Day 12 - From Joburg to Zambia, then Zimbabwe

We were picked up from our hotel at 8 a.m. and headed back to the Joburg airport for our flight to Livingstone, Zambia.  Check in was smooth and our flight was uneventful.  We landed at the Livingstone airport and deplaned on the tarmac, then walked over to a large room with a bottleneck at the beginning where all of our heads were quickly scanned for temperature.  Then we all haphazardly joined one of the three immigration lines, which were very slow moving.  Zambia is the only country on our trip that charges and entry fee.  For $50 U.S. dollars, you can get a tourist visa that allows you to travel freely between Zimbabwe and Zambia (our lodge, the Elephant Camp is in Zimbabwe – we were unable to fly into Victoria Falls directly because it is a smaller airport and the only flight was booked, even back in February).  As we stood in line, we saw that almost everyone had a $50 bill in their hands tucked inside their passports (even people not from the U.S.).  With only a total of $58 US dollars on us, we were worried that we missed the memo, but we were able to use a credit card to purchase each of our visas.  We had a lot of time to observe the airport while we were in line, and it was about what you might expect for Livingstone, Zambia: a couple of guys in some militaristic guard uniform sat on folding chairs fighting off sleep, large portions of the ceiling (which was much higher than it needed to be) featured drywall and spackling that looked at though it had been completed a long time ago and never finished, from one section of the dropped ceiling with open tiles, about 25 feet of red, green and black wire dangled aimlessly, hoping to one day be connected to something.  The restroom featured a pair of signs, one of which were the traditional stick figure of a man, but with a counterpart that spelled out "Female Restroom" instead of using a similar stick figure. 

On the other side of immigration we were met by a smiling, energetic young guy who introduced himself as Joseph and was holding a sign “O’Brien x2, Gallardo x3.”  He motioned over to three people sitting on a bench who got up and headed out with us to a shuttle van tailed by a luggage trailer.  We introduced ourselves to our shuttle mates – no prizes for guessing what their last name was – who were on vacation from Spain – a middle-aged couple and their daughter who was about our age.  They were staying at the Victoria Falls hotel, which is also on the Zimbabwe side.

Joseph climbed into the vehicle after loading our luggage and passed out some off-sized papers with some official-sounding Zimbabwe government title at the top, which had been photocopied slightly off-center.  He explained that we’ll need these to get into Zimbabwe and that he’d tell us about exiting Zambia shortly.

Joseph started up the car and we headed out of the airport, which we required Joseph to sign a notebook with tattered edges held by a guard while a woman in an official-looking uniform looked on from her perch on a wheeled office chair, planted in the dirt outside a small building.  As we started our drive over to Zimbabwe, we heard a tapping sound on the audio system followed by “Sound testing, sound testing; this is Joseph.”  After which Joseph launched into an explanation of the boarding crossing process.  (This also explained the box on the dashboard that read "High-Fidelity Microphone").  We drove through downtown Livingstone, which was busy with pedestrians and men on bikes loaded down with burdensome bundles with anonymous contents.  Joseph gave an impressive audio tour of the town and pointed out three old buildings in the downtown: one completed in the 1930s, another the 1940s, and the third in the 1950s. We also stopped at the only stoplight in town, which Joseph said led to quite a lot of "confusion and drama" when it was installed: many of the local drivers, having never seen a stoplight, confused the meaning of red and green.

As we approached Zambian immigration, roadside vendors with various jewelry and wooden and stone figurines spread out on blankets began to populate the landscape.  We got out and politely denied requests to purchase bracelets or outdated Zimbabwe currency (denominated in trillions of dollars due to hyperinflation and now worthless other than as a tourist’s take home).  The immigration office was about what you would expect for Zambia – there were a couple of windows and once you got the attendant’s attention, consisted of a quick and simple stamp that made a sound that almost seemed to say: “Whatever.”  Lines of semi trucks were backed up on each side of the border – for them there is apparently some more formal process, although it seemed as though many of them were content in situ for the foreseeable future.

It was then onto the Victoria Falls Bridge, which crossed over a deep gorge that seemed to continue forever – definitely past a depth that the bottom of the bus window would permit.  The bridge had one lane – not one lane for each way, just one lane.  It also didn’t seem to have any signals, gate or traffic directors to determine which way traffic would travel through the single lane.  Instead, drivers just looked ahead and if it seemed okay, they gunned it across.  There was also a line of train tracks adjacent to the car lane, and two pedestrian lanes that, probably a result of one of the rare days that an engineer here seemed to exercise some concern for human life, were separated by a fence.  Halfway across the bridge there is a platform for bungee jumping and as we passed, someone jumped off.  (Jen did not, this trip, having already satiated this insane desire during our 2012 trip).

On the other side of the bridge was Zimbabwe immigration – and another round of good hockers. The Zimbabwe office was pretty much a clone of the Zambia office, but this time we had to submit a form claiming any goods we were bringing into the country and then get a mysterious white slip with instructions to give it to the person outside.  Outside the immigration station we were met by a tall, bald man wearing an “Elephant Camp” shirt (our lodging for the next two nights) who introduced himself by saying “Hello, I am Sipho.  S-I-P-H-O.”  It was apparent that he would take over for Joseph in ushering us along from here on.  We said goodbye to the Spaniards and wished them a good trip, and thanked Joseph for his role in getting us this far.

Sipho, Jen and I wheeled our bags through a garage-like bay adjacent to the immigration office, which Sipho tried to simply by-pass but was then told by a guard eating a rice-like substance out of a cardboard container while standing up on an elevated platform next to an x-ray machine and behind a disinterested German shepherd, to put the bags through.  Sipho begrudgingly complied and our bags went through the machine while the guard admired his rice and seemed to ignore the computer screen that (presumably) revealed our bags’ contents.  We then took our bags down off the elevated platform and continued wheeling them along, through groups of women inside the bay carrying huge sacks of grain on their heads and other combinations of people who seemed deep in negotiations over that various packages they were transporting.  Another man in some sort of uniform who was sitting in an office chair on the gravel roadway asked for the white slip we had received, and also asked to check our passports.  We got to Sipho’s van, a rather beat up machine with four rows of seats and loaded up our bags.  Several folks approached us while we loaded and offered to sell various trinkets and jewelry, which Sipho ignored on our behalf in a way that comes from doing this every day.

Once in the car, we drove about 10 meters before the engine gave out.  Sipho promised that this never happens with this vehicle.  To the hoards of trinket sellers, the sound of the stalled engine was like an alarm clock and soon there were six or seven arms full of necklaces and hands full out the infamous Zimbabwe paper money pressed against our car windows, mildly reminiscent of an apocalyptic zombie movie.  Sipho started the car again and we drove another 20 meters before it died.  (You would think this caused a traffic jam, but nobody seems to be in a hurry to get anywhere and as long as there is space in any direction, people just drive around or through people).  The third time was the charm and we were off to Elephant Camp, driving past roadsides full of a wide range of pedestrians: women with babies wrapped in cloth against their backs, kids in school uniforms carrying satchels, men walking bikes loaded down with bundles, pairs of women carrying baskets of vegetables on their heads.  Sipho pointed out a congregation of the African Apostolic Church along the roadside at one point – which was a group of about 30 adults draped in pure white cloth sitting in a semi-circle on the red dirt ground.  Sipho noted that they believe in worshiping outside because they believe God worshiped outside.  It was an odd sight.  Further down the road little groups of people gathered around small stands with dusty Coca-Cola umbrellas, ostensibly selling bottles of water and other drinks. 

We got to the lodge and a guard wheeled open a gate behind a sign that said “Victoria Falls National Park Trust – Elephant Camp.”  We drove along the bumpy, curving road, traversing the dry, rust-red landscape.  Sipho noted that there are a few free-range elephants on the property, which were released from the elephant orphanage (also on the property) a few years ago.  He said there are also buffalo, kudu and impala, but not a lot of animals relative to other parks.  We got to another gate that buffered an electric fence (presumably to keep elephants and buffalo outside of camp) and then pulled up to the main lodge of camp, housed under a large, tan tent.  We were met by other representatives of camp who welcomed us with a cold ice tea (which we quickly upgraded to a cold Zambezi beer – one of the local favorites) and a warm, wet towel.  

We sat down and got our brief orientation of camp and possible activities during our stay, but then decided all we wanted to do for the rest of the day was relax (one of my favorite activities).  We grabbed a little lunch on the deck of the lodge, which included grilled crocodile salad.  The view was beautiful – in the distance you can see the perpetual mist from the violent crashing of Victoria Falls, and closer to the camp you can hear the roaring rapids as the Zambezi River rips through the canyons below the falls.

After lunch we sat out on the private deck of our tent and split a bottle of Savignon Blanc.  

We eventually headed back to the lodge for dinner on the deck, with the rest of the folks staying at camp.  Jen had a grilled white fish and I had an oxtail roast – both of which were delicious.  But perhaps the best treat of the meal was the chef coming around to every table describing the menu, with a contagious happiness and excitement.