Well Tom Petty said it, but I'm afraid it's true - it has become necessary once again to lock the door on this little corner of the internet for a little while. I'll try to leave it open for another week or so before I turn the key, but after that...

I don't know how long it will be - possibly at the birth of the new year, perhaps with the coming of the spring, maybe during the heat of summer. Certainly months, hopefully not years, but one day my friend you and I will meet again. Here. Until then, don't be a stranger! Give me a call, drop me an email, stay in touch. And when the time is right, join me again - for there are still books to be read, roads to be ridden, thoughts to be thought and adventures to be had. Until then, my friends - until then.

It was hot when I stepped off the plane in Mombasa. Not tropical-island-with-a-sea-breeze hot, but asphalt-in-a-city-without-a-breath-of-air hot. In other words, thank-God-for-air-conditioning hot. For once there wasn’t a soul standing in line by the time I made it to Passport Control – unfortunately there wasn’t a soul behind the counter either, so we hung around while one of the baggage handlers tracked down a customs agent. I don’t know where he finally found her but as she marched in looking like she’d just bit a lemon it was clear that her post wasn’t where she wanted to be at that moment in time. Grumpily, she demanded to know where I’d come from.

‘Zanzibar’

‘How long were you there?’

‘Two days.’

‘Two days?! Why did you go there if you were only going to stay for two days?’

‘Because I heard they had good diving.’

‘You went to Zanzibar just to dive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would you do that?’ (Not going to lie – that one caught me off guard.)

‘Um…because…it’s fun?’

With a look that told me she was convinced I had a few screws loose joining the grouchy look she had walked in with she opened my passport and added ‘suspicion’ to her face as soon as she saw the plethora of entrance/exit stamps I’d racked up during the two weeks prior. She opened her mouth and (I’m pretty sure) was about to begin the questioning in earnest when the passenger behind me made her impatience readily apparent. Apparently convincing herself I was just a bit cracked rather than a threat to national security she just shut her mouth wordlessly, added her stamp to the mix and waved me on through. Crazy mzungus.

Zarek and his girlfriend Masumi were waiting for me outside with a new loaner phone and stern instructions not to throw this one into any oceans, and then we were on our way south to Diani Beach. It was the day before New Year’s Eve and the traffic reflected it as we inched along the crowded roads before squeezing onboard the Likoni ferry. With three of their five ferries having lost their international ‘seaworthy’ status, the Kenya Ferry Services reputation hasn’t exactly improved since one of their ships capsized at this crossing in 1994. Although the entire trip is only about five hundred meters and the accident itself occurred a mere forty meters from shore, a lack of swimming ability combined with an abundance of sharks drawn by the garbage routinely thrown overboard led to the death of over 270 of the 400 passengers on a ship rated for 300. Thankfully, our voyage wasn’t nearly as memorable. We soon reached the other shore and continued on our way, Zarek and Masumi pointing out such local attractions as the ‘Stomach Clinic Café’. As enticing as it sounded, we had meeting with a property manager to get to so we could only conjecture about the type of culinary delights sure to be found in such an obviously high-class establishment.

As it turns out, we could have (if not should have) stopped at the Stomach Clinic Café as our property manager was nowhere to be found when we pulled into the house (we thought) we’d be staying in for the next two nights. Some four stories tall, not entirely lacking faint resemblance to a castle and situated a scant hundred meters from the pearly white beaches of the Kenyan coast, we were instantly enamored and the property manager had an easy sale. You know, had he been there. He was nowhere to be found however and refusing to answer his cell – in his stead we found an old German housekeeper whose command of the English language seemed limited to shouting ‘Not here!’ whenever she heard the manager’s name and a young Kenyan girl whose English was much better but whose interest in arriving at a solution that included us giving them money seemed to be roughly equivalent to that of her boss who had still failed to show some 45 minutes later. Finally we kissed the beach goodbye and moved on to Plan B – something of a boutique hotel ‘just across from Nomad’s and 400 meters down the road on the left.’ Easy enough directions – had they been correct. Unfortunately, the hotel manager was a much better hostess than she was a guide and what should have been a fifteen minute drive dragged into three hours and a dozen phone calls because she neglected to mention two turns and an extra mile of road. Details, details. But the worst disappointment was yet to come when we took a look at the one remaining room and found it to be inadequate. Not bad, per se, just…inadequate. And so, as badly as we all wanted the search to be over, we soon found ourselves leaving the fresh mango juice and Africa-shaped pool behind as we drove back out the gates, exhausted and hungry and on the road again.

New Year’s was upon us and ‘No Vacancy’ was becoming a familiar refrain, but we had one last shot before we were officially up that proverbial creek – the Classic Beach House in Diani. By the time we pulled in we were running out of steam and hope at about the same rate – fast – and that’s when our luck finally changed. Yes, they still had rooms open. No, the prices weren’t exorbitant. Yes, there was someone around capable of (and interested in) accepting our money. The rooms weren’t anything to write home about, bare bones at best. But there were beds and mosquito netting and ceiling fans enough to go around, locks on the doors that attempted to make up in quantity what they lacked in quality and the surrounding neighborhood lacked in security, and there was even hot water in the shower. Well…warm anyway. Close enough – six hours in and we were more than happy just to finally have a place to crash.

Which we promptly did…three or four hours later. First, though, was dinner at a local Indian restaurant where we picked a table far from the boisterous university students beginning to collect in anticipation of the coming night’s revelry and Zarek introduced me to the glory that is Stoney Ginger Beer. A house party followed with a DJ friend of Zarek and Masumi’s spinning tracks while a pretty blonde girl danced slowly in the shadowy room and others lounged on the patio just outside, chatting quietly. Hugs and excited greetings were exchanged as friends caught up with friends and then we settled into the furniture and became part of the scenery ourselves.

We were all sluggish the next morning but the temperature rose sharply with the sun and kept us from dallying for long. Lunch was early and under a big umbrella at an outdoor Italian café finished with gelato and a small glass of Kenya Cane – a local sugar cane alcohol that has gained a slight modicum of legitimacy after the government outlawed selling it in plastic bags (who would have thought, right?) Not exactly the classiest or best tasting local beverage I’ve ever sampled, but considering it used to be consumed for pennies via a modified sandwich baggie I do have to say it was better than I was expecting. The rest of the afternoon was all about preparation – the local Nakumatt for a cooler and drinks, another small shopping complex for my ticket to Sundance, a quick swing through an internet café, one last stop by an ATM, and store after store in search of a Tusker shirt in both the right size and color. We headed back to the Classic Beach House when we at last struck pay dirt on that deceptively difficult task – with fatigue on everyone’s faces and a few hours before the night’s festivities began, a long afternoon nap was sounding just about perfect so we split up and headed to our rooms. I managed to nod off for maybe an hour but even stripped down with the fan going full bore the afternoon heat was stifling in my little concrete box and long before our agreed upon link-up time I was lying awake in a twisted knot of sweaty sheets, watching the fan blades chase each other in a blur. My camera helped me burn some time – the shot below was of my nightstand and I’m still convinced that if necessary, there are few things that can’t be accomplished with a bottle of water, a fifty-shilling note and a pair of Oakleys.

A cold shower helped to fight the heat and burn some more time – a few last minutes with the iPod earbuds in and the fan blades continuing their chase as the clock counted down and then we were out the door and on our way to the Tiwi River mouth for one last round of sundowners and bitings as the sun set on 2010. Apparently the crowd has shrunk from what it used to be before a gang armed with AK-47s descended on the beach and robbed party-goers at gun point a year or two ago; but the most dangerous thing this time around was a few drunk kids with fireworks, there were still plenty of people out enjoying the warmth of the dying day, and the Tusker shirt proved to be worth the search.

With the sun’s last rays everyone headed for their vehicles en masse and getting off the beach the beach proved to be much more difficult and time-consuming than getting on it had been. We decided on a ‘quick’ stop for take-away pizza for dinner but soon discovered we weren’t alone in that either, and two or three hours after walking away from the water’s edge we were finally sitting down in Zarek’s hotel room cracking open the pizza boxes.

One last change of clothes and then we were on our way to the night’s main event. Crawling along roads packed with more cars in a single night than they might see in an entire month during the off season. Joining the crowds of pedestrians mixing with those automobiles after parking as close as we could get to the venue. Joining the long lines getting their tickets checked at the gate – and realizing that they’re checking IDs as well. Apparently I look 18 because they never asked for the ID I'd left hidden in the hotel room – just tore my ticket and moved on to the next in line. And then…then we were there, and just in time to watch the countdown clock hit zero and fireworks explode over the stage still cranking out beats to a cheering crowd. Wild toasts were made, hugs and kisses exchanged, good wishes blasted from the loudspeakers – and then the turntables settled back down to cranking out the groove that would flow through the crowd unbroken for the duration of the night.

Which brings me back to the very same problem I mentioned in my very first post – how does one capture the sensation that is Africa? Or, more specifically in this case, how does one capture the sensation that is a twelve-hour rave on an African beach? I mean, I can show you links that will crack the window ever so slightly on the visual and aural experience. I can post pictures of the girl who traded her glowsticks and string for fire and chain.

I can even send you to a full-length recording of the set from one of the night’s biggest names. But none of that – none of it – even begins to capture the essence of what it was to actually be there. How then, with mere words, can I? How could I adequately describe even one person, half-remembered through the fog of time – let alone thousands of beautiful people, dressed (or undressed, depending upon the individual) to impress, moving in unison to the steady rhythm and conscious of their joint membership in the sweaty faceless mass yet simultaneously lost in their own private world, populated only by those they allowed entry and driven by the ever present electronic pulse. It is impossible, as is the communication of a hundred other minute details that coalesced in perfect harmony to form the experience that was. I can’t put you at arm’s length from a massive speaker stack that will move your entire body with the base line. I can’t force you to stand half an hour in line for overpriced drink tickets that you know you will never fully use, pressed tightly against those around you as you fight your way to the front and thrust your money in the harried attendant’s face, talking fast to entice him to pick you over the five other hands outstretched full of cash; nor can I force you to then go stand in another line for another twenty minutes and repeat the fight at any of a dozen woefully under-stocked drink tables that will inevitably be out of even water by the time you manage to struggle within arm’s reach. I can’t (or won’t, rather) proposition you with illicit, ‘experience enhancing’ substances. I can’t thrust you into the midst of a crowd collected from the four corners of the earth onto one little third world beach in breathless anticipation of a party of epic proportions. I can’t fill the very air around you with so much energy that it feels almost palpable. And I can’t even begin to describe a crowded Men’s Room suddenly invaded by a quartet of very bold – or at least very drunk – women because the line to the Lady’s Room had grown too long. Even the most basic of elements – the soft white sand, the heat of a thousand bodies crushed together, the cool breeze coming in from off the coast bearing the smell of the ocean, the smooth aroma of flavored tobacco filtered in the water of a hookah, the crisp bite of a cold Red Bull fished from the ice at the bottom of an empty cooler, the bitter metallic aftertaste of a warm Tusker that never made it to the cooler in the first place, the warring factions of accumulated fatigue and excitement backed by caffeine battling for control of your mind and body  – I can only mention in passing and hope that your own memories and imaginations will conspire to fill in the blanks and in some small way succeed where I am sure to fail. And in that, perhaps, lies the answer. Perhaps the solution isn’t found in spelling everything out, in attempting to fully constrain every last thought and detail and emotion and sensation – perhaps the trick to conveying the African experience is instead to find that fine line between starvation and meaningful deprivation, to leave a carefully directed trail of intellectually provocative bread crumbs, to feed your mind just enough to stimulate your imagination into completing the intended image with a richness that simple words or pictures could never hope to match.

I hope that is the case. I hope this pitifully inadequate attempt can convey even a fraction of the experience that was Africa, because from start to finish it was a grand adventure that deserves to be chronicled by one far more adept than I. Unfortunately, traveling alone such an individual does not exist and I’m afraid you are stuck with me, so to finish that last night – I laughed, I proved once and for all my lack of anything resembling an ability to dance, I savored the moment. And in the very middle of the frenzy…I found calm. I don’t know how to explain it, I’m not sure I want to examine the implications, and frankly I’m a little hesitant even laying it out on paper – but this wasn’t the first such experience and I’m sure it won’t be the last. My mind is no stranger to chaos – daily it streaks from locus to locus, racing like a madman at a pace my body could never hope to match: never pausing, never resting, never stopping. Not always content to confine itself within my cranium the energy at times floods the rest of my body as well, setting my skin on fire and threatening immolation unless adrenaline or exhaustion can be found in sufficient quantities to flush it from my system. And the exception to all this? The exception seems to be when the chaos within is surpassed by the chaos without – for it is here that my mind stills and my heart quiets; it is when everyone and everything around me is out of control that I feel most in control; it is the center of the storm where I find peace.

By 6 a.m. we were back at the hotel, by 10 we were checking out and beginning the long, slow crawl back to Mombasa. Lunch was something at an Indian coffee shop that I only remember was delicious. We beat the afternoon heat with a quick dip in the pool at Masumi’s parents’ house; a quick shower and then I was hugging good-byes and stepping into a cab. A short wait at the airport was as good an excuse as any for one last Stoney’s and then I was struggling to maintain my hold on consciousness for the short flight to Nairobi. Touchdown and another cab took me one last time to Zarek’s house, one last dinner with his parents, one last round of hugs and good-byes and one last cab back to the airport. Midnight found the lights of Nairobi disappearing one last time beneath me, and by 12:05 I was finally letting my body crash – hard.

The return flight took me through Heathrow, which I haven’t even flown through since I lived there some six years ago. I had a couple of hours to get turned around which proved to be plenty of time to order up the tea and toast that has just never been quite as good anywhere else, to get all nostalgic about London and decide I was long overdue for a return visit, and to take the ubiquitous restroom self-portrait.

 

 

 

Another eight or nine hours and I was on the ground in Detroit, skipping through customs. Coming back through security I had the ‘pleasure’ of dealing with the TSA when I requested to be patted down rather than use their sweet new scanner. Instantly elevating their voices so that our conversation could be heard by anyone within a fifty-foot radius, the TSA ‘officials’ questioned my request, then informed me that they were very busy and might take a while to get to me before ordering me to stand away from the other passenger (singular) who was proceeding through the security process.  Translation: they put me in time out for electing to use a service they freely offer while three of the five ‘officials’ in sight sat around twiddling their thumbs and the other two processed the only other passenger at the checkpoint. Luckily I’m not four anymore and ‘time outs’ are somewhat less than effective. Finally – after five or ten minutes had passed and the checkpoint had filled with passengers – one of the seated ‘officials’ approached with a sneer of disdain on his face and asked loudly who had requested the pat down. A second ‘official’ with a similar look pointed me out (just in case he was confused by all the other people who weren’t in time out, I guess?) and the first escorted me past the scanner, loudly explaining that he was only doing this because I had refused to go through the ‘normal’ route. You know, because otherwise I wouldn’t have known why he was doing what I asked him to do. Whatever – all their attempts to turn the public eye on me and make me feel like a pariah obviously forgot to factor in either the family I grew up in or the job I’ve worked since college, because they’re going to have to work much harder if they’re hoping to embarrass me into making a different choice the next time I come through. And to be perfectly honest – if it’s that easy to annoy them that much…well, let’s just say I don’t see a lot of millimeter wave scanners in my future.

Another couple of hours and I was winging my way back to Nashville. Swinging through a gas station for some caffeine to keep me awake on the last leg home, the lady in front of me in line turned around in time to watch me pull three dollars out of my wallet. ‘Oh, I wish I had my money all stacked up like dat’ was her segue into telling me how she had finally taken a job and worked there for a whole week! before quitting, but was mad because she hadn’t received her paycheck yet; after which she turned around and spent her last four dollars in the world on – wait for it – cigarillos and lottery tickets. So not even kidding. And if the reasons why more taxes, public spending and welfare won’t fix our debt and unemployment problems aren’t already readily apparent to you – well, you’re probably already beyond all hope, but go ahead and email me anyway and I’ll do my best to enlighten you. As for the rest of my already-lightened readers, I think it’s about time I wrapped up this little saga. Just over 36 hours after stepping into that taxi in Mombasa I was turning the key in the lock on my apartment door and dumping my pack in the middle of the living room – my bed beckoned from one room over, jet lag was swinging for the fence and I had to be back at work the next day – but I still had time to snap a few ‘welcome home’ shots. After all, the Dark Continent hadn’t yet released her grip on me and I can’t say I was all that ready to let go myself. The thing is? It’s been four months now, and I can’t say anything has changed…

 

 

 

Au revoir, Africa. Until we meet again.

I need you to do something for me. Look around first, make sure you’re all by yourself – there’s no need for public humiliation here, if you’re anything like me I’m sure you find plenty of opportunities to ‘enjoy’ those experiences on your own without me adding to them. So, alone? Good. Now, repeat after me: Zanzibar. And once more, only say it out loud this time, you’re cheating yourself if you don’t: Zanzibar.

What was the purpose of this exercise, you ask? Simply this: to demonstrate why I traveled to that lush little island. Not kidding even in the slightest. Don’t get me wrong, I intended to cross the border into Tanzania at some point (I mean, when you’re that close – why not?), but with places like the Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater and Mt. Kilimanjaro the list of attractions isn’t exactly sparse. But when I sat down, looked at a map, and saw that rough apostrophe hanging out just off the coast with ‘Zanzibar’ written across her I knew – come hell or high water, I was going to Zanzibar. I’ll be honest, I definitely wanted to be able to say that I had traveled to – say it with me – Zanzibar. But in my defense I also figured that any place with a name that sweet had to have something good going on…right?

Turns out I was so very, very right. (Incidentally, it also turns out that the rigors of being right this often are highly unappreciated, buuut that’s a post for another day. And an extremely longsuffering audience.) As if I wasn’t excited enough by the fact that I was flying into…I’m not even going to type it. Just go ahead and say it, you know you want to. Anyway, that first sighting was all popcorn clouds and turquoise waters and sparkling white beaches and I knew I had hit the jackpot.

The hot air heavy with moisture rolled down the aisle as the stewardess opened the door and I could already feel the sweat trickle down my back as I crossed the tarmac in the bright sunlight, but none of that served to dampen my enthusiasm one whit. Customs was the pandemonium expected and then I was through and seated in a taxi headed for the center of historic Stone Town. I needed a ride to the North Shore before the day was through and my cabbie offered to take me, quoting the slightly high but about average rate of $60. I countered with an obscenely low $20. The cabbie acted irate, I acted indignant, we played the game and by the time he dropped me off he was hooking me up with an impromptu tour guide and promised to meet me again in two and a half hours to drive me north for $30.

Zanzibar has a long history as an important port in the spice trade (and, for a few hundred years the slave and ivory trades) and has seen the revolving door of control typical of locations with strategic and economic significance – she was first annexed by Portugal, then by the Sultanate of Oman before the Sultanate of Zanzibar controlled a substantial portion of the East African coast for a number of years. British control followed, during which the Anglo-Zanzibar war (which, weighing in at all of 38 minutes, also holds the title of the shortest war in history) was fought with the Brits (surprise!) as the victors. The islands gained independence from Britain in December of 1963 and enjoyed a whopping five months of autonomy before being absorbed into the United Republic of Tanganyika (now Tanzania), where it has since maintained its position as a semi-autonomous region. Stone Town is the heart of this international milieu, and that’s where I landed for that (obviously inadequate) afternoon. But my guide was game and we started our tour with a short walk along the waterfront, where I quickly came to the realization that on Zanzibar everything revolves around the water. And with good reason.

Next we touched upon the House of Wonders, which my guide informed me had garnered its name by being the first building on the island to have a telephone and color television installed. In 1863. Which, incidentally, after returning and conducting a little research, is twenty years before the building itself was constructed. I laughed a little and asked, ‘Really? In 1863?’ My guide, of course, assured me his dates were correct – who knew the Zanzi…barbarians?...were so technologically advanced? If only it hadn’t taken the rest of us so long to catch up…

Passing the House of Wonders we entered the Old Fort that had fared so well in the previously mentioned war. The rough old stone seems much more at home now offering shelter to enterprising merchants hocking local handicrafts, and my guide did a fairly good job of making it seem like said merchants were a new attraction he had just stumbled across  rather than fellow businessmen who had cut him a deal to drag in unsuspecting tourists.

Our tour continued at a breakneck pace, slipping through the narrow, disorienting passageways endemic to Stone Town, popping out here for a historic oceanfront hotel…

…or there for an equally luxurious rooftop bar/restaurant/lounging area…

…or winding our way back into the warren of alleys and footpaths to enter the chaos of the local food and spice market…

 

 

 

…but always, always returning to the water.

Lunch was jackfruit on the run. Which…really doesn’t work. I mean, jackfruit tastes just fine – eerily similar to banana, actually – but the fruit leaves a sticky residue on your hands (or anything else it touches, for that matter) that is commendable (in an infuriating sort of way) in its persistence, and it took me the rest of the afternoon to stop sticking to anything that came within my general vicinity. I have since heard the only thing that will cut the residue is kerosene. I believe it.

After one last stop in a dark, smoky little medicine shop where business was conducted with a sort of hushed secrecy and I was strongly advised not to take any photos we began working our way back to my pick-up point. My guide took a moment to point out this view, which highlights the proximity of Zanzibar’s largest cathedral and one of her primary mosques. With less than 100 meters separating the two this makes for a fairly rare sight and demonstrates how Zanzibar’s religious preference has fluctuated with her political fortunes. While something like 95% of the populace currently claims Islam, there seemed to be a primary allegiance to the unofficial state slogan ‘Hakuna Matata’ plastered on everything from boats to billboards that I have a feeling goes a long way toward explaining the coexistence of these two.

But then my time was up, so with a few last photos and a thousand stones left unturned (Pun intended. And no, the jokes won’t get any better than that.) I left Stone Town for the North Shore.

The ride north was as uneventful as it was picturesque. I chatted intermittently with the cabbie and snapped some photographs in the spaces between his exhortations of ‘There is a policeman! Quick, don’t let them see your camera!’ Despite all that fuss we only got held up once and that was by the tourist police – and even then a small bribe smoothed things over and we were soon on our way again. Mostly though, I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Arriving in Nungwi we swung by the Myblue Hotel where I finalized dive plans through an Italian that the Dutch girl in Uganda put me in touch with – how’s that for convoluted? – before continuing on to the Amaan Bungalows where I roughed it for the night. I know, it’s a hard life, but hey – somebody’s gotta live it!

If it seems like there wasn’t a whole lot of craziness going on during the Zanzibar portion of my trip…that’s because there wasn’t. I mean, I’m sure I could have ferreted some out if I had desired – that is a unique talent of mine, after all – but the fact of the matter is that Zanzibar was unique. I’ve been a lot of beautiful places – but there was just something special about Zanzibar. I don’t know whether it was the heat or the ocean breeze or the ridiculously white beaches and azure waters or the African vibe or some combination of all these or something else entirely – but Zanzibar is the first place I’ve ever been that made me want to just sit and do…nothing…for long periods of time. Or maybe not *quite* nothing – but definitely a *lot* of nothing. Like…like go on a dive, and then sit on the beach for the rest of the day. And then maybe the next day take a dhow cruise, and then sit on the beach for the rest of the day. The day after that, I could take a short hike in the Jozani Forest, and then…you see where this is headed, don’t you? You know what, I’ll even take it one step farther – Zanzibar was close enough to paradise that it had me thinking, ‘You know, if I were to ever get married, this is where I would want to have my honeymoon.’ Acknowledging the unlikelihood of that scenario, I’ve settled for trying to talk all my friends into taking their honeymoons there instead. One thing I do know – whatever else is involved in that heady Zanzibar concoction, I’m pretty sure the sunsets are a primary ingredient.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the sun left I slipped into a café that had come highly recommended and sipped on a cappuccino to complement probably the best brownie I have ever eaten. The sun was down but the sky still light and the beach beckoned so it wasn’t long before I found myself drifting down the coast. It was that period of quiet after daytime activities have drawn to a close but before the nightlife has begun to awake so I had the sand to myself, save for a few hardcore sunbathers soaking in the day’s last warmth. In time even these disappeared as the darkness came slowly with a cool sea breeze that encouraged – yet never demanded – something more substantial than a bikini. As the beachfront bars began to fill I decided that enough time had passed to justify dinner (I mentioned that I was roughing it at this point, didn’t I?) and headed back to Amaan’s restaurant, which is where the sunset pictures above were shot a few hours earlier. I hadn’t been paying attention but the entire time I’d been walking the tide had been coming in. Broad beaches were narrowed and as I rounded the last corner the final fifty meters had disappeared entirely, so with sandals in one hand and the contents of my pockets in another I waded through the thigh-deep water to a stairway rising from the surf as waves crashed into the rocky outcroppings an arm length away. A few minutes later and I was seated – actually, I think in that very table pictured above – and twenty minutes after that I was drinking a mojito and snacking on calamari in a spicy curry sauce. Oh – all while local dancers in grass skirts and white halter tops performed to the frenzied beat of a tribal drum another table over. With a snake. Roughing it, remember? As the night wore on one of the dancers beckoned to a pretty blonde girl, inviting her out onto the floor. The blonde initially blushed and shook her head; five minutes, a stiff drink and plenty of instigation from her friends later she was still blushing but joining the local girls anyway. One of the lithe dancers came forward and laid that big python across her shoulders and you could see the blonde’s body tense as a moment of panic flashed across her face. But the beat of the drum continued and the other girls put her at ease (while to be fair, that drink probably played no small role itself) and before long she too was swaying to the steady staccato rhythm. And hour later the drum’s already fast tempo quickened to a feverish pitch, the movements of the dancers following suit. A drawn-out crescendo and it was over, the dancers filing out sweaty and spent. My watch was on the wrist of a Maasai warrior back in Kenya so I pulled out the cell phone I had on loan from Zarek to check the time. A seemingly inconsequential action, at least until my elbow struck the back of the chair sending the phone arcing through the night. Landing flat on the balcony it bounced once, turned exactly ninety degrees and slid sideways down through the hole where a broken plank created the only such opportunity in a ten foot radius. I was still staring stupidly, watching that little blue light recede in the darkness and trying to comprehend what had just happened when it disappeared altogether with a distinct Plop! into the surf a dozen feet below. For the second time this trip I was completely at a loss and could only sit dumbfounded back in my chair, listening to the pounding of the waves and trying to figure out how I was going to explain that one to Zarek – let alone link up with him once I got to Mombasa. But in true island fashion I decided there would be plenty of time to worry about that tomorrow – or maybe even the next day – and moved down the beach to check out Mang’s Bar and Grill. There were a few small groups carrying on but for the most part it was a pretty quiet scene and I was still short on sleep so a half hour later I was calling it a night, fighting the surf to the stairs one last time.

After breakfast at that same table the next morning I checked out and headed down to the Myblue, ready to get in the water. While most were still climbing out of bed and shuffling to the waterfront in search of their own breakfast I was climbing into a zodiac and jetting across the calm ocean to a small island a few miles offshore. The lead diver dropped in to check the current and then I was venting air from my BC, descending into another world. And I think, if I were able to put it into words, that is what I love so much about diving. There is the freedom of movement reminiscent of flight that never fails to bring a smile to my face and also the unique creatures unlike anything that breathes our atmosphere, but even those are nothing (yet) that I haven’t seen in an aquarium on dry land. And actually, I think an aquarium may be a good comparison to demonstrate the difference in experience – the animals themselves are often the same but we have brought them into our world, into our comfort zone, into our environment to view at our convenience from dry ground and behind thick glass. We fully control our exposure to life. Which, now that I write it, I realize might shed light onto other facets of the human experience as well – feel free to extrapolate and draw conclusions as you see fit.  But back to diving - when you dive…when you dive you enter another world, it is as simple as that. And not just a mirror image of our own – this world is so harsh and unforgiving that you must enter as an alien, carrying with you the very air that you will breathe. There are no guarantees, there is no plate-glass shield, you enter on par with or even lagging behind the realm’s permanent citizens and you remain at their discretion. And even then, even when they tolerate your presence, your stay in this strange and foreign land is limited by the air on your back – an hour tops with a single tank, double that with a twin rig – before you are forced back to the surface where you must decompress and refill before you can venture forth for another quick foray into forbidden territory. You let go of the illogical and impossible demand to control all things at all times and you meet life on its own terms – and it is magical. The underwater ferns and seaweed waving in the current. The brightly colored clownfish playing peek-a-boo on the wrinkled surface of the coral. The scowling grimace of an eel barely visible and tucked back into the dark recess of his burrow. The cloud of silvery fish – composed of thousands, moving as one. A cloud that you propel yourself gently toward, careful to make no sudden movements that will send them off in a flash. A cloud that moves in unity even as you penetrate, keeping a slender buffer of water between itself and you as if you were surrounded by a formfitting force field. The deep crevice on the back side of a large rock that you stand on your head to see into. Nothing. The act itself was payment this time, but next time…who knows what you will find next time? The friendly remora who spends the entire dive with you, bouncing unceremoniously off air tanks and other exposed bits of metal as it flits from diver to diver attempting to fasten itself to anything shiny. The sea turtle bigger than a manhole cover that you suddenly find yourself eye to eye with, staring at each other with unconcealed curiosity for a long minute before it disappears into the deep, the lazy movement of its flippers belying the speed it rapidly attains. And finally, unfortunately, the red line on your air gauge that says it’s time for the adventure to end.

It was still late morning when I waded back onto the beach and my second dive wasn’t until half past one, so I wandered up the beach escorted by a pair of Maasai working as security for Myblue. They dropped me at Mang’s, promising to pick me up again at 12:30 – plenty of time to make my 12:45 showtime for the second dive. As soon as they left I slipped out the side and burnt a little time on the internet before finding my way back to grab a bite. This time around a couple of cute Russian girls were trading a camera back and forth, and I (as a dedicated Good Samaritan) felt obligated to ask if they wanted a picture of them both together. The picture led to drinks, drinks led to lunch, and without a watch I soon lost track of time – a phenomenon which my sharpened scientific mind tells me is not entirely uncommon when cute Russian girls are involved. Sharpened. And scientific. Aaanyway, the Maasai never showed and eventually I asked our waitress for the time – 12:50. Oops. I said a quick goodbye, kicked off my flip-flops and sprinted down the beach, drawing astonished looks from all around. Breathless and sweaty, I arrived at the scuba shop just as my Italian contact was locking up. Grabbing my gear from the morning I walked with her to the boat and spent the first few minutes of the ride struggling into a wet wetsuit while avoiding getting thrown out by the choppy seas. The wind had picked up and the afternoon ride was quite a bit rougher as we blasted by the dhows sailing the shallows with their distinctive triangular sails.

The afternoon dive was a world apart from the morning’s – if the earlier dive had been a tropical rainforest, the latter was an arid desert. Vegetation – when present – was short and scrubby, a long shot removed from the towering plants of the morning. Sea sponges – a meter tall, or even two – dotted the barren landscape, towering over the sparse greenery. The fauna that had been so plentiful in the morning was gone, but what remained made up in oddity what it lacked in quantity. Puffer fish. Lionfish. Blue Spotted Rays. I had a blast, swimming from sea sponge to sea sponge, checking their hollow interiors for the next great find in a gigantic treasure hunt. And just before we had to surface I found the mother lode. Catching something out of the corner of my eye, I swam over to an unassuming rock to find one of those rays half buried in the sand underneath. As I rounded the rock I found one…two…three lionfish hanging out on the down-current side. And as I hung there, suspended in the water drinking it all in, I happened to look down – only to find a puffer fish hiding in the short seaweed barely eighteen inches beneath me. It was one of those unique moments surrounded by the creativity of the Creator that you can’t help but stop for a moment and just appreciate the beauty and the bounty surrounding you. But, as I said, air was running low and before long I was forced to move on, to rejoin the others, to return to the surface.

The ride back took a little longer that second time as one of the outboards kept belching a great cloud of smoke and…well…stopping. I offered to get out and push, but amid giggles the Italian girl informed me she didn’t think that was necessary. Eventually we made it back and I started my trek down the coast to Kendwa, where I planned on spending the night. The stretch of sand between Nungwi and Kendwa is a 20-30 minute walk that is underwater at high tide and has garnered a bit of a name as a hangout for bandits and pickpockets by night, but it was late afternoon and the tide was (mostly) out, so I only had to wade one short stretch and saw no renegades. What was in good supply, however, was the ubiquitous dhow.

 

 

 

As I came back into the settled area, I ran across what amounted to a mansion, on stilts, in the ocean. Which is pretty much when I decided that before I die, I need to own a mansion. On stilts. In the ocean.

But even if I never achieve mansion status, it’s good to know that hotels abound that will allow me to return and enjoy that opulence – albeit on a slightly more limited time frame.

 

 

 

At any rate, I finally found my way to Sunset Bungalows. I checked in and headed back, arriving just in time to grab a cold Kilimanjaro and sit on the beach watching the sun sink into the Indian Ocean. Idyllic? If you can think of a better one-word descriptor, please – I’m all ears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Incidentally, the focus on that first shot was a complete accident – and yet because of the focus, it’s probably my favorite shot from the trip. I’m not going to allow myself to contemplate what that should probably tell me about my photographic skills.

There was talk of a late-night beach party, but it never materialized so after dinner I found myself dragging a chair out to the water’s edge and just…sat. The stars twinkling overhead, the pale white sand crabs scampering in sync with the ebb and flow of the surf, the steady soothing crash of the waves upon the shore. I don’t know how long I sat there – maybe fifteen minutes, maybe an hour – but there is something about a beach at night and the moon reflecting off the water that makes a soul long for another. Powerful forces, these visceral moments.

I slept in the next day, and followed that with a leisurely breakfast. One last trip down to the water’s edge and I was back in my room, packing up for departure. Finding myself with a few extra minutes, I figured self-portraits were in order.

 

 

 

A(nother) crowded minibus south, an early lunch in Stone Town, a chance meeting with some Germans I’d met after the rafting trip in Uganda (Small World – not just a Disney song anymore), and I was catching a taxi back to the airport. Forty-five minutes early, I spent the next hour standing behind a Canadian family complaining about…something, I never could quite figure out what. It all worked out though as the plane was an hour and a half late, and after just two days (read: not nearly enough time) in Zanzibar I was winging my way up to Mombasa for one last mad 48-hour sprint to the finish.

Friday was Christmas Eve and another early morning. You’re surprised, I’m sure. Actually, as I write I’m beginning to realize the number of early mornings and late nights that inexplicably just seem to happen when I’m on ‘vacation’. I swear I don’t know how it happens – but for the record, I’m pretty sure it would occur a whole heck of a lot less if there just weren’t so many incredible things to see and do out there. Just sayin’. Or if, you know, someone would just pay me to travel full time – that would help immensely. So one of y’all should get on that, and stat. Besides, ‘Professional Adventurer’? How sweet would THAT look on a resume? Tell me you wouldn’t want to hire me if you saw that come across your desk. Buuut anyway, I digress. Friday was an early morning because I had to be across Nairobi at The Heron Hotel by…I forget. Early. Once there, I would meet up with the rest of the group and we would be ‘straight on the road’ out to Maasai Mara via Lake Naivasha for two nights and three days in the park.

None of which actually happened. Which is becoming a bit of a theme, I know. One note on Africa – nothing ever happens *quite* the way it is promised/expected/supposed to. If you’re promised a fantastic trip that is going to leave at a certain time and include certain activities in a certain order, you should immediately come to terms with two things: First, know that you are absolutely going to have a fantastic trip; if for no other reason than in Africa, no trip is unfantastic. (I totally just wrote ‘unfantastic’ as a joke. And then it totally just made my day to find out that ‘unfantastic’ is an actual word. Yes, I am ridiculously easily pleased – shut up.) Second, know that your fantastic trip is going to look absolutely nothing like the fantastic trip that was just promised. It’s just the way things work. So if you’re traveling to Africa and fall into that category of folks who have to know everything in advance and get all hot and bothered when things don’t go according to plan…my friends, you have a choice to make. Either change (and quickly), or you’re going to spend your entire trip miserable and miss out on some amazing experiences in the process. My recommendation? Change. Actually, that advice stands whether you’re traveling to Africa or not.

So yes. The first thing I found out upon arrival at The Heron is that my ride was running ‘a little’ behind and would be there in an hour to pick me up and run me out to everyone else. Because, you see, ‘the group’ was already at Lake Naivasha. Details, details… But it was all good – I was actually a little excited because it meant I had time to grab breakfast at the hotel. (To answer your obvious question: Yes, if you ever break my heart or disappoint me in any way you can absolutely buy me off with food. Have I mentioned lately that I’m easy to please?)

On a side note – I haven’t a clue what those yellow/orange/purple things were, but I think they were some kind of vegetable and I know they all tasted equally horrendous. Probably because they were some kind of vegetable. At any rate, my efforts to force them down despite this fact ceased immediately when the cook came over and offered to make me an omelet. Oh omelet, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

Right. So. Anyway. Moving right along. I made contact with my ride again after breakfast, only to find out that (surprise, surprise) there were further delays and it would now be early afternoon before she could pick me up – so I stashed my stuff behind the front desk and headed through Uhuru Park into town.

The original intent was to poke around downtown a bit and then come back to Uhuru for a nap before heading back to The Heron – but I seem to be perpetually drawn from the beaten path and before too long I found myself crossing once again into ‘the wrong side of town’. First came the haphazard clutter of shops – then the press of humanity, the sideways glances, the tangle of back alleys and side streets. The clutching fingers and broken English of shopkeepers plying their trade. The sudden clamor of the midday call to prayer as I rounded a corner and came face to face with a mosque. The pungent odor of smoke and roasting meat as I entered a courtyard in its shadow where blood mixed with dust and freshly slaughtered livestock hung in various stages of dress, only to be replaced by the heavy aroma of dead fish as I pushed on into the dense air of an enclosed fish market. It was here that I met ‘John’, one of my best-remembered random encounters from the trip. To be sure there was little to set our twenty minute conversation apart from a myriad of others that I had had and would have over the course of my stay – the friendliness was endemic, the curiosity eternal, the intermittent attempts to sell me something expected. Even the offer to join his family in Mombasa for Christmas and stay through New Year’s was so in keeping with the overwhelming hospitality I had grown used to that I barely batted an eye as I thanked him but politely declined what would be an inconceivable proposal to many of us. No, what sets John apart from so many others is the comment he made in the final minutes of our conversation.

‘Someday, I hope to move to America and live the American Dream.’

Now, there’s nothing too unusual about that. Even in this day and age of ‘American Imperialism’ or a ‘post-American world’ or whatever happens to be the latest anti-American catchphrase in vogue, I’ve never found it…’difficult’, shall we say, to find people yearning to come to this great nation. Still, that ‘American Dream’ bit caught my attention. ‘American Dream? What do you mean by that?’ I asked, expecting to hear something about comfort or money. My immediate return was a puzzled look, as if John was trying to decide whether I was toying with him or just plain stupid – but a verbal response soon followed.

‘You know, The American Dream. The same American Dream everyone has. The dream of freedom. In America you can do anything, because you are free.’

I was shocked. Nothing about a house or job or three cars or 2.5 kids or a white picket anything – Freedom. ‘Holy cow’ I thought, ‘this guy gets it!’ Long after we have perverted our own concept of the American Dream into nothing more lofty than a numbered list of inconsequential material gains, this young fishmonger on the other side of the world gets it. Freedom. That’s the American Dream. Freedom. While we dope ourselves with handouts and inane arguments over what trinkets we ‘deserve’, what is ‘owed’ to us – this young man hungers for our true birthright. Freedom. He doesn’t long for government subsidies or social handouts or anything so utopian and unrealistic as a universal safety net; he merely desires the opportunity to live or die, to succeed or fail on his own terms. To be judged by nothing more – and nothing less – than the wisdom of his decisions and the diligence of his exertions. I left a few short moments later, thinking there are many in our country who could learn much from this young man. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his description of the American Dream wasn’t as universal as it once had been. Nor did I have heart to tell him that even now, that American Freedom that he so greatly desires is in a mortal struggle for her very existence. Instead, I merely wished him the best and took my leave.

Back out on the streets, I resumed my wandering and soon found myself apologizing profusely to an irate shopkeeper who was significantly less than pleased with my photographic efforts when a passing Good Samaritan paused to help me extricate myself. Of course, as soon as we were a few steps away the Good Samaritan predictably turned out to be a businessman himself with his own line of merchandise for sale, but I had time to burn and he said he didn’t mind pictures so I fell in behind and we headed for his workshop. Two blocks down we crossed a busy street and entered a large non-descript building that could have been built for a hundred reasons and subsequently used for a thousand more.  Penetrating directly to the back of the building we entered a well-used door that led to a narrow staircase. Three flights up we exited through an identical door and walked a short distance down a busy hallway, small rooms on either side filled with craftsmen and artists and technicians industriously plying their trades. Here televisions and radios were repaired, paintings were produced by the score, tribal artifacts and mementos were turned out en masse. Souvenir shops could make their wild claims about one-of-a-kind treasures hand-made on location – but here was the true heart of the industry. Finally my guide slipped into the fifth or sixth room on the right and motioned for me to follow, closing the door behind. This room was a replica of all the rest. Four workers sat quietly amid a colorful jumble of ashtrays and coaster sets and small soapstone animals – all of which progressed rapidly from one to another, each member of the crew deftly leaving his or her prescribed mark as crude tools in hands that wasted no effort created beautiful objects of near-identical art to be snatched up by tourists, stuffed in boxes and bags and transported to the four corners of the earth. Shy smiles greeted me but the work never stopped as I snapped my pictures – my guide meanwhile telling me how each in the room had been affected by the recent instability and tribal aggression, losing phalanges and family members and everything in between to those wretched machetes. I have no way to judge the veracity of his words, but after hearing so many similar descriptions of the pervasive and indiscriminate atrocities along with the resulting fear that held Nairobi in her paralyzing grasp just a few short years ago I have a sneaking suspicion that there was more fact than fiction in his stories.

 

 

 

In time I showed my appreciation for being allowed to intrude so freely with my camera by indicating that I was interested in acquiring a few trifles, and after the obligatory haggling was on my way again with four miniature rhinos and hippopotami to keep me company. The Nairobi National Museum came highly recommended and initially I set off in that direction – but I never made it that far. Time was dwindling and I was still committed to that afternoon nap in Uhuru Park, after all. Winding my way back I found an unclaimed patch of grass shaded from the bright sun by a flower-laden tree. Setting my watch timer for fifteen minutes, I made a pillow out of my knapsack and lay back doubting that my chaotic thoughts would allow me to take advantage of the short break. Those doubts proved to be entirely unfounded a short time later, as attested by the violence with which that subdued alarm thrust me back into consciousness and the seriousness with which I contemplated rolling over and going straight back to sleep, gambling that my ride would (again) be late. Not that I was tired by this point, or anything. But the prospect of adventure spurred me on so I left the shade behind and began the walk back to the Heron in the heat and dust of the early afternoon.

As you might have guessed, I should have just rolled the dice. Arrival at the hotel brought the not entirely unexpected news that my ride was delayed yet further, so I settled in for the long wait and consoled myself with lunch. Which, really, shouldn’t come all that unexpected either. Lunch was a spinach-mushroom-bacon salad that was every bit as big a hit as the omelet had been for breakfast and the next couple of hours were spent enjoying the cool breeze on the hotel’s veranda, watching customers come and go and flipping through the pages of Franz Kafka’s assorted short stories.

On a side note, this trip was my introduction to Kafka. Oh sure, I had heard his name before, but I had never read any of his work – or knew anything at all about him, for that matter. But then the trip to the bookstore for an East Africa guidebook netted a collection of Kafka also (as well as about a hundred dollars’ worth of other literature – book stores are dangerous places) and in the end, it was Kafka that got the nod to come along on this journey. Kafka seems to be heralded as one of the twentieth century’s brightest literary stars and he certainly has a unique ability to view the world from bizarre perspectives – indeed, the very term ‘Kafkaesque’ is typically a tribute to his trademark blend of morbidity and absurdity – but to be honest, for the most part I was just unimpressed. The notable exception to this, however, was a piece I read that lazy afternoon in Nairobi. ‘In the Penal Colony’ – while still heavily morbid and slightly absurd – is also without a doubt one of the purest depictions of respect, personal honor and conviction of belief that I have ever encountered; and by that one story I was truly fascinated.

When my ride finally showed it was five in the evening and in addition to the driver, the little car already contained one of the driver’s friends, a British guy and a Polish girl whose late flight from Qatar had been the cause for the latest delay, and all of their luggage for a month-long safari. Which was not insignificant. I had to laugh – as I said, in Africa nothing is ever quite as you would expect. Jamming my pack into the already overloaded trunk, I squeezed into the backseat with the two other travelers and settled in for the two and a half hour trek to Lake Naivasha. Really, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Sure, they didn’t know me from Adam and the accommodations were rather…’close’…but it’s hard to beat a long ride and inadequate seating for an icebreaker and by the time all was said and done we had purchased an inflatable Santa, debated national fiscal policy and been struck speechless by the imposing grandeur of the Great Rift Valley. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Arriving at the campground outside Hell’s Gate just before supper, we were quickly absorbed into the group and soon found ourselves in the small camp bar for after-dinner drinks. With a Pole, two Brits, three Germans, an American, a Spanish girl, a pair of Aussies and a trio of Kiwis we made quite the international bunch and the time sped quickly by as we shouted to be heard over the buzz of the crowded little bar. By midnight our group had dwindled to just four – and that’s when things got interesting.

Now that the hubbub had died down you could hear the muted thump of a bass line drifting in from the direction of the lake. Word had it there was a club toward the back of camp and the two girls wanted to check it out. The other guy and myself weren’t so interested but nobody was comfortable with the girls going by themselves so a compromise was struck – we would all go, but only for a few songs and then head back to camp.

We never actually made it inside the ‘club’. The first strike came when we stepped through the surrounding fence and found it to be a much shadier proposition than we had even anticipated – a corrugated tin shack smaller than the coffee shop I’m sitting in right now, it looked more like a sorry excuse for a tool shed than it did a dance club. The second strike was the discovery of a 500 shilling door charge. That only translates to about six bucks, but this was a tool shed after all. In Kenya. And the final strike? The final strike was the arrival of two suitors intent on sweeping the girls off their feet. They were persistent and dedicated and their methods…unorthodox, I’ll give them that. By the time we managed to extricate ourselves it was some forty minutes later and we had heard everything from impromptu poetry to an a capella rap about Jesus, all punctuated by the consistent refrain – ‘It’s Christmas! It’s time to mix the colors!’ As persuasive as that line might be on most occasions the girls just weren’t interested in ‘mixing the colors’ that particular night and by the time it was all said and done I was dating one of the girls and very close friends with the older brother of the other and they were terribly sorry but because of all that they just couldn’t go home with the two young gentlemen.

We stopped the next day at the last settlement before the game preserve to stock up on provisions for the next couple days, and all around travelers and locals were doing the same in the ramshackle little village. In retrospect, ‘fast food’ seems to be a fairly universal concept the world over – but the execution tends to vary ever so slightly from region to region.

The closer we got to the Mara, the worse the road became – but the building anticipation outpaced that and I barely noticed. The brown landscape turned ever greener and small bands of Maasai children tending herds of livestock became a more frequent sight.

Finally we pulled off the road beside a Maasai village and ate lunch in the shade of a truck while a cow gave birth some thirty meters away. The villagers slowly collected and when the last of us finished, treated us to a traditional Maasai welcome dance which you can see a bit of here:

And a bit more here, where I demonstrate once again that I possess exactly zero videography skillz:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTV9ciK2vJU&feature=channel_video_title

After the welcome dance the young men of the tribe showed off the technique they had developed for spotting lions over the tall grass and brush – to avoid or to target, depending upon the order of the day.

Next came the women of the camp, with their own welcome dance…

…before we moved inside the camp and watched them make fire by rubbing sticks together. Which, for the record – as much as I’ve heard it talked about, this was the first (and as yet only) time I’ve actually seen it successfully accomplished.

I didn’t ask but I’m pretty sure this guy’s name is Magnum, and he’s a private investigator. I’m no clairvoyant, but I see Hawaiian shirts and a righteous mustache in his future.

Aaanyway, following the fire and the sweet 80’s flashback we were invited into several of the villagers’ homes. I ended up in the chief’s home along with a couple of the others and it was all very educational but what I want to draw your attention to is the chief’s son, who is lying in bed under the window. Turns out he had just been circumcised a day or two prior, with no anesthesia. At age 15. The chief apologized for his silence, saying he wasn’t feeling very sociable at the moment. Uh, ya think?

Finally we were escorted to a small hut behind the village that served as the village store where we were assured that everything was handcrafted (where else?) right in the village itself. Just ignore the fact that everything was identical to the items we’d seen from that last settlement to Nairobi, and everywhere in between. And don’t pay any attention to the tags sewn on all the textile products, those were hand-sewn on too. In the village. But whatever – I had appreciated the hospitality and wasn’t going to hate on them for making a living, so I poked around and found a few objects that struck my fancy. My attentive educator-turned-friend-turned-salesman quoted a ridiculously high number, I made a counter-offer, we spent some quality time haggling before I traded my Walmart-special Timex for a necklace and a Maasai blanket. Which is pretty much the best trade I’ve ever made in my life and yes, it did make me feel like an old-world explorer for approximately five and a half minutes. Ok, so it was longer than that, but there’s no way I’m admitting the actual period of time on the internet. Suffice it to say that I was pretty pleased with myself for quite some time after.

And then we had arrived: the Mara. As we rolled through the gates we were instantly treated with zebras, elephants, wildebeest – animals you typically only see in ones or twos at the local zoo, their majesty tarnished by the small enclosures that clip their wings and their spirits. Don’t get me wrong – this is no ‘anti-zoo’ post – but once you see these beautiful creatures in their natural habitat…there’s just no comparison. There was a storm blowing in over the plains and we pulled alongside a pride of lions just before the sheets of rain descended upon us. We waited out the initial onslaught of the storm there together – the humans in our big truck, gaping vinyl windows rolled up on the lion/leeward side and the lions just a few body-lengths away, tucked into the dubious shelter of a scrawny shrub. Eventually the worst of the storm died down and we moved on. We battled the rain intermittently for the rest of the afternoon but that didn’t keep the Mara from producing exotic creature after epic landscape and we spent much of the time in silent amazement, each lost in his own little world and busy drinking in every last moment. And…well, I think I will let the pictures speak for themselves. They tell the story better than I ever could anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually the day drew to a close and it was time to exit the park and set up camp. After the tents were in place the rest of the evening was filled with friendly debate over national-level economic and social policies (I swear I don’t know how that keeps happening), the culmination of our last-minute Secret Santa gift exchange, an extensive campfire feast and the dregs of a $3 bottle of Safari Whisky that was every bit as refined as you might guess from the price. All in all, not bad for Christmas in the bush – not bad at all.

The next morning we were up before the sun and rolling again shortly after it crested the horizon. Again, I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All good things must come to an end though, and in time we left the park to begin our journey back to Nairobi. We stopped at the gate on our way out for a short pit stop and were immediately besieged by a crowd of local women, clutching trinkets and baubles for sale.

Pushing through, we traveled an hour down the road before pulling over for a quick lunch. I could have stayed and watched the clouds drifty lazily by all day long.

Another three hours in and we were climbing back out of the Great Rift Valley as the sun sank low in the sky. As incredible as the experience had been two days prior, it was even better then. I don’t know what it is about that valley – looking out over it is such a simple pleasure and yet one of my favorite vistas of the trip.

 

 

 

And then we were back in Nairobi. Grandiose plans abounded as we pulled into the campsite, but then a light rain came and everyone seemed content to sit back and sip a cup of hot cocoa by the fire before slipping quietly off to the tents for an early night and the first solid sleep anyone had enjoyed in several days.

The next day brought the Nairobi Giraffe Center where most ‘kissed’ a giraffe (images which will not be finding their way to the internet, so don’t even waste your time asking!); and the Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage where rescued orphan elephants are brought and raised until they are old enough to be reintroduced to the wild.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then…then it was time to part ways. After a late lunch at a Mexican restaurant (that was actually pretty darn good, surprisingly!) and a leisurely cup of coffee at a nearby café, I said goodbye to my new friends and caught a cab back to the Cockar’s house.

The initial plan had been to meet up with Zarek’s parents for a kariokor – a sort of Kenyan barbecue that is reminiscent (as I understand it) of the Japanese Hibachi grills popular here in the States, with the twist that you do your own cooking. These plans fell through when the restaurant turned out to be closed that night, but Africa came through with an alternate (as she always seems to do) and before long I found myself enjoying ‘Sundowners and Bitings’ in the home of a Kenyan Cowboy. And yes, it was every bit as glamorous as it sounds. By the time a couple hours had passed I had met a former Australian policeman fresh off a stint working for the UN in the Congo; had my socks blown off by the most amazing shrimp I had ever tasted – and then made friends with the lady cooking them to find out how it was done; was offered a job hunting poachers that I have every intention of falling back upon if I ever run into issues searching for a job on this side of the globe – or, you know, if I just get bored with the ones I do find; and was introduced to the decadence that is Amarula and vodka. Which, in addition to be delicious, is also ridiculously stout – tread softly with that one, my friends. I did and am thankful for it because there were others who…well, there were others. Speaking of those others, things were just beginning to take off at this point but I had a flight to catch the next morning and the Cockars had work to do, so we said our goodbyes and were headed for the door when our host stopped me and insisted I sample the fifty-year old bottle of Glenlivet he had just opened. I mean, seriously, how do you say ‘no’ to that? So we tarried briefly and chuckled at the dancing that looked like it was about to rapidly get out of hand while I sipped on a glass of the smoothest whisky I have ever tasted. A short while later I found the bottom of the glass and offered my profuse thanks; a grin and a wave to the rest of the party-goers and we were on the road back home, for tomorrow – tomorrow I was headed to Zanzibar.

Entebbe. The name conjured visions of Israeli commandos and late-night raids, but I wasn’t flying Air France so I figured the odds were in my favor this time around. Besides, the only thing on my mind when we landed was getting through customs as quickly as possible so that I could move on to my next task – figuring out how to get to Kampala and catch a little shut-eye. I managed to work my way to the front of the pack as my fellow passengers walked across the tarmac and was feeling pretty good about things, but all of that flew right out the window when the entire contents of a giant KLM flight out of Europe hit passport control just ahead of us. So much for breezing through customs. Instead, I got the pleasure of standing in line for forty-five minutes enjoying the dulcet sounds of whiny teenagers and even whinier adults. Oh, the joys of human interaction. After watching traveler after traveler stumble through the passport control process as if they had just traversed planets rather than continents, it was finally my turn. Passport. Customs form. Basic answers to basic questions. Correct change in the proper currency for the visa, and I was on my way in under 90 seconds. I will admit, travel experience certainly helps to speed these things up. Of course, having half a brain doesn’t hurt either.

But that’s probably enough of me being snarky – for now, at least. Actually, that’s probably enough of what was about to be a rather monotonous monologue detailing the subsequent hour and a half. So let’s fast forward a bit. We’ll skip the part where I withdrew 200,000 shillings from the airport ATM without batting an eye, because I’m baller like that. And because I had a hundred bucks in my bank account. We’ll skip the part where I negotiated a seventy dollar cab ride down to thirty, because I’ve got skillz (and am apparently twelve. It’s cool, that means I’ll be a teenager by the end of this year.) We’ll skip the part where we got forced off the road by the president’s convoy that takes the same route at the same time with the same vehicles every night – not that there are any security issues with that, or anything… We’ll even skip past the part where my driver told me, as part of his running commentary, ‘Kampala is very safe and friendly, except for this street. Don’t come to this street in the daytime or you will leave without your wallet. And really, please don’t come here at night or you will leave without some (or all) of your appendages. If you leave.’ Ok, so I’m paraphrasing – but I swear that was the gist of it. Anyway, in addition to making the trip from the airport to the hostel seem much more exciting than it actually was by leaving the bulk of it up to your imagination, I must admit I have a bit of an ulterior motive for skipping over all that stuff (which, while I recognize and can appreciate that the concept of my stories having any sort of direction or purpose may come as a shock, the revelation of that motive as ulterior in nature should be no great surprise). Just what is that motive? To introduce you to perhaps my greatest discovery from the trip – the Rolex.

Now, don’t get ahead of me here, because I know what you’re thinking – pretentious Swiss watches, right? Well, you’re wrong, so just pipe down and listen to my story. (Wow, I’m going to make a fantastic grumpy old man someday. Hey – we’ve all gotta have aspirations!) At any rate, back to Kampala. By the time we rolled into the hostel it was closer to eleven than it was to ten, and by the time I settled up with my cabbie and got booked into a room the clock was counting down to midnight. If you remember from the previous post my adventures in Nairobi had intruded upon dinner, so beyond a snack on the plane the last thing I had eaten was a light early lunch at the Cockar’s. Needless to say, I was a bit hungry. I mean, I can go without food – but why? Seriously – with all the fun and exciting things out there to eat, I just don’t see the point. Particularly on vacation. The only problem? The hostel’s kitchen had long since shut down. But the bartender had a solution, as bartenders often do. ‘Just walk back down the street the way you came and grab a Rolex.’ I’m sure my face must have spoken volumes as I struggled to come up with a polite way to ask whether they often ate watches in Uganda, and didn’t that make for some awfully expensive meals?, because before I could find a way to voice my thoughts the bartender volunteered an explanation. You see, back in the colonial days the Brits came up with a sort of ‘fast food’ involving scrambled eggs and other goodies rolled up in a piece of flat bread. They called it rolled eggs, but apparently the locals had a hard time with the pronunciation so it turned into ‘rolex’ over time. And the capitalization? That’s all mine, because anything that good deserves to be capitalized. But now I’m getting ahead of myself. At any rate, I departed the hostel with instructions to ‘stop at the first place you come to on the right side of the road with people still out and ask for a Rolex. They’ll know what you’re talking about.’ Half a mile down the road I found a smoky jumble of street vendors and slid into the shortest line, still fairly cautious after the day’s events. There were plenty of quizzical looks directed my way, but the friendly smiles that accompanied them soon put me at ease. In short order I found myself at the head of the line – ‘Jambo rafiki. Rolex, tafadhali?’

And then magic happened.

First a large, round piece of chapati was fished out from somewhere I probably don’t want to know about and thrown on a steel hemisphere half-covering a lazy fire behind my ‘chef’. Next two eggs were broken into a battered aluminum mug. A rusty knife made quick work of the veggies – shearing slivers off a tomato, slicing long strips off a green pepper, shallow perpendicular chops followed by a sort of shaving motion producing diced onions from the hand – the unused portion of each thrown unceremoniously back onto the single filthy shelf of the vendor’s cart from whence they had come. A pinch of salt and a dash of pepper came from small open-air piles on that same shelf before a grimy handful of shredded cheese became the last ingredient added to that wonderful mug. The concoction was beaten violently with a spoon before being poured onto the broad griddle covering a second fire, where a quick splash of oil was already sizzling. The chapati was flipped, then the egg mixture; and then the two were finally combined, rolled, and slid into a plastic bag where the backside of that same knife divided the delicacy into quarters before the whole thing was dropped brusquely into a brown paper bag.

I was ecstatic. Instantly recognizing the boon I had stumbled upon, I walked quickly back to the hostel bar for the one thing that could be paired with this treat to make it even better – an ice-cold Nile Special. While nothing…well…special…Nile Special isn’t a bad beer either and her claim to fame is that in addition to being named after the Nile, she is brewed from the very waters of that mighty river herself. Short of washing my late-night snack down with cholera-laced well water, I don’t know what could be more legit. Oh, and the verdict? Fantastic. Phenomenal. Everything I had hoped for, and more. You know – just in case you hadn’t already picked up on that. Seriously though, it was that good. It shot straight to the Top Five of my ‘Street Foods I Am In Love With’ list – and that’s a long list. Don’t believe me? Here’s a little tidbit of anecdotal evidence for ya – by the time I got back the only others still up in the hostel were two German girls and a guy who had just finished climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. They were friendly but a little exclusive – until I shared one little quarter of my Rolex with them. After that, I didn’t buy another drink for the rest of the night and had to continually turn down offers for more. Not lying.

In an uncharacteristically slightly-related side note, you can go here to witness the preparation of a much more sanitary and clearly inferior Rolex. Scrumptious, no?

But the night was steadily marching on, so after two beers and round of Waragi (a local drink reminiscent of gin that is jokingly called ‘Ugandan Water’ by the locals. Apparently methanol is often added to the less-than-authentic versions, but seeing as I neither went blind nor died after drinking it I’m thinking the odds are good that our version was the official stuff.) I finally said good-bye to my fast new friends and made it to bed by two. Or…relatively shortly thereafter, at least. I figured I should probably get at least a little sleep before tackling the Nile and my first ever Class V rapids the next…er…later in the day.

All of which is to say – 6 a.m. came entirely too soon. Just who decided to put ‘2’ and ‘6’ so close together, anyway? I mean, seriously – can you think of a time that their proximity was anything less than the bane of your existence? Didn’t think so. But the fine folks at Nile River Explorers were going to be there at 6:45 to pick me up, so there was no helping it. Or at least…that’s the way things were supposed to play out. When 6:45 came and went with no shuttle, I began to see that it was going to be one of ‘those’ mornings. A phone call to NRE netted me a conversation that went something like this:

*yawn* “Nile River Explorers.”

“Hi, my name is Wayco and I’m at the Kampala Backpackers. I’m scheduled to be rafting with you today, but the shuttle hasn’t gotten here yet. I was wondering if it was running behind, or…?”

“Wait – who are you?”

“Wayco. My name is Wayco.”

“And you want to go rafting today?”

“Yes. I emailed you a couple days ago to see if you had any slots open for today and that I planned on staying at the Kampala Backpackers last night. I got a response saying that you had a spot for me, and to just confirm with you once I knew for sure where and when I would need picked up. I emailed you that information yesterday, but haven’t heard anything back since.”

“Yeah…we didn’t really check email yesterday. Where did you say you were?”

“Kampala Backpackers.”

“And you need a ride?”

“Do you honestly think I would still be on the phone if I didn’t? Yes, please.”

*papers shuffling* “Um…the shuttle’s not going there today.”

*long pause…*

“But if you make it to the elephant at the Oasis Nakumatt by 7:15, you can still catch the shuttle.”

“An elephant? By the Oasis…there’s a…where exactly…if I just tell a cabbie I need to go to ‘the elephant at the Oasis Nakumatt’, he’s going to know where to take me?

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll be good.”

“And then does your shuttle…what color is it, or is there some way I can tell it’s yours?”

“As long as you’re at the elephant by 7:15, we’ll pick you up.”

Right, so…by this point it was 6:55 but I hadn’t flown all the way to Uganda to ‘almost’ raft the Nile, so I grabbed my bag and headed out the door with the name of a Nakumatt and twenty minutes to make it across town and find an elephant. The hostel lady had woken up the bartender from the night before by this point, so he came with me to help me catch a cab and flagged down the first thing that came over the hill – a wheezing little motorbike. ‘Oh, a boda-boda?’ The bartender caught the question in my voice – ‘Would you like to wait for a regular car?’ By this point the motorbike was stopped in front of us and I didn’t need to look at my watch to know that time was running out fast. ‘Nope, this’ll be great, thanks for your help!’ I climbed on behind the driver – ‘Do you know the elephant at the Oasis Nakumatt?’ ‘Nope.’ Great… ‘Do you know the Oasis Nakumatt?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, just get me there.’ And just like that the motorbike came sputtering back to life, I searched around for something to hold onto, and we were off into the rain.

Have I mentioned that it was raining?

It had broken with a loud thunderclap shortly after I had gone to sleep, and four hours later it was still raining. Sometimes in dense sheets of big fat drops, sometimes little more than a heaviness in the air, but always raining. As I shut one eye and closed the other to a narrow slit in an attempt to protect them from the stinging rain without completely giving up – if I was going to end my life in a horrendous traffic accident on the back of a motorbike in Uganda I wanted to at least see it coming, after all – I took stock of my situation. It was 7 a.m. three days before Christmas. I was wearing a light t-shirt and no helmet; but at least I had long pants and shoes over my driver, who was plying his trade in shorts and flip-flops. I was sitting on the back of a motorcycle holding onto two small bars behind me and underneath my seat, half- (and occasionally full-)blinded as we whizzed along rain-slick streets, zig-zagging through traffic in the grey light of the early morning. ‘This has distinct potential to end poorly.’ I remember thinking as we came to a rest at a busy intersection, rear wheel slipping slightly and signaling its desire to swap positions with the front under heavy braking. A sentiment which was reconfirmed as we quickly took off again, squeezing through the intersection against the light and amidst the protesting horns of fellow drivers. For reasons I’m still attempting to determine, that ‘Lord, please save me from myself’ prayer that I mentioned in an earlier post tends to get quite the workout from me, in all its various iterations.

After what seemed an eternity we pulled over to the side of the road. I looked around – no elephant in sight, but there was the big blue Nakumatt sign, with a couple minutes to spare. I paid the man and moved off to search for my landmark, happy to (still) be alive (again). It didn’t take long – as soon as I broke the top of the ramp leading up from street level, I could see the shoulder-high statue across the parking lot, in front of the main entrance. No shuttle of any sort was in sight, so I ducked into a nearby café for a quick cup of coffee and still made it to the statue by 7:15. Feeling quite impressed with myself, I stood next to the elephant and enjoyed the rain that occasionally blew in under the overhang and the bitter taste of the coffee as it seared my tongue. Ten minutes later the sense of accomplishment was beginning to wear off, but logically reasoned that I couldn’t have too much to worry about – I was, after all, next to the elephant, right where the voice from the telephone had told me to be. And when I say right next to the elephant, I mean right next to the elephant – I wasn’t taking any chances on this one. By 7:35, however, all logic was out the window and I was pacing little circles around the elephant, looking for anything that could possibly be a shuttle for NRE.

And then I saw it. A large red bus with ‘Nile River Explorers’ and a large photograph of a raft mid-rapid emblazoned on the side, driving away on the road from which I had entered twenty-plus minutes earlier. My first thought: Really? When I asked you if there was a way to identify your shuttle, you didn’t think to mention there is a GIANT RAFT PAINTED ON IT?!?! Second thought: That thing never came anywhere even REMOTELY close to this stupid elephant! Aaand third thought: You’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me. I will admit - I was temporarily at a loss, and stood there for probably a good 15-20 seconds just absolutely dumbfounded by the whole situation before I could even start coming up with work-arounds. Even after I moved past my shock, I didn’t get very far. By the time I made it out to the road, the bus was long gone. The cell phone that I was borrowing from Zarek didn’t want to call any Ugandan numbers. (On a side note, I’m fairly certain that was user error, but I’m totally going to blame it on the phone.) I located a computer lab, but it wasn’t going to open for another 45 minutes. It was a quarter to eight and I was walking back to the street, taking stock of my cash reserves with a vague plan to pay for a taxi to Jinja and hope I could make it there before the trip left when I saw that big red bus pull back in and stop as far away from the elephant as you could possibly get and still be in the parking lot. As a matter of fact the bus never came anywhere near the elephant and I still don’t know why it turned around and came back – I didn’t ask any questions, just climbed silently aboard and found a seat. At long last, I was on my way.

The ride to Jinja was fairly uneventful, particularly after everything it took to get to the ride to Jinja. Red mud, green vegetation and countless dirt-floored shacks litter my memories as the rain falling on the roof combined with the (sometimes) gently swaying of the bus rocked me in and out of consciousness. I remember being saddened by the desperate poverty that abounded in such an obviously fertile land. And yet, at the same time – there is hope, there is potential, there is a future. That is one of the things that made the greatest impact on me during my time in all three of these countries – the pure and unbridled opportunity that exists there. Mark my words, we will see tremendous growth in sub-Saharan Africa during our lifetimes. And I’m not the only one who sees it – the Chinese are investing heavily in the area and have been for several years now. Heck, if I had millions (let alone billions) to invest, a healthy portion would be going towards infrastructure and commercial projects in Africa too. But I don’t, so rather than extending you an invitation to come visit me in my palatial mansion in the heart of the rainforest or on the shore of the Indian Ocean, a few photos and a video or two will just have to suffice.

 

 

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qu88XMHJdHg)

By the time we pulled into NRE’s Jinja hostel it was pushing 10, so we didn’t stay long. A quick breakfast, a quick briefing of the day’s schedule, one last opportunity to back out, and then we were grabbing life jackets and helmets and piling onto a truck for the drive to the put-in point. Half an hour later we were slathering on sunscreen and making nervous jokes about getting eaten by crocodiles. And then we were in the water.

The first set of rapids was a Class II and little more than a long ripple, but it afforded us the opportunity to sort ourselves out and practice following the commands of our guide. The second set was a Class III that got everybody a little wet, and the third was a Class V that we almost made it through in one piece. But instead we came into the last stretch of white water a little off course and the river proved early on she was not in a merciful mood that day. As if to demonstrate her contempt for our skills and our frailty she ate us slowly, teasing us with hope and savoring our inevitable destruction. My side of the raft rose slowly in the air and we all shifted with it, tightening our grasp on the line running the circumference of the raft and shifting our collective weight to the high side as we had been instructed. It was meaningless. My side rose unflinchingly higher and higher. People began to slip out of the raft in ones and twos before the river finally tired of her play and slammed the raft fully over, scattering the rest of us like so many discarded toys hurled away in rage. I was tossed around under water for a few moments but by the time I began to comprehend what was happening I was already back on the surface, sputtering and still clinging to my paddle, the capsized raft just a few meters away. We collected each other and righted our raft as we floated away on calm water, spilling back into the raft breathless from the adrenaline-soaked laughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had maybe one or two rapids before our next Class V and by that time we were working together as a well-oiled machine. I felt a surge of accomplishment as we shot out of that set, soaked to the skin but still right side up – but our guide wasn’t done with us yet. Following his commands we turned the raft around and took advantage of the backwater to paddle up to the short waterfall we had just come flying off. I thought we were going back just to take a look and appreciate the roaring waters of the mighty Nile, but then again I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I appreciated those waters alright. I appreciated them as we approached and I got drenched again from the spray, I appreciated them as we got close and the water spilling over the front of the raft into my lap began to clue me into our guide’s true intent, and I really appreciated those waters when the combined forces of gravity and vacuum ripped the raft out from under me and I was sucked under once again. This time I was a little more cognizant of my surroundings, but I still wasn’t under for long. Tossed around briefly just below the surface I was soon back on top – still clutching my paddle and breathing a little more easily than before. I started to swim toward the inverted raft but it was in a faster current and I couldn’t catch it while dragging the paddle at the same time. I thought I could see another set of rapids coming up so I had a decision to make – the raft or the paddle. That second set of rapids never did materialize, but the other raft was nice enough to return my paddle a few minutes downriver.

By midday I was feeling like a pro. We had been through a handful of Class III rapids and half a dozen or more IV’s and V’s. I’d been thrown twice but had bounced right back both times. We’d had a couple longer stretches of flat water where we’d been able to get out and do some swimming – I was feeling comfortable in the water. We had just one more rapid and then we would be hitting a long calm stretch with plenty of time for swimming, for relaxing, for a lunch of fresh pineapple, for drinking in the African countryside. Our guide introduced it to us – Silverback was the longest and strongest rapid we would be hitting all day, over 150 meters of Class V rapids collapsing into each other in deep water with some nice jagged rocks sprinkled in, you know, just to sort of ‘complete the picture’. Silverback is world-renowned and the whole stretch of river we rafted that day is often referred to simply as ‘the Silverback stretch’. But hey – we’d already been through some pretty vicious rapids and we only had this one more before we could sit back and take life easy for a bit, so how bad could it be?

Silverback tore us apart inside the first 25 meters. To this day I still don’t know what exactly happened. One moment I was paddling on line, docking my paddle and dropping to a knee on command, holding on to the safety line and bracing for impact – the next I was in the water and going down fast. Thankfully, somewhere in the interim I had managed to get a full breath of air. I remember holding onto my paddle briefly before it was violently ripped from my grasp in the underwater turbulence, and all the while the world around me grew ever darker as I was pulled deeper and deeper into the heart of the Nile. For few moments I kicked my legs frantically in a futile attempt to reach the surface – and then stopped abruptly when I realized I didn’t have the slightest clue which direction the surface was. As the voice of my mother from twenty years past ran through my mind in perfect clarity – ‘If you’re ever underwater and don’t know which way is up, stop struggling and let yourself float to the surface’ – my legs ceased their frenzied movement and I forced my body to relax. The sobering truth of the situation settled into my very soul – at this point I was just along for the ride, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to make that ride end one second sooner than it was going to.

All this, and I was still underwater. I had time on the bottom – time to reflect and be thankful for capsizing twice earlier as it had allowed me to grow comfortable with the experience and was a large part of why I was able to remain so calm this time. And yet, despite the calm, the doubts came wriggling in. Those times were different. You were never far from the surface then, you were up where the water is light and warm and turbulent but lacks any real power – not like here. Here where you swear it’s colder and it’s undeniably dark, pitch black like the dead of night. Here where the water isn’t as capricious but still changes direction with a brutal urgency. Here where you are impotent in the face of the river’s true power. Here where you are still underwater.

Still, I was able to fight back the panic. I remember distinctly the question that came to mind – ‘I wonder how long I can hold my breath?’ Memories of decades-old contests with my brother came to mind. How long had I been able to last then – forty-five seconds? A minute? Whatever it was back then – I’m older now and in better shape, it should be longer. And yet back then it was a controlled environment, sitting on kitchen chairs and staring at the clock. Now I’m getting thrashed underwater, adrenaline blasting through my veins and working off of a quick breath I don’t even remember taking – all that is going to bring the time back down. I remember the conclusion I came to just a clearly as I remember the question that spurred it – ‘Well, I guess I’m going to find out.’ Because I was still underwater, and I was beginning to feel those twinges that come when your subconscious tells you it needs to breathe and your conscious tells it no.

But there was hope. It had been imperceptible at first and even now was transpiring with maddening lethargy, but it was no longer dismissible as a mere figment of imagination that the all-encompassing blackness was receding as light slowly but steadily re-entered my existence. Cause for hope indeed – but still I was underwater. My world grew brighter and brighter – but still I was underwater. The water wasn’t as heavy anymore – it was growing more erratic and I could feel the bubbles formed by oxygen swallowed from the sky racing along my skin. I could tell I was getting close to the surface – but still I was underwater, and those polite requests from my subconscious were turning into screams. I felt a nylon strap from my raft or another brush my arm and lunged for it – and missed. Still, I was underwater.

And then, suddenly, I wasn’t. My head broke the surface and the stale air in my lungs escaped in a sharp exhale. The exuberance of salvation began to fill my soul as fresh air began to fill my lungs. And that’s precisely when things got ugly, for the river wasn’t done with me yet. The Nile had one more ace up her sleeve and as I gulped in that beautiful air she played it, sucking me back under one last time. Lungs barely half full and even that paltry amount accompanied by a mouthful of water, I fought the urge to gag and lose what little oxygen I did have. Gone was the placid acceptance of fate and the quiet determination to ride the situation out – full-blown panic was pounding at the door and it was everything I could do to keep it under control.

Thankfully the river had spent herself and that second dunk wasn’t nearly as long as the first. Five seconds – seven tops and I was back on the surface again, weak and choking but alive.  Eventually one of the safety kayakers found me and took me back to where the others had already righted the raft and climbed back in, some 75 meters upriver from me. How long had I been under the first time – thirty seconds? Forty-five? Or had it only been twenty that felt like an eternity? It had been an eternity, that much is assured. That’s the most accurate number I can put on it, and it gave me a new respect for the power and treachery of the Nile. There was more big water later in the day and I enjoyed it all, but the memory of Silverback was always in the back of my mind. Turns out Waycos might be mortal after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(*Note - These last four photos are an amalgamation of two different rapids, neither of which is Silverback. You can tell because I'm busy not drowning in all of them.)

(**Note - Actually, I think the first three pictures all the way up at the beginning of the rafting description might be from Silverback, but I have no way of knowing for sure and am far too lazy to adjust the order now.)

I could drag you through the rest of the trip but I’m sure that my stories of the afternoon would be just as overshadowed by Silverback as my memories are, so suffice it to say that I felt like I was drifting through the pages of an old copy of National Geographic. Monkeys chattered as they swung through the verdant jungle, naked children splashed in the shallows as their mothers stripped to the waist to do laundry in the same water, the bright sun overhead quickly dried us after each rapid, and always the brown water flowed along the fertile red soil. It was an incredible experience, but it wasn’t until we pulled out after that last rapid that feelings which had been brewing all day finally crystallized. Climbing the hill behind the pullout point, I turned around and was immediately struck by two things. First, I could finally put into words what separated the Nile from other rivers I’ve rafted: sheer magnitude. I’ve been on some good rafting trips, but without a doubt I have never been near anything that even begins to approach the size of the white water on the Nile – it is just simply massive. And secondly, the wild beauty of it all…unbelievable. Breathtaking. The vibrancy of the colors, the overwhelming roar of the river, the utterly visceral nature of the ‘Dark Continent’… Even now, there’s a mysterious sense of potential and possibility that draws me back. If I wasn’t already in love with Africa, I fell in love in that moment.

It wasn’t until the truck ride back to camp that I really began to get to know the people I had shared my raft and my life with for most of the day. There was the lady who runs a dive shop in the Netherlands. Mike, the Californian who left to catch a flight before any of us managed to get his contact info. The Irish/American quartet on an epic overland journey from China to South Africa. Envious much? I know I was. And if you aren’t too…either you’re dead or you’re boring; either way I don’t think we can be friends anymore. But at the end of that bumpy ride was a feast straight off the grill and a couple of ice-cold Nile Specials, just in time to watch the sun set over the Nile herself. Impressive? Incredible? Idyllic? All of the above, and that’s not even the half of it.

 

 

 

*On a side note, a new dam is being built on the Nile to provide hydroelectric power for the people of Uganda. The drawback is that this will raise the water level and the rapids you see in the pictures above will be gone, most of the rapids I rafted that day will be gone, and even Silverback herself will disappear. The last rafters/kayakers ran it on the 28^th of February, 2011 and on 01 March that portion of the river was shut down for completion of the dam. I will always feel incredibly fortunate to have been one of the last to experience those mighty waters before they vanish forever.

The original intent was to get a good night’s sleep after the sun came down but the iPod and the Irish dancing came out and it grew late before I could bring myself to leave my new friends and that little bar perched over the Nile. 5:30 came early though and I was off again, hitching a ride back to Kampala with my new Dutch friend. Despite the sleep-deprived trance I was in that morning I still couldn’t help but revel in the lushness of the countryside. For a simple farm boy from Iowa, all that green was pure beauty. We made it to town by 8:30 or 9 and spent a good hour sipping coffee from the same café I had patronized barely more than 24 hours prior – I am constantly amazed at just how much can transpire in a single day. And after so much running it was heavenly to just…stop, albeit briefly. To sit and share good coffee and quiet conversation; to push pause on the running and the scheming and the doing and – just for a moment – enjoy being; to share a moment of delicious tranquility in the midst of the chaos and bedlam that is Kampala.

But all things whether good or bad must come to an end, and in time we said goodbye and parted ways – she on her way to Rwanda and I to a cursory exploration of Kampala. Which is an experience, to say the least. In a subterranean passageway I stumbled across a sleeping restaurant serving intriguing cuisine complete with a sharp-eyed caretaker who angrily demanded ‘Are you journalist?!’ as soon as my camera made an appearance. In another I found piles of dead fish and dead chickens and peeled potatoes scattered wantonly about as the dozen women busily preparing lunch greeted me with smiles and giggles and whispers of ‘mzungu…’

Above ground was no less disappointing – the center of town is dominated by imposing governmental buildings but surrounded by a veritable warren of dusty side-streets and back alleys. A short walk down one of these could net you anything you could possibly desire – food, clothing, a street-side shoe-shine, international calls from a satellite phone in a cardboard box. Eventually I found my way to a little café serving rolexes, but it just wasn’t the same coming from a regular, fully staffed kitchen. Paying my bill, I asked the waitress for directions to the taxi park. ‘Oh, it’s a ways away – just grab a boda-boda, it should only cost about 900 shillings.’  The first boda-boda driver I came to had different ideas, however. As soon as I asked for a price, the skin tax got slapped on – ‘I can take you for 3,000 shillings.’ After a few moments of heated debate in which my waitress got rapidly upgraded (in reference, at least) to ‘my good friend’, I gave 1,500 as my final offer and was turned down with an indignant ‘No one here will take you for that. If you can find someone who will – please, be my guest, let them.’ I shrugged my shoulders and said ‘Ok’ – but started my search by skipping the next four or five bikes because I had watched them all conversing together as I walked up. Reaching the head of a new row, I didn’t even have time to finish asking the new driver if he knew where the taxi park was before the old one reached me and was dragging me away by the arm – ‘Ok, ok, I will drive you for 1,500. But I must drop you at the top of the park instead of the bottom because of the traffic this time of day.’ Seems I found someone who would take me for 1,500 after all.

 

 

 

To be honest, I kind of thought he was lying about the whole traffic thing to get out of taking me the whole way. Until we got to the taxi park. The street he dropped me off on was elevated from the park itself and divided from it by a thick ring of push-carts and peddlers, so it wasn’t until I forced my way through that maze that I broke out and got my first glimpse of the taxi park. Good grief. A long wedge with the space of maybe three football fields lopped off and lumped together, the park was home to hundreds of matatus haphazardly jumbled together. It took me ten minutes to find one heading to Entebbe. It took five minutes for the driver to fill it to twice its intended occupancy. It took another forty-five to exit the taxi park and make it two hundred meters down the road.

After that it was relatively smooth sailing though – another hour’s drive through the rain brought me to Entebbe just after the rain stopped, and then it was just a matter of filling time until my flight left that evening. Which, actually, turned out to be one of my favorite afternoons of the whole trip. First up was the Entebbe Botanical Gardens which is nice because it has an extensive collection of indigenous flora MONKEYS! I know I know, Zarek’s going to hate me for that one but seriously, I stand by my original premise – how are monkeys NOT the greatest thing ever?

 

 

 

 

 

 

My guide for the afternoon did a great job of showing me around the Gardens. I ate part of a tree that tasted like cinnamon (probably because it was a cinnamon tree - I'm smart like that), I took macro pictures of ants that I would later be deeply saddened by when they didn’t come out, and I took pictures of flowers that fared only slightly better.

Luckily this was all before my guide introduced me to the Golden Orb Spider, whose pictures came out infinitely better and by so doing reversed my previously mentioned deep sadness.

 

 

 

And finally, my guide assured me that the Entebbe Botanical Gardens was the filming location for one of the original Tarzan movies in the early 20^th century. Cursory research has since revealed that this claim is oft-repeated but rarely (read: never) verified, but none of that changes the fact that my guide performed a completely legit Tarzan imitation halfway through the tour.

After the Gardens it was off on a boda-boda in search of the Uganda Reptile Village. The sun was out, there was a warm breeze blowing, and that boda-boda trip was about as far removed from my first as you can get. Now that I say that, of course, I recall that my one and only actual boda-boda crash (as opposed to countless near-misses) was on that particular trip, but…it was a low-speed affair and involved a mud puddle on a dirt road rather than concrete and oncoming traffic, so I don’t really count that. I was pretty dirty by that point anyway, so by the time it dried and I scraped the worst of it off you could barely tell anything had happened. Which pretty much means that nothing did happen…right?

At any rate, we finally made it to the Reptile Village, and it was well worth the travel. Kazibwe Yasin is a Ugandan about my age who developed an interest in snakes and snake-rescue when he was sixteen. At first he kept his rescues in boxes next to his bed, but eventually he decided that perhaps this was a bad idea (although I can’t imagine why…). Over time he upgraded and is now working on his dream, building an expansive ‘Village’ to hold all his rescues on permanent display. He’s got big dreams for the reptiles he hopes to one day house here but he’s already off to a pretty good start with things like tortoises…

 

 

 

…chameleons…

 

 

 

 

 

 

…Gaboon Vipers…

 

 

 

…and my favorite by far, the cobras. There was a father with three little kids visiting as the same time, and it was all fun and games until the kids realized Kazibwe was bringing one of the cobras out to give us a closer look. Then it was all wailing and gnashing of teeth as the kids went shrieking across the yard to the far side of the enclosure, some thirty meters away. I have to admit, I couldn’t help but laugh - in my defense, their dad was laughing too. That being said, there was a little voice whispering in the back of my head ‘Those kids are the smart ones…’ five minutes later when I found myself an arm’s length from the cobra’s raised head, shuttering away. And it was that same voice that kept me from asking if I could hold the cobra too when Kazibwe picked it up and was showing it to us at even closer range – a decision that I will forever regret. Conclusion? That voice is a dirty little traitor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were also these cute little bunny rabbits, which the kids instantly fell in love with. I’m pretty sure their time in the Village is more…*ahem*…’limited’ than most of the other residents, but the kids were so excited that I just couldn’t bring myself to ask the question whose answer I was pretty sure would destroy their world.

And…that’s pretty much it. My guide took me back to town via the scenic route, promising to show me parts of Entebbe that most visitors never get to see. Judging by the reactions as the locals caught sight of a mzungu in their little corner of the world, I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth on that one. I found dinner at a little pizza joint that I figured was firmly ensconced in the upper crust of Entebbe when the glowering individual with UN plates drove away with a stack of boxes. I soon understood why though when they delivered my ham, spinach, feta, mushroom, and awesome pizza along with one last Nile Special. I’ve got to confess – I wasn’t that hungry and I only intended to eat a couple slices and call it a night. But after that first slice…I couldn’t stop myself until it was all gone. It was Just. That. Good. As soon as I could move again I waddled out to the main road, caught one last boda-boda and headed for the airport on my way back to Nairobi.

Tired as I was, my body hadn’t yet figured out that it had switched hemispheres…twice…so Sunday morning came bright and early. I have no complaints though, as it started what would become something of a mini-tradition for the trip – leisurely conversation over breakfast with Zarek’s parents, who are some of the best hosts I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying with. Fresh fruit, cereal, toast, piping hot Kenyan tea that I’m still trying to figure out how to replicate on this side of the world, and two of the nicest people you will ever meet – if we could just figure out how to start every day that way, I’m pretty convinced that no one would ever have another bad day. After breakfast came church on the outskirts of Nairobi at the beautiful and serene Rosslyn Academy, where I was amazed at the number of LeTourneau students and graduates and siblings and parents I found myself being introduced to – it truly is astonishing the strength of connection that exists between LU and this one small country on the other side of the world. And yet, somehow, at the same time…it just seems to fit.

After church was a quick trip to Village Market for internet access and an introduction to Nakumatt (just think of it as Kenya’s version of Wal-Mart), and then I was off exploring. A quick taxi ride deposited me on the edge of downtown Nairobi. I had no maps and had left my guidebook at ‘home’ so I just picked a direction that looked promising and started walking. It was a hot, lazy afternoon and at first the streets were empty, but a few dusty blocks and barren back alleys later and the impromptu aides were coming out of the woodwork. The color of my skin was an unavoidable invitation to scrutiny, and the big black Nikon slung across my back was a dead give-away as to my status. The would-be tour guides descended like a cloud of locusts – white teeth flashing in broad grins, hands thrust forth demanding to be shaken, and promises to personally introduce me to the city if I would ‘just come inside their shop for a moment first. You don’t have to buy anything, just look around a bit and my boss with be happy. Please sir, for me.’ The first I shook by assuring him that I knew where I was going, the second I dodged by asserting that I wasn’t buying any souvenirs this trip, and I think there might have been a pick-and-roll involved on a third, but the fourth showed persistence like I haven’t seen since the Spanish Steps in Rome. Truly impressive, when you think about it. He hardly seemed to acknowledge rejection as I shot down his pitch time and again, merely rolling seamlessly into another monologue that would invariably end with an offer to ‘come visit my little shop, just for a minute, and enjoy a Coke.’ Four blocks later he was still with me, pausing when I stopped to take pictures, shaking his head but staying by my side when took I abrupt and illogical turns rather than proceeding in the direction he indicated, refusing to be discouraged by my interjections as I interrupted his spiel yet again to ask about this building or that, and always – always – bringing the conversation inevitably back around to his little shop and that Coke. Finally, after half an hour of solid dismissal we had reached the city square and I had all but resigned myself to having an uninvited travel partner for the remainder of the afternoon when I took a fortuitous interest in an upscale-looking outdoor market. In response to yet another interruption, my new ‘friend’ sneered ‘That’s for rich people. You don’t want to go there. I don’t want to go there.’ ‘Oh really?’ I responded, struggling to hold back a smile as the mechanism of my salvation became clear – what had been a passing interest a moment prior suddenly became a burning desire, and there was no way on God’s green earth that I wasn’t going to check out this particular corner of Nairobi. His bulletproof façade had cracked, and he knew it. A little more pressure, a few more questions, and finally the end came with an exasperated sigh.

‘You really aren’t going to come visit my shop?’

‘No, I told you that from the beginning.’

‘Well, at least give me three hundred shillings for a Coke.’

‘Three hundred?! Half an hour ago you said they only cost a hundred!’

‘Yes, but we are in the center of town now, they are more expensive here. Besides, I came all this way with you and now I have to walk all that way back…’

‘Ah, but that was your own choice. I never asked you to.’

Eventually I pushed a fifty shilling note into his hand and thanked him for his time – he had given me a fairly decent introduction to downtown Nairobi after all. Another minute of debate convinced him that really was all he was getting out of me, and at long last – I was free.

I should take a moment to say – the pan-handlers on this trip were some of the most persistent I’ve come across and in my travels and I drew significantly more attention (for obvious reasons) than on any other trip as well, but to stop there would be to give an extremely misleading characterization to the region.  What truly blew me away was what a great experience I had despite these things. If I could sum it all up in one statement, it would be this: ‘East Africa – if not THE easiest place I’ve ever traveled – was certainly one of the easiest.’ Seriously. As a rule, the people I ran across were friendly, polite, and eager to help out. Even the panhandlers.

But back to Sunday afternoon. Enjoying my newfound freedom, I drifted through the market that had secured that status. Incidentally, my guide had been right – I didn’t want to be there. Apparently targeting a more ‘hip’ clientele than I fell into, the booths were all name brand t-shirts and tennis shoes and the gaudy sort of trinkets that are popular with the club-hopping generation the world over. Five minutes of dragging my feet was all I could muster to give my late acquaintance time to create some distance before I drifted back out again. Next to the market an outdoor stage was set up with local musicians blasting a sort of rap/techno/gospel/local folk music milieu, and that swallowed another thirty minutes before I moved on to the nearby Kenyatta Conference Center. At 32 stories, the KCC is the second tallest building in Nairobi and apparently has a very nice observation deck on the 28^th floor. This was my goal when I entered the building, but I must admit that I never made it there. Instead, a few compliments and a bit of smooth talking later and I was on my way to the roof with a personal tour guide. At a discount from the 28^th floor no-guide price. Ah, it’s a rough life – but hey, somebody’s gotta live it! I fired questions at my guide as fast as she could handle them and could have happily spent an hour on the roof, hearing of Kenya’s labored growing pains and watching the city crawl by beneath me – but the afternoon was drawing to a close so I took one last look, burning the image into my mind for future orientation. I made note of the street I should ‘never cross’ – promising myself that I would use it as a starting point for the next day’s adventures – and left to catch the dying moments of the Maasai Market a block away before they shut down for the year.

A mad crush of color, the Maasai Market is a chaotic jumble of handicrafts and vendors piled onto a football field sized patch of concrete. Though most were well into packing up by the time I entered, no one was above making that last minute sale. Eyebrows rose in expectation and promises of special deals were readied, but it was the last day before the Christmas season so a firm ‘No, thank-you’ and constant movement proved to be sufficient weapons this time around. Fifteen minutes and I was back on the street, allowing myself to be carried along by the mass of humanity as I enjoyed the gilding the sun’s last rays were giving the world around me. Crowded and dusty as she was, I could feel myself falling for Nairobi.

The next morning we gathered again around the table for breakfast, sharing stories of the past and plans for the future. Zarek had arrived late the night before – with five years to catch up on there was no shortage of conversation. Life soon intervened however, and as the others headed off to work I settled down to finally figure out the credit card debacle and book my Uganda tickets. A few short minutes of research and my suspicions were confirmed – my credit card company had shut off my card, citing ‘suspicious activity’. ‘Now, that’s not so bad’, you might be thinking, ‘They’re just looking out for you. Don’t you want them to protect you?’ And, ordinarily, I might be inclined to agree with you. This is the continent with all the Nigerian princes running around trying to access their rightful inheritances with just the tiniest bit of help from Mabel in Smalltown, U.S.A., after all. The problem is that a week prior to departure I had called with all the specifics of my trip – to include airports I would be flying through – and the express guidance ‘There will be strange-looking charges on my card, do not turn it off.’ I’m not joking – I broke it down into the simplest terms possible at least three or four times during the call, just to make sure the message got across. And, the first time – the very first time – I tried to use the card, it got shut off. Seriously? You’re just going to cut me off? No calls to either of the phones on my profile to see what’s up? No emails to the listed address either, not even as a courtesy after the fact, no ‘Oh hey, by the way, we killed your card, you might want to do something about that.’? Oh, and all of this after I JUST TALKED TO YOU A WEEK AGO AND TOLD YOU EXACTLY WHAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN?!?! Thanks, Bank of America, for hooking a brother up. Your competency has been duly noted…and shared with the internet. The truly ironic part of this story is that if you count the good old US of A, before this trip I had traveled to 27 countries on this card and I didn’t give BoA a heads up on any of them – just showed up in country and started swiping away. Want to guess how many of those ‘suspicious charges’ got my card turned off? No? That’s alright, you still have a shot at our Daily Bonus question – want to guess who won’t be invited into the Circle of Trust prior to my next trip?

Alright, I suppose that’s enough ranting for now. It was remarkably easy to book a flight once my card was turned back on, and then it was back into Nairobi for a second day of exploration. As I started the walk to Village Market I briefly contemplated saving some money and catching a matatu. Ridiculously inexpensive, matatus are *supposedly* regulated minibuses that work regular-ish routes and are by far the cheapest way to get around Nairobi. Or…most of East Africa, to be honest. The problem is that you are going to be sharing your seat with at least twice as many people as it was designed for; you need to be somewhat familiar with the routes to avoid getting deposited somewhere far, far away from your intended destination; your driver’s license and driving skills in general are typically extremely suspect at best; and you constantly hear horror stories of pick-pockets and hijackings. You know, the little stuff. Taking all this into consideration, I do have to admit that in a moment of weakness I decided to take the easy way out and just hop a cab. Initially. Ten minutes later a matatu came careening around a corner blasting dance music from both internal and external speakers with the fare-collector hanging on where the door used to be, people crammed in so tightly that they were  nearly bursting from the windows – and a little blonde girl sandwiched right up front next to the driver. Just in case this wasn’t enough, a couple hundred meters down the road a taxi pulled over and brunette about my age got out. Backpack, camera, safari hat, shorts, trekking sandals – she was an even more obvious tourist than I was, and as the taxi sped off she stood on the side of the road looking supremely lost and disoriented. Despite the fact that I barely knew what I was doing I couldn’t in good conscience just walk past her, so as I approached I asked if there was anything I could help her with. ‘No thanks, I’m just waiting on a matatu’ came the carefree response. Oh, heck no. There, in that moment, I knew there was no way that anything else was going to happen that day until I rode in a matatu. You know, because wounded pride and an injured ego are the best things to let drive your decision-making process.

And so I rode in a matatu. Which turned out to be not nearly the dare-devil proposition anticipated, as these things often do. Sure, I caught quite a few questioning glances and we were packed in so tightly that a sardine would have said ‘No thanks, I’ll catch the next ride’, but at no point did I have to fend off roving gangs demanding all my worldly possessions and I can think of quite a few people who would probably prefer the matatu driver’s driving to my own, so… At any rate it took slightly longer to reach the matatu park than a cab ride would have taken but we were all still in one piece and at one thirty-third the price I’d chalk that one up in the Win column. Not bi-winning, I’m not that cool yet – just your regular, garden-variety winning.

Removing my knees from the place where they had been comfortably lodged between the back of the seat in front of me and my chin, I stumbled out of the matatu and into the bright sunshine amidst a cacophony of grinding gears, squealing brakes and obnoxious horns. Thanks to my stellar sense of direction I knew exactly where I was – I was in the matatu park in Nairobi, Kenya. Now, just where in Nairobi that matatu park was located I had no bloody clue, but that’s another conversation entirely and one that I fully intend to pretend doesn’t exist. Deal with it. Nevertheless, I wasn’t entirely without resource. The nice thing about downtown areas is that’s usually where all the tall buildings are, and the nice thing about tall buildings is that…well…they’re taller than other buildings. Which means you can see ‘em…and stuff. I know, I know, I’m a friggin’ genius. Aaanyway, using the KCC as my navigational aid I walked just far enough toward the center of town to verify that I was on the wrong side of the street I’d been told not to cross, and then turned around to do a little exploring.

Which, once again, wasn’t nearly as exciting as it had been made out to be. Sure, there were plenty of double takes – in downtown Nairobi I was a minority; in the less developed areas I was an only. But the nondescript satchel I had started using to carry my camera was doing wonders at lowering my profile, and I only caught a few hard stares when I pulled it out quickly to snap some pictures before moving on. And even beyond that…once again, the basic premises I’ve developed from traveling were holding true. People are people the world over. A smile is a smile in language. Common courtesy and a smile will get you further than fluency and arrogance ever will. Of course, I suppose that being not exactly small didn’t hurt either. Hey – I may be an optimist, but I can admit reality as well!

I spent a couple hours exploring this part of town and loved it, but am not going to spend much time writing about it. It’s just…one of those things. The bustling throngs on the street, the sidelong looks, the cramped stalls of the market, the savory smells of street food drifting in the breeze, the dust in the air, the heat radiating off the pavement…it would escape my powers of description even if I could nail down a solid memory long enough to really examine it. You’ll just have to chalk it up to one of those ‘hazy remnants of sensorial perception’ I was rambling on about earlier, until you go yourself. Go yourself.

Eventually I wound my way back to the downtown area and the memorial garden/museum marking the site of the old American Embassy (pre-’98 bombing, for those of you who aren’t up on your history at the moment. Some nice gentleman by the name of bin-Laden took credit for the attack. It was just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.) I thought the garden was quite nice (although I was a little confused about the choice of a yin-yang for the garden’s central fountain, not to mention what message exactly it was meant to communicate.) The museum was…tiny, and not going to do much for you that a couple minutes on Google wouldn’t, but it did have clean bathrooms and no one bothered me when I fell asleep during their video presentation so I’ll give it a thumbs up anyway.

That night Zarek and I finally had a chance to catch up, which was good as the next day we would be splitting again before finally meeting in Mombasa for New Year’s and the tail end of my trip. Heading back to Village Market (noticing a trend here yet?), we started the night with coffee and meaningful conversation before moving on to Tusker and the willful casting of aspersions upon anyone unfortunate enough to sit within the range of our exceedingly superficial and judgmental sight, finally winding up meeting loads of Zarek’s fantastic friends at a pair of lonely bars on a deserted side street. It was an interesting microcosm, one of the more readily allegorical places I’ve been as the light emanating from the pair contrasted sharply with darkness of the night. Within that semi-circle cars were clustered, within that semi-circle was drinking and dancing and laughter, within that semi-circle life was easy and carefree – trust was placed as much in the all-revealing nature of light as in the guards positioned in the shadowy transition zone, quietly alert for any signs of trouble from the darkness. Without the semi-circle was…what? Uncertainty? Absolutely. Danger? Probably. Death? Possibly. I’ll let you construct your own allegory – I just enjoyed the experience and by the time Zarek and I headed home around one in the morning it still seemed far too early to end the party. But work and new adventures beckoned, so we said our good-byes and called it a night.

Another morning pushing my tired body out of bed to take advantage of as much of the day as possible, another leisurely conversation around the breakfast table, another few hours on the internet reserving flights, reserving a spot on a raft, reserving dives. But this would be the last for a few days, because by tonight I would be back across the equator and in Uganda. After last-minute hugs and schedule de-conflictions I was out the door and off for one last afternoon in Nairobi. I spent maybe an hour wandering through Uhuru (Freedom) Park soaking up the sunshine and the tranquility of families sprawled out together in the shade while I snapped madly away, fruitlessly trying to rediscover my photographic groove.

I had been away for too long however and inspiration was not to be so easily recaptured so again I was off, winding my way back through the downtown area as I used my dwindling cash supply and the subsequent need to find an agreeable ATM as a pitiful excuse for retracing familiar steps. Fortune seemed yet to have a hand in guiding those directionless steps however, as in yet another personal anecdote advocating the ‘walk until you get lost’ mentality I suddenly found myself reaching the termination of a dead-end road, a cul-de-sac of ramshackle huts hocking everything from books and third-hand clothing to cold sodas and warm beer. I had only another thirty minutes before I planned to find a cab to the airport and was about to while them away in one of these fine establishments when I spotted them – the dilapidated stairs that climbed the back wall. Where did they lead? What was on the other side of the wall? Even now, new faces were appearing and descending from the unknown – where were they coming from, where were they going? Instantly my curiosity pegged the meter and I was stepping onto the stairs with questions still half-formed, all thoughts of time schedules and hole in the wall bars so far out the window it was as if they had never been. The stairs led to a long footbridge over the rail yard, the footbridge led to another set of stairs, and before I knew it I was descending into another world. I made silent jokes to myself about being on the wrong side of the tracks, but it would be another half an hour before I began to appreciate just how accurate those jokes were – and by then they would have long been drained of any humor they once held.

The change at first was subtle. Battered shacks were replaced with the open air as street vendors displayed their merchandise on the grass where available; in the dirt when not. The lucky ones had access to a meter or two of fence to lift their product off the ground and a rare few were even the proud owners of their very own handcarts. Where before the developed, ‘safe’ area was but a block or two away, that refuge was now only a two hundred meter bridge and a block or two away. This street was more crowded than the other, but I had already been in parts of Nairobi with worse. The telltale giveaway, however, was in the eyes. Yes, the looks were coming more often and lasting longer, but of importance was the evidence in those orbs of that subtle transition from ‘What are you doing here?’ to ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Not my first experience with any of this however, so on I walked. Half a mile down the road I reached a bustling intersection and for a moment was given a fleeting respite. The  ramshackle huts were back, cars zipped industriously along, and people were too absorbed in their personal business to give me as much examination. I didn’t see anything that grabbed my interest straight ahead, but a right would have taken me out to the airport road in fairly short order and the market area I had just come through gave me an excuse to turn around and come back the way I had come. Which is why, buoyed by my newfound comfort in the situation, I took a left.

The vendors rapidly gave way to vacancy, and soon I was walking along a deserted road. There was a working business here and there and occasionally I came across other people in ones and twos, but most of what I found was emptiness – empty streets, empty vehicles, empty buildings. Locked up, boarded up, shuttered up. Desolation. Time schedules had begun to worm their way back into my brain and I kept looking for a cut-through that would allow me to turn this long ‘L’ into a loop, but to no avail. I reached the point whose passing I knew indicated I no longer had the time to retrace my steps – but still my curiosity drove me, so I bet everything on finding a turn yet ahead and still I walked. A mile, maybe a mile and a half.

Finally, the road turned. Elated and sure of my deliverance, my step lightened as the growing concern washed away in an instant.

The sinking feeling began as soon as I took the corner and saw the T-intersection just two blocks ahead. It deepened as the emptiness gave way to abject poverty, entire families living out of hovels that would have been rejected as peddler’s booths just an hour prior. It became complete and overwhelming at the next corner, when I turned once more only to see the road end entirely in another couple hundred meters. I had found Nairobi’s infamous slums.

It is one thing to be somewhere requiring the exercise of caution; it is another to be somewhere you know you have no business being. I have spent a fair portion of time stumbling through some sketchy places across the globe, but there is a tenuous difference between the two – a transition that I have found most often accompanied by an elevated hart rate, a quick shot of adrenaline, and an overwhelming sense of ‘I need to not be here, and I need to not be here NOW.’ With all my traveling, I’ve only crossed this invisible boundary a handful of times. Once late on a dark and rainy night in Prague, on a side street off the beaten path that gave me a bad, bad vibe. Once in the middle of the day on shattered street in Vlore, dodging piles of rubble and ostensibly oblivious to the hard looks of a crowd of working-age males who were…not…working. A third time again in Vlore, late at night in a back alley where the few people out and about shuffled quickly along, spending as little time outside as possible. Everyone, that is, except the twenty-something Mafioso trying a little too hard to look nonchalant beside a gate I was being inexorably funneled toward. And yet, all that said…it is quite another thing altogether to be somewhere you have no business being when you – and everyone around you – know that the closest place you do have any business being is a solid thirty minutes away, and that is precisely where I was that afternoon in Nairobi.

Your breathing quickens, your hair stands on end, your blood courses through your veins. Your chin stays up and your face stays forward, but behind your sunglasses your eyes begin a frantic dance – endlessly searching, tracking. Following color, following movement, following people. Your ears prick forward, straining to catch every last sound. Listening for the unseen, listening for the unexpected, listening for the footsteps that will reverse course after they pass from your peripheral vision. You start practicing strict adherence to your rules – Never reverse course. Turn a corner, loop around a block, but never reverse course in the middle of a street. Never run. Walk quickly, walk with a purpose, but never run. Look each person you pass in the face. Not long enough to be confrontational, but long enough to say ‘I know you’re there and I’m not afraid of you.’ Keep your hands free. Choose your steps carefully. And bravado – first, last, always bravado. Carry yourself in a way that screams ‘I know where I am, I know where I’m going, this is not a mistake, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.’ And above all, pray that God will save you from your own stupidity.

The eyes are hard now, the stares unyielding. No longer is there any pretense of maintaining social convention. Your worth is being weighed with every step, and the results do not look promising. You are dressed down and don’t have anything of value visible, but that is beside the point – just the clothes on your back would make a sizeable addition to the income of anyone here and as an obvious foreigner you are sure to have money and other things of worth in your pockets, and then there’s that bag slung about you... It’s no longer a question of morals, for many of these it has become simply a question of survival – and if your disposal will ensure their continuation, well, that’s some fairly simple arithmetic. You can pity that, you can empathize with that, you can even respect that – but none of those things are going to keep you alive so you keep walking.

Even in the midst of all this the thought flits through your mind that the road you are walking would be the source of some epic photographs, but a respect for the remaining dignity of these silent observers coupled with a healthy sense of self-preservation keeps your camera under cover as you are suddenly convinced that little ploy with the satchel is the best idea you have ever come up with. But no time to dwell, the end of the road is approaching and you can’t afford to pause and reflect on a course of action. Your eyes drink in information: slums to your left, slums straight ahead. Abandoned buildings to your right and it looks like there might be a dusty outlet in the same direction on the far side of this set of buildings but you won’t have the time to check it out when you get there and it’s going in the wrong direction anyway. The end is nearer which means your time for decision is drawing to a close, but it also allows you to see more. Across the small rise that cuts through this road and forces your hand you can see that another road picks up a little further on – it’s closer to the direction you need to go but heads right through the middle of another slum and what little of it you can see is still winding slightly away. Time is running out – wait – just what is that elevation, anyway? Is it possible? Could it be a road itself? No, no road…but people are walking on it… Tracks! It’s a railroad! The gears begin turning furiously. You started at a railhead, it’s only logical for these tracks to originate there. It’s probably not the most direct route back to safety and a taxi to the airport but it is the most sure – especially considering your other options.

In a heartbeat your decision is made, and you don’t wait to reach the tracks on your present course. Spotting a break in the fence, you leave the road and join a well-trod path that cuts through tall grass before joining those blessed rails . Five meters and you catch the astonished stares of a lounging couple as you cut through their ‘front yard’. You know you’ve temporarily raised your profile but it feels good to get off that God-forsaken road. A hundred meters and you’re breaking through the grass, glad to have some concealment between where you were and where you are. Three hundred meters and you’re catching plenty of puzzled looks from the others walking the rails. You’re in the open now and can be seen coming from a long way off – but that means you can see anyone heading your direction long before they get to you as well. Five hundred meters and you can feel the tension beginning to drain from your body with every step. Seven hundred meters and you’re cocky enough to start taking pictures. Eight hundred meters and you realize that for the first time this trip you’ve finally fallen back into that old groove as you slam the shutter openshut, openshut on shot after shot, conjecturing that this must be what a zombie apocalypse would look like as individuals and small groups shuffle silently through the dense afternoon smog. A kilometer and you’re climbing onto the far end of the station’s boarding platform feeling hot and sweaty and grimy and drained and above all else alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your mind begins to contemplate the implications of the side of life you’ve just seen as you push through the train station crowds to rejoin the modern world but in a few short minutes you’re seated in a taxi caught in the deadlock of rush hour traffic, willing the vehicles to move. Long ago you gave up on plans to check email or eat dinner, now as the minutes plod maddeningly along you’re just wondering if you’re going to make your flight. Forty minutes and three blocks later you’ve all but given up hope when you finally catch a break – your driver manages to squeeze through a light that’s not entirely green and you’re off on the open road. Arriving at the airport the driver informs you that he’s never heard of your airline before, so you just instruct him to drop you off at the international terminal. It takes nearly everything you have left to cover the bill but you won’t need Kenyan shillings for the next couple of days anyway so you toss him the cash and run into the terminal. Which is the wrong one. You think you saw a sign in the window of another terminal though so you play a hunch and head that direction. Bingo. Not for the first (nor the last, either) time this trip the whole ‘no checked bag’ works in your favor as you check in just before they shut down the ticket window and make a mad dash through security. Nothing to fear though, as you even have time to hit an ATM before you are the last person to board the plane. You had at least another five minutes – that’s a whole world of possibility! And with that, you settle back into the seat and allow yourself to crash for a bit on the short fight to Entebbe.

Two languages. Three continents. Six currencies. Twelve airplanes. Seventeen days. Three thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five photographs. One unforgettable trip.

So. Africa. So many thoughts, so many emotions, so many memories that are more hazy remnants of sensorial perception than they are full-fledged visions - where does one even start? ‘The Beginning’ is, of course, the obvious answer – but in an effort to spare you tedious descriptions of childhood days spent flipping through ancient copies of National Geographic Magazine, daydreaming of exploration and adventure in far-off lands (not to mention the intervening twenty years) – let’s just skip ahead to the morning of the departure. Which, as anyone even faintly familiar with me and my well-developed aversion for planning knows, is near enough to the ‘true’ beginning of any trip of mine anyway.

The morning of the 17^th ran on a fairly typical Wayco departure-day schedule. My flight was scheduled to leave Nashville just before one in the afternoon. That whole ‘two hours early for international flights’ thing is pure poppycock, with an intent to arrive at the airport an hour out and factoring in an additional hour to drive like a normal person (i.e. slow) and take the shuttle from my parking lot of choice to the terminal left me with an 11:00 a.m. departure from my apartment. If I remember correctly, I even had some grandiose ideas about leaving at ten and grabbing a late breakfast in Nashville, but let’s be honest – everyone should know that was nothing more than a fantastic pipe dream from the start. I know I did, at least. That being said, a running timeline of the morning would look something like this:

T – 3:30 Booked a Christmas safari in the Maasai Mara (minimum recommended booking time: eight weeks prior to departure).
T – 3:00 Discovered that I had to have travel insurance before they would let me join.
T – 2:45 Discovered I couldn’t use their standard insurer because I wasn’t a British citizen.
T – 2:30 Ran in to work.
T – 1:30 Got back to the apartment, continued looking into the travel insurance situation.
T – 1:00 Began packing (ha – bet you didn’t see THAT one coming!).
T – 0:40 Paused the packing to go back and focus on the whole travel insurance debacle.
T – 0:01 Purchased travel insurance for the first time in my life (verdict: overrated).
T + 0:06 Finished pushing all the necessary documentation to the folks at Absolute Africa, who had been extremely helpful throughout the entire process
T + 0:15 Finished packing, locked the door, and hit the road.

I don’t have quite the email stream to help me track my progress so precisely after that, but I’m pretty sure I still made my targeted time to the airport check-in desk. What I do remember is that I arrived with plenty of time to pick up my tickets, make it through security, use the restroom, grab a cup of coffee, and start looking into flights to Uganda on the iPod that Brandon had finally talked me into purchasing a month earlier. I know, I know, I’m only a decade late – watch out 21^st century, here I come! Whatever. The point of the story is that arriving at an airport two hours early for ANY flight is just ludicrous.

The first leg out of Nashville was a short hop to Atlanta, and then it was on to Rome. Can I just say – I love Italy. Even the airport. Which is a good thing, incidentally, as I’ve found myself spending some quality time there lately. I mean, it’s been what…six years now? since I actually spent time in Italy, but this trip makes the third time in the past year and a half that I’ve flown through Fiumicino’s Terminal 3. Nevertheless, I still get a little excited whenever I find myself layed-over in Rome once again. In the interest of full disclosure, I do have to admit that the airport – any airport – is one of my favorite places to be. I guess the wonder of this whole ‘manned flight’ thing just hasn’t quite worn off for me yet, despite the fact that the airplane ‘fad’ is almost four times as old as I am. Combine that with a never-ending stream of humanity and the sheer magnitude of possibility as flight after flight pulls away from the gate and accelerates down the runway to far-off places with exotic names like Kuala Lumpur and Asuncion and Zagreb and Casablanca and, yes, even Baghdad – and the whole experience just gives me a buzz. Still.

But back to Italy. Honestly, I don’t know just what it is that makes me favor Fiumicino ever so slightly. To be fair, ‘my’ little terminal is just that – little – a trait that becomes only too obvious if you find yourself spending any sort of serious time there sans reading material or (good) travel partners. It’s not the comfort in the waiting areas either, as seats that were obviously chosen for ease of maintenance over any sort of ergonomic concerns are always far outnumbered by foot-weary patrons anyway. And it’s certainly not the additional security checkpoint between terminals that results in a perpetual 30 minute (if you’re lucky) line. But still. Maybe it’s the smooth tones of the Italian language rippling through the air every direction you turn. Or the sharp bite of authentic Italian espresso from a tiny little cup, brewed at the café tucked away in the corner. Or the cool, detached sophistication inherent in anything Italian. Or…perhaps it is simply the magnetism of Italy herself, reminding me that it’s been far too long since my last visit. Whatever it is, I do find myself inordinately happy whenever I wind up flying through Rome – and I swear it has nothing to do with the cute Italian girls in their green Alitalia vests. I swear. You buy that, right?

I had a little time on my hands this time through Rome and knew that the bump out to Uganda was shaping up to come relatively soon after hitting to ground in Nairobi, so after securing that aforementioned espresso I settled down to find the internet and see about actually booking the flight that would get me there and back.  Heading over to the stainless-steel monstrosity loitering in a corner, I swiped my card and suffered through sticking keys and a touchpad that responded more to hammer-fists than it did to finger-taps, but after a few minutes I was in – ah, precious internet, my gateway to the world!

A gateway that promptly slammed shut less than sixty seconds later, and no amount of tapping or bludgeoning or any combination of the two could do anything about it. So much for ‘the world’. Never one to quietly accept defeat however, I remembered the iPod in my pocket and gave it a shot. Apparently Fiumicino beat me to the 21^st century, as this second attempt met with significantly more success than the first. And yet still, ultimate failure loomed. I was able to check email, throw up an alliterated status update on Facebook, and figure out just which fly540 flight I wanted, but when I tried to book I was met only with an unexpected ‘credit card denied’ message from the airline’s website. A sneaking suspicion was beginning to dawn, but by now it was boarding time for the last leg of my journey so I picked up my pack and slid the iPod back in my pocket. I would just have to deal with the issue once I got boots on the ground.

Most of the time I just sleep through flights, but as I was arriving in the evening I was determined to stay awake this time and make the time zone transition as easy as possible. To that end, I will say this: seatback video screens with individual movie selections are beautiful things. The American, on the other hand, is not. I know, I know, it was supposed to be all deep and artistic and indie-esque, but in my (rarely) humble opinion filmmakers need to remember one basic premise – at the end of the day, you need me to empathize with your characters. Without that, all the cinematographic wizardry in the world won’t save you. Case in point: The American. The entire film predicates upon the viewer developing an attachment to the protagonist. Do that, and you will have a touching and sincerely thought-provoking film. If, on the other hand, I spend the first one hundred minutes thinking he is boring and dumb, I’m not going to find it poignant when you kill him off in the last five – I’m only going to wish you had done it sooner, and you’re going to come off annoyingly self-important in the process. Hear me, movie-people everywhere, please hear me. That being said, I suppose I shouldn’t castigate it too severely because at the end of the day this travesty of a film did fulfill its intended purpose - before I knew it we were over the lights of Nairobi, on final approach into the deepening twilight.

If my sleep deprived memory serves me, the rest of the evening progressed slowly but relatively uneventfully. With only a small backpack and no checked bags passport control was a breeze and in no time I was walking out of customs, searching the crowd for Zarek. No joy. Last minute events had him in Mombasa that night, so I was on to Plan B.  A quick stop at an internet café netted me an address and it only took me two tries to find an ATM that liked my card. Twenty minutes after walking out of the airport I was in a taxi speeding through the deserted streets of Nairobi with a cabbie who assured me that not only did he know how to get me to my address, but also that he was excited I was visiting his country and would be my best friend in Kenya. Well…he was probably telling the truth on the latter part, at least. The first bit, however, didn’t fare quite so well. An hour and a half and a couple of wrong turns later we were getting closer but were still quite a ways off, and I was fielding the same questions for the third and fourth times. ‘What is their address?’ ‘It’s right here on this paper, the same one I’ve been showing you since I got in.’ ‘Yes, but what is their house number?’ ‘They don’t have one, this is their complete address.’ ‘Do you want to call them?’ ‘I don’t have a phone.’ ‘Do you want to use my phone?’ ‘I would, but I don’t have their phone number.’ Details, details… Bonding, however, was at an all-time high. Discussion ranged from ‘must see’ attractions in Nairobi to Kenya’s history and position on the political landscape of Africa, and I was getting the chance to try out my new Swahili phrases almost as fast as he could teach them to me as we stopped time and again, hoping to find someone a little less lost than we were. Finally, some three hours after landing and just as I was about call it a night and trust his recommendation on a hostel for the night, the headlights picked up a small sign on the side of the road pointing the way to the ‘Cockar Veterinary Clinic’. Ten minutes later we were settled up, thirty minutes later I was enjoying my first ever real conversation with Zarek’s parents over pizza and a cold Tusker, and by midnight fatigue was forcing my eyelids shut as sleep pulled me under with a smile on my face. I was in Africa.

Let the adventures commence!

...that is my life.