You can re-read parts one and two of our safari saga here and here if you‘d like.

African Safari – Part 3

Our second full day began with a morning trip to Victoria Falls, one of the seven natural wonders of the world, but it was the afternoon that provided a stunning highlight to our trip. Our group of seven was taken to Simonga, the nearby native village sponsored by our host camp, The River Club.

As we drove into the village on a rutted track, children materialized out of the orange dust that poofed up behind us. They followed, shouting and laughing delightedly, so thrilled to see us. Their joy at our arrival made me wonder at the price we pay for our own children’s happiness.

The people live in tiny dirt-floored, reed and mud huts, with the barest necessities, the children’s playthings are broken hand-me-downs, and their clothes are CARE package cast-offs. Yet they mugged for our cameras and screamed with joy when they saw themselves in the viewfinders. They touched us gently, were unfailingly polite, and they spoke to us in near perfect English.

The taller girl below didn’t know who Jennifer Lopez was, but she loved the bright red shirt.  She peered into my eyes as she followed me around, then she finally whispered, so sweetly, “Please, Mma, may I have your bag?”  I hated to say no, but I needed my little waist-pack for my passport and money. I did give her a pack of gum, and I knew, when I got home, that I would send a parcel to the village, and my bag would be in it.  (She shared the gum but none of them knew it was just for chewing — they thought it was food and swallowed.)

The older boys showed off their soccer skills with a shredded ball, and the girls took us to their new concrete block, one-room schoolhouse.  They were so proud.

Sadly, the AIDS menace hovers over their lives. In the schoolyard, a hand-painted sign nailed to a tree, warned, “You either have AIDS or you know someone who does.” One young girl, her cheeks tear-streaked, had recently lost her mother, her father, the year before.  She and her little sister were forced to live alone, shunned by others because both parents had died of AIDS.  Village women shared their meager food, but nothing more.

When Peter and I went to bed that night we found hot water bottles tucked under the covers!  It had been quite cold the previous night — wintertime in the Southern hemisphere — so the extra warmth was welcome in our unheated three-walled hut. Yet we enjoyed relative luxury while just a mile away, women carried water several miles from the river to their village where there was no electricity, no plumbing, little food, less money.

Earlier, I had bathed, bubble-covered, in an old claw foot tub, yet the natives had no way to bathe properly, and only lumpy pallets laid on dirt floors on which to sleep.

We learned that everyone in our group was as moved as we were, by the children especially.  Russell told us he takes every group he guides to Simonga Village, but he’d never seen such excitement as he’d seen that afternoon. “It was a magical day,” he said. “There was a spark.”

* * *

Simonga Village is prosperous compared to most, because it is sponsored.  We all wanted to provide books and toys, school supplies and clothes, but we were cautioned not to send new things because it would upset the dynamic between the village elders and the sponsor.

One couple sent used library books, another, uninflated soccer balls and pumps, and Peter and I sent barely-used coloring books, slightly flattened crayons, and a rainbow of leftover wool yarn my dad used when he hooked rugs.  My little bag was in the box too.

* * *

I was just about to publish this post when I thought to Google “Simonga Village.”  Go here and here to read about thrilling changes that have taken place.  And be sure to look at the photo gallery on the “For the love of Africa” site. You’ll note one thing has not changed — the AIDS warning on the tree in the schoolyard.

 (The first and third photos above were taken by Peter B.)  

African Safari, Part One, “Always go downhill” provided the first glimpse of the Clarkes best trip ever. Here’s the next installment:

African Safari – Part 2

Eighteen hours in the air was a bum-numbing flight and that was just the trans-Atlantic leg of our journey. I’d struggled to get my head around the fact that even though there’s only a six-hour time difference between southwest Virginia and our final destination, a Rhode Island-sized corner of Texas-sized Botswana, there were still some twelve thousand miles to traverse from north of the Tropic of Cancer to south of the Tropic of Capricorn.

We had an overnight in Johannesburg, South Africa, then the following morning, an hour’s hop to Livingston, Zambia.  A tour group driver met us at the tiny airport to take us the few miles to the edge of the Zambezi River where we would meet our guide.

Tall, burly, sun-weathered Russell, with a smile as wide as the Zambezi, was, we were to find out, revered amongst guides in the region. That we were lucky enough to have him lead us was the first bit of magic that threaded through our trip. He wasted no time handing us into a rickety aluminum motorboat to ferry us downriver. As we putted along he pointed out crocodiles and hippos that I’d thought were large rocks in the water!

Though we stayed in four tented camps over fourteen days, we were eased into the safari proper with two nights at The River Club, a lush, flowery oasis that was totally unlike whatever it was I’d expected.  After a brief orientation on the terrace of the shabbily elegant Edwardian house — think “Out of Africa”— we were shown to our thatched hut. Walled on three sides with reeds and mud,  the fourth side was completely open to the river which was a protective arm curved around the property.

It doesn’t take long to settle in when you’ve only been allowed one duffel, one backpack. Before we returned to the main house to meet Kate, Russell’s fearless side-kick/safari coordinator, and our five fellow travelers, I had to try the plumbing.  I wanted to see for myself if water in the southern hemisphere really does go down the drain counterclockwise, opposite from the northern hemisphere.  It does!

At dinner I remarked on the unusually high chain-link spiked fence that encompassed three sides of the grounds, while at river’s edge the craggy perpendicular drop-off was an impenetrable barrier to any crocs lounging below. “Is the fence to keep animals out?” I asked.

“No,” Russell said, “Zimbabweans!” There was, and still is, a violent faction in Zimbabwe. The Zambezi is the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe and provides a natural defense. Even the most dangerous Zim militant wouldn’t brave those waters at night, and guards patrolled River Club’s fences until daylight. So, no worries, unless an agile hippo found a way to scale the cliff…!

At bedtime, I apologized to Peter for having been such a brat when he’d suggested a safari. “I  love it already,” I told him. “I want to come back.”  We’d been in Africa thirty-six hours. He nodded and smiled, relieved.

We’d wondered about traveling for two weeks with five people we didn’t know — in each other’s pockets as it were — but after the first evening the two of us agreed we were part of  a really compatible group. The dinner conversation was lively and laugh-filled, everyone, so interesting, and Russell and Kate were an engaging team.

It was going to be a great trip!

Arden, Arleen, Russell, me, Peter, Marilyn, Kate, Peter B, Bruce.

If you’ve been following “Wherever you go, there you are” you’ve probably read my “About.” page. In it I wrote that posts about our travels were on the horizon. “Always go downhill” is a first glimpse of our very best trip ever!

We were lucky enough to have had some amazing adventures. Our gallivanting ended a few years ago when husband Peter’s lapsing memory made going anywhere difficult. As he jokes now, “Wherever he goes, he gets lost!”

But, no complaints!  We’ve been able to go places and see things that most people only dream of. We did a lot — nine trips in six years, plus family trips to the beach. Unforgettable all, to me anyway. My photos help Peter to remember bits and pieces.