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.
Retracing the route we took in 2008 when traveling my niece Renee, we stay at Wildlife Camp, just outside the South Luangwa entrance. We drive into the park on our own. The roads are good, the water level in the rivers is low and grasses have died off therefore game viewing should be excellent. But it isn’t. Now, we don’t expect to see the big cats on every drive, in fact as self-drivers we likely miss a lot. And we do spend two hours at a waterhole watching herd after herd of elephant come in to drink and socialize, a real treat. 
But the herds of zebra, antelope, buffalo; the hyenas and flocks of storks; the hippos, these populations are very low or non-existent at the moment. Other people we meet feel similarly, that Zambia’s game populations have shrunk. Moving on to Bengwelu Wetlands I am hopeful that at least the Black Lechwe and the birds will still be abundant.
Liuwa Plain is Zambia ironed smooth, a three-day size flood plain dotted with waterways and pans. Objects are distorted by the flatness. It is hard to tell if that dark spot is a wildebeest or a buffalo. Or just a big weed. To get into the park we cross a short ferry with the Beagle while the many locals use the mokuros, transporting everything from suitcases to jerry cans of fuel. 
We see only one other couple in three days, Jo and Robin Pope. Robin is a famous safari guide and birder here in Zambia and Jo is an illustrator (she likely does other things too, but we didn’t discuss it). They live in Lusaka and know this country well. I tell her that it appears things haven’t changed much since we visited Zambia almost a decade ago. She had a laugh and said it hasn’t changed at all in 30 years.
People still live an extremely simple life in the country. They worship at the holy church of charcoal. When you read about deforestation for charcoal, this is what they are talking about. Bag after bag, truck load after truck load, the forest is being cut down for the energy to cook porridge. There is an unimaginable amount of charcoal being sold by the side of the road. Is there an alternative? Yes, there have been many clever inventive ways to reduce or replace charcoal use. Will Zambia adjust and change? Change takes a monumental effort and at least three generations; as we have heard from knowledgeable people, Zambia hasn’t changed much in 30 years. So, no, change isn’t coming anytime soon. Churches and orphanages are still present in every town but in this country charcoal is the real king.
Zambia defies my kind of photography, the scenery being so vast and flat. On the blog I try to square up the photos for consistency and big view shots don’t square up very well. Besides, I love shooting birds. It is wildly frustrating and difficult and I’m sure I drive Jim crazy doing it but once in a while there is a satisfying shot and I am energized.
While waiting for birds or looking for them, or holding still hoping they won’t see me, many other creatures appear. Standing on the deck overlooking the Zambezi, waiting for the green pigeon 
to appear, a snake dropped out of the tree next to me. Not a big snake but hey. It’s a snake in Africa. It came out of a tree and is inches from me. Before I can gather my wits and leap off the deck into the croc infested river, an army of Chinese tourists jump up with their huge glass and the snake panics and disappears. I miss the photo of the tourists.
The Trumpeter Hornbill is a good spot, a first for me. The Collared Barbet is a first as well. A favorite is the Robin Chat; they are as common as needy children and their song is indescribably sweet. Children sing too, they run down the road after us calling “Sweet! Sweet!” and it sounds just like a bird, tweet tweet. The kids want candy. The birds don’t care.
The mighty Zambezi River takes its longest fall here, over the gorge named for the queen of a foreign country. The mist and fog from Victoria Falls can be seen for miles; five minutes from Livingstone in a taxi takes you to the edge where you can walk the well-laid trails. 
First, though, you must run the gauntlet of baboons at the top. I’ve never been so close to a primate, a seriously enormous male baboon. As I approach him I am holding my breath. Not because he smells, I’m just trying to minimize myself. The baboon meets my eye (I can’t help but look at him) and he lets me pass. I do not stop for a photo.
At the Knife Edge Walking Bridge the Zambezi flow is so massive and so much water is charging over the rocks, only glimpses of the great scene are visible and we are rewarded with a thorough soaking while waiting to see it. It is worth it. What did Dr. David Livingstone think, when first hearing the falls, then seeing the mist rising to the sky? Did he and all his would-be rescuers perceive it was God giving them a challenge, good English Christians that they were? Certainly everyone already living in the area was, and still is, challenged by the environment.
Back in town at the Zambezi Cafe we admire the tropical languid feel of Livingstone. Cool and dry this time of year, the wet season must have rivers of water on the roads given the size of the gutters which incidentally are crowded with people selling tomatoes. I notice striking birth defects, and the ravages of polio, I think, in the population. Livingstone town might have nice cafes and stores and hotels, but close your eyes and it is easy to see all this, the buildings and businesses, overtaken and swallowed by the jungle. Indiscriminate viruses lurk in the interior. It wouldn’t take much for a reversal of fortune.
Meanwhile there is good camping with river views, great birding with crocodile and elephant about. We meet an American, a coffee-roaster from Bishop CA who travels with his own coffee beans and a hand grinder – now that guy loves coffee. A pot is brewed and we share stories. With his white hair and beard, Joe reminds me of Henry Morton Stanley – of Dr. Livingston, I presume, fame. Stanley may have made up that famous greeting, uttered on the banks of Lake Tanganyika to the north. He was a shameless self-promotor. His Christian values were certainly a myth. Stanley never meant to convert anyone and in fact treated the natives with contempt, and worse. Dr. Livingstone could only claim to have converted two people himself for all the time and effort he exerted. At least Dr. Livingstone actually lived (and died) in this jungle; that took courage. 
His credibility isn’t suspect. Stanley was a murderous man of his time, when newspapers were sold on the exalted fables so-called heroes. Stanley did have one thing in common with many renowned explorers – an inherent sense of direction. He entered the impenetrable Ituri forest of West African and came out on the Zambezi plain in just the place he was shooting for – long before GPS. Never mind that he lost most of his men in the process and that the remainder needed rescuing far more than Dr. Livingstone. This town named for the doctor reeks of history; we hang around for a few days, buy some tomatoes and bananas from the street vendors and then head north, up the Zambezi to the Liuwa Plain.
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.
We leave Zimbabwe, having seen for ourselves how genuinely warm and friendly its people are and what a beautiful country it is. Enjoyable conversation was had with people from all different backgrounds and walks of life; black and white, old and young, native and transplants; providing a glimpse of real life in this contrary country. We would highly recommend Zimbabwe to anyone contemplating a safari trip to Africa.
Yet Zim is so full of contrasts. There is the campaign actively promoting safety. Laws ensure you must have all manner of safety gear on your vehicle, including the correct size fire extinguisher, which we did not have and for that we paid a fine. You must have the exact strip of honeycomb (not plain, honeycomb) reflective tape on your bumpers, red in the back and white on the front, in exactly the correct position. There are signs in the parks showing where the emergency meeting place is, posted so everyone can see – you may not be able to find your campsite, but you will know where to go if there is a problem. What kind of problem? Who knows?
The country also promotes safe sex with billboards announcing AIDS prevention measures and advising condom use. You can even get a “Defecation Free” declaration for your village if every home has access to a toilet and no one uses the bush. Civil servants wear shirts proclaiming they are corruption-free; signs implore people to report corruption at any level, anonymously if desired. Long lists of values to be expected from “your” civil service officers are posted at every government building.
All these rules and proclamations are fine but they are for the citizens and visitors – they do not apply to the ruling party. Peter Godwin wrote in “The Fear” of common village people voting against the ruling party and having their hands cut off for their trouble. Someone had to order that to be done, and someone had to do the deed. Who does that? It is unfathomable cruelty inflicted on ordinary people by unaccountable politicians. At the bird sanctuary, Elcine tells us the nearby village has a wealth of orphans – their parents were killed when the government ordered their homes bulldozed with them inside, simply because the local voting did not support ZANU party. What a monstrous act.
On one hand the government demands everyone be safe and respectful, and on the other hand they murder and rob at levels we cannot imagine. Now years since the last election (using the term loosely) there is a peace in the country, we are told, even an optimism. And we noticed that. But when elections start the fear will begin all over again. As Elcine said, why have elections at all? A waste of money with a foregone conclusion, not to mention the other dreadful possibilities.
But shouldn’t there be an opposition, someone who can stand up to the current regime? Maybe. Does the opposition actually want to govern the country or do they too just want to rule and feed at the public trough? Governance is boring, a thankless task. Ruling is way more exciting. Why should we care, though? Injustice seems to be the norm everywhere. Every country has problems, yes. It would be good if every country didn’t have these problems.
Zimbabwe’s rich farming culture once exported food but now farms are abandoned and imported food is very expensive. ATMs don’t have any money. We asked a business owner what we would get, US dollars or Zim dollars at the the ATM, she didn’t know, her bank ATM hasn’t worked in months. Parks we visited had the “bones” of great buildings projects, all fallen into near ruin. The joke is, if you plug Great Zimbabwe Ruins into your GPS, the whole country shows up. We were told that the country was fresh and lovely, education was excellent and people had money, 30 years ago. You should have seen it then, we are told. What a pity. The people we met are welcoming and they love their country. They deserve so much better. We make a plan to return.
Our visas extended and our worm-fishing urge satisfied, we leave Lake Kariba and drive the winding mountain road to Mana Pools National Park. We debated this venture, the park isn’t cheap but so many Zimbabweans insisted we visit it, how could we not? The park is legendary, portions of it being right on the Zambezi River and other areas being deep in the mopane forest far from anywhere. Animals abound and people have become prey here; lions killed a tourist walking to the camp shower not so long ago. I don’t need a shower, thank you. Even if I do.
The Chitake Springs camps are the least accessible and we have booked Chitake 3 for two nights. Finding campsite #3 proves somewhat difficult. There are no signs pointing to it or announcing it when you arrive. We use GPS and determine that, yes, #3 really is this bushy, tiny piece of ground on the edge of the river bed – at least it is somewhat level. 
It will take 4-wheel low to get out of it, up a steep hill. Time to settle in to see what happens. We see no one for three days.
The Chitake Spring flows perennially. It can fill a 20-meter river bed, but for now the river bed is mostly damp sand with margins of slow-running water interspersed with elephant trails and loafs of dung. Elephant eat minerals out of the banks and dig holes in the sand which then fill with fresh spring water. Ellies don’t like mucky drinking water. There are 20 or so of them just downstream, having a time of it. 
In this park you are allowed to walk around (I mean, walk around away from your camp and vehicle) but on what planet is this a good idea? The bush is thick, lion are about, hyena frequent the river bed, and then there’s the elephant. Let’s just have a chair and relax with binoculars and cameras. A wart hog takes a mud bath in front of us and a family of mongoose run past. Zebra and kudu come for a drink. A herd of buffalo advance down the sand. By dusk, it starts getting a little more hectic. The bull elephants begin to trumpet and push each other around. The pride of lions begin roaring, the male is on the high ground behind our camp. Hyena slink by, eyeing us sideways and crunching on some old bones. At dark we retire to the tent. The trap cam is set up in the river bed. It is a noisy, exciting night.
Next morning we find that the trap cam works, even if the videos aren’t NatGeo quality. Animals aren’t so cooperative. The ellies all walked by, just far enough away to be nothing but grey blobs on the screen. The elephant who ate and drank and slobbered right by the truck for an hour somehow managed to avoid the camera completely. The lion preferred the high dry ground so did not make the cut at all but for the soundtrack. We look at the film and reset the camera, retire to the camp and then a minute later the big bull elephant strolls by. Gees, where did he come from? Anyone up for a long walk? Yes, right after I take a shower.
The Mana Pools Main Camp is more tame and birds cover the shoreline, the first Saddle-billed Stork of the trip is spotted. Baboon get into the charcoal bag and leave a little surprise for us in the braii pit. Monkeys sneak in and rip up the trash bag while I was sitting there watching the birds. Thinking it was Jim rooting around, I turn and see five Vervets hanging on the side of the truck, making a mess. They aren’t afraid of the catapult. This camp must be good pickings – it looks like it would hold 100 people when full. Hard to imagine so many people here, driving around on the dust roads. We’ve lucked out in this shoulder season. Few people, no bugs, and great weather.
The Beagle draws a lot of attention in Zimbabwe. It is South African-made and due to sanctions and VAT (value-added tax), not many exist here. At a crowded campground on Lake Kariba – yes, crowded for a change – four South African rigs pull in, of which three are Land Cruisers similar to ours. 
Jim has gone off to look at the lake and he returns to find me surrounded by big Saffies with heavy Afrikaans accents asking questions about the truck. Like I know anything. I show them the kitchen. It pales in comparison to what they have – then again they spend 49 weeks a year perfecting their rigs and only three weeks camping. I try not to smile too much. It is nearly dark before we can get away to eat dinner, but that doesn’t trouble the Saffies – they think nothing of starting the braii fire at 9pm and defrosting the meat at 10pm.
Next morning, another fellow comes by to get a tour. We should start charging. But this Zimbabwean man is interested only in the pop-up tent; he has a boat on Lake Kariba that needs a tent. Oh, and by the way, would we like to go fishing with him later? Heck yeah! The day is ideal, Lake Kariba is pretty and placid. Our only chore for the day is extending our visas at the border crossing office so we make a plan to meet at 3pm. 
Gavin has fished since 1988 and has fished nearly all of Kariba, no small feat as it is a huge body of water. He is about our age, and to spend the afternoon with him is a pleasure. He zips us out to one of his fishing holes (the boat goes 80mph) and we proceed to worm-fish for tilapia. I cannot remember the last time I fished with worms. We haul in fish after fish after fish while we discuss Zimbabwe, retirement, fishing, politics, travel, family and other random subjects that we all know a little something about. The sun sets, the lake is calm, a crocodile swims by, and we untie to head back and 
braii a couple of fresh ones in the dark, South African style. An elephant greets us at the dock. A hippo is in our camp but other than that we are all alone. It’s been a lekker day – that’s South African for good/fine/great/excellent – pronounced with a short e.
Zimbabweans know – you must make a plan. It is the Zimbabwean 
way. The water is out? No electricity? The road is washed away? You will make a plan. Now “a plan” could be plan A or B, or W or X, but you will need to make one. Everyone says it. And yes, the road skirting Harare to the south is not useable. It is time to make a plan. I am driving so Jim directs us and we wing it through narrow dirt roads crowded with school children, past street markets and places that smell really awful, through the suburbs and townships until we manage our way on to a four-lane divided highway, without a scratch and still speaking to each other. That probably wouldn’t have happened three months ago, we’ve some kilometers on us now. We have a plan.
The destination is a bird sanctuary on Lake Chivero. That’s all it says on the paper map, bird sanctuary. 
It deserves more attention than that. Gary Stafford, his wife Elcine, and his son Josh operate Kuimba Shiri Bird Sanctuary where they rehabilitate injured wild birds, raise orphan birds, provide a home for surrendered pet birds such as macaws and cockatoos, and breed birds to return to the wild. When a bird needs rescuing and it is lucky enough to arrive here, it will have a good chance of returning to its proper place. As well, they train birds for stunts in documentary productions and Gary and Josh are both falconers. Gary has been operating Kuimba Shiri for 27 years and he is funny as all get-out.
A big white native Zimbabwean, he shares candid views on the state of the country (“it’s bad”), on travelers driving Land Rovers (“go home and get yourself a proper vehicle!”) and on vegans (“you’re a WHAT??”). While only planning to stay one night, we end up staying three. As usual, we are the only ones in the campsite.
Unmarked on our maps and unmentioned in travel guides, is Lake Chivero Game Park, just across the lake from Kuimba Shiri. A small affair but they have a good population of White rhino. 
These are managed rhinos; they have been dehorned and have identifying cut-outs on their ears. Still they are not easy to find, we finally spot three of them and they entertain us for a couple hours. Back at the bird sanctuary, Gary puts on a demonstration for the public, flying a flashy Black Eagle used in a David Attenborough documentary and a personable Fish Eagle that he has had for 18 years. Then he brings out the two little Marsh Owls and they steal the show. Marsh Owls don’t fly, they hop-walk on the 
ground behind their caregiver and they are adorable. A couple of Shona boys found them and brought them to Gary; he makes it a point to tell the crowd not to be “stupid-sticious” about owls and birds of prey – let’s hope his pleas get through. Dinner that night is at the Admirals Restaurant, run by Micheal Mawema who has returned to Zim from the States to make a go of it with his wife. We all share a quick boat ride out to see the crocodile taking in the sun right in front of the restaurant and enjoy the sunset on the lake.
A donation to the bird food fund is made and we take our leave having had a wonderful time and some good laughs at Lake Chivero.
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