(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

(Mokoro trip on the river: the poler is using the old-school standing style but the overlanders just want to get the hell away from a pod of hippos, Okavango River, Namibia)

We take the de rigueur Okavango mokoro trip this morning with the British overlander group which definitely adds to the fun. Our guide Cosmo, a priest in training who has returned to his village, relates the dark tale of the "Nearby" Lodge (named after the children of the original owner). According to our guide -- the lodge keeper was a suicide after catching his wife in flagrante delicto. This is the introductory portion of our tour of local custom and superstition – much of which seems to involve the theft or seduction of married women. For instance: the placement of a certain species of bird’s legs on their hearth will cause the separation of a married couple. This is quite interesting – a much better tour than I ever imagined. Cosmo takes us to a Hambukushu village where the local agricultural practices are explained and how this all relates to the way the structures are arranged in a kraal. Fences are for keeping animals (including domestic) out of the food stored inside and the mahangu (pearl millet) plot. Also answered is how ownership of individual cows and goats is determined as the small individual herds commingle on the shoulders of the roads and the open veldt – land which turns out to be the tribal grazing commons.

(How this system of agriculture works: inside a thatched roof granary in a Hambukushu kraal, Okavango River, Namibia)

Our mokoro oarsmen and polers laughing for much of the journey (no doubt at us tourists and possibly? Cosmo?). We pass a pod of hippos who assign two large sentries to chase us away. The sentries accomplish this in short order – a mokoro is no match for a hippo being much bigger and much faster than these traditional dugouts. Several in the group subsequently inquire if hippos can be eliminated from the rest of the venue but Cosmo is nonplussed and says simply that there are more on the river ahead and thus unavoidable. Well – they are dangerous and all of this is not making the other person in my mokoro any more comfortable. These dugouts are tippy and he is very, very large. (I fell asleep – better here in the mokoro than behind the wheel of the Hilux.)

(Just like home in the American South: an ancient Mercury Comet "up on blocks" near a Hambukushu village, Okavango River, Namibia)

After the mokoro trip, we set out for the Caprivi Strip and Katima Mulilo having packed earlier, settled our account and said farewell to Beth Phillips and her family.

The B8 is notable here for its loneliness and its numerous Elephant Warning signs. Will voices suspicions of an old VW Jetta with tinted windows that sticks with us for many kilometers. We are checked at the various police roadblocks but the Jetta’s license plates do not match familiar Namibian labeling schemes (but what-the-hell-it’s-Africa) and maybe because we border Angola and Zambia and Botswana here in this part of Namibia. We are also not that far from Zimbabwe.

Suddenly the “Low Fuel” indicator lights up on our gauge and we are now focused on what our GPS calculates is our remaining distance to a fuel station. We cut our speed to slow consumption but when we refuel in Katima it suddenly jumps to “Full” without taking the expected amount of fuel. Previously we had not let it drop below “One Quarter” so we note this idiosyncrasy in our truck and this is a minor thing. Best of all we hear a strange unearthly music from a nearby car, the rhythmic tune with drums and flute built around the sound of a baby crying – very compelling. We ask the fuel station attendants about the tune and they say only that it is “Zambian". The car playing it pulled away before we could ask but it must be a hit because we hear it floating in the air in Katima again and again. We find the Caprivi River Lodge just at dark -- once again the GPS is very useful -- especially in the last kilometer or two.

Labels: Katima Mulilo, Ngepi Camp

¶ 9:58 PM 0 Comments