Victoria Falls

by James Hornor

  CHAPTER THREE

  I ORDERED ROOM SERVICE FOR MY DINNER THAT EVENING AS WELL AS breakfast the next morning. The last thing I wanted was to have another encounter with Teresa and her family, so I was chagrined to find that the next train to Bulawayo and Harare would not leave until late in the day on Saturday. That presented another full day and a half at The Victoria Falls Hotel, and after telephoning Nairobi to check in with AFREA, I wandered across the bridge, which is just below the falls, and entered Zambia on the other side. The Zambia side has more of a parklike feel to it, the result, I surmised, of that country’s intention to protect the natural surroundings of the falls. I followed a small path to a sign which read “The Devil’s Pool,” and about fifty yards down the path was a clearing where I saw three or four people standing frightfully close to the edge of the falls and three or four others literally swimming in a small whirlpool that was producing a counteractive flow to the water rushing over the edge. The sound of the water at the lip of the falls was deafening, and it added to the drama of the Devil’s Pool.

  The sight of it somehow reminded me of Teresa in all of her fearlessness and her willingness, in the right circumstances, to cheat death. Two of the women in the pool were laughing and talking as if they were pond swimming on a July afternoon, while the lone man kept peering over the edge as if to reassure himself that the counteractive flow of the pool would continue to keep him in check.

  The people standing on the edge of the bank were clearly waiting for the first group to emerge from the pool so that they could have their turn. I must have appeared completely mesmerized, and I didn’t respond immediately when one of them turned to me.

  “Ready to have a go?”

  “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

  He was one of those Brits who move into that four-inch space that normally defines casual conversation, and now his rather large nose seemed somewhat invasive.

  “Last time we were here, most of us wore our boxers.” He said it in such a way as to imply that he was already a member of the Devil’s Pool society, and my initiation would be to wear my boxers as if to prove my own virility and lack of fear.

  One of the women who was standing a few feet away now also turned in my direction.

  “Are you going to have a go?”

  I realized that this was the initiation question that they were all going to revert to as they introduced themselves. It was the question of the morning, and as I moved closer to the three of them, I surmised that my brief conversation had been with two British expats who were undoubtedly husband and wife. The young woman standing next to them peered across the lip of the falls to the pool, and from where I was standing, it was impossible to see whether her stare was one of curiosity or fear.

  Glimpses of sunlight were now punctuated by occasional shafts of small rainbows as the thunderous spray from below created a constant mist to form at the top of the falls. Part of the attraction of the Devil’s Pool was the changing patterns of mist and sunlight that seemed to shift one’s perception of distance. Already the pool seemed almost twice as far away as when I first arrived.

  Looking up the riverbank I could see crocodiles sunning themselves one hundred meters in the distance, just out of range of the swell of current that would sweep them over if they ventured too far from the bank. It occurred to me that their reptilian instincts for nature’s boundaries were not shared by those already in the pool and by the foursome, which now included me, as we waited our turn on the bank. I had tarried too long to now make a graceful exit, and I thought of how a similar moment of indecision had caused me to miss my train.

  “Hi, I’m Melissa.”

  “James, James Monroe.”

  “What brings you to Victoria Falls? Surely not the Devil’s Pool?”

  Her accent was different from the British couple, and as she spoke the soft curve of her upper lip seemed to release the words one by one as if she were presenting them to the world for the first time.

  “You’re not from the UK.”

  “And neither are you,” she countered.

  “I’m guessing Australia, though many Americans would not know the difference.”

  “Melbourne, actually,” and again her words hung in the air, their import increasing second by second. “I’m here with my sister and her husband on holiday. And you?”

  “I work for the World Bank—currently working out of Nairobi, but I’ve had interviews this past week in Harare.”

  “And today you’re interviewing someone at the Devil’s Pool?”

  There was a playfulness, even a lightheartedness about her that was immediately attractive.

  “I’m actually here to interview you.”

  “And I’m assuming all of your interviews take place in the pool and not at the water’s edge?”

  At that she pulled off her white lace cotton top and stepped out of her sandals. She was wearing a black nylon one-piece stretch suit that revealed her long legs and the lovely curve of her back. Her long brown hair was slightly curled, and it fell across her shoulders in such a way that suggested a certain carelessness and confidence that Australian women are known for.

  She was already up to her knees when her brother-in-law shouted at her to return to the bank.

  “The pool can’t hold all of us. Let the others come back first.”

  But Melissa was undeterred. As the three of us watched she made her way out into the current before turning to flash me a quick smile. The safe strategy to enter the pool was from the more shallow side nearer to the bank, but Melissa was already swimming across the current to approach the pool either straight on or slightly to the side where the water cascaded unchecked over the falls.

  As she guided herself into the current that appeared to head directly for the pool, the man who had been sitting on the farthest edge began to wave his arm to get Melissa’s attention. He was attempting at the same time to move closer to the far edge, but because of the force of the whirlpool, his movements appeared clumsy and in slow motion.

  As Melissa began to pick up speed it was obvious that the current was pulling her off to the right and away from the pool itself. Sensing that her current trajectory would take her over the falls, she began to swim furiously back against the current, but despite her athleticism she was only just holding her own or even losing her struggle with the swells of the current.

  The man in the pool was now making slow progress in moving in her direction, and he began to shout at her, but whatever he said was inaudible in the deafening roar. The three of us on the bank could have attempted to swim in after her, but instead we were paralyzed by the quick succession of events that now had Melissa swimming for her life.

  The man in the pool was pointing to a large rock that was outside the pool and perilously close to the lip of the falls. As Melissa continued to swim against the current, we could see her body tiring, her strokes becoming less emphatic. Whether she heard the man’s shouts or not was impossible to tell, but she was now somewhat adrift and heading for the lip of the falls. The distance from the edge of the pool to the rock at the top of the falls was about ten feet, and we watched in amazement as the man in the pool swam out of the top of the pool and into the current. Summoning all of his strength, he guided his body in the direction of the rock, and despite crashing into the rock with considerable force, he managed to find a handhold and stabilize himself for the attempt to rescue Melissa.

  Melissa now disappeared beneath the ripples of the current, and it was clear that the man had lost sight of her. He was frantically looking to his left and right, and now he seemed to be losing his grip on the rock. Her head now broke the surface of the water. She was only ten feet from the rock, but the current was pulling her off to the right. The man somehow shifted his weight to the right, and sensing that he would have only one opportunity to save her, he planted himself face first and extended his right arm as far as he could into the current.

  As her form came into his peripheral vision, he made a final lung
e into the current, just grasping her left wrist as she hurtled by—now only a few feet from the lip of the falls. The touch of his hand on her wrist must have shot a final burst of adrenaline into Melissa, and as her head resurfaced, she somehow managed to bring her right arm over the top of her body and grasp his arm just below the elbow.

  The two of them hung there for several seconds until the man slowly began to flex his right elbow—an act of incredible strength—the result being that Melissa was drawn that much closer to him, and now her head was fully out of the current. He locked his elbow in this akimbo position, and we could see the taut muscles of his back straining to hold on. Melissa slid her left forearm over this human lever and now they were locked elbow to elbow—a position that offered her the leverage she needed to shift her body closer to the rock. She somehow managed to bend her knees and draw her legs into a tight ball, which reduced the force of the current rushing by her. Her feet were now touching the side of the rock and her head was pressed into the man’s side.

  Using the strength of her legs to her advantage, she lunged across the top of his shoulders and found the crevices in the rock just next to his head. As if the two of them had practiced this rescue attempt before, he began to move inch by inch to his left as she did the same, gingerly finding the small handholds in the rock. She now shifted her body so that she was stretched fully across his back, and they both allowed the current to plant them securely together so that she was now fully on top of him, her black nylon suit pressed into the blades of his back. She shifted a little, and now their heads were next to each other as they both faced the rock and the lip of the falls. This proved to be a distinct advantage, as they were now able to speak to one another in calmer tones and to plan a strategy that would complete the rescue. They stayed in that position for several minutes, obviously intent on regaining their strength before continuing on.

  “Shouldn’t we call for some help?”

  I realized how feeble my contribution seemed after watching Melissa emerge from certain death.

  “No one to call on the Zambia side. They have patrols but most of the time they can’t be reached.”

  My British friend seemed completely resigned that the final steps of the rescue would be only up to Melissa and her rescuer. He sounded as if we were watching the final minutes of a soccer match where the goalkeeper would be relied upon to get his team through the last critical surge from the opposing team. Watching them locked in their odd embrace, I was made aware of the strange mixture of courage, athleticism, and sensuality that we had been privy to as observers on the riverbank.

  The rescue for Melissa and the man had become a private, desperate struggle for life itself. Their ability to work in perfect tandem had allowed them to slip through the smallest opportunity for safety. Only ten minutes earlier they had been complete strangers. Now their bodies pressed together and their faces touched as they whispered what to do next.

  As if in celebration, the sun again broke through the clouds, sending sparkles of refracted light across the gap between the rock and the Devil’s Pool. Sensing the blinding sunlight as a sign, the two of them began to inch their way to the point on the rock that was closest to the pool. Their plan became clear. She would go first, pushing off from the rock and swimming upstream, and he would follow after her, putting himself between her and the danger of sliding over the falls.

  As it had been earlier, their plan was perfectly executed. The arc of her trajectory allowed him to intercept her exhausted body just a meter away from the pool. The two women were waiting for them as close to the pool’s edge as they dared, and at the last possible moment he lunged—with Melissa on his back—out of the current and into the pool.

  “Well done,” my British friend shouted as if he had been some ancillary part of the strategy of the rescue.

  The two women held Melissa between them, one of them holding Melissa’s head on her shoulder as a mother would hold a child. The streams of sunlight breaking through the mist at the top of the pool surrounded the three of them as if in a religious tableau. As Melissa lifted her head from the woman’s shoulder, she briefly appeared to be floating above the pool, the mist surrounding her feet. Her face was glowing from the exhilaration of the rescue, and there was a calmness about her that was also eerily religious.

  I have only directly encountered the supernatural a few times in my life, but all of us on the bank were witnessing a kind of apotheosis—Melissa’s triumphant re-entry into life after her dramatic encounter with death. Her moment of transcendence was accentuated by the light, the roar of the falls, and the evanescent mist which constantly shifted our perspective. Her rescuer was half submerged in the pool and his gaze was also fixed on Melissa’s face, as if he was paying homage to the woman who had reconfirmed his innate prowess, his ability to alter a certain course of events simply by his will and his incredible strength.

  I didn’t want to be there standing with the others when Melissa returned to the safety of the riverbank. The events of her rescue instead left me feeling incredibly inadequate, and as I walked back up the path I knew that I was secretly jealous of the adrenaline rush that they had experienced together. I kept seeing their bodies pressed together against the rock, the two of them, total strangers, sharing their primal desire for survival, a union of selfless physicality that redefined their humanity to a place just below the gods.

  That evening I ventured out of my room around five o’clock and headed to the bar, which was just off the lobby. I knew that Teresa and Richard wouldn’t venture down for cocktails until at least six, and I was looking forward to being out of my room and anonymous for at least an hour. To my surprise, Melissa was sitting alone at a table next to the window, a book in her left hand as the fingers of her right hand lightly touched the stem of her cocktail glass.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  Melissa barely looked up. “I was just reading about what to do if you find yourself being carried over the falls.”

  “I didn’t know that Camus had been to Victoria Falls.”

  Melissa smiled and slowly creased the book over her left wrist so that L’Etranger came clearly into view.

  “Haven’t you had enough existentialism for one day?”

  “It’s the human condition that fascinates me—you know, all of us estranged from one another and estranged from ourselves.” It was the first philosophical insight I’d heard in weeks. “Why don’t you sit down, James.”

  I was beginning to think that Melissa actually was a goddess—someone who could master any physical challenge and philosophically encapsulate the human condition in one sentence.

  “Do you believe that is true?”

  “Of course it’s true.”

  “That we live in a state of estrangement?”

  “We all make do. We all construct a habitation that makes it bearable.”

  Without even turning around I sensed that Teresa was in the room, and I realized that my sharing a table with Melissa was about to complicate matters even further.

  “Good evening, James.” It was an icy salutation and one in complete contrast to her greeting on the terrace two nights before.

  “We looked for you all day today. We started to fear that you had gone swimming in the Zambezi and had been sucked over the falls.”

  “Teresa, I’d like to you to meet a friend of mine from Australia, Melissa Samuel.”

  I hoped that the ambiguity of my introduction would be enough, but Teresa pressed on.

  “So the two of you are old friends?”

  “Actually we just met today. We were both satisfying our curiosity about the Devil’s Pool—over on the Zambia side.”

  “We may have seen you. We took a launch on the Zambia side and had a tour of the crocodiles sunning themselves at the river’s edge.”

  “Sounds dangerous, to say the least.”

  But before Teresa could reply, one of her children, her eldest son, appeared at her side.

  “I think I’m
being summoned to the terrace. Nice to meet you, Miss Samuel. Perhaps we’ll see you and James later this evening?”

  Teresa lightly touched my shoulder before following her son through the French doors that led to the hotel terrace. In doing so, she was telegraphing to Melissa our pre-existing relationship and she was indirectly reminding me of our intimacy of two nights before.

  Either Melissa didn’t notice Teresa’s parting gesture, or it had little effect.

  “I feel like taking a walk. Nothing too strenuous. I’ve probably had enough exercise for one day.”

  As we made our way down the path to the falls, I once again noticed Melissa’s athleticism. Even her walk had a certain grace to it that made her every movement appear effortless. As we approached the same platform where Teresa had been standing when I found her crying, I noticed that the evening sun was casting long shadows into the gorge. The top of the falls was completely illuminated, and there was a rainbow just above the lip where the dying sunlight and the spray intermingled in an ever-changing panorama of water and light.

  It was one of those moments of perfect balance when our internal sense of harmony and freedom is realized and inspired by our external reality—even if that reality is temporary and fleeting. The nexus of that moment was the evening sun on the falls, but it was also Melissa, and I thought of her after the rescue also illuminated by sunlight, floating goddess-like over the Devil’s Pool.

  “Who else do you read other than Camus?”

  The beauty of the moment had led me back to her earlier statement about the estrangement of existence.

  “I read the three Ds—Dante, Dostoevsky, and Disraeli.”

  “I get Dante and Dostoevsky, but why Benjamin Disraeli?”

  “Because to date he has been the only Jewish Prime Minister of England, and he was both a civil servant and a novelist.”