The payoff was that I’d rarely punted through a more bewitching habitat. Cobalt skies dripped sunshine, and the metronomic plop of paddle in water was almost soporific. Though wildlife wasn’t the main attraction on this journey, nature wasn’t bashful; we’d arrived in the latter months of the euphemistically named ‘Emerald Season’, and birds were resplendent in breeding finery. A male red bishop paused on a reed to peer at the wazungu (white people) paddling past, a rubicund balaclava of courtship plumage surrounding its coal-black face. Sand martins hawked for red dragonflies above the water, and Africa’s chipperest riverine species, the malachite kingfisher, displayed its harlequin livery as it flitted among the papyrus.
Beware the crocs – The mokoro, it turned out, was the easy bit. After a couple of hours’ yawing from bank to bank – steering a vessel that’s essentially a 4in-long log isn’t the most straightforward exercise – we transferred into the inflatable kayaks that would be our craft for the next three days. And that’s when the serious safety briefings commenced. “When we get into the kayaks, paddle away from the banks quickly together,” Sven asserted. With his shaggy blond hair, equally shaggy dog stories and khaki shirt, Sven ticked most of the adventure-guide cliches – though the addition of thick specs, heavy-duty knee brace and Yorkshire accent lent him an unusual mien for a Wild Man of the River. But he certainly did a good job of tweaking our nerves. “When we land, the drill is the same: you’ll probably get your feet wet, but keep it brief – haul the kayaks out and move well away from the water. You won’t see the crocs in the shallow water -but they’re there. And they do attack.”
To our relief (and slight disappointment), on that first day both crocs and hippos were notable by their absence. Or perhaps we did pass them – I might have been too busy straining, sweating and swearing to notice; I even missed the clawless otter that Dom spotted, turning just in time to admire the radiating ripples it created as it dived under. Good kayaking technique, I’m told, involves using abdominal muscles to twist the torso, and flexing shoulders to power the stroke, rather than dragging with the forearms. Fine, if you have the abs to handle it. Mine complained uncomfortably from the oft’, echoed by aching glutes, wrists and that throbbing blister on my thumb. Of course, I’d have been disillusioned if negotiating the Zambezi was a doddle. Since that name first leapt out from the pages of my children’s atlas it has conjured up deliciously exotic images -Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and Kipling’s Great Grey-Green Greasy Limpopo combined. The reality doesn’t fall short.
Rising in Angola, the Zambezi snakes 2,574km past Zambia, Namibia, Botswana and Zimbabwe before emerging into the Indian Ocean in Mozambique. To David Livingstone, it represented hope and, in a way, redemption; he believed that pioneering a navigable route into Africa’s interior along the Zambezi would open the region to trade, suppress conflict and eradicate slavery. In simple terms, he failed in his mission; he couldn’t admit that the tumultuous rapids were fatal to smooth passage for merchant vessels.
