Moon Rainbow and other wonders of the Universe

Unexpected and amazing days just keep happening here, but this one surpassed them all. Spake when he discovered Lake Victoria, Stanley at his chance meeting with Livingstone, not even Sir Samuel Baker himself when he first gazed upon the very falls could have been happier than I was the night when I sat by the roaring flood of Murchinson Falls; all by myself, in the depth of night, with the full moon casting shadows and rainbows, and knowing that mortals who have beholden that view on their own have been few and far between. And that was neither the beginning, nor the end of the story.

My grandma says that there is a happy ending to every misfortune. Indeed. As you might remember (or maybe I have not yet told that story) I was very unhappy that I have to spend the night in the village of Pakwach, in a room full of cockroaches big as my thumb and with no running water. Unhappy, not as much on the account of the cockroaches - although they did not help - but because I was really hoping to reach Paara, the centre of the Murchinson Falls Park, that very night. I wanted to wake up by the serene waters of the Nile, and instead I had to wake up next to the cockroaches and hope that the boda-boda driver I hired for that day will show up. His somewhat delayed arrival did little to raise my spirits. But the morning was glorious and little by little I started to enjoy the ride.

And then we drove into the park. Oh the blessed simplicity of the unreflective! If I had gotten my way and convinced/bribed/coerced the rangers to let me through the previous night, I would have not had experienced the most close-up and pleasant safari one can have – on the back of the motorbike, with animals within reach and no barrier between me and them. And for absolute peanuts too as technically it was not a proper safari. But that did not matter as at this hour the animals were very close to the road. On the road, in fact, and I felt a little bad for chasing giraffes, buffaloes, cobs, water-beasts, those funny plump turkey-like chicken, herons and horned antelopes off it. The elephants luckily were not on the road but a little farther for otherwise I am not quite sure who would have been doing the chasing-off. My driver already got quite scared when we stopped to admire the buffalo and the buffalo moved to admire us. They are big things.

All in all, the drive was divine and I was blessing the heavens for my last-nights delay. We got to the mighty river Nile at around 8am. The next ferry was not until 9am so I had some time to explore. First, I stumbled across a warthog; we stood three meters away from each other, assessing. I don’t know what the warthog was thinking but I was certainly thinking that his fangs look sharp and my water bottle does not look like an adequate weapon. Luckily, the warthog turned around and wiggled his funny little tail away into the bushes. Convinced the interior is just far too dangerous a place to hang out I went down to the river and climbed on a small sand dune. On the other side of it bathed a small family of hippos. They were not further than ten meters away, puffing. Mesmerising. I crouched up a little closer. Mistake.

One of the hippos, who was obviously the one to keep watch, suddenly snorted, turned and started charging towards me! As more and more of his huge bulk emerged from the water - the wide open snout, the round belly and finally the comically short but surprisingly fast legs – I realised its time to run. I know you are not supposed to ever turn your back on the lion but no one had ever enlightened me what the right procedure with an attacking hippo was. Luckily, mine must had been the right one for the hippo stopped after reaching the spot on which I no longer stood and turned back. I was trembling inside but turned a board smile at the laughing and cheering locals, who sat in the safe distance under the tree. I was not fleeing: I was tactically proceeding in the opposite direction.

Finding neither land nor water safe enough, I decided to spend the rest of the waiting time on a tree. Picked a nice one, with sturdy branches overhanging the water, and proceeded to climb. Guess what…. Ants…maybe not very big ones but certainly not very happy with my presence…ouch… I jumped down and decided not to ever move from the safety of the ferry again.

The passage onto the southern bank of the Nile was uneventful and I made it to the Red Chilli Lodge by 9.30. It was insanely hot, the air was still. I inquired with the lodge staff about the possibility of getting an afternoon boat to the bottom of the falls. The barman lazily nodded his head towards a silhouette of a man sitting in the shaded bit of the bar. He was my man, I was told, which gave me a very powerful Lord of the Rings impression. There I was inquiring about a safe passage in a tavern and being pointed towards a long-haired, shadow-engulfed ranger. I approached cautiously. Aragorn, wait… I mean Andy, turned out to be the manager of one of the boat operators. We chatted a bit and he confirmed that it was possible to go on a morning boat to the falls, get out, walk up to the top of the falls and camp there overnight. He warned me that I would possibly the only person there. That was my plan and as long as I had beer I would be fine, I retorted.

We chatted a little more. It turned out he was a hunter/ranger/angler from Zimbabwe, now managing the boats here, as Zimbabwe is no longer safe for Whites. When he heard I was going to hang out in the Lodge till the afternoon, he suggested I join the morning cruise to the Victoria Nile Delta instead. For only $40. I said I would think about it knowing full well that’s just not within my budget. We chatted more and as he rose to get the boats ready he asked if I had made up my mind about the cruise. I said I had, and that sitting in the hot sun with nothing to do is actually more appealing to me than cruising on the breezy Nile and watching exotic animals. He laughed, picked up my bag and said he would take me for free. Nice.

It turned out that the group I was joining was not going on the delta cruise but was only being transported a little way down the river where they left the boat. Andy, Nick (local boat-boy) and I proceeded down the River to the Papyrus Delta and towards Lake Albert and the Blue Mountains of Congo. I couldn’t have been happier. I sat on the sunny roof of the boat, the wind in my hair, gazing at animals that Andy kept pointing out to me and sailing towards places of which I have read and dreamt as a child. Every now and again we would stop the engine and let the boat drift towards the shore where elephants, buffaloes or warthogs came to the water. The elephants were the best. If we remained quiet and motionless, they would just stay and splash on meters away from us. I did not want the journey to ever end.

But I had the second boat to catch. Andy drove me back to the lodge and I had just enough time to grab a sandwich and some water before we had to board the afternoon boat. I said goodbye to Andy and hopped on. The second cruise was much less exciting but that was to be expected with a boat full of American middle-aged tourists in flowery Bermudas who roared with fake laughter at each of the bad jokes of our boat guide. Moreover, I think I had a mild sun-stroke so I just sat on the stern of the boat and tried to focus on the views. There were not as many animals as on the first cruise but landscape was even more to my liking. Downriver, the Nile flows lazily as it spreads on the flats overgrown with swathes of papyrus and wild hyacinths. Upriver, its banks become steeper as the ground slowly rises in gently rolling hills. Savannah gives way to the jungle, the banks seem more impenetrable and sinister; the river meanders and flows more turbulently.

Yet, all this is but a prelude to the glory that is the Murchinson Falls. One can only begin to imagine what the first explorers must have felt when it rose up before them barring their way up the Nile. Its force, its beauty, its history and its remoteness make it one of the most spectacular falls there is. The boat lingered a little midstream to let the passengers take photos and then approached the left bank to let me out onto the path. I waved farewell to the astounded Americans and disappeared in the undergrowth.

It is very hard to describe the feeling of fulfillment and happiness that accompanied me on my steep climb. My rucksack was heavy, I was seating like a roasted hog, but I was alone, with the song of the waterfall resounding in my ears, climbing a path I could imagine Spake, Livingstone and Baker treading. And they had porters! I stopped often to gaze at the waterfall or, the other way, down the Nile. The sun was low and the colours were brilliant. I was not in a hurry as I wanted to arrive as late as possible to minimise the chances of meeting anyone at the top. I was also hoping to avoid the rangers for technically one should not be doing that walk unaccompanied. And the last thing I wanted on my climb was company.

I arrived at the top just before sunset. To my right, a little way off, I could see one more car on the parking lot and two rangers chilling a little way off in their shack. I decided to remain unseen so I did not venture out from my path to the parking lot but remained in the thickets until I saw the last three people going back to their car. Then I took a small path that went left, bypassed the parking lot and went straight to the top of the falls, which could not be seen from where the rangers were. Success!

I dropped my bag and gazed in awe and the sheer might and violence of the Nile. It looked wild and dangerous as it squeezed its entire huge body between two rocks, a mere three meters apart, and then fell with a deafening roar into a deep chasm. It spluttered and twisted. Huge waves formed and crashed on the many rocks aligning its banks, white spray rising up each time they did. The speed and turbulence of the water was intimidating. I felt the urge to swim.

I was hot and sweaty from the climb and the sunstroke and the desire to cool in the water was just stronger than reason. I knew that I cannot enter the main current but I surveyed the rocks in hope of finding a cove or a bay with secondary flow. Nothing as such presented itself but there was flat rock which, thanks to a presence of a big rock in front of it, would only get submerged half the time when a bigger wave came. I put on my swimming suit and edged very slowly on all fours down that rock. The main current was just a meter away and the chasm of the fall was only some four meters downstream. Even such a foolhardy optimist could not kid themselves that they would withstand the river at that point. But as long as I was not swept from my rock onto that narrow chasm I was fine. I sprawled myself on the flat rock, dug my fingers into its crevices and edged a little further where the waves were washing over it. The feeling was beyond compare. The waves were scary but they brought coolness and sensation so divine that I did not care. I love waves and to see them crash against the big rock in front of me and then jump over to splash me on my flat rock was heaven. I sat for over half an hour there, laughing at each bigger wave and trying to get as much water over me as I could. (Mum, if you are reading stop here) The splash was always fine and easy to withstand but then the water would recede from under the wave and rush back to the main current sucking me in. It was not strong enough to wash me down as long as I held with at least with one hand to the rock. Suddenly, however, a much bigger wave came and just at the time when I was not holding on. I felt myself being dragged in. I frantically reached out for the rock, dug my heels and elbows into the rough surface. It hurt and my elbows were bleeding but I stopped sliding. I somehow felt I’ve had enough swimming for the day.

I could not just pitch my tent at the top of the falls. I knew that place was not the official campsite – but I desperately wanted to be at the river. So I had to wait until it was too late for anyone to come to the falls and dark enough for them not to immediately notice my tent if they did. The latter would have been tricky – it was full moon and the place was bathed in a pale silver glow. I chose a place in the shadow of a tree and pitched the tent. I was tempted to just stay inside in case someone did come but the beauty of the river was too much to withstand. I went down and sat on the rocks.

Here I was, alone, at night, beholding a view of rare beauty. The unkempt manes of waves, sharper and whiter in the light of the moon, the jagged silhouettes of the rocks, the darkness of the jungle around me and most amazingly of all, over the chasm into which the Nile fell, rainbows forming in the spray. Moon-rainbows, black and white with only a suggestion of thin ribbons of colour, but nevertheless with distinct stripes and a lovely curve. I have never seen them before and was mesmerised. I sat for a long time and just admired the view. The only thing I could have possibly wished for at the time was beer, for I have forgotten to get some at the lodge.

Suddenly, I was aware of a movement in the shadows. Oh no, a guard, I thought. It was too late to run; I was perfectly visible on the bare rock in the moonlight. I waited resigned for the man to approach me.

Not a guard. Andy! And not only Andy: Andy with six ice-cold beers! He said he noticed I had forgotten to take beer and, as that was my professed condition of me being alright on my own here, he thought he would check up on me and deliver the supplies. He also brought me water as he said I had taken too little. We sat on a high rock over the Nile, opened the beers and drunk in reverent silence. Then Andy asked if I had been on a path that follows the rocks over the waterfall. I hadn’t so he suggested we check it out. The path was stunning – the sand there is composed of something Andy called philosilicates which are transparent flakes of rock that glitter in the light. In the moonlight their light was fantastic and it felt like walking of fresh crisp snow. We were barefoot but it was easy to avoid obstacles and follow the path thus illuminated. It led onto a rocky platform over the other side of the fall giving a splendid view of the waters tumbling down. We reached the top of the rock, sat on the precipice facing the falls with our feet dangling over edge and drank the last beer. To Adventure, Friendship and Africa forever.

Gulu and the Presidential Rally

Having missed the opportunity to join forces with the president on his way to Gulu (and still acting on my bet) I figured that I need to meet him there. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain. But first he needs someone who will direct him to the mountain. For me that person would be Kizito Serumaga, an editor of Ggwanga, the voice of Buganda people and an opposition newspaper. If there is one thing I knew about being a journalist it’s that other journalists are the best news source there is. Kizito did not disappoint and he provided me with much need info about the length of stay of Museveni in the North and a few phone numbers for his press people. He also urged me not to give up, saying there is a chance of my foolish plan succeeding.

I decided to head to Gulu the very same day. Gulu has always been a God-forsaken hole but in the last years of the LRA struggle it gained notoriety as the centre of military activity against the rebels. It was the only relatively secure place in the whole of the North, where parents would send their children from near and far villages for the night, so that they would not be kidnapped by the LRA and turned into child soldiers. It features heavily in Wojciech Jagielski’s book, Night Wanderers (out in English next year), who vividly describes how the city would empty of adults at night and become a domain of hundreds of children sleeping in the streets. As this book was one of the inspirations for this whole crazy trip of mine going to Gulu was a must anyway.

The bus takes about 6 hours to get there, plus the 1.5 hours you need to spend on it waiting for it to go. So when I arrived in Gulu it was already dark. Gulu has no street lighting and looks very derelict and dodgy indeed. Luckily, on the bus I met a local student who said who can lead me to a cheap but safe hotel. Pearl Afrique, for that was the name of the establishment, turned out to be pleasant enough and I settled for it. I did not have much of a plan of action as none of the phone numbers I got from Kizito worked. In Jagielski’s book all the military types hang out in the Acholi Inn hotel – I figured I can just as well go there for a drink and check things out.

In Acholi Inn I did not meet any military types but on arrival I was approached by the Chair of the Chamber of Commerce for Arua who obviously assumed I must be there for their meeting. We exchanged pleasantries and details. He informed me that the president is indeed in town but is staying in the military barracks not at the hotel. He also gave me a number for Presidential Private Secretary (PPS) and we parted amicably. The hotel courtyard was full of local businessmen and women deep in debate. I bought a beer and looked lost.

Then I saw Mark. At that time of course I did not know if was Mark but there. It turned out Mark was a journalist and the Africa desk editor for NRC Handelsblad, the Dutch daily. I don’t think I will ever forget the first (and hopefully not last) moment of professional pride when, on hearing what I was doing there, he smiled and said that he supposes that makes us colleagues. I don’t think I ever had a colleague before! He was there to cover some child soldier stories and did not quite register the whole presidential business yet. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief when I told him of my plan but wished me luck and I promised to keep him updated.

The next morning I went down to breakfast resolved to keep calling the PPS until I get somewhere. At breakfast I met Raphael who turned out to be the flag bearer for NRM, the Presidential Party, for Arua. Flag bearer is another name for a MP candidate. The expression comes from the time when Uganda, by order of President Museveni, was declared a non-party state. Parties were not banned but were not allowed to put up candidates for elections. Instead, everyone was encouraged to join Museveni’s National Resistance Movement and compete on merit basis within it. Independent candidates were also allowed but in fact they did not have much of a chance of winning against the (non-) party machine of the NRM. Now, under the pressure from the international community, multi-party system is back but the nomenclature remains and so do flag bearers.

As the secretary was not picking up, I resolved to got to Acholi Inn again to try my luck the second time. I did not find the secretary there but I did find Mark again. The hotel was bustling with activity, people in yellow T-shirts (Museveni’s colour) were ubiquitous and the whole place teemed with laughter. Everyone was shaking-hands with everyone, laughing, discussing, and most of all shouting into their mobile phones. As I was waiting for the secretary to leave her room (I managed to get the number of it by cunning from the concierge), I was approached by Raphael who had also come to Acholi Inn. Upon hearing of my difficulties he said that I should not worry he will try to get it arranged but we better stop calling and try to get the President in the Barracks. Before I knew it I was being rushed to the flag bearer’s car and I only had time to sway past Mark’s table and ask him if he wants to join me in the chase. The look of astonishment of his face was priceless. But as a real journalist he just packed his bag and followed.

We drove to the barracks. Despite the fact that Raphael obviously was someone to be reckoned with in the party we had a very long wait at the gate. That was military territory and Ugandan military are their own masters. Finally we managed to get through the first gate. The second gate turned out to be even harder to force. Finally a man called Amos went out, took mine and Mark’s details and told us to wait in the canteen. We bought sodas and sat under a tree, both still overwhelmed by the pace and surrealism of the situation. After a while of waiting we rose to talk to soldiers who were lounging under another tree. I was hoping to learn some military secrets but unfortunately their English was not good enough for any indiscreetness. But I made friends with Major Peter, which resulted in a lovely photo opp – unfortunately, now still in Mark’s possession.

After some forty minutes wait we were summoned to the gate again where we met Amos. He told us that the president was in meetings all this time and now is rushing to the rally so we cannot see him at that time. But he has enrolled us onto the rally coverage team and we can now attend the rallies as press so maybe there will be a chance in the evening or the next day. We had no other choice but to leave the Barracks. Mark went back to Acholi Inn and I decided to check out the HQ of Radio King FM – another place from Jagielski’s book. None of the journalists working there knew Wojciech but they were very friendly and informative. We went for late lunch in town and they shared their insights into elections and situation in Uganda in general.

As we were sitting in the restaurant ‘garden’ the rally started. A horde of yellow decorated boda-bodas honking their horns drove slowly through town. After them proceeded the orchestra, break-dancers and acrobats, who would stop at ever junction to perform. Then the crowd of supporters, sporting Museveni’s yellow Unity and Stability T-shirts. There were some three hundred people in the procession, most of them probably paid to turn up. They marched through town, chanted and danced. The streets were full of people but there was no universal merriment, more of a pensive observation and anticipation. Only children seemed to be having fun. At first I followed the crowd, taking pictures, filming and observing but then I figured I better head to the rally ground to get a good position. I caught a glimpse of Mark taking pictures, we waved but then were separated by the crowd.

The Kaunda Grounds where the Rally took place was already packed with people. There was strict security and no one was allowed to bring in cameras or take pictures. Naturally, I protested. I wanted not only to be admitted and allowed to keep my camera but also to get a good position from which to record. Without any official document to confirm my status it was not an easy task, the security around the president does not yield readily to intimidation. I have to admit that I banked on being able to just bluff my way through. I do not want to bore the readers with lengthy descriptions of negotiations, quarrels, running to and fro, waiting, calling, checking and consulting that followed. On the one hand, I was quite impressed with their diligence, on the other dismayed by the lack of communications resulting in repeated checks and enquiries. My bluffing and self-assured pose would have been quite futile if it wasn’t for the last minute arrival of some piece of paper from Amos with my accreditation on it. With my newly acquired air of legitimacy, I rushed straight onto the most elevated position on the stage from which I had a great view of the whole rally and Museveni on his car-platform. Too elevated in fact as part of the crowd was far more interested in seeing what antics the mzungu is going to perform than listening to a rather lacklustre speech of Museveni. I felt exposed.

In the evening I met up with Mark, who congratulated me on my feat. He gave up trying to get into the rally after the security told him he has to leave his camera but he saw me on the stage from the distance. We called Amos and tried to press him for the interview but he said the chances were slim. Figuring we are not going to get one this evening anyway, we went to play pool in town and then parted for the night, vowing to continue our chase the very next day. After all, we did get close.

The chase continues. Idd Adhuha. Chewing Khat (don’t judge me, it's legal here)

Acting on the foolishly made bet of the night before, I woke up after four hours sleep to head to Entebbe to catch up with the President. As I was convinced that I need to be there by 7.30am at the latest, I rushed out of my tent at 6am just as the first light was breaking, packed hastily, hailed a matatu and headed to town centre to catch a boda-boda to take me to Entebbe, some 40 km away.

Mornings in Uganda are surprisingly chilly and riding a motorbike without any gear does not make you warmer: during the 40min ride I was freezing. To optimise my route and time on the camping site I decided to complete my ablutions en route to the exit, which meant that although I did not have anything warm to wear I had my toothbrush and towel. After careful consideration I concluded that the toothbrush will not be very handy on the motorbike, but the towel will. I wrapped myself tightly and pondered if it is really a good idea to be chasing phantom Presidents at daybreak with items of bathroom furnishing flapping madly around me.

It turned out not to be such a good idea. As the guards at the Entebbe State House, informed me the President left for Gulu already the previous day. Only slightly disappointed, I chatted with the guards about the right procedure to follow, knowing full well that the right procedure would not get me anywhere anyway. It was not even eight o’clock and Entebbe was still dosing. I decided to make the best of my stay there and see Lake Victoria, of which I only caught a glimpse on the way. A friendly boda-boda driver, after a ten minute discussion about the price of horned beasts (small cow c. 500.000 USh) and inflation, pointed me in the right direction.

I still had a slight hang-over and was dying for a cup of tea. The god of hang-overs must have been also having a sleepless morning that day, for he heard my prayers and put in my way a rather grand, colonial style hotel. Exactly what I was looking for – a view of the famed lake and a possibility of a warm cuppa. I strolled onto the grounds, which were full of birds and monkeys but no other living soul. Finally, I found a sweeper. (A small digression here: sweeping is East African obsession. A noble one for sure, not the less perplexing nevertheless, as very often they seem to be sweeping from one pile onto the other just half a meter away. The gamut of brooms is also impressive, from mass-produced Chinese ones, through primitive bundles of twigs, to ornate carved ones. Although, my favourite sweeper was one who just used a miniature birch tree turned upside down).

To get back to our story and cut it short, there I was finally, seated with a well-deserved cup of tea in lush hotel gardens on the shores of the shiny Lake Victoria, in the cool serenity of the early morning broken only, although frequently, but the shrieks of the vervet monkeys, songs of Ibises and the sudden flap of wings of huge storks. Felt divine. I went back to town, walked about a little and decided to head back to Kampala to see if I can get the accreditation from the President’s Parliament Office.

Yet, that was not meant to be. As I was chilling in the lounge of the Backpackers I was approached by Faizel, a Ugandan musician currently living in Namibia whom we co-opted the night before to go to the jam with us. His family lives in Kampala and he was going to visit them that day to celebrate Idd Adhuha, a Muslim holiday which commemorates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice Isaak, or Ishmael, to God. He suggested I come along. Without a moment’s hesitation, I agreed.

We got on the boda-boda and drove to a rather dodgy part of town in which his family house was. On the way, he was couching me in the dos and don’t of this Christmas-like holiday. It’s basically about eating and talking in the extended family setting. I can do that, I thought.

Faizel’s family was most welcoming. Two of his three mothers live together, his father having passed away. The house was grand in comparison to the ones surrounding it, i.e. it was made of brick, not mud and corrugated iron, and had a first floor. There family had two rooms and a balcony, the toilet was shared with other 5 families. The focal point of the flat, like in any other abode in the civilised world, was the TV; the opposite wall was decorated with a faded picture of the Masjid al-Haram, the holy place which Faizel’s father and his three wives visited in 1987.

After an hour everyone who should be there seemed to be present, mostly ladies and children. The conversation was held in a curious mix of English, Kiswahili and Ugandan, of which I could understand very little. When the food was served the men sat on the balcony, the ladies in the main room, the children absolutely everywhere. The food was served on the mats on the floor and it was greeted with enthusiasm but also surprise that I chose to sit with them on the floor rather than on the chair and eat with my hand rather than spoon, which was especially sought out for me. Rice with beef (the staple pilau), chicken stew, the very popular in the area ginger-spiced tomato salad, pancakes, and rice noodles all were in abundance and were very tasty. During the meal we talked little, instead we listened to the Koran recitations from a DVD (with French subtitles).

The whole proceedings took some four hours and then it was time to say goodbyes. Faizel, now obviously the big-man in the family, went around and handed money to each and every member present. I felt a little embarrassed at not having anything to reciprocate with, but Faizel assured me that hospitality especially on a day like this is a duty and pleasure to the hosts. We headed out finally and together with four of his friends headed for the second, this time informal, part of the celebration.

As it was already getting darkish, I was a little uneasy to be heading into what Faizel termed ‘the ghetto’, that is Kampala’s slum area. But I had trust in my guide and besides I was quite thrilled at the prospect of trying Khat, the region’s preferred stimulant.

Khat, Qat, or as it is called here Miraa, is a mild narcotic. It is grown in Kenya and exported by planeloads to chewers everywhere. It is most popular in Somalia, where chewing is a pastime almost as popular as piracy or feuding. The trade in it funds the warlords and to some extent may be said to keep the war going.

It is chewed, like Betel in Asia, but it’s much less offensive to the palate and does not colour your lips and gums. It can be taken in a variety of different ways. The guys in Lamu with whom I sat in the evenings preferred to chew the stems, keeping the little twigs in their mouth and making slightly disgusting munching noises. These, as Faizel informed me, were profis who are able to just keep it in their mouth without making it watery too soon. He and his friends prefer to chew the leaves, which are less bitter, mixed with tiny bits of chewing gum (the Big G) for added consistency and sweetness. Some prefer peanuts to gum, but I’m not quite sure how that works. Every now and again, you sip water or tea as Khat makes your mouth dry a little. The sensation is supposed to be one of enhancing your natural disposition, whatever it may be: if you are talkative you will talk more, if you are lazy, you will want to sleep, if you are quarrelsome you might fight. It also makes you feel slightly hot. Other than that it’s harmless and not very addictive. It is banned in a number of African countries, apparently because it’s one harmful effect is that it makes men even less productive – they just sit, chew and talk instead.

And that’s what we did for the next three hours in a tiny room hidden in the maze of Kampala slum. Nothing much happened, physically or psychically. When I got a little too hot I went outside to get some air. I sat on a wall which had a fantastic view of the night Kampala and enjoyed the moment. Two boys approached me, we chatted a little and then they asked for my watch. Khat must also have had some relaxing properties for I did not panic but told them I can give them my handshake instead. They laughed and it was all good, but I decided to head back to the room after all. Thanked Faizel and his friends for a lovely day, got a motorbike and headed back to the Backpackers for a well deserved coca-cola baridi sana. Happy Idd Adhuha!

p.s. Pics on this page are not mine, apart from the slum one, as I have forgotten to take the camera in the mad rush to catch the President.

Kampala, the Rome of Africa

Kampala, the smokey metropolis of 12 million inhabitants, greeted our bus from Nairobi with an hour long traffic jam. As the traffic jams and insane crowds seem to be its landmark and main attraction, I took it lightly and enjoyed the hassle and bustle from the window.

When we finally arrived at the station, I was dreaming of nothing else than getting to the Backpackers and having a shower. But it was not meant to be. As I was taking money from the ATM I realised I left my Lonely Planet on the bus. I got a motorbike and rushed back to the station. The bus wasn’t there. It had already left for the garage outside town. I had no choice but to follow. LP might not be that hard to get in Kampala but you never know and besides I get attached to my copies, especially when they are not really mine (this one was Janek Topolski’s, to whom this trip is dedicated).

And so very early on during my stay in Kampala I had the chance to witness and partake in the crazy spectacle that driving here is. I’ve been in many places when people are famous for driving like monkeys: Saigon, Cairo, Rome, Nairobi. But Kampala beats them all. The lemming-like blindness with which they rush head-on to collisions only to awake millimetres before the other vehicles bumper is astounding. Add to it roads covered in mud, pot-holes and rubbish, as well as thousands of pedestrians milling around and you get the picture. I love it. If it wasn’t for the fact that even on the motorbike you get stuck quite often (even though they drive on pavements, rails and any other vaguely flat surface on the side of the road), I would love to drive here. It’s a constant challenge requiring agility, inventiveness and alertness.

Luckily, my driver possessed all those essential qualities and we made it to the depot in good time. Too good in fact, as the bus was not yet there. We waited. The bus arrived. I was told they left my book at the station. We rushed back. We waited for the guy who had the book. We got the book back. We waited or rushed no longer.

It was still quite early when I made it to Backpackers and had that divine shower. Chatted with a number of friendly backpackers, including John who cycles from Cape to Cairo like Kazimierz Nowak did.

After breakfast, I left for town. The matatu dropped me at the main ‘taxi park’, a huge station/market area teaming with life. I was in a very good mood – it was so lively, African, authentic and I was so young, curious and showered. Life was looking up. And then I felt it – a slight of hand and twist of fate and there I was in a mood much dampened by a sudden disappeance of my camera and my phone!

I felt them do it, turned and faced a wall of people behind me. I could just about vaguely discern a line of men which must have been passing themselves my things. I rushed after them, caught one and very loudly told him to give me my things back. Then I turned to the curious sellers who surrounded us and told them I was willing to pay as long as my things were returned. There was a lot of discussion and the guy who I confronted asked which one I wanted more. I said the camera but really both would be nice. The sellers around, obviously in the know, were very kind and offered me a seat reassuring me that there is a chance they will be returned. I did not have much hope but lo and behold after 10 minutes a man returned with my camera. And they did not even want money for it. He said it gives Uganda a bad name when people steal from tourists and the people around nodded and murmured in agreement. After 10 more minutes a local police officer arrived and said that the boy who took the phone is known to them but for now disappeared so there is no point waiting. I went to the police station, made a statement in only very vague hope they phone will ever turn up again. One can only hope that what goes around, comes around and at least I had my camera, which was miracle of miracles anyway.

I called Tom from the other phone and asked him to block my Polish phone. Thinking my adventures over I went to change some more money and buy Dr. Olive Kobusingye’s book, The Correct Line. Olive is a surgeon and a sister of the main opposition Presidential candidate, Kizza Besigye. The book was published in London and shipped to Uganda as no printers wanted to print a book, which in no uncertain terms denounces the 24 years of Museveni’s regime and the human rights abuses committed in that time. The shipment of the books coming from London was held up in customs for ages but this just generated more publicity for it and the people were buying it online anyway. So while not technically illegal (there is officially no censorship in Uganda) the book is not a favourite with the authorities.

I went to the main bookshop and in a fairly loud voice enquired after it. The seller gazed at me surprised, suddenly looked all shifty and equally loud replied that no, of course they do not have the book. As the poets say, one could cut the tension with a knife. I realised the faux pas and in a much quieter voice asked if he by chance knows where I can get it. He lowered his even more and told me the name and address of the other bookshop. I went there and this time much more subtly, that is crouching behind one of the shelves next to a kneeling employee, I repeated my enquiry. He also looked puzzled but pleased. Unfortunately, they also did not stock it but he knew where to get it. He walked out with me and pointed me in the right direction, watching after me as I went. The last place was a dingy little stationers, not a proper bookship at all. But they did have it. Yet, by this time I was so paranoid that I was seeing secret police functionaries behind every bush. I now know how my mum must have felt while smuggling illegal Solidarity publications in the 1980s!

I got back to the Backpackers and started reading my trophy book, again thinking that’s the end of excitement for the day. But it was Monday and Mondays is jam night at the National Theatre. So we, i.e. Brenda, Mira, John, Dan, Fasel, a Danish guy and I decided to check it out. We hailed 4 boda-bodas and chased each other through the croweded Kampala night streets. That felt really good. The jam was pleasant enough although surprisingly the quality of performers left a lot to be desired. But we danced, talked, ate pop-corn and drunk beer. Maybe a little too much beer for at some point, I really don’t know how that happened, I found myself making a bet with the guys that I will join the Ugandan President’s entourage when he heads to Gulu the next morning. I had the insider info that he is setting off and thought it would be fun to interview him on the way. Now, I had to do it.

It was just before midnight then when I asked the guys not to wait for me and headed outside to the next boda-boda. The night was cool but that did not lessen my enthusiasm and I boisterously ordered the driver to take me to the State House as I need to talk to the president. He obediently drove to the residence and left me with equally perplexed presidential askaris. I told them I’m a journalist who is supposed to see the president on his way to Gulu and I need a pass for tomorrow. They said its all nice and good but the president is not here but in Entebbe and if I want to ride with him I need to be there early. That I have resolved to do the very next day.

tbc..

Whose Donkey is this?

- Whose donkey is this?
- It’s Ahmed’s.
- Who is Ahmed?
- Ahmed’s….

That’s just one of the many, many conversations I had when I decided to do a thing obviously not done in Lamu: to ride the donkey on my own, unescorted, through the maze of little streets.

It is estimated that there are at least a thousand donkeys in Lamu, which is a port town the size of Milton Keynes (but muuuuch nicer). They are ubiquitous. I’ve never seen so many of them per square hoof. I mean foot. They are being ridden, they carry loads, or just wander the streets on their own. Very often they just stand in the middle of the alleyway munching on something and blocking the whole passage, as the streets are never wider than a length of a donkey. I am pleased to say that, unlike those in Egypt, the Lamu donkeys all seem pretty healthy, well groomed and happy.

It was pleasant enough to stroll around the old town on foot, but seeing so many local donkey riders made me want to explore the town in the same manner. Contrary to what you might expect tourists are not hassled here for donkey rides or anything else much. So I had no choice but to approach a boy who seemed to be in charge of a few donkeys carrying sticks and ask him if I could ride one of his donkeys. At first he did not understand, obviously the request was rather unusual. It took me a good while to explain what I want to do and even longer to convince him it was a good idea. In the meantime a large group of men gathered round, laughed, debated and gave the boy counsels. Finally we managed to move from his position of an escorted, 10-minute ride along the pier for 500Ksh to a free-reign donkey ride for 1.5hours for 200Ksh. I could see he and everyone else thought I was insane. Amusing, but definitely one hoof short of a donkey.

The donkey, which I named unimaginatively Sancho, was a good enough beast; a little lazy, perhaps, and towards the end stubborn but generally obedient. Riding a donkey is not quite as easy as riding a horse. For one, when you try to close your heels on his side you usually end up just banging your heels together under his belly, which is both counterproductive and rather painful. Secondly, you are supposed to sit on this bum rather than back, a thing which I certainly learned too late for the future comfort of my inner tights. Other than that, just like horse-riding, it’s simply a battle of wills between you and the beast. The highlight of the trip however was not my newly acquired skill of a donkey amazon but the stir my stunt caused in town.

I am not exaggerating when I say that everyone had to comment. Admittedly, it only added to the experience as the comments were friendly, sometimes funny and helpful. When the donkey slowed down or stopped, they would shout out commands, tickle him in the back or give me tips on my posture. They would ask about the donkey’s name, called me a great jockey (which was obviously untrue), or asked whose donkey that was, to which I answered truthfully it was Ahmed’s. But above all, after the initial puzzled amazement, they nodded and smiled in encouragement. Only one or two more grumpy ones rolled their eyes in disbelief at what this world has come to: a lady mzungu on a donkey!

Other than that the town exploration was rather uneventful and I returned the donkey safe and sound to its rather worried owner. I bought some greens for the donkey, fed him and departed. This did not mark the end of the comments, however. It seems my reputation is fairly established and now every so often someone, apart from the usual greetings, shouts out: “And where is your donkey now, miss?”

Of the Dangers of Palm Wine

I was rather proud of myself for getting to Merafa so efficiently, cheaply and pleasantly. Now the plan was to continue this triumphal march and get to Lamu the same day. LP, the omniscient bible, claimed that it is impossible to get back from Merafa to Malindi on the same day, but I was desperate to prove them wrong.

It was still before noon when I finished sightseeing in Merafa. Feeling rather grateful for such a good tour, I suggested that George, my Merfa guide, hops on the boda-boda with me and my driver and we get a coca-cola baridi sana (very cold coke) ‘in town’ before I attempt, against LP’s wisdom, to find a transport to Lamu the same day. To my surprise and joy, two more matatus where waiting in the town square – empty but without doubt being primed for the road. We sat down in the shade, drunk the cokes and discussed the nutritional value of locusts and grubs (which I think he understood as ‘crabs’).

We waited twenty minutes. It seemed like it’s going to be a fairly long wait before either of the matatus goes so I did not object when George suggested that we go a little further from the square where a respectable Mama sells lovely palm wine. I’ve never had palm wine ‘straight’. In Gorontalo, Indonesia, I had the pleasure of drinking it mixed with Guinness – as that’s the disgusting local custom – with the town chief of the Muslim abstinence committee. But pure and freshly fermented: never.

George maintained that the matatu is not going to go for a while and besides we are going to see it as it passes. Thus assured, I proceeded to sit myself down under a pleasant canopied seating area built especially for the purpose of enjoying the palm wine in the company of your friends. Unfortunately, it turned out that the delivery girls have not yet returned from the groves with the new load, so all we could get was the palm wine of yesterday, which is slightly sourer. We acquiesced nevertheless. The Mama made a rather big show of washing the ‘cup’ and straw for me and then ladled carefully the milky white juice out of a huge jar. George went first, demonstrating how to sip through the wooden straw, which had a ball of fluff on its end to sieve out the impurities. I drank cautiously. Palm wine, or pemba na mnazi, is an acquired taste. The first cup I finished reluctantly, the second one somehow went down easier.

The properties of this drink must truly be of the relaxing kind, as I did not even raise much of a fuss when I saw my matatu drive away into the distance. I did scold George a little but hakuna matata, and after all, there was still another matatu in the town square. I would have proceeded to it immediately, was it not for the fact that at this instant the skies opened and it hammered down with torrential rain. There was really no point getting wet on the off chance that the other matatu will be leaving so soon so we stayed for another shared cup. When the skies cleared half an hour later we went back to the square. George must have felt rather bad for making me miss the matatu and made sure I got a lovely spot in the next one which left just half an hour later.

I was still quite sure I will make it to Lamu despite this delay of 1.5 hours. The plan was to get of on the barabara Malindi-Garsen and try to catch a matatu there. After the rains, parts of the road turned into a slimy morass which the matatu driver quite skilfully negotiated so we reached the main road in good time to catch the last matatu towards Lamu, or so I thought. The driver however did not think this such a good plan and insisted that I go with them all the way back to Malindi (some 30mins south) and only then take a bus or matatu back north to Lamu. In hindsight, going south when you need to go north and back and forth on the same road does not make much sense, but at the time and under the influence of the pemba it somehow seemed reasonable. I got back to the matatu and went back to Malindi. In this way, I wasted a further hour only to find out that there are no more buses going to Lamu that day.

At that point I should have probably stayed in Malindi for the night. After all, it was well after 2pm and I had not much chance of getting to Lamu before sunset. But I was obstinate – I blame it on the pemba. I enquired about other possibilities and was informed that there still should be a bus going to Garsen, and I could hop off at the junction 70km before Lamu and try to find transport there. That I did.

Buses and matatus in Africa go not on schedule but when they are full. The best you can hope for is that they fill up quickly or the driver himself gets bored with the waiting. Some matatus fill half-way and hope to pick passengers on the way, which they do with the help of the conductor who half sits-half hangs out of the bus, yells the destination to passer-bys and bangs on the roof of the matatu if he wants him to stop. Another trick is to find the right bus, as they exhibit destination plates next to never. Yet, I have to admit, so far I have not once been misdirected to a matatu, the other drivers always honestly pointed me in the right direction, rather than trying to get me on their bus which sometimes happens in other countries.

It took over 1.5 hours to fill that particular matatu: waiting in the blistering sun would have been a torture if it wasn’t for the friendly merchants who brought me an old oil barrel and put in the shade of their canopy. This delay left me with not much chance of reaching Lamu, or even the junction before nightfall. It was twenty minutes to sunset when we reached Garsen junction. The bus driver was urging me to stay on the bus as he reckoned the chances of getting any transport at this hour were slim. This time I decided not to listen and got off on a nearly deserted junction.

Next to a few closed market stalls and a broken down truck a few men were milling. I approached them and asked about the possibility of getting to Lamu. They shook their heads, said the chances are slim but I could try my lack by the rather grim looking sign-post. Inshallah, a truck carrying soldiers manning the roadblocks might still come. I waited for ten minutes, my hopes sinking as fast as the setting sun. I was already pondering if I should pitch my tent in the village or deep in the bush, when a pick up truck appeared on the end of the road. Allah akbar! The men who were waiting with me jumped up and hailed it, pointing at me. Is he going to take me, or not? And should I really get in if they do?

I did not have to ponder these questions for long, as the driver nodded his head, my rucksack was taken from me, thrown onto the pick up and I was ushered into the cab. My companions turned out to be contractors from Mombasa on their way to the US military base next to Lamu. Khalid and Saddam, for these were their names, turned out to be a very pleasant and informative company. Khalid, the bigger of the two men, spoke very good English and was happy to talk about everything I wanted to know about Kenya. We talked and practiced corruption: it is not allowed to use the Lamu road at night and we had to buy our way out of police checks, first by way of sweet baobab seeds which I’d offered to the soldiers and other times with the help of a few shillings.

Unfortunately, Khalid informed me that there are no boats to Lamu after sunset and they will be stopping in a Mpeketoni village, some 30kms from Lamu, for the night. Mpeketoni is a little off the main road but it is the only place on that stretch that has electricity and any decent accommodation. I would have probably preferred to have tried to find a boat in the port anyway, but I had no choice but to agree to the detour and delay. Despite the hassle free and friendly ride, I was still a little uneasy to accept the offer of spending the night in the company of strangers in the middle of nowhere. Khalid must have noticed my consternation for he hastened to add that I’d get a nice single room, we’d go out and eat, all expenses on them, and we’d set off early the next day. I am their guest and I should not worry about a thing. I tried not to.

And so we arrived in Mpeketoni, a town founded by Jomo Kenyatta who settled his triebemen Kikuyu there to grow crops and feed the barren port of Lamu. It’s a dump of a few blocks, no paved streets and a hotel, which, given the circumstances, was actually quite nice. It was my first night in a bed, and a huge four-poster with mosquito net at that. It all felt a little unreal: the day had been long and certainly did not go according to the plan. But I was almost at Lamu, with head full of images, impressions, and information. I could not expect to have reached that far without a bit of palm-wine induced stubbornness and recklessness but, above all, without the friendliness and helpfulness of the Swahili Coast Kenyans. Hakuna matata.

Many thanks to Khalid, Saddam, George and all helpful matatu drivers, passengers and bystanders.

p.s. The pics feature the lovely palm wine drinking spot, as well as a little goat I was given to hold and caress on the boat to Lamu the next day. The owner, pictured, wanted to sell it to me for as little as 100Ksh and, given how sweetly it slept on my lap the entire way, I was awfully tempted to buy!

Devil's Kitchen

Long, long time ago (in this galaxy, though) there lived in Merafa a very rich tribe of cattle herders. They had so many cows, sheep and goats that they cared not for their milk and used it to bathe and wash their clothes in. Such wanton wastefulness angered the gods, who sent a mighty storm to destroy the tribe. All the people, cattle and houses perished in the chasms that opened in the ground and the mud of the huts, milk of the cattle and blood of the men painted the sand, orange, white and red.

Regardless of whether indeed it was created in such dramatic circumstances as the Griama people believe, Merafa Depression is simply stunning. There is not much to write about, I will let the pictures speak for themselves. The beauty is enhanced by the fact that more likely than not, a visitor will have the place to himself, like I did, for the place is still very much off the tourist track.

What you see here is not rock but sand: Sand of three distinct colours, which blend, intertwine and diffuse creating a magnificent spectacle. The place changes with every rain as more sand is washed away and new gorges are created. It also changes with the time of the day or night as the sun and moon play with the hues.

To get down to the gorge you need a guide. He will tell you about the legends and myths surrounding the place as well as point out various plants and describe their properties. There are ebony trees, acacias, desert roses and baobabs. If you are lucky you can also see dik-dik antelopes, baboons and, wait for it…. Aardvarks! Unfortunately, only at night and that also with a fair amount of luck.

Devil’s Kitchen is another name for Merafa Depression. Apparently in early mornings you can sometimes see fumes rising from the crevices of the gorge and smell food being cooked. The place is too serene to hold an evil presence, but it is certainly mystical. At the foot of one of the sand pillars you can see shattered pieces of glass bottles and bones. No, it’s not the naughty tourists but the elders of the Griama people, who in accordance with their animistic traditions, still throw offerings to the spirits and pray there for rain.

Malindi - Commedia degli Errori

This time my intuition deceived me. I saw a sign for a Lorenzo il Magnifico restaurant and I thought that something which is called that cannot be a bad place. One could say I had a good feeling about it. Unfortunately, it was misguided and I will very quickly have to develop this one skill which I do not posses and that is ability to resist the pressure of the situation and not get bullied into spending more money than I actually have.



In other words, Lorenzo turned out to be really rather magnifico but I could not see that on arrival as I somehow managed to get to the kitchen door first. It all looked closed so I asked if I can get something to eat, meaning if the restaurant is open. I’ve walked a kilometre from the main road to get here so I though I might just as well try rather than go back. But the staff, rightly unable to comprehend that someone could be so daft not to see an off-limits luxury resort restaurant when one sees one, treated me as a lost lamb of a mzungu who is desperate for her dinner. So after consulting the manager they ushered me in, apologising that the dinner is not earlier than in an hour but I could spend the time boozing in the bar and pondering what I want to eat. So here I am pondering if I really want a dish of pasta that could buy me three nights of accommodation or a trip to Nairobi.

It’s really not bad at all when one puts it into European terms but I am trying to do the budget thing here and I’ve been especially good today. Bloody hell, I walked with the whole gear in a dirt road to Gede Ruins for 2km only to deprive this poor motorcycle boy of his 50 Ksh. And then back! I bribed a guard at the Vasco da Gama Pillar to pay a fraction of the overpriced entrance ticket. I fasted on fruit and water (although that’s only because it was too hot too eat). I resisted the temptations of many a tuk-tuk driver when I walked to town and back, although I am glad I did succumb twice as I do really love riding in tuk-tuks. Should all this go to nothing?



But we still have not said anything about the place in which all this drama is taking place. Malindi is a curious place. On the one hand it’s full of resorts and, curiously, Italian expats but on the other it is also very local and unpretentious. LP did not have a campsite listed so I headed to the tourist information, which turned out to be not your usual leaflet filled bureau but a local branch of the ministry of tourism. Difficult to say if I or the receptionist was more surprised to see me there but after some deliberation she penned me for a meeting with the branch director; and I only had to wait five minutes.

That meeting was quintessentially Kenyan. Although I ONLY wanted to ask if there is a camping site nearby, I could not just blurt my question out. There had to be introductions: in Swahili, in English, took some time. Then there was the element of playful authority: he demanded to see my passport to prove I am Polish – for one reason or another he was convinced I am an Israeli servicewoman on leave. Not sure how the thing would have ended if I were part of the Israeli force but luckily my ID released me from further suspicions. Yet, I still did not have the information I needed and it took another ten minutes of conversation. Halfway through it he got up and closed the door behind me which made me feel a tad uneasy. But luckily nothing but, again the typical, offer of exchange of telephone numbers and a drink on the beach followed. I promised to call and grasping my precious piece of paper with the address of the campsite left hastily.

The campsite turned out to be fantastic although very basic. It was spacious, covered in pretty plants and pleasantly shaded by many superb trees. Moreover, it was empty. I pitched my tent (I should really give him a name, any suggestions?), it was just past noon. The air was motionless and hot, I was drenched in sweat, sticky, dusty and dizzy. I was dying for a shower. You cannot begin to comprehend my despair upon learning that there was no water in the whole of Malindi! Damn the corruption in the ministry of water resources management! Luckily Steve, the caretaker of the campsite, offered to procure a bucket with some of that precious liquid for my ablutions. Yet, miracle of miracles, just as I resigned myself to the thought, the water came back. I cannot begin to describe the delight that this shower was! I’ve never felt so blissful.

With renewed strength I hit the town, the lovely Portuguese Church supposedly built by Vasco da Gama and certainly visited by St Francis Xavier and the lonely Pillar erected by the former. Other than that there is not much more to see in town. The beach is quite nice but the water is full of weeds. There are quite a few nice restaurants and a little maze of narrow streets in the old town. So I headed back to the campsite where I promised to meet up with Linda, a girl living in one of the few cottages which are part of the campsite enclosure. She offered to take me to the public beach and watch over my things while I bathed. I offered her my fruit-salad. While we sat and ate she told me about her wish to go to college to study economics, about her parents who now take care of her baby of 3 years, whose father dematerialised as soon as he learnt she was pregnant and who is richer than she is so he can bribe the police when she tries to get him to pay for the baby. This seems to be a rather common plight of women here. The baby girl is called Precious.

And that’s how it all ended…

Oh shame of shames, I succumbed. The first attempt was nearly successful I just said that I won’t eat but, in a conciliatory gesture so counterproductive and typical of the status conscious middle classes, I added casually that I might take dessert. One would think that’s that but the head waiter came after five minutes and in a very concerned manner informed me that there are two very cheap positions on the menu which might interest me. When I lied politely that I am simply not that hungry, he hastened to add that the dinner is not for a while and besides I can eat only a little and take the rest home. He was so insistent, in an avuncular way, that I started suspecting that he might be in trouble for letting me in to this secret garden if I do not take anything. So here we go, I think we can cross assertive out of my attributes. Oh well, I could not face walking back in the total darkness and finding a new place to write and I might even get half a pizza for Linda out of it.

p.s. There was brief glimpse of hope for me when the electricity suddenly went down and all turned pitch black – I seriously considered making a run for it and escaping through the dark kitchens but unfortunately the only source of light around was my computer screen so the chances of having fled undiscovered were as slim as the damned laptop.)

p.p.s. The electricity actually went out 5 times while I was there. I had a very powerful Titanic impression every time the music stopped and the lights went off and then on again once hiding then revealing the splendour around me. When Kenyans talk about unreliable public services I guess that’s what they mean but I have not been surprised if that were not the overloaded fuses – surely they could have done without one or two of those water-feature lasers or palm tree chandeliers.

My Tent is my Castle

So here I am in the middle of Nairobi in a dark tent illuminated only by my laptop’s eerie screen light. It’s all a little unreal, as if many realities were interwoven into one. A tent in a middle of a thriving metropolis, with internet access in the tent but not much more, as I have forgotten to bring a sleeping mat and am otherwise travelling light. Light on gear but not tools of trade. Crawling back into the tent I enter yet another incongruent reality: books, maps, computer, cameras, notebook and newspapers - an office in a tent: a little shabby, uncomfortable but quaint and private.

I might have of course stayed in the dorms, which are not much more expensive than the campsite (and by campsite I mean the patch of soggy earth between the corrugated iron fence of the enclosure and the brick wall of the ‘bungalow’ fitting exactly my tent and not much more). But I like the idea of having a place to escape to if I grow tired of the ever-jolly company of fellow-travellers. The girls’ dorms feel like a summer camp, bunk beds adorned with towels, sarongs and cosmetics laid out everywhere, the air filled with perfume and giggling. Call me a grump but I prefer my cold earth and the stench of my socks.

I might be a little paranoid but every evening I drag some dray branches from the nearby compost heap and spread them nicely around my tent. So every time I go out after dark I scratch myself, stumble and curse over them. But the idea is that so will the night intruder thus alarming me to his presence. We are in Africa after all and this is my own little kraal or boma, as it is here known. The only problem, probably not encountered by Stanley and others who boldly faced African wild beasts, is that every morning a diligent campsite worker laboriously sweeps my only defence onto the compost pile.

For all those waiting for a more universal or culturally informed message at the end of this post here it comes. My peculiar civilisation vs primitivism situation is a microcosm of Kenya. In Kibera and Mathare, the two infamous slums surrounding Nairobi, countless young men, jobless and penniless, stroll around in worn out clothes flashing the newest mobile models. Despite the unemployment rate of 65% among youth (40% across all ages) over 80% of people over 15 own mobile phones. Phones and access to modern technology is the new status symbol regardless of weather you live in affluent Westlands, the slums or in the agricultural outback. The posh and the poor intermingle and share the same reality. Huge SUVs with tinted windows jump through pot-holes and raise clouds of orange dirt from under-maintained streets. Smartly dressed business-women jump through mud puddles on unpaved streets on their way to work in new shiny skyscrapers. Little children sell peanuts for $0.1 in front of a club where the revellers casually splash $1000 for a bottle of bubbly. Kenya’s GINI coefficient is high but in comparison to other developing countries it does not do too badly. Yet the fact that the same or starker pictures can be seen in Moscow, Beijing, Dehli or other African countries, does not make it less striking.