Zimbabwe has many quality climbing destinations, but the highlights during our crossing had to be the rock outcroppings of Shamu and Dema, both in the middle of nowhere. They offered stupendous climbing and an intimate view into Zimbabwean country life.
At Shamu, we camped in an elder’s farm, pitching our tents on bumpy, fallow ground near a large tree. The farmer is 80 years old, his wife 24. Between her and his other wife he has 16 children. The family was very friendly and hospitable, even offering us a bucket with which to wash. (Now that I think about it, this may have been more for their benefit than ours). We spent a few days exploring the area; I found it quite relaxing after all the adventurous bushwhacking we had been doing up to that point, as it was an easy walk from camp to the crags. It was fun to check out some of the climbs that the famed Chris Sharma put up when he visited this same farm. According to the locals, his TV crew was not as nice.
Steve and Remi climbing at Shamu, Zimbabwe
Unlike what a lot of people imagine Africa to be, Zimbabwe is at a rather high elevation, with pleasantly cool temperatures, rolling hills, and gigantic lumps of granite pushing out of the ground here and there. These offer a splendid potential for high quality multi-pitch climbing. The land is lush and perfect for farming. Here’s a bit of trivia, though: Zimbabwe has one of the highest rates of lightning striking humans in the world. This is largely due to the elevation, a climate with a penchant for thunderstorms, and all the hills creating perfect landing points. Therefore, when you’re climbing on a cliff and see clouds appear on the horizon, with occasional flashes, you get down ASAP. The place is electrified.
We had a pretty wild lightning storm pass through right on top of us while at Shamu. It all started off innocently enough, with hard driving rain under which many of us took a full shower and I even shaved my legs – desperation removes all shame. However, when the firebolts appeared we all huddled in the truck and hoped the old wives’ tale of vehicles being safe is true. I tried to push aside recurrent thoughts of how we were all actually in a giant metal box which was also one of the tallest things in the field. Luckily, the lightning was more attracted to the cliffs we had just been climbing…
Showring in the rain (Photo by Remi)
The tents were another concern. The rain was coming down hard onto the now-soft spongy earth on which we were camped, which was a problem both for puddles and tent stakes not holding into the ground. Several people ran out into the downpour to dig trenches around their tents, only to discover that their tents had gone completely flat! One even FLEW AWAY completely. Duane went out in the night to check on his tent and returned a few minutes later, looking utterly bewildered, exclaiming “My tent has disappeared. It’s just… GONE!” It was not the time to go looking, so he spent the night in the truck, listening to the downpour beating on the metal roof and wondering what might have come of his tent.
In the morning, I woke up before everyone else (probably because I was one of the only people to have had a dry night’s sleep – so proud of my trusty little tent) and saw a couple of locals in a neighbouring field standing around something orange and bright – Duane’s tent! I hurried over and said “Aha! There it is! Ha ha!” and they looked at me and asked “Is this your house?” I laughed. “No, but it is my friend’s house… Last night he went looking for it and came back and said ‘My house is gone!’” The guys thought this was the most hilarious thing EVER, if only you could have heard their hoots of laughter… “heeee heee heee! The house flew away!” giggling and shaking their heads. I added “Obviously it is not a very good house” to nods and chuckles all around. The thing could not have looked more modern and high-tech – it is a “bomber” four-season tent. The locals were clearly thinking “These crazy foreign people proudly come here with these bright portable houses that are complete crap!” We each grabbed a corner and walked it right back to its takeoff point, still perfectly intact. When Duane emerged from the truck, he did a bit of a double-take.
Our next climbing stop was at an impressive bit of rock named Dema. When we rolled in to the area with our loud diesel engine, we cut out the music and a little elder appeared, wearing a name tag stating he was the village chief, along with an entourage of about 8 others. He informed us that we needed to get special permission from a local “king” (warlord?) who managed the area, if we hoped to camp and climb their special mountain. He and a lucky selected few went for a ride with us in BiRT (they will probably be telling their grandchildren of the experience for years to come) to meet said King at his heavily guarded compound. Even after scolding our leader, Emma, for shaking his hand (apparently, quite an offense – no one gets the privilege of touching the man’s hand) he seemed quite reasonable and fair, and allowed us to camp on the land after explaining to us how he manages the area. He also had us stop by the local police station to alert them of our presence. Amazingly, no bribe passed hands throughout the ordeal. It seemed more of a show of authority and pride than anything else. Definitely an interesting experience.
Dema
At Dema, we were an intense curiosity. Everyone, especially children, popped by for a visit at some point or another. Once again, we had instant rock star status. I was feeling a bit introverted – not in the mood to entertain crowds, but luckily some on the truck were quite up for it and there was a continual rather festive mood around the truck. Everything from spoon-egg races to painting to football games was going on at any one time. They were especially curious when they saw us gear up and walk toward the mountain – I’m sure it must have seemed like such a bizarre thing to do. Why would anyone want to waste time going to the top of that thing, the hard way, when there’s a perfectly good trail on the other side? Good question. :)
Emma entertaining some kids with a fish-face
Matt playing footie with the locals. (At one point, a rumor was circulating with the locals that David Beckham was with us)
Local woman with a beautiful farm-house
Kids of Dema, they were so much fun!
David and I teamed up once again to attempt a lovely 2-pitch crack called “Flash,” which we did anything but flash. Somehow, it took us three tries over three days to finish the thing. The first day we were rained off, and had to leave gear in the route to come down. The second day Drew joined us, and as a group of three, combined with my snail-like lead pace, we ended up taking much longer than expected. I found myself 2/3 of the way up the second pitch at sunset, with both David and Drew waiting below. It was they who noticed “Aw, what a pretty sunset… Uh oh… Sunset!!” Nightfall comes FAST when the sun hits the horizon near the equator, and we knew it would be pitch dark by the time I finished the lead. Then we had to get the other two to the top, descend a trail of which none of us knew the whereabouts, with no headlamps (when will I ever learn?). We would probably end up sleeping up there, and it got pretty cold at night, not to mention the continual fear of lightening. Thus, we came to a hard-pressed decision to retreat once again, myself lowering on a rather hastily prepared, sketchy anchor. I met the two boys in the inky blackness where they had been hanging quite uncomfortably for hours, and we set up an abseil using a camera LCD to light our knots as we tied in. Luckily, we managed to catch another couple on their descent of a neighboring climb and yelled down to them, asking if they could go back and fetch us some lights for the hike out. We safely made it back to the truck.
While the retreat was definitely the right decision – we would have certainly spent the night on top of the mountain had we kept going – it meant that we left gear stuck in the route at two anchor points, amounting to a good portion of our rack which was therefore not available for the start of the route when we returned, on the third day, to finally nail it. This resulted in a bit hairier of a first pitch for David, as many of the pieces he had used the first two times were no longer available. He basically soloed much of the (harder) first pitch.
The day was baking hot; the boys roasted in their hanging belay while I sweated up the first and moved on to lead the second (easier yet dirtier) pitch. I tried to hurry along a little faster this time, all too aware of my tendency to over-think things. At one point, I was pulling on grass and scrambling up a steep and dirty ledge when I thankfully reached for a huge jug that I remembered from the day before. Aiming for it, I grabbed it solidly with both hands. Suddenly, silently, I was falling backwards in mid-air with one stone in each hand. Luckily I hit the same sloping, grassy ledge not too far down and was completely unscathed. Just a little shaken up. ;) The boys below saw a bunch of slack come down and called up to see what had happened. I was checking myself to make sure I was OK, and started up again, trying even harder to keep my head in check. I reached my anchor from the night before and began to disassemble it. One of the pieces virtually fell out as I tugged on it. Gulp. Next came quite possibly the worst rope drag I have ever experienced. I couldn’t move before heaving the rope up with both hands and making a little coil at my feet. Finally I reached the end – it never felt so good to finish a route!
Unfortunately, I didn’t take my camera up the routes so I don’t have any climbing pics to share… if I get some from David I’ll see if I can post some up. For now, a few more pictures of the zoo that was our camp. ;)
Bouldering on BiRT, Dema in the background
I love the expression on the girl's face at left
A local home in Dema, Zimbabwe
Mother and Child
The mother here was stunningly beautiful and the little boy was terrified of me, bursting into tears the moment he saw me. Mom and I both laughed. :)
