It was on one excursion to Zim-bah-bweh that I discovered I had been suffering from an ailment. I’d probably had it for a number of years by then, but it only really manifested itself after I had consumed more alcohol in a day than would normally be considered appropriate, even on an all-male fishing trip.
On this particular expedition we took the team to Binga on the western shores of Lake Kah-ree-bah, where we boarded the Abangane houseboat for a five-day fishing cruise on the lake. One of the regular members who accompanied us on this trip was a rugged, strong-willed Afrikaner with an amazing understanding of nature and rated among the top birders in the country, but a man whose bark was worse than his bite. For this story, I’ll call him Jan.
The Abangane is an eighteen-metre, twin-hulled boat, powered by two diesel engines. It tows three tender boats for the fishermen to launch and access the shallower waters along the banks of the lake. It accommodates twelve people, and on our trip was manned by a fabulous crew of four locals who provided for every need, including sailing, cooking, and making sure their guests actually caught some of the famed tiger and Kah-ree-bah bream without becoming feed for the multitude of crocodiles and hippo that populate the lakeshore.
The lower deck was primarily used to accommodate the crew and the kitchen, which was equipped with multiple freezers as well as a couple of fridges. This observation reminds me of another anecdote peculiar to Team Smelly Fingers. We were never, ever, absolutely never allowed to depart on an expedition without enough ice! When running through the check list immediately prior to departure on each of these trips, the collective wisdom of the team members was enunciated in unison by the rendition of the call for Ice, ice, ice.
On at least one occasion, two of the team left their passports at home and had to turn back at Bate-bridge to fetch them and join up with us a day later. But we never forgot the ice. It goes without saying that we also never forgot the beer, Bacardi, or whisky.
The spacious upper deck was an open area and largely covered. A circular bar containing an ice-making machine and bottle cooler was positioned towards the bow.
It was on this deck that we slept on mattresses under mosquito nets. The open sides of the deck allowed the free flow of air and a cool breeze that displaced the humidity provided welcome relief from the daily temperatures that reached as high as forty degrees.
It was a perfect setting for Team Smelly Fingers. Once all our equipment, food, liquor, rods and bait were stowed away, we set sail into the afternoon sun.
The first night out on our trips have always been the craziest. I have no idea why but the boys seem to let their hair down and let rip as if it was the last night of their lives. Caution is thrown to the wind. The whisky flows like the Zam-bay-zee in flood and most, if not all, inhibitions are cast aside.
By one o’clock in the morning only the most resilient among us were still standing and shortly thereafter the last man collapsed onto his mattress, and the houseboat fell silent. Or at least I thought it did.
The following morning, as the African sun peaked above the lake’s horizon, one by one the men slowly gathered themselves for the new day. Any signs of discomfort were well and truly hidden as it is the nature of the beast not to expose its weakness in the face of its herd. But notwithstanding, the evident difficulties that each of the men were quite obviously displaying attracted a degree of uncompromising ridicule from their comrades.
It took a while for the crowd to come to its senses around freshly brewed coffee at the bar. It took a good twenty minutes of good humour and loud interaction before someone noticed that Jan was missing.
Where is Jan? someone asked.
Somebody checked the bathrooms below while the rest looked about the decks, but Jan was nowhere to be found.
There he is! another shouted while pointing out to a bundle on top of a tender boat that, although tethered to the houseboat, was a good hundred metres out in the lake and surrounded by a bloat of hippos. There was a burst of laughter and loud calling across the water as two of our team ran down to the lower deck where the rope was tied to the railing and started to pull the tender boat in. Everyone gathered around as the dingy slowly made its way towards the houseboat. In the tender boat lay a small mound draped in a blue sleeping bag. Slowly, as the boat came closer, the mound stirred, and Jan emerged with a long stretch and a yawn before standing up to face his ‘rescuers’.
By this time, I had joined in the joviality, jeering, and laughter. We all wondered why on earth Jan would be sleeping on a tender boat way out in the lake among the hippos. The dingy finally came up alongside and Jan clambered out. Once on board, the team crowded around him wanting to know what had happened. I was at the back but he caught my eye. He pushed his way past the men around him and came directly up to me, all the time with a firm accusative look in his eyes.
He raised his hand and pointed his index finger straight at my nose and, when almost touching, declared in Afrikaans Jy moet a fucking dokter gaan sien! (You must go and see a fucking doctor!)
I laughed nervously, oblivious to the reason for this unexpected verbal assault. In response he said, again in Afrikaans, Nee, man. Ek’s erenstig. Jy moet a fucking dokter gaan sien! (No man. I’m serious. You must go and see a fucking doctor!) He then turned to the rest of the team and explained, In all my years, I have never heard anyone snore as loud and as much as this Engelsman!
In all my years, no one had ever told me that either!