I've seen a lot of overfilled chicken buses, but the one between Mutare and Chimanimani must be the most astounding.

See, in Latin America, the chicken buses seem better equipped for overloading. Recycled American school buses, they've been fitted with roof racks, ladders and large overhead racks inside... all for the stowing of fruits, grains, furniture and yes, chickens... that make up the non-human cargo of the chicken buses.

Here, however, there have been no special modifications. These are fairly standard Greyhound-like buses, only with five seats across rather than four. The only place for luggage is beneath the bus, a location that inexplicably is seldom used.

"Occasionally children are piled to the ceiling."
God help the people who find themselves seated in the front row. Their laps... along with the space between them and the driver... are where luggage, bags of grain and occasionally children are piled to the ceiling.

Today I rode in the front row.

Being buried under heaps of duffles and burlaps was interesting enough, but the real excitement came when a quasi-employee of the bus company began begging me for money.

"This made me a bit nervous."
I politely said no a few times and began ignoring him as he continued. This went on until his bloodshot eyes became wide and wild. He began accusing me of being an "MDC," a member of the Movement for Democratic Change. That's the opposition political party whose leader is now on trial for treason and facing execution. This made me a bit nervous.

If anything has the potential to get out of hand here, it's politics. He kept it up till a national policeman on the bus... a guy paid by Mugabe... told him to knock it off. Others around him either looked embarrassed by it or told me to ignore him.

So except for being drowned in luggage, the four or five hours to Chimanimani was uneventful. The wild-eyed guy got off the bus before we left Mutare, so all was well.

"Heaven is dead."
We found our way to Heaven Lodge, a backpackers with an amazing view of the rocky cliffs of the national park a couple dozen kilometers away. Heaven is dead.

It's said that this was once the most popular hostel in all of Zimbabwe. Guidebooks call it "bustling," and its bar as "always lively." Tonight Matt and I cooked our own dinner behind the now-closed bar as we shared the entire place with one other person... a Zimbabwean living here while on a construction job.

"The most amazing conversation..."
And speaking of this guy, do you know how many electoral votes California has? He does. We had the most amazing conversation about American history. I knew the California thing, but he corrected me when I mis-stated which year Truman won the presidency.

From wars to presidents to electoral college mathematics, this Zimbabwean construction worker is sharp. What a shame that a guy who knows more about America than most Americans will never see the country. He's living a lot better than most Zimbabweans, but sill barely enough to get by, I'm sure. He's probably 50 years old.