The Day I Followed Jimi Hendrix Across the Zambezi (Glimpse)

“Hey, bobo!”

Maryan and I pivoted. It had been weeks since we’d heard the Chichewa greeting (which bears no resemblance to the playground slur). To our left stood a slim dreadlocked man leaning against a wooden railing and fiddling with his beaded Rastafarian ring. We’d met him on the minibus that morning. He’d told us his name was Jimi Hendrix.

“Been to the lip of the Falls?” he asked. “Come on.”

Jimi led us along a paved path, indicating where the Zambezi’s current had grown stronger since the rains had begun. “Over there, do you see?” he asked, pointing to a marshy area hidden behind tall grasses. “That’s the lip of Victoria Falls. It’s not flooded yet, so we can cross the river.”

Maryan and I swapped glances. This was an adventure, right? “We need to make a chain,” Jimi said, grabbing Maryan’s left hand. I went to grab her right, but then a short, taciturn man appeared from behind the bushes (I swear) and nabbed the spot between Maryan and me.

We took our first exhilarating steps into the Zambezi. The warmth of the water distracted me from the force of the river. We shuffled along a manmade wall the width of a balance beam. The water hit at knee-level.

During college, I led backpacking trips in New Hampshire. Shelley, our program coordinator, loved river crossings. We discussed an endless array of techniques — rotating tripods and hand-over-hand chains and buttressed doubles — and tested these out in the carpeted dormitory lounge. None of these methods had ever proven necessary in the White Mountains. But as I faced upstream (to prevent my knees from buckling) and bent my legs (to brace against the current), I thought of Shelley. Who knew her advice would aid me in Zambia?

The water grew deeper. What had seemed a mere hop-and-a-skip from the bank was proving to be an unremittingly soggy schlep. We often paused to let giant, glowingly green, bulbous plants pass between our legs. The silent man from the bushes became increasingly shaky. Midway across the river, we had to straddle a boulder in order to continue. I remembered my earlier comment — “Maryan, you’d hardly believe such a calm current turns into those enormous falls!” I was ready to rescind the statement.





“Way better than whitewater rafting, isn’t it?” Jimi asked.

We grumbled.

“We’re nearly there,” he said. “That’s the office.” He pointed at a tree on the opposite bank. Discarded water bottles lay strewn at its base. Waterlogged clothing hung from the branches.

We arrived saturated with Zambezi and sweat. It had taken us 45 minutes to go a few dozen meters. I wondered if the river had parasites. Or crocodiles.

“Where’s the lip of the Falls?” Maryan asked.

“Over there,” Jimi said, waving his arm toward the horizon. “Not far.” Jimi loved understatements.

“No,” Maryan said. “I’m done.” She remained at the office with Shaky Bushman (who informed her, she later said, how small children cross the Zambezi all the time. “And I run across!” he’d boasted).

I’d made it this far, I reasoned, so I continued with Jimi. We were off the manmade wall and into the rocky, slippery rapids. “Step where I step,” Jimi said. Never mind that the water rushed too fast for me to make out Jimi’s feet. “I’ll keep you safe,” he assured.

I slipped. Jimi sneered. “You have short legs,” he said. Jimi was at least six feet tall.

I slipped again, this time soaking my entire right side.

I swore. “Enough,” I said.

“But we’re nearly there!” he insisted. Jimi said this frequently. He pointed across an interminable stretch of whitewater. “That’s the regular route, but there’s a shortcut along this way.”

I steeled myself. “Wait,” I said. “How deep is the water?”

“The regular way — ” he gripped my calf. “And the shortcut — ” he karate chopped my waist.

“No way,” I replied.

On our return slog, we passed a group of guys making the crossing.

“Was it worth it?” one asked.

“Chalk this up to stupid things I’ve done in Africa,” I said. “Have fun.”

I Never Knew I Wanted to Spend a Night at a Botswana Truck Stop (Until I Spent a Night at a Botswana Truck Stop) (Glimpse)

Serule, Botswana is a charmless truck stop in the country’s arid east. It consists of a filling station, a sad-looking bar, and a dingy guesthouse. Lonely Planet would never include Serule. Ever.

But as we wheeled down the A1, bucketing rain and a darkening sky gave us little choice. “I’m done driving,” Charles grumbled. I didn’t blame him. He’d been behind the wheel since sunrise and had just received his second speeding ticket of the day. He’d managed to haggle down both fines (raise your hand if you love corruption!), but the cop in Botswana had been more stubborn than her Zimbabwe counterpart. “We’re stopping here,” he said. Maryan and I, the permanent passengers, put up no resistance.

A cluster of round huts comprised Sunshine Guesthouse. A barefooted woman said ours was the last empty room. And what a room it was. The floor hadn’t been swept since the colonial era. The bathroom reeked of mildew. Neither the toilet nor shower functioned. I think a large carnivore had clawed at the sheets. The mosquitoes were enormous and abundant.

“I need a beer,” Charles grumbled. Once again, I didn’t blame him. We made the muddy trek to the bar and hunkered at a picnic table beneath a thatched roof. Chickens pecked at our ankles. A nearby car, its doors propped open, served as a de facto sound system. Skimpily dressed women tried to pick up passing truck drivers.

It was there that we met Rodney. A ruddy-faced South African engineer, Rodney bought us a round before even introducing himself. He told us he’d driven his pick-up all over Africa. He’d taught in Malawi. He was on his way to Namibia. He kept a cooler of ice in his truck and added cubes to each brandy and coke he ordered. He’d joined a South African gang as a teenager and had the tattoos to prove it. He’d lost his fiancée Melissa to a stray bullet in Johannesburg.

And he was determined to show us a good time in Serule. “You guys hungry?” Rodney asked. Maybe gnawing at our bottle caps had given us away. “I know a place nearby,” he continued. “Just a few minutes down the road — follow my truck.”

As our other dining options were limited to peanut butter and the bar’s gray-tinged chicken cutlets, we seized Rodney’s offer. “Just a few minutes down the road” turned out to be quite the distance along an unlit highway, but our destination did not disappoint. The bartender stood behind a barricade of iron rods, locals played pool, and “Ally McBeal” spooled on the television. But then the ultimate diversion arrived: several cardboard boxes filled with hot, grilled meat.



Let me interject here: some of my fondest memories abroad involve absurd quantities of meat. I celebrated my 19th birthday in a small Romanian village, where my surprise party featured neither cupcakes nor ice cream but endless rounds of mici (tiny sausages made from beef, mutton, and pork) and slow-cooked chicken (and I mean slow-cooked chicken — it didn’t come off the grill until after midnight, at which point I was still forced to consume half the bird). I developed quite a liking for ostrich meat in South Africa. I studied abroad in Germany.

But Serule put these other carnivorous feasts to shame. We devoured pork, beef, and sausage, along with mounds of maize porridge. After months of Malawian cuisine, where seasoning rarely ventures beyond salt, this spicy, zesty meat assailed our taste buds. With juices dripping down our chins and fingers, we told Rodney we loved him. He bought us another round.





We awoke the next morning with heartburn and meat still threaded in our teeth. Maybe Lonely Planet should reconsider.

Six Countries in Six Photos (and a Bonus Video) (Glimpse)

My passport received a great deal of ink over the past five weeks. As I mentioned in my last entry, I took off for an ambitious circuit of southern Africa, lasting 35 days and covering more than 4,200 miles (not including wrong turns and various detours). I didn’t enter a single plane or train — I spent the stretch from Blantyre to Cape Town in a friend’s car, and from there opted for crowded local buses. Ever wondered what it’s like to spend 14 hours on a bus with two dozen wailing, pooping babies? Spare your imagination.

Before I record the journey’s adventures in detail (up next: a night at a truck stop in Botswana! Crossing the Zambezi with Jimi Hendrix!), here’s the six-country trek in six photos. And because I couldn’t resist, I’ve included a bonus video at the end.


That’s Clutch!
Tete, Mozambique
When traveling, it’s always polite to learn a few words in the local language — hello, thank you, toilet, etc. I never thought, however, that I would learn how to say “clutch spring” in Portuguese. Somewhere between Malawi and Zimbabwe, a stretch of road with potholes the size of moon craters, Charles felt his clutch give out. We went on to spend a few hours searching for an auto mechanic in Tete, the sauna of Mozambique, and eventually found a nice man who sold us three bottles of brake fluid. They did little for the clutch, but they gave us the charade of repair. We wound up spending three days in Harare waiting for a proper fix-up.


Pimp My Minibus
Harare, Zimbabwe
In Malawi, the minibuses have crosses hanging from the rearview mirrors and windshields rendered useless by spider web fissures. In Zimbabwe, they had blue velvet upholstery, crystal chandeliers and gold glittery gear shifts. Such an ostentatious display shouldn’t have surprised us — we visited a shopping mall with larger-than-life statues of Mickey Mouse, My Little Pony, Santa, and Japanese geishas (of course). Zimbabwe also proved notable for its currency situation. The country uses U.S. dollars ($2 bills are in astonishing supply) but lacks coins. When I needed 40 cents in change at the grocery store, the cashier pointed me back to the aisles, where I bought the cheapest chocolate bar I could find.


Hemingway Drank in Africa, Didn’t He?
Somewhere Along the Road, Botswana
When we picked up Frank, our tattooed Swedish friend, he encouraged us to inaugurate a new tradition — celebrate every 500 kilometers with a drink. We commemorated that first marker with a gin and tonic (served in a sawed-off plastic bottle) and all subsequent milestones with a beer. Here, Maryan makes Hemingway proud by blazing through her book and guzzling a Black Label, a brew advertised as “America’s lusty, lively beer.” The girl’s Canadian, but a passenger’s duty comes before national loyalty.


I’ll Trade You a Magenta Push-Up Bra for a Shot of Jägermeißter
Somewhere Near Barrydale, South Africa
Along Route 62, an impossibly picturesque highway in the Western Cape, we spotted a sign for Ronnie’s Sex Shop. (Actually, there was no apostrophe, but my inner grammar stickler can’t bring me to leave it out.) We couldn’t resist the souvenir possibilities and pulled over. Turns out the place wasn’t a sex shop (Ronnie had some prankster friends, who repainted the sign after a tipsy night) but the most cluttered bar on the African continent. Padded bras, gossamer thongs and the world’s largest onesie dangled from the ceiling. Christmas tree tinsel and money notes from across the globe plastered the graffitied walls. Elderly women drank wine with their tea as they played chess, and our bartender Hugo lit his cigarette underneath a newspaper bearing the headline “PENIS FOUND IN HOSPITAL SOUP.” It was 11 a.m., the perfect time to order a round and make friends at the bar. Leon was a young South African who argued for a reappraisal of Hitler. Anthony was an Oxford-educated Brit who dreamed of living in colonial-era Kenya and wearing white shorts and tall socks (his bed, he told us, would straddle the equator, so he could fall asleep in one half of the world and wake up in another).


Where Everything You Touch Turns to Photographic Gold
Sossusvlei, Namibia
Sossusvlei played home to the most stunning landscapes of the journey. But being tourists raised on Facebook, we couldn’t stop ourselves from taking dozens of jumping shots. Taro, an Aussie medical student, got the best air. He also entertained us with stories of past travels, including the time he tore down an entire wall in his friend’s London apartment and the garment he fashioned from leaves and mud in the Amazon. He told heaps of dead baby jokes as well, none of which are appropriate here. But here’s this gem on feline euthanasia, courtesy of Taro’s veterinarian friend: Dude, kittens are so hard to put down. Their veins are just so small.


My, What Big Rapids You Have
Victoria Falls, Zambia
We drove across the Zambezi in Mozambique and crossed it by ferry in Botswana, but you don’t really know a river until you wade through it, right? Or get sucked down the waterfall. We evaded the latter, but fording the torrents above the falls seemed the grand Zambian adventure (and way cheaper than whitewater rafting or a helicopter tour!). Expect a full entry devoted to the soggy escapade.
And now the bonus video!


I’ll Take Feathers Over a Mane Any Day
Oudtshoorn, South Africa
Thanks to some scarring summer camp incidents, I’m lousy on horseback, but these ostriches were no more temperamental than the angry stallion who tossed me off the saddle a decade ago. Think I’ve got a future as a jockey? In the video, take note of the KKK-style hood the ostrich wears. It’s tossed aside right before the gallop begins.