60. Zambia. Tanzanian border, Lusaka, to Victoria Falls

Zambia felt really different from the previous countries we had visited. We had spent a number of weeks in Shaba, Zaire (now Katanga, Congo again) which should be similar due to common cultural roots (Lunda Kingdom) and the economy based on copper mining.  In theory it could have been similar to Tanzania as the two had been, on paper, socialist countries since independence approximately 20 years before. However we found few similarities with either. 

Zambia had at the time a low population for Africa, and is today one of the most urbanized countries on the continent. It did not feel at all like socialism had really been attempted, in term of economy and at the very least it had avoided the wars that had plagued Zaire (and still do).

We only spent a few days in the country; in fact we crossed it with a train ride, a bus ride and a single luxury hitching ride. And as always our viewpoint is that of young backpackers before the luxury of internet information at every urban stop. In retrospect the big difference seemed to be that it did not seem to be existing in a shell of a former colonial self.  “Things” were bigger, better and still functioning with respect to colonial days.  Having said that, for our short stay we encountered plenty of corruption, and more visible alcohol problems, especially in the authorities that we had to deal with.

Our route across Zambia: red is railroad, green - bus, and yellow - hithtching.  Base map utexas.edu.

Tanzanian Border to Kapiri Mposhi, Zambia, Thursday, 23 June, 1983

The train eventually crossed the border, picked up the third class passengers, and we were on our way. The train and tracks and stations are just like the ones on the Tanzanian side, but things are not kept up quite so well. For instance there was a diner service, albeit expensive, on the Tanzanian of the border, while there is not anything on the Zambian side. No one could give us a good explanation. The first class cars were very empty all the way to Kapiri Mposhi, our final destination.

(DAN) We talked a while with a very friendly “inspector” in a natty, dark suit. He informed us that the reason there was no service in the diner is that no meat had been delivered; however there was no attendant, no signs of food, not even any beer bottles rolling about. (No wonder the Zambian officials were on the Tanzanian train “tanking up”.) I speculate that it reflects a lack of enough passengers, first class, in Zambia to make a profit. At times there were only the three of us in a car for 32. This may show that Zambian important transportation routes lie through Zimbabwe and South Africa in spite of Kaunda’s “front line” rhetoric. Certainly things in Shaba (Zaire) came from South Africa rather than Tanzania. I wonder what the Chinese say about this after all their effort.

As soon as it got dark, thoughts turned to finding ways to change our Tanzanian currency to Zambian. The pastor confided to us that all he had, period, was 80 shillings and he needed to get to Lusaka from Kapiri Mposhi with that. The inspector and he had chatted in the pastor’s compartment for a couple of hours, and the pastor got up his nerve to ask the inspector’s advice. The inspector “’lowed as how” it was highly illegal, but he knew a company employee who might know of such things and went to get him. In the meantime we invited the pastor in to share our bananas and bread as he had no food at all.

The inspector knocked, called out the pastor, and introduced him to a young, very drunk, train attendant in a white coat. The pastor and the attendant went off to the pastor’s compartment and haggled a while. Finally the attendant said, “I’ll have to go check it out with my boss.” He came reeling back with an offer of 5 kwachas for the pastor’s 80 shillings or less than half the official rate, but not bad for the black market. The pastor was upset because it would barely be enough for the transportation to Lusaka, but he agreed. Well, the attendant did not have the 5 kwachas; he would have to get it from his boss. At this point I caught him and told him that I needed to change a large sum. He said, “If it is very large, you will have to go talk with my boss.” So off we went. We went through some subterfuge of “chatting in the hall” while the attendant waited for some sign. Finally we went in to the “boss’s” compartment, and it turned out to be our friend the very PROPER inspector!!! We talked a while about the impossibility of the Tanzanian shilling and how he did this only as a favor to “good people”. Finally we sort of agreed that if he got the kwachas together, he could send them through the attendant to our room during the night. To make a long story longer, he never showed up with our money or even with the pastor’s 5 kwacha! We had not given him anything, but he surely wasted our time.

The night was most comfortable. Helena and I were left to our compartment and slept deeply at our temperature and no cigarettes.

Kapiri Mposhi – Lusaka, Zambia, Friday, June 24, 1983

(DAN) We awakened early and watched the sun rise on the Zambian countryside. Much of it was as we expected, wooded savannah very much like that between Kolwezi and Lubum­bashi, which is not too far north of us in Zaire. At one point we were within easy sight of Zaire which shows what a circle we have taken. Kapiri Mposhi is an easy day’s travel from Lubumbashi where we left almost two months ago.

The only crop we saw was corn and as yet only in small “family patches”. This part of Zambia has a low population. Zambia in fact has “only” four million people, and many of those are in the cities or employed in the copper belt.

The pastor came over about 0800, and we had a good talk until Kapiri Mposhi itself. He is the Rev. McDonald Maseko. (I was guarding his documents in the mess yesterday, and his first name is Isahia or some other Biblical name starting with I.) He is around 60.  He had trouble with exact years, and some facts may be off, but his history is so interesting that it will bear looking into in South Africa.

He was born in Swaziland but spent the formative years in South Africa. He became involved in the African National Congress (ANC) and in the late forties and fifties was “on the national board of directors”. In 1951 or 1952 he was imprisoned and tortured after helping organize the national strike. (He repeated himself at times and seems particularly bitter about certain memories, especially the “youth” in the party at that time.) He was almost yelling as he described that the strike was almost completely suc­cessful, “people don’t know how close we came to having all the tools in the land down. The problem was with the youths in the party. They accused us of being puppets of Moscow.” (I could not quite understand this angle as HE thought the youth were too radical.) “They wanted to go down the path of violence. We came SO close, etc. The Enemy (he always referred to them as ‘the Enemy’) used that division to defeat us and imprison us.”

He said he was in prison for a year and was soon to be sent to the infamous Robben Island Prison, but “friends and some policemen” got together and spirited him to Swazi­land where his wife joined him. In Swaziland he became involved in ITS liberation struggle into the sixties. He had some stories about some problems he had had with “the King”. Just before Swaziland was to be independent, rumors were floating that his group of radicals were hoping to depose the king after Independence. And that he, McDonald, had come out with a public statement in the newspaper to the effect that they were really working for a constitutional monarchy.

Things went well for a while after independence, but McDonald (born a Swazi) ran for office against one of the king’s sons and won.  I do not recall the order of things, but McDonald was thrown in jail and struck with a lawsuit saying that he was not a Swazi citizen. The Supreme Court finally ruled that he was legally a Swazi, but the king had him rearrested anyway. That was 1969 (he thought).  In 1970 “Dag Hammarskjold and the United Nations got me out of jail and sent to Tanzania” where he had been ever since. Now he is moving to Zimbabwe. (If I recall correctly, Hammarskjold was killed in Katanga well before 1970 --about 1961.) Somewhere in there he became a pastor and from Swaziland was chaplain of the now outlawed ANC.

Again he went on about the youth (at THAT time). “They wanted violence and they got it, but what had it gotten them? They could not appreciate what we had accomplished peacefully. Mandela, he was one of those that wanted violence --look at him![1]” On the other hand look where Mr. McDonald is: he is without money in Zambia, has not been back to South Africa in 30 years, and appears now to live from his memories. He was dressed in an old grey wool overcoat and a felt hat somewhat like Daddy’s. He also carried a cane that he did not appear to need as he almost left it behind changing trains. Pretty British.

His manner of speech, however, was strangely modern. For instance he used “man” a lot. I would ask him, “You mean they put you in jail in Swaziland?” “Yeah, man! In jail!”  It goes without saying that he was the most political Pentecostal I have met.

Right then we pulled into the shiny Kapiri Mposhi station and it ended the conver­sation. He still had not been able to change his shillings, so we gave him 10 kwachas or about $10 to get to the address in Lusaka and exchanged addresses. It would surely be interesting to know more.

There is a fine paved road between Kapiri Mposhi and Lusaka, so we figured we would hitch the 200 kms. But as we left the station, we found about 8 big buses with Lusaka signs lined up --two idling their motors. We had several things to gain from a quick trip, so we hopped on. They did not even wait to put the bags on top and pulled out with a 3/4 filled bus.

A fine start, and the bus went fast out on the road, but there were several irresis­tible roadside stands where we stopped a good while. We halfway broke down in Kabwe (Broken Hill) and in all it took us 3 hours.

The countryside was a real shocker. Along the highway the land was almost all in large landholdings. Mile after mile of barbed wire fencing, the first fencing we have seen for many countries, with huge corn and bean fields. One corn field had recently been combined, and there were about 40 workers (both sexes, all the women had on white head scarves) picking up what the combine always leaves.

There were large cattle ranches dotted with large, healthy-looking cattle. Some were purebred Brahman with others looking somewhat like Santa Gertrudis. Most of the traf­fic (considerable) that we were meeting was farm-related trucks rather than public. There was also the strange sensation of seeing white farmers peering out from behind the wheel of their pick-ups. Zambia was after all Northern Rhodesia.

Some of the rest of the traffic was 7 Mercedes Benz sedans in the first hour. Neil Aldred (Burundi) had a story about the Zambian President, Kenneth Kaunda: In one of his speeches he had threatened to change the emblem of the Zambian flag to the Mercedes Benz sign (like a peace sign) since it best represents the goals of most Zambian citizens.

Lusaka is quite the modern city. Livingstone was the capital until the twenties or so, making it all fairly new. It had a “better” stand of high modern skyscrapers than either Kinshasa or Dar es Salaam. We did not get the feeling here as in those cities that Lusaka was ever bigger or more active than it is now. What has impressed us both here and in Kabwe is that the big signs over buildings really indicate what that building is at present. Then there are the huge shiny service stations that actually dispense fuel. Diesel here costs about $1 per liter, but at least they have it, I guess. 

We are not planning to stay long in Lusaka, and since this was Friday, we wanted to get out to the U.S. embassy to see if we had any mail. We got off the bus in the bus park at 1500, so we still had some time; however all inquiries indicated that the embassy was very far, so I (groan) flagged a taxi. He charged 4 Kw (which was what other “cab­bies” had said) but I got out there in time, and there were three (3) letters from Mom­my! I’m a tellin’ you!!

When I registered and indicated we planned to continue into Zimbabwe via Victoria Falls and the train to Bulawayo, the secretary got serious and showed me State Department cables. They were to the effect that road travel was NOT advised, dangerous, etc. This is what we have been hearing for quite a while. She even called the consular official in who read me parts of a “confidential” cable that said the same things (nowhere was rail travel mentioned) and none were more recent than May 12. The official has been in Africa less than two months. It was still pretty sobering. The area we would go through is Matabeleland or the tribal area of Nkomo who is now an outlaw in Botswana. It is also the area where 6 overlanders were kidnapped last year.

There was an Adventist missionary couple at the embassy, and I was able to hitch a ride back into town with them. THEIR experience with that trip was that two of their school’s students (college age) had been held up by soldiers on the train around Christ­mas time. “Nobody takes that train.” They also had scary stories about Lusaka. In fact just the week before their pick-up had been stolen from the parking lot at the in­ternational airport. “It was locked and the wheel even had a crook lock, but they are pros.  The police are afraid to do anything.” They were quite worried when I mentioned that I had left Helena at the bus park. They dropped me off right there, but she was all right, of course. They had me worrying a bit myself.

Geoff describes a campground “7 kms south of town”, and since we planned to hitch that way to Livingstone the next day, we headed there. It was not so far to “the edge of town”. Lusaka is strangely as I imagine towns in South Africa.  Modern shops, garages, and sky scrapers stop abruptly, there are about 2 kms of open savannah, and then there are some half-hidden poorer neighborhoods, mainly of cement block houses. We never did get close to them as they were well hidden from the highway. They definitely looked like “African townships”--in Zambia!!? We tried hitching for about 45 minutes and began to get worried. We had no assurance that this campground did in fact exist. It was getting late (1730) and we were well out of town. Finally a Mercedes stopped, and though it could not take us, assured us that the campground did indeed exist. Thus fortified we walked the rest of the way, arriving at dusk.

The grounds were large and nice with many trees, showers, and a high fence. There were three overland vehicles as well as a number of semi-permanent structures. The overlanders were a Unimog with a German couple heading south, a Toyota Land Cruiser, and a VW Combi heading north. They told us there was a “Pizzeria” next door where they change kwachas as well as serve Italian food. On closer inspection the manager was only inter­ested in changing large amounts. That means we shall hitch to Livingstone tomorrow on a weekend with less than 10 Kw on us. The night was not too cold, but the moon was so bright that it was too light for us to sleep even inside the tent.

Belated comment. We have been continually amazed and amused in Tanzania and Zambia at how high army and police officers have adopted the use of swagger sticks. We see thickish black ones, but the most popular are ones of thin, knobby cane. I have a memory of Mbeya (Tanzania) station where four older officers stood talking together using the swagger sticks for emphasis or for flicking their creased pants. That and the very British shoulder-padded sweaters do not seem to jibe with the “socialist country seeking its own identity” theme.

Lusaka - Livingstone, Zambia, Saturday, June 25, 1983

(DAN) Up early, but it took a while to get all packed up. We were on the road by 0815. We had not gone but 100 meters when a newish yellow Mercedes Benz sedan pulled over. It carried an Indian couple in their late fifties who simply nodded when I said we were going to Livingstone. We did not understand how far they were going, but were most glad to put our packs in the roomy “boot” and recline in the back seats. They did not appear to be talkers; in fact they punched in a cassette right away and we watched the countryside roll by to the tune of very pleasant Indian music.

(HELENA) Fairly soon there was a police block. “Where are you going?” Our bene­factor calmly answered, “Mazabuka”. Dan and I looked at each other, quietly looked at our map and saw that it was a town about 124 klicks from Lusaka. Now we knew for sure how far we were going, really a nice hitching start for Livingstone. Not too much farther down the road, another police checkpoint. They had him test his lights and blinkers (these were black policemen, of course), and before letting him drive on, they asked to see his license. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he answered, “I left it at home”. Inwardly I groaned and wondered how long our delay would be, but again as though it were normal, the police nodded and waved him on.

We drove along at about 120-140 km/h, so it did not take long for us to reach Maza­buka. We kept waiting for them to deposit us, but after passing through the other side of town, it dawned on us that he had told the police that name because he did not care for them to know that he was going a long distance. We decided to relax and simply see how far they would take us.

Our friends stopped to see some Indian acquaintances in Choma. The lady stayed in the car, so we finally got to ask a few questions. Talk about lucky hitching! First of all we learned that they were going all the way to Livingstone! They had left their home, Ndola, a big copper-refining center north of Lusaka, that morning at half past four and were going to see the sick wife of an associate of his. They have three sons --one in India, one in London, and one in the U.S.A. The last has a master’s in mining engineering and has stayed to work in South Dakota. They went to visit him last year, but she was rather vague about the kind of minerals he works with. Her husband returned, and we raced on in amiable silence.

Along toward noon, Missus gave us each a paper napkin (wow!) containing one of the most delicious sweets I have ever tasted. It was Indian and had a name something like mungu. Oh, very simple to make: brown the pea flour in lots of butter, add sugar, it’s done. It had to have some spices, too, but she did not say.

Much of the road was very well maintained, but there was a long stretch of the famous single-lane tarmac where two cars that meet have to do so with one side on the dirt, and the last 14 kms. was a dirt detour. The part of Livingstone we saw was again bright and shiny with everything newly painted, clean and even beautiful streets. Our friends asked if we wanted to get out in town or at the falls. After a bit of debate, we decided to accept the lift all the way out to the falls. They went some 15 kms. out of their way to drop us at Rainbow Lodge. That is called friendly, door-to-door hitching.

Geoff says that one can camp at Rainbow Lodge, so we stopped there to ask. Their grounds are a block away from their hotel, right across from the police station. Right now the place is very wintry with bare trees and dried grass. The campground has no sign and is not at all fenced in, so we could only tell where it was because a big overland truck was parked there with 32 people and the corresponding tents and grubby-looking, well-traveled clothes hanging on the lines.  It is of the econo­my class because everything was kind of dirty-looking, not too well cared for, and we did not see the driver working on the vehicle once. They have come from Algeria, have been 4 1/2 months on the road, and have one week until they finish in Botswana. A lot of them will go on separately to South Africa where they will look for jobs, presumably to get enough money to get back home.

We had a bite of lunch, took our much overdue showers, and left our packs leaning against the truck. We think this may be one of the converted garbage trucks we have heard about. Two girls came up wanting to change kwachas for Zimbabwe dollars. We thought they wanted U.S. dollars, so Dan changed U.S. $20 for 40 Kw; they decided it was all right, and we breathed a little easier with a few Kw in our pockets. We set off to get our first view of the falls after a nice cold orange drink at the Rainbow.

There are a fair number of tourists around, but I really liked the relaxed atmosphere as compared to the hectic pace at both Iguazu and Niagara. (How do you like that bit of name-dropping?) It really is an impressive sight, and at this first viewing we could not really under­stand the location of the falls in relation to the rest of the Zambezi River or to the Zambia - Zimbabwe border. We were able to view it from some 10 different points, mostly among shady forest trees, before we came to a part that was very wet from the mist. We decided to leave that for tomorrow, so we can come back with our rain jackets. A good portion of the falls is so shrouded in the mist or splashing spray, that you cannot ever see the whole thing clearly.

Some of the tourists we ran into were very well-dressed blacks; there were some well-dressed Indians, and also a good number of all sorts of whites. For the first time in 9 months we are seeing local, not-so-rich white families. I guess there are some Zambians as well as Zimbabweans and South Africans.

We saw the start of the sunset before heading back to the Lodge. Since our bags were safe at the truck (they always leave someone guarding) we went straight on for today’s “oncer”.  Prices are not too high here, so we had decided to have supper at the Lodge. We almost did not know how to behave: dim lights, table cloths, napkins, nice view of the Zambezi at sunset. We placed our orders and settled back to see what was showing on TV. It almost ruined our evening when we saw that it was (prepare yourselves, Grandmother, Mother, Ann, Mary).... “Little House on the Prairie”! Ugh!

I had bream, a fish common to the Zambezi, and Dan had chicken. We had to wait at least half an hour for our bill, but we managed to get away before time for the big Satur­day night dance. We pitched our tent in the moonlight, and thus ended a pleasant but tiring day. It is getting pretty chilly. The appetizer to the dinner was a small roll each and four huge slabs of butter --no butter was left. We splurged in view of having had peanuts and bread for 10 of our last 11 meals.

Victoria Falls, Zambia & Zimbabwe, Sunday,  June 26, 1983

(DAN) We were up early and about the business of preparing breakfast and catch­ing up in the journal (hopeless). We are completely out of food, so after 0830 I hitched the 10 kms into Livingstone to see what I could find. All shops were closed, but I found an open market across the railroad tracks in the “African Quarter”. No bread in Livingstone, but FINALLY some sugar. Also found some moist corn cakes. On the way back out of town I noticed there is a big, nicely-kept “National Museum of Livingstone and Rhodes”. It was open but we shall have to return together.

Back at the camp we consolidated our things to leave for the day. The old Overland Bedford was leaving at noon, but another newer white one arrived during the night, and they said we could leave our things in their camp. Another nice feature to our tent: we just bodily picked it up and moved it 75 yards, just moving one stake.

Sunset Victoria Falls

Our aim for the day was to go over to see the Zimbabwe side of the falls, but first we went to the Lodge for a leisurely cold drink. They have a veranda with tables overlook­ing the Zambezi just before it goes over the falls. It is actually quite a walk through both border posts, across the train/auto bridge, etc. The falls themselves are 1700 meters wide, and you have to walk that far before doubling back. Zambian officials ignored us at first, but the formalities turned out to be nothing more than signing the book. Zimbabwe, however, was more sinister. The post could double for a U.S. drive-in bank for fanciness, but there were two home-made armored trucks standing by. Inside they were only letting people through who had sufficient funds ($500 to $1000 each) and an onward air ticket. Our Capetown-New York tickets are finally coming into play. Fortunately they counted, and we were allowed in.

Again we were impressed by the way the falls-park has been set up. There are gravel or cobbled paths going parallel to the falls with branches out to points on the cliffs facing the falls across the gorge. Trash was at a minimum; there were no fences, leaving safety to the people rather than daring people to climb over the railing. The “rain forest” vegetation has been left intact, and the signs and even trash cans have been fashioned out of fallen logs.

First we went to Livingstone’s statue and there had our lunch in a quiet alcove below the level of the falls, just out of reach of the spray with two rainbows in sight. Then we went into to town to check on the railroad situation to Bulawayo. The ticket office was closed, but there were signs indicating that there is a nightly train to Bul­awayo. There was also a posting of first and second class reservations. A “Mrs. Van Beck and two sons, 14, 15” were registered for second class which we take as an indication that even white Zimbabweans are riding this stretch. A man in one of the offices assured us that it was completely safe at present. On our way out we asked the border official, and he opined that to his knowledge there had been no “incidents” on the train for a long time.

We walked back to the park and enjoyed the rest of the falls at leisure. It is hard to explain, but the falls have eroded in such a way these millions of years to “ensure the viewers’ pleasure”. There is a cliff as high as the falls, parallel to it, about 75 meters away, except for a gorge about 100 meters wide where the water actually escapes downstream. There are three old erosional faces of the stream (gorges) roughly parallel to the first farther downstream. As you walk along parallel to the falls, any time you walk out to the point, you are within range of constant spray. The average height of the falls along the 1700 meter face is 100 meters, so it is all a pretty impressive sight.

The border closes at 1800, so we started heading back an hour before that. The borders were faster this time though we had to pay another Kw 2.50 to get back into Zam­bia. On the Zambian side we walked all the way out to Knife Edge. To get there you have to cross a bridge that is continually drenched in spray. We had brought our rain­coats along, so we were shown up by those older “missionary-type” ladies who just walked across not minding that they were getting drenched. Crossing the bridge you could enjoy the rare sight and feeling of a 360 degree rainbow. There were two, a bright one on the inside, a faint one outside. Actually they were 350 degrees as we could not see the part directly under us.

Back at the camp we lit a fire with readily available wood and had a cozy evening. We boiled eggs, made cocoa, and toasted our maize cakes. A Land Cruiser pulled up and Helena recognized the Shaba license plate, so I ambled over to talk. They are a Flemish couple with three children who are teachers in the Belgian school in Lubumbashi. They have been there for 14 years. We really admired the way they are taking their children around to enjoy Africa. They have a tent that folds out on the roof for the three children, and the vehicle is long wheel based so the adults sleep in back. Next year they will climb Kilimanjaro.

I was finally able to sell our shillings (Tanzanian) to the new overland truck at a small loss, but any U.S. dollars are better than a million shillings outside of Tanzania. The group has six people from the U.S. and one from Venezuela.  He is only the second Latin American traveler we have met (the Mexican in Mali) and the first South American. It is not quite like meeting someone by the name of “Anacleto Quispe” as his name is Alan Roth and he is currently living in New Jersey. But he definitely speaks the lingo, and even LOOKS Latin, and he is actually traveling with his Venezuela passport. He had only been in Africa for two weeks so “did not yet have a feel for it”. He did not like Johannesburg, “a most unhappy city”.

Livingstone, Zambia - Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, Monday 27 June, 1983

(HELENA) We are still struggling to get caught up in the journal, so Dan wrote on that while I puttered around getting things ready to continue traveling. Last night after dark still another (they’re thick as flies) big overland vehicle drove into the campground. This was another “Overland Encounter” group which is the fanciest we have come across. Dan checked it out and found that it was driven by the very cool Clyde who offered us a ride when we were on our way from Dar es Salaam to Moshi, but we were going the wrong direction. This morning he drove into Livingstone just five minutes before we were ready to go ourselves, so we walked a short while before getting a lift with a “white” couple in their Land Rover pickup. First, however, we had stopped back by the lodge to pay for last night and leave our packs.

It was 10:00 by the time we got to town, so it meant we had only 7 1/2 hours to do everything here, cross the border, and catch our train. We stopped by the post office and had a pleasant encounter with the man at the philatelic window. We then hurried toward the museum, but somehow managed to find time to have our first ice cream since “The Kilimanjaro” in Kinshasa three and a half months ago.

The museum was beautifully done and free and I am afraid we compared it with the one in Dar es Salaam that had been allowed to deteriorate so lamentably.  The dis­plays have been there several years, but they are all very well tended. The first rooms showed artifacts from the stone and iron age of Zambia. I have seen stone implements like those before, but never such intricate handmade metal things. It also showed how long people have been mining copper around here. Most memorable of the displays: old copper bracelets around arm bones with bits of cloth mixed in.

They had a really realistic natural history section with all sorts of stuffed ani­mals in their natural habitats. A temporary display showed the way clothing had evolved from bark and skins to cotton of Portuguese influence. The last display we hurried through was about the British settlers, and they had a complete collection of Livingstone’s memo­rabilia.  We even went through the humiliation of exiting via the souvenir shop. Still no purchases.

We were lucky to find the only “people’s” restaurant we have seen in this part of town, so we had a good meal of fufu and meat. The waitress said they could cook up some rice for us (apparently white people do not favor fufu) but we said the fufu was all right.

With only 4 1/2 hours until train time, we rushed toward the edge of town, and finally a big lorry gave us a lift right to the lodge. We had a long way to walk, but the bor­der was pretty easy; after all, we gave it a practice run. Once again they had to see our plane ticket. I have always wondered if it were really worth carting around. They did not check our bags, but they are really particular about not being stuck with un­productive riff-raff. We are not sure if it was for lack of funds or ticket or what, but the Zimbabwe officials refused entry to two white travelers just ahead of us.

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[1] At this time Mandela was solidly in jail, and apartheid looked set for a few generations.