Zambia World Wide

Not that I was complaining. For a start, I was now down to the five pound note that I habitually carried in my footwear. If you were brought up in the Glasgow of the 1950�s, you�d understand this. If you were a Jew in that environment, doubly so. Not that I am claiming to have been persecuted on the grounds of religion. Far from it: I claim to have had a religion on the basis of persecution. Let me explain that apparently anomalous statement. The Glasgow in which I grew up was split neatly down the middle into two camps: Fenians and Proddies. Neither of them was particularly devout, but, without really understanding why, they hated each other and pitched battles between the two sides were frequent occurrences and it was easy for us Hebes to stay out of it by claiming no particular affiliation. The difficulties arose when they�d fought themselves to a standstill and then decided to join forces and turn on the murderers of the Son of God. That�s when claims of neutrality failed totally and only bribery provided protection from a good hiding. And that�s when I learned to carry only coinage in my pockets and the folding stuff in my shoes. Later on, when I developed muscles, a robust atheism and a lifelong love of mayhem, hidden lucre became less important than did a developed skill with the Glasgow kiss, but, by then, the habit was embedded, along with a bit of a limp.

So I was happy to be outside of a free breakfast, or at least I was until all the sordid memories of my previous career in mass masturbation returned with the enthusiastic conversation around the table, within which the word �wanky� was frequently repeated. It turned out, however, that my fears of new sexual challenges were groundless: the general opinion was that the mess residents should take the new boy on a jaunt to a game park of that name: Wankie Reserve, some 40 miles into Rhodesia. Within 18 months of that day in May 1965, such a trip was as unthinkable as a bicycle ride by Utah Mormons through N. Korea might be today, but, then, each side�s border officials hopped backwards and forwards across the boundary barriers on production of an officially issued windscreen decal. Happy, sensible times, never to be repeated and, probably, quite the opposite will obtain, given present terrorism neuroses.

With Tommy, Wobbles, another couple of mess residents and I all squeezed into the Austin, we headed southwards at breakneck speed; with a pause at the staggeringly impressive Victoria Falls, where solemn reflection of the recent demise of a senior Customs official, Roy Barker, who slipped to his death whilst framing a picture opportunity, was observed. Blimey, the journey was impressive: the road was just a narrow ribbon of tarmac with shingle shoulders either side, into which it was necessary to make a sandstorm escape when encountering traffic on the opposite side. The bush came right up to the edge of the road and it seemed possible to see some insouciant wild animals through some of the foliage - at least that�s how I remember it. Tommy drove like a maniacal Jaapie Mr. Toad and gave no quarter to oncoming drivers, except for the giant trucks hauling coal from Wankie colliery. Just as well, as they were at least six feet off the ground and, I�m sure, unsighted where other road users were concerned. Soon, the entrance to Wankie Game Reserve was in view, to the enormous relief of all terrified passengers.

Thereafter, a new, wondrous world opened up for this Scots lad. The place was crawling with game, all of it seemingly happy to share it with goggle-eyed visitors. Dainty antelopes scurried across our path, a truly monstrous buffalo faced us down before swaggering off cockily into the bush and we passed several, loping giraffe, so close I could almost reach out and touch the markings on their leathery hides. A herd of elephants delivered the same impact as the coal trucks, by persuading Tommy to halt while they ambled across the roadway, trunk to tail. A giant bull came last of all and turned towards us, raising his trunk in salute. At least I prefer to think that it was an elephantine wave: he probably was saying �come closer if you dare, tiny people�, but that wasn�t the softer greeting he imparted, in my recall at least. Most exciting of all was the feeling of being watched the whole time by other mysterious denizens of the inner forest. Too imperious, or suspicious, to emerge for our pleasure, they nevertheless communicated their existence with the odd roar of complaint at our proximity and I found myself gently edging up the window a little more with each encounter.