Zambia - Take 2

ZAMBIA
Right; on leaving Kariba and Clare’s overviews of our travels there it’s back over to me ... At the Zim side of the border; or, alternately, at the Zim side of the Kariba Dam (which forms the border with Zambia) we are quickly through the required admin with a minimum of fuss – only a few trailers comprise this side and I don’t think much in the way of traffic passes by with any regularity so it’s about the sleepiest outpost we’ve passed through so far. Unexpectedly met up with Clive and Taniya there as well so a good catch-up. What we both meet there for the first time, however, is Interpol. The Inspector must check our VIN and chassis numbers and verify the vehicles are not comprised of stolen parts. Fair enough – except I’ve no idea where the chassis number he’s requiring is located. I offer many options; all are rejected (and with some measure of disdain as well ...). Finally he demands a rag and, on hands and knee, cleans a spot on the frame past behind the wheel. There is found the mythical chassis number (and is verified to his – fairly ‘jobsworthy’ - satisfaction). I promptly review every manual page and document I hold on the vehicle and none give this location so am left not feeling quite as amateur-owner as for the first few minutes but still, Interpol is left unimpressed with his interaction with me and moves on to Clive, who has been watching proceedings with a mix of amusement and ‘wtf?’ness ...”
Across the magnificent Dam and we’re quickly (back again) into Zambia, where border proceedings, which are far more ‘developed’ than on the other side, take over two hours of one-fingered computer peckings and ‘go to building X over there and speak to so-and-so’s’ to get through the various requirements (Interpol, Carnet, Visa, third-party insurance, road tax and, finally, municipal/regional tax). I apparently catch the ‘B Team’ on all this and Clive and Taniya are well on their way by an hour or more before we’re through, but all painless in the end ...
On to the capital city, Luanda, to apply for our visa for le Republique Democratique de Congo (RDC; or, the ex ‘Zaire’ of Mobuto and, for those of you of enough age or sporting interest, the 1970’s (‘76/’78?) Ali-Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” fame) and take on some much-needed fresh stores. We check into the Chachacha backpackers, packed full of young overlanders from various companies, squatting on the grass by their two-man tents, a smattering of Europeans families on holidays, aid workers on break and too many young-and-just-oh-so-earnest church group do-gooders on chummies spending their home-town’s tithes for a few weeks at local development projects and the chance to wear the t-shirt ...
Time is tight as we want to get our application into the Embassy today before their close-of-business-at-3-and-not-a-second-later rule (which all embassies apparently strictly adhere to) kicks in: do they know where the RDC Embassy is? No. But they will get us a taxi driver who does. Great. Fifteen minutes later we’re in and on the go ... around the corner. The RDC Embassy is all of 300 metres from Chachacha. Our driver finds this all perfectly reasonable, and we’re out of the car – and 5 USD – in under 3 minutes ... However, we are too late (cue start of next 5 months of drawing out mime, interpretive dance and completely-ignored-at-the-time high school French classes thankfully since improved upon the hard way working with a Paris-based client for six months last year - and the associated surly waiters, taxi drivers and Eurostar staff required of the weekly journeys there ...) – we must returnee a demain. Pas de problem; we do, and are subsequently done the next day in under 4 hours total turnaround.
Time for a slightly less giggly and “oh-my-god”’y change of travellers so we set out for the Eureka campground just outside of town, where we are incredibly lucky to meet Marius, a farmer from just outside of Livingstone who, over the course of about 4 more beers than originally planned, invites us to stay at his the next night, which we do. One of the kindest, nicest people we’ve met yet on the road yet. Gave a tour of his fantastic property, cows and tobacco fields (how can you not like a guy who announces “grab a drink and we’ll go for a drive around the place”), made us dinner, shared plenty of wine and stories of growing up in Zambia, and let us fuss over his manic dogs and stay in one of his son’s rooms (who was away at school in SA) affording us a wonderful hot shower for the first time in far too long. Terrific all ‘round.
On his reco we stopped into Foley’s Africa in Livingstone (expat Brit and owner Nick is the non-Foley half of the original pair that now sees a Foleys in both Zambia and the UK); it’s an excellent garage, though one where I went in to have my windshield wiper lever re-connected (apparently requiring nothing more advanced than 2 minutes and a tube of super glue) and left, some 6.5 hours later, with a new expansion tank, vacuum pump, bearings, belts, fluids and assorted tightenings spotted by both he and his lead mechanic (who, on my hearing an unfamiliar hissing noise in the engine, replied to my query of concern without a hint of totally-appropriate rebuke: “That’s your vacuum pump. You’d not have heard that sound before because now it works and before it didn’t.” Got it ...). And a glued-on wiper arm too.
Happily back together again, quite by chance, with Clive and Taniya at the Waterfront campsite (where we had stayed at the very end of our initial overlanding with the group back seemingly years ago now in April) and a great evening of wine and laughs at each other’s expense ensues (well, late afternoon really as we only got in at 4 and Chief Instigator Clive is to ground by 6 from a far-too-energetic start to it all after apparently little more than breakfast having been cleared away ...). Always such great company. We also learn (and I hope I’ve got this right if you’re reading this Taniya ...) that Taniya was (before retiring early for a life of leisure on the road) the first female helicopter pilot in the British Army Air Corps, head of her Squadron, and Operations Officer (G2? G3?) to Canadian General Hillier during the conflict in Bosnia – which all goes a (very) long way towards explaining the extraordinarily-detailed and colour-coordinated Excel spreadsheets of GPS coordinates plus map-tacked-and-route-marked hard-copy maps she has kindly shared with us. (All very impressive really.)
Time to get some distance covered and we head off - early(ish) and clear-focused(ish) - next morning for the Caprivi Strip, a long finger of land that points itself straight east out of the top north-east corner of Namibia and in between Zambia, Angola and Botswana, providing us a clear corridor over to the border crossing with Angola at Santa Clara without the requirement of further visas. Having touristed the area on the first trip through we don’t delay and after a long but decent day’s driving we’re in place and ready to turn north again.
With only a few exceptions it’s all been fun and games and English speaking previously; it’s time now to face down Angola in all its Portuguese, don’t stray off the road mine warnings and famously dire roads glory.
The real drive begins ...