Kisswell and all the animals

Finn and Fredi invited us to their rival backpacker establishment, Jolly Boys for a vegan dinner one night.  I was eager to see Jolly Boys with its reputation for rowdiness, and we were to have guacamole and bean tortillas. It promised well.  In the event Jolly Boys was as serious and sober as our Fawlty Towers though a dash more stylish, with lovely African cushions everywhere and sunken conversation pit.  It was easy to imagine sprawling bodies and merriment going on in there and initially it seemed a very suitable place for us to take our bottles and glasses and toddler, because we thought he wouldn’t be able to get out and we’d be able to  carouse responsibly.  In fact the pit became a challenge to which Caiden quickly rose and we took it in turns to pursue him when he escaped, and to catch him when he made leaps from the edge on to the cushions below.  But in between all this we booked ourselves a trip into the national park for early next day.

It was dark when we met up before dawn to catch our minibus to the national park. “Holidays are not meant to be easy” said Eddy looking around our slightly hung over and chilly  group.  Then our fresh as a daisy leader arrived and greeted us. He had warm happy eyes and one black tooth.  He was all energy and announced in a rather childlike way. “My name is Kisswell” he said “Because I kiss very nicely”  He emanated joy in himself and did us all good.  Later he held a cranky Caiden who immediately shut up.  “My magic hands” he told us smiling.  

He was a good ranger and drove our big land rover along the pathways brushing against tough bushes.  We saw delicate little kutu first- deerlike creatures whose cutlets sometimes feature on menus in town.  Then there was a pair of warthogs, mother and child, The adult had two digging tusks and a tail that went perpendicular when she ran – absurd and charming with a tuft on top so the baby could see her.  We saw lots of impala, elegant and perfect in their groups with MacDonalds curved ems on their rumps.; two stripes on each side of the bum with the tail making the middle post.

The great Zambezi river was never far from us and monitors basked in he sun beside its racing current.  There were zebras, quintessential zoo animals and just what you’d expect.  Monkeys, we saw all over the place and they were  not at all what you’d expect.  Boundlessly impudent they invaded the jeep and stole the sugar bowl from us when we were having a cup of tea made by Kisswell.  One stood upright on his hind legs exposing a white tummy and, with his long arms and legs, looked a hair’s breadth away from being human - of perhaps a depraved type, but I only thought that after the sugar bowl incident.

There were bison too and they seemed heavy and tranquil but Kiswell told us they were very dangerous. “Look” he said and just began to open the jeep door.  One huge bull swung its head round and glowered at us with narrow eyes. 

We only saw one other vehicle in the park and Kisswell went over to talk to the driver.  We were stopped at the time and so I hailed the two passengers who were middle aged but dressed like boy scouts with knotted yellow kerchiefs round their necks.  They were from Bulgaria and a bit melancholy I thought.

Kisswell came back and said “Now you must not be afraid.  Some rangers are coming and they have guns but not for you.  They are protecting the white rhinos and they have agreed to show them to us.  We must go in single file and if we do that we will come back safely.“

Sure enough three rangers appeared out of the trees with machine guns slung over their shoulders.  They didn’t seem particularly relaxed but maybe that was because escorting tourists to the rhinos in return for tips was not in their job description.  Our diplomatic Kisswell had negotiated this for us.  We did as instructed and quietly went along in single file until we came quite close to a group of grazing white rhinos bearing their precious aphrodisiac horns under the watchful eyes of the rangers.  One was very pregnant with ten of her sixteen months now passed.

On our return journey we passed an opening in the trees with two rows of stone slabs side by side.  We were told it was an old graveyard for white men. I asked to stop and look as graveyards are always a bit special as indeed this one was.  Only some of the graves were identified and all their occupants were pathetically young.   I felt particularly sad for the anonymous slabs and wondered who those poor boys were – missionaries perhaps or fortune-seekers all prey to malaria and yellow fever.

We drove back to Livingstone nevertheless uplifted by all the animals and the determination to keep them safe.  I happened to be wearing my old Tasmanian Tiger tee shirt and I pointed to one of them on it and told the sad story of the thalacyne to Kisswell – how even as late as 1900 the strange creatures could be found in Tasmania but bounties for their pelts had led to their extinction.  Things are much better here, I said.”

“Yes” said Kisswell, “I love my job.”

Fawlty Towers and the Victoria Falls

The moment we stepped out of the plane in Zambia it felt different. The ground staff were joking away in their own language and it felt like we were at last on holiday, ordinary tourists welcome to have a good time and wonder at the Victoria Falls and bungy jump if we liked.  There were trips up the Zambezi to be had – the Sunrise cruise and the Sunset cruise quite blatantly advertised as “the Booze cruise” with its open bar and the catchcry “The more you drink the more you see”.  This unjudgmental hedonism was a huge relief to us and we were in a merry mood.

Finn and Fredi had gone on ahead of us to Jolly Boys, and our backpackers, Fawlty Towers sent a truck to pick us up.  We three plus Caiden hopped up into the back and trundled into Livingstone looking hopefully for wildlife along the way but seeing swollen hotels and little shacks and eventually the slightly shabby town with its wide brown main street and clusters of commercial enterprises.  Rather startlingly a garishly painted steel wall on one side of the street was hauled back for us and we were driven into the forecourt of our hostel to which I took an immediate liking.  On the walls of the reception area were framed photos of John Cleese and his team with two African warriors inserted at the back.  Somehow, though, it looked as if it had been there a long time and the joke had been superseded by this new Fawlty Towers just the way it was. The stolen name had been reconfigured.  Fawlty Towers was now known as comfy and generous. There were leather sofas and a bar with free coffee and tea and if you happened to be around at 11am a free pancake as well.  There was an icy little swimming pool with tables at which travelers clustered drinking beer and looking at their phones.  There were nice cats everywhere.

I had a pretty little room looking out on the big grassy area with a mosquito netted bed occupying most of it.  At first I loved the glamour of the four poster effect but I soon I learnt the torment of the stuffiness inside and the constant risk of getting tangled up in the net or letting a mosquito in.  But the water was hot and clattered from the shower like a tap and I thought “What more could I want?” During our days there I got very bonded to my kindle, which glowed in the night and provided Jack Reacher for company when I couldn’t sleep.

We linked up with Jolly Boys pair that night and resolved to visit the Victoria Falls next day.  Jun had done it before “We will get wet.” she said and we certainly did.  I might just copy what I put in my diary that night.

“We went to the  extraordinary mind changing Victoria Falls.  Got soaked, hence the wet diary” (its pages are all crinkly and damp still)  “Finn said it best ‘Its ephemeral, water only there for a minute but it’s permanent and has been for ever’ The water comes off a long cliff emanating from a vigorous but peaceful river.  Suddenly the flow turns into wild springing cascades that crash into the gorge below sending up spray that doubles back like the heaviest of rain.  It was like being in the middle of a sky cloud in transformative mode – all turmoil and wetness and roaring.” 

 We dashed across a sloshy footbridge and looked up through the wild spray at the great arc of the Livingstone Bridge which connects Zambia with Zimbabwe. I saw a tiny little bungy jumper up there and thought of the bit in King Lear when Gloster tries to kid the king that he’s on the edge of a cliff when he isn’t and lies to him thus

“Halfway down hangs one that gathers samphire – dreadful trade

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head”

But methought my bungy jumper seemed no bigger than a bee.

We all laughed at the absurdity of getting so wet but Caiden was not amused at all.   He didn’t cry but his mouth was set in a tight line. He must have been thinking how transgressive we were.  All his little life he’d been cautioned not to get wet and sometimes a plastic cover had encased Business Class to prevent that contingency and there we were in a sopping laughing ecstasy at the roaring Victoria Falls.  No way to behave.  He was cheered though when we walked alongside the river accompanied by beautiful baboons.  We were cautious and clutched Caiden tight as we’d been warned that the creatures had no scruples about taking anything they wanted and, in fact, we saw a mother and baby hoeing into a huge stolen sweet potato not far down the track.  What is it about baby animals that entrances even more than human babies? Perhaps it is that they are little proportioned replicas of their mummies and full of flattering promise just like cute little child models with their lipstick on.  It is not really a creditable feeling to go gaga over baby animals.

Our path need when we reached an iron barred fence that separated our country from Zimbabwe. An enterprising bracelet seller was lurking in the bushes on the other side and greeted us.  Fredi was moved to go and shake his hand but currency problems prevented us buying anything.  Later F and F went over the bridge to Zimbabwe and encountered the same problem.  Nobody had change even if you wanted to buy a souvenir.

The last walk we did was tough and a challenge to my puffing self.  We clambered and slithered, along with many other pilgrims, down a path to  “The Boiling Point”.  There the yellow and white waters that have been thrown from high above hit the walls of the canyon and go round in a whirl before sorting themselves out and going on their way.  We joined the little crowd of people sitting on rocks and watching the seething water.  Mostly they were families out for the day posing for photos and laughing while they got their profiles just right.  It was good to be amongst them.  Going up the track again was actually not as bad as coming down and people passing the other way encouraged me with sympathetic jokes and once a high five.  The euphoria of the Falls made us all happy.

That night we all thought we’d get up early and go on a trip into the National Park to see some animals.  We did see warthogs and other funny creatures and also a few white mens’ graves.  But I’ll blog all that tomorrow.

Jellyfish, losing heart and finding it again

Having perhaps unfairly rubbished the zebra yesterday for being boring and black and white, I want to begin today on a positive note. On one of our days together Jun and Caiden and I went to the aquarium in Capetown.  It was Freedom Day and a holiday so the place was full of children milling about in the half light and pointing and cooing.  Losing Caiden was a distinct possibility so Business Class was pulled into service early on.  Most of the fish were predictable but one room bewitched me.  It had mirror walls and a cylindrical glass tank in the middle.  In the tank was a langorous  jellyfish, its tendrils drifting irregularly downwards and its texture transparent as a spirit.  If you turned away from the primary jellyfish you met its reflections, just as soothing, on the walls all around.  The calm, the stillness and the sensitivity of those gentle wisps was uplifting and an example to me.  We’d been stamped on our hands with permission to return marks and after we left I begged Jun to wait for me while I revisited my guru jellyfish, and indeed the rest of the day was infused with his or her peace.

The boys all returned from the Burn that night and a visit to  a penguin colony was mooted.  South Africans love their little penguins.  I was all for it, but a humiliating and extreme stomach upset intervened and I thought bugger penguins I just want to go back to Australia, so the others left me behind.  I went to bed and listened on my I pad to possibly the most nauseating book  I have ever come across.  It was A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett of Secret Garden fame.  I kept hoping it would toughen up.  It didn’t but I did, and when the others came home I ‘d stopped wanting to go back to Australia.

 After all, we were off to Zambia where we were going to stay in Livingstone on the Zambezi river in a backpacker place called Fawlty Towers.  Finn and Fredi had opted for the rival establishment Jolly Boys on account of its reputation for liveliness, which of course we eschewed because of our parental and grandparental duties.  In the event, both places had their charm.

 Fredi and Finn came tumbling in the door of our flat that night with a view to sleeping on the sofa and catching their cheap but very early flight to Livingstone next morning.  Our washing machine was working away into the small hours to supply enough clean clothes for the trip and going kerlunk kerlunk so I took pity on F and F and invited them into my queen sized bed.  “No hanky panky over there” I said thinking how pleasant and mediaeval it was to be three in a bed, and we all slept until the dawn of our next journey.