On my final morning in South Luangwa, I
joined another group for a final drive in the park. There are relatively few people in travelling
in Zambia—as compared to East Africa for example—simply as tourists, and our
car-load was no exception. There were
two British teachers on an exchange in Kabwe, an Australian partnered with an
NGO in Chipata, and two people working with the Zambian Carnivore Programme.
The ZCP folks were based at Liuwa
Plains, a vast open space dominated by wildebeest and lechwe in the far west of
Zambia, an area accessible only by pontoon or plane during the wet season. I knew some of their colleagues from Liuwa,
and so was able to hear more about the research that the organisation does, its
members based not only in Liuwa, but also in Kafue National Park and South
Luangwa itself. The researcher was based
in the ecology department at Montana State, and had been joined in her research
by her husband who works for the Wilderness Society. They remarked that as beautiful as Liuwa is,
it feels a bit isolated at times, and so they were keen to see another of
Zambia’s national parks.
We followed the tracks of the lions from
the night before, but never caught up with them. In a dried-out lagoons, bisected by one of
the deep, narrow trenches along which leopards hunt, we saw two young male
impalas, going at it hammer-and-tongs, the crashes as their horns beat and
locked together ringing out over the lagoon bed and up the banks into the
trees, sending word to predators that here were two animals who had let down
their normally-sharp guard, and might be particularly vulnerable.
We enjoyed some of the bird life in the
park (rollers, swallows, Bateleur eagles, a lovely lizard buzzard, some storks
and ibises among other things), and stopped for tea and biscuits on the bank of
one of the few lagoons still filled with water, now cut off from the main
river. Hippos sent short, sharp blasts
of water up into the air, and impala drank warily at the far bank, keeping a
weather eye out for crocodiles, of which there are many. Weaver-birds had made their nests at the near
bank, and we were able to watch a Jacana pick its careful way across the lily
pads below.
At such moments, the park feels
deceptively peaceful, and it is hard to reconcile it as the site of not only
the bursts of violence which come when a predator makes a kill or when an
animal is caught in one of the snares scattered by poachers (and taken out by
the South Luangwa Conservation Society if they can find them), but also of the
intense moral and political debates about park management that have echoed down
the years.
Perhaps understandably, no one who I
spoke to in the park wanted to talk to me about culling (although once they
discovered what I was doing, they were happy to sing the praises of the non-governmental
conservation sector). Like many other
national parks in colonial Africa, management in Luangwa pre-independence had
been characterised by a fairly defensive mentality, and poachers from
neighbouring communities, some of whom had formerly lived in the park, had been
pursued by the under-staffed and under-funded game department.
Partially as a result of this, elephant
populations rose precipitately during the 1960s, such that by the end of the
decade, a report was issued which decried the hands-off management policy of
the previous decade, pointing out the serious damage to habitat—and
consequently to other species—that the large populations of elephants were
doing. Culling did in fact take place,
and combined with a poaching surge in the next decade (which people in Luangwa
told me grew out of the legal cull), brought elephant populations first very
low, and now to healthier levels.
Tourism was also developed most
extensively in South Luangwa. Although
the Kafue National Park was the first of its kind in the colony, gazetted in
1950 and opened for its first season to tourists in 1953, tourism in Luangwa
came earlier, when in 1949 ranger Norman Carr worked with Chief Nsefu at the
eastern edge of what is now the park to open a camp to visitors, the monies
from which would accrue to the Native Treasury for the welfare of the
inhabitants who gave over some of their land to wildlife.
Today, like elsewhere in Africa,
poaching of rhino (totally extirpated in Zambia, but now reintroduced into
North Luangwa, where they roam under 24-hour guard) and elephant is on the
rise, driven by new markets in Southeast Asia and older ones in China. ZAWA, the country’s wildlife organisation,
struggles to reign in poaching, which has become steadily more militarised over
the years, mirroring the escalation on the part of wildlife services across
Africa.
As with all good things, my musings had
to draw to a close, and after a lazy afternoon on the banks of the Luangwa—a
safe distance from the crocodile-patrolled waters of course—I joined a health sector
consultant based in Lusaka and her parents who were visiting from D.C. in
leaving Flatdogs camp—a veritable paradise—and boarding a van to the airport. On Friday, the roads had been full of school
children, those from the primary schools heading home, the older kids on their
lunch break. Today being Sunday, they
were emptier, although Harold, at the wheel, honked at an elderly man labouring
along on a bicycle, who he said was his dad (I hope he doesn’t ever give him a
heart-attack). Once at Mfuwe, we checked
in sans formalities (I’d lost my ticket, but nobody asked for id and the ‘boarding
passes’ were laminated cards that had neither names, codes, nor seat numbers),
twelve of us wandered out onto the tarmac as dusk set in and boarded the plane
for the flight back.
A fire was burning at the edge of the runway,
and scores of baboons and hundreds of guinea fowl scattered to the edge of the
tarmac as the plane built up speed for take-off. And then moments later we were flying up over
the countryside, which between the failing light, the dust, and smoke, looked
largely featureless from the air. The
course of the Luangwa was the only distinguishable geographical feature. As it grew darker, however, it looked like
Zambia was aflame. Hundreds of
fires—most of them presumably in aid of clearing fields—burnt across the now
completely dark landscape. Some of them
were mere specks, others formed circles, burning inwards, and others were
drawn-out lines, bulging slightly at the centre as they raced across the
kindling-dry countryside.
The country was otherwise completely
dark, a testament to the difficult conditions in which many rural dwellers
live, but also to the vastness of Zambia and its comparatively small population
(around 14 million people in an area larger than Texas) which is heavily concentrated
in Lusaka and the industrialised Copperbelt north of the capital. By night, the burning countryside resembled
an inverse of the previous night’s constellations, as the flames licked away,
in rings, lines, specks, and swathes, at the bush.
And then, quite suddenly, we were at the
edge of Lusaka. I’d never flown into or
out of Lusaka at night before. By day,
the city feels comparatively small and quiet, but by night, even allowing for
the many compounds, where the lights go out with the electricity at night for
their tens of thousands of citizens, Lusaka looked enormous. And just a little bit beautiful, too. There’s something special about flying over a
city—my city, or at least a city
where I’ve had the fortune to spend 4-5 of the last 15 months—at night. There’s a little thrill that comes with
realising that you can trace its contours, identify the main roads, place
landmarks, and thinks of the memories associated with the bucolic boulevards,
the busy markets, the bustling highways, the wind-blown byways, and the kindnesses
of friends and strangers who populate those places. And there is some sadness, if the mind
wanders to an all-too-quickly approaching departure.
But then we were touching down, climbing
out of the plane, crossing the runway, bidding fellow travellers farewell, and
heading into town, myself with James, Lusaka’s best cab-driver who, as we made
our way into the city which seemed much darker on the ground than it had from
the air, recounted some of his memories of the late-colonial era and shared
some of his worries and hopes about Zambia in the twenty-first century, as development
threatens to be overshadowed by neo-colonialism; as a resurgent democracy hits
some rough patches, pitching and rolling but never capsizing; and as Zambians—like
people everywhere—work to puzzle out what kind of a country they want to
inhabit, how to render that dream real, and whether visions on offer are best
met by the promises that drift over prevailing political winds.