I am told that Katima is the only place, or at least, one of the few, in the world where four countries meet, viz. Namibia, Zambia, Botswana and Zimbabwe. We hopped over the Botswana border to the Chobe National Park.

In fact, “hopped” was nearly literally true. To keep out foot and mouth disease and other nasty things, every vehicle entering Botswana has to drive through a sheep dip, and every person has to stand on a footpad of disinfectant. We have done it before and has not been a problem. This time, the lady in charge was exceptionally officious. We gave the board, listing prohibited imports, a cursory glance. No, we didn’t have animal horns, hides, bones etc. “You haven’t read the list,” she insists, suspiciously. Of course we hadn’t. We don’t go in for buying bags made of crocodile skins. “Read the list,” she commands. What’s that at the bottom? Dairy products? We don’t want to lose our lunch especially as it will be inside us within the next half an hour, so we confess nothing. No, we have nothing like that.

“What about your shoes?” she asks. “We’ve done our shoes.” “What about your spare shoes?” “We have no spare shoes.” “Yes, you have.” This woman must have x-ray vision. They are packed securely at the bottom of the car’s boot and were not going to see the light of a Botswanan day. “You have to do all your shoes.” We didn’t have to do anything like this last time we visited. Georgina manages to dig out a spare pair of mine and slap them on the disinfectant mat. This appeases the lady and she lets us go into her country.

Once inside Botswana the road surface becomes appalling. Maybe the deep potholes are deliberately not repaired as a traffic calming measure. Driving becomes exciting as we swerve across the road to avoid the bottomless pits and crevasses. Fortunately, the road is deserted. When we reach the gate of the the Game Reserve, the Wardens won’t let us in as our car is too small. Presumably, an elephant could pick us up and chuck us into the river? We drive on to Kasane, the nearest town, to take a look. It is more lively and impressive than we had imagined. There seemed to be a lot of tourists, many of whom, no doubt had been refused admittance to the park.

We took the pock-marked road back to the border. You have to play the game of swerving to avoid the pot-holes, which is OK until swerving the other side of the road would make you crash into an on-coming car. For us, this coincided with one of the largest pot-holes in Africa. It must be visible from space and , once filled with water, would rival Lake Victoria in magnitude. No, I exaggerate, maybe Lake Malawi. Anyway, we hit it with a heart stopping metallic bang. The wheel must have been torn off? The engine ripped out? No, the tough little car kept on going. It was only later, after we had driven the 700 kilometres back to Rundu, that we discovered that the tyre had developed a large swelling like a huge boil and could have burst at any moment.

Though Sally had stated that she had come to see us and not Namibia, our first expedition took us eastward towards Katima, Zambia and the Victoria Falls. We stopped overnight at the campsite at Nunda, a favourite of ours that overlooked the Kavango River and where we had heard the grunts of carousing hippos at dawn and dusk. If you want to make a campfire make sure you have a Girl Guide or a Scout with you. Sally made blazing infernos with just a few little sticks.

The border crossing to Zambia at Katima was confusing and I’m still not sure what happened. You need to have certain documents and pay certain amounts of money. The guards at the Namibian border took a certificate out of the hire car’s documentation and let us through. We drove to the Zambian border and looked for the control post. There didn’t seem to be one. There would surely be one around the next corner, or the next. There wasn’t. We were practically in Livingstone, the town next to Victoria Falls, by the time we realised we had missed the control post. So, there we were, illegal immigrants in a foreign country which didn’t seem to like the British (nor the Americans) particularly since the visa charges for us were so high. If we were stopped at a police checkpoint we could be deported or even imprisoned. Fortunately, we didn’t meet any and survived the trip.

The Jolly Boys Backpackers was our overnight stop. This was a sprawling hostel for, mostly young, budget conscious travellers who didn’t mind too much about their surroundings. The tiered camping greens were ideal for us as we were there for only one night. Our site had easy access to the kitchen where Georgina spent most of the evening hunting and squashing cockroaches. We drove to the Zambeze Falls Hotel and watched an interesting play directed by a Canadian woman which depicted the harshness of life growing up in Africa. It had everything, the poverty, the mobile phones, the chaotic education, the disease and corruption. It neatly fitted our experiences of Africa. The Zambeze Falls Hotel , with it’s lighting and plush decoration, was like a Disney Theme Park. It must be where the millionaires stayed. Livingstone, the Zambian town dedicated to Victoria Falls tourists, was bustling but shabby. There was no sign of the huge amount of money tourists had brought to the town. Admittedly, the 10 kilometres to the Falls was being tarmaced, but even this was probably being financed by some generous international organisation as are most things in Africa. The main money often lines the pockets of politicians and other government officials. The local underprivileged certainly don’t see it.

The Victoria Falls are truly stunning and surely one of the most breath-taking sights in all Africa. A path takes you along the cliff edge to see the waterfall on the opposite bank, and allow yourself to be enveloped in the mist that rises from the cascading water if you don’t mind getting wet. The sparkling rainbows produced are magnificent. Baboons roam the area scavenging food from the bins and mugging tourists holding carrier bags. A large baboon grabbed Georgina’s bag sending the contents flying over the ground. Unfortunately for the animal, the bag contained no food, just bottled water and reading books, which, apparently did not appeal to the baboon’s literary tastes. It would, no doubt, have been more interested in “Food for Free” or “How to Mug a Tourist”. Incensed at this unwarranted attack I waved Georgina’s expanding umbrella at the mugger. The metal rod expanded more than expected, launching its main body at the baboon not unlike a missile. Badly aimed, it fell harmlessly to the ground, but gave the baboon a moment of concern.

The descent to the “Devil’s Boiling Pot was slow and arduous. At one point, the jungle became so thick we nearly needed machetes. The path had been washed away by a fast flowing stream halfway down which meant we had to paddle across a stream. A couple of enterprising locals sat on a log leasing flip flops and other water proof footwear for the crossing. We eventually reached the Devil’s Boiling Pot and the pleasure at the views was only marred by the thought of having to make the return, steep climb.

If the Falls is a noisy, raging torrent, then the Zambezi, just before it reaches the cliff edge is an oasis of calm. You can even swim in the Angel Pools, but getting to them involves a crab-like progress along a thin concrete ledge submerged just below the water line. You can hold the hand of a guide as you make this perilous journey and we watched one group of three people, wondering if they would put a foot wrong, drag each other into the river and be swept over the Falls. No such luck.

The authorities let you into the town of Livingstone for free, but you have to pay to get out. This was similar to our experience in the Czech Republic where all foreign cars were fined by the police just before reaching the border on the pretext of speeding. It was a routine matter. There was a queue of us waiting to give the cop the remains of our Czech currency. The Zambians don’t make you out to be criminals. They just stop visitors at a road block and ask for road tax. This wouldn’t be so laughable if the roads were in a decent state of repair. I wondered whose pocket my contribution would ultimately be lining. Having said that, however, we did see some road repairs on the way to Victoria Falls, but I think the two men actually working wouldn’t be finished for some time.

Meanwhile, lurking in the back of my mind was the idea that we didn’t have visas. Surely, the officials wouldn’t mind if we paid on the way out rather than on the way in? It was not so easy to leave the country as to enter it. A guard waved us to the emigration building, which was down the road in the wrong direction and obscured by some trees. A burly emigration officer sat behind a long counter and listened to our explanation as if we were confessing to murder. “This is a very serious offence,” he said at last. I could almost hear the prison door slamming behind me. “But a lot of people do it,” he continued. His manner lightened considerably. It will be different when our new office is built nearer the border. I should give you a big fine, but I’m letting you off.” I had the feeling he said this to everyone. “But the custom officers might want to fine you.” He pointed down the corridor. Now we were in for it. We hadn’t paid the duty for importing the car. A group of young Spanish speakers arguing with one of the two customs ladies seemed to have the same problem. The tourists grumbled and looked angry as they handed over a thick wad of note. I don’t know what the Spanish is for “It’s a bleedin’ rip-off” is but I’m sure that was what they were saying. sin her book and quoted a figure, about the cost of a cheap box of wine, hardly anything at all. Was this just a figure she had conjured up? We still had enough money for fuel. We paid up and got out of there before she could change her mind.

Getting back into Namibia was more problematic. When we had left Namibia the policeman had demanded the car’s export certificate which was stapled to the car’s log book. He said we would get it back when we returned. Now, a policewoman was demanding another certificate to allow us back into the country. We tried to explain that we needed our certificate back but, though her English was pretty good, we didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength. I’ve noticed that when speaking to other Namibians. They can have a good command of English. I know what the individual words mean, but when they join them up in sentences the meaning dissipates like early morning mist. I can be in the middle of a conversation with a very friendly Namibian not having a clue what we’re talking about. This can be unnerving.

So, there we were, trying to get back into Namibia, at odds with a policewoman and her male backup, about who should give whom a certificate. Sally and I were becoming more heated, the police adamant, but looking distinctly uncomfortable. The policewoman wanted us to give her a document stuck to our windscreen. We refused. We were all confused and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Somehow, the matter seemed to resolve itself, probably, as usually happens, with an exchange of money. I don’t remember. What I do remember is driving away, giving the policewoman a smile and a cheery wave as she waved back, still looking distinctly bemused.

We spent that night at a campsite in Katima Mulilo at the very end of the Caprivi panhandle overlooking the Zambezi River. It was clean and spacious with just a handful of other campers. As the light faded, we sat listening to the mournful wailing of hippos in the river. The guard came around advising everyone to put all outside accessories into our tents as Zambian marauders paddle over from the opposite bank to steal portable valuables. We put the few things we had in our tents and tried to sleep soundly.