Stamps 5-7: Zambia - In...and Out?

On the Zambian side of Victoria Falls there is a path that leads upstream of the Zambezi River. Signs request politely that you not stray from the path, but there is a very good location for a sightseer to do just that. Hopping down a small earth ledge on your left hand side allows you to walk out to and then upon a collection of rocks that juts out into the current. To your right, flows of water with momentum in slightly conflicting directions collide with rocks and each other. To your left, maybe 25 feet, these currents plummet over the cliff. And, at dusk, on the horizon directly in front of you, the sun sets. It’s a view that is, as I taught my learners to understate, “Not too bad.”

The Zambian side of Victoria Falls has a few other unique features. Baboons will walk lazily around and even sleep on the footpaths unperturbed by any tourists that may wander nearby. There is also a footbridge swallowed by the spray in front of the falls from which you can see absolutely nothing at all, but you do get hilariously drenched.

After getting our fill of the Falls from all angles, Kyle and I said our goodbyes to Kristen who was heading back to Windhoek. I realize I do a terrible job of including references to the characters in this chronicle, but she was missed. After a packed first 12 days or so of holiday, Kyle and I prudently decided to take…one day…to rest before putting our noses down and shooting straight for Mozambique and the Indian Ocean. After all, the faster we got there, the longer we would get to relax on a beach!

This day of rest included an afternoon at the Lubasi Children’s Home, an institution I feel obligated to at least describe as an example of the kind of organization that is a part of the solution in Southern Africa. Lubasi is an orphanage funded by donations from travelers and citizens alike that takes children in as early as the age of 5 if the circumstances render it appropriate, and keeps them in their care until they finish their secondary schooling. The home employs all local Zambians as hostel matrons to stay with the children and cooks to prepare their food. The home has numerous projects where the children learn valuable skills and provide revenue for daily operations. Arts and crafts made by the children are sold to raise money; chickens are hatched, raised, and sold by the children for the same purpose. The home also has a rather large field which learners cultivate to provide food for themselves and the wider community. There is also a library and an assembly area where learners are encouraged to study and extra lessons are held after the children return home from school. Kyle and I spent a few hours with some of the boys on the grounds playing soccer, basketball, and army (with figurines the kids had sculpted out of hardened mud), and watched the kids do flips off of a tire tilted at an angle in front of a mat of straw after a running start. I managed to get my feet back under my head when I attempted, but I wouldn’t quite call what I did a flip.

Kyle and I arose in the wee hours of the next morning. “Indian Ocean or Bust!” we thought. We caught a large coach bus Northeast to Zambia’s capital, Lusaka, basking in the ease and comfort of transportation with clearly posted departure times and ticket prices. A brief, sunny walk around the capital followed, before we boarded another bus to Luangwa, a town that our maps showed us was close to the Mozambique border, a good crossing point, and had a campsite. After carrying our bags while avoiding crushing Zambian fingers as we stepped on armrests in order to climb into the far back of this bus (either no luggage was placed underneath or it overflowed into the aisle), we squeezed in and gritted our teeth until Luangwa. The policeman at the stop in Luangwa assured us that the campsite, although it was now night-time was a walk-able 2 kilometers down a gravel road. Tired after almost 17 hours of travel we set off into the pitch dark in search of where we would sleep. I will spare you the details, but the walk was definitely more than 2 kilometers, our day of travel was definitely longer than 17 hours, and at my grumpiest I muttered to Kyle that this walk “might be the least enjoyable experience of my life”.

When we woke the next day, Kyle went to freshen up, and I went to settle with the proprietors (usually check-in desks are closed after midnight). I paid for our night and exchanged some standard pleasantries with the European couple who ran the place - and had relatively poor dental hygiene. When they asked me where we were heading I coolly replied that we planned to cross into Mozambique that day via the border not much farther down the gravel road.

“Oh, you’re going the difficult way,” was the man’s response. Unaware that Kyle and I were making a decision that would make our trip even less comfortable, I uttered, “Really?” The couple explained that the road we saw on our maps no longer existed. They further explained that the only way we could travel once across that border into Mozambique was by hitching a long and unsteady ride on a fishing boat, if one just so happened to pass our way. They informed me that if Kyle and I continued northeast a good day’s journey we would come to a town called Katete, which is approximately 50km from the Cassacativa border crossing into Mozambique. I will never forget the look on the woman’s face, a weary mixture of resignation and sincere concern, as she took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and said, “Good luck.”

I had paid for our campsite because Kyle was running low on cash, which we needed to pay for rides too, and Luangwa had no ATM. Katete, our destination, had no ATM either. So Kyle and I sat by the side of the road in Luangwa hoping for a ride in a place in Zambia so developed that there was not an ATM for hundreds of kilometers in either direction.

Then Joseph arrived. A convoy of vehicles, an eighteen wheeler hauling a caterpillar machine being led and followed by SUVs with flags and signs saying “Abnormal Load” rolled to a stop at the check-point in Luangwa. I wrote off our chances with this troupe because it was way too official looking and put my nose back into “Three Short Novels by Herman Melville”. Kyle, irrepressible Kyle, ran up to the first car and started talking. When he returned he had gotten us a ride. When we asked how much, Joseph, the Afrikaner in charge of the operation, gestured dismissively and said, “We don’t want your money.” Strapped for cash on a roadside, we had gotten a ride, in a comfortable SUV, for FREE, and Joseph was taking his machine all the way to the center of Mozambique. Better luck, I am not sure I have ever had.