The river and the source...

(we're back on air)

The trip to Indinda was a whole UTAKE-G affair. Following my impressive strike record, my Ugandan boy brought me a present. (oh, how I hoped it is the Ghanaian)

Right. Okay.

Observations (plus going with what the guy said) tell us this is a chick. She had, what’s that, mosquito bites? No, I believe they are, noooo, pimples! That’s a bra msee, so those must be, boobs. Yes, boobs. (don’t read it out loud coz speaking it means, if we put it relatively, her boobs were big. Just whisper). Her figure, hmm, I’ll give her a one. Okay, eleven, and that’s because she had two legs…sticks. She has these blood shot eyes that can chill blood in a lab vial let alone the veins. Let’s not talk about arse. When she sits down I bet she feels like she’s sitting in Pastor Wanjiru’s first church with those benches we fondly called ‘fomu’. Let’s not talk about the ‘book cover’. Just know it’s those ‘titles’ that don’t entice you to read the book.

Yaani, if anyone had missed the bull’s eye (and the dart board entirely) when trying to imagine my dream gal it was this guy. He hooked me up with a human. And ati she was from TZ. Now the ladies I encountered while in TZ were, eish, way better than what was standing in front of me now. And the stance she is giving us isn’t very feminine. I’m not surprised when she says she’s a black belt. But I take a step further back. (Yuko kwa picha moja ngoja mtamuona mniambie). Then she starts giving us lectures about drinking and smoking. Her smoking lecture is in detail, that the smoker around us lights up and purposely puffs in her direction. End of lecture. I ask her if she drinks and she says, “yes. Just like everyone” Aargh. Tanzanians! You must be specific. “Do you F**king drink beer?” “No.” “Thank you.”

So that is my situation when we go to the source of the Nile.

Oh, the Ghanaian in our company is none other than the official girlfriend to my Ugandan pal. Will it surprise you if I tell you that this guy who has game-plan A-H also has girlfriend one to I think three? And they all look similar. One day I almost confused number one for number two. You should have seen the look that was burning my face on the right side.

That’s our ‘posse’, two Kenyans, a Ugandan, a (it pains me to say this) Tanzanian and a Ghanaian, on our way to Jinja in two cars. The Ug, the Tz and the G in one car, us local boys in the other.

Uganda is a very beautiful place and needless to say I manage to exhaust two 36-exposure films on just the ride to Jinja. Between the two towns is this amazing forest that is just a pleasure to drive through. And more so for the driver. There are two spots where any dare-devil driver can finally get rid of the cob-webs found on the other end of the speed-o-metre. The end where 160-200 is found.

My pal does just that. He cleans out the webs. If it isn’t for that ‘stopper’, the speedo I assure you is about to do a 360. Meanwhile, I can taste my heart, I’m about to break the lens on my camera because of the tight grip, my arse has managed to grow hands and grip the seat, yaani, even in case of an accident I was never in danger of flying out any window (I had belted up).

One minute after the ‘ride’ I finally find my voice. My boy is quite excitedly talking about it and we check behind and discover either our Ug boy is bila balls ama the gals have grabbed them. He’s doing only 100.

After being mesmerized next by the Owen Falls dam we are then traumatized by the potholed road that leads to Jinja.

Because of a confusing session of hand-gesturing between the two drivers we start off the Jinja tour with a trip to the source of the Nile.

“You’re Ugandan. You hear.”

Okay, I know I’ve gotten into the groove of the Ugandans but I am surprised by this statement made by my boy. I’m about to ask what he means when I notice it.

It’s the board welcoming us to the Source of the Nile and informing us that Ugandans pay a measly fee while international tourists pay a humongous fee. And in Ugandan shillings it looks scary.

This is where I did my ‘first’ felony. I ripped off the Ugandans of their cash for growth. But somehow I doubt my cash would be enough to fill in a pothole, let alone line someone’s pocket. Mine is loose change. Nunua njugu nayo.

The source is deadly (‘nice’. ‘Beautiful’ for nature freaks).

We settle on the banks and enjoy more pints. Malt as usual. If I had tried waragi, the source would have been my end. Baadaye, rather between the pints, we had the local delicacy. Fulu na njiva. Fish and chips (sounds British). But chips aren’t ati chips. Some potato cubes treated like chips, which was served by some lady who was slower than .....(this is an interactive blog where you get a chance to fill in this space with whatever you consider slow).

The Uganda service industry sucks more than their DJs and their dancing combined. Have you ever seen a waiter who is taking your order and gives you that look like “why the fuck did you guys come here? Especially here? Over there is a better joint but you decided, noooooo, to come here…matusi in luganda.” Then she smiles, “how can I help you?” Our order makes her grimace like we just staked her heart.

After a laboured 30 minutes, our food arrives and we scoff it down mercilessly. The fish is huge and fresh. Poor fish. “You were warned not to leave home by your wife, especially during the festive season, but you had to go hanya, didn’t you? Now look at you. Mama watoto will mourn your loss. Wait, that looks like her on the plate at the next table.”

Next up, a boat-ride to the source.

If you’re expecting an arrow pointing into water with a sign that says “Start” to suggest this is where the Nile starts, you’re wholly mistaken. The source is just a spot where some long-dead Livingstone-type character looked at, mused at and while pulling on his Tipis moustache sagely suggested to the Luganda folk around…

“In the name of Queen sijui who, (who is busy being kulwad by King somebody in England) I proclaim this to be the source of the Nile.”

Mad clapping from the followers. But in the distance a Luganda fellow who has seen the lake ever since he was born knows that ‘bleached’ fellow is pulling everyone’s leg. He chekas and ends up being chased out of the village. Ati he’s the village madman. (Iwaya, your ancestor?)

Our guide then shows us where the locals believe to be the true source. Somewhere in the water is an underwater ‘spring’ where water seems to be flowing from. I put my Tusker down and squint. And squint. I’m not exactly sober, so…I just agree.

The boat takes us around the lake and we see some terrific sights. Birds (our guide gives us a long educational speech of which I gitch nada), local ferries to cross the lake, a land rover boat (picha iko), the Robben Island of here (jela) and a spot where some local Wanjiru comes to cast away demons. Honest, there’s a cross in the middle of the lake, rather in the river.

After that ride on the lake with ‘death’ jackets plus a missed opportunity to have my picture taken with Gandhi’s head, and a quick stopover at Jinja town to restock on film we go for…

BUNGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Yaright! Didn’t jump though. Two reasons. There was no one operating the elastic thingy plus I was low on funds. I’m going back. I definitely have to air my balls and frighten my heart a little and thrill my brain a ka-young one. I have to check if my adrenaline still rushes too. Labda ililala kitambo. Kuna vile.

It’s while here at a place I can’t remember the name (nakuambia I have issues with names. This a place for white-water rafting) that I try the Niro. Nile beer.

YEECH!

I reiterate my statement; Uganda pint is crap (except waragi). I labour through my Nile and head off with the ladies to the bottom of the cliff to where bungeed guys end up. If that TZ mama was fly, I would have got freaky. (LOL. I tickle myself. Me? Freaky. Mimi ni mtoto mzuri. Na pia huyo mdame ziii). The guys warn us the stairs are steep and we may suffer. Nani kama Modo? Piece of cake. I eat stairs for breakfast. (Sijawai choka hivyo. You should check out the squoks I got).

The sight here is tremendous. The rapids (they are called that aren’t they?) et al. Woe unto us. Before we can sit and enjoy the view it’s time to head back to Champara.

Aw man! This has been a fabulous day. And of course, later we go out to some rave and dance and drink the night away. The sun god busts me with a pint in hand. As usual, the guy who dishes out hangies, gives my pal two doses. He wakes up at three the next day. Me? I woke at around 11 and I’m now watching Superman playing baseball with planes…