July 6 - Airport Delays

The flight from Livingstone was very late, and I was fairly concerned that I would not make my connection in Jo'burg. I had to go through passport control, collect my luggage, go through customs, and find my way to the domestic gates in about 20 minutes. Some very nice people from the plane let me cut in front of them at passport control, and, as I was chatting with them, the woman in front of me said she was on the same flight to Cape Town and hoped they'd hold it for us. (It turns out the delay in Livingstone had been caused by passengers delayed in customs, so, we thought, tit for tat, right?)

Naturally nothing went as it should have. We were waved down to lines that looked short but were unbelievably slow, our luggage was coming on two carousels, and so on and so forth. I thought I would have an escort, as I had on my way to Livingstone, so I exited customs with my baggage, in a tizzy, looking for someone with my name on a large sign.

I came across Colleen, who had met me before. We exclaimed! She introduced me to her boss, who was very nice. But they weren't waiting for me. I couldn't figure out who was, but Colleen's boss flagged down a porter and instructed him to take me to check-in and to make it snappy. The porter grabbed my luggage and led me off on a merry chase.

I have no idea how porters work here in the States. In South Africa, though, they are "official" and have special privileges. They can, for example, butt ahead of everyone else in line if they have a traveler in a hurry. I cannot see this happening in, say, New York airports....okay, I can see it happening once, maybe, but it would never be repeated.

So #17 and I flew through the mess that is the Jo'burg airport, running up escalators, running down corridors, flying through crowds of anxious travelers, and we pulled up to the check-in desk a mere 7 minutes later.

"I'm on the 5:00 flight to Cape Town," I wheezed, handing over my passport. The agent checked. She checked again. "I don't have you on that flight," she said. Twice.

"British Air to Cape Town, 5:00," I said, trying to straighten up but still panting a bit.

"This is South Africa Airways."

Ahhh. We flew over to the BA desk, where we were greeted by a vedy snotty beyatch, who said, "Oh, that flight's delayed 90 minutes. If it hadn't been, you would have missed it."

Okay, fine. I was checked in, and I had my boarding pass, and my bag was checked (because it was too heavy to take on board), and I looked at Porter #17 and thought, "Crap. I have no cash."

I explained that I was giving him all I had, a total of R30, I think, and he looked at me as if I'd just ripped the hearts from his 27 children. He had been very helpful, I agreed. I had no more cash. And, no, I had no American. I did not explain that in all airports in SA there are regular announcements that only authorized porters are to be trusted with your bags and that the fee is usually R10 per bag.

He nodded a grudging thanks and went in search of the woman who'd been with me in line. I went through security, bought a bottle of water, and found the gate.

About half an hour later, the woman from passport control wandered in, and we started wondering how long the delay really would be. She left her bag with me and went to find an outlet, so she could charge her camera. I kept reading my textbook.

About half an hour later, one of the gate agents was talking on her walkie, and I heard her say something about the gate for our flight changing. She mumbled something and started to leave the area. I inquired about the gate and was told that the plane would be leaving from another gate at the other end of the terminal.

I grabbed my friend's bag and found her sitting on the floor near the lone outlet in the airport. We discussed the gate change and went to find our new perch.

Heather is a financial adviser from San Francisco. It turns out, however, that she grew up in Stamford, Connecticut, just spitting distance away from where I grew up. Her mother teaches at Greenwich Academy. Small world.

She and her sister had just been on safari in Botswana, and they had decided to spend a couple of days in Livingstone before they went their separate ways. Heather was heading back to Cape Town for one night, then back to the States. Her sister is a med student, though, and she was staying behind to do her interning in Africa. The city where she is in school (and I can't remember if I asked where this was) has plenty of medical care. The med students end up just being in the way. So the school sends them to Africa, where they can administer meds, diagnose, and help out where much help is needed. I was impressed.

They had had a terrific time on safari. Their guide was one of the only women guides in the area, and she had been doing this for 20+ years. The guide had stories galore and was very careful of the people in the group--including the idiot man who kept standing up and exclaiming or shouting back to Heather and her sister. The worst thing you can do in an open safari vehicle is to stand up--it's not only dangerous for you, but the animals, I guess, interpret this as a predatory move and react, shall we say, adversely. Elephants will charge, lions will attack, and so forth. So this guy was a dope.

Their guide also explained that she thinks the African buffalo are the most dangerous. If you shoot one, you'd better kill it, because, if you don't, it'll hunt you down and kill you. Apparently she was charged by a wounded buffalo and does not remember if she stepped aside or if it veered off, but it was clear he was looking for his attacker.

I have no idea if any of this buffalo lore is true, but it's certainly interesting, and we pass the time pleasantly, chatting about this and that. Heather had an epiphanette on safari that she did not want to be in financial advising anymore, but she wasn't sure what else to do. We talked about career changes. I told her to go to law school. She laughed pretty hard.

The delay gets longer and longer, and I'm beginning to wish I'd remembered the phone number of the Boogie Bus guy who was supposed to pick me up. In SA airports, you really don't want to hail just any old cab. And when Boogie Bus guy had dropped me off, he'd asked to be paid for the ride home in advance. Being a nice gal and a very soft touch, I agreed. But now that the flight was delayed and delayed and delayed, I began to wonder if he was keeping track of it.

The flight was called, though, at last, and we boarded. Heather was just a couple of rows back, and I was stuck next to some woman who had nothing to say to me or to her husband, who sat on her other side. Amazingly, one of my roommates was on the flight, too--she was with the Missouri program, and they had had their safari break that weekend. So the whole lot of them were going back to Cape Town on that flight.

When we landed, I collected my luggage, waved buh-bye to Heather, and found my ride. He was not just there for me, though: The Missouri students had hired him to pick them up, too. So, the money I'd paid him in advance? Well, he and I had something to work out later on. I arranged for him to take me to the airport for my trip to Kruger that Tuesday.

My roommate and I walked in to what we thought was an empty house, chatted for a few minutes, and then went to our rooms. It wasn't until the next day that I heard about Brooke breaking her leg and found Julia suffering from a wicked case of food poisoning. It had rained all weekend, no one in town had done anything fun, and spirits were fairly low.

Janice and a couple of other people had gone on a drive to the Eastern Cape in a car Janice had rented. When she returned the car, they found a small scratch on the driver's door. Little did we realize that this small scratch would lead to an epic battle with Avis's Cape Town office.

July 6 - Last Day Livingstone

Angel and I had worked out that I would go to the Livingstone Museum in the morning, spend a couple of hours looking around, and then they would take me to the airport. My new driver, whose name I do not remember, picked me up at the hotel, around 8:30, after another Plight of the Lonely Diner breakfast, and we set out for the museum.

The Livingstone Museum has several rooms, and it seems to have been reorganized a little recently. According to one travel site, there was water damage to the roof that threatened the collection, so that may account for it.

From the outside, it's quite imposing.

And if you look closely at the plaque, you can see that there seems to have been some revisionist meddling along the way, too.
Rhodes was actually responsible for Livingstone being where Livingstone is. The community had been lower on the river before the bridge went in; when the bridge went up, the old community, wich just happened to have been a hotbed of malaria, moved to higher, drier ground near the new locus of activity. But as much as Rhodes accomplished, he's almost universally reviled for being, oh, a bigot and slaver and exploiter of just about everything and everyone.

Livingstone is a character of much more universal appeal. How can you criticize a man who is described in Wikipedia as having "a mythic status, which operated on a number of interconnected levels: that of Protestant missionary martyr, that of working-class 'rags to riches' inspirational story, that of scientific investigator and explorer, that of imperial reformer, anti-slavery crusader and advocate of commercial empire." The upshot is that the museum is known as the Livingstone Museum as much for the man as for the town: There is an entire room devoted to Livingstone, who, remember, really only stopped here for about 2 weeks. I think I saw a small picture and brief description for Rhodes.

In the entryway, they have a couple of displays that help you get, as someone once said, "orientated." The map is helpful, and I wish I'd had it for the blog sooner.

This is sub-equatorial Africa. And this is the Zambezi, the Falls, and the gorge:

The part of the river with all the islands is where the river cruises go. The "H" near the eastern shore is the reserve where the hotels are. The little blip into the gorge just east of the bridge is where I walked down--not nearly far enough. I so need to go back.

This is the only room where you can take pictures, so the rest of the visit found me scrambling for a piece of paper to take notes on--I'd left my notebook in my tote, which I stored with the tour company while I was in the museum. I know, Dad--learned that lesson the hard way.

The first room is dedicated to the anthropology of the area. There are skulls and tools/weapons from various Ages and some beautiful rock art. The display cases are pretty old and dusty around the edges. This exhibit looks as if it hasn't been changed since the '30s, but it is extensive, and it's pretty interesting.

The next exhibit is something called "Our Village." When I walked into this part of the museum I had a "what's over there" moment, though, so I followed a narrow little door up a ramp and was surprised by a terrific, old-fashioned natural history exhibit. We're talking stuffed lions standing over their kill, bucolic scenes of graceful, elaborately antlered buck grazing--all worthy of the American Natural History museum. The public area was nothing to speak of, though--as beautiful and retro as the exhibits were, the area reminded me of an old school cafeteria without the tables or chairs. I think I saw one bench in there, and the lighting was in the "ping ping pinnnnnnggggg" family of fluorescents.

Back down the ramp to Our Village, which is a more modern exhibit that chronicles the life of a village through the centuries. It starts with the San people--the hunter/gatherer tribe that moved north when settlers started to take over their land in South Africa. The dirt floor, the huts, the cooking areas, the public spaces--all were almost exactly like the Mukuni Village. It was a little weird. But I started to read the cards about the San, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

The San are known to the rest of us as the Bushmen. And the Bushmen, of course, are of, shall we say, "small stature." There was one warrior figure who was quite elaborate (gee I hope I'm remembering this right), and the card above him explained that, when you met a San on the road, he would ask you, "How far away did you see me?" You are supposed to answer, "I saw you from very far," because to answer otherwise--say, "I just saw you now"--would be taken as an insult to his "small stature." I had a cruel and inappropriate vision of the little guy wandering the countryside kicking people in the shins.

Our Village then moves to more recent times, and we see people like the men at the Mukuni Village, lazing about, while women do much of the work.

The path through the exhibit is serpentine, so the stages of evolution are in semi-discreet areas, and the whole place seems much bigger than it really is. When you get to the end of the dirt road, there is a wall and a door, and over the door is a sign: Their Town.

Their Town has a paved path that is not the ess-shape that the path in Our Village is. It's more like a, well, city block. And it follows the development of Town from the trading post to "modern day," replete with a powder blue VW bug, just like Dad's old car but with the steering wheel on the wrong side. Not coincidentally, the Bug is at an intersection, where the light is red.

There's a sign over the door leading out of this exhibit, and I tried to read it, to memorize it, and to write it on the back of my ticket, but I failed. It was simple but profound on the subjects of villages and towns and "our" and "their." It made me want to go through the exhibit again, but the clock was a-tickin.

The next space was devoted to Livingstone himself, and it had some artifacts (his coat, a gun, and, rumor has it, an arm bone that helped to identify his body when it was sent back to England, but I don't remember seeing that. There were original papers and letters, and some very good descriptions of the man's life and work. The biggest problem was, though, that it was behind glass and very difficult for me to read without my monocular or a seeing eye friend. So I didn't get it all. I did find the part about Stanley, though--because I'm a big fan of the Spencer Tracy movie.

Livingstone really was remarkable. He took medicine to the tribes and took tribal cures to the Europeans. His family supported all the work he did, and he was, it seems, admired and revered by all. It was, by no means, an easy life for him. He went far into parts of Africa that had not been visited (he traveled 40,000 miles), and he was accompanied to the very end by his servants/guides/companions Chuma and Susi. The pictures were great.

The final exhibit was the history of Zambia, but it ended in 2001. There were panels discussing European settlement, independence (1964), and governments since then. There were many, many displays of newspaper clippings behind glass, so I looked at as much as I could and, yes, found the gift shop.

The gift shop was more local crafts, and, try as I might, I did not find anything all that tempting. I wandered outside and looked around. There is a new statue of Emil Holub, the man who actually mapped the area.

And there's a plane, with absolutely no signage or explanation.
That's downtown in the background. Livingstone, according to my driver, is expanding quickly, especially since the troubles in Zimbabwe. There are new hotels and some shopping malls going up, and there seems to be more traffic at the airport.

As soon as I got to the outer reaches of the parking lot, I was accosted by merchants. I kept saying no and no and no, but one guy showed me some lovely postcards that he'd painted (or so he swore), but when I said I only had Rand available, things got a little dicey. He only wanted American. And as we were negotiating, another guy, with jewelry, kept hovering around the edges. The artist finally got mad at the jeweler and started to yell at him. That's when the very nice, very tall guard started to saunter closer and closer to us. Jeweler left, then artist agreed to take Rand, and I wandered back to the front door, where my driver had finally arrived.

There were two other passengers in the van. Yup, Geek and Glitter. They barely nodded hello.

More of downtown:

We got to the airport, and the driver, who earlier had shown me the book of prayers and bible verses he was planning to publish, proceeded to wave us off with a smile and the Good Word. He was very nice and very helpful.

This is the Livingstone International Airport:


My flight was delayed about 90 minutes, but we were finally allowed to enter the official boarding area.


where our plane awaited. While we were walking out to the stairs, another plane was landing. Everyone looked at the landing plane, then at our plane, then at the distance between where we were walking and the landing plane...you could see them all doing the word problem: If a plane lands at the rate of x/mph at the end of a runway, and pedestrians are traveling 50 yards across its path at the rate of y, how long before the landing plane takes out one or more of the passengers?

Everyone quickened their step, and we all boarded safely. My connecting flight in Jo'burg, though, was a worry....

July 5 -- The Final Chapter

The road back to the hotel--where we had to drop off Geek and Glitter before my next tour--had no lions, but I asked Angel to stop at a baobab tree we had passed on our way in. The tree is enormous, and I was so intrigued by it being a baobab--I immediately thought I had dropped into The Little Prince.

It is hundreds of years old, and it seems to have been tradition for visitors to carve their names and the dates they were here in the trunk. The tree can take it, apparently, because the carvings go way up the trunk.

I don't know if you can see it, but, toward the top of the photo, about 7 feet off the ground, are the initials CHPO, followed by the year: 1947.

Some branches are propped up, and there is a ladder up to a platform in some of the lower branches. Angel asked if I wanted to climb up to see more carvings and the terrific view of the Falls. I demurred, but only because I was in a skirt.

Before we left, I asked Angel to stand in front of le Baobab so my readers could get an idea of scale. I admit, I just wanted to have a picture of him.

Geek and Glitter never left the van. Americans are strange. Angel had told me that the night before, driving back from the sunset cruise, there had been a python on the road. All the trucks and buses stopped. He had a few American passengers, and one of them decided to get out of the truck to take a closer look. Angel exclaimed. The guy said, "Oh, my friend in America has one, and he's really gentle." Angel explained that, sometimes, animals in the wild are not quite as sympathetic to interference as animals that spend their lives in a big aquarium in someone's living room. He lost a really good Darwin Awards entry, I think.

We headed back to drop G&G off at the Livingstone and then to go on my next tour, the Bridge Tour. I had grand visions of this tour--something along the lines of the Tower Bridge tour, with videos and pictures of the laborers and models of the bridge in various stages of construction, followed by a close inspection of the bridge and its supports.

Well, not quite. We drove to the site, got out, walked across the bridge, looked at the incredibly beautiful scenery, watched a couple of people bungee over the edge, went back to the car, and drove away. The reason you are encouraged to have a guide for this tour is to save you the hassle of going through immigration on the way back. I found this out later, though.

The bridge was a standard railroad bridge, built by Cecil Rhodes to connect his industries to his trade routes. Later, I think, they added a roadbed.

The road isn't very wide--maybe a car-and-a-half--and there wasn't much of a sidewalk. We plastered ourselves against the railing when big flatbeds carrying copper tubing went through.

So, you have the bridge, you have the river beneath, and you have the Falls.

From here, you can see that the Falls are not really "out in the open." The canyon zigs and zags, so you never really have a full, head-on view of the cascade.

From here or the hotel, that is. If you hike in a bit farther than I went, you can actually cross the river to Livingstone Island, where, I am sure, the view and the mist are overwhelming. You can see the pedestrian bridge in the background:And when I use the handy digital zoom feature:
Those are people on the right.

Looking down on the Falls side of the bridge, you can see how powerful the Zambezi is.

Angel said a couple of things about the bridge, and he showed me the special "water tight" rivets they used, but, for the most part, we were quiet. It was so beautiful.

The border between Zambia and Zimbabwe is about 3/4's of the way across the bridge.

We crossed the border, went to the end of the bridge, and turned around. We came up the railroad bed on the way back, where there were sidewalks.

The view of the river from the railroad side is heart-stopping.

And, because there's a sidewalk on this side, there is also more activity. There are merchants hawking their wares, there are tourists, and there is a steady stream of people crossing from Zimbabwe to Zambia. We made it back to the "good side" safely.
Honestly, these signs looked to be not much more than an old piece of chalkboard nailed to a 2x4. I thought there'd be something more impressive, but, as usual, I thought wrong.

Just over the border, back in Zambia, there is a platform for the bungee jump and bungee chair.
We were lucky enough to see two people go over the edge.

It looked like a ton of fun, but, again, I was in a skirt, and I wasn't sure about the cost. I think that was my second mistake for the day, though. I don't know when I'll ever have that chance again.

We wandered back to the van, fighting off the vendors, and went back through immigration. There was a large crowd outside, which seemed odd, since it was about 2:00 (1400 hrs). It honestly looked a little dicey, and when Angel went in to take care of the paperwork, I kept my eyes on the floor in order not to invite any vendors. They will walk up to the car windows and hold up their jewelry or carvings or drawings and talk in a rapid but soft patter, asking for your help, for just a few minutes of y0ur time, for a very good price on something beautiful. As we drove away, I just held up the camera and snapped.

I thought it would have been rude, if not illegal, to take pictures of people standing in line to have their passports checked.

That was the end of my planned activities for the day, and I asked Angel what I could do with the rest of my afternoon and evening. I didn't want to waste it by the pool, really, and I knew I didn't want to travel without a guide.

He suggested a river safari. A little like the Sunset Cruise, a river safari takes you out in the late afternoon in a smaller speedboat that is much lower to the water. The boat seats about 8. Angel was worried that there would be no places left, but he got me on one and told me to be ready to go at 3:30 (1530 hrs). We also decided I'd go to the Livingstone Museum Sunday morning before they took me to the airport.

We passed these guys on the driveway to the hotel:


I had a little over an hour to kill before the cruise, and I honestly didn't know what to do with myself. I washed my face and tried to spruce up a little, changed into something that would be a little warmer after sunset, and then I just walked around the hotel.

There is a row of shops near the Barclay's Bank, and I browsed a bit. Then I stopped at the snack bar to get a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. While I was sipping and staring off into space, I overheard a distressing interchange between the manager and the counter clerk.

Manager: "Is this one not working?"
Clerk: "No [mumble mumble]."
Manager: "Then why are you keeping the meat in there?"

I was glad I hadn't ordered a sandwich.

Being my mother's daughter, I arrived at the Activity Center long before the appointed time. I waited patiently and tried to figure out who in the crowd of obnoxious tourists I would be stuck with on my three hour cruise. The cranky old lady with the cane and, I swear, the ear trumpet? The family with scantily clad teenaged daughters? The big group who spoke no English?

Buses started to pull up, and I was waved away from each of them in turn. Not this one, not this one...we're waiting for 6 people from the other hotel. At about 3:45 the organizer motioned me into a large bus full of Spanish or Portuguese tourists, all over the age of 65. The bus was full, and a man had to move to the front seat so I could sit in a jump seat, facing sideways. There was a loud couple toward the front who kept saying, in their own language but easily understandable to me, "What's she doing here? This isn't her bus. She's on the wrong bus. She doesn't belong here." Lots of warm and welcoming stuff like that.

As soon as I got settled in, the organizer guy came back and told me to switch to a van that had just pulled up behind me. Predictably, the couple up front went on and on about how "I told you it was the wrong bus. She was on the wrong bus. I don't know what she was doing here, because it was the wrong bus." Fine.

In the van are three couples, and the oldest woman welcomes me to their safari and introduces them all. She is Sue. I thank her for her kindness and tell them that I had clearly upset the people on the bus, who could not have been snottier if they tried.

Much to my relief, they all laughed. We pulled up to the dock, piled into the boat, and the two younger women and I started chatting.

They are the Costin Family: father Larry and friend Sue, from Chicago; son Michael and wife Mindy; and daughter Jen and husband whose name I cannot remember to save my life. It's embarrassing. They had just gotten to Livingstone after travel delays of three days. The story was horrific--they were stranded in beautiful places (Brussels) but were without luggage and without information on when or if their next flight would take off. They were tired and very glad to be in the boat, relaxing. This was their second time on safari together--they were leaving for Botswana in a day or two to go on an overland safari.

So Jen and Mindy and I started chatting. Chatting chatting chatting. The boat took off, and when we were out in the open water, the driver stopped, told us the plan (we go down the river, stop in on a few island, stop to see any wildlife along the way, wind up at the beach of the Royal Livingstone), and announced that there were snacks and that the bar was open. Gin and tonics all around, and we girls started chatting again.

We were so busy talking we didn't see much wildlife, and, thank goodness, there weren't the hippos and elephants of the evening before. The boys all had the cameras, and every so often, Mindy would hand Michael a new lens or hold something for him, but, for the most part, we just talked and laughed and drank and snacked. They promised to send me their pictures.

I did get a few pictures of some more easily spotted wildlife. My first croc:

The rope in the lower left corner is one of the lines holding the canopy in place. We drove right up on the beach to see this guy.

There were also some birds that nest in the banks of the river. I have better pictures of the nests (all the holes)
than of the birds
so I am really hoping the Costins share.

We also saw a giant lizard, who is the "natural enemy of the crocodile," because he eats the croc eggs.
We stopped on an island where the guide assured us there was a building with a toilet. I wandered inland a bit, but all I could see were trees. Mindy, having heard Jen say, "Yup, these trees are just full of snakes," did not venture far past the beach.
The time flew by, and at one point, I asked, in jest, what they were doing for dinner. Larry replied, "We have reservations for 7 people at the Livingstone." So I was invited to dinner, too.

We enjoyed a lovely sunset and finally (and literally) hit the beach at the Livingstone. Everyone went back to their rooms to freshen, I found a ladies room, and we gathered in the bar before dinner.

That's not the Costins, but it is the Falls in the background. Dinner was just wonderful, too. These guys were so funny and smart and well-traveled and interesting and genuinely interested in my stories, too (or very good at pretending to be). It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

After dinner, I gave them my email addresses, hugged them goodbye, and went back to my hotel. I really hope we stay in touch. At least for the pictures of all the stuff I missed because I was busy talking.

Where was I?

Or, really, where am I? Physically, I am back in Minneapolis. In every other way, I am somewhere that is not Minneapolis. It's very strange being back.

It does, however, give me an opportunity to finish up the Chronicles of Christine. I don't have anything on the calendar until next week (I think), so I'll be cranking out the entries! Whoo hoo!

So, when last we met, I was still touring the Mukuni Village in Zambia, just outside of Livingstone. It was July 5, hot and sunny, and I was loving every minute of it.

These guys followed us around a little, and they had the same reaction as the kids at the township school when I took their picture. They just giggled and giggled when I showed it to them.

Lumpa was completely indifferent to them. I couldn't tell if she was trying to be professional or was just ticked that they were there. I told her about the kids at the school and how much they loved tohave their pictures taken, and she just gave me a completely blank look. I decided maybe she didn't quite understand what I was talking about.

This is the woman who showed us how they crack nuts.
If you look behind her, you can see some of the guys hanging around. I don't know how people wear jeans in that kind of heat.

Our next stop was the King's Compound. The two houses for the wives and some ceremonial buildings are surrounded by a fence. The "gate" is a small hut--you are supposed to go in, clap your hands, bow, and ask for an audience.

The entrance is very low, and there's a step up. We were warned of this, but, alas, I had my sunglasses on, and my hat, and I misjudged the distance. I got a powerful whack to the head, and, honestly, I haven't been the same since.

One of the huts is a throne room, where there are thrones for the King:

and for the Queen:
Chairs line the walls, but the space is very small. Lumpa did not elaborate on how often the King or Queen had audiences, and I was too busy trying not to scream in agony to ask. Apparently, Geek and Glitter were either not curious or were too afraid to ask.

Lumpa then invited us to the craft market. This is how the majority of the Villagers make money--they assured me that the crafts (jewelry, wooden carvings, dyed fabrics) were made right there in the village.

I have no idea what happened to Geek and Glitter, but Lumpa led me to the first stall, and I was just toast. The stalls are set up sort of the way farm stands are, or like lean-to's. I was out of the sun, and it took me a minute for my eyes to adjust, and in that short time I was sized up for the incredibly soft touch that I am.

The men were all behind tables, and the tables were just laden with stuff. Bracelets, necklaces, spoons, animals carved from wood or malachite, fabrics dyed in traditional patterns, pieces of burlap used to hang earrings from--not one square inch of unused space. There were things hanging from the rafters, and there were some wares hanging from the back wall. And there were special items in each outstretched hand--the best each man had to offer.

I was either called Mama or Lady, and I was exhorted to help each man's family. It seemed as if each table belonged to a family, but I couldn't really tell. And I certainly didn't have a chance to ask. I was overwhelmed with offers of "very good prices" and "beautiful things for the beautiful lady."

I had gone to the ATM so I would have Kwacha, and I had gone to the bank to get American $1's for my American $20. I also had some Rand. I thought I was prepared. I was not.

It was strange to be begged to buy something and then having to beg to pay in Kwacha. The $1's, it turned out, were not such a good idea, either--they're harder to exchange, I guess. But nothing costs more than a few dollars, so the idea of only having $5's or $10's is ridiculous. I spent the American first, then the Rand, then the Kwacha. I ran out completely by the fourth booth.

I laughed and joked with them, and I told them all they were very bad for tempting me this way. It was all good fun. And Lumpa followed me, putting my purchases in a plastic bag for me--to help, I'm sure, but also to keep me from knowing just how much I'd bought.

There was a man, I think he was the third or fourth I talked to, who had a terrible stutter, and whose body language was very different from the rest. He bowed very shyly, and he asked me so politely if I would help his family, too, that I actually took his hands in mine and asked him if he had any special earrings for a good friend of mine.

He showed me a lovely pair, and I bargained a little half-heartedly. They were beautiful, though, and I was happy to buy them from him.

Everything was wrapped in newspaper--even that tiny pair of earrings--and put in the bag for me. When I ran out of money--honest to goodness, no cash left in my wallet (I had plenty in the safe at the hotel)--I thanked them all, shook hands with Lumpa, and climbed back into the van.

Geek and Glitter had done some light shopping, but they were not at all willing to share information about their purchases. Angel thanked Lumpa, and we drove off...with the kids, of course, following us for a bit.

When I turned around, I saw that the guys in the craft market had been the same guys I'd seen before, lying around and listening to the radio. I did not say anything to Angel. He explained without prompting that they do take some goods to the market at the Falls.

I think I will always remember the kid with the stutter. He was so sweet. I have decided not to consider the notion that it was an act for the Rich Tourist, a suggestion posed by some of my classmates.

When I got back to Cape Town, I unpacked the plastic bag carefully, unfolding the newspaper and trying to remember the faces and voices of the men who had sold me each item. The earrings weren't in there, though. I have no idea what happened to them. They were really lovely.

Vic Falls - STILL!!

Okay, my papers are done, and I'm almost packed, so I can finally finally sit down to The Rest of the Story. Remember, I have many long hours in airports coming up, so I should be able to get this under control.

I got back from the Falls, changed clothes, and met my guide. Angel (a man--all the guides were men, come to think of it) is almost so good-looking I can't concentrate on what he's saying. We get in the van and drive over to the Livingstone hotel, where, he says, he just dropped off our other passengers so they could quickly change into dry clothes. They had gone on a tour of the Falls.

The thing is, though, that they take a good long time to pull it together. So Angel and I start talking. He tells me about the Mukuni Village we are about to visit, and he explains that the Mukuni were the tribe who thought of themselves as the guardians of the Falls. They protested the building on the railroad bridge, but, of course, Cecil Rhodes could not be intimidated. (Really, I have to read his bio.) They also put a curse on the crews, and when one fell to his death, the tribe thought they had succeeded--but the construction continued.

The death, of course, was just a "normal" construction accident. And, considering the task ahead of them, it was amazing more didn't die.

Because the English were most interested in developing (ie, exploiting) India at this point, they did not use African materials on the bridge, but, instead, they mined the ore in India, shipped it back to England, manufactured the sections of the bridge and railroad tracks leading to and from the Falls, and then shipped the pieces back to Livingstone. I really don't know if this is true, but it's the story Angel told, and he was so good-looking I just smiled and nodded and didn't challenge anything.

At any rate, the head engineer had measured twice and cut once, but when the bridge was close to completion, the pieces didn't fit. Rhodes was not pleased, and, according to Angel, the engineer jumped off the bridge from the shame of it all. Hindsight, of course, tells us that the girders had expanded in the heat--it's a little chillier in England.

So the Mukuni thought they'd really nailed it this time, but the bridge was completed, and the tribe had to live with it.

We moved on to politics, and I heard from Angel, as I had heard from just about everyone, that Mugabe is a bad man. But Angel elaborated on what it will take to get Mugabe out: Because anyone who opposes him is tortured or murdered, it's looking more and more as if Mugabe will have to die before they can replace him. I did not realize that he's 84. Even the generals won't touch him, though, honestly, I don't remember why.

After about half an hour, the couple who were supposed to take 10 minutes arrived. They had showered and changed and doused themselves in cologne. They were from Michigan. She wore sequined flip-flops. To the native village.

When you leave the hotel complex and its beautifully paved paths and roads, you get on the main tar road. Just about every road off the main road is pretty rugged--dirt, deep ruts, big old potholes, and one-truck wide. And the landscape is very, very dry this time of year, so the dust is pretty impressive.

Imagine my surprise, then, when we came across these guys:


They were "domesticated" lions. Not exactly tame, but trained by guides who then lead customers on a "walk with the lions." I asked Angel if I'd have time to do that Sunday morning, before I left, and he looked surprised and then shocked and then concerned and finally just shook his head.

The lions were very calm, though, but we were told not to get out of the truck or open the windows. So the pictures include the glare from the passenger-side window.


Angel talks to Lion Guy (the trainer/guide) for a minute, and then we travel on. The weather is lovely (early clouds are gone), and, because we're getting away from the Falls, the van kicks up a lot of dust on the dirt road.

We pull in to the village.
There we are met by our guide, whose name is, I think, Lumpa. Loompa? Something. She speaks lovely, non-idiomatic English and promises us an interesting visit.
The first thing she points out is the jail. There is no one in there. There is never anyone in there. It's a peaceful community. I did not ask why, then, they have a jail at all. Because I am not rude.

My companions, Glasses Geek and Glitter Feet, are remarkably free of interactive ability. He takes pictures with a large, expensive camera. She saunters along behind. I think they asked maybe 2 questions the whole time.

Lumpa explains that the tribe is ruled by a King and a Queen. They are usually brother and sister, and that is the case now. The Queen lives in a different part of the village--this is the biggest village of the tribe, because both the King and Queen live here.

The King has two wives, and wife #2 lives right next door to the King and wife #1. They live in large houses, the only two houses in the village, according to Lumpa, but that doesn't make sense, because the Queen must live in one, too, right?

I didn't ask. I was too interested in the fact that the Queen is the Queen until she dies. The King, however, can be found to be a bad king, have charges brought against him, and then be deposed. They take him to a little hut, lay out the charges against him, and feed him food that he knows is tainted. He eats, he dies, a new King is appointed.

The Queen laughs alllllll the way to the Kraal, apparently. I kept thinking of the Mary Tyler Moore episode with Phyllis talking about the Life of a Bee. "All in all," she says, "not a bad system."

I also do not ask because it's clear by now that Lumpa speaks better than she understands. She took all three of us aback, though, when she explained in heavily accented English that we must not be sad for the Mukuni people. They live this way because it is their tradition. They are a close-knit group and have functioned successfully on this system for a long, long time. Visitors, she said, will sometimes start crying when they see the village. I kind of nodded and fiddled with my camera, while Geek and Glitter looked somber and, I believe, reached in their pockets for tissues.

So the tour started. There is no grass, really, but there are some impressive trees. I am embarrassed to say that I did not have my notepad with me, so I don't remember what this one is. But it's right near the jail, if that makes a difference.
The fences surround family "compounds." There is an area supervisor type of guy who gives families permission to build on a certain piece of land, and then the family starts building.

First, I think, comes the fence--you need to lay out where the "kitchen" will be and where the "inconvenience" will be. There were, however, some huts out in the open, and I wasn't clear if they were homes or public buildings.
There is also a community garden, but there is not much farming.
Back to the building, though. Once they've staked their claim, the men go out to the bush, find logs, and haul them back. They frame out the hut with vertical posts and an infrastructure for the roof. The women then mud the walls in between the posts.

The round huts are the most common, but wealthir or more industrious or just plain larger families can have more "traditional" homes.
The kitchen is to the right of the hut--basically a fire "pit" and some cooking implements on shelves attached to the fence. I should also mention that some huts are decorated with designs made from some kind of plant dye -- you know, I type this and think, "Was I even paying attention?" But, in my defense, Lumpa spoke softly and quickly, and I didn't write anything down until the end of the day, and it was a really busy day--so the women paint the outside of the hut and, naturally, do all the work around the place. The men will go out for firewood or wood and thatch for building, but, really, that's about it.

The hut above was part of a family compound. Just behind and to the right of me was a smaller hut where one or two grown sons and their wives live. They were lying around listening to bad pop music. I did not take their picture.

We had a demonstration of a woman cracking open a nut with a rock. My picture of that didn't turn out at all.

There were a few chickens, too, and Lumpa explained that they mostly kept the chickens for the eggs. Then she told us that the chickens roost in the trees and come down to lay eggs and to eat. They have kindly provided a ladder to help the chickens to get up the tree.
There were some pigs and, Miss Kay, a couple of goats, too. I thought immediately of Peg & Kent's apartment behind the gas station.

Lumpa said the kids go to school for a few years, until either the age of 8 or grade 8, and then they find something productive to do, like sitting around listening to bad pop music. Very few leave the village to work or to marry.

She pointed out some wonderful trees. One has berries that make elephants drunk.
One is the oldest tree in the camp--at least, that's what I think she said. Remember, it's winter, so it's not exactly brimming with blooms.
And there were some impatiens (I think) growing along a fence. Lumpa said they grow these because the flowers are good for keeping teeth white.
We were followed for a bit by these guys, who were so incredibly cute, I will stop here for the moment.