ZAM TO THE BEZI

The crocodile sunning himself looked so peaceful banked up on the side of the river. As we bobbed by in our flimsy yellow flotation device I wondered whether the helmet I was wearing was to protect my head from rocks or from munching reptiles. No matter, there was little time between rapids and paddling to be even remotely pensive. For those of us who are geographically challenged the Zambezi river creates the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Victoria Falls is therefore nestled between these two great countries who share an affinity for the latter portion of the alphabet. (It is not often that I get make good use of the letter Z, or zed as we so stylishly call it in this part of the world, thankfully writing about south-central Africa affords me such a pleasure.) After Victoria Falls makes it’s impressive mile-wide display of falling water, sixty-four kilometers of winding river canyon follows. This is where my most recent adventure took place; complete with class-five rapids, shenanigans from the blessed motley crew I accompanied, and the obligatory crocodiles.
When being introduced to the idea of rafting the Zambezi my friend said “I swore I’d never do it again because I was so scared the first time, but I knew you’d love it.” Great. I’m not sure where to even begin analyzing this statement, but I suppose I at least must willingly shoulder this thrill-seeker brand.
During the rafting staging, where we were awkwardly fitted and cinched with life jackets, a certain no nonsense guide shooshed the would-be rafters, keeping a very somber demeanor while the other guides joked and cinched the air out of unsuspecting rafters lungs. Of course this seemingly unplayful guide would end up in a boat with a puppy like me. I was ready to work my charms and loosen him up, but before we even began he shoved me out of the boat. Granted he did not even crack a grin, but I knew we were in good hands. During the day it came out that our guide had been river dogging this portion of the Zambezi for nigh 10 years, it made sense that he was a bit over touristy gusto. What our guide lacked in enthusiasm our boat made up for in snorting laughter (that was me) and blatant river hooliganism. We shoved each other out, joked about nearby crocs, surfed the rapids (stood up when it was advisable to sit down) and were generally a merry crowd.
My river tale involves only a few injuries, one of our crew sprained a finger when our boat flipped going through a rapid. The swollenness and menagerie of black, blues, and yellows earned her a seat in the prow where she relinquished her paddling duties for a coxswain position. A girl on another boat severely chipped her two front teeth so I suppose that rafting between the Z’s is no cake –walk, but I still couldn’t quite back-up my mates claim that it is downright nerve-wracking.
At the end of the day after being tossed around by the river and worn-out by the sun our yellow raft glided smoothly onto a sand bank at the bottom of the ravine. We then signed our lives away for the third (or fourth) time that day and hopped into a cable car which hefted us up to the top of the gorge. A cable car has never been so appreciated, though after living in Africa for a bit and knowing things propensities to, well, stop working, I held my breath. Safely at the top cold Zambian brews awaited us to make a glorious day edge dangerously near perfection. When we passed the herd of elephants just hanging out near the road shoulder on our journey home, I knew that this whole day was not without divine orchestration.
Back at the rafting head quarters we watched the video which had been taken as we careened between narrow canyon walls. We laughed hysterically at our impossibly contorted rafting faces and slapped eachothers backs as we relived memorable rapids. Granted all these events had happened less than 3 hours previous, but we rafters are quick to reminisce about the good old days. After filling my belly with laughter and spaghetti our somber raft guide caught me in an all out bear hug and was lucky that I did not reciprocate with regurgitated dinner! He nailed me off-guard and I could barely express my thanks because he squeezed the air clear out of my unsuspecting lungs. Eventually I was freed from his massive embrace, and a bit stunned I stumbled back to my abode. The Zambezi caught me off-guard in more ways than one, crocs, wild rapids, unassuming river guides, and new- found river buddies. Unlike my petrified pal my experience leads me hope for a repeat on that reptilian inspired river.