Victoria Falls: Why I Became a Tour Guide

I have often been asked why, after the age of 50, did I decide on a career change, and why particularly to my current vocation as a tour guide? My response has been that I’ve had wanderlust in my bones from my teenage years. This is how it began.

My high school history teacher was an Englishman by the name of Emil Beth. He was the quintessential educator of the 1960s. A tough disciplinarian, with a wry sense of humor, he instilled in us a love, a passion even, for the study of history. He had us go into the battlefield with – or against – Napoleon at Waterloo. We wept with Ferdinand Magellan as he passed safe and unharmed through the treacherous straights of Cape Horn on his circumnavigation of the planet. “We, the people” marveled with Thomas Jefferson at the completeness of the American Constitution. And we tracked through darkest Africa with the intrepid Henry Morton Stanley until we too could say “Dr. Livingstone I presume.” 

To my sorrow, at the end of 10th grade, Emil Beth left to pursue a new life in Canada. On his last day at school he gathered us together and said: “Gentlemen, if there is but one thing you must do in this life, go see Victoria Falls.”

After I turned fifty, 18 years ago, I tracked down my old history teacher in Port McNeill, a small logging town on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. I reminded him of his charge 35 years earlier, and that I had indeed fulfilled it. I’d been to see Victoria Falls.

I made the journey to Victoria Falls via overnight train from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second-largest city. Second-class travel on Zimbabwe Rail is an experience in its own right, which I don’t particularly recommend to the uninitiated. However, a twenty dollar bill and a handshake with the conductor found me in a compartment by myself, and the regular beat of the tracks combined with the slow rocking of the steam-powered train, sent me off to sleep in a flash. 

I arrived at Victoria Falls station early in the morning. Disembarking there reminded me of the railway stations I’ve seen in many a spaghetti western. The first thing that I saw as I stepped off the train was the misty spray hanging over the rain forest, along with the overwhelming rumble of the falls: Mosi-oa-Tunya – The Smoke that Thunders – as it’s called by the locals. It’s an easy distance from the station to the entrance of the Victoria Falls National Park. 

There I was handed a plastic mackintosh and off I traipsed into the rain forest. The walk is drenching but exhilarating, the rumble turns into an ear-shattering roar, and then all of a sudden the rain forest ends and there you stand, face to face with this expansive panorama that literally takes your breath away. I was so shocked by the enormity of this spectacle that I was only able to breathe in. I couldn’t exhale! I was so shocked by the enormity of this spectacle that I was only able to breathe in. I couldn’t exhale! 

Victoria Falls are over a mile wide and more than 100m high. The racket and the spray and the sunshine and the rainbow overwhelmed me completely! I could almost reach out and touch it! Niagara Falls’ commercialized environment is puny in comparison to this! Here I was, up close and extremely personal with the largest natural wonder on the planet. And what a wonder it is! There isn’t an adjective that’s sufficiently powerful to describe the feeling: awe-struck hardly begins to perhaps come close. 

Communication between people is by yelling because of the overpowering growl as hundreds of thousands of gallons of water plunge every minute from the Zambezi River an almost touchable distance opposite you into the abyss below. 

I stayed there for a few hours just marveling at this gargantuan natural spectacle, and then returned to my hotel, completely drenched through. 

After a shower and a change of clothes, I headed for the lounge. There I heard of the moonbow from one of the waiters, a local man who went by the name of Goodness (the meaning that Africans attach to names is worth an entire chapter all by itself). Everyone has seen a rainbow, he said, but how many have seen a moonbow? “Go out to the falls again tonight,” he encouraged me, “and you’ll see something you have never seen before.”   

see something you have never seen before.” 

He was right. I had never seen vision a sight before or ever since. For here, where the spray of the falls rises to a height of over 400 meters, on a clear full-moonlit night, the moonbow is an once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

I’ll never be able to forget it!

That’s what made me want to be a tour guide. To explore God’s beautiful planet. To marvel at nature. To learn of different cultures and people. To go to places that I will never be able to forget. To live my life experientially. 

It’s true that I can do all that alone. But for me, sharing it enriches the experience. It enables me to give of what I love, of my passion, to others. I love to bring my wife and kids to places I have visited. I enjoy sharing this passion with others. So when my daughter showed me an advertisement for a tour guides course, I leaped at the opportunity. 

To study, to travel, to experience. And to share.

A basic ingredient to successful travel is a sense of humor. Patience comes next. Fortified with those two, you’ll be able to weather almost any situation in which you find yourself. Here are some episodes that I’ve been through, where those two ingredients were of great benefit.

I’ve been through more airports than I can remember – I’m sure one for each letter of the alphabet. Hmmm, let me see: Amsterdam, Bombay, Chicago, Durban, Edmonton, Frankfurt, Guilin, Harare, Ilha do Sal, you get my drift… Each airport is different, and many a business traveler will gladly tell you his or her favorite hair-raising airport tale. Something I’ve learned over the years is that a sense of humor helps you get by, whether it’s an overly-eager security official, an inept immigration clerk, a burka-clad New York airport scanner-operator 3 days after September 11, or the inevitable luggage that never arrives; a smile definitely helps this rather unpleasant-tasting medicine go down.

In a previous career I used to carry a lot of silver jewelry to fairs and sales in the USA. I discovered after two separate incidents in Los Angeles and Detroit that airport sniffers find the aroma of silver and that of gunpowder to be very alike. In both cases my baggage, after having passed through the detectors, was hauled to the side – with me in tow. When I offered to open my baggage for the security attendant I was met with a barked: “Remain behind the line, sir!” Once my goods were examined and found to be harmless, I was permitted to continue on my way. I learned after the two said incidents, that this is going to be the case whenever I travelled, and so in every case I announced ahead of time that I was carrying silver jewelry, and thus saved myself the suspicious glances and the discomfort of being smelled up and down by a fierce looking hound.

One of my favorite - and probably the weirdest of my airport episodes - occurred during a layover I had at Ilha do Sal in the Cape Verde Islands, a Portuguese-speaking archipelago off the coast of West Africa. My 18-hour flight transatlantic flight made a scheduled refueling stop there, so I took the opportunity to say my morning prayers in the little lounge that the airport offered. The sweltering heat in Ilha do Sal made short shrift of the slowly turning ceiling-mounted propeller that tried hard - but unsuccessfully - to imitate a fan. Cold Cokes sold for $9 for a half-sized bottle in a bar that had an open canal of not very fresh water running through it. So I sought out a corner, put on my tallit and tefillin and proceeded to pray. I was facing the wall with my tallit over my head, when I heard a female voice, in Dutch, whisper “Wat doet die mens?” – “What is that man doing?” to which she received a prompt and well-informed male reply: “Oh hem? Hij is een Arabier.” – “Oh him? He’s an Arab.” Now while my birth certificate mistakenly identifies my nationality as Palestinian (I was born in Jaffa), I had never before, or since for that matter, been taken for anything but a Jew.

I had occasion to pass through Tashkent airport on my way to Japan. After landing, the plane taxied to the terminal and connected to a sleeve at the front. We were then all instructed to do an about face, and head out of the plane via steps at the back door and down to a bus which took us to the transit lounge. The bus dropped us at the door to the transit lounge and the moment we were in, the door was locked behind us (I guess so no-one can escape and immigrate illegally to Uzbekistan…). Then half the people lit up their cigarettes and start choking the rest of us. It’s legal to smoke everywhere in Uzbekistan – in fact, seems like it’s very much encouraged!

In the hall in which we now stood everyone had to line up so a single clerk watched by three military looking gentlemen examined and rubber-stamped our boarding passes. Then we lined up at another line where another single clerk watched by three other military looking gentlemen examined our boarding passes and our passports. From there we passed through the metal detectors and as usual, my suspenders set off the metal detector, and I beeped. Another large military looking fellow leaped forward to examine me. He patted me down the usual way, and then patted me up a little too friendly, if you get what I mean. “Hey” I said, “we haven’t even been properly introduced!” He nodded as if he understood and let me continue on my way. What a riot!

Now, how do you board your flight in Tashkent? Well, like at most airports you look at the board, right? Wrong! There were no boards in the transit lounge. There were uniformed airline staff coming into the transit lounge and calling out all sorts of things in a foreign tongue (well, not foreign to them) and you slowly figured out if you needed to go here or there. Well, we were led down the stairs toward a bus (based upon our arrival experience, a reasonable thing to do). I didn’t have a good feeling, so I scooted out of the line, went to another gate, entered and walked right onto a plane and asked if that was the plane to Tokyo. Indeed it was. So I ran back to where everyone was waiting and called my group out of the bus line. I felt like the Pied Piper of Tashkent leading the mice to Tokyo. 

So here we are now on our plane, and one of my travelers finds someone in her seat. I check her boarding pass, and indeed the fellow is in her seat. I check his boarding pass, and he is in the right seat, but not on the right aircraft nor on the proper airline company nor going to the correct destination. He saw a gate and got on a plane. Instead of going to Istanbul on Turkish Airlines he would have landed up in Tokyo on Uzbekistan Airways. Had we not discovered this situation, wouldn’t he have been Zelig!

Be aware, be patient, and take things in your stride. Hopefully, you’ll never have to roll with any punches.

And keep traveling.

In my humble opinion there can be no better way the visit a limited number of destinations that are relatively close to one another. Your floating luxury hotel takes you everywhere you need to be, and you never need to unpack or repack, as you travel from here to there. There is a choice of room types, like in any hotel on land, albeit here the rooms – even the suites - are smaller than they would be on land. Despite that minor inconvenience, the facilities aboard any cruise liner are amazing. I’ve had the joy of sailing with a number of cruise lines, and I definitely have my favorite. I won’t name names here, but suffice it to say that I prefer relatively smaller ships – those with up to 1,500 guests aboard - to the mega-ships – that have in excess of 4,000 guests aboard – that are taking up more and more of the cruise line marketplace. 

So, what is it really about cruising that I love? Let me count the ways, to quote the old bard.

First of all, I love the indulgence, the feeling of being spoiled, cared for. Even though I travel a lot, almost all of it is for work. And it is work. Hard work. When I’m on the road, I sleep an average of 4 hours a night. My days are full, and my nights are full too. So, when I’m on board ship, even when I am  with a group, I feel pampered by the many, many facilities on board. Because those facilities are also available to my guests and they don’t need for me to care of their needs. There’s a whole crew of ship’s staff to take care of them as well. They don’t need me. Well, most of the time they don’t. Cruising kosher means being available to the kitchen staff when they prepare our kosher meals. But other than the before, during and after of mealtimes, when we’re cruising, my time is my own. It’s wonderful. That’s when I love to explore the ship, even though I pretty much know by now what’s available on board. My first stop is always the reading room. First of all, there is always a wonderful collection of books available to borrow. Second of all, it’s a very quiet bubble in the hubbub of the ship’s activities. Thirdly, the library always has large windows, and the scenery, whether it be the mountains alongside the fjords, or even the open sea, is calming, relaxing, soothing, tranquil. That’s where I love to sit on a couch and read, so that whenever I look up, there’s this magnificent panorama before my eyes. And (drumroll) there’s a coffee shop right there in the library. A place where you can (noiselessly) order your favorite beverage.

I’m not a gambler, so the on-board casino is of no interest to me. On the other hand, a good massage is always appreciated. Therefore, the second feature I always check out is the spa where I make at least one appointment for a head, shoulders, back and foot massage. The occasional hot stone doesn’t disagree with me either. But I’m not into Ayurveda. Too much oil for my liking.

OK, so I’ve read and had coffee, enjoyed a fabulous massage. So, what now? The pool? Not my scene I’m afraid, but if you enjoy it there’s at least two – one indoor, under the retractable roof, and one outdoors, usually on the aft deck of the ship. And while there’s a constant supply of movies on the in-room TV, I prefer to take in a movie at the ship’s cinema. Sometimes there’s a lecture that interests me, or a meeting of military veterans which I definitely won’t miss. 

It’s a strange thing this military veterans’ meeting onboard ship. I’ve only sailed with American cruise lines, and on all them there’s a weekly meeting of military veterans. And at every one the ship’s cruise director comes along and gives us a small “token of our thanks for your service.” I must say I am touched by it. Then what happens is we go around the room and each one introduces himself or herself (actually, I’ve never been in a meeting with a female veteran, even though there are many of those) and their unit and what they did during their military service. Every time I’ve been, I have been the only one who has actual battle experience. Nevertheless, there is a sense of camaraderie, despite the fact that we’ve served in different armies. Like I said, it’s a meeting that I try never to miss.   

There are shops and studios and outdoor activities, a gym and sports facilities. But the crème de la crème of the entertainment provided on board is the nightly live show in the main theater. I don’t get to theater or shows much (at all) when I’m home, so this is an opportunity to indulge. I try to make it every night because the shows are different every night, and usually the very last night the crew all come together for a musical spectacle drawing upon their varying cultures.

As a rule, I don’t buy land excursions when I’m on board. When I step off the gangplank at whatever destination the ship has docked, I prefer to hit the streets and find what I’m looking for. 

I do plenty research before arriving at any destination, so I know pretty much what I seek to discover. Obviously, there are the required sites and sights, the must-sees, that I need to cover. But there are also almost always off-the-beaten-track places where the standard land excursions don’t go. They can range from cultural spots, ancient sites, interesting bookstores or shops that sell hand-made wares that are very local in nature. And museums are my favorites, for better and for worse. Sometimes a small museum can be world-class, and sometimes a large museum can be boring. But there’s always something other than what everyone is advertising. So those are the places I make a special effort to get to. 

However, at the end of every day on land, I am more than delighted to get back to my stateroom, have a shower, get dressed for dinner (I love the formal nights aboard ship when everyone is out in their best finery), enjoy a show, and then get into bed, read and fall asleep as the ship sails into the night.

Yessss!

The company’s number one priority is the highest standard of kashrut. Only after that do they deal with itineraries, experiences, and the like. Thus, it was decided that I would go ahead of the group and do a whistle-stop tour of all the hotels, to meet the F&B managers and the executive chef of each hotel. Following upon some correspondence with them with an explanation of our requirements, I would meet with them to explain kashrut to them in a manner that they were able to understand. Then, I would examine the hotel’s kitchens, supply rooms, the dining facilities the group would use, which utensils need kashering, and so on. Ideally, I would ask for a kitchen that would be at our sole disposal throughout our stay. In some places it was possible, but in some it wasn’t. In the latter case, it would become necessary to have a dedicated section of the main kitchen for our food preparation and cooking. Then, as the tour progressed, I would go one day ahead of the group to each destination, kasher whatever facilities needed kashering, and get the kitchen ready so that the chefs would be able to prepare meals for the group as they arrive. Even though this was trial by baptism of fire, it worked smoothly and seamlessly. Thus, it became the method by which we would operate all future tours on which I would serve as the company’s mashgiach. Those countries would come to include South Africa, Zambia, Botswana, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and Japan. 

 The next issue that arose as we prepared was how to arrange the supplies that were required to enable the chefs to prepare the dining experiences that the group expected. Fruit and vegetables would be local. Fish too. The company didn’t promise Chalav Yisrael, so, local, government supervised milk would be used. However, kosher cheeses, kosher meat and in most cases kosher fowl is not always available. How would we go about getting supplied with those? In the end, wherever we could be supplied by Chabad, we were, and in those places that that Chabad was not able to supply us we brought meat, chicken, duck, cakes and assorted kosher cheeses with us. In some countries it was problematic and in others not so, but in all cases, with relatively few problems, we have been able to bring in supplies with us.

On one of the tours to India, I was stopped at customs in Mumbai and asked to place all my bags on the scanner. Seeing as I was loaded with luggage – besides my own suitcase, I had three large duffel bags with frozen foods – I guess I was easily noticed by the customs official. Once the bags were scanned, the customs officer says to me “You are carrying food?” 

“Yes,” I replied. 

“Why are you bringing food to India? We have food.” 

“Well sir, this is kosher food.” 

“And what is kosher food?” 

“Kosher food is like Halal, but for Jewish people.” 

“Ah. You can go.”

Well, that was a relief, and very easy too. But there have been times when it wasn’t easy, and other times when it was downright scary. 

I was once carrying duffel bags of frozen food into Zimbabwe. The airport at Victoria Falls at the time was very small. It was so small that entry into the arrivals hall was limited to a certain amount of people at a time, and our whole plane load was divided into two. The black folks were allowed in first, and the white folks had to wait outside until there was room for them. How about that? Anyway, once inside, I was able to understand why there was a need to divide the passengers into two groups – it was really small inside. I didn’t understand why we were divided by race. Well, I did understand, but… whatever. Once I had my visa stamped into my passport, I went to pick up my luggage. There was no belt. Not even one. What there was, was a big hole in the wall and the airport staff were hauling the baggage from the plane, and hefting it through the hole in the wall onto the floor on the inside of the building. 

I loaded by bags onto a trolley, and then I saw him. The customs officer. And he was directing everyone, to place their bags onto the scanner. Damn! I really didn’t want to get caught in this third world country. What to do? I confess, I wasn’t honest. I started waving like mad to an imaginary person waiting for me outside, and hustled past the line as the customs officer was busy talking to another passenger. His eye must have caught me as I whizzed by and he started calling “Sir! Sir!” but I wasn’t having any of it and kept on going, finding my colleague David waiting outside, grabbing him by the arm and walking nonstop all the way into the parking lot. Mission Accomplished.

I never had any problem carrying kosher food into Myanmar, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, or Japan. Except the last time I was there. Once again, I was loaded up with my luggage and three duffel bags of frozen food. I passed through immigration easily at Osaka’s Kansai International Airport and went to the belt to await the arrival of my bags. I looked around and saw dogs wherever I turned. Sniffer dogs and their handlers, here, there, and everywhere. They were walking around sniffing. Lots of them. I’ve been stopped in some places by sniffer dogs when I was in a different career (see Volume I), but I’ve never seen so many dogs in one arrivals hall. What were they looking for? I was super stressed. My heart was racing, and I must have broken into a cold sweat. What to do? What to do? Eventually I decided to wait until I could identify all four pieces of my luggage and I would load them onto a trolley. If I saw the dogs, I would simply take my roll-on and walk out, leaving the duffel bags behind. Eventually I had all the bags in sight, and no dogs to be seen. Whew! I swiftly loaded them onto the trolley and turned toward the exit. And there he was. Ace, the sniffer dog. But he was on all fours. Then in terribly slow motion he sidled over to my trolley, sniffed… and moved on. He didn’t sit down. Just so you know, sniffer dogs are trained to sit when they sniff something untoward. I guess Ace and his buddies were seeking some other contraband – not frozen kosher meat.

Making haste to get away from Ace, I headed to customs only to be stopped by the customs officer. Damn! He looked at my documents where I had written by occupation as “Tour Guide.” The officer looked at me and said, “Guide-o?” I replied “Hai,” Yes, in Japanese. (I do speak a little). “Group-o?” he asked. Ok, that much Japanese I don’t speak, so I replied in English “They’re coming tomorrow.” He said“OK” and sent me on my way. Whew! A rapid exit and a deep breath, an onto my transportation to Kyoto, where I had a kitchen and staff waiting for the goodies I was bringing.