KokoMo Betta

Arusha, Jamaica ooooh I wanna take ya // Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama! Wait a minute, she said Arusha, not Aruba. That's right beach boys. I am going to Arusha, Tanzania.

Trade show coming up June 8th, and guess who wiggled herself onto a flight in that direction? Me, that's who.  Stone-cold proof that it doesn't hurt to speak up. When I heard another coworker get invited to go to Tanzania for this show weeks ago, I cringed... why did my boss invite her!? She barely smiles. It took me 2.5 months to get her to warm up to me, and I only succeeded by the sparkling magic of lip gloss. Sure, she's worked for Volcanoes for six years, in comparison to my amazing performance of four months, but I can at least pretend to be charming! I have nice teeth! Good posture! I am great at faking elaborate knowledge of things which at best I possess a rudimentary understanding of! Like, forming passive sentences ending with exclamation points!! (Great sales points, right?)

Well against all odds, I made a point of requesting a special meeting with my boss and explaining that I really enjoyed many things about my job with Volcanoes, but I wanted to work more on marketing, more journalism: writing stories, interviewing participants in our non-profit sector, creating deliverables to share with the public, experiencing the product, LEAVETHEOFFICEBEFOREIPULLOUTALLOFMYHAIR-type stuff. That, and it's really hard to work a sales job as an underpaid peon, making no commission, having no sales incentives, while literally funneling hundreds of thousands of dollars into the company.

I thought she didn't hear me. She kind of faded away after that meeting, supposedly met with the big London boss about the many things the sales team had shared with her... but didn't bat an eyelash for over a week after he left, and I never got any feedback to the many things I had suggested and shared.

Then the logistics manager who was supposed to accompany the sales consultant couldn't go anymore. He is instead somewhere between Rwanda and Nairobi, I think. So V (boss lady) asked me if I would like to accompany the other girl. To which I waited .04 seconds to emphatically accept.

Granted, I will be in some sort of business center no doubt, shmoozing and yawning for most of the 4 day show. I will also hilariously be dressed in traditional Rwandan attire.  Hands will be shook. Smiles will be plastered into place. Pictures will be had. But it will be in Tanzania. And you gotta love an excuse to get one more stamp into that passport.

And for Kate—who hopefully still reads this from time-to-time—I envision saying, "Mooore pictures!" (In a cookie monster growl)

I present, Kilimanjaro:

Then, thanks to the wonders of the interwebs, I happened upon this bizarre story/site...which started so sweetly I though it was an African fable for children... then it literally headed south. 

I just lost 15 minutes that I will never get back... but it was kind of fun. 

Gnuts n Pepper

Who are we really? Not only who are we, inside, but who are we to other people? Because I’m starting to think what we mean to others matters more than what we mean to ourselves. I could be a garbage collector, (no offense, if you or someone you love labors within this noble profession) but if my good friends and family see me as a source of strength, as someone they can count on and care about, someone of integrity and “moral fiber,” what does it matter what I do? Or my own, pissy, self image?

This argument may sound a bit pedestrian, but I just randomly selected “A Serious Man” to watch tonight, alone in my African room, which ended unceremoniously after (spoiler alert) the main guy receives a phone call from his doctor to come in to talk about his x-ray results in person (bad news) and his son is waiting for his Hebrew school teacher to unlock the school’s basement door so all the kids can take shelter from the ominous dark cloud of a tornado approaching (dramatic, yet unavoidable, potential bad news.)

It was confusing. Disappointing, perhaps, as one expects some sort of end to a story after committing 100-something minutes trying to absorb its message. But then I picked up my Zadie Smith novel and tried to finish it—realizing that everything tonight is Jewish themed—and as I’m glossing over the words of this novel, trying to decipher its meaning, I realize my brain is going independently—which is incredibly frustrating considering that I’m 10 pages away from being done with this 400 page novel—and the thought I am thinking is something akin to where I fit with my three girlfriends back home. Who am I to them? They say they miss me via the occasional Facebook post, email or Skype session…. like my absence there has created some sort of loss. I matter. And I feel juvenile because for some reason I picture the four of us as characters from Sex and the City, and I am asking myself privately, “which character would I be?” Realizing that I don’t think we are really characters, or even similar in character, to these fictional women, but realizing that my hackneyed thought process is trying to tell me that I may not see myself clearly, or even understand how that may be possible.  Meanwhile I’m having my Fear and Loathing in Kampala, only much more quietly because I don’t have access to any hard drugs, and I feel a little too much social responsibility to dive completely off the deep end. That, and I have to start another week of work in the morning.

I wonder if I ask myself about the meaning of life more than the average person. It seems others make decisions, accept them, then move on with their lives. This is a behavior I observe in my ex-boyfriends.  This lack of self-deprecation and doubt. This ability to "forgive and forget" or just plain forget.

(My mom being an exception in her grave contemplation and second-guessings at life decisions; myself, genetically and/or observantly, following suit.)

What do I want in life? The same boring things really. A partner-in-crime. Maybe some kids at some point. A satisfying career, enough money to live off of, play amply with, and go on vacation frequently by. True, reliable friends. Good relationships with my parents. An idea that I am in someway contributing to making the world, or my little corner of it, a better place. Being continuously challenged and pleasantly surprised by the world and its bits.

I don’t know if I should post this stuff to the blog. I kind of feel like the blog is over, I’m over it all here. But I can’t just sit here and watch movies and rot for two months, waiting for my return flight to arrive....

Its just so strange to feel so strongly what you want and at the same time have no idea—No idea how to actually achieve really much of anything, instead seemingly blindly flailing about. Most people probably don’t end up typing about this alone on a bed in the middle of East Africa. Maybe they take a Xanex and go to bed. Or eat some cake and watch TV.

I have cotton mouth. 

I feel puffy. 

Dogs are barking outside, and the only other noise is the hum of the fluorescent lightbulb in my room.

I skipped over my whereabouts during and since the fam trip to the lodges. I am now relocated to a somewhat normal house, with a mostly normal bed, shared living area and kitchen. 

Shopping is all weird again, mainly because I’ve had to readjust from my once nearby Namuwongo market routine selections of cabbage, onion, tomato and garlic, served at least 4x/week over pasta… occasionally with some edam cheese if I’ve planned in advance. Now I’m in Kololo, a much fancier (said with accent and mimed quotations) part of town, nearby embassies and government offices, where people speed past me in their SUVs over the infrequent (in comparison) potholes to get to their offices where they can make a disgusting comparative wage for living in Uganda. I’m paying almost 3x the rent I was paying in VietNamuwongo, and it’s entirely worth it because my roommates are nice to me. Really, it’s the simple things that are most important.

That, and there’s a garden. 

 

And dogs. 

The dogs’ names are Gnut (a local abbreviation for grounduts, similar to peanuts and usually roasted in oil) and Pepper, and I like to sit at their level on the front step  and mess with their gnarled teeth, tugging on their loose skin, until I get them all riled up, and they can’t help but go nuts on each other for 15 minutes straight, as young, puppyish dogs will do. It makes me miss having Benny, but happy I have someone to pet.

When I do Ashtanga on the porch, Gnut stretches next to me and can hardly control herself, occasionally whining in excited exasperation, as I am clearly bending in all sorts of ways in some prolonged strange performance/homage to dogdom. She shoes me her downward dog in return, then flops down, bored. They both walk over my mat and when my feet are extended straight in front of me, I get licks on my toes, or paws on my legs in the manner of an old Jewish grandmother patting you after a good joke, “Oy! my dear, stop, you’re killing me!”  Pepper barks nonstop in total terror of anyone new within the compound, myself included for four days upon my arrival, and then once she loves you, won’t leave you alone, wiggling up next to you and rolling over in submission half-on top of you or in your lap if she can manage. This afternoon, I got battering-rammed in the sternum with her nose by a flying acrobatic leap—that’s how glad she was to see me again.

I ate dinner tonight on the porch alone, a very creative meal: diced potatoes, tofu, marinated in soy sauce and garlic, chopped tomato, gnuts and rehydrated, once-dried mushrooms, all pan-fried together into this sort of crazy stir-fry… (I've always been really good at using all my leftovers, often in strange new ways, and I realize I would do quite well on one of those cooking shows or where they make you come up with a meal based on five random ingredients.... baking is a bit trickier...)

I watch the light begin to fade behind the hills, admired the palm trees and tropical flowers in the yard, and for a moment, felt peaceful and proud that even though I don’t know what I’m doing, at least I do something.  And then comes the day when I will just have to do something else.

Some Sort of Sunday

A panic attack, 7am phone call to the US, two-hour yoga session, 8 person ladies' brunch complete with facials, makeovers and mimosas, and an hour-long massage. It's been quite a day already, and it's only 6pm.

Such is life in Kampala; it mirrors the weather. One moment it's sunny and bright, you're standing in front of some strange tropical plant bearing giant fruit, a butterfly lands on your nose.... ok maybe I'm getting carried away, but you get the point.... Then the wind picks up, you realize there are dark clouds funneling your way, thunder rumbles and you happen to be in the middle of a muddy overcrowded street with boda-bodas and matatus trying to run you over, the rain coming sideways and upside down,  you have no umbrella to speak of, and your feet are orange-brown in clay mud and god-knows-what-else until you can figure out a way to get home.

Home.

I am ready to come home.

I admit it.

Unless something magical happens in the next couple months, I'm just tired of being here.

It's homesickness in a way, but it's more than that. I don't feel like it's unbearable to live here--just not ideal, or even mostly ideal. It seems the experience should by now offer more rewards than drawbacks. I'm just thinking it's not a very good fit. I'm having a very disparate experience to what I had while living in Ecuador.

I miss my friends. I miss IPA. I miss my dog. I miss normal grocery stores with options of food inside. I miss things operating somewhat efficiently. I miss concerts.  I miss driving--oh god, I miss driving my car like _________(insert fitting clever simale here). I miss a bicycle with gears that shift, and a chain that stays on at least most of the time.

But more than the missing, I feel like I am missing the mark. Maybe there are more opportunities to be had here, but it doesn't seem to be falling into place. The job is blah. My exercise routine is difficult to maintain, sporadic at best. My diet is ridiculously overloaded with starchy carbs. My dating life is non-existant. My social life only slightly better, and only sometimes, because I happen to enjoy dancing, and eating... two things you can usually find other people to wrangle into participation.

The funny thing is that I don't really know what I'm going home to. My mom is moving to Arizona... it will be the first time living in Oregon with both parents in different states. I have friends, but not a set idea of who will be around to spend time with me, or what we will find. I'm not sure if I will do Mary Kay and some other part-time job, or if I need to get a full-time job, or even relocate. All of these unknowns are a bit overwhelming (hence the 7am panic attack) and part of me is still excited. I'm excited to see Portland with new eyes. I'm excited to plan the next step and have something to look forward to, knowing I came here and tried.  Even if it didn't fit, I learned a bit more about myself. Maybe I travelled a few steps toward knowing what it is that makes me happy, and complete. I have a strong urge to fly home, settle back into a new routine that involves travelling into the beautiful wild places throughout the country, I haven't seen enough of Eastern Oregon, I'd like to get tickets for some outdoor music festivals, plan epic hikes... I'm excited to go home and re-explore what I grew to take for granted. My complacency, the devilish inner critic disguised as intelligent, objective, self-loathing seems to pull a dark cloud over much of what I've accomplished thus far in my life. That, paired with the actual dark clouds that hang over Portland for months on end can be draining.

I'm looking forward to going home for the most beautiful part of the year, to recharge, reconnect with friends, recount my toes, and pick a new dot on the globe to think about calling home. 

Rainy days

“Your jacket is exceeding your arms.”

Cutest way I’ve been ever told my top is too big.

But, yes. The rainy season is upon us in Kampala, and long sleeves are part of the new occasion.

This week I biked to work and passed two other Ugandan men on bicycles, one of which had an alarmingly huge crate strapped to the back of his bicycle, the other was holding a live chicken by the upper crease of its wings.  Apparently it was some sort of blow to their African masculinity to be passed by a woman on a bicycle, because both made an demonstrated effort to peddle frantically in order to pass me back, which alone was amusing enough... only more so when Mr. Chicken used his right hand to gesture where he was turning to oncoming traffic (his right hand containing the chicken.)

“Only in Africa,” I thought to myself.

On the way to work, I look around and try to absorb the novelty of my surroundings, rather than travel the same daily route in a jaded, been-here-long-enough-so-stop-staring-at-me “over-it” mentality (as much as I do feel “over-it” when it comes to Africans shouting "Muzungu, how are you!?" at me) Ugandans, women predominantly, have the task of sweeping the roadways clear with handmade grass strand brooms, typically about 2.5 feet in length and bound with straw twine.  The women bend over sweeping in their long, colorful African-print skirts, and the ones paid whatever measly shillings the Ugandan government affords them for the road duty often wear safety vests. This same practice of sweeping trash, and dirt, takes place within housing compounds, on porches, walkways, sidewalks etc. It’s a bit perplexing that though everyone seems to want these areas cleared of debri, everyone then proceeds to discard of all their garbage willy nilly wherever they’re walking, not to mention the wind and dust and traffic that just pulls it all around back to the areas that were just cleared the day before. (And these small, hand-made brooms a half hour activity out of an area that a push broom could do damage to within a few minutes.) Along the same vein, you find men with small machetes chopping the reeds of grass from the areas along the roads in long, sweeping motions. The original lawn mowers.

Women walk along the streets with large clay bowls full of bananas or mangoes balanced on their heads. At least half of the time, small brown feet peep out of either side of their torso, connected to an immobilized baby strapped tightly to their backs by kitenges, or colorful African cloths tied tightly to keep mom hands-free to work in the field, balance things on her head, and cook--maybe all at once.

While on safari, I hung out of the Land Cruiser's window waving my camera around, occasionally managing to hold it steady enough to snap some photos. The landscape in the countryside is incredibly beautiful. I already am missing it back in the city...

Safari-on, dudes.

Cuatro de Mayo, 2012

I knew the day would probably not turn out as planned upon heading to the toilet at 4am to discover my eye almost completely swollen shut. I hoped for the best, half-heartedly, and headed back to bed. (My usual method for dealing with medical ailments and injury: ignore it and hope it just goes away on its own.) When I opened my eye[s] around 8am, I knew I would need to do something, something medical, come daytime. The wasp sting had swollen the entire area to mid-cheek, including the inner corner and lid of my eye to the point that half of my face looked unrecognizable.

My lodge stay at this magnificent place thus thwarted, I didn’t much feel like exploring the grounds and local community projects looking like a freakish mutant from the bog. I spent the morning, after being coaxed out of my room by a staff member for breakfast, waiting for our “guide” to arrive and give us a ride into town to visit a pharmacy. I couldn’t even really take many pictures, as I quickly realized it’s hard to do so with your predominant right eye being half-shaded by folds of skin, and behind glasses that I was forced to wear, with not wanting to risk putting a contact in that thing.

Richard spent the day tracking gorillas and having a great experience, even stumbling upon chameleons and endangered golden monkeys on the way back down the mountain, while I finagled antibiotic drops into my eye and tried to remain somewhat chipper about getting the shit-end of the stick. I hope I will get the chance to revisit Rwanda, and some of these lodges, and maybe even track gorillas again (or arguably, for the first time) as the couple of most memorable experiences I was supposed to have on this safari got ruined by poor planning, powerful persuasion in the wrong direction, and a malicious wasp.

At dinner tonight a married German couple, and three American businessmen staying in the lodge joined our ramshackle party. The dinner conversation centered around their business ventures, random mutual professional contact between Mr. CEO of giant microfinance firm, and Mr. Germany rich guy, and then moving to the financial state of European countries.

Mr. CEO created one of the largest microfinance NGO organizations in the world (forgot the name—see how industrious I am?) and the other two worked with him/went to Harvard Law School with him or something. His organization funds education only, primarily small to medium-sized schools that receive loans to establish themselves/pay staff/build/purchase supplies, etc. and in return become self-sufficient in order to pay back the loans, thereby giving capitol back to fund other projects related to education. At least, that’s what I understood of the dinner conversation. I love the concept of entrepreneurial/business minds working to actually improve social situations in developing countries…. it seems so much more effective than hand-outs and Western-imposed ideology that doesn’t satisfy or understand local community needs. That and aimless short-term aide that just ends, creates dependency, or stops being useful once the group moves on to the next crisis situation.

Interestingly enough, talk turned toward the West/East Germany conflict, and Mr. CEO asked frank questions to the German couple about the current state of Germany. The German man revealed that at their age (mid-sixties, I’m guessing) it was difficult, and powerful, to be the children of parents who were directly affected and/or part of World War II. He explained that it was still very difficult and painful for Germans of this era to have been associated with these atrocities, and directly remember stories told my their parents of what happened in that time.  Being in Rwanda, visiting the genocide memorial and seeing miscellaneous shrines and graves around Kigali recreated many of these painful memories, learning as children what happened, and trying, without avail, to understand how humans could be capable of doing such horrible things to each other. And yet, experiences like this are not unique, and have been repeated worldwide across history.

Tomorrow we finish our safari in Kigali, and I will visit the genocide memorial. I am a bit nervous to see it all in front of me, and be in the Mille Collines, because it makes me incredibly sad to remember that these stories are real, those three people I saw around town with one leg actually likely had them violently removed as children 18 years ago.  It’s a long enough time for many of the physical scars to have healed for survivors, but the legacy of the tragedy lives on in the stories and spirits of the people in Rwanda and the rest of the world.

It’s amazing how clean and sanitized the city of Kigali appeared on the outside. It’s as if the horrible history of the genocide (and the 50 years leading up to the culmination of the violence we all know about so well from its oversimplified portrayal in movies like Hotel Rwanda and Western media) has had a fresh blanket thrown over it—underneath still stinking of rotten flesh.  I feel for the people of Rwanda, they seem to have been innocent pawns in political chess, manipulated and knocked down, murdered and mistreated, in order for an evil few to hold power over the masses, accumulate ridiculous amounts of money, and maintain their elite status.  It’s not an unfamiliar story to any of us, even those in the Western World, maybe our murders and violence are just a bit more discrete than here in Africa.

...

Cinco de drinko! And instead of celebrating the gringo American holiday, I headed to the genocide museum in Rwanda.


The museum, although powerful, seemed oversimplified. I left feeling as though I had received a sanitized lesson on what happened in 1994 Rwanda--even though there were sad anecdotes and historical information--it didn't seem complete.  I read every tiny piece of text.  The stories were like a car accident: the images and information so horrible you don't really want to know, but at the same time you have to see more, you can't look away. There was a section on other genocides throughout history and brief summaries of how and where they occurred. I felt ill reading over and over about the horrific things humans can be pushed, persuaded and driven to inflict upon each other. 

I got into the last part--the children's tribute section.  It had photos of children that were killed and listed raw facts about them: their name, age, favorite sport, favorite toy/game, favorite food (it seemed sweet to me that these Rwandese children's favorites were simple foods: "beans" "rice" or "milk", general personality/nature, and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Tragically, they never got the chance.

The boys finished about 30 minutes before me and were exasperatedly waiting for me to emerge from the museum. I felt heavy and sad, and didn't much want to talk about trivial nonsense as we headed to a restaurant for lunch. We were scheduled to spend the remainder of the day in Kigali, see the Volcanoes office (located within the Mille Collines Hotel) and then depart early in the morning for the long drive back to Kampala. 

Notes from the "Jungle"

It is now Thursday, this morning we began at Mt. Gahinga Lodge, three of us tracked Golden Monkeys after breakfast, got caught in a rainstorm, ate lunch in a bamboo and grass-thatch hut to protect ourselves from the worst of the rain, then made our way back down to the lodge.  The rumbling thunder continued, reminding us that when it came to hiking on the Virungas, Mother Nature is still in charge.  Shameless plug: to remember my adventures in this same lodge over Easter weekend, check out the new addition to the company blog!

I changed out of my soaking-wet clothes and put more hydrocortisone on my eye. Why, you may ask, was I putting such a thing near my eye?

Well, banage (my friends,) yesterday, after eating my picnic lunch in the Rujiho forest enroute from Bwindi to Mgahinga, I so happened to be visited by a very pissed-off wasp. This little shit basically dive-bombed my face as I was walking to the toilets, stinger first, and stuck himself under my right eye. I realized quickly that I had been stung, but soon thereafter also realized that the convulsing I was feeling was its little body still writhing directly below my lower eyelashes thanks to his stinger, implanted in my flesh, trapping him from flying away. “Help, help! I got stung and it’s stuck!” or some other nonsense left my mouth, and Paul helped pull him out of my face. It hurt like hell and the first-aid kit in the car was entirely unhelpful, being filled with basically gauze and spray antiseptic.  I am pretty much on my own.

Today half of my face doesn’t look quite right, and for some reason, hiking in the morning inflamed the poison so everything is a bit off, I smile and one cheek won’t quite respond; looking down looks, well, funny. But I digress.

Upon arriving to the lodge, a small group of the Batwa pigmy people living in the area had gathered to wait for our return in order to perform a traditional dance. The Twa as they are called in plural, used to live in the forest that has since been changed to a national protected park and dislocated them from their traditional way of life. Their story is not unlike that of the Native Americans, Australian aborigines, and basically every other indigenous group that has been forced to change their way of life thanks to globalization, population-growth, modernization, politics and greed.  It’s entirely ironic that tourists come from all over to pay $500 for a one-hour permit to see protected gorillas in the forest, and learn about the need for care and conservation of this endangered species, while the people who lived in complete harmony with the forest got a big ‘eff you’.  And I sell them these permits.

I took a ridiculous amount of pictures as the dancers began—children and teenagers clapping in time next to their mothers and grandmothers, a woman beating on a hand-made, animal-skin drum with a stick, the dancers’ colorful, varied African-print skirts flapping above their ankles, bells affixed to clothes wrapped on some to augment and harmonize the sounds being made by the heavy stamps of their feet.  Two of the women had babies swaddled to them by colorful cloths throughout the entire performance, the babies rendered immobile by the tight knots, and yet, seemingly perfectly content. My theory that African babies are better behaved than Western babies was tested and confirmed when the rain reappeared, subtly at first, then with a vengeance. The baby attached to mama drummer remained relaxed, stuck on her back over her folded frame, directly exposed to the onslaught of rain, and basically just took a nap alongside the singing and drumming. My other theory is that many of these babies are malnourished, and thus lack obnoxious Western baby tantrum energy.

One of our Volcanoes staff members translated for the chairman of the group, a man small in stature (although they are not really “traditional pigmy” size anymore, as generations have now been ‘mixing’ with locals, it seems are now just basically shortish-regular-sized people) and the man told the stories of their songs.  Most ranged from tales of life in the forest, to telling people they should learn about what could be of use, how good life was when all the meat, honey, fruits, medicinal plants and water was plentiful and free, and how life has now changed that they have had to adapt to the village. The final song thanked us for taking an interest in them and their culture, and bid us a safe journey as well as hopes of us returning to see them again.  The passion and vibrancy of these people emanated through their songs, joyful expressions, powerfully stamping feet, and spontaneous, shrieking calls.  The experience transfixed the entire group, and for a moment, took us back to a time in the woods, when the honey, meat and fruits were plenty.

…

We left after a hearty beef and pea lasagna and cabbage salad lunch for Volcanoes Virunga Lodge in Parc National des Volcans, past the border of Rwanda. We passed by foot over the border (apparently that’s how you do it here in Africa) and I inadvertently (and illegally) took a picture of the border crossing. Ric informed me that the action alone could land me in jail and I shoved iPhone into my pocket, but the guard at the gate already had me placed. When we approached, he asked me if I was taking pictures, to which I replied that I was going to, but had been informed I wasn’t allowed, so didn’t. He asked where we were headed and for how long, and I told him Volcanoes Virunga Lodge and that we’d be leaving in three days. He said I could stay in Rwanda, the others could go, but I would be staying. Fortunately for me, at this point he happened to be flirting rather than threatening to throw me in jail.

Upon entry into Rwanda, we met a few staff from the lodge who had come to meet us at the border. We all piled back into the Landcruiser and headed off for the lodge, driving on the right (figuratively and literally!) side of the road. My first impression of Rwanda, based on gazing through the windshield, was that it was cleaner, more organized, and something about it just seemed really nice.

The road detouring from the main led upward, beyond farms and a small school, and a temporary tented settlement where some prisoners are staying to do some agricultural work. We continued to a breathtaking peak, some 7,000 feet above Lake Bulera, to find the staff members waiting for us with our “welcome juice,” tart passionfruit, (a little Volcanoes treat) and smiles-a-plenty. The lodge is truly magnificent. I don’t think I’ll be going back to Kampala. The lodge looks like some freakish eco-hotel out of Travel and Style magazine or Condenast, something I would normally look at pictures of admiringly and yet fully aware of the fact that it is unlikely I will ever know what its like to stay there. At Virunga Lodge there is a 360-degree view of the lake, the five main virunga volcanoes and cubism-patched farmland below layered over the rolling hills below. Fog settled above the layers of land as dusk approached, and I gazed across the expanse, too over-whelmed to go get my camera and try and breakdown the scenery to digestible memory bites.

Tomorrow Richard tracks gorillas, and I get to walk to the lake, patter around the lodge and enjoy some of the purest oxygen one can find. This part of the country smells like aromatic firewood, eucalyptus and open space.

(Will add pictures once I clean 'em up and get 'em uploaded!)

The 8 days of Safari

In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey....

(mind you I am now posting this a week late)

It’s a Monday and I’m not at work. That, in and of itself, is reason to be glad. I am currently writing this post from Kyambura Gorge in Queen Elizabeth Park. By the time I get Internet access and get this online, I will probably be in the middle of Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, or maybe even Rwanda. I’m on an 8-day “familiarization” trip with four other staff from the Kampala office. It has been wonderful thus far to get out of the city, see the lodges and meet the extraneous staff sprinkled around Western Uganda and Rwanda.

Yesterday was my first time seeing game in the wild. I got some blurry and other less-than-terrible pictures of elephants, water buffalo, warthogs, kob, waterback, birds, etc. Then my camera battery ran out. Unfortunately this happened on the boat cruise portion of our day, and prior to our insistent search for a lion during our evening game drive. To which we actually succeeded—a mother lion and three cubs. It was incredible to see them in the wild, although she was wearing a sort of radio collar, apparently tagged by park rangers or something, which I admit removed quite a bit of the wild African allure.

We began the journey in Kampala, driving about six hours to Queen Elizabeth National Park "Uganda's most visited game reserve," and finally Kyambura Gorge Safari Lodge. Enroute we stopped for street food, pineapple, roasted casava and bananas, I tried (mostly unsuccesfully) to understand my three coworkers' conversations in Luganda with our guide, Amon and enjoy the scenery.

 

...

We rolled into the town of Kasese, and took a little side-road detour. The conversation the car was lively, and the guys had decided we would stop briefly to attend a kwanjula. I had no idea what a kwanjula was, and they told me quickly it was a wedding introduction ceremony, where the bride is formally introduced to the husband's family, and the village-at-large.  At this type of ceremony, she is also bartered for, and it's officially decided how many cows (or a combination of cows/goats/chickens/land) she's worth. Then the husband's family is expected to pay up.

 We didn't seem prepared to attend anything remotely related to a wedding, but I was trapped in the car.

Amon approached an area full of locals, literally 100 people crammed into a picnic-area sized field. To my complete embarrassment, we rolled right in: rumbling safari vehicle full of plain-clothes dressed Ugandans and two muzungus. Everyone stared. In my mind, crickets chirped.  The crowd's attention had shifted from the ceremony to the strange group that had crashed the party. My coworker Didas said hello to a woman he was friends with (apparently the reason we were crashing this thing in the first place) and we were ushed to a bench near a pile of children, that had been cleared for our behalf.

If not for the man with the microphone shouting things in their local language to the crowd, everyone would have probably kept staring--but music was playing the bride was dance/walking toward the groom tent, and everyone wanted to see what would happen next as she played the game of "where is my husband-to-be?" There was a table full of symbolic food items and decorations, matching bridesmaids (I imagine) and people seated in rows to participate in the celebration.

I could have taken photos for hours with all the children and local Ugandans in traditional dress, foreign displays of tradition that I was suddenly allowed to witness and participate in. Rarely do I get a chance to point a camera in people's faces without having to ask permission or feel like some shameless tourist.

  
 
 
 

…

Now it’s Wednesday. I am in Mt. Gahinga lodge, where I spent Easter. I love the scenery.

(That’s as far as that post got—which I find funny, so I am leaving it in its “eloquent simplicity.”)

I had very limited and spotty Internet access over the course of this trip, and not much time to myself, nor leftover willpower at the end of the day to actually write or process anything, so I did a pretty crumby job at detailing this trip.... 


Good thing I've got photos to make up for it! More safari fun to come!