Botswana to Zimbabwe
05/19/10
Inside an open-side truck, we bounced across sand roads at 5:45 a.m. in Chobe National Park. My hands felt drenched in cold water. The freezing wind penetrated my bones. Although I wore a sweater, jeans and long john underwear, nothing seemed to block the icy wind. I bent down, hoping to use the seats as cover, shivering as I stared at the corrogated metal floor painted army green.
Choppa-chaw wore her sleeping bag for warmth. I was not allowed, as Boxie-boo said it would make the tent dirty. I was about as thrilled as I am for the travel runs.
All I could hear was the metal frame clanking, the sound of sand swooshing in the tire wells and rocks spitting against the under carriage. My bones felt like frozen metal bars rusting at the joints, freezing me from the inside outwards. With my teeth clattering together, I leaned up. Boxie-boo and I rubbed our bags together like sea lions wrestling over a slippery sardine. Our bodies vibrated uncontrolled. Even the wild baboons cuddled for warmth.
I realized I had still not seen a wild cheetah, my favourite animal. The whole ride was uneventful, but we did see a family of huddled hippos in the water near the shore.
“I got about 30 degrees warmer now that we’ve stopped,” Bob said as we returned to the Thebe Campsite to pack up and take down our tents. While packing up, I met a group of Canadian softball players who were taking part in a safari before a tournament. Our next stop was the Botswana-Zimbabwe border, another drive across Africa.
Inside a building that resembled a high school portable, we waited in a slow moving line-up. It seems that government officials are lazy in every single country. I counted five beehives inside, one angry Canadian (me) and one amused American (Bob). The reason: Canadians had to pay $75 U.S. fo a visa and most other countries had to paid $30 U.S. I was pissed, cursing like a drunken sailor. Online official sources told us Canadian entry was free before we left Canada.
A Zimbabwean custom’s official told me the reason was because Zimbabweans have to pay a ton of money to enter Canada. This did not stop me from wanting to throw beehives at him. I had the facial expression of a hippo during a prostate examination. The $225 U.S. for the three of us hurt. Badly. Outside the falling over and rusted “Welcome to Zimbabwe” sign needed some fixing up. It made me wonder where the money went. I was more frustrated than beached whale trying to open a can of sardines.
“That was awesome when you flipped out and started cursing,” Bob said, a day later still amused. “You looked ready to blow.”
I came up for air on the Zimbabwean side of the border no longer grumpy. My anger was short-lived. Emotions cloud the mind and I sensed mine was filling with elephant farts, so I raised my white flag and left my grumpiness behind. I snapped myself into a good mood by thinking about the Care Bears. Those homies have always had my back.
Since we spent seven days living in a tent, Choppa-chaw treated us to a lodge upgrade at the Victoria Falls Restcamp for three nights. I had to give Choppa-chaw credit, my awesome mom. She was a grandmother who turned 57 on this trip, pooped in a hole and had little complaints about touring with us on tight budgets. Though, admittedly, we were all stoked to have a proper pillow, private bathroom and even a fridge - a rare luxury for on on this trip.
At night on a booze cruise, our slow moving boat drifted on the Zimbezi Rver back and forth between Zambia and Zimbabwe waters. When the sunset grew, there seemed to be no space between earth and sky. The river reflected the clouds and orange, receeding sun, creating a giant autumn leave rippling backwards in water and across the universe. It inspired us.
We got hammered.
Within 30 minutes, our group had finished the 40-pounder of Vodka, a few beers, then cracked the seal on both our bladders and a bottle of rum. By the time we met an African musical group all our inhibitions were lost. Everyone nicknameless acquired new names - Spinning Ugly (David), Bendover (Ben), Conan (Carolyne) and Bobaconda (Bob). David choose his nickname because he referred to drinking as “Spinning” and always called one campsite dog ugly, which we later learned was the dog’s actual name. We capped off the night dancing, singing and smiling the night away.
That’s all for now.
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