Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "Zimbabwe - Houseboat Heaven on Lake Kariba"

Greetings again dear web readers.  Glad to have you back on board.  June had arrived by the time we crossed the Kariba dam from Zambia into Zimbabwe. This amazing feat of engineering was completed by what was then Northern and Southern Rhodesia in the early '60s.  The result of this massive hydroelectric wonder is the artificial lake of Kariba, which straddles the two countries.  Leaving the unlucky Mark behind to do some repair work on Oscar, Jen accompanied us on the three hour ferry to the western end of Lake Kariba, where we would be staying in houseboats for two evenings.  I must admit that it was very enjoyable to sleep in a bed again, after so many weeks in a tent. And having the cooking done for you by the staff aboard proved popular as well.  The first evening, Jamie, Catherine, Bruno, Rob, Sarah, Denisse and I went canoeing on the lake.  We rowed past some crocodiles and crept up on a large group of hippos, one of the most vicious animals in all of Africa.  Our guide proceeded to tell us an enchanting fable about why the hippos spend all day long in the water, though Rob stated that he would prefer to hear the tale, charming though it was, back at the houseboat, where the beasts were at a significantly safer distance. And I have to admit that it is somewhat disquieting to be stared at by a giant hippo, who then downs periscope and disappears out of site.  These fiercely territorial animals though herbivores have been knows to overturn canoes and then proceed remove legs from hapless humans with their giant teeth.  Mother Nature laid on another magnificent red sunset for us, and the leafless trees, which sprung up out of the waters from the floor of the lake, cast long shadows over its crimson aquatic surface.  Back at the houseboats, we started to pillage the large stocks of Amarula, Malawi Gin and Zambezi and Castle beer that we had bought in the Spar supermarket in Kariba and Chris and Rob suggested a drinking game called "One Big Hen".  The point of the game is to repeat each of the following phrases consecutively without making an error or else you have to drink what's in front of you:

"One big hen - A Couple of ducks - Three brown bear - Four running hare - Five fat fickle females sitting sipping gin - Six simple Simons selling simple samples - Seven Sinbad sailors sailing the seven seas - Eight egotistical egoists echoing egotistical ectasies - Nine nymphoid nymphs nibbling gnats, nuts and nicotine - Ten: I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pheasant plucker's son, and I'm only plucking pheasants till the pheasant plucker comes!"

It's a bit like an alcoholic version of the 12 Days of Christmas, I suppose.  We were all surprisingly good at it, especially Law, though Jamie kept getting into difficulties when he started his spiel with "One Brown Duck!"  A game of charades followed where you had to act out famous personalities firsts by describing them, then with just one word and finally with just non-verbal actions.  Towards the end it got even trickier as Chris surreptitiously slipped new names into the hat.  It was great fun (especially watching the Ali G and Monica Lewinski impressions), though I would have personally preferred it if we had used more internationally and historically famous figures.  It would be more of a challenge to try to act out Archimedes, Che Guevara or Mao Tse Tung than Mr. Bean, Dirty Den or Jimmy Saville.

The next day we went on a walking safari with Craig, our white Zimbabwean guide, who reassuringly was armed with a shotgun.  We stole up on a herd of elephants and he pointed out the tracks of lions, leopards and buffalo.  Safari on foot is very different than going by motorised transport.  On feels closer to nature and increased vulnerability, and it is consequently a more memorable experience.  Leaving Lake Kariba the next morning wasn't easy, as the nature reserve there is a very relaxing place to chill out and provided a welcome break from the long travel days in Oscar.  But after another night spent lazing in the hot springs of Binga, we were well rested and ready for the adventure town that is Victoria Falls.

Gav (4 June 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "Victoria Falls - the Terminator and the Bungi jump"

Vic Falls is normally a town bustling with tourists. Consisting principally of two main streets, it has everything a tourist could want and even some things you wouldn't dare expect.  Casinos, bars, discos, souvenir stalls, t-shirt shops, markets, fast food chains, supermarkets, adventure specialists, banks, bureaux de change, post offices and cargo shipping companies.  And in the middle of all this is the campsite.  It is as if the town has been purposely built for backpackers.  However, given the negative attention the world media has been giving Zimbabwe and the current land and fuel crisis, the lucrative tourist trade has virtually dried up.  Even though we are now a thousand kilometres away from the nearest white-owned farm, Vic Falls is suffering.  People are desperate for dollars.  The rate of exchange when we entered Zimbabwe was Zim $37 to US $1.  By the time we reached Harare, we were being offered Zim $56 to the American dollar.  Therefore, this little town was alas significantly quieter than it would normally be.  On the positive side, prices for a lot of adventure sports had fallen.  Our first stop was at the Shearwater office on the main street, where we signed up for a plethora of activities: white water rafting, ballooning, elephant riding, micro-lighting, ultra-lighting, skydiving and, of course, bungi jumping.  Then it was off to Explorers bar, where I bumped into Jenny from Foxrock, who is working in Zimbabwe and is the first Irish person I've met in four months.  She then introduced me to John, another Dub, who in turn presented me to Tom, a lad from Kerry and thus it continued.  It never rains, but it pours! An easy night had to be had though, given that the next morning we were off rafting down the Zambezi.

I was so nervous about the bungi jumping I had forgotten all about the rafting.  As the rainy season had just ended, we were restricted to the lower half of the Zambezi, as there is too much water to navigate the upper half until the low waters of July or August, when the rapids really come to life.  There are two ways to descend the river in a raft.  One is by simply clinging on to the side of a raft and your guide rows; the other is where everyone rows with the guide.  The likelihood of falling into the river on the latter method is consequently much higher, so all of us, bar Ruth, being the thrill seekers me are, opted for the rowing technique.  In one boat were Rob, Sarah, Chris, Christine, Steph and Law and their guide, Charlie.  In ours were myself, Jamie, Bruno, Catherine and Jackie and our guide, Zwele.  A few other mad souls decided to body surf down the river on boogie boards.  I might try that way next time around as it looked like a lot of fun, if somewhat perilous.  I think we all pretty much loved the rafting from the word go.  In fact after a while we were all getting a little bit blasé about the whole thing.  That was before we reached rapid number 16, aka "The Terminator".  This is a Grade 5 rapid (the highest grade that can be negotiated commercially in a raft) with five metre high waves, which is split into two parts, obviously called Terminator I and Terminator II.  Rowing as if the devil himself was on our tail, our boat managed to negotiate the first half of the Terminator till we found ourselves staring down the barrel of the largest wave I have ever seen in real life.  Being at the front of the inflatable, Jamie and I never stood a chance.  One minute we're facing a wall of rolling water, the next we were being spun around under the waves as if in a washing machine.  My initial panic at having so much water crashing above my head and being totally disoriented - not even knowing which way was up - thankfully subsided and I remembered the words of the instructors; "Don't try to swim, just relax, hold your breath and let your lifejacket do its job."  And true enough I eventually popped up above the surface of the water and a safety canoe picked up both Jamie and me.  To my total surprise, our boat hadn't capsized, merely done a vertical 180° spin and then landed the right way up again. So Bruno, Jackie and Catherine (or "Tacklebury" as we have now nicknamed her) were still aboard with Zwele and had been spared the washing machine experience.  It was quite noticeable afterwards that both Jamie and I started to row as if our lives depended on it, as neither of us was keen to stage a repeat performance for the camera.  To our acute embarrassment and frustration, the other raft had survived the Terminator will its full complement of crew relatively dry.  But hand on heart, I think both Jamie and I were glad we had been ejected at least once from the boat, such was the adrenalin pumping experience of being caught under the rapids of the mighty Zambezi. Thankfully lunch was not far off and after stocking up on calories we had an enjoyable game of beach volleyball, during which I realised that I had dislocated my little finger when I was thrown overboard.  The afternoon's rafting was a much more sedate affair, with only Bruno ending up involuntarily in the water, which left the girls as the sole survivors from our group.  So once again, the ladies proved more resilient.  A 220-metre ascent up the canyon was followed by a drive back to town and a welcome bit of R&R.  In the evening, it was off to "Wild Thing" in the Kingdom to watch the video of our day's exploits and marvel at the fruit of our labours.  More hard currency was expended buying photos, t-shirts and the much in demand video.  Then it was back to the campsite for a restless night's sleep dreaming of capsizing and of hurling myself off the Victoria Falls Bridge.

Six of us (Jamie, Chris, Law, Christine, Denisse and I) had signed up to do the 111-metre bungi jump over the Zambezi (the highest natural bungi jump in the world), but the next morning, pretty much the whole crew descended onto the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe to witness the madness.  Upon first seeing the huge drop down to the river and the tiny platform from which we were planning to throw ourselves in an act of group suicide, I thought that there was no way on God's earth I was going to jump.  Chris was the only one who didn't seem to be completely scared shitless and immediately signed the disclaimer releasing the company from any blame in case of his premature demise.  There went an easy US $90. These disclaimers are never likely to encourage one to actually do the activities for which one is signing up.  But in an act of immense bravery and carefree foolhardiness, Jamie decided to go first.  We all looked on horrified and tried to shout words of encouragement as his harness was fitted and the ankle straps were applied.  Then after a brief pep talk by a guy called Washington, he was led to the edge of the platform. He spread his arms outwards and stared at the horizon.  Looking down just was not an option. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Bungi!" went the cry and with that he was gone plummeting down towards his doom.  Sarah and Laura let out an almighty scream.   Next thing we know Jamie is rebounding up again, punching the air ecstatically shouting with delight.  Chris soon followed, not launching himself off the pad as Jamie had done, merely letting himself fall, à la Goldeneye.  I was even nervous just watching their videos afterwards and had pretty much decided to chicken out, when Law exclaimed that she was going to jump.  Then Christine and Denisse quickly followed suit.  My heart fell.  I watched each of them in turn hurl themselves off the bridge and after some serious soul searching decided that I had no choice.  I just could not be the only volunteer not to bungi.

I vaguely remember singing the refrain from "The Wild Rover" over and over again, trying to inspire myself in a fit of Celtic courage.   The cry of "Viva Mexico" seemed to have worked for Denisse, so why not?  On camera (hopefully at some stage I'll be able to put the video of the jump on the web) I looked remarkably relaxed as I said "Hello - and Goodbye" to the folks at home, which is surprising as I was dying on the inside.  What little courage I had disappeared completely when, standing on the edge of the platform, Washington cried, "Wait.there's no power in the video camera."  If this was a joke, it was in the worst possible taste.  Sympathetic looks hit me from the Drago passengers perched behind the barrier.  I was returned to the seat on the platform, where Christine consoled me and convinced me that everything would be all right.  I don't know if I would have jumped if it were not for two things.  One, the fact that Law managed to overcome her very real vertigo fears and two, Christine's reassuring words on the platform and talk of seeing upside-down rainbows.  The lads got the camera working and I bounced forward again to the brink and spread my arms akimbo.  I stared down the valley gorge trying to keep my eyes off the raging water 100 metres below.  Then I heard the countdown again: "5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . Bungi!" and I left terra firma behind.

I had been so bloody long on the little flimsy bungi platform that sailing through the air almost came as a relief.  Blood rushed to my head and to my fingertips.  I held my breath.  I couldn't make a sound.  No cries of "Bansai!" or "Geronimo!" or "This one's for Ireland!"  Bhí mo chroí I mo bhéal.  Quite literally my heart was in my mouth.  Then I felt the gentle tug of the taut elastic and being pulled upwards again for a second rebound and I realised that I wasn't going to die.  And then I thanked, God, Jesus, Mohamed, my Mum and the bungi cord.  I have never felt such profound joy and relief.  And as I spun in ever decreasing circles I saw two upside down rainbows and the majestic Falls and spray from them hit my red face. It was a divine experience.  I wanted to crush the guy who abseiled down to pull me back up with happiness. I wanted to be best friends with the man on the bridge who escorted me through the maze of girders and metal channels.  And I wanted to hug the life out of my fellow bungi jumpers.  This was a bonding experience if there ever was one.  I don't know whether it was this look of pure joy on our six faces what, but something inspired Ruth to do likewise the next day and throw herself off the bridge.  And now there's talk of taking advantage of the offer of a free bunji in ten days and jumping off the bridge backwards. Maybe I'll do that too.  Maybe I won't.  It doesn't really matter at the moment for I have conquered probably the greatest fear I have and am tickled pink.  As George Clooney says in the film "Three Kings", you only feel courage after you do the things that most scare you, not before.

Once the adrenalin rush subsided, lethargy took hold. So an easy afternoon was spent on the Zambian side of the Falls looking at this aquatic marvel.  I had to wear my US army waterproof poncho; such was the volume of spray from the waterfalls.  Victoria Falls might not be the highest waterfall in the world (that's Angel Falls in Venezuela).  It might not be the widest waterfall in the world (that's in Laos).  And it might not even have the largest cubic meterage of falling water per second (that's on the Brazilian-Paraguayan border).  But it is nonetheless one of the most beautiful wonders of the world and it makes Niagara Falls look like a country stream.  Later in the afternoon we all paid US $25 to go on the notorious "booze cruise".  We had no choice really - Mark and Jen said that it was obligatory.  The motto of these Zambian fellows is that nobody has ever drunk them dry.  Christ we tried.  And I think that we must have come close given the state of utter chaos that everyone was in by the end of it all.  It had started out sedately enough, giraffe and crocodile watching. But by the time dusk had fallen, Chris was mooning passing ships and talking of naked tandem bungee jumping with myself and Steph, I was spraying Law and the girls with beer, Jackie was singing love songs and Bruno was nattering drunken gibberish in Swiss German.  Even though we had moored by the shore once again after dark, the crew of the boat continued to blast out African rhythms and sing and dance with us.  They must have been impressed with our conga skills or something, but we're heading back there for another "booze cruise" in ten days.  It should be a blast.  We then tried to remain relatively calm as we re-entered Zimbabwe and we got dropped off in "Explorers" bar where we sang Tom Jones' songs and generally made a lot of noise.  I briefly joined Bruno, Jamie and Mel for a spot of Blackjack and Roulette in the casino (where my luck deserted me as it had with Preben and Rolf in Dakar), while Rob decided to let down Sarah and Tacklebury's tents.  This was quite funny of course, but in the cold light of the next day, I thought it a less wise act of tomfoolery, given that he's my tent partner, and like Belgium, I'll no doubt be the innocent victim of any acts of revenge on the girls' part.  After some more souvenir buying and posting the next day, we finally left Vic Falls, eager to return, but relieved at least that our wallets will have a break for a week.

Gav (9 June 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "Bulawayo and Harare - Half Time"

We travelled east to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe's second city and the old Rhodesian capital, where we toured the excellent Natural History Museum and visited the Chipingali Wildlife Orphanage.  There, not only did we finally get to see white rhinos, leopards and cheetahs, but also some of us even got to touch one of the lionesses.  I found the leopards the most impressive, but the cheetahs were easily the most vicious and defensive of their personal space. Hopefully I'll have some great photos from there. They have an impressive array of animals in Chipingali, and while it is a zoo of sorts, these animals are all orphans that would not survive in the wild as they are too used to humans.  After a sweaty game of football tennis with Chris before dusk, we went for our final evening meal as a group, the last supper if you will.  I decided to wear a shirt and tie for the occasion, which was a bit too much of a taste of the real world for Jen, but it did result in me obtaining the first dance of the evening with Ruthie. It was a bit of a special evening as Rob, Sarah and Laura are leaving us in Harare, while Jackie heads off on a different trip.  But hopefully I'll get to see them all down under as Rob will be backpacking around Oz and the girls are all Australian anyway!  I really miss Rob's sense of humour and his Neil Kinnock impressions: "Lovely, lovely, lovely - Regular root beer, large fries to go", but perhaps with him not around, I'll get up to slightly less puerile mischief.  The meal in Bulawayo was really enjoyable as we polished of many bottles of Zimbabwean and South African wine (the latter is much better) and generally danced around like prats.  The vibe in our group has been really fun and while there has been the odd clique developing or the occasional argument, I think that we have pretty much got along famously.  I mean when you think about it, going on holiday with a bunch of strangers is not the most orthodox of ideas to begin with.

In Harare we stayed in the Selous Hotel on Selous Avenue (12 Euro a night each for a quadruple) and upon entry to the hotel we spotted three Scandinavian lassies sporting red and white hats with "Denmark!" emblazoned on them.  Finally we thought.  All our jibes about the Scandinavian volleyball tournament have finally borne fruit!  Not quite.  They were getting ready for the France v Denmark soccer match that afternoon.  And thus it was that Bruno, Chris, Rob, Jamie and I were introduced to the amazing Sports bar in Harare, where each table has it's own TV, where we have also met a couple of great Dutch girls and we have consequently been ensconced following the European Championships for the past few days.  I partook in a sweepstake with the lads with the grand prize of US $100.  We picked out four teams each.  I got Portugal, Italy, Yugoslavia and Denmark, so I'm not doing too badly so far, though I wish I had drawn France.  At least I didn't draw England, or I wouldn't have known what to do.  Otherwise, we have gone to the cinema once or twice and tonight we're off go carting.  I also bought a couple of albums, "Memeza" and "Nomakanjani" by a South African artiste, Brenda, who sings in Zulu.  The CD collection is, therefore, still expanding, but naturally at a much slower pace than last year.  Tomorrow, which sees the beginning of my fourth month in Africa, we'll meet up with our five new passengers and we'll begin the second half of our journey.  To keep with the football metaphors, at this rate, I'm already looking forward to "extra time", when hopefully I'll be "over the moon" and not "as sick as a parrot".  And you can rest assured that I'll keep you all well informed if I score a "Golden Goal".  Till the next time in a couple of weeks, keep well, keep in contact and keep logging on.

Gav (14 June 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "Matobo Hills,Zimbabwe - The Lessons of History"

Greetings again web fans and apologies for my prolonged absence from the global keyboard.  I have finally arrived in Capetown in South Africa and am a bit burnt out, having spent a succession of late nights saying many a fond farewell to my fellow Dragoman passengers.  The time has now come to pull the brake chord, take a breath and try to recount what the hell I've been up to since I left Harare.  What follows is that story.

The five new passengers turned out to be four, each and every one male, none Scandinavian, and all with dubious volleyball skills.  Steve and John from Sydney came to replace all the Aussies who had left in the trip in Harare.  Rick, from Pennsylvania, doubled the American presence, while Jon Lane (or "Enal Noj" as we Christened him to avoid confusion with Australian John) from Bedford made sure that the English maintained their numerical superiority aboard Oscar. Jen took the helm as we said adieu to Marky Mark.  Her new able assistant is Duncan (aka "Dolly", as he used to work for Virgin Airways as a hostie) from London. Dolly, co-driving on his first Drago outing, got off to an auspicious start by slapping on some Morcheba on the stereo and by handing me a copy of the latest issue of FHM, complete with a pullout on the 100 Sexiest Women in the World.  He can obviously recognise a crestfallen man in need of serious distraction.  We left the Selous Hotel in Harare and said goodbye to its mad waiter, who kept exclaiming, "Yes please!" anytime we ordered food or drink from him, and we spent a bitterly cold night camping on the outskirts of the Zimbabwean capital.  The highlight of the first night of renewed revelry had to be witnessing Bruno strip down to his smalls and dance on the tables of the "Backpackers and Overlanders" bar with a couple of drunken female truck drivers.  He then staggered back to the warmth of his unnaturally cosy sleeping bag, while the rest of us froze in our tents.  Winter had suddenly arrived in southern Africa and with a newly shaven head, I felt it more than most.

The next morning we made the journey back to Bulawayo, content in the most part to be back on the road again. The following dawn saw another early rise as we went on safari in the Matobo National Park, not far from the city.  Ken and Ian Harmer, a father and son, who run a company called "African Wanderer", picked us up in two elongated jeeps, complete with a seat in front of the bonnet for tracking game.  Ian (aka "Stretch" due to his tall size) emphasised the fact that he and his father were guides and not drivers.  This soon became very apparent as he started to talk. Zimbabwean guides must train for seven years before they gain accreditation and are widely acknowledged as the finest in Africa.  Ian was not only able to track game through examining footprints and droppings, but he also explained how each animal fitted into its environment.  He made a very convincing case for the legal sale of ivory from culled elephants and rhino horn, so that the money thus earned could then be ploughed back into conservation and the rug could be pulled out from under the feet of the poachers.  In the Matobo National Park they still kill five to seven poachers every month, not to mention those who surrender when caught in the act.  Unless southern Africa is allowed to adopt a more proactive conservation policy and is no longer required to be held to ransom by East African countries like Kenya and Tanzania, who refuse to allow the sale of legal ivory, then the medicine men of China and other oriental countries will ensure the extinction of the black rhino within a decade.

Ian is one of those quietly spoken men who can hold people captive with his words.  The passion he feels for his work is contagious.  He took us to see some ancient paintings made by the Khoisan people (or "Bushmen" as they are often known).  If you have been watching the news recently, you will no doubt have seen and heard the mad Zimbabwean despot Robert Mugabe ranting on about the land issue and how the white man has stolen the land of southern Africa from the black man.  What the great dictator of course neglects to mention is how the black man stole the very same land from southern Africa's indigenous population, the Bushmen.  The sole human habitants of southern Africa for 200,000 years, the Bushman is quite unique. Both physically and in the way that he lives in total harmony with the environment.  With skin of a light brown hue, he is able to survive for days on end eating nuts and berries or indeed without any food at all.  When a Bushman does kill an animal, he and his family can eat for hours on end, only stopping to sleep.  Excess fat is stored in the buttocks and at the end of a long feeding session, it is said that one could almost balance a tea tray on a Bushman's behind - presuming one had a spare tea tray handy that is. Ian explained how a Bushman would always share what he has with a stranger.  Lying, stealing, profiteering and gathering material possessions are completely alien to them.  If a hungry Bushman comes across a tree with say, six berries, he will take no more than three, as he is always conscious of the fact that another person or animal might need to feed from the same bush.  A Bushman will never take more than what his surrounding environment can provide. Unfortunately over the last 500 years since the arrival of black Bantu-speaking peoples from West and Central Africa, followed by European settlers, the Khoisan have been progressively pushed into harsher and drier areas of the continent.  They have done their best to adapt to the parched climates of the Kalahari Desert, having been forced out of everywhere else, and it is now really only in Namibia where their numbers remain in any way significant.  Ian was pessimistic for the long-term survival of these shy unassuming nomads, and by the time he had finished speaking about their shameful plight, we were all nearly in tears.  Both black Africans and white Europeans, not to mention greedy American companies in search of minerals and precious stones, are responsible for the dwindling numbers of Bushmen.  The extinction of the Khoisan as a people is a distinct possibility, unless attitudes to this indigenous race soon change for the better.

We left the site of the cave drawings suitably sober and also impressed by Ian's ability to imitate all the clicking sound of the Bushman's tongue, easily one of the most complex languages spoken by man.  While driving along and discussing at length the current political crisis in Zimbabwe, Ian also managed to spot a couple of white rhinos several hundred metres away. I don't know how he succeeded in doing this, as we couldn't even see them with our binoculars.  So we alighted from our vehicle to take a closer look and observe the two mighty beasts grazing.  Fortunately, wide-mouthed white rhinos are a lot more docile than their smaller solitary browsing cousins, the hooked-lip black rhinos, which along with hippopotami are generally regarded as the most dangerous animals in all of Africa.  Back on the trail again we viewed a little klipspringer browsing up high on one of the ancient rocks, before arriving at the Matobo Hills themselves, where the grave of Cecil John Rhodes (1853-1902) is situated.  Ken and Ian talked at length to us about the man after whom this country used to be called.  Coming from a liberal European background, I was keen to hear the point of view of people whose families had lived in this part of the world for generations.  For in these politically correct times, people are not inclined to speak of this remarkable fellow in glowing terms.  You certainly won't hear Mugabe's cronies in the Shona-led Zanu P.F. saying anything positive about Rhodes.  What can't be denied, however, is that Rhodes, whatever his motives, was a highly intelligent and industrious chap.  Founder of the De Beers Company and consequently a self-made multi-millionaire by his early twenties, he was able to purchase the Kimberley diamond mines in 1887 for 5 million pounds sterling.  Three years later, at the ripe old age of 37, he was elected Prime Minister of the Cape Colony.  By developing trade and establishing new gold and diamond mines to the north in pursuit of his dream to construct a British railroad all the way from the Cape to Cairo, he managed to secure British control of what is now Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Malawi.  He was a fearless peacemaker between the British and the Ndebele, never fearing to journey into hostile territory unarmed to negotiate a settlement. Rhodes' life was anything but orthodox, especially when one considers that he had six heart attacks during his brief lifetime and was only given six months to live after he left college.  As we sat beneath a colossal stone and brass monument, dedicated to a column of British soldiers massacred by the Ndebele, whom were themselves fleeing from the relentless advance of Crown forces, listening to Ken and Ian conversing about the founder of Rhodesia, one could just feel the history everywhere in the hills. Often we make the error of judging historical figures through 21st century value system.  This is a mistake.  We should not apply our current beliefs and morals when trying to objectively assess the worth of a figure that died almost a century ago.  Rhodes was a complex man.  Ambitious, cunning, perhaps even ruthless when required.  By our present day standards he was a racist.  But the idea that the black man and the white man are equal in the eyes of God and should be treated accordingly would have been a very radical viewpoint in the empire building days of the late 19th century.  For all his faults, and there were many, Rhodes was nonetheless a patriot and a visionary.  A driven man, who firmly believed his actions were for the good of not only his country, but ultimately wound prove beneficial to the local populations with whom he came into contact.  True, this latter point proved largely unsuccessful and eventually led to an inexcusably unequal division of wealth between black and white Rhodesians.  However, the fact still remains that when his body was placed beneath the earth of Matobo Hills, several thousand Ndebele, the traditional enemy of the British, gathered by his grave and cried out in praise of Rhodes, a person they viewed as a great man and a noble adversary.  To this day no other European has ever been honoured in this traditional Ndebele way.

As we left Ken and Ian and returned to our campsite, my head was still full of questions.  This morning was for me the highlight of the trip so far.  It had engendered an acute sense of historical perspective and insight in me, something which not even my trips to the Slave House on Gorée Island or tour of the Stone Town on Zanzibar had instilled.  I did not know it then, but the hours spent with the African Wanderers learning about the local flora and fauna, the Khoisan, the Ndebele, the Shona, the British, Rhodes, Ian Smith and Robert Mugabe, would be the last time on the trip that I would feel thus, as if I was actually living history.

Gav (18 June 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "Victoria Falls,Zimbabwe - The Second Coming"

We headed back to Victoria Falls, this time with even fewer tourists, though the guys from Shearwater were still there, keen to lessen my dollar burden. Obligingly I decided to take an elephant ride with a giant African elephant called Marula.  My guide, Temba, showed me how to ride, give instructions to, feed and even play football with Marula.  African elephants, unlike their Indian counterparts, are not normally domesticated, but the group owned by the Elephant Company were orphans who would have been culled had they not been tamed and taught to not fear humans.  My return leg to the Zambezi also saw myself, Christine, Denisse and Jamie doing a second 111-metre bungi jump, this time backwards.  As Jamie said "The only reason I'm doing this is because it's free and I'm Scottish".  Why I put myself through all that worry and anxiety again, I don't rightly know, but I suppose the fact that it wouldn't further strain my wallet played a part.  The feeling of leaping backwards is quite different from a forward jump. Initially it was more scary as one moment I was standing on the metal platform with me heels dangling over the edge, the next all the people on the bridge suddenly become very small.  I left my stomach somewhere mid air and the picture of my face, now immortalised on video, reflected what the bungi guys describe as the look one makes when one feels one is about to die.  However, jumping backwards, you don't get the head rush and perhaps because it was my second jump, I didn't have the same tingly feeling all over of blood and adrenaline coursing through my veins. Furthermore, to be rebounding the right way up and to be hanging in a sitting position, is a lot less disorientating than dangling upside-down by one's ankles.  To complete my adventures with vertigo and the Zambezi, I took a scenic flight over the Falls with Bruno, Jamie, Catherine and Ruth.  The view was every bit as spectacular as I had imagined it would be, as a series of rainbows shadowed our path over the thundering waters.  From up on high is truly the best way to view this natural wonder.

The remainder of our stay in Zimbabwe passed quickly. When not riding large indigenous mammals, jumping off bridges or climbing in light aircraft, I found time to glue my ears to my short wave radio, in search of news from the BBC World Service about the farm occupations and the run up to the Zimbabwean general election. Well aware that the media tends towards hype and exaggeration, I have to tell you that during our stay in Zimbabwe, we met only hospitable and friendly people, keen to welcome us and to portray a positive image of their country.  For whatever their skin colour, black, white or brown, Zimbabweans are rightly proud of their little corner of the world.  It is a beautiful country and I hope that in time they will get the leaders and government they deserve, so that prosperity and safety for all will return to this fine African land.

Gav (21 June 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: June 2000 - "The Okavango Delta, Botswana - Pole to Pole"

After having spent three weeks in Zimbabwe, it was good to be crossing borders again, especially as the Botswanan customs officials were so courteous. However, several kilometres along the road a barrier, at which our footwear was disinfected for fear of foot and mouse disease, stopped us and we were forced by the authorities to eat all our dairy products and cook our meat there and then.  With stomachs churning at a rate of knots, we made for Chobe National Park, where we played our first game of beach volleyball since my birthday in Malawi.  The following cold early morning saw our open-topped safari jeep, captained by a young gentleman worryingly called "Rambo", nearly keeling over on it's side, as Rambo tried to live up to his name synonymous with near death.  Sufficiently woken from our slumber, we managed to spot many springboks, a pride of lions, including a male munching on a freshly killed baby elephant, and a huge herd of buffalo, the like of which I have not seen since I sat through Kevin Costner's "Dances with Wolves".  In the sunny afternoon, we set off on an excellent boat safari, during which we came across yellow crocodiles sunbathing, hippos chilling out in the Chobe River and several elephants fighting and rolling around in the mud.  Got talking to a friendly Jewish girl called Tal, who had spent three years working in the Israeli army.  Had a few beers aboard, but fortunately things didn't follow the path of the booze cruise and degenerate into total mayhem.  There's only so much total mayhem a body can handle.

The next day we set off for the little town of Maun, gateway to the Okavango Delta and another world.  The Delta is formed by the Okavango River, which rises in Angola, crosses the Caprivi Strip in Namibia and then spreads out in thousands of waterways over the flat plains of Botswana.  We divided ourselves among five light aircraft to make the 45-minute flight from Maun to the village of Seronga, in the heart of the Delta. Jamie and I flew together safe in the knowledge that should anything unforeseen happen to our plane, we had all the food with us and if nothing else, we wouldn't go hungry!  We brought no alcohol with us as we decided that this would be the perfect time for a few days of self-enforced relax max and detox.  The journey provided an excellent birds-eye view of the Delta and some excellent photo opportunities.  Once in Seronga we met the environmentally friendly guys from the Okavango Polers' Trust, that's "poler" as in a man with a big stick, as opposed to bears of the arctic variety.  Each poler owns his own mokoro, which is basically a long canoe traditionally made from wood, but is nowadays more likely to be constructed from fibreglass, which is both lighter and more manoeuvrable and also saves trees from the woodcutter's axe.  Travel by mokoro is heaven itself. Not even the gondolas of Venice come close.  As Jim and myself lay on our backs in the mokoro, warm sun on our faces, Poussa, our poler, calmly pushed the dugout along through the long reeds of the inland waterways, past water lilies and beautiful wild flowers.  It really is the only way to travel.  Within a matter of minutes our convoy of canoes was home to 17 peacefully dozing overlanders.  We stopped along the way for a refreshing swim, before arriving at our bush camp, where I nearly got to sleep with Law and Steph, only for one of the polers to miraculously produce an extra tent.  Bugger!  I mustn't have bribed them enough!

The next day we went on a walking safari, though disturbingly our guide lacked a firearm of any description and was a man of few words.  Occasionally he'd point to the earth and announce "Warthog Shit!" then, he'd continue through the neck-high reeds and long grasses.  Despite the protective fencing, buffalo were alas nowhere to be seen.  Nonetheless, we did manage to locate a herd of zebra and catch a fleeting glimpse of a couple of reed bucks, while some spur-winged geese flew overhead.  We all went for another afternoon swim, Chris amusing the non-Mexican contingent by throwing Denisse into an icy pool.  I imagine the waters of the Gulf of Mexico are a touch warmer.  Noj simultaneously entertained and frustrated us all with a series of annoying riddles that would test a "Krypton Factor" champion.  We spent hours trying to figure out how to help three vicars to avoid getting eaten by three cannibals, turning on and off imaginary light switches, balancing imaginary ball bearings and getting the four lads from U2 across a bridge in 17 minutes, so that they wouldn't be late for a concert.  Noj must have misspent his youth in many a bar - not drinking alcohol, just attending pub quizzes.  The few days we spent in the Delta without electricity and with rudimentary toiletry facilities were definitely a break from the norm.  If you are the peace loving, Eco-friendly, country bumpkin type of tourist, you'll love the quiet pleasures of the Okavango Delta, even if the price of a trip there is kept high so as to discourage too many budget travellers.  Being more of a creature comforts, bright lights, big city kind of guy, I was quite happy to arrive back in Seronga and raid the peculiarly named "Overseas Liquor Restaurant", which is actually a bar that looks like a small supermarket!  And after a final evening around the campfire playing Hearts and Ri-ki-ki and listening to some of the ladies singing old songs from their days in the girl guides, I was happy enough to be whisked away down the river to Sepopa in the James Bondesque speedboats, where we rejoined Jen, Dolly and Oscar.

Spent a final freezing night in Xanagas on the border with Namibia, when Bruno and myself cooked up another treat of grilled tomatoes stuffed with garlic, onions, basil, oregano and melted cheese, before I finally slept with a couple of melons!  Yes indeed, those pranksters extraordinaires, Chris and Dolly, had concealed a fine selection of hard large fruits under my tent, while I was slaving over a hot stove. However, divine retribution came justly and swiftly the next morning when Chris struck a water pipe with one of his tent pegs and flooded his gear, as he vainly tried to block the hole with.the very same melons he had placed under my tent.  Nice one.  Big up the Big Fella upstairs!  And with that we left the waterlogged campsite at Xanagas and departed from Botswana.  Though we didn't know it at the time, we had just left real Africa behind for the last time.

Gav (29 June 2000)