Zimbabwe: Stillness, Thunder, and the Stories in Between

There are countries that feel like destinations, and then there are countries that feel like conversations. Zimbabwe was the latter.

It didn’t shout at me with tourist polish or promise five-star gloss. It wasn’t trying to sell me itself. It just was—proud, battered, beautiful, alive. A place carrying a complicated history, but meeting visitors with both caution and kindness. A place where I arrived as a stranger and left feeling like I'd only just begun to listen.

If you ask someone about traveling to Zimbabwe, they’ll often pause. "Is it safe?" "Is there anything left to see?" But ask anyone who’s actually been—and you’ll see their eyes light up. There’s a quiet loyalty among Zimbabwe travelers, as if we all feel we’ve been let in on a secret we almost missed.

Harare: A city of shadows and music

Harare is subtle. It's not a city you fall in love with at first sight—but if you give it a few days, it shows you its rhythm. I stayed at Malcolm Lodge in the leafy suburb of Borrowdale. The kind of place where the owners sit with you at breakfast and talk about the state of the country, or the best place for sadza that night.

Art and music are everywhere if you look for them. I spent an afternoon at the National Gallery, which houses a remarkable collection of Shona sculpture. Later, in a tiny rooftop bar downtown, I stumbled into an impromptu jazz session where someone handed me a bottle of Zambezi beer and simply said, “Stay.”

And I did. For hours.

Great Zimbabwe: Stone, myth, memory

From Harare, I headed south to Great Zimbabwe, the ancient stone city that gave the nation its name. I expected ruins. I didn’t expect to feel something almost spiritual.

There’s a hush here, even when tour groups pass through. The dry grass, the warm wind, the way the granite walls rise from the earth with no mortar—just perfectly fitted stone—it all makes you feel small, but also part of something vast and old.

I stayed at Lodge at the Ancient City, perched just outside the ruins, with thatched chalets built to echo the surrounding architecture. There were candlelit dinners, baboons rustling the trees outside my window, and staff who spoke of the place not like a job—but a legacy.

Matobo Hills: Rock and spirit

Matobo wasn’t originally on my list. I added it last-minute, and now I can’t imagine leaving it out.

The land here rolls like a quiet ocean of granite—massive boulders stacked like gods were playing games long before we arrived. I hiked to Cecil Rhodes' grave (controversial, yes, but undeniably scenic) and sat in silence as the sun lit up the horizon in soft gold.

But the real power of Matobo is less visible. This is sacred land for the Shona people, home to cave paintings, ancestral spirits, and whispers in the wind. My guide, John, didn’t speak in tourist script. He told stories like they were inherited, not rehearsed.

I stayed at Big Cave Camp, which sits above the rocks, part Flintstones, part safari chic. At night, the silence is almost a sound in itself.

Hwange: Wilderness without the noise

Everyone comes to Zimbabwe thinking of Victoria Falls, and yes, we’ll get there. But let me pause for Hwange National Park, because it deserves it.

Hwange doesn’t have the crowds of Kruger, or the media presence of the Masai Mara. What it has is space. Miles and miles of bush and sky, where elephants move like ghosts and the land feels as if it still belongs to them.

I camped a few nights at Ngweshla Camp, and then splurged at Somalisa Expeditions, where the elephants literally drink from the plunge pool. No one hurries. Game drives feel more like quiet conversations with the landscape than animal chases. I saw lion, cheetah, giraffe, sable—but more than that, I felt like a respectful guest, not a spectator demanding a show.

Victoria Falls: Thunder, tourists, and the edge of something

You can hear the roar before you see anything. The locals call it Mosi-oa-Tunya—"the smoke that thunders"—and that’s exactly what it is: sound and water and mist rising into the sky like a living force.

Yes, it’s more touristy. Yes, the bungee jump and the helicopter rides are there if you want them. But beneath all that, the Falls still have soul. I walked the edge trail at sunrise, soaked to the bone, laughing, breathless, in awe.

I stayed at Bayete Guest Lodge, just far enough from the main drag to feel peaceful, but close enough to walk to town. It was run by people who knew my name by the second day and brewed strong morning coffee like it was a love language.

A note on people

Zimbabweans don’t rush. They’ve seen hardship—economic collapse, political mess, droughts—and they wear their resilience with quiet dignity. I had more conversations here than in any other country I’ve visited. People wanted to talk, to ask questions, to share jokes, to help.

When my fuel card didn’t work in Bulawayo, a stranger paid for my tank and refused to take repayment. "Just enjoy my country," he said. "Tell people we're still here."

What Zimbabwe gave me

I’ve traveled a lot, but Zimbabwe left a different kind of mark.

It reminded me that wildness can be elegant, that history can be living, and that people can carry both pain and generosity without contradiction. It’s not the easiest place to travel. Roads can be rough. Power cuts are common. Internet is a gamble.

But none of that matters once you’re there.

Because Zimbabwe is still real. Still full of grace. Still waiting—quietly, patiently—for those willing to look a little deeper.

And if you do, it gives more than most places ever could.