Road Trip
“In the very center of Africa, where the widening crack of the Rift Valley splits the continent, rise two great and mysterious mountain ranges: the snow-crown, mist-shrouded Ruwenzori and the emerald-green Virunga Volcanoes. Together they form the continental divide of Africa’s watershed. The abundant rains falling on their slopes eventually flow either northward to the Nile or west to the mighty Zaire (Congo) River. The mountains form almost an exact ecological divide as well. Toward the rising sun lie the open plains of the East African savannas. To the west, the primeval rainforest stretches to the distant Atlantic.
“Among the last reaches of the continent to be explored, this remote region long remained the darkest heart of Africa. Tales of snow-topped Mountains of the Moon, of a race of dwarfs, and of savage ape-men persisted through the centuries. The stories were spawned by dim contacts gleaned by ancient emissaries of Egyptian pharaohs, then later kept alive by the reports of Arab slave caravans returning to their Indian Ocean strongholds. After centuries of ridicule and disbelief, the ancient tales were proved true when European explorers discovered a region as fascinating as its myths.” (Adventuring in East Africa, Allen Bechky, 1990.)
We pile into the matatu (van), 11 of us. Seven graduates, three staff members and our driver, Jack. Our students are all getting their master’s in Community Health and Development from the University of the Great Lakes in Goma, Congo. Because TICH has not been awarded university status by Kenya’s Comission for Higher Education, they’ve partnered with the university in Goma to offer our master’s program. (I’ve written it before and will write it once more; the reason TICH has not been awarded university status is because someone in the ministry of higher education is wanting a little something, something to grease their palm and TICH is against bribery of any kind. So the stupid government holds back an institute that is set primarily to train people in helping to develop the country, so their fellow countrymen and women can lead healthy, safe lives. Isn’t that the government’s job to begin with, to ensure access to a healthy and safe life for their citizenry? But they’re stopping TICH, an institute funded by private sources and dedicated Kenyans, from training nurses and doctors in development. Mindboggling).
Our graduates are in their 30s and 40s. Three students are also on the staff at TICH; Sister Margaret, Ogutu Owii and Maureen. Our students are all professionals working in development. Kelvin Mindi works for the Ministry of Health in Malawi.
We live TICH at 8:30am. Kenya rolls by as we approach Uganda. At the border, our passports are stamped exiting Kenya. We then cross over “no man’s land,” a hundred yards between country gates, to get stamped into Uganda. Julius says, “You know, you can kill someone here in no man’s land and there’s no law to prosecute you.”
Uganda has a new computer system and asks us to be patient because of delays. Clearing our vehicle takes longer than stamping all 11 of our passports. We sit in the open matatu, waiting. Two small girls come up, begging. We give the girls potatoes chips and strawberry hard candies. The older one, probably 7 years old, has the sweetest smile and a most gentle way of asking. Both girls have swollen bellies, which my fellow travels suspect is caused by worms. As we leave, the girls run beside the van smiling and waving, saying goodbye in English. I wish we could sneak them into our bags.
Through Uganda’s gate, we’re met by hundreds of boda bodas, each driver wearing a bright pink shirt. For several miles, the pink shirts dot the roads. Luckily, there’s a paved bike lane protecting boda bodas and their passengers from traffic. It seems the shops along the border sell goods for very low prices, compared to what we pay in Kisumu. We must hurry through today but determine we’ll stop and browse on returning. As we head West through Uganda, with Lake Victoria on our left, the scenery becomes more and more beautiful. Men stand by the side of the road with gorgeous lines of fish, holding them out for passersby to see. Throughout Uganda, they grow bananas, rice and sugar cane. Scarecrows dot the rice paddies. Neat little mud huts are surrounded by bare, cleanly swept dirt yards. The huts have markings along the bottom and top and around doors and windows. Bright flowering plants dress up the yards and lace panels of striking colors billow in most front doors. These homes may be mud with thatch roofs, but they’re very neat and well-tended.
The roads through this initial part of Uganda are bad. Washed out lanes, pot holes, eroded edges require us to spend most of the time with two wheels off the pavement. It’s especially tricky dodging transport trucks hauling sugar cane, petrol and tons of bananas.
A huge, green fruit displayed on most stands catches our attention. At first, we think they’re watermelons because they’re about the same size and shape. But closer inspection shows an irregular tubular shape and a dark green, fuzzy covering. Gertrude tells us they’re called Fenesi and she points to several trees which bear the fruit. What an awesome sight to see such huge fruits hanging from tree branches. We’re all getting a little hungry and Gertrude says there’s a place coming up that sells roasted chicken.
I read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Am absorbed in the story as Gertrude tells the driver to keep going, the chicken place is around this corner, etc. So Lady Chatterley is unhappy. Her husband, injured in the war, is paralyzed. He’s also a superficial aristocratic twit/twat, as are his friends, and Lady Chatterley’s only joy these days comes from the chicks being kept by the gamekeeper on their property. As Uganda’s countryside flies by, I read. Lady Chatterley is visiting the chicks and wants to hold one, but the mother hen pecks her hand each time. Finally, the gamekeeper walks up, withdraws a fuzzy little chick and places it in her hands. She’s overcome with emotions-- sadness, joy, deep loneliness-- and begins to weep. The gamekeeper, because he’s a sensitive kind of manly guy, takes her into the little wooden hut so she can pull herself together. He pulls her together. Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper are having a really intimate encounter when Gertrude calls out, “Here! Here is it. They have chicken.” We pull over and I continue reading because now the gamekeeper has spread a blanket on the floor of the cabin so his Lady can relax into her emotional breakdown.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by men. My window opens and four chicken leg quarters skewered on sticks are in my face. Here comes a basket of roasted bananas. And more sticks containing unidentified meat chunks. No other windows open, though men have their chicken sticks and faces pressed all around the van. They’re four deep, these men, each trying to force out his competitors. Our group decides to climb out and buy the chicken from the cooking pits beneath the pavilion (who wants to eat chicken pressed against dirty matatu windows and god knows what else?). I’m anxious to get back to that little cabin on the back of the Baron’s estate, where the gamekeeper has now lit a fire. But the chicken is still in my face so I can’t see the book. I push the guy’s hand out of the window and then push the basket of bananas while shutting the window. But the basket gets caught in the window and I must shove again. They try to open the window and I glare at them. Don’t they know they’re ruining a very intimate moment?
Even though the group has gone to the pavilion, and even though I’ve told them to bring me back anything, the men stay in the windows, watching me read. Finally, everyone returns, their hands full of meaty sticks and plastic bags of roasted green bananas. We ride on and I return to D. H. Lawrence’s very risqué novel, enjoying the wordlessness between the gamekeeper and his Lady while nibbling on chicken and bananas.
We enter Jinja, where the Nile River exits Lake Victoria heading north. An impressive hydroelectric plant sits next to the river, fenced in. Police are posted before and after the river. Jack flies through, though he had said he’s stop for photos. Oh well, on the way back. (On the way back, we are warned not to take photos, they’re forbidden. I snap one pic and get mostly trees, not much water, and guard rail. Maureen is paranoid and shouts for me to put the camera away. The police pull us over and I hide the camera between my legs under my skirt. They let us go and Bavon giggles when I retrieve the camera. (What exactly do they think people will do with photos of the Nile?)
We pass through Kampala, the capital of Uganda, a very modern city with wide, clean sidewalks and buildings one might find in New York. There are Italian restaurants with neon signs. It’s so Western I’m thrown somewhat. And clean. And big. Jack stops several times for directions through town, leading to the Rwanda border. We leave Kampala behind and drive through more rural countryside where women line up in their fields, hoeing in a row. Mountains become larger and more frequent, their creases crowded with banana groves and tiny huts built on cliffs. We make it Mbarara, close to the Rwandan border, at 10pm. We check into Canaan Hotel and order a late dinner in the tiny dining room. It looks like a broken-down diner from the 50s. The front door leads onto a patio which sits next to a crumbling road. A Coca-Cola cooler stands nearby, chained and padlocked as usual. As we wait for the food, the World Wrestling Federation is blasting on a TV encased in an iron cage. Everyone is steady watching the big, muscular men act silly. I’m embarrassed to be an American.
It’s nearly midnight before we go to our rooms. We’re to meet for breakfast at 6:30.
“Among the last reaches of the continent to be explored, this remote region long remained the darkest heart of Africa. Tales of snow-topped Mountains of the Moon, of a race of dwarfs, and of savage ape-men persisted through the centuries. The stories were spawned by dim contacts gleaned by ancient emissaries of Egyptian pharaohs, then later kept alive by the reports of Arab slave caravans returning to their Indian Ocean strongholds. After centuries of ridicule and disbelief, the ancient tales were proved true when European explorers discovered a region as fascinating as its myths.” (Adventuring in East Africa, Allen Bechky, 1990.)
We pile into the matatu (van), 11 of us. Seven graduates, three staff members and our driver, Jack. Our students are all getting their master’s in Community Health and Development from the University of the Great Lakes in Goma, Congo. Because TICH has not been awarded university status by Kenya’s Comission for Higher Education, they’ve partnered with the university in Goma to offer our master’s program. (I’ve written it before and will write it once more; the reason TICH has not been awarded university status is because someone in the ministry of higher education is wanting a little something, something to grease their palm and TICH is against bribery of any kind. So the stupid government holds back an institute that is set primarily to train people in helping to develop the country, so their fellow countrymen and women can lead healthy, safe lives. Isn’t that the government’s job to begin with, to ensure access to a healthy and safe life for their citizenry? But they’re stopping TICH, an institute funded by private sources and dedicated Kenyans, from training nurses and doctors in development. Mindboggling).
Our graduates are in their 30s and 40s. Three students are also on the staff at TICH; Sister Margaret, Ogutu Owii and Maureen. Our students are all professionals working in development. Kelvin Mindi works for the Ministry of Health in Malawi.
We live TICH at 8:30am. Kenya rolls by as we approach Uganda. At the border, our passports are stamped exiting Kenya. We then cross over “no man’s land,” a hundred yards between country gates, to get stamped into Uganda. Julius says, “You know, you can kill someone here in no man’s land and there’s no law to prosecute you.”
Uganda has a new computer system and asks us to be patient because of delays. Clearing our vehicle takes longer than stamping all 11 of our passports. We sit in the open matatu, waiting. Two small girls come up, begging. We give the girls potatoes chips and strawberry hard candies. The older one, probably 7 years old, has the sweetest smile and a most gentle way of asking. Both girls have swollen bellies, which my fellow travels suspect is caused by worms. As we leave, the girls run beside the van smiling and waving, saying goodbye in English. I wish we could sneak them into our bags.
Through Uganda’s gate, we’re met by hundreds of boda bodas, each driver wearing a bright pink shirt. For several miles, the pink shirts dot the roads. Luckily, there’s a paved bike lane protecting boda bodas and their passengers from traffic. It seems the shops along the border sell goods for very low prices, compared to what we pay in Kisumu. We must hurry through today but determine we’ll stop and browse on returning. As we head West through Uganda, with Lake Victoria on our left, the scenery becomes more and more beautiful. Men stand by the side of the road with gorgeous lines of fish, holding them out for passersby to see. Throughout Uganda, they grow bananas, rice and sugar cane. Scarecrows dot the rice paddies. Neat little mud huts are surrounded by bare, cleanly swept dirt yards. The huts have markings along the bottom and top and around doors and windows. Bright flowering plants dress up the yards and lace panels of striking colors billow in most front doors. These homes may be mud with thatch roofs, but they’re very neat and well-tended.
The roads through this initial part of Uganda are bad. Washed out lanes, pot holes, eroded edges require us to spend most of the time with two wheels off the pavement. It’s especially tricky dodging transport trucks hauling sugar cane, petrol and tons of bananas.
A huge, green fruit displayed on most stands catches our attention. At first, we think they’re watermelons because they’re about the same size and shape. But closer inspection shows an irregular tubular shape and a dark green, fuzzy covering. Gertrude tells us they’re called Fenesi and she points to several trees which bear the fruit. What an awesome sight to see such huge fruits hanging from tree branches. We’re all getting a little hungry and Gertrude says there’s a place coming up that sells roasted chicken.
I read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Am absorbed in the story as Gertrude tells the driver to keep going, the chicken place is around this corner, etc. So Lady Chatterley is unhappy. Her husband, injured in the war, is paralyzed. He’s also a superficial aristocratic twit/twat, as are his friends, and Lady Chatterley’s only joy these days comes from the chicks being kept by the gamekeeper on their property. As Uganda’s countryside flies by, I read. Lady Chatterley is visiting the chicks and wants to hold one, but the mother hen pecks her hand each time. Finally, the gamekeeper walks up, withdraws a fuzzy little chick and places it in her hands. She’s overcome with emotions-- sadness, joy, deep loneliness-- and begins to weep. The gamekeeper, because he’s a sensitive kind of manly guy, takes her into the little wooden hut so she can pull herself together. He pulls her together. Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper are having a really intimate encounter when Gertrude calls out, “Here! Here is it. They have chicken.” We pull over and I continue reading because now the gamekeeper has spread a blanket on the floor of the cabin so his Lady can relax into her emotional breakdown.
Suddenly, we’re surrounded by men. My window opens and four chicken leg quarters skewered on sticks are in my face. Here comes a basket of roasted bananas. And more sticks containing unidentified meat chunks. No other windows open, though men have their chicken sticks and faces pressed all around the van. They’re four deep, these men, each trying to force out his competitors. Our group decides to climb out and buy the chicken from the cooking pits beneath the pavilion (who wants to eat chicken pressed against dirty matatu windows and god knows what else?). I’m anxious to get back to that little cabin on the back of the Baron’s estate, where the gamekeeper has now lit a fire. But the chicken is still in my face so I can’t see the book. I push the guy’s hand out of the window and then push the basket of bananas while shutting the window. But the basket gets caught in the window and I must shove again. They try to open the window and I glare at them. Don’t they know they’re ruining a very intimate moment?
Even though the group has gone to the pavilion, and even though I’ve told them to bring me back anything, the men stay in the windows, watching me read. Finally, everyone returns, their hands full of meaty sticks and plastic bags of roasted green bananas. We ride on and I return to D. H. Lawrence’s very risqué novel, enjoying the wordlessness between the gamekeeper and his Lady while nibbling on chicken and bananas.
We enter Jinja, where the Nile River exits Lake Victoria heading north. An impressive hydroelectric plant sits next to the river, fenced in. Police are posted before and after the river. Jack flies through, though he had said he’s stop for photos. Oh well, on the way back. (On the way back, we are warned not to take photos, they’re forbidden. I snap one pic and get mostly trees, not much water, and guard rail. Maureen is paranoid and shouts for me to put the camera away. The police pull us over and I hide the camera between my legs under my skirt. They let us go and Bavon giggles when I retrieve the camera. (What exactly do they think people will do with photos of the Nile?)
We pass through Kampala, the capital of Uganda, a very modern city with wide, clean sidewalks and buildings one might find in New York. There are Italian restaurants with neon signs. It’s so Western I’m thrown somewhat. And clean. And big. Jack stops several times for directions through town, leading to the Rwanda border. We leave Kampala behind and drive through more rural countryside where women line up in their fields, hoeing in a row. Mountains become larger and more frequent, their creases crowded with banana groves and tiny huts built on cliffs. We make it Mbarara, close to the Rwandan border, at 10pm. We check into Canaan Hotel and order a late dinner in the tiny dining room. It looks like a broken-down diner from the 50s. The front door leads onto a patio which sits next to a crumbling road. A Coca-Cola cooler stands nearby, chained and padlocked as usual. As we wait for the food, the World Wrestling Federation is blasting on a TV encased in an iron cage. Everyone is steady watching the big, muscular men act silly. I’m embarrassed to be an American.
It’s nearly midnight before we go to our rooms. We’re to meet for breakfast at 6:30.
posted by Cindi at 9:00 AM
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