Chapter 3 – The experience of the river

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The light of the full moon was filtering through the trees, shining on Sayowa’s footsteps. She had to go to the other side of the island to take the boat. She had slept very little. A whole cocktail of emotions had kept her from getting any rest: excitation, apprehension, anticipation, confusion… she had had to stop listing them to try and doze off. In vain.
Kuku and Mutondo had been arguing in the evening. Or rather, Mutondo had gone to see his grandfather to tell him he disapproved of the trip and Inyambo had simply replied that it was important.
Important… still! For Mutondo to confront Inyambo, he had to be quite worried.
Sayowa had remained quiet during the exchange. She did not say much more until it was time for bed. What to think of this trip? On the one hand, she had always wanted to live adventures like her grandfather, on the other hand, she had never left her island. The unknown had became intimidating now that it was about to become tangible. Her brother’s concerns were not to reassure her. But anyway, if one thing could be certain, it was that Inyambo knew what he was doing.

She continued along the dirt path. It was leading to the beach: a small stretch of sand, a few metres wide, sloping gently towards the river.
A dozen small wooden boats were lying there, half on the ground, half in the water. They were painted in various colours, but all appeared grey in the darkness. A foamy flow was quietly climbing up and down the beach, following the water’s heartbeats.
Sayowa stopped to observe the waves. With no light, it looked like a black ocean, mysterious, dangerous.
She sat on a rock next to the skiffs. She was cold, lightly shivering. She was only wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, exposing her arms to the night’s cold air.
That washed-out blue shirt was her favourite, it had a drawing of a red and white space rocket on it. Her mum had made her a gift of it for her birthday, a few years back, purposefully choosing it a bit loose-fitting so that she could still wear it as she grew up. Now it fit her perfectly. She felt good in it, she only rarely took it out, not to wear it down too quickly.
There was a small pocket where her heart was, which could be closed with a white plastic button. That was where she had put the list of ingredients, which also comprised her grandfather’s note and Stefano’s address. Precious piece of paper.
The envelope with the money had found its place in the right pocket of her old jeans, a bit too loose at the hips, a bit too short at the heels. The right pocket because the left one had a hole in it. Around her feet, she was wearing white worn out sneakers.
She had also brought along a green chitenge with red and black motives. She wanted to use it to bring back the ingredients by attaching it sideways around her back, just like women sometimes did to carry their children around.
For now there was nothing to carry, so she could wear it on her shoulders to protect herself against the cold.
The moon was not visible any more, too low at the end of the night, but she could still see its circular reflection shining in the water. That shaky image reassured her. The moon was four hundred thousand kilometres away from the earth (she had remembered that number). In comparison, the mere thousand five hundred kilometres she had to do to find her grandfather’s friend were a joke.
She could hear the sounds of the night: insects, the wind, a few nocturnal birds, a dog barking in the distance, sometimes a noise in the water, as if something was diving into or going out of it.
Sayowa resolved to remain valiant. She straightened her back which she had unconsciously bowed because of the cold. There, dignified, she waited.

A very dark blue imperceptibly replaced the black colour of the sky. A rooster crowed in a village somewhere. It was morning.
A large silhouette appeared at the end of the beach. The character was coming forward with big slow and steady steps, sinking into the sand. He stopped near a white boat and detached its mooring lines. As he was manipulating the thick rope, he turned to Sayowa and said, with a low and husky voice, his face still hidden in obscurity:
– Mulumele.
– Mulumele, Sayowa replied.
– Hande. You’re bo Inyambo’s granddaughter?
– Yes.
– Come, get in.
Sayowa moved forward. The man grabbed her under her armpits, lifted her effortlessly and dropped her off delicately on the skiff.
The boat was five or six metres long and one and a half wide. One could sit on one of two planks attached across its width. The front, pointed, was jammed with a big fishing net meticulously folded. At the back, a platform carried a motor equipped with a handle on which the man was busy. At the bottom of the hull, taking almost all of the space, was a tarpaulin which wrinkles evoked a miniature mountain range. Or to be more precise, the idea Sayowa had of a mountain range.
Sayowa sat at the back, directly on the hull, her back against the motor-platform, her legs folded upwards, her hands crossed on her belly. She was looking at the top of her knees.
Behind her, the man grumbled loudly with effort as the boat started slowly moving into the water. An even louder growl precipitated the skiff completely into the river.
The little girl heard the splashes of his steps until he jumped on board, with a big leap. He sat on the platform so that he could operate the handle and steer. Sayowa could only see his rubber boots next to her. The engine started in a deafening racket, shaking the whole vehicle. The boat dashed off.

The vibrations were reverberating throughout Sayowa’s whole body, the speed was exacerbating the cold. She was still fixated on her knees, her mind numb.
A tarpaulin covered her. It was the man, the fisherman, who had pulled it over her. She raised her eyes to him.
– Are you cold? he said.
She shrugged. That was her answer. She had barely noticed that the obscurity had left the sky, revealing the fisherman’s face. She only saw that it was a rather old face, damaged by the sun, which traits seemed exaggerated: big eyebrows, a big nose, a large mouth, long wrinkles on the forehead. He wore a woolly hat. She would not have been able to tell if the tone of his question was harsh or not.
Sayowa’s stare fell back on her legs. The noise and the vibrations made her nauseous. The quick motion of the boat, rocking and hurting the waves, added to her dizziness.

After half an hour, the engine stopped.
Sayowa, a bit stunned, lifted her head and blinked. The sun was frankly up and striking her face. It was nice. She took a big breath. Nature’s fresh air filled her lungs. That felt good. 
The fisherman moved to sit on the plank the closest to her, so that he faced her. He was looking at her with eyes ringed with shadow. Was it a severe or kindly stare?
– You’re okay small girl? he asked.
– Yes, sure.
– Did you ever go on the river?
– No. I mean, never this far.
– Well come, sit over here. Have a look around you.
He had said these words with no visible emotion. He pulled away the tarpaulin still covering Sayowa, took her hand and helped her stand up. With his other hand he taped the spot next to him.
Sayowa removed her chitenge from her shoulders, wrapped it around her hips making a skirt, and sat where she was shown.
– Have a look, he said again, a faint smile appearing on his lips, creasing a few wrinkles.
Sayowa looked.
They were floating in the middle of the river. On their right, a hundred metres of dark blue water, gently rippling. Then ground, brown, not really a beach, more like a tiny bank. Behind it, everything green. The leaves, the bushes, the trees, made up a lush barrier hiding the continent. Lastly, above it all, the blue sky scattered with white clouds.
The same thing on their left. Only the colour of the water changed slightly, hardly more grey.
She also listened: the waves first; then came the wind; a bit further, the leaves rustling; and as always, the birds.
As she was skimming over the scene, the fisherman continued.
– Not bad hu?
– It’s beautiful, she said as she kept on exploring.
– Yes it’s beautiful! It’s the river!
That night’s uncertainties and worries dispersed. The nausea that was still upon her a few seconds ago, forgotten. The scenery brought her a feeling of serenity. The rolling of the waves, now that it was no longer amplified by the speed of the motor, was calming her down.
A thought, that she had already had twenty four hours earlier, emerged into Sayowa’s mind.
– So there are four countries here?
– Two. There, Zambia (he pointed his finger on one side), there, Zimbabwe (finger to the other side). But yeah, where we left, there’s also Botswana and Namibia. The borders all meet around Kasane.
– Oh, Sayowa replied, intrigued.
– But I mean, all this means nothing. The people living along this river are the same, whether they are Zambian, Namibian, from Zim, or from Botswana. I mean, of course everyone is different. But people around here have the same culture, speak the same languages, are from the same tribes, even have the same kings. You know, us, fishermen, we don’t care in which country we arrive and where we land. Same for the fishes, they don’t have nationalities. All of this is the river. Zambezi! The rest, man-made frontiers, it means nothing.
Sayowa had attentively listened to the speech, but was not certain she had grasped all of its implications.
– But then, why are there four countries? she insisted.
– Well for that, you’ll need to ask your history teacher. Me, I’m not interested.
– Or my grandfather, she said in a quiet voice, speaking to herself.
– Ah! the fisherman shouted. Your grandfather? I’d say he’s not interested either! Haha!
Sayowa did not understand what was so funny, but did not insist.
They remained silent for a few minutes, the boat gliding slowly with the current, the landscape lazily going by, evolving finely.
– And hippos? And crocodiles? she said.
– Well they don’t care about geopolitics either! They go from one shore to the other and don’t show their passports, I’m telling you.
– But is it not dangerous?
– Oh, we should be careful, yes. But if we don’t bother them, they have no reasons to be angry with us!
He bowed his head and shook it slowly.
– Well, he continued changing his voice, these days it’s true… with everything that’s going on. It’s not the same.
– With what?
– Let’s say, I mean we can see. Hippos for example, they are more aggressive since a few years. Me, my whole life I was a fisherman here, and my father also. Well I’m telling you, hippos are more aggressive these days. I think it’s because of all these people going around with boats, going close to them. All these new houses that are build also, sometimes it chases them from their homes. So they get fed up, they attack the boats, and the crocodiles get a nice treat! And there’s also the draught. That’s not helping.
Sayowa knew that hippos essentially feed on grass. Since there was less and less grass because of the low rainfalls, they had a tendency to get closer to populated areas. That issue was well known on the island.
– We know how to avoid the hippos! she said proudly.
– Eh yeah. But some get too close, and bang!
– The teacher looks like a hippo. But we can’t avoid her.
– Ha! You’re a funny one! There, look over there.
The fisherman was showing a spot close to the bank with his finger. As if to illustrate their conversation, a tiny pair of round ears appeared on the surface.
– Let’s be careful, there can be others, he continued more seriously.
Indeed, further a few big grey heads came out of the water, one after the other, some plunging back right away, some remaining in the open air. Their chubby faces were lovely, but one would make no mistake about it: these were formidable animals, which did not hesitate to knock a boat over if they felt threatened and were capable of slicing a crocodile in half with a single bite. Their heavy breathing sounded like a warning.
– Off we go away from here! A bit of noise will let them know that we’re here.
He ignited the thrust and the boat gained speed.
Where she was sitting, the vibrations were more bearable for Sayowa. Here mistake that morning had been to lie against the motor.

The skiff was bouncing off the waves, drops were projected against Sayowa’s face. Heated by the sun, they created a pleasant sensation. By leaning over, she could see the water go by at full speed on the side of the boat. In the distance, the trees were passing by slowly.
She enjoyed the race, its fast pace, the gentle sacking. At some point she stood on the plank and lifted her arms laughing. The fisherman laughed as well.

The engine got quiet again. Sayowa tuned towards her companion. Once again, his finger was pointing at the bank.
A huge crocodile was basking in the sun, stretched out on a rock. She had never seen one that size. They would rarely venture on the island. Her smile redoubled.
– Do you want to check it out? the fisherman asked.
– Is it not dangerous?
– Nah, it’s sleeping now!
He started the engine and slowly steered the boat towards the reptile, which was indeed perfectly inert (which did not necessarily meant it was asleep). A few metres away, he stopped the propulsion, leaving their momentum to carry them, getting closer and closer from the beast, until they could almost touch it.
That specimen was at least three metres long, from the end of its oversized jaws to the tip of its tail. It looked almost as harmless as it was motionless, but Sayowa knew what type of animal she was dealing with. If its teeth got hold of a prey, it would not let go of it. It would then be dragged under the water and drown. And then…
She shivered.
But she also knew that, if a crocodile’s mouth could close in a fraction of a second, it was rather slow to open.
As she felt comforted by that thought, the large jaws unfolded, as if in slow motion.
She jumped with surprise and fell backwards into the tarpaulin. The fisherman burst out laughing.
– Don’t worry, he’s doing that to regulate his temperature!
– I don’t worry, she said sitting back up.
Still, they had to recognise that was impressive.
The boat was still sliding, parallel to the crocodile’s body. They got closer to the head. Its small yellow eye was open, the black slit crossing it vertically seemed to be observing Sayowa.
– We can go, no? she said.
– Let’s go!
The motor bolted and drove them away from the monster. Sayowa told herself that indeed, “people” had a tendency of being careless.

They had left the island for about three hours when Sayowa saw a car running a bit further, parallel to the river, on the left. The road was coming closer to the shore. The fisherman steered the skiff towards the bank and cut off the engine once more, leaving them to glide perpendicularly towards the ground.
– We’re here, he said.
Sayowa would have wished for the stroll to carry on. She would have liked to continue enjoying the knowledge of her companion, he who seemed to know everything there was to know about his environment. He who had the experience of the river.
She perceived a far away roar, faint but steady. She knew what was causing it. She turned towards the fisherman.
– Are we far from the falls?
The fisherman had no reaction. He simply replied:
– Do you want to see it small girl?
She nodded with a rapid, excited head motion.
Ignition of the engine. The boat went back in the current’s direction and continued its run. As they were moving, the river was getting wider, calmer.
The calm before the storm, because the roar was getting louder, it could even be heard over the commotion of their own propulsion.
Sayowa was looking far in front of them. In the distance, the swell of water was getting lost in a gigantic cloud of white smoke.
– The falls! the fisherman shouted.
The river became a delta sprinkled with islands, abruptly ended by a horizon over a kilometre wide where the water disappeared, swallowed by the waterfall. The flow must have continued below but it was not visible: beyond that cataract, all was concealed by the smoke, a tall white curtain, raising four hundred metres into the sky. It was as if the waves were getting lost into mist.
As they were getting closer, Sayowa got a grasp of the phenomenon causing that fog. The water, as it was going over the edge of the cliff, was falling from such a height, was acquiring so much energy, that the impact in which the fall was leading it pulverised it into an infinity of droplets that were projected in the air. Far up in the air.
A medium sized island divided that surreal horizon in two. The skiff was steering right for it. Wind was carrying water from the cloud and soaking the two of them.
They berthed, crossed the islet on foot, in the middle of rocks, vegetation, trees, getting closer to the thunder, getting wetter.
They arrived at the edge of the island.
There, immensity overwhelmed Sayowa’s every senses: the tumult’s intensity suddenly doubled when she saw the abyss. A hundred metre deep vertical precipice was absorbing the river. The smell of the water lashing her face was powerful, she could have tasted it if she had taken her tongue out. The bottom of the falls was only visible at times, when the wind was blowing away the cloud of suspended droplets. A big rainbow, almost a full circle, was coming and going in the mist. Across from them, a parallel cliff shaped a gorge in which the turbulent water could escape.
They sat on a soaked stone, their feet dangling in the air, above the emptiness.
– Mosi-oa-Tunya! The smoke that thunders. This is how people would call this place, hundreds of years before David Livingstone discovered Victoria Falls! the fisherman yelled, laughing.
With the wind, the fog would sometimes let show a plateau, slightly downwards, on the other side of the gorge. A few people, who looked very small, were enjoying the view, not seeing them. Tourists, Sayowa guessed.
The fisherman noticed her stare.
– We’re not really allowed to be here. People pay to go on the other side. But as I told you, us fishermen we don’t care about borders.
He scanned the surroundings with a swift head movement.
– Speaking of, here, you should be sitting right on it, the border. Your left buttock in Zambia, your right buttock in Zimbabwe.
Sayowa looked at her left leg, then her right. She threw her head backwards with a laugh. The move surprised her and she thought she was sliding into nothingness. She stopped laughing with a shaken look and resumed as she realised she was still firmly sited. She felt free, humble. Both a witness and part of the forces of nature.
– Come on, we should go. You need to meet with your cousin.
Those words reminded Sayowa of her mission. She would have liked to stay with… she realised she did not know his name… to explore his river for days.
They stood up with caution and enjoyed the smoke that thunders a while longer. They then went back to the boat.
Sayowa took her place, the fisherman his. He did not start the engine right away.
– You know, I’m wondering…
He was more talking to himself than to Sayowa.
– Us fishermen we also have some responsibility. For the river. There’s not as much fish… 
He left his phrase hanging. Then speaking to Sayowa:
– Let’s go!

They berthed a few hundred meters upstream, on the Zambian shore, not far from the road. Several cars were parked there. Their drivers were talking to each other.
The fisherman helped Sayowa out of the boat and told her to stay there. He went to the party of men and spoke to them.
She could not make up the detail of the conversation. The fisherman pointed at her, one of the men seemed to disapprove, shaking his head. She heard something having to do with taking care if the tourists. Negotiations continued. Sayowa heard the fisherman say her grandfather’s name.
He came back to her and put his hand on her back, guiding her to one of the cars.
– Come on small girl, get in there.
As she moved forward, he held her shoulder back. She flipped, he fixed her with an intense look, winked and left towards his boat. One of the men said:
– En route!
Sayowa took her eyes off her friend and got in the car.

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Excerpt from “Recette de pizza pour débutant” © (SACD) Thomas Botte