Accidental Tourist

Taking a swirl around the 'Devil's Toilet Bowl' in a whitewater raft

Paul Ash survives a turbulent trip through the Batoka Gorge on the Zambezi River

10 February 2019 - 00:00 By paul ash

In another life, I trained to be a whitewater rafting guide.
After the first time I shot a rapid in a rubber boat, all I wanted was to go voyaging on wilderness rivers.
First we had to learn how to not kill ourselves or our clients. So the old river rats taught us about whitewater "hydraulics" - pourovers, stoppers, eddies and strainers. Their "immersion technique" was simple: they strapped us into PFDs (lifejackets) and helmets and tossed us into the river's roiling embrace.
That was fun. I liked floating down the fast-flowing Vaal, tumbling through the aptly named Gatsien Rapid, there by dinky Parys.
I loved learning how to read a river, to look at the furious chaos of whitewater and see the hazards - the holes big enough to swallow a minibus, the low-hanging trees where swimmers could be trapped.
With the first flush of romance still flowing, I bought a boat - a zippy Alligator inflatable kayak that fitted neatly in the back of my Corsa Lite.
Oh the places we'd go.
And we did. There were weekends at the Vaal, on the great Usutu River in Swaziland, and on the Bushmans, near Weenen, where one night the river rose to become a muddy, gnarly, wild beast and in the morning dealt out swift punishment to the unwary rafters in our group.
It isn't called the place of weeping for nothing.
I swam lots of rapids without meaning to and survived all of them, some after swallowing more of the river than I would have liked, but that's whitewater rafting for you.
Then one day, I took an unplanned swim in a stream called the Ngangwane in KwaZulu-Natal. The river did as rivers do. It spat out the boat but kept me as its plaything. I don't know how long I was recirculated in that hydraulic, only that there were repeat cycles of light and darkness, with my feet smacking the streambed at the bottom of every turn.
I was certain I was going to drown - in a river which, had it not been swollen by rain, I could have stood up in. If I hadn't been so terrified, it would have been hilarious. Almost.
And then the Ngangwane let me go and I floated away, puking water and clawing for breath, and a decade went by before I paddled a river again.
I broke the spell with a winter "float" on the Zambezi, when the great river thunders through the Batoka Gorge at 8-million litres a second, through rapids named Gnashing Jaws of Death, Devil's Toilet Bowl, Overland Truck Eater and The Terminator. What could possibly go wrong?
And so, as we hurtled down the green flume into The Washing Machine in an oar raft steered by boat guide Steve "The Terminator" Chuma, I wished I had kept that spell nicely parked in the dusty recesses of my tiny mind.
The Washing Machine ate the raft and once more I tumbled into the bubbling greeny-blackness, gripped, tossed and shaken by a great, watery hand.
Retching, we climbed back into the righted raft and stared at each other in horror, until the roar of another approaching rapid and Chuma's frantic commands jolted us into action.
"All forward! Paddle left! Paddle le ...!" Boom! The raft pitched up and flung us back into the maelstrom. Bodies, paddles, a helmet ... Chuma ... flying through a watery sky.
This time I held onto the raft like a tick to a dog. My fellow rafters were gone, swept away to the bottom of the rapid. Steve and I were safe, on our upturned raft, sun on our faces ... smiling?
Aaah, so this is how you do it. Never get out of the boat (good advice from Apocalypse Now). As my dad used to say, too soon old, too late smart.
No time to revel, though, here comes another one, water sliding over slick, black basalt, like a runaway freight train. I feel a strange surge of joy.
"Paddle right! Paddle right ... !"
Boom!
• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column...

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