NAM - ZAM - ZIM – by Ellen

The Caprivi Strip is sandwiched between Angola (look left when driving east through the strip along the Kavango and that’s Angola), Zambia and Botswana, with the Zambian border being at Katima Mulilo and the Botswana border being a little further south. The eastern edge of the strip is only a few kilometres from Zimbabwe, but does it share a border? Of course not, that’d make our lives too easy. After the Zam vs Bots debate (which happened over breakfast the morning we were supposed to be leaving Namibia - now there’s forward planning for you) we decided to head to Zim via Zam rather than Zim via Bots, which, although cheaper, would have involved driving an extra few hundred ks out of our way through Zim to get to Kariba, our first calling point in Zim.

After managing to coax some money out of an ATM and exchange it for US$ we set off for the border. The Namibian immigration building was efficiently run, and housed in a new, clean building. The Zambian side was, well, none of the above.

After driving through no-man’s land we were presented with two options: 1. drive straight over the bridge to Livingstone, 2. turn left and try and track down the Zambian border post. We eased our way through the pot-holed car park, and entered the first ramshackle building where we filled out our visa application forms. Part of the form was ‘how long are you intending to stay’...well about 3 days. And so we were granted a visa for exactly 3 days – although Evan managed to wangle an extra day at the last minute. I’ll be waiting for him over the border then. We then handed over our US$50 – yes, each, - for our 3 day stay.

Next stop, 3rd party insurance for the car. We crammed in to a tiny office which housed an enormous desk on which was seated an enormous woman, nearly obscuring the man behind the desk. Insurance, obviously, is not done by the day, so US$40 bought us a month-long policy. Once we’d insured the car, we needed to obtain a Temporary Import Permit. We crammed in to an even tinier office which was filled with huge stacks of paper, over which we could just about see the man behind the desk. The TIP could only be paid for in Namibian dollars or Zambian Kwacha, of which we had neither. So Evan was directed towards a (surely illegal?!) moneychanger by a military official, who helpfully pointed the way with his AK-47.

Money changed, paperwork completed and 160 Rand handed over for the TIP, we set off back across the pot-holed car park to try and locate the shed where we could pay our Carbon Tax of US$20.

Final stop was the rotten caravan to pay the district council tax of 50 Rand – which fortunately we had left over from the TIP. As it had started raining (not pathetic English rain, actual proper tropical rain), the caravan was full of people sheltering from the down pour. We managed to squash in alongside them, and even got a seat at the very wobbly and rotten table which was balanced between the broken window and the tax collector’s knee. Despite the best efforts of the table to end up on the floor, the friendly tax collector managed to skilfully – and neatly – fill in the receipt book. Assuring the crowd of sheltering onlookers that we’d be OK to make the 20m dash to the car in the torrential rain – we were English, we liked rain - they went to open the door to let us out. But the handle had broken. As one guy started to open and lean out of the window, I assume to start climbing out of it; a kind soul braved the rain and came to let us out. Essential paperwork (of which we’d gathered a surprisingly large amount in the previous 45 minutes) wedged up my top to keep it dry, we sprinted back across the pot-holed car park, dodging as many puddles as we could whilst still maintaining a course to the car. Soaking, muddy and giggling, we clambered in, and set off towards Livingstone, contemplating how we’d managed to part with nearly US $200 in such a short time, and how we’d better get a move on as we only had 3 days before we became illegals in Zambia.

So...onwards to Zim!