By Jeff Scoggins

The summer of 1990 I flew to Africa to visit my parents who were working in Rwanda as missionaries. My cousin, Cameron, was also visiting during that time. One day Cameron and I were discussing how to occupy ourselves for the day when Carl Wilkens, director of the Adventist Development and Relief Agency in Rwanda, drove up in his Isuzu Trooper and asked if we wanted to go river rafting with him that afternoon. We were enthusiastic despite his warning that the river was infested with crocodiles and hippos. After all, 20-year-olds are invincible, aren’t they?

Cameron and I changed into old shorts, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. I clipped a boot knife to my belt then filled up a liter bottle with water. We brought no food because we expected to would be home in time for supper. Carl arrived at 1 p.m. with his wife, Teresa, who would drive home and later meet us at a particular bridge down river. Carl hefted two baseball bats and asked if we thought we should bring some anti-crocodile implements. I patted my knife and agreed that caution was good. Caution? Well, anyway, we drove to the bridge where we planned to unload, but a group of soldiers there, despite our poor language skills, managed to communicate to us that we couldn’t put in there. So we drove off-road along the river until we found a suitable place.

Using a foot pump we filled two small rafts with air. Carl explained that when the motor batteries died we would simply stash them in the other raft and float with the current. We loaded oars, a patch kit, bats, water, electric motor and batteries, and no life jackets that I can recall. I sank to my knees in mud as we pushed the rafts into the river. Teresa would meet us at about 5 p.m. at the next bridge. We would simply wait if we arrived earlier.

The river was the color (but not the taste) of hot chocolate, and it averaged perhaps 50 feet across. Soft dirt banks anywhere from three feet to 25 feet high gave us the feeling of floating down a small canyon. The occasional mud bar jutting out into the river provided opportunities to refill the rafts, which deflated at a regular rate. These mud bars also served other purposes like sunning crocodiles.

“Croc!” we yelled in unison as we rounded a bend in the river. He was at least 20 feet long and two feet wide, though he may have grown over the tellings of this story—but not by much. However big he was, nothing that size should be able to move as fast and jump as high that crocodile did. Almost effortlessly he leaped three to four feet in the air and dove into the water in front of us. Cameron and I grabbed the bats. Go for the eyes, I remembered hearing. After a few moments when the crocodile didn’t surface, Carl yelled, “Row!” We rowed. Fast. And we didn’t stop until we were far from the area.

But no sooner had our heart rates slowed when we rounded another bend and yelled together, “Hippo!” I had been told that if I had a choice between wrestling a crodocile or a hippopotomous that I should choose the crododile. I had also been told that hippos walk under the water and then surface under your boat. Startled by our yelling, this hippo did indeed walk toward us into the water until she was completely submerged. “Row!” yelled Carl again, and again we dropped our bats and rowed with passion. After we slowed Carl said, “I don’t regret we came.” Cameron and I agreed with brave laughs. We inspected the next mud bar particularly well before pulling over to re-air and transfer our dead batteries and motor to the rear raft.

Back on the river we soon encountered a mid-river hippo party. “We better walk around this group,” advised Carl. We tied a long rope to the rafts and scrambled up the high bank. At the top a group of Rwandese farmers greeted us. Though we didn’t speak Kinyarwanda well we managed to understand that they were commenting on our intelligence level.

They followed us as we pulled the rafts toward the hippos. Unfortunately, a thick stand of brush and trees growing atop the very edge of the high bank wouldn’t allow us continue and still hold onto the rope. Not wanting to let go and not being able to pull the rafts out at this point Carl volunteered to jump down the 20 feet or so and row the rafts along the bank and by the hippos. If worse came to worse adrenaline would probably propel him back up the near vertical incline.

Carl leaped over the edge landing in the soft dirt about half way down the bank and then took another leap to the bottom. When the farmers realized what was happening their screams communicated clearly what they thought of Carl’s plan. Quickly they snatched handfuls of rocks and began running along the river yelling and throwing rocks at the hippos. Cameron and I followed suit, and Carl paddled through safely.

By this time we were nearly ready for our rendezvous bridge to show itself. At every bend we expected it. We asked everyone we passed in the fields how far to the bridge, but never received a definitive answer. We got hungry. “I still don’t regret the trip,” said Carl again. Again we courageously agreed, but as the sun hung low over the hills we decided to go easy on the little water we had left.

Then it got dark. So dark that we couldn’t make out the banks on either side of us. Our raft was dangerously low on air, but the invisible sounds of darkness around us made us reluctant to pull over. Suddenly we heard the distinctive laugh-like grunt of a hippo a little ways in front of us. Then another answered not far behind us, then another not far to the side. It sounded as though we had floated into large company.

“Do you think we should pray for help?” Cameron asked. Embarrassed, I gave an uncomfortable grunt. In my heart I had the same thoughts, but I said, “I think we have been praying already.” And the conversation died there on the altar of pride. I didn’t want to admit weakness. Truth is I was ashamed.

“I think we had better land and try to walk out,” said Carl. “I can come back on the motorcycle tomorrow to pick up our gear.” Carl paused then said, “But I still don’t regret the trip.” Our words agreed, but for my part my enthusiasm was going the way of the temperature. I shivered in my wet t-shirt and shorts.

To be continued next month.

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins

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