(Bridge at Victoria Falls looking toward Zimbabwe from the Zambia side)
An attempt to use the Mopane road finds us really stuck about 3 km from the Lodge. The road had temporarily disappeared under about a foot or two of water from yesterday's heavy rain and it was hard to follow or to pick out the best path while underway -- stopping was out of the question as the result would be to sink immediately in sand and black mud up to the axles. Luckily Ian and a guide happened upon us after I inevitably made a bad choice as to which track to follow. Ian interrupted a birding walk to give us a hand: finally taking over the wheel when he suggested that he would like "to give it a bit of a go".
He got it out of the worst spot and it was spectacular -- revving it up all the way. Ian stood the Hilux up on its rear wheels and it leaped out of the muck. My rather wan explanation for multiple failures was that Trevor had always insisted that we not spin the wheels as it would dig the vehicle in deeper. Ian clarified that a bit: "that is true in [dry] sand but in deep mud you do it differently. The Hilux can take it -- you need to push it more." So Chapter 3 and 4 of "How to Drive a 4X4 in Africa" is provided by our friend. We pulled away gratefully and this would subsequently prove to be the last time I would need help to free the truck.
We had breakfast at the Lodge office and left the truck there deciding we would attract fewer touts if we went to Victoria Falls in a taxi.
(Low water in the Zambezi meant good visibility from the path overlooking the cataract)
(Peering over the edge: a Zodiac carries a group of tourists into turbulent water)
(A classic view of Victoria Falls)
(The park is serene and uncrowded: Carole and Jeff on a footbridge)
I found our fellow visitors to the Falls almost as interesting as the waterfall and we left with enough time to look for the "crying baby" music and to pick up more supplies for the Lodge and to get the cash needed for our Lodge bill at the ATM. I took a too short 30 minute tour of the museum and we successfully make a rendezvous with an American couple coming down from Lusaka. Brett has asked that we meet them and guide them back to the Lodge.
Again we were hopeful that the Lodge truck that met us would show us the drier village route but they chose the Mopane route. We do not get stuck but it is again a very wild ride. But this morning's lessons have stuck with me. While being ferried back to Bovu in the mokoros we learn that our American female companion is from Concord, North Carolina. This sets the stage for a very pleasant final evening at the Lodge. Although the Danes and the French group have departed, the mood is still very warm and fraternal. We are to leave in the morning and decide to leave with the South Africans and Ian and Ruth. We feel very close to the staff and the rest of the guests -- particularly Ian and Ruth who have regaled us with stories of their experiences each evening. Ian has invited us to see him at Otse -- the small town where he lives in Botswana and I think it likely that I will take him up on this later in the trip. Will spends a lot of time with the American couple and learns that he is inspired by Paul Farmer and is at the Harvard Medical School. His companion has been stationed in Lusaka.
Our only disappointment is that the CD we have purchased in town is not the "crying baby" but nothing can really spoil the evening. Brett is fine form and continues to illustrate for Will and Jeff what the old "beats" were like. He reminds me a great deal of Harry Smith and his free association style of conversation. We all compare notes on itineraries and reluctantly and finally say good night to all of our friends -- guests and staff alike. It will be hard for me to leave this wonderful place tomorrow.
Labels: Bovu Island, Livingstone, Victoria Falls
¶ 3:01 PM 0 Comments
(Family portrait -- Christmas Day, 2006: from left Will, yours truly, Carole, and Jeff on the veranda of our bush hut on Bovu Island, upriver from Livingstone, Zambia)
We awaken to the sound of a tremendous down pour. Everyone agrees at breakfast that the mopane road will be a quagmire. Will is disappointed because he wants to show us Victoria Falls (this is his second visit to Livingstone) but I am relieved because there has been criticism of my rapid traverse of the road the previous evening. My family has taken to referring to it as "Toad's Wild Ride" but it was all I could do to keep up with the Lodge truck that came out to meet us. There was however a lot of fishtailing and skidding right up to trees etc. but we made it without a scratch (not counting the PTSD among family members). And after all the road is really just a "track" and the mud and sand very deep. It is now clear that their is a dry, alternate route called "the village road" but the Lodge guys didn't go that way. Maybe the mopane road is shorter.
Brett has asked us to move to a new hut to help out some other guests -- the lodge is fully booked which is great. Bovu is the kind of place that you hope will survive forever.
Our laundry is now in Harriet's capable hands -- we were unable to find an open coin laundry (or any other kind) yesterday in Livingstone. Clean clothes are now not going to be a problem. So -- after the quick move -- the remainder of the day brings blessed relaxation. My time is well spent bringing this journal up-to-date.
The gin and tonic seems to be doing a great job warding off malaria so I continue the experiment. Brett's promised goat stew makes a delicious Christmas dinner. He has been working at it all day over a wood fire in a big, black-iron pot. Will and Jeff, sworn vegetarians, consume the meal without hesitation. Ian and Ruth continue to share their hilarious stories with us. All of the guests are suspended in the same enchanted state.
Labels: Bovu Island
¶ 12:34 PM 0 Comments
(Our bush hut at Bovu Island Lodge, upriver from Livingstone, Zambia)
Our innkeeper has promised us a goat dinner for Christmas Day but the Lodge's bar has been seriously depleted along with the larder. His "beat" ways and insights charming even though he insists that I must be a CIA agent and dubs me "Putin" -- perhaps it's my insincere grin. We do have a major task to undertake today -- it's "Operation J-Day": we must pick up my other son (Jeff) at the Livingstone airport. Brett agrees to let us help him with some necessities and we depart with the shopping list for the Lodge provided by Annie. Of course we got stuck on the mopane portion of the road -- but not as badly as our French compatriots -- a 45 minute delay at most. A villager happening by with his brush ax helped out by stuffing branches under the rear tires bogged down in the thick mixture of riverine sand and black mud. It was hubris -- we had gotten in the previous day without getting stuck so my overconfidence played a part.
The rest of the drive to the airport was uneventful and we arrived early (of course) plus the jet arrived late (just like in the US). Back in town I overshot the driveway of the Lodge office in Livingstone as my family shouted "Stop -- there it is!" Pulling up at the curb, they jumped out to give the shopping list to Hazel in the office so that the groceries and liquor can be purchased. I decide just to stand at the curb noticing that the car park across Mosi-Ao-Tunya Road is full of many laden and maneuvering long distance trucks bound for northern Zambia and the DRC. It is also full of touts -- just like the ones we have fought off at the nearby ATM.
Just then two boys appear and leap onto the truck tapping the glass: "Mister, better move your car... the police are coming!" Too late. A policewoman dropped off a pickup truck replaces the boys on the truck step and announces my arrest (illegal parking). I try to explain but no matter. She must have believed part of my story because she agrees to wait to let my family pile in along with Hazel and all six of us trundle off to the Central Police Station. It was great: I sat in detention under the portraits of the current and past presidents, police superintendents, and various other patriots and filled out the charges against me and my details on a blank sheet of paper. I can't recall whether it was a police ball point pen or my own. And it was arrogant of me because I saw a quiet, tree lined street and they saw me squatting in a traffic lane on their main thoroughfare. And I will pay too: there is no intermediate step between the charge and the fine. 135,000 kwacha (at 5,000 to the dollar this is $27).
I argue nevertheless and finally Hazel intervenes suggesting that I should ask "for forgiveness" of the police commander. The desk sergeant duly went to another chamber to receive a ruling and after a decent interval reported that "forgiveness" had been granted but not to let it happen again as I will be dealt with in some sort of summary fashion (jail I think). My arresting officer asks for a lift back to her duty post at the Total Station and we drop off Hazel back at the Lodge office (I don't miss the driveway this time). We spend some time picking up extras for other guests, looking for the "crying baby" music we heard at Katima, ice for the jolly South Africans and the Lodge bar, and with Jeff and -- finally -- fully loaded with liquor, groceries and sundry we rumble off out of town.
Hazel, Annie, and Brett have graciously sent the Lodge truck to rendezvous with us but we manage not to get stuck on the mopane road. Brett amused but a little miffed that we "wasted" Hazel's influence with the police commander: it turns out she is an aristocrat. I should have known -- she is even more beautiful than Annie and has that regal bearing. It's OK as I must be providing a lot of amusement (wearing my cap and bells) for all Zambians (white and black) that I encounter -- especially on Christmas Eve. I think the holiday is the reason the police commander let me off.
(Early morning view looking south from the veranda of our bush hut at Bovu Island Lodge: the Zambezi River with Zimbabwe on the opposite shore, near Livingstone, Zambia)
We have another wonderful evening at Bovu -- all have bonded and our Danish guests provide a Christmas complete with treats and candles in their hair. The spotted genet returns to us too.
Labels: Bovu Island, Livingstone
¶ 11:06 AM 0 Comments
(Turning toward the Border Posts between Namibia and Zambia, on the B8 at Katima Mulilo, Namibia)
We eat breakfast -- enjoying the real beauty of the place -- and discuss with our innkeeper host all of the opportunities to see what local people describe as "the real Africa". The thought is that the Caprivi Strip is redeveloping its tourist sites following the end of the Bush War. He has many ideas for trips and guides them personally. We however have to hit the road as we are picking up our son Jeff in Livingstone, Zambia in two days. Certainly we will have to return one day and visit the wildlife reserves in this area.
While loading the truck it is apparent that the valve stem I damaged at Roy's Camp is now leaking air at an unacceptable rate. Our innkeeper gives us directions and we are able to obtain a quick repair at a tire dealer. It is the usual efficient, no nonsense, and very friendly Afrikaner establishment. In less than an hour we are on our way.
(Click and Clack -- eat your hearts out: from left elk(?) horns; sable antelope horns; a duiker; a steenbok; a wart hog; a hartebeeste; a kudu; an eland; another kudu; and a gemsbok -- in the tire store at Katima Mulilo, Namibia)
The Border Post at the Zambezi River bridge is another story. On the Namibian side I lost my place in the line assisting a man who fainted from illness. The best we could do is give him water -- which seemed to really help -- and in a while he is more or less revived. The interior of the Zambian Border Post is again the Africa of imagination and literature: crowded and dark; windows lacking panes of glass; different long lines and ledgers to make entries in; VIN numbers; engine displacement (size); passports; and so forth eased by Bovu Island's staff having faxed our visa details in advance. There is further delay nevertheless as the last ledger runs out of paper and I must wait for a new one to be produced from the safe. This causes another loss of place in line (mysteriously) but eventually we emerge into the sunlight with what we think are all the papers in proper order. Wrong.
The last step is the on-the-spot purchase of "third-party" vehicle insurance from agents that are stationed in the parking lot. My thoroughly "African" son smells a scam and refuses to cooperate. A loud argument ensues with the agent waving his cell phone and promising our arrest if we refuse to pay the premium. I agree with my son (incorrectly it turns out) and wave my insurance papers provided by the car dealer around. Finally we jump into the truck and drive away. Not a half-mile across the bridge and up the highway we are stopped at a police roadblock.
We are immediately asked for our third-party vehicle insurance but luckily the insurance papers I have on hand satisfy the police and we are again on our way. The road is excellent and after an hour or two we find the turnoff and dirt track to Bovu Island. Once again the GPS is invaluable as Bovu's innkeeper has made the lack of directional signs a bit of a fetish. We follow a large group of really jolly South Africans on holiday so the task is to keep from getting stuck and blocking the road like a lot of bloody Americans!
Luckily for us the wanker award went to a French group that bogged down on the mopane portion of the road the night before and camped in the boggy scrub until freeing themselves mid-day. They struggled into the parking area just behind us.
We park at the river's edge near a village and proceed to load our overnight stuff into mokoros to be poled across to the Island. Everyone is ready for a beer.
(Bea -- a jolly South African -- helps land a mokoro at Bovu Island, Zambia)
We are brought to the library, are invited to drop our stuff right there (no problem), and proceed to the bar. And what a wonderful spot and what wonderful staff and and fellow guests. I decide to switch to Gordon's Gin and Watson's Tonic Water to ward off malaria and to listen with great interest to our host Brett -- a man of poetic free verse and thought channeling the "Beats" I once had the privilege of working for -- in a now faraway place.
Thatched roof, river view, sand under our feet, and all the other guests: Ian and Ruth (Botswana NGO workers from the UK); six lovely Danish holidaymakers; nine or so jolly, jolly South Africans; our American bartenders Mike and Kyle; the French guide and his three adventurous female clients (the other guys were a little jealous); plus the beautiful Annie -- our innkeeper's number two but the "go-to" person on any number of guest questions, needs, etc.
A fine meal graced by good wine and a great conversation between Will and Ian and Ruth comparing notes about their experiences. Bovu's magic takes over completely as a small spotted genet joins us for dinner, eating off its own plate at the table.
Labels: Bovu Island, Katima Mulilo
¶ 1:19 PM 0 Comments
