There are places I’d love to return to in a different season or with other people. A handful I’d redo now that I am wiser and more confident. In fact, almost every place I have been to since 2017.
Except Zambia.
Not one to shy away from rough travel, you can believe there have been plenty of sticky situations since then. But when I say everything went wrong traveling in Zamiba, everything went wrong.
Let me be clear, I’m not saying, “Don’t go to Zambia.”
I am only saying, don’t ask me to join.
Now, every story must begin somewhere, and as Zambia is nestled in the heart of southern Africa, it doesn’t quite start there. So, I’ll keep the backstory short.
While traveling East Africa, it’s not uncommon to come across the same travelers over and over again. People move north to south or south to north along the Cape to Cairo route, and in 2017 the overlanding and backpacking community was reasonably small.
It usually came down to:
She’s traveled with him.
He partied with her.
They met here.
We made out there.
This travel family is closely connected and tight. There are laughs and memories and drama and lovers.
Add some strong gin and you can expect a good party.
At the time I was traveling with two guys from California, I’d met in Malawi, Mateo and Ryan.
I’d fallen for Mateo, a much younger, Brazilian American with dark thick hair and a broad white smile.
The weeks leading up to Zambia were dramatic and passionate. I’d left Lake Malawi to pursue my own adventures, and he chased me down across Malawi to apologize for being stupid and to tell me I deserved better. Rightfully so.
My plan for a while, was to meet an overlander I’d met in Rwanda about two months earlier and head towards Cape Town. I didn’t know him well, in fact, I wasn’t sure whether his name was Miko or Uwe, but I had it on good authority that he was good people. That is how Africa works.
Mateo and Ryan planned to photograph wildlife and fly back to the USA.
I was going to Zambia; they were going to Zambia. It only made sense that we’d stick together until we parted ways.
Before leaving Malawi, Mateo’s health was starting to take a turn.
We’d been partying too hard for too long, so it didn’t seem all that surprising.
He was adamant that whatever he had, he could shake off.
One thing I learned about Africa is that time has less consequence. Border crossings and standing in queues require a near saintly kind of patience. You are also at the mercy of the customs agent’s mood du jour. If you appear rushed or eager, it will only drag out the process.
As we shuffled our way through customs, the people around us breathed on our necks, stood on our heels, and rubbed on our arms. Pre-COVID, it didn’t matter if you were sick or not, personal space was simply not a thing.
Entering Zambia, it was late in the afternoon and Mateo looked completely wiped. We collectively decided to keep our Malawi SIM cards on roaming and just get to our camp.
I’d organized to meet my “friend,” Uwe (or maybe Miko), the guy I’d met in Rwanda in Kakumbi, a village bordering South Luangwa National Park.
We found a taxi driver who wrangled a fourth passenger to fill the car and we set off. Squeezed into the middle seat, I had sick Mateo on my left and a large woman on my right.
We drove Northwest and not 5 minutes into our trip, this Zambian woman, asked where we, Mzungus, were from.
We simultaneously replied, “the USA.”
Her response, “give me money. I want money.”
Stunned by her brashness, the silence hung thickly in the air.
Through the windshield, I watched as the clouds rolled in heavy and low and the sky got darker. The landscape became more striking and vibrant as the green hills and rich red clay contrasted with the ominous sky. The lightning backlit the clouds directly where we were headed.
By the time we reached Kakumbi, the rain was coming down in sheets. Uwe was waiting at the taxi stand when we arrived.
We clambered into his Land Rover Defender shuffling backpacks and boxes. Ryan sat in front and the two of us sat on a narrow wooden slab, where back seats had once been and drove directly to Croc Valley Camp.
Mateo and Ryan both had tents and gear. Up to this point, I’d been staying primarily in hostels and guesthouses, but we agreed that I would share the tent with Mateo. I was traveling with a sleeping bag liner, and fortunately it was muggy enough, where I didn’t have to buy a sleeping bag. But I made a last-minute decision to buy a thin, cheap sleeping mat with foil on one side, blue foam on the other.
When the rain let up, we found a dryish spot under a tree and popped up the two tents on the grassy lawn.
Uwe invited us to his camp for dinner. He cooked a comforting veggie potjie and the spice hit the spot. His cooking skills and spice drawer were impressive. And when he offered seconds, I hesitated, but only to appear polite.
We sat around a picnic table under a thatched roof with him and five or six French guys. They’d been in Croc Valley for a few days. We caught on, that one of them lived in Chapati, while the others were visiting. They’d all been 4x4ing, partying, and going out on safari.
They were all worn out and banged up after towing their cars out of the mud, but spirits were high and they had plenty of entertaining stories to share.
Beer flowed, music played and camp glowed from the bare bulbs mounted to the posts. Flying termites flittered around our heads and crickets hopped across our feet.
The French guys would reach up, catch the termites between their fingers, tear off their wings, and pop them in their mouths. “Good protein” they said.
The crickets were handled differently.
Coals of a fire was burning. Once they caught them, the crickets were placed in a rectangular camping pan, sautéed in a bit of olive oil, and salted before pinching off their legs and taking the whole thing in one bite.
Now, I’m a curious eater, but I also wanted to hold my own as the only girl around.
The boys egged me on, “Eat the cricket, just try it, it’s good…”
So, I did.
I popped the cricket right into my mouth and ate that damn cricket.
It was crunchy and a bit scratchy, the very thought made me gag. But I kept it down and pushed out my tongue as proof as if to say, “yep, I did it, don’t bother asking me again.”
Sautéed crickets are a one and done experience for me. Thank you.
The night continued and we relocated the party to the bar in the lapa. Mateo went off to bed, and I melted into the deep leather sofa. Until the shocking burn of a cigarette hit my leg.
“Ouch, what the hell!”
And then again.
I looked down at my bare legs and witnessed the offender. A small dark beetle.
Each time it hit my skin, another small burn.
Blister beetles.
The next morning, we awoke to the fog blanketing the river. In the dark, we hadn’t realized how close to the steep riverbed we were. We were advised by one of the staff to relocate our tent. The water had brought the hippos and several days prior a leopard had been spotted in the branches of the tree above where we had our tent.
We shuffled camp around, drank some tea and coffee, and set off to South Luangwa Park later that morning.
Uwe drove, Ryan was back in the passenger seat, and Mateo and I were crimped up in the back like the night before. We approached the gate to the park, offered our ids and paid.
South Luangwa isn’t a park like Serengeti.
My only safari experiences up to that point had been in Tanzania with guides and a set agenda. I’d never been on a self-drive safari. This kind of freedom and flexibility without an expensive price tag was a dream and something far more common in Southern Africa.
Uwe drove away from the gate and found a nice spot to pull over in front of a very small stream.
Mateo and I unfurled ourselves from the back and we all stood outside the car to observe a large troop of monkeys pacing along the edge of the water.
The monkeys studied the shortest distance across the water, not wanting to get wet.
A few moments later, a herd of impalas approached the same water. Their effortless and elegant leaps seemed to antagonize and motivate the baboons.
Some of the more daring ones tried to imitate the impala’s springs.
The larger ones could narrowly clear the landing, but most would fail to vault all the way across. They would shake off their miss, like a dog. Once on the other side, they patiently waited for the others, communicating for the smaller monkeys to follow.
The babies and juveniles continued to consider their options up and down that creek.
Eventually, one right after the other, got the gumption to jump. Once across, they marched off into the bush.
Mateo and I clambered onto the roof of the Land Rover and perched ourselves atop the spare tire secured onto the roof rack with our legs mingling between the jerry cans and lockboxes.
The corrugated roads were muddy and spotted with cavernous pits where the last few days water collected in pools. We weren’t going anywhere fast.
Any big game or predators were of little concern to us. The park had so much water, the animals were dispersed.
We continued to an impressively large baobab and parked underneath it. Uwe stepped out of the car to admire the sizable tree. The two of us lay out on top of the roof looking up at the wide expanse of the baobab’s branches.
Then from below we suddenly heard Uwe yelping, “ow, ow, ow” and flailing his hands about and ran off.
What was this lunatic doing?
The driver’s door was left open and he was almost 200 meters away from the car when he stopped swinging his arms.
He had unknowingly parked directly underneath a buzzing beehive. The noise or vibration of the engine must have set the bees off. Either way they were angry and swarming the car and now we were under attack.
We hollered for Uwe to return and started thrashing about.
He bravely ran back, popped into the driver’s seat and drove us the hell out of there. The bees had invaded the car and we were all stung. Arms, face, neck… Once a decent distance away, he shut off the engine, and we scrambled down the ladder and onto solid ground. This seemed like an excellent time to return to camp.
After lunch, Mateo and I cuddled up in his tent and took a nap.
I awoke to his cold, sweat saturated clothes touching me. He stripped out of his shirt and was trembling in his sleeping bag. It could be malaria, maybe bilharzia, but this was no normal flu.
My persuasion to go to a clinic was rebuffed and I had transformed from fun travel fling into the naggy mom. Ugh.
I crawled out of the tent and caught up with Uwe and Ryan for an afternoon game drive.
We headed back into the park, same routine as before- staying inside the car until we had passed the guard gate, so I could scale onto the roof.
The day’s sunshine didn’t dry the muddy roads, and we soon came to one of those gaping pools- the kind that can really mess up a car, even with high clearance. Uwe hopped out, rolled up his pants and waded across to check the depth.
He instructed me to jump into the driver’s seat, and he would guide me through.
I was apprehensive and did NOT want to fuck up his car. The Defender was a heavy piece of machine with a manual right-side drive, but it was not mine. At the same time, I determined to prove I was dependable and could handle this sort of thing, so I held my breath, and followed him through the water, with adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Upon our return, Mateo’s fever was in full swing, and Ryan started to moan as well.
I moved all three of us into one of the cabins with beds. This was not the time to be frugal. The room was bright and large with high ceilings and thankfully each bed was drapped with a mozzie, plus a private bath.
Mateo kept repeating, “I know my body.” But that night, both boys sweated through their sheets.
Muscle aches, fever, diarrhea, headache… Hmmm, looks a lot like, I don’t know- Malaria!
When one of the French guys started to feel rotten, I insisted they all take the home tests we’d been carrying. The results were inconclusive, so I dragged Mateo and Ryan to the nearest clinic.
We waited in plastic patio chairs outside the door to the one room clinic. The doctor was quick and efficient, and it didn’t take long for them both to get blood smears and matching malaria diagnoses.
I’ll admit, I felt a little smug, and probably said something shitty like, “ah, I told you we should have come sooner.”
They were both given a 3 days’ worth of AL or artemisinin – lumefantrine. Easy peasy. Six doses and they’d be in the clear.
Everyone was a bit broken, worn out, hungover, or exhausted at this point. A perfect time to say “sayonara Croc Valley.”
We arrived at the Chipata bus terminal, slogged from one booking office to the next, and negotiated for the best deal to Lusaka the following morning.
I’ve come to learn that all buses in east Africa leave promptly at 6am. The company doesn’t matter too much, and it usually comes down to finding the best price and sussing out which ones won’t play club music at club volume first thing in the morning.
We snagged a taxi to Andrea’s guesthouse/ hostel, one of the French guys from Croc Valley. His place sat high on the hill overlooking the town and I prattled on with the driver. We noticed how out of the way we were so the driver agreed to pick us up at 5:30am to bring us back to the station.
Uwe was settled at Andrea’s place and later that day a Japanese girl, I’d previously met in Malawi checked in to the Hostel.
The five of us ate dinner together. Aiko was on the same bus to Lusaka, and I planned to meet Uwe, once Ryan and Mateo flew back to the USA.
We said our goodbyes and goodnights and went our separate ways. Uwe slept in his Land Rover. Aiko was camping. Ryan, Mateo, and I tucked into our bunk beds in the empty dorm.
For their last few nights in Africa, we booked a luxurious-looking AirBnB in Lusaka with a natural pool, kitchen, and washer machine.
When I was ready to fall asleep, I passed my iPad Pro on to Ryan so he could watch Netflix.
We woke up a few short hours later, packed, and met Aiko in front of the house. We waited and waited and the taxi was a no show. I tried calling, but my call kept dropping. No Zambia SIM card, no service. Shit.
Every minute that passed felt more urgent. We had money invested in this day- buses booked, a beautiful AirBnB waiting for us, flights in a few days. A lot was riding on our ability to reach the bus station. And we were desperate.
Mateo pressed me to wake Uwe up and have him drive us to the bus station.
“I can’t do that. I barely know the guy. I am not going to disturb him while it’s still dark and he’s sleeping.”
Instead, Aiko and I ran down to the main road and frantically hailed an unmarked taxi.
He pulled over.
There was a mother and child in the front seat and two people in the back.
I hollered up the hill for Ryan and Mateo to hurry up. They yelled back to me saying they would make their way there and to hold the bus for a few extra minutes.
Aiko and I threw our backpacks into the trunk and dived into the backseat, day pack in first.
I banged my head on the door frame and off we went.
We arrived at the terminal at 5:55 am and scurried through to find our bus. Once found, the conductor reached over, grabbed my large backpack and tossed it into the undercarriage of the bus. It was now 5:58 am.
Aiko boarded. I grounded myself on the asphalt in front of the door of the bus, pleading with the driver to wait a few minutes. “Just five minutes. My friends are right behind me, they are getting a ride, the taxi never showed, please, please just wait.”
6:00 the bus driver looks at me and said, “I am not going to wait. Are you coming or not.”
I said, “wait, my bag is stored.”
The undercarriage was locked and loaded.
Option 1: I lose my friends. Option 2: I lose my worldly belongings.
I chose option 1.
I grabbed the open seat Aiko had saved for me. As the driver peeled away from the station my eyes transfixed on the empty lot.
There was nothing I could do for the next 9 hours, so I settled in and tried to let go of the guilt.
I dug into my daypack for bus ride essentials and pastimes. Sweatshirt, comfy socks, water bottle, book, headphones, phone, iPad.
What?!? No iPad Pro?!?
Panic washed over me. And then frustration.
The most expensive piece of equipment I was carrying is now gone. My mind was spiraling.
“Where could it have been? Ugh, Ryan. I knew I should have gotten it back from him. Wait, did I get it back from him? Did he hand it to me? Did he put it under the bed? Was it charging? Was it in my daypack? My daypack was open when I rushed into the taxi, right? Did it fall out in the taxi? Did the guy in the back of the taxi take it out of my open bag when I hit my head. Could it possibly be in my big bag? And what about all my photos. My accounts”
By trying to catch a $2 taxi and a $15 bus, I may have lost the single most expensive piece of equipment I owned.
I knew better.
This is what happens when you rush, when you’re panicked, when you are out of sorts. This is when completely preventable mistakes happen.
I sat dazed and felt the heat of the growing knot on my forehead.
When we arrived in Lusaka, I said goodbye to Aiko and pushed past the squall of taxi drivers eagerly reaching to help me with my bags. Sorry sirs, not this time. I have shit to do.
I sprinted between tuk shops to find one selling a SIM card.
Once found and paid for, I grabbed a seat at a small red plastic table with a hot plate of chips and peri peri sauce. I needed to get things sorted. Sure, I wanted to meet up with my friends, but more importantly, I wanted security, knowing they packed my prized possession.
I messaged both Mateo and Ryan. I told them I arrived in Lusaka and sent them the AirBnB address. Radio silence. No surprise there. They also didn’t have SIM cards. They are well traveled; they’ll figure it out.
The directions to our accommodation address looked further than expected. In fact, it was way outside of the city. I stalked around the fence and found a group of taxi drivers, less aggressive than the ones in the terminal. This day needed to be over. Hard things could be postponed till tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
About a kilometer from town, my driver was pulled over by a policewoman at a round-about.
The police asked us both to get out of the car. The afternoon sun was blazing off the tar. I watched as the policewoman spoke with the driver in hushed Nyanja and then stepped over to me.
“This taxi driver doesn’t have his driver’s license. Why would you get into a car when he doesn’t have his license. That’s illegal. You are required to pay his fine.”
Ooh. I was not a girl to mess with at this point. I was not about to be intimidated by a corrupt cop. Nope. Not today, Missy. You are messing with the wrong Mzungu.
My response, “no, that is not my problem. I refuse to pay his fine. I will walk.” I reached into the car, grabbed my bags propped up on the seat and huffed away.
The driver chased me down and told me I had to pay the fare.
I looked him straight in the face and told him “We drove, like 5 minutes. You got pulled over for not having a license. You not having a license is not my problem and you should have never offered to drive me. I am not paying the fare, and I am not paying your fucking ticket.” And just kept walking.
The road was wide and quiet, lined with trees and plenty of shade. I walked for about 20 minutes before I came across two men repairing a flat tire on a large commercial lory and asked if I could hitch a ride.
We drove another 20 minutes or so and the truckers dropped me off at the top of a long dirt road with a gate and an intercom button. I prayed this was the correct address. I didn’t have another calamity in me for the day.
She picked me up and escorted me through her property. I was amazed, she had zebras grazing like horses in the yard. How cool!
She was friendly and a retiree from France. Huh. A lot of French people here in Zambia. Funny.
When we pulled up to the house, she helped me with my bag. She asked if that was everything. I replied, “yep, that’s it. My friends will hopefully be on their way.”
She explained there was no bus system to get to her house, no taxi stand, and it was not exactly a busy road, something I’d figured out on my own.
When I asked about restaurants in the area or tuk shops, she said there was nothing nearby. Shit.
She gave me a tour of the house. It was gorgeous, spacious, and light. The large glass doors opened wide to a patio with a natural pool filled with lilies and reeds. This garden is ideal for unwinding and decompressing. I stood there daydreaming how the next few days could go. And at the same time the owner forewarned me the frogs can be a nuisance when the sun sets.
“They can croak louder than a lion roars. If they got to be too much, just call, and I’ll take care of them.”
I shrugged and thought, well how bad could they be?
She helped me get connected to her wifi and the messages started pouring in. Mateo. I quickly called him back. I told him I had just arrived at the AirBnB. I skipped any abbreviated story at that point. But could tell he was agitated.
The owner lingered in the kitchen while I whispered into the phone, “grab groceries, there’s nothing here.” But he said they were already in a taxi and out of the city.
The owner left and returned with a generous basket with fresh banana bread, eggs, olive oil, pasta, onion, some fruit, and a bottle of wine. I was beyond grateful and knew I could turn this into a meal or a few.
When Ryan and Mateo arrived, they were exasperated.
Our reunion was peppered with interrogative questions, and it was hard to find humor in it all.
How could I leave them? Why couldn’t I get the bus to stop? How did they get on another bus? How did they arrive sooner? Do they have my iPad? Do we have anything besides peanut butter and canned tuna?
They broke down their day. First, they woke up Uwe. He drove them to the bus terminal. They boarded another bus and arrived an hour earlier than me and had been waiting at the terminal.
Now, my turn.
We were all hungry, tired, stressed, dirty, and both boys were on their last day of malaria meds. Everyone was in a crap mood.
That night the frogs were loud, but we were too finished to care.
The following morning, the energy in the house felt strange. Everyone was on edge and none of us had a good night’s sleep.
That travel romance we once had fizzled out. Instead, the emotions felt real and heavy.
Mateo hadn’t recovered like Ryan. By not taking care of himself sooner, his symptoms lingered and were more severe.
While I could empathize, he also began to withdraw and became indifferent. The more he emotionally pulled away, the more closeness I craved.
It may have just been a travel fling. But the heart can still break.
On top of that, Christmas was approaching. They were both flying back to see their families and me, I would have my first Christmas overseas and alone.
It was a lot of weight to carry.
Our last evening together, Mateo and I lay next to one another in an uncomfortable silence. The frogs were louder than the night before. Had they multiplied? It was too hot to have the doors closed, but too loud with them open.
I reached out to our host and asked her to take care of the frogs.
She and her husband arrived with headtorches, a shovel and a garbage bag. I didn’t poke my head outside, but there were a lot less frogs that night.
The following morning, our host drove us back into Lusaka and dropped us at the central police station. I filed a police report for my missing iPad that I’d later sent to the insurance company. Mateo and Ryan flagged a taxi to the airport.
I’m certain I had an ugly goodbye cry outside of the station. We had been traveling for more than a month together and goodbyes are tough, but this one felt especially hard considering everything. I missed the fun we’d had in Malawi and hated how things soured between Mateo and me. I was jealous they’d spend the holidays with their families. I was angry that I lost something so expensive. And the past week’s misadventures made me skeptical of what lay ahead.
How much harder could it get? Really?
Zambia was a chain reaction of small disasters.
Bees.
Beetles.
Rain.
Buses.
Taxis.
Frogs.
Police.
Loss.
Malaria.
One thing after the next.
Those few days in Zambia are some of my most vivid memories. I can close my eyes and be transported straight back to 2017.
That part of my journey didn’t give me the spectacular wildlife sightings or perfect travel memories I had imagined. It was the place where everything fell spectacularly apart- plans, gear, friendships, expectations.
I had everything go awry and was still able to keep going.
When I left the police station, I took a few minutes to pull myself together. I wiped my tears, adjusted my backpack, and stepped out into the street.
Then set out to the mall to meet Uwe- the man I’d spend the next eight years traveling the world with.
Some names and minor identifying details have been changed. Dialogue and events are reconstructed from memory. The few photos that included were taken by Uwe as mine were on my Ipad.
2 Responses
This is a good story.
As always, I’m glued to your stories as much as I am so very happy to hear from you again. This was surely a rough one. I sure hope you are spending these days with the smile on your face that I remember from so long ago.