Serendipity

Das Glockenspiel

Another good knight out

Seems like a nice boy

The trip to Munich began at Terminal 5 at Heathrow. Given all the adverse publicity when it opened last year this caused me some concerns but they were groundless. Although very soulless, the airport is an extremely modern building. All glass and chrome. It is dominated by British Airways and their check in took about a minute. All very impressive.

Emerging from baggage claim at Munich I was greeted with a bear hug from my eldest son, Chris. Airport arrivals are a great places for reunions, but whilst I have seen lots of them this was the first time I can recall being a recipient. It was a nice start to a fantastic weekend.

One of my favourite words in the rich lexicon of the English language is Serendipity - making fortunate discoveries by accident. Our first 24 hours in Munich were very serendipitous and shaped our stay.

Having found our hotel, Chris and I set off for food followed by the search for an atmospheric bar. Wandering through the clean streets with no real idea of where we were headed we found the perfect place - the Hofbrauhaus, the best known beer hall in Munich.

This was everything I expected of Bavaria. Men in lederhosen wearing felt hats, a 6 piece oompah band, ladies in tight fitting bodices and flowing dresses holding large pretzels aloft and, of course, gallons of amazing beer.

'Svei beer bitte' brought to us huge one litre glasses of foaming beer. The place was packed and there was an air of jollity and good humour that I have only found in Dublin before. Maybe it was all a bit touristy, but there were certainly a lot of Germans enjoying themselves - dancing to the band and singing drinking songs.

Next morning we gravitated towards the centre again, at Marienplatz, home of one of the world's most disappointing tourist attractions. The square is dominated by the gothic looking Neues Rathaus, or new town hall. Built in 1908 the structure houses a famous glockenspiel, which whirrs into motion 3 times a day.

As the appointed hour of 11 O'clock drew near there were hundreds of people gathered to witness the glockenspiel show. Dozens of people held cameras aloft, desperate to record every part of this fascinating event for posterity.

The minute hand reached twelve and the crowd strained with excitement. Then it moved to one minute past, two minutes past......nothing.

I know what you are thinking - 'Hang on. This is Germany, a land famed for reliability and precision'.

True. But not everything works like clockwork, not even clocks. The glockenspiel relies upon Wolfgang to set it in motion and Wolfgang is not the most precise on men. Some days, presumably after a heavy session in the Hofbrauhaus, he doesn't show up at all!

At 11.05 the mechanical chimes finally struck into action. What a bloody racket. I defy anyone to stand in that square and tell me what the tune is. There just isn't one, only the clanging of lots of out of tune chimes. Throwing the contents of your cutlery draw down the stairs would be more tuneful.

One by one the lofted cameras drooped down. Then, 6 minutes in something happens. The crowd give a collective 'Ooo' as a medieval pageant springs into life, complete with jousting knights representing Bavaria and France. Eventually the French knight falls back and the movement shifts to some celebratory dancers doing a sort of Gay Gordon affair, with the emphasis very much on the gay part.

The grand finale is a golden owl who pops out and spreads his wings. Fascinating.

This is truly the worst tourist attraction I have ever seen. There is lots of footage of it on You Tube. But beware, it lasts an excruciating 15 minutes.

Chris and I never saw the end as we had become embroiled in our second serendipitous event - discovering a free walking tour of the city.

The tour took well over three hours and was well presented by the excellent Sonja - a mature student from Florida who is studying for her masters in comparative literature at Munich University. Together we criss-crossed the city, seeing all the major sights and learning about Munich's history.

Sonja even introduced us to the best of the local beers - the Augustiener, which we drank in a quiet bar at the end of the tour.

The tours are operated by a European company and the free tour was one of several they operated, although the others are not free. One of these is a beer tour - a beer hall crawl round Munich that includes some 'free' beer and jaegermeisters (a weird, alcoholic beverage that tastes like cough medicine). It began at the central station, not far from our hotel at 6pm. Unbeknown to me, Chris arranged to meet some of those from the free tour on the beer tour.

Thus it was that I came to be standing at the railway station with a host of people much younger than me and wondering what I had let myself in for.

I needn't have worried. It was a wonderful, drunken evening where I got to meet so many friendly and interesting people from all round the world - the delightful Claire from Melbourne, Annabelle from Brazil, Varun from Auckland, Cam from Vancouver and others from Russia, Scotland and Canada.

Most of these guys were travelling around Europe and were at various points in their journeys. Varun even had business cards announcing him as a 'roving ambassador'. These enchanting young people were such a contrast to the silver surfers I encountered in Buttermere the week before.

At one beer hall, Cam returned from the loo laughing at the fact that there was a machine in there that dispensed something called the 'Travel Pussy'. Intrigued, I coughed up half of the 4 euro cost and Cam shot back to the Gents excitedly. He returned with one of those little plastic eggs that usually contain novelties at fairgrounds and the seaside. The contents of this egg were very novel indeed.

Cam broke open the egg to reveal a red plastic bag, a sachet of lubricant and some instructions. The bag turned out to be an imitation vagina, which Cam duly inflated only to find that there was no way to deflate it. Our new girlfriend accompanied us on the rest of the tour until eventually she split on us late on. To be fair, I don't think she was the faithful type and it would never have lasted.

At our last hostelry I did something I have never done before - Karaoke! In the circumstances I thought I did a passable version of Coldplay's 'The Scientist', especially the 'Aaaa Ooooo Oooo' bit towards the end, and was joined on stage by my son. Ok, Simon Cowell wouldn't have been impressed, but I was sufficiently emboldened to follow this up later with my Elvis impression - 'The Wonder of You'. Yes, I was drunk.

I had just the best night out, but by the time it got to midnight I knew that I had peaked. After much handshaking and hugs I took my leave of Chris and the other youngsters. They made me smile with their endorsement of what a cool Dad I was.

Leaving my new best friends forever I made may way to the door and encountered two problems. One, I hadn't been paying attention to where we were going, so I wasn't quite sure where we were or where our hotel was. Two, there were two of everything. I picked one of the two paths to my right and staggered off into the night.

Next morning I was headache free, which was a huge but pleasant surprise and a testament to the purity of the Bavarian beer. But best of all, I had enjoyed a brilliant time with yet more lovely people. And that, as I know by now, is what travel is really all about.

Guten Tag

Wainwright and I are home again after a great few days in Munich.

I will reveal what we got up to in a couple of blogs. I'm not very good at history so I hadn't realised that Munich played such a key role in the rise of the Third Reich. Also, my son and I visited Dachau on the outskirts of the city and it is appropriate to divide the blogs into the serious and light hearted aspects of the trip.

Part of being a struggling writer, or in my case, a would-be writer, is the need for self-promotion. It feels so egotistic and pushy. But unless you have a large publishing house behind you it is necessary if anyone is going to actually read your words.

The BBC has a competition at the moment for people to write their story - something that has happened to them - in 1500 words or less. It can be found on the BBC website under 'My Story'. Part of the prize is to have your story published as a paperback book. According to the website, the judges are not too concerned with grammar and syntax, just damn good stories so you might want to have a bash.

I have tapped out my own story and the BBC have accepted it for publication on their website. If you want to find out a bit more about this particular middle aged gapper then go to:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/mystory/stories/survival/150149/

That ends my shameless self promotion for today.

Finally, an update on Appa, the boy I am sponsoring at the orphanage near Lake Bunyoni, Uganda. Crystal at the orphanage has written to me to say:

Appa's other name is Paol. When I went to check on him at school I found he is having no school books. I let him know that you have chosen to sponsor him and we are in the process of getting school books and a large size uniform and sweater made for him...he is truly one of our proudest and happiest students because it is his first time ever in school.

I know that a few people who were with me in Africa read this blog and they have kindly expressed an interest in Appa's progress so I'll publish a few lines about his development on here every now and again. Appa is the tall boy wearing the hat on the extreme left of the above picture (click on it to enlarge).

Live long and prosper.

More travels

Don't mention the war

There is very much the air of the seasoned traveller about me as I write this, my last blog of the week.

My holdall, with Wainwright waiting patiently beside it, is on my bed ready to be packed yet again. I'm flying to Munich tomorrow to meet up with my eldest son who is stationed in Germany with the Army.

I've never been to Germany before and it marks the 6th 'new' country to be visited since I left work in July. I'm well on my way to hitting my target of 10 unvisited countries within a year.

Country number 7 will be China when I fly out to Hong Kong next month for a 2 night stop-over.

The Vietnamese Embassy have kindly granted me a visa so Hong Kong will be followed by Country number 8 when I make the short trip to Hanoi and begin and extensive tour of Vietnam from north to south. The bulk of my travel, from Hanoi to Saigon (Ho Chi Min City) will be in the security of Exodus Travel once more as we travel by air, sea and rail between these two epic cities (note to self 1 - stock up on travel sickness pills for the sea bit of the journey).

Then comes the bit that both worries and excites me. Whilst the rest of the Exodus group go home I will remain in Vietnam for another 8 days and so far I haven't booked any accommodation for those days.

I could be bold and see where the wind takes me from Saigon, but in a country where English is not widely spoken this seems a bit dodgy. I did invest in a set of Teach Yourself Vietnamese cd's many months ago, but so far I haven't progressed beyond Xin Chao (Hello) and Tam Biet (Thank you).

'Excuse me, but is this the correct bus to Vung Tau?' looks like being way beyond my grasp of linguistics. Back to pointing and shouting then.

At present I fancy taking the 50 minute flight from Saigon to Phu Quoc, an idyllic tropical island off the coast of Cambodia, and being a beach bum for a few days. I've also been watching a lot of Robson Green's Extreme Fishing lately so the idea of some serious fishing and snorkelling also appeals.

Once I've posted this I'll be on the internet looking for my ideal beach hut to get away from it all and fortify myself for the horror that is Christmas.

I've already been busy on the web today and booked a very eco friendly B&B in Christchurch for the last 2 nights of my trip around New Zealand in February. I am making the 3 week jaunt with my friend Peter (if you've been reading this blog for a while you may recall that Pete and I usually have a boy's weekend away each year where I feel the need to dispel loudly any notion that we are a gay couple, even though we look very much like one. Me more than him, according to someone Pete and I met at Beverley Races recently).

Peter is not one to endure discomfort so our accommodation in NZ will have all the usual amenities, like hot water and beds. To balance this out I have gone for the opposite end of the scale when arranging my 12 day trip around Australia, which I am undertaking alone before joining Pete in Auckland.

Based upon my success at surviving the Youth Hostel at Buttermere last week, all the accommodation I have booked so far in Australia is in hostels. These are all right in the heart of the cities I am staying in and are at ridiculously low prices. Of course the downside is the need to share a room with other travellers (note to self 2 - stock up on ear plugs). I imagine that most of those I share with will be genuine surfers and not the silver variety I encountered in the Lakes.

The hostel I am staying at in Sydney is a disused railway station and I have booked myself into a 4 berth converted railway carriage for my 3 night stay. How cool is that? It also establishes a rail motif which I take up later on with overnight trips on the iconic India-Pacific and Ghan railways from Sydney to Adelaide and then from Adelaide to Alice Springs.

I've still got the last keg of my Australian adventure to arrange - from Alice Springs to Uluru to see the sun rise on this enigmatic rock that for many is a major symbol of the land down under.

So, I can't stay chatting to you all day. I've got bags to pack, Euros to obtain, beach huts to find, buses across the outback to book and youth hostels to evaluate. It's a full time job being a middle aged gapper you know. But please, try not to feel too sorry for me.

Live long and prosper.

African Epilogue

Fly high, fly free

That's it. The African adventure is over.

After meeting the gorillas we returned to our modest hotel and the next day we drove back to Kigali for our final night together as a group.

Kigali was an odd place. I took the opportunity to wander round but if there was a thriving city centre I never found it. There was lots of evidence of investment and outside influence but the city has a long way to go before it can rival the likes of say Cape Town.

A beautiful aspect of the city was the constant presence of yellow billed kite, which were as plentiful as seagulls are over British towns. There are various red kite populations around East Yorkshire and I always count it as a blessing to see one. Above Kigali I saw 8 circling the sky at one time. The photograph you see here was taken whilst I was enjoying a quiet drink at the hotel and two kite were circling the nearby trees.

Taking a break from meandering aimlessly around Kigali, I managed to enjoy a very pleasant lunch at the Hotel des Mille Collines, which is the hotel that the film Hotel Rwanda is based on.

The hotel was a modern one and still undergoing building work. Lunch on the terrace was leisurely and quiet, but soon there were diners everywhere. I was surrounded by people smartly dressed in collars and ties. Many had their plates piled high after helping themselves to the free buffet that was part of some corporate seminar. There was a buzz of office talk and for a few horrible moments I was transported back to the similar junkets that dotted my previous life. Managing to convince myself that I was still a lucky middle aged gapper and hadn't fallen through a worm hole into a boring and meaningless 'away day', I was comforted by what I saw and felt a sense of hope for this troubled corner of Africa.

Back on the street I hailed a pic-pic to take me to our hotel on the outskirts of the city. A pic-pic is a motorcycle taxi. Being whizzed along the busy highways and weaving in and out of traffic was both exhilarating and stupid. Wearing my usual shorts and T shirt I would have been a rare mess had my driver come to grief. I've no idea what speeds we reached along the dual carriageway as the speedo was broken. I dare say I wasn't insured either. But it was huge fun. It also gave me the sense of being an independent traveller, away from the security of the Exodus tour. Paul Theroux will be proud of me.

The last morning arrived and I reflected on my journey. Here is an extract from my journal that was written as I sat on the balcony of my hotel room:

'I take my leave of this land that I love so much, that plays havoc with my emotions.

'Tears well up as I look back upon this wonderful journey. Images of Africa's majestic animals and its fantastic landscape pour into my mind like the mighty waters of the Nile.

'But it is always the people that are so vivid in my memory: barefoot people carrying water in their yellow jerry cans; the Maasai in their bright red cloaks tending their cattle; the women of Rwanda in their bright costumes picking crops of tea and coffee; the men who whistle and jeer at us and raise their hands in salutation. And of course the children - dancing with joy at the sight of us passing by; running to keep up with us; the boys with their crayoned pictures of gorillas; and the sleepy babies warm and secure on their mother's backs; the boy in the orphanage at Bunyoni.

'As I gaze out on this land one last time a regal kite performs a fly-by, swooping under the branches of the acacia tree and then high and out of sight.

'My soul will always be with the kite as he soars over the heart of Africa.

'N'kosi sikele'i Afrika.'

We took our leave of JJ, Julius and Leo at the airport at Kigali. They were already preparing for the next group who would make our trip in reverse.

Together, we had travelled more than 2,500km over land on an adventure that I will never forget.

I hope you have enjoyed my African blogs. I certainly enjoyed writing them. Thanks especially to my good friend and fellow blogger, Rare Lesser Spotted, for his comments and encouragement.

There is one final piece of news for me to share with you.

As you may have gathered, the visit to the orphanage near Lake Bunyoni, Uganda was upsetting for me. As our journey continued my mind would often go back to the misfit child - the boy with learning difficulties, much older than the other children and in need of love and attention. I have a soft spot for misfits.

Since coming home I have been in correspondence with Crystal at the orphanage. I have learned that the boy is called Appa, as this is the only word he has ever spoken. He has been at the school for 4 months. I am in the process of making the necessary arrangements to sponsor Appa.

Someone once said to me that you can't make life better for everyone in the world, but you can make it better for one person. Maybe this is my way of dealing with my guilt over the children of Africa. I'm not sure. I do know though that I feel a lot happier about a misfit boy in a dusty playground above Lake Bunyoni.

Live long and prosper.

Volcanoes National Park

Gorillas in the mist

Unity

Gorillas in our midst

The world has many wondrous sights to offer, but there can surely be few better than walking into a sunlit glade and finding yourself in the midst of a group of mountain gorillas. It is a very humbling experience that is full of a sense of honour at being allowed to share a few moments with such beautiful, intelligent and peaceful creatures.

According to the National Geographic website there are roughly 700 mountain gorillas remaining on earth and half of these are to be found in the Virunga mountains of East Africa - a range of 5 volcanoes that spread across the borders of Uganda, The Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda.

Gorilla viewing is not cheap. A gorilla permit must be obtained at a cost of US$500 (about 350GBP). The permits are strictly controlled and allow the lucky bearer the privilege of just one hour in the company of these majestic primates.

The money goes towards the protection of the gorillas. Our approach to the gorillas was in the Volcanoes National Park, Rwanda. Despite the gorilla being an endangered species worldwide it is the only primate on the planet that is increasing in number and the news from Rwanda is all good.

In the area where we trekked there were 14 groups of gorillas. Since 1985 only one gorilla has died at the hands of poachers. In 2005, 108 gorillas were born in the national park and of these only 9 died.

In a tour that was filled with wonder, the greatest excitement of all came towards the end when we were to visit the gorillas. I awoke at 4.30am with the child-like excitement of Christmas morning. After breakfast Land Rovers arrived and ferried the 16 of us to the national park, where we divided into two groups of 8 for our trek up the volcano.

The staging post was alive with people. Mostly tourists like ourselves but also the game rangers who were being briefed on their duties for the day.

Eventually we met our guides who told us that we were to meet with a group of gorillas known as Peace. The group was led by a silverback called Unity. There were 17 gorillas in total in our group.

Another ride in the Land Rover took us to our starting point - a small village at the foot of the volcano.

The initial trekking was easy as it passed through farmland where potatoes and other crops were growing. Despite being vegetarian, the gorillas do not raid the villagers crops and the villagers have learned to respect their neighbours in return.

As I learned later from our guide, the trek began at an altitude of 2,620 metres and when we reached the gorillas we had climbed to 2,973 metres. That's almost 10,000 feet. Certainly a lot higher than anything the Lake District has to offer.

Despite the altitude it was hot and humid on the climb to meet our group. Beyond the farmland the trail began in earnest among the lush tropical vegetation on the volcano slopes. A huge inch worm lay across our path and a bit further on a chameleon steadily made its way along a branch. Tarzan would not have been out of place here.

Worst of all were the huge African stinging nettles. We warned to avoid these but it was impossible - they stung me through my shirt and trousers. Ouch!

After and hour and half of trekking we met up with the spotters who had located our group just a short way ahead in the dense undergrowth. We lay down all of our kit except our cameras and quietly crept along to our rendezvous.

Two juvenile gorillas tore down the path ahead of us, intent on playing and seemingly oblivious to our presence.

We emerged into the clearing and into the midst of the Peace group.

It was a sublime moment. To see the gorillas lying on the forest floor dozing in the soft sunlight, their young climbing playfully over them was a moment of huge emotion. Our cameras were still as we simply drank in this moment and savoured it. I don't think there was a dry eye among the 8 of us.

My expectation of visiting gorillas was for it to be exactly like this. The group would laze about and we would crouch on the edge and watch them for an hour. I was mistaken.

Within a few minutes the gorillas, led by Unity, began to wander into the undergrowth and were soon lost to sight. Under the careful control of our guides we followed. Here and there paths had to be hacked out for us with machetes.

This is how it was for the full hour. An ever changing vista that brought us near to most of the group. At one point I could see gorillas on three sides of me.

The older members of the group were intent on munching on the vegetation, whilst the younger ones were more playful and engaged in mock battles.

As the hour came to an end we were in the company of Unity himself, sat about 20 feet away with his back to us while he munched on some leaves.

'Time to go' announced the guide.

On cue, Unity climbed up into view and turned to face us, his intelligent eyes looking right though us.

'Ok then, two more minutes', said the guide kindly.

Softly we withdrew from this magical kingdom and I offered silent thanks to Unity for the unique experience of sharing a small amount of time with him and his family high up on the Rwandan volcano. Asante sana.

In the name of sanity!

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - Crummock Water

(click to enlarge)

Wainwright and I had a refreshing few days in the Lake District, never getting rained on once and being overwhelmed by the glorious colours of autumn.

One of the main purposes of the trip was to sample life courtesy of the Youth Hostel Association to assess whether I can cope with similar places abroad.

The hostel we stayed at was at Buttermere, towards the west of the Lake District and not as busy as Grasmere, which we visited in July. It was a grand old building that had 18 bedrooms and at £18 a night for bed and breakfast, represented brilliant value for money.

The reception area was as bright and modern as most hotels and when I was given a key to Room 1 my hopes began to rise. Could it be? A whole room to myself? No. The room housed 6 men, spread around 3 bunk beds. By the time I arrived there were just 2 bunks left.

I made my bed and there was even a couple of drawers for me to unpack into. Looking at my fellow roomies though a thought struck me immediately - where are all the Youths mentioned in the title? I was clearly the youngest person in the room. Indeed, I was one of the youngest of all the people I encountered during my 3 night stay in the hostel.

It is well over 30 years since I stayed in a youth hostel and during that time the YHA has morphed from providing cheap, basic accommodation for the scouting generations, to providing cheap hotel facilities for the baby boomers i.e. the same people, 30 years on.

My stay allowed me to enjoy 2 breathtaking walks around Ennerdale and Crummock Water. The latter was particularly good as it included some tramping on higher ground, a visit to Scale Force and a midday stop-over at the pub at Loweswater for a pint of Loweswater Gold.

The evenings afforded ample opportunity to relax, drink beer and read. And as I began a journey across Europe to Asia with Paul Theroux in his book Ghost Train to the Eastern Star I realised a significant failing in myself as a budding travel writer.

Theroux's book is jam pack full of detailed encounters with fellow travellers, locals and, being Paul Theroux, other literary luminaries. Paul must have a brilliant memory for conversations as they often ramble on for pages.

With me it's not so much a memory issue as a 'can I really be bloody bothered?' issue. Buttermere certainly seemed to bring out the reclusive, Victor Meldrew side of my character. I don't think it was all my fault.

Take for example the bloke who shared my bunk (me on top, him downstairs). I soon gathered that he had made a last minute decision to travel up from London for a few days based purely on the fact that the weather forecast was good. I learned very little else about him though, as our conversations became increasingly one sided and I began to hide whenever I heard him approaching. For example:

Me: Where did you walk today?

Him: The weather favoured a low walk so I set off along the north eastern edge of Crummock Water and then climbed up along Clint Crags. Taking a left through a moderately wet meadow I soon came to Dirty Harry's Hole which was only maybe 452 yards from Magnum Force. There was a lovely bridge that I passed on a compass bearing of 294 degrees west - north - west. I continued in a jaunty manner, despite the small stone that had worked it's way into my 15 year old Brasher boot........the final leg along Unforgiven Pass was every which way but loose.......blah, blah..... What about you?

Me: Ennerdale.

Him: Ah yes, one of the most western lakes, also a reservoir. Volumetric capacity 4.324 squillion litres, although the last time I was there it seemed t be about 3 pints less than that......

Thus it was that I discovered that I suffer from BTSD - Boring Traveller Stress Disorder. A condition brought on by an adverse reaction to people who are only interested in providing detailed accounts of their exploits and feel the need to litter them with as many points of reference as possible.

I know that London taxi drivers have to pass The Knowledge - a test of routes and London street names. There must be something similar for regular Lake District visitors. I find it strange that no one ever appeared on Mastermind with a specialist subject of Encyclopaedic Knowledge of the Lakeland Fells.

Thinking about though it would have been confusing. Imagine:

Magnus: What geological feature divides the mountains in the Honister area, south of Keswick?

Contestant: Pass

Magnus: Correct.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist a version of an old Eric and Ernie routine - put it down to my BTSD).

Ironically, having driven me to sleep during the day my fellow bunker kept me awake at night with his incessant snoring.

In the name of sanity. I do not bloody believe it! Victor screamed silently.

Luckily, the hostel sold ear plugs, so night number 2 was more peaceful than night number 1. And by night number 3 I had the whole room to myself. A simple, peaceful bliss descended on my tattered soul and my inner Victor Meldrew gradually melted away. Until next time.

Live long and prosper.

The Genocide Memorial

The lush vegetation of Rwanda - a thriving country with a dreadful past

It was not only the language that changed when we ventured south into Rwanda. Crossing the border also meant driving on the right and not the left as we had in Kenya and Uganda. The clocks went back an hour too. The landscape became very lush and green. At regular intervals along the road there were fields full of workers picking the precious coffee beans. Often the workers would wave to me and instantly I began to sense that this was a far friendlier place than Uganda has sometimes been. But it was also a place with a very dark recent past.

Rwanda was colonised by the Germans in 1895. After World War One power was given over to the Belgians. They decided to divide the population into Tutsi and Hutu, with power being given to the minority Tutsi.

At the time there was much study of the African races and the white anthropologists concluded that having larger skulls and paler skins, the Tutsis were far closer to the Caucasian races and therefore superior. This led to decades of tension between the two tribes as the minority suppressed the majority and hatreds grew.

These tensions eventually erupted in April 1994 when the Hutus rose against the Tutsis and over the course of 3 months over 1 million Tutsis were murdered.

The full story of what led to the genocide is well documented elsewhere, in far more detail than I have painted here.

It was an atrocity on a par with the holocaust, and yet it is within the living memory of most people reading this. It is certainly an event fresh in the memory of the people of Rwanda and its legacy hangs over the country like a rain cloud.

There is a palpable sense of the need to be forgiven and nowhere is this more evident than at our first stop in Rwanda, at the Genocide Memorial in the capital Kigali.

At the heart of the memorial is a large modern building that tells the story of the genocide. Entrance is free.

The visit was harrowing throughout. It starts by providing the background to what occurred, before giving an overview of the violence itself. The story is told through artefacts, documents, pictures and text. Touch screen TVs play the dreadful accounts of the survivors. The story of these people is always the same - loved ones butchered and brutalised, often by people who had previously been friends, neighbours and work colleagues. A young woman, who lost her entire family, describes how 5% of the Hutus tried to help, 5% were indifferent and the remainder were caught up in an orgy of blood lust and violence. It serves as a gruesome reminder of just how easily the thin veneer of civilisation can be cast off.

A large, round room contained hundreds if not thousands of photographs of people who were killed. They were just the ordinary snapshots we all keep somewhere of loved ones in happy situations.

Another room contained the skulls, bones and artefacts of some of the dead. Personally, I found this area to be unnecessary. The enormity of what happened only 15 years ago was sinking in and it was as if the point was now being hammered home just to make sure. The final emotional twist came when I went upstairs.

Here there were pictures of children aged between 9 months and 10 years, who had been killed. The pictures were all of the children in life and underneath each picture was a brief biography - what they liked to eat, what they liked to do, what they were like and how they died. It was as if the details had been taken from a school report.

Most of the children had died from machete wounds to the head. Sisters aged 6 and 7 died together when a grenade was thrown into their shower.

Sorrow now became tinged with disbelief. An inability to comprehend how such violence could be wreaked upon these innocent lives.

It was proper that our journey to Rwanda should begin at the Genocide Memorial. But it coloured the remainder of our stay. The people I saw and met were just like anywhere else on our journey. At the back of my mind though there was always the question of what these people had done during those awful 100 days of killing.

My impression of Rwanda was of a thriving country. Kigali is a modern city by African standards and I much preferred it to Nairobi and Kampala. But woven into its fabric are shame and guilt that will take many generations to fade.

Lakes again

Our journey across East Africa together is nearly at an end. There is time for one more post then Wainwright and I are off again - to the Lake District for 3 days to take advantage of the mild weather and do some walking. No camping this time though. I am playing safe and putting a Youth Hostel Association roof over our heads.

When we return we will take you on the last leg of our African adventure - 10,000 feet up the steep sides of a volcano to spend a wonderful hour in the company of the brilliant mountain gorillas.

Until then........Live long and prosper.

The Children of Africa

Lake Bunyoni

Mauled by the Tigers -Wainwright makes new friends

Some of the 67 children of the orphanage

Our 10 hour trek south finally brought us to our final destination in Uganda at Lake Bunyoni. The camp site was set on the edge of the lake and surrounded by a verdant landscape of trees and fields. It was a blessed relief after our stay on the outskirts of Kampala where the campsite had been in an urban area, had basic amenities and was guarded by government troops due to the unrest in the city.

The 2 nights at Lake Bunyoni were very relaxing as it was an excellent campsite with a bar and dining area. My tent opened out onto the Lake itself. A great way to start any day.

On the morning after our arrival the group was given the opportunity to visit the nearby orphanage. This involved an arduous trek up the steep slopes of the hillside to the nearest village. Our local guide introduced us to some of the villagers, including a very frail old lady who claimed to be 110 years old. She lived in one room in the care of her family.

Many of the homes had one or two cattle corralled in their yard. There was no electricity but there was some water thanks to a project by a foreign aid worker, supported by our tour company, Exodus Travel. Large storage tanks gathered rain water for local use.

The orphanage provided for 67 children, who were all cared for by the villagers in return for a subsidy.

The health of the children varied. Some appeared well nourished and strong, whilst others were sickly and had the swollen stomachs indicative of worm infestation. All of them were of pre-school age.

We spent at least 45 minutes in the company of these brilliant kids - playing in the open with them, dancing with them and joining them in the basic classrooms where they went about their lessons.

Wainwright was a huge hit with the children and nearly earned me a detention for disrupting the lesson.

Many of the group, including me, were emotionally affected by what we saw. I don't know why these children were orphaned or how they came to be at the orphanage. I'm not sure I wanted to know.

One boy in particular broke my heart. He was clearly older than the rest. He was poorly dressed and appeared to have learning difficulties. He went barefoot, a sign that, unlike many of the other children, he has no sponsor.

Many of the children were clearly thriving and I could sense some sort of future for them. But for this boy I could not see a future. Big and clumsy at times, he clearly craved attention. I do not think that in all my life I have seen a child so much in need of love and yet so deprived of it. Not for the first time in Africa I felt so helpless and desperate to do something that will make a difference.

I had bought packs of colouring pencils in the supermarket at home and handed them to the head teacher. Others had brought gifts too. As always with children it was he simplest of toys that made them happy as they chased around after some balloons that Jess and Josh had brought.

We all made a donation towards the running of this excellent orphanage. I hope our group made a small difference to the lives of these children.

This feeling of helplessness was clearly still troubling me when we left Lake Bunyoni and continued south into Rwanda.

We stopped for lunch at a viewpoint and as Leo prepared another great meal of meats, salad, breads, guacamole, fruit and cheese a small group of urchins gathered nearby and watched in silence.

There must have been about 8 children, and although they would be lucky to get one decent meal that day none of them asked for food. They just watched as we feasted.

When the meal was over Leo scraped the left-overs into the big yellow bin we always carried. The children said nothing.

Deeply troubled by this I took a short walk away from the truck and came across two young girls.

Being a former Belgian colony, French is the dominant language in Rwanda. Through my school boy grasp of the language I established that the girls were sisters named Marie and Desiree.

I told the girls to wait away from the truck and I strode back purposefully to Isobel and recovered the last remaining gift I had to give - a cheap 'magic' colouring book and 2 pens. Kneeling beside the sisters I divided the book between them and gave them a pen each, showing the girls how it worked.

I had deliberately done this away from the group as I knew the 'rules' by now - don't give money to children as it only encourages them to beg and to stay out of school. But the same rule being applied to wasted food was wrong to me and I was pleased to do something to right this wrong, albeit in a small way.

Was I being genuinely altruistic or did I act merely to assuage my own guilt? I can't honestly say. But I do know that as we drove away from the viewpoint we passed the sisters on the road and they waved at me enthusiastically still clutching the small gifts I had given them.


Footnote: The orphanage at Lake Bunyoni has its own blog that can be followed at http://mindfulmarket.blogspot.com/

Experiment on the Equator

Crossing the Equator

Northern Hemisphere experiment


On the Equator experiment

Our 10 hour journey south from Kampala took us over the equator. We must have crossed it heading north but it wasn't marked in any way. This was not the case on the road between Kampala and Mbarara.

Here the equator was clearly marked as an angled line across the road. Each end was marked by a concrete hoop that showed the north -south divide and proudly marked the equator. Perfect for a photo as you can see.

It was also perfect for a little local enterprise in the form of a science project.

It is well known that the Earth's rotation causes water to disappear down the plug-hole in a clockwise direction in the northern hemisphere and anti-clockwise in the southern. What does it do on the equator?

A young man was on hand to demonstrate the plug hole phenomenon and kindly gave us a 10 minute show for a fee of about £10.

We began in the southern hemisphere. A metal bowl with a hole in the bottom was filled from a bucket of water. Flowers were placed in the water to show the flow and hey presto! The water was clearly rotating anti-clockwise.

We then moved to similar set up, about 20 yards away in the northern hemisphere. Bingo! The water rotated in a clockwise direction.

Finally, we stood at a bowl on the equator. To much ooo ahhing the water disappeared straight down the plug hole. Science at it's best. Magnus Pike eat your heart out.

But just pause for a moment to consider what we saw. Is it possible? I know the equator is an imaginary line around the Earth that divides north and south, but surely it's more than a few feet wide? How can the effect be so marked in containers only about 20 yards apart?

Easy. It was all a con.

When the show was over a closer inspection of the apparatus used revealed imperfections in the surface of the containers that would cause water to act according to the script.

Sorry to ruin the illusion. I can also show you how David Blaine levitates if you want your day completely spoiling.

I can't leave it there though. In the interests of finding the truth I went to the nearest toilet. After peeing not quite on the equator, but very close to it, I filled the sink with water and pulled the plug. I didn't have any flowers handy but to me it was clear what happened - the water disappeared vertically down the plug hole. No magic involved.

It pays to advertise

Typical shop-fronts in Uganda

Wherever went in East Africa I made an effort to learn something of the local langauge. In Kenya the greeting was always 'Jambo!' and in Uganda the equivalent was 'Agandi!' But it was always interesting to see that English was still a dominant language in these former British colonies. Signs and directions were always written in my native tongue.

What delighted me most were the signs on shops and advertising slogans.

Every town we passed through had brightly painted shop fronts that were themselves adverts for a product. For example, mobile phone shops would be painted in the corporate colours of Orange and to a set design that never varied.

It wasn't just the bright colours but the language used that fascinated me. There was always a fantastic simplicity about it and a sense that it was not quite correct.

In England hairdressers seem to compete to find the most original and witty title for their business. Here's a few plucked from the local Yellow Pages: Cut Above; His 'n' Hairs; Intrim; and The Head Gardener.

In Africa it is far simpler and yet more romantic. In Kenya there was a hairdressers called 'The Beautiful Ladies Hair Salon'. Brilliant! It has the simplistic yet descriptive ring of 'The Number One Ladies Detective Agency' about it. It does what it says on the sign.

Here are a few other adverts and shop signs that I noted down:

Sandolin: Colour your world fashionably silky (Sandolin shops were in every town. Always brightly painted. Good use of the colon).

Blessed - shoe shiner and repair

Uganda Telecom - it's all about you (unlike British Telecom - It's never about you, so sod off)

Obama Restaurant and Cleaning Services (it pays to diversify, even when you're the president of the USA)

Blessed Man Garment Centre (a tailor's shop)

OMO - dirt is good

When you have a choice
SLEEPING BABY
Is the right choice

(the picture that accompanied this slogan was of a young girl with her thumb up. I still have no idea what it was advertising - drugging your kids so you can go out on the town perhaps?)

I choose Manwango Tea
I take things personally

(are those statements connected?)

And finally my favourite - a solicitor's office in Kampala:

Davis & Shirtlift

Live long and prosper.

Chimp Island

Still claiming for that second tree house then Jacqui?

Monitor lizard (maybe)

Yellow billed kite (definately)

Police and rioters clashed for a second day in the Ugandan capital Kampala in a dispute involving a tribal king.

Three people are reported to have died in the latest clashes, bringing the death toll to at least 10.

Violence erupted when the government banned the king of Buganda from travelling to Kayunga, an area which says it has seceded from his kingdom.

A spokesman for the king said on Friday he had postponed Saturday's planned visit, Reuters reported.

Pasted from <http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/8251907.stm>

This is how the BBC reported on the violence in Kampala. Subsequent reports claim that the death toll rose to 20 and that the Army were deployed on the streets of Kampala with heavy weapons and tanks.

When we drove through Kampala on Monday 14th September signs of the violence that had claimed so many lives the previous days were still in evidence. The Army were still on the streets and apart from the usual machine guns I saw one soldier carrying a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launcher.

An officer, busy on his cell phone, stood close to the gathered wrecks of at least a dozen burnt out vehicles. Driving through these scenes everyone in the group kept their cameras packed away, as the sight of them would have brought unwelcome attention from the troops.

Amazingly, people were going about their normal business, just like any other Monday morning.

As the report suggests, what sparked the violence was a ban by the Ugandan President on the visit of a tribal king to his Kingdom. I don't pretend to understand the politics behind the President's decision but it serves to underline the complex tensions and divisions that are ever present throughout Africa due to age old tribal allegiances.

The previous day we had skirted Kampala on our way to the Ngamba Island chimpanzee reserve (http://www.ngambaisland.org/) on Lake Victoria. Compared to the adrenalin rush of rafting the Nile this was a very sedate day.

The boat ride out to the island took 90 minutes. Regular readers will be pleased to know that I took plenty of sea sickness pills and managed not to feed the local fish and birdlife.

Lake Victoria is the largest lake in Africa and the third biggest freshwater lake in the World. We set out from its northern rim, not far from Entebbe. Looking south all I could see was the flat horizon of the lake. If we had carried on in that direction we would have travelled for over 200 miles before reaching land.

Ngamba island is the home to 44 chimpanzees who have been rescued from misery all over the world. The island afforded ample opportunity to rest and catch up on the lives of Jeeves and Wooster. But it was also alive with wildlife that proved more alluring. Yellow billed kite circled lazily over the island and a variety of waders fed at the waters edge. Black and white kingfishers posed on branches and plunged headlong into the water. Amazing dragonflies danced over the hot, sandy earth. A pair of lizards, about 6 feet long moved slowly through the bushes. I still haven't identified them, although I suspect they may have been monitor lizards.

Access to the chimps was strictly limited. The island was reminiscent of Jurassic Park in that there was huge fence that divided the humans from the chimps. They could be heard squabbling among the dense trees but it was only at feeding time that they actually emerged and came into full view.

From our viewing platform we spent about 40 minutes watching the chimps until the last piece of fruit had been thrown by the staff and one by one they disappeared back into the trees.

It's an often quoted fact that chimpanzees share 98% of our DNA. Observing their behaviour brought home just how much like us they are, especially when they stand up on two legs. Most of all though, it is their social interaction that make them seem so human. During our brief stay I witnessed greed, bullying, attention seeking, abuse of power, jealousy and exhibitionism. In fact they reminded me of a peculiar sub-species of human - politicians. It wouldn't surprise me if some of these chimps are still claiming expenses for their former homes. And when I come to think of it, the Alpha male, Mikka, looked an awful lot like Jacqui Smith. Although obviously much fitter and not quite as hairy.

Rafting the Nile

In the washing machine

Flippin' heck! That's me in the pink helmet.

The safety boat

By breakfast time on the Saturday news was beginning to filter through of trouble in nearby Kampala. The picture was very unclear, but the rumours suggested that there had been widespread violence in the street and 10 people had been killed. JJ was very grave about the situation and said he would find out more during the day. Obviously, the safety of the group was paramount and decisions had to be made about the progress of our trip.

Concerning though all of this was it did not dampen my enthusiasm for what I intended to do with our free day.

The previous evening a young American called Bob had called by over dinner to tell the group about white water rafting. It sounded wicked and since most of the falls to be faced were Grade 5, much tougher than the Grade 3 rafting we had in Turkey it presented a new and exciting challenge. But when Bob asked who was interested only one hand shot in the air - mine.

Overnight though two of the younger members of the group, Helen and Susie, decided that they would take up the challenge too. The three of us made our way to the bar area where we were to meet with Bob and sign up for a full day of rafting the Nile.

The Company that organises the rafting is called Adrift and they operate out of a little shack next to the bar. As we each paid our money there was a cry of 'Snake!' and the people in the shack soon left it.

A burly guy with a scaffolding pole then stepped in and took control of the situation. From where I was I saw this chap conduct a mighty battle with what I took to be a monstrous serpent that was hidden from my view behind the counter. I heard the word 'cobra' mentioned. After several minutes of jabbing with the pole and putting his life on the line our hero emerged, complete with snake.

The snake was green in colour and no more than 10 inches long. It appeared to be what is referred to as a house snake. Despite this poor thing being no more dangerous than the corn snakes I keep at home this guy decapitated it with grim satisfaction. It seems he had a thing about snakes.

Not the best start to the day and it didn't improve much when our new friend Bob seemed to have an attitude problem that soon earned him the epithet 'Bob the Knob'. Maybe he was just hung over or maybe he was disappointed at the number and quality of his clients. Apart from Helen, Susie and me there were just two others - a pair of very nice Indian ladies who were touring Africa together. One of them couldn't swim. It seemed that the trouble in Kampala had reduced the client base.

Kitted out with life vests, helmets and paddles the five of us made our way down to the river with Bob, who went through the rudiments of rafting and various drills. His mood did not lighten and it became obvious that he didn't want the Indian ladies on board. He made this obvious through his constant suggestions that they'd be better of in the safety boat where no paddling is required and which hardly ever flips over.

But the ladies in question stuck to their guns, they'd paid for adventure and they were going to have it . But when Bob the Knob explained how he was going to flip our boat over on purpose by way of a practice for getting it upright again and climbing back on board their resolve finally failed and they opted to move to the safety boat. Helen also went as she was concerned about a severe injury to her elbow that had occurred only a few months previously. And then there were three - Susie, Bob the Knob and me.

What followed was a fantastic adventure that epitomised everything this trip was about for me. Over the course of the day we navigated more than 20 miles of the River Nile, negotiating five Grade 5 rapids and other lesser falls. Grade 5 is the highest level that can be attempted commercially.

All the rapids had names, such as Easy Rider, Point Break and Overtime. Often there were long stretches of slack water between them when we could drift with the current and simply enjoy being on this awe inspiring river. Our route was dotted with Fish Eagles and other wild life. Nile perch broke the surface here and there. On both banks there were people going about their daily business and using the river as a wash room and launderette.

The presence of these people added another safety feature into our journey as they kill any Nile Crocodiles that appear in order to protect their children. Good news for us but bad news for the crocodiles.

When we rafted in Turkey there were stretches of river where we could get out of the raft and float alongside. When Susie and I suggested this to Bob he quickly quashed the idea. Perhaps he wasn't confident that all the crocs had been taken care of.

As it was we had plenty of opportunities to swim. A giant wave flipped Susie and I out of the raft on one occasion and despite our best efforts the boat completely flipped over three times. By the last time I was finally getting the hang of it and managed to hang on to the boat with one hand and my paddle with the other even though it felt like I was in a washing machine.

The scariest part when being suddenly catapulted into the water is the few seconds of being pounded by the water when you can't tell up from down and wonder where the next breath is coming from. But despite its ferocity, the Nile is relatively safe to raft down as it is very deep so there is little chance of hitting a rock or getting wedged under one.

This wasn't the case for a previous visitor from Holland. He decided to save a few dollars by avoiding the organised rafting and set out on his own in one of those small inflatable rafts you see at the seaside. He actually made it an incredibly long way before choosing the wrong side of the river and heading into a Grade 6 rapid. Bob showed us the rapid in question which is now known as The Dead Dutchman.

It was a day I will never forget and as it wore on Bob became more and more affable. He was very good at his job and was clearly very happy to live a nomadic lifestyle picking up rafting jobs and working as a ski instructor, according to season. At one point he even joined me in singing a very rude song my children introduced me to that was perfect for the occasion - 'I'm on a boat' by Incredibad.

As a souvenir Helen, Susie and I all bought CDs containing pictures of our journey. Looking at those pictures I still find it incredible that an average, middle aged bloke from Yorkshire should find himself plunging down one of the world's legendary rivers in a mix of awe and adrenalin. I came to Africa looking for adventure and found it in abundance on the Nile.

Uganda

A hot shave! The camp site at Eldoret

Leaving Lake Nakuru it was time to head towards Uganda where some very unpleasant bother, an encounter with chimpanzees and white water rafting were waiting for us.

To break up the long journey we overnighted at a camp site near the town of Eldoret, just south of the Cherangani Hills. The contrast with the privations of our Lake Nakuru camp site could not have been greater.

For the first time since my arrival I was able to shave with hot water and the showers were superb. There was even a pool, although we arrived too late to make use of it.

Leo was given the evening off and we all enjoyed a variety of curried dishes with various nan beads and chapattis as well as rice and chips, served on a real table that we could all sit around. Afterwards we retired to the cosy bar area and sat near the log fire whilst JJ briefed us on the next day's journey.

For me, the highlight of the camp site was the fact that the owner had numerous dogs of various sizes and breeds who came into the bar and in some cases even slept on it. I love dogs and to be surrounded by these guys was just brilliant.

Rejuvenated, we continued our journey the next day and crossed the border to Uganda, which was a novel experience.

On the Kenyan side of the border we were besieged by young boys between the ages of 10 and 14, all trying to sell us something - cold drinks mostly. Much to the amusement of the rest of the group and me the boys kindly referred to me as 'grandfather'. Despite this apparent insult I did build up a rapport with them and handed out a few of the gel pens I had brought with me.

Wherever you go in East Africa there is a universal language - football. When in doubt just shout 'Wayne Rooney!' and it is sure to bring a cheery smile and a wave. On this morning I was wearing my Hull City shirt so, like a good grandfather, I decided to teach the boys a song.

If you ever have the pleasure of crossing the border between Kenya and Uganda and are accosted by a group of young boys singing 'Mauled by the Tigers, you've been mauled by the Tigers', whilst pretending to err, maul like a tiger, then I apologise profusely.

On the Ugandan side of the border it was a different story. Here there were men in yellow coats vying for our attention.

There is no bureau de change as such at the border, so these guys will change money for you. The key is to get the best rate. Therefore we simply handed our money to Leo and he then bartered on our behalf. It was like a feeding frenzy. The higher the denomination of the bank note the wilder these guys got. It was frantic. I wish it was a bit more like that in the post office. Perhaps I'll write and suggest it.

As we journeyed into Uganda there was a subtle change of mood in the world outside Isobel and it wasn't for the better. Wherever we went in Kenya we encountered nice people. The children especially captured my heart. Sometimes, for no obvious reason they would explode with joy at the sight of us going past. Sometimes jumping up and down and waving and sometimes running alongside the truck for as long as they could. At times their exuberance would end in the inevitable cry of 'Give me money!' But mostly they just seemed happy to see us and I never tired of waving back to them.

In Uganda the reaction was often the same, but less frequent and occasionally the men reacted in a way that made it clear that we weren't welcome at all. It was obvious that even shouting 'Wayne Rooney' or 'David Beckham' was not going have a disarming effect.

Our long journey ended at a camp site near Jinja. The plan was to stay here for two nights and the next day, Saturday, would be a free day for us when we could undertake optional activities or just chill out.

The camp site , whilst not as well appointed as Eldoret, was still excellent and I once more I won out in the tent lottery. I had a huge, walk in tent to myself. So big that it housed a double bed and I got to sleep off the floor for once.

Better still, right next to my tent there was a flimsy fence which guarded me from the drop into this huge river. It was enormous and although the nearby waterfall was not big it still gave off that reassuring rumbling sound of power and might.

I had not been expecting to camp next to a river and certainly not one as mighty as this. I was highly impressed.

Having settled into my humungus tent I made my way to the bar for the first beer of the day. Sadly, there was no Tusker. In Uganda there was a different beer and it was only when I looked at the label that it finally dawned on me what the name of the river was. The beer was called Nile Gold.

Not only were we on the River Nile, we were also very close to what is regarded as the source of the river, about 10 miles away at Lake Victoria. This was the White Nile and as its waters rushed past the cliff top bar it was hard to imagine that it would eventually join up with the lesser Blue Nile and emerge into the Mediterranean Sea, 4,000 miles away in Egypt. That would be one heck of a game of Pooh sticks.

Exodus, the company I travelled with, produce very extensive trip notes that can be downloaded and printed. I had read the notes for this trip but clearly not even noticed any references to the Nile. When I told JJ about my delight at finding we were next to this iconic river he seemed very pleased. In his view, travellers like me are much easier than the ones that want to hold him to account for everything that is written in the notes and complain about any deviations. It is not always possible for things to go to plan.

As JJ told me this he had no way of knowing that even as he spoke something was happening just 50 miles away that could seriously affect our journey and maybe even curtail it. In Kampala, to the south west of us, there was serious street violence. Shots were fired and people died.

Kampala was our next port of call.