Driving around in the North

This weekend ended up being a memorable one, for many reasons, but primarily due to my well-documented habit of driving like a complete prick. Let me start from the beginning.

I have a very cool Danish friend here called Katja who I play football with, and she has some friends from Denmark visiting her (Anders and Celia). They had decided to hire a big 4x4 for the weekend, and invited me with them on a road trip to the northern parts of Zambia – right on the border with Congo. We set out Friday night for Mkushi, a small and completely unremarkable town about four hours from Lusaka.

Late Friday night, as the sun was setting, we made it to the Sweetwater guesthouse, which turned out to be less like the beautiful, rustic farm-based idyll we were expecting, and more like a fucking random bug/lizard/retard breeding ground in the middle of nowhere. But still, we had plenty of beer, red wine and playing cards, and we spent the night playing Texas Hold ‘em and gazing drunkenly at the stars.

The next morning, after about three hours of sleep, we woke early to drive further into the wilderness, specifically to find Mulembo falls, a small waterfall which no one had any decent directions too. Still, we decided that we didn’t need directions, or a gps system, or a map, or local guides, and that we’d try and find it anyway. It took a while – many hours of cutting across farmland, driving through streams (we were worried that we might not make it through this stream [below] but our huge badass jeep made it through no problem) and asking for directions from villagers who didn’t speak any English (or often, didn’t speak at all).

But by midday, we had, despite our total lack of direction, made it to the falls, and they were beautiful. Remote, fresh, clear and totally unspoilt. We had a picnic, bathed a little, and felt very smug about exploring the ‘real’ Africa in a car bigger than most apartments in Hampstead. Riding on this wave of glory, I thought I would try my hand at driving us back to civilisation. I’ve never driven a 4x4 of course, but I’m a man, and I have cool aviators, and if that doesn’t qualify you to drive through the African bush, then nothing does.

I pushed Anders aside and took the driving seat, and with no hesitation made my way up the hillside, dodging trees and cruising across wet dirt tracks. The wheels were occasionally spinning in the mud as we went through wet patches, so just as we were reaching a particularly wet dip in the road I decided to take a small detour off the side of the road. Sadly, but somehow inevitably, I drove into a bog full of the stickiest, wettest, shittiest mud you can imagine. The car stopped, and the more I accelerated, the more it dug itself into the mud. Within seconds, the wheels were buried, and the car had sunk so deep that I could barely open the driver door. Ten minutes after taking the wheel, many miles from the nearest tar road, I had managed to get our invincible 4x4 to grind to a halt. We were fucked.

We climbed out of the car, and tried putting tree branches underneath the wheels, which is what you are supposed to do so the car can get traction. But the wheels were so irrevocably buried that it was impossible to get anything under them, and every time we tried to reverse out of the bog the wheels would just spin themselves, and my self respect, deeper into shit. Before long someone from a local village passed us, and stopped to try and help. Within an hour, we had ten people on the case. Two hours in, with the situation ever worsening, we had twenty five men, woman and children from the nearest village working to get our car out of the mud.

This was a major operation. Every single one of us was covered in mud and dirt, doing everything we could think of to get ourselves out. Children were using their hands to scoop mud out of the wheel casing. Women were dragging stones to lay as a foundation so we could jack up the car. Men were up to their waists in mud, felling the surrounding trees and using them to build a bridge out of the bog. I was observing the effort carefully and heavily regretting wearing my new linen shirt.

More than three hours later, long after most of us had lost hope, we managed to reverse the car out of the bog on a solid platform of tree trunks. With a relief and elation that I can only describe as comparable to narrowly avoiding a James Blunt concert, we had escaped. I wish I had taken more photos of the event, but it seemed a little inappropriate to brandish my digital SLR and document the effort while the others were sweating to the core in the midday heat; so sadly I only have a couple of shots.

We gave the villagers all my money and the food we had in the car, which prompted hysterical excitement, to the point where they were willing to re-dump the car in the bog and dig it out several more times for free. I managed to convince them to refrain, and after getting a photo of the incredible people who saved me from certain death by the hands of the Danes, we left Mulembo falls forever. Needless to say, I wasn’t allowed to drive.

The rest of the weekend involved a trip to a larger waterfall – Kundalina, which was breathtaking, especially with the sun setting over it. We also visited Lake Lusiwasu, where we hung out with some kids who liked to fish. I tried to convince them to let me practice my new angling skills, but instead they largely looked at me with a sort of comic condescension. Or maybe it was admiration. I don’t really know.

It was a brilliant weekend; adventurous and beautiful in equal measure, with great company. The trips I’ve taken out of Lusaka have led to glorious, memorable Zambian experiences, and so I’m planning plenty more. As for my driving; I may have to relinquish it to the more experienced when visiting the bush. Or maybe my driving isn’t at fault, and all I need are cooler sunglasses? I’ll figure it out and let you know.