Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
GORILLAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This was a heavily anticipated event on our trip.
Hopefully, different from the safaris in that you weren't to be buzzing around in a van chasing the animals, but tracking them on foot through dense forest.
I was so excited. I had images of Dian Fossey sitting amongst 20 of these great animals while they went about their daily affairs.
Our adventure started in Kampala, where we had to pick up our outrageously expensive permits: $500 USD per person! When we arrived we were told that our gorilla group was the newest and largest but also the most difficult to get to. That at the new site there was no budget accommodation and we would have to rent a car for $60 USD to reach the park entrance from the nearest town. My terse reply sent the wildlife officers into a flurry and within a few minutes we had camping in a nearby village for $10 USD/person (still the most we have spent on accommodation on our entire trip) and cheap transport arranged through its owner. We had to take an overnight bus from Kampala to Kisoro (pretty much the southern most tip of Uganda, near the Rwanda border) which was fabled to take 12 hours, and the campsite owner would pick us up from there.
While walking to the bus, Shilo and I got separated in the maddening market of Kampala, the first time in our travels. It was remarkably simple; he was about 10 ft ahead of me and crossed the street. Cars blocked his path by the time I reached it and I had to cross several car lengths ahead. And POOF, he was gone. I stood at the corner for a while, assuming the only two white people in a huge crowd of black shoppers should be fairly easy to spot, especially since there is always someone crying out "Mzungo! (white man) Hello!" But no such luck. I figured he must not have realized I was a bit behind and had kept on walking, so I carried on towards the bus depot. I made it two blocks without sight of him, I thought at some point he would check to see if I was behind him and wait for me. No sign. I went back to the separation corner, thinking I just didn't see him the first time, wondering all the while "how does someone just disappear?" Outlandish visions of nasty folks siding up to him with an open van door, pulling him in, and taking off started to invade my head. This was completely unrealistic, since vehicular traffic moves slower through the market than those on foot. But I still couldn't figure out where the hell he went! The sun was just setting, I had all my worldly possessions on me, I was now solo and this wasn't the most secure neighbourhood so I decided just to go to the bus station to wait for him. I reached the station after an easy 10-minute walk, expecting an exasperated hubby waiting for me. Nope. I waited, and waited, and waited. 40 minutes later, I am worried about missing our bus, I can't fathom where Shilo is and I am close to tears. Finally a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) arrives with my sheepish husband aboard.
HE GOT LOST! HA! This was fantastic, as I am the directionally challenged one, always (after some stubborn insistence on my part) giving way to his better judgment of routes and map directions. He kept going straight at the separation corner, but we needed to make a right hand turn! I didn't even check further up the street, as it was the WRONG WAY! Not that I was in the least gleefully gloating on his arrival, I was just too relieved to see him! But now, it's a fantastic point in my court ;-)
There was no need to worry about missing the bus, it left 2 hours late, but remarkably did take the 12 reported hours. On arrival in Kisoro, we borrowed a cell from one of the bus conductors to call our hotelier. He told me that he'd be there in about one hours time. We relaxed and had some tea and chapatis. Two young adults approached us about an hour later, saying "Rubes sent us" (our hotelier). Explaining that they were in Kisoro supervising the market day purchases for the hotel, and that we could all return in the van at around 4pm, when the market closes. It was 11am, and we hadn't slept a wink on the night bus. So, plan B.
We took a boda boda each, costing around $10 000 Ugandan Shillings ($5 USD), for a 35 km and 1.5 hrs ride to the small village (which is still 10km away from the park entrance). Fabulous. Since they acted as our brokers, we got a fair price vs the Mzungo price! And the ride was spectacular! Beautiful, heavily cultivated, green terraced hills, small picturesque mud hut villages, peasants out with their market purchase, "how are you" chorusing children, and gorgeous lakes all slowly buzzing by as we made the many ascents and descents on the small 100cc bikes. The scenery was very similar to Nepal's middle hills.
We were fabulously pampered in a slightly overwhelming style to which we were not accustomed to at Rubes' place. We were provided nightly entertainment, but more on that later. First the gorillas.
We got up early the next morning and shared a boda boda ride (no luggage this time) to the park entrance, which took about 1/2 hour and required us to ferry one at a time up the steeper sections as again, the bike was only 100cc. The time was finally here. The rangers introduced us, and explained that it may take a few hours to find the gorillas, but the trackers were already out looking. In the year that this gorilla group had been habituated, there had never been a time when they were not found for viewing.
We started out on a fairly level and well maintained path, but abruptly cut into the forest, with our guide hacking at the vegetation with his machete. It got steeper and steeper, greener and greener, and incredibly DENSE. We were ducking under trees, tripping along the vine covered forest floor and soon slipping in gorilla shit, uncannily similar to ours. After one hour, the guide explained that we had arrived at yesterday’s gorilla viewing location, and it is from here that we would track their movements. The terrain remained very steep and dense and we soon caught up to the trackers who were doing all the hard work of bushwacking. Shilo and I smartly chose to stay at the back, after 15 people trampled the path, it was much easier going. However, my trekking poles had an annoying habit of getting caught.
We passed by the gorilla's nests, which they rebuild every night in a different location, forming an outer circle of silverbacks at four points of lookouts and then adolescent males, and in the inner circle the females and young. We hiked for a total of 2.5 hours before we heard this piercing scream and what sounded like a large rock smacking quickly and repeatedly against a large bamboo rod: tinny and echoing, but a completely commanding sound...we found them, and that was the silverback thumping his chest, letting us all know who is still boss!
It took about another 20 minutes before we caught a glimpse of the gorillas, my heart was pounding non-stop, and I was falling all over the steep downwards slope. My first sighting was to see a few young gorillas, tucking themselves into somersault position, and rolling down the hill---a much more efficient means then struggling through the underbrush. It was such unexpected behavior, I was sent into a fit of giggles. At first every time we would get close to the family of 34, who were widely spread out in the bush feeding, they would move out of sight. I feared that this would just keep happening, when all of the sudden a silverback came rushing out of the forest, charging the first few members of our tracking group---sending them scurrying and screaming down the slope (unfortunately not the right response, but considering the shock of it, not unsurprising). It seems that after he exerted his dominance the family relaxed a little, and we lucky enough to have 4 different times of watching the large blackback males, silverbacks, and one older female sit and eat for about 10 minutes at a time.
It was so overwhelming. The strength that these animals possess, enabling them to snap 10 cm diameter branches like twigs, was crazy compared to their delicate movements to gently strip the leaves and daintily feed themselves. They would completely ignore you for some time, and then quietly turn their heads and stare penetratingly into your eyes. And then, as if bored with your presence, return to eating. The ears are just like ours, looking so small on their giant heads.
I was following right behind one of the trackers, when abruptly a blackback male came charging through a piece of thick bush, abruptly stopping 4 ft in front of us. I dropped down into a squat, and looked at my feet. Desperately trying to get my camera to work, but it kept chiming “memory card full”. The gorilla slowly crept back into the bush, I turned around to find Shilo behind me, “DID YOU GET THAT???” Ah, no. The joys of using internet cafes, means lots of viruses on your memory cards. Although I only had 5 visible images stored, the card was full. Oh well, Shilo takes much better photographs anyways! By fiddling around, I was able to get a few videos of the gorillas eating, and moving through the bush. Hopefully, we might one day find an internet connection that is fast enough for us to upload them ;-)
Was it worth $500USD? I dunno. It was a phenomenal experience. As soon as I found out about it, I wanted to do it. I would have been very disappointed if we had skipped it. But from start to finish, it was less than 4 hours. Ideally, we would have been able to sit amongst them, quietly observing without the feeling that we were chasing and disturbing them down the slope. Apparently, the previous day’s group had such an experience, even having small 3 year old gorillas coming within a few feet to investigate! Knowing that the gorilla population has been able to start making a slow comeback because of the success of the parks is encouraging. Their numbers are now just over 700. The park’s success is partly due to the high cost of tracking, as they put 20% of the fees back into the surrounding communities that have lost valuable farmland and therefore have local support and less encroachment on park boundaries. Because of the high fees, it is more profitable to track the gorillas than to poach the gorillas, obviously a very good thing. So in some ways, yes, it was worth it. It just really hurts the budget! We heard rumors that the fees are to increase to $1000 USD. This is worrying, as I fear that it will either slow down tourist numbers, but even more likely, become another attraction on Africa’s list of “FOR THE ULTRA RICH ONLY ”.
Pictures and video to follow if we can get a decent connection.
Hopefully, different from the safaris in that you weren't to be buzzing around in a van chasing the animals, but tracking them on foot through dense forest.
I was so excited. I had images of Dian Fossey sitting amongst 20 of these great animals while they went about their daily affairs.
Our adventure started in Kampala, where we had to pick up our outrageously expensive permits: $500 USD per person! When we arrived we were told that our gorilla group was the newest and largest but also the most difficult to get to. That at the new site there was no budget accommodation and we would have to rent a car for $60 USD to reach the park entrance from the nearest town. My terse reply sent the wildlife officers into a flurry and within a few minutes we had camping in a nearby village for $10 USD/person (still the most we have spent on accommodation on our entire trip) and cheap transport arranged through its owner. We had to take an overnight bus from Kampala to Kisoro (pretty much the southern most tip of Uganda, near the Rwanda border) which was fabled to take 12 hours, and the campsite owner would pick us up from there.
While walking to the bus, Shilo and I got separated in the maddening market of Kampala, the first time in our travels. It was remarkably simple; he was about 10 ft ahead of me and crossed the street. Cars blocked his path by the time I reached it and I had to cross several car lengths ahead. And POOF, he was gone. I stood at the corner for a while, assuming the only two white people in a huge crowd of black shoppers should be fairly easy to spot, especially since there is always someone crying out "Mzungo! (white man) Hello!" But no such luck. I figured he must not have realized I was a bit behind and had kept on walking, so I carried on towards the bus depot. I made it two blocks without sight of him, I thought at some point he would check to see if I was behind him and wait for me. No sign. I went back to the separation corner, thinking I just didn't see him the first time, wondering all the while "how does someone just disappear?" Outlandish visions of nasty folks siding up to him with an open van door, pulling him in, and taking off started to invade my head. This was completely unrealistic, since vehicular traffic moves slower through the market than those on foot. But I still couldn't figure out where the hell he went! The sun was just setting, I had all my worldly possessions on me, I was now solo and this wasn't the most secure neighbourhood so I decided just to go to the bus station to wait for him. I reached the station after an easy 10-minute walk, expecting an exasperated hubby waiting for me. Nope. I waited, and waited, and waited. 40 minutes later, I am worried about missing our bus, I can't fathom where Shilo is and I am close to tears. Finally a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) arrives with my sheepish husband aboard.
HE GOT LOST! HA! This was fantastic, as I am the directionally challenged one, always (after some stubborn insistence on my part) giving way to his better judgment of routes and map directions. He kept going straight at the separation corner, but we needed to make a right hand turn! I didn't even check further up the street, as it was the WRONG WAY! Not that I was in the least gleefully gloating on his arrival, I was just too relieved to see him! But now, it's a fantastic point in my court ;-)
There was no need to worry about missing the bus, it left 2 hours late, but remarkably did take the 12 reported hours. On arrival in Kisoro, we borrowed a cell from one of the bus conductors to call our hotelier. He told me that he'd be there in about one hours time. We relaxed and had some tea and chapatis. Two young adults approached us about an hour later, saying "Rubes sent us" (our hotelier). Explaining that they were in Kisoro supervising the market day purchases for the hotel, and that we could all return in the van at around 4pm, when the market closes. It was 11am, and we hadn't slept a wink on the night bus. So, plan B.
We took a boda boda each, costing around $10 000 Ugandan Shillings ($5 USD), for a 35 km and 1.5 hrs ride to the small village (which is still 10km away from the park entrance). Fabulous. Since they acted as our brokers, we got a fair price vs the Mzungo price! And the ride was spectacular! Beautiful, heavily cultivated, green terraced hills, small picturesque mud hut villages, peasants out with their market purchase, "how are you" chorusing children, and gorgeous lakes all slowly buzzing by as we made the many ascents and descents on the small 100cc bikes. The scenery was very similar to Nepal's middle hills.
We were fabulously pampered in a slightly overwhelming style to which we were not accustomed to at Rubes' place. We were provided nightly entertainment, but more on that later. First the gorillas.
We got up early the next morning and shared a boda boda ride (no luggage this time) to the park entrance, which took about 1/2 hour and required us to ferry one at a time up the steeper sections as again, the bike was only 100cc. The time was finally here. The rangers introduced us, and explained that it may take a few hours to find the gorillas, but the trackers were already out looking. In the year that this gorilla group had been habituated, there had never been a time when they were not found for viewing.
We started out on a fairly level and well maintained path, but abruptly cut into the forest, with our guide hacking at the vegetation with his machete. It got steeper and steeper, greener and greener, and incredibly DENSE. We were ducking under trees, tripping along the vine covered forest floor and soon slipping in gorilla shit, uncannily similar to ours. After one hour, the guide explained that we had arrived at yesterday’s gorilla viewing location, and it is from here that we would track their movements. The terrain remained very steep and dense and we soon caught up to the trackers who were doing all the hard work of bushwacking. Shilo and I smartly chose to stay at the back, after 15 people trampled the path, it was much easier going. However, my trekking poles had an annoying habit of getting caught.
We passed by the gorilla's nests, which they rebuild every night in a different location, forming an outer circle of silverbacks at four points of lookouts and then adolescent males, and in the inner circle the females and young. We hiked for a total of 2.5 hours before we heard this piercing scream and what sounded like a large rock smacking quickly and repeatedly against a large bamboo rod: tinny and echoing, but a completely commanding sound...we found them, and that was the silverback thumping his chest, letting us all know who is still boss!
It took about another 20 minutes before we caught a glimpse of the gorillas, my heart was pounding non-stop, and I was falling all over the steep downwards slope. My first sighting was to see a few young gorillas, tucking themselves into somersault position, and rolling down the hill---a much more efficient means then struggling through the underbrush. It was such unexpected behavior, I was sent into a fit of giggles. At first every time we would get close to the family of 34, who were widely spread out in the bush feeding, they would move out of sight. I feared that this would just keep happening, when all of the sudden a silverback came rushing out of the forest, charging the first few members of our tracking group---sending them scurrying and screaming down the slope (unfortunately not the right response, but considering the shock of it, not unsurprising). It seems that after he exerted his dominance the family relaxed a little, and we lucky enough to have 4 different times of watching the large blackback males, silverbacks, and one older female sit and eat for about 10 minutes at a time.
It was so overwhelming. The strength that these animals possess, enabling them to snap 10 cm diameter branches like twigs, was crazy compared to their delicate movements to gently strip the leaves and daintily feed themselves. They would completely ignore you for some time, and then quietly turn their heads and stare penetratingly into your eyes. And then, as if bored with your presence, return to eating. The ears are just like ours, looking so small on their giant heads.
I was following right behind one of the trackers, when abruptly a blackback male came charging through a piece of thick bush, abruptly stopping 4 ft in front of us. I dropped down into a squat, and looked at my feet. Desperately trying to get my camera to work, but it kept chiming “memory card full”. The gorilla slowly crept back into the bush, I turned around to find Shilo behind me, “DID YOU GET THAT???” Ah, no. The joys of using internet cafes, means lots of viruses on your memory cards. Although I only had 5 visible images stored, the card was full. Oh well, Shilo takes much better photographs anyways! By fiddling around, I was able to get a few videos of the gorillas eating, and moving through the bush. Hopefully, we might one day find an internet connection that is fast enough for us to upload them ;-)
Was it worth $500USD? I dunno. It was a phenomenal experience. As soon as I found out about it, I wanted to do it. I would have been very disappointed if we had skipped it. But from start to finish, it was less than 4 hours. Ideally, we would have been able to sit amongst them, quietly observing without the feeling that we were chasing and disturbing them down the slope. Apparently, the previous day’s group had such an experience, even having small 3 year old gorillas coming within a few feet to investigate! Knowing that the gorilla population has been able to start making a slow comeback because of the success of the parks is encouraging. Their numbers are now just over 700. The park’s success is partly due to the high cost of tracking, as they put 20% of the fees back into the surrounding communities that have lost valuable farmland and therefore have local support and less encroachment on park boundaries. Because of the high fees, it is more profitable to track the gorillas than to poach the gorillas, obviously a very good thing. So in some ways, yes, it was worth it. It just really hurts the budget! We heard rumors that the fees are to increase to $1000 USD. This is worrying, as I fear that it will either slow down tourist numbers, but even more likely, become another attraction on Africa’s list of “FOR THE ULTRA RICH ONLY ”.
Pictures and video to follow if we can get a decent connection.
Gangsta Life...A Ramble
East Africa is expensive - not only for us muzungos, but for Africans generally. Any food except ugali (maize porridge) is priced comparatively with Canada. Petrol works out to around $1.10CDN a litre.
A school teacher in Kenya earns around $15.00CDN a month...and since the advent of 'universal' education programs in both Uganda and Kenya, a teacher may have 200 or more students of different ages in a single class. Obviously these programs are more about self-congratulatory newspaper announcements and back-slapping by government officials than the quality of education provided.
We are trying to get by on around $25.00CDN total per day for food, transport and lodging. In India and Nepal we rarely spent more than $15.00 per day, but in Africa we're finding even this fatter budget...tight. To save money we are doing almost all of our own cooking. Each town has one packaged goods store for canned products. Then there will be a local market behind a big apartment block or beside the highway a few kilometers outside town. There will also be a local butcher where an entire seeping carcass of goat, cow and/or camel hangs from a hook in an unrefrigerated chamber and is periodically hacked at. (We boil or fry our meat forever.) Finally, each town has a tiny, perpetually understocked dairy where you can buy goat milk and eggs, usually in a 400 degree shack of scavenged wood and corrugated steel. Spending half a day shopping like a local is quaint and interesting at first, but you inevitably begin to wish for a massive, sterile, heartless and ridiculously well-stocked one-stop Western supermarket. (Sigh.)
There are basically three ways to travel in Africa. In descending order of expense: first, if you are a middle-aged cardiologist, you ship your own vehicle and drive overland. Second, if you are a 'people-person' or are terrified of Africans, you join a group "adventure overland tour" and are shuttled around with twenty or so others in semi-trailers converted into giant four-wheel drive buses. I imagine the experience is something like being parked in front of a new high-tech 3D television, with a nasal-British guide flipping the channels for you: "And tomorrow we wake up at seven OK people? Mango and French Toast for breaky, then we drive to the Pygmy Village....etc. etc." Finally, you are faced with riding the local matatus.
Every 'developing nation' (and I use that term very, very lightly...because to be frank I don't think that is what is happening at all) has it's own form of cheap transport. You've got your tuk-tuks, your boda-bodas, your rickshaws, your matatus. A matatu is a small Japanese passenger van designed to hold a maximum of eleven. We frequently count over twenty adults, plus assorted children (of which there are, invariably, many). Now, a matatu is obviously an extremely complex instrument, and is therefore staffed by no less than three men: the driver, the 'turn-boy' who screams at other matatus to get out of the fucking way, please, and a third hanger-on who waves randomly and pretends to count money.
When the Japanese have decided these vans are no longer road-worthy, or that they no longer represent the peak of Twenty-First Century consumerism, they are shipped to Africa and bought cheap. The most perplexing decision a matatu driver faces is whether to airbrush a giant portrait of Obama, Tupac, Celine Dion or the Transformers movie logo on his ride. After that come the speakers, where size certainly does not equal quality. These wailing demons from distortion hell are mounted directly behind the cab, facing the embattled passengers. For the young (they're all young) matatu driver, concerns such as the abovementioned come far before more proletarian decisions...such as a brake job or tire replacement. No one ever got laid because he had a nice new set of brake calipers.
I had a profoundly ironic but not altogether unpleasant moment waiting for our matatu to leave (Did I mention that? There is no fixed time for a matatu to leave; it leaves when full. So we wait...sometimes entire afternoons, until the requisite twenty-plus passengers are shoehorned in.) Anyway, I had Dr Dre, in an uncharacteristically whiney mood, vibrating my ears into mush while I attempted to kindly ignore a crowd of a dozen or so beggar children pressing into the glass an inch from my face. It seemed the kids were engaged in an intense competition to win muzungo money by seeing who could squish more square inches of sweaty skin up against the glass, thus creating a kind of squirming Picassoesque portrait of twisted nose and torqued flesh. And so:
"I started this gangster shit..."
"...Muzungo! Money! Money...!
"...and this tha mutha fuckin thanks I get?"
"...Money please! Money now! Money! Money! Money!"
The noise and abysmal vision, combined with the heat of purgatory and the almost sweet stench of chickens dying under my feet, damn near sent me into a ripping acid flashback. This would have been cool for the driver: matatu drivers are solidly fucked up, either "On the Cut" (stoned on Quat, a twiggy chewing narcotoc popular in Arab nations), drunk on chaangba (the local brew made with formaldyhyde and rubbing alchohol...I'm not making this shit up), or simply stoned. Trust me, if you were a matatu driver, you to would be reaching for a little something to take the edge off.
Beside staying consistently high, a matatu driver's sole satisfaction in life is proving to his passengers that he is God-For-A-Moment by constantly and thoroughly scaring the piss out of them. This is also true in India, but India is so crowded speeds rarely exceed 40KM/H. East Africa, however, has plenty of wide-open road (some of it even sorta paved) for the driver to really let'er buck. Passing in a fully-locked four wheel slide on a single track of pitted mud, on a blind corner, with a semi-trainer approaching, is standard operating. In two months we have seen maybe three other tourists riding matatus. Perhaps this is a bad sign?
The compensation for the insanity and inconvienience is that the price is right, and (when the speakers blow out) we get to talk to fellow passengers. East Africans are incredibly talkative, curious and friendly. They are a joy. It also helps that everyone except the hand-to-mouth farmers speak impeccable English. East Africans always open a conversation with one of the following:
1. "We hate our government. We are waiting for them to die off."
2. "Our government is corrupt. The old men have to die."
3. "Our government are teeves (thiefs). They should all die."
4. "Obama is Big Chief now."
5. "Obama is Big Boss Man now."
6. "Obama is Number One Man."
The correct response to any of these is "Yes."
A school teacher in Kenya earns around $15.00CDN a month...and since the advent of 'universal' education programs in both Uganda and Kenya, a teacher may have 200 or more students of different ages in a single class. Obviously these programs are more about self-congratulatory newspaper announcements and back-slapping by government officials than the quality of education provided.
We are trying to get by on around $25.00CDN total per day for food, transport and lodging. In India and Nepal we rarely spent more than $15.00 per day, but in Africa we're finding even this fatter budget...tight. To save money we are doing almost all of our own cooking. Each town has one packaged goods store for canned products. Then there will be a local market behind a big apartment block or beside the highway a few kilometers outside town. There will also be a local butcher where an entire seeping carcass of goat, cow and/or camel hangs from a hook in an unrefrigerated chamber and is periodically hacked at. (We boil or fry our meat forever.) Finally, each town has a tiny, perpetually understocked dairy where you can buy goat milk and eggs, usually in a 400 degree shack of scavenged wood and corrugated steel. Spending half a day shopping like a local is quaint and interesting at first, but you inevitably begin to wish for a massive, sterile, heartless and ridiculously well-stocked one-stop Western supermarket. (Sigh.)
There are basically three ways to travel in Africa. In descending order of expense: first, if you are a middle-aged cardiologist, you ship your own vehicle and drive overland. Second, if you are a 'people-person' or are terrified of Africans, you join a group "adventure overland tour" and are shuttled around with twenty or so others in semi-trailers converted into giant four-wheel drive buses. I imagine the experience is something like being parked in front of a new high-tech 3D television, with a nasal-British guide flipping the channels for you: "And tomorrow we wake up at seven OK people? Mango and French Toast for breaky, then we drive to the Pygmy Village....etc. etc." Finally, you are faced with riding the local matatus.
Every 'developing nation' (and I use that term very, very lightly...because to be frank I don't think that is what is happening at all) has it's own form of cheap transport. You've got your tuk-tuks, your boda-bodas, your rickshaws, your matatus. A matatu is a small Japanese passenger van designed to hold a maximum of eleven. We frequently count over twenty adults, plus assorted children (of which there are, invariably, many). Now, a matatu is obviously an extremely complex instrument, and is therefore staffed by no less than three men: the driver, the 'turn-boy' who screams at other matatus to get out of the fucking way, please, and a third hanger-on who waves randomly and pretends to count money.
When the Japanese have decided these vans are no longer road-worthy, or that they no longer represent the peak of Twenty-First Century consumerism, they are shipped to Africa and bought cheap. The most perplexing decision a matatu driver faces is whether to airbrush a giant portrait of Obama, Tupac, Celine Dion or the Transformers movie logo on his ride. After that come the speakers, where size certainly does not equal quality. These wailing demons from distortion hell are mounted directly behind the cab, facing the embattled passengers. For the young (they're all young) matatu driver, concerns such as the abovementioned come far before more proletarian decisions...such as a brake job or tire replacement. No one ever got laid because he had a nice new set of brake calipers.
I had a profoundly ironic but not altogether unpleasant moment waiting for our matatu to leave (Did I mention that? There is no fixed time for a matatu to leave; it leaves when full. So we wait...sometimes entire afternoons, until the requisite twenty-plus passengers are shoehorned in.) Anyway, I had Dr Dre, in an uncharacteristically whiney mood, vibrating my ears into mush while I attempted to kindly ignore a crowd of a dozen or so beggar children pressing into the glass an inch from my face. It seemed the kids were engaged in an intense competition to win muzungo money by seeing who could squish more square inches of sweaty skin up against the glass, thus creating a kind of squirming Picassoesque portrait of twisted nose and torqued flesh. And so:
"I started this gangster shit..."
"...Muzungo! Money! Money...!
"...and this tha mutha fuckin thanks I get?"
"...Money please! Money now! Money! Money! Money!"
The noise and abysmal vision, combined with the heat of purgatory and the almost sweet stench of chickens dying under my feet, damn near sent me into a ripping acid flashback. This would have been cool for the driver: matatu drivers are solidly fucked up, either "On the Cut" (stoned on Quat, a twiggy chewing narcotoc popular in Arab nations), drunk on chaangba (the local brew made with formaldyhyde and rubbing alchohol...I'm not making this shit up), or simply stoned. Trust me, if you were a matatu driver, you to would be reaching for a little something to take the edge off.
Beside staying consistently high, a matatu driver's sole satisfaction in life is proving to his passengers that he is God-For-A-Moment by constantly and thoroughly scaring the piss out of them. This is also true in India, but India is so crowded speeds rarely exceed 40KM/H. East Africa, however, has plenty of wide-open road (some of it even sorta paved) for the driver to really let'er buck. Passing in a fully-locked four wheel slide on a single track of pitted mud, on a blind corner, with a semi-trainer approaching, is standard operating. In two months we have seen maybe three other tourists riding matatus. Perhaps this is a bad sign?
The compensation for the insanity and inconvienience is that the price is right, and (when the speakers blow out) we get to talk to fellow passengers. East Africans are incredibly talkative, curious and friendly. They are a joy. It also helps that everyone except the hand-to-mouth farmers speak impeccable English. East Africans always open a conversation with one of the following:
1. "We hate our government. We are waiting for them to die off."
2. "Our government is corrupt. The old men have to die."
3. "Our government are teeves (thiefs). They should all die."
4. "Obama is Big Chief now."
5. "Obama is Big Boss Man now."
6. "Obama is Number One Man."
The correct response to any of these is "Yes."
Not so new news.
As most of you know, we are coming home! Mid December, just in time for Christmas!
We were mid way through our Samburu-land trek, while over dinner we both voiced that we were daydreaming of home the entire day. Quite the coincidence. Then, as it seems to happen, once we started talking about our homesickness it continued to grow. It seemed it was all we could talk or think about. Both of us shared feelings of missing friends and family, a sense of independence and certainty, security, cleanliness, and food variety. Shilo is going through serious climbing withdrawl. I miss work, GASP, I never thought it could be true! Travelling just to travel was no longer fufulling. This was not a new realization, we have already commented on the blog that our travel style in future may be drastically different. We discussed different ways to solve this: go to an Ashram, do some more yoga; park ourselves in a small village and learn the language, culture and volunteer so we feel useful; or cut our 3rd world travels short and come back to North America. We decided to sit on it for at least a month, to ensure it just wasn't a short term burn out. We lasted a week before we bought our airline tickets, LOL! We just couldn't think of anything else, and the more homesick we got, the less happy we were in our current context.
So we decided to cut Africa short, drastrically reduce Southeast Asia to only Thailand (its easy :-), and to return to North America for our last few months! For now, as plans are always changing, we are going to the Swahili Coast of Kenya for 10 days or so and then return to Nairobi before starting the 4 day bus journey to Addis Abba in Ethiopia. We plan for 5 weeks in Ethiopia, flying into Bangkok early November and our final 6 weeks overseas to be spent kayaking, diving, climbing and seeing Angkor Wat. We return to Vancouver mid December. Spending 1 month seeing family and friends before we head south to meet Shilo's sister's new baby, Max(YEAH!) Then plan to spend the next few months roadtripping through the southwestern states: hiking, climbing and kayaking. I want to come home for a spell during the spring, I need to work, I miss it. Flying back south to meet Shilo wherever he is when I am finished.
It took about a week for our decision to settle in. We are no longer as homesick, we have a finite time and a solid plan. We are enjoying ourselves in the here and now again. Which was our main concern. What a waste 3 months travel would have been if we couldn't even enjoy ourselves or work up enthusiasm to see the sites.
So see you around Christmas!
xoxo
dayna
We were mid way through our Samburu-land trek, while over dinner we both voiced that we were daydreaming of home the entire day. Quite the coincidence. Then, as it seems to happen, once we started talking about our homesickness it continued to grow. It seemed it was all we could talk or think about. Both of us shared feelings of missing friends and family, a sense of independence and certainty, security, cleanliness, and food variety. Shilo is going through serious climbing withdrawl. I miss work, GASP, I never thought it could be true! Travelling just to travel was no longer fufulling. This was not a new realization, we have already commented on the blog that our travel style in future may be drastically different. We discussed different ways to solve this: go to an Ashram, do some more yoga; park ourselves in a small village and learn the language, culture and volunteer so we feel useful; or cut our 3rd world travels short and come back to North America. We decided to sit on it for at least a month, to ensure it just wasn't a short term burn out. We lasted a week before we bought our airline tickets, LOL! We just couldn't think of anything else, and the more homesick we got, the less happy we were in our current context.
So we decided to cut Africa short, drastrically reduce Southeast Asia to only Thailand (its easy :-), and to return to North America for our last few months! For now, as plans are always changing, we are going to the Swahili Coast of Kenya for 10 days or so and then return to Nairobi before starting the 4 day bus journey to Addis Abba in Ethiopia. We plan for 5 weeks in Ethiopia, flying into Bangkok early November and our final 6 weeks overseas to be spent kayaking, diving, climbing and seeing Angkor Wat. We return to Vancouver mid December. Spending 1 month seeing family and friends before we head south to meet Shilo's sister's new baby, Max(YEAH!) Then plan to spend the next few months roadtripping through the southwestern states: hiking, climbing and kayaking. I want to come home for a spell during the spring, I need to work, I miss it. Flying back south to meet Shilo wherever he is when I am finished.
It took about a week for our decision to settle in. We are no longer as homesick, we have a finite time and a solid plan. We are enjoying ourselves in the here and now again. Which was our main concern. What a waste 3 months travel would have been if we couldn't even enjoy ourselves or work up enthusiasm to see the sites.
So see you around Christmas!
xoxo
dayna
Samburu Trek
These are some images from our five day trek through the Loroghi Hills of the Samburu people. I wrote about our experience with tribal conflict in the region a few posts ago, but it's only now that we're back in Nairobi and on a decent internet connection that we can add photos.
Maralal, the lovely starting town in North-Central Kenya. We are buying and cooking our own food on the treks to save costs, and needless to say supplies were limited here. We subsisted largely on greasy tuna: processed in Thailand, packaged in Dubai, sold in Kenya. Ain't globalisation a trip?
Rural church.
Day and a local Samburu lady.
Trekkin'. Notice the kids shadowing us, curious but concerned.
Dinner time. Our guides are cooking up roast goat and ugali. I think we had...greasy tuna pasta steeped in muck-water?
Lesiolo (World's View). This is the demarcation line for the warring tribes, the Samburu above and the Pokot down below.
A Samburu guard at Lesiolo. The spear he's carrying is an authentic Samburu hunting spear, a family heirloom and a few hundred years old.
Night sky. If you're carrying a fucking tripod, may as well use it now and then, hmm?
African bush toothbrush: a twig.
Samburu woman carrying thirty litres of water by a forehead strap, similar to how they carry loads in Nepal.
African bush water from a muck-hole crammed with several herds of goat and cattle. A complex brew: the deep resonance of mud was offset by the sharp twang of goat urine. We had no filter, but chlorined the shit out of it. Still, it was by far the most worrysome water I've ever been forced to drink. I nicknamed the five-litre jug "The Crippler" because I carried the fucker full for thirty kilometers on the first day in my frameless 'ultralightweight' backpack. Good times.
African bush-bath: leaves.
Over the hills...
The Samburu are semi-nomadic. They build these strange snail-shell shaped dwellings out of mud and twigs at seasonal grazing pastures.Logic
A young boy approached me, smiling and ragged. "Sir, I would prefer you to give me one hundred shillings."
I smiled back: "And why should I give you one hundred shillings?"
He, quickly: "Because you are rich and I am poor."
This being no less than the one millionth time I'd heard this, I replied with my stock answer: "Yes, in Uganda I am rich. But in my country I am not."
His smile boldened triumphantly: "But we are in Uganda now, Sir."
I liked him. I smiled a big friendly grin and upped the ante: "Yes, but even in Uganda, the pain in my body I have from working reminds me that I am not a rich man."
His brow furrowed for about a fifth of a second, then he laughed: "So you should give me two hundred shillings!"
"Why?"
"So I don't have the pain in my body from working!"
I smiled back: "And why should I give you one hundred shillings?"
He, quickly: "Because you are rich and I am poor."
This being no less than the one millionth time I'd heard this, I replied with my stock answer: "Yes, in Uganda I am rich. But in my country I am not."
His smile boldened triumphantly: "But we are in Uganda now, Sir."
I liked him. I smiled a big friendly grin and upped the ante: "Yes, but even in Uganda, the pain in my body I have from working reminds me that I am not a rich man."
His brow furrowed for about a fifth of a second, then he laughed: "So you should give me two hundred shillings!"
"Why?"
"So I don't have the pain in my body from working!"
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