For the first time in a month and a half, I managed to get out of Lusaka for the weekend. Much like at home when Boston starts to wear me down and I feel that pull towards the mountains and wide open freshness of New Hampshire, I just had to get out of the city. In this case, the destination was Chirundu, a town to the south, on the border with Zimbabwe, on Zambezi River.
Chirundu is hardly New Hampshire. In her book Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, Alexandra Fuller describes Chirundu as “possibly the hottest, least hospitable, most malarial place in all of Zambia.” Sounds lovely huh? Well actually, I didn’ t remember having read that before I went. I went because I was promised a weekend of camping, relaxing, wildlife and tiger fishing on the Zambezi River, and that’s definitely what I got, although it certainly was hot.
Although travelling in large groups can be challenging, the good thing about traveling with nine people was that we were able to charter a minibus all to ourselves. Yes, there was the adventure of going to the City Market bus station, and having every minibus driver there gather around us to find out where we were going. But it helped having a Zambian friend who came along, and he managed to haggle us a deal, not only did we get our own bus down there but we got driven directly to the camp at Zambezi Breezers (www.zambezibreezers.com). Having our own bus, we were also able to avoid the constant stops, the overcrowded, packed the brims, sweaty, stuffy, fish/live chicken filled experience that it could have been. Within a half hour of arrival at the bus station, we were speeding southwards out of Lusaka. The crowded, traffic ridden city starts to thin out, and then it’s gone. Then nothing but clusters of thatched roofed huts, little one room markets, cinder block structures adverising pay toilets for 500 kwacha (that’s about 15 cents), and dry bush on a dusty plain with hills in the distance.
I also discovered on this ride that Lusaka is indeed at elevation. Eventually we started heading down, some roads with a surprisingly steep incline, nestled between rubbly/sandy/dusty hills. I think it was the wind through the open windows that helped us not to bake under the sun. Chirundu itself is nothing special, a border town, a truck stop. Lines and lines of trucks on their way to somewhere, carrying fish norwards to Lusaka, goods southwards to Zimbabwe. With my mind stuffed full of HIV programs, I couldn’t help but think of all the truckers right there at those crossroads, an important target population. But it was the weekend. Our minibus turned off the main road, up and down the rough dirt road. Past the occasional cinderblock house, turned right at the goats, around the bend at the fish farm with its large concrete tanks, and up to our camp. All along the ride, the theme for me was dirt, dust and hot.
Happily, Zambezi Breezers is a haven from the inhospitalbe dustiness. A narrow oasis along the river. Sprinklers scattered drops of rainbow catching water along a soft green lawn. A small, kidney shaped swimming pool glistened in the sun. A large, thathed roof cabana caught breezes off the river and enveloped them in shade. Down in the river, halfway across, what looked at first to be a cluster of large boulders soon revealed itself to be a large group of hippos. And beyond them, Zimbabwe. Not surprisingly, it didn’t look much different than Zambia. A flat plain with those stereotypical low, branching African trees of paintings, large termite mounds, and some hills in the hazy distance.
I set up my tent on a grassy, tree shaded nook with a view of the river. It was the first time I haven’t set up a rain fly over a tent for as long as I could remember. I haven’t seen a drop of rain since I got here.
For those who know anything about fishing, tiger fishing is a well known sport. People travel to the Zambezi River for miles to have a go at catching them. A blackboard at the cabana proudly announced that Diane had caught the biggest tigerfish of the year there, back in June, at a whopping 7 kg.
The nine of us rented a boat for the afternoon. First, our driver Robin took us speeding down the river, close to the Zimbabwe side, where we saw several groups of elephants, hippos, and even a crocodile. The nice thing about being on the boat was that we were able to slow down, double back, and get much closer to the elephants than I had at Kafue National Park. They glanced at us briefly, seemed to give it some thought, and went back to rustling through the trees, stuffing clumps of brush into their mouths. From the middle of the river, the hippos continued their loud, grunting calls. They always sound closer than they actually are. At one point in the middle of the night, I had to peek out of my tent to make sure they weren’t standing right there.
The second half the boat ride was dedicated to fishing. We each had a go at reeling out the bait, which in itself could have been a fish worth catching. At one point I felt a tug at my line, it seemed that I may have caught something, and we even moved the boat in pursuit. But I came up with an empty line, hook broken off. We’ll never know if it was a fish or if it just caught on the bottom. In the end none of us caught a thing, but we enjoyed an afternoon out on the water, the breeze and the sun, some cool animals and cold drinks. At several points, we passed by other camps and lodges along the Zambian side of the river, which looked much more luxurious, and I got little panks of missing Mukambi Lodge where I went in Kafue. But our camp was a no frills (=cheap) kinda place, and that’s what we were going for. One of the girls who came along, who doesn’t work for CIDRZ (!) is spending the week in Chirundu, staying on the river in one of those very structures, doing research at an Italian mission hospital with some nuns. Seems like a lovely way to spend the week.
Besides the boat ride, it was a lazy weekend of lounging, by the pool, by the river, under the cabana, reading, chatting. We took a walk down the road to a banana farm, watched some monkeys dart between the trees.
After our banana stroll, we walked by the fish farm. At that point, I was rather hot and thirsty, and decided to return to camp rather than explore. That decision ended up costing me an intereting experience. My friends who did decide to go ended up meeting the old British couple who runs the fish farm, and they turned out to be the parents in the memoir I mentioned above. Indeed, if you turn to the last page of the book, Alexandra Fuller describes how here parents are living on a fish farm in Chirundu, on the Zambezi river, down the road from some Italian nuns. How neat is that? Talk about bringing a book to life. I could not have feigned the ignorance my friends did when they were speaking to the couple, the parents in the books, “Oh yeah? We’ve never heard of the book, we’ll have to check it out.”
I was sad when it was time to head out. Relaxing is addictive. Yet much like I feel when returning to Boston, coming to Lusaka this time felt like coming home, in a way.
The weekend ended with a nice surprise. Our friend Rodney, the plains camp manager, came to visit (we thought he was coming next weekend). The occasion called for dinner at this lovely Italian restaurant called Portico. One of those places you can go and forget you’re in Zambia. Hidden among the green trees, we all dined on caprese salad, homemade pasta and crème brulee, and sipped red wine by the polo grounds (yes, there are polo grounds), surrounded by actual Italians speaking Italian. It’s nice to discover all the other foreigners who are in Zambia too.
I didn’t want all the relaxation to end. I have many busy weeks ahead. But actually, that feels good too.
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