Author: jdewyze

Trekking with pygmies

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Our epic gorilla trek took place Tuesday. Wednesday we met some of the people whom the gorillas displaced. Of course, it wasn’t the gorillas who did it, but about 20 years ago, the Ugandan government ordered all the pygmies to move out of the forests that had been their home for millennia. The last of the hunter-gatherers in this part of the world, the Batwa (as they call themselves; pygmy is the word the English applied to them) had always co-existed with the forest creatures. But as an exploding human population drove more and more people to cut down forests and farm, and the once boundless rainforest was reduced to mere islands, it was felt that the Batwa were putting too much pressure on what was left. So they were kicked out and forced onto the African equivalent of reservations. It was probably good for the gorillas and other forest animals and good for the non-Batwa Ugandans. Gorilla tourism is an economic engine, benefitting many ordinary folks. But it’s been devastating for the remaining Batwa.

One effort intended to help them preserve some remnant of their culture (and earn money) has been the creation of what’s called the Batwa Trail. This is what S and I signed up for.After a bit of a muddle over where we would start (there are two trail heads), we all assembled at the one withIn Mugahinga National Park. We set off with a ranger/translator (Benjamin), the two standard AK47-toting guards, and four Batwa ranging in age from 36 to 51. They had all grown up in this non-materialist culture (where you built your home from sticks and leaves and inhabited it for just a few months before moving on with just what you could carry.)

They all wore clothes made of animal-skins. Two of the four carried weapons (a spear and bow and arrow). To my surprise, they weren’t terribly small — maybe in the low 5-foot range. They led us briskly down a trail strewn with fresh-looking Cape Buffalo dung. I found myself thinking that it would be exciting to encounter one (and have one of the guards scare it away!) But the most menacing creatures we saw were legions of safari (aka fire) ants. We both avoided being bitten by any, thanks to the solicitous warnings of the Batwa.

They proved even better at entertaining us. Steven, the leader, had enormous presence, and in the course of frequent stops, he and the other fellows explained the use of various plants both for sustenance and medicine. Much more unexpected (and entertaining) was the way his comrades acted out various scenarios from their former life: setting a snare (and accidentally getting caught in it – har-har!); using a dog bedecked with bells (played by one of the guys) to catch a wild animals (played by a carved wooden hippo). “They’re like the Marx Brothers!” Steve whispered to me at one point.

The grand finale took us into a huge underground lava tube where the Batwa king used to hang out and his subjects stored crops plundered from surrounding farms. Normally, Batwa ladies hidden in the cave’s inky inner recesses surprise visitors by singing, softly at first and then building to a rousing conclusion. But they weren’t there on this particular day; someone said something about their having to go get food instead. I was a little disappointed, but 6 ladies were assembled when we emerged from the cave and they gave us at least a taste of what we had missed.

The guys and we also had shared our own magic moment a little earlier, when we had stopped in a clearing. They gave us a wildly animated demonstration of how they started fires, using two sticks. Then we all flopped down in an ant-free patch of ground to eat our picnic lunches. Steve and I asked lots of questions, and they seemed happy to answer. Then it occurred to me that they might enjoy hearing how we had learned about them. Benjamin translated as I described driving in my car one day several months ago and listening to an NPR reporter who also had experienced the Batwa Trail. Intrigued, I had googled them when I got home. What I read had made me resolve to find them. We all laughed at the crazy connections. “You’re famous!” I told them. Their eyes shone. I promised to tell other people about them, and they liked that a lot.

 

Gorilla country

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When we got back to the Uganda Wildlife Authority office Tuesday afternoon (6/5), after a grueling but satisfying 7 hours of tracking 14 of the remaining 700 mountain gorillas left in the world, one of our ranger/guides conducted a brief, corny ceremony in which she read each of our names and handed out ornate gorilla-tracking certificates. Steve and I and the 50-year-old Dutchman and his lanky 18-year-old son had finished the trek earlier than the 4 Sri Lankans who were the other members of our party. We stood up and applauded each other as we received our certificates. It was cute. Then the Dutchman spoke, and somewhat to my surprise, I almost burst into tears. He thanked the guides not only for doing such a good job in leading us to the gorillas, but also for the work they’re doing to preserve this place: the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. It is one of the rarest and most beautiful places on earth, and having the chance to walk in it was profoundly moving.

For Steve and me, the chance to see the forest was at least half of what made the day so spectacular. Probably for more folks, it’s all about the gorillas. I’ve never been ga-ga about them; never found them as enchanting, for example, as bonobos (pygmy chimps) or chimpanzees. But even for us, the chance to see these animals in the wild was intoxicating enough to make us want to pay for the permits required of anyone tracking them. Those permits not only are expensive, but securing them was daunting. I wired off the (non-refundable!) money for ours back in February, and then the date was set in stone. Had anything gone wrong, we simply would have been out of luck. Once we’d gotten ourselves to this distant (southwesternmost) corner of Uganda, the challenge was hardly over.

Here’s the way the tracking works: mountain gorillas live in two of Uganda’s national parks, but Bwindi has the largest concentration (about 300). They live in family groups, and about 10 of those have been habituated to humans. But only four of the 10 can be visited by tourists (I guess only scientists get access to the others). Moreover only 8 tourists are allowed in any group at a time, and they can only spend one hour with the troupe. Which means that — at most — 32 tourists may interact with Bwindi’s gorillas on any given day — IF they find the gorillas at all.

In our case, we were reasonably confident we’d find them. We’d been assigned to the Nkuringo family — 14 animals (8 male and 4 female), one of the troupes most accustomed to humans, and one with a reputation for being tolerant and even curious about visitors. I think we were designated to track them partly because I got my permit so early and partly because we’re old (for once, that felt like a delicious advantage!) Still finding any troupe is never a certainty. Our lead guide (named, comically, Modern), told us once he didn’t find them till 2:30 in the afternoon; he and his group didn’t get back to the base camp till 11 p.m. (something I find almost unimaginable, given that by 7 p.m., it’s always dark in this forest, which is also home to elephants, unhabituated gorillas, jaguars, pythons, and other deadly vipers.) Modern said just 6 months ago the rains were so torrential the gorillas were virtually invisible, hiding in the underbrush. Visitors slipped in the muck; they broke bones.

At the other extreme, Modern told us he’s found the gorillas 40 minutes down the trail. In such cases, the visitors still can only spend one hour with the troupe; they never get to see the forest at all.

Steve and I were gloriously lucky. We set our alarm for 5 a.m., ate breakfast at 5:30, then set off from the Traveler’s Rest by 6. We reached the park headquarters (elevation: 6,850 feet) around 7:45, where our group assembled and was briefed. At 8:30, we departed: not only the 8 tourists in our group, but also Modern, two guards armed with AK-47s (to scare off any random elephants!) and several porters. I felt a bit like Deborah Kerr setting off with Stewart Granger in search of King Soloman’s mine’s.

The weather was cool and cloudy at first, perfect for hiking. Almost immediately, we began descending into a deep, deep valley, as green as anything I’ve seen in Ireland. Modern was communicating with two tracker-rangers who’d preceded us and gone to where the gorillas had been the day before. (They usually don’t move more than a kilometer or two per day.) Very soon, the trail become not only steep but encrusted with treacherously slippery pebbles. Over and over again, I thought about how peeved I would be if I fell off a ledge or twisted an ankle or otherwise screwed up, now that we were finally so close. Rarely have I been so grateful to have my hiking poles.

After an hour and a half of this, we turned off the path that skirts the forest, to enter Bwindi itself. If our chimp tracking in Kibale last week didn’t feel like a jungle adventure, this more than made up for it. The “impenetrable” in Bwindi’s name is no exaggeration. This is as thickly tangled, buzzing, twittering greenly amazing a place as I’ve ever seen (except perhaps courtesy of Hollywood.) Instead of pebbles underfoot, there was oozy muck. Two and a half hours after leaving the trailhead, we reached the spot where our trackers had homed in on the group. We left the muddy trail. Underfoot was springy, compressed vegetation, the like of which I’ve never walked on before.

The next hour was magical, though our first gorilla was a recalcitrant young silverback known as Stubborn. He was lying on the ground with his back to us, and he never so much as turned to look at us, despite our noisiness and the fact that we were close enough to reach out and tickle his toes. We ventured on, with the rangers directing us where to go and how to behave. Ultimately we were able to approach 12 of the 14 members of the family. Two of the smallest ones even came out into the open, cuddling and grooming each other.

I could go on, but I’m afraid only a Jane Goodall would be interested in reading much more. I’ll wrap up with just a few final observations. At one point, the number of mountain gorillas in the world had plunged to 200. It has more than tripled since then, but their future survival is far from assured. At this moment, though, they’re out there, foraging, sleeping, playing, mating, giving birth. I’m a witness, and a deeply grateful one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A brief interruption for whining about the Internet

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I don’t really want to whine. Just to note that once again, I feel like Charlie Brown, year after year believing Lucy when she promised not to take away the football. Somehow, I really thought Internet access would be easier on this trip. But once again, it’s been amazingly challenging to get online. Our hotel in Kisoro, the Traveler’s Rest (which gorillista Dian Fossey reportedly considered to be her second home), claims on their website to have wifi. But we didn’t even have electricity for parts of our stay there. There was a decent Internet cafe 5 minutes from the hotel. But both full days that we were in Kisoro were crammed with hiking — one day tracking gorillas and the other trekking with local pygmies.

Both those experiences deserve posts of their own, and I’m going to try to write them now from the Hotel Paradis Malahide. It’s about 90 minutes from the border crossing where we passed from Uganda into Rwanda this morning. The hotel is a rustic place on the shore of Lake Kivu. They say that early in the morning, when the air is clear, we’ll be able to see the Congo on the far side of the lake. Tomorrow we’ll go biking in the Rwanda hills with Tom Tofield, an expat Englishman who runs a tour company. But this afternoon it feels delicious to hunker down and catch up — with e-mail, blog posts, and photo organization.

With luck, our good Internet access should continue for at least another week or so. But here (NOW I remember!) you never know. When we can’t get online, I’ve also been tweeting (@jdewyze) with my Twitter feed linking to the blog page (though now that we’re in Rwanda, we’re having trouble with our cell phones.)

 

Big game country

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Who associates Uganda with big game? I never did. Mountain gorillas, maybe. But sweeping savannah dotted with grazing elephants and antelope? We were startled when yesterday we saw all that and more.

I had expected the day to be somewhat tedious, one in which our main objective would be to travel from our lodging near the chimpanzee forest down to the southern end of Queen Elizabeth National Park. Originally, I’d planned an itinerary that would have had us stop in the middle of the park and then enjoy a day of game driving. But an opportunity arose to be useful to Women’s Empowerment (WE) International — the San Diego-based microlending organization we’ve admired since its inception — so we jumped at it and cancelled the park day. We would only stop at the southern end to break up the long journey to Nyaka village and its grannies who were potential recipients of WE’s micro-loan funds.

The Land Cruiser carried us down from the mountains and southward, taking us across the equator (photo op!) a bit after 11. Lunch was at the tent camp adjoining a large channel between two lakes where we’d originally planned to stay. It looked lovely, and it would have been thrilling to watch the hippos come into the camp for their nightly grazing session (reportedly they don’t bother humans who don’t threaten them.) But we pushed on, and it was then that we began spotting the elephants, antelopes, cape buffalo, baboons, and monkeys.

Before making the final approach to the simple camp where we were staying, Robert surprised us by announcing we’d make a quick sweep of one area of the national park to look for lions lounging in fig trees –the most sought-after tourist attraction in this area. It was a long shot; Robert said he’d spent days on some previous trips looking for them with no success.

All lions can climb trees, he pointed out. But what makes the Ishasha area of the national park famous for its tree-climbing lions is that a few huge fig trees are scattered (widely) amidst the legions of acacia. And, unlike the short acacias, the mature fig trees grow stout horizontal branches that make wonderful resting places for lions. High off the ground, they’re well-positioned to catch a cool breeze, escape attack from the tsetse flies that infest this area, and spot the most likely direction in which dinner might lie, come the evening hunting session.

Robert had popped up the top of the Land Cruiser, and Steve and I stood up, finding it not unlike jogging through the savannah — without having to exert any more effort than that required to avoid being jounced out. We’d driven for maybe 20 minutes, and I had just muttered to Steve that I didn’t see ANY fig trees, when he retorted, “There’s one!” The path took us around a bend and up to the tree — which was occupied by three beautiful lions.

I’m sorry, but if there’s anything cuter than drowsy giant cats draped over fig branches, I don’t know what. Robert told us these were a mom and her two youngsters, male and female. They all were dozing, loose-limbed and looking so comfy I imagined if we could just get a bit closer, we’d hear the purring (assuming that lions purr.) we spent a long time drinking in the sight, while Robert shared some lion lore, asserting, for example, that they’ll never attack, as long as you’re staring in the eyes. (Conversely, you NEVER want to run.)

Finally, we pulled away, and Robert drove us to the banks of the Ishasa River, where on the far bank, the Democratic Republic of the Congo looked close enough to be hittable by someone with a good arm and a pebble. Hippos often play on these banks, but all we could see were two hippo head tops and four pairs of ears that emerged and then re-submerged in the distance.

So we pushed on to our rest stop for the night, a homely but well-tended collection of tents and “chalets” overlooking another nearby river, the Ntungwe. The only guests, we sat in an elevated pavilion, drinking in the splendid countryside and, after sunset, dining on excellent roast goat, assorted vegetables, rice, and the most delicious banana dessert I’ve ever tasted.

I slept well, though I had my earplugs in. I never heard the chomping noises or the raucous cries of young men. I only heard about them from the plump young American property manager. A recent international studies graduate, she recently took this gig after completing a 6-month stint with a Kampala-based NGO. She thought the chomping was a hippo, and commented, “It sounded close!” I was just as happy to have missed it. I prefer for my encounters with wild animals to be during the day — and for the wild animals to be exclusively non-human.

 

 

Wild chimpanzees

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I could tell you that my favorite moment yesterday was watching Steve, his head lathered up in the shower of our guest cottage, singing (to the tune from South Pacific), “I’m gonna wash that chimp pee outta my hair, I’m gonna wash that chimp pee outta my hair, I’m gonna wash that chimp pee outta my hair, and send it down the drain!” But I’d be lying. It was only one highlight of many.

I understand that chimpanzees live in 6 of Uganda’s 10 national parks, but the one where Steve got his head peed on was Kibale. It boasts having one of the densest concentrations of primates in the world — not only chimps but a dozen or so other species. Moreover, our chimp-tracking guide, Bosco, made the case that Kibale provides the best opportunity in the world to interact with wild chimps. Some 1450 individuals (living in 13 areas) were counted in the last census three and a half years ago. One of the groups, containing about 120 animals, has been habituated to humans for years. As a result, 90% of the time, chimp-trackers wind up seeing what they came for.

We arrived at the park headquarters around 8. I was already in an exultant mood, thrilled to be in my first true African rainforest. It wasn’t at all steamy and jungly. It had rained in the night, and a cool mist continued to drizzle down. Along with a dozen or so other tourists, we assembled for a briefing by Bosco. Among other safety tips, he warned us not to make noises imitating the chimps. We might inadvertently make the wrong call, with negative consequences

One factor working against us was the rain, he said. Like people, chimps prefer not to sit on wet ground. But we would try our best to get as close as possible. We split into three smaller groups, and i felt happy to be in the one led by Bosco, who exuded a calm confidence.

Then we were off! We drove on little more than trails, and Bosco explained that chimp-tracking begins by trying to pinpoint where they’ve been heard. Chimpanzees are a raucous crew, and their vocalizations carry far. We stopped at one place where Bosco gathered information, then we pushed on, into an area of the rainforest where the trees at the top of the canopy reached at least 80-100 feet tall. In a clearing, we all got out, and the vehicles disappeared, taking their diesel clatter with them. In the ensuing relative silence, we listened to the insect chatter and bird calls.

And then — a hooting. Bosco motioned us down the road. He pointed to a dark shape, high overhead. It took a minute or two, but gradually, the simian form emerged. Branches shook, an arm emerged. And then more hooting, unmistakable, hair-raising. Screams, more hoots, movement.

Of all the things we saw over the course of the next two hours, nothing surprised me more than the way chimpanzees sound in the forest. The screams are the wild, deranged noises only emitted by insane humans, but there are so many other noises: hoots and whoops and booming grunts that I would have thought required electronics to achieve such amplification. The cacophony sends a clear message: these guys live near the top of the food chain. (Their only predators are the park’s leopards and an occasional lucky eagle.)

When the chimps moved, we moved, bushwacking through the undergrowth and pausing periodically to observe one thing or another overhead. We watched the apes feeding on berries, then saw a female breaking off branches, high above, to swiftly make her day nest. Bosco explained that each chimp makes a night nest too, typically making a new set of both every day (or else relining an pre-existing one.) A few minutes later, he made a comment about a chimp’s erection. “You can see his erection?” I exclaimed, incredulous. (I couldn’t see the whole damned animal, let alone his diminutive sexual member.)

But most of the fellows overhead had erections, according to Bosco, who also pointed out the reason: a female whose swollen volva so obviously invited attention that even I could see it, 200 feet away. One set of the tourists were able to watch this gal and one of the males copulate. But I missed that (easy enough; the whole interaction lasting only about 6 seconds). If short, sex for the chimpanzee ladies is frequent. They can mate up to 20 times a day. Because of the possibility of getting lucky, the males were lingering up in the trees, Bosco told us. We settled in to try and wait them out, and it was during this interval that the dousings with chimp pee occurred.

Finallly the troupe clambered down, some of the males no more than 20 feet away. We hustled after them, hoping they would finally stop to chill out on the ground, ignoring us (as apparently they commonly do around tourists.) This never happened, though, and Bosco finally announced that we needed to head back to our vehicles. Rather than feeling disappointed, I was grateful to have come as close and see as much as we had.

It was only noon. We drove to a lodge for lunch, then continued on to 3-plus hour guided hike around a swamp that’s part of an inspiring community-development project. Steve and I loved it, and ordinarily I’d be happy to report the details in depth.

But the chimp-tracking was one of the most exciting natural adventures I’ve ever head, and I’ve run on about it too much already. I can’t imagine how the gorilla-tracking will compare. But that’s 2 and a half days away. Between now and then Steve and I have another mission that promises to be both challenging and fascinating, in other ways.

 

 

 

On the road, Ugandan-style

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I’m writing this as we jounce along over badly gouged dirt roads on our way from Kibale to Queen Elizabeth NP. It’s the third morning we’ve awakened in Uganda, and I found myself wondering: why are we here? And: why aren’t more Americans?

I think the answer to the second question is that all that most Americans know about this place, if they know anything (if they saw The Last King of Scotland or are old enough to have lived at the time of the history it recounted) is that the country endured a long spell of lunatic violence under Idi Amin, and later, devastating civil war. Also, “We have no writers!” as our driver/guide Robert pointed out yesterday over lunch. Meaning, I took it, no white foreign Afropromoters like Isaak DInesen or Beryl Markham or Ernest Hemingway to propel Uganda into the consciousness of farflung tourists.

Why Steve and I are here nonetheless is a mixed bag of reasons. We flew here using frequent flier miles, and American’s partner, British Airways, serves Entebbe. We know people who’ve been to Rwanda in recent years, and their reports made me want to go there. Uganda borders it, and as I began reading about the region, the enthusiasm expressed by recent travelers here impressed me. Now that we’ve begun to explore it, I understand why Uganda had been called the pearl of Africa. This place is a hidden gem, a lustrous surpprise, something you feel thrilled and grateful to discover.

It’s physically breathtaking, maybe the most beautiful landscape I’ve seen anywhere: rolling hills and muscular mountains, crater lakes and deep valleys, and everything so green, a hundred shades of it. Unlike the Omo Valley in Ethiopia, this land is gaudily, opulently fertile, In the last two days, we’ve passed plantations growing a half dozen varieties of bananas, but also tea and coffee, as well as farmers growing pineapple, avocados, papaya, sorghum, watermelon, corn, mangos, beans, tobacco, tomatoes, cucumbers, vanilla, melons, and more, Robert says all the beef, chicken, fish, pork, rice, flour, oil (sunflower and corn), and virtually everything else we’ve been eating or will eat during our stay here was grown in this country the size of Oregon. Mixed in with the agricultural abundance, as if the land was so potently fecund it simply couldn’t control itself, are brilliant tropical flowers that attract jewel-like butterflies and more than a thousand (!) species of tropical birds.

We drank in all these sites on the long drive Wednesday from Entebbe to the Chimpanzee Forest Guesthouse, along with the endlessly diverting pageantry of life along African roads: farmers carrying produce to tiny village markets, pilgrims converging on a religious festival, mini-buses bursting with passengers and dodging the motorscooters that serve as the taxis for urban areas. (We assumed their name — “boda-bodas” — came from the sound they make, but Robert says it sprang from their origin in Kenya, where they travel from border-to-border.) We didn’t notice any traditional billboards, but Robert pointed out that Ugandans use a cheaper alternative. Various companies pay home- and shop-owners to paint their residences with brilliant colors and announcements about their products. “Airtel,” they shriek, or “Sadolin,” and it doesn’t mean you can buy Airtel minutes or Sadolin paint there. They’re just adspace, rented for a certain period of time (and then covered over with a fresh, noncommercial coating as part of the arrangement.)

Kibble

By mid-afternoon, we were deep into the country, in a more heavily forested region. At one point, Robert slowed the Land Cruiser, and it took me a beat or two to realize that the dark forms next to the side of the road were a troupe of wild olive baboons. They barely blinked as we photographed them, just a few feet away.

About the Chimpanzee Forest Guesthouse, where we stayed for two nights, let me only say that it was wonderful, with excellent food, attentive service (we were the only guests the second night), lovely gardens, and beautiful views in every direction. About that chimpanzee forest… well, that deserves a post of its own.

An auspicious beginning

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Of our five trips to Africa, none has begun as well as this one.

The flight was on time, and during the final descent, I devoured the sight of the landscape as it emerged in the growing light of dawn. Green, very green, with low hills but few visible roads. This was my first look at equatorial Africa, and it excited me as much as John Wesley Powell must have been felt at his maiden encounter with the Colorado river.

A slight glitch in our pick-up from the airport was recitified quickly, and within minutes we were riding to our guesthouse. I had braced myself to inhale the stew of jungle funk and burning garbage I’ve grown to associate with the developing world. But instead, the morning smelled fresh. In the course of the short ride, I was struck repeatedly by what was missing: garbage, graffiti, any obvious signs of poverty. The town looks rural. Few streets are paved, and even those that are sealed are dusted with the brick-red earth. Scattered pedestrians and an occasional cow strolled down wide byways lined with huge trees and bushes bending with the weight of their flowers. From time to time, we glimpsed verdant, gentle hills and expanses of Lake Victoria, the largest body of fresh water in Africa.

I fell instantly in love with the guesthouse, a large compound composed of cottages and service facilities built around a beautiful central garden. Because it was so early, our room wasn’t quite ready, but we consumed delicious papaya, pineapple, and tiny bananas, then watched the giant resident Rottweiler (Simba) romping with his German master.

Before long, though, we had settled into our spotless cottage and set off to explore the town on foot. The neighborhood ATM spat out 500,000 Ugandan shillings (less than $200) and a jaunty guy in a mobile phone stall put both our cell phones in service and stocked them with 60 minutes for about $17. In the hours that followed, I felt surges of gratitude that we hadn’t raced off to Kampala, Uganda’s reportedly charmless nearby capital, noted for its noisy, often traffic-gridlocked streets. Our map was pathetic, so we got lost, but found our way to an outdoor cafe where we drank passionflower smoothies and ate a bacon and avocado salad, a cheese/tomato sandwich, and good fries. We walked and didn’t glimpse a single other white person. The byways weren’t exactly thronged with Ugandans either, but everyone we chatted with was gracious and welcoming (and spoke English! — long ago the place used to be a British “protectorate.”)

Eventually we found our way to the 5 star (almost deserted) Imperial Hotel overlooking the almost-mystical lake (source of the Nile?), and we wandered through Entebbe’s more-thn-100-year-old botanical garden, a splendid primeval preserve. After rambling for more than six hours, we were too beat to tackle the local wildlife center; the end of the afternoon evaporated in a cloud of showers, email, and cocktails.

 

Dinner was served at 6:30 on tables out in the garden, and it was wonderful: pumpkin soup and more flavorful avocados, grilled beef and fish fresh from the lake, tasty rice and chapattis and delicate green beans, capped off with fruit crumble still warm from the oven. At another long table, a group of student and teacher midwives from British Columbia celebrated in advance of setting off the next day for six weeks of work and study. We’d chatted briefly earlier in the day with their leader, a decisive looking woman who was here in Uganda for her tenth visit. “This is the best guesthouse in the country!” she’d declared, more than once. That’s easy to believe. Tomorrow Steve and I will depart for Kibale National Park to track chimpanzees and hike in a swamp. But having at least sampled Entebbe, I wish everyone’s first taste of Africa started out as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The De Wyze Wolfe seal of approval

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Because we have long layovers in London and Boston (on the way back), we’re trying something new: we bought a 30-day Admiral’s Club membership from American Airlines. Already we approve. In San Diego, we got to wait for our flight in a soothing room with comfy chairs, drinking, snacking, and using the wifi (all free.) Here at Heathrow, the AA lounge is vast, with an impressive open bar, many food choices, wifi, showers, and more.

What I like best, however, are the lounge chairs, in which I hope to nap. Our flight to Uganda departs in 4.25 hours, but I’ll be content camping out here for a long as possible.

 

 

On our way!

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Steve says we STILL have too much stuff, but I disagree. Two carry-on rolling bags, two small backpacks and one little duffel that we checked (and only because we really, really wanted to take our trekking poles). I think that’s respectable for four-plus weeks in Africa!

Our flight to Entebbe (Uganda) via London should take off in one hour.

 

The most unlikely festival

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Every year I go, I can’t believe the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books still exists. This last weekend was the 18th time it has unfolded and the 9th consecutive one I’ve attended. Since it began, bookstores have died off en masse. The Times itself is in bankruptcy, its future in doubt. And yet the festival not only took place this year as it has before, but our experience was as pleasurable as ever.

The reason I missed the first 9 years is that every year back then when I studied the upcoming schedule, none of the events seemed irresistible enough to justify the long drive up and the cost of a hotel room. I finally took my friend Leslie’s word on faith (that I would like it). Once there, I got it — got the fact that the main point (for me, at least) is the opportunity to spend some time with a whole bunch of ideas that people have recently put into book form. Some of the events showcase a single writer, often in the form of an onstage interview. This year the roster of big names included Carol Burnett, Debbie Reynolds, Demetri Martin, Margaret Atwood, Orson Scott Card, Anna Quindlen. A larger number of the events are panel discussions (which the festival organizers have begun calling “conversations.”)

Over our two days on the USC campus, Steve and I spent time in 8 events. We judged three to be stupendous: the hour we spent listening to sci-fi master Orson Scott Card, the crackling panel focusing on political cartoons, and the knot-tying (and teaching) performance by Philippe Petit, the tightrope artist who commanded global attention 40 years ago when he danced on a wire at the top of the World Trade Center towers. We liked two other panels where the talk ranged from Hollywood mogul Lew Wasserman to the early years of Saturday Night Live and Joseph Papp’s Public Theater to the role of storytelling in human life to a scientific defense of procrastination. Watching celebrity chef Susan Feniger whip up Asian millet puffs on the outdoor cooking stage (and then toss them out, as one might lob nutrition pellets at the bears in the zoo) was fun too. To the panel of novelists gathered under the dubious title “The Ties that Bind” and the one discussing “Landscapes Real and Imagined,” our reaction was lukewarm — but even those included a few valuable nuggets.

Political cartooning in the spotlight.
At 63, Petit has more vitality (and personality) than most guys half his age.

Chef Feniger is hardly a shrinking violet either.
The whole thing feels like it lives up to the promise of offering something for everyone. In addition to what we did, there are dozens upon dozens of vendors (selling books and a whole lot more), children’s activities, music, and even more films. Almost all of it’s free (though you can assure getting seating by going online and paying $1 per activity.)
Will the book festival make it to the 20-year mark (two years from now)? Will it even be held again next year? Who knows. But if it is, consider making the trip before it vanishes like some glorious Southern California mirage.
Something new this year was the party hosted by The Last Bookstore in downtown LA, which offers both used and new books -- both for sale and incorporated into art works.

 

Tunnel of books at the Last Bookstore party.

 

Several readings were going on when we dropped in.