Victoria Falls: Part Four – The Journey to Zimbabwe

For many hundreds of miles, from the point where the Chobe joins in the west, until the river meets the great Lake Cahora Bassa in the east, the Zambezi marks the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe, or Northern and Southern Rhodesia as they were once known. The only way to cross from one country to the other is to cross the Zambezi. This can be done easily enough by bridge or by boat, but given that September marks the middle of the dry season in this part of the world, and that water levels in the river are, comparatively speaking, low, I thought I would try the journey by foot, taking a route directly across the top of Victoria Falls. “It can’t be done!” said the many local guides who waved me off. Well, as it turns out, they were right.

It takes no more than an hour or so to walk all of the trails of the Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park, and less if you’re being chased by a hungry baboon. Family groups frequent the area to scavenge what they can from the many garbage bins adorning the walkways. One of the rangers told me that they often mistake plastic bags for food. Having just escaped an ugly baboon that attempted to grab the bright yellow Shoprite bag I was carrying, this I already knew. The creatures are a menace, spoiling the tranquillity while adding nothing to the view. They have the kind of beady close-set eyes, long narrow noses and bony, pink furless buttocks that only a mother could love. But baboons or not, after an hour, you’ve seen enough. I doubt there’s a smaller National Park in all of Africa.

And so it was that I decided to venture across the top of Victoria Falls in the direction of Zimbabwe, encouraged by the sight of the many tourists who were happily paddling in the shallows by the river bank. So many white men walking tentatively through the water with their trouser legs rolled up that I could easily have been at some British seaside resort. All that was missing were the ice-cream cones and transistor radios playing Test Match Special.

I kept my trainers on and attempted to seek out a route across the maze of exposed rocky outcrops. It was easy at first. Close to the bank, the water is shallow and slow moving. A slip would cost nothing more than wet socks and a little embarrassment. Further on, the going gets more difficult. Jumping from rock to rock, traversing narrow ledges and scrambling over boulders I felt like a child again, back on the Cornish coast looking for a good spot to cast the crab line.

At times I had to stride across a trickling path of water that made the rocks sparkle in the sun; at other times I had to leap across deeper torrents of white water. Sometimes I ventured farther upstream to ensure safe progress, while at others I was able to walk to the very edge of the cliff and gaze down into the deep gorge below. At one point, I met a twisted and mangled tree growing from an exposed ledge just below the lip of the cliff, seemingly holding on for dear life, its red leaves bristling in the breeze.

I estimate I had travelled several hundred metres across the river, out of sight of the tourists paddling in the shallows on the Zambian side, not quite in view of Zimbabwe. Only the distant shapes of sightseers across the ravine testified to the continued existence of human life; otherwise, I was alone in a world of my own. Such sweet, simple joy I had not known for many years.

And then I ran out of rock.

Rather than turn back, I decided to remove my shoes and socks, take a deep breath, and wade through the shallowest section of river I could find to a sandy, grassy island up ahead. No more than 30 feet away, the island seemed within easy reach. The water, however, flowed more quickly than I thought, produced more force than I expected, and the river bed proved to be more slippery than was comfortable. My progress was painstakingly slow. Each step was measured. Towards the middle, the river became deeper and the water began to flow well above my knees. I had to walk slightly upstream to avoid being gradually pushed closer towards the falls. Each movement was cautious—never a foot was moved until the other had found a sturdy grip and the rest of my body was balanced. After many minutes of intense concentration, I made it to the sandy shores of the island.

My celebration was, however, short lived. Across the narrow island, and before the next area of safe land, lay a greater expanse of deeper, more quickly moving water. Going forwards, I knew, meant ultimately going downwards, and, as beautiful as the falls are, the view from inside is not one I wanted to witness. Backwards was my only option, retreat the only sensible choice. Back through the river I waded, and back along the rocks I scrambled. Back towards the refuge of the river bank and the paddling tourists.

But alas, I could not find the same route back. The water level seemed somehow to be higher than before. Where I had stridden across, now I needed to leap, and where I had previously jumped, it now seemed as if the only way across was to fly. I have since discovered that a hydro-electric power station diverts many thousands of gallons of Zambezi water to fuel its turbines. When the power is not needed, the station shuts down and the water instead flows on towards the falls. Never has a power outage proven to be so ill-timed. I was stranded on a rocky island in the middle of the Zambezi.

But here is where the drama of the story declines rapidly, for one of the local guides, walking on an island further upstream while making his way back towards the river bank, saw my isolated figure and called out to offer help. There was a way back, but not across the top of the falls. I retraced many of my steps for a second time and then waded directly upstream to another island, from where the route back was, though slightly treacherous in places, at least possible.

I have learnt that you can wade across the Zambezi from Zambia to Zimbabwe, but Victoria Falls is not the place to do it. When I returned to the safety of the river bank, I was glad to return my shoes to their rightful home on my feet, glad to once again be amongst the paddling tourists, and yes, even glad to see those ugly baboons once more.

Victoria Falls: Part Three – Mosi-oa-Tunya

How many wonders of the world can you name?

My friends and I—a well-travelled and intelligent group let it be said, though admittedly that’s more my friends than I—could not reach the requisite seven. Of course, had my suggestion of Birmingham’s Spaghetti Junction not been so roundly mocked and ridiculed, we would have succeeded in achieving the special number. But let me ask you this, how many wonders of the world have you seen? How many have you walked upon, stumbled in, waded through? In this part of the world there is only one of which to speak—Victoria Falls.

It hasn’t rained in Zambia for several months, yet still the Zambezi River flows strong and true. Several miles south of Livingstone, and less than a mile north of the town of Vic Falls in neighbouring Zimbabwe, the river slows and widens like a great delta gently greeting the ocean. This river, however, does not meet an ocean but a precipitous cliff, over which it falls a hundred metres or more into the tumultuous chasm below. The sight is impressive in the dry season. When the rains finally arrive, the intensity of this curtain of water, which spans nearly two kilometres from river bank to river bank—from Zambia to Zimbabwe—must be truly incredible.

Where the river falls, it is like the earth has been torn in two. The gap is surprisingly narrow, squeezing the water into a bubbling channel of dangerous froth. Froth—that word is far too pedestrian and completely insufficient to describe the fast white waters of the Zambezi after the falls, yet I know of no better word to use. Maybe none exists. Maybe there is no place on earth quite like this. Victoria Falls was named after the legendary Queen of England; the great explorer, David Livingstone, thinking no name more worthy for this fantastic spectacle, and no spectacle more worthy for the sovereign’s name. The locals, however, still refer to the phenomenon as ‘Mosi-oa-Tunya’, or The Smoke that Thunders, a description both of the resulting spray and noise far better than any I could here offer.

After the turbulence and chaos of the river’s sudden drop, it eventually escapes into the ravine through a gap in the opposing wall, where it continues at a fearsome pace eastward, and, one can only imagine, further down towards the centre of the earth.

I viewed the falls from the swirling mists of the opposite bank, I walked and waded tentatively across the top—for the first time in my life actually looking down upon a rainbow—and I hiked along fallen trees and across large boulders deep down into the ravine itself, but only from above do I believe you can really appreciate the majesty of this whole place. I am but a poor traveller and such an indulgence was beyond my means. One day, I hope to return to gaze upon this sight like one of Livingstone’s angels in flight. When he spoke so passionately of this place, he spoke true.

The Seven Wonders of the Natural World are:

Victoria Falls
Grand Canyon
Great Barrier Reef
Harbour of Rio de Janeiro
Mount Everest
Aurora
Parícutin Volcano

The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World are:

Great Pyramid of Giza
Hanging Gardens of Babylon
Statue of Zeus at Olympia
Temple of Artemis at Ephesus
Mausoleum of Maussollos at Halicarnassus
Colossus of Rhodes
Lighthouse of Alexandria

The Seven Wonders of the Modern World are:

Great Wall of China
Petra
Christ the Redeemer
Machu Picchu
Chichen Itza
Roman Colloseum
Taj Mahal

Birmingham’s Spaghetti Junction is yet to receive the recognition it deserves.

Victoria Falls: Part Two - The Journey to Livingstone

Before I can catch a taxi that will transport me through the 30-odd kilometres of nothing between the border and the town of Chipata, I must first escape the flock of locals that now encircles me. These unruly men, with their tattered shirts, dirty flip-flops and hand-held calculators, constitute the unofficial foreign exchange market in Zambia. I will see them at each and every place I stop. All are eager to change money with me, all are offering a ‘good price’ and all are breaking the law.

A lone man stands in the distance by a small, sky-blue Toyota shouting, “Shared taxi! Shared taxi!” but all I hear is, “Salvation! Salvation!” I tighten the shoulder straps of my pack and march away from the currency dealers in the direction of my saviour. I dump my bag in the boot and jump straight into the passenger seat but there will be no quick getaway for me. Shared taxis, I have learnt, like minibuses, do not leave while a seat remains empty. And just like minibuses, shared taxis can transport many people and large amounts of luggage.

Over the next twenty to thirty minutes I am joined by four more passengers who squeeze into the back of this small car. A young child settles himself in the driver’s seat. As the only one with a seat to himself, I get most of the luggage piled on top of me. Several minutes later, the driver—the seventh person in this most modest of vehicles—finally decides to grace us with his presence, at once pushing the small boy to the edge of the seat and admonishing him for getting in the way of the handbrake and gear stick. Before we set off, a man taps on the window and asks if I need to exchange any foreign currency. I slump down in my seat and am quickly submerged in luggage, though from above I can still hear the faint and muffled offer of a ‘good price’.

The bus from Chipata to Lusaka is advertised as being a luxurious 71-seater, a claim I soon discover to be only partly true. There are 71 seats sure enough, though this fact is largely irrelevant as by the time we leave there are many more people on the bus than that. It is mid-afternoon and the temperature is approaching 30 degrees. There is no air-conditioning and nobody wants to open a window. I am crammed into a tiny space like that last item of clothing almost forgotten and forced into the suitcase with so little regard. I am travelling in luxury, or so they say. The capital and a welcome night’s rest are waiting for me at the other end of this, just eight short hours away. The rest does not bear telling.

Early the following morning I return to the main bus station in Lusaka with a deep sense of foreboding. Another eight-hour journey lies before me. I am heading to Livingstone, once the capital of Zambia it is now more commonly known as the ‘Adventure Capital of the World’. I am very much looking forward to arriving in the most adrenaline-fuelled town on the planet so I can find a quiet little corner in which to curl up with my book. As I stand in line ready to board the bus, I am hoping this thought will preserve me.

The bus is named ‘Shalom’ and it is covered with stickers announcing that it is protected by the blood of Christ. I try not to think about it and instead worry about where I’m sitting. A gentleman in bright blue overalls, more like a mechanic than a bus conductor, shows me to an aisle seat next to one of the largest women I have thus far seen in Africa. Forgive me, that’s not entirely true. He shows me to the arm-rest—the aforementioned woman having unavoidably taken both my seat as well as hers.

My friends, I could describe the tortuous journey; the dramatic breaking to avoid stray goats; the dirt roads and their inexplicable speed bumps; the incident when the sunroof flew off and we had to stop while the driver hitched a ride back down the road to search for it; the agony of sitting on an arm-rest; the heat; the humidity; the clouds and clouds of blinding dust thrown up be vehicles in front, obscuring the view; the barrage of banana-toting women who like to bang on the windows every time the bus stops at a small town or trading post; the incessant gospel music played at a deafening volume for eight straight hours; but instead I will simply state that I survived. I arrived in Livingstone just as the sun was setting.

The famed explorer and missionary, David Livingstone, after whom the town is named, once said of Victoria Falls that, “scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight.” After two days of the most intense discomfort and boredom I have ever known, I can only hope he spoke the truth and the journey was worth it.

Victoria Falls: Part One - The Journey to Zambia

A man in a crocheted red and green hat taps on the window and holds up a handful of spoons. “I give you good price,” he says in an encouraging tone. “I’m sorry,” I reply, “I don’t need any spoons.”

I am sitting on a minibus in what is commonly referred to as the ‘bus station’ here in Lilongwe. In truth, it is just a desolate area of land behind the main mosque where rows upon rows of tatty white minibuses, all destined for different parts of the country, sit waiting for passengers. There are no timetables here—when a minibus is full, it departs. You might have to wait two minutes or you might have to wait two days for no bus ever leaves with an empty seat.

In the meantime, local entrepreneurs hustle from bus to bus trying to sell to the patient passengers sitting therein, anything and everything they could possibly need for their journeys. There are newspapers for those who like to read, phone cards for those who love to talk, bottles of soda for the thirsty, samosas for the hungry, spoons for the… spoonless? Fortunately, I am heading to a popular destination—the Zambian border—and only two seats remain vacant. Before long, these are taken by a gentleman carrying a rather smart, black leather briefcase, and a lady with a chicken.

The road into the West is straight and flat, bordered on both sides by barren, desolate savannah. The monotony of the view is saved only occasionally by a seemingly out of place copse of banana palms or a lonely mango tree. Every now and then we pass a small collection of huts, made from mud and thatched with grass they seem a world away from the rapidly developing city we have not long left behind. When the rains arrive, this landscape will be totally transformed, awash with lush, green maize; but for now the land lies dormant and the villages seem bleak and deserted.

An hour-and-a-half after leaving Lilongwe, the Zambian hills appear on the horizon. As the hills begin to loom large, the minibus pulls into the border town of Mchinji that nestles quietly in their shadows. It is a sleepy market town with little to recommend it—the only town in Malawi, as far as I know, not to be mentioned in the Bradt travel guide. The centre of Mchinji is a wide open T-junction where locals sit listening to gospel music and drinking beer in front of small concrete shops with gaudy signs. Most of my fellow passengers will go no further than here, but I press on up the road, past the BP filling station, past the soccer field, to the border itself.

Nobody is manning the Malawian side so I pass through the gate and walk on into Zambia as if I were no more than crossing a street. I enter the small customs and immigration office and am greeted by a rather jolly woman in a dark blue uniform who beckons me to her counter. There is nobody else around. She removes a large tube of paper from beneath her desk and surreptitiously unrolls it for me to see. It is a poster of a lion. “He is waiting for you in Zambia!” she whispers. And then she looks at me blankly, and I can’t quite discern her intention. Rupiah Banda, the President of Zambia, stares menacingly from his portrait hanging high on the wall behind. ‘Is she threatening me?’ I think to myself. Maybe the immigration official is simply boasting about her country’s prolific and renowned wildlife, but I don’t trust her smile, so I thank her politely and move on with caution to take my chances at the next window.

Somebody is sitting at the desk there, hiding behind a newspaper. I clear my throat and the paper falls in slow motion to reveal a more sullen gentleman with a large, bulbous nose, staring at me like a wild beast woken from slumber. “Passport!” he growls. Now this is the type of service to which I am infinitely more accustomed. Within a minute my wallet is fifty dollars lighter, and in exchange I have received the smudged stamp in my passport that allows me to enter. I am on my way out of the door, onwards towards the great city of Lusaka, onwards towards the historic town of Livingstone, onwards towards one of the seven wonders— “Hey! Excuse me!” barks the man, pointing to a large mass of paper on a shelf along the back wall. “You have to sign the visitors’ book!” Now I’ve travelled to my fair share of different countries and I can honestly say this is a first. The man holds me with a mean stare, gesturing towards the huge volume. “Can I borrow a pen?” I ask, my voice trembling with trepidation. The man behind the counter thrusts his pen across the desk and lets out a brief sigh of frustration as if to say, “Why would anyone come to Zambia without a pen?”

‘Stationary,’ I think to myself, ‘not cutlery’ is what the man in the red and green crocheted hat should have been selling. I am now standing in a parking lot in the blazing midday sun, surrounded by trucks, ready to continue on my journey to the mighty Victoria Falls that are now only some 1100km away.