Day 12: Waves and Whirlpools

"It's no good, Tony. Water's coming in again at the front. I have to stop and bail."

"Can't stop here! Waves are too big. Let's try going faster, get over to the far bank where the water's calmer."

"No. NO! Stop paddling! STOP! It's coming in over the side now."

"Shit. SHIT! Knew in Pagwi the waterline was too low. Can't even carry our bags on this frigging thing!"

Nadya tosses her paddle aside and starts bailing feverishly with half a plastic Coca-Cola bottle, but it is too late. If only our pirogues were equal to those we bought in the Upper Sepik. Roped together, the two had formed a sturdy raft that could carry six people with bags, bananas, and coconuts. But in Pagwi, the hub of the Middle Sepik, there had been no choice. Most people got about by motor-canoe. We could only find for sale a two-man fishing pirogue in poor shape and another suitable for a five-year-old. Maybe if we joined these, we might continue our voyage east, the small pirogue serving as an outrigger. The Middle Sepik was wider and smoother, not as snaky as the Upper. Before buying the two pirogues, I asked Moses, the owner, to plug the leaks in the old one and make a raft of the pair. He did the latter by lashing sticks between the craft and covering these with a mat made of bark.

"Quick, grab the day sack!" Nadya yells. "'I'm coming over to your side."

The raft tips 30° as the small pirogue submerges in the muddy water. Neither of us had figured that the wind could get up, now that the river was wider, and produce waves. I turn and wave frantically at the canoe behind, regretting berating our Papuan companions an hour ago for wasting fuel. The agreement was that they would paddle with us for three days from Pagwi to Kaminabit in their motor-canoe and transport our backpacks and food. We would pay for the fuel they would need to return to Pagwi. On this, the third day of our stint with them, they have been inclined to drift with the current and, when they fell too far behind, stick the engine on. Just as well they are nearby; these are crocodile- and piranha-infested waters.

"Oh, this is not good," twenty-three-year-old Tolly says, scratching his woolly beard. He and Fraser, a stocky, bald man in his forties addicted to chewing betelnut, are usually PMV (public motor vehicle) operators, carrying passengers in their canoe up and down the Sepik. I hear their engine burst into life. Fraser brings the canoe alongside our raft on the windward side, protecting us from the waves, a deft manoeuvre. "Where is your bailer?"

"It's in the Sepik," Nadya admits, sheepishly.

"Oh, that is not good." Tolly rubs his beard, and looks at his older companion for inspiration. I wonder what these men are thinking.

"Maybe the banana leaf, Tolly?" I suggest.

Actually, it is a strip of bark. It sits in the bottom of our older pirogue, protecting the clay that plugs the many leaks. The bark is stiff enough to serve as a scoop. I scramble over and fetch it for him. Now that their canoe is tethered to our raft, he is in the best position to bail. The skipper gently shunts us over to the far bank while his crewman bails vigorously. Gradually, the little pirogue resurfaces.

"How far is it to Kaminabit?" Nadya asks.

"Maybe an hour," Fraser says. "We will tow you there."

"No, you won't. We have come to Papua New Guinea to paddle down the Sepik, NOT motor," I respond, probably too sternly.

Yesterday, we were negotiating whirlpools on our raft, pumping hard to avoid getting sucked in. Whirlpools? Another feature of the Middle Sepik no one had mentioned in Pagwi. We skirted a big one by going close to the riverbank... and ran aground (ran amud, I should say). Again, our attentive companions offered to pull us free. Not necessary. We got out, and, sinking to the knee in mud, dragged our vessel back into the current.

We continue on our way, remaining near shore to avoid the wind and waves, venturing out only when whirlpools threaten. Tolly and Fraser fall behind. Regaining my rhythm, I look ahead and see a column of dark clouds over the water. I look down at my right foot, planted in the bottom of the old pirogue. It is submerged to the ankle in water. The clay plugging the leaks has begun to disintegrate.