It’s not often that you can say you entered into a
near-death experience voluntarily – that in fact, you read the disclaimer,
thought to yourself, “This sounds highly unsafe”, and then proceeded to sign it
anyway. The next thing you know, you’re perched casually in a pool at the edge
of the largest waterfall in the world, deafened by the indomitable roar of the
plummeting water, nothing but your desperate grip on a frayed rope preventing
you from taking the 108 metre plunge that looms only a metre ahead. You’d think,
in this situation, that your thoughts would be preoccupied with the immediate
threat to your existence – if you had a hand on the magical Weasley clock from the
Harry Potter series, it would most definitely be pointing at mortal peril at
this moment. Instead, I found myself merely hoping that my bikini top would
stay on long enough to get a decent photo. #priorities.
This is
one of the more extreme ways to enjoy the wonder that is Victoria Falls.
Spanning an impressive 1609 metres, the waterfall, known locally as Mosi
oa-Tunya (“the smoke that thunders”), lies on the Zambezi River on its path
between the borders of Zambia and Zimbabwe. Another daredevilish sight-seeing
option is the bungee jump off Victoria Falls Bridge, where thrill-seekers can
hurl themselves 111m down into the gorge below. For those not willing to dangle
precariously over the falls or toss themselves off a bridge, the National Park
provides a safe, on-land opportunity to view the majestic, mist-making cascade.
I have to say though – however foolish it may be – not much beats the
adrenaline rush in the Angel’s Armchair. This experience is usually offered as
a package of the Devil’s Pool and Livingstone Island Tour, but at the time of
our visit the Devil’s Pool wasn’t safe for swimming, and so we went to the
Angel’s Armchair instead. The tour of the island consisted mainly of squelching
around in the mud, wearing some chic flattering green rain ponchos, half-listening
to our guide and wondering how much longer it would be until we got into the
water. Afterwards, we were rewarded for our reckless behaviour with a very
tasty breakfast enjoyed on the island (they even had warm scones. And you know
how I feel about scones).
Ohh yes.
I visited Victoria Falls from the
town of Livingstone on the Zambian side, named after the Scottish explorer who
discovered the falls in 1855. Having spent the month prior to this working in
an isolated hospital in rural Malawi, Livingstone was like NYC to my companions
and I. There were shops! Bakeries! Nightclubs! Even a chippers - which, in true
Irish style, we were to become well acquainted with on our search for curry
cheese chips in the early hours of a Saturday morning..
The infamous Sunset Booze Cruise
is a quintessential part of any backpacker’s trip to Livingstone. A boat trip
up the Zambezi, a BBQ dinner and an open bar until the sun sets – what more
could you want? There’s even the opportunity to spot a sneaky croc or two on
the way, if the Zambezi Specials haven’t addled your eyesight too soon. A
mixture of vodka, gin and whiskey with a dash of orange juice and some
interesting illuminous green liquid, these cocktails focus on delivering the
most alcohol possible, at the expense of taste and your stomach lining. Just
what was needed to cater to the large amount of Irish students on board. One of
our compatriots was on his second Booze Cruise of the week – an NUIG man,
wouldn’t you know ;) – and he warned us that when the sun set and the boat
turned around, the bar would close. We took note of this, and as we were chatting, we kept watch for the slightest change in
the boat’s orientation.
The drinking games began. The gin continued to flow. The sun dipped down to the horizon. The boat began to turn.
We flocked to bar en masse.
“Three Zambezi Specials please!”
“I’m out of gin!”
“Ok, vodka Diet Coke so!”
“I’m out of vodka!”
“Ah, alright whiskey Diet Coke so!”
“…I’m out of Diet Coke!”
“AH JAYSUS GIVE ME ANY SPIRIT AND MIXER YOU’VE GOT!!”
Between 3 people. Oh dear..
A raucous rendition of Boyzone’s “Baby Can I Hold You
Tonight” in the downstairs cabin is the last memory many of us have of that
evening, before we came to hours later in the afore-mentioned chippers, on a
mission to satisfy our carb cravings. My friend had ordered a box of chips, and
was given a plastic bag to transport them home in. She took the bag, and,
unwatched by the staff, toddled her way to the condiment counter, where, in her
Zambezied state, she proceeded to pack the large bottles of ketchup and sweet
chilli sauce from the counter into her bag. Nothing we could say could persuade
her that this was unnecessary and that she should leave them for the use of
other customers. She was adamant that she must bring these delicious relishes
back to the hostel with her. Eventually, we came to the compromise that she
would take one bottle only, and the sweet chilli sauce was reluctantly exhumed
from the bag and left behind. She has since been diagnosed with alcohol-induced
kleptomania. :P
We woke up the next morning, the
aroma of gin imbuing the air, a lonely ketchup bottle lying on its side on the
floor. Victims of the Booze Cruise, merciless at the hands of an open bar, we
wallowed in self-pity and tried to piece together the night from looking at our
photos. Some questions were answered, some memories recovered, while others – such as, “Whose foot is
that?!” – remain a mystery to this day.
Alcohol and chips were not the
only luxury our newly beloved metropolis had to offer, however. A slightly more
gourmet experience was our Afternoon Tea at the Royal Livingstone Hotel. The
Royal Livingstone is a five-star hotel situated on the Zambezi outside of the
town, near the head of the Falls. With its marble foyer and rolling grounds
casually populated by wild zebra and antelope, it’s not the usual type of
establishment frequented by grubby backpackers, but we had heard good things
from friends who had been in Livingstone before us. And so we scrubbed the dust
from every crack and crevice and donned our finest gear (/only remaining clean
clothes that weren’t Africa pants) and headed off to Afternoon Tea.
A traditional singing group
serenaded us while we made our wary entrance to the hotel, feeling just a tad out
of place as valets delivered BMWs to the door and suitcases larger than our
bodies were lugged to and fro. Having subsisted on a diet of rice and beans for
four weeks, our bellies were crying out for something a little extravagant –
well, we were in the right place. As bountiful as a table at a Hogwarts feast,
a lavish spread of cakes, quiches, sandwiches, tarts, petit-fours and scones was
laid out before us in a buffet style banquet.
Wait - buffet?! We panicked. Tea
had started half an hour ago, and we assumed that once a certain tray of treats
was empty, it would not be refilled. So we grabbed our plates and hastened to
fill them with one of almost everything on the buffet, lest we miss out on a
single delectable morsel. Some of the other patrons cast amused looks at our
loaded plates as we lugged them back to our table. We merely laughed and congratulated
ourselves on our impressive hauls. Those fools with only the one egg and
watercress sandwich on their paltry platters! How sorry they would be when they
realised they’d missed out on the last of the strawberry tartlets. And smugly,
we sat back and scoffed down.
Moments later, the doors to the
kitchen swung open, and a host of polished waiters appeared, pushing trolleys
of food to refill the trays that had been so brutally ransacked by the invading
Irish. The strawberry tartlets were replenished. The egg and watercress
sandwiches were overflowing. We exchanged sheepish looks. And wondered if it
would be acceptable to go and get one of those new chocolate pastries that had
appeared..
A few hours later, when the pain in our
stomachs had finally subsided, we sat by the river, sipping cocktails and
watching the sun on its diminuendo colour the coursing waters coral. There is a
quote by Ernest Hemingway written on a wall in the dining room of the Royal
Livingstone; “I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke that I was not
happy”. And we agreed that, even on the gin-scented mornings, even on the days that
dawned on dozens of new mosquito bites, our time in Livingstone – and indeed,
our trip as a whole – was the very same.
