Long Way Down

by Ewan McGregor

  Remember Jaws? Quint, Brody and Hooper sitting round the table swapping scars? You’ve got him, Ian McGregor Bruce.

  The bridge was one hundred and twenty metres above the Zambezi, that’s almost four hundred feet in old money.

  Our first glimpse of the falls was through a V-shaped cleft in the landscape. We rode up to the bridge I was planning to leap from and initially all we could see was the spray lifting like smoke. Riding closer we saw them, the Victoria Falls, millions of gallons of water, the largest in the world. They were magnificent, incredible; the river was wide and flat as it approached a great fault in the land and the water just fell away. It cascaded in great curtains, the rock walls vertical in some places and not quite in others, before being forced through the cleft into narrow and raging rapids. That was where I would plummet, and it had seemed like such a good idea when I told everyone I’d do it back in London. The roar in itself was amazing. If you’re old enough you might remember Tarzan on telly on Saturday mornings. Ron Ely, standing on the rocks above these very falls, looking just as cool as the legend he was portraying.

  I wasn’t the only one jumping; we’d hooked up with the support crew and Jimmy Simak was up for it as well. We stood together beside the little metal platform that only had three sides. Jimmy told me he’d never felt so nervous in his life.

  I wasn’t exactly a bundle of beans myself. I stepped on to the platform first and this smiling Zambian was chatting to me.

  ‘How many times have you jumped before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘So this is your first time.’ He laid a palm on my shoulder. ‘Let’s hope it’s not your last then, eh?’

  With that he strapped my legs together, attached a rather frayed-looking cable and stepped away. ‘All yours,’ he said. ‘We’ll count to five and you go.’

  I glanced at the other side of the platform, the bridge side, the safe side where Ewan and Eve were looking on.

  ‘I feel sick just watching,’ Ewan called.

  ‘Thanks, mate. That makes me feel a whole lot better.’ I hopped to the edge of the platform.

  ‘Big jump,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll count you down,’ the Zambian told me. ‘Say goodbye to your wife. Five, four, three, two…’

  ‘Aagghhhh!’ I was gone, a huge leap, a swallow dive, well, falling very fast anyway. The first few seconds it was ‘Holy Shit!’ but then ‘Wow! Fantastic’. There was a lot of pressure on my face but God, I’d do that again.

  EWAN: Jimmy made his jump, plummeting to certain death before being hauled up by the cable and bouncing around like a yo-yo above the rapids of the Zambezi. Not for me, boys, not for me – but hats off to you guys, that’s for sure.

  In the morning we were heading for the river crossing that marked the border with Botswana and Eve was leaving for home. God, I was going to miss her – seven days was nowhere near long enough – but she’d ridden her bike, tasted the journey and I was very proud of her.

  When the moment came there were a few tears. Actually there were more than a few – the whole crew would miss her. Bags packed, we stepped apart from the others for a few moments.

  ‘Two weeks,’ I told her. ‘Two weeks and I’ll see you again. I love you. Kiss the children for me.’

  ‘I will. I love you too.’ There were tears behind her sunglasses. She got in the car and lifted her hand in a wave. I watched as the driver turned the car around, and then she was gone.

  Charley came over. ‘Are you all right, Ewan?’ he said.

  ‘Fine, I’m fine.’ I needed a few moments to myself. Eve’s time with us all seemed so short and I was trying to work out why she couldn’t have stayed on at least while we were in the Okavango. I don’t know, another one of those remote-control decisions being made perhaps, by whom and when and where I’m never quite sure.

  Walking back to my bike I could see the ferry approaching. We loaded up, paid the fare and I stood by myself on deck. I needed some space. I watched a crewman throw off the ropes. Zambia was behind us, Eve was flying out, the rattle of engines filled the air and we headed across the river and into the trees.

  I woke to the sound of footsteps.

  Lying there, I tried to work out who it was and how close the footsteps were to the tent. Out here your hearing is so hypersensitive it’s difficult sometimes to work out the distances. I thought it might be Charley going for a pee, or one of the others maybe. We were just over the border in Botswana, and had decided to camp together for the first night.

  Rolling over I closed my eyes to go back to sleep.

  Then I heard it again, slow, heavy footsteps. My heart began to thump. I stared into the darkness. I heard something crunch in the undergrowth, the swish of branches and a deep rumbling sound.

  Jesus Christ. Elephants.

  We’d seen their droppings when we arrived, but they were old and there was no sign that any had passed through for days. They were back now, though, and my tent was right in the middle of their path.

  I had to get out – they’d never see the tent, just trample it with me inside. Wearing only a T-shirt, I unzipped the flysheet and stuck my head out. Quickly I grabbed a pair of shoes.

  ‘Ewan!’ A sharp hiss. ‘Ewan!’ It was our fixer Rick. Grabbing some jeans I pulled them on, trying to call to him in a whisper that was loud enough for him to hear.

  ‘Ewan!’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘Ewan! Come over here. You need to get out of the way of the elephants.’

  ‘I’m coming, Rick. I’m coming.’ I was about to set off through the darkness when I realised my mosquito door was open. Better zip it up, I don’t want to be bitten by mosquitoes after I’ve been trampled by elephants.

  In the morning I found their tracks, massive footprints. They were oval shaped and three times the size of my hand. I found where they’d snapped off some leafy branches, then came across an indentation in the dust where one elephant had snuffled something with his trunk. He’d been twenty feet from my tent.

  They worry about foot and mouth disease in Botswana and there’s a line that runs right across the country – a chemical dip. We rode through it and, pulling out on the other side, Charley popped the front wheel. The road was pretty good and we were cutting through grasslands, this was real savannah again, a massive kind of openness, the land stretched for mile after mile, the horizon no more than a shimmering wave of heat. Eve would be home by now and I wished she could still be with me, especially as we were taking a couple of days off at a lodge in the Okavango.

  We flew up in a small plane, all crammed together – a mass of fresh water and islands below us, delta country, swamp and grasslands, with pockets of solid ground. It was an amazing sight.

  We were met by our guide, a man who called himself ‘Doctor’. He wore a leather bush hat and drove a jeep with high-lift suspension and raised seats in the back. There was a spotter’s chair fixed to the front wing so his mate could locate the wildlife. Doctor gave us some quick dos and don’ts as regards life in the Okavango then we were off, bouncing along a marsh road right through the swamp itself. Clearly Doctor knew the trail because one minute we’d be on land and the next water was rushing by like waves across our gunwales.

  Our destination was Mapula Lodge, a ranch style house with adjoining cabins built right on the edge of the lagoon with an amazing, uninterrupted view of the waterland that made up the Okavango Delta. We were introduced to the staff, had a quick cup of tea then we were back in the jeep and heading into the wilderness.

  CHARLEY: We saw an elephant almost immediately, a solitary bull wading through the shallows. He was a massive animal with enormous ears and half-length tusks that showed the wear and tear of his years. He turned his rear end on us then wandered into the trees. Doctor told us that elephants are non-territorial and follow the food trails, seeking vegetation between the mass of watercourses.

  We spotted giraffes and jackals, and a small herd of wildebeest that galloped over to take a look at us, the sturdy b
ull stepping away from his wives to make sure we didn’t come too close. I’d never seen these animals in the flesh. They were big and athletic with massive heads. Black manes ran the length of their spines and with their heads down they bellowed at us like cattle.

  Deeper into the swamp we saw another elephant, bigger and younger than the last, with huge curving tusks that sat high and pointed. We learned that the males hooked up with other males at different times of the year. The family groups were made up of the young elephants and females, with a dominant matriarch organising them. The males would fight when it came time to collect a mate and this guy looked like he could handle himself.

  At six a.m. we were back in the jeep and heading out once more: dawn and dusk are the best times to see animals and we were going to find a pack of hunting dogs. The African wild dog is the most endangered species in southern Africa. That notwithstanding, Doctor told us they were by far the most successful hunters in the dog family, wolves included. They hunted as a unit to bring down impala. When they caught one, they devoured it very quickly so larger predators like hyenas and leopards didn’t have time to steal it from them.

  Doctor took us to the den where the pack was rearing pups. The adults were a tawny brown colour with massive ears and dappling across their hides. The pups were darker with white socks and they bumbled around hunting for scraps while the alpha female looked on. As long as the alpha pair was healthy and breeding, the pack would continue to grow, but if one or both of the alphas died, the pack would split and new packs would form.

  While most of the pack would join together to hunt the impala, babysitters would stay behind and look after the young. The other dogs would bring food back and regurgitate it for them.

  Sitting in the jeep we saw another elephant. He came closer and closer and only shied away when Doctor started the engine. The elephant hadn’t seen us – to him the jeep was just another bit of landscape like a rock or a tree: it was only the noise and movement that told him we were there.

  We saw baboons crossing the road carrying babies on their backs and we saw kudu: large antelopes with huge ears that walked with their heads jerking.

  Back at Mapula we climbed into log curraghs; canoes that our guides poled across the lagoon. Now we were really out there, eye-level with the grass, the water, the wildlife. Doctor pointed out flowers that floated on the surface – day lilies he called them: they closed their petals at night. We saw fish eagles just above the trees, then moments later and very close we heard the grunt of hippos.

  ‘Doctor,’ I said, nervously, ‘my eyesight’s really good, we could go over there.’ I pointed way across the lagoon.

  ‘No, no,’ Ewan cut in. ‘Let’s get a little closer.’

  So we did, close enough to stand up in the canoe and see half a dozen of the massive beasts lolling below the surface. This was the most dangerous animal in Africa and we were on the water with them.

  EWAN: I had another elephant moment back at the lodge. I took a walk and found a couple among the trees. I was filming myself with my back to them, doing my best impression of David Attenborough. This one big guy was getting closer and closer as I was muttering away. I suddenly realised just how close.

  Turning round I looked up at him and him down at me. He must have been about ten feet at the shoulder with huge ears and massive tusks. I realised then I had no experience of wild animals, let alone one as big as this. Suddenly he came at me, so I dived for the cover of a tree. I was still some distance from the safety of my cabin with a mass of tangled undergrowth in between. It was undergrowth that the elephant could go through easily while I had to follow the path around. He flapped his ears and tossed his head, trumpeting at me. That was it; I took off at a run. I could hear him coming. Oh, shit. And I thought the other night I was in trouble.

  Suddenly Doctor appeared on the path, lifted his arms to make himself big and shouted at the elephant. It stopped, considered him for a moment then half-charged. By now I was on the veranda looking back. Doctor stood his ground and shouted again. The elephant made another false charge and then finally wheeled away. Right, I thought, now I know what to do. If he makes a false charge, stand your ground and yell at him. You’ll be fine, Ewan. Unless of course it’s a real charge. Then you’ll be dead.

  That night we went out again and came across a large-spotted hyena with her pup. We’d heard them in Ethiopia but hadn’t seen one before. She was very close and unafraid of the light, nursing her pup and watching us with relative disinterest with her long and large head, and massive bone-crushing jaws.

  A porcupine scuttled across in front us. It got trapped in the headlights, thought ‘oh shit’, and hid behind a bush about a quarter of its size.

  We can see you!

  Can you? Really? All right. It scuttled off into the night.

  We heard a weird call ring out from some distance away. Doctor swivelled round in the driver’s seat. ‘That’s buffalo,’ he said. ‘A distress call.’

  We were off, racing into the swamplands. He thought the buffalo might have been attacked by lions and this was our chance to see them. We drove for two hours trying to find where the call had come from and pretty quickly we were surrounded by hundreds of bawling, snorting buffalo. Again they didn’t seem to be bothered by the jeep and we were literally within touching distance. Then Charley shifted his position only fractionally and the whole herd took off. We hunted for the kill but didn’t find it. We did find a cat, however, hunched down in the grass, slanted eyes staring up. It was as big a cat as we saw; what looked like a domestic kitten. It just sat there and meowed at us.

  Just a couple of days off and yet it felt like a week. I was refreshed enough to get back on the bike and ride 120 kilometres of shitty sand road. Since Kenya I’d got the hang of it and though I still came off now and again I enjoyed it much more.

  ‘What do you reckon, Charley?’ I said, as we prepared to ride out. ‘We can make it, can’t we?’

  ‘’Course we can. And if not, we’ll flag down a truck and load the bikes on the back.’

  We bumped into a couple of German cyclists, Rosvita and Roland. Their bikes had panniers front and rear and they were towing a trailer where they stored camera gear powered by a solar panel. It was ingenious and they were using it so they could create film for a website. They’d been everywhere: Israel, Palestine, the Yemen, and all over Africa, and they reckoned that despite what they’d been told, the most dangerous people they’d encountered were the kids throwing stones in Ethiopia.

  I reckon we made eight or nine miles before I fell off and buckled a pannier yet again. We’d left late, with only an hour or so of daylight remaining, and the hard packed dirt had quickly given way to sand.

  A mile or two later, I was forced off the road altogether by a passing pickup. I figured it was time to stop. Finding a good camp site well off the road, we checked for elephant dung. I was taking no chances but there didn’t seem to be much sign of any animals so we put the tents up.

  I woke up feeling very positive and looking forward to the challenge but as we pulled back on to the sand a truck stopped with a couple of missionaries in it. They’d been bikers in a previous life and told us that the road was appalling, dangerous even, and we had to be very careful. They’d been in this part of the country for four and a half years and ours were the first motorcycles they’d ever seen on this road.

  No pressure then.

  CHARLEY: Actually it turned out to be nowhere near as bad as we thought. It took a while because we had seventy-odd miles to do, but we stayed on and rode well and the worst thing we encountered was someone else’s puncture. A group of people from an AIDS awareness team had sprung a leak in their nearside front and were stuck beside the road.

  Fortunately we had everything we needed to fix it and on hands and knees we set about the task. They were a great bunch and from mixed backgrounds: one lad from the ghettos, another from the capital, and they were visiting Bushmen villages in remote areas like Kai-Kai.

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sp; I chatted at length with a girl called Likopaini; she had gold teeth and was what she called an AIDS activist. HIV positive, she was on antiretroviral drugs and as full of life as anyone I’ve ever come across. She laughed all the time, showed us how to make the traditional clicking noises the locals make and told us she spent her time travelling the country, educating people about the dangers of HIV. She herself had tested positive when her husband died in 2004. Previously a health worker, she saw his deterioration and guessed what it was.

  She said that the threat was everywhere, both in the cities and the country, and her job was to make sure people knew about it. She promoted safe sex and gave out free condoms, explaining that in remote regions some people weren’t even aware that HIV existed. Some of the bushmen in particular chose not to go to school; they had no TV or radio and preferred the traditional life of hunter and gatherer. She spent a lot of time telling them what HIV was and that the disease knew no boundaries.

  It was incredible to realise that after such a mammoth journey we only had ten days to go. My mood fluctuated between tremendous excitement about seeing Ollie, Doone and Kinvara, and pangs of sadness that I’d no longer be throwing my leg over the saddle every morning. The thing about travelling like this is you get so used to it, so excited about what each day might bring, that you can’t quite contemplate stopping. I remember after Long Way Round I’d be home in London asleep with Ollie and wake up thinking, ‘I’m late and Ewan’s packed and on his bike waiting.’ It was hard to contemplate going back to normality.

  But I couldn’t and shouldn’t think about that now. I considered the cyclists we’d met, Kurt and Dorothy, on the road for nine years. I thought about Steve in Malawi, his entire life packed on the roof of a truck. I realised just how fortunate we were to be able to make this trip, see places like the Okavango and take on roads that hadn’t seen a motorcycle in years. This particular road was easier now and standing on the pegs I settled into the rhythm. I was relaxed and happy, excited: thinking no further ahead than the upcoming Namibian border.