another rafting yarn

Time out –raft adventure

Dan, the raft guide said, “You’re about to undertake the whitewater equivalent of Everest. Except on Everest the guides get paid a lot more.”

Dan was short but he was broad, possibly the broadest short man I had ever encountered. His shoulders were massive, his hands huge. He was the kind of short man that is scarier than a tall man if you get my meaning, so I, and the five other punters nodded appreciatively at his words. We were all gathered in a ranch style hotel in Livingstone, Zambia, in preparation for a descent of the mighty Zambezi river.

Before heading out to the river we all helped  sort the gear: the roll-top gear bags, the flabby rubber carcass of the deflated raft, the canny thermarest seat-cum-mattresses: good gear, top gear even- the best for the Everest of whitewater adventures.

The comparison was not all hypebole. The Zambezi has the biggest rapids and wavetrains in the shortest, most concentrated, section of any river in the world. There are longer sections elsewhere, and bigger individual rapids, but none has both to such an extent. Also, like Everest, the Zambezi has an ‘easy’ line, and the rapids, though huge and noisy, are not plagued by underwater rocks waiting to snag a swimming body.

Whitewater rafting comes in two versions- oars or paddles. Oars are more efficient, but more boring for the punters who just sit and hold on. We would be using paddles and the second raft, with the gear and food, would be using oars. This would be piloted by Babyface, a diffident Zambian whose real name was never used and though he seemed quite happy about this, indeed the other Zambians also called him Babyface, but at the same time it didn’t seem quite right but then I never found out his real name either.

Babyface’s raft was also distinguished by having a toilet very visibly strapped to it. Yep, we were hauling our own sit-down loo. Though the Zambezi isn’t the thoroughfare that the Grand Canyon can become it does have a limited number of good camping sites. It made sense to haul shit, so to speak, but the sight of a loo on a raft always seemed surreal to me.

As well as Dan, who was from New Zealand, there was Davey from Canada in the safety Kayak  always hovering below the big rapids ready to pull anyone out if they fell in.

We set off, within metres it felt, of the mist and pounding water of the Victoria Falls- the world’s biggest in terms of sheer volume of water that passes over them. The current was whip fast and our paddling felt about as effective as a baby sparrow trying to extricate itself from a storm drain in full flood. Then the raft moved midstream and I felt the turning power that Dan’s huge arms added.

Instantly, almost, we were at the first rapid, us punters already knackered from paddling: I failed to follow the Dan’s bellowed instructions and we hit wall, a huge rock wall that if the raft got plastered against could have been nasty but we just banged and bounced so that was that.

It was not exactly pleasant though. It happened so fast, and it was wet, very wet. Dan had said earlier, “My first season here I lost my bag so all I had was shorts and a tee-shirt and that was enough.” Yes, I thought bitterly, if you are at the back. Up front as I was, you were a sponge for every errant wave. The canyon of the mighty Zambezi just below Vic falls is dark and deep and soon I was shivering in my shorts and short sleeved shirt- wimps like me are better off in a thin paddling jacket or a windshirt with rolled up sleeves.

The rapids rolled on. The fear was in not getting flipped or being sucked from the raft. There were in the raft handholds and toeholds but one giant wave, which crashed over us for what seemed like thirty seconds, sucked two paddlers away. Because we were going with the current they kept pace like cheery seals in their helmets and we dragged them aboard. A suspicion, never voiced, was that they held on less tightly on purpose just to see what it would be like to get a dunking.

At night the camp routine revolved around the gourmet meal the guides cooked- curry with popadoms, beef and Yorkshire pudding; they channeled their frustration at piloting the same old route with new dishes to startle each other with- and us- and it really was top nosh. Then there’s the beer and the beatbox- turning the LZ into a beachparty every night- which somehow summed up the funny nature of rafting in foreign climes- stripping the location of its difference to make it as similar as possible to some platonically ideal rafting trip, one endless river where only the rapids change, thrills interspersed with barbies and booze round the campfire.

Back on the river we portage Upper Moemba rapid- a stark wide waterfall that drowns our voices and buffets the face- though it’s a hundred metres below- with fine mist. The sheer force of the thing is brutal. By the kind of happenstance you get to expect in Africa, ten skinny Zimbabweans turn up to carry our gear and boats. It’s obvious they need the cash so we all agree- a paltry ten dollars per person sees a ton of gear magicly carried over slippery rocks and down into the lower section of the river.

We start seeing more wildlife, apart from the eagles that have been our overhead companions since the beginning. There are crocs- black and slow- lying on rocks in the sun and slithering into the water as we advance. At one place I leap out to tie up and a tiny croc slides away not three feet from me making me feel brave although I wouldn’t have left the boat if I’d seen it. On the bank great packs of baboons keep pace with us and at night monkeys jump from tree to tree around the camp.

Round about the fifth day we approach Ghostrider. This is the longest most sustained dragon’s back of a wavetrain on the river. It is a long sequence of high waves that you aim to ride, up and then plunging down into the watery tumult. And then up again, and down again. With ordinary rapids there may be one or two points of interest, massive waves or scary holes, but on Ghostrider you mount the aquatic equivalent of a Disneyland roller coaster. It was almost too much fun. Almost too easy. We hadn’t even had to queue like you do at Disneyland. Maybe I’m a puritan but surely this sort of slidey fun should be harder. Maybe I’d be punished later, yes that’d be it.

The river widened and slowed. We took our time past a large rock island, almost submerged. But it was not an island- because it suddenly did submerge- hippos! With their aggression and huge teeth they’re the most feared animals on the Zambezi. Crocs are laughable alongside them. We edged close to the bank, ready to ditch the boat and scamper onto land if we were charged. But the pod (we agreed on that one) of hippos just wanted a closer look, baring their tusk sized teeth in a yawn.

At journey’s end there was a chopper waiting for us: more luxury of the kind that’s too delicious to wriggle away from. The pilot had once flown the queen he said. Then up and away and twenty minutes later we were back at the start, hovering over the extraordinary width of Victoria Falls and its curve of tumbling water. Next time, I ponder, they’ll be no  softness, no luxury, I’ll do it in a Michelin man suit, just hurl myself in and take everything the river can throw at me.  Dan, the raft guide, hears me out and says, “might work,” then turns to the list in front of him- the next load of eager thrill seekers due in tomorrow.

check out water-by-nature raft trips if you want to find out more about such trips.