Lusaka and Kabwe, Zambia

The bus from Livingstone to Lusaka leaves at 9am.  What this appears to mean is that people get on the bus at 9am, then the bus driver disappears for a while.  Half an hour later, he reappears in order to tell us to board another bus.  We comply, only to wait for another hour.  At least the bus is only half full, and consequently the seat next to me is free.  Time to spread out and rest.

We finally leave, almost two hours later than scheduled.  For a while we shoot down the main highway to Lusaka.  I catch some sleep and watch endless kilometres of bush and villages roll by.  In South Africa you'd spot a rondavel (an African thatched house), and it would be a treat.  Here, it's the norm.  These places are tiny wisps of settlements.  A few houses, a few fields, and stalls by the side of the road.  When they are larger, I see market stalls and general stores.  Watermelon and sweet corn are sold on the street as well as tomatoes and sugar cane.  The cane is a treat for kids here, and I see many children walk down the street tearing strips of it off with their teeth.

Our in-drive entertainment happens to be a pirated copy of 'Predator'.  The driver puts a tape on, and pushes the volume to excruciating.  Bored, I watch as Arnie and his gung-ho American crew rip apart large portions of South America to show the locals how it's done in the States.

The bus stops, a dozen people board, and we continue.  Half an hour later the procedure is repeated.  This time a large-framed lady waddles down the aisle. "Ez thes seet teken?" She asks. "Yez", comes the response.  To the next row.  "Sorri, ez thes seet teken?"  "Yez, etz teken."  She continues down the bus, and I wrinkle my eyes and pray, "Oh, no.  God, please no.  Not me."  Fearing the worst, I push down the divider between the seats.

"Excuze me.  Ez thes seat free?"  I look up as I find her rotund form before me.  I hate myself, but I can't lie.  "Yes, it's free."  She promptly waddles her bum backwards pushing between the gap in the rows, and with exhausted effort, manages to plant herself on the seat next to me.  Her elbow is stuck firmly on my lap.

You think it'd stop there.  Once comfortable (her, not me), she proceeds to open her handbag and pull out a tray of sausages and chips.  She slowly devours her meal, licking her fingers after every few chips.  I want to gag.  Nonplussed, she finishes her meal only to reach once again into her purse and retrieve a box of biscuits.  For the next hour she slowly consumes the contents of the box.  My only recourse is to stare at the TV ahead, and to Arnie, who is now clearing large chunks of forest away with his machine gun.  I envy him.

Hours pass by, then a number more.  Morning turns to afternoon, and the sun arches through the sky like a being possessed.  I don't realise it, but it's almost six o' clock by the time the bus arrives in Lusaka.  I've managed to rest in the bus, but the experience has left me drained.  The plan was to catch a connecting bus to Kabwe, but after nine hours of numbness, my palms clam up when I consider any more travel.

I catch a taxi to the nearest hostel, a place called 'cha cha cha'.  It has the good fortune of having a New Zealand flag above the bar, and I decide to make it my home for the night.  I meet with some Germans and then some Americans and we have a great time chatting till late.

My new hosts, Sam and Gaby Salisbury are missionaries from New Zealand.  Through good fortune they were heading into Lusaka the following morning, so we plan to meet in a shopping mall for lunch.  I book out of cha cha cha and grab a taxi to town.  Finding the Salisbury's, introductions are performed.  It's great to hear a familiar accent, and we immediately start talking about the important things in life: cricket and rugby.  Before long my pack is thrown into the back of their Nissan Patrol, and I am racing to my new home for the week: Kabwe.

It's not on any tourist maps because there's nothing tourist about the place.  Kabwe's fame is that it's the most central point in Zambia.  Here there are few tar seal roads, so we mainly drive on sandy variety.  There are potholes galore around here, and we often struggle to get past 50km/h.

Nevertheless, this is a town where people know each other, where everyone waves and greets each other.  Although I'm clearly foreign, I am surprised by the level of friendliness in the town.  I can stop and chat to someone, and they will treat me like a friend.  I often wonder why places in New Zealand can't adopt this attitude, it makes it all the more beautiful.

Sam and Gaby don't have room for me in their house, so I'm taken to Jabez Phiri and his family.  They're the first black family I've lived with in my trip, my other hosts being English or Afrikaans.  It's a great way to understand the local Venda culture and learn a little of the language. 

I'm treated to a meal with sadsa, a paste-like food akin mash, but made with maize.  It's considered chic in Italy, I've been told, but in Africa it's their staple diet.  Later I'm asked whether I want to take a bath.  I know that several days of travel have left my body odour wanting, so I eagerly accept.  I'm led into the bathroom, and to a large bucket in the bath.  "You feel water here," my host explains, pointing to the bucket, "End you shower weth theez."  He shows me a jug.

Leaving me to my devices I stare for a while at this enterprise.  I can't help but feel a little lost.  Do I stand in the bucket?  Won't it buckle?  How do I wash my hair?  It's all part of the experience, so I turn the hot tap on to fill the bucket.  The water comes out and it's yellow.  I can tell this is going to be an interesting week.

Plumbing, and related matter

Forget silly tales of travelling across uncharted wilderness and all that romantic nonsense, the truth of holidaying more often than not is revolves around desperate scrambles to find a loo for your busting gut.  So when you know you need to go, you are often launched on a quest for the perfect store for your plumbing needs.

It may feel like chaos theory when the urge takes hold, but for the enlightened mind it's a matter of maths.  Most would agree that the level of quality of your ideal water closet is directly disproportional to the volume of your waste disposal.  That is to say, the more the less, and vice-versa.  Simple enough, and for most, it's quite easy to maintain a high standard of toilet choice.  The nature of the sojourner, however, often adds additional unwanted complexity to this pressing need.

And here, your traveller's drainage choices are reduced.  In foreign territory, most travellers have limited knowledge of the local geography, and therefore limited opportunity to find a suitable facility with which to partake in nature's act.  Typically, only a smattering of toilets are known.  With these restricted options, when the carnal desire overcomes, you are often left in frantic pursuit for a single working receptacle.

Of course most situations do not require such drastic measures, however such is life that dignity  is still preferred when it can be afforded.  It hardly helps that the average bowel motion of a traveller is, to put it politely, disrupted and confused.  The loud rumbling and groaning of the stomach is like thunder, a precursor to the storm ahead.  These weather patterns don't arrive lightly, and you pray to god for a suitable porcelain seat to release the tempest.

While the residential option is still the most preferred, a variety of techniques need to be employed to maintain a healthy relationship between yourself and your hosts.  The issue at hand in our hypothetical problem is one of volume.  Quiet households do not make for pleasant bathroom experiences when the traveller's gut is active.  When you excuse yourself for a moment's solitude in the water-closet, rather than the gentle sea breeze on a skipper in the harbour, your colon spits and heaves like a midwinter squall across a strait.  White-knuckled, your natural urge may be to empty the ballast, however the resulting tremor will rock not only the boat, but most likely scuttle it, so to speak.

House designs play vital roles in this respect, and significantly, quite possibly the worst option available is the lavatory situated next to the dining hall.  One suffering soul reportedly emptied not his bladder, but his previous meal in lavish oral style, only to discover his hosts, with only a wall's separation, had overheard every gargle and spatter with stunning clarity.  Needless to say, when he returned to the dinner table, a tad pale, it rendered polite conversation strained.

The issue at hand is the anonymity with which to do the deed.  Public bathrooms become almost the perfect option, often the primary means of business for most travellers.  Your actions are overheard by strangers, who often share your preference for the discrete.  The drawback, as many would realise, is one of hygiene.  Most absolutions suffer from neglect to the point of perilous.

The truck stop outside Polokwane is a case in point and an excellent candidate.  Six booths, one with no door to speak of, three with no locks, and five with no toilet paper.  Two flooded (it's as bad as you think), and one obese man changing in the doorway.  In this demonstration our desperate subject's plumbing was at capacity, and the closest alternative was approximately 1km away, an eternity, for our suffering subject.   A compromise was forced, and business accomplished with a generous ream of toilet paper stolen from the remaining booth, and one leg pushing an the working doorway of an un-flooded booth firmly closed.

It's not exactly the magical tale you'll be telling your grandkids.  Stories from more forthright travellers revel in honeymoon trips, not comprised of long beaches, and staring into your betrothed's eyes, but of arms hugging the throne after an enterprising decision to attempt the local cuisine.  It's an unappetising scene, and strangely neglected in the retelling experience.

By now, you will realise that the aching need hits at inopportune times, with ungovernable rudeness, forcing your poor self into compromising situations.  This most basic function renders you incapacitated.  It may be as simple as clenching your legs during conversation, to await a suitable gap to perform an orderly retreat.  It could also be while booking into your lodgings, biting your tongue as you want to scream at the attendant that you need not a guided, but a solo tour of the facilities.

Possibly the worst, however, is the long-haul arrival.  No such pain and anguish has been felt outside a torture chamber in the history of civilisation.  Trapped without absolutions on a bus for nine hours is like sticking a knife in your body, and slowly turning it.  The pain becomes unbearable, but the shame of asking the driver to stop is unthinkable.  So when you jump off with your taut bladder to reacquaint with an old relative, the first words from your lips ought to perhaps be something expressive of your joy or happiness in this reunion.  "I'm so happy to see you, " is an obvious choice, and plainly suitable.  "I shall explode if I don't pee now," Frankly, is not.

So traveller beware.  Your body has little notion of posterity.  And like the variety of meal that caused your motion, the smorgasbord of liberation options need to be chosen with care.

Livingstone

Walking into the Fawlty Towers backpackers in Livingstone was euphoric.  I check in, and am shown my room, up a flight of stairs, next to the dining room.  It has mosquito nets, and a small fan.  The view is nothing to write home about, and because I'm next to everything, I'm guaranteed noisy wakeups.  I don't care, I'm out of Zimbabwe.  The bed and myself make quick introductions, and shortly become firm friends.

After all my concerns, the border crossing proved to be uneventful.  I join a queue, and after a brief wait, stamp, stamp, and out.  I'm done.  Even though I'm straining with almost thirty kilos of baggage, I feel light-footed.  No searches, no questions, and most significantly, no trouble.  I feel like skipping across the famous border bridge, but thankfully prudence (and more likely, my heavy load) keeps me steady-footed.

On the Zambian border, things were even easier.  My name is on a form for a visa waiver, thanks to Fawlty Towers, so after a brief chat with the immigration official, I'm walking out of the post with a visa for a ten day stay.

Livingstone is everything Zimbabwe should be.  There's jobs, shops, people even.  I leave the backpackers for a  wander, and I fall in love with tiny town.  The paths are sandy, the roads are as potholed as they are in Zimbabwe, but the place feels happy.  Soon, I leave the town centre and walk the dusty back roads.  I pass ramshackle houses, sandy lawns with the merest hint of grass.  Jakarta trees surround me in places, and steady streams of locals walk by.  I'm the only pale face here, but I don't feel frightened or out of place.  Everyone is peaceful, and pottering along with their business.

I return to Fawlty Towers after my sojourn, and spend the rest of my day relaxing by the pool.  The following day is a Sunday.  I wake, and decide to acquaint myself with the restaurant at the Livingstone Golf Course.

It means I need to walk through the back roads of the town again.  This time, the walk to the golf course is accompanied by choirs singing hymns in the churches around the area.  Zambia is a predominantly Christian nation, and the churches are full.  The singing isn't dull, but rhythmic, and harmonic, with choral arrangements only Africans can pull off.  Children playing in the street wave to me.  I wave back and they laugh.  It's idyllic.

Lunch at the golf course is equally enjoyable, the best meal I'd had in days.  I'm having such a good time, that shortly after I leave, I take the wrong turnoff, becoming predictably lost within the endless maze  of dirt roads.  Backtracking is for the weak, so I plough on, confident that my internal compass will see me out.

Of course, you'll realise by now my compass was stolen at birth and replaced, it would appear, with a bucket of dirt.  Half an hour later, I'm still wandering the streets.  I know it's a ten minute walk to town, and I know that by now I'm a lost cause.  Swallowing my pride, I stop a young lady carrying a baby and ask for directions.

"You need to go dat wey." She advises, pointing in direction I'd just travelled.  Uh.  I thought I was at least a little more on target than that.  She looks at me, probably wondering how someone could be so directionally challenged, and says, "I'm heading your wey.  Come.  I walk weth you."  I meekly take her side and follow.  Amidst our conversation about Zambia and New Zealand, she guides me back to Fawlty Towers, before heading off down the road, laughing at my sheepishness.  Never fear, I have a driver tomorrow, since the plan is to catch a bus bound for Lusaka, then finding a transfer from Kabwe.  It's elementary, I mean, what could go wrong?

On the Zambezi

It's hot and muggy next to the falls, and even though it cools considerably after dusk, the air still remains sticky and overbearing for hours into the twilight.  It means that my nights here are largely restless.  After a predictably sleepless night, I rouse at six against my better judgement to set off for a day of canoeing on the upper Zambezi.

While the current was strong enough to render paddling largely obsolete, the twenty kilometre paddle was stunning.  I'm finally out of the hustle of the town, and at peace within the bush,  joined by a few like-minded companions.  The river was in flood, so our task was to navigate through the grade one and two rapids, and between the scores of waterlogged trees.  It's wide, in my estimate about two hundred meters.  We stick close to the banks for safety and to spot game.  We see hippo (at a distance), fish eagle, and many other birdlife.  They're not really my thing, but I've been enjoying watching the colourful smorgasbord of birdlife in Africa.  It's better than what I've ever seen (which has been limited mainly to ducks, pigeons, and seagull.  Not exactly an exciting variety).  After an hour of scanning the banks, we give up our hunt, the mere joy of paddling on the Zambezi enough for our troupe.

We break for lunch at a campsite under the watchful gaze of a group of vervet monkeys.  "They come, steal your food from your plate.  Very quick, like lightning."  To amuse ourselves, we place pieces of bread and orange-peel in a tree, and stand a couple of meters back to see what happens.  The alpha male would drop from the trees, and after gazing at us to make sure it wasn't a trap, he'd sprint down, grab the food, and run to the upper branches to gorge on his meal.  The greedy bastard wouldn't share the food with the other vervets, one of the privileges of rank, it would seem.

We finish our canoeing in the late afternoon, and I return to the rest camp to find that my Zambian accommodation, including the all-important visa waiver had been arranged.  Oh, it's exciting – I get to leave Zimbabwe!  There have been very few places I have been happy to leave.  My job one Christmas, after months of long, painful project work.  A town I lived in called Rotorua, after three tempered years.  And now, Zimbabwe.  I was running low on funds, I had limited forms of communication and, potentially illegal material in my pack (calm down, it's only anti-government pamphlets).  Most of all, I just wanted a decent shower.

But I had one more night, time to live it up!  I opt to go on a sunset cruise with my friends, and in truth, it was a tad disappointing.  The guides were without fault: endearing, knowledgeable, and jovial.  The boat, however was small, and we are joined, it seems, by the geriatric society of Cape Town.  I should quickly (and quietly) point out that I had to stare at one of the ladies quite intently to ascertain her gender.  It's not my fault: she grew better stubble than me.

As the sun took its final steps across the sky, the driver cut the engine.  We drift the last few minutes in silence as the white and blue gave way to yellows, then a deep burning red.  For a brief moment, everything was set alight, and just as quick, it was gone, and night had fallen.

Darkness falls quickly here.  We return to town and spent a good part of the night hunting for a lively place to eat.  The restaurants were empty.  Even one we spot with a live band was attended by only bartenders and waiters, a shame, these places deserve better than this.  We walk to Kingdom Hotel, a four star retreat and use our white skin and foreign accents to get past their security.  At US$222 a night it's a little above my budget, but in other circumstances it would be perfect.  The hotel has been constructed to appear as though it had been etched along the banks of the Zambezi itself, no expense spared.  Rivers ran through the open-plan hotel, lit by incandescent globes.  We cross bridges and walkways and soaked in the affluence.  I ask the concierge for their occupancy rate, and he tells me it's sitting at 37%.  Paltry.

Down the road is the upmarket Victoria Falls Hotel.  It's over a hundred years old, and home to the Queen mum when she visits (although I'll assume it's been a while).  It's nice, I mean, if you enjoy sweeping balconies, portraits of colonels and similarly-clad British aristocracy, and antelope heads on the wall.  I found it overbearingly pomp.  We went to the restaurant to look at prices, and found it was one of those, if-you-have-to-ask,-you-can't-afford types.  At over US$300 a room ,all I can say is, who'd bother.

We finally find the only lively joint Vic Falls.  It's a backpackers called Shoestring, and we decide to make our acquaintance for the evening.  It was the type of place where culture is the stuff that grows on the walls.

There's a stereotype in westerns where a cowboy enters a bar, to find the place filled with drunks fighting, a comely wretch or three advertising their wares, and all manner of creature in-between.  In Shoestring, the pool was filled with patrons drinking in their underwear, the music was set loud enough to make your ears bleed, and every colour and shade of person sat around the open air bar.  A great dane ambled around, hunting for scraps of food in this zoo.

A man sits next to me and introduces himself.  After a few minutes he leans close and asks, "Friend, you have drugs?  You need?"  I decline, it's not my thing.  He looks at me like I'm some kind of whack, and tells me such.  "Call me old-fashioned,"   I respond.  I don't think we made good drinking partners.  A few minutes later, he leans once again and lowers his voice, "You like this girl," he motions to a demure coloured sitting next to him.  She glances at me, unsmiling.  "You can have her if you want."  I feel sick.

My night ends early, I lose my drinking friend, and make my farewells with my companions for the past few days.  I walk in the dark back to the peace of my rondavel at the Rest lodge.  Tomorrow I cross the border for Zambia, and it can't come any sooner.

Apologies to slow readers

I should have warned everyone properly. I've been writing like a madman while I was in Zimbabwe, trying to record everything I can, both good and bad.

The result, now that I've crossed the border, is about 7,000 odd words that I have to put to print.

I've placed a few posts online, and will be updating them, as well as adding a few more shortly. Hey, look at it this way. If you're bored at work, you can always kick back and troll through my blog.

Sneak peeks yet to be posted:

• Meeting with UNICEF regarding Zimbabwe AIDS situation.
• Chat with the burnt-out and persecuted Media Monitoring agency in Harare.
• Introductions to the opposition MDC.

Stay tuned.

Stuck in the Falls, Zimbabwe

Kabwe, Zambia. Right now it exists as a place of terror in my mind. This is because, while I can find it quite easily on a map (go to Lusaka, and head north about 120km. Alternatively, type ‘Kabwe’ into Google), I simply don’t know how to get there.

This is relatively important, since it’s my next stop. In my haste to enter Zimbabwe, I lacked the wisdom to book fares in South Africa. Only fools and horses rush in, and right now, I’m not sure whether I am the former or latter. Entering Zambia is doubly important for me, since I am running low on US dollars, and procuring such tender in legal means in Zimbabwe is a hopeless task. Credit cards are a thing of mystery in most places in Zimbabwe, and exchanging money at a bank is not only expensive, but ludicrous.

I spend the morning in an Internet cafe pouring through Google searches. Here, I hit another stump. I forgot about things like organising visa’s, and other ‘minor’ details. I discover I need to apply for a visa to enter Zambia. I work through the fine-print to find that, yes, British citizens need to not only apply, but also pay for visas. Woo-bloody-hoo, US$65. Furthermore, I read that for the pleasure of leaving Zimbabwe, I have to pay US$35. My mind starts working on combinations of profanity, and my fists are beginning to ball. This is a nonsensical sum. For what purpose do I need to pay this amount -- can someone explain? Curtailing my anger, I press on to find a bus service to Lusaka.

Nothing. Nothing on the Internet. The Zambian tourist website I found (and I believe it’s the official one), recommends I visit the bus depot in Lusaka for coaches and timetables. I almost scream. My problem is getting to Lusaka! It doesn’t bode well. I panic, and my mind races to my dwindling funds. I have a few pounds, some US, a couple of hundred rand, and several hundred thousand Zim dollars (which I hope by now I’ve established, has the value of Monopoly money). I envision myself stuck in Victoria Falls, forever harassed by street vendors and beggars, unable to leave Zimbabwe, and rendered destitute, merely because I can’t access my bank account.

I was, you can tell, a tad irrational. I walk to a local adventure travel shop, and have a chat with one of their staff. Vincent, from Shearwaters was my saviour. He was one of the first people in Vic Falls to not only not want to sell me anything, but also to go out of his way to make sure this sullen white tourist from the land of plenty could solve his transport issues.

Let’s put this in context. We have the greatest waterfall known to man three kilometres down the road. It’s bordered on one side by Victoria Falls town, a tourist-friendly settlement, temporarily home to yours truly. On the other side of the Zambezi river, and hence the falls, is Zambia. I am less than half an hour’s walk to Zambia. Livingston, the closest town is a mere ten kilometres from the Zim/Zam border. I am pathetic.

Victor makes several phone calls, and explains the visa process to me. He tells me that I can waive the (still bloated) visa fee if I book twenty-four hours in advance into the Fawlty Towers backpacker Lodge. Victor makes another phone call, and gives me the Lodge’s details. Minutes later, and I have emailed the backpackers with my request for accommodation, and for waiving the Zambian visa fee. With any luck I will be in Zambia in full health, and staying in lavish backpacking style.

The painful part of the day done, I turn myself to more leisurely pursuits. I was given a number of a few friends-of-friends, who would be travelling through Vic falls during the same period. Companions are always a welcome, and so I meet my new friends Kerry and Nicky. After brief introductions, I am persuaded to join them on a canoe safari the following day. I accept, and book a ticket (my dwindling funds no match for their charms). We decide to kill time and visit the local market.

It’s another bad move. Warding off vendors and beggars, we approach the market to discover this is their proverbial lair. Scores of eyes light up, and for the first time in my life, I can see them sum me in a single word: prey.

Before we can escape, we’re drawn in by dozens of merchants. Bowls, necklaces, and statues are shoved before us. “Walter, my name is Walter, how are you? You like my elephant?” “Hallo! Where you from? You see here, very cheap, you want to buy from me.” “Shop five, remember Yo-Yo, Yo-Yo is my name. ” Some of these men begin with more sinister openings, “I like your bag.” Said one quietly. “So do I,” I replied, holding ever tightly to it. Others would stare at my trainers and exclaim, “I like your shoes. I give you anything in shop for shoes.” Barter appears to be the method of commerce, and in this country everything is for sale. The only three items not asked from me were my glasses, shorts, and boxers. I assume, had I spent more time they would eventually persuade me to part with them.

Peculiarly, the one item many of the vendors asked for were socks. “Socks?” I replied. “Yezz, I want socks. Here, you sit here, and I take your socks. You have anything in shop for socks.” Several of them went through the same performance. It was unbelievable, but I suppose in a country where your day is spent scrounging enough for the evening’s meal, luxuries are made of even the humble of apparel. My heart was bleeding, but I could not relinquish my clothes.

I ask a few vendors about business. “It’s bad, you see, you the only tourists here. No-one visits Zimbabwe, it bad for us.” He’s correct, we were the only tourists in the market. They had lined their best pitches to the only three people who would cross their paths in an hour. True too, that tourist numbers had plummeted. You can’t buy tour guides of Zimbabwe, you can’t buy books or gain advice for backpackers and transport. Since Mugabe’s sinister land reform programme, the place has emptied of foreigners. The tourist industry, like many others is suffering.

I part with my friend for the day as they depart for an overnight canoe trip. I join them the following morning for breakfast along the Zambezi, and vendor-less day on the river.

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

I’m flying Air Zimbabwe, so you’ll forgive me if I show some nerves. This is the same airline which stops half-way between Harare to London to pick up cheap gas. It’s a bittersweet day. Today, I leave the company of my uncle and his wife in Harare, and head to one of the seven wonders of the world: the Victoria Falls.

I depart, and I’m happy to see Harare disappear behind me. It could be a jewel in the African crown, but apathy hangs over the city like a cloud. It doesn’t make me happy; I can’t be content in a place that is essentially dying before me. My hope is that change occurs before the city truly atrophies . It is a hope that only a few people I’ve spoken to share.

My journey to the falls becomes one of nostalgia. The twin prop I’m flying in makes a scheduled stop in Kariba, a town on the path of the Zambezi river, and home to a enormous man-made dam, allowing me to travel back two decades to my previous visit here. Seeing Kariba from above is like gazing at the wild-west. The roads are yellow gravel, houses are patch-worked together, and the place has the air of the frontier. Houseboats are moored to makeshift jetties, and the lake trails to the horizon.

Many years ago I spent several days here on a houseboat. We’d caught barbell and tigerfish, and saw hippo and crocodile. Our guides were friendly and took us around the coast. Their son accompanied and befriended us. One evening he sagely advised us how to make a good first impression at high school: “You figure who the bully is, walk straight up to him, and punch him -- knock him down. He won’t touch you after that. No-one’ll touch you after that.” Thankfully we never took his advice, but we admired him like a god.

Finally, we arrived at the Vic falls airport. It was a hot and decidedly muggy 31 degrees as I stepped out the airplane. I had a shuttle organised, and once my pack was collected, he zoomed down the 20km road to town. He and his other passenger were talking loudly in Shona, while the radio was crackling some African dance tune, horns and choirs raging in the background. No-one spoke a word to me.

After abandoning my luggage, at the Victoria Falls Rest Camp, I ask for directions to the falls. “Fifteen minutes, dat wey.” the receptionist advised, pointing down the road. Thanking her, I started walking.

You can hear the falls for kilometres as a distant thunder. If you didn’t know any different, it sounds like a motorway in full swing, a constant, but dim roar of traffic. But as you close in, it gets more engulfing, until your ears are engulfed. I pay the US$20 to enter the falls reserve, round the corner to the statue of Livingstone, and in breathtaking glory, there it is.

It’s a mile long, and at its peak, boldly surges three cubic kilometres of water over a hundred meter precipice every second. Smoke billows from the caldron of water below, drenching the surrounding forest with sheets of water. Livingstone was the first European to discover this, and he was told of its name, now synonymous with the falls: Mosi-oa-Tunya, ‘the smoke that thunders’.

Due to the amount of energy of water descending every second, the falls has gorged a ravine for itself, allowing spectators to walk parallel from end to end. It’s only a mile long, but it takes two hours to walk, and is truly spectacular. You stroll through jungle occupied by baboons, past wetlands with constant rain, so as to be flowing with a green array of water plants. Emerald and crimson dragonflies in their dozens hover by, and everything is glistening with life.

The wet season has just ended, so the falls are in full swing. Some of the views mid-falls are so exposed after the rains that you can only see white spray. A hint for visitors: bring a waterproof jacket. The Indian family ahead of me arrived with dad towing their kid in one hand, video camera in another. Within seconds the camera was whisked away in his bag, and the kid abandoned. Seconds later, his shirt was soaked, and he finally succumbed. The family spent the next two hours drenched to the skin, in a state of mad euphoria.

With plenty of photos taken, and myself wet to the skin despite bringing a jacket, I left the falls. The walk back, however, proved less romantic, since as I left the entrance, I was bombarded by a half dozen street vendors hawking their wares. Even after several polite refusals, they continued walking with me, in turn persuading, then arguing for custom. “We a poor person! You must give, you must have something to give us poor people.” Another would respond, “I not eat for two day now, you have ten thousand, just ten thousand to give.” It was harrowing, and even though I was making ground, I was by myself on this path, and surrounded. I said no. I became firm, and demanded they leave me alone, to which a couple left. I became angry, and a few more left, but some stayed. One walked for almost ten minutes with me, arguing for my money.

And they’re everywhere. They walk alongside you, and all pretty much start in the same way, “Hallo, how are you today?” It’s followed by the soft sell. “You need anything? You like this necklace?” It’s followed soon after with bargaining, and finally begging. You refuse constantly, but they are truly remorseless. If they don’t want to sell you wares, they want to trade. “You have a shirt, a shirt you don’t need? We trade for shirt.” Some ask discretely about currency exchanging. One offered me some peanuts, which I tentatively accepted, then asked in conversation whether I had any drugs to sell.

My heart goes out to these people. They’re obviously poor, but the longer I spend here, the less tolerance I have toward their tactics. They manipulate, they beg and harass. You can’t be polite, and almost every time, I feel a twinge of guilt as I abruptly demand some street vendor leave me alone. It gets under my skin that because of my pale face, they see an opportunity to make money. I am not their friend, I am their wallet.

I return to the Rest Camp after a wonderful day, marred slightly by the street hawkers. Tomorrow I do the boring stuff of figuring transport to Kabwe, before continuing to explore this fascinating area.

Flicr’d here.

Harare on foot (draft)

“You need to talk to Abel.”

I’m sharing a beer with my uncle by his pool. Dusk has settled, and another power cut has rendered the house candlelit. I don’t want to tell him I think it looks better that way. For him, the romance has long gone. We’re busy talking about freedom of the press, and he happens to know some of the guys who run the Media Monitoring agency in Zimbabwe. A phone call later, and an appointment is made.

Because we’re low on gas, the following day I am dropped off in town to spend the day on foot. Fuel is a precious commodity. I didn’t realise at the time, but my uncle must have made a special concession driving around the game park over the weekend.

I had to ask a security guard along the road where the Media Monitoring agency was. I felt a little nervous, since it’s a touchy subject with the government. He had no problems showing me the way. Transparency, however, seemed to be the order of the day. I walk through the open gate of the converted house, nestled between foreign embassies, and straight into their main office. Abel isn’t around, but I’m introduced to Andy Moyse, the project coordinator. He’s in a meeting, and I have to wait several hours before I can get my fifteen minutes of fame with this man.

Sporting long dishevelled hair and matching white beard, Andy could have just walked out of a gunfight in the wild west. While we chat he works his way through cigarettes like a ventilator. The topic is press freedom.

Oh, it’s bad. Very bad. While Zimbabwe’s constitution entrenches the right of freedom of expression (but does its best to limit that expression to non-critical types), it is declared a privilege to be a journalist. You need accreditation from, guess who, the government. Hence anyone critical of the government doesn’t get their accreditation. Working without your rubber stamp could earn you two years in prison on charges intended to keep opposition voices out of the spotlight.

I’m told that two Botswana journalists were caught in Zimbabwe without license while attempting to hunt for information about cross-border cattle rustling. They were tried and convicted in the town in which they were caught: Plumtree, Zimbabwe, where – and here it gets interesting – the local magistrate decided to teach them a lesson and fine them to the tune of Z$5,000. Twenty-five US cents. It seems that justice was not blind, nor in this case dumb.

In response to my questions on the agency, Andy gives me a stack of books and articles to read. It’s almost comical: I ask a question, and he potters away on his Mac, prints an article, and waits for me to read it. Although I made the appointment yesterday, Andy appears absent-minded, even skittish. He apologises for his behaviour, and frankly I don’t blame him. He tells me that a month ago, the Central Intelligence Office (think Gestapo) raided his office, threatening to close the agency down. He is involved for not only looking after his staff’s well-being, but for providing the qualitative and quantitative evidence of government control and abuse of the press.

I leave his office with a dozen reports, a few pamphlets and a couple of books. I wonder what would happen should I get searched at the border with blatant anti-government material. Pays not to think about these things, really.

To UNICEF! When I was in New Zealand, I talked to UNICEF about their work in Africa. There’s a whole lot of red tape to wade through in order to be a UNICEF writer, so I decided to do the next best thing and just drop by and ask a few questions.

I wait for an hour, and amuse myself with Bill Bryson’s Made in America, an endearing look at American English. Eventually, a lady named Tsitsi contacts me. I explain that I am a New Zealand writer, and am looking for information on AIDS in Zimbabwe. I get a scoop: she promises that if I return the next day, she can give me an unpublished UNICEF report.

So I make my way out of UNICEF, and eventually find my way into town. I discover that a local performer is putting a play on in the Harare gardens. It’s entitled “The Good President”, and sports an impression of a guy with big square glasses, and a funny upper lip. I wonder....

I can’t spend too much time on it, because a man introduces himself to me. He’s working for a child aid organisation and wants me to buy cards. His clothes are falling apart, and nothing about him gives me the inclination that he works whatsoever. I ask for identification, and he tells me, “just ask those guys there, they’ll tell you I’m right.” He points to his friends he’d just left. Sure.

I refuse him, but he’s persistent, so I refuse him several times. Getting nowhere, he tells me about a festival next month in Harare. It’s in the gardens to my right, and he wants to show me around. Under duress, I follow him. The gardens are closed for preparation of the festival. While he sweet-talks the security guards, one takes me aside. “Don’t trust this man.” He tells me. “He not good.”

I take the advice, and find a way to shake him. A meeting I’m late for. Yes, a meeting. Sorry, no. Sorry, I have to leave. No, I have to leave now. Goodbye. The security guard strikes up conversation with my guide as a decoy, and I walk away.

Later that night, I return by car to watch the play. In truth it’s not very good, but my heart goes out to the performers who tell the story of a policeman who beats an opposition party member, and has to live with the moral consequence. It’s poorly attended, and after the play, we’re invited to ask questions about the performance. Questions are coded. One British man asks, “So, does your character’s father still vote for the President?” The actor unhappily responds, “Yes, he does. He tells me he will vote for the President until he dies.” There’s a murmur of remorse at his answer. The President, ‘in this play’ is still popular because once he was a liberator. People, it seems, are loyal in this country, even to their detriment.

Chivero Recreational Park. Harare, Zimbabwe

Over the weekend, my uncle took me to Chivero Recreational Park, about an hour from town. He’s promised that today would be the day I would see Rhino.

The warden tells us a story. Earlier he was walking along the road, and spotted a baby rhino. Keeping his distance, he noticed it was soon followed by an overbearing mother. The mother, not keeping her distance, did not take too kindly to the poor warden’s intrusion and attempted to gore the man. His only means of survival was to rush headlong into the thick bush, where the Rhino’s bulk would make movement prohibitive. I ask the warden whether rhino are normally aggressive. “Oh no, friendly, very friendly.” I’m sure.

The park shares the fate of Zimbabwe’s economic drought, and is overgrown and dilapidated. The dirt tracks are overrun with grass, in some places almost two meters high. Our Toyota ute makes easy work of the tracks, but our vision is chronically impaired. We struggle to see anything aside from innumerable spiders, and a few stick insects which land on the bonnet as we drive.

But I kind of like it. When you go into the wild, you want things to be, well, wild. A carefully manicured trail does little to give the feeling of being out there, and even while I agree that a tar road on more popular trails is ecologically wise (it cuts down on dust in the air), this jungle of grass, however difficult it was to navigate, certainly made us feel truly isolated from the world.

Eventually we spot game. A few giraffe heads peek over the grass, always inquisitive to strangers. They sit, staring at us, most likely in the same manner we sat, staring at them.

Arriving (eventually) at Chivero dam, my uncle stops the ute. We’re to go wondering on foot here. I ask if it’s safe. Yes, I’m told, of course it is. I ask if it’s allowed. Not so much, he admits.

We spot a fish eagle. In fact, it spots us and swoops overhead. Further down the track we spot Zebra, however by far the coolest finds were the smallest. At one point, my uncle screeches to a halt, and we get out. “Do you see the beetle?” he asks. On the track is a dung beetle, a wad of carefully compacted fertilizer at its heels. A few minutes later, he stops again, and we disembark to see a family of caterpillars. Giant, hairy, orange and red caterpillars. These things are four inches long, and look as cuddly as a teddy bear. Unfortunately, their hair happens to be venomous, so no stroking the invertebrate.

We managed to spend the entire day at the game park. After seeing my uncle in various states of apoplexy with work, I find him notably relaxed in the wild. I too, am continually finding the bush a wonderland. It seems every time I enter, I learn a dozen more ways nature has found the means to survive against the odds.

But we still hadn’t seen Rhino. We left the ute to go hunting for some San drawings on the rocks, which remained mysteriously elusive. We spotted a dead Zebra on the side of the road. We even got the ute stuck in a hole (presumably dug by an anteater or something similar). What we didn’t manage to spot were the bloody Rhino.

On the way out, I cheerfully lamented, “It’d be nice if we saw some game.” A minute later, a heard of Impala come rushing out into the road, leaping effortlessly across it. We drive on, and I repeat the mantra, “It’d be real nice if we saw some bigger game.” And prophetically, out came the Rhino.

Two of them appeared, right next to the ute. We stopped. If they noticed us, they didn’t seem to care. These monsters were slowly ambling along, oblivious that they were crossing about ten meters ahead. Their hides are thick and rough, giving the appearance of armour plating. They were bulky, but appeared deceptively gentle. Comical ears jut out their oversize heads, and while they look formidable with their trademark horn above the nose, their mouths appear pursed, more ridiculous than ominous.

They were beautiful creatures, and we watched them saunter off into the bush, tails swinging with their gait. It made the day complete, and left us only with the sorry task of leaving the park, and returning to Harare and the world of man.

Photos flickr’d here.

The illegal post. Harare, Zimbabwe

A sign outside a gas station reads “Petrol: yes. Diesel: yes.” It would be a punch-line in any other country, but in Harare it’s a fact of life.

I’m spending a day in the life of a Zimbabwean, and I’ve already had my first taste: power is off so no hot water for a shower. It doesn’t matter much in the scheme of things, since the water is also off. On the cards is grocery shopping in Borrowdale, an upmarket suburb north of the city centre.

At the onset, I should disclose that my host holds the title of professor of law in the University of Zimbabwe. In other countries this would assure a reasonable salary, and thus a reasonable standard of living. With a country in hyperinflation neither is occurring. He takes multiple jobs to make ends meet, and hence is thoroughly overworked. That he makes any time for me is more than merely charity. Most of my stay, it would transpire, would be spent with his enigmatic and spritely wife.

Feeling a tad grimy, we take her beat up Nissan Sunny through the maze of potholes to Bon Marché, one of the better local supermarkets. Contrary to reports the shelves are brimming with milk, biscuits, yogurt, soap -- the stuff of said stores. Yet I’m startled, since I had read a report that several years ago that the isles were largely barren. It’s a delightful shock.

But there’s a sting. Fresh stock is becoming rare. Bread, although baked daily, disappears quickly. We buy nectarines only to find that they are rotten inside. Ditto with the oranges. Carrots are on their way off, and most other vegetables are undersize and show signs of waning. Prices too, are equally prohibitive. A block of butter can set you back Z$150,000 (US$7.50). It means, at local wages, you could invest your month’s pay into a block and a half of the stuff.

The shopping district turns out to be next door to the Australian embassy. Feeling decidedly brash, I decide to pay a visit. I talk past the security guards, explaining that I needed to speak with the consulate, mumbling something about importance and national security (at most, a white lie). After a few minutes I’m introduced to Ann Sheppard.

Ann is a warm, chatty Australian, and wife of the consulate. Needing talking fodder, I notice a sign about ANZAC celebrations so I ask about registering. It’s another white lie, since I will be in Kabwe on ANZAC day. Ignoring the guilt, I convince myself that, yes, should fate take me back to Harare I shall certainly attend. After a few minutes of conversation, and with some embarrassment, I blurt the real reason for my intrusion: “Do y’know where everyone’s watching the cricket?”

She laughs and flashes a smile. She tells me about a local pub which she guarantees will be attended by like-minded fans. We chat for a few minutes about working as an Australian in Zimbabwe. It must be a challenging task, particularly so, since John Howard’s recent attack on the Mugabe government. Unperturbed, she deftly responds, “Sure, but where else in the world can you pop out for the weekend to catch tiger fish?” It’s s sidestep, but touché.

We leave Borrowdale, but not before I pick up a copy of The Herald. It’s the national paper, owned by the government, and consequently favourable to the incumbent. It contains a ghastly amount of stories about how well Zimbabwe is doing, despite the onslaught from western-funded insurgents (such as the opposition party, the MDC). Robbers are caught, using, and I quote their corny idiom, ‘the long arm of the law’. Grain is being harvested, and education is still the best in Africa, so I discover. Well hooray then; I wonder why things are so bad?

The answer, reiterated repeatedly in The Herald, is the West. According to the government, the country of tweed, and the nation of fast food are to blame for rampant state-sponsored massacres, kangaroo courts, redrafting of the constitution, and several scores of crimes against humanity. I continue to read, and discover that SADC (a collection of southern African states), is backing Zimbabwe’s anti-west agenda; a tad unusual, since the papers in South Africa claim the opposite. In another article, they quote the need to stand fast against the West by supporting Mugabe. I could go on, and I have already, but as I’ve briefly alluded, most of this rag is b-grade propaganda. It’d be a good substitute for toilet paper should stocks ever wane, however I know no-one who would un-dignify their ass by wiping it with this offal.

But tragically, this is gospel to many. Balanced television stations exist, but it’s expensive, so few can afford. Balanced newspapers also exist, however their circulation is highly limited, effectively preaching to the choir. Radio used to be the ideal means of providing critical reporting to the masses, however this is now being jammed, leaving – surprise – government-sponsored radio on the airwaves. The rural folk, in short, have no alternative media to assist in discerning fact from fiction, and that, frankly, is a very bad thing.

But enough! I need to change money to Zim dollars. The fixed rate between US and Zim currency is 1:250, meaning that my hundred bucks gets me Z$25,000, a miserly sum which could procure me a packet of green beans, and two cokes with which to wash it down. The trend is to change money on the parallel market where the rate is exponentially greater. It’s illegal, but like ripping CD’s, everybody’s doing it. I make a contact for a money changer, and am given an address to perform the transaction.

We arrive at a large suburban house, a beautiful place on a hill with a large veranda overlooking a jungle of trees. We buzz at the gate, and a white man with two missing teeth and dreadlocks lets us in. We walk through the lounge, occupied by similarly fashioned men performing no task in particular. My mind races through a score of mafia stereotypes, and I wonder whether any of these men are carrying, and whether, if the transaction goes sour, I would be shod with concrete boots, and made to go for a swim.

My host and I are led to a back room. It contains a desk, and three chairs. A well-dressed lady smiles warmly, and enquires us about our business. We want to exchange a hundred green (US$). She knows somebody who can perform this task, and will make introductions. We’re given another address, another smile, and we make our exit. Hastily.

I cannot tell you how bizarre it is to be sitting in the lounge of a stranger’s house, toys sprawled across the living room carpet, clothes drying outside on the line, while indoors, you are busy counting large wads of tens of thousands of dollars. Daylight is streaming through the chinks in the curtain, but it only serves to heighten the clandestine nature of the task, much more I cannot say. It was a surreal moment, and one I thankfully never have to repeat. On the positive side, I am now a millionaire.

We leave, and with groceries and other business concluded, we retire home. The power is on, hallelujah.

Night falls in Harare, and while drinking a beer on the deck, I’m treated to a display of robins and sunbirds singing and dancing in the branches of the trees surrounding me. The robin’s song is lyrical, and this avian performance simply beautiful. New Zealand has birdlife, but until I arrived in Africa, I’ve never noted how stunning these flighty creatures were. I’ve since seen scores of heron, swallows, duck, and many colourful species I quickly forget.

My plan tonight was to find ‘the Keg’, a pub where presumably I would be able to watch the cricket. For this I needed a car, directions, and a good deal of courage. I was able to source the first two.

Here’s a travel tip for driving at night in Harare: don’t. The street lights, for the most, don’t work. Neither do the traffic lights. When they do, generally it’s only one or two survivors hanging on -- better to burn out than fade away, I guess. You drive in a blackout. Chances are low that you even spot an intersection until you’re half way through it, and even if you happen to correctly identify one, you spend your valuable seconds madly scanning the lights to discern whether it’s dead or alive.

And it gets worse. The street signs largely don’t exist, so any hope of finding a particular road is fanciful. Then there’s the potholes, which, a nuisance by day, transform into a terror at night. So as you drive, vainly attempting to negotiate the roads, the void, the holes, the intersections, you find yourself periodically blinded by oncoming traffic, hi-beams a-burning. And remember, this all happens at the same time. Driving in Harare at night, is like playing Russian Roulette with a bullet in the chamber.

Alive and demoralised, I found the pub, had a meal, noted that the Australia cricket team were routing Ireland, promptly paid my bill, and left. I had an ordinary day as a Zimbabwean, and frankly, I want a refund.

Make a Plan. Harare, Zimbabwe

Crossing the border to Zimbabwe via Beit Bridge is unwise, so after five hedonist days in Pretoria, I'm shuttled to Jo'burg international where I take a British Airways flight to Harare. Before I left, I had received an email cautioning me that 'the political situation here is rather tense.' What an understatement.

Like clockwork I start to feel tired in the departures terminal, and manage to catch an hour's sleep in the plane. It doesn't help, so by the time the plane touches down I'm exhausted. I swear there's some curse that drains my energy when I travel. As I step out of the plane, however, it abates for a moment. My mind sharpens and I realise I'm suddenly here. I'm in the lion's den.

The arrivals gate in Harare is a ghost town. A large enclosure, the only sounds you hear are the repressive hum of the air-conditioning, and faint mumblings of staff. The other passengers perform their duties in whispers. British citizens have to pay US$55 for a visa, a sting in the tail in response to sanctions imposed by the United Kingdom. None of the duty free shops are open, in fact as I look around, I notice that this place is lifeless, absolutely lifeless. I imagine tumbleweeds billowing between the luggage carousels. The terminal building is the size of half a rugby field, and has the warmth of a cemetery.

On my way out I was singled for a random search. I was taken to a room where a lady asked me whether I was taking illegal items into the country. I wisely responded, enquiring what manner of items were considered illegal, and she declared, "Porn, any porn. Books? Magazines?" It sounded like an offer, however her eyes were downcast when I joked about my FHM collection. I showed her my media. It was Preez and Huxley, as opposed to Penthouse and Hustler. She poked nonchalantly at my bag for a while without bothering to look inside, before declaring me safe. The searches appear to be a formality since almost every white person on the plane was escorted away for similar interrogation.

Minutes later I'm released into the wild. What a shock! Roads are pockmarked with potholes. Cars, held together by rust and faith, navigate between the pits on the street. The grass on the side of the road is overgrown and wild, and many of the street signs are missing – stolen for their metal.

My aunt is my guide for the afternoon. I'm taken past the road to the presidential palace. Armed guards patrol the entrance of the road, fingers on the triggers of their bayoneted automatics. It's covered with security cameras and barriers. I spot caltrops in the middle of the grassy bank between the lanes. Pictures are illegal here, and the road is closed from 6pm – 6am. Here, no-one smiles.

The joke: Mugabe is kidnapped. A ransom note is sent to parliament demanding US$10,000,000 for his release. Failure to comply will result in Mugabe being doused in petrol and set alight. Broke, the Zimbabwean government calls to the good citizens of the country for donations. They respond, each offering five litres of unleaded.

Such is the feeling. We drive on a few minutes to the house I'm staying in, where I get to experience my first taste of Zimbabwean life. The power is off. It cuts out almost every day for hours at a time. Water too is cut off for long periods, sometimes a couple of days. A combination of the two often occurs. As it gets dark, candles are lit. If it weren't so tragic, a technology-free house is actually a beautiful thing. I wander around with my candle as my guide, its tiny flicker causing the surroundings to glow softly. It's a whisper of light, but it's enough.

This is merely the start of my experience. I'm advised that inflation in the republic is shooting past 1,700%. The government has decided to suspend further calculations of inflation, but an unofficial news bulletin, ZWNEWS, believes that it could rise to 4,000% by next year. It means that, like Germany under the Treaty of Versailles, currency has become meaningless. People walk around with thick bundles of Zim dollars in their bags (forget stuffing it in your wallet, you'd rather need a bucket). Z$8,000 will get you a coffee, Z$5,000 a coke. It's a gargantuan sum when you consider that the wage for a hotel receptionist is Z$500,000 a month.

"We make a plan." That's the catchphrase I begin to hear. There are shortages of common items. Bread, sugar, petrol. The government has fixed the exchange rate between the Zim dollar and other currencies. One green (US$1) gets you Z$17,000, so there's no comparison. It was becoming so bad last year that the government slashed the dollar by
three digits because basic calculators couldn't handle the sums. The real-life effect of a collapsed economy is tragic. Entire pension funds are reduced to pocket change, leaving elderly penniless. A house sold for Z$4 million five years ago is rendered worthless. Prices of commodities change on a daily and weekly basis. I spot a sign for lotto, 'making instant millionaires.' A million dollars buys you fifty blocks of margarine. In a week's time, it could buy you thirty.

You make a plan. The reported 80% unemployment is a smokescreen, since many Zimbabweans now operate on the parallel market. This is survival. No statistics exist to calculate the extent of the illegal activities citizens are forced to employ, however since the alternative is starvation, black market trading has become rampant. I enter a travel agency to ask about tourist activities in Harare. When I ask about prices in Zim dollars, the agent doesn't blink as he
quotes me black market rates. This month the government has imposed an 80% tariff on luxury imported
items. Significantly, this includes cars. It's another nail in the coffin for the public, since it makes purchases almost impossible. There's little hope left amongst the Zimbabwean people. Strikes have been organised to protest against the regime, however like everything else that doesn't work, no-one bothers to stay home. Apathy is the attitude in the air in this troubled region.

Whites are still a target. 'Glow', a popular night club attended by many whites was stormed a week ago by the police. They were hunting for drugs, weapons, and underage drinkers. A troupe of 150 suspects were arrested and led off on a police bus to detention cells. Reports are heard of beatings of some of these partygoers. It is the continued strategy of intimidation of the ruling party to the non gratia. I walk past the club. It's empty. Not just of people, but of tables, chairs, everything. The place is a shell.

Despite all this, Zimbabweans survive. They are resilient people. The Shona that I've spoken to have a sense of grace that outclasses any other person I've met; they are truly a wonderful people. In the next few days I've planned a number of activities. For now, the days are long, and my eyes have been opened.

Pretoria

There's no better feeling than sleeping in a clean bed, eating fresh
fruit and seeing old faces. My time in Pretoria was spent with my
cousin and her husband. It's a green city, filled with parks and
trees. For the next five days I am shuttled between reserves and
gardens.

My tenure in the capital was altogether too brief. It was a respite
between South Africa and Zimbabwe. I'm embarrassed to say that life
here was, well, normal. People have jobs, they have broadband, café's
and everything you would expect of a developed world. It was, in
fact, largely reminiscent of Cape Town.

There's nothing much to say except I had a pleasant time and watched
far too much cricket. My seemingly endless itinerary was abandoned
for these brief days. There was no visiting of museums, reading
history books, or hunting journalists as I had intended. I found that
for a rare and special moment, I was actually on holiday.

Mokopane Game Breeding Centre. Limpopo, South Africa

It's not advertised in the brochures, but more than your friends, more even than your mum and dad, or even the girl that you like, the biggest thing you miss when you travel, is sleep.

The by-product of travelling is fatigue. Everything is new, interesting, otherworldly, and more often than not, tiring. Your basic survival tasks like finding transport and organising accommodation suddenly becomes a monumental effort. You might well plant your ass on a bus seat for three hours, but instead of feeling wonderfully rejuvenated, your first desire on arrival is to find a bed to pass out in. The sting in the tail, however, is that you don't want to waste a moment because everything is new, interesting, and otherworldly. For your entire travelling experience you are trapped in between lethargy and orgy.

So after monstrous day of game viewing in the Waterberg, I managed to sleep in for an extra hour the following day. The sun was streaming through my bedroom window in Mokopane when I woke. Birds were fluttering outside, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a beautiful day.

My host, Rentia, had invited me to visit the Mokopane Game Breeding Centre today. I didn't realise at the time, but had been co-opted in a tree-hugging programme for the morning. We drive to the centre where we're met by Dr Jolanda Roux, a biotechnology scientist from FABI, the Forestry and Agricultural Biotechnology Institute.

We are on the hunt for Euphobias. Large cactus-like trees with thick waxy branches stretching to the heavens. In the Limpopo the Euphobias are mysteriously dying. A third of these native trees are infected. Not only are these trees in danger, but the ramifications of its extinction could be far more devastating. Euphobias are a natural food source for the already endangered black rhino.

Driving around the breeding centre, we discover no shortage of infected trees. Almost every euphorbia in the park has turned from its natural luscious green, to a brittle grey. Samples need to be taken, and Dr Roux has brought her chainsaw along to take them.

Her t-shirt reads 'keeping trees healthy.' As she hauls the chainsaw across the veld I point out the irony of the slogan. She laughs, "I know, it looks bad, but this is a necessary part of conservation." Spying a suitable specimen, she sets her mask on and proceeds to saw down a diseased tree. The infected tree topples, oozing acrid milk from its wound. The sap of euphobias is poisonous. Contact with skin causes a mild rash, but contact to the eyes will cause blindness. We take care not to let the milk touch us as we handle the specimens. This tree is one of three she will need to fell in order to analyse what could be causing the damage.

It's not that easy. As the tree slowly dies, a multitude of secondary and tertiary infections occur. The once-proud euphorbia becomes home to a myriad of parasites and fungi. It's her job to sort out the culprit from the immense line-up of suspects. It's a job that will take months.

I feel like a child as I'm walking around the velt. Your average tourist, of which I certainly qualify, hunts through the trees for the lure of spotting game. You may appreciate the dry red soil, the dusty earth teeming with acacias, and jakartas, but this is merely the garnish on the plate. Your main meal is the rhino, the lion, and the buffalo.

But not here. We're exploring on foot from the ground up. Black ants the size of grains of rice scuttle across the ground in their thousands, mobilising around a corpse of a beetle. They work with the precision of an unseen hand to carry the body to the nest. Spiders in vivid yellow weave their webs between the bushes. Anteater holes pockmark the terrain. Here on many scales the many tunes of these different creatures sing in beautiful harmony. I'm told about the trees, the significance of bushes, of the water system, the way these hundreds of creatures have adapted to survive this terrain. Every bush, every tree tells a story.

It makes this place even more majestic; it's no secret that I've fallen in love with the veld. We spend several hours in the noon heat gathering samples. We do spot buck and warthog, but are too busy to take much notice. When we finally leave, it's with regret, which quickly turns into nostalgia. My guides have explored this area for their entire life. I've whetted my tongue for a matter of hours.

By comparison the days following appear mundane. The road signs outside Mokopane point to Zimbabwe, but I need to travel back to Pretoria to meet with family and organise transport to Harare. I jump on a bus to Pretoria with the promise to return. Indeed, as my eyes give in to slumber, I find I'm already there.

The Waterberg

On my first day in Mokopane I spot two donkey carts riding down the road. Cheaper than cars, it's one of the ways people here make do to get around in this rural town. The municipality offers WOF's for these 'vehicles', I'm told, even going to the trouble to set up courses with the local animal welfare office to teach the owners how to best care for their ass.

I'm up early as I spy the carts through the windscreen. I'm grateful that our mode of transport is the more luxurious car. It's a big day. We're travelling west into the Waterberg district.

This is the heart of the Limpopo. If you want game, you could go to the Kruger National Park to the east, but frankly the Waterberg is bigger, older, and ecologically more magnificent. Geologists have discovered the oldest dated rocks on earth in this region, concluding that this was one of the cradles of humanity. Fossil records from the Makapan valley, for example, reveal the existence of early humans, as well as giant animals such as sabre-tooth cats, and buffalo with 12 foot horn-spans.

Of course we won't be seeing animals on such a scale, but understanding the heritage of this land certainly adds to the journey. We drive through the mountains, and I feel as though I'm really at the start of somewhere different. Everything before was multi-lane roads, bars, malls, and tourists. The thin road we're screaming down on snakes into the distance. There are no buildings here, rather to each side stand red cliffs, alien against the green of the trees surrounding them. So sharp is the contrast with the surrounding savannah that these mountains appear to have been punched through the ground. They tower above us, cracked and weathered in ancient glory.

The first stop is the Rhino and Waterberg Museum, just over an hour's drive from Mokopane. It's a tiny old Afrikaans school in the middle of nowhere, converted to educate visitors about the plight of rhino in the district. It's a little creepy, since it contains a score of rhino skulls, an adult skeleton, as well as several foetuses. A number of jam-jars on a bench are filled with preserved snakes including cobra, and the infamous black mamba.

The population of rhino in the area was in sharp decline due to hunting, in part due to the belief that the horn contained aphrodisiac powers. Numbers dwindled to a couple of thousand. A couple of thousand worldwide, you realise. White rhino were numbering less than a hundred at one stage, purely due to hunting. The museum displays many giant colour photos of rhino with their faces hacked to pieces. It's all very real and very sobering.

Seeing live animals, I think you'll agree, is far more satisfying. We set off from the museum south to the Entabeni game breeding ground. It means more travel through dusty roads in the savannah, which I don't mind in the slightest. This part of the world is full of wildlife. We drive along, and stop a dozen times to look at baboons, velvet monkeys, klipspringers, eland, warthog, and impala. I swallow my pride and take photos of the baboons. In South Africa they're viewed with the same appreciation as New Zealanders toward possums, so there's a silence in the car when I make my request. "No, no, don't worry, we can stop. After all, you are a tourist." Bang. Judgement. I don't mind. My hosts have been generous to a fault with me. We pull up to Entabeni in the mid-afternoon. The heat is starting to subside, and before long we're met by the game warden.

Entabeni is a game private game reserve. We're visiting the breeding centre. The warden, a tall soft-spoken Afrikaner, greets us, then pulls out a pipe and has a long discussion with du Toit, my host. It's in Afrikaans, so I can't really follow it. It turns out du Toit has organised to see a feeding at the breeding ground. Soon we jump on the back of the warden's bakkie (ute), and head into the game enclosure.

The park is 10,000ha, but the breeding ground is a fraction of the size. The warden pulls up to a herd of sable, and we fall silent. Animals don't like intrusion, and are especially jumpy toward noise. A single spoken word could make an animal bolt.

Sable are remarkable animals. Standing as tall as a horse, the bulls have long horns, and a fierce attitude. I'm told in whispers that adult bulls can't stand sharing the herd with equals, and will fight to the death for dominance. The warden jumps out the ute, grabs a sack of feed, and slowly makes his way to the herd. They scatter, but a bull mock-charges in protest. The warden yells loudly to stop the charge. Things turn awkward for a short while, but soon the feed is out. Spying a gap, the sable are replaced by eland, a more gentle antelope.

We are about to drive to buffalo feeding ground, but the warden spots a flattening tyre on the ute. He takes the wise option to drive out the park to fix it, but discovers that recent rains have broken the pneumatic pump. An 8-year old kid spies us and asks if he can come for the ride. My eyes widen, but the warden asks the parents, who are suddenly keen to join us too, and are more than happy to give up their son to our company. They trail behind us inside their air-conditioned ute.

I love kids, but have decided this wasn't one. It was a hell-hound in disguise. This little shit decided that he was the kingpin in this ride, and would loudly –brashly— declare his intent to us. It was a non-stop torrent of questions and demands. He ordered us to "go there, go there!" Or else, he wanted to touch the buffalo (which we were quite happy to comply with). A number of times he wanted to jump off the ute to walk with the animals. We made him cry when we pulled him back into the ute. "Trust me, we're just as upset," I whispered to myself. A hostage situation couldn't be more tense. You have a game warden walking along with bags of feed, and thirty hungry buffalo, massive hulking creatures, stalking him. In this delicate moment, this little prick yells, "Look there! Oh that's a big one! Ooooooh!" to our amazement, causing the warden to jump back in the ute for fear of his life.

We lose patience and the kid gets a gagging order, sent to the corner of the ute and threatened with torturous death if he were to move. While he sulks, we're finally given some respite to view the game.

What a scene. Shortly, the buffalo are joined by two zebra. A small herd of blue wildebeest come later, then a herd of impala. Warthogs are seen darting under the trees in the distance, and before long, an inquisitive giraffe lumbers to the fray. The impala jump over the buffalo in this zoo unfolding between us, and a pecking order starts to develop. My jaw is hung open as I watch these species feed together.

We spend hours inside the reserve watching the animals. It's probably the closest a person can get. I could reach my arm out at one stage and touch a buffalo. Time, however, caught up with us. Sadly, we make our way out of the reserve and back to Mokopane, stopping at Vogelfontein, a bird-viewing area, to watch the dusk. It's a magical moment when the African world stretches from its daylight rest, and comes alive. Flocks of birds fly about in the distance. Wildebeest, warthog and roan appear in plain sight and walk freely through the plain. We hear a jackal howl in the distance. We stay here a while to savour the dusk. This spot is idyllic, the Africa you see in magazines and brochures, and I don't want to leave.

Flikr photos here.

Jo'burg to Polokwane

I have decided that I was born to hate Jo'burg.  It's not that it's a bad place, but rather it's an awful place.  It just sprawls from horizon to horizon, endlessly filled with high security walls, barbed wire, and electric fencing.  It's a city of opportunity, but it's also a city of distrust.  The popular thing to do is create gated communities, tiny islands of safety amidst a sea of suburbia.  Several blocks of houses are walled off with 9-foot monoliths, then adorned with a creative assortment of anti-personnel spikes, razor wire, glass shards, and really, you name it.  Security guards will be hired to patrol the borders, leaving you inside with the wife and kids, far from the barbarian hoard. 

I book out of Shoestring, and catch a ride to the airport.  I need to make it 300km north to the city of Polokwane, in the Limpopo district.  I heard the buses were going to be on strike this week, so I hadn't booked a ticket.  Instead, I decide to shell out on a car for the day.  My goodness what a beautiful mistake that was.

I grab a Budget rental and find they don't come cheap.  For the privilege of driving yourself for the day, exceeding their 200km limit, and dropping the car off in another city, I was set to pay almost R1,000 (NZ$200).  It's extortion, but I meekly comply, providing only the smallest whimper of protest as the lady across the counter kept adding on costs.  "Dropoff to Polokwane ezz tree-handred en feefti dollar."  "We only haav B group car, dey more expensive, too handred and feefti dollar."  And so it continues.  I almost lose it, however, when right at the end, the lady pointed out the mysterious R28 (NZ$5) 'administration' fee popped atop mountain of cash I had already forked out.  It wasn't as much the amount more than the incredulity of the thing.  It's like they beat me, dragged me through the gutter, leaving me without my wallet, mobile, and watch, only to return five minutes later to pick the loose change out my pocket.

There's only one car left in their fleet, a 1.6l Nissan Tiida hatchback.  It's brand new, with only 2,000km on the clock.  I pull out of the airport carpark, set the iPod to The Black Seeds, and rocket up the motorway, leaving Jo'burg smoking behind.  Good riddance.

And what a drive!  I bypass Pretoria, taking the three-lane N1 motorway northbound.  The city around me is fast disappearing, and before long I start to enter the open country.  The Limpopo district consists of savannah's, stretching as far as I could see.  Here, the earth takes the appearance of a watercolour, highlighted in musty yellows and reds.  The sheer scale of the plains is staggering, and I lose myself for a while in the fields.

Reality hits an hour later in the form of a concrete toll booth.  It's a nominal fee of R5 (NZ$1), but I soon find out it's one of many, which get increasingly expensive.  The second toll hits me for R21, and I ask the guy in the booth how many of these I'm likely to expect.  "Two, three, who knows," he shrugs.  The next takes R28, not a large amount by any means, but enough to put a dampener on the ride.

After a brief lunch, I pull up to Polokwane in the early afternoon.  Although this is the capital city of the Limpopo district, Polokwane has the look and feel of a frontier town.  I drive through the dusty streets, gazing at the hoards of open markets.  Hundreds of ill-dressed people are walking the streets, and a cyclist ambles along almost in the middle of the busy road.  Cars stop seemingly at will, all proving that here, law is merely optional.

I've organised to stay with family here.  My uncle and his family live in an nearby town, Mokopane (ex. Potgeitersrus).  I'm excited to be here, merely because my Rough Guide wrote this:

The N1 formally ran right through the centre of town, but the new highway smoothly bypasses it, an act you should have few qualms about following, unless you are bound for parts of the northern Waterberg or have a perverse desire to check out one of the country's racist hot spots.

Fun.  My uncle works as an economist within the eco-tourism industry.  His wife is a conservationist, writing her MA on the black rhino.  Between them, and this town, I'm guaranteed an interesting time here.