White Water, Black Heart – Part I

11 08 2008

The Adventure Blogger: ‘Are we there yet?’               (Photo by Shearwater)

I have never found whitewater rafting particularly enticing. I had always wanted to skydive (The Adventure Zone – May 20, 2008) and was coerced into rap-jumping entirely against my will (The Adventure Zone – June 16, 2008), but whitewater rafting held no allure whatsoever. Which is why I was so confused when I found myself voluntarily electing to do something that had all the appeal of root canal performed by an intoxicated demolition worker.

 

I have long believed that any extreme sport worth doing should be the biggest, best or most dangerous. The Zambezi offers the greatest one-day commercial whitewater rafting in the world so my participation was a no-brainer even if I really didn’t want to do it! Not only was the river a boiling maelstrom of grade 5 rapids, but they threw in a few crocodiles free of charge as a bonus.

 

With more than a little trepidation I walked into the booking office in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. I sat down and watched footage of rafts entering murderously large rapids and the little yellow-helmeted rafters being flung through the air like kernels of corn in a campfire.

 

“Is that a ‘Best of…’ video?” I asked, as a massive raft was flung skyward like a tiddly-wink, tiny star-shaped rafters twirling spectacularly into the foaming water.

 

“No, that was yesterday.” The agent replied disinterestedly as she filled in my paperwork.

 

I swallowed hard.

 

“I, err, I can’t swim.” I decided to inform her as she processed my credit card. “Is that a problem?”

 

She stopped writing, raised her head and looked me in the eye disappointedly while motioning at the television screen with her pen.

 

“Swimming isn’t going to help you in that.” she replied, gesturing at the aquatic carnage before me.

 

I didn’t sleep particularly well that night. I contemplated feigning malaria to avoid the torture to come, but as I’d bought new Velcro-fastened sandals before leaving home solely with the intent of such self-torment, I decided to go through with it any way. At the first glimmer of dawn I was up and striding somewhat reluctantly to the launching point on the edge of the Zambezi gorge. Perhaps I’d be lucky and an elephant would charge from the bush and trample me before I got there.

 

Unfortunately, I arrived unscathed and was outfitted with a life jacket and helmet and then subjected to the most terrifying safety briefing of my life.

 

“Good morning everyone” the nauseatingly buff, tanned, fit and confident river-guide greeted us. “Welcome to the Zambezi. It is very important that you pay absolute attention to everything I say and remember it. Nyaminyami, the God of the Zambezi, is unforgiving and likes nothing better than to punish those who trespass without proper respect.”

 

“We’ll raft 18 rapids today.” he continued, while my sense of foreboding grew. “There are a few Grade 3s and 4s, but most are Grade 5. That’s the highest navigable rapid in commercial rafting. There is also one Grade 6, but we carry the raft around that one. If we tried to go through it and failed, it would suck the raft and all its occupants down and hold them deep below the surface…forever. So we’ll give that one a miss.”

 

He smiled.

 

“When you end up in the river” the taunting continued, “you’ll either be a long-swimmer or a short-swimmer. Short-swimmers make their own way back. Long-swimmers pop-up further away and require help. If you get sucked under just remain calm: you’ll only be held for five minutes at most. If you fall in just before the rapids, tuck yourself into a ball with your knees to your chest and your feet extended forward. These will help you to survive the rocks. If you fall in after the rapids or in calm water, get back to the raft as quickly as possible: that’s where the crocodiles live.”

 

The group of rafters silently hung on his every word. Some seemed to relish the warnings while others seemed to share my intense hatred of him and his obscene enthusiasm.

 

“Right then,” he finished, “let’s head down to the river.”

 

But for the scarlet letter of my yellow helmet and life-jacket, I would have run away but knew the pressgang would have quickly caught up and dragged me back to the gorge. Instead, I tried to summon some saliva to my parched throat and followed everyone down the rock equivalent of walking the plank.

 

Photo and post by: Simon Vaughan

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One response

12 08 2008
Karen

Can’t wait to hear part 2. I’m assuming you survived but was it with everything intact??

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