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Memory’s
colony
Zimbabwe has an on going disaster
reputation that deters many visitors and
a president who dislikes many of the
countries from which they might come. But
in the northwest corner is a place apart,
almost but not quite another republic
&
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I
n a country whose leader berates the colonial
motherland like an abandoned child, the walls
of the graceful, rambling Victoria Falls Hotel
present a flagrant affront to national sovereignty.
British kings and queens stare down haughtily from
guilt frames, photographs chart the visits of princes
and princesses, white hunters and colonial overlords
line the passages and in a lounge hangs the portrait
of an Ndebele king, Lobengula, in the heart of Shona
territory.
The names of suites and lounges are frightfully
English. On walls between graceful arches hang posters
glorifying “the colonies” and there are photographs
of the British Queen Mother plus the present queen
who visited in 1947 when still a princess. Outside the
manicured lawns are cropped by kneeling warthogs and
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there’s a single flagpole upon which, undoubtedly, the
Union Jack once flew.
Through all of this liveried staff move silently and
respectfully, arranging the silver, dusting the card tables
and ensuring that the needs of the mainly white guests
do not go unanswered for long. You can order fine Earl
Grey tea with a silver tower plate filled with magnificent
cakes, eat a five-course meal in a gracious dining room
and take breakfast overlooking the mist-generating
Victoria Falls. Everything begs nostalgia.
Some, only half-jokingly, call this northwest corner
of Zimbabwe the Republic of Victoria Falls. Kingdom
is nearer the truth, if the hotel is anything to go by. It
truly is a place apart, seemingly aloof from the country’s
economic woes where billion-dollar notes once bought
nothing and which now runs on the currency of another
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country. The hotel itself is awfully politically incorrect
but extremely beguiling. And pervading it is the sound
of the falls like the roar of an incoming tide. At nearly
two kilometres wide, they’re the longest sheet of falling
water in the world. In flood season more than 12000
cubic metres go over every second.
“It’s in everyone’s interest to leave Vic Falls alone,” said
Brent Williamson of Adventure Zone as we lounged in
the deep armchairs of the Livingstone Suite upon which
royalty had undoubtedly reclined.
“It’s the hyper-colonial ethos that attracts people here
from all over the world. It is its own brand, internationally famous with old connections to African exploration
and colonial advancement. I mean, Livingstone named
it, Rhodes pushed the railway line through here and
wanted passengers on the bridge to feel the spray of the
Prestige-Magazine-South-Africa
falls, Courtney-Selous hunted here. It goes on and on.
It’s that tradition that lures tourists. The government
doesn’t want to mess with that.”
My suite had gold taps, a vast bed and a private lounge
with a view of the bridge spanning the gorge. In the soft
dawn light next morning the spray swirling round the
bridge gave the appearance of a spider web and begged
closer investigation.
It turned out its construction engineer was in residence. George C Imbault was a gifted French engineer
employed by the Cleveland Bridge Company in 1903
to build what was to be the highest bridge in the world
at the time. When I entered his office he was pondering
the number of rivets required for the job and attired in
impeccable white with a matching Panama hat.
I waited until he’d completed the task before asking
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him how he appeared so hale and hearty after more than
100 years. It turned out my Monsieur Imbault was a
gifted imposter named Gabriel Siavwapa, who stayed in
role for an explanation of the bridge’s construction and
then took me on a precarious trip across the span on a
mist-swathed catwalk.
This sweeping celebration of iron and daring is a
monument to Victorian engineering élan – or arrogance
– a complex construction across an immense chasm
almost under a massive waterfall in the heart of what
was then wild Africa. It was constructed from both sides
simultaneously but supplied from only the southern
end. This meant all material had to be hauled across by a
precarious pulley system which Imbault designed. When
the two sides met, they fitted exactly.
Half way across, Gabriel and I watched 21st century
lunatics hurling themselves head first at the Boiling
Pot below attached to a rubber band by their ankles. I
wondered how Pierre Gavuzzi would have felt about
taking the plunge. He was the first manager of the
Victoria Falls Hotel – an Italian of nervous disposition.
The first guests at the wood-and-iron hotel were rail and
construction workers and a rough lot. Evenings were
described as “lively” and drunken brawls common.
Pierre was tormented ruthlessly and hated excessive
displays of bravado and wild pranks. One especially
riotous evening the poor man was lifted bodily onto a
high mantelpiece and forced to remain there until he
sang a song to entertain the crowd. If bungee jumping
had been around he’d probably have been its victim.
Early one morning I ambled across the hotel’s wide
lawns and along a path to the falls. David Livingstone
was there, ever watchful and cast in bronze with a plaque
lauding his “high Christian aims and ideals”. All around
was a rainforest nurtured by the incessant spray from the
roaring, plunging Zambezi only metres away. It was a
rather humbling experience.
Before the bridge was built, a crossing was established
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upriver from where goods and people were rowed across
to the north bank – a harrowing experience when the
river was in flood. These days thereabouts you can board
a floating platform with an engine and comfortable
chairs on what is billed as a sunset cruise but locally
referred to as a booze cruise.
The sun does indeed set over the African bush as you
watch hippos and crocs watching you tinkle the ice in
your glass. It’s a little disconcerting to realise that if the
engine fails you have two options – to go swimming
with the saurians or plunge over the falls. I guess they
must have a backup plan.
There’s a right royal way to case the area in style and
that’s from a helicopter – a conveyance that would no
doubt have excited Monsieur Imbault. The flights are a
rather pricey 20 minutes, but the view lasts forever.
Back at the Victoria Falls Hotel it was high tea. The
smell of freshly baked cakes and Earl Grey mingled
with the inviting whiff of leather armchairs and stoep
polish. Guests, whose waistlines shouldn’t have allowed
it, were tucking in helplessly and watching vervet
monkeys lining up for the hint of an invitation to wreak
havoc. Warthogs, the free lawnmower service, chomped
meditatively.
I reached for another profiterole and realised there was
a problem with the Victoria Falls Hotel. It’s so comfortable, intriguing and decadent that it’s a destination in
itself, leaving very little urge to explore the no-doubt
exciting hinterland. David Livingstone would not have
approved. Queen Victoria, though, would have loved it. 
Booking information
You can book accommodation at the Victoria Falls Hotel directly
at www.vicfalls.co.za – ask for specials. If you want someone to
handle all flights, hotel bookings and excursions, a good start is
www.flameofafrica.com
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