Strip Pan Wrinkle

by David Fletcher

  He was right. As soon as he stepped from the Land Cruiser, he was assailed (eagerly but politely) by three youths clutching bundles of Zambian “kwacha” and offering him a market-beating rate of exchange. This currency is effectively unavailable outside Zambia, and hence these “kwacha touts”. But more significantly for Brian, their presence confirmed that this really was the border post, because border procedures within it called for a number of payments to be made. And these chaps were here to provide the currency for these payments, notwithstanding the fact that the authorities accepted foreign currency directly, and consequently the tens of thousands of kwacha being proffered to Brian could safely be ignored. He therefore declined their proposed deals as politely as he could and, with Sandra, made his way into what he was now confident was Zambia’s Sesheke border post.

  Inside, it was like a film set, where the set has been built to represent the interior of some run-down, third-world border post – complete with a framed faded photo of the president taken the day after he’d become president more than twenty years before, and a trio of slightly sweaty border officials sitting beneath it – behind a counter. It even had a cast of extras, a row of locals sitting against a facing wall and not apparently involved in any border-type activities, and four more of them not queuing at the counter where it appeared that all the real business of the post was conducted.

  Brian and Sandra approached the counter and, before they had an opportunity to queue or not to queue, they were directed to complete a couple of immigration forms and Brian was instructed to fill in a book. This was quite encouraging – and relatively straightforward – as the book was just the normal vehicle details register and the immigration forms were fairly standard – and quite legible. However, this was just the start of a process that would now take rather a long time…

  The opening minutes of this marathon were spent explaining to one of the officials, who was the passport supremo, that his two new customers had already purchased their Zambian visas back in England, and if he inspected the two passports now in his possession he would find them. (And he might even discover their exorbitant cost.) When this issue had been resolved, there was then a debate as to when they might get their passports back, as Brian and Sandra were now being beckoned to a back room – to purchase their “carbon tax voucher”. They were assured (more or less) that their passports would be returned to them when their other business was done. And they therefore made their way down a dark corridor to the office as directed – and just kept their fingers crossed as tightly as they could.

  On the way to the office, it became apparent that they were in a building that would have heaved a sigh of relief to have been described as just ramshackle and not as “disgustingly shambolic”. Inside the office itself, this less-than-salubrious ambiance was maintained – if not reinforced. For here, as well as a patched ceiling and a worn floor, there was a little gang of desks arranged in such a way that the single occupant of the office who sat behind them had about 90% of the floor space, leaving only 10% for his guests, or approximately one square yard (when the door was closed). From here, his guests could marvel at the disorder on display on each of his desks and at a shelf on the wall behind him, full of lever-arch files and leaning inwards at such an angle that it was only a matter of time before the files were no longer on it.

  Brian was given a form to fill in. It required all the information he had already written in that book on the counter – and then some more. Fortunately, when he had been provided with the Land Cruiser, he had also been provided with all the information concerning the vehicle that he would ever need, except, as he now discovered, its insurance details and, in particular, the name of the insurance company and the policy number. Well, he wasn’t going to admit to that, and instead he found the name of a Namibian roadside assistance company and recorded this as the insurance company – and its telephone number as the policy number. The official was already distracted with some other paperwork, and Brian was filling in the form on the top of his printer (there was no other space). He therefore could not be observed even if the official became un-distracted. And anyway, Brian reckoned that his form would soon be in one of those lever-arch files on that shelf, in which case, it would soon become untraceable as it joined the avalanche of all the other forms when gravity finally won out over optimism and the shelf parted company with its files. So business done – at a cost of two-hundred and fifty Namibian dollars (which is equivalent to as many Zambian kwacha as you might like to imagine).

  Brian now took his wife back to the counter, where they were immediately escorted out of the building, past a midden of discarded bottles and cans – towards a caravan… .

  Now, these days, the term “caravan” can far too easily convey the image of some huge, sleek, finely-finished and fully-equipped “carriage of the road”, in which one can spend not just a weekend but, if one so wished, the remainder of one’s life. But this caravan did not accord with that image. Not one little bit. Instead, it was small, if not tiny; it was not sleek but more the rather humpy shape of a traditional 1950s caravan (because that’s probably what it was); it was not finely-finished but just plain “finished”, and it was fully-equipped only with the twin features of irreversible dilapidation and serious decay.

  Brian and Sandra stepped inside this novel office and the first thing Brian noticed was the ground beneath it (through the gaps in its floor), and then he noticed that in its former life it had slept just one person (that was half a person on one bunk and the other half on the other). Either that or it had been made for hobbits… It certainly hadn’t been made for a perspiring, six-foot two Englishman, who now had to hunch over as he filled in another bloody form (for road insurance?) whilst, at the same time, trying not to peer down the cleavage of a lady who was wearing a very revealing dress, not normally found within the confines of a border post. She was the dispenser of the road insurance (?) document, for which Brian, still hunching, had to pay over rather more South African rand than he thought reasonable – for what was, after all, no more than a scrappy bit of paper that would only be of any use to him for the mere three days he would spend in the country. In fact, the five-hundred and forty rand he paid for this (say £50) made the fifty rand he then had to pay for another piece of paper seem like a really good deal. This one was issued by the lady’s diminutive male assistant and was three inches square, yellow and, as to its purpose, something of a mystery. And there was now only one more piece of paper to secure.

  This was obtained from a gentleman in a freight container on the other side of the midden. Someone had taken a metal-cutter to one of the sides of this container and had carved out a long “window”. This window was also a counter, for at its bottom was a rough wooden shelf, on which there were more forms. By completing one of these, filling in another book with one’s vehicle details – and handing over US$40 to the gentleman within – one could acquire, this time, a transport tax (?) document (another scrappy bit of paper), and then one was able finally (and thankfully) to redeem one’s passport and the passport of one’s wife – and sod off. Yes, the passports were still there, in the conventionally built part of the border post, and Brian and Sandra were now free to depart.

  However, it had not only taken them an hour to win this freedom, but they had also had to pay a heavy price for it. For with a carbon tax charge, a road insurance levy(?), a transport tax(?) and a fee for a square of yellow paper, they had parted with the equivalent of over £110. And who knew what exchange rates had been “chosen” in arriving at all these multi-denominational charges – and where that money went. For sure as hell, it didn’t go on maintaining the border post or, almost certainly, on overpaying its cast of officials. Nor did it go into streamlining the border procedures applied to all those overloaded lorries around the place (which could apparently spend up to three weeks getting across the border). But on the plus side, Brian and Sandra both now understood why there had been so little traffic on the way to the border in Namibia and
why they had been the only motorists being processed in the border post for the whole of their time there. Yes, one had to be mad to take a vehicle into Zambia, especially for just a few days. And one had to be a raving lunatic to take it in through this Sesheke border post where, despite the amiable nature of its staff, it was a shambles and a rip-off and, one could legitimately say, a complete fucking disgrace.

  The road to Livingstone wasn’t quite so bad. But it wasn’t perfect. For, to start with, after a mile or so, it passes through the town of Sesheke, which might best be described as looking better the further from it one is when one’s looking. And then there was the road itself, and here the problem was that the tarmac from which it was made had rather too many edges. Yes, as well as the edges to the tarmac at its sides, there were quite a few edges to the tarmac around the holes within it. And there really were more holes in the road’s surface than there were in an Ed Balls economic argument – albeit, unlike any of those that he’s ever made, this Zambian road did at least lead somewhere… Anyway, it was probably the frequency and depth of these potholes that explained the leisurely progress of all other road users. That is to say, the ten kilometres per hour that was being managed by the handful of taxis that were encountered on the way, all of which looked capable of at least twenty kilometres per hour if not slightly more, and all of which were painted in a hideous shade of blue. Brian had never before seen the “bright pale” tone of this colour, other than on seaside buckets and spades and on toddlers’ building bricks. But now it was on all of these official taxis, and could only have been chosen as a deterrent against theft; for who in their right mind would have wanted to steal one of these – other than the colour blind and possibly the odd children’s entertainer?

  Well, other than these slow-moving eyesores – and a couple of bullock carts and the potholes – Brian and Sandra could still have been in Namibia. The two hundred kilometres of road to their destination passed through a similar landscape to that of Caprivi. But then Livingstone appeared before them and all was about to change…

  Quite clearly, Livingstone was a sizable town. It was easily the biggest conurbation they had encountered since leaving Windhoek, and it even had road junctions with traffic lights. It also had its own ambiance, a special blend of obvious prosperity and rampant neglect, so typical of many other African settlements that have, within their bailiwick, a world-famous destination. And destinations don’t come much more world-famous than the Victoria Falls. On the subject of which… Brian and Sandra now had to seek out their accommodation at the Falls, for which purpose they employed a hand-held GPS (the Land Cruiser’s own having abandoned them at the border).

  It was useless. In fact, it was worse than useless. It instructed them to turn left – repeatedly. It directed them around a roundabout – and then back around it. And it informed them with increasing frequency that it was ‘recomputing, recomputing’. Brian would have done better with a magnetised dildo. And in the end, he did quite well enough with his own sense of direction. Having switched off the stupid damn machine, he just drove out of town to where he thought the Falls might be, and therefore to where their hotel might be. And there it was: a smart set of gates and a sign to the “Zambezi Sun Hotel”. They had found their accommodation.

  It wasn’t a lodge – obviously. It was an enormous “resort hotel”, complete with faux African architecture and a group of faux African dancers outside reception. But that is to be more than a little jaundiced. For this was also a hostelry that offered air-conditioned comfort, a manicured setting, complete security, entertainment in the shape of its other guests (or should that be “in the shape of the shape of its other guests”?), and a situation that was within walking distance of the Victoria Falls.

  Well, the Falls would have to wait. There was a lunchtime visit to the bar to attend to first. After all, it had been a very long and very demanding morning, and liquid refreshment was now a priority. So very soon, Brian and his wife were ensconced in the pool-side restaurant-cum-bar, with drinks in their hands – and bemusement in their minds. This bemusement was as a result of those other guests – already. Yes, first in their capacity to make a loaded plate of comestibles disappear faster than even David Blaine could have done, and then in their unwillingness to conceal the long-term results of their dietary habits. And there was one chap in particular, wading around in the shallow zone of the pool, who could clearly not see the absurdity of combining a posing pouch with an imposing paunch. Or there again, maybe it was Brian and Sandra who were being absurd. He wasn’t harming anyone, and in a way he was being very courageous. After all, Brian would never have dared to entrust such an important part of his anatomy to such an insubstantial piece of fabric, no matter how big his stomach. So you had to give the bloke credit for that. Just as you had to give credit to Sandra for agreeing to Brian’s suggestion…

  It was now early afternoon and hotter than hell at its hottest. So Brian’s proposal that they take a stroll to the Falls was not only foolhardy but also unlikely to be met with Sandra’s agreement. But she did agree. Not least because Brian had assumed that the stroll in question would be a short one and had presented this assumption as fact. They would not be out for long, and, after their quick visit, they could soon be back in their air-conditioned haven of a room. It would take no more than minutes.

  In the event, it didn’t. Albeit that the number of minutes actually taken was a shade above that anticipated – by a factor of about ten. The Zambezi Sun Hotel is adjacent to the Victoria Falls, but not intimately adjacent – more geographically adjacent. As such, there is a long walk to the Falls – if one wishes to observe them from the prime lookout. And this walk is not without its ups and downs, not just in Brian and Sandra’s relationship as they undertook it, but also in its physical nature. And a flight of steps, where the top of the flight is not visible from its bottom, is really not what one wants to encounter on such a roasting afternoon.

  So… the Victoria Falls would be a memorable experience for both our travellers, even though foremost in their memories might not be the torrent of water at the Falls themselves, but instead the torrent of perspiration that accompanied their visit there. The Falls are a spectacle, but at the same time, a spectacle-challenge, as, every few yards, Brian had been obliged to wipe his eyepieces before stumbling on. And if this description of a privileged witnessing of one of the marvels of nature betrays a certain sense of churlishness if not downright joylessness on the part of the witnesses, then it must be borne in mind that these particular witnesses were both aspiring to becoming full-blown curmudgeons as their twilight years approached. Such an ambition would, of course, hardly make them unique, and in no way would it prevent them still finding enjoyment and entertainment in a genuinely fulfilling experience. Like, for example, when they learnt later that same afternoon that somebody had shot Colonel Gaddafi…

  It was on the telly in their room, an account of how some Libyan patriots, on finding their national monster, had decided immediately that meting out prompt natural justice was far more important than creating jobs-for-life for a gang of overpaid lawyers in some overseas international court. Especially when that same court would provide a platform for the rantings of said monster for many years to come, to say nothing of a comfortable no-cost-to-him lifestyle for the rest of his life. So… well done, the patriots.

  Well done also to whoever had prepared the evening’s buffet in the restaurant. It was quite a spread. Even if it didn’t include that classic Zambian dish known as “Sesheke Pudding”. This is a dessert that has a base made of layers of paper, a filling of interminable and irritating bureaucracy, a crust of time-consuming procedures – and is normally served up in a crumbling and ramshackle container. And despite its total lack of appeal, it is an extremely costly concoction for all those who are obliged to taste it, and it should be avoided if at all possible. Especially by those who are travelling with a vehicle and who might just be harbouring some curmudgeonly aspirations…

  10.r />
  Brian thought it might be a little cooler in the morning. It wasn’t particularly, but he and Sandra had come to Livingstone to see the Victoria Falls, and they couldn’t let their exhausting excursion of the previous day put them off entirely. So, directly after breakfast, they set off again, this time with more resolve and now a clearer understanding of what was in store.

  Well, perhaps it was this clearer understanding that caused the resolve to shrivel so rapidly… However, they still managed another inspection of this great marvel of nature before the resolve disappeared entirely, and they even managed to accommodate an extended stay at a lookout. Because, from this shaded observation point, they could see the Victoria Falls Bridge, and so confirm their long-held belief that bungee-jumping made about as much sense as granite-chewing or carrot-spinning. Only, of course, with granite-chewing and carrot-spinning, one didn’t risk one’s life in the process.

  Nevertheless, there was no shortage of punters for the more dangerous and clearly demented diversion on offer here. And, as they peered at the bridge, one after another of these ill-advised idiots launched themselves off it, relying, for their continued integrity, on a length of what they normally used just to hold up their drawers. And OK, it was probably a darn sight thicker and a darn sight stronger than most knicker-elastic, but these leapers were a whole lot heavier and a great deal more susceptible to multiple fractures than most knickers. And who hasn’t experienced that alarming phenomenon known as “the elastic’s gone”? Easy to deal with when it’s only a pair of drawers in peril, but not so easy – or indeed in any way feasible – when it’s one’s life in the balance.

  However, thought Brian, if there really were so many people prepared to jump off bridges and indeed to pay for the “privilege” of doing so, why hasn’t someone made a serious attempt to find some rather more worthwhile outlets for their madcap inclinations? Hell, we’re still using crash dummies, for example. And if these guys are prepared to lay out good cash for a short-lived (largely) predictable vault into space, think what they’d pay for a high-speed collision with a wall, and a collision where they’d keep their no-claims… Or how about mine clearance? Not in the conventional way – obviously. But through some sort of competitive challenge – involving horseshoe throwing, say, with, of course, the compulsory retrieval by hand of all those horseshoes that failed to hit a mine. And if that didn’t provide the necessary degree of “buzz”, these irrepressible danger-seekers could always be encouraged to become cartoonists, and then to be very careless in what they chose to lampoon. And then the thrill wouldn’t last for just a few seconds but probably for a whole bloody lifetime.