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Oct 6-Oct 9 Lake Tana - Blue Nile Falls
October 10-20 Blue Nile Falls - Shafartak Bridge 404 km September in the highlands of Ethiopia is a month characterized by seasonal rains and galloping rivers. Since time immemorial the ageless waterwheel of the seasons has turned without effort, without incident delivering abundant water to the Blue Nile. This year would be no different. This year would offer no respite from the enormous crash of water that collapses down into a canyon that is far too narrow for such a volume of water. This year, as always, the river would offer no mercy. Aware of this inevitability, I am numbed by disquieting thoughts, uncertain of the reckless consequence. It is this next section of river that really scares me. I am allowed to admit that I am scared – no one has ever successfully navigated this river at high water in rafts. We have been told not to even attempt it. We have been told by greater boatmen that what awaits us is an impassable stretch of river littered with cataracts, undercut rocks, turnback canyons and no practical way out. We have been told not to do it. I awaken. Sleepless nights suffocated in my own sleeping bag. Wondering if this is the day I drown. Picturing myself sinking down below the dark surface of the river struggling for breath. Living this horror for yet another time. I can’t survive this again. I must get out. I step out onto the street ironically looking for bottled water to soothe my parched throat. I am so far from the moment I hardly notice the source
of my recurring nightmares. Sudden thundershowers appear on the doorstep
sweeping through the uneven streets with blinding fury.
Torrents of wind and rain that attack with such ferocity it appears
as though the corrugated iron lids will soon be torn from the rooftops.
But the noisy metal tops remains intact.
They rattle and bob, whistle insults at the whirling mess as it
storms angrily through the streets leaving in its wake raging rivers that
carry off plastic bottles, crooked umbrellas, loose wrappers and careless
debris. These are the streets
of Bahir Dar, the last bastion of civilization before we hit the isolation
of the river. I stand under the stoop. A store keeper’s hut. Not much of a shelter, a small piece of impervious orange tarp that waggles in the wind providing dubious protection from the elements. I watch the drama unfold. Detached, uncaring, void. “Where does all the water go?” I ask indifferently. The shopkeeper’s English is not sufficient to explain something that for centuries stumped scholars but is now offered up as common knowledge. I continue the litany of questions in my own head; how much of this nectar will the thirsty Nile consume? What kind of swollen channel awaits our tiny boats? Will we survive? These and other thoughts turn around in my head like the storm passing in the street.
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We have taken an enormous gamble. We are hoping to defy the upper river at its mightiest so that we may pass over the lower cataracts that lie in wait beneath the seasonal flows. Nobody knows for sure whether it is even possible “It’s pushing down there” A pessimistic observation from one of our most seasoned guides remarking on the ugly footage we have just been studying. “I don’t like the way this enormous flow gets strangled down into that tight, tight canyon that from the air looks like nothing more than a toothpick”. I’m back in my room. Tap, tap, tap… the fingers of rain nervously playing on the window sill. Re-runs playing out in my head. “It’s pushing down there…” We have already survived the 34 kilometres of wide meandering river that flows down from the lake to the famous Blue Nile Falls. The section that we had been assured was easy, manageable, non-threatening. The section that turned out to be braided islands, thick overgrown creepers, hazardous clothesline-like branches, hostile natives and a surprising abundance of whitewater. Now we’re about to embark on the notorious 60 Kilometer section of river that even the experts have deemed impossible at high water. The fabled Northern Gorge. The body of water that has had a bad habit of taking lives, a history for punishing even the simplest of mistakes. We’ve been told by teams that have run the water at other times of the year that there are 9 nasty rapids – 5 of them deemed Class V+. Impossible water that proved to be backbreaking portages. This figure was presumably limited only to the rapids that could swallow you whole. Nine nasty rapids? This seemed much too generous. Gazing into the river it appeared there was only a single rapid. A single rapid 60KM long rapid. Nine? Where did they suppose one started and the next ended? At one time or another everyone on the team had asked themselves what they were doing down in the belly of this beast, trying to accomplish something that everyone agreed was exceptionally dangerous. “It’s pushing down there…” In addition to a series of ruthless rapids, there was the unknown specter of the hydroelectric dam. We had been told that every evening at 6PM the dam purged a vast quantity of water effectively doubling the river volume. At 5:55PM on October 14th we drifted within 10 metres of the dam’s enormous water chutes wondering if we may have been a little imprudent in our timing. 5 minutes later and the volume would surge to double its current capacity. Water boiled up on the dark surface of the river like brine from the depths of a pasta pot. A wave train led out around the corner and quickly whisked us away between the sheaves of black wall - the 2 dark black basaltic cliffs that have swallowed the boats into the first kilometer of the gorge. Each day we tackled the next in a series of ever harrowing rapids. It seemed the river was gathering more momentum as countless streams, rivers and tributaries dumped more water into the great cauldron of the Northern Gorge. Each day we tempted fate once more with rapids that were affectionately referred to as Catfish Falls, The Gauntlet, The Crux, Cave Rapid, Bad Seeds and The Fat Lady. Each day we cut deeper into our thin margins of luck. Each day we managed to find a way to keep moving down the river. Each day we managed to keep the dream alive. We were now safely floating on the south side of Bad Seeds. Kelley flipped on the video camera. Asked me how it felt to have run what was thought to be one of the un-runnables. “I’m glad to be on the other side of it”, I said simply. But I had spoken too soon. We rounded the next corner and saw the sting in the tail. A frothing cauldron of water pouring down over several large rocks creating an obstacle course of monstrous hydraulics. We eddied out and scrambled over the rocks to survey the situation. The vast quantity of water racing through the narrow channel was so littered with hazards it seemed impossible to pick a line through it. I looked on pessimistically, did not like what I saw. Noted the fading light, the lack of available campground. There would only be one way out. Instinctively I turned to read the faces of the guides. Hands were gesticulating, heads were nodding. We were going. It had been a while since I had felt such palpable fear. Vena Cava bouncing wildly in my neck. “Dam”, I thought, “this is no way to begin a swim – being out of breath even before I hit the water”. I drew in several deep breaths; reflected. Was this the day I died. The dream washes over me again. The boat capsizes, I lose my grip on the perimeter rope, I am violently sucked beneath the silty water. It is black and the noise of the river fades to silence. How long can someone already hyperventilating survive underwater? I run through the safety steps in my mind – just relax, count to ten and let the PFD do the work for you. In my dream I am always well beyond 30 seconds before I wake up terrified and screaming. Everyone is convinced it’s the Larium. Unfortunately I’m not using Larium. But it’s time to go. There is no more time to think. We push off into the current. “If something goes wrong just remember to stay with the boat. We have a huge run out after the rapid. We’ll be fine”. I feel anything but fine.
The light has slackened for the day and it is minutes before the long
thin veil of dusk will slide down over the canyon. If anything goes sideways
trying to organize a rescue in the dark would be hopeless. Visibility is
declining quickly. We’re heading out into a dark cesspool of water that is
spinning beneath us like a whirling dervish. We back out into the relative calm above the rapids and hover momentarily while the other boat slides into position. We watch as the first boat vanishes over a ledge hole deep into the entrails of the river and then we’re lost in our own problems. The smooth water above the crest of the narrows pours down deep into a trough that looks as though melted chocolate poured from an enormous pitcher. I have a perverse habit of watching the lip of smooth water drain down into the “V” and disappear into the pandemonium of the first inch of the rapid. The boat quickly bucks over the initial drop and is
pulled down into the first wave. An
enormous wall of water falls over the front of the boat with such force that
we were buried beneath a curtain of silt. Before we can emerge the next
spigot of water catches the lip of the boat and sends us flying into the
next onslaught of waves careening left. ******** |
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The put in after the Blue Nile falls. The inaccessible gorge meant ropes were needed to lower the rafts down to the river. |
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Then we
were through it – as quickly as it had come it had ended. The Fat Lady.
She’d sung. Our
thoughts over the next days turned quickly from the dangers of the water to
the dangers along the river. Arriving at the second Portuguese Bridge we were informed by
our lead porter that a band of shifta bandits had attacked the camp the
night before and exchanged a round of gunfire.
Nobody was hurt and nothing was stolen but we decided it would be
prudent to exercise extra safety measures.
We left that afternoon and spent the next days drifting down through
a valley with quickly changing river topography.
Sharp black basaltic walls were gradually replaced by ruddy hues of
ochre and sienna that stepped up the sides of the valley in 3 distinct
gradients. The roots of enormous strangler figs, creepers and mythical
looking trees snaked their way down the steep walls to hungrily drink at the
river’s edge far below. A
collection of braided roots clung to the deep river banks in scenes that
called to mind images of Sleepy Hollow. The spooky surroundings were further
exaggerated by tales of violent bandits, the new discovery of aggressive
crocodiles and the unease of stories we had just heard. Our
security measures meant that we had two armed guards on board – lads that
wore army fatigues and goose-stepped up and down the beach in the morning
with their assault rifles in hand. Although
they ate little, complained little, slept little and seemed eager to shoot
anything from baboons to kids swimming in the river, their personal hygiene
and Amharic singing gave rise to a whole new set of concerns. When I
first met our armed guards they seemed to be packed very lightly. They had
no lifejackets, no tents, no sleeping bags and no change of clothes. In fact
the only thing they seemed to have in their possession was a pink blanket.
In the mornings this was often wrapped around their heads as they
maneuvered up and down the beach in that ridiculous gait that seemed to be a
hangover from the Mengistu era. This
was complemented by a curious falsetto voice that recounted many of the
Amharic hits by female artists. On first
meeting them it was the change of clothes that most worried me. But what the
hell, it was Africa and I was no expert. Into the second week my attitude
towards this predicament changed significantly.
The guards began to stink. They never bathed, they never changed
their clothes and the only consideration for hygiene that I observed was
when one of them asked me if he could borrow my toothbrush. The first week
the smell seemed unusual, peculiar, humorous even, but into the second week
the smell was becoming so obnoxious that it was necessary to turn the boat
around and row with them situated down wind to withstand the paralyzing
stench. Even the bugs seemed dubious of the guards, for into the second week
even the insect community seemed to be avoiding the lads. The crocodiles
that seemed so plentiful and so aggressive in the previous week now seemed
to leave us relatively unmolested. One
could not help think it was due to the thick fog that now hung about the
rafts. Luckily
this did not seem to distract the rest of the wildlife as we soon witnessed
baboons, vervet monkeys, warthogs, dik dik, kudu, bushbuck, a wide variety
of birds, Goliath Herons, hippos, monitor lizards and snakes. And so… The days slid past in a dizzying array of hazards, sounds, smells, sights and experiences. On October 19th we reached the Shafartak Bridge, a significant milestone, having completed the first 400 kilometres of the river and marking an end to the most hazardous of the whitewater sections. The first ever to have run it in high water in rafts. To celebrate we hitch-hiked up to a hotel in Dejen and enjoyed beer and pasta and relaxed on comfortable beds. Resting up before continuing on the next leg of our journey. |
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World Water Monitoring Day
Water Test III Oct 21-Nov 4 Shafartak Bridge to Bambudi 1028 kms >> You can subscribe to Water Colours, the Colours of the Nile email updates and receive the latest news from the expedition delivered to your inbox as it happens. Click here. |
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