photo recap: Alanna + Dogs

Many new friends along the way.

Wild Spirit Lodge, Nature's Valley, South Africa

Amampondo Backpackers, Port St. John's, South Africa

Sugar Shack, East London, South Africa

Shoestrings Backpackers, Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

Cool Runnings Backpackers, Senga Bay, Malawi

Mayoka Village, Nkhata Bay, Malawi (the saddest, closest-to-death dog I've ever seen)

Rwenzori View Guesthouse, Fort Portal, Uganda

Jinja, Uganda

Summary: The Rest of Uganda

Hokay! Back on the blog train. Here we go. It feels a bit funny continuing on after Alanna's eloquent conclusion to all that we experienced, but that is the whole we've dug ourselves into, isn't it?

So where were we? Yes, I do recall now! Lake Nkuruba, near Fort Portal, Uganda! Kitchen embarrassments, adorable thieving children... (Aldrin, I totally forgive you).

Lake Nkuruba

Lake Nkuruba is one of Uganda's 'crater lakes,' dozens of which can be found in this part of the country. (I am not up to speed on their history, but an overwhelming amount of evidence leads me to believe that these lakes are in fact flooded craters). Nkuruba is small, round, entirely choked with lush Ugandan forest, and feels about as far removed from everything as one could hope to be. Our daily swims would invariably coincide with visits from assorted groups of local boys who'd appear on opposing shores, hop onto homemade rafts and splash over to our side to swim badly and make a lot of noise. To us, even after four days of lake visits, the kids' varying styles of undergarment remained their sole distinguishing feature.

Thinking back to failed raft-building attempts as a kid. Turns out all I needed to do was buy a plane ticket to Africa and lash some reeds together.

We had two Canadian encounters at Lake Nkuruba: first off, the lake's hefty black-and-white colobus population were paid a visit by a group of monkey researchers from McGill who stood and pointed at a group of monkeys for twenty minutes and then went swimming (hey... does that mean I'm a monkey researcher?!). We also met and spent a good deal of time with a woman from Vancouver who it turns out is on my friend's baseball team! Hi Lisa! (Sorry we didn't take any photos of you!)

If Willie Nelson were a Black-and-White Colobus Monkey

The road to Rwaihumba village, with the Ruwenzory mountain range in the distance. Behind those is the Congo! Spooky.

Packing Avocados in Rwaihumba. This village claims to have the "3rd largest village market in Uganda" (pretty big feat I know) but I assume we were there on a non-market day because, well, there was no market.

Bananas at Rwaihumba.

After a fantastic time at the smallest lake visit of our trip, we caught a bus to Kampala for the third and final time. The trip wasn't so bad, we snacked on grilled bananas and were treated to Celine Dion music videos and the second half of a Thai action film.

Our final stop in Uganda was Jinja, the country's second-most populated city. Jinja is located where the Nile River first feeds out of Lake Victoria (which is a very big deal, because the Nile is a super-long river if you haven't heard). Our choice of accommodation, the Triangle Hotel, overlooked the lake and was situated in a neighborhood of fascinating dilapidated art-deco residences set on spacious palm-lined lawns. The area had evidently been at one point inhabited by wealthy whites – our hotel was sandwiched between a golf course and an abandoned yacht club – but all the homes are now in serious disrepair and likely at quadruple their intended capacity. The walk from the minibus stop to the Triangle had a surreal Palm-Springs-via-Mad-Max vibe to it.

Spot the Man

This hotel was across the street from ours, and is definitely not a hotel any longer, but we were informed this is where Ida Amin stayed when he was in Jinja.

The Triangle Hotel pool. Best pool.

Our hotel, while slightly run-down itself, still sided as one of the more luxurious places we stayed, with poolside bar service, TV, and a private lakeview balcony. The place was giant and well past its heyday: entire wings were closed semi-permanently and the building's only other patrons seemed to be the East Indian owner's large family. But the hotel did have the standing to host an prestigious conference of some kind, because near the end of our stay, after we'd readied ourselves for yet another quiet swim under the ornamental crocodile-arch, we found our usually deserted poolside overrun with large important-looking Ugandan men in military uniform.

One evening we decided to take advantage of room service and ordered butter naan and a scotch. I made a pretty large fool of myself ordering the scotch.

One morning we hired a guide to float us out to the actual specific source of the Nile: a small patch of ripples where, he explained, the water visibly accelerates as it leaves Lake Victoria. Apparently the patch of ripples was a little more dramatic before they built a giant hydroelectric dam downstream and therefore raised the water level. Once again, a small and unremarkable landmark rendered even more unremarkable in favour of providing electricity to thousands of homes. When will it end?

And they say Africa isn't safe.

Our driver, Captain Rasta.

At the source of the Nile! Our guide was not too familiar with exposure settings but I do not hold it against him.

Also on the tour we stopped at a small grubby island next to the 'source' to stretch our legs and engage in photo-ops. While no larger than an average bachelor apartment, the island was home to at least half a dozen fishermen and a small souvenir hut. The fishermen didn't exactly have homes, but our guide led us to a group of miniscule tents – to our eyes indistinguishable from piles of garbage – where they slept when it rained.

Our guide (sorry mr. guide but I do not remember your name!) cutting up some jackfruit for us to taste.

Other valuable sights along the way included an (even smaller) island inhabited by a colony of massive yellow monitor lizards, and a tour of all the niches along the shore where fishermen stash their nets to bypass overfishing laws, as only line fishing is permitted. We passed a few fishing boats, and our guide half-joked that “all fishermen are always in a bad mood” and what with the garbage tents and the fact that their livelihood will probably be extinct within the decade and yet they're still forced to risk crippling fines in order to survive, well, it's not too improbable a generalization. (That said, the lizards seemed fairly content.)

Lake Side View Hotel

Giant marabou storks, each one of these comes up to my chest, they are everywhere. (Insert off-colour reference to Uganda's birthrate here.)

Krest Bitter Lemon, our new favourite Africa drink.

Again with the birthrate thing?

From Jinja we took a bus across the last border crossing of our trip into Kenya and bid Uganda adieu. Whether it was the country's size, its bus network or just that the places we wanted to see were fairly spread out, Uganda was the country we were able to see the most of, which felt good. It gets pegged as an 'in-a-nutshell' African country, and the description was appropriate for us: we did the safari thing, we did the crazy-ass city thing, we drank beer in loud overstuffed hostels and we drank beer among little tweeting birds. While not the first notion of Africa for most, Uganda is a beautiful little package perfectly situated for small-scale tourists such as ourselves, where every corner merits exploration (the exception being the north corner, where the Lord's Resistance Army is doing really, really awful things to people). And I haven't even mentioned that we shelled out $450 to see the mountain gorillas! That's because we didn't! And we still had an amazing time. So there.

"So how WAS Africa?"

We are liars. More accurately, Scott is a lair for promising to keep up with this thing, and I am just lazy for failing to write a single post in almost two months.

We are home. We have been reunited with our families, friends and non-PC computers. We have been acing job interviews, cooking up some mean fried-chicken-free meals, playing every backyard game in the book, and soaking up even more sun (Canadian sun, not African sun – there’s a difference). It’s strange how seamlessly you can transition back to life as you knew it after five months in a world that could not possibly be more different from your own. It’s strange how much you can think about a place before you’ve been, and how little you find yourself thinking once you’ve returned.

But I do think about it. While waiting to cross the street, I am amazed when a car actually stops for me. While reading the Vancouver Sun, I chuckle at a headline that reads “Closing of elementary school forces 8 year old to walk 3.5 kilometers to school”. While sleeping safely in my single bed, I dream of the laughing, hopeful children we met and wake up to realize that some of will not see adulthood. Some may already be gone. It’s not an easy thing to come to terms with, so I push it out of my mind and check Facebook instead.

I want to tell you what Africa meant to me. I want to tell you about the mothers with the babies strapped to their backs, the colours of their kangas, the children in their HIV POSITIVE t-shirts, the ingenious things they could make out of wire and bottle caps, the houses they lived in and how fantastic it felt to be invited into them. I want to tell you about their warmth, their vitality, their faith, despite what seems like such dismal circumstances. I want to tell you about the beauty and the tragedy of Africa, but I’m afraid I’ll come up short; I’m afraid I’m not a skilled enough writer; I’m afraid that regardless of my inarticulacy, words alone aren’t enough.

It seems to me that Africa is a land of inherent contradiction. One day, the people are friendly, the landscapes are indescribable, and minibuses really aren’t that bad. The next, the people are bordering on malicious, the landscapes have turned dismal and you’re on a 14 hour bus ride with a large, perspiring woman literally sitting on top of you. In Africa, very little time is spent in the space between absolute despair and unfettered bliss, and a great deal is spent at one of the two extremes. That is probably one of the only things I can say about Africa with any degree of certainty: you will forget what complacency feels like. Africa draws extreme reactions from people, and, like the maggots that laid their eggs in our bed sheets, it’s tough not to let it get under your skin.

Africa is life intensified. The colours are more vibrant here – the reds of the fertile soil, the greens of the undulating hills, the blues of the sweeping skies. The flavours are sharper – the cinnamon and the coriander and the rainbows of peppercorns. The noises are louder, the going is slower, the journey is far more convoluted and intriguing than it appears. Everything is so pure and in the moment that even the most cautious person will want to launch themselves into the throes of it all and despite the frustrations that doing so sometimes caused, I’m so glad we did.

Everything you have ever seen or heard or read about Africa is true. All of it exists in some measure, and then some. I wish I could tell you that the kids on TV with flies on their faces are a myth, but they’re not. You will see some of that. You will see the victims of landmines hauling themselves around on the ground with whatever is left of their bodies. You will see a lot of white UN trucks, men with guns, and people who act like that’s completely normal. But you will also see laughing, energetic, healthy kids, fathers with steady jobs, mothers learning to diversify their crops, prosthetics, local languages, songs, and feel a prevailing sense of peace. It will shake you to your core. It will make you think. It will make you want to go home and tell everyone you know about it. And ultimately, it will make you want to go back.

We have returned home with memories, experiences, and a renewed enthusiasm for life and what’s important. We hiked amidst the colourful rondavels and maize crops of the Transkei. We survived a night of food poisoning aboard a decaying steamship in the middle of Lake Malawi. We joked with the border officials in Tanzania. We explored the empty ruins of an ancient city. We watched the sun set over Kenya from a fishing dhow. We ate spaghetti and watermelon for breakfast. We took cold showers. We asked for help. We paid too much for taxis. We camped on a cliff. We ate goat. We learned to say “thank you” in half a dozen different languages. We used that one a lot.

I cried over stray dogs and begging children and my faraway family. I laughed at Scott’s Zanzibari haircut, Adam and Aviel’s beauty salesperson spiel, and the disbelief on just about everyone’s face when we informed them that we were neither married nor Muslim. I was excited, anxious, frightened, depressed, ecstatic, hot, dirty, tired and hungry. I wanted to come home on more than one occasion. I also contemplated putting down permanently with relative frequency. I hated it, I loved it, and not once did I feel apathetic towards any of it.

I guess what I really want to tell you most about Africa is that you should go. There is no other way you will understand it. Even then, you might not, and it’s entirely possible that you will return home with even less to say on the subject than you did at the outset. But there is no doubt that it will affect you. Though you can’t pinpoint exactly how, and you can’t explain exactly why, Africa will move you to feel more deeply than you ever thought possible. You will see that this is not a land of rape and lions, but a beautiful, largely peaceful, inspiring place, which is so often misrepresented, ignored and abandoned by the outside world.

What Africa meant to me is not something I am capable of telling you. So just go. See it for yourself. Marvel at all the things that simply don’t translate to words. Try to understand the incomprehensible. See things from a different perspective. Let it challenge you, change you, seep into you. Then come home and tell me about it.

Yikes!

Okay, so when I said that we'd 'keep the posts coming' that was obviously a gigantic -- though unintentional -- fib. Turns out when there are jobs to be applied for and apartments to be hunted and decks to be reclined upon, the motivation to hunker down and pump out a post seems to die a little. But we can assure you that there are more posts on their way, because we are going to finish this thing, darnit. So everybody should all keep checking back on an hourly basis for, say, the next six months? We'll get there. Thanks!

Just for fun, here's Alanna and mine's respective reading lists for our five months of travel:


Alanna

• The Puppeteers - Renesh Lakhan
• We Need to Talk About Kevin – Lionel Shriver
• The Corporation – Joel Bakan
• 117 Days – Ruth First
• The Whole World Over – Julia Glass
• Stealing Water – Tim Ecott
• Southern Cross – Jann Turner
• America Wife – Curtis Sittenfeld
• The Dive from Clausen's Pier – Ann Packer
• Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby
• The Last King of Scotland – Giles Foden
• The Condition – Jennifer Haigh
• State of Blood – Henry Kyemba
• The Constant Gardener – John Le Carré
• One Day – David Nicholls
• A Spot of Bother – Mark Haddon
• The Other Hand – Chris Cleave

Scott

• The Snows of Mt Kilimanjaro – Ernest Hemingway
• The Big Sleep – Raymond Chandler
• Papillon – Henri Charrière
• The Corporation – Joel Bakan
• Far From the Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy
• True History of the Kelly Gang – Peter Carey
• The Adventures of Augie March – Saul Bellow
• Regeneration – Pat Barker
• Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby
• The Last King of Scotland – Giles Foden
• Pilgrim – Timothy Findley
• Stealing Water – Tim Ecott
• Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro
• The Constant Gardener – John Le Carré

Homeland Security Sweet Homeland Security

Well, we are home safely. Alanna and I both arrived at our respective parents' doorsteps on Monday following two plain rides, much waiting, and the frustrating bureaucratic theft of a large bottle of duty-free spirits. With regards to our online adventures we're an entire country behind so we'll keep the posts coming and everyone can just pretend we're still very far away.

you never saw this...

Diss the Cook

A while back I was watching a late-night talk show on which Tom Cruise was a guest. It was one of the episodes where they wheel out a portable kitchen counter and summon a celebrity chef, who bangs together a pre-conceived dish in a minute flat just in time for the credits to roll. As is common, once Wolfgang Puck or whoever got cooking, Tom Cruise naturally joined in to 'lend a hand'. I'm sure he was well-intentioned, but it became evident early on that, from the apprehensive and awkward way he prodded whatever was sauteeing in his assigned fry-pan, Tom Cruise is a guy who does not do much of his own cooking. And me on the couch thought, “If I am ever famous enough to go on Leno, and Wolfgang Puck is a guest the same night as me, I will grasp that spatula like a pro and totally own those aubergines and everyone on their respective couches will say, hey, will you look at that Scott guy, he really knows his way around a kitchen, he doesn't have a personal chef or anything, he's just a normal person!” and my books/albums/fitness videos will consequentially sell like hotcakes.

But in rural Uganda we are not just 'normal people'. We are the bourgeois: we are people who have enough spare time and money to care about things like 'anti-oxidants' and 'the blogosphere' and 'oscar-buzz'. As in,

“Hey, have you heard? The fruit of the baobab tree is absolutely packed with anti-oxidants. It is the next super-food. It is the next goji berry.”
“Really? Huh. That is good to know, because two baobab fruits are all I have eaten in the past twenty-four hours. Also, I live in a building the size of your guest bathroom.”

Anyway, this is all pertinent to when, at Lake Nkuruba Nature Reserve & Community Campsite just outside of Fort Portal, Uganda, Alanna and I decided to save a few bucks (literally, like, two dollars) and cook our own dinner the final night. There wasn't a public kitchen, just the staff one for the camp's restaurant, but we asked if we could use it to cook some pasta and Jane, the timid, smiling young woman in charge kindly agreed. She led us into a small chamber with a rough concrete counter along one wall. The counter had two holes in the top with bars across like prison windows. The walls were covered in probably an inch of soot. There were no 'appliances', per se, just a few metal utensils and a yellow jug, presumably full of cooking oil.

Now I do fancy myself as knowing my way somewhat around a kitchen, and I've done much cooking in less-than-lavish conditions, such as on camping trips and the like, and over our time in Africa Alanna and I have concocted some very good meals in all kinds of ill-equipped and unconventional facilities. But when I stepped into that room, all of a sudden I was Tom Cruise. Except I was worse than Tom Cruise, because I'm sure that, in a pinch, he'd at least know how to turn the stove on.

Jane was kind enough to help. After adding some fresh firewood, she used a small plastic bag and a few splashes of liquid paraffin (not cooking oil in the jug after all) as fire-starter. She then left us alone in order to split more logs outside. As we watched the plastic sputter and smoke over the firewood, it occurred to me that this is the way in which much of the food we'd been eating over the past months has been cooked – beautiful flatbreads, tender fish, intricate curries – all produced over what most westerners would identify as 'an incinerator'.


And there was more. We filled a pot and brought water to a boil (really quickly, I might add) and got our pasta cooked. But then, how to remove it from the flame? This was a problem. There were some oily pieces of cardboard folded into what seemed like potholders, but of course they'd just catch fire. The solution was easy: Jane, intuiting our helplessness, simply reached down bare-fingered and plucked the pot off the stove. I guess if you've been cooking this way since you were six years old, you can do that kind of thing.

For the fifteen minutes it took for our fusili to cook, Alanna and I alternated going into the kitchen to stir the pot with a fork. This solicited chuckles from Jane and the two other camp employees lounging outside – We weren't sure why exactly, but by now we're accustomed to mystery amusement on our behalf. Earlier in the day we walked down the road to a small town, and got some chuckles from a group of girls after we said hello, and I thought, why are you laughing at me? You are the one walking down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with a big wooden bench balanced on your head! But that's the way it goes when you don't speak the language. Anyway, cooking in the kitchen, it wasn't until we'd gone and drained the pasta together (that was too funny) that the other woman, whose English was a little better than Jane's, informed us that it was of course the fact we were cooking together – that I was participating at all – that was amusing. She then went on a short, lighthearted yet still fairly serious diatribe against the frustrations of gender roles in Uganda, much to the embarrassment of the man present, who had to leave. “You go and iron all the man's shirts, and then he wears one for two minutes and fwit!– he throws it on the floor,” she explained. She told us how much she admired the way we did things. I said something to the effect of, “we cook together, we clean together, we laugh together...” and this garnered whoops of laughter and a high-five between the two women.

So the chuckles we get on the street are possibly just along the lines of, ha ha, look at that man and woman, walking down the street like equals, what a hoot! And if I were offended by that, well, I'd have to be a barbarian, wouldn't I?

----

CRIME!

We haven't wanted to jinx anything by saying so, but since by the time this entry hits the press we'll be in the air on the way home so I think we can put it out there – over all this time in Africa we have not once felt in danger or experienced firsthand any the criminality that is supposed to be so prevalent here. We've certainly been out and about, and I think Alanna and I both expected at least something, whether it be some bills disappearing out of a back pocket or a small border-post bribe. But over the course of the whole trip, we'd been getting by scot-free.

Until Lake Nkuruba Nature Reserve & Community Campsite, that is...

Little did we know.

This is Aldrin. He speaks very little English and is maybe the offspring of one of the camp employees. On our first day at Lake Nkuruba he wandered over to where we were playing cards. Once we were finished, we tried to entertain him for a while – I attempted to teach him the names of the face cards, and then let him balance cards on my head, which he found utterly hilarious. I then handed over the entire pack, and he busied himself moving them in and out of the box and dealing them onto the table. Then he left with the cards and disappeared into the reception office.

And we saw neither him nor the cards...

Ever Again.



Aldrin!!!



Note: his name may not be Aldrin. His name may be some other name that we misheard through a thick Luganda accent as Aldrin when we asked Jane what his name was. Adrian, maybe. We sure hope his name is Aldrin though.

Lake Bunyonyi

Back from Murchison Falls NP we picked out a new hotel in Kampala, same price as our previous one but with a slightly less hectic location. At least, we thought it would be the same price – the only double they had available was the “ultra luxe” suite. It was still just $35 for the room, so we said what the heck. The “luxe” touches comprised of thick tasselly curtains, three free bottles of water, a single terrycloth bathrobe, and a shiny bedspread. There was a small TV hung from the ceiling but it didn't work. Not exactly presidential caliber, but I did feel a bit out of place scrubbing my undies in the sink.

Kampala Balla

We left Kampala a second time for Kabale, way down south near the Rwanda border, our final destination being the nearby Lake Bunyonyi. Our method of travel was the Post Bus, a daily transit service offered by the Uganda postal system. It was an eight-hour trip, and we stopped at every single post office along the way as well for any roadside Jack who stuck his arm out, but as far as bus rides go it was not so bad. After a night in Kabale we caught a cab to the lake ten kilometers out of town. The road passed alongside several small rock quarries where groups of men and young boys were literally making gravel by hand – manually rolling boulders down from an exposed cliff face and chipping them into golf-ball-sized pieces with a hammer and chisel, some perched on piles as tall as themselves. They didn't look like they were working that hard.


Lake Bunyonyi is a low-key spot with a good reputation among people who like to do quiet things. Our accommodation of choice was Byoona Amagara, a backpacker-targeted community-centric lodge set on a small island. The resort offers a free shuttle to the island in the form of a dugout canoe – at a dock on the mainland we were met by a young man named Justice who lugged our bags into a heavy-looking hollowed-out section of eucalyptus, steadied the thing as we got in, and handed us each a paddle. The ride took just shy of an hour, and as we chatted (World Cup, Canadian weather, et cetera) I envisioned waking the following morning unable to lift my arms.

Do the P.A.D.D.L.E.

While it's nobody's first vision of Africa, Lake Bunyonyi is a truly beautiful place, set among steep hills cultivated in dense terraces right down to its squiggly shore, quaint and endlessly green. Byoona Amagara is located on tiny Itambira Island, one of many in the lake, which it shares with a small village and about a billion birds. We slept in a 'bio-dome', a geometric thatched structure open on one side to a private deck and a more-than-adequate view the lake beyond. The place is apparently owned by a guy in New York who donates all profits to the local community. Everything runs off solar panels, and they somehow have enough juice to screen nightly movies, at a dollar a head, from an impressive catalogue. We watched The Aviator and The Constant Gardener. Not exactly feel-good movies but there wasn't much of a need, now was there?


The first two days on the island were a bit dreary, which meant warm beer (no sun ergo no fridge) and lots of cribbage. But when it brightened up we rented one of the dugouts to explore the nearby islands. I am no stranger to a canoe, and with Alanna's credentials we were fairly positive of our ability to manoeuver. But it was not until we'd drifted into the lake just far enough to come within view of the Byoona Amagara dining terrace that Alanna in the rear discovered that the physics of a dugout are completely backwards from its fiberglass equivalent and we could do nothing but spin in circles like city-slicking novices. We (royal 'we') eventually got it figured out, though not without some concentration. Watching twelve-year-olds float by straight as an arrow while barely touching their paddle to the water was a bit hard to take.



We ventured ashore on Bwama Island, Itambira's neighbour and a former mission and leper colony. The small island is dotted with blue-roofed brick buildings reminiscent of those of Livingstonia in Malawi. The island is home to both the primary and secondary schools for the area, and arriving on shore we came across what is labeled in blue paint as the 'Bwama School Bus':

"the keel on the bus goes..."

Our guidebook mentioned Bwama as worthy of exploration, but we felt half as though we were wandering through someone's backyard. Any surface of the island not covered in pathways or buildings was almost entirely surrendered to crops of potato, maize and banana, save for an undulating soccer pitch beside the primary school. We visited during a spring break of sorts, and without kids running around it was very difficult to tell whether the school buildings were abandoned or not. Windows were boarded up, there was childish graffiti scrawled over the walls and a sombre lack of furniture. The primary school's exterior was decorated with various decisive slogans in bold black paint: AIDS KILL, ABSTAIN FROM SEX, VIRGINITY IS HEALTH, STAY AWAY FROM BAD GROUPS and DO NOT ACCEPT GIFTS, which confused us, but probably means something along the lines of don't take candy from strangers, which is no doubt more of a problem here, seeing as kids have a habit of demanding that very thing from every white person they see.



The secondary school operates in the buildings of the former lepers' hospital, equal parts historic-charming and plain old run-down. Again, the place had an aura of having been empty for decades rather than weeks, but our paddler Justice later confirmed than students were to be returning in only a few days' time.



But other than the one fitness activity to remind us how out-of-shape we were (isn't backpacking around Africa supposed to be a workout?) we easily passed the days reading our books, throwing ourselves off the beautiful dock and eating Byoona Amagara's (mostly) delicious foods. And while Alanna and I are both very bored by the majority of birds (I say if it's not bigger or brighter than a fire hydrant, it ain't worth identifying) but the little Bunyonyi birds were actually pretty cool, some with long ribbon-tails up to a foot in length and often six or seven species occupying the same bush. Still doesn't mean I needed to know their names.

Fresh crayfish from the lake figures prominently on the Byoona menu.

On the fifth day Justice paddled us back to the mainland and we were very sad. After another night in Kabale we discovered that the only bus that would take us to our next destination left at two thirty in the morning and we were even sadder. But Bunyonyi was the solitude we'd been waiting for, hard to beat on all counts, and worth an insufferable bus trip to the moon and back.