In sub-Saharan Africa there are few river systems as wild and wonderful as the Rufiji in southern Tanzania. To add to the natural excitement, it reeks of history. Before the coming of Christ, Greco-Roman merchant mariners launching from their ports in Egypt sailed the cool winter monsoon winds that blew toward the east coast of Africa. They called at “Rhapta,” a settlement in the Rufiji Delta, and collected cargoes of spice, incense, ivory, gum, gold, and, of course, humans, some of whom were destined to entertain and then die cruel deaths in the coliseums. Up this river the sultan, from his seat in Zanzibar, sent his surrogates to find slaves and ivory for transmission to Muscat and Oman. Those that came back laden with the white gold and black misery were rewarded with their freedom.
The murky waters of the Rufiji ran scarlet with the blood of savages killed in the Maji Maji uprising against colonial rule. The tribesmen believed that the bullets in the German Mausers would turn to water. They were wrong. Following some initial setbacks, the Germans recovered and wreaked savage vengeance upon those with the temerity to challenge their iron rule.
In World War I, German general von Lettow-Vorbeck created a legend here. Ridiculously outnumbered, with a few hundred Prussian officers and a brigade of loyal askaris, he fought the British and their allies to a standstill in a masterful guerrilla campaign, forcing Britain to commit more than a quarter-million troops to a theater that was of questionable strategic value. As a poignant reminder of this clash of arms, the banks of the river provide the final resting place for Sir Frederick Courteney Selous, explorer, hunter, naturalist, pioneer, and soldier, who fought his last battle there, falling to a bullet from a German sniper. Typical of the gallantry of the age, von Lettow-Vorbeck, devastated by the news, called an immediate truce to mourn the great man’s passing. Grieving that he would never get to meet Selous, he penned a letter of condolence to the man’s family.
Beyond, in the delta, lie the skeletal remains of what used to be the Koningsberg, a troublesome German man-of-war that blighted Allied shipping from her lair in the estuarine labyrinths at the mouth of the river. But for the determined efforts of the remarkable “Jungle Man,” Major Hannes Pretorius, she might never have been discovered. Braving the crocodiles, he swam at night to report her position to the British. Soon corvettes with shallow drafts left Portsmouth, crossed the Indian Ocean, and sailed up the river to blast the ship into her African grave.
Eighty years later, another remarkable white African studied the maps detailing the river’s course. Mike Rowbotham was scion of a blue-blooded martial family and related to King Edward III. His upbringing was typical of that of children of the landed gentry: He began his schooling at Holyrood School in Bognor Regis. Thereafter, he went to Cheltenham, breeding ground for men who would fight to the death for king and empire. The school was as good as its word and produced more recipients of the Victoria Cross than any other school in the British Isles. It was within those tough confines that the nickname “Paddlebum” (boater’s arse) appeared and stuck.
Europe was on fire and Hitler far from subdued when Mike left school. He reported for duty at the Brig of Don in Scotland, and his training ended with a posting as a private soldier in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. After a short stay, he entered an officer/cadet-training unit, emerging as a subaltern with a commission in the famed 51st Highland Division of the Gordon Highlanders: “The Jocks.” One of their claims to a special place in military history came with the routing of an Indian garrison that fled upon hearing that their attackers wore nothing under their kilts. Dreading the sight of “bare Scottish arses” they fled, and a great, albeit bloodless, victory was won.
But for Paddle, more serious stuff awaited. Sent across the Channel to a place in France called Goch, his first brush with danger came in the form of the U.S. Air Force, which bombed their position by mistake. Designated by Field Marshal Montgomery to lead the assault across the Rhine into Germany, the 51st saw some of the most intense close combat of the war, which resulted in the division’s suffering nearly a thousand casualties before the final German surrender. By that time they were on the outskirts of the naval base at Bremerhaven.
The war over, the “Gordons” were quickly dispatched to Tripoli to deal with an insurrection, and there the young Rowbotham first heard of the wild times to be had in East Africa. With hostilities over, the prospect of life in the sopping, gray climes of England left him colder than the wind in the shires. Leaving the army as a captain, he spurned a place at Cambridge, securing instead a berth on a liner bound for Mombasa. He turned his back on his homeland for good.
“Riding the train from Mombasa to Nairobi, I heard talk of the man-eating lions that had taken a liking to meat from India and had brought railway construction to a halt. I was overcome with excitement. I knew then that I would never live in England again,” Rowbotham remembers.
He found employment as a farm manager in Molo, west of the Rift Valley. It was not long after making the acquaintance of a PH by the name of Tony Henley that Mike took his leave and started an apprenticeship under the guidance of, amongst others, “Bullshit” Bonham, a great raconteur and reputedly the best swearer in the colony. The good times rolled. When not carousing within the rum confines of the Norfolk bar in Nairobi with Harry Selby, Robert Ruark, and sundry starlets on the “Happy Valley” set, he plied his trade with skill and panache. (The Happy Valley set included the small Nairobi elite of colonial playboys and aristocrats in the early twentieth century. Their hedonistic lifestyles were exposed during the infamous “White Mischief” trial.)
There were a few streets, dusty streets, one of which was Government Road. At one end there was the railway station and at the other, about a mile away, the Norfolk Hotel. The Happy Valley set ran horse races along this road, using Somali ponies as mounts. They would start from the station and finish at the hotel, where riders would regale themselves with drink at the end of a race. Thus Kenya Racing started.
They often spent weekends together at Malindi, a coastal village, the favorite hotel being Eden Rock. There was a club there, a one-room affair, but of character. The owner’s wife was June Carbury, the rather gin-soaked wife of Lord Errol, who was a leading member of the original Happy Valley “jet set.” Drunk or sober, she would never mention anything about the murder that became the book and film White Mischief.
The prime suspect in that murder was the beautiful but steely-faced Lady Delamere. June Carbury had been in the house at the time of the murder and was said to be the only person who knew the whole story. “Lady D,” as Delamere was known, was very handy with a pistol; her later lover, the amorous Peter Leth learnt this to his cost. When she tired of him she shot him, missing his heart by an inch or two. She then rang the police saying, Would they please come and collect a would-be suicide who was making a mess on her carpet? They did. Peter used to visit and stay with me in Rhodesia and would repeat the story over and again, probably because he felt he was far enough from Kenya to be out of range.
Another great character—she died, I think, in July 1987—was Lady Astor. She was the first woman ever to sit in the British Colonial Legislature. Her correct, full name was Lady Sidney Farrar, and she was a very competent farmer in her own right. She left Kenya after it achieved independence and died in Zimbabwe. Lady Astor hated Winston Churchill. It was Lady Astor who, in the House of Commons, said to him: “Mr. Churchill, if you were my husband, I should poison your tea.” Churchill’s famous reply: “Lady Astor, if you were my wife, I should drink it” has gone down in the history books.
Mike and his new acquaintances were having a fine time. Newly married, he preferred being a Nimrod over a Farmer Brown, and he left his farming interests to be watched over by his young but very capable wife while he continued to roam. The halcyon days of Kenya hunting were occasionally broken for him by spells on movie sets. These provided welcome relief from the rigors of big-game hunting, to say nothing of the access they provided to actresses struggling with the irrepressible effects of “khaki fever.”
But on one occasion a buffalo with an attitude problem flattened Mike, making a few new holes in some interesting places and leaving him less attractive to women and less attracted to hunting. In a story he wrote, he remembers the painful incident:
“It was cold, bitterly cold, as only those who live in upcountry equatorial Africa can understand. We had left camp in that dark and silent hour when all is still, before the doves start their calling. Africa pays homage to the new day. It is the hour when only lion dare grunt, before they find seclusion and lie up. We were hunting in Ikoma, a country to the west of the great Serengeti Plains, some one hundred thirty miles south of the equator—storybook country in the catchment area of Lake Victoria, where the falling rains start their long journey down the Nile to the Mediterranean.
“We had a long way to go to get to Fort Ikoma and beyond. Fort Ikoma, then in ruins, had been built by the Germans in the days of the Kaiser. We were motoring along the edge of the thick bush that screened the Grumeti River from the plains. Game was everywhere—zebra, Thomson gazelle, hartebeest, Grant gazelle, impala, topi, ostrich—all standing well out from the bush in case the lion had not settled for the day.
“Then in the half-light we saw them: three massive black shapes. There was no doubt as to what they were. Their heads were up, for although they were some five hundred yards away, they had heard us. But they were unable to get our wind, as the breeze was in our favor.
“I drove my hunting car straight into the bush to conceal our presence, got out, and glassed three of the biggest buffalo I had ever seen. My client, who must remain anonymous, already had a buffalo and an excellent bag, and he was not overeager. The buffalo on the right, however, was outstanding; it obviously would rank high in the Rowland Ward record book.
“Now hidden in the bush, there was time enough for me to tell the client what I had seen and to persuade him to grasp this opportunity, denied to so many. Reluctantly he agreed, although I could see that he was nervous. The plan was simple: We would move in such a manner as to ambush the buffalo when they came to the thick cover in which we now lay.
“As the sun rose, the buffalo started to move toward the river, and we positioned ourselves immediately in front of them. The buffalo were in no hurry, for we were now out of sight and out of mind. When they were some hundred yards away, I asked the client to hold out his hand. He was trembling. I anticipated the worst. The gunbearers (Maina, Kiprotich, and Kilbrono, with whom I had hunted for years) were squatting behind us, alert and fully understanding the situation. They were hoping that the client would shoot well, for they knew that he did not like me to back him up, and that such is the prerogative of clients. Nor did they relish the thought of following a wounded buffalo in bush thick enough to be a death trap.
“The buffalo came on, and when some fifty yards away I pointed to the big one and whispered, “Keep your shot, heart shot, low.” At forty yards I told him to fire. He lifted his rifle and took aim. Nothing happened. He was transfixed with fear. When the buffalo were some twenty-five yards off, again I whispered, “Shoot.”
“Whether the buffalo heard my whisper or noticed movement I do not know, but they broke into an immediate gallop and veered off to the right, presenting an easy side shoulder shot. A well-placed bullet would break bone and penetrate the heart, making sure of killing what many believe to be the most dangerous animal on earth. The first two buffalo crashed into the bush, at which time, finally, the client fired at the big one. I saw it falter but was unable to tell where it had been hit. I leapt forward and let fly from my double .470, in the hope that I might down the buffalo or at least draw blood that would make spooring the animal easier, had the client gut shot the beast.
“We heard the buffalo galloping down the game trails, through the thick, springy bush that grows so profusely on the banks of that river. Then there was total silence, apart from the mockery of the laughing doves that had been awakened by the noise.
“I told the client to come out of his hiding place, sit on a fallen tree trunk, and have a smoke. That would allow the wounded buffalo time to separate itself from the others and die if it were fatally hit.
“Whilst the client smoked, however, I discussed the situation with the gunbearers, and we all agreed that the buffalo was lightly wounded. It would probably take a full day of tedious tracking to get up to it. We were soon to learn that we were wrong in our assessment, which was unusual. Normally we can judge such situations with remarkable accuracy and act accordingly; we usually know what to expect.
“After a wait of some twenty minutes I asked the client if he wished to come with us after the wounded buffalo; professional hunters are obliged to do so, in terms of both law and sportsmanship. The client, who was not required to follow, said that he would come along, and he followed us into bush that was virtually impenetrable. Within yards, however, we found the first blood, and farther on the tracks separated, showing that the wounded buffalo had left the other two. Cautiously we pressed on, following the light blood spoor of a swiftly moving buffalo that had not paused in its flight to what we knew would be the thickest cover.
“About 10:00 A.M., several miles from the spot where the animal had been shot, we found ourselves in exceptionally heavy growth, squeezing and pressing ourselves between walls of dense bush. Suddenly Kiprotich, who was immediately in front of me and tracking, stopped. I knew that he had seen our quarry because he suddenly flattened himself against the wall of vegetation. I forced myself past him and saw the hindquarters of a buffalo lying some twelve feet away; no vital part was in sight, as its head, chest, and rib cage were hidden. There being no chance of placing a bullet in the heart and no chance of waiting for the buffalo to move, I crouched down and drove a solid into the animal’s hip joint, hoping to immobilize it.
“No such luck. The beast leapt to its feet, swung around to face me, and charged head up, grunting as it came. In a split second I stood and fired the remaining round in my double, hitting the animal in the right place when it was about three feet from the end of my rifle. Then holding the rifle across my face for protection, I saw all go utterly blank.
“I had hit the beast correctly with the second shot, but in its dying moments it charged on. The next I knew I was looking up as I lay paralyzed on my back, watching the buffalo’s feet stagger about above my face. Then I heard it collapse beside me, uttering that last groan that they make when dying.
“I could not move. The gunbearers carried me to the shade of a large tree, for the sun was now reaching its zenith. The client returned, viewed the carnage, and was somewhat at a loss as to what to do.
“We rested for some time in the shade until I could be helped to the hunting car, which had been brought up to the edge of the bush. As I rested, my gunbearers told me that I had been thrown high into the air when hit by the buffalo and that my rifle had been shattered on impact with the buffalo’s horns. I do not remember any of that but take their word, as the shattered rifle was witness to their account. In view of what had happened, my injuries were surprisingly light: two impacted vertebrae from my leaning forward to receive the blow, a cracked skull, and bad bruising, but at least I was alive. The head, skin, and front feet were taken from the animal and placed in the hunting car. They now presumably form part of the client’s collection of trophies. With great care, my men carried me to the vehicle and slowly drove to camp.
“God must take care even of those who don’t deserve it, for as luck would have it Tony Henley brought his safari into the area that same day. Crossing the river farther down he noticed my car tracks heading in the direction of the Mansura, where we were camped. Being an unwritten rule that an incoming professional hunter liaise with any other professional using the area at the time of his arrival, he duly came to camp, only to find me in bed and worse for wear.
“Luckily a charter had been arranged from Nairobi for the following day to bring photographic equipment to Tony’s English client. So early the next morning I was placed on several mattresses in the back of the five-ton safari truck and driven to the Seronera airstrip and flown to Nairobi. It was to be some two months before I was able to tackle my next buffalo, albeit with more respect than ever. It turned out that I had a broken back as well.”
Meanwhile war clouds loomed. Mike Rowbotham was on safari again—near the Crater with the DuPont family—when he received the alarming news that Jomo Kenyatta’s terrorists had completed their grisly sacrificial rites and stolen out of the forests in the Aberdare Mountains to launch horrifying attacks upon the innocents. The Mau Mau were about to write a bloody chapter in the colony’s history. Life in Kenya would never be the same.
The rebellion shattered the colonial dream, and blood flowed. London reacted militarily, but a newly discovered sense of colonial guilt sapped the British will to fight; a political retreat was ordered. Kenyatta became president, and the boot was firmly on the other foot. Rowbotham, less inclined to take the new dispensation in the spirit wished upon him by the British government, refused to be party to the prescribed policy of appeasement. At issue were the farms. London insisted that they be handed over to the new government. That didn’t happen.
Many rallied to Rowbotham’s cause, and after an official visit to London in behalf of soon-to-be-dispossessed white farmers, he and three of his coconspirators (one of whom had taken to naming his animals after newly appointed heads of government) were booted out the country. Mike went south to sanctuary in Ian Smith’s Rhodesia, pleased to discover a more resilient people girding for the fight.
Rhodesia too would eventually fall to the forces of “African Liberation,” and Mike would find himself on his farm outside the Zimbabwe capital lusting for a return to East Africa. The urge proved irresistible. Enterprising operators in Zimbabwe had started commercial canoeing on the Zambezi, and he decided to tackle the wild waters of the Rufiji and do the same.
To open it up, the services of two men of differing backgrounds were solicited. Hannes Nel, a young, tough as teak Afrikaner, son of a farmer and born in Rhodesia, had lived a life in the outdoors. He rose instinctively to the challenge, paying little attention to the details or the dangers. The other, Nick Wilson, was an intrepid Englishman who had also forsaken his homeland for the sun and spaces of Africa. Making his way south by road through Egypt to Eritrea, and through Sudan into Kenya, he had landed in Tanzania. Rowbotham’s proposal sounded exciting, and he quickly joined the group.
Paddlebum, with a flippancy that comes easily to English eccentrics, fobbed off warnings from young hunters who knew something of the hazards of the river system. He dismissed with contempt a suggestion that an aerial reconnaissance would be prudent. He also ignored the small matter of rapids, which, depending on the level of water, might not be negotiable. He was told the rapids could be dangerous. Either way, they needed to be plotted and planned for. In addition, he dismissed those naysayers who suggested that the course they would follow would be packed with outrageously aggressive crocodiles and hippo, the riverbanks lined with mambas, cobras, adders, and vipers. And then there were the predators—lion, leopard, and hyena everywhere, and in liberal supply.
None of the potential problems received much consideration. Weapons, radios, first-aid kits, snake antivenin, flares, and the like were dismissed as “junk.” After several nights’ hard drinking in bars en route, the intrepid trio set out for the starting point, the bridge on the Great Ruaha River.
They arrived at the bridge, and Mike exited the car, immaculately attired as always. Sitting in his canvas chair, like a Caesar, he pointed vaguely to the east and ordered his crew forth to Utete, about one hundred eighty miles away. Their kit consisted of a canoe, two tatty sleeping bags, some tinned food and utensils in a wooden box, one machete, a couple of knives, some vegetables, cigarettes, and a camera.
“Find Selous’s grave,” Mike ordered, “some campsites, and do a reconnaissance. I expect a full report when I see you next.” That was it. Hannes asked politely to borrow his sponge, a treasured item used to clean his car. Mike glared at him. “Don’t bloody lose it!” he roared.
Paddle sat on his chair, studying the distance while watching his team load their meager possessions. He looked on solemnly as the current took them away.
“Don’t forget my sponge!” were his parting words. There were some interesting times ahead.
Barely out of Mike’s sight, shallow rapids buffeted Hannes and Nick. The character of the river changed hourly: Fast flowing in some places, it widened and slowed so much in the shallows as to allow the two to walk alongside and circumvent some of the rapids.
“I knew the Zambezi,” remembers Hannes. “Crocs were a problem there, but they avoided you. Not these things—not on the Ruaha. They saw the canoe and came straight at us. From the start we were beating them over the head to keep them at bay. It was terrifying. I’d never seen anything like it, but they had never seen a canoe before, had no fear of man, and wanted us dead. The hippo were as aggressive as the crocs, and there were hundreds of them; the females with young were a nightmare. We were scared and fearing for our lives from the beginning, but there was nowhere to run.
“I think it was day three that there was a steep drop in the river leading to manic rapids, but we found a quieter stream on the north side that had a waterfall enabling us to lower the canoe down without a problem. But there we found our path blocked by angry hippos. Not wanting to retrace our steps, we decided to go for them shouting and screaming, banging the side of the boat. At first they looked bewildered, but that quickly gave way to aggression. They came at us en masse. No doubt about it, an Olympic Gold would have been a cinch.”
Meanwhile, from the veranda of the Dar es Salaam Yacht Club, Mike studied the view. The sea seemed to change from blue to turquoise, and a light wind ruffled the bay, the ripples shimmering in the sunlight. The tiger prawns, grilled in lemon butter and garlic, washed down with a chilled Australian Chardonnay, were tip-top. Satiated, he moved back to the bar and launched a determined assault on a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. From his post there he was able to regale the other “soaks” with tales of yore. Hell in Africa! Maybe, but his men on the river were seeing it from a different perspective.
Nick relates: “One day a large croc came up from behind and nudged the boat. I looked around just in time to see it about to close its jaws on Hannes’s arms; he was looking the other way. I shouted and he drew his arm in, then I bashed the blighter on the nose with my oar. But it kept on coming, snapping at Hannes’s arm and biting the oar. Hannes kept belting it as hard as he could as I paddled like hell up front. Finally he got it a poke in the eye, and it gave up. We almost became inured to fear. There was no time when danger was distant.
“Day seven brought the roar and white water ahead, stretching into the distance. Closer, the spray in the sunlight made a pretty rainbow in the sky. Weighing it all up, we figured it would take two days’ work to portage everything down through rugged country. Hannes suggested that another option was to try to run them. We decided to toss the knife and let it decide. The knife said run them, and our canoe took off like a rocket through the foaming water.
“Hannes did a great job steering, and I was trying to bail out water faster than it was coming in. Then we hit what seemed a giant whirlpool, and our ship capsized. There was little point in hanging on, so I bailed out, surfaced, and shouted: ‘Hannes!’ He had the rope in his teeth but opened his mouth to reply—and the canoe was history. Now in the wash, we just had to go with the flow.
“I eventually made it to a pool where I could grab a rock and climb out. I had lost Hannes, but then I saw him come up behind me. We were happy to be alive, but alone against Africa with very little in the way of possessions, our future looked rather bleak. Hannes had a knife strapped to his calf and his shorts. I had a knife on my belt, shoes, and a shirt.
“From the north bank I caught sight of our wrecked canoe on its belly. To get to it would require braving the crocodiles. It looked like our kit was lost anyway, so we abandoned the idea. Later that afternoon, however, as we sat forlornly under a tree pondering an uncertain future, one of the sleeping rolls came drifting into view. It consisted of a canvas cover bound by webbing straps and brass buckles. Inside was a roll of foam, a blanket, and a mosquito net. An old Bic lighter that must have fallen out my pocket while asleep the previous night was also there. The flint worked, but it had no gas.
“Cheered by this small act of providence, we cut the bag up and fashioned two simple smocks, some foam-lined shoes for Hannes, and the rest into a backpack in which I placed the mosquito net. We fashioned what was left of the blue blanket into a large arrow of sorts and secured it to a piece of driftwood, in the hope that an aerial searcher would note our direction.
“With not a clue where we were, our only option was to start walking. It was tough going. Soon Hannes’s feet were lacerated by the sharp stones, but he staggered on, never complaining. Tsetse flies hammered us all day; God knows how many pints of blood the two of us contributed to their welfare. After a couple of days, when the stomach pains worsened, we rifled a bird’s nest of its eggs, and then, with the mosquito net, we caught a couple of fish. But it was slim pickings.
“The first two nights on the river weren’t bad, as we managed to make a fire by rubbing the old Bic to get it warm: It just managed to produce a flame. The third night it rained, the Bic didn’t work, and we were miserable. Freezing cold and in total darkness, we buried ourselves in the sand to try to keep warm and found ourselves attacked by sand fleas, and mosquitoes lay siege to any exposed skin. It was a night seemingly without end. Then a hippo charged. We leaped out of our sandpits, yelling, brandishing our knives, and turned it away at the last minute.
“On the fourth day we had our big meal. Walking alongside the edge of the river and looking down, I caught sight of a crocodile in a pool below. It wasn’t very big by their standards—about seven feet. The croc lay there, staring at us—just those mean eyes, peering out the water. We had only one thing in mind—food! Eat or die. The problem was how to catch the blighter?
“Hannes suggested that I distract it while he jump it from behind and stab it in the brain. I said I had a better idea: He distract it while I jump on its back and knife it. We argued awhile, then decided on Plan A.
Sun bronzed, blonde, blue eyed, and heavily muscled, Hannes pounced from the edge like some sort of Tarzan and landed on its back. With a mighty blow he buried his blade in the back of the beast’s head but must have missed the brain, because it went berserk, sending him flying into the pool. The water was churning and the croc was snapping and convulsing when I jumped in to help, and the two of us just kept slashing at it with our knives until eventually we stabbed it into submission. The water was red with blood, and the activity rendered us utterly exhausted. It had been literally kill or die.
“Lying there panting, Hannes said, ‘Do you think it’s dead yet, mate?’
“I said ‘I damn well hope so, or it’s going to be a lot of fun trying to skin it.’
“I was ready to eat the meat raw, but Hannes wanted to cook it. Frantic rubbing of the lighter, however, yielded no flame. Using elephant dung as a shroud I tried to get dried grass alight with the flint, but to no avail. In frustration I punched the dung with my fist, and it must have released some methane because when I gave the Bic a despairing flick a small blue flame lit up our lives. The tail cooked beautifully, and we had a great feed. There were many trips to the toilet after that meal, but, amazingly, the only thing I got sick of was Hannes’s sense of humor!
“The nights were long. Muscles ached, mosquitoes swarmed, and we were tired, cold, and uncomfortable. Sleep came, but the lions’ roar and the cackle of hyena rattled our nerves. Utterly defenseless and in pain, we found a strange nonchalance overwhelming us. Fate ruled and our mood was ‘what would be, would be.’ Then, on the morning of the sixth day, having just set out, I heard the thunder of hoofs. Looking to my right I saw a waterbuck heading straight for me, followed by a large male leopard. The leopard stopped in its tracks and glared at me. If it came for me, I knew I was toast. I stood looking into yellow eyes, my heart thumping against my ribs.
“Then Hannes came shuffling up behind, head down, oblivious, bedraggled, all tattered and torn. The leopard took one look at him and must have been a little offended because it shook its head and slunk away in disgust. That night a quick swim took us to an island refuge—it was our best night.
“Our morale was getting lower by the day, with still no idea where we were or how much longer we could last. Hannes was finding it harder and harder to walk. We tried to cheer each other along, but both knew we were in with a good chance of not making it.
“With spirits at an all-time low, we hooted with joy when pans came into view revealing our position close to Mbuyu Camp and salvation. The pans were crocodile and hippo infested, and we considered a long two-day walk around. Fatigue, however, was the pressing factor. Out came the trusty knife again for a toss, and it sent us diving into the water and swimming for our lives. Exhausted, we made it and hugged each other. It had been twelve days against pretty tough odds, and we were alive. It was a wonderful feeling.
“Some American tourists were the first to see us come stumbling into camp. What a sorry sight we were—half-dressed and covered in mud, welts, bites, sores, scratches, bruises, and blood, but still smiling. I felt like having just awakened from a bad dream. They asked us if our car had broken down. ‘No, we lost our canoe,’ we replied.
“A day or so later an aircraft took us back to Dar es Salaam. Thrilled, we scrubbed, ate and drank ourselves stupid, and were asleep in the middle of the afternoon in a room at the old Agip Motel when the door burst open and in walked Paddlebum.
“Sartorially splendid in double-breasted blazer and cravat, flushed from a boozy lunch at the club, he wore a strange look on his face—disdain, a mixture of anger that we had botched the operation, and some concern, as from the looks of us we’d obviously had a hard time. He sat down on the end of the bed and resumed the role of general.
“’Gentlemen,’ he ordered gruffly, ‘in your own time. Situation Report, if you please!’
“We recounted our story—shipwrecked, how we’d walked seminaked and starving for eight days across the Selous, braving every animal, insect, and reptile in creation that enjoys killing people, a fight to the death with a crocodile, and a close encounter with a leopard. Mike rose from the foot of the bed and stood, hands clasped behind his back, and looked down at us imperiously. His cheeks reddened, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, brow creased into a dark frown, and nostrils flared, as if a bad smell had wafted in. There was silence in the room as he drew a deep breath. We waited nervously.
“’And I suppose you lost my bloody sponge!’ he barked.”
