one who has been to this spot (directly opposite the whitewater rafters’ drop-off point for gorge 11) will understand what I am on about. Although climbing the opposite bank was also no simple undertaking, it is that crazy descent I will remember.
easterly route until we got to the fence and subsequently the track to Chisuma. We were close to the river throughout – between one and two kilometers – and several times we walked down to it. Each time we were confronted by menacing gorges.
It is debatable whether I would have tackled that obstacle without a backpack before the start of the Borderline Walk. The results of crossing gorge 11 were that it did nothing to help allay my extreme fear of heights, and I decided my backpack was still far too heavy, giving the kindly gamescouts some of my kit.
We covered twenty odd kilometers on the second day and camped in a most spectacular spot, overlooking yet another immense gorge, about a kilometer from the village of Chisuma. Whilst we were setting up camp, a small group of kids arrived and began cavorting about on the very edge of the abyss. Their leaping from rock to rock so close to certain death caused me more than mere consternation, but when I voiced my concern they giggled at the foolish white man, informing me that they played there daily. As a result of both their dangerous tomfoolery and my lethargy, I offered them biscuits in return for collecting wood and water. That did the trick, but only until the chores were done and the biscuits had changed hands, then they went straight back to the brink!
We slept that night on hard ground at the whitewater rafters’ drop off point for gorge 11, close to the brink of that impressive spectacle. Dinner and accommodation were a far cry from the comfort of Russell Caldecott’s Utimate Lodge in Victoria Falls, but that thought only registered for a moment and then consciousness was erased by absolute exhaustion. The first day of the Borderline Walk drained me to an extent I have not experienced in many years, and for the first time in many years I did not dream about anything at all. I know that if I had dreamt that night, I would have dreamt of colossal gorges which threatened to engulf me in an instant, as I stood tiny and insignificant on the edge of their might. Shortly after dawn the following morning, whilst we were packing up camp and getting ready to move out, a truck came revving up a road I didn’t realize was there. The truck belonged to a rafting company and was carrying guides and rafting kit. The guides informed us that the gorges got no less and no less intimidating for many miles, and that they didn’t think we would be able to walk on the river much before the Matetsi River, about seventy kilometers downstream. I silently scoffed and would remember that scoffing in days to come. The guides advised us to follow the road they came in on, and a few kilometers up the drag we would come to the wilderness area’s eastern boundary. They said we should follow the fence north (back towards the river), and in time we would come across a bush track that would lead us to Chisuma, a village situated almost on the banks of the Zambezi. We thanked the guides, departed and took most of their advice. What we didn’t do was follow the road to the game fence – we cut through the bush and came to the fence after about five kilometers. Walking south and then north again just didn’t make sense, and Jephita (the two-legged GPS) kept us on an unwavering 18 | AFRICAN EXPEDITION MAGAZINE SEPTEMBER 2009
My nerves couldn’t stand it for long and at sunset I sent them packing. I wonder how long they would have gone on for. Probably all night! At the village of Chisuma, we were informed that the police support unit was currently very active in the area, combating armed Zambian stock-thieves and poachers. We were advised to report our presence at their base at Kasakili, a village about thirty kilometers away, close to Batoka Gorge. This information, coupled with the knowledge that the river was just a continuous series of gorges for many a mile to come, brought about the decision to follow the road to Kasakili. Our intention was to inform the police of our presence, get their permission to go down to Batoka, and then find a route closer to the river from there. Wishful thinking, but we had no clue at that stage. I will always associate that slog to Kasakili with extreme agony, as it was early on in the day when my feet began breaking out in blisters. On and on I hobbled as the blisters multiplied and the pain intensified, and it seemed to me that we would never reach our destination. What a relief it was whenever we took a break! One of those breaks came about when we met some fellows who wanted to sell us a pot, which we needed. Theirs was a second-hand pot and the starting price was US$35! Jephita knocked them down to US$6, but we ended up not concluding the deal as nobody