DRC (Zaire) back on the map
Posted
by
Mark
on 23 Dec 2010
These days safaris can be so disappointing: they used to be the preserve of the well-informed traveller but nowadays you see safaris advertised in all sorts of brochures. The idea of sitting on my bum, in a zebra-striped van with half-a-dozen others appals me.
But it doesn’t have to be this way!
Some years ago (1991) I camped on an oxbow of the river Garamba. We had made the trek after reading Mark Carwardine’s book “Last Chance To See”. I wanted to see one of the world’s last 28 Northern White Rhino. Getting to Garamba used to be a bit of a mission: it sits on the Sudan border, just inside Zaire (as it was in those days) and when we signed in, the foolscap ledger went back to the 1940’s. They hadn’t filled one visitor’s book in more than half a century! Believe me, it really was quite a mission to get there. Safari in Garamba was an amazing experience for a variety of reasons, but the pinnacle was probably being woken by hippo breath. Camping on an oxbow is always dumb, particularly in remote country, but on this particular night we all went to bed in the usual way and by the time the hippos came out to eat, we were all fast asleep in two-man tents. I was awoken in the wee small hours by a hippo exhaling on my sleeping forehead. He took off. I went back to sleep with a grin on my face. Fortunate outcome.
We were still feeling invincible on evening 2 and made camp, which consisted of four small tents, on a raised river bank that gave great views of the river. At dawn there was a huge herd of elephants in the river so we all played possum and kept silent. They soon crossed the river and continued on their way. As we got up we saw that the herd had passed right through camp, between the tents, and many pegs had been flattened into the ground. But not a tent had been touched. Let me tell you, that gives you a slow-burn adrenaline rush.
And the final memory I’ll dredge up to make my point happened on our final morning. We were out before sun-up and came across three people who were poorly concealed beneath an acacia tree. Safety catches were flicked off and we approach with caution because this was rebel country in those days. A warning was shouted which prompted absolutely no reaction. Slowly, slowly a scout crept forward and then beckoned us all in. There were three women who, it transpired, had walked from the fighting in Sudan, right through the park, for about a fortnight. One of the ladies had two fingers missing that had been bitten off during that night by a hyena. They were weak as waifs and when we eventually got them back to camp, the cook boiled up some rice and then discarded it, giving them only the milky water that it had been boiled in. They were so starved that they wouldn’t have been able to cope with proper food at that stage.
I rarely tell these stories, nor the hundred-and-one-others, because no-one would believe them and they’d be dismissed as “pub talk”. But the point is, safari, real safari, takes you absolutely face to face with the harsh and inspiring reality of Africa and her wildlife. That’s what you pay for, tales you can’t tell because folks back home will think you’re making them up! But occasionally you meet a person who has been there and seen the African bush dawn and felt the elusive quality of that air. Then you can trade the tales!