The Mighty Zambezi

Where to begin when describing rafting the Zambezi River? It was all Juliet’s idea. That much must be said at least. In case I come across as a goof or fool, I can at least say that it wasn’t even my idea and I just went along for the ride. At the youth hostel in remote Livingston, Zambia, our new friend Filip, from Brazil, mentioned that he was going rafting down the mighty Zambezi River. Juliet’s eyes lit up immediately and she needed no more convincing. I was a little more skeptical, but when Juliet showed me the brochure teasing me with river boarding half the day, I was sold. First half of the day would involve rafting with a guide and second half would involve taking the rapids on a boogie board. How could I say no to this? It sounded entirely too thrilling to pass up, regardless of cost or potential injury to life and limb. So while it would take all day, it would include three meals, a chance to see one of the mightiest rivers in Central Africa and a chance to meet more tourists, like Juliet, Filip and myself. I had met Filip at the airport on arrival when he shared a shuttle to the hostel with us. My bag didn’t arrive from Johannesburg and he offered to let me borrow a pair of shorts until my bag arrived. It was quite a sinking feeling to arrive in a dusty, Central African town with no clothes but those on my back and nowhere to buy replacement clothes. We were a good two hour flight from the nearest major city, which was down south in Johannesburg. So, I had already met one interesting and generous tourist, and was now going to pay $150 to meet some more.

The day started with a slow ride in the back of a large white truck trudging down the dusty road to the Zambezi River. All around, I could see orange-red scorched Earth, barren trees and brown shrubs. The dry season was nearing its peak and the river would be rather low. Although we were assured that at any height, the river was very deep and therefore the risk of hitting rocks was minimized. Did we really believe this? Or were we just swept up in the romantic idea of paddling down such an exotic sounding river?

It was a long walk down a steep canyon to get to the water’s edge. Just downstream was an amazing view of Victoria Falls Bridge, part of the Cape to Cairo route from North Africa down to the South. Its arched truss impressively suspended high above. Filip mentioned that you could bungee jump off the bridge. While he smiled at this idea, Julie and I cringed. We liked to think of ourselves as adventurous, but next to Filip, we seemed downright squeamish.

We set the raft into the dark, murky water with our guide Melvin. Juliet and I placed our full confidence in his able hands. We were joined by South Africans Terry, Bev, Andy and Vessel. The latter two had already scaled the Zambezi and they were eager to go again. We practiced commands first: paddle right, paddle left, back paddle, everybody down! I liked everybody down because it meant crouching in the raft and holding onto the rope for dear life. Juliet liked the abandon ship command. She and I tepidly stroked the oars into the calm water.

The first couple rapids scared me until I actually saw them and realized that there was little to fear. We quickly and nearly effortlessly glided over them and continued on our merry way. It wasn’t until the fifth or sixth that caught our attention; it was called Stairway to Heaven. Almost immediately, the raft flipped and we found ourselves scrambling to find the raft and stay together. The water was cold only as an initial shock, but then it was warm and moving swiftly, carrying everything with it. Eventually, Melvin pulled me atop the overturned raft and yanked ropes from one side and fell into the river on our backs in order to pull the raft to its right side. We hopped in again, all oars still intact and nerves frazzled but still eager to plunge ahead. Juliet looked a bit nervous when we saw Bev had cut her tooth and rubbed the now jagged edge against her lip, causing it to bleed. She said it didn’t really hurt and apparently it looked worse than it really was. Andy joked that she had chipped her tooth on the Stairway to Heaven; we chuckled nervously. While the next rapid was a Class 5, we did well. The raft dropped and twisted, pulled and jerked, but we hung on for dear life and the rapid quickly gave way to more calm water. I should probably note that I had no idea what a Class 5 rapid was and it wasn’t until I e-mailed all my friends and family back home that they were in shock that I had gone rafting in such a treacherous and difficult place.

Off in the distance, we heard the rumble of helicopter blades and then saw it glide from around the end, its blades spinning wildly, while it zipped through the rocky canyon. It passed overhead and downstream toward another rafting group. Juliet and I didn’t think this was a good thing, but kept our mouths shut as we exchanged hurried glances. We knew there was an injured rafter up ahead, but didn’t learn until later that she had suffered a broken femur. I winced in pain and wondered again, Why am I rafting down the Zambezi River in a developing country? Eventually the helicopter dipped below the water line down stream. This could only mean that we were going to visit more rapids that dropped a good distance. Melvin advised the next rapid, number seven, was called Gulliver’s Travels because it was long and technical. Quite possibly the longest of the rapids we were to brave that day. Typically, Melvin instructed us what to expect with the rapid. It consisted of phrases like, stay to the right, paddle hard then back paddle, if you fall out of the raft stay to the left. There were so many instructions for this set of rapids that I quickly forgot what I was supposed to do. And so when we hit the first rapid, we found ourselves tumbling backwards in the raft and then we were all tossed overboard. Again, the water shocked me at first, but it wasn’t cold. It was loud and fast and powerful as it sucked me downstream with unrelenting strength. Immediately, I was separated from the raft and thought myself a “long swimmer.” That was what Melvin called those who fell overboard and were too far from the raft to swim to it. Turns out I wasn’t a long swimmer because the raft quickly bumped from behind. All I could do was keep my head above water. I was thankful to be wearing a life vest and helmet. And because my sandals were lost along with the rest of my luggage, I was wearing my sneakers. I pulled my feet up to my chest in a fetal position with feet pointed forward. This position allowed me to push away from rocks that came my way with increasing speed. I was tossed and turned, pushed and pulled, and then I felt the raft hit me. As fast as I could, I grabbed hold of the left side of the overturned raft. After a few hurried seconds, I found myself under the raft in the false tranquility of its air pocket. I could no longer maintain the fetal position and as my legs struggled beneath me, the river began to pull me in all directions, until I was on the right side of the raft. To my left was the rock canyon wall and I hastily pulled my legs toward my chest and positioned myself to push away from the canyon wall. I never had a chance to push against it as I found myself pushed under again. Still holding onto the raft’s ropes, I was now in front of it and side by side with Vessel. He was smiling and said hello as he held onto the ropes. There was no look of panic in his face and he somewhat eased my nerves. But we were still being tossed around like toy boats and my legs pushed against his. As I struggled to maintain my position ahead of the raft, he laughed more and told me to relax, it would be over soon. He was right and eventually we passed the rapid called Gulliver’s Travels and I had time to think of something besides my own safety. And so I wondered what had happened to Juliet. She wasn’t holding onto the raft and definitely had to be a “long swimmer.” Before I found her, Melvin found me. He was atop the raft again and pulled me up there with him. We yanked on the ropes until the raft was upright. We had again fallen back into the water and swam up its side and hoisted our bodies inside. I just wanted to relax and gather my strength and nerves. But he asked me to help steer the raft to a small beach, where everyone else could catch up to us and climb back into the raft. We weren’t quite at the half way point and I was well beyond the point of exhaustion. Juliet and I exchanged more hurried glances and wondered how we made it back to the raft with nothing more than frazzled nerves and soaked shoes. We talked about the girl with the broken femur and considered ourselves lucky.

The next rapid was small and innocent, but Juliet and I were terrified we would fall out of the raft and did little more than hold onto the ropes for dear life. We ignored Melvin when he told us to paddle and shivered from exhaustion. I remembered the light English breakfast we had eaten and dreamt of a five course lunch. I was dehydrated and scared, but I didn’t want to convey this to Juliet as she was already praying for a way to lift us off the raft and onto safe, dry land. We were baking in the sun and feeling hopelessly adrift. Bev’s mouth was still bleeding, Juliet was terrified, I was craving a big lunch and Vessel was ready for more rapids. I thought us a weakened group and wasn’t sure how much longer we had to endure this torture. I whispered to Juliet, “Did we really pay $150 to die on the Zambezi River?” She said it wasn’t like we could swim to shore and walk to the parking lot and drive home. The lifeless canyon was deep and fractured. We looked up one side and saw little more than brown, earthen dirt with boulders precariously perched overhead. To the left was Zimbabwe and to the right was Zambia. We were lost somewhere between two developing countries in Central Africa. We had no choice but to press on.

Our confidence in Melvin was shot. No other raft had flipped on that rapid and we suddenly seemed to be lost and inexperienced. Thankfully, rapid eight went well and was incident free. We ditched the raft and portaged around rapid nine because it was called a category 6. I guess this meant it was pretty bad and then I saw that it was pretty much a waterfall and there was nothing to see except churning white water. Everyone walked around. We climbed back in the raft and quickly zipped through rapid 10. At this point, we saw a small beach ahead, with a welcoming committee. Juliet and I silently rejoiced that lunch lay ahead.

I quickly gulped two cups of unflavored juice wondering if there was any water. I noticed that other rafts had jugs of water to share, while ours was noticeably absent. Juliet and I grabbed a sandwich each, along with an apple and looked for a nice place to sit. Somewhere we could contemplate mutiny without being heard. I noticed a nearby rafter applying sun block. My sun block was lost along with all my clothes. Earlier in the day, we had borrowed SPF45 from an Israeli photographer. But now he and his Hebrew bottle were missing in action. Juliet chimed in and asked the rafter if we could borrow his sun block. He said he was from Boston, as if the accent didn’t give it away, and passed the sun block our way. His short dark hair and friendly demeanor invited us to start a conversation with him. His name was Jeff and he commented on how bad our flipped raft looked. We found out we were the only raft to have flipped on Gulliver’s Travels and also the only raft to have flipped twice before lunch. My confidence in Melvin sank even lower at this point. Jeff’s raft hadn’t flipped at all, it was filled with inexperienced rafters who had never gone rafting before, but they had a good guide. Our raft was occupied by two experienced rafters and a guide. I whispered to Juliet that Melvin had to go and we would need a better guide. She said it didn’t matter anymore because we were going to river board from this point on. I had completely forgotten about the river boarding. Now I was anxious to take the rapids again, but this time I would have more control and I wouldn’t have to worry about being in a raft with an ill-equipped guide.

Like testing the water in a hot bath, I tepidly re-entered the river. This time, I was hydrated, my belly was satiated, I had regained my confidence by holding the boogie board close to my chest. Now, Juliet, Bev, Terry, Andy, Vessel and I were the lone river boarders. Our old guide Melvin was nowhere to be found and our river board guide was now Joseph, a strong, well-spoken local with years and years of experience on the Zambezi, both in rafts and on boards. After little advice, other than how to hold the board with your hands at 11 and 3, we paddled our way out into the river. We would now go before the rafters and brave the rapids without a raft. The good and bad thing about river boarding is that the rapid comes at you quickly and you have no choice but to submit to its swift and powerful current. Then again, there was no need to worry about flipping over because you would be through the rapid before you knew it. Joseph gave us brief instructions before each rapid, but it was difficult to hear him and tough to stay together because you simply went with the flow of the current. You couldn’t stop and you couldn’t get out of the way. As the first rapid approached, I tucked my head to the board and huggd it with my hands at 11 and 3. This gave you extra strength and agility to flip yourself over if you ended up with the board above you. I had ridden waves on boogie boards in the ocean every since I could remember going to the beach, so this wasn’t anything that would make me nervous. And I felt safe and ready to go for more.

One tricky aspect of this new sport was staying in the main current, or flow, of the river. You could see it if you looked for it, but otherwise I never would have noticed it without Joseph pointing it out. Rippling across the river’s surface, particularly in the calmer parts, is the main current. If you stay with it you do much less work to continue downstream. Without paying attention you can drift out of the current and find yourself drawn to the river’s edge and paddling had to get back to the current. Juliet and I found this out the hard way and I found myself paddling back to the current on more than one occasion. Rafts would pass us and we’d recognize fellow rafters from lunch as they would shout out to us: “Crocodile biscuits!” That was our nickname and although I figured I knew why we wer called that, I wasn’t quite sure whether to believe them or not. I asked Joseph when I paddled next to him between rapids and he confirmed that crocodiles to live in the Zambezi River, however they don’t get to be much more than four or five feet because prey are smaller in the quick moving rapids. I thought of this during each quiet lull between rapids, craning my neck in all directions to ensure there were no crocodiles closing in on me. And during particularly long stretches between rapids we would hop into a raft a hitch a ride downstream to the next rapid. Joseph also advised well in advance which rapids should not be undertaken on river board and so we donned paddles when joining an advancing raft.

When Joseph announced we were paddling through a class five rapid on the board I was nervous. You didn’t know what to expect and when you finally did see the rapid, there was nothing you could do avoid it. So I watched as he zoomed out of view down the swift, steep rapid. I held tight to the board and expected the worst. I don’t know how great a drop the rapid was, but it was far. It was steep, it was smooth and it was amazing. Adrenaline rushed through my body as I glided down the rapid and splashed through the water, my mouth soaked with the Zambezi. The water churned and the sound of rushing water filled my ears as I grinned endlessly. It was so much more exciting than being in the raft and I wondered why everyone wasn’t doing the same thing. The class five rapid was fast and steep and intimidating, but it was also soft and fascinating and rewarding. You just sort of fell down the rapid and swished and swirled out of the rapid. It was a quick drop and nothing like the Gulliver’s Travels rapid. When I finally saw Juliet again she was laughing and proclaiming how much better the river boarding was than being in the uncertainty of the raft. I eagerly pressed on through rapids with exotic names like The Ugly Sisters, The Washing Machine and Rapid No. 17.

I was exhausted when we came upon rapid 23 and despite all the excitement of the day, I was happy we had neared the end. We glided to the shore and gathered our things for the hike out of the canyon and up to a waiting vehicle to take us back into town. Juliet and I had nothing to gather, so we carried life vests, helmets, paddles and our soaked backs up to a waiting funicular car. It was new looking, but still not a paradigm of safety. After having survived the Zambezi, I was willing to risk the short ride up the funicular rather than scramble up the steep canyon with gear in both hands. It quickly paid off and we were at the top, again looking out at the dry, dusty plains of Central Africa. We climbed into a large truck-like vehicle with rows of metal seats. We stayed cool under a canopy and plopped our weary souls down for a much needed rest. Someone found an ice-chest full of sodas and started to pass them around. It was cold and wet and full of sugar and I drank it as fast as possible. I was still completely soaked with water that flowed across some of the driest areas of Africa, a river that stretches across several countries and forms many boundaries. My shoes were dripping with water and I took them off to see my shriveled and prune-looking feet. It was a joy to feel the dry air envelope my weary toes. The shorts Filip had let me borrow were actually the only thing that was beginning to dry and I was happy to have them (still wondering why my clothes were). I had worn a shirt all day to prevent myself from sunburn, but now it was dusk and I could rip it off and hope it would dry soon since it was the only shirt I had. Other rafters started to ask us about the river boarding and we shared stories, saying how much more fun it was than being in the raft and its unpredictable nature. I think they were jealous after seeing how much fun we had. I had brought a water-proof camera with me and had taken several photos along the way. So I snapped another of Juliet and I as the sun set and the truck lurched forward into the orange blaze of a setting sun.