There was a tussle at the airport. A near-brawl. It was the end of our trip and we'd made it through passport control, the long wait for check-in, even the easy land border crossing from Zambia into Zimbabwe at Vic Falls, but then the scanners picked up contraband in my friend's hand luggage, and her entire stash was confiscated and binned.
She fumed, she raged, she protested. But alas, her two half-litre jars of Zambia's purest were gone forever.
Word to the wise – if you happen to buy peanut butter in Zambia (and, really, you should), be sure to pack it in your check-in luggage.
To be fair, that minor skirmish at the airport was as wild as our little holiday got For the most, we lazed it up to a languid, languorous rhythm, felt time dissolve and wonder expand as we staked out the calm, soothing energy of a waterside paradise.
Not that I would call the Zambezi River lazy.
The placid, unmolested calm is merely a beguiling foil. While those genteel sundowner cruises suggest
