jinja

for grandpa


air serv's maintenance facility is located in entebbe, uganda. it is the only place where we have a hangar and equipment to perform inspections on the aircraft based all over africa in the bush.

all the pilots love getting a ferry flight, because it is a welcome chance to return to syphilization for a few days. we can also go grocery shopping, drive on roads that don't resemble the cratered surface of the moon, and speak english in restaurants. a mini vacation.

after arriving and finding out that my 2 day maintenance trip would now be a minimum of 5, i decided to visit the source of the 4,184 mile long nile river and go rafting on some class 5 whitewater. a boatman's reverent hajj to mecca, if you will.

most taxis in africa are a bit different than the states. instead of hopping in and saying "14th and market," the routes are set here. drivers wait to leave until their vehicles are full. by full, i mean at least 15 passengers in the 9 available seats. and that doesn't count chickens.

after setting a new world record for the most people crammed into a vintage 70s toyota bus, we are off. i have told the driver where i need to go, but as it is my first time in the capital of kampala, and the whole "street signs" idea hasn't caught on yet in africa, i am at his mercy for orientation. he kicks me out at a gas station and explains that i need to catch a taxi around the corner to natate.

i find my ride. we speed off an alarming distance westbound, and even though i don't have any reference for where i am, a gut feeling says that i am going away from my hostel. the traffic is crazy, and our driver is no exception. i see the names painted on the top of the windshields of passing taxis: God is Able. I Love Samona. Easy Exit.

i glance at our windshield: Arsenal.

my driver initiates and evades multiple near collisions with pedestrians, motorcycles, and chickens crossing the road (why did the chicken cross the road in front of the Arsenal?) i silently chastize myself for the dirty-hippie environmentalist decision to utilize public transportation.

the taxi soon reaches its terminus, and i am grateful to be in one piece. i decide that next time i will take the God is Able, or at least the Easy Exit.

the boda boda (motorcycle taxi) drivers surround me, competing for my business. after a round of negotiations showing them that just because i am a mzungu doesn't mean i will pay mzungu prices, we strike a deal and the driver assures me he knows exactly where "backpackers" hostel is. i hop on and hold on for dear life, trying not to think about all the motorcycle accident victims i flew as an air ambulance pilot in montana. we speed down the same road, opposite direction, past where i was dropped off by the first taxi. my doubts are growing.

pretty soon we stop near a plaza and he points left toward where the hostel presumably is. i thank him and pay the $1 fare. as i walk off, i see no sign of the backpackers hostel. i pull out my map and consult, frowning at how i have gotten even farther away from where i wanted to go. then it hits me. there is a bus station right next to me.

bus station. backpackers.

english is the official language of uganda, but somehow these two sounded the same to my driver.

i decide to walk. it's only a couple of miles. i have finally found a reference on my map, the huge new mosque on the hill, financed by libya's own colonel gaddafi himself. it's amazing how with all these starving and sick people, there always seems to be enough money for wars and churches, but never any for things like healthcare or education.

the next day i catch a bus to jinja. we arrive at the boat house and grab a quick breakfast of hard boiled eggs, chipates, and pineapple. our guide, juma, greets us and shows us to the truck, grabbing lifejackets and helmets on the way.

there she is. i remember learning about her in 2nd or 3rd grade. it's all at once overwhelming and surreal: i'm about to go whitewater rafting on this legendary river. the longest in the world.

we put in. the first two miles are relatively flat, with a couple class 2 riffles. the safety kayakers paddle in formation off either side. we practice team paddling under juma's command.

a group of young women on the shore washing clothes yell out to the guides, laughing. i ask juma to translate.

"come for your babies," they say.

"they are not ours!"

"yes they are, they look just like you!"

"they are not ours!" they laugh, quickly paddling downstream.

juma explains the holes in the floor of the self-bailing raft and what to do if we flip in the next rapid, which is class 5.

"don't worry if we flip and you get trapped under the boat," he begins. "just hold on the line and relax. there are holes. light can come in- you can see. air can come in- you can breathe. and maybe, you can sing a song."


sure enough, we flip and everyone goes swimming. i am sucked under for about 20 seconds longer than i was hoping. but that is one good thing about the white nile: although there are huge waves, none of the holes will keep you churning until christmas. you get flushed out quickly.

"this next one is called g-spot rapid," juma explains. "because all the girls scream and get soaking wet."

we pass the site of the future nile dam, which is only a few miles below the existing owens dam. in a few years, all of this world-class whitewater will be under a lake, just as glen canyon now rests in the watery tomb of lake powell.

another great idea brought to you by politicians who think cheaper electricity for strip mining is preferable to the damning environmental impacts of damn dams.

after 2 more class 5s, flipping and swimming in both of them, we come to a calm stretch. the oar raft hitches up to tow us through the flat water. i stretch out on the right tube, catching some rays and drying out in the african sunshine. i close my eyes. my right leg droops off the side, into the bathwater, adding drag.

we drift.

chhhhtttt. i crack a cold pilsner lager.

somewhere, a bird chirps.

the silence is broken when the guides begin talking excitedly in lusoga.

i sleepily open one eye. a crocodile is basking on the nearby shore, sunning himself for energy. he'll need it for his next silent, submerged, lurking hunt.

and what is he hungry for today, i wonder? maybe a careless mzungu rafter dangling an enticing foot in the water?

i raise my beer to him in salute, and take a long, quenching quaff. sunshine, spectacular scenery, killer whitewater, and an ice-cold refreshing adult beverage. what is missing? a couple bikinis would be the only possible addition to this perfect day.

12 major rapids in 20 miles. one 8 foot waterfall. names like ribcage. escape hatch. bujagali falls. the ugly sisters. silverback. the dead dutchman. overtime. hypoxia. novocaine.

we approach the last rapid. it is called the bad place. class 6. unrunable. we portage around it and hit the last wave before calling it a day.


driving out, flooded by colors. the green green of jungle, banana trees, sugar cane, maize. papayas, mangoes, avocados. the earthy red brown soil swirling in our truck's wake and rusting my white t-shirt. lazy, paper-white cumulus clouds floating, drifting by down the bluest river of sky.

little kids running behind the truck, waving and yelling: "jambo! jambo! jambo!"

we reach the boathouse, which is perched a couple hundred feet above bujagali falls. a massive bbq of fish, chicken, pasta, salad, chipates, baked beans, and ice cold beers awaits.


the next day i walk around the village and find a great tree to read under, overlooking the nile and future lake in front of me.


a young boy approaches. "what is your name, mzungu? i am emma. would you like to see my school?"

he gives me a tour of the village, including meeting half the residents, and we end up at his house. he introduces me to his mother, sister, and chickens. all but the latter insist that i stay for lunch. they each want their pictures taken, and the mother and sister run inside to put their shoes on for the camera.


later, emma gives me the tour of their piece of land, firing off names for all the local flora. "this is potato, this is cassava, these leaves are what we take for malaria......" i feel woefully ignorant that i don't recognize half of the plants. emma patiently answers all my questions, but with an element of "duh!" in his "yes!"

i ask about the color of the local snakes.

"black!"

of course. as if there were any other color of snake on earth. he tells me how he used to have a soccer ball, but it popped on a sharp stick. i consider the crumbling, one-room mud hut he and his 9 brothers and sisters live in.


yesterday, i spent $125 dollars rafting in a place where $100 is the average annual household income.