Travels in Africa #5 - Tanzania Part 1

This is continued from Kenya part 3.

The Jumbo Inn greeted us nicely and we quickly showered off the previous two days of dirt and grime before heading out in search of food.

Tanzania's religious mix contains about 30% Muslims. After a brief exploration within a 10 minute walking radius of our hotel we settled down to a felafel platter at a Muslim restaurant. It hit the spot just right. Exhausted, we decided against any further exploration. Without Blackberry service in Tanzania, we spent an hour at the internet cafe keeping loved ones apprised of our well being and ensuring we weren't overdrawing our bank accounts. From there it was with great pleasure that we went to sleep before 10pm.

The ferry from Dar es Salaam to the island of Zanzibar was only a short 2 hours. Halfway during the journey
I stepped out to the back of the ferry to catch a few rays of sun. Splashes of the Indian Ocean cooled my hand with its spray. Robert joined me shortly thereafter and we laughed about all that we'd been through to get to where we were. It was rewarding, surely, but we still had a ways to go.

Zanzibar, part of Tanzania, is actually 99% Muslim. Many of the women on the ferry were covered with colorful dress. Nevertheless, when we exit the ferry and cleared Zanzibar immigration (I'm still confused as to why we needed to immigrate to an island presided over by the nation we'd already immigrated into) the touts were waiting for us. From taxis to hotels to spice tours to water safaris these guys could get it for us.

We'd already agreed on a new philosphy of dealing with these guys: the silent treatment. Neither politely talking to them nor sarcastically conversing with them ever led to anything productive. Deadpan silence between both of us as well as to the touts would hopefully express our lack of desire to deal with them. And, as we trekked past them it seemed as if our new philosophy was intent on working.

We stopped inside the offices of a few airline carriers and travel agents to see what it would cost for us to fly from Zanzibar to Arusha, where we'll gather to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, on the 1st of the year. Burnt from the events we lived through to get us to the island, we were eager to maximiaze our time on it. That said, we weren't so devastated by our trip that we wanted to pay $150 each to avoid a lengthy return trip.

From the offices we walked through some of the narrow streets of Stone Town, Zanzibar's only city. Like the Trastavere part of Rome, many of the streets of Stone Town are too small for cars and wind in ways that can easily render those unfamiliar lost in no time. We slithered through the streets, admiring the small shops below many of the residential quarters above us. The three story buildings so narrowly separated kept the sun from beating in. Eventually we settled in for lunch at an Indian Vegetarian restaurant.

Eager to catch a bus to the eastern part of the island, the food seemed to take particularly long to be served. We walked outside after eating and admired the turquoise blue waters of the harbor we'd entered just a couple of hours earlier.

The normal confusion ensued when we walked to the bus station on the other side of town. We were spotted as targets looking for a bus and there were countless people interested in being our "fren" and leading us to the right bus. Normally we can easily figure it out on our own, as was the case today. Nevertheless, as we handed our bags to the "helper" to load onto the roof covering the bed of the truck we were going to ride in, one guy insisted we give him money. We found a spot on the bench seats, directly behind the driver's cabin, facing out the back of the truck, and ignored the tout's pleas.

At first this island cousin of the mainland's matatu seemed like a pleasant surprise. The back was covered but the sides were open to allow the island breeze to relieve us from the thick, humid air. However, as they continued to pile more and more people into the back of the truck it became apparent that it was merely a wolf in sheep's clothing.

There was a Canadian couple on board and as we got pushed closer and closer together we joked about the number of people they continued to push in. Things were muttered in Swahili, but I doubt if many of them were complaints - this was just a part of life. It was a bit frustrating not to be able to see much of the scenery along the hour and a half ride to the island's eastern side. We could see all of the people in the large truck bed as well as the handful of guys hanging off the back, however.

Similar to Stripey and Claw 9's work on the bus, periodically throughout the relatively short ride the driver would pound on the window just behind Robert and I. He would then slow and all of the guys hanging off the back would jump off and casually walk behind the truck. Lo and behold, within a minute we would be stopped at a small police check point, looking out at five guys trying to act as if they'd just casually been walking down a road with nothing but trees on either side of it. There was defintiely no way the cops didn't know what was going on, so it must have just been an exercise in formalities.

Eventually we got a bit of relief to our sleeping legs and butts when we unloaded half of the bus in Paje. We were continuing on a few kilometers north of Paje. We were able to see the beautiful color of the water and the white sands abutting it. The truck continued on maneuvering through very small sand roads. It seemed as if every time we stopped the helpers would unload a month's supply of staple foods from the roof. It was a Saturday, the one just prior to the New Year at that, and people must've gone to Stone Town to stock up.

When we finally reached the last stop we were greeted by an east island tout. We wern't exactly sure where we were going, but let hinm lead us 15 minutes down the small village road to a stretch of accommodations. He must have gotten the biggest kickback from a budget spot called Shells. There were a few others we passed, but during the period between Christmas and New Year's they promised to be either full, expensive or both.

Shells only had a dilapidated room that people were working on when we arrived. Our tout had told us rooms were $30, but I whipped into fierce negotiation mode and let it be clear that I was unwilling to pay any more than $20 for the night. The room was barely worth $5 between the two uf us, but I was willing to part with the rest due to its location. The guys were hesitant to agree upon it and pulled out a new stop I'd yet to see. One of them got on his mobile phone and "called the owner.". The owner conferred with their last offer, which was $25. I politely told them that it was more than the room was worth to me amd began walking away. By the time we'd made it five steps from the property we were summoned back. Apparently the owner had called back and changed his mind.

Unfortunately the beach on the eastern side of the island was protected by a reef system a kilometer off the coast rendering the water very shallow from the beach to the reef. Fortunately, however, the water was very beautiful.

Riding our negotiation high from the room, we talked down the price of a couple of bikes from our tout. Though I was extremely beat still, we biked into a light headwind towards a lagoon that promised swimming and snorkeling. Along the 6km ride we realized that much of the beach front property was lined with vacation properties. Thankfully the architecture of the small buildings blended with the natural surroundings. There weren't the gigantic high rises you find in may resort destinations.

The lagoon was next to a pier that was surely built by the all inclusive resort there. We were able to head in and get a refreshing feel of the salty waters of the Indian Ocean. If I'm not mistaken, this was my first time in the Indian Ocean! The water felt great and we chided ourselves for not splurging an extra $4 each for snorkeling gear. As we swam about under the early evening sky we noticed people were jumping from the pier. Always ones for adventure, we swam over to join in.

The pier was cool but kind of strange. There weren't many people on it, but we did strike up a conversation with a woman from Seattle whose husband and daughter were jumping from the pier. They were on the "trip of a lifetime," which saw them visit about 6 or 7 National Parks while on Safari and then flying to Zanzibar to be picked up by a private shuttle and plopped on a beach. It was hard to imagine getting to where we were without doing many of the things we'd been through. We were in Africa to see and meet and interact with Africans. Granted Robert and I are in our late twenties and early thirties, respectively, and we're traveling without a teenage daughter, but there just seemed to be something inherently dissapointing about the fact that this family would think of Africa as a paradise because by and large they'd been served by Africans instead of traveling with them. This philosophy is why I'd rather climb a mountain to catch a view of the surrounding beauty than drive up a road to the parking lot just shy of the peak. All of that said, it was obvious that the family was nice and enjoying their time and surely being courteous to those showing them around East Africa.

It was after 6pm when we started biking back. We tracked down at the small restaurant attached to the bungaloes at the property next door and then struggled to stay awake. I laid on a tightly strung cot made of yarn under the gaze of a three-quarters full moon. The refreshing breeze cascade over my body and I relaxed into a brief sleep. The locals and many of the people staying in a few of the adjoining properties were planning a bonfire, and as exciting as that sounded, I opted for a full night's sleep.

As I lay on my bed with the sound of ocean outside my window I realized that $20 may have been a bit much for the room. The thin foam mattress did very little to protect me from the slats of the cheap bed frame. I thought of going to take the cot I was lying on outside, but by that time I'm sure the bonfire attendees were using it.

The night passed with quite a few disturbances: bongos around the bonfire, a dripping shower, a mosquito net which seemed to do a better job of holding mosquitoes in than preventing them from getting in, and a window shutter that kept slamming shut. Nevertheless, exhaustion prevailed and I was startled awake by my 6am alarm. It was time to see the sun rise.

It's always fascinating to me how quickly the sun actually ascends. If you're afforded a clear view of the top of the sphere as it breaks the plane of the horizon, it's only a moment or two later that the bottom joins the rest of the sun above the distant line separating ground from sky. The huge orange ball sat in clear view for a moment before predominantly disappearing behind the cloudy sky.

We sought out breakfast at the Evergreen Resort a few doors down. We were the first ones up but as we drank coffee and I traded Robert my egg for his toast many of the families begun to emerge. Many of their children were eager to play on the beach and in the shallow water.

At 9am we were greeted by a driver who was taking us to a dive center at Jambiani Beach, south of Paje. Our tout had secured us a spot diving with this center after we'd found out all of the spots through the small dive center associated with Evergreen had ben filled. Robert, the more experienced diver among us quizzed the dive master and received satisfactory answers. Though the tout helping us had been friendly and quite good, we had a small fear that he could be sending us out with someone without sufficient qualifications.

The small resort the dive center was attached to was quite ncomfortable and our dive master was a friendly lifetime resident of Zanzibar. Although his English was a tad hard to understand at times, his animated demeanor had a soothing quality.

After we'd paid and met our diving companions, a couple from Johannesburg, Robert gave me a quick refresher of the simple scuba signals and the operation of the gear we'd be using. It was four years ago to the month that I was certified in Egypt. The expense and lack of oppotortunity had prevented me from going back under the water. When you've got so many hobbies that require gear and fees and transportation to get to them, you have to pick and choose those you partake in.

As the dive master and the captain of the small boat got all of their things together we were joined by another couple. These two were German and in their mid-forties. The man plopped himself down and began treading around a tricky situation. It turns out that the scuba company didn't have enough tanks on hand to outfit 7 divers (the German couple, the South African couple, Robert, myself and the dive master) for two separate dives. They only had 12 tanks. The South Africans who'd dived the other day offered to only enter the water once.

By 11am we were on our way to the boat, which we enetered just off shore in front of the hotel. We set off amd the low horsepower motor pushed us out towards the reef. The winds made for choppy seas, and the further we got out the bigger waves made for a few seasick feelings among us. Luckily no one lost their breakfast, but we were all feeling it. Before too long we were helping people get their gear on and they were dumping into the water.

Being in the water soothed everyone's stomachs a bit. As we waited for the dive master to enter the water I felt a bit of anxiousness about the dive. I felt as if I was partaking in something very safe and was thankful to have multiple experienced divers in our group, but it'd been quite a bit of time since I last dove.

To be continued...

Travels in Africa #4 - Kenya Part 3

Continued from part 2. Technically we are now in Tanzania, but Stripey and Claw 9 happen to be Kenyans, so I'll finish our bit about travel under this subject heading.

My favorite shenaigan that Stripey and Claw 9 pulled was just before we entered a weigh station we stopped at a small bus station and unloaded half of the passengers onto another bus. We passed through the weigh station and then somewhere further down the road, when we stopped for lunch, everyone else was let back on.

Speaking of lunch, we hit a roadside canteen that served up another order of rice, beans, a bit of spinach and a couple of chapatis. That held us over until the end of the ride.

The end of the ride was pretty daunting. Unlike a normal bus which makes a final stop at the bus terminal, Stripey and Claw 9 were supplememnting their income by allowing passengers to exit and then picking up other, short distance passengers. We'd hoped to reach Dar by 3pm, but didn't roll into the hot, humid capital of Tanzania until a bit after 4pm.

Unfortunately, the main bus terminal is on the outskirts of town. We were forced to quickly negotiate a cab to take us to the ferry port. The traffic was bad and we feared we would surely miss the last one heading to the island of Zanzibar for the day. As we pulled up we were pleased to hear that the last ferry was still in port, but were disappointed that it was completely full. Robert and I had each known the chances of getting the ferry were limited, but after 44+ hours of travel we were almost in shock that for the first time in Africa something wasn't falling into place with our laissez-faire attitudes.

We quickly fought off the countless touts trying to "help" us get a ticket for the following morning. We were able to secure spots on the following morning's 730am ferry and then headed to a hotel for the night.

To be continued in Travels in Africa #5 - Tanzania

Travels in Africa #4 - Kenya Part 2

Morning rang around 7am and we slowly motivated to packing our things and getting on the bikes again. We'd debated how we were going to get to a crater lake which sits inside one of the small cones of a mountain on Lake Naivasha. We skipped the matatu to walk option in favor of returning to Fisherman's camp for breakfast on bike and continuing on to the lake. We stopped at the bike "shop" just outside of YMCA camp to add air to my rear tire. The helpful owner lent me a small pump I could take with me and a patch kit. I was hopeful I wouldn't need them.

We biked down to Fisherman's camp once again. We stopped for breakfast and coffee, both of which took quite a long time to be served. When we were finally ready to make our way I realized that my front tire was completely flat. A bit of investigation proved that the valve needed a readjustment. Then, not five minutes later, my rear wheel began wobbling. The hub had shifted slightly on the axle, exposing the bearings. It was beginning to seem as if going to crater lake wasn't meant to be.

We biked back to the shop and showed the owner. By then it was 10am and neither of us had the energy to try to complete the 30km round trip in two or three hours. We politely returned the bikes and explained that we wouldn't be paying for them. Amusingly, the owner still wanted us to make a partial payment.

Peter at the YMCA camp was surprised to see us back so soon. Based on our speed the previous day I think he thought we may have made it to the crater and back in the hour and a half we were gone. With a bit of time on our hands before we really wanted to leave, we set out to catch a view of the lake from behind the YMCA property. The Y doesn't actually sit on the lake, so Peter explained the general route we would take, which involved jumping a couple of fences.

Once we hopped the first fence we started walking down a dirt road which appeared to split the developed side of things and the marshy grasslands leading to the lake. On either side of the YMCA property on the developed side were large greenhouses and fields of flowers butting up against them. Just then a car driving on the dirt road stopped next to us. The gentleman driving was white with a clean, short haircut and designer glasses. A tad snootily, he asked us if we were staying at Crayfish Camp, a camp similar to Fisherman's camp but closer to the YMCA. We told him we were at the Y and were in search if the lake. In a recognizably Dutch accent he said "this is private property, but you may pass.".

We never were able to find the actual waterfront, though we did stomp through a good deal of marsh land. We caught a glimpse of it at one point, though we'd hoped to make it lake side.

We packed up our things from the Y and said our goodbyes. Like most helpful and caring people in Africa, Peter was very genuine in hoping that we'd be safe and that we may return again one day.

We easily caught a matatu back to Navaisha town, and after a bit of confusion about where we could catch a matatu to Nairobi we purchased tickets and waited with the countless other post holiday travelers trying to make it back to the capital. We arrived around 4pm, dropped our bags at the trian station and then walked 25 minutes across town to the Nairobi Java House. We splurged on veggie burgers and a couple cups of coffee needing them to tide us over until the morning. That is whem the night train would dump us in Mombasa.

Rain began falling heavily shortly before the train arrived for boarding. We'd paid for second class, but declined bedding (sheets, pillow, etc) and dinner in the dining car. This cut our fare by 60%, but still entitled us to two beds in a four bed compartment. By the time the train started moving our travel companions still weren't present. Now each of us had a choice of whether we'd like a bottom or a top bunk.

Still not feeling perfect I spent much of the beginning of the ride lying down. The rain had subsided enough where people could hang out in the hallways, peering out the windows. Night had already fallen, but Robert kept reporting anything interesting he saw.

Before too long turned in for the night, hoping to awake well rested in Mombasa. Little did I know what the next 40+ hours would have in store.

I had strange dreams on the train, all in regards to sleeping. I know we stopped quite a few times during the night, but at 4:45am I remember us coming to a dead stop. I thought little of it and returned to sleep. At 6:30am I was up for the morning, yet we still hadn't moved. I presumed that we must have stopped just a few hours shy of Mombasa and would begin moving shortly, arriving near our scheduled 830am arrival.

Within an hour many others on the train were awake, too, though we still hadn't begun moving. By 830am people, especially those in 3rd class, who weren't provided with the luxury of their own cabins nor beds to lie on, had piled out of the train. Soon enough, those from first and second class, especially those eager for a nicotine fix, had followed suit.

We were stopped beside a very small station whose small track exchange meant that there was one track parallel to the one we were stopped on. The small sign for the station indicated we were still 999m above sea level. Using a rough conversion to nearly 3000 feet, we could only guess that we weren't more than half way from the mile high capital to the seaside city of Mombasa. The intermittent cloud cover kept the train relatively cool and the rocky hillside afforded a beautiful backdrop.

Rumors began circulating on what was going on, when we'd begin moving, and how far we were from Mombasa. One of the amazing things about Africa is the multitide of answers you may receive if you ask enough people. Often, even if the answer is unknown, they will tell you something anyways. Or, they'll just respond with an "mmmmm.". That's been my favorite. I may employ that when I return to the US. "Mike, when are you going to get that project finished?". "Mmmm". It's pretty damn funny.

Deciding to seek answers for ourselves, and alleviate some of the boredom of sitting, we ventured out on the parallel track and made our way toward the conductor. It turns out that the track 2km ahead was flooded and they were waiting for the waters to recede. Though the sun peered more intensely through the clouds with each passing moment, we had our doubts that we'd be moving anytime soon. At the same time, having had relatively good luck with everything related to travel in Africa thus far, I was sure that they had a grasp on it.

As we walked back towards our car we passed a group of smokers standing directly across from the small station we were stopped in front of. There was an older sedan sitting in the one mud filled parking space. One of the women in the group was attempting to negotiate something in the way of transport. An African passenger muttered something about how the group just needed to relax; things would work themselves out. Just then, another, twenty-something woman from the group said "we're English, we don't know how to relax."

Having exhausted the information source at the front we headed towards the back of the train, armed with noon hour beers. Robert hopped onto the caboose platform to peer in. He was greeted by a railroad employee resting in the back, shirt unbuttoned to provide relief from the heat. Like everyone else, he had a different answer to what was going on.

We retreated back to our car and began playing cribbage. The cabin full of a Swedish family next door to us was beginning to make arrangements to have a car come get them. People were getting frustrated. We settled into our second beer each and decided we'd ride it out. Within an hour, one of the African men who kept issuing reports to us informed us an engine was coming to pull us backward. It turns out there was a lot of controversy over this decision, and it took 10+ hours for someone to make it.

Soon enough a railway employee was walking the parallel track, green flag in hand, indicating everyone should reboard. Another 30 minutes expired before the engine arrived and was attached to the caboose. It was only moments following that we were on our way. We traveled about 10km before we reached a station only slightly larger than the one we'd just been stopped in front of. Nevertheless, the necessary room to disembark was there for everyone. We quickly gathered our things and felt a bit of remorse for those people traveling with families or large pieces of luggage. Much of first and second class was filled with westerners or middle class Africans heading to the coast for some sort of vacation/holiday. Alternately, third class was filled with the occasional westerner and then a multitude of Africans who use the train as a viable means of transport, goods included.

I briefly attempted to seek a refund from the train manager, but he informed me that would only happen in Nairobi or Mombasa. We hightailed it for the road running between the aforementioned cities which was about 1km away. An American couple was with us. The woman was kind enough to lend me her hat, fearing that the sunlight would negatively affect a patch of blistering skin which had appeared the right side of my nose. I was not convinced it was a sunburn to begin with, but took her up on the kind offer.

That couple and many others sought a matatu (mini-bus) towards Mombasa. We made an impromptu decision that we should for go our intended destination in favor of returning to Nairobi. Though it would be back tracking, something neither of us are fond of, we could catch a night bus there to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania.

It took us a bit to track down a matatu, but eventually a guy who looked like the gang leader of Ice Cube's rival gang in Boys in the Hood opened the side of one of the mini buses and fit us in. Closer to Nairobi than Mombasa, we'd hoped the journey would take a bit under 3 hours. It was 3pm when we got in. Four and a half painful hours later we were dropped in the heart of Nairobi's transport part of town. Sore from being crammed in a vehicle with absolutely nothing to soften the constant barrage of potholes and speed bumps, we walked briskly towards the long distance buses. After a few dead ends with other companies, we ended up on a Spider Bus company Dar es Salaam bound bus with an 8pm departure.

Starved, I had a guy lead me to a small restaurant serving beans. Rice and veggies while Robert kept our seats and an eye on our valuable bags. Soon enough I was on my way, with each separate portion of the meal tied in its own plastic bus. Knowing there was no cutlery available, each of us combined the contents of our separate bags into our main plastic bag, bit a whole in the taught end and sucked out the meal. It was one hell of a meal!

The Spider bus which leaves at 8pm seemed to be a combination cargo and human carrier vehicle. We wanted to put our larger backpacks beneath the bus, but it was full of overstuffed cardboard boxes which had been reinforced by tying string around them multiple times. We were able to put our bags in the back row of seats, where many other boxes and bags were. In addition, there were bags and boxes in the entire aisle of the bus. It was treacherous to traverse the distance from our seats, halfway back, to the door each time we had to exit.

We departed on time and by 1030pm we were at the Tanzanian border. We filled out our Kenyan exit papers and walked across to the Tanzanian side. There we were hit with a hefty $50, 3 month visa fee. We found the bus across the parking lot parked in front of the customs office. We retrieved our respective bags and then had a seat on the cold tile floor near the bus. It appeared as if customs was inspecting the contents of the boxes beneath the bus. However, it was quite confusing, because no one bore any insignia nor did anyone wear a uniform. We noticed a guy in a vertically striped soccer jersey, oddly resembling that of a referee's. He was one of the inspectors. We kidded that was how he must have gotten the job. He had the closest thing to a uniform fit for the job. The other inspector was dressed like an old man just released from the hospital: wearing light blue pajama bottoms and a light tan trench coat.

After a bit of inquiry our worst fears about this trip were confirmed; the bus would wait at the border until 530am when the Tanzanian side would open and allow us to enter. A third guy working for the customs agency allowed me to charge our cell phones in the office. George was his name, he was in his mid-twenties, and he was dressed no better than his co-workers. He explained to me that unlike Kenya his country did not have police manned check points at night, and therefore night travel was dangerous and illegal. It was hard to tackle the idea of passing the night in the bus, the stganant hot air barely circulating out of the open windows. We opted to defer that inevitable fate by crossing the border on foot to the small canteen restaurant just on the other side.

We had a plate of stale fries and a cup of sweet tea. George came with us, presumably concerned for our safety and eager to talk to a couple of westerners his age. There were about 10 people sitting at the various, humble tables. Everyone's focus was on the 17-inch television in the corner. There was a program showing young African men and womenn, dressed in all white, walking through the woods.

It cut from that to a group of warriors dancing in the woods. Just as we began wondering if we were watching some sort of ritual, a computer generated head, similar to an old madball toy, flew into view on the screen. Instead of a cultural program that could've been created for National Geographic we were watching something suited for Saturday morning television. It was comical to us, taking everything we'd gone through in the last 30 hours in stride.

George inexplicably picked up the tab for my tea, but stayed in the bar while we retreated to the bus. A few hours later I found him asleep on a small wooden chair outside the office which held my phone. I tapped him lightly on the shoulder to wake him. His soft, kind eyes opened and he knew what I needed. Before I loaded my phone into my pocket George asked for my number, so we exchanged them. It was one another one of those great moments of travel. While everyone at home was out at Thursday night happy hour I'd made a brief connection with someone on the other side of the world. Neither of us will probably ever use numbers we exchanged, nor will we think back to this one night in December of 2006 often, but at that particular time in that particular place we shared a mutual respect and friendship.

By the time we began moving at 530am we'd created a cast of characters for our bus. After much confusion as to whom was in charge of bus operations, as no one here wore any sort of uniform either. Stripey and Claw-9, named for their respective shirts (Stripey had on a velvet polo shirt, which we later realized was a G-Unit shirt, and Claw 9 had on an "Akademics" t-shirt with his nickname printed on the back), made for a fantastic team.

As we traveled through the cloud covered Tanzanian landscape for the rest of the day these two were contantly up to something. Usually, we noticed, it was something sketchy. The bus always seemed to be stopping for one reason or another, and Stripey usually hopped off the bus while it was still moving to greet whomever was waiting for us. Though we were on a bus and not a matatu we surely were travling unconventionally.

To be continued in part 3......

Travels in Africa #4 - Kenya Part 1

The last journal I sent was a two part email from my blackberry about our final day in Rwanda as well as our time in Uganda. From there we went into Kenya.

We arrived in Kenya around 3am on Christmas eve. The bus ride was uneventful for the most part. The border crossing was similar to the one between Rwanda and Uganda in that we had to exit the bus in Uganda, fill out a departure card, then walk to the Kenyan side and fill out an arrival card. Because we planned to stay in Kenya less than a week we were able to pay $20 for a transit visa. I believe the normal, three mont visa, would have cost us $50.

I slept the majority of the bus ride. Soon after crossing the border, around 8pm, the bus company served us each a soda and then turned off all of the lights. We'd expected movies, or at least lights to read by, but all we got was a dark cabin. My iPod was completely dead, so I popped some ear plus in and faded in and out of sleep most of the night.

I did jostle awake at one point and thought we might already have reached Nairobi. I asked the friendly Dutch gentleman next to me and he said we were merely making a quick stop. I was a tad hesitant to exit the bus in the cover of night. The lonely Planet book lists Kenya as a crime ladden city where you must always be on guard. No matter where we we're I presumed that I should take caution upon exiting. I saw an African gentleman who was sitting behind me enter a restaurant just outside the bus's exit. I followed him in their, used the restroom, and then inquired about the samosas which were for sale. The owner indicated they contained meat and the guy who was sitting behind me on the bus asked if I was a vegetarian. When I responded affirmatively he offered to buy me a fried piece of bread, similar in taste to an unglazed donut. It was kind of him, but when he returned to his seat on the bus I was a tad startled by his arrogance. He was bragging to the Dutch guy sitting next to me about how he's "purchased the entire store."

From there we continued on. I was a bit disappointed that we were on a night bus because I was anxious to see the Kenyan countryside. However, traveling at night had its advantages - presumably we wouldn't have to pay for a nights accommodations.

I dozed off again and awoke when we'd stopped yet again. It was almost 4am. It was really hard to tell where we were, though it looked as if we were outside of a restaurant similar to the one we'd stopped at with the samosas and donuts. In fact, we were outside of the Scandinavian bus office in Nairobi; we'd reached our destination early.

Nairobi has been nicknamed "Nairobbery" and everything we'd read and heard indicated that doing anything after dark would assure being mugged and beaten. Not ones eager to test the waters on our first morning in town, we hopped a cab for our hotel. Luckily they weren't fully booked and allowed us to come in and get some rest.

I awoke around 9am, after a couple of decent hours of sleep. Our room faced the street, and though the hotel was on a relatively quiet street the noise was loud enough to be a nuisance.

After a quick bite to eat at the Nairobi Java House, a very western influenced, upscale diner with great coffee we set out to explore the city. We weren't entirely sure what our plans for the next few days were, but if we could find a good walking or cycling safari we would gladly entertain it. There were "touts" everywhere attempting to guide us to a particular safari company. We weren't entirely sure how these guys operated and attempted to ditch them as soon as they approached us.

The day was pretty frustrating overall. We ended up in two safari offices that were both sending 3-day trips to the Masaai Mara National Park for about $80/person/day. The price itself wasn't terribly overwhelming, but we suspected that would indeed fall prey to the adage, "you get what you pay for.". We got the cell phone numbers from both operators and told them we'd call them later, once we'd made a decision.

No matter how hard we'd tried to ditch the touts, they were everywhere on Christmas Eve. We seemed to be the only two tourists looking for safaris, too. After leaving the second office the sane set of guys were waiting outside for us. They were asking us a bunch of questions and one of them stuck his hand out towards me. I said something and brushed his hand away. That set off one of the touts, who like many of the others on this day was quite drunk. He wanted to know why I was a racist, and as we walked off to investigate the train to Mombasa he shouted "next time don't come to Africa."

Drunk or not, that comment disturbed me. However, I didn't let it creep to far under my skin. The train station proved to be somewhat of a safe have. Not only were we able to buy tickets for the Wenesday train to Mombasa, but it allotted for a peaceful and quiet place to make some decisions.

After a ton of back and forth, and calling one of the safari companies we'd visited to let them know we would like to go, we ultimately reversed that decision in favor of going to Lake Naivasha the next day.

We returned to our room at the Terminal Hotel for an attempted nap. The outdoor restaurant had a DJ alternating bad club music with even worse Christmas carols. It was a tad surreal that this was where we were spending our holiday season. Aside from the obligatory music in certain shops, restaurants and bars, there was hardly any real Christmas feeling. It may have been the warm weather or any number of other things, but my suspicion is the free world's celebration of such holidays is completely amplified; which is jus one more reason I enjoy being out of the country at this time of year.

Unable to sleep we employed the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" philosophy and headed to the restaurant for a Christmas eve beer. We followed that with a cab ride to an Ethiopian restaurant in the Westlands area of town. The food there was great, though the place was empty. We did walk around just a bit after the meal, to see what else that area had to offer us, but quickly found a cab back and went to sleep.

The following day was Christmas, and I've already sent an account of our unique and special events of the day.

December 26th, Boxing Day, is a holiday here in Kenya as well. Our plan for the day was to rent a few bicycles and ride around Hell's Gate National Park. Hell's Gate is a bit more low key in terms of the wildlife it contains. You figure if they'll let you ride a bike in it there's little chance of deadly animals capable of catching and eating you roaming within the park's confines.

The entrance fee was $20USD/person. In fact, the park fees are a major budget consideration when traveling here. I promise never again to curse the $50 National Parks Pass the US offers. Nevertheless, we inspected the "series year" on our Andrew Jackson faced bills to ensure they were 2001 or later (some countries won't take US bills if they weren't printed in 2003 or later, in Kenya the cut off was 2001) and handed them over. We proceeded through the gate and past a few maintenance buildings on the gravel and dirt road into the park.

The mid-morning sky was blue with thin white clouds overhead. We had the road to ourselves and the wind blowing on my face was refreshing. As we cycled down the road I took in the grand scenery. There were massive expanses of green leading to 200 feet high cliff faces on both sides of us. As we wound further into the park we spotted a heard of zebra grazing. We jumped from our bikes and walked through the ankle high grass towards them. We trod carefully, of course, hoping only to get a better look and without scaring them. A few of them inquisitively looked back at us, but most went about their normal eating routine.

Satisfied with another wildlife encounter we pedalled further into the park. The slight decline in the path allowed us to propel our heavy mountain bikes faster than we'd even expected. It felt so good to be on a bike. Even if we saw no wildlife at all, the scenery combined with physical activity would have been exhilirating enough.

We took a detour along the aptly named Buffalo Circuit where we surprised a group of tourists walking. They were with an armed ranger and a guide and were looking at another herd of zebra. We paused long enough to allow them to snap their currently lined up photos before pedalling past them. Just then the zebras began stampeding parallel to the bike path. Robert and I glanced at one another feeling as if we may have rudely caused the disruption. The sound of the zebra's hooves trotting in unison was quite powerful. Soon enough we noticed that it wasn't the two guys on bikes they were afraid of, rather it was a heard of African Buffalo. As the path we rode curved slightly three of the lead zebras fleeing the scene ran about ten feet in front of us. That was great. We slowed enough to allow those three zebras to make an outward arching u-turn and re-unite themselves with their herd who had stopped a fair distance from the buffalo.

The turnaround of the Buffalo Circuit provided a nice view further down the canyon we were in. We could see the "central tower" a natural column of rock about the size of Pisa's leaning tower. On our way back along the track we'd just covered we were able to snap a few pictures of the buffalo. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the African Buffalo is one of the "Big Five" (Rhino, Buffalo, Elephant, Lion and Cheetah). We jokingly added a second notch in our Big Five log books, having seen a Rhino in South Africa.

Still amazed by the ability to bike we almost missed the family of giraffe walking halfway between the main park road and the aforementioned cliffs. We stopped to admire them briefly before continuing on to the ranger station near a gorge in the park.

Robert was beginning to feel the onset of another bout of sickness, but we opted to briefly hike into the gorge anyways. We declined the services of a guide, not anxious to part with another $8. The main ranger there sent a young guide, probably no older than twelve, with us anyways. It turns out he was quite helpful, as the path wasn't clearly marked. It was a tad frustrating to feel obliged to pay someone to lead us somewhere three small signs could have easily solved. Robert and I debated the merits of helping out the locals by providing them with jobs versus being entitled to simple signage as we'd each paid $20 to enter the park. Obviously we wasn't to assist everywhere we can, but I must say we were beginning to feel a small pinch in the pocketbooks.

We hiked right through the gorge. With the amount of rain the region had seen there was a surface layer of water moving through the gorge, pooling ankle deep in certain places. The gorge walls were smooth from the erosive properties of water pushing its way through it after each bout of heavy rain. The guide led us down a short path of a side gorge that provided for better pictures. After that short detour we made our way towards the first of a series of warm water-trickles (to call them waterfalls would be giving them too much credit). The gorge is in a hotbed of geothermal activity and as we were walking along the bottom water emergimg from the walls above would fall towards us. The water was comfortable to the touch and the young guide led us each of the easily accessible trickles. As he indicated a path leading out of the gorge, we asked him where it would lead if we continued on. I was hoping there would be an actual hot springs which was accessible. I don't think he completely grasped my question and given Robert's ill feelings and a 10km bike ride back to the YMCA it wasn't worth pushing the issue.

The path out of the gorge led to a perch high above the canyon. We passed a group of four teenage Masai warriors, dressed in traditional garb. Our guide, a member of the Masai tribe himself (all Africans, or at least Kenyans belong to a tribe. In fact, Jerry's brother asked me what tribe I was from as they walked us from their house after our Christmas dinner), indicated these guys were "level two" warriors. We did not find out what the highest level was.

From the top of the ridge we were afforded a beautiful view. The mid day sun was shining brightly overhead. The central tower, indicating the location of our start point, was within perfect view to our left. To our right was the rest of the gorge, presumably continuing for another 20km.

We gave our guide a token payment. It was hard to tell if he was satisfied or not. As we biked out of the park many cars were entering. We were happy we'd gotten an early start. By this time Robert was really beginning to feel ill so we high-tailed it back to the YMCA camp. Our host there, Peter, was surprised at our early return. Concerned if we'd had problems with the bikes or anything else he began asking questions. He was very surprised to hear us tell of the ground we covered, what we'd seen and the fact that we'd hiked the gorge. We'd only been gone four hours; many tourists cover half the ground we did in a full day.

As the YMCA camp was dead, and I was straved for food, I left Robert and his resurgence of ill feelings in favor of Fisherman's camp. I checked out a few other places along the road, but Fisherman's seemed to be the only one really catering to vegetarians. Unlike when we'd rolled in the evening of Christmas, the mid-afternoon vibe on Boxing Day was quiet and relaxed. I ordered a plate of food and coffee and enjoyed the comfortable breeze.

There were a few Australians gathered around a TV with satellite broadcast alternating between cricket and English Premier League soccer. I spent the afternoon writing my journal and sipping a beer.
I ventured down to the water for a view of Lake Naivasha. There were two slips along the lakefront, both filled with a dozen people awaiting to board boats. I was still able to see the water and peer out to see the hills in the distance. Hippos live in the lake, but only come out of the water to graze at night. In fact, the camp had an electric fence that was turned on at 630pm each evening to prevent hippos from coming into camp. I did see a variety of different birds, though. I have never been one to watch birds or even pay much attention to any other than major predators, such as hawks or eagles, or brightly colored ones. There were many different and beautifully colored birds here, and elsewhere in Africa. It's been an unexpected highlight.

Robert came and met me just as I'd exhausted my need for Fisherman's. We got a cup of coffee and watched the end of a Chelsea v Reading "football" match. Then, as the sun was setting, and incredibly powerful thunderstorm unleashed itself. A transformer blew and power at the camp was out. I read by candlelight as we debated exactly how long we should wait for the rains to subside. Before long we knew the rains had settled in; we sucked it up and rode the 5km back to YMCA in the rain. The power was out there too. We were served a very tasty meal there and then crawled into bed quite early.

I had a very strange night of sleep, which often happens when I eat to soon before going to sleep. Also, as was the case last time Robert got sick, my stomach virus was kicking in a day later than his. I had to make a few runs to the shared toilets and awoke a few times sweating profusely.

To be continues in part 2....

Travels in Africa - Christmas Day

I am trying to get an account of our time in Uganda and our first day in Nairobi together. We seem to be doing more than my lengthy accounts can keep up with. It's been really amazing, and Christmas day turned out to be a fantastic surprise that I couldn't ewait to share.

Today has surely been one of the most amazing days I have had in a long time. It reminds me why I travel and how the people of the world truly are one.

I woke up early this morning and felt pretty out of it. Eventually we got up and made our way back to the Nairobi Java House for another breakfast and coffee. Gametrackers, the safari company that we wanted to talk to the day before, had a few safari vehicles gearing up to head out that morning. As we sipped coffee, I once again started having very mixed emotions about whether I should go or not.

Robert had checked out their rates and for $370 each we could buy onto a 4-day Masai Mara Safari right then. I couldn't seem to get it out of my head that I had come all the way to Africa and potentially was not going to go out on a safari. In previous travels and life in general I have skipped over particluar things because of their perceived high cost at the time. In those few instances I've looked back and and realized that the money would have meant very little versus the value of the experience. That was the rush I was succuumbing to. In that short moment I decided once again that I did want to go on a safari.

I rushed back into the office and reconfirmed that there was still space available. The office was quite nice, but the young woman working seemed a tad overwhelmed. Trying to add myself and Robert into the mix didn't seem to be boding itself too well with the people who had signed up in advance and had been told they'd be on the road by then.

Just as the woman was juggling some other people's paperwork and was trying to process my credit car, I once again got the feeling that going on the safari was a terrible mistake. For one, the entire reason we wanted to go on more of a private safari inn the first place was that we weren't particularly interested in going with complete strangers. And, some of the complete strangers had already begun to complain. In addition, I was hungry for some exercise and this was going to be a driving safari. Furthermore, the straw that broke the camel's back was a middle-aged woman sitting in the office was relaying that she had some friends who had just returned from a Masai Mara safari on Friday and hadn't seen much wildlife because of the wet weather. Luckily the office manager was having a bit of trouble with my credit card and I used that as an excuse to bail on the thing entirely.

I returned to the hotel where Robert had taken our breakfast and explained the situation to him. He was relieved, and as we sat in our room and ate the breakfast he'd grabbed as take-away I realized that I was too. It took that final process of seeing the other people going and hearing the negative stories of the lack of wildlife to cement into my head that the decision we'd reached by yesterday's end was actually the correct decision.

We waited in our hotel room until the gametracker's safari vehicles had gone, and then returned to the Java House for another cup of coffee. It was really strange that it was Christmas morning. I am not a huge fan of the holiday, but it was still very weird that our celebration of it was starting in a coffee shop in Nairobi.

The same cab driver who had driven us to the Ethiopian restaurant the night before gave us a lift to the matatu park. We found the departing mini-buses for Lake Naivasha, paid our 250Ksh ($4) each and boarded. By the time I found a toilet and returned, the mini-bus was ready to go.

This matatu was not nearly as packed as the ones we'd seen before. It could be because it seemed to be operated as a direct line between Nairobi and Navashu. There were a fixed number of seays and they would not be stopping to pick up additional people along the way. Robert and I were on the back bench with a young woman in an NBA shirt. I struck up a conversation.

Njeri (Jerry) was her name and she was returning to her home town from Nairobi. Her English was good, but not excellent, and I presumed she was heading to Naivasha (final destination was her hometown). I made the normal small talk that is expected of people sitting next to one another in the small confines of the mini-bus. She was wearing a shirt with an NBA logo and she indicated that she played basketball in high school. Eventually she asked me if Robert and I would like to come to her family's house for Christmas. I tentatively agreed, knowing that we had an hour ride to decide to accept the invitation or make up an excuse.

The ride itself wasn't terribly uncomfortable. This was actually our first real matatu ride. It's always strange traveling without a real sense of the topography that I am traveling over. In the US and Europe I've driven or traveled the roads enough to know if we are headed through mountains or if the road will be straight and flat. That said, the on and off drizzle that existed in Nairobi quickly became a downpour once we got outside of the city. We deduced that we must've been climbing over a pass because soon enough there was a very thick fog which encompassed the vehicle.

Sitting just in front of me was a kenyan man with a very good command of English. In fact, english is one of the official languages here and almost everyone understands and speaks it. Many of the people speak with an accent that is easy on the ears, but occasionally you'll meet someone like this man where you can tell he's had a lot of interaction with people whose native tongue is English. He was quite opinionated and as we watched the runoff from the pouring rain zoom down the gulley next to the main road he spouted facts about Kenya's inability to take advantage of its natural resources. He expressed himself in the tone of a man who felt despair towards his own country. The same education that led to his command of English also put him in the fortunate position to be able to weigh immediate gain (ie villagers cutting down forests) versus long term sustainability.

Eventually we emerged from the pass and barreled down a long straight away towards the lake. Though it wan't sunny and bright, the area in the basin which contained the lake was dry.

We emerged from our matatu in the small town of Naivasha and accepted Njeri's invitation to accompany her to her family's house. Like any good guests, Robert asked what we might be able to bring as a gift. We proceeded past some aggressive "street boys" (youngsters living on the streets and begging for change) towards the mian market. It was Christmas day but the supermarket was packed. Robert left me outside to guard our bags and emerged a half an hour later with a gallon (approximately 4 liter) jug of orange drink and a bag of staples: rice, flour, etc. We really had no idea what we were in for. Were we headed to a house in town? Would it be nice? It was impossible to tell, but the ability to visit a local's house was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

We returned to the matatu park at which we'd arrived and boared an empty mini-bus. As is commonplace, we waited a few minutes for it to fill up and then we were on our way. Neither of us had a clue exactly where we were going, and we were only given and indication that it was named Highlands and it was 30 minutes away. After a short trip on the main road heading back to Nairobi we turned onto a smaller road. We began to climb a bit and soon enough the pavement gave way to a dirt road. 5 minutes later we exited the matatu and began walking. Less than 5 minutes into the walk it began raining pretty hard. Though the idea of getting my clothes and everything in my semi-waterproof backpack soaking wet wasn't exactly what I wished for Christmas, I reminded myself that we were going to be having a meal with an African family.

We hiked and hiked through some beautiful countryside. We spotted a waterfall in the cliffs far off in the distance. Little did we know it at the time, but that was very close to our final destination. Eventually we cut off of the dirt road in favor of shortcuts through farms. I had absolutely no clue what to expect of where we were headed. My mind alternated between a modest farm house and a hidden mansion deep in the hills. I was wrong with both guesses. As Njeri called out from the edge of the fence line of her family's property we could see small goats and chickens running around in the yard. As her mother returned her greeting their mud walled and tin roofed home came into view. There were a number of young, inquisitive faces poking from the entrance. Njeri's Aunt Tabitha (Tabby) helped take our wet bags and invited us into the house. We were asked to sit on the foam cushioned bench serving as the main piece of furniture in the living room. Njeri took a seat in a foam padded chair next to the bench and her mother sat in a chair across from us. The five children whose anglicized names I've still forgotten huddled in the corner closest to their mother.

Njeri offered for us to warm ourselves around a very small coal burner on the floor. I was amazed as I glanced around the room. The hardened mud walls had newpaper pages sporadically pinned to them. In addition there were a few posters on the walls - a one page, yearly calendar and another with pictures of African leaders. The inventory of the rest of the 50 square foot room was a small "coffee" table and a dresser. There was one door in two of the four corners of the room, presumably leading to separate bedrooms.

The small kitchen where her mother cooked was detached from this main structure and the outhouse containing the pit toilet was just down the hill from the main buildings.

We were served a wonderful meal consisting of grilled whole skin potatoes (which we peeled to remove the charcoal burns), a mix of cabbage and potatoes, and chapati bread. Njeri had boiled chicken in addition to this. I took a small portion at first because I thought this meal was feeding the entire family. However, after I cleaned my bowl rather rapidly I was told to eat more - the others had already eaten. I was quite thankful because the rushed toast and coffee breakfast hardly prepared me for the 45 minute hike we completed in order to reach Njeri's house with our large packs on our backs.

We had a blast over the next hour or so, taking pictures of the younsters and showing them the playback in the digital camera's review screen, showing them pictures of Robert's friends and family on his phone and showing a few of them the game "brick breaker" on my blackberry. Njeri, Tabby, Njeri's brother John and his friend who'd arrived, looking like they'd partied most of the nightn while we were drinking tea were all very inquisitive. They all wanted to know about us and our families. We told them that they were all celebrating Christmas back home, though their frame of reference could hardly allow them to envision christmas in the US. To them Christmas and the day after were solely about spending time with their loved ones; the idea of presents wasn't even on their radars.

Eventually, though, we recognized that we needed to leave. We had a lengthy hike back to where we would pick up the matatu back to Naivasha town and needed to continue on towards our intended destination of Lake Naivasha from there.

The hike back was extremely muddy. It rained intermittently the entire time we were in Highlands and it did a number on the roads. We sloshed and trodded but I had a nice conversation with Njeri's 17 year old brother John. Though he now lived in Nairobi for work purposes, he had dreams of going back to school. I wasn't 100% clear on how everything worked, but I gathered that the passing of their father a little more than a year ago had added to the financial strain on the family. John pointed out the various crops growing on the fams we passed. The "cash" crop was one which was used in bug killers, but onions and potatoes were present as well. John also had extensive knowledge of the various species of trees growing along the side of the road. It was interesting that a kid half my age knew so much about these staples of life.

An hour after leaving the house we all said our goodbyes for the final time. No one seemed sad, other than the fact that they wished we'd have been able to see the waterfall near their house. We opted for two spots in a shared taxi instead of waiting even longer for a matatu, and just like that we were headed back to our Mazungu (White Man's) traveller's lives.

In Naivasha town we caught a matatu towards the few camp grounds on the south side of Lake Naivasha. The sun was setting amongst the lingering grey clouds and the beauty allowed me to take my mind off of the huge pack that was on my lap. We were let off at a popular spot called "Fisherman's Camp.". The office was amidst a bit of chaos when we arrived and the campground was an extension of this. Overwhelmed after our day in the quiet village of Highlands we opted to head back towards the town of Naivasha and stay at the YMCA camp.

It was much quieter there and we were treated very kindly. Instead of crawling into a rented tent like we would've done at Fisherman's Camp we were shown to the newest room on the YMCA camp. We were fed a hearty meal on our porch. Upon finishing our meals Robert and I expressed how elated we were at how our Christmas had turned out. Just then, as if on cue, we looked at a small Afican child who was staying with his family in the room next door. He was on their porch playing with a remote control car - the sight of which made us both smile as it was as near an American Christmas sight we'd seen all day.

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I hope all of you had a wonderful Christmas! Please forward to anyone you wish.

Love,
Mike

Travels in Africa #3 - Uganda Part 2

The first stretch of the river had a small current and let us familiarize ourselves with the paddles and how to use them. Though Robert and I have some experience paddling, it's obvious that all the guides really needed any of us for was brute force in going forward or backwards. All of the steering amd maneuvering would be handled by our guide.

Still in calm water, we flipped the boat in order to practice getting back to it and eventually back into it. I was comfortable in the water, but as we approached our first rapid my heart beat quite quickly. We got wet but avoided flipping during this rapid and the second set of large rapids we traversed. The third rapid, with a gigantic wave called the G-spot, produced different results.

Before we went into each set of rapids Jared would brief us on what the makeup of the rapid was and what recovery path we should take if we fall out or if the boat flips. The story about the G-spot was cute, though Jared seemed a tad uncomfortable talking about it. This rapid was impressive no matter how you looked shot it, but the assurance of a good ride was to hit the elusive G-spot. We did just that! We seemed to surf it for a few seconds before being toppled by its force. I found myself under water being swept along by the strong current. I followed Jared's advice and chanted a couple of "be cools" to myself. Soon enough I popped up and found a pannicked Io and Richard quite close to me. I assured her that all was okay and reminded her that we were still going to hit another wave before emerging into calmer waters. We all made it out safely and the only sacrifice was one paddle. Experts in their own right the other guides, boats, safety boats and accompanying kayakers were all there to assure people's safety as well as track down lost equipment.

Evevtually we were back in our boat. We were able to float along just long enough to eat a small lunch of pineapple (the pineapple from this region is incredibly tasty and fresh) and sweet biscuits. Then we had a long section of still water to paddle. During that time we got to know one another just a bit: Richard lived in Brussels working as a PR person for the Green Party of the European Parliament, and he was visiting Io who was working for Oxfam in Kampala; Lonneke and Jan again explained their travels and were a tad anxious, yet simultaneously nervous, about heading back to Holland.

Eventually it was time to shoot the final stretch of rapids. These three sets were spaced quite a bit further than the ones before lunch. Instead of a short, five minute break in the action we had to paddle anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes in between these rapids. With the river water still fresh in our sinuses from our G-spot flip, everyone was a tad nervous going into the first rapids after lunch, we charged it hard, and emerged upright.

There were two ways to approach the second set of rapids, and we were trying to run a course that would take us over a very big drop. Robert and I paddled hard up front as requested and as we hit our intended line we realized we were actually moving too quickly for our guide to steer us how we needed to go. We ended up on top of a rocky out-cropping, stuck just on top of the waterfall we were trying to cascade down. Jared exited the boat and with a little help from us on board was able to free us from the rock. Almost immediately upon being freed, we dropped over the ledge, once again emerging upright.

As the boat sat in the calm waters below the falls, we all looked upstream to watch the other guides maneuver their boats through the rapids. The drop we'd just withstood was huge. I commented that had I stumbled upon the river and seen that large of rapids I would have never guessed that it was raftable. I would presume that no one would survive. But we'd just done it, as had many others before us.

We flipped at the peneultimate rapid but it was a much gentler recovery than the G-spot. We still had one final rapid to shoot before our long day on the river was over. I was still having a good time, but could feel my energy level dropping. The small lunch wasn't enough to keep up with my speedy metabolism.

The final rapid was broken into two parts. The first was a class six, which is not safely traversable by commercial rafts. Therefore, we had to maneuver to the river bank just upstream from the rapid where the boats were portaged to the class five, second part of the final rapid. The entire rapid was an amazing sight to see. It was fierce and immense. We were fortunate enough to see one of the guides, many of whom are sponsored, kayak the entire stretch. It was impressive.

As we boarded the boat for our final descent I was hoping for another flip. We paddled hard in order to go from the river bank towards the giant wave waiting for us. We hit it hard and lo and behold we flipped. Though it wasn't as powerful as the G-spot, the water held me under momentarily. I reached up and grabbed the rope line of the boat for a brief second. The power of the water propelled the boat forward and ripped the line from my hand. I went under again and all of a sudden I felt someone grab me with a great deal of force. It was Jared. He's snatched me like I was a small fish being caught by a giant line.

From there we emerged from the river, everyone hooting and hollering about what a great day it'd been. There were cold beer and sodas waiting for us and we were then transported back to the Nile River Explorer's river camp for a post river bbq. The food was tasty and everyone recounted the day. Though each of us took from it something different, everyone could agree that it was well worth the money.

Exhausted though we were, we had to stay awake for a few hours in order to see the video footage one of the guides had compiled from our day on the river. We snuck next door to a more expensive lodge and asked the attractive hostess if we could use the internet terminal there. We seemed to have struck it rich by venturing over here. The clientele was older than many of the young kids who'd been rafting, and we were able to strike up a conversation. We received some advice about Nairobi and were even offered a warm shower. It was great.

The video the rafting company made was really cool. Unfortunately Richard and Io had taken off back to Kampala, so Robert, Lonneka, Jan and I grouped together for the viewing. The spliced together footage showed each and every boat go through each set of rapids. Our highlight was when we saw exactly what happened at the G-spot! We surfed the wave, spinning a full 360 (with water dousing us the entire time - making it so we were practically under water for that spin) before dumping. Everyone in the audience screamed and cheered watching it.

After the video I crashed hard, exhausted from the day of excitement. The next day I awoke and stumbled outside to a gorgeous view of the Nile.

We were able to hitch a ride back to the Nile River Explorers Jinja office with the staff and people who were going rafting that day. We chowed a bit of food, downed a couple of cups of coffee and set off to explore.

I hadn't done much research on Jinja and wrongly assumed that it offered little more than a launching point for a number of outdoor activities. That very well may be the case, but if you have to kill a day before catching an afternoon bus to Nairobi it is a fine place to be.

The source of the Nile River is like any other tourist attraction that requires you to pay money solely to take a picture by a sign letting you know that you're actually at said location. We paid the equivalent of $3 each to enter the area. It was relatively early still and there was a thick haze lingering above, locking in the humidity.

There were a few bars and a small launching point for boats to take you a bit further South to what is reputiably the actual source. There is a bit of debate as to where the actual source of the Nile is. Where we were standing, with both a placard and a billboard declaring it was the source, was on the Ugandan side of Lake Victoria, Africa's largest lake. It was a very beautiful spot. Just south of locals were launching wooden boats and paddling towards the heart of the lake. The sloped incline of the banks of the river were a lush green. It wasn't anything terribly special, but it did feel pretty cool to be able to say that I've now been to the start and the end, in Egypt where it empties into the Mediterranean sea, of the Nile.

The walk to town was warm, as the mid-morning sun was able to push itself through the cloud cover. Jinja's main street allowed for us to check our email, buy and send postcards, exchange a bit more cash (we were playing the game of "we have just enough to do this, but what if we need to do this - we'll need just a bit more money), drink some great coffee and have a good Indian meal.

We'd booked our bus tickets in Kampala, but informed the "Scandinavian" bus company that we were going to catch it in Jinja. A tad skeptical that the bus would actually stop we showed up twenty minutes prior to the 4pm departing hour they gave us. The motor-bike taxis dropped us at the second of two traffic circles on the outskirts of Jinja.

The traffic circle was a mess. There has been quite a bit of rain in East Africa recently. Prior to coming I got the impression that December was the start of the dry season. This year, though, it's been anything but. I haven't hear any official statistics, but the word on the street is there has been a bit of flooding and a considerable amount of rain in a lot of the national parks.

There was a GAPCO gas station on the west side of the traffic circle and we set up camp on the driest curb we could find. The Indian gentleman working the counter inside informed us what we had expected - the bus typically passes through around 5:00 or 5:30.

We kept a watchful eye down the road but couldn't help but be distracted and entertained by the activity in the circle. It was Saturday, December 23rd, and everyone was headed home for the holidays. Every vehicle we saw was packed to the gills with people and their belongings. Mini-buses, pick-up trucks, cars and just about any other thing with wheels was being utilized. The most amazing thing were the mini-buses whose roofs were completely covered with dead chickens, feathers still attached.

The traffic circle was a muddy mess and when a huge 18 wheeler broke down halfway in the circle it was pandemonium. There was a local policeman who came and attempted to direct traffic, but most motorists just sped through the Gapco gas station and emerged on the farside of the circle. We joked that with everything going on, including all of the bike (not motorized, but bicycle) taxis and people walking, we could set up a web-cam for hours of entertainment.

Just before 5pm we spotted a white bus specked with mud cruising down the road towards us. We grabbed our bags and motioned that we needed to catch the bus. The driver angrily motioned that we should be on the left hand side of the road (Uganda is a left side drive country). We dodged the traffic circle's mud puddles and and slippery patches in making it to where the bus stopped. There were a few Africans who where hopping on the bus as well, and the driver seemed to have little patience for them either. Soon enough, though, we were settled in our seats and on our way to Kenya!

Travels in Africa #3 - Uganda Part 1

It's striking how many thoughts pass through my mind on a daily, hell hourly, basis in Africa. It's quite hard to remember all of them and by the time I get ready to send an email I am typically concerned with detailing all of my adventures and much of my analysis is lost.

The final day in Rwanda was used as a preparation day for the remainder of our trip. We took our laptops to an internet cafe reputed for its high speed connection. Either the source of said reputation is still living in the age of dial-up, or everyone else in Kigali had received the same information and was diluting the total bandwidth of the cafe. The truth surely lies somewhere in between. So, after wasting close to an hour and a half trying to download emails into the mail program on my laptop we realized we had to return to Matthew and Victoria's for lunch.

After lunch we borrowed bicycles and went down to Kigali's main bus station to purchase our tickets to Kampala, Uganda, for the following morning. We'd made a special effort to pick up a bike lock from Victoria at work but were informed that under no circumstances were we to leave bikes unattended in town, locks or no locks.

Kigali's terrain is made up of a number of different hills and the one from the embassy down to the bus station was over a mile long. After racing like a bike courier through the city's largest traffic circle we bombed down the hill. We were competing with cars, trucks, taxis, motorcycles and pedestrians for the limited space on the road. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but coast down the hill, feeling the spring like wind blowing into my face.

Rwanda doesn't have a lot of international bus traffic entering or exiting the country, so 99% of the vehicles at the bus station were "matatus" or "bada-badas" (mini-bus taxis). The parking lot was a madhouse and maneuvering through it in search of the Jaguar bus company terminal was quite a challenge. Not ones to disobey the orders of our friends, I stayed outside mounted on my bike and watching Robert's while he went in to inquire about seat availability.

From reading Lonely Planet and talking to certain other travelers you get a tad bit of paranoia when you're the sole traveler/tourist (Mazungu - the name for white man). Paranoia is actually much too strong of a word, but there is cause for a heightened sense of awareness. Many people want to stop and look at you and often there are ones who want to yell "Mazungu" to get your attention. As I sat outside waiting for Robert a small crowd of hawkers (guys carrying a box full of candy, cookies, biscuits, peanuts and an assortment of other things to sell people), street boys and random other younger men stood around me. Many of them were staring at the bikes, fascinated. One daring young man timidly put is hand on the brake lever of the bike I was holding. I had to keep my wits about me at all times. I wasn't too worried that anything open and dramatic would happen, like someone would knock me over and flee with Robert's bike, but I also concerned myself with potential pickpockets.

Soon enough Robert emerged with the confirmation that we'd be leaving for Kampala the next morning on a 730am bus. From the station, we biked a short distance to the genocide museum. The odd thing about the museum was that it was a large, shiny, new building accessed by one of the worst dirt roads I'd ever been on. The bumpy ride wasn't terrible, but probably would have been worse in a car. Like everywhere else in Rwanda there were tons of people walking along it. In fact, the genocide museum stood out so much because in the hills jus behind it there were shacks/shantys where people lived.

The museum itself was done very nicely. Though I did see hotel Rwanda, it hardly does justice to the lengthy turmoil that's been going on in the country. Surprisingly, the Belgian colonists were the responsible for the initial division between Hutus and Tutsis. The classification seemed to stem little from actual blood lines and more so from ownership of cattle. A Tutsi was one who owned 10 cows and a Hutu was anyone with less than 10 cows (presumably many of them had zero cows). European involvement had quite a bit to do with the genocide, though there was an acknowledgement that the Europeans had bettered the country in certain ways (agriculturally, medicinally, hygenically, etc). Still, it was very disturbing to find out that the French had monetarily funded the genocide - enabling the purchase of weapons.

The entire first floor of the modern museum covered the history, the genocide and the future of the country. Like many modern museums it was done through a tasteful mix of pictures, text and video. Unlike the holocaust museum in Washington, DC, which is incredibly powerful as well, this museum had accounts from people my age and even younger - I could walk outside the museum just then and see people that may have played a role in the genocide. Even if that weren't the case, I would surely see someone who was affected by the genocide - every single person was.

It was bright and sunny when we left the museum. Approaching dinner time there were tons of people walking along the dirt road towards the community water spigot, their bright yellow containers in hand. Robert was beginning to feel ill, but we had a very long, uphill ride back to Matthew and Victoria's.

Robert was knocked out by the time we got there so I went to the new super market to get groceries for our bus ride the next day. by the time I got back it was time for Victoria and I to leave for our tennis match. Her and Matthew belong to a modest tennis and swimming club. Presumably a hold over from the French, the courts were clay. And, the highlight for me was that we had a ball boy. That actually took quite a bit of time to get used to. When I play tennis in DC I typically roll out with only a 3-pack of balls. As neither myself nor my usual tennis partner, Issa, are terribly accurrate, we seem to spend at least half of our time fetching foul hits. Victoria had to slyly remind me that we'd be tipping the ball boy and I should allow him to do his job. After an hour and 15 minutes I was ready to go.

That night, as Robert's stomach virus came on in full force we went for Ethiopian food at the "American Club." I was feeling pretty beat by the end of night, though full of excitement about starting our independent travels in Africa!

I woke up with a bit of a queasy stomach. Robert still felt pretty poorly, but was confident that his bout of vommitting was behind him. The bus ride to Kampala was largely uneventful. Both of us felt exhausted and attempted to sleep as much of the ride as possible. The border crossing was a tad interesting. The bus pulled up to the Rwanda border control and we were required to fill out an exit card. Then, after being hounded by at least 50 people wanting to exchange our money, we walked across a small bridge to the Uganda border. There we filled out an almost identical card (Full Name, pertinent details, passport info, etc) paid $20 USD each for a visa and then boarded the bus once again.

We arrived in Kampala close to 6pm and all either of us was interested in was heading to the hostel for a good night's rest. I quickly negotiated a fare for each of us to travel on the back of a motorbike taxi. The 5km ride actually felt good as the cool, evening air was refreshing.

Luckily the stomach virus both Robert and I got had less of an impactful punch on me. I was spared the vomit, though the feverish and run down conditions were punishing. I never like being sick; I despise it actually. Being sick outside of my comfort zone is especially unappealing. Having to rush to the toilet every 5-10 minutes is bad enough in the comfort of your own home. Having to do so in the dingy confines of Kampala's "Backpacker's Hostel" was downright painful.

Before succumbing to our bodies' request for a bed and some sleep, we briefly tried to figure out our plans for the upcoming week. We'd planned to go white water rafting the next day, and from there we wanted to catch a bus to Nairobi. A fellow American traveller on the bus to Kampala had informed us that he had to book his ticket well in advance due to the Christmas holiday. The power was out at the hostel, something that happens quite frequently in Kampala. In fact, there were signs posted that in the areas outside of the city center operated on a "24 off, 24 on" electricity policy. The hostel did have a generator, but that only allowed for the use of lights and other necessities. The bus lines weren't open to call and if we went rafting the following day we wouldn't be back in time to make travel arrangements again.

Given how we felt, we made a quick call to the rafting company and asked them if we could postpone our trip to the next day. Following that we crashed out.

I still felt poorly the following day, but not bad enough to keep me in bed. I was actually glad at how the travel allowed for us to stay in Kampala for the day. It would have been a true shame to have missed out on Uganda's capital. It wasn't as if we did anything terribly exciting, honestly. It's just that it was a new place, one that was actually quite different than Kigali.

We were able to secure bus tickets for the 3pm bus out of Kampala. On top of that, they were willing to let us catch the bus in Jinja, an hour closer towards the border - we would be rafting there the following day. We spent the rest of the day trudging around the city, exchaning traveller's checks, trying to obtain a local cell phone SIM card/phone number. Though I wasn't feeling great, I did want to head to the market. We'd missed Kigali's center of local commerce and I felt that we really should hit this one.

The streets leading towards the stadium where the market was were absolutely packed. The mini-bus park was one of the most chaotic scenes I've ever seen. I'm not sure if it was the approach of Christmas or just normal Kampala traffic, but everything seemed to be insane.

The market was of little difference. We entered near the stadium and quickly the walkway funneled to a path barely wide enough for two people. There were small, tin roofed stalls on either side of the walkway. The majority of them seemed to be selling the same stuff. Unlike Asia where knock off products of major brands entice Westerners, these guys were mainly selling what were to us no name products. Every third stall was selling jeans and as we slithered our way through the market, watching our step on the uneven surface of crates separated by rocks, we'd hear a "Mazungu! Jeans!". We politely smile and keep going. The funniest items for sale were a multitude of computer cases and bags which had obviously come from business conferences held in the US. Surprisingly, the bag commemorating someone's attendance at the "insert market-drug name here" (think Viagra, etc) made it to a donation bin in the US, was transported to Africa and then ended up for sale in a stall.

Body odor was strong in the market and though I was feeling better as the day went on, the claustophobia of the market was getting to me. There only seemed to be two ways out - either we could turn around and go back to where we entered, or we could continue through the gauntlet and flush out the other end.

Though I'd hoped to have enough energy to remain in town for dinner at one of the lonely planet recommended places, the combination of exhaustion and the onset of rain sent us in search of transportation back. We walked towards the mini!us park just as the skies opened up. We took refuge beneath an awning of a small booth selling phone calls.

In Uganda there were multiple options of making phone calls. The first was the old fashioned pay phone. To make a call from a pay phone you needed to buy a card with a pre-paid amount of money on it, insert it into the payphone and make your calls. The secomd method was a pay as you go SIM card for your cell phone. Unlike the US where you buy a phone "plan", in Uganda you solely pick a particular provider (each offers different prices for different services as well as different areas of coverage, presumably). All providers offer free incoming phone calls and text messages. What you pay for is your outgoing calls and text messages. The third method of making calls appeared to be the booths like the one we were standing in front of now. I am not exactly sure how these worked, but the woman sitting in this one was quite amused by us. We struck up a friendly conversation and she had a huge smile on her face the entire time. She was pleased that we were not fans of that war-monger George Bush (the slow, drawn out pronunciation made the conversation cuter than it transcribes).

Soon enough the rain subsided enough for us to continue. We arrived at the mini-bus park and really couldn't figure out where we needed to go. The park was a red mud puddled mess. Instead of fooling around there for too long we opted to go in search of a motorbike taxi. Thus far we'd had great luck with those.

Like in many third world contries, the art of negotiation is inherent in almost everything that happens on the street. Just outside the mini-bus park we were offered rides by a couple of guys idling there. They wanted a bit more than we were interested in paying, so we moved on to another group. There, one guy wanted to take both of us on his bike, but it was still more than we wanted pay. Just then another guy came up and said he'd rake us for our asking price. We agreed, but an argument between these two guys ensued. Not interested in instigating a fight, we declared that we were headed elsewhere to find rides. We rounded the corner at the end of the street and found a couple of willing drivers. Soon enough, just before another very heavy downpour, we were back at the hostel.

After a small dinner and a few games of cards, we cashed in our chips for the night. We wanted to be rested for the rafting adventure tomorrow.

We awoke around 6:30 and shortly thereafter we heard a light knocking on our door. It was one of the receptionists that we'd asked quite a few questions of during our stay. We thought she was telling us our ride was already there, but after we rushed to gather our belongings and get out the door we found that she just wanted to make sure we were on the move.

There was a Dutch couple in the lobby having a quick breakfast. They, too, had signed up to raft with the Nile River Explorers. We swapped our personal histories and travel itineraries in the mini-bus on the way to Jinja. Lonneka and Jan were in the home stretch of an 8 month trip around Malawi. Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania. They'd taken a few months here and there to volunteer, but overall they were just traveling. In our travels so far there have been quite a few Dutch people we've come across.

The mini-bus made a stop at one hotel, but after waiting 20 minutes for the guest the driver decided to leave. From there we picked up another couple of guests and a few locals to fill out the mini-bus and proceeded to Jinja.

Jinja lies at the source of the Nile River. The class 5 rapids (on a scale of one to six) make for some of the best rafting in the world. Nile River Explorers has one hostel and office in the sleepy town of Jinja and another one downstream with a lookout over some of the rapids. We were dropped at the location in Jinja and had a small breakfast there. Then, ourselves, Lonneke, Jan, an irish guy named Richard and his German girlfriend Io (E-O), and a large crew of people traveling on overland trucks all loaded into vehicles and headed for the river.

The four named individuals above, Robert and I all ended up in a raft with a 24 year old Candian guide named Jared. Since he left home at 19 he's been traveling the world guiding on many of the fiercest rivers. He was nice and friendly and prepared us well for our day on the river.

To be continued.....

Travels in Africa #2 - Rwanda

Leaving South Africa wasn't much of a problem. As
exciting as it was we really felt that we were on
"Africa-lite" instead of the real deal adventure we'd
come in search of. I awoke on the cot outside of the
tent just after 7am. This morning was a bit warmer
with a warm breeze to boot. There weren't as many
animals at the bank of the lake this morning, and our
interest had waned a tad bit as well. As we went
about our morning routine, however, we heard a few
grunts and squeals coming from behind the tent area.
Our interest was piqued and Robert and I made our way
off of the deck in a hurry. I presumed that it was a
boar or a warthog, as the grunts had a pig-like
tremble to them. I was quite surprised to see a
couple of baboons darting behind a small building in
the brush only 15 feet from our camp.

Though we had consciously done what we could to avoid
a significant amount of time in Johannesburg we had
every intention of trying to see a bit of the downtown
area prior to taking off. We returned to the city via
a different route than the one we'd come to Marakele
on. From Thabazimbi we drove on an a relatively empty
two lane highway. After a stop for chips and a bottle
of water in Warm Baths we realized the
interstate-style highway we were going to take through
Pretoria and on to Johannesburg was actually a toll
road. There was a posted sign informing us we would
need to pay 26 Rand (approximately $4) at the toll
plaza. After our splurge on snacks in Warm Baths we
were down to 12 Rand, so we pulled into the gas
station just before the toll road.

The US has an incredible infrastructure designed for
cars. Our interstate system is very impressive and
the number of gas stations that are present off of
most of its exits is unmatched in any country I've
been to. Granted there are remote areas where you can
travel for miles and miles before reaching an exit
with a place to fill your tank with gas or your face
with junk food, there are also exits where there are 5
different gas stations to choose from. I've never
noticed an abundance of stations like that in any of
the other countries I've driven in. This part of
South Africa was no exception and we pulled in to
attempt to find a way to pull money from an ATM or
exchange a few US dollars. The crew working inside
was of little help and though they did speak English
they seemed to speak it quietly and without
confidence. The man behind the counter seemed quite
confused at what I was asking him to do; there was no
ATM and he surely didn't want my US Dollars. He was
unsure if the toll road would take credit cards or if
one of the service plazas would have an ATM. Robert
and I were unwilling to backtrack the 10km to
Warmbaths where we'd seen an ATM, so we entered the
toll road without enough funds to cover our upcoming
fee.

The traffic on the road moved quickly and the 45km to
the first toll plaza was covered quickly. Robert was
driving and pulled the right-side drive vehicle into
one of "manual" lanes so we could explain our
situation to the person taking the money. In the US
it's common that if you show up to a toll plaza
without enough money they will allow you fill out a
piece of paper and either pay the toll or the toll and
an additional fine via the mail. This didn't appear
to be an option here and as we tried to sweet talk our
way through with a partial payment in Rand and another
in Dollars the cars piling up behind us were becoming
impatient. Their system did accept credit cards, but
only those local to South Africa. We had two choices
available to us and both of them involved backing out
of the lane we were in. We could either turn around
and make our way back to an exit for a smaller road
that paralleled the highway or we could see if someone
would be kind enough to exchange our five dollar bill.
The first guy we asked was willing to give us 20 Rand
and soon enough we were back on our way.

Tired of our the one CD we burned for the impromptu
trip we switched over to the FM radio just as traffic
slowed to a crawl around Pretoria. Amidst talk of the
pros and cons of wet t-shirt contests the male DJ on
the air kept providing updates that the N1 (what
seemed to be the major north/south highway) was at a
dead stop where we were. Unbeknownst to us Friday was
the start of a big holiday weekend, and many travelers
were out on the road. Thankfully Robert was driving
and I was able to catch a short nap. I chuckled to
myself as I closed my eyes because recently I've
expressed how much sitting in traffic bothers me. It
astounds me that an entire hour or more of my life can
be wasted making almost no forward progress. The most
recent episode was when I traveled down to the
Outerbanks Marathon in November. Though Megan and I
were able to get out of DC before 3pm, 395 and
eventually 95 were practically moving parking lots.

Between the toll episode and the traffic we barely had
enough time to do anything in Johannesburg. Though we
knew we'd have no time to get to the Apartheid Museum
or even get out of the car, we wanted to take a peek
at the downtown area that everyone had attempted to
keep us from. Downtown major cities have fascinated
me ever since childhood. The giant skyscrapers and the
allure of the hustle and bustle were quite intriguing.
As the highway passed the city center there was a
clearing that provided for a good look at the city.
Like most cities, the view from afar was much better
than when we exited onto the surface streets. Those
were busy with people and matatus (the small toyota
style mini buses) everywhere. The streets were
relatively dirty and Robert observed that it had a
look of being about a decade behind. We'd been told
by our cab driver to Sandton that was when the
majority of the major businesses had cleared out.
Nevertheless, there was a ton of activity. I'm sure
there are pockets of the city that have some sort of
allure for a tourist, but with the limited time we had
it was going to be impossible to seek out. I
navigated us to a park that was shown on the map.
However, as the car made its way up the hill the only
thing we were able to notice was trash and graffiti
tagged rocks. There didn't seem to be any place to
get out of the car and take advantage of our position
above the city. Instead of searching for a way to do
that we pointed the car in the direction of the
airport.

Whether it was the holiday or the upcoming holiday
season of Christmas and New Years we weren't sure, but
the airport was a madhouse. We sought out Rwanda Air
Express and then fought for position as 5 separate
lines approached the two counters checking people in.
Just shy of the counters was a baggage weigh station.
We handed our tickets to a gentleman behind a small
counter to our left and pushed our over-filled luggage
cart onto the scale. They asked how long we'd been in
country and when we responded it'd been three days
they told us that the four bags we had between us were
overweight. We tried to explain that it shouldn't
count because we had only expected to be there one
night. The schedule change on the part of the airline
is what had kept us in South Africa. The guy went and
spoke with another guy as they pushed our baggage off
the scale in the direction of the check-in counters.
The baggage man returned and told us that he was
waiting for someone else to speak with. After a few
minutes we decided we should just attempt to check in.
As we handed the agent our tickets and passports she
asked for the slip of paper that indicated the weight
of our baggage. We tried to tell her that one wasn't
given to us and she said "well you need one because I
cannot be expected to check you in and weight your
baggage." After a brief conference with the baggage
guy she proceeded to check us in without any further
problems.

We arrived in Kigali under the cover of night, which
is always a strange time to enter a city. We
disembarked the plane, grabbed our bags and had a
brief moment of anxiousness when I realized we were
required to run our bags through an x-ray machine
before exiting customs. At the RO Tambo International
Airport in Johannesburg Robert and I had added to the
duty free collection he'd started in Canada and we'd
both continued at Dulles. Between the two of us we
were delivering 2 bottles of Woodford Reserve, one
bottle of high end Gin, one bottle of Jameson, one
bottle of Grey Goose Vodka and one bottle of Havana
Cuba Rum. I believe the common allowances are
typically one liter bottle of liquor per person
entering a country. So we had three times as much as
we were allowed. From Johannesburg Robert had sent
our friends in Rwanda a text which said something to
the extent of "have Matthew be prepared to flash his
badge and aide us with a side exit." Matthew and
Victoria Golbus are friends of ours from Washington,
DC. Matthew was doing training there for his position
as a Regional Security Officer for the State
Department. May 2005 they were assigned to Kigali,
Rwanda. They are the impetus for this trip. They are
a blast to hang out with and between their pad in
Kigali and when we meet them to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro
on January 1st we plan to use their house as a
springboard for adventure in Eastern Africa.

I spotted Victoria just after we cleared customs,
scott free! We figured since Matthew was missing he'd
actually heeded our warning and sneaked behind the
customs wall to ensure he'd be sure to restock his
liquor cabinet. Instead, Robert, Victoria and I all
exchanged vert heartfelt greetings and Vicky informed
us that Matthew had to drop off some paperwork with
someone else who was either entering or leaving the
country and he'd meet us shortly. A minute later I
could make out the familiar shape of Matthew's small
frame in the darkness of the airport parking lot. I
charged towards him with glee, ecstatic to see his
perpetual smile. He smelled a bit of alcohol and as
we exited the parking lot they confessed they'd
already been to one party and we were heading to a
bar. At this point it was after 10pm, later than
either Robert or I had gone to bed since we'd arrived
on the continent. Though it mainly consisted of
sitting, we both were exhausted from the drive and the
plane ride. However, we surely had expected that
Victoria and Matthew wouldhave social plans, and
Robert and I were both anxious for a beer.

Republica was quite an interesting bar. It consisted
of exactly what we'd been told the owner intended - a
strong mix of "Ex-Pats" and upper class Rwandans.
Matthew retrieved three steins of Mützi beer and we
cheered our welcome to Rwanda. Robert and I were
introduced to a number of white people who were either
living in or visiting Rwanda. There seemed to be a
pleasant mix of white people from many different
countries around the globe. Of course we were curious
as to what people actually did for work in the country
and they were curious as to why we were there, too.
It's always amazing to me how exciting other peoples
lives can sound, and how exciting our lives sound to
other people. I work in the music industry and Robert
dabbles as a tour manager and spends a lot of time
building challenge/ropes courses. We both live
relatively free lives and that alone led directly to
our abilities to take the time to visit Africa.

We were not introduced to any Rwandans. We've been
told that it's been very hard for Matthew and Victoria
to mix with the locals. Though this bar was crowded,
the company we kept made us feel that we could have
been at any bar in Washington, DC, or Arlington.
There were NGO and political people around us, no
different than back at home. We had a few beers
before going home. Though we stayed up until well
after 1am there was talk of departing the house by
8:30am for an all day hike.

Though I awoke many times throughout the night, I rose
from bed after 9am. It was pouring rain outside.
When we'd booked the trip for December I was excited
because I was informed that we would be traveling to
the region during the dry season. Unlike Washington,
DC, which has 4 seasons, I've found that when a
country or region has a "wet" and a "dry" season it
can be awful to travel during the former as opposed to
the latter. Third world countries don't have the
infrastructure to handle stuch heavy rains - flash
floods and muddy streets are common occurrences. By
11am we were in the car, searching for the trailhead
to Mt. Kubuye.

I snapped a multitude of photos along our drive to the
trailhead. Over the hour and a half, 65 km drive
there was plenty to see that was fascinating. Many of
the buildings were small and worn down and there were
people walking in both directions on either side of
the road. Robert and I commented that finally it felt
as if we werein the "real Africa." We were still
quite sheltered from having to face the hardships of
travel we'd presumed we'd see on this trip, however.
It's not a complaint, and in fact the leisure to to a
trailhead in the comfort of Matthew and Victoria's
Nissan Pathfinder was convenient. The road was decent
aside from a few major potholes. Rwandans were
walking on both sides of the street. Ninety percent
of them were balancing something upon their head.
This is the preferred method of carrying anything in
Africa. From huge bags of vegetables, to bundles of
sugar cane to book bags/backpacks (with straps), while
the people were walking they were carrying it upon
their heads.

Unfortunately, the rain didn't appear to be lifting
and our hosts had to describe the beauty we'd be
seeing if the sky were sunny. After an hour and half
we pulled off the main road and made our way over a
very rocky, yet muddy, path. There was one strip that
had contiguous rows of houses on both sides of the
road. Many locals were sitting in their doorways or
under the short overhangs in front of their houses
staring at our car. Unless you've been to the third
world, it's pretty hard to describe the conditions of
the small village we were passing through. The few
buildings that have glass windows seem to have at
least fifty percent of them broken. The majority of
the houses have corrugated sheets of steel for
roofing, many of which show signs of rust and wear.
It's astonishing to us that people live in these
conditions. Even in the torn and trodden parts of our
cities and country one can imagine themselves in the
situation. Here, however, it's almost impossible.
Whether it be riding down the street watching the
people walk with monstrous bags on their heads or
driving through a small, dilapidated village, I can't
imagine myself in these African's shoes.

We pulled up to a soccer field where we were supposed
to park the car and find the trailhead. I hopped out
to use the bathroom and was instantaneously drenched
by the downpour that increased its intensity as we
pulled up. Once I got back in Matthew explained that
it would be futile to attempt to climb Mt. Kibuye.
Neither him nor Victoria was familiar with the route
and the times they'd hiked it before they could look
towards the peak when they deemed themselves off
route. My body was craving activity, so we agreed
we'd try to hike up to a waterfall we'd passed on the
side of the road halfway back to Kigali.

By the time we got there the rain had ceased. We
parked the car in front of a small restaurant, crossed
the main road and headed up a farm trail. The Rwandan
countryside is farmed from top to bottom throughout
the entire country. The patches of crops dispersed
amongst the banana trees ensures the integrity of the
bright green color one would expect from such a
mountainous terrain. In fact, Rwanda is often called
the "land of one thousand hills." My mind loves to
make comparisons to other places I've been, and this
time Guatemala shot to the forefront. From the start
of the hike young children living in the small houses
scattered about the hillside came out to greet and
follow us. I'm not sure if the fact that it was
Saturday made any difference or not, but kids popped
out at every turn. They were all incredibly cute,
many of them decked in second hand clothing sent from
the US.

There was no true trail we were following. All of the
trails that lead from farm to farm amidst the hills
could be considered great hiking trails in the US.
They were all singletrack and you could essentially
make your way however you wished. If you felt lost
you could turn to the gang of kids following you and
they would point in the correct direction. Matthew
and Victoria's knowledge of French wasn't of much use
here, but their Swahili was enough to keep us going
where we needed to go. We allowed the little children
to guide us down the hillside once we'd hiked for an
hour and a half. Instead of creating a series of
switch backs to get us back to our car these kids led
us straight down the steep, slick trails. We all
scrambled and fell a few times, much to the amusement
of the smiling faces of the children around us. We
made it back to the car and had a few cokes at the
restaurant as a form of informal payment for keeping
an eye on our vehicle. As we entered the car to
leave, Matthew gave the one kid had been with and led
us from the start a piece of chocolate. My
understanding is it is very hard to deal with the
youngest generation of Rwandans and their constant
please for monetary handouts. The chocolate gift was
a deliberate reward for the hard work they kid did for
us (whether he realized he was working or not).

Saturday night in the ex-Pat community entailed
invitations to two parties for the night. The first
party was being thrown by the head of Heineken in
Rwanda. As Robert and I sipped Mützi draught beers we
sarcastically laughed to ourselves about how surprised
we were that Matthew and Victoria had befriended one
of the main alcohol suppliers in the city. They are
social butterfiles and exercise that aspect of
diplomacy quite well. Hell,for all we know that's the
main reason Matthew was hired in to the State
Department to begin with! We were there for a bit of
time, but the crowd was a bit older than the rest of
us. Like the bar the previous night there was a mix
of Rwandans and ex-Pats (whiteys). The dance floor
was alive and well, with the newly married wife of the
host leading the crwod through the mix of popular
western and presumably regional African tunes. The
dancing was fun, as was the pool table. Eventually,
however, we had to leave for yet another party.

The second party was a "leaving" party for a woman
named Alex (al-ix) who had been in the country a few
years and was giving up her position here to go work
for the EU in Jerusalem. The crowd at this party was
quite a bit younger. There was dancing as well, but
this time to a live band. They predominately played
what I presumed to be African music, but everyone in
attendance was very amplified by it. We were buzzed
from the free Heineken, but the beer was still flowing
at this party. Unfortunately, I felt that I'd entered
the vicious cycle of drinking, sleeping shortly and
poorly, actively recovering and then drinking again.
We were out quite late, but the ping pong talbe and
the 80's tunes after the band made for a great dance
party.

I awoke relatively early the next morning feeling the
effects of the social schedule here. Luckily we were
able to relax for a bit over coffee on the porch
behind Matthew and Victoria's house. Though quite
modest, their house is big for the standards I'm used
to in DC. I was quite jealous over the ability to
host multiple people and casually entertain on a
porch. We continued to catch up over coffee before
moving ourselves over to a brunch hosted by a friend
of M and V's. The brunch was a conglomeration of many
people we had yet to meet, and during the typical
discussions of "oh, what do you do?" we figured out
there was an ex-Pat from the US living here with his
girlfriend; both of whom mountain bike. We made plans
to ride with him later in the afternoon. Until that
time we sat out back of a house in a fantastic
garden. Opposite of the previous morning, the sun was
shining brightly and the sky was blue. We were able
to catch glimpses of the Kigali hillsides to the north
and east, lined with red clay tiled roofs.

Just as we were assembling extra gear for Robert and I
to go on the mountain bike ride, the sky opened up.
The downpour was intense. We threw the bikes in the
back of Matthew's Land Rover and headed off to meet
Ken. We drove about 10km to the other side of town
and along the way Ken called to let us know that it
had already let up there. After a few more patches
and tube changes we were all ready to roll and tore
off down a road lined by sizable houses on one side
and a golf course on the other. Soon enough, however,
we made a couple of turns and dropped into dirt road
lined by a small row of more typical buildings. From
there we made a few more turns and were immediately
navigating a wet and muddy road. Not once on our
three hour ride did we ride on anything that was an
official trail. Solely by utilizing the single track
trails similar to what we hiked on the day before we
were able to complete one of my favorite rides I've
ever done.

Ken has lived here almost two years and in that time
he's explored the hillsides near Kigali and in the
rest of the country. The population was more dense
closer to the city, and there were people out at every
junction. Ken brought along a completely
inexperienced biker, so we spent a lot of time waiting
for him at eat juncture. Paths usually split near a
house or group of houses and the return of the shining
sun combined with our presence lured people out to see
us. Everyone was inquisitive and friendly. Many of
them wanted to practice their limited French or
English. At one point, late in the ride, we stopped
to purchase some bananas to fuel the last part of our
ride. Within minutes we were surrounded by at least
fifty people, all of them smiling and looking at our
strange outfits, expensive bikes and camel backs.

We rewarded ourselves with a grand meal at an Indian
restaurant within walking distance of Matthew and
Victoria's. Robert is a vegetarian and he, Matthew
and Victoria all agreed that we could order four vegan
dishes and share them. The food was exquisite. We
returned to the house close to 11pm and I made
sandwiches for our next day's adventure. I crashed
out close to midnight, which made the 4:15am wake up
call quite hard. However, on this day we were going
to travel to the Parc National des Volcans (Volcanoes
National Park) to track the rare mountain gorilla.
The only remaining gorillas live high in the mountains
that form a natural border between Uganda, Rwanda and
the Congo (Zaïre). This is where the research by Dian
Fossey sparked the book and movie of the same name
"Gorillas in the Mist." I hadn't done much research
on the trip, but was told by a friend in Washington,
DC, as well as Matthew and Victoria that this is
surely one should do once. Prior to our arrival
Matthew had gone and made a hefty monetary deposit
with the Parcs office to ensure that we would have a
spot.

The two hour drive to Ruhengeri at 5am was
particularly entertaining. We traced the same route
we had when we attempted to climb Mt. Kibuye on
Saturday. Rwanda is very close to the equator and
therefore the sun typically rises at 6am and sets at
6pm every day. Though not as active as they would be
upon our return at 3pm, the road was still lined with
people carrying things on their heads. There was
thick fog at times and the dodging of oncoming traffic
and a fair share of potholes didn't allow for any
continuation of the night's short sleep.

Upon arrival at the Parc Headquarters there was an
assemblage of other tourists. The Parc officers
assigned us into groups. We'd requested a group with
a longer hike and were assigned to the Susa family.
The Parc limits the number of tourists in a group in
order to ensure that it is manageable and it also
limits the stress on the gorillas. The seriousness of
the efforts by the Parc towards preservation of these
animals was impressive. Our group leader was a
brightly animated Rwandan named Olivier. He slowly
introduced us to the Susa family by showing us
photographs of each of the members. Numbering just
over 30, the Susa family is the largest family of the
seven visitable within the Parc. The family contains
three silverback gorillas, a number of black backed
males and females, a few juveniles and two twin
babies. When Olivier spoke he would often smile and
open his eyes widely. His excitement and energy about
the gorillas was contagious.

Unfortunately, the Susa family lives on Karisimbi
Volcano and it's access point was another hour and a
half drive. Olivier caught a ride from our driver and
we were able to chat with him along the ride. He grew
up in Rwanda and played basketball as a kid. He was
interested in whether or not we'd ever been to pro
games in the US, particularly those of Kobe Bryant or
LeBron James. He confessed that his training to be a
guide had taken roughly two years and covered all
aspects of tourism in addition to specific work on
interaction with the gorillas. The countryside along
the ride was the most spectacular yet. The volcanoes
and the mist that hung above them made for a dramatic
intersection of colors.

During our ride there trackers had been seeking where
the gorillas were that morning. The gorillas move
anywhere from 200 meters to eight miles on a daily
basis depending on the food supply of the area they
are in. Gorillas are vegetarians and their diet
consists of bamboo and green thistle leaves. After a
talk about safety and acceptable behavior near the
gorillas we were informed that the gorillas were
roughly a one and a half hour hike up the Karisimbi
mountainside. The path through the very thick bamboo
shoots was a muddy mess. Though access to the
gorillas is limited the rain soaked path never gets
relief from the daily stream of boot prints. The
combination of altitude (close to 10,000 feet)
combined with the lack of sleep made for slow going.
Eventually, though, we were informed that trackers had
found a large silverback which we could view. They
used a machete a path through the thick bamboo. As we
made our way towards our first viewing I had no idea
what to expect. Then, before I knew it, we were all
standing in a line 25 feet from a huge gorilla.

We were told he was the dominant male of the family.
He sat on his ass with his arms crossed. The guide
and his assistant communicated with the gorilla via a
number of different grunts. The seven tourists
snapped a number of pictures. We were able to stand
and observe him for a good ten minutes. He remained
seated, arms crossed, the entire time. Occasionally
he would scratch his head or even yawn (supposedly the
bamboo has an alcohol content that makes the gorillas
a bit drunk when they eat), but by and large he just
stayed put. That said, it was still a marvelous
sight. He was gigantic yet peaceful. I paid
particular attention to his nose, as Olivier had
explained in our initial briefing that the noseprints
of gorillas are their unique identifiable feature;
similar to fingerprints for humans.

We slowly moved on to where a tracker had located
another gorilla. There was stinging nettle everywhere
and even the thick pants I was wearing did little to
protect my legs from the burning sensation. This time
we found a female gorilla sitting on a perch of bamboo
and we all huddled in to a vantage point below her.
We could see little more than her head and chest.
However, within moments of our arrival her two
juveniles made their presence known. They entertained
us by climbing on one another and even swinging and
dangling from one of the branches, behavior similar to
what we'd expect from chimpanzees. These two were
incredibly cute!

We kept moving according to Olivier's instructions.
He led us to a better vantage point for the female and
soon enough a few other members of the family made
their way towards us. We were all snapping photos
when suddenly we tourists felt as if we were
surrounded. The one female was still above us and a
couple of other gorillas were approaching us from
either side of the trail. In the presence of guides
and the armed guards who accompanied us there wasn't
any true worry. But when one of the gorillas stepped
right in front of an English woman who was with us her
eyes lit up with fear. We all breathed a sigh of
relief as Olivier lead us on to another couple of
gorillas.

The Parc limits our interactions with the gorillas to
an hour or less in order to allow the them to carry
out their daily activities. Planned or not, our
guides saved the best for last. Seeing the large
silverback, the mother with her two juveniles and a
number of other gorillas along the path could not have
prepared us for the grand finale. The trackers cut
through tick bamboo and we slithered through the dense
forest to an opening where at least 15 gorillas were
sitting and eating. It was a magnificent sight! Two
silverbacks were present, many black backs and females
and even the baby twins were there before us. It was
nearly impossible to soak it all in.

The hike back down the muddy path was more an exercise
in not falling than it was in walking. We'd been
given bamboo walking sticks to aide us on the way up
and I wished I could add another to use as ski poles
going down. Everyone in the group was happy and
excited about what we'd just seen. Talk bounced from
that to the other typical travel speak of where people
were from and what brought them to Africa. Robert and
I picked up a few tips on safari's in Kenya and
recommendations for the coast.

Eventually we were back in our car and on our way back
to Kigali. The fifteen minutes of dirt road to lead
us back to the main drag was lined with farms and
small houses. The rich black soil at this elevation
lead the locals to produce massive amounts of
potatoes. Everywhere we looked there were people
walking, biking, carting and dragging sacks of
potatoes down the street. Each and every child ran to
the edge of the path to frantically wave and cry out
"Mazungu" (white man). All of them were adorable, but
I took special liking to any child that would wave
with both arms or run alongside the car. The older
children and many of the adults had stern looks on
their faces as we passed. Taking a cue from my friend
Vique who traveled to Kenya a number of years ago I
employed a practice of smiling and waving at them,
too. Immediately they would return the greeting,
regardless of what they were doing. There were times
I was fearful someone was going to drop the heavy load
they carried on their head just because they were
eager to wave back to us. There was one short part of
the dirt road where someone had obviously introduced
the teenage boys to the "dude nod." As I waved and
gave them a slight nod of my head, they returned a nod
of their own with a half smile.

I was able to catch a bit of sleep on the ride back.
The never ending social schedule of Matthew and
Victoria meant that after a dinner of home made
burritos we were headed over to another gathering. I
was exhausted, having packed a number of different
activities into the past three days and nights.
However, Pete, the English guy hosting the get
together had just returned from a climb of Mt.
Kilimanjaro and we were all eager to hear how it went.
He and his Australian buddy, Bert, expressed that it
had rained the entire trip. Bert and one other guy in
their group were able to reach the summit, but Pete
suffered from the altitude and stopped shy of the top.
Robert and Matthew chuckled towards Victoria and I as
they know that we both despise rain and cold. Why
we're signed up for a summit which will likely contain
both in large amounts is a question I hope to be able
to say that only the reward of pushing my body to the
top of a 19,000 foot plus mountain can answer.

Today is Tuesday, December 19th, and in this tropical
climate it feels good not to be caught up in the
silliness of holidays. In fact, if it weren't for the
fact that many people at the parties we've been
attending were going home for Christmas and New Years
we probably wouldn't even realize it is that season.
Today Robert and I are going to figure out our plans
for the two weeks before we meet up with Matthew,
Victoria and two of their other friends to climb
Kilimanjaro ourselves. Tomorrow we'll head to Uganda
and Thursday we hope to go white water rafting in
class five rapids at the source of the Nile. From
there, however, it's all open. We're just trying to
find the way to maximize our time here on the limited
budget that we have, as everything here usually is
accompanied by a hefty price tag.