Tiwadou - Oasis Hopping

Oasis:  a fertile or greenspot in a desert or wasteland, made so by the presence of water.  Oasis to me:  an extraordinary place of peace in the desert where the gentle breeze through the palms, sound of trickling water, and the echoing call to prayer work like magic and brings time to a standstill.  Oases are most often associated as places of refuge and protection from the hostile desert environment.  They provide safety and are life-sustaining for those that choose to stay.  Even though my foray into the oases deep in the Anti-Atlas were not life-saving in anyway (could have been I guess) there was a great sense of calm that overcame me as I explored the desert from the security of  the palms. I can certainly appreciate arid desert environments, but oases are certainly the desert's pearl.

In Tafraout I loaded my mountain bike (with new tubes by this point) on top of a beat-up Mercedes mini-bus and ventured deeper into the Anti-Atlas mountains.  Over the next couple of hours the bus carefully negotiated the single lane road up over a high pass, into a precipitous gorge, across desert plains, finally dropping me off in the small village of Tiwadou.  Armed only with the creaky mountain bike, a compass, and a cheesy tourist map, I was a bit intimidated by what lay ahead of me.  My objective was to explore the deep canyons and oases of the area and then pedal myself back across desert plains, through gorges, up over the same high pass, back to Tafraout.  Standing in Tiwadou, under the protection of palm and argon trees looking out over the desert landscape, the task seemed a bit daunting.  At least the seasons are on my side though; it is winter so the cold ended up being more of a nuisance than the heat.

The initial plan was to knock out my objectives in a day and a half; half-day exploring the canyons and oases and a full day getting back to Tafraout. However, a tardy bus ate up my half day and once in Tiwadou, I knew I needed to savor the area for as long as I could.  The only accommodation in Tiwadou was a small family-run guesthouse; the type of place that makes travel magical.  I slept on the floor of a traditional house, sat around the evening camp fire with my Berber hosts and hostesses, ate home cooked meals, and gained insight into the local culture.  Although it was a very simple arrangement, it was genuine. It was the type of experience that I enjoy most about travel and it ended up keeping me in Tiwadou longer than I had intended.  When it comes time to pack the bag and head out, it's not easy.  That's the feeling I want to have everywhere I go.

After a relaxing night around the fire and a restful sleep, I was charged and ready to go the next day into the Ait Mansour Gorge.  The trip was supposed to be a leisurely 20 or 30 kilometers return, but thanks to my sudden lack of direction and cheesy map, the day became much less leisurely.  Feeling confident that I knew the way, I pedaled relentlessly for hours, always assuming that the palm-filled gorge was just around the next bend.  But, the gorge and security of its oases never came around that next bend.  Instead, all that came was more shadeless desert.  It wasn't until I climbed a pass and peered into the barren valley beyond that I admitted defeat and turned back.  Luckily there was a single village where I could top up on water and supplement my meager lunch of dates and oranges with some chocolate.

As I pedaled back to Tiwadou, defeated, not 20 minutes from reaching the village I found the missed turn leading into Ait Mansour.  I had missed the turn first thing in the morning!  With a few hours of daylight left, I made the turn up the gorge.  Immediately I was pedaling through thick, cooling palm groves with massive red cliffs towering above; a huge contrast to the barren hills I had spent most of the day in.  I felt rather foolish that I had pedaled for as long as I had when the gorge was just a stone's throw away from Tiwadou.  I was happy though, that despite my weary legs, I had made the turn up the gorge.  The gorge was spectacular; the road wound through palm groves and ancient hillside villages.  The late afternoon light was mesmerizing as it reflected off the red cliffs and filtered through the palm branches.  Eventually, I had to pull myself away and return to Tiwadou.  After a 50 kilometer day on the bike, the long pedal back to Tafraout the next day seemed even more daunting.

The next morning I sorely rolled onto the floor (I was sleeping on the floor afterall), enjoyed a lazy breakfast, and mounted the bike for another 50 kilometers through the desert.  Despite the long distance and sluggish climb up the pass, it was a delightful ride through more canyon country and palm-filled oases.  I even managed to make it to Tafraout without a single thorn in the tires.  Maybe the only thorn was the one in my side about having to leave such a beautiful and peaceful place.

Desert sunrises from atop a hill are hard to beat.

With no oasis in sight, I happily turned around.

I guess I can't be too hard on myself for getting lost.

 It is fascinating how the ancient villages could grow relatively large in such an arid environment with a limited amount of water. This area would truly be a wasteland if it weren't for the oases in the gorges.

 Even the not-so-ancient villages were interesting.

Sometimes to break up the monotony of the road I would stop and give a big wave to the only person around for miles, me.

 

Oases are such a unique environment; the breeze is cool, the shade refreshing, the light magical.  But one doesn't have to go far for all of that to change.

Tafraout - Reunion with the Mountains

As the bus wound its way from the coast (the buses seem to do a lot of winding here) I began to feel as if I was on a pilgrimage of sorts.  My destination was the village of Tafraout in the Anti-Atlas Mountains.  Although a separate range from the High Atlas, the Anti-Atlas may be no less impressive (I say "may be" because I am still to lay eyes on the High Atlas).  The Anti-Atlas are rugged, barren, deserty mountains broken occasionally by picturesque villages and palm-filled gorges.  Tafraout, the center of the region, sits on the edge of the big Ameln Valley and is surrounded by steep mountains and red granite boulder strewn hills.

Immediately upon reaching Tafraout I was faced with a conundrum: how to best take advantage of this remarkable area?  Standing in the center of town, taking in the 360 degrees of gorgeous views, the possibilities seemed endless.  With a finite number of days, endless possibilities can create such a conundrum.  Do I scramble to the top of as many peaks as I can?  Do I rent a mountain bike and cover ground exploring valleys and gorges?  Do I try really hard to sprout wings and take it in from above?  Or do I just sit in the village and take it all in one mint tea after another?  Well, I like walking and I like cycling (and I don't think my humble magical powers are enough to sprout me some wings) so peaks and pedals it is.

After an evening atop a rocky outcrop, sizing up the various peaks, I decided on a worthy objective taking into account peak prominence, aesthetic qualities, exposure potential, and most importantly, my ill-tuned legs.  The only thing I knew about the peak was where it was; to me it had no name and no elevation.  And where was it exactly?  Just right there.  That's all the information I needed. 

The next morning I set out in the chilly predawn air and slowly made my way past palm groves, Berber camps, and through bouldery ravines.  Once on the summit ridge I scrambled using hands and feet, all the while savoring the stunning views and enjoying the little bit of exposure provided by the shear cliffs on both sides.  This was my first peak in well over a year and it was a liberating one; no guide needed, no permit, and no one trying to sell me the experience.  It is the most I have felt at home in a long time.  Once on top, it was bliss.  Nothing but mountains and desert lay before me; my two most favorite environments.  This peak was not the biggest in the area and may not have been the most technical, but it was the perfect peak for the moment.

The rest of my time in Tafraout was spent on the saddle of a creaky yet functional mountain bike.  With next to no traffic and nice roads, I was able to explore many miles of this desert paradise.  My weary legs never became a problem; I was too captivated as I passed through ancient villages and red rock country to even think about my tired legs and aching bum.  I quickly learned though that this desert, like so many others, is riddled with thorns.  What I did not learn quickly enough was that a thorn in the tire, should stay in the tire (assuming it still has air).  After fixing one flat, I went to work on the other still inflated tire de-thorning it.  But thorns, although puncturing the tube, simultaneously act as plugs.  As I started pulling thorns the hissing began.  Realizing that there were more thorns than I had patches, I hastily tried re-plugging the holes, to no avail.  So, I also got to cover miles of desert road on foot, pushing a bike.  In the end, I was satisfied with my assault on Tafraout; I climbed a mountain, cycled, walked, and even still had time to take it all in one mint tea after another.  

Tafraout.

My un-named and un-elevationed peak (at least to me) on the right.  It was a great climb with plenty of tricky route finding and fun scrambling to the summit.

This is called the hurry up dork because you have only ten seconds on the timer and no one to snap your photo while on top the mountain stumble.

 Early morning alpenglow on the peaks around Tafraout.

Smurf turds in the desert?  No.  Just boulders painted blue by a Belgian artist who must have failed to see the already existing beauty of the desert. Art?

The Ameln Valley brilliantly lit in the early morning sunlight.

The ancient and crumbling village of Omesnat perched on the edge of the Ameln Valley.  At least they keep the mosque in working order.

Sidi Ifni - Wild Coast

Reluctance leads to indecisiveness which leads to spontaneity.  I boarded a bus in Essaouira for wherever with a healthy dose of indecisiveness.  I could not decide where I wanted to go next.  All I knew was that the bus was going to the next major town and from there, well, I didn't know where to go.  With so much to see and do in Morocco, I am finding it rather difficult to make decisions.  It should be easy, but it's not.  

As the bus slowly made its way down the coast, I must have changed my mind a dozen times.  Ultimately though, my feverish body made my mind for me (I was nursing a cold); get off the lousy bus as soon as possible.  My body was certainly not agreeing with the windy road.  With my mind set on getting off at the surfing village of Taghazout, I anxiously waited for the bus to pass through the village.  With no indication of what village was what and with the guy sitting next to me sound asleep, I didn't know where to hop off.  Eventually, assuming we passed the village, I decided on plan B (plan K rather) and forgot about Taghazout. Then, the conductor rose, yelling Taghazout. I quickly raised my hand and moments later I was standing amongst pink buildings and sounds of crashing waves.  Taghazout it is.

Taghazout is Morocco's premier surfing spot with famous waves that even have names.  For the most part, that is why Taghazout was ever on my radar; I wanted to check out the surf culture.  Besides that though, Taghazout is a beautiful little village set on a hillside with most of the buildings painted in a gentle pink.  Even though a cold was putting me down, I couldn't resist renting a board for a few hours and testing my new found surfing skills on world famous waves.  Well, actually the world famous waves are for the big boys; the baby waves that I was catching are not worthy of names.  Over the course of an afternoon I went from blowing salt water out of my nose after every wave to awkwardly semi-standing on the board for a few brief seconds.  And what great seconds!  Almost more fun though is watching the pros shred the big waves.

 Taghazout beachfront.

With so much pink, the streets of Taghazout had a warm feel.

The waves around Taghazout were beautifully perfect; it's no wonder it is so popular for surfing.

Since it is surfing high season, accommodation was expensive and restaurants packed in Taghazout so I decided after one day to hit the road again.  South of Taghazout one starts to notice the great Sahara's influence on the land; it becomes more barren with a greater concentration of camels and cactus.  Then comes Sidi Ifni.  Ifni, for short, is a spectacular blue and white town perched above the ocean in between dramatic coastline.  Once again, I knew it was a place I would have to slow down.  Ifni is an old Spanish town which is noticeable in its architecture and instead of "bonjour" one is greeted with an "hola".  The town has a pleasantly sleepy atmosphere with streets that were almost eerily quiet.  The highlights for me were walking the wild coastline gazing at the giant red cliffs and arches reaching into the ocean and also surfing.  The surf is good in Ifni so I had to try catching some more waves.  After a couple of sessions I was able to dial in on my surfing and got to the point where I could actually stand and carve on one out of two attempts.  Surfing is indeed great fun!  I even had to be rescued after a strong current tried to bring me back stateside prematurely.  Not so fast, I say.

Within 10kms I passed under four arches; the coastline around Ifni was certainly the most spectacular I had seen.

In places, the coastline was almost fairytale-like thanks to the curvy red cliffs.

Early morning in Sidi Ifni.

Ifni.  

(Obviously I am caption-challenged today)

Essaouira - What It's All About

From Oulidia, continuing down the coast, the scenery begins to change.  The green rolling hills slowly give way to low-lying rocky mountains; the coastline becomes more dramatic; men wearing turbans wrestle donkeys down the shoulder of the road; camels are silhouetted on the horizon.  There is a greater sense of the exotic and anticipation mounts for what lays ahead.  Then comes the town of Essaouira.  Immediately upon stepping foot off the bus I knew this was my place to slow down.

Historically Essaouira was an important trading port where gold, ivory, and salt, among other things, passed on its way to Europe.  Today, it is a busy fishing harbor with a vibrant port packed to the gills with fishing vessels.  The new part of the town feels like any other city with unattractive concrete buildings and annoying traffic, but once inside the old fortified medina, one is taken back to the days of wheelin' and dealin' in ivory and gold.  Although touristy, the medina is exotically charming; the streets are narrow and winding (perfect for keeping cars out of) with lots of old wooden doors hanging on rusty hinges and tunnels and arches one has to duck to pass through.  My aimless strolls through the streets left me wondering where one building started and another ended; it's as if the entire medina is one giant building in which the streets and passageways were carved out of.  To further add to the atmosphere, the constant rumbling was a reminder of the wildly churning ocean just beyond the walls.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed looking at the map of the medina (which is where all the cheap accommodation is), I went against my "do-it-yourself" attitude and had a local man lead me to a place to stay (for a small tip of course).  I told him cheap, so I wasn't too surprised that the first place he took me to was likely his buddie's bedroom that was already occupied by two men lazing around in front of the TV.  Okay, not that cheap.  the next place he took me to was a small multi-storey riad (I think a riad is more or less a traditional home) tucked way back at the end of a dark alley and ran by a husband and wife. It was perfect.  For the equivalent of $12 I got a beautifully decorated room with a brass sink and more pillows than I knew what to do with (again).  Turns out, a couple years back this had been the home for a Peace Corps volunteer.  It was a magical place to rest my head with warm greetings from the husband and wife and the delightful smells of their cooking and burning incense wafting into my room.

It is remarkable how quickly time flies when in an extraordinary place.  I have been in many a places where after one hour I am already pulling my hair out, ready to hit the road.  Essaouira is one of those special places where you just kind of meld into the surroundings.  You become part of it and the hours and days disintegrate with all the intoxicating aromas.  I really didn't do anything in Essaouria besides stroll, eat, drink mint tea, and learn to surf (try to learn to surf, rather).  I reluctantly left feeling that I could have continued doing nothing in particular, indefinitely.  These are the types of places that travel is all about.

 The chaotic fishing harbor of Essaouira; one can only imagine how boats manage to come and go.

The fortified medina from the outside looks like a ramshackle conglomerate of crumbling buildings; once inside though, it is magic.

I like camels, and I like places where camels live.

One of the many paths winding through the medina.  Where does it lead? Doesn't matter.

I think I've died and gone to heaven.  Olives are cheap in the market and I have been eating them like they grow on trees...they do grow on trees don't they?  A lot of trees there must be!

As if the sunset wasn't good enough, Essaouira has to add it's own wild touch.

El-Jadida and Oulidia - The Atlantic with Mint

Seeing how Casablanca is on the coast, naturally I had to follow the coast south, despite the beckoning snowy Atlas Mountains.  A quick train ride brought me to the bustling town of El-Jadida.  El-Jadida couldn't have been a better place for me to get my Moroccan feet under me.  Despite its old fortified Portuguese quarter, El-Jadida is a bit off the major tourist circuit. Perhaps because of this, El-Jadida has been spared of the tourist related hassles that I have been repeatedly warned about.  This gave me the opportunity to wander carefree through the medina streets and be introduced to Moroccan cuisine and the inevitable mint tea.  In Morocco, the medina is the old part of the city with ancient buildings, narrow streets, and open markets; the medina is the heart of the city.  I was awestruck as I wandered the quiet maze of streets in the El-Jadida medina.  Everything was exotic with new experiences for all of the senses.  What struck me the most was how old and fragile the medina felt, yet life continued on amongst the old setting probably as it had for hundreds of years.  

Also in El-Jadida, I was familiarized to the infamous Moroccan mint tea.  Mint tea is a staple of sorts and is drunk throughout the day; anytime is a good time for mint tea.  Often served in a chromed teapot packed with fresh mint leaves, one just doesn't simply pour and drink.  To ensure that the tea is at its finest, one must pour from a lofty height into the small glass.  Then, pour it back into the teapot.  Repeat until the correct fullness is achieved.  And what is the correct fullness you might ask?  Beats me.  I guess until your wrist gets tired.  Being the impatient lad that I am, my first cups of mint tea were simply poured and slurped down; quite frankly, all the pouring seemed a bit too ritualistic with likely too subtle of results worth the trouble.  But I learned and adapted.  The multiple pourings do indeed improve the flavor and delightfulness of the tea.  Now, I am a 3-pourer; as my taste becomes more acquired I may become a 5 or 6-pourer.  Patience is indeed a virtue when it comes to mint tea.

After a day exploring the medina and old Portuguese quarter, I had had my fill of El-Jadida.  I am not looking for anything in particular while in Morocco, but El-Jadida is not what I am looking for.  Its a pleasant place but I know that it is not Morocco at its most spectacular.  With this on my mind, it is going to be difficult for me to slow down in any particular place.  El-Jadida is too big.

The views were no doubt awesome from the walls of the old fortified Portuguese city.  Even the old canons remained and I couldn't help but put myself back in time and imagine trying to hurl a lead ball at a big sailing vessel; what interesting times those must have been.

The narrow streets of the medina were fun to get lost in.  Most of the time I was lost, often about-facing liking an imbecile and retracing my steps until I could find my way out.

The main road leading into the medina was full of activity with all sorts of goodies on display for sale; dates, olives, bread, meat, tea, clothes, on and on.

This time hopping a bus, I followed the coast further south, face pressed against the dirty glass, to the town of Oulidia.   The route along the coast was spectacular with green fields rolling down to the rocky shoreline accentuated by crashing waves.  Although I would have preferred to be on foot, it was a dramatic drive.  But, the arrival into Oulidia was not as dramatic.  Oulidia is a small village nestled against a beautiful beach and lagoon, but it is a town that has fallen victim to resortization.  With nothing old to gaze at except a few crumbling walls and rusty canons, I spent my night in Oulidia and bid it farewell early the next morning.  Oulidia is too resorty.

The quiet lagoon below Oulidia.  It probably would have been worth a swim if the water and air weren't so darn cold.

The only remains that I could find of something old in Oulidia.  Morocco has a rich history and anything that is old, is fascinating to be around; concrete resorts are much less fascinating to me.

Although resorty, Oulidia is lovely.  It's not resorty for nothing right?

Casablanca, Morocco - Same Continent, Another World

Regardless of how many countries one has visited, apparently culture shock is something one never becomes immune to.  Little did I know as I stepped foot on an Emirates flight in Entebbe that despite just hopping over the Sahara, I was in for a culture shock.  As the plane made the approach into Dubai I was dazzled by the glowing serpentine streets and the extravagant skyscrapers.  My 9-hour layover in Dubai was no less dazzling.  The airport was a glamorous affair with its fancy restaurants, glitzy shopping, distant ceiling supported by shining pillars, and even a forest and river.  It was a full dose of Arab extravagance.

My next flight landed me in the no-so-extravagant Casablanca, but it was no less bedazzling.  Its still Africa, but not the Africa I know.  In all honesty, I stepped off the plane under prepared and was quickly at a loss amongst the madness.  It wasn't the general city chaos that threw me off; it was more the abrupt fitting-in along with no common language to help make the unfamiliar a little bit more familiar.  For me, nothing is more comforting than a big plate of food, but with Morocco's extensive and complicated cuisine along with tongue-tying Arabic and French pronunciations, even getting food did not come without its stresses.

But of course I managed.  One may never be immune to culture shock, but at least one can build up a tolerance for it and easily sweep it aside and hit the ground running.  Casablanca was only a quick introduction to Morocco.  Even though the city is interesting with lots of narrow streets and old buildings to gaze at, I gave it little time because it is rumored that the streets get narrower and the buildings older.

The Casablanca seafront.

 The impressive Hassan II Mosque; third largest in the world. 

 Casablanca...not too bad.

Kampala and Entebbe - End of the Road

As it turns out, it is inevitable that travel in African countries will lead you to the capital city (with the exception of Tanzania).  And that's a good thing.  The contrast between urban Africa and rural Africa is so sharp, and without that slap in the face chaos of African cities, Africa would have a little less charm.  Uganda's capital city, Kampala, is certainly a slap in the face.  It is congested, sprawling, dirty and downright crazy.  I like it!

Though my time was brief in Kampala, I had a fun time diving headfirst into the crazy city center, exploring markets, and recklessly winding through traffic on the back of a motorcycle.  But the highlight of my brief time in the city was a visit to the Mandela National Stadium.  Upon arriving in Kampala, I received news from other travellers that a big match was to take place that evening; a match that I couldn't pass up.  Soccer is Africa's past time; it's as much of a staple as maize meal and beans.  There is no better way to finish a trip in Africa than by sharing a soccer match with Africans.  With a trophy and money on the line, Uganda and Kenya squared off on the pitch.  This was my first professional soccer match and I don't know if it was because it was in Africa or if that is just how soccer matches are, but it was a blast to attend.  It was cool to be in the stadium with thousands of Ugandans enthusiastically supporting their country and team.  They were into it.  Uganda won!

Uganda's biggest fan. Right, I didn't even know the name of the team before showing up at the stadium.  It's the Uganda Cranes.  (And yes, I am wearing pink flip-flops; they are color-coded by size and sadly my size is pink)

Although the stadium was not filled to capacity, it sure sounded like it.  Uganda's two goals that led them to victory were followed by a deafening roar from the highly supportive crowd.

A hazy Kampala skyline.  With its congested traffic it's no wonder that the air is a bit thick.

It's befuddling as to how traffic worked in Kampala.  It worked as well as dropping a handful of marbles into a funnel - one or two might get through but eventually it will clog.

From Kampala I made the quick hop to the town of Entebbe on the northern shores of Lake Victoria.  The sound of jumbo jets coming and going was a persistent reminder of my impending fate.  For the first time, it was a reminder that I did not want to hear.  I have always looked forward to and enjoyed traveling by air; it has always meant that I am either coming home or departing somewhere exotic.  Even though the latter is the truth in this case, I couldn't help but feel a bit melancholy that I was about to board a plane and leave the Africa that I know.  It's been over two years on the continent and Africa has become like home, regardless of the country.  It has taken care of me, nurtured me, strengthened me, and changed me.  It literally has been blood, sweat and tears.  Despite all her downfalls, I am in love with Africa.  Before leaving Namibia I knew that I was in love with Namibia, but could I really say that I was in love with Africa?  That's what I wanted to find out.  I have found out after two humble months on the road and five countries that those feelings for Namibia hold true for the continent as a whole.  It's Africa that I love.  I do not dare try to explain why here; you can maybe see the reasons in all my past posts.  And that is only a maybe because behind all the words and photos, I have probably only managed to capture 1% of what Africa is really about.  There is so much more to Africa than what I have been able to share.  I have tried my best, but I am neither a professional writer or photographer.  There are plenty of books out there that have captured the magic of Africa much better than I have.  Or, should I say, better than I have written. I have certainly captured the magic of Africa for myself; its in my head.  I have seen it and felt it.  I honestly do not have the ability to adequately articulate what I have seen and I am not comfortable enough behind the camera to capture all the magic.  I wish I could.  But, it's there for me.  I have waved at dirty smiling children from the passing bus; been mesmerized by the resolve of the African woman as she balances bananas on her head, baby strapped to her back; observed the tenacity of fisherman laying nets for their and their families' survival; fallen asleep to the sounds of drumbeats, singing and dancing; eaten from the same plate as a people far removed from the world as I know it; been intoxicated by the sights, smells, and sounds of vibrant African markets; shared in the suffering of the African people; and best of all, exchanged smiles and handshakes.  These things are difficult to put on paper; maybe even the emotions they evoke transcend language.  And that is just fine.  Not everything needs to be explained.  As long as it can be absorbed; that's enough.  I have absorbed Africa and now I will always be dreaming of her.  So long for now Africa, I hope we can meet again.

Fort Portal Crater Lakes - Simple Days at the Lake

With my Uganda days numbered, deciding what to do when much of the country still lays before me, was needlessly tedious. Maybe that is when travel becomes the most difficult; when time is running out.  But I guess it is always running out relative to what remains to be seen.  Woe is me.  So, I ultimately decided to continue following the Rift Valley and visit some crater lakes around the town of Fort Portal.  The lakes, somewhere around 60 in total, are the result of volcanic activity.  What type of volcanic activity?  Beats me, but it sure was the type of volcanic activity that turned out some beautiful lakes (and deep).  And what more is there to say about them?  I walked around, visited the weekly market, ate bananas and chapatis, got rained on, and watched monkeys swinging in the trees.  As I am writing this I feel that there is nothing to tell; I had nothing more than a couple simple days at the lake.  That is not to say there wasn't anything interesting. On the contrary; that's never the case in Africa.  Quite frankly, I am not in the mood to try to articulate the details into something that is enjoyable to read.  Sometimes blogging is fun; other times it is a pain in the butt. So, I will let the pictures do the explaining this time, and if luck is on my side, maybe it will still be enjoyable.

With hills and valleys extending all the way to the Rwenzoris, along with misty air, the ridgetops around the crater lakes had surreal vistas.

The black and white colobus monkey; there were quite a lot of these beautiful monkeys swinging in the trees along with a couple other species.

In Uganda, bananas are king.  To the outside observer, there seems to be an over abundance of bananas.  However, bananas are an important staple and eaten daily.

Sometimes the best way to get pictures of yourself and locals is to hand the camera over.  A young girl was walking with me down the trail so I gave her a quick camera lesson and cut her loose.  She did pretty well I must say.

Two of the crater lakes seen from one of the highest points around.

I really liked the way some of the simple homes were decoratively painted.

The crater lakes area is also tea country with some of the hillsides beautifully carpeting the hillsides.

On the shores of a crater lake with the mighty Rwenzoris on the horizon.

Queen Elizabeth National Park - Encounters with Relatives

Continuing north, following the Great Rift Valley, my next stop came at Queen Elizabeth National Park.  Uganda doesn't necessarily compare wildlife -wise with other countries in the region, but Q.E. is up and coming.  During Uganda's tumultuous years, Ugandan and Tanzanian soldiers took a toll on the park's wildlife.  But, numbers are on the rise and with the park's lakes backed by the nearby Rwenzori  mountains (highest mountain range in Africa), Q.E. is one of the prettiest parks I have visited.  Since I have already done the wildlife thing I probably would have passed up the park if it weren't for its primates, particularly chimpanzees.  With the cost of seeing the mountain gorillas out of the question, I figured I could splurge on chimp tracking which works out to be about a tenth of the price.

In Kabale I picked up a travel companion for this leg of the journey.  Johannes, an older German hippie-guy, couldn't have come at a better time.  The morning of our departure I was stumbling through the dorm room at the hostel in the dark in an attempt to be courteous to those still sleeping.  Misjudging my position in the room, I bent down to pick up my headlamp only to slam my head into the sharp edge of the bunk edge.  After a few inarticulate but appropriate words I felt my head and finding no blood concluded I would be left with only a bump.  Not ten seconds later I felt wetness around my eye.  I felt again finding my fingers covered in blood.  I rushed to the bathroom to examine and found my eye brow opened up wide.  Probably needing stitches, but not wanting to take the time or the likely sketchy visit to the hospital, Johannes helped to patch it up the best we could and off we went.  Johannes is not a doctor, but he ended up being very helpful in treating the wound and ultimately getting it closed up well, all things considered.  What the heck, I needed a scar to remember Africa by anyways.

Once to the park I was really glad to have someone to travel with.  Q.E., although less expensive than other parks, is still expensive for those traveling independently.  Johannes and I were able to share costs which allowed me to see more than I otherwise would have.  Our campsite was at a swanky lodge atop an escarpment overlooking the entire park.  The savanna of the park laid below with the two big lakes, the mountains of the DR Congo on the horizon and the Rwenzoris looming nearby.  It was a spectacular view.

 The  savanna and Rwenzori view from our campsite.

To make the most of our day in the park (and hired taxi), we first headed to Kyambara Gorge to see if we could find chimps.  The gorge is a thin sliver of jungle about 300 feet deep that slices through the open savanna.  The walk alone from the open grasslands into and through the thick jungle of the gorge was worth  the money.  With the incessant chirping of insects and birds coming from all around, broken occasionally by the awkward grunting of hippos, I felt like I was hundreds of miles away from civilization on a great rainforest expedition. This however couldn't have been further from the truth; but it was fun to imagine.  Within a couple of hours, our two trackers were able to track some chimps by reading tracks in the mud. For fifteen minutes we crashed through the brush watching the chimps swing through the branches overhead, until finally they had enough of us and dropped to the forest floor and disappeared in the deep grass.

Kyambara Gorge slicing through the savanna. It was an interesting contrast between the open grassland and the thick jungle with a lazy river flowing through.

 Grumpy?  I guess I would be too if a bunch of humans came crashing through the brush just to stand around and stare at me.  I had fun though...

After tracking the chimps we headed deeper into the park to jump on a boat and cruise a channel that connects the park's two big lakes.  After a couple hours in the channel I wasn't able to mark any new wildlife off my list (not that I have a list) but was able to get closer to the beasts than ever before.  The channel held an impressive number of hippos and buffalo, along with some elephants, crocs, and a lot of bird life.  For the most part, the animals seemed unfazed by the boat's presence, even as it nudged its way with in trunk-slapping distance of wading elephants.  At one point the boat passed right over a hippo who gave the boat a good thump, presumably letting us know that we had overstepped our boundary.

At the end of the day, I was happy to had splurged a bit on one more day of wildlife viewing.  I keep telling myself that I have had enough, but enough is apparently never enough.  Africa's wildlife is one of the things that make Africa what it is.  With my days south of the Sahara numbered, I want to fill myself with as much "Africa" as I can.  I am going to miss it and as much a I think I am over seeing elephants, I know it won't take long before I am again yearning to be in their territory again.

Getting up close and personal with elephants...again.  This time was much more relaxing though and I didn't find myself running to the toilet in fear.

There was a lot happening on the water's edge.  Crocs, buffalo, and hippos can be found living amongst each other.

Evening rush hour traffic as fishermen paddle the channel out to the main lake.