Getaway (South Africa)



- Words Chris Marais

003, Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. ʻHappy days,ʼ says Colin Bristow as he passes me the airsick bag and flies into a cloud somewhere over Zim.

I am temporaril­y insane. Who else chugs heavy antimalari­a tablets with a half-bottle of home-grown tequila, scarfs a serious breakfast and goes flying in a little Cessna 210 at noon, when thereʼs nothing up there but tatty modern-day pterodacty­ls, bad-news thermals and a bush pilot with evil intentions?

This hell in my head begins the day before at home in Joburg. We have just returned from the Karoo with a couple of bottles of Agava Spirit, a sharp liquor distilled outside Graaff-Reinet in a huge white hangar.

The stuff is so popular that theyʼre exporting barrels of it to Australian­s, who are mixing it into their Outback Coolers.

Some say theyʼre even sending it back to the Motherland of tequila, Mexico, because there is something wrong with the Mexican cactus that year.

Photograph­er Les Bush comes around to visit. Travel writer Bridget Hilton-Barber pops in for lunch. I say letʼs road-test the Karoo juice. They say fine. I go off to fetch the Agava, and remember that I have to take my Larium because of the upcoming trip to Mosquito Country.

And thatʼs my big mistake, right there. Larium and tequila: a monster no-no.

The following morning, hung-over to the max and filled with a kind of chemically induced terror, I catch an SAA flight up to Bulawayo. But not before making the near-fatal mistake of diving into an English breakfast at Johannesbu­rg Internatio­nal.

Sweating profusely, I stumble off the flight at Bulawayo, which looks like the deserted set of Casablanca.

Apart from a few Russians working on an Antonov transport plane that streams black paraffin smoke from its engines, thereʼs not much happening at the airport.

Bulawayo. Whenever I go there, I expect to meet Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly striding down the main street, both wearing those summer frocks they were famous for, with a couple of adoring Hollywood extras in tow and a really corny script to work with. The jacaranda-lined streets and Art Deco buildings give Bulawayo a 1950s look.

And then I stray directly into the hard glare of Colin.

ʻAre you ready for a big adventure?ʼ he asks, with a devilish glint in his eye. He knows. Oh, he knows.

This is in January, the Deadbeat Season from the Delta to the DRC, when mosquitoes rule and electric storms light up the skies all along the Caprivi Strip. High on tequila afterburn and psychotic from the medication, I waive the barfbag option and concentrat­e on the Marabou Circuit Court outside my window. They look like ruffled old judges waiting for the jury. I feel like the accused, serving out his sentence.

We land at Impalila Island, are picked up by two rangers and driven to a customs and immigratio­n shack nearby. An English couple who have joined us at the airstrip are making rude remarks about the officials who are sort of lazing their way through the afternoon. Itʼs nearly 45°C in the shade and, up here, thatʼs what you do to get through such conditions. You slop around. Didnʼt these Poms understand this? I want to strangle the Brits. Colin stops me.

Dawn brings a measure of sanity and a fishing expedition. There is bird life everywhere along the banks. Lozi tribespeop­le pole their mokoros up and down on listless liaisons.

Was this what Livingston­e first saw when he came to these parts? Maybe they werenʼt wearing Rolling Stones T-shirts and Chicago Bulls caps, but for the rest it might well be back in the 1800s and Wow! Look at that smoke coming from the river! Why, theyʼre waterfalls! Letʼs name them after our Queen then, shall we? We head back to the lodge and take refuge in a cup of tea while Hayden, our guide, messes about in the shallows with his rod. Within minutes he has caught a teenage tiger fish and his more respectabl­y sized uncle.

ʻYou should see them when the storms come,ʼ says the lodge manager, Simon Parker, as we sit talking in the curio shop. ʻThe water boils with tigers eating the baitfish eating the insects.ʼ

He tells me about a monster tiger some call The Steam Train. Others call him The Pig with Fins.

I want to know how such a superb island lodge can exist out here, with nothing for company but sneaky finger-biting fish and Lozi tribesmen on mysterious mokoro missions.

ʻMeat comes in from Namibia, fuel from Botswana, dry goods, fruit and veggies from South Africa,ʼ he says. ʻYou deal with trucks, flights, border posts and VAT – running supplies into this camp is a matter of genius.ʼ

Itʼs also a matter of being mates with the right bush pilot, someone like Colin Bristow, whose little Cessna can land practicall­y anywhere, bearing clients, liquor, groceries, gifts, friends and news from afar. Itʼs the lifeline to thousands of people working the lodges from that side of the Atlantic to this side of the Indian.

And then Simon half-whispers to me: ʻLetʼs take this outside. Thereʼs a black mamba in the rafters.ʼ

End of interview. Also, end of hangover. I proceed to glide out of the Impalila curio shop like a racing mongoose with a dire case of somewhere else to go.

HIS LITTLE CESSNA can land practicall­y anywhere. IT'S THE LIFELINE TO THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE working the lodges from that side of the Atlantic to this side of the Indian Ocean

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