This morning began, as so many of our mornings do, with the ANEW buffet.
I continue to believe this buffet is… trying its best.
Breakfast was serviceable, but not exactly the breakfasting at the buffet-a of our dreams. Lynn, poor thing, had slept terribly, so we were running on a combination of caffeine, competence, and sheer travel momentum.
Bags were outside the door by 6:30 a.m., porter-assisted as promised, and the bus rolled out at 7:00 sharp.
Airport check-in was refreshingly smooth. My suitcase weighed in at the top-end-allowed 44 pounds, and my carry-on was the top-end-allowed 15 — but that was with cleverly stashing in my (unequaled) over to my shoulder cloth bag:
- about two pounds of Ghirardelli chocolates (for the upcoming home-hosted meal),
- all my tech,
- and the full Nikon camera situation
Everything was fine until right before passport stamping, when the universe decided I was getting a little too confident.
The cloth bag strap broke.
Not “fraying.” Not “loosening.” Broke. Down at the bag itself. No possibility of knotting. No duct tape miracle.
Argh! (Which Siri helpfully just autocorrected to “Dead!” which honestly felt accurate.)
RIP, wonderful travel accessory. You served bravely.
So now I had to expand my carry-on and shove all the cloth-bag contents inside, which made the carry-on approximately the size of a small refrigerator.
And then we boarded the plane.
This was not a plane. This was a flying suggestion.
It was so tiny that walking down the aisle required me to tilt my head so far sideways that my cheek was nearly brushing the ceiling. I immediately realized: this carry-on is not fitting in any overhead compartment built for mortal luggage.
I fought the very intense “one person at a time, one-way traffic” back to the flight attendant and asked if she could stow it.
She said she’d come see.
She came, noticed I didn’t have anyone sitting next to me, and said, “Just put it there.”
So I did.
I heaved the bag into the empty seat and buckled it in like a passenger.
When she came back, she absolutely cracked up.
“No,” she said, kindly but firmly, “you can’t have the bag as a passenger.”
(Paszenjah.)
Fair.
She had me put it on the floor in front of that seat instead, which in retrospect is how planes usually work.
We arrived in Zimbabwe to an airport entry scene that was immediately joyful: a male singing group in traditional dress performing in the arrivals area — very Ladysmith Black Mambazo energy, and a lovely welcome.
My dual-entry visa worked perfectly, but there was some real visa drama in our group. Theresa had paid $70 for hers, only to learn it was single-entry — meaning she’ll have to pay another $70 when we cross again. Other folks had other issues. Mike got a single entry and was told that was “enough” (though it means he will need to pay another $30 tomorrow). Janice had gotten this accidentally when she got her online one. Mary, and Brigitte and Jean-Marie had all used the “OAT strongly suggested” company that got the visas for you – which cost I believe they said like $100 each direction. Craziness.
Abe had thought I might need to adjust by $5 (since the old dual-entry visas ($45) are gone and the KAZA Univisa is now the main option ($50)), but… nope! Got through swimmingly.
After our meeting at the hotel — the Shearwater Explorers Village — we had a bit of downtime. Lynn and I came back to the room and did the usual travel ritual: reorganizing clothing cubes, figuring out the next few days, and trying to restore order to the suitcase ecosystem after Strapgate 2026.
Later, dinner was on the Zambezi, which felt wonderfully surreal.
(Also: Zimbabwe is often translated as “house of stone” or “great stone houses,” referencing the ancient stone city of Great Zimbabwe. And Victoria Falls’ local name, Mosi-oa-Tunya, means “The Smoke That Thunders,” which is exactly right.)
My dinner choice was a very tasty tomato basil soup, followed by a slow-braised kudu stew with grilled boerewors, mealie sadza, and chomolia — basically the Southern Africa comfort-food plate: rich game stew, smoky sausage, cornmeal staple, and greens.
“Chad” and I had carefully determined that the correct wine pairing was Pinotage — South Africa’s signature grape, smoky and perfect with game.
Reader, they were out of the Pinotage.
Whut-WHAAAA.
So I had to “settle” for the Shiraz, which leaned more fruity than peppery… though to be fair, the wine arrived after we had had to start our food, and it’s entirely possible I lost the peppery overtones to the boerewors.
A sentence I never expected to write, but here we are.
We’re back at Shearwater now, and tomorrow is early: up and out by 5:30 a.m. for Victoria Falls. We’ll drive over, then walk about a mile to the falls. At 11:00 we have the helicopter flight over the falls and gorge, lunch afterward, and then at 2:30 the Elephant Experience.
Dinner remains a mystery.
Fran, one of the non-pre-trip gals, scouted some shops and reported seeing bags that could solve my sudden lack of shoulder-bag infrastructure. So tomorrow, between waterfalls and elephants, I may also be shopping for Shoulder Bag: The Sequel.
Because travel, as always, is glamour punctuated by logistics.
Slideshow from the river dinner cruise, plus Victoria Falls (see next blog post) HERE.
I never get a percentage from any links I include – but! – if you are curious about Overseas Adventure Travel and want $100 off, call them at 1-800-955-1925 and request their amazing catalog, tell them you were referred by Sandy Shepard, customer number 3087257, and get $100 off your first trip! The catalog is what all good dreams are made of!