Adventures of a Wandering Thirtysomething

When we were booking our trip to Africa, there was only one place we pushed back on our agent about: Victoria Falls.

Any time you have a major attraction, especially one that is one of the seven natural wonders of the world, humanity insists on messing it up with every conceivable tourist trap to ensure that it will be an annoying experience. And rather than running toward the bungee jumping, helicopter rides and zip lining with glee as most people do, Matt and I run screaming in the other direction.

But, with a mere 180 km separating Hwange National Park from Victoria Falls, it seemed ridiculous for us to completely skip the experience. So, we agreed to go on the account that our agent only put us there for the shortest possible time to see the falls and then get the hell out.

Having spent the last seven days in the bush, it was a shock to our senses to roll up to the plush Victoria Falls Hotel. I was instantly annoyed by the glamour and grandeur of it all, longing to be back in the woods with the animals. But after a good night sleep, I awoke the next morning ready to embrace the brief break from the bush and a change of scenery.

We set off early in the morning for the falls, a hangover habit from all our previous trips to hit up the sights at the crack of dawn. Unfortunately, the cool of the morning mixes with the mist of the falls, making them nearly impossible to see. But with no other annoying attractions to fill our day and a nearly empty park, we took it in stride and decided to wait out the sun by walking the park route three times over the course of the morning, stopping at each lookout point to snap pictures as the views improved and getting soaked from head to toe as the light breezes carried the mists over the path.

Thoroughly soaked and satisfied, we made our way over the bridge to the Zambia side to observe the falls from new angles before taking in high tea at the hotel. Matt, always quick to remind me that doing anything remotely refined is going to result in embarrassment, proceeded to guzzle multiple glasses of ice water, tip his head back and open his mouth as wide as possible to eat the bite-sized sandwiches and tea cookies, and to lick his knife clean after each swipe of jam on his scones. I may just leave him in the bush next time as his manners closely align with those of the wild animals.

And then came time for dinner - a conversation that had started a year ago when we booked our trip. Given that Vic Falls would be the only place we would get to go out to a restaurant, we asked our agent for advice on which fabulous and, ideally, authentic restaurant we should try. She recommended The Boma. Matt did a quick search online and with a laugh and a "yeah, right" informed me that it looked like a complete tourist trap of buffet-style African dishes, including the local wild game, served with a side of face painting, fortune telling, drumming and dancing. We chalked it up to our agent being young and clearly not a foodie.

Fast forward to the trip and every one at every camp, including native Zimbabweans, raved about The Boma. They insisted it was the kind of place even locals ate at when visiting Vic Falls. No, we countered at each recommendation, you don't understand. We're foodies. We dine at trendy and pretentious restaurants with trendy and pretentious patrons. We don't combine meals with face painting. But each person insisted even more than the last, including a wealthy Zimbabwean couple who had previously lived in Vic Falls and run the Victoria Falls Hotel. With so many recommendations from so many seemingly reliable and local sources, we just couldn't say no. So, to The Boma we went.

Upon arrival we were made to don traditional wraps and face paint before we could be seated. Trying desperately to just roll with the schtick, we sat down and surveyed the scene. Children and large groups, neither of which we'd seen much of on the trip, were the primary patrons, many with their faces fully painted and gleefully getting their fortunes read. It was Africa meets Dave & Busters.

We made our rounds of the buffet, loading our plates with all the animals we had seen on the trip including kudu, warthog, eland, Guinea hen, as well as regional side dishes like sadza and peanut butter spinach. Excited to dig in to some real game, which we both enjoy the flavor of, each bite revealed more and more disappointment. All of the gaminess had been completely overridden by too much spice and over-cooking. The kudu and eland were made to taste like beef, the warthog like pork and the Guinea hen like chicken, none of it particularly well prepared. As someone who grew up on lots of wild game, I know what it should taste like. But not even a shadow of that flavor profile was anywhere to be found. Before dinner was over, Matt was becoming convinced that the whole thing may even be a lie, with many of the "wild game" dishes truly only containing beef and pork. No wonder so many people were here - they didn't have to be challenged by the food, but could still say they ate it!

As if on cue to drown our sorrows, the drumming and dancing kicked in, supported by a soundtrack that sent Matt into a frenzy. "They aren't even doing the music themselves. It's all pre-recorded!" He hollered over the noise. I picked up the drum placed at our table and played along in an effort to try to reverse the disappointment, but the damage was already done. Despite our better judgment, we got duped into paying way too much money to go to a tourist trap with subpar food and kitschy entertainment all packaged up as a "traditional" experience.

We headed back to the hotel, ashamed at ourselves for dropping our foodie guard and getting burned. But, lesson learned. Next time, even if 100 people tell us a restaurant is good, if it looks like it kinda sucks to us, well, solid bet is it probably kinda does.