Kenya Part I: T.I.A. and Tequila

Sept. 28th -Oct. 4th

Chris decided to sit this one out but I really wanted to spend my last night in Kampala at Flaming Chicken. I was sitting with Magdi, his German friend Anna and the Special Niles' were really flowing. Masoud joined us when the place had calmed down and he suggested martinis. I obliged and asked if they wanted a shot. Masoud preferred tequila but he didn't have any in his bar so we decided to change venues. By this point I was already quite inebriated and decided tequila wouldn't be such a bad idea.

We piled into Magdi's pickup and went to Al's bar. Although I remember having a few tequila shots, the rest of the night was a blur at best. The only thing that sticks out in my mind is how good Magdi and Masoud were at pool. When I finally regained conscious usage of my brain, I was at the Kenyan border! And it's 4 hours away from Kampala!

No one, myself included knows how I made it back to Viola's place. In order to catch our 24-hour bus-ride to Mombasa, Kenya, we needed to wake up at 4:45 am and leave by 5:15am at the latest. Chris told me that I showed up at the door at 5:10. My dear friend Chris then supervised my intoxicated packing, made sure I didn't leave anything behind and we somehow still made it to the bus on time!

When I woke up, I felt terrible to say the least. We had made it to the Uganda/Kenya border and I needed to go through customs. They thankfully accepted my temporary passport and police report as proof that I no longer had possession of my Ugandan Visa, and I began the trek to the Kenyan side. Although it was not that far away, I accepted the offer of a bicycle bodaboda driver (like a motorized bodaboda, only the driver is pedaling a regular bicycle and you are sitting on a cushion just above the real wheel). Awesome.

After customs, we had a brief stopover in Eldoret, Kenya. From there we changed buses and found ourselves in Mombasa a full 24-hours after leaving Kampala. We then hopped on a tok tok (rickshaw), took out money from the only bank that supported our infernal TD debit cards and then hailed a matatu (synonymous to chapas/daladala) to the Shanzu district where we were scheduled to meet our couchsurfing host.

William, our CS host, arrived by bodaboda and instructed us to get onto the motorbike and Douglas, the driver, would take us to William's home. After staying at Trine's mansion in Mwanza and in Viola's gaited-community home in Kampala, we had a very skewed view of couchsurfing in Africa. When Douglas pulled up to William's mud-hut several kilometers from the main-road, we didn't know how to react. We evaluated the home, its lack of electricity and running water; and wondered how long we could tolerate staying there.

William showed up shortly after and introduced us to his wife, Emily and their two adorable sons, Ngala (not pictured unfortunately) and Dadu. He then showed us where we would be sleeping and gave us a brief tour of Majioni, which is the name of his village.

The first day we didn't venture too far from William's home: our bodies and minds exhausted after the 24-hour journey from Uganda. At night we slept exceptionally well considering we shared the room with a family of ducks, but we were woken up by William's rooster who started crowing at some ungodly hour in the morning.

The following day, with our spirits lifted from our well-deserved rest, we made our way to Mombasa's famous north-coast beaches. The 3-5 km walk from Majioni was well worth it despite the many beach boys continual attempts to sell us overpriced souvenirs and glass-bottom boat excursions to the nearby reefs.

By the time we reached the beach it was already mid-afternoon and the tide was low. Despite this, I relished my long-awaited reunion with the beautiful Indian ocean and lay in shallow pools near the beach as the clouds rolled in and enveloped the sun.

As dusk was approaching, we made our way back to Majioni and stopped at Paradise bar for a thirst-quenching Tusker beer. We started talking to the lovely Janet, our waitress who was originally from Tanzania; and her cousin Lillian, who was from mainland Kenya. They invited us back after dinner for some more drinks and we gladly accepted.

After our two first nights, we really warmed up to Majioni, the lack of electricity and running water; and even the clay squat-toilet that was surrounded by bamboo reeds to give some semblance of privacy. Emily kept her home impeccably clean and we really took to the local community and its many characters: from the man with his pet monkey named Rafiki to the one-year-old bruiser named Ryan who would get his pleasure from bitting or hitting the older, yet more fragile Dadu. He would then look at you with an innocent face but a mischievous 3-tooth grin that quickly gave away his guilt. It was hilarious to watch those two little best friends/worst enemies duke it out on a daily basis.

Chris and I had also become the talk of the village, clearly being the only white people in Majioni and stirring mzungu chants from all the children (Ngala and Dadu excluded, William and Emily taught them better than that) and provoking double-takes from the older population.

Our lifestyle in Mombasa was definitely not that of the typical westerners who visited this sea-side town: those being either wealthy Europeans lounging in their 5-star beach resorts much like we do in the Caribbean; or lonely/sexually-frustrated middle-aged men or women in search of an African princess/prince to satisfy their carnal desires or to quell their first-world solitude with third-world obedience and affection.

The most striking example of this was at a club called Tembo, which we went to with Janet and Lillian. It was supposed to be the best club in Mombasa but appeared to be more of a high-class brothel. Around the semi-circle bar was a beautiful Kenyan girl sitting on each barstool trying to catch the attention of any man, Kenyan or foreigner, willing to buy her drinks, or her body.

It was slightly disturbing to see so many older white men dancing with, groping, or a combination of the two with one or several drop-dead-gorgeous, young African women. Unfortunately, it wasn't just Tembo club, but all clubs in Mombasa were swarming with prosties (the term I used to label ladies of the night).

The rest of our days were spent practicing kiswahili (it really improved in Mombasa), taking ridiculously long walks (17 km in one day in search of fish to cook that evening, which we never found) and getting William's take on life in Kenya and Africa in general.

William's story is a tragic but typical one. He is an intelligent guy with a lot of great ideas. But without a steady job, he doesn't have enough capital to put any of his ideas into motion. What little money he makes, he spends on his family. What is great is that he uses Couchsurfing as a way to network, to meet new people who can help him get out of this African vicious-circle. One evening, after dinner, Chris and I sat down and wrote a business plan with him, outlining the steps and materials he would need to start a solar-panel selling business. With a little bit of planning and determination, I can really see this ambitious man succeeding in life.

My last day in Mombasa was spent in the ocean among sting-rays, turtles, a multitude of colorful fish and corals and even a giant manta-ray. It seems as though my capabilities in the ocean have much improved since my first dive in Africa, but that is still not the case outside of it. While getting a ride from Douglas to the dive center at a 5-star resort, I suggested he drive me to the entrance. We seemingly went the wrong direction through the round-about and while I went to get change for him, some security guards apparently confiscated his license and roughed him up in their office. They had told him they would have him arrested if he was ever seen on their premises again.

Pretty harsh for making a simple mistake!

Chris and I retaliated by eating some of the hotel's free food reserved for its guests, all of whom are white and don't wear a bracelet (we fit the profile). For once, an advantage to being white in Africa!

Although I have been in Africa for 4 months by this point, this was really the first time we experienced what it is like to live like a typical African family does. Electricity and running water are wonderful luxuries but not inherent necessities. When someone utters the phrase T.I.A. or "This is Africa" to use as a defamatory statement in reference to something going wrong or not working properly in Africa; I, on the other hand, will think of the amazing sense of community and strong family values that form the foundation of African life.

That is Africa

And I thank all my African friends for proving it!

Uganda Part II: You Got Your Passport Stolen Where?

Sept 12th -27th

The free shuttle from Jinja dropped us off at a backpackers in Kampala. From there we called a couchsurfer who was going to meet us at a gas station near her home.

Although the following ride was not our first exposure to a bodaboda, it probably was the scariest. A bodaboda is a motorcycle taxi, usually driven by a man with little regard for safety, road rules or the passenger's survival. Naturally, we declined the driver's initial offer to support Chris and I, along with both our 20-25 lbs packs all on the same pikipiki (motorbike) and we opted to each take our own.

The ride was exciting, if that's the word I want to describe burning down pot-hole-ridden roads, in calamitous traffic conditions, with no helmet on and a 25-pound backpack pulling me backwards with each acceleratory jerk on the throttle. Oh yeah, and in complete darkness as well.

Yeah, exciting is right!

Surprisingly, we both survived the 15-minute ride and made it to Kabalagala, where we would be picked up by our hostess. Shortly after, Viola arrived in her jeep and drove us to her lovely home where she lived with her 4-year-old son Preston and her sisters' Patience and Racheal. They had a spare room which contained a bunk-bed that Chris and I would be sharing.

Our initial intention was to spend a few days in Kampala and then make our way to the west to see Fort Portal's crater lakes, the awe-inspiring Lake Bunyonyi region and then make our way north to the impressive Murchison Falls.

Viola's neighbor, Jerome, was from Fort Portal and had made arrangements for us to stay with his family there. He even volunteered to drive us to the bus station and recommended which bus company to use.

Chris and I purchased our tickets, placed our day-packs above our heads (we had left our big bags at Viola's) and sank into our chairs for a pleasant ride. At around the midway point in our voyage, Chris had reached up to check something in his bag just before we disembarked for a rest stop. He said our bags were gone and we both frantically searched to see if they had just been moved or misplaced.

We asked the other passengers if anyone had seen anything. A man sitting beside us had said that he saw two men behind us taking two bags from overhead when we had dozed off and then had made their way to the exit and hopped off the bus as soon as the doors had opened. He hadn't said anything because he didn't know that that was not their luggage. We continued pleading with the passengers in hopes that someone knew who the men were or if they had any information. We even offered a cash reward.

No luck. We were screwed.

We got off the bus and I immediately realized that I had left my passport in the front pocket of my bag. The realization that my incredible African odyssey may be over without that immensely important booklet, shrouded whatever hope I had of our bags' recovery in a cloud of hopelessness.

We interrogated the fruit and useless-knickknack sellers swarming around the bus if they had seen anything. Their apologetic eyes and words providing nothing more than condolences. Our bags were gone.

Here is the painful list of what was in my bag:

• 2 ipods (I stupidly brought both because I thought I could use WIFI on the ipod touch, but WIFI does not exist in 99.99999% of Africa!)

• The 55-200mm lens I used to take my amazing animal photos.

• My point-and-shoot camera containing pictures with our new friends on nights' out.

• All of my toiletries including contact lenses and malaria pills.

• My one pair of pants and one bathing suit.

• Some small camera accessories

• 2 disposable underwater cameras with Great-white shark diving pics.

• Lonely Planet Africa guidebook

• My bloody Passport!

Undeniably lucky for me, that day I had put my wallet in my pocket instead of in my bag as it usually was, otherwise I would have been without any other identification or money as well. For 3-and-a-half months now, we had put our trust in people and did as the locals did. Erik had even mentioned that we were too trusting, too naive, but we could never adopt his don't-trust-anyone, New York City mentality. The worst part was that it easily could have been avoided if we had just kept our bags on our laps. Also, the fact that I had packed every conceivably useful item into my small bag to go on our short excursion to the west of Uganda proved to be far more detrimental than helpful.

We dejectedly hopped onto a bodaboda to the Mubende (the town where the men fled) police station, too upset even to comment on how gay 3 grown men on one motorcycle looks. We then filled out our respective police reports and tried to figure out what to do next.

The funniest thing (now, but not at the time) that happened was when the detective asked me to describe the man sitting behind me on the bus (I had looked back at him once during the trip) and I made the racially-ignorant description on an African man wearing a Gilligan-style hat! The police assured us that they would do everything in their power to at least retrieve the passport and that the same thing had happened a month ago to another tourist and that he got his passport back within a week.

Never Happened.

We boarded a bus back to Viola's place with more personal losses than new memories. Viola graciously assured us that we could stay as long as we needed.

The next day I headed to the Canadian Consulate to find out my fate. The wonderful Sarah and Pamela assured me that I would not be deported back to Canada and that my quest for Cairo could continue. But I'd have to wait a week or two to receive a temporary passport in order to enter Kenya.

The silver lining to all this is that it allowed us to spend time with some truly incredible people, in a city so commonly disregarded by other travelers. The overwhelming hospitality and love shown by Viola, Racheal, Patience and Preston towards us was more than we could ever ask for and we are eternally grateful. I could also never thank Sarah, Pamela and especially my saint-among-saints of a mother for all their hard work in helping me get another passport in order to continue my once-in-a-lifetime voyage.

Because we spent so many days in Kampala, I do not remember specific dates of events, but the most special moments are still very clear in my mind:

• Spending countless days at Flaming Chicken's "United Nations" Shisha bar. I will never forget the friendship of Hussein (Kenya), Magdi (Egypt), Emmanuel (Uganda), Abdalla (Sudan) and his majesty Masoud (Iran), Flaming Chicken's owner who treated us so well that it was painful to say goodbye.

• Playing with and listening to Preston's "what are you doing?" and little Jordan's repetitive but always adorable "How old are you now" song and listings of all the animals he knows.

• Exploring the incredible Owino market to replace items that were stolen and purchasing second-hand 80's bathing-suits and second-hand women's jeans off the street in Kabalagala. For the record, they fit well, didn't need to be hemmed and were actually looser than the ones that had been stolen. We both bought a pair.

• Chris, Racheal and myself all riding on the same bodaboda along with the driver.

• Attending the Muslim introduction ceremony with Isaac and wearing tradition Kanzus with suit jackets on top.

• Chatting and laughing with George, Charles, Moses, D and the rest of the Ugandan/Kenyan crew.

• Playfully chasing the local children who were singing mzungu songs about Chris and myself.

• Going out for drinks with Viola, Bill and Racheal and the never-ending party that is Kampala.

• Even though we probably overstayed our welcome. Viola and Racheal asking us if we could stay longer instead of going to Kenya and Racheal stating that we are the first couchsurfers that Viola had ever hosted that she was comfortable enough to talk to and even go out with.

To all my Kampala friends who may or may not read this. I hope that Chris and I have impacted your lives as much as you have ours. We will never forget you.

What I will never remember however, is my last night in Kampala...

Uganda Part I: The Birdman Leavith

Sept 9 - 11

The night bus to Kampala had originated in Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo. As a consequence, it was really packed and we were forced to stand in the aisle, sandwiched between broad-shouldered Congolese women. While I understand that life in the DRC is definitely quite difficult, that is not a justification for the way they treated us.

The groups of women would look at us and laugh, unjustly push us and even speak in their language and appeared to be cursing us. It made me happy to hear the attendant state that we would be changing buses shortly after the Ugandan border.

For once the border crossing was uneventful except for a Congolese man pushing me and butting in line. They already face enough punishment in their country so there was no need to retaliate or say anything in French, although I really wanted to.

Once we changed buses the mood changed entirely: the hostility-fueled bus was left behind and now we could thankfully sit without conflict. The road between Ruhengeri and Kampala was treacherous to put it lightly. The gravel mountain roads were narrow, winding and seldom had guard-rails. The driver seemed to get enjoyment from fishtailing on the sharp turns, letting the rear of the bus drift over the gravel-covered roads.

Luckily, the darkness of night hid the hundred-foot drops mere feet from the side of the bus, save for the flashes of lightning that illuminated the sky and escalated my anxiety. Fortunately for me, I took an Ativan tablet, which doubles as an anti-anxiety medication and sleeping pill: all my worries about falling to my death in this large steel-coffin driven by the grim-reaper himself seemed to fade into a chemically-induced slumber.

I was at peace.

When I awoke 6 hours later, we were already in the outskirts of Kampala. We were advised to stay on the bus until sunrise as to prevent any unwanted theft. We quickly found a connecting bus to the city of Jinja, a mere 80 kilometers away.

Jinja is Uganda's second largest city and is where the original mzungus concluded their search for the source of the Nile. A quiet, sleepy town except for the fact that this portion of the Nile contains some of the biggest class-5 rapids on the planet, attracting scores of rafters, kayakers and adrenaline junkies from all over the world.


Erik was intent on rafting here and I decided to join him. We spent our day searching for a reputable company with a good safety record. Our search led us to Nile River Explorers, which also had it's own backpackers on the cliffs overlooking the Nile.


Erik had opted to do a tandem kayak ride and I would be joining 5 other people on a 6-man raft. Now that our adrenaline-fix was booked, we decided to check out what those crazy Mzungus were searching for for so long: the source of the Nile.


A stroll seemed in order, but as we were walking it started to rain. And not just a drizzle, but a torrential downpour. We found shelter in a conveniently located bar and commenced to sample all the local brews. We deemed Special Nile our favourite even though it was a puny 500ml compared to Rwanda's Goliath 720s.


After 3-beers time, the rain had ceased. We made our way to the gait and bargained down the price of admission. The 3 of us were the only tourists there save for Alli, an American and Joel, her Ugandan friend. Alli was a wedding photographer and I was elated to finally find someone who could accurately capture the beauty of BMC.


BMC is the abbreviated version of the group that Erik, Chris and myself had formed in Rwanda while in Kigali. Erik had grew fond of his Birdman nickname but decided that Chris and I needed one as well. Due to my poor sight and even worse night vision, I was nicknamed Moleman. Chris was nicknamed Catwoman for no other reason than how hilarious Erik and I found it. Hence BMC was born!


We spent the rest of our evening with our new friends and Erik and I mentally prepared ourselves for our adventure on the Nile.

Early the next morning, we packed our bags and were picked up by a large off-road vehicle. We were accompanied by various other white people and were paraded through the streets like some voyeuristic Caucasian tour-group gawking at an African population from their over-sized, open-aired safari truck. Pretty embarrassing in my opinion, but I digress.

We were then fitted with our gear, briefed and were transported to the Nile. I would be joined by Zack and Beck, two Aussies working in Tanzania; two Dutch girls and a German girl whose names evade me. Our guide's name was Henry and he assured the disproportionately female raft that he wouldn't go too crazy.

In comparison to the Zambezi, rafting the Nile was definitely less terrifying but maybe only due to the fact that I did not almost drown. Due to my physical prowess and rippling muscles, I was put in the front of the raft along with Zack. The four girls were behind us with Henry barking orders and steering the raft.

The day was actually quite enjoyable. Erik seemed to really enjoy his kayak experience and even had a chance to join us in our raft when we went over an 8-foot waterfall (they didn't allow him to do it in his kayak). Because the rapids were scattered along the length of the Nile, we had time to enjoy the tranquility of the non-rapid portions and even swim for several minutes while being pulled along by the moderate current.

That evening we got to watch the videos of each raft's most memorable moments and watch with hilarity as Erik entered each rapid poised like a frightened medieval jouster meeting the black knight head-on. It was also Erik's last night and we all decided to have a proper sending-off bash to commemorate the almost 1-month journey we shared with him.

The following day we said farewell to our dear friend Erik, as well as Zack and Beck, as they made their way back to Kampala. Chris and I had one more day to lounge around before we made our way back to the Ugandan capital. So we spent it chilling with our American friends Mark and Julia who were coming to the end of a year's trip across the world.


As I paid my final respects to the magnificent Nile river, I couldn't help but wonder what adventures and amazing things I would encounter before reaching the Nile delta in Egypt, an incredible 6680km away. However, little did I know, but an unforeseen and unfortunate incident was only a few days away that would ultimately change the course of the rest of my trip.