Victoria Falls: Part One - The Journey to Livingstone
on Me Talk Pretty One Day (Malawi), 15/Sep/2009 09:24, 34 days ago
Before I can catch a taxi that will transport me through the 30-odd kilometres of nothing between the border and the town ofChipata, 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 inZambia. 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-blueToyotashouting,“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 forme. 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 toLusakais 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 inLusakawith a deep sense of foreboding. Another eight-hour journey lies before me. I am heading to Livingstone, once the capital ofZambiait 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 inAfrica. 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 ofVictoria Fallsthat,“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.