Exploring the World’s Biggest Falls
05/21/10
We could have entered a rainstorm walking in a darkened trail towards the thundering mist of Victoria Falls. The trees branches hanged low, seemingly weighed down with the constant battering of water. I could hear the falls lulling, its enormous bassy rhythm pounding, re-directing the wind in drumming boulders. Moving forward along the soaked trail, the mist thickened, bursting up into the sky, creating a fog that slipped horizontally across the heavens and shifting into rainbows, altering the horizon with each shift of light.
Drenched from head to toe, my senses were overloaded. The sideways spray of water was only interrupted by gusts of wind through the incoming light, turning the faces behind me into blank shadows. Stone people. Nearing the falls, the horizon was turbulent like boiling water, as if the river was trying to free itself of the earth. As the falls submerged us with rising rain, we blended into the mist like a droplet of water into a crashing wave. We abandoned our words feet from the first viewpoint, our shadows blending together in the darkening mist.
We stood still, leaning into the wind. The sun broke through the rising mist creating a canyon of flowing diamonds. It was an awakening sense of the raw power of nature. The water tumbled with enough force to change the weather around us. Standing in front of Choppa-chaw, she stared through me as if I was not there. Her face hardened as she looked over the edge, the mist ricoheting across her body.
Standing between my mom and my girlfriend, the three of us looked through the shapeless bright mist together, breaking the hands of time. It was a moment for me, another dream come true on this trip, that will last forever.
From viewpoint to viewpoint, I quickly unpacked my camera from within two ziplock bags and snapped underexposed photos with the flash to compensation for the foreground, a necessity, as my camera read the mist as pure light. During our fall-front walk, I felt altering currents of rain and wind and no words for either.
“Wow!” we all took turns saying. Nothing else needed to be said in the presence of one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. I will always remember the metallic thunder, the golen vastness, the smell of nature turning mist into rain, fog and rising clouds around us. Wow, indeed.
…The local craft market…
The four of us - Choppa-chaw, Boxie-boo, Bobaconda and the Ribatron-don - walked around with more attention than four giant assholes at a proctologist convention, but with better haircuts and slightly more vocabularly. Everyone checked our swagger and our apparel. In Zimbabwe, crafts can be paid for with money and also trading. My hat was the hottest commodity with offers from salesmen in all directions. There was one salesman, however, I could not shake, who followed me for 10 minutes with puppy dog eyes and whispering. My dozen “No ta tend da” (No thank you) did not seem to be working.
“My friend. Let’s do business. Swooshi swooshi,” he said, his words trailing off into incomprehensible whispers. He held my hand softly, looking into my soul with bedroom eyes, reminding me of my friend David back home.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” I winked, then began rubbing his thumb. He flared his nostrils and dropped my hand, with a look on his face as if I just told him I pooped myself. Bobaconda, Boxie-boo and Choppa-chaw burst out laughing. We all needed comic relief from the constant harassment of sales pitches.
The four of us celebrated a successful day of bargaining and sightseeing by having a horrible meal at the Victoria Falls Restcamp called In Da Belly. We all complained about the lieing con-artist at the market’s “Sunset Corner” who lures people over with prices he increased once a shopper showed interest. To cap off the night, the restaurant’s food ceremoniously gave us the runs and I welcomed Boxie-boo to my exclusive club - Pooped Pants Backpacker’s Association - where only the truest travelers can join, having experienced all a country can offer. I was so proud.
For the amusement of my three sisters back home, I agreed to take part in their gift that was sent to Africa with Choppa-chaw. The three of us had facials. In Zimbabwe. It made me realize my sisters still wish, I tease, that I was the fourth daughter. I would have named myself Bertha and refused to shave my armpits.
“Were you ever tempted to wear a tampon just to fit in?” Boxie-boo joked.
Maybe.
That’s all for now.
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