An Elephant Bull Called Elizabeth and Other Short Stories from Africa

GPS Syndrome

Most people know what a GPS is these days even if they are not aware that the acronym stands for 'Global Positioning System'.  I dare say that the majority of the western world uses the system in some shape or form on a daily basis. 

However GPS Syndrome is a entirely different beast.  Ask a guide in Zimbabwe and you are likely to get a wry smile and a long explanation about musth in elephants bulls and the green discharge from the penis that is evidence of this condition and has led to musth being given the moniker 'green penis syndrome'.

There is, however, a second GPS Syndrome - Greg Poole Syndrome; loosely defined as the art of being temporarily disorientated.  The syndrome can strike at any time and can, at a minimum, lead to much embarrassment on behalf of the sufferer as well as a lot of friendly banter.  

Now the first thing to note about this particular syndrome is that you do not have to be Greg Poole to suffer from it though, apparently, it does help.  Amongst my circle of friends, the incident leading to the acronym being adopted will still be fondly remembered if the amount of ribbing I received at the time is anything to go by.  Signs that I was a sufferer were there early on. 

Aged somewhere between seven and eight I guess, whilst staying with my grandparents on the farm that they managed, I took off after the dogs on a long jaunt.  With the advantage of a few more birthdays and hindsight I realise the dogs probably thought that, as I followed them, we were going for a walk whilst my younger self was in a panic that the dogs were running away and were going to get lost.  Of course with no leads and no control from their human handler the dogs left me in the dust and my anxious grandparents found me, far from home, traipsing down the road back to the farm with not a dog in sight to back up my story.  Sure enough when we got home the dogs were there sleeping as if they had never been out. 

My next adventure led to my being banned from joining my grandparents at gun dog club on the weekend.  Each weekend the club would meet and train dogs at a different farm.  I would leave the dogs and their owners to it and go exploring.  On one of these adventures I found an old hand grenade.  It lay in the water of the damn where it must have lain for many years given that the civil war in Zimbabwe had been over for a while.  Sensible enough not to touch it I did show it to a young lad who came along to gun dog club with his parents on a subsequent visit.  From a viewing of this artefact of war we pressed on and went for an extended walk.  Though not disorientated I certainly misjudged how long it would take to get back to the vehicles.  Our return was met with that mixture of relief and anger common to adults who fear having lost a couple of kids in the bush.   

The older I got the more severe would be the consequences of disorientation.  My partner in crime was often Bruce Clegg.  If ever there was a boy who suffered from Greg Poole Syndrome and never knew it it was he.  If Bruce promised a short cut or a dry camping trip you knew you were in for a tough time.  Old enough to be out on our reconnaissance we were camping on a farm just outside Harare.  Deciding to explore the local stream we set off to find it and, once there we followed it for ages, fascinated with the bird, insect and plant life found in and around it's pools and reed beds.  Eventually it was time to head back to camp, leaving the stream behind we cut back through the bush and only once we were away from the safe, easily followed course of the stream did we realise that we were disorientated or rather, totally lost.  My first time ever.  It is a sickening feeling to be that lost, the first thing to leave is logic and the first to set in is panic.  Bush wise enough to realise this we sat down and drew things out in the sand.  Sand is a forgiving medium for drawing, rubbing out and redrawing.  Eventually we came up with a plan and followed it.  It worked.  We got back to the main road, realised exactly where we were, and then had a marathon walk with parched throats and thickening tongues as thirst took hold.