(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
