God’s Highway by John Warburton-Lee

For 2,560 kilometres the glittering surface of the Zambezi River threads its way through the interior of southern Africa towards its ultimate demise in the Indian Ocean. It respects neither mighty physical barriers nor arbitrary political frontiers on its long snaking path. The 19th Century explorer and missionary, David Livingstone, had envisioned the river as the means by which Africa was to be opened up to Christian civilisation and trade, and described the Zambezi as "God’s Highway".

We had set out to canoe all of the Zambezi as it flows through Zimbabwe, some 730 kilometres. We joined the river at the Botswana border. At this point it is broad and relatively slow moving, having already travelled 800 kilometres from its source in the north-eastern corner of Zambia, down through Angola’s eastern highlands, across Zambia’s Liuwa Plains, and skirted the Caprivi Strip.

The scene that confronted us appeared tranquil: a flock of vultures perched, on watch, up in a clump of trees overlooking a large herd of waterbuck browsing on the near bank. Jacanas, plover and a variety of storks foraged amongst the tall reeds at the river’s edge. A group of hippos who were wallowing in the water the far side of the river stuck their heads up to watch us as we unloaded our kayaks and canoes. We carried our boats down to the water’s edge and pushed off.

For the first three days the river trundled slowly eastward, branching frequently around the many palm-studded islands that speckle its surface. Drifting slowly along reed flanked channels we gazed at flocks of egrets settling in the trees, marvelled at the flash of brilliant colour as a malachite kingfisher whirred past, and enjoyed the magnificent sight of a herd of elephant wading, shoulder-deep, across a side channel.

For all the tranquillity, danger lurks in many guises: you need to be constantly vigilant for pods of hippos who are not above attacking anyone who encroaches on their territory, and occasional rapids provided a lively and heart stopping ride in the knowledge of the thousands of crocodiles lurking sinister and unseen below the surface.

From some distance upstream, the Victoria Falls is revealed by a cloud of spray billowing up from the chasm into which the Zambezi River plunges. As you get closer, the menacing sound of thunder grows steadily and the current quickens. Every natural instinct tells you to paddle to the bank, but wrestling a delicious cocktail of fear and anticipation you paddle on towards what appears to be the end of the World.

Livingstone Island is perched on the edge of the abyss separating the vast curtain of Main Falls from the East Cataract. At the front of the island a hypnotic lure draws you to the edge of the 320 feet precipice. Either side, water plummets over the dizzying drop in great cascading sheets, crashing down on the rocks far below. Livingstone Island is claimed to be the only place along his many journeys in Africa where Livingstone allowed himself the indulgence of carving his initials into the bark of a tree.

Gazing into the chasm, mesmerised by the raw power of the water, it is difficult to take in the full scale of Victoria Falls with a frontage over a mile wide. Through the millennia, the Zambezi River has carved its way down through faulted rock to create this sheer sided gorge. After a night’s rest we carried our kayaks down a steep path that led us to the water’s edge. It felt as though we were entering the very bowels of the earth as we cast ourselves off into the whirling maelstrom of the Boiling Pot at the base of the Falls. Below Victoria Falls the Zambezi courses through the narrow gorge at breakneck speed. A succession of violent rapids provides World Class white water action. It is physical, aggressive and intensely exciting.

Above a rapid you are conscious only of the distant and growing roar of water ahead. As you approach the rapid, the water becomes as smooth as velvet. The current quickens and the kayak begins to hurtle towards the tongue of smooth water. At this point you still cannot see down the drop ahead.

Suddenly you are careering down a near vertical slope of water until with a juddering crash you hurtle into the wall of water thrown up by the first standing wave. Alone in your tiny craft, each rapid is a hectic battle of skill, nerve and determination as you battle your way through the Zambezi’s stomach lurching drops, its seemingly endless wave trains, converging to throw you right and left, the black vortex’s which appear from nowhere to suck you down, and the vast haystack waves which can launch you clear of the water.

Six days later, dazed, physically shattered but euphoric, we emerged to find ourselves on the sluggish headwaters of Lake Kariba. The 320 kilometre long lake was formed when the Zambezi Valley was flooded in a joint Rhodesian-Zambian hydro-electric scheme in 1956. It is without doubt one of the most beautiful places in Africa, but subject to violent mood swings. At times strong head-winds whipped up high waves that churned the lake surface into a frenzy, making it difficult to paddle.

But on the days when it was calm, Kariba took on an almost magical quality. The water was as smooth as glass and reflected every detail of our surroundings. Around the fringe of the lake many of the trees had become petrified and now stood as monuments to the life that existed there before the lake was created. These haunting forests of dead trees rang with the piercing cries of African fish eagles, and provided perches for cormorants who sat drying out their wings after diving for bream.

On the shores great herds of buffalo, waterbuck and impala grazed peacefully. Quiet and unobtrusive in our canoes, we could paddle up close to herds of elephant standing in the shallows and watch as they threw up wet sand to cool off. We began each day at sunrise, paddled through the morning and then took a siesta. In the middle of the day, the sun bore into you with a fierce intensity that fried your brain. We would then paddle on until, huge and African, it slipped below the skyline. At night we set up our camp beds in the open under the stars. After a long day of paddling sleep came easily.

The final stage of our journey along the Lower Zambesi was sheer heaven. Aided by the swift current, we drifted quietly downstream watching the rich assortment of wildlife along the way. We crept up on a small group of bushbuck who skittered away barking out their alarm as we approached. Elsewhere troops of baboons clustered on the river banks. After a while the river broadened and the cliffs receded, leaving open grass flats on the Zambian side and a vertical sand wall forming the Zimbabwean bank. Colonies of carmine bee eaters nested in holes in the sand banks. Elsewhere, we came across storks, ruffs and egrets, and herons of all descriptions. The flora was equally rich and diverse. Along the banks grew knob thorns, sausage trees, vegetable ivory, ilala palms, mangoes, wild figs, tamarinds and mahogany, as well as the ubiquitous acacia. At night we could hear lions roaring. Later, the chorus was taken up by elephants trumpeting as they came down to drink. The bass line was provided by hippos guffawing in the water.

Further on, the river broadened yet further and split into channels. We would encounter elephant and buffalo wading across to feed on the grassy islands and had to negotiate our way carefully around large schools of hippos in the narrow channels. Scores of crocodiles basked in the sun at the side of the river, slithering into the water as we approached. Many were almost as long as our canoes.

Gradually the current slowed as we approached the headwaters of Lake Cabora Bassa. On our 29th day of paddling we came to the Mozambique border. The Zambezi still had another 1,000 kilometres to reach the ocean, but we had come to the end of our journey. Livingstone’s vision of the Zambezi as the conduit for trade and missionary work was shattered when he found that he could not navigate the Cabora Basa Gorge in his river steamer, the Ma Robert. But watching a shaft of moonlight painting the shimmering surface of the river a burnished gold on our last night, his description, "God’s Highway", still seems remarkably apt.