The Crossing
By Bridget Crocker ©2003

First published as a field report in Patagonia catalog Summer 2003

They appear like migrating wildebeests at a waterhole. Hundreds of Bodi men launch themselves from the left shore and begin to forge the flooding river buck-naked; splashing and kicking their way across the bubbling eddy water on inflated cow stomachs. Their small watercrafts are covered with hides for protection from punctures as well as for improved grip. As they peel into the current, they hold the ballooning guts out in front of them kickboard style and grit their teeth in huge frightened smiles.
Onshore, cowry shell adorned women in suede sarongs loudly sing out “li-li-li-li” while cradling their nursing babies. Shouting children pound rocks together and run erratically up and down the shore creating a distracting echo that carries up and around the canyon bend from where our group has just emerged.
During our two-week Omo River expedition, our traveling flotilla has seen countless eddies teeming with aggressive, territorial hippos. On many occasions, we’ve spotted crocodiles sunning their 15-20 feet behemoth bodies on gravel islands. Our boats have been stalked more than once by either a pissed-off hippo or hungry croc. No one in our group would consider swimming the river voluntarily under any circumstances. It’s full-on food chain without any medical facility closer than a week’s travel.
Floating through the unexpected pandemonium, the raft I’m rowing becomes engulfed on all sides by suicide swimmers. There are so many of them that I can’t take an oar stroke without smacking somebody upside the head, which I do unintentionally while trying to miss an exposed rock in the current. Mortified by the assault, I grab the stunned teenager under the armpits and yank him into the boat along with his intestinal inner tube. He’s got a nasty lump forming on his forehead, but he’s all-smiles as he tells our interpreter in Amharic how grateful he is for the ride. “Swimming here is not so good,” he says.
He removes the perfect-fitting hide shell from his float bag and reveals what’s inside: cooking oil, some salt, a change of loincloth and suede shoes. It’s market day and since there are no bridges nearby, the mass river crossing we’re witnessing is a weekly ordeal. When asked if they’ve ever lost anyone in the crossing, the young man looks at us like we’re idiots and replies, “all the time.”
We start hauling in more swimmers until we can’t fit another body onto the boat. We’ve got twelve extra guys on the oar rig, which hardly makes a dent in the total number of market-goers. The rest continue to brave it out one kick at a time, smiling all the way.  I strain against the weight of the overloaded raft, pulling for the river-right shore as my new passengers burst into jubilant singing and hand clapping, cheering on the remaining swimmers.
We land on the other side, not far from the Sudan border. The men quickly prepare themselves for market, tying loincloths and shoes. Afterwards, they stash their boats in the lush Ethiopian evergreen forest for the inevitable return crossing.

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