Plans changed. Despite being warned off independent overland travel in Zimbabwe mostly because of police “harassment” at the ubiquitous roadblocks that line the roads like teeth in a mouth we felt an increasing desire to see more of the country. Learning that there was a far more adventurous off road alternative to getting to the eastern end of Lake Kariba and the Lower Zambezi River through Zimbabwe rather than the tarmacked route through Zambia mentioned at the closing of the last post had our minds spinning (mainly Eric’s!). In addition, tourism has turned the relatively isolated Victoria Falls into a very un-Zimbabwe-like place and we wanted to get a better feel for a country that has experienced so many troubles including a precipitous drop in tourism over the last decades, so we delayed our departure from Vic Falls in order to get more information on this 400km track that runs just south of Lake Kariba through the central hills. The lake itself, one of the largest manmade expanses of water in the world is a critical part of Zimbabwe’s, all be it failing, economy. It provides not only irrigation but also hydro electricity and now hosts a bustling fishing industry. The lake is over 280km long and at its widest point measures 40km (more than 50 times the size of Lake Zurich). It was formed after the realization of an ambitious project to dam the mighty Zambezi River was completed in 1960 (when both Zambia and Zimbabwe, then known as Rhodesia, were still under British rule) at a narrow granite gorge. The huge area that was flooded to create the lake meant that ten of thousands of the local Batonga tribe who lived in the valley were forced out from their ancestral fertile lands and were relocated to the higher barren hills of the south. Today these people still consider themselves forcibly impoverished refuges and it was through their remote communities that this track would take us, from Binga in the West to Karoi in the East. However, as with every remote long off road track in Africa, especially after the rains, before venturing out you have to get local advice and try and gather intel on conditions. We spoke to local police, lakeside lodge owners (whose only access is by boat or sea-plane), a hunter and other contacts and most advised against taking it, warning that the heavy rains of the past months will have washed away many sections and also noting that the settlement of Binga had not received fuel in two weeks which posed refuelling issues. However, with the exception of the hunter, it turned out none had ever actually driven it. We also had to take into account a reoccurring and familiar theme that when attaining this type of info the locals tend to dramatize the roughness of their surrounding environment. Before taking the road far less travelled you are always warned against it and, as noted previously, that starts to become the very attraction of taking it!

On the terrace of the Victoria Falls hotel at sunset, sipping on our beer and Gin & Tonic, with the thundering background noise of the waterfall, we had the now familiar evening debate before taking these routes; “is it worth it”, “it’s probably not that bad”, “as long as we don’t get stuck we can always back track and we just loose a few days”, “we will see so much more of the local people”, “if we break down it will be weeks before we can be pulled out”.

We think Mr. Shuma, the GM of the old colonial hotel, had come to see us, his independent overland travellers, as a welcome diversion from his more typical clientele of well heeled American, British and Japanese tourist groups. With our unexpected arrival days before, Eric had engaged him in friendly negotiation over rates and room upgrades. As we extended our stay he extended the re-negotiation by insisting we had it over a morning tea. He seemed genuinely sad to see us depart and as we were saying our goodbyes he posed the pivotal question regarding the route decision (which we had still not taken!), ”You are here in Africa on a great adventure, so which is the route you will regret most not taking”? That was enough to put us on the track as soon as we found a station in Victoria Falls that also still had some diesel.

Within 10kms of leaving Vic Falls along the main road to Harare, which we would travel on for 100km before turning off towards Binga, we ran into our first infamous police check point, which consisted of a few shabby looking police officials standing around a some battered barrels of a makeshift barricade. We had been warned that the premise of these checkpoints was to find some fault in the vehicle or travel papers from which they could extort a few dollars in “fines”. Having failed to find anything wrong with our car the sergeant in charge soon declared that we had failed to stop at the “stop sign”, which we had let the front of the car pass by a wheel length, and that this infringement of the Road Traffic Law 61 would mean an on the spot fine of 20 USD. A debate ensued with us delicately balancing firmness with deference and humour. The threat of us refusing to obey the law raised the gambit at which Eric retorted that he would have to call his friend Mr. Mzembi, the Minister of Tourism in Harare, who would not be happy with how we are being treated. With this a look of increasing consternation passed the sergeant’s face and with prospect of sufficient hassle he through reluctantly waved us through. Within the next 90km we ran into four more check points and at each we had to go through a similar procedure with the reason for the fine becoming ever more inventive; “sticker for the vehicle weight incorrectly displayed” and “luggage on the back passenger seat”. Our fictitious relationship with the Minister of Tourism allowed us to pass without paying any fines and the game soon ended when we turned off to the track roads. What was an annoying game to us however is actually a serious concern for many Zimbabweans. Locals we spoke to explained that the police are authorized to do this as a way for them to supplement the low salaries that the government invariably fails to pay and that the threats and punishments can be harsh with children even being removed from the parents’ cars until fines are paid. It also shines a glaring light on the surface of the depth of corruption and gaping void in law and order that blights the country.

We overnighted close to Binga with “KP” who lived on the shores of Lake Kariba and whom we had been introduced to from a friend in Vic Falls. The thickly set, yet gently spoken KP is a second generation white Zimbabwean and his story is reflected across the country. His father emigrated there in the late 1930s from Europe when, then Southern Rhodesia, was experiencing an economic boom driven by agriculture, mining and forestry. Soon to be known as the “bread basket” of Africa thousands of white owned farms exported huge quantities of maize, sugar, vegetables, beef and tobacco from its fertile lands. After the war foreign investment continued to pour in. However, like most of Southern Africa it was a white owned and white led boom. The rightful fight for greater black political participation and cutting the chains of a colonial past led to independence but also conflict in the 70/80s. With the background of the Cold War being fought out by proxy during these years in Africa the increasing turmoil led to the defacto dictatorship of Robert Mugabe who still remains in power at the age of 92. His image (of a younger man) hangs in every office and building (with government officials even checking compliance of this). And it was Mugabe who received the vitriol and bottled anger of this kind man as he spoke to us of his life over dinner. His parents lost everything they had built up in the “Land Reforms” of the 1990s and what little savings they had left were destroyed with the hyperinflation of the 2000s when prices of goods were doubling every two days. The Zimbabwean currency within a year was obliterated (after bank notes were being reprinted with denomination in the billions) and was replaced entirely by the USD. His parents eventually emigrated back to Europe, broken hearted, and died soon after. KPs siblings emigrated to Australia, or as with many Zimbabwean whites left for the relative stability of Zambia, but KP stubbornly remained declaring that this land is his home. As we traveled through the country and spoke to others, black and white, it is clear that Mugabe and his cronies have hung on to power with the classic mix of terror, fear and the timely elimination of any emerging opposition and whilst they have stolen billions from the people, with criminal incompetence, they have wrecked the economy. Outside of Victoria Falls there is no cash in the economy (and no credit cards either). With the USD being the defacto currency, the inability to bring in foreign capital and hard currency is crippling basic services. There is no liquidity. Few banks have any cash and the ones that do limit a daily withdrawal to 40 USD per person. A situation that later eventually led to us being stranded in no-mans-land at the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe unable to pay the customs fees required in hard currency. The utter mismanagement of the economy has now even led to members of Mugabe’s regime to call for change and so KP and everyone else we spoke to look anxiously and with hope into 2018 when new elections are expected and to the failing health of Mugabe and to the emergence of credible opposition.

We left KP after a coffee at sunrise over Lake Kariba and immediately set off on the long off-road route which KP had confidently reassured us would not be a challenge for our V8 Land Cruiser (fitted with military grade extra rugged off road tires). It was a long slog over rocky, sandy and gravelled tracks, with steep sections that had been washed through by the rains, passing through or by the occasional Batonga settlement, which consisted mostly of a tight grouping of single roomed round mud walled dwellings with coned thatch wood/grass roofs. The dry roofs, sticking up just above the thick green bush or fields of maize that surrounded the settlements gleamed with almost metallic silver under the midday sun. The children who lived close to the track and who heard the throaty rumble of our engine came running out to stare with curiosity at the obvious novelty of our passing. The outstretched hand, open mouth and distended stomach of many is evidence of the hard life they have to endure. We gave one young couple, who were walking in the middle of nowhere, a lift 60km down the track we travelled to a district health clinic of sort. Communication was difficult as they spoke no English and our Batonga was non-existent but our help was gratefully accepted although the young girl looked at Eric with fear in her eyes when he put on Simon & Garfunkel and tried repeatedly to get us all to sing “Under African Skies” together! Monika’s usually impressive linguistic skills could not bridge the divide as our guide book only consisted of the dominant tribal language in Zimbabwe, Shona, also indicating how marginalized these people have become.

After 12 hours of bone rattling slow going and crossing the intact bridge across the Sanyanti River that feeds into Lake Kariba we decided to put up camp at a remote little community “rest stop”. Here we met Merrick, the caretaker of this plot of land on the banks of the river that offers nothing other than a well with a pump, a rather dilapidated building to sleep in if required and a fire pit. Since 1992 Merrick has lived here taking – for the community – a couple of dollars off anyone who wants to camp there. He welcomed us warmly with a big smile that displayed decaying broken teeth and clear bright eyes that signaled his excitement at having us pull over. He proudly displayed his visitors’ book, which showed the trickle of European over-landers who use the route in the dry season and the Zimbabwean and South African hunters who use it on way to the hunting concessions that lie south of Kariba. Merrick, who spoke good English, was so full of warmth and humility that over the evening and following morning we became friends. He lives, as with most of the Batonga, on a diet which consists almost exclusively of maize or a derivative of it. His eyes shone like stars when we gave him the fresh plums and tomatoes we bought in Vic Falls. When he does not have guests (often for weeks at a time) he handcrafts wooden goods under the shade of his simple shelter. His wife and four children, whom he spoke of with love and affection, live in his village, which was over 30kms away. He sees them mostly when they come to visit him, as he does not want to leave the rest camp in case of visitors. He saved enough money to own a few goats (each one costs around $25) and cows, whose milk help to feed his family. With almost a haunting unease we thought of his life over the past 25 years and his daily routine. The enormity of the contrast of his life experience with ours was disturbing and unsettling in many ways. It raised a stream of metaphysical/spiritual questions on how the hands of fate are dealt out by the gods. The following morning we detoured off our intended route to drive Merrick to a small village to buy some provisions (otherwise he would have had to walk the 14km) and there we had another warm interaction with the locals. We carry a small instant Polaroid camera for these specific occasions and interactions. The novelty of being able to take a picture together and print it out and leave it with those we meet transcends the language barrier and always results in laughter and thanks. The children invariably prefer the Ginger biscuits that we have stockpiled in the truck for them.

So it was that we returned Merrick back to his rest camp and with a long warm departing embrace tears welled in all our eyes. It’s difficult to describe with words an emotion so rich and as complex as this, it takes of hold you so unawares. When you can look into the eyes of another human being, whom you’ve only met for a short while and suddenly feel a deep sense of something almost sacred in your shared humanity, when all the noble emotions of compassion, honesty, love, gratitude and friendship look back at you from the eyes of the other.

Hours later we pulled off the track at Karoi, a route that despite the warning presented no great challenge, and found ourselves on the heavy truck filled main trunk road to Kariba where we would meet our guides the following day and set off for a few days and nights canoeing down a section of the mighty African Zambezi River (update on this to come later…)

In glaring contrast to our interaction with Merrick, in Kariba we met a white Zimbabwean local family. They also warmly welcomed us and quickly shared the sentiments expressed by KP and others about Mugabe, but their bitterness carried an infective full of distaste not only for Mugabe but also for a far broader community and lamenting the time white rule ended. The blame and fear they felt was palpable. The elderly father and mother (grandparents to thirteen children) expressed sentiments, shared by their grown children, that quickly made us feel uncomfortable. Almost bizarrely and with a good deal surrealism, as we sat in this humid corner of Africa, they expressed hope in a future with Donald Trump at the helm of the USA. Somehow they feel Trump will bring positive change for them in Zimbabwe, “a return to the past”. Looking at and listening to this disgruntled family, simmering with bitterness, it struck us that this could be eerily similar to the voices and emotions expressed by some families of the Southern USA who also voted for Trump. With an increasingly awkwardness we politely took our leave, cheered up our spirits by talking of our friend Merrick and prepared to leave for our canoeing adventure down the Zambezi River.