A Tale of Two Cars

Highlight of the week: Giraffes surround us.

Lowlight of the week: Bambi’s mum loses another infant. Monty python swallows her new-born calf whole right outside our house.

Maximum temperature: 31 degrees Celsius

Rainfall: None whatsoever

Our planet’s thermostat is set to spiral out of control. The rest of the world wears its guilt on its sleeve. Carbon dioxide is the new smog. Something has to be done. Industry must reform. Fossil fuel is out. Electricity is on trend. I start this blog with an apology. In South Luangwa we do not profess, just yet, to be part of any solution to global warming. We may not be exactly the root of all evil either. We are all here to preserve nature after all. But we are beggars rather than choosers when it comes to the motor vehicles that we drive. Electric cars are rather thin on the ground in Zambia.

As a two-car household we bear more responsibility than most for the state of the environment. My family will appreciate my apologies. As a family we have a deeply ingrained Catholic habit. My family aren’t religious. Just apologists. I should be in Africa making sacrifices and experiencing hardship. Surely that’s what volunteers sign up for? The two-car thing seems a bit excessive. But in truth our mobility hangs on a thread.

We aspire to drive solar-powered vehicles, rather like the ones that Shawa camp brandish. Not only for their green credentials, but also so that we can hear every sound of the bush. Silent running permits Jacob Shawa to hear the alarm calls that locate predators. Stealth permits him to approach the most timid of creatures. This isn’t always a good thing. Elephants are sometimes affronted by Jacob’s unheard approach and share their displeasure. A trumpet or a mock charge a reason for my pulse to race. But for now, we are resigned to a duo of dirty diesel cars. Let me tell you the tale of two cars.

Now then, our friend Adrian tells us that cars come to the South Luangwa valley to die. It’s a palliative pathway. But that does not mean that care is not provided. There are no Do Not Resuscitate orders here. Our mobility is key to the psyche of the Valley. It wouldn’t do for the Valley doctors to be unable to respond to an emergency call. So, we always have a back-up plan. Unlike other Valley folk, who just have one heap of ailing metal per household, Keith and I have two very poorly cars. At any one time, one car perpetually occupies a sick bay at Rob’s garage at Nkwali. Life support is being meted out. The other relic is being nursed on the ground. By the two valley doctors. Two doctors who are poor nurses. Let me introduce you more fully to our jalopies.

Our favourite car is the Honey Badger. We are allowed favourites, aren’t we? An aged, four-wheel drive, automatic Prado. Honey badgers are fearless and determined animals. With a high tolerance to pain. They are resistant to snake venom. They take on prey far larger than themselves. We named the car during our last stint in South Luangwa. We have an emotional attachment to the old crock. Rob gives the Badger a shot of steroids shortly after our arrival this April. We limp away from his garage knowing that the writing is on the wall for it.

We regard securing the Badger as an upgrade. The Badger sports a pacemaker and the scars to prove it. A complicated double ignition system remedies the Badger’s previous apparent terminal demise. There is a magic position for each of the ignition keys. Without the magic the steering lock hamstrings us. Yet, despite these quirks, we doggedly drive out of the sick bay. We want four driven wheels on our wagon. Water and dirt blend on our local roads to produce a surface that does not favour two-wheel drives. I use the term road in the loosest possible sense. Our potholes bend space and time. On wet days there is a fine line between hard core and quicksand. We take solace from the four driven wheels and eschew the Blue Beast and its pathetic rear wheel drive. The automatic gearing system in the Badger is an added bonus. Especially for male drivers, who seem unable to multitask. Keith remains unable to change gear whilst spotting game, or even talking, for that matter.

It's rude not to take advantage of our free pass to the park. Usually, we prefer to delegate responsibility for driving in the park to the experts whenever we can. Guides can read the wildlife, and the roads, far better than the two of us. But still, needs must. We can’t always expect to have expert guidance. On Wednesday mornings we tend to wing it. Self-drive. We usually get into the park for a couple of hours before clinic. Our not-so-trusty vehicle beats the track. Sometimes we go North. Sometimes things go South. One Wednesday we almost died. My sister, Sam, has been prodding me to tell the story of this near-death experience in the park. It made the low light of the week, 3 weeks ago. Well, here goes nothing.

We rise at 05:00. No time for yoga and HIIT today. Even Ellie observes the three-line whip. In the honey badger by 05:45, fully awake and breakfasted. At the park gate as it opens at 06:00. We have a tip off. Lucy and her cub were at Wamilombe last night. One of our favourite spots. So off we go. It’s a beautiful day. The light is perfect. A crisp, cool morning. Leopard weather. But Lucy has other ideas. Who knows where she is? We look in all of her favourite trees and along all of her favourite prowls. Ellie tolerates us citing every single historical sighting. But 18 months has passed. Time has marched on. And so has Lucy.

Admitting defeat, we decide to beat a retreat. But we still crave adventure. Rather than following our breadcrumbs back to the gate, we elect to square the circle. A circuit beckons. Although the mighty Luangwa River has ploughed a slightly new furrow. And our historical circuit back from Wamilombe to the gate is no more. Rumour has it that a bypass should see us back to Riverside Drive. We ask a friend. He confirms the detour rumour. So, we press on.

At first the territory is familiar. But moist. The road is muddy and badly carved up. Keith stops the car and treads the area to one side of the muddy quagmire. The ground holds his weight. Worth a punt he ventures. He guns the Badger and we snake past the swamp. But now we are committed. In for a penny, so to speak. Soon we arrive at the river. But, there is no sign of a diversion. Our road ends abruptly. Erosion has placed the north part of the road firmly into history. A cliff edge lies ahead. Keith pulls the hand brake on 20 metres from the drop-off. He hops out to take a closer look.

The cliff drops straight down to the deep swirling, crocodile-infested, Luangwa. Hippos guard the shallows. Keith briefly explores the undergrowth for a detour, but he is snapped back into the real world by movement in his peripheral vision. Herbie rides again. Somehow the Badger is moving forward, driverless, towards Keith and the river of doom. Keith goes pale. He steels himself to act as a human buffer.

I may have omitted to mention that the handbrakes on both of our vehicles are chocolate fireguard equivalents. Functionless. Not to be relied upon. And whilst automatic transmission is an attractive feature for variable terrain and for game viewing comfort, an automatic gearbox also has its downsides. One being that that you can stop the Badger in drive and hop out. Effectively you are engaging a Herbie-rides-again feature. A car left in drive with no brake to speak of.

Back in the Badger, Ellie and I perspire. A drama is unfolding. A crisis is imminent. Keith is unlikely to be able to prevent our untimely death. A date with river, crocodiles and hippos awaits. This is no time to freeze. I pull the handbrake toward Heaven. No response from God. The handbrake, and our fate, are still in my hands. Think! A light bulb appears above my head. I play the Trump card. Realising Keith’s schoolboy error, I slam the gear selector into park. Herbie obliges.

We stop. Ten metres from the drop. Keith runs up. Everything is still in in slow motion. Ellie and I are gibbering wrecks. The whole of our lives have just flashed before us. I even recall the promise that I made to Ellie’s mum, Jude, a month earlier. Something about guardianship and personal safety. Keith mortified by his blunder. Apologetic then silent. Guilty. Relieved. He skilfully dodges the swamp and retraces our steps to the gate. He consciously buries his error in the recesses of his mind. Far better than burying his wife and his ward.

That evening I contemplate sleep. But I flashback. I relive the traumatic play. How long would this scene haunt me? Post-traumatic, I seek medical advice. Silence. Keith already purring at my side. But I already know what to do. Keith treats PTSD with EMDR, whilst I overhear. His booming voice fills the void of our Yorkshire home, whilst we work from home. The mumbo jumbo seems an unlikely panacea for such deep emotional trauma. I lie in bed at 21:30. Top left, bottom right. The eye movements swing in an asymmetrical pendulum. But my panic melts. From a sleep averting seven to a calming one. No doubt I was purring besides Keith within minutes. And now I only look forward. Looking back into the crocodiles’ lair has no hold on me. The crocs and hippos will have to wait for someone else to provide their meals on wheels.

It's the sixteenth of May. Our Honey Badger has its last hurrah today. It’s Tuesday afternoon. I have arranged to take Ellie into town. She is going to spend the afternoon with Choti, the local snake expert. A black mamba and a boomslang are waiting, with baited fangs, to see Ellie. I intend to stay half a mile from the snakes at all times. I plan to avail myself of coffee and Wi-Fi at Tribal Textiles, whilst Ellie charms the snakes. But as I inch out of the car port the Badger lurches and stumbles. Keith hears a gunshot. But the only shot is from the Badger’s front axle. Shot to pieces. The engine revs in one last, Herbie-style, statement of defiance. My reflex is to ram the gear selector into park. And still to this day the Honey Badger is parked. Blocking our driveway. Rigor mortis prevents its removal. A grave, marked by a 3 wheeled car.

Keith snaps his fingers and - Mr Ben-style - the Blue Beast reappears. The Beast, fresh off life-support, appears within half an hour. We named this car last year. Partly for its size. Our clinic staff love the Beast, because it has a Tardis-like capacity. It allows a limitless number of staff to access our community under 5 clinics. The Beast’s colour a total anathema. Alluring to tsetse flies. Buffalo blue. The colour of tsetse traps, elephants and buffalos. Tsetses are the bane of our lives. These flies do not respect barriers. Clothing, even jeans, are no obstacle. DEET is ignored.

I have been studying tsetses of late. Glossina is their fancy Latin name. Studying their posture. Their wing patterns. Their shear-like mouthparts. They transmit Human African Trypanosomiasis. Sleeping Sickness. A rare disease. We are vigilant to the tell-tale love bite chancre that marks the deadly entrance of a sinister parasite to a human host. We watch for the behaviour changes that precede certain death of an untreated brain invasion. But mostly, we hate tsetses for their painful bites. Oh, and did I mention that their bite is then so itchy that you need a straight jacket to resist its urge. And lastly their immortality makes them an even more worthy adversary. Impossible to kill. You can’t swat a tsetse. They are armour-plated. You need to crush them between your fingers to be sure that they are dead.

A khaki vehicle is invisible to tsetses. Open game viewing vehicles might seem a mistake when lions are on the prowl. A lion could lick your defenceless ankle if the mood grabs it. But somehow, tsetses turn a blind eye to khaki cars and their occupants. However, our Blue Beast lures them in. Especially when we are on the move. Without windows we would be toast. Sleeping sickness written large on our tombstones.

Oh, and as a minor postscript. The Beast has 2-wheel drive. Imagine taking a rear wheel drive into the jungle. In summary our Beast is not suited for four seasons in the Luangwa Valley. It’s good for you to understand these basic facts, before we take you back into the park in the Blue Beast.

It’s Sunday morning. The alarm goes off at 05:00. At the gate for 06:00. Lions were at the Big Baobab last night. Obviously, this is our first port of call. Lions love to sleep when sated. The baobab is certainly big, but the lions weren’t sleeping. In fact, the lions have left no trace of their presence. No prints. No shit. Nada. After a fruitless search, we change tack. We decide to head off in the opposite direction. East to the Wafwa.

The Luangwa Wafwa used to be part of the Luangwa River. But now its name reflects the death of the river here. The Wafwa is an oxbow lake that fills up in the wet season. Eventually the oxbow will dry out completely and be dead. Wafwa literally means It’s dead. From the Big Baobab there is an easy short cut to the northern tip of the Wafwa.

It’s a quiet road. But in good condition. Not much game. We are enjoying the tranquillity. The road goes on. Further than I thought. Before we know it, the surface has deteriorated. The tyre tracks that we are following, have disappeared. We start to lose our nerve. Our 2-wheel drive stutters. We bounce on a bit further. It is not looking good. Nowhere to turn. Mud on either side. The trail is mostly dry, but very rutted. We stop. Gather our thoughts. Reversing is not an option in our Beast. It is long and thin. Unable to choose a line the car declines our suggestion. Keith hops out and surveys the turning options.

We are in a pickle. The ground next to our trail appears dry. But badly rutted. Austin Powers whispers in Keith’s ear. Yeah Baby Yeah. Rashly Keith listens to Austin. We attempt a 21-point turn. It starts well. We are at 90 degrees to the road. But the bald back wheels lodge in a rut. The spin has no purchase. We engage the diff’ lock. More spinning. A spade might help, but is elusive. Sadly, not standard in a Toyota Hilux pickup. A yank out unlikely within the hour. We are on a route less travelled. It’s time to ponder. We step out. Gladly, we are in the open and no creatures can stalk us. I swear a little. For the first time in my life. I swear. I contemplate rocking. Agitated and frustrated.

We realise that footwell mats are our salvation. Keith had used them in the Scottish snow in Tayside this winter. We place the mats in front of our ineffectual rear wheels. With a little gentle rocking the car lurches forward and out of the rut. It’s great to finally learn the benefits of a gentle agitated rock. We move from agitated deadlock to the promise of progress. Keith edges us back on track. We celebrate. Prematurely, it turns out. I climb back into the Beast, and we briefly bounce our way along the track. The track begins to look relatively innocuous. But the Beast contrives to come a cropper again. Dry ruts and no purchase from bald rear wheels. The mats go down and Keith bravely guns the engine. Success.

We have five minutes of perceived safety. Keith makes a mental note to ask Rob for new tyres and turns left. Heading back toward roads more travelled. A lone bull elephant ambles across the trail ahead of us, in the distance. A huge fellow. We remind ourselves to steer clear of grumpy lone males. In musth, or not in musth. Keith’s meeting with the local chief of police has convinced him that elephants can be grumpy. Nine people in Mfuwe were killed by elephants last year.

By the time we reach the elephant crossing point we see only trees around us. Surely, we are safe to nudge by? We make the mistake of nudging by. The elephant is loitering near to the road. Huge ears prick back. The trunk flies. The head shakes. The whole colossal elephant spins on a sixpence and lurches towards us. Trumpets announce its charge. I don’t need to scream at Keith to put his foot down.

Although the road surface is dreadful, it not as bad as earlier. We bump along. The elephant chases us in earnest. Trumpeting. Keith goes faster. As does the elephant. I can see the whites of angry elephant eyes. I am sure he can see mine. I omit to commit our experience to film. My camera and phone stay firmly in their places. But my retina is scored with an indelible image of a charging elephant. We continue at speed. For about half a mile.

The frying pan and fire expression doesn’t do justice to our next quandary. Up ahead, we see more elephants. On, and by, the road. A family. We are in an elephant sandwich. Keith instinctively slows, and eyes the rear-view mirror. Gladly, there are no elephant eyes visible in the mirror. We slow down and stop. But I’m in no mood to hang out with this family of elephants. I insist that we set our sights on smaller beasts.

Our quest continues. We head up to Puku Plain. We’re due to a have a tea break before turning for home. But vultures in a tree halt us. There must be a kill nearby. Lions? Wild dogs? The gathered safari vehicles give it away. Two male lions have just deserted the scene of the crime. A buffalo lies in shreds beneath the gathered vultures. Hyaenas are skulking too. The full bellied lions lie out of sight. It’s almost an excellent day, but not quite.

A feline sighting would be the mark of an excellent day. After our tea break, we head vaguely towards the park gate. But we decide to throw the feline dice once more. One of our friends from Flatdogs tips us off. Lucy is up a tree, around the corner. She has an impala carcass, so she’s likely to be there for a while. I prepare my camera settings, in anticipation. But Lucy’s trail has just gone cold. The dead impala waits patiently, but Lucy has gone for a siesta. She jumped down 5 minutes ago. We are told.

Many claim that the chase is more important than any sighting. Today’s chase has certainly been exhilarating. Topsy turvy. Today’s wildlife has chosen to chase us, rather than vice versa. Our double beaching proves that the Blue Beast was built back to front. Rear wheels driving nowhere. We mourn the passing of our favourite child. Adrian’s prediction has been fulfilled. The Honey Badger rests in state. Two cars have become one.