Lake Nakuru national park is one of the smallest national parks we’ll come across in Africa; however, what it lacks in size, it makes up for in biodiversity. Its large soda lake is home to thousands upon thousands of flamingoes; you can glimpse the shy black rhino amongst the undergrowth and almost certainly see the more common white rhino grazing by the lake. Lions inhabit the park, as to water buffalo, hyenas, guinea fowl by the bucket load, leopards, impala, dik diks, giraffes, zebra and the dinosaur-esque secretary bird. We managed to see everything bar leopards and black rhinos!
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Heading into the Great Rift Valley
We leave Uganda for Kenya and, more specifically, a campsite just outside of Eldoret town. At 2300m and on the edge of the Rift, the climate here differs considerably from our last stop in Kampala. There’s a chill in the air, in fact, it’s positively nippy – not the weather you’d expect in Africa. At 4am it starts to rain. Hard! The following morning, the mist is thick and it’s raining still. As we drive, we can barely see 10m. It’s utterly miserable so our panoramic views of the valley deep below are somewhat marred. On a day like this it’s hard to believe that further north the country is experiencing its worst drought in 120 years: cattle are perishing, people are dying.
We start our descent into the Great Rift and the weather begins to clear. The Rift Valley is a huge tear running down East Africa caused by two tectonic plates pulling apart. Slowly, over millennia, it’ll rip this section of East Africa into two. As we inch down the steep, windy roads
– Henry stopping occasionally to check the brakes – the climate changes dramatically: it’s drier, the trees are sparser, the ground changes from a deep red to a dusty, pale brown.
We traverse the base of the valley, heading for Lake Baringo (Baringo is Swahili for lake so this place is literally called ‘Lake Lake’). Here the land is parched: the goats are slender, the cows are baring their ribs, the rivers are dry. There’s been no rain here since March so everyone is waiting desperately for the rains that are due over the next few weeks.
At Lake Baringo we’re staying at Roberts Camp. Signs everywhere state that it is a nature reserve and that you enter and camp at your own risk because wild animals roam. And the animals that roam here are hippos – one of the most dangerous animals in the world.
We set up camp in the blistering heat, keeping our tents close to one another to discourage hippos from grazing in between them. Our tents are close to the edge of the lake – so close, in fact, that you can see hippos lounging in the water from the comfort of your tent.
That afternoon we head out onto the lake on a motorized canoe to catch a glimpse of the plentiful wildlife that inhabits this lake. The weather is scorching, the lake perfectly calm. First up is an encounter with the family of hippos we’d seen from our tents. Getting within a few metres of these beautiful creatures is, like the mountain gorillas, one of those special moments in life. Hippos, as you’d expect, have mastered the fine art of wallowing. They neither tread water nor stand upright but somehow manage to lounge quite comfortably in their large family groups.
Further along the lake we come face to face with countless crocodiles well hidden amongst the reeds that line the edge of the lake. As we approach they slip silently from their resting sites into the water.
It is at this precise point that the boat I was in starts to sink. Water begins to slosh about our ankles. Our guide is quick of the mark at locating the hole. He promptly plugs it with a very small piece of bolster wood then, with an old t-shirt, he begins to bail us out.
After this minor delay we continue on, spotting some of the many birds that are regulars at this lake. When our guide throws a fish in the water we get a striking close up of a fish eagle as it dives from one of the steep cliffs at the water’s edge, plucking the fish from the water.
Our tour ends in the fashion typical of most of my experiences on water (Whitsunday Islands, Lake Titikaka). The weather suddenly changes: dark clouds rapidly accumulate, there’s thunder, there’s lightning, the waves pick up and there’s rain (yes…there hasn’t been rain here since MARCH!) Our small boat battles its way through and we all breathe a small sigh of relief when it finally reaches shore.
Evening falls and we sit eating at dusk. Suddenly we hear the distinctive deep, guttural rumblings of hungry hippos emerging from the lake in search of food. An adult hippo must consume 40kg of grass each evening to exist so as soon as the sun begins to set they make an appearance on the shores of the lake to feed. Unfortunately, as there have been no rains since March, the grass is parched so many of the hippos have been going hungry. Lately, the staff at Robert’s Camp has been leaving hay out for the hippos to graze on so their nightly appearance is virtually guaranteed.
The lights on our head torches don’t phase them so we are able just to sit in silence watching and listening as the family go about their nightly routine. Going to bed, we can hear the hippos grazing about our tents: the muffled breaths, the grunts, the grass being torn from its roots. All that separates us from these magnificent African creatures is a thin piece of fabric. As I lie in my tent listening intently, I realize that I’ve had another amazing 12 hours in Africa.
Kampala
Kampala is frenetic. Clouds of fumes and dust hang in the air. It’s hot. People lay and sit and wait. Cars weave in and out; minibuses crammed with people, horns blaring, push their way through traffic jams. Small wooden stalls, jam packed next to each other line the streets. A butcher swats flies off his display of goat meat. A row of huts selling spare parts for cars bustle will men welding, hammering, tinkering. Men in suits walk with purpose, a briefcase in hand. A woman, poverty stricken, barefoot, lays in the shade of an official looking building, occasionally shouting obscenities as people pass. The market is busy: women arrange their wares, piling tomatoes into small pyramid displays, deals are made, there’s gossip and laughter. Outside buildings the men with AK47s stand guard. Five policemen in white uniforms direct traffic; a man on a camel waits at the junction. A mosque comes alive announcing evening prayers; an elaborate Hindu temple stands tall on the horizon. Billboards encourage people to vote; a giant Coca Cola bottle is the centerpiece of the main roundabout. T.I.A.
Uganda…a fragile country coming to terms with its past
For the last couple of days we’ve been staying on the outskirts of Jinga – Uganda’s second largest city and the place where the country’s most infamous dictator, Idi Amin, grew up. It was here Amin’s mother came when she was displaced from her home in the north and where Amin grew up, joined the military, was promoted on independence from the Brits and finally became the dictator and butcher the West came to know. It is in this very country, in the areas we’ve travelled through that Idi Amin and his army massacred countless Ugandans. Indiscriminate killings, rape, pillage, torture – for eight years he ravaged the country.
The scars of Amin and Uganda’s bloody past are all too clear. The country is fragile, ever teetering on the brink of a coup, of a guerilla attack, of peasants taking up arms on the whim of the next politician, of inter-tribal disputes, of riots. Uganda also shares borders with Rwanda, Sudan and the DRC
– all countries where civil war and instability reign. You travel here with the feeling that chaos could break out at any time!
Security in Uganda is tight. Outside every hotel, campsite, bank, even certain shops, a man in uniform with an AK47 sits and waits. Sometimes you see them texting on mobiles, chatting to friends or just sat in the shade out of heat of the sun. There are gates, intimidating walls with broken glass cemented into the top, barbed wire and, rather surprisingly, bougainvilleas (they plant these beautiful flowers in front of walls. Whilst they masquerade as a nifty piece of landscape design, they have very sharp thorns and grow in thick bushes which are great for preventing people getting within reach of said wall).
When we went gorilla trekking, we had armed guards front and back not because of a particularly feisty mountain gorilla but because of the risk of guerilla warfare overspilling from Rwanda and the Congo – the borders of which were only a couple of kilometers away. Apparently a few years ago this happened and a group of tourists were shot. Our guide was very keen to allay any fears we may have had by explaining that the Ugandan Wildlife Authority, which runs the national parks, is in fact a paramilitary organization with ties to all the Ugandan security forces and hence we were in safe hands (allegedly!).
Whilst Uganda may be considered instable, it doesn’t take away from the fact that this is a truly beautiful country with an equally beautiful people – the true garden of Africa. It is clean, welcoming and non-threatening (once you get used to seeing AK47s on every corner). The people here realize the value of tourism to this country.
Everyone here is extremely friendly. I walked around Jinga on my own and felt completely safe. Everyone is at pains to tell you about their country and to ask you to spread the word back home of the experience you’ve had here.
A birthday by Lake Bunyonyi
Early Saturday and I wake up a year older. Unzipping my tent and I get my first glimpse of Lake Bunyonyi . Glimpse is not really the right word…the lake is literally on the doorstep of my tent. It’s barely daylight and mist clings to the surface of the lake. Directly in front of me is a small wooden pontoon and four canoes each of which had been skillfully carved by hand. An otter dives for fish; yellow bower birds continue to construct their intricate nests that hang from the reeds at the water’s edge. There are definitely worse ways to wake up on your 29th birthday!
We have the day to chill on or by the lake. First up, a brekkie of pancakes and then a little laundry. It’s hot; in fact, it’s stifling. Most of us decide to hire the canoes and cross the deepest lake in Uganda to the island on the horizon. Jon and I shared a canoe. It took us a while to master the art of paddling in an unbalanced, handmade canoe but after a few ‘Msungu corkscrews’ (Msungu means white man; corkscrew is what a msungu does when they first get their hands on a wooden canoe…i.e. go round in circles) we managed to head in the right direction.
On the island is a resort of small wooden cottages. It’s quiet as it is out of season so 12 of us have the restaurant to ourselves. The restaurant overlooks the lake and is open air with plastic sides rolled up. The menu consisted of 4 freshwater crayfish dishes to choose from. Fortunately, we all like crayfish. We ordered and then began the traditional 1.5hour wait for food.
Whilst we were waiting, the waiter asked if we wanted to see some local dance to which we said yes. We waited. The wind picked up; the sky grew dark. When the food finally arrived it was delicious. We tucked in. After eating, we decided to make a quick exit to get to the mainland before the impending storm took hold. Unfortunately, the dancers were already on their way so we decided to stick around and see if the storm would pass.
The dancers were children aged five to twenty. An entire village worth arrived along with a couple of elders. They danced to the beats of a drum and a ukulele plugged into a tiny speaker. A traditional dance involves hugely energetic sequences with lots of foot stamping and whoops of joy. One little girl in a turquoise dress was particularly enthusiastic and often led many of the dances and songs. It was hugely entertaining and put our mind off the storm that was continuing to brew outside.
30 minutes and a small donation later and we were back out on the edge of the lake. The temperature had dropped, the waves had picked up, the wind was blowing a gale…only the rain was left to come. It was a race against time to get back to shore.
We finally hit the shore just as the rain came in. When it rains here it pours so we ended up sat in the shelter of the bar nursing hot chocolates and waiting for the cook team to cook up a feast.
Unbeknown to me the rest of the group was plotting a little birthday surprise. When the cook team finally announced dinner, I headed up to where the truck was parked to find the shelter where we cook and eat decorated with balloons.. After dinner, Henry also presented me with a huge cake with icing saying ‘Happy 29th Birthday Emma’ on it and four massive firework type candles, which when lit, spouted giant sparks at least two foot high (they would most definitely be illegal in the UK). After that, I received a locally designed card signed by everyone. It was a truly great birthday and made up for the fact that I was unable to receive any birthday messages from home that day.
Monday, 12 October 2009
Magical gorillas
Leaving the township of Kibale we head towards the forested hills on the horizon. Here the road disappears leaving a narrow, muddy track that, like a thin ribbon, cuts through the trees and encircles the hills. On one side are steep drops; on the other, a steep cliff baring the scars of rock falls.
We come across tiny villages. Here the children wave or beg asking for money, pens or food as we pass. The poverty here is all too clear.
The ride is particularly rough. Eight of us are crammed into a small minibus. The suspension has seen better days so we bounce, jerk and scrape our way up the hillsides for the next 5 hours. Twice we get stuck in mud and slip-slide our way through getting perilously close to the edge of the road and the sheer drop. At one point we hear something detach itself and our driver jumped out to fix it.
A long 5 hours later and we arrived at Bwindi Impenetrable Forest – home to 350 of the remaining 710 mountain gorillas in the world. Our afternoon was spend wandering about Bwindi village where we came across a number of school children who followed us about and conversed with us in broken English. They were from a local orphanage and they invited us to watch their evening dance performance. We decided to go and headed down to a small open air, ramshackle ‘concert hall’. Here one of the founders of the orphanage explained how a western man had arranged for an orphanage to be built to house some of the many orphans in the area, to ensure their education and to help prevent them from begging on the streets.
Each evening after school the children perform traditional dances to tourists and sell pictures or carvings they had made during the day. The entertainment was free but by making a donation to the organization or by buying an individual’s piece of work you could contribute to the project.
After a great dinner (which we didn’t have to cook), we were all exhausted and headed to bed extremely early amidst a tropical downpour. I, unfortunately, made the mistake of clambering into my tent with my head torch on. This resulted in around 200 midges following me in. Out into the downpour I went again to find someone who had fly spray to hand. 5 minutes later I coughed my way to sleep with the taste of fly spray still in the air.
Following a leisurely breakfast and we headed to the national park entrance. Here we watched a short video and were given a complete briefing about how to track gorillas. We were told that the tracking could be tough and could take a lot of time or could be relatively quick depending on where the gorillas were.
We were split into three groups. My group was made up of 7 people. In our group was also an older dutch fellow who we nicknamed ‘silvertop’. Unfortunately, having noted his rotund stature, the guides allocated my group to the family of gorillas closest to the village. Whilst I thought they’d be close, I didn’t bank on them being so close as to be at the bottom of a local’s field of tea. Our entire gorilla tracking experienced lasted little over five minutes before we came across the bizarre snorting, snuffling, grunting and farting of mountain gorillas thoroughly enjoying their morning feed.
The family we were tracking was 17 in number including a couple of babies. As we inched closer to them through the undergrowth, cameras at the ready, their powerful scent filled the air. Barely noticing our presence, they sat either low in the trees or on the ground just metres away from us pulling at branching and scraping the leaves off with their teeth and lips.
The silverback approached us and sat directly in front of us, eyeing us with interest as he tore branches from the trees. His harem encircled him, their stomachs bloated. On their backs clung two small infants. Every now and then a long, contented groan would emanate from one of them. Occasionally, one of them farted. It was a truly magical hour we spent sat in the undergrowth watching them. I took hundreds of photos but still took plenty of time to put my camera down and just soak up the experience of being in the presence of these rare and mystical creatures with which we share the best part of our DNA.
My only disappointment of the day was not being able to travel further into the forest to track the gorillas as the other groups did. Despite this, it remained an awe-inspiring, magical and truly amazing experience that I hope I’ll never forget.
Unfortunately, after the high of the morning, we were back in the minivans for an uncomfortable 6-hour ride to Lake Bunyonyi.
We come across tiny villages. Here the children wave or beg asking for money, pens or food as we pass. The poverty here is all too clear.
The ride is particularly rough. Eight of us are crammed into a small minibus. The suspension has seen better days so we bounce, jerk and scrape our way up the hillsides for the next 5 hours. Twice we get stuck in mud and slip-slide our way through getting perilously close to the edge of the road and the sheer drop. At one point we hear something detach itself and our driver jumped out to fix it.
A long 5 hours later and we arrived at Bwindi Impenetrable Forest – home to 350 of the remaining 710 mountain gorillas in the world. Our afternoon was spend wandering about Bwindi village where we came across a number of school children who followed us about and conversed with us in broken English. They were from a local orphanage and they invited us to watch their evening dance performance. We decided to go and headed down to a small open air, ramshackle ‘concert hall’. Here one of the founders of the orphanage explained how a western man had arranged for an orphanage to be built to house some of the many orphans in the area, to ensure their education and to help prevent them from begging on the streets.
Each evening after school the children perform traditional dances to tourists and sell pictures or carvings they had made during the day. The entertainment was free but by making a donation to the organization or by buying an individual’s piece of work you could contribute to the project.
After a great dinner (which we didn’t have to cook), we were all exhausted and headed to bed extremely early amidst a tropical downpour. I, unfortunately, made the mistake of clambering into my tent with my head torch on. This resulted in around 200 midges following me in. Out into the downpour I went again to find someone who had fly spray to hand. 5 minutes later I coughed my way to sleep with the taste of fly spray still in the air.
Following a leisurely breakfast and we headed to the national park entrance. Here we watched a short video and were given a complete briefing about how to track gorillas. We were told that the tracking could be tough and could take a lot of time or could be relatively quick depending on where the gorillas were.
We were split into three groups. My group was made up of 7 people. In our group was also an older dutch fellow who we nicknamed ‘silvertop’. Unfortunately, having noted his rotund stature, the guides allocated my group to the family of gorillas closest to the village. Whilst I thought they’d be close, I didn’t bank on them being so close as to be at the bottom of a local’s field of tea. Our entire gorilla tracking experienced lasted little over five minutes before we came across the bizarre snorting, snuffling, grunting and farting of mountain gorillas thoroughly enjoying their morning feed.
The family we were tracking was 17 in number including a couple of babies. As we inched closer to them through the undergrowth, cameras at the ready, their powerful scent filled the air. Barely noticing our presence, they sat either low in the trees or on the ground just metres away from us pulling at branching and scraping the leaves off with their teeth and lips.
The silverback approached us and sat directly in front of us, eyeing us with interest as he tore branches from the trees. His harem encircled him, their stomachs bloated. On their backs clung two small infants. Every now and then a long, contented groan would emanate from one of them. Occasionally, one of them farted. It was a truly magical hour we spent sat in the undergrowth watching them. I took hundreds of photos but still took plenty of time to put my camera down and just soak up the experience of being in the presence of these rare and mystical creatures with which we share the best part of our DNA.
My only disappointment of the day was not being able to travel further into the forest to track the gorillas as the other groups did. Despite this, it remained an awe-inspiring, magical and truly amazing experience that I hope I’ll never forget.
Unfortunately, after the high of the morning, we were back in the minivans for an uncomfortable 6-hour ride to Lake Bunyonyi.
Warthogs, dead dogs and sand storms
I have been truly fortunate to have spent the last couple of days travelling the route from Nairobi, Kenya, along the rough and ready roads that skirt Lake Victoria deep into the Ugandan foothills that are home to some of the remaining 710 mountain gorillas.
The route is awe-inspiring. Townships only one building deep line the roads. Those advertising Zain (a mobile phone company) are hot pink; those advertising MTN (another phone company) sunflower yellow. As we drive past, small shoeless children clinging onto older siblings wave and smile. Women elegantly dressed in bright blues and greens with patterned headdresses and inevitably a young infant strapped to their back crouch by small coal fires cooking, squat to chop wood or line the fields of tea where they work.
People are friendly. School children in bright blue pinafores or shirts carry books on their heads, a young sibling being led by the hand. As they see our truck they wave, shouting ‘Hello, how are you?’ in unison.
The buildings we pass are bustling with activity. Men fix motorbikes, construct purple coffins out of wood, play cards under the shade of a tree, weld bed frames, sell sofas, hustle horned cows out of the way of the trucks hurtling down the road or drag unyielding goats to their untimely death.
Everything is covered with a fine layer of red dust. Clouds of fumes spew out of lorries, dead dogs swollen and fly ridden lie inelegantly in ditches and every now and again the scents of the countryside waft through the open sides of our truck.
The poverty of both rural Kenya and Uganda are clear. Children are frequently barely clothed, many of their homes just small, ramshackle mud huts with roofs made of dried banana leaves. Outside their mother cooks, washes, prepares fruit and veg, or scrubs down one of their younger siblings. In the larger towns unemployed men stand, sit or lie around with little to do.
Sometimes as we drive we come across wart hogs or zebra stood grazing, immune to trucks, lorries and minivans, crammed with people driving by.
Of the two countries, Uganda has my heart. We cross the border leaving behind rubbish strewn roadside trenches and wide open plains of Kenya and enter very quickly the lush, rolling hills of Uganda. Banana trees, tea and sugar plantations, thick forests stretch as far as the eye can see. Dropping down a hill and you enter plains where crested cranes peck away at the edge of water holes, goats graze and large raptors circle above.
The driving is tough. We drive for hours: the first day only for four hours in Kenya; the next for 12. The roads are barely Tarmaced. If they are, the asphalt has sunk into deep trenches where large trucks have pushed it into the earth beneath. If not, then red mud riddled with potholes makes up the road. Unmarked speed bumps appear out of nowhere, torrential rain can fall at anytime turning the road into a sea of mud, a duststorm will suddenly descend only to disappear again minutes later.
We travel fast between potholes, only to slow right down to a hobble. Sometimes we get stuck behind lorries travelling at 20 miles an hour. Here Henry, our driver, manages to expertly manouvre our truck to overtake whether it be up a hill or on a blind corner. A loud hoot of the horn indicates our presence for lorries, cyclists, goats, people to move out of the way.
After two and a half days we arrive in Kibale. On the way we stopped at Navashka (Kenya), crossed the Equator twice, camped by the Nile at Adrift in Jinga (Uganda) and camped in a field that belonged to the university of Mbarara.
At Kibale we changed transport to minibuses. Here we began our final ascent into the Bwindi Inpenetrable Forest – home to the Mountain
The route is awe-inspiring. Townships only one building deep line the roads. Those advertising Zain (a mobile phone company) are hot pink; those advertising MTN (another phone company) sunflower yellow. As we drive past, small shoeless children clinging onto older siblings wave and smile. Women elegantly dressed in bright blues and greens with patterned headdresses and inevitably a young infant strapped to their back crouch by small coal fires cooking, squat to chop wood or line the fields of tea where they work.
People are friendly. School children in bright blue pinafores or shirts carry books on their heads, a young sibling being led by the hand. As they see our truck they wave, shouting ‘Hello, how are you?’ in unison.
The buildings we pass are bustling with activity. Men fix motorbikes, construct purple coffins out of wood, play cards under the shade of a tree, weld bed frames, sell sofas, hustle horned cows out of the way of the trucks hurtling down the road or drag unyielding goats to their untimely death.
Everything is covered with a fine layer of red dust. Clouds of fumes spew out of lorries, dead dogs swollen and fly ridden lie inelegantly in ditches and every now and again the scents of the countryside waft through the open sides of our truck.
The poverty of both rural Kenya and Uganda are clear. Children are frequently barely clothed, many of their homes just small, ramshackle mud huts with roofs made of dried banana leaves. Outside their mother cooks, washes, prepares fruit and veg, or scrubs down one of their younger siblings. In the larger towns unemployed men stand, sit or lie around with little to do.
Sometimes as we drive we come across wart hogs or zebra stood grazing, immune to trucks, lorries and minivans, crammed with people driving by.
Of the two countries, Uganda has my heart. We cross the border leaving behind rubbish strewn roadside trenches and wide open plains of Kenya and enter very quickly the lush, rolling hills of Uganda. Banana trees, tea and sugar plantations, thick forests stretch as far as the eye can see. Dropping down a hill and you enter plains where crested cranes peck away at the edge of water holes, goats graze and large raptors circle above.
The driving is tough. We drive for hours: the first day only for four hours in Kenya; the next for 12. The roads are barely Tarmaced. If they are, the asphalt has sunk into deep trenches where large trucks have pushed it into the earth beneath. If not, then red mud riddled with potholes makes up the road. Unmarked speed bumps appear out of nowhere, torrential rain can fall at anytime turning the road into a sea of mud, a duststorm will suddenly descend only to disappear again minutes later.
We travel fast between potholes, only to slow right down to a hobble. Sometimes we get stuck behind lorries travelling at 20 miles an hour. Here Henry, our driver, manages to expertly manouvre our truck to overtake whether it be up a hill or on a blind corner. A loud hoot of the horn indicates our presence for lorries, cyclists, goats, people to move out of the way.
After two and a half days we arrive in Kibale. On the way we stopped at Navashka (Kenya), crossed the Equator twice, camped by the Nile at Adrift in Jinga (Uganda) and camped in a field that belonged to the university of Mbarara.
At Kibale we changed transport to minibuses. Here we began our final ascent into the Bwindi Inpenetrable Forest – home to the Mountain
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