Dusting the Mpanga
by
JESSICA SNOW
Africa is the only continent where the sun rises from the earth.
It’s as though the red dust that permeates the land in October
coats the last rays of daylight and drenches the sky in orange
hues that extend from all horizons, until gradually focusing on
the fiery orb that scorches the land barren. As the late
afternoon ebbs, the crimson giant temporarily surrenders its
imposing grasp on the mpanga (bush), delving our world into
twilight as the air becomes alive with the distant roars of
lions, nearby snorts of hippos, and the constant buzz of
crickets and mosquitoes. Fires burn slowly to cleanse the soil
of last year’s crop and make ready for the rebirth that comes
with the first rains in November. From the hazy air and the
canopy of mopane woodlands, the graceful silhouettes of women
emerge like ghosts from the fields. The village wakes after the
sleepy heat of the day and old men sit at the local tap house
drinking chubuku, their faces shadowy and weathered in the harsh
light of paraffin lamps.
One old man turns his attention away from his carton of chubuku
to look at the ravaged blue and white minibus slowly creaking to
a stop. As the local schoolteacher unfolds himself from the mass
of bodies carefully packaged inside, he meticulously straightens
his tie, brushes away the red dust clinging to his shirt, picks
up his briefcase, and proceeds home. But it’s not the teacher
that captures the attention of the old man. It’s the two
crumpled, bleary-eyed mzungu kids in the front seat. One of them
is me.
Todd and I haven’t spoken a word since an hour into the journey
from Chipata, a border town in Eastern Zambia, to South Luangwa
National Park. We’re both united in mutual misery with dreams of
an ice-cold Mosi serving as the only light at the end of our
tunnel. Our tunnel is actually the remnants of what used to be
the road connecting the gates of the park to the rest of Zambia.
All 123 km of it.
Long past the old man sipping his chubuku, I find myself
stranded in the heart of the mpanga due to a flat tire. The
surrounding vegetation seems animated in the obscurity of the
night, perhaps by the ngulu, or spirits, morphing from one
indistinguishable shape to the next. I turn to the group of men
inspecting the source of our troubles and naively inquire: “Do
you have a spare?” One small man looks at me with eyebrows
raised and replies in the slow, rhythmic English characteristic
of most Zambians: “Ah, no Madame, he doesn’t have.”
For the next thirty minutes, Todd and I stand confused amidst
babbling Zambian villagers, only privy to the fact that they are
talking about us by the occasional “mzungu” that arises in
various intonations here and there in the conversation. Suddenly
breaking my thoughts, the conductor heaves us headfirst into the
back of a random truck that had stopped to help. Soon the engine
is purring and I slouch over my backpack, encrusted with red
dust, letting the cool breeze dry the sweat on my face.
The wind carries the comforting hum of a nearby radio as I stir
from my Mosi-induced slumber. My left eye wedges itself open,
only to find Todd up in a tree - my tree, to be exact. Anxiously
hovering outside my tent with some black coffee and dry toast,
he’s telling me it’s 5:45 a.m. and we’re about to miss our
morning safari. Last night, after a few more hiccups, we finally
arrived at Flat Dogs Camp close to midnight. With no time to
waste, I haphazardly erected my tent on a tree platform and
beelined straight for the bar. Todd had been much more sensible
and set his tent up on the ground. Preferring to take his
chances with the elephants and hippos that frequently wander
through the camp, the twelve-foot ladder had seemed too daunting
a task in the wee hours of the morning.
Somehow I manage to stumble into the safari truck on time and
within minutes, we’re at the park gate. Quickly, we appreciate
that South Luangwa lives up to its reputation as one of the best
but most underrated game reserves in Africa. By late October,
the parkland’s red earth is parched and cracked after several
months without rain. The mighty baobab trees are naked and the
remaining vegetation is bushveld consisting of scraggly bushes
and short brown grasses. This is the ideal time to experience
the mpanga as its wild inhabitants congregate by the scarce
water holes and riverbeds. For four hours, we sit in the safari
truck as zebra, hippos, hyenas, bushback, puku, duiker, baboons,
crocs, Thorncroft’s giraffe, and various serpentine species make
an appearance.
The heat is an intense forty to forty-five degrees by midday.
The air starts to simmer and the vibrant silence of the late
morning is consuming. In contrast to the effervescent movement
of yesterday’s twilight, the land is silent. Not even the minute
whisper of a breeze stirs the dust. In the mpanga, the midday is
a second night whereby the bleached light of the sun gives rise
to another sleep.
And sleep I did. All afternoon. Until Todd, in his quest to see
the big cats, roused me at around 5:00 pm for the night safari.
After two hours of glimmering eyes and a restless spotlight, the
air becomes cool and strangely humid. I smell rain, which is odd
for this time of year – though it is October, the first rains
usually do not come until the first days of the next month. Then
I hear it – the first peal of thunder that is soon accompanied
by massive drops of water. Within minutes we’re soaked, we fear
for the pictures immortalized on our cameras, and we’re well
over an hour away from any form of shelter. But seeing the sky
and mpanga lit up by Mother Nature’s greatest light show is
surreal. Lightning-sparked flashes of tree-lined horizon are
blurred into hazy contrast by sheets of water and beams of light
emanating from a tiny group of people, seemingly adrift in one
of the world’s last great fragments of undisturbed wilderness.
This is the land our species was born to. The red dust turning
into red rivulets running down our faces, our hands, and our
clothes to the red earth below. The rain finally settling the
mpanga.
© Jessica Snow,
2007 |
