Given my somewhat reclusive sojourn in the third-world, I haven’t really been in touch with my more extended family. On a whim, I checked in on some Canadian Olympic coverage and realized with a start that my little cousin Graeme Gorham is competing as a ski-jumper. This is Canada’s first ski-jumping team in over a decade, and they’re some of the youngest guys competing at the Olympics. From the looks of things, Graeme didn’t qualify in his first competition, but there’s still the bigger hill left, and really just being there must be quite the experience. Plus, he’s only 18, and should be into his prime by 2010 when the Olympics hit Vancouver. Fly High Dude.

Here’s a site with his stats and photo etc, although I’m a little embarrassed that he’s given Tim McGraw as his favourite music, although I suppose it could be worse. But seriously, have you ever seen a whiter kid? Hard to believe we’re related.

Of course, this only serves to remind me as my own failure to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Team. Of course, I never tried, but I always wanted to. The Athlete’s village just sounds like a blast. I guess I’d better hurry up and learn curling… or lawn bowling.

I miss you still. More than words… and unfortunately, they’re all I have.

Love,
David

Crossing the Bar

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

I was just reading back through my archived posts (because I’m obsessive like that), but for some reason, this time I tried imagining it was you reading them. And yeah, it made me a little embarrassed.

But I know you’re here everyday to check in on me, even if I cuss a bit too much and go a bit too far to get a laugh.

Thanks for being a trooper.

Love you,

David

So I called up Emirates in Uganda and told them I would like to change my flight. All well and good, I was told, I could do it at their office in Kampala. Right, I said, but I’d like to do it over the phone because I’m four hours away by bus. No, apparently that was no longer their policy. You’re sure? I asked. They were very sure.

So this was troubling. My flight was scheduled for Sunday night and here it was Friday morning. So I did the only thing a man in my situation could do, I grabbed my brother in law for moral support and headed off on a crazy cross-country odyssey. We packed two bags and within half an hour were standing on the main road, waiting for a lift. Within five minutes a taxi pulled over that only had 7 people in it, so, plenty of room. We drove the 40 minutes to the town of Mbarara where we arrived at the bus-park just as a bus was leaving for Kampala. This meant that the bus was nearly full to capacity, but it also meant that it was leaving right away. I didn’t realize how lucky this was until later in the week when we got on the 2:00 bus and waited until 4:30 until it filled up and departed.

Mike found a seat about midway back and I made my way all the way to the back and sat beside an old man and his daughters. As soon as I sat down, I knew this was going to be a long ride, since these folks were obviously right off the farm, and by the smell of things, it was some kind of manure farm. My only consolation was that I stayed exactly in the middle, so I could stretch my legs out and read. The man to my left introduced himself as a Pentecostal minister and bragged of how he was married to a white woman. I said, that was very nice, and that I approved of his choice of wife, since I knew many nice white women. I suppose I should have anticipated the next question: “Are you saved?” I considered this slowly and carefully. “Yes.” I said, with a definitive nod of the head and a big smile that I hoped affirmed my love for Jesus while avoiding all further discussion. It seems my response was adequate, and I breathed a long sigh of relief that I had somehow avoided the single longest ride of my life.

We arrived in the capital city just under four hours later. We jumped on boda-boda’s and headed to the travel agency at the local shopping mall. They informed me that since I hadn’t made my original booking there, I would have to go to the Emirates office directly. We got directions and headed out. On the way down the stairs, Mike said, “That cute girl with the Afro was totally checking you out.” I looked around, “Really? Where?” “The girl on the bus.” I stopped to consider this. “The bus we were on a half hour ago?” … “Yeah” … “The bus I was on for 4 hours between the Shit Family Robinson and God’s own personal accountant, desperately looking for any distraction?” …”Uhmm, yeah, that’s the one.” I shook my head and marveled again at Mike’s amazing wingman skills.

We jumped on two more boda-bodas and headed to the Emirates office. There, after a few false starts in the Ugandan system of “no real use for any line or system whatsoever” (much like the Pakistani system), I used my “Big White Man” status and walked up to the desk. I kept expecting trouble, but my flight was changed with no hassle and as I sat there waiting for her to tell me the service charge, she just kept sitting there waiting for me to leave. Finally I said, “Is that it?” waited for the confused nod, and then rocketed out of there. I guess I’m still a little too used to Air Canada and their bullshit.

We rode over to the International Clinic, where I found a yellow fever shot for just $35. The same thing would cost me about $180 at home. Sweet I thought. I’m getting all my shots in the third world, even if the nurse’s fingernails are dirty. I asked her if I should sit for twenty minutes to wait for any effects. She told me to just make my way back if I felt funny. Fair enough… fair enough.

Then it was off to Nando’s and a quick lunch, where I was also able to use the internet café and email off my changes of plan to everyone concerned. As we sat and ate, Mike and I both silently agreed not to mention how well everything was going, since this was, after all, the third world, and we had a long way to go before we were home. No need to jinx it now.

We grabbed a rid to the bus-park, and may miracles never cease, we caught another bus within five minutes of pulling out. Even more surprising, Mike and I found seats together. That is, until a huge, arrogant black woman (why do I keep describing Africans as black I wonder?) slapped me on the back and started yelling at me for stealing her seat and throwing her stuff on the floor. As most people know, I’m very slow to anger, but suddenly my blood was on boil. This was the only Ugandan I had ever met with an attitude. What a huge, fat, bitch. “Fine. Fine!” I said, “Sit!” And then under my breath, “If you can fit.” … “What?” she said.” … “I said…I’ll just switch.”

And so I found myself beside a Muslim natural herbalist. I hit him with an Asaalam and we were on our way to fast friends. Besides, I’ll take a Muslim herbalist any day over a Pentecostal priest or a bulky bush bitch. Poor Mike. I pitied him sitting with her. But not too much. I was still irked about the Afro girl.

And so we arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after we left. Everything accomplished exactly according to plan. It was so extraordinary and out of character that I just had to tell the tale.

6 Km and a blistering hot hour later, a truck pulled up beside us. Anna told the driver where we were headed and he replied that that was exactly where he was going. We asked how far away it was and he replied, “56 Kilometers.” I started to curse. Anna declined the ride since it couldn’t possibly be where we were headed. We walked around the next corner, only to see the sign for the wetlands we were searching for maybe 500 feet away. Our friends in the truck had pulled up beside it, honking and pointing, apparently now in full awareness of where we were talking about. When we finally strolled into the centre, sweat coursing down my back, who should pull in behind us, from our own campsite, but the damned Dutch Dyke Trio. I could barely look at them I was so irritated.

Anyway, we set out with our guide Josea, who was a kind of timid little guy, with a less than perfect command of the English language. I started to wonder whether he was related to Wilson, master of the velocity safari, because every time he tried to point out a rare bird to us, he would cough or trip over something and scare the bird away. I was getting a kick out of it really, because every time it happened, he would get this pitiful look on his face and say, “oh.” I also noticed that every bird we were seeing was very rare. I almost expected him to say, “Here you see the ‘Common Swamp Warbler’… very, very rare.”

But suddenly I lost all interest in birds, rare or otherwise, as something inside me shifted, and those who know me (or have read this blog more than twice) will recognize that I was back in one of my common scatological predicaments. My face started to sweat as I simultaneously tried to squeeze the cheeks, hike through a swamp, and appear interested in bird life. Every time Josea tried to show me a new bird before he scared it away, my answers were becoming shorter and more curt. “Yeah… nice bird.” My sister turned to me, “What’s wrong with you?” Then she looked at my face, and with a knowledge born of many years of siblinghood said, “Oh Lord.” I ignored her and concentrated on not losing my shit.

After a harrowing twenty minutes, something shifted again and I was in the clear. But of course, new problems had arisen. Given my strange, clenched stride, my unexpectedly long hikes that day, the dampness of the swamp, and my generally poor choice of undergarment that morning, I had set in motion a painful process of chafing that was impossible to reverse. That’s right, I was in the possible grips of Jungle-Rot. Still, it was better than dropping a long call in my drawers.

As we were walking along a shoddily maintained board walk, I heard Josea say something in front of me. “What?” I asked. “Mind the….” He mumbled. “Pardon?” I said. Finally he turned around and pointed at my feet, “Mind the Ants.” I looked down and sure enough I was being swarmed by fire ants. I ran forward like an idiot, shaking my feet and trying not to fall in the swamp. I reached the field and brushed the last of the insects off my feet. “You’re in the clear,” said my sister. I breathed a sigh of relief and kept walking another twenty yards before I yelped, “Like hell I’m in the clear!!” I ripped up my pant leg and swiped off the ants that were biting their way indiscriminately up my legs. Fire in my pants, and not in a good way. I managed to head them off at the pass, but after that I felt creepy-crawly for the rest of the day. And what with the intermittent pain of my chafing issue, I started to worry that maybe some ants had made it past the knee-cap. Oh the mind is a powerful fear monger. And I have to say, that in the end, Mom was right, when we were in the back of the car as kids, we did act like we had ants in our pants.

I almost forgot about the ants when the boardwalk collapsed beneath us and the boots I had so desperately tried to keep dry were soaked. At least it’ll drown the ants, I thought to myself, just marvelling in how much I was enjoying this hike. Then however, things began to look up. We spotted a very rare primate called the L’Houest Monkey. I started cracking up, because as we were watching this majestic black monkey with a beautiful white beard and whiskers, Josea kept saying to Anna, “Look! Look at the tests!” Anna was confused. “The what?” “The tests! The tests!” Finally he used the full term of “testicles” thus clarifying his attempt at “testes.” Either way, a little black dude, urging my sister to stare at a monkey’s package is hilarious any day. But I have to admit, it was interesting, as the monkey’s genitalia are a bright blue, thus, I assume the L’Houest Monkey is the most frustrated of primates.

We finally made it back to base-camp, put up our soggy feet and waited for the Flying Dutch Dykes to return, to see if we could get a ride. We had a little tussle with one of them, who, when Anna asked her whether she spoke French to try and aid in the conversation, replied. “No, I speaks English.” I almost said, ” I beg to differ,” but we were looking for a ride after all. Still, these damn women, my Ugandan Nemesis, were unsure whether they could give us a ride back. Finally we approached their guide, who said of course they’d drop us off at the campsite they also were returning to.

Thank God… I was swamped.

Luckily for us, our friend J.B. decided to guide us. We were leaving the Dowdy Dutch Dykes behind, so it was going to be just the two of us (we can make it if we try). I liked J.B., even though he was still ribbing us about the Black Mamba. He reminded me of Forrest Whittaker, except with no lazy eye, in fact he was fully binocular (with binoculars). I must say he was an amazing guide. He could identify birds by their calls and could often whistle out to them and get replies. I was so intent on the hike and all the birds and monkeys we were seeing, that I started to follow J.B. off the path at one point. “No,” he said, holding out his hand like a traffic-cop, “Short-Call.” I was a little embarrassed, as short-call is Ugandan terminology for taking a piss, and I was about to follow J.B. into the bush to help him do his business.

After about an hour and a half I was starting to worry whether we would actually see any chimpanzees. After two hours, I was starting to calculate how much money I had spent to get there and how much more cash these damn monkeys must rake in a month than I do. But then suddenly J.B. stopped and pointed up in the trees. I craned my neck and saw absolutely nothing. Just as I was about to smack J.B. for getting my hopes up, from high in the canopy came a low grunting noise that escalated and built to a screaming cry that echoed across the rainforest. From three other locations in the forest rose responding calls and the air was allive with the eerie, echoing correspondence. I felt a chill pass through me as I took in one of the most powerful auditory experiences I have ever encountered. “They are talking,” said J.B. in case we missed it. I was pretty sure they were saying, “Look, the dumbass humans are back.”

Anna and I watched as two chimps worked their way along the tree-tops, having breakfast and grunting in satisfaction. I was struck both by how large they were, and, as I presume most people are, by how human and familiar their actions seemed. At one point, the big male swung out, holding a branch over his head for balance, and stood facing us. “Short-Call,” said J.B. I marvelled at the weakness of his bladder but moved to get out of his way, until with a spattering like raindrops, I realized he was talking about the chimp. And boy, could that monkey pee. A cascading, golden shower (of sorts) fell before us, steaming in the new morning sun (which brought a whole new meaning to Gorillas in the mist). “I wouldn’t want to be caught under there!” I joked with J.B. “Yes, That would be a warm shower,” he replied in such a way that I couldn’t quite tell if he would have liked it or not. As we watched, something fell down through the trees into the undergrowth. “Long-Call,” stated J.B. with a nod of his head. I looked to him for comfirmation. “Poop” he said, in case I had misunderstood the nomenclature. “I got it.” I said. “Do you want to see?” asked our intrepid guide. I declined the opportunity.

After breakfast and his retinue of bodily functions, our chimp started to descend. Incredibly, he chose a route that landed him about two metres from our position. Luckily enough, my camera failed completely and I missed a fantastic shot. And I could have sworn that damn monkey stuck his tongue out at me. So I gave him the finger and said, “How’s that for sign language?”

We followed the chimp calls over to another tree where three chimps were grooming each other. I was engrossed in watching this while I slowly massaged my now aching neck. “David!” called J.B., urging me over to where he stood. Pointing at a nut infused mass on the ground he said, “Feces.” I didn’t respond right away, so he said, “Poop!”… “I got it.” I said.

Our time with the chimps was up, but I can’t say I was too disappointed. We had seen a spectacular show, and besides, the grumpy Dutch contingent had reached our location, so I wasn’t all that keen to stay anyway. We gave J.B. a healthy tip, which brought him smiling up to greet us for the rest of our stay. He must have thought I really enjoyed that poop.

However, after climbing up the thirty-foot ladder to our arboreal home for the night, the coolness factor of sleeping in a tree house in the jungle quickly reestablished its footing in my mind. Black Mambas be damned! I’m sleeping in a tree in Africa! So after dinner, my sister and I settled in for the night. We played a little cards and chatted away into the wee hours until we doused our lantern and curled into our bunks for the night. The tree frogs and cicadas soared into a symphonic crescendo and serenaded my attempts at sleep.

Just as I was sliding through that stage where thoughts become dreams, I heard a hissing noise. I stiffened, but it was just my sister. “David!” she stage whispered again, “There’s something in here!” I sat up and listened. “Anna,” I whispered back, “You’re a friggin’ nut-case.” “No, seriously, I can hear something.” The tension was palpable as I strained to hear the faintest sound. Suddenly I heard a scratching, scuttling noise, and I had to admit, it was loud. “You see!” hissed Anna. “No… I can’t see anything, it’s dark.” “Shut up.” “You shut up.” (Sibling nonsense dies hard.) “What is it?” she asked me. “I don’t know Anna, you’re the one that lives in Africa” I whispered, and then added “And why are we whispering?” She had to admit this was a good question. I was irritated that my heart was beating so fast, but I couldn’t get the images of snakes out of my mind, as much as I told myself that they can’t possibly scuttle and scratch.

Quite suddenly, I heard the noise again, and this time I definitely heard little footsteps and was somewhat relieved. Anna heard them too and proclaimed, “Maybe it’s a Bush Baby!” (A Bush Baby is a tiny little nocturnal monkey, and not, as you may be thinking, another derogatory name for the American President.) I realized that the delirium of sleep and darkness was taking its toll on my sister. “Anna, there is no possible way that there is a cute little monkey in our tree house!” “Then what is it?” “I don’t know, maybe it’s a rat, but why would it be in here?” My sister was struck with another epiphany, “It’s eating our Mangoes!” I had forgotten about the mangoes, but reason quickly intervened, “Look Anna, for God’s sake, nothing is eating the mangoes, They’re in a plastic bag and it would make a huge racket.” Besides, I still wasn’t dead sure that this thing was actually inside. I suspected we were psyching ourselves out in the dark. She admitted this was true, but at the next assault of the pitter-patters she cried out, “David I think it’s on my bag… Oh god!.. Our Samosas! It’s going to eat through my bag!” Besides being irritated at having so much food in there that I had forgotten about completely, I was getting cranky and sleepy. Before Anna could leap with wild abandon toward any more conclusions, I grabbed her bag and hung it from the roof. “What about the Mangoes?” she asked. I was emphatic, “It’s NOT eating our mangoes!” We lit the lantern, since we could hear nothing when the light was on, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later, I awoke in the dark, in a cold sweat, hoping it wasn’t jungle fever because I’ve heard that can be awkward. But no, I heard a distinct chomping noise directly above my head. Something was on the roof. Now it was my turn. “Anna!” I whispered repeatedly until I woke her ass up. In retrospect, I really don’t know why it’s more comforting to sit in the dark with someone else and listen to something crawling on the roof, but it is. I smacked the roof with a book a few times, but nothing would deter our visitor. There was nothing for it, and eventually I fell into a restless sleep, clinging to the knowledge that whatever it was, it wasn’t actually inside the house.

When the alarm went off at 7:00 for our Chimpanzee tracking, I was exhausted. Anna didn’t wake up at all, and she’s the lightest sleeper I know. I shook her awake and we hurriedly got ready and started cleaning up the tree house since we only had it for one night. I picked up our random belongings and then reached down to pick up a bag out of the corner. Slowly, I turned to my sister and said, “Anna. I apologize,” … “For what?” she asked.

I didn’t answer, and instead just held up the bag of four, half-eaten and destroyed mangoes….

I really hate being wrong.

“And here, if you look carefully through the canopy, you will see the rarest of monkeys… Mr. Monkey Face.”

Now let’s pause here for a moment, and refresh the fact that I despise snakes. Granted I tend to exaggerate my hatred, but nevertheless, I have no love lost for poisonous serpents. I just wanted to point out that my sister and two park rangers at Kibole National Park, can attest, under oath, that I did not, in fact, scream like a little girl.

I was however, frozen in place. Next thing I know, Mark, the ranger, has jumped behind us! Leaving us facing the long black form, slithering into the woods. I guess he was more scared than we were. Thankfully, the business end was already in the bushes. Just when I was thinking, “That wasn’t so bad,” from over my shoulder, Mark says, “Black Mamba,” in an ominous ghost-story kind of way. My heart skipped four beats as I glanced back down at the most poisonous snake in Africa. Helpfully, Mark says, “Don’t tamper with it,” as if I was going to start poking it and swinging it around by the tail. It made its way into the woods, and I was about to quickly stride by, when the rangers discussed and decided that we should go around by a different trail. I was fine with this. Along the way I tried to break the ice and said, “So, if he bites me Mark, you will take care of me right?” Mark just laughed. I expected him to say something comforting but he didn’t. I stopped and looked at him, until he said, “Sir, Black Mamba is serious poison… you would die.” Oh excellent. These guys have a few things to learn about tourism.

So we made our way around by a different trail which abruptly ended. Mark turned to us and said in his ghost story voice, “And now, we enter the woods.” He pushed aside a few branches and revealed a small, dark trail. I turned to my sister, and flashed the Ford family “What in the hell?” look. After seeing a Black Mamba the last thing I want to start doing is bush-whacking our way through the jungle. But we made it through, and in to our tree-house. As Mark was leaving he said, “Oh, I hope you can find you’re way back.” Yeah, me too Mark, me too.

After unpacking, we forced ourselves back along the trail, hearts beating in our throats. I knew we had to conquer Black Mamba Avenue, or we would be screwed for the whole weekend. I yelled out, “Heellllloooo Snakes! It’s just me… coming through… Okay?” My sister flashed me the Ford Family, “Shut the $%^% up” look. We made it through back to the base camp, where J.B., who ended up being our chimp guide the next day, said with a hearty laugh, “Ahh, so I hear our friend Mamba has welcomed you.”

Hahahahahah, yeah, that’s right J.B.… shut it.

I was amused however, on the way to Kibale National Park (pronounced Chibolay, the Ki always being Ch here, which makes me wonder what they think of Chick Boxing). We were headed up a road that made me want to rename the town Fort Pot-Hole when I saw a sign that read “Blood Bank” and then right underneath, “Canteen,” apparently catering to the East African Vampire population. I didn’t have time to pause for reflection.

Post Script:

On our return home, I discovered that apparently, Jameson’s insistence on the merits of Fort Portal women was a hilarious misunderstanding. He insists that he was trying to tell us that the stalactites in the caves resemble women’s breasts hanging down. I said, “what about the ‘no shirts’?” He said “Yeah… breasts with no shirts.” Fair enough. And he was totally correct, the caves are named after a mythical king who locked up his daughter in the caves and cut off her breasts to curb suitors. Even still she got pregnant, and then fed the child from the milky sediment dripping from the stalactites. What do you know. Here I was thinking poor Jameson was a pervert. Then again, I was the one who was disapointed.