Today we leave Stanleys Camp in the Okavango Delta. 

Martin the manager for the BlueTooth of the mokoro ride Gerald and I had.  He was telling us this morning that not so long ago, travel companies were promoting tourism globally and tourists were coming on a organised tour, visiting South Africa, Botswana and Victoria Falls and not even realising they had visited THREE COUNTRIES!  It was only South Africa which was promoted, but today, people are wiser and know differently.

 We leave at 8 am for the air strip for a flight to Kasane, where we will be met and transferred across the border to Zambia.  The drive to the airstrip is filled with game viewing, its only a 45 minute drive but we see a mother giraffe and her baby, several warthogs.  The plane arrives in a screech of tyres as we sit under a shady shelter with TT, who loads our bags and hugs us tightly goodbye.  He sits waving as we take off, his black skin hiding his expression, but I know he is smiling.  We fly for 1.5 hours and land at Naka Naka (Xnaaka), where we pick up a loud Afrikaans couple who have been fishing and sleeping in a tent, who hug their female ‘mama’ so tightly as they farewell her.  We have a  further stop at Kwara, which is the airstrip for Linyanti - the turnaround is four minutes! - to pick up another couple, and Gerald’s palms are sweating with anxiety, he holds them up to the air vent to dry them, his jaw is clenched, and he holds the seat up (helping keep the plane in the air) tightly.  He has been tetchy all morning, his anxiety never diminished, no matter how many flights he does, especially in small planes.   Then we are landing at Kasane Airport.  That is Kasane INTERNATIONAL airport! 

 We are met by Kent, a huge handsome black man, who does not play basketball! - we are blessed to have so many people help us here - thank you Cuan. Kent whisks our three large bags into a land rover, one small black bag which I carry (on board luggage), Gerald’s blue bag (camera and travel docs), and my handbag - plus my trusty blue cushion, which travels everywhere with me.   We have no tickets, not one, not for a bush flight nor for the flight we will take from Livingstone to Jeki, where we will travel to Sausage Tree Camp tomorrow, and this is a concern to Gerald.   But Cuan has never let us down in the past, so I am not worried.

 It’s a long hot drive to the Kazangula border, where we will cross into Zambia, and our memories of this place are not pleasant.  But the drive is so African, there are school children on their way to and from school, as there are two different sessions each day,  small African villages, thatched roofed huts, people selling charcoal in bags at the side of the dusty road, which is littered with pot holes big enough to lose Cino in.  Our arrival at the border is heralded by - the same as five years ago - an unbelievable queue of huge trucks - most doubled pantechnicons, lined at the side of the road, and alongside of them, in tandem is a second queue.  I lose count at around 85 trucks, and assuming there are 85 parked alongside of them, that’s around 170 trucks waiting to cross the border from Botswana into Zambia.  Prostitution is big business here, and there are shebeens and bars and food stalls galore, it could take these truck drivers ONE OR TWO WEEKS to cross by ferry into Zambia, as the ferry is a decrepit, rusty boat, which can only take ONE TRUCK at a time.   Each ferry has a truck, and several local people carrying boxes, its is much cheaper to buy food and alcohol in Botswana, so they cross the river to purchase supplies for their homes and businesses.

 Our escort drives to the front of the queue and leaps out of the car with our passports and heads into “Immigration”.  He returns, shaking his head, we need Zambian visas, at US$50 each, so Gerald returns with him, but no amount of sweet talk with persuade them, no matter we lived here for 20 years, were schooled and married here, we cough up our $50 each.  And I don’t even enter the building!

 He drives us through a boom gate, where there are just as many trucks parked on the Zambian side, waiting to drive into Botswana, and we drive towards the Zambezi River to be taken by boat into Zambia.

 Here, four countries meet. Botswana, Namibia, Zambia and Zimbabwe, and this point is called BONAZAZI.  BO - for Botswana - NA - for Namibia, ZA for Zambia, and ZI for Zimbabwe.  And the Koreans are building an impressive bridge from Zambia into Botswana to alleviate the problem of these hundreds of trucks. Robert Mugabe, the ex president of Zimbabwe, was offered to have the bridge from Zambia land in Zimbabwe, as it was the shortest route.  But that evil, greedy, self serving megalomaniac said no;  there was no personal gain for him, although there would have been for his people.

 There are groups of surly looking men idly standing about talking - arguing describes it better - all these hundreds of men, sitting about for weeks, waiting to carry their cargo across the river, it is a dangerous thing.  The atmosphere is tense, angry, and Kent suggests we go for a walk to take photos as we wait for the ferryman, but I don’t like the atmosphere, so we load our gear into a small single engined boat, and wait.  The ferryman doesn’t arrive.  This is our second ferryman absent experience, and Kent uses his mobile to call him.   He is at lunch.  No problem, Kent starts up the motor and motors us across into Zambia, where men are crowding around selling curios.  I tell them I do not need anything, I was born here, I have beads and carvings and curios, and they leave us alone.  Kent carries our gear to a waiting vehicle, where another escort - I forget his name! - drives us another hour to the Royal Livingstone Hotel.  It’s almost 2 pm, and hot, we have water, and a small bag of biltong and another of nuts, which we share for lunch.

 Livingstone is still a colonial town, dusty, ugly, with rangy trees and walls blazoned with hand written advertisements for everything from hotels to mobile phones to cars, but The Royal Livingstone Hotel is the ultimate in Colonial Luxury and Service.  Google it to see its glorious position overlooking The Mighty Zambezi River, with the spray of the Victoria Falls visible in the background, its towering foyer, the grounds which roam with wild zebra, giraffes, warthogs and monkies, the liveried staff, the splendid scale of the reception rooms and dining rooms, the green grass, the sky blue pool, the shady trees, the voluptuous, decadent decor, filled with antique book cases, books, and treasures from David Livingstone’s travels, old suitcases, lamps, rugs, a vast towering mahogany bar which could seat fifty thirsty men side by side on stools.  It’s unique, its over the top, its a divine place to spend 24 hours.  We are met by a man wearing a traditional outfit, from Western Province, who beams and three other men whisk our luggage away.   The foyer soars like a cathedral, and is open ended, so we can already see the Zambezi and the lure of the Victoria Falls, just a couple of hundred metres away.  In the rainy season, you can hear them, but not today, Zambia waits desperately for rain - and its the best time of year to see the Falls, as when it rains, there is so much mist you can hardly see anything, and get saturated by the spray.

 A lady (Rachel) asks us to follow her to ‘complete your formalities’ to a lounge area down a couple of steps and across a corridor from where I can see two courtyards with water Lilly filled ponds and fountains, African paintings and carvings and there are portraits of David Livingstone and Cecil John Rhodes, and we enter  a beautiful, vast room, and, relieved to be here, I drop my bag and hat on to a couch. 

 I turn around, and unbelievably, right in front of me, is Molly.   My old friend, Molly Care, who I met 49 years ago, in Lusaka, just after Gerald and I married.  I shake my head and cover my eyes with my hands, surely I must be imagining things?  But she reaches out her arms to hug me, and its her, it really is her, and we hug and rock and cry, and cry some more.  We keep stepping back to look at each other again - then laugh and cry and hug some more - I cannot remember what we said, it was a volley of emotion and words and surprise and I didn’t want to let go of her.   In almost fifty years, this is only the fourth time I’ve seen her since we left Zambia in 1973.  Once, when Joshua was 18 months old in Johannesburg, once in ...., once when she came to Australia on business, she is a travel agent, and we spent an intense 36 hours in Sydney and then I drove her home to Yellow Dog Farm in Berry and to see my parents - about 14 years ago.  On that occasion, Gerald was overseas on business, and she and I bathed naked in our pool, and drank copious quantities of champagne, before doing a tour of our five acre garden farm by moonlight.  And now.  Dear Molly, she checked in with Cuan, and flew from Lusaka this morning, and is staying here overnight, and departs at 7.30 am tomorrow morning.   We leave at 8 am, so we have a lot to talk about, and a lot to do, before then.

 Molly and I were best friends for almost four years, not a long time, but during some of the most intense, growing, difficult years of our lives - well, certainly my life, and I think she would agree, her life.

  We decide to walk to the Falls before we sit and start talking, its already 3 pm and we want to be back to see the sun set over the Mighty Zambezi by 5.30 - 6 pm, before dinner, so we book a table for 7 pm.   We marvel at our room, a Colonial Delight of huge bed, concrete polished floors, black and white tiled sumptuous bathroom, and loaded up with sunscreen, we head for the Falls.

 No matter how many times one views the Falls, its always an awe inspiring experience.  There are others far more eloquent than I who can describe this place, one of the Seven Wonders of the World, better than I, but with thunderous water or trickles of water, this is truly a place which inspired the Angels, MUSI-OA-TUNYA.  (Meaning - The Smoke that Thunders)

 We walk and we talk, we take scores of photographs.  I cant stop holding her hand and touching her face, or her knee, in case she disappears.  Our hands are sweating in the heat, but still I want to hold her.  She is one of the few people in life who know me, as I know her.  Our history, our family, our failures and our sins, our wins and our goodness, there is nothing to explain, there is just a place to ‘be’, there is an utter acceptance, a place of connection, and it is as we had coffee only yesterday, and are meeting today for another.  No time has lapsed.  It is as it always was.   And I am so grateful she has made this effort, she’s flown to be here, she’s paid a lot of money for fares and accommodation - simply because she wants to, simply because after all this time, she still loves me.   How precious is that?

 It’s a long hot climb back up rocky stairs, and we are not 20 anymore, we stop for breath, we gaze at the view, and finally we are back in the grounds of shady trees.   Gerald grabs us a perfect table on the deck overlooking The MIghty Zambezi, and orders a Mosi beer for him, and gin and tonic for Mol and I.  Mol and I go to our room to change my boots -and right outside our door are five zebra, grazing, unconcerned.   We walk by quietly taking photos, then get a bit nervous when they get too close. Zebras can kick and can be vicious.  We join Gerald and sit, entranced, and talk, as the sun begins to lower in the sky.  There are wart hogs and zebras and monkies running and strolling through the grounds, and the tourists gather with cameras and cocktails and the cameras are clicking as the red sun disappears, very quickly over the horizon.   Perfection.   Sigh.

 It’s a quick shower as we want to ensure the best table for dinner, on a verandah overlooking the grounds and the Zambezi, Gerald ensures we get a perfect spot.   We eat a whole organic Zambian chicken between us, ignoring the salad and fries, with more gin and more beer, and more talking. 

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