Advertisement
Published: July 15th 2006
Surfing into the 50:50 Bad Place
"Now, you have to row hard, otherwise we'll end up in the Bad Place, and you don't want to go in there. You really don't want to go in there." Me, sitting front left, starting to panic.“RROOWW!” “HARRD” “HARRDERR!”
Panic sinking in, nine oars thrusting into the foamy, white, roaring water, we row for our lives right into the thick of a Grade 5 rapid, and the impending doom that I somehow seemed to get a front-seat view of, stupidly volunteering to go up front. It’s fair to say I’m well and truly bricking it!
“RRROOOWWW!” “HHHHAARRRDDDERR!!!”
The noise is deafening, we’re drowning in the raft with 12ft mountains and valleys of gurgling water all around us. Rocking about in a washing machine, we all row as hard as possible into nature in its most powerful expression. Extreme chaos. An aqua-hurricane. Then, with a simple parting of waves, we see it, the G-Spot, the heart of the rapid and a huge hole with no visible escape, surrounded on all sides by 5m walls of thunderous, terrifying water. Simon, our guide, had found the centre, the only guide that day with enough guts to do so, and we were heading straight for it, whether we wanted to or not.
“HHOOLLDDD ONNNNN…..!!”
Oh Jesus, as down we go into it, my pulse shooting to 160bpm, lying as low as possible in the raft, with
All of us going into Easy Rider
Our first rapid of the day, Simon guiding us at the back! Simon’s accidental last words as our guide echoing through all of us, imparting an even greater sense of panic… “oh, this is not good…” Down we went in slow motion, people screaming, others in silent total fear, before the raft tilted and all its passengers were no more, as I fell right into the chaos. Underwater, bubbling and thrown about in all directions, “one..two…three…..fou” I surface; quick breaths; still in the heart; can’t see anyone, take another deep brea…OH FU**!!!
I look up and a 5m wave blocking the entire sky, is on top of me crashing down. I catch as much air as possible before being hit and sinking back down into the deep water again. No idea which way’s up or down. I hold my life vest and wait, as I got churned about, tumbling, spinning, praying for air, and eventually, spat out the other end. I’M ALIVE! I survived, oh my, I’m ok. The waves, only 1m high now, I spin downstream and look around for the others - one, two, ..five, everyone’s ok! With huge relief, I “whoop!” into the air, swim to the raft, climb in, help the others in, then collapse in
nervous exhilarating exhaustion.
We just went into the middle of, and came out alive from the largest commercially rafted hole in the world. And the weekend had only just begun.
Apologies. Another long blog, but then it has been two weeks. I didn't take my camera for obvious reasons (tho I did risk a disposable), but have bought the CD which has some awesome photos on it! There's a couple of other really great photos of some kids I wanted to add but this computer isn't reading my chip, so there will just have to be more photos in the next blog which will only be a few days away this time and a little shorter. Aaaanyways...
Since my last blog, I’ve nearly died twice. This second time I even paid good money for the privilege. Just over the border into Uganda, north of Lake Victoria is a town called Jinja, which really wouldn’t be on the tourist trail if it wasn’t for one little peculiarity - it’s regarded as the source of the mighty White Nile, the longest river in the world, stretching from Lake Victoria 4000miles to the Mediterranean. This place is also rightly on
The aftermath of the 1st rapid
One of the other groups after flipping. the tourist trail as home to some of the most spectacular (and scariest) rapids in the world, and being the adrenaline junky that I am, pretty much the main reason for venturing into Uganda.
Afsan and I organized meeting up again and along with two other friends Caroline and Laura, we decided to go one crazier than most and spend two days killing ourselves instead of the usual one. So, it was with much ignorance and expectation that we fund ourselves hopping on board a small, blue inflatable dinghy, and setting off on the 2-day, 46km route down the Nile. There were 10 of us in total on our raft - Laura, Caroline, Afsan and I, two British girls Lucy and Sally, three American girls and the dreadlocked, bold, daring and funny Kiwi-guide Simon; and we all got on very well, as a group generally would do when confronted by such danger.
That rapid was a Grade 5 called ‘The G-Spot’, so named by a wise-guy because it is difficult to find, but when you do, you scream lots and get very wet (not my words). We went through a total of four Grade 5s, the highest grade
possible to raft. There is a Grade 6, which we saw a few of, but this basically means certain death, or at least, hospital for a very long time, and includes rapids such as Niagara Falls. We had a little preparation - such as how to get down quickly and hold on for your life, pretending to prepare us for te rapids, Simon telling us that once underwater to hold on to your vest and count to five and with luck, you should surface, and a Boy-scout style kiddie chant of “Nogen in the Gogen!” (any Dutch willing to translate?).
On the first day, we capsized twice in the morning into the madness, with a worried Sally counting to more than five on one occasion - “You told us five seconds and I counted seven! Seven! I’ve never been so scared.” (a lifetime in these circumstances, I can assure you) - before some gentle rowing, swimming, and chilling down-river.
The afternoon was much of the same, but finishing with the aptly named ‘The Bad Place’ rapid (it certain was). The first 100m were Grade 6, so we wisely skipped this, got out of the river and scouted the
Flipping and panicing in The G-Spot!!
Now's not the time to admit you don't like water... final 50m. However, having time to stare at the noise and assess how stupid the situation was, only made it worse - and the rush that much greater. This wasn’t helped by Simon being very analytical:
“Naww, this is a dangerous rapid. I could steer the raft right, to a Grade 4, and float us safely through with a few bumps, but you don’t want that.” (“Yes we do” said a couple of the girls). “No no, that’s dull. The other option is to get to a place called the 50:50, where a 3m wave meets a 5m wave into a hole. I can try and get us into there and if you can row it hard enough, I can made it 80:20 that we flip, ok? But you have to row hard otherwise we’ll end up in The Bad Place and you don’t want to go in there. You really don’t want to go in there. So row hard when I tell you, ok?”
We rowed bloody hard!
I’m not sure what the odds eventually were, but we did flip again, and once again all nine of us were chucked into the full force of nature,
Being spat out of the G-Spot
err..one of those helmets will be mine trying to survive like a spider down a plughole, before coming out the other side, every one of us with a cut somewhere on our bodies. We were shaking, overjoyed with mutual relief and pride that we had survived, even if most of us had another day to go, and many never wanting to flip again.
That night, with free beer, punch, soda and dinner, we camped on an island in the middle of the Nile, sitting round the campfire talking, and, with probably a slight over-obsession, watched horny fireflies trying to attract a mate, before getting some much needed sleep in our tents.
Until the final two rapids, the second day was much calmer, and for some of the way, we connected all the rafts together and sunbathed or swam, while gently floating further down the Nile, stuffing our faces with Cadbury’s éclairs. On the penultimate rapid, those that wanted to flip swapped with those that didn’t, but we still ironically didn’t flip, so we just jumped out instead! Then we came to Manilal (‘The Crazy One’ in Swahili), the last rapid of the trip, and due to the back-current, one we could go through again and again (if anyone
Will these rapids never end?!
I'm not screaming with fear, honest! felt inclined).
Basically, Simon got in our boat and we threw ourselves into the rapids to surf them, purposely getting trapped in a loop, and getting bumped, bashed, drowned, kicked, thrown and knocked about as if in a cocktail shaker. This was the most intense part of the weekend, struggling to hold on, laughing with fear ad deafened by the force. After over three minutes it was clear the raft was trapped and those that were left on the boat could faintly hear Simon screaming “JUMMP! JJUUMPP! GET AAWWT!” Now, it takes a lot to truly scare me, but jumping out there into the thick of the rushing, white, angrily intense water was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, even though staying on the raft was madness.
As it happens, I was spat out in a couple of seconds and picked up by one of the safety canoes. And if that wasn’t enough, I then volunteered myself to body-board the same rapids, managing on my second attempt, to stay in for a few minutes, until I decided to flip out, based on the decision that if I stayed in any longer, I wouldn’t have
any energy left to take a deep breath to see me through underwater. It was intense! I was laughing, shouting, whooping, trying to breath every second, straining to keep the board afloat but not flip, while kicking wildly with my flippers, with a ROAR all around, and everyone watching at the side. So hopefully you’ve got the impression this wasn’t your average weekend.
Then it was over. 46km after starting, we had rafted the source of the Nile, one of the biggest rushes of my life, and the four of us, together with another friend Abby, celebrated by going for an Indian, before watching Zidane headbutt an Italian in the World Cup Final. Through a contact, we even managed to watch the final in style - at the French Embassy with free bread, Brie and wine! Class! The strangest thing was, we weren’t even security- or name-checked, just showed into the Embassy to the football. I doubt it would be quite the same if it was the US Embassy.
So, as for the other time I nearly died? A near-heart-attack back in Kisumu from England’s penalty shootout of course, followed by watery eyes and a depressed mood. I
Haha! Not laughing now, am I?!
Flipping in the 80:20! Me at the front trying in stupid vain to hold on! had befriended some England-supporting Canadians, including a guy called Alan, which helped with the disappointment and we met up a couple more times during my four nights in Kisumu. It’s not the most thrilling place, but after three weeks hopping about the rest of Kenya, it was nice to stay in one place a few days and get a feel of living in an African town. I caught up on my Hollywood blockbusters, visited the museum and got lost in the huge Sunday market, selling, among other things, piles upon piles of second-hand Western clothing, such as t-shirts with slogans like “Mary’s Hen Night, Boston, MA, June 2001.”
Kisumu, like most African towns, has limited character, and is built around a grid-square pattern, but through improvisation rather than planning. One night, I went for a Chinese, and the restaurant was packed, but completely of Indians, highlighting just who owns most of the money in the town. During the 70s and 80s, most Indians fled the country, but the Government has since realized their economic important and has invited them all back again. On my final day in Kisumu, I also saw some noisy hippos on Lake Victoria, and Alan
Can you spot me?
Bottom left with the darker colour helmet, trying to swim to the boat. Fat chance! briefly showed me round a local hospital. Initially an army barracks, the beds have not changed, except now they are crammed with two or three people each, mostly suffering from TB or Malaria, huge problems in this region. Yet another harrowing African sight.
From Kisumu, I then crossed over the border to Uganda and its capital Kampala. As Paul Theroux describes, “border towns in African countries were awful places known for riff-raff and refugees and people sleeping rough, famous for smugglers and back-handlers, notorious for bribery and delay, nit-picking officialdom, squeezing policemen, pestering money-changers, the greatest risks and the crummiest hotels.” So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover none of these, a pattern that has continued into Uganda - few hassles, better roads and I feel safer walking out at night, with no need to get the Mission Impossible soundtrack out again.
I stayed in Kampala another four nights before the rafting, including one night at Caroline and Laura’s spacious, secure house in Muyenge, the ex-pat and NGO district, owned by the Save the Children foundation, which they’re lucky enough to have during their stay. Uganda has no social security system in place, so child beggars are more
prominent than in Nairobi, shouting a Dickensian “Sir?” as you walk down the streets. But that aside, I liked Kampala. Like Rome, it is a city of seven hills, making it a very picturesque place, with red brick buildings sneaking through the treetops of the surrounding hills, and a feeling of modernization, of hope, of improvement in the air, which is fantastic when you consider that just twenty years ago, the city was practically on its knees due to Amin’s Polpot-like years, the Uganda/Tanzania war of 1979/80, and the hellish after years of Tanzanian banditry and absolute rule (more of that in the next blog), before Musseveni finally came to power in 1986.
Like Kisumu, I had no major plans, so just bided my time exploring the city - stopping for drinks with fellow Africans, visiting the Environmental faculty at Makerere University, eating gorgeous sorbet at the famous Speke Hotel, visiting cathedrals and temples and trying not to die of lung cancer from the smog. I also visited the theatre, only to find the play was for the deaf, so went to the cinema instead, only to find the powercut was still on. In Kampala, the whole capital city
goes without power on alternate 24 hour periods, without anyone blinking an eyelid. It’s a strange place when development is so rife, but Uganda still has a long way to go.
I’ve somewhat squashed my week in two cities into a few lines, as this blog is long enough I feel. If I spoke about every little thing I’d be stuck in this internet café for ever. I think the rafting was the last of the death-defying stunts on this trip (well, besides taking public transport), so it’s a three-week home-run straight left to go. Have a grand week! Simon x
Advertisement
Tot: 0.159s; Tpl: 0.015s; cc: 22; qc: 99; dbt: 0.1023s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb
Mum
non-member comment
Oh, my God!!!!!!!
There is NO way anyone would get me in that raft!!!! I have a lunatic for a son!