29th Aug 2010
Livingstone I presume?
I’d been through immigration into Zambia before, a few years ago and thought that perhaps things had improved a little. They haven’t.
Before you are allowed to cross the mighty Zambezi the immigration officials wait like crocs for the annual Wildebeest migration. Everything is done in the traditional manner by hand. Large weather worn books need to be filled in, and departments visited in rotation.
Firstly the visa book queue and associated paperwork. Relatively straightforward if you have dollars, less so if you have Sterling. I had Sterling. The official reaction was shrug, scratch head, negotiate, and repeat. Haggle again; proffer pristine notes with queen’s head. Deal. One down.
Insurance was next. Confusingly there seemed to be three insurance “˜salesman’ doing brisk business, each from a different company and all eager to proffer the correct paperwork. Next, and relatively painless was District Council tax. This is still housed in a semi-dilapidated caravan whose axles groaned under the weight of motorbike-clad boots. $20, bargain.
It was 35 degrees.
Finally, join the queue into a small airless backroom where the same paperwork filled out at desk one needs to be repeated – in triplicate. This time it was for Carbon Tax. By this time energy was flagging, heat was rising and somewhere up ahead a sparkling pool awaited.
This process is a right of passage and I’d done it once before. The clean, smiling border crossings out of South Africa and into Namibia were forgotten in the mire of bureaucracy that this particular Checkpoint Charlie (no pun intended) provided. Recollections of this hard-earned passport stamp will last a lot longer than that old caravan.
An hour and a half later, one puncture, two broken rims and a sheared suspension bolt, we pulled into our final hotel, the Zambezi Sun.
A quick shower and it was a ten-minute walk to where the mighty Zambezi tumbles spectacularly into its gorge. Spray fills the air as the sun dips into the middle of the chasm, backlighting towering clouds of pink spray. Tourists cling to the edge of this natural wonder capturing the moment both digitally and emotionally. Charley sat and filmed his exit interview and posed for a few photos while everyone else just gazed at the spectacle. Words were superfluous.
During the next day or two a variety of excursions await our intrepid and exclusive club. Some will bungy above the falls, some will raft below, while others microlight in the sky above. Carvings and trinkets will make their way to different parts of the world as our group gradually dissolves.
The trip was over, but I suspect for many the journey has just begun. Africa has a way of getting under your skin. It’s a magical place full of intrigue, mystery, danger, hope and laughter.
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