Zambia (V.) - Victoria Falls, or beware of baboons

Mention Zambia, and sooner or later you will also mention the Victoria Falls.

That is, if you know where the Victoria Falls are.

I confess with some embarrassment that before coming to Africa, the lectures of political geography were already long-forgotten and my African geography was rather patchy. After all, Lake Victoria, Victoria Falls… it sounds only logical that those two could be in some way connected or close.

Well, they aren’t. The Lake Victoria is shared between Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, and has the (Victoria) Nile flowing out from it. The Victoria Falls lie more than 2000km south, on the Zambezi River, and are shared between Zambia and Zimbabwe (and for an illustration, the distance between the two Victoria elements is similar as the distance between Madrid and Copenhagen).

Victoria... Lake or Falls?

Clearly, not visiting the Victoria Falls while in Zambia would be unthinkable: a trip to see them was the only firm and planned point on our otherwise very vague Zambian programme. And in spite of all that happened, it was a trip a thousand times worth it.

The gateway to the Falls on the Zambian side, the town of Livingstone, is some 6-hour drive south from Lusaka. We managed to get the bus tickets a day in advance (a task by no means easy, as half of the bus station in Lusaka seized the appearance of five female muzungus to try to forcefully drag us to buy tickets with their company – no matter if all their buses were going to Tanzania instead of Livingstone), and though the bus wasn’t air-conditioned (I knew my cousin’s story about such a bus was really just a science-fiction), the journey to Livingstone was pleasantly uneventful.

As soon as we reached our hostel, we realised we made a big mistake – we hadn’t packed our bikinis. In the middle of the hostel garden there was a small but very appealing swimming pool, and in the absence of swimming attire we had to contend ourselves by dipping our feet in, and enjoy first a coffee, and then a cold beer (I’m telling you I’m becoming a beer-drinker) only by the poolside.

We had a walk around Livingstone, which is a pleasant quiet city (ok, anything seems quiet compared to Kampala), had a look at the local craft market, took a picture with a statue of the Czech explorer Emil Holub, and spent the afternoon relaxing by the pool, and cooking a fantastic dinner.

Our visit of the Victoria Falls commenced the following morning in great style. As we were leaving the hostel and looking for a transport to cover the 11km between Livingstone and the Falls, we were offered a ride on a fancy safari car for the same price as an ordinary taxi – to which we couldn't say no, and so we spent ten very amusing minutes on the road with the wind blowing off our earrings, scarves and hair (Bridget Jones kept coming to my mind). Very glamorous.

The local name for the Victoria Falls is Mosi-oa-Tunya – “the Smoke that Thunders”, and as we were approaching the park, already from a distance it was clear why it got this name. Rising above the Zambezi was a big cloud of white mist, and you could hear the roar of thousands of cubic metres of water falling into a chasm.

Visiting the Falls isn't a dry business – especially not in the rainy season. The mist from the falling water rises up from the gorge and sprays the surroundings of the falls with a perpetual “rain” which comes from every direction. We were prepared for that (and if you aren’t, you can even rent a raincoat in the park)…

… but in spite of all the raincoats, in less than five minutes we were completely soaked – jumped-in-a-river soaked. But since the weather was warm and sunny, if anything, the rain was exhilarating and added to the almost surreal feel of the place.

Because the Falls – there is nothing I can say to get anywhere close to describing the completely and utterly unbelievable spectacle that was in front of us. The force and the thunder of the Zambezi falling into an abyss hundred metres deep, the sheer volume of the water, the whole width of the river plummeting vertically into the void… one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. And since I’m sort of speechless, I’ll just leave a few (bad) photos – though they can hardly give a real idea (besides, with water pouring down on our heads continuously it was next to impossible to take any pictures at all).

And a few attempts at the obligatory “we and the Falls” photos.

We came out completely overwhelmed – and completely soaked. As I was trying to wring some of the water from my (light summer) skirt, I was wondering whether David Livingstone (supposedly the first European who saw the Falls - though it’s a distinction that I find rather silly) got equally soaked in the three-piece suit that he was probably wearing. We all looked like wet chicken - the statue of Dr. Livingstone certainly didn’t.

While we were drying out, we took a short walk upstream to see the Falls from another (dryer) perspective...

… and stopped for a while next to the top of the falls, where the Zambezi is just about to fall into the 100m depth. This is certainly not a place I would like to fall into the water.

There are a few more trails in the park which take you to several viewpoints of the river and the Falls. One of them steeply descends the 100m or so to the Zambezi through a Jurassic-Park-style vegetation…

… to a place where the river makes a sharp turn and swirls in a pool called very aptly the Boiling Pot (another spot I wouldn’t want to fall in). In case you feel adventurous, you can do a bungee jump from the bridge across the Zambezi. We didn’t feel adventurous – even less after the rope broke there with one girl during a jump last year.

The good thing about the rainy season is that we were nearly alone, and we spent some lazy time relaxing on the rocks and enjoying the spectacular view.

The plan was then to return to the main trail and walk towards the Zimbabwean side, to see the Falls from a distance. But as we were going up from the Boiling Pot to join again the main footpath, a baboon got in our way. Or rather, in my way.

We were nearly up on the main path already, with my cousins and Míša some 30 metres ahead of me and my aunt 30 metres behind, when a group of baboons appeared on the footpath, and one big male started advancing towards me.

I don’t particularly like animals, monkeys especially, and I’m reasonably afraid of them, which is why I stepped aside thinking he’d just pass by. Not in my wildest dreams did I expect that the baboon would jump on me – but that’s what he did, and with all his force and might started pulling my bag.

Gahhh. Imagine a big baboon (with big teeth) holding on to you, trying to rip off your bag – it was one of the scariest moments I’ve experienced, and it caught me completely unprepared. The baboon kept trying to pull off the bag for a few seconds, but fortunately I wore it across my body (otherwise I wouldn’t have the slightest chance of holding on to it) and miraculously it held together. And so when he didn’t succeed with the bag, the baboon probably decided to go for me instead - and bit me in the arm.

At that moment - and I thank heavens for that - a guy appeared with the stick and started beating around the baboon, upon which the animal let go of me and ran away.

I can laugh (or at least smile) about this now, but at that moment I certainly wasn’t laughing – in fact, never before has my body reacted as it did after this incident, shaking all over, sobbing uncontrollably and all that (kind of embarrassing when I think about it now, but at that time I was hardly able to control it). Though the wound wasn’t big or deep, I was completely petrified – by the big animal attacking me, the helplessness of the moment, all the dreadful diseases it might carry – and nearly in an equal measure, by the perspective of visiting a local hospital.

The sight of the profoundly confused park guards and the very battered and scarily-looking first-aid box they took 5 minutes to find didn’t do much to reassure me, but in between all this bad luck I was fairly lucky after all. Through the advice of the taxi driver and a muzungu we met on the way, I ended up in a small health centre, where after waiting for a while I was attended by a very charismatic Indian doctor who treated the bite (which fortunately wasn’t too bad), gave me shots of tetanus and rabies, but even more importantly, calmed down my completely terrified self – which is probably what I needed most of all.

I was leaving about an hour later, significantly calmer, with a bandaged arm and a white-and-pink cooler box (that my aunt had gone to buy while I was getting my shots) with the remaining four rabies vaccine - the very cool cooler box which would accompany me on our travels until I’d reach Kampala again.

Inspecting the baboon footprint on my top afterwards, and seeing the very elegant multicolour bruise which came out a few days after, I guess the beast must have grabbed me with a fair strength. Fortunately, in my case the episode ended relatively well – I kept my bag (nice, since I had my passport and money inside), and it seems I survived the bite without any long-term damage.

Talking afterwards to several people we heard that baboons are really a big problem in this park – though bites are more rare (but not uncommon), many visitors have their bags, backpacks, cameras and food stolen in baboon attacks. What I don’t understand is why, with so many baboon incidents happening daily, there isn’t a single word of warning anywhere in the park. Had we known about it, we would have stayed in a group, possibly carried a stick, and been more prepared.

As it is now, the only place where animals get mentioned is on the reverse side of your entrance ticket – which says “do not harass the animals”. Well, thanks for the counsel. How about suggesting a similar advice to the animals?