“Welcome to Africa”.
Does that conjure up images of colourfully dressed natives dancing and chanting around a hypnotic bonfire? Mighty beasts striding across endless savannahs? Awe-inspiring waterfalls and rivers rushing to the sea? Well, too bad. Cause that’s not what it means here.
No indeed. In my world the phrase is used when an event occurs that either personifies the essence of The Dark Continent and/or could only happen here. Allow me to illustrate.
I bid a fond farewell to Mutanda early in the morning since Eric told me that the drive to Queen Elizabeth Park, while beautiful, would require at least 7 hours. No problem.
However, when I reached his suggested turnoff, I saw the road was yet another bumpy, potholed dirt road that I’d have to navigate for over 3 hours.
“Fuck that! I said to myself.” I’m letting Google Maps take me on paved roads.”
Flash ahead an hour as Google Maps confidently guides me onto smaller and smaller roads until…Voila! It disappears in the middle of the jungle.
Some lovely “before” scenery.Fine. Humbled but unbowed, I return to the original turnoff. If I had a tail, it would certainly have been between my legs. Off I go. Unfortunately, since I’ve wasted the entire valuable morning, it’s now beginning to rain - and rain, and rain. I have no time to admire what I’m sure is gorgeous scenery since I’m spending all my energy just keeping my tiny car from sliding off the edge. After what seems like an eternity and just as I think I’ve dodged a bullet, I come around an uphill corner to see this:
Is there another stalled truck in front of this one? YES
Is it pouring rain? YES
Is this the only way to get where I’m going? YES
“Welcome to Africa.”
I could give you a blow-by-blow description of the next couple of hours, but let’s just say it involved the large crowd of people that always seem to appear as if by magic at these things, much debating and haranguing regarding what should be done (“Turn the wheel THIS way!” “ No! Turn the wheel that way!” “A grader is coming from Behoma.” “No! From Ruhija.”), much shovelling of rocks, etc. - interestingly by black people only. No white person in any of the jeeps on the scene even got out of their vehicles, except one crazy old man.
Finally, after what seemed like (and probably was) hours, the mythical grader actually arrived and quickly hauled the offending trucks off the road.
The good news (and yet another minor example of Serendipity if I may say so)? One of the jeeps behind me contained Ferdinand, the owner of the Lake Mutanda Resort, who had befriended me when he found out I was going to Madagascar. And guess where he and his wife and sister were heading? That’s right. The same lodge as me. “Just follow us,” he shouted out the window. So I did. This involved high-speed squirming around yet another truck and the usual jouncing and sliding. But at least I didn’t have to worry about where I was going and if I’d get there. Sweet! But wait, there’s more. When we arrived in our mini-convoy and they saw I was with King Ferdinand, they upgraded me to a “deluxe” tent.
“Welcome to Africa.”
Next up: The Party’s Over
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