Bumpy roads and spitting cobras - let the touring begin.

Today's post comes from guest author and traveling companion Shannon Rolph. Enjoy her emotive writing.

"Kenn and I are now on the road. We decided that we would head to the Southwest of Uganda – a land packed with rolling hills, crater lakes, lowland rainforest, highland valleys, and sky-piercing mountain ranges. It is beautiful!

After our first days spent touring caves and lakes around Fort Portal (see Kenn’s post on this here), we decided that this would be a great opportunity to head into the Semliki Valley – a lowland rainforest that is continuous with the Congolese Uturi forest, the largest in Africa. There were two things I didn’t anticipate about this trip: 1) how incredibly beautiful the drive would be; 2) how absolutely terrifying the drive would be.

Myth: A matatu that drives full speed around blind corners on the edge of a 100 metre dropoff with only it’s blaring horn to protect you from any oncoming vehicles is really, really scary.

Fact: A matatu that drives full speed around blind corners on the edge of a 100 metre dropoff without blaring it’s horn to protect you from any oncoming vehicles is really, REALLY scary.

We took the 2 hour journey in a jam-packed rickety matatu with babies on our laps, flying around blind corners with enormous dropoffs only inches away (the tires definitely left the gravel a few times), all for the sake of getting to this rainforest.

We got to the rainforset – went for a walk – saw some monkeys and big trees – but otherwise it was truthfully a little bit disappointing. The highlight was probably seeing a 2.5 metre spitting cobra. We heared it before we saw it; it was hustling down a tree trunk trying to get out of sight as we approached and made a ruckus as it hit the ground.

After seeing the cobra, we walked on and soon looped back. As we were crossing the same point that the cobra was first seen, there was a loud rustling in the trees overhead. I turned to our guide, Moses, and asked, “What kind of monkeys are up there?” Moses looked at me, fear in his eyes, and responded with a thick accent, “spitting cobra.” The look on my face must have been quite rewarding because he burst into laughter and continued to laugh at his joke for a solid 5 minutes afterwards. I jumped at every rustling in the bush for a solid 45 minutes afterwards. Jokes about deadly snakes - not funny!

I'm now sitting in a cafe in Rwanda drinking the nicest coffee I've had in 2 months. We just arrived in Kigali and I'm really looking forward to exploring (and testing out my grade 10 French) - Internet seems to be more common around here, so I'll be sure to update a bit more often!

xoxo"

Ambeere Caves

The first day of "Milestone Shannon" has begun. We left for the Ambeere Caves outside of Fort Portal.

We swam under a glacier waterfall drifting down from the Rwenzori Mountains - Africa's highest mountain range.

We entered the Ambeere Caves - literally translating to "Breast Caves." Named as such because the stalagmites are apparently shaped like breasts and the water turns white as it drips down the limestone. They didn't look like any breasts I've ever seen - but then again, breasts in Africa are just different. I also couldn't make out the slaughtered dog or miscellaneous cow parts in the rock which the local people center their legends around.

We saw some crater lakes and hiked some Rwenzori foothills.

We got lost on our way back to camp and joined a small procession walking in the right direction - four people walking through the bush with a large flag raised high. When we asked them how to get to the caves, they asked us "so you want to go to prison?" We were quite confused and decided to find our own way.

Back on the road again. Nice to travel with Shann. So smiley.

Luke's Kayaking Adventures

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Upstream without a Paddle

To recap - I let the kayaking paddle drift away after swimming during a lesson near class 4 rapid Easy Rider at the source of the Nile in Jinja, Uganda. The paddle sunk and was not recovered. It was a rare and important asset for my friends working at the local kayaking business.

I met the owner of the paddle, Safa. The previous day, we had had negotiated the price of a bike rental and I had learned many of his negotiating tactics. I was happy to have done business with him previously as we entered discussions regarding the paddle.

He recognized his upper hand and played on my guilt in negotiation. His argument was that I had forced Luke to take me to Easy Rider despite it being out of my league, I had lost the paddle due to negligence and ruined his business in doing so. As a result, he could no longer afford to eat or go to school. I was a bad man who had screwed him horribly. It would cost me $100 USD to remedy this. I was happy he started at $100 USD as this was where I had hoped to end negotiation should it end at dollars for paddles. But selfishly, I was excited about trying to acquire or build a new paddle.

First, I was going to buy a kayaking paddle on the internet and ship it to Uganda. I found base model whitewater kayaking paddles for $25 at Walmart.com but they don't ship to Uganda. I thought of shipping it home, then having mommy forward it to Ward in Jinja, then having Safa pick it up. Cost is $25 purchase + estimated $40 shipping + estimated $25 tariff, but best case timeframe is likely a month. Safa wanted reparations for lost income - $2.50 per day for the rental of the paddle. This was a deal breaker.

Second, buy a paddle from one of the local kayaking schools. They held firm at $300. Nope.

Third, buy fins and a medal pipe. Fishermen find lost rafting paddles and resell them for $5. I found two for sale, but I felt bad about it as I knew who the proper owners were. I found proper owned paddles for $10, and a pipe for $3. I was ready to buy when Safa said that the quality would be insufficient to replace the lost paddle which been a professional paddle. I didn't give into this argument easily, but he was right.

Fourth, my friend Fatia brought a paddle which belonged to a friend. I got her down to $40 for the paddle. Again, Safa objected to the quality saying it would break if you used it on the class 5.5 rapid Big Brother. To be fair - it was old and cracked, the shaft was fiberglass instead of medal, and it had two left fins - but the paddle I lost wasn't exactly perfect either. I took it to the water to test it myself. Eventually I gave it to my friend Tony who took it down Big Brother - he said he liked the paddle better than the one I had lost.
I was feeling like I had it, but Safa still refused the deal - willing to accept only $100. Luke said "I want paddle, but he - he only want money." I was solidifying my assumption that Safa was just trying to exploit the situation for a profit. I was very firm in my resolve to push the paddle instead of money.

Safa got angry and I thought he was going to hit me. He threatened to call the police - a clear bluff. Eventually the story of the lost paddle's origins came forth - Safa had washed an Irishman's clothes for four months and paid him $70 for the professional freestyle paddle. The waterproofing of the paddle had been ruined when Safa paid to have it modified from freestyle to whitewater form. Safa seemed sincerely hurt by my insistence and became very troubled. I'm so used to people starting with outrageous prices and then paying one quarter of that - but I was now convinced Safa had started with a fair price. I reasoned that I had pushed this ordeal far enough and we went to town together so I could get him $90.

I also bought some blades and a pipe and gave them to Luke. Despite being low quality, Luke will no longer spend 15% of his income renting paddles from Safa when he works in the kayak. And maybe his kayaking pupils will feel more comfortable having an instructor with a paddle.

Kayaking the Nile II

I have managed to get out in the kayak for five more lessons. I kayak early in the morning and late in the afternoon to avoid the sun. I had a stomach and bowel infestation for about ten days and so went kayaking only when I felt up to it. I have since terminated the infestation with a healthy dose of antibiotic.




It seems that all of Luke's kayaking lessons can be summed up using one of the following statements of broken English:

• Swim hard, Kenny.
• Don't swimming.
• Enjoy kayaking.
• Use yo' hips.
• Keep your paddle very far.
• Don't panicking.
• Paddle very hard.
• It's goood!

But really - what else is there to say? Luke has mastered elegance through simplicity. But Luke's broken English leaves a little to be desired and I am in want of a kayaking buddy. Nearly every day somebody takes kayaking lessons. Some come for two or three days of lessons. One guy came for six consecutive full day lessons paying nearly $600 to do so. No matter how long they stay, no matter what teacher takes them - not a single one has rolled the kayak. Despite this, they seem to have a good time. But their collective lack of progress has been extremely frustrating for me as I head to rapids alone.

The first four lessons were on a class 3 rapid near my camping site - a very accessible place which has been great for playing and working on basics while I'm sick. The rapid is about 100 meters long and 40 meters wide. Approaching by kayak from below you can climb out of the water and walk over an island to run the rapid's lower third (the best part); or paddle in calm water up the side and then cross low-grade rapids to where the water is big and fast. There's nothing standing in the middle, but the lower third starts with a set of two standing waves that you can surf. Luke and I also play on some other class 3s and in the bottom of some of the class 5s and 6s. There is serious fast moving water here.

I have a very fond memory of some runs during sunset and I wish so much that I had a picture.

By the end of day five I had had two consecutive lessons without swimming and was feeling very confident despite having Luke tell me constantly that I have "bad looks" - which I later found out meant that I can't line up the approach for surfing. He is trying to get me to step it up and try Easy Rider, a class 4 rapid nearby. Easy Rider is massive but he thinks I'm ready. See below.

On the weekend, Shannon came to visit from Kampala and on Sunday we went rafting. It was awesome! I got my first taste of Easy Rider when it flipped the rafting and sent us all swimming. Luke was one of the safety kayakers on the trip and it was amazing to see him run the river - most notably Big Brother a giant chute with a four meter standing wave; and Overtime with a three meter waterfall which he dropped down. Shown is our raft just after The Bad Place after Itanda Falls (see video). Crazy!

At lunch time on rafting day, Luke told me that the next rapid was a class 4 and that it would make my day better if I passed it on a kayak instead of on a raft. I agreed nervously. I walked around Overtime with the kayak feeling bad about leaving Shann in the raft alone - the rocks and big drop at the end of Overtime had been the subject of much intimidation. But Shann was relaxed and seemed confident. She sent me onto my adventure with a smile. Getting through the long sections of flat water proved to be more of an issue than the rapids. I watched her from below as she ran through Overtime. She did great and looked relieved when they took the line which didn't drop down the waterfall. I ran clean through Little Spit, my first class 4 rapid with no need to roll. It was noticeably bigger than anything I'd done before and the power was impressive and scary - my first time in waves which are taller than me.

I was very pleased with how things went and decided to stay in the kayak for the next rapid, a class 4 called Bugogo. Bugogo is a series of two big waves. Luke offered some words of inspiration "paddle hard" as we entered the rapid in the middle. We faced sideways to take a line which avoided the first big wave and then rammed the second wave in the middle. The second wave picked up the kayak and threw me into a back flip. I would later learn that I need to tuck into a pike should I want to avoid this - it seems funny that this tidbit was omitted from the preparatory lessons. Being upside down in the class 4 water didn't feel so different, and my roll was perfectly crisp. I sailed through the haystacks to the end and scrambled back into the raft.

Turns out that Shannon was thrown feet first out of the front of the raft on Little Spit. In doing so, she perforating her ear drum. She is fairing well after seeing a doctor in Kampala and a full recovery is expected shortly. Notice me smiling gleefully and Shannon in the water in the picture.

Lesson seven and I am energized after a day off biking in the countryside. My first lesson without a stomach flu. Luke was teaching a few Israeli friends of mine to roll, so I went with a new guy Baron to Easy Rider (picture on right shows our raft flipping on Easy Rider). Easy Rider is bigger water than Bugogo and has five big waves as compared to Bugogo's two. I was quite nervous about attempting it and felt like we were rushing things. Baron and Luke were encouraging - so why not check it out? An island in the river is straddled by two rapids - Easy Rider is to the right, and an unnamed class 2 passes on the left. The plan was to go down the class 2, study Easy Rider from below, then maybe walk above and run the chicken line. The chicken line is the easiest line on the rapid but you have to approach sideways which makes things a bit technical. While on the class 2, I was caught off guard by larger than expected boiling water and whirlpools. It was nothing I couldn't handle - but I'm just not composed in the mornings. I got sucked down backwards by a small whirlpool. I rolled out but each time was sucked down. If I would have paddled hard I would surely escape - but I just let myself drift and spin and get scared and lose my breath. On the fourth overturn, I rushed two attempts to roll and ended up taking a swim.

I'm swimming on the left side of the river where the class 2 merges with Easy Rider. The safe eddy is on the right bank, so I had to swim across Easy Rider's tail. The water was very strong and fast. By the time I made it to shore, I was very fatigued but the water was moving fast and oddly by the bank forming an odd pattern indicative of strong undercurrents. To avoid this dangerous water, I had to swim away from shore back into the main current. Exhausted, I let the paddle float away and I thought about ripping the skirt off me to reduce the drag. In this state of mild panic I was able only to think of myself - retrospectively I regret this decision, regard it as lazy, and wish I had kept my composure as there was time to rest. Too bad Luke wasn't there to remind me of the "don't panicking" lesson. I made it into the eddy safely. Baron leapt into action when I told him about the paddle "now the real adventure begins" he said as he paddled after it. I waited for about two hours on the island until he returned.

The paddle's blades are commercial grade but the shaft is just a medal tube. I didn't know this at the time, but its typical African assembly means that it isn't water proof. The paddle simply fills with water and sinks after some time - so my decision to abandon the paddle doomed it to a watery grave. You can't exactly go to the store and buy a kayaking paddle here. The fishermen shim bucket lids into tree branches for paddles. Luke often teaches without a paddle because there just aren't any. Somehow I just did not realize how valuable the paddle was for Luke and Baron. I felt terrible while sitting and listening to Baron tell their fellow safety kayakers about the loss - reactions ranged from total disbelief to glaring looks of disgust in my direction. One jumped into his kayak to look even though more than an hour had passed. Three of the five approached me one at a time over the next day for the story of how it was lost. Later I sat with Baron and Luke in a bar, their heads hanging low. It isn't their paddle to lose - they rent it for 5000 shillings per day from a wealthy local guy. They expect trouble from the owner. I felt worthless.

Gaining a little perspective, I laughed loudly as I left Luke and Baron at the bar. So I lost a paddle? As if we can't fix this. I abandoned my thoughts of squeezing in a trip to Murchison Falls that afternoon - I'll stick around Jinja to see how I can remedy the paddle situation. There is amusement here - but also a sense of duty to my new friends.

On the Nile after a bit more practice:

Jinja, Uganda II

It's been nearly two weeks and I'm still in Jinja. Mostly I'm being sick, and when I'm not sick I'm kayaking but I'm also reading and driving to town for Indian food. I found a restaurant with awesome paneer pasanda in Jinja called Leoz.

I spent time with a guy from Pennsylvania who was learning to kayak, an interesting guy who has been working in southern Sudan for three months, and a French Canadian doctor who nursed me back to health. On Monday an Israeli friend from Cape MaClear, Malawi arrived at the campsite and we all took a bike ride together to Itanda Falls. A topical storm hit on the bike trip and our group of four got separated. I relished in the chance to bike around in the rain to find everybody.

I met the local owner of a hair salon who took me to a bar in town. She apologized for taking me to such an awful place as we entered. Within ten minutes a woman took a swing with a beer bottle at another girl's head. They went to town on each other brawling on the floor. I was ushered outside. The girl I came with informed me that they were prostitutes fighting over me. Two more prostitute brawls ensued over me and I wasn't really in the mood to buy, so we left.

I had a great time with Shannon on the weekend. We had a chill day in the village touring my friend's school and a local medical clinic. Good conversation. I had previously met a boy, Joseph, who invited us to his place and we took the chance to explore his farmhouse. Sunday was an action packed day on the river which I describe here. Looking forward to our upcoming adventures in Rwanda.

Last night I took another chance to go visit my "Uncle Ward". He treated me to the best matoke and beef which I've ever had. We exchanged new stories and outlooks about business and girls and Uganda and life. He embraced some of the ideas which I brought up for a business in the local kayaking sector. The evening provided some more depth and layers on an already intriguing character. Ward is shown here outside his Jinja home.

What is up with Ernest Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises? Bunch of miserable droning. Wasted generation indeed. I just didn't get it.

Was planning a kayaking expedition down a piece of the Nile with Luke and Baron, but have been discouraged by the recent paddle incident. We'll see.

Q and A

I got some questions from my friend Leslie Rowe and thought I would host a Q and A.

1. Have you found it useful to travel with US dollars ? (assuming you do)

I originally carried USD because it made me more comfortable. All transactions with locals are in local currencies and bartering in USD to a sure way to pay more. USD are most useful on the resorts where pricse are fixed and you can sometimes earn you a favourable price - most notibly in places with artificially inflated local currencies (Malawi and Zimbabwe for me). I require USD for most border crossings as USD and Euro are the only accepted currencies. I no longer carry USD and don't miss it.

2. Have you found it fairly easy to access ATM machines with your bank card? (gather from one of blogs that VISA is the card of choice which I've read before)

ATMs are ubiquitous in all countries, all cities, and even some villages. Rwanda seems to be the only exception and this is well documented in most of my readings, so I would expect you can find them unless your reading explicitly indicates otherwise.

3. Do you find traveling with a tent and sleeping bag invaluable (despite the added weight)?

My tent is my house and I could not do without it for my style of travel. I have slept in a bed only a handful of times on my trip (maybe seven). I prefer my tent to the uncomfortable and sometimes questionably clean bedding in the lodings. It is also a good way to cut costs.

I love my tent - a Big Agnes Seedhouse SL2 as it weighs only 1.5 kg. This plus ultralight summer bag and mattress make the weight a non-issue for the clear benefits.

4. Have you heard any yays or nays about those overland camping tours of African countries?

A contentious issue.

There is a general attitude of contempt amongst most independent travelers I meet for the overlanders. Independent travelers seem to think themselves a superior breed to the overlander. For the most part, the overlanders seem very happy but mostly socialize amongst themselves.

From what I can tell, all the companies are pretty much the same and the quality of the trip depends mostly on your guide and the group in the bus - neither of which you can control. Having somebody else drive you everywhere and manage all your logics breeds a very different attitude to travel and most trucks sport a party atmosphere.

The trucks stop in a set of places which are equipped to cater to that many people. Personally, if there are two villages one with an overlander stop, I go to the one without. Having the overlanders stop in a town is transformative - quality of service is higher, but things are ubiquitously more expensive and locals are more prone to treat you like walking money. I hitched a ride with a Kumuka truck through Zambia and had a wonderful time though it would have driven me crazy to stay for more than a few days. I'm glad I tried it, but this style of travel is not for me as I prefer more independance and enjoy managing my own logistics; but there are many virtues. If your time is constrained, or you don't want to travel alone - overlanding is a good way to see a lot of Africa.

5. Sandals the best footwear? Other?

Sandals and boots are indispensable. Everything in the middle is a luxury. I often wish I had a pair of dress shoes for socializing and it is common for female travelers to carry a pair.

Thanks for the questions! Happy to answer any others.

Round 2

1. When you are camping are you staying in "campgrounds" or just finding a spot somewhere? Alas, we females always have to have our radar up for our safety from -well - you males (alas, twas ever thus) so as much as I look forward to tenting I wanted to get a sense of what sort of venue we're talking about.

Oh men, tell it girl.

When camping, I'm mostly in campgrounds - at least 90% of the time. Guide books are useful for finding them. The quality of campsites vary greatly. Sometimes campsite means "the small patch of grass in front of the bar," sometimes it is a patch of indoor concrete - but usually there is a garden or patch of kept grass for camping with shared fascilities (restaurant, toilet, shower). If the Lonely Planet says there's camping - they mean a designated good quality area.

I have camped in cities but I don't recommend it except to have the experience.  There are usually a lot of  harassment even though it is well intentioned - often people will literally camp beside you just to watch you in fascination. I am always nervous about theft with so many eyes on me, though nothing has ever been taken.

The camping women I've talked with report no additional troubles than most of the men. I have never met a person assaulted in their tent.

A more realistic threat is likely theft. I would wager that risk of theft from dorm rooms (where belongings are in a common area) is higher than from tents - but I'm guessing.
 
2. Are you finding that the majority of the long-term travellers are people (oops, I almost said "kids") in their 20's? Would this be the case most particularly on the overland tour groups?

All shapes and sizes. I've been really impressed with the diversity. Africa is an expensive place to travel and this seems to keep a lot of the 20 somethings out. If you meet a 20 something, it is more likely that they are a volunteer than a traveler. Overland groups are definitely all ages. Again - different companies cater to different crowds. The "long-term" travelers have mostly been in their 20s, 30s, and 40s (roughly even distribution) though I have met more than a few in their 70s.

Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda has had a lot more travelers and a higher concentration of young travelers than in the south. Certainly places like Zanzibar and Kilimanjaro are mostly young crowds.

3. Why do you think it a good idea to carry boots? Do you use them often? (they're awfully damn heavy when they're not on your feet so am trying to just go with Keans)

I use Keens.
I carry a big pack and like heel support when doing so.
Africa is dirty and muddy.

4. Do you think it a good idea to take mosquito net from here (they sell them impregnated with repellent goop here - ack - or are they everywhere there ?) 

They're everywhere - both for purchase and provided by your accomodator.
I carry a tent instead of a net. If nets are bad, I pitch the tent on the dorm bed.

Family in Jinja?

On Saturday I went to go see my distant relative, Ward who resides in Jinja. We traced the family tree and concluded that he was my second cousin once removed on my mother's side - or in laymen's terms, that my great-great grandmother is the same person as his great grandmother. Regardless, it’s a blood relation and as Ward put it - it's not every day that a piece of your own DNA comes to meet you in Jinja.

Ward lives with his girlfriend (who's name I have embarrassingly forgot) in a pleasant home just outside of town with a large garden and lots of space for badminton. He is on the board of directors for two non-profit groups which he had part in starting - a safe home for addicts in Kamloops, and a charitable effort which finances and supervises the startup of several businesses in Uganda thereby providing reliable employment and skills-training for Ugandans. The latter is what brings Ward to Jinja. "It's all just a huge excuse to have adventures in Uganda" he joked.

Very early in our meeting, Ward recited his latest "business adventure" in which he and his filmmaker-son Dawson produced two hip-hop music videos for a local DJ named Mister OJ. Mister OJ is crippled and walks and dances by holding his feet while supporting his weight with his hands. Apparently Mister OJ is a "solid B" music artist but makes up for this by being very charismatic. The story of the film making was hilarious in its absurdity. The first video is set to a song about living handicapped. For the production of the video, Ward rented a club in Kampala in which Mister OJ performed his song accompanied by hired dancers with Dawson filming. The dancers were basically strippers. For the second film, they hauled all the film making gear to a small remote village and threw a big party in the bush. One highlight which Ward was proud of was their use of incandescent bulbs and large oil funnels as improvised stage lighting. Ward hopes to turn Mister OJ into a spokesperson for Ugandans with disabilities.

Our conversation meandered over several hours and over dinner. It was persistently entertaining. We touched on many topics: the unbelievable extremes of Africa, Ward's "Unifying Theory of Africa", the stigmas of disease and its impacts on people and Ward's personal experiences with bipolar disorder, and we caught up on family news. Ward sends word that Doris is healthy but seems down after the recent death of her husband. She would no doubt love a call from Gran.

I would feel remised if I did not mention the gang-rape of their semi-adopted Ugandan daughter which was perpetrated at a wedding the night previous. The aftermath of this tragedy was unfolding through the telephone as we talked and ate. I felt a great deal of sympathy for this girl and for Ward, but the girl was far away and I was impressed with Ward as he seemed to do everything that could be done to help at a distance. Ward spoke candidly about everything. Needless to say this has left a strong impression on me.

I have never been to a mzungu home in Africa, let alone the home of a relative. It was all very interesting and hilariously entertaining - most notably watching clips from the music videos. I hope to meet Ward again someday - in Jinja or otherwise.

Kayaking on the Nile

I am taking kayaking lessons from an extremely responsible and diligent safety kayaker named Luke. Luke owns a banana farm, and two kayaks - but only one kayaking skirt and only one paddle. We borrow a second skirt and paddle from what seems to be a set of gear shared by all the instructors. The borrowed paddle is broken on one side but Luke is not impeded by this. Our learning schedule is often constrained by external demands for the public gear, but I'm pretty okay with this. Its fun to try to posture against the guides for it. Luke can roll without a paddle, so he ends up using only his hands while I use the lone paddle. It is consistently a little bit absurd and all very entertaining.

I learned to roll in the still water beside Bugagali Falls and then graduated to playing in the fast water under the falls. In the fast water I was not able to keep my balance and I couldn't roll to save my life. I swam after every attempt. Luke decided the lesson was over after five swims - each swim is quite an effort to recover from with only one paddle. I took a break but was unsatisfied with my progress and rallied the gear to practice rolling. Eventually Luke joined in a friend's kayak and took me to the moving water again where I rolled many times and swam only once. I remember the first moment when I realized that kayaking wasn't simply about learning to rolling and it was really quite thrilling.

We started early the next morning, but in my sleep I had somehow lost the ability to roll. I took many swims even in still water and this frustrated me greatly. We went back to basics, and the ability came back as I woke up. We entered a class 3 rapid from the middle and I got the hang of it soon enough. I usually took more than one try to roll out after tipping, but I always recovered and was forced to swim only once - which I describe later. I eventually graduated to the top of the class 3, and I finished the day by approaching the rapid inverted and succeeded in briefly surfing the main crest of the rapid. I eventually tipped and was too exhausted to roll. "Swim 'arrrd Kenneee" yelled Luke as he went after the abandoned gear. I realized that Bugagli Falls is just down river and I had some distance to cover to get to shore. I'm an OK swimmer (despite failing youth orange level) but the drag caused by a long-sleeve shirt, a life jacket, and a large neoprene skirt around your waist (shaped like a parachute) makes swimming through current an exhausting task. I made it to shore quite fatigued.

It was all very much fun, but we ended so I could go to Jinja and meet a distant relative. I developed a wicked sunburn and I attributed my nausea to all the Nile water which I had swallowed. Eventually I put the two together, diagnosed myself with heat stroke. I'll have to take a few days off now. I have never seen waterproof sunscreen in Africa, and you can't fit a hat under the kayaking helmet so it seems the sun may win this war and it will control how much more kayaking I can handle. We'll see - I have some ideas for mitigations.

I've got my leg into the kayaking community here as I have now befriended almost all the local guides. They're all very much fun but in African fashion they party, drink, and smoke too much too often. The guys have been encouraging me to tail behind them as they guide the daily commercial rafting trips down the Nile. I can crawl into the safety raft for big rapids which I can't handle (there are many class 5s and 6s) and will run those that I am comfortable with. What an experience and what a chance to learn. Definitely worth spending some more time in Jinja to play this one out.

An American girl watched my lesson and took some pictures when she noticed I traveled alone, so pictures will follow. I've put in this one of the dude fishing cause I think it is cool and he was a cool guy.

Jinja, Uganda

Smooth ride to Jinja and onto Bugagali Falls near the source of the Nile. I took a boat tour for $3 and eventually had the boat leave me on one of the islands in the midst of the Nile. I set up camp and took a swim during the perfect sunset. At night, the dam-controlled water level rose unexpectedly and flooded my fire and camp. Oops.

I spent the whole day reading beside a massive set of rapids and I am loving Seven Years in Tibet. What a guy! Imagine my joy when I found a passion fruit tree, and a lemon tree right above the location where I had settled in. I stayed on the island for a second sunset and then headed to town with the goal of socializing. To my disappointment, I found only a lonely old man in a mud hut and so I camped beside him on his hill as it was an epic location overlooking the Nile. He spoke no English but somehow made good company - just two bachelors chillin' in DeNile. Eventually some children came to say hello and they were soon gathering supplies and cooking for me in exchange for some expired AA batteries - they were absolutely thrilled with the exchange.

I started probing for kayak lessons in the morning. The asking price for lessons was $115 per day, but I found an arrangement for $10 per day without entirely abandoning my personal safety or the quality of gear to be used. It cannot be understated how much I enjoyed the hours of bartering with the local instructors. In the end, my teacher is a Rasta named Luke who speaks only broken English. He is a safety kayaker for the locally owned rafting tours and is quite adept at the sport. I'm looking forward to this very much.

I got to know one of the boys who cooked pasta for me the night before and he invited me to camp on the flat land on his grandfather's matoke farm. I've spent the last two days there, kayaking with Luke during the days.

Hangin' with Shann in Kampala

I crossed the equator and arrived in Kampala by midday. I went with some friends from Czech to the Kasubi Tombs - a lasting remnant of one of only three African empires. One of the Ugandan King's hundred-some-odd kids gave us a tour. Eventually, I checked into Jjajja Gwen's Guesthouse inside the Mengo Hospital where my friend Shannon was already living.

Kampala is a clean and pleasant city by my new African standards. The city sprawls over a set of rolling hills providing nice urban scenery - though it is often obscured by a smog of misty pollution. The people of Uganda are genuine and so far very welcoming, the common man's mastery of English is the best I've seen in Africa. It is enjoyable to be mzungu here - everybody seems to want a white friend as opposed to a white dole out. When people stare at whitey it seems to be out of a curious inclination, and it is not even faintly predatory. Sometimes it seems like Ugandans want mazungu around in a capacity similar to a pet. Ugandans make some of the first African food which I've really taken too: the chipata - a flat bread cooked in oil on a metal skillet served with choice of egg and lots of fresh vegetable fixings. I have started to eat nearly ten a day. Loving Uganda!

I accompanied Shann to work at the Early Response Center of the Mengo Hospital. The kids were really quite lovely and it was fun to witness their dancing, singing, and laughter. My strong impression is that Shann and her coworker Jen have been a good influence here and that the kids love them to death. Their job is clearly not all fun and games, and working in an African social-political environment is clearly sometimes frustrating. I shared in their frustration when I watched the head of the home kick an autistic child and lead the children in a prayer for god to change him. A crazy environment in which to live and work.

A lasting impression of Kampala is the traffic. The minibuses aren't loaded quite as full as in other places but the passenger can take no addition comfort given the chaos of Uganda's streets. Motorbikes have been fairly rare throughout my travels but in eastern Africa they are everywhere. Many motorbike drivers don't even look before crossing into opposing traffic, and they indiscriminately drive on sidewalks and in the oncoming lane. Helmets, if worn at all are old and used and the patchy repair work with Styrofoam and duct tape are testament to their good use. I've heard the majority of drivers are unlicensed and most are "self taught" ie. they just start driving one day. Drivers pass cars unless they can actually see a reason not to - so a blind corner or large hill is a green light to pass. I have witnessed several collisions and numerous overturned trucks on the roadside including a gas tanker. Kampala - a city of 1.4 million - has only 7 traffic lights.

I must admit that Shann has found herself in a very agreeable spot overlooking this beautiful but chaotic city. Momma Rolph, I attest that your daughter is safe, healthy, appears to be extremely happy, and is keeping good company of those I met. We went to a Korean restaurant in Kampala which felt out of place but was really fantastic. A good reconnection, and it was nice to see each other through fresh perspectives which travel so often provides.

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I bought a phone!  +256787022064
Expensive to call you, but free to receive your call.

You should totally call or text me. Doooo ittt.....

The Tanzanian Catapult

I've changed my route to Uganda to be more direct. I cut straight through Tanzania and now approach Uganda from the south west. It was nice to avoid Dar and Nairobi all together. My new route is Malawi-Morogoro-Dodoma-Mwanza-Bukoba-Uganda and I planned to go by both train and ferry, but the rail line from Dodoma to Mwanza is on strike.

My destinations in Tanzania have been the largest urban centers which I've visited in Africa each bigger than the last - its all come as a bit of a shock.

Dodoma

Tanzania's political capitol, it is in an arid region at the geographic center of the country. I found real ice cream. I met a man named Moses at the bus station. We got to talking and I eventually accepted an invitation to join him at his home for dinner. Turns out that his brother is on scholarship at UBC in Vancouver for computer science. Small world. We discussed Tanzanian life, religion, and politics over rice and beans with his sister and two cousins in their middleclass home. Afterward, Moses dropped me at my hostel and picked me up again in the morning for a tour of the city: we went to visit his friend living in the slums; went to the market; and took a tour of Tanzania's parliament buildings. At noon, Moses escorted me to the safest and most reliable bus company, gave me parting gifts of fruit and drink, and left special instruction with the bus attendee so as to ensure that I find my way.

I have never known hospitality like this. Perhaps this statement is exaggerated as my perception is no doubt skewed by the overwhelming contrasts between Moses and Malawians. Regardless, I am warmed.

Mwanza

Mwanza is Tanzania's second largest city. It is positioned on the shores of Lake Victoria, the source of the Nile and second largest lake in the world. I disembarked from the bus at the stroke of midnight to a hoard of prospective taxi drivers and food vendors. I was swarmed and my pack was grabbed up. I defended and aired OK, but thought I was going to be killed when three men escorted me down a dark alley to the hostel.

Mwanza has been the least becoming place that I've visited. The land and lake are ubiquitous polluted, and I witnessed people defecating directly into the rotting garbage piles which lie just a couple meters from the city's food markets. I walked for a half hour along the shores of Lake Victoria to try to find a nice spot to sit, but the best I managed was to elevate myself slightly above the persistent filth on a pier. On the positive side, the people are pleasant, there are beauty rock forms, and the fruit is amazing - Tanzania stands alone so far for fruit. Today I consumed a bunch of concord grapes, a mango, an avocado, a cucumber, a pineapple, and six tomatoes. The diarrhea was semi-intense.

Bukoba

I took the overnight boat over Lake Victoria to Bukoba. First and second sleeping classes were fully booked, so my only option was to head down into the ship's basement. Seating was pretty crowded so I followed somebody's lead and climbed into the baggage compartments overhead, unrolled my camping mattress, and slept. Was a comfortable night cept for the medal bar in my spine and a few cockroaches.

In the morning, I partnered with some folks from Czech and hired a whole matatu for a comfortable ride into Uganda.

*

All in all, I've had 55 hours on buses making for four long travel days (and one rest day in Mwanza). I found the ordeal exhausting, painful, and unrewarding. The road gets so bumpy that it prevents me from holding a book still enough to read, and I visibly bruised my tailbone. I does not feel good to simply drive past Kilimanjaro, the Indian ocean, Serengeti Park, Ngorongoro Crater, Lake Tanganyika, and Jane Goodall's Gombe Stream (aka places I want to go), and I often have a deep longing to step off the bus. I am finding myself impatient with people, and suffering hugely from the language barriers caused by Western Tanzania's use of Swahili instead of English. I'm very tired of this. Next sabbatical I would fly over Tanzania.

This video from my friend Bort succinctly sums up how I felt during this leg of the journey:


I planned to go west to resume independent travel - but Kampala is just 100km from here. Why not check out what Shannon has going on at the grounds of the Mengo Hospital?

Out of the Fire Truck and into the Fire

For the first time in weeks, I feel the pressure - the clock is ticking. I can endure weeks of long distances constraining me mostly to urban travel, or I can catapult through Tanzania in just a few painful transit days and then resume a leisurely exploratory style in Uganda. I of course chose the latter.

FYI: Tanzania is big. I decided the easiest way to cross the country would be by the main bus line - Dar es Salaam-Nairobi-Kampala. It's fastest, cheapest, easiest.


The bus was scheduled to leave Mzuzu, Malawi at midnight for the 24 hour ride to Dar es Salaam. "11:30 sharp!" the man at the ticket office said firmly as he handed me my bus ticket. I arrived at the bus station at 11:20 but the ticket man didn’t show until 11:55, five minutes before departure. He was piss drunk, dropping is keys three times while unlocking the office and then disturbing the tranquility of the bus stand with loud dance music. At 1, we took a cab to a gas station. The bus rolled in past 3am.

"You'll get a seat in Mbeya. Please sit in the aisle."
Damn it.

I asked if it was far. "No, it’s the first stop."
OK, fine, whatever.

I didn't know this - but Mbeya was more than 600 km away. I sat in the aisle with six others patiently waiting for a "first stop" that never came. The "clapped out shock absorbers had all the cushioning qualities of pig iron" and the driver was on a mission to regain lost time. Even small bumps yielded the sound of metal on metal - I wept for axels everywhere. Hours passed, dawn started to show, but we weren't even at the border to Tanzania. I abandoned all hope of ever reaching a first stop. I found a full lay down position in the aisle and slept.

I awoke when we pulled into the border crossing. It was closed. I became slightly enraged by our schedule - seemingly perfectly optimized for inconvenience - the waiting, speeding, and absurd departure time had all been orchestrated so we could arrive at a closed border post.

Reboarding by 7, a man invited me to take the middle seat next to him. A day of transit proceeded smoothly from my middle seat. I read and loved Livingstone's Tribe: A Journey from Zanzibar to the Cape. A nice drive through the Udzungua Mountains, and then we passed through the largest game reserve in the world perfectly timed at dusk. But the driving got worse as time progressed. You could stand upright in the bus comfortably, but when we took a rail crossing too fast we nearly hit the roof. We had used a seatbelt to hold together a broken chair in front of us, but this jump was too much - it fell apart and Nick got cut on the leg by out of place metal. We were stopped at 55 police check-points.

Dusk turned to darkness and I projected our arrival time in Dar just after 2 am. I asked Nick, about the bus station in Dar. A British chap, and now a resident of Dar, he had lots to say on the matter. "Oh it’s a horrid place. A real shit box, ya know? 'No go zone' they say. The police don't even go there after dark." And on and on… To avoid this world of hurt, I got off with Nick one stop before Dar es Salaam. We shared an air conditioned room. Babies don't sleep this well.

Nyika Plateau National Park

Ralf and I left the lake and took the fire truck inland toward Malawi's Nyika Plateau. A large nature reserve in the Rift Valley at 2800m elevation , it was the inspiration for JRR Tolkien's Shire (the homeland for the hobbit). Information about the roads onto the plateau were inconsistent and sketchy: we met three British doctors who had tried to make the ascent but claimed it to be impassable; a couple from Holland had made it up the previous week, but they warned us to "stay left" after reciting a good story in which they got stuck in mud alongside another truck which had been stuck for more than a week; the numerous locals we asked answered consistently along the lines of "Good roads. No problems." Ralf and his super yellow fire truck made it onto the plateau without incident - despite carrying four hitchhikers and recent rains.

The hitchhikers - a German and a Spaniard - had endured a full day of travel to reach the park's gate and then waiting for two days before we lifted them the last 60 km onto the plateau. That's dedicated hitching. But they arrived on the plateau without food, water, or enough warm clothing for the altitude. Stunned that there was no lodge, market, or restaurant to cater to them, they spent less than an hour on the plateau before hitching back down to the gate. We had a good laugh at their expense and were happy to now be the only visitors in the park.

The scenery was breathtaking, and the temperatures were comfortable so we spent six nights bush camping in the park. It rained every day - but the experience was perfect.

On the first night, I awoke to the sounds of heaving breathing outside my tent. Some hyena scavenging for a meal came right up to my tent, one on either side of me - snorting loudly and wheezing asthmatically. I sweated it for a bit, but soon relaxed enough the encounter.

The cabinets of the fire truck were bursting with fresh produce, and we had brought up the entire hind haunch of a mid-size goat and the biggest chicken we could find. It was therefore terribly ironic when Ralf became violently ill on the first night, and constrained himself to a diet of noodles in chicken broth. He recovered soon enough and we began the feasting: breakfasts of fried egg and bacon; lunches of Greek salads with balsamic vinegar, good olive oil, and feta; sundried tomato, mustards, avocado, and the people's cheese on fresh bread; and dinners of half chickens marinated in peach chutney on the braai; a butternut squash and goat cooked in a potje; eggplant, onion, and goat kabobs marinated in a grated onion sauce; and even dessert, a chocolate pudding from real milk. Its incredible to have such luxury in this setting - food just tastes better when you're camping. I deeply covet Ralf's home.

No snakes, elephant, buffalo, etc (except leopard) at this elevation, so it’s a good place for unguided solo bush walks - which I enjoyed immensely. Ralf and I had some scenic game drives, and enjoyed lots of time in conversation by the camp fire during the sub 10°C nights. We were a long way from the discomforts the road.