Bulawayo, January 30

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A little gentle advice, dear reader, if you are stopped at a roadblock on a deserted rural road in the third world at a roadblocked manned by people wielding AK47s: don’t argue. Four enforced stops at heavily armed checkpoints need not result in a funeral.

Smile, laugh, point out that Real Madrid’s most expensive galactico is Welsh – just like you – and you may just avoid a fine, let alone a funeral.We were stopped four times at police checkpoints and waved through three more. In dazzling sunshine, at one location our number plate lights were checked even though the daylight was so intense you needed to stoop and inspect the bulb’s feeble competition with the midday tropical sun at a distance of one Ångström. It was lit.

Discussion moved onto warning triangles (we showed him we had the regulation two, purchased at Vic Falls) before we moved on to the matter of paperwork. Temporary Import Permit? Check! Commercial Vehicle Guarantee? Check! Owner’s written permission! Check! Vehicle Registration Document! Check! Our German friends would say alles in ordnung but he said “I’m thirsty!” I smiled and gave him a bottle of water and we parted the best of friends.

You can imagine our unconstrained joy when his colleagues pulled us over five kilometres down the road. I was getting more pissed off with Gareth Bale at this point than your average la liga defender. But the show must go on. That one required a couple of little cartons of apple juice to escape.

We didn’t escape the entire day unscathed: during one of M’s driving shifts she got booked for failing to produce a fire extinguisher. She confessed her guilt in writing without any need for US assistance and after forking out five dollars (three real ones and the two Zimbabwean ones pictured above that Mickey Thomas would be embarrassed to hand over) we were on our way again.

Eventually we arrived in Bulawayo. My Zimbabwean mobile refused to work. Unlike the cops it didn’t respond to Gareth Bale conversations or offers of soft drinks. Luckily our guide book had a map of sorts and we arrived at our digs after navigating through the city centre and avoiding various collisions.

Dinner was available. Alas the venue wasn’t licensed. Luckily a bottle of Shiraz has been hiding in the boot for the last week or so. It beats mineral water or apple juice.

Victoria Falls, January 29

We had cooked up a cunning plan in Zimbabwe. Rather than forking out $50 each for a single entry Zambian Visa, we would get a 24 hour visa for $20 and see the Falls from ‘tother side of beck. Then we’d spend the night in Livingstone (it’s a few kilometres up an unremarkable and less than totally safe road) before returning to this side of the Zambezi and Zimbabwe the following morning before the 24 hours elapsed. So we timed our arrival at the border at midday so that nothing would be rushed.

The best laid plans and all that. The Zambian Government website seemed to indicate that the day tripper visa was OK for up to 24 hours. Not so: immigration were adamant: if we wanted to experience the overnight delights of Livingstone we’d have to fork out an extra $30 each.

Sixty post Brexit dollars equates to forty seven pounds. That buys a very nice dinner for two with a bottle of decent wine with tips and change to spare. Our Zambia trip would have to be truncated but it was the Falls we wanted to see.

The Zimbabwean side shows the Falls to their full width. But to get up close to the roaring water it’s the Zambian side one needs to visit. It’s a deafening and drenching experience. We spent a fun hour or so getting ever wetter and worrying about the thorough soaking our phones and camera were getting.

We walked upstream. Wading across to Livingstone Island at this time of year would be a suicide mission and even dry season excursions look more than a little hairy.

So we plodded back to the border control and the bridge. We intend to have that dinner before heading south to Bulawayo in the morning.

 

Victoria Falls, January 27

Dooby doop do, dooby dooby doop dooby….

Gene Kelly once memorably sang his way around a Hollywood film studio. But to see the heavens really open you need to witness a proper tropical downpour. Bangkok can put on a pretty good thunder and lightening show in the summer but things tend to quite down after an hour or so. But today’s rain here has been fierce and continuous. Happily, we are more than happy to put our feet up before we head off to Zambia tomorrow. We plan to leave the hire car in a secure(ish) compound and walk over the historic border bridge. Cecil Rhodes lacked many personal qualities but ambition certainly wasn’t one of them. A functioning railway system from the Cape to Cairo would be a huge asset to the continent today and it’s a shame that so much of Africa’s infrastructure simply doesn’t work. In many places connectivity was better fifty years ago.

We’d like to stay on the other side for two nights but the $50 standard single entry visa fee is a serious deterrent. So it’s a single night stopover on a 24 hour visa and hopefully the weather will improve. We’ll get another soaking at the Zambian side of the Falls whatever. I really must put passports in a poly bag before my zipped pocket this time. Yesterday they got a bit damp but are drying out nicely. A couple of old stamps are smudged (sorry Ukraine) but the key pages are fine: my expensive multiple entry Chinese visa is valid until 2018 and I certainly intend to use it again. I’m particularly glad that my double entry Zimbabwean visa hasn’t turned to papier-mâché too. I didn’t fancy having to explain that at the border. Moral of the story: waterfalls are wet places. Especially if the waterfall is a huge African river dropping a vertical hundred metres in the rainy season.

So it’s a quiet day. It looks like the FA Cup will be live on the television later. A beer too. I’ll sing if Man U get knocked out. Who said modern travel doesn’t broaden the mind?

 

Victoria Falls, January 27

The word “awesome” is widely misused. I recall ordering two cod and chips from a catering truck in New Zealand last spring. Instead of replying: “certainly Sir, a most wise choice if I may say so,” the young man simply said: “awesome.” To be fair his fish was better than his vocabulary. And I’m becoming a grumpy old fart.

And so to something that truly meets a dictionary definition of awesome. This dictionary also permits the use of the word to mean “extremely good”. Not in my bloody dictionary it doesn’t.

We braved the gauntlet of young men trying to flog wooden bowls or old Zimbabwe zillion dollar notes and forked out the entrance fee for the Falls. After saying hello to Dr Livingstone, we gingerly made our way along the various paths. In places there were a few twigs in place that might have stopped a less than determined hamster from jumping into the void but in general the view was uninterrupted by any health and safety nonsense. The view was accompanied by a thunderous roar as the Zambezi, the fourth biggest river in Africa, plunged over the hundred metre edge. And the biggest three? Answers below.

All in all an awesome couple of hours. We were soaked by the spray. My passport, kept with me to avoid another fine from the hard working police force, got soaked too. It’s drying out as I write this. One of the best features of the experience was the low visitor count. There were no crowds, just a few fellow entrants in the ‘Zimbabwe Miss wet T shirt contest’.

Time for a spot of decadence: high tea at the Victoria Falls Hotel. A colonial time warp with possibly the best view in Africa to the gorge and the bridge linking Zimbabwe and Zambia. Cucumber sandwiches, scones and gallons of tea. Alas staying there is way beyond our budget but afternoon tea was a memorable experience. Awesome even.

Answers: the Nile and Congo. Bet you got those. Top markets if you added the Niger.

 

 

Victoria Falls, July 26

For EU nationals, travelling around the Union is a breeze. We’ve come to expect few, if any, formalities, our vehicle insurance cover to continue seamlessly, mobiles to roam effortlessly at little or no extra charge and to be driving on our way in a matter of minutes. Often you don’t even need to stop and the Euro makes the whole process frictionless.

Holders of UK passports may need to become reacquainted with these procedures in due course but for now one needs to move away from Europe to experience the full joy of an international border crossing.

Exiting Botswana was straightforward enough. Entering Zimbabwe in contrast was a prolonged affair. Double entry visas, temporary import papers, third party insurance and the road tax all required payment in different locations. I nearly forgot the carbon tax. It’s good to see the government taking such an active interest in environmental protection by levying this charge on vehicles entering the country.

Eventually, we were through. Five minutes later down the road a cheery police roadblock relieved me of twenty dollars for not having a reflective white sticker on my bumper. Receipts and smiles were exchanged and we were on our way again as soon as I admitted my guilt in writing.

We arrived at the Falls and promptly purchased a dollar’s worth of stickers. Also a new SIM card from a very friendly and helpful lady. I now have more phone numbers than Babestation.

We dined at an Ndebele restaurant called In da belly. Honestly, I’m not making this up. I had an impala streak. It’s highly recommended by the local lions so that’s good enough for me.

Kasane, January 25

Given the morning’s events it’s entirely appropriate that I’m writing this entry using Safari. We bumped into two Germans last night. A smart young couple, civil engineers by profession. Rotwein was exchanged and they kindly agreed to let us join their game drive in the morning. They were at the vehicle before us this morning of course but no towels were in evidence.

The four of us plus our driver/guide Reynold set off west into the Chobe National Park. Hippos! Crocs! Giraffes! Many other animals in supporting roles. Providing dinner mainly.

No sign of any lions though. They were probably still hanging about on the main road south to the capital while Jose Mourinho’s agent gets them a better deal on their image rights. I was quite grateful really when I climbed out of the Land Cruiser for a pee. If I really had to face a hungry charging lion I’d prefer something rather more useful in my right hand than my penis.

Did I mention elephants? There were many. At one point our vehicle was surrounded by a substantial herd of elephants munching their elevenses.

A highly memorable morning with only one disappointment: there was no sighting of the lesser spotted David Attenborough. Or to give it its Latin name filmus naturensis. You can’t win ’em all.

Kasane, January 24

A complaint is overhead at the reception desk at our riverfront lodgings. A guest is not happy that access to the river is blocked by an electric fence. “It’s to keep out the crocodiles, Sir.”

We don our figurative pith helmets and venture forth in our expedition vehicle. After a whole kilometre in the Toyota Corolla spent carefully avoiding upsetting the warthogs, we stop for lunch. A table is secured overlooking the Zambezi. (Actually it’s a tributary but this is not a blog for purists). All we need now is Meryl Streep.

We have landed on our feet. An umbrella guards against the African summer sun as we gaze over the river to the Caprivi Strip. A tiny isolated bar is on the far shore. It’s tempting to pop across on the tiny water taxi to grab a beer in Namibia but the crocs and hippos are a bigger barrier than immigration formalities. So we lunch in Botswana.

We’ve yet to organise a game drive. In China or Vietnam there’s always a deal to be had but here things are a little less entrepreneurial. President Bush once informed us there’s no word in French for entrepreneur. There appears to be a similar linguistic deficit in Tswana.

Kasane, January 23

Our departure from Fancistown was delayed by the need to register and then resolve a fault on my Orange SIM Card. Two frustrating visits later to the organisation’s office (motto: the future’s shite if the future’s Orange) my phone was working again – just as well as it was before the first visit and they buggered it. In fairness, it’s not as bad as trying to get things done in India. Few things are.

Driving in Botswana is a classic third world motoring experience: it’s better to avoid huge potholes, animals in the road and other erratically driven vehicles. This is all to be achieved while keeping track of illogical speed limits and the traffic cops cum revenue collectors hiding under trees and the like.

We turned off the Manu road at Mata and headed north. Traffic levels dropped and the road surface improved. We passed through a thunderstorm of such intensity that we were reduced to a crawl and then we saw it. “It’s an elephant!” cried my excitable navigator. She insisted we turn around for a better look. I wasn’t too keen as wild elephants can get a little wild if the mood takes them but I did as I was told. It was indeed an elephant. It didn’t seem interested in us. I have never seen a wild elephant before but I’m pretty sure the elephant had seen a Toyota Corolla.

We set off. More elephants ( of various sizes) were spotted. We also drove past a lion resting at the side of the road. As you do. M was a little spooked. It was also time for me to drive the next shift. But with long grass coming right up to the edge of the road I was not going to get out of the car and walk around. I’d rather have a coq au vin with Madame le Pen.

Lions to the left of me/Jumbo to the right/here I am/Stuck in Botswana with Pugh.

Approaching Kasane we overtook a huge queue of trucks awaiting the ferry and customs clearance for Zambia and Zimbabwe. Arriving at our waterfront lodgings we opted to avoid a waterfront stroll on account of the crocs. Better to eat dinner than be dinner.

Francistown, January 22

The Botswana Traffic Police have a favourite game. It’s a variation on hide and seek called hide and book. They crouch in the long grass with speed cameras on the exit from towns or on the central reservations of dual carriageways with inappropriately low speed limits. They just love to jump up and say “Boo!” The game ends with you handing over a cash reward for their ability to hide so well.

We crossed the Tropic of Capricorn on our way north from the capital to Botswana’s second city. The line, at 23.5 degrees south, is where the midday sun is directly overhead a hiding traffic cop on December 21. It’s all connected with the Earth’s axis being tilted but that’s more than enough information for a post fact World.

Second cities are sometimes more attractive than the capital. A tough ask in the case of Berlin, a trifling matter in the case of the mega-dump that is Jakarta. I reckon Brno and Chiang Mai give their capitals a run for their money, but Francistown doesn’t inspire an extended stay. So we are continuing north until we arrive at the banks of the Zambezi tomorrow where no fewer than four nations come together near the small town of Kasane. The town has elephants who freely roam in the area. We will be crossing borders too. Despite the fact I have a frequent traveller passport with extra pages (the passport office call it a ‘jumbo passport’) it’s rapidly filling up. All this poses a question: if the elephants are regularly crossing borders do they have jumbo passports too?

Gabarone, January 21

We have decided to drive into Botswana at a quiet border post. So when we turned up at Ramatlabama the atmosphere was relaxed. We parked up at the South African side and the car was searched. The lads were amused to discover M’s three litres of tomato juice in the boot. “Disgusting stuff,” I said to general agreement. We moved on and got stamped out by immigration after the customs officials checked we had the correct documentation to take the hire vehicle out of the country.

We rolled up to the Botswanan side. Firstly immigration: simple enough, fill in forms and get stamped in. Then customs to clear the car and check we weren’t importing contraband. I eat three bananas, half a dozen tomatoes and offer the balance to the plant inspector for lunch. She smiles and accepts. We pay for and then receive a final road tax and insurance invoice before we are allowed on our way. We will have to jump though similar hoops at the Zimbabwe border in due course.

Botswana has a rightly deserved reputation for tight enforcement of speed limits. We clock several police patrols loitering with cameras as we head north. If the prospect of an on the spot fine wasn’t enough there are many donkeys, goats and cattle wandering around on the road as we head for the capital. Hit one and it’s game over.

Later

We arrive at Gaborone. At the ATM we get a stash of pula and go in search of a SIM card. It’s hardly straightforward but eventually one of our three iPhones (two stay on uk numbers and the spare is a “local”) work again and we are able to locate ourselves in this city of a quarter million people and arrange accommodation. We opt to pay seven quid more for a much nicer standard of digs for the night. We are clearly getting old, but as a bonus we have a TV showing live Saturday premiership football. After a much needed shower, from our bed we watch Manchester United snatch a draw at the death at Stoke City and then go in search of dinner. A slightly dodgy half hour walk ends up at a bar restaurant. Botswana is safer than South Africa but it’s all a bit quiet and we’re happy to arrive as night descends. There’s a lightning show too but we’ve avoided a drenching.

Sensible locals and insensible expats are eating and drinking. It’s Saturday night so red meat is in order. It’s excellent. We return by taxi. Our driver has gospel music on his CD and he tells us he’s in church at 8am sharp tomorrow. He’s clearly not a boy with far way eyes. And so to bed, but first a nightcap of Malarone. Northern Botswana has malaria and we head there tomorrow.