The Chronicles of Suntwe - Chapter 6: The Overland Truck Eater - Zambezi Rapid 11

The Zambezi has a way of reminding you who’s in charge. You can run it a hundred times, feel the rhythm of its rapids etched into your muscles, and still…..one wrong angle, one missed beat, and it will chew you up without hesitation.

That day was hot and dry, the African kind of heat that bakes the ground and makes the air itself shimmer. No better day to be on the river. Larry, Ben, Skeeto, and I had been having a clean run so far……no swims, no carnage, just the joy of dancing our kayaks through the bucking waves and soaking in the calm stretches between rapids.

The gorge always steals your breath, no matter how many times you’ve been down it. Sheer black walls towered above us, home to nesting Taita falcons that circled high in the thermals. The water, endless and alive, was a mirror and a monster in the same breath. Even after hundreds of runs, it humbled me every time. Reminded me how small I was, how insignificant, and yet how that insignificance tied me to something vast and beautiful.

The approach to Rapid 11 was deceptive. A calm pool, glassy and still, broken only by the ripple of a large crocodile that had claimed this stretch as home. She’d been there for years. She never bothered anyone, but paddling a five-foot playboat just inches above the surface, you never forgot she was there.

“Calm before the chaos — paddling towards the Overland Truck Eater on the mighty Zambezi.”

Rapid 11…..the infamous Overland Truck Eater. A name spoken with respect, and a smirk. Some called it the “Creamy White Buttocks” for its uncanny talent for robbing rafters of their shorts when it swallowed them whole. But beneath the jokes lay legends of bleeding ears, broken resolve, people surfacing after minutes underwater swearing never to set foot in the Zambezi again.

You heard the rapid long before you saw it. The deep, growing thunder that rolled down the gorge. The horizon line ahead, that point of no return. And then the drop…..a steep green tongue of water falling into chaos. On the left, giant boils bubbled up from the walls, water so aerated it could strip you of buoyancy and hold you down like a wrestler. On the right, a diagonal wave whose sole purpose seemed to be pushing unsuspecting kayakers into that boil line of punishment.

The line was clear, drive hard, punch through where the diagonals met, and escape before the river made a meal of you. Easy. No problem. I have done this a million times.

Skeeto took point…..as he often did. His line was clean, effortless, the kind of move that made the river look friendly. Ben dropped in behind him and I followed……a little too close. Larry, I think, chose to portage that day.

As I dived into the tongue, I tried to build speed, but the river had other plans. The right diagonal hit me like a wall. My momentum died instantly. The kayak lurched and flipped me onto my back.

Upside down.

“The horizon line drops away — entering Rapid 11, the infamous Overland Truck Eater.”

The river roared in my ears. I rolled up quickly, praying I’d punched clear of the danger. But when I broke the surface, I was exactly where I didn’t want to be……the boil line.

Everything was chaos. Water surged and spun, sucking my stern down, grabbing at my edges, spinning me like a toy. It was watery madness. I fought to surf it out, searching for a way free, but the boils had me locked. Then….flip. Bubbles and water filled my sinuses. I snapped for a roll. Failed. Tried again. Failed. Each attempt burned more energy, drained more strength.

The thought of ejecting crossed my mind. Swimming here meant punishment……deep, dark downtime in the clutches of the Zambezi. My kayak, as much a prison as it was a lifeline, was still my best chance. The “big floaty thing strapped to my arse” was the only thing between me and a long breathless thrashing.

Another failed roll. Muscles screaming. Lungs aching. I was running out of ginya (Energy).

And then I waited. Felt the paddle bite the current just right. I gave it everything. The boat snapped upright.

Air. Light. Freedom.

“In the jaws of the beast — chaos inside the Truck Eater.”

The boils released me as if the river had grown bored with my fight. I coughed, spat water, sinuses burning, but I was still in my boat. Against the odds, I hadn’t been released.

I rode the rest of the wave train down, each metre putting distance between me and the beast that had almost swallowed me. Below, Skeeto and Ben waited in the eddy. Skeeto’s grin said it all……part pride, part smugness, part joy at watching the river punish me, knowing I’d fought my way out.

I threw up a triumphant “Yee-haw!” and smacked a dripping high-five with him. And that was it. No debrief, no drama. Just another day on the river. The Zambezi doesn’t stop for your war stories. There are always more rapids waiting. We bank those tales for later…..and today, I finally share this one.

Reflection

The Zambezi has no interest in your ego. It doesn’t care how many runs you’ve logged or how skilled you think you are. It only asks one question……will you fight, or will you fold?

That day in Rapid 11, I learned again what the river always teaches…..fear doesn’t live in the moment. Fear is past and future. In the chaos, there is only presence. Action and reaction. Inputs and outputs.

Sometimes you don’t get the clean line. Sometimes you don’t look good doing it. But if you hold on, if you fight for air when everything is dragging you down, you can still make it out upright.

And that’s a lesson far beyond the river. The video below is the actual footage from that day.

Here is the actual footage of the beating I took on Rapid 11