Living On the Banks of the Wild Zambezi

By Mark MacColl

I consider myself to be one of the luckier people on the planet, having spent two years of my life as a professional safari guide, living, quite literally, on the banks of the wild Zambezi River. Four bouts of malaria and one rather nasty bout of typhoid couldn’t scare me from the wilds I now consider to be some of the most exquisite and primitive in the world.

Was I the consummate, quintessential safari guide I’d frequently pondered in moments of gratuitous self-reflection? I’d been enlightened by some of my dearest and most honest of friends that, at 5’10”, with a slightly protruding proboscis and extremely hairy legs, I didn’t quite fit the archetypal status of a safari guide. However, in my own demure defense, I was being compared to the legendary Dean McGregor; that Tarzanesque figure seen posturing so convincingly cool within the Madison cigarette advert of 90’s Zimbabwean cinema. Still, I took a certain pride in that I wasn’t living a life of luxury. I traded in the cozy accommodations many travelers enjoy when staying in Britannia hotel rooms or various bed and breakfasts, and called home one of the grass-thatched huts that are much more prevalent in Africa.

Dean, at the helm of his raft––blonde locks trailing behind, guiding his harem laden vessel of whimpering concubine through the white waters of Victoria Falls. It was said that the muscles in that man’s limbs intertwined like a pair of mating pythons. My arms were possibly not as ornate as Dean’s. But I digress. When all was said and done, my safari exploits and said uniform meant I did indeed fall under the umbrella of those beings who caused maidens to succumb to khaki fever––that transforming and trembling gaga eyed affectation, that many an adoring young lady suffered within the African bush, surrounded by wild quadrupeds and humble safari guides.

My view to the head of Chikwenya Camp was imbibed by the mountains of Zambia, and my playmates, apart from my lovely wife of course, were the amazing creatures of that area: the African Big Five and an assortment of smaller critters, the slender mongoose, honey badger, scorpion and black mamba. Our abode was located under the groping branches of a Natal Mahogany tree. The single room sat under a thatched grass ceiling, and opened itself to the sun with chicken wire windows. Alongside . . . the most delightful outdoor shower I’ve ever had the pleasure of using. Often shared with an elephant’s trunk for company, this shower was host to the great probing pachyderm, searching for the fresh water which fell over one’s shoulders.

It was the afternoon drives that interested me most. As camp manger I pocketed the boat keys, and as our last enthusiastic visitors ventured into the wilds around four, my wife and I leapt onto any available pontoon. Filled with the essential ingredients for any promising afternoon, our pontoon lay strewn with rods, tackle and that all important cooler, stuffed with bottled hops and yeast extract. One mustn’t forget that marvelous deterrent of malaria: gin and tonic. Not that there was much time for consumption—a float and wormed hook kept Alison endlessly busy probing for tilapia, while I scouted for the larger cruisers of the river: tiger fish.

A fast sinking, shooting head line, in tandem with an eight-weight rod, Clouser Minnow, 40lb. piano wire and extended leader, proved irresistible to many of these predators. July was a peak month for the tigers. During one particular dry winter’s afternoon, as a pride of lions gorged themselves on a bank side buffalo some 20 meters away, and a herd of elephants drank some 50 meters to their port, I hooked, secured and released a 5.2 kg tiger, the biggest I have caught to date. I lost a monster some weeks later, about some 3kg heavier I thought.

Although the dry sands of the Kalahari were not conducive to throwing a line of any description with the Queen, I nevertheless had a splendid time with her majesty. She went so far as to inform me that she enjoyed eating fish, even if catching them wasn’t her bag. She was most pleasant, and even questioned me in regards to my schooling. Lastly, I remember offering some photography advice to the Queen, as she pointed her lens towards a blue wildebeest, with her rather small Kodak Instamatic camera, typical of that era.

Paul Newman was without doubt one of the better known guests at Chikwenya. Near that time, he was involved in the making of ‘Road to Perdition’. Khaki fever was replaced by Newman fever, and an elderly female guest could scarcely believe her good fortune as she dined candlelight next to the film great.

Unlike the Queen, Paul had an affinity regarding the angling side of things. A beautifully calm, hazy, African afternoon, found he and I in search of some wild tigers on the Zambezi. I recall tricking a few on a Lefty’s Deceiver, while Paul managed three average size fish—not on fly, but rather on raw chicken fillets from camp.

However, it was the drive home from the flowing Zambezi which forever etched itself into my memory. Paul sat front passenger of the open topped Land Rover as I drove. He was barefoot, with his feet on the dashboard. As this blue eyed icon (and yes, they were as blue as the movies) sipped a bottle of Castle lager during our short trip back, I realized what precious little time I had and I piped up immediately.

“Paul,” I said, “Who is your favorite actress?” “That’s easy,” he replied. “It is, and always has been, my wife, Joanne Woodward!” “And your best friend?” I fished further. “Well that would be Robert,” he added without hesitation. “Uh, Redford?” “Obviously!” Then he thought a while and finally spoke. “I wasn’t ever that popular amongst the Hollywood crowd, you know?” “Oh really?” I asked. “Yes, you see, I had the wrong address. I lived slightly away from it all and that appeared to annoy some people, but frankly I wasn’t bothered by it.” “I’m sure you weren’t,” and I decided to leave it at that.

The next morning the Caravan turbo prop aircraft took off with the Newman entourage, we were left with a pair of his leather sandals. He said he didn’t need them anymore. When we left about a year later, we left behind lives that we loved.

Mark MacColl is Zimbabwean born where he spent 15 years as a professional Safari Guide. For the last eight years, he’s been living in Saudi Arabia teaching English with the British Council. He still returns to “Zim” to host walking safaris in Big 5 Game areas.