Monthly Archives: September 2014


“There areP1140173 massive crocs around these islands,” Wourter (pronounced: ‘Vorter’) said as he showed me on Google Earth the croc snout-shaped island of Maaze.

“What do I do if I come across elephants?” I ask.

“I’m not quite sure,” he says. “I think stand your ground.” It sounds more like a question. “Best to ask Sean.”

Sean, Chenney’s brother (the general manager of the croc farm) had offered me to do a week of anti-poaching, clean ups and game counts for the week on Maaze and Mashape Islands, two islands the farm owns out on Lake Kariba. It has a camp with six safari tents and plenty of game such as kudu, puku, impala, elands, bush buck and water bucks.

“There are some massive crocs about so be careful,” Sean heeded on top of Wourter’s advise as he guides the speed boat over choppy waters. “Just keep your eyes open all the time.”

“What do I do if I come across elephants?” I ask as we land on the beach.

“Run,” he looks at me deadpan. “Run faster than the other guy.”

Landing on the island I’m introduced to Brian. “He lives here permanently as the caretaker,” Sean explains. He grabs Brian’s arm and points to two large scars. “A baboon attacked him so watch yourself.”

Great. Crocs, elephants, baboons. What else?

Sean and Wourter wish me luck as they chug off back to the mainland. I had three days to spend here with Brian and two game scouts, Ed and Kennedy, who would be by later. I had stocked up on eggs, vegetables, rice, pasta and a whole chicken to sustain me.

“We should put them in the pots,” Brian suggested. “To keep them from the baboons.”

Baboons. The one animal I truly despised. Evil in appearance and evil in nature. Get enough of them together and they’ll take down a lone lion.

“In the afternoon we will go looking for game,” Brian said.P1140167

I set up my gear in the tent overlooking the bay, a small herd of impala grazing in the thorny grass by the water.

At 15:00 I headed out with Kennedy and Brian to trek around the north-western side of the island, spotting all the game I was told would be there. Including a large male croc that shot to the water on our approach.

“It’s breeding season now,” Brian said, pointing to a sandy bank where the grass ended and the dryness of the island began. “Crocodiles will lay eggs here.”

Crocs are much more aggressive in the breeding season.

Brian pointed to uprooted trees, lying like overturned cars in disaster movies.

“Elephants,” he said calmly.


As we trekked through following game tracks, we picked up rubbish that poachers had left behind. We came across a couple of deserted camps, fishermen fishing illegally. That night I ate a hearty cold chicken and pasta salad I had cooked. I sat with Brian and the two scouts by the fire, enjoying the calls of animals as the flames crackled, reaching up towards the Milky Way that was making its appearance.

The next morning I awoke early to the sunrise and after standard morning procedures, made my way to the kitchen to cook up some breakfast. Moonandi had shown up.

“Brian has Chicken Pox,” he said. “I must take him to the mainland.” The two scouts had already chugged out earlier that morning. “You will be OK by yourself until they come back?” Moonandi asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Think it’s possible for me to paddle out in the canoe?”

“Yes,” he said. “Just be careful. Very big crocodiles here.”

Everyone keeps saying that.

He left with Brian and I was suddenly surrounded by an eerie silence. I made some eggs as fish eagles called out. After washing up I headed over to the canoe. The paddle was broken but still usable. The only issue was that my hands and arms, two features I quite like about my form, would be uncomfortably close to croc infested waters.

Massive crocs here, Sean’s voice echoed in my head.

Along with Wourter’s.

And Moonandi’s.

I looked over the water, my sixth sense of something large watching me climbing my spine, making me shiver despite the hot sun baking the day. There are also hippos to consider. They could easily turn over a canoe and play tug-o-war with me against a croc.

P1140181I turned back to my camp figuring reading Joseph Boyden’s Through Black Spruce might be a safer option. As I sat quietly in the shade of my tent a couple of horse-sized Kudus trotted passed, pausing to nibble at some leaves. Impala were grazing by the river and fish eagles called from above.

So peaceful, I thought as I watched. Lizards had been scrambling all over my tent and now one had fearlessly jumped on my book, followed the lines of prose to my hand and jumped on my arm. I allowed it to run up to my shoulder before I nudged it off.



It was about lunchtime anyway and I decided to head over to the self-catering kitchen to make some grub. When I saw the mother baboon with her young clinging to her back jump from the barred window of the kitchen I had a bad feeling. She scampered off, barking out a warning to her troop. The outside bin had been tipped over, its lid lying like a passed out drunk beside the can. I ran up to the kitchen.

I saw smashed egg shells strewn across the floor. Two apples and an orange helpless by the now de-lidded pots they had been hidden in. I was about to charge in when I noticed the long tail almost touching the floor. I followed it to the owner, a male primate the size of a German Shepard, sitting on the cross beam, munching on an orange.

My orange.

“Sonofa…,” I stared at it as it ignored my presence.

Then it pooped, the feces landing in four loud splats on the concrete floor.

“Not in my fucking kitchen, ya bastard!” I Gordon Ramsey-ed, startling the beast to jump to the thatched roof.

I made my way to the door when a flash of Brian’s scarred arm and Sean’s voice echoing, ‘A baboon attacked him so watch yourself here,’ stopped me mid-storm.


I looked around for a weapon. I wasn’t going to attack a baboon. I’m crazy but not that crazy but I’d need something for self-defense just in case. As humans, evolving into trimming nails and having canines that can only tear flesh off a cooked meat, we’re just not that well equipped to handle Gaya’s other inhabitants.

I grabbed the axe leaning against the outside wall and slowly opened the door. The baboon had already moved onto an onion and was biting into it. It didn’t seem like it wanted a fight. It just wanted a way out. It was too big to fit between the space of the thatched roof and mud brick wall.

Must ‘ave opened the door, the cheeky fucker.

I left the entrance open and moved away from it as it hopped between the cross beams and scampered out. I slammed it shut and looked around at the mess of broken egg shells. I salvaged the apples and the last orange. I hid the bag of tomatoes and the onions it didn’t get to in a sealed box of towels. I locked the kitchen door and walked back to my camp with the axe, cursing all the way.

“Tomorrow we go to see elephants on Mashape Island,” Ed suggested when the guides came back. “You can walk with elephants?”

“Mate,” I said, “I can walk with lions.” Just not baboons.

The next morning I lazed in bed past sunrise. The scouts had gone to the mainland leaving me alone again. I headed over to the kitchen with the axe in tow. As soon as I saw the overturned bins and the metal sheet that was supposedly placed on the barred window to keep out the monkeys I knew that it would not be a pretty sight.

Cursing in every language I knew how to curse in (turns out, I know quite a few) I cautiously approached as a baboon barked a warning for the troop to retreat. I peered into the kitchen. It looked like a tornado had passed through. Everything was overturned. They had gotten into the scouts supplies and had even tipped over the small couch. My left over rice in the pot were no longer left. The kettle was spilled of its contents and the salt was cut up as though they were doing lines of coke. Feces splatted everywhere.

Too angry to cook (never cook when angry) I resorted to a packet of vanilla biscuits for lunch. At 15:00 the guides returned.

“The kitchen’s been renovated,” I said grimly.

They looked in, tsk-tsking. “We are very sorry,” they said.

“It’s cool,” I grinned. “Part of the African adventure.” Fucking baboons.

P1140201Kennedy took me out to Mashape Island to scout for elephants. As we approached the beach a herd of wilderbeest and zebra scattered. We scared off elands, waterbucks, bushbucks, impala and in the distant, “Elephant,” Kennedy pointed out.

He then pointed to the tracks on the ground. “Crocodile nest for eggs.” He began to dig in the sand. I kept an eye out on the water. I had spotted  the mother just before and put myself in a position to run, outlining a possible track towards the safety of the bush.

“No eggs,” Kennedy said, scratching his head.

“It’s cool,” I said. “Let’s keep moving.”

Kennedy saw that the elephant was making its way towards us. All alone it was most likely a bull. “We should go inland,” he suggested. “The elephant is coming because we are disturbing it.”

“Yeah, good idea,” I seconded his suggestion and we headed in to scurry away elands, kudu, zebra and a warthog.

Friday morning I was glad to be back on the mainland, bidding farewell to Ed and Kennedy as I needed to make שמ outline to head to Lusaka after the weekend.

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The only time I’ve taken to the air during my travels

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“So you don’t have any money?” Phillip looked at me with the kind of look that said, ‘I’m curious to know more but not sure if I really want to’.

It was just past 13:00 when I found myself on the outskirts of Chome, at the Mwetoka turnoff to Maambo, surrounded by 22 hitch-hikers and approached by three drunks trying to convince me to buy them drinks.

Desperation for a ride was sticking to me like these inebriated folk.

“So you don’t have money?” Phillip repeated.

Being on the road for 15 months, you learn to read people pretty quickly. Body language becomes your mother-tongue. And reading Phillip debating with himself, I knew he would eventually say, “OK, let’s go.”

kbcHe took on two other passengers, retired gentlemen who needed a ride to Maambo, about 70 K’s down the road. My aim was to reach the Kariba Bush Club, home to one of the world’s largest crocodile farms with 80,000 dinosaurs. Both the lodge and the farm are on the banks of Lake Kariba. It’s a croc-infested, hippo-swarming lake where the Zambezi flows in and then out the other end to continue its journey to the Indian Ocean.

The day had started casually enough. It was the first time I had woken sober after four days of partying with Irish Dave, an Irishman crossing the African continent from Cork to Cape Town who happened to have started his journey from Cork in Ireland on May 13th, 2013.

I had started my journey from Melbourne, Australia, diagonally from Irish Dave, on May 13th, 2013.

I blame Irish Dave for having to undergo white-water rafting and the zipline\bungee\gorge swing completely inebriated (not that I’m complaining. Not sure if I’d had the balls to do it sober).

Grubby, owner of Rafting Extreme and The Grotto, a campsite for overland tours (and nomadic barterers like myself) who had allowed me to camp since last Thursday, offered to drop me off at the roadblock where trucks are checked for papers.

He spoke with the friendly policeman who agreed to organise a ride for me to Chome, about 200 K’s north-east of Livingstone.

“How much can you pay?” the officer had asked me.

I explained that, “I don’t use money.”

He raised an eyebrow but said he’ll do his best.

I had barely planted arse-in-seat when he called me over to the 18-wheeled rig that had stopped.

It was the quickest ride I had ever hitched on my travels. I swung the passenger-side door open and threw my bags and guitar up to the driver.

“Simon,” he introduced himself. IMG_5309

A big laughing, bald-headed full of life Zimbabwean, we conversed all the way to Chome, discussing things about Africa, his travels to England – “Too cold, I ran back to Africa” – Dubai – “Too hot, I ran back to Africa”. I answered his questions about Australia and blew his mind with my philosophy of not using money.

We entered the district of Zimba, a rural town where we stopped and Simon bought me a banana-maize energy drink called Mahu. “Much healthier than Redbull,” he said.

The mahu was delicious and rejuvenating.

As we passed through the villages of Kalomo, Mukwela, Shanga Ubone (which means, ‘Nice to see’) and finally to Chome to the Mwetoka turnoff to Maambo, Simon said, “This is real Africa. There is no town planner. Everything is a mess.” Just like the potholed roads. He shook his head in disappointment. “I can’t believe people still live like this in 2014.”

I kind of agree although I think part of Africa’s appeal is the ruralness. At the turnoff, Simon helped carry my bags over to the side of the road.

“Do you have a religion?” I asked him before we parted ways.

“I’m a strong Christian believer,” he said proudly.

I presented him with a hand-carved wooden cross that a pastor in Tsumeb, Namibia, had given me. Simon widened his already wide smile as he firmly shook my hands.

“If you see me on the roads of Africa, you’ll stop for me again?” I asked him.

“You bet,” he grinned as he walked back to his rig.

Simon had yet to climb into his cab when a drunken local approached me. It was just on 13:00 and this guy was on-his-ass drunk (although standing, awkwardly).

“I want to invite you to play pool,” he said, eyes yellowish-red, shirt dirty and ripped as were his shoes.

“I’d love to, but I’m waiting for a truck,” I explained, casually, as though he were sober.

“Then I will wait with you.”

Please don’t. I’ll never get a ride with this guy hanging around.

“Buy me a drink,” he then said.

“No,” I grinned. “Friend’s don’t ask each other to buy drinks. If I want, I will choose whether to buy you a drink or not.”

“You are my boss,” he retorted (in Africa, any white man is regarded a boss for the obvious white-black reasons). I laughed at his call.

“No, my brother. I’m no one’s boss.”

“But you are a white man,” he looked at me confused.

“I’m a man,” I said proudly. “A hu-man. Just like you. There is no difference if you are black or white or yellow. We are all people.” Then I quoted Zambia’s motto: “One nation, one people, right?”

At this, his eyes widened and he slapped my hand in a painful hi-five.

I really needed him to go back to the bar (and perhaps pass out). More people were arriving and pretty soon I was surrounded by a village worth’s of locals and their babies (staring at me) with shopping bags, all looking to hitch a ride.

“I’m going to buy another drink,” said the drunken. “I watch you from there,” he pointed to the bar across the road.

Perfect. I gave him the thumbs up. Then two more drunks showed up.

“Mwe uli bwanji?” I asked to their well-being in the local popular dialect (out of 72), Nyanji.

They hi-fived me, one of them having pink nail polish on his nails. “You play music?” he drunkenly slurred, observing my guitar case.

“Eyai (pronounced ‘eh’),” I confirmed.

“I dance,” he then proceeded to wobble his knees as he and his friend cracked up in contagious laughter. I laughed with them as I excused myself to try and flag down a passing car.

After a few repeated scenes of their dance moves they finally trucked on when Phillip arrived to the rescue.

“So you don’t use money?” he asked in the car.

“Nope,” I said. “I exchange things, skills, for food, bed and passage.”

“What will you give me then?” he asked, unashamed.

“Let me teach you the ways of life without money,” and I gave them my spiel.

“What do you plan for the future?” one of the gentlemen asked me.

“I don’t plan anything.” They looked at me in shock. “You see,” I began to explain, “if you plan something and it doesn’t work out, you become angry, disappointed, sad and unhappy. This way, if I don’t plan anything, I’m never disappointed.”

“So you are always happy?” said the guy in the front passenger seat.

“Exactly,” I grinned.

They were shocked that I had no intention of getting married (as in, I wouldn’t sign a contract for love) or of having children.

“It’s my choice whether I want children or not, right?” They agreed. “So it’s my choice to not want any.” For now.

“You have taught me something today,” Phillip said.

“You see,” I grinned, “we exchanged something.”

In Maambo Phillip assisted in organising a ride for me to the bush club with Mostbana who piled his sedan with 7 people. I shared the front seat with a long-limbered skinny kid who had to sit on the emergency brake. To make room in the boot, my smaller pack was between my knees while half of my guitar hung out of the window, the other half lay on the dashboard.

We took the worst road possible through villages that time had forgotten about, dropping off people, picking up more hitchers. Mostbana attempted to get a truck to help me to reach the lodge as he didn’t plan on it for his final destination.

The truck refused and so, finding some more people to cover his petrol costs, we set out for the remaining 14 km’s to the bush club over potholed, trench-dug roads that the sand trucks had decimated (a military Humvee would have struggled here). The full moon rose high on the horizon, the sun setting behind us.

I was thinking what I could give Mostbana for his generosity as we didn’t really converse much. We pulled into the bush club and I was surprised to see a pair of zebra’s munching on the lawn. Impala’s were frolicking about freely as were some goats and three dogs.

I met my contact, Marina who showed me to my new home for the next month. “I’ve just got to pay the driver and I’ll show you the rest of the camp.”IMG_5375

Pay the driver?

That cheeky mother…

Feeling betrayed and false-fed on his generosity, I decided to give Mostbana nothing more than a handshake.

Dinner was chicken curry at the bar overlooking the lake where the sun painted a picture-perfect canvas of reds, orange and blues.

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DSC_1569“I was a London-based lawyer for 20 years before I realised that I needed more out of life,” Lynne began her tale of owning Zigzag Lodge.

A peach-salmon paint coloured the surrounding outside high walls, protecting the lush gardens from intruding elephants. “But the baboons get in quite easily,” she adds.

Zigzag isn’t just a place to stay with your usual friendly and accommodating staff (who’ll carry your bags to and from your room). It’s not just a place to relax in the luscious green gardens, swinging on the double-sized hammock or escaping the day’s heat in the pool.

And it’s not just a place to enjoy a fantastically tasting dish (I recommend the pizzas) or a fruit smoothie or even a cold beer.

It’s a place to really enjoy the peaceful serenity of Livingstone, while at the same time, helping out with Lynne’s charitable causes.

“46% of Zambian children are stunted according to the UN,” Lynne lays down the facts she had discovered. “Meaning, that they are underdeveloped and lack the nutritional needs that we in the western world take for granted. And this is the future generation of Zambia.”

So Lynne, using her own financial means, went about to set up a charity in the UK, Life Begins Helping Children, which operates in Livingstone, Zambia in Africa, helping to improve the lives of disadvantaged, orphaned and vulnerable children.

As well as feeding 107 children twice a day, it runs a preschool and day care center in a very poor part of town and also conduct after school reading and sports groups. “Just to give them something a bit more out of life,” Lynne says with a blissful smile.

Funds are raised via private philanthropists, friends and the occasional guests that hear Lynne’s story.

“We’re a small charity, set up and run by friends with minimal admin costs,” she explains. “We’re doing our best to make a small difference by caring for children who have difficult circumstances – improving their current conditions and giving them hope for a better future.”

And as there is minimal admin costs it also means that the money raised goes straight to the kids benefits rather than spending 80% of it (like the larger charities do) on advertising and marketing.

Zigzag is a very welcoming and homey kind of place and the fact that Lynne is so dedicated to helping out with the local community makes it an even more special kind of place to spend your days in Livingstone.

And who knows, maybe an elephant might pop in for a visit during your stay.

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As featured in African Geographic:


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The manager looked at us quizzically after I explained my bartering ways. She took in the information and within a few moments said, “You can stay two nights,” in exchange for a written review.

Rite’s Inn is a peppermint-green building. Although it lacks a garden it makes up for it with a swimming pool and bar (complete with conversational bar tender). It’s located in the quieter northern neck of Livingstone. It’ll only take you 10 minutes to walk to the center of town to stock the bar fridge in your room with the essentials: local Mosi beer (pronounced ‘Mozzie’), a few more beers and then on top of that an extra beer or two.

To avoid the pounding heat of the day – “And this is just their winter,” Hope would say every time I’d remark on the day’s temperature – we opted to use the ceiling fan rather than the provided air conditioner (although it sounded like the room was about to take off into the stratosphere when switched on).

On the wall, opposite the huge bed that could sleep a whole village, a flat screen TV provided us with movie nights which I would screen off my USB stick. Although we had valuables we didn’t use the safe on the wall.

The writing desk came with a coffee-tea station next to the sitting area where two armchairs waited to be sat in.

If you want to stay in a quieter area of Livingstone, Rite’s Inn is your place-to-be with budget prices and friendly staff.

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A guest blog by Hope Bowie who joined me in Livingstone to learn of my philosophical lifestyle of bartering

This is never going to work.

The thought runs through my mind as I consider the imposition that I present when traveling with a Nomad whose travels depend on his affability, knack for reading people, as well as his capacity to find a way to be useful in any situation.

This is all more of an accusation than a compliment. I’m a bit daft in those departments. While I can certainly be useful – I’ve misplaced my aptitude for reading people, and a portion of my general cordiality, in the year I’ve lived on the far end of this vast continent (my cynicism has blossomed under some harsh conditions, whereas I would have previously termed myself a realist…).

And now he has to justify my presence, as well as secure my lodging. This is never going to work.

But, as he so often says, “Expect nothing, always get something.”

I started off my expedition with the luck of [free] Ministry transport to the Zambian border. It’s great working for the government in Namibia. You can guilt most people with a green license plate into giving you a ride. Provided of course that they’re at a police checkpoint or a petrol station – otherwise they fly by with nary a glance.

Trying to dispel any bad luck, and continue my streak (I’m a little superstitious), I opted to show up with no warning at the lodge he’d been bartering with. Better to not impose completely from the get go and require a ride from town into the bush. Plus – greeting someone after a month’s time with a hike pack on your back then having to hoist it up into the car then out again then store it somewhere… It all seemed too unwieldy.

P1120530But there I was. In a well situated lodge with a charming vibe on the Zambezi River. The Caprivi Houseboat Safari Lodge… With the Nomad.

The morning was a bustle… We were almost packed to go, and I discovered my chronic tendency of leaving something essential behind had struck again. My power adapter. Great. As I’m contemplating the expense of a new one – the Nomad has already secured another from one of the lodge staff.

The man’s ability to secure vitally important things with a well-timed appeal is uncanny. It’s not manipulation. People just generally like him. And want to help. It’s a little annoying… but then, I like him too… It’s just he makes it look so easy (I might just be jealous).

Before our departure, and in the midst of my early morning wine intake (it was a holiday for me, after all), I’m struggling to replace the elastic cord through the poles of a tent that has been provided by the lodge owner for the Nomad’s travels. He is whipping around tying up loose ends, exchanging data files, finding me duct tape and wire for the tent repair endeavor, helping load the boat for the day’s outing, fixing the shower curtain he’d installed (that I’d nearly ripped out of the wall by slipping on the curtain… It also turned out, later, that I had left behind my shampoo and conditioner in the damn shower).

And suddenly, we’re off.

The Nomad had secured us a free hike with a family of three – all the way to our destination. As I’ve made the trip overland once before (and had sworn to never again… but, you know… he’s worth it)… I can say with all certainty that a private vehicle – a 4×4, no less – is certainly better transit than a mainliner bus. Plus, homemade kudu biltong. The company was lovely and the trip was smooth. Well, as much as it could be on the road from Sesheke to Livingstone.IMG_5111

The first stop? Maramba River Lodge. The manager took one listen to his Oz accent and bartering pitch and upgraded us from the campground to furnished dome tents. Our human neighbors were non-existent in that neck of the woods. It was perfect. Perfect until that night, when I discovered that the Nomad had the unfortunate habit of grinding and chomping at his teeth in his sleep. I turned over on my bed and threw the blankets over my head to drown out the noise.

What WAS that? Is he growling now?

IMG_5117The next morning I was considering telling him how close he came to being brained for disturbing my sleep (I snore, so I’m not one to talk)… And he mentions he’d had to let loose a ‘groar’ (a growling roar) at a hippo that had been chomping outside our tent… I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course the Nomad would think to groar and startle away a grazing hippo… Good thing I didn’t whack him on the head, too, of course (though I did poke him in the eye the night previous – but that was accidental violence, and doesn’t really count).

The wildlife at Maramba River was abundant. We also spotted crocodiles, baboons, herons, egrets, a river monitor… Elephants. At least twenty elephants. I’ve lived in Africa for a year… And this was my first encounter with elephants. One could understand how I might get a little excited… So, naturally, while peering about toward the distant foliage for another camera angle, I walked mid-stride into a roof support. Despite a quick application of ice, I’m still sporting a black eye over a week later. While I left nothing physical behind at that first lodge, I did lose track of my pride for a moment.

The second lodge. Zig Zag. Absolutely charming, with a pretty amazing proprietor… I have a feeling if you let her, she’d impart a ton of great stories. Unfortunately, our food arrived too quickly and she was too polite to continue. I still don’t know how she got out of being kidnapped by police in Tibet. It’s killing me.

She, too, was quick to accommodate the Nomad.

Our only wildlife encounters were the baboons that hopped the high walls (meant to keep out the elephants) and were rustling about on the roof.

But, as nomads are want to do, we moved on to another lodge. During this departure, I left behind my favorite earrings, and my sunglasses (so much for disguising my black eye).

Next was the Rite Inn. Luxury suites, where after only a moment’s hesitation, accommodation was provided. We spent the better part of the day in front a flat screen TV being lazy after days of walking about. Though we did eventually head to dinner – and stop to retrieve my lock and key earrings I’d left on the mosquito netting at Zig Zag.

We arrived for the sunset at the waterfront only to be herded out by lodge staff who were in the progress of their weekly mosquito spraying. Ah, the smell of DDT in the evening… It really sets the mood, no?


© Hope Bowie, 2014

Vervet monkeys offered distraction as they hopped from one safari truck to the next in the parking lot, until the fog dissipated and we braved the freshly fumigated air to view the sunset over the river.

The last day, we headed for The Grotto. An overland campsite we’d heard about from the family who’d given us our ride into the country. Before we set up camp, we decided to seek out the owner, a New Zealander, for a chat before we headed to Mosi Oa Tunya Falls.



Earlier in the week, when we’d first approached this character – and he is a character – he’d been entertaining a friend, a local lodge manager. As we’d secured our lodging for a day or two hence, I wasn’t particularly quick on the uptake when he mentioned the place we really need to see is Jungle Junction…

“Hmm?” was my reply.

“Jungle Junction… Bovu Island! That’s where you should go.”

“Bovu?” I burst out. “Bovu would be amazing, yeah.”

“Sparky,” he calls out to his departing friend, “These two want to see Bovu.”

The Nomad handed over his card and gave his spiel, while Sparky stared at the card bewildered.

“No telephone, only email?”

I’ll admit it, at that, I thought we were dead in the water. In my head, it just wasn’t a possibility.

But wouldn’t you know, a day or two later, the last night, instead of the Grotto – which I had been fine with (especially since I had to catch a bus early the next day) we found ourselves on the beautiful Bovu Island. Absolute paradise.

In fact, I think The Nomad had been holding out for it, when he said just to drop our stuff in the grass. Holding out, just in case.

All in all, we visited five lodges seeking accommodation and meals. Only one shot him down. And one helped us get to Bovu Island – my now favorite place in Africa.

I’ve done my fair share of travelling around the world, and a fair bit of it in Africa.

But this whole philosophy… Expect nothing, always get something… Relying on the kindness of strangers and working towards a mutual benefit without the exchange of money?

I was skeptical it would work. Let alone run smoothly. I’ve been converted…

This Nomad is on to something.

For more of Hope’s entertaining thoughts, check out her blog at

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P1130563“This is amazing,” Hope grinned as we placed our bags on the wooden deck.

The chalet was devoid of anything to accommodate western needs – my favourite style of living. It had a couple of shelves, extra blankets and a double bed encased with a tight-fitting mosquito net. The double doors and ‘windows’ were glassless, covered with chicken-coop wire to keep out the pesky vervet monkeys without blocking the majestic view of the Zambezi River where I spotted a hippo, pointing it out to Hope.

And it was Hope who knew of Bovu Island, a word-of-mouth place; a stretch of sand, reeds and bush about a K and a half long off the mainland of Zambia on the Zambezi River. It’s a bouncy ride on an off-beaten track through the bush, passing desolate lands of naked trees, the leaves sunning themselves beneath the empty branches, an array of orange and yellow colours.

“This would be impossible to find if you weren’t picked up,” Hope mentioned, noticing the lack of signage as we reached the banks of the Zambezi River.

A macorro (dugout canoe) was waiting for us with our paddler, David, standing in the back with the paddle. We cruised slowly downriver before the lodge’s bar came into view, a blue hammock hanging in the front.

“Welcome to Bovu Island,” David announced as we were introduced to Sister Di who gave us a tour of the facilities.

She led us past the kitchen and campsites, thatched roof huts housing the toilets and shell-curtained showers, down the sandy pathway, across a wooden bridge and showed us, “Your chalet.”

We had an hour before meeting David at the bar for our sunset cruise. He appeared with a bowl of some of the best popcorn I have ever enjoyed and a couple of beers. We climbed into the macorro and set out upriver, paddling against the soft rapids (the stronger ones could be heard echoing around us).P1130510

“That side is Zimbabwe,” he explained. “It’s a national park. You can see the buffalo,” he pointed to a distant dark object that moved ever so slightly.

He held the canoe in the middle of the Zambezi River as we watched the setting sun turn from an eye-squinting sight to the marvelous, romantic ball of orange-red that dropped as fast as the planet spun.

Relaxing in the bar where Sam, the temporary caretaker, pointed out the Genet – a cat-like creature with large, nocturnal eyes, a spotted body and a striped tail, we watched a crescent moon rose high and it wasn’t long before we retired to our chalet, the pathway illuminated by candle-light (power on the island is supplied from car batteries charged by solar panels).

IMG_5165That night we slept with the Zambezi flowing just beneath us, hippos bellowing about and village dogs barking from afar (or were they African wild dogs?). The temperature dropped faster than the setting sun of a few hours prior, forcing us to use all three extra blankets that seemed to swallow us up and pin us down due to their weight (but boy, did they keep us warm!).

The peacefulness of the island was intoxicating. If you’re ever in Zambia, you need stay on this magical slice of paradise.

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IMG_5111“What do you mean you can’t finish it?” Hope said, presenting me with the last few bites of her chicken-mayo sandwich.

“I’m pretty full,” I said, a rarity for me.

“Come on, just two more bites – Elephants!”

Interesting turn of conversation, I thought. I was just about to respond when she rose to her feet and pointed across the Maramba River to the, “Elephants!”DSC_1268


I followed her outstretched arm to see five pachyderms trudge along the upper banks of the marshy waters. I grabbed Hope’s Nikon and raced down to a better viewing position, noticing that the two bigger ones were going down to the water for a drink.

Since arriving in Livingstone, Zambia, I had seen more wildlife than in the Etosha Pan in Namibia. Hope (an American Peace Corps volunteer I met in Rundu) and I had hitched a ride from the Caprivi Houseboat Safari Lodge, passing zebra and baboons on the way to Maramba River Lodge where I managed to barter a couple of nights stay.

The lodge lies on the banks of the Maramba River, a reed-green tributary of water that connects to the Zambezi River which in turns flows 4 K’s down to the famous Mosi Oa Tunya (more famously known as Victoria Falls, the Silozi name means, ‘The Smoke That Thunders’). On the first night a huge hippo swam down the waters at sunset while baboons squalled in the trees above.

P1130284On the morning of the second day two ‘mess-with-me-and-you’re-lunch’ crocodiles were sunning themselves with a third one in the water. It was amazing to see these dinosaurs swim without creating any ripples.

We were camping in a tent even though the posted signs warned of hippos that might enter the grounds at night.

That very night I awoke to my bladder’s call. I unzipped the tent and relieved myself in the adjunct toilets, next to the self-catering kitchenette. I crawled back into the tent, zipped it back up and attempted to resume sleep when something large trampled the bushes outside.IMG_5117

What the..? I thought as loud lip-smacks echoed around as the large something proceeded to munch on the flora outside (or perhaps a misguided guest\staff member?).

Maybe it’s an elephant. But it’s probably a hippo. This thought was confirmed by the hippo bellowing out. It was loud, as though it were whispering in my ear.

I bellowed back with an almost perfect imitation of the beast. I could imagine it raising its head, perhaps a slight tilt to the side, like dogs do when humans seem to act ridiculous to them. It then picked up its legs and scampered off, probably wondering why one of its kin was shaped like a large dome tent.

“I was going to yell at you to stop grinding your teeth,” Hope said the next morning after I told her of the night’s adventures.

And then more elephants arrived to greet the day providing Hope with a black-eye as she walked straight into a roof-support post as she tried to capture the perfect shot.

Wildlife photography is dangerous work.

Categories: Adventure Travel, Africa, Reviews, Zambia | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

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