My African Odyssey

Yesterday had been so much fun that I organized to do another tour today with Hamid. We got started earlier this time (around 7am) because we would be covering considerably more kilometers than yesterday. Our main goal was the Hot Springs in Semliki National Park which abuts Democratic Republic of Congo in the very west of Uganda.

The ride to the border took us along a dirt road that weaves its way through the Semliki valley. The meandering road and undulating terrain often obscured exquisite views that lay around innocuous bends and over subtle crests. These post-card quality images, framed by the steep valley’s sides and hazy sky unexpectedly unfolded before me again and again. So, even though it took us close to three hours to reach the Hot Springs, the ride was pleasant and enjoyable from start to finish.

Semliki Valley

The winding, meandering road to DRC

Unfortunately, when we finally reached our destination, we were told that it would cost us $30 to enter the national park and get up close to the Hot Springs. I had been told by the owner of my guesthouse that there was no charge for entering the park and I had stupidly not brought enough cash!! In addition, $30 seemed pretty steep (relatively speaking) to look at some Hot Springs for all of ten minutes. We argued and pleaded with the park staff for quite some time but it was all to no avail. Hamid and I were forced to retreat and after a short ride out of the valley, settled instead for a distant view of steam spiraling from what Hamid assured me was a Hot Spring but which I could not actually see due to the dense foliage in the park.

Notwithstanding, our vantage point did offer us one other interesting site – the border between Uganda and DRC – which could be clearly determined from where we now stood. Its obviousness was not the result of some fence, but rather because of the incredible deforestation on the DRC side. Like a half mown lawn, the thick forest of trees came to a screeching halt at the edge of the Ugandan/National Park border and instead gave way to a barren grassland more familiar in Tanzania or Kenya than the humid, sticky heart of Africa.

Looking into DRC

The DRC - Virunga NP border: An extreme example of deforestation (Not my photo)

After a few moments of contemplation gazing across the valley into Congo, Hamid and I climbed back on the bike and began making our way back to Fort Portal. The ride back seemed to pass even faster than the ride there as Hamid and I talked a lot along the way about the differences between life in Australia and life in Uganda. He a truly nice, interesting person and I had thoroughly enjoyed his company (and guidance) over the past two days. Moreover, for a guide he was exceptionally good value as these trips had only cost me $10-$15 each (plus lunch)!

Easy rider

We were back at Fort Portal by 2:30pm and after quickly picking up my backpack from the guest house where I had spent the past couple of nights, Hamid dropped me off at the minibus stand. There was a minibus to Kasese ready to leave, so we each hurriedly thanked the other, embraced and said our goodbyes (after I gave him a good tip of course!). Then I threw my pack in the back and squeezed in with the rest of the human cargo headed south. Arriving at Kasese, I merely hopped from one bus into another and continued down the road to Katunguru, which marks the point where the main highway crosses the Kazinga Channel. Katunguru is essentially a truck stop with a bar, a restaurant, a general store and not much else. However, it is the nearest town to the gate into the Mweya/Kasenyi Sector of Queen Elizabeth National Park, which I was hoping to explore tomorrow.

Kazinga Channel

I managed to find a room in the only guesthouse in town, which was little more than a few rooms attached to the back of the bar. The room was cheap at 7,000 shillings a night (or US$2.50 at today’s exchange rate) but then you tend to get what you pay for… in this case, a bare concrete floored room with a thin mattress, a mosquito net riddled with holes and a bucket for a shower!

I was pretty hungry by this stage and while I’m sure the bar also served some kind of food, I was more inclined to eat at the muslim owned restaurant across the road – I’d discovered while traveling with Hamid that, in Uganda anyway, the muslim restaurants tended to be cleaner than others. I’m not exactly sure why and there’s probably a plethora of theories but either way, the muslim place in this town certainly looked more appetizing than anywhere else around! So, pausing to check for traffic, I scampered to the other side of the street, shuffled up the wooden steps, pushed aside the thin curtain and walked into the dark, cool restaurant. Inside I was greeted by Steven, the young, helpful proprietor of the restaurant. He offered me a seat on the balcony so I could watch the sun go down. I ordered chicken and rice and Steven kept me company as I waited for my meal. I appreciated his conversation and he was able to give me some good advice about finding transport into the park, etc. The more we spoke, the more I found myself thinking that Steven seemed pretty educated for someone living in such a small town. As it turned out, Steven was from Kampala originally and had only lived here for a few years after marrying his wife. We continued our conversation while I ate but I was tired from all the traveling I’d done today and wanted to have an early night, so with the sun barely set, I paid him for his hospitality and took my leave.

Sunset in Katunguru

However, it was a Friday night and while I strolled back to my room i noticed that it seemed like the whole town was out and about. There was a posse of young many sitting on plastic furniture, drinking and joking and laughing. Making my way through the bar, I passed a group of kids hanging around an old beat up pool table. One of the locals asked why I wasn’t playing and challenged me to a game. I told him (weakly) that I was tired and had a big day tomorrow so wanted to go to bed but he just rolled his eyes and jeered me a little (in a harmless, non-offensive way). Letting my pride get the better of me, I agreed to play one round. Little did I realize what a spectacle this would prove to be… a muzungu challenging the local champ to a game of pool! People started to trickle in as we racked up the balls and by the time we were ready to break, it felt like the entire town was in the audience. I made some good shots, missed some easy ones and eventually lost but nonetheless, felt like my play had been respectable – especially with the pressure of the whole town watching me! My opponent offered to make it a best of three but I graciously denied, handed the pool cue over to somebody else and slunk away to my room.

Hamid was waiting for me in front of my hotel at 9am sharp. Having become accustomed to ‘Africa Time’ I assumed 9am actually meant somewhere around 9:30am and was caught a little off guard. I quickly threw back my breakfast (an omelet and some instant coffee) and we set off on our tour of the Crater Lakes. As the name suggests, the Crater Lakes are a series of picturesque pools that sit among the rolling green hills around Fort Portal. I had no specific plan in mind (other than checking out Lake Nkuruba, which was recommended in my guide book) so I put my trust in Hamid who had promised to take me to some of the more attractive lakes and lookouts.

Hamid, my trusted guide and chauffer.

The tarmac road barely stretched past the handful of main streets that make up Fort Portal and we were soon bouncing along on dirt. Fortunately, the bike’s suspension was relatively soft and seemed to handle the bumps and pot holes with ease. The only irritation were the plumes of dust that the odd car that passed by kicked up. Regardless, I was too busy admiring the beautiful passing landscape with its rolling green hills, shadowed by the cloud protruding summits of the distant Rwenzori Mountains, to notice any real discomfort.

The Rwenzoris peaking through the clouds!

A random crater lake.

We soon reached Lake Nkuruba and Hamid and I, led by a resident of the lodge, parked the bike and took a walk down to its shores. It was smaller than I had expected but its location, surrounded on all sides by thick jungle vegetation and accessible only by a narrow, overgrown path, lent it a sense of beautiful isolation.

Monkeys in the trees around Lake Nkuruba

Lake Nkuruba through the trees.

Hamid spoke with our guide as I took a few ‘happy snaps’ of the lake and when I was down he informed me that there was apparently a beautiful waterfall just down the road. Excited to keep exploring, we eagerly headed off in the direction indicated. However, the directions given to Hamid obviously weren’t perfect because we took a wrong turn and ended up completely lost. Not to worry though, we found a local who agreed (for a small fee) to take us to the waterfall. Little did we realize, however, that the particular route he would have us take, took us down steep hills coated in loose, fertile soil, involved hacking our way through the jungle and jumping streams boarded on either side by swampy marshes (and back again)! Nonetheless, this local did (eventually) manage to lead us to the falls and although the waterfall itself was not that spectacular (especially after having seen Victoria Falls), the whole experience certainly made for a good adventure.

Fighting our way down to the falls.

After a bite to eat at a local ‘restaurant’, we took off again for a lookout called “Top of the World” – the highest of the rolling hills in the immediate region which overlooks 3 different Crater Lakes and offers views all the way to the Rwenzoris. Buffeted by the wind, I lingered over the commanding view unsuccessfully trying to capture its impressiveness with my cheap camera. It was an extremely peaceful and humbling place, one which I am sure many travelers overlook (no pun intended) and never get to see.

Atop the world!

Tearing myself away from the lookout, I climbed onto the back of the bike and Hamid and I started for home. Unfortunately, we hadn’t gone far before we ran into some bad luck – suffering two punctures. Hamid was able to fix the first one on the side of the road himself but we had to stop in at a garage to fix the second one. However, I wasn’t particularly perturbed - I had nowhere to be so it was no real drama to me. Rather, it gave me a chance to check out a local market and make friends with some kids who were hanging out near the garage.

Making friends... i think.

Eventually, we got back on our way and though it was a long day it was in fact one of the more enjoyable days I had had since I started this adventure. It wasn’t that today was particularly eventful, it was just that today was very peaceful and relaxing but at the same time it felt like I was still exploring. Moreover, the area I was exploring was proving to be incredibly picturesque and the people particularly friendly. For this reason, Uganda is proving to be one of my favourite countries so far.

p.s. Goat again for dinner… could this day have gotten any better???

I had grand ambitions of waking up early and getting on the 8am bus to Fort Portal this morning but these plans were dashed when I realised that I hadn’t set the alarm on my watch properly. This was probably a blessing in disguise though, as I woke up with a raging headache. Either my tolerance for drinking has slipped in the past month or someone was spiking my drink because although I had a fair few beers, it wasn’t any more than I normally would have on a Friday or Saturday night… maybe it has something to do with the tropical heat and dehydration or something?

Nonetheless, feeling a little worse for wear, I managed to drag myself out of bed in time to catch the 10am bus, which of course didn’t actually leave until 11am! Its only a 5 hour ride to Fort Portal but it felt far longer than that today. Besides my self-inflicted suffering, I had to contend with a distressed chicken that had been stuffed under the seat in front of me. The bloody thing wouldn’t stop clucking the entire bus ride – not what you want to deal with when you are hungover and feeling a little ‘delicate’! We reached Fort Portal (a dusty two-street town in the middle of nowhere) in the afternoon and I checked into the first guesthouse/hotel I could find. With plenty of daylight left, I took a stroll around town and went in search of the local tourist office. At the tourist office I inquired about hiring a motorbike for the day. All this riding on the back of bota-botas around Kampala had reignited my thoughts of buying a bike in Dar and cruising down the coast of Mozambique. However, not having a great deal of experience with motorbikes, I figured I should at least spend a day driving one myself to see how hard/easy it is to get around and whether this 'Easy Rider' fantasy of mine was actually realistic.

The people at the tourist office rang a guy they knew who they said would rent me his bike. I was hoping I would be able to pick up the bike tomorrow and just spend the day getting the feel for it as I went along. However, the guy wanted to see me ride before handing over his machine – which is fair enough, I suppose. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing as I had only ever ridden clutchless mopeds or quad-bikes where all you have to do is flick a lever by your foot to change gears and its impossible to stall. Unsurprisingly, I stalled straight out of the gate and even after a quick tutorial, the best I could do was bunny-hop up and down an alleyway behind the tourist office.

The bloke wasn’t looking enthusiastic about having me rent his bike but nonetheless, he offered to take me to an oval across town (where I would have more space to practice) and give me a proper lesson before definitely refusing. I did a few laps around the oval with this guy shouting instructions at me and watching nervously as I grew in confidence. I felt like I was getting the hang of things but obviously not fast enough for this guy's liking. He walked over to me shaking his head and muttering "No, no, no...". In the end, he suggested that instead of renting the bike I just let him take me around tomorrow. I was reluctant to accept (my Mozambique fantasy was crumbling in front of my eyes) but when he promised to give me a few more lessons i caved. We agreed he would come pick me up the next day and show me around the crater lakes which dot the region

In other news, I had some amazing BBQ goat for dinner that night. Never had goat before but it was positively scrumptious!

Hello everyone,

I'm sorry that I haven't been posting as often as I promised. It looks like I might have bitten off more than I could chew by planning on posting daily. Seeing as though I am already well behind schedule and I have a 10 day vacation coming up in a couple of weeks (which isn't computer friendly) I've decided to forgo trying to keep up with the date of my journal entries and just post as often as I can. My goal is to post at least 3-4 times a week... hopefully that will be more manageable!

Also, hope you are enjoying things so far. If you are, please feel free to write a comment and let me know!

Alex

I took it pretty easy during the day today, I guess I was physically and emotionally exhausted after my conversation with Alisa the night before. Nonetheless, in the late afternoon I decided to do a little exploring. I started making my way up the hill behind where I was staying. Fascinated by a red-brick colonial building that stood on top of the hill (which I had first spotted when I was further down in the valley), I was determined to find out more about it. The climb to the top of the hill was no easy task in the equatorial heat but the view back over the city made the effort well worth it.

St Paul's Cathedral (Not my photo)

View from Namirembe Hill (Not my photo)

Kampala is actually quite a large city (in terms of both geography and population) and is built on several rolling hills, something that had alluded me from the perspective of my lodgings down in one of the city’s valleys. In fact, Kampala has sometimes been compared with Rome as both cities are said to have been built on seven hills. While Kampala may lack some of the culture and monuments that make Rome such an amazing city, I can tell you that in that moment and from where I stood – on the top of this particular hill, looking back over the city as it lay basking in the glow of the setting sun – Kampala was as beautiful a city as any I have ever seen. It also probably helped that for the first time since I had arrived I had found a tranquil place removed from the rumble of engines and blaring of horns!

I rested on a retaining wall just underneath the red-brick building while I soaked up the view. The sun setting over the hills had me captivated and my trance was only broken when a slim, young local with a big smile named Grace interrupted me and asked (somewhat out of the blue) if I was lonely. Perhaps if he had asked me that same question yesterday I would have given him a different answer but having spoken with Alisa last night, I assured him that I was just fine. Seemingly relieved that I was feeling ok, he introduced himself and offered to give me a tour of the building above. Impressed by his forwardness and the generosity of his offer, I was happy to indulge.

Grace escorted me up the stairs that led to the red-brick building – it turns out the building is a cathedral (St Paul's) and it sits atop Namirembe Hill. On the lawn in front of the cathedral I was introduced to Elijah, who was the leader of a group called the Boys and Girls Brass Brigade. Elijah was in the middle of conducting a troop of Ugandan children of various ages who were (attempting) to play a set of battered instruments but was kind enough to pause proceedings for a minute in order to talk with me. Elijah explained that the Brigade is designed to be a way of giving street children a creative outlet for their spare time and energy. The program encourages kids of all ages and backgrounds, but especially kids who can't afford to go to school, to learn an instrument and be part of something good and productive. Elijah was an enigmatic and enthusiastic talker who spoke with considerable passion about the program, which he said he had been involved with for the over 12 years. Listening to Elijah speak, I couldn’t help but see a correlation between the intentions behind the brigade in front of me and the CYA Program at the Sir David Martin Foundation that I had been helping out with over the past few years. It was really amazing to see two communities that couldn’t be further apart or more different but which had both realised the incredible potential for music to be a positive influence for troubled youths.

Grace and I let Elijah get back to conducting the band and continued our tour. Not long after, we ran into a group of British medical students who were involved in an 8 week exchange program with the hospital attached to the cathedral. I introduced myself and they were obliging enough to invite Grace and I into their quarters for a cup of tea. We all got talking in the way that so often happens when you are travelling – over the course of a cup of tea you go from being a complete stranger to one of the gang. Before you know it, you feel like you have known everyone for years – and, as it turned out, it was someone’s birthdays and they were all heading out to celebrate. Considering that we were all now best friends, without any hesitation they asked if Grace and I wanted to come along.

So before I knew what was going on, I found myself flying down one of Kampala’s seven hills on the back of a bota-bota with Grace squished awkwardly between the driver and I. Speaking of the driver, he was an absolute maniac and he had us weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds and slotting through gaps that were barely open for a nanosecond before being fiercely sealed by a merging vehicle or fellow bota-bota. Miraculously, we all arrived at our destination (a Chinese restaurant called Fong Fong) in one piece. The restaurant was a poxy expat place, which was expensive and atmosphere-less (not that I was about to say anything). Nonetheless, I still had an enjoyable dinner with my new friends and to be fair the food was pretty good. Afterwards we went in search of a place to watch the football – Manchester United and Barcelona were playing in one of the UEFA Cup semi-finals.

The gang finally settled on a place called The Steak Out which seemed like a pretty cool joint. It was busy (even though it was a Tuesday night) because of the game and everyone, expats and locals combined, was glued to the TV screen. Funnily enough though, instead of putting on the commentary from the game the bar had set up a couple of huge speakers either side of the TV which were blaring old-school hip-hop the entire time. I’m not the biggest soccer fan but I do like my sports and will watch anything as long as it is a good contest. It turned out to be a pretty exhilarating game so I found myself really getting into it by the end. I’d also had quite a few beers and was feeling a little tipsy which probably better explains my (somewhat out of character) enthusiasm. For the record, Man U ended up winning 1-0 but it was close to the very end.

After the game, I vaguely remember chewing some Ugandan law student’s ear off about how people don’t appreciate the fact that the criminal justice system has more to do with due process than it does with putting away bad guys – Errrr, I hate getting stuck talking to guys like me when they start babbling on about pretentious crap like that! Anyway, I finally said goodbye to the Brits around 1:30am before walking outside and flagging down a bota-bota to take me back to my hotel.

It has been brought to my attention by one of the Travellerspoint moderators that some of you have taken offense at my use of the term ‘Dark Continent’ in the subheading of my blog. While I understand how my use of this term may be misconstrued, I would like to take this opportunity to explain my reasoning behind using the term and outline why its use was in no way designed to offend or inflame people’s sensibilities.

Contrary to what many believe, the term ‘Dark Continent’ was not coined in reference to the complexion of most of Africa’s inhabitants. Rather, it was intended to evoke Africa’s vast, unexplored territory. To westerners in the mid 19th centaury, Sub-Saharan Africa represented one of the earth’s last great unknown tracts of land. Bordered by deserts, much of its interior covered by untamed rainforest and jungle (and the tropical diseases that come with them) and full of fast flowing rivers choked by rapids, exploration in Africa was extremely difficult. In a time when very few people in the West could say with any certainty what lay beyond the impenetrable deserts and jungles, Africa gained notoriety as an obscured, opaque and impermeable (hence ‘dark’) place.

Clearly, this image of Africa is outdated today. Thanks to the wonders of technology and the marvels of modern medicine, all of Africa has been mapped and most of us now have a much clearer understanding of it and its people. Nonetheless, I purposely chose to use the term ‘Dark Continent’ in my blog’s title because I felt that this archaic reference to an unexplored territory most accurately represents my image of Africa before I left Australia. Despite everything I may have seen or read before I left, I still perceived Africa as a mysterious and mystifying place. I was conscious of the fact that I essentially knew nothing about it. Sure, I could tell you the names of the countries and roughly where they were on the map and I had been taught about colinisation and decolinisation at school, but all this was only superficial. Africa still represented the great unknown to me, much like it did to Stanley and Livingstone.

I was ignorant of so much but conscious enough of my ignorance that I determined to enter this once in a lifetime experience with an open mind. I chose to immerse myself in this continent, leave all my prejudices and preconceptions behind and just try and see as much and as many things as possible. I wanted to mimic the explorers of old by diving into this ‘unknown’ head first. I wanted to know the sensation that Conrad describes in Heart of Darkness when he writes "The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness." I wanted to put myself in a situation where I wouldn’t know what lay around the bend but where I was being drawn further and further down the river by the magical things I had already discovered and the enticing possibility of what wondrous things I was still yet to see and learn.

And I did come to know that sensation on a couple of occasions. There were moments when I found myself in over my head, with nowhere to turn but from which I somehow managed to escape and that only fuelled my desire to push on and experience more. And that is the reason why I chose to use an outdated term like the ‘Dark Continent’. Not because my thinking is bigoted or outdated but because I wanted to pay tribute to the generation of explorers whose footsteps I was retracing. I left my friends and family behind just like they did, not knowing what I would find or who I would be when I came out the other side.

Africa is no longer a ‘Dark Continent’ in my mind because what was once a place that I readily associated with war, disease, famine, dictators and AIDS has become an adjective to me for hope, optimism and potential. I learnt so much about the culture and attitude of the African people and in particular, their generosity and kindness. I also saw people working hard to make a better life for themselves and their family and it was these kind of interactions that give me confidence that, although there is still plenty to be done, many more Africans will soon know political stability, personal wealth and genuine happiness.

Some people travel to Africa to volunteer and in fact I met many such people during my travels. I didn’t choose to do this, but instead am now hoping to give back to the people of this continent in a different way. I am hoping that by recounting my experiences I will motivate others to travel to this wonderful part of the world, meet these amazing people and maybe spend a little of their money their while they are at it. I am trying to encourage people to confront their prejudices and overcome the stereotypes that exist by traveling to Africa and seeing what it is like for themselves. I am certainly not trying to offend anyone or promote intolerant views.

Finally, regardless of what I write here I am sure there will be some of you who will continue to find the term ‘Dark Continent’ offensive and who remain unsatisfied by the explanation I have given for using it. That is your prerogative. I believe that we interpret everything we read through the filter of our experiences. That is to say, the life I have lived up until now will affect the way I perceive a word, sentence, essay or even a blog. The word ‘dark’ has multiple meanings. I actually looked the word up in the Merrian-Webster dictionary today and found a definition which describes ‘dark’ as “Not known or explored because of remoteness. As in, the darkest reaches of the continent”. I’d say that that definition sums up my argument pretty succinctly. However, in the interests of full disclosure I should point out that there were a couple of alternative definitions for the word ‘dark’ just above that particular definition. According to the good folks at Merriam-Webster, ‘dark’ can also mean “Lacking knowledge or culture: unenlightened.”; “Relating to grim or depressing circumstances”; and of course, it also means “Not fair in complexion : swarthy”. Ultimately, it is up to you to decide which of the above meanings I was trying to convey by including the words ‘Dark Continent’ in the title of my blog.

Please feel free to share your feelings on the above by leaving a comment below, especially if you feel strongly about this issue or even if you just want to discredit my argument.

Kind regards,

AD

I had hoped to wake up early enough to see the sun rising over Lake Victoria but evidently my bunk was just too comfortable and by the time I got up, dawn had already broken. We reached Port Bell (which sits on the outskirts of Kampala) at around 10:30am. Unsurprisingly, there is very little difference between the port in Mwanza and Port Bell. In fact, the only distinguishing features between the two are the different dilapidated ships that sit rusting in the sun just off to the side of the docks.

Mwanza's Port

Port Bell... hard to tell the difference isn't it!

There were a couple of slight hiccups as I passed through Ugandan immigration. First, according to my guidebook the cost of a Ugandan visa was supposed to be $20 but when I asked for my visa the immigration officer told me I had to pay $50. I thought he was trying to pull a fast one on me so I objected… clearly not a smart move on my part because at the first utterance of protest, the officer’s nostrils flared and he started screaming at me that if I didn’t pay I wasn’t going to be able to enter the country – I subsequently discovered that the price of a visa had recently gone up and that my guidebook was simply out of date… eek!

Sufficiently convinced that there was no way around having to cough up the extra $30, I then tried to pay with a grimy $20 note that I had been struggling to offload for the past few weeks. nb. The dominant black-market currency of East Africa is the USD and you will often be able to pay in dollars when you are out of the local currency. However, many local banks/traders are reluctant to take old, wrinkled or dirty looking notes and on several occasions over the past few weeks people had refused to take the $20 bill in question. However, the immigration officer didn’t want to have anything to do with it either. I feigned not having any other cash on me in the hope that he would be forced to take it but he wasn't unimpressed and simply said that unless I could find some other cash right here and now, he was not going to stamp me into the country. Of course, I actually had a bundle of crisp twenties on me but I now had to go through this big charade whereby I pretended to ask one of my fellow travelers (a guy named Alfaz) to give me $20 and tell him that I would pay him back when we got into town (while actually just handing over one of my own, cleaner notes) so that I didn't look like I just lied to a government official!

Thankfully, my passport was finally stamped and I could enter the country. What is more, it turned out that Alfaz was a pretty nice guy and he even helped me find a place to stay once we arrived in downtown Kampala - something I was extremely grateful for once we reached the Kampala bus depot. Kampala is, in a word, absolute chaos! Organised chaos perhaps, but chaos nonetheless. I can’t remember the last time I saw so many people in the one place. People were moving frantically in every direction, most with boxes or bags of something on their head. Minibuses were pervasive, clogging the streets and fighting against the sea of pedestrians and people on motorbikes for the slightest patch of space. Most of the bikes are actually moto-taxis (called bota-botas) and their drivers weave fearlessly in and out of the traffic and around the swarms of pedestrians. I would count the Kampala bota-bota drivers as second only to those of Cotonou in terms of courage, craziness and shear pervasiveness!

Kampala's Taxi Park (Not my photo)

Alfaz led me to place called Taj Hotel which was conveniently located on a hill that overlooked the bus depot. Most of the hostels in my Lonely Planet were a couple of kms outside of town, so i figured it made more sense to fork out a little extra on accommodation in order to be closer to the action. And what action there was! I have never felt as much energy coming from a city as I did when I looked back at the depot and its surrounding market from my vantage point on the hill above. Buzzing with life and full of sights, sounds and smells I had never experienced before… I was filled with both excitement and apprehension. I couldn’t wait to drop my things and go out and explore this place!

I dived right in, fighting with the locals for my inch of sidewalk and seemingly swimming upstream against a sea of people. I walked the streets for hours, strolled through the market and shuffled around in the various stores that sold everything from second-hand books to electronics. The whole experience was surreal and I guess I must have been too busy soaking it all up because as I fought my way down some overflowing, inner-city street a shirtless man with the body of an Olympic athlete and a 100kg bag of rice spread across his broad shoulders hissed at me to move out of his way. In my haste to make room, I jumped into the muddy gutter and was almost cleaned up by a passing truck. The vehicle missed me by a matter of inches and left me with my heart in my mouth and my pulse racing. It was at that point that I decided I needed to find somewhere to escape the chaos and so headed for a coffee shop called 1000 Cups, which was recommended in my lonely planet.

Just as an aside, I was saddened to read the other day that there were demonstrations in the streets of Kampala and that the government has been accused of violently repressing protests over the high price of food. It is also scary to think that this kind of violence can erupt so spontaneously and that I could have so easily been caught in the midst of it all if I was writing a true travel blog and not just recounting my experiences from a few years ago!

1000 Cups wasn’t cheap but it was the closest I’d come to a real cup of coffee since I’d left home. While I was there I had a brief chat with some Americans from DC and some others from the South who now own an orphanage in Jinja. I recounted my near death experience to them and they suggested I head to Garden City with them if I was interested in a more tranquil setting. Having never heard of this Garden City place, but with my mind throwing up images of some horticultural oasis in the middle of the city, I said sure and we all piled into a cab. I was soon to discover that Garden City was not actually a garden but in fact is essentially just a shopping mall. However, it did have a proper cinema (and Uganda's only escalator, apparently) – something I hadn’t seen since I arrived in Africa – so I figured I would take advantage of it and I bought a ticket to some Keanu Reeves movie that I had never heard of. I spent the 20min I had to kill before the movie started standing outside the Ugandan equivalent of Harvey Norman/Best Buy watching the end of an IPL cricket game. I had never seen an IPL game before and so was blown away to be standing in a Ugandan mall, watching Matthew Hayden and Michael Hussey killing it for some team called the Chenai Superkings!?!?!

The movie was pretty ordinary although it did get me thinking about Alisa again – she has a certain fondness for Keanu! I had received a reply from her when my phone finally picked up signal again in the morning. Her response was a simple “Who is this?”, to which I replied (somewhat cornily) “Just someone who is thinking of you”. I knew I probably wouldn’t hear back from her for most of the day because of the time difference between here and New York but it was now mid-afternoon her time and I still hadn’t heard anything. I was dying to know what she was thinking but I didn’t want to be too pushy so I resisted the urge to send a follow up message.

I eventually left Garden City on the back of a bota-bota. The driver had originally asked for 4000 shillings but I had managed to haggle him down to 1700, which (secretly) made me pretty happy with myself. By the time I got back to the hotel it was close to 1am and I was ready to hit the hay when all of a sudden I received a text from Alisa. I nervously replied and we texted back and forth a couple more times, both of us holding back a little and just feeling the other person out. However, just as I was preparing to open up and really tell her how I felt… I ran out of credit!! So at 1:30am I had to go downstairs and run around the streets of Kampala looking for somewhere open that would sell me some phone credit. I finally found a place and raced back to the hotel to top-up my phone but of course, I had a Tanzanian phone chip and this was Ugandan credit, so even though the credit was from the same phone provider, it wouldn’t work! All this was taking up precious time and all I could think about was Alisa sitting at home in New York wondering why I wasn’t writing anything back… what if she thought I was avoiding her or had been offended by her last text??

In the end, I figured out how to put a free call through to the phone provider’s customer service line and they were able to transfer my Ugandan credit into Tanzanian credit (or something like that) and I finally got my phone credit topped up. By this stage I thought it best to try and put in a call to Alisa instead of just texting back after such a long pause. Alisa didn’t pick up on my first try so I left her an awkward and embarrassing voicemail message which asked her to call me back “but only if she wanted to”. Thankfully she did and we ended up talking and catching up for hours… in fact, it was almost 5am and the sun was coming up by the time we finally said goodnight.

Joseph came and met me out front of the hotel around 9am this morning. We were headed to the outskirts of town to meet his family but first, I needed to pick up some washing that I had dropped off at the local laundromat a couple of days earlier. Unfortunately, it turned out that the laundry was closed– I hadn't realised that it was a Sunday! I was seriously worried because I was supposed to be leaving on a cargo boat to Kampala that afternoon and half my clothes were potentially going to be staying behind! Thankfully, Joseph was with me and he was able to ask around at the neighbouring shops until he found someone with the laundry owner’s phone number which he was able to call. Joseph somehow talked the owner into coming in on his day off, opening up his store and giving me my clothes.

A little over an hour later, with the laundry situation finally resolved, we squeezed ourselves into a minibus and took off in the direction of Joseph’s home. The minibus pulled up next to a giant coca-cola bottling factory with high walls and a barbed-wire fence around it and Joseph told me to jump out. He then lead me down a dirt track that took us past the factory and through some fields behind it. After what seemed like a long walk (at least 1-2km) past some small, miserable looking shacks we arrived at a significantly larger, more modern home than we had seen since we turned off the main road. Joseph’s house was easily the nicest in the area. It was still a work in progress to a certain extent – missing a few finishing touches but otherwise structurally complete. What is more impressive is that Joseph apparently built the house himself.

Joseph introduced me to his wife-to-be and their two gorgeous twin girls. The girls were absolutely adorable and I spent some time mucking around with them in the back yard while Joseph’s fiancée finished preparing lunch. Lunch was a simple but hearty serving of beans and rice. We sat around the table talking while the kids made a mess of the food. I would have loved to stay longer but I was anxious to get to the port as soon as possible. So around 1:30pm I waved goodbye to Joseph’s family while he and I made our way back to the main road. I was hoping to hop a minibus back into town straight away but Joseph wouldn’t let me leave without first meeting his mother and cousins who lived across the street. I knew I was pushing it but it was also pretty clear that this was very important to Joseph and I didn’t want to say no. After the round of introductions and a mandatory cup of tea, I finally said goodbye to Joseph and made a bee-line for the port.

A couple of chicken chasers!

Gotcha!

Cruisin

Kennedy was waiting for me when I arrived and he immediately introduced me to the port’s immigration officer who was responsible for stamping crewmen in and out of the country. The immigration officer looked me up and down before gesturing for me to follow him into his office (a modified cargo container). He sat me down and proceeded to explain to me that cargo ships were only supposed to carry cargo and that it was in fact illegal for them to take passengers. I pleaded ignorance and told him some story about how someone at the immigration office back in town had told me that all I had to do was pay some sort of “fee” and I would be allowed to ride on the ship – having hung around in Mwanza for so long waiting for this ship I wasn’t in the mood to get too cute with this guy. In fact, I was more than happy to throw a few buck his way if it meant that I was able to board the ship hassle free. At the word ‘fee’ the immigration officer’s ears pricked up and his eyes began to sparkle. I swear, he was trying desperately to fight the urge to smile but I could tell by the way the corners of his mouth began to curl upwards that inside he thought Christmas had come early! In the end, it cost me a nice crisp US$10 bill just to get my passport stamped.

As I was about to leave, the immigration officer motioned for me to lean in close and whispered in my ear that it was “very very important that I don’t tell anyone about being able to ride as a passenger on the cargo ship”... Oops! I wonder what he would think if he knew I was blogging about him to the world right now?? The irony of the immigration officer’s statement did not fully sink in until I actually climbed aboard the M.V. Umoja and discovered that one level of the ship was fully decked out for passengers. One of the crew met me at the top of the stairs and immediately escorted me to a bunk (I had assumed I would be sleeping on the deck!). I was also told that the kitchen would be serving dinner later that night (for a small fee, of course) and breakfast in the morning before we reached Port Bell. Quietly pleased with the whole set up, I made myself comfortable and waited for our departure. Like with most forms of transport in Africa, my fellow travelers and I were forced to sit around for a good couple of hours before we finally got moving. In fact, it was so late by the time we got going that the sun was actually setting as we pulled out of Mwanza harbour.

M.V. Umoja

All aboard!

However, I couldn’t have cared less about the wait. As I watched the city disappear behind me, I was transfixed by the gorgeous expanse of water stretching out ahead of me. The fresh air, the sunset and the deep blue lake, it was all so beautiful. So beautiful in fact that I desperately wanted to share it with someone and for the first time since I landed in Africa I felt genuinely alone. This was a once in a lifetime moment and there was no-one else here to experience it with me. For a long time now, whenever I found myself with time to think and reflect (which obviously happens a lot when you are traveling by public transport across Africa) my mind kept turning to one person in particular. It wasn’t my family (although they were often in my thoughts) and it wasn’t my friends back in Oz… it was Alisa.

Spectacular sunset

All alone at sea... just like me.

Just by way of background for those of you who don’t know, Alisa and I met while I was doing an internship at the UN in New York during July/August of 2007. We had an amazing summer and continued to correspond almost daily from the moment I returned to Australia. Alisa even came out to visit me in Sydney for a couple of weeks. However, the distance was putting a strain on our budding relationship and both of us were struggling with the uncertainty that comes from falling in love with someone who lives on the other side of the world. I knew I would be finishing law school in Feb ’08 and at one point there was the chance that I would be able to get some more work in New York, at least until I started at a law firm in Sydney later that year. However, the New York job fell through and I made an impulsive decision to go traveling through Africa instead. I had clearly put my desire to see the world ahead of our relationship and Alisa wasn’t going to hang around to see if I would eventually change my mind. In all honesty, I wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship (I was only one year removed from an intense 5yr relationship) let alone a long-distance/long-term relationship! Long story short, about a month before I left for Africa ‘Alisa and I’ (read: she) decided it was best if we didn’t contact each other anymore.

We hadn’t spoken in almost two months but leaning over the railing watching the stars reflected in the perfectly still lake, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I cracked and sent Alisa a text. I didn’t know what to say after such a long period of radio silence so I simply asked her what I most wanted to know… “What are you doing right now?”. Of all the questions, this was the one that had been stuck in my brain these past few months. I just desperately wanted to know where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. This question wasn’t born of some crazy jealousy or possessiveness, it had more to do with just wanting to know that she was ok, that she was happy, that she was safe. We had had an amazing connection and although it was relatively brief, I felt closer to her than anyone I had ever met before. Just because I wasn’t ready to take a chance on a long-term/long-distance relationship didn’t mean that I didn’t still care about her or have feelings for her. Regardless of whether I was going to be a part of her life going forward, I still wanted nothing but joy and happiness for her and not knowing where she was or how she was feeling was eating me up inside.

Unfortunately, the ship was steaming out into the middle of the lake by the time I actually sent the text and all too soon (ie. before I got a response) we had left civilization behind and I had lost signal. Knowing I would have to wait until morning before receiving a response, if any, I took one last long look out over the lake before turning around and rejoining my fellow travelers. Thankfully, my travel companions were in good spirits and I was able to suppress my emotions with various distractions. We ate, we drank and we talked through the night. A couple of the crew taught me how to play draughts (using coke bottle tops in lieu of real checkers) and I even won a couple of times. In hindsight, despite the anxious pit in my stomach most of the night, this was easily the most enjoyable trip of all my travels. There was a proper bed and a sit down meal, interesting people, cool fresh air and the ability to take a walk and stretch your legs if you wanted… it doesn’t get much better than that.

This morning I took a boat across to Sannane Island, which is a rocky little blip in the middle of Mwanza Harbour. The local government is clearly desperate to turn the island into a tourist attraction but to be honest, it wasn’t anything to write home about – please excuse the irony of me now writing about it! There is a zoo of sorts on the island with a lion and a couple of hyenas in cages (hard to compete with the magnificent beasts I had met on the Lion Walk in Zimbabwe), a couple of antelope running around the place and the odd exotic bird hopping from tree to tree. Like I said, nothing to write home about but at least it was cheaper than a safari and certainly better than sitting in an internet café all day.

Rocky Blip

Beating the heat

Psychedelic Lizard

However, I wasn’t the only one taking the trip out to the Island. I was joined by a bunch of school children on an excursion and a young couple who were studying to be anesthesiologists at the local university. The school kids seemed to be more interested in me than the animals and I cracked a few jokes with them and talked with them while we rode the boat across from the mainland. Geoffrey, one of the soon-to-be anesthesiologists, was very kind and offered to serve as interpreter for me on our guided tour. He also taught me how to count to 10 in Swahili: moja, mbili, tatu, nne, tano, sita, saba, nane, tisa, kumi – something I promptly forgot until I just re-read this diary entry!

School is out

Popular!

That evening Joseph (who I first met on the train from Mpanda to Tabora) met me in town for a couple of beers. He had been so helpful and friendly and he was keen to get together so I felt obliged to meet up with him. We hung out for awhile but I was feeling pretty beat from being out in the sun all day so we wound things up pretty early. However, we organized for me to take a trip out to his village (on the outskirts of Mwanza) tomorrow morning so I could meet his wife and kids. I knew the boat would be leaving in the afternoon and I would have to be at the docks by 3pm but I couldn’t say no to someone who had been so kind and generous and besides, I was interested to meet his family and see how he lives.

I was able to sleep in and relax this morning because I knew the boat would definitely not be leaving till this afternoon. I called Kennedy around lunchtime to confirm what time I should arrive at the port and wasn't particularly surprised to hear him say that “due to some unforeseen circumstances” the boat would now definitely not be leaving before Sunday!

The first thing that came to mind was ‘here we go again’. Just like in Mpulungu and just like the day I touched down in Jo’burg airport, when was I going to learn to take what people here said with a grain of salt. I genuinely doubt that there is any maliciousness involved (although, the captain of the cargo ship in Mpulungu looked pretty sketchy) and that the reason why this keeps happening to me has more to do with the general unreliability of things in Africa and the locals' desire to tell you what they think you want to hear rather than some plot to inconvenience the white man. Maybe I am just naïve but I don’t think Kennedy knew all along that the ship would not be leaving before Sunday… I’m inclined to believe him when he says that they are waiting on cargo from Dodoma that hasn’t arrived. Either way though, the result is the same and maybe if I knew that I would be stuck in Mwanza for so long I would have arranged alternative transport. But I didn’t, and now it is just easier to wait till the end of the weekend. Besides, these things tend to happened for a reason and maybe a few days rest is what I needed right now after over a week of long, hard traveling. Moreover, things could certainly be worse than having to spend a few days holed up in a city on the banks of Lake Victoria.

However, one issue that this delay had caused and which couldn’t be ignored was the fact that my 7-day transit visa was due to expire on Saturday and I needed to get some kind of extension. I went to the downtown immigration office and managed to track down Mary who had been so helpful the day before. I explained my predicament to her and with a quick flick of her wrist she had re-stamped my passport and effortlessly organized a 7-day extension for me, free of charge. Why are some things in Africa so painful one day and so uncomplicated the next... I don't think I will ever truly understand.

By the time I was done with the immigration office it was almost 2pm and I needed some lunch. There just so happened to be a nice local place next door where I was able to sample one of Tanzania's delicacies: Chips Mayai! Perhaps better known in English as a chip omelet, this simple yet tasty meal (often served with hot sauce) is incredibly popular across the width and breadth of Tanzania and after trying it for the first time I could understand why. I knew straight away that this wouldn’t be the last time that I would find myself feasting on this greasy roadside delicacy!

In the afternoon I went to the local tourism office and inquired about things to do in the Mwanza area. I contemplated doing some kind of safari but a trip to the Serengeti was out of the question as it would have cost me ~$575! As an alternative, the tourism office manager suggested I check out Saanane Island which sits in the middle of Mwanza harbour. I was a little skeptical but it didn’t seem like I had many alternatives – Mwanza clearly isn’t a Tanzanian tourism hub! At least it would give me something to do during the day tomorrow while I tried to kill time until the cargo boat was ready to leave.

It was only mid-afternoon and I figured that considering it was ANZAC Day back home, the appropriate way to spend the afternoon was to find some place to have a beer. I stumbled upon a pub that looked pretty busy (it was a Friday evening after all) and wandered in. I ordered a drink and headed upstairs to see if I could get a seat somewhere on the pub’s balcony. There were no free tables but I was kindly offered a chair by some older gentlemen who had one to spare. We quickly struck up a conversation and the gentlemen turned out to be interesting, kind and generous guys. They were all well educated and quite successful in their own right. We talked all through the evening and into the night about everything from African politics, to life in Tanzania versus life in Australia and a myriad of things in between. In particular, we had an interesting discussion about a recent political scandal that revolved around one of the governments most senior ministers (and the ex Attorney-General) being found to have an offshore account in the Jersey Islands with over $1 million from kickbacks in it – a discussion that would prove to be extremely useful in getting myself out of a particularly hairy situation later in my trip.

We had quite a few beers up there on the balcony and by the end I was feeling a little tipsy. It was quite late and the gentlemen insisted that I share a taxi home with them. I told them about how I had walked home the night before and they chided me (the way only a senior citizen can) for my foolishness. Apparently my fears the night before were quite justified because according to them, Mwanza is a very unsafe place for a mzungu to be walking about after dark. As I exited the cab in front of my hotel I promised the gentlemen that I was going to be more careful going forward... and when I said it, I did genuinely mean it. I swear!