My Ugandan Family

Except when I am trekking in the jungle, I have been staying at this wonderful small Inn on the outskirts of Kampala. From the moment I arrived, everyone on the staff has treated me like family. I have become really good friends with Herbert, the chef.

Herbert, a.k.a. Hatangimana, is from Rwanda. He and his family fled to Uganda during the genocide in 1995. He has one sister, Linda who is 13, and four brothers who range in ages 10 – 27. Herbert is 25. After their escape from Rwanda a few months had pasted. His parents were told by the government it was safe to return. They told Herbert and his siblings to stay in Uganda until they contacted them. His parents along with his oldest brother, ended up being slaughter upon their return. I immediately had visions of scenes from “Hotel Rwanda”, “Shooting Dogs”, and a documentary I watched on the genocide. Herbert and his siblings became orphans in a foreign country. Herbert was 17 at the time, but was left to care for his brothers, one as young as two, and his sister Linda who was only five. I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation with someone who escaped and parents were murdered in this evil act of discriminatory violence. The conversation caught me completely off guard. I didn’t expect to have a conversation like this in Uganda. Now that I think about it, the countries do border and there are probably many refugees. Through many conversations with Herbert, and me asking many questions (for those of you who know me well, know I am not shy when it comes to asking questions), I learn of his struggles to pay for Linda’s school fees. In Uganda, and most African countries, education is not free. It’s not expensive according to American standards but for a family that can barely but food on the table, education can become a luxury. Linda has been attending what is known as a Mission or Catholic school. It is also a boarding school which is good because this insures she is fed and has a secure place to sleep. The new term begins in September and runs through December. The cost? $189. I decide I want to sponsor Linda’s education through graduation. She is bright, smart and eager to learn. English is her favorite subject.
I am looking forward to keeping in-touch with both Linda and Herbert. I know I have made friends for life.

Stranded, border town, chicken bus, curious?

Although my gorilla trekking expedition including transportation back to Kampala from Bwindi, I ask Aaron to drop me off in Kable. Kabale is a small town on the very South-western tip of Uganda. It lies right on the borders of Rwanda and the Congo. We run into a bit of bad luck on our journey out of Bwindi. The front axle on Aaron’s truck snaps in two. We are in the middle of nowhere and he doesn’t have a signal on his cell phone. A few people from the local village pass by and laugh at the severity of the problem. Aaron decides to keep walking until he can get a signal on his cell. So, I left in the middle of the dirt road, on the edge of a cliff. It was here that I saw the largest worm in my life. Shortly after my worm discovery, another safari vehicle came to my rescue. Unfortunately, Aaron needed to stay behind to tend to the vehicle. It was much longer that I was arrived in Kabale. I had read about a museum hostel several months ago and was determined to visit. The name is The Home of Endirisa. I’ve included their website at the bottom of my blog. It’s a great organization. As soon as I got out of the truck I met my first friend, Lillian. She’s a die-hard banana sales girl. Anyone need a sales person? I suggest recruiting Lillian. Very outgoing, friendly, knows her product builds relations. If she saw me around town, she would walk with me to my next destination just to talk about our day…. Always ending the conversation with a pitch for her lovely bananas. Meanwhile, she should have been in school. The Home of Endirisa was a place where people from all over the world would come to stay, people of all ages. It had a relaxed atmosphere. On top of the building there was a covered lounge called “The Nest”. It housed about six sofas and was a great place to read or just hang out. I had planned on catching up on my blog postings but their internet was not working. In town I found this great little shop that sold boot-leg movies. I bought one DVD titled “Nicole Kidman vs. Angelina Jolie”. Eighty movies for only $10. In reality there were only twenty movies, ten featuring Nicole Kidman and ten featuring Angelina, they were just featured in four different languages. Either way, what a bargain. So, if anyone wants to watch Mr. and Mrs. Smith in English, Japanese, Chinese, and Spanish, come see me. After five days in Kable I was really missing the forest. I decided it was time to make a plan to reach Kibale National Park. Here I could obtain a permit to go Chimpanzee trekking. I could also go trekking in the park to see many of the other primates. Getting up North to Kibale from Kable was not as easy as I thought it would be. It looked as if my only option was a seven hour ride on the public bus. After purchasing my ticket, I was told to be at the bus station at 2:30am. The bus was scheduled to leave at 3am. I was not too happy about taking the public bus as I have read and heard many horror stories. When I arrive at the bus station, promptly at 2:30am, I’m pleased to see that the bus is a motor coach. The seats are very empty and there are only three or four people standing by the bus. This might not be so bad after all. I step onto the bus to select the perfect seat and that’s where the nightmare begins. The bus is full. Everyone is sleeping on the seats and on the floors. There are bags of potatoes, rice, suit cases, boxes piled everywhere. I want to cry. I want to check my bag in the boot so I wait outside for someone with authority to arrive and assist me. That happens around 3:30am… thirty minutes after we were scheduled to leave. Oh, and the person that helped me was there along. He was sleep on the bus and didn’t wake up until 3:30am. I find what I feel is a good seat at the front of the bus with decent leg room for a long ride. Wrong. The bus proceeds to stop every 20 minutes and pick up more people. Two men just board with a saw the full length of the aisle of the bus, another family squeezes on with chicken, the girl sitting next to me is sound asleep and has her whole head on my shoulder and someone has their bags sitting on my feet. To distract myself from the uncomfortable situation, I decide to call my friend Maria, who is in Botswana, to touch base on our upcoming plans to meet. In the middle of our conversation, the bus driver lays into the horn which resembles something from the “Dukes of Hazard” car only ten times louder. Maria laughs hysterically. This pattern is repeated several times before we decide to give up. Even though there are no seats left on the bus, we stop to pick-up more passengers. It is at this time that a bus from a competing company passes. The four employees on our bus become outranged. I don’t know what they are saying, but they are not happy. All of a sudden we take off. The four employees begin shouting back and forth, searching ahead for what I assume is the bus that passed us. The bus is now going extremely fast, we are a high mountain road (and it’s a long way down!) and it’s raining. This is the most frighten I have been on my journey so far. We spot the other bus, change into the opposite lane, and pass. The employees all jump with joy and cheer loudly. I’m just glad it’s over. We stop at the next town and finally some people get off; however, the bus aisles become flooded with venders selling everything from mystery meat on a stick, bottles of water, bananas, shoes, watches, socks, meds, anything you can think of. I look at my watch and realize the seven hour journey is just about over and we are nowhere near my end destination. When I ask the bus driver what time we are expected to arrive the time I am now given is 2pm, making this total ride from hell eleven hours!!! Eventually I do reach my bus stop of Fort Portal and as quickly as I can find a taxi to take me Kibale National Park. As soon as see the forest I am put at ease. Finally I’m back… back in the forest.

Gorilla Trekking in Uganda.... WOW!

I had purchased a gorilla trekking permit from the Uganda Wildlife Authority several months ago. I actually got lucky. Most people need to book as much as a year in advance to secure their preferred dates. I am impressed with the strict regulations and guidelines the UWA has developed to protect and insure the safety of the endangered mountain gorillas. There are only three place in the world where you can find these beautiful animals; Uganda, Rwanda and the Congo. Sadly, there only 700 remaining. Uganda has armed soldiers surrounding the forest and along the border to insure the safety of their gorilla families. Unfortunately, it is not the same in the Congo where there is currently a civil war going on in the very jungle where there is the largest number of mountain gorillas in the world; it was recently announced that four were found dead having been killed in the cross fire. I guess we’re down to 696 now. Only eight people at a time are allowed to observe a family of gorillas and your time with them is limited to one hour. You can take photos, but no flash. Its about a 45 minute drive from camp to the base of the rain forest where we meet our porters and begin our trek. My porter is Moses. He carries my backpack that contains four bottles of water, lunch, rain gear, towel, and camera. Doesn’t sound like much, but when you are climbing straight up a wet mountain with no path, Moses became my new best friend. Before reaching the forest we wound our way through small villages were the children were happy to great us. Their houses were set in the middle of rows and rows of banana palms. The guide informs us that occasionally the gorillas will come out of the forest to raid the banana plantations. The villagers will gather and play drums and other homemade instruments to scare them back into the forest. It reminds me of the movie “King Kong” where it is just the opposite. There, the villagers play music and sing to get Kong to come out of the forest. Once we enter the forest the real trekking begins. Our guide communicates via radio with the guards on the exact location of the family my group of eight are assigned to visit. We follow him straight up the mountain. After over two hours of trekking, we are told that the family of 24 has been separated and they are on the move trying to locate each other. Great. Off we go. The vines become so dense as we climb, men (I don’t even no where they came from) pull out machetes and start clearing a “path” so we can continue our climb. Then, we hear them. A deep, almost tenor like, call. I get a burst of energy and move to the front of our group. Next thing I know Mr. Machete is hacking away with three or four swings, then pulling me up behind him, hacking away three or four swings, pulling me up behind him. Is this for real?! I didn’t care. I was close and I knew it. The rest of the group was struggling to get up the mountain. Nothing was going to stop me, even if I had to recruit the help of Mr. Machete. Let me tell you this… it was worth every bit of the challenging. There he was, the silver back mountain gorilla resting on his back eating leaves. The leader of the family. He looked straight at me as if to say, “What took you so long?” I didn’t even take a photo for awhile. I just watched him. I couldn’t believe I was only 10ft. away. I wanted to throw my arms around him and say, “It’s me, Kelly! Meeting you in person has been my dream! I’ve read so many books about you and watched movies and documentaries and I never, ever thought I would have the opportunity to visit you in your home… your REAL home. And, I get to meet your family!” Not sure if he could sense the fact that I wanted to hug him but it was at that moment he stood up and decided to charge me. His charge was complemented with a King Kong type roar. I don’t think he’s the hugging type. The guide was standing next to me and I had been given instructions on what to do if this happens. The instructions were, “whatever you do, don’t run. And, don’t look him straight in the eye”. First of all, after climbing straight up a mountain for three hours I was so tired I couldn’t even walk let alone run. And, for some odd reason I didn’t feel afraid. I knew he just wanted to let us know that he is the boss and this is his territory. Hey, no problem here. You can have this damn mountain. All together there were about 10 members of the family of 24. The babies were the most fun to watch. They also seemed to be interested in our group. It was difficult to take pictures because the jungle is so dark and we are not allowed to use a flash. I managed to get a couple of decent shots, but mostly I just wanted to live in the moment. Not spend my whole hour taking photos, but to enjoy the time I had being with them in their natural habitat.

The Road to Bwindi National Park

Great Lakes Safari had arranged a driver to pick me up at the Inn. When the driver, Aaron, informs me that the drive to Bwindi National Park will take about 10 hours I almost die. I’m not very good with sitting still that long. He says, “We’ll have fun!” I think to myself, “Fun? What does he have in mind? The licenses plate game? Punching each other every time we see a VW bug?” As we begin our drive, Aaron gives me a rundown of the drive. We will be stopping at the Equator, (huh?) then for lunch, then soon after we will lose the tarmac (say what?), and continue our journey through some small villages until we reach the park. Actually, it doesn’t sound too bad. When we arrive to the equator it has “tourist trap” written all over it. There is a line painted across the road with a giant ring off to the side. On top of the ring is a sign that reads, “Equator”. Yeah, right. Like that’s the exact spot where the equator is. Well, to prove that it really is the exact line of the equator, a gentleman provides me with a little demonstration. On the North side of the line he places a funnel. He fills the funnel with water and places a flower at the top. As the water drains out of the funnel, the flower circles to the left. He moves the funnel one foot over the equator line on the South side, performs the same demonstration and the water and flower drain and circle to the right. Then he puts the funnel dead even on the center of equator line. Any guess to what happens? The water and the flower drain straight down the middle, no circle motion what so ever. I’m impressed. This really is the exact location of the equator. So, I decide this is worthy of the cheesy touristy photo of me standing on the equator line.

After a few more hours of driving and a fantastic, traditional Ugandan lunch, we begin to lose the tarmac. This is when the joy ride really begins. Children from everywhere are running to get as close as they can to the truck to wave and shout, “Hello” to the “Muzungu” (white person). We are on a dirt road that very seldom sees a vehicle. One little boy screams as loud as he can, “HOW ARE YOU?”, and then smiles at his accomplishment. Aaron and I both laugh. Aaron was right; I am having a great time.

Rafting the Nile

Lake Victoria, here in Uganda, is the living source for The Nile River. If you jump on in Uganda and ride it out, you will end up in Egypt. I had signed up with a company called Adrift to spend a full day white water rafting this legendary river. My goal? Not to end up in Egypt. The rafts were to launch in a town called Jinja, but I was instructed to meet the company bus in downtown Kampala. This would give me the opportunity to assess my rafting teammates. After all, these are people you will be relying on to keep your raft from flipping over and to pull you back into the raft when deadly rapids are determined to suck the last breath out of you. The first person I meet is Fredrik. I quickly interview him to see if I want him to be in my raft: He is from Sweden and has only been rafting once. “I wouldn’t really call what I did white water rafting”. Strike one. Then I find out he is a mountaineer who has just concurred Mt. Rwenzori. Perfect. He is athletic and has endurance. He makes the cut and I decide he will be in my raft. Together we walk to the upper level parking lot to find the bus and along with the other “candidates”. I stop dead in my tracks when I see them. The bus is filled with a group of juvenile delinquents fully decorated with piercings and tattoos. In hard-core British accents they are yelling, cursing and screaming at each other… they are all chain smoking, one is getting sick behind the bus, while another is taking a “wee”, as she calls it. We’re all going to die. Other than Fredrik and myself, there are only two other people not with the juvies, a young English man and his girlfriend from Kenya. Now, the girl from Kenya is as thin as a toothpick and she has on an outfit that you would expect to see in a club, complete with high-heals and she has never been rafting. The situation continues to get worse. I try to relax and enjoy the scenery as we pass through the rural villages. When we arrive to our launch base camp I see a glimmer of hope, new potential team mates. While the juvies are all protesting that breakfast should be included in the cost of the trip, I pull aside the manager of the Adrift and say, “if at all possible, we really would rather not be put on the same rafting team as the young-ones.” He kindly smiled and said I was not the first to make that request. I’m not sure if Fredrik realized yet that I was speaking for him, but dam it I had found one qualified teammate and I was not about to be separated from him. Then, I noticed that the new people only had five members. There was room for two more people on their raft. It was either me and Fredrick or the English guy and his Kenyan girlfriend. Fredrik quickly picked-up on my strategy when he noticed that I was staying close to the group of five. He shot me a knowingly look and a smile and came to join me. It worked… the guide put us in with the group of five! First up is to meet our teammates. After introducing ourselves, we share in our relief of not have to be in the same raft with the juvies. We have a fun group of seven all around the same age. Believe it or not, mostly American women who were visiting a friend working in Uganda. She had brought along a colleague, Troy from England, who together with Fredrik gave our raft a bit more testosterone. We spent over an hour practicing safety techniques… jumping in and out of the raft, developing a strategy on getting the team back in, what to do if you are caught under the raft, what to do if the raft flips, etc. I have been rafting four times now and have never taken this much time to review safety procedures. I also noticed there was more rescue kayakers present than on any other rafting trip. The kayakers are there for your safety. They paddle ahead of the raft so if you fall out, they are right there for you. After our safety procedures are completed to our guide’s satisfaction, we get a briefing on the river. White water rapids are broken down into six classes; class one being very easy… you don’t even need a helmet. Class six is extremely difficult and your raft is guaranteed to flip. During our overview the guide explains that we will be hitting five class fives. Did I hear him correctly? Five? I’ve never completely three in one trip and that was when I became a member of the Zambezi swim team. It was at that very moment I accepted the fact that I would also become a member of The Nile Swim Team. Well, they waste no time warming you up. The first rapid we hit is a class five. Sort of like Victoria Falls, you can hear them before you see them. We are instructed to stay to the right if we fall in, because off to the left becomes a class six and you can get stuck in a “wash machine”. The guide speaks as if flipping out of the raft is inevitable. I feel even more discourage when the whole village is gathered to watch the rafts at this very point. No sooner do we hit this monstrous wave, our guide yells, “GET DOWN IT”, which is our signal to kneel in the raft and hold on for dear life. It doesn’t work. We are first tossed around in our rubber saucer from wave to wave before The Nile reaches in and takes us one by one. Despite being on the left side on the boat, I was so determined to avoid “the wash machine” that I swam under the raft to the right side. At this point I was close enough to the shore to stand on a rock and just jump back in the boat… thanks to my Keen Hybrids. They earned their value on this trip. No time to admire my shoes, more rapids to come. In between navigating the rapids, we are blessed with beautiful landscapes, small islands, diverse birds, villagers using The Nile to wash their clothes; we even surprise a few boys who are soaped down and taking a bath. Well, at the end of our journey, we are a bit water-logged and we’ve drank plenty of The Nile, but we all agree, we had the time of our lives. Back at the bus I’m surprised to see that all the juvies survived as well. I try and see if Fredrik and I can catch a ride back to Kampala with our rafting team mates and avoid the juvie bus, but unfortunately there is no room in their small van. Fredrick and I decide if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. We grab a couple of Nile beers and get to know the rough bunch in between their footballer songs. All in all they are just a group of teenagers who’ve had a rough start in life and are trying to sort it all out. Still wouldn’t want to be in raft with them, but having a beer with them ended up being not so bad after all.

Rafting the Zambezi in Zimbabwe

Settling into Uganda

WOW… the difference between Uganda and Zimbabwe could not be more different. I could notice this before the plane even landed. The land here in Uganda is very green, lush and tropical. There is also a more upbeat and positive vibe in the air. Driving from the airport, the first shops I see are “Smiley’s Bakery and Coffee Shop” and “Tickle and Giggles Restaurant and Bar”. How can you not feel happy? Then we pass a giant truck load of pineapple. I’m going to like it here! As we continue our drive, the streets become energized with stall after stall of everything to suit your needs. You can get your hair braided in one, then go next door and get your groove on to Reggae. Don’t like Reggae? One shop down there is techno playing so loud the speakers are blown, but that doesn’t stop the few people in the 10x10 stall from dancing. After a little dancing, hit the next stall and pick-up a chicken for dinner. You can get it all done on the streets of Uganda. I’m staying in Kabalagala, which is just outside of Kampala. When the taxi driver turns off the main road to take me to the Inn where I’ll be staying, I become a bit concerned when it’s blocked by a steer with the longest, sharpest horns I have ever seen. I mean, this is still the city. The Inn appears to be behind a row of shops on the main street mixed in with some very underdeveloped shacks and a mix of farm animals. I begin to miss my small room with a twin bed and concrete floor at Antelope Park. There at the end of the dirt road appears a glowing bamboo gate with a thatched over-hang. The taxi driver beeps, the gates open and there they are… my Ugandan family, waiting anxiously for my arrival. Betty, the Inn manager, greets me with a hug and tells me, “You are most welcome!” She explains that she was getting worried because she was expecting me sooner. I look around and the gardens are well groomed. There is an open-air restaurant and bar, spotless clean and charming run by chief, Herbert. I’m shown to my room on the upper level and I’m very pleased.
It’s my first night having to sleep under a mosquito net. There is something romantic about sleeping under a mosquito net… until you get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and forget it’s there. After a victorious battle with the mosquito net, I rise the next morning eager to explore my new surroundings. My second battle, well assumed battle, is with the giant prehistoric bird that swoops past my head as I exit my room. I later find out that this intimidating bird is a stork. Certainly doesn’t resemble the maternal image portrayed on baby shower announcements in America. After a fantastic breakfast prepared by my new friend and cook Herbert, whom I’m looking forward to introducing you to in another posting, I head up to Great Lake Safari to confirm the details for my upcoming gorilla trekking expedition. While there, I decide to book a day of white rafting on Nile… after all, I am an official member of the Zambezi swim team. Bring on The Nile! Let’s just hope my next posting doesn’t come Egypt.

A Piece of Civilization

August 3, 2008

After living in the bush for a couple of months in a country that would never allow me to make a phone call or use my credit card or even dry my hair half the time, I made the decision that I was going to spend the weekend in Johannesburg. Johannesburg, or as most people refer to it, Jo’burg, is as close to modern civilization as you’re going to get in Africa. In Zimbabwe I was sleeping in a twin bed in a small room with a concrete floor and thatched roof. I would have cat called, “Anti-Christ” slip through my window and crawl in bed with me at night, an impala try to sneak in my room and steal my granola bars (those of you who know me know I didn’t mind this very much). I would take a shower outside in the freezing cold. At night I would sleep in half my wardrobe just to keep warm. This was a big adjustment for a high-maitance urban girl. So I thought I would treat myself to little bit a luxury. Nothing too fancy, I didn’t want to set myself back too far. I found myself a nice hotel/village not far from the airport. I had a mini-apartment complete with everything I was looking for… big bed, lounge, in-room internet service, desk, mini-kitchen and (drum roll, please) my own private BIG bathroom… Italian marble tiles, bathtub and walk-shower…HEAVEN! Guess what I did my first night? I order room service! A personal pizza with CHEESE, real CHEESE! I haven’t had cheese in almost two months! AND… A Coke Light! Hey, it’s not Diet Coke, but I’m night complaining. In my little piece of Heaven I was able to sort out my Visa card, book my flight to Uganda and make my hotel arrangements, finally talk to my Grandmother, Skype-talk with friends for close to an hour, fax documents to my mortgage company… basically everything I couldn’t do in Zimbabwe.

Now that I’m sorted out… Uganda here I come!

Farewell Zimbabwe

Knowing I wouldn’t have the secure umbrella and excursion planning skills of the expert team at Antelope Park, I knew it was in my best interest to arrive in Uganda a good week prior to my gorilla tracking safari just to get my bearings on my new environment. Saying “Goodbye” to the friends I had made in Zimbabwe was not easy. I was leaving knowing I may never see them again, but also feeling very concerned about their future. I had more than a connection to the country, I had a connection to the animals which I care so much about, but more importantly, the people who I now care very much for.
I thank all of you for challenging me on my decision to not only go to Zimbabwe, but to spend such a long period of time in a country stricken with such poverty and political instability. Your concern for my safety and wellbeing truly meant a lot to me. Please know that going to Zim was not just about petting the cute lions. Believe it or not, this can be done in several countries. It was about being part of the ALERT team and volunteering at an orphanage IN Zimbabwe. There are so many countries, especially in Africa, that need volunteers. I couldn’t think of children anywhere needing help and love more at this time than in a country where a self proclaimed president was prohibiting this act of kindness and support. Before leaving California I had a conversation with a colleague, Pia from The Sacramento Bee’s Editorial Board. She was giving me some great advice, “whatever you do, don’t share your political views once you’re in Zimbabwe”. I assured her that that was not my objective or my business. As my friend Aaron was driving me to the airport in Harare, he purposely drove me passed the home of President Robert Mugabe. I felt such a rage of anger. I wanted to jump on the roof of the van and demand he come out and listen to what I had to say. I wanted to force him to look at the pictures of the children in the orphanage that receive NO support from his government. I wanted to inform him that hundreds of children are turned away from the orphanage each month due to lack of availability. I wanted to show him pictures of how Virginia’s family and most of the children don’t have shoes and the ones that do don’t fit. I wanted to show him a picture of my friend who works on the cleaning staff and her sweet baby boy, Julius who is ill and tell him how she can’t afford his doctor bill and medication… $20. I wanted to tell him about the lion handlers who show up for work every day even though their salary doesn’t cover their cost of living due to the out of control inflation rate. They usually rely on tips from tourist to help get by but the tourist have stop coming. I want to tell him about the abandon cottages at the once world renowned Hwange National Park and how all but one of the watering holes are now empty... YOU’RE KILLING YOUR WILD GAME! I no longer want to have a conversation with this man; I wanted a go at him. I became convinced that I can take him. After all, he’s 85 and short. If I can somehow get him alone, I’m pretty sure I can take him. Instead, I took a deep breath and watched the compound pass by feeling defeated, unable to do anything. I hated that feeling. Although I couldn’t remove Mugabe and fix all of Zimbabwe’s problems, I am trying to accept that I made a small difference. My Grandmother’s neighbor, Mrs. Sigler kindly gave me some money and ask that I help others in need, so I paid for baby Julius’ doctor bill. With the contributions from the Nordberg and Deliondardo families we managed to smuggle-in two large duffels of clothing to the orphanage. I also made small donations to several members of the staff, none of which ask for a penny. I went to the orphanage every opportunity I had to help out. Mainly to just hold and play with the children who never receive this sort of attention. What I’ve noticed about my new friends from Zimbabwe is they have been kicked hard and they are worn down. You can tell when you talk to them that some are at the end of their rope. The best thing I felt I could do is be positive and give them hope. I would speak with strong confidence, as if I knew something they didn’t, of how I was certain that positive change is coming very soon to Zimbabwe.
If there is one think I want all of you to know about Zimbabwe is there was never one time that I felt unsafe. And, it is a beautiful country with loving and caring people. People who care about the decline of the African lion and are working effortlessly to reverse the situation; People that greet you with smiles and hugs each day even though they don’t know if they’ll be able to pay their bills or feed their families; People who shed a tear when it comes time for you to leave. These are the people hidden behind the headlines of the media. I will sometimes hear people say, “I wouldn’t go to Zimbabwe and support that backwards government”. Forget the government, who really suffers in a statement like that are the people.
Farewell Zimbabwe. Thank you for the life lessons, new friends, hope for the future, memories and amazing experiences I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Party Zim Style

One of the greatest things about volunteering and staying at Antelope Park for such a long period of time is the fact that you get to know the local staff on a personal level. Take Virginia for example. Several members of her family work at the park and her parents live just outside of the entrance gate. Virginia works in laundry. She actually makes doing laundry fun. A few of us at the park were invited to her parent’s house for a traditional Zimbabwe celebration. The day before the party, Sheila, a member of the cook staff gave us Shauna and Ndebele lessons. These are the two languages spoken in Zim. The lessons were too much fun! She would have us sing the vowels in both languages. The shy ones in the group were mortified. Me, I proudly belted out the unfamiliar sounds. Hans from Iceland was my conversation partner and he would have to sing with me. We had the rest of the group crying with laughter. Can you imagine it? A Baltimore-Hon accent, paired with an Icelandtic accent, singing African vowels? Could have been a Saturday Night Live skit. When we arrived to the celebration I could get by with the basic greeting and sing my vowels and that was pretty much it. When our truck pulled into the entrance we were greeted by over twenty children, all part of the family. They were smiling and waving so hard I thought their little arms would fall off. This is one BIG family. You see, Virginia’s dad has two wives. Or, as Virginia explains, she has two moms, a birth mom and her “other mom”. In Zimbabwe it is legal to have more than one wife. She also has a dozen, or more brothers and sisters. Add their children to this gathering and we had ourselves quite a party. And party it was… no time was wasted. The boys grabbed the men in the group to show them how to play the drums, while Virginia’s mom, birth mom, began to sing and dance to a traditional welcome song. Before you knew it, we were all being pulled in and taught the steps. Homemade beer was being pasted around… I forgot the name, maybe because it was SO strong. Then, we were taught how to make sudsa, a staple in a Zimbabwe meal. It’s finely ground maze that doesn’t have much of a flavor, but is usually served with some type of sauce. Before serving the meal, the women are instructed to wash the men’s hands. I thought the men from AP would eat this up but they actually looked uncomfortable when I brought over the pale of water. It is also the women’s responsibility to serve the men their dinner... on bent knee. I think I need more of the home brew. Then I was told the women needed to go and collect firewood. What?! I wanted to protest...rally the Zim women to stand up for their rights but all I could do is sing my vowels. So off I went to help collect firewood.

New Cubs Arrive!

July 26, 2008

We return to Antelope Park from our road trip to exciting news. Although Lu Lu still hasn’t given birth, we are expecting new cubs. ALERT has come across an opportunity to rescue-purchase three cubs from a canned hunting breeding facility. There are two, four month old cubs that have been kept in a small enclosure and one, nine month cub that has been house raised. The man who owns the facility has grown a bit attached to the house raised cub, Sariah, and doesn’t want to turn her over to the hunting camp. I can’t believe this asshole actually has a soft spot. The story goes, he lost his wife a year ago and Sariah became his companion but now is starting to get too big. Sariah is too human and not enough lion. When we first gave her meat, she didn’t know how to get the skin off. The lion handler actually had to cut it off for her. Can you say “spoiled”? She also thinks she is a lap cat. If you sit down, she wants to sit on you. We let this behavior slide the first two days. We figure too much change may send her into a depression. But now it’s time to learn to be a lion. She’s been teamed up with the leader of the S group. Sahara. It was not a pretty introduction. Sahara was excited to meet her to friend. Sariah? Not so much. After of few days of growling and snarling they became buds. The plan is to have them out walking in the bush together by the end of the week.

Now, let’s talk about the three month old cubs, Barbed and Razor, a.k.a The Gremlins. These were their given names and plan to be changed. Why Barded and Razor you ask? Well, their father was found caught in a poacher’s snare. Don’t let the cute little faces fool you. When I first met these two I never thought such evil sounds could come out of such little bodies. You would have thought they were auditioning for the next filming of The Exorcist. I was more afraid of them than the big boys up at the breeding program. I sat with them the day after they arrived. Believe it or not, after a couple of hours I could actually touch them. The next day they were sitting in my lap. I would not have bet a penny that this would be the case. Look at ‘em. You have to admit… they’re cute as hell. And to think they were originally being hand raised to be hunted. If this isn’t a reason to support ALERT, I don’t know what is. www.lionalert.org