This is story #14 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction To The Series:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
14. Gone Fishing, a Traumatic Experience in the Bush.
My father’s voice rings out as he tells us three children the excitement he used to experience, on the river Lee, in England. He explains to us how much he had loved to fish and, even more so, to scull on the river. I can hear his voice now as he claims that he regularly used to beat a fellow rower, who subsequently went to the Olympics, representing Britain. It was hugely disappointing to my father that he had never had that privilege. His prospective career as a champion sculler had ended suddenly because of a horrific motorbike accident in his late teens. He had been in a coma for months afterwards. He had eventually emerged, but he still had to live with the repercussions of his injuries, especially his lack of feeling in the thumb and two fingers of one hand.
Fishing, unlike sculling, didn’t have that same competitive edge, but, from an early age, I realized that my father was a lover of nature, a loner, and very independent, so I should imagine he enjoyed the solitude and the tranquility of standing on the riverbank, fishing rod in hand, patiently waiting for a bite. He was a good angler, telling us of the numerous fish he’d caught in the past.
Now our family was living in the wilds of Africa, with little entertainment available to any of us. So, one day, having planned it all out, we set off for our first experience of fishing in the bush. Armed with a road map, my father drove for a few miles before we stopped near a river, which we couldn’t see from the road. We had to walk, along a narrow, winding, dirt track, stomping our feet to give fair warning of our arrival to lurking snakes and animals, so that they could escape, if need be. On both sides of the path, and as far as the eye could see, the grass grew several feet tall. There was an occasional msasa or mopani tree, which would provide us with shade in the heat of the day.
