Rafting

Rafting in Nepal

We decided to take a two day rafting trip down the Seti river near Pokhara. It was larger then the Yellowstone and took a more aggressive approach to finding it's way to the ocean. The river seemed to boil and swirl like pot of water over a hot fire.

Our trip started out with a short pep-talk from our guide. His name was Chrisna and he was short, sturdy, and seemed to know his way around his gear as well as he could read the river. Later I would discover that this was not just a summer job for him, but was his chosen line of work. Since 17 he has been a river guide, and after 2 years of training, he guided for 12 years in this region. He said the water was quite high from all the rain we've been having, but as long as we followed his instructions everything would be just fine.

Being Amy's first white water rafting experience I could read a bit of concern from her face. I reassured her it would be fine and I left the beach with the excitement of seeing a new river. The rapids would come sporadicly, but they were well worth the wait. Giant swells of churning brown water, frothing and splashing perpetually, pulled us into their rolling bellies. Only to spit us out the other side, soaked. The water was surprisingly warm, it must have been dammed further up the valley for power. Our guide Chrisna would later confirm this. As the water slammed into the front of our NRS raft, water droplets would fly in every direction. Often this water landed in our mouths. It was impossible to prevent and fear of Giardia or other illness flooded my mind. After many face fulls of brown water, I decided to give up fighting a losing battle and pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind.

When the standing waves gave way to small ripples, our guide gave us the go ahead to jump in. At first I looked around in disbelief, having just passed through some serious waves, but downstream it looked calm. Russ and I took hold of the moment, set our sun glasses down, and jumped in. The water was great, not too cold, not too warm. I couldn't believe the speed at which the current dragged us along. Afraid of snagging a foot on a boulder I lifted my feet and kept them pointed down stream.

Before long everyone was in the water, cruising next to the raft. If anyone floated too far ahead our safety boat (a Kayak) would zip over, pick them up and bring them back to the raft. After a few minutes Chrisna was yelling, "Back in the Boat." We all dragged our soggy bottoms back into the raft just in time to grab a paddle and charge into the next set of waves.

At the end of our first day, we camped out on a beautiful little beach, grazed to the ground by yaks. Leading up to the trip the weather had been poor to say the least. Daily rains have plagued our plans to go fishing or take hikes in the near by hills. However tonights weather was superb. After our Dal Baht (Traditional Nepali Rice Dinner, very good :-D), the overcast skies cleared for an evening of outstanding star viewing. The only light came from small candles placed near our tents to help light the path through our camp.

I didn't sleep very well that night, due to some bad sun burn on my shoulders, but at least the water had not made me sick. The next day our river joined with another river, turning our brown churning river into a massive flow of water, over taking most rocks while keeping a smooth surface. A small drop up ahead seemed to be the target, as our guide gave out rowing commands. Just before we dropped in, I caught a glimpse of it from the back of the raft. In an instance I gripped the raft tighter with my legs as we plunged down into the standing wave. It had looked small in respect to the broadness of the combined rivers, but the drop was quick and the raft punched through just like all the others. Out the other side we shot, dripping with excitement.

Before long we beached the raft, deflated, and unloaded.


When I began this tour I had an image of myself riding a bus filled with foreign people speaking a foreign language and traveling through a foreign land. On this bus I reluctantly had a seat, but many were standing. People who did not want to stand sat on top of the bus with the bags and barrels of various things. In this dream, along with the people were livestock and baskets of harvested plants. Until this day I had not witnessed this, but today was unknowingly the big day.

We waited at the take out of the rafting trip for a local bus to pass by. Our guide lept out of his seat as what appeared to be a bus approached. The bust pulled over and agreed to take us to Pokhara, just as soon as they had changed their flat tire. We waited patiently, and with all honesty, nervously as they banged and clanged to get the tire off. Before too long we were on our way.

The bus wound it's way around the steep edges of the river canyon, several hundred feet about the raging river. I tried hard again to push thoughts about local bus accidents we had read previously in a daily newspaper. Their were not emergency exits, or break away windows if we rolled down into the river. I wonder if it would be safer to ride on top... could I jump off if we went off the road or would I be crushed by the side of the bus as it rolled down the steep slopes into the valley. Impossible to ignore the dangers, I decided to flip through our photos on the camera in order to distract myself. Before long I noticed I had a small audience. Not only was the lady behind me looking over my shoulder at our pictures, but a young girl and her chicken were also staring across the isle at me. Just then I realized that I was on a bus like the one in my dream.

Not only was it full of foreign people, in a foreign land, speaking a foreign language, it also had some features of it's own. The inside of the bus, as Amy put it, reminded her of a circus. Every panel was decorated with a different color, and none of them really matched. The front windows had colorful balls tied together to make a swaying dance of string as the bus bounced and bobbed along the pitted road. Lastly were the horns. So loud that any bi-standard whom heard these horns and weren't expecting them would jump with the press of the button. Not solo, or monotonous like the horns of the US, these horns were small bursts of various notes, randomly placed together to make an irritation to the ear so revolting that even the inventor must have cringed with their sound. It was horrific, every time any bus, van, motorbike, or truck would pass, they would all beep, honk, and blurt out their own piece of an awful symphony, chopped up and distributed to every motor vehicle in the country.

Relieved to be back in Pokhara alive, Amy and I retreated to the hotel.

Stay tuned for more...