The Zimbabwean Border
Sadly not much to say here because our trip through Zimbabwe was so short. We entered Zimbabwe from Botswana through the Panamananga border post. We arrived outside a small house, the grounds were verdant - palm trees and aloe plants lined a dirt path leading to the entrance. The air was heavy with red dust. We could hear music from a crappy speaker inside the building. There was no one behind the immigration counter. We walked into the next room in search of life and found the border patrol agent fast asleep. Deep sleep. It took three tries to wake her.
We quickly moved to the next phase of immigration. We were the only ones at this sleepy border post. They said it had been a busy day - when we entered our information into the registration books, only two recordings were listed before us with today's date. We shared some melted chocolate cookies with the border agents and discussed the meaning of the Justin Bieber song that was playing on the scratchy radio. Mnangagwa’s picture was mounted on the wall in a large frame. This was our fastest and most pleasant border crossing yet.
Then we drove on a shitty road through a safari park. We saw baboons and potholes, and 30 minutes into the drive Tom asked, “What side of the road do they drive on in Zimbabwe?” We guessed the left and kept onward. An hour and a half later we were at Victoria Falls. We ate lunch at a Western brewery and laughed about how little we had planned / prepared / knew about one of the seven wonders of the world that we were about to see. We also remembered that we were not “waterfall people” which we learned in Iceland.
We went into the falls in Zimbabwe. To my surprise we were a few of the only white tourists there. Lots of African tourists. My favorite were the groups of African men in uniform - construction workers matching in red long sleeved jackets, work pants and hard hats. Why would you not at least take off your hard hat? Lots of people asked us for pictures and we debated the intention - I, the more cynical, assumed it was an obvious ploy to scam us. But we took pictures with those who asked and neither got mugged nor scammed. Tom believed our pictures were a souvenir - a bit of social capital to take home. The falls are low this time of year, so I guess without water, you turn your attention to other keepsakes. As we walked back we coincidentally ran into two friends we had made in Botswana. Sadly we couldn't see them that evening because they were staying in Zimbabwe and we were driving on to Zambia.
The Zambian Border
Zambian immigration. It was our longest border crossing yet. One hour and forty minutes, which I know isn't bad and definitely won't be the worst, but the delay was due to the exceptional bureaucratic inefficiencies at the immigration office and had nothing to due with crowds. Tom is patient. I have no patience. I have a 10 minute window of calm. That's it. Zambians don't have a queuing system. And no regard for personal space. I watched a group of German tourists in front of us sail through the lines from Zimbabwe into Zambia. An hour and a half later, I saw them reemerge on the Zambian side, having already visited Victoria Falls and return back to Zimbabwe for the rest of their evening. I was still trying to figure out the queuing system.
(Note: they were able to move through so expeditiously because they were traveling on foot. Our car is our delay at each border crossing. You need to pay a road tax and show proof of insurance. You need to pay an import levy and third party insurance and get a temporary import permit. You need to cross your fingers that they won't ask for a carnet de passage because you don't have it even though you're fairly certain you need it. You need to sift through all your paperwork hoping that whatever form they want is there somewhere, somehow.)
After watching some conversational commotion take place on the other side of the large plastic barricade, our agent finally motioned for a man to escort us down a long and hot corridor to an office filled with a man in a suit and lots of broken electronics with wires dangling about. The man stared at our paperwork for a while. Then he asked us how long we wanted to stay in Zambia. We said 10 days. He stared some more and then sent us back outside. I truly don’t think a single thing happened in that room except the passing of time.
An hour and a half into our immigration process, we told our fixer that we were timing our border crossings. We asked him which he thought was fastest. He thought Botswana. We told him Zimbabwe. We asked him which he thought was slowest; he didn’t know. We told him Zambia. Six minutes later, we had crossed the border.
Sadly not much to say here because our trip through Zimbabwe was so short. We entered Zimbabwe from Botswana through the Panamananga border post. We arrived outside a small house, the grounds were verdant - palm trees and aloe plants lined a dirt path leading to the entrance. The air was heavy with red dust. We could hear music from a crappy speaker inside the building. There was no one behind the immigration counter. We walked into the next room in search of life and found the border patrol agent fast asleep. Deep sleep. It took three tries to wake her.
We quickly moved to the next phase of immigration. We were the only ones at this sleepy border post. They said it had been a busy day - when we entered our information into the registration books, only two recordings were listed before us with today's date. We shared some melted chocolate cookies with the border agents and discussed the meaning of the Justin Bieber song that was playing on the scratchy radio. Mnangagwa’s picture was mounted on the wall in a large frame. This was our fastest and most pleasant border crossing yet.
Then we drove on a shitty road through a safari park. We saw baboons and potholes, and 30 minutes into the drive Tom asked, “What side of the road do they drive on in Zimbabwe?” We guessed the left and kept onward. An hour and a half later we were at Victoria Falls. We ate lunch at a Western brewery and laughed about how little we had planned / prepared / knew about one of the seven wonders of the world that we were about to see. We also remembered that we were not “waterfall people” which we learned in Iceland.
We went into the falls in Zimbabwe. To my surprise we were a few of the only white tourists there. Lots of African tourists. My favorite were the groups of African men in uniform - construction workers matching in red long sleeved jackets, work pants and hard hats. Why would you not at least take off your hard hat? Lots of people asked us for pictures and we debated the intention - I, the more cynical, assumed it was an obvious ploy to scam us. But we took pictures with those who asked and neither got mugged nor scammed. Tom believed our pictures were a souvenir - a bit of social capital to take home. The falls are low this time of year, so I guess without water, you turn your attention to other keepsakes. As we walked back we coincidentally ran into two friends we had made in Botswana. Sadly we couldn't see them that evening because they were staying in Zimbabwe and we were driving on to Zambia.
The Zambian Border
Zambian immigration. It was our longest border crossing yet. One hour and forty minutes, which I know isn't bad and definitely won't be the worst, but the delay was due to the exceptional bureaucratic inefficiencies at the immigration office and had nothing to due with crowds. Tom is patient. I have no patience. I have a 10 minute window of calm. That's it. Zambians don't have a queuing system. And no regard for personal space. I watched a group of German tourists in front of us sail through the lines from Zimbabwe into Zambia. An hour and a half later, I saw them reemerge on the Zambian side, having already visited Victoria Falls and return back to Zimbabwe for the rest of their evening. I was still trying to figure out the queuing system.
(Note: they were able to move through so expeditiously because they were traveling on foot. Our car is our delay at each border crossing. You need to pay a road tax and show proof of insurance. You need to pay an import levy and third party insurance and get a temporary import permit. You need to cross your fingers that they won't ask for a carnet de passage because you don't have it even though you're fairly certain you need it. You need to sift through all your paperwork hoping that whatever form they want is there somewhere, somehow.)
After watching some conversational commotion take place on the other side of the large plastic barricade, our agent finally motioned for a man to escort us down a long and hot corridor to an office filled with a man in a suit and lots of broken electronics with wires dangling about. The man stared at our paperwork for a while. Then he asked us how long we wanted to stay in Zambia. We said 10 days. He stared some more and then sent us back outside. I truly don’t think a single thing happened in that room except the passing of time.
An hour and a half into our immigration process, we told our fixer that we were timing our border crossings. We asked him which he thought was fastest. He thought Botswana. We told him Zimbabwe. We asked him which he thought was slowest; he didn’t know. We told him Zambia. Six minutes later, we had crossed the border.
