The world seems constantly bombarded with catastrophic news about Zimbabwe, especially its cynical and tyrannical leader Robert Mugabe, who has caused or instigated the implosion of the agricultural industry, the collapse of the currency and state services, rampant corruption, and vicious political violence. So, obviously, I was very interested to visit and see it!
We were immediately approached in the Zimbabwean border house by a few different men claiming to have the best taxi rate for the one hour trip to Victoria Falls. Before we negotiated for the taxi however, we needed to successfully get through customs and border control. I didn’t anticipate any serious problems, but you never know, especially in a place like Zimbabwe. The two fellows serving us were affable and helpful enough; one was a former high school English teacher who specialized in English literature (Shakespeare being his favorite). They were also jokers; they ribbed John fairly good (Mr. Stanlake being an English subject and all).
Evan, John, Hewsan, and I handed our passports over collectively to the border police while one of the officers filled out full-page, brightly colored adhesive visas to be placed in each passport. Somehow, inexplicably, the officer placing the visas in the passports managed to stick mine directly behind Hewsan’s in Hewsan’s passport! By the time they, and we, had realized their mistake, the visa was permanently adhered to Hewsan’s passport pages; removing it would void his passport and open him to federal prosecution (or at least a stern discussion at his next American port of entry, confiscation of his passport, and an unavoidable yet totally inappropriate feel-up from some underpaid rent-a-cop).
To make matters worse, the border police refused to issue me another visa, instead instructing me rather nonchalantly to continue travelling with Hewsan until departing Zimbabwe. Morons. In place of an actual visa, the literature know-it-all simply wrote a scribbled note referencing receipt numbers and Hewsan’s passport, which he assured me would be fine so long as Hewsan and I were congenitally attached at the hip. After clearing other matters up, including a “gate fee,” whatever the hell that is, we proceeded to the taxi rank.
The taxi rank was situated just beyond a shabby chain-link fence and peeling red-and-white striped pole gate manned by a bunch of random-looking dudes, and it was less than impressive. A short line of beat-up, rusted sub-compact junkers desperately in need of paint jobs, engine and transmission overhauls, and some Xzibit lovin (well, maybe not that last bit) waited. We were, of course, accosted immediately by several drivers, and we bargained hard. To our surprise, we actually got one older gentleman to drop from $40 to $10 for all four of us. We thought, hell, that’s a steal and hopped in with our bags. He was a kindly older guy with graying beard and his clothes faintly resembled the faded, busted, beat-up interior of his dilapidated hatchback. Another driver rushed up to the side window facing John and matter-of-factly explained that it just wouldn’t be fair to fork over only $10 – we agreed, shamed by our honed bargaining skills, settled on $20, and were off.
The drive from Kasane to Victoria Falls runs through several natural parks and preserved areas in Zimbabwe’s extreme northwestern corner, including a hunting park and elephant preserve (I think, little fuzzy on those details). Anyway, the terrain is straight out of that sensational(ist) African epic (I’m joking) Ghost and the Darkness starring a gun-slinging, elephant gun-wielding Val Kilmer. It’s rough bush and one can only imagine what lurks out there, but it’s also beautiful. The wildness is both captivating and very intimidating; we would definitely place lower on the food chain out there.
We crested and descended hills pocked by taupe boulders warmly lit by the descending sun and swept around gentle bends through the hilly terrain all the while happily chatting away with our driver (Zimbabweans generally speak very comfortable, competent English – a colonial legacy). He informed us that he was a former police officer (sure, okay) but was retired and thus driving his taxi to make ends meet.
At one point, without warning, a man in another other rickety four door coffin whizzed past. Our driver ever so casually informed us he was an active police officer hell bent on contacting his active buddies to set up a roadblock to arrest our driver and possibly extort money or other valuables from us. We had chosen the older guy, apparently snubbing this guy who had showed up late but demanded to jump the queue given his job title. Shit, we momentarily looked to be in it less than one hour into Zim. To make matters even stickier, the guy’s gas gauge was slowly but surely ticking lower and lower. John and I exchanged half-worried glances in between jokes and stories shared with the driver. Geez I hope we make it!
Part two coming tomorrow!
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