White Water Rafting on the Nile

So now I have something in common with Mahatma Gandhi. Who could have imagined? However, following a five-day jaunt to Uganda last week I can now make this claim. It took place when I visited the town of Jinja to see Lake Victoria feeding into the Nile River. There I learned that on Gandhi’s death in 1948 his ashes were divided up and sent to many locations around the world to be scattered. One of these places was the source of the Nile. So when I spent a day white-water rafting I was dumped and drifted down the Nile, just like Gandhi.

I had previously been on the Nile in 1987, or more specifically on the Egyptian section. This included three days on a small boat (called a faluka) with Russ Klein and some English and Irish girls. The river was filthy, the scenery was mostly uninspired desert, the girls were a bit of a drag and I was really sick. All in all, a fairly typical outing with Russ.

The Ugandan adventure on the Nile was a great experience and a lot of fun. Although the rafting company charged western prices, they also followed western safety practices. We had a large party of over forty people, not counting the guides, consisting mostly of American church types on a two-week holiday to see what missionary life was like. Presumably, missionary work includes white water rafting. They were nice enough people and provided no competition at the end of the day for the complimentary beer.

The Nile was beautiful, clean and warm. During some of the calm sections on the river we were able to jump in and drift along in our lifejackets. The valley was lovely and green and we would come across locals on the shoreline waving greetings to us. It was pretty cool to be on this historic river that flows 4,000 miles from beginning to end. Apparently, it takes three months for the water to complete its journey to the Mediterranean Sea.

The rafting had a few moments of being a bit more exciting than I had anticipated. I’ve come to the realization that I’m not quite the thrill seeker I once was; or at least believe that I was. It seems that when I reached the age of 30 I discovered my mortality and at the age of 40 I had lost my need for speed. Consequently, I approached the Class 5 rapids with a bit more trepidation then my youthful raft-mates. While contemplating the final rapids, known as “The Bad Place,” one of them cheerily said “Look on the bright side; if we die we’ll go to heaven.” As I’m not so convinced about my after-life destination these words did not give me great comfort.

Obviously, we all survived. However, there were a few uncomfortable moments while trying to gasp for air after being thrown from the raft and being met by additional waves of water or trying to surface and bumping against the bottom of the raft. We hit “The Bad Place” with such force that it took me a few moments to regain my composure in the water and I was relieved to see that my nose was not bleeding.

I didn’t discover until later that my Ironman watch had been lost during this final collision in the rapids. Although I’ll miss the watch I will take pleasure from the knowledge that like Gandhi it too has been left to rest in the Nile. Perhaps it’s symbolic of the ending of my Ironman career. Or maybe it just means that I need to get a new watch. We will see.