Somewhere, nowhere
Thursday, December 7th, 2006
After our second day on the water, we get into a rhythm. The day begins at sunrise. We get up, make porridge (with real Scottish oats we’ve managed to find somewhere) and honey. We break camp, usually slapping away the ants that have sniffed us out in the night, load up Djoliba and head off.
Mornings are the best time for hard paddling - until about 11, when it really hots up. When it becomes unbearable we find a rock, check it for hippo tracks then cook up some couscous. This is followed by a nap until about 2, then we hit the river again. Afternoon paddling is usually painful, at least the hour or so before we pitch camp for the night.
The biggest problem we’re having is with our bottoms - both inner and outer. Our inner arses are suffering from something we think we picked up before the canoe trip, exacerbated, we suspect, by our drinking purified river water; the purification, it seems, isn’t working. After two days of this, we decide the only option is to make camp a little earlier each evening to give us time to boil up water for the next day. It’s a labourious process, as we only have two small pans, but better this than dystentry.
Our outer bottom problems are far less easy to remedy: after about two hours sitting in the canoe, usually in the afternoon, it suddenly becomes extremely painful and no position seems comfortable. Being a lean fellow, and virtually bottomless, Dan is suffering more than me. I’ve got a bit more natural padding so my pain threshold is higher, but even I succumb towards the end of the day. Dan resorts to putting the padded cycling gloves he’s brought to prevent blisters while paddling under each buttock to provide some much needed relief. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.
As we get into the groove, the miles begin to slip by. As each one passes, I get the feeling we’re really getting into the wilderness. All signs of humanity have completely vanished. Even the fishermen have given up. It’s just us, millions of little biting flies - worse than mosquitos - and more trees than you can, er, shake a stick at.
On day three we hit our first section of rapids, a line of rocks straddling the river. The water gushes through gaps in the rocks at an alarming rate; it’s time to test how Djoliba handles white water. I get out on to a large rock centre stream to assess the situation. Out of the corner of my eye I see a large shape slip into the water: our first croc!
The two most passable looking channels are in the middle and to the left. The entrance to the middle channel has a nasty bend around which the water is hurtling, straight into some large boulders. The left channel is straighter, but there’s some boiling white water that suggests concealed boulders. We opt for the centre.
We paddle back upstream to get a run up. Immediately the current sucks us in, twisting the boat and dragging it on to a submerged rock. We’re stuck, and what’s more the current has turned us so we’re facing the wrong way. We change the direction we’re both facing in our seats and rock the boat free. Again the current batters us, this time tipping Djoliba so she nearly capsizes. She doesn’t but I’m thrown out, into the foam.
“Stay on your feet, stay on your feet,” yells Dan. But the water’s only waist deep and in spite of the current I have no problem standing. I hold the canoe steady so I can jump back in. Then the current takes us again, and I’m paddling like mad to get us away from the rocks. We miss them by a hair’s breadth - but then we’re through, riding the waves and whooping as Djoliba plunges over the rapids like a prize showjumper. She handles like a bus, but as long as you point her and shoot, it seems she’ll get you through.
We encounter more rapids that day; the river is getting more lively. On day four I notice on the map there’s a section marked that looks like it could herald some more fun. Neither of us can wait; anything to break the monotony of endless flat-water paddling.
Towards the end of day four we approach the expected section. The river splits. To the left it meanders around a long hairpin bend; to the right it looks - and judging by the roar, sounds - a lot more interesting. We head right.
It’s here, approaching the rapids, that we spot our first pod of bathing hippos - three of them wallowing languidly in the shallows to our left, idle and bloated. We backpaddle frantically, trying to put some distance between them and us. They don’t seem too bothered by us, but I feel nervous at seeing them in the open for the first time. Dan tries to fire off some shots on his camera, but one of them starts yawning repeatedly, a sign that they feel threatened by our presence. We paddle on.
The rapids are fun. They’re faster flowing but a lot shallower than previous sections - more like a Welsh mountain stream. In fact they’re so shallow that, half way down, we have to get out and walk the heavily loaded Djoliba down. This is a precarious business, as the rocks are slippery and the current fast, but somehow Dan manages to keep snapping away throughout on his digi camera. Anything for the record…