Up a tree

tinkertales — Thu, 15 May 2014 12:15:09 GMT

After a sleepless night, I see the crocodiles below—jaws opened wide. One could credit the convincing East Zambian truck driver, but I’m the one in the tree.

It wasn’t like this twelve hours ago.

Rucksack planted at a hitching spot on the outskirts of Chipata town, I stood soaking up as much shade as the odd passing cloud would afford. More hours passed than traffic. Eventually, a rust infested dump truck stopped. The bearded driver with crooked yellow teeth persuaded me to jump onboard. Persuasive indeed—for a man going in the opposite direction.

We rattled through town in a spectacle that entertained locals seated on plastic chairs outside shops and bars. Children spilled onto the road side, joyfully screaming “hello, mzungu!”. Mzungu means “white skin”. And my mzungu head and torso were busy trading places all over the back of truck as it meandered through dusty streets from shop to shop, collecting bags of maize, chickens, chairs and probably the inhabitants of half a village. Finding seating atop the heap was becoming an Olympic event.

Morning gave way to afternoon, town to countryside. Clay country cottages with thatched roofs blended into gorgeous green gardens planted with exotic fruit trees, with the sameness interrupted only by two fashion-forward cyclists and advertising blaring at formula one decibels from the occasional shop: establishments like God Only Knows Shop and Why Not Stop And Shop Here Shop. The cyclists might have been pedalling something different, if bright striped t-shirts bearing the faces of Yasser Arafat and Saddam Hussein were any indication.

One thing I did know, after taking the best part of a day to cover the 120km stretch, was that a man with rifle slung over his shoulder was waiting for me. The night watchman escorted me to my lodgings. I climbed the tree, hoisted my fatigued body and worn backpack aloft the wooden platform, erected a mosquito net about me, and collapsed on my back. I stared into the darkness of the jungle canopy. Beneath me, hyena savaged for food and hippos noisily munched on grass. This spectacular late showing of National Geographic was not about to let sleep.

The early morning sun greets her treasures like a warm embrace. I glance to my right, towards the Luangwa River as a thirty-strong herd of elephants cross. Jaws opened wide as if in awe of the scene, a float of crocodiles lays along the banks. I, high above, am the least of their concerns.

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