Out Of Africa

After leaving Rwanda, we had about two weeks before we needed to be in Nairobi to catch our flights to Europe. This meant going through Uganda before returning to Kenya, and it was strange being back in somewhat familiar territory.  Our bus from Kigali left early in the morning and the first couple of hours of the journey, through the rolling hills of Rwanda, with the morning dew glistening in the slowly rising sun, was a stunning departure from the country.  Any of you who have read my post about The Hairy Lemon may remember someone I mentioned named Abdel.  He was a kayaker that visited Uganda occasionally, but was living in Kigali at the time.  I wondered if maybe we would run into him, and strangely enough, he was actually on the same bus, kayak and all.  It was nice to see him and catch up.  He was heading straight to Jinja to kayak, but we were stopping in Kampala, the capital city.  The border crossing went pretty smoothly, though anything would have been better than the stress endured at that Tanzania-Rwanda border.

Upon arriving in Kampala something like 12 hours after we had left Kigali, we made our way to the hostel we had picked.  In Kampala, there seem to be basically two options for backpackers: Red Chilli’s and Kampala Backpackers.  When I was in Kampala in January, I was with Hollie and stayed with her friends who lived there, so I had not stayed in hostels.  We picked Backpackers because we’d heard several bad stories from fellow travellers about Red Chilli's, and I’ve learned that advice from fellow travellers is worth more than anything you could read in a guide-book or on hostelworld.com.  It was an alright place, the room was a little dim and the staff were a little bit sketchy, but it was a well-run hostel and nothing terrible happened there.  We had lots of fun boda-boda rides while there (the only way to get around in Kampala unless you own a car), weaving through traffic with the driver, Hillary, and me, on one bike, brought back good memories. We didn’t really do too much in Kampala besides visit some markets and half-heartedly wander around the crazy streets.  As I’ve mentioned before, we were both tiring of the mental strain of backpacking Africa, and our ambition had decreased quite a bit.

We moved on to Jinja so that I could see my friends Trina and Bhupi.  They were still living there (they returned back to their homes, Trina to NY City and Bhupi to India, in early May) and so we hung out with them for a few days at the NRE Campsite north of Jinja. It was almost exactly as I remembered it, minus one major incident. One night, we were lying in the dorm room that we had to ourselves with the light on (not really noticing because it was still light outside).  As it began to get darker, neither of us really noticed that thousands of large flying-ant like creatures were entering the room from a small hole in the window.  When it was completely dark outside, after about twenty minutes, I awoke from my little nap to find the room filled with flying bugs, like that scene from The Mummy. If you swung your arm randomly in the air, you would hit fifty of them. It was absolutely disgusting and we got out of there as quickly as we could, but had to rush back in to get our shit and move it to a different room (with no fucking cracks in the netting on the windows). Hillary was, I think, legitimately traumatized. 

Anyway, after recovering from that shit, we settled into our new room and met some people.  When Bhupi finished work (he’s a raft guide) we met up with Trina and him and had a good ol’ time in the bar, reminiscing and discussing our rapidly changing future plans.  Before too long, we managed to meet up with Hollie.  Since leaving The Hairy Lemon in January, she has been living on an island just upstream.  It is owned by perhaps the most famous kayaker in the world, Steve Fisher.  He bought it and built a small house some years back because of its proximity to some of the best big water play spots in the world.  Nowadays, he’s spending less and less time in Uganda, partially due to his island being robbed on more than one occasion.  Hollie offered to, essentially, housesit for him, and so she lives on this magnificent little island in the middle of the White Nile, kayaking every day.  I had planned on taking Hillary to The Hairy Lemon before we left for Kenya, but Hollie graciously invited us to her island to stay for a few days.  After getting a cab some 20km up a very dusty and pothole-filled road, we arrived at the ferry, which was one Ugandan man in a very leaky looking, large wooden canoe.  Trina and Bhupi, who were still living in Jinja, let us store our huge backpacks with them while we were gone so that we didn’t have to deal with carrying it to both islands, with loads of valuables and heavy things. We paid 1000 Ush for the quick ferry. Upon arriving, we found Hollie sitting on her front porch, reading a book, (probably) having a tea, next to a gorgeous view of the Nile River in the afternoon.  I immediately remembered why I had missed Uganda so much. After getting reacquainted and introducing my sister, we spent the rest of the day sipping Kahlua on the little beach at the north end of the island, and talking. The sunset was, as always, absolutely sublime.  I swear, there is nothing in the natural world that compares with watching the hot Ugandan sun slowly retire over the horizon and lighting up the beautiful White Nile. Our days there were spent in hammocks, mostly, and Hollie treated us to a very avocado-based smorgasbord of food. After being in the insane metropolitan of Kampala, staying on this peaceful island, not seeing anyone else but us three for a few days, was glorious. 

When we left, Hollie came with us as she was heading towards Kampala.  The trip back to The Hairy Lemon should, in theory, be pretty simple.  After all, it is a mere thirty seconds downstream from Steve Fisher’s island.  But, alas, this is Uganda. Our voyage consisted of four parts. First, there was the ferry over to east side of the river. Then, we arranged boda-bodas (with great negotiating skills from Hollie: “Sebo, I live here do not take me for a fool.  It is 1000 for one person so we will give you 1500 for two”) to take us a few km north to another ferry. Third, we paid 1000Ush for a ferry across to the west side of the river. Finally, we walked back south a bit, stopping to say hi to people in the area who Hollie knew (and I had heard of haha) until we got to the entrance to The Hairy Lemon, then took the ferry to the middle of the river, and Hairy Lemon island. All the while, remember, we are the centre of attention everywhere we go because this is rural Uganda and we are white people. Nothing is every quite as straight-forward as is should be, but that is some of the charm of Uganda, and Africa in general.

Well anyway, we arrived at the Lemon at about 2:00PM, and there were three other guests.  It was surreal to be back to a place that I had spent over two weeks, including Christmas and New Years, and had fallen so in love with.  It was much different this time around.  Paul (the owner) was on holiday back in South Africa, to see his family (so no frolf, sadly). With Hollie gone, Anita had taken control of most of the daily operations. But the biggest change was that it was virtually empty.  Hollie quickly talked with Anita and the rest of the staff while I said hi to them again, not certain they’d remember me.  They did however; the people who work on the island are actually really awesome, and I got to know Grace, Asid, and Anita quite well.  Hollie and I then said our goodbyes as she set off for Kampala for a few days, while Hillary and I would be leaving for Kenya in three days’ time.  Hollie, m’gog, if you’re reading this: thank you so much for everything, I never would have experienced Uganda in the way that I did without you as my guide, host, and friend.  I hope our paths meet again one day. If you ever come to North America, let me know.

So we spent a couple days on the Lemon doing what one does there: relax.  Just as before, it was great food all the time, and there was plenty of time for reading, listening to music, and just chilling out.  Since I had last been there, Paul had actually managed to complete one of his many projects, and I must say that I’m impressed.  He’s built a small wall at the top of a little waterfall on the south side of the island to create a free-flowing, natural swimming pool, complete with concrete ledges, steps, and seats.  We spent the day doing laundry there (it was perfect because the waterfall was pretty powerful with high water levels and it was great for rinsing out your clothes), but mainly just floating about drinking beer (or Coke…).  On our last day, it actually rained for most of the morning, but it had stopped by the time we were to leave. I said my final farewells to the people who keep the Lemon running smoothly, and that had become friends.  Anita kept asking me when I was coming back, but it realistically wouldn’t be for a long time, if ever. Anyway, thank you so much to Anita, Asid, Grace, Chaga, and all the rest of the staff for being such awesome friends and helping to make my time there unforgettable.

Then, it was back to Jinja via the familiar (for me) way.  Ferry over to the mainland, the most terrifying boda-boda ride of your life for fifteen minutes until you get to Nazigo, then it’s an hour long matatu ride packed to the fucking brim with people. After getting to Jinja, we picked up a few things we needed for our bus ride to Nairobi, and then had to get on one final boda-boda ride, but at least it was one we had both done before. We got back to NRE Campsite at Bujagali and began packing all our shit that we had left in Trina and Bhupi’s banda. We had one final hurrah at the NRE bar that night and I then said my final final goodbyes (there are no more after this, don’t worry) to Trina and Bhupi.  I’m fairly certain that I’ll meet up with these two again and I hope you guys are both loving life.

One. More. Bus.  That’s all we had to do, and then it was off to Europe, where getting from A to B wasn’t a gigantic clusterfuck of bullshit.  ..sorry.  OK so we got a boda-boda to the pickup point of whatever bus company we had picked (I honestly can’t remember), and were there a good thirty minutes early.  We sat and waited in front of an abandoned, destroyed coach (pretty much identical to the one we ended up boarding – except for the missing wheel).

"Connecting East Africa"-- a thousand words

As far as the actual journey, well, it was more of the same.  As the bus had come from Kampala, the only seats left were right at the back.  The border crossing was, as anticipated, bull. It was hot and unpleasant, it took way too long, we were hungry and finding suitable food was difficult, aka bus transport in Africa. One thing I will specifically mention is the border officials coming in to Kenya were corrupt as fuck.  Surprise surprise.  We knew that you could get a transit visa of up to seven days (we needed two) and avoid paying for a $50 tourist visa (good for up to ninety days), but we had to go through a whole song and dance with these assholes. After eight long months of being screwed around, this was the cherry on top, but we got our way (as was the law) and got a transit visa.

As I feared, our bus arrived after dark, and Nairobi is notoriously dangerous for backpackers after dark.  We were downtown with all our possessions, and basically grabbed the first taxi driver we could.  We got a decent rate (which I later found out was standard from our hostel to the bus stop), and got the hell out of the heart of the city.  Our hostel was, surprisingly, one of the best that I think we stayed in during our Africa trip.  It was in a nice area, had a big property so there was not much noise, it was safe and secure, and had hot water (before 10AM and after 6 I think).  It had dorms, but we stayed in a two-person semi-permanent tent, similar to the ones we stayed in on the Serengeti. With the end in sight, we relaxed a bit and tried to enjoy Nairobi as much as one can. 


We went to the top of the Kenyatta International Conference Centre which offers excellent views of the city.  After shooing away some rude Kenyans who were discretely trying to photograph us (assholes), we were greeted by an incredibly enthusiastic tour guide, Peter.  We spent the next ten minutes getting a pretty detailed but brief history of the city by pointing out things around us.  He was probably the coolest person ever, and was always making half-cheesy, but entirely awesome jokes.  He kept insisting that we had done the right thing because from the top of the tower, we could see the city by just turning on the spot, instead of trying to navigate the chaos on the ground. He never pressured us to tip, but we ended up giving him a little bit (I think he was disappointed honestly, I'm pretty sure he followed us up from the first floor when he saw mzungus were visiting).  On our way back to the hostel that evening, I was stopped by a man who asked me to help his friends and him fix their matatu.  It had gone off the side of the road and the frame was resting against the concrete, so they needed to lift the matau and get the wheel back on the pavement. It took ages and all they made me do was stand there until they were ready to lift and push it.  I think they just wanted to say that they got the mzungu to help them fix their ride. These guys were friendly and funny, so I didn't mind the hold up. That night at our hostel, I met two girls from Northern Ireland who were pretty cool. We watched some weird DVDs that they had bought on the street.  The next day, Hillary and I tried to really cram in a full day of “seeing African things” because it was our last day in Africa.  We visited the giraffe sanctuary and kissed some giraffes, before setting off for the heart of the city to find the park where you can hang out with monkeys and give them peanuts (it’s pretty legit you guys).  However, Nairobi’s ugly traffic reared its head again, and it took us forever to get from the giraffe centre (out past Karen), past Kibera (that massive slum I visited), and into the centre of town. From there, we had to scramble at the busy matatu station to find the right one to take us to the right park. By the time we actually set off, we were gridlocked in traffic once more, and it was clear that getting to the park and back to our hostel before our pre-arranged cab to the airport was next to impossible.  We jumped out of the matatu on a street choked with traffic (paying the angry conductor who said that we still had to give him money because we took up seats and he wouldn’t pick anyone else up, I’m sure he did), and went back to the matatu park, and took our last ever matatu ride in Africa, towards our hostel. We stopped for some food at Yaya Centre (y go anywhere else?) and gathered our things from the hostel.  Then it was off to the airport and goodbye to Africa, but not before getting stuck in traffic for over an hour (it had rained a bit) for good measure. Of course, by this time we were Africa experts and had planned for this, and arrived at the airport in plenty of time. Our flights left from separate terminals, so Hillary and I parted ways to meet back up in Amsterdam in 24 hours (her flight was direct, I had an eleven hour layover in Zurich…).

With one final look back at the lights on the horizon and it was goodbye to Nairobi, to Kenya, to Africa.  It was goodbye to the continent that had accommodated me during a poorly planned, spontaneous eight months. I know that I have tried (valiantly, you might say) to put my experience of Africa into words, but, as a wise man once said, “words are futile devices,” and this rings true here.  It’s a place that cannot be summarized to a friend from back home, or can truly be understood by someone who has not been there. During my eight months, I barely scratched the surface of the rich culture, incredible sights, and friendly (if sometimes intimidating) people, that Africa has to offer.  Travellers say that Africa gets under your skin, that once you go, you have to go back.  At first I didn’t believe it.  I wanted to never be stared at or called mzungu again.  But as time wore on, I realized that it’s true.  Africa is a drug, and there’s something that’s absolutely impossible to explain about it. As I set off for Europe and later England, back to the “first world,” it was a weird adjustment. I’m not sure what the next few years of my life hold, but I do hope that one day in the future I again find myself with the means to do some more globetrotting.  While there are lots of places I still need to see, many spots in Africa hold a very special place in my heart.  To everyone that I met there, whether in Kenya, Uganda, South Africa, Zambia, wherever, thank you for making the experience unforgettable: exactly what I wanted it to be.