E
D I T O R S
C
O M M E N T
By Ant Williams
I
t has been a while since I have flown on a commercial jetliner,
and as I walked out onto the tarmac at the new and shiny JM
Nkomo International Airport in Bulawayo, the sight of Air
Zimbabwe’s 767 sitting patiently on the apron, spurred a wave
of nostalgia. It triggered a movie clip in my mind’s eye and I
remembered other times I had flown on this particular aircraft
- from destinations in Africa, and as far as the UK on occasion
- trips spanning nearly two decades. With the sun setting on the
flat Matabeleland landscape, the old bird affectionately named
Victoria Falls, was bathed in a warm hue which only served to
heighten my memoir.
Once aboard, and buckled in, the familiar sounds of the
engines spooling up, and deployment of flaps for our take-off were
all familiar and exciting. The odd clunk and shudder, whirring of
internal mechanisms deep in her hull as the aircraft readied for
taxi, did not hold the same apprehension they once did. Looking
around I vividly remembered some of my previous trips, even
the seats I had occupied on those occasions. The people too, with
whom I had travelled were recalled, gathering around me as we
taxied onto the threshold of runway 12. Jolted from my musings,
the engine on the wing beside me roared into life, and immediately
the Boeing leapt forward, the thrust pushing me deep into my seat.
Relatively empty, she was light and in short time we had reached
V2 and the captain rotated her into a steep turning climb. The
sun, which was just below the horizon came back into view as we
gained altitude, scrolling past the windows. As the turn steepened,
the sun cast rapidly moving orange patches through the windows
to illuminate the interior of the plane as we levelled off on our
heading for Harare. What a thrill!
In short time we were established in the cruise at 36 000 feet,
the slowly moving patchwork of Mother Earth passing beneath
us. In the growing dusk, little glinting patches of water dotted the
landscape, and I wondered what they were, and how many I had
maybe fished over the years. Pushing my seat back, I closed my
eyes as I journeyed down that memory lane. I had spent the day
visiting some boat manufacturers and catching up with old friends,
reminiscing about long-gone fishing trips and other adventures in
a time when things seemed simpler. It was a rare opportunity to
take a break from the treadmill of daily life and think about those
distant places.
Like coins jangling in my pocket, fragments of past adventures
beckoned to my conscious. Presently, I grasped one, and picking
it up, felt its familiar face between the fingers of my mind. The
balmy air of a Kariba evening swirled into focus, tainted with
Issue No.171 February/March 2016
the mixed aroma of potato bush and elephants. Overhead, the
parade of the Milky Way marched by, our only illumination on
a moonless night. Ivor Kesson - from Fibrecraft, and who I had
seen before boarding my flight - is what spurred this particular
memory. All those years before, he was at the helm of his Falcon,
us both standing to gain better vision as we sped across the lake,
pockets of hot air buffeting us like some invisible blast furnace. I
remember it was exhilarating.
Our situation was a result of being greedy. Late afternoon
while boating back to Binga, Ivor stopped off at a particular ridge
he knew would be peeking out of the lake at that time of low
water. We found it in the considerable chop of a strong westerly,
big rolling waves foaming over the crest, fizzing as they passed.
Positioning the boat to drift along the couple-of-hundred-meterlong target, we balanced spread-legged on the front deck, every
muscle straining to brace ourselves whilst throwing long casts at
the ridge. Big red tiger spinners, cast past the now visible ridge,
and ripped back at pace over the top, were met almost immediately
with violent strikes. Hard fighting fish, super-charged with oxygen
and attacking anything that moved, seemed to be queuing for a
chance at our offering. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we hooked
and fought tiger after tiger, some approaching five kilos... well
maybe four... or at least that is how my memory now has it. Each in
turn, we would cast, strike, then walk the length of the boat fighting
the fish, trying not to cross lines, all the time eager for another cast
before reaching the end of the drift. Almost every cast was a fish,
and once released, we went at it again. I forget, but think we ran
that drift four or five times boating a dozen or so fish before the
light failed and common sense prevailed. Exhausted and pumped
with adrenalin, aching arms and jabbering like junkies on a high,
we called ‘time’, and headed home feeling glutenous. What an
amazing hour of fishing!
Suddenly awake, I felt the attitude of the plane change. Flaps
were down and the ‘thunk’ of the wheels locking into position
heralded our final approach to Harare. Giving the memory one
last feel, I gently returned it to my pocket, feeling rejuvenated and
blessed by the journey I had embarked upon. Touching the fuselage
in thanks to the old bird as I stepped out into a clear African night,
I was suddenly intrigued that like boats, dams and special people,
this aluminium tube held so many memories from my past. With
a new spring in my step, I made a silent promise to myself, that
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