Zambia? Zimbabwe? They both start with a Z.

That, and that they share a border along Victoria Falls, seems to end the similarities. Hopefully though, you can understand my confusion when I learned that from Nov. 3rd to 6th, not only would I stay in a different hotel from Linda, but in an entirely different country.

After Botswana, on Friday, November 3rd, Linda and I headed up to see Victoria Falls and wildlife for the weekend. (Pictured, crossing the Zambezi River from Botswana into Namibia - so my parents can see I’m alive.) When Linda sent me her itinerary for the trip a few months ago, I decided to veer off at this point and have my travel agent book me into a different hotel in order to save money. No big deal it seemed, both right at Victoria Falls, mine just 6 Km down the road from Linda’s. Well, after it was too late (i.e., I could not cancel without charge), I discovered my hotel is located in Zimbabwe; Linda’s, in Zambia. Two separate countries. One under international sanction, led by a guy named Robert Mugabe who doesn’t like white people much these days (or, at least those that own land and refuse to leave, even after being told they would be killed if they did not). But no one could properly advise me on how big of a problem this would be. So, I decided to forge ahead with the plans, steadfast in my efforts to be cost-conscious. In addition, enough people had given me some comfort that I would be able to make it to Linda’s hotel each day without being shot at the border. Indeed, that was true, I could get back and forth and I made it through the ordeal perfectly fine - however, it was not easy or cheap or fun.

Everyone, even the border guards, looked at me incredulously when I explained that I had accidentally booked in Zimbabwe, “You are staying in ZIMBABWE?!? Ohhhhh…” and they laughed, nervously. Unbelievably, there are not a lot of accommodation options at Vic Falls. On the Zambia-side, where almost EVERYONE but me seemed to stay, there is the Zambezi Sun, Linda’s hotel, a large, clean, Disney-esque lodge suited for tour groups and business retreats from South Africa; and an even more upscale lodge called Royal Livingstone. On the Zimbabwe-side, there is my hotel, the Mercure Rainbow, a more pleasant-sounding name than reality reflected; the old, colonial Victoria Falls hotel; a few more expensive than mine; and, on both sides, some cheap backpackers' lodges.

Linda’s hotel was 100x nicer, so we launched our activities from there each day. That meant I had to get to and fro. The border opens each day a 6:00 a.m. – I could not cross over it and get to the Zambezi Sun early enough! My hotel was empty, dark, without working phones in the rooms, and, off and on, electricity. My hotel’s idea of a safety deposit box was to take my passport, wallet, etc., throw them all into a trash bag, wrap the bag several times around with duct tape and put the taped bag into a drawer behind the front desk. After observing this procedure, I carried everything of value with me, or left them with Linda.

Each morning, I first had to find someone willing to drive the full 6 Km to Linda’s hotel, as most drivers stop at the border. I had to pay that driver $20 US to take me across, plus a $10 vehicle fee, which I never understood. Each direction, there are two checkpoints. After waiting in a long line of trucks also trying to cross, we would hit the first checkpoint each morning around 7:00 a.m. The driver would take my passport, tell me to stay in the car with the doors locked and disappear into a building. I have no idea what he did at the first stop, but I sat there, ignoring the dozen hagglers who surrounded my car and tapped on the windows, while baboons jumped around the parking area (pictured, a large baboon that had fallen into an oil well, approaching my car as I waited). The driver would come back out to the car and we would drive another ½ Km down the road to the second checkpoint. Here I would get out and have to pay a fee for entering: $10 for a day trip to Zambia; later that day, $30 for going back into Zimbabwe. This always took longer than necessary - either the border guards could not find something to complete the paperwork, such as the date stamp (and would seem stunned by having to find what they were looking for, as if I was the first person to ever cross their border), could not make change, or, simply, sat there and ignored me. I had to repeat this process each evening as I headed back before dark – 6 times over the course of our weekend at Victoria Falls.

On Monday morning, finally leaving Zimbabwe for the last time, the Zambian-side guard asked me, “when do you leave Victoria Falls?” I told him, “later that afternoon.” He asked, “How are you leaving?” “Flying out of Livingstone (Zambia),” I replied. “Did you spend the night in Zambia?” “No, I stayed in Zimbabwe.” “Well, you owe us $100 for using Zambia only for transit purposes. A new fee we are imposing on Americans, because America charges Zambians this fee,” he told me.

I became slightly angry for at this point all my cost-savings had been lost in crossing back and forth over the borders. I explained to him that I had used Zambia for all my activities and meals, and that even choosing to fly out of Zambia put money into the Zambia economy. The border guard was not buying it. Instead, he took my passport and tossed it at me, “if you don’t like it, find another border to cross!”

I looked around for my driver, who had moved to the opposite side of the room. Realizing that my main objective was to simply get back to South Africa, I said, “ok, just tell me what I owe you so I can leave.” “No,” he said, “you are annoyed, huh? So you can just leave from another border.” Well, obviously, that was not going to happen. I did what came most natural, started to cry, and I gingerly handed him $100 with a meek, "please." He growled, stamped my passport, and I was on my way. What is it they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?