I recall little of our first day on the Zambezi but I have visceral memories of our first night camping on the river’s edge.   We hauled our canoes onto the sand about an hour before dark.  Our guide, Graham, started a fire and pulled sausages, buns and bottles of beer out of the ice chests.  He held up a shovel:   “If you need the loo, just use the bush.  If you use toilet paper, take the shovel.  Dig a hole.  Bury anything.  Leave no trace.” 

As the fire took hold, Graham checked for a signal on his hand-held, two-way radio.  Along the river we were on our own in case of an emergency unless a signal – and alarm – could be raised.  Our guide, clad in t-shirt, cut-offs and flip-flops, climbed onto a log and held up the radio.  We could tell by his expression there was no signal.  He jumped off the log – on to the head of a snake.  Fortunately, it was neither a cobra nor a puff adder.   Also fortunately, Graham landed on firm soil; he kept his foot on the snake’s head, stooped to pick up a stick, jumped away and with one deft move, hoisted the snake aloft and flung it well away from our campsite.

 As we chewed sausages and quaffed beer, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who wondered: “What if he’d been bitten?  What if he died?  What would we do?”   My mind wandered further: “Are there more snakes out there  – in the bush loo?”