She was about to make one of her observations. “So cute! They call this the Smoke That Thunders, instead of waterfall. Primitive people are closer to the spirits.”
Nothing cowed her. Not even the river guide who’d asked if we were local. “No, silly,” she’d said, laughing. “We travelled here many hours in the great silver bird. Don’t you know your neighbours? Zimbabwe? Botswana?”
With great dignity, he’d reached down, pulled out a fish, and asked her the name. “No? Tigerfish. And this? Tilapia. Perhaps we all have our areas of ignorance.”
Atop the falls, I contemplated a little shove.