"I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke up and was not happy." -Ernest Hemmingway
"Tourists don't know where they've been; travelers don't know where they're going." -Paul Theroux
"You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." -J.R.R. Tolkien
The last ululating note of the pre-sunrise call to prayer reverberates through the valley. I part the mosquito net more deftly this time and swing my legs over the bed frame. The most acute waves of anxiety have long since drained away and the tense apprehension I was feeling is quickly replaced with an excitement that builds with the brightening of the day.
Alright, 5:30am, about an hour till the sun comes up. I pull the slide bolt and tug the door open; it drags viciously across the concrete slab emitting an obnoxious racket that I'm sure will wake my neighbors—if, in fact, the other huts are occupied. I step, barefoot, into the cool humidity of the early dawn. The moon, which was beaming directly overhead when I last emerged from my hut, has traversed the back half of this starry dome and is now shining brightly above the eastern hillside. Jupiter, suspended low in the sky, burns intensely and strobes
blue red white blue red white. The thick incense of aromatic wood smoke has faded; in its place an earthy petrichor wafts from the fog laden valley. I breathe in deeply and savor the sights and silence, the tranquility of the early morning before the boilers of daily life are stoked.
Dipping back into the hut, I choke down four gigantic vitamin C chewables. The sickly sweet bitterness shocks my taste buds into submission. I am grateful for the relief of my cache of spring water as I wash the sourness down along with a couple doxycycline. The doxy is prescribed for malarial prophylaxis but, I'm told, it should also help to ward off
running stomach—that bane of Third World travelers. So far, I have managed to survive the ravages of airline food and snacks labeled in a variety of unintelligible languages without feeling the need to drop everything (pants included) and run madly for the toilets. Apropos of these musings, I decide I have just enough time to try out the mock-up western-style toilet before the sun makes its way over the eastern hillside.
The crowing of many roosters begins to compete with the
knuck-knuck-knuck metronome of waking tinkerbirds as I walk the gravel path to the toilets. The tin roof of this outbuilding resonates with the creaks and groans of the wooden doors as they protest the soft breeze through rusted hinges. Each door opens outward about eighty degrees before it is stopped by the stucco privacy wall. I push the first door closed just as the next one whinnies open in front of me, giving the short walk to the final stall a distinctly maritime feel. As I enter the western-toilet stall, my headlamp illuminates a half-dozen large spindly black spiders who have established themselves in the rear right corner [30]. They look askance at my intrusion and begin furiously shaking their webs. As a recovering arachnophobe, I find this slightly perturbing but the spiders appear to have no desire to leave their webs so I let them be. "Stay right there and nobody gets hurt," I say aloud, mostly to myself. A cloud of small black flies swarms angrily out of the toilet as I lift the lid. I rummage through my pockets, retrieving an alcohol prep pad which I tear open while swatting the flies that buzz in my ears and eyes.
The toilet seat is not visibly soiled but I wipe it down meticulously with the alcohol pad anyway. As I do this, the close-range spot light of my headlamp picks up some motion from
inside the toilet. I take a closer look and am startled to see that another half dozen of the same species of spider have made their home in the toilet and are frantically bundling the small hapless flies in their webs.
Toilet spiders. Awesome. We are definitely out of our comfort zone now [31], I think, suppressing a light shiver of disgust. My morning constitutional beckons ever nearer, raising the stakes. Luckily, I have always kept a cool head in an emergency. I trot back over to my hut and pour a few liters of rain water from my jerry can into my small blue bucket. Sloshing my way back to the toilets, I notice that there are lots of small brushy trees poking through the chain-link fence just behind the outbuilding. I break off a leafy branch and head back into the stall with a look of cold-forged determination on my face. Hoisting the bucket nearly overhead, I violently flush the arachnids down the concrete tube and proceed to spastically clear the network of webs, using the branch like a drill instructor waking recruits with a baton and trash can.
I set these weapons of mass destruction aside and take my seat as the day brightens further. This improvised toilet isn't too bad after all. It's a little tall for my liking and my knees stick too far out across the threshold to permit the door to close. I could definitely do without the spiders. Other than that, it's a pretty good deal. Minutes later, I emerge from the outhouse building carrying a bucket and an abused-looking tree branch. I am thankful that no-one is stirring to witness this. Just on the outside of the stuccoed privacy wall there is a thin metal stand supporting a 25 liter water jug with a small spigot. I have no idea how often this jug is filled so I open the valve just enough to permit a small stream of water to trickle out. I wash my hands thoroughly from my small bottle of Dr. Bronner's tea tree oil soap [32]. These ablutions complete, I return to my hut to suit up for the day.
Today's plans include a long walk down the dirt road that runs for miles into the bush. As such, I outfit myself in long pants and a long sleeved shirt against the equatorial sun. I apply a thin coating of bug spray to the areas that won't be covered by clothing. It is now 0630 on the dot and the sun will rise in a mere six minutes. I pick up my camera and remove the lens cap. Then I put it down again. I want to experience this fully without the intermediary of the camera, without the pressure of documenting anything. I want to be
in this moment. That being said, I am hungry, so I snap off a few small bananas from the bunch that rests on the goatskin table and head out the door.
Three larger, more well appointed huts, lay directly behind mine and behind them, the hill plunges dramatically toward the eastern valley. Not knowing if these, or in fact
any of the other huts are occupied; I creep methodically around them, taking short steps with the ball of my foot and rolling my heel down. Reaching the back of the rearmost hut, I notice it is equipped with an enchanting little concrete porch on which there are two plastic patio chairs. Heavy curtains completely occlude the interior of this hut but it does not appear that anyone is stirring inside. The warm sin of pride gurgles within me as I muse:
poor sap thinks he's roughing it in this hut. He has a friggin' porch! About 2.5 meters of shaggy weeds and brush lay between the hut and the precipitous drop-off. Rusting galvanized steel fenceposts emerge from the ground at odd angles; the barbed wire once strung across them no longer in evidence. I peel the first small banana.
Looking eastward, I imbibe the absolutely breathtaking view. Dense fog has collected in the bottom of the valley, pierced every so often by a towering fig tree. The larvae of this afternoon's cumulus clouds cling to the horizon shining as though their inverted anvil bases are plated with gold. I bite into the banana which is incredibly delicious and has the most concentrated banana flavor I've ever experienced. I toss the peel into the valley. It lands in a large bush where several go-away birds are yucking it up noisily. The dawn chorus intensifies and I can hear the mad squawking of hornbills in the jungle below. I check my watch: 0636. As I read the numbers, my hand and wrist begin to incandesce with a brilliant golden hue that is felt as much as it is seen. The sun breaks over the horizon and paints the entire valley orange. The black silhouettes of large birds of prey lift, flapping heavily, out of several tree tops. I hear the opening fanfare of
Thus Spake Zarathustra in my mind clearly enough to warrant a psychiatric evaluation. This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful sight I have ever been privileged to experience. Perhaps due to the intrinsic beauty of the moment; perhaps due to my anxiety frizzled and sleep deprived state, maybe because this moment represents a sort of apotheosis of all that I have been through to be here—all of the hurts, sorrows, joys, and stresses of my 36 years on this planet; I begin to weep.
I have used every trick in Carss'
SAS Guide to Tracking to arrive stealthily behind this, somebody else's, hut. Now, the periodic sniffles and erratic breathing of my fragile emotional state are giving away my position. I take a few more deep breaths and manage to pull myself together. The young sun's heat is felt strongly on my face and through my clothes. The thick gray lake of fog that rests at the bottom of the valley begins to lift and disperse in thin wispy tendrils. This moisture will travel skyward joining the juvenile cumulus clouds which will grow taller and angrier until, sometime this afternoon, exasperated by the strain, they lose their grip and unleash torrents of pelting rain. This strikes me as a fitting allegory for my present state of mind. With the sun warming and reddening my face, I reflect upon the last few years, which have not been easy.
The death of one's parents is a universally transformative experience. Because my relationship to my parents—both of them alcoholics [33]—was unhealthy and extremely difficult; I had imagined their passing would yield only relief. This was not the case and I had not really been prepared for the confluence of complex emotions that would be roiling and bubbling through to the surface at inopportune times. In the midst of this emotional turbulence, the very real stresses and dangers of my job became too much for me to continue to bear, my wife became seriously and chronically ill; and so I had been left feeling untethered, directionless, overburdened, and generally dispirited. I needed a change of venue. I needed to tune-in to a different pulse— new rhythm to guide my movements. I needed to clear my synapses and blow my receptors free of the chemical bonds of life's grinding vicissitudes.
Now I am perched on a hilltop in Sub-Saharan Africa, squinting into a sunrise of immense and nearly unbearable beauty. Thousands of birds have worked themselves into an absolute cacophony of chirps, shrieks, warbles, whistles, and hoots. A speckle lipped skink races across my shoes at incredible speed, its tiny clawed feet scrabbling over the red pebbly clay as it disappears under a crushed Rwenzori water bottle. The temperature is increasing rapidly and I decide I'd better get a move on. I stalk quietly back to my hut and open the padlock. The door pushes in, dragging loudly on the floor. So much for stealth. I chug about a liter of water from my canteen to fortify myself for a long walk and refill it from one of the large Rwenzori jugs. I stuff my rain gear into my backpack, shoulder it, and snug down the straps. My face, ears, and neck receive a generous slathering of SPF 50 which I rub in haphazardly; not particularly caring about my appearance. With my camera and binoculars slung over each shoulder, I step outside and secure the padlock on the door.
Two tan colored dogs amble in my general direction, pausing here and there to sniff and timidly looking up at me out of the tops of their eyes. Their tails begin to wag as I approach them, walking under the rickety observation platform. They whine and shove their noses expectantly into my palms. I give them a few pets before pressing on. The morning dew soaks the tops of my hiking boots as I walk through the shaggy grass in the center of the compound. A white man emerges from one of the large barracks-style buildings wearing nothing but a towel and carrying a blue bucket just like the one in my hut. I give a friendly wave but the man, not wanting to drop the bucket or release his grip on the towel, shrugs his shoulders and smiles self-consciously before issuing a salutatory nod. Few others seem to be up and moving at this early hour as I walk by the smoldering embers of last night's campfires and the piles of various hand tools that were thrown haphazardly down at the end of the work day.
I train my binos on a robin-sized bird perched on one of the inert power lines that head into the village. It has a brilliant white breast, a black cap, and a long narrow tail. The small hook at the end of its bill tells me that it must be a species of shrike—a predatory songbird. A few meters further down the same set of wires sits a swallow with a heavily streaked breast and a long forked tail. I snap a few photos as I continue walking. There is an uproarious squabble taking place in the top of a mango tree over my left shoulder. Several slender birds with outrageously long tails are dive-bombing each other and launching themselves out of the tree in wide sweeping arcs before doing it again. The rising sun is now perfectly centered through the tree's tight clusters of rhododendron-like leaves and I come close to blinding myself as the powerful rays flash through my lens and directly into my retinas. The cloyingly sweet smell of boda exhaust and the sound of a small two stroke engine arrive simultaneously as I begin walking down the steep driveway.
Several women are hanging laundry on the iron railings of Kaleke Kasome Children's Center. I smile and wave, saying "good morning". They reply "good munning" in a soft sing-song unison as I carefully pick my way down the driveway, my shoes periodically slipping on the gravelly earth. I make a hard right hand turn when I reach the road and the sun swivels around to warm the right side of my face and neck. The road itself is of the same dusty red clay that seems to be the substrate upon which this entire country is built. Low scrub, tall trees, and broad leafed palmate bushes coalesce to form deeply green walls which line either side of the road and contrast beautifully with its deep terracotta color. Many small birds are cavorting in the bushes. They chitter and squeak, bubbling to the tops of the vegetation to get a look at me as I swing my camera in wild excited arcs. Several tiny finches called
cordon bleus are pecking industriously in the dust of the road itself. With every fourth footfall, they flush and move a few meters down the road, keeping pace with my advance.
In what seems to be a nearly universal Monday morning ritual, people are heading off to work. Children, many appearing under the age of ten, are walking to school in their mish-mash of school clothing. Some appear to have uniform tops which strike an odd juxtaposition with basketball shorts or Adidas-style warm-up pants with varying numbers of stripes. Their shoes, almost certainly donated by Kaleke Kasome, are a miscellany of flip-flops, trainers, sandals, and every once in a while, leather dress shoes. Men in suits and ties balance confidently on the back of dusty bodas that go tear-assing around turns and nearly catch air when cresting hills in the road. The boda drivers wear thick parkas with fur-lined hoods as protection against the morning chill. They beep their tinny horns to alert pedestrians of their presence before flying by in hair-raising proximity.
I train my camera on a small kingfisher perched in a mango tree. As I focus, I hear a boda approaching from some distance away. The driver is beeping his horn frantically. I wonder why this particular boda is so adamant that I acknowledge his approach but, intent on capturing a photo of this exotic bird, I ignore the increasingly plaintive warnings. When the boda driver begins yelling in tight percussive Luganda, I step off of the road into the bush and look behind me. The boda whizzes by, flinging dust and a stream of imprecations my way. I instantly realize what the fuss was all about: bungee-d across the boda's seat are three heavy railroad ties that span the
entire width of the road. I fire off a quick photo, taking a silent oath to be more attentive to my surroundings.
Continuing down the road, it is easy to see the economic disparity endemic to this region. People dressed in rags are toiling in the shaggy yards of their small ramshackle dwellings. Thick overgrown brush is beaten back with worn
pangas [34], mattocks, hoes, and other ancient agricultural hand tools. The majority of villagers living along this road are subsistence farmers, eking out a meager living with small crops of matoke, banana, mango, or jackfruit. Just like in Kampala, it is easy to tell, from outward appearances, who has money. Every now and then, the thick vegetation that lines the road is interrupted by two-meter high stuccoed walls topped with sharpened iron pikes, razor wire, or broken glass. Behind these walls lie modestly sized but impressively appointed bungalows with Spanish tile roofs and large satellite dishes. Toyota Land Cruiser
Prado seems to be the preferred vehicle of these residents and pale gold mirrored window tinting is
de rigueur.
As I walk further down the road, boda and other traffic becomes much less frequent. I walk cheerily on, taking many photographs and in general amazement at the diversity of bird species. Some of these will turn out to be bona fide good photographs, most of them will simply serve the purpose of helping to identify all of the different birds I am seeing. I realize it's gotten fairly quiet these last few minutes—quiet enough that I am now aware of the sound of multiple shuffling feet behind me. I raise my phone as if I'm taking a picture of the road. In the reflection on the darkened screen I see that I have attracted a small crowd of children. I wake the phone up and take a candid selfie with my new fans. The phone emits a camera shutter sound effect which causes the children to giggle. I turn and smile at them. The older ones smile back while the smaller of the group stare at me with expressions of astonishment that would be no less severe if I had horns and tentacles.
I have it on good authority that I am very likely to be only the second mzungu that children this young have ever seen in such close proximity. The first would be my friend Brendan, who I expect is currently sleeping off a night of socializing in Kampala. As the children and I stare awkwardly at each other, a fairly large bird is flying a very fast course parallel to the road and about 25 meters away. I swing the camera up to my eye, leading the bird like a duck hunter and fire off a few shots. The children are instantly sent into paroxysms of laughter. They poke at one another and pantomime taking photographs of the many birds that are bustling in the trees. I check my camera's screen and zoom in to get a better look at the bird. An ear-to-ear grin splits my face as the image is revealed to be that of an African grey parrot.
Amazing.
The children draw closer, curious as to what I'm doing with the camera. I excitedly show them the tiny image of the parrot. Laughter once again erupts and they begin pointing to birds flying in the distance. Some of the older kids speak very serviceable English and they entreat me to "Take a pickcha of dat bahd!", each of them pointing in a different direction. One of them points to the silhouette of a large bird flying over the hillside about 150 meters away. I raise the lens and snap a photo then I show the closest child, a boy of about 12 years, how to
pinch zoom on the camera's touch screen. Five wide-eyed faces crowd around the camera. As the boy zooms in on the picture I see the expanding image of some species of hornbill reflected in all of their eyes. Their mouths slacken into astounded
O shapes as they come to grips with the camera's power to snatch ephemeral objects out of thin air and solidify them in time. They
ooh and
ahh and smile, seeming to regard me as a magician. I begin to feel very self-conscious.
My clothing, backpack, camera gear, and other supplies comprise a dollar amount that is far in excess of the average yearly income for this rural area. It is likely more than double the per capita GDP of this country. I am the walking manifestation of First World wealth. An elderly man with a well-worn but comically long panga emerges through the herringbone of tangled leaves at the edge of his small yard. He smiles and points to a tall tree across the road. "
Musizi," he states. I scan the top of the tree, checking for motion, and see the dark shape of a large bird with a long tail perched in some dead branches. I snap a photo and show it to the man saying "I think this is some kind of trogon or turaco". He smiles wider, revealing a paucity of teeth which look like cracked tombstones in a disused graveyard. "No," he says, "Tree. Tree is
musizi".
"Moo-sheej," I repeat, trying to replicate his pronunciation.
"
Moo-shee-jih!" he corrects before continuing, "Good firewood. Good shade for fruit tree. Grows very very fast!"
Not knowing exactly how to respond, I simply say "thank you" and introduce myself, offering my hand. I learn the man's name is Arnold as he vigorously shakes my hand, rotating the grip up and down many times with enthusiasm. My small crowd of followers has not yet dispersed. When the man releases my hand it is immediately taken up by a small child whom I had not noticed was standing right next to me. The child is holding my hand in both of his and examining it with great focus. The old man says something in Luganda to the child which causes the latter to giggle. I catch the word
mzungu in the stream of rapid syllables as the child peaks under the cuff of my sleeve, checking to see if my arms match my hands and face. "Well, it was very nice to meet you," I say to Arnold, "it's already getting very hot so I'm going to keep walking". He smiles and waves saying "Nice to meet you too" as I take my leave.
Rush hour seems to be slowing as I proceed further down the road. My shoes and pant legs are now coated with a layer of red dust as fine as ash. As I crest a rise in the road something catches my eye in the dense tangle of underbrush. I point my camera toward the movement but it instantly disappears.
Was that a rabbit? Weird. Not exactly the type of wildlife I was expecting. Presently, I come upon two women conversing amiably in the dirt yard of a doleful looking residence. They are dressed conservatively in long skirts and cloth headwraps. Both of them smile and wave as I approach. The woman nearest the road is wearing a bright red
Coca-Cola tee shirt. She addresses me in minimally accented English: "Good morning, how are you?"
"Good morning," I reply, "I'm well, thank you. What a beautiful day."
"Oh yes," she says as her cohort smiles and nods, "We have had a solid month of rain. It is good to see the sun. My name is Hope and this is Maxencia. What brings you to Uganda?"
"Well, I'm somewhat of an amateur wildlife photographer. My friend Brendan—maybe you know him—has been coming here for years and I decided to tag along this time." I notice their eyes lit up at the mention of Brendan's name.
"Yes! We know Brendan," Hope says enthusiastically. "He is a
wonderful person. He pays for Maria's school fees. Maxencia is Maria's mother."
"Oh, wow," I say, a little stunned. "Small world!"
I am probably in excess of three kilometers down a dirt road in a very rural village where few mzungus are ever seen and yet people here know Brendan. Hope goes on to relate how she, herself, was sponsored as a child much as Brendan is sponsoring Maria. She pauses every now and then to translate our conversation for Maxencia who is leaning on a long handled garden hoe and smiling brightly. A man dressed in ragged knee-length cutoff shorts and a threadbare button-up collared shirt emerges from the mud brick shack and ambles our way. Hope introduces him as Maria's father and we shake hands in the African fashion. In my peripheral vision I see a great deal of motion in the woodline that hems in this small homestead. As I look more deliberately, I see that there are several, if not many, black and white rabbits frolicking around the property. Hope follows may gaze and laughs when she sees what's drawing my attention. "Maria's family raises rabbits. They also grow matoke," Hope says, pointing to a blanket on the ground on which the banana-like fruit is drying in the sun.
I once again invoke the rapidly increasing temperature and overbearing sun as I wish the three well and prepare to depart. Hope reaches out and shakes my hand warmly in both of hers. "We hope you are enjoying Uganda. You are most welcome," she says with sincerity. As I once again take to the road I notice a rabbit slowly emerging from the brush. The little guy isn't hopping but is crouch-walking on all fours like a cat. It stalks in this fashion up to the matoke blanket and begins munching energetically. I have to cross the road and step into the tall jungly brush in order to get a shot with my 400mm lens. I snap the picture. Hope, Maxencia, and Maria's father—whose name I did not retain—laugh and wave.
I am amazed by the sheer variety of birds that perch, flit, and fly all around me. I pause frequently to photograph the many different species of sunbird that are plying their trade among tall herbaceous plants with tubular flowers. I can already tell that I'm going to have a hell of a time identifying these birds to species. Sunbirds are a family of songbirds with a very similar niche to that of the hummingbird. They have long decurved bills that are perfect for extracting nectar from tubular flowers, the can hover briefly, and they generally spread pollen everywhere. I am noticing that they all seem to be molting into their breeding plumage. What's more, many of the bright colors that flash and shine as these birds move about is the result of iridescence—meaning the colors change depending on the angle of light reflecting off of the feathers. Good luck figuring out which is which.
When I departed from Maria's family's home I hadn't really noticed that my crowd of followers had dispersed. Now, as I painstakingly track the manic movements of a sunbird as it dashes from one cluster of flowers to another, I hear a muffled giggle behind me. I turn around and see a small girl, maybe six years old, standing there smiling joyfully. She is holding a jackfruit quarter in her left hand and peeling the fibrous sheath from the pods with her right. Her face is covered in the sticky juice and pulp consequent to this endeavor. As has become my practice, I show her the image of the sunbird on my camera's screen. Her eyes widen at the sight of this frenzied little bird frozen in time amidst a cloud of pollen. The sun is now high enough that we are no longer shaded by the taller trees that line the road and I'm beginning to feel a burn coming onto the exposed areas of my body. I say goodbye to the girl who manages a small wave, still clutching a jackfruit pod.
I've exhausted the water supply in my backpack and I'm sweating clean through my clothes. The right side of my face is definitely beginning to burn. I do a one-eighty to return to the village and the sun wheels around to broil the left side of my face. It's like flipping a steak. As I walk, I continue to pause and photograph birds but I quickly decide I'd better get a move on. My Casio Pathfinder wristwatch [35] tells me that it is 9:45am and 27 degrees Celsius. That's in the neighborhood of 81 degrees Fahrenheit already. Having come from the freezing cold state of Vermont less than two days ago, I have not yet acclimated to this sort of thing. I walk on, beginning to feel slightly nauseous. Just then, I hear a boda approaching. The rider comes to a rapid scraping halt right next to me, the puffs of red dust from the wheels continue down the road ahead of us.
"You want a ride," he says in heavily accented English.
"How much to take me to SINA village," I reply.
"SINA village, SINA village," he repeats—a common feature of English-as-a-second-language diction for East Africans, "Two thousand!" Now, 2,000 shillings is less than 60 cents but for the relatively short distance we'll be traveling, it's highway robbery. Almost literally. Unfortunately, he has me right where he wants me. My sun-addled and desiccated brain is not up for the delicate dance of the
bargain.
"Ok fine," I say, "two thousand. But let me ask you this: are you a real boda guy or just somebody that has a motorcycle?" [36]
"Yes. Real boda." His tone doesn't inspire confidence but at this point I'm willing to risk it.
Having learned from my previous boda experience, I ask the driver to wait as I hop on and settle my soggy ass into the seat. When I've secured a death grip on the sissy-bar and under the seat, I say "OK, go". He opens the throttle and eases the clutch out much more reasonably than the aspirational Kamikaze that nearly killed me yesterday. Still, we are soon moving at a totally inadvisable speed given the road conditions. The driver beeps the tinny horn spasmodically as we pass men casually walking the road and small girls with huge yellow jerry cans balanced on their heads. Because much of what I've seen has first passed through my 400mm lens, I don't quite recognize any landmarks and I have no real sense of how long this trip should take. We come around a bend in the road in hair-raising fashion and I soon see Maria's family's house. Shouldn't be long now. After a few livestock-related near misses, we arrive at the steep driveway that will bring us past Kaleke Kasome and back to my humble hut.
The driver slows and turns onto the red earth driveway. We've lost quite a bit of momentum and the bike's small engine begins to bog down under the strain. We roll a few feet backwards and come to a stop, both of us firmly planting our feet. The driver looks at me over one shoulder and says "Extend."
"Extend?" I say, not understanding. "Like, pay more money? We agreed on two thousand."
"No.
Extend," he says, rather unhelpfully, then "Lean forward".
"Oh, I get it! We need to transfer weight to the front so we can climb the hill."
"Yes," he says pulling his feet up and opening the throttle. I follow suit and
extend, scootching my butt forward and leaning into him. We have a couple of false starts as he works on the delicate balance between the throttle and clutch. With the rear wheel kicking out a small rooster-tail of red dust, we manage to climb the hill. Kids are playing on the rusty swings in front of Kaleke Kasome. A man that might be Hasa waves at us but I am unwilling to release my grip on the bike to wave back.
The driveway levels off as we approach SINA. We're still moving at a good clip when the driver says "Okay,
okay".
"Ok? Yeah, you can let me off here if you want, I'll walk the rest of the way," I reply, not catching his meaning.
"No," he says, "No more extend".
I realize that I am still pressed firmly up against him even though the steep hill has long since receded in the bike's wing mirrors.
"Oh, sorry," I say, easing myself rearward. Soon we arrive in front of the large barracks-style building from which my towel-clad fellow mzungu emerged during my departure. The driver stops and puts both feet down. I hop awkwardly off of the bike and fetch 2,000 shillings from my wallet. Without a single word of goodbye, the driver pockets the cash and tears off down the driveway. It is about 10am as I walk back to my hut, drenched in sweat, covered in a fine red silt, mildly nauseous, and for the first time in a long time; enjoying myself immensely.
Continue to the next post!
~~~
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| Speckle-lipped skink. |
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| SINA village huts as seen from the shaky DIY observation platform. My hut is fourth from the right. |
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| Fiscal shrike. One of ten species native to East Africa. There are only two shrike species in Eastern North America. |
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| Lesser striped swallow. |
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| Male and female Red-cheeked Cordon Bleu. I have yet to properly identify the small hopping yellow bird. |
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| Nearly clotheslined! Situational awareness fail. |
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| African pygmy kingfisher. East Africa has several species of forest kingfisher that are not dependent on water. This little guy goes after insects and other small prey. |
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| A small crowd begins to follow me. The kid in the orange shirt is totally wise to my selfie-as-countersurveillance trick. |
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| African grey parrot—not in a pet store! |
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| Eastern grey plantain eater. |
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| Maria's family grows matoke and raises rabbits. This rabbit is munching away on the matoke they're drying in the sun. |
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| Scarlet-chested sunbird (probably). |
______
[30]: ...or back left corner if you're sitting on the john.
[31]: It's a little disturbing that I sometimes think in terms of "we" when there's nobody else around. This is diagnostic of something, I'm sure.
[32]: Tea tree oil is antimicrobial, antifungal, and kills small parasites like lice and scabies. It is an excellent choice for general use in the bush and in areas where these threats are prominent. There's probably a better way to say that last part.
[33]: Among other incontestable diagnoses. Their passings were a little under two years apart.
[34]: Panga is the Swahili word for machete or other similar large hard-use knives.
[35]: I am totally open to endorsement deals. Canon would be best but I'll take whatever I can get.
[36]: Chance encounters with random riders of motorcycles along the road always carry the possibility of a less than desirable outcome. It can be hard to tell if the rider is actually doing this for a living or is simply a guy with a motorcycle who is looking to transport you to a second location where his buddies are waiting to rob you. This is much less of a concern if you pick a boda up from an actual boda stage. The best practice is to get to know a particular boda guy and stick with him for all of your boda needs.
