An ivory-coloured thermometer marks thirty seven degrees. I feel the drops of sweat sliding across the space between the backpack and my skin, the weight of personal belongings carried over three continents now adding to the lethargic steps of a long walk under the African heat.
My feet leave the Zimbabwean bank of the Zambezi and the tall steel bridge trembles at the parade of cars, which must cross it one at the time. A marvelous piece of engineering built as part of Cecil Rhodes’  vision of a railroad linking Cairo to Cape Town, today becomes the setting in which a personal milestone is finally achieved, for it becomes the passage to my 100th visited country.

I walk next to a rusty sign in the middle of the bridge. The words ‘ You are now entering Zambia’ are now faded by years of enduring the humidity of the falls and the pole supporting it looks disturbingly fragile. I stare blankly and my mind decides to wander. I look down the turbulent emerald-coloured water rushing through the narrow canyon and a sensation of vertigo twists my stomach in ripples of adrenaline rush now metastasizing  across my every muscle. I look up to the clear blue sky and all I manage to whisper is a weak ‘Thank you’.
Like some self-cheering chant, I repeat these two words until my eyes grow teary and join drops of sweat across my face, reaction conveniently concealed behind my sunglasses. I hold a handmade sign with the numbers 1-0-0 and smile for the camera, while two local teenagers now intrigued by the sign, hug me and take selfies.

      ‘I could have not picked a better place for marking this life milestone.

Behind me, a rogue country hoping for better days. The symbol of hardships, of painful goodbyes, of queues at the immigration office, minor and major conquers, of long mornings on the M50, meetings that could have been an email, resilience.
Ahead of me, progression. A new shore enclosing new adventures, change and reasons to celebrate.
Beneath me, the constant stream of the Zambezi. Cleansing it all and liberating me from any hold ups.’

At the Zambian border post,  a free-of-charge welcome is stamped onto my passport. I cannot contain my smile while I stick my head out of the taxi window and inhale the fresh Zambian breeze, now forever charged with the symbolism of the moment.
For the rest of the day, I am joined at the lodge by two domesticated zebras, four emus and a handful of white ducks who, oblivious to the guests, have made of the grounds their own little rainforest.

In Zambia, I finally let myself go. I reply to congratulation messages from all over the world, I get a haircut in one of the many barber shops in Livingstone, I eat numerous dishes of chicken with ugali with my bare hands and sip on cups of coffee by the Shoprite. I find no guilt on letting the hours pass laying by the small pool, while informal conversations with the hotel staff and fellow guests, a group of military personnel in the city for a presidential parade, recharge my countenance with the unique spark of the African smile.

Livingstone is endearingly beautiful. Red-sanded streets meander through neighborhoods of colourful cottages, leafy jacaranda trees cast orange shades over the tin roofs and school kids run in every direction after school in uniforms filthy with red sand and impregnated with the excitement of hours of playing in the dirt.  The street vendors form lines of random goods sold across the pavement and politely greet me ‘good morning’. Churches give way to banks, banks give way to supermarkets and supermarkets make way to cafes.

At the Devil’s Pool, my must-do in Zambia is visited with the purest secrecy of a solo traveller. Little I knew that hanging by the rim of the hundred and eight meters that Victoria Falls take to sharply dip into the earth could be so intense, yet so intimate. A courteous flirting of carefully placed steps against the dry rock bed leading to Livingstone Island, turned into a swimming waltz to finally conquer the edge of the fall, before finally engaging into a romance with its warm current. Care is required, and a false movement could end in betrayal at the very best novel-worthy African tragedy.
A group of Christian missionary girls join the fun and the water spray rainbow frames their loud prayer in grace. I tightly hold onto the slippery rocks wishing they would stop moving so much.

I spend the rest of the day by the Mosi-Oa-Tunya National Park, in the hot afternoon inducing baboons to hang by the Knife Bridge and ask for food, while in the evening, I meet the girls for carefully crafted crocodile burgers and long chats of faces, experiences and memories of these enchanting latitudes.

I find as if Zambia invites me to gravitate towards the simple life, to the pleasures of an afternoon drinking tea at the sound of birds singing at the unisone of distant tambourines played in distant Sunday mass services, or the richness of a chat to locals while chewing on the tanginess of the tamarinds. My feet ditch the shoes and rest at the comfort of flip flops cushioned by the red sandy streets of the Livingstone suburbs and my mind slowly processes the information of fourteen visited countries, allowing itself to rest at the comfort of tasty cups of black coffee.
The locals greet me at every corner and the children run towards me screaming ‘muzungu’ from the top of their lungs, a sweet memory I treasure from years ago in the the high plains of Rwanda, ever so captivating, ever so warming.

My last night in Livingstone is framed by the noise of a dramatically powerful thunderstorm, at every passing minute creeping its way through the flat plain and engulfing us at once, unleashing buckets of fresh water in shockwaves of spine-freezing wind through the hotel windows. I finish my bottle of alcohol-charged Mosi-Oa-Tunya wine and half drunk, I tell stories of near misses with cars in Cairo, the clearest sky I have seen in my life in Wadi Rum and fresh summer evenings in Sandycove to a friendly local girl.

      – ‘Who are you staying with?’
      -‘I’m on my own. I always travel on my own.’
      -‘You have your own chalet? Can I see it?’

My eyes close and my arms, lethargic from both a sunburn and alcohol, hug her goodbye.

In the morning, a strange sorrow overtakes me, turning my breakfast bland-tasting. I feel the days of genuine smiles, of stories too gruesome and too uplifting to be heard and of intense handshakes slowly slipping away, gravity now dragging me the pleasantries of the Western world I live in.
On the way to the airport, I look at the red-sand glistening at the touch of the sunshine and smile, for in my mind now are life lessons learned, conversations to reflex about and faces forever embedded in my memory.

The aircraft departs amidst a thunderstorm and violently shakes as we veer right, flying over the Zambezi rapids, in the morning roaring across the fertile valley. I identify the towns of Bulawayo and Francistown as we fly over them, and mile after mile, the British Airways aircraft makes its way to Johannesburg across the wilderness of Africa.