Howzat for a view!
...the Victoria Falls, we mean — not Blowers in a waterproof poncho
He’s one of the great voices of cricket, but Henry Blofeld has found something that left even him speechless
THE Victoria Falls are out on their own. After more than 50 years travelling the world, none of the other natural miracles I have seen has hit me between the eyes as the Falls did. Beautiful, stark, frightening, mesmerising, powerful beyond belief, taking no prisoners, this wonder of nature’s engineering left me speechless, breathless, nervous and soaking wet.
I am running out of adjectives and superlatives before I have even got to the start. My wife Valeria and I were staying less than half a mile from the Falls in the Royal Livingstone Hotel, another unexpected miracle with better than must-do status.
From the moment we arrived, the roar of the Falls was in our ears. This 360ft sheer drop catapults two million gallons of water over the top every second of the day when at full throttle.
The spray forms a rising white cloud, visible for miles. Before Dr David Livingstone discovered the Falls, they were called Mosi-oaTunya, ‘the smoke that thunders’.
The sense of excitement at visiting the Falls was almost scary. A buggy took us the few hundred yards to the official entrance. I remembered the same thrill boiling up within me when I first went up the Empire State Building. I was nervous then, too, because I can’t cope with heights.
Then, round the next bend, with Deborah, our smiling guide, leading the way, I caught my breath. The white spray was exhilarating, beautiful and irresistible. It was hard to believe because of the recent drought that the Falls were running at only two-thirds capacity. But it was the huge sheer drop at my feet that mesmerised me.
At first, I thought this was the entire falls, not just the warm-up act. Not for long, though. The small signposts were soon pointing us towards the Knife Edge, the Danger Point, the Narrow Bridge over a horribly deep gorge, and other nerve-shattering vantage points. The narrow, slippery-looking Bridge was the worst of all. All of 30 yards long, it was about a yard and a half wide and stretched over a mindboggling drop. From a distance, it had looked terrifyingly frail.
But, for the best view of the Falls, it had to be crossed.
Before we left the Royal Livingstone, we were given ponchos: lightweight, cover-all plastic macs. We dived into them now, being well inside those clouds of spray.
After we had carefully descended a long, steep line of wet stone steps, the bend at the bottom revealed the heart-stopping Bridge. On our right the Falls, more than a mile from end to end, roared, frothed and fell in an all-consuming, relentless curtain of white foam.
I raised the white flag. It was not for me. I left it to Valeria and our guide. The Bridge was soaking wet. I had rubber soles. But seeing them stride confidently across, I felt a miserable coward. So, gritting my teeth, I gingerly stepped on and grabbed the rail on my left. I stared fiercely ahead, took a deep breath, and off I went.
It wasn’t as awful as I had feared. Halfway across, I even began to think that I could have taught Charles Blondin a thing or two. In the 19th Century Blondin, a Frenchman, legged it many times across the Niagara Falls on a tightrope. Phew!
Now, every viewing point, starting with The Knife Edge, seemed child’s play. With each step we got more drenched. At the end of that crazy path we stared across the main gorge to Zimbabwe. There were people on the other side standing on the edge of the precipice and looking down. I looked away.
Then it was time to retrace our steps. That Bridge again. Looking like an angel from the Chamber of Horrors in my see-through waterproof cape, I strode across, never looking down, holding on to the rail for dear life. Then… I’d done it. Again! The luxurious Royal Livingstone Hotel, built in the bush on the edge of the sprawling Zambezi, is understated and unpretentious. The bedrooms and suites stretch out on both sides of the main building – and the stately reception area was full of sweet, helpful ladies dressed in matching cheetah fabric.
In the greeting room there were two large portraits of Dr L, one in camping gear outside his tent looking decidedly in control. All around, the decor was comfortable, unfussy and cleverly done.
The hotel stamped its mark on the signing-in ceremony by giving us each a glass of cheerful-looking brownish-red liquid. Cold tea, peach
juice and ice. Yummy! The best non-alcoholic drink I’ve ever tasted. And a lovely lady gave us each a hand massage, another first for me.
There was another delightful touch, too. High tea, yes, high tea, is served daily at 3.30pm. Platters of pies, sausages, smoked salmon, sandwiches, pasties and much else were wheeled in. The guests made short work of it all. Meanwhile, monkeys ran all over the superbly manicured lawns and occasionally a thoughtful giraffe poked its nose round the corner.
We ended a perfect day with a trip upstream on the elderly African Queen. Alas, no Humphrey Bogart to lend a hand – that film was made up the road in what is now Tanzania anyway.
We drove six miles to the Queen, an elegant, elderly paddle-steamer, hardly suited to the hurly burly of life a few miles downstream.
Steaming slowly along the shore of Long Island in the middle of the Zambezi, we saw any number of birds and beautifully coloured butterflies.
Then suddenly a group of hippopotamus heads poked out of the water to give us a highly disagreeable look.
For two perfect hours the African Queen crawled along then, hey ho, back to dinner at the Royal Livingstone.