Robin decided to visit two weeks later and this proved to be an epic. Nick H, Kenny and I met Robin at Harare International on the 11th of March and set off for Aberfoyle Lodge. After a long drive we arrived at the stunning lodge, with its excellent snooker table, table tennis, squash court, tennis court, swimming pool and picturesque 9-hole golf course, nestled in the tea-covered hills, a long way from anywhere. Having woken the staff we discovered that we were supposed to self-cater, or warn them in advance to stock up. Fortunately they had drinks, excellent facilities and wonderful service. After a light dinner of banana sandwiches, Robin and I set about carbo-loading for the next day, while warming up our arms over the pool table (and reducing our sleep to two hours to maximise alertness and decision-making abilities).
After a hurried breakfast, Nick H set off with a guide to explore the local (feathered) bird-life, while Kenny dropped Robin and I off (and promptly found a shady tree to sleep off his hangover). The road past Red Dragon Lodges is still in good condition, so we pushed on well past the commercial put-in. Two porters were hired and within 45 minutes of being dropped we were on the river, about 2km above the commercial section.
Robin started bleating immediately about my having talked him into bringing a play-boat instead of a creek-boat. Did he really think I was going to let him have an easy ride - I don't have a blasted creek boat! The river was much bigger than I had ever seen, so we did a lot of scouting and portaged a few nasty drops, running a few with much nervousness all round. Things were going OK, if a little slow, until the inevitable screw-up.
Just before the commercial section there is a group of pour-overs, all combining into one boiling cauldron. It was Robin's turn to bank-scout, and he advised me with no uncertainty to pull out. I duly agreed and pulled up in an eddy, a meter or two away from the edge, next to his boat, not realising that he's actually gotten out higher up and dragged his boat there. I found it fairly difficult to exit my boat, while hanging on to a small tree, and decided to adjust my position using another little tree. Alas, it turned out the second "tree" was actually a loose branch with no roots.
Within seconds I was headed for disaster, and Robin could only stand by and watch, as I ducked under a log, negotiated the first small drop and whirlpool, before plunging through a narrow gap into the roiling water below. I managed a roll but was unable to keep any semblance of control over my boat, which was bucking like a mustang mainlining on the best Mozambican Mbanje. What seemed like hours later I pulled the deck and swam - well I like to think I did - but I actually just hoped for the best and tried to grab some fresh air. The river promptly tossed me over the next big drop, first planting my left butt cheek on a sharp rock, and then into a retentive hole, and put the machine on spin for about 3 or 4 cycles - with my waterlogged boat and paddle for company.
Having tired of my woeful gasps for breath and smacking me on the head with my own equipment, the river spat me out like last nights leftover sadza, thankfully into an eddy. I clung onto a rock for dear life and watched my boat complete another three or four cycles, having managed to rescue my paddle as it went past.
My boat eventually flushed out of the hole, and pinned itself on a rock a little way down. Robin managed to recover the boat, and quite miraculously, all my loose gear (dry bag, throw bag, sponge and water bottle had been disdainfully tossed into the kayak without attachments) was still inside, and although the foam padding had all been dislodged, it was also still in the boat.
Apparently Robin managed to capture a confession on video in the moments after I swam back across the river, in which I'm alleged to have concurred that portaging was a noble sport. Maybe one day it will turn up and I'll dutifully post it on YouTube....
The rest of the trip, which consisted of the normally simple commercial run, was a blur to me. I do recall one portage, where I slipped on a rock and landed on my already purple left butt, and another swim in a grade two (having somehow dropped over a small ledge onto my head) - I claim fear of a nasty siphon a little further down, combined with exhaustion. These two swims were my first in several years, and hopefully the last too.
Yes Robin, you're right, we should have been in creek boats! And while portaging may be considered a noble sport by some, I still avoid it as much as possible.
After an interesting round of golf on the very scenic Aberfoyle Golf Course, where we lost about 10 balls each, and another eventful night of table-tennis, snooker, amber liquid and little sleep, we packed up and headed back to Harare to find some smaller rivers to regain
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