Expats Beware : Zambia-Part 3-Highway to Hell
Bright and early the next morning we went in search of the nearest police station and managed to find one on the dusty outskirts of Tata. We knew it was a police station because there was a building with a flag flying proudly in the yard, two police cars standing outside and absolutely no other sign of human life.
Once we had weaved and bobbed our way through the chickens and goats and found a room that might almost have resembled a reception area we were informed by the very cheerful and charming lady police officer on duty that everyone was “in a meeting” and we would have to wait.
An hour or so later the meeting must have been concluded as a rather shy and sad looking young man of some apparent rank appeared from the back somewhere and offered to help us.
When he heard our story he looked even sadder and I had the feeling that this was because we might have actually brought him some work. After listening closely to our story the conversation went something like this:
“Ah, in that case we must go to inspect the scene.”
“Why would we need to do that?” I enquired respectfully.
“To make sure that no one got hurt,” he replied.
“But here we are and we are fine and no one else was involved.”
“What about the cows?” he asked
“What about the cows?” I replied
“Maybe they were hurt,” he offered craftily.
Well, we eventually managed to convince him that the unfortunate collision had occurred many miles back, that it was seriously dark at the time, that we had no idea exactly where it happened and that the only party injured was Mr. Trusty, the Mazda. There was some shock involved we said apologetically.
This cheered him up no end and he promptly informed us that it was then not in his jurisdiction.
What to do?
We were half way through day two and we were nowhere near the Zambian border yet!
You guessed it.
After some deft negotiations and a one way exchange of Pula (US Dollars once again not proving to be the universal panacea) we left Tata with a wounded car and an official police report in our possession.
Kazangula and Zambia, here we come.
After four hours on some of the worst roads that we (and you hopefully) are ever likely to encounter we eventually covered the one hundred and eighty kilometres to the border.
That’s an average speed of about forty five kilometres per hour.
The long suffering one had been riding shotgun and we both wished that we had brought kidney belts along.
And a Sherman tank.
Incredibly Mr. Trusty survived. And we limped into Kazangula.
Here we were met with some good and some bad news.
The good news was that there were now not one but two ferries that operated over the Zambezi River to Zambia.
The bad news was that neither of them was currently actually operational. By now, as you can imagine, we are starting to lose it somewhat.
And our interpersonal and communication skills are being sorely tested.
However, as luck would have it we bump into a young and annoyingly happy American couple and they suggest that we follow them across the border to Zimbabwe and then on to the Zimbabwe/Zambia border at Victoria Falls.
Pretty amazing, hey?
Yes, a couple, from the US, that actually know where Vic Falls is!
This sounds like a good plan. Especially as this was the only plan.
So, after crossing two more border posts with a few more one way exchanges of currency, including the latest “carbon tax” scam we were again on our way.
Now for a short hop of some seventy kilometres. On reasonable roads! Things were looking up. We got to the border, fairly zipped across the Zimbabwean side. In fact they were sorry to see us go.
They were much happier after they parted us from some of our unused stash of US Dollars.
At last, somebody wanted the damn things.
And, finally, the Zambian border Crossing.
Where it gets just a little bit complicated.
I noticed that my car was drawing admiring glances from an ever growing crowd. Why, I am not too sure. The left side of the car looked like it had been on the receiving end of a cattle stampede (hang on, it had, more or less) and the inside was packed with pots, pans, baskets, suitcases and other assorted last minute bits and bobs and odds and ends that we had not managed to pack for the movers.
However, local customs officialdom seemed to take a dim view. A kind of interrogation followed:
“This looks like a sports car,” said the really big guy dressed in what can best be described as most of his uniform.
“Why are you bringing this sports car into Zambia?” asked the other one, a little fellow with the eyes of a ferret wearing a really sharp leather jacket. A jacket that reminded me of old world war two movies. The kind with the SS in them.
“Park it over there and come with us,” they both said. That was the bit that made me nervous. And the jacket.
Practicing full compliance, I parked the car, leaving the long suffering one to deal with the hordes of informal hawkers, money lenders, jewelry vendors and foreign exchange dealers, bearing in mind that this was a car that could no longer be locked.
Once inside and sort of seated I started to get the feeling that a contribution to the Customs Officials Benevolent Fund was more at issue here than the general rarity and sportiness of my vehicle.
But, as big a coward as I may be, I was having none of it.
Back outside, with uniformed officials inspecting this unique and exotic vehicle, we were finally instructed to park it under “that” tree and come back to finish the paperwork in the morning. My protestations that the car could not lock and was full of priceless household paraphernalia fell on deaf ears.
“It will be safe there,” insisted the new man to join the team. He was clad in the smartest uniform and shiniest shoes that I have ever laid eyes on.
This was not entirely reassuring as we watched him disappear into the crowd already mentioned. However, again we complied and once again we were fairly fortunate. We managed to contact the lodge that we had been booked into for that night and they sent a van and a driver to rescue us. We transferred all of our stuff from Mr. Trusty into the van and headed for the lodge.
After dinner and three beers we thankfully hit the sheets (you might be picking up a trend here).
Day Three Livingstone to Lusaka
The next day, bright and early we were back at the border post and the famous Mazda 3 was, remarkably, still there. But there was something new. As the car was still on Hire Purchase, I needed a letter from the bank giving me permission to take the car into Zambia. A requirement, I might add, that was not listed on the requirements that we had obtained from the AA (which, as previously mentioned, stands for Automobile Association and hence one might be forgiven for thinking that their advice would more than likely cover all things automobile related).
Even the pleadings and protestations from our Zambian driver from the lodge fell on deaf ears.
Right.
Back to the lodge. And on to the phone. For quite some time.
By two o’clock that afternoon and after three hundred US dollars worth of phone calls I had the letter faxed through.
Right.
Back to the border post.
The faxed letter was eventually deemed acceptable. Go figure.
Then, after paying three different forms of tax, as well as, yes, you are with me now, good old “carbon tax” and after hanging around for Mr. Smart Suit to arrive and give a final inspection and approval of the (now quite famous) Mazda 3 we got back to the lodge.
I had paid no bribes!
Except, of course, the government imposed ones. It was now six o’clock in the evening.
After dinner and four beers we thankfully hit the sheets.
Postscript
Having had some time on our hands during this part of the journey we managed a visit to the Victoria Falls.
Words fail.
It is magnificent, truly awesome and at the same time (forgive the cliche), somehow humbling.
Nature at its most powerful.
If you have not had the chance to get there, make a plan. You will thank me.
If you enjoyed this part of the story but somehow missed the previous part, here is a link:
The story continues here:
