The Chronicles Of Suntwe - Chapter Two: The Island That Roared
- Paul Teasdale
- Jun 13
- 6 min read
By Paul Teasdale — The Chronicles of Suntwe
I saw her from a distance. Still. Powerful. Elegant amid the chaos. The storm crashed around her, but she stood unfazed. As if she had seen it all before. As if it all belonged to her.
There was something ancient about her. Something that whispered remember me in a voice older than language. She did not flaunt her beauty. She did not have to. It was carved into her bones. The kind of beauty that does not beg for attention, but demands your reverence once noticed. She stood alone. Not lonely. Guarded, yes......by fang, flood, and fury......but not unreachable. Not if you were mad enough. Not if you were willing to risk everything.
She was Cataract Island.

A sliver of paradise swallowed by chaos, wedged between the Devil’s Cataract and the Main Curtain of Victoria Falls. Just a few hundred meters from the mainland, but a world away. The kind of place you don’t just visit. You survive her. And if you are lucky, she lets you go.
You could not just go to her. Not without consequence. There was no trail. No safe passage. You either flew, boated, paddled, or swam. Every approach flanked by guardians. On one side, the Devil’s Cataract. On the other, the main curtain of the falls, thundering into the gorge like the wrath of a god. And if the falls didn’t get you, the beasts might.
In the channel closest to the mainland, what looked like the safest and most obvious crossing point, lived one hell of a hippo. Big, scarred, and meaner than your ex’s lawyer. Word around town was he had been hit by a vehicle years ago and never quite got over it. Now he just hated everyone. Especially humans. This wasn't some grumpy floating log. This guy took things personally. My buddy Skeeto once lost a two-man inflatable canoe to the hippo mid-crossing while out with some National Parks guys. The hippo charged and they all scattered in different directions while the canoe drifted over the falls. This hippo didn’t care if you gave him space. He’d come for you. Cross the pool, and it was game on. Simple as that. I am not sure if anyone else had a name for him, but I called him Ngwazi - Warlord.

And let’s not forget the crocodiles. Zambezi crocodiles don’t bark. They don’t warn you. You won’t see them until they have already decided you’re worth the effort and you become part of their lunch special. On land I can handle them without much hassle. In the water, no thanks. So, yeah. The route to Cataract Island wasn’t exactly on TripAdvisor.
And even if you made it past the beasts, the current itself would try to claim you. The river doesn’t flow gently there. It surges. It coils. It waits.
I didn’t care.
I needed her.
I wasn’t looking for a brochure tourist attraction. I needed something more. I was still grieving my father who had died earlier that year, and the world didn’t make much sense. The only place I found clarity was out there, somewhere wild, somewhere stupid. That island lit a fire in me I hadn’t felt in months. And I knew exactly who to call.
Tom.
Tom is a lunatic in the best way. If Tarzan and David Attenborough had a feral child, it would be Tom. Born and raised in Vic Falls. Son of the legend Leon Varley. Cameraman. Explorer. Brother in arms. He didn’t even blink. And lucky me, Tom had been eyeing the island too. When I asked him how he planned to get there, he just grinned.
"Easy," he said. "We swim."
Of course, silly me.

Fast forward two days. I’m barefoot as always, trekking through the October bush with Tom, each of us packing a camera. His was in a Pelican case. Mine was a GoPro duct-taped to a trekking pole like some bootleg survival show. The air was thick and hot, the ground sharp and dry. We didn’t talk much. The kind of silence you get before doing something brilliant. Or stupid. Probably both.
The first crossing was thigh-deep and slick with algae, fast-flowing over a rocky shelf that could dump you straight into the hippo’s arena if you slipped. He was not visible, but you felt him. Every splash could be your last. We moved like thieves. Calculated our steps. Sent silent signals. Pulse pounding behind our eyes. That got the blood moving. Every step had to count. Fall here, and you are not just getting wet. You are potentially getting chomped.
Every footstep stirred silt. Every echo of water made us pause, listen, check. You move slow in those waters. You do not talk. You do not look around. You calculate. And then we made it. We reached the first island. It was like crossing into another world. The mainland was dry, brown, cracked. This place? Lush. Green. Wild. Ilala palms waved above us like they had been waiting all year for company. Everything was thriving. Breathing. It was magical. Sacred.
But magic only gets you halfway. The next crossing was deeper. Narrower. And dark. You could not see the bottom. The kind of water that hides things. Shadows beneath shadows. Perfect croc territory. Tom did not flinch. He just walked in like he was heading to the corner shop for milk. I followed like a man trying not to think about what might be thinking of him beneath the water. Backpack on one shoulder, sliding into the water slow and silent, barely making a ripple. I told myself it was strategy, not fear. (It was both.)

By the middle of the channel, I was neck deep. The rocks were invisible. The current kept nudging me like it knew I didn’t belong. But the ground eventually started to rise. I could feel it. Step by step. Until finally, I scrambled out like a man reborn. One more channel and we were there.
This time, we did not hesitate. Laughing now. Out of joy. Out of madness. Out of that delirious cocktail you get when fear and wonder hold hands. We waded together, wide-eyed, and stupid and fully alive.
And then… we arrived.
Cataract Island.
Holy. Wild. Alive.
The basalt beneath our feet was hot enough to fry eggs. We skipped from patch to patch, trying to keep our soles intact like sunburnt frogs. There is no tangible way to explain it. The roar of the falls flanked us on both sides. It was not loud. It was inside you. Like thunder in your bones. To the right, Devil’s Cataract roared like judgement. To the left, the Main Falls pulled at the sky, mist rising like breath from the earth’s lungs. The mist surged in waves, drenching us one moment, gone the next. The rhythm of it soaked us in intervals. It felt… ancient. Like standing inside a heartbeat.
We swam in a shallow rapid pool near the edge. Laughed like maniacs. And then I stood still.
I looked over the falls. My feet on forbidden stone. My skin steaming. My soul… quiet.
This was not just an island.
This was a baptism.

I felt my father there. Not in a ghostly, woo-woo way. In the water. In the wind. In the silence between the noise. It was like he had brought me here. Like the island was the eulogy I had not been able to write. A thousand thoughts flooded me. Questions. Ideas. Memories. My father. His passing. My own path. I felt small and infinite at the same time. Like I was being rewired by the river itself. The roar of the falls swallowed my words but not my meaning. I knew I would be back. I didn’t know when, or how, or for what. But I knew something had begun.
That day planted the seed for another mission. One even bolder. I didn’t know all the details yet but I knew I would be back. I had to be.
The Island had called. And I had answered.
Reflection
That day changed something in me. The sheer privilege of being there and standing where few had ever stood was humbling. It reminded me of the importance of staying curious. Of exploring like a child. Of letting your world pull you, not just carry you. Sensible adults don’t do that sort of thing. They play it safe. Stay dry. But being sensible is overrated and definitely not my style.
The world has changed since then. Cataract Island is now a curated destination. Tamed and packaged. But back then? She was raw. Untouched. Unforgiving. And she gave me something no curated experience ever could.
She let me meet myself. And I let her know me too.
Tom and I knew her when she roared.
And she knew us too.
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