Without A Kosher Passport

Dear Victoria Falls; home of temptation, excitement and over-indulgence to the extreme. I loved you with all that you represented, but had to say goodbye. My journey was winding down, as was the not-quite bottomless pit of money that was stashed in my money belt. It was definitely time to move on. At the last minute, I was graced by a visit with Max once more. As I hadn’t seen him, he convinced me to spend one more night, but this time with a roof over my head at his place. After three nights spent dozing in rough gravel, the warmth of his home was a welcome treat that I could not resist.

It was not to last though, as the fates offered me a ticket for travel again.  A highly orthodox Jewish couple and a vegetarian Seventh Day Adventist, who had just left his volunteer position in Rwanda, were heading into Namibia. That was the direction that I wanted to go in, so I stashed my rugged pack in the trunk of their car and climbed in with my newest travelling companions. Not to besmirch the gracious offer, but I have to say that this wandering posse was one of the stranger ones that I had hooked up with.  Far be it from me to snub anyone’s religions, but I wondered how easy it was to travel with the heavy restrictions that these young people had. I had found it difficult to find fresh water at times, let alone kosher food and carrying two sets of utensils to maintain kosher law. And while “God” is everywhere, how do you find any church, let alone your preferred church, temple, synagogue or mosque, when the only structures to be found for miles were often a collection of trees or dusty rondavels. I suppose God is in the heart though. My heathen ways would have had me bursting into flames if I tried to enter any holy buildings while I travelled anyway, so it was fine for me that they were few and far between.

With a quick backward glance, I now looked ahead to a new country though. We first had to cross through Botswana, a journey of only about half an hour, but this almost proved our undoing. While Eric and I handed over our passports with no problems, Israelis needed a visa to enter Botswana. This they did not have. What they did have though, was the car that we travelled in. The border guards threatened that they would have to go back to Lusaka or Harare to obtain proper paperwork, which would have either meant a delay in my travels, or me suddenly hoofing it from the border onwards. Neither option appealed to any of us.

After much negotiation, their passports were finally stamped and we were on our way again, next stop Namibia. This border crossing was much easier and suddenly, I had a brand new stamp to admire in my passport. I had already travelled through nine African countries. This was now my tenth and last new country to explore. The road ahead was gravel, and although dusty, a fairly decent one to traverse. We were headed across the thin Caprivi Strip, before falling into the rest of the country. Popa Falls would be the first place for me to lay my head in Namibia, and lying on the chilly ground once more, the Namibian stars were beautiful to behold. 

Long Lost Friends

With money in hand, it was time to celebrate. First stop, grocery shopping.  I needed some staples in my depleted backpacking larder. With cheese, bread and cucumbers, I couldn’t go wrong. On my way into the store though, I bumped into Glenn. I hadn’t seen him since I left Harare, so we chatted for a few minutes to catch up. 

After leaving the store with my purchases, I headed back to the campsite to drop off my fresh wares. Lo and behold, but didn’t I bump into some other old familiar faces! Craig and Nina were full of smiles to see me again. While I remembered them, it took a minute to remember where I had met them before. In fact it was right here in Victoria Falls last March, when Miki and I had gone canoeing. We happily recounted stories of what we each had been up to since last we met. While my wanders were an exciting tale to share, theirs were even better. They had just gotten married! The happy couple had found a most romantic spot on a small island in Lake Tanganyika, Tanzania and tied the knot with a small gathering of friends and family to witness their nuptials. Ten people were plenty at their intimate gathering and now they were on honeymoon backpacking through Africa. They even had Nina’s parents backpacking with them, which impressed me thoroughly for their fortitude.

We parted ways and I continued on with my day. I was in for yet another surprise though. As I walked down the stairs in the plaza, another familiar face caught my eye. Again I could not place it, but sure enough I did know this stranger. And who was this new person, but Barbara. Her husband Jap joined us and soon the three of us were excitedly chatting away in the middle of the street. Where do you suppose I had previously met these good folks, you wonder? It wasn’t Victoria Falls, Tanzania or even Africa for that matter. I had stayed at Barbara and Jap’s house in Enschede, Netherlands 2 ½ years before that. They were cousins of the ex-boyfriend of my travelling companion at the time, when I had backpacked through Europe. Complicated, but the short story was that Barbara and Jap had allowed their house to be my home base for a few days, while I poked about the Netherlands.

The middle of the street was not a great place to update each other on all that had passed though, so we agreed to go for a beer at the camp bar. As we laughed and joked about seeing each other in such a remote place, Nina and Craig, plus their parents, materialized and joined us. Soon enough the beers had flowed to make us all a little giddy. When some local entertainers took to the stage (or rather a clear space on one side of the patio), we had another round of beers, while we watched them sing and dance. I talked, laughed and had a marvelous evening, such as I hadn’t in what seemed like ages. I was amongst friends and it felt good. I had even seen Ndaba and Keith earlier in my wanders. They of course were easier to place, as they lived and worked in Victoria Falls. I had met them on previous excursions while white water rafting. I had yet to bump into Max, whom I had a soft spot for, as he had been my first white water rafting guide way back in December. Regardless, I was in my glory with so many familiar faces around me.

At the end of the night, I wobbled home to my sleeping bag on the ground underneath a tree. It was far from a luxury, but it felt like coming home none the less. A smile played across my face, as I drifted off to another night’s sleep in Zimbabwe. 

None of the Comforts of Home

I stretched my stiff and aching body. I had slept in some pretty rough places during my travels, but last night’s nest on the ground was certainly one of the least comfortable places that I could recall retiring to. My thin orange sleeping bag added little comfort from the rocks, roots and rivets that served as my bed. The view held little to be desired either – a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, the dusty ground with a few sparse patches of grass here and there, and the rare tree for shade. I had managed to secure a spot underneath one of those trees to shelter me from the morning sun’s glare, but I still awoke shortly after dawn. I hadn’t slept much anyway. And while there certainly were none of the comforts of home here, I managed to retain a smile. I was in Victoria Falls. I had made it to Zimbabwe. Despite my lack of creature comforts, it felt like coming home.

Before crawling out of my cocoon to face the day, I reflected on some of the pleasant memories that I held of Victoria Falls. On my first trip here, I fell in love with the adventure sport of white water rafting. With the gang from my first overland trip, we had also explored the beautiful, misty park that surrounded the top of the gorge, watched friends plummet towards the water on bungi cords and tipped a few beverages on a booze cruise. That was followed by my canoe trip along the Upper Zambezi with Miki back in March. We had paddled along the river with not a care in the world, and been pampered with soft beds and mosquito nets after our outdoor showers to wash the toils of the day off our bodies. Once Brett and Oliver joined us, we also partook in a booze cruise of our own that had us all reeling the following day. On my last trip through, I again arrived with an overland company, but this time as part of the crew. I was treated to another white water rafting trip and of course the obligatory booze cruise that were a staple of all those trips. Alcohol seemed to play a factor in the fun, but that did not seem so bad from the security of my retro-wrapped bed.

This visit to Victoria Falls was different though. I wasn’t with an overland truck, neither as a passenger nor working. I had no friends by my side. I had parted ways with Eddie the night before, so no longer even had his company or guidance to lead the way. In fact, after walking away from his land cruiser on the bridge from Zambia to Zimbabwe, I had a moment of panic at being solely responsible for my own actions once again. I was the only one to guide the way and was fearful of the path that might unfold. Thankfully, the morning sun burned some of those trepidations away.

“First things first,” I thought, as I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and made my way to the bath house. My present abode didn’t offer much, but at least the campground’s bathroom was reasonably clean. The other perk was that they would safely store my backpack, while I wandered around town for the day. That was a bonus that would at least help to save a few more knots in my grateful back.

I rolled up my “home”, strapped it on top of my pack and headed out to start my day. Once my pack was safely stowed, I crossed my fingers and headed to the bank machine that I had been urgently seeking since Tanzania. I was down to little more than dust in my ravaged money pouch, as I had been forced to break my last traveller’s cheque in order to pay Eddie for the food I had shared en route from Dar es Salaam to Livingstone. I did not begrudge him the money in the least, but was at desperation’s door now. The remaining Rand that I held didn’t amount to enough to get me to Cape Town. I couldn’t think about that now though. 

Not daring to wonder what I would do if my card got rejected again, I slid the card in, punched in some numbers and held my breath. There was what seemed like a painfully long wait, as the machine processed my request. The sweet sound of gears grinding finally released me from the tension that had threatened to overwhelm me, as money slowly slid out into my waiting hands.

It worked! I had money again! I could access my account and in turn, continue to travel. Even better,  I could afford breakfast!

Life of a Courier

Oh, silly girl. Late for my very first day! Not a great way to make a good first impression, but you cannot turn back the hands of time. Ian had convinced me to go out for a last hurrah on my final night in Harare and it would seem that I either forgot to set my alarm, or just plain slept through it. I was lucky that the truck was still there at all, as I choked when I rolled over to see that the time was 50 minutes past when I should have been at our meeting destination.  The truck was loaded and ready to go, when I ran up breathless with tail between my legs. I sheepishly threw all my worldly possessions into the storage bay under the truck and slunk on board praying that I would be able to improve the opinion I was sure Kylie and Angus now held of me. 

By hook or by crook, I was on the road again.

It took a few days, but my training crew slowly began to warm up to me. With a five-week training trip to get to know everything about how to be a courier, I had a lot to learn. I had to be friendly and informative with passengers, able to book day trips, organize grocery shopping, navigate road maps, maintain regular upkeep of the truck, have fun, but still keep some kind of balance in that fun so that I could function the next day. With the history that I had accustomed myself to in Harare, that last one was proving to be the most difficult.

The first week of the trip was a bit of a review for me. We visited a game ranch, where rhino were spied and some ice breaking was in order with a game of polo cross. The guests on the truck then took in the ruins at Great Zimbabwe.  I opted to stay back, as I had previously explored the ruins and the weather was a little too wet and cold for me. Despite it being the dry season, this May was unseasonably wet with more rain falling than had been seen in many years. The gray clouds matched my mood though, as I pined for my old travelling companion Brett. I missed him terribly and wondered if I had made a mistake in separating from him. We didn’t stay put long enough for me to dwell too much on it though, as we were off to Lake Kyle, then Bulawayo, before heading to my old favourite destination of Victoria Falls.

As the days passed, it was questionable if I was in fact sabotaging my goal of working in Africa at all. Every time we came across another overland truck, as we invariably did on a pretty regular basis, I was thrown back into temptation again. My food, transportation and accommodation were paid for by the company, but beer was also included and I seemed not to have enough wherewithal to be the consummate professional that I wished to fashion myself as. 

By the time we got to Victoria Falls, I was hobnobbing with all my old friends and enjoying every minute of it. The first day, I bumped into Nat and Keith while I wandering with a few of the truck’s passengers.The night after that, I was hanging out with Max and Ndaba like they were long-lost friends. My blood-shot eyes stung constantly from lack of sleep and the pax laughed at me for my antics. I was always game for the next adventure though and dug in for white water rafting with relish. I gave my support to the girls who dove off the bridge for beautiful bungi swan dives as well, despite not joining them for that adrenaline thrill. My thrill was to see if I would last as an overland truck courier. The odds were stacked against me. 

Eye Candy

I turned this way and that in front of the mirror. The dress was pretty tight. No, scratch that. The dress was skin tight. A leopard print mini to be exact. With high heels to complete the image. Oh my.

“You look great,” Debbie said.

It was her clothes that I was wearing, so I am not surprised that she felt that way. I was a lot more skeptical though. I had never worn a leopard-print anything before and wasn’t sure if it was really my style. The look in Ian’s eyes told me that I must have been working the outfit pretty good though. He wanted to take me to "The Tube".

“Let’s  do your makeup now,” Debbie gushed.

“Oh Lord, help me through this night!” I prayed to myself.

There was no room for negotiation. Before I could protest the transformation, we were out the door.

Ian’s smile was wide as he waltzed me into the club. I was a prize trophy in my vampy dress. As he strutted around with me on his arm, I tired of the game though. I had a hard time playing Ian’s girlfriend. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but any dreams of a real relationship sparking, were slim to none. He apparently wasn’t willing to take no for an answer though. For my part, I obviously wasn’t doing much of a job of deterring those thoughts for him. Certainly not by allowing myself to play seductive mistress. He was cute and his dogged persistence wore me down. It had been a long time since I had received such flattering attention and there was enough of me liking it to keep the charade going. It wasn’t destined to last.

By the end of the evening, I tired of Ian’s childish antics.  He had become sullen when I left him to talk to Deon and Phil. I could feel other male eyes devouring me as well. It was fun and I relished the attention, but Ian was almost petulant when I refused to go home with him at the end of the night. He felt that I was his date and somehow owed him something, but I refused to give in. I was not his woman.

As the days passed, it only got worse. He was hanging around the hostel constantly and dripping off of me every chance he got. People kept asking me what was going on, but I had my sights set on moving on again. I knew I was hurting him, but questioned how he could have ever thought to put himself into the situation of hooking up with a backpacker. My money belt was forever growing thinner and I had to do something about it. There was no option at any point to stay, and I tried to tell Ian that he shouldn’t get so involved with me. It wasn’t until I got the training trip planned, that he realized all was lost. I was leaving.
A five-week training trip to Nairobi lay ahead of me. I would be leaving behind my adventures in backpacking, and two weeks spent in Harare with friends and weird relationship statuses. Till the end, Ian hoped to win me over, but his struggles were for naught. My Harare boyfriend would become nothing but a memory of fun and frivolity that was tainted by his young dreams of love. The attention buoyed up my ego though, and I looked forward to the new adventure that lay ahead.

What's a Single Girl to Do?

I feel him kiss me

with his eyes – a warm caress

Every glance I get

Fingers massage a path of discovery

    tender excitement

All in a smile

   understood…

A brushed shoulder is electric

Soft phrases slide closer,

   more probing…

A promise of passion

   with metaphors.

Hands stroked.

Offers made,

   and accepted

Leave a glow in my mind

as I go to bed, tonight

Alone and untouched

   on the outside…

Ah, the false promises! Did I really fall for that? Could I not see through his slick ways? I suppose that loneliness makes for a desperate bedfellow, but really?! Thank heavens that I played coy long enough for him to move off to the next backpacker through the door though. I was getting enough attention, despite the fact that now Brett and I were travelling as a happy duo. No romance complicated our journey, just friends enjoying the open road together. The men of Harare seemed to be drawn to me like wildfire though.

“What’s a single girl to do?”, I smiled to myself as I counted out my roses in a makeshift vase. They numbered 9 and that didn’t include the one I lost, the one I gave away, the one that had wilted too soon and the red one without a stem that I had pressed between the pages of my journal. From many hands they had come, and I was tickled by all the interest.

With so much attention in such a short span (after not having had much for a while), I suppose it was understandable that I was flattered by Dean’s advances. Oh he, with the promise of passion for every lady that walked in the door of his father’s hostel! Was he really any worse than Ian though? They both did nothing more than “talk shit”, as the local guys I met liked to say. As long as I kept my head about myself, what did it hurt? Well… did it hurt Ian that I agreed to be his “woman”, when I was leaving the next day? Hmm. Ach, all a game, I fear.

The lure of romance, the excitement of bars, and city life filled my many days in Harare. I shopped and gathered mail from home, enjoying the break in motion. I dropped off my passport, in order to get a visa to cut through Mozambique on my way to Malawi. A delicious feast at an all-you-can-eat Mongolian restaurant pushed Brett over the edge though. He pushed away from the table fat and declared he was done with city life.

With a travel visa for Mozambique stamped in Brett’s passport, he left me to head for Malawi. My visa would not be in for a few days, so I tucked in to enjoy the ride solo, until we met up again three days hence. With a resolve of steal, I kept myself mostly out of harm’s way and by Tuesday I was on the 14-hour long bus ride from Harare to Blantyre, Malawi myself. Romance and Zimbabwe were left behind in the diesel-fumed dreams of youth.

Showing a Little Leg

Settling back into the familiar setting of Sable Lodge, I reflected on the last few days.  The warm sun shone on me again, as I lazed poolside thinking about what direction my life would spin in now. Brett and I had finally sold Arnie and made our way back up to Harare. It wasn’t near as comfortable a ride, but the taste of new adventure whetted both our appetites for life on the road again. The road was a different thing entirely now.

How did we make our way back to Harare without our beloved van to chug along in, you wonder? Why, by hitchhiking of course! Dear Brett used me as a pawn to attract attention, pushing me closer to the roadway and encouraging a little leg. Nasty bugger, but it worked. We got a ride in Pietersburg that took us as far as Louis Trichardt. Standing beside the highway, we bumped into another traveler that we had met hitching back in Pietersburg. On this section of the journey, we shared a lift with our new friend Deon. Since they had both been pushing for me to flag down a ride for us, I got the luxury of the front of the bakkie, while they got to ride in the back of the pickup wearing every sweater they owned and tucked into their sleeping bags to keep warm. Seemed only fair. Teehee! Mind you, I did have to play up my “relationship” with Brett to keep Alex, the driver, away from pawing at my knees, and beyond! No matter. We arrived in Harare late that night and Deon was good enough to put us up for the night at his apartment. He even cooked us steak and eggs for breakfast. A treat for us poor lot who had been subsisting on dry noodle soup, and peanut butter for the last while.

 With our first taste of hitchhiking behind us, I was able to relax a bit on my constant worried path of where the future would take me. The sun felt good poolside and I smiled at the possibilities that lay before me. A glance at my watch made me realize that for right now, it was time to go though. After leaving Deon’s apartment that morning, we had settled back into our makeshift Harare home at the Sable Lodge. Deon had made us promise that we would return that afternoon to join him and his roommate for a home cooked meal and some TV viewing. As the television had been a foreign object for a long while now, we couldn’t resist. Making a plan for where we would head next could wait for another day, but the Simpsons were a luxury that just couldn’t wait. 

The Last Journey

More goodbye hugs were upon us. Oliver faded into memory behind us, as Brett and I set out on our last journey in Arnie. Recollections from our last game drive in Chobe would be held close to heart for a long time to come, but Zimbabwe was in our sights now. It was time for us to shed Arnie, our metal companion, and set out on foot.

Bulawayo served as a resting stop to make a plan and regroup. We inquired as to how to go about selling a South African baby blue Kombi and were met with shaking heads. Try as we might, we would have to return to South Africa to sell the van. It was too complicated to try to sell a South African vehicle in a foreign country. Trying to save miles would add more headaches than we cared to fight with.

We took advantage of the city’s amenities  and decided to take in a movie while we were in Bulawayo. A couple we had bumped into on a few occasions in our travels was going to see “Babe”, so we tagged along. We grabbed popcorn and sank into some lumpy seats to let the African continent slip away. For two hours we watched barnyard friends climb into and out of trouble, and I for one was transported.

Upon leaving the theatre, I blinked at the surreal feelings that lingered. I was in Zimbabwe, Africa. Only days before, I had watched a pride of lions stalk a herd of buffalos across the plains of Botswana, yet had just had a two hour taste of North American life. Canada and home were over 6000 miles away though. God only knew how many more months it would be till I saw my native soil again.

An odd feeling of nostalgia niggled at the back of my mind as we walked the city streets back to our hostel. This was a city and despite feeling dated, it was closer to home than I had felt in a while. Thoughts of home and what waited there still left me with questions though. I could feel a frown around my eyes and shook it off as I re-engaged with my travel companions of the moment.

I was in Bulawayo. I was on an adventure of a lifetime that was transforming me with every mile under my belt and every African breath that I took. We were about to sell our beloved van and a vital companion in our travels. For now though, I rejoined the group’s energy sphere and walked this African city’s streets home. 

A Goodbye Cruise

You would think all I did was drink while I was in Africa at this rate. Brett and Oliver met back up with us later in the day after Miki and I returned from our canoe safari. Hugs and apologies led us to a makeup date on a booze cruise into Zambia. It was just across the river, but our passports were always hungry for new stamps, so a-cruising we would go. We saw a most beautiful sunset as we chugged along the Zambezi above the Falls with many, many drinks in hand. One too many for poor Miki, as she was a fallen soldier half-way home. Not sure if the border guards appreciated cleaning up after all the booze cruisers that went through that border, but the economy was grateful I’m sure!

Miki’s groans were joined by the rest of us, as we begged for sleep under a blazing light post in the campground where we had set up our tents. At 3 AM we tossed and turned laughing at our fate, but by 5 AM we blissfully crashed again. Brett pushed on to get a view of the sunrise from the falls, but I could not muster the strength to walk, let alone goggle over a new day. Miki and I would make a trek to the falls later in the day to get our fill of the magnificent view and feel the spray of the Zambezi’s water on welcome cheeks.

This was our Coup de grâce for a journey that had spanned just over 3 months. Miki would depart the next evening on a Translux bound for Johannesburg. It saddened me that she would no longer be my travelling companion, but fate had thrown her in my path and for that I would be eternally grateful. When I had concocted a journey to Africa the year before, it had held no one in it, but myself and  relatives to meet. I had never dreamed that I would be back-packing around the African continent with someone I barely knew from high school, an Aussie bloke and whatever other travelers we came across. She helped me to get comfortable in my backpack’s straps and have the confidence to strike out on my own. With a heavy heart I wished her well, but knew that when she left the next evening I would wipe away my tears and turn to the next bend in the road on my African Adventure.

The Mighty Zambezi

Back to Victoria Falls again! Lots of fun memories already, but now Miki and I were set to explore it all over again. With the falls as the main attraction, everything naturally revolved around them. There was a park surrounding the falls that you could wander through to admire the rushing waters as they tumbled into the waiting gorge below. Helicopters flew overhead to give the well-heeled tourists an aerial view of this magnificent Wonder of the World.  Bungi jumping headlong towards the tumbling waters far below was a favourite pastime of the young and brave at heart. I had already had a taste of the white water rafting that was a huge draw to the area back in December, but this time we had something else in mind.

As Victoria Falls is geared towards action and adventure, Miki and I jumped on board with our paddles at the ready. We spent our first night in Victoria Falls as two single ladies on the town, but first thing the next morning we climbed into a waiting jeep to take us to the river. This experience with the Zambezi River would be a little tamer experience than the white water rafting adventures advertised everywhere. We were headed upriver, to take in the gentler waters of the Zambezi via a canoe trip. Life jackets were still provided and the water got a little splashy in spots, but game viewing was the biggest attraction here.

Miki and I stowed our packs in the waiting jeep and settled in to enjoy the ride into the game park. Our cameras lay at the ready in our laps, as our guide chattered away about the landscape and the animals that lived there. We were not idle for long though. Elephants, impalas and baboons were spied by the throngs, as we paused to take in the natural beauty of the space. It is just an awesome experience to see wild animals in their natural environments; ie. baboons grooming each other (picking lice off companions and eating it – protein anyone?), elephants wandering in family herds ever protective of their young, giraffes eating leaves off the highest trees, impalas milling about munching on grasses until with a start they bound away. It is beautiful and surreal to be allowed these visions and an experience I would highly recommend for anyone.

Before long we arrived at the mighty Zambezi. We transferred to life jackets and canoes to paddle the rest of the way to our camp. Small rapids gave us little thrills, but the magic of the trip lay in the scenery. The warm waters buoyed us along, as we spied a myriad of birds and other animals on the river bank. The sun kissed our smiling faces and Miki and I thrilled to be alive in this incredible  place. No thoughts were cast to the ailing van or our missing travelling companions as we soaked up every moment spent on the glorious Zambezi. Even tales of the Nyaminyami river God weren’t enough to spoil our mood (Nyami Nyami is thought by the Tonga people to be the river God of the Zambezi River that controls life in and on the river – his mighty wrath leads to the river running red!). Our paddle down the river held nothing but joys on this day. A picnic on the river’s edge was wolfed down mid-day, before setting back out into the watercourse again. By late in the day, we reached our camp on the river’s edge where large tents were set up for weary paddlers. Outdoor showers helped to wash away the days travails and a hearty meal filled our rumbly bellies. Sipping beverages around a roaring campfire was a perfect end to an amazing day spent on the mighty Zambezi River. 

The Last Game Park

Hwange National Park; The largest game reserve in Zimbabwe, but also the last park for Miki before departing the continent. It was a bittersweet thing, but with the promise of many animals to be seen, we pushed the ailing van to perform once more.

Arnie wheezed into the park and we set up our campsite. The poor van was showing the wear and tear that we had suffered upon it during our overland adventures. We had no speedometer, the putty we had slathered on the muffler did little to abate Arnie’s noisy complaints, scratches were evident from the game park roads we had explored, as well as the beginning signs of rust from our salty ocean-side drives. The starter motor was a distant memory and a steady gas leak meant frequent petrol stops. The most recent woes that had begun to beset dear Arnie were a decided lack of get-up and go when the gas pedal was engaged, and the failure of our slider door to seal properly when closed. We found ourselves having to slam the slider shut  two, three times, or more. It was irritating at best, but Arnie still got us where we needed to go.

As we knew that the potential for game viewing was best at dawn, we settled in for an early evening in anticipation of the myriad animals we would hopefully spot the next day. There are over 105 different mammals that live in the park, as well as 400+ bird species. I had my check list handy, as I drifted off to sleep.

The sun was not quite nearing the horizon, when quiet rustling noises roused me from my sleep. Reflexively, I crunched my eyes tighter shut, not willing to accept the fact that it was a new day yet. Remembering that we were in search of animals that day, I peeled an eye open to inspect the interior of the tent. Still dark, but I could faintly see Miki’s eyes looking back at me. Neither one of us were great morning people (heck, it was still dark!), so no words were spoken in our early hour greeting. The sounds outside our tent were of Brett and Oliver preparing to leave for the game viewing. I pulled the blankets up over my head in protest, but started to stretch fingers and toes in anticipation of movement. Miki appeared to be attempting likewise.

The squeak of one of Arnie’s doors quickly had me emerging from my blanket cocoon.

I started to sit up, as Miki said, “What are they doing?”

We both stared at each other, as it become obvious exactly what they were doing. The soft crunching of Arnie’s tires on the earth let us know that the van was in motion. Brett and Oliver were quietly pushing it away from the camp.

“They’re leaving us!” I exclaimed in shock.

Miki scrambled to the door of our tent, just as Arnie’s engine sputtered to life. I sat up, stunned. She watched them drive away, then crawled back to her sleeping bag. In disbelief, we stared at each other, before a fury of words spilled out of our outraged lips. It was Miki’s last park, and they left us behind to go on a game drive without us. “SEXISM!” screamed in my mind, as we decried their selfish actions. It had been brewing, but we could not believe that they had actually went without us. Sleep was forgotten, as we cursed, questioned and plotted how to handle this turn of events.

By the time that Brett and Oliver returned, Miki and I were both up and dressed, clad in scowls for our friends. Our displeasure plain, we informed them that we would be leaving them. We all needed a brief respite from each other. No amount of apologies or explanations that “we would have been too long in getting ready”, could appease us. A brief mid-day game drive was undertaken, but Miki and  I were packed and headed towards Victoria Falls before the day was done.

The Voice of Africa

    Bob crooned in my ear.

“One love, one heart. Let’s get together and feel alright.

As it was in the beginning! One love…”

    Ah, Mr. Marley; the voice of Africa. Everywhere we went we heard his songs played on tinny ghetto blasters. Arnie’s stereo was no better and you would think the monotony of the same 2 tapes over and over again would push one over the edge, but it just became the soundtrack of our journey. When I needed a break, I could always slip on the headphones of my walkman and disappear in the dark whining of Robert Smith from The Cure or John Waite’s sad lament in “Missing You” that reminded me of friends far from arm’s reach. Mostly though, I just sat back and hummed along to Bob Marley as the miles passed under our wheels in the pursuit of life and adventure.

    With time, our journey, like Arnie, was beginning to show the wear and tear from our travels. In Masvingo, we had patched the hole that was torn in the muffler from the road from hell in Mozambique. The patch was a temporary fix, and as the miles stretched out ahead of us again, the putty found it could not hold its muster. There were other signs that Arnie was getting tired of our constant pilgrimage as well; our starter motor was now completely done, our fuel efficiency was slowly slipping, the slider door no longer sealed easily, often requiring two, three or more shoves of the door to shut it tight. Yes, it was almost time to say goodbye.

    Goodbyes loomed large for more than just the van though, as our group steered along on the last leg of our journey. In a week’s time, the gift that had been presented to me by Fate’s own hands many months before, in the Johannesburg airport, would drift away from me, from us. It was time for Miki to go home. In a mere week and a half, she would be back in Canada, far from the dry landscape of Zimbabwe. Oliver would go his own way again. Brett and I would have to decide how much further we could push Arnie, before we propped a For Sale in his window.

    Today was not yet that day though. Today, we pushed on along twisty, turny roads. We claimed victory at another petrol station reached, and shoved off towards Bulawayo where a taste of city life would encircle us again. The roads were getting shorter though and Bob’s voice seemed poignant, as I stared at my travelling companion’s heads in the front seat.

Sing it Bob…

“No, woman, no cry;

Good friends we have,

Oh, good friends we’ve lost

Along the way…”

Surprise!

“Happy Birthday dear Brettski. Happy Birthday to you!!!”

Brett blew out the candles on the cake and looked around at the small circle of faces around him. Noshing on birthday cake and sipping champagne was a great way to celebrate any birthday, but situated in the middle of Matopos National Park was quite another  way to celebrate one’s twenty fifth birthday. Laughter and cheers rang out into the African sky as we raised our glasses in toast.

***

Throwing a birthday party in the middle of a game park can be a bit of a challenge though. We had left Masvingo and dear Oliver behind. Oliver had been travelling with us since we left Durban way back in February. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but in actuality it had just been one month. We had also left the safe confines of Clovelly Lodge, as we headed West towards new adventures. Brett had requested game viewing as his birthday gift, and we were more than willing to acquiesce. Accoutrements for a party were not to be found under an acacia tree though, so Miki and I had our work cut out for us, to plan a surprise party for three.

When we arrived in Matopos, Miki and I went on a recon mission intent on surprising our recently recovered travelling companion. We mustered up birthday candles and a card to surprise him with, as well as a small cake and a bottle of champagne. All of these items we smuggled in amongst the general supplies, before we headed out to the park and set up camp. We were excited to be in a game park again and couldn’t wait to hit the game park roads.   

Early the next morning, with the sun not quite risen, Brett shook Miki and I awake to fulfill his birthday wish. I groaned, but yawned out a mumbled “Happy Birthday”, before slipping into my clothes. Brett was treated to wonderful birthday visions that morning. We spied warthogs and impalas, but the feast for our eyes was spying the elusive rhino. Not just one either; we saw six of them! By the time we headed back to camp for  a belated breakfast we were wide awake and ready to face the day. With coffee into us, we headed over to check out The Rhodes Memorial that claimed it was the “View of the World”. And yes, it was a pretty nice view. Unfortunately, it was clouded by the knowledge that Cecil Rhodes was a racist tyrant, but his place in the history of South Africa and Zimbabwe (Rhodesia back in his day) could not be denied.

We left the memorial and headed back to camp. In discrete moments, Miki and I tried to figure out how we would pull off the surprise that we were planning with Brett around. To our delight, he announced that he was going to go for a walk. We thrilled at the opportunity to set the table with all our goodies, but tried to  mask our outward enthusiasm.  I suspect he knew what was going on though, as he stalled  and putzed, and finally drove us nuts by heading into the tent where we had the cake hidden, with the claim that he wanted to fix his bed. In the middle of the day? Yeah, right. Eventually he left though, and Miki and I jumped into action. We set everything in place, then sat back to relax before the festivities began.  

Brett returned from his walk and we yelled Surprise! to his not so shocked looking face. No matter, he was thrilled with our efforts and the cork on the champagne was popped. The biggest surprise, that neither Miki nor I was aware of, came sauntering into our campsite at just that moment. Oliver, adamant that he had to spend Brett’s birthday with him, walked into our glen like he was stepping off the bus. We were a party of four again and it was the best darn 25^th surprise party that anyone had ever planned in the back countries of Zimbabwe. 

Great Zimbabwe

With our fill of city under our belts and dear Brettski behind the wheel again, we were off to track down history in Zimbabwe. Well fed, showered and up to date with letters and curio-shopping, we stepped back in time. Our destination was Masvingo, where we planned to visit Great Zimbabwe, a ruined city that was once the capitol of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe.

Having toured through Europe the previous year, my sense of history had vastly enlarged in scale. Back home in Canada, old houses were 80-150 years old, but massive trees easily beat out on any man-made historical sites around. In Europe, I had been awed by buildings that had been in existence for hundreds to over a thousand years, many having seen many uses through the ages. A quiet respect filled me to walk through solid rock structures that had seen members of the Roman Empire walk through these same rooms. History became tangible and reachable in ways I had never experienced. We had not seen many old structures thus far in our African journey, so I relished this taste of their history.

The history of Africa is written in the people’s songs and stories. We know that some of the oldest human remains have been found on the continent, but they have typically been societies of hunters and gatherers. That equates to temporary mud and grass huts that are abandoned to follow herds of migrating animals or to escape times of drought. The rondavels I had seen might have been decrepit looking and old, but it was relative and of a people’s ancient history, they gave little story.

Great Zimbabwe was different though. Here was a landmark built entirely of stone and without mortar, that had begun construction in the 11^th century. It existed and thrived as a city from 1100 to 1450 AD, during the country’s Late Iron Age, at which point it was abandoned and fell into ruin. As we wandered through the stone structures, we were given a view of an organized people where upwards of 18 000 people may have lived in its heyday. Now sections of walls were gone and towers were only envisioned through pictures provided by the site. An amazing amount of the walls and towers were still intact though, highlighted by the Conical Tower, which is 18 feet in diameter and 30 feet high.

This was a kingdom ruled by the Shona people long before white faces invaded the lands. With the grounds covering a radius of approximately 100-200 miles and encompassing 1800 acres, I could not help but be impressed by this ancient black civilization. The relatively recent end to apartheid in South Africa had not dispelled the feeling of a racially motivated social tier in the communities we had wandered through. This monument must have felt like a slap in the face of apartheid’s belief that blacks were simple and inferior. Of course we were not in South Africa anymore and quite a bit of the racial tensions had eased just in crossing the border, but they were still in evidence. Spending the day wandering along walled passages and ducking under ancient stone lintels was an interesting experience that gave another picture of time in this land that made me feel more at home with its history in trees and rocks.

After being treated to another home-cooked meal at Clovelly Lodge life was looking pretty sweet. Feeling closer to the people and their land, Miki and I decided to explore further on horseback. We galloped along behind our guide with grins plastered to our wind-swept faces. A big home-cooked breakfast stuffed us again with the delightful taste of leisure. This must be how the other half lived, I surmised with happiness as the sun set on another glorious day in Africa.

The Reunion

Heaven Lodge welcomed us back, but our stop the second time was brief. This was just a layover now to regroup before our next leg of the journey. I gladly succumbed to a hot shower to wash away the sweat from our trek through the wilds of Chimanimani National Park. The scalding water could not wash away the memories I held of star-filled nights unblighted by city’s illuminations though. We re-fuelled our bodies and the van, then pointed Arnie North towards Harare and hopefully our lost companion.

With no communication, we had no way of knowing if Brett would be in Harare or not, so we made haste to get there as quickly as we could. Our haste was well met by giant bear-hugs from dear Brettski alive and well to greet us. He told us of his adventures in agony on the bus ride South, the flight to Johannesburg and straight to hospital, and x-rays that suggested that he had probably already passed the stones by the time he arrived. He was smiling and fine, and had been in Harare for 2-3 nights already by the time we got there, we discovered with glee.

We were joyous in our reunion and decided to celebrate. We played tourists and went curio shopping at a local open-air artisan market, where I bought soap stone carvings, a sarong, a crocheted vest and t-shirts for family back home. We splashed out by dressing up for a decadent meal out to Rani’s, an Indian restaurant, where we allowed ourselves to be catered to our every whim. It was fun pretending to be sophisticated, when we normally lived out of a backpack stuffed with six pairs of underwear, two t-shirts, three tank tops, one sweater, one pair of jeans, two long-sleeved shirts, three pairs of shorts, a sarong (newly purchased!), a dress, a skirt, a pair of pajamas and one towel (or something like that). Miki and I even put on makeup for the occasion! We held our forks daintily and discussed the state of the world, glorying in this break from our reality. I followed this up with much deserved phone call home to share my recent travel stories with my family and hear tell all the news from that part of the world. On a roll, I called my family in Cape Town to check in with them as well and see if there was any news from there. I was delighted to hear that I had received some letters and they would be forwarded along to me en route. With my ear aching, but my heart warm, I called it a night. The city had been good to me and friendly Harare was okay in my books.

The Mountain's Revenge

Dawn had not yet broken, but I certainly felt that I was; broken that is. A glance at the bottle I had been imbibing from the night before pulled a groan from my lips and made my head pulse. I was still feeling the effects from the whiskey, but feared terribly the imminent hangover that threatened. Going to bed relatively early could not prevent that, when my sorry 26er accused me of my indulgences. Five AM seemed extraordinarily punishing for my transgressions though.

No matter, it was rise and shine. Time to face the day and ready myself for the hike ahead of us. The plan; to hike into Chimanimani National Park and camp for two nights in the wilds. I showered with the false hope that this would somehow make me feel more human. While it didn’t hurt, it only served to make me more presentable to my fellow group of hikers. Of course we all were a little ragged from our evening on the piss the night before, but we were still game for adventure, so piled into the vehicle to head out.

We arrived at base camp shortly thereafter and signed in. It was policy that you signed in when entering the park and advise the office of how long you would be staying. If you were late to return, search parties would be sent out to look for you. Despite feeling a little disconcerted by this news, we advised them we would be gone two nights and paid park fees accordingly. From here we would continue by foot, as there were no vehicles allowed in the park. Our trek began.

Our rag-taggle group included Oliver, Rob, Miki and myself, plus a group of three other travelers from the lodge. Later, we would also meet up with three other Canadians, but for now; Allen fashioned himself as our leader and directed our route with arrogant aplomb. I was happy to fall into the pack, slugging at my water bottle for all I was worth.

While the climb up started reasonably enough, it gradually took a steeper and steeper incline the higher we went. I found myself lagging further behind and noticed my breathe had become labored. I remembered stories that my Mother told of her asthma as a young woman and wondered if I too had miraculously developed this affliction while trying to scale these mountains. Mt Binga, the highest peak in the range that spanned over 50 kilometres, measured in at 2,437 m or 7,993 ft, which might as well have been to the moon and back for me at that point. My friends that had occasionally stalled to wait for me, soon disappeared and I struggled on by myself. I stumbled and cursed this vile idea of a nice easy hike that would leave me with my heart sprung open on the side of a mountain. I wanted to stop, lay down and die. There was no going back though. By now we were miles from base camp and I was all alone in the universe, but for the buzzards that swung lazily over my head.

Finally, I found myself clinging to a rock wall. My fingers clutched at hidden niches in the craggy face of boulders. My backpack threatened to pull me off into oblivion, but I gasped and heaved and swung myself up onto a ledge. I stood panting, cursing my body, the mountains, the world, then my gaze flicked down to the world beneath me. Within the panorama, I spied my fellow hikers way down the hill, sitting below a boulder patiently waiting for me. I went limp, then burst into hysterical laughter. The mountain had beaten me and forced more out of me than I thought I had. I had survived though.

After catching my breathe, I made my way down to my friends. The worst of the climb was behind us, as was the worst of my hangover. Chugging back more spring-fed water nourished my body and soul and with that we re-grouped and headed out again. Before long we were pushing through chest-high grasses on a level plateau. The rock cairns that had directed our path became harder to see, but we finally made our way through the field and spied our home for the night. A short scramble up a little rocky path led to the yawning mouth of a cave.

We would spend the next two nights bedding down in this serene cave lit by the stars and moon, and nourished by a stream that gurgled at the back of our dark chasm. Arriving on the little ledge, I gladly threw off my pack in order to investigate. The caves were frequently utilized by hikers and there was grass strewn about for bedding purposes. A make-shift fire pit was in evidence as well. With the stream handy for fresh water to drink and cook with, we had all the comforts of home. After a hard day of climbing, I fell into an exhausted sleep with a smile that played across my lips with my triumph. 

The next two days filled me with indescribable bliss while exploring this magical place. We woke to cold and mist, but luxuriated in the quiet of this world. From my sleeping bag, I could see the surrounding grasses and rocky hills that encircled us. Tranquil repose filled our morning on the stony ledge, but with the mid-day sun burning off the mist, we headed a little further afield for some more hiking. The most delicious meal of our combined canned potatoes, tomatoes, brown beans, veggies, udon  noodles, a handful of rice and curry seasoning hit a high note in my culinary books on our return. Our communal meal and breaking of bread was like a prayer in this little piece of God’s country. Even the trek back down the mountain could not break the spell that I was under. Stopping to drink from a crystal clear stream, reminded me of the pristine beauty of this African park that I was privileged to call home for two nights. I might have broken, but Chimanimani put me back together again

A Little Piece of Heaven

My story resumes with a taste of home. A whiskey in hand, I reflected on days past from the warmth and security of Heaven Lodge in Chimanimani, Zimbabwe. Yes, truly a piece of Heaven after some of the domiciles we had been residing in recently. Mozambique lay behind us now though. It surely was not a dream, but so many of its qualities were too surreal to be believed. The poverty, landmines, potholes and pristine beaches all mixed together with extremely overt begging and acts of remarkable friendliness. Mozambique had been a lesson in living a larger life. Our final journey, ending  in a joyous dance of celebration upon reaching a petrol station, could not be squashed by a closed border for the night a few miles down the road. We still rode the high of triumph and another night in Mozambique could not disperse our success over the road from Hell. The morning sun offered us another example of the people’s warmth, with a man pointing out a nearby hostel where we could rest our head. Gratitude aside, we pushed on to a new country.

Zimbabwe held the promise of many things. My first brush with it, in Victoria Falls months earlier on the overland tour, had captivated me and I had been anticipating my return ever since.  First though, was a stop at Ann Bruce’s (Backpacker) House. Glory be, there was HOT, running water. Almost a distant memory, I reveled in this luxury. We also took in some game viewing, espying rhinoceros, giraffes, eland and ostrich, plus a magnificent sunset to round out the day. With Brett in our mind’s eye, we pushed on though. We assumed that we had time enough for a quick detour, before heading back up to Harare to meet up with him. This detour brought us to Chimanimani and a planned epic hike into the wilds of Zimbabwe. The whiskey warmed me up for the promised trek into Chimanimani National Park. I sat scribbling down my thoughts and adventures in a journal that was thankful for a sturdy table to be laid upon. With creative juices flowing, I was primed for adventure, but the lure of cards stole my resolve. I can never turn aside an invitation to the card table, so tucked my bottle under my arm and became friends with an English bloke and Kiwi couple. This night’s adventure was in runs, pairs and euchres. Modernity lured me in, but the mountains would find their revenge.

Not Back Till Lunch

We drifted lazily along in the river listening to Max’s instructions.

“Dig in!” he shouted and we would paddle like mad men (and women).

“Back paddle!” he screamed and flailing like drunken windmills, we would desperately try to keep up to his pace and reverse our paddling order.

“Hard left” and “Hard right” had my reeling head pounding, but the adrenalin was beginning to kick in. Max’s big beautiful smile and hearty laugh made it seem like we would be alright. Until he looked us in the eye and told us what to do when we fell out of the raft. That was when and not if. The quaky feeling in my stomach returned as he spoke.

“If someone falls out of the boat right beside it, try to grab them and pull them back in. The best way is to push the person down, so that they will  pop back up and into the boat. If you fall out of the boat, but are still close we will throw you a line. Try to catch it the first time. There won’t be time for a second. If you miss it, one of the kayakers will try to get over to you to guide you through the rapid. Don’t try to climb onto their kayak. There is no point in both of you subsequently needing to be rescued. Just hold on for the ride. If no one is close enough, keep your head up. It might seem like a long time, but you will pop back up in the water. Just ride the rapid and we will pick you up at the end of it.”

He laughed, but was deadly serious. My nervous laugh was squashed by the announcement that we were nearing the first rapid of the day. Max quickly explained what direction we would try to maneuver through this rapid, detailing holes, chutes and eddies that we would try to skirt. Before actually seeing the rapid, it meant nothing to me. Our little raft full of eight people seemed to speed up and suddenly we were wet and going wild. Max’s screamed directions fell on mute ears as the wall of water crashed into us. We hit the water like it was a bucking bronco and Marjorie disappeared over the side from where she had sat beside me. I desperately tried to push my paddle into the onslaught of water that threatened to flip our craft and caught site of Max quickly throwing a line out to our escaped paddler, to no avail. We smashed right, left then straight through  a sheet curved like glass, before being swallowed by waves again. Spluttering and bracing into the boat we shot out the far end of the rapid and slowed. We made it! Well, all minus one. My heart was pounding out of my chest and I felt more alive than I had ever been. It had been a crazy onslaught, but we did it. I was instantly addicted and needed more. It was so wicked cool that I could not contain the energy that flew out of me. How far to the next rapid?  How many rapids were there? Were they all that intense, or was that just a tester and they would get bigger from there? Oh, but first, to find our missing companion.

As we back pedaled towards another boat  with a kayak nearby, we heard tell that poor Marjorie had not been saved until travelling much of the rapid solo. Our line was shot out in vain and the kayaker only reached her in time to travel the last chute with her. She had been picked up by another raft, before we could get to her. When we finally paddled over to where she was, I felt badly for my new friend. Marjorie sat lifeless and glassy. She could not speak for several minutes. She was physically fine, but gone for all intents and purposes. When she finally spoke, she stammered out the details of rushing waves sucking her under, popping up only to be sucked under again. Not knowing where she was or where to turn for safety. She was terrified and it was very plain to see. I felt for her, but it was not quite enough to quell my new-found excitement. Marjorie was given options of coming back into our boat or getting into another boat where all you had to do was hold on as a central guide steered the raft through the rapids with large oars. She stared glassily at us and our raft. She could not speak. Slowly, she shook her head. Poor Marjorie was not back until lunchtime. 

Mosi-oa-Tunya

   The game parks of Botswana were a thing to behold. We were no more than a breath away from animals that could make a snack out of us in a heartbeat at any given moment. Over the fire, we discussed the origin of species and argued religion in good-natured tones. It seemed appropriate, as we were so far from any reminders of the civilized world and all that we associated with. Always we were mindful of our surroundings and the stark beauty they possessed. We knew we were very privileged to place our footprints there and tried to respect the world around us as best we could.

   The tail end of our trip was an adventure of another sort though. We would again be faced with nature in all her wrath, but this time with a twist. We would not be idly sitting back and watching the world go by. Our last stop before looping back to South Africa was Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Mosi-oa-Tunya or “the smoke that thunders”, as the locals call it, was magnificent to behold. While it may not be the highest waterfall in the world, the curtain of water that falls over its edge gives it the distinction of being considered the largest due to the sheer volume that flows over its side. The landscape  immediately surrounding the falls has become a lush rain forest due to the constant mist that shrouds the area. Graceful ferns and other flora thrive where a few miles yonder the earth is scrubby and dry. The vegetation was not what brought us to Victoria Falls though. While our little troupe did wander through the Park admiring its beauty, the next day we were headed downstream.

   After watching a video that scared the bejesus out of me, I was pale and unconvinced. Barb and Sue laughed and Karel refused to accept my shaking head and pleads of “no!”. Everyone was doing it. Finally, it was my turn to step up to the counter. With huge misgivings and a last look back at the pictures on the wall, I agreed. I was coerced into signing up for a white water rafting adventure. With names like “Overland Truck Eater”, “Oblivion” and “Devil’s Toilet Bowl” and the claims that over half of the rapids were class 5 (class 6 is considered un-runnable), it was no wonder my knees were wobbly. No amount of drinks the night before could muster up the courage I sought, but rising before daylight to descend into the gorge I found myself pushed along by my new best friends. My dry mouth and shaking hands were laughed off by tour guides and we descended the 400 feet down to our entry point. There was no turning back now. Life jackets were donned. We were handed a paddle with which we would maneuver the raft. We entered the water and were given instructions on how to paddle the raft that would be our mode of transport for the day. Jugs of orange liquid equipped all the rafts for our refreshment, if desired. The water  in the river was perfectly safe to ingest though. Something told me that I would find that out for myself sooner than I wanted.