The whispered warnings reiterated like a conspiracy: Don’t go to Zimbabwe. They came from waitresses and the bottom bunks of hostel dormitories. It was October 2017, the peak of the blistering dry season and weeks before the military coup that would see Robert Mugabe, the nation’s leader of 37 years, finally deposed. Hyperinflation. Depressed tourism. Land disputes. Empty grocery shelves. Everyone zealous in their reasons to avoid its borders. Naturally, I ignored them. I had set out in South Africa, bused to Lesotho, and hitchhiked through Mozambique, where I encountered an impasse, a metaphorical and literal crossroad. Other backpackers I met continued northward into Malawi, but I wanted to head west, voyaging into a land plagued by the weight of taboos. All the Zimbabwean guidebooks were outdated; dust coated their frayed spines on hostel bookshelves. The once flourishing tourist destination had lost its allure to nations with lavish safari packages and stable currencies. I first read about the forgotten ruins of its former empire in a neglected copy of Lonely Planet. I crossed the Mozambique-Zimbabwe border on foot, alone. I carried the weight of my bulging pack on my shoulders, unstable as I queued at the chaotic border crossing, worried I could fall backward and wiggle helplessly like a turtle on its shell. “Great Zimbabwe,” I told the minibus driver on the other side. The driver pushed open the rusted gates in the dark of night, seemingly aware no one would come, and that no lights would turn on. He left me standing by the park’s neglected entrance. I pitched my tent to the echoes of thunder, struggling to shove the stakes into the rocky soil amid the blackness. I occupied the only plot in the desolate camping ground. A UNESCO World Heritage site, deserted. As I peered into the dark, the beams of my headlamp reflected a pair of eyes from the bush. Not that alone. I swayed outside my tent under the stars, gripping a bottle of wine that I had been carrying for far too long. I woke with the sunrise. Determined, wandering in search of worn signs for admittance, I found an entrance into the fabled archaeological park. I signed the dated entry book, where admittances from years past were still visible. August was blank. September too. Here laid the remains of a bygone civilization: the Kingdom of Zimbabwe. I whirled through passageways and navigated a maze of towering outer and inner defense walls. I read faded signs that detailed radical approaches to stone laying, sans binding agents, and the venerable artifacts unearthed. Excavated Persian pottery proved the empire was adept at intercontinental trade. Early colonists originally tried to obscure the ruined city, wanting to hide the people’s capability to build and lead an advanced civilization. Zimbabwe, formerly colonial Rhodesia, gained independence in 1980 after decades of brutal struggle. When the infant nation sought a new name, it found one in the relics of its former glory. Zimbabwe translates to “great stone houses,” and here hundreds dot the landscape, collapsed and erect. Whilst lost amongst its fortified walls, I fumbled with my map, intent on visiting places in the correct order. I realized I had missed the city’s legendary Hill Complex, rested atop a peak in the distance. The complex had served as the city’s spiritual and religious epicenter. Dusk approached rapidly. I needed more time. High on adrenaline, I ascended to the promised City upon a Hill. My sneakers sunk in the deep clay soils. A rock hyrax, comparable to a wild fat guinea pig, scurried by. There, it stood, its former piety replaced with historical poise. Clay splattered across the stone walls, and a cutout in the granite lingered ahead. Cloud engulfed the hill and spat rain droplets. I ducked into an entrance way, and I rubbed my fingertips across the hallowed 700-year-old stone, neatly stacked, slick with moss and lichens. I stood alone at the altar, unable to see beyond the mist. My tent waited somewhere below. Sublimity and fear churned my stomach. Night settled over the ruins of southern Africa’s greatest empire; a one trillion Zimbabwean bill, equivalent to 25 cents, weighed in my pocket. After all, it’s always darkest before dawn.