Kisswell and all the animals

Finn and Fredi invited us to their rival backpacker establishment, Jolly Boys for a vegan dinner one night.  I was eager to see Jolly Boys with its reputation for rowdiness, and we were to have guacamole and bean tortillas. It promised well.  In the event Jolly Boys was as serious and sober as our Fawlty Towers though a dash more stylish, with lovely African cushions everywhere and sunken conversation pit.  It was easy to imagine sprawling bodies and merriment going on in there and initially it seemed a very suitable place for us to take our bottles and glasses and toddler, because we thought he wouldn’t be able to get out and we’d be able to  carouse responsibly.  In fact the pit became a challenge to which Caiden quickly rose and we took it in turns to pursue him when he escaped, and to catch him when he made leaps from the edge on to the cushions below.  But in between all this we booked ourselves a trip into the national park for early next day.

It was dark when we met up before dawn to catch our minibus to the national park. “Holidays are not meant to be easy” said Eddy looking around our slightly hung over and chilly  group.  Then our fresh as a daisy leader arrived and greeted us. He had warm happy eyes and one black tooth.  He was all energy and announced in a rather childlike way. “My name is Kisswell” he said “Because I kiss very nicely”  He emanated joy in himself and did us all good.  Later he held a cranky Caiden who immediately shut up.  “My magic hands” he told us smiling.  

He was a good ranger and drove our big land rover along the pathways brushing against tough bushes.  We saw delicate little kutu first- deerlike creatures whose cutlets sometimes feature on menus in town.  Then there was a pair of warthogs, mother and child, The adult had two digging tusks and a tail that went perpendicular when she ran – absurd and charming with a tuft on top so the baby could see her.  We saw lots of impala, elegant and perfect in their groups with MacDonalds curved ems on their rumps.; two stripes on each side of the bum with the tail making the middle post.

The great Zambezi river was never far from us and monitors basked in he sun beside its racing current.  There were zebras, quintessential zoo animals and just what you’d expect.  Monkeys, we saw all over the place and they were  not at all what you’d expect.  Boundlessly impudent they invaded the jeep and stole the sugar bowl from us when we were having a cup of tea made by Kisswell.  One stood upright on his hind legs exposing a white tummy and, with his long arms and legs, looked a hair’s breadth away from being human - of perhaps a depraved type, but I only thought that after the sugar bowl incident.

There were bison too and they seemed heavy and tranquil but Kiswell told us they were very dangerous. “Look” he said and just began to open the jeep door.  One huge bull swung its head round and glowered at us with narrow eyes. 

We only saw one other vehicle in the park and Kisswell went over to talk to the driver.  We were stopped at the time and so I hailed the two passengers who were middle aged but dressed like boy scouts with knotted yellow kerchiefs round their necks.  They were from Bulgaria and a bit melancholy I thought.

Kisswell came back and said “Now you must not be afraid.  Some rangers are coming and they have guns but not for you.  They are protecting the white rhinos and they have agreed to show them to us.  We must go in single file and if we do that we will come back safely.“

Sure enough three rangers appeared out of the trees with machine guns slung over their shoulders.  They didn’t seem particularly relaxed but maybe that was because escorting tourists to the rhinos in return for tips was not in their job description.  Our diplomatic Kisswell had negotiated this for us.  We did as instructed and quietly went along in single file until we came quite close to a group of grazing white rhinos bearing their precious aphrodisiac horns under the watchful eyes of the rangers.  One was very pregnant with ten of her sixteen months now passed.

On our return journey we passed an opening in the trees with two rows of stone slabs side by side.  We were told it was an old graveyard for white men. I asked to stop and look as graveyards are always a bit special as indeed this one was.  Only some of the graves were identified and all their occupants were pathetically young.   I felt particularly sad for the anonymous slabs and wondered who those poor boys were – missionaries perhaps or fortune-seekers all prey to malaria and yellow fever.

We drove back to Livingstone nevertheless uplifted by all the animals and the determination to keep them safe.  I happened to be wearing my old Tasmanian Tiger tee shirt and I pointed to one of them on it and told the sad story of the thalacyne to Kisswell – how even as late as 1900 the strange creatures could be found in Tasmania but bounties for their pelts had led to their extinction.  Things are much better here, I said.”

“Yes” said Kisswell, “I love my job.”