This story appeared in the UK publication Paddler Magazine. Click here to read the published version.
Grievous arranges three sticks at his feet, one behind the other.
“We travel like this, in a straight line.” He looks us each in the eyes, gauging whether we’re bold and dumb enough to ignore his advice. As a canoe guide on the Lower Zambezi, he’s dealt with plenty of overconfident tourists. He then spreads the sticks out next to each other.
“If we go like this, side-by-side, we cut off the hippos’ way around us. They get scared. And that’s when they can come up and get us.”
We all nod, doing our best to act nonchalant. But it strikes me that a life of canoeing in North America has not prepared me to paddle down a river full of animals that can crunch a boat in a single bite. It also occurs to me that, after living in Zambia for close to a year, I could have found a gentler activity to introduce my family to the country on the second day of their visit. The boats are already in the water, though, and the paddles are in our hands, and there’s no turning back now. I turn to my Mom, and Dad, and brother, and reassure them.
“People do this all the time. It’s going to be fine.” Grievous smiles and agrees with me, and follows up with a quick story about a recent trip where two tourists got flipped by a hippo and had to swim to shore through the crocs. Perfect.
We’re on the banks of the Lower Zambezi River, southern Africa’s mightiest watercourse. Further upstream, the mile-wide river plunges over a sheer cliff at Victoria Falls, which in the rainy season forms both the world’s largest single sheet of falling water and one of its best whitewater rivers. In Zambia the falls are often called by their Lozi name, Mosi-oa-Tunya, the Smoke that Thunders. Down here in the Lower Zambezi, the river takes a calmer form, flowing clean and broad through a valley of indescribable beauty. The green hills of Zambia rise to the north; they are equalled by the further-off escarpment on the Zimbabwe side to the south. Countless tributaries run down the hills and add to the river’s might, with small family compounds dotted among them, visible from the small river-irrigated banana that encircle them.
We get into the boats and set off. It’s one of the easiest and yet most thrillingly nerve-wracking paddles I’ve taken. No whitewater, no portages, and a strong current pushing us forward. This is the good life, but I can’t relax. I’m working hard to stay exactly on Grievous’s tail, and spot the bends in the river where the hippo pods might be waiting. Every bit of floating log looks like a hippo’s head, and every far-off bubble seems like it must be their breath.
Eventually, as we get into a paddling rhythm and the nervousness wears off, we start soaking in the unbelievable nature around us. A pair of majestic African Fish-Eagles stares at us indignantly from a treetop. A family of Impalas, the fast food of the Zambian bush, nervously drinks from the river. A sunning croc watches them from a log. Kingfishers and Rollers show off their iridescent plumages as they swoop over the water.
We forget everything else, though, when we come around a corner and see a group of more than 20 elephants hauling themselves out of the river, walking back into the forest. The power of elephants to hypnotize the human mind is hard to describe. All I can say is that we didn’t worry about hippos as we inched as close as we could to the Ellies, each metre closer revealing a new wrinkle around the matriarch’s eyes, or a new clumsy baby peeking out from behind a mother’s leg. We sit and watch as they play with water and mud and stroke each other, showing their obviously massive intelligence. We leave only once a young bull makes it clear that we’re no longer welcome. The canoe safari provides a unique glimpse into their lives, because it is not possible to come this close to elephants when on land, unless you’re confined in a car.
As the sun is setting behind the hills, we pull up to a sand island to make camp. In classic Zambian form we have brought charcoal and copious meat and beer, and we go to bed full and happy. In the night I go behind the tents to lose some of the beer and make out a hulking, shiny form 50 metres away in the middle of the island. The hippos have come out to feed, revealing both their immense bulk and their utter goofiness. It looks my way and the green eyeshine sends me back to the tent, quick. As I lie awake wondering how life has brought me from the lakes of Ontario to this wild place full of powers beyond my comprehension, an unearthly yodelling washes over our camp. My sleep-fogged mind interprets the sounds as the voice of the river; telling us that while we have so far been given safe passage, we are not in charge here. In the morning, Grievous asked me if I heard the hyenas last night.
The second day on the river is an opportunity to learn a bit more about its people. We frequently pass riverside communities of just a few families, set back in the reeds and banana trees, with one or two people coming and going in small homemade canoes. It’s easy to romanticize rural life in this beautiful land, but opportunities are few here and agricultural work never ends. Some of the few jobs are at the rich white-owned fishing camps on the river, which do not distribute money back to the communities.
At the same time, the people of the river are incredibly resilient, and nothing is as simple as it looks. The diversity and complexity of Zambia is humbling to us foreigners, who tend to categorize the rest of the world in broad strokes. That simple categorization is disproved by Zambia, commonly said to have 72 languages among its 17 million people. We stop by Grievous’s extended family’s compound, and he laughingly splashes water on a gaggle of his nieces and nephews who come to greet him. He tells me they are speaking the Chikunda language, meaning that in order to reap the benefits of the global economy, these kids will have to learn Tonga and English well enough to get through secondary school. Then they’ll pick up Nyanja and Bemba as well as perfect English to succeed at university in the capital, Lusaka, only to face a harsh job market and countless other challenges. Yet it can be done, and people do it. And the land, the river, still provides the basics needed for life, as a result of strong conservation and a sparse population. It is critical that it stays that way.
Our sunset paddle, the final stretch of the trip, is a moment of absolute perfection. We pass especially close to several hippo pods and see one rear up and stretch its jaws impossibly wide, outlined by the golden light. The water is cool and we glide with the current of this wondrous river that drains a vast land of unsurpassed beauty and variety. As with any canoe trip, this has been time very well spent; but it’s also been unlike any other canoe trip, and we couldn’t be more grateful for that.