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Published on March 8, 2008

It's hard to have a conversation as we bounce up and down on the red track towards the cabin that looms above the Maetang River, the site of northern Thailand's fastest, most famous white-water stretch.

But that's not important, as I have already got to know my rafting companions, a true-blue Aussie couple called Mike and Kath,

While we rattle around, Kath, who has one arm around her husband, apologises for being squeezed so tight against me. The intimacy is nothing compared with what will unfold under pressure, crammed in a dinghy shooting cascades. I have seen strangers lurch from their perches and land with their heads in each other's laps. And I've heard about a girl who was catapulted from an inflatable on this very river downstream to her death.

Later in the day, after an in-depth briefing from Oh, our guide, we finally take to the river and sail past what appear to be the remains of bamboo rafts. But the water is low and the rocks are exposed - a serious roadblock, so we are moving at a stroll. I have experienced more turbulence mowing the lawn and feel very let down. Mike and Kath don't look happy either.

Oh takes us through a series of drills, teaching us to get down, stand up and quickly switch to whichever side of the inflatable needs more weight. Executing them on the calm water only heightens the sense of absurdity and makes me wonder if he's trying to keep us distracted so that the voyage is less of a drag.

Half a kilometre later, all becomes clear. Suddenly we are battling a torrent writhing like a naga, the legendary serpent of the deep.

"Go left!" shouts Oh, instructing the Aussie couple to jump on my side.

"Back!" he yells, then "Right!", urging me to switch. Sometimes the choreography goes awry and we all cross over together, or fail to register what he is saying and just stare numbly ahead at the whirlpools.

"Get down!" Oh yells. We sink to our knees.

The inflatable keels onto its side and rockets over rapids flanked with black rocks. Twisting our bodies, we narrowly manage to right the boat just as we emerge back into the flood. Close shave.

As the journey unravels, the pressure ratchets up; obstacles become ever more radical, as do our antics. We fend off rocks with oars, even hands. We shunt another dinghy stuck in our path out the way. We clash helmets, sit on each other's oars, lurch and only narrowly manage to stay aboard for the surreal moment when, lodged on a rock, we execute a 360-degree turn.

"Up-and-down!" Oh says. We do as requested, laughing hysterically. No wonder this river is a magnet for white-water grunts from all over the world.

Graeme Addison, the author of "White Water: The World's Wildest Rivers", says that he always knew that sooner or later "rubber-busing" (inflatable rafting) would happen in Thailand's North - it just needed a thriving tourism market and foreign skills to bring it in.

But riding the rapids in the region is nothing new. Bamboo rafting has been a feature of Thai river adventures for several years, drawing on indigenous river skills and equipment. Addison describes Thai rafting as "an enchanting experience, quite different from anything Westerners are accustomed to. With their mystic waterfalls and dense tropical forests, the rivers are superb scenically. The total experience is a fantasia of elephant rides and scrumptious Thai meals."

Addison adds that, thanks to the North's youthful lava-and-limestone geology, steep, "rambunctious" rivers easily develop. Although not big by world standards the rapids are "technical and rocky".

For rafting purposes, that gives them a rating of class 3 usually. But in the rainy season - from around August to September - "they can flood chocolate brown and be rather terrifying".

Then again, when the water is that high you finish in half the time and are less likely to head-butt a rock. We duck and weave, vigorously committed to this strange entertainment that fuses rollercoaster momentum with the mayhem of dodgems, pinball and crazy golf.

Just when we suspect that we are near the final stretch, we turn a corner and see another rapids.

We plunge and soon the other vessels in our inflatable fleet have evaporated out of sight behind us.

By the time we arrive at the end of the 10-kilometre course, we will be shattered and will no doubt sleep soundly tonight. White-water rafting beats whiskey or just about any other form of sedation.

Meanwhile we need to stay alert since the next fizzing rapids we have to navigate resemble a cross between a vice and a slalom.

Slithering through its clutches, we head straight for a wall. "Get down!" Oh yells.

Hasta la vista.

David Wilson

Special to The Nation