We presented our papers, the official government documents that gave us permission to be on the river, but the lead Army official tossed them away. We again insisted that they read our papers. Finally one of the villagers, the oldest guy in the group and the only one unarmed, picked up our documents and read them aloud in halting French. It turned out that the Army ringleader and his cronies couldn’t read.
Once our docs were read, things eased a bit. They decided that they wouldn’t march us away but would still take a lot of our stuff. Thus proceeded a delicate negotiation of what we’d be willing to part with. Ultimately they got all our cash, watches, iPods, carabiners and the rest of our freeze-dried dinners. I had hidden most of my camera gear, and we refused to give up helmets and PFDs. The standoff lasted maybe two hours, and when we finally settled with our attackers, we wasted no time getting the hell out of there. We had no idea what rapids were around the next corner, but we weren’t taking the time to scout.
We pushed on to takeout later that day, where we met up with our crew and spent another week helping with scientific tasks and shooting for television. Ultimately our data showed that we paddled over a spot 750 feet deep, thus becoming the deepest known spot of any river in the world. I bet there are spots in the Congo even deeper. It felt like it.
