We caught a bus back to Jinja, planning to camp outside the town. Jinja is a fairly prosperous market town, dotted with many dilapidated colonial mansions now being used as tenement homes. The town’s biggest claim to fame, of course, is that it is located overlooking the breathtaking gorge right at the source of the Nile where it emerges from Lake Victoria. It was on top of a cliff, with a commanding view of the spectacular Nile gorge, that we pitched our tent.
From childhood, I have been fascinated by stories of the great African explorers, and had been reading about them again recently in a book in Fr. Paul’s house. While putting up our tent, I shared one such story with Damian. I told him how, while searching for the source of the Nile, Dr. David Livingstone became lost for so long that, in 1869, the New York Herald dispatched Henry Morton Stanley to find him. After two years searching for Livingstone, on finally catching up with him, Stanley allegedly could only utter the famous inanity, ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’ Dr. Livingstone was the somewhat obsessive Scottish missionary and traveller who believed that his explorations in Africa would further his aims of ‘Christianity, commerce, and civilisation.’
‘Mmm, commerce and Christianity make dubious bed fellows,’ was Damian’s verdict, as he handed me a peg. ‘Livingstone doesn’t sound like a bundle of laughs.’
‘But you would have enjoyed the company of Henry Stanley,’ I suggested. ‘Livingstone was a sober Scottish evangelist. Stanley was a bit of a Welsh boyo.’
I told him that Stanley was an adventurer who was born in rural Wales, who ran away to sea as a cabin boy, worked in New Orleans as a servant in a great mansion, fought for the Confederacy in the American Civil War before switching to the Union side on his capture, reported as a journalist in the Wild West, spent years exploring in Africa and was finally offered a seat in the British House of Commons before he died in 1904. On the darker side, it was he who was largely instrumental in grabbing the Congo for the odious King Leopold II of Belgium. The Congo suffered from being ruled in the most brutal manner of any African colony. It was the size of Western Europe, and belonged to the King personally, and not to Belgium itself. Something of the horror of this period is captured in Joseph Conrad’s great novel, Heart of Darkness.
‘Yeah, Stanley wouldn’t have been short of a story or two in the pub,’ Damian agreed.
‘Speaking of that, let’s crack open a beer,’ I suggested, and flipped the lids off a couple of bottles of the local brew.
Sitting down in the sunshine with our backs against a few rocks, while admiring the Nile gorge, we took a sip from our bottles, and I told him about another Victorian explorer named John Hanning Speke. He had served with the British army in the Himalayas and the Crimea War, and it was he who claimed to have discovered the source of the Nile at Jinja in 1862. While the Royal Geographical Society in London was still debating the merits of his argument a few years later, he shot himself—per-haps accidentally. Indeed, even today there is still debate about the true source of the Nile, as many argue that lesser rivers, which flow from the mountains of Burundi into Lake Victoria, are a continuation of the Nile. For the record, the detailed Al-Adrisi map made by Arab traders around 1160AD fairly accurately defines the outline of Lake Victoria, and identifies it as the source of the Nile.
On our third night in Jinja, after several hours of heavy rain, our tent became semi-submerged under a mini-landslide.
‘Avalanche!’ Damian screamed, before we knew exactly what was going on.
The tent had caved in on top of us. I crawled outside to assess the situation, but I forgot I was still nearly blind because my glasses were broken. It was too dark to see, and neither of us possessed a working torch. But we had the privilege of experiencing the steam rising from the misty waters of the mighty Nile as the sun broke. My pleasure was somewhat reduced, however, by the fact that while waiting for dawn, I had accidentally stepped on a line of flesh-eating siafu ants. They left many ferocious bite marks on my feet and legs before I could shake them off.
‘Sure Livingstone and Speke had to put up with much, much worse to get here,’ Damian piped up unsympathetically. ‘Didn’t you say they even encountered cannibals?’
The small backpacker campsite—incidentally, the first backpacker venue of any sort that I had found in Africa in over six months—was run by a few young Afrikaners. They had adopted a baby monkey as a pet. This monkey was very fond of going around drinking sips of beer out of people’s glasses. I noticed the monkey was holding up better than we were most evenings. I noticed too that nearly every backpacker there was part of an organised tour package with an ‘overland truck’ company. Independent backpacking is East Africa is virtually unheard of.
On the bank of the Nile directly below the campsite was a signpost warning of crocodiles in the bathing area. Having found a natural pool, we decided to take a chance and jump in regardless. It proved to be safe enough and some very carefree hours were spent in the warm sunshine, immersed in the waters of the Nile. We were joined by a few Norwegian girls and two bearded brothers from Bavaria named Helmut and Jurgen. They were students doing post-graduate research for a semester at a university in Kampala.
Occasionally we spotted fish eagles chasing communes of bats over the river at dusk. Luckily, there were no big eyes peering menacingly at us over the water. I heard about an Irish missionary in Turkana once, who used to send all the children into Lake Turkana before him when he wanted a swim. They created so much noise it frightened away the humongous Turkana crocodiles, leaving the missionary free to swim in peace. I hoped the story was untrue, or at least exaggerated!
Ugandans are very proud of the Nile.
‘It is responsible for providing water to Uganda, Sudan, as far as Egypt… and even the Mediterranean and Europe!’ a man in Jinja told me.
Well, yes and no, I thought. I was beginning to think that the teaching of geography in Uganda left something to be desired.
Whether he learnt it in geography class or not, Damien was able to tell me,
‘The rapids around here are considered to be among the finest in the world for white-water rafting.’
He was big into water-sports, like myself.
‘And what’s more,’ he continued, ‘in a year or two, rafting will be impossible because of the huge hydro-electric dam which they are planning to build. So it’s now or never, Brendan!’
And that is how he and I decided to blow what money we had left, white-water rafting down the grade five rapids near Jinja.
Even getting to the rapids had its moments. At one point, we passed a couple of men in a large hollowed-out tree trunk traversing the mighty Nile with a cow on board. There were plenty of people bathing, naked, in the river. Others, equally naked, were washing their clothes and having a bath at the same time. And this being Africa, Rachel, our Afrikaner instructor, only warned
‘There are crocodiles in the water very near the raft,’ just as we were jumping out of the raft for another swim.
After a few tester rapids, we approached the first monster one. All of a sudden, our raft was swept swiftly into the mixer.
‘Paddle! Paddle hard!’ Rachel shouted her instructions to us. ‘Get down! Get down! Paddle… ’
We survived that one, just. Before being able to draw breath, we were frantically battling through the next funnel. In an instant, I was tossed over the side. My body was sucked under by the force of the water, and bounced off’ a few rocks, as I was rapidly pulled downstream by the currents, before my lifejacket finally pushed my head above the water for a split second to catch a gasp of air. It was really scary at times but totally exhilarating. After months in the parched deserts of Kenya, I was enjoying every minute in the water.
Damian had taken a fancy to a black-haired Norwegian student at the campsite. As he was not getting anywhere with her at all, he decided he wanted to stay in Jinja to continue the chase. I was most unenthusiastic about parting from a travelling companion, but as Damian was planning to remain in Uganda for up to anoth
er fortnight, and as I was keen to return to Kenya soon, I accepted that we had to go our separate ways. We parted on good terms, promising to meet up in Nairobi again.
With Helmut and Jurgen, I ventured about 150km northeast to Mount Elgon. A huge extinct volcano, Mount Elgon is Uganda’s highest mountain and sits near the border with Kenya. Our destination was the spectacular and beautiful Sipi Falls near the village of the same name. It is in a fabulous setting of cliffs, gorges and caves. Here, three high iconic waterfalls tumble down to a peaceful unspoilt canyon below.
The brothers and I decided against staying at the ‘Baghdad Hotel’; we were similarly disinclined to stay at the ‘Downhill Quality Hotel’ a few kilometres away, after we called in.
‘Do you not think that the name “Downhill Quality” could be construed as meaning that your establishment is deteriorating?’ I asked the owner, although not using those words specifically.
By the look of the place, he had the name spot on, or perhaps it was never up to much in the first place. The reality was that it was more a tiny B&B than a hotel. The owner still could not detect any irony in the name.
‘The village is called Downhill, what’s the problem?’ he asked, not unreasonably, I suppose.
We settled in the end on a small Ugandan-run campsite in a banana grove. We were pretty much the only people staying there; certainly, we were the only foreigners staying in the village. Surrounded as we were on all sides by trees laden with ripe bananas, our campsite barman told us at breakfast,
‘Sorry, no bananas at the market this morning.’
No explanation was offered. We found bananas a while later at the ‘Jesus is Lord’ shop. The whole country seemed so much greener and lusher than the arid lands of Kenya. It reminded me of the fertile lower slopes of Kilimanjaro just below the rainforest where banana trees are also found in abundance. When Winston Churchill visited Uganda as Minister for the Colonies in 1907, he observed how fertile it was and described the country as the ‘Pearl of Africa.’
Uganda did not win independence from Britain until 1962. Since then, it has been relatively stable by African standards— that is, except for the 1970s. That terrible decade was dominated by the rule of one General Idi Amin. Despite being completely illiterate, the dictator considered himself well qualified for the job. On formal occasions he insisted on being introduced as ‘His Excellency, Field Marshal Al-Haji, Doctor Idi Amin Dada, DSO, MC, VC, Life President of Uganda, King of Scotland, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea, Professor of Geography, and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular.’
Sitting of an evening, lazily drinking sundowners with Helmut and Jurgen in the extremely pleasant surroundings of Sipi Falls, it was almost impossible to imagine the horror of those days. Amin was responsible for the massacre of an estimated 300,000 people—perhaps as many as half a million, according to some human rights groups. Perhaps his most brainless act was to expel the 50,000-strong Indian community, saying God had told him to transform Uganda into ‘a black man’s country.’ This precipitated an overnight economic meltdown, because the Indians ran many of the shops and businesses of Uganda.
From 1971 until he was ousted in 1979 after a pointless war with Tanzania, he had banned hippies and miniskirts, attended a Saudi royal funeral wearing a Scottish kilt, forced four Englishmen to carry him around in a sedan chair at a summit of African leaders, and periodically jumped into swimming pools wearing full military uniform. I could not help wondering if the low standard of geographical knowledge I had encountered in the country was related to the fact that one of his many titles was Professor of Geography! He was known to Western reporters simply as ‘Big Daddy’ for his massive frame, and indeed, he was the heavyweight boxing champion of Uganda in pre-Independence days while he was serving in the British Army.
Given his bulk, he was also a useful prop-forward in rugby. As we climbed Kilimanjaro, Pat Close had told me that a retired Scottish meteorologist he knew propped against the future dictator, when Amin was playing for the East Africa Rifles. The Scot had found the young Amin to be physically formidable; but he was very polite and deferential, and was a great lover of everything British and in particular, Scottish.
‘Had I known that he would later be rather partial to human liver lightly grilled, I would have been a bit more concerned when our scrums collapsed!’ said the Scot.
Amin was, by his own account, quite partial to live women also. He was believed to have sired over fifty children.
‘In communist countries, you do not feel free to talk; there is one spy for every three people. Not here. No one is afraid here,’ he told foreign journalists in the 1970s. ‘It’s like Ugandan girls. I tell them to be proud, not shy. It’s no good taking a girl to bed if she is shy. Do you get my point?’
After several extremely pleasant days at Sipi Falls, I was running out of money. I was planning to return to the bank in Kampala, the one with the request to leave your gun at the door; it was the only place in Uganda I knew of where my ATM card could take out Ugandan shillings. It was then I discovered that due to bureaucratic restrictions, my American dollars could not be exchanged because the notes were over five years old; in short, they were worthless.
I had to get back into Kenya as soon as possible. In my attempt to reach the border crossing, south of Sipi Falls, I had to resort to haggling and barter with the conductor of the bus.
‘The best price is 2,000 shillings,’ the conductor insisted after I haggled him down a bit.
That was equal to about a euro. I looked in every pocket and every envelope I had, and amassed just over 1,000 Ugandan shillings. I had a moment of inspiration. I pulled out a packet of spare AA batteries I kept for my hand-held radio. Reliable batteries are a precious commodity in East Africa, as most of their battery-operated imports run out of energy faster than a paper airplane. His face lit up. He knew the batteries were worth far more than the original asking fare.
‘If you give me a black pen and some paper as well,’ the conductor advised, ‘then we have a deal.’
‘No bother,’ I agreed, and hopped on the bus.
At the bus terminal in the decent sized settlement that is Tororo, I needed another bus onwards to the border crossing. A Ugandan man noticed my desperation as I was going round in circles, vainly trying to find someone that might exchange my small amount of Kenyan shillings or my six-year-old American dollars to pay for the fare. He was a big man, yet another hawker trying to offload some of his merchandise on me, I surmised. In fact, he was selling strips of rubber. I was not in the mood to entertain more endless banter over their hard sell.
‘Look, at the moment I have no use for a strip of rubber, thanks, and nothing to pay for it anyway.’
‘OK, bwana. I am not trying to sell you anything. I am a member of the Pentecostal Church.’
Oh God, I sighed not exactly prayerfully to myself, I’m not in the form for this right now either.
‘There is only a single mzungu like you in this town,’ he continued, ‘I will bring you to her. She will help you with your problem.’
He guided me down some dirty backstreets, around the back of a building, and up a dark flight of stairs. There was a young English lady from the Home Counties working as a nurse. They knew each other from the church. After exchanging stories of what each of us was doing in Africa, I explained my predicament to her. She immediately handed over much more than the anticipated fare, but it was still only about three euros worth. I thanked her profusely, and the big African guided me back along a few streets to the correct bus for the border. Tactfully, I tried to hand him the amount above what I needed for the fare. He refused point blank. They were the two Good Samaritans of Tororo. Most of the Ugandans I had met were decent, friendly people.
I might make an exception of some of the hawkers an odd time, though. It was along those roads to the Kenyan border that locals were offering hot cooked chickens for sale; indeed, they were thrusting them through t
he open bus windows on the end of poles. At another village, every single person was intent on selling coat hangers to passengers. It is always the same in East Africa; in one village it is all carrots; in the next village it is all four-foot hat stands; in the next, only signposts are for sale; in the next, it is newspapers, and so on. Nobody ever thinks to sell something different from the rest. And why they would ever think I needed to buy a wicker chair or a big woolly sheepskin through a bus window, I simply do not know.
I was aiming for the smallest border crossing I could find on the map south of Sipi Falls because I always found smaller border posts less officious. Areas north of Mount Elgon might have been susceptible to danger from the notorious rebel Lord’s Resistance Army, crazed rebels who have been known to commit acts of cannibalism. I had other worries. While walking up to the border post, I was still debating in my head whether I would be prepared to pay a bribe if it became necessary to be allowed back into Kenya. It might cause trouble further down the line if I was found out, but I knew people who had done it before.
In the end, at the border post in a no-horse town, after my several misadventures in Uganda, I managed to charm my way back into Kenya. After a bit of smiling and joking, the official handed back my passport, and with a handshake I was through… I did not have to return to Ireland, as I had been told I must a week earlier.
CHAPTER 15
RETURN TO NYUMBANI
A SINGLE MONGOOSE ended my extensive hen empire. At least that was the story I was told towards the end of March on my return to Nyumbani from Uganda. In other versions, a large hawk had swooped on the hens one by one; sometimes I heard that an unidentified human had snatched some, apparently with my permission. Now hen-less, I decided to give away my goats too. This entailed cycling with one goat at a time tied to the back of the boneshaker. They were gifts for some of my Akamba friends—so that they could take advantage of some of the rather illogical economics of Kitui. Goat prices skyrocketed once the rains came; with all the new vegetation to munch on, the goats fattened up. Of course, everyone knows this is going to happen at the exact same time every year.
No Hurry in Africa Page 19