a small bug – who or what was a bug to cause my death I demanded from him, and it made me angry. I couldn’t tell days apart, and simply floated in and out of consciousness.

At some stage, I woke one night, and I was wide awake. The air was cool, and my bedding was drenched in sweat. My mind was crystal clear at that point, and I knew that my fever had broken, and I had beaten the parasite. A pool of sweat trickled of my chest as I tried to sit up, and when Husband heard me stir, he was over in a flash. He told me that I had been out for three days, but my fever had been subsiding slowly the last few hours, and I was in the clear if my fever didn’t return. Husband fetched me some tea, helped me into dry bedding, and I slept until morning, to be woken by Henry with the smell of food, and to look forward to another day.

[admin]

My African Adventure – Part Fourteen


Local Bobbies


Malaria was the deciding factor in returning to South Africa. It could have been one of the children next, and we weren’t going to risk it. So, after many conversations, planning started to set a date for our return, and capturing and packaging live fish would have to be included in the plans. I was still quite weak for a while, but took things easy, ate like a horse, and rested, so it wasn’t long before I was back to normal.

About a month before our intended departure we received word that our van had been broken into, so we set of to town to survey the damage. This was something we did not expect – we had a responsible person whose only job it was, was to look after our vehicle. The windscreen and battery had been stolen – according to the police; the thieves would have only needed these items, as all other equipment such as tools and radios, had been left behind. The windscreen had also been removed without any damage to the van.

The police were very helpful, and informed us that the responsible person had vanished, so he was the prime suspect and would be hunted down. We, however, had a problem. Batteries were not so difficult to come by, although extremely expensive; the windscreen was a different kettle of fish altogether. There was no quick fix solution, and we discovered that even sheets of plastic were unobtainable. We left Dennis to try and source a windscreen or possible solution, and he had a second hand battery that we could buy. At the time it didn’t dawn on us that the rains were on our doorstep. We purchased some supplies, and set of home, as there wasn’t much else we could do.

Our days in camp were made up of looking for netting sites where we knew specific types of tropical’s could be found, and making lists of what we wanted to catch, and compared this to our export and import permits. Our import permits into South Africa listed specific species of fish which were allowed to be brought in live, so we could not risk catching a forbidden species by mistake. The export permits gave only quotas, and we had to pay accordingly. We sent one of the men with a letter to the local Department of Fisheries, giving a date of departure, so that our catch could be checked before leaving, and to ensure that our paper work was in order.

A few days after going to sort out the theft at the van, a policeman arrived in camp. He had a letter for the Bwana – which was very crumpled, as he had held it in his hands all the way from town – walking a distance of onto 15km via the footpath which surrounded the Lake. The Bwana was requested to ‘attend a police matter of utmost urgency’ and to meet the local Chief of Police in town when convenient. So, Husband noted a reply, we gave the policeman food and drinks, and sent him back. At this stage another trip into town was daunting, but it had to be done, and weather permitting, planned for the following day just to get it over with.

Next morning the weather and Lake were perfect for travel, and we set of in great spirits – to travel by boat has always been an amazing experience for me. We asked directions for the police station, and, not for the first time, my mouth literally hung open with the site before me. On the side of a dusty dirt road, was a small white – or what was white – building. It was built quite high, and the steps which lead to the veranda had long since crumbled away, so we had to climb up the broken cement sides. The floor of the veranda was red and well polished, and my mind went back to when I was a child, to the smell of freshly polished floors in my mother’s house. The door was barely hanging on its hinges, and inside the station it was quite dark. Piles and piles of documents were against the walls, tied with string, and blocked out the light from the windows. The piles of papers looked archaic, and I wondered what one would find amongst these records. I imagined rare stamps and collectors items, secret maps to buried treasure, and smelt the mustiness of old things.

In the middle of the small room, was a rickety table, complete with a desk pad, a stationary holder of pencils and a telephone. The policeman who delivered the message was sitting behind the table, and immediately got up, almost in military style, and told us to wait while he called the commander, disappearing into an adjacent room. A man came out to greet us. He was small in stature, but walked with authority. His steps and bearing were stiff, as if on a constant burial march. His uniform was immaculate – every brass button shone, aswell as an array of medals, and he held a staff under one arm, seemingly on parade. The other policemen in the room appeared quite terrified of this man. I would also have been if I was a suspect or employee. He requested an interview with the Bwana, and it was quite obvious that this was not a matter for a woman, so I made a discreet exit, and sat on the crumbled veranda outside.

Husband was informed that the suspect – the responsible person – had been found and held in custody. However, he had not been interrogated yet, as permission was needed from the Bwana, and maybe the Bwana would prefer to be present during interrogation. So, Husband informed them that he trusted the police’s ability to do their job properly, and told the commander to proceed with the interrogation, as all we required was the return of the windscreen. The commander was to send word with regards to his findings.

While they men went about men’s business, I sat outside and watched people come and go. It was extremely hot and humid, but there was a slight breeze on the air, and it was pleasant enough in the shade. A policeman was sitting outside aswell, and I asked him about the rain. He told me that as the worms had now gone, it would be at anytime. He told me that it rains in the afternoon and at night, but I was not to worry, as in the morning it would be sunny and hot enough to dry anything that got wet the night before. I didn’t find this comforting somehow.


African Rain


We reached camp that evening, once again the men had lights on the shore to show us the way home. That will forever be a vivid and fond memory, as it was such a welcome sight of reaching what I felt was my home. It was more than just light in the darkness for me. While on the boat going home, just before sunset, we had seen that the huge bank of clouds that had been so distant had in actual fact edged closer, without us really noticing.

A Danish couple ran a filling station and spaza shop in town, and had a dairy on the escarpment. Every so often they would have fresh meat and chicken, and the most delicious home made cheese on offer. So, while we were in town I bought some fresh beef and cheese – the first we had had in all the time at the Lake. Supper was divine that night, our mouths watered at the smell of the steaks, which we covered with cheese, served with pap and pumpkin leaf spinach. There is surely nothing more satisfying than eating totally natural unprocessed food in front of an open fire.

I noticed that the air had changed – it stopped moving, as if holding a deep breath. The night was balmy and dead quite, even the water of the Lake was like a mirror. There were no insects about, which although a blessing, was odd. The night became darker, and then we saw that clouds had moved in from nowhere. I hoped that we wouldn’t have mountain winds that night.

As we settled for bed, a light breeze started filtering around the tents – and I could smell rain. In the distance thunder was grumbling, but you had to listen well, as it was far away. I got comfortable, and drifted of to sleep with the cool breeze. My peaceful sleep was short lived, as I was jolted awake by the most deafening burst of thunder. I have always loved stormy weather, so long as there is no lightning involved, but I was to experience the worst storm I had ever seen. The wind had picked up, and we were all outside checking tent ropes and poles, and making sure everything was secure. Nature was about to give birth, and I had nowhere to run and hide.

We sat at the door of the tent, and watched the lightning dance over the water, and smelt the burning sulphur on the wind. The lightning crackled and as it hit the water, would run a bit, like mercury on a flat surface, shooting out silver veins. I tried burying my head under the pillows, but it was an irresistible sight, so I huddled next to Husband instead, and held my ears closed, watched in fascination how nature was heralding the coming rain. Thunder exploded around the mountain, and as quickly as the storm had started it stopped – only for a few minutes all was calm. Then we heard it – a very loud sssshhhhh noise coming from the Lake, the smell of rain and water intense, the atmosphere electric. I discovered where the saying ‘sheets of rain’ come from, that night. The loud noise from the Lake was in fact a wall of rain moving towards us.

We braced ourselves, and when the rain hit, it felt like tons of water falling onto the earth. Luckily we had built trenches around the tents to drain of water, and our tents were well made, and treated for extreme weather conditions, the ground sheets had been put down in a special way to ward of water and bugs – amazingly we stayed dry. We held buckets out of the door of the tent for fresh drinking water, and drank enough to burst.

And so the rains came, in torrents every night and late afternoon. When the sun did shine, the humidity was almost unbearable, and you wished again for rain. I now had showers in my bathroom at night, what an amazing feeling to stand naked in the rain and bathe. The rain didn’t go down well with my designer toilet though, as it washed the smooth mud away leaving fine sharp bits of stone behind, and it then felt like you were sitting on sand paper, so I insisted on having a roof made, which actually spoilt the experience of ablutions in the wild.

[bren]

Wow!! what an amazing story!!!! Where is the rest? Part 2? cant wait to read what happened next and how they got back to SA