Hayestack

Though Sally had stated that she had come to see us and not Namibia, our first expedition took us eastward towards Katima, Zambia and the Victoria Falls. We stopped overnight at the campsite at Nunda, a favourite of ours that overlooked the Kavango River and where we had heard the grunts of carousing hippos at dawn and dusk. If you want to make a campfire make sure you have a Girl Guide or a Scout with you. Sally made blazing infernos with just a few little sticks.

The border crossing to Zambia at Katima was confusing and I’m still not sure what happened. You need to have certain documents and pay certain amounts of money. The guards at the Namibian border took a certificate out of the hire car’s documentation and let us through. We drove to the Zambian border and looked for the control post. There didn’t seem to be one. There would surely be one around the next corner, or the next. There wasn’t. We were practically in Livingstone, the town next to Victoria Falls, by the time we realised we had missed the control post. So, there we were, illegal immigrants in a foreign country which didn’t seem to like the British (nor the Americans) particularly since the visa charges for us were so high. If we were stopped at a police checkpoint we could be deported or even imprisoned. Fortunately, we didn’t meet any and survived the trip.

The Jolly Boys Backpackers was our overnight stop. This was a sprawling hostel for, mostly young, budget conscious travellers who didn’t mind too much about their surroundings. The tiered camping greens were ideal for us as we were there for only one night. Our site had easy access to the kitchen where Georgina spent most of the evening hunting and squashing cockroaches. We drove to the Zambeze Falls Hotel and watched an interesting play directed by a Canadian woman which depicted the harshness of life growing up in Africa. It had everything, the poverty, the mobile phones, the chaotic education, the disease and corruption. It neatly fitted our experiences of Africa. The Zambeze Falls Hotel , with it’s lighting and plush decoration, was like a Disney Theme Park. It must be where the millionaires stayed. Livingstone, the Zambian town dedicated to Victoria Falls tourists, was bustling but shabby. There was no sign of the huge amount of money tourists had brought to the town. Admittedly, the 10 kilometres to the Falls was being tarmaced, but even this was probably being financed by some generous international organisation as are most things in Africa. The main money often lines the pockets of politicians and other government officials. The local underprivileged certainly don’t see it.

The Victoria Falls are truly stunning and surely one of the most breath-taking sights in all Africa. A path takes you along the cliff edge to see the waterfall on the opposite bank, and allow yourself to be enveloped in the mist that rises from the cascading water if you don’t mind getting wet. The sparkling rainbows produced are magnificent. Baboons roam the area scavenging food from the bins and mugging tourists holding carrier bags. A large baboon grabbed Georgina’s bag sending the contents flying over the ground. Unfortunately for the animal, the bag contained no food, just bottled water and reading books, which, apparently did not appeal to the baboon’s literary tastes. It would, no doubt, have been more interested in “Food for Free” or “How to Mug a Tourist”. Incensed at this unwarranted attack I waved Georgina’s expanding umbrella at the mugger. The metal rod expanded more than expected, launching its main body at the baboon not unlike a missile. Badly aimed, it fell harmlessly to the ground, but gave the baboon a moment of concern.

The descent to the “Devil’s Boiling Pot was slow and arduous. At one point, the jungle became so thick we nearly needed machetes. The path had been washed away by a fast flowing stream halfway down which meant we had to paddle across a stream. A couple of enterprising locals sat on a log leasing flip flops and other water proof footwear for the crossing. We eventually reached the Devil’s Boiling Pot and the pleasure at the views was only marred by the thought of having to make the return, steep climb.

If the Falls is a noisy, raging torrent, then the Zambezi, just before it reaches the cliff edge is an oasis of calm. You can even swim in the Angel Pools, but getting to them involves a crab-like progress along a thin concrete ledge submerged just below the water line. You can hold the hand of a guide as you make this perilous journey and we watched one group of three people, wondering if they would put a foot wrong, drag each other into the river and be swept over the Falls. No such luck.

The authorities let you into the town of Livingstone for free, but you have to pay to get out. This was similar to our experience in the Czech Republic where all foreign cars were fined by the police just before reaching the border on the pretext of speeding. It was a routine matter. There was a queue of us waiting to give the cop the remains of our Czech currency. The Zambians don’t make you out to be criminals. They just stop visitors at a road block and ask for road tax. This wouldn’t be so laughable if the roads were in a decent state of repair. I wondered whose pocket my contribution would ultimately be lining. Having said that, however, we did see some road repairs on the way to Victoria Falls, but I think the two men actually working wouldn’t be finished for some time.

Meanwhile, lurking in the back of my mind was the idea that we didn’t have visas. Surely, the officials wouldn’t mind if we paid on the way out rather than on the way in? It was not so easy to leave the country as to enter it. A guard waved us to the emigration building, which was down the road in the wrong direction and obscured by some trees. A burly emigration officer sat behind a long counter and listened to our explanation as if we were confessing to murder. “This is a very serious offence,” he said at last. I could almost hear the prison door slamming behind me. “But a lot of people do it,” he continued. His manner lightened considerably. It will be different when our new office is built nearer the border. I should give you a big fine, but I’m letting you off.” I had the feeling he said this to everyone. “But the custom officers might want to fine you.” He pointed down the corridor. Now we were in for it. We hadn’t paid the duty for importing the car. A group of young Spanish speakers arguing with one of the two customs ladies seemed to have the same problem. The tourists grumbled and looked angry as they handed over a thick wad of note. I don’t know what the Spanish is for “It’s a bleedin’ rip-off” is but I’m sure that was what they were saying. sin her book and quoted a figure, about the cost of a cheap box of wine, hardly anything at all. Was this just a figure she had conjured up? We still had enough money for fuel. We paid up and got out of there before she could change her mind.

Getting back into Namibia was more problematic. When we had left Namibia the policeman had demanded the car’s export certificate which was stapled to the car’s log book. He said we would get it back when we returned. Now, a policewoman was demanding another certificate to allow us back into the country. We tried to explain that we needed our certificate back but, though her English was pretty good, we didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength. I’ve noticed that when speaking to other Namibians. They can have a good command of English. I know what the individual words mean, but when they join them up in sentences the meaning dissipates like early morning mist. I can be in the middle of a conversation with a very friendly Namibian not having a clue what we’re talking about. This can be unnerving.

So, there we were, trying to get back into Namibia, at odds with a policewoman and her male backup, about who should give whom a certificate. Sally and I were becoming more heated, the police adamant, but looking distinctly uncomfortable. The policewoman wanted us to give her a document stuck to our windscreen. We refused. We were all confused and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Somehow, the matter seemed to resolve itself, probably, as usually happens, with an exchange of money. I don’t remember. What I do remember is driving away, giving the policewoman a smile and a cheery wave as she waved back, still looking distinctly bemused.

We spent that night at a campsite in Katima Mulilo at the very end of the Caprivi panhandle overlooking the Zambezi River. It was clean and spacious with just a handful of other campers. As the light faded, we sat listening to the mournful wailing of hippos in the river. The guard came around advising everyone to put all outside accessories into our tents as Zambian marauders paddle over from the opposite bank to steal portable valuables. We put the few things we had in our tents and tried to sleep soundly.

Our journey to Kisora took us on a short safari through the Queen Elizabeth National Park.We could see elephants in the distance and many water bucks, kobs, water buffalo, hippos and gibbons. But we were disappointed not to see zebras and giraffes in particular.  We were told the recent rain had sent many animals deeper into the bush (where they kept their umbrellas, no doubt).  However, a driver stopped to tell us where we could see lions eating a water buffalo.   Moses’ eyes lit up at this and he became very excited.  He really wanted to see a lion eating a buffalo and we shot off at great speed.   We reached the place before the lions had finished their breakfast.  One female ate while the others stood guard.  We warily climbed out of the car to get a better view.  Suddenly, a lion’s head popped up from the grass uncomfortably close by.  Moses reached for the thin twig he had picked to ward off attacking lions.  I didn’t fancy his chances with this, though he did use it later on, very effectively, to shoo off little boys who were coming too close to the car to beg.

The road from Kabale to Kisora was appalling.  The word “road” is a ludicrous exaggeration for that dirt track with ruts in it the size of the Grand Canyon.  Huge articulated lorries carrying petrol thundered along sending up clouds of dust and thick, blue diesel fumes while we picked our way between the crevasses,  fearful that the back axle was about to drop off.   Moses stopped to examine the back of the car.  “What’s up?” we asked.  “There’s a strange noise.”  There was a strange noise. He jumped back in the car and resumed the switchback ride strangely unconcerned.  We, however, were haunted by that noise all the way to Kisoro and back knowing that the nearest RAC man was at least 4,000 miles away.    The noise mysteriously disappeared when we hit tarmac again.  But sometimes, when dusk falls and the night is still, I can hear that strange noise taunting me from afar.

It had taken 2 hours to travel 50 miles and our internal organs were playing musical chairs.  My knuckles hadn’t been so white since a ride on Disney’s Space Mountain, where the drops weren’t so sheer and I had never thought I might actually die.

The fading light didn’t improve the feeling of gloom and depression that hung in the air over Kisoro.   The poverty seemed no worse than anywhere else, the rubbish tips were just the same, the shops just as drab.  Huge chunks of meat for sale hung outside the butchers’ shops to collect dust and flies just as anywhere else in Uganda.  It was probably the sight of these that gave us our first and enduring bout of diarrhoea.  I apologise for this subject.  It’s a bit like vomit.  I didn’t want to bring it up.  We were very particular about hygiene and washed our hands every time we saw a toilet.  We had bottles of ant-bacterial gel and were careful what we ate. We certainly didn’t eat the gel.  Sometimes we were caught unawares, such as by  the shredded goat meat on the avocado that was hidden under a dollop of 1000 island dressing ( They had, obviously, forgotten to remove  a cess pit from one of the islands before they made the dressing).    I suspect the currency is a great transmitter of disease.   The bacteria on some of the filthy brown notes was probably the only thing holding them together.

The television in the hotel room that night had only 1 channel.  Previously we had had 3,  namely 2 football channels and an African soap much like Neighbours only much slower and worse acting.  Boy was it bad?   I mentioned this lack of choice ( i.e. football or off) to the porter who said he could change the channel from reception.  Which did I want BBC or CNN?   Either would be fine.  A few minutes later the screen flickered and the channel changed to rugby football.  I gave up, exercised choice and switched off.

The Ugandans are crazy about football, especially the English Premier League.  They wear the strips and know who all the footballers are, like er, (who do I know?) Oh, yes, David Beckham.  Slogans painted on their vehicles such as “Jesus lives” and “God is Great” rub shoulders with “Arsenal” and Man. Utd”.  (see Gallery)

There is one good thing about Kisoro.  It’s near the Rwandan border where petrol is a lot cheaper.  Uganda has abolished Road Fund Duty and placed it on petrol.  Our hotel wasn’t in a good location, though, being next to a disco that raved until the early hours.  This was complemented a bit later by the Muslim call to prayer.  All that was missing was a cock crowing.  No, I spoke too soon.  There it goes….. cock-a-doodle-do.  What joy.

Mweya Safari Lodge has been dubbed the “Sheraton in the Bush” and is a popular resort with Royalty, Presidents, Pop Stars and us. It was our only night of sheer, unadulterated luxury and we should have been ashamed of ourselves, except that we enjoyed it so much.  We could only stay one night because it cost an arm and a leg, or it would have done if we’d fallen into the adjacent lake, which contained crocodiles.  From the al fresco restaurant you had magnificent views over Lake George and a wild-life watering hole with its many water buffalos and hippos.  The bird life was profuse with pretty yellow birds flying around the restaurant entertaining the diners.  Sally noticed an elephant with only one tusk at the waterhole having an early morning drink.  As it moved off, she and Georgina tracked its progress through the undergrowth.  I lost it amongst the bushes.  “See the dark line of trees?  Go up to the dark patch of brown about three-quarters of the way up to the ridge, the go along to the dead tree by the big rock and down to the light patch of brown.  No, not there.  You’re looking in the completely wrong place….…”  Georgina might as well have been talking to a blind man.  The elephant could have been standing three metres in front of me and I probably would not have seen it.  I gave up, feeling dejected and completely “out of the loop”.

A child had left a gaudily painted, plastic lizard on the pool decking, probably as a practical joke to scare the sunbathers.  You could tell it was a toy as the colours were so garish.  Then, it shot off and hid under the decking just like the real thing.  Those Chinese are so clever.

“Can I jump in the water, Mommy?  Can I?  I want to jump in the water, Mommy.  Can I?  Can I jump in the water?”   For two pins I would have put down my book and pushed in the annoying little girl myself.  She jumped in anyway, whether her Mommy allowed it or not.

The boat trip took us to have a closer look at the watering hole.  Every passenger was given a life-jacket.  “Don’t worry,” said the guide.  “We haven’t had an accident in twenty-one years.”  Then, he proceeded to tell us that hippos habitually put their trotters on the side of a boat, tip it up and sink their teeth into the beleaguered swimmers.  They were the most dangerous of African animals, killing more humans than lions, tigers, elephants etc.  I noticed that most people had put on their life-jackets.  We passed a small fishing village on the top of the ridge.  “It’s often attacked,” said the guide.  “Lions, elephants.  A young boy was recently attacked by a hyena.  Hyena, there’s a thing. It doesn’t kill you outright.  It starts eating you, then you die.”  One young woman was looking decidedly green.  The guide invited questions.  “Are there any chameleons around here?”  I asked.

As we sat back after dinner in the restaurant, dreaming of colonial days, there was a flash of lightning and the lights went out.   I bet this doesn’t happen when the Queen visits, I thought.  She was due in November and the hotel was in the process of building a new lodge for her.  In the lightning flashes a large bat could be seen flapping around the room.  And the lights came on.  You could only admire the stiffness of the British upper lip as this huge bat fluttered around peoples’ heads.  No-one batted an eye-lid.  If we had stood up en masse and sung the first verse of Rule Britannia, I would not have been surprised.  One felt prooouuud to be British, old boy.

I did my own big-game hunting that night and bagged 5 mosquitoes lurking in my bathroom.   I looked them straight in the eye and squashed the little blighters before they could attack.  It was a near thing with the big, bull mozzie, which had got the wind up and was nearly upon me.  But my nerve held and gave it both rolled up newspapers right between the eyes.  Unfortunately, the damage was too great or I would have had it stuffed and mounted on my wall.   Shucks.