November 6, 2007: Shamu, Zimbabwe

My tent troubles continued in Shamu. For the first couple of days I simply used tape on the netting slashes which worked somewhat. Then, one day, after we hadn't showered in ages, it started to rain. Heavily. We were all so excited that we stripped down and fought for space at the corners of a tarp we had set up where the water came down in a concentrated stream. Then someone pointed out how absolutely filthy the tarp was which caused us to pause for about half a heartbeat before we carried on.

Dear diary, today I took a shower with 12 other people... (photo credit: Remi):

As the evening progressed, however, the rain became a monsoon, the wind started howling, and lightning strikes hit the ground two to three times a minute. It was a serious storm. We huddled in BiRT, hoping the storm would pass like every other rainstorm we had so far encountered, but it continued to build in intensity. Some people went outside to dig drainage ditches around their tents in an effort to keep them from flooding while I stayed inside, confident in my tent's ability to handle the storm.

At some point in the evening I decided that it would probably be a good idea to check on my tent and hurried out into the howling storm with my headlamp. I ran to my tent site only to find there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Some people's tents were flattened by the wind or crumpled up on a soggy mess on the ground, but there was no trace of my tent at all. No tent poles, no shreds of fabric, not even a stake. I stood there, stunned, while lightning exploded around me as close as 20 meters away. How can an entire tent just disappear? On closer inspection, the rock hard earth on which I had pitched my tent had turned to eight inches of mud in the deluge, meaning the stakes would have become completely useless. With nothing in my tent to hold it down, I reasoned it had become a bit of a sail. I looked in vain for about 20 minutes, hoping it had perhaps blown against a tree or fence or something, but it was pitch black by this time and impossible to see anything through the driving rain. My only hope was to continue my search in the morning when it was light. Completely depressed, I returned to the truck and resigned myself to a night of sleeping on BiRT. Luckily I had my sleeping bag and pad still in my locker on the truck so at least I had something to sleep in.

When morning dawned, I walked outside, prepared to search far and wide for any trace of my tent, and saw... my tent, intact, sitting where I had originally pitched it. It was muddy and wet and the fly was inside, but it was intact. I didn't know what to think. Did some weird mini tornado carry it off and magically return it? Did the tent decide to take an evening sightseeing walkabout on its own? Was I going crazy?

At that moment, George poked his head out, laughing, and said "It was the funniest thing! I heard all this commotion this morning and stuck my head out of my tent and saw four village guys carrying your tent on their heads back to our camp!"

"Where was it?" I asked, still having trouble processing the situation.

"I don't know," replied George, "I just saw them returning it a little bit ago."

Then Diana came over and said that when she had gotten up in the morning some village guys were laughing about somebody's "house" being over in an adjacent field. She looked where they were pointing, about 300 meters away over a fence and some trees, and told them it was her friend's house, to which they burst out laughing. Then they all walked over to my tent and proceeded to carry it back over their heads like a great prize.

How my tent made it that far, through trees, rocks, and barbed wire, without being completely ripped to shreds, I will never know. One thing is for sure: my tent certainly has character now.

Also did some climbing at Shamu. Primarily played around on yet another ridiculously hard sport route with Joe which we put on top rope. Getting to the top rings involved me lowering Joe from a body belay in a crack.

Not found in your typical climbing instruction book:

Me killing my fingers on a tiny crimper hand match:

Joe showing how to do a hand and foot match on a crimp:

Joe getting a little spread eagle from crimp to crimp (yes, the climb was a crimp fest of pain):

Joe needs to eat more:

November 3, 2007: Harare, Zimbabwe

Oddly enough, Harare is a city in crisis, yet it is the type of population center that many Western cities with transportation congestion problems spend countless dollars trying to achieve. By this I mean it is modern, yet there is relatively little traffic and the city is mostly smog free as a result. There are crowds of people going about their business and bicycles weaving in and out among the throngs, but the gas shortage

The scene while we were waiting in line for gas. Had to pay a massive bribe to get in, too:

automatically keeps the number of cars at a manageable level. And yet, people are desperate.

Our campsite was well outside the city center and featured a number of boulders on which to pass the time.

George showing everyone how it's done:

Me testing the stretch factor of my shorts:

We picked up a new member of the trip, Juliet, while losing another, Andrew, who had been on since Windhoek. It was weird because there was a bit of the "resort" atmosphere (albeit faded), what with the bar and all, and yet, at the same time, we brought the camp managers toilet paper (difficult to come by in Harare) and had to flush the toilets with buckets of water that were outside the bathrooms because the city intermittently shut the water off throughout the day.

One day we went to a climbing area near Harare, but first got lost and drove by Mugabe's compound a few times. Nobody walks on that side of the street because they will get shot (seriously) so I can only imagine what sort of alarms we set off, cruising slowly by in a huge, steel, red truck several times. Somehow we still managed to make it to the climbing venue which featured some cool cave paintings, murderous baboons that Matt B. and I nearly had to fight off, and more slab (blech).

Later that night we had a going away party for Andrew which, once again, featured outrageous outfits and more competition with another Overlander truck that was also at the campsite. No, we're not a competitive bunch at all.

Me struggling to hold my horizontal pole position:

Juliet takes on Henry arm wrestling:

And wins!:

Steve needs to visit a haberdashery:

Not approved business casual wear. Mike gets creative with sequins, climbing helmet, and headlamp:

The inevitable group shot. L to R Back: Jase and Diana. Middle: Mike, me, Henry, Drew, and Juliet. Steve in front:
The inevitable hanging from the rafters shot. L to R Mike Juliet and Diana on the ceiling. Front: Andrew (working the farewell pink dress), me, Drew, and Jase:

It would have been a great evening, except for the fact that a couple of guys broke into the camp compound and stole a bunch of items from a number of the tents while everyone was at the bar. My tent suffered the worst -- not only did the robbers slash my tent on both ends (apparently they couldn't figure out where the zippers were), but they took my sleeping bag, sleeping bag liner, pillow, a pair of pants, and beloved Nalgene bottle. I was not a happy camper. Not to mention extremely pissed that the robbers had actually slashed both my rainfly and tent.

Fly slash. And right on my window!:

Mesh slash. Might as well put out the welcome mat for the malaria carrying mosquitos:

At the same time, everything they took was probably what would keep them alive for another few months. Other people lost cameras, shoes, bags, and pretty much anything that was in their tents. Luckily, the robbers dropped a large portion of things, including all my missing items except my Nalgene bottle, right outside the camp walls. Regardless, I left Harare with a bit of a sour taste in my mouth.

October 31, 2007: Antelope Park, Zimbabwe

Antelope Park was a stopover for us on our way to Harare and featured an improbably nice campsite, an improbably large buffet, and...the potential for walking with lions. The entire place was, well, glossy is the word that comes to mind. Impeccably kept, well run, and obviously well-funded, I was a bit suspicious of any "activities" there because it was a brochure come to life and I had not seen anything like that in months. How could the experience be real? I mean, come on, walk with lions? Just because the promo video featured a fellow jumping over logs with lions and cavorting with them in the sunrise didn't mean it would actually work that way, right? And besides, I was feeling as though the whole experience would be a bit sanitized. This was obviously a money making machine and how on Earth could they deal with the liability? I wrestled with the idea and didn't decide until 1/2 hour before the walk to actually do it, figuring "what the hell, it's only $40 and I won't be able to do this back in the States." Thank God I did. It was absolutely one of the most incredible things I've done. I feel like I've been saying that quite a bit on this trip and it is beginning to lose its meaning, but it's true: walking with lions kicks ass.

After being given laughably tiny sticks and told that was our protection from the lions (um, ok, suuure), our guide, Ed, told us she (yes, Ed was a woman) would be taking us to walk with the oldest pair of lions that were nearly full grown. She said there were several pairs of lions at the park, of varying ages, and all had been raised with human contact since they were small cubs. Lion populations have been decimated over the past couple of decades and the lack of genetic diversity, not to mention diseases like feline AIDS, etc, is a real problem with wild lion prides. The goal of Antelope Park is to raise genetically strong cubs in a controlled environment to ensure their survival, then allow them into increasingly larger, yet still monitorable, spaces over time with the ultimate aim of releasing them into the wild.

Ed said the lions thought of people as being part of the pride so we could expect that they would brush past us and bump us. We could pet them, however, we were to avoid anything playful because the last thing you want to do is get in a wrestling match with a near full grown lion. If the lions became too aggressive or gave us "the look" we were to hit them with the stick and tell them "No!" in a firm manner. Right, I'm to believe that an adolescent lion is going to obey "No!" when humans of all ages choose to ignore that command? Much less after I aggravate the lion by hitting it with the stick that probably serves as the toothpick it will use after eating me.

And what, exactly, was "the look?" "Oh, you'll know it when you see it," said Ed. I didn't bother to clarify if it was an amorous look or a menacing look.

The "look?":

She said we would encounter animals on the walk and, if we were lucky, the lions might stalk and try to chase the animals.

No, you idiot, the zebra is behind you:

That's more like it:

Giraffes on alert:

Not so sneaky lion:

If that happened, we were to run with the lions. Um, run with the lions? I believe that violates my fight or flight response. Although, in an odd way, the idea appealed to me. It's not every day a lion kills breakfast for me, after all. Determining the pecking order for the first to eat the meat could be a challenge, but I was willing to give it a go.

Ed then explained that our group of seven would be accompanied by a few handlers and a couple of volunteers that were collecting data on the lions' behavior during the walk, yet nobody would have a gun. Say what? I'm about to be in close contact with multiple predators that can take me out in about 1.2 seconds and nobody has a gun? I stared at the pencil thin stick I was holding and tried to imagine fending off a very large set of teeth and sharp claws. It didn't work. I couldn't protect myself from a rabid tortoise with that thing, let alone a lion. Let's just say there was much nervous laughter on the 10 minute jeep ride out to the lions.

When we got to the lion pen, the gravity of our situation became real: we were unarmed and those suckers were just a tad larger than house cats which do plenty of damage with their itty-bitty claws.

Not so itty-bitty claws:

My, what big teeth you have:

I was so busy trying to concentrate on my new mantra "try to stay calm, try to stay calm, try to stay calm, large predators love you, large predators are your friend," that I had time to think "HOLY @$!*!" just once when they opened the gate and the lions came rushing out before my mind went totally blank. Now I know my fight or flight response does not exist. In my case, it is simply a stand-rooted-in-one-spot-because-I-am-absolutely-paralyzed-with-fear response. I had never been so acutely aware of my status as viable prey and every cell in my body felt completely stretched taut like a rubber band, ready to snap me into action. It was, to put it mildly, a visceral moment when the lion brushed by me on his way out the gate. But I was alive. I was ALIVE!

The rest of the time was really quite boring. Ha! It was so much fun. We walked with the lions, we petted the lions, we stalked with the lions, we got stalked by the lions, we ran with the lions, and I wanted to live with the lions by the time it was over. It is definitely a highlight life experience and I recommend it to everyone. Hope these pics give you an idea of what it was like:

David and one of the lion's. Separated at birth?:
Who stuck peanut butter on his nose?
Yes, yes, I know I'm beautiful. Tell me more:
On the hunt:
Diana walking with a lion. Note the ridiculous stick for protection on her right side:
Surveying the scene from a tree:
Nice kitty. I'm finally getting comfortable around these guys:
But wait, what is he looking at? Holy @#$%! Stand up, stand up!:Great, now there's two of them:Well, I guess I'll just pet them both now:
These are going on my next Christmas card:

Parting look:

October 29, 2007: Matobo Park (aka Matopos), Zimbabwe

The road from Vic Falls to Matopos was eerie. We passed on average maybe four cars an hour on what had obviously once been a busy highway. There was very little gas outside the city centers. The countryside was beautiful and green, but farm equipment sat silent and the fields were overgrown. Mugabe, the President of Zimbabwe (most would say dictator), had taken all the farmland from the farmers and distributed it to his personal friends who had no experience with farms and simply let them deteriorate. Typical travel sights and sounds a person experiences when driving through the countryside were slightly off: irrigation equipment sat rusting in the fields instead of spraying water over precise rows of crops, there were no children playing around houses, there were no cattle in the pastures, gas stations were without the usual crush of cars and travellers. There were people around, on the side of the road walking or perhaps on a bike, but they seemed subdued and grave, failing to react with the typical waves, shouts, and smiles at BiRT passing by. Though clearly not deserted, the region felt empty. People didn't talk much on BiRT and we rumbled south accompanied by a pervasive sense of unease.

We reached our destination, Matopos, a national park, in the late afternoon and tumbled out of the truck into a land dense with green hills, almost all of which featured rock outcroppings. It looked like the perfect place to explore and put up some new climbing routes. Our campground was nestled in some trees at the base of a massive boulder with a once glorious stone restaurant and lounge built on top. Despite a few broken glass windows and slightly rundown state that lent a general air of early decay to the place, it had clearly once been magnificent and needed but a little cash and some customers to reclaim its former glory. The manager was unfailingly polite and came down to our campsite to introduce herself personally to each one of us. That helpful attitude and polite demeanor I would encounter again and again in Zimbabwe, including the time George and I were hitching back toward camp after scouting rock and the same vehicle picked us up multiple times as our paths continued to cross.

Freaky flower George and I saw on our walkabout:

This sign was by the road for no apparent reason:
In general, most of the climbing required a fair amount of bush bashing to get to, so the majority of the group spent their time at one crag and put up several new routes. It was fun climbing the other people's routes and coming to a consensus on the proper sandbag rating, not to mention route names.

Diana wedges in on the route she and David put up, Farting With Confidence:

Diana goes for the crux fist jam on Farting With Confidence:
Other than the annoying animals which sounded like very loud, very big drops of water (although we thought they might be frogs, we never did figure out what they were), the atmosphere at Matopos was, for me, very chill, and I would love to see it again some day when the people return.

October 27, 2007: Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

We didn't know what to expect when we entered Zimbabwe. There were reports of famine, secret police, fuel shortages, and hyperinflation, but there was little in the way of reliable information, perhaps because reporters are allegedly not allowed into the country. With no guidelines, we decided to purchase all the food we would need for the three weeks in Zimbabwe while we were in Botswana -- well aware that we were making ourselves a major potential target by being a well-stocked truck full of white people. So it was with a mixture of trepidition and excitement that we crossed the bustling border and proceeded the short distance to Victoria Falls, historically a major tourist destination.

Famous for its massive waterfall, Victoria Falls has turned itself into a city catering to adrenaline junkies, similar to Swakopmund.

Lush and lovely:

That's a lot of water:

Me swinging on the vines at the falls:

Me pretending not to speak English so I can take a photo (photo credit to Diana):

Me and Andrew standing on the edge. Good thing it hasn't rained recently (photo cred Diana):

Monkeys at the falls:

Cuteness overload:

Double cuteness overload:

River rafting, sky diving, bungee jumping, flying in microlights, horseback safaris, river boarding, etc, are all readily available. We figured that a major tourist destination would be more or less safe, and we were right. Vic Falls is relatively well off and right on the border with Zambia, a stable country, so most everything can be had for a price. And what prices! An hour on the Internet would set a person back a million dollars, while a Coke could be had for the bargain price of $500,000. The following day, however, the prices would be even higher. Welcome to the land of hyperinflation where it is necessary to change money on the black market or risk bankruptcy by being legitimate and exchanging money at a bank. When we arrived, the black market exchange rate was $600,000 Zimbabwean to $1 US, while the official rate was $30,000 Zimbabwean to $1 US. By the time we left Zimbabwe, the black market rate was $1 million to $1 US and the official rate had not changed. To put that in perspective, the aforementioned Coke was the equivalent of 50 cents US using black market rate, but a whopping $16.67 US using the official rate. Granted, Coke comes in lovely glass bottles which we rarely see in US, but $16.67 is a bit much. Regardless, the important thing is that I became an instant multi-millionaire as soon as I entered Zimbabwe.

Being a large group, we were expected to sit down and listen to a booking agent give a presentation on all the activities available to us in Victoria Falls. I'm a complete sucker and signed up for a full day river rafting with the river boarding option (basically riding down Class 5 rapids on a boogie board), a microlite flight, a half-day horseback safari, and a sunset cruise followed by an evening of drumming. After hearing other people relate their near death experiences while river boarding, I decided to let another person take my spot. Turns out that was a wise decision on my part because river rafting was at turns exhilirating and terrifying, and, given my superb swimming skills, I likely would have drowned had I attempted the river boarding.

I've rafted a couple of times before, but the Zambezi River is far more intense then my other experiences. When they say Class 5, they mean Class 5. Out of 20 rapids that day, a third or so were Class 5, one of which had claimed a life a couple of weeks earlier (our guide didn't tell us about that until late in the day after we were done with that particular rapid). Then there was the Class 6 that we walked around. That was flat out scary. A massive, roiling, angry rush of whitewater, the roar it produced was deafening. There was no consistency to the rapid other than the initial 15-foot drop in -- everything else boiled and exploded ferociously into random waves -- turning it into a zero survival zone. We sent the rafts down and watched them get battered around, at times tossed high into the air, smashed forcefully into boulders, then held under water for several seconds. It was awe inspiring. Although we flipped our raft twice (for the most part a raft won't flip unless a guide puts it in a position to do so, and the folks on my raft really wanted to flip which was ok except when we did it on a Class 5 and I swallowed more than my body weight in water), my favorite part of the rafting experience was when we rocked through the rapids perfectly, hitting our lines and surfing on the waves like pros. Our guide was suitably impressed, telling us we were his dream team and he wished all his boats could have people like us. I believed him because for awhile I felt the mix of adrenaline, elation, and confidence that produces that peculiar electric feeling which only comes from a group of people being completely in synch. After a full day on the raft, however, I was exhausted and muscles I didn't know I had were would no longer be silenced by my brain.

The next day I thought I would take it easy and have a relaxing horseback safari. I should have known better. Turns out all the horses were former racehorses and I wound up with Whisper, the owner's favorite horse because he liked to run and was a complete handful. Keeping Whisper calm was a full time job, made increasingly difficult when our guide chose to tell us tidbits about animals like "Cape Buffalo are one of the deadliest animals in Africa and will hang around for a full day or more to make sure that whatever they attacked is dead. If they see any movement, even hours after their target has been still, they will trample and gore again. If you find yourself being chased by a Cape Buffalo, your best bet is to take off your shirt, throw it on a tree, and hope it confuses the buffalo so that it will attack the tree. But it's not likely you will fool the buffalo." Very reassuring words to hear as I watched a small herd of buffalo in the brush mere feet from me.

Nonetheless, it was a great experience because the animals assume that a human on horseback is one of the herd instead of a predator, allowing one to often get much closer than would be possible in a safari vehicle.

Warthog babies are cute, too:

The trade-off, of course, is that there is no protection from attack, other than the speed of one's steed. Perhaps that is why we were riding former racehorses...

Since I had ticked off water and land based activities, it was time to take to the air. I signed up for an outrageously priced 15-minute ride in a microlite, and subsequently decided that ride was well worth the outrageous price. Kind of like a cross between a (very) small plane and a hang glider, microlites allow the movement of the hang glider, although with external power.

My Austrian pilot had first been taken up in a microlite 15 years earlier, had fallen in love with it, got his license, and moved a few years later to Zambia to fly them. It was a blast cruising over Victoria Falls and I could see the eons of geologic history in the sharp curves of the Zambezi as it snaked off into the distance. The best part is I even got to fly for awhile. The microlite was surprisingly nimble and required a soft touch to make gentle turns. For a brief moment I allowed myself to fantasize about flying microlites for a living, then I remembered that I had a sunset cruise scheduled for that night.

Here's a recipe for potential disaster: put a bunch of climbers on a boat that serves free food and booze, and add a ceiling full of metal support bars.

Before things got crazy:

Almost instantaneously we turned it into one big jungle gym with people performing increasingly crazy feats as the hours passed.

Upside down chickenfight! Mike and Drew go at it while Jase officiates:

Diana displays some uncommon skill:

Thankfully, nobody was scarred, other than the riverboat captain who had likely never seen 12 people devour 4 plates of hors d'oeuvres in 30 seconds flat.

It was easy to get lost in all the activities in Vic Falls and forget that the country is dying. Sure some buildings were not in the best shape, there were potholes, and stores were not especially well equipped, but that is pretty much everywhere in Africa. Besides, it was possible to order a pizza and have it delivered (a reasonable measuring stick of Western modernity if ever there was one)! Beneath it all, however, was a sense of desperation and some locals had told Hot Rockers that people were dying out in the countryside from lack of food. Such suggestions raised some hard questions and prompted debate among those on the trip about buying food and distributing it to those in need. We were not a mini U.N. peacekeeping mission. Some thought we were risking potential harm to ourselves by distributing food because we would be a target. We had no idea if we would even be in any areas where we might encounter famine. At the same time, how can one person turn down another person in obvious need? Ultimately, a couple of people decided to buy food independently by going across the border to Zambia, and some, like me, pitched in money to help cover costs.