... these pictures are old
This is where my heart lives
My mother and her man are here visiting. And they bring tales of home that make me ache with longing. It took them three and a half days to drive up from Zambia. The same trip that we did two years ago, all our belongings wrapped up in a spotted red handkerchief tied to a stick like one of the three little pigs. Two of the three little pigs.
This is the time of year - at home - that the river rises and breaks her banks. And our houses, perched precariously on the edge of the oxbow lagoon stare wide eyed as the water rises. And rises.
And our green, puku and impala studded view fills up with brown water and nile cabbage complete with glinting eyed crocodiles and lazy yawning hippos. And our houses shrink back and curl their toes up as the water laps at their feet. Nothing unusual there.
In 2006 though, it rained. And kept on raining.
And the river rose
And kept on rising
And people started to mutter
And the water rose higher
And the muttering grew louder
And still the water rose.
“It’ll be like the floods of 1978” they said
And Robin, who was there in 1978 (so was I but I was only 2) saw what this water could do. And every year he would move his fleet of land cruisers up and away from the hungry river and out to the airport. And every year we would all laugh at him. But this year…
He was right.