When Water Falls Short
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in transit today, flying from Khiva, Uzbekistan to meet friends in Paris. I have things to say about Uzbekistan; I’ll work on that on the plane. Maybe. In the meantime, here’s something I wrote a few weeks ago (has it really only been a few weeks?) while we were at Victoria Falls.
When Water Falls Short
I’m writing this in Livingstone, Zambia. The region is suffering from a drought; this should be the end of the rainy season, also known as Emerald Season. But the rains never came this year; it’s much hotter than usual, and the sun blazes down relentlessly. The landscape, instead of shimmering green and lush, is parched and crispy. There’s a patch of skeletal corn behind our hotel that I contemplate each morning; it’s the color of straw. Even the birds have abandoned it.
Because of the drought emergency, the government has instituted a load-shedding system on the local hydroelectric plant. For eight hours a day, our hotel relies on a back-up generator system. It’s not bothering us, but I was chatting with the manager this morning, and I think it’s a significant logistical and economic headache for her. When I get hot without air-conditioning, I just hop in the pool. She has to actually find and pay for diesel fuel, and deal with the wear and tear of surges on refrigerators and computers. She has to keep the internet running and the guests happy. It can’t be easy, and I believe the crisis is expected to last until the rains return in November. Assuming that happens at all.
For us, as tourists, the cognitive dissonance is extreme. We’re here to see—the water.
Tourists visit Livingstone (and the small Zimbabwean town about ten minutes away) to see Victoria Falls, which is the world’s largest (by volume) waterfall. There’s SO much water here. The picture above captures only a small segment of the falls; you’d need an aerial view to get the whole thing in one shot. I’ve never seen such a torrent of water. We got soaked walking along the viewing platforms on the far side. In places it’s more like heavy rain than the mist you might expect. I could hear the pitter-pat of drops on my umbrella.
The foliage in the direct path of the waterfall’s spray is, of course, the lush, verdant green we were expecting. That narrow strip is a stunning rainforest, thick with dripping ferns and lush tropical vines. But thirty feet past the edge of the spray’s reach, leaves are brown and curled, crunching underfoot. It’s the most fascinating contrast.
The immediate problem, of course, is the hydroelectric system—the water level in the Zambezi River (one of the two rivers that feed into the falls) is lower than the power plant was built for. Just across the border, literally a ten-minute drive, the power plants are fueled with coal, so there’s no electricity shortage. Business as usual.
‘Usual’ doesn’t mean everything is fine, though. That desiccated corn still rattles in the breeze, a constant reminder of impending desperation, even as the electricity whirrs and hums and keeps this Princess comfortably air-conditioned.
On both sides of the border, we met people who commented darkly that many animals will die before the rains come again—both livestock and elephants. They’ve seen this before and they know how it plays out. My heart breaks a little for the elephants. We saw hundreds of elephant families while we were in the region, and the babies are so damn cute. What happens to baby elephants in a drought?
Outside of the main towns like Livingstone and Victoria Falls, people get by on subsistence farming. We had one taxi driver who said his parents’ crops have failed completely—they’re 75 and 82 years old. Two of his brothers have stayed in the village to help the parents cope, while he and another brother moved to the town to drive taxis, so they can send cash home for the parents.
What happens to the people who live in the margins when the margins just … evaporate?
Take care,
Lisa
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