16 August 2021

Shoebill tracking on election day

It was an interesting drive to Bangwuelu. The gatekeeper is formal at first. He ushers us into his small office. I notice that there is a blanket and makeshift pillow crammed in on the sement floor, the pillow is a folded sail or canvas. He takes out a white mask with chinese brand name on it, and I ask if we should wear ours too. He says, if possible, yes. Apart from a desk there is a small empty book case and I note a toothbrush and a bar of soap on the bottom shelf. He writes with a hard grip, like someone who learned to write later in life. He starts smiling when he hears August's name. Fills in the two reciepts, identical, one for the conservation levy and one for the vehicle. On both he writes out three hundred and fourty kwacha in full, then writes his name beneath it and makes a calligraphic signature next to it. I wonder about his age and notice that there are small grey hairs in his eyebrows. He has a warm smile. While filling in our forms he tells us that the previous visitors were very happy and saw the shoebill. Happy in this instance means lucky. He hopes we will be happy also, and that we wil feel very welcome at bangwuelu and that we will experience all we expected. We pay a lot of money to be here, he says, gesturing to the bank notes on the table, so he hopes and prays we will be rewarded. After finishing and stapling together the two receipts, he stands cordially and walks us to the car. By now, our exchanging smiles have made him at ease and less formal. He sends us off warmly, saying we will be in his prayers tonight, and that God will bless our stay. After opening the gates, he comes back hesitantly. Mr Augustine, is there perhaps space for one person. And luggage. Yes we can offer someone a lift. Two ladies, one with a small baby, approaches from under a tree a few meters away. August and the elderly gatekeeper lift the big white bag of maize onto the back seat, and I shuffle around all our stuff, damp clothes, sweets packets, a coffee flask and two towels, to make space for the ladies. Finally on our way, the gatekeeper says through my window, these women don't know this grammar. But they will signal us when we reach the place they need to get off. Language can be a problem, I say-ask warmly. He once again blesses us earnestly, his eyes shining, his voice almost choking up. Thank you for assisting us in this way, he says.

The way to the village is long, about 35km of road heavily potholed and we average a mere 40km/h. The ladies are quiet, and apart from quickly looking back, crooning at the baby once and making eye contact with the adults, I dont attempt any conversation. Instead we turn the music up loudly, and hope the ride wont be too awkward. Its funny how your playlist sounds different when hearing it through someone else's ears. Almost an hour later, nearly missing the turn to the village, the women beat loudly on the centre console between the two front seats. We turn off towards another dirt road. In the nearby village the kids scream and wave excitedly at the vehicle, being used to foreigners. We wave back but I don't think the ladies do. One gets off earlier, her brown hand back falling in the dust as she climbs out with all her things. We say a brief goodbye with kids swamping the car, and the car wobbles further on the uneven road. The elder lady with the baby and the bag of maize sits patiently until we reach her place. There the car is immediately surrounded. A few youths help with the maize, and small kids ask for biscuits and sweets. One sprightly girl seems to have lipstick on, as well as a red blotch on her forehead. I wonder, strangely, if it is religious, since this is a Christian area. But I suspects its only from playing dress up, like little girls do. We wave our goodbyes and I catch the lady's eye as she dissapears between the other people.

We are close to the camp site now, and at another small settlement along the same road we stop uncertainly to look at a map, when a man with a blue shirt and only wearing a pair of boxers approaches the car. He seems embarrased but dignified, walking up to the passanger car window. Yes this is for the camping, he will meet us at the camp. My first impression is that he is less engaging than the gatekeeper, somewhat bothered by our presence. On the flat grassy plains we see his bicycle fom afar. He parks off to one side and stands waiting akwardly. When talking about the camp and the shoebill tracking, he is stiff and uninterested. I try and figure out why our interaction just an hour before seemed so easy compared to this gentleman. Perhaps it is because we decided to arrive just before election day, and presumably his day off.

This morning he isn't in a beter mood. Half past seven, after packing up the final coffee making things, we let him climbs with us in the car and we head into the endless stretch of flat yellow plains towards the river. A shallow wall appears in the nothingness before us, and August explains that this is built by the local fisherman to cordon off the fish. It resembles an empty rice paddy, or a small wall of china, or a chalky ridgeline in an english landscape. Later small huts appear on the flatness, abandoned makoros half filled with water, and other signs of human settlement. At one of these make shift villages we park the car, close now to the edge of the water. Our guide greets an elderly man and speaks to the gathering people in the local language. Curious children stand closer, and some mothers with babies on the hip. They children are quiet, not demanding sweets like those in the village. Instead their eyes follow us as we pack a few things for the trip and board the small, but larger than makoro size boat. It has seats and two men board with us to paddle the boat. I am secretly hoping this is where grumpy man leaves us, but he also boards the boats. 3 zambians to look for one bird, I think annoyed. I was hoping for more privacy.

Yet, as we glide through the papyrus and water lilies, morning sun baking off last nights cold, the freshness of green on the crystal clear water, I feel a deep sense of contentness. The grumpy guide starts pointing out birds, and I surmised that he acts as the bird guide, whereas the other two men only do the labour of pushing and navigating the boat, and also can't speak english. We see coucals (vleiloeries), large groups of egrets, weaver birds sitting on water lilies, and a harrier dark against the sky. It is perfectly tranquil and quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the poles being dipped in the water, the scraping when we enter a narrow passageway or the talking of fishermen or young boys poling other boats around us. Throughout, I feel increasingly calm, happy and content, being on the water, being here on this trip, being next to august in the beautiful narrative of the past few months.

At a narrow reed passage, too narrow even for the skilled boatman, we stop and the two boaters get off on the floating reed islands. Unsure, I look at the guide who is taking off his socks. He tells us to wait in the boat for a while the others scout ahead. But just as he says it, the younger of the two boatman swings down suddenly on his haunches, gesturing wildly. I hear a clapping sound, not sure if he made it himself. His arms are signalling to keep quiet, and all three the men crouch low to hide in the dense reeds. I know that he has seen the bird, and my heart is pounding. The guide whispers for us to take off our shoes and follow him onto the swampy islet. The wet mottled grass is cold and gives way under my soft feet, but we go only 3 or four 4 meters from the boat when he signals and we see the shoebill on our right hand side. He is truly majestic. He stands dead quiet, his strange yellow eye fixed on us and his beak downwards. I cannot believe that such a bird really exists. From where were standing we can only see his head above the reeds. He doesnt seem to be frightened of us, and the guids cautiously leads us a bit further back so we can see more of the beautiful creature. Through binoculars his large, unusual beak and eye becomes even more strange and unsettling, and I wonder what those who saw him for the first time must have thought. I admire the respect the guide and boatman has for the creature, maybe they were told by the conservationists not to disturb it, or maybe they had an innate admiration for it already. But everyone is dead quiet and almost reverent.

When we finished watching it for a few minutes, taking some pictures with my hopelessly inadequate lens, we sneak back to the boat. The guide, translating for the boatman, asks whether we would like to approach it from a different channel and try to get another view. Yes, if it is possible, August answers kindly. And we get to see the stately shoebird even closer the second time. Rustling his feathers irritably, as if to say, thay is enough thank you, or I will fly away and then you will really be 'disturbing' me. We submit, dutifully, and the oarsman start pushing the boat back through the dense weeds and grass. You are very lucky, the guide later tells us, and I dont think he's merely saying it. It is only 09:30 in the morning, we've only been looking for an hour and a half. I think he had a good day too.

After the boat trip the long, bumpy road back to the main road follows and then to our next destination. The guide, now looking pleased and smiling a bit more, asks for a lift back to the village. Everywhere people are in the streets and on the road. Some sit in groups, others are on bicicles and others are walking. Those eyeing the cruiser first look at us, then at the older man in the back and many smile at us. The further we drive, the more we are taken in by the feeling of festivity in the air, the more we laugh at the noisy kids yelling 'how are yoooou!' And the excitement of voting day. And the longer we drive the more the small rift between us and the grumpy guide seems to dissapear. This is my house, he later points and laughs. And he talks through the car window to people we pass on the road, and he speaks to the children who asks for sweets and laughs with us about it. Now and then he shouts through the window jovially in the local language, and the only word in the tumbling sentences we understand is 'vote! Vote!'. Some people we pass make fist symbols in the air, smiling, and some of the young guys gesture their hands like a salute in the air, 'forward!' Forward! Our host exclaims Forward! back at them, his eyes alive now and joyful.

Finally dropping him off at the polling station queue, with some curious eyes glancing at us, I am almost breathless from all the excitement and laughing. First the amazing shoebill, then the festive air of election expectation. Okay, okay, bye, bye, we greet each other. He is open and friendly now, and Im thankful that the ice has melted. We greet some more and wave, trying to be off before people crowd the car, or before we feel awkward and too out of place.

It is almost dusk before we reach our next camp site, and I'm exhaused by the mental excitement of the day and the physical strain of the jarring dirt road, the slow moving traffic later on the tar and the sudden swerving on the highway for unexpected potholes or oncoming trucks. It has been a long but unforgettable day. Just before we left Bangwuelu reserve, we met up with the friendly gatekeeper again. Mr August, he greets us. Madam. We saw the shoebill, we exclaimed, and we are very happy. Then I am very happy, because you have enjoyed your stay at our park. And I want to thank you once again for the great service you did me yesterday, when you were transporting those ladies. God richly, richly bless you. Because I have seen, that you are open to everybody. God bless your journey. God bless you.

And I know that he will.

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