No Stopping for Lions (17 page)

Jinja is to be our next port of call, a stopover on the drive to Sipi Falls over by the Kenyan border. Driving out on the Entebbe–Kampala road — now so familiar that we notice what's going on around us — we're struck by the great number of aid projects.

Roads, schools, children's homes, craft centres and agricultural ventures: every second sign seems to be announcing the financial support of one overseas agency or another. We become so engrossed in these signs — how many there are, how much money is being spent and which countries are most involved–that we're on the outskirts of Jinja, 80 kilometres away, before we know it.

Jinja is a great little town, dilapidated and poorly maintained as most Ugandan towns are, but with wide streets of solid colonial buildings and well-kept double-storeyed houses. The long main street is lined with old verandahed shops reminiscent of a colonial country town in Australia, and this impression is further enforced by a small community of Australian expats. The guesthouse we stay in overnight is owned by Australians, and Ozzie's Café in town is run by a wily old bird from New South Wales. She has been in Uganda for twenty years and, in her words, is carrying on a love/hate relationship with the country she's wound up in. Underneath her tough façade lies a generous heart, as she's fostered many orphaned children and hopes to take her adopted daughter, now a teenager, to Australia for ‘a trial run' as soon as she can muster up the dough.

Jinja lies on the northern shoreline of Lake Victoria at the mouth of the Victoria Nile, and here can be found the official source of the Nile, or more specifically, the source of the White Nile. The natural landmark of the Rippon Falls is now underwater, owing to the construction of a dam upriver in the early 1950s, but the site is marked and has a lovely park on the east bank where local sweethearts wander secretly arm-in-arm and souvenir sellers mope hopefully about. Even though I realise that this one spot can't possibly be the sole source of the famous river, it is still a thrill to be looking out over water that will eventually flow into the Mediterranean Sea, more than 6000 kilometres away.

Roadside signs heading out of Jinja suggest that the number of aid agencies could be eclipsed by the number of churches. These, spun from more local roots, come with inspirational names: there's the Hell Fire Gospel Church, God's Herbal and AIDS Ministry, and the one I'd like to belong to, the True Vine Church. Passenger coaches are also christened with imaginative names that are emblazoned in big bright printing across their brows. Most — like ‘Victory is Mine', ‘Red Eagle First Class' and ‘Linear Express' — are designed to engender confidence in the brave souls who venture on board, so we have to look twice when ‘White Cock' comes hurtling towards us. I suggest that it could be named after the owner's pride and joy, the king of his henhouse, but Neil thinks it could be a racist slur.

At Sipi Falls Rest Camp we're introduced to Nelly, a local girl who takes us on walks around the many waterfalls and through the town. She is earning money to complete secondary school, and then she hopes to win a scholarship to go to university. In her opinion the people who earn the most money are lawyers, doctors and those who work for the Revenue Department, and one of these careers is her goal. She greets many town folk along the way and we're struck by the courteous manner in which she speaks to everyone, whether they are wearing neat Western attire or dressed literally in rags. Some encounters are polite and brief, others are more lengthy, flirtatious, but all involve a handshake, an arm around a waist or just a light linking of fingers. Neil is surprised that, while growing up in Africa, he never noticed how tactile African society is and this leads him to realise that there is most certainly a lot more that he just didn't see. It makes him uncomfortable to think that he lived his young life disinterested in another society that was trying to survive alongside his relatively privileged one.

The only other guest at the camp is a woman from the German Consulate who is involved in the design and implementation of aid programs financed from Germany. She has a positive outlook for Uganda's future, seeing a curb on corruption as overseas loan bodies insist on transparent auditing. But it's got a way to go yet, judging by the unfortunate situation she's found herself in.

Her job requires her to work side by side with local authorities in distributing aid money and overseeing projects, and she believed that the German government had finally established a situation in Uganda where funds it provided were being effectively funnelled to their intended cause. Her thirtieth birthday was looming, and family and friends back home had been asking her what she would like as a present. She suggested that a small donation from each of them would finance a new school building and they happily agreed, so she confidently collected their money and got the school project underway. She used the now-established line of command and worked with trusted officials, doing everything just the same as if she were operating in an official capacity. But the money went missing. No one seemed to know where it was or who had it when, and she was too embarrassed to tell the folk back home that she had lost the loot.

We leave Uganda with mixed feelings. Neil loves the place, its greenness, its generosity and its history. I find that I'm looking forward to crossing into Kenya and can only put this down to wanting to get back to the dry brown landscapes of my mind's Africa. It isn't that I don't like Uganda — who couldn't, with its beautiful scenery and wonderful people? — it's more a pull to move on.

At the quiet Malaba border post the chief immigration officer invites us into his neat but shabby office and asks us if we've found Uganda to our liking. Thinking that this is some sort of test we have to pass before he'll stamp our passports, we voice all the right praise and nod enthusiastically. He shakes his head sadly and begins to tell us of the problems he sees facing his country. Neil is the first to twig that this is not an official interrogation but a social visit, and before long the two of them are discussing the present and future state of the nation. The chief gets around to mentioning that he wants to develop a resort at Sipi Falls, would we be interested in investing in it? ‘No? Just thought I'd ask.' Some time later we get up to leave and our new friend farewells us as if Neil were his brother going off to war. He shakes our hands more than once and we drive off past him standing in his doorway, waving.
Bye bye wuzungus! Kwaheri, kwaheri karibu
. Goodbye, goodbye and welcome.

Our first stop in Kenya is in the lush Kakamega Forest, where we stay at Rondo Retreat, a calming and peaceful place of green lawns, cream cottages and towering trees. It is run by the Trinity Fellowship, a Christian society committed to conservation, and has a very English feel. There are wide verandahs with chintz furnishings, and landscaped gardens, and the overall effect is one of understated civility. It is a birders Mecca and visitors are here either for the birdlife or on retreat, as the name suggests. The forest is incorporated in a national reserve and has an enviable diversity of flora and fauna, as well as its important bird population. The figures are amazing for such a relatively small tract of land: there are 400 different butterflies, seven primate species and 27 species of snake. We stay for two days and luckily encounter none of the latter on our long walks through the forest, but do notch up 32 types of butterfly.

Then it's on to Ruma National Park, in the far south-western corner of Kenya, which has been recently re-established to protect the only population of roan antelope in the country. Financed by overseas loans, the park is surrounded by a fancy new fence and has modern offices and very keen staff. It's a pity that the funding didn't extend to improving the gravel approach road, which is so potholed that we move at a crawl, but the internal tracks are good and well maintained. We've heard rumours that the park has a problem with poachers as it is surrounded on all sides by villages, and there's an incongruous bicycle track running inside one border which locals use as a short-cut to get from place to place.

We're directed to Oribi Guesthouse, a park rest house that has had a facelift too thanks to the influx of funds. It's bright but basic and perched on a ridge overlooking the Lambwe Valley in which the park sits. The view is wonderful and the cottage attendant welcoming, and we've just unpacked when there's a knock on the door and two friendly faces peer in. Here are the park warden and a minister from the local church, and they've popped around to say hello. We sit in the lounge room exchanging pleasantries, admiring the view, praising the virtues of the new park. Neil is sending me eye messages — what are they doing here? Do they want a donation? — but after a polite period of time they leave with a friendly cheery-bye and the attendant informs us shyly that perhaps they just wanted a cup of tea.

At dusk we sit on the terrace and watch the sun go down behind the last of the afternoon's storm clouds, and in the failing light try hard to spot the handsomely horned roan antelope on the valley floor below. We eat and read by lamplight and go to bed early. We're both fast asleep but wake with a start when car doors slam, followed by agitated voices just outside our cottage. Neil peers out through the curtains and sees lights shining on shadowy figures down in the garden. It's got to be poachers caught red-handed so he throws on some clothes, grabs a torch and bursts out of our front door to join the action. I stay in bed under the protection of the mosquito net. In no time things go quiet and the vehicles drive off, and Neil returns with the news that it was just the warden and staff with a visiting expert inspecting the outflow from our troubled septic tank.

Game drives in the Troopy over the next two days reveal plenty of giraffe, waterbuck and locals on bikes, and of course there's the protected roan antelope, looking content and unconcerned about their uniqueness. With big ears, strong horns and short, stiff manes running down their solid necks, their most distinguishing feature is a startling bandit-mask face of black and white. The warden had told us of the paradox which confronts park management: to attract more visitors it should have large predators like lions, but with these the roan population would quickly diminish, negating the reason for the park in the first place. As it is, it's an attractive and well-stocked park, but 24 hours is enough to see everything it currently has to offer.

The drive from the border through the far north-west of Tanzania is breathtakingly spectacular and it makes us wonder why this part of the world is ignored in travel itineraries and guidebooks. The road is excellent by African standards and not very busy, and when we cross the Mara River we know we're within braying distance of the Serengeti. This is confirmed when quite bizarrely we see zebras and wildebeest grazing to our left, while goats and cattle wander around on the other side of the road. The number of dead dogs left on the road is a little disconcerting, but more worrying is the unconscious body of a young man lying with his bloodied head and upper body in the way of oncoming traffic and surrounded by others who are pointedly ignoring him. Why hasn't someone dragged him off into the gutter for safety? Has he been left there as a sort of punishment because he was drunk, or a thief? We don't find out the answer to his predicament but we do learn the reason for the preponderance of dogs — the locals like to keep them to protect their stock from hyenas.

We spend a couple of nights in Speke Bay Lodge on the banks of Lake Victoria. If we were to swim 250 kilometres due west across the lake from here, we'd land very close to the hotel we stayed at in Entebbe. Instead we take a boat trip to the nearest village and under a blue, blue sky three young men, boys really, row and sing as they knock their oars on the side of the boat in a slow, hypnotic drumbeat. At the village a little girl latches onto my finger with a tight lobster grip and proudly leads me around the compound, showing me off to her friends. They gather around to have their photos taken and out from a
banda
trots a little chubby toddler to join them, round happy face covered with the remains of a mielie-meal lunch. The other kids join Neil and me as we have a good laugh at his appearance and an older boy tells him good-naturedly to go home and wash his face if he wants to have his photo taken. He's reluctant to leave but, intimidated by our amusement and the older boy's authority, he walks off, stiff with embarrassment, chin on his chest and bandy legs dragging in the dust. He doesn't appear again until we're being rowed away, then we see him on the shore with his face slightly cleaner than before, now with the telltale smears of mielie-meal all over the tails of his tatty T-shirt. He has tried his best, but by now our cameras are packed away.

With English silver on the table and wood panelling in the tents, Kirawira Tented Camp in the Western Serengeti gives us the impression that we're on safari with the Prince of Wales. The pre–World War I one. The staff seem a little bewildered that we've turned up in the Troopy but I suppose that most of their guests arrive by private plane. However, they put a brave face on it and give us a prime tent perched on a rocky outcrop looking out over forest and plain, and northward as far as the Grumeti River. At dawn I'm up just in time to watch a family of elephants trudge single file back into the trees through a dreamlike misty rain. It's a quiet and peaceful place, but this could be because we are the only guests.

A ranger is organised to guide us on an afternoon game drive, and we've been out for only 30 minutes or so when the light drizzle turns into a solid downpour. Thinking of the Troopy, Neil wants to turn back. I want to continue so that I can see what animals do when it's raining, and the ranger wants a drive in a big powerful vehicle so we press on. With no English, just hand signals to direct us, the ranger takes us down gullies of wet black cotton soil and up steep slippery banks, past giraffe standing stoically and bedraggled, baboons looking miserable. At one point he opens the door, jumps out and disappears from view, and we can't see what's going on through the fogged windows and beating windscreen wipers. Then he returns with a prize: a large leopard tortoise for me to photograph.

Driving eastward from Kirawira through the Serengeti's western corridor we see some wonderful sights. Two giraffes gracefully, hypnotically entwine legs and necks in a courting ritual so erotically choreographed that I believe I can hear Ravel's
Bolero
playing in the background. Then minutes later more courting: a male secretary bird up in the sky weaves around his mate, then dives straight down to earth, pulling up only at the last minute. The sky-larking Lothario does this again and again in a display of reckless bravado that must surely sweep her off her feet. We drive to the Grumeti River to see for ourselves the monster crocs that gorge themselves on hapless wildebeest and zebra crossing the river during the migration. But this time of year the river is running at a trickle, and although there are many large crocs, the only monster we see is a huge hippo, the biggest we've ever seen, lurking solitary in a shallow slimy pool.

All the guidebooks we've read show the great migration moving in a big clockwise circle, heading northward in winter to Kenya's Masai Mara through the western side of the Serengeti, staying in the Mara during the spring months, then moving back down into Tanzania to the vast grasslands of the south-eastern Serengeti, brought to life by spring rains. With this in mind we've estimated that we'll intercept the migration in the Lobo area of the northeastern Serengeti and have booked camps accordingly.

Still driving through the western corridor, we stop for a large herd of wildebeest crossing the road and take a couple of photos to pass the time. Ten minutes later it happens again, this time a few dozen more wildebeest passing in columns from north to south, and we joke that we are witnessing a mini migration, not for a minute believing this to be true. Just 5 kilometres further along and we are forced to stop again, not so much by the road blockage but by the spectacle of what's happening. There are many hundreds of wildebeest coming in on our left in long ordered queues, heads down, grumbling and snorting to each other, kicking up dust. As far as we can see they come, and the sound and the sight of it takes our breath away. Then we see that huge herds have stopped and are congregating in clearings to the right of the road, standing silent and still in the shade. We have to admit that we are, in fact, in the middle of the migration.

The manager at the next camp we stay at, up near Lobo in the north-east, is a friendly chap who is bemused by what he sees as our free and easy travel ethos. He spends time with us every day and lets us wander around the lodge as though we own it. He can't believe that we want to stay there for more than a couple of days and sends a ranger with us in the Troopy on game drives. This isn't the gift it should be, as the ranger doesn't speak English and is after all a ranger, not a guide, so he relies on pointing at animals we've already seen and mumbling their species in Swahili. When we tell the manager, tactfully we hope, over an evening drink,
thank you, but we don't need the ranger anymore
, he is disappointed. Rangers are stationed at private lodges and camps as much to keep an eye on the adherence to park rules as they are to advise and give guidance, and this particular ranger's officious poking about in camp had been getting on everyone's nerves. The manager must have thought he'd found an excellent solution to the problem when we came along.

Ndutu Safari Lodge is in the Ngorongoro Conservation Area, just outside the Serengeti National Park's unmarked boundary. We drive in over the endless plain that is the eastern Serengeti, no animals except for a few scattered gazelles and no vegetation except for tinder-dry stumpy grass. In front of us mirages hover while Ngorongoro looks down from the sideline. As we approach the lodge the scrubby bush gets browner and more desolate looking, even though boggy sections of road are proof of recent showers. We are shown to a small neat room with one small bed, right by the kitchen. Oh dear. Neil's only comment is, ‘And we're booked in here for
three
nights?' While he's back at the office asking to change rooms I look out towards Lake Ndutu and see a family of elephants making their way across the front of the lodge. Oh yes. By afternoon teatime we're ensconced in the honeymoon suite positioned way off at the perimeter of the lodge and it doesn't matter that when we sit on the king-sized bed it sounds like the shunting yard of Central Station.

Hamisi is to guide us on game drives and when he tells us that we're likely to see big cats both Neil and I are secretly sceptical. Big cats here? But Hamisi has become friendly with the local crew of a Dutch filmmaker who's here to make a documentary on cheetahs for the Discovery Channel, and they go out each day for many hours, tracking and filming. The filmmaker, a true gentleman, allows us to tag along once his prey has been spotted. We go out through the forest and into the trees, then come to a river gully, a green shock after all the brown. Before we know it we're following three cheetahs, brothers, walking with intent, and then Hamisi shows us a leopard with his kill locked in the crook of an acacia tree. The leopard gazes down on us with lazy gold eyes and the most he can do is flick his tail and occasionally stretch his long lean body.

From then on its cheetahs, leopards and lions, and we can't wait to see what the next day brings. We go out morning and evening and start to feel ownership of the first leopard, magnanimously allowing other guests to follow us to his tree.

One morning the rain buckets down and the staff are all sunshine and smiles. It's the first true drenching of the season and it heralds the new season of plenty. Plenty of grass, plenty of wildebeest — and plenty of free time, as the waterlogged roads make it difficult for tourists to get through.

Our last afternoon drive promises to be a good one with a revisit to a lion kill, but it nearly gets us kicked out of the Ngorongoro Conservation Area. We're sitting watching happy lions half-heartedly keeping vultures from their buffalo carcass — well, in truth the Troopy was surrounded by lions — when a vehicle full of official-looking people pulls up beside us. The passenger seat holds a woman with a black beanie on her head and a rifle between her legs. The head ranger. In a tirade of Swahili that becomes more and more shrill she berates Hamisi and us for driving off-road and for disturbing the lions at their kill. We have flattened vegetation and flouted the rules. She demands our permit and threatens a big fine. Hamisi is stunned. We fear eviction. Then light dawns as Neil recognises her vehicle as a private one belonging to a neighbouring fly-camp. It's payback time, as that camp of rival National Geographic photographers had recently received a fine after a complaint about bad park conduct from our friend the filmmaker. Their revenge has been swift.

It's wonderful to see this land, as baked and as brown as crispbread when we arrived, come to life after the rains. The landscape of just three days ago is now a shock of green stubble, and waterholes that were hard-cracked have birds dipping and weaving above them. Hamisi tells us that the cheetahs are moving out onto the plains in anticipation of the coming of the wildebeest and, true enough, on our last drive through the grasslands the first of the wildebeest come snuffling over the horizon in a haphazard column, escorted by zebra and followed by a lone jackal. In the lush grasslands that this will soon become, they will graze and give birth and linger until the time comes to continue their journey. The clichéd circle of life — but there's no finer description.

Leaving the lodge we drive past a huge herd of cattle attended by young Maasai boys. Such a strange sight in a game reserve, but what is more unsettling is the obvious poverty of the boys. They're dressed in red and blue rags and have none of the noble bearing of the Maasai of my imagination. Even in their poverty, however, they're adorned with beads and bracelets and stand straight and proud. One has bone plugs through the lobes of his ears, while another has a stone glued with a floury paste into a lobe already stretched and elongated from the weight. They all carry a stick and a spear, and a dirty plastic water bottle containing the dregs of milk, curdled. They ask for fresh water and accept it with dignity, allowing me to take their photograph in return.