can’t take a weapon in there. They’ll shoot you on sight, chum. Only the rangers can carry firearms in the park.’
The man’s accent sounded to Jed like a cross between the guttural English of an Afrikaner and an Englishman.
‘Fine, then just give me the knife.’
The man showed Jed a range of edged weapons in a glass cabinet. Jed selected a hunting knife with a wickedly sharp eight-inch blade. He didn’t know exactly what he would be trying to hunt with it, but it made him feel better to have a weapon of some sort. He went to the clothing section of the shop and picked out a green canvas hunter’s vest. The pockets on the front were big enough to hold a couple of magazines for an assault rifle – if he’d had one. He threw the vest on the counter and asked for a map of the Zambezi Valley.
It was after one in the afternoon when Jed surrendered his parking pass and headed out of the mall and back onto the main road north. The driving was easy, once he got used to being on the left-hand side of the road. It was pretty countryside, but most of the farming land looked idle. Here and there were stretches of wheat, waving in the gentle afternoon breeze, but more often than not he saw only weedy half-tilled fields. He’d read about the redistribution of land away from white farmers to Africans, but it didn’t look to him as though anyone was doing too well out of that process.
The succession of farming towns he rolled through looked tired and dusty. People thronged the streets but there seemed to be a general lack of purpose to their ambling. Too many idle youths, most of them males, stared at the shiny Land Rover with envious eyes.
He swerved and swore when a shiny new black Mercedes barely made it back into the oncoming lane after overtaking a donkey cart driven by two young boys in cast-off shirts and ragged shorts. The boys waved at him as he passed. Here were the extremes of Africa – the businessman or government functionary in his limousine, the children on the cart, visible in his rear-view mirror, pulling up beside a roadside trash bin to supplement their meagre diet. He shook his head. It had been the same in Afghanistan. Warlords – or regional leaders, as they preferred to be called these days – growing fat on the proceeds of opium and marijuana while ordinary people starved and struggled to rebuild their war-torn lives.
He stopped in a town called Chinhoyi to refuel his vehicle and himself. He bought two chicken pies and a Coke in an old-fashioned glass bottle while he waited for the driveway attendant to top up the tank. The pies were cold and the soft drink warm, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t in Zimbabwe to sample its culinary delights. He wanted to make Kariba by nightfall, but when he checked his watch and his map, he reckoned that would be a long shot.
‘What’s the road like down to Kariba?’ he asked the attendant.
‘Ah, sir, that is a very winding road,’ the young man said as he peeled off Jed’s change in grimy one-hundred-dollar notes. ‘Very many animals. Be careful if you are driving at night.’
‘Animals?’
‘Yes, sir. Elephant, buffalo, zebra, leopard, maybe even lion.’
‘I didn’t know Kariba was inside a national park.’
‘No sir, it is not. It is a wildlife area, though. Kariba has much wildlife, but it has no fences, no rules. It is a wild place, sir.’
The shadows were lengthening as Jed pushed on northwards, past some well-tended orchards and more straggly-looking fields of carelessly planted corn. It was not how he had pictured Africa. He had imagined either wide-open savanna grasslands or equatorial jungle, not a poor man’s version of the Midwest. The people seemed friendly enough, although every now and then he would pass a young male who stared sullenly at him.
He reached the turn-off to Kariba as the tip of the red sun disappeared behind the hills to his left.
He switched his headlights to full beam as he took the winding road down off the
The man’s accent sounded to Jed like a cross between the guttural English of an Afrikaner and an Englishman.
‘Fine, then just give me the knife.’
The man showed Jed a range of edged weapons in a glass cabinet. Jed selected a hunting knife with a wickedly sharp eight-inch blade. He didn’t know exactly what he would be trying to hunt with it, but it made him feel better to have a weapon of some sort. He went to the clothing section of the shop and picked out a green canvas hunter’s vest. The pockets on the front were big enough to hold a couple of magazines for an assault rifle – if he’d had one. He threw the vest on the counter and asked for a map of the Zambezi Valley.
It was after one in the afternoon when Jed surrendered his parking pass and headed out of the mall and back onto the main road north. The driving was easy, once he got used to being on the left-hand side of the road. It was pretty countryside, but most of the farming land looked idle. Here and there were stretches of wheat, waving in the gentle afternoon breeze, but more often than not he saw only weedy half-tilled fields. He’d read about the redistribution of land away from white farmers to Africans, but it didn’t look to him as though anyone was doing too well out of that process.
The succession of farming towns he rolled through looked tired and dusty. People thronged the streets but there seemed to be a general lack of purpose to their ambling. Too many idle youths, most of them males, stared at the shiny Land Rover with envious eyes.
He swerved and swore when a shiny new black Mercedes barely made it back into the oncoming lane after overtaking a donkey cart driven by two young boys in cast-off shirts and ragged shorts. The boys waved at him as he passed. Here were the extremes of Africa – the businessman or government functionary in his limousine, the children on the cart, visible in his rear-view mirror, pulling up beside a roadside trash bin to supplement their meagre diet. He shook his head. It had been the same in Afghanistan. Warlords – or regional leaders, as they preferred to be called these days – growing fat on the proceeds of opium and marijuana while ordinary people starved and struggled to rebuild their war-torn lives.
He stopped in a town called Chinhoyi to refuel his vehicle and himself. He bought two chicken pies and a Coke in an old-fashioned glass bottle while he waited for the driveway attendant to top up the tank. The pies were cold and the soft drink warm, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t in Zimbabwe to sample its culinary delights. He wanted to make Kariba by nightfall, but when he checked his watch and his map, he reckoned that would be a long shot.
‘What’s the road like down to Kariba?’ he asked the attendant.
‘Ah, sir, that is a very winding road,’ the young man said as he peeled off Jed’s change in grimy one-hundred-dollar notes. ‘Very many animals. Be careful if you are driving at night.’
‘Animals?’
‘Yes, sir. Elephant, buffalo, zebra, leopard, maybe even lion.’
‘I didn’t know Kariba was inside a national park.’
‘No sir, it is not. It is a wildlife area, though. Kariba has much wildlife, but it has no fences, no rules. It is a wild place, sir.’
The shadows were lengthening as Jed pushed on northwards, past some well-tended orchards and more straggly-looking fields of carelessly planted corn. It was not how he had pictured Africa. He had imagined either wide-open savanna grasslands or equatorial jungle, not a poor man’s version of the Midwest. The people seemed friendly enough, although every now and then he would pass a young male who stared sullenly at him.
He reached the turn-off to Kariba as the tip of the red sun disappeared behind the hills to his left.
He switched his headlights to full beam as he took the winding road down off the
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