The Chronicles of Suntwe - Chapter 9: Permission Pending

The upper Zambezi has a way of slowing time.

Upstream of the Falls, the river widens and deepens, sliding forward with an unhurried confidence that makes everything else feel unnecessary. On that stretch of water, urgency feels rude. Noise feels out of place. You move at the pace the river allows, or not at all.

It was about seven years after the python incident when I found myself back on those waters, this time for work rather than wildlife. I had been contracted by The Amazing Race to design and build one of the challenges for an upcoming leg filmed in Victoria Falls. It was the kind of job that felt like a reward for a life spent outdoors — creative, physical, and rooted in a place I knew intimately.

A lone Elephant Bull swimming back from Khulundu Island

The concept was simple and elegant. Contestants would paddle across the river to a wild island, then retrieve clues hidden high in the canopy by hoisting one another up using a rope system we would rig in advance. It was physical, technical, and visually spectacular. Exactly the sort of thing the river demanded.

The location was Khulundu Island.

Setting up the nest and the clue high in the Canopy

A long, low island sitting between Zambia and Zimbabwe, just a few kilometers upstream of the waterfall. It was wild and temporary by nature. Elephants swam across and lingered there for days before moving on. Birds nested and lifted off in waves. The island belonged to the river more than it belonged to any country.

It also belonged to National Parks.

Strictly.

Just hanging out really .....

We had been told, clearly and confidently, that the necessary permissions had been granted. That the paperwork had been done. That we were good to proceed.

So I put together a small team. Stuart and Ndu, my closest mates and fellow river pigs, men who read water the way others read maps. John Dewdney, my neighbour and a gentle soul, agreed to ferry us across in his boat and do some fishing while we worked. There was also another man with us, loosely connected to logistics for the production. I didn’t know him well. He was just along for the day.

The Dream Team - Left to Right: Ndu, myself and Stuart

We crossed in the late morning, the boat cutting a clean line through the river’s surface. Khulundu rose ahead of us, green and quiet. When we stepped onto the island, the world dropped a gear.

Msasa trees stretched overhead, their branches filtering the light into something softer. The air smelled of leaves and river and sun-warmed bark. There was a small bachelor herd of elephants on the island that day, distant but unmistakable. Their presence was a reminder that this was borrowed ground.

We walked the island slowly, scouting lines, measuring distances with our eyes, talking through the challenge. Somewhere near the center we found a clearing that felt right immediately. No discussion needed. We all knew.

At some point, work gave way to stillness.

We climbed a tree with a long branch reaching out over the river and lay there in the shade, dozing like baboons after a good meal. The water slid past beneath us. The elephants moved somewhere deeper in the bush. It was one of those moments of serenity that no photograph could truly capture what mattered anyway.

The three of us up the tree before the nap

My nap spot

Eventually, reluctantly, we made our way back to the boat.

As we approached the mainland, I noticed figures on the bank.

At first it barely registered. Parks officials were part of life in Victoria Falls. But as the boat drifted closer, something tightened in my chest. Their posture was wrong. Too rigid. Too alert. AK-47s rested casually across their chests, fingers loose but ready.

There’s a particular feeling that comes with moments like that in Zimbabwe. A quiet recalibration. You don’t panic. You don’t relax. You simply become very aware that the story is no longer yours to tell.

We docked.

There was no greeting. No curiosity. Just stern faces and that familiar Zimbabwean official humour, half joking, half threatening. The kind that establishes hierarchy before facts.

We were told we were under arrest.

The charge was that we had gone to Khulundu Island with the intent to poach wildlife. The ropes and rigging gear in the boat were pointed out as evidence. Our explanations fell flat. Permits or not, they said, no permission had been granted.

We were escorted away and taken into the wardens’ offices inside Victoria Falls National Park.

There, we were told to sit on the floor in a line against the wall.

Time behaves strangely when you’re waiting to be decided upon.

The heat lingered in the room. Officers walked past occasionally, reminding us that we could be held indefinitely. That prison time was on the table. That trial dates moved slowly in Zimbabwe. Months, sometimes.

One member of our group made things worse.

The man from Harare grew combative. Cocky. Made comments that landed badly. Borderline racist, definitely unhelpful. I tried to shut him down, tried to distance the rest of us from his attitude, but he doubled down. In Zimbabwe, that kind of bravado can cost you days of your life simply because someone decides it should.

After about an hour, we were told a senior Parks official was coming.

When he arrived, he looked more irritated than angry. Annoyed at the inconvenience of it all. He stood in front of us and asked for identification.

I handed mine over.

“Paul Teasdale,” he read.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Bulawayo?”

“Yes, sir.”

He paused.

“Snake catcher Paul Teasdale from Bulawayo?”

I looked up.

“Yes, sir.”

He studied my face for a moment longer. Then his expression changed.

A grin broke through.

“Hello, my friend,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

It took a heartbeat.

“I am Simon Muchatibaya,” he said. “We went together to catch those pythons near Turk Mine.”

For a moment, the room ceased to exist.

We shook hands, laughing, exchanging quick updates like men who had last met in the dust of something far wilder than an office. The tension drained away so fast it was almost disorientating.

Then Simon turned back to business.

He told the others there had clearly been a misunderstanding. That he knew me. That he knew my work. That I wasn’t someone who would knowingly break the law. I explained the permits, the assurances from headquarters.

Simon picked up the phone.

One call.

A short conversation.

A pause.

The paperwork arrived.

Everything resolved itself with the quiet efficiency of something that should never have escalated in the first place. We were released. Cleared. Given the green light to proceed.

We stepped back out into the sunlight. The river glinted in the distance, unchanged, indifferent.

Stuart caught in a moment of contemplation by the nap tree

Reflection

Zimbabwe teaches you lessons you won’t learn anywhere else.

It teaches you that systems are fragile and people are not. That paperwork matters, but memory matters more. That power is often informal, personal, and deeply human.

That day, freedom didn’t arrive because I argued better or proved my case harder. It arrived because years earlier I had shown up honestly, done my job well, and treated people with respect when there was nothing to gain.

Kindness is not soft currency. It compounds.

Reputation is not what you say about yourself. It’s what remains in someone else’s mind years later when your name comes up unexpectedly.

In places where life runs on relationships rather than processes, every interaction is a quiet investment. Every small moment leaves a trace. You never know which one will return to you, or when.

Sitting on that floor, waiting to be judged, I was reminded that the world keeps its own records. Not always written. Not always fair. But surprisingly consistent.

And sometimes, when the timing is right, life grants you permission, not because you demanded it, but because you earned it long before you knew you would need it.