April 26, 2005
The Zim & Zam of Victoria Falls
“I can’t leave this place. Africa is in my heart…I love the unpredictability here; today we have food, tomorrow we might not”. These were the musings of Ivor, a white Zimbabwean grocery store owner we met in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.
Ivor was one of the few white Zimbabwe citizens left after the country’s strong-man president Robert Mugabe changed the constitution to allow himself unlimited terms and, in 2000, instituted a series of disastrous land reforms aimed against native white farmers who had plowed the fields for generations and created a breadbasket for much of southern Africa. Some of the farmers were killed in the ensuing resistance, but most fled the country and left large commercial farms behind, which were then distributed among the black villagers who lived nearby. Untrained in commercial farming methods, these nascent land owners reverted to subsistence farming and grew just enough food to feed their own families. Gone were the days of Zimbabwe’s grain, tobacco, and beef exports. Despite the failures of one party socialism and Marxist land reforms elsewhere in Africa, President Mugabe followed this disastrous course and virtually crippled this once prosperous nation’s economy. The extensive tourism industry has collapsed in the past few years. A well developed and extensive infrastructure lays in complete decay now, as resources are not available anymore.
Such was the chaotic background to our relatively short visit to Zimbabwe. With a country as beautiful such as this and people as friendly as you can imagine, given the dire circumstances, I could sort of understand Ivor’s fondness for his land and his refusal to leave even when threatened. My brother Abdul and I unfortunately had precious few moments when we could lose ourselves in these incredible surroundings, because we kept running into this utterly inept and corrupt government of Zimbabwe.
Starting at the border post known as Plumtree, we left the Botswana customs unscathed and with minimal wait times. We got back on the rickety old school bus, which we shared with droves of Zimbabweans and rumbled over the no man’s land toward the Zimbabwe customs building. Little did we know that we would spend the next five hours in this crumbling, but once impressive, brick building. After an hour or so wait in the first line we were informed by the reasonably official looking man behind the counter that we would have to pay a fee of about $30 in US dollar bills to get an entry visa. Initially we protested and pointed out to him that nowhere is it written that US citizens would have to pay, but then we realized what a futile argument it was. They could charge us whatever they wanted, so we just coughed up the cash and moved on to the next line. That money disappeared in his pocket. The next four lines were a confused and snarled mess of resigned looking people that led to more bureaucrats looking to take their loot. Personal property could be declared illegal on a whim and taken from the hapless owner, if the “customs official” decided so. We witnessed such a seizure after we boarded our bus and attempted to leave the border area. After several agonizingly long false starts, we moved a whopping quarter mile down the road, as some soldiers stopped our overcrowded vehicle and entered with their guns. No one dared to look at them but held up their passports for them to grab, if they wanted to. Outside, a refreshing thunderstorm was moving in, but it didn’t diminish the oppressive atmosphere inside the bus. Eventually, a woman was picked from the crowd and literally pushed and shoved out of the bus, over vocal protests from other women. Her belongings consisted of sacks of maize and cooking oil, which she had bought over the border in Botswana. We assume they were taken away from her. An old man squeezed in next to me explained in a thickly accented English that she got accused of smuggling without any evidence and her property confiscated. That maize will feed the soldiers, not the poor woman’s children. Unfortunately, there was nothing anybody could do except to hope that they left after this pillaging. Finally, the bus did continue on at a snail’s pace over pot holed roads with its throngs of weary people. Abdul and I counted our blessings. We were by far the most foreign looking guys and our belongings consisted not of maize and cooking oil, but of western backpacks and travel gear. We could have easily lost it all to the soldiers and unable to do anything about it.
This great travesty of Zimbabwe continued, as we could not find many of the hostels or even hotels whose addresses we had gleaned from our guide book. Our “Lonely Planet”, a reliable and well known travel guide, was published in September 2003 but had become completely outdated with regard to Zimbabwe. In this collapsing country, hostels, hotels and other tourism oriented ventures were disappearing at an alarming rate.
Currency exchange was another great joke that we had to constantly contend with. The official rate at Banks, when one got inside after a long line, was pegged at US$1 to ZIM$800. Now consider that a post card sells for ZIM$3000…that’s almost US$4! The unofficial black market rate of US$1 to ZIM$4000-7000 more accurately represented the actual value of the Zim dollar. How much we could get for our US dollar depended on how hard we could bargain with the shopkeepers and young men on the streets who exchanged money illegally. We stuck with shopkeepers, even though they gave us more unfavorable rates, because the guys on the street were more likely to sell us fake bills or be undercover police. So, our initial exchange of a couple hundred US dollars netted us a shopping bag full of Zim dollars. At least the post cards seemed more reasonably priced at the black market rate. However, upon closer inspection, we noticed that our bills were blank on the backside. Furious and convinced that we got scammed, we walked into another store to get a second opinion. The owner assured us that it was genuine money, even if it was printed only on one side. We convinced ourselves by checking out other people’s money and even found that some bills have expiration dates. Nevertheless, the paranoia of exchanging money and getting scammed never left us.
On a much brighter side, the average Zimbabwean, like most Africans, is somehow able to remain remarkably stoic and even upbeat, despite the constant upheavals brought upon them by forces way beyond their control. In long lines or inside buses that just got raided by soldiers, we could hear laughter ring out and lively conversations take place. The daily afternoon thunderstorms were usually waited out under whatever canopy people could gather and provided the perfect opportunity to chat, meet others, or just relax and watch the massive raindrops splatter on the ground. Abdul and I also made for an occasional lightning rod for people, who gathered around curiously and inquired about our origins, our travels, our shoes and clothing. Some just wanted to chat, others tried to sell us something or trade various items, while others yet gave us their addresses in hopes of becoming pen pals. In a refreshingly straightforward manner the pen pal hopefuls told us that their aim was for us to eventually send them an airplane ticket to the great country of America, a distant land of unimaginable riches that they have seen in the movies and would love to visit or move to. During conversations like these, I realized just how rich I must seem to the average African. Just the fact that I could afford to come to their country and travel on to wherever I pleased, proved to them my limitless wealth. It seemed of no use to try to explain that I saved for months and months to embark on this trip, or that I had to work and put the money in the bank first, before I could insert a plastic card and seemingly pull out cash on a whim. Many people, when asked for directions, for example, could only tell us reliably as far as they could walk in a day. Trips beyond a day’s walk or bus ride were simply not undertaken. At the subsistence level, most time and effort was devoted to raising crops, herding animals, maintaining house and family, and holding down a job, of one was lucky enough to have one.
One of the more interesting ways to travel in Zimbabwe was on a vintage night train dating from the 1920’s to Victoria Falls. One of the idiosyncrasies of train travel was that we really had to watch our backpacks, much more so than in the buses. We were warned by the conductor and others about a high theft rate on the train and, as a precaution, reserved a first class sleeper compartment replete with hand carved wood and leather seating. The price seemed dirt cheap to us, but was out of reach to most other passengers, who squeezed themselves onto the wooden bench seats of the third class. For some reason, our train had no locomotive and while everybody waited for one to arrive a few hours after the scheduled departure time, we noticed a lot of curious eyes peering into our compartment from the outside. Some of the more maverick young men tried to open our door. But both of us remained alert enough that nothing ended up lost while the train idled in the station.
Eventually an old steam locomotive showed up and slowly pulled the train at the typical speed of Africa through lots of pristine woodland up to the Zambian border and the spectacular Victoria Falls. The Zambezi River, on its way from the Congo basin to the Indian Ocean, takes a truly amazing plunge between the countries of Zimbabwe and Zambia and is considered as one of the great natural wonders of the world. Known locally as Mosi oa Tunya, which loosely translates as “The Smoke that Thunders”, the actual falls are 1700m (1.1 miles) wide and 110m (330 feet) high. In comparison, Niagara Falls is about 900m wide and 58m high. During the rain season, it is the most voluminous falls in the world; so much water plunges over the cataract that a huge water spray cloud rises over the Falls. Hence the native name. Nestled in a dense forest full of monkeys, we found it impossible to find a spot to take in the entire view of the falls, but had to contend ourselves with walking along water drenched paths to see the massive display of violent current churned to white foam. The collective roar of the falls not only pounded my ear drums, but also made itself felt all along the solar plexus, so powerful were the sound waves. From the Zambian side the view was more distant but gave us an opportunity to see the roaring rapids of the Zambezi hundreds of feet down into the black gorge.
More than satisfied with the splendor of Victoria Falls and more than fed up with corruption and excessive bureaucracy, we turned our attention back to the big game of the continent and made our way out of Zambia and Zimbabwe. By this time we still hadn’t see the “Big Five” animals up close, on their turf, and on their terms. We would have to travel to the poacher free game reserves of various other countries to meet up with all the beasts that we dreamed about at night. Even in game reserves, we realized that nothing would be guaranteed because it wasn’t a zoo but open range only protected from ranching, farming and other human encroachments. But more about that quest later.
Posted by DaveDTC at 04:56 PM | Comments (0)
April 16, 2005
Why You Shouldn't Walk on Hippo Trails
I remember looking out my window on the night flight from Europe to South Africa and seeing nothing but black below. No city lights for hours. Not until the next morning when the plane was over South Africa, were any signs of civilization present.
On that flight I tried to imagine what it would be like to actually be in one of those areas that seemed so dark from above. Well, we finally entered this part of Africa when we crossed the “veterinary cordon” in Namibia’s Caprivi Strip. This fence separates the large, white owned commercial cattle ranches of the southern three quarters of the country from the communal and subsistence cattle herds of the north. Its purpose is to keep rinderpest and foot-and-mouth disease away from the southern cattle ranches, but it also effectively marks the boundary between the first world of South Africa and southern Namibia and the third world of the rest of Africa. The flat landscape became noticeably greener and densely wooded. The termite mounds became taller, larger, and sometimes surrounded and virtually consumed whole trees from the ground up. The European colonial influences on towns disappeared as well and we started seeing more and more “rondavels”, traditional round huts made of mudbrick and thatch roofs. The air was thick with smoke from individual cooking fires in front of each home and from slash-and-burn agricultural practices. Land cleared by fire can be planted with maize, cassava and vegetables to provide the villagers with food. We constantly observed women doing all the chores from cooking and washing clothes to tilling the fields and harvesting crops. They carried water from the local pump with children tied to their backs. All this intense physical labor endowed the women with burly muscles and the many pregnancies endowed them with rich bosoms. This was contrary to what I expected to see in such a manual lifestyle. I imagined to everyone in these conditions to be very lean. The men, on the other hand, fit my preconceived notion of leanness. Quite a few were downright skinny and it looked almost comical when they walked next to their massive women. Does that come from the fact that most men have the relatively easy cattle herding duties where they usually just hang out near their animals and catch naps? Or, more likely, are genetic factors involved? Bottom line was that women seemed to bear the brunt of the daily duties.
This picture remained with us as we left the Caprivi and entered Botswana. At the border crossing, our milk got taken away from us and dumped into a burning fire pit. We received no explanation, so we assumed that it must have something to do with the cattle diseases. Then our entire bus had to drive through a pit presumably filled with some sort of disinfectant, while all passengers had to get out and walk through a mini pit also filled with the disinfectant. I still felt sweaty and hot but my feet were squeaky clean. Our initial impressions of the country were lush forests and tropically humid weather and many, many donkeys and other farm animals grazing right along the roads. In fact, the roads seemed to be the center of all activity, as children played, people walked, women cooked, men socialized, and animals just blocked them. As expected, the driving was very slow but accepted by everyone as a fact of life. We finally started seeing the true speed at which Africa moved. I didn’t mind at all because the tropical weather had a similar effect on me and all movements slowed down, especially during the heat of the day. We spent some time in a game lodge right on the confluence of the Chobe and Zambezi Rivers not too far from town. Both were slow moving beasts that wound their way lazily through the dense brush and trees. We set our camp up near the Chobe River and slowly a fuzzy feeling of impending animal encounters crept up. But the first animals crept up rather suddenly, as I noticed the white furred, black faced vervet monkeys swarming in the trees above and following my every move in the hopes of scoring something to eat. The first visitors to come after food were not the vervet monkeys, but some warthogs with fearsome tusks and big heads that took up half their body lengths. They sniffed and grunted their way around our camp but showed no interest in me at all. I was happy about that; the last thing I needed was a big dirty tusk up my….uhh….behymen. Crocodiles were another matter and a very serious consideration because the camp was right along the river side. The warning signs were simple and effective: the jaws and teeth of a croc spray painted on a piece of wood and posted all along the shore. Frightfully aware of this danger, I stayed well away from the water’s edge but still managed to stumble upon a smaller croc hiding among the roots of a tree. At only 2m (7 feet), this beast got scared itself and bolted for the river, while I bolted into the next tree. That literally scared the living daylights out of me. Thankfully I walked away from this potential disaster with just a bruised nose.
With this area being so river laced, Abdul and I decided to hire a pontoon boat and guide in the hopes of seeing some of the wild life of the nearby Chobe National Park. It cost a bloody fortune, but turned out to be worth the money, as we had unparalleled views and very knowledgeable guides. I forget the names of the myriad birds we saw, but will not forget the vast numbers of crocs floating around everywhere. One particularly primitive looking specimen with dinosaur like plates gracing its back and tail happened to be catching the fading sunlight on the shore when our boat floated past. At about 4-5m (12-15 feet) and a belly that could hold a zebra, it didn’t react at all to our presence, but continued to keep its jaws open into the sun. Those were some of the most evil looking slit eyes I have ever gazed on. Further down the river we came upon literally hundreds of elephants grazing and wandering around slowly and gracefully. As big as these beasts are, they moved about in complete silence, even underfoot nothing snapped or rustled. We noticed groups separated according to sex and age; large matriarchs led other, lower ranking females and calves, while young bulls congregated in bachelor herds in the reeds along the river and conducted playful mock fights. Older bulls usually lead solitary lives. Of course, where there is water in this part of Africa, one can be sure to eventually come across the eyes of a hippo floating serenely in the calmer spots. But submerged in water and underneath those two eyes, hide over 2 tons of thick skinned flesh and bone. During those rare occasions, when one of these hippos actually leaves the water in day light, it’s possible to witness the massive rounded features of its body. It seems lazy and slow, but on land these pachyderms can outrun any human and are credited with killing more people than any other animal each year. Such a brutal trampling death usually occurs at night because some hapless person walks into the path the animals use to retreat into the water after coming out on land to feed. Fortunately, we were in the safety of the boat and in the water the hippos didn’t pay us much attention at all. They would just submerge completely if we came too close and stay underwater for quite a few minutes before coming up to breathe. The last major animal other than herds of impala and individual kudus, was the huge monitor lizard. Fast as rockets and almost 2m long, they looked just like their more normal sized brethren, only a lot bigger. And they were as skittish, dashing for the dense undergrowth as soon as we came near.
Satisfied with our fill of animals along the Chobe River, we decided to head for the Okavango Delta in the heart of Botswana. To get there we had to opt for the notorious minibuses that we had so desperately tried to avoid in the past. No choice here, though. We were able to flag one overloaded, low riding, tire bulging vehicle down and the driver squeezed us in somewhere in the back row. Unable to move any body part except my eyes, I counted about twenty to twenty two people inside a vehicle the size of a large minivan. Inside, however, everyone seemed happy and the music thumped, as we careened down the highway, swerving around loose donkeys and large potholes. With the vertical noon sun beating down on the roof, the un-airconditioned interior heated up quite a bit and sweating didn’t help much, it just lubricated our skin as everyone tried to move their limbs around to prevent them from falling asleep in their wedged positions. Besides staying in a small village, a minibus trip with the locals is actually a very African experience that gives a foreigner a very good picture of the life of an average African. We were completely surrounded by the sights, sounds, smells, and textures of African villagers at an African distance: inches from our faces and stuck on our skins. That’s how we got to the Okavango Delta.
The 1400 km long Okavango River originates in the Angolan Highlands and, unlike most other rivers of the world, flows inland to sprawl in a huge delta and eventually drain into the Kalahari sands or evaporate in the hot air. The delta is laced with a virtually infinite number of channels, lagoons, and islands. This wetland is one of the biggest tourist attractions in Botswana, and accordingly, we ran into plenty of them during our stay there. A highly recommended activity is a trip into the maze of streams in a long pole powered dugout canoe. Known as “mokoro”, these canoes are manned by a guide with a long pole, who pushes it slowly and silently through the reeds and papyrus. Due to outrageous prices that these guides demanded and knuckleheaded tourists willing to pay them, we couldn’t afford even a half day on a mokoro. Instead, Abdul and I teamed up with a couple of like minded Kiwis (traveler speak for a New Zealander) and hired some horses and guide for an unforgettable trip into the bush on horseback. To accentuate the possible dangers, my horse had huge scars on its rear end, inflicted by a crocodile. The guide told us that it ventured near the water’s edge a little too long and barely escaped the jaws of a 4m croc. Ay caramba!! We were able to ride through some remote delta villages accessible only by these means. No electricity, no running water, no gas, no mail delivery, no phones, and still around in the twenty first century. Amazing.
As much as we would have liked to stick around Botswana, we had to cut our stay short because of outrageously expensive prices for foreigners. Most of the bush lodges demanded sums that would make a first class weekend in Las Vegas seem like a trip to McDonald’s. It seems as though the Botswana government actively pursues the low volume, high budget kind of tourism. It was too bad, as the people themselves did not seem at all concerned with such issues and just pursued their simple subsistence life styles. So we mini-bussed it in African style and tortuously slow from town to town until we reached the border of Zimbabwe. Here, Abdul and I embarked on a trip through a different side of Africa, one of bureaucracy, corruption, instability, greedy strong-man presidents and utter nonsense. But we also saw one of the absolute top natural wonders of the world. More about that later.
Posted by DaveDTC at 04:55 PM | Comments (0)