There are Super Campers and then there is me.

We were in Sipi with three other families so each night at dinner we were 15. The children ranged in age from 10 to 15 with only 3 boys yet they were all in sync and ran about like fair nymphs of the forest. Two of the families brought their tents and camped, one being the family I have previously referred to as The Super Campers. Well now I have met two Super Campers. They both arrived and strenuously put up tents, blew up mattresses, arranged tables and chairs, unpacked mini stoves, kettles and thankfully wine, cashews and olives.  While I was ordering hot water for tea and hot chocolate, there they were boiling water and playing with stackable pots.

It was a remarkable thing to see from someone who is definitely not a camper. I couldn’t fathom why someone would go the trouble of camping when there were perfectly decent Bandas merely feet away. They tried to convert me with the largesse of their tent and the comfort they felt, but I could see no comfort in sleeping like a row of sardines with my daughter’s elbow in my face. I guess it takes all sorts and I know that I am on the side of the non campers, unless I am in a place where one must camp by necessity, as we did in Murchison.

However, Trooper and Princess think Camping is a GREAT idea and why are we so boring sleeping on beds??

The beauty of Sipi.

Sipi falls is 5 hours East of Kampala. It is a place for hiking, relaxing and gazing at the splendid scenery.

When we reached Sipi the first thing that struck us was the view. Thankfully, there are no mosquitos in Sipi as it is 4000 meters high, the air is clean and the sound of running water is always present. Three nights and four days is the perfect amount of time for a mini get away. You return to the regular life restored. How long that feeling lasts is another story..

There are three main falls in Sipi and they are not magnificent for their strength, power or sheer volume but rather they are very pretty by virtue of the extreme height of their fall. Our lodge was perched on the very edge of one of the falls. Our room, made simply in a rustic style, had beds built high enough to see the view from the comfort of our bed, it was not luxurious, but, it was all one really needed.  Like a little log cabin with thatch roof and knotty logs of wood for beds, each Banda was a brown dot in an otherwise stunning cliff top ridge. The falls were tucked under us, so, hard to see but we heard them and all Bandas and the restaurant faced an enormous valley hugged loosely by two tall cliffs. It was as if child, had, in an inventive moment laid a soft map of the world over two upturned chairs . The sky became huge as it spread itself above this valley, occasionally forming square shadows with it’s clouds.

When we arrived we set off immediately on hike number one. It is an hour and half hike to the bottom of the falls directly under the room we were staying in. But with three children 10, 12 and 12 who wanted to stop and admire, pick up and adopt every chameleon we passed and then stand under the spray of the falls , it took closer to three hours. The path took a winding route that passed a few mud homes, some cows and down past caves that looked like giant and deep scars in the face of the cliff. We then passed coffee trees that gave us some cool shelter before we came out and climbed down a giant steep ladder, kindly constructed so that between a choice of sliding on one’s bottom down a 90 degree mud wall or walk backwards down a shaky and steep ladder, we could choose the latter. By this point in the walk a few local children had decided to tag on. When we finally got to the bottom of the ladder after and slow and careful walk down, one of them just walked frontwards down the ladder as if it were a simple and dull flight of stairs. His friend chose the mud wall option, only he ran gracefully down.

Soon we arrived at the foot of the falls. Having passed through grass, mud, rocks and ladder we were now in a tall grassy field. As we passed through, the falls began to roar. We could see them before we felt them but once we climbed down some cool rocks we could feel the spray that came so suddenly, with a gust of air that literally took my breath away.

The walk back up the cliff hurt, and still hurt the next day. Shows how dreadfully unfit I am. Shameful, especially considering the number of women we passed who climbed that path and that ladder daily, with huge stacks of wood on their heads.

Children become completely  alive and vibrant under a waterfall. The joy of such abandonment is a thrilling thing. It is rare that I feel such unmitigated joy, such freedom to live completely in the moment without a care for tomorrow or even today. They are so lucky my children. In the past few days they have laughed with friends, had tickle fights in a tent, climbed hills, twirled in the spray of a beautiful waterfall, captured chameleons, run in nature and played. Played with each other and the space around them.

Kampala is a far life from here.

Off to the Falls.

I am off in search of fresh air and nature. I am leaving the little box, the sauna classroom, the pubescent school sprogs, the red dust and the 6.25am alarm that so rudely pulls me from me slumber, behind. It is only a four day escape but it will be adequate, I believe, to charge my tired spark plugs.

We are going to Sipi Falls which is near Mt. Elgon, quite close to Kenya and 5 hours east of Kampala. It will be our first time heading east and I think Beauty will love the ride. Apparently there is a remarkable waterfall and some stunning hiking. I really have little idea what it will be but I promise to return with stories and photos.

TTFN.

Safari Day 5: Rainy days, vanilla and bubble baths

I am not sure what woke me up first, the birds or the fiery itching of the tetse fly bites circling my ankles like an unwanted anklet.

Once awake I was anxious to open all the curtains and windows to see the view. Outside our room was a small balcony, with day beds and cushions, positioned perfectly to gaze at the morning view of the valleys below. Unfortunately, this balcony being under the thatched roof, a perfect home for a sparrow’s nest, the day bed of my choice was scattered with bird poop and a plentiful supply of dog hair, generously donated by the lovely, yet flea infested, dogs that live here. I have been to flea hell and I will ever return.

The morning was spent on a hike to the vanilla plantation with our guide, Steve, who helpfully pointed out the medicinal properties of all the plants. shrubs and beans we passed on the way down the valley.

(cocoa bean.)

(Vanilla pods.)

Once we arrived at the vanilla plants he explained the 4 month painstaking operation that leads to the vanilla we find in the grocery store.

(vanilla drying.)

Finally we met Lulu, a lovely English woman and cousin of the owner of the lodge, who has been running the plantation since 2004. She supplies all the organic vanilla to Ben & Jerry’s, Tesco and Waitrose in the UK. I had no idea what a procedure it was to grow and prepare vanilla. The pods, after being washed in boiling water for 2 minutes, exactly, have to then be laid in the sun for precisely 3 hours each day, then lovingly wrapped in wollen blankets, everyday for 4 months. The whole place smelt wonderful and I left with dreams of Creme Caramel and Creme Brule swirling in my head.

Sadly half way through lunch the rains come and there was no better way to spend the afternoon than napping in my four poster bed, lulled by the sound of cross wet birds, followed by a steaming hot bubble bath.

Safari Day 4: Tsetse flies and Crater lakes

I am covered with the painful bites of Tsetse flies. The irony is that, while they used to cause the dangerous Sleeping Disease, now they prevent any chance of sleep while I am up most of the night with the sensation of legs on fire. Sleeplessness has forced me to reflect on the past few days.

While Sunday December the 13th was surely one of the worst days of my life, December 15th was one of the best. What was remarkable and moving about the experience of seeing both lions and elephants up close and in the wild was that there was an eye to eye connection between us. We were the only car and therefore only humans for miles around and as we approached the tree the male lion looked at us directly. He knew we were there. We knew that he knew and we knew that we had disturbed him, not a lot, but enough to make him get down from the tree.  Once he was down and let out an irritated roar that seemed to express irritation that his nap had been interrupted, one of the females watched us. At one point she looked me straight in the eye. I imagine she was saying “yes, I know I am beautiful and extraordinary, now leave me alone to sleep.”

Elephants cannot see well and the large male that approached the car ahead of the others knew we were there but couldn’t actually see us until he came close. At that point he stood and looked directly at us. I cannot express in words the feeling of looking into the eyes of a wild animal, who not only acknowledges you, but knows that you are no real danger to him. All the animals that we passed on our two safari drives were extremely curious and stood and observed us in pretty much the same way that we were observing them. On more than one occasion there was a direct eye to eye connection. Yet none were as powerful as the moments that passed between us and the elephant and between us and the lions.

The most disturbing thing about our car crash, more so even than the two thousand dollars it will take to fix the problem, was the attitude of the people who came to watch the aftermath of the crash. My girls are only 9 and 12, yet they have seen a side of human behaviour that many people never witness.. I can’t help but imagine how it would have been in Canada, where I know that people would have run over to help, offered us assistance and probably even invited us into their homes. Men would have eagerly rushed over to see what they could do and would have grouped together to push the car  over to its rightful stance. There would have been no discussion of money, only concern for our well being. I know that many will say , well what can you expect when these people have nothing and they regard you, due to the colour of your skin, as richer than they can ever hope to be?  Well I reply that in that case something is rotten in the state of our relationship with each other. When the inequality between people is such a divider that it stops us from seeing each other as members of the same human race, I despair. Those people had no compassion. They had been taught, somewhere down the line, that we deserve none. Yet how many people in the Great Shiny West, who have never stepped foot on this continent are more than happy to open up their wallets and show compassion by helping poor Africans in need?

We are nothing more than a walking dollar sign to them and it might be the prevalence of aid that has turned these people into victims with no pride.

We left the Wilderness Lodge at about 10 am once our driver arrived to take us to our next stop, the Ndali lodge. The drive was in the region of about 4 hours north through Queen Elizabeth Park, a little more since we needed to stop at a garage to have the brake pads attended to. To approach the lodge it is necessary to climb up a steep mountain past villages where men and women sat chatting beside large piles of drying corn and past boys pushing heavy bicycles laden with matoke. ( This is a member of the banana family and the staple food of all Ugandans.)  Finally we reached the very top where the lodge sits on a ridge, one side facing a crystal clear crater lake, where we sat and enjoyed some lunch, and the other side, where the cottages face, an undulating valley of lakes, mountains, tiny villages the size of dots, and finally in the misty distance the sharp peaks of the Rwenzori mountains. The stunning contrast between the two views had me flitting between the two, camera in hand for the first hour of our visit. Like a soft patchwork blanket in shades of green the valleys are spread like a feast below the little infinity pool. It was a scene of calm bliss.

This is a region famous for its crater lakes. These were formed eons ago by volcanos and today they look like silver pot holes from a distance. I have longed believed that there is nothing more soothing to the soul than the ability to look as far as the eyes can see. Nothing obstructs this fabulous view and the changing lights helps the view transform, especially in the hour before sunset. Much of that hour was spent in the piping hot bath, complete with window and view, that I gratefully climbed into at around 6pm. I love a good hot bath, and a bath with a view is one of the joys of life.

Safari Day 3: wildlife bonanza

There is no finer way to be awoken than the gentle call of a man telling us that our coffee is waiting outside. The girls had hot chocolate and we had hot coffee while we gently wiped away the sleepy dust and prepared for breakfast. The birds were having some major debate between their nests and the river was running wild and furious. To perfect matters even further two elephants were frolicking and tousling in the river, quite obviously revelling in the refreshing cool water.  After a breakfast of fresh pineapple and poached eggs we were ready to climb aboard the safari truck, once again.

Morning in the park is different from sunset. The animals all seemed frisky and we were greeted by a spectacular flock of crested crane. We crossed our fingers for lion but didn’t hold out too much hope after the few cars we passed told us that they has seen nothing. The amazing thing about this park is that most of the time we are all alone. 3 vehicles is considered a traffic jam. After three hours of driving we were heading back to camp after an wonderful morning of elephant sightings and we were slightly disappointed about the lack of lions, but still feeling satisfied with our first safari experience. All of a sudden, my eagle eyed husband spotted something in a tree. Could it be?

We pulled out the binoculars and confirmed that it was indeed lions and as a bonus the tree where they were lying was right on the track. We slowly approached, with warnings to the girls not to squeal or make any sound. What we discovered was not just lions, but two females and a male. Male lions generally never climb trees, it is too cumbersome for them as they weigh too much and are not as agile or lithe as their female mates. Here was a male in a tree and Dave, our trusty and informative guide expressed some amazement, having never seen this before. Once we came close to their tree the male spotted us and started to come down. At this point my heart started beating. It was one thing to know where he was but once he was on the ground and hidden by bush, he could jump out and chase us at any time. Our truck had no walls, doors or windows and we were highly exposed. With his foot remaining just above the gas pedal, Dave waited while I took photos from my perfect spot just below the lioness. After some moments observing and snapping away we drove off amazed and grateful for our luck.

On the way back to camp, with our hearts full, we came upon a group of 8 elephant bulls. We stopped for awhile to watch and as we did they slowly approached us until they were a mere 20 feet away. Before we knew it they were ambling with their heavy gait towards our car and before our widening eyes they crossed the road infront of us.

It was a privilege to have had such close access to magnificent wild animals and we returned to camp knowing full well that our luck had turned.

Safari Journal Day 2: Police station drama and Safari drive

We woke up stiff and bruised but optimistic. We were ready to finally start our vacation and we knew that once the police and car towing was dealt with, the worst would be over.

Until you have spent 31/2 hours in a remote Uganda police station, you have not really been to Africa. The room was dusty and it smelt like ancient body odour. The calender that was stuck, slanted to the wall, read September and the paint had peeled and faded to some shade that may once have resembled yellow. The window was splattered with suicidal mosquitos and the roof was made of tin. The phone numbers of all the police officers were chalked onto the walls. Sitting amidst this was a traffic officer wearing the crispest and whitest suit you can imagine. To protect the seat of his super white pants he sat upon a handkerchief and with tongue in his cheek, like a school boy concentrating on his penmanship , he carefully wrote down what had happened. He was polite, yet slow and we waited patiently for the report to be filed. The commanding officer who had been on the scene the night before had the key to the car and we had to wait some hours before he arrived to hand it to us. The towing truck that was arriving , at great expense, from Kampala, would need that key to deliver the car back home and the car would not be released until the report was correctly filed and paid for. So there were steps to follow and no amount of wishing, pleading or hoping would speed this situation up.

The men responsible for the electricity pole that I had unfortunately hit turned up to get their compensation and we discovered that despite paying for the police report it would not be handed to us until the car was officially inspected in Kampala. Email addresses were exchanged with fingers crossed in hope that we would eventually see the report and once the midday sun was starting to roast us, and we thought we had seen quite enough of Kihihi police station for one life time, we were finally allowed to go. Dave, the hardy and patient manager of the wilderness lodge where we were staying picked us up and drove us away.

The lodge is a tented yet exquisite set of structures nestled amongst the trees on the banks of the Ishasha River. We were presented with an oasis of calm and serenity after the past 20 hours of scary and painful hell. Within minutes we could feel our troubles and the memories of the Kihihi police station melt away. It is called a wilderness camp for good reason and with 25 staff for 20 guests, every need is met and catered for. The sound of birds and running river accompanied our delicious lunch, eaten outside, with fine linens and china. The Princess Camper within me beamed. This was perfect. We were the only guests and once lunch was over it was only the four of us, with Dave, who piled into the Safari truck. By 4pm we were driving through the park looking, as far as the eye could see, at fig trees, savannah, Kob, Water Buck, Warthog, Buffalo, Topi, Eagles and the almighty elephant.

Ishasha is famous for its tree climbing lions. They hunt at night and sleep all day in the thick branches of the fig tree. There are only 28 lions spread over  the 18,000 hectares of the park and it is sheer luck to see them. The park is only a few kilometers from the Congo and often the lions wander over there and can’t be seen for many weeks. At one point on the drive we stopped by a river that shall forever, in my memory, be known as Hippo Soup. The Congo was near enough to wade to, were it not for the large and cumbersome Hippos wallowing within it.

We couldn’t find any lions despite some long drives around the favorite fig trees. Still, when we drove back into the camp, were were happy, lucky and spoilt.

Safari Journal Day 1: Bad luck and flipping cars

Maybe it was because it was the 13th, maybe it was because we hit a bird as we were leaving Kampala (“ that is a bad sign,” my husband said when the crow flew into our windscreen as we drove across the equator), maybe it was simply bad luck. One minute we were driving along, happily singing and laughing and 30 seconds later we were climbing out of a heap of mangled metal, wondering what on earth had happened.

The day did not start well. After weeks of anticipation and excitement, we awoke at 6:15 am bright eyed and bushy tailed ready for an early departure for Ishasha, the southern tip of Queen Elizabeth Game Park, over 9 hours west of Kampala. Unfortunately the gods had other plans in store, as we were to find out when the Beast would not start.

“The Beast has died,” I explained to two forlorn looking daughters.

“We need to find another way to get there.”

Various texts to friends and panicked phone calls to car rental offices later ( there is very little one can do at 7 am on a Sunday morning in Kampala) we found a solution. A driver would transport us for the entire week for the royal sum of $700 US.

At this point, with cries of “you should never have bought that bloody car!” hurled across the kitchen, a divorce seemed more likely than paying a driver that much money. With tempers flared and tears springing from eyes the trip was looking very grim and very expensive.

Luckily a friend appeared at the 11th hour with an offer to lend us his car.

“My Hero” I wrote in a thank you text to him as we finally drove out of our gate 3 hours later than planned.

It all went so well. We loved the car, so much better than our crappy Beast, traffic was minimal and we were making good time. We had a packed lunch and snacks aplenty, songs were sung and everything was looking splendid. Shortly after the half way point where we stopped for gas and a highly unpleasant visit to the pit toilets behind the petrol station, I offered to take the wheel.

7 hours into the journey the roads had become treacherous. We climbed up a steep and rocky incline where we were presented with a stunning view of a valley below. The villages we passed were remote and the people we passed kept holding out their hands and shouting “Money!” as we drove pass. The contrast between the bitter attitude of the locals who saw us as simply a ticket to free money and the stunning view was shocking. We discussed at the length the disparity between their desire for a charity handout and our belief that these people with fertile farmland in which to grow food, schools in which to become educated and all limbs secure in which to work were more than capable to make their own money and not look to the rare white foreigner as their meal ticket.

4 km before the town of Kihihi we were all laughing in the car at the sound of the name. Didn’t it sound just so much like a giggle? Within seconds ( and I have played this moment back over and over in my mind with no ability to remember a thing) the car had spun out of control. One second we were laughing and driving, the next second the car had careened across the road, driven wildly out of control towards a house and finally      had tipped over. After we climbed out of the front of the car, where the windscreen had been, I realized I had hit an electricity pole, narrowly averted a house and some chickens and had flipped next to a thorny patch of green. The car lay on its side, steaming, dripping and groaning. Broken glass litered the ground, apples were strewn everywhere and the girls were white and shaking. Both girls were fine, but Trooper had a nasty cut on her elbow that was bleeding and what appeared to be a sprained wrist. We were all alive.

Moments later a crowd appeared and over the next hour and a half the crowd grew and moved closer. I am convinced that nothing quite as exciting had ever happened in that small village. Bodas appeared, cars parked and people came out to gawp. When it was time to turn the car over, in order to assess the damage, no one would help without an offer of money. The onlookers were more concerned with whether or not they could get their hands on the apples then finding out if we were okay. It was the most disgusting display of humanity.

In the end, the car was able to be driven to the police station and we got a ride to a nearby hotel. Shaken, we assessed our bruises and prepared for bed, knowing that the next morning we would be back at the tin roofed police station to file a report. The car would need to be towed back to Kampala, we would need to hire a driver to take us home and we were looking at spending some time in bureaucratic hell.

Counting days

If I haven’t written as much as usual it is because I feel it is necessary to find something cheerful to write about, amusing perhaps or maybe simply anecdotal. Seeing as though I spend most days either tucked away in my classroom trying hard to get 11 year olds or even 13 year olds (can you believe?) to use a capital letter after a full stop, and then driving along the highway passed decaying cow horns back home to spend the evening with one grumpy Trooper and one Princess hyped up on her imminent appearance in Grease next week, I haven’t felt particularly inspired.  The swelling from the nasty bites caught during last week’s visit to the very Hairy Lemon has subsided due to heavy doses of steroids and enough anti-histamines to put an elephant to sleep, and those little pills coupled with a glass of wine or two send me into a post Entourage Dvd stupor.

I am counting the days until we leave on our much anticipated vacation. On December 13^th we will finally set off in search of Hippos, Lions, and Elephants; in short we are heading on Safari for 5 nights. Every time I think about this road trip, with just our little family, I feel little butterfly flutters of excitement bouncing around the walls of my belly. I am just so excited.

Yet, there are still 7 days of school that remain, two drama performances, ( including the aforementioned Grease), a dance to chaperone and 120 projects to mark. On a more sociable note we have an art exhibit, a Christmas party, a dinner party and another little event so I know time will just fly by. Before I know it we will be packed up, in the Beast and heading West to the border of Congo.

Term one is nearly over.

Heaven is a place called Bunyoni.

 

I think I have found heaven and its name is Lake Bunyoni. To be more specific, it is one of 29 islands in the lake and is called Bushara Island. How to describe an island in the middle of a lake, small enough to walk around and never be lost, yet big enough to be completely alone? There is something nostalgic about being on a lake with docks that harks back to summers in Canada; but this was most certainly Africa, from the sounds of the drums, to the Crested Cranes, the cows and goats, the electric green Chameleon and the song like quality of the local language.

It is a dusty and very bumpy 8 hour drive ( 11 hours if one of your party loses her clutch ) but it is worth every minute of the drive. The name Bunyoni means lake of little birds and I now see bird watchers and their little binoculars in a whole new light. I am not going to suddenly start pulling out notebooks and frantically writing down the name of birds, but I am amazed. Birds are twitchy, nervous, skittish creatures, always looking around for the next crumb or the bird round the corner who might come by to swipe it. I have never appreciated their sudden movements, finding them a little too startled for me. Yet, lying still on a deck chair in the sun, in front of my safari tent, it was hard to read with all the bird drama going on around me. Diving and swooping they were possessive of their branches and I noticed that they never hop in a straight line. I had to go all the way to Bushara to sit and really look at birds.

We slept in permanent tent structures and lived without electricity, hot water or flushing loos for 4 days, and it was quite magical. You could feel your pulse dropping as the birds called and the drums from the lake beat an invitation to church. We ate by candle light, walked back to our tents with torches and zipped ourselves up for the night. We travelled to other islands in a dug out canoe, carved from one of the tall Eucalyptus trees that cover the island. It was chilly, which came as a welcome change after the heat of Kampala and it was bliss to wrap up in a sweater and sit beside the fire place in the evening. The thick black night offered us a theatre of star gazing and the mornings arrived with an orchestra of bird song.

I did not see our children. We travelled there with two other families and the mix of children was perfect. Throw a few younger boys into the mix and the girls shake off their pubescent concerns and turn into rope swinging Tom Boys. They ate together, slept in facing tents, swam together, and generally ran all over the island with joyous abandon. There is little opportunity in Kampala to walk freely, let alone run wild, so this was a chance for children to live for a few days in a strange kind of kid heaven. Wrapped up in an idyllic state of perfect childhood they managed to spend days together, problem solve together and despite the lack of lashings of ginger beer bare a close resemblance to the Famous Five.

We took two trips to other islands, one to explore a former leper colony, now a secondary day and boarding school, and the other to hike to the top of a peak to gasp at the 360 degree view of the lake. We also had the chance to walk around Mukoni Village. The life of an African child is one of joy and barefoot freedom, and we were followed all the way back to our canoe by 6 children singing, skipping and laughing. They had quite special names, a case of an English word turned into an African name. Gift, Grace, Secret, Marvelous, Innocence, Adamson, and Frank ( whose parents must have found such names inappropriate for a young boy.) The children proudly sang us an English song they had learnt in school, happy to show off their English to the Mzungus. ( white people.) Dressed in torn, muddy clothes they sucked sugar cane with the widest of smiles. Joy and openness ran across their faces. They must be aware that once they grow up a life of hard work awaits.

It was hard to leave the island. I cannot think of anyone we know who would not find it a magical place. I know we will return.