The Zambian president, whose name is unimportant, declared a national emergency and instated martial law and curfew a few days prior to our departure. The US promptly issued a travel warning for tourists and many bookings were subsequently cancelled. The US does not want to be seen condoning undemocratic behavior, at least in countries where we have absolutely no interest whatsoever.

Why did the Zambian government risk bringing international condemnation? It is not likely an attempt to freeze the movement of the opposition – limiting the opposition is so easy for the president there hardly a need to go to the mattress. Meanwhile people in the countryside are indifferent. What does it matter if local travel is curtailed after dark – who goes out after dark? Road blocks are nothing new. Only in Lusaka was there much notice of the “emergency”. Expats told us that they were roadblocked on the first day of martial law and that there were bakkies with young national service guys driving around hooting and hollering and making traffic worse than usual. They said the next day, it was back to business. Unless you are a tour operator and your bookings just cancelled, that is. Zambia’s many problems; deforestation (the worst in the world), poverty, illiteracy, won’t be helped by these power plays. This current government is not the one who welcomed Congolese refugees and gave them land and citizenship. Those days are over. This government did, however, pass out free chitenges, the fabric sheets worn by most women, with the presidents’ face printed full size directly in the center. Women wear them with his face squarely on their butts. It is hilarious, can you imagine such a thing in the US these days?

Roadblocks are a part of life in Africa. “Where are you going?” “Where have you come from?” I’ve ceased being amused by these questions and now find them annoying and intrusive. Nothing to be done about it though – the height of stupidity would be to argue or be belligerent. More fun to just make up answers. Many policemen ask how they can get to the United States – they are unaware of how difficult that is. We don’t tell them, no need to be mean.

In the end though, Zambia has the most wonderfully friendly people and we loved our time there. The villages  shine with brightly painted houses, potted plants and gardens even in the midst of poverty. On Sundays villagers dress up for church or socializing – the women are just lovely anyway and on Sundays they are gorgeous. The roads are pretty good – although maybe take a boat into Isanga. All the waving children, the hellos and fineandyous, feel genuine and sincere. A nice fishing village on Lake Tanganyika could be Eden.

Lake Tanganyika is the longest lake in the world and the second deepest after Lake Baikal in Russia. One sixth of the earth’s fresh water supply is contained here. One sixth of all the fresh water on the planet – put that in your hookah why don’t you. It is huge, ancient in the geological sense; like much of the African continent it has been in place for eons.  Fishing villages dot the shoreline and the lights of the boats are stars on the water at night. Zambia has not applied any of its meager tourist infrastructure budget to Lake Tang. Over on the western border at Lake Mweru, we found heritage sites and pretty good camping at various waterfalls, but here at the most spectacular lake we have ever seen, there is barely a road.

Going into Ndole Bay on the western shore of the Tang takes a full day, with four long hours for the final 50 clicks. A most beautiful beach welcomes us and we stay five days, two of which are needed just to recover from the pounding drive. Coffee on the shore, swimming, idling around, and then it is sundowner time – perfect days. Ndole Bay visitors mostly come by boat, when there are visitors. The big draw is fishing. With a lake this big, you can imagine how big the fish must be.

The manager suggests we go out in the staff fishing boat. Good idea – it is a smaller craft with no shade cover; we don’t have to (or want to) stay out all day. Khosam the guide knows where to fish. We slayed them that morning, bottom-fishing for Ekupi, the “emperor” fish, said to be the best eating fish in the Tang. Bottom-fishing takes on a whole new concept when you are dropping bait in the second deepest lake on the planet. It takes a long time for the heavy weight to get down there and once you’ve got fish on, even longer to reel it up. We catch the emperor fish and florosa – a bubble-headed blue fish that tastes like lobster. Check out this strange eel-looking fish I caught on my first drop. Jim catches the biggest fish. Back at the dock Khosam filleted our catch for us. We left him with a nice stash. It was a lekker morning on Lake Tanganyika.

Isanga Bay is on the east edge of the lake, across from Ndole. To get there, we backtrack to the Thorn Tree Lodge in Kasama (for the second time) and resupply in town. The ladies selling produce see me coming and before you can say jack rabbit, we have enough produce for a week. I like those ladies and that town. Isanga Bay is not far, as the crow flies – right? Four hours of brutal rock road and the last 10 kilometers took an a quarter of that, just like the Garmin said. We broke a u-bolt on the Beagle – but that can be fixed. It is worth it to hang on the beach there. Isanga Bay could be a tourist mecca, but for the road. At Mpulunga we have the u-bolt replaced – the bush mechanic shows up at the “spare shop” and gets to work right there in the parking area. Did a good job too, for all of $20 including parts (. . . and labor).

Zambia is behind us now, after the quickest border exit ever at the tiny Zombe Border Post. That’s “Zomm-bay” not zombie, no matter what Jim says. Tanzania is welcoming but a new country means new customs and new currency – 10,000 TZS (shillings) equals $5USD – and Swahili is spoken more than English. Time to learn some new words.

On January 16 we drove away from our home to commence this journey and we marked six months gone a couple of weeks ago. Looking back, we are so grateful for all the assistance received along the way from friends and family. Thanks again, all of you! We miss you all and think of you often.

The driving and camping component took a month or two to fine-tune and now all that is second nature, like going home after work and hanging out in the yard. We find time for a game, cribbage or backgammon or dominos, nearly every day but all that downtime I envisioned has yet to materialize. Every single day is a production filled with a cast of characters – there’s the guys or gals at the pump station, the ladies selling produce and eggs on the road, the boss man at the campsite, the “extras” we wave to in the villages, and the occasional people we meet and share travel tips with. Emails are passed about and the list grows of people we need to visit when we get to their town.

Jim keeps the Beagle in top shape and our gear has found a place to live that makes sense. The down comforter is one of the best purchases although it is getting warmer as we head north – we will have to find a place to stash it. The Garmin navigation device is indispensable. Some gadgets don’t live up to the task, but the Garmin is worth its weight in gold now that we’ve learned to trust it. The whole computer/internet/wifi/phone business runs on a whim and a prayer and Jim’s dogged persistence. Sometimes it works well. Sometimes we just drive on.

Culturally, the adjustment is more gradual. The scenes of women and children carrying impossible loads on their heads and men bicycling with equally impossible baggage (and a passenger or two) have become commonplace. While amazingly picturesque, it feels unkind to take photos of these people working so hard. And believe me – everyone, every man, woman and child, is working hard. It is a misconception that men sit around and watch women do all the work – from what we have seen, everyone has tasks and jobs and they do them the African way – by whatever means possible. Young men still hang out in groups with other young men – they are likely to be sharply dressed and they love a thumbs up when we go past. Young women riding bicycles are great fun to see and they too respond with a big smile when we acknowledge them. The madams and older gentlemen give a nod or a “fineandyou” – this is the reply to “hello,how are you?” You don’t have to even ask, they will still say “fineandyou”. Just like that, fineandyou. It is one word.

Purchasing produce, food and essentials on the street is now the norm. Villages and towns look so busy and active because pretty much all the commerce takes place in stalls lined up along the road and generally speaking there is only one road. Nearly everyone responds to a smile – the only noticeable exception for this (so far) is up along the shore of Lake Mweru Wantipa, on the border with DR Congo. Here villagers appeared stern or indifferent. In this area Zambia integrated thousands of Congolese refugees in the ’80s and ’90s, giving them land and citizenship – the Zambian president was awarded a UN Peace Prize for his compassion. Maybe being former refugees has nothing to do with the lower level of friendliness found here, but since we are only driving through we will never know. And that is the crux of it; we are traveling and cannot stay to get to know a place, which would take years. We’ve seen many places we would like to know better but again years are needed. Just like at home, having been in one place for 30 years gives you a deep perspective. Well, at the least we are seeing what we can and enjoying every minute and engaging in conversation everywhere we go. We love how Africa works and sometimes how it doesn’t work. Here’s to the next six months.

Once again, there is a man with a gun in the cab of the Beagle; his English limited to left, right and go. I am squirreled up on the jockey box and Jim is driving through a tunnel of blackness – even the super brights aren’t lighting up this track of grass and overhanging branches. The lights seem to be making it worse, it is like driving upside down. How did this happen? The day began so well. . .

7:15 am – It always feels as if anything is possible on an African morning and usually good things. We left South Luangwa in plenty of time to make it to Chifunda and the community campsite there. Spotting the Carmine bee-eaters could be considered a good thing, because it was then we discovered the water tap at been left on and half of the 70-liter water tank was now on the floor of the camper. Sadly, it isn’t the first time this has happened – so at least we know what to do. Empty the truck and get busy sopping it up, right there on the dusty dirty track. The milk we’d taken out for breakfast spilled in the cab, I fell off the bumper and landed in the mud puddle we’d created and as a finishing touch, a whirlwind whipped by filling every open window and door, and all of them were open, with dusty dirt. The day is young, though.

Back on the road finally and by late afternoon we’d driven through endless villages until at sundown we came to a barrier. Village children crowded around the truck and a tall black man who had started the weekend early came to the window. We explained where we were going, and in lean English he told us that we must go to another camp because we’d missed our turn. As much as we insisted we could find our way (we were planning to just pull over and wild camp as soon as we were out of village range) he would not raise the barrier. He gestured at a small man – “he will be your scout” he said, “and you will bring him back in the morning”. Wait, no, we don’t want a scout. We don’t want to come back in the morning. But there is nothing for it. The scout runs off and comes back in green coveralls carrying a rifle and a rucksack. The three of us squeeze into the cab, the barrier is raised and off into the night we go.

Believe it or not, the gun reassures me. They don’t give guns to just anyone in this country. With any luck this scout is legitimate and is taking us to a viable camp – seriously, any other scenario is unlikely here. And presently we spot a campfire, it is the bush camp. Two guys in dire need of a shower come around and show us where to park on the bank of a river. Which river, I cannot say. We extract ourselves from the truck . . . and then an orchestra explodes into sound; bass and trumpet and trombone, a full horn section; drums, even a violin and a cello, all coming from hundreds of hippos in the water directly below us. The sound reverberates up and down the river where more hippos chime in. Everyone is laughing, it is simply amazing. We are then left alone in the dark at the water’s edge with the “musicians” and a nice cold-water bush shower. Morning is coming, and anything is possible.

Immigration. Customs. Police. Proceed in this order at all border crossings. First your exit visa, then the vehicle carnet then the police who make sure your vehicle matches the registration. Then entry visas, declare the vehicle, pay road tax, and say hello to the police in the next country. Generally speaking there are stations lined in a row and signage letting you know where to go next. Generally speaking. At least we had the presence of mind to pull over and eat something before we arrived at Chirunda, the bustling Zimbabwean/Zambian one-stop border post, where generalities go out the window.

The Zimbabwean exit official is sitting at a small table behind a knee-high barrier. He is playing a game on his phone. We present our passports and car registration. He is unimpressed. What is this? he says of our legal South African registration document. Where is your book? Who is this car owned by? Where is your police certificate? He is belligerent unlike any other border personnel we’ve dealt with.

Book? We have no book. Nor do we have a police certificate which is bad, but we aren’t going back to South Africa for it. Do we need a certificate? The official insists we do. After going round and round it is decided to physically check the VIN numbers against the registration. Officers crawl beneath the truck in their nice clothes and at last the identity of the truck is confirmed. No one asks about the mysterious “book” again.

And on it goes; the Temporary Import Permit (TIP) has expired – it is a $25 per day fine. We tell them we have no dollars. Is a credit card ok? We are sent to a woman who puts down her phone and says “What am I going to do?”  We stand there silent. After a time she officially stamps the TIP, no fine issued. The Zambian customs inspector incorrectly stamps the carnet. The visa official sneezes all over our passports. The Road Tax office is behind a door that says Staff Only – so much for directional signage. Finally, three hours later and with the help of an agent we are in Zambia. There is no brightly painted boom gate to welcome us, only a long line of 18-wheel trucks. We make a plan never to return to Chirunda.