Victoria Falls: Part Four– The Journey to Zimbabwe
on Me Talk Pretty One Day (Malawi), 25/Sep/2009 12:16, 34 days ago
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.