Zimbabwe Part 2

Mana Pools

Having booked in at the Park Office for two days, we stayed for four and, if Peter had had his way, it would have been a week or more! The near deserted Nyamepi campsite, indeed the whole area, was just very, very special. We camped under a tall mopane tree right on the river bank and overlooking a wide channel of a Zambezi River that was flowing unusually high for the time of year and so was still within yards of our riverside pitch. These unseasonal waters provided a perfect mirror that reflected the bold blues of the daytime sky and the subtle shades of red, orange and grey that painted the sky above as the sun set and rose over the river. The campsite ‘attendant’, a diminutive member of the park staff called Shadrack, ensured that the wood fired donkey provided a ready supply of hot water for our late afternoon shower ..a timing determined by the total lack of electricity and the need for light.. and that there was wood for our nightly campfire.

 Zambezi canoers at sunset.Nyamepi campsite Mana Pools 

The whole campsite was, and always had been, totally unfenced, allowing wildlife a free run of the area in search of food and water. In the morning we would wake to a beautiful orange-grey dawn, the colouring increasingly shaded with blue as the sun rose over the river, to find impala nibbling at the grass around Boris. During the day, hippos .. it seemed as if there were hundreds of them!.. slept on the nearby islands; waking every so often to feed on the coating of Irish green grass that surrounded them, or lay submerged in the river, resurfacing with a snort and a veil of spray to belly laugh at a joke from a member of another pod. Close in to the small patch of riverine grasses beneath our bank a submerged log was permanently stationed in the channel, only the raised eyes and snout giving it away as a crocodile. The river and our river bank also provided a continuing and ever changing spectacle of bird life; the whiter than white shapes of methodically flapping wings of lines of egrets, their downward beat missing the water’s surface by a millimetre; an enormous goliath heron standing stock still for aeons of time, before a lightning fast jab of his sword-like beak secured an unsuspecting amphibian; and the unmistakeable, haunting and iconic high pitched cry of the fish eagle resting on a branch before continuing its patrol above the river’s water.
Oliver 

 Oliver, a gentle giant.Nyamepi campsite Mana Pools 

Then, and right from our first afternoon there, each afternoon came a very special event: the arrival of Oliver. Oliver was the name the Park staff had given a senior, very senior, bull elephant easily identified by a left tusk missing the last foot of so. Unperturbed by our proximity and sometimes accompanied by a bachelor friend who invariably was less trusting of the campsite occupants, he would slowly, majestically and with a totally soundless footfall wander the campsite, going from tree to tree, snacking on the leaves above or the seedpods below. Watching him use his trunk to locate and feed on the latter was quite fascinating; it proved how essential the trunk was to an elephant as an incredibly sensitive sensory organ that was so mobile, so delicate, yet so strong. Memory and scent had already alerted Oliver to the massive acacia trees under which lay ripe seedpods, each about four inches long and an inch wide, once there he never used his eyes to locate the pods that he was standing over, only his trunk. The tip of the trunk hovered about two to three inches off the ground, gently swinging to and fro seeking the scent of a pod; once located and with great gentleness and dexterity the two protruding ‘lips’ of the open tip would enclose the pod, just as we would if we were using the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Then, raising the pod from the ground, Oliver exhaled through the trunk to remove the sand and dirt before a slow and graceful inward curving of the trunk popped the prized morsel into his mouth. Peter was able to stand so close to Oliver that he could quite clearly hear the pod being ground between his massive teeth!
Evening Visitors
As the sun began to sink towards the Zambian horizon in the far distance, it was time for chairs to be placed out on the riverbank and sundowners to be drunk. After which the evening’s meal would be prepared and cooked, actions lit by our nearby fire as a breeze carried the smell to our next visitors, hyenas! We had chosen an isolated pitch at the furthest end of the campsite and beyond which there were only mature acacia tree and scrubby bush lining the riverbank; it was from this area that the hyenas would advance into the campsite as darkness fell. We were there first port of call!

There were never more than two or three and they were quite brazen, coming to the edge of the area lit by the fire and standing there staring at either the chef, or if arriving a little late, the diners, in a determined way that contradicted their natural hang dog stance. We had never seen hyenas before and this was a welcome chance to see these much maligned animals at close quarters; their boldness was really quite illusory, any sudden movement by us and they would retreat, to be swallowed up in the dark of the night. One night a pair of honey badgers came close to the fire, their small size belying their fearsome and fearless reputation. They ignored us, but with an annoyed chatter turned to face a hyena that following them; the hyena, despite being about ten times their size, quite literally ran off never to reappear!

As we were relaxing after the meal, some of the hippos that had been sharing jokes up and down the river all evening, would come to the river bank and hidden in the dark, but with the squelch of feet moving through mud giving their arrival away, would begin feeding on the area of riverside grass a couple of yards from us. Normally about thirty minutes or so after their arrival, one braver soul would leave the grass bed, climb the bank and plod past, in the manner of a bowed, stumpy, overweight matron, heading determinedly inland to feed; where, we never knew, but hippos can travel ten mile or more inland for a night’s snack so it was unsurprising that we never saw its return.

Around about this time the male lions would begin to declaim their presence, their resounding cough-like roar invariably petering out into a series of almost breathless wheezes. There was a large pride in the area, fourteen lions in all, and they seemed to enjoy passing through the campsite late in the evening on their way to hunt, their presence only given away by the yellow glow of their eyes in the flashlight or the exited chatter of the hyenas as they ran from the lions’ approach. The final trip to the loo, head torches waving their narrow beams in a perpetual, drunken 360 degree arc, was always swift and an interesting test of moral fibre!
A Night Time Tug-of-War
On our first night the megaphone conversations of lion, elephant, hyena, hippo, et al, made getting to sleep difficult. However by about two in the morning we were at last sleeping soundly when Peter was woken by the noise of something being dragged from under Boris. In a matter of seconds, with a cry of ‘bastaaaard!’, he was exiting the tent, head torch in hand, clad only in boxer shorts and flip-flops in pursuit of a hyena that obviously thought that the rubberised roof top tent cover would make an excellent meal! The hyena made a run for it, still dragging the cover, there was no moon and it was only the spooky green reflection of its eyes in the head torch beam that gave away the hyena’s position. The cover was proving an unwieldy trophy and, catching up with the Hyena, Peter somehow managed to grab hold of a trailing edge. There then followed a short tug-of-war accompanied by shouts of, ‘let go, let go you bastard!’; thankfully the hyena reverted to type and did so, but not before biting off a large mouthful of tasty rubberised cover.

 Repairing the hyena's damage, Nyamepi campsite Mana Pools 

Hyenas have jaws that exert the strongest pressure of any in the animal kingdom ..reckoned to be in excess of 3500 pounds per square inch!.. and normally reserved for breaking the bones of animal carcasses. However they also have a reputation for scavenging almost anything from campsites; with the excitement of our evening encounters we had forgotten to put the cover up on the roof rack with the table and chairs. Ah well, we live and learn .. or might not have done if the lions had been around! The blue patches sown on by Liz the next morning have become a permanent reminder of the dangers of the bizarre and eclectic eating habits of the hyena.
A Walk on the Wild Side
When the wildlife was not coming to visit us, we were out looking for it; in Mana Pools, unlike any other similar park in Africa, there was absolutely no restriction on walking unaccompanied by a ranger. Taking sensible precautions, it was with a marvellous feeling of freedom, a feeling that we were reliving the safaris of a much earlier era, that we were able to walk from the campsite along the river bank and into the nearby flood plain savannah and, when on a game drive, park and walk to a vantage point, the bank of a pool or just enjoy the landscape at first hand and not through the car window. Each walk was a unique, uplifting and memorable experience.

 Liz watches Oliver,Nyamepi campsite Mana Pools 

If You Don’t Ask..
Also on the campsite was a family group from Cape Town that was enjoying the South African winter school holiday and had been coming to Zimbabwe, and Mana Pools in particular, over a period of some years. As is our habit, we asked the parents, Johannes and Anna-Marie, for advice on our proposed route to the Zambian border. Mana Pools is in the north eastern corner of Zimbabwe and we wanted to travel to Victoria Falls, in the north western corner, by a series of back roads through rural Zimbabwe; a route that would take us along a rough line south of the Zambezi River. By good fortune they had arrived at Mana Pools using that very route in reverse, so were able to give us detailed advice; on the piste, variable but do-able; on the three national parks en route, visit each one, each with a deserted campsite, stunning scenery and views; time taken, allow at least three days, more if possible; and on the availability of fuel and food supplies, stock up before we start.
Tsetse Fly Control
On 17 July we left Mana Pools; our encounter with the Tsetse zeppelins fresh in our mind, we travelled back to the main road with all windows shut. Once there we again came to the government Tsetse Control Point; this time we were not waved through but brought to a halt by a man in green coveralls carrying what looked like a short handled fishing-cum-butterfly net. We stared at him through our windows; the poor man appeared to be suffering with St Vitas’ Dance, twitching and tapping various parts of his anatomy as he approached. The reason for this rather alarming physical affliction became clear as he drew near; he was almost enveloped in a swarm of tsetse flies.

It was hard to hear him through the closed windows, but a shouted conversation and a series of mimed actions and gestures made plain that he had to inspect the inside of Boris to ensure we had no tsetse flies on board and we had to open a window. Peter, thoughtful as ever, pointed to Liz’s window and reluctantly it was lowered. The official, preceded by his coveralled arm and net, leant in, looked around and very theatrically waved the net along the dash board and in front of Liz’s nose, then withdrew leaving behind a large proportion of the swarm of tsetse flies that had surrounded him! Cue much flapping of hands by the occupants, followed by an orgy of squashing, murder and mayhem! The official, ignoring our plight and showing a marked lack of interest in any continuing ‘control’, quickly retired to the depths of his sentry box like hut, from the door of which his net was describing a graceful circle and waving us on our way.

With windows once again sealed we began to climb the escarpment, every so often killing yet another tsetse fly that appeared from the rear of Boris, how many more could there be! We restocked and refuelled in the town of Karoi; once a sleepy farming town now with its agricultural machinery dealerships closed and a general air of dilapidation along the high street. A high street where the Harare gloss of shelves full of choice turned to reasonably full shelves, a limited range of goods and little choice. But it would do, we had encountered worse in West Africa.
No Sects Please We’re British
As we left the outskirts of Karoi behind, in the shade of trees beside the road we saw a large gathering of people clad in white, the men faced the women and both inward facing groups were swaying, chanting and clapping. We had seen these bare foot, white gowned people throughout rural Zimbabwe; normally in groups smaller than this one, always in the open air and in the shade of trees with the sexes separated standing or kneeling, facing one another and involved in some form of service or rite. Our curiosity got the better of us; we pulled over, wound down the window and listened to the delightful cadences and rhythm of African song.

 Joseph, master of ceremonies, enroute Matusadona NP

A man wearing a green gown and with a length of red cloth draped over one shoulder, emerged from the sea of white and came towards us. A wooden staff hung at his waist with its top, a carved cross surrounded by an open indented circle, pressed into his stomach; introductions over, Joseph, his forehead glistening with a thin shimmer of sweat, listened with studious attention as we explained our curiosity. Whilst the ‘congregation’ watched and sang, Joseph enlightened us: the purpose of this gathering of members of the Gospel of God Church was to heal the sick through worship; this ‘spiritual healing’ as Joseph called it, was being conducted by and through him. A service normally took place over a twenty four hour period each week and began at midday on Thursday. Word of mouth and cell phone gave the location which was never the same and those attending, despite their ailments, were expected to walk, some for many miles, bringing with them the food and water they needed.

As he spoke, to add gravitas he frequently shook out the red cloth and gathered it back in to his waist in the manner of a roman emperor; in doing so revealing an array of white motifs sewn onto it that would have done a Masonic Lodge proud! As a finale and as we were getting back into Boris, he insisted on giving us his phone number so that we could pass it on to people we knew; he needed help selling gold. Very bizarre, but we can give you the number if you need it! We assumed that for some these spiritual healing services filled the void left by of the demise of community health care. Whatever the reason and despite cruelly raising their expectations, we hoped it gave those attending some solace. 
Mashonaland
We spent an enjoyable afternoon heading west on little used roads and tracks ..now where have you heard that before!..in this very rural and terribly scenic part of Mashonaland. The tar road, narrowed by the advance of roadside grass to a single lane, ended as the remnants of fencing gave way to open, unfenced and heart-warmingly chaotic tribal land. Now deep into rural Zimbabwe, with long established family settlements close to the track, the impact of the recent famine and economic collapse became more noticeable; the odd UNICEF aid vehicle; people, more often than not dressed in rags, walking barefoot back from a distribution point with sacks of rice, emblazoned with ‘US Aid’, on their heads; and virtually all of the little, isolated roadside brick built stores long since closed, abandoned by entrepreneurs who could not survive hyper-inflation and the insidious, growing poverty of the local community.

 Hyper inflation,abandoned rural store Matabeleland 

By late afternoon we were still some distance from the Matusadona National Park and its campsite on the shore of Lake Kariba. Our superb and remote bush campsite was along a track cut into the woods on a shingle ridge overlooking the Sanyati River. Earlier, from the bridge over it, we had seen on a distant section of the dry and sandy river bed motley groups of people, some under makeshift awnings, digging pits in the sand; a passer-by explained that they were illegal gold prospectors... ah, so that was what Joseph was on about!

On Saturday morning, the 18 July, well rested after a good night’s sleep and invigorated by a post breakfast nature ramble with the signs of elephant and antelope all around, we continued on a sandy track in surprisingly good condition, through a rolling, scenic rural landscape peppered with yellow thatched roofs of the rondavels of family settlements. The drought of winter was turning the pea green leaves of the mopane trees covering the steep hillsides to shades of brassy khaki brown, reminding us of the beech woods of the Chilterns on a sun lit autumn day. Our autumnal reverie was cut short by our arrival at another tsetse control point ..Oh Lors!
Knowledge 
Our knee jerk reaction, windows up and nervously looking for aerial intruders with vampiric tendencies, proved premature and a little embarrassing ..we were entering, not leaving, a tsetse area. The check point was manned by a smartly dressed middle aged man who, whilst being charming was also deeply reflective; silences would precede a question and follow our answer. Initially unsettling, we got used to his pauses and stopped filling them in with idle chatter; chatter that would only lengthened the pause interminably, creating a very one sided staccato conversation!

 Knowledge and Grace, tsetse control point enroute Matusadona NP 

Knowledge Isaiah, what a lovely name, lived in Karoi and spent one month on, one month off, manning the control point; when doing so his children remained at school in Karoi whilst he and his wife, Grace, lived in the small brick bungalow adjoining the barrier. Whilst on a tour of duty Knowledge also tended a large vegetable patch on the opposite side of the barrier. It turned out to be more of a market garden. Surrounded by a thick, head high fence of thorn tree branches and with the luxury of a permanent spring, it was a green oasis, a mini Garden of Eden, with all sorts of vegetables growing in raised beds to the front of bananas and papaya trees. The fresh produce was for those manning the control point and the nearby family settlement, which provided manpower and security for the enterprise. The not inconsiderable surplus was dried, taken back to Karoi and sold to the Spar store there.
Elephant Problems
Knowledge made us aware for the first time of the darker side of the elephant we so looked forward to seeing in a national park. Although some 15 miles or more south of the Matusadona National Park boundary, its elephants, at night and particularly during the growing season, would leave the park in search of food and raid the nearby fields and his market garden, breaking through the fencing as if it didn’t exist. After an orgy of very destructive feasting, the canny elephants would then retire to the safety of the park before dawn the next morning.

The problem of the elephants’ voracious appetite and its disastrous, life threatening implications for the communities at their mercy, particularly during times of hardship, were made plain to us when, about another twenty miles beyond the control point, we stopped at a small hilltop settlement to take photos and chat to the young family members there. Jeremy, probably in his early teens and the eldest present, explained that their parents and the rest of the adults of the extended family were away; women, productively gathering wood and food; the men brewing maize beer and productively getting drunk, or ‘falling happy’ as Jeremy called it!

He showed us around, explaining who lived where and the various purposes of the smaller huts; storage of food; stockade for the goats overnight; and so on. We discussed the harvested cobs of corn drying in the food store and the impact of elephants. Jeremy with a troubled grimace confirmed they were a problem and, with a look bordering on hatred, that the bull elephant was, ‘bad, very bad’. Continuing, he explained that the growing maize had to be guarded every night until harvested and, when an elephant was seen, the only way to deter it was to set fire to dry grass on the field’s edge, bang drums and shout. He added that if that didn’t work they would starve in the winter that followed, ‘perhaps with death’. It was unsettling to hear this young man talk about the possibility of death in such a matter-of-fact way as a natural and unavoidable, even normal, consequence; death, a spectre stalking those living on the knife edge of survival, had seemingly called on this family in the recent past.

 .Jeremy, settlement en route Matusadona NP 

Leaving Jeremy ecstatically happy with a Maersk baseball cap ..thank you Alex!.. and his younger siblings clutching Matchbox toys ..thank you Becca and Andy!.. we stopped shortly after to photograph one of the rickety wooden ‘guard towers’ that stood in most fields and from where, in the dark, the silhouette of an advancing elephants could be better seen. As we were doing so, a short middle aged man, bare foot and wearing tattered blue shorts and T shirt came from the nearby settlement and politely asked if we were alright or needed help. After we had thanked him for his concern and unable to help with his request for animal pictures, Liz asked if a kilo bag of brown sugar would be of any use as a substitute. On seeing the sugar, his wife erupted in a display of unbridled joy that was heart warming to watch; jumping up and down, her face lit by the biggest of smiles and, something we had noticed before and found a charming display of thankful pleasure, clapping her hands.
Matusadona National Park
It wasn’t until mid afternoon that we arrived at Tashinga Campsite in the Matusadona National Park. It was just perfect; on a small flat finger-like headland pointing out into Lake Kariba, waves lapped the beach and the deserted site was shaded by a collection of graceful mature trees. Out of the sky blue waters of the bays on either side of us, isolated imploring skeletal fingers of mopane trees reached heavenwards; drowning trees seeking a rescue that never came and now provided a perch for fish eagles and cormorants.
We spent two days at the campsite, alone apart for Rudolf or ‘Dolf as he preferred to be called. ‘Dolf was a bearded, wiry middle aged white Zimbabwean; once in the employ of the national parks authority, he had been recalled to run an anti poaching course for rangers at the park , home to a population of black rhino, and was in the process of setting it up. A wildlife enthusiast, he took us under his wing; warning us, if swimming, to be wary of a grumpy crocodile in the waters around the promontory; waxing lyrical about the sunsets over Lake Kariba; and imploring us to visit the Chizarira National Park, a short detour from our route and already recommended by Johannes and Anna-Marie, to see the dramatic and beautiful Mucheni Gorge.

 Did you say,'crocodile'!Lake Kariba Matusadona NP

By the time we left this tranquil lakeside setting; Liz had washed her hair in the lake using a saucepan and guarded by Peter clutching a wooden dagger-like piece of wood that probably would have disintegrated on contact with the hide of a hungry crocodile; we had been awed by the magnificence and colours of the sunsets over Kariba waters that became a sheet of light gun metal grey, only broken by the shimmering deep pink of the ripples on its surface; and we had gone on a sunrise game walk with a ranger, Gordon, who made up for the lack of game with his knowledge of animal signs, natural history and the medicinal value of the plants and trees we came across.