Walk on the Wild Side

The trip to Mana Pools National Park did not start auspiciously. To begin with, I did not want to go. This was true for three reasons: (1) Chronic pains led me to dread a rough truck-trip that would last longer than air-passage to America. (2) I was paranoid about safety factors; listed negatively, these included hyenas, Immigration officers, and (especially) vehicle accidents. (3) I had way too much work to do on campus. But A.U.’s Wildlife students were going to Mana Pools, and it was my duty to teach ‘em about the wonders of nature, right? And what could be more wonderful than a park of 2196km², a gazetted World Heritage site along the mighty Zambezi? So, I went.

But back to start-up problems. I shall forebear from discussing the logistical headaches of arranging food, transport, and Park reservations. (These problems were largely addressed by Daniel Nzengy’a, A.U.’s full-time Wildlife instructor. And let me simply say that if Eisenhower had faced comparable difficulties when planning D-Day, only the Red Army could have saved the Jewish people from extinction.) Still, one start-up, uh, issue, must be described. On the Wednesday afternoon prior to our Thursday departure, one of my Wildlife students came to my office and announced, “Bad news, Prof, the boys are in jail.” An English explanation (mixed with what were probably Tswanan curses) revealed that two of my Botswanan students had caught a ride into Mutare. There, with my camera, they had attempted to photograph a particularly colorful male tree-agama. This lovely lizard had led the boys a merry chase down a dusty back alley before he came to rest on a jacaranda tree—behind the Ministry of Prisons Building. Unfortunately, the boys snapped the picture. And they got caught. And they were accused of being spies for the nation of Botswana. And the Embassy of that noble Republic refused to intervene.

So, the word was, “Prof, you got to go help us get the boys out.” I tried to swallow my disappointment: I’ve never seen a multiple spy-hanging, and I had a spare camera suitable for photographing the event. But, alas, duty called, so I stuck a U.S. $100 bill into my left sock and got into a typical Botswana-car. (This probably means nothing to you gentle readers, but any loyal Zimbabwean could tell you that if a Motswana has X dollars to spend on a car, he will allocate 0.9X dollars to the vehicle’s sound system—which will have its volume set at max, playing unmusical English lyrics in which some Americans accuse other Americans of doing unspeakable things with their mothers.) Anyhow, we headed towards Mutare, in a Botswana car, rapping all the way. Personally, I had little faith in my ability as advocate-professor: being an Undocumented Worker, I rather expected to join “the boys” in prison, and I fervently hoped that the jailors did not allow Motswana to bring their sound-systems into their cells. (Uh, and geesh, the camera had my name on it! Silently I rehearsed my gallows-speech: “I regret that I have but one life to give for, for freaking Botswana?”) Clearly, however, God loves fools, and before we actually reached the jailhouse, Mutare's Captain of Police had released “the boys”—probably because it is considered cruel & unusual punishment to imprison decent Zimbabwean axe-murders with loud-mouthed Botswanan lizard-photographers. Anyhow, we picked up “the boys”; they were whooping & hollering & explaining (occasionally in English) how much fun life was. In other words, the on-again, off-again trip to Mana Pools was back on.

Our departure from A.U. was a disappointing event. On Wednesday night we had been scheduled to take the Faculty 4X4 crew-cab pickup plus an equipment-trailer. I'd known that this would cramp us for space, so when the University minivan arrived at my door at 0430 Thursday AM, I was greatly relieved, assuming that we’d been given our requested second vehicle. Looking at the field-supplies and diesel-cans, I said, “I hope the other folks won’t be as crowded as we will.” But of course I had misunderstood: the Faculty 4X4 & trailer had been committed to a VIM team, so nine people went in one vehicle with scarcely enough space for our supplies alone. To compound my depression, I made the mistake of examining the minivan’s tires: three were basically bald, and the fourth had an embolism the size of a baby’s fist in its sidewall. But what the heck; I was committed, so I climbed in, sitting mostly atop a skinny Motswana who had been out of jail for < style=""> And we were on the road.

In my opinion, the story of the trip itself should be written by a Homer (or at least a Tennyson), because it certainly was an odyssey, and I certainly felt as if I had sailed beyond the Western Isles. We cruised out of Manicaland and into one of the Mashonaland provinces. In Harare we fixed our flat spare tire and stashed 40 liters of diesel for use on our return trip. When we reached Chinoyi, the Botswana boys broke out & shared the South African cookies they had managed somehow to acquire. At every police roadblock—and there were many—we were greeted by smiles and good wishes: “Africa University? Good, good! Safe journey!” And, after about 12 hours of extreme closeness on the road, we reached Mana Pools National Park.

Of all the National Parks in Zimbabwe, Mana Pools is unique, for only in Mana Pools is the visitor permitted—I am tempted to write “encouraged”—to commit suicide-by-large-vertebrate. At any time during daylight hours, visitors can walk anywhere in the Park. (Technically, this is not permitted after dark, but I cannot believe that anybody would know if you decided to violate this one regulation.) And ample opportunities for sudden death certainly exist. I saw an enormous Nile croc for which a skinny Motswana would have scarcely comprised a decent snack. Elephants wander through the camp-ground unimpeded. Lions are available to incorporate a tourist into the food-web. (This year, A.U.’s Wildlife majors joined a team that was radio-tracking lions. One lioness was well-hidden, and she broke cover only after the trackers had gotten pretty darn close. The armed safety-ranger took off like a scalded housecat, a maneuver that elicited mass hilarity among the four Botswanan students.) Hyenas, of course, will eat you too, and I’d been particularly worried about ‘em because I’d heard tales that vast numbers of the beasts frequented the campground where we pitched our flimsy tents. Reports of hyenas were by no means exaggerated—shortly after dusk, one sweep of my torch (= flashlight) disclosed a dozen pair of yellow eyes—but this proved to be a good thing since the hyenas finally scared off the two Cape buffalo that had been blocking our access to drinkable water. (You may be sure that a fair number of people are killed at Mana Pools every year. More than half of the deaths are caused by buffalo. The two old bulls that stared balefully at us for several hours were within < style=""> They blocked access to minivan & water-point; and, judging anthropomorphically, I’d say they looked meaner than Dick Cheney. So, anyhow, I recanted every bad thing I’d ever said about hyenas, and I was delighted when they slinked into the flight-zone of the buffalo.)

Overall, as you can guess, we had a tremendously good time, and in retrospect the buffalo just added sweetness to the experience. Mana Pools is a magic place, with a dry, rugged escarpment sloping abruptly to a wide floodplain inhabited by thousands of highly visible CMV’s (= “charismatic mega-vertebrates”; that’s what cynical wildlifers call big mammals). The Zambezi River, with its heartbreakingly lovely greens and blues, spreads half a click wide toward the parched, hazy mountains across on the Zambian side. At night one hears the “um-vum-vum-voo” calls of hippo, the chortle of hyenas, and the occasional cough of a lion. At daybreak, Egyptian geese and saddle-billed storks float the waters or stalk the river's banks. In the heat of the afternoon, an elephant or two will wander through camp, checking out the smells to determine whether you have brought any fresh fruit. (If you did, you’re screwed.) Oh, and one more thing: the Botswana boys will cook, cook, cook, cook! I have no idea where in the Zimbabwean economy these students found so much food, but give ‘em a couple of enamel pots plus half a cord of mopane split-wood, and they will flat feed you some serious grub. I ate so much that, by Saturday afternoon, I was lying on the bank of the Zambezi, probably resembling a croc that had just consumed a brace of unwary tourists.

And yes, Dean Wiseman (= Director of Wofford’s January "Interim" Term): Mana Pools will indeed be the locale I’ll suggest in my Interim ‘09 proposal. In order to register, students will have to meet two criteria: (1) they must be able to cook as well as the Botswana boys, and (2) they must not be able to outrun their instructor.