Africa Par Adventure: Over 100 Tales, Insights and Observations of the Inconceivable. . .

Peter Ward

Format ISBN Price   Paperback (6x9) 9781403349644 £ 18.25

Peter Ward has wheeled and dealed himself around the world, always armed with the ability to get himself into the most compromising situations imaginable. Bitten by the travel bug in 1992, Ward's itchiness has caused him to break out of his routine again and again. In the past decade, he's had of a rash of unusual incidents. Fortunately, he's returned each time without a scratch, and with a collection of stories that'll leave the reader in stitches and burning to know more.

Ward has traveled to many a far-out place, each with its own extraordinary story. He's shaken hands with an African Dictator, pounded the streets of futuristic Japanese cities and roamed amidst Mayan ruins. With a passion for wanderlust, he's downsized on work and up sized his consumption on life. But when it comes to transit, he prefers backpacker class, where the culture is richest.

Originally from London, Peter now resides in the New York City area. A product of the eighties, who came of age in the nineties, he's still trying to make sense of the new millennium. In his spare time, he strives to produce the ideal vegetarian dish or a perfect yoga headstand.

I wonder what odds Ladbrooks - the - betting shop would give against being accused of setting light to a golf course, of making pornographic movies and of trying to blow up the Queen all in one week? All false, by the way, and if this story sounds as though it should have happened to the fictional character Flashman, rather than to me, I can only say that I wish that it had. And it was not Flashman's infamous lust, but lure of the little screen that was to blame.

I once found myself helping in the production of a TV series on Zimbabwe in my capacity of Old Africa Hand, student of the African Iron Age and writer of travel guides. Off we went in a Toyota truck painted like a giraffe. The director was from London, not too familiar with Africa but with enough self-confidence to make up for it. We had two white cameramen; two black soundmen; and an irrepressible driver-cum-Mr. Fixit called Aaron. We filmed rhino dehorning, leopards drinking, giraffe capturing, scouts patrolling and all the things you would expect of a good conservation series. I acted as continuity person and consultant on history, geography, flora, fauna, bars, booze and local hangover cures, one of which consists of putting you on a drip.

Eventually we came to the beautiful eastern mountains, which are full of great tourist spots and Iron Age sites, and were my specialty. We started at the famous Troutbeck Inn, which lies in a pine covered valley at seven thousand feet. This gracious demi-centenarian mainstay of the Nyanga district is fronted by a trout lake and surrounded by a golf course; it is more like Scotland than Africa, with weather often as wet, but thankfully warmer. We filmed golfers grinding teeth as they knocked balls into the lake and I subconsciously registered a sound-man flicking a cigarette into the long grass, the significance of which didn't strike me until we met a fire engine on our way back to the hotel. We denied the accusations of a skeptical hotel management but it was a harbinger of things to come.

We had worked together for some months and that night, the strain began to tell. Everybody had a complaint, the most delicate being that of the soundmen. Could the director be persuaded not to break wind so much in public? He did so to establish his plebeian credentials with them and Africa in general, being ignorant of the opprobrium in which most African society holds the practice. Delicate also was the problem of selecting actors for our Iron Age reconstruction. What sort of clothes would they have worn, the director had asked me. Very little, I replied, the Nyanga Culture being materially poor. So we got some leather kilts. "We'll get some women," announced the director. I doubted that the local ladies would be prepared for that sort of frolic. "But this is Africa!" he objected. It soon became clear that the only ladies who were going to help were those of the night.

Now he said, "Let's go down to the village and get some whores."

"You go," said I. And he did. He paid a retainer to eight girls, and with breathtaking and Machiavellian logistics, ensured that I was the one who had to be there at daybreak to make the final selection. I chose two and scuttled back to the ruined fort where the cameramen did an excellent job of creating topless phantoms grinding millet.

Scene two, take one: Nyanga Police Station. The director is groveling to the large Inspector. The inspector's problem is that last week the Harare Herald carried a story about foreigners making bestiality film with local actors, the wicked, degenerate West corrupting innocent Zimbabwean womanhood. And the innocent Zimbabwean womanhood whom I had not employed that morning had gone straight round to the cop shop to complain. The Inspector was not into the African Iron Age and the director calling him "Sir" only made him more suspicious.

As expensive time passed, I took a gamble and asked him to ring a government minister with whom I had shared quite a lot of beer. It took the best part of the day to track him down but eventually he came on the telephone, and the Inspector explained the situation. "This is all a huge misunderstanding," I whined, "We were just asking the women to grind... no, no, like they do traditionally; what's so funny?" When he had stopped laughing, he asked to speak to the policeman and we were released on the understanding that we left the district next day. And we did.

Which was not what I had envisaged. I dearly wanted to record the secrets of these ancient hills for an international audience. We went to Mutare, the provincial capital to the south, and probably the most attractive city in Africa, only to find it covered in unseasonable cloud. We took a few disappointing shots and moved on south again to the spectacular Chimanimani Mountains. In my fantasizing I had visualized filming this border range from the air. Its lakes, gorges, forests and waterfalls would make stunning aerial photography. There was no time, let alone a budget for such things and anyway, the cloud was down here too. We set off for the World Heritage Site of Great Zimbabwe, pivotal point of the production, sustaining a puncture on the way.

Big Zed is the largest of about a hundred similar ruins scattered over Zimbabwe and its neighboring territories. It was occupied between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries and although the work of Zimbabweans, still poses some questions. Its huge walls have attracted absurd and romantic theories over the years; its creepy ambiance, especially at dawn, explains why. I was looking forward to trying to capture something of that. We checked into the site hotel only to be told that our booking were canceled because the Queen was visiting next day.

"The Queen of... Sheba?" somebody suggested facetiously.

"Of Britain,"

"Of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?"

"That is the one."

We had one night, again we would have to move on. How we hadn't heard of this event, or why the hotel had accepted the reservation in the first place, remained a mystery. We drowned our sorrows.

Next day we loaded up the truck, only to find another tire punctured. The spare was now also flat. Aaron took both wheels into the neighboring town of Masvingo and we sat round the disabled giraffe as the other guests left. The forecourt began to empty of cars and fill with large numbers of policemen. Time passed. In Masvingo, the shops were shut and a crowd began to collect in the main street to welcome the Queen, as Aaron searched desperately for an open garage. In Harare, the royal party began its journey to the airport. At Great Zimbabwe, camouflage clad Para- militaries and troops were joining the police. And a film crew stood around a three-wheeled Toyota Land cruiser.

"If you don't move it," said an officer of the Zimbabwean Special Branch, "we'll have to blow it up." We didn't know if he was being serious or not. It isn't that easy to move a fully laden land cruiser, which is on a jack. Somebody with a walkie-talkie said that HM was airborne. An increasingly hostile crowd of officials, soldiers and police now surrounded us. We almost wished we were back in the Nyanga nick. People began to look nervously at the sky to the north and strain their ears for aircraft noises. Some obviously English security men appeared and listened to our woes. One said I had an Irish accent. This could have been true but the implications, coming on top of a week of disaster would make you weep.

"We'll carry it!" announced a beefy policeman employing the African philosophy that numbers and brute force can solve anything. Fifty men grabbed the giraffe and began to inch it the hundred yard to the back of the kitchen. "Heave! Donza!" they chanted. But it seemed to me that there wouldn't be time to get it clear and the royal party would find a giraffe painted vehicle obstructing their way into tea. Just then Aaron arrived in the back-up car with the two repaired wheels. Monza pits weren't in it. That wheel was changed, the giraffe reloaded and we were on our way before you could say Zimbabwean Iron Age.

"Just get off the main road!" they shouted after us as we drove off. Not so easy. The only way back to Harare, without doing a few hundred miles detour, was through Masvingo, along a road now flanked by thousands of flag waving people. Clearly, the police didn't want us to meet HM head on, but we had had enough of waiting too. Also the crowd was cheering us which was such a nice change. So we drove back to Masvingo, and up the main street, waving regally as the people roared. As we passed the main hotel, the royal jet was seen making its approach, and we knew we would clear town in time. Flashman would have loved it.

I am happy to say that the video guide was not bad at all. There was some great game footage in it and even if I didn't get my more exotic pieces, the sponsors should have been quite happy with the result. Neither the minister nor anybody else tormented me with the adventures in the Nyanga police station because Zimbabwe was soon to have other things to think about. Writing this at troubled time, you forget what an intriguing place it usually is.That is --if you haven't got some ancient curse on you.