Lake Turkana Finale – Ritual Hecatomb and a Boatful of Fish

The monotony of my forced sojourn in Soricho, which I have described previously, was broken by two noteworthy events.

First was the arrival of two British travellers in a land-rover. It was just after midday and I was snoozing happily in the shade on the said mattress, when a group of children darted into my haven yapping excitedly, and politely - yet insistently - dragged me out. I was only half-awake, slightly confused and blinded by the blazing white sun so I proceeded cautiously towards a blue jeep parked in the middle of the village. The men saw me approach. If the look of utter disbelief in their eyes is anything to go by, I must have been a rare sight. Shaggy hair, half-closed eyes, black skirt hastily tied around my hips, and a throng of children who formed a moving cloud around me as I walked lazily towards them, must have made me seem more like a tribal witch than a fellow-traveller. They looked like tough guys, and they were doing a slightly more original than most “Clapham Common to Cape” route in their land-rover, but they freely admitted, after hearing of what I was doing in this middle of nowhere and how I got there, that I was, to use their vernacular expression, “the one with balls of steel”.

While I was flattered, I have to say, for the record, that at no point was the whole Northern Adventure particularity harrowing or dangerous – of course it’s easy to say so in hindsight when everything turned out well, but in truth a single mother with a toddler in tow could easily have done it. In any case, we talked about a camping site in Clapham Common I stayed at a few years back, the unbearable heat of the desert (i.e. the weather), and directions (follow the dirt truck, between the two big acacias turn left and then slightly uphill) to Illoret where they were headed. The whole experience was surreal and I could have just as well dreamt it. But I politely waved my apparition goodbye as it vanished slowly in the white cloud of dust.

The second event was much more exciting but more perplexing. On the second day I was woken up with the sunrise by the sound of hooting and shouting. It did not sound particularly threatening but I decided to get dressed quickly and see what’s going on. As the clamour came closer, I saw a group of men, half naked but with interesting head-dress, jog in line, spears, sticks and hooting devices (trumpets? vuvuzelas?) in hand. It looked like a cross between a military morning drill and a rain dance. They jogged briskly around our kraal, made a lot of noise, disappeared behind other huts, still making a lot of noise, only to return a few minutes later and jog in the opposite direction, still noisily.

I was very baffled indeed. The hooting was slowly dying down in the distance. My companions were still asleep, the village seemed to be only just stirring, and I was barely half-awake. I considered crawling back to my tent and pretending it was just a dream but my curiosity got the best of me. I closed my tent hurriedly and rushed out of the kraal in pursuit of the jogging warriors. At first, I was trying to look casual and vaguely dignified so I walked, albeit swiftly, through the village. Soon however, I realised that will never get me in line with the running men; moreover, the children, who, as usual, took no time to crowd around me, obviously realized what I was after and were nudging and prodding me to go faster. In face of such peer pressure I broke into a run.

Now, it is worth mentioning that I strongly dislike the idea of jogging; non-competitive ‘as fast as your legs will take you’ running is slightly more fun but a rather pointless endeavour, hardly worth the name of a sport. I am by no means very fit or used to any kind of prolonged physical exertion. But this run felt divine.

The air was still delightfully cool and clear of dust, the sun was low on the horizon and all the short shrubs, little rocks and animal bones over which I daintily hopped were basked in a soft orange glow. Soft wind whistled in my ears, competing with the joyful squeals of the children accompanying me and the staccato of their little feet. I was surprised to find that after a few minutes of medium paced running I did not feel tired or out of breath. I sped up, leaving the children behind me, save for three older boys who were obviously challenging me to keep up with them. We raced towards the warriors, jumping over the bushes, bones and morning shadows. I felt alive, refreshed and very, very happy.

Only for a moment did my step falter as I remember Abrdizzak’s warnings about snakes and scorpions, apparently abundant in the area. The realization of the hazards made me very conscious of the absurdity of my chase – after all I did not know for how long, where to and to what end the phantom joggers were running. For all I knew they could be the official Kenyan marathon team or a cattle-raid party – and then what? But as I was still enjoying the run I dismissed my fears. Besides, no scorpion or snake would have been silly enough to remain on the path of so much stomping, or so I reckoned.

After over 15 minutes of running, which is more than I had done in years, we caught up with the warriors. They were surprised to see me but did not pause; I was very uncertain of what I should do. I did not want to just join their procession in case I was violating any taboos – there were no women among their number – and I did not want to give the impression I am mocking them by doing what they were doing. But if I wanted to keep up I had to jog with them. I decided to keep smiling, keep a little distance and keep running. The little boys cheered me on.

The party of joggers was some fifteen-twenty men strong; they were all fairly young, apart from a middle aged man who was leading the procession. His cloak was red, his head-dress most elaborate and he held a white stick with which he would rhythmically hit the ground as he intoned the lead of the chant. They would jog for a minute and then walk for thirty seconds. Every now and again a part of the group would break away from the main body and run slightly faster in a roundabout way and then rejoin the procession. Slowly, I began to grasp the point of the exercise, or at least I thought so. They seemed to be an invitation party, or heralds if you will, running through different mini-villages to let everyone know that an event is about to take place. More and more people were joining our procession – some joined the runners, other slowly gathered on the fringes. Women also appeared, but they did not run, only formed little circular groups in which they chanted and rhythmically rattled little plastic medicine bottles with coins or stones inside.

The second task of the runners was to provide the animals for the forthcoming event. We would run straight into a herd of goats or sheep, the frenzied animals bleating and blenching in fear all around us as the men chased the biggest and fattest ones. They would catch them by a leg, tie a string to around their neck and then shepherd them along with us back to the main procession. After about forty minutes of such routine we were already a very formidable crowd of warriors in line, children in tow, women on the fringes, goats in between and one fat white bull in front led by the mzee in the red cloak. We marched for a while back towards my village and then stopped in a circle of huts where another crowd of men, bulls and goats, was assembled.

Still uncertain of what’s going on, I watched the spectacle unfold. The men were gathered in semi-circle around the animals, the women were standing in a tight group a little way off, performing the characteristic neck-jerking dance, in which you hop from one leg onto the other, back straight and let your jaw jolt forward making your necklaces dance and rattle (video demonstrates the type but was taken elsewhere, among the Somburu tribe). Most of the women were bare-breasted, their necks and faces painted with ochre; they held the little plastic bottles filed with stones in their hands as rattles. One of them, obviously concerned at my lack of sense of rhythm, pressed one of those bottles in my hand and demonstrated when to rattle and when to jump. My sense of rhythm is almost as bad as my running stamina, but if I closed my eyes and tried to let the chanting guide me I could just about keep up with the dance to the utter delight and amusement of the other women.

In the meantime the men were killing the goats and cows. It was a bloody spectacle, and I will spare the reader the gory details. Enough to mention that they would first try to knock the beast unconscious by a stick hit on the forehead and then bleed it by a small neck incision. Soon, over fourteen carcasses would be lying in concentric semi-circles on green branches. The goats were being killed without much ado; the bulls on the other hand were first forced on their knees and then, when they were down and held fast, one of the dancing women would come over and dance faster and faster around the bull. Her head would jerk uncontrollably, her arms would fly about wildely and her body would tremble in trance as she approached the bull to place an item of her clothing or jewellery on its horns or neck. Usually by that point her frenzy would be so great, shouts so vociferous and movements so chaotic that she would have to be caught and held fast by her companions. Two of the women collapsed entirely, white foam dripping from their mouths, their eyeballs rolled up and their bodies twitching convulsedly in the dirt. I admit freely I was a little scared.

This went on for over an hour, with over twelve bulls being sacrificed, and I still did not understand the reasons behind it. I tried to enquire but in vain. All I could say in Dassanech language was ‘a cow’ – a word highly relevant to the occasion but unfortunately not bringing in any additional information. All they could do was nod as I pointed, grinned and enunciated. Yes, these indeed are cows. I felt like an idiot.

I decided to go back to the village and ask if Abdrizzak knows anything about the reasons behind this hecatomb. He did indeed, or so he claimed. Apparently, this was an offering in hope of a successful raid; or rather a joint celebration cleansing the family from committed past crimes and ensuring its raiding fortune. I do wonder. If there is an anthropologist reading I would very much appreciate your thoughts on what was that that I have seen. Unfortunately, I cannot provide any pictures for I have rushed out of my tent entirely unprepared leaving my camera behind in a rare act of utter idiocy.

Despite such attractions at the end of third day I was desperate to leave Soricho and cross the Lake. Abdoud and Abdrizzak left on their truck but before they did they had ensured me that there would be a boat going the next day at dawn and all I need to do is to talk to the owner in the morning to discuss the price of passage. I had bad feelings about it, but to my surprise the boat was there and ready to leave at daybreak the next day. The haggling I have described here (47.); for now it suffices to say that finally, after two and a half days of forced sojourn in the middle of nowhere, I was led to the shores of the lake to embark on the boat that, against all odds and warnings of the naysayers, would take me across the treacherous waters of Lake Turkana.

I did not expect the boat to be QEII or the passage to be smooth as punting on the Cam but I was quite unprepared for what followed. As we got to the boat it turned out that this decrepit nutshell with a tiny engine is already packed to the rim (literally) with what – I was informed reliably – was 6,600 dried and salted fish, stacked beautifully in two piles. I was urged to clamber onto the fish and make myself comfortable. Three other men and the driver were seated on the other pile, I had to share mine with no one but one little, wet and indignant goat. I made myself as comfortable as it was humanly possible while lying on dried fish and tried not to think about it.

It is now clear why some people had warned me about the Lake. When we set off its face was smooth and pristine. But as the morning wind picked up and we ventured onto the open waters the waves grew to seriously threatening heights. I am not feint hearted, and I do love water, but – as the waves rolled over our little boat, their splashes drenching absolutely everything onboard – I must admit I felt rather uncomfortable, haphazardly sliding to and fro on the now remoistened, slippery and very stinky fish. I was not scared of drowning but the thought of the many crocs inhabiting the Lake made me hold on to the fish rather tightly. It was a very long four hours.

It was a very long four hours but we made it to the other shore safely. I was there greeted by the chief of Loralang, treated royally, and put on a transport to Lodwar, from where I could, inshallah, get a transport to Sudan. It took me a week, but I have managed to traverse the deserts from Marsabit, cross the famed Lake Turkana and make it to the Sudanese boarder safe and sound, even if a little smelly.

Northern Exposure IVa - Lake Turkana at Last

It’s time to lead myself and my readers out the desert. But not before I have recounted the journey to, and sojourn at, Soricho, a little village on the eastern shore of Lake Turkana. Abdrizak, Hakim’s friend and envoy, secured me a place on a truck that was headed there the very same afternoon. That was a real stroke of luck as transports go there once a week on average. So I did not complain when I was herded with some thirty other passengers onto the open back of a massive truck and seated on the sacks of sugar and maize flour. From that position on the bottom of the load I would have not been able to see anything so as soon as we took off I climbed onto the metal grid frame that spun over the back. Some of the men also chose that position, which was neither the most comfortable nor safe one (try half perching-half hanging on a cross-section of metal bars some four meters from the ground while the truck is being tossed and shaken on potholes and bumps for three hours) but offered a chance of delightful breeze and great views.

My fellow passengers spoke little English but even so tried to point out interesting landscape features and animals to me. The road led through stunning, if inhospitable, terrain. After the initial desert flatland, the truck started climbing through grey dunes and stony hills, only to reach another flat plateau, this time covered in dry grasses and shrubs. There were mountains in the distance. As for animals, we did not see many, but there were camel and goat herds, ostriches, gazelles, hyenas and my favourite, tiny dikidiki antelopes, which always come in pairs and are reputed to be so attached to their life-long mate that if one of them dies the other withers away in the matter of days. Very romantic.

When it got dark, we fell silent and observed the many white hares (actually, I don’t think they were white at all but they looked white in our blinding long head-lights) which would spring out from the sides of the road and run madly alongside the truck for a while. The darkness was all-engulfing, save the triangle of light in front which, as we turned directions, would hit and bring out to view single trees and lone-standing rocks on our path – the effect was magical, as if these things were being instantly created out of the void. I was mesmerized and only after a while realised that the men around me all started chanting unisono; then one of the men would pick up the lead and melodically recite, what I now know was, the story of a Dassanech warrior’s life: the names of his camels, the women he loved, the enemies he vanquished and the wells he visited. His voice would rise above the others boisterously for a while but then fall again into the chorus and another man would pick up the song. It all felt unreal: the men chanted, the lorry rolled, the hares fled and I tried not let all this hypnotise me into life-threatening slumber. As I felt I cannot resist anymore, I climbed down onto the cosy maize sacks, made myself a lair in a nook, and let the song of the warriors lull me to sleep.

We arrived in Iloret well before sunrise. Abdrizak, who accompanied me on the lorry, arranged for us to stay in one of the bomas so that we could still get some sleep. He and Abdoud, the brother of the lorry driver, slept on a mattress outside, and I decided to pitch my tent among the huts and stacks of dried fish. The next morning we spent doing what I like best, i.e. waiting for seemingly nothing. Abdrizak informed me that to get the boat we have to go some 8kms north of Iloret, to Soricho, but as the truck was not ready (it was unloading supplies) we needed to wait. I was anxious to get going but it was impossible to convince my guide that maybe we should just walk the distance. After all, the heat was stifling and the truck would be ready any minute now. Three hours later we finally set off.

Soricho was very much like Horr in terms of architecture and topography. It was sprawled out north There were larger and smaller igloo-like huts, some of them behind kraals, others just scattered on the main tract that run through the village. There were a few mud houses, with either thatched or corrugated iron roofs as well as one stone structure that apparently used to be a church once upon a time. There was a shop and even a restaurant but you would never know them from other houses and it took me a while to discover their presence. The Dassanech people among whom I have found myself were mostly dressed traditionally, the women with bare breasts and layers upon layers of beads. My arrival caused a major stir and commotion; a faithful throng of women and children followed me wherever I went during my stay there but kept at bay when I was seated at the boma of Mama Habiba, who was my hostess and obviously a rich and influential member of the community. She knew Abdrizak and extended the warmest of welcomes to me as his friend. She sheltered and fed me, as well as helped to organise onward transport – and refused my money when I tried to pay at the end.

Unfortunately, it turned out that there was a boat going the very same day but it had already left. It would take to long to describe the whole process of securing the transport. It suffices to say I would have never done it without Abdrizak who, while infuriating me with his slowness and indecisiveness, managed in the end to find out if there is a boat going. He took time and would never give me answers I craved; but he understood the Dassanech much better and realised that what they said was rarely precise or very certain. So while I was jumping at every mention of boats and rushed to secure the passage with the individual that promised it, Abdrizak just cautioned me to wait patiently until one of the many boats that might be coming materialises.

As I might have mentioned waiting is not something I do very well. There were times during the two day wait that I was at my wits’ end. I could venture far out of the village because at any given time one of those phantom boats might have been coming. Besides, during the day it was just far too hot to even think of moving and when I tried to move about Abdrizak would nervously bid me not to wander aimlessly on account of the scorpions and snakes. So for most of the day I would just lie on the mattress that Mama Habiba thoughtfully put in one her mud-huts for me (I slept in my tent at night), try to read or write but end up snoozing restlessly instead. I talked to the members of Mama Habiba’s house-hold and went to swim in the Lake. The latter sounds like could have been a great past-time but unfortunately the lake was quite far from the village and very shallow for a long time and venturing very far into the middle to find properly deep place was not advisable on account of the crocodiles. So after the initial novelty splashing in the Lake Turkana I was not very tempted to try often. Despite lovely company of Abdrizak and Abdoud and the warmth of Mama Habiba I did feel that this certainly was the furthest (in all possible senses: cultural, logistical, psychological and symbolical) away from home that I have ever been. I was the one lone mzungu amid the arid vastness.

Northern Exposure III: North Horr a.k.a the North Hole

To pick up the Northern Trail where we left it by the broken truck. As I have already mentioned, for the night, I made myself a cosy nook among the logs and planks which made for the lorry’s cargo. It offered a fantastic view of the night sky while protecting me from the chilling wind but it was bloody uncomfortable with all those hard wooden edges. I didn’t have to endure it for long though, as at around 7am the next day our driver came back on another lorry – he found help in the village and they came to our assistance. We unloaded some of the cargo, put it on the other lorry and with the added manpower managed to push our vehicle out of the ditch. At first I was trying to record the whole operation but they have obviously never heard of the journalistic principle of non-involvement here for now I have a lovely footage of men pushing the truck and yelling at me for not helping.

During the day Chalabi desert looked even more like a desert should, that is flat, barren, deserted, vast and blazingly white. It’s important to make these things clear, for I remember my disappointment at seeing the Kalahari Desert in Botswana for the first time a few years back. It featured shrubs, trees, grass and huts – nothing a REAL desert should have. This one kept these things respectably at the fringes, which we reached within the next hour.

We arrived in North Horr where I knew I should look for Abdrizak who on Hakim’s bidding was to take care of me and put me on the next truck. Abdrizak was there alright, and so was a ‘room’, i.e. a mud hut where I was to rest. It was still before noon and the next truck would not go until 4pm. As I heard there is a German mission in town I decided to go and speak some Deutsch. I had a quick splash in half a bucket of water that was delivered to my ‘door’, i.e. cloth curtain and a refreshing, properly cold Coke and went out in search of Padre.

The town, for I guess North Horr, qualifies to be called a town, was striking. I guess I imagined an even poorer version of Gulu with a few dusty streets of brick houses baking in the equatorial sun. The baking was correct but other than that North Horr defied expectation. It is even more forlorn, undeveloped and scorched that I had imagined. There is just a couple of brick houses right at the main ‘square’, other than buildings of the mission. The rest of the town is just a denser concentration of seemingly randomly placed circular mud-huts and even more randomly placed rectangular privies. The mud huts in the South are quite tall and have walls; these are more dome shaped lean-tos, or if you prefer igloos that have been hit on the top and squashed a bit. They look very squalid and temporary, with frames made of dry twigs and covered with cardboard and USAID food-sack cloth or skins. In Uganda, and southern Kenya, each hut has a few trees around it, a vegetable garden or a pen for the animals’ the outside is swept clean of dust and forms a fairly spacious ‘living room’. Not so in North Horr. The only tree is acacia and these are few and far between, giving little shade. The huts sit desolately in the open sun, close to each other and the loos, the ground is covered with sticks, animal bones and thorns and there is not a planted shrub to be seen. It’s not even very dusty – the heat is so oppressive that even the dust refuses to fly up. Just one glance at North Horr gives you an idea how harsh life in the North must be.

In stark contrast, the mission and its buildings – school, church, carpentry and priests’ quarters – were all built solidly, laid out sensibly and kept immaculate. The church looked really out of place with its modernistic design but was in fact very pleasant to behold and visit – not least because of the divine coolness inside and intriguing Ethiopian Coptic-like paintings on dried skins. Father Hubert welcomed me very cordially, offered chilling cold juice but was not very talkative and obviously his mind was on something else. I got little information out of him but I did get an invitation to come and lunch with them in a few hours. At the mention of pasta, I did not hesitate.

I went back to the hotel where I met Nikos, a half-English/half-Ethiopian tour guide. He was a much better source of local and transport info than the padre, and he promised to arrange a transport on the other side of Lake Turkana should I get stuck. He was sceptical about the chances of getting a boat in Iloret but wished me luck and went off to tend to his mini-group of elderly Belgians on a ‘hard-core outback’ tour. I went to see the local mosque, which, despite Padre’s talk of slowly siphoning in Saudi money, looked quite poor and desolate. The sight of a well outside it brought to mind the half-forgotten Biblical stories: Rebecca, Rachel – back in the day life seemed to have revolved around wells. This one was quite empty but I decided to sit by it and see who I meet. It didn’t take long and soon I was surrounded by ten or so local men who were very chatty and friendly but also very insistent, on learning that I am Catholic, that I should renounce my heathen religion and convert to Islam pronto. Not before my lunch at the sacristy, I would have joked, but I somehow did not have the feeling my joke would be appreciated. I backtracked politely.

After a delightfully European lunch I went back to the hotel for a siesta. My room was pleasantly cool and I dreamt of nothing else but a nap. That was not to be however. As I might have mentioned somewhere else, the concept of privacy is somewhat lost on Africans. Mud huts rarely have doors and even if they do knocking is optional. Technically, one is supposed to say ‘hodi!’ and wait for a reply of ‘karibu’ before one enters: I am yet to see that practiced. In any case, when I was having my shower, changing and now trying to sleep I had a constant stream of children and women coming in, standing in the doorway and staring. I would greet them and then try to ignore them politely. Usually, it worked and after a few minutes they would get bored and leave. Not so with Halima. She came in and sat on the other bed in silence. She did not even smile shyly as the other girls did. She just sat there. I was quite perplexed. And as Europeans do I attempted to cover the uncertainty with talking. She replied to all my questions politely but asked few of her own. I ended up upholding the conversation I did not want to have in the first place. I told her I was very tired. She said I should definitely try to get some sleep. She did not move. I closed my eyes but opened them after a longish while realising that she will sit there and look at me anyway. It was a long couple of hours; but I do know she was just being a good-hostess (she was a daughter of the hotel owner) making sure her guest is not left alone. Africans just don’t do ‘alone’; alone you’d just not survive in North Horr and its hostile environs. I appreciated her effort. Yet, she must have also liked me in her own way, for when I was boarding the truck she run out of the hotel and pressed something into my hand. As I opened my palm I saw it was a lovely string of beads that she had been wearing. I only had time to smile and wave goodbye in return, as the truck disappeared around the bend making for an even wilder North.

Northern Exposure II: I am waiting

(Continued the next morning, after a few hours sleep on the planks stored on top of the lorry – bloody uncomfortable)

It seems that our driver’s mission was successful and he had found help in the next village called Karacha. It was only 8kms away and he came back on another lorry which they are now loading with our cargo in hope of making our lorry light enough to be pulled out of the hole it’s stuck in. With survival chances thus improved I can peacefully proceed to recount the rest of the story.

Where were we? Ah, yes. I left the company of Asaaska and our friends early on Monday to make my way to the local metropolis of Marsabit. I arrived there just after midday and was hopeful I will be able to catch a lorry to Loyangalani , on the lake shore, the very same day. I inquired at the petrol station and after some going to and fro I was led to a ‘stage’ where they usually leave from. I was informed that there should be one going from the Caltex garage that day at 4pm. I was very happy. Left my luggage at the hotel, went to do some shopping and internet browsing (yes there is an internet café there) and had a lovely lunch, courtesy Joseph, a fellow passenger on one of the ‘means’ (of transport) that brought me to Marsabit and decided to be my cicerone for the day.

When I went back to the garage at 4pm it turned out that the lorry that is supposed to go to Loyangalani belongs to Hakim (and so does the garage). Now Hakim is quite a someone in the area. He is a businessman and contractor, the richest man in town and an influential personality. He owns many trucks and tankers and has an impressive network of men all over the county. I had met him at Asaaska’s place – he is a friend of the family – and we chatted a little about the chances of meeting an aardvark. It was obvious that if Hakim could not help me get to the Lake, no one could. I was invited to wait for the lorry with Hakim and his men.

We sat outside, the men chewed khat and we chatted for a while. Most importantly, it turns out it is possible, although very hard, to see aardvarks in the area. In Rendille they are called Awahtoto - gravediggers. It is a rare thing to see one and the Rendille believe meeting one means that you are going to become a very rich man. The Somburu, on the other hand, believe meeting one is a very bad omen and will turn around and go back from whence they came if they encounter on their path. In any case, it does not happen very often and an old man, Godana, who seemed to be most knowledgeable on the subject had only seen twice in his life. But he promised that when I come back for Asaaska’s wedding we will go and try to track them in the bush. Got it scheduled for August.

Other than that they all thought me insane to try to proceed to Sudan through Lake Turkana but were divided in their opinion on the feasibility of the plan. None of them had heard of the boats in Loyangalani. We waited till six when Hakim came back with the news that unfortunately the truck that was supposed to go wouldn’t after all. Maybe the next day. We talked more about the plan. Hakim was sceptical and they kept repeating it would save me time and money to go back to Nairobi. But I think my enthusiasm for adventure and seeing new places was contagious for after a while they started devising alternatives to my plan. They reckoned it might be better to head even further North, right up to the Ethiopian boarder, to a very remote town of XX. This town is dependent on supplies from the other side of the Lake, which is also much closer at that point. It is harder to get to than Loyangalani but easier to leave by boat. We decided to try that route.

Hakim started making phone calls. It took a long time but I guess by now I am used to sitting and waiting. I did not want to push Hakim but I was desperate at that point to have some kind of plan or idea what I should do next. Maybe I should go back to Nairobi after all. Hakim just kept repeating: “just wait”. So I did and after a few hours, I don’t really know how, I found myself with the entire route to Kolakol arranged by Hakim. I would join one of his friends lorries to North Horr the next day, arrive there at 3am, will be put in a hotel and wait for Hakim’s lorry which leaves the next day at noon, in Illaret I am to call Hakim and he will put me in touch with a boat person. I will not pay for the lorries but I will have to pay a little something for the boat. On the other side there should also be a transport to Lodwar. And now I should go and sleep.

I found myself in a car with Shalom, Asaaska’s sister, who unexpectedly appeared there too. She said she will put me in her friend’s hotel where she will also be staying. We will share a bed. We will eat together in the morning and I will not go to buy a soda – a hotel guard can do it. Thus dis-empowered by the overbearing, limitless and touching Kenyan hospitality and generosity I laid myself to sleep trusting that with a little help of my new friends I can make the crazy Sudan plan work after all.

The next day, I spent going between town and Hakim’s garage and waiting, waiting, waiting. Nothing is certain when it comes to transport in Africa. Truck may come, may not, might leave, might not, it could be at this hour or another, it might take me or not… I am told that the inoffensive term mzungu, now meaning ‘white person’ comes from a verb ‘to wander, to move about’ and captures the impressions the Africans had of the restless first explorers. I cannot speak for all Europeans but I for one certainly do not have the African capacity for patient waiting and I was at my wits end that day, pacing to and fro, picking up a book, chatting, climbing on Hakim’s bulldozers, eating without appetite and trying desperately not to ask after lorries all the time. If it wasn’t for Hakim’s reassuring grumbles I would have fled to Nairobi on the first southbound truck in shame. But if I had I would have never found myself on this broken down truck, in the middle of the desert and that certainly would have been a crying shame no matter what happens next.

Northern Exposure I - Stranded

And I was worried that nothing exciting or adventurous will ever happen again now that I am back in civilised Kenya. Fine, dancing at night with tribeswomen and being named again, attending a Rendille wedding, seeing bush animals and listening to hyenas at night were all interesting but not anything you could call properly exciting.

Now this, i.e. sitting (we think) exactly in the middle of the biggest desert in East Africa at 3.30am with the truck broken down, and no hope of assistance for the next two days (that’s when we know another truck is due) and typing on my laptop certainly exciting (of course if you manage to read these words, this means I made it to safety which takes the excitement away for you somewhat; but there is always a chance that my laptop had been found on my dead body, which adds to the excitement again). Not scary yet, as the night air is nice and cool and I know that I’ve got enough water to last me and my 8 companions for the next 24hours. If we are frugal, that is.

The driver and another man went forward in hope they can reach the next village before daybreak. Chances are, it is no further than some 4 hours walk. But as no one has any idea where exactly in the Chalabi desert we are, this can prove to be a futile exercise.

I recall Kapuscinski had exactly that kind of experience in Mali. His truck had also broken down and he and the driver were stranded in the middle of Sahara, with little chance of assistance and even less water. Their circumstances were even direr – this is the middle of the civilised world by comparison. If we are desperate we can just walk back along our own track and reach Marsabit (let me see, 4 hours drive times average speed of 25, makes 100km) in three days, andthink) but still I believe I can classify that as exciting.

To fill the waiting hours I can either lay back and admire the starry sky and the fairly frequent meteors or I can keep on typing the backlog from the previous couple of weeks. I guess I will do the latter for sitting on the scorched desert earth (yes, exactly like on the cover of Meredith’s Africa book) and illuminating the darkness with my Windows 7 is delightfully surreal.

It might be helpful to enlighten the reader as to the circumstances that brought about my current plight. After all, why am I in the North and going even Northier? After all, on Thursday, that is five days ago, I was still in Uganda. Yet, I decided to take a night bus back to Nairobi to join Asaaska (who is a friend of Kate and Jedrek’s I met a month ago) on her trip to the North where she was to attend her friend’s wedding. Asaaska is a Rendille, a small Northern tribe, and hails from a remote settlement of Kor, some 400km north of Nairobi. The wedding, held in the nearby village of Merille, promised to be very traditional and colourful so when Asaaska kindly invited me, I did not hesitate.

After 15 hour bus ride I reached Nairobi; only two hours later than I had promised Asaaska to join them but as we were scheduled to leave at 8am “Kenya time”, I did not worry when I arrived there at 10am. We left theirs at 11.30. I had enough time to refresh myself and prepare for another, what turned out to be, 13 hour journey. I don’t quite know what took so long, but I guess that’s always the case when you travel in groups, stopping, changing vehicles, waiting for others. That’s why I avoid it as the plague. But sometimes it cannot be helped and, in any case, my company was very pleasant. We stopped for late lunch in Nanyuki, which according to my hosts sports the best nyama choma in the whole of Kenya. Indeed, it was rather palatable. Especially the small pieces of juicy fat, fried in such a way to give them very crispy outside and melting soft inside. I’m serious, couldn’t stop stuffing myself with them to the delight of the locals.

Other than driving past Mt. Kenya, which brought back a flood of memories from the time (yes, now over 12 years ago!) when I climbed it with my mum (unassisted by either guides or porters, on Chogoria-Naro Moru route, with no preparation, in just 4 days – yes, my mum is crazy), the drive was uneventful. We arrived in Merille at midnight. The wedding, which took place the next day and the lovely stay at Asaaska’s village of Kor on Sunday I will describe in a separate post as it certainly merits one of them or two (for now you can read my article on the subject in Standpoint magazine). But now it’s time to press further north.

A map of Kenya would be helpful at that point, so please help yourselves or use this one. The village I was in is off the main Nairobi-Ethiopia road, also known as Transcontinental East African Highway. Sounds awfully proud but the tarmac ends in Merille and, if anything, it’s Transcontinental Dirt Path after that all the way to Ethiopian boarder. In Marsabit, some 60kms north of Merille, two other roads branch out going west towards Lake Turkana. I am on one of them right now, the one going to North Horr.

(Slight digression: it all got a level spookier now with all my companions snoring in deep slumber around the truck and weird insects flying by my head with deafening beat of wings every now and again; luckily, it’s very dark so I cannot see just how weird they are. I guess they are attracted to the light of the screen – I prefer not to think what other things might be too. I resolved to think of cute desert Fennec Foxes if I start to panic.)

Now, to go back to our story, the plan was to go to South Sudan. The most sensible option, in fact one that most of my local interlocutors thought the only possible, was to backtrack to Nairobi and take a bus or plane from there. But if you look at your map you will see how much of the gained latitude you lose by doing so. Moreover, avoiding Nairobi should be travelers’ first priority. It would have been ideal to just cut across from Merille towards the west and then head further north but as it turns out there are simply no east-west roads in that part of Kenya – probably because there is a mountain range in between. My only other option was to go further north towards Ethiopia, reach Lake Turkana and find a way to cross to its western shore. Once there it should be fairly easy to reach the main Sudan road again.

Now judging from the map it looked like a jolly good plan indeed. The devil, as usual, is in the details. The map does not tell you just how wild and sparsely populated the North is. After Logologo, the next village north of Merille, there is no more public transport. All traveling is done in private 4x4 or trucks delivering goods. These are not frequent and one can find oneself waiting for a few days for a chance to hitch (a paid) ride. The roads are dismal and covering 200 kms can take anything from 6 to 12 hours. To be on the safe side I was advised to reckon with 3 days to travel the 300 kms (in 2-3 stages) to Loyangalani on the Lake Turkana shore.

And once there, I was told, my chances of getting across are slim. Lake Turkana is no Bodensee – people do not cruise it for pleasure and have no need to do it for business. Tourists are practically unheard of and they certainly never cross. There is just a handful of motorboats belonging to Kenya Wildlife Services and other than that there are the dugout canoes of the fishermen. Crossing the lake in the former will cost me a fortune if can be arranged at all, and in the latter is not only a two day paddle but also a certain death by the waves and crocs. I have to say this is not how I imagined it. But I was desperate to avoid the stinking mess that is Nairobi and give it a try.

(It’s getting quite cold so I think I will pause and make my way back to the truck in search of warm clothes and a sheltered spot. TBC)

Easy Rider II

For all those that did not read the previous post a quick re-cap: night has fallen over Soroti in Eastern Uganda and I am about to make off into the darkness alone, on a borrowed motorbike, the jump-start mechanism of which I am unable to operate, in order to cover a distance of 130kms, on an unknown African road to an unknown destination, in pursuit of a female presidential candidate that promised to give me an interview the very same night; all the while increasing the distance that separates me from my luggage, which – for all I knew – was stolen that very morning by the Swiss who were now making their get-away towards the Kenyan boarder with all my belongings, among others, all my warm clothing and my fluffy racoon.

That is the background.

And where do I start with the journey itself? It was horrid. It was cold. It was lonely. It was scary up to a point of despair. But when it was over, and I will allow myself to jump ahead just this once, it was a feat and exploit worth committing to those pages.

During the first few miles I was too busy trying to get to grips with the bike to have the time to worry about my circumstances or what lied ahead. The gears worked the other way round to what I was used to so I kept switching down when accelerating, sending the bike to spasms that more than once nearly ended in my flying over the handlebars. Moreover, I had no idea where the flicker was and kept honking whenever I tried to flick. But then in Africa that amounts to more or less the same, i.e. they are both equally valid and polite ways of making other road users aware of my presence. Not that there were many of them but the odd sidewalk walker or other bike did appear every now and again and I was careful not to add to my problems by hitting them. Finally, it was pitch-dark and my bike was one of those old-type ones whose headlight only works when the throttle is open. This meant that when I did not accelerate the light would go off, leaving me blind as a bat without echolocation. Now, all the villages on the Soroti-Lira road have speed bumps and quite steep ones at that. That meant that I had to drastically decelerate before approach and, just in the crucial moment before the speed bump, as I was preparing to break in order to avoid sending the handlebars straight into my teeth, I was entirely devoid of light and therefore of any idea where the speed bumps is and where I am steering. At least that kept me entertained.

Once I have ridden enough to feel confident with the bike itself, I could start worrying about the petrol. Out of completely unreasonable stinginess I have only poured 5 litres into the tank. I had a vague recollection what my bike at home burns for ‘a hundred’ – about 5 litres. But then I could not at all recall if that was a hundred miles or kilometres! And that’s a difference when the distance I am supposed to cover is 130km. Damned be the confusing British non-metric system! I swore under my breath and wondered if that was how the NASA guys who confused their pounds with kilograms sending a space probe crashing down felt.

Now you might be wondering why not just fuel up on the way. Indeed, this thought also crossed my mind. But I was loath to do it for two reasons. Firstly, I was desperate to make good progress and cover the distance as quickly as possible to meet my interview deadline. Stopping would mean avoidable delays – there were no ‘real’ petrol stations and I would have to ask for bottled petrol in the huts – and with every village I passed I was telling myself that it would probably be fine to fuel up at the next one.

In reality there was another reason why I kept putting the fuelling up off. It was much more powerful – it was so powerful to overcome my anxiety about running out of petrol as well as my ever-growing wish to stop to warm up my aching and cold muscles. That reason was fear.

It is hard to describe just how dark a moonless African night is. And, of course, I had been, walked and slept in dark places, where not even a flicker, not even a haze of far-away human abode with electric light could be seen. But I had never driven on a pitch dark road like that on my own, where the only source of light is the faint, narrow beam of my bike. This little, unstable patch of light is my only destination, the only guide – as a matter of fact it is the only reality because everything else is invisible in the dark and it is only that light that creates objects in front of me. I open up the darkness with my feeble light, not knowing what obstacles or dangers it shall reveal; and as soon as I’ve had a chance to catch a glimpse of the obscure shapes, the darkness is quick to close behind me; leaving me feeling exposed, visible, naked in the very light that allows me to move forward. I tried to make myself small and inconspicuous by lying low on the bike but I knew the treacherous light and the roar of the engine gave away my presence for miles around.

One might think that in these circumstances approaching the rare orange glow of fires and torches of the villages would bring comfort and be a welcome change. I thought so too in the first village I approached. I wanted to get the petrol and ask for directions (not that it was necessary – there was but one paved road). But as I slowed down and started rolling towards a group of men sitting by the fire, a sudden inexplicable fear ceased me. They did not seem to have hostile intentions, they were obviously just very curious. But then how could I be sure? If they did, what would stop them from taking my bike, my money? I felt that my only safety is in staying on that bike; as long as I’m on it and the engine is running I’ll be alright. So I pushed on past the villages, trying not to look white, lost or female, more or less in that order.

Keeping the motor running was vital not only for the reasons of safety. As I have already mentioned I had no idea how to kick-start the bike. The two times I had to start it I had someone to do it for me. And given my fear-induced reluctance to engage with any human beings met on the way, I knew I would be stuck should I let the engine choke. Alas, that I did. I had to stop to rearrange myself on the bike and was not quick enough with the revving. Oh, the unbearable silence that engulfed me! I was close to tears. With the leg still aching from the burn I sustained during my first attempts I gave the silly thing a mighty, angry kick. And lo and behold! it started from the first! I admit that might have been because the engine was warmer. But given that from that day on I never had a problem with kick starting a bike I will only say that necesitas est mater studiorum indeed.

If all these were should not be reasons enough to qualify this journey as a modern Odyssey, I have to give account of last final foe that I had to battle: the biting cold. Cold, hunger and weariness are not conditions whose magnitude and debilitating effect is easy convey to those who are warm, sated or rested. I will try nevertheless. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and trousers which left my calves bare and exposed to the constant rush of chill air. After an hour’s drive through the slightly damp, cold night I was trembling so badly I could hardly hold on to the handlebar. I had a shawl which I tried in vain to spread in front of me as a wind-screen – in vain, as it constantly flew up onto my face blocking my view. In order to shield from the wind then, I tried to lie flat on the petrol tank, closer to the delightfully warm engine. That was by far the warmest position but a highly dangerous one as I could not keep my balance very well that way. The added advantage of this position was that it minimised the number of huge, fluffy moths that would fly into my face and eyes at regular intervals. They were more a nuisance than a danger but I the soft splat with which they would bounce of my face was highly disturbing, not to say disgusting. Shivering from the cold and the occasional fluffy touch I rolled on.

Luckily, the road to Lira is exquisite. Smooth, fairly straight and well marked. I had no fear of getting lost but I did worry that I would never get to Lira in time to get my interview. The kilometres dragged slowly despite my best efforts. Throughout my drive I was in touch with a young journalist from Betti’s entourage who organised the interview for me. As I was calling hour after hour to tell him with embarrassment that I would be yet another hour late, he kept reassuring me that I am not too late for the interview. He also very kindly offered to find me accommodation in Lira.

It took me two and a half hours to drive so I rolled into Lira just before midnight. Naturally, it was too late for any interviews. I met Dean in town and we drove together to our hotel. I don’t know what I expected but I certainly did not expect a place that basic and that dirty. Moreover, we had to share a room with Dean as no other rooms were free; there was also no running water. I would have cried if my mind were not occupied by a comic twist – both my cicerone Dean and the hotel manager insisted I roll the motorbike into my room as no other place is safe. I open my eyes wide at the suggestion of rolling my bike through the hotel’s lounge and into the room but as they seemed to be serious that I did – it did not fit through the door but I left it just outside our room, blocking nearly the entire corridor.

Only then I could sit down and think. Or rather just sit down. I was so exhausted, overwhelmed, hungry, confused and aching that I could not gather a thought. I could only blankly stare. I noticed that the scalding on my leg turned into a disgusting, puffy blister the size of a hockey puck. Only very slowly Dean joyful chattering got to me and I realised he is suggesting late dinner. We went out to town for some nyama choma. He and another journalist were so talkative and at the same time impressed by my feat and so admiring that nolens volens I started cheering up.

It started dawning on me that my adventure is over and that I have made it. I was aching but safe, tired but within a walking distance of a bed, no longer hungry and with an interview re-scheduled for first thing the next morning. I did not have my luggage, and I still had to go back but that was something I would worry about the next day. I did what I set out to do, despite no minor setbacks. I was proud, happy and tired. I slept like a rock.

Easy Rider - Part I

Fun as chasing the President was it was now time to focus on the Opposition. I arrived back in Kampala and headed straight to the office of the invaluable Kizito Serumaga, my local source of inspiration and information. A quick look into the campaign calendar revealed that it would be most productive for me to head east, towards Mbale, as there I would have a chance to catch up with one of, or all, the three presidential candidates campaigning in the area: Mr. Jaberi Bidandi Ssali in Mbale, Mr. Kiza Besigye near and Ms. Betti Kamya in Lira.

There was no point in hanging around in Kampala so I set off the very same day. The sun was already below the horizon as we reached Mbale but its last rays gave enough light to allow me to make out the mysterious and imposing shape of Mt. Elgon (14,000 ft.) towering over the town in a blue haze. I was very pleasantly surprised with Mbale, which I had expected to be a slightly bigger version of the chaotic and ramshackle Gulu. Instead, I found wide paved streets sensibly laid out and flanked by a number of old houses with highly intricate tympana over the now run down porches. They gave a place a somewhat timeless colonial feel and it was easy to imagine how fine the place must have looked like those 60 years ago when those houses – according to decorative cartouche frames still visible on some of them – were first erected. Rows of shade-giving trees, uncharacteristically for Ugandan cities dividing the main avenues into two separate lanes, only added to the charm and appeal of the place.

I checked into the hotel recommended by Lonely Planet and made a few phone calls. I could not get through to anyone from Bidandi Ssali’s press crew (who were supposed to be in town preparing for the next day’s rally) but managed to arrange an interview with Beti Kamya for the next day in Lira. It was already pitch dark but I decided to go to the market and get some lovely smelling food from the stalls I was passing on my way into town. In the evening, the sides of the streets near the main roundabout change into a lively, seemingly interminable kitchen of dozens of stalls selling fried meats of all kinds, chapattis (pancakes), chips and other unnamed delicacies. I got my chicken and fries and looked for a place to sit and eat. Despite the late hour the streets were abuzz with activity and there was not as much as a meter of a curb free from hawkers or passer-bys. My chicken was getting colder and I was getting increasingly hungrier, so when a group of local men beckoned me to sit by their table outside a run down building that must have been a bar, I did not hesitate much. As I describe here (no. 27), they were quite drunk but most welcoming, generous and talkative.

The next morning was spent in an entirely unproductive attempt to contact the Bandini-Ssali’s entourage. I talked to people on the streets and bothered the very helpful but entirely ineffectual local police (a colourful experience allowing me to witness a stream of petitioners coming to give account of their woes and grievances to the patient, yet disinterested policemen). I even managed to hunt down a local journalist who was enjoying his no doubt well-earned Sunday beer and drag him back to his office so that he can give me some numbers to ring. All in vain, and I was faced with a dilemma if I should stay for the evening rally or proceed to Lira for the arranged interview. Having no guarantee that I would be able to meet Bidandi Ssali in the evening, and wanting to meet the only female presidential candidate, I chose the latter option.

As it was still early, no later than lunchtime, I had more than enough time to catch a matatu to Lira (300km) or at least one to Soroti (140km). I had already checked out of my hotel but left the luggage in the storage room; all that was left to do was to pick it up and go to matatu stop. But that smooth plan of mine did not take into account one important factor.

My luggage was missing! I returned to the hotel only to find that my rucksack was taken from the storage room. By the Swiss! That was unheard of: I drag the bloody thing untouched through slums and wilderness of Africa only to loose it to the Swiss! Naturally, I did not suspect them of malicious intentions. I met this group of innocent students in the morning and they told me they were waiting for a transport to take them to Mt Elgon for a week long hike. They must have put my bag onto their van by accident as our rucksacks were stored next to each other in the store-room. But the lack of evil design did not change the fact my bag was gone, either for good or for at least a week!

The situation was dire but not hopeless. I carry all my valuable belongings, like passport, credit cards, cameras and laptop with me at all times, so at least these I still had. But there is no denying that chargers, clothes, tent and toiletries also can come in handy and now I knew I had to do without them for God knows how long.

I was faced with a serious dilemma: to stay or follow the Swiss looking for my luggage, or to proceed to Lira for my interview luggage-less. With a heavy heart at the thought of never seeing my little fluffy toy racoon again, I chose the latter option. I charged Alex, the underage manager of the hotel, to find my luggage before my return in a few days, fully expecting never to recover my lost property.

My delay further complicated matters, as there were no more direct matatus to Lira when I finally got to the station. Undaunted, I took the matatu to Soroti. It took ages to fill up and when it did it was so full I could hardly breathe. Given the string of failures that day, I was not entirely surprised when our overcrowded matatu got an incapacitating puncture a couple of miles outside Soroti. We were told to get out and walk to town.

It’s funny how human mind works. This yet another obstacle should have probably driven me round the bend but I was not least affected by it. I knew I should be angry, disappointed, resigned and anxious but I was as if outside my emotional system. It was as if it was only natural that things go wrong that day and the only thing I can do is to ignore it all and carry on. I needed no special strength of will or stamina to push forward – my mind just knew that if it pauses to reflect and listen to my feelings we will be doomed to despair. So it just switched off so that I could calmly get on with getting to my destination.

I walked for half an hour to the town ‘centre’ only to find out that there are no more matatus to Lira that day. Moreover, as it was already getting dark, it was also not likely that there would be any private transport going. Everyone I asked advised me to stay the night and try the next day. There would be plenty of options to get to Lira the next day. But that was just not good enough; I just started walking towards the Lira-end of town to hitch-hike. I was desperate.

As a matter of fact, I was so desperate that I did not hesitate when a car carrying four young local guys pulled up and offered me a lift, as well as a bottle of vodka. They were off to a party but in such a jolly mood that, upon hearing of my predicament, decided to drive me to Lira and then go back to their party. I was apprehensive but had no choice. Unfortunately, or maybe quite the opposite, after a few minutes drive and a series of phone calls, they changed their minds but offered to take me to Lira after the party in a few hours time. That was not an option for me, but as I felt we have already become friends I asked them if they could not help to organise me a motorbike.

They were much perplexed by my request but agreed. We stopped at the edge of town and they started making phone calls. There was much negotiating, quizzing and haggling but after a while another guy arrived on a motorbike which I was to get in lease – and that does not cease to amaze me still – only on the promise of paying them 50.000 Ugandan shillings upon return the next day. It must have been the shock of seeing a white girl wanting to drive the motorbike, which she confessed she has little experience of operating, herself into the night on an unknown road over 130kms that deprived them of their usual shrewd negotiating skills.

It took a little while for them to teach me how to operate the kick-start ignition (I was used to just pressing the button on my motorbike) and in the process I scalded my calf badly. But in the end I managed to get the motor running and, slightly wobbly and uncertainly, I rolled back into town to get some petrol. The poor motorbike owner watched my disappearance with a horrified gaze.

Unsurprisingly, I caused a stir at the petrol station. More so that I was absolutely unable to either open the tank to fuel up, close it afterwards or get that blasted motor running again. Speechless at hearing where I want to go, the station boys did all those things for me and I drove off purposefully and confidently into the night, yet with a growing suspicion in my heart that this adventure might not end well after all.

TBC

Kitgum and the Presidential Entourage part II

There were not as many people as on the Gulu rally, and again many of them seem to have been shepherded by trucks by Museveni’s men, but there were still enough to fill the field on which the rally was taking place. Some were sitting on the ground, others took shelter from the sun in the nearby thicket and waited in the shade of the trees. We waited with them, walking around and trying to take pictures. People in Uganda do not like to be photographed and the resistance to my attempts was often quite pronounced. It’s a shame as there were many colourful types in the crowd, in funky Ankole-cow horn hats, garments adorned with feathers, or cloaks made of skin. Some were holding noise-making implements, drums, rattles and also what seemed like close-cousins of vuvuzelas. All in all, this crowd was much more exotic than the one in Gulu, practically no one spoke English and consequently Mark and I were even more of an attraction than on the previous day.

The excitement at President’s arrival was palpable and when he drove past to take his place on the platform the crowd closed in after his car with tremendous speed. I found myself squashed in the middle and seriously feared for the safety of my ribs and my camera. Luckily, one of the guards saw my struggle, reached out to me and helped me get behind the barrier separating Museveni from his supporters. Quite by chance I found myself in a prime position again, just a couple of meters from the President with just one very serious looking guard in between. I could shoot (pictures, of course) away.

Because of the heat, long drive and the fact it was simply tedious I could not concentrate on the speech. Museveni does not come across as a brilliant speaker. The fact that his words had to be translated into Acholi did not help and took away what little zest and flare that there was in it. The President also has a rather bad habit, possibly picked up from one of the countless self-help books on public speaking I see in Ugandan bookshops, of every now and again asking the translator how to say a certain phrase in the local dialect. In itself it is probably a good idea, but given the fact that he seems to have no language abilities, and has to repeat the phrase he is given a number of times twisting it mercilessly, the effect that creates is rather unfavourable and slightly ridiculous; the crowed did not fail to chuckle unsympathetically. When the president finished promising millions of shillings to war veterans, free education, less corruption, better roads, and the continuation of peace he had so skilfully brought about, the local officials rose to congratulate one another and the Movement at large. While this lasted, the President just looked a bit lost and bored. His gaze was quite absentmindedly scrutinizing the crowds. He looked at me, just a couple of meters down in front. I winked. He smiled.

This was probably the moment to pass him a note with an interview request but neither had I thought of it at the time, nor were the chances of the guards shooting me down on the spot that slim. Their presence and nervous glances every time I reached to my belt for my camera or Dictaphone reminded me very strongly of a passage in Lem’s Futurological Congress in which the Indian ambassador dies under concentrated fire of US president's bodyguards when he reaches out for a hankerchief - the incident leading to an enchange of apologetic diplomatic notes. In any case, the rally finished when it was almost dark, the President was whisked to his car and we rushed with Mark to find ours. It turned out that on the way back we are going to have more people in the car and James tried to squeeze five of us on the back seat. I protested strongly and said I’d rather go in the boot. Silly as it sounds, it turned out to be a jolly idea and while Mark was squashed with three others I could lie down on, admittedly very hard, but spacious, platform at the back. I put my bag under my head, looked at the almost-full moon that shone on me through the rear window, and pondered just how crazy yet another day had been. I had not much hope of reaching the President any more (Sam had in the end consulted with the PPS who simply had that there was no gap in the busy rally schedule) but I had, as the bet stipulated, joined the entourage to go to with the President up North. I had also seen enough of Ugandan government politics up close to give me food for thought for some time. Now it was time to rest and focus with renewed vigour on the Opposition.

Kitgum and the Presidential Entourage part I

I woke up thinking that this whole presidential chase is ridiculous. It might be a fun, exciting and instructive thing to do, but I’ve done enough of it and maybe, while in Gulu, I should look at some orphans, child-soldiers and war-invalids instead – in other words, things that make people shed a tear and buy my articles. With that resolve, I took a boda-boda to Acholi Inn to let Mark know I’m done with politics. Mark, who was seating in the hotel garden with his morning coffee, welcomed my decision saying he was also tired after that one rally and went back to his breakfast and book. I sat by and, for the lack of anything better to do, observed the spectacle taking place in the hotel courtyard.

Just like the day before, the grounds were full of Museveni’s yellow T-shirted men running to and fro. This time however, the gardens were also full of soldiers and people who looked like higher-ranking officials. There were a few little groups of them spread uniformly though the shaded bits of the garden. The centre of garden evidently belonged to one imposing-looking man, around whom a sizable coterie had formed. I might have been under the influence of too many ‘dogs of war’ movies but to me he looked just like your typical African general should – huge, jovial and avuncular at first glance but observant and possibly ruthless underneath. He was talking on three phones at the same time, listened to petitioners, gave orders to soldiers and generally looked busy. I was intrigued.

Luckily, my Chamber of Commerce friend from the day before turned up just at that time and I was able to go and enquire. He looked at me surprised at my ignorance of local politics – that was Sam E., the chairman of the NRM for the whole of the North. A big fish; if I wanted the interview with the president he would be the man to organise it. Suddenly, my resolve to stick to orphans evaporated. I decided to come up and introduce myself. After all, I had nothing to lose.

I came up to his table, nodded and sat down at one of the empty chairs. Tried to look cool and as if I belonged. I think I failed. Finally, Sam finished talking on the phone and looked at me enquiringly. Here a digression into African greeting habits is in order. Even more so than with the British the initial ‘how are yous?’ are vital. To rush into business without enquiring about other persons well-being is considered awfully rude. The pace of the enquiries should be slow, attitude interested but not too eager, each response taken in and considered carefully as if it really mattered. Handshake is compulsory. The African handshake is tripartite – clasp the palms, clasp the thumbs and than the palms again. Then hold while exchanging greetings. Often uncomfortably long, with extra shaking for added effect. This should ideally be accompanied by laughter and jokes. Only then you can relax and ask about directions or place a soda order. Or, as in my case, introduce yourself and ask for an interview with the President.

To my utter surprise Sam laughed and said that’s not a problem. We just needed to get to Kitgum, some 100km away to the north-east, where the next rally is. He asked if I had a transport. I did not, as Amos the day before informed me that there were no more places on the press bus. Not a problem, according to Sam, I would go with them, the Party entourage. The cars are better quality anyway.

I run up to Mark to ask him if he has not changed his mind about rallying. As we had made plans to lounge by the swimming pool that day, he cursed me and my obstinacy which deprived him of well-deserved rest, but again just packed his bag and followed. We were to go in the motorcade with the chairman but in another vehicle. Our car-host was none other than James A.O.: a former spokesman for Joseph Kony’s rebel LRA. He had been granted amnesty in 2008 and since than had been in the Museveni government as the secretary for External Affairs and Mobilisation. He turned out to be good company, telling us in his posh English RP all we wanted to know about the area and the campaign.

The road to Kitgum is beyond belief bad. Patrick, our driver, was very daring and skilled in avoiding potholes at high speed but it still took us over two hours to get to our destination. We stopped briefly in a small village to get some food – I did not have a chance to take a picture but the mental image of these (Saville-row no doubt) suit-clad men exiting their huge 4x4 SUVs in the clouds of red dirt to buy roast maize by the side of the road from an old woman whose entire life-fortune was probably not worth the petrol we spent on getting there will stay with me for some time. I accepted the maize though.

We got to Kitgum with time to spare and were encouraged to make ourselves comfortable in the bar of the Baroda hotel. Another ‘big man’ was waiting for us: Henry O.O., current foreign minister and the son of the former dictator Tito Okello. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries; after that Mark and I were left to our own devices. Mark decided to finish that morning coffee that I have so brutally interrupted and I decided to wonder out of the hotel to find an internet café. I did not find one for I stopped to chat to a man who greeted me on the street. In one breath, he told me what he thought of local politics and shared the news that one of his children died of epilepsy the night before. How do you react to that? He seemed to be equally happy to talk about either. I just could not comprehend him and did not know how to relate. I backtracked to the hotel.

It turned out the rally is still half an hour’s drive from Kitgum, in a little village. Just like the previous day, despite influential backing, we were carefully scrutinized by the army who guarded the grounds. My pepper-spray was taken from me and so was Mark’s lighter. The fusion of high-tech and professional with ramshackle and haphazard is quite priceless in Uganda. A metal-detector gate under a baobab tree, cutting edge sound system on a wooden football goal half-eaten by termites, ferocious looking sniffer-dogs who were so lazy that the guards had to put them over the luggage they were supposed to sniff.