Rafting Chiapas
by June Conord

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On approach it becomes apparent that the water is not deep enough to carry the raft over the waterfalls. Our guide, Sebastien, calmly explains to us that we will have to jump. All smiles quickly fade as we consider leaping into the turbulent water below. Here we are, an odd assortment of thirteen travel writers and photographers, ages 20-something and up -- and I'd be classified as way up -- standing on the edge of a small waterfall, looking down.

Our trip, sponsored by the Mexico Tourist Board, was to familiarize journalists with the majestic mountains, rolling green hills, and fertile valleys of the lush state of Chiapas. The U.S. media offers little information about Chiapas except that of the past Zapatista uprising and vicious fighting in 1994. Though American travelers still hesitate to go there, it remains a popular destination with Europeans.

For the past few days a Chiapas television news crew has recorded our every experience as we enjoyed cultural and historical attractions. Now, we are about to discover one of the state's untapped ecological tourism sites here in the middle of a jungle river where we'd rafted to the top of a huge rock ledge. I could sense the TV lens focused on me. Would I be the first to jump?

The night before I had asked our guide "What kind of white water rapids will there be: level three? level four?"

"No, no, these are moderate, Seĝora," he assured me, but he never mentioned waterfalls. Agua Azul, Spanish for "Blue Water," is a spectacular location on the Shamulja River boasting swirling pools, quirky rapids, and a thundering waterfall with a misty spray that kisses faces hundreds of yards away. The warm water is not blue, as its name would have one believe, but a rich celadon green that turns to white spume as it rushes over the boulders. The beauty of the location has finally been noticed -- the same company that built Xcaret and Garrafon in Mexico's Yucatan are due to build a "natural water park" destination here.

However, when we arrive, things are still somewhat underdeveloped. We are handed equipment consisting of old life jackets, mismatched paddles, and an odd assortment of helmets, mine being a baseball batting helmet held on by a length of cord. It did cover both ears but fell over on my nose at the worst of times.

After a quick lesson in paddling and commands -- forward, backward, hold and cover -- we settle into three rubber rafts and paddle around in circles until we figure out how to do things in unison. Sebastien invites us to put anything we want to keep dry -- particularly cameras and our shoes, which we would need later for the hike back through the jungle -- in a "dry bag" clipped to a seat of the rubber raft. He also reminded us to "smile, smile, smile," no matter what happens.

Off with a flash of paddles and smiles on our faces we row and splash a couple of hundred meters to the first rapid, sailing over with an assortment of whoops and shrieks. Moments later, waiting in the pool below for the other rafts to come over, we proudly hold our paddles overhead then smack them down on the water, proclaiming our might. Our glee is to be short lived as the following rapids will prove to be very different.

But we paddle with confidence, sure of our abilities to tame the wild Rio Shamulja, until we shortly ground on a shallow rocky ledge. Sebastien calls: "Everybody out," and we stand in the rushing water, looking over the edge from what feels like the top of an Olympic high dive. Rather than a rapid, we are faced with a small waterfall.

I am petrified, my mouth so dry I can't swallow and my knees shake. "It's OK," says Sebastien. "Jump." I know it has to be this moment or I am going to totally embarrass myself. After all, I am on television. Terror-stricken, I launch my body into space and hit the water with a resounding splash. Surfacing at last, I manage to push my helmet away from my eyes and look upwards, amused to see the jump has only been about six feet. I think to myself, "This is a piece of cake."

But there's only so much cake you can eat. It soon becomes repetitious: paddle twenty yards, tiptoe across brink of a falls then jump. After many leaps, each higher that the last we finally approach a rapids/waterfall we can broach with the boat. Oops, we are out of position. As we crest, our raft skews sideways and slides down the face of the white water. Tumbling and turning, we all fall out.

Thirty feet downstream, in what seems to be slow-motion, I surface and grab for the rope along the edge of the raft. Everyone pops up around me like bobbing corks -- everyone but one. A raft mate is in trouble at the base of the falls. Sebastien flashes by on his way to the rescue and seems to cover the distance in a second. Luckily we are all OK and, with extra adrenaline pumping through us, we get quite giddy with excitement at our survival. This puts a new spin on things and now I am ready to rumble.

A short while later we make an agreeable stop in one of the larger pools to tie the rafts to a partially submerged tree and explore an underground cave. We swim into a narrow cavern that parallels the river bank and exits under a small waterfall.

Back on the river, we leap the final waterfall -- twelve feet -- and after three strenuous hours, our river rafting trip is over. Ready for the trek back we discover that our "dry bag" is not. My white sneakers are soaked and filled with silt, but when I see some of my companions with expensive ruined cameras, I feel very lucky.

A hike through the thick jungle, wearing wet sneaks, might be considered difficult. But the realization that I have conquered the mighty waterfalls has me exhilarated and, like a child in a mud puddle, every squishy step brings a smile to my face. I am Queen of the World. Although we did many other things in Chiapas -- climbed the steep stone steps of the mist-shrouded Temple of Inscriptions at Palenque; entered the sacred stairway that led into the deep interior of King Pakal's tomb; journeyed across a multi-hued blue lake on Maya balsa wood rafts called "corchas" (cork); crossed a swaying narrow suspension bridge at Agua Clara where three of my companions jumped 30 feet into the river below; ate lunch surrounded by the tranquil beauty of a 19th century hacienda; and shopped in the indigenous Maya crafts market in San Cristóbal de las Casas, where brilliant colors, the reverberating sounds of many languages, and the aroma of varied foods, all stimulated my senses into a state of bliss -- it is Agua Azul that remains foremost in my mind.

Will I go white water rafting in Chiapas again? In all probability, I will. There is no fool like an old fool. And as to the rest of my baker's dozen companions, it is unanimously agreed that American tourists just don't know what they are missing.

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