Day 2: Running Roughshod Over the Rapids

I wake up extremely early by my usual standard, at 6:15 am to the chirruping of early morning birds and synchronized chants of Aum rising from the garden. A bunch of foreigners are in various states of contortion on their yoga mats. Inspiring. I venture towards the terrace. “A yoga to start the morning. How sanctifying!”

Decide to start from square one – the Padmasana.

A little backgrounder first. My mother always pushed me to improve my flexibility. Russian ballet, gymnastics, yoga – she left no stone unturned in trying to turn me into a human rubber band. And yes, I did the ballet. Tights and everything. Back in my school days—when Baba Ramdev’s star was on the rise—I would be shook awake by folks at 6 am on wintry mornings to imitate Ramdev in turning belly into vibrating jelly. Every morning in school, I would sorrowfully wave farewell to my friends during the Activity period, as they left for Basketball and Football, while I trudged towards Gymnastics class with the teacher who felt the urge to yell, ‘Istudents, istand istraight!’ every five minutes or so. I even had a yoga tutor – a sweet old lady who could still cross her legs, Pasmasana-style, and keep her back straight without requiring a comfy cushion. At some point my mother realized that even the knowledge of a 60-year-old woman being more flexible than me wasn’t enough to shame me into practicing yoga.  The attempts stopped.

So basically, I’m not the most flexible of people. I am athletic, I like playing sports and working out. You ask me to do 50 pushups – I will do 50 pushups. You ask me to do the Chakrasana – I will immediately receive an urgent call from my mother and not be seen or heard from for a long, long time.

Anyway, coming back to the terrace and my attempts at the Padmasana. Funny optical illusions. Both legs don’t seem to want to cooperate with the task I’ve set for them. As soon as Leg A manages to reach Leg B’s thigh, latter freezes and sends a message, “You don’t really expect me to return the favour, do you?” So, after ten minutes of trying to persuade both legs to rest themselves on the other’s thighs, I give up and order a French toast and a cold coffee for a nice breakfast on the terrace. ‘Fuck yoga,’ I sagely remark to the crow perched on the railing, investigating what looks like bird faeces. The crow caws back in agreement.

I have until 6 pm till the long journey back home. I head towards the hotel manager’s cabin to book myself for river rafting, then change my mind – the bitter taste of the faulty bike lingers still. It’s almost 8 am; the city doesn’t open shop till 10. So I do the next logical thing – order another cold coffee and head back to the room to have a crack at the English Premier League on FIFA 09.

On the road from Tapovan to Rishikesh, you’ll come across several adventure shops selling rafting, trekking, mountain biking and kayaking tours. I enter one of them and ask for river rafting charges. Always shop around if you want cheap prices. The usual price for river rafting is about Rs. 450, but some shops offer it at Rs. 400. I’ve already done river rafting before, so I am more interested in kayaking and bungee jumping. Only to be told that kayaking required 15 days of practice and bungee jumping comes at a fixed price of Rs. 2500. River rafting it is.

I pay the money (Rs. 400) and wait alongside the road for the Sumo which should be arriving presently with raft and fellow rafters. After about 10 minutes, the Sumo arrives with all my fellow passengers in tow. A bunch of foreigners sitting in the back and three Indian guys in the middle seat. The driver is complaining about the foreigners being late. I settle in and exchange names with the two fellows beside me who have taken a leave from their company in Nainital for some adventure activities. They have just come from paragliding and are planning to head for Mussoorie the next day.  The guy sitting by the window seat is mostly silent. Abdul is his name, I later come to know.

River rafting in Rishikesh is divided into three levels. The first level is the 9 km course, which has three low-intensity rapids. The second level – the one I chose – covers a distance of 16-18 km, with 5 medium to high-intensity rapids. The third level is 24 km and includes 7 rapids. The rapids are interestingly named – ‘Return to Sender’, ‘Double Trouble’, ‘Three Blind Mice’ and ‘Sweet Sixteen’ being some. As I said, I had done River rafting before so I wasn’t really expecting anything besides rowing to the instructor’s commands of ‘Forward!’ and the occasional ‘Whoooooo!’ as the raft plunged into the foaming rapids.

Pre-Rafting Preparation

We reach Shivpuri, the site from where most rafts depart. The foreigners are gingerly appraising the flimsy helmets and presumably expressing doubts on safety standards. I start speaking to Abdul, who’s just arrived from a trek in Roopkund. We’re ushered down towards the launch site (that’s what they call it) and commanded to strap on our life jackets and helmets. Unfortunately, I am the last one to pick a life jacket, which turns out to be far too small for my size. Excess flesh protrudes out unappealingly from various openings. Once the jacket is strapped tighter than a Victorian-era corset, we’re given a quick 101 on rafting by the instructor. I am quite certain the foreigners haven’t understood anything more than the essential keywords like, ‘raft’, ‘Ganga’, ‘paddle’, ‘forward!’ Abdul and I do our best to fill in the blanks for them.

Rafting is all about coordination. So if you’re stuck with a partner who’s more interested in cracking lame jokes than rowing in sync with the others, it can be pretty annoying. More on that later. Anyway, so the seating arrangement is thus:

Sorry, there won’t be any photos except for the ones I pawn off from Google. I did not deem it wise to bring my phone to an environment filled with water, mud and uncertainty.

The Journey Begins

So, with slightly less grace than a bunch of rednecks piling into a pickup truck, we bundle onto the raft. As the instructor rallies us with the commands of ‘Forward!’, ‘Fast forward!’, ‘Okay, stahp! Stahp, I said!’ and ‘Yaar, baat sun lo meri! Dhang se row karo!’, we move towards the first rapid. While rowing, we introduce ourselves to each other. There’s a lady from Ireland, one from Germany and a couple from Canada, in addition to Abdul, the two boys from Nainital and myself.

Everyone except for one of the guys from Nainital has done rafting before, so we aren’t unduly terrified of the roaring waters ahead of us, daring us to come closer. “This is a level-two rapid, people. It is called Sweet Sixteen. Okay, on my command. Fast forward!” We row with all our might to keep the raft moving forward towards the rapid. And then we’re in.

Any Lord of the Ring fans here? Forth Eorlingas! DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!

(Image Credit: www.travellingcamera.com)

The first ebb into the first rapid is an exhilarating moment. You know your raft is going to be at a perpendicular angle in the next microsecond; the wave is at face level, smiling malevolently at your pathetically-human efforts to stay in control, then disabuses you of any notion of authority by smacking your tiny raft with a surge of power that only nature can unleash. You give up all pretence of rowing and clutch the rope in desperation. The water washes through the raft and you’re left blubbering, gasping for breath, knowing that any second you could be lifted cleanly off the raft and into the demon waters. Nobody around seems to be making much sense. Incoherent curses, groans and moans accompany the rushing sounds of the waves crashing over your head. You look back to see the instructor yelling something, but somehow his voice – the only voice of reason in the raft – is strangely muted.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it is over. You’ve passed the rapid. The instructor’s commands are turned back on. “Forward, yaar! Please forward kar lo!” he pleads.

There’s a changed atmosphere in the raft. We look at each other with fresh eyes. There seems to be a sense of comradeship, a unique esprit de corps that can only emerge when facing adversity, with nothing but each other to rely upon. “I’ve got your back – and you better have mine” are the unspoken words that course through this unlikely Fellowship of the Raft.

There’s doubt too.

“So, this was a level-two rapid?” asks the boy from Nainital, the newbie to rafting.

“Yep,” the instructor replies.

“So, er, what’s the maximum level for the rapids here?”

“Level five.”

“Oh, okay. What’s the level of the next rapid?”

“Level five.”

“Ah…”

We brace ourselves for the incoming Armageddon. The instructor requests us to please, please not lose our collective shits the way we did in the first rapid. “I command, you follow,” are his eloquent words, even as our raft turns the corner to face a sight which makes our testicles shrink up our spines in fear.

The rapids in front of us look like Satan’s device to make for a premature passage to Hell. Frothing waves jump high, much too high for anyone’s comfort. The rocks on the sides create whirlpools large and powerful enough to drown a full-grown man as easily as if he were strapped with chains and boulders. Suddenly, our feeble life jackets don’t seem to be much of a reassurance. And the noise. What terrible noise! Remember that sound that your tummy makes when it is adjusting consumed food while sending alerts for more food to be sent its way? Now, amplify that sound 13 gazillion times and you’ll have a vague idea of what I mean.

This happens more often than you’d think.

This time though, the fear is accompanied with an unfamiliar emotion—euphoria. We grasp our paddles firmly; give each other final glances of fear, apprehension and…wild, uncontained joy. “Next rapid: Rollercoaster,” drones the calm, steely voice of the instructor, “Level 5. Fast forward when I say. Don’t embarrass me please, we have an audience.” And sure enough, as we look back, we can see two rafts waiting for us to cross. We’re too far to make out the expressions of their occupants, but I assume it is a generous mix of fascination and, “Boy, aren’t they fucked.”

Again we plunge. This time there’s no pretence at maintaining composure. Germany, Ireland, Canada and India scream in terror and exhilaration as the boat rocks from one rapid to the next. For some reason, the song Bring Sally Up, Bring Sally Down is looping in my mind. I let it loop; it’s oddly comforting. The Nainital newbie has thrown down the paddle and is cowering beneath the cylindrical seat. Abdul is laughing hysterically, and suddenly, in the throes of the furious rapids, with butterflies in our stomachs as we fall from one rise to the next ebb, we’re all laughing uncontrollably. Even the instructor is smiling, presumably with justified condescension at the state of the idiots on his raft. It’s one of those moments you will remember —perhaps not forever – but for as long a time as it takes for something else to come and sweep you off your feet, leaving you flailing, powerless, in a state of blissful surrender.

Of Crowds and Cliffs

After crossing a bunch of people whose raft seems to have capsized, we arrive at the cliff jumping point. Hordes of eager thrill-seekers have clambered up to the lone overhanging rock, about 35 ft above the Ganga. Typically Indian, at least 20 people are crammed on a rock with a capacity to accommodate no more than 10. Foreigners wait uncertainly nearby, looking around expectantly for a queue. There’s an instructor as well, in charge of pushing people who take too long fortifying themselves for the jump.

I’ve done cliff jumping before, but I’ve never looked forward to those few moments when you’re immediately behind someone who’s about to jump. They’re especially stomach-curdling if the person in front of you is hesitating. But when it is your turn, and the crowd enthusiastically hollers you on with ribald remarks and the instructor stands threateningly by your side with a “Jump or be thrown off” look, that’s when things turn especially, pant-wettingly terrifying.

I take the jump.

Folks, if you’re doing the cliff jump, just remember: the most difficult part is taking that first step forward into nothingness. I’ve seen too many people backing out at the last second. My advice to you is: hold on to your life jacket (it’s a comfort thing) and just leap. Be rash about it. Yes, there will be those heart-stopping seconds while you’re plunging down, and you’re probably not going to have anything going through your head. No, no best moments of life flashing by you. Just the rather anticlimactic, “Down, down, down, down, down!”, or “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”. Pick any word. Odds are you’ll be repeating them for those three-four seconds on your way down. And then the crash-into-the-water bit. Then the nose, eyes and ears filled with water and sand bit. Followed by the awkward waddling to the bank, occasionally accompanied by whooping noises and other manners of celebration. That’s all there is to it.

Anyway, after the cliff jump, we head back to where our ragtag company stands. We compare notes with each other on the jump. Turns out the Nainital newbie did the jump while his companion, a self-confessed ‘thrill-seeker’ who has apparently done it before (highly doubtful), backed out at the last second. Abdul and I engage the Canadian couple in conversation. Tea, Maggi and cigarettes are shared. The Irish lady seems to have developed a liking for Parle-G biscuits and insists on buying a pack for the remainder of the voyage.

Okay, this has turned out to be a huge post. I should wrap up soon.

So anyway, the remaining 6 km pass without much incident. I mean, yes, this time we are slightly more confident in confronting the rapids, and the instructor allows us to jump from the raft in the middle of a level-three rapid, and the next one as well, but yeah, it is all cool. We are hanging by the raft rope, struggling to keep our heads above water and the sandals on our feet, but seriously, it’s cool. When the Nainital newbie loses grip of the rope and is carried dangerously close to the boulders on the side by the sheer force of the water, things still are breezy. We have faced the worst. We feel like hobbits back in the Shire after surviving an ordeal in the very depths of Mount Doom. We feel like heroes.

The trip is over, I think to myself, as I make plans to meet up with Abdul for a last lunch in Chillout café before I leave. Three hours left to go. It was great, but it has come to an end. A spectacular end.

I was mistaken.

That is the beauty of travelling alone. You never know who you’ll meet around the next bend, in a quiet café, on the road waiting for a bus, or on a very memorable river-rafting trip. The next three hours ended up replacing the rafting experience as the highlight of my trip.

But that is for another post.