I sat down to wait for the level and intensity of the flow to drop, but to my dismay, the level rose. I decided I would risk crossing before it got any higher, so I stripped and holding my clothes in one hand and my rifle in the other, waded very cautiously across, with the water now up to my waist.
A more frightening occasion involving crossing a flooded river was when I was stuck the other side of the Mondi river in Belingwe communal area. Our only heavy vehicle driver was off sick and so I, who had recently obtained a heavy vehicle licence, offered to deliver a load of urgently required dip fluid to various dip tanks in the area. I had made my base camp at Mataga rest camp and had delivered my last load. It had been raining nearly all day and I had encountered some very difficult driving conditions. I arrived at the Mondi river at last light, and could actually see the rest camp in the distance. The river, however, was a rushing roaring torrent between me and my camp and there was no way I could have driven across, even in my big 1949 Bedford 5 tonner. So my district assistant and I, together with his wife whom he had asked should be picked up from her village to attend to domestic matters in Belingwe, waited, cold and damp and hungry by the river bank, occasionally switching the lights on to see if the river was dropping. All old timers will remember how, before the days of high level bridges, we used to wait at the flooded low level bridges, placing pebbles at the high water mark and waiting anxiously to see whether the level was rising or falling, and how fast. But in this case, the Mondi river simply remained at a constant level until about midnight when it started dropping very slightly. Eventually, cold and hunger got the the better of me and I advised my companions that it was time to risk crossing on foot. So, fully clothed (mixed company!) and hand in hand, the three of us stepped gingerly into the flood. The level stabilized about mid-chest and facing half into the stream, we managed to cross, the poor woman crying with fright. What a relief to walk into camp, dry out by the fire and get some food inside. A few hours sleep in a warm camp bed, and then over the river again in the morning to rescue my lorry and bring it back through the much reduced stream.
For some years I owned a 5 metre folding two seater canoe made of polished spruce frame and rubberized canvas skin. It was even fitted with a sail and we had many happy hours paddling and sailing in her. One night in Gwanda, seated with my wife at the cinema, in the local hotel on a Saturday night, a young trooper of the BSA Police found me and told me a tale of woe. He had been telephoned from Zezani mission way down in the Beitbridge district on the lower Umzingwani river. The story was that the lorry belonging to the African Development Fund, in attempting to cross the flooded river, had stalled and was stuck, with its crew, in the middle of the river, at least 100 metres away from either bank. The river was rising and a rescue by boat was all that seemed possible. The only portable boat the police could think of at the time was mine. I left Gwanda at about 8.30 p.m. complete with the canoe packed in it two canvas containers, a torch and about 100 metres of thin rope which I had managed to borrow and arrived at Zezani crossing three hours later.
By starlight I could dimly see a dark shape in the middle of the swirling black flood. I shouted "Are you alright?" and received a faint reply. "Hold on, I'm coming to get you". It took me and the policeman twenty minutes to assemble the boat by torchlight. We had to be very careful not to lose any of the brass butterfly nuts in the darkness. At last it was ready, and tying one end of the rope to the stern, we launched it into the unknown dark flood down which all sorts of dangerous floating objects, unseen in the darkness might have been tumbling. Getting into the narrow front seat and steadying myself I set forth, flailing my double ended paddle and aiming well upstream of the stranded lorry. It would have been very satisfying to record here that by strenuous effort I managed to reach the lorry and evacuate its crew in peril on the deep, but this is a true story and the moment my frail craft reached the main stream of the current it was snatched like a leaf and flung downstream. I called on my companions to pull me back to the bank, and we then carried the canoe much further upstream to have another go at beating the current. But it was useless and no matter how I paddled I could make no progress into the current. Back on shore we carried on a shouting dialogue with the crew, who assured us, much to our relief that the water was receding. We waited an hour or so, could see that there were no rain clouds to the north and hailed farewell to the lorry driver, telling him to wait on his perch with his men and not to attempt to get to the bank until it was quite safe. This they did about 9 a.m. the next morning so I was told.
My favourite river was the Shashi which forms the boundary between Zimbabwe and Botswana. It was very wild and had very few human settlements nearby, but it has now been tamed and feeds various irrigation schemes and other settlements. When I knew it, in the mid-fifties, the only point of civilization was the Tuli police camp. One of the tributaries of the Shashi which flows from Botswana and through the Tuli circle is the Semlala river. Tony Hunt and I were camped on the north bank of the Shashi one day, opposite the Semlala which was a good fishing spot. That night is was full moon and we decided rather foolishly I suppose, to take a night stroll over the Shashi and to the Semlala. We took a torch and a rifle just in case. The effect of the moonlight on the broad golden sand through which wandered little streams of water was magical. The riverine forest on the banks was pitch black and the moon turned the Shashi sand into a wide silver highway. We were walking along the bank of the Semlala, shining our torch into the limpid black pool to see if we could catch the ruby reflection of crocodile eyes. We had no evil intentions against them - we just wanted to see them. Suddenly, and with no warning at all there was a terrifying, rushing , roaring, huffing and puffing noise from the bush to our left, and into sight huge and pale in the moonlight charged a hippo, closely followed by her calf. She had caught our scent and was making her way as fast as possible from her grazing ground to her sanctuary in the river. We were right in her path so we made a frantic dash out of her wild rush and watched her pass and enter the safety of her pool with a mighty splash. When the waves settled down and the lapping of the water against the bank ceased there was total silence - and all the ruby lights of the crocodile eyes had been extinguished.
At this time, by an unfortunate coincidence, the globe of our torch burned out but we sat for a while surveying the scene by moonlight. Then, just below us, there started to emerge from the water and pull itself onto the bank, the most enormous crocodile we had ever seen. We beat a hasty retreat and turned to see that the "crocodile" was the baby hippo who was venturing back onto land by himself. When his mother did not follow him, he became discouraged and made his way back into the pool. Having had a most satisfying adventure, we made our way back across the Shashi river to our camp and to sleep.
I had two canoe trips down the Shashi river. The first time was in 1956 when the Land Development Officer, Peter Hancock and I launched at the junction of the Tuli and Shashi rivers in the height of the rains and had a very pleasant trip down to the junction of the Shashi and the Limpopo rivers. It took two days and we camped in the vicinity of the Tuli police camp where Peter's truck had arrived with our equipment. It also picked us up at our destination the next day. The river was flowing well, and it was only on a few occasions that we had to get out and push over sand bars. There was no "white water" sailing about the trip but the adventure and the satisfaction was in going through the wilderness quietly and peacefully and seeing the game in beautiful riverine forest for which that part of Zimbabwe is renowned. One of the most moving monuments to the untamed wildness of the area is contained in a limestone plaque set into the bark of a huge ebony tree near the Tuli/Shashi junction. It has engraved on it the words: