After a couple of days ingesting Saharan dust, churned up from our "luxury" mini-bus, we stopped overnight in a Marrakchi riad, a beautifully designed house set around a courtyard with a fountain at its centrepiece. It was rather palatial after a night spent in the bitterly icy Sahara with putrid smelling camel blankets to keep us warm.

From here we caught a spiffy Supratours bus out to Essaouira, a charming coastal town, that is blindingly whitewashed in contrast to the warm ochre hues of Marrakesh. Its quaint surroundings have afforded it popularity amongst painters, writers, hippies, and package tourists sporting their knee-high socks with Birkenstocks, whilst the whipping Atlantic winds have brought it notoriety as a mecca for wind-surfing. Essaouira comes from the Arabic word for "walled", and its fortified ramparts, juxtaposed by the raging Atlantic waters, make for an immensely dramatic scene.

Unfortunately, our time here was short, and after a quick roam about the medina and fishing port, we made our way back to the bus stop, to return to Marrakesh.

As we hastened our pace toward the bus stop, I noted a sparkling Supratours bus accelerating toward us. Before we had a chance to even read the destination sign, the bus was gone, and we were faced with the inevitable horror that is catching a local bus.

Now I have done my fair share of dodgy local transport over the past couple of years: notably the marijuana fumed upstairs of Dublin's 77 bus; the overcrowded Laotian cargo boats plying the Mekong; and countless tuk tuks, pick-up trucks and motos across South East Asia. Really, it shouldn't bet that bad right?

Dear dear dear...our adventure began upon our arrival at the immaculate(ly grotty) city bus station where a cacophonic ranting of touts welcomed us by screaming out destinations at random (just for fun, try saying Agadir [Ah-guh-deer] in rapid succession for a couple of minutes), and following us around, with the hope that we may just follow them to their ticket booth
and they collect a few dirhams commission. Eventually we bought "comfortable" tickets on one of the local buses back to Marrakesh, and boarded for our journey.

We were welcomed onto the bus by an elderly gentleman who walked the length of the bus, initially ranting about "the price of eggs in China", before bursting into a disharmonious rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner. It was a very hand-on-your-heart moment. Well, perhaps not. It is probable that he was praying to Allah for a safe journey. It is a lovely notion for one to
pray for a safe journey, though one must wonder if it is done out of thoughtfulness or dire necessity.

Aside from the repulsive odour of canine faeces wafting down the aisle, and the frequent honks of the bus driver's horn (a-la Vietnamese taxi drivers), the journey, though not particularly
"comfortable", was rather uneventful and we seemed to be chugging along just fine.

"Thud"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH"

Quickly, the ticket attendant flicked on the light to confirm what we suspected

It immediately became apparent that a mother in the seat opposite ours had fallen asleep with her baby daughter resting peacefully in her arms. As the mother had dozed off, the baby must have slid from her grasp, and fallen to the ground... eeeeek....She seemed to be ok, though I spent the remainder
of the trip on the edge of my seat, in case the mother dozed off again.

Fortunately she didn't, and baby continued the journey sucking contentedly on her dummy/soother, apparently obvlivious of what had happened.

After some kip back in Marrakesh, we opted to take a train up the coast, to Casablanca, the economic capital and most populous city in Morocco. I had heard that Casa was akin to any other city in the developing world - overpopulated, rife with social problems and a tad polluted. Polluted would
be an understatement. The air in Casablanca is a national disgrace and sufficiently filthy to make one feel ill. Inhaling through the sleeve of my shirt dulled the intensity somewhat, but obnoxious it certainly was.

The main reason for our stop in Casablanca was to visit the Hassan II Mosque, the world's third-largest religious monument (I think Cambodia's Angkor temples are #1) capable of holding 25000 worshippers. Of course our last minute decision to stop here en route north meant that we happened to be passing through on a Friday, which as Muslim holy day, meant we were unable to visit the interior of the complex (d'oh) . So we settled for
parking our buttocks on a seat outside the mosque and watching the throngs of worshippers come and go from it. As the sun began to sink in the late afternoon, the seaside area became decidedly seedy, so we made for our dingy hotel back in town, missing the spectacle of the late night laser show that is projected from the top of the 210m high minaret each night.

Unable to suffocate on anymore Casa fumes, we journeyed onward to Fes, home to the largest living medieval city in the Arab world. For hours at a time we wound our way about the medina, admiring locally crafted artisanal goods, trying on shoes and peering into the entrances of the many medersas (theological seminaries) and mosques. We went in search of the tanneries
where the famous leathergoods of Morocco are crafted today in the same manner that they have been for several thousands of years using the same stinky ingredients to treat the leather.....pigeon poo, cow urine, fish oils, animal brains etc... (no wonder mum's beautiful fuschia handbag has been relegated to its position on the back verandah).

We wandered through the colourful fruit and vegetable markets to the heady odours of meat markets where you can opt for fresh goat's head, if you aren't in the mood for chicken wings. We met loads of 7 year old boys who wanted to make a few dirham by guiding us to the tanneries (or to their uncle's best friend's cousin's business partner's shop), as well as a man who touted himself initially as an "official guide", before correcting himself and proclaiming himself to be a "hustler". And of course we met lots of friendly local boys who thought I might be interested in marrying one of them! Can't blame these guys for trying though. In a society where the local women are barely seen, and the images of women from the west are predominantly of the likes of Britney Spears cavorting about in her leather gear, western women really must seem like fair game to these lads. Still....it is very bothersome.

After escaping Fes without a husband (apparently I requested too many camels), we headed to the chilled out city of Meknes, home to the old imperial city of Moulay Ismail, a 17th century sultan who was famed not only for bringing widespread unification to Morocco, but for his tendency to chop off the heads of anyone who displeased him. You gotta give the guy some credit though as he built a pretty amazing city filled with spectacular
gateways, medersas and palaces. He also built massive granaries to store vast quantities of food for the people as well as his 12 000 horses. As is the case with the kasbah of Ait Bennadhou, the granaries are popular with film-makers for their ancient atmosphere.

As much as Meknes was a delightful constrast to Casa and Fes, it was a nightmare to try and get a taxi here. Along with hundreds of locals, we waited at the Place el-Hedim to flag down a taxi. After watching the locals, it became pretty obvious what had to be done.

1. Spot a taxi
2. Sprint madly for it along with everyone else
3. Run along side the still moving taxi (preferably making contact with it the whole time)
4. Try and open the doors while it is still moving and climb in
5. Be assertive, even agressive - it is YOUR taxi
6. If you are foreign, sprint twice as fast
7. Push if necessary but not too hard
8. Be first into the taxi!

Exhausting? Absolutely! Took us half an hour to get a taxi back to the hotel! Yeah and I looked like a right eejit running after taxis too!

After a couple of hours wandering about the ancient ruins of Volubilis (settled by the Carthaginian trades around 3 BC), we returned to Tangier to board our ferry back to Spain...

No touts, no donkeys, no marriage proposals...... Just the joys of shopping, tapas, and churrerias...

Bel x

Marrakesh-Malaga remains copyright of the author Backpasher, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Conversation with a souq salesman remains copyright of the author Backpasher, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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After a flight to Malaga, and an afternoon spent in the British settlement of Gibraltar chasing about the Barbary apes and devouring a some grand Pommie fodder (aka Fish and Chips), we made the long journey south to Marrakesh. This journey involved an early start to catch the 6am ferry from Algeciras to Tangier, a taxi ride to the Gare de Tangier Ville, a 5 hour train journey to Casablanca, and then another few hours on the train, sharing a carriage with Morocco's answer to Paris Hilton (sans coffieured chiuaiua), before finally arriving in Marrakesh at around 7pm and heading straight into the heart of the medina at the Djemaa el-Fna.

The Djemaa el-Fna is the pulsating heart of Marrakesh throughout the day, and even moreso in the evenings. From the haze of smoke swirling through the air, to the drones of the snake charmers; from the stench of donkeys pottering through the square to the richness of the tajines stewing from the dozens of food stalls that line the square. Everywhere you look, constant activity and abundance of colour: the mariachi brother water sellers; henna tattooists and tarot card readers calling out for custom from behind their veils; dishevelled felines scrounging for scraps of food and basking in the warm afternoon sunshine; the constant flow of ewok-attired men on foot, bicycle, motorbike or donkey-drawn carts; exotic dancers (who happen to be men) trying to woo other men; men fishing for coke bottles....oh yes, it is truly bizarre...no pun intended!....

And then in the evenings, the square lights up with 100 or so stalls selling kebabs, salads, deep fried eggplant, olives, tajines, couscous etc. If you are a little more adventurous you can feast on some boiled snails, before topping it all off with fresh orange or grapefruit juice, or a cup of mint tea.

Aside from the incessant activity of the Djemaa al-Fna, there are of course the labyrinthine souqs, which lie at the centre of the ochre hued medina. The souqs are as fascinating and envigorating as they are bothersome. Anything you want, you can probably find: pointy turned-up fuschia coloured shoes; amethyst jewels encrusted in suspiciously shiny "silver"; handmade handbags straight from the tanneries; kaftans in a multitude of colours; chickens, chameleons, tortoises; chinaware; traditional berber medicine (even "la viagra, pour la rumba bumba" as one fourteen year old boy shouted out)...and the list goes on. Yeah, so it's great, but oh so tiresome. Every single shop you pass, the deal is the same.... (see bottom of page)...... plenty of hassle, everyone has the best quality products, everyone is your best friend as long as they think you will buy.....oh fond, fond memories of all the best friends I made in the markets of Vietnam.

Besides the constant hassle from the vendors in the souq, is the peril beset upon one who dares work his/her way around a corner without first peering ahead. No, it's not a monobrow- infested hairy belly dancer.....nor is it likely to be a moto, though it is not entirely impossible.....it's probably a hobbling mule carrying stacks of coke bottles on its back; the driver side-saddling the beast as he shouts "attencione" to forewarn (usually morelike a postwarning) pedestrians of his wished passage.

In addition to the surplus of mules in Morocco, are the surplus of lecherous young men who vilely prey upon golden-haired western females. Roughly 75% of Morocco's population are under 30, and if you based your male to female ratio on the amount of attention a western female receives on an average days wander about the town....you'd be thinking oh 97:3. The salutations range from the unimaginative ("Bonjour gazelle", "Salut!" "ça va?") to the positively proposterous ("Wanna come to my place?", "I make you very happy", "Wanna see my ______", yes, just think of the last one as a cloze exercise). We had a few followers, and one young lad who tried the tack of encircling us several times while he fluttered his eyelashes . Oh dear dear dear....

Away from the hustle and hassle of the souqs are a few places of relative calm, including: the remains of the Palais el-Badi, with storks nesting atop its high walls; the Saadian Tombs, a beautifully designed mausoleum; and the Jardin Marjorelle, a lavishly set garden owned by Yves Saint Laurent, and set about a royal blue villa.

Heading out from Marrakesh, we left behind the vivacity/cacophony of the medina, and made our way over the snow-capped High Atlas to the kasbah of Ait Benhaddou, which tumbles as a red sandstone maze of houses down a hillside amidst a palmeraie. Name not familiar? It's the kasbah which provides the backdrop for several films, including Lawrence of Arabia and Gladiator, and currently only accessible by donkey-back across a usually dried-up stream (to the ass-owners´ delight, it is now flowly vigorously).

Continuing on from here we wound our way past the lunar Anti- Atlas into the Dades gorge, which is rather spectacular, though ludicrously frosty when the sun goes down. Onwards we continued the next day to the Todra gorge, formed along a fault line, and then further onto the hammada (harsh stony desert). Save for the occasional berber shepherd tending his goat herd, or the life pouring from the intermittent kasbah, the journey from here out to the Sahara proper was relatively monotonous....

Until the rough stony plains turned into gentle sandy ripples, and eventually the ochre Saharan dunes of the late afternoon in Merzouga. As the sun set across the Erg Chebbi, we rode in caravan out to our bivouac for the night. As romantic as the notion of a camel-ride by caravan to a Saharan bivouac by sunset is, ooh it´s not very comfortable.......

Downright painful to be precise, but the luminous confetti of stars scattered delicately over the desert dunes was an astonishing sight to behold, and well worth the effort of getting there.

Upon rising early in the morning, we returned to the backs of the belching, bony camels, and made our way back to Merzouga, and then Marrakesh.

To be continued...

Belinda xo

Marrakesh to Merzouga remains copyright of the author Backpasher, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Before I left for this beautiful country, I got a lot of "Where?!?!" and "Why on earth(s)?!!!" from practically everyone I spoke to.... So firstly - where is it? Tunisia is that that sliver of a country that's wedged between Algeria (to the west) and Libya (east) and bordering the Med. It's purported to be North Africa at its easiest, and is becoming increasingly popular with the sun-seeking package tourist. Why? Well...to be perfectly honest...because it's there, I hadn't been there before and it promised a wee bit more sun and adventure than England did! Several films, including The English Patient and Star Wars (all of them I think) were filmed here, Ulysses got stoned here on lotus-flowers, and Hannibal Barca, claimed to be the "finest" military leader in history, was born here. Oh and Tunisia is also home to the delectable briq! One more bit of trivia -the word Africa, has its origins here (according to my guidebook) - apparently the Romans who conquered and occupied much of Northern Tunisia named the area after a local Berber tribe, the "Afri". As the spread of the Roman empire, the whole of present day Africa became known as Africa, and subsequently the whole continent.

After a day of R&R in Tunis, I taxied out to Tunis Carthage Int Airport to meet Denise (mum), who had flown a painful 44 hours from Sydney to get there (10 hour layovers in Heathrow are not very nice!)...only to learn that her backpack had not arrived! TunisAir promptly got on the case (or rather backpack - bad joke!) and tracked it down to Heathrow, and after a much deserved good night's sleep, we set off to explore Tunis.

Due to its geographical proximity to Europe, Tunis is an interesting Euro/Arabic hybrid: its French boulevarded ville nouvelle with its beautiful buildings and chic cafes, is juxtaposed with its labyrinthine 7th century medina; shops blaring out Western boy band lovesongs followed by the more traditional malouf (trad Tunisian music); its young women in oversized sunglasses, skinny jeans and knee-high boots walking alongside their mothers and grandmothers veiled in winter white hejabs; the comprehensive metro zipping around town on the one hand, and the odd side-saddling donkey-rider on the other. We wandered through the colourful souqs (markets) with their "tres jolie" clothes, shoes, jewellery, woodwork etc., admired the minarets and courtyards of the medina's mosques and medersas (theological seminaries) and dined on smashing food - sampling Tunisian couscous (simpler, less spicy and more legume based than that in Morocco) and our first ever briqs! Briqs are essentially deep-fried envelopes of pastry stuffed with runny eggs, coriander and sometimes cheese, potato, onion, parsley, or meat. Very addictive and heavenly!

We spent a rather non-festive Xmas day roaming about the interesting ruins of the once great city of Carthage with its temple ruins, Roman amphitheatre, cisterns, Roman theatre, Antonine baths and Sanctuary of Tophet (perhaps a sacrificial burial site). Carthage was once an important trading port, and an one point controlled much of the North African coast, as well as parts of Sicily and Malta. From here we caught the train to Sidi Bou Said, a dramatically beautiful cliff-top village of white-washed buildings, blue-shuttered windows and fuschia bougainvilleas bursting from the walls.

After a long train-journey down South in which we were constantly harassed by 15-year-old boys in their best chav-wear (poxy white tracksuits and goldie-looking chains etc.) we arrived in Tozeur, an oasis town close to the Algerian border. Here we wandered about the Ouled el-Hadef (the 14th Century old quarter) with its intricate patterned brickwork, explored the palmeraie (essentially a palm forest), fended off caleche (horse and carriages) drivers, and visited the beautiful Dar Charait palace, which has an interesting museum of Tunisian art and costume, as well as a bizarre haunted house, and Ali Baba's treasure cave - you actually had to say "Open Sesame" to enter! Tres tacky.

Next we caught a louage (share taxi) across the Chott El-Jerid, a massive salt lake to Douz, a town at the gateway to the Tunisian Sahara. We'd timed it well, as we had arrived on the last day of the Festival of the Sahara...so we taxied out to the festivities....and spend the afternoon watching marching bands, dance, camel races/fights whilst having our ears pounded by the cacophonous drummer gang seated behind us - after 3 hours of pounding and disharmonious singing we parted the festivities, though it was a couple more hours before I stopped hearing those jolly drums!

We joined up with some fellow Antipodeans in Douz to 4WD into the Sahara....when we set out from Douz, it was, unbelievably, raining and really quite cold...as we began traversing the erg (sand sea), it got colder and wetter still......even the camels had gone into hibernation! We continued across the orange-hued ocean to Ksar Ghillane, an ancient Roman fort that lies near to a hot-spring fed oasis and palmeraie, where we camped for the night, before bumping our way North East to the Ksour. The Ksour is a spectacular stoney landscape with hill-top fortresses separated by sweeping valleys...we stopped to explore: Guermessa, a beautiful but abandoned berber village with breathtaking views across the valleys; Ksar Haddada, a cavernous village which featured in Star Wars; Ksar Hallouf, with its cavernous ghorfas - long vaulted rooms that once stored grains but are sometimes used as houses; and the troglodyte homes of Matmata - these are essentially underground pit homes which stay warm in the winter and cool in the Summer.

3 louages and a boat brought us to Jerba, an island famed as the "Land of the Lotus-Eaters", where Ulysses stopped on his odyssey and is said to have become intoxicated after devouring copious lotus flowers. Jerba was one of the first Arab settlements in Tunisia and has housed many of the Mediterranean's most notorious pirates over the years. We stayed at a funduq in Houmt Souq, the island's main town. A funduq was set up originally as a lodging house for travelling merchants, where the downstairs area had stalls for the camels and sheep, whilst the upper levels were used to house the merchants. Houmt Souq itself, is a charming town of white-washed buildings, courtyards and labyrinthine streets. The souqs are full of clayware, handicrafts, jewellery, clothing, sheesha (water pipes) and carpets, and the vendors are tireless in their efforts to sell their wares to the hapless traveller. On Jerba we walked up to the Borj Ghazi Mustapha (fort) with its charming views over the Med, wandered about the souqs, and hired dodgy gearless bicycles to cycle out to see the flock of flamingoes that wade off the Zone Touristique, in the island's north. We also rode a little into the island's interior in search of the oasis of Cedghiane, with its pomegranate, citrus and olive groves, and its menzels, traditional domed stone houses. We spent NYE in Houmt Souq, though as in Marrakech last year, it was a complete non-event (everyone was at home feasting on their Bon Annee gateaux).

Like Ulysses, we had trouble leaving Jerba, though less to do with our being intoxicated, and more to do with our difficulties in getting a louage ride north. As most of the louages arriving at the taxi park in Houmt Souq were only marked in Arabic, it was difficult for us to figure out which taxi to make a run for, and as there was fierce competition for rides that morning, noone was particularly helpful...we missed two louages because we weren't feisty enough, so by the time louage 3 came around, we, like the locals, fought for our seats and were thankfully successful!

After the quick hop to Gabes, and a train north, we arrived at Sousse, our base for the next few days. Sousse is close to El-Jem, which is home to the 3rd largest Colosseum in the world, and once had a capacity for 30 000 people. El-Jem's colosseum is actually a couple hundred years older than the one in Rome, and similarly was used for gladiatorial battles. The next day we bussed out to Kairouan, Islam's fourth most holy city (after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem). Kairouan is a beautiful city with its blue, green and white toned medina and its exquisitely ornate mosques. Being Tunisia's most sacred city, it was more conservative that elsewhere we'd been - the women were typically dressed in their winter white hejab which they held together by biting the headscarf in their mouths. It was also here where we saw a seemingly endless flow of sheep being shepherded through town by their master or by truck....little did they know what was in store for them. As part of the Eid al-Adha, the Feast of Sacrifice (which commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son), every Muslim family is expected to slaughter a lamb. Eid al-Adha co-incides with the Hajj, the pilgrimmage to Mecca, the place where Abraham laid the Kaaba (sacred stone). Because of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son, he is believed by Muslims to be the first true believer in Allah, and therefore is the most important Islamic figure.

From Kairouan we journeyed back to Sousse and then on to Tunis for a last wander about the medina, and a visit to the Bardo museum, a museum which houses a collection of mosaics that once decorated Roman Africa's posh villas. Then we had one last meal of couscous, briqs and lablabi, a tradtional soup, before jetting back to London in the wee hours of the morning - Lufthansa have a dodgy 0355hrs flight out of Tunis!!

Belinda

Souqs, Sand and Star Wars remains copyright of the author Backpasher, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Having never been to the West coast of Australia (disgraceful, I know), this was my first trip to the Indian Ocean, and not a bad introduction to say the least. Upon disembarkation from the ferry, I arrived in Stone Town, the capital of Zanzibar, and its cultural heart - a little piece of Arabia off the East African coast.

For the past few thousand years, Zanzibar has been an important stop on the trade routes of the Arabs, Portuguese, and Indians, and was part of Oman until the 1960s. The Omani influence is obvious with the town's minarets rising above the whitewashed
medina, women dressed head to toe in their traditional "bui bui", ornately Arab carved doors at every turn through the winding medina, and the early morning call to prayer every day. Peak tourist season was equally apparent with throngs of mzungus (white people) meandering about the centre in their kaftans and funky jewellery, being haplessley preyed upon by the local
"papasi" (Swahili for "ticks"), the horribly obnoxious touts that just don't go away!

After visiting the House of Wonders (the former palace of a Zanzibari Sultan), the Palace museum and the old fort, I took a spice tour of the nearby villages to learn a little about the sorts of spices cultivated in Zanzibar and their ongoing importance to the island's economy. It was also a good opportunity to taste a load of different spicy food, local fruits (manky papaya, coconut, jackfruits, pineapple, passionfruit) and watch crazy Mr Coconut climb up a palm tree whilst singing and dancing a tres tacky song (Jambo...Jambo bwana.....habari....mzuri...yadda yadda yadda).

Unable to bear the papasi any longer, I took a matatu down to Jambiani to chill on the beach for a few days. Aside from the kid who so boldly demanded "Give me your shoes", it was blissfully peaceful, with little to do but lie on the shaded (of course mum) deck-chairs, read books, walk along the white sandy beach, and swim in the impossibly turquoise ocean. A
little bored of the whole relaxing thing, I took a dhow (local boat) out a little way and did some snorkelling, and also visited the nearby Jozani forest, to see the red colobus monkeys - very cool and endemic to Zanzibar.

From here it was back to Stone Town and all my papasi buddies (I learnt that if you call someone "papasi sana", i.e. big tick, they get very annoyed!). I went to a big posh hotel to listen to Taarab music (the local Zanzibar style) on the sea front, and also did some scuba diving, before finishing up my time in Zanzibar at the Forodhani gardens night market.

And then to Uganda......and tomorrow Rwanda, hopefully to see some mountain gorillas!

Ciao

Belinda

Zanzibar remains copyright of the author Backpasher, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Upon arrival at Twiga (Swahili for "giraffe") campsite, we set up our tents, and had some lunch before setting off on a game drive to Lake Manyara National Park. At the right time of the year, the alkaline Manyara Lake is purportedly aflutter with millions of flamingoes, though in the dry season (now!), the Lake largely disappears, as do the flamingoes......I guess when
there is no yummy algae in the lake, they migrate to find pond scum elsewhere....yum-my! Still, the parched saline basin provided a nice backdrop to the surrounding scrub and woodlands and the park was a good place to start our safari....we saw (skanky) baboons, giraffes, dikdiks (miniature antelopes) zebras, elephants, lions, and hippos - but no tree -climbing lions (which are sometimes spotted around Manyara).

The next day we set off for the long drive out to the Serengeti National Park, first skirting our way around the rim of the chilly, mist-laden Ngorongoro crater, before hitting the "rock-and-roll" roads into the Serengeti. We crossed the endless savannah plains for what seemed an eternity, before arriving out our rustic bush camp, next to a rocky hill, and entirely exposed to the surrounding wilderness. When we asked about the possibilities of animals coming into the campsite, our guide reassured us by saying that sometimes the lions will drop in overnight, and frequently hyenas drank from the water supply! Ah....the prospect of being Simba's (= "lion") midnight snack never fails to put ones sleepy mind at ease.

After a late afternoon game drive, where we spotted many Twigas, Tembos (elephants) and impalas (deer), as well as a lion resting atop a rocky hill (just like the one in our campsite!), we returned to our campsite for the night....didn't hear any simbas or hyenas, thankfully.

We started at the crack of dawn the next day for a long drive about the Serengeti, and spent the first hour or so cruising about in the jeep without much success....until we spotted some cheetahs in the distance and stumbled upon 2 leopards lounging on the lower branches of tress! Every Tom, Dick and Harry was stopped at a particular tree which supposedly had some "leopard kill" in it, though no matter how long we looked for it, it
eluded us. We did however manage to see a lion sitting smugly beside his catch - a fat (of course) hippo who must have been caught by the lion whilst on its daily jog through the park. Upon returning later in the day, the same hippo was being gruesomely devoured by 50 or so vultures, with revolting hyenas tucking in too. Hyenas, I must say, are the scummiest
animals I've ever seen...I guess because I'm NOT a dog person, it's only natural their scavenging, bottom-sniffing ways don't at all appeal.

In the afternoon we went for a drive to a hippo pool, where we saw what must have been around 40 hippos bathing in a squalid pool of water, and belching happily as they did so. I never really thought of hippos as being particularly grotesque before then, however the stench was inexpilicably repulsive and the muck in which they were bathing, more like a sewage works. We survived the night again in the wilds, though a dinner time visit by a nasty hyena, its evil orange eyes glaring wickedly at us, did little to calm the nerves.

Another early morning start the next day for a long drive in the Serengeti brought us to a large herd of elephants, seemingly on a migration to cause more "elephant damage" to the trees around the park - i.e. uproot them by charging them or scratching their backs. However we caught sight of the nasty Serengeti Balloon Safari folk (royally kitted in their spiffy new khakis with lots of pockets and armed with $5000 binoculars) who had shunned
us the previous day when we needed help with the "spare tyre pressure" (i.e. needed to use the loo), and figured the elephants were instead running away from the scary balloons and the khaki army inside of them. It seemed that whenever the balloon "engine" was fired up, the poor ellies became frightened and helplessly tried to charge the threatening UFOs whilst gathering around the young ones to protect them. We also spotted a running hippo (hilarious and suprisingly fast!), some hyenas taking a bath, a group of lions on the prowl, many
girraffes, zillions of zebras, a few topis (a type of deer), loads of buffaloes, and countless impalas/gazelles. Then we made a quick stop at the Serengeti Visitors Information Centre, for a quick conservation lesson, and saw dozens of hyrax (similar to large guinea pigs) pottering about the rocks.

After an impressive lunch of quiche (! cooked on hot coals) and
salad, we began rock-and-rolling across the savannah towards
Ngorongoro....we left the Serengeti without seeing a single wildebeest (not that I can remember anyway!) - they are all in the extreme north of the Serengeti at the moment, or else across the border in Kenya's Masai Mara...so hopefully I'll get there before they up and migrate back to Tanzania!! We set up camp on the edge of the crater rim, with the crater and its profusion of wildlife awaiting us below.

The Ngorongoro crater is essentially the remnants of a collapsed volcano in a chain of volcanoes and calderas which lie along the Great Rift Valley (which extends along a geological fault line all the way from Syria to Mozambique!). The nearby Olduvai Gorge is where the oldest-known human-like footprints were found by Mary Leakey in the 50s. Consequently, many believe that this area of Tanzania is the "cradle of man".

Again we started the day with an early drive into the chills of the vast, mist-laden crater, being met by some touting Maasai when we stopped to pop the roof ("Jambo. Photo?" Photos with Maasai go for no less than US$1 these days!), stopping at the zebra crossing (100s of them heading for their morning drink), and catching sight of herds of great wildebeest pounding their way through the grasslands. We also saw some mad wildebeest
(rolling about crazily like rabid dogs), fighting wildebeest and wildebeest taking a bath in a small stream.

After a lunch beside a hippo pool, where large birds took delight in swooping down to scavenge food off the tourists, we set off again for a few hours, finally catching sight of our first black rhino in the distance. The black rhino is extremely endangered and only 15 or so exist in Ngorongoro, so it was very cool that we finally saw one. We finished the day by driving up the "heavy metal" road to the crater rim, where we stopped for a drink at one of the lodges overlooking the crater. And whadda ya know, peering through the binoculars there, we saw two more rhino....mother and baby! So 3/15 isn't bad at all Back at the freeeeeezing cold camp that night, we tucked into our dinner before retiring to our luxurious tents...only to be awoken in the middle of the night by a snuffling warthog.....it was trying to dig its way under Michiel and Roos' tent!! Cheeky monkey!

Our last day of Safari was spent watching a large family of lions gawk at a pack of terrified zebras, before deciding they'd rather go sit in the ditch, seeing some more running hippos, getting virtually attacked by a vervet monkey (who boldly jumped on the front and then the back of our jeep), and seeing the usual packs of zebras and wildebeest pounding the
yellow grass of the crater floor.

After a day of befriending all the touts in Arusha (not!), I bussed for 10 hours to Dar Es Salaam (the economic capital, Dodoma is the political capital), before making my way to Zanzibar....the spice island....and my first ever visit to the Indian Ocean! (I know, it's disgraceful!)

Gotta go

Belinda

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After a quick safari in Nairobi National Park and a wander about town (without getting mugged! ), I headed to Arusha for the climb up Mount Kilimanjaro.

At 5895m (above sea-level), Kili is the highest mountain in Africa, and the highest free-standing mountain in the world. To put it in perspective, it is about 2.5 times the height of Mount Kosciuszko, Australia - our national molehill.

Day One:
Was surprised upon meeting my crew to learn that a) I was the only one booked on the trip and b) I had a support crew of 4 (!) accompanying me up the mountain - my guide Ben, a porter, a waiter and a cook. Wow! Found out that this is quite normal though, and many hikers, had far more than my humble 4. Still, it seemed a little OTT considering my backpack only
weighed 10.5kg! I guess they had to carry my bag, their bags, food, pots/pans/cutlery/shower/port-a-loo/TV/jacuzzi etc.

After a quick drive to Marangu gate, I began the 7km hike to Mandara Hut, passing through thick, lush, rainforest en route to Mandara Hut, seeing a few mongoose (mongeese?) and vervet monkeys on the way. The rainforest, with its tall canopy of trees provided some cool respite from the relative warmth of the mid-afternoon sunshine. As we neared to Mandara Hut (2740m
ASL), the trees, made way for shrubs, and heathland, and the temperature began to fall - to around +8 celcius overnight. From Mandara, a quick hike up to the Maundi crater, afforded a tiny glimpse of Mawenzi and Kibo peaks (Kibo being home to Uhuru, the highest point on Kili), before the clouds moved in, and with them, the cool night air.

Was exceptionally well fed in the "mess hall", where I got to meet all my fellow hikers (an international bratpack of professional backpackers it seemed), before being sent to bed at 8pm! My guide, Ben, informed me that at altitude, one requires loads of sleep - my suspicions that the guides/porters had cable TV/jacuzzi/bar in their hut, proved wrong, and by
8.30, I was fast asleep!

Day Two:
After an early rise, and a quick Wet-Ones "shower", we began the 11km walk to Horombo Hut (3800m). The temperate forests around Horombo, quickly changed into vast moorlands, and the vegetation became more sparse. I took my guide's advice to climb "pole pole" (slowly slowly) up the mountain and after about 4-5 hours of hiking, arrived at Horombo, hot and dusty, but feeling really good. No headaches, light-headedness, nausea etc - I thought, a good sign. After a quick snack on popcorn (the locals must think we travellers are addicted to it cause it came with practically every meal!) and Milo (!! it's as popular as coffee here!), I wandered a little further up from the campsite through the palm like trees covered in mist, and got my first proper view of the snow-topped Kibo peak and the alpine
desert which lay before it. Again, I was fed a huge meal of pasta (like 3x a normal portion) before heading to bed early 8pm! I was assured that a big appetite after a day of hiking at altitude was a good sign for the days to come, and slept well that night.

Day 3
Ah, got to sleep in today - til about 7.30am, and after a big breakfast (can anyone really eat 8 pieces of toast in addition to eggs, fruit and Milo?!!?!?!?!) we began our acclimitization walk to the aptly named Zebra rock. Yes, that's right, it's a cliff-face striped like a zebra (I think from salt which leaks out of the rocks and streaks down its side) is rather peculiar. We scrambled up around it and down the other side to an altitude
of approximately 4200m, where the views of Kibo and Mawenzi (a lunar-like dramatic mountain adjacent to Kibo) became clearer and the alpine desert and scree lay out ahead. Another ginormous meal was had, and I was delighted to be able to wash my hair in the afternoon warmth (probably no more than 14
degrees!) in a bowl of hot water - specially boiled by Dismis, my waiter (still seems weird to have had a waiter!) before chatting to fellow hikers about their journey thus far, having more food (pasta pasta pasta) and going to bed (of course early - but mostly cause it was so cold!!!). Still feeling good, legs with plenty of energy and optimistic of my chances.

Day 4
An early morning start today, with another big breakfast, before the hike to Kibo (4700m) began. Wandering from the moorlands towards the alpine desert, the landscape became more and more barren, and lunar, and jolly dusty - I think I ate more dust that day than popcorn! Unfortunately, it was also extremely windy today, so in addition to the powerful sun, I had to face the extreme cold of the mountain winds....Was glad that I had my Gore-tex jacket on and my beanie as it was bitter. The walk wasn't so hard today, much flatter than the previous day and I focused my attention the whole time on the peak, whilst heeding the "pole pole" advice of my guide
and fellow trekkers. It was positive as I was going up to meet friends I had made on the hike report that they had made it to the top, and was optimistic that my remaining strength, determination and encouragement from fellow hikers and guide (he told me he thought I would find it "easy" because a) I was a woman b) woman are brave and c) I was strong) would see
me through. At around 4500m, I started to feel a little light-headed, and breaked for a while to have some lunch - all the while not losing sight of the peak. Wondering whether I should have perhaps taken diamox, the altitude prophylactic after all. The jury seems to be split on its use - it apparently masks the symptoms of AMS, which means it can make you feel
better, but stop you from realizing you have pulmonary oedema before you're actually dead. So, yeah, I opted out. C'est la vie! (No pun intended).

From 4500m onwards, I progressed "pole pole", breaking frequently as my head went from being "light", to absolutely pounding, until at 4700m (at Kibo), I had to rest for 45mins or so, tortuously close to Kibo, and wanting to go on, but with a throbbing headache, dizziness and nausea setting in, knew I had no choice but to descend. Altitude sickness is serious stuff and I didn't want to mess with it. Frustrated and a tad upset, I began rapidly descending the 9km to Horombo, feeling horribly ill the whole way down, and technicolour yawning a few times too, passing others who had, like me, become ill and had to turn back. I had completely lost my appetite, and was now only focussed on getting down so the pain would go away.....(was also dreaming of hot showers!)

Thankfully it did, and by the time I reached Horombo, I was feeling great again, managed to eat my 10 course meal and got a good night's sleep!

Day 5
Kili is expensive to climb, so I was unable to pause a day and take a second, more gradual crack at the summit, so I descended all the way back down to Marangu gate, delighted to breathe real oxygen again and rapidly powering downhill for 19km in about 4.5 hours, before the drive back to Arusha and my first HOT shower in nearly 5 days....ah the simple things.....

Day 6
Back in Arusha, legs feel like 10 tonne trucks after the pounding downhill descent.....every step brings pain..... thinking about going back in a few weeks and trying again...not happy to let an oversized molehill beat me.

Kwaheri

Belinda
Sep 05

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So after a cracking start in the morning (the taxi driver was early, which is rather odd in East Africa), I jumped aboard the "Executive" coach. Now, normally I'd think of an executive coach being full of stiff suits lapping up the air-conditioned comfort of the reclining chair filled luxury coach whilst listening to acid jazz. But this was Uganda, so the only luxury was the bottled water provided to the passengers and the in-flight (for we were very nearly flying for much of the journey) entertainment - an eclectic blend of East African mega-hits, Kung Fu movies and quality Nigerian soapies, blaring loudly as if proof of the soundsystem's virility.

Still it was a rather pleasant journey; ridiculously speedy (even with the speed governor monitoring the speedometer), but pleasant. My seatmate was a precocious 6 yr old with Michelin-man folds. He gawked at the pictures of gorillas in my book, and took great delight in peeling patches of sunburnt skin from my legs, before deciding to use my shoulder as a pillow and drifting off into cloud-cuckoo land.

So I bid Uganda farewell (sniffles) as the bus wound and rose up into the verdant green terrace-lined hills of the Rwandan countryside, with the misty volcanic Virungas lingering in the distance. Rwanda is one of Africa's most densely populated nations (something like 300/square km), and 90% of its economy relies on (largely subsistence) agriculture, so it is unsurprising that every measly little piece of land seems to be cultivated (mostly tea), and the rivers are chocolate brown from siltation. The snaking road into Rwanda was spectacularly beautiful nonetheless.

Suddenly, there were scores of children running alongside of the bus, with stretched-out arms waving furiously at us. Apparently, these kids run after the bus, in the hope that well-intended passengers will throw them food/water/money etc. from the windows...but of course, many accidents occur as children frantically run close to passing vehicles...so as our vehicle pulled to a grinding halt on a hair-pin curve, I feared that one such child had been killed. Suddenly, the road was teeming with people who had scrambled up from the nearby village....a young man had been killed as he tandemed down the hill on his friend's bicycle...hit by a passing vehicle...he couldn't have been more than 19...

The rest of the journey to Kigali, Rwanda's capital, was fairly solemn and thankfully uneventful.

Upon arrival in Kigali, I headed straight for the Rwandan Tourist Office to try my luck at getting a permit to track the mountain gorillas in Parc Nacional des Vulcans, on the border with the Democratic (?!) Republic of Congo. Thankfully, they still had 2 permits remaining for 2 days later, so I coughed up the small fee of $US375 (!!!!!!!) to nab my permit to track them. Now for that money, you get to track to (hopefully) see the gorillas, and upon coming into contact with them, you only get to spend an hour with them! Seems crazy no? But it is one of those "once in a lifetime
experiences"....and you can't really put a price on that (still it is
OUTRAGEOUS, especially considering the local community only see like 25% of that).

So after a quick wander about Kigali (not the most interesting of capitals, I have to say), I boarded a share taxi out to Ruhengiri, the launch town for trips to visit the gorillas. I'd been warned by some fellow backpackers in Kampala, that to actually get up to the national park was going to cost me a nasty whack of $50-60 for the taxi ride (no public transport, so the taxi drivers charge through the roof), so I roamed about Ruhengiri in search of other mzungus who may want to share the cost...but alas, there were none to be found. It seemed I was the only lone traveller without a
ride

And so it was, I was up at the crack of dawn to board my ludicrously overpriced taxi up to National Park HQ. Since it was so proposterously expensive, I figured I'd be the first one there to nab my place in tracking the Susa group, the largest family group trackable. So after getting there, showing my permit, bagging my place to see the Susa group, and being briefed about gorilla tracking etiquette ("If you need to sneeze, please turn away" etc.) I got back in the taxi, drove BACK to the town of Ruhengiri (!!k*?p!x!!), and then upwards to the village closest to the Susa group. After a quick wander through the village, we began the 2 hour ascent into the forest - firstly through potato fields, then into a thick bamboo forest, and finally a dense forest carpeted with thistles, stinging nettles and tortuous vines.

Suddenly we were hit by a pungent smell.... a manky melange of body odour and faecal material .....and then the glimpse of a huge brown hairy mass ambling through the nearby scrub. And then after heading 20metres or so downhill, we came into a large clearing, to see the whole family! 40 gorillas together -some lazily reclining on the nettle carpeted floor of the forest, others gnawing on straws of bush celery, others pondering the new age of digital technology, and the younger ones enjoying a bit of rough-and-tumble whilst their elders looked on. Occasionally the gorillas looked over at us, but mostly they seemed rather nonchalant about our presence - I guess it's boring when you see humans every day!! At one point, when we got a little close to one of the newborns, the head silverback (patriach) charged at us - a little scary, considering how ginormous the mountain gorillas are, but most of the time we spent captivated and amused by their antics - fighting, dancing around the vines (like a maypole), and a lot of showing off!

After gorilla tracking, and being chased by screaming children in the village, I headed back to Kigali, and took a boda boda (moto taxi) out to the genocide museum...this museum acts as both a memorial to those who were killed (1/10 of the total population) during the genocide, and an educational centre for people wanting to try and understand a little of what happened... not that it is ever possible for one to fathom why seemingly ordinary people of all ages/gender/background end up slaughtering people they have happily co-existed with for hundreds/thousands of years with machetes....

To give a bit of the history (and I must apologize as this is much truncated)... Rwanda was a Belgian colony...the Belgians favoured the Tutsi minority (firstly, as a minority they were perceived as being easier to control; secondly, they were considered to be more European due to their paler skin and thinner noses) and the country was largely run by a Tutsi government...when independence came about in 1962, a Hutu majority came into power...lots of ensuing probs between Hutus and Tutsis occurred (by the way, Hutus and Tutsis look essentially the same and speak the same language - and in most cases, they are completely indistinguishable)...mass slaughterings of Hutus occurred in the neighbouring Tutsi governed nation of Burundi....massive influxes of refugees from Burundi followed...the Tutsi led Rwandan Patriotic Force (the RPF) invaded from Uganda (led by the current Rwandan President Kagame and fellow refugees who had fled in a previous pogrom)...anti Tutsi sentiment became rife and the government run Radio Television Libre began espousing ethnic cleansing of the Tutsis...the RPF made inroads in Rwanda and eventually the Hutu led government agreed to a multi-party constitution....this pissed a lot of people off...more senseless violence...UN peacekeepers came into the country...both the presidents of Rwanda (Hutu) and Burundi (Tutsi) were killed in the same plane crash on the way back from talks in Tanzania, presumably shot down by Hutu rebels, and then everything just went haywire...the UN fled from Rwanda as things heated up...1/10 of the population were killed...2 million refugees fled into neighbouring countries. Whilst many of the genocidaire (leaders of the genocide) have been tried and imprisoned, many more remain in hiding abroad, whilst others remain in Rwanda...walking down the street, driving taxis, working in shops/hotels/schools.... just like everyday ordinary people.....which is exactly what they were......

After my short time in Rwanda, I bussed back to Kampala for the weekend, and was all set to go back to Kenya, when I met some Canadians at the bar at Backpackers. Mike, Matt and Cathy had gotten a jeep specially kitted out in South Africa, and were half way through their Cape to Cairo journey...turned out they were to be driving west the next day to Kibale National Park... and so I joined them to spend a soggy night in the beautiful rainforest of Kibale National Park (apparently with the greatest primate concentration in East Africa?), before stopping off for a few days on the splendid crater lakes of Western Uganda. Here I paddled a dugout canoe about Lake Nyabikere, chatted with the friendly staff at CVK Resort (I was the only guest there!!!!), listened to the noisy frogs (Nyabikere = lake of frogs), watched the antics of the vervet monkeys by the lakeside, and hiked between Nyabikere and Nkuruba through villages filled with goats, tea plantations, and children asking for pens!

From here it was a post bus (yes, a bus delivering the post about the country) back to Kampala, one last weekend in Kampala, a long journey back to Nairobi (for the tyre started to fall off and what should have been an 11 hour journey on the posh Scandinavian bus service, turned into a shaky 16 hour nightmare!), a day shopping in downtown Nairobi with some (whining) Pommies, an overnight train to Mombasa, and a few days on beautiful, beautiful Tiwi beach (topping up thetan!).... before flying back to the UK...

Which is where I am now...in London...saving up for my next holiday!

Bel xox

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Of course when one tries something for the first time, it's only sensible to take it easy...do it in moderation, work your way up to it so as to not be too utterly gobsmacked by it... though that's just for the faint-hearted isn't it?....so I just jumped aboard the raft and hoped that when the vessel inevitably slam-dunked itself into the carnage, that I would eventually find myself atop the foam, and not being torpedoed to the bottom of the river, or sucked in a hydro-willywilly whirl. And thankfully my life jacket retained its buoyancy and my swimming lessons as a baby fared me well...though it certainly was more white-knuckle than your average jacuzzi.

Extremely enjoyable and really not that scary!

After a rivetting day on the rapids, we retired to the relative
serenity of the Adrift bar/restaurant... or so we thought, for it was there that we were to meet "The Overlanders". Ah yes, the mostly antipodean mob of hooligans, who arrived on their bullet-proof beige truck, and cavorted about in the netherclothes in the shower-block, before rocking up to the bar
for their daily ritual. Now, some people settle for their daily doppio with a croissant. Others are satisfied by ogling the silicone-enhanced Jordan-lookalikes in some lads' magazine. I'm quite happy with a bottle of Krest (bitter lemon) and a pizza! ah but the overlanders...they liked to SPANK each other.

Spank.

As in with a whip!

Made of leather.

It was rather like watching a David Attenborough documentary.

Without David.

The head hoon plucked a whip from the back of his trousers and called up the first in a line of many inebriated neanderthals. One by one, the lads parted with their trousers to be spanked with the leather whip....

WHY!?!!?!?!

I fear I shall forever be traumatized by the pasty-buttock slapping experience..

So after a brief stop in Kampala, I headed up to Murchison Falls, in Northern Uganda. Here we had a walk through the virtual papillonerie of the Budongo Rainforest, went for a game drive around Murchison Falls national park with views over to the friendly Democratic Republic of Congo, and took the launch trip up to the falls...a 2 hour journey up the Nile river past
bloats of hippos (yep, that's the collective hippo noun), floats of crocodiles, black and white colobus monkeys, herds of elephants and a token shoebill stork (a seldom seen national bird), somewhat akin to a prehistoric pelican. Before quite arriving at the falls, their thunderous sound screamed out at us. When we rounded the corner to finally view them, it was obvious why we weren't allowed to white water raft their. Death
rapids. Truly. Amazing though.

Apparently this 6 metre gorge spectacularly spewing out water is the fiercest natural surge of water in the world. A great place for a swim! Incredibly beautiful to see.

We disembarked the vessel to wind our way up the steaming,
silicone-glimmering trail to the top of the falls, where, we could stand above them, and be refreshingly soaked from their spray...

Early the next morning we wandered from our campsite into the Budongo Forest to track the chimpanzees, and came upon a family of 15 or so of our relatives hanging about the treees, staring down at us, and occasionally getting a little antsy by our presence, screaming, and running away (rather like a child who hasn't before seen a mzungu!).

So again, I returned to Kampala, and again booked my bus ticket to Kigali to visit the mountain gorillas of Rwanda...

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Before the muezzin could even start the morning call to prayer at the nearby Vuga mosque, I was awake; staring at the figure of the impish gecko pottering about the roof.

Bleary eyed and annoyed with myself for booking a morning flight, I tumbled out of bed to finish packing for my flight to Entebbe, Uganda.

After a despicably lazy week on Zanzibar, I was in need of a
change...and ready to bid the "papasi" (touts) brigade good riddance, so was glad to finally board my flight to Entebbe via Dar es Salaam.

So after the quick hop to Dar, and a breakfast of a stodgy croissant and flavourless espresso (Liffey water perhaps?), I made my way out to the tarmac to board the plane. As I neared the plane, I was surprised to find a pile of baggage next to the plane. In the hundred or so flights I've taken, this was only the second time I'd been asked to identify my baggage
on the tarmac. So I sauntered over to identify my iridescent blue
backpack.

Yet it wasn't to be seen. "Ah sure", I thought, there is another baggage truck to come. So I waited...

And I waited...

And I waited, til there was no more luggage there, and the flight attendant was asking me if there was a problem.

"Hmmm, yes, my backpack isn't here!"

"Oh", he said, "Did you come off another flight?"

"Yes, from Zanzibar. So why isn't it here?"

"Maybe it's still in Zanzibar, or maybe, they sent it to Johannesburg by mistake. I think people on your flight were mostly going to Johannesburg"

"Yes but not me, my bag was checked through to Entebbe!"

So next a few phonecalls, a little banter, my increasing despondency and no sign of my backpack, I was ushered reluctantly onto the plane, all the time being reassured that my backpack was either a) already on the plane (it may have been boarded early), b) in Zanzibar, or c) en route to Jo'burg.

By this time, I was a little upset and extremely exasperated...I audaciously plonked myself in first class (not the best way to get upgraded, I have to say) and proceeded to list the contents of my backpack, before whipping out my insurance policy to study it in detail (always a fascinating activity).

Furiously crossing my fingers and toes as I trundled off the plane in Entebbe, I made my way to the baggage carousel...but to no avail...for it wasn't to be seen...it was gone...

And so it was...just me, one set of clothes and a modest
daypack....alone in a country where I knew not a soul... liberating?

Perhaps...though that I failed to see.

Didah, at Air Tanzania made a few phone calls and tracked my bag to Dar Es Salaam, before giving a somewhat more relaxed Belinda a ride into Kampala, a charming green city with friendly faces, the buzz of boda bodas(motorbikes), "Jesus shops" (e.g. the "God is Able Shop" and the "Jesus Cares Supermarket") and the stern maribou storks roosting atop the trees. I was pleased to learn that my bag would be on its way to Entebbe the following day.

Determined not to let the lack of my entire backpack deter me, the next day I set about to explore Kampala, first heading out to the Kasubi tombs (where Bugandan [a major Ugandan people] kings lay after "disappearing"), and then to the National Museum, with its interesting exhibition on African Rock Art (did you know that there were once lions strutting their stuff
in today's Sahara Desert region?). Then it was back to Air Tanzania to get my bag...but no, it wasn't to be, for my bag had not been in Dar, nor was it thought to be in Zanzibar. The truth was, noone quite knew where it was.

They suspected it to be somewhere on the continent, but couldn't quite guesstimate within a 5000km radius. Moses from Air Tanzania, then proceeded to part the waters of the Nile River.....actually no, but he kindly took me to some nearby shops in search of some clothes! Yippee!

The following day I headed out to Entebbe to visit the Ugandan
Wildlife Education Centre. I wasn't quite sure where the rest of my trip would take me so thought it a good oppportunity to see some white rhinos and chimpanzees. Of course, the entire high school population of Uganda was there oohing and aahing at the wildlife....not to mention making jokes about the mzungu (Swahili for "white person", a most annoying phrase used by anyone and everyone), for it seemed I was about the only one there!

Catching a matatu (essentially a "people mover" taxi) back into town I headed back to the airline office to get an update on the whereabouts of my baggage....hmm....nope, still not sure whereabouts it is....but don't worry...not sounding too good hey?

Trying to remain positive after this was a little difficult. I know it sounds cynical but by this stage I was thinking of the worst-case scenario - it was gone...at least then I could be pyschologically prepared for what now seemed a harsh probablity.

I guess things could have been worse...I could have lost all of my luggage! I could have lost all of my luggage and been attacked by a rabid dog in the sticks. Or worse still, I could have been stuck on a rabid dog infested island with monobrowed boy band singers and nothing to eat but papaya, spicy sour virgin pork uterus and stodgy white bread!

So what's a girl to do when she gets a little down...of course,
Belinda went shopping! And would you believe, another local (Rosemary) volunteered to guide me through the labyrinthine Owino market, a market stocked with 2nd hand clothes from around the globe... It was a little manic in there. I
think locals found it hard to believe that a mzungu would be
op-shopping for second-hand clothes in Kampala, consequently every taffeta frock, polka dot skirt and polyester shirt was being enthusiastically passed to me......

That night, in spite of my new basic wardrobe, I was in that horrible rut of self-sorrow and took hours to get to sleep....When I eventually did drift off into cloud-cuckoo land, I was deliriously happy to find myself at the airport carousel in Entebbe, plucking my backpack off it and cruising
on into town....before I suddenly awoke, flicked on the dim light and looked around my dank hostel chamber, only to discern that the nightmare was ongoing....for all that lay on the floor of my modest room was a small day pack, with its contents strewn across the floor (some things never change mum).

Getting a little annoyed with the airline's lack of ability to locate my baggage, the following morning I got my mum in Australia to phone South African Airlines in Australia (SAA own Air Tanzania) and see if she couldn't speed up the bastards....within an hour I got a reply. Yes, my bag had been traced to Johannesburg and would be delivered to me the
following day....turned out the airline had been looking for a blue backpack that had gone missing on an entirely different day...hence their inability to extricate it from the rainforest of lost luggage

Not wanting to build up my hopes of a long overdue reunion, only to be bitterly disappointed, I tried to maintain my cynical
disposition...and upon rocking up to Air Tanzania's head office on Tuesday afternoon (5 days later), was unsurprised to learn that no, it had not yet arrived.....4 o'clock...nada....5 o'clock....nope...5.30...still no....and finally 5.45....in walks a rotund gentlemen with a backpack! Only it was the
wrong one!!

Ok...so I tell a lie...it was mine! Finally, after 5 (long) days in Kampala, my backpack and I were reunited...all its contents were there, intact...and it was finally time to move on...to where...I didn't quite know, for I had begun to become quite fond of Kampala...

Bel x
Oct 2005

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