All posts by Claire

About Claire

Wandering (and wondering) development professional and aspiring aid worker. Contact me on anticipationofwonder[at]gmail[dot]com

A town called Livingstone

Adventures, Travelling in Africa, ,

We arrive on a hazy winter afternoon, a day early, as it turns out. The flight from Joburg, across Botswana, Zimbabwe, finally into Zambia. I love looking down on this part of the world – the dry, winter wonderland of arid southern Africa. In the distance, puddles of water sparkle and reflect – dams or perhaps lakes. We come in to land. As the plane turns, I catch a glimpse of the spray from the falls for which this part of the world famous.

This is technically a work trip. I know – who organizes workshops there? Accidentally arriving a day early gives us plenty of time to explore. We work late on the day we arrived (the workshop will only happen later but still plenty of work to do). My colleague sleeps in the next morning, providing me the perfect opportunity to go to town.

Livingstone is a small town 10km from the Zambian side of the Victoria Falls or Mosi-oa-Tunya as they are more correctly (although less commonly) called. Many people who go to see the falls go to the town of Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. I’m glad I get to see it from the Zambia side. Zambia does own, as the Zambians kept reminding us, the majority of the falls. 1.2km of the massive 1.7km wide falls are within the Zambian border. Plus I get to see Livingstone.

As mentioned, Livingstone is quite a small town. I noticed when we drove into town from the airport, that much of the architecture seemed familiar. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me – the town shares a settler heritage with so many I have known and loved. I notice it again as I wander along Mosi-oa-Tunya road towards the business area. On the sides of the roads, grew tall, tropical trees, but beyond them stand houses similar to those in any small town in South Africa. Wide stoep, sloping roof, set back, beyond a front lawn from streets wide enough to turn an ox-wagon. Closer to town, the civic centre is a brick building with black clock-face. I’ve seen one like it recently. Perhaps Somerset West? The museum building, too, feels like home.

It’s not only the architecture that feels familiar. The retail sector in Zambia seems to be dominated by South African firms – PEP stores, Spar, MTN. Everything about it could be a small South African town. Up a side-road, the entrance to a general dealers/farmers’ coop store. Across the road, I pass the David Livingstone Memorial Presbyterian Church, a member of the Uniting Presbyterian Church of Southern Africa – the same church in Zimbabwe, Zambia, South Africa.

I stop at the museum. I like museums. Many people don’t. And many of those who do like museums prefer their museums modern and excellent. I quite like even the museums that are not objectively fantastic. Museums like these, in small towns in young countries, don’t only (or even necessarily) teach you about the history of a place; they provide a fantastic insight into how the people of the place think about their history.

I like the settler history too. It’s terribly un-PC to care about settler history in this post-colonial, post-apartheid era but I do. Settler history defines the character of so many of the small towns where I grew up. The same settlers who created this little town. This museum is a fascinating combination of settler and  post- and anti-colonial history. The first room – or perhaps just the first I walk into – tells the story of David Livingstone, missionary, medic and explorer of Africa. Livingstone is famous for many things, one being, reportedly, being the first European to look on “the smoke that thunders” on an exploratory trip down the Zambezi river in the mid-1800s. Maps in the museum trace Livingstone’s journeys. Glass cabinets trace his family tree, complete with photographs of the house where he was born and the story of his wife. I trip from case to case. Here, Livingstone’s letters. There, Livingstone’s hat and coat. There is something old about the room. Slanting sunlight filters through the high windows and lights up specs of dust. It feels as though this display is awkward. I suppose the history is a little awkward – how does a town named after a foreign explorer celebrate its history and maintain proud, Zambian post-colonial “street-cred”? So the Livingstone section of the museum remains, probably, as it has been for 20 years. A fascinating little time-capsule of a history that remains important even when people might prefer to forget.

The rest of the museum is fairly predictable, with a few interesting bits and pieces on slavery and stories of early modern Zambia. I’m glad I visited but wish it was more specific. So many museums in southern Africa tell the same broad, generic story instead of delving deeper in the peculiarities of the specific town.

Back to the hotel and time to change before the next bit of exploring. On the way back, I notice the train station set back from the road. A cursory internet search earlier in the day suggested that few trains still run through Livingstone but the night before we could hear them shunting and setting off. It’s a comforting sort of noise. I wonder, idly, as I wander by, about taking a train to Livingstone one day.

After a quick lunch, the hotel calls us a cab and we head off to the falls. The magic of water. 550,000 cubic litres of water travel over these falls every minute in the wet season. The volume of water is too huge to imagine. We’re visiting in winter when only about a tenth of the peak-season water flows. Still, it is spectacular. From the top of the falls we look out, across flat water sliding smoothly around rocks, trees and tiny islands and disappearing. We escape the determined curio-sellers and head down to the “rain forest”. Beyond the falls and the river, in all directions, is dry winter veld. Yet, here is a tiny forest sustained by the spray from the falls. Green grass, tall trees, trailing creepers, pretty little purple flowers.

We cross the bridge connecting the headland and the mainland. As we do, we begin to see the rainbow. This area opposite the falls is constantly doused in spray. Before long we’re soaked. As a result of this spray, a permanent rainbow curves around the rockface. I turn back from the other side of the bridge and look back at a full double rainbow from the rock to the water.

We wander the falls for two hours and still haven’t seen enough. We stop at each look-out point and each place is different. We take a hundred pictures. Along a path, we come upon a German couple watching the strangest parrot-like birds that laugh a dirty laugh as they fly off from tree to tree.  We stand for a while opposite the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe, waiting to see if a bungee jumper will jump off while we are there.

It’s just a few minutes before the taxi returns to collect us but we quickly head off along another path labelled “best photographic path” – too good to resist. From there, we can see fantastic views of the falls from a little further away. We’re on the look-out, of course, for animals – this is a game reserve. Instead of the elephants and antelope we’ve been warned about, our path is blocked by a family of baboons. We edge closer, looking for a  way around them but the babies are playing in the trees and the adults are preening and there is no way we can pass by without risking falling down the high cliffs.

We return to the hotel past the river turned burnt orange by the sunset. It is so beautiful. Picture-postcard Africa. The next few days pass in a blur of meetings and discussions and work. On the last night, we spend two hours taking a sunset cruise on the river. Again, it is magical. We spot elephants and hippos and watch water-bird fishing as the setting sun sets the river on fire.

As I sit squashed into a plane full of tourists on the way home, with the old couple next to me bickering about the service they received at their apparently over-priced lodge, I watch Livingstone fall away. I’m thinking about travel and change and identity. All the placed I have travelled to have their own magic and I have loved almost all of them; some just to visit, some perhaps one day to live. But traveling in countries that share some of the same history of migration, colonialism and liberation is always particularly special. It’s less about exploring, less about discovering and more about reflecting. It’s a kind of travel that always leaves me richer as I return home, south, across the winter-dry veld.

The Great Shoe Search

Adventures, Gear, South Africa

A few years ago, I found myself in South Korea with winter approaching and no proper closed shoes. All the women’s closed shoes I could find seemed to be 6-inch heels – not ideal for snowy winter. So, with some trepidation, I did something I’ve never done before and spent a large amount of money on a pair of trail boots. The prettiest little boots in all the world. I’ve never looked back.

These boots have become my everyday shoes. I wear them to work. I wear them for walking. I wear them when I’m in the field visiting rural homesteads and looking at goats. I even wear them when I’m shopping or out with friends. Not that I spend much time out with friends. In fact, work and goats occupy most of the hours of most days. Which makes the boots ideal. They’re comfortable, functional and suitable for all kinds of weather, work and mud.

My boots have become something of a part of an identity. They represent a certain kind of life and a certain set of choices. Sadly, boots don’t last forever, particularly if you’re wearing them every day. Thus began the Great Shoe Search. I knew what I wanted but most South African shops don’t sell Korean hiking boots, so the trick was going to be finding an acceptable alternative.

It turns out I’ve become something of a trail-shoe snob. I am very particular about the kind of way in which I want the shoes to feel on my feet. I’m also rather fussy about the style. These are going to be work shoes so I’d prefer to avoid the headache of having to find clothes to match shoes in neon orange and pink.

The search has taken rather a while. This is partly because I live, at least most of the time, in a part of the world without a lot of shops. I took the opportunity of a trip to the Western Cape to scour the Somerset Mall but failed to find anything I liked. Now, having moved to Johannesburg (temporarily), I was determined to find a new pair of shoes. This was becoming somewhat urgent as my current boots were really beginning to come apart at the seams, which is particularly problematic because I appeared not to have any other shoes. I’m sure I used to, but I seemed not to anymore.

Determination finally paid off. I spent a morning in a shopping centre, visiting everyone outdoor store and every shoe shop that might possibly sell boots. No joy. Finally, I gave up and caught the train to another centre, where I repeated the process. I was close to admitting defeat when finally I came across a store that I’d heard might carry the same brand of shoes as my Korean boots. I walked in the door and there, right in front of me, was a pair of boots I’d seen on the internet and decided might work. This particular “model” hadn’t been available in any of the other shoe shops I’d been to. Now, here it was – on sale. I searched for my size and hurried to try them on.

They’re perfect. The perfect replacements for my pretty little boots. They’re less inconspicuous – more clearly boots.  But that’s okay. Perhaps it’s a good thing. I start a new adventure on Monday morning and now I can do so with brand new boots. In the meantime, I’m setting off for a long walk on a beautiful autumn day in the leafy suburbs to wear in my new boots.

Take-off

Adventures, Airports

Early morning airport. It’s still dark when I arrive. Inside the airport is bright and clean and quiet. Too early even for the airport annoncements. Too early.

A woman in a brown frilly dress and sparkly high-heel shoes walks by. Her eyes are dead, tired. A young couple struggles past – she pushing a loaded trolley, he in a wheelchair.

Downstairs, a man sits alone at a food-court table. Around him, counters are closed, neon signs are dark, chairs are still stacked on tables. He leans close to his laptop, typing furiously.

A man stands with his suitcase, staring blankly into the window-display of a still-closed airport bookshop. He starts as the shop clerk begins to roll up the security doors, and walks away.

Check in. A slow, empty space. So different from the chaos of families and groups and nervous first-time-flyers of the afternoon.

Security checkpoint is quiet. In the queue, a few people chat – acquaintances chance met at the airport. I smile thinking of similar chance meetings. Others in the line stand silent. Blank faces. Tired eyes. Hollow people waiting for the day to catch up with their wakefulness. Waiting for the day to begin.

A brightly lit restaurant offers coffee, greasy breakfast, muesli, yoghurt. Whatever it takes to get you through the day. To get you to the day. A day of work. A day of meetings. I stand, waiting for my take-away coffee and people-watch. Waiting.

My flight is called. A warning: boarding is about to begin. Waiting.

A man sits in the seats at the next gate, watching, tense. As if he is avoiding his own flight. His sandy hair brushes the collar of his casual shirt. Shorts and sandals. Unusual for the businessman’s 6am flight.

Two schoolboys sit nearby. Wide black and white ties, black blazers, school trousers. School uniform. Flying home for the break? One reads his book. One plays on his cellphone.

Next to them, a well-dressed, fashionable man. Not that I know much about fashion these days, but he is distinct; different from the standard dark-suited men. His shirt is tight, his hair spiked, he wears what must be designer jeans. He sits tik-tik-typing on his laptop, looking harried and rushed and self-important.

We wait.

Beside me sits a women in a red shirt and black skirt. Just a touch unstylish. A little messy. Perhaps some kind of lecturer? Later an overheard conversation on the plane: she is a recruitment specialist.

Boarding begins and I join the queue. Behind me, colleagues chat away in a mix of English and Zulu, laughing at some shared joke. Ahead, a good looking man with salt-and-pepper hair drags a black suitcase. It is one of the newer ones – a well-made hard case with a single handle, cabin-baggage size.

The line moves forward. We can see the plane. The sun has just begun to streak the overcast sky orange-pink. The line moves forward. I am with them, among them – these early-morning work-zombies. Flying to Johannesburg just for a day. Thousands of kilometres for a single meeting. The line moves forward.

The plane is cool and fresh. First flight of the day.  I slide into my window seat. A semi-regular seat. Today I sit in 23A. Last week it was 23F. They announce that the name of today’s pilot is Zooty. The plane fills up.

Safety demonstration. The same safety demonstration as every other time. I try to remember what it was like hearing that for the first time, the first time I flew (at least that I can remember) ten years ago. I can’t recall. I can’t imagine a time before these instructions were so familiar. I can’t remember how it was before travelling was so normal, so natural, so always.

We wait.

The plane taxis and picks up speed. That familiar lift, that moment of lightness as we take to the air. I exhale. The day begins.

As the sugar-cane fields and the silver sea drop away below me, I’m thinking of the next step, the next phase, the next adventure. A step, I hope, towards a life less ordinary. A life many airports away.