The Derelict House: Elephants in My Garden

By Lesley Cripps Thomson

Elephants breaking down walls, a hyena sharing a fire with the night guard to keep warm, hippos fighting, armless monkeys bringing their young to be admired by the authorthis book is a kaleidoscope of wild animals, strange and often eccentric tourists, the trails and tribulations of running a poorly equipped lodge in a remote wilderness area, and the laughter and tears of working with and living alongside staff from a different background and culture.

Written with great compassion, this is Lesley Cripps Thomsons story of how she forges a bond with staff who do not want to be told what to do or how to do it by a woman and the hardships they have to live with, including illness and poverty. She tells of the good times they have and how, in a crisis, they all pull together.

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In The Derelict House, Lesley Cripps Thomson vividly conveys the fun and the frustrations of living and working in the African bush. Enlivened by the many characters who pepper the pages, her book also paints a colourful picture of the wildlife scene. For those who aspire to sample wild Africa for the first time, and for those who have already fallen under its spell, this is an excellent read. For myself, it has been a pleasure to encounter a book so evocative of the Africa I have come to love.
Douglas Willis, FRGS, FRSGS (Scotland)
Running a lodge in the African bush means not only exotic wildlife but also eccentric human life. A vivid and engaging read.
William Saunderson-Meyer - Sunday Times, South Africa

I loved The Derelict House it brought back fond memories of my own time in The Luangwa Valley and the characters and wildlife really are true to form Julie Croucher, Travel With Jules UK

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491897614

Lesley Cripps Thomson

Born in the United Kingdom, Lesley Cripps Thomson came to Africa at the age of thirteen, originally to Tanzania, where she developed her love of the continent while roaming the hills with her dog. Her first true experience of a wilderness area was the Ruaha National Park, where she was told that the only protection you needed from an elephant was a whistle! After being widowed at a young age with three small children to support, Lesley “fell into” ecotourism, setting up Zimbabwe’s first-ever safari consultancy, Safari Interlink, with a branch in the United Kingdom. She then established Wildlife Promotions, which specialized in marketing Africa to the rest of the world. Lesley’s passion for conservation and responsible tourism has taken her to many different countries in Africa, and her articles about the experiences she had and the places she visited have been published in various media. Refusing to travel without her children, Lesley “dragged them along” during their school holidays, often to very remote areas. Once her children had completed their education, Lesley decided it was time to go on a walkabout to Mozambique, South Africa, Australia, and the United States before she begun working in tourism in London. Not enjoying the close confines of such a huge city, she moved to a tiny cottage in a beautiful one-street village from where she started Talking Travel–Africa. It was while Lesley was promoting tourism into Africa that she was offered the opportunity to return to Africa and work in a lodge Lesley is currently living in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, where, with her husband, Ina, who is a wildlife management consultant, they continue to promote conservation and responsible tourism.

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2014 Lesley Cripps Thomson. All rights reserved.

Original oil painting of elephant on front cover © Deidre Reichardt

DRAWINGS BY:

In the Beginning – Mark Coetzee

Meeting Churchill – Mark Coetzee

Elephants and Hippos – Mark Coetzee

A Cold Danger – Bryan Harmer

The Chief’s Inauguration – Mark Coetzee & Bryan Harmer

Lions, Leopards and Illegal Fishermen – Mark Coetzee & Bryan Harmer

Our Africa: Wild Dramatic, Virginal and Primitive – Bryan Harmer

The End of an Era – Bryan Harmer

Photos of flooded lodge courtesy of Babette Alfieri

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/27/2014

ISBN:    978-1-4918-9759-1 (sc)

ISBN:    978-1-4918-9760-7 (hc)

ISBN:    978-1-4918-9761-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

In the Beginning

Meeting Churchill

Elephants and Hippos

A Cold Danger

The Chief’s Inauguration

Lions, Leopards and Illegal Fishermen

Our Africa: Wild, Dramatic, Virginal and Primitive

The End of an Era

Epilogue

About the Author

Born in the United Kingdom, Lesley Cripps Thomson came to Africa at the age of thirteen, originally to Tanzania, where she developed her love of the continent while roaming the hills with her dog. Her first true experience of a wilderness area was the Ruaha National Park, where she was told that the only protection you needed from an elephant was a whistle!

After being widowed at a young age with three small children to support, Lesley fell into ecotourism, setting up Zimbabwe’s first ever safari consultancy, Safari Interlink, with a branch in the United Kingdom. She then established Wildlife Promotions, which specialised in marketing Africa to the rest of the world.

Lesley’s passion for conservation and responsible tourism has taken her to many different countries in Africa, and her articles about the experiences she’s had and the places she visited have been published in various media.

Refusing to travel without her children, Lesley dragged them along during their school holidays, often to very remote areas. Once her children had completed their education, Lesley decided it was time to go on a walkabout to Mozambique, South Africa, Australia, and the United States before she begun working in tourism in London. Not enjoying the close confines of such a huge city, she moved to a tiny cottage in a beautiful one-street village from where she started Talking Travel—Africa, a marketing company promoting tourism to and around Africa.

It was while Lesley was promoting tourism into Africa that she was offered the opportunity to return to Africa and work in a lodge.

This book is an account of her short time there. With humour and compassion, she describes the difficulties of operating a lodge in a remote part of Africa, the foibles of the staff, the sometimes very eccentric guests, and her often hair-raising experiences with some of the larger four-legged visitors.

Throughout, Lesley’s love of Africa shines through. She is currently living in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, where she and her husband Ian, who is a wildlife management consultant, continue to promote conservation and responsible tourism.

Originally this book was for my children, Garth, Ryan, and Ruth, for being who and what they are and for the support given, knowingly and unknowingly, throughout the years.

And for Ian.

I now would like to dedicate this book to my grandchildren, Mathew Cripps and Sophia and Charlotte Hull, who, at a very early age, discovered the joys of the natural world and learned how to care for it.

The most beautiful thing one can experience is the mysterious. It is

the source of all true art and science. He to whom this reaction is

a stranger—who can no longer pause to wonder and stare in rapt

awe—is as good as dead, his eyes are closed.

—Albert Einstein

Introduction

It was because of the fear that our grandchildren and their generation may never know the wildlife and wilderness as my generation have had the privilege of experiencing it that I decided to write this journal.

Not only have I and my peers had the advantage of working in a field we so appreciate, we have been able to have multifaceted hands-on career experiences that so few of the younger generations will ever have the opportunity of enjoying.

The people in this journal are real, but their names have been changed. If any of the characters recognise themselves, they should know they have been written about with affection and no harm is intended. This is a true tale, although in some cases the actual time span may be incorrect.

This journal is not intended to educate but to be enjoyed.

In The Beginning

Where are we going to put them? Tony asked, shock written all over his face.

Well, there is the Derelict House, replied Graham.

But, spluttered Tony, derelict is the right word for it… And you say they are arriving tomorrow?

Well, yes. A small smile touched Graham’s eyes. Let’s see how you react under pressure.

Tony, who had been manager of the safari lodge for a very short time and had welcomed few guests, took up the challenge, and all the staff were pulled off their individual duties to make a large, ramshackle, dirty, and dilapidated house, fit for paying guests the following day.

Women went down on their hands and knees to scrub the floors. Men scrubbed the walls, inside and out, destroying termite nests and disturbing lizards at play, whilst sneezing in the clouds of dust and hot dry sand. Odd tins of old paint were found and mixed to improve their rather unsightly colours, and a medley of brushes were used—some with great enthusiasm. It took a fair amount of persuasion to convince one painter that he would not cover much of the walls with a half-inch paintbrush and to preferably concentrate on the places that would benefit from such intricate artwork.

The next morning, a toilet roll holder was nailed into place and an old stained mirror put above the basin; the windows had no glass to clean, only clogged-up gauze where glass should have been. Curtains were found and beds rescued from stores and polished up; after all, they had beautifully carved headboards. Mosquito nets were hung and matching bedspreads, fresh towels, and welcoming luxuries put out.

Mango 2.6, Mango 2.6, the radio bleated. Hi, Tony, Graham here. The guests have cancelled!

Tony’s signature over and out was somewhat rushed.

So this dilapidated old house became my home. The second bedroom was to be used by tour leaders, pilots, guides, and visiting friends. It didn’t take long, though, for the colourful bedspreads and luxuries to rapidly disappear into the guest chalets—but the lizards stayed.

The house was squat, with dark grey untreated cement that had been plastered on the outside, the walls at wavering angles supporting a jagged-edged asbestos roof. It overlooked the Luangwa River, one of the four largest in Africa, with exceptional concentrations of wildlife. During the dry season, as it was then, the riverbed was filled with pools of muddy, murky water. Having the highest concentration of hippos in Africa, this magnificent river was also the border of one of the largest and wildest game reserves in central southern Africa—the South Luangwa National Park, Zambia.

In front of the house were some small shrubby bushes, long dry grass, and then a steep bank that descended onto the hard, sandy river’s edge. A magnificent wild fig tree leaned into the north side of the house, whilst on the south side grew a small stand of ancient mahogany trees. Just beyond was Tony’s house, in slightly better repair than this one.

One entered the house from the back (the front door faced the river without a path leading to it) through a rather rickety door, the bottom half of which was split bamboo. The top half was made of gauze with holes large enough to only let the biting insects in. This was the only door with a handle, and it actually had a lock. Two other doors led to the outside, kept closed with small pieces of wood that swivelled on a rusty nail.

To the right was an entrance room with some cupboards at the far side, and a room with no door into it on the left. This room had a rather wobbly shelf at about chest height—too high to use as a breakfast bar unless one sat on a barstool. I thought I would use this as the kitchen, until I discovered there was no socket for a kettle. Nor, anywhere in the house, was there a sink or fittings for a refrigerator or stove.

Up a step to the next level was a door—again half gauze—that opened into one bedroom, which led into the bathroom. This was the bathroom that was smartly decorated with a toilet roll holder and mirror, neither of which detracted from the overripe lemon-yellow colour of the bath.

On the right of the centre passage was a room with a big solid door and gauze windows that I chose as my bedroom. Off this was an enormous bathroom with a shower tucked into one corner, no bath. The shower consisted of a metal pipe with no showerhead, which was held up against the wall by being wedged between two long nails. The shower curtain was far too small, so water escaped during showering, covering the nearby shelf and floor. On windy nights, the wind would howl through the gauze window, making the shower curtain fly like a flag at full mast. The water followed the flag!

However, this was one of the best showers I had ever enjoyed, with good pressure and masses of hot water—at least when there were no electricity power cuts and the water pipes had not been dug up by elephants or burst underground.

Going back to the centre of the house, the wide passage between the two bedrooms took a left turn into what I used as a lounge. A table to work on was placed overlooking the river,

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A sagging old day—bed under the window for daytime relaxing, and a dilapidated old sofa with stuffing pouring out of the cushions put into a corner. The sofa was so horrible only one person ever dared sit on it the entire time I lived there. I eventually found two grass mats on which to do some yoga, and unpacking my one suitcase, I put my few precious books and photographs in a very nice shelf unit affixed to one wall.

So, the Derelict House became my home.

Having gauze windows all around allowed the lovely cooling breezes to flow through. It also allowed the dust to flow through the house, and I soon learned to cover everything of value with old cloths to protect them from being spoilt by the thick layer of dust that was impossible to control. And my lovely family photographs spent more time on the floor than the shelves, these being at just the right angle to catch the breeze.

I thought to myself that living here would be very interesting in the rains, as I had noticed the asbestos roof had many cracks and holes. Most of the gauze windows had rolled-up plastic on the outside, I presumed to stop the rain coming in during the rainy season. At the time the lizards, geckos, and many insects inhabited these rolls and the rustling and cracking of dried plastic became quite harmonious at times.

My garden was the wild bush surrounding the house on three sides, with the magnificent wide and wandering Luangwa River in the front.

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The lodge had become very run-down, and parts of it had been washed away.

African politics had played a small part in the demise of this once internationally popular lodge, but the main cause was due to the natural progression of the river, as over the decades it changed direction, winding through the sandy and flat terrain. The rains in recent years had been unpredictably heavy, and with human’s tendency to develop along ecologically fragile riverbanks, the future of the lodge had come under threat.

Rivers in Africa have a character all of their own—and each one is different. Don’t be taken in by peaceful, sluggish waters that ripple gently when a whisper of breeze floats over them. For this same river can become a torrent within minutes, taking with it bridges, massive trees, huge boulders, and homes that have been built too close to its banks. Cars and trucks have been washed away as the stream they tried to cross became a raging torrent.

Old photographs of the lodge showed that, originally, one had to drive past the chalets, bar, and dining room to reach the river. Now, one false step from the bar and guests would become meal for the crocodiles—unless they were fast swimmers!

The remaining chalets were still comfortable and attractive, but the plumbing and electricity was very dubious. The walls of the bar had cracked, and as the floor was starting to lift in places, it was apparent this building would not last much longer. The insects had been leaving their calling cards on the pictures displayed on the walls, causing them to look very grubby and well-aged. Paths needed weeded, walls needed painting, and there was a general air of neglect. The staff had, understandably, become disheartened, and the temporary management was lackadaisical about turning the lodge around to its former glory.

What had I taken on?

PAWS.jpg

Despite the fact that Graham had asked me to come to Zambia to take up the position of lodge manager and marketing assistant, he informed me on arrival that I was to be the caterer and that Tony would manage the lodge.

The local men—and all our staff are men—do not take kindly to being told what to do by a woman, explained Graham, attempting to excuse himself. It is not in their culture.

As I couldn’t turn around and go back home, I knew I had to make the best of it.

I held a meeting with the staff early morning to explain why I was here and what I expected of them. Some of them just kept their faces blank, totally inscrutable, whilst others immediately started demanding certain benefits beyond what they had traditionally been receiving. It looked as if there were at least two troublemakers among them. The kitchen crew was a motley bunch, rather like one imagines a ship full of pirates would look like. From short to tall, thin to fat, young and to very old, this bunch would clearly not be easily won over, and winning their confidence was going to take some time.

The kitchen was a revelation. Firstly, I had to become used to the fact that the rats would not attack me—I hoped!—and remember to warn them I was coming.

Rat poison? Tony had laughed. That only gives them the energy to do their press-ups earlier in the morning.

As it was the rats or me, poison was put down nightly until they either died or went elsewhere. Then the cat was encouraged to come into the kitchen. After a while, my control measures appeared to have worked as my good morning knock did not set off that horrible sound of scuttling.

The equipment was in an awful state of repair, but when I looked at inventories and saw what had previously been bought and noticed the breakages that had taken place, the situation was understandable. Nothing lasted long with those who didn’t own it, especially in Africa. A can opener had lasted a week, and three wooden spoons had only made it ten days.

A nice big useful frying pan actually had a handle, but it was hardly attached causing the pan to swivel whichever way it wanted to, not the way you wanted. The cooking pots had no handles, or lids that fitted, but that didn’t seem to deter the chefs.

There were two stoves—the gas stove had an electric oven that did not work; the gas oven worked, but its electric hotplates didn’t. One of the best three-course meals I’d ever had in the bush in Africa was in Botswana, cooked on coals in a hole in the ground. I felt I couldn’t complain about the stoves.

The freezer didn’t work, as the rubber seal had come off. Thus, it took two people to close it—one person to hold the seal while the other pulled the lid down. That was quickly repaired with a tube of glue. The fridge was at an angle because the floor was uneven, which meant the door didn’t close properly. A big rock solved that problem by becoming a door jam, though it would take a couple of weeks and many stubbed toes before the staff remembered to put it against the door each time. A rickety old chair kept the other, much smaller fridge closed. If that door wasn’t kept secured, water smelling of rotting vegetables poured all over the floor.

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I spent my first few nights at this safari lodge in one of the chalet before moving into the Derelict House. It was so nice to be back in Africa! I had flown out from England, where I had been working for almost two years, pining for Africa whilst marketing it to potential travellers. A few hours in Lusaka before transferring to a smaller plane had brought me to this incredibly beautiful part of Africa. Across the river was one of the continent’s largest game reserves, known for its high population of wildlife, especially leopard.

During that first night, I was woken by a chomping sound. Peering through the gauzed window, I saw a huge hippo under the trees, mowing the lawn with its enormous abrasive lips. I suppose the bright moonlight and the shadow effect created by the few lights left on overnight exaggerated the size of this hippo—it certainly looked massive.

Africa is not silent at night. The cicadas sing; owls hoot; nightjars gurgle; hippos grunt; hyenas whoop; and most wonderful of all, the lion’s roar rents the air. Nestling in the warmth and security of one’s bed, one’s imagination easily paints