Pilgrimage in the West has spun, like education, away from the church. It seems to me no longer a Christian but a now secular notion. The by now clichéd gap year can be seen as pilgrimage. The journey is a rite of passage in a world of fast disappearing ritual and tradition. As I wandered past these artefacts of pilgrims past I expected Lonely Planet guides, backpacks and a Eurail pass to appear, amongst the artefacts of pilgrims present.
Victoria Falls: Smoke and Thunder
Soon after I arrived in Cape Town, my mother announced that she had been remiss. I’d arrived on a short visit home, before the extended travels that will take me to Shanghai, and she had never taken me to Victoria Falls. She grew up in Zimbabwe, then called Rhodesia. Her brother, my Uncle, fought and died in the country’s Bush War. His widow is still there. He was named Iain. I was named Iain in his memory.
So I found myself gazing out of an aeroplane window, overlooking the African bush, smoke rising off stunted trees in the distance. The Victoria Falls is called Mosi oa Tunya by locals, meaning “the smoke that thunders”. The crash of Zambezi water dropping from a wide meander, sprawled across the landscape, into a narrow gorge, bubbling and frantic, can be heard on the far side of town, a few kilometres away. The spray, shot up off basalt more than 30 stories below, appears on the horizon, like pale, portentous smoke. Continue reading Victoria Falls: Smoke and Thunder>>
