There was a legend that we heard
as children many years ago, of a school for elephants in the
Fifty years on, in 1994, Alan Root picked up the traces and made a TV documentary for BBC, which showed that a few survivors of that project still live today, in the Garamba National Park in North Eastern Zaire, on the borders with Southern Sudan near the Central African Republic. Imre Loefler, our local surgeon, ornithologist, aviator, and raconteur whose curiosity rivals the famous cat, and leads him into amazing situations, (with risks of a similar fate), picked up the story and through his network of contracts, planned an expedition to Garamba, to which Jane and I were privileged to be invited, amongst a party of ten others.
With our rather superior attitude
in
Now Garamba is not a place you could decide to go at the last minute for a dirty weekend. It takes weeks to drive overland, and many months to send fuel supplies and equipment, which all comes through Mombasa, but have to traverse the Kenya, Uganda and Zairean borders with attendant nightmares of customs documentation, corruption, despotic officials, appalling roads, civil strife, and lack of infrastructure. Therefore it is a shock to discover that the Park is supported by the New York Zoological Society in the form of a petite, shy woman Dr Kes Hillan-Smith, who has lived there for 12 years with her husband Fraser and has borne two children there, Chuylu and Ndungu now aged 7 and 5. The Smiths live just like the family next door, with some variations as you might expect. The kids have a tutor, but there is no Internet to tap. The mail comes courtesy of Missionary Aviation Fellowship (MAF) once every two or three weeks, when their planes if passing, drop in.
They don’t get many visitors, but they themselves operate two aircraft; one a Super Cub to track the radio-tagged rhino, which are vulnerable to poaching, and the other, a Cessna 206 to commute to civilization, such as Nairobi – where they come once or twice a year for a break and their essential supplies.
Our safari was planned three months in advance, and entailed Capt. Tad Watts sending a courier to Kinshasa to obtain flight clearance (US$500 for his ticket alone) plus extensive correspondence, visas from the Zairean Embassy (US$50) each, special arrangements for refuelling to return from Zaire, overflying Uganda and updating vaccinations (especially cholera, which was attended to by Mr Loefler with speed and efficiency).
Imre Loefler chose his team with his usual attention to compatibility and capability. Of the twelve members, he selected duplicate pilots, doctors, cooks and entertainers. Then there was the official photographer, the ornithologist and the botanical collector. There was a degree of overlap in these and other skills. Our photographer Nigel Pavitt had access to excellent beer and wine sources at nominal prices, and furthermore being a man of principle, he refused to jettison any, notwithstanding a considerable overload at takeoff. Evidenced by the support he received from his fellow travellers, they all endorsed this decision.
We assemble at
We take off at 0815 – slightly delayed by the Somali traffic and climb through cloud to some 11,000ft and level out on a North West heading over the arid Rift Valley and the high Mau Forest. The cloud cover is intermittent to begin with, but thickens later. After an hour we cross into the Kisii zone of densely packed, rural shambas and houses, their corrugated iron roofs sparkling against the new green crops and hedgerows. We fly over the shores of Lake Victoria, and the small offshore islands still densely populated until the Uganda border, when suddenly they were forested but empty of people except for a few fishing villages on the shores, mostly thatched with grass. This is in stark contrast to Kenya, and a reminder of the terrible times Uganda experienced in the sixties and seventies under Obote (twice) and Amin.
We fly over the lake to the Uganda mainland, passing Kampala about 10 miles away, under our left wing. As we proceed, the cloud cover thickens and we start hitting rain squalls and lose contact with the ground. We cross Lake Albert without seeing it, and approach Bunia, our entry point for Zaire customs and immigration. The magical GPS satellite navigation system informs us that we are overhead and we descend through the thick cloud and break out almost over the threshold of the runway. With a little jiggle to the starboard, and by dipping the nose, we are on the tarmac strip within 30 seconds, at 1045 hrs local. (Zairean time is an hour earlier.)
Bunia Airport is as decrepit and rundown as the rest of Zaire (from what I have heard). The old stone building and tin roof needs maintenance and paint, and all sorts of rusty equipment, radar dishes, gun emplacements, and wrecked machinery is now lying around. We disembark in the rain with some trepidation, but are met by friendly faces and greetings in French and simple Swahili, which is a legacy of early slave traders, explorers and missionaries with Swahili speaking porters from 100 years ago. Some of us are even escorted by ladies carrying umbrellas to cover us! Tad and Imre disappear to sort out refuelling and landing fees while we complete our immigration formalities. Everyone is very friendly and helpful and we are in a convivial and excited mood now that our adventure had begun. We willingly pay out various taxes and fees that enterprising Zaireans impose upon us, at such a golden opportunity. There are indications of excesses as the authorities push the limits further, in a step by step process that they must have perfected over the years. We capitulate to a US$50 per head, security charge, after the officer puts the immigration stamp back in the drawer, then locks it, suggesting we must return to Nairobi, but we baulk at the $200 surcharge on videos and cameras.
Those whose bladder content are beyond retention, but whose modesty precludes a squat in the long grass with an inquisitive audience, pay a dollar for the privilege of privacy, but not for hygiene. They have to sign an exercise book kept by an attendant, completed by preceding visitors with a figure one. When Imre bucks the system by writing two in the column, he is charged two dollars!
After two hours, the rain slackens, the refuelling is completed, and it is clear to the officials that our resistance to further exploitation is rising, so we are free to continue our journey. We board, taxi out and take off for Garamba. We are surprised at the amount of air traffic through this broken down place. Half a dozen aircraft have passed through, some of them missionary Cessnas, but also an old Vickers Viscount – 4 engine propeller turbine – Dick Knight says that their fuselage life was probably 50,000 hours or some such figure; which expired 20 years ago, and only in Zaire would you find such aircraft still flying. Bunia is also the major town which used to be serviced by the East African Railways and Harbours steamers out of Butiaba port on Lake Albert in colonial times, when Jane was a young girl, and her father was a marine engineer on the lake. It was, and still is, a major gold mining area.
The weather has lifted, and we fly into the heart of Zaire. We are awed by its immensity and sheer emptiness of humanity. Our flight path takes us over a corner of the fabled Ituri forest, which stretches to the horizon on all sides, vast and virgin. No roads, clearings, smoke or gaps; just mile upon mile of dense, tropical forest, with an occasional huge river winding through. It is hard to believe that such an area could still exist in Africa today, and we are stunned by its grandeur.
An hour later the forest thins as we near our destination and open woodlands emerge, stretching into the distance. Some settlements are visible, before we enter the Southern end of the Park, and we learn later that these are recent refugees from Southern Sudan. Our GPS guides us to Nagero airstrip – Park HQ, where we land circa 1400 hours local. Nagero is the Zairean name for a superb riverine tree, Erythrophleum Sauveolus from the mimosa family, but it was not needing at the time of our visit. Kes and Fraser are on hand to meet us and we board their Landrover and pickup to the Park HQ a mile away, on the banks of the river Ndungu.
The Park HQ comprises of an old colonial style brick office building roofed with flat tiles laid at an angle, to create a fish scale appearance, with a monument and flag pole in front, on a parade ground set back about 200 meters from the rive.r Kes and Fraser live in a grand old plantation type house with a formal garden now rather abandoned, but once probably containing many European shrubs and flowers. The visitors accommodation are seven brick rondavels along the river bank, with showers and flush loos – quite recently installed, but not working at this moment in the classic African scenario. However, there are beds, linen, mosquito nets and electric lights, courtesy of the Smith'’ generator, for three hours every evening. In our bungalow the familiar aroma of bats in ceiling does not disturb us, and the cheerful Zairean staff heat water and bring it to us in buckets for bathing, whenever we ask. The whole compound of about 30 to 40 hectares is mown, short lawns, under a parkland of superb old Terminalia trees, many carrying orchids and elephant ear ferns.
We settle into our rooms and after a picnic lunch, take a walk along a track to a bend in the river about a mile upstream, where a large herd of hippo reside, and we spend an hour sitting on the bank enjoying their antics, and acclimatising to our new environment which is familiar to our East African eyes, yet somehow different due to the subtle changes to West African adaptations of the flora. Our ornithologists are oohing and aahing, and throwing out comments about subspecies and breeding plumage and migrations and variants, while the plebs nod their heads to mask their ignorance. We soon feel very much at home and wander back to the camp in the dusk, to change and enjoy a delicious barbecue prepared by Kes and Fraser, lubricated by the excellent beverages Nigel has so thoughtfully provided and bravely fought for.
The weather is delightfully mild and there are few mosquitoes in spite of the rainy season. The grass – Hyparrhenia, Loudetia, Panicum and others grow to 8ft tall by the end of the season, but is burnt off most years. At this stage, some four weeks into the rains, it had changed from being burnt out and blackened to a Disneyland of lush green that almost hurts ones eyes.
SATURDAY 18th MAY
We assemble at 0830 hours to fly to the river Garamba some 30 miles away, where there is a landing strip and the surviving legendary tamed elephants are kept. Half the party go by road, so that we would have vehicles once there.
Once again, we are struck by our good fortune to witness a view that once covered all Africa. Elephant in family groups and larger herds by the hundreds upon hundreds, and Buffalo by the tens of thousand in rolling grassland to the horizon and no humans in sight. Several white rhino are sighted including some with calves. Kes has taken Fiona Alexander with her in her Super Cub to track the rhino. Fiona is no slouch in this field, having a pilots’ licence herself, and is an ardent conservationist who has carried many baby elephant orphans in her plane for Daphne Sheldrick to rear in the Nairobi Park.
We set down at Garamba strip, where we watch the trained elephant grazing nearby, herded by a Zairean keeper. Fraser explains that they have recently lost the most experienced one, who was mated by a wild bull at night and who probably stood on her leg chain and slipped it off her rear foot. They now had two left, of which only one was partially trained to an acceptable level., but even she was often difficult and the chances of a ride were slim. In fact she had not been ridden for a couple of months, and would rarely lie down on command, unless the mahout was on her back. To get there he had to shin up a nearby tree while the ground crew enticed her underneath with green mangoes, whereupon he precariously clambered onto her back. This was bad news, and we are most disappointed to hear it.
However today’s objective is to track down white rhino on foot, using a directional antenna to pick up the signals from a transmitter implanted in the horns, of five of the 30 remaining ones. Kes has already located a pair not far from the road back to the Park HQ.
We proceed in two vehicles with Fraser and Simon Millage, a young conservationist seconded to the Park by World Wildlife Fund (WWF) specifically for this purpose. We soon pick up signals, which are collected by holding an H shaped antenna on a short handle, and turning it through an arc, while listening into earphones. The signal intensity rose and fell away as the antenna passed the line of the incoming signal. In this fashion we approach the target, and when we are about a mile away judging from the sound, and the rhino are estimated to be over the next ridge, we disembarked and set off on foot with strict instructions to be quiet and stick together. This is good boy scout stuff which we all knew well from school, the army or professional hunting and we thoroughly enjoy it. With much shushing and testing the wind direction, we cross ridge after ridge and wade, or rather fall through, swampy valleys, and those who wear shorts are receiving fine itchy grass scratches on their legs. The party splits into two, with Fraser zigzagging ahead from Kigelia tree to tree checking where the rhino would be resting up in the midday heat.
Eventually we close in on them. Fraser climbs a tree and there they are, about 50 yards away. They are not easily seen in the sloping ground and tall grass, and with the fickle wind they soon know our presence and spook and run off for a short distance. The second party is called forward, and we follow them for another 200 yards, then sight their backs and ears twitching about 30 yards away as they nervously face us. A minute stand off goes by as we look at each other, then they turn and run, circling us, exhibiting their massive bodies and humped necks perfectly. They don’t seem to run, rather they flow like huge armoured tanks rolling through the grass and bush, until they cross the ridge a mile away and disappear. We walk back to the cars in silence.
Two miles on we picnic at a small spring in a grove of Nagero trees and talk about the rhinos, while we have sandwiches, and tea made over a small fire, which imparts an inimitable smoky taste we all know from safaris. This evening we are having a Zairean dinner cooked by the Warden’s wife. It should be noted that Kes and Fraser are not the wardens, nor do they hold any executive authority in the administration of the Park, which is vested in the Zairois Institute of the Conservation of Nature. They are specifically here to represent a consortium of donors, and advise and report on the conservation of the wildlife. Naturally their financial influence and the fact they supplement the Govt. staff salaries (which we learn amounts to US$0.16 a month), and provide uniforms and transport, means that their advice and guidance are taken very seriously by the Zairois.
We have preplanned a divertissement to amuse the company. In Nairobi we devised and printed an invitation card purported to come from “La societe des Amis de Garamba”, inviting each member, as well as Kes and Fraser, to a black tie dinner this evening. To disguise identity it is written in French. We slip the invitations into the picnic basket, and at lunch in the grove, the cards are discovered and distributed to each member by name. nobody knows where they come from, but Imre is the first suspect. Carolyne and Humphry Belcher are accused. Its just the sort of thing they would do. It’s a mystery. After our picnic, the group splits, half returning to the aircraft, and the others driving back towards the Park HQ since we’re already halfway home. The track is becoming difficult to follow in the rapidly growing grass and is quite rough, and we are thrown about in the back, some standing gripping the half roof while others try to sit on the tail gate clinging tot he sides and each other. Fraser tells us that the roads are a big problem, as there is so little traffic over them., that they simply disappear in the lush growth and vehicles can’t follow them.
With 250kg of road to deal with, he has bought a heavy duty tractor mounted slasher, but he cannot keep up during the growing season, and the roads disappear until the next fire, six months later. We suggest he tries a chemical spray “Roundup”, a non toxic, non residual, herbicide which is widely used around the world for fire breaks, and various agricultural situations. I can see he is sceptical although he listens. Conservationists have become so sensitised to the word “chemical”, its like offering the Pope a condom. Yet this would be the answer to his problems. One would spray a 3-4 meter swath with a tractor-mounted sprayer – covering 25kg a day – and finish 250kg in 10 days. The grass would die back over a two week period, and could be left or fired while the surrounding growth was still green. There are no toxic residues, and the fuel requirement would amount to 10-15% of the amount required to slash it. The grass would regrow next season and it would have to be repeated. Even if Fraser was convinced, I doubt donors would finance it in their abhorrence of all things “unnatural”. Sad.
We arrive back at camp at 1730 hrs, having forded the Nagero river downstream over an Irish bridge, or drift, with steel angle iron markers showing the water level, and the edge. In heavy rain, the river quickly becomes impassable and any attempt to cross would prove fatal.
After bathing and changing, we assemble for our “sundowners” on the verandah of one bungalow. We are carefully monitoring the beer reserves, but decide we are actually behind our target consumption, which allows us about five cans per head per day, which is not bad, but some of the ladies were drinking wine instead, and dear Sally had smuggled in a bottle of whiskey, which allows the more thirsty members, to consume 7 or 8 beers a day. Some beer drinkers like a dram of whiskey for their nightcap, so Sally is very popular.
As we prepare to leave for our black tie dinner, I recall that by pure chance, I happen to be carrying six spare black ties, which we had borrowed from the Freemasons lodge in Nairobi! These are distributed to the gentlemen who tie them around their necks, with or without a collar, and they look very classy – upgrading the tone of the occasion. Understanding the ladies would be sensitive to their comparatively reduced status with “nothing to wear”, we also ran up some very fancy black lace garters with red elastic to restore their morale. They slide these above their knees and feel very well dressed. Thus we proceed to the black tie dinner. Kes had not failed, and appears in a most elegant set of tails, while Fraser has on his BATMAN teeshirt and a black tie as well.
The dinner is staple Zairean fare of chicken goulash cooked with spices served with rice and local vegetables including some greens – a sort of “Sukuma wiki”, and cassava – a kind of mash potato looking starchy material presented in round icecream-like dollops but stiff and almost rubbery. Cassava is the staple carbohydrate in much of West and Central Africa as it is a drought resistant root crop. The dinner is tasty and well presented, accompanied by further beers and wine, and Imre makes a speech of thanks to Kes and Fraser for their wonderful hospitality and efforts. He turns our little joke back on us, by suggesting the author of “Friends of Garamba” should say something about their objectives. This is now becoming more serious than its original intenion. However, we say that this unique park, so well served by Kes and Fraser, needs our support in the form of any assistance we could offer, to promote more visitors, or help Kes and Fraser with their specific needs. It was the beer speaking, but I think we all felt great admiration for their dedication.
SUNDAY 19th MAY
Last night it was agreed that the more adventurous members would mount an overland expedition to the northern end of the park bordering Sudan – about 70 miles away. This includes our intrepid collector Gilfred Powys (KR6263), looking for new succulenta, Imre Loefler and Sally Higgin – looking for new birds, Nigel Pavitt looking for new pictures and Humphrey Belcher (KR4473) and Simon Millage accompanying them. There is an element of risk in this venture, as Sudanese rebel deserters are known to be poaching and are quite capable of loosing off a burst of AK47 at a lone vehicle in this remote zone. Their ETD is at 0600 hrs after a cup of tea – in order to return before dark.
The balance of the party is to fly back to the Garamba river, a 10 minute flight, and an attempt to ride the elephants. Fraser warns us not to be too optimistic. There is some debate about our fuel reserves for this exercise as our meticulous skipper, has calculated his fuel needs to the last ml, and we even talk of raiding Fraser’s Kerosene fridge reserves for a few more drops.
On arrival at Garamba strip – with a sackful of green mangoes, the two elephant are ushered forward, both dragging chains around their rear right leg. The Congo elephant is a subspecies, a forest animal, Loxodonta Africana Cyclotis, and considerably smaller than the savannah East African type, L. Africana Africana. She is about 7ft 6 inches (2.25cm) at the shoulder, at least 2ft shorter than her East African cousin, and I am surprised to learn she is 43 years old.
One of the attendants manipulates her towards the tree and then wraps the dragging chain around it to secure her, while the mahout nips up the tree in a flash and steps across onto her back with his bullhook, a sort of marlin spike with one curved hook and a straight one, with which to prod and pull at her ears and neck to enhance the voice commands. It seems vicious but there is no sign of blood or scars.
Now that he is on her and she is secured, our chances are better. the mangoes come out and by tempting and prodding commands, she eventually squats backward, then rocks forward with her legs outstretched. Who’s first? Jane is boldest and steps forward. Quickly before she changes her mind, the two attendants show her where to hold on, and with a foot up on the running board alongside the blank and strong hands under her backside, Jane is up onto the rectangular platform which serves as the seat, as the elephant gets to her feet. Much prodding, shouting and mangoes, and down she comes again, and Rosemary gets up next. They clamber to the off side each sitting with an ornate wrought iron corner post between their legs and clinging on to it. i go up next as she comes down, and in a blur am on her back, facing the near side, and back to back with Rosemary and Jane. We are three up plus the mahout in front and the seat is crowded and uncomfortable, and the foot rest along her flank is far too close, so your legs have to dangle down her side. The chain is released and we are off, wandering down the runway toward the river, accompanied by the other elephant and mahout and two armed guards, which is a little disappointing. We settle down, shifting to get more comfortable, but it is a small seat and we are crowded together, bum to bum. In other circumstances it would be quite pleasurable I’m sure, but up here it is cramped.
I had wondered whether this would be gimmicky. A donkey ride at the seaside sort of thing; touristy and slightly degrading perhaps, but it is not. Here we are in elephant country, and she seems unconcerned about us. She is a delicate creature, finikity almost, treading carefully and sniffing at small stones, and plants in a swathe in front of her. She loves mushrooms, growing in old termite clearings and goes out of her way to reach them with her prehensile proboscis. She is distracted by the slightest object or sound and the mahout has to remind her and drive her forward with strong commands. She shies like a horse when a Francolin erupts from under her, and we clutch on like ticks.
Every four steps she twines her trunk around a bundle of grass and rips it out, and into her mouth, with a helping ‘hand’ from a front foot, if it won’t tear off, but she prefers dicots and tree seedlings, and snucks them out from the grass cover and munches away as she wanders along. No wonder these plains are grassland. How do any trees survive to maturity with 11,000 of these beasts selectively searching for them? She must have pulled up at least 20 in the hour we were on her. Imagine 11,000 elephants doing that. She’s a living baling machine, consuming vegetation by the ton and dropping it out the back in great fibrous balls, hardly digested, as fast as it goes in. we approach the river, with steep sides and sand banks. She slips through a cutting carefully placing her rear foot in the exact print of the front one. As she wades into the water, she is warily watching a pod of hippos some 30 yards upstreadm, who return her stare. He is not too happy in the water which came up to her belly, and is quick to readh the other side and clamber up the sandbank. We walk toward a group of buffalo lying on the sand cudding peacefully. As we close in they stand up nervously and then snort and trot off. We wander along the bank heading upstream and she baulks at a log in the grass. Perhaps she thinks it is a croc. We haven’t seen any, but Fraser tells us that there are monsters, and how he was attacked many miles from home in his fibreglass canoe by a large male, a couple of years ago, who presumably mistook him for another croc invading his territory. The croc bit the canoe just behind him, and sank it with all his gear, food, radio and cameras. He swam for his life underwater and spent a miserable couple of days waiting for Kes to find him. Fortunately he was with a friend in another canoe, and eventually they were rescued.
We cross the river again and turn back to the airstrip, as the weather is threatening and it looks black on the horizon. We hope the second group will have time to ride before the heavens open. We dismount clumsily, stiff from the ride. It had been an extraordinary hour, and what we have come all this way to do. Now it’s Dick Knight, Tad Watts and Carolyn Belcher’s turn, and we photograph them as they climb on. This elephant has been so amenable, Jane wants to give her a mango, but the keeper warns that she can be dangerous. Later we see her lunge at him with ears flapping and is only restrained by her chained leg. Perhaps she has been tormented by him, or teased by offering, then withholding, the mangoes.
We ponder the morality of training elephants to carry tourists. The purists would say it is repugnant. However, it does create revenue from tourists, who will only visit this remote park if it offers more than usual attractions. If this revenue pays for the rangers’ salaries who save other elephants from poachers, is it not justifiable? We picnic under a grove of trees beside a little stream half a mile from the airstrip, while awaiting the second riders to return. We hear, far away, faint rifle fire, probably poachers. It might even be Zairean military patrols, sent in recently to beef up this security. One is skeptical of any military force in Africa, and would prefer them to be elsewhere, but they may be the lesser of two evils.
The others arrive and we eat and drink tea. Fraser has built some shelters here when they were darting and working on rhinos, which are now used for visitors who can camp. It would have been nice to do this, have a swim in the stream in the evening, then dry around the fire. As we pack up and walk back to the aircraft we see, on the opposite ridge about a mile away, a black moving line under the trees. Six, seven hundred, maybe one thousand elephant in a hug mass moving through the grassland. Is this in response to the earlier shots we heard? Are poachers trailing them? It was a belief in Kenya that they only gather in such numbers when hunted, but Fraser says it is not necessarily so.
We fly back to camp. We are tired and our senses are overloaded. Our expedition is nearing its end and we are subdued. Poor Fiona has had to stay in camp with a septic ulcer on her skin and missed all the fun. At dusk the Northern expedition returns, burned and tired but very pleased with themselves. They did not reach the northern end, fearing that the storm on the horizon which worried us, would flood the Garamba river and cut them off, so they climbed one of the nearby inselbergs that stick up out of the plains (Mt. Bagunda?) and saw and photographed much game. They also heard rifle fire, and collected a military patrol and drove them to the general direction of the shots. We are gratified to hear next day that they had contacted the poachers and exchanged shots and recovered some ivory and weapons. We eat dinner early and are not long to bed.
MONDAY 20th MAY
We breakfast and pack. Our various expenses are added up for accommodation, meals, fees, gratuities and elephant rides. It amounts to some US$100 per head, of which the ride was US$50. Imre collects the money and disperses it. We express our appreciation to the staff and bid farewell. We load the aircraft and say goodbye to Fraser and Kes.
We feel a part of the scene now and it is strange to be leaving. We take off, waving to them. There is a sharp crack and a rush of air and noise. The cargo door has sprung open and we sit strapped in wondering what Tad is going to do. Gilfred goes to the back and gripping a seat with his right arm, leans out and pulls down the hatch door by its cord, and locks it in place. Fortunately there is no air resistance, as it is hinged at the top of the fuselage and closes easily. Nothing is blown out, and we climb away. Tad had been photographing the elephants yesterday and took shots of them eating mangoes through the hatch. It was obviously not fully secured.
The weather is clear and we cross the Ituri forest again and the great rivers intersecting it, in disbelief at its extent. Bunia appears and we land with our fuel warning light blinking. We have no aggravated feelings, merely resignation that we will be fleeced again. We fill in emigration cards and pay out various charges resignedly. At the point when we are ready to embark, a new arrogant official in dark glasses orders us to bring all the luggage to his office for searching. We know this scenario well. No point in arguing yet. We troop out, collect all our gear, lock the aircraft and carry it back to the building about 100 meters away. In the building we are told to line up with our baggage and bring it one by one into his office for individual body and luggage searches. This looks ominous. Nigel is already in there, and Imre forces his way in. he is told to leave but refuses. There are five other uniformed Zaireans in the room, standing behind the seated official. The Zairean demands money in lieu of the search. Nigel refuses. Imre explodes.
Now Imre has a good command of English, French, German and Hungarian and probably Urdu, Mandarin, Russian and Luganda. Furthermore he was brought up under totalitarian regimes in Nazi Germany and the Soviet bloc, and he can judge a despot to the fifth decimal place. He calls the bluff and rips into him – a disgrace to his country; a factor in Zaire’s shoddy reputation; a contributor to its poverty; an example of all that prevents tourism and investors from developing this magnificent country; a no hoper whom Imre would report to the Ambassador, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Director of Tourism and even the President when he visits Kinshasa in two weeks time. The man is stunned. No Mzungu (white man) had ever spoken to him like this before. He is used to missionaries, back packers, occasional singles or couples he can bully and who cough up just to get the hell out of there. He weighs up Imre’s words. There are 12 of us, not just a couple he can take behind the building and beat up, or throw into jail for a night, as spies. He gives in, and dismisses them. Imre is relentless and tears into him. He must instruct all his subordinates to carry the luggage back to the aircraft. He agrees.
Imre emerges red faced, but with a hint of a smile. We troop back to the aircraft, load, climb on board, taxi and take off, with relieved laughter, when we hear the story. We have some extra fuel loaded at Bunia, courtesy of the Missionary Aviation Fellowship, and Tad calculates we can divert for an extra half hour, which allows us to fly eastward along the Lake Albert northern escarpment, then follow the Semiliko delta and river which boundaries Zaire and Uganda. There is a magnificent view of the Lake that Samuel Baker named after Queen Victoria’s consort, when he first saw it in 1872, having sailed up the Nile from Cairo, then walked from Gondokoro, near Juba, across northern Uganda. He annexed it on his next expedition, on behalf of the Khedive of Egypt.
We fly over the southern escarpment into Uganda, then the eastern side of the Ruwenzoris, the Mountains of the Moon, covered in cloud, but with occasional icy peaks visible. Uganda is rapidly recovering from its terrible experience, and new roads and traffic are evident and Kilembe copper mines are working after 30 years of closure. Our perspective has changed again since Friday and after the emptiness and vastness of Zaire, Uganda looks positively crowded. We cross the Queen Elizabeth National Park and the Kazinga Channel joining Lake George and Lake Edward, then the Ankole plains, home of the Mwanyankole, nilotic pastoralists who own the fabled huge horned cattle. In a few minutes we are over the western shore of Lake Victoria and flying over the Sese islands; beautiful, peaceful forested islands one could imagine owning, and escaping to, for a Shangri La existence.
In the Lake, large brown hazy smudges rise above the water. These are Lakefly colonies, composed of billion upon billions of small insect, which form a part of the foodchain for the aquatic life. They are blamed for several mysterious aircraft disappearances over the years, when pilots have flown into them, clogged up their airfilters, and crashed into the Lake and sunk without trace.
The Kavirondo gulf and Rusinga Island loom ahead; the last leg of our journey. South Nyanza, Kisii highlands, the Mara wheatlands, Narok, Suswa crater, Ngong hills, Wilson airport is in sight and we land at 1745hours. We walk into customs and immigration behind a missionary flight inbound from Bunia. The health inspector is demanding a vaccination certificate from a Zairean, and is berating him. The Zairean is protesting about discrimination. We smirk and cheer. Two days later Imre tells me, Life is just – that very same man had come to see him about a painful medical condition. Haemorrhoids! Poor Sod!
We share a drink at the Aero Club and wind down. A great safari and unique experience. I think of Tennyson’s poem, “Ulysses”.
“For our purpose holds,
To sail beyond the sunset and the bathes of all the western stars,
and thro’
We are not now that strength which moved earth and heaven,
That which we are, we are
One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time, but strong in will,
To strive, to seek, to find,
and not to yield.”
By Dennis Leete (KR4094)