Once, after flying for 32 hours to Perth, Australia, I started out my year there with a faux pas, casually sliding into the back seat of an awaiting taxi cab. "Aw yeah, mate, Y'never sit in the back," A co-worker chided me when I mentioned it a few days later. "Australians, we're an egalitarian people. Sitting in the back is like you're better than them." I came to enjoy that norm, even on the days I didn't much feel like talking.
Here in Lusaka, Zambia, at the start of a two and half hour drive to the Zambezi river, I elected the front seat next to the driver who'd chauffeured me and my two colleagues around the city from focus group to focus group. It was Friday afternoon and he was donned in his church attire. He assured me that he spent most days when not driving there, supporting the church. We hit the road to the southeast as I relaxed, looking forward to a weekend away from straining to communicate across both cultural and lingual chasms.
We drove through side streets of the city, and as we went city blocks with numerous houses began to give way to homes with interspersed home farm plots. Eventually the houses dropped away almost completely and we hit the highway, a two lane road in better condition than most roads back in the US. The red soil under the dry flora was apparent, and we were moving. Michael, the driver, began talking, telling of the church and his work there. He talked of the village where his family was, where he hoped to make a tourist destination. I pictured myself joining forces with him, owning a stake in the lodge, and helping design the building to attract global travelers like myself. The idea of talking about it with him was exciting but I was safe in knowing that it was idle conversation and wouldn't actually happen.
Our conversation paused when we hit a police road block. Michael protested the bribe being requested, saying the money would be for his church. He was asked to leave the car. He assured me it wasn't an issue. Being powerless in the situation, I sat patiently as Land Cruisers and Prados passed by in the other direction piloted by white Southern Africans. After 5-10 minutes, he was back at the car and we set off again. He assured me it wasn't a problem and that all was sorted with a simple explanation.
Our conversation meandered through polite small talk with awkward pauses here and there. "What do you think of homosexuality?" was leveled my way, after one such pause. I stopped for a moment, and considered my potential responses. I landed on what I hoped was a clever 'out' from this cultural predicament figuring that I couldn't give my full Western support of a known African taboo. "Well, as the pope said recently, who am I to judge." The casual drive was no longer. A monologue repeated from uncounted fire and brimstone speeches from African evangelical preachers came pouring out. Homosexuality was an absolute sin. The bible spoke of the coming of the end, and it would be noted with two horns. Barack Obama and the Pope, these two leaders promoting and spreading homosexuality were these two such horns.
He drove on the monologue continuing and crescendoing. The turns of the road came quicker and the car veered over the midline here and there. Powerless to the momentum of the small sedan at the hands of someone studied at the art of fire and brimstone, I sat there willing no cars to come and the car to stay between the lines. The road continued to turn up and around bends for what seemed an eternity as I learned more about humanities pending judgement day - it seemed to be coming closing than I hoped.
Finally, as we left the rolling hills and the car eased down into the broad river valley the sermon too calmed. We took a left on a small dirt road in a ramshackle village and eventually reached the weekend lodge. I thanked Michael for the drive, and we exchanged plans for the return drive that Sunday. I entered the lodge open veranda and promptly ordered a beer.
* * *
I awoke Saturday in a relatively plush yurt despite the discount rate for the lodge. The rooms was similar to wall tent, with canvas covers, excepting it had actual wood framing and glass windows to look out over the river. The bedding was comfortable and bathroom surprisingly cozy. I felt at least in part that I was living out the fantasy of a voyager in the vein of Teddy Roosevelt, or Hemingway, enjoying the luxuries of travel abroad. I enjoyed a nice warm shower and rinsed off the excess of Mosi's from the night before popping two ibuprofen as a preventative for the likely coming of a worsening hangover.
The night before, as I walked to my room, a Hippo stood in the pathway 10 yards ahead of me. My head somewhat cloudy, I paused before turning back to the lodge. I ordered another beer, and the bartender grabbed a broom and headed out toward the path.
I pulled out my tackle. I had brought an 8wt rod, equipped with newly purchased warm water line, a heavy sink tip, and 4-5 sets of leader with 4 inches of hard wire tied to the end of each one with an Albright knot. I also had a mixture of flies, mostly clouser minnow patterns, or similarly looking flies set with stiff wire. Pictures I had seen on the internet, and at my local Seattle fly shop showed Tiger fish weighing 5-20lbs with large teeth both menacing and comical for their fit on the fish. While I knew my bargain-priced trip didn't guarantee anything, I definitely had aspirations of catching something that would necessitate the bite tippet.
After a short breakfast and coffee, and ordering lunch and some Mosi's for the boats cooler, myself, a young employee of the lodge, and the guide pushed off on a utilitarian metal skiff. Adem, young South African who had been working at the lodge was coming along both to join in on the fun, and to help communicate with the captain who spoke limited English. He packed a 4wt rod with a decidedly non-metallic tippet, and I started to wonder if he was out to push the extremes of his gear, or if I was significantly over-gunned. The guide, Musauso, was a Zambian man of approximately 35-40, who talked little, but had an deep, easy laugh when he did so.
We motored out across the river, flowing steadily between Zambia on the Northwest, and Zimbabwe to the Southeast. The sun was rising steadily, heating up the cool air against the water. As we cruised Adem and Musauso discussed the potential holes to explore. I enjoyed the scenery with high grasses set at the edge of the river. An African fish eagle soared downstream above us, providing what I hopped was a good omen for the day.
We hit the first spot of the day and Adam filled me in on the tactics. In the current high-water, we were fishing spots and tactics not too dissimilar to predatory trout. Find structure out against the banks, cast 60+ feet of line, let the lure sink 5 or so feet, then strip in line to excite any nearby fish. Standing up, I started working out the kinks of my casting, figuring out how best to cast the tip heavier than I was used to. In short time, I was locked in, barely aware I was half a world away, or even of the beautiful scenery.
* * *
The first bite came relatively quick. The hook set and the jittery feeling from the line revealed a fish racing around but with little weight with which to fight. I pulled it to the boat; a 6in, juvenile Tiger fish with teeth so small they were still translucent. It was however, my first Tiger fish, and we took a picture before releasing the fish to the water.
Later, Adem called out he was hooked on. His 4wt took a good bend and he started a fight with a more solid fish. He fought calmly and within a minute his catch was netted and brought up for a photo. A much more respectable fish, this was 12-14" and with more developed teeth. It was not the Tiger Fish of pricy lodge promo photos; But caught in quickly in the morning and fought with light fly tackle, Adem was pleased. I pushed on hoping for a continuing size increase as we continued.
We motored to a couple more spots casting like mad in the cloudy waters with no success. It was 11am, and it felt right, so I opened the first Mosi of the day. It was a nice feeling. We had a couple fish brought in, the weather was warm, and the scenery was beautiful. I sat back and took it all in while we chatted idly about the fish and Adem discussed the next holes to check out.
I finished my beer and we motored to the next spot. We started casting and on the 6th cast, a silver flash streaked toward my fly. Before I could move my arms I felt the tug on the line and I went for the set. It was on, and while it had some more heft than the last one, it was still a juvenile. I brought it in pretty quickly to avoid it speeding around too much. We took it in and brought my second Tiger fish to the boat at ~9in. I was content with this one, but was on to thinking of the next one. As we had hit noon, though, it was time for Adem to head back to work.
* * *
Musauso and I motored back out. The sun beat down on us as we motored back upstream. We passed an elephant carcass on a mid-river island. "Men come, they leave oranges with poison. After elephant die, they come back for tusk." We motored on. Elephants walked the riverside calmly eating the grass. Their majestic size reflected with the small birds resting on their backs. Further up, hippos rested in the shallows.
"There." Musauso gestured toward where I should start casting. I let out line and double hauled my cast out near the shore. We floated down the run while I casted along the shore. Nothing.
"Again." I pried the waters along the run as we gave it a second pass. Nothing.
We motored on to the next spot while I ate a sandwich.
"There. Rangers live there. One month ago, two were killed by poachers." Musauso laughed from the trouble translating both language and cultural awareness. I responded, and Musauso nodded, not understanding (or potentially understanding perfectly well). We continued on.
As the afternoon went on, my casting grew tired, and lazier. With the heat of the day upon us, I had figured the fish had retreated deeper and I was casting for practice at this point. I pondered the scenery but grew sluggish overall.
Musauso sensed the malaise, and suggested trolling. I agreed and sat back. He tied on some bait to an old spin rod and tossed it out the back of the boat. We drifted. I baked in the sun, thinking of the events and place around me, but in unorganized streams of thought. Nothing bit.
* * *
The sun was making it's downward path to the horizon and we had a couple hours before it set. I asked that we go check out some holes again and Musauso put us out toward a run he knew with some wood fall along the bank. I stood up again and prepared to cast. We began the gentle drift down again and false casted out my line to reach the bank. Three solid casts reached toward the bank. I let the line sink for 5 seconds, and began stripping in each time. A mix of short pulls on the line, pauses, and long tugs here and there to see what might excite a feeding fish. Nothing. A dozen or so more casts at another spot and the same.
We motored on to another. Mothers and children were along the bank on the Zambia side washing clothes and playing in the warm water. They briefly glanced at the boat but continued on with their activity.
We reached another spot and I set to casting again. Four casts, and nothing. Stripping in the 5th cast absently, a tug hit the line shocking me out of my reverie. I went to set the cast, but the line slipped from the trigger finger on the rod. I reached the back of my set and couldn't pull back far enough as the line went slack. I missed a good one, it's bite pulling much harder than the previous two. It likely wasn't promo material, but it would've made my picture for the trip home. I'd lost it.
I was amped up to keep trying but another pass at the run yielded nothing. Hitting a couple more spots left us blank as well. Our time was up and it was time to head back in.
As we motored we passed another herd of elephants. I was calmed by the beautiful grey bodies set against the wheaten grasses and red sky, the motion of the boat calling an end to the day, and warm food and cool beer waiting for me at the lodge.
"Four days ago," Musauso, pointing at a village we were passing along the way. "An elephant ran through. Two people died," his laugh deep and neutral against the calming light.
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