Jared and Dianne

It was dark when we arrived in Mbale but the streets were swarming with people. All sorts of makeshift shops and restaurants lined the pavement. Coming from sleepy Bujigali it was like entering Vegas. The town itself was not very big but it had a lively atmosphere for the time of night. We found a nice hotel and ate at the Indian restaurant downstairs.

The next morning we tried to get some money out from the ATM but it wasn't accepting any of our four cards. We had been successfully using the same bank throughout Uganda so we assumed that the international lines were down. With most of our remaining money we decided on a short trip out to Sipi Falls to allow the system to recover.

We caught a matatu out to the two bit town called Sipi. There were at least two cheap campsites to chose from. Each offered the most fantastic view of the gorge and the main drop. The falls are made up of three distinct sections but the last is what you come to see. A stream of water plunges 100m to the depths of the gorge below. With ocher coloured rock as the background and a gaping cave running behind the waterfall it looks like a scene from an Enid Blyton book. The gorge is a mixture of red cliffs and green pastures.

The sky was as black as soot when we were setting up our tent. We decided to delay our walk to the bottom of the falls until the next day. We organised lunch at the hotel's restaurant. I specifically asked what the quickest meal would be, the answer was categorically spaghetti. Not my ideal choice but we knew that these places could be slow to deliver. We played cards on the deck whilst we waited for the spaghetti to cook. The eccentric German come Ugandan manager sparked up a conversation with us, his mannerisms were frustrating and the topics even worse. His personality grew on us by the end of our stay but he was undeniably different. We had been waiting for two hours for our food to arrive when we saw someone walking up the road with a packet of pasta. They had only just bought the ingredients.

For something to do in the afternoon we trotted off in the opposite direction of the falls, towards a small hill that sat just behind our campsite. Along the way we passed a local communal area, by the time we had passed through we had a dozen or so children in tow. We had planned to go to the top of the hill to watch the sunset but the children led us to a series of caves pocketed into the side of the hill. The view was fine but any chance of seeing a sunset was thwarted by the arrival of rain. We explored the caves as an alternative. Like most cave systems they were far bigger than the entrance suggested. I would have loved to explore more than we did but the fading batteries in my head torch meant that spelunking would be too risky. On the way out I bumped my head on the ceiling, it send a reverberating thud around the cave. Instinctively my hand felt for the spot I had hit, a bump had already began to form and a small spot of blood transferred to my finger.

We waited for the rain to settle under the canopy of the cave. We sat on a rock looking out over the ever fading landscape. The kids all wanted to climb up and sit with us, we took a few photos their satisfaction. When it came time to leave the smaller children were stranded on the rock so I assisted them down. Jealousy amongst the bigger kids meant that I had to carry them as well. Some of the more eager ones climbed back up the rock so they could have two turns.

We had dinner by kerosene lamp in our neighboring camp. It had been burnt down a few months prior so the restaurant which was probably used to catering for tourist had become a locals' eatery.

The next day we decided to walk down to the falls unguided. We had very little cash left, actually we had exactly what we needed for entrance ($1 each), a matatu to town and the equivalent of 50 cents left over. The path was made up of slippery mud sections and even slipperier ladders. The path veered away from the falls but we assumed it would switch back. A local farmer approached us and said that we must be lost, news to us. Without asking he assumed the role of guide. We told him that we had only enough money for entry but he seemed undeterred. After negotiating on the entrance fees we continued to the base of the falls. Fog had rolled into the valley over the duration of the walk. By the time we reached the falls we couldn't really see anything. Regardless of the conditions I played around on the rocks that stood in the terminal pool. The wind carried the spray from the falls for over twenty metres, slowly soaking everything in range. It was the cause of lush vegetation but meant that I needed to move on for the well being of my camera and phone. Our guide took us back to the top and we gave him the last of our local currency.

We were forced to pay the hotel in US which resulted in a poor exchange rate but we had anticipated this from the start. We didn't have to wait long for a matatu because it was the local market day. To make things faster we caught a matatu towards the market and then a second matatu into Mbale. When it came time for the change over the driver of the second van opened the back for us to put our bags in. Wedged in between the door, the seats, boxes and bags was a passenger. He looked like a tetras piece just filling in his part of the puzzle. I thought his legs might disappear if someone completed the bottom line. I had seen many crazy things in Africa but the smile on the guys face when the door was opened kept me laughing all the way into town.

We went back to the ATM but it would still not accept our cards. The locals' cards were working so we knew that it wasn't the ATM specifically. We changed $30 odd dollars into Ugandan Shillings, saving $100 for Kenyan visas. The first thing we did was call the Commonwealth bank. The lines kept cutting us short but they were less than helpful. They couldn't fix the problem or call us back. A little desperate we decided to send ourselves a Western Union money transfer. Just as we were looking it up online the power cut out. We had no more Internet that day. Di organised a credit arrangement at the hotel and the restaurant downstairs until Monday. Due to the close of banks (it was Saturday afternoon) we couldn't even change the last of our money over.

I wasn't too concerned about wasting a day in Mbale because I could work on some online job applications but power outages all day meant that we got no more than 30 minutes on the computer. I used this precious time to try and organise a money transfer. We needed a reliable local contact number for confirmation. We couldn't provide it so we abandoned that idea until we had exhausted our other options.

We plunged head first into the New Taxi Stand in Kampala. It could compete with Mecca as the most hectic place in the world. Thousands of mini-vans with no more than 10cm between anyone of them were crammed into an area about the size of a football pitch. Carrying our huge backpacks with mattresses strapped onto the side made it almost impossible to navigate the continuously changing labyrinth of vehicles. It took at least 15 minutes to walk 50 metres. When we finally found the Jinja matatus they were right next to another gate. Even still it took the van ten minutes to reach the road. I felt sorry for the taxis in the middle which would need at least an hour to break free.

The trip from Kampala to Jinja should take around 1-2 hours depending on traffic in the capital. It took us nearly three. The highway had been washed away during the storms we had watched from the comfort of our hotel a week prior. This meant that all of the vehicles plying this major route needed to find another way. There were a series of worn, dirt tracks criss-crossing the country side to give access to the surrounding farm lands. Our driver took his pick, somehow after subjecting the van to much torture we were back on sealed road, past the damaged tarmac.

We hoped to organise our river activities in Jinja that day so after a quick lunch we went in search of Internet. We found an access point and took down the prices and details of the different rafting and kayaking companies. It was probably going to be easier to sought it out in person so we hired a boda-boad (motorbike) to take us to the falls. The first place we visited was Kayak The Nile, At $100 per day with instruction, equipment and lunch it was the maximum price I had allowed. After asking some satisfactorily answered questions we walked down to a campsite which sat right above the falls. Their kayaking and rafting prices were much cheaper but I had to wonder why the others cost so much more. A little skeptical we asked to speak to the organiser. He was not available until the next day. We decided that instead of rushing ourselves we would set aside the following day to select our operator. We set up our tent near the shore of the river just above the falls. It would have provided a great view of the Nile at its most powerful if our tent had windows. The falls are more a string of seven or more impressive rapids than a typical waterfall. They range from grade 5 to 6 and served to get me very excited about the next few days.

Our campsite was swarming with school kids on an excursion which broke the serenity no end. To escape we went for a walk to find a good dinner place. We ended up eating at the place where Prince William had stayed during his visit. It may sound impressive but it was actually a very basic campground that served a few good meals.

The next morning as we set of in search of a good deal for kayaking we were approached by a local guy. Without introducing himself he said "I was told there were two mzungus who wanted to learn to kayak". We assumed that to be us and asked what a five day itinerary might be. When he told us that we were going to learn to roll in the morning then do the rapids, pointing to the grade fives and sixes in front of us we told him we'd think about it. After going to all the offices for all the companies we discovered that our only real option was Kayak The Nile. We got free dorm accommodation thrown in at the Nile Explorers campsite when we signed up for three days, looking to extend to five. We had planned on doing a Nile Breweries tour that afternoon but it was touch and go with time so we ended up just milling around Jinja. On our way back to Bujigali falls that night we were stopped at a road block. There were dozens of people standing on the side of the road carrying Ugandan flags. A car emerged from a near by driveway. It was the president of Uganda. He was standing in an open roofed car waving proudly to his constituents. In return they jumped and screamed fanatically. It reminded me of footage from The Beatles tour of Australia, just on a smaller scale.

That night, in an attempt to avoid the ridiculous food prices inside the camp we found a little stall called The Bujugali Chapatti Company. Run by a young, budding kayaker named Shaffi. It served a variety of vegetarian, chapatti based wraps for genuine street prices. We ran a tab with him for the remainder of our time there and consumed nearly forty chapattis.

We met our instructor at nine in the morning. His name was Ibra. He was 6 foot something and more ripped than a hobos t-shirt. As a professionally qualified local who had been kayaking the same river for near ten years he instilled confidence. After introductions we kitted ourselves out with a skirt, boat, helmet, life jacket, paddle and water bottle. We spent the morning in the flat waters near the camp. There we learnt several different stroke styles and got used to the hyper sensitive movements of the boats. Following the basics we practiced T-Rescues, one of us tipped upside down and with assistance of the other persons boat we righted ourselves. It was simple enough but difficult to do properly. The idea was to use mostly our hips and just a little assistance from the hands. Whilst useful in its own right it was used as an introduction to eskimo rolls.

We were fed well for lunch with homemade sandwiches and a handful of assorted snacks. After letting that settle we were taken by truck to the base of the dam wall. We quickly recapped all of the morning lessons. Then we moved on to rolls. To begin with Ibra guided our paddles into the set up position for us. Di managed to get upright on the very first try and backed it up the second go. It wasn't so easy for me though and I took three attempts. Without paddle guiding it was a little more difficult, we got it sometimes and not at others. When we were tired of the flats and ready for the real thing we took off down the river. There were several grade one or two rapids between us and the camp. These were separated by flats where we could practice the basics again. The Nile is renowned for its high volume and thus large standing waves so even though we never exceeded a grade two there was still a 1m high wave to tackle. Di flipped on the final rapid and nearly ended up swimming down Bujugali Falls. Luckily Ibra came to the rescue, after taking her to the shore he drained her boat and then towed her back up the river. We both had an absolute ball in the afternoon and our improvement was bolstering. Before we stopped for the day I practiced my rolls again with varying levels of success.

For the second morning we learnt about ferry lines, a fancy way of saying how to cross rapids without being pulled too far down. At first we tried crossing water which didn't even rank, then we moved onto grade ones and eventually twos. It was harder than I expected as you need to lean in the counter-intuitive direction, down stream. We certainly didn't master the art that morning but were capable of crossing the grade twos on occasions.

Again in the afternoon we ran the dam section of the river. This time we incorporated our ferry lines into the run. I even tried a little wave surfing in the grade ones. This in turn provided numerous attempts at rolling in the rapids. Again it was touch and go if I got them or not. One time I rolled so intently that I rolled right over until I was back upside down.

By the time day three came around, seven hours a day of paddling had taken its toll on Di, she was exhausted.Until lunch time we re-ran the same trip as the afternoon of day two. This time we took on some slightly more tricky lines at the bottom but it was mostly for practice.

The afternoon was a big step up. We took a forty minute truck drive to the access point for a rapid called Superhole. Ibra didn't tell us but in order to get to Superhole we either had to portage or run a grade three rapid. As we approached the rapid we could see nothing but a big drop and jets of water being shot up from the turbulence below. Instead of heading straight down we pulled over at a rock near the top to scope it out. There was a massive drop with a pit at the bottom. The water was being thrown back in over and over again. I considered that some of the water may have been trapped there so long its long service leave was due. This pit was called the 'death pit' and I deemed its name to be accurate. Between the death pit and a rock riddled path to the left was a small section of green water which was the easiest route. Ibra pointed out a hydrangea that was going where I was meant to go. Di chickened out and I decided to run it. The rapid was a grade three but 50cm either side was a grade 5.

My nerves were racing when I came in. I avoided the two standing waves at the top and rode the step hydro-chute down the two metre drop. At the bottom I clipped the edge of the wave responsible for the death pit. Despite hitting right on line I was still greeted by a metre high foaming wave of white water. I was flipped immediately and managed to roll back up almost quickly. I threw my hands up with pride and was tipped again by the next wave for my sin. This time I couldn't roll. Ibra came and we did a T-Rescue. As I waited for Di I saw the hydrangea again. This time it was torn into dozens of pieces. It sat in an edie at the bottom of the falls surrounded by other vegetation which had suffered a similar fate. So much for a good line. Di portaged down but could not ferry across the rapid. She flipped and took off down the river. Ibra went after her and I was left to ferry across it by myself. Luckily I managed it ok. When we were all upright and back together we found ourselves at the wrong side of the river. We ferried across five rapids to get to Superhole. Di flipped twice on these. By the time we were finally where we wanted to be Di was fatigued. Whilst she waited on the bank I tried many times to surf the grade three wave belonging to the Superhole rapid. For the first few attempt I couldn't even get in. After much practice and lots of flips I managed to get enter the wave. Now the challenge was staying upright, it was many more flips later that I finally started to get the hang of it. Whilst I couldn't manage the somersaults that Ibra was pulling I was happy just to be in there. I had about three good rides but i was wearing out, I was no longer capable of rolling and we were running out of time. We paid a local to carry Di's boat back to the truck and headed home.

In the hope of Di recovering we took a break the next day. Except for using a bit of free internet and taking a trip into town to get out some money and to have a change of flavour we didn't do much at all. Night time was as horrible as usual. we were sharing the camp with a group of professional kayakers, the kind that make the movies. They were absolute cocks, throwing things, breaking glasses and carrying on like they owned the world.

When it was time to return to the water I was by myself. Di was more than happy to stay and read her book. Not only was she getting tired but the force of the rapids we were taking on were somewhat intimidating for her. In order to resuscitate my recently acquired skills we repeated the day three rapids. This time with a lot more aggression and success. In the morning I could ferry everything on the dam section without any drama and my rolls were coming off without fail. In the afternoon I even managed to get down the monster drop and past death pit without flipping. We ran Superhole from the top and took off from where we finished the last time we were there. Being the only student in the class and having worked so hard already I wore out very quickly. That being said I still managed to get a few surfs in, at the mercy of the wave. On the other hand my rolls were deteriorating rapidly.

I was very happy with what I had learnt over the four days I had been instructed but for the final day I just wanted to run some big waves and drops. With that in mind Ibra took me to some distant rapids. Usually run as the second day of a kayaking trip. We carried our kayaks down a steep face and dropped them into a pool at the bottom. I had only a 2 by 1 metre pool to warm up in. We had just portaged past a massive grade six and began at the bottom. Within two strokes I found myself in a long series of big waves which made up a grade three rapid. The tiniest of pools at the bottom fed straight into a long grade two and then calm. I put it down to freshness that I got through this upright. The remainder of the trip was made up of some killer grade threes and fours. Some of which extended for over 100m. The names of some included Vengeance, Hair Of The Dog and Kula Shaker. I can't remember which was which but i distinctly recall running a big grade four. It began with some monstrous 2 metre waves. I managed to pass through these and avoid the most horrendous looking pit/whirlpool. Nearing the bottom of the rapid I passed Ibra who was caught in a wave. As I was watching him I got caught in another wave myself. I was flipped, I waited for some calm water to right myself but it never came. Out of patience and out of air I rolled where I was only to find myself exactly where I had gone over, still in the wave. I didn't have long to take in the scenery before I was thrown back down into the pit. This time I was forced to pull my skirt. Ibra came and grabbed me and my boat. With no chance to get back in I was forced to swim the next 150+ metres of rapids until we hit the pool at the bottom. fortunately I had fallen at the last big wave but I was disappointed to miss out on kayaking the rest.

I had conquered nearly all the rapids of the day and was feeling mighty proud of myself when we reached the heralded Nile Special. A grade 3-4 wave which brings the world's elite for an annual freestyle competition. I was expecting just one wave with some meager rapids behind but was greeted by an entire train of hormone taking waves. That said I was able to get through without much difficulty and it was certainly easier than some of the other rapids. The challenge was to actually get in and surf the wave. Rather than go headlong into such an adventure I decided to take some lunch. My arms were like jelly from five days of paddling and my rolling had declined into a pitiful state once again. I watched Ibra and a couple of safety kayakers flip and spin on the wave. It was getting on a bit and I readied myself. The run into the wave was treacherous enough without having to ferry in and then turn around (or go down backwards). I didn't even get close. I tried half heartedly to roll but it was all over. We paddled to our waiting truck via the Hairy Lemon Island. Determined to go out on a positive note I practiced my previously perfected rolls in the final pool. To my utter frustration and Ibra's bewilderment I couldn't get up. I took my boat to the edge and drained it. At least forty litres of water flowed from my already 14kg boat. The next time I tried I rolled five times in a row, almost effortlessly. It was a perfect day to finish a great time at the Nile. Whilst it hadn't been cultural it had been fun.

After collecting Di and our bags from the camp we organised the truck to take us into town. Before we said our final good byes i ran to grab a couple of chapattis for the road. We had become close to Shaffi over the duration of our stay and he gave us an avocado as a farewell present. It was funny but touching. He doesn't have much money compared to me and what he does have he works 14 hours a day to earn. To give any sort of present to a wealthy foreigner is a big deal. The bus dropped us at the taxi stand from where we caught the last matatu to Mbale.

The only difference between the trip from Kampala to Masindi and the reverse direction was the order of events. Five hours of potholes and one hour of speedbumps instead of vice-versa. Di and I told ourselves we had to look for a cheap room this time due to a small hike in fees at the old favourite. It wasn't until we were pulling into town that I said "Let's be honest, we're going back to the Astoria". Di laughed, she'd been thinking the same thing.

Perhaps in the hope of recreating ou last stay in Kampala we hired another DVD player and a few movies. We also bought jelly crystals again and some soft drinks. That night we had a great night in and retired relatively early. I was woken from sleep by a drunk couple passing through the corridor. Their door closed and I tried to get back to sleep. I thought I heard a slapping sound but then nothing more came of it. I was just begining to nod off when I heard the noise again followed by a sound of anguish. I asked Di what she though it, she assumed they were just rough lovers. I waited a bit but the sounds kept coming. I went down to get the staff, they dismissed me. So blarze were they that I assumed they were regulars. A rich guy with a night's entertainment. I went back to be and slept. Around an hour later the noises started up again but the distress was evident this time. Street worker or not this was now abuse. I went down stairs to get the guard to help. He was asleep in his chair, twelve gauge unattended beside him. I woke him up but he wouldn't help. Instead I got the desk attendent to accompany me. On my way down I had seen the guy involved. A solid, skin headed man of aryian stock. Desperate for some sort of equaliser I wrapt my belt around my knuckles, buckle out. I told Di to lock herself in the room. The desk attendant wanted to wait for assistance by the cries from behind the door couldn't wait. I knew the police would take forever to come, if they did at all. I called out "Mr? Sir? Could you please come out here for a minute." The noises behind the door stopped. I called him again, then threatened to call the police. The woman had a shiny swollen face but did not look as bad as I expected. She told us to go away and shut the door. It was a surprise to me but I insisted the guy come outside. She opened the door, he was mostly disrobed and she had his pants to stop him running away. His eyes flashed down to my hands and he started talking.

He told me that he was glad we had come because he'd been trying to leave but that his girlfriend (a Kenyan) would not let him. I told him that I wasn't interested. I wanted to know what the sounds had been. She blurted out, "He's been beating me. OK." Obviously it wasn't OK and I said that I should call the cops. The guy was surprisingly resigned to the idea and said that if I must then that was OK. I got my phone from the room when the hotel attendant said that they would just take a bribe and leave. He was right and I was stumped. I stated without a doubt that this was not the first time. They both said that it was not, but that it was the worst time. I announced that that was preciseley my concern. Each time these incidents occured they would be more and more severe. It was disgusting to hear him complain that she had called him names or that she could defend herself. I thought about if it was some of my friends in the situation and not me, he would have been a bloody mess on the floor. I decided to act as a mediator offereing less than professional counselling, trying to convince the two to seperate. She swore that nxt time something happened it would be over but most importantly, for the now they had calmed down. There would be no more violence for the night. I went to bed horrified. There was nothing I could do to stop it happening again. I had even heard him confess that it was likely. I went back to Di and we fell asleep.

I had hoped to fill in some more job applications via the Internet the next day but chronic power outages in the internet cafes meant that I achieved very little. Instead Di and I kicked back (like we had been working hard and needed a break.)

According to the guide book the road to Masindi was less than four hours but a man on the Posta Bus told us, to the amusement of all the passengers on board, that we had one hour of bumps and 5 hours of potholes between us and our stopover. He was uncannily accurate so it was with great relief that we piled off the bus when we did.

We had lunch in a tourist cafe in the hope of finding a hitch into the national park. Instead we just found food and soda. We caught the last matatu of the day to a town called Bulisa. Only 100km on the map it took over four hours to get there. Needless to say it was well and truly dark when we disembarked from the fourteen seater mini-van which until our exit had contained 27 souls.

An albino that sat near us had phoned ahead to make sure that some boda-bodas where there to meet us. After negotiating what we though was a good price we jumped on the back. My bike was carrying the driver, me, both Di's and my large packs and my day bag. With only a faint headlight we rode down the dirt road to Murchison Falls National Park by guidance of the moon. We nearly tipped when we hit some thick sand and I let out a half sarcastic half serious phew. The driver laughed and said no problem. The next time this happened we were doing nearly 40 km/h I gasped. The driver asked if it was my first time on a bike. I explained that although I had only been a passenger for the last few years I started riding when I was six years old. I resisted asking him if it was his first time on a bike.

We arrived at the park gates and were devastated to find that they were not marked on our map. They were several kilometres from where we wanted to go. To triple our woes it meant we had to pay unanticipated park fees for the night as well as the boda-boda entry fees, the drivers' entries and the drivers to take us the extra distance. The ATM had been malfunctioning in Masindi so our funds were low enough without this. We tried to coax the ranger into letting us camp outside the gates but he wouldn't allow it. With not many options we decided to wing it. Over sixteen hours after departing from Kampala we arrived at the Red-Chilli Camp. Food was finished for the night so Di asked the barman to boil some water for us. While it was on the cooker I set up the tent and Di set up the plates. We had some left over noodles from Selous so we ate them with the water. A couple of American guys took pity on our disheveled state and asked if we would like to join them for a safari drive in the morning. It was a very tempting offer but as they were leaving through another gate, it meant that we would have to miss the boat ride up to the falls.

Di ate a small breakfast but I refrained for the sake of saving our precious cash reserves. We walked down to the park headquarters and paid our for entry fees for the previous night. We also bought two tickets for the launch ride. We arrived at the dock a bit earlier and watched the workers spill litres of fuel into the protected river. The boat we used was a double decker launch. There was room for dozens of people on board but there were 4 spare seats to every taken one. On the way up the river the provided guide pointed out many birds that we had already seen as well as several species of antelope. Near the falls was crock territory but the dominant animal was the hippo. They filled the waters in their hundreds. Unlike the numerous times we have seen them in the past these ones stood up regularly displaying the entirety of their powerful bulk. The falls themselves were lack luster in my opinion. Apparently the most powerful falls in Africa or Uganda (I can't remember) they were more like a big hydro-chute than a waterfall. The boat didn't get very close to the base of them so in order to see them properly we would have had to pay another $10 to walk to the top and catch the afternoon launch back to camp. Even if we thought it was good value our cash situation would not allow it.

Back at camp our bags were waiting where we left them. I asked everywhere for a ride out of the park but no one was leaving until the following day. It was crunch time. We had just enough money on hand to pay for another set of park and camping fees and nothing else thus relying on a hitch to get away. Alternatively or we could safely get back to Masindi using public transport that day but waste the money we had and endure the reverse of the day before. We chose to play it safe, we waited by the side of the road hoping to grab a ride but no one leaves the park in the afternoon. We contracted a motorbike owned by a park staff member which meant we avoided the park fees. Somehow we managed to fit the driver, Di, me, two bulging backpacks and two day packs onto the one bike. The ride to Bulisa was a test of endurance. The exhaust also claimed the sole of Di's shoe. Even the Vietnamese would have been impressed with our effort.

As soon as we had unpacked the bike a matatu arrived but it was bound for Tororo not Masindi. I was doing some calculations and I figured that we may have just been able to visit the chimpanzees on our current cash, assuming that they were the listed $10 per person. On this basis we both skipped lunch.

We propped ourselves against a shaded wall and waited for the matatu that would never come. The one we had let pass was the last for the day. We tried hitching for 3 hours but no rides were forthcoming. Not that no one was willing to help, it was just that no one was going in our direction. We were just about to give up for the night when a truck pulled over. Bound for Masindi but overnighting in Biso. Fortune was serving us well as Biso is the nearest town to the Budongo Forest where we hoped to track the chimps. We took the cabin seats and immediately got engrossed in conversation with the driver and his colleague. Like so many people in Africa they seemed to think that everything I said was a joke even when I was being serious so we all had some good laughs at my expense.

Night had truly set in by the time our truck's worn out brakes brought our hitch to an end. Still hoping to make the chimps without having to return to Masindi we asked directions to the police station. There, under the watchful eye of Biso's finest we set up our tent in the compound. For some reason the the boys (and girl) in blue thought our tent too pitiful and offered us to stay in the cottage. We could never offend Big Agnes (our tent) like that so we politely declined. Despite our obvious intentions to conserve money some locals who looked no more filthy than ourselves tried to beg. We turned them away empty handed and went to bed with empty stomaches. I listened with horror to the guano raining down on Big Agnes from the overhead tree.

We emerged from the tent in the blue light of dawn. The policemen were doing the same and the personable female officer offered us some tea. We were more interested in the first matatu of the day which had just pulled into town. One of the more junior officers walked us over, guaranteeing us a seat in the already axle scraping Toyota. It was no more than 10 kilometres to the forest entrance where we were greeted by a rather eccentric Australian. We asked him if it was the place for chimp tracking. He responded by telling us in a mix of standard and cryptic English that it might be, there was lots of things to do in the forest and then completed his jumbled sentence by saying it was possible. The slightly less burdened Hi-Ace drove off and a jovial looking ranger walked up. The crazy, I'm guessing bird-watcher, Aussie took it upon himself to talk for us. He knew the ranger by name so he'd obviously been there for a while. The short and long of the response was that we couldn't see the chimps. The venture had ceased 18 months ago as the habituation of the animals had led to fearless behavior and ultimately crop raiding. A problem for the farmers and a danger for the chimps. After all that effort we had been thwarted. With nothing to do we waited for the next ride to town.

The first thing we did was to try and arrange some cash. It was a Monday so the ATM had been brought to a fully functional state. We had money again. No words needed to be spoken to agree on our next stop. The nearest restaurant was the obvious choice. I hadn't eaten for over 40 hours so like shopping on an empty stomache I ordered just about everything on the menu. Well not really but you can be sure I wasn't hungry when I paid the bill.

We called the number of a guy who runs a community based chimp tracking project. He came to meet us with no reason. The project wasn't ready yet. The chimps hadn't been habituated and the forest area wasn't fully developed. This left us with one option. We organised for a boda-boda to take us back into the National Park (via a closer gate) and onward to Kaninyo Pabidi. This meant that we needed to extend our park fees but the driver, to our benefit refused to pay for his.

The ride through the forest was refreshing. The greenery sapped heat from the ambient air, bringing the temperature down a few notches. As the wind gushed over my unprotected head I gazed around content. The light that shone through the branches had a green tinge, softening the usually harsh African landscape. We passed velvet monkeys, baboons and some stunning birds we were to later find our are called Abyssinian Hornbills. We rolled up to an elegantly crafted headquarters where a ranger met us. It was lunch time so we were asked to wait for an hour. They must have eaten quickly because three quarters of an hour later we set off to find the chimps. The trackers radioed their position but there was clearly some communication errors as we crossed our own tracks many times. The forest was divided into a grid pattern with very few identifiable landmarks for navigational purpose so we couldn't hold it against our otherwise agreeable ranger. Half an hour later we found the trackers right back near where we had started. They were sitting down on the path without even feigning interest. They had seen the chimps here but had since ceased tracking them. So we took over their duties, scouring the local area for indicators of the primates' presence. I was starting to worry that we would never see them when another 30 minutes passed by. I thought our ranger was getting ready to give up when a piercing and unmistakable shriek shook the forest to life. It was followed by another and then another. Soon our ears were ringing with the chimps' vocals. To add to the bush orchestra they started up the drums. Beating hollow logs and the bases of the trees they sent forth the trembles of deep bass. In just thirty seconds the forest had transformed. The sounds were all around me and my heart started racing.

We tracked them by their cries and made first contact in 5 minutes. They were walking along the ground in single file. We stood back and watched them from a distance to preserve trust. One by one they filed off into separate trees to begin feeding. Through dense foliage we saw a few chowing down on all varieties of green. We continued on for a better view and found it in the form of a one eyed chimp whose name escapes me. As if to put on a show he swung down low and leisurely across the path. His belly, swollen from a pure vegetarian diet distended in front of him. His big ears, hairy face and beer gut reminded me of Homer Simpson and other such loafy T.V characters. However his confidence when traversing the trees was unparalleled. A few of his comrades came to join the party whilst we stood watching. It was absolutely magical. As we looked on aghast some intern students studying the chimps barged through the trees like kings of the jungle, unsurprisingly the objects of our fascination scattered away into the distance.

We distanced ourselves from the research students and found another group of chimps. These ones were a little higher in the branches but clearly visible. I couldn't believe how quickly the allotted hour expired. On the way back to the headquarters our guide detoured via another part of the forest to show us some different trees including strangler figs and (rich) mahogany.

The clouds were closing in by the time we straddled the bike. We hoped to beat the rain to Masindi but two minutes later we found ourselves riding through a light downpour. We found a cheap hotel in town. The registration book indicated that we were the first people to stay there in 4 months

The last night in Bunyoni we had a few quiet beverages but it wasn't because of them that I woke up sick in the morning. For some reason it's always bus days when I get crook. Regardless of my comfort we pushed on. We caught a shared taxi to Kabale where we transferred to a bus bound for Kampala. There were no spare seats so we had to stand with our bags for over half of the six hour trip.

The bus arrived in a grubby, bustling part of the city. We were disorientated and somewhat nervous for our possessions so without much though we walked towards the built up district near by. We stopped in at a hotel called the Astoria. It was double what we'd usually spend but the rooms were huge as was the bed but the deal sealer was the fridge. I could finally make jelly (jello for Americans).

We glued ourselves to the precious tv for a news report. When it was over we returned to the streets. The sun had sunk but the streets remained as full as before. We ate dinner in a little greasy food joint and went to Shoprite. We were in heaven, it wasn't quite up to scratch of a supermarket back home but there were no complaints from our corner, they even had jelly crystals. I was ready to spend the night there but closing time came around so we muscled our way back to the comfort of our hotel.

The main reason we had come to Kampala was that I needed some reliable internet to punch out a resume and get started on some job applications. As such I had an uninspiring day in front of the computer trying to promote myself as well as I could. All the time knowing that it was going to be especially hard when I couldn't make any interviews. The only break came for lunch. When I had had enough for the day the hundreds of dvd pirate joints around the place led to us hiring a dvd player and a few movies. We stayed up until the wee hours of the morning watching a range of shitty and quality productions.

Of course the late night meant a late morning, this, in coalition with an enduring power failure meant it wasn't until the afternoon that I sent off my first application. Overwhelming heat inside the cafe and sporadic power forced me from my post. I hadn't achieved as much as I wanted in the two days spent in Kampala but I didn't want to stick around too long. If nothing else we had some good food (especially jelly), watched our second (and subsequent) movie since leaving home four months earlier and I had sent off my most important application.