It felt like playing Edgebrook Saugenash in 9-year-old traveling baseball, driving with our cabbie from Victoria Falls airport to the border where Zimbabwe ended and Zambia began. The first taxi, in hindsight, was a godsend with likely 600,000 kilometers already in the can. Thinking back…at least it was a comfort to see that everyone in the customs line – Americans (us), Canadians, Aussies, South Africans – all had a stash of American dollars. It was the most accepted currency in this country of economic shambles (political too…if I were to speak or publish either one of the previous statements, I would be thrown in jail). Quickly, my mind shifted…there was nothing welcoming about seeing American dollars. More to the point, there was nothing welcoming about anything in Zimbabwe aside from the baboons, vervet monkeys and warthog families roaming the roads…which at that point was anything but a comfort. My Navigator and I buried cameras as we passed a “police checkpoint” (taking photos of any government activity is also reason to be jailed…only to be later freed after negotiating a sweet bribe). Countries of the world, hear this…Zimbabwe is an absolute pillar society. Did I mention getting hit with a 36-dollar check for 2 Fantas and fries at an airport restaurant? You could buy a car for 50 and I’m not even sure if that’s an exaggeration.
We negotiated a cab from the airport to the border of Zimbabwe for 30 (taken). From there, we crossed the border, hopped a cab through no man’s land for 5, passed over the Zambezi bridge -- home to the world’s 2nd highest bungee jump...
And began to work our way through Zambian immigration while 2 steaming cabbies fought over the fare to our final destination. When we came out, the bare footed and ultimately defeated of the two cabbies was screaming…
“Pirate! Pirate! Look at the car, he painted it blue. He’s a pirate! He’s robbing my fare!”
Though he had a point – it was obvious that our driver had thrown buckets of blue paint over his car and let gravity do its duty (blue is the color of the “official” taxis) – our bags were already in the “trunk.” We pulled away, chased by screams as the winning driver attempted to settle our minds…
“Your first time in Africa and this is what you see. This is your impression, the impressions you take back. He’s drunk, look at him. That man’s not even wearing any shoes!”
I assured him that first impressions really weren’t that important, that I already knew of Africa’s beauty when my Navigator began motioning to the empty bottle of Castle sitting on top of the parking break. I offered all I could…
“At least he’s wearing shoes.”
…
Zambia is a country of beautiful, kind people…all the way through. I also think it would be irresponsible to not defend the people of Zimbabwe – a land run by an “infantile guerilla” who fixes exchange rates and sinks the country into frequent tailspins. Maybe someday soon, he’ll be gone and a national identity will have the opportunity to reveal itself.
...
The Zambezi is mighty. Anyone that tells you different is either blind or special. It has this little generator behind it that goes by the name of Victoria Falls – a vision I took in with a setting sun, as the perpetual mist surrounding this wonder made for a rainbow so flawless I wanted to sob all over myself and nearly did.
But as mighty as the sight itself was, I couldn’t know what it was capable of until I rode it.
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We took rafts out on the 3rd day – two days after my Navigator suffered from a flash illness, one day after I rode a horse named Wheaty through Zambian farming villages – and it was on the 3rd day that I have never felt closer to death in my life. We rode 10 rapids with a native, deadlocked guide named Simba. The first three were a wild trip. On the fourth, I remember paddling into a swell, already out of breath when I found myself under water – trapped in swirling black without any hope of a sense of direction.
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Our raft had tipped and I was gulping water for air. The brain has a breaking point beyond calm where the body – in what felt like an involuntary reaction – thrashes for its own survival. I felt it for what felt like an eternity before I came up, tried to drink down every last drop of air in Africa. I remember gasping, satisfied for a partial second before gulping more of the Zambezi, going under again, getting trapped under the boat when suddenly, the water was calm and I was trying to figure if and when I had blacked out.
And the worst was yet to come...
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They call it Gulliver’s Travels, rapid #7 (which would be closed the next day after an upgrade to 6 – impassable). The longest and roughest, our raft was turned by the halfway point. Any sooner and we would have been in serious, serious trouble. I had learned my lesson from the previous encounter, got it far worse than anyone else and kept my mouth shut aside from one line of advice to suck deep wind before hitting the nasty stuff. Though, it’s one of those things you can’t know until you know. This time, everyone tasted the same nightmare. When I finally came up for air, we were nowhere near calm waters. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw as the burly Scotsman that was paddling right middle hit and caromed off a boulder in the center of Gulliver’s most daunting stretch. The water spun me around as I spotted the emergence of my Navigator, trailing 20 meters and nearing a rocky coast that would ultimately prove scarring. I tried to swim, but the current pulled us apart and all I could do - hope for a universal smooth fate, heads above water.
Eventually, our vests brought us up. Eventually, the 7 of us were back into a raft void of trust…broken down, ailing, afraid. On that day, the Zambezi had drowned my body, my strength of mind. The final rapid could not have been more welcomed. My Navigator and I got back, kicked back in the sun and launched ourselves into a reflective and aggressive poolside mid-day drunk with Mosi and Red by our side…with a new appreciation for air and serenity.
…
I didn’t sleep much the last night. It had nothing to do with the heat or the mosquito nets on the bed – I had grown accustomed. It wasn’t even the Temple of Doom millipedes I had earlier seen, worried would be a feast for the Lariam still lurking in my head. At 9 that morning, I had an appointment to jump off the Zambezi Gorge Bridge, the 2nd highest bungee jump in the world---
Yeah, I know, same person haunted by vertigo. Same person sent a check for 10,000 to appear on a TV show (never aired) exploiting my fear of heights (arrogance, charm, beauty…among other things). If there’s something I am or have been trying to learn in the most recent stretches of my life – fears are gifted…and what a tragedy it would be, coasting through life never facing them.
That morning, I didn’t eat, forgot to drink any water. Actually, I felt sick and a little hungover – but this was to be expected. After all, nerves can be powerful little beings.
Strapped and prepped in a blur, I toed the platform drenched in a panic sweat, trembling uncontrollably, adrenaline driving every inch of my body. The numbers 01 had been scratched in large green marker on my right forearm. The spotter, Danny, must have read it in my eyes. He spoke fast…
“Okay, okay…eyes on the horizon. Eyes on the horizon. First jump of the day, okay, you got it. I need you to do something for me, for all of us, for these people behind you. I need you to wake up the Zambezi, show her your pride. Yell, let that shit out.”
I screamed beyond capacity, so fueled and outside myself, it damaged my throat.
“Again!”
I did. And if you were listening closely from any part of the world in that moment, I’m convinced you could have heard me. From there, I dove off, came around to face a jagged ground below that would otherwise been eager to deal end life. And it was in this strangest of places that I found silence and a snapshot of a moment in suspension – as peaceful as anything I’ve ever seen and as afraid as I’ve ever been. Beautiful.
I spent the last day in transit, suffering from what I was worried to be the initial stages of a Yellow Fever tempted from an earlier post. Though, I’m pretty sure it was just dehydration…maybe exhaustion…maybe one of the thousand Zambezi parasites I had inadvertently swallowed while fighting for life.
...
It’s 10 in the morning, my last morning in Camps Bay and I'm still feeling remnants of sickness in my body. Today, I leave for Heathrow...tomorrow, Chicago. After trying to replicate small percentages of the comforts of home in 15 countries and countless more cities over the past 4 months, I’m finally going back to the home that grew me up.
I can’t explain exactly what I was after when I left…maybe because I don’t want to or because understanding would be a gift too generous. All I can say…
May every day break me, every turn blind me, never a moment escape me.
…
Oh, and fuck the world…it’s mine.
