Rafting Endangered White Water!

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We drove to Jinja at dawn. Kampala sits on Lake Victoria - the second largest lake in the world - and from that body of water, the Nile begins. We passed the Owens Falls Dam, reminding us of the World Bank and IMF presence. The reason our itinerary included this diversion stems from the knowledge that the World Bank has successfully ensured the erection of a new dam, near the holy Bujagali falls, on the class five rapid Big Brother. Intended to harness hydroelectric power for the region, the plan is yet another example of Western-funded projects that channel WB money back into the accounts of Western companies. In this case, the beneficiaries will be the US and Kenyan companies allocated the permits for construction. Because somewhere around 5% (statistic tallied back in 1999 when the plans were first on the drawing board) of Ugandans are on the grid, adding more power without expanding the reach of electricity confounds the residents and activists who have been protesting the dam for almost ten years. But I digress.

To break, allow me this disclaimer: during the past weeks in Sub-Saharan Africa, immersive activities rendered me anything but contented with the interference of the  international community. There is just no way for me to write this blog without tirades, which I am determined to research to the best of my abilities. Thus, I will attempt brevity, but there is little point in presenting these stories without the companion sentiments that round them out.

The company we employed to lead us down 41 kilometers of gorgeous Nile River will have to move or close when the dam construction hedges their routes. Ok, I’ll stop. The place was full of tourists, and I remember thinking about how long it had been since I saw so many white people. The answer was two days, when I was on the plane, but it felt like longer. Inside a lovely pavilion where kids about my age tended the restaurant and assisted customers with consent forms, the scene could have been southern California. Just over the railing, thankfully, the Nile marked the difference. It is a mighty and wide river. The rapids began just downstream of the headquarters, and I was positively gleeful with excitement. Then a few announcements: the entire place was run by young hunky dudes who like white water. Oh, and the cutest (female) badass French Canadian raft guide you ever saw. Our guide, Jeffreys, was a hunky twenty-two year old with a winning smile and a sense of humor to match. He claimed our group, instructed us to choose paddles, helmets, and PFDs that fit properly, and led us to the water.

Once we were in the boat, he explained to us that the other hunky guys hanging around in kayaks were there to rescue us if we were ejected from the boat. Our job was to catch the front or back of the kayak, hand him over our paddle if we still held it, and wrap our legs around the hull, grasping the nose with our hands while we keep most of our body underwater. Ejection will be a breeze!

Then we went over how to forward paddle, back paddle, hunker down ‘inside’ the raft over major rapids, and what to do when we flip. Or, if we flip.

The first rapid was just downstream, but maybe a class 2, so we found the eddy of an inlet and prepared ourselves for our adventure as we watched two women bungee jump off of a metal arm extended over the water. They nearly touched the surface, screaming and laughing, and were soon lowered into a boat waiting beneath them. Then we set off.

The day was marvelous. Jeffreys often informed the boat that this was his first time leading, but always with his full faced grin. Even if he was a virgin guide, he was excellent, and we felt completely safe, for the most part. My first encounter with a real rapid was a mere class 3. Terrified and exhilarated, I had decided to get down into the boat even if no one else did, for fear of a painful, choking death. When the water churned, and Jeffreys yelled ‘farward paddle,’ we dug into the frothy stuff and went! “hard paddle!’ We chugged right on through, bumping and shrieking and soaked. Whooping for joy, I looked at everyone with that full faced grin and then learned a nice lesson in rafting here: never look back at the formidable rapid you just vanquished. It will look short and tame. (This does not go for the class 6 stretch we portaged, but for most tourist rapids.) Enthused by the dash of courage that kept my ass planted on the side of the boat, nothing could bother my spirits.

The morning progressed as such, paddling, joking, and riding the rapids. After another class 3, Jeffreys explained that in the sections to come, there were paths we could choose, paths that might offer us the chance to flip. It had been decided, for the sakes of the parents at home with possibly litigious tendencies, that we must ask to not flip. ‘Sure,’ Jeffreys answered, ‘tha’s cool, but if it happens, here’s what you do.’ So there, on a flat spot, we learned how to save ourselves outside the boat. And then we swam. I’m swimming in the Nile! Was just about the only thought in my head, mind some qualifier that flitted here and there: I’m swimming away from my boat on the Nile! It’s hard to swim casually wearing a helmet and a PFD on the Nile! There’s a family doing their laundry just there as I swim in the Nile! I wonder whether there’s much giardia where I’m swimming in the Nile! And such. What a thrill.

The next rapid was called 50/50. This is because, even as the guides choose a route known to lack rocks and thereby be safe for even the most cautious tourist, there is still that chance the boat will flip. And we did. This was an amazing moment. We paddled into the white water, shrill cries of happiness coming out of at least my throat until it filled with water, and followed Jeffreys command to get into the boat. And hold on. Except with his brilliant British-Ugandan accent, it sounded like ‘gey doan! Hald oan!’ Inside, I was aware that the boat dipped, and the next moment it was as if a great hippo stood from beneath the hull, and the raft rotated, spilling its contents. This is what laundry must feel like in the dry cycle. That part is gone from my memory. I really didn’t want to be under the boat in the next second, when it would hit the water upside-down. So I went under, let the water take me, and when the crash announced just nearby, I reached out for the rope. Most others were by my side. We went under again, and when Jeffreys had righted the boat, threw our paddles, and then ourselves, back inside.

And so it passed that we should try our paddles at a class 5. Assuming our chosen positions along the pregnant sides of the raft, we braced. Down into the white water we sped, following diligently to Jeffreys call for ‘farward paddle! Hard paddle!’ and then, as the nose dipped into what looked like a great whipping crown of water, we followed his order to ‘gey doon! Hald oan!’ and huddled along the inside, hand gripping rope, arm over arm, paddles safely stowed beneath our own grip. The raft jostled and lifted, then dug in, and we were covered with water, like a great bobbing cork, as the cliché goes. After that we were hooked. And missing one. In the turmoil of water and few moments of focused self-preservation, our only photographer, the kid thick (or brave?) enough to bring a waterproof camera had been ejected, quite gracefully, out of the raft, following an arc, into the water. When this absence dawned on us, the kayak guys, more attractive by the second, already had him.

We flipped more than any other boat that day. It seemed the raft had taking a liking to spilling the eight of us into this fabled river. Yes, there were often half-joking reassurements needed about the absence of crocodiles in these here parts. We got pretty good at all the directions and hanging onto our paddles. The second flip was particularly frothy, we were scattered all around the boat, and as I came up for air, I noticed a helmet, full of my friend’s head, still underwater, bobbing by me, and missed the next rapid, which pulled me under. And then I stayed under, pulled around by the speed and strength of the rocking water. This would not do. Still holding my paddle I kicked and pushed my way out of the position that held me.  So you might say I needed a rescue. A guy with a lean and rippling torso in a red kayak was a stroke away when I took my bearings. He encouraged me to accept his help. I wouldn’t rebuff such generosity.

Next came the waterfall. This is where I really wish I hadn’t looked back. The three meter drop was a daunting idea from the top, and during the way down, vertical, I would say the same. There are too many rocks at the falls so rafts absolutely do not flip, but nevertheless, a three meter drop is one I’d hesitate jumping off. Well, not really, but it was a lot higher than the others. When we made it, and turned to watch the other groups take the plummet, I saw this teeny thing. From a distance, there’s no way to comprehend the thrill.

Many hours of the day were spent swimming in flat water, pushing each other off the boat, floating along, and attempting to move. The water became so flat in places I would have guessed it was stagnant. Many of these stretches were powered by none other than yours truly and a guy who also seemed to like paddling. The work was tedious, but as I am relentlessly attempting to buff up my arms, it was a pleasure. Plus I was often rewarded by the opportunity to show off my guns to the hunky European tourists sharing our pace. When it was certain that only one of us was paddling, Jeffreys would remark ‘farward paddle’ with such casual authority that many times the others would obey. Then he would give us a break, and we would bask. I particularly enjoyed laying myself over the side of the raft so that my scalp grazed the surface of the river. This gave the enchanted impression that the horizon split a sky of perfect, gleaming water, from an ethereal ground of clouds and blue. If I gave it a good couple of minutes, the effect was dazzling.

Often we would wave to the guy filming us and the people working on the banks. They yelled ‘Mzungu’ at our light skin and laughed at our helmets and life jackets- one man stood naked and stoic on a rock, watching us drift by, another world. Women washed laundry in green inlets, spreading empty shirts onto bushes to dry fastest under the Equatorial sun. I was a stranger and a tourist and I didn’t like the moments when that was all I was- a foreigner wearing armor on a quiet river, watching in curiosity.

The last rapid was The Bad Place. Beginning with a class 6 (the highest rating on the scale that comes with the caveat of risking life and limb), which we watched the kayak rescue-hunks negotiate in their short crafts, the rapid eases into a rather ferocious-looking class 5. Our guides portaged the rafts to where the rapids downgraded just the one point. This made a section of white water that I read is over fifty meters long, but that figure doesn’t even approach justice to this legendary white water. The roar of the water across this stretch of river invigorated my appreciation for this adventure, and the guides that make a career of the thrill (although not for much longer). We set off on the final jerking path, and because there were fewer who boarded the craft this time, easily floated over the Bad Place.