Fun with transport

A regular reader of this irregular stream of missives (and my previous incarnation of Big Chimping), may have noticed that a fairly common theme of my writing is transport, and the issues I have faced therein.  Recently, however, I have been fairly quiet on the subject, not as you no doubt imagine, because the issues have disappeared. But instead because my baseline for what constitutes an uneventful journey is now so warped, that nothing short of being hit by a meteor or mobbed by a family of mutated super-intelligent giant mongooses is really worth a mention.  So in order to address this I shall try to summarise my last 6 months or so of incredibly routine hair-raising journeys.

I now have a car, of sorts.  Usually this would be cause for celebration, however the vehicle is so old and decrepit, it now has more in common with a donkey cart than a modern motor vehicle.  Nonetheless, it does have 4 wheels (most of the time) and is good for driving to town and back.  So long is the list of mechanical issues with the car, the only part which has not failed on me, during my short time of driving it, is the passenger side door.  Rather cunningly, this has been achieved by the removal of all moving, and hence breakable, parts from the door, reducing the chance of failure to 0.  The upshot of this being it will only open from the inside through the careful, and highly skilled, manipulation of a bent coat hanger, which protrudes over the top of the sorry remnants of upholstery.

Needless to say I have had some eventful journeys in the old thing, that have included a wheel falling off (I wasn’t driving), a complete failure of the brakes while approaching a junction in town (luckily traffic in rural Uganda is quite forgiving of this kind of thing) and most recently a total failure of the clutch.   Thankfully the last of these failures occurred when I was going down the hill in second gear.  So barring a few complaints from the engine I arrived at the mechanics unscathed to be greeted by the kind of warm reception reserved by mechanics for only their best customers.

The last tale comes, no surprisingly from the font of danger that is Ugandan buses.  On a particularly uneventful journey and about 30 minutes from our destination, the bus suddenly pulled over.  This was swiftly followed by the cabin filling up with steam and smoke.  Cue a whole bus panic as the passengers near the font started running for the back and those at the back reached for the windows.  As people began to use these designated emergency exits with the expected vim and vigour, it suddenly dawn on me that I was sitting next to the only window on the bus that did not open.  Not wanted to miss out on an opportunity to commit some justified vandalism against the vehicles which have been the bane of my life/die, I leapt up and kicked the window out, and proceeded swiftly after it.  In reality the old Ugandan guy who was sitting in the window seat did most (all) of the kicking, I merely followed him out.  Strangely enough, all the other passengers assumed I was the one responsible and started to thank me for saving them.  I did not feel the need to correct them.  And, of course, when recounting the story within earshot of an attractive lady, I struggle to recall the old Ugandan and I am fairly sure I carried a couple of babies out the window with me, saving them from the approaching flames.

I’m famous god damn it……

After a long hiatus I have decided it is time to get back on the blogging train.  8 uninterrupted months in the mountains had left me weary, the nuances of Ugandan society has ceased to be hilarious and had become simply annoying.  The urgency of the need for a break became obvious when somebody asked me what day of the week it was, and not only did I have no idea, but the only answer that came to mind was ‘lunch time?’.  I badly needed to readjust the internal clock and reinvigorate myself with the pleasures of Uganda and a visit back to the Land of the Wazungu seemed the best course of action.  So I boarded an Air Egypt flight (discovering only afterwards that they carry no booze on board) with a ludicrously ambitious change over time in Cairo (1hr), and traded the green mountains of Uganda for the rolling green hills of Blighty.

Flying from Kisoro to the UK is about as close as anybody can get to being Marty McFly without a DeLorien and a flux capacitor; you leave behind a world of single story houses in subsistence farms, where a cold soda is the height of luxury and you can count the number of TV’s on the fingers of one hand should you be wearing mittens at the time, and arrive at a terminal of steel glass and concrete, beckoning you into a future of bottomless sodas and 60in HD 1080p plasma screens where even the passport checks are done by a computer.  All without needing to steal plutonium of the Libyians.

The contrast is really quite stark, however this shock of this soon subsides and is overtaken by a much more powerful thought “oh my god, look and all these white people!”.  Which quickly turns into “nobody is staring at me, this is nice”, swiftly followed by “why is nobody staring at me, I’m famous god damn it…” and for a split second I missed the attention I found so annoying in Uganda.  Finally I realised I was back home, where being white does not make people stare and I can slip inconspicuously into the back ground.

This anonymity, however, comes at a cost, life in the UK is very expensive, nothing bought this home to me than when I ordered my first two pints of fine English ale in London, costing the princely sum of £7.60, and I pondered what I could buy for the same money (30000sh) in Uganda:

• A ten hour bus journey
• 6 meals at a village restaurant (starch and meat)
• 70km journey by boda
• 6 people to work for me, for one day (or 1 person for 6 days)
• 5 nights in a village hotel
• 60 sachets of Beckham gin (possibly more)
• 10 beers in a village bar (6 in a Kampala bar)

As you can see it would get, quite a lot more, quantity wise, than the 1.136l of fine ale I actually received.  However from a quality perspective I will take 2 pints of Youngs bitter over 10 warm Nile Specials every time! Despite haemorrhaging vast sums of cash, I had a excellent 2 weeks in the UK, including a wedding on the hottest day of the year, going to the Olympics (turns out Usain bolt is pretty quick) and two days at the Lords test match.  I even relearned how to be on time and which days of the week technically constitute a weekend (bad luck Tuesday). All in all it was very productive!

Update

“Eh you are lost” said the nice lady behind the counter of the my favourite bakery in Kisoro, the rather ambitiously named Phinta Investments Ltd.  What exactly there other investments are is unclear, but quite possibly its existence is the result of some ultra complex derivative sold on wall street and the bread , rather than the traditional flour, is in fact made of recycled sub-prime mortgage contracts, Greek government bonds and the hopes and dreams of former Lehman Brothers employees, neatly explaining why it is the only place in the town selling salty rather than sweet bread.  But I digress, rather than enquiring as to whether I had managed to lose my way on one of Kisoro’s 3 parallel streets, the cashier was exclaiming that she had not seen me in some time, which in a very roundabout way brings me to the momentous announcement, that I am not dead.  Yes you can all stop worrying, my lack of activity on the blog, is due to me being busy, not Ugandan public transport finally winning.  So here is an all to brief update of what I have been up in the last month (or possibly a small fraction of the last month).

After being stuck in my mountain eerie for some time, I decided it was time for a change of scenery at the start of the month, so a strategy workshop with the other employee of my organisation (can 2 people constitute a workshop?) was hastily arranged in our other site in Queen Elizabeth National Park.  This had the duel benefits of allowing both strategy discussion and some time soaking up the sun, both of which may or may not have occurred beside a swimming pool.  It also happened to coincide with the first test in the recent England vs South Africa rugby series, being an English sports fan, and hence having unhealthy zeal for pain and disappointment, I invited some South African friends for the weekend.

The result of the offending game I do not care to repeat, but needless to say several beverages of an alcoholic nature were needed and consumed and after the match we went for dinner.  Much of what occurred that evening is hazy (I think I was very tired…) however 2 incidents stick in the memory and do bear repeating.  The first occurred at dinner.  After the game, we retired to a nearby lodge, which shall remain nameless, for some dinner.  On the menu there were 2 items that really stood out, the first was “Chicken in a Basket” described as “Fried chicken and chips served in a woven basket”, not that interesting on its own, but immediately below it on the menu was “Fried Chicken and chips”.  Surely not, we mused, there must be more to it than that, only one way to find out…..

Waiter comes over to table.

My friend (Keith): Excuse me, what is the difference between the Fried Chicken and Chips and the Chicken in a Basket?”

Waiter: “It comes in a basket”

Keith: “Really that is the only difference?”

Waiter: “Yes”

And so with that nugget of information both were ordered.  Quite why such a situation exists on the menu is a mystery, I can only assume the chef is making some kind of ironic postmodernist statement about fussy presentation of food in most modern restaurants, or he really likes baskets.  But you will be pleased to know the only difference between the two was in fact, that one was served on a plate and one was served in a lovely woven basket, on a plate.

The next memorable incident occurred somewhat later in the evening, when we had repaired to the Gateway bar and several more drinks had been consumed (a couple of diet cokes and possibly a sprite or 2).  Now the gateway is a pretty standard Ugandan village bar, actually it is quite up market as it has a fridge, which as far as I could tell did not work, except for one crucial defining feature, outside it has a roughly made concrete elephant.  Honestly, I can think of few bars I have been too anywhere in the world, that would not be improved by the addition of a concrete elephant, such a feature is pretty much a theme park to a drunk person, and much fun was had.  However this fun is not without danger, as I found out, by impaling myself on its sharp tail while trying to mount it roughly from behind.  Kids, it’s all fun and games until you get stabbed by an elephant.

So if you learn one thing from this blog, let it be this, never, and I repeat, never try and mount a concrete elephant from behind as it is highly likely you will get stabbed (In my experience it happens 100% of the time).  While I have no experience with this and actual elephants, I imagine the same advice hold true, although the consequences maybe slightly more serious than a stabbing!

An unexpected meeting

It seems a collective madness have overtaken much of the UK this summer, and with Lizzie 2′s diamond jubilee this weekend, everybody has decided to party like it was 1959.  Shockingly the excitement surrounding this event has failed to reach Kisoro.  So while you are enjoying your lardie cake and coronation chicken under some Chinese made Union Flag (should keep the pedants in the audience quiet) bunting, I thought I would recount a couple of tales of things that I can do and you all can’t.  As you can tell I am not at all jealous of the street parties, BBQ’s and general revelry I am missing out on.

Last week I had to travel to Bwindi for a meeting and in a dramatic reversal of fortune I ended up meeting more than I expected.  From my eerie in the Virungas, our site in the village of Buhoma in North Bwindi is a mere 40km away.  However, for those who don’t know there region, there are a number of large steep hills and a national park in the way, as a result the road has to go around the forest and the drive takes in excess of 6 hours.  Using public transport for this route is a journey of monumental proportions that Odysseus himself would shy away from and similarly a single successful completion would result in songs being sung and tales told for eons to come in honour of the traveller.  Needless to say, I have never done it.  For those in the know, there is a quicker way, rather than risk the wrath of the gods on public transport, one can simply drive to the forest and walk across, quicker and altogether more pleasant than being stuffed into the back of a matatu.

For some unknown reason, the UWA is not altogether keen on letting an unaccompanied muzungu (like unaccompanied minor, but with more racist undertones) loose in a rain forest bordering the Congo at the best of times, especially not now there is a war on.  So I dutifully phoned the warden ahead of time to get permission and so she could send me a pair of AK47 wielding teenagers for ‘safety’.

In the UK there are certain walks and railway journeys that are considered to be great, the Ugandan equivalent must be great boda journeys, and the ride from Kisoro to the start of the walk is one of them.  The hour and a half trip takes you past mountain lakes, through impossibly steep terraced hill farms, remote mountain villages and encompasses some breathtaking views.  And once you are over fearing for your life, it is thoroughly enjoyable!  So I arrived alighted from my bicycle and trooped the 3km down into the valley to edge of the forest and start of the trail.  My welcoming party was nowhere to be seen and there wasn’t a single loaded automatic weapon to greet me.  I took it as a good sign and assumed as is was a Sunday my guards had forgotten/couldn’t be bothered to come and meet me.  I traversed the shaky looking bridge, by bridge I mean tree felled over the river, and entered into the dense jungle of Bwindi.  For those who don’t know Bwindi is a series of densely forested, incredibly steep hills, with ancient vines twisted between exotic trees where monkeys and exotic sounding birds interrupt the baseline of crickets and cicadas.  Needles to say it was a thoroughly pleasant walk.

As I approached Buhoma and the end of the forest, I was slightly worried I would be forced to explain myself to a sharp eyed UWA ranger.  Luckily such a ranger does not exist and the first person I saw simply greeted me with a “Good morning Sir” (it was afternoon) as I walked past a sign that reads “NO ENTRY TO THE FOREST BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT A GUIDE”.  Feeling like Dicky Attenborough in the Great Escape I strolled into Buhoma and had some lunch.

After a couple of days and successful meetings, it was time to leave, and still being reluctant to become the Greek hero of South West Uganda, I decided to walk once again.  This time I had no choice but to go and see the warden in person.  As I approached the UWA office, I saw some movement in the bushes and distinctly heard something eating leaves.  Using my detailed knowledge of taxonomy and drawing on all my field experience, I was able to identify the big hairy apes that surrounded the office as mountain gorillas.  So as the warden was crossing the Ts and dotting the lower case j’s on the forms required for my passage through the forest, I helped myself to some free gorilla time (approx $350 worth).  Finally Uganda’s penchant for needless forms in triplicate had worked in my favour!

The village people

Another week or so has passed in my mountain eerie and yes you guessed it, very little has happened. Unfortunately the extended family of rebel groups over the border in North Kivu seems to be having some kind of argument, nobody is quite sure why, but the rumour is that the Terminator picked the Ukraine and Denmark in the ill conceived North Kivu Rebels Euro 2012 Sweepstake and he is not very happy about it. The situation seems to have deteriorated, and as a result the conflict has now received international media attention, CNN and Al Jazeera have sent reporters to the border (but not into) to spread rumour and conjecture on a global scale. To be honest the situation has been the same for several weeks, but people must be getting bored of the Eurozone crisis (Greece is locked in a physical game and Germany does not want to spare a crystal to get them out) and the American election, so news editors have fallen back on that old stock headline “War in the Congo: thousands flee conflict in (insert province here)”. It would not surprise me if news channels had simply spliced in old reports and taken a fag break, so if you a young looking Michael Burke reading you the news on BBC News 24, be suspicious.

What the worlds media did not report on, and almost certainly should have done is that I have now built a small pygmy village, hooray. There are no actual pygmies in the village (and there never will be) and it is only 3 huts big, but given the length of time it took to build I am feeling pretty pleased with myself. The village consists of 3 round huts made of bamboo and eucalyptus (bloody Aussies get everywhere), each hut can hold about 3 people not quite standing, unless you are a pygmy, not very impressive I will admit, but it did take about a month and a half to build.

As I may have alluded to before, the Batwa are not the easiest people to work with and I found this out again, the hard way. At first the build stormed out of the blocks, my 3 hired builders turned up early and put in a full day’s work, a rarity in these parts, and the first hut was taking shape nicely. Unfortunately the build then encountered some difficulties, the next day the builders turned up for lunch and went home complaining of tiredness, not surprising really given they had just eaten a plate of starch the size of a small baby. Some crack negotiating was required to get this thing back on track, “finish in 3 days or you won’t get paid” I said, finish in three days they did, sort of. The house still needed a roof and so I dispatched the twa to get some grass from the Park (with the proper permits), however the day before they asked for an advance, foolishly I gave it to them. A week later they had not returned to finish the job, after a few phone calls to the chairman they did return, collected some grass and the rest of their money.

The hut looked good, almost too good, but you can’t fault quality so I commissioned the same 3 people to build 2 more. After 3 weeks they had not turned up. Some investigation yielded the reason, one I have encountered before, they did not like collecting grass. It seems in Uganda, the most demeaning thing you can ask anybody to do is collect grass for thatching. Here were the Batwa, with no income, no chance of a permanent job, refusing to do work for an inflated rate (it is community development after all), because of what amounted to an hour’s work collecting grass, unbelievable. Luckily for me the Batwa are not unionised, so I simply found some more, although even they tried to double the price paid for the work if it included 2 hours of grass collection, I told them to use leaves. Now I have an empty village, the purpose of which is not entirely clear yet, but it looks awesome. Incidentally, the Eucalyptus poles which form the main structure have begun to sprout leaves, making this a carbon negative build, call Symes Architecture for more details.

I climbed a mountain, twice

The weather today is miserable.  I know I have talked about it before, but it is particularly bad today.  The clouds have moved in and set up camp, not just any camp but one so permanent that Essex County Council armed with a battery of court orders and detachment of her majesties finest Peelers would fail to evict.  Consequently the volcanoes are absent, and in their places stands a blank white space, at this point it would be a challenge to persuade a visitor that they even exist.  Lastly with the clouds comes rain, like a wet static interference on the television of life.  So now is probably a good time to reminisce about the times I climbed, nay conquered, one of the Virungas, Mt Sabinyo.

Sabinyo, is the oldest of the Virungas and its name, meaning old man’s teeth, reflects it gnarled appearance.  Centuries of inclement weather have sculpted it into a steep multi-peaked affair, with deep ravines hungrily taking bites out of the side.  It is also the mountain, upon which the first mountain gorilla was sighted (by Oscar Von Beringe) and I mean sighted in Victorian naturalist terms, shot and killed.  Lastly on the 3,669m high third peak (the highest) the borders of Rwanda, the DRC and Uganda meet, giving the intrepid climber, who manages to make it by lunch, a chance to test out whether food really does taste better in the Congo without risking their neck or incurring the simply extortionate $290 visa fee (also they could drink and Um Bongo, but that would be silly).

The climb begins at 7.30 however I like to set myself a challenge (or sleep), so both times have begun at 8.30.  The second time the UWA man protest we were too late, which I thought was quite amusing given the open relationship Ugandans have with time keeping.  The walk starts off gently, through the regenerating forest, which is either a pleasant walk in the sun (first time) or an exercise in navigating through a quagmire that would have even a hippo stumped (second time).  Then you enter the Bamboo zone, sadly it is not an undiscovered section of the crystal maze and there is no Richard O’Brian dressed like a camp Victorian pirate fop playing the harmonica to greet you (neither time).  But instead it is a dense bamboo forest, which after the initial excitement becomes pretty monotonous.

About half through the ‘physical game’ of the bamboo zone, you reach a point when the trail splits in two, here you stop and the guide will announce rather ominously “now we climb the mountain”.  The first time I reached here I was pretty sure we had already been climbing, little did I know what was in store.  After this the walk turns into lung busting, 2-2 and half hour uphill monstrosity, which gets progressively steeper as the air gets thinner.  It is pretty spectacular, on one side the near vertical wall of the deepest gorge on the mountain drops off into oblivion and on the other, well pretty much the same, only a little bit smaller.  As you climb the vegetation changes from bamboo to a forest of ancient looking trees, all bearded with lichen, like old men who never quite made it to the top and if you are lucky you might catch a glimpse of the ludicrous coloured Rwenzuri Turaco or cross paths with a giant earthworm (which are totally awesome).  When you reach the first peak you are greeted with a nice view (some would say spectacular, but my baseline has shifted) and two further peaks looming above.

After refuelling on biscuits (Nice or Milk Power I am not fussy), it was time to tackle the last two peaks.  Compared to the first peak these two are relatively easy, however there are a couple of points worth mentioning.  The whole way up, when the path gets steeper ladders have been constructed, I am fairly sure these ladders do not meet European health and safety regulations, for they are not made of metal cemented into rock as you might expect to find.  No, they are made of bits of wood, not uniform planks mind but the kind of wood you might find on the floor of an average forest, hastily nailed together and cemented to, well it is not entirely clear what they are attached to and I thought it best not to investigate.  Needless to say, given the assent to the 3^rd peak is near vertical most of the way they are essential.

The walk between the three is stunning.  The forest gives way and the landscape is overtake by a mix of giant lobelias, a weird plant with a huge phallic projection for a flower, and giant groundsels, which look like a massive cabbage on a stick.  Between these buzz, malachite and Scarlet-tufted malachite sunbirds, and overhead swifts mockingly bank and roll amongst the clouds.  The path itself is perched on a razor sharp ridge line, and sheer slopes covered in this weird vegetation drop off a couple of feet either side.  It is alien, savage and breathtakingly beautiful.

On arrival at the top of the third peak, almost inevitably we were greeted with clouds, the second time we were caught in a hail storm on the way up.  It is fair to say I was not in a great mood when we reached there for the second time, however after lunch in the Congo, the clouds began to clear.  A vast expanse of Uganda, DRC and Rwanda opened out in front (and behind) us and I can confidently say the view was spectacular.  Well worth the climbs.

Blame it on the Boogie

As I have mentioned, life in the mountains is slow, painfully slow, slower, in fact, than an slowworm drinking sloe gin watching the grass grow in Sloane square (that one is currently being referred to the metaphorical DRS). But needless to say the upshot of this is a distinct paucity of amusing anecdotes with which to regale you. So instead I shall try to tell you a bit more about one of my many projects, dancing. Yes I am trying to lift the Batwa out of poverty using dance, a bit like Billy Elliot, except without the coal mining.

Very limited access to education, social prejudice and a complete lack of land to call their own, means the Batwa (pygmy) community around Mt Gahinga lodge have very few sources of income. As a result this once proud and fun loving people have been consigned to margins of society, eking out an existence by ‘scavenging’ and digging in other peoples fields simply to survive. Unlike in western societies where dancing is largely limited to badly lit dens of excess or camp television programmes filled with overly sequined minor ‘celebrities’ (both often taking place on Saturday nights), in Batwa society dancing serves the dual purpose of recounting history and a communal expression of joy.

Their recent unfortunate history and current circumstances have meant there has been little reason or opportunity for them to practice the traditional dances. This is where the VSPT (the people I work for) comes in, for the last 5 months we have been paying the Batwa to perform for the local community once a week. We hope to achieve three things through this programme; firstly providing a regular source of income for the 16 dancers and their families, secondly to provide them with a forum to practice and develop new dances, thereby helping preserve one of the world’s most ancient and endangered cultures and lastly to try and break down some of the prejudices that exist between the Batwa and the local Bafanbila peole.

So how are we doing after 5 months? The success of the third aim is difficult to judge and realistically hundreds of years of animosity are not going to disappear in 5 months as a result of the few dance performances, but the 40 or so woman and children who watch every week seem to be enjoying themselves. The second aim is easier however, percussion is now provided on drums, rather than jerry cans (disappointingly in my opinion), new dances and songs have been developed and the quality has improved from what might be found at an average wedding disco at 1am to a proper coordinated dance group. While they are not likely to win Uganda’s got Talent anytime soon (must write into Simon Cowell about setting up a franchise), they get a positive response from the crowd, although they are yet to attract any groupies. Most importantly the Batwa have an opportunity to earn some money, enjoy themselves and tell their story to people through the medium of dance.

So there you have it, conclusive proof that the sole purpose of dancing is not simply to provide an occupation for the re-animated corpse of Bruce Forsythe. I think I might try and teach them the moves to MJ’s thriller. That would really scare the tourists…