Surfing the Nile

Monday, Feb. 4, 2002
If you have ever cruised down the Nile in Egypt it is difficult to imagine that 6,000 km further south the world's longest river is catapulting white-water rafters up in the air as it starts its long journey from Lake Victoria to the Mediterranean. A short hop from the source of the Nile in Jinja, Uganda is the start of one of Africa's most exhilarating white-water rafting experiences. Within the space of 18 km, rafters are funnelled through nine rapids, four of which reach the mythical grade five status.

But in a few years, all this could be gone. Last month, after seven years of heated debate between environmentalists and businessmen, the Ugandan government finally gave the green light to build a $550 million dam across the mighty river. Most of the rapids will be submerged under water when the reservoir is completed towards the end of the decade, putting the white water rafting companies out of business or forcing them to take their trade elsewhere. But for the moment, only the Zambezi rivals the source of the Nile in terms of providing a white-knuckle adrenaline rush.

I went with Nile River Explorers (www.raftafrica.com), who run a full day's rafting out of Jinja's Backpackers Lodge for only $65 — transportation, BBQ and beers included. International rafting company Adrift (www.backpackers.co.ug) offer much the same deal — albeit for a slightly heftier price — but operate out of the capital Kampala. After a bumpy 20-minute truck ride from Jinja, our all-male group of rafters was dumped off by the side of the Nile along with two dinghies, kayaks, oars, helmets and life jackets. Our instructor, a lanky South African who looked like Jesus after a workout, split the group into two. In one boat were half a dozen athletic looking American missionaries and in the other was a family of Germans, a Belgian cameraman and a distinctly nervous looking Time reporter. The South African hopped into the missionaries' boat, leaving our group with a local instructor called Henry.

White-water rafting has developed a whole language of its own. Depending on the ferocity of the water, the instructor will bark out commands like 'all over right,' 'easy forward' and 'heads down'. For someone who has difficulties distinguishing left from right and 'over easy' from 'easy over', this can present problems — especially coming out of the mouth of Henry, who talked like a horse race commentator on speed.

But if it was bad for me it must have been a whole lot worse for the three Germans, who spoke a sort of Medieval English. The elder ones were rugged, bearded types who looked as though they enjoyed a beer or seven, but with his wispy goatee and cadaverous body, Sven was more like a Dostoevsky character and inspired about as much confidence as a blind taxi driver.

We were told that unless we hit the waves hard, they would hit us hard. With Sven shivering uncontrollably, it wasn't long before the latter happened. After practising some rollovers and passing through a couple of minor rapids, we hit the first grade five waves at Bujagali falls. A crowd of spectators had assembled on the banks to watch boats flip. We did not disappoint. As we hit the wave, the raft went belly-up — literally. I managed to grab hold of the side-ropes, while most of the others floated towards the Mediterranean.

The second time I wasn't so lucky. Total Gunga is a series of five rapids in a row and it is not generally advisable to flip at the first hurdle if you don't fancy tumbling through the other four like a piece of flotsam. Unfortunately, this is precisely what happened. If you have never surfed a grade five rapid without a dinghy, go to your washing machine, curl up into a small ball, press spin dry and await the result. It is, quite simply, terrifying.

Suddenly I was underwater — deep underwater — and every time I tried to surface I was smashed down by another wave. When I finally did make it to the surface one of the Germans landed on top of me, sending me plummeting to the depths again. I emerged about 500 meters downstream with a rescue canoeist screaming at me to jump on the back of his kayak. The only way to do this is to flop your chest on the fibreglass, put one leg either side of the back end and kick with your legs. As a man, I can assure you it is not comfortable.

The rest of the journey was somewhat smoother, giving us a chance to get acquainted with the locals. Apart from the odd fisherman, these tend to be chattering monkeys, screaming bats and swooping sea eagles. Future rafters will be assured to know that there are no crocs or hippos on this fast-flowing part of the river. Cold beers and sizzling chunks of meat awaited us at the end of the ordeal. There's something about near-death experiences that makes even the simplest food taste extra-special.