Cornishman in Africa: Guns at Dawn, well nearly.

I have never professed to having a dull life, and in fairness I don’t think I could handle one either, that having been said at times dull does sound just a little inviting.
This weekend is a bank holiday weekend and interestingly so is next weekend, this week’s excuse is “Ladies Day” the reason, purpose or idea behind this, I have yet to fathom. I have asked a number of people and the stock answer seems to be “It is to celebrate the importance of women in our society” OK so a sort of self gratification day for half the population. But from what I could see in Lusaka this morning, the main purpose seemed to be to see if they could grind the whole of the city to a standstill whilst they wandered around aimlessly up and down the main thoroughfares of Lusaka, with a police escort. Mind you at least they seemed to be enjoying themselves, which is more than could be said for the drivers of the vehicles snarled up in the traffic chaos that ensued. It was gratifying to see that those that looked most pissed off where the women drivers.

Friday’s Bank Holiday is youth day. And I have an uncanny feeling that the reason for this will be “To celebrate the importance of youth in our society.” And that Lusaka won’t be worth visiting that day because all the traffic will be stationary again as, this time the youth of Zambia wander up and down the Great East, North and West Roads.(the equivalent to the M25) Wildly patting themselves on the back and telling each other how great they are and drinking ship loads of Chibuka (Lumpy, sweet, thick grain beer) and why not. No doubt I too will find something to celebrate and have a drink or two, but not quite as much as this weekend.

Saturday I was invited to a very good friend of mine Koob his birthday party. Now Koob and Jeanette have good parties, very good, the last one I attended there ensued much dancing and merriment with more than a fair share of alcohol abuse. I mentioned dancing, I use the term loosely, as I was informed the following day by a friend or was it my son “Watching you dance was like watching a terminator in a magnet factory” which I thought was a little harsh but probably not a million miles away from the truth.

True to form this Saturday, by about eleven o’clock I had ventured forth onto the dance floor and was moving around with the grace and elegance of a hippo with 30,000 volts stuffed up his bottom. But I was having fun and a surprising number of people were joining me out their, in spite of the risk of having an eye taken out or being smacked in the face as I tornadoed my chaotic way around the dance floor.

By three o’clock in the morning, I had done my full duet with Meatloaf to Bat out of Hell, lost my voice in the process, played air guitar till all the strings were broken and bruised my knees so badly I have not been able to walk properly since, as I skidded across the concrete dance floor on my knees head back singing my heart out and still playing my imaginary guitar. My knees are an interesting shade of purple and red currently. Luckily I was wearing shorts so I did not wreck my trousers but I have still to find my shirt that I am sure I was wearing when I arrived at the party.
I ended up leaving at around four, resisting the urge to stay until dawn as Koob was trying to convince me would be a really good Idea. (It really wouldn’t have been.) The journey home was uneventful, even the three police roadblocks that I have to drive through between his place and mine were all sleepily quiet with no registering signs of life just lights on doors open but no one home. A bit like I felt actually.

I snuggled into bed after a refreshing shower at quarter to five.

At five thirty, all hell broke loose.

Kalima Camp is a twenty hectare site at which you are invited to stay. Only two of the ten chalets are actually joined, the others are spaced out conveniently around the site. I stay in one of these conjoined ones and the other has stayed empty since Herman left about 4 months ago.
Now given the choice of all those vacant chalets, most normal people would chose somewhere secluded and quiet, as this is the essence of this place. But no, our new residents who moved in about a week ago decided they wanted to move in next to me, with only a thin block wall separating the chalets.
So as you can imagine when world war three kicked off that early on a Sunday morning. It had may as well have been in the same bloody room as me.
So all of a sudden I was violently awake, or was I dead, and in fact gone to hell, as suddenly, I realised that whatever was queuing up in the pain receptors from the previous evening was now trying to get out and redesign my head.
Mother, that was a good hangover, made all the better by my new neighbour's lack of volume control, choice of language and inability to shut doors without trying to invert them.
Anyway the verbal barrage lasted about half an hour, either they had cooled down run out of breath or just used up their entire vocabulary of profanities on each other and did not know what else to say. Eventually it ended with a final slamming of the front door and the car disappearing off up the drive.
Sleep was gone so I gathered what was left of my thoughts and proceeded with the day.
Sally who stays in the big house at Kalima, had also attended the party the previous night and was feeling by all accounts not dissimilar to the way I was. So we wandered around the camp for most of the day in a trance like state trying to avoid each other, in case one of us reminded the other of something they had done or said the previous night that your brain had decided that it would shield you from for a couple of days, until it thought you were up to facing it.
By four in the afternoon we got a bit braver and decided to have a braai and a couple of beers, we sat and watched the dam in peace and quiet. A little later over came my neighbor the one who was having the animated chat with her husband this morning.
It didn’t take a psychotherapist to work out that she was not happy (even though she is a little on the short side) grumpy would have been nearer. It was not long before we started to get the whole story from start to finish. Just what I did not need, but could not really just get up and walk off. So I sat, listened and cooked my dinner. During the course of the story she had put away a few vodkas, which I thought was not probably the best idea, but thought better of telling her as it looked like she needed them.
Her husband returned at about six and he came to join us at the bar. The atmosphere was tangible. It was like walking into a gas holder smoking a cigar. You knew it was going to blow but not just quite when.
And yes you’ve guessed it, they waited until they got back to the house and I had just got to bed to grab an early night to catch up with some of my lost nights.
Well this time it was even more animated than this morning’s episode, with screaming, crashing, wailing, and a selection of expletives I did not think possible. Again it was another half hour episode, (the standard allotted time obviously)the inevitable slamming door and car exiting stage left.
Great, peace and quiet and now at last, return to sleep. Snuggle down, eyes close with un-natural ease as I slip immediately into a state, not far from full sleep.
Bang, bang, bang. Denzil, its only me, can I come in.
Oh Shit.
I get dressed throw some clothes at my horribly abused body then go and answer the door. It’s my neighbor as if I had not guessed looking very red eyed and puffy. I invite her in and get her a glass of orange juice sit her down and hear the latest in their saga, not that I hadn’t just heard the un-edited version about five minutes earlier through the wall.
The long and short of it was that she was leaving her husband, not next week as planned, but tonight. Her son was on his way from Kafue to pick her up and he should be there in about an hour. (But I just want to go to bed.) Anyway we moved outside as she wanted to smoke so we sat on the veranda and she poured out her woes.
I don’t know how long it was, I seemed to lose track of time, I do that sometimes when I am tiered and bored shitless. A car pulled up that was not her husband. And we waited for her son to come over.
Next thing I knew armed police came running through the trees pointing guns at me. They got really jittery when I went to stand up, and insisted that I stand still with my hands where they could see them. (I wondered which film they had seen that in.) But thought it wise not to ask them.
It seems, they thought that I was the battering husband who had wronged his wife and they were going to sort me out either here or at the police station. It must have taken a good ten minutes to resolve the situation, most of the time with an AK47, and two hand guns pointing at my face. But we got there in the end and by three in the morning my visitors had gone, one neighbor was leaving for South Africa and her husband had disappeared into the bush.

I honestly do not go out looking for excitement. It just happens.
So if you want to come and stay. It’s only $40.00 per night per person and the excitement is for free.

Denzil Bark. (Taking bookings on +260 97 40 40 996)

Cornishman in Africa : Decision Time.

Saturday morning is heralded in with four Rolls Royce jet engines pushing the British Airways 737 the final 10km of it’s 10,000km journey from London.
Turning a new leaf.
In exactly three weeks I will be sat at the airport waiting to board the same flight on it’s return journey back to blighty. Preparing to see my family again and to celebrate my daughter Kate’s birthday. This last year has flown by when I consider all that has happened, but when I think of time away from the family it seems like forever.
The big decision that has to be made whilst I am back in the UK is, whether and when do we make the plunge and haul the whole family out to Africa again to live forever. The whole idea of me coming out ten months ago was to set things up so that when the family came out everything would be in place so they could move seamlessly into their new environment without so much as a ripple on the water of their lives.

Well it has been for most parts successful, I have a place to live, I have security by way of a sound job and all is looking fairly rosy in the garden. There are however a few little trick points. The main one being that the salary that I am getting is one that is totally liveable and I am pleased I have it. However it is not what I was expecting to be earning by now and due to an oversight on my part, that I put down to an over-eagerness to land the job in the first place I have, I feel, rather sold myself short and boxed myself into a bit of a corner. The upshot of this being that whilst we will be able to live eat sleep and drink in comfort. School fees are going to be a bit of a struggle to start off with.
The private schooling system in Africa is, I must say, probably the best in the world. And I do not say this lightly. Over here not only do they teach the academia to a very high level, they also teach and instil discipline. The schools are not hobbled by do gooders who manage only to protect the rights of the stupid, lazy, violent and disrespectful.
In the majority of Private African Schools, rules are rules, they are laid out for all to see, they are simple straight forward and everyone understands them. Should these rules get broken there is a punishment, whether it be a beating or a detention or a task. It will be administered swiftly and without compromise. Nobody says that is unfair and you cannot do that. You can and they do. As a result there is a level of understanding and respect in the schools here that you seldom see elsewhere in the world. And the funny thing is that my children without exception are really looking forward to getting back into that system of education though they will sorely miss the school they are at now.
I must point out here that the school the boys attend in the UK is what I would consider to be one of, if not the best school in the country and it is run along as strict a line as can be. As a result the students that come from there are among the best equipped to lead the UK out of its current long drop. But they too have their work cut out to maintain their standards with all the red tape (it’s more like silly string than red tape these days) and bureaucracy that is vomited forth by the Muppets in government, in truck loads.
Sorry, please excuse me while I climb down off my soap box.
Oh yes affording schooling, the schooling is not cheap here either though I suppose it is comparable in relation to earnings with the UK, but even so it will still account for more than two thirds of my wages to put even three of the children into school here. Then there’s George who wants to stay in the UK to complete his A levels, so that too will be a challenge. Of course he wants his own place, car, food and all the other trappings that go with the lifestyle he is imagining himself in. Dream on.
The long and short of it is that by the time I return to Africa, we will have made our decision of whether to move lock stock and barrel to Africa and the chance of a lifetime where your children can grow up in an atmosphere more healthy, a work ethic all around them that shouts if you don’t work you die, and an environment that is stunning in its beauty and its harshness. Add to this the opportunity of helping many, many people who are less fortunate than ourselves.
We will also have to weigh up the fact that we would be leaving my parents who are becoming elderly and will, in a few years need to be looked after on a permanent basis. I have suggested that they come out and live with us in Africa, if my mother swore, I can imagine what she would have said.
There are also the good friends that we have in Cornwall and in the rest of the UK, but at least they are more likely to come out and visit.
We will of course be able to come home once or twice a year to catch up with family and friends, add to that when anyone comes out to visit, we may end up seeing some people more than we do now.
It’s not going to be an easy choice and I know that we will go over much ground many times before the final decision will be made. If it was just me making the choice it would have been made already, but I am a chancer and am prepared to take risks, make a plan, but that is not really fair on the rest of the family, it’s their future more than mine now and where in the world is going to best equip them with the tools they will need for a happy and long future in this world we are giving them.

It’s a tricky one but I think I already know the answer.

Denzil Bark. (Planning ahead)

Cornishman in Africa : A Really Fun Guy.

A Fun Guy to be with.
I have always enjoyed food, from the moment I bounced into the world weighing in at a healthy ten and a half pounds, I was born to eat.
I was very lucky when younger I could plough my way through a minimum of five meals a day plus drinks and never put on an ounce, always rock steady at seventy five kilo’s.
As the years began to gang up on me so did the ounces, then they bought in their mates the pounds and now I just count in Kilo’s as there are less of them to the same end.
I topped out at one hundred and four when my thyroid decided it had, had enough of trying to keep me in check and ceased to function completely. I have battled my way down to eighty three and am aiming for seventy five again by the summer.
But the problem is the food. When thinking of the culinary epicentre of the universe, Ngwewere doesn’t exactly spring readily to the forefront of one’s mind. But since living here I have experimented with all manner of different types of food from parts of trees, insects, herbs, spices, parts of animals that you would not normally believe edible let alone tasty.
I am an honest foodie, If its good I love it and will have it again and again, if its crap, I will tell you and won’t eat it again. What gets me is the stuff that people tell you is great but, somehow I just don’t get it. Three foods spring readily to mind. Oysters, no I just don’t see what is so great about eating a live fishy thing that tastes like salt water with a lump the consistency of an egg yolk in the middle. And you are not supposed to chew it. Why not? In case you just might taste something bad? And who made up these non chewing rules anyway, they certainly don’t add to the taste of the product.
Caviar. No never really got that either, though to be fair it was a very long time last time I tried it, but I did enjoy the Ritz cracker it was on. Which in itself is probably against some other fine rule of eating odd things.
Away from things from the sea to a fruit. Papaya or Pawpaw. I lived in Ghana for a year and was served this tasteless pith every morning for breakfast, along with some fruit that was worth opening ones mouth for, Mango and pineapple. It was always the Papaya that was left, nobody liked it. It was not that it was particularly offensive it was just a nothing fruit. No vibrant flavour, no texture, well I suppose mush is a texture. It’s like sucking on sweet soggy toilet paper. (I’m guessing, right) So what is the point when there are so many other wonderful things to eat. And I have come across a handful in the last few months.
When the first scents of rain first filter through the forest, Life stirs everywhere. This explosion of new life is seldom more spectacular than when the white domes burst forth from the forest floor in the woods around Chengello. It is even told locally that you can actually hear them growing they push through the ground early in the morning when the mist is still has yet to be raised by the sun.
It’s called the Chengello Wild Wood Mushroom. Not extraordinary in its colour or shape, but they are the biggest I have ever seen in my life.
As a child you see, and conjure up images of Piskies sitting on large mushrooms. Well let me tell you the pixies of Chengello hold rock concerts under theirs.
These fungi can grow to half a metre in diameter which you might think would make them woody and tasteless. Oh, but they are not, get them fresh, carve them like a steak and cook them for just a few minutes in a splash of butter or oil with the minimal of seasoning and you will be rewarded with an aroma and taste that are superb. This will also make you never want to look at another oyster again.
When the Chengello Wild wood Mushrooms start to peter out around January there is a new phenomena in the Zambian mycological circus.
If only to be outdone by the Chengello on size, no other mushroom could outshine the Chililabombwe Chanterell for outright audacity in the field dressing brightly.
Normally mother nature gives us very clear signs. If it’s got a stripy yellow and black bum it’s going to sting you. If it’s got no legs it’s going to bite you.(well it can hardly kick you to death can it) If it’s big and hairy it will most probably eat you and if it is vividly coloured and looks like a mushroom it’s going to poison you.
But not in this case.
Quite why these delicate mushrooms that grow all over Zambia’s ever diminishing wooded areas, are such a fantastic Colour, I will never know, but what they overdo in colour, they more than make up for with the subtlety of their flavour.
The only slightly disappointing side of this shroom is that it is always full of grit. As the rains splash down all around them, the grit is washed up into the inside of the chanterell, and is not easy to get out again. Only by vigorous rinsing does it reluctantly relinquish its gritty stash. You have to be so careful of not damaging the mushroom because it really is a work of the finest art..
The last and to my mind the most fantastic of these Zambian trio of Fungal excellence is probably the most uninspiring to look at. But the Flavour is to die for.
I can see how pigs used to find them so easy to find. I left about a dozen of these Kalahari Truffles in the lounge one night and by the morning the whole house was stinking and there was not a canary left standing for miles.
These come from a small area in the East of the country and it seems that this is the only place they grow really well, I was offered about a ton and a half a year when I was once looking at exporting them to the UK but I thought that might just flood the market a bit.
Whilst their pungent aroma may put a lot of people off, I absolutely love them and have had them on their own, in butter, olive oil, delicate stews steamed, in brandy, on salads on toast just about every way. But it seems I am the only one in our family who likes them. Well me and the pigs that is. (Ok I walked into that one)
Roll on the truffle season.

Denzil Bark.

Cornishman in Africa ; Whoops I did it again.

Whoops I did it again.
I don’t know if you ever have that feeling when you wake up in the morning and think. What exactly happened last night. Then with no provocation, memories start to come flooding back, and you are not 100% sure what is fact and what is just a dread fear of what might have happened.
I had another of those experiences this morning as I dragged myself from slumber and realised that there was actually no need, as it was Saturday morning and I had no need to wake at six at all.
The sun was not quite coming streaming into the bedroom as I had hung a bed sheet up over the burglar bars in lieu of a curtain(Why or how I don’t know.) I only have one curtain in the house, and that covers the window on the bedroom that looks to the front of the house. The other five windows stare unblinkered out onto the trees, grassland and dam that make up this tranquil wooded enclave that I have come to know as home, away from Cornwall.
The dawn chorus was in full swing with the Franklins, Louries and a hundred and one, different species of birds doing there damndest to drag me into Saturday. They succeeded.
I got up, sat down, got up again sat down, and decided against vertical travel. Crawling was going to be the best mode of transport to the bathroom. Unfortunately the paracetamol were on the top shelf, so I decided they would have to wait. I reckoned that, at best, I could probably reach, up and hopefully remember how to operate the taps of the shower. I did, and as the burst of cold water hit me, with it came some recollection of being very wet not six hours earlier. The million piece jigsaw that was the night before slowly stated to piece itself together.
Matthew and Lorain, and another friend Sally (Who is planning on moving into Kalima) had come round for a few drinks and some snacks the previous evening. The evening started about six, relaxed and sober. Chatting over the previous week and catching up on all the gossip, that manages to circulate around the African communities even faster than the proverbial drums could beat. As the sun went down the pace stepped up, not intentionally but that was just the way things panned out. The conversation was lively and fun, punctuated by laughter and serious moments. It was a lovely evening.
As the laughter became louder and more frequent, the serious moments fewer and further between, we put meat on the braai and the smells of sizzling borrowours filled the still air.
We ate we drank and we were very merry.
Now, sitting beside the dam on a beautiful starlit balmy evening is never a good idea when you have started on the second bottle of “Smirnoff”, the red wine has gone the same way as a number of “Savannah Dries” and a few “Castles”. The setting is idyllic, and I don’t know what it is in the human nature that when someone makes a ridiculous suggestion, you all think it’s a really good idea.
Now I blame Sally, but in fairness it may have been me in the past, on a few occasions. Sally decided that it might be a good idea if we went for a dip. And like a couple of silly school children, Matthew and I thought this was the best idea since dear old Henry Ford thought of his elaborate colour scheme for his “Model T”. We could not get our kit off quick enough.
Lorain had decided that there were enough children in the pool and she was going to stay firmly on dry land. (Well one of us had to be sensible, and dry.)
I charged my glass and staggered roughly in the direction of the dam, slipped on the teflon mud, landed on my arse and slithered unceremoniously into the water wearing nothing but a pair of black M&S underpants and the contents of my glass. Oh but the water was refreshing. Very shortly afterwards the peace was shattered by another two splashes and the sounds of satisfaction as Matthew and Sally both plunged into the crystal clear waters. We sat, we floated and swam about, gazed up at the stunning canopy of stars that had been laid out on the sky for our perusal. It was amazing.
Quite how long we stayed in the water I have no idea but I do remember having my glass refilled a couple of times while in there.
After a time, but how long escapes my memory, we came out and drip-dried in the warmth of the wonderful summer night. Needles to say we did not have the foresight to think about towels.
We settled down into another bout of, less comprehensible conversation and could have gone on till dawn. Luckily for our livers and our sanity Lorain (bless her) decided at about half past midnight that she ought to take her passengers home.
I cleared the decks at the bar and sat and just had one more drink, (that I really did not need (as the following morning pointed out)
How I got to bed, I have no idea. Who did the washing up, the clearing up and got my computer, speakers and other accruements back to my house will remain a mystery until the end of time.
The only thing out of place this morning were Matthew’s grey underpants hanging in the upper branches of a Mango tree about twenty feet from the bar (At least I assume they were his.)
Just don’t ask.

Denzil Bark. (Recovering slowly)

Cornishman in Africa ; Wet, Wet, Wet.

Wet, wet, wet.
You may recall that I mentioned the weather in my last piece.
Well guess what, I am going to talk about it again. Not that I want to bore you rigid about it, or because I originated from Mud Island and that always seems to be the favourite topic of conversation there.
But because it is truly astounding. When I last wrote I had, had my nights sleeping out arrangements changed by the rain, now it is changing people’s lives.
It was Saturday when I wrote and it is now Tuesday and it has hardly stopped raining since. So what I hear you say, it rains for months non-stop in Cornwall. And, yes I have to agree with you, but when, as was recorded on my friends farm yesterday they had 95mm in one and a half hours. It tends to get a tad damp under foot.
It was five past four when I woke this morning and I could not fathom the reason.
Yes the rain was still pounding down on the single skin asbestos roof. An amazing overture of constant raindrops that almost joined as one to form the background rhythm, then the funky almost melodic beat of the larger drips compounding then dropping from the leaves and branches with a symmetry that was almost hypnotic. I lay there listening to the novel music for a few minutes and was gently lulled back to sleep again. Suddenly I was wide awake again, feeling something on my arm, then it was gone, I drifted again, only to be thrust awake again. I laid there coming round a bit quicker this time then realised what it was.
The water was now coming through the roof running along the beams and dripping down onto the Mozi net where the drips were dissipated into a heavy spray rather than a drip. They were slowly soaking me.
I read for a while as I knew sleep was gone for the night, I read until, when I turned the pages of the book they disintegrated and the book became too sodden and heavy to hold.
Ironically I decided a shower might help. And maybe less ironically there was water for a change. As soon as it was light (which was later than normal due to the grey sky) I thought that I would take advantage of the extra time I had this morning, and took a stroll round the camp in the rain. To see the effects of the water.
It was quite spectacular, the cottage nearest the dam was up to its DPC in water, the normal tranquil waters of the dam were a mass of seething muddy morass. And the water level has come up a good ten inches. Where it is normally mirror still there is now a current flowing across the dam at a good 20 km/h. The sound of a waterfall now verging on obtrusive, from the other end of the dam, where the water normally, gently spills over the dam wall and trickles under the track, it now flows a good foot over the top.
It’s hardly surprising there were drips coming through my roof and it’s still pouring down.
I left for work as normal with an inkling that the bridge at the bottom of the valley might just be impassable. True enough impassable was an understatement. The Amazon rain forest, it seemed had washed downstream overnight, landed up against the bridge and was desperately trying to drag the bridge itself downstream too. (See picture) So round I turned and took the long way to work. (one and a half hours as opposed to twenty seven minutes.)
Mid morning, and I had to make a call across town, the rain had eased but there were still puddles the size of an Olympic pool every couple of hundred yards. Then once again the heavens opened, it was more a waterfall than rain, I can honestly say it was the heaviest rain I have ever seen, and I have seen monsoons. The effect this had on the roads that were already full to capacity was devastating. The water level rose feet in minutes. The world’s favourite car the Toyota Corolla (of which there are probably more of here than people) drowned, they just could not handle the amount of water. They were giving up the ghost left right and centre, the water was up past the trim on the door and over the wheels, the only things still moving were 4 x 4’s and busses, all of which were creating tremendous bow waves that were not assisting the plight of the Corolla. I don’t know if you have ever seen one of those duck races where the release hundreds of those yellow plastic numbered ducks into a river and they race down the river. Well that was the scene down Chandwe Musonda Road about twelve thirty today, except they were Corolla’s not ducks.
I made it back to the office only to find the yard and car park that normally bore the neat painted lines demarcating the parking spaces resembled more the Helston boating lake. (without the Ducks and geese)
The water had reached a level where it was now flowing into the reception and was threatening to lift all the parquet flooring down the passage.
It’s not a week since all the pessimists and tree huggers of Lusaka were saying what a terrible drought we were having and speculating that we had seen the last rains for the season all the crops would die, the dams would be empty and it was the end of agriculture in Zambia. And it was all the fault of “Global Warming” caused by people in Chelsea driving four wheel drive vehicles.
I notice it is no longer “Global Warming” but “Climate Change” so they can blame any glitch in the weather hot or cold, dry or wet on those who choose to drive a substantial vehicle.
I just giggle and wonder how many of those “blame it on others” were driving around Lusaka today in Toyota Corolla’s, and will go home tonight and throw their sodden clothes into their 200kw tumble driers.
I’m just glad it’s raining and wish there was a way we could just manage the storage of this invaluable commodity better.
P.S.
Since writing this I found out that today, three people were swept off the bridge in the picture. Trying to cross to get to School and work. The man who was swept off has been taken to hospital and is in a critical condition.
The grandmother and her grandson have not been found and are presumed dead as nether could swim.
My thoughts go out to them and their families. Africa is a hard and unforgiving place.

Denzil Bark.

Cornishman in Africa. Rain Stops Play.

I love this climate. Where in the world can you fairly reliably predict the weather without the need of thousands of pounds worth of expensive meteorological equipment.
Without too much fear of contradiction I can say that after the first week of April the rains will be over. (You might get the odd isolated shower but that’s it.)
In October you will get the next scattered splatterings, then on the tenth of November the first real rains will start. Increasing each month until February, after which they will begin to become less frequent until April.

Even during the rainy season there is a eighty percent chance that the morning will be dry, with the clouds building as the day wears on, until by five o’clock the sky is a mass of huge thunderheads hanging fully laden waiting for the moment when the relinquish their heavy load over the land.

The temperature too is interesting and varied, with the end of the rains in April the temperatures start to fall from daytime temps of about 28 down to July when at night it can drop to below freezing but during the day the norm is around ninteen degrees. August sees the start of spring and temperatures steadily rise till December when they peak to about thirty four degrees. Then with the rains it starts to cool a bit until April when the cycle repeats itself.

My master plan this weekend was to go down to the Zambezi and to have a look over a plot that I have identified there that would make a lovely place to build a house.
I was going down early on Saturday morning meet the owner of the land and to camp on the land to see what the night time noise was like. It’s very easy in Africa to find what you may think is the most beautiful tranquil spot, only to find when you move in that there is an illegal Bar a few hundred yards away that plays ridiculously overly load and distorted rap music all through the night, bending the ears of all living things within a five mile radius.

Unlike most days it had rained all night and was still raining in the morning. Driving through the mountains I was up in the clouds in what can only be described as fog, a rare occurrence in Africa.

As I dropped down into the Valley the rain stopped and the sky began to clear a little, with small patches of blue appearing more and more frequently. By the time I arrived the ground was drying well and as I opened the car door and climbed out of the air conditioned cab I was greeted by the rich and humid smell of damp drying soil.

I met Charles (again immaculately dressed) by the side of the road and we set off in search of the owner of the plot. We picked up the head man of the neighbouring village as he knew the whereabouts of the owner and continued on our journey.
To get to the plot and the owner, we had to cross the Kafue river which flows into the Zambezi, and in itself, is a none to insubstantial body of water. To do this you have to use a pontoon bridge. Basically a raft with two, one hundred and twenty horse power diesel engines that whir, clatter and smoke as they fight against the current to get you over safely. Fortunately they succeeded. Only last year the entire pontoon had turned over whilst carrying a fully loaded fuel tanker across. The river crossing is only about one hundred and fifty metres but costs a staggering ZMK 40,000 this is £5.33 which in Africa is a ship load of money. And that is only one way. I cannot begin to see how the locals can afford it seeing the general basic wage is only ZMK 300,000 to ZMK 400,000 per month.

We eventually found the owner of the land a lovely wizened old man with grey and black hair and beard and a set of teeth that looked like he may have been chewing on a hand grenade when it went off. He spoke a little English and I regaled him with my finest knowledge of Nyanga, unfortunately, as I was informed on the way back in the car, he spoke Shona. Charles, the owner and the headman thought that was hilarious.
The upshot was that he agreed to sell me the plot, he would speak with his family and inform them of his decision and we would meet again next weekend to negotiate the price. (I had hoped to do that this weekend to save another expensive trip.)
We headed back to the plot to measure the area, I had brought a GPS with me so we could get an idea of the size as it is difficult to judge when you are walking through thick bush. When we got there we also found that it is difficult to walk in a straight line in thick bush and when we looked at the map after walking what we thought was the boundary it was more like a dot to dot drawn by someone having a seizure and bore no resemblance to the plot we were looking at.

I had noticed as we had been walking around the plot that the bits of blue in the sky had given way to bits of black, not grey, black. And with a sound that appeared to go straight through me and a flash of light that almost blinded me it seemed that Victoria falls had moved four hundred km downstream. Within seconds we were soaked to the skin and the ground had turned to the surface of a giant bar of soap.
We slithered our way back to the car and decided that camping out was no longer an option. Our sounds of the night would have to wait for another weekend. I dropped Charles (Now looking rather more bedraggled than dapper) and headman, (Still grinning at my linguistic cock up) back to their respective homes and headed back to the City.

The journey back was incredible, punctuated by the most fantastic electrical and torrential downpours I have witnessed in years. Vehicles were coming to a stop on the road as they could see nothing with the rain so heavy. The thunder and lightning were simultaneous. The massive cracks of thunder making you physically jump, even through the insulation of the car and over the sound of of the engine and rain.

By the time I got back to Kalima, the rain had stopped and the sun was out. The smell of freshly mown grass greeted me as I climbed wearily from the car.
The bar was calling me, so I went and had an ice cold Mosi Gold. I sat and gazed out over the dam watching a couple of Purple-crested Louries jumping from branch to branch, up a tree, as the sun lowered itself gently over the horizon.
Not what I had intended this weekend, but still an interesting day out.

Denzil Bark (Back in time for tea.)

Cornishman in Africa: So follow me follow, down to the hollow!

So its Saturday morning the sun has not even thought about hauling itself up into the sky.

Twenty to four to be exact when for some reason, unknown to me, I woke up.
Seeing as the alarm was due to go off in twenty minutes anyway I thought I might just as well get up, have a nice relaxing shower and leave a few minutes earlier. As I have sort of come to expect, don’t expect anything.
You guessed it, no water. I wandered over to the new water tower stood clad only in my usual night attire and was pleasantly surprised to find that the tank had just drained over night and all that was needed was to turn on the pump and refill the tank. Sorted.

I eventually got on the road by five o’clock and had a nice slow drive down to the Valley. The slow drive was not entirely out of choice, the turbo on the car packed up last week so the car now has the performance characteristics of an asthmatic slug. But the journey was pleasant enough and the scenery fantastic as the orange sun reflecting bright reds and then yellows off the underside of the storm clouds that dared to linger around the peaks, then they in turn disappeared as the sun rose up behind the mountains that demarcate the boundaries of the Zambezi valley.
I was sitting beside the river having a full English breakfast by seven o’clock and the sun was now hot as it played down upon us. I had arranged to meet some friends there, Koob and Jeanette, they had travelled down the night before. The breakfast was good as usual at Zambezi Breezers where I stay when working down there. Once finished I made my way down to Chrundu to make a few calles there and to pick up a friend and colleague Charles. Charles was as ever immaculately dressed.

We were going out to some rural areas along the river to try and find a suitable piece of land, The piece I had identified before was a bit too close to human habitation for my liking and add to that the fact that the owners were asking about three times the going rate for the place.

We got to a place called Lilongwe were we left the tar road and headed into the bush, asking for directions we picked up a chap who said that he knew the area well and that he could direct us to exactly where we wanted to go. We travelled through small thatched villages with their red sun baked clay walls and smoke stained roofs, scabby chickens running around looking thin and emaciated. (I suppose they daren’t put on weight) Dusty children in ragged clothes, but with great big smiles snotty noses and waving arms.

I never could understand why the Africans never built chimneys in their houses. If you have ever been to visit or been to a meeting in one of these houses you will know that 5 minutes in one of these houses is the equivalent of seven years smoking twenty Capstan Full Strength. I mean it can’t be that difficult to have a hole in the roof with some sort of raised cover to stop the rain coming in, but no they would rather choke and go around with red eyes and smelling like a bonfire. Anyway the villages looked good.

We got deeper and deeper in the bush and eventually it began to thin again as we reached the place we had been looking for. I must admit I was rather disappointed, There were hardly any trees left, the cultivation that had taken place was half hearted and weed strewn. It was definitely not what I was looking for.
We decided to strike right along the river towards Siavonga to see if there were any more suitable places down there.
It was not long before we were back in the thick of the bush and far from civilisation, only the birds for company and whatever wild life lay hidden away in the brush. The ground was a richly punctuated mosaic of Hippo and elephant spoor with a neat overlay decoration of bird and insect prints.

The ground was getting softer and we had to pick our way through, at one place in particular we had no choice but to drive through a particularly wet bit, I felt confident as I had four wheel drive so that should not be a problem. I had checked the depth and bed before entering so launched in. We made it about three quarters of the way across before we had ceased all forward motion, and were instead heading more in a vertical direction. This did not bode well. The vehicle eventually came to a complete rest with the minimum of wheel spin and absolutely no wheel spin from the front wheels as for some reason unbeknown to me the drive to them had disappeared into the either somewhere over the past thousand or so km, thus rendering the vehicle a very heavy two wheel drive car. About as much use where we were as a chopsticks in a jelly eating competition.

Talking of jelly, when we exited the car that’s what we found ourselves up to our shins in, but this was thick and black and smelly.
I looked at Charles and saw how immaculately dressed he was and thought, Oh dear. But it did not seem to faze him, he just whipped off this socks and shoes rolled up his trousers and got stuck in
First off we tried the usual rocking back and forth with plenty of manpower pushing and pulling but realised fast that she was stuck fast and we would need to make another plan.

The area was mainly scrub bush about ten to twelve feet tall, quite dense and interspersed with grassy tufts, the occasional Mopani tree growing taller every hundred yards of so.

We cut small branches from the scrub bush and pushed it as far as we could under the tyres and tried again. Still nothing.
Normally in Africa, as I have mentioned before when you stop, no matter where you are, people just seem to grow out of the ground. But not today. We were miles from anywhere, phone signal? Not a chance, and to cap it all the bush was so dense that if we did set off to find help we would never find the car again for days. And if and when we eventually did we would probably find it had either been used as a climbing frame or a toilet by the local Hippo population. And from all the tracks about there were thousands of them.

So we had no option but to stick with it and get it out. The next plan was jacking the vehicle and get something with a little more traction than jelly, right under the wheels. Now jacking a car with a bottle jack in mud was never going to be easy, it entailed getting down in the mud, digging a hole in the mud pushing a strong piece of wood down into the hole to place the jack on and trying to raise the car. There was no chance of getting under the axles so we had to jack on the chassis. Which as you can imagine raised the body but not the wheels. It was hot and filthy work, but after an hour we managed to get some branches under the wheels by jacking up and down, getting a better purchase each time. We laid a track of branches to the edge of the hollow and finally we were out. We were all by this time covered from head to toe in thick black mud.

It took another hour to get back to the tar road. We dropped of our guide where we had met him, gave him the equivalent of four days pay and got back to civilisation just before dark. In time for a shower and clean up before dinner and a well deserved beer.

We had not achieved our aim for that day but we had another African experience. The sights the sounds the wildlife the challenge, that all add up to change what may seem a fairly arduous task into an adventure. You just don’t seem to get that elsewhere in the world.

Denzil Bark