Love, leggin and the Luangwa

Photo of the week - very much a public display of affection

Highlight of the week: Magical wildlife mixed with work in the world’s best office

Lowlight of the week: We prepare to leave the Valley, but at least we head to Kafue on holiday.

Maximum temperature: 34 degrees Celsius

Rainfall: Dream on

Like so many good African stories, no one is quite sure if this one is true. But everyone seems to know it. The tale begins on the dusty roads of Zambia. Joseph is carrying charcoal, trussed up with sisal. But the ropes keep snapping. His resourceful mind sparks. He spots a discarded inner tube. Cuts it into long, thin strips. Wraps them tightly around the load. One simple stretch. One quick tuck. The charcoal stays put. A legend is born. The humble leggin. Tough. Elastic. Almost indestructible. Today it holds together far more than bicycle loads. It binds firewood. Water containers. Suitcases. Crops. Even everyday life. An idea that leaves a legacy.

Apologies if I appear to be labouring a point in my blog: we live in the back of beyond. Out here, resilience is not a virtue. It is a necessity. So is ingenuity. When something breaks, you don't simply buy another. There is no Amazon delivery. No repair shop around the corner. Often no toolbox either. Just common sense. A sharp knife. And, if you're lucky, a length of leggin.

Last week: Our friend Adrian quips: Zambia is built on leggin. We look at him blankly. You know... old rubber inner tubes. Suddenly, it all makes sense. We see leggin everywhere. Holding things together. Strapping things down. Mending what looks beyond repair. Without knowing its name.

It's Friday morning: We are deep in North Luangwa. In a well-seasoned Land Cruiser. Moving from Mwaleshi bush camp to Takwela camp. Seventy rhino are hidden in North Luangwa. Protected by the very guns that have brought them to the brink of extinction. Their protection is very cloak and dagger. The cloak is the secrecy that hides them in the vast wilderness of North Luangwa Park. The dagger stabs back at poachers and the quacks who peddle the nonsense that rhino horn might cure impotence. Frankfurt Zoological Society provides the cloak and the dagger. 

We are in North Luangwa to see camp staff. Screening for high blood pressure and diabetes. Even further into the middle of nowhere. Six hours by road can get you here from our home from home. Alternatively a light aircraft flies, as might a crow, in thirty-five minutes. Being moviyas once more. We wind through the park, quietly hoping for a glimpse of a black rhino. The rhinos have already marked their territory behind our tent overnight, but like ninjas they remain in the shadows, despite a full moon. They wait for our world to realise that men now have new ways to get the horn. Then and only then might the secrecy lift.

Our Land Cruiser complains. A loud scraping from beneath the car. We assume a branch is lodged beneath us. Kennedy pulls over. We all climb out. It isn't a branch. No instant fix. Kennedy frowns. Scratches his chin. Sucks air through his teeth. Then turns to Keith. As if Keith’s years as a fixer of humans might somehow qualify him to fix errant vehicles in the bush.

The two of them disappear into a man-to-man huddle. They mutter. They point. They crouch low. Peering beneath the Land Cruiser. Before long, Keith returns with the diagnosis. The metal guard protecting the fuel tank has worked loose. It is dragging along the ground. Metal scraping on the earth. Never a comforting sound.

We need something to fasten it back on. Anything. I spot a cable tie on the floor of the car. It is long. But not long enough. Three more appear from various pockets and cubby holes. We link them together. Still too short.

Kennedy reaches for the radio. Calls for reinforcements. Bush style. Fortunately, Alex is not far away. Before long, his vehicle appears. He climbs out. Takes one look. Joins the chin-scratching committee. My confidence begins to wobble. Alex smiles. We'll make a plan. Four of the most reassuring words in Africa. And, of course, they do.

A strip of leggin comes to the rescue. It is holding our jack and spade firmly to the Land Cruiser. Now it has a new job. Freed from its prior duty, it stretches out to a generous length. Almost two metres of recycled rubber ingenuity.

Kennedy and Alex get to work. No manual. No specialist tools. Just ingenuity and resolve. They loop the leggin around the broken cage and anchor it to the axle. They pull. They tighten. They knot. Slowly, the loose metal guard rises from the ground. Suspended. Secure. Ready for the road again.

Our next camp is not far away. In this part of the world, memories are short. Repairs are often permanent. At least until they aren't. That piece of leggin will probably stay exactly where it is, until the rubber finally gives up. Then the story will begin again. Another problem. Another plan. Another ingenious fix.

Cars in this Valley have a tough life. They arrive shiny and new. Full of promise. Ready for adventure. Or sometimes already carrying a few stories of their own. Second-hand. Well travelled. Preloved. Over and over again.

The roads are unforgiving. Tarmac roads are rarely smooth. Potholes appear without warning. Deep enough to swallow a wheel. Off the tarmac, the adventure continues. Sand. Gravel. Ruts. Ridges. Flood water. Dry riverbeds. Every journey is a test of patience. And suspension.

The bush massage is the affectionate name given to the rodeo that shakes you from your seat. When the road is not graded. Shaped by hippo and elephant footprints, in deep tenacious mud. The mud dries to a rough and pockmarked moonscape. Earth’s gravity pulls you down each rough corrugation. Shaking each joint on man and machine. Loosening. Wrecking. 

Our guides and camp staff need to know their vehicles. Not just how to drive them. How to listen to them. How to coax them home. There is no RAC. No AA. No standard rescue service whatsoever. When things go wrong, you make a plan.

And so we come to the second part of this week’s blog. It’s now Monday. A full-on day. An early start. A busy schedule in another bush camp. Everything runs like clockwork. Every member of staff is seen. Every blood pressure is checked. Every conversation is shared. The sun goes to bed and the moon turns back on. The camp manager says some magic words in our ears. We are given two treasured seats on Tuesday morning’s early game drive. A reward that hits the spot. Tired heads hit soft pillows. 

We drift off to sleep with the sounds of the bush in our ears. Hippos arguing in the river. An owl calling in the darkness. Then silence. The kind of silence that never really is. The night breathes. It speaks. A hyena laughs in the distance. A lion answers from somewhere beyond the trees.

We press the fast forward button and suddenly it’s Tuesday. I wake before the alarm. The lion sounds closer. Much closer. Perhaps he is already setting the agenda for our morning. Breakfast is served on the deck. The lion's roar now rolls through camp. Vibrating through the air. We eat quickly. No lingering today. We jump into the vehicle with Beth and our guides, Donald and Christopher.

We do not have to travel far. Less than five minutes from camp. There they are. A male and female lion. Walking with purpose down the road. The lioness moves with a certain confidence. Perhaps a little flirtatiously. The male follows. Completely captivated. They turn left. Disappear into the bush. But Donald is not perturbed. He knows this area. Knows these animals. HIs sixth sense guides the Cruiser.

We bounce and weave our way through the bush. A proper bush massage. Every joint rearranged. Then suddenly, there they are again. The love-struck pair. Settling down beneath the Combreton bushes and Mopani trees. The engine goes quiet. We wait.

The courtship begins. The male follows her everywhere. She seems unimpressed. She snarls. She moves away. He follows. They eventually settle just metres apart. Pretending to sleep. Both with one eye open. Watching. Waiting.

Our vehicle sits in the middle of this ancient dance. An invisible audience. For two hours we watch the ritual unfold. She approaches. He responds. She snarls and retreats. He follows. Again. And again.

Eventually, he gives up the chase. Perhaps tired. Perhaps wiser. She approaches with a low growl. He barely raises his head. She presses her face against his side. He ignores her. She sits in front of him. Patiently. Expectantly. Finally, he gives in. He rises. Moves towards her. And she runs away. The ultimate game of playing hard to get.

Donald smiles. This can continue for hours. Sometimes days. Eventually, they will choose each other. The decision has already been made. A handsome brute. A beautiful queen. A future generation of cubs waiting in the wings. The love story of the bush is written. It just takes patience. 3 days of courtship. 3 months in the oven. A magical blend of 38 chromosomes. Kittens to order.

This is all primetime viewing. We capture the love affair. Planning to peddle our footage to David Attenborough as soon as the celluloid is dry. Every time our coquettish lioness approaches, a ripple of anticipation runs through the vehicle. But the lovestruck lions remain unfazed. We simply do not exist. They have eyes only for each other. 

I speak too soon. The lioness circles the car. She strolls past my door. So close, that I might reach out and touch her. Instead, I look straight into her eyes. She looks back. Calm. Curious. Completely untroubled. For a fleeting moment, the rest of the world disappears. Then she turns away. Today, I am not on her menu. Today, love is.

Our voyeuristic patience is finally rewarded. Their first mating happens behind a small bush. Discreet, as mating should be. But the soundtrack leaves little to the imagination. Fifteen minutes later, it happens again. This time in the open. Right next to our vehicle. They are no longer bashful. Their relationship has reached a new level. 

Donald smiles. This is only the beginning. Over the next three days, they will mate every ten or fifteen minutes. A remarkable ritual. Sweet music. Repeated again. And again. Until genes entangle. The beginning of a new generation.

We have seen enough. More than enough. The videos are safely in the can. Keith's phone grumbles that it can take no more. Full to the brim with precious memories. It’s time for a graceful retreat. To let lions make more lions. Without offending the censors. 

Donald turns the key. The starter motor complains briefly. But the engine refuses to catch. Another turn. A weaker effort this time. Then a third. Click. Click. Silence. We are going nowhere. Keith’s phone is not the only weak link here. Our battery is dead. We might be next.

Donald turns to us with a grin. Shall we watch a little longer? We readily agree.

While the lions continue their affair, Donald and Christopher put their heads together. A quiet conversation. Working out a plan. A plan has to be better than plan A. Plan A involves a push start. Requiring brave, but possibly sacrificial, lambs. Stepping out of our Cruiser in front of a honeymooning couple could be unwise.

Fortunately, we are not totally alone. One other vehicle shares our sighting. Friday is at the helm of the other game viewer. Friday’s guests are equally awestruck by the moment. Mute and respectful of our predicament. Donald and Friday exchange a few words. In Nyanja. Knowing looks. Donald and Friday begin to flirt. A courtship of sorts.

Friday turns his ignition key. His engine bursts into life. A gentle roar. Donald signals that he will accept Friday’s approach. Their dance begins. Friday eases his vehicle behind ours. Inch by inch. Until the two bumpers are gently touching. Intimate contact is established. Donald’s eyes meet Friday’s eyes, Second gear. Handbrake off. Clutch down. We have barely five metres in front of us before thick bush. There will be no second chance. Friday revs his engine. Then comes the shove.

Our Land Cruiser lurches forward. Donald lifts the clutch. The engine coughs. Splutters. Then roars into life. A moment of ecstasy for everyone. Our roar startles the lions post coital reverie. They spring up. Staring in our direction. For the first time all morning, we seem to have interrupted their plans, rather than the other way round.

Friday peels away. Donald gently reverses. Taking great care not to stall. Not now. The whole rescue has taken less than a minute. No fuss. No drama. No leggin. Just experience. Calm heads. And another plan that worked first time.

We leave the lions to their honeymoon. And head off in search of our next adventure. A short coffee break in front of chuntering hippos. This time Donald leaves the engine running. 

Bush cam photo of the week: I have no idea what spooked these impala. But pronking impala = a predator. I suspect a leopard

Tying on the leggin after much chin scratching

A moment of utter fear as our eyes met. She was that close

Pacing around our car as she teased her chosen one