We fought the Nile . . .

. . . and the Nile won. Well, sort of. We woke up this morning, threw caution to the wind and boarded a bus for Jinja, a small Uganda community perched at the mouth of the Nile on Lake Victoria. The town itself is cute but sort of forgettable -- at least, that's what the guidebook says. We didn't actually go downtown. We skipped straight to the river.

For 31 kilometres from its mouth, the Nile churns its way down a half-dozen Class 5 and Class 6 rapids. You can research for yourself exactly what those ratings mean, but let me put it in visual terms: imagine the Nile, a massive river, pinched between rocks not more than 10 metres apart. Now imagine it also dropping about 10-15 metres as it storm between those rocks, then imagine what must be at least an acre of water frothing and churning into a sight of pure mayhem. Then imagine us on a blue raft careening toward it, with nothing but some inflatable pontoons between us and the madness -- and the sharp rocks below.

Of course, it all starts off gently enough. We boarded the rafts sporting helmets and life jackets, mouths dry from what we knew lay ahead -- and from warnings we had heard that injuries on the bacteria-laden Nile come often, and with nasty consequences.

But at that point, the Nile was a gentle river, quickening slightly over some minor burbles but otherwise placid. We were instructed in how to paddle, how to hold on and how to brace for dear life. We also got a watery lesson in flipping. Little did we know how valuable that one would prove -- nor how the guide's advice (especially his counsel that, if we were forced underwater, we should hold our breaths and wait: Eventually the water would propel us back to surface) would be echoing through our heads short minutes ahead.

I can't remember all the names of the various rapids we plunged through. What I can remember is the pure terror of our first capsizing. We were flying through a Class 5 rapid, our bow aimed at a giant standing wave that must have hovered at a good 15 feet high, water furiously spouting up as it crashed through the rapid. All was going well, until we jetted to the top of the wave -- and the raft flipped. I managed a quick gasp for breath before the world suddenly turned green and I began rushing at a crazy speed far below the surface. I -- and all the others who had also been tossed beneath the waves -- were utterly helpless. I was calm at first, heeding the guide's advice that the water would bring me up for air. But the seconds seemed to drag on endlessly. I felt like I was drowning, caught in the middle of the Nile flexing a muscle far stronger than anything I could muster. Then suddenly -- the surface. I had about a half-second to suck in as much air as I could before I was dragged under again. This must have happened four times as I went through what seemed like an endless series of waves. Then, almost as soon as it began, the water turned calmer again and I could float and breathe on my own. To say it was a rush would be understating it. Terror is more like it.

We floated along through a few more rapids, all tamer than the one we had passed, but still a rush. I eventually ended up in the front of the raft, a position that allows you a hair-rising vantage on the massive waves ahead. But we rode most of them quite comfortably. Others did not, and we watched as most of the members of our raft took on injuries. One scraped a knee. Another both heels. One broke a toe. It seemed all those assurances that safety was priority one on this trip didn't mean a whole lot -- and we had yet to hit the biggest rapid.

Just before the end of the trip is a rapid called the Bad Place. It is a Class 5 rapid that sits at the tail end of a Class 6 monster so big it could have practically swallowed a cruise ship whole. The cauldron of white at its end -- the Bad Place -- looked like it entirely deserved its name. I would probably have wimped out if I could have but when Mo decided to do it, that ceased to be an option, if only for vanity's sake.

We boarded the raft, me feeling more dread than excitement. We paddled our hearts out to an area we thought would be a gentler ride, but the waves caught us and tossed us into the giant water hole that was the Bad Place. We were stuck there for a moment, bow pointed into the water, stern sticking out. Then the wall of water obliterated any hope that we would float out of this one. Another long moment hoping I would breathe again, this one long enough that I started saying some farewells to this earth. Another quick breath before more of that drowning feeling. I must have found the exact centre of the thing, because when the Bad Place finally released me, I was a good 200 metres farther down the river than anyone else.

But I was alive, and so was Mo. More surprising, we were uninjured -- which is more than could be said for the raft, which had shed a few pieces in the crushing water. As we floated to our end point, our guide told us that was the craziest ride he had in four months of working there. I'm not sure I was in a position to disagree.