Category: Uganda

The landline rings. I immediately know it’s my mother calling. From the way she says ‘hello’ I know something else—that I’m not going to like the conversation. I’m tempted to feign a poor connection and hang up. 

‘A woman was kidnapped in Uganda’, my mother says, her voice measured, with frantic undertones. ‘At gunpoint’, she continues, ‘alone, while on safari.’

‘I’m not going to Uganda for four months, Mom’, I say, my voice measured, with annoyed undertones.

‘And, I’m 49 years old. I’m a grown-up.’

‘She was 35’, my mom replies.

I hang up.

The phone rings again. It’s my dad.

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I’m measured by nature. So much so that my baking skills are flawless. You can’t improvise a chocolate soufflé no matter what The Great British Bake Off would have us believe. I’m a recipe follower. A rule follower. I color inside the lines. 

So while it’s true the unfortunate kidnapping in Uganda happened only a few months before I’m due to go. And also true I’m traveling solo to Queen Elizabeth National Park, the very park she was kidnapped from, I do what I do best—I measure.

As departure day looms, I research as if my life depends upon it. Ultimately, I deem Uganda safe. Safer, I’ll add, than my current hometown. I tell my parents that lightning never strikes the same place twice.

They don’t buy that, either.

Where we choose to travel matters. Some of us choose to cage dive with sharks off the coast of South Africa for a high-adrenaline thrill. Others choose to restore coral reefs in Australia in order to help save the planet’s fragile ecosystems.

Our adventure mindsets are decidedly different and have individual arcs—from dangerous to safe, worthless to worthwhile. I think of the center of this arc as my comfort zone. The times I step out of my comfort zone are rewarding beyond measure. Uganda is one such time. But there are others.

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Preconceptions aside

Checking in with my good friend Merriam-Webster, I note the synonyms for ‘preconceived’. They include biased, bigoted, influenced, prejudiced, and opinionated. Preconception sure does come with a lot of heavy baggage.

Over the years, I’ve been ‘encouraged’ to rethink travel plans. That encouragement may have been due to a particular country’s current state of civil unrest. Or, because the terrain is considered treacherous. Or, simply because it just doesn’t seem fun. Most of the time it’s due to preconceived notions about our destination. Notions that I’m keen to dispel.

The unsolicited advice is well-intended, I know. Yet, in the end, we are masters of our own domains. Or in this case, travel itineraries. Sorry, mom.

You’ll get kidnapped in Uganda

I possess a healthy fear of traveling to Uganda. I rarely travel solo. The last time I traveled alone was in 1994 when my then-boyfriend and I broke up and I booked a spontaneous flight to St. Thomas to cry. 

My salty tears drip into plastic goblets of overpriced, oaky, California chardonnay. A few days later, two friends track me down to save me from myself (and to suggest a cold Carib, instead).

Any fears I carry with me from DC to Uganda dissipate upon arrival. Reality versus preconception. The gap is deep and wide.

I’m due to meet up with a friend in Bwindi National Park later on, which leaves me solo in the southern Ishasha sector of Queen Elizabeth National Park. I spend three nights at a remote tent camp alongside the Ntungwe river, where the sounds of wildlife begin to fill the warm African air just as I am heading to bed. 

The savannah after dark is a universe unto its own. It is one of the only place I would rather be awake while everyone else is asleep. One night, I hear an elephant’s enormous body graze the side of my canvas tent. I note the natural tempo of his slow-paced, padded steps.

My heart thumps so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it. In the dead of night, the chorus of animal life is nearly spiritual. Not much later, I feel the roar of a lion as much as I hear it. I try my best to stay awake, not wanting to miss a growl.

The famous tree-climbing lions are part of the reason I choose to visit Uganda. The Ishasha sector of Queen Elizabeth National Park is the only place in the world to see them. Lions that climb acacia trees to find shelter from the heat, take a well-earned nap, or spy on helpless prey. Another reason is to observe the Silverback gorillas, a species that can’t be found in any zoos or game parks.

Finding Gold, in Africa

Yet, there are reasons beyond wildlife that make this trip remarkable. It’s the people. Not only the people who live and work in the destinations we are traveling to (bartenders, guides, trackers, and school kids) but the other adventure-seekers we meet along the way. 

Whether that be the women I meet in seats 2B and 2C en route to Ishasha, the birders with whom I cross the Mabamba Swamp, or the digital nomad punching keys on the bar stool beside me. It’s all about the animals, in Uganda. But, it’s also all about the people.

The bush plane I take from Ishasha to Kihihi seats four people. Across the aisle sits a tall, elegant man with inquisitive eyes and an endearing smile. We chit-chat (an activity I love) while waiting for wheels-up. My husband is not a chit-chatter, so when I’m alone I chit-chat like there’s no tomorrow.

I learn that although he currently lives in Milan, he’s originally from the small African nation of Burundi. I ask him about Burundi and why he is visiting Uganda. We exchange stories of our game drives and animal sightings. We compare kills in detail and count ourselves lucky for having seen one. He tells me about his twins and that he works for Nike.

“Have you been to the United States?”, I ask.

“Once”, he responds, “to Atlanta, back in 1996.”

I feel creaky, rusty cogs turn slowly in my mind. My Trivial Pursuit general knowledge resurfaces and I imagine inserting a red wedge into a little, plastic wheel. 

“Wait. Did you go to the Olympics?”

Bashfully, he tells me he was in fact, in the Olympics. My jaw hits the tray table. I’m about to ask more but just then the engine sputters to life at a decibel level that renders speech useless. Stray zebras clear the runway. We’re off.

Later, when I’m reunited with Wi-Fi, I google my humble seatmate, (you wouldn’t?). His name is Vénuste Niyongabo. I learned he trained to compete in the 1500-meter race for the ’96 Olympics. He was considered the clear favorite, but at the last minute forfeited his space to a teammate who hadn’t been able to compete in ’88 or ’92. Vénuste entered the 5000-meter race instead, one he hadn’t trained for. In his final lap, Vénuste went on to win an unexpected Olympic gold. 

The only Olympic gold medal winner for Burundi. Ever.

Where I choose to travel matters. I choose Uganda and expect to observe climbing lions and track Silverbacks. I don’t expect a chance encounter with an Olympic Gold medalist on a four-seater Cessna. As valuable a memory as any other I collect while in Uganda. Maybe the most valuable. Human connection trumps all.

Oh, and no one gets kidnapped in Uganda that week. I check.

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Drugs are everywhere in Colombia

You’re going to Colombia? Haven’t you seen Narcos? Ahhh, if I had a peso for every time I heard that one. To those stuck in the Netflix version of Colombia, circa 1980, I ask you to join me in the present day.

I visit Cartagena because I’d like to be dazzled by a Spanish colonial city in a Gabriel García Márquez kind of way. Magical Realism is a part of Colombia’s allure, at least in the literary sense. My expectations are unreasonably high. I picture men levitating in the streets and musical notes dancing in mid-air. I conjure up the aroma of deep-fried yucca from street vendors and imagine the echo of clomping horse hooves on cobbled streets.

I read One Hundred Years of Solitude for the third time, in anticipation.

Many things are sold on the electrically-charged street corners of Cartagena, but as far as I see, none of them are drugs. The street corners I pass sell pineapples, papayas, and wedges of juicy watermelon. Messy perhaps, but not illegal, merchandise.

The palenqueras are the glorious fruit sellers of Cartagena. Their bright clothing and broad smiles are colorfully woven into the fabric of the city. At one time, these iconic women carried baskets of fruit upon their heads from their Palanque village to the city center. Today, they find a shady patch of the street or plaza to offer their bounty of produce to tourists. 

The World Cup: USA v. Colombia

One day we walk to Getsemaní, a neighborhood just beyond the fortified walls of the old city. It’s gritty, raw, and all about street life. We stumble upon the chipped mustard-yellow walls of the Town Hall on Plaza de la Trinidad. The colors of Cartagena are kaleidoscopic—a harmonious match to the zeal of the city.

We see young Colombian kids playing a game of pick-up soccer. They run as fast and effortlessly in torn flip-flops and battered Crocs as most American kids can in Nike Airs. Premier League jerseys hang loosely off their lanky frames. A group of men is stooping nearby, their faces weathered and grooved like an old LP. I take a mental photo. I still have it.

My son is nine years old. Without warning, he dives headfirst into the game. My husband, daughter, and I sit on a bench nearby—front-row seats to an impromptu World Cup match. 

The kids don’t bat an eye at the American newcomer and absorb him into the game like an old friend. They don’t have language in common, but somehow figure out who is playing which position and who is on which team. Sport has a language all its own. 

Goalposts are marked with soda cans. Yet, the game matters in ways beyond scoring. My son takes a shot on goal and misses. The game resets. A lesson in Latin American football, my husband muses on the sidelines. A lesson in a lot of things, I can’t help but think.

Finnish Lapland doesn’t sound like fun

“You do realize there are only a few hours of daylight in Finland during winter?”, chirps a nosy woman seated on my left. She is way too close to my screen, I think, as I scoot further down the banquette at my local coffee shop.

Yes, I discover that little factoid while researching our post-Christmas trip to Finnish Lapland. A holiday of near-perpetual darkness isn’t for everyone. I’m hoping it’s for us.

I want to tell her “if we all traveled to the same place, the Dominican Republic would sink to the bottom of the sea. So, while I appreciate your concern that we might not have fun in Finland, let me say one thing—I’m a grown-up. I can go where I want.”

I don’t say any of that. But I want to.

Finland turns out to be one of the funnest vacations we have as a family. I use ‘funnest’ deliberately here. I know it isn’t a real word—I have Grammarly.

The main reason I want to go to Finland is to see the Northern Lights, which I hear is all but guaranteed in Finnish Lapland. Naturally, I don’t tell my family this. Instead, I google all the ways to have fun in the Arctic Circle in December. There are 35,800,000 results. Phew.

I get the guaranteed aurora borealis on our first night in Lapland. Ticking that box early means I can fully embrace the other 35,799,000 fun things I’ve promised my family we can do. Among many fun activities, the funnest (again, for emphasis) takes the form of 17 yelping huskies pulling us on small metal sleds at breakneck speed at dusk (aka noon). 

Toni, the dog whisperer of Finland, is our guide. He has an ease and lightness about him that belies his 20-something years. Before departing into the wilderness, Toni gives us vital instructions on how to maneuver the dogs. None of which I can hear. The dogs are barking so loudly they shake the snow off the trees.

Once the dogs get mushing, the landscape deafens. It’s like someone muted Finland by remote control. The beauty of the landscape is enhanced by the centuries-old silence of dogsledding. 

Toni guides us over frozen lakes and under tall pines. The sky renders shades of lavender and pink. Then almost imperceptibly, those colors transform into magenta and orange. A setting from a fairy tale, the low-angled winter sun casts long shadows on the snow, which is far from snow white. It is purple-white, pink-white, and blue-white. Benjamin Moore could learn a thing or two about color in Finland.

Night-filled days are fun, but tiring. After seven nights in the Arctic, I’m excited to get home for some vitamin D and to watch White Fang. The memory of Toni and his unwavering command over our pack of huskies will be hard to forget.

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Do you know about that terrifying runway in Bhutan?

By the numbers, Paro, Bhutan’s only international airport, has incredible stats. Only 17 pilots are qualified to land there. The runway is a skimpy 6500 feet long and surrounded by steep 18,000-foot snow-covered Himalayan peaks. Airplanes need to carve a 45-degree angle around these dramatic peaks moments before touchdown. Oh, and flights are only allowed to land during the day, in good weather conditions, and when a full moon is rising.

The full moon part is a joke. The rest is no joke.

We go to Bhutan to celebrate my 40th birthday, despite the statistics people have kindly sent us regarding plane crashes. ‘Bhutan is the happiest place on earth!’, I read. If I have to turn 40, then I’m going to do it in the happiest place on earth, dammit.

Leopards, tigers, and dragons. Oh my.

The Kingdom of Bhutan is known as the ‘Land of the Thunder Dragon’. One of its most famous sights is called The Tiger’s Nest. The Himalayan foothills are home to the elusive clouded leopard. Leopards, tigers, and dragons? Whoa. Bhutan is setting a high bar.

The crowned jewel of Bhutan is the Tiger’s Nest (Paro Taktsang), an ancient monastery that hangs precariously off of a 10,000-foot cliff. The Tiger’s Nest is a sacred space built on a cave site where Indian gurus meditated in the 8th century. The cluster of temples that are perched there now was built in 1692. The Tiger’s Nest is why I choose to visit Bhutan—to absorb a small part of its immense spirituality. To get there, I will push myself physically and mentally.

Pema, our Bhutanese guide, personifies the happiness index I have heard so much about. His dimpled smile radiates as he tells us the history of his country. He talks about his favorite Bhutanese dishes, his wife, and his kids. I again remember why I travel is as much about the people as it is about the destination.

The hike is rigorous, which we expect. Red, yellow, and blue prayer flags flap—primary colors fraying from years of wind and rain. An enormous prayer wheel meets us along the way and I attempt to channel the surrounding aura. Mountain peaks, craggy rocks, and cloudless, bright blue skies. I am looking for a sign—a way to connect, however unrealistic that is.

From a physical point of view, I’m well within my comfort zone—the center of my personal arc. The terrain is tough to climb, but not impossible. Yet, from a spiritual viewpoint, I’m out of my depths. I’m eager to embrace it, but it’s a challenge. 

Eventually, we enter a clearing—a break from the blue pine forest. I see the Tiger’s Nest directly across the valley, hanging onto a sheer rock face exactly where I expect it to be. I imagine the tigress in her lair as well as the generations of people who have trekked here before me. We have 700 steps to descend and another 250 to ascend before we reach our goal. Slightly out of breath, I stop to look up.

Above me, I see a fully-formed 360-degree rainbow circling the sun. I’ll say that one more time for impact—a rainbow circling the sun.

This phenomenon, I later discover, is a sun halo. It occurs when sunlight refracts millions of hexagonal ice crystals. Those crystals then become suspended in the atmosphere to cause an otherworldly ring around the sun. 

I didn’t even know sun halos existed. I have yet to see one since. Maybe this is the goal? A sun halo—my forever connection to Bhutan. Who doesn’t believe in signs?

Travel matters

In Cartagena, I expect to be immersed in a magical, yet real, world of art, culture, and food. I don’t expect to watch an impromptu pick-up soccer game on a gritty Colombian plaza.

In Finland, I expect to glimpse electric green brushstrokes of charged particles crossing a black sky—not to be immersed in the age-old sport of dogsledding within a world of white.

In Bhutan, the Tiger’s Nest is my intended goal. Yet, it’s overshadowed, quite literally, by an ethereal atmospheric phenomenon.

And in Uganda? In Uganda, I track mighty Silverbacks and see rare climbing lions. So-called ‘once-in-a-lifetime experiences.’ But, then I meet Vénuste Niyongabo—a man who brings home gold to the poorest country in the world.

Why do I travel?

One of my favorite authors says it best:

“After all, we travel for the same reason we read: to remind ourselves of the existence, and also the inexplicability, of other lives, to recognize ourselves within that which is foreign to us. We are one person when we begin a trip, or a book or an article; we are another person when we conclude it. Another person, but also the same-we take the journey to see ourselves.” —Hanya Yanagihara

Where I choose to travel matters. I take the journey to see myself. Although what I discover isn’t always what I expect, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The risks of my choices are mine to bear. I’ll take those risks because I value the rewards that accompany them.

And also, because I’m a grown-up, dammit.

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