No Stopping for Lions by Joanne Glynn Page A

youngster — ‘It was nothing, I don’t miss it’ — and his days as a soldier in the Rhodesian army when he felt invincible, a cowboy shooting at baddies from the exhilaration of helicopters. Then more sinister times, when as a park ranger in the early ‘80s he experienced firsthand the brutality of Mugabe’s Fifth Brigade, as they crushed any resistance to the regime with mass murder and mutilations. Sad, frightening stories of violence and lost friends. It’s not surprising that he’s unafraid of the dangers that wild animals might present.
    Early one morning we decide to drive to Sinamatella camp, just 8 kilometres away but a good hour’s drive through gamerich bush on the rough track we intend taking. We ask Richard if he’d like to come along to visit his wife and daughter, staying in quarters there. Rifle by his side, he sits in the backseat of the Troopy, showing the way and pointing out places of interest. As we cruise over a ridge we all suddenly realise that we’ve driven into a sort of ambush. Four adolescent lions are moving low and cautiously beside the road, completely focused on a warthog making its way across a dry riverbed. Even as the Troopy skids, stops and reverses they don’t so much as flick an ear in our direction, so intent are these lions on their prey. We sit for minutes waiting for action, but it becomes apparent that these youngsters aren’t the most experienced of hunters. Neil, getting restless, happens to look down at the road beside the Troopy and can’t believe at first what he’s seeing: a long lean body, looking like a log nestled in the grass against the Troopy’s wheels. Totally motionless, here is the mother supervising her offspring. We’d nearly run over her. Richard is very pleased and says that he is proud that his park has given us such a gift. When we drop him off at camp, he thanks us for the morning and for the privilege of riding in ‘the Envy of all Africa’.
    After lunch on our third day at Mandavu we’re lounging around camp, reading, writing up notes and generally taking it easy when three white Zimbabweans arrive. They are resident at the Masuma Dam campsite about 30 minutes’ drive east of us and they’ve come to Mandavu on a game drive. They share their afternoon tea with us, so the next evening we take drinks to them at Masuma to watch the daily display of tens of thousands of queleas , a species of finch, as they come swooping and soaring over the water in shadowy 3D clouds. Over sundowners I praise the camp attendants and mention that Richard has been invaluable as well as an engaging companion. The Zimbabwean lady snaps back that he is only looking for a bigger tip then launches into a tirade in which she speaks about blacks, all blacks, with such childish vitriol it’s apparent that she’s totally lost perspective. Her bitterness and disillusionment is palpable and her husband puts a hand over hers while he explains. Her parents, intimidated and kicked off their farm by supporters of Mugabe, are now living in a garden shed dependant on handouts. They themselves have lost a catering business — just closed the doors and walked away because most of their customers had either left the country or could no longer afford the luxury of catering. Vulnerable and raw and middle-aged, our companions mourn what they’ve lost and blame all who are black for their downfall.

WE LAUGHED ‘TiL WE CRiED
    It’s been a long day’s drive after leaving first Hwange then Zimbabwe behind. We’re making our way through the north-east of Botswana to Nata, en route to Maun, where we’re to meet with my sister Viv. There’s really only one place to overnight in Nata and that’s Nata Lodge, something of an institution where chauffeur-driven businessmen and busloads of tourists are looked after by an efficient team of staff who display that rare skill of coping