Visiting a Village Hut (2)

(In our last installment we started a tour of the home of a Malawi widow, living in a typical village hut. She is caring for 10 or 12 grandchildren who have lost their parents to HIV/Aids. She has no job, and her grandchildren can only find short term jobs to help supplement their livelihood.)

Roof Over-Hang Too Low

We stop on the stoop and quickly realize anyone over 5’ 10” will have to bend down to enter the house. Almost all doors in Malawi village houses are hand made, and the opening is cut out of the brick face of the house itself, in order to accommodate the size of that specific door. I am not carrying a measuring tape with me, but it seems this door is smaller than most. Add to the small door the fact that the bamboo grass, roof seems to angle down a little farther than that which is on most houses, and it all adds up poking yourself in the eye with the end of a small bamboo pole, or an especially sharp end of the thatch used for the roof. Each of us duck to enter, and upon entering through the door, we are immersed in a semi-darkened room. There are no lights on the walls, no lamps on the … well; there is no table on which to place a lamp. But, none of those matter since there is no electricity to the house, and would be no way for her to pay for it anyway. There is no way to heat this room when the nights get down to 40 to 45 degrees during the cold months. It also means we have to get used to the lack of light before we proceed further into the four rooms in the house. Looking up at the open ceiling I wonder how many critters are living up there. Mosquitoes are hovering overhead and one would wonder how many of them are able to deliver a life-threatening dose of malaria. Too, I can’t see them, but I wonder what kind of snakes may be making this woman’s home their hiding place? Mamba snakes and Mozambique Spitting cobras have been found all around her property. One can certainly conclude they are around this house, either outside or inside. A little shudder creeps up my spine. And to think, I have not even touched on the spiders and other creatures that could be lurking overhead, just waiting for nightfall to open the door to their onslaught on the unfortunate who unsuspectingly move around below them. ‘’

Room is Nearly Bare

As our eyes adjust to the lack of light we are surprised to see bare, unpainted walls, and a complete lack of furniture. The room is very bare, and that is probably the way it has always been. Just inside the door, and nearest us as we enter are what looks like two bamboo mats, which are probably the beds for 6 or 8 of the children. Near the far end of one of the mats is a single pair of tennis shoes, probably one of the gifts we have given this family because the children have sought and gained work from us since our arrival in the country. The walls are unpainted, and rough.

Beyond the mats a single bicycle seems to struggle to keep its balance by leaning against the back wall. A blue and a white bag hangs on a peg above the bicycle and six or eight other pieces of old clothes, and a single blanket, hang on pegs above the bicycle.

Where is all the Stuff?

Moving our gaze to the right and the center of the room a single set of three shelves comes into view. Several small cans and bottles seem to litter the shelves, and two pairs of shoes are hanging somehow from the shelves.  To the right are four more plastic bags. These apparently contain more of the personal possessions of the ten to twelve family members who use this room as a living room, dinning room, and bedroom. In the corner stands another single bamboo mat used for sitting and sleeping. This is apparently the other bed, and if we are correct, this means about four to six of the family members must sleep on this single mat. A few clothes are piled on the floor beside the bamboo mat.

It is enlightening just to view this single room. So much can be seen about Malawi, and the suffering of her people, in just this one single room.

We now turn to enter the next room. Surprise is awaiting us just across the threshold. Come with us.

As we step into the room it is evident this room does not have much more than the last one. Near the outside door there are two old wooden platforms laying on something near the door. Elias raises them up and smiles as we all look down on a couple of buckets of water. This will serve as their drinking water, bathing water, and water used for cooking. They have gone to a distant well, or to the river in order to obtain this water and none of it will be wasted. No one would ever think about throwing the remaining part of it out. Someone in the family has walked too far to obtain it for it to be wasted.

It is time to go back outside and see the rest of the possessions, and life style of this average African family. What we discover there will be on the next posting on this website. Join us in a few days to see what we find.

From the Capital to the Lake

Lilongwe To Senga Bay

It is nearly three in the afternoon as I reach the north edge of Lilongwe on M-1. I want to reach Senga Bay before nightfall, and the blazing African sun is already casting long shadows off to the east. For the first few kilometers I enjoy the broadest portion of tarmac I will encounter during the entire 110 kilometer trip east to the lake. Two lanes include white lines along both sides of the beam-less road, and a white dotted line denoting the center lane, projects itself all the way to the next curve and beyond. M-1 is the best, as well as the most traveled road in the country. I must pick up a package at the airport so I continue on to the airport turn off. A stop for the police checkpoint, and I am quickly waved through. I turn left and continue to the next checkpoint, this one just outside the perimeter of the airport. A quick check and I am on my way. It only takes a minute. and the package is safely in the back of the vehicle. I head back to the M-1 turn off.

Goodbye to the Good Road

Where the airport turn off meets M-1 I steer the Isuzu across the highway and wave goodbye to the ribbon of black tarmac heading south toward the capital. For the next seven kilometers I bounce along a bush road that is only a little wider than a dirt path - a road that will be nearly impassable when the rainy season sweeps in from the east in a few weeks. But for now there is not a rain cloud in site and the road is clear all the way.

Dust Finds Every Crack

Though I slow to 40 kilometers, and close the windows, I still find myself tasting the red, gritty, dust of the sub-Sahara that is spurting into the car through every conceivable crack, and casting a red, dusty glaze over everything in sight. The bone jarring potholes that seem large enough to swallow an ox-cart compounds the discomfort. I maneuver unsuccessfully to both sides of the road in an attempt to avoid the vast expanse of holes that threatens to engulf the road.

From an altitude of 4,100 feet near the airport I will descend some 800 feet to the valley floor, then climb again to cross over the picturesque Dowa Mountains with their panoramic view of the horizon, and the quaint clusters of tiny villages scattered carelessly around the landscape. I will then slowly wind my way down to around 900 feet as I near the lakeshore, east of the dingy, crossroads trading community of Salima. With this change of altitude will come a change of temperature as the fireball hovering above me gains a greater intensity of influence on the heavier air near the lake. Even with the late afternoon sun behind me I find myself shedding the brown jacket that, just a little while earlier at the compound, felt so comfortable.

Magnificent Mountain Range

Off to the left across the valley I can see unhindered for at least 25 kilometers. Almost everything in sight carries various hues of brown. No crops are growing, with their bright green hues of prosperous growth, and the effects of three months without a drop of rain spreads like a brown, suffocating canopy over the entire landscape. A man on a bicycle in a brown suit and white shirt peddles past heading toward the setting sun. As I glance in the rear mirror he disappears in a cloud of red dust that is chasing me along the road. Three small girls in tattered, dingy dresses stand beside the road and wave as I pass. Obviously they have come out from one of the three or four thatched huts nearby. They too disappear behind me in the same cloud that enveloped the man in the brown suit.

Accelerating Up a Ridge

After several more waving children, and a couple of dozen more brown huts, I accelerate up a ridge, and intersect suddenly with the main road to Salima. It is not as wide as M-1, but it does offer a reprieve from the dust cloud that has traveled the seven-kilometer road through the valley. I can now leave it happily behind me, and push on the window electrics and fresh cool air rushes in from the outside to create a second dust storm. This one comes from the glaze of dust that had settled over everything in the car. I lick my lips and wipe at my glasses in a vain attempt to rid myself of the valley.

Night is an Unknown Thing

The road from Lilongwe city to Salima is blacktop all the way, and relative few potholes, and I find I have just cut away nearly 20 kilometers from the trip with the 7 k cut across down the valley road. The traffic is a bit heavy for a late afternoon trip, as it seems the whole countryside is trying to get home before night settles in to take control of the villages. Night in the sub-Sahara is an unknown thing, and evil things happen in the darkness where only the distant, cold glare of the moon stands witness. I pass a few groups of school children lingering along the way home from the primary schools that dot the landscape of this impoverished country. Some are in blue and white uniforms, indicating their parochial affiliations, while others wear only the hand me down dresses, and stained jeans, that have been long forgotten by the children in the benevolent nations of the west. Along the way I witness the village children as well. They are in tattered clothes, and have no school fees. There are many of them, and they stand near the edge of their mud-hut villages and watch the other children pass near the tarmac on their way homes from the big brick buildings of learning. Each cluster of laughing, jumping children drop out of sight past the dusty windows only to be captured for another slit second in one or both of the rear mirrors. I can’t help but wonder what will become of them, those vagabonds from the village farms. With unemployment in the cities in excess of 50% what hope will their education give them? And what hope is there for those who are given no education. The future of the village seems bleak in its sameness. I sigh as I pass them.

Tree Branches in the Road

As I round a curve I slow at the telltale sign of freshly cut tree branches lying directly in my lane. Up ahead, unseen from this distance, but sure to appear is an object directly in the road. Lorry, or galamoto, or accident. I am unsure but I know it is there. I crest the hill with my foot precautious near the brake pedal. There I see the giant lorry, loading with tobacco bales, lying helplessly and lonely directly in my path. I carefully swing to the right into the oncoming lane, but just as I do I realize another dead truck is sitting just near in the oncoming lane. It too is helpless to move, the driver sitting near a tree eating his meal of nsima. I thank the tree branches for warning me, as I quickly maneuver between the giant lorries and back into the eastbound lane. I then accelerate to a safe speed that should insure my arrival before dark.

Babies on their Backs

Four women pas heading into the sun, each with a bucket on her head and two with babies fastened securely to their backs with brightly colored chitinjis. A girl in a red dress flashes a smile, and a partial wave before the Isuzu disappears around another curve. Although I am now climbing higher into the Dowa Mountains the parade of humanity continues to pass on both sides of the road. They are seemingly going in every direction. By all appearances I am far out in the country away from the cities, but in reality tiny villages and trading centers dot the brown, drab vegetation that disguises their presence with a sense of emptiness.

Bluffing the Goats

As I scan the vista around me I nearly fail to see the goats that have crested from the depression near the road, and now are claiming the right-of-way directly in my path. Only the incessant sound of the horn convinces the lead goat, an old grey with a long beard that denotes his dominance, to exit my path. My threat works, and the other three choose not to call my hand. The lead goat is reflected in the mirror looking my way as to say, “beat you didn’t I?” For a moment I consider honking a reply but I think better of it as I realize he probably does not understand Isuzu. Before I can consider the goats challenge to my manliness a rooster that has apparently watched the retreat of the goats half runs - half flies across both lanes in a successful show of his prowess for all of the goats to see. I slow to see who else is worthy to take up the challenge. None seem ready to come forward. My trek continues.

Unannounced Trading Center

A few kilometers east of the “goat crossing” I round another curve and sweep into a tiny trading center that has failed to announce its presence for the unexpected traveler who crests the hill. A bus sits partially across my lane, and street vendors, true to their name, encircle it with their commodities held high for all within to see, or for those wish to make a purchase to take home to the wife or children. Bananas, apples, live chickens, bread, biscuits, ground nuts, and hard boiled eggs with little packets of salts, as well as drinks appear to anyone on board with a few Kwacha they wish to submit. Baskets are also for sale to anyone with too big a load to take home. The Isuzu inches past them, and it seems that traffic is brushing dangerously close. This fact seems to have no influence on those who seem desperate to make a final sale before the setting of the sun drives them back to their villages to count the few Kwacha or Tambala they have been able to roust from the weary travelers.The car accelerates again as the open road appeals. Over the next hill and three gullies, each in their traditional, tribal dress, run along the highway in single file in near military procession. One would wonder if they are racing to some mysterious, sacred place of meeting. They eye the vehicle as I race by. I fail to look back. The Isuzu continues on course.

Termite Take Over

A tiny village comes into view, along with a broken church building, and a giant termite mound. It seems such a strange combination to punctuate the roadside scene. I cannot help buy wonder if the pastor next Sunday will speak of the rich who ride by in their red galamotos and look the other way as the poor suffer silently in the tiny villages lost in time. A herd of cattle break my concentration as a small boy loses control and allows the bull to move out and straddle the centerline, and look threateningly toward the oncoming, red intruder. I slow, and chose to pass on the berm of the road, as the giant animal closes the gap by crossing directly into my lane. Apparently he has not read the animal signs that indicate cars and trucks have the privilege of right-of-way. He stops suddenly and I sweep past, thankful it is not two hours later and pitch black as we reach this moment of near contact. A little farther along a giant impaca (cat) lies dead near a tree, apparently victim of some careless hit and run away driver.Ninety-eight kilometers in and I unexpectedly pass the sign that reads, “Salima City Limits”, although the roadside images remain the same for another three or four kilometers. Apparently some political entity has sought to increase the tax base for Salima by annexing an additional half dozen huts into the corporate empire.

Coffin Makers Signal AIDS

The road to Nkhotakota points its tarmac ribbon to the north as it signals my approach to the real outskirts of the trading center, and its sparkling new Total petrol station, and its smartly dressed attendants, reminds me that change is coming ever so slowly to this forgotten land. The intersection for the Balaka turn off holds its rest houses, and coffin makers. Strange bedfellows it would seem until I am reminded of the seriousness of the HIV/AIDS problem in this part of the world. What should be a center for commerce and trade is, in fact a magnet for the trade in alcohol, drugs, sex and death. This region is a virtual deathtrap for the loose morale, unsuspecting visitor to its charms.I cross near the main business district, a loud crowded mix of old world and new music, and cross over the set of rail lines that reminds one of an earlier day. Nearly sits the rail station and a group of abandoned rail cars. A tobacco lorry indicates some rail usage still exits, but there is little order evidence that an engine knows of this stretch of track. The road narrows as I curve more into a northerly direction and recognize that soon the road will abruptly end near the edge of the lake. Bamboo stands line the road on each side as carvers and basket makers wait for the next Azungu who seeks to part with more than his share of western currency. Another goat starts to challenge the right of the Isuzu, then at the last minute thinks better of his action. He makes a wise decision to live another day.

A Car Gives Way

A narrow bridge comes up suddenly, and an oncoming car chooses to cede the right-of-way to the much bigger cousin. I wave and smile, and from within the tiny car the black faces and white teeth behind the “Malawi” tinted windows flash back a warm greeting and we are past. A big yellow concrete pillar indicates just seven more kilometers, and success will be reached. Smoke rises from a distant field where an unknowing farmer is burning much of the future nutrients from the soil in an attempt to clear the stubble from last seasons harvest.

One more kilometer and I slow for a number of people walking in the road near the upcoming village. A man staggers along the road near the centerline. Where he awakens tomorrow morning, with a terrible headache, he will probably not remember the car that passed him with just inches to spare.

Cool Runnings By Dark 

A turn to the right, and a winding dirt road through another run-down village. A gate. A signal from the horn, and a smiling watchman rushes to open the lock and trip the latch. “Hello, abambo. It is good to see you again.” “It is good to see you as well Henry.” I pull into the car park between two trees, and let the diesel idle for a couple of minutes. It has been 107 kilometers of excitement, intrigue and suspense. A few seconds more and I cut the engine, and exit the vehicle from the right side. I can hear the waves crashing against the sand beach of Senga Bay, and I can already feel the coolness of the wind coming in off of the big lake. It will be cold tonight in the sub-Sahara, and the sun has no intention of remaining behind.

Danger on the Shire

With our breakfast complete we fall in behind our guide and make our way down the long stone path toward waters edge. His name is “Danger” and we are hopeful his name has nothing to do with his ability to successfully navigate the small boat in these crocodile infested waters. We have seen enough stories about these vicious creatures on the National Geographic and Discovery Channels and have no desire to have them close up and personal.

It is late July and our team of six has come to the Liwonde Game Park in southern Malawi for a two day Safari. It is now the morning of the second day and we are preparing for a boat trip along the giant Shire River. The time of year is early August and there has not been a drop of rain in this part of Africa since early April. This does not; however, appear to adversely affect the amount of water flowing down the Shire on its long route to the south where it will join up with the mighty Zambezi and turn east toward its ultimate destination, the Indian Ocean. In most of Malawi the rivers run west to the east then empty into Lake Malawi, the twelfth largest fresh water lake in the world. Near the bottom of the lake, like a drain plug in a giant bathtub is the only outlet, the Shire River. The Shire is 250 miles or 402 km long and is the only tributary from the Zambezi that is navigable from the sea. David Livingston, the great explorer spent most of the year 1859 exploring the river, and in all during his African exploration Livingston traveled 29,000 miles and added 1 million square miles to the known portion of the globe. Now we were about to embark on the same waterway he had traveled along. A moment of reverent recollection touches us as we walk along the path beside the giant river.

Following the Path of Livingstone

We make our way cautiously down the steps and onto the wooden boat dock that extends itself some 25 feet into the Shire. It sways with our weight. Tied safely to the dock on each side are four small wooden boats capable of carrying about 8 people on the river adventure. Danger helps each person step past the rubber tire buffer and down into the boat. He is careful to suggest that each person sit in such a way as to maintain a reasonable balance to the craft. It sways with each new person stepping into it. After our group is safely positioned he unties the rope to the dock and tosses it into the front of the boat. Then he steps lightly into the back of the boat and with the same motion pushes us away from the dock and toward the current of the rapidly moving Shire.

Do Not Stand Up in the Boat

Danger has the full attention of his audience as he begins to give the dos and don’ts of a safe and pleasant travel on the water.

“Do not stand up in the boat. If you do you might fall in the water. If you fall in the water the crocodile may come to visit you. If you fall in the water I am not authorized to jump in to get you. So sorry,” he says with a slight smile. Then he turns his full attention to our expectations as to what we will see on the river Safari.

“We will see many birds,” he begins. “Along the river we will see the crocodile and the hippo.” He does not make note of the fact that this stretch of water is reported to hold one of the largest concentrations of hippo pods in this part of Africa.

“We may also see the elephant,” he concludes his list of what we can expect during the next two hours on the water.

The Engine Roars to Life

By now the boat has drifted into the swifter current and Danger turns his attention to the black Suzuki outboard engine. One quick pull on the rope and the engine springs to life as Danger turns the yellow and black wooden boat into the oncoming current. Above us, and attached to the four corners of the boat the group is sheltered from the early morning sun by the grey canopy. It helps shade our eyes from the intense sunlight and the reflection as we eagerly scan the rippling green water for signs of life anywhere in any direction. The sunlight dances across the water sprinkling dots of light randomly in every direction.

We Head for the Tall Palms

Almost immediately Danger steers the boat toward a group of high palm trees on the west bank and everyone scans the tree tops observing a large number of birds nesting in the higher branches. Below them the ground and foliage is covered with the white residue of bird droppings. It is however, not the birds he is headed toward. It is a tiny cove that is almost invisible from the east from our point near the center of the river. Near its entrance is the first pod of hippo we will see along the route. These are the ones that made the snorting sounds we heard much of the previous night at Mvuu Camp, and are probably the ones who wandered up into the camp around mid-night.

Tiny Ears on Giant Bodies

Near the shore the tiny heads protrude slightly above the water as eyes and ears appear clearly visible just above the water line. Occasionally a back will appear above the water line or a quick twist of a startled hippo will cause one of them to leap upward out of the water exposing the massive bulk of these creatures. Danger watches them intently. As we approach closer to the pod they drop out of sight under the water line and our guide is careful to avoid what might be their underwater path. The hippopotamus is responsible for more human causalities than any other animal on the continent and a human being will invariably loose if he gets in the path of a fast moving hippo. Dozing during the daylight hours the hippo seeks a place along the shoreline, or in a pool of water where he can sleep half submerged in the water. If he remains on land during the sunny daylight hours he will contract serious sunburn. Thus, it is unusual to see a hippo on land during daylight. At night he will emerge from the water in order to forage for food, sometimes several kilometers away from his watery home. The next day he returns early in the morning to the same place and the same pod. The hippo is very family oriented and will remain in and around the same home all of his life. All of this and the proximity of the pod to the camp, which by the way is called “Mvuu” or “Hippo” Camp, explains why we were warned when we arrived not to leave our chalets at night for any reason. The camp is right on the edge of the shoreline and it seems that almost every night the elephants and the hippo come into the camp to eat the grass the custodians try to maintain around the site. Hence the danger is evident if one goes outside in the dark and startles a 2-ton unpredictable, grouchy, fast moving mammal as he makes a startled dash to get away from the unwanted intruder. He may well run over them instead of excusing himself to pass on either side.

Avoid the Giants Moving into Deeper Water

Danger fully understands the danger and quickly turns out into deeper water in order to avoid the giants moving unseen under the water. A hippo can hold his breath for several minutes and walk rapidly on the bottom. In fact he is more agile in the water than on land, and there is danger that one of the hippo’s that is submerged will come toward the boat either by mistake or on purpose to drive us away from the rest of the pod. If he were to come up under the boat or if we were to strike a submerged hippo if could easily capsize the small boat. We move quickly out into the main stream and away from the pod.

Once past this first of a number of hippo pods that seem to line the shore we glide in closer to the shoreline so Danger can point out a wide array of birds. Some are hovering near mud-encrusted nests that hang precautious on long reeds that stand in the water near the shore. They sway gracefully with each passing wave. These are small and brown to match and camouflage them from their enemies. Hovering ever so close are also those who seem to flaunt their colors, beautiful birds black on top, with white underbellies and red heads that make a statement to each passerby. They seem to dance across the sky as though the limbs they land on are too hot for their tiny feet and they must keep moving to keep from burning their toes.

Another Danger Faces Us from the Shore

Then Danger points ahead of us and to the right. For a second no one sees what he is pointing toward, then it seems everyone sees it at the same moment and the hair on the back of my arm seems to stand a little taller. The giant Nile crocodile is laying down the bank with his head toward the water. He is as close as four feet from waters edge with his eyes closed. He seems obvious to the approaching boat. Our motor is now idling in order to make as little of a disturbance as possible, and it seems that everyone is holding his or her breath. The boat closes almost stealthily toward the rendezvous point where bow and a jagged-tooth filled mouth will meet. Inching closer to the giant creature Danger seems destined to live up to his name. A few feet away two smaller crocks slid silently into the water and quickly disappear below the murky surface. Running silently with the engine off, the boat drifts to within an arms length of the shoreline and the crock. At least it appears to be a single arms length since no one is willing to extend his or her arm in order to correctly measure the distance. Cameras click and one has to wonder if the sound will arouse this giant that with a single lunge will be sitting next to us in the boat. No reaction. He must be asleep. Maybe. We drift slowly past as Danger indicates this crock is only in his late teens. That doesn’t help much. I’ve raised teens. They can be pretty dangerous.

A 20-Foot Bag of Murderous Intent

The Nile crocodile can reach lengths of at least 20 feet. Danger estimates he is only about 15 feet. Only! A safe distance away from this close encounter we observe out in the main channel the heads and eyes of the other two crocks moving rapidly into deeper water and away from the boat. Danger imitates their action and moves away from them as well. An island near the west bank comes into view and it is literally covered with a large number of crocks. “A convention up ahead,” Danger points out and we hope it is not the members of a crocodile cooking school. Danger points out that a crock eats only fish 99% of the time. “It is only 1% of the time that they eat animals or humans. It is usually for their Christmas Parties,” he adds. No one asks when crock Christmas is held and his humor breaks the tension.

Here is the Signal, Follow Me

A little way in from the shoreline the passing boat startles two warthogs. They bolt and begin running toward the forest. As they run their tiny tails point straight up in the air as though giving a silent signal to other wart hogs of “here I am, follow me.”

The Giants of the Forest are Close

Then suddenly our guide turns the boat to the right and crosses the main channel. Up a side waterway he has just seen a herd of elephants. It is the moment we have all been waiting for. There is something about the elephant that causes everyone to take a deep breath. They are magnificent, graceful animals and their sense of community holds lessons that even humans could learn from. Reaching the wide entrance he slows the engine in order for the boat to inch into the shallow water. Reeds line the shore and near the east end of the inlet stand the gentle giants of the forest. We are looking at no less than 50 of the magnificent creatures of the forestlands standing knee deep in the water. For a moment everyone is so awestruck that camera’s remain untouched as the group tries to take in the scene in front of them. It is certain that no western zoo, or any future National Geographic special will ever match this moment. The elephants appear to be like a group of preteens on a hot summer day playing in the spray of a giant lawn sprinkler. They fill their trunks and then with a sudden swinging action toss the spray up and over their backs. Sort of a jungle shower system. They appear to be having a great time and not at all concerned at first with the small boat that has entered their river washroom. The boat inches closer to the herd when suddenly one of the smaller elephants, apparently a sentry, turns uneasily toward the approaching boat. He is positioned where he can easily protect the two baby elephants from harm. Some unseen movement or an unheard sound warns the babies and one of them quickly heeds to call to scurry up the bank to escape the intruder. The other one moves behind one of the larger elephants, probably its mother, as she continues to drink water without apparent fear or concern. From the sentry however, ears flare and the sentinel raises his trunk in the air swinging it in threatening gestures. One trumpet from his mighty voice and a chill goes through all of us. The boat is close enough and although the elephant has no intention of moving into deeper water toward us he does not wish for the boat to move any closer to the herd. Our guide complies with his earthshaking request and reverses the engine. In apparent respect the elephant also turns away, giving the guide the ability to claim that he did not retreat from the field of confrontation in disgrace.

Along the way as we continue we see more crocks, more elephants and more of all of the other animals and birds that live in this place as they have lived for countless ages gone by.

How Long Will it Remain

The time has raced by and already we are nearing the end of our river trip on the Shire. Danger turns the boat toward the main channel and begins to retrace our way back toward the base camp at Mvuu. It has been a good morning in the sub-Sahara of Africa. Giant white clouds punctuate the morning sky and the sun continues its dance across the African sky. One must acknowledge this is must be the way it has been for a thousand years. And one must also wonder how far this touch of the ancient past will extend unspoiled into the future.