| By Marie Javins,   GoNOMAD.com “What’s that?” I said,   pointing to some straw and mud gunk on the side of our Murchison Falls home. “Hippo shit,” responded   my host, nicknamed Herr Marlboro because of his resemblance to the German   Marlboro Man. “They flip their tails around   when they shit, and it gets it all over the place.”  I hadn’t been aware of   this when the hippo had wandered past our bed on the screened verandah the   night before. I’d thought rain coming through the screen was our only concern. I was living with Herr   Marlboro in Murchison Falls National Park -- the largest of Uganda’s ten national parks -- for the   summer. I worked daily on my laptop, desperately trying to meet deadlines,   while H.M. was employed as a German development worker rehabilitating the   park’s infrastructure.  The Shadow of Idi   Amin  Uganda is -- unfairly -- best known   for the times of Idi Amin, the mad dictator whose arbitrary, murderous whims   were the stuff of horrifying legends.  But Uganda has come a long way since the   fall of Amin in 1979. It is now an economic success story in East Africa. Its cities are safer than   those of neighboring countries, and tourists come for Nile whitewater rafting, bird   watching, and world-famous mountain   gorilla trekking in addition to traditional safaris.  Wildlife Making a   Comeback  Many of the safari   animals were poached and eaten by during the desperate Amin times, but under   the protection of the Uganda   Wildlife Authority, they are making a comeback. We   regularly spotted giraffes, elephants, baboons, monkeys, gazelle, hippos,   warthogs, buffalo, crocodiles, and antelope as we went about our daily   business.  Occasionally, we’d see   a lion, and one night we encountered a pride of ten adult lions and countless   cubs. We never spotted a leopard, but often ran into one UWA ranger who   excelled at leopard-spotting. “Just ahead, turn right   by the acacia tree—you can’t miss it!” We always missed it.  Not So Sweet  One day in early   September, I got to know a bit more about the hippos than I’d intended to. I   learned that they are not as sweet as they look, and that the statistic about   the hippo being the biggest killer in Africa is to be taken seriously. Murchison Falls National Park is located on both the north   and south side of the Nile. There is no bridge, and everyone uses the hourly ferry   to cross from the lodge area—on the south side—to the safari area in the   north. The ferry is kept on the south side, which ensures the safety of   guests as northwestern Uganda has rebels and also borders Congo. H.M. and I had gone on   a disappointing afternoon game drive in which we’d spotted only some giraffes   and gazelles. We waited for the ferry on the north side, which we could see   was still loading cars on the south side. It Seemed Safe... A hippo was eating   grass in broad daylight at the northern ferry landing. H.M. took his digital   Rebel camera and headed over. This hippo seem habituated to people so he got   closer than he normally would have, within 50 feet. It seemed safe so I   followed suit with my film Rebel. The hippo was covered   in fresh scars and deep wounds. Perhaps it had been involved in a territorial   dispute or in a fight with a lion or crocodile. “Click, whirr” went our   Canons. Then, through my 70-300   mm Canon zoom lens, I saw the hippo stiffen and look up. His face changed   from “I like to eat grass” to “I will kill you, tourist.” I clicked the   shutter. He charged. H.M. and I both ran for   our lives, straight to our truck. We were lucky to have a head-start on the   angry hippo as he could easily have outrun us. As we were both about to leap   up onto the pick-up bed, the hippo slowed and returned to eating grass. Some rangers were   laughing at us from a distance. We joined in, full of adrenalin. We didn’t   really think the hippo could have killed us as we had been pretty close to   the truck. But all the statistics of hippo deaths had run through my head as   I ran, thinking “Stupid, Marie, very stupid.” For a moment, my   deadline tensions were forgotten. I laughed together with H.M. and the   rangers as we crossed the Nile. Facing Reality  As pleasant as it was   to live in a national park amidst hippos and warthogs, I had to face reality   for a few weeks every month. I had rented an apartment in the city of Kampala, and would stay there while   making use of Uganda Telecom’s free Wi-Fi hotspots to upload my freelance   files to servers in the USA. A large boulevard full   of mini-bus taxis (“matatus”) divides Kampala into the new city and the old city.  The old city -- which reeks of diesel fumes   -- is a chaotic warren of one-way streets, masses of people, and motorbike   taxis (“boda-bodas”) hustling for fares.  This is the part of   town for bargains and for second-hand clothing from the U.S., sold in the open-air Owino   Market. Stalls are hives of activity, as sellers dig through mounds of old   clothing. Others sew up seams, while charcoal fires heat up irons, which are   used to make the clothing look nearly good-as-new. Tourist Hotel,   a decent one-star hotel with $25-a-night rooms, is located in the middle of   the old city. The new city is home to expensive hotels,   wide roads, traffic circles, upscale restaurants, a golf course, and new   shopping malls. Stop by Garden City Mall or the Lugugo “Game” store and you   might be forgiven for thinking you were in a medium-sized city back home. Neither part of the   city features tourist attractions, but if you are going to Uganda for a safari, gorilla or   chimpanzee tracking, bird-watching, or the action sports at the town of Jinja, you’ll be visiting Kampala to book activities and to   exchange your home currency for Ugandan shillings. Seven Muddy Hills  Kampala is built on seven hills—muddy   hills as demonstrated by the red dirt that eternally lived on my Tevas—and my   apartment was a few miles from the one that is home to downtown. I lived past   Kabalagala, where the aid agencies and American embassy are located. “Mzunga, mzunga,” the   children would call to me as I walked to the road to flag down a shared   mini-bus taxi heading towards my favorite Internet hotspot. A mzunga is a   foreign person, or maybe just a white person. I never heard the literal   translation, but it was clear from everyone’s catcalls that I indeed was the   spitting image of a mzunga.  Getting Around  For travelers without   rented cars, shared mini-bus taxis are the best way to get around Uganda outside of the Kampala center (motorbike taxis are   dangerous but fast for travel within the city -- take one at your own risk).   Mini-buses leave when full but don’t operate on a timetable. They go just   about everywhere and have set fares. Both mini-bus taxis and   motorbike taxis always keep the bare minimum amount of fuel in their tanks.   One day I stopped for gas three times and only left my apartment once.
 
 Another day, I   inadvertently rode the school bus. I waved down the   blue-and-white mini-bus taxi at my usual spot, on the paved road just in   front of my apartment. Mini-buses legally hold   14 passengers, a conductor, and a driver. It is common to squeeze plenty more   people in on local routes, especially if those plenty more are small   children. We stopped in front of   a small elementary school. A teacher gave some coins to the conductor and   ushered six uniformed children toward the bus. The conductor got out and   lifted the smallest children, who couldn’t have been more than 4-years-old,   onto the first seat. It Takes a Village  The kids were   well-behaved and smiling. They all sat squished together. As their stop came,   the medium-size kid squeaked. “Mah-sow!” It’s the   Luganda word for “stop.” English is the official language of Uganda, but there are dozens of tribal   languages present as well. Luganda and Swahili are the most common. The driver pulled the   taxi over and the conductor opened the sliding door. A mother was waiting in   front of a three-walled butcher shop. She took her kids from the bus. We proceeded on until   the other kids squeaked “mah-sow.” The rest of the   children disembarked. Passengers helped lift the kids to the sidewalk.   Several walked off together down a dirt road. The conductor took two kids by   the hands and walked them across the street, before returning to his spot in   our minibus. It does indeed take a   village, even in the city.    Marie Javins is a semi-nomadic writer, editor, and comic book   colorist. Her blog about writing a book while living in Africa is at MarieJavins.com. |