For a Brief Moment

The early African sun glints off the water casting an eerie reflection back up the hill towards the campsite.

Woken early by the early dawn rays, I make my way down the bank behind the tents and past the showers that look out over the the great expanse of Nile before me. A troop of colobus monkeys plays in the trees overhead, hunting for fruits and insects before the sun

becomes too intense. Keen to absorb what they can, great cormorants are perched on the rocks. Limbs constantly raised at right angles to absorb what they can of the sun, they look eerily like a crucifix. Docile. Unshakable. Calmly accepting of their fate. The silence is all pervading.

Eventually I make it down the hill to the great river bank where the Nile flows past in it's relentless path to the Mediterranean. Outcrops of rock interrupt the river's flow sending sprays of water in all directions and creating miniature waterfalls and rapids. The sheer immensity of the river sends many gallons of white water frothing amongst the rocks. The equatorial location make it a perfect natural spa.

A boy of around eight or nine stands perched up on a rock jutting out of the foaming water. He holds a fishing line that bobs up and down as it is tossed by the waves. A pile of small nile perch lies at his feet. He tells me his name is Bosco.

Like many boys his age, he is a little impatient - pulling up the hook every few minutes and pouting exaggeratedly at me in mock disappointment when nothing is on the line. From time to time I call out to him over the roar of the churning water. Sometimes he replies, mostly he doesn't understand my dirty kiwi accent and just nods and laughs – the default Ugandan response.

After a while he gives up. His brother has joined us, repeatedly zipping down a makeshift slide constructed down the bank. Bosco scrambles along the rocks, tears off his shirt and dives into the crystal water beside the Swimming Own Risk sign. Before long it gets too appealing and I follow him. The water is surprisingly warm for the hour of day.

Beneath the slide is a rocky outcrop that serves as a natural diveboard. I pull myself up and sit next to Bosco's brother - a thin. bony child of around 5 dressed only in loose-fitting, black shorts.

He tells me he doesn't like to swim in the river because the fish bite his toes. So he sits shirtless up on a rocky ledge with his arms wrapped around his knees shivering. I suggest it's actually the cold water he doesn't like. He grins coyly and nods. A number of times he looks ready to dive in but then backs out. Clearly trying to muster the courage to join his brother and the strange mzungu, he shivers in the shade before slowly lowering himself into the water - inch by agonising inch.

I slide into the water beside him and let the current partially drag me away while he talks about his school, his mother and the monkey he caught last week. I bob in the water, floating toward and away from the ledge with the whim of the river's undertow.

Then the current takes me by surprise and I have to spend considerable energy fighting the pull. I'm a little weary by the time I get within an arms stretch of the bank. He offers his leg dangling in the water and I stretch out to take hold. I spy a cheeky look on his face and realise it's coming. Just as I'm about to pull myself up onto the bank he flicks water at me. Partially blinded by the water I flick back and he withdraws, climbing a little further up the bank.

Slowly, step by step, he creeps back to the water and kicks a load of water in my direction. I fling my arms about in the river sending as much as I can in his direction. He shrieks with laughter now and starts pummeling me with splashes.

For a minute we both stand there in freeze-frame repeatedly each shoveling as much water as we can upon the other.

Eventually I dive back into the water, paddle around, and stare back at him expectantly. He's still in two minds; he's rather wet now so the temperature doesn't matter, that just leaves the issue of the nibbling fish.

He again offers his leg as I try and pull myself back up the bank. Towards the end I give a playful tug and he starts to tumble toward the water, beaming. He lowers himself into the churling rapids just past his knees but no further. Even here he looks unsteady and turns to climb back towards the shore.

But the current is strong, he has to work hard to make progress, and the rocks are wet and slippery and he struggles to maintain his footing. He slips and slides. Coming up behind him I try to give him a little momentum against the backpull of the river. 

But then my feet give way on the moss-covered rocks and we both start slipping backwards. I catch his gleaming eye as we slide down the rockface and into the churning water.

The early African sun glints off the water casting an eerie reflection back up the hill towards the campsite.

And for a brief moment there is no war in the North. 

There is no corruption. 

There is no HIV and no AIDS. 

There are just two boys playing in a waterfall. Splashing amongst the turbulent water. Lost in the moment.