Mukuni Lion Sanctuary

While Richard was still staying we thought it would be a good idea to go to Livingstone in Zambia again.  Richard had seen Vic Falls on his last visit but it had been high season, so most of the view was mist sprayed up from the amount of water going down the waterfall.  After some deliberation we all decided that we’d rather go to see lions instead, as there is a lion sanctuary not far from Victoria Falls.  After a journey a lot less stressful than the first time I’d been to Livingstone, we arrived and went in search of the sanctuary.  With no luck asking at Fawlty Towers  we dropped into a tourist centre to find that they took bookings for the sanctuary.  After a few minutes and our wallets a lot lighter, we set off for the sanctuary.

It wasn’t too hard to find, although the drive did go out into the bush a fair bit so we were wondering where we would end up.  We were greeted by a friendly man who sat us down with a cold drink in the lodge and explained all about the project they were doing.  We were asked to sign a disclaimer saying that if anything happened to us we could sue, which was a little disconcerting as the guide had just given us some sticks to use as a distraction if the lions looked at us.  I’m not sure how much use the stick would be if a lion decided I look tasty.  We were told that the lions would be released back into the wild when they were older, as the aim of the project is to increase the population rather than provide a zoo for people to see the animals.  The instructions were to do exactly as told by the guides, and only ever approach the lions from behind.  If they wanted to move then you move with them or let them walk away.  Under no circumstances were we to touch the lions heads or paws as they don’t tend to like it, plus we were told not to put anything on the floor as they couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t think it was a toy, and therefore it would be fair game to play with.

We set off from the lodge with our sticks in hand, all a little nervous about what to expect - it didn’t help that our guide had a huge scar down his neck, which we later found out had been given to him by the white lion when she was little. The first thing I noticed was that there were no enclosures; the lions were just roaming free in the bush.  After a 10 minute walk or so we saw two guides stood next to two of the magnificent beasts who were lazing in the shade of a tree.  Although technically they were still cubs, they were absolutely huge, their paws were the size of my head.  We all shuffled up in a line in front of them while our guide explained the details of each one.  One was a white lion and the other a tawny.  They were gently biting each other’s ears taking no notice of us at all.  We were asked who wanted to go first and everyone looked a bit nervous about approaching these huge creatures, so with a little encouragement from the guide we took it in turns to walk around them and kneel behind.  The temptation is to stroke them behind the ears like a cat, but after the strong warnings not to touch their heads I resisted.  Jemma and Glenn had joked about me running up to one and cuddling it like I do with most animals, but once I was actually face to face with one their immense power was apparent so I had no urge to hug it.  Whilst kneeling behind the lions I stroked each of them.  You have to press quite hard while you stroke them as their skin’s so thick if you do it lightly it tickles which apparently irritates them.  We had been instructed to distract their attention away from us if the glanced around at us with the sticks we’d been given, but in actual fact they weren’t that interested in the sticks; I suppose if I was a lion and had a 7 people standing around me I wouldn’t be bothered about a stick either..  The tawny lion seemed to find me quite interesting and so kept turning her head to look at me.  Every time she did one of the guides would dangle this green canvas bag in front of her face to distract her which seemed to work quite well.  She wasn’t impressed with the stick at all.

We had quite a while sitting with the lions in turn and took a lot of photos too.  The guide continued to explain all about them and what they were trying to achieve at the sanctuary.  He also demonstrated their claws by pushing the tawny lions thumb out, much like you would with a cat.  He asked us if we would like to walk with the lions and so the guides encouraged them to stand up and go for a stroll.  It was the strangest thing I think I’ve ever done.  While the lions were walking we were instructed to grab hold of their tails.  They didn’t care at all and merely carried on walking ahead of us.  At one point the lion who’s tail I was holding bounded off with me trailing behind so I ended up being sandwiched between the two of them.  The guide looked at me in alarm and instructed me to let go and drop behind so the lion could pass.  I suppose that probably wasn’t the most sensible place to end up.

The nicest thing about the experience, apart from stroking a lion obviously, was how much the guides respected them.  The whole thing was done on the lion’s terms, not the people’s.  Although I guess logically it would be quite difficult to make them perform on demand.  They really are the kings of the jungle.  They were so laid back and yet being around them made me really respect the power and beauty.  Definitely worth the money.

Once we were back at the lodge we took a look around the other creatures they had there.  There were some cheetahs which happily played with the guide while he was chatting to us and a lynx that hissed at us the whole time we were there.  We asked if the guide ever went in the enclosures with the lynx and he said that he had been in there but it is not safe to do so as they will jump up and claw your eyeballs out.  I’m not sure why he felt the need to be so graphic, a simple ‘it’s not safe’ would have sufficed.  Overall the whole experience is not something I’ll forget in a long time.

The Arrival of Monty

One afternoon Jemma and I were sitting at home reading when I heard this weird squawking coming from the back door.  I crept up to get a closer look and peered through the mesh to see a small ball of fluff shaking rapidly every time it made the weird noise.  It was quite amusing to watch the ball of fur start vibrating every time it squawked.  After a minutes examination I realized it was a baby squirrel that had fallen out of it’s nest.  It didn’t look hurt in any way, although a little bit stressed, so we decided to leave it for a while to see if it’s mother would come and pick it up (knowing that if it smelt of us the mother wouldn’t touch it).  We left it squawking on the doorstep for about an hour, in which time the mother did come down the tree, look at it, then turn around and go back up to the roof.  Deciding that she obviously wouldn’t collect it I opened the door and picked it up.  By this point Christina (the maid) had gone round the house so that she was the other side of the back door matt and was peering at it with disgust.  The locals aren’t massive fans of animals and they tend to be scared of anything small and furry.  Jemma tells me that when they first got the kittens, Christina couldn’t understand why on earth you’d want the scary little creatures in your house.  Over time she grew to love them, and although never picked them up she seemed to like it when they rubbed up against her legs while she was doing the ironing.

The instant I picked it up Christina grabbed the matt it had been sat on and promptly put it in the washing machine, as if it had left some disgusting squirrel germs there.  It soon settled down and stopped squawking, promptly going to sleep curled up in my hand.  After closer examination we realized that it was a boy and after Jemma’s suggestion, I named him Monty.  I cut up my woolen scarf that I had been knitting (that hadn’t been going very well anyway) and made a little nest for him to sleep in.  After speaking with Amelia, who has raised a few baby squirrels before, I found out what to feed him and how to look after him.  I bought a couple of syringes from the pharmacy, made the formula and fed him.  He drank the whole syringe and promptly went back to sleep.

Over the next few days I carried him around in my bra; Amelia told me that they like the warmth and also as he now thought that I was him mum, it would be best to keep him somewhere he can smell me.  This worked quite well for a few days as he’d sleep happily in there until I woke him up every 4 hours to be fed.  If you are wondering how it is possible to keep a baby squirrel down your bra and not get covered in poo, the answer is this:  In the wild the mother would lick the squirrel to stimulate it to go to the toilet.  When they are this young (Monty was about 4 weeks we think) they can’t go on their own., so every time I fed him I would also ‘wee’ him.  It was a very strange sight.  At night I kept him wrapped inside his wool nest next to my pillow, inside the mosquito net so that the cats couldn’t get to him.  I set my alarm every 4 hours to wake me up to feed him during the night which was exhausting as I was still getting up early to ride every morning.

After a few days he began to be a lot more active and would wriggle around too much to keep him in my bra (plus it was difficult to find enough tops that he wouldn’t fall out of when I bent over) so I cut up my fluffiest sock and made it into a pouch to hang around my neck.  He wasn’t too keen on this at first but after some persuasion he curled up and went to sleep.  It was hilarious when he’d wake up, stick his head out of the pouch and start squawking up at me to tell me that he needed a wee.  He was so friendly, if you stroked his tummy he would lift his arm up to allow you to tickle him.  As he got older he would squawk at me for a wee then pull a concentrating face while he was going, letting his legs dangle down loosely while I held him.  He started to sleep less and get a lot more active, getting quicker each day that went by.  His tail started to curl over his back while he ran, which helped us establish how old he was with a bit of internet research.  He started to grow his bottom teeth and would chew on my finger gently when I picked him up.  He became known at Tutwa and most people that came to the café would ask how he was doing.  He went everywhere with me.

One evening I was stressing that he seemed to be a bit constipated, so was trying to work out what to do.  Jemma had got me some milk to make the formula with, but as they didn’t have any evaporated milk, she’d bought condensed instead.  Thinking that it probably wouldn’t make much difference I fed Monty as usual.  To my horror he went absolutely mad.  He was attacking the syringe trying to get more food out whilst darting from side to side.  He ended up with it smeared all over his face and paws, then starting attacking his paws trying to lick it off.  It looked like he was chewing his thumbs off.  I shrieked for Jemma and explained that I thought he might have chewed his thumbs off, and trying not to laugh she calmed me down and said that he probably wouldn’t do that as it would hurt.  I never lived it down, although I still stand by the fact that if anyone had seen what he’d done they probably would have come to the same conclusion.  After dipping my finger in the formula, I realized that condensed milk is obviously just pure sugar.  It was so sweet I couldn’t believe it.  Obviously Monty had had a bit of a sugar rush and liked it judging from his attempts to attack the syringe.

When Richard came over to see Jemma for a few days, I was debating what to do.  I couldn’t leave Monty at home for that long as we needed to pick Richard up from the airport at Kasane which was a good 2 hour drive away.  I decided my best option would be to take Monty with me, which technically involved me smuggling him into Botswana.  I made a nest in my camera bag and took him in the car with us.  While we were driving I had the zip open so he could play, but as we drew nearer the border I zipped the lid on so that there would be no chance of him escaping or someone spotting him.  While we were in the Border Post he was squawking loudly so I had to keep coughing to cover up the sound.  As you drive into Bostwana they have a checkpoint and search your car for fresh fruit etc, whilst also making you stand on a chemical filled rag to prevent the spread of foot and mouth disease.  We though it was hilarious as when they asked us if we had any fruit or veg, we were able to honestly say no… they didn’t ask if we had any baby squirrels so technically we weren’t lying.  Richard wasn’t massively amused at first, he thought Monty was cute but expected him to be quite wild and not much fun to play with.  As Jemma decided to sprawl herself on the back seat of the car, Richard was left holding Monty while I drove home.  Monty soon charmed Richard into being just as soppy about him as the rest of us were by squawking at him loudly from the opening in the camera bag.  I think Richard wasn’t sure what to make of him at first, but once he’d realized how tame and playful Monty was, he was happy to play with him constantly.

I had been worried about what to do with him when we moved to Cape Town as smuggling him into Botswana was one thing, but trying to smuggle him into South Africa was another.  There was a woman called Karen that lived on the Fish Farm, who already had a couple of squirrels she had rescued.  Baby squirrels are actually very easy to raise and fine to release back into the wild after only 12 weeks.  After checking out Karen I decided that would be the best option for Monty as she obviously knew what she was doing and cared for the squirrels very much.  When it came to me handing Monty over to her I was very upset and gave her his woolen blanket, syringes and explained how he like to have his belly rubbed.  She humored me and put him down her top straight away, where he burrowed down a bit and went to sleep.  I visited him a few times before we moved to see how he was getting on.  He seemed very happy and Karen was always very understanding with me fussing about him.  Although it was sad to see him go, he has definitely been left it good hands.

Island View

A few weeks into my stay one of our friends, Etienne, asked us if we would like to go camping with him and a group of friends on one of the sand dunes in the Zambezi.  The trip was arranged as a sort of goodbye party for Etienne as he was moving to Cape Town, and also Natalie who worked for Etienne’s parents.  Seeming like an opportunity too good to turn down, we all agreed.  Etienne asked us all to come to ‘The Fish Eagle’s Nest’ (a lodge) for a meeting to discuss the arrangements.  It was completely pointless me going as they talked in Afrikaans the whole time, so I mostly gazed up into the sky wondering what they were talking about.  At one point Natalie went round the group asking each individual person something (which I couldn’t understand) until she got to me and looked at me expectantly.  Deciding I might as well agree to whatever it was she was asking, I said yes and she continued on round the group.

On the Saturday morning Jem and I spent a fortune in Checkers (a mini supermarket) buying all sorts of things to make into a picnic.  We went home and made burgers, salad, sandwiches and jelly, then packed the whole lot including a lot of beer into a cool box.  We then packed a sleeping bag, mosquito net and a couple of towels and waited for Etienne to come and pick us up.  Once he’d arrived and we’d picked up a few other people we set off to Island View.  Island View is a waterside lodge that has a bar, lodges you can stay in like a B&B and boats that you can hire to take out onto the Zambezi.  The rest of the group coming had already gone ahead of us in their own boats so we loaded our bags onto the platoon we’d hired and started drinking.  Etienne drove the platoon while the rest of us admired the sun setting over the water.

After about 20 minutes of being in the boat we came up to the island where the rest of the group had already set up camp.  In total there was about 15 of us.  Etienne’s parents being very organized, had set up a mini marquee with a table and cool boxes, along with a fire in the centre of the camp.  Jem and I set up an air mattress on the platoon and hung our mosquito net over it.  Most of the guys had decided to brave it and just bring a sleeping bag, but a few had already set up their tents.  Not long after we’d got there Etienne’s dad got out his revolver and fired a few shots into the air to warn the locals that we are armed and not to come and steal from the camp overnight.  Definitely not my usual camping experience.  Our small group that had arrived decided to swim in the Zambezi before it go too dark so headed off to the other side of the island.  The entire thing is just made up of sand and probably takes about half an hour to walk to whole way around.  It’s big enough so that you can’t see clearly to the other side of the island but small enough to walk across easily.  We got to the river on the far side of the island and jumped in.  The water was surprisingly warm and if you sat still for a few seconds the current would start to drag you down steam.  I was a bit nervous at first as there are a hell of a lot of crocodiles and hippos that live in the Zambezi.  After a few minutes though I started to forget this and just enjoy the water.

Once we were back at the camp we continued drinking and didn’t stop.  Everyone ended up rather plastered including a few particular people, although I am sworn to secrecy about some of the events that happened that evening.  At one point we decided to have a race swim around the platoon, which in hindsight was a really stupid idea as by that point the sky was pitch black and there was no way we would have seen a crocodile lurking there.  None of us got eaten though so all was good.  At one point when I’d wandered away from the camp to go to the loo, I head a group of hippos snorting, it was rather unnerving.  We continued drinking, chatting and gazing at the amazing African stars until the early hours of the evening when gradually everyone headed off to get some sleep.  When I finally decided to go to bed at around 4.30am, I found that Glenn had stolen my airbed and quilt leaving me with absolutely nowhere but the sand to sleep.  Glenn had originally said that he wouldn’t be going to sleep at all, so didn’t bother to bring a sleeping bag or anything of his own.  As you can imagine this irritated me slightly whilst I was trying to use my wet towel as a blanket, but Etienne took pity on me and offered to share his quilt.

In the morning we all made a new fire and started a braai.  This seemed like a good idea at the time but after discovering that everything we had packed in our cool box was covered in sand, we gave up.  Sometime in the morning Natalie asked me what was on my leg, when I looked down and discovered a huge black and blue bruise on my thigh.  I have no idea how it got there.  By late morning most of the group got into the boats and headed back to Island View to go home, leaving just me, Etienne, Brent, Nicky, Steven, Francois and Harold behind.  We continued drinking throughout the day and enjoyed the sun and water.  We discovered that there was a sand bank slightly under the water near where the boats had been so spent a lot of the time sat chest height in the river. It was a really lovely day.

Eventually in the late afternoon we decided to pack up and head back to the cars, but unfortunately most of the camping gear had been left for us to sort out.  After a long time of hauling boxes onto the boat we headed back in the direction of Island view.  Nicky and Harold went together in Harold’s own boat.  Once we were back we then had the task of lugging everything up the slope to the cars which was not fun with sunstroke and sleep deprivation for the night before.  Not long after we’d packed everything into the cars and were cooling down with a cold beer we noticed that some people were stood on the river bank looking at something heading our way.  We joined the group of people to see what all the commotion was, only to find Harold climbing up the bank with blood pouring out of his forehead.  He looked a state.  It turns out that he’d confronted some of the locals that were fishing in the river in canoes as that area is a no-fishing zone.  They didn’t appreciate this and so swung what was described to me as a wooden stick with metal on the end (an axe?) at him.  It is hard to know what really happened as from what I’d seen of Harold, he was a little bit racist and had also been carrying his gun when he set off from the island.  Whether he provoked them (which seems likely) or not is hard to tell, but either way the damage they did to him was a little uncalled for.  I was panicking as no one seemed to be that bothered by the immense amount of blood pouring down his face, nor did them seem to be attempting to do anything to stop it.  When I asked if someone was going to help him I was told that they were fetching the first aid kit and eventually he was sat down and mopped up.

On the way home the thing that surprised me was how normal this seemed to everyone… no one else seemed to think the confrontation was particularly out of the ordinary!  It is definitely a sight I will never forget.  Aside from the blood and gore though, camping on a sand dune has got to be one of my favourite experiences, although I was quite ill for a week after which was a bit of a downer.  I’m not sure whether I picked something up from the river water or had sun stroke, but it was not much fun.  I also spent the week stressing about having been bitten by a spider as two red puncture marks had appeared in the centre of my huge bruise, but Brent (the pharmacist) informed me that it was nothing to worry about as I would have already been dead if it was.

Bush Riding

In the first couple of days that I was in Katima, Glenn took me to meet Biggy, the man that looked after the horses on the Fish Farm.  We had a brief chat with him and agreed that I would meet him at the stables at 7am the next morning to help him with the horses.  We had asked Katie, the owner of the Fish Farm if I could help Biggy with the horses and maybe go riding, but she hadn’t seemed too keen.  I decided to go on what Biggy had said so got up early the next day and headed over to the stables.  I was apprehensive at first as I hadn’t ridden for at least a year, plus did not know Biggy at all and was worried that he’d just canter off into the bush leaving me struggling on behind.  As it happened he actually asked me which horse I’d prefer to ride - I chose Sneakers, a cute little mare - and we started slowly down the path from the Fish Farm.  It came apparent quite quickly that I was a little rusty… boy did I ache the next day.

And that’s how it all started.  I continued to meet Biggy at 7am and go riding with him every morning.  When it started to get even hotter we would set off at 6.30am instead to try to avoid being out in the blistering sunshine for too long.  Ideally we should have set off at sunrise, but being up at 5am didn’t sound like a nice idea to me so we stuck to 6.30am.  We’d ride for about an hour each day after tacking up the horses, then wash them down with a hose before setting them out to graze.  It took me a while to work out why it was so funny washing them down, as I knew we’d always washed the horses at the yard I used to ride at but for some reason it was far more amusing doing it this time round.  Eventually I realized why; we used to always use a bucket and sponge so that we wouldn’t spook the horses, so I’d never pointed a hose at a horse before, but Biggy’s slightly more cavalier approach was hilarious.  The horses weren’t keen but had grown used to it, so they tended to glare at you with their ears back but not kick up too much of a fuss.  The addition of Sunlight (washing up liquid) just made matters even more funny.  The daily routine of lathering them up then rinsing them off certainly kept me amused.  Most days I’d even give Whisper (Biggy’s horse) a unicorn horn with his mane, which he was never too keen on.

After riding Sneakers the first day I decided to give Cooper a go.  He is a huge chestnut gelding and is as fat as he is tall.  Initially I intended to ride him every day to get him fit, but after a few days of his lazy rides I was exhausted by the constant needing to push him on so decided to try someone else.  I went for Apache… he is pure evil when he’s in the stable but he’s lovely to ride.  Most mornings I would attempt to go in the stable to tack him up and was met with attempts to bite me so that Biggy would have to come and put his bridle on.  I grew to love him and although he never gave up trying to bite me, I started to feel that maybe he was just misunderstood.  I once went into the stable with him and managed to get to the side of him to attempt tacking him up when he suddenly decided he’d changed his mind and tried to kick me.  Luckily for me I ended up wedged between his side and the fence so he couldn’t reach me.  Once the shock had worn off I thought it was really funny.  Biggy was quite worried at first, but soon started laughing with me.

After the first couple of days my rustiness wore off and I was riding quite well.  We’d trot all the way from the Fish Farm up to the power station sometimes, which was a good few kilometers away, then all the way back again.  Sometimes we would ride to the rapids at the border to sit in the nice breeze for a few minutes and sometimes we would ride out into the open fields so that we could canter across them.  We always came back via the Zambezi so that we could say good morning to the glorious river, and on a number of occasions would pass a naked man or two washing so I would avert my eyes as we rode past.  It was a really lovely way to see some of the country, not to mention some of the wildlife.  On a few mornings we saw hippos in the river so stopped to watch them for a bit, and quite often would ride through a whole group of baboons which I always found a little unnerving after all the stories Biggy had told me about them attacking people.  They never approached us though, just stood very still and watched us disappear into the bush.  One of the paths back to the Fish Farm went through a group of trees that the Cicadas love, which meant that they would constantly fly into me, leaving me shrieking with terror and Apache wondering what the hell I was doing.  Biggy always found this highly amusing.

One of the nicest things about going riding every day, other than seeing the country and getting a lot fitter, was getting to know Biggy.  We’d chat the whole way round about all sorts of different things.  Biggy is from Zimbabwe and so is a lot better educated than the locals in Namibia and Zambia.  He was an orphan from a young age and told me all about his life growing up.  We talked a lot about what’s going on in Zimbabwe now with Mugabe, and it was very sad to hear it from an insider’s point of view.  Biggy planned to go back over Christmas to see how the country was getting on, but said that the last time he’d been there what used to be farm land had just turned to nothing.  He thought that gradually they are pulling themselves back together after the currency crashing and all the farms shutting down, but it is difficult to tell how long it will take.

We talked a lot about the differences between England and Africa too.  He always found it funny to describe what the different bugs tasted like so he could watch the look of disgust on my face and quiz me about the type of food I eat.  Not that long ago Biggy got HIV.  It is a huge problem in Africa even though there are massive campaigns going on to prevent it spreading even further.  The problem is that the locals don’t tend to listen to the advice and don’t bother using protection, so it spreads rapidly.  Then when they do catch the disease they don’t seek help or take the medication.  HIV can be controlled successfully if you take the medication and lead a reasonably healthy lifestyle.  Biggy shows how successful this theory is.  I didn’t know he had HIV as he’d never told me, it was only when Dick Sharp explained to Mum and I what had happened that I knew.  Looking at him you wouldn’t be able to guess it at all.  Once I knew though it did occasionally pop into my head as it’s not something I’ve ever come across before.  There was one ride when I was talking about the bloody mosquitoes as by this time I was absolutely covered in bites.  I had scabs down my arms from where I’d been scratching them (and yes I know you’re not supposed to scratch, but they’re just so itchy!) and Biggy asked if he could feel them.  I didn’t think anything of it and offered him my arm to touch.  It was only when he’d prodded them a bit did it start running through my head about him having HIV, and was it really stupid of me to let him touch an open cut on my arm?  It’s sad really because I’m sure the chances of catching it from a fingertip on a bite are ridiculously small, but still I couldn’t help it going through my head.

A lot of funny things happened on our rides, other than being warned off by a snake and attacked by cicadas, we once met an armed police man.  He was just lazily wondering around the bush.  I’m not entirely sure why he was there but it’s not the kind of thing you want to discuss with an armed man, so I just politely said hi.  He stopped to chat to us for a while and then asked Biggy if he had any horses spare as he was after a whole tail to give to his cousin who is the chief of one of the tribes.  Biggy apologized saying that he couldn’t help and rode on leaving me very confused.  Once out of earshot I asked him what that was all about.  He explained that the chiefs use them as part of their dress and so this policeman wanted a tail.  I asked if he meant just cut off the horse and to my horror Biggy explained that the horse needs to be dead as they take the whole tail, bone included to keep all the hair together.  I got the distinct impression that the policeman had been eyeing up the horses we were riding.  Not my idea of a nice accessory.

I was really lucky to ride every day for free as most people had to pay Katie to ride the horses.  I’d offered to help Biggy mucking them out and feeding them etc but it was very rare that he actually asked me to do anything.  The whole time I was there I only mucked out the stables once and helped Biggy with the gardening once.  I was really sad to say goodbye to him as we’d become good friends, but we exchanged email addresses and promised to stay in touch.

Tutwa Tourism

On the outskirts of Katima there is a centre called Tutwa Tourism.  It had a small shop that sells ‘African shit’ as it has become affectionately know by us, a small café and also an office where you can book boat rides, camping trips, game drives etc.  It is owned and run by Katy Sharp who also owns the Fish Farm with Dick Sharp where Jem and Glenn rented a house.  Jemma and Amelia (who also lives on the Fish Farm) offered to take over the running of the café a while before I arrived in Katima.  Apparently it had been doing very badly and was hardly even making enough money to pay the staff, let alone make a profit.  I think Jemma and Amelia saw it more of an opportunity to fill up some time with something productive, as Katima doesn’t exactly have a lot to do.  Jemma was counting down the days until they moved to Cape Town and Amelia was temporarily stuck on her ride to Tanzania; her and her brother were riding for months across the southern African countries to raise money for charity.  Taking over the café seemed like a logical thing to do, it was practically volunteering as they made very little money from it but it filled some time.

The café is actually quite a nice little place with tables in the open air and the kitchen out the back.  There is a canopy over the top which provides some shade / shelter when the rainy season starts, and a constant supply of cold drinks.  There are blackboards with the choice of food and drink, large African wall hangings and quirky ashtrays on each table.  It seemed like a logical place to spend a lot of my time.  In the first couple of weeks of me being in Katima I would go with Jemma and Mum to Tutwa, where we would chill out, drink iced lattes and read our books.  The café was very quiet a lot of the time so Jemma and Amelia would join us, but when customers came in they would get to work.  The first couple of weeks I was there the heat was unbearable; I kept getting the feeling that I should be doing something more active, but if you even step out of the shade within a few minutes you have sweat dripping off your face and a gruesome headache.  So I decided to enjoy the forced relaxation.  I certainly got through a lot of books.

Katima is a funny old place.  Being in the back of beyond it seems about 10 years behind everyone else.  Like I’ve mentioned before, the meat in the supermarkets is already out of date, the service is nonexistent and the locals tend to avoid you.  There were a few of the locals working at Tutwa café, with Jemma and Amelia managing them.  When they had first started the kitchen had been so grimy and disgusting that they spent the first few days cleaning.  They revamped the menus, started baking cakes and tried to get some business in.  They had already done all this when I arrived so I only experienced the better side of it, but even then it could be a bit hit and miss sometimes.  With the completely different values that the locals held, Jemma and Amelia often found it a struggle to keep the food at a certain standard.  If they turned their backs for one minute all sorts of things would be sent out the kitchen.  On more than one occasion we received undercooked chips, dripping in oil and barely edible.  The cook didn’t seem to care at all.  No matter how many times she was told how long to cook them she always sent them out the same.  I once asked for a chicken and salad wrap, and received a look as if I was mad.  The wrap appeared with just chicken and a slice of tomato on the plate.  The next time when I took my time explaining that I wanted the salad in the wrap, the cook had to confirm with Amelia exactly what I meant; apparently salad inside a wrap is a complete phenomenon.  I think part of the problem is that they see the type of food we eat and think we’re mad.  The main diet in Katima is pap, which is sort of a thick porridge that tastes a bit like rice or mashed potato.  It’s usually served with relish, which is a kind of sauce.  It is almost like eating chilli con carne only without the spice or mince if that makes sense.  I guess if they don’t tend to eat what they were serving, then it wouldn’t matter to them how it left the kitchen.  There is a contradiction to my theory though; the supermarkets sold a variety of food other than the ingredients for pap, so someone must be eating it.  Maybe they just truly don’t care, who knows.

It does seem like an odd concept to me as the ladies that worked at the café were paid a salary for being there, but they didn’t seem to realise that if there were no returning customers, there would be no money and therefore no job.  When customers did walk in most of the time they would just ignore them, until Jemma or Amelia told them to go and serve.  When they did they weren’t exactly polite and generally had a disgruntled look.  I don’t know whether part of the problem was the language barrier, as sometimes they didn’t seem to understand me, but also a lot of the time it seemed that they understood fully what I was saying and just chose to ignore me.  If you think the service is bad in England, you want to try living in Katima for a bit.  At least you generally get what you order and it is usually edible in England, even if the reception is usually rude.  Having said that, I very much enjoyed my days spent chilling at Tutwa.  Most of the time Jemma or Amelia made my food so it was lovely, plus I had a constant supply of cold drinks.  I spent a lot of time reading, going on the internet and once Mum had gone back home, Jemma and I started Afrikaans lessons.  Jemma is already very good at the language so she spent the time to try to teach me.

Afrikaans is a phonic language so the letters (vowels especially) sound completely different to English.  Of all the languages that I know a little of, Afrikaans has definitely been the hardest one to pick up.  Some of the words are very similar to German, whereas others are completely different.  It is very much an open mouthed language so it took quite a while for me to relax and just make the noises without trying so hard.  After a couple of weeks of lesson we were both ill so stopped them and never started again, so I know bits and pieces of the language, but am certainly not fluent.

A lot of the time I would be sat in the café on my own which was brilliant.  I’d come in for breakfast and stay there all day with Jemma until she finished at 5pm.  It really gave me the time to relax and unwind as well as the opportunity to rethink my life plan.  It was really nice to spend some time with Jemma and learn a bit of another language too.  I wish everyone could have the opportunity to spend 2 months relaxing in the blistering sunshine, it does wonders for your state of mind!

Katima Mulilo

Katima Mulilo is a small town right on the north-eastern tip of Namibia.  It’s in the Caprivi Strip which is an area of land that sits between Zambia, Zimbabwe and Botswana.  It is the furthest from the capital Windhoek that you can get whilst staying in Namibia.  Staying there was liking being on a different planet, and definitely an experience.  As I’ve mentioned in my previous posts, I stayed in a house that Jem and Glenn rented in the Zambezi Fish Farm, which used to be a fish farm but is now more of a residential plot.  The Fish Farm is just outside the centre of Katima, in an area of bush.  It’s about a 5 minute drive to the border of Zambia.  The houses on the fish farm are all slightly different and certainly very quirky.  The water is separate from the towns water and is acquired by a pipe going into the Zambezi, which runs a short distance from the back of the back gate.  This was very handy when the whole of Katima didn’t have a water supply for 3 weeks.  It is quite bizarre having a shower in river water… if you run a bath you can see the distinct mud colour, definitely not advisable to drink.  I loved the house, we had a dam in the back garden which meant that we constantly shared our living room with many frogs.  There was an abundance of crickets and huge millipedes.  I once woke up to a tickling sensation on my leg to find that I had somehow trapped a gigantic millipede in my mosquito net with me (thank god it wasn‘t a centipede).  Either that or it was a bloody clever one that managed to crawl under the net tucked into my air mattress.

When you touched the taps to turn on the shower you got an electric shock; quite unnerving the first time but I got used to it quite quickly (and it definitely wakes you up in the morning).  When it rained (and boy does it rain), the power went out, so we spent many evenings sat reading by candlelight, not to mention many nights sleeping on a wet mattress.  A lot of the time you would hear gun shots from the Water Patrols shooting people trying to swim across the river, or the shot to kill a rabid dog that had managed to get into the farm.  Occasionally some baboons would manage to climb the fence so we would hear them running across the farm, usually followed by the shouts of people trying to scare them away.  There was a pack of dogs owned by Dick and Katie (the owners of the farm) that would sometimes howl at night.  Along with the 6 horses there were also a number of cockerels which would crow in the morning.  Amongst all of that there was the constant stream of bugs and spiders in general.  It was definitely an experience.

The actual center of Katima is quite small, comprising of two main streets.  The pavements are made of sand so it had a constant dusty, grubby look to it.  It is an odd mixture of Western buildings mixed with mud huts.  The population of white people in Katima is quite small; about 200 people of the 15,000 people that live there.  Generally I got a frosty reception from the locals… they mostly ignored me but when they weren’t they were either shouting Makua (white person) at me, trying to sell something to me or scowling in my direction.  It was very strange coming from England to somewhere that is so openly racist.  The different colours don’t mix.  That’s the way it is.  The black people teach their children to be scared of the white people.  For some reason they tend to look at us with a mixture of fear and awe.  It’s very odd.
A lot of the black people work as maids or workman for the white people for absolute pittance.  It is incredible… Christina, the maid that worked for Jemma and Glenn, earned N$900 a month which is considerably more than she would be paid working for anyone else.  She would come in 3 times a week and clean the house and do all the washing and ironing.  With the current exchange rate that works out to be about 70 pounds.  However one thing I did gradually realise is that the black people get things a lot cheaper than the whites so it is difficult to compare their wages with ours.  If they wish to buy a house it is about 50 times cheaper if not more than if a white person wishes to buy the same house.  Also a lot of them live in the mud huts without having to pay rent, electricity or water.  They use the electricity at their boss’ house to charge their phones and they wash in the river.  It seems that their wages are enough for them to get by on.  Also, another thing that surprised me was the mix of technology within the primitive appearance… most of the people that live in the huts have smart phones etc.  But it turns out that their choice of dwelling is definitely a choice, which I respect.  The government offered to build brick houses for the people but they refused.  I suppose it would be like someone coming and taking one look at my house in disgust and offering to build me a mud hut.  I’d be quite offended.

Even working in the same store the white people get paid a hell of a lot more than the blacks.  I was quite disgusted by this at first but after a couple of months staying in Katima I gradually changed my views.  There is a saying called the ‘Caprivi Shuffle’ which describes the pace at which the locals walk.  It really is a slow shuffle.  The culture is so different, there is no urgency to anything.  If you order food you are lucky to get it within the next hour, and even then it’s because you’ve asked 4 times already.  They definitely have a different attitude to life.  They seem to take care in completely different things; if you complain about the food you have ordered they don’t give a damn.  You tend to get a look of disgust aimed in your direction along with silence.  If you ask for something in a shop the answer will be no.  Jemma once picked up a Cadbury’s Flake bar in the petrol station and when the lady at the till scanned it in she just said ‘it’s not on the system’.  Jemma pleaded with her as it was out on the shelf etc but the woman just gave her a blank look and refused!  At first I thought it was people being racist but it turns out it most definitely is not.  After asking many times, trying to phone for information, being polite and getting nowhere I quickly gave up.  It’s just a completely different culture and they don’t care about the things we do.  I really enjoyed being thrown into such a different atmosphere, I definitely learnt a lot.  A friend of ours runs a pharmacy and has both white people and black people working there.  He was asked by one of the black people if he could be paid the same as the white people, to which the owner replied “Of course you can if you do the same amount of work”.  The black person immediately said that he didn’t want to after all as that would be far too much work so he’ll just stick on the same wage.  It is a lot more about survival and a lot less materialistic than I’m used to.  They work to earn money for food, not for possessions.  If they see something they need, they steal it.  It’s like in Africa if you need it, then it’s rightfully yours.  We have a benefit system, they have insurance.  The blacks steal from the whites and the whites get their money back from insurance.  I struggled with this concept as it is ingrained so deeply into me not to be racist, but after a few months of experiencing it, it really is like being on a different planet.  I am still against the whole skin colour thing but the cultures are 2 polar opposites trying to fit together.

When Richard (Jemma’s friend) came over from England to see us for a few days we ventured into Choto which is one of the ‘slum’ villages on the outskirts of Katima.  I was too scared to walk through it on my own so was glad that Richard was up for it too.  We drove down the main street, parked up and walked back down the street.  There are no roads or pavements, it’s all sand.  The houses are made of wood or tin and tiny.  The butchers is a wooden shack with the meat hanging out in the open, covered in flies.  The houses are crammed together and the floor is covered in rubbish..  It is a sight to see, so different to anything I’ve ever seen.  I took a photo of one of the butcheries and a woman came running up to me demanding money.  We took a few more photos then handed some over.  It seems that if you ask them to do anything they expect to be paid for it.  I asked one woman with a huge group of children around her if I could take a photo.  She said no until I waved a note at her and she was suddenly the most friendly person I’d seen all day.  One thing we noticed was the sense of community.  All the people were sat outside together chatting, while the kids played together in the street.  We got some very curious looks as we were literally the only white people there.  The kids ran up and waved at us, the adults looked at us with interest but generally we got a friendly reception.  We took photos and said hi to the people.  It was a really nice experience.  It showed me that they are just people that have different values to us.  Their aim in life is to relax, socialise and work enough to feed yourself.  It makes a nice change from the pressures of Western life to run the rat race.  It is hard not to get sucked into the general ‘racist’ attitude that exists in Katima - from both sides - as the cultures are so different.  But the experience in Choto said it all for me, it really is just a matter of different cultures.  They don’t like our culture any more than we like theirs.  I think it is a lack of understanding.  We don’t understand why they would want to live like that and they don’t understand why we would want to live like we do.  They fit together as best as they can with a big divide but general acceptance from both sides.

Birthday Braai

For my 26th Birthday we decided to make a weekend of it.  On the Friday night we all went out for a meal to Benatis, which is pretty much the only decent place to have dinner in Katima.  Jemma had gone to a pizza place once where they served her pizza that was still raw no less than 3 times (after repeatedly sending her order back).  Needless to say she hasn’t been back there since.  Benatis has huge long tables so you end up sitting with other people you don’t know which can be quite nice.  All of the seating is outdoors which is a little odd, but I guess you can almost always guarantee the weather to be warm enough.  The table we sat on had huge white lights above us which caused a bit of a problem at first as there were hundreds of cicadas flying around, climbing in and out of the lights above our heads.  They have a habit of flying into me and falling on me, so after the 6th or 7th time I’d screamed the owner got the hint and turned the lights off.  There were still plenty of other yellow lights around but for some reason the cicadas aren’t attracted to them.
We ordered our meals and started drinking.  Some of Glenn and Jem’s friends turned up to join us too; Etienne, Francois and Ruan.  The food came and was surprisingly nice.  There is still something about eating in Namibia, especially in Katima that puts me off.  Most of the meat in the supermarket is already out of date before you even buy it.  It’s an amazing achievement if you manage to find mushrooms, and even then they tend to be on their way out already.  Katima is in the north east tip of Namibia in the Caprivi Strip.  It’s the furthest you can get within the country away from the capital, Windhoek.  It is probably the poorest part of Namibia, and is so far from anywhere that it’s like being on another planet.  There doesn’t seem to be any level of customer service which is hilarious but can be frustrating at times.  If they don’t understand your order instead of coming and asking you to confirm, they will just ignore it.  If you ask for something that is not on the menu, they just won’t do it.  For example at Tutwa café a gentleman asked if he could have a club sandwich.  They served chicken sandwiches and bacon sandwiches so he assumed that he could have a chicken and bacon sandwich but the waitress just said no, it’s not on the menu.  It’s like they have their routines and will stick to them, even if it’s to their detriment.  Very odd.  I have discovered not to bother asking for anything in Africa (not just Namibia) as whatever you are asking the answer will be no.  I have asked on many occasions if they sell certain things in the supermarket, all I have ever got is a no.  I don’t know whether it’s just pure laziness or a lack of caring but there have been times when I know they sell something as I’ve seen It, and I’ll ask just to see what answer I get; it’s always no!  It’s quite amusing actually, although does make finding your way round a different country incredibly difficult.

After the meal at Benatis we headed back home to play some games.  Etienne, Francios and Ruan came too.  Of course we started with ‘Ring of Fire’ which always ends in a drunken stupor, but that’s the way we like it.  Although Africans are big drinkers they tend to be very reserved, well the white Africans anyway; they don’t like talking about sex, playing stupid games, or generally making a fool of themselves (The black Africans seem to have much less problem with nudity than the whites).  All the guys there were egging us on to play strip poker, but in hindsight I think they clearly did not think they would have to take any of their clothes off.  I guess that would have been a safe assumption as I had never played poker before and Jemma didn’t seem particularly interested, but in actual fact we whooped them.  Jem and I ended up basically fully clothed while all of the guys ended up completely naked.  They were not impressed, I think their plan had backfired big time.

The next night, the actual evening of my birthday, the guys (minus Francios) came round again for a Braai and some more drinking games (I think we had broken their African prudishness). If you use the words BBQ in Africa you literally get laughed at.  I’m not entirely sure why but when I have asked the question apparently BBQ sounds girly and braai implies you will have ‘proper’ meat; steak, chicken etc.  I don’t really get this but never mind.  After the braai we started on Ring of Fire again and slowly got rather plastered.  After putting Jemma to bed we somehow ended up playing naked Cluedo.  I have absolutely no idea how this happened and it was completely pointless really as we all just sat there naked trying to cover ourselves and work out the killer at the same time.  After gaining some clothes we decided to play Truth or Dare, another game that always ends up in a drunken mess (It was drinking Truth or Dare of course).  Somehow the rules seemed to work out that no matter what happened, you drank a shot of vodka.  After learning some things that I probably would rather have not, it all ended with Glenn being dared to get into the dam at the bottom of the garden.  This dam has not been used for god knows how many years and besides the stagnant water, I hate to think how many leaches, snakes etc are in there.  Glenn certainly stank we he reappeared and we decided that was the time to call it a night.
All in all, with the bungee jump, meal, braai and drinking games it was a pretty good birthday.