I had the distinct honor of presiding over my first high school dance this past weekend. Evan, like me a bit burnt out from a particularly rough two weeks of mismanagement and incompetence at work, had gone to Butare to visit John, our traveling partner from southern Africa. The Anti-AIDS club had arranged to use the dining hall for a series of performances, skits, and dancing sometime last week, but it was continuously rescheduled. Finally, Saturday night was a go ahead, and I was responsible for providing the supervision.
To my surprise and utter dismay, the students had actually decided to just dance, and perform not drama about AIDS education. They had already set up the dining hall with AV equipment and rearranged the benches and tables so I gave, assuring the Anti-AIDS group president that the shindig would last no longer than 10:00PM.
At first, students stood ringed around the enclosed area created by upturned tables used to contain the sound a bit and protect the windows. The girls especially, who trickled in slowly, just watched with bemused or ambivalent expressions. Small groups of boys jittered furiously, kicking, stomping, and sliding their sandal-clad feet, rhythmically twisting their shoulders and hips. However, with the lights on, most students seemed (unsurprisingly, I guess) unwilling to brave the “dance floor.” What’s more, the boys and girls were decidedly separated, boys to my right, girls to my left. It was just like those dreadfully awkward high school dances of yesteryear.
Eventually I caved on the lights. The bright fluorescent bulbs can be shut off piecemeal in the dining hall, so I allowed the students to leave the lights off in the third where they danced while the remaining two thirds stayed garishly lit. Within twenty minutes many more students were gyrating, swaying, and vibrating to the ubiquitously bad Rwandan hip-hop blaring out of overburdened speakers. Their dance style is distinctive, some silly hybrid of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, and the Twist, but they are good nonetheless. In fact, really good. Hell, at least they’re exercising, I thought. And I was amused.
The night turned out to be good fun despite the chaperoning bit. A former student who now works as a lab assistant turned up to help supervise, along with Claude, the night watchman. Predictably the students bemoaned the admittedly early end time (although I had given them four extra songs past our agreed stop time!), and I could understand their displeasure. The students are so cooped up at school with little to entertain themselves. Dancing is a great reprieve for them from an otherwise stressful experience. I imagine that’s why we have the alcohol problems we do amongst some of our older students (who, were they not students, could drink freely outside of school as many are of legal age).
While I was sad to cut off the music, I knew if I didn’t put my foot down it would be a slippery slope. Some of the students will take all they can get and more if you let them. Plus I was famished having not eaten dinner. With dancing finished, the students trouped off to do god only knows what. With their energy levels spiked, I just hoped they wouldn’t break anything too big!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Retracing our steps.
After another wonderful flight on Kigali Air’s new 757-300 Johannesburg-Kigali route, we stepped off the plane into the pleasantly warm night air of Kigali. We spent the night briefly catching up with fellow volunteers over dinner, then the following morning sorting out phone issues. In the smoggy mid-afternoon glare we boarded a bus back to Nyagatare, quite unsure what might await us at home.
The heat in Nyagatare was immediately a stiff reminder of our everyday reality. The air sat heavy and still, not a cloyingly sticky humid heat but a weighty, oppressive heat pushing down, settling in and around the house over the course of the day. The curtains hung limp and motionless in front of the open windows; the trees stood mostly bare, lifeless, and statuesque outside. The sun shone as fierce and bright as ever. Occasionally a sharp, brief gust of dusty wind pierced the house, a rather grim reminder that we more or less live in a desert six months of the year.
Thankfully everything was in order at home (no sign of the rat!). Rainy season is also picking up here in Nyagatare, as elsewhere. Rain means cooler weather, more water, and less dust, all of which are welcome changes. We’ve also planted a new garden with Sawa, so we’ll see what grows. More updates soon.
Cheers,
Zach
The heat in Nyagatare was immediately a stiff reminder of our everyday reality. The air sat heavy and still, not a cloyingly sticky humid heat but a weighty, oppressive heat pushing down, settling in and around the house over the course of the day. The curtains hung limp and motionless in front of the open windows; the trees stood mostly bare, lifeless, and statuesque outside. The sun shone as fierce and bright as ever. Occasionally a sharp, brief gust of dusty wind pierced the house, a rather grim reminder that we more or less live in a desert six months of the year.
Thankfully everything was in order at home (no sign of the rat!). Rainy season is also picking up here in Nyagatare, as elsewhere. Rain means cooler weather, more water, and less dust, all of which are welcome changes. We’ve also planted a new garden with Sawa, so we’ll see what grows. More updates soon.
Cheers,
Zach
Paraíso.
Tofo is truly stunning. And overrun with foreign tourists, but that’s neither here nor there. I contemplated posting a long report about each and every thing we did, but such a tranquil and relaxing place deserves a clean and spare treatment.
The beach stretches out in a long palm-tinged arc cradling the clear blue-green Indian Ocean. Swells roll in softly most of the time, providing just enough background music to soothe one to sleep. All along and behind the beach are restaurants and relatively shabby backpacker’s accommodations. We stayed in a plain palm thatch bungalow perched atop a dune looking directly onto the ocean. In town, situated neatly just behind the beach, a small market sat quietly staffed by ladies overcharging (understandably) for delicious produce and gleaming seafood. All around them were locals selling copious amounts of liquor and beer for the tourist crowd. Next to the market a local (and cheap) restaurant served heaping plates of rice, stewed cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes, and your choice of fried just-dead seafood (prawns, fish, calamari). Other restaurants dotted around Tofo served similarly delicious grub, ranging from fried eggs and salad on fresh bread to Greek salad and pizza. The matapa, a soupy greenish local dish commonly eaten with rice was also not bad.
Our only real goal in Tofo, besides relaxing and mentally recharging for Term 3, was to swim with whale sharks. Having seen whale sharks in captivity (sadly, I might add), Evan and I both relished the idea of swimming freely with them. Tofo is basically the place to go if you want to see the gentle giants in the wild. Roughly 300 of the world’s approximately 1,000 whale sharks are found for most of the year off the Inhambane province coast. Tofo is chocked full of ocean safari companies that organize snorkeling excursions to swim with the sharks just off the shore (no more than a kilometer!). Despite some early technical difficulties, our boat crew proved their worth. They found three different sharks in the span of two hours.
Once a whale shark was spotted the boat crew positioned the boat ahead of the advancing behemoth and everyone slid (or floundered awkwardly) into the water. I bobbed on the surface and dove down deep to swim right next to the sharks. My decent swimming skills proved handy. Each was large, but one in particular must have been seven or eight meters and entirely docile. It was, for lack of a better term, magical (am I gushing too much?). Highly recommended to anyone visiting southern Africa; in fact, almost worth a trip to Mozambique itself. And the price? Not too shabby: $30 for snorkel gear and two hours on the water.
Other than whale sharks, Evan and I just lounged around, wake up late, ate tasty food, read books, played pool at the hostel, swam, and sunned ourselves on the beach. Evan also built more than one sand castle. We met a lot of very different people, many from Europe, South Africa (obviously), and Australia. We shared beers and laughs, and did a bit of dancing. We even ran into the same older Dutch man from Zimbabwe at our hostel!
After our sojourn in Tofo, we took an early (think 4AM) bus back to Maputo, and then an overnight bus back into South Africa. Before leaving Maputo, Evan and I just sat for hours in a restaurant having lunch and coffee, then sipping Laurentina beers as the sun sank lower over the Indian Ocean. Before hopping on our bus we loaded up on tangerines, loaves of delicious bread, chocolate and devoured two highly suspect but scrumptious hamburgers (fried egg and pickles included) from a sidewalk shack. It had been a highly successful trip by most accounts. No crimes committed or arrested for, no major thefts (unless you count that bank hold-up…er I mean…canoe trip in Botswana), and some interesting (or phantom) visas for the passport. Would have been nice to see lions and other game in Zimbabwe, but life isn’t a script. We felt refreshed after five days at the beach, ready to tackle another four months of teaching.
The beach stretches out in a long palm-tinged arc cradling the clear blue-green Indian Ocean. Swells roll in softly most of the time, providing just enough background music to soothe one to sleep. All along and behind the beach are restaurants and relatively shabby backpacker’s accommodations. We stayed in a plain palm thatch bungalow perched atop a dune looking directly onto the ocean. In town, situated neatly just behind the beach, a small market sat quietly staffed by ladies overcharging (understandably) for delicious produce and gleaming seafood. All around them were locals selling copious amounts of liquor and beer for the tourist crowd. Next to the market a local (and cheap) restaurant served heaping plates of rice, stewed cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes, and your choice of fried just-dead seafood (prawns, fish, calamari). Other restaurants dotted around Tofo served similarly delicious grub, ranging from fried eggs and salad on fresh bread to Greek salad and pizza. The matapa, a soupy greenish local dish commonly eaten with rice was also not bad.
Our only real goal in Tofo, besides relaxing and mentally recharging for Term 3, was to swim with whale sharks. Having seen whale sharks in captivity (sadly, I might add), Evan and I both relished the idea of swimming freely with them. Tofo is basically the place to go if you want to see the gentle giants in the wild. Roughly 300 of the world’s approximately 1,000 whale sharks are found for most of the year off the Inhambane province coast. Tofo is chocked full of ocean safari companies that organize snorkeling excursions to swim with the sharks just off the shore (no more than a kilometer!). Despite some early technical difficulties, our boat crew proved their worth. They found three different sharks in the span of two hours.
Once a whale shark was spotted the boat crew positioned the boat ahead of the advancing behemoth and everyone slid (or floundered awkwardly) into the water. I bobbed on the surface and dove down deep to swim right next to the sharks. My decent swimming skills proved handy. Each was large, but one in particular must have been seven or eight meters and entirely docile. It was, for lack of a better term, magical (am I gushing too much?). Highly recommended to anyone visiting southern Africa; in fact, almost worth a trip to Mozambique itself. And the price? Not too shabby: $30 for snorkel gear and two hours on the water.
Other than whale sharks, Evan and I just lounged around, wake up late, ate tasty food, read books, played pool at the hostel, swam, and sunned ourselves on the beach. Evan also built more than one sand castle. We met a lot of very different people, many from Europe, South Africa (obviously), and Australia. We shared beers and laughs, and did a bit of dancing. We even ran into the same older Dutch man from Zimbabwe at our hostel!
After our sojourn in Tofo, we took an early (think 4AM) bus back to Maputo, and then an overnight bus back into South Africa. Before leaving Maputo, Evan and I just sat for hours in a restaurant having lunch and coffee, then sipping Laurentina beers as the sun sank lower over the Indian Ocean. Before hopping on our bus we loaded up on tangerines, loaves of delicious bread, chocolate and devoured two highly suspect but scrumptious hamburgers (fried egg and pickles included) from a sidewalk shack. It had been a highly successful trip by most accounts. No crimes committed or arrested for, no major thefts (unless you count that bank hold-up…er I mean…canoe trip in Botswana), and some interesting (or phantom) visas for the passport. Would have been nice to see lions and other game in Zimbabwe, but life isn’t a script. We felt refreshed after five days at the beach, ready to tackle another four months of teaching.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The last chappa to Tofo.
Despite our border ‘troubles,’ we managed to get safely back to Pretoria. Unfortunately we arrived far too early in the bracingly cold early morning. We took a taxi from the Pretoria train and bus depot across town to the relatively safe and pleasant Hatfield neighborhood where we first stayed. We literally loitered outside the twenty-four hour McDonald’s for over an hour before another restaurant opened. Afterwards we gratefully dropped our bags at the same hostel and bid farewell to our travelling companions; Evan and I then grabbed a surprisingly stellar Lebanese lunch and watched a (rather disappointing) movie starring over-the-hill Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz.
That evening we boarded another overnight train (no sleeper births this time) for the run to the Mozambique border. Unlike our previous overnight train adventure, this trip turned into a miserable, numbingly cold, horribly uncomfortable fifteen hour misadventure. I cannot underscore what a dire state I was in mentally at 10:00am the following morning…hungry, exhausted, and barely defrosted.
We hopped a chappa to the border less than 10 kilometers away, still jammed into a tight uncomfortable space but happy for the warmth emanating from the dozen or so bodies packed into the van. At the Mozambique border we walked through a mildly perplexing maze of construction work and random buildings to exit South Africa and then strolled past an army checkpoint to the bustling Mozambique border post. Evan and I knew that Mozambique has a penchant for unexpectedly raising visa prices and admission requirements, but we hoped for the best. Turns out, it was highway robbery, but with a fancy visa: $82 for a full page brightly colored sticker visa complete with digital picture and oh-so-snazzy hologram. A visa not dissimilar to the damn Zimbabwean visa stuck in Hewsan’s passport.
Once through border control, we grabbed a few tangerines from the roadside, piled into yet another chappa, and took off for Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. We spent an uneventful afternoon and night in Maputo; I managed to sleep for about 10 hours despite a 5AM wake-up. It had been such smooth, if exhausting, sailing for so much of the trip, and Evan and I were grateful to make it uneventfully into Mozambique. Sadly our traveler’s luck had, unbeknownst to us, also exhausted itself.
A taxi ride to the bus park in Maputo was followed by a rather epic twelve hour bus trip to the picturesque laid-back beach town of Tofo. First, as we approached Xai-Xai, roughly three hours to the north of Maputo along the coast-hugging N1, the driver began intermittently pulling on the emergency brake. The bus rolled slowly through Xai-Xai’s main strip until without warning the driver pulled to the curb, hopped down from the cab, and sprinted across the street to a faded, rundown automotive supply store. He returned within minutes holding a small generic bottle, whose contents I couldn’t make out. At the northern edge of town, the bus pulled into a garage, and Evan and I both emitted the low, barely audible moans. We are accustomed to mechanical problems in Rwanda that can delay a trip for hours and hours. Generally, those delays are tire-related, but this new dilemma appeared brake-related, which could only mean serious trouble.
Surprisingly, although the issue was the brakes, the driver, conductor, and a few guys from the garage managed to remove four wheels, change two brake disks, and replace the wheels in about two hours – highly competent (by my standards)! We were back on the road. Little did we know that the trouble had only begun.
Roughly an hour further down the horribly pitted and rough highway extending northwards from Xai-Xai towards Inhambane province, we encountered an even greater obstacle. Somehow, in the hollow of two stubby hills, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed, flipping dramatically on its side, successfully blocking the entire two lane highway and an remotely passable areas to either side of the tarmac. A long line of idling trucks, buses, and 4x4s idled impatiently and expectantly in long queues up either hill, dots of a mechanical army ant war party snaking to the crest of the far hill. Within a few moments of our arrival, private vehicles began emerging along a sandy track to our left, seemingly out of the bush itself. Some had branches stuck in grilles and leaves clinging to windshields. Soon buses began appearing, too.
Other vehicles and their drivers began to take note and braved the deep, loose sand. 4x4s managed easily with enough speed, buses failed or didn’t fail based on the drivers’ skill. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to be a congenital idiot (just wait). Our first ill-fated attempt took us away from the worn path already forming, but rather to the left, up a small rise that would cut across a small plot to the sandy track leading into the bush. We hit the rise with too many people (read: everyone; they hadn’t thought to remove passengers) and too little speed. Shit, now we’re stuck.
After assessing our predicament, the driver and conductor began an elaborate back and forth dance to extricate the stalled bus. The conductor, befitting his title, conducted by digging furiously with a shovel and instructing passengers where to place branches and other debris to ensure traction. The whole affair became a communal struggle, first against the soft, tire-eating sand and then against the slick red mud churned up by the spinning tires. The effort, by most measures demonstrated everyone was ready to get back on the road, but the driver was a moron, turning the wheels in entirely wrong directions at the most inopportune moments.
Streaked with mud and sweating from exertion in the humid Mozambique afternoon, Evan and I rued our previous luck. It seemed travel karma had finally found a cosmic cure for our earlier good fortune. Eventually, we managed to get the bus back on the road. The driver, this time with an empty bus, drove headlong at the existing sandy track. To my astonishment, he managed to get stuck again. Doh! We pushed and soon had the bus free again. We bumbled down the sandy road through cassava fields and thickets of dense brush, dodging oncoming vehicles, before finally reaching the paved highway again. Inhambane here we come!
Our earlier delays put us into Inhambane late, really late. We had expected the bus to continue to Tofo, one hour by dirt road to the east directly on the coast. The driver and conductor flatly refused and ordered us off the bus. We had little recourse since neither Evan nor I speak Portuguese. A small boy immediately approached us offering small treats and the ubiquitous coconut bread. Instead, we asked him to find us a chappa to Tofo. The ride, and day in general, had been exhausting and humbling, but we desperately wanted to make it to Tofo the same evening. I was astonished when the boy beckoned us to follow right away, mumbling something about the last chappa to Tofo. Sure enough, Evan and I piled into the very last chappa of the evening, just after 7:00PM bound for the idyllic Tofo. We wedged ourselves and packs into the back row and waited. Before long, the chappa was filled to overflowing. The driver did some sort of vexing victory circle around the bus park and then careened towards the road to Inhambane. At first count, before anyone hopped off the bus, our small Toyota minivan taxi had twenty-five – yes, 25 – people crammed into its cabin or hanging precariously from the open sliding door. Bodies were draped over bodies; hands clung to whatever stable piece of metal or flesh they could grab (or grope). I’ve been squeezed before, but this was a new level of leave-none-behind public transport. I grinned the whole way to Tofo, praising the travel gods for our last little bit of luck in a depressingly luckless day.
Look for a final installment tomorrow, wrapping up holiday stories.
Zach
That evening we boarded another overnight train (no sleeper births this time) for the run to the Mozambique border. Unlike our previous overnight train adventure, this trip turned into a miserable, numbingly cold, horribly uncomfortable fifteen hour misadventure. I cannot underscore what a dire state I was in mentally at 10:00am the following morning…hungry, exhausted, and barely defrosted.
We hopped a chappa to the border less than 10 kilometers away, still jammed into a tight uncomfortable space but happy for the warmth emanating from the dozen or so bodies packed into the van. At the Mozambique border we walked through a mildly perplexing maze of construction work and random buildings to exit South Africa and then strolled past an army checkpoint to the bustling Mozambique border post. Evan and I knew that Mozambique has a penchant for unexpectedly raising visa prices and admission requirements, but we hoped for the best. Turns out, it was highway robbery, but with a fancy visa: $82 for a full page brightly colored sticker visa complete with digital picture and oh-so-snazzy hologram. A visa not dissimilar to the damn Zimbabwean visa stuck in Hewsan’s passport.
Once through border control, we grabbed a few tangerines from the roadside, piled into yet another chappa, and took off for Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. We spent an uneventful afternoon and night in Maputo; I managed to sleep for about 10 hours despite a 5AM wake-up. It had been such smooth, if exhausting, sailing for so much of the trip, and Evan and I were grateful to make it uneventfully into Mozambique. Sadly our traveler’s luck had, unbeknownst to us, also exhausted itself.
A taxi ride to the bus park in Maputo was followed by a rather epic twelve hour bus trip to the picturesque laid-back beach town of Tofo. First, as we approached Xai-Xai, roughly three hours to the north of Maputo along the coast-hugging N1, the driver began intermittently pulling on the emergency brake. The bus rolled slowly through Xai-Xai’s main strip until without warning the driver pulled to the curb, hopped down from the cab, and sprinted across the street to a faded, rundown automotive supply store. He returned within minutes holding a small generic bottle, whose contents I couldn’t make out. At the northern edge of town, the bus pulled into a garage, and Evan and I both emitted the low, barely audible moans. We are accustomed to mechanical problems in Rwanda that can delay a trip for hours and hours. Generally, those delays are tire-related, but this new dilemma appeared brake-related, which could only mean serious trouble.
Surprisingly, although the issue was the brakes, the driver, conductor, and a few guys from the garage managed to remove four wheels, change two brake disks, and replace the wheels in about two hours – highly competent (by my standards)! We were back on the road. Little did we know that the trouble had only begun.
Roughly an hour further down the horribly pitted and rough highway extending northwards from Xai-Xai towards Inhambane province, we encountered an even greater obstacle. Somehow, in the hollow of two stubby hills, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed, flipping dramatically on its side, successfully blocking the entire two lane highway and an remotely passable areas to either side of the tarmac. A long line of idling trucks, buses, and 4x4s idled impatiently and expectantly in long queues up either hill, dots of a mechanical army ant war party snaking to the crest of the far hill. Within a few moments of our arrival, private vehicles began emerging along a sandy track to our left, seemingly out of the bush itself. Some had branches stuck in grilles and leaves clinging to windshields. Soon buses began appearing, too.
Other vehicles and their drivers began to take note and braved the deep, loose sand. 4x4s managed easily with enough speed, buses failed or didn’t fail based on the drivers’ skill. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to be a congenital idiot (just wait). Our first ill-fated attempt took us away from the worn path already forming, but rather to the left, up a small rise that would cut across a small plot to the sandy track leading into the bush. We hit the rise with too many people (read: everyone; they hadn’t thought to remove passengers) and too little speed. Shit, now we’re stuck.
After assessing our predicament, the driver and conductor began an elaborate back and forth dance to extricate the stalled bus. The conductor, befitting his title, conducted by digging furiously with a shovel and instructing passengers where to place branches and other debris to ensure traction. The whole affair became a communal struggle, first against the soft, tire-eating sand and then against the slick red mud churned up by the spinning tires. The effort, by most measures demonstrated everyone was ready to get back on the road, but the driver was a moron, turning the wheels in entirely wrong directions at the most inopportune moments.
Streaked with mud and sweating from exertion in the humid Mozambique afternoon, Evan and I rued our previous luck. It seemed travel karma had finally found a cosmic cure for our earlier good fortune. Eventually, we managed to get the bus back on the road. The driver, this time with an empty bus, drove headlong at the existing sandy track. To my astonishment, he managed to get stuck again. Doh! We pushed and soon had the bus free again. We bumbled down the sandy road through cassava fields and thickets of dense brush, dodging oncoming vehicles, before finally reaching the paved highway again. Inhambane here we come!
Our earlier delays put us into Inhambane late, really late. We had expected the bus to continue to Tofo, one hour by dirt road to the east directly on the coast. The driver and conductor flatly refused and ordered us off the bus. We had little recourse since neither Evan nor I speak Portuguese. A small boy immediately approached us offering small treats and the ubiquitous coconut bread. Instead, we asked him to find us a chappa to Tofo. The ride, and day in general, had been exhausting and humbling, but we desperately wanted to make it to Tofo the same evening. I was astonished when the boy beckoned us to follow right away, mumbling something about the last chappa to Tofo. Sure enough, Evan and I piled into the very last chappa of the evening, just after 7:00PM bound for the idyllic Tofo. We wedged ourselves and packs into the back row and waited. Before long, the chappa was filled to overflowing. The driver did some sort of vexing victory circle around the bus park and then careened towards the road to Inhambane. At first count, before anyone hopped off the bus, our small Toyota minivan taxi had twenty-five – yes, 25 – people crammed into its cabin or hanging precariously from the open sliding door. Bodies were draped over bodies; hands clung to whatever stable piece of metal or flesh they could grab (or grope). I’ve been squeezed before, but this was a new level of leave-none-behind public transport. I grinned the whole way to Tofo, praising the travel gods for our last little bit of luck in a depressingly luckless day.
Look for a final installment tomorrow, wrapping up holiday stories.
Zach
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Warning: Do not open whilst train is in motion.
For anyone considering travel in Zimbabwe, especially to Victoria Falls, definitely check out the overnight train connecting the northwest tourist city with Bulewayo, located in west central Zimbabwe. Evan and I discovered the train online via a random BBC article metaphorically contrasting the current, decrepit state of the train with Zimbabwe’s own predicament. The rolling stock was built in Birmingham in the early 1950s then imported for use on Rhodesian Railways track. You can still see the chipped and faded fanciful R&R logo on all of the cars. At its inception, I’m quite sure the train would have been something, but today its glory is but a faint memory: no electrical power, all original fixtures (mattresses, it appeared, included), the barest of WCs, and doors at the end of the trains that swung freely and unpredictably open like hinged saloon doors.
With our bags packed and goodies for the train purchased, we clambered aboard the old sleeper car and into our cabin. Luckily, the arrangement of cabins is by two and four people, perfect for John, Evan, Hewsan, and me. Two bottom bunks, two top bunks, and two large windows looking out on the passing scenery. Temperatures dipped considerably during the night, but we had blankets supplied to us in enormous plastic zip top bags large enough to fit a small child comfortably (no bed bugs!). Everything about the cabin, like the rest of the train, was washed out, worn out, nonfunctional, but perfectly reasonable for $4!
There were more than a few stories online about the train hitting elephants on the tracks late at night, and there were clearly anti-elephant measures placed along the tracks in certain places. Fortunately, there was no elephant-related derailment, nor any derailment of any kind, although I think we did stop for an interminable period in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, we had a good time.
We arrived in Bulaweyo late but not terribly so (maybe two hours) and went in search of a bus to Pretoria. Greyhound, it turns out, had screwed us, but there were plenty of coach buses to be had, so we bought tickets later from another company. In the intervening time we wandered a bit through Bulewayo, which is a rather odd city in my opinion, and ate lunch. It seemed like something out of 1960s or 70s rustbelt America, with ugly, nondescript concrete block buildings dotted with the occasional aged colonial building surrounded by greenery.
Although the bus from Bulaweyo also left late (more than an hour), it turned out to be a comfortable ride complete with, yes, eight hours straight of Shaka Zulu. Now, if you haven’t seen this classic marvel of a series, run, no, sprint to your nearest computer and attempt to illegally download said program. It was a revelation filled with elaborate sets and costumes, large-scale battle scenes, and a really uncomfortable level of jiggling bare breasts. Okay, so maybe revelation and marvel are bit too complimentary, but it was rather (darkly) humorous to watch so much of the series.
The only rough bit of the trip back to Pretoria, as we had been warned, was the border crossing back into South Africa. The entire process took about three hours and there were people just everywhere, even late in the evening. The most worrisome event of the entire trip also transpired on the South Africa side. After going through border control and nonchalantly circumventing a baggage check with all the other passengers on our bus, the South African border police did one last spot check on us before allowing everyone back on the bus. Sure enough, the guy managed to grab the four white guys and four random African men for a “random” search. I didn’t expect anything different, but you it pays to be a little wary in such situations.
The officer escorted us to the “screening area,” which was in fact a small enclosed space off a men’s bathroom. Uh-oh. He proceeded to pat down the four African men, pausing only to give one Zimbabwean guy a hard time because his reason for visiting SA was rather vague (come on man, just say you’re visiting a friend!). At this point, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I was bracing myself and secretly hoping Hewsan’s would keep his Bostonian mouth shut (Hewsan, god bless him, has a sometimes worrisome knack of arguing or confronting in the entirely wrong situations). Does he want money, cameras, something else of value?
Turns out, the guy was just a pervert and wanted to cop a feel; he wasn’t corrupt, or, at least, not in your traditional way. Were we violated, yes, but we didn’t have to fork over any money or other valuables, which just might have been worth the trouble. My body involuntarily shuddered as I climbed aboard the bus but we were moving onwards to Pretoria! Border successfully navigated.
Back again with Mozambique in tomorrow or Saturday.
Zach
With our bags packed and goodies for the train purchased, we clambered aboard the old sleeper car and into our cabin. Luckily, the arrangement of cabins is by two and four people, perfect for John, Evan, Hewsan, and me. Two bottom bunks, two top bunks, and two large windows looking out on the passing scenery. Temperatures dipped considerably during the night, but we had blankets supplied to us in enormous plastic zip top bags large enough to fit a small child comfortably (no bed bugs!). Everything about the cabin, like the rest of the train, was washed out, worn out, nonfunctional, but perfectly reasonable for $4!
There were more than a few stories online about the train hitting elephants on the tracks late at night, and there were clearly anti-elephant measures placed along the tracks in certain places. Fortunately, there was no elephant-related derailment, nor any derailment of any kind, although I think we did stop for an interminable period in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, we had a good time.
We arrived in Bulaweyo late but not terribly so (maybe two hours) and went in search of a bus to Pretoria. Greyhound, it turns out, had screwed us, but there were plenty of coach buses to be had, so we bought tickets later from another company. In the intervening time we wandered a bit through Bulewayo, which is a rather odd city in my opinion, and ate lunch. It seemed like something out of 1960s or 70s rustbelt America, with ugly, nondescript concrete block buildings dotted with the occasional aged colonial building surrounded by greenery.
Although the bus from Bulaweyo also left late (more than an hour), it turned out to be a comfortable ride complete with, yes, eight hours straight of Shaka Zulu. Now, if you haven’t seen this classic marvel of a series, run, no, sprint to your nearest computer and attempt to illegally download said program. It was a revelation filled with elaborate sets and costumes, large-scale battle scenes, and a really uncomfortable level of jiggling bare breasts. Okay, so maybe revelation and marvel are bit too complimentary, but it was rather (darkly) humorous to watch so much of the series.
The only rough bit of the trip back to Pretoria, as we had been warned, was the border crossing back into South Africa. The entire process took about three hours and there were people just everywhere, even late in the evening. The most worrisome event of the entire trip also transpired on the South Africa side. After going through border control and nonchalantly circumventing a baggage check with all the other passengers on our bus, the South African border police did one last spot check on us before allowing everyone back on the bus. Sure enough, the guy managed to grab the four white guys and four random African men for a “random” search. I didn’t expect anything different, but you it pays to be a little wary in such situations.
The officer escorted us to the “screening area,” which was in fact a small enclosed space off a men’s bathroom. Uh-oh. He proceeded to pat down the four African men, pausing only to give one Zimbabwean guy a hard time because his reason for visiting SA was rather vague (come on man, just say you’re visiting a friend!). At this point, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I was bracing myself and secretly hoping Hewsan’s would keep his Bostonian mouth shut (Hewsan, god bless him, has a sometimes worrisome knack of arguing or confronting in the entirely wrong situations). Does he want money, cameras, something else of value?
Turns out, the guy was just a pervert and wanted to cop a feel; he wasn’t corrupt, or, at least, not in your traditional way. Were we violated, yes, but we didn’t have to fork over any money or other valuables, which just might have been worth the trouble. My body involuntarily shuddered as I climbed aboard the bus but we were moving onwards to Pretoria! Border successfully navigated.
Back again with Mozambique in tomorrow or Saturday.
Zach
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The spy who loved...chicken.
My series of updates on holiday travels will continue as expected tomorrow, but I also thought to share a brief excerpt I pulled from a Ugandan magazine recently (before I lose the scrap it is scribbled on!). The story concerned the former Ugandan internal security chief (domestic spy master, basically) and his laundry list of infractions and wild expenses. And I quote...
"It was reported that the former ISO chief has been living the life of a superstar characterised by high expenditure, booze, and yes, lots of chicken. Mukumbi has been feasting on a whole, long-legged cock from Teso per day. Thus the five years he has been head of ISO, the bespectacled ex-spy chief has eaten 1,865 cocks - a record that could earn him a slot in the Guinness Book of Records."
A true poultry fan. He also imported two young Rwandese women to work in the secure offices of ISO, and was apparently also keeping them as girlfriends. Classy guy, huh? Reading the article, I couldn't help but think of Dave Chappelle's hilarious stand-up bit about chicken and black people. Worth a view here.
Unfortunately, on a more serious note, this is decent example of how political power begets lack of accountability and abuse of office. I could easily imagine there being ten Mukumbis living freely (and lavishly) for every one busted in Uganda.
"It was reported that the former ISO chief has been living the life of a superstar characterised by high expenditure, booze, and yes, lots of chicken. Mukumbi has been feasting on a whole, long-legged cock from Teso per day. Thus the five years he has been head of ISO, the bespectacled ex-spy chief has eaten 1,865 cocks - a record that could earn him a slot in the Guinness Book of Records."
A true poultry fan. He also imported two young Rwandese women to work in the secure offices of ISO, and was apparently also keeping them as girlfriends. Classy guy, huh? Reading the article, I couldn't help but think of Dave Chappelle's hilarious stand-up bit about chicken and black people. Worth a view here.
Unfortunately, on a more serious note, this is decent example of how political power begets lack of accountability and abuse of office. I could easily imagine there being ten Mukumbis living freely (and lavishly) for every one busted in Uganda.
Phantom visas and the ass-end of the animal kingdom, Part 2.
Well, turns out we were fine. The would-be corrupt cop was past unceremoniously shortly after he passed us, caught relieving himself on the side of the road. And, our luck and the driver’s gas gauge hung until we pulled into the hostel very near the center of Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.
Victoria Falls is clearly set up to accommodate the tourist crowd, and tourists there certainly are. Not just westerners either. For dinner our first night, however, we went down to a local bar and restaurant that served traditional African meals and Zimbabwean beer (best to stick with South African imports). Of course the proprietress thought us crazy, but we assured her Zimbabwean food could be no worse than Rwandan food. In fact, it was eerily similar, but saltier and with more greens.
Our hostel was reasonably comfortable and busy, and any given person you sat down with to share a beer or a meal almost certainly had a better story to tell about their travels. Evan and I later remarked to each other how cool, just cool, some travelers are. One guy, an older man from Holland, had been travelling through central Asia, the Middle East, east Africa, and, when we met him, southern Africa.
Clearly we had to see the Falls, which, true to form, were absolutely stunning. On our short walk down through town to the park, we were greeted by a herd of elephants (enormous!) casually munching on trees less than ten meters from the paved path. Now, for those unaware, elephants are seriously dangerous, and can trample easily. Quiet and slow movements were called for all-around. Following our elephant encounter, we continued on to the park. I will put some pictures up as soon as I get them from Evan (read: stop being lazy), but suffice to say, Victoria Falls is an awesome, powerful natural wonder. Something akin to the Grand Canyon for wow-factor. The mist from the falls wafts over you from hundreds of meters away, and much of the Falls itself is shrouded in a dense vaporous haze streaked with the occasional rainbow. Essentially you traipse around the rim of the Falls on well made paths, viewing it from various vantage (and soakage) points looking back towards the river flowing in immense sheets off the cliffs.
After taking the obligatory tourist pictures and checking out all the angles, Hewsan, John, Evan, and I went back out of the park and along the road leading to the border with Zambia. The border itself splits the Zambeze river and an enormous span bridge clinging to high, steep cliffs. We crossed through the border post, realizing all too late that only Hewsan had brought his passport. The only option was to carry on and hope we weren’t stopped or arrested trying to reenter. My three companions all decided to bungee off the bridge, but I had no inclination to do so. (Like Jinja, I just have no interest in bungee jumping; plus, it’s Zimbabwe…come on). In any case, things went off without a hitch, and Evan said it was much wilder than Jinja. Sure, whatever.
Getting back in to Zimbabwe proved to be easy, but only because Hewsan had brought his passport. Thankfully there wasn’t a cock-up on our part, but it surely could have been; crisis avoided. We cruised back up to the Fall entrance, then continued on past it down a paved then dirt road leading to what signs described as “The Big Tree.” Sounded promising since there are numerous great, big, bulbous, spiky baobab trees sprinkled throughout Victoria Fall’s surrounding areas. However, the further we trekked without seeing anything particularly remarkable save for warning signs not to feed dangerous wildlife or venture off marked roads and trails, the more foolish we thought. Perfect, I thought, classically stupid tourists get ravaged by wildebeest or consumed by ferocious Tiger…er…I mean…lion. I could see the headlines forming in my mind as my head swiveled to and fro scanning the bush for the first sign of danger. John was likewise disposed but Evan and Hewsan, perhaps as their own defense mechanism, twittered away. Fortunately, as we had thus far managed, nothing happened, although I can’t claim to have seen anything truly massive in the tree department. There were a fair number of specimens, plus the danger we had placed ourselves in, so that was fun.
That night Evan managed to arrange us a shoe-string driving safari for early the next morning and we thoroughly enjoyed (almost) our western fast food pizza and fried chicken (save Hewsan, who, having already decided to trade some of his t-shirts for a small wood carving, proceeded to eat an entire box of chicken and pizza, then overdose on Ciproflaxin).
The next morning, in the chilly early morning dawn, we waited for our driver to pick us up. Par for the course, we waited, waited, and waited some more. Eventually he showed up, and it became clear the middle man we arranged through really shafted the guy. However, we refused to budge, and ultimately prevailed, although we felt terrible because our driver really got the short end of the stick. Perhaps karma, and less-than-stellar planning, caught up with us.
As we rolled down dirt tracks through yet another national park within a few minutes of Victoria Falls, the cold wind buffeting our faces and feet beneath musty blankets passed around by our guide, we hoped to see a wide range of game Zimbabwe is known for. To make a long story short, we basically saw the ass-end of the animal kingdom, and not much else. No lions or other cats, no elephants, no crocs, and a few giraffes only from the remotest of distances. We did, however, see lots of warthogs, guinea fowl, an extremely large stork, troops of baboons, and a fair number of deer or antelope types. Literally everything ran away at the first sign of our presence, leaving only their backsides for us to photograph mostly. In any case, it was a risk worth taking, because you just never know. Plus it was a hell of a lot cheaper than our rather boring makoro trip in Botswana.
With the Falls, bungee jump, Big Tree, and game drive wrapped up, we prepared to leave Victoria Falls. Our return trip to South Africa was planned via Bulewayo, first by overnight train and then overnight bus back to Pretoria. Another update coming tomorrow…hopefully.
Ramadan ends tomorrow with Eid ul-Fitr (often just Eid), and we have the day off. A fair number of our students are Muslim and they rightly deserve the day off (plus, fasting for weeks is tough, especially for young students who are already malnourished). As one of Islam’s holiest days approaches, take some time to think about the state of Islam, and religion in general, in the United States, just as I will do here in Rwanda.
Cheers
Zach
Victoria Falls is clearly set up to accommodate the tourist crowd, and tourists there certainly are. Not just westerners either. For dinner our first night, however, we went down to a local bar and restaurant that served traditional African meals and Zimbabwean beer (best to stick with South African imports). Of course the proprietress thought us crazy, but we assured her Zimbabwean food could be no worse than Rwandan food. In fact, it was eerily similar, but saltier and with more greens.
Our hostel was reasonably comfortable and busy, and any given person you sat down with to share a beer or a meal almost certainly had a better story to tell about their travels. Evan and I later remarked to each other how cool, just cool, some travelers are. One guy, an older man from Holland, had been travelling through central Asia, the Middle East, east Africa, and, when we met him, southern Africa.
Clearly we had to see the Falls, which, true to form, were absolutely stunning. On our short walk down through town to the park, we were greeted by a herd of elephants (enormous!) casually munching on trees less than ten meters from the paved path. Now, for those unaware, elephants are seriously dangerous, and can trample easily. Quiet and slow movements were called for all-around. Following our elephant encounter, we continued on to the park. I will put some pictures up as soon as I get them from Evan (read: stop being lazy), but suffice to say, Victoria Falls is an awesome, powerful natural wonder. Something akin to the Grand Canyon for wow-factor. The mist from the falls wafts over you from hundreds of meters away, and much of the Falls itself is shrouded in a dense vaporous haze streaked with the occasional rainbow. Essentially you traipse around the rim of the Falls on well made paths, viewing it from various vantage (and soakage) points looking back towards the river flowing in immense sheets off the cliffs.
After taking the obligatory tourist pictures and checking out all the angles, Hewsan, John, Evan, and I went back out of the park and along the road leading to the border with Zambia. The border itself splits the Zambeze river and an enormous span bridge clinging to high, steep cliffs. We crossed through the border post, realizing all too late that only Hewsan had brought his passport. The only option was to carry on and hope we weren’t stopped or arrested trying to reenter. My three companions all decided to bungee off the bridge, but I had no inclination to do so. (Like Jinja, I just have no interest in bungee jumping; plus, it’s Zimbabwe…come on). In any case, things went off without a hitch, and Evan said it was much wilder than Jinja. Sure, whatever.
Getting back in to Zimbabwe proved to be easy, but only because Hewsan had brought his passport. Thankfully there wasn’t a cock-up on our part, but it surely could have been; crisis avoided. We cruised back up to the Fall entrance, then continued on past it down a paved then dirt road leading to what signs described as “The Big Tree.” Sounded promising since there are numerous great, big, bulbous, spiky baobab trees sprinkled throughout Victoria Fall’s surrounding areas. However, the further we trekked without seeing anything particularly remarkable save for warning signs not to feed dangerous wildlife or venture off marked roads and trails, the more foolish we thought. Perfect, I thought, classically stupid tourists get ravaged by wildebeest or consumed by ferocious Tiger…er…I mean…lion. I could see the headlines forming in my mind as my head swiveled to and fro scanning the bush for the first sign of danger. John was likewise disposed but Evan and Hewsan, perhaps as their own defense mechanism, twittered away. Fortunately, as we had thus far managed, nothing happened, although I can’t claim to have seen anything truly massive in the tree department. There were a fair number of specimens, plus the danger we had placed ourselves in, so that was fun.
That night Evan managed to arrange us a shoe-string driving safari for early the next morning and we thoroughly enjoyed (almost) our western fast food pizza and fried chicken (save Hewsan, who, having already decided to trade some of his t-shirts for a small wood carving, proceeded to eat an entire box of chicken and pizza, then overdose on Ciproflaxin).
The next morning, in the chilly early morning dawn, we waited for our driver to pick us up. Par for the course, we waited, waited, and waited some more. Eventually he showed up, and it became clear the middle man we arranged through really shafted the guy. However, we refused to budge, and ultimately prevailed, although we felt terrible because our driver really got the short end of the stick. Perhaps karma, and less-than-stellar planning, caught up with us.
As we rolled down dirt tracks through yet another national park within a few minutes of Victoria Falls, the cold wind buffeting our faces and feet beneath musty blankets passed around by our guide, we hoped to see a wide range of game Zimbabwe is known for. To make a long story short, we basically saw the ass-end of the animal kingdom, and not much else. No lions or other cats, no elephants, no crocs, and a few giraffes only from the remotest of distances. We did, however, see lots of warthogs, guinea fowl, an extremely large stork, troops of baboons, and a fair number of deer or antelope types. Literally everything ran away at the first sign of our presence, leaving only their backsides for us to photograph mostly. In any case, it was a risk worth taking, because you just never know. Plus it was a hell of a lot cheaper than our rather boring makoro trip in Botswana.
With the Falls, bungee jump, Big Tree, and game drive wrapped up, we prepared to leave Victoria Falls. Our return trip to South Africa was planned via Bulewayo, first by overnight train and then overnight bus back to Pretoria. Another update coming tomorrow…hopefully.
Ramadan ends tomorrow with Eid ul-Fitr (often just Eid), and we have the day off. A fair number of our students are Muslim and they rightly deserve the day off (plus, fasting for weeks is tough, especially for young students who are already malnourished). As one of Islam’s holiest days approaches, take some time to think about the state of Islam, and religion in general, in the United States, just as I will do here in Rwanda.
Cheers
Zach
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Phantom visas and the ass-end of the animal kingdom, Part 1.
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!
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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