I had already been to Nairobi about ten years ago, and I remembered it as uglier and more stressful than it feels now. Since this morning I’ve just been wandering around the city centre quite happily.
Let me tell you about the last few days.
After the last time I wrote, I arrived in Kabale, in the southwest of Uganda, practically just a few kilometres from Rwanda to the south and the Democratic Republic of the Congo to the west. From there, I went to Lake Bunyonyi, a truly spectacular place, because it contains a small archipelago of dozens of green islands. One of these islands was entirely taken up by the guesthouse where I stayed for a week, with an extraordinary view and total peace, really one of the most tranquil places I have ever been.
You could hear and see a huge variety of birds, from very tiny ones to larger ones like small hawks, ibises, and herons. It also had a small library, with books on African history in particular, so I managed to clear up a few things in my head. There was also a small room where they screened films in the evening, but apart from the first night we were always without electricity, by candlelight.
One day I took a canoe tour of the lake with a guide. It turned out to be quite demanding. I had assumed the guide would do all the rowing, but as soon as we set off he handed me a paddle, and we only reached the shore after a full two hours.
We were right on the border with Rwanda. From there we walked for about an hour through green fields to a pygmy village, although to be honest they weren’t actually that short.
As the guide had suggested, I gave the village chief, a cheerful old man, a small amount of money, about the equivalent of 3 euros, and maybe for that reason they felt they should put on a dance for me. I don’t usually enjoy watching dances, but this one was really bizarre. It made no sense at all. Some people started singing and others dancing, but it was clear it wasn’t any kind of traditional dance, it was simply everyone doing their own thing in a very rough, improvised way. Some were jumping, some were running back and forth with their arms in the air, some were even throwing themselves on the ground. Apart from the children, who were dancing happily and having fun, the rest seemed like complete nonsense to me. Some of the men also looked a bit drunk. Then finally the dance ended, and everyone went back to what they had been doing before I arrived, working the land, cutting branches, preparing food, and so on...
On the way back by canoe, a light drizzle started, and then suddenly it turned into a total downpour. It’s hard to describe how much rain was falling. We hurried to reach the shore and took shelter there, as best we could, under some banana trees. The rain just wouldn’t stop. At some point I started shivering from the cold, and then I still had another hour and a half of rowing to get back to the guesthouse.
Later on, I had a strange thought: could the storm have been triggered by the pygmy dance?? 😄
From Kabale I was thinking of spending a few days in Rwanda, but in the end I didn’t go, partly because the visas alone were costing me too much (it would have been 60 dollars to enter, plus another 50 dollars to get a new Ugandan visa), and partly because I don’t have much time. In fact, I have an appointment on April 15 in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, where a dear Italian friend of mine, Tiziano, will be joining me.
About the visas on this trip, I didn’t mention before that they are usually quite expensive: 80 dollars for Zambia, 50 dollars for Tanzania, 20 dollars for a transit visa for Kenya (which I’ve already had to get twice), 50 dollars for Uganda, and this morning 30 for the Ethiopian one.
Now, to reach Ethiopia, I’m facing the hardest and most difficult part of the whole trip, as those who have done the route in the opposite direction, coming from there, have unfortunately confirmed to me. “We were told to expect the worst, and the worst is exactly what it was” a couple of Israelis told me. And, among other things, it’s very likely that the stretch from here to the Ethiopian border will have to be done on top of a truck across the desert! There is only one bus a week, but nobody has been able to tell me which day it runs. As soon as I finish this post, I’ll head to the outskirts of Nairobi to try to figure out how to leave. And luckily, a Swiss couple I met when I was at the lake told me that the rules have changed and it is no longer possible to get the visa at the border, but you have to get it here in Nairobi. Otherwise I would have gone all the way there (about 20 hours if I manage to get a bus, or around 30 hours on a truck) and then had to come all the way back! As happened, in fact, to a poor guy they had met.
To make things even more entertaining, there are bands of bandits roaming the border area, and if they show up, they simply take everything.
Anyway, no one ordered me to do this, so there’s no point in complaining. But just so you know, I’m doing it for you, only for you, dear blog readers! 😄
Finally, I’ll tell you that last night, while travelling, there were a couple of strange situations with the police. I remember that before leaving I had read all sorts of crazy stories on forums and blogs about African police and how they are always trying to rip you off, but to be honest, maybe I’ve just been lucky, so far they’ve always been very kind to me everywhere.
Nothing particularly serious happened yesterday either. The first incident was at the border, when after getting my passport stamped and the visa, I was walking the stretch of road to reach the bus.
These stretches of road at any border are usually a real ordeal. In particular, there are often hundreds of people hanging around trying to exchange money either at blatantly unfairly low rates or blatantly unfairly high ones (because in that case the money is fake).
Last night, however, there was no one around, but at some point a soldier with a big rifle suddenly appeared out of the dark. He asked for my passport, and I gave it to him. Then he asked for the yellow fever vaccination certificate. And that was a problem, because I don’t have it. In fact, until the very last moment I had been unsure whether to get the vaccine in Kampala, but several travellers had assured me they never ask for it.
I actually had the vaccine almost 10 years ago, and its validity is exactly 10 years, so in reality I’m in order, but I’ve lost the certificate in the meantime. So I started answering a bit vaguely: yes, everything’s fine, I have it!
But he kept insisting on seeing the certificate. It was clear he was really just trying to squeeze some money out of me, and I wouldn’t have minded giving him a few euros, but I was afraid that by doing so I would be admitting I wasn’t in order, and then he might ask for a much higher amount. Because in fact it is mandatory to enter Kenya (and also Ethiopia... let’s hope I won’t be asked for it when I arrive there). So I kept being vague, saying that I was just in transit anyway, but he kept insisting. In the end, I pretended to look for it among some papers and then told him I had it in my backpack on the bus. Luckily, he didn’t feel like walking all the way to the bus. He asked a couple more times: so, what are we going to do about this? But in the end, he shook his head, smiled as if to give up, and waved me on.
Shortly after we left on the bus, there was the second episode. We were stopped at a checkpoint. Nothing unusual here, African roads are full of checkpoints. Whether you’re on a bus, a minibus, or on your own (like when I was driving in Namibia or riding a scooter in Zanzibar), you get stopped countless times. It’s usually a very quick check, lots of smiles, maybe a joke or two, and then you’re off again. Sometimes there are more thorough searches (I remember in Botswana Pablo was once searched for a very long time, and we on the bus had to wait a long time before they finally let him go). Oh, and another curious thing I hadn’t mentioned yet: especially in Botswana and Zambia, every now and then the bus stops, everyone gets off, and you have to walk over a kind of soaked mat on the ground. Why? Because this way the bacteria on your shoes are supposedly killed and can’t enter the territory you’re heading into. I don’t really know much about this kind of thing, but it does seem a bit absurd to me.
Last night, however, the police who stopped us were strange and immediately behaved in a very aggressive way. They seemed tired and stressed.
First of all, they made us get off the bus with everything we had with us, in my case my camera bag. Then they made us line up right in front of the bus headlights. In one line were the women, and in the other, us men. It was a strange situation, and whenever someone moved even slightly out of line they shouted at them to get back in position. After about ten minutes of standing there like that, they started checking passports and bags, all while shining a powerful flashlight just a few centimetres from people’s faces.
At one point, the guy checking the passports kept saying to me: “It’s not you! Not you!” I was completely blinded by this damn torch until I finally realised he didn’t have my passport in his hand, but someone else’s, and so, despite being tanned, I was clearly not the man in the photo.
Then I went back towards the bus, but another police officer standing at the entrance started hitting my bag repeatedly with a kind of stick, saying: “And what have you got here, what have you got here?” I told him: “Stop! There’s a camera in there!” “And what do you use it for?” “Photos.” “Oh, so you’re a journalist?” “No.” “And so?”... At that point I didn’t know what to answer. I don’t know if such an absurd interrogation was pure madness or some well-planned tactic designed to make you break down and admit everything (but looking at the policeman’s face I’d lean towards the first option). Luckily, just then a colleague called him and he walked away.
So I finally wanted to get on the bus, but nothing was allowed to be taken on board. All luggage had to be stored underneath. Some people had accepted it and got back on, while others were complaining because, in fact, if you have anything fragile in your bag, it will definitely get smashed down there. The driver, somewhere between scared and pleading, kept saying: “No, please don’t protest, just do what they say, they’re doing it for our own good!” I wasn’t complaining, of course. I was just waiting for everyone to put their bags inside so I could hopefully find a reasonably good spot for my camera. But for some reason, the same strange officer from the interrogation called me over, spoke briefly with a colleague, maybe in Swahili, and then said that I, and only I, was allowed to keep my bag with me on board.
By the way, I was also the only one who wasn’t searched. Must be the usual muzungu privileges (another thing I hadn’t mentioned: in all the places I’ve been so far, regardless of the language spoken, white people, and especially non-African white people, are called muzungu. It’s not a derogatory term, maybe a bit ironic, yes).
Anyway, they might be worried about terrorist attacks, because everywhere, before getting back on the bus (at the station before departure, after the border, after every stop), there was always a police officer checking all passengers with a metal detector.
Some photos:
Monkey.
Monet.
From here on, photos of Lake Bunyonyi and its surroundings.
A 16th-century Congolese mask used as an amulet for healing.
I don’t think I’ve mentioned African art so far. It’s extraordinary, especially the masks (used in rituals, theatrical performances, dances, or as amulets). More or less during our Middle Ages, they were creating works that resemble our contemporary art. Of course, in their case it’s considered “primitivism,” while in our case it’s pure “genius”.
See you!
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