Today I am scheduled to go white water rafting at 0745. After meeting at the bar in the Kingdom, the group is driven to the gorge to pick up equipment and start our descent. There are two options for making the trip – you can either paddle yourself and follow instructions from a guide, or have the guide row so all you have to do is hang on tight. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I go for the paddle boat option. The rest of the crew (of seven) consists of a group of Dutch men, who didn’t speak English very well, and two women travel agents (Lindel and Sue) from a group of ten on an educational trip from South Africa. We navigated the first ten or so rapids without incident, and not a single person overboard, quite an achievement compared to the other paddle boats. Rapid 15, or the ‘washing machine’ is where our luck changes. An enormous wave forms ahead of the raft. I can see the wall of water getting higher and higher as our boat races towards it, and I know the angle is too sharp. We were going over, and there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. Our raft launches itself into the wave but with no luck – we are pointing almost vertically by the time the wave breaks, sending us all into the Zambezi and burying the raft under a tonne of water.

I’m underwater, although I can’t remember actually falling in. For a moment I remain calm – I’m wearing a very buoyant lifejacket and expect it to prompt a very rapid return to the surface. It doesn’t happen. Suddenly I feel the water pressure increase and am still tumbling, completely disoriented through the blackness. Something bangs into me, or maybe I’ve hit something, I can’t be sure. A few more seconds have passed, I think, and I draw my legs up in a desperate attempt to get to the surface faster. I finally breach the surface, gasping for air, only to have another wave break over me. Back on top more quickly this time, and when I surface for the second time I’m clearing the rapid. Now choking on river water I have a hard time getting air into my lungs, Breaths come quickly and are short and shallow. The boat is less than 10 metres away but I don’t see it – the first thing I see is Sue, who was sitting opposite me in the raft, and she moves towards me, hand extended, looking worried. I grab her hand and we come face to face. “You’re OK, you’re OK. Breathe. Slowly. Don’t panic, you’re OK”. The reassuring words help me get my breathing under control. But why is she looking at me like that? And what was that bang I felt underwater? I don’t feel anything so I ask her “Am I hurt?”. “You have some blood on your face”. This later turns out to be quite a tactful understatement.

We head for the nearest rescue canoe. The canoeist drops us off on the nearest raft (which is not ours, but has the rest of the Dutch folks in it), where a cut above my left eye is cleaned and taped.

We stop for lunch on a rocky beach, and take on the final three rapids before pulling in at the finishing point, where we face a gruelling 45 minute hike up the gorge to get to the waiting bus. The scenery during the day had been spectacular, and the views from the walls of the gorge were equally good as we returned to the top.

I am driven to a doctor by one of the guides, and get my wound stitched and dressed. I also receive a tetanus booster and a course of antibiotics. As I relax in the bar at the end of the day, watching the video with the travel agents’ contingent, the cut doesn’t hurt at all, although much sympathy is dispensed all around.