Raft of ideas

It is said that in Nepal there is a metaphor for everything. Some aspect of the country can represent whatever issues loom large in your life. The search for one's true self is mirrored in the quest for the elusive snow leopard in the high west. The fickle power of fortune is seen in the sudden storms on the high Himalayan ridges. And the danger of too much rash experimentation finds expression in the acquisition of apocalyptic diarrhoea.

So now here I was, in Nepal, after my finals. I thought about my own life issues. The gaining of a medical degree had been my goal for years. Now that I had it, I saw how little it meant. Like a Buddhist acolyte, I was one step closer to Nirvana and the shrugging off of material values. I found myself starting to compose little medico-Buddhist aphorisms: The giving of 1000 days' antibiotics starts with a single venflon; to he who smokes, high flow oxygen is the worst poison; soft murmur - big hole.

But I needed to find a metaphor for my impending and frightening employment as a preregistration house officer. Searching for the yeti around Mount Everest would take too long, and I didn't really have enough thermals for a pilgrimage to a sacred mountain. It would have to be two days' whitewater rafting - reduced to 30 dollars, good price for you, sir.

The more I thought about it, the more appropriate my metaphor seemed for work in a consultant firm. Someone controls a small group of people, all scared. The controller is at the back and rarely seen. He shouts hard-to-hear instructions, and they try to contribute with their small paddles. Sometimes without warning they are thrown into deep water. But always there is someone there to help them return to the raft - their health, if not their dignity, intact. There are also relaxing bits of flat water where they can appreciate the beauty of their surroundings and the amount of progress they have made.

So I signed up for this aquatic right of passage, heart in mouth and elastic around glasses. By the stony bank of the river we slowly pumped up the rafts, the roar of the white water making it hard to hear. We put on clothing, the nature of which indicated it was likely we would either hit our head on rocks or fall into the churning spume all around. A safety lesson was given, which only served to inform us of more interesting ways in which we could die. We were commanded by a cocky, hard-bodied Nepali. He flirted with all the girls in the way all male outdoor pursuits instructors are highly trained to do. I hoped that his pulling technique was as good on the water.

We got under way. As the cold rapids progressed, I was grateful for having leg hair, as was one unwaxed girl in our party. We were bounced around like a big rubber pinball. The rapids had humorous rafting names, such as "Frog in a Blender", "Devil's Toilet Bowl", and "Tourists' Watery Graveyard", but somehow we managed to stay upright and in the raft. If we couldn't hear the instructions being shouted to us, we defaulted to "Hold on very tight and pray." In the brief respite between rapids we saw the wonderful terraced valleys with precariously balanced villages and sheep. Rickety bridges spanned the torrent, and often also possessed trolls in the shape of small hairy Nepalis. The river glinted as we emerged from the valley's shadows. And enjoyment overcame fear as we realised we were safer than we appeared, and that falling in wasn't that bad anyway.

So I survived my allegorical test. We didn't overturn, nor were any of us caught beneath the raft, as we were warned about... and then I wondered if my metaphor had been challenging enough after all.

Séamus Phillipsm, whitewater rafter, graduate of University of Southampton.


studentBMJ 2000;08:175-216 June ISSN 0966-6494