Feeling rather ridiculous — decked out in a flashy wetsuit, rubber booties, life jacket and helmet — I waddle over to the big blue raft. Georgia, our Aussie safety kayaker, briefs us on what to do if ejected from the craft (i.e., don't tie the rescue rope around your neck). Her role is to scout out the rapids ahead of us, and troll for anyone who happens to float past.
After class is dismissed, we turn to face Tibet's Drigung River, which is swollen by monsoon rains. It's definitely moody — frothy and foaming in parts. From this point on, it's all class III and IV rapids.
Thank heavens for Captain Ram. Our raft's guide is a bearded young Nepalese with long hair tied back in a ponytail. Happily for our group of six, Ram has 10 years of whitewater rafting and kayaking experience on rivers in his homeland. He gives us a briefing on when to paddle forward and backward, when to stop, and when to jump to the left or right side of the boat.
There are few rivers in the world where you can raft more than four kilometres up. In Tibet, however, most terrain starts at this elevation, and it's all uphill from there. Many of the subcontinent's mighty rivers — the Indus, Salween, Mekong, Yangtse, and Brahmaputra — are sourced in Tibet, rushing through deep gorges between snowcapped peaks (the Yarlung Tsangpo, for instance, is the world's deepest canyon).
I check my watch — the altitude at the put-in point is 4,080 metres — and wonder how this extraordinary rafting run came into being. The next day, I learn that Chris Jones (another Aussie) and Captain Ram made their first descent of the Drigung by kayak in 2003. The knowledge gained from that descent led to the first commercial whitewater rafting run soon after.
As part of Wind Horse Adventure, a high-end touring company, Jones and his Canadian partner Sharyn Smith run the only rafting company in Tibet that offers regular trips out of Lhasa. Clients range from first-time rafters to world-class kayakers on exploratory first descents.
Quite apart from the commercial operation, Jones has a personal stake in Tibet.
"There's so much to explore here," he says. "It's such an amazing place."
He's hooked on the prospect of first descents down class IV and class V+ rapids, having led several expeditions in Tibet.
"And there are many more rivers to run," he says excitedly.
Back on the banks of the Drigung, we push off into the swirling waters. The towering landscape flashes by, but I hardly notice (what with all my energy being focused on staying in the raft). Menacing waves crash around my head, and I get my first taste of rafting lingo: Standing waves, pillow waves, eddies, seams and drops, and deadly holes where a craft can get stuck and pounded until empty.
On the river today are two matching blue rafts, both with a Captain Ram at the helm. Spirits are high, so broad-siding each other, and drenching occupants by batting paddles on the surface, is the name of the game.
In the rafts are a couple from Germany, two Swiss guys, a brother and sister from the U.S., a Dutchman and a Tibetan woman. The symphony of first-timers is comprised of high-pitched yelps, yahooing, and the occasional scream as waves crash over the bows, drenching all in frigid water.
I'm trying to figure out if Captain Ram is bent on deliberately steering us into troubled waters to increase the excitement. In any case, he's a wizard at reading the river — looking for the best line through the rapids, steering clear of submerged rocks. "Forward! Forward!" he yells urgently when we reach a spot with barely enough space for the raft to squeeze through.
