Ten thousand liters of water are cascading down rapidly and sheer force makes for a giant cloud of mini water drops. It is early morning and Helga and I are visiting Victoria Falls. Wet from the water vapor we walk back to our camping in town.
Small dusty roads lead us around Lake Kariba, a large sweet water lake that originates out of the Zambezi river. The lake used to be full of fish, but nowadays you’re lucky if you even catch anything at all. After the inflation the tourist industry has almost disappeared in Zimbabwe. The people who lived around the lake and who made their money in the tourist industry had no other option than to move away or try to make money locally, through fishing. After the local people and their nets went fishing in the lake, not a lot was left. When we look around us now it is like nothing has changed over the last 25 years. We are offered a chalet for the price of camping and talk to the owner about what this place looked like when you still had to book 6 months in advance to be able to even stay there. 29 Augustus, 2016Slightly nervous we drive towards the police road block we see in the distance. We have been driving all morning, but we’re not getting very far. It feels like we’re driving over a mini-golf course where we are playing a reverse game of dodging the holes. It seems like Zimbabwe is not saving money by cutting in the police force. We are currently driving on a road where we can not imagine more than three cars pass a day. When we are stopped the officer pops his head in to have a look. “ Where are you going?” “ Mana Pools sir,” we reply honestly. “ Ok, can I see your car registration papers?”. We give him the folder full of all the documents. When he sees the amount of paperwork he says: “ Never mind, but can my colleague get a ride to the next town?” He points to a tree trunk where an overweight woman in uniform sits in the shade. We look at each other and sigh. “ Of course officer”. Not that we really have a choice in the matter. The female officer is not very talkative and it’s oddly quiet when we drive her to the next town 30 km away.
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I can hear myself tap the steering wheel with the rhythm of the music from the radio while we are standing in line for the next road block. The sun is intense, but the black officers who are checking all the vehicles are well dressed in their tailored khaki uniforms, high black boots and matching caps. The AK47 straps cut in their necks I see. That weapon must weigh around 10 kg and looks like a real burden to me. Our windows are rolled down all the way and we both lean out of them when we approach the officers. We think it will be a “hello, how are you?” and wave where they don’t really pay attention to us and we are not worried at all.
But it is different this time. The officer’s face is unreadable when he steps towards our car and peeks his head inside to have a look. In very good English he says:” could you please pull over your car on that side of the road, we will do some routine checks.” With a heavy heart we do as he says.
Out of nowhere three officers circle around our car like bees around a honeypot. Their eyes scan the vehicle like it’s a routine and we are told to stay in the car. The officer who seems to be in charge says: “ all right, we’ll start with your lights, could you please turn them on?” His trained eye immediately detect that the lights above our number plate in the back are not working… He asks me to step out of the car and on my way out I grab the packet of cigarettes and a lighter that we have in the car for these circumstances.
Very smug with himself he points out the lights that are not working. I put on my contemplating face while I get the cigarettes out of my pocket. I can tell by the way his eyes follow the cigarettes that I’m dealing with a smoker. I put one between my lips before I offer one to him. Side by side we light our cigarettes between our dry, chapped lips and with the smoking cigarette dangling from the corners of his mouth he says: “ I will have to fine you for these missing lights, $20,-” He pulls out his ticket book and starts to write things down. I look at the lights and back at him. “But really, there is no problem, I can fix that right now!” I say. I get my screwdrivers from the car and start to take apart the lights. He watches me for a little while and answers: “ well, in that case I still have to fine you for driving around without you licence plate lights.” I glare at him.
“I am not giving you $20,-” I say very firm. “ Officer, we’ve been travelling with this car around the world for over 2 years,” and I show him the map on the side of the car. “ I’ve never been pulled over and fined for something so useless. I will repair these lights and not pay anything.”The officers breaks eye contact and I can see his eyes travelling down to my pockets. I pull my cigarettes out of them and offer him one. His colleagues take this opportunity and also accept one. The cigarettes are being lit and he looks at me meditatively. “ Ok, keep on driving,” he mumbles. I quickly throw the screwdrivers back in the car, get in the car next to Helga who hasn’t left her spot and tell her what happened as we drive away. “ That explains why you smell like smoke,” she says smiling.
Not 20 minutes later and we are back on the side of the road. This time it’s a young woman in police uniform who has directed us off the road. This time it’s the white reflective tape on the front of our car, which she claims is not the right type and she wants to fine us $20 for it. “ I bought this tape 3 months ago in South Africa according to the specifications the Zimbabwean government set, “ I tell her. She looks at me and politely answers: “ Well sir, the specifications changed about three weeks ago, I will have to fine you for neglecting to follow the rules.”
I look at her quite stunned and decide to follow a different tactic. By now I know that Zimbabwe is mostly run by males and I ask to speak with her supervisor. She walks away to pat an older guy on his shoulder. He walks towards us and repeats what the police lady just told us. Luckily I am now “an experienced smoker” after the last roadblock and I start to perform the same routine as I did at the previous roadblock.
With the cigarette in between my lips I say: “ Sir, we’ve been travelling with this car around the world for the past two years. I have never been fined for something so absurd as this. As you can tell by the reflective tape we put on the front of the car we are trying to follow all the rules the Zimbabwean governments sets. We were not told that the rules had changed recently. Just tell me where to get the right tape and I will make sure everything is sorted out by the end of the day. To fine me for this seems totally unnecessary. “ “ I’ll decide what is necessary,” he replies gruffly. I get my cigarettes out of my pocket and offer him another one. After he’s taken it he say: “ all right, continue.”
That night I am not celebrating our road block victories, but instead I am in bed early with a major headache trying to sweat out all the nicotine from my body.
When we visited the Karamojong we were incredibly lucky in capturing two amazing stories. Stories which are told by the Karamojong on the long and dark evenings to entertain each other around the campfire. This second story was told by Elizabeth from Kautakou and she tells us what it was like growing up in a time of violence.
A little girl is sitting hidden away in the corner of the house. She pushes herself as close to the wall of mud and branches as she possibly can. If she would’ve been able to vanish in a puff of smoke, she would have. In the stories they tell around the campfire people sometimes can, they disappear in thick smoke to reappear somewhere far away and she wishes she could now. A loud scream from outside sets her teeth on edge. She recognizes the voice, it is her mother’s. She is shaking like a leaf and blacks out for a while until she feels another hand in hers. It’s her brother. He whispers: “You have to be brave little sister.” Together they silently crawl on hands and knees towards the exit of the hut. After the first robbery, the place feels different, not safe anymore. It feels like a normal hut instead of their home where they grew up. Her brother leads her outside where it is dark. Once their outside, he looks at her and puts both of his hands on her cheeks. They are warm and rough from working outside on the fields. “Run little sister, run as fast as your legs can carry you,” he whispers. They both start running, his hand solidly holding hers. They run out of the village. The thorns are hurting the soles of their feet, but they don’t feel the pain. She hears a shot being fired, coming from the village. Her brother falls down. He looks at her and tells her with a weak voice: “ run, runnnnn!” From the village she can see men armed with guns coming their way. She turns around and starts to run again, as fast as she can, without looking back. Elizabeth grew up in a time when there were a lot of raids. She lost her brothers and parents in these raids. “Around 1960,” Elizabeth tells us, “the white people came to Uganda from England. The English didn’t understand the Karamojong, and decided that they would not tolerate people who walked around naked. They would shoot them. Because there were fights between different tribes and because some of the tribes got their hands on weapons, the other Karamojong tribes also wanted them, so they stole them from the English. Between 1986 and 1995 was the height of the war between these tribes. There was hate, jealousy and weapons made it even worse. After 1995 this all changed. The new government wanted the Karamojong to put down their weapons freely, Later they exchanged them for food and in the end they simply took the weapons away by force, killing the Karamojong when they needed to. Since 2005 there are no weapons anymore and things are better. Everyone still know what happened and the hate is something hard to forget. Still, everyone thinks it is better now without the guns!”
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When we visited the Karamojong we were incredibly lucky in capturing two amazing stories. Stories which are told by the Karamojong on the long and dark evenings to entertain each other around the campfire.This first story was told by Matthew Toyo from Kautakou and tells us about how being brave can save your life.
An old man with a wrinkled skin is sitting in the tall grass in the shade of a large tree. He looks up at the sky. The clouds are congregating in a thick blanket above him. “ Will it really rain?” he thinks to himself. It has been dry for so long. He looks around. His spear made out of wood, with a sharp, solid point, stands next to him against the trunk of the old tree. The tree which, just like him, has been around for a while now. This morning he led his cows out of the village and herded them to his favorite spot, a place where there always seems to be grass, at the old tree. He loves this tree. Normally one of his sons joins him, but today he is alone. His son went to town a few days ago to sell some things as he hasn’t returned yet. This is very common he knows, his son will not return before he gets a good price on the market and found himself transport back to the village. He starts to count his cows: 1,2,3,…,16,17,…19,…28,…32…this is the last one he counts before his eyelids start to droop and he falls sound asleep. The moment he wakes up, he hears the raindrops fall on the leaves above him and onto the ground next to him. He wipes a drop from his face. “This was probably the drop that woke me up,” he thinks. He gets closer to the trunk of the tree to shelter himself from the sudden heavy rain. With every raindrop that falls on the dry soil he can see a little bit of dust blow up. “ About time,” he sighs, the rain is late this year. In the distance he can see the familiar sight of his cows. They are taking shelter too and turn their backs into the storm of rain. “Ah good,” he thinks, “ This way, I don’t have to herd them all together again”. He lets himself slide down again and waits until the rain has stopped. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. The drops turn into little drops, and the little drops turn into minuscule drops before the rain completely stops as sudden as it had started. He gets his spear which is still leaning against the old tree and starts to walk towards his cows. The grass is still wet and he enjoys the feeling of cold wetness between his toes. Sand sticks to his feet. He looks at the earth below. His father was a good shepherd and an even better tracker. His father learned it from his father. He never knew his grandfather, but he has heard the stories. He has tried to teach his sons,but they are more interested in women and trips to town. Maybe they will care to learn later, he secretly tells himself to keep his hopes up.The old man gets on one knee in the wet sand. With his fingers he reaches to the ground. That is strange, he thinks to himself, while he looks at the print in the soil. That is a hyena print and it has been a very long time since I have seen a hyena in this area. He presses his palm against the print. It fits. It’s a front paw, a male alone, possibly pushed off by the rest, possibly wounded by fights with other males. Wounded animals are dangerous, everyone knows that. They look for easy prey and are constantly prepared to attack. They will not hesitate. With a sudden jolt he looks up towards his cows. They are still grazing peacefully, close together. On hands and feet he crawls closer to the animals while taking in his surroundings. The cows will not react to him at all, he knows that, because they are used to having him around. Another fresh print on the ground, he knows he’s getting closer. He gazes over the tall grass, his hand tightly holding his spear and he looks at the sharp point. It’s still undamaged and razor-sharp. His heart is in his throat. This is not the first time, but he doesn’t have the strength of a young man anymore, he knows that, he has to be smart this time. He looks around him, how would his father have solved this? Suddenly, he knows, the soft earth and he starts to dig in the soft soil. He digs deeper and deeper with his hands until he has dug out a narrow hole. He trusts his spear into it, backwards. He makes sure it is in a 90 degree angle with the sharp point facing upwards. He starts to fill the hole again with sand until the spear stands solid as a rock. Now that the spear is in place, he starts to crawl further. Low to the ground as a predator, silent as a mouse, but wise, brave and unbeatable like an elephant. He spots the hyena in between the cows, exactly where he thought it would be. It is lurking around the mothers with young calfs, the easy prey. He crawls closer, closer, even closer. His heart is beating very loudly. He can almost smell the hyena by now. The grass gives him good coverage and the soft earth muffles his sounds. Now, he is close enough. He grabs the grey tail of the hyena, gets up with all his speed and strength and starts pulling and walking backwards towards the spear in the ground. The hyena is totally surprised. His hind legs are partly suspended in the air and the front ones are not getting any grip on the wet grass. The speed with which he is being pulled completely surprises the animal. The sharp point of the spear is rapidly getting closer. Sweat streaks down the man’s face. With his bare hands he still holds the hairy tail. Just a little closer, he thinks to himself, the animal is roughly 60 kg he guesses. At that moment, the ground becomes harder, the hyena is getting his hind legs back on the ground and gets back his grip. The spear is only a few meters away. With all the power the man possesses he starts to pull again, he knows it is now or never, the hyena still hasn’t regained full grip. His hands and knees are hurting, back in the day this would’ve cost him no effort, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now. The hyena is not giving in at all. He has to think of something and fast, his hands are hurting, but he can’t let go.The moment he will let go the hyena will definitely be after him, or worse, his cows. He needs these cows to be able to give a good brideprice for his sons future wives. Letting go is no option and the spear is too far away. Suddenly, he sees someone walking in the distance. How lucky! “ Help me, help me!” he shouts as loud as his tired voice allows him. The young man has heard him and is coming closer. But the moment the other man sees the hyena he stops and flinches. The old man looks at him and says: “ there, two meters away from me, is a spear in the ground, take it and spear the hyena!” The man assesses the situation, thinks about it and answers:” No, that is way too dangerous! The hyena will eat me and then you.” “ Don’t be ridiculous”, the old man says, “ get that spear!”. The other man walks backwards slowly and refuses to.“ Allright” the old man says, “what if you take over the hyena’s tail and I get the spear and kill him?” The young man contemplates this offer for a few seconds and decides to help the shepherd. He walks over to the hyena and grabs hold of the tail, with fear still in his eyes and the hyena frantically trying to get loose. The old man can finally let go and shakes his stiff and painful arms. He takes a few steps towards his spear and pulls it out of the ground before walking over to the hyena. But then he suddenly changes his mind. He looks at the man and the hyena and says: “ A lesson in life is to learn not to be a coward, I will give you this lesson and maybe you will have to pay a heavy price for it….You’re holding the hyena very well, though. Bye.” He then herds his cows together and walks away. The young man holds the hairy hyena tail tight with his sweaty hands. Now he is totally by himself. Afraid to let go of the tail he can see the sun slowly setting for the night. The moment he feels all the strength go out of his hands, the hyena gives one last pull. He cannot resist it and the tail slips through his fingers. The hyena, finally free, doesn’t think twice and runs as fast as his tired body can carry him. Away, far away to a quiet place for the night. The young man falls down, exhausted, in the still damp grass. He’s tired, but relieved. Moral of this story: when you are brave, you are able to safe yourself.
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Moroto is like the dot on the i, it’s not entirely necessary, but it does make a difference and finishes it up nicely. That book on the shelf, with its off-putting cover, it’s been there for years, but you can’t really put yourself to read it. Then comes the day you finally do, you take that book, you forget about the cover, turn the first page and start reading. Before you know it you’re being sucked in by the story. You inhale the letters like it’s the last oxygen on earth. Consciously and full of life. Different and tasteful. That is Moroto. The journey to it is out of the way. The roads are bad and under development, which almost makes it worse. One moment there is perfect tarmac, while the other you are launched out of your seat by giant road bumps or violently shaken apart by a multitude of potholes. But the journey is worth it. At the end of that road is a small village, that looks abandoned but also lively. It’s a village that connects the modern world to its original African roots. It’s where the people don’t know any other way than the nomadic way of life; keeping cattle, building a new village every ten years on a different spot and bearing as many daughters as you can (since they will make a good bride price). This is where the village elders decide whether their offspring go to school or if they stay true to their nomadic roots.What we find in Moroto is a mixture: traditional clothes, but armed with a Nokia, piled up crates of beer and CocaCola, but on the back of an oxcart, a suit, but worn over Maasai sandals made out of car tyres.We are warmly welcomed by the team from Kara-Tunga. It’s a small tour operator that tries to promote the Karamoja area with tourists. The guys who work for Kara-Tunga as tourleaders have their roots with one of the Karamojong tribes in the surroundings of Moroto. Sunday 11 decemberStill drowsy from sleep we find our way out of the rooftop tent. Battered and worn out from the battle we had to fight last night. The itchy welts are an angry red against our white, slightly tinted skin. With our torches we tried to minimize the damage, but the tent must have looked like a discotheque when we chased the mosquitos and killed them one by one. It’s way too early for us, but a strong cup of coffee helps a little bit. Our guide arrives an hour later than we had discussed the day before; it’s African time. We’re kind of used to it by now and we even find ourselves behaving like this sometimes. Still, we try not to show our frustration too much, because in this particular case we could’ve used an extra hour of sleep. With our guide Peter, who grew up in one of the surrounding villages until he was send to school when he was 12 years old, we drive off. He sits in the car like a prince, with his nose almost agains the front windscreen. He’s wearing a bright orange t-shirt with the Kara-Tunga logo and a traditional hat and necklace, it suits him. He leads us off the main road and a narrow track leads us to the entrance of the village. The village is a small settlement made out of local materials. Already at the entrance we are amazed at how it is all constructed. The “walls” that are erected around the village are about 60 cm thick and made out of twined branches, on the inside they are supported by beams which are put in the ground every three meters. This way, the wall can withstand a whole lot of force coming from the outside. The branches are carefully twined and it is impossible to penetrate this structure and get into the village without decent tools. The entrance to the village is the size of the entrance of a large igloo; we have to stoop down to get through. When we get through we have to walk around a very large spiny bush. Peter tells us that at night, this bush is pulled into the entrance. The entrance acts like a funnel and the spiny bush gets pushed together by it. The sharp spines make sure that no one even thinks of entering the village at night. Simple, but effective. They also put steel plates and pieces of tin right behind the entrance, if someone tries to get in, it will not go unheard.
Especially since we arrive with Peter as an escort we are being warmly welcomed by the village. He clearly feels at home and easily walks us through the maize of alleys. The whole structure reminds me of a beehive: cells within a larger cell. Areas within the confines of the thick wall, separated from each other by a thinner wall than the one on the outside. The entrance is always a narrow and low gate. Children are running through it with no great difficulty, but we have to stoop low to access the family compound. The different compounds almost always look the same: one, two or three huts, a kitchen area, a place for water and food storage. The occupancy of the compounds doesn’t vary a whole lot: children, ranging from 0 till 15, a dog, chickens, ducks, sometimes goats, sheep and cows. These are usually taken in at night and shepherded out in the morning. After we’ve been walking around for a little while we notice a group of young people gathering in the middle of the village. With their feet they stamp on the dusty soil and we start to hear a rhythm, which is really catchy. It finds its way through the dust, to the other huts, children and under your skin. The first symptoms show when you don’t even realize that you’re tapping, nodding or clapping on the beat.The whole village seems to be called by the rhythm and gathers around us while the group of people in the middle starts their dance.One of the elders with a fair bit of charisma and an impressive voice is clearly the motivator. His energetic hip movements and rhythm are catching. The amount of dancers are multiplying and before I know it I’m also dancing and shouting in an unfamiliar language.
When the dancing has finished and we look around is, we see that the entire village has turned up. We ask one of the village elders and the charismatic dancer to tell us a story about life in the village. They tell us two wonderful stories that we will write down separately.Peter finds his way out of the village and we follow him. As soon as we have left we can feel the tiredness from the lack of sleep wash over us. The village for us was like a bath of energy, you fall in and you’re being carried away through warmth, love, simple passion and energy. Overenthusiastic children who grab your hand and take you into their world with their sparkling eyes where the mother of pearl colored whites stand out against their dark skin. The dusty faces, snotty noses who walk with their brothers and sisters on their backs. Hands and feet rough with calluses, but warm and full of love, friendship and honesty. Hands that run through the coarse hairs of a young calf to remove unwanted ticks, hands that run through the soft hairs of a newborn daughter, hands that take a hold of home made tools and that start on a long day from sunrise to sunset. I look at my own hands and see the soft skin, clean finger nails and knuckles with tiny, almost invisible, scars. They are the same hands, but so different. 33 years of age, but protected and defined by comfort. Peter takes us back to Kara-Tunga. We take along one of the village elders, in his best suit, to Moroto. It’s quiet in the car, at the moment we are all in our own little worlds.
The Kraal
By the end of the afternoon we leave for another village. Peter climbs into our car again and leads us out of Moroto and onto a long dusty track. All of a sudden he shouts: “Stop! We passed the exit!” I look at him rather doubtful. “ But Peter, we didn’t pass any roads..”. Well, we have to go back he informs us. When we reach a large tree he says: “ Look, here it is.” A very narrow track where clearly only cattle walked recently leads us into the bush. We take the turn and follow the cattle track which is just wide enough for the car. After 2 kilometers we reach some huts that are almost not visible because they have the same colors as their surroundings. A Kraal, a temporary settlement, Peter explains. We are warmly welcomed just like the other village before. We park our car in the middle of the village while everyone watches us with curiosity while we set up camp. The campfire is lit and the men return in small groups with their cattle and find their place around it. We have dinner around the fire and listen to the stories from the men which Peter translates for us. A large pitcher of local brew is passed around. The stories turn into singing and the women also mix into the group, while they were separate from the men earlier on. We go to bed when the fire is almost out. Some of the men find a resting place around the hot coals, while others look for more privacy in the fields. The women return to their huts and children and we find our familiar spot in our rooftop tent. http://www.kara-tunga.comhttp://www.discoverkaramoja.com
I’d rather be lost in the woods than found in the city
It is 5 o’clock in the morning when I pull open the heavy doors of the gate which leads to the road. I can see the shoes from the night guard poking out of his little office, soft snoring also comes out and fills the warm humid air around us. When the gate is completely open we can see the streets of Kampala, Uganda. We get into the traffic which is slowly coming to life in the city with a population of 1.5 million. It’s a vibrant city with on the one hand the typical African chaos and on the other side the sharp contrast of new malls and international brands and companies who want to get into the developing market like banks, telecom companies and Uber. Chinese investors are slowly working on the roads in Uganda. The existing roads are torn open and replaced by brand new tarmac, signs are put up and roundabouts installed. Everything to make the infrastructure better. The only thing which is not up to date are the driving skills of the inhabitants of Kampala. Roads with two lanes become 4, merging into traffic means pushing your bull-bar against the other car until the weakest link gives in, parking bays don’t have to be used and stopping in the middle of the street to do your shopping is widely accepted.From the car we see the daylight lighten up the sky around us. I can’t remember consciously enjoying so many sunsets before we started traveling. Slowly the sky turns purple before it changes into a dark orange and when we don’t need our car lights anymore we are well past the boundaries of Kampala. We are on our way to Mt. Elon and Sipi Falls, an area close to the border with Kenya. It’s a bit higher in altitude than its surroundings and famous for its Arabica coffee. On a small ledge, covered in green grass, right next to the abyss leading down the river and with a view over the waterfalls, is our hard to get to, but beautiful campsite for the night. A soft whining from the green grass gets our attention. A young dog, emaciated and tired looking, pushes three hungry pups away from her nipples which causes the whining. Clearly, we set up camp next to their den and the whining is heartbreaking. We don’t really have a choice but to share our dinner with the young mother and her pups. The four of them eat like they haven’t had anything for weeks. As soon as the sun sets and dew covers the grass we find our place in the tent. The moonlight shines through our mosquito net and adds a soft yellow light. It slowly climbs up in the sky and we’re fast asleep before it gets up high.In the morning we visit the Sipi waterfalls. A narrow slippery trail leads us straight past the local crops. It seems to be a very fertile area around the waterfalls. By the time we walk past there are already a lot of farmers and family members working on the fields. With simple tools they work the land and it’s 50 Shades of Green all around us.
We leave Sipi Falls at 12.30 and arrive at Kara-Tunga in Moroto at 17.30. Moroto is a small village in the North East of Uganda. It’s an area that a lot of tourists skip when they visit Uganda, and we were almost one of them…Luckily, we talked to Wim Kok, owner of Matoke Tours, before we started driving around Uganda. His experience as a tour guide and also as the organizer of alternative African travels gives him all the knowledge to advise us. With a passion for Uganda he gladly tells us where to go and what to do and we talk away during the afternoon bend over the map with our coffees. We try to remember all the information he gives up by drawing and writing on our maps. For him this is common practice, but for us it’s as valuable as gold.
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