Africa - Photoreport (Prague to Cape Town)

[firecoast]

AMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZING!!!!!!!!!!!!! Loving it so far!

 

[Xpat]

Thank you. I go side tracked by the ride report I did from my last trip to Kaokoland.

I have been contemplating continuation of this thingy for a while now - will try to get going next week, once I have enough material for few installments.

 

[schalk vd merwe]

Hi Xpat just read your story from beginning to end. Respect man. Would like to meet you one day. Will be on the road again from tomorrow. Schalk

 

[Xpat]

Thank you Schalk! I'm very happy to meet once you are back in SA - just send me a PM and we can arrange a dinner or something. I live in Gauteng so very flexible.

 

[Xpat]

OK, I recovered sufficiently from my last Christmas Safari writing project, so it's time to move on with this one. I'm not going to finish the whole thing in one push though. I'll try to get back to Nairobi in this push, which is going to take us through 3,5 countries.

I really do hope you enjoy it as it takes lots of work to post 

 

[zetman]

:ricky: :ricky:GOOI Mielies

 

[Xpat]

Uganda - part 2

From Mbale, the plan was to explore the Karamojo country in the north east all the way up to the Sudanese border and then head in the westward arch hopefully avoiding areas of operation of Kony and his Lord’s Army back south to Jinja - start of the White Nile on the northern shore of Lake Victoria - for a bit of rafting. From Jinja I would head west to Kampala for a bout of admin, maintenance and socializing and then onwards south west towards chimps and gorillas.

Next day I slipped out of Mbale early morning heading north to Kidepo Game Reserve on the border with Sudan about 500 km away, with a halfway stopover for refuel at a place called Moroto. After initial 50 km on tar I turned left and hit dirt road heading north to Moroto. Initially I passed through few Karamojo villages with locals in their traditional attire milling around. I stopped for few pictures and the kids were friendly, but I wasn’t tempted to get too jovial with the local men commanding natural respect thanks to their physique (resembling Masai - just taller, more angular and muscular) and displaying that one directional attitude of ‘you are my friend, but I’m not yours’.

On the way to Moroto:

Karamojo I've met along the way:

Once I passed few settlements at the beginning of the dirt, there were no visible settlements almost all the way to Moroto. The only vehicles I’ve met on the whole 200 km were a white UN World Food Programme truck flanked by two white armoured vehicles front and back gunning it as fast as they could - which did raise some questions about wisdom of this little tripie. Just few km after the convoy I came upon a platoon of soldiers in fatigues and wellingtons and hung up with variety of AK47s, machine guns, RPGs, wrapped abundantly in the chains of ammunition.

I noticed them in the bush only as I was almost on top of them and got a bit of fright. Now, by this stage I was quite immune to the sight of AKs and I considered them more a fashion accessory than a weapon. The fact that somebody had AK didn’t usually affect one bit my position when discussing a difference or two with the owner, shamelessly leveraging the impunity that white skin still provides in most parts of Africa.

But this bunch looked different - they seemed very professional and efficient, not very common sight in Africa, so I waved at them and opened up to get the heck out of there asap. There was no need to worry - they turned out to be just regular Ugandan army patrol heading to their tented camp that I passed a km or two later.

Moroto was small dusty town with that frontier high testosterone rough around the edges feel, frequented by the groups of tall angular teenage Karamojos looking for trouble - and I must have looked just like the distraction they were looking for. The colonists with their ‘civilizing’ influence obviously did not reach this far.

Not thrilled by the vibe I was keen to continue to Kidepo Game Reserve about 250 km further north on the border with Sudan. For that I needed full tank and some extra petrol, as I could only about make/not make it to Kidepo and back on one tank. But it wasn’t to be - the only petrol station in town was dry with petrol supposedly arriving sometimes in the next 5 days. Somebody told me that the catholic mission in town could have some petrol, but they didn’t have any either. Flanked by the bored Karamojo gangstas wondering loudly in their vernacular about the dumbass whitey expecting to rock-up in petrol station and get petrol (I think - no clue what they were saying except that it probably wasn’t very polite) I didn’t feel like staying. But I wasn’t keen to give up on the trip up north either yet, so I decided to wait one day for the petrol and found a room in a surprisingly modern hotel catering mostly for the passing UN traffic.

I went for a walk through the market and to buy some extra can for petrol, but the teenage scourge was too much (they kept their distance around adults, but as soon as I was on my own they were circling like vultures) so I retreated back to the hotel soon afterwards.

The petrol didn’t arrive next day, so with heavy heart I gave up on the trip to Kidepo. Frankly I had not idea what is in Kidepo - most probably just another piece of dusty African bush I’ve ridden thousands of km through already - but at that stage I already built it up in my mind to be the highlight of Uganda.

Not keen to come back the same way I decided to take a dirt road west to Soroti for refill and wing it from there. It was in the direction of Kony and his kid soldiers, so I checked the safety situation with the hotel manager who said that it should be OK up to Lira, but advised strongly against venturing any further west.

The road to Soroti was the usual packed dirt road running through the bush and after 200 km of no traffic whatsoever I hit the tar in Soroti and found sorely needed petrol. I couldn’t figure out any way how to get south across the Nile from Lira to Jinja, where I was headed, so I took the main tar road south-east back to Mbale, the place of my mishap,  where I turned west to Jinja.

On the way to Soroti:

Jinja is the adventure capital of Uganda and the whole of East Africa.It sits on the northern shore of Victoria Lake at the point where White Nile starts it’s 6000 km route to the Mediterranean. The main attraction is rafting on the White Nile, which is why I stopped over. There are many camps and rafting operators - I headed to the Bujagali Falls Campsite sitting in the lush green tropical forest above the said falls about 10 km down-river from Jinja.

The campsite was busy with three overland trucks parked at the entrance - generally not a good sign, unless you are into some rowdy white trash partying. So it was nice to bump into some familiar faces - John and Helen from the Wadi Haifa gang, who were returning back to Kenya after their gorilla visit in Virungas. They just came back from the rafting and were singing praises, so I went to the reception and booked myself for a trip next day - based on some comments I considered rafting - without ever setting a foot in one - to be for girls and opted instead for a trip in tandem kayak, and just for a good measure booked myself for two day’s kayak training - idiotically after the big trip, but that is generally how I roll, I often first do shit and only then try to actually learn how.


Overland trucks with John&Helen's landie on the left:

The campsite sits on the higher ground over the lush green jungle surrounding Nile:

Annoyingly all the chalets and single rooms were taken - majority of them taken by belgian airline corporate team-build shindig (as much as I don’t like those events, I have to admit that if you are going to have one, you probably cannot best Jinja). So the usual travelling riff-raff were relegated to the campsite and dormitories. I was not keen to camp for 3 nights in the middle of what seemed to be a build up to a big party, so I ended up squatting in a dorm with bunch of western kayaking youths who flock to Jinja as one of the paddling Meccas. I’ve done a fair share of backpacking around the world in my 20s including dorm dwelling, but at 35 I did feel a bit outdated to share snores, farts and jackass jokes with complete strangers at least 10 year younger. Still, I wasn’t keen on camping in the middle of bloody Woodstock so I sucked it up.

Me casa:

For dinner I went with John and Helen to the restaurant in the nearby lodge with big screen TV - England was playing rugby and John tried his best to explain the rules to this uninitiated continental euro. Luckily the game was quite engaging and rules much more straightforward than that other british colonial weirdo pastime - cricket.

 

[Xpat]

Uganda - part 3

In the morning I joined the Belgian airline captains and stewardesses for the rafting shindig. Guides herded us into two or three buses and drove us back to Jinja where they released us at the start of White Nile under the dam holding back the mighty Lake Victoria. For us tourists there were 7 rafts, each taking 6 or so people plus a guide and two tandem kayaks. They also had an extra ‘recovery’ raft, which would pick-up people who cannot take it anymore - the raft was somewhat bigger and more stable and was following easier routes (the Nile course was peppered with lots of islands and some routes were easier than others). Unbeknownst to me yet, the bloody thing would haunt me for most of the trip.

The other kayaker was a pretty blonde lady eye doctor from Canada. She asked my name and where I’m from. I replied and asked ‘And you?’. ‘Victoria’, she said. So that is what I called her until she told me about 5 hours later that her name is actually Judy - she is just from Victoria city on the Vancouver island in Canada. She was nice about it and even expressed support for my poor country torn apart by war. I resisted an evil urge to exploit her compassion further by talking about how many cousins I have lost, and explained that Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia are indeed two different countries (actually at that stage 8 different countries) and they don’t even share a border. Not sure what it is that gets most people confused - probably the ‘ia’ at the end, but I still find it quite amusing.

On the way there, the guides explained that the trip is about 30 km long most of the time spent in the rapids, ranging between grades 2 and 5 (grade 5 are  highest grade that you can do in a raft or kayak, were were told). I have spent most of my summer school holidays in the river in Slovakia, swimming in the current, surfing the current on the old door while holding on to a long rope attached to a tree, diving into vortexes and catching my keep of fish with my hands among the tree roots under the washed out banks and doing couple of canoeing trips down the river with my parents. So how difficult can this Nile be? Quite - it turned out.

For a start, Judy and I had to go through the rehearsal of eskimo turn in the calm water under the dam. This naturally raised a question or five about the hippo/crocodile situation. We were told not to worry - Idi Amin’s henchmen used the dam wall to dispose of their victims’ bodies to be carried away by Nile and the relatives of the victims killed all the crocodiles under dam to retrieve the bodies before crocs get to them. Since it was more than 20 years since the shitface retired to live out his existence peacefully in Saudi Arabia, 2 or 3 crocodiles have survived the trip from the lake through the turbines of the power station and were by now about 4- 5 meters long and living peacefully by the wall about 100 meters up the river from us. But don’t worry, they never bother anybody.

Right, let’s get in then and try to get them interested by flailing upside down in a little plastic coffin. We were assigned two grumpy local guides/kayak chiefs. They clearly weren’t keen on the job and would rather be kayaking on their own as one of the support kayakers attached to the group who picked up whatever remained of the group after each rapid. So, without much enthusiasm, they explained that should we flip over, our job upfront was to lean forward and hug the kayak with our arms eliminating drag of our bodies in the water as much as possible, while they will execute the eskimo turn. Each of us have got one trial flipover - my chief managed to get us back upside up, while Judy’s didn’t and they had to bail out of the boat. Despite her calls for repeat, they said it’s good enough, the rest of the group jumped into their rafts and we set off.

First set of rapids were relatively manageable grade 2 and 3. However I felt a bit confused at the front of the kayak. During my canoeing days I was told to tackle the rapids straight on, while the guy behind me seemed content to let us float through the rapids sideways, which didn’t add to the stability, and he ignored my questions about that. So I took initiative in my hands and tried to steer to correct the course from up front.

Then we hit the first grade 4. The thing is - as you sit basically at the water level you do not see the grade 4 or 5 rapids upfront enough to psych yourself up for it (or rather paddle like crazy to get out of the river before the rapid) as they are usually significantly lower than where you sit right now. You just see a water flowing more or less peacefully over the horizon in front of you and hear distant rumble. So when we crested the first horizon and accelerated quickly into the the 1,5 meter high boiling cauldron ahead something closely resembling panic attack set-in.

You see, the difference between raft (and canoe, but I don’t think anybody uses that on this part of the Nile) and kayak is, that raft floats on top of the rapids and if it flips, you fall out of it and the floating vest carries you through the rapids where you get picked up by the support guys - not much to do on your side, just go with the flow. Not so in kayak. First, in kayak you do not float over the rapids, but go through them kind of like a torpedo. So as you are about the hit the standing boiling wall you have to pierce it with your paddle, otherwise the paddle hitting the boil square while the kayak moves in may break you neck. Once you are inside the boiling cauldron - which in grade 4 - 5 usually means under the surface, you are completely disoriented and don’t know if you have flipped or not. Which brings us to the second difference - in kayak you have to take an active action to bail out as you are stuck in the very narrow plastic body through a small opening and kept in place by a skirt tightened around that hole. So unless you pull that skirt off the opening and push yourself out, you will just hang dangling upside down in the overturned kayak and drown even in a meter of calm water.

Back to the kayak: Once we crested the horizon at the top of the descent, there was no way out of it. We were going in so I tried to suck in as much air as possible, but I couldn’t help feeling that I’m going under already hopefully starved for the oxygen. Inside, as we got thrown around  I completely lost my bearings and after what felt like a minute (but was probably less than 10s) had enough and bailed out. I was in the full panic mode feeling completely out of breath. The rolling wave kept me under for another 5 - 10s during which I had to try my best to control the urge to suck the water into my lungs. Finally I surfaced and sucked the air in like I never sucked before. Floating over the rest of the rapids on my floating vest turned out to be much more preferable to this kayaking  thing.

After this I was ready to bail out and take the recovery raft, which I couldn’t help to notice was filling up quickly. The only problem was the bloody Canadian - even in my state I couldn’t bail out before a woman. They have flipped as well, but she just laughed it off and was ready for more. Shit!

She didn’t bail, so both of us ended up going the whole way. Each of us wiped out two more times, but eventually we got better grip of this kayaking malarky and things improved significantly. Still I couldn’t shake completely the onset of the panic attack before every major rapid, though I kept it under control.

The ride ended at a massive grade 6 rapid, which according to our guides was a no go - at least the whole of it. We still could carry the boats half way through and do the bottom more manageable parts - that is in rafts, kayaks were off limits. Most people had enough and headed straight for the refreshment tables set-up by people who came to fetch us. So Judy and I were offered ride in a raft, which we accepted. We were picked by a raft from which number of people bailed out. Remaining guys were by now well bonded White Nile veterans, but facing this last rapid we could sense clearly that they had some serious doubts. They were trying to keep the spirit up with motivational shouts like ‘We can do this!!!’ and shit like that, but their heart was not in it.

Anyway, we eventually set-off following leaders commands - when he shouted ‘brace yourselves’ we dropped the paddles, grabbed the ropes and kept our bodies down. The raft went through a little bump and that was it - we were done as indicated by boisterous shouts of victory emitted by the crew. I looked at Judy and could see that we thought the same: ‘Really?’.

I don't have any pictures from our rafting trip, so these pics of the Bujagali falls under our campsite - one of the rapids we went through (can't remember if it was grade 3 or 4) - will have to do:

The rapids apparently needed protection:

   

An notice board for the local stuntmen - famous Bujagali swimmers'. If you pay them some change they jump into and float through the rapid holding on to empty 20 litre plastic bottle from cooking oil. Number of independent sources confirmed that they cannot swim. I passed:

And here come the next batch of wanna be adventurers with obligatory cameraman on station:

And the first kayaker of the support team making good progress - yep that paddle sticking out of the water:

Few more kayakers spearheaded the group to get ready pick-up pieces at the bottom:

Check the nose clip - little more about that later:

Local pack waiting at the bottom to pick up pieces:

And here comes the meat:

Looking good:

Still good:

Whoopsie:

And few more as I have nothing else to show:

This dude (big bloke in charge of the raft) was the one who took Judy and I through that last rapid in a raft day before:

Nope, didn't make it either:

And the last one:

All the stresses of the day came to head at the evening party held in the campsite bar. Any pretensions have been swept away by the White Nile’s waterboarding and people went apeshit. Previously neat conservative Belgian airplane captains with triathlon athlete physique were groping giggling Russian stewardesses and slurping compliments/profanities in the alcoholic esperanto. The whole scene was surreal and reminiscent of that US army jungle Playboy party in the Apocalypse Now: white ‘civilised’ people going bonkers in the hot tropical night in the middle of jungle of the third world country watched by mesmerised locals from behind the linked fence (vendors from the trinket selling stalls surrounding the campsite, which for them was off limit). All that was missing was a tragic angle, which was readily supplied by one of the drunk independent kayaker dudes. He managed to get up on the bar, get everybody’s attention and requested that we all drink to their mate, who drowned that day in one of the rapids below (and was still stuck there in his kayak as there was no way to get him out). Of course everybody did, which somehow accelerated festivities even further. Some fucken party!

I have to admit a little sour grapes here - I joined a bit late and despite my best whisky efforts somehow couldn’t get over the surreality of the whole thing. Most importantly, by the time I arrived Judy was already courted hard by two Danish youngsters and I was out of luck. So I downed few more double whiskeys to no effect and crawled back to my den to lick my wounds.

In the morning, the airliners were gone and the campsite was quiet. I was booked for the kayaking training - still shaken a bit by the prior day misadventure I considered cancelling, but then decided to rather conquer my fears and went for it. My trainer was a young pretty alternative girl who was part of the western gang living in the campsite and working as a guide. Scarred from my prior night failure I immediately fell for her. Shame then that I ended up beating her up with a paddle. But it was her fault!!!

You see, the first thing you need to learn on kayak is the eskimo turn - flipping yourself back up after you flipped over. The sensible thing would be just to show me the easiest method, but for some reason my lovely trainer decided to teach me the most complicated one - so called sweep turn (or something like that). The normal is pretty straightforward - you hang upside down underwater, reach out and put your paddle on the surface perpendicular to the boat, pull the paddle down, swing your hips and Bob’s your auntie. The sweep one required complicated choreography of rotating your hips and shoulders moving along different axis and sweeping the paddle in half circuit along the surface of the water.

Now as I explained already, you can drown in very little water hanging upside down from kayak. To prevent this the trainer had to stand next to the upturned kayak and flip me over should I not be able to get myself up - directly in the line of my sweep. She said upfront I may hit her and asked to try not to, but I failed. So after three of four strong hits (you sweep like your life depends on it, when it does) we both agreed to call it a day. Just my luck.

Next day I took a day off from the water sports and continued my training the following day - this time with a young South African dude. Being pragmatic guy he didn’t fart about and showed me the easiest way to eskimo, which I executed perfectly on the first try and then every single afterwards. He also identified the source of my panic - it was the stupid nose clip on the helmet to prevent water getting up your nose. For some reason with my nose blocked I had this strong sense that I don’t have enough air even with my lungs full. As soon as I took it off the feeling of impending doom was gone and I was happy chappy afterwards - we even went for a little trip down the river.

Now that I finally felt comfortable in the kayak it was a time to pack up and head to Kampala to work on my clearly atrophied socializing skills.

 

[zetman]

:biggrin:LOVE YOUR HUMOR and writing please continue  :ricky: :ricky: :ricky:

 

[Xpat]

Thanks zetman, glad you enjoy it.

 

[Mev Vis Arend]

WOW, I don't have words.  Thanks for sharing. 

 

[Crossed-up]

What an adventure you have had!
Thanks for sharing. Not only do we appreciate your efforts mightily, but in 5 year's time you'll be very glad you did.

 

[Xpat]

Thank you.

Croosed-up, sorry to read about your mishap, wishing you speedy recovery.

 

[Xpat]

Uganda - part 4

Unlike bustling, impersonal and somewhat hostile Nairobi, Kampala - spread out across series of small hills - is charmingly enticing capital city with strong African flair. Still a bit wobbly from the misadventures of the prior week, I couldn’t resist an urge for another extended R&R, less than two weeks since the last one in Nairobi.

So I ended up farting away another three weeks in one of the more popular Backpackers establishments in town. I’ve spent most of the days laying about in the shade of  my room or bar, reading whatever I picked up on my regular trips to the shopping mall called Green-acres (or something like that)  rumoured to be owned by president’s wife. Normally trips to shopping mall make me understand the mind of suicide bomber, but in the land of subsistence farming I came to appreciate their air-conditioning and internet cafes. For balance I’ve spent few nights honing my socializing skills in Kampala’s party establishments - Rock Garden seemed to be the pick of the season at the time. I’m pleased to report that I did not to beat up any local lady - at least not in an unpleasant way. In-between the laying about and partying, I fetched and fitted new TKC80s that my father sent from Europe to the Entebbe airport, got third and last (at least in this life) hepatitis vaccination and dropped ice-cream in my crotch in the company of three Czech female charity workers.

During my stay in the backpackers I came to know few other interesting guests. Mark and Debbie – mixed Dutch and English couple taking a break from travelling after they drove up in a Landrover from South Africa . Chillaxing across Africa was the main focus of their trip as I found when I bumped into them again later on in Malawi – as noble motif as there is for travelling if you ask me.

Steven on the other hand was a man on a mission. A black Ugandan and  a Tibetan Buddhist monk on a mission from Dalai-lama to bring the emptiness into the lives of ordinary Ugandans. He has been sent to study in India as part of a government exchange program, and he ended up vowing to end the world’s suffering. He wore  the trademark purple Buddhist wraparound, lived in funny Tibetan looking hanging of a tree tent (about 2 meters high, 1 meter wide – I guess ideal for spending the night sitting in the lotus position), and practiced regular walking meditation. A  nice gentle guy by nature he didn’t dare to venture much out of the campground, and face the ridicule of the ordinary Ugandans. So instead he kept pitching nirvana to the pretty receptionists to no avail. They were outraged by suggestions that there may not be a big buddy rooting for them out there, but rather emptiness is form and vice versa. At the end, all he got for his efforts was a bout of malaria.

Also, while returning from a night prowl one morning, I found Chris from the Wadi Haifa gang sleeping in the reception on a couch. He was staying in the other backpackers across the town and got robbed as he was returning from his own prowl – a boda boda rider who brought him back (boda boda – local motorcycle taxi, the scariest mode of transportation known to me, 10 on the scale 1-10, where double kayak with grumpy Ugandan is 7) snatched his valet and rode off. The guards at the backpackers not keen on any trouble from police refused to let Chris in, so he somehow hitched ride to my backpackers, where he was waiting for help from somebody he knew stayed there. He declined my offer to help and got sorted  soon after, so everything worked out fine, all things considered.

But all good things must come to an end. About 3 weeks into R&R my afternoon siesta was interrupted abruptly by staccato of machine gun fire uncomfortably close by. It was shortly before elections and we could see people every day spontaneously gathering and singing support for one of the two main competing parties every day. You could feel a lot of energy in the air, but so far it was all in a good jest.

Until that bloody afternoon that is. It all came to head during a goodwill meeting between Buganda king (traditional chief leaning towards opposition), and government officials (naturally supporting the governing party). The meeting took place in king’s villa about 500 meters up the road from the backpackers and the king’s subjects flocked in and surrounded the villa to show support for their boss and opposition. So far so good. Except when the government convoy was leaving the compound through the throngs of the people, one of the brain surgeons in the convoy (according to the newspapers it was no other but the one responsible for the security of the convoy) decided to flash the government party’s hand signal and the king’s subjects went ape-shit. Sitting in the cars attacked from close quarters by angry mob, the only option left to the idiot was to empty a magazine of his AK47 into the crowd, killing 4 and wounding unknown number of others. The government dudes got away – they always do.

After the incident the situation became noticeably more tense and less predictable, so us long-termers made our plans to leave. Mark and Debbie headed east to Kenya, Steven caught a flight to New York and I decided to head west for the safety of Democratic Republic of Congo.

First I headed west to Fort Portal and adjacent Kibale Forest National Park to see the chimpanzees. On the way there I got caught up by huge storm, that I waited up with some locals in a little shack before continuing. I have arrived to Fort Portal at early afternoon, and headed straight for the park, where I set myself up in the first lodge I found on nice lake still shy about 10 km from the park. The receptionist helped me to organize the chimp trek next day.

Next day me and 2 or 3 other people joining the trek jumped into a car waiting for us at the lodge and were driven 15 or so km to the park headquarters. To my surprise - given the explosive pre-election situation in Uganda and relative remoteness of the area which would normally suffice to keep tourists out, there were already 10 - 15 well groomed whiteys waiting in small groups for the trek. Normally when whitey meets another one in the middle of Africa they greet each other and even might have a little chit-chat. Not this lot - they didn’t acknowledge us at all and looked through us the same way you look through beggars on the robots (traffic lights for non South Africans). I immediately sensed the affliction - high net worth.

And we were treated along this class divide - they were chaperoned away first by swarm of polite guides for an early start undoubtedly on a premium spot with the highest probability of chimp encounter. Us 4 squatters (none of us booked upfront, tsk tsk), had to wait for a while before a guide who must have lost the bet and acted accordingly emerged. He had a demeanor of an army officer or headmaster expecting unconditional discipline form the inferiors. He checked each of us disapprovingly and ordered that we should put our trousers into the socks as there are man eating fire ants in the forest. I rocked up in those three quarter shorts, so I was straight away on his wrong side.

Fat cats:

Watching these:

     

Once the fat cats were safely positioned for the best chimp encounter somewhere in the forest, we were ordered to jump on the back of the creaking bakkie and taken another 10 km into the forest, where we debussed and started hiking through the forest in complete silence ordered by the chief honcho, to help him hear the chimps and not scare them away. We walked for about an hour in complete silence, except one episode when Stephan - a belgian charity worker with whom I was to get quite friendly - during a tense stop when the guide was listening intently for any sign of chimp, started squealing, flailing around and trying desperately to rip his jeans off while trying to retain at least some degree of dignity. Luckily it wasn’t epileptic fit - just the fire ants somehow penetrated into his crotch area. The headmaster squinted in disgust, other two visitors in horror, while I was laughing my head off, undoubtedly collecting few more black points. I couldn’t care less - by now I was pretty sure that the honcho was just taking us for a walk away from the richies, so we don’t spoil their scenery (they paid to view chimps, not white trash) or heaven forbid share a view of a chimp.

Looking for the chimps:

     

Make your own joke:

     

     

Which he probably was, but the God of Proletariat was on duty that day and we eventually happened upon a group of chimps who then stayed around us for about an hour. And it was quite a sight! The chimps are wild, but habituated - that means they do not mind presence of people around as they don’t mind presence of other animals around. So they went about their business more or less as if we were not there. I was just frustrated with my camera, which just wasn’t up to a task in the low light forest environment, especially against the bright sky when the chimps were in the trees.

​

Once the chimps left we returned to the headquarters where we found from the other guides that the fat cats had one glimpse of chimp who immediately moved away. Up yours, smart money!

Back in the lodge we celebrated victory in the class struggle with Stephan  by getting plastered in the bar and by bitching about French. Stephan was Belgian French and as is often the case, animosities are most pronounced among relatives. Frenchies never did anything bad to me (except letting me rot on the side of the road when I hitchhiked through France about 15 years ago), but never one to miss a good bitching session I played along.

Area around the lodge:

​

Tea plantation encroaching on the forest - big problem in this part of the world:

     

​

 

[sidetrack]

Fantastic, no place like Africa !

 

[Xpat]

Uganda - part 5

Next day I headed to the nearby Queen Elizabeth NP sitting between Lake George and Lake Edward on the border with Congo. Uganda was the only country allowing people officially to enter parks on the motorbikes - a privilege I was somewhat tentatively (I’m scared of animals) keen to exploit.

On the way there I have crossed Equator for the third time, and later that day 2 more times when I went to buy some provisions in nearby town and then returned back to the lodge in the park. It’s not often that I cross Equator 5 times on one trip:

In the park I have found an accommodation at the only lodge in the area, took the luggage off and went for a ride through the park. I kept to the main dirt roads only occasionally exploring sandy double tracks here and there. I could ride them no problem, but I wouldn’t be able to turn around should I came upon an elephant behind the bush.

​

And finally first elephants on this trip:

My safari 2x1:

​

Next morning I headed 150 km south to the Ishasha NP (a section of QE NP), famous for its tree climbing lions. I didn’t know it before, but lions supposedly climb regularly trees only here and then somewhere in Tanzania - I didn’t found out why that is.

Not keen to try to outrun lions on winding double tracks on fully loaded GSA, I headed first to the headquarters where I hoped to get on a safari drive. There were no safari drives on offer and no visitors, except two Norwegian guys in Nissan Patrol, who kindly took me for a drive looking for the cats.

Can you see the kitty?

And now?

Yes, it is there:

We were back at the headquarters relatively early, so instead of spending night on my own in the deserted lodge I decided to push on further south to Kabale and Lake Bunyonyi, on the north side of the border with Rwanda. On the way I have been caught up by tropical downpour, which I waited out in one of the local shops along the way. I made it to the campsite at Lake Bunyonyi after sunset and was pretty knackered. Next day I took a day off and went for a walkabout around the lake:

Following day I headed further west to Kisoro along the northern side of magnificent Ruwenzoris - home of mountain gorillas. Unfortunately I have lost all the pics of the mountains - a chain of 7 or 8 volcanoes reaching over 4000 meters each. Kisoro about 10 km from Rwanda and another 15 from Congo is one of the staging places for gorilla trips. The options were to go to see them in Bwindi impenetrable forest in Uganda to the north, head to Rwanda and see them there, or even go for quick one day trip across the border to Congo - the cheapest, but dodgies option. I have already made my mind to see the gorillas in Rwanda, and came to Kisoro because I wanted to visit little bit of Congo along the Ugandan/Rwandan border.

But even I knew that this is very fishy ide. The area I wanted to visit - an area between Rutshuru and Goma was frequently contested by different fractions supported by Congo, Uganda and Rwanda. The fighting regularly flared up out of a blue and then died again - I have seen on BBC in Ethiopia that the zone was hot again. So I decided to stay a day or two in Kisoro and seek out as much information as possible about what is going on across the border, before committing.

I found accommodation in the famous Eagle’s Nest (or Traveller’s Nest - just cannot remember), which was founded by a guy who was a mentor to famous Gorilla lady Diane Fossey when she was staring here exploits there. The manager was a friendly Dutch guy with whom I enquired about the Congo trip. He said that there was a fighting across the border two weeks ago (which they know as the town is flooded by refugees from Congo when fighting flares up - as soon as it’s finished, people flock back home), but now all seems quiet. He didn’t seem to be too discouraging. So I will give it a day and then make my decision.

In the meantime local kids took me for a ‘snake safari’ - a walk through one of the island on the nearby lake to spot pythons. All I have seen was a tail a small snake disappearing in the undergrowth, but it was nice walk anyway.

     

     

     

​

 

[Xpat]

Thanks everybody for comments.

Keep them coming - need to get to the next page, too many photos on this one.

 

[Ian in Great Brak River]

Classic stuff, Xpat, love the humour!

:thumleft:

 

[Roulof]

Just plainly beautiful Xpat!

You manner of story telling and photos make for wonderful reading.

Keep it up!

 

[onderbroek]

Loving the story and the photographs