Carol’s Column

So who's afraid of crocs?

THE jaw snapped shut, the sharp teeth flashing in the bright sunlight.

A beady eye glared at me. It was frightening.

I moved to the centre of the rocking raft and nudged my oldest son.

"Look, there's a croc staring at me."

He looked up. "Ma, that's not a croc — that's Daddy."

"It is?" I muttered.

"Of course it is, put on your glasses. Anyway, when have you ever seen a crocodile sitting on a raft with a fishing rod in his hand?"

I put on my glasses. He was quite right. It was my spouse. However, there was no doubt that at a certain angle one could be mistaken.

So what, might you ask, was I doing sitting on a bobbing raft, surrounded by ferocious crocodiles, in the middle of Kariba Dam?

It happened in the usual way over the breakfast table, during the early morning crunch, as the head of the family attacked his grapefruit and sugar-free orange juice.

"Life's short," he said succinctly.

I could only agree.

"Now's the time to break away, to do things, to have a spirit of adventure."

That was when I got that sinking feeling in my stomach. Translated, a spirit of adventure phase meant: "It's the holidays again, we've forgotten to book any accommodation so let's grab the tent and take off to a remote, unspoilt, unpeopled area. In the bush, the desert, the wilderness, the highest, most inaccessible mountains."

But I underestimated my husband. He had greater things in mind.

"Guess what I have in mind?" he smiled.

"Durban, Cape Town, Plet?"

"Zimbabwe!"

"Zimbabwe?"

I was horrified.

"Who goes to Zimbabwe these days? It's not safe."

"Rubbish," he replied. "Victoria Falls, Wankie, Kariba . . . they're amazing places. Everyone should see them — and now's the time. Besides, everyone has to catch a Tiger fish before they die. It is the ultimate sporting experience." (This from a man whose most strenuous form of sport is watching a rugby match).

Which was why, two weeks later, all six members of the Lazar family were sitting on a raft in the middle of this vast stretch of water that made the Mediterranean look pale in comparison.

We'd drifted to a spot on the banks of Matusadona, a great, untamed game reserve and from the corner of my left eyeball, I could see a herd of buffalo grazing.

To the right, three elephants ambled down to the water's edge, and in the water, 20 metres from the raft, a hippo snorted, yawned and looked as if he'd swallow the raft. Which was a distressing thought.

The sun was hot and fragrant smell of long-expired sardine-type Kapenta bait for the Tiger fish we were trying to catch wafted around the raft settling gently everywhere.

On hands, hair, clothes.

The activity was frenetic. The four male Lazars, equipped with superb fishing rods and efficient reels that never snagged, cast far and reeled in constantly.

They baited their hooks with merry abandon using Kapenta or shining silver spoons.

My seven-year-old daughter fished with a toy rod and I was even more causal, using handline.

The tiny Kapenta were most unreliable bait — no sooner were they hooked and cast, then they disintegrated.

Enough was enough. Nicky and I decided to use salami and pickled cucumbers instead. And no sooner had we cast when Nicky's rod almost jumped out of her hand.

She'd booked a two-kilo Tiger fish who'd gone for the salami and cucumber in a big way.

The Tiger leapt into the air, jumping frenetically.

Slowly Nicky pulled him in, her rod almost bent in two.

It took 10 minutes to finally net him, during which time there was stunned silence on the raft.

It will suffice to say that 23 Tiger fish were caught that day. Twenty of them with salami and pickled cucumber bait.

Two weeks flew blissfully past and we returned home with some large frozen Tiger fish well-wrapped in my cerise catsuit.

Which I proceeded to dish up to some good friends for dinner one night.

"How exotic," they oohed and aahed as it arrived on the table in all its striped glory.

"Haw, haw, used a Tiger rod and spoon for that one, I bet," guffawed one of our guests, an ace fisherman himself.

"No, actually it was caught with handline and salami and cucumber," I remarked nonchalantly.

"That's a laugh," he roared. "What a fishy tale."

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