Uganda: Cheating Death

The trucks were parked totally helter-skelter across the road. The damp dirt road lacked markings for lanes or any delineation between the side of the road and the road itself. Some trucks faced north, some pointed south with their cabins angled to the east, no order, rhyme or reason, they idled or had drivers asleep behind the wheel giving the appearance that Sarah, Lillian (visiting friends from the US), Garron, and I would NEVER weave our way through this border crossing.

With the help of an entrepreneurial young man who herded the lumbering vehicles out of our way, we squeezed through a canyon of trucks with nary a paper’s width of space to spare on either side.

Catching our breath and relieved that we squeezed through relatively unscathed, we settled in for the long drive to Kampala, Uganda, my first foray into Rwanda’s neighbor to the northeast and one of its East African Community brethren.

Suddenly we noticed a truck barreling down our lane – the right lane – with no apparent intention to slow down. He flashed his lights and in the nick of time careened to the left with his trailer dangerously fishtailing behind him. It then dawned on us that – now that we were in Uganda, old British colony that it is – we should be driving in the left lane… So this little game of chicken was our sobering introduction to a long-weekend trip to Uganda... and the first in a series of moments that can only be described as cheating death.

The drive was long.

In the beginning, I enthusiastically soaked in the scenery of a new countryside, one that – just past the Rwenzori Mountain Range – changed to a tree-lined expanse of green tempered by hilltops of rocky soil, a marked difference from the plush dense vegetation of Rwanda’s hills. I also had the sense that Uganda was slightly more developed, based on my very scientific observation that there were more houses and churches along the way that were made of sturdier materials like tin and concrete rather than mud and clay.

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Rwanda GDP (nominal) per capita = 286
Rwanda GDP (PPP) per capita = 1000

Uganda GDP (nominal) per capita = 368
Uganda GDP (PPP) per capita = 1100
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Nine hours or so later, I was no longer enthralled by the views. The ride had turned into my personal version of hell.

Near-death Experience #1

Both sides of the road were so eroded from rains and wear-and-tear that what should have been a 2-lane thorough-fare was really a 1.8-lane fight-for-the-road. Trucks or towering buses would come recklessly flying through bends, elbowing us off the road and forcing us to rattle along the ragged edges.

Even when we could avoid the edges of the road, we still had massive potholes with which to contend, some of which were so deep, I could swear they led to all the way to Hawaii. For a ride this long and roads this poor, hitting potholes became totally unavoidable. My forehead throbbed from constantly wincing, my hand ached from white-knuckling the door handle and my tailbone felt more and more bruised each time the chassis violently banged into a pothole or scraped against some monster speed hump. One particularly nasty pothole caught us by surprise and after hitting it especially hard, the dashboard lit up and the windshield wipers and turn signals came on simultaneously.

Between the reckless buses and potholes, the schools of villagers on bicycles that would swim onto the road, the tense gamble of passing cars on such a narrow road, and the random piece of livestock (mostly steer with alarmingly thick and pointy horns) that wanders into the road, I saw my life flash before my eyes on more than one occasion.

I sometimes like to live life on the edge, but not this kind of edge. The next time we go to Kampala, I will insist that we fly.

When we finally reached Kampala, we found a lively, bustling capital city (population 1.2 million) teeming with cars, pollution, chickens, and enticing Indian restaurants. We spent Saturday touring the city, stopping in a pan-African crafts village and visiting Kabaka’s (= king, in Luganda) Palace. We stayed in an adorable guest house with just 6 rooms and met up with two other friends – Hugh and Clara – there.

(mosque on the hill)

(Mambo Point Guesthouse)

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Uganda Fast Facts

Population: 30 million
Capital City: Kampala
Lingua franca: Luganda
Official languages: English and Swahili

Primary Exports: Coffee, tea, sugar, cotton

Religion: 84% Christian, 12% Muslim
Independence: 1962
Most notorious despot: Idi Amin
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Near-death Experiences #2, 3, 4…

As nice as Kampala was, we really went to Uganda for one reason: to go white-water rafting in Jinja.

Jinja, a town about an hour east of Kampala, has played host to the adventurous in recent years with a number of tour companies based there, running rafting trips on the rapids of the Nile River.

After getting outfitted in life jackets and helmets, we piled into pickup trucks and jostled down some dirt road to meet the illustrious “White Nile.”




The six of us commandeered an inflatable red raft with Peter as our guide and coach, a young Ugandan with a serious exuberance quotient and healthy sense of humor.

Peter: “I used to be a white boy from Canada, but I’ve spent too much time in the sun in Africa.”
Peter: “Don’t worry about the crocodiles. They’re vegetarian. Except for the white meat.”

Act I: The Playground

Like children learning to ride bicycles, we spent the first few kilometers of our river ride getting a feel for the raft and learning the basics, i.e. how to row in sync, learning what to do when the raft flips, learning not to freak out if you’re trapped under the raft, learning how to ride the rescue kayaks after you’ve been dumped into the water, etc.

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Commands

“Go forward!” = row forward
“Go forward hard!” = row forward, hard
“Hold on” = stop rowing, grip the rope with your outside hand, and lean toward the center
“Get down!” = stop rowing, crouch down, hold onto the rope, and try not to sh*t yourself as you go over a big rapid
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After doing ‘test flips’ of the rafts, the guides let all the rafters swim and float for several kilometers, carried along by the current. What a fun yet odd sensation to exert no effort but to watch the banks of the river pass by at a swift clip, feeling bathed by the warm and surprisingly clean waters and holding conversations with your fellow rafters as if sitting in a coffee shop, remarking on the lovely green vegetation and dearth of villagers on the river’s banks. It was child’s play: a smattering of pink and blue helmets drifting down the river, some horsing around and tossing pieces of vine at one another, some chatting away, some just serenely watching the scenery pass, perhaps taking mental notes of the scene.

Occasionally I would remind myself that it was Easter Sunday, and I was floating in the Nile River. Surreal.

Act II: “This is not fun”

After trying a few easy Class 1 and 2 rapids, we suddenly felt as if someone had savagely ripped off the training wheels from our bikes and threw us to the mercy of the big scary open road: we took on some serious Class 3, 4 and 5 rapids and quickly realized that this was no longer child’s play.

Class 3 rapid “50-50” gave us our first flipping and while most of us tumbled through the waves relatively trauma-free, poor Sarah was stuck under the upturned boat for a while and eventually emerged looking like she had seen a ghost.

Most of us – with perhaps the exception of Sarah – were still feeling pretty hardy and eager to continue challenging the rapids… that is until we encountered the Class 5 rapid, “Silverback.” This aptly named beast of a rapid flipped us in the very beginning, spilling all of us into the violent churn and leaving us to traverse the whole rapid sans boat. I can only recall being plunged into the water, being thrust through a veritable wash cycle of waves and feeling a bit panicked that I would drown if I couldn’t come up for air soon. I burst through the surface with a gasp and emerged to witness the carnage of upturned red rafts, strewn oars, and rescue kayaks plucking shell-shocked rafters from the surf. Only a minority of the boats fought the Silverback and won; the rest were ruthlessly pummeled like us.

Given the conditions, naturally we couldn’t bring cameras, but a fellow rafter in the blogosphere kindly agreed to let me link his post to my blog. Check this out and look out for the red rafts. That’s what we did. (Thank you very much, Max!)

http://xackers.net/pages/DefaultFrame.aspx?ID=3040&fiID=156281

Act III: Cool-down

Fortunately, we had a short respite after that, a chance to feel truly humbled by Mother Nature, to kick ourselves for not having written our last will and testaments yet, and to munch on fresh pineapple and biscuits.

The sun and heat of Kampala did not revisit us on the river; instead, the sky stayed overcast and it rained all. day. long. I felt like a sorry wet dog, thoroughly chilled to my core. Everyone’s lips had a bluish tinge and the girls’ jaws visibly chattered. The post-lunch stretch of rapidless river meant we had some long kilometers to row, which helped us to fixate on something other than being so achingly cold. At times we were a solemn crew, with only the sounds of the lapping water and raindrops in our ears. We were thankful for the breaks from the rowing, when we could jump in the water and be momentarily warmed, only to have the warmth quickly washed away by the unrelenting rain. It danced on the river in undulating waves, making the surface twinkle like a sheet of silver sequins in the overbearing grayness.

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Whitewater Rapids 101: Classification.

www.about.com

Class I: (Easy) Moving water with small disturbances on the surface and a few small waves. There is little to no danger to swimmers.

Class II: (Novice/Beginner) Faster moving water with easily avoided rocks, holes, and waves. Danger to swimmers is still slight but care must be taken.

Class III: (Intermediate) Fast moving water containing various rocks, holes, currents, and waves that require skillful maneuvering to avoid. Swimmers could be at risk and may require help.

Class IV: (Advanced) Strong rapids, large waves, big holes, unpredictable currents, and dangerous obstructions requiring multiple maneuvers to get through or around. Swimmers are at risk and will require help to be rescued.

Class V: (Expert) All of the characteristics of Class IV with the added danger of being longer and containing more continuous features that may not be avoided. There is serious risk to swimmers and others may be of no help.

Class VI: (Unrunnable) Only a team of experts who carefully plan every aspect of this expedition would have hope of surviving these rivers and rapids.

Rumor has it that Class VI is basically un-survivable!
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Act IV: Itanda, or “The Bad Place”

After seeing my life flash before my eyes – yet again and several more times – I developed an intense anxiety about tackling the next set of rapids, which totally displaced the blind enthusiasm I had at the beginning of our run.

The next Class 4 flipped us – seemingly with very little effort – but fortunately, the gods of whitewater rafting spared us on the next set of rapids and the entire boat made a joyous noise, utterly euphoric for having navigated the waters and winning, this time.

We couldn’t ride our wave of ebullience for very long, for lurking not far from our victory was the infamous Itanda, or “The Bad Place.”

Sarah, Lillian, and I decided that we had filled our adventure quota for the day (or really, for at least a year), and opted to watch the more daring rafters tackle Itanda from the safety of the banks.

Staring at the long crush of white rapids, I could think only two things: 1) the soundtrack to this would be Beethoven’s Symphony #9 and 2) anyone who runs this rapid must have taken leave of their good senses. A long time ago. It was frighteningly monstrous.

Garron, Hugh, and Clara, along with a surprising number of less pussy-footed rafters, ran the last half of the rapids (the whole set of rapids constitutes a Class 6 which – if you read above – would be a death wish) which included the giant wave known as “The Bad Place.”

Sarah, Lillian, and I felt nervous watching them hit the wave, but they flipped (it’s apparently impossible not to) and all three popped up in no time flat. Relieved, I turned to see Peter jumping up and down on their up-turned boat, squealing, hooting and hollering something just short of certifiably crazy. A daredevil at heart, he must be someone who’s spent a little too much time getting regular injections of adrenaline.

Epilogue

We climbed the river’s banks and sloshed through mud and grass in our bare feet. I think I saw the world’s biggest, blackest caterpillar and prayed that I wouldn’t contract some freakish Nile River disease from some other strange bug in the water or bush. It felt like Romancing the Stone without the romance and the stone.

As we waited for our rides in the still unrelenting rain, still cold and wet and now painted in mud, I felt strangely happy that our Ugandan adventure was as riddled with risk as it was, and we pulled through scot-free and all the more emboldened for it.