The Various, Curious and Spurious – Sex and Food

In this series of posts I have decided to bundle together some of the random flavours of Uganda. This practice will be entirely at odds with the modern socio-anthropological practice, which abhors pointing fingers at other cultures’ curios and idiosyncrasies and prefers to look at them as comprehensive, self-explanatory systems, where nothing is ‘weird’, just yet not understood. Good for them. I will nevertheless revert to pre-Bronislaw Malinowski techniques of those good old fashioned nineteenth century armchair anthropologists who found utmost pleasure in trying to make sense of the quirkier, more colourful and unusual aspects of ‘exotic cultures’. With all due respect, that just makes for a better read than Levi-Strauss.

This is a rather eclectic combination of facts, images and impressions that have surprised, intrigued or amused me during my travels. While some of them are peculiar to Uganda, others I have observed Africa-wide and others are just non-European. But they all make Uganda a colourful, fascinating and perplexing place.

Relationships

The Saturday editions of the two main newspapers, the government New Vision and the independent Daily Monitor, have a rather sizeable agony aunt and matchmaking inserts. These make for a fascinating read.

Firstly, white is still in demand. For example, in the recent issue out of 23 ladies 11 were searching for a white man, out of which two requested that he be wealthy too. The guys were less fussy, only 6 out of 40 wanted a ‘beautiful white lady for love’. Secondly, most of the posts contain a note that HIV test is a must. Not so surprising when one considers, that despite commendable government and NGO efforts (on the Kenyan-Ugandan boarder there is a free condom-dispenser, although I do wonder why there) still over 6.5% of Ugandans are thought to be HIV positive. This also explains, why there are three categories of match-adds ‘man seeks woman’, ‘woman seeks man’ and ‘HIV positive’. ‘Man seeks man’ does not feature but that should not surprise you if you recall that Uganda made headlines worldwide with its attitude to homosexuals not that long ago. Lastly, the adds also often contain tribal affiliation requirement, for example Acholi, Langi or Mukiga; more often so than religious, although adjective ‘God-fearing’ is used in many.

This is a subject meriting its separate entry but it is worth noting that Uganda (and Kenya) has a striking number of single mothers. This problem has been raised by many women with whom I have spoken and their explanation is usually poverty and the fact there are more women than man out there. If there is a husband, the families are usually large (the record so far was a man who claimed to have 24 kids with 3 wives, second came a policeman with 12 kids with one wife) but I have also spoken to many girls of my age struggling to make-do while also caring for one or two love-children. Ugandan law provides for them in theory but in practice tracking a run-away dad is next to impossible, in particular if he has enough money to pay bribes. As in many developing societies, boys are still preferred to girls, the explanation given being that the girl leaves the household (i.e. supports her husbands parents in their old age) and usually brings a lesser return on educational investment (women earn less, especially if they have children). Sadly, many women seem to be convinced that, given the large number of NGOs dealing with orphans, their children would be better off without any parents.

Bus Rides and Hawkers

I love riding buses and matatus, despite their smelliness, hard seats, crowds and long waiting times, for two reasons: the views and bus-stop hawkers. Not much to be said about the views in general (they are pretty) but the hawkers are fascinating. Whenever a vehicle pulls up en route to let people off or on, its sides get flooded with a throng of sellers trying to reach its windows and offer their wares to the passengers sitting within. They mostly sell food, although other articles, like watches, belts, perfume and live chicken also feature. The nicest thing about them is that the hawkers are not aggressive or persistent in the slightest, a polite ‘no, thank you’, or even a smile and headshake is enough to make them turn their attention elsewhere. Given the fierce competition between them (there are usually many people selling the same thing) this is rather surprising. It makes me wonder if the profits, at least in some villages, are not shared somehow or if there is not a rotation system in place.

In any case, travelling on an African bus is like being in a moving restaurant. You don’t have to move from your seat to be able to enjoy refreshments and local tastes. You can start the journey by stocking on biscuits, water and chewing gum, which local boys carry on their shoulders in cardboard boxes. The drinks are usually nice and cold but you should always check if the seal is unbroken. As you stuff yourself with cookies, you might want something more watery – that’s when you could reach out for fruit which is sold either as fruit salad on trays (watermelon, papaya, avocado, durian and carrots (don’t ask me why carrots)) or separately (good luck fitting a durian through those little windows). After a couple of hours its time for something more substantial: there are chucks of meat on a stick (goat, beef, liver (yuck!) and chicken), roast sweet-corn (my favourite), roast bananas (one of the basic staples), chapattis (pancakes) or roasted cassava. Should you feel that has not been sufficient, you can always fill up on deep-fried locusts, peanuts and pumpkin seeds, or popcorn. There are also muffins, banana doughnuts (yummy) or mandazis for dessert.

Stuffing yourself too much however might not be advisable as there are usually no toilet breaks and if there are the bus just stops on the side of the road and both men and women squirt in the plain view (you are lucky if there are bushes). Instead, you can always buy that live chicken (usually three in a bunch tied by their legs) for later.

African Christmas Carol III

The list of selfless, kind acts bestowed upon me by Africans and Mzungus alike continues to continue:

29. Assaska, a friend of Jedrek and Kate’s immediately took me under her wing. Not only did she take care of me in Nairobi, showing me nice places, introducing to her friends and helping out when I could not find the PIN to my card, but also invited to a fascinating event, the Rendille traditional wedding. She organised the whole trip to her home village and, together with her mum, hosted us royally making sure we notice, understand and appreciate all the local customs and traditions. Her boyfriend, Jeff, an anthropologist by training, was especially helpful in the latter task.

30. I was very much impressed with the amount of time and effort Albert, a local Ngo worker, with whom I sat trembling from cold and fright during an incredibly fast and rough ride on the back of a pick-up truck with no number plates driven by a Sudanese soldier on the way between Gulu and Pakwach, put into helping me get into the Murchinson Falls park and then, when the attempts failed, to organise me a lodgings for the night and transport for the next day. He spent over two hours just sitting with me and calling his various friends and relatives in the vain hope that someone knows someone who might let me into the park after nightfall. We talked to a dozen people but none of them were able to help and Albert was as inconsolable as if it was him that wanted to get to the park, and very apologetic that I had to spend the night in a local hotel, which he also organised.

31. In Malindi, a sea-side “Italian” resort, a friendly girl working at my campsite offered to show me the way to the beach, which was surprisingly difficult to find. She did not want to swim so she just sat at the shore watching over my things as I negotiated my way through the disgusting brown weeds to take a quick dip in the sea.

32. Politicians are rarely credited with selflessness and altruism, and in this case too the motives of Ugandan politicians I met in Gulu might have not been entirely pure. No matter why they did it, the contacts they provided and the rides they gave me during my chase after Museveni were very helpful.

33. One afternoon I was walking back to Bros Camp in Juba, when a motorcyclist pulled up, said he works at Bros and saw me there and can take me back with him if I want to save myself the 10 minute walk. And why not?
Joy, also from Bros, is a singer at a local band. I met her at a birthday party and pronounced my admiration for her African dress. She immediately offered to take me to the market the next day so that we can choose the material and find a tailor to make me one. We did that the next day and she was very patient with my fussiness over the colours and prices, as well as very helpful with some pattern tips.

34. In Lokkichoggio a friendly Methodist missionary met on the bus offered me shelter for the night in their surprisingly fancy teaching compound. He left me his room, spick and span, with shower and internet, while he slept in the dorm. Did not expect such comforts in the friendless North. I was fed, entertained with conversation and then transported to the bus stage from where I could cross over to Sudan.

35. Although I have already covered “transport kindness”, these guys need a special mention, as they have not only provided a vehicle, but also lunch and a hassle-free border transport. I am talking of the ‘governor’s men’ a group of constructors and businessmen who were leaving Lokichoggio for Torrit. There is not much transport from Loki, so their decision to take me to their already nearly full car was much appreciated. Thanks to the fact we were travelling in the car of the governor of the Eastern Equatoria province I had no problems at the border – as a matter of fact I did not even have to see a border-clark but gave my passport to our driver who arranged a stamp for me. Once on the other side, we stopped in Kapoeta, where they were building a hotel, for lunch which they kindly shared with me and then proceeded to Torrit, to report at the Governor’s residence.

36. The Governor turned out to be a very nice man, who was only a little surprised to see me roll in onto his yard with his men, but who did not let his astonishment affect his hospitality. We all sat at a table in the garden, just as if I was also one of his men returning from fieldwork. We were treated to cold drinks and later to buffet dinner, also in the garden, during which the governor kept insisting I take one helping after another. The food was delicious, so after a couple of hours and shaking the Gov’s hand goodbye, I rolled out on my fat belly into the night.

37. Tea and cattle break.


38. Again, this is but a transport rescue but it came just in time to save me from being eaten alive by tsetse flies. I was walking back from Murchinson Falls NP in the early hours of the morning. There is but one road out so the idea was that I walk until someone comes and picks me up. The air was cool, my luggage not too heavy so for the first half an hour I thoroughly enjoyed my walk. But as the sun warmed the air those little bastards appeared out of nowhere and started feasting on me. Mind you, they no longer carry sleeping sickness (I think) so there was no immediate risk of death. But had I not covered every inch of my skin, I swear, I would have died from thousands of painful bites. I found myself practically running, with a 18kg backpack, not to outrun the swarms but to make the bites that little bit less frequent. The appearance of a jeep with two American girls who decided to stop at pick me up was a saving grace and I owe them if not my life, then certainly my sanity (such as it is).

39. This story actually happened not during my current trip but during an equally crazy venture onto Mt Kenya with my mum, some 13 years ago. With not much preparation, inappropriate gear, no guides or porters we elected to climb this imposing mountain on the Chogoria – Naro-Moru route. We succeeded and rushed down to get some transport on the way back. On the way down, we met out first fellow-climber. A tall British guy, immaculately dressed in Bergson-wear, carrying a light day pack and a bottle of water and stepping daintily. We, on the other hand, were exhausted, sun-scorched, dehydrated, mal-nourished and, in my case, altitude-sick and were running and stumbling to get down fast. Really, in these circumstances my dry lips were the least of my problems but I still very much appreciate that, after some greetings and comments about the weather (treacherous, very treacherous), he looked at me with concern, produced a lip-balm from his pocket and would not let me go until I made sure my lips were properly re-hydrated.

40. Another generic group of helpers are those who have kindly been showing me the way. I have never been in a country with people hostile enough to refuse giving directions, but East Africans go out of their way to make sure you don’t get lost, often walking with you up to your target. Don’t try to ask boda-boda drivers about directions though – they might be best informed but, unlike the London cabbies, they will insist on taking you there even if it’s a few meters away!

41. During my ascent up the Jbel in Juba, I had the help and guidance of a little boy by the name of Monday. He nimbly climbed in front of me, waited for me to catch up and then run ahead further. I did not want a guide but his company was quite pleasant so we climbed the mountain together, then sat on the top and ate bananas, whose skins we would throw onto the rocks in frost of us and watch the falcons swoop and pick them up, only to throw them down from lofty heights with disdain once they figured what that was. Luckily, not onto our heads.

42. and 43. In Loralang I was treated to lunch, a place to nap and invaluable advice by Sarah, Mama Habiba’s daughter who runs a hotel on the other side of the lake. In the very same place I was first greeted by the chief of village himself who admitted me to his kraal, seated in the shade, treated to sodas and then escorted to my onward transport.

44. This point is less of a single act of charity but more of a charitable phenomenon which I find very touching. African obligatorily wash their hands before meals and, given the lack of running water, it is often done at the table with water, soap, bowl and towel being brought to the diners. Sometimes the waitress or hostess does it but more often the water in a jug and the utensils are left to the guests, who help each other pour the water over their hands, pass the soap and hand the towel. It is moving and humbling to see strangers render this small service onto each other. Part-taking in the ritual made me think of the biblical foot-washing and was a deep bond experience.

45. Deeply touching were those occasions when local people after a few moments of conversation offered me a piece of their jewellery as a token of remembrance. I have already described my encounter with Halima, but another memory I treasure if of a girl from Soricho who I met when I was trying to explore the local church. Or at least I was told it was a church (it was the only 2-storey structure in the village), but when I very confidently strode in opening the heavy metal door wide, it turned out it is actually someone house. Lilly, was one of the inhabitants but she unabashedly came up to me, took me by the hand and showed me around the house. Then, all the time holding hands, we went outside to find her father, who spoke a little English and told me that the girl was one of his 6 and 17 years old. We strolled around the village for a while, went back to my kraal where she was reluctant to enter. But she took a string of beads with a single white shell from her neck and hung it on mine. This time I felt both compelled and able to reciprocate so I gave her my sunglasses in return. She was overjoyed.

46. Deeply grateful to Fasel and his family for hosting me on Iddi Ahdua day. Their hospitality was overwhelming and I had an amazing time in their house.

47. I feel a little bad about this one. After 2 days of waiting I was desperate to cross lake Turkana. When a boat finally appeared I was overjoyed. I went to the owner to discuss the price of passage. He quoted me a price 5 times higher than what I had been told by other villagers is fair. I was tired (it was 6am), impatient and very anxious to go, I really did not want to haggle. But in a moment of divine inspiration I said: “Very well, I will pay whatever you say. But you look into your heart and ask yourself if this is a fair price. If it is, god will undoubtedly reward you, if not, well..”. He looked at me carefully, seemed to think about it and then…. took me for free.

48. Last but not least, I have to thank my family and Tom, even though their links with Africa are tenuous at best. Yet without their support, both emotional and material, I would never have made it to Africa in the first place.

African Christmas Carol II

The list of selfless, kind acts bestowed upon me by Africans and Mzungus alike continues:

18. A very special mention needs to be made of Chris in Juba, a manager of one of the campsites. The campsites in Juba are not actually for camping as it turns out (but for self-contained permanent tents), so it was only thanks to him bending the rules that I could stay there for a fraction of the usual price (which is extortionate) in my own tent. Not only that, for the 5 days I was there he shared his food with me (matooke!), bought me sodas, allowed me to drive his car (admittedly he just did not like to drive himself and had to) and showed me the town. He treated me more like a daughter and a friend than a paying guest and I hope we will remain friends for a long time.

19. Juba is full of friendly people and another such couple were the charming Ethiopians who were working in a stone quarry at the foot of the Juba J’bel. When I wandered onto their yard trying to find the way up the mountain they not only opened the locked back door for me to shorten my way but also invited me to tea should I make it back from the top in one piece. I did, and the tea, hot and sweet, was a much appreciated gift. As was their company and stories of Juba they shared.

20. To get to the said quarry I had to walk a rather long way from the edge of Juba in blistering sun. I thought I did not mind the walk until I felt quite dizzy and light-headed. Luckily, in the very same moment a car pulled up and a busines-like looking Egyptian enquired with bewilderment and disbelief as to the purpose of my ambling on the side of the road. Although he could not believe I just want to climb a mountain, and especially in that heat, he offered me a lift to the foot of it – even though he was much more convinced I should be going back to where I came from (and that means my hotel not Europe).

21. Thanks to another small but very touching gesture I obtained a pillow from a fellow-traveller. Hamish (his hat pictured), a New Zealander, was leaving for his green island; his tent disappeared from the Mombasa backpackers silently in the middle of the night and all that was left of Hamish was a pillow carefully balanced on the top of my tent. It served me faithfully for over 5 weeks!

22. In a matatu in Juba a lady who I smiled at apologetically (I was very dirty for climbing from the hill and was afraid I will get her spick and span clothes soiled) paid the fare for me before I could realise and protest. She too told me it is silly and of no practical value to hike up the hill.

23. Even thought I have already made an aggregated mention of those nice people who gave me lifts in their means of transport, Khalid and Saddam need to be mentioned separately. They have not only given me a lift, but also, as I recount in the previous post, paid for my hotel, fed me in a local restaurant and then went on a detour to put me safely on a boat to Lamu. And all that while telling me lots of interesting things about Kenya and its construction business.

24. On the very same matatu that saw me fighting with my hair I was given, by a different lady, a bottle of water. She was buying one for herself and only thought it natural to buy one for me too.

25. and 26. Food sharing is a strong social obligation in East Africa. I was told a story of a big man who was rich and powerful but who was one day seen eating at a restaurant on his own – he did not invite those passing by to come and eat with him and from that day on lost his influence and his riches dwindled as he was no longer a trusted businessman. In Africa one either eats surreptitiously in one’s own hut or out in the open but then communally. Yet the prevalence of this social convention does not belittle the niceness of the many sharing gestures. Two instances are most vivid in my mind; the first was the sharing-game I played with a lady sitting next to me on a bus from Kabale to Kampala. I offered her a packet of biscuits, then she bought me a maize, I offered to buy her soda and she shared her peanuts. Then she bought a packet of fried locusts, which I shared only symbolically, claiming after two of the crunchy-munchies that I am already absolutely stuffed.
The second kind gesture occurred when I was lying half-dead from heat-exhaustion on a mattress in Soricho. A young, obviously very poor, couple came into my hut to also seek shade and sat down to lunch. On seeing that I am awake they edged closer shyily and laid the black plastic bag from which they were eating out in front of me. It is hard to describe how meagre both in quantity (hardly enough for the two of them) and in quality (crumbles of injera bread with few stringy pieces of goat-meat mixed in) their lunch was but they shared it with a glad heart nevertheless. I did not want to offend them by declining to part-take; I ate just a couple of mouthfuls and offered them biscuits I found in my pocket as my contribution.

27. I was often beckoned to sit down with people eating in local street-side kitchens but I usually declined. In Mbale however, I accepted an invitation to join a group of local men drinking at a big table. I would normally avoid such gatherings but I had just bought some food at the stalls and was looking in vain for a place to sit with my prized chicken and fries. Theirs was the only option. I naturally offered them my food but they declined. Instead they ordered me a drink and then another and then yet another and then insisted these are on them. They were admittedly quite drunk and eager to have a listener who wants to hear more about their views on local politics but this does not make their gift of beer any less kind-hearted.

29. Bill, a walking embodiment of traditional American values and dreams and a true son of the North-West Coast, brought a smile to my face when he expressed his sincere concern about my access to washing facilities. Convinced that as a backpacker I probably have to go around covered with mud due to lack of any decent showers (while I was walking around covered in mud out of my own free will) he offered me the use of the Serena Hotel luxury amenities (swimming pool!) after my Murchinson Falls trek. He also treated me to dinner in a lovely restaurant of the like I had no idea existed in Kampala and made sure I go back to my lavatorily-challenged backpackers hostel in a taxi rather than a boda-boda; alighting from a huge, black, shiny BMW with tinted windows and crawling into my tiny, muddy tent felt surreal and incongruent but I was touched by Bill’s, only slightly excessive, concern.

African Christmas Carol

Still in the spirit of Christmas good-will and the nostalgic introspection that comes with the beginning of a New Year I have decided to compile a list of all the little acts of selfless kindness and altruism of which I had been a grateful recipient. Without them my journey would have not only been much less pleasant; parts of it would have not happened at all or other, nasty things might have happened.

I was away for 47 days; so here (in 3 instalments and with relevant links) are 47 acts of kindness, friendliness and charity from Africans and Mzungus alike, arranged in no particular order to prove that there is no place like Africa where hospitality is concerned!

1. The pride of place goes to Topol, Marcin and Phil, three lovely boys from Europe, who supported me with books, advice and contacts before I set off. They had made Uganda seem like a friendly and easy place to travel, which indeed it was.

2. Mama Habiba took me under her wing when I was stranded in Selicho, a small village on the shores of Lake Turkana. Her food was delicious and her smile lovely but what I will always remember most vividly were her touching little gestures of hospitality: the time she cleared out her things from the coolest hut during the unbearable midday heat and placed a mattress there for me to lie down or insistently offered me a small tetra-pack of pasteurised milk when she was worried that I was still hungry after the meal she had prepared.

3. Small but very thoughtful and of immense practical value (as those with long hair will understand) was the gesture of a fellow-lady-passenger, who, seeing my failed attempts to tie up my unruly hair with a blade of grass, got out of the matatu, untied one of her braids and handed me a hair-band that supported it. It was unexpected and very touching, as were the frequent attempts of local women to brush my hair away from my face and place them behind my ears!

4. The truck going from Longalani to Lodwar was so packed so full of passengers and dried fish that it was for a long time uncertain if there will be enough place for me even on top of the load. Luckily, just before it set off, I got a come-on from the driver to climb up and perch. Yet, before I did, an elderly man had got out of the driver’s cab and insisted I take his comfortable seat instead (travelling in the cab is usually twice as expensive as the cargo ‘seat’). When I protested and assured him I would be very comfortable sitting on the fish, he cut the discussion short with the sacrosanct and undisputable: “Please, you are our guest.”

5. I am very grateful to all the drivers on all the roads in all the countries who took me (for free or not) in their cars, motorbikes and boats. Special mention needs to be made of a boda-boda driver in Lodwar who offered to take me to a hotel for a few shillings when I alighted from a truck at 2am. When I declined and said I would walk (I don’t even know why I did that, as I had no idea where the hotel was, it was the middle of the night, my rucksack was heavy and the price he quoted was very reasonable) he sighed and told me he’ll take me for free as it is not safe for a girl to walk alone at night.

6. I am of course very grateful to the thieves who stole my phone and camera. Not for the thieving per se but for the fact that when I caught one of them and asked him kindly to give me my things back they came back after twenty minutes and returned my camera. They did not give the phone back but it’s the thought that counts. I am also grateful to the sellers at the stands nearby who gave me a seat while I waited for the pick-pockets to return and who, I am sure, exerted subtle pressure on the rascals to reconsider stealing from guileless mzungu girls.

7. I could not do half the things I did in Uganda if it wasn’t for the advice, contacts and support from Kizito Serumaga, the editor of Ggwanga newspaper. He is a very busy man but took time out of his busy schedule on a number of occasions to patiently explain the intricacies of Ugandan politics to a newcomer that just did not know the first thing about any of it.

8. Andy, who took me on a private boat safari in Murchinson Falls Park, lent me his camera when mine run out of battery and, most amazingly of all, delivered the forgotten, ice-cold beer to my retreat at the top of the Falls, will forever be held in grateful memory, especially on full-moon nights.

9. Without Hakim, the North Kenyan Godfather, and his extensive network of men and trucks, I would have never managed to get to the shores of Lake Turkana. Despite doubts about the sanity of my resolve and the chances of success, he elected to facilitate my search for transport and accommodation en route to Lake Turkana with all the means at his disposal, making it seem like a walk in the park, not a harassing trek though hundreds of miles of wilderness which it would have been without his help.

10. Abdrizzak and Abdoud (pictured with our lunch), were two of these men who on Hakim’s request helped me find transport from North Horr to Lake Turkana. Stranded on its shores without their company I would have been not only more clueless but also much lonelier. They went far beyond their call of duty, I’m certain of that, to make my stay in the North pleasant and interesting.

11. Peter and four other boys I hitched a ride with in Soroti helped me to organise a motorbike in the middle of the night so that I could continue my chase of Beti Kamya. Without their assurance who would have given their prized motorbike to a strange mzungu girl on a vague promise that she will bring it back the next day?

12. Alex from Mbale was unrelenting in his resolve to get my lost luggage back. Admittedly, he was the one who allowed it to be carried away into the unknown by four random Swiss people but his dedication and effort in getting it back have to be commended.

13. It was very nice of an airport staff member who I talked to in Lamu and whose name I cannot remember to indulge my whim and ask the pilot on my behalf to allow me to sit on the second pilot’s seat during the flight to Nairobi. It was nice of the pilot to agree.

14. A nice young student met on a bus helped me to find a hotel in Gulu and bargain the price down even though he was in a hurry to get home.

15. Another nice young student met in a matatu helped me to find my way, buy phone cards and fruit on my very first day in Kampala. And he too was in a hurry.

16. I was treated to lunch by a fellow truck traveller when we arrived in Marsabit. Joseph helped me find an internet café, attempted to organise onward transport and fed me in the nicest restaurant in town only because he knew I knew someone he knew.

17. Paul, a lovely half-Canadian, half-Iranian, half-Scottish (yes I know that does not add up) NGO worker in Torit, Sudan upon hearing that I posses neither a map of Sudan nor a vaguest inkling of its geography promised (and delivered) to print for me some of his maps of Sudan and Juba. And walked all the way to my hotel (twice) to hand them in.

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.