Maryan and I pivoted. It had been weeks since we’d heard the Chichewa greeting (which bears no resemblance to the playground slur). To our left stood a slim dreadlocked man leaning against a wooden railing and fiddling with his beaded Rastafarian ring. We’d met him on the minibus that morning. He’d told us his name was Jimi Hendrix.
“Been to the lip of the Falls?” he asked. “Come on.”
Jimi led us along a paved path, indicating where the Zambezi’s current had grown stronger since the rains had begun. “Over there, do you see?” he asked, pointing to a marshy area hidden behind tall grasses. “That’s the lip of Victoria Falls. It’s not flooded yet, so we can cross the river.”
Maryan and I swapped glances. This was an adventure, right? “We need to make a chain,” Jimi said, grabbing Maryan’s left hand. I went to grab her right, but then a short, taciturn man appeared from behind the bushes (I swear) and nabbed the spot between Maryan and me.
We took our first exhilarating steps into the Zambezi. The warmth of the water distracted me from the force of the river. We shuffled along a manmade wall the width of a balance beam. The water hit at knee-level.
During college, I led backpacking trips in New Hampshire. Shelley, our program coordinator, loved river crossings. We discussed an endless array of techniques — rotating tripods and hand-over-hand chains and buttressed doubles — and tested these out in the carpeted dormitory lounge. None of these methods had ever proven necessary in the White Mountains. But as I faced upstream (to prevent my knees from buckling) and bent my legs (to brace against the current), I thought of Shelley. Who knew her advice would aid me in Zambia?
The water grew deeper. What had seemed a mere hop-and-a-skip from the bank was proving to be an unremittingly soggy schlep. We often paused to let giant, glowingly green, bulbous plants pass between our legs. The silent man from the bushes became increasingly shaky. Midway across the river, we had to straddle a boulder in order to continue. I remembered my earlier comment — “Maryan, you’d hardly believe such a calm current turns into those enormous falls!” I was ready to rescind the statement.
“Way better than whitewater rafting, isn’t it?” Jimi asked.
We grumbled.
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “That’s the office.” He pointed at a tree on the opposite bank. Discarded water bottles lay strewn at its base. Waterlogged clothing hung from the branches.
We arrived saturated with Zambezi and sweat. It had taken us 45 minutes to go a few dozen meters. I wondered if the river had parasites. Or crocodiles.
“Where’s the lip of the Falls?” Maryan asked.
“Over there,” Jimi said, waving his arm toward the horizon. “Not far.” Jimi loved understatements.
“No,” Maryan said. “I’m done.” She remained at the office with Shaky Bushman (who informed her, she later said, how small children cross the Zambezi all the time. “And I run across!” he’d boasted).
I’d made it this far, I reasoned, so I continued with Jimi. We were off the manmade wall and into the rocky, slippery rapids. “Step where I step,” Jimi said. Never mind that the water rushed too fast for me to make out Jimi’s feet. “I’ll keep you safe,” he assured.
I slipped. Jimi sneered. “You have short legs,” he said. Jimi was at least six feet tall.
I slipped again, this time soaking my entire right side.
I swore. “Enough,” I said.
“But we’re nearly there!” he insisted. Jimi said this frequently. He pointed across an interminable stretch of whitewater. “That’s the regular route, but there’s a shortcut along this way.”
I steeled myself. “Wait,” I said. “How deep is the water?”
“The regular way — ” he gripped my calf. “And the shortcut — ” he karate chopped my waist.
“No way,” I replied.
On our return slog, we passed a group of guys making the crossing.
“Was it worth it?” one asked.
“Chalk this up to stupid things I’ve done in Africa,” I said. “Have fun.”
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment