This is an excerpt from a new travel essay about last summer's trip to Croatia, Bosnia and Montenegro, soon to be published in a new book of travel essays called Distant Islands and Sealight that will be available in Spring 2016.
Two rubber rafts that could handle ten people each, together with an experienced attendant, were on hand to help about twenty people get ready. Once suited up with our lifevests, helmeted and bound in rubber booties, we all climbed into the two Land Rover jeeps that would take us to the appropriate starting-point of the river canyon trip, feeling like we had been bundled up for packaging. The jeep ride itself, with the rafters jam packed together in the vehicle in the heat-inducing wet suits, took us deeper into the mountains over a dirt and gravel road surrounded by rugged hills covered in forest trees and ground shrubs. The trip took about an hour; at one point nearing our destination, we passed through border control. I looked inquiringly at Peter. “Montenegro,” he said deadpan, “another country for your collection of places you have been.” The border crossing was routine enough. Tourists such as ourselves generate money all around and were not about to be hassled. Returning back into Bosnia turned out to be even less of a hassle, a non-event that happened on the river itself where there were no border controls or official borders to scrutinize our every document. Only animal eyes viewed us from the nearby water’s edge; but they weren’t interested in our passports. Mother Nature has no formal borders and cares less for national boundaries; neither do the animals, birds, and bees fret over such matters as national and personal identity. The wild pigs that came down to the river to drink had no notion that they were in either Montenegro or Bosnia and could no doubt care less as they grunted discontentedly at the sight of us riding the rapids of the river.
Old age has its compensations. I was spared the trouble of carrying the bulky raft down the hilly cliff to the water’s edge and was not given a paddle to help maneuver our way in the raft down the treacherous river. Peter took up those duties and helped the rest of the group with relish. No one could outdo him in effort and good will. I had all I could do to get my stiff legs into the slippery, spongy raft wondering what next, is anyone noticing. At first, I thought we would sit on the floor of the raft, but quickly realized my error when I realized that we would be sitting on the ballooned edge of the raft, our feet neatly tucked under ropes provided on the raft’s floor to keep people from falling out when passing through the turgid waters generated by the surrounding rapids. Needless to say, I leaned inward by habitude as one would lead away from the edge of a steep precipice. I had no intention of falling into the rapids.
Color came to life: the rich browns of the humid, wet earth as we descended to the river, the river itself, a kind of blue-grey as though the river were wishing for more blue sky to reflect upon its waters, the lush green of a thousand shades crowding the banks of the river, not to forget the towering, grey mountain cliffs that loomed their cavernous presence everywhere like scolding parents, as though in defiance of the river that had cut through these rocky canyons like a child tracing a pathway through an unmarked map. The colors ran riot against each other, as though in competition; they certainly vied for my attention and got it. Still, there was an aura of gloom to the morning light shining down on the river. Thunder announced our entrance into the canyon waters as though we were Cleopatra floating down the Nile on her barge. The clouds frowned down upon us with dark, moody faces. Then came the rains, a torrential downpour that drenched everything in sight, reducing us in the raft to props of nature that are there to be rained upon. No one uttered a sound of complaint, it was all too magical. I for one sat there mesmerized as we floated serenely down the river without a care in the world. The rains came and continued to come. It didn’t matter and in fact added an element of intrigue to the proceedings. I sat there precariously, my feet intertwined with ropes to hold me secure in the boat. I was wearing a wetsuit that was actually designed to absorb the raindrops no matter how many there were and keep me warm.
The rain eventually gave way and disappeared, allowing an eerie mist to descend upon the river in spurts and patches, bringing with it a feeling of ghosts, a haunted river. The trip itself was a meandering journey; we were on a river after all, as though floating in a hot-air balloon, but on the water, not in the air, in a rush for once to get nowhere, only meet the experience with resignation and an abiding interest. The deceiving calm was soon interrupted by the sight of approaching rapids just ahead around the bend in the river. Secretly, this was why we had come on this trip in the first place, so why was my heart in my throat? The young, Bosnian steerage guide in the back shouted a warning, the entire group in the raft seemed to gear up and brace themselves for the onslaught. Suddenly, we were in for a rough ride. In a glance, I took in the frothy white waters churned up by underwater roughage that had suddenly turned the placid river into a raging menace. The first wave hit the sizable rubber dingy as if it were a tinker toy, then we were cresting into wave upon wave as though being tossed about by the hand of God. Abundant sprays of river water were washing over us an icy brew. Peter was sitting just in front of me in the bow of the raft attempting to row and steer us through like a madman. With a physical slap, a rough wave washed over Peter who shouted and laughed with primitive joy. “Thanks for protecting me, Peter,” I shouted through the turmoil, myself being drenched with the wave as well (suitably justifying my wet suit’s name), but Peter had definitely borne the brunt of the watery onslaught.
The rafting trip in total would take up much of midday, lasting close to four hours, from around 11:30 am when we launched ourselves upon the waters, until nearly 4:00 p.m. when the shadows of twilight began to make their way through the towering mountains. As such, during the course of this mystical journey down the river, we ended up encountering multiple rapids of varied intensity; but the more we successfully made our way through the turmoil, the more secure we all became that we would survive the journey. We were all able to settle down to the experience without wondering whether we would be tossed unceremoniously into the turgid waters, or worse that the treacherous river would dump us unceremoniously into the well of eternity.
The river itself in Tara Canyon, the beloved River Bosna that I had grown fond of like a dotting grandmother due to the visit to its source that had made such an impression on me, lending an air of sacrality to the river’s meandering presence as it wound its way through the wild and cavernous countryside. The features of nature, such as mountains, plains, valleys, rivers take on an air of majestic presence. When you are in their midst, they are not just names that slip off the tongue, they are mighty personalities conveying messages to the invaders of their territory that take time to sift through and understand. At best, these artifacts of nature seep into the soul like the smell of incense or the taste of herbal tea. The mountains surrounding us earthlings floating through the canyon below seemed to be living personalities. You look at them with awe and respect wondering if you can ever take your eyes off them and leave them behind, when truth to tell, these characters of nature enter into you and lend of their beauty, peace and enchantment as an aftertaste of what nature has to offer that lingers for many days—if not many weeks into the future—before the faint residue of Nature’s benevolence eventually dissipates and disappears until the next journey into their midst.
The river itself wasn’t done with us; there were still unexpected (perhaps unwanted) thrills to set our hearts on fire. We were well into the journey; there was a sense of nearing its end, goodbye adventure, hello routine again. Perhaps I had become complacent and a little bored, running through these rapids that we conquered with aplomb. Longer than this on the river would be too much, I thought boorishly at one point. However, one final thrill awaited us. I heard the sound first, like a coal train approaching from the distance, emitting noises that were already ominous at low level and primed to become scarier, heralding forces that you could not control that may do you in. Then, the sight of a frothy milky white in the river ahead invited questions about what it could be, until I saw quickly enough—as we relentlessly and inevitably moved forward with eager Peter at the helm—broken, churning waters running perpendicular to the trajectory of our more placid, sober river moving us along now as though holding us in its hands.
It was the meeting of the waters, two rivers coming together and merging into one great waterway, wider, deeper, more treacherous than ever before and wilder than all our fearful imaginings could register in one take. I took note that the other river defiantly crossed our path and would drag in—or perhaps down who could tell—all in its path. Even the beloved Bosna River seemed about to be swallowed by a vicious animal. There was time enough to get scared again, as our little rubber raft approached the moment of confrontation and the moment of truth. I exchanged glances with some of the others nearby in the raft. We were strangers no longer. Danger suddenly brought closeness within reach; we could end up dying together. I was quietly touch by the capacity of others, strangers and distant foreigners from far flung countries, to be for once themselves, without any social mask, and reach out to others with their own implicit humanity, raw and on edge, a gift willing to give in light of their vulnerabilities.
Then I was on my own again and holding on for dear life, tucking my feet once again under the tight ropes across the floor of the raft. The other river was now fast upon us; we seemed to be moving forward with all the inevitability of a runaway freight train. The mighty Drina up ahead surged forward across our vision all frothy and fierce with its turgid current like a pack of wild horses frightened into a mindless stampede. It was as though the little rubber raft reared itself up to make ready for the abrupt entrance into the roar of the waters. The weather suddenly changed, as if wanting to assert itself in protest to the balmy summer waters of the Bosna River. I later learned that the Drina River was over 10 degrees centigrade colder than the Bosna and this was immediately reflected in the air temperature.
Again, the young Bosnian guide, who had expertly mothered us earlier through the unpredictable rapids, uttered a terrifying shout, “Brace yourselves for entry,” he cried in his Slavic accent, making his entreaty seemingly all the more serious for being in a labored, foreign accent. I quickly glanced back to take note of his calm, noble face before turning once again to lay my eyes upon the turgid river rushing forward through the gorge that we were about to be sucked into. Within seconds, our raft was drawn into the turmoil and thrust about, forwards, then backwards, we were turning in giant whirlpools with a will of their own. The pitiful raft, that earlier seemed so solid and inflated (and yes, proud) now struggled to stay afloat as it crested wave after terrible wave, reaching out of the tumultuous waters like hands from the grave, then descending into the gaping trough between the crests, as in a rollercoaster, with amplitudes not to be reckoned with. Once again, my heart was in my mouth; I held on for dear life. My friend Peter was grinning wildly, like a madman, and rowing for all he was worth in a valiant attempt to steer the little raft and keep us afloat. Time stops in moments of danger when the surrounding turmoil seems to have a life of its own. An eternity can pass by as we are taken momentarily out of the time continuum thinking that this could go on forever, only to realize that the moment of eternity has passed. We are back again in the real world; the waters of the two rivers have merged and subsided.
We are drifting comfortably along again on the mighty Drina newly emerged from the former Drina and Bosna rivers, the green trees encroaching upon the water’s edge continue to blow in the wind. The clouds overhead have dispersed somewhat sending down shafts of light across the land. We are floating now through calm waters; but there is a frigid quality to the air and we all sit there freezing. “Put your hand into the water,” Peter tells me. “The waters of the Drina are much colder than the other river,” he explains. A dreamy mist now weaves its magic in and out of the folds of the river. After the chaos and fear of just moments before, I settle back into myself as though we were floating on some distant cloud. We were all on the threshold of shivering, but didn’t because of the effectiveness of the wetsuits that insulated us against the outer cold with a cozy warmth. We soon glide smoothly into more tropical waters. A balmy freeze and warmer temperatures greet us upon our arrival back on shore. We bid each other adieu, auf wiedersehen, goodbye with an exchange of knowing looks, realizing that we had pass through something together and would never see each other again. In the distance, I could see my friend Peter bounding up the dirt pathway into the hills where our camp was situated, always on a forward moving trajectory. Rafting down the river rapids had served him well; now he was on his way to a new adventure.
You are so well traveled! I hadn't heard of these mighty rivers. As I read I was reminded of the Grand Canyon run so many take in the United States. I am more like Peter. I don't fear guided adventures like this. In spite of the power of the river, your tour guide and carefully selected equipment like your wetsuits, made the journey safe and memorable and not overly dangerous.
However, I did find that, at times, you seem to overreach in trying to describe the ambience and adventure you were experiencing. Please take a run through again and see if you can come up with some descriptions that are more attuned to the situation. Some of the parallels don't match well and some words are either overused like "turgid" or just the wrong descriptive word.
I recall my first assigned short story in high school. Having completed a two day journey down a flooded Flambeau River with many rapids in a canoe with my twin brother, I chose to write an adventurous, semi-tragic, canoe journey in the wilderness. The story was a total flop. I didn't write another short story for 50 years.
Your detailed description of both a complacent and dangerous journey rafting along the Drina and where it merges with the Bosna River effectively and beautifully conveyed "the mighty personalities" of nature. This journey is also a metaphor for life, having passed through something with strangers who bonded in vulnerability.
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