Day 37 was another errands day, getting my photos copied to a CD, buying a train ticket, etc. Everything takes awhile here, and no one is in a rush. Finally, I board a ticket to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe's second largest city. The train was this beautiful shiny machine, well lit and with a nice dining car. Not nearly as bad as everyone says. Then, at boarding time, the oldest, crappiest, most run-down piece of crap you've ever seen limps along to the platform. It doesn't have food, water, or electricity. I ended up rooming with a tv sportscaster from the capital, Harare. Nice guy.
Of course, the train breaks down the next morning, delaying us a few hours. A chunk of the rail broke. And the railway union was on strike, so the train refused to enter Bulawayo, dropping us off 5 km away to fend for ourselves. And the hostel was 4 times the price quoted in the guidebook. And a friend-of-a-friend, who I was supposed to stay with, was in Europe, and was unable to get me a place to stay. And the buses were so bad the guidebook refused to give any info. And again, the trains were on strike. The tourist buses only went to South Africa. Impossible to leave, but too expensive to stay. Even a daytrip to the local national park was going to cost me $120. No way.
Bulawayo is a pretty town, with wide streets, colonial architecture, purple jacaranda trees in bloom. It's very multicultural, as Africa goes. But I would have to leave somehow. The crappy hostel, wherein I was the only guest, refused to run the generator when the power ran out. So I sat, by myself, in the dark, reading my book by candlelight and wondering how the hell I would get out. Maybe Vic Falls, maybe Harare, or another national park, but somehow I had to leave. I could tell this was the end of my southward journey, time to look north and head back towards the equator. Oh well, can't win 'em all.
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