Rescued!

My friend Nancy on San Juan Island always used to say that when your plans go awry on a trip, there’s opportunity for adventure. I thought of Nancy during a trip to Murchison Falls with my brother Philip last week. Everything was great, we had a fantastic time talking to giraffes et al, and got to catch up with each other at Paraa Lodge, where we looked off the balcony of the dining room at dinner and saw an elephant munching the garden beneath us. (He meandered slowly past the swimming pool and I think I saw him glance at my room, but he didn’t go in.)

We enjoyed the gorgeous scenery – I love the incongruity of the palm trees on the grasslands. On a game drive we had a big Land Rover full of what looked like Germans ahead of us and I made some slightly snide remark about passing the big, pink Germans (I’m German ancestry, so can be forgiven, but when you travel, well, Germans are everywhere), and our Ugandan driver Ezra passed them with a laugh. Otherwise, we were about the only ones in the park.

On the way home we went to the top of the falls and Philip waxed eloquent about the African Queen (filmed here); Ezra had no idea what we were talking about. We ate mangos straight off the trees, and then set off for the six hour trip back to Kampala. The top of the falls is down a long dirt track, far from the main dirt road and about two hours from the nearest town. Suddenly smoke poured out from the dashboard and we all jumped out. Some wires had crossed where they shouldn’t have and burnt through. Ezra climbed under the hood, wrapping a plastic bag around the wires for insulation, which looked suspect to me, so I dove into the first aid kit and he used the adhesive tape instead. But nothing worked and the car wouldn’t start. Sweat ran down Ezra’s face, and the sun beat down on us all.

Phil stood under a tree mumbling, “This is not good” and slapping the very aggressive tsetse flies that were looking for baboons. But I have been in Uganda for almost four months, and to me it was just another event, no worries. And, honestly, I thought, “This means an adventure!”

Just then we heard the Land Rover with the pink people in it roaring down the road – they had been at the top of the falls too. They jolted to a stop and Hans (who was actually Austrian) jumped out with his driver and they joined Ezra under the hood. After much mechanic-speak, they gave up. We threw ourselves on the Austrians' mercy and they agreed to take us to the next town. We left Ezra calling a mechanic, and also a car to come from Kampala to pick us up in Masindi.

That meant a three-hour wait in dusty Masindi. In the Rover, I looked at the sweet Germanic-types and thought, “No way are we waiting. We are going all the way to Kampala with them. this calls for charm.” Pictures of Maggie and Cameron came out, as did pictures of Gerta’s grandson. America became a fascinating place they need to visit. Oh so many adventures were shared. It turns out they had been in Africa numerous times, met in Libya, driven across the Sahara with their two-year-old son, seen Timbuktu. Why Africa, I asked. “For the adventure,” Hans said gleefully. At Masindi I shamelessly (and be humble, Philip begged me) asked for a ride the rest of the way and of course they agreed. We called Ezra (without cell phones, Uganda would not work) and he cancelled the other ride. We bought beers all around (not for the driver), at least three each for them (they are big people) – I lost count, and then we got back in the car.

“This car runs on beer and whiskey,” Hans said cheerfully as he pulled out a flask of “Austrian spring water” (schnaps) and they all took a swig, after which Franz (yes, Franz) in the front seat, fell soundly asleep, his big head bobbing off the headrest almost onto the driver’s shoulder.

And then … and then that Ugandan driver, Ishmael (yes, Ishmael), drove like a fruit bat out of hell, hitting very single pothole from Masindi to Kampala, roaring down the middle of the road around petrol trucks, in front of flying buses, yelling, “You want pineapple?” as markets blurred past. We bounced so hard our teeth hurt, we flew off our Rover-esque hard seats, Gerta’s neck twitched in a funny way, and at one point Philip pulled my Expedia baseball hat over his eyes so he couldn’t watch. We were terrified, but the Austrians were jolly, yelling who knows what in German, laughing and yucking all the way. Hans confessed he was “itching to drive” but it was too dangerous. No kidding.

So we reached home dirty and safe, with new friends and a story to tell. And never again will I say anything even slightly negative about such energetic and cheery people who rescued two stray Americans and made the whole thing fun. I have learned my lesson.