MEMOIR
Fear, Superstition and Mindfulness
What the River God taught me about listening
Crocodile teeth and a jawbone tumbled out of my paper sack into the Zambezi River and bounced along the streambed, dancing with bits of gravel until they disappeared.
I hoped my offering would appease Nyami Nyami.
The acclaimed river god of the Zambezi, depicted as part serpent and part tiger fish, ruled the river between Victoria Falls and Lake Kariba where a dam had separated him from his wife. Throughout the canyon his power rippled beneath the water, currents swirled at the flick of his tail, and any impediment unleashed his fury in a spray of whitewater.
Nyami Nyami batted our rafts about like swatting flies. He might surf it on a wave and spin it around, or catch it in a reversal and shake it like a rug, or flip it into the air with a corkscrew twist, or sink the rear under the front, turning the raft inside out. If California’s rocky rivers were like jazz, and the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon like a symphony, the Zambezi was heavy metal music. Its waves assaulted the boat with the force of a cannon, blowing off hats and glasses and throwing riders to the floor.
Even if a flip was avoided, guests and guides alike flew out of rafts like hot popcorn. A guide…
