Zimbabwe 2024

Across The Border: From Zambia To Zimbabwe 

All we ask Caroline at the lodge for is a taxi to the border. What we get is a driver named Steven who does that bit, but also chaperones us through the slightly confusing Zambian exit system and then drives us over the Victoria Falls Bridge as far as Zimbabwe immigration where he points out a smiling guy in a blue T-shirt. The smiling guy is Kenny, and before we know it we’ve skipped the line, got the obligatory stamps in our passports and been driven to the very door of our next stay. Expert courier service for the price of a taxi. It’s how it is here: service repeatedly above and beyond.

Into Zimbabwe, where the currency has collapsed and there is a severe shortage of paper money – a fact which sounds dramatic but conversely makes life easier for the traveller. The US dollar has taken over as the standard currency, is the only cash you see changing hands and is the money dispensed at ATMs. There’s never any mention of Zimbabwe currency on menus or in shops, not even in the supermarket. What’s more, the crisis has accelerated the move towards a cashless society which means that Visa is now accepted virtually everywhere. Trains, however, are a different problem – it was our intention to travel Zimbabwe by rail as much as possible, only to discover that, somewhat bizarrely, passenger services have not yet resumed since COVID. No trains, no currency. Interesting.

We may have moved into a new country but we haven’t travelled very far, we’re now on the Zimbabwe side of the Zambezi in the town actually named Victoria Falls. Perspectives and views of the falls are very different from this side – the Zambezi flows from Zambia, down the cascade and then becomes the border, so consequently a lot more of the falls are visible from the Zimbabwe side.

Here’s a few facts about the Victoria Falls. In terms of the height from which the water drops (107 metres) these falls remarkably don’t even make the top 800 falls in the world. However, the width at 1737m is 10th in the world, and the volume of water is 13th. By combination of these three factors (and I don’t quite know how they do the maths) Victoria is placed in the world’s top three with Iguazu and Niagara. One thing is certain: in the rainy season, the largest unbroken curtain of water in the world is right here.

How interesting it is to follow the trails here on this side, it’s more than just the magnificent views which are different, in fact as we make our way along the route we seem to pass through different micro climates. The dense spray from the crashing falls drifts on the breeze, rises high above the gorge and then drops to soak the trees on the Zimbabwe side – after which, water drips down from the branches, forming a mini rainforest along the top of the escarpment. Step just a few yards away and the ground is deep dust, the shrubs parched and crisped, the trees leafless and bony. The drifting spray obviously stops along a very definite line. A natural biosphere, if you will. 

Whilst in the mini rainforest section we walk under a false but full rainfall, the heavy drops soaking our clothes as quickly as it cools our flesh, then seconds later the trees are barren and leafless instead of lush and green, the dust under our feet an inch deep rather than washed away. The sun is once again baking.

As we stand gazing across the gorge, we picture in our minds just what an awesome sight this must be at high water – so much so that we actually have a conversation about returning, just to see the falls at their most mighty – a rarity in itself as we don’t discuss returning anywhere too often. Well, only now and again. Along the ridge, wildlife sightings are frequent, these guys are obviously used to human presence. Bushbuck, ringed mongoose and baboons pass within inches and happily feed, completely unperturbed by our closeness, and then, just to prove how unpredictable sightings can be, when we detour to use the public washrooms we are greeted by five warthogs feeding right outside the door.

Entering the town of Victoria Falls is like awakening from a long sleep: suddenly we are cast into a world of tarmac roads, good restaurants, bars and plentiful taxis. After so many weeks of restrictive environments it feels like liberation. We can actually go out for the evening.

“Doesn’t it feel great to be normal?!”, I say to Michaela inside Zulu Restaurant on our first night. Now that’s not a sentence I’ve heard myself say too often.

Alongside such change come adventure companies, event agents, music groups touring restaurants and looking for tips….and tourists. Plus, inevitably, a big hike in prices – still not the prices of home but a hefty increase nonetheless. If that sounds a bit like we don’t like it then I’ve hit the wrong note, because we love it here, it’s a terrific little adventure town and it really does feel great to be soaking up its familiarity. Who’d have thought that in a journey through Africa we’d get excited about finding a tapas bar.

A couple of kilometres out of town is The Big Tree, probably the most remarkable boabab we’ve seen so far on our travels. This huge hulking tree has been carbon dated at up to an incredible 1,200 years old. If that’s not astonishing enough, zoom in on the words on the sign next to the tree and be astonished some more…and maybe amused by the hyena story. As boababs go, this is indeed a big tree.

The Big Tree

The bungee jump off the bridge looks a little too scary, the famed Zambezi Swing likewise, perhaps because you have to make that crucial leap yourself. (Actually, I am just a little tempted by both, but it’s a definite NO from she who must be obeyed). Ah, but then there’s the zipline across the gorge, hurtling through the air with the Zambezi way below and the Lookout restaurant above, the opposite cliff racing towards us. Yep, that’s a goer.

It’s quite different from other ziplines which we’ve done – for a start, there’s no far end. On this one, we race downwards, then travel up the final incline, then back down, back and forth until we’re reeled in by one of the operator guys. Oh, and it’s the first one we’ve done in tandem. It’s a proper thrill though, looking down on the Zambezi as we shoot through the sky, crocodiles waiting in the water below just on the off chance the harness doesn’t do its job.

Take a look at the video …

There’s a touch of culture to indulge in here too, in the shape of an open air theatre hosting an hour long show named Simunye. This is a theatre which finds a focus for local youth, funding those with talent and maybe higher aspirations who would otherwise be worlds away from any such similar opportunity. It’s great to be able to contribute to such a laudable enterprise and at the same time lose ourselves in the show. The show itself is sixty minutes of rhythmic drumming and contemporary versions of tribal dancing with a storyline combining human emotion and mystic beliefs – think African tradition meets Lion King meets Miss Saigon. It’s very lively and the hour passes in no time.

Victoria Falls town has turned out to be a little corner of foodie heaven. Zulu Restaurant with its traditional Zimbabwe dishes, Marula the tapas bar, Goat with its amazing river fish and gentle live music….and Lookout Restaurant high on the escarpment with magnificent views of the gorge and the bridge, outstanding food and, wait for it, draught beer. This great little town, touristy as it may be, has been a fabulous breath of fresh air and the perfect pause button as we move inexorably southwards. 

It’s been great, we have so enjoyed our stay here. Livingstone was terrific, Victoria Falls even better. We move on from this super little town with batteries recharged, adrenaline fix satisfied and an enthusiasm which will embrace whatever it is that Zimbabwe holds next. Sad to leave, excited to move on. It ever was thus.

What awaits is in fact the city of Bulawayo…..and more beyond….

FINAL THOUGHT: Kenny, the guy at the beginning with the blue T-shirt, became our regular driver: wherever we were, whatever we were doing, we could WhatsApp Kenny and he would either turn up smiling his unshakable smile or would send another driver in his place. Within minutes. Victoria Falls is a town for daytime and everything is pretty much asleep by 9pm, around which time each night we would snuggle into our big comfortable bed at the lodge and talk through how wonderful today has been. And every day has been special, one of those little spells where it all comes home and we pinch ourselves at the fact we are absolutely living our dream. Some places can do this to you…..

Travelling Back In Time In A City Called Slaughter

You know how sometimes a place name captures your imagination and sounds and feels exotic? For some reason Bulawayo hits those notes for me, though with no real reason – we don’t know much about it and it doesn’t exactly have the ring of a Kathmandu, a Timbuktu or even a Casablanca, yet somehow it’s been calling. Which is how we come to be being driven by the ever reliable Kenny to Victoria Falls airport to board a small but smart Air Zimbabwe plane to the country’s second city.

One thing we have learnt about it is how to say it, and it’s definitely not the “Buller-way-oh” pronunciation that the media back home would have us believe. The first syllable is “blu”, as in “blunt” which, with the “o” at the end being less rounded than in British English, means that the actual pronunciation sounds rather like someone with a Cockney accent saying “blue whale”.  Try it and you’ll see. However you say it, Bulawayo is indeed a city which in native tongue is named Slaughter, emanating it is said from the fact an African warrior leader who seriously impressed Livingstone, one Mzilikazi, used the site to slay his enemies in the 19th century. 

Wide boulevards bring us through the bustling City of Slaughter to our next home….

Beyond the large wooden doors there is a dimly lit interior where foreboding portraits of stern looking men look down from mahogany panelled walls. The creaking of the floorboards echoes in the silence; the hushed tones make even our breathing sound too loud. Huge bound ledgers sit upon a central desk, speaking of days gone by: a members’ register, a ledger for suggestions, a betting ledger which records wagers between members. A voice from the gloom. “Welcome to the Bulawayo Club”, says a guy lurking in the dimmed light of reception, his dulcet tones bouncing off the walls despite speaking quietly.

The elevator has a grille and an uneven floor. As the grille opens on the second floor, he is already there, as if he’s teleported ahead of our ride, on Floor Two faster than the creaking elevator can make it. In Room 12, the vaulted ceilings are high, the windows with their cracked paint look out on to the city, the oversized silver taps show tarnished Victorian splendour above the moulded bath. Drapes billow even though the windows are closed. Wooden wardrobes with nylon tassels on the handles stand in corners, a writing desk invites the composition of letters home from explorers or pioneers. The toilet flush requires biceps to activate, takes an age to refill. Somewhere just outside our window the 21st century is in progress, but not in here, not inside the time warp which is the Bulawayo Club.

A former industrial powerhouse, Bulawayo has according to the internet suffered successive and significant downturns in the last fifty years as the double blow of de-industrialisation and a strife torn economy has taken its toll. Nevertheless its wide tree-lined avenues and bold, grand architecture clearly speak of former glories when the city, its strategic location and its surrounding savannah were coveted by more than just the British.

It’s humid today, the streets are clammy, the skies are overcast. The wide boulevards are punctuated with the resplendent colour of the jacaranda trees and the colourful stalls of street vendors. People mill everywhere on this Sunday afternoon, chattering loudly, doing business in the markets, hauling families through the malls. If this is a city in downturn then it must have been mighty lively before. And yet…

And yet it doesn’t take long to see that, in Bulawayo’s case, bustling doesn’t necessarily equate to thriving. Many of those street vendors are selling items of minuscule value, such as individual sweets being sold one at a time, old men whose entire stock is ten bags of crisps and four bottles of Coke. Women sell oranges outside boutiques, mums with babies hold out hands for cash, those trendy boutiques in the shopping malls are outnumbered by shutters-down bankrupt stores. Life for some is a struggle beneath these majestic buildings; the Blue Whale has seen better times.

The grand architecture and spacious boulevards tell their own story, one of colonial grandeur and significant standing, of wealth and investment and of historical pride. Beautifully designed buildings with detailed balconies and majestic porticos border the avenues whose width speak of glamour and power. Bulawayo feels like a city with a long proud history, yet we know it is also a city with a history of troubles and of bloodshed – there’s no doubting this is a place with stories to tell and secrets to keep, one which will be enthralling to explore. 

Our footsteps echo embarrassingly as we cross the hall towards the bar. One guy on a laptop sips his beer in silence, the girl behind the counter smiles sweetly but is slow to serve. There’s a language barrier before we get as far as a Windhoek beer and a G&T, yet the stock behind the bar is distinctly international: several Scotch whiskeys, Gordon’s gin, Tia Maria. Rose’s lime juice. We order dinner, there’s no prices on the single sheet menu. There’s a closed door which leads to the snooker room, lists of club members who died in the world wars, a huge sweeping staircase and more framed paintings than in a dozen galleries.

Out in the hall the members’ ledger has entries on page one from decades ago, the suggestions book goes back still further. Some of the echoes on the wooden floor are not of today’s footfalls, they are the echoes of a grand colonial past, an age when the Bulawayo Club was strictly off limits to women, when the bar was filled with cigar smoke and ribald laughter, when iniquity was a privilege of the wealthy…

From the outside the Bulawayo Club is yet another of the city’s majestic buildings, inside its grandiosity is on a different level. At times we feel we are inside one of England’s great stately homes, at others wandering through an art gallery or maybe a museum, but stray down a different corridor and we are in the backrooms of a railway company’s offices in 1965. Whichever and whatever, to step onto the Bulawayo Club’s polished floorboards is to step into a different time, a bygone era.

Inside the club

Originally opened in 1895 when the city was in its infancy, the club sought to emulate Gentlemen’s Clubs elsewhere in the world, notably London. Rebuilt in the 1930s and only opened as a hotel to non-members in 2008, the club is now once again operated by the members whose names are listed in one of those weighty ledgers. Such renovations as have been carried out have served to restore and retain rather than reinvent: antlered heads of beasts watch over proceedings, probably still disapproving of the fact that women are now welcome too. A question hangs in the air: how did such an apparent bastion of white supremacy survive the Mugabe era? As it happens, we are soon to learn the answer.

Bulawayo boasts three museums of renown, the first of which to draw us in is the railway museum – I’m a sucker for anything to do with trains and railways. It would be easy to say this museum is a metaphor for the city: beautiful powerful steam engines trying hard to retain pride while their wooden floors turn to rot and their iron hulks crumble into rust. They are truly magnificent beasts though, all but one British built, standing here on lengths of track where the platforms of the central station used to burst with life.

And here amongst these iron horses is another piece of bygone splendour, the Rhodes Coach. This, of course, is Cecil Rhodes’ private mobile living quarters, plush enough to have received royalty – a railway carriage which could serve simultaneously as his apartment, his transport and his office, kitchen at one end, bathroom (with bath) at the other. Cecil Rhodes will, of course, appear again before we leave here. More than once.

Cecil Rhodes carriage

Immediately outside the electric gates of the club, city life goes on with street vendors scraping a living, discarded plastic littering the gutters and cars with missing fenders or even wing panels snaring a parking lot. In this city of mixed fortunes, virtually every outlet shown on Google maps as a restaurant turns out to be a fast food outlet where the furniture and the food are made from the same plastic. The Selborne, which looks so good on its website, is closed for a refit.

This, though, is the centre of the city, and as our days here unfold we are also to see the wealthy suburbs where grand well-built houses sit in large plots of land, two or three cars on the driveway. Life for some is a struggle beneath these majestic buildings. Not, it seems, for all.

The white tablecloth looks pure and pristine in the morning sunlight. It’s almost as if the Bulawayo Club has two characters, just as it would have in its days as a Gentlemen’s Club. By night the subdued lighting and liberal use of mahogany combine to form a dimly lit place with dark corners and even darker secrets. By day sunlight streams in through the atrium and bounces off those same wooden panels, breathing new life and light into even the furthest spaces.

Full English Sir? Oh I don’t mind if I do….coffee for me, a pot of tea for the lady. Thank you. You are most welcome Sir.

Bulawayo #2: The Blue Whale And Three White Rhinos

In attempting to describe Bulawayo, or even the part of Zimbabwe we have seen so far, it’s difficult to know where to start. Away from the hectic centre, the long roads out of the city are bordered by a suburbia filled with those who are clearly doing okay, big houses in large plots surrounded by security fences and filled with decorative plants. Yet the roads themselves are pitted, potholed nightmares evidencing lack of both maintenance and investment, many of the vehicles on them equally badly cared for.

The neighbourhood where we visit Dave who provides Michaela’s much needed haircut (Michaela: one of my best travel haircuts EVER, if not THE best!) is a haven away from the city where each house has its own courtyard, pleasant leafy corners to wile away the hours. It’s a million miles from the bustle, hustle and struggle of the inner city. Dave’s opinion is that there is very little in the way of middle ground or middle class in Zimbabwe – you are rich or you are poor. To us, there is much evidence that Zimbabwe is a country in difficulty, heavily compounded by the current drought and recent poor harvests.

Examples. This is a country with a proud railway history (as Rhodesia) which now has no passenger services whatsoever. With upkeep of railways bordering on non-existent, even freight from the mines and quarries now moves by road, further damaging the flagging surfaces. It is a country without its own currency. In April of this year the Government launched a new currency, the ZiG (Zimbabwe Gold), the sixth attempt to implement an independent tender in recent years, and, with virtually no cash yet in circulation, the sixth which seems doomed to failure.

Road surfaces are appalling, worse even than Malawi, large potholes and broken tarmac every few yards – several times people have said we were right to choose to fly from Victoria Falls as that particular road is in really poor condition. Law enforcement has dwindled through lack of resource to the point where drink driving laws are only enforced if an accident occurs – and there are plenty of those. Unregistered and unroadworthy trucks thunder down unsuitable back routes to avoid police road blocks. The smart Air Zimbabwe airline is now owned by Ethiopian. Perhaps as telling as anything, we see just outside Bulawayo a major dam and huge reservoir, now rendered useless due to an absence of management leaving the waters too contaminated to use. In the middle of a terrible drought, this huge manmade lake sits idle and unusable.

There is much talk of bribery and corruption, indeed the local rag headlines are filled with it daily. Poor governance seems to have broken the country and fragmented the economy, and in such circumstances it’s always the needy who suffer the most. Not only are the streets full of vendors scraping a living selling one sweet at a time, but we also see cartloads of illegal “wood poachers” heading out into the forest to fell trees to sell as firewood and, worst of all, families driven to fishing in the contaminated waters of the reservoir in search of a meal which may be the death of them. 

One guy we meet, we won’t name him, even says that without intervention by another nation to assist, he can’t see how things will get better any time soon. “What?”, I say, chancing my arm, “like the British did with Cecil Rhodes?”. “Yes”, he replies seriously, “like Cecil Rhodes”. Bloody hell, there’s a statement and a half, and not one we thought we’d hear. Zimbabwe is, after all, blessed with rich mineral resources. If China knows this, it’s probably licking its lips and flexing its financial muscles right now.

Our first excursion out of Bulawayo (our nickname of Blue Whale, born out of mishearing its pronunciation, has stuck) is to the Matobo (or Matopos) Hills, primarily to take a hike to view the ancient rock paintings of the San bushmen from around 2,000 years ago – there are over three thousand paintings within the area. But our guide has an immense surprise in store before we even get there: he knows where a group of white rhinos have settled this morning. What follows is a wildlife encounter to match any of those we’ve already enjoyed on this trip.

Leaving the truck we head out on foot into the bush, following unclear tracks that Blessing our guide seems to know well. As we approach a certain area, he begins to speak in hushed tones, then runs through a series of hand signals which we are to obey: one means “stay silent”, the others “stand dead still” and “crouch down”. And then, after twenty minutes or so, we are so near to the three rhinos, an unbelievably close encounter which is absolutely thrilling. Blessing’s senses are visibly heightened as he is, after all, suddenly responsible for naive tourists in the close company of potentially dangerous animals.

As the beasts begin to move, he tells us to stay dead still and breathe slowly, staying calm. The rhinos move by, but the male, the most dangerous of the three, is stirring. It’s time to head back to the vehicle for our own safety. But what an experience this has been.

You can hear our guide’s instructions on the short video above

Once the white rhino encounter is over, we head to what was Cecil Rhodes’ favourite place to sit and think, and which at his own request is his burial place. At the top of a prominent rock with huge panoramic views across the savannah, Rhodes’ body lays in a place he called “The View Of The World”. Now slightly changed to “World View”, it is a popular place for visitors. Rhodes of course cuts a massively controversial figure and there has in the past been some opposition to him being buried here in a site which was sacred to indigenous peoples. Apparently, when such opposition was expressed to Robert Mugabe, his response was that the location of the burial site was a good thing, and is reputed to have said that the fees paid by tourists is effectively Rhodes at last paying his taxes.

The power which Rhodes and his British South Africa Company accumulated is mind blowing. Backed 100% by both British Government and royalty, the Company plundered massive mineral riches, including diamonds, from these lands, acting as a de facto mercenary army along the way to achieve the stated aims. Wealth wise, he was the equivalent of a Bill Gates or Elon Musk of his time, even hoodwinking African KIngs into signing punitive contracts handing over exclusive mining rights to the Company, contracts which permitted achievement of those aims by whatever means were necessary.

Flip side of the coin. Rhodes’ philanthropic legacy is still plain 120 years after his death, these areas are peppered with schools, universities, hospitals and national parks which were funded and established by the other side of this controversial character, or bequeathed to the region in which he accumulated his vast fortune. Most still bear his name. So controversial is his influence in fact that opinion is still divided today between those who only see the theft of riches and those who weigh up both sides. 

As Brits of course we know the version of history we were taught at school, tempered by what we’ve learned since. Reading his story here in the very place where it unfolded, presented from a different angle, and listening to people’s opinions, is fascinating – and remarkable that a man who left such a giant mark on the world only lived to be 48.

Our final excursion out of the city is a hike around the Khami Ruins. Here, twenty odd kilometres out of Bulawayo, are the remains of an ancient city constructed largely using the dry stone walling techniques which we will see in more detail at our next destination – a technique which ultimately gives the country its name. Zimbabwe, in the local Shona language, means “stone houses”.

Khami was a city which housed a King, the capital city of the Torwa dynasty for around 200 years from the mid 15th century. From the hilltop location of Khami it is possible to see the layout of this ancient settlement, the royal residence protected and with restricted access at the highest point, the extensive area occupied by most of the settlement’s population below. It’s an absorbingly interesting place and one which whets our appetite for our next destination.

Time to leave the “Blue Whale” behind and explore more rural parts of Zimbabwe. In the absence of viable public transport options we’ve decided to drive ourselves on these potholed roads in the country which has one of the world’s worst records for road fatalities. I sign and date the rental car paperwork. It’s Friday the thirteenth. Good job we’re not superstitious.

As it happens, any such fears are soon allayed and forgotten: road surfaces improve quickly once out of town and the drive is as easy and stress free as we could wish it to be. And from here, our journey takes us to a truly amazing and spellbinding place….

The Lost City Of Great Zimbabwe 

We make our way along the dusty path from the sparsely populated car park having read something of the history and importance of the place we are approaching, but with little idea of just how engaging Great Zimbabwe is going to be. Listed by The Guardian newspaper as one of the world’s great lost cities and a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1986, this is a place of mystical charm and fantastic workmanship from centuries back. Such is the importance of this site that is from here that the newly independent Zimbabwe took its name (Zimbabwe = houses of stone).

It’s not uncommon when entering a lost city to let the imagination take over, that feeling of picturing the city as it was in its pomp, what life must have been like, how grand it must have felt to be in the court of the King. But here at Great Zimbabwe, there are extra elements: the intrigue of its narrow winding passageways, the evocative nature of the climb to the summit but, perhaps above all, the level of craftsmanship which went into its remarkably durable construction.

Constructed by the Bantu-Shona people between the 12th and 15th centuries, this city at 1100 metres above sea level may have been home to around 10,000 people, a considerable size settlement for this area at that time. An impressive amount of the structures remain, in three separate sections stretching across nearly 3 square miles in total. The dry stone method of construction has stood the test of time incredibly well, and as we stand at the foot of the mighty walls of the Great Enclosure our thoughts are hooked on the huge amount of effort which must have gone into the city’s creation.

Every single one of the stones in the construction needed to be moulded into the correct shape, a method which involved the making of fire followed by the application of water, enabling the rough granite to be fashioned into flat “bricks”. But there’s more: decorative linear features such as herringbone and chevron patterns, and sweeping radius corners via which the exterior walls curl around the concentric elipses of the main body, all add to the allure of this remarkable spectacle.

The sheer size of the sweeping curve of the wall of the Great Enclosure is astonishing: the largest intact section is 250 metres long and 11 metres high, but for us it’s that perfectly constructed curve which is perhaps the single most eye catching aspect. It takes quite a while to explore and to stand and stare, marvelling at the unbelievable number of shaped granite building blocks forming such impressive shapes. In the middle stands the Conical Tower, for some time a mystery in itself as to any practical function it may have had but now believed to be simply a show of power and wealth.

We climb to the summit of the Hill Ruins, as the name implies the highest of the three sections, soaking in the magnificent views, before descending down the steep, narrow pathway which is the very route used by those people all those centuries ago. It feels magical and mystical to be following in their footsteps down this unusual, tight passageway which quickly drops 100m from summit to ground.

On the flat field between the sites on this particular Saturday there is a rather more modern aspect on view: marquees, a stage and copious quantities of portable toilets all being put into place. Tomorrow this whole field will see a day of celebration, and the President himself will be here. September 15th is a newly inaugurated annual festival known as Munhumutapa Day, timed to coincide with the top man’s birthday on that very date. Munhumutapa is the path declared by President Mnangagwa to rebuild Zimbabwe for the benefit of everyone, and rebuild “stone by stone”, referencing of course those methods which created Great Zimbabwe in the first place. The movement has reportedly resonated in particular with the youth of the country.

Our journey from Bulawayo to Great Zimbabwe soon dispelled any trepidation of driving here which we may have felt: the road surfaces soon improving once out of the city to reveal only lightweight traffic for mile after mile. The effects of the drought are all too obvious: bone dry riverbeds, failing crops and arid fields rolling on and on for the first few hours. Only as we approach the open and attractive town of Masvingo does the land become marginally more fertile, greenery at last colouring the scenery as the glinting surface of Lake Mutirikwi appears in the distance.

For our second day here at Great Zimbabwe we drive the full circumference of the lake, over the top of the giant Kyle Dam at its eastern end and round to the Kyle Game Reserve which borders the lake’s shores. We don’t see much in the way of wildlife – baboons, eland and duiker aside – but it’s fun to drive the dusty tracks on what is our first self-drive safari. Shades of what lies ahead in Namibia maybe.

There’s something odd about the scenery though – well, odd for us Brits anyway. This is Zimbabwe’s winter, the deciduous trees are completely barren, devoid of leaves and drawing skeletal sketches against the backdrop of the clear sky. But it’s searingly hot, and that’s what’s odd. For those of us used to seeing winter a long way north of the equator, the experience of witnessing something which has the look of an English January yet is baking under a blazing sun, is a strange sensation.

As we head north east away from Great Zimbabwe, we pass through regions where that incongruous mix is even more evident as dense forests of wintry trees cope with the dry heat of the season. On we go towards the mountains and the very different terrain which surrounds the place they call Nyanga….

Don’t look back in Nyanga

A couple of weeks back when we were first experiencing Zimbabwe in the town of Victoria Falls, I made the comment that the cash crisis was driving the country towards a cashless society and that Visa is accepted everywhere. I so regret saying that now – it turns out to be a completely misguided statement based on a tourist driven micro economy in one single town, and not in the slightest bit true of Zimbabwe as a whole. In fact it’s probably the biggest load of bo***cks I’ve ever written. We’re finding this out the hard way.

The near six hour drive from Great Zimbabwe to Nyanga first takes in long spells of barren land, turning more fertile after crossing the Save River on the unexpectedly spectacular Birchenough Bridge. Eventually we reach the large city of Mutare at the foot of the mountains, from where the scenery makes a radical change: lush greenery even featuring pine covered slopes which lead down to fast flowing rivers. Bold mountains thrust their rounded peaks and towering granite pillars skywards, gorges trace deep clefts between those peaks. Roadside restaurants specialising in fresh trout begin to appear – this is now very different terrain, so markedly different from the rest of Zimbabwe.

North of Mutare the mountain road lifts us above the city, yet views quickly become obscured by a growing dense haze which seems to be getting thicker with every mile. As we get within half an hour of our destination the scene makes another change – and this time it’s horrific. The entire area, this beautiful landscape with its wonderful views, has been absolutely ravaged by wildfire.

Unbelievably large areas are devastated, ranging from burnt woodland to huge black fields where crops have been consumed by the flames. Where the ground isn’t black, it’s white with the covering of ash left by the inferno – the heat has been intense enough to reduce whole trees to piles of white dust; the ash is so deep in places that it looks like snow. We now know what that deepening haze was: these valleys are filled with smoke trapped by the hot air. The sun is a hazy blur, the sky invisible behind the curtain of smoke. Hulking mountains have become nothing more than vague outlines. Visibility is severely impaired.

Calling in for diesel at the cutely named village of Juliasdale, I ask the guy when this all happened. “Started in the middle of August and still burning now. We have all been very afraid”. Burning for four weeks then. Sure enough, as we get nearer to Nyanga, fallen boughs lay smouldering in the ash, and occasionally we can see the telltale orange glow of flames reflecting in the clouds of smoke. The unreal devastation comes to the very doorstep of our hotel, blackened eucalyptus trees along the dirt road driveway and the acrid smell of smoke hanging in the air.

We came here to see beautiful scenery and it’s been destroyed, came here to see views which are now hidden by the dense smoke, and came here to hike the hills which are all but inaccessible. And just as we are wondering what “Nyanga time” is going to look like now with this unexpected twist, the issue of money and Visa cards rears its head and slaps us full in the face.

Checking in at the hotel which, incidentally, seems empty apart from us and the staff, is going perfectly normally until I produce my Visa card to pay and the guy behind the desk gives me pretty much the look you would get if you tried to pay with a dead trout. 

“Our system does not accept foreign cards”, he explains, without saying why they didn’t tell us this when we booked, especially as we told them at the time how we’d be paying. You see, with a hefty cash deposit left in the hands of the rental company which will hopefully be returned when we take the car back, we’d calculated carefully how much cash to carry to Nyanga in order to have enough but not be overloaded. We certainly don’t have enough to pay for three nights lodging, food, drink and diesel.

Hotfoot then to Nyanga’s only Bank, where the ATM is silent and lifeless with a blank screen and the manager is shaking his head. “Our system does not accept foreign cards”, he explains. There’s a theme developing here. There’s nothing for it but to talk the hotel into letting us pay for just the first night and defer payment for tonight’s dinner until….well, just until.

Next morning, we try the same Bank again plus two money lender outlets in downtown Nyanga and meet with three very similar refusals. As in, why the bloody hell would you idiots think that Visa cards will work this far from civilisation. We guess they have a point, but then again the hotel had said they accepted cards and we knew there was a Bank in town. How were we to know that neither of them would play ball?! The nearest “proper” ATM is, it turns out, 90 minutes drive away back in Mutare. Ah well, I quite liked the feel of Mutare when we passed through, we may as well go and take another look. 

You know, one of the arts of travel is to make the best of things when they go wrong and turn them to your advantage. So, Michaela, how about lunch at one of those trout restaurants we saw along the way? Cue some proper relaxation, ample cash now stashed in pocket, sitting here at a cute table high above the river, consuming the most incredible smoked trout wraps you could ever wish to eat. Yeah, smoked trout wraps, you better believe it. Divine smoked trout wraps. 

Trout and more trout

And that’s that. We’ve paid the hotel, we have enough cash for diesel, enough for food and even enough for a beer or two. We’ll probably have far too much for comfort when we get the car deposit back but hey we’ve been as resourceful as we can and our cash problems have been solved. Should be plain sailing now.

After a couple of hours working on the Namibia plan, and how to fill our time tomorrow in this fire ravaged region, it’s time for a shower before beer o’clock.

Michaela turns on the taps. The water is the colour of mud, a thick brown liquid which would make a hippo think twice before showering. Just as we pull on some clothes to go and tell the manager, the power goes off, the lights go out and we’re plunged into darkness. Oh this is such a fun week. 

By the following morning the mountain breeze has lifted some of the smoke from the valleys and the lovely rolling scenery basks in the early sunshine. There’s no doubting this is beautiful scenery and without the blackened earth and charred trees Nyanga would be absolutely delightful. Taking advantage of the improvement we drive to a number of destinations in the area: the little town of Nyanga itself, worthwhile sights inside the Nyanga Park and out to the Nyangombe Falls.

The sweeping mountainous countryside is good on the eye, the waterfalls are great places to sit and listen to the soothing sound of the cascading water, and even Nyanga itself has that recognisable laissez faire feel of a mountain town. It’s such a shame to see so much damage to a beautiful natural environment.

Back in Bulawayo somebody had said to us that Nyanga is their favourite place in Zimbabwe. We can certainly see why that would be.