Page 19 - SoMJ Vol 74 - No 1, 2021

The 1991 Phalombe Disaster 9

was to try and get a message through to our wives Anne and Verena in Limbe and
we were already nearly a day late. All phone lines were down in Phalombe.
Early in the afternoon of Monday, we walked into the Phalombe Mission
to shelter from another downpour, but also to ask if we could use the Sisters’
phone. Their phone was also dead. All the sisters were absent, presumably out
in the field helping the homeless, bereaved and injured. During our wait in the
rain, while we pondered our next move, we couldn’t help noticing a huge pile of
dirty pots and dishes in their kitchen. Apparently, they had serious plumbing
problems and had not done their washing-up for a week or more. It was now
raining heavily again. Water was streaming off the gutterless roof, but none came
through the taps. We placed pots and dishes on their khonde, below each roof
corrugation. Within 10 minutes, a week’s washing-up was done. We left a
message for the sisters: “We tried to use your ‘phone but the washing-up has been
done instead!” We resumed our slow trudge along what remained of the road
towards Chambe. Between Phalombe and Kambenje, where we eventually had
to spend Monday night, we counted thirteen river crossings, many of them where
there had been no river before. The Likulezi proved the most difficult and we had
to rely on each other for support. At one point John lost his footing and I had to
grab him before being possibly washed downstream. We made several enquiries
of villagers en route, as to where we might find a functioning phone and made
abortive side-trips to houses that were believed to have one but didn’t. By the
time we reached Kambenje, night was falling again.
The bridge across the Tuchila river had been swept away and we were
exhausted by the time we got across. We were told that a vehicle had managed to
get through from Chambe that afternoon but was unable to proceed beyond the
Tuchila river and we supposed it had returned whence it came. So, hoping for
some form of transport soon, we dossed down for the night in cedar-wood
deckchairs at the Nkungudza Co-op carpentry workshop. The carpenter and his
wife were very hospitable and invited us to join them in their evening meal. In
return we gave the man our remaining packet of rice. His wife took this away
immediately – to be kept for a “Special Occasion!” Mosquitos feasted on us for
most of the evening. Eventually we got into our sleeping bags, with a tiny
breathing hole at the top, reckoning that being baked was marginally better than
being eaten. Shortly after dawn on Tuesday morning, an engine noise alerted us.
We raced out to the road where an old pick-up was just about to return in the
direction of Chambe and Likhabula. The driver offered to take us as far as he
could … and we were away!
He made it as far as Chambe Court before breaking down, so it was
Shank’s Pony again, along our muddy track, and we had still not been able to
contact Limbe. “If we don’t get a call through before noon, they’ll call out
Mountain Rescue, Police and God knows who else”, we agreed, “and here we are,
perfectly OK – well OK but ravenous.” So, it was back to mudslides and stream-