Rollin’ Down The River


DAY 22 (Part 2):  I don’t know what it is about rafting, but riding in an inflatable (and therefore inherently puncturable) rubber raft, while floating atop fast moving water between big hard boulders is just plain fun.  I have been on a few rafting trips in my day, from the Zambezi in Africa to the wild waters of the Gauley in West Virginia.  To that list, I’d add the Honduran Rio Cangrejal, whose Class I-IV white waters have thrilled touring rafting enthusiasts since the early 90s.

Two rafts when out that afternoon, one carrying American Mike and originally-from-Montreal Leslie, led by Englishman Jeff; and one with the Calgarians Mark and Jennifer, and Filipino-American me, led by Sam, a New Zealander who was a fan of his fellow countrymen in HBO’s Flight Of The Conchordes.  Geared up at the lodge, we walked down the path to the put-in on the river for a review of rafting commands that the guides would yell at us from behind the raft, like coxons on a crew team.  There were simple:  “forward” meant “paddle forward;” “back paddle” meant “paddle backwards;” “lean left” meant “lean left,” and “get down” meant “get down” (but not in a James Brown kind of way, although that would be funny). 

We did our safety checks, like what to do in the event of falling out and such, and Sam’s simple conclusion was, “Staying in the raft is good.” Soon we were off on the river, starting straight away with three 1-2 meter drops, one after each other.  Each drenched us with cool river water succumbing to the power of gravity.  The introductory three drops only led to more and more—as Sam had told me previously, the river may look tame, but it’s actually a lot of fun.  My BFNM (Best Friend No More) Jenny told me that unlike other rivers, where you do a rapid then wait twenty minutes for the next, the Rio Cangrejal was consistent, with most of its rapids in a row. 

Our team of two rafts leap frogged back and forth, taking turns leading the other into each rapid, some wetter than others.  Some rapids set themselves up to be surfed, usually by kayakers, but by us as well as we paddled upstream into the rapid to let it run underneath us.  “These little rafts are great,” Sam raved.  “They’re like kayaks.”

We caught up with the Dutch Boys, who were at the biggest drop of the lower river, at about six feet.  Our two rafts, along with Jon and Raoul’s kayaks, took turns on it; our rafts sailed through (picture above) but Jon’s kayak wasn’t so balanced; it took him several tries to roll back upright—all while Raoul was on the bank taking pictures of him.

Down river, we arrived at a jump rock, a boulder about the size of a house, that we could jump off of—after Sam did a depth check.  “Try and jump with your bum facing down, in case it hits bottom.” Bum facing down, it took most of the impact with the surface of the water anyway.  The only one that feared the height was Leslie, who jumped at a much lower part of the rock—only to come up smiling, wishing she’d jumped higher.

The last big of excitement along our rafting trip was at a riverbend in the calmer part of the river where Sam had seen a boa constrictor on the morning trip; he’d proudly taken a photo of it.  “Are we going to see any snakes?” Jennifer asked.

“Let’s see if it’s still there,” Sam said in his Kiwi accent.  In lieu of a boa was a three-foot green snake, looking as if it could slither into our raft if we landed at the rock. 

“What is that, a fer-de-lance?” I wondered.

“Back paddle!  Back paddle!” commanded Sam.  “Those things swim on the water.  They’re fast!”

“Why?  Don’t you want to see the snake?” Jennifer asked.

“Back paddle!  I fuckin’ hate snakes!” Sam admitted in a frenzy, having had a coral snake in his cabin a couple of days prior.  Fellow ophidiophobe Sam and I cringed from afar, unaware of Jeff’s post-commentary.  “It’s just a green tree snake.”

THE REST OF THE RAPIDS were calm, enough for me to space out and look at the beautiful scenery around me.  I marveled at the fact that the river was almost 30 ft. higher, just a month previous due to a heavy rainstorm.  I cogitated on my post-eviction tour plans—or the lack thereof—with many options running through my head, from relocation to blog retirement.  I must have been in a daze.

“You two realize you’re just padding Erik along,” Sam told the two Calgarians.  I shook out of my trance and paddled.  “You don’t have to paddle, just say sorry.”

“Sorry,” I said, paddling.

“You don’t have to paddle to compensate, man.” He was busting my balls.

For the last leg of the triver, Sam took over the raft so that the rest of us could swim the few remaining Class IIs.  It was a bit shallow though, and so I was advised again to “keep your bum up.” It helped because a couple of times the water took me right over rocks, and my bum provided more cushion for the pushin’ over the river’s hard, but smooth cobblestones—more than my shins anyway. 

That night it rained, but we reminisced about our day at the bar, with Sam, not in bartender mode.

“This is the best rafting I’ve ever done,” Leslie said, comparing it to her experience in New Zealand. 

“How’s your ass feeling?” Jennifer asked me.  “Mine hurts.”

“Mine too.”

As much fun as rafting is, sometimes it’s a real pain in the ass.


Next entry: From Jungle To Cloudforest

Previous entry: Waiting With Horses While Looking For Snakes


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From Jungle To Cloudforest

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Waiting With Horses While Looking For Snakes


This blog entry about the events of Wednesday, December 12, 2007 was originally posted on December 15, 2007 on the travel blog, "The Global Trip: The Central American Eviction Tour* (*with jaunt to Colombia)." It is a trip blog chronicling a six-week journey through Central America, with a jaunt to Bogota, Colombia.




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