Professor Jeff Fadiman shares another one of his hair-raising adventures in Africa with animals. The reader probably remembers his recent story “walk with the animals, in Africa?” where he and his wife came dangerously close to lions who were ready for a kill—that the tourists spoiled.    

BY PROFESSOR JEFF FADIMANN, M.A, Ph.D., Dip. Ed. (British)                                                                                                             

“If a hippo tips your canoe, don’t fall in. Dive in without touching him. No touch–no bite.” The advice came from a Zambezi River guide who has lived virtually all his adult life near, on, or sometimes in the river. My friend and I listened intently, standing next to our canoe on one bank of the Zambezi.  Technically, we were inside the crocodile feeding zone. A crocodile can be found along every 10 feet of the river, although they actually clump together in families. They can lunge out of the water and snatch someone sitting fourteen feet from the bank before the victim can rise. I scanned the water, unconsciously, holding my paddle as if it were a gun.

The Zambezi runs 1599 miles, flowing through six African nations. It can flow three miles wide, through a great tear in the Earth’s crust known as the Zambezi Rift Valley. In our area low, steep, flat cliffs shot up along each bank. The flat surface was frequently broken by paths to the water. These we learned were hippo trails, carved by generations of hippos as they left the river at night to graze then returned to the water and safety at sunrise.

At the time we appeared, the current flowed downstream at 5 km per hour, which meant that a canoe could really move. That was offset, however, by a steady wind that blew upstream at 5 km per hour. To move we had to paddle hard and constantly. Pause to rest and we might stop, tip or go backwards. The river itself had its share of hazards. “V” shaped ripples ahead might mean submerged boulders or trees. White-capped, rough water suggested either a deep trench, or a hidden sand bank that could ground us. The water also held tiger fish, large and with saber-like teeth, that might bite if we fell in and accidently touched one.

The primary danger, of course, was hippos. One hippo census discovered 5,792 of them in one 40 km stretch of the river, in pods of up to 60 individuals. More often, however, the average is ten. An adult can weigh between 3,000-9,000 pounds, is 9-10 ten feet long and 4-5 feet high. On land. If frightened, it runs almost 20 km an hour, which means it can always catch up to and stomp over humans, who run at six mph. Hippos do kill up to 500 persons per year across Africa, but always in defense of their own zone when a human intrudes. They do not bite boats, snap up swimmers or snatch children from the riverbanks, as is widely believed.

Nor do they swim. Instead, they glide, pushing themselves off objects as they go. A Hippo, however, can hold his breath underwater for only five minutes; they go under to cool down. They are aggressive, fighting crocs, other hippos and river-crossing buffalo if they feel threatened. They do not fight lions, although once a lion pride pulled down a hippo. They do “go after” humans whom they feel threaten them. Once a hippo tipped a boat carrying a teacher and 12 pupils, all of whom died. However, the threat came from the boat, which seems to have been driven directly into a pod, to let the kids see the animals up close.

148,000 hippos still remain on Earth. The 60 or so that I could see clustered in tight pods, some on each riverbank and others floating in deeper water, about 20 yards offshore. The hippos we could not see had disappeared up the bank and into the bush, to graze. Most graze at night, traveling up to six miles each night to eat 75-80 pounds of grass. Some, however, graze by day.  If, by chance, we walked on land and got between one and the water, it would charge right over us to reach the river and safety. “That meant,” I thought privately, “that landing the canoe to go to the toilet could prove more exciting than is usually the case.”

Since the hippo-pods hung out on both sides of the river, they provided a ragged, often narrow, wind-blown channel through which our canoes can creep, slithering silently past pod after pod like wary water snakes. Unfortunately, if a hippo returns from grazing inland to the cliff-edge while you are slithering by, it may panic. Seeing your canoe as a threat it will sprint for the water, lunging in just ahead, behind or on top of you.

Just once, in my whole career, I met what Africans called “the mad hippo.” Mad or simply evil, that hippo had decided that he hated all canoes. Whenever he saw one, he roared and charged, plunging from the bank into the water then swimming full speed directly at it, roaring non-stop.  Obviously, each canoe paddled frantically down-river to escape, but the hippo never tired of the hunt and never missed a passing boat. Its image, of course, came into my mind the moment we launched our canoe.

We paddled, me in the bow. The current picked us up threw the canoe down river. Then, the wind came on strong, both killing our momentum and freezing my wet hands. Frankly, it was both threatening and exciting, as I suddenly realized that my life was entirely in the hands of the guide, a man I didn’t know, but had to trust. The guide led, paddling alone. Our canoe followed his every shift, like a just-born wildebeest follows its mother. Had we been five canoes, each would have tailed the one before, moving down river in a tight line, intended to intimidate the river dwellers. 

SLIDING BY HIPPO PODS              

We slid silently by our first pod of hippos. At first, I saw only twelve sets of ears floating in the river, then another twelve sets of nostrils. Twenty-four baleful pink eyes glared at us as we approached. We gave them space, but not enough. Some submerged. Most opened their mouths to a full 150-degree angle.  I know now—but did not know then—that an open mouth signals mock charge, particularly when accompanied by grunts and splashing. The hippos wanted us out of their space. We went.

The next problem occurred when the river channel narrowed to about 15 feet with too many hippos on one side. Surprising me, the guide simply stood and slapped the paddle against the canoe.  The hippos submerged. That didn’t give us perfect safety. Our shadows would pass over them as they floated on the bottom.  If one shadow frightened one hippo, he might suddenly lunge straight up, tipping the canoe. A tip-over could also occur if our canoe passed over a single hippo moving along an underwater hippo trail. These paths, cut and deepened by innumerable generations of hippos, formed an underwater extension of the hippo trails we passed on the riverbank. There are unending branches, some simply cut by the current, but they are everywhere. If our shadow scared a hippo, we might tip.

Tip-overs are scary, but never fatal.  As the hippo lunges upward, he s-l-o-w-l-y upends the canoe.  That gives most riders time to dive—however clumsily—hands and headfirst into the water and away from the hippo.  If you fall—always clumsily—your arm or leg may hit the hippo ln the way down. Startled and frightened, it may well turn and bite. Our guide mentioned a tourist who when tipped, accidentally kicked the hippo as she fell. Shocked, he struck back, biting and breaking her leg.

Mostly, however, the things we fear don’t happen. Since we wore life jackets and were within yards of a riverbank, the chance of drowning or even sinking was non-existent. My next step, however, was to protect myself from crocodiles. One splash will not rarely rouse a crocodile from his daytime torpor in the hot Zambezi sun. Multiple splashes, however, might attract several crocodiles, as they use both the noise and vibration to hone in on their prey. I was taught, therefore, to quietly dogpaddle towards the bank, then wait for the guide’s canoe to block me off from any croc that came near.  Alternately, if panicked (and it does happen), I was told to curl into a ball, supported by the life jacket, and let the current carry me downstream until the guide appeared to help me into his canoe.

Our guide, however, had created a mental map of every hippo trail, both adjoining and on the river bottom. Thus, he already knew each point of possible danger. As he approached one, he looked for lines of tiny bubbles in the water, indicating that something large was walking underneath. Most often, it is a lone bull that makes the upward lunge, not intending to either tip or bite, but merely push us away. However, as we passed beyond his range, the loners rise behind us and roar—again a tactic to make us get out of its world. 

ZAMBEZI RIVER-DAY

Our days on the river were a mix of peaceful thoughts and tired arms. We rose just before dawn, awoken by the shrieking of 1000 birds. We gulped coffee and rusks, a South African biscuit, then paddled for two hours until I had gone insane with hunger. We landed, ate breakfast and paddled another few hours until the sun began to bite. Then we lunched, read, slept or stared blankly out at the water. We did not go walking, lest hippos find us.

The afternoon was spent both struggling down-river and exploring side channels to look at birds, zebra, waterbuck and elephant, all feeding on the shore. Nighttime was story time. African tradition decrees that travelers who sit around a night time campfire spend the time scaring one another by telling stories. Most of these concern the terrible things that happen to tourists who disobey the orders of their guides. Our guide told us the story (widely repeated in Zimbabwe) of a tourist pair who ignored the guide’s instructions to close their tent at night. A male lion crept up to the tent as the couple slept and seized the girl’s sleeping bag, entrapping her feet. He then pulled both sleeping bag and screaming girl out of the tent, as the man beat uselessly on his head with a camera tripod, the only weapon at hand. Either the dragging or the teeth then tore the bag, releasing the goose down and feathers within. The lion evidently choked on the down, for he coughed, gasped, released both girl and bag then ran.

The second story focused on us. Its moral was not to swim with crocodiles. Once, our guide had canoed the Zambezi with a man and wife. Camping on an island, the guide warned the pair not to swim, lest they draw crocodiles. Compromising, the man went swimming in moonlight, while the wife watched him from above with binoculars. However, the croc struck underwater, seizing the man’s chest, then shaking him. Both tourists screamed. The guide dived in and grabbed the crocodile by his tail. The croc let the man go, then whirled to seize the guide, who held on although his hands began to bleed.  Meanwhile, the other campers, drawn by the screams, bombarded the crocodile with big rocks, running a little into the water to attract him. The reptile faced his attackers and the guide struck out for shore.  The tourist lived, immortalized in campfire tales. The guide received his country’s medal of honor.

PINBALL HIPPOS AND HIPPO WALLS

On our final day, we paddled through a barrage of “pinball hippos”, the guide’s term for lone bulls who would spot us as they approached the river, then launch themselves madly down the path and into the water, landing either just ahead or just behind our suddenly too small canoe. To me, it seemed like the entire afternoon was punctuated by both hippo-splashes and the roars that rose behind us as the disappointed pinballs watched us get away. The guide told us that he had seen whole groups of hippos, grazing the bank along its edge. Seeing canoes, they all launched themselves into the water at once, landing both in front and behind the canoers, tipping no one but scaring the tourists beyond all measure. Worse, when the water boiled from the simultaneous splashes, the noise and vibrations drew crocodiles.

Later, we hit what the guide called a “hippo wall.” This occurred in a narrower channel, where 25-30 hippos peacefully blocked our way. We could neither go around or through. The five km per hour current insured, of course, that we would drift right into them with no chance to survive. Initially, 25 pairs of ears turned towards us as we approached. More hippos, initially underwater, suddenly appeared. All stared. Some rumbled. Mouths opened for the mock charge. This time our guide stood up in the mid-canoe, both feet on the rim. As the entire pod locked in on him, he raised the paddle above his head, holding it with both hands. The illusion of height seemed to cow the hippos. Most neither stampeded nor submerged. Rather, they moved meekly out into the deepest water, away from the canoes.

ELEPHANT CHARGE

The sun dropped, my arms ached, and the wind blew cold. As we paddled along the riverbank, well within our zone of safety, we saw a lone bull elephant on a small island in mid-river. On a whim, our guide cut across the river to let us view it up close. We followed just behind. As we crossed, the wind and current set us upstream of both elephant and island. As we neared it, a stronger current kicked my friend and I swiftly down river, with the island in the way.

We hugged the islands edge, paddling around it and thus moving towards the elephant. He, however, was concealed by the long grass. Frankly, since I couldn’t see him, I forgot about it, concentrating entirely on the canoe. Suddenly he appeared, on the island edge with the canoe drifting right toward him. Threatened, his ears flew out, his trunk raised, he stamped his foot and trumpeted. I saw this as a mock charge on the edge of a real charge. I knew that if an elephant puts his ears tight back, he means to kill you.

I back-paddled—hard. Nothing happened. The current was too strong. We drifted to within ten yards of him. I heard the guide, too far downstream to help, shout “Paddle away, paddle away!” Briefly, I remembered he was armed, but who would want to kill an elephant? “Spin us!!” I screamed at my partner. He did, pointing us out towards the river. We paddled. At that point, the elephant charged—trunk still up ears now swinging. Trumpeting steadily, he stomped into the water and, picking up speed, made right for the canoe. I thought briefly of the scene in Jurassic Park where the tyrannosaurus chases people in a land rover—then I stopped thinking and just paddled. He stopped. In retrospect, I realize it was a mock charge; perhaps a little less mock than most. He meant only to drive us away, and succeeded.

Today, the Zambezi is closed. The canoes no longer paddle because the tourists no longer come.  Nor will they, as long as the vaccine-hostile ensure that the pandemic will endure. Thus, I wonder, when looking back on that Zambezi experience, if I saw a world that no longer exits, replaced by a river without people. That might be better. The hippos and crocodiles, not yet hit by poachers, will expand their populations, as will the plains game on which they feed. Perhaps one day, the tourists will return—with my sons and daughter among them–to find a river and its banks that overflow with crocs, hippos and excitement.

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Jeffrey A. Fadiman is a professor of Global Marketing at San Jose State University in California, and a Language and Area Specialist for Eastern and Southern Africa. A graduate of Stanford University with two years at the Universities of Vienna and Free Berlin, this Fulbright scholar taught both U.S. and global marketing tactics at South Africa’s University of Zululand. He first experienced Africa in 1960 by canoeing up the Niger River to Timbuktu. Thereafter, he lived in Meru, Kenya, where he rediscovered the traditional history of the Meru tribe, which had been crushed by British colonialism. Fifty years later, the Meru accepted him as the first White Elder of their nation.