Those who still say David Livingstone discovered Victoria Falls are counting on the slightly tongue-twisty name ‘Mosi-oa-Tunya’ given by the local Kololo tribe who lived there forever. It means ‘smoke that thunders’ – how straight-from-the-heart-beautiful! But tribe members and other locals who still reside near the park, working as rangers and guides, bear no grudge, just mildly irked at the use of ‘discovered’. Here was the world’s largest sheet of falling water, how long would it have remained undiscovered! My guide looked up at the statue of Livingstone by the entrance to the national park, on a little lump of a gazebo, as we indulged in a bit of an introductory badinage.
“He was the best marketer we had for the waterfalls.”
Mr Livingstone, the marketer
He then ran his hand fondly over the glistening structure, a concrete cicatrice. Like most Africans elsewhere in the continent, he had learnt to move on, taking everything in his stride. Injustices, especially. No hard feelings, Livingstone’s intents were good, godly even: he was there to replace slavery with the less lethal Christianity and commerce. Africa had his heart, literally as well: Following his death from malaria, his heart was buried under the evergreen Mpundu tree in Ilala by his attendants before his embalmed body was shipped to London.
While I am unsure about the sentiments involved in yanking hearts off dead people, I can begin to condone this considering it did look like he was in love with the land. This is what he wrote about the Mosi-oa-Tunya, upon its well, discovery.
The whole scene was extremely beautiful; the banks and islands dotted over the river are adorned with sylvan vegetation of great variety of colour and form. No one can imagine the beauty of the view from anything witnessed in England. It had never been seen before by European eyes; but scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight.
Angel view
In Harare, Zimbabwe, on work, I decided to fly out to Victoria Falls over the weekend with a friend. A one-hour flight, we took fastjet, one of our client airlines. A small airline, flying to about half-a-dozen destinations, it sports the African Grey Parrot as its mascot – I have always loved the way just the face of the parrot is displayed on the tail, where you can still see its kind and intelligent eyes. Smart bird for a smart airline. Now I was looking at it, standing right next to it. It was an Embraer – the equipment they fly mostly – and when you can walk into one just cutting across the apron, with a little imagination you could be in your own private jet.
fastjet: Fly the pretty parrot
Johan, a cabin crew trainer, was onboard keeping an eye on his wards on their maiden flight. He apprised us of the airline training syllabus – little wonder, the numerous awards over the years – and immaculate maintenance by ground staff, and experienced pilots. Everything went like beautiful clockwork – on time take-off, dapper attendants, delicious snacks, and of course the much-awaited announcement.
Ladies and gentlemen, yes, what you are looking at is not any bushfire or volcanic activity. But it is the ‘smoke that thunders’ though you may not be able to hear the thunder…
From the distance and height we were, it looked like a solfatara, or a gigantic cloud machine, probably part of some Okta experiment, dug into the centre of the earth spewing billowy masses leaving metal-winged angels too gazing.
Okay…
Anticipation of a good thing is a happy cruelty we play on ourselves as adults. The gift may be opened the next day, blindfold removed when we are told to, the plunge only after the quivering reaches a crescendo. Likewise, I dillydallied; just round the corner was the first view of the Falls. I did everything to push the inevitable: Took a lot of photographs of Livingstone like a distant descendant, of which many swing by, I am told. I cavilled, even pretended paracusis – with all the ‘thunder’ that rumbled on around me.
“Okay, let’s go,” my guide said maybe knowing what was going on.
Touch the rainbows
I still remember the first sighting vividly – you are finally face-to-face with what was a phantasm all your life till then. Or, probably like seeing a woman you know you are going to fall in intense unreciprocated love. Or, if pantheism was my religion, this is where I would start my worship. From close quarters the mist was missing, instead the air was droplet.
Going by the urgency with which rainbows formed and disappeared, you’d come to think that was the very raison d’etre of water here – to become rainbows before disappearing as iridescent vapor or rejoining the cascade falling into the water below. The waterfall, 900 metres above sea level, falls from a height of over 100 metres and from where I was watching, the Zambezi River is about two kilometres wide which means a lot of water. This again means a lot of beauty and wildlife. From somewhere I could hear my guide shouting out babblers and hornbills and tropical boubous.
“Okay, let’s go.”
Fireballs and flame lilies along the caesius path. Odd-shaped trees under a clear blue sky. Different coloured charaxes and swallowtail butterflies cut across my legs like strange kids excited when you bring them candies. And then there were the rainbows arcing over the pathway in many places. They didn’t disappear like mirages but stayed, embracing vibgyors, as you passed through them and carried away parts of them. The butterfly and the rainbow competed with each other to see who created the most beauty out of their short lives.
The vibgyor walk
To paraphrase an Emerson, everything was good on this pathway.
“Okay, let’s…
Wonder, naturally
There are several viewpoints along the path – about 19 of them – beginning with the Devil’s Cataract, where Livingstone keeps his vigil today. While 16 are on the Zimbabwean side where I was, the rest three are in Zambia. Among the seven natural wonders of the world, the Victoria Falls is a transboundary property along the Zambezi River. From rafting to bungee jumping, sunset cruises and gorge swinging, there are many activities you can book, usually in the convenience of your hotel. I stayed at the beautiful Ilala Lodge, a boutique hotel closet to the waterfalls, with its traditional architecture and Indian Laburnums and the Underwood typewriter. And of course, the hippos who snort around the lawns after midnight.
The Victoria Falls town looks like one of those towns in the westerns that look sleepy but you know isn’t. The settlement began when people started moving in hoping for work on the hydroelectric power plant that was proposed along the waterfalls over a century ago. Today of course tourism is the main industry, with locals providing different support activities.
I befriended some local lads who ran the bungee jumping enterprise from Victoria Falls Bridge, the historic bridge connecting Zimbabwe and Zambia, built in 1905. Their business was seasonal, fortunes fluctuating with that of the wider continent. With air travel going up, these affable lads were optimistic. There were Zimbabweans, Zambians, Ugandans and Namibians all speaking in a baritone mix of patois and rudimentary English. It didn’t matter over adrenaline and beer.
Later in the evening, we sat on the steps of a bank building watching people, both tourists and locals. Well-dressed, sturdy and hatted men milled around arriving buses offering services. They laughed loudly among themselves, making the pantophobic group move away from the window, peering fearfully at them like Abraham-men.
‘Welcome to Victoria Falls,’ I heard someone say.
‘I show you what Mr Livingstone discovered,’ said another. ‘You know Mr Livingstone?’
