I climbed with great discomfort into the co-pilot’s seat of the little tin can four-seater Cessna, guided by Captain John Murphy who hopped into the pilot’s seat on my left, closed the door and enquired after my well-being. I explained that I had sustained an injury to my upper chest – probably a torn muscle, I suggested – in Jozi on the eve of my departure for Zambia.

We were flying from Livingstone Airport to Ngoma in the Kafue National Park. He pointed to my seatbelt and mentioned nonchalantly: “You don’t have to wear it … it’s not going to help, anyway.” I had never been in a tin can and have an in-built fear of flying. I reached into my pocket and hauled out a mild tranquilliser. John Murphy is 63 years old and, as I was to discover, a legend in Zambia. He is chief pilot of an aviation outfit and is a flying instructor; he has survived two near-death crashes. En route we flew low over a dam. A female American voice on the GPS repeated: “Dangerous terrain … dangerous terrain.” He retorted “Thank you, Mavis,” and, a little agitated, shut the GPS down. “These things don’t work half the time,” he muttered aloud.

During the flight he asked if I would like to take the controls and try my hand at flying. I declined. I thought about the seatbelt. After about an hour I asked him how long before our landing. He looked at me and replied: “About five minutes.”

Pause. Then he looked again, smiled, and said: “That’s if we don’t go up in smoke!”

Through his honesty and wry sense of humour I lost my fear of flying, and had the privilege of flying with John Murphy on the next two legs of my journey from Livingstone to lodges in the Kafue and on to Lusaka for my trip home. He kept a few very well-worn maps of Zambia close by, to which he referred from time to time.

When I arrived in Livingstone – three days before meeting John – I did what I never thought I would. I had myself strapped into a microlite and glided like an eagle with a young German pilot, Heiko, over the Victoria Falls. Normally one sees rainbows in the sky, far, far away. I looked down on a rainbow that danced across the Falls from Zambia to Zimbabwe and back. I saw elephants and hippos on the little islands dotting the Zambezi just before the falls. I endured (just) an Extreme Jet Boat rush on the Zambezi, where the Hamilton boat would speed at 90 k/hr and turn in the opposite direction in seconds. It also performed numerous vicious 360° spins. Tony, the owner and skipper, would stand up, make a clockwise or anti-clockwise motion with his index finger and shout: “Spin!”. We took a bath on two occasions. Tony is a Kiwi and was the first person to introduce Jet Boating to Zambia, about 10 years ago.

After that it was a 30 minute chopper ride over the falls and some serious flying, following the Zambezi as it snaked through rocky gorges. Every day – during my three days in Livingstone – I visited a Dr Zulu who owns Musamu Chemist, in Mosi-O-Tunya Road, Livingstone. Mosi-O-Tunya means: “The smoke that thunders”; the local name for the Victoria Falls.

Dr Zulu administered Voltaren and Vitamin B injections and supplied me with pain killers. These were not that effective, so I augmented them with whisky. Lots of it, at times when the pain became unbearable.

John Murphy landed the tin can smoothly on the little dirt-track runway. This was followed by a 20-minute game drive to Lufupa River Camp in northern Kafue, at the confluence of the Kafue River and the Lufupa Channel. There I met a Zambian guide, John D, who is known as the Hippo Man and was featured some years back on Planet Earth with David Attenborough, of which he is very proud. We sat beside the campfire and he told of some of his experiences, then walked me to my bungalow (guests have to be accompanied by trained guides to their sleeping spots; and may not move about alone until after sunrise). Elephant, hippo and other beasts, including lion, roam freely through the camps at night. I heard hippo right outside my spot. I was thankful for the whisky – never underestimate the power of whisky!

 

The next day after lunch it was a two-hour boat trip down the Kafue River to Hippo Lodge for the night. On the way I saw pods of hippos, a monstrous crocodile, three bull elephant and a leopard. No lion.

It was Saturday and the British and Irish Lions were playing the Boks in the 2nd test of their tour at Loftus. I was out of cell communication and was quite desperate to follow the game through sms to friends back home.

When I arrived though, I was ecstatic that Bruce Whitfield of Hippo Lodge – ex hunter, conservationist and part owner of the lodge – had made a plan, DSTV set up with a generator!

 

After the game we hit a night drive to Hippo Pool, unique hot springs a short way from the lodge. The guides lit paraffin lamps and placed them strategically on rocks encircling the pool. The water was 37°C. A huge log fire was lit and we had drinks served while wallowing like little hippo in the soothing hot water.

The next morning after breakfast, Bruce, with an “elephant gun” slung over his shoulders, walked us to McBride’s Camp about five kilometres away, where we would spend our last day and night. Halfway there we were met by John, a guide and game ranger from ZAWA (Zambian Wildlife Association). He was armed with an AK47, like all ZAWA personnel I met. The previous morning I had heard about Michael Jackson’s death from a ZAWA guard, when we touched down at the airstrip near Lufupa. He had received the news via radio contact with his colleagues. Only in Africa!

 

At the edge of McBrides’ we were met by Chris and Charlotte McBride.

I was to learn that Chris was the man who had discovered the first white lions; and was the author of the book The White Lions of Timbavati. He watched the birthing of the first litter ever recorded, a male and female whom he named Tumi and Taby. (Taby after his daughter, Tabitha. He told me that Thabitha had been killed in a car accident 20 years ago.)

When Charlotte and the others had bedded down we sat by the campfire, metres from the river’s edge where the hippo grazed. We listened in profound silence to the roar of lions. He knew them all. “That’s Rufus,” he said. Another roar: “That’s Max.”

And that’s “the Phantom,” after yet another. “We’ve never seen the Phantom … thus the name.”

Roars echoed from across the river and when I enquired about them, he said: “This is a new pride. They arrived about September last year. We have not studied them well enough to name them.” Into the night we talked about evolution, conservation and lions and the bush. I have never felt so humbled and honoured.

The next morning a Cessna circled the camp. Chris said: “That’s John Murphy. We’ll send a vehicle to fetch him for breakfast.”

John joined us, and after breakfast Chris and Charlotte accompanied us to the air strip. John flew us to Lusaka.

When I arrived home I saw my doctor who examined me thoroughly. He informed me that I had sustained two broken ribs.