Ok; I’m supposed to be pedalling across America, so why am I in Africa? Well, I needed to visit the UK to pick up my bike. I left it with family in Manchester after touring Britain and Ireland in 2007. Not that it’s a fabulously expensive or fancy bike: it’s just an extremely comfortable one, and nothing is more important on a long tour. Three thousand kilometres without even a sore bum is not a bad reason to use the same machine again. A “round-the-world” ticket seemed a reasonable option, so I decided to stop over somewhere I’m unlikely ever to get the chance to see again. The Okavango Delta in Botswana was the obvious choice for me.
I looked into the possibility of hiring a vehicle and traveling there from South Africa myself, but the distances are huge, the costs prohibitive and the risks considerable. The only reasonable option was an organised tour – not something I would normally consider, but in this case I’m glad I did.
We set up camp in a light drizzle at Elephant Sands, a safari lodge of a style that would become very familiar. A thatched, semi-open air bar / restaurant overlooked a small waterhole. A few cabins, a “rustic” toilet block and a sandy campground sat amongst the acacia scrub. The track from the campground to the toilets was studded with mountainous elephant turds. We had to pick our way between these by torchlight through the drizzle to get to the loo in the middle of the night.
Most of Botswana seems to be flat, semi-desert acacia scrub. If you substituted eucalyptus for the acacia you could be 400 km south of Darwin. We pushed on for half the next day, in sunshine now at least, to the Zambian border at Kazungula. This border crossing is one of the most bizarre and entertaining circuses I’ve ever seen. After filling in a form and having our passports stamped at the border post on the Botswana side, we crawled down the hill to the Zambezi River – the natural border – past a half-kilometre long line of trucks, mostly semi-trailers with canvas covered loads. It seems tourist vehicles have priority over freight. The Zambezi was in flood – more than half a kilometre wide – and three slow, barge-like ferries were each transporting one truck at a time across the river, with each journey taking about twenty minutes. Both banks were rough and muddy, and the trucks were struggling through deep pools and potholes to get aboard. Our guide told us that in busy times the drivers can wait a week to get across. Armed police and soldiers with battered-looking AK47s wandered about. Under their noses, a group of locals were smuggling cases of booze across in dugout canoes.
We set up camp at a more upmarket safari lodge called The Waterfront, on the edge of the magnificent Zambezi, upstream from the falls. The regulation thatched bar and restaurant sat on a boardwalk overhanging the river. A few kilometres downriver, a strange, swirling cloud streamed upwards from the forest – the spray from the falls. The low rumble of Mosi oa Tunya – The Smoke that Thunders – was constant in the background.
We spent the afternoon wandering the tracks and lookouts around the falls. It’s difficult to describe the sight, and the sound, of so much water pouring over the edge of a sheer cliff into a bottomless ravine. It’s a cliché I know, but awesome is the only word that comes close to doing it justice. We had been told that we might get a little wet from the spray. As we stood at the first lookout in a light spray, gaping at the stupendous sight, the wind shifted and we were hit by a wall of water that I can only compare with a Darwin monsoon storm. Later, back at the camp, I had to dry my passport and money out between sheets of toilet paper.
Walking along the ravine towards the cantilevered bridge that marks the Zimbabwean border (the border post, for some strange reason, is in the middle of the bridge, hundreds of feet above the river), I was approached by a young man who was obviously going to try to sell me one of the cheap copper bracelets he carried on his arm. It turned out he had come across the border on a day permit to find suckers – I mean tourists – like me. No one visits Zimbabwe anymore. I put on my best indifferent look and prepared to repel the attack. After all, I’ve been to India: I’m beggar and peddler-proof, aren’t I? He disarmed me with his first tactic – I was a pushover. On discovering I was Australian, he asked, “How’s Mr Rudd getting on?” He then proceeded to name every Australian Prime Minister back to Federation – something I would have struggled to do. When I surrendered and bought the bracelet after a pathetic attempt at haggling, he threw in a Zimbabwean 20 billion dollar note as a souvenir. Apart from his brilliant tactics and impeccable homework, I was impressed by his superb English and genuine sadness at the fate of his once-beautiful country. (Anyone in the market for a genuine Zimbabwean copper bracelet?)
A sunset cruise on the Zambezi wound up a lovely day. The barman on the observation deck mixed semi-lethal gin and tonics while we tourists got excited about the hippos frolicking in the shallows and the truly splendid sunset. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
The next morning was bright and sunny and full of birdsong, as befits that most important day of the year: the twenty-first of April - my birthday. I celebrated with bacon and eggs by the mighty Zambezi, followed by a lazy day of reading by the pool and occasionally wallowing (rather than actually swimming) in it. I kept my strength up in the afternoon with a gentle succession of Savannah beers (6.5 % alcohol and very flavoursome), which somehow morphed into gin and tonics by the evening. An evening ramble around the town of Livingstone and a couple of post-prandial G & Ts eased me into an early night. Most satisfactory really.
Having booked my tour on the Internet with Acacia Africa, I flew into Johannesburg on April 18th, and was picked up by minibus from my backpacker hostel at 5:00 the next morning. On the drive north out of the city in drizzling rain I saw as much of Johannesburg as I ever want to see – an unattractive and featureless urban sprawl; high walls, razor wire and electric fences everywhere; dismal shanty towns interspersed with ostentatious gated estates. An endless stream of traffic, four lanes wide, poured into the city from the direction of Pretoria, an hour away to the north. I realize I’m being unfair to the place, having seen it only in part, only in the drizzling half-dark, and only while jet-lagged. I also realize that my prejudices are coming into play here, but I can’t help it. The miserable legacy of the Apartheid era is indelibly stamped on this country.
Bus lag was added to jet lag as we pushed on all day towards the Botswana border, crossing in the early afternoon at the enchantingly named Groblersbrug (Grobler’s Bridge). Afrikaans is such a melodic language! There were only four other tourists, three Brits and a Frenchman, on the bus – a twelve-seater – so it was reasonably comfortable. The driver / guide was Wessell, a genial, six foot, rugby-loving Afrikaaner. His offsider and girlfriend, Georgie, turned out not only to be Australian, but to have lived in Darwin and Brisbane. The efficiency, friendliness and enthusiasm of these two, along with Wessell’s comprehensive knowledge of the territory and its wildlife, really enhanced the trip.
In the bar that night, a “colourful local character”, (read “outrageous Afrikaaner bullshit artist”), told stories of “true” local wildlife incidents. The best was about an unfortunate tourist who was asleep in his tent when an elephant walked past and caught the guy rope between the toes of its back foot. It lumbered off, dragging the trapped camper behind in his tent. The more he yelled, the faster the animal went until the guy rope finally snapped. I’m not entirely convinced that this actually happened but, as they say, never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Later that evening, two huge bull elephants ignored the natural waterhole, walked up to within five metres of us and drank from the swimming pool. I lay half awake in my tent all night, feeling rather vulnerable and listening for heavy footsteps. Those who stayed on drinking till late swore they saw a leopard by the waterhole, about thirty metres from the tents, later that night. I realized that, in Africa, fact and fiction tend to become rather blurred.
The scene on the Zambian side made the Botswanan effort look organised. Souvenir sellers and black-market money-changers sidled about amongst the melee of vehicles, dilapidated buildings and crowds of pedestrians. Sullen-looking groups of soldiers nursed even shabbier weapons. We were instructed to place a $US50 dollar note inside our passports before handing them to the officials inside the border post. Visa fee, or bribe – who knows! Soon enough, though, we were on our way to Victoria Falls, 60 kilometres away.
We set up camp at a more upmarket safari lodge called The Waterfront, on the edge of the magnificent Zambezi, upstream from the falls. The regulation thatched bar and restaurant sat on a boardwalk overhanging the river. A few kilometres downriver, a strange, swirling cloud streamed upwards from the forest – the spray from the falls. The low rumble of Mosi oa Tunya – The Smoke that Thunders – was constant in the background.
We spent the afternoon wandering the tracks and lookouts around the falls. It’s difficult to describe the sight, and the sound, of so much water pouring over the edge of a sheer cliff into a bottomless ravine. It’s a cliché I know, but awesome is the only word that comes close to doing it justice. We had been told that we might get a little wet from the spray. As we stood at the first lookout in a light spray, gaping at the stupendous sight, the wind shifted and we were hit by a wall of water that I can only compare with a Darwin monsoon storm. Later, back at the camp, I had to dry my passport and money out between sheets of toilet paper.Walking along the ravine towards the cantilevered bridge that marks the Zimbabwean border (the border post, for some strange reason, is in the middle of the bridge, hundreds of feet above the river), I was approached by a young man who was obviously going to try to sell me one of the cheap copper bracelets he carried on his arm. It turned out he had come across the border on a day permit to find suckers – I mean tourists – like me. No one visits Zimbabwe anymore. I put on my best indifferent look and prepared to repel the attack. After all, I’ve been to India: I’m beggar and peddler-proof, aren’t I? He disarmed me with his first tactic – I was a pushover. On discovering I was Australian, he asked, “How’s Mr Rudd getting on?” He then proceeded to name every Australian Prime Minister back to Federation – something I would have struggled to do. When I surrendered and bought the bracelet after a pathetic attempt at haggling, he threw in a Zimbabwean 20 billion dollar note as a souvenir. Apart from his brilliant tactics and impeccable homework, I was impressed by his superb English and genuine sadness at the fate of his once-beautiful country. (Anyone in the market for a genuine Zimbabwean copper bracelet?)
A sunset cruise on the Zambezi wound up a lovely day. The barman on the observation deck mixed semi-lethal gin and tonics while we tourists got excited about the hippos frolicking in the shallows and the truly splendid sunset. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.
The next morning was bright and sunny and full of birdsong, as befits that most important day of the year: the twenty-first of April - my birthday. I celebrated with bacon and eggs by the mighty Zambezi, followed by a lazy day of reading by the pool and occasionally wallowing (rather than actually swimming) in it. I kept my strength up in the afternoon with a gentle succession of Savannah beers (6.5 % alcohol and very flavoursome), which somehow morphed into gin and tonics by the evening. An evening ramble around the town of Livingstone and a couple of post-prandial G & Ts eased me into an early night. Most satisfactory really.
