#24 – July 10th 2007

Me and da-Nile…

Natalie, Peter, Lindsey, Andrea, Mark, and I decided to throw caution to the wind (or the water, I suppose) and attempt to raft down the Nile. Apparently the most superb white water rafting in the world, the Nile hosts hundreds of exuberant rafters each year, most of who have previous rafting experience in their home countries and are looking for the ultimate trip. My previous experience count stood at zero and my desire for the ‘ultimate trip’ hovered somewhere around the same area. But having blabbed on about living life outside the home, doing things that scare you, etc., etc., I thought it would only be hypocritical to sit safely at home while my friends risked their lives in the treacherous Nile rapids. Gulp.

An hour bus ride brought us to Jinja, the source of the Nile (from Lake Victoria), and the location of “ White Water Adventure Tours,” our guides for the day. Here, we dropped our bags for when we would return to spend the night later that evening, and gobbled down a hearty breakfast courtesy of the lodge. We were led outside to pick out helmets (this is where reality started setting in…We need helmets?) and life-vests. Ten inflatable red rafts piled high on a trailer; 60 energized twenty-somethings piled into the back of a truck. And we were off. Twenty anxiety-building and bumpy minutes later we were hauling our rafts and ourselves into the not-too-cold Nile waters, most people pumping their arms in the air, yelling in anticipation. Here, the water was calm, lapping gently against the shore. If I could have known at that moment how much I would yearn to return to such peacefulness. If I could have known the deception of this tranquil water.

Our personal guide, Henry, a humble, relaxed Ugandan started things off slowly, teaching us paddling techniques, pointing out various landmarks along the shores. My heart was at ease, the sun kept us warm poking from behind small clouds. I was tricked into thinking I had made a mountain out of a mole hill. A small rapid approached, so similar to every rapid I’ve seen along the Chemainus or Cowichan river. Nothing we all haven’t tubed through before. Quietly, Henry mentioned that now we should jump off the raft and swim through the rapid. To get used to the currents, and being sucked under water, in a low-stress situation. Excuse me? I had about two seconds contemplation about “being sucked under water” when Henry pushed me off the side and down I went. Under, under, under. “If you fall out during a rapid run get yourself into the crucifix position if you can. If not, let the water take you and rest assured that you will surface in enough time to catch a gulp of air,” I remembered Henry explaining earlier. I failed to “rest assured” but thankfully I did pop up seconds later, only slightly unnerved. I struggled back into the boat, lifejacket stuck awkwardly around my neck, tank-top and shorts clinging, wet. We all helped each other into the raft, traded moments of dread, apologized for kicking/ swimming over/pumping into each other in the first moments of confusion. That was a Grade 1 rapid, according to Henry, and would be the easiest of the day. Of course, we wouldn’t be swimming through the rest, instead attempting to make it through without flipping the raft. Flipping the raft? Oh Lord, I should have watched the video on rafting before jumping headfirst into this little adventure. Henry announced that now would be a good time to purposely flip the raft, to practice being stuck underneath and having to swim your way out. I would have to say that at this point those of us in the boat who hadn’t rafted before took our last easy breath, had our last regular heart beat and proceeded to move towards sheer terror for the remainder of the 8-hour day.

Two practice runs and Henry determined our group of six was ready. All ten groups effortlessly maneuvered the Grade 2 and Grade 3 rapids that lay ahead. Our fourth rapid, known as the G-spot, was a Grade 4. Looking at it, 200-meters of frothy white water pirouetting ten feet in the air, angry and chaotic, smashing against rocky peninsulas, made me nauseous. Two people in other rafts decided they were done for the day. We all floated in the calm waters, wide-eyed and silent, listening to the guides explain that we should not try to swim if (aka: when) we get thrown from the raft. That will only lead to things broken and bruised. Okay then. The first group went; we watched as they paddled furiously into the rapids, caught the first wave and were immediately bounced from the raft, thrown randomly into the torrents of water. Perched eagerly on the edge of the raft attempting to see if anyone popped up I almost fell overboard as Henry pushed us out toward the G-spot. I was about to discover there was nothing pleasurable about this experience.

We paddled as if to win an Olympic medal, knowing this increased our chances of successfully riding the wave through the rapid. Yes! We caught the wave and swiftly flew above the perilous storm below. Suddenly the nose of our raft seemed to be traveling higher than the rest of the boat and I realized with horror that we were flipping in the air, a rollercoaster destined for a fiery crash. I dropped from the capsizing raft, fetal position into the white rapid below, my body ripped in seven directions at once by the conflicting torrents. Under for fifteen seconds with no reserve of air to get me through. Blackness as my head ripped left to right, my neck snapping. I prayed only for air. I had no thought of rocks, of broken bones; just air. Ten more seconds and my lungs screamed. Like someone was siphoning oxygen with a tiny needle I needed air. Up for one gulp of watery air, down again. Aching arms, aching legs. Abs torn like a million sit-ups. The last five seconds and relief when my head crashed into the side of my overturned raft. No Henry, no friends, just one lone paddle floating calmly by the boat. I discovered the rest of my crew in another boat nearby, all exhausted, worried about how long I’d been gone. I’d bourne the brunt of the rapid’s contempt with intrusion.

Each succeeding rapid was a repetition of the same yet completely different in its approach. None were as bad for me personally. We all took turns living through the panic. We flipped on every single rapid, Grade 4, Grade 5, Grade 6. Grade 6 evoked a fear within me I had never experienced. A fifteen foot waterfall at the end of a succession of treacherous rapids. More people decided not to partake. They climbed out, hiked down the shoreline, through locals gathered for the show. The only thing holding me in my seat was the rest of my group sitting steadfast in theirs. We were sheer determination; or rather, they were and I was trying my ought most to fake it. I don’t know how, but we survived. Elation and exhaustion at the end of our journey down the rapids of the Nile. And at the finish line, an ice cold Nile beer and a game of Frisbee to unwind. I felt courageous, jovial, satisfied. And like I would have to wait at least another year before trying anything so death-defying again.

~Nicole