December 7, 2011 AD
Yesterday I went with a couple African Parks people to Mongu for the
day because I had to renew my visa. There is an immigration office in
Kalabo, but it only has one employee, and she has gone missing for
some reason, possibly sick with Typhoid Fever like the rest of Kalabo.
We got a late start to Mongu, then had to run a few errands ,
including grocery shopping. Checking out at the grocery store takes
longer than the shopping. We had a few other delays and took a lesser
known route to get back towards Kalabo. To get in between these two
towns, you have to cross the Barotse Flood Plain, which is the 50km
wide flood plain of the mighty Zambezi River. This time of the year,
the river is still low, so you drive on bumpy sand for most of the
trip and then take a rickety old ferry boat across the river at about
the halfway point. Usually, its not a big deal. But we were running
late and the normal ferry had stopped running for the evening. So we
called the alternative ferry and they came and picked us up right
around sunset (a glorious sunset). When we got on the boat, I looked
at the driver of the vehicle, Martin, and said, “Welp, we’ve made it
this far.” A minute later, one of the two outboard motors on the boat
puttered out and stopped working. But the boat continued along slowly
nevertheless.
I was a weary fellow so I sat in the backseat of the truck (brand
spankin new Toyota Hilux), and took a little nap. I was awoken
sometime later by Martin, telling me I had to get out of the truck and
onto the shore before he could drive the boat off the ferry. It is
required that only the driver can be in the vehicle when loading and
off-loading as a safety precaution, maybe in case the car sinks. I
crawled up the steep, sandy riverbank, which must have been a slope of
about 60 degrees. I am not sure whose idea it was to try to off-load
the car at this spot, but it seemed absurd. Martin went for it
anyway. As he did, the front tires slammed into the steep sand and
got stuck, and in the process, the boat moved away from the shore,
creating a thigh-deep watery gap between the front and back tires.
Then the boat drifted slightly sideways so that the back right tire
was now barely hanging on to the boat. My first thought, and several
thoughts for the next few hours after that, was that the Hilux was
going to end up buried in the Zambezi.
We slowly got to work trying to mend the situation, not really sure
how to go about it. Present were about 10 other local guys who had
been on the boat and 2 crew members of the boat. We got to shoveling
and gathering reeds and grasses, trying all sorts of strategies. We
attempted to back the truck back onto the ferry, but that didn’t work,
and almost resulted in the front end of the truck submerged in the
river. We tried going forward, but the back end almost fell off the
boat and got submerged. After much slinging of sand and grasses into
the watery gap to create a bridge of sorts, and after much arguing in
Lozi (the local language) between the guys about the best strategy,
and after about 2 hours and 20 more locals showing up out of the
darkness, and after digging out the steep river bank to make it a
little less steep, and after some guys showed up with two big wooden
planks to put in between the front and back tires for driving on, and
after a guy with 8 oxen showed up and somehow managed to get the oxen
hooked to the front end of the vehicle…Bam, the oxen were off without
warning, pulling the vehicle, and a bunch of guys pushed the vehicle
from the back and straight up the sandy bank the shiny new Toyota
Hilux went.
There was much jumping around and cheering and celebrating, followed
by much shaking of hands and the guys asking me for money for the time
and effort. They assumed it was my truck because I was the only white
guy around. Martin gave them 200,000 kwacha--about 40 us dollars--to
the couple guys who helped the most and they were less than pleased
with the amount. But we drove off anyway with about 20 people piled
in the back and on top of the truck, back to the village where most of
them came from, and then another hour and a half back to Kalabo down
the bouncy, jarry, pot-holed, watery track that they call a road. I
tried to sleep in the backseat of the truck on the way to Kalabo, but
with every jolt my head slammed into the door or ceiling. We got home
at 1 in the morning, exhausted. I have a lot of respect for Martin.
It was his truck on the line and he laughed the entire time, always
sure that we would be fine (I didn‘t mean for all of that to rhyme).
Welp, we’ve made it this far.
love from afar
mjr
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