Revisiting Butch's Childhood - Zambia Part 1

Butch was born on December 12, 1949, in a small country hospital in Chingola, Zambia. Jan, his handsome dad, was a mine captain, and his gentle jazz-pianist mum was a devoted wife, a loving mother, and the belle of the ball.

After three daughters, Butch, the eldest son, was thoroughly spoilt, indulged, and mollycoddled by all and sundry. He is fond of saying he was “the favourite child.” He has since realised he was the fourth fiddle in a quintet.

A nurse, upon hearing his father enter the maternity ward, shushed the robust infant, wagging a finger before his bawling mouth and saying, “Shut up, Butch, we all know your father’s here”. The name stuck.

Bright as a button, argumentative and vocal, he was often called De Valera, after the fiery Irish political leader. Hmm.

Life on the Copper Belt was glorious, everything a boisterous, adventurous child could dream of. He had the freedom to explore uncharted territory on his bike, shoot birds with his pellet gun, and hunt and fish with his hero, his dad, a competitive rugby player who, because of World War II, missed the chance to wear the Green and Gold Springbok cap.

His idyllic childhood in Jock-of-the-Bushveld was filled with playful, caring sisters, fun-loving parents, a boisterous younger brother, and a motley gang of friends during a period of glorious peace in Northern Rhodesia. The sun shone every day, with never a dark cloud on his horizon. 

Shortly after turning ten, his parents returned to South Africa and explored other options, with stints in Durban, Stellenbosch, and Somerset West, before eventually settling and retiring in Worcester.

This happy, carefree family adapted to their new circumstances, but, as his father always said, “It was easy getting Butch out of the bush, but getting the bush out of Butch was impossible.” The yearning to return to the African bush has always been a seed, ready to sprout, in his heart. 

When we decided to embark on our African expedition, the first thing Butch said was, “I’d like to show you where I grew up, Maricha.”

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Well, here we are in Zambia. Things didn’t start on the right note or wheel, but we live in hope and never get discouraged because we control our attitudes and destinations. A good story needs a few disasters. When things are going too well, life gets boring.

Time was ticking on. We do not drive at night. Our mission was to find a camping spot. We spent the night in a Mopani forest at the King’s Highway campground. After a hot shower, a red, glowing sunset and a braai under the stars, the quiet peacefulness restored our faith, and we were ready to tackle our onward journey. This was the bush Butch remembered.

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The road deteriorated, while the landscape remained unchanged. Colourful homes, dry red earth, indigenous trees, subsistence farming dotted with pedestrians, bikes and the odd goat.

The TanZam highway had whittled away our reserves, and our energy levels were low. Our bodies needed a rest.

We swung off the main road and spent two nights at Kapishya Hot Springs and Campground.

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Just being able to turn off the busy main road was a relief. The roads were no better at times, but we didn't have to run a gauntlet of obstacles, traffic, and pedestrians. Freedom.

The words oasis, peace and comfort appealed to us. We looked forward to wallowing in the natural pool’s hot, gently bubbling waters, set within an exquisite tropical garden on the banks of the Mansha River, where local lads still fish for the day's catch. 

We let no time slip by and immediately jumped into our bathers, wallowing in the temperate, crystal-clear natural spring waters bubbling like a glass of Moët from the earth's depths. 

Lush subtropical gardens, trees, and ferns surrounded the river and bubbling pool like a protective blanket, filtering the very air around them. Nature filtered both the air and the pulsing water rising from the earth's depths.

We filled our days with domestic chores, cycled along the district roads, relaxed in the pool, and enjoyed a communal supper with other guests on our first evening. We stocked up on fresh vegetables, salads, and loin chops at Kisolanza Farm, which we were looking forward to.

Once again, we found the children begging aggressively, rubbing their thumbs and index fingers to indicate money. We found it upsetting and disturbing—such a pity. As I've said before, these gestures have turned communities into annoying beggars. 

The woody smoke of our fire and candles, checked linen, table napkins, and our little fold-up table with a bright African tablecloth under the stars created our favourite dining experience with different vistas. This time, the sounds of the river, the distant chatter of fellow campers, unfamiliar birds chirping, and the tymbal vibration of cicadas’ hum relaxed us. We never ran out of dinner conversation and enjoyed rehashing our days.

The Mexican-inspired supper at the lodge was a treat, and catching up on news from other guests brought us up to date on world affairs.

Mark, the estate owner, is an eccentric character and a lively raconteur who unreservedly recalled his childhood on the farm and the estate’s extraordinary history, and enlightened us about his beloved Zambia.

I was inspired by Chef’s use of local ingredients to create an authentic Mexican menu. Refried beans, guacamole, tomato and green pepper salsa, corn wraps and tacos, dishes liberally infused with garlic, ginger, and chilli; mint, parsley, basil and oregano from the garden, garnishing platters and plates. I scooped thick clotted cream liberally onto my chilli con carne.

For dessert, we were served mango ice cream and a colourful fruit platter featuring pineapple, bananas, pawpaw, and granadilla.

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A message from Isuzu confirmed that the truck carrying our precious steering part was on schedule, and that we could pop in as soon as we arrived in Lusaka.

Fate can throw a curveball and leave us in our tracks. It happened at four o’clock on our fourth day in Zambia. The horrific roads and horrendous potholes took their toll on our left rear wheel.

I had just started scrolling through possible camping options around Chitambo when a deafening gunshot brought us up short, and then the tyre-pressure monitor let out its blood-curdling screech. Butch calmly brought the truck to a stop on a level grassy shoulder.

The left rear tyre had shredded, and the rim was severely buckled, beyond repair.

Getting the wheel off, removing the bikes to reach the spare, jacking the truck, and replacing the wheel took time, and by the time we’d got it all back in place to move on, the sun had set. My little potting spade came to the rescue once again. The most unusual items, packed for emergencies, have often played pivotal roles when we needed them.

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Our only option was to throw caution to the wind and join several other trucks at the truck stop in Serenje for the night. We had no reason to panic, so we slept like the dead.

Interesting, irresistible stalls line the streets, roads and highways. We always stop, enjoying the interactions with stall owners and market keepers who often bombard us with their delicious wares. I am always anxious because I know I can’t support everyone, and I try to be as fair as possible, picking a few things from various baskets to spread our few Kwatcha around.

Buying airtime/data in foreign countries isn’t without complications. A vendor buys airtime/data on behalf of the relevant telephone number. Once that’s done, the vendor transfers the purchase to the appropriate SIM card. We buy large Wi-Fi bundles, which complicates things because the vendor must have sufficient funds in their “bank” to purchase the data. Unlike us, locals buy small bundles regularly.

There is often a delay before you receive an SMS confirming the purchase. Frustrating, to say the least. But it’s no use shooting the messenger or the system, is it?

Winter is the season for delicious, plump tangerine naartjies. These old-fashioned treasures, with thick, sweet skins and plump, juicy Naartjie segments, were impossible to ignore, and we'd stop every time we saw ladies selling them.

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Fringilla Farm Campsite was our next stop, where we caught up on laundry and had a “garage pie’ for lunch, a disappointing experience; the pie was cold, and the salad drooped uninvitingly on the plate.

But the farm's renowned butchery was our draw, and we filled our fridge with gorgeous steaks, beef mince, wors, chipolatas, biltong, chilli bites, and droë̈ wors.

The terrain was suitable for a cycle and an adventure ride to observe vultures that frequent a clearing on the farm. Perfect for photographing them.

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Fortunately, after a sleepless night at Fringilla, fretting about our wheels, Butch contacted Neville Liebenberg, the manufacturer of our bespoke rims in Germiston. Our photographs were enough for him to diagnose the issue, and he agreed that the rim was unsuitable and not up to the task.

Butch immediately ordered two new rims and one replacement tyre. By chance, Neville had two rims available for us, and once he’d sourced and fitted a new tyre, he promised he’d have it on a truck to Livingstone.

On this trip, we’ve met the most amazing people, and we’ve had the confidence to contact them whenever we’ve been in a fix. Once again, out came the telephone directory, and Butch called Braam, our friend in the trucking business, who immediately agreed to get our wheels to us in Livingstone.

Unfortunately, their company did not have a truck going there. Still, Braam could call on a friend who agreed.

Brett, Butch’s nephew, collected the new rims and one tyre, then delivered them, along with the new tyre monitoring system, to Ty at RDM Trucking Company in Kyalami. Our new wheels were loaded and on their way. David Schmidt coordinated the transaction, and Proudmore drove the truck.

This is a successful networking story and a testament to the power of goodwill and friendship. As a side note, the truck left Kyalami on Friday afternoon, and our goods were delivered in Livingstone two nights later, on Sunday evening at 18h00.

Proudmore was a star and WhatsApped Butch regularly to update him on his progress. Unfortunately, we did not meet Proudmore. A taxi driver took delivery of our consignment. We hope to meet up someday. That man needs a Bells with Butch.

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Instead of spending time in Lusaka, cooling our heels while waiting for parts, we took our time and spent two nights on a farm a few kilometres from Kabwe. The owners of Palm Farm, ex-South Africans, are lovely and provide good facilities, including hot showers and potable water to fill our tanks. For breakfast, they served us a delicious pawpaw from their fruit orchard. While I got on with chores, Butch could learn all about a farmer's life in Zambia. This campsite, a few kilometres off the main road, ticked all our boxes and was just what the doctor ordered.

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To avoid early-morning traffic into Lusaka, we decided to get up with the sparrows. The early-morning skylight transformed the industrial landscape. Towns with colourful, interesting names flashed by. We were driving through Kapiri Mposhi. At last, Lusaka winked. The outskirts came into view, and we headed straight to the Isuzu workshop to sort out maintenance issues, align the wheels, and install the new part on the steering column.

While the technicians attended to that, Butch and I needed to do some shopping at one of the city's many modern malls.

Butch took the opportunity to have the wheel alignment checked.

We were pleasantly surprised by this modern city that lives up to any first-world standard. Jimmy at Isuzu provided top-notch service. Our driver, Dallas, who ferried us to the malls, was very informative and knowledgeable about his exciting, cosmopolitan city and country.

A friend kindly let us stay in their lovely home on the outskirts of Lusaka while they were on assignment. Her husband is a documentary filmmaker, and she is a journalist. With a baby in tow, they lead an exciting, romantic life, with the wind and assignments taking them all over East Africa. Unfortunately, our paths and schedules didn’t cross, so we missed the visit.

We hailed a taxi to the local strip mall, where we joined other diners for pizza and beer. Nothing was going to stop Butch from tucking into his gourmet burger. The clientele was a cosmopolitan mix of expats, locals, foreign NGOs, and a liberal sprinkling of missionaries. It was good to hear French, German, Italian, English, and plenty of Nyanja (Chewa), the lingua franca of Lusaka.

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It was Friday, and we were eager to get out of the city to spend the weekend on the banks of the Kafue River at the ever-popular Roy’s Camp, adjacent to Kafue National Park. We couldn't wait to escape the city and enjoy the quiet of the country roads.

After a few hours, Butch noticed the left rear tyre was deflating.

We had to get to a wheel repair joint immediately. We were out of spare wheels. We’d left the damaged tyre by the roadside and dumped the rim at our campsite in Fringilla.

At the entrance to Mumbwa, we asked at the first fuel station about a tyre guy and were directed to a ramshackle hut beside a signpost near the traffic circle, where we met Sydney and his slightly inebriated sidekick.

The wheel was swiftly removed, and water was hosed onto the tyre and the rim. Bubbles formed on the rim. With his experienced eye, Sydney soon spotted a hairline crack and suggested using glue, but Butch didn’t take it seriously, given the truck’s weight and the wheel size.

“No way!” Butch said emphatically, insisting that some welding take place. Sydney agreed and recommended a chap who could braze the rim. Not really the answer, Butch thought, but if push came to shove, it might get us to Livingstone if the need arose.

These things all take time, and by the time we removed the wheel from the truck, we'd finished all the fiddling and examining and had reached a decision as the sun set. We decided to stay put and sleep where we were parked.

The following day, Sydney went off with a puncture, and by midday we were back on the road

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I needed a shower. I was hangry, hot and dusty, and our laundry bag was chock-full. I needed sunshine and a tub for a wash. At last, Roy’s Campsite’s road sign loomed.

Thinking back now, the first memory that comes flooding back to me is of the campsite manager. A delightful man whose friendly, warm smile lit up his face. He never passed me by without a catchy remark or a question about how we were.

The campsite is conveniently situated near the main road, making it a popular overnight stop for travellers to and from Lusaka, Mongu, and/or Kafue National Park.

Views onto the river were spectacular, with sunsets and sunrises a golden promise that things were okay. African fish eagles cried and called from ancient branches, and gnarled trees with arthritic roots curling into the river reminded me that things don’t change quickly here. That sense of permanence was reassuring.

Hippos grunted, yawned, wheezed and chuffed all day and at night; we were warned they could graze near us. It was wise to be aware of them. A fish eagle’s cry and a hippo’s groan are synonymous with an African river scene.

Butch and I set off on our bikes into the National Park, where the gatekeepers let us in with big smiles. In retrospect, I wonder whether they were hoping that would be the end of us. Fortunately, no lions got to us, but Tsetse flies bombarded us. Once they’d got their claws into us, they wouldn’t let go. No amount of swatting helped.

After a few kilometres of relentless stinging, we called it a day and returned to the truck with our books and binoculars.

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While sipping my coffee on Saturday afternoon, I noticed a vehicle pull in. They were seasoned Overlanders. I could see how expertly they set up their camp, and within a jiffy, their fire was blazing, the tailgate was open, the fridge pulled out, and I could hear the pop and fizz of ice-cold beers being opened.

Amongst a thousand stickers adorning the Land Cruiser was a Put Foot Rally sticker. Fascinated, I knew I’d have to venture over to say hi and find out all about their escapades.

This brave move went against my nature, but I realised I had to do what I needed to. Butch was napping, so I had to man up.

Meeting Hermie and Anneli was very fortuitous. They knew the area well, having visited Zambia before, and we picked up useful tips and recommendations.

Butch meandered over later with his sundowner. After hopelessly overstaying our welcome, we headed home to update our to-do and want lists, brimming with new ideas. Butch would order a new tyre-monitoring system, one he could access via an app on his phone and his Garmin GPS.

We promised we'd meet up again at Kasabushi. Since then, we've received regular traffic updates, accommodation recommendations, road reports, and help with various overlanding questions. Our network keeps expanding, and we appreciate everyone’s knowledgeable input and advice.

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The following day, Anneli told us she had a frightening few minutes with a hippo. Not realising she’d come between the mother and her calf, Hanneli, a keen photographer, was charged and dodged the charging cow, which was eager to protect her calf at the last second.

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As we travelled, Butch’s memory of a glorious childhood came flooding back, and whenever something was particularly funny or apt, he’d tell me all about it.

This quote epitomises my Mum's confidence. Butch said, “You know, somebody complimented me on my driving today. They left a brief note on the windscreen. It said ‘Parking Fine’.” ― Tommy Cooper.

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The one anecdote that made me laugh while we were driving again involved his Mum, who was driving their new 1958 pink-and-cream Pontiac Strato Chief. His dad, Jan, was driving their other vehicle and knew the road; he told Bets to drop down to second gear when she had to negotiate a steep decline. Nodding, she made it clear she understood and was confident in her driving.

And so it came to pass that they were on a particularly steep, winding decline. He had to warn her, he told them later. Butch’s dad passed the Pink Panther and, when he could, extended his right arm fully out the window and indicated with his index and middle fingers to slow down immediately and gear down to second.

"The next minute, Mom flew down the hill at full throttle, the sexy tyres with white sidewalls screaming around the S-bends as she careened past Dad and every other vehicle on the road. As she swept past him, the playful toot-toot and jolly wave did not amuse my father." Butch told me. 

Stopping in a hail of gravel and dust at the agreed picnic spot, the exasperated, anxious Jan marched up to Bets, who, entirely unfazed, was unpacking a delicious lunch of hard-boiled eggs, party frikkadels, sliced cold cuts, fresh bread, and a salad.

She hands her husband a mug of steaming, sweet, milky coffee poured from their Stanley flask. Accepting the gesture, Jan gruffly said, “I need a stiffer drink than this.”

When his breathing quietened, he enquired why she’d ignored his hand signal to gear down, resulting in dangerous and irresponsible driving.

“Oh,” she said, quite unperturbed, sharpening her pencil before flicking through her Woman And Home magazine in search of the crossword puzzle. “But that is the V-for-victory sign, Jan. I had been in 2nd gear the whole time!” 

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“The greatest part of a road trip isn’t arriving at your destination. It’s all the wild stuff that happens along the way.” – Emma Chase.

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