28 Last days in Africa
I said goodbye to the Kalahari in mid-October, drove Molly to Cape Town, arranged to ship her, our pickled specimens, and our field gear to Houston, Texas. I then hitchhiked to Chobe National Park in northern Botswana (~ 2800 km), so I could re-visit David Simpson (Chapter 27). I spent (voluntarily) one night in the jail in the village of Zimbabwe as the only hotel in the small town was full. I was the only ‘inhabitant,’ but being locked up was strange.
David was an expert artist, biologist, and hunter (bow or rifle). And he was very British. His parents were colonials, having settled in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) after World War II. David ran away from home at some point and lived in an African village in what was later known as Zambia.
David was bush savvy, but his camping style was civilized. He had an African helper who would heat up buckets of water in late afternoon and fill a bathtub positioned on a bank high above the Chobe River. David would take a long soaking bath while watching elephants and game in the river below. This was not the way Larry and I had lived in the Kalahari.
David’s camp – which he built largely by himself – was impeccably neat and orderly. He had one large tent for himself, plus one for guests. He ate meals in an open rondavel, and his dining table had a table cloth, china, silverware, and linen napkins. He delimited a fixed area for his camp and kept the grounds neat and clean, but the camp was surrounded by raw bush. This was not the way Larry and I’d lived!
On the morning of my last day in Chobe, David asked whether I wanted to watch bushbuck with him or to take his boat and just go roaming and fishing. I chose the latter. Much as I liked time with David, I needed to be alone. I just motored around, smelling, listening, fishing, and engulfing as much of Africa as I could.
The next day I started hitchhiking to the Johannesburg Airport, but stopped briefly in Victoria Falls. Larry and I had been there in June, but I wanted to see those magnificent falls one more time.
I flew home on Thanksgiving Day 1970 on a PanAm flight that stopped in many African capitals between Johannesburg and New York City. It was a long flight, followed by a second one from NYC to Austin.
Leaving Joberg, the pilot welcomed us to the flight and said happy Thanksgiving Day to any Americans on board. He was obviously sad to be away from home on this holiday, and he proceeded to describe our national holiday to the non-American passengers. Then he announced that we’d have two special treats for this holiday. First, we’d have a turkey dinner (welcome news, as I wouldn’t have had turkey for almost two years). Second, he said he was radioing the Vic Falls airport, asking for permission to do a flyby.
He got that permission and told all of us to move to the windows on the left side of the plane. [Note: on this first leg of the flight, the plane was nearly empty but added passengers as whenever we stopped in capitals on our way north.] He dropped the jet down to perhaps 1,500 feet and circled the falls twice. I looked down at the falls and surrounding veld where I’d strolled just days before. I was leaving Africa – I couldn’t imagine a better way to leave. I was simultaneously sad but happy.
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