Getting to Siankaba
Our friend, Judith, insisted that Kate and I finish off our two weeks of canoeing, camping, and road trips with a couple of nights of luxury and pampering at the Islands of Siankaba. She is so wise.
Siankaba is half an hour east of Livingstone, so the plan was for the McCords to drop us off on their way back to Livingstone from Namibia. The McCords would go back to the Maramba Lodge for another night before driving back to Lusaka. Kate and I would rest up in the luxury resort, then catch a flight back to Lusaka.
Our drive back to Siankaba from Nambia was an especially hot one, since the air conditioner had finally given up all hope of working. (The temps were well into the 100s.) And a little more crowded since passengering on the motorcycle had lost its allure.
About halfway through, we stopped at one of Namibia's many shaded rest stops for a drink and snack. We hadn't brought much food, but we did have a sack of peanut bars and some apples. We had barely sat down with our drinks when a trio of young boys crossed the road and skirted around us. When Kate put tossed some soda bottles in the trash, they scurried over immediately and snatched up a bottle with two inches of orange soda still in it. They held it high like a prize catch, then used the empty water bottles to carefully divie up the liquid between them.
There was no outward begging, but they watched us from a safe distance while we snacked. Before long, there were several other raggamuffins across the road, including a young girl with a toddler on her hip. These children were so clearly malnourished, it was heartbreaking. We decided to divide the rest of the food we had among them. We cut the remaining peanut bars in half and called the children over. They were afraid to approach us, but hunger got the best of them, and soon they were eagerly taking the food and drink from us. We only wished we had more to offer.
About an hour from Livingstone, Judith who had been silently sweating out the dropping gas gauge finally admitted to our problem. We didn't have enough gas to get to town. And our spare gas tanks were empty. She pulled over at a junction and flagged down the first vehicle to come by. It was a passenger van for one of the fancy Livingstone hotels. "Where can I get deisel?" she asked.
| Did you know...
There is only one gas refinery in all of Zambia, and they have to shut it down twice a year for two weeks to clean it. Importing gas is banned, so for four weeks out of the year, the whole country scrambles for fuel. |
"There's no deisel in all of Livingstone," he explained. There had been a nationwide gas shortage when we left the country, but until now, there had been plenty of deisel fuel. "Follow me," he said. "We must go to the border of Botswana. There we can buy some jugs of deisel." Mike was ahead, out of sight and unaware of our situation, but we had no choice but to go on this detour.
Our new friend helped us negotiate with the black market dealers, all eager to sell fuel smuggled across the border. As it was, we paid $60 for a few gallons. Who knows what we would have paid without him. It was enough fuel to get to Livingstone, but what would happen there was uncertain. (As it turned out, there was diesel available the next day, and Judith only had to wait in line an hour.)
