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August, 2007
Rafting the Rio Mendoza
By Matt Sullivan
There are some lessons that every novice rafter goes through before each time going out: the hand signals, commands, how to hold your paddle, what to do if you fall in the river. But they never tell you what to do when your friend becomes a flying projectile.
Such was the case on the Rio Mendoza, a Class 4 river that cuts through the Andean mountains of northwestern Argentina like a crack through a skating pond. The sky was blue and the mountains brown and deserted, a well-fitted backdrop for the abandoned railroad track that plied the far side of the river. And down below, tucked under the rusty tracks lay the raging Rio Mendoza, a rapid flow of aquatic chaos whose water was browner than my shorts after a scary movie.
And there was my friend Joe and I, two amateur rafters who've only rafted enough times to count on a two-thumbed hand (that means six). We had just come from a rafting trip in the southern Lake District of Argentina, where the rivers had less action than a bathtub, and we were looking for a greater thrill. Though our experience in rafting wasn't anywhere near the professional level, we knew we could never pay again for a trip down a river where bird watching seemed the main event.
So it was time to up the stakes. Our next rafting trip would be a rush of blood to the head, a heart-pounding, mind-bending, manhood-testing thrill ride to see which of us actually had a pair of testicles. We wanted action and adventure. We wanted to be on the verge of crashing and sinking. We wanted an experience where every second mattered, where danger lay around the corner, where teamwork was top priority. We wanted to wear helmets and actually need them. We wanted our money's worth. To hell with bird watching! We wanted Rio Mendoza.
And there she was. A beautifully-flowing brown pile of bedlam, our entry point to a 4-hour journey like none other we had experienced - our introduction to the real world of rafting. Joe and I listened to the familiar instructions as our Rasta guide explained them in broken English. He'd be scoping out the river in front of us to determine the best approach for the raft, something never before needed for the utter lack of ferocity of the Class 2's. I looked over at my feather-weighted friend Joe and arched my eyebrows in excitement. He nodded his head and arched his eyebrows back to let me know that, he too, had a pair of testicles.
But before we go any further, let me tell you a little something about Joe from California. We met a few weeks before in Salta, a northern Argentinean city, and decided to buddy up and travel together for a while. Joe's got the northern California feel to him. Every other word he says is 'man,' and every word in between is 'hella,' which ultimately makes for a repetitive conversation. He's a small guy, shorter than me (5 foot, 9 inches) and maybe half my weight, which after eating Argentinean steaks for a couple weeks had dramatically increased.
Now back to the river.
We started on a small inlet where the water seemed to halt for only a second before picking back up and raging on. As soon as we kicked out, we were off. Joe and I knew immediately we had our money's worth. Orders were being barked from behind that actually mattered.
Even though our crew spoke Spanish, we all responded to English commands. "Forward paddle," the trip leader would yell when we weren't paddling fast enough (thus, becoming the most repeated command).
"Back paddle," he'd scream when we were on a crash collision course toward a stubborn, unflinching rock.
"Levante sus raquetas (raise your paddles)," he'd shout in Spanish when it was discovered that the two inexperienced Americans at the bow of the boat had made it through a dangerous area without any major disaster and there was room for a small celebration.
As we paddled on without any rest, I began to realize how out of shape I was. An hour gone by and my muscles were already aching. Thoughts of quitting smoking entered my head each time my paddle touched the water and I let out a wheeze.
I glanced over at my friend Joe to see how he was doing and noticed him beginning to bounce around like a Man Show juggie on a trampoline.
I asked him if he was alright and he told me in raspy Californian, "Yeah, man. I'm cool."
"Tuck your feet into the boat," I said as his legs started flailing.
"I'm trying, man," he said and took his eyes off the river.
"Forward paddle," yelled the trip leader.
Suddenly a wave hit Joe's side of the boat when he wasn't looking and he came flying into my lap. Since I was watching him, I was ready for it.
"Oh shit. Sorry, man," he said as I clutched onto his vest with one hand and held onto my paddle and the raft with the other.
I have no idea how I didn't fall off since my body was almost parallel with the river. I pushed Joe back to his side and said, "Wow, Joe. You better hang on next time."
"I know, man," he said. "This river is crazy."
Time moved on as the river raged forward. The current remained strong in most spots, but occasionally we'd catch enough time for a quick breather. I knew that if Joe came across at me one more time that I wouldn't be as lucky. We stopped on the opposite side of the river near the old abandoned train tracks and ate some snacks for lunch.
A half hour later, we were back on the river and the current was picking up as the waves came crashing over the boat. Joe continued to wave his limbs around like a Valley girl who finds a rat in her locker.
Suddenly a big wave slapped against the starboard side and Joe sprung at me like a Jack-in-the-box.
Again.
This time, there was nothing I could do. The laws of gravity and inertia were working against me. Joe hit me when I wasn't looking. I held my paddle and waited for the inevitable. Joe knocked me backward and I flipped easily into the water, taking note as he launched through the sky and over my head at a ferocious speed.
Next thing I knew I was in the brown river. Joe was far behind me and the raft was equally far ahead. A paddle floated just out of my distance and since I still had mine in my hand, I guessed that the paddle was Joe's. I yelled at Joe to see if he was alright.
"Yeah, man. I'm fine," he replied.
Our Rasta guide in the kayak paddled into view and told me to drift ahead like he showed me.
"What about that paddle," I asked.
"Don't worry about it," he said and paddled after Joe.
I turned onto my back and put my feet forward then went along for the ride. Before I knew it, I was back on the raft with a concerned crew waiting for a good laugh. When Joe returned, we were all smiles and Joe had the biggest one.
"That was crazy, man," he said, scratching his head.
Everyone laughed, even though only three of us could understand it.
"Levante sus raquetas," shouted the trip leader.
"Levante," we all shouted back and paddled back down the Rio Mendoza.
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