We went to Gonarezhou recently – well, I’ve posted the pics. Certain I will get stuck in the sand, dear trusting husband decides he had better take a shovel.
Our car is always absolutely chokka’s when we head out. We have a roof top tent, all our tools, khatunda, survey equipment. So a foshola is not the easiest thing to carry. But since, when I get stuck, he has to dig, I shrug and think….whatever.
Well of course I didn’t get stuck – I drive too well for that. I proved it reversing away from the mummy ellie in Gonarezhou. I did wipe out the ABS sensor to the rear brake, but I was chuffed with that cos I could drive on the dirt roads like I used to…
Anyway, since I didn’t get stuck and we had lugged the stupid shovel he decides he is going to dig a hole. For water. Why, I ask, when we can just go to the crossing and collect a bucket. No, he wants a bath.
He then stomps off (my emphasis) across the sand in front of our camp, to find a place to dig.
But, you know, its not that easy to dig in the sand, it keeps collapsing and there is no elbow room to get a good swing in. Then…its really hard to get out. But hey, I’m supportive….I stand and make conversation and don’t laugh as he struggles out of his hole..I don’t even mention the water isn’t clean, I kindly assume it will settle???.
Do you know, one night a hippo walked across the sand (we saw her footprints through the binoculars from on top of the opposite cliff the following day) she took a detour off her path about 50m away, obviously decided we hadn’t dug her a deep enough hole, collapsed a whole lot more sand into it and wandered back to her pathway.
Now the reason I am waffling away is to describe what happened the last evening we spent at the park….We had arrived back from a long hot day and successfully drove off a load of South African’s who preferred our campsite…
Hubby stomps off across the sand, acting all brave – like he can carry a 20l bucket all on his own…and I (silently) admit I could do with a bath…so I follow him. I hate walking in the sand – it reminds me of when I was fat – that’s exactly how I walked when I was fat.
…and the bloody baboons come into our camp, pulled the box with our fruit in it out of the back. They nonchalantly gooi the fancy gas stove to one side and the screams began. Half way across the sand, I realise what is happening and try to run back. (That feels even worse than walking in the sand..) I see a heap of squirming bodies, screaming, yelling, some running off carrying booty, munching it, their table manners disgusting. Several are on the roof, the bonnet, the tent. The big male tries to control the situation, he clouts a couple of the kids, but it doesn’t help, its mayhem. They find the little tupperwares, break them open, they pick out the tins and slobber all over them, unable to work the openers. They took my coffee, ripped it open and decided it tasted shit. So they just dumped it all out. They tore the tea bags – and slobbered all over them too. The campers next door watched with interest as I finally struggled up to the camp, holding a stone and log. The baboons retreated to within shouting distance, hoping I may turn back to fetch water.
What a mess. Standing in the middle of it all I thought – just like a jambanja. Exactly what our office looked like when the ‘warvets’ trashed it, right down to the shit all over the place…