Victoria Falls, Zambia

Soaking up the power of Africa's mightiest waterfalls

By Andrea Davoust



While in Zambia on a work assignment, I took the first opportunity to escape from the dreary capital, Lusaka, and visit Victoria Falls, which are a six-hour bus ride away through flat, dry savannah. In fact, African public transportation schedules being what they are (“when it is full o'clock” is as close as it gets to a departure time), it took me and my friend Leila most of our Saturday to reach the characterless town of Livingstone, then the park.

We first heard the low rumble. Then we came across the life-size statue of David Livingstone, the Scottish explorer of Doctor-Livingstone-I-presume fame. As the first European to have seen the falls in the mid-19th century, he named them in honor of his monarch, Queen Victoria. A little further down the path, we caught our first glimpse of the cataracts. Stretching as far as the eye could see, curtains of furious white water tumbled down, divided by the rocks jutting from the crest of the falls. A massive cloud of spray rose from the gorge, hiding the depths of the chasm.


As we walked down the path that paralleled the falls and led to a narrow footbridge spanning the gorge, we noticed that all the people coming in our direction were soaked. Continuing beneath the protection of the trees, we began to feel fine drops, which, once on the bridge, turned into a literal upside-down rain, so thick was the spray. “Hence the clever stand renting out raincoats back there!” shouted Leila, as she started to run towards the other end. But the sun playing on the drizzle had created a beautiful rainbow, a sharp circle leaping over the walkway and plunging into the gorge. Later, as the sun descended over the far side of the falls, the light turned the haze into a golden cloud. The next day, we made our way to the bungee jumping center on Victoria Bridge, which spans the second gorge a few hundred meters downstream, linking Zambia with Zimbabwe. As we reached the entrance, 120 meters above the rocks and rapids of the Zambezi way below, my knees went weak. How could my so-called friend have talked me into hurling myself off that bridge? Feeling hollow inside, I trudged to the jumping platform, amid the traffic of indifferent African women carrying bundles on their heads. As the instructors strapped my gear on, they directed a steady stream of chatter at their (idiotically consenting) “victim”, to distract me from what was coming. I had picked the gorge swing, so I was to step off the structure, not drop headfirst. “Look straight ahead, not down, and when we count to three, just walk,” they told me.

My friend was almost in tears as the instructors gently pushed her into the void. She screamed all the way down. Bounced up. Fell again, still screaming. Later, she swore that she would “never again” perform such a jump, but it was too late - we had both earned our bragging rights in one of the world’s most amazing natural sites.

== From : travelsinparadise.com ==