My wife and I have a rule when we travel: no box-ticking. We don’t race through museums just to say we’ve been there, and we don’t treat airports like trophies.
We try to go places that leave a mark — not just on our passports, but on us.
That mindset took us recently to southern Africa — Zambia and Zimbabwe, to be exact — home to one of the world’s great natural wonders, Victoria Falls.
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We knew it would be beautiful. We didn’t expect it to be hilarious, humbling, thrilling and terrifying, all at once.
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More than a waterfall
The falls themselves are staggering. Called Mosi-oa-Tunya, or “The Smoke That Thunders,” by the local Kololo people, Victoria Falls is the shimmering border between Zambia and Zimbabwe.
But here’s something most visitors don’t know: The falls we see now are actually the eighth version.
Over millions of years, the mighty Zambezi River has been carving its way backward through layers of basalt, collapsing one cliff after another, leaving behind a zigzag of old gorges. Let’s just say Earth’s been remodeling for a while.
Standing on the Victoria Falls Bridge, you can almost hear the history echoing through the spray. And if you’re brave enough to look down, it’s unforgettable, even if you happen to be caught in a traffic jam.
Which brings me to Clive.
Clive was our Zambian driver and a part-time high school basketball coach. He was charming, funny, unflappable and totally responsible for “the Bridge Incident.”
On our way back from Zimbabwe, traffic froze halfway across the one-lane bridge when a truck met a taxi head-on.
The taxi driver was not happy — his arms were windmilling, his voice was booming, and though I didn’t understand the language, I’m pretty sure I could translate his intent.
Ever calm, Clive turned to us with a grin and said, “This could take a while. You should walk.”
So we did. And that innocent five-minute stroll turned into a 20-minute carnival of commerce.
As we passed by the bungee jumpers and zip line, vendors swarmed like friendly bees — all smiles, compliments and pitch-perfect salesmanship.
They called me “Boss” and my wife “Sister” and somehow managed to flatter me and make me broke at the same time.
My niece emerged as the negotiation champion of the day. She bought a wooden zebra for $4 and a hair tie, down from an asking price of $20. Somewhere in Zambia, there’s a vendor still explaining to his wife why he has a woman’s hair tie.
Cruising with crocs and staying dryish
Our three boat rides on the Zambezi River were another highlight. The first, at sunset, came with snacks, drinks and the kind of wildlife most of us see only on National Geographic.
Crocodiles slid quietly through the water, hippos bobbed like gray blimps, and baboons jabbered in the trees.
As daylight faded, the hippos started asserting themselves, opening their jaws wider than anything should be able to. Our guide, Christpyn — who speaks six languages and fluent hippo — wisely hit the throttle and got us out of there fast.
Later, we cruised to lunch with elephants and even ran the rapids on the way back. Then came the grand finale: a trip to Livingstone Island and Angel’s Pool — essentially swimming on the edge of a 105-meter drop. I wish I were exaggerating.
Angel’s Pool sounds gentle, but don’t be fooled. You lie on slippery rocks while water rushes past and drops 300-plus feet below.
My wife, the family thrill-seeker, thought it was “exhilarating.”
I thought it was a fine time to reconsider my life choices.
Still, sipping tea afterward, I had to admit that the mix of fear and wonder is what travel is supposed to feel like.
Learning from locals
The trip wasn’t just about adventure. We also visited a local school supported by our lodge, meeting Principal Bridgette and her energetic students.
The classrooms buzzed with excitement — especially when the tumbling class discovered it had an audience. Their flips got higher, their grins wider.
Outside, villagers tended a community garden — a place where families grow their own food with permission from the school.
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Later, we toured one of the nearby villages. Homes were built with sticks and clay made from termite mounds. Water came from the Zambezi, carried by hand, 500 yards each way.
We played soccer with the kids, who were mesmerized by my nephew’s Apple Watch. They couldn’t stop tapping it, laughing when the screen lit up.
Simple, joyful moments like that stick with you more than any photograph.
Finding purpose in the plan
Before any big trip, we review our checklists. Flights, packing, travel insurance — all the essentials. But I’ve learned that purpose matters just as much as preparation. You can plan logistics, but you can’t plan connections.
Yes, we wanted to see Victoria Falls and cruise the Zambezi. Still, the best parts were never on the itinerary: Clive’s quick humor, Christpyn’s stories about growing up nearby, seeing 10 white rhinos flanked by two military personnel armed with AK-47s, feeding elephants and witnessing the power of mother nature.
That’s traveling with purpose — being open to what unfolds when you slow down and pay attention.
Too often, people travel like they’re collecting evidence: “See? I went there.” But meaningful travel isn’t about proving you were somewhere; it’s about feeling like you belonged there, if only for a moment.
The real souvenir
Traveling with purpose isn’t just about where you go — it’s about why you go and what you take from it.
In Zambia and Zimbabwe, the history is alive, the culture is vibrant, and the natural beauty is beyond anything a camera can capture.
And when you weave that together with your own experiences — the laughter, the nerves, the victories, even the hair-tie negotiations — you don’t just take a trip… You take something much deeper home with you.
Retirement is not designed to be just about money; it’s what the money can do for you. To learn more, pick up my new book, Your Encore Years: The Psychology of Retirement.
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