It was a magnificent Easter Sunday morning when canoe guide Phil Longden led his party of German tourists into a channel skirting the great Zambezi River. Their trip had been a happy one, and the spectacles they had come in search of had filled their cameras. The view ahead was of more of the same. Waterbuck and impala grazed quietly on the rich green riverine grasses, while brilliant white egrets danced deftly at the feet of buffalo as their heavy hoofs unearthed well-stocked larders of insects. On their rumps, oxpeckers flitted nimbly from tick to tick. Unmistakable brown backs rippled the calm water as the hippo downriver grunted and chortled. On the sandbanks lay the crocodiles, languid but alert.
The guide was tall, dark, and handsome, with the physique of an Olympian. He was not new to these waters. Many times he had coursed the big river in his fiberglass shell, and the Zambezi ran in his veins. He loved the pungent sweat smell of the old buffalo—the dagga boys—that glared at him from their retirement homes on the islands. The scenic magnificence of the flood plain that lay at the feet of the rugged mountains forming the Zambezi escarpment was a source of constant wonder.
Relaxed, savoring the moment, he called the little flotilla together and organized a “leg-over,” whereby the occupants placed their feet in one another’s canoes, linking them parallel. Then they rested their paddles and sat back to relax and let the current take them slowly down.
But amidst the tranquility, disaster lurked. Unseen but nearby, a surprised hippo burst out of the adjacent reedbank and crashed into the water. The guide reacted immediately and shouted the order to disengage, man the canoes, and express themselves shoreward.
“Watch out!” he screamed as he kicked a canoe away from him.
But as he attempted to retrieve his foot, the gaping jaws, with massive and glistening white incisors, surged out of the water below him and snapped shut on his leg. With awesome brute strength and supported by two tons of muscle and bone, the attacking beast shook the limb like a dog mauling a bone; it tore into the flesh and crushed it. Longden struck out at his attacker with his paddle, but to no effect. He was pulled into the river and quickly dragged down.
The terrified entourage screamed and lashed out at the water with their paddles. The commotion seemed to have an effect, because the beast released its grip, and Longden, surfacing, was pulled aboard one of the canoes and hauled to shore. What was left of his lower leg was a bloody, lacerated mess, still connected to the top, but only tenuously. Bone was exposed; sinew and muscle visibly pulsated. Part of the leg had gone numb, but pain throbbed above the knee. Longden looked down at his wounds and knew that a few disastrous seconds had changed his life forever.
At that very moment, a party of five people was on its way from the capital city of Lusaka to a camp about a hundred miles downriver from where Phil Longden lay stricken. They were looking forward to their time on the river. The tragic events upstream were unknown to them.
* * * * *
The group consisted of Alistair Gellatly, Arthur and Fay Taylor, and Fay’s parents, Clive and Brenda Kelly, who were out from England. Both Alistair and Arthur were professional hunters that were taking time off to do what they loved most—chew the fat, drink beer, and fish the Zambezi. Both were hard men of the bush, well known in Zambia, although not always for the right reasons.
Arthur had recently been the subject of a full-blown board of inquiry looking into his reasons for shooting a cow elephant in what, he submitted, was defense of himself and his clients while on safari. When asked by a stern-faced, no-nonsense chairman why he had not fired a warning shot beforehand, he replied that he had—but that it had “landed between the eyes.” Arthur thought that should be good enough for a laugh, but there was no amusement among the board members seeking to relieve him of his license. “They had no sense of humor, those guys,” he stated.
Alistair was and remains one of the top professional hunters in Zambia, having been in the business since leaving school in Rhodesia. Possessed of almost unparalleled knowledge of the country, he has at some time or another covered almost every inch of Zambia. Outside of the hunting season, Alistair regularly turns his bush skills to antipoaching work in his capacity as an honorary ranger. Over the years he has made an outstanding contribution to conservation in that country.
Definitely his own man and reluctant to deviate from a chosen path, Alistair had a contentious side to him and a proclivity toward being controversial—particularly when under the sway of booze. When I worked with him after he came up from Zambia to Tanzania to join me in the Selous, I saw a rather humorous side to that quirk in his character.
Leaving Dar es Salaam upon a summer’s day, we found it too late to cross the pontoon at the Rufiji and were forced to camp the night by the side of the road. Finding a spot under some trees, we produced a bottle of whiskey, and banter around the fire followed. The discussion turned to hunting and, more specifically, which animals we most enjoyed going after. Alistair admittedly had had a few “strong ones,” but he took me by surprise when he launched into an impassioned defense of the spotted hyena. He insisted he would not hunt hyena—it was as simple as that. Even if the client were to demand it, he would have to refuse.
Taken aback, I had to wonder how he had developed such an affection for those—many would agree—less than lovely mammals. To boot, I was well aware that the Selous was overrun with the things, largely as a result of elephant poaching, which had triggered a population explosion (the number of carcasses strewn around providing plenty of food for them). He was emphatic. “They are too intelligent, too much like domestic dogs—and just too damn fascinating to shoot,” he opined.
“Well, I’m amazed, Alistair. Are you saying that if a client offered you a couple of grand you would refuse to shoot a damn hyena?”
“No doubt about it,” he insisted.
A little puzzled but amused I retired to bed, where I lay for some time wondering how this was all going to pan out when he saw the number of those voracious brutes in the reserve. Amongst other things, they were going to be a major problem in the matter of lion and leopard baits, with which, from experience, I well knew that they regularly interfered. But I thought it prudent to keep my own counsel.
The next day we arrived at our camp at Lake Utunge and got busy setting up camp. In the afternoon Alistair announced that he was going to remove the roof from his new pride and joy, his Toyota Land Cruiser.
This vehicle was probably Alistair’s most cherished possession, and he maintained her beautifully. That night we sat in the mess tent overlooking the lake and savored the view. Parked never far from his protective view was his Cruiser. After dinner and without further ado, we went to our respective tents and to bed.
After an uneventful night’s sleep, I was lying between the sheets, sipping my morning tea and enjoying being back in the bush, when I heard a scream.
“Ahhhhhh, Jeeezus!!”
Then there was a silence, followed by another outraged outburst. “Bastards! I can’t bloody believe this!!”
It was Alistair.
“Alistair, are you OK?” I shouted from my bed. Such was the anger in his voice that I was a little reluctant to go to the scene of the mystery disaster.
“No, I’m not OK. Those bastards have eaten my car!”
Eaten his car? I pondered awhile and struggled to get my mind around what he was talking about. Eaten his car? Now thoroughly intrigued, I leaped out of bed, pulled a towel around myself, and raced off to see what the commotion was about.
There I saw a very dejected former hyena lover looking at the front seat of his Cruiser—or, more accurately, looking at that area of the Cruiser where there had been a seat. What was left was some rather shiny looking coils of spring. The rest—the padding and leather covers—had been eaten by his friends. My mirth was such that I had considerable difficulty controlling my bladder, but the look I received from my friend brought me to my senses. I slunk off in silence and only when in the confines of my tent did I once again give vent to the hilarity of his predicament. Thereafter, mention to him of the word “hyena” triggered a nervous reaction manifested in facial contortions and twitches. He then went on a lone campaign of genocide against the hyena of the Selous, but no amount of bloodletting cured that twitch.
* * * * *
On Tuesday morning Alistair and the fishing party were aboard their powerboat, just up from the Mupata Gorge, in the middle of the river drifting for tigerfish. It was another perfect day: The sun shone brilliantly, not a human soul was in sight, elephant frolicked on the north bank, and to top it all, the fish were biting. Life could hardly have felt better. That was about to change.
Suddenly and without warning there was a sound like a thunder clap, and the boat’s prow exploded out of the water, sending all the occupants reeling off balance to the back of the boat. With the load in the boat shifted a second blow capsized it, and in seconds the occupants were in the water swimming for their lives. For some strange reason a lone hippo had decided that this boat, with its men and women, was unwelcome. The swimmers saw their assailant only briefly as it snorted contemptuously, submerged, and disappeared. There they were, slap in the middle of the river, at a point where crocodiles ruled. Every human’s worst nightmare was upon them. Worse still, Clive and Brenda Kelly could not swim.
Arthur and Fay grabbed hold of Brenda and swam for the nearest sand bar. Alistair and Clive managed to grab the trailing rope from the boat, which had settled in the water with its hull inverted. They climbed atop and found a semblance of temporary sanctuary. Meanwhile, Arthur, a powerful man and a strong swimmer, battled against the current toward a sandbank with Brenda hanging on for dear life. Fear drove him on, and, exhausted, they made it to the shallows and staggered to the center of the little island, as far as possible from deep water and danger.
Having recovered his breath, Arthur launched himself back into the river and swam to the boat. With Alistair in support they managed to get Clive to the sand bar. The time was around midday, and the sun was beating down. Their predicament was a desperate one. They could wait for help in the form of another boat, but they were in a remote stretch of river and there were no guarantees.
Alistair and Arthur knew that the floodgates at the Kariba Dam, two hundred miles to the west, dictated the river level. If those gates were opened, the river would rise and they would find themselves in deep water where they stood. Alistair decided that the best way to get help would be to swim to the bank and run to a nearby fishing camp, about five kilometres away. He was well aware that he was going for a swim that would probably cost him his life, but being a bachelor and without dependents, he was the obvious candidate. Arthur had a wife and family. Without further ado, Alistair dived into the river and swam for his life. Two hundred metres of water flowed between living and dying.
Alistair was a heavy smoker and a man who loved his beer. Fitness was not his game, but his legs and feet now pounded the water for all they were worth as he struggled to narrow the gap. Breathless, after what seemed a lifetime he touched Mother Earth and frantically tried to extricate himself, but the bank was too steep to climb. Fingers and nails clawed at the soil for purchase, but to no avail. He fell backward into the water, out of breath, his strength sapped.
Alistair then looked upriver and saw an inlet. Exhausted, he swam toward the opening and entered calm water, observing with relief that the water leveled out ahead and that land joined the river at a gentler gradient. He swam briskly through the mirrorlike calm.
It was deadly quiet around him. He started to relax, knowing that soon he would be on land and on his way to the camp for assistance. Then he lifted his head and looked into eyes from hell. Straight ahead and motionless lay every swimmer’s worst possible nightmare: the armor-plated head of the crocodile that had his number. A gentle ripple formed a small bow wave around its snout as the croc waited motionless, watching through leering green eyes as its quarry came closer. A little nearer and it would seize him and take him down into the dark depths to tear his body apart.
With nowhere to go, Alistair dived. In the same second the crocodile attacked, and the man’s body folded under the weight of the blows as it hammered him. Alistair kicked and punched at the crocodile in a furious panic in the dark beneath the surface. Somehow he managed to keep the teeth at bay, but the croc stayed close and circled him eagerly, looking for a limb to bite into. Then suddenly the attacker was gone, and a breathless swimmer surfaced, gasping for air.
For a brief moment there was quiet, but then it returned. His assailant was back with a vengeance, and Alistair felt the full length of the crocodile’s body thrust against his as it powered out of the water and snapped its jaws around his right arm at the elbow. Looking down briefly all he could see were jagged yellow teeth, now partially colored in blood, sunk into the flesh of his forearm. Down he went again, this time against his will, but he knew what was coming and made the only move that might save him. Understanding that the crocodile would now launch itself into a whirling, tail-driven spin and wrench the arm from its socket, literally tearing him limb from limb, he had to stay close and fasten himself to the beast. He quickly clasped his legs around the reptile’s torso just a second before it twisted, so that as the animal spun Alistair went with it. As long as he could hang on, the crocodile would not have the leverage to tear off his arm.
Then Alistair remembered that someone had suggested a finger in the eye in such a situation, so he plunged the thumb of his left hand into the eye socket and gouged for all he was worth. “I thought I had broken my bloody thumb off and left it in his head. The pain was incredible. It had absolutely no effect on him.”
Seconds away from death he made one last effort to save himself by jamming his free hand down through the gap in the jaws and clawing at the back of the throat, where he felt soft flesh. He ripped at it in a frantic final effort to gain release. Incredibly, his fingers reached the epiglottis and interfered with the flap of skin at the rear of the throat that acts as a valve. The intrusion allowed water to pour into the crocodile’s lungs, effectively drowning it. The crocodile spat him out, surfaced briefly, and then disappeared in a slow dive. Alistair lunged for the bank and staggered ashore before collapsing.
His right arm was severely mutilated, the elbow was dislocated, and the bones were shattered. Blood poured out of his wounds, and it was clear that he must staunch the flow or die. He also knew that his wounds contained deadly parasites, courtesy of the crocodile’s mouth and teeth. Moving to a shallow part of the river he tried to wash them as best he could, then ripped a strip off his shirt and secured a tourniquet to stem the bleeding. Too weak to walk, he looked for somewhere to lie down and wait. On his back his eyes took in the same blue sky, and like Phil Longden two days earlier, he felt the same pain, the same sadness, and the same loneliness as he considered his destiny.
Back in the water the rest of the party were deeply despondent, having neither seen nor heard from their companion. Now trapped and with little chance of being rescued before nightfall, their worst fears were becoming a horrible reality. The river was rising fast, and from covering their ankles it was now up to their knees. A near full moon loomed in the east, and Arthur well knew that come the night they would be fully exposed and easy meat for crocodiles. With no means of defense, a horrible death for all of them was almost inevitable. A forlorn gaze followed the sun as it slunk away over the mountains in the west, and he prepared himself for the worst.
Then Arthur spotted something almost impossibly blue in the water drifting toward him. Astonished, he tried to make sense of what it was, when to his unbridled joy he realized that it was a paddle. Throwing caution aside he raced into the deep water with reckless abandon and secured it. By a stroke of incredible good fortune, coincidence, divine intervention, call it what you will, Phil Longden’s paddle had made it all the way down a hundred miles of channels and sandbanks and arrived at the moment of greatest need. Arthur’s spirits soared. With a weapon in hand to stave off the attacks that would soon commence, they had a chance. The little party steeled itself.
Alistair, meanwhile, had made a fairly basic bed with leaves in amongst a pile of rocks and gathered together a bunch of stones with which to defend himself from predators. It was a feeble attempt, but all he could do. Lion, leopard, and hyena infested the area, and the sunset would see them emerge from their daytime hideouts to follow the hunting trail.
“I was scared. I knew how many hyena there were in the area, and I had left a serious blood trail. They weren’t going to have a problem finding me, and the thought of being ripped to pieces by the same animals that had eaten my car did not fill me with happiness.”
With the light fading, he made himself as comfortable as he could. A light breeze blew off the river, and the chill combined with the aftershock of his encounter made his body shake. With low spirits he flinched at the sound of the crack of twigs and knew immediately and instinctively that an approach was underway. It sounded like something large—an elephant or a hippo, perhaps.
Scanning the dense brush in the fast fading light, his eyes settled on the sight of a male buffalo looking at him fixedly—small black eyes, large sweeping horns. Whether or not the posture and look were of menace was unclear. Alistair’s breathing stopped and his heart pounded as the animal headed decisively toward him. Had it seen him, or was it accidentally on his course? More importantly, did it harbor aggressive intent? His worst fears became a reality as the buffalo broke into a run, heading straight for him.
“There was nothing I could do. I just waited for it to come onto me and nail me.” Resigned, he waited for the end. But then something almost miraculous occurred. The buffalo broke its charge only feet away, came to a complete halt, looked Alistair in the eye, put its nose in the air, and shook its huge head.
“I could not believe my eyes when he stopped just short of me and looked at me as if he knew I was in trouble and had come to see what the problem was. Then he turned and followed the blood spoor slowly back to the water, in effect following my tracks. He went to the water and stood motionless for a while, then ambled back and lay down nearby. I could not believe what I was witness to, but he appeared to be taking up a position from which to protect me. This for a man who made a living hunting big game—it made no sense.” The hunter had become the hunted, but now that the mighty had fallen, benevolence had come mysteriously into play.
As night fell Alistair heard the first whoops of approaching hyena, and the sound sent nervous shivers through his broken body. But he took heart from the sight of the great beast casually chewing its cud, contemptuous of all those out there that might threaten. Throughout the night they called and circled but kept their distance.
“I don’t know what would have happened if that buffalo had not stayed there, but his presence gave me strength.”
Meanwhile, the foursome in the river were battling the elements and the crocodiles. They stood only with difficulty as the current bore down on them. In the moonlight myriad eyes twinkled, every pair of which brought with them the threat of dismemberment and death. The silhouette of the lonely quartet was stark to see. After nightfall Arthur commenced beating the water with the paddle to frighten them, and his efforts were effective but tiring. Periodically he had to take a break, but his rests were short; the moment the lashing ceased the attackers renewed their assaults.
“I just beat the water like a madman, and when they came too close we all yelled like hell and caused a commotion to scare them off.”
Fortunately his powerful build, driven by fear, was up to the task. On at least two occasions he brought the paddle down mightily onto the heads of attacking crocodiles in a last ditch effort to stave them off. But they maintained their deadly vigil throughout the night, awaiting a more opportune moment that never arrived.
Shivering on the bank, Alistair lay curled up in a tight ball trying desperately to keep his senses so as to monitor his bleeding by regulating the pressure from the tourniquet. Cutting off the blood supply to his lower arm entirely would cause it to perish, but he could not allow it to flow unrestricted either; that would see him bleed to death. Roughly every thirty minutes he loosened the knot for a few seconds and then waited, but exhaustion at last overtook him and he lost consciousness. That might have spelled the end, but fate intervened once again—and from another unlikely source. Biting red ants, attracted to the blood, attacked him in their thousands, covering his body and invading his wounds. The pain of their onslaught brought his slumber to a painful end. He awoke to the agony of a thousand bites and lashed out at the offending insects, but the task was an impossible one. Although the pain was excruciating, it kept him conscious and allowed him the critical time to work on his tourniquet. This painful providence almost certainly saved his arm and probably his life.
The sound of the birds in the early morning cheered him. Soon it would be light, and he would have a chance of finding help. No sooner was the first blush of a red dawn upon him than the battle-scarred old buffalo brought itself slowly to its feet, stretched its legs, gave its stricken acquaintance a quick backward glance, and sauntered off. Alistair looked on and thought that, if he survived, no one would believe what had happened. He summoned up his remaining strength and staggered off downriver in search of help.
Across the river in Zimbabwe he could see figures, but they were distant, and he did not have the strength to shout. He tried to indicate his distress by holding up his blood-soaked arm, but they failed to understand. Later it turned out that they thought Alistair was a falconer and the makeshift bandages armlets for birds. Utterly frustrated and totally exhausted, he eventually collapsed and lay his tired and broken body down. There was nothing more to do but wait and hope.
His salvation came in the form of fishermen from the southern side of the river who spotted a hand waving feebly in the distance. They came immediately, carried him to their boat, and took him to Zimbabwe, to a bush airfield where there was a radio. An aircraft was called to evacuate him to the hospital in Harare.
“The noise of the aircraft engine was the best sound I ever heard. It had been more than twenty-four hours since the crocodile had ripped me up. I knew gangrene was a growing possibility and time was short.” But his problems were not over. After being placed comfortably in the aircraft he lay back and braced for takeoff—but it was not to be.
“When I heard the engine fire up, I sensed that all was not well. I couldn’t believe my bad luck when he told me that he had a mag drop and would not be able to take off. I wanted to scream with frustration, but it was no one’s fault. Another plane was called, and three hours later I was airborne.”
For Arthur and his family, salvation came with the blessed arrival of canoeists, who recovered the desperate party around midday. It had been almost exactly twenty-four hours since the time that they had capsized.
Phil Longden made it back to his base camp that night, and by good fortune there were two visiting doctors in attendance. Their best efforts, however, were not sufficient to stave off gangrene. In the morning he was flown to Harare, where his leg was removed above the knee.
Alistair made a remarkable recovery, and apart from severe scarring and an impairment to the dexterity of his right arm, he was ready to go hunting again nine months later.
Such is the Zambezi, a river that has brought much pleasure and excitement to so many. But the delights she offers sometimes come at a price.
