Day 180: Moshi International School Festival

If you can believe it, we were on the fence about going on another safari. Obviously we both really wanted to, but… the Murchison Falls safari trip in Uganda put us over budget and the safari trips in Tanzania are significantly more expensive. We debated. And then I realized we couldn’t be an hour or two away from the Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater and NOT go on safari… even if it meant returning home a couple of weeks early. Andrew agreed. Now, with our last minute decision, we had to wait for another couple to book the same safari so we could get the lowest price. (We definitely couldn’t afford a private safari for two- and we like people, so we wanted to go with others. You know, if they were cool…)

Luckily, a couple came through, we just had to wait one more day before we could go on safari. So, we joined a group from our hostel who were going out to explore the possibility of an International Festival. We weren’t really sure where it was. Or if it really was happening… But with two taxis full of people, we were on a mission.

We stopped at one school, where there clearly was nothing happening. The taxi drivers talked to the school guards and learned of another school further down the road. When we arrived at the second school, there were cars and balloons and people! The festival existed!

As we walked around the back of the school, we were suddenly transported. We weren’t in Africa. We could have been at any International School around the world. It felt like America, only with a more diverse crowd than would attend in my hometown. We honed in on the food booths. Andrew and I sampled vegetable samosas and chicken tikka… peanut butter cookies and margaritas… and even the Zanzibar mix.

“I’m sorry, what’s the dish called again?” I asked.

“Zanzibar mix.” The woman replied.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Zanzibar mix.” She replied. Okaaay… I was weary as I looked at the lime green mixture with bits of what I assumed was bread and crackling on top… I figured I’ve tried worse. And it ended up being surprisingly very good. I still have no idea what was in it though.

We didn’t stay too terribly long, and headed back into town to withdraw a ridiculous amount of bills (the equivalent of $6.00 for each bill) to pay for our safari. And then had movie night with all of the girls at the hostel. I had movie night with the girls… Andrew studied Spanish or something sans girls.

Day 179: Arusha Cultural Heritage Center

The beauty about having breakfast with fellow travelers at the hostel you’re staying with, is not only in having someone else to talk to (as much as I love Andrew, other faces are a delight!) but having another person tell you what there is to do around the town you just arrived to! The Arusha Cultural Heritage Center was suggested, and wanting a little art in my life, off we went.

We went by foot, which might not have been the best idea, as it took nearly 45 minutes to get there under the blazing Tanzanian sun. Whew. When we arrived, I didn’t even care how much the cafe was going to cost, all I wanted was something cold and shaded. The milkshake was definitely not worth the five dollars. The avocado tomato salad was worth the three. So, I guess despite the menu being in dollars (usually a bad sign in a foreign country) we pretty much broke even.

The Arusha “Cultural Heritage” Center is a glorified shop/art gallery. In my opinion, I’m assuming, it’s where rich people go before or after their safari to browse for “cultural artifacts” that are factory made. Ok, not everything is factory made… But not everything is made by Tanzanians either- and considering it’s supposed to be Tanzanian Cultural Heritage, I found this a little disappointing.

BUT. There were some good pieces that were made by local, er, African artists, that both Andrew and I did appreciate. We just would have appreciated it a bit more if it was only African artists featured in the gallery and perhaps if Tanzanians were employed in the gallery as well. (It seemed to be operated by Indians only) Our favorite part of the visit was the bottom floor featuring masks, furniture, and African carvings. (Photos weren’t allowed, otherwise I would have a plethora of images for you to see.)

I was also completely enamored by the “trees of life” that were outside and inside the gallery. As in, I want on and would totally track one down and send it home to sit next to my dragon IF Africa wasn’t as crazy expensive as it is and we weren’t over budget. Bah. I snuck a photo of the information plaque because I thought the story behind the trees is just beautiful.

If your eyes are as bad as my hearing: “The more traditional pieces represent clambering masses of people, reaching eternally upwards, as if struggling to grow and move forwards… they depict extended families of past and present generations, gently supporting each other in the journey of life…”

Isn’t that beautiful?

We grabbed a dala dala back into town. Genius modes of cheap transportation- and much more fun than a taxi. Vans slow down on the side of the road when they see you standing there and you pay less than twenty cents (USD) to jump in and get out where you want to go. We’re never sure where they are going, so we ask first before jumping in. They’re not made for anyone taller than myself- Andrew wasn’t comfortable in the least, but I enjoyed watching the Masai woman watch him during the ride. When she caught me smiling at her amusement towards Andrew, she eyed me skeptically as well, until she eventually deemed I was ok to talk to. Fortunately, I was sitting next to a super nice Tanzanian who spoke both Swahili and English and helped us converse.

At first, she clasped her ears, full of intricately beaded earings and a few gaping holes (one in her lobe, and one in her upper ear). She eyed my own ears (one lone piercing in each) and asked where my earings were. I raised my finger up to say that I had one piercing, and told her my jewelry was at home, save for my one, lone, Arabic necklace. I may as well have been naked sitting across from her. She pointed out the holes in her ears, and again, asked where mine were. I made a face like “Ouch! Pain!” and she shook her head and told me it didn’t hurt. Then she counted on her fingers, at first I thought she was trying to tell me how old she was, but then my new friend told me she had twelve children. Again, she asked about me. I made a zero with my hand and told our translator that I was too young! He laughed. (I don’t blame him. I’m in Africa. No one is too young to have a baby here!) She told me she wanted me to take one of her children. I smiled and told him to tell her that I was still a child. He laughed again. I’m not sure if he told her that. I think he translated what he liked throughout out conversation. I’m pretty sure the woman got frustrated with me as well for not speaking Swahili. Although my new friend wouldn’t tell me in so many words that was so… She definitely asked me why I didn’t speak Swahili though. I told her it was the first time I needed it. She ranted a few Swahili words I couldn’t understand, and my new friend didn’t translate. I assumed it wasn’t mean spirited and smiled.

Ignorance is bliss, and I continued to believe the older Masai woman liked me and had enjoyed our conversation as much as I had.

Days 177 & 178: Kampala to Nairobi to Arusha

We were told to be at the Kampala Coach office a half hour before our departure time at 3:00. We arrived a little before 2:30 and waited. And waited some more. Moved outside next to the bus, and waited some more. Men were packing the undercarriage of the bus, shoving as much as possible into the storage cabins, kicking the door shut, and then gathering additional men to help secure the latch so it wouldn’t bust open on the road. It was amusing at first, but after an hour of the same routine, it became annoying and we were ready to go. Our “business luxury” bus was as dirty as an overnight bus in India and was two hours behind schedule. We wouldn’t arrive in Arusha until at least 22 hours  after we left Kampala.

It was close to midnight when we reached our first border crossing (Uganda/Kenya). I feel in a small (small) way that I’ve grown accustomed to sketchy border crossings at this point in the trip. While everyone crowded in the brightly lit Ugandan passport control, I took in the long line and shoved my bag into Andrew’s hands and went out into the dark to look for a ladies room. This is a bit tricky. When there are no lights and people milling about in the middle of the night, it’s a gamble of who you’re going to ask for help or directions. I always assume my ‘I ain’t scared’ face and sometimes hum I won’t deny it, I’m straight rider, you don’t want to mess with me… (only Tupac didn’t sing ‘mess’ and neither did I)

I settled on the two guards outside of the ATM booth. This might have been a mistake as they proved to be creepier than their uniforms deemed them to be. I politely asked where the toilet was. They didn’t look up until I repeated it a few more times, a few more different ways, making it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere until I got an answer.

“Money” One of them eventually replied. (Sometimes bathrooms do cost money, and I gladly pay – when they are clean and there’s tissue. Ok, they are hardly ever clean, and only sometimes is there tissue. But I’m almost always prepared with my own.) I was in a bit of a rush and was slightly annoyed that they were informing me that there was indeed a bathroom, but it cost money.

“Yes. I know. Where. is. it?” I tried to ask patiently.

“Money.” The one demanded again. At this point I realized he was asking for money for directions. He obviously didn’t realize who he was talking to. I became indignant, and considered briefly what would happen if I peed inside his ATM booth. Ok, not really. I wouldn’t do that. But I might have made him a little bit nervous standing in front of him not handing over any money knowing full well I could go wherever I wanted, if I really wanted to. He sighed and waved his arm behind him. Which really, didn’t help at all, but I went and eventually found where I needed to go and got back to Andrew before he started to worry- er, more than he probably already was, but didn’t admit to. I relayed my story briefly before the Israeli guy on our bus relayed his story of almost getting ripped off exchanging money. I think we were all more surprised by the fact that none of us were surprised by the antics of the men loitering around the passport control.

Crossing into Kenya was not only sketchy, but turned frustrating on the Kenyan side when we learned we couldn’t pay for our visa in American bills printed before 2005. This is advertised nowhere and I pity the fool (me) who rolls up to the counter with a perfectly crisp $100 with 2004 stamped on it. Luckily, Andrew had a more recent bill and we were able to get back on our bus heading to Nairobi.

I didn’t think it was possible for dirt roads to be any worse than they were in Uganda… But in Kenya, they turned out to be much, much worse. We stopped in Nairobi for a brief twenty minutes before riding all morning towards Tanzania.

The Kenya/Tanzania crossing was uneventful, save for the giant groups of Americans standing in line and shouting their conversations all over the place. I leaned over to Andrew and whispered, “I get it. I get why people don’t think we’re American now…” We aren’t traveling in a pack of upper middle-class white people. We aren’t wearing American sports jerseys. Our gym-shoes aren’t bright white. We don’t have a guide with us to help us fill out our visa forms. Our backpacks are dirty. And not ‘Oh we just went on safari, look at this smudge of dirt on my awesome new travel pack.’ They. are. dirty. Like a dog peed on mine in India, I washed it in the UAE, but I’m pretty sure dogs would mark their territory on the front pocket if I let them. dirty. Maybe sometimes not looking American is a bad thing… but as proud as I am to be ‘merican, I’m glad I don’t come across the same way the obvious Americans do.

We arrived in Arusha early in the afternoon and after getting settled in a room at a busy hostel just outside of the downtown ‘Clocktower’ area, we walked into town for lunch. Along the way, a middle-aged western woman approached me and said  “You need to wear your backpack on both shoulders. This is a dangerous area.”

“Oh, thank you. I know. I’m just terribly tired and we’re not going far, but thank you.” I responded, knowing full well it could get stolen, but that I was a big girl. who was tired. But she was just trying to be nice. At least, until she reached around my back and pulled the strap up over my other shoulder and said “No. Really. You need to wear both shoulder straps here.” She walked away sighing, no doubt, at what she assumed was how dumb I was.

My initial reaction was along the lines of ‘that was weird.’ And then I ate a meal for the first time in 24 hours.

“What. just. happened out there? Did she really reach around me to pull my backpack strap up over my free shoulder?” I asked Andrew.

I can understand someone being nice and suggesting care over one’s self and bags. Not that I would ever do so in the same manner that she did… But I can see the motivation for doing so, wanting to be a good samaritan of sorts. But I am 30 years old. THIRTY! I think I can take responsibility of my backpack on one or both shoulders by this point. But I KNOW she walked away judging me as I eased one strap off my shoulder again.

I wondered how old she thought I was. Would she have treated me differently if she knew I my age? If she knew I’ve been traveling around the world for six months now. After traveling for two months by myself throughout S.E. Asia. After living in foreign countries (four in total, if you count the two from studying abroad in college) for six -maybe seven- years.

“Don’t you know I have my head on a swivel, motherfunny?” Andrew said (only he didn’t say ‘motherfunny’) once upon a time in India and it’s always stuck with me. I wish I would have said that to this woman. I wish I would have told her not to talk to a thirty year old like myself, as if I was thirteen. I wish I would have asked her what made her turn into Little Ms. Bossypants with another white girl in the middle of a small town in Tanzania.

“She’s probably gone home to her husband complaining about the stupid young tourist who is probably going to get her bag stolen today…” I sighed. “And now, my bag probably will get stolen…” I thought out loud after my tangent to Andrew about all of the above…

It didn’t. It still might. But at least it didn’t in Arusha.

Day 176: a day in Kampala

We were supposed to travel to Nairobi today. But. I was tired. Andrew was as well. Our “quiet” room didn’t turn out to be so quiet, and we barely slept through the night. We decided to stay in Kampala and relax and I tried my best to catch up on the blog. Really, all we did was walk out to get bus tickets- then walked longer to a Mexican restaurant Andrew found on TripAdvisor (it wasn’t bad) and then sat in the dining area of our guesthouse/hotel on our computers. It. was. exciting.

Again, I wanted to take more pictures and video with my camera. Like of the shady bus ticket-office we went to, and of the girls that ended up walking with us back to our hotel… But I just didn’t feel comfortable taking my camera out. I’m guessing this is going to be an issue while we’re in Africa. If only there was a way to have a disposable, yet digital camera? Does that exist? If so, I want one.

Day 175: Leaving The Hairy Lemon Isn’t Easy

And not because we didn’t want to leave… we were ready to move on, but we quickly learned that leaving The Hairy Lemon Isn’t Easy. At. All. Getting a ride to “mainland” was fine, but then we felt slightly stranded with no boda bodas to be found and a giant angry pig chasing after us. We walked to an intersection of sorts where two huts sat by the side of the road. One friendly man smiled and I asked him where we could find a boda boda. He pointed in the direction back towards the river, and we walked back in what felt like the opposite direction we were supposed to go in. Luckily, there were a few men by the riverside and one got on his phone to call some friends to come give us a ride. They (as expected) charged us more than the fare we paid to get there, but we didn’t exactly have room to negotiate, and we climbed on our respective boda boda for another bumpy ride back to Nazingo to catch the first matatu of the day.

I wanted to photograph everything. Desperately. But, I didn’t feel comfortable at all on the super poor road we were on to whip out my dslr. Babies sans underpants sat in front of their houses. School children waved as we rode past. Women gathered at wells to fill their jerrycans up with water. Despite clinging to my backpack and back of the boda boda for dear life, it was a beautiful ride.

Apologies that the video above isn’t as entertaining – it was taken instead on the main road we took from Jinja back to Kampala.

Back in Kampala, we went back to the noisy downtown guesthouse, and were granted what we were told would be a quieter room. Regardless of the noise, I have never been so grateful for a white porcelain toilet in all my life. At the Hairy Lemon, there were eco toilets, think: plastic box with a hole straight down to the ground below.  It’s a really great idea. Truly. There are even buckets of ash to cover any solid waste that you might leave behind. (Unfortunately, our bucket in our dorm bathroom was without ash until the last afternoon we were there.) There was also a resident gecko that I’m pretty sure enjoyed the shade between the toilet seat and lid. He liked to scare me every time I went into the bathroom. Thinking I was one step ahead of the little guy, I prepared myself to meet his acquaintance and gingerly lifted the lid, shining my light around the toilet to scare him off, so I could sit down in peace.

Only instead of one feisty little gecko under the lid, a writhing pile of maggots below caught my light and terrified me even more than a little lizard ever could. Holy. Cow. (only I didn’t scream out ‘cow’) I practically dumped the now full bucket of ash into the hole and contemplated yet again peeing off the cabin front-porch… That is, until Andrew came around to see what the fuss was about and assured me the maggots couldn’t ‘get me’ while I sat down to do my business. (Worst case of stage-fright yet, FYI.)

Needless to say, back in the city, I enjoyed a truly western style bathroom, and a bed that didn’t require a ladder to get into. Andrew magically figured out where and how to order pizza to be delivered to us.  That, and the latest Walking Dead episode cures all terrifying bathroom experiences.  (at least, for the short-term)

Day 174: The Hairy Lemon

I get why Christian liked The Hairy Lemon so much. It’s this super chill island in the middle of the Nile, surrounded by prime kayaking opportunities. I’m assuming it’s kayaker heaven. But for me and Andrew, not being experienced kayakers… and on a tight budget, we probably didn’t love it as much as we would have if we came with our own kayak or more funds to have lessons or just to have someone take us out on the water.

It probably didn’t help that there was some epic kayak designer/manufacturer and his Red-Bull-sponsored-kayaking-son staying on the island when we were there. They were super nice. But. Dudes only talked about kayaking. all. the. time. I had to laugh when the Red-Bull-sponsored-son told me he “tries not to wear too much of the Red Bull gear at once…” He said this while wearing a Red Bull shirt, Red Bull sunglasses, while he worked on his laptop with a giant Red Bull Sticker on it, next to his Red Bull bag. I wondered what he considers “too much at once.”

Not being into the kayaking thing this time around, we lounged, and had a dip in the natural pool of water on the island. That is, until Andrew was convinced he had contracted Bilharzia through his butt. 

In case you’re not familiar with this disease, it’s caused by parasitic worms and it’s common in tropical ponds, streams and irrigation canals harboring bilharzia-transmitting snails.

He was convinced something was wrong with his butt, and guess who had to investigate because he couldn’t see for himself?

Me.

I don’t know why butts and ailments of are so funny, but they are. (And having had surgery on my tailbone before college, I totally get it.) Regardless, I immediately turned into a child and started laughing at his paranoia, yet promptly told him to drop trou so I could investigate.

“I think your butt cheeks were just chafing on the boda boda (motorcycle) ride or something…” I said as we stood outside our dorm cabin investigating. He wasn’t convinced.

“Do you want me to take a picture?” I asked, knowing full well that would have made me feel better ten years ago when I had no idea what was going on on my backside. And so, I did what any awesome travel partner would do, I grabbed my phone, parted his cheeks, and took a picture for him to see.

“See, it’s totally not bilharzia… But, I think some anti-biotic cream would make you feel better…” I suggested. He agreed, and busted some out, turning to me yet again for assistance. After I demanded he supply a q-tip, I channeled my inner nurse and complied.

Traveling around the world; not for the feint of heart.

Aside from the bilharzia scare, laying around was pretty much the extent of our day.

Day 173: Kampala to The Hairy Lemon

When we went to Murchison Falls, a dude on our safari (Hey Christian!) raved about this place called The Hairy Lemon, on an island, in the middle of the Nile. We decided to check it out. Jinja, even though it holds the source of the Nile just outside of town, had nothing else to offer (in my humble opinion), so we thought chillin’ out on an island would be better. Just getting there turned into quite the adventure.

We had to take a matatu from Kampala to Jinja. Then wait for another matatu from Jinja to Nazigo. Then try your hardest to retrieve your backpacks from the back of the matatu simultaneous to swatting (lit’rally) the boda boda drivers away from grabbing your bags for you (claiming you for their ride). Then bargaining with said boda boda drivers for a reasonable fare down to the river. Then balancing your backpacks and your behind on the back of a boda boda for one of the bumpiest boda boda ride yet. Then ringing a gong on one side for someone to bring the boat over for you to get onto the island. That’s all. That’s all it takes to get to The Hairy Lemon…

Throughout Uganda, I’ve been intrigued by the storefronts and homes (let alone the day to day life) we’ve been passing by on our public transportation. Most of the storefronts (and some houses) are covered billboard style advertising paint, phone plans, Mountain Dew, milk, etc. etc. I tried to take some pictures from our matatu from Kampala to Jinja.

A series of advertisements wouldn’t be complete without one for The Lord, am I right?

Day 172: Fort Portal back to Kampala

When planning out this trip, I totally underestimated how long it would take to get from Point A to B. Generally, it seems in Africa, one needs an entire day to get from one city to another regardless of how close it may be. When we left Kampala for Buseesa, I knew it was only about four hours to get there, but didn’t even consider we would have to wait just as long for the matatu to fill up before we could leave Kampala. Fortunately, we arrived to the bus station in Fort Portal just in time and were one of the last people to board the bus back to Kampala. The ride itself was uneventful. Except for, maybe, the stops in between where dozens of vendors clamor up to your window hoping you’ll purchase some of their grilled bananas (yum) or perhaps a chicken on a stick.

Arriving in downtown Kampala- a first for us- was anything but uneventful. Fortunately, our hotel was a short walk away and we were able to be amused by the chaos rather than getting swept up in it.

Worn out by another day of travel, and gearing up for another matatu stint tomorrow, we stayed close to our hotel. We snuck out for dinner. Chips Chicken (fried chicken with french fries) yet again and I began to wonder when the next time I would come across a salad would be. Oh fresh baby greens, how I miss thee!

Day 171: More crater lakes

We were told the crater lakes were a twenty minute walk or so from where we were staying. Turns out, the village market was a twenty minute walk and the crater lakes were another twenty (maybe more?) minutes after. At least we decided not to go by bike. Lots of ups and downs on a bumpy dirt road would have made the trip unpleasant. Instead, we walked, mingled in the market, kept a hungry cow company at the edge of one of the lakes, and Andrew scared a handful of schoolchildren by pointing a camera at them while we were walking back towards our campsite and awaiting banda.

I have never seen children run and hide so quickly. It felt a little Wizard of Oz-ish when they reappeared creeping out from behind the banana trees to walk with us again.

The market was a little surprising. It wasn’t that big for being labeled “third largest” in Uganda. It also didn’t have nearly as much of a variety as we had hoped. We wanted to eat lunch in the market (as our place didn’t have the best food) but the only food that appeared to be for sale was bananas, tomatoes, and some other vegetables in pretty stacks in front of their vendors- but not exactly what we were looking for.

We took a few pictures of the market, but had a rather difficult time blending in, so we didn’t stay long and made our way further down the road to check out the other crater lakes. Along the way children waved and a few ran out to the street to greet us. A young teenager had been walking with us for a bit and told us they were asking for their picture to be taken. I obliged, and they were delighted seeing themselves on the camera screen.

The lakes were pretty, but not what we were expecting. Our whole trip to Fort Portal wasn’t exactly what we were expecting, but it was a nice calm after the journey to get there and what we were expecting as we tried to return to Kampala. We debated going to Lake Bunyoni- but I had had enough lake action, so we had a quiet night before heading back to Kampala the next morning.

Day 170: Crater Lakes outside of Fort Portal

So really, there is nothing in Fort Portal to do. There’s not even a Fort. And it seems that not even Wikipedia can give me an explanation of why there is a ‘Fort’ in its name. There is, however, quite a bit to do outside of the city, or so we were told. We headed for a campsite with bandas (small thatched-roof huts) near the crater lakes for a couple of days.

Getting out there was the most interesting part of our day, really. We took boda bodas (motorcycle taxis) to the matatu (shared bus taxis) stop. And then, we waited. Luckily, this matatu was a car and we only needed to wait for two other passengers to show up, instead of waiting for up to fourteen to fill a van. An hour or so later, four of us were squeezed into the backseat and two were squeezed into the front passenger seat, and we were on our way. The older Ugandan man who I was scrunched up next to pointed out different things along the way. The school. The health clinic. Maybe a few other things I can’t remember right now… It was really sweet, except he was only inches away from my face as we were scrunched next to each other and spittle landed on my face (lips included) every time he pointed something new out. I had a brief respite when the other older man crammed in the back didn’t seem to care for the audio tour and they argued back and forth until I smiled and said that I really did appreciate hearing what was where.

Once at the campgrounds, we had a late lunch, put in our order for dinner (fried chicken that tasted like they had started cooking it then, even though it wasn’t served for three more hours) and then we hung out on our front porch of our ‘cabin in the woods’ on the edge of one of the crater lakes.

Colobus monkeys danced around the trees above our cabin all afternoon. Can you see it’s white bushy tail?

When we walked back down to our cabin in the woods after dinner (about 400 meters into the woods) I was so jumpy and scared thinking that some zombie redneck torture family was going to reach out and grab me that I refused to let go of Andrew’s hand. Then I got him so jumpy when we went to sleep that I might have had him momentarily convinced something was in our cabin that we had to investigate under all of our bags and the bed and then I made him turn off the outside light so any lurking stranger dangers couldn’t see that we were in the cabin for the night. And don’t even get me started on going to the bathroom- a steep climb in the opposite direction from the campsite. I peed off of the front porch instead of even thinking about attempting that night climb into the wilderness on my own. I made Andrew stand outside with me while I took care of business. He made me do the same. It was that scary.

Day 197 Zanzibar back to Dar

Instead of recounting the series of unfortunate events that led me to getting only slightly ripped off (instead of completely) while purchasing our ferry tickets from Zanzibar back to Dar Es Salaam, I will simply say this:

Zanzibar is beautiful. Walking around Stone Town, swimming with the sea-turtles, lounging on the pristine beaches was really, really lovely. But it was all marred due to the fact that my guard was constantly up trying to avoid getting scammed. This feeling was not aided by the fact that we usually returned to our room before dark to avoid getting mugged on the beach throughout our visit. As unbelievably gorgeous and so rich with history and culture, after the hour I spent trying to get a ferry ticket without paying extra for commission, yet ending up paying extra due to the false exchange rate the “official” ferry ticket booth quoted me, I wanted nothing more than to get off the island… even if it only landed me back in Dar.

Our only plans in Dar were to figure out our bus situation to Mtwara the next day, and to track down some Masai shukkas. We asked the front desk how much a taxi to the market should cost, and headed out to do a little shopping. The girl at the front desk warned us to be careful (the market is notorious for pickpocketing) and that it was very close, but we risked getting mugged just walking there. I tucked my money in my underpants and we asked a taxi driver how much it would cost to get to the market. He told us it would cost nearly four times the amount our front desk friend quoted. We shook our heads and kept walking. We asked another taxi driver. Same story. We kept walking. Eventually, we were halfway there and gave up trying to get a taxi. Hands were in Andrew’s cargo shorts pockets four (he says six) different times. Luckily all he had in them were expired ferry tickets and receipts. No one seemed to be bothered with me. I very clearly had nothing in my pants pockets and my backpack zippers were so locked up in carabiners that it was annoying for

While there was an abundance of beautiful and bright Swahili cloth, it wasn’t what I was after. I was starting to get rather disappointed none of the shops seemed to carry any shukkas. And then, I spotted two Masai. I walked up to them and pointed to the red and blue checked cloths wrapped around them.

“Shuka, where?” I asked them, completely oblivious to how random I must have presented myself, being one of two (Andrew being the other) western faces in the market zoning in on the only two Masai men that we had seen in Dar, let alone that market, all day. One of the men pointed back in the direction that we had just come from. I shook my head and squinted, wondering if he could be more specific. He told his friend to wait and then motioned for me to follow him. We practically retraced our steps until he led me up into a covered sidewalk. Low and behold, a tiny Masai shop was hidden, tucked behind some street vendors, with a handful of men selecting shukas from the tiny counter.

Andrew and I picked out an assortment of shukas, of two different varieties. I was ecstatic. I got them for less than any prices quoted in the touristy market in Arusha, and the scavenger hunt made the find that much sweeter.

Day 169: Buseesa to Fort Portal

The Sisters warned us that we might have to wait for a matatu (shared bus/taxi) for possibly two to three hours. We headed out before seven with the expectation of sitting for several hours and waiting for a ride. But, I’m pretty positive all of the Sisters said a little prayer for us because when we arrived to the junction, a truck had just pulled up and we happily squeezed in. It was extra bumpy, but we made it to Mubende and after a short twenty minutes we were on the bus to Fort Portal.

The ride was uneventful, yet beautiful and we were in Fort Portal earlier than we had planned. Not having arranged a hotel for the night, we had a short standoff in the bus parking lot until we agreed to jump in a taxi (whose driver wasn’t being as pushy as the rest) and as we pulled out onto the road, we simply asked him to take us to a hotel. Of course, he takes us to one we could not afford. We stop by another before giving directions to one Andrew had read about online. This was all within a 2-3 kilometer radius. Not far between stops. At all. Yet, when we climbed out of the taxi… his fee had doubled. This is what visitors call the “Mzungu (Swahili for white person) price” in other words, a price that is not asked of native Ugandans. Andrew laughed. I argued that it was too expensive, but we were tired, and annoyed and not really in the mood to fight. We paid, and then took a nap before walking across town to a guesthouse TripAdvisor said had good pizza, and called it an early night.

Day 168: The nursery

This much I know is true: 1. I could hang out with these kids forever. 2. I need an African drum.

I feel like I might be just as bad as my many Facebook friends posting pictures of their cute mini-thems running around doing and saying cute things… But Seriously. If this were a competition, my afternoon with these nursery students in Uganda blows at LEAST a week of their kid’s cuteness out of the water. Maybe a whole month. I mean, really, did you see those five year old hips move in the video? They don’t lie.

After watching the best performance ever, we sat in on Sr. Juliet’s class with the older nursery students. It made me nostalgic for my first class (of five and six year olds) in Korea. I spent the entire day wondering if we should just stay and if Sr. Juliet would let me help teach her class for um, ever.

After lunch, we headed to Sr. Anita Marie’s (remember, math teacher from my high-school) class to talk about our trip. The girls were pretty enthusiastic about asking questions and inevitably asked us if we were married. When I said “Not yet!” they became all aflutter. When Andrew said “I keep asking, but she keeps saying no!” They were in a complete uproar. It was fun. We taught them a little Korean. Andrew told them about his birthday tradition of eating live octopus. We described cities like Dubai and what the snow was like in Jordan. They seemed to enjoy us and I felt bad we didn’t arrange to go into more classes while we were there.

We had planned on staying for three full days, not wanting to overstay our welcome- but in order to catch a ride the next day to Fort Portal, we had to leave in the morning instead of the late afternoon we had planned. It felt rushed, but unless we were staying for awhile to help with a project, I didn’t want to be a bother. Luckily, after spending some time with Sr. Anita Marie’s students, we were able to visit with Sr. Janet.

She pulled out a quilt some mothers from my elementary school made for her before she left. She’s never washed it because some of the fabric is glued on and there are student signatures on the back of each square, representing a class. She flipped it over to see if I could find my signature. Sure enough, after spotting cousins and recognizing names of students a few years older than me, we figured out I was in Grade 5 when she left, and sure enough, I found my signature on the back of the quilt. She was in disbelief.  We took a few pictures.

Then she took us for a little hike up to “The Rock.” We passed a public school and she pointed out the signage was a little different on their walls than it is in say, in Korea, or even America, for that matter. I could see why her boarding schools are so sought after to get a spot in. These schools had sooo little in comparison.

“The Rock” was a big lava rock with a beautiful view. We took a few pictures together before Sister asked us if we were tired or ready to see more. She’s actually moving back to the States this spring due to some hearing issues and less energy, but really, she gave us a run for our money and would constantly ask us if we were ok to see more. It was so nice to chat and walk and visit with her. It was comforting. A link to not only home, but in a way, to my family as well, as she knew my Grandmother.

When I told my Momma that we would be able to visit the Sisters, she warned me at some point not to be worried if they were thinner than I remembered them to be and mentioned eating bugs. I mentioned this to the Sisters over dinner (a dinner in the convent is not that different from a dinner you might have at home- western food, meat and veggies) and they laughed and laughed! One of them said that not many realize what their life is like in Uganda. Water is sometimes limited. Their refrigerator runs on solar powered batteries. But most of what they need in terms of Western food is available in Kampala. We went to a grocery store before we came down and it was equally (if not better) stocked than the grocery stores in Seoul.

Granted, it would be impossible to feed all 600 students the same meals, and I don’t think the Sisters eat as well for every meal. Lunch is eaten at school (I think- for most at least) it’s almost always po-sho (a maize mixture that has the consistency of play doh without much flavor) that is mixed with bean soup. I enjoyed the bean soup. Po-sho is ok, but I prefer the matoke (banana mash) more.

After dinner, Andrew and I were rather excited to play more Dominoes with the Sisters. This seems to be a nightly ritual- playing games after dinner, before bed. They taught us how to play the night before and we were anxious to hone our skills. They might be Sisters of the church, but man, they can play dirty!

Day 167: “News News!”

We were up early to attend morning assembly and then we went into classrooms at St. Julie School. In the first classroom, the students were reporting “the news.” It. was. adorable.

Students would take turns standing in front of the class. Some would shout, some were more shy and would whisper: “NEWS! NEWS!”

And the class would respond: “Please tell us the news!”

The student would report an item that was in the classroom, for example: “My name is Liz. There is a pencil in the classroom!”

Then the students would respond “Thank you for the NEWS!”

Now, if Andrew and I want to tell each other something, we say “News News!” Only, he always forgets to say “Please tell us the news.” He’s such a bad student. *sigh*

When the Sisters asked us what we thought of the classes, I told them that they reminded me of classes in Seoul, Korea. Forty plus students and one teacher. It’s a difficult task. They told us that for Uganda, less than fifty per class was considered small. Most classes average around ninety. Yikes.

Day 166: Kampala to Buseesa

Backstory: About Fifteen years ago, my elementary school principal (and my Grandmother’s friend) left Kentucky for the bush. The bush in Uganda. She’s been here ever since.

As soon as I mentioned our arrival to Uganda to my Momma, she was eager for me to stop in on the Sisters living in Buseesa, Uganda to say hello. She also wanted me to stop in on an orphanage she volunteered at several years ago and check out the equator. All of this would be easier (and more expensive and possibly more dangerous) had we our own car. However, we have been relying on public transportation, getting from Kampala to Buseesa, where the Sisters have set up and currently run two boarding schools was a challenge in itself.

I’ll spare you the waiting game we played in the matatu (shared taxi-bus) parking lot for three hours for ours to fill up. I’ll also spare you the near death experiences we had sitting in the front seat of our matatu for the four hours it took to get from Kampala to Buseesa. Instead, this post’s video and pictures are from the Sunday we spent getting tours of the schools and hanging out with the students on their day off. Some students took turns taking pictures with my camera: (Not bad, right?)

Now I know why it’s advised NOT to travel in Uganda after dark. There are no lights. The roads are horrendous. There are no traffic rules in Uganda. It’s worse than India. People are walking on the side of the road with carts of vegetables, grass balanced on their heads, herds of goats… How something or someone didn’t die in the hour we were on the road after dark is absolutely beyond me.

We didn’t arrive to the schools until well after dark. Two younger Ugandan Sisters met us at the dirt road junction we were told was Buseesa and walked us back the mile (mile and a half?) road to meet the other Sisters who were still awake. It’s the strangest and one of the most lovely feeling walking into a convent in the middle of the bush in Uganda to receive hugs from one of the math teachers from my high-school (Sr. Anita Marie) and then my old elementary school principal (Sr. Janet). Seeing familiar faces during our travels is always a bit special, but seeing Sr. Janet and having memories of my grandmother flood over me felt even more so.

“Do you remember your dear Grandmother?” Sr. Janet asked me over the late dinner that they had prepared for us.

“Of course, I was going to ask you if you could tell me any stories I might not know about!” I replied.

“She used to come to mass in the convent chapel every morning! Five in the morning, she would be there!” she recalled.

“I know! She made me go to one of those masses with her one morning! I was bad and my Mom sent me to stay with her and I had to get up and go to church with her that early!” FYI: That was the. worst. If my daughter or son is ever bad… so help me, their Grandmother (Yo, Momma, that’s you) better be going to mass on a daily basis just so they can learn their lesson.

I had no idea their schools were so big. I brought three bags of candy thinking it would be enough for maybe 100 students. Wrong. Including the nursery students (who don’t board) there are nearly 600 students. 500 between the primary and secondary schools. Adorable younger children and polite girls ran around enjoying their weekend. Once our cameras were out, the younger ones got super excited and we would take turns taking pictures until Andrew or myself thought of a good excuse to put the cameras away for a little while. One of the Sisters pulled us aside and told us to be extra careful with our belongings and not to give any money to the students if they asked us for it. This surprised me, and I’m happy to report that by the end of our visit, absolutely NONE of the students asked for money or said anything that made for an awkward moment.

Sister Christina mentioned that it’s difficult to get books into the school because donors think the school already has a library, and it’s not as rewarding simply donating books, even though it’s just as needed and appreciated.

Only girls are admitted to the secondary school. I’ve noticed the short hair on ALL students since we’ve arrived in Uganda. Girl or boy, if you’re a student- you hair is kept super short. I love it. The girls are stunning without overly coiffed hair taking away from their natural beauty. We talked about it and I told them how much I liked it. They disagreed and all admitted to not being able to wait to get their hair plaited. They did NOT approve when I told them how much I want to shave part of my head a la Anya from Project Runway (Season 9).

Day 165: Small Game Drive

At first, the small game drive through Murchison Falls National Park resembled yesterday’s safari, only… not as exciting without more of the bigger animals. And any animals we did see- they were always on the left side of the car, so I was starting to get a little frustrated that they didn’t seem to care they weren’t on MY side of the safari van. 

That is, until we saw a tower of giraffes crossing the road ahead of us. To MY side of the van! One seemed just as curious about us as we were of them and I could have stayed there all. day. long. Aren’t they beautiful?

Sorry if you’re not into giraffes, I just couldn’t help myself posting all of these. New favorite animal? Maybe! Well, until I spot some zebras in the wild and then I’ll be really torn!

The rest of the small game drive was -comparatively- uneventful. We thought we were heading back to Kampala when we exited the park, but instead, we were driven to another part of the park that had another waterfall. Not before our van broke down in the middle of nowhere though! Luckily we were only stranded for 15 minutes or so before our driver got the vehicle working again. He was a trooper, really, as we actually ran into many minor vehicle problems throughout the safari.

While we were standing in front of the falls, our guides told us that the government had recently decided to use this third waterfall on the Nile for power. The first one (near Jinja) had already been converted into a power plant- the second being THE Murchison Falls we saw the day before was suggested, but then dismissed for power use, and this third set of falls will soon be gone. Sad, really.

After a quick lunch, we climbed back into the van for the long drive back to Kampala. On our way out we were distracted by these guys chillin’ alongside the road.

The malaria meds and sun through the window weren’t doing me any favors. My skin was burning and my emotions were getting the best of me. Seriously, Doxycycline, you are the worst. Andrew keeps telling me it’s better than getting malaria- but after days like this one, I’m not so sure. Arriving back at the Red Chili, I welcomed dinner, a shower, and bed.

Day 164: Safari Day!

You know it’s early when you’re stirring milk and sugar into your coffee with only the light from your flashlight to see. We climbed into our van just after six. We crossed the river and had the roof of our safari van raised all before the sun was up. Before seven, we were rolling through the park beginning our safari.

Not ten minutes into the drive we were watching a baby elephant trail behind its momma. Birds sat on giant buffalo grazing less than 100 meters from the dirt road. Hyenas roamed the outskirts of the herd of hartebeast and silhouettes of giraffes were farther in the distance. It was incredible.

At one point we came up on to vans pulled off to the side of the road- there was a lioness hiding behind the bush in the middle of the grass. We all clamored to see praying our zoom lenses would yield at least one picture worthwhile. When she was finished humoring us and disappeared, we drove on, seeing hundreds and hundreds of hartebeast, beautiful birds that made me feel as if I were on set of Jurassic Park, and one litter of baby warthogs. There is nothing- absolutely nothing- cuter than a litter of baby warthogs.

Move over baby goats, you’ve got some stiff competition here!

We stopped near the edge of the lake to stretch our legs and look at the hippos in the middle of the water. When we got back in the van, we didn’t see much, that is until we spotted a tower of giraffes closer than any we had seen that morning.

We were a bit tired when we got back to camp for lunch. Andrew and I attempted to take a nap, but failed miserably mostly because I started crying for no reason at all. The burning sensation from the malaria meds had mostly gone away, but it had seemed that emotional sensitivity had replaced the skin sensitivity and I was beginning to feel like I was going crazy.

“If someone told me that we wouldn’t cry at all on this trip, I would think something was wrong with them…” Andrew tried to comfort me.

“But we just went on safari! Why am I crying?” I demanded as the tears fell, annoyed that I had no idea what they were for.

I pulled myself together, we had lunch, and then we lounged in the shade with our other new safari friends, some sleeping not far from the warthogs that were taking their own naps in the camp. Later in the afternoon, we loaded back up in the van to go on a second safari- this time by boat instead of jeep.

I’m not sure which one I enjoyed more. We saw more elephants, many many more hippos, crocodiles, and a view of Murchison Falls from the water. It was so relaxing until a smaller boat started circling our own taking pictures of us. It felt a bit unnerving after we had spent the entire day looking at and taking pictures of animals in the park that I felt a bit like an animal myself being photographed.

I’m not sure if he was working with the tour company and trying to get promotional shots of the boat trip, but the amount of times he aimed his camera directly at our boat really made me uncomfortable! If he was shooting for the company, all he had to do was board the boat before we took off and tell all of the passengers what he was up to- then it would have been fine! Later, we all joked around that we should write to the company to say that they don’t have permission to use our faces for their advertising purposes. Wild Frontiers Nile Adventure Safari, I will see YOU on Trip Advisor. If that was your photographer, shame on him for being unprofessional and creepy!

Having dinner with fellow travelers on this trip is one of the best parts of the trip. We dined with a Norwegian who has been EVERYWHERE. A Dutch immigration tax lawyer and his wife? girlfriend? Two Austrian girls who work with those with special needs. A German kayaker. And those were the ones I had the chance to talk to long enough to find out what they were doing! The Dutch couple were surprised to hear we’re Americans.

“You don’t look like you’re American.” One said, not exactly surprising me. For some reason, no one ever guesses we are American. We usually get German or Northern European… If they guess an English speaking country, it’s usually Australia. It’s been curious to me and I haven’t figured out why we don’t come across as American, so I had to ask why.

“You’re not loud.” She replied. Andrew and I both laughed and we explained how we’ve been traveling and never get “American” when people guess where we are from. Then we had an interesting conversation about their trip a year ago to the States. I asked what they liked and didn’t like about their visit. We were totally amused by their response.

They liked how easy it was to travel (and yes, it totally is, America. So when you get frustrated by your piddly hour delay, just stop it right there) and how neat and clean everything is. They were impressed by how well parks are maintained and nice waitresses are and how everyone always asks “How are you?” when they would walk into a store. They said it took some getting used to when they would stop (picture a Walmart greeter) and start telling them how they were feeling. They were surprised by how the residential area is separate from the shops and markets, that there is a place for everything. Their country is so much smaller, that everything meshes together. Andrew and I agreed that it’s one of the things we’re not looking forward to after living in Seoul, needing a car again. We also agreed with them that the food portions are simply too big. After living in Seoul and now traveling more, I can’t imagine eating American style portions… We told them that we both get a bit sick when we go home and try to eat like our fellow Americans. (Obviously that doesn’t stop either of us from indulging though. I will get sick for one cheese coney any day.)

After dinner, we went to shower up and when I walked out of our tent, I nearly ran into the warthog that was munching on the grass outside. So picture me standing in my scarf-towel with soap in hand yelling to Andrew “Could you hand me my camera?” so I could take a few pictures of where we slept. If I were more brave, I would have climbed out of bed to take a picture of the giant hippo that woke us up in the middle of the night mowing the lawn in between all of the tents. Instead, Andrew and I watched in awe through our screen windows as he stood less than five inches from our tent walls chewing away.

Day 163: Murchison Falls

We’re going on safari! We’re going on safari! I don’t think I slept well the night before because I was so excited! That, or the dorm bed was not the best. Either way, we had to be ready by 7:15, so we were up and at ‘em early, storing our big backpacks in locked storage, storing our computers in the locked office, ordering coffee, and attempting to check email before we boarded the bus to Murchison Falls.

We were told the drive would be four hours. It ended up being more like eight. Due to traffic mostly, but not aided by one passenger trying to change money at a small bank along the way. That took forever. “Africa…” seemed to be the general consensus when he returned frustrated at how long it took and how long we had waited. We didn’t arrive to the Falls until after three.

Apparently you can’t be in the park without a guide, but he really didn’t do much, and we would have been able to see the views had he simply pointed out the trail to us. At first, Andrew and I were afraid this was going to turn into another Kampot – but when we walked up to the overlook, we were glad it was a real vertical waterfall opposed to the horizontal “waterfall” we were shown several months ago in Cambodia.

We walked all around the falls and took turns taking pictures and then we headed towards our campsite. Through the park there seemed to be different pockets of areas full of Tste Tste flies. These flies are known to carry the sleeping disease and are just as (maybe more?) dangerous than malaria carrying mosquitos. To combat these flies, we had to roll up the windows and wait until we were out of the infested area. So for about twenty minutes we were riding through the park- in the late afternoon hot sun- with the windows rolled up- with no air-conditioning sweating like you would not believe. When we opened the windows up it felt like a blast of cold air after being so warm for what felt like forever.

If you look closely, you can see the Momma Maribou stork feeding three or four little ones. By little I mean the size of a small child because the Momma Maribou was gigantic, coming up to my shoulder if we would stand side by side. They were feeding when we got back into camp and were quite the noisy bunch.

At the camp, we were paired up and put into some pimped out safari tents and then had dinner before nearly everyone went to bed early to be up and ready by 6 AM to catch the ferry across the river and see more animals in the early morning hours.

Day 162: a day at Red Chili

We woke up to a knock on our door at 10 AM. We slept through checkout. At first on this trip, I would feel guilty, like I was wasting time sleeping… But now, I’ve realized that sometimes I need the sleep, especially after a long day of travel. We moved into the dorms (one night free before leaving on safari) and camped out yet again with coffee and our computers. It turned into a day at Red Chili, with a teensy break going into “town” for anything and everything to ward of mosquitos and malaria.

Computing at Red Chili was slow. Rather, the Wi-Fi was super slow, and most of the time I was staring at Flickr willing it to upload a single picture faster. We eventually gave up and walked into town for some malaria meds, mosquito repellent, and even a mosquito net to put above our beds if a guesthouse or campsite didn’t offer one. Full disclosure: I was not planning on taking any malaria prophylactics on this trip. I haven’t taken any throughout the five years of trips around S.E. Asia… and not that I don’t take malaria seriously (because, I do) I’m just super sensitive to medications (and sometimes allergic- especially to antibiotics) that I didn’t want to be in the middle of the bush breaking out in hives or having a worse reaction.

But, Andrew had decided to do some research and made the executive decision that I had to at least try taking the malaria prophylactics. I agreed. Very begrudgingly. We walked into the pharmacy and Andrew asked for Doxycycline and Artenam.

The pharmacist looked at him funny and asked, “You want to prevent and treat malaria at the same time?” We both began to giggle at him.

Andrew said, “Well, no… but, just in case…” And she shook her head and told him we only needed the Doxycycline (the prophylactic) for now. We got two boxes for a fraction of the price we heard others had paid for other malaria prophylactics in their home countries. We tracked down the mosquito repellent and net, had our first taste of matoke- I was wrong in the video, I thought it was mashed potatoes before I had a bite (think mashed potatoes only made with plantains instead) in the market and took our first round of Doxycycline before we headed back to Red Chili.

“Is your face burning?” I asked Andrew within fifteen minutes of taking the pill. He stopped, said he was fine, and examined my face. The area around one of my eyes was burning and I became slightly terrified I was going to go blind. Andrew asked if I wanted to go to one of the health clinics around, but I didn’t see how that would help matters. I told him we would go if I broke out in hives or my throat started closing up. Neither happened, but the burning sensation continued off and on for the rest of the night.

Day 161: Kampala

We arrived into Addis Ababa dead tired. The airport was so packed, anyone who was standing was practically circling around the occupied lounge chairs waiting for someone to depart so they could pounce and lay down until their boarding time. Luckily we scored two lounge chairs and were able to sleep for an hour or so before our next flight.

We arrived into Entebbe around one in the afternoon. It was gorgeous. After being wrapped up in a scarf and fleece for the past two weeks in Morocco, I immediately peeled off layers and dug out my flip-flops from the depths of my backpack. We grabbed a taxi and headed towards Kampala.

Entebbe is something of a UN hub for Africa, therefore, it didn’t feel like we were in Uganda at all. The first twenty minutes of the drive reminded me of Kentucky in the summer, green grass, manicured lawns, brick walls between western style buildings. On the outskirts of Entebbe, things began to change.

We were in Uganda.

Buildings weren’t nearly as ‘western’ looking. If they were made of solid brick or concrete, they were painted over like a giant billboard advertising everything from soap to phone carriers to Mountain Dew. People were everywhere. Walking to the markets with baskets on top of their heads. Sleeping on motorbikes. Dressed in immaculate uniforms walking home from school. Sometimes a child would see us and recognize how different we looked and would wave enthusiastically.

We arrived at Red Chili (our hostel/campgrounds du jour) in the afternoon and attempted to use the wifi before giving up and having dinner and climbing into bed around 8 o’clock.