Death of a Disco

AFRICA 2006

The first hour of the journey passed uneventfully as I blasted through the hot dry bush listening on the iPod to Ellen McArthur’s autobiography describing her trials through the storms and icebergs of the Southern Ocean. Then - calamity - the red oil pressure light is on! Oh #+ ** %! - or something similar. A quick dive towards the edge, out with the mandatory two red warning triangles and up with the bonnet. Oil every where! On the engine, all underneath & even over the back door; white smoke coming from the filler cap and a bone dry dipstick! Pulling and prodding around the engine revealed a loose oil line. So it was out with the spanners and the spare oil - probably enough to get back to Livingstone. BUT the pulling and prodding had revealed another problem - the casting to which the alternator was bolted had broken and it was waving around like corn in a summer breeze. A quick call to Nick to warn him I was on the way back and I nursed the Disco back to town. However, as I approached the outskirts relief got the better of me and I was caught in a radar speed trap: a on the spot cash fine - that’s all I needed!

Despite it being a Sunday, Nick came into his garage. He said that he could replace the casting from an engine he had taken out of another vehicle but there was a problem. Monday and Tuesday were public holidays and it might take another couple of days to do the work. Four unexpected days in Livingstone instead of floating down the Zambezi dodging the Hippos. Again the Bloemfontain curse strikes!

I knew that Oriel had a house full, so I booked into a room at the Jolly Boys Backpackers’ Hostel. It’s a large and lively place with a mixture of accommodation from single rooms to dorms and camping. It has a large grassed area around to pool with a selection of hammocks strung between shade trees, deck chairs, lounging sofas, pool and table tennis tables and a bar with satellite TV. This area is a hive of activity throughout the day & evening and I’m glad my room is tucked away towards the back of the place. The evening gave me an opportunity to reacquaint myself with one of the town’s highlights: its "Ocean Basket"- a chain of South African Greek/fish restaurants. It’s the only chain restaurant to have established itself here - not even a McDonalds. Even Victoria Falls across the Zambezi in Zimbabwe has a Wimpey! Their King Klip is a meaty fish that just demands accompaniment of chips & tartre sauce - excellent. Feeling self-indulgent following the day’s disappointments, I follow it up with chocolate bread & butter pudding with vanilla ice cream and a pot of tea.

Back at the hostel’s bar I get chatting to a guy from Argentina who was cycling Northwards who complained that the wind had been against him for the whole of his journey - no matter which way he was travelling. We got chatting to a couple of American girls who, through their church back home in Oregon - were working in an orphanage in Kitwe: a small town in the Copper Belt. They were supposed to be teaching but, with kids as young as two years old - they seemed to spend most of their time undertaking basic parenting work rather than actually imparting knowledge. Another evening there was another American girl who was working in a Botswanan village on a health education project aimed at AIDS/HIV. There seems to be many young Americans (mainly girls) who are volunteering, via religious organisations or the Peace Corp, ‘doing good works’ in Africa.

The next morning - to kill time more than anything - I took the Hostel’s free minibus down to the Falls. Still being fairly close to the last rains, there were masses of spray and this severely limited the view down the gorge. This spray was going down, up and sideways as the wind caught it. This meant that even those who hired waterproofs were being soaked to the skin. Usually this isn’t too much of a problem as the ambient temprature dries them off quickly. However, whilst I was there the temprature was quite cool and people were wandering around the area dripping. Having seen the view several times from both the Zambian and Zimbabwe sides, I decided to remain dry and avoid the spray. The sign pointed to the ‘Boiling Pot’ - the narrow part of the gorge under the bridge through which all the millions of litres of water per hour is forced. The path was, initially, well maintained as it dropped down by way of a cut steps but then it seemed to disappear. Luckily, a local family emerged from the rocks and bush and confirmed that the path continued but that you had to scramble over the jumble of rocks. The jumble of rocks would have done justice to some Welsh mountains but, eventually, I emerged from the undergrowth at the water’s edge and gazed up at the bridge just as somebody jumped off it into the 111 metre void below. There they yo-yoed on the end of their bungie cord. Despite the volume of water that was flowing through the small gap it seemed to be very calm until one of the tourist boats came up with it large outboard motors, spewing clouds of black smoke, as they struggled against the unrelenting flow. I’m not sure I’d have trusted my life & limbs to such screaming engines in such a hostile & unforgiving environment. About a mile down stream, framed by the bridge and gorge, was the old colonial Victoria Falls Hotel - an establishment caught in a gentile time-warp: one day I will treat myself to a night in this place. An occasional cheer (or were they jeers) wafted down from the bridge as yet another person threw themselves into the jaws of death at the end of a glorified rubber band.

Having ascended out of the gorge, morbid curiosity drew me through Zambian emigration, where they stamped a torn off strip of paper, and onto the bridge to take a closer look at the bouncing lunatics. Victims are tied into a full arm & leg harness; have towelling wrapped around both ankles; the rubber band attached over the towelling and lastly the rubber bank is linked to the harness. The harness is an innovation since I last watched this ceremony - perhaps somebody’s ankle only attachment slipped off! Well and truly hobbled, the trusted victim is forced to hop to the platform’s edge where they eventually - rather than jump, just lean forward and topple into the void.

To get back to town I took one of the local light blue minibuses from outside the gates to the Falls. We had to wait for all the seats to be taken and when it spluttered into life we bounced back on to the tar road towards town. It was rather disconcerting to see all three rows of seats nudge forward when we braked. Unfortunately, when we stopped to let some passengers escape, the engine stalled and the battery didn’t have the oomph to spark it back into life. The driver’s sidekick, who is usually in charge of drumming up trade as the bus rattles along, was dispatched to the back to apply his shoulders to getting us moving. As we were on a slight hill, he had to dragoon a young man from the bus stop to help. They pushed it forwards, they pushed it backwards - but to no avail. Eventually, they are able to resuscitate the bus and we splutter into the minibus station by the bustling market in town.

After all his excitement, I spent the afternoon reading and swinging in a hammock by the pool. For an evening meal I walked down the hill for an excellent pizza in the Funkey Munkey Restaurant. The next day - Tuesday and the last day of the public holiday - was wasted by visiting the Livingstone Museum (small, dusty and faded); Shoprite (to buy some makings for lunch etc); reading and wandering around the dusty town periodically telling vendors that I really didn’t want a copper bangle - no matter how good a bankrupting deal they were prepared to offer.

Wednesday and the town returns what passes as ‘normal’ in Zambia but still the Disco won’t we ready until at least tomorrow lunchtime at the earliest. Looking on the bright side, at least I will now be able to ( get a multiple entry visa from the immigration office in town and ( I’ve had time to learn how to get in and out of a hammock in a controlled and fairly elegant manner. It’s the first time I’ve used a hammock and am a convert - it must be a combination of some primeval/foetal echo as you lie down enfolded in its fabric and its gentle rocking action swaying in a gentle breeze. Apart from a brief excursion into town to top up provisions, I sat around in the shade of the garden listening to the waterfall feeding the pool and occasionally reading. At least I should be well rested for the long drives over the next few days if I am to arrive in South Luangua in time.