Jinja, the next city west of Iganga, is the location of the source of the Nile River. Though I have visited and paddled around the Source (which is often thought of in capital letters here), as well as spent some time enjoying the vistas of the Nile downstream, I have never taken part in its most famous pastime: rafting! This time I had pledged to myself that even though I was afraid to brave the rapids, I would raft the Nile. So on Sunday, my parents, my brother Brian and I took the plunge. The morning started in Jinja at the Nile River Explorers hostel, where free breakfast and trip preparation took place. I seized the opportunity to eat a mouthwateringly delicious bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast – yes, my vegetarian diet is on hiatus to some extent while in Africa, since most of the farm animals here seem to live a life of pastoral luxury. I still eat rice and beans and bread for most meals, but I have been partaking in the occasional chicken. While we ate, a video showing rafts capsizing dramatically as rafters flew through the air into the raging river played, and everyone watched nervously out of the corners of their eyes.
We donned helmets and life vests and joined the crew of Aussies, Americans, Brits, and muscle-bound Swedes for the trip to our starting point. Swedes love to show off their awesome abs, or so I have concluded after meeting several representatives of that country on this trip. We rumbled on a ‘lorry’ down the dirt road to the rafting start point. Although the kids who live along this road must see busloads of us being carted past every single day, they still run screaming like banshees towards the bus, crying out “mzunguuuu!” like it was their job. This adds evidence to my theory that we need more anthropological research on what compels the “mzungu!” phenomenon.
Upon forming a group with 2 Brits and a nervous Tanzanian, we met our rafting guide, Peter. Peter was a muscular Ugandan local with a penchant for dark humor and the use of a falsetto voice. Actually, I really need to conduct more anthropological research into why men in eastern Uganda find falsetto voices hilarious. I think it’s similar to the way Britons can’t get over transvestites in comedy. Anyhow, Peter introduced himself by saying “Nice to meet you all. I’ve never done this before, but I watched the video at the hostel very carefully, and it looks pretty easy.” The Brits looked at him with eyes like saucers. “REALLY?” Peter kept a straight face.
We floated down the peaceful initial portion of the river while learning all the rafting commands: “Forward! Harder! Lean in! GET DOWN!!!” “Get down!” means that you crouch in the bottom of the raft, clutching the side rope and your paddle. As we approached the first set of rapids, we learned that Peter’s favorite catchphrase is to scream “WE’RE GOING TO DIEEEE!” in his best falsetto just prior to the raft entering the rapids. For those who have not encountered the Nile Rapids, the class 6 rapids which are considered too dangerous to be run on a raft have names like “the Dead Frenchman” and “the Dead Dutchman”. The lower class rapids that we take on in the raft have more warm and fuzzy names, like “The Bad Place” and “Vengeance”.
Each large rapid, as we approached, was simply a crashing noise and a spray of whitewater that appeared just at the horizon line. Then just prior to falling down into the maelstrom of waves, you could see the entire rapid in front of you just in time to yell “this looks crazy!!” and be terrified. It was thrilling. As we cascaded down one of the falls, the raft crumpled underneath us and we were all thrown into the water. I felt like I was thrust down 20 feet into the water, and struggled mightily to no avail to reach the surface. It was the scariest portion of the trip, because although I could perceive through my closed eyes that the water was getting lighter, and therefore I must be approaching the sun, I had the horrible feeling I had no idea how far down I was. As my face surfaced, I tried to take a large gulp of air which became a large gulp of the Nile. I was submerged again and swirling downstream uncontrollably, unable to do anything but try to keep my mouth above water and flail and sputter and cough. Although rafting is amazing, flipping is not enjoyable to me.
We had several nice stretches of calm water where we could swim in the warm water, or observe the bird life: rows of cormorants in different colors diving underwater, stately herons and egrets, and little yellow birds that dart between a hundred nests hanging from the branches of one tree, like a hundred orbs of twigs. Of course, the bird life was punctuated by groups of women doing their laundry in the river. In most cases, it seemed to be one person doing the laundry, and twenty idle children spectating at the riverside, hoping to catch a glimpse of mzungu madness. We ate pineapple and buttery cookies called “Glucose biscuits” for our midday snack as we floated.
Finally, our group elected to walk around the last rapid, an unbelievable cyclone of water called The Bad Place, which is partially a class 6 rapid. Peter laughed at us and called our route the “chicken line”, clucking, of course, in his falsetto. We had a few regrets as we watched the rafts fly over the waves, but I did end up glad I was not trapped underneath again.
After rafting, we were taken for a banquet to the rafting company’s campsite. They had an array of amazing looking food, including – a tray of pasta! Would it surprise you if I told you I had a can of Parmesan cheese in my backpack for just such an occasion? Mmmm…. What a day.
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