Welcome to Zambia

The border between Botswana and Zambia is a river -- actually a junction of rivers, and four different countries close together, so political wrangling has kept the planned bridges from being built.

So you cross the border by boat. In our case it was this speedboat, which took us and our luggage across in four separate trips.

Trucks also have to cross the river by boat, and you see the ferries carrying them across, one truck at a time.

So it's not surprising that we saw the miles-long line of trucks long before we got to the river. Drivers routinely wait in line for days to cross the border.

And the lines are just as long on the Zambian side. Improving the flow of goods would make a huge difference in the quality of life of this part of Africa.

Welcome to Botswana

This is the Botswana equivalent of orange plastic cones closing off a lane on the highway.

No pictures allowed at the actual border crossing, where we had to go through a hoof and mouth disease prevention cleaning, consisting of marching in place on an old rag soaked with chemicals. Then we were told that we had to clean the soles of all of the shoes in our luggage as well, so the trailers containing our bags were unloaded there on the side of the road, and we all dug around for our shoes, wiped the soles on the old rag, dried them as best we could on clumps of grass, and repacked them.

(Of course, as Russell noted afterwards, there is nothing to stop animals going back and forth across the border as many times as they want and no one disinfects their feet.)

I loved this sign.

Victoria Falls

I take back everything I said about airports being all alike. Large international airports may all be alike, but smaller airports all have their own rules and rhythms. And Johannesburg may be in Africa, but it's becoming obvious that that's just a technicality. Johannesburg really exists on that rarefied plane of wealthy international cities -- New York, London, Shanghai, Tokyo -- that have more in common with each other than with the smaller towns and cities that may happen to share a country or a continent with them.

In Victoria Falls, we crowded into a small immigration hall with long lines snaking out the door. I already had a Zimbabwe visa so I got to stand in the shortest line, but it turned out that I was apparently the only person in the line who had one. And Zimbabwe visas are very long and elaborate, and filled out entirely by hand, so I waited and waited while each person in front of me had each piece of paperwork reviewed, each visa filled out, each fee paid, before finally getting my official stamp, and being admitted to Zimbabwe.

Which consisted of being allowed to duck behind the counter and retrieve my suitcase from a huge pile on the floor, go through one more security/x-ray checkpoint, and walk out into Victoria Falls to wait for the rest of the group.

The air was hot and dusty. These musicians were singing and dancing in the small parking lot outside the terminal. Curio sellers waved carved hippos and giraffes.

And Russell announced that we would be heading straight to the lodge and he would pick up the rest of our passports later.

Now we were in Africa.