Zim-Zam

Zim-Zam

 

The unapologetic country bagger takes every opportunity he can.  Thus was it in the early afternoon of May 7^th that, after settling into the swank British-colonial style Pioneers Lodge in Victoria Falls, he set off immediately for the Zimbabwe/Zambia border.  Because the Zambezi River functions as the natural boundary between the two countries, a relatively short bridge separates the two.  It wasn’t difficult to get from one side to another.  

 

I had a driver drop me off at the Zim side, and even before I reached the border station, I was bombarded with men trying to sell me stuff.  I was in the market for nothing, and I lost count of the number of times I said “I’m not buying anything.”  Poverty is a difficult thing to observe, and even more difficult to diffuse.  There was absolutely nothing I wanted to buy, yet these guys were desperate to earn some money.  

 

To make it local, crossing from Zim to Zam is a bit like crossing from Rouses Point to Vermont.  On the left side of the bridge was a partial view of Victoria Falls and its mist forced me to put on my raincoat.  Two young men joined me, both heading to the center to watch the fool hardy bungee jump off the bridge.  

 

Once on the Zam side, I contracted with a car, driver and guide who filled my day with unexpected surprises.  Perhaps some marketing skills would increase business, because “do you want to go to the village,” just wasn’t convincing enough, although I did say yes and yes turned out to be good thing to say.

 

We set off.  Baboons were everywhere, but I never saw any other wildlife other than a statue of a zebra is someone’s front yard.  This wasn’t a national park.  We stopped at the village of Lampasa.  I had to remind myself that this was not a Disney set. Every family home in the village of 700 was made of mud and sticks.  The village has been continually settled since the 13^th century when people arrived from what is now Zimbabwe and the Congo.  If the three pigs had built a village, this would be it.  But there was no big bad wolf to frighten me away. Instead, a woman emerged and told me she would be my guide.  We did a slow walk around the village, saw the school, the medical clinic, the community center, where the chief lived.  This was the first time in over a week that I heard music and it came from a transistor radio that a group of women were listening to.  Rose, my guide, asked me if the young people of the community could perform me.  This was just an obvious.  Why wouldn’t I want an added cultural experience.  What emerged astounded me.

 

There must have been 20 young people involved in the production.  First boys played drums, then the dancers emerged.  They told a story of which I did not understand.  What impressed me, in a time of disappearing values, was how this village imparted its traditions to a younger generation.

 

This was a country of rich human texture, where people had stories written across their faces and told them through dance and music.  I longed to stay longer, travel deeper into the country.

 

The music drew out a group of younger kids, some of whom danced to the music.  With all the tourists in the area, it surprised me that I was the only one.  But the package tour people were on their way to the Zambian side of Victoria Falls and bypassed this piece of rural magic.  What a shame.  Journey vs. destination.

 

We left, although I was heavily pressured to buy stuff.  The men of the village are craftsmen who have a cooperative. The handicrafts that I’d seen were astounding, but I had no room in my luggage nor room in the house.  My collecting days are over.  Plus, there’s no African theme going on at 8 Lynde St. so nothing was purchased.

 

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the gateway to the 300-meter stretch of Victoria Falls that Zambia has to offer.  The trail went in two directions.  I did not know why the guide stripped down to gym shorts and sandals, but once we got close to the falls I understood why.  This is May, and the Zambezi, the fourth longest river in Africa, raged with excessive rains that had fallen during the wet summer months from January to April.  Countless steams, tributaries, rivulets and lesser rivers all pumped trillions of liters into the Zambezi.  The flow over the falls was so great that it was almost impossible to see them.  Mist rose in the form of heavy rain.  

 

I was soaked.  Boots, clothes…everything.  We walked the other trail, to a “beach” of sort,not much more that 10 meters from the falls.   The guide told me people get stupid, step into the water, lose control and get swept over.  Talk about going out in a splash.  I wonder if bodies are ever found.

 

By now the sun was low in the sky and I was running out of steam.  I’d had enough.  I was also hungry.  The day had started early and I’d eaten nothing since having a slice of toast with peanut butter on it that morning, so I treated the guys to a late lunch.  I’m ashamed to say that my only dining experience in Zambia was at an American-style fast food joint named The Hungry Lion eating fried chicken, fries and a Diet Pepsi.   Still, after my guide told me about dried antelope meat cooked into a stew with vegetables and corn, it seemed the right thing to do.

 

My driver dropped me off at customs in Zambia.  Another stamp in my passport.  I walked across the bridge once more, this time long after dusk.  Only the light from a half moon illuminated what I could see of the Falls.  My boots squeaked from being waterlogged.  I was tired.  I’d walked 13,500 steps.  I cleared Zimbabwean officials, then got a cab to bring me back to the hotel.  

 

I was bushed, pun intended.  I had the driver drop me off at the 7 & 11 (not to be confused with 7/11) convenience store at the entrance to the hotel.  I had no appetite and no interest in anything substantial dinner for dinner and there was nothing more that I wanted than a cold Diet Coke.  I also bought a can of bush beans (Yes, again), some crackers.  The price was $2.65.  I handed the clerk at $3.00 and waited for changed.  There was none.  I asked her where it was and she showed me an empty till. 

 

“I can give you a banana.”

 

I started to laugh.  “A banana?”  No one had ever given me a banana in change before.

 

That was a good one, just as good as “Mr. Daniel, I put your sandals indoors so the baboons won’t take them.”

 

I walked toward the restaurant and requested a spoon, a bowl and a half bucket of ice.  I dropped my pack on a table in the glorious park-like gardens outside my room and fine-dined on bush beans, ginger snaps, a Diet Coke and a small candy bar.  The Southern Cross looked down on me.

 

I was another perfect day.  I’d zim-zammed my way between two countries.  The unapologetic country-bagger had now clocked 104 countries.