Footloose Scot (10 page)

The next morning I joined a group of 4 travel agents from England to take the one-day Zambezi white water trip. A young fellow from Utah was our boatman, and briefed us on procedures, safety requirements and what we might expect. This stretch of the river below the falls provides a succession of eleven Grade 4 and 5 rapids interspersed with calm stretches. The rapids consist of steep gradients (up to eighteen feet). The risk of capsizing happens immediately after the downward passage through the rapid. If the oarsman has misjudged the line of approach and the raft gets stuck in "the hole" of turbulent water immediately under the drop, it is liable to be overturned by the roiling water.

Tourist passengers have a role to play in stabilizing the raft since the oarsman is concentrating on steering. Three of the travel agents who were bigger than me were told to position themselves at the front of the raft. Their job was to throw themselves forward when the raft landed at the bottom of the drop to keep the bow down and stop the boat flipping. I was delegated to the back of the raft with a female travel agent and our job was not to fall out.

We were due to descend ten falls, perhaps eight miles, then have lunch and hike out. The organizers had a photographer on the bank below one of the falls to take photographs.

I had previously read, perhaps unwisely, a description of this white water passage immediately below Victoria Falls. The writer had a fertile imagination and labeled the falls with names like "The Devil's Toilet Bowl," "The Stairway to Heaven" and "The Gnashing Jaws of Death." A typical description read, "Very steep and powerful with a heap of massive waves. Its size and volume make this an amazing ride."

Our progress through the first three falls was smooth; the boatman lined up the raft at the correct angle, we shot forward over the edge, sliding steeply down the cascade, hooting and hollering in elation and landing in the pool below the drop, whereupon the three guys in the front of the raft threw themselves forward to keep the bow down, and we eased out into the calm stretch.

At the fourth fall we shot down the steep drop into the pool below, then the raft seemed to wobble going neither forward nor back. The next minute the raft flipped over, and I was thrown out. Now I was underwater, looking upwards and flapping my arms to get to the surface. The watery view from below quickly lightened and, propelled upwards by my life jacket, I popped through the surface to fresh air.

I was a little way from the raft, to which some of the others were clinging and trying to upright. I heard the boatman shout "Swim for the shore." I wasn't worried about crocodiles since they don't linger in turbulent water, but it seemed wise to get to shore quickly. By that time the raft had been up righted and it proceeded to the bank to pick up me and one other passenger. We continued downstream.

Five hours later, still wet from the immersion and getting cold, I climbed out of the raft, glad for the chance to walk and get warm. Water is not my medium, but I was glad to have experienced the feeling of rafting through steep rapids. In fact, getting capsized made the experience. I hiked steeply uphill from the river and could see the route we had traversed. It began to look more interesting, even dramatic, with the backdrop of Victoria Falls behind, the widest curtain of water on the planet. I thought this was one of those activities which might improve in the telling.

SOUTH AFRICA

My first destination in South Africa was the Drakensberg National Park, known for its mountain range (the name means Dragon Mountain). The range, an escarpment of basalt cliffs, stretches 125 miles. The higher peaks, snow capped in winter, rise to over 11,000 feet from the lush yellowwood forest and cascading waterfalls of the lower elevations. I set up my tent in a campground near the park entrance and then it rained hard for over 12 hours. The campground became water logged, and soon water found its way into the tent, soaking my sleeping bag. The only good thing was that the temperature remained warm. I tried lighting my stove outside the tent, first filling the tank while lying inside the tent. Some of the fuel I had poured into the stove had spilled on my arm. The next thing I felt, when I lit the stove, was the flame running up my arm. I gave up the idea of cooking, and lay back in the pool of water, fortunately tepid, which had flowed into the tent. I waited for the rain to stop.

When it finally did, I laid out my things to dry and started uphill. Scattered wisps of cloud were drifting up the mountainside and the whole range was bathed in a fresh light extending upward to the distant skyline. The warlike Zulus who lived in this region revered this mighty range and called it The Barrier of Spears. My aim was to find the source of the Tugela River which started somewhere near here. I had an aunt in Scotland called Tugela, named after a Boer War battle which took place here. I found the river and bathed my feet in it, but did not quite make it to the source.

"Ach, man, you should strike out straight across the veldt. Forget about trails in the park." The speaker was a captain in the South African army who had stopped to give me a ride outside of the Drakensberg Park. "I love my country," he added. He was speaking about the land to which he felt close; he said he regularly hiked straight across country, feeling he belonged there. I heard this sentiment more than once in South Africa.

In 1987 South Africa was still a white-ruled country of apartheid, a system of racial segregation which meant the black population was ruled by the white minority. Apartheid means 'apartness' or separate, and to implement this theory "homelands" were established around South Africa for blacks, usually the poorest land. I spent a night in Umtata, the capital of Transkei, one of the homelands, where I saw dejected poor people standing around in the rain with plastic bags on their feet as shoes. The next day I took an articulated bus which carried some of these Transkei residents to factories in East London where they would sleep in men's shelters.

Things were about to change, and already there were signs. At a hut in a national park further south along the Indian Ocean coast I came across a Boer family barbecuing sausages. They invited me to join them. Later the talk turned to politics. The father, a large man who was a farmer, expressed the opinion that the Blacks could never govern themselves, and that apartheid was for their benefit. The younger daughter disagreed and said it just wasn't right, treating human beings as second class people. There was an uncomfortable silence until someone poured more beer and the subject was dropped.

On an earlier visit to South Africa I had seen apartheid at work in its simplest form. I was at Johannesburg Airport about to leave the country and was lining up to change my unspent South African rand into dollars. Ahead of me a black waiter from the airport restaurant was waiting to exchange dollars into rand. He showed the dollars to the clerk at the money exchange booth. The clerk, a young white fellow, shook his head once, decisively, without speaking. Go somewhere else, the signal said. So trivial and ridiculous on one hand, so humiliating on the other. With hindsight I wish I had changed the waiter's dollars for him, but by the time I had thought of this, he had moved off.

The South African park system was certainly efficient. At one point, leaving a hut where I had spent the night, I was passed by a black park ranger on a bicycle heading towards the hut carrying just toilet paper to stock the bathroom. On another day, when I was heading on foot towards the Indian Ocean coast, where the shore line had been designated the Titsikama National Park, I met a park jeep, and asked them if I was going in the right direction to connect with the Otter Trail which ran along the coast. I told them I was heading for Nature's Valley, a community six miles along the shore line.

They told me I was doing just fine, and to keep going in the same direction for a couple of miles and I would come to the shore, when I should turn right and join the coastal footpath. I did this, and soon found myself on the edge of ocean, alternatively walking along beaches and cliff tops. In the late afternoon the trail dropped down to a wide beach at Nature's Valley where I was surprised to find a park ranger standing on the beach. He was waiting for me. The other had radioed him, and he was just checking to see I was safe. Some service!

I noticed South Africans were very alert to accents. On one occasion, the man I was talking to turned his head to one side so he could better hear my accent, and work out where I was from. A Texan would ask without any hesitation: "What country are you from?" A South African, more sensitive to questions of nationality, particularly at the time of change which the country was entering into, would try and work out where you came from, in order to avoid saying something controversial and to determine what your opinions were likely to be on big issues. Once that had been established, then your average South African, usually an outdoors, hearty type, would be as forthright and independent in his opinions as, say, an Australian.

KENYA

The first time I arrived in Lamu, a tourist destination on Kenya's Indian Ocean coast, just south of the Somali border, I came by bus from Mombasa - a bumpy, long journey but a cheap one. The second time I flew in a four passenger plane, more expensive but quicker and certainly more comfortable. Lamu is Kenya's oldest inhabited town. Ships from China were blown onshore here in 1415; a hundred years later the Portuguese invaded. It was a center for slave trading until 1907 when slavery was abolished. More recently it was known as a hippie destination, but time has changed that and it is now visited by tourists with varying budgets.

The Swahili architecture of the town reflects its Arab/ Persian connection. Things to see are the fort, museum, two mosques and a donkey sanctuary but most visitors tend to stroll, chat and just hang out. It is a Moslem town and prayer calls from the mosque are broadcast five times daily. I upset a Moslem lady disembarking from a small plane at Lamu's landing strip. She waved her arm back and forth and shouted angrily when she saw my camera. I wasn't trying to photograph her but the small planes but she didn't know this, so I turned round and left. For some Moslems a camera is an affront, a symbol of graven images prohibited by their faith. From the airstrip you take a small boat across to Lamu town, which is on an island.

It's a laid back sort of place. Donkeys wander around the narrow street inland from the waterfront, part of a total of over 2,000 working donkeys. An English charity donates money towards the feeding and care of these donkeys. There are one or two bigger hotels, and some guest houses catering to budget travelers. You can sleep on the roof of one of the guest houses which for part of the year is fine. It is the sort of place where strolling through the narrow streets, pausing to notice an architectural detail on a building, and then drinking a cup of coffee on the sea front would add up to an active morning.

One tourist activity is to take a dhow to one of the neighboring islands, get off and then enjoy a fish barbecue lunch prepared by the boat owner. Dhows are traditional lateen sail boats with a single large sail, which have been sailing this coast and up to the Red Sea for a very long time. The beach is some way distant and is not as popular as just hanging around. A lot of tourists spend most of their time in cafes or restaurants. Local lobsters are a good price.

You are on the edge of the Moslem world here and also close to a political boundary between East Africa, black and developed, and poor Arab nations, Somalia and Sudan, further impoverished by conflict. A boat load of Somali refugees was anchored right off the waterfront in Lamu, the passengers waiting for permission to land as political exiles. It was still there, four days later, when I left.

Nairobi is the most developed capital city of East Africa. There is a even a Game Park within the city limits where the visitor can view lions close up as good as in any other national park. By contrast, I once took a three-day economy safari to the Masai Mara National Reserve, the type of package sold on the Nairobi's street to budget travelers. It was not a fulfilling experience.

There was nothing wrong with the transportation, a modern mini van with a pop-up roof. The driver/guide was personable and efficient. The accommodation in a tourist lodge was comfortable. What was missing was any sense of being close to nature. There were too many other vans, too many cameras and too much noise. We did have sightings of giraffe, wildebeest, lions and other wildlife but what I mainly recall is six vans with the pop-up roofs extended and 6-8 tourists in each van leaning out to take photos. The subject of their interest was a single old lion, settled comfortably in the grass, barely raising its head at the sight of the minivans.

Another type of safari was much more satisfying even if the game viewing was absent. This was a four day camel safari in the north of Kenya where the Samburu tribe lives. We were four tourists each with his own camel, plus two more to carry provisions. Our guides prepared camp food, and we sat around a fire in the evening. Each day, we covered perhaps 10 miles, at walking pace. We were not in a park, so we passed Samburu villages and the occasional shop. One night we camped by a river. We talked a little with the Samburu, mainly when buying things. This was a low-key camping trip which enabled us to get the feel and smell of Africa. It worked for me.

Climbing one of Kenya's peaks is something which can be done easily, and without special equipment. A bus from Nairobi drops you near to Mt. Kenya National Park, where you hike to a youth hostel for the night. The night I was there the hostel was full of American teenagers, gushing excitedly and greeting me with the few words of Swahili they had learned. Hell with them, I thought, and retreated to a quiet spot where I could read
The Nation,
Kenya's English language newspaper.

Continuing the next day, the trail started to climb through woods. At one picnic spot, a group of vigilant monkeys were making noises in the branches of a large tree. With a sudden dive one of the monkeys swung down and snatched a piece of bread which I had put on a rock while I opened my tea thermos. Tee hee, hee, the monkeys screeched.