An article I wrote about the “Obama effect” on travel has just been published in the May edition of Perceptive Travel. Please go check it out and let me know what you think. And while you’re there, take a look at the other articles in this month’s edition as well as previous editions. If, like me, you’ve grown tired of travel magazines and websites that are nothing more than Top 10 lists and service articles, you’ll want to bookmark Perceptive Travel as it features the kind of stories that just don’t make it to print anymore in our short-attention-span society.

P.S. Thanks to my sister-in-law Paulina, who spent last summer in Uganda and helped me out with photos for the article.

1. Take Trains…And Not Just in Europe

I love trains. I love the hustle and bustle of rail stations. I love the constantly changing arrivals and departures board that makes it seem you could go anywhere. I love the way that trains force you to slow down, sit back, and enjoy the scenery. So whenever we found a train, we opted to take it, even if that sometimes met hanging around a town a day or two longer than we had planned in order to align our schedule with the train schedule. And in exchange for going the old fashioned way, for taking the time to take a train, we were rewarded with authentic travel experiences that stuck with us far more than any flight ever has. On a train from Mbeya, Tanzania to Dar Es Salaam, we were treated to an impromptu safari as the tracks traversed Selous Game Reserve, allowing us to spot zebras, giraffes, wildebeest and more from our bunks. And as we made our way from Hanoi to Hoi An, we made fast friends with the family sharing our cabin, learning from them all the places we had to go, gaining insight into local life, and tasting all kinds of food we’d never seen before but that they’d brought with them and insisted on sharing. This happened over and over, on every train trip we took. And that’s why I like trains. It’s slow travel. Travel that gives you a more intimate look at a place and its people. Travel that is as much about the journey as the destination.

2. You Can Go On Safari on a Budget

Safaris have a reputation for being expensive, primarily because the industry has somehow tricked us into thinking that the only way to go on safari is on a fully catered operation. But that’s not true. It doesn’t have to be expensive, and you can do it on your own. In fact, almost all the parks in southern Africa–from South Africa’s Kruger to Namibia’s Etosha–allow for self-catered safaris. Rent your own car, pack your own tent, and bring your own food (or eat in the very nice park restaurants) and a safari can in fact be quite inexpensive. And don’t even begin to worry whether you’ll be able to spot any animals without a guide. From our tiny little Kia (not even a 4WD), we spotted lions, cheetahs, rhinos, elephants (they’re pretty hard to miss!), giraffes, hyenas, and all sorts of other amazing creatures. Heck, more than once, we even had the guided safaris pulling up to where our lone car was trying to figure out just what we had found. I resisted requesting a finder’s fee And if you’ve always wanted to do an Okavango Delta safari, the most notoriously expensive of all African safaris, don’t fret, that too can be arranged. Just get yourself to the village of Seronga, in the far northwest corner of Botswana (accessible by rental car from Namibia), and hook up with the Okavango Polers Trust, a co-op of local mokoro polers who will guide you on an overnight or multi-day delta safari at backpacker prices.

3.Skip the Bus and the Boat and Hike into Torres del Paine

Most information about hiking Torres del Paine will tell you that there are two options for getting to a starting point at Torres del Paine: you can take the bus to the lodge at the end of the W closest to the Torres, or you can take the boat to Paine Grande. There is, in fact, a third option, and this is the one you should take: get dropped off at the Administration Building and hike the 17 km to Paine Grande. Though this may sound a bit crazy, considering you’re going to already be hiking 80 km to complete the W (and much more if you plan to do the full loop), it is the absolute best introduction to the park. The hike is relatively flat, and the views are stunning. Spread out in front of you is the entirety of the park, allowing you to take in the awesome grandeur of the place that you will soon mainly be seeing in macro. Though there are splendid views throughout the park and the hike, only on the 17 km hike in will you get the panorama, and that alone makes the walk worth it. Plus, being relatively flat, it’s a good warm up for the hiking to come.

And to keep the game going, I’m supposed to tag five fellow travel bloggers. So you’re it: Sean & Dawn at Wandering Why, Craig at The Wide Wide World, Cindi at Blowfish Vodka (formerly Bubbles & Bugs), Kimberly & Elizabeth at Go Green Travel Green, and Steve at Asian Ramblings (who’s finally back!).

In the remaining twilight, we survey our surroundings. We don’t see people. We don’t see houses. No one is going to find us if we stay here. We have three choices. We can go south, toward the end of the island, but we’re practically there already, and we’re not convinced we’ll find much life that way. We can go east, further inland, but we’re afraid that we might get lost and just wander aimlessly if we do that. Plus there are a few too many poisonous snakes on the island for much shoeless wandering. Our final option, and the one we choose, is to go north. That’s the direction of our lodge, and so we know that there is life that way. Plus by staying along the shoreline, we’ll at least have a guideline, a way to know that we’re continuously moving in the right direction. And so we pull ourselves up from the rocks and start moving before darkness completely overtakes us. It’s no walk on the beach but is instead a clamber up and over boulder after boulder. We each take a paddle and use it like a blind person uses a walking stick, poking it out in front of us and feeling our way forward.

Jeff falls first, slipping into a crevasse between rocks. There is no light anymore (not even moonlight), so we can only make out the vaguest outlines of shapes. Each step is a guess. Jeff guesses wrong. I scramble to his side, wondering what the heck I am supposed to do. What if he broke something? I certainly can’t carry him. I’d have to leave him. Try to find help on my own. Luckily it doesn’t come to that. Jeff gets up, scratched and bleeding but okay, and we continue on.

I fall next, stepping on a rock that rolls and then flips over onto my leg when I fall. I’m pinned down, and I’m not sure the state of my leg under the rock. Jeff hurries back and removes the rock. I take stock of my state. Like Jeff, I’m just bloody and bruised. We’re lucky. But we’re beyond frustrated. Our progress is so slow, and at this rate, one of us will end up good and hurt. It doesn’t seem there’s anything we can do but keep pressing on through the darkness that makes it nearly impossible for me to even see Jeff directly ahead of me.

But then, my brain unfogs for a minute. I remember that I saved the daypack. I grab it from Jeff and feel my way through it.

Though one Nalgene bottle floated away when our boat sank, there is still one in our backpack, and if I remember correctly it’s the one I want. Once upon a time Jeff bought a Nalgene lid that with a press of a button illuminates a light and turns your Nalgene into a lantern. I made fun of him for it then. But now, I swear to take it all back if only the light will still turn on after its long dip in Lake Malawi.

I find the bottle. I press the button. For a moment, nothing happens. But then it flickers on. It works! The glow it casts is small, but it’s enough. We can see where we’re stepping. Slowly, slowly, we continue on, our feet cut up, our bodies exhausted. We stumble where we shouldn’t, our coordination not up to par.

I also remember that my whistle, the one I take with me when hiking, is attached to the front of my backpack. I grab it and begin blowing, hoping that someone will hear it and come investigate. At one point, I think I see a light, and I start yelling like crazy. No one responds. Turns out it’s just a glowing plant. I keep whistling, but no help comes.

We walk for an hour. At least. It feels like forever. And then finally we see a flicker of light ahead, which we soon realize is a fire. We move with renewed energy. The boulders give way to beach. We hurry through the sand to the fire, around which a group of men is gathered. When we approach, they all stare, jaws unhinged. In front of them stand two white people, soaking wet, dripping blood, and carrying paddles though there’s no boat in sight.

Jeff takes charge, asking if anyone speaks English. No on answers. He repeats the question. No answer. We don’t have another language to fall back on, so we just speak, slowly, clearly, trying to explain our situation. Blank stares are what we get in return. We gesture toward their boats, all still lined up on the beach. “Fishing tonight?” we ask, casting out imaginary lines. Every other night we’ve seen the lights of boats blinking from the lake. “Can you take us?” we ask. “Motor us back to our lodge. We’ll pay,” we say. Finally, a man steps forward. In broken English he says, “No fishing tonight. Lake too rough.” We should have known.

On to plan B. “Does anyone have a phone?” we ask, pantomiming calling someone. They exchange glances. Then one of the men runs off, returning shortly with another man, who speaks better English and has a phone. He hands it to us. We stare at it. Theoretically it should be of help, but we don’t have any numbers. Who are we going to call? We ask if anyone knows the number to Mango Drift. Silence is the response.

I am completely exhausted at this point, my body wrecked. I am also being stared at as if I am an alien, as if I just shot down from a hovering spacecraft. I collapse into the sand. I sob. I am overwhelmed, uncertain how we’re going to make it back, but mainly I’m overwhelmed by the realization that we’re okay, that that we’re going to be okay.

The people are trying their best to help us, but they don’t know much more than we do. “You should just stay here tonight,” they suggest, gesturing toward my cuts, still dripping blood. “You’re tired. You can sleep here with us, and then we’ll take you back in the morning.” I thank them. I try to smile. They are warmhearted and generous. But we can’t stay here. We have to get back. They’re expecting us back. They expected us long before the sun set.

We return to the phone. There has to be someone we can call who can help us. “The police,” I suggest. “Ask them to call the police.” Jeff hands the phone back to the owner and asks him to call the police for us. He dials.  We wait. He hangs up. “No one answered,” he says.

Shit. Now who? I rack my brain. “Call the hospital,” I suggest. There’s a British-run hospital on the island, and we had met some of the workers earlier in the week. “They speak English,” I say to Jeff, relaying my chain of thought, “and can call the lodge.”  The man with the phone dials the hospital. Again the phone rings and rings, but no one answers.

There’s no one else we can call at this point. We stare at each other, blank, not knowing what to do.  Finally, we ask if they know where the hospital is. In chorus, they shake their heads yes, and point in a general direction. “Will you lead us there?” we ask, and again receive a chorus of nods. It’s not close, a couple of kilometers, but closer than the lodge. We also don’t have shoes. It’s going to be a long, painful journey. But at this point, we don’t see what choice we have. We start walking.

But we only make it about 200 meters before our guide stops and enters a house. He returns, then gestures for us to follow him in. I have no idea what’s going on. I hope he’s not trying to get us to stay there for the night. We can’t.

Jeff and I look around at the house–a very nice one for the island with couch and TV,  a dining table, separate bedrooms–and try to figure out what’s going on. Then a man, nicely dressed and speaking excellent English, addresses us. He’s the mayor of Likoma Island. We’re in the mayor’s house. I feel like Dorothy when she finally makes it to see the wizard. I only hope that there’s no curtain.

He immediately tells Jeff that he knows Mango Drift, that he goes there often for a beer, and that he’ll call them as soon as the man who was leading us returns with a card for his phone. It’s low on money. Then he begs me to have a seat. I decline. I’m still wet, blood’s dripping from my elbow. I don’t want to sully his furniture. He insists until finally I relent. Then he offers me dinner, asks us to eat with him and his wife. I look at the steaming bowl of cassava and know that there’s no way I can stomach it right now. I decline. When I agree to eat a banana and have some tea, he accepts this. He asks what happened, listens to our story, tells us that we are lucky, so, so lucky, that so many people have died on the lake when the weather suddenly turned.

Then the man is back, and suddenly Jeff is on the phone with Josh and Becky, the managers at Mango Drift. In ten minutes, Josh is at the door, laden down with blankets, chocolates, cookies. He keeps saying how happy he is to see us. How they’d kept watching and watching the water waiting for us to return. How when the sun set and we weren’t back they called to the lodge on Chizimulu to see if perhaps, if hopefully, we’d decided to stay there for the night. How they’d called everyone they knew on the island, asking if they’d seen a kayak, if they’d seen two white people. How they were sending out the rescue crew just as we called. We express relief that we caught them before they pulled out the big guns, say how happy we are to see them too.This adventure gone wrong, oh so wrong, is over.

I snuggle close to Jeff in the car as we ride back to the lodge. My mind keeps replaying the events of that afternoon. But already the day has become grainy. Already it’s become unreal. Already it’s become nothing but a good story.

Thank heavens.

On our third day on Likoma Island–a place we wrote about earlier in regards to its warm, friendly people–the sun rises bright and clear, and after a big breakfast at Mango Drift, the backpacker lodge where we are staying, we push one of the lodge’s kayaks through the sand and into the warm, deep waters of Lake Malawi. Our destination is the island of Chizimulu, 13 kilometers away. According to the lodge managers, no other guests have made the trip during the few months they’ve been there, but they see no reason why we can’t.

The trip starts out as nearly all of our kayaking trips start. Paddle left, paddle right. Bicker, bicker. Paddle left, paddle right. Bicker, bicker. I don’t like taking orders, and when you’re the person in the front of the kayak, as I always am when I’m with Jeff, that’s what you have to do. I eventually get over it, and we find a rhythm and have a good time.

But about 20 minutes into this trip, I pull my oar into the boat and turn to Jeff. I’m feeling uncertain about continuing on. Though we still have about 2 hours of paddling left in front of us, I’m already feeling like we’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s just us and a lot of water. It’s a little bit scary. And I’m starting to think that maybe we ought to have life jackets, a thought I share with Jeff. He reminds me that this is Africa, that life jackets aren’t standard equipment, that people who can’t even swim go out in boats every day without life jackets, but he also offers to turn around, either for good or to inquire about life jackets. I turn down his offer. I’m not a quitter. And if we go back, I’ll probably end up staying. Paddling 13 kilometers across Lake Malawi is freaking hard.

We forge on. The sun beats down, and we roll gently with the bobbing of the lake, which at 26,900 square kilometers might as well be the ocean. I paddle 100 strokes and then I break. There’s no hurry, and after about two hours of paddling, we land on the shores of Chizimulu. A  coalition of cute kids greets us, and then they lead us to the island’s only tourist lodge, where we grab lunch, snorkel, and relax.

Around 2:30 p.m., we’re back in our boat. The African sun sets at 6 p.m.. It took us two hours to get across. To be safe, we’re giving ourselves an extra hour and a half to get back. More than enough time, we think.

But anyone who’s spent any time in nature knows that it’s not always predictable, not always willing to adhere to your time schedule. When we get outside of the sheltered area near the island, we find the water to be a bit choppier than it was on our way in. By the time we we get a few kilometers out, when we’re afloat in the no-man’s land between the islands, where going back or continuing forward will take approximately the same amount of time and effort., things get flat out rough. The wind picks up. Whitecaps surround us. It really is as if we’re in the ocean. In a kayak that’s meant for tranquil lake waters.

We know from rafting through the Grand Canyon in an inflatable kayak that you’re most likely to flip when a wave hits you on the side, so we turn the kayak ever so slightly so as to head directly into the waves while still aiming for our lodge, a landmark we can’t see yet but know thanks to the cell tower behind it.In order to keep the boat oriented properly, Jeff must paddle only on the left side, a balance to the wind. Soon, I too must join him. Paddling properly is futile. We’re not kayaking anymore, we’re fighting.

We can’t take a break. We just paddle, ignoring the burning muscles. We paddle and paddle and paddle. I scream with each stroke, angrily yelling at the wind and the water. Jeff, usually the optimist, starts talking about how we’re not getting anywhere, that we’ll never make it. I yell at him too. I’m the pessimist, not him. That’s my job, not his. And in this situation, I need positive. I am celebrating every meter, every missed wave.

Unfortunately, for each missed wave, there’s a wave that gets us. I’m soaking wet. There’s a few inches of lake water in the bottom of the boat. At one point, I try to bail, but it’s futile. I have no bucket; with a snorkeling mask, I can toss out a cup or so, but without me helping to hold the line, more water comes in than I can get out. There’s nothing to do but keep on paddling. The sun certainly isn’t holding still; it’s continuing its westward arc, and we’re now racing it.

Eventually, we find ourselves about 1 km from shore. We can make out the lodge, swear that we can even see a few people. It looks like we’re going to win this fight, this race.

Ha, nature responds. It’s not giving up so easily. Instead it ups its game. The wind comes harder. The waves break more frequently. With land in sight, we give up the battle to land straight up on the beach at our lodge, and aim just to get to land, period. I’ll drag the kayak back if I have to. We have to focus our energy.

The wind pushes us harder and faster than we’d imagined. In no time at all, we’ve been pushed nearly the entire 8 kilometer length of the island. Unfortunately, at the same time, we’re not a whole lot closer to land. Time after time, we’ve spotted a great landing area, pushed with all our might, and then watched as we were swept right past it. We’re going nowhere, and I don’t understand why.

But Jeff’s got it figured out. Over the wind he calls to me to turn around. Though there’s only a few inches of water around my feet, in the back of the boat, behind Jeff, the water has nearly filled the boat. We’re too heavy to go anywhere. We must bail. It’s the only way we have a chance. And so we both drop our paddles and furiously throw water overboard. The lake returns the favor by throwing it right back in. We’re in a losing battle.

And at that moment, for the first time, we both realize that we’ll never make it to shore in the boat. Jeff looks at me and says “What should we do?”. I, with a calmness that surprises me, say “Well, I guess we better swim.”

With that, we roll out of the boat and into the lake. I again wish we had life jackets. This is fresh water; we’re not buoyant. And the wind and waves mean the water is regularly going over our heads. Plus the sun, well it’s about to touch the lake. In a matter of minutes, it will be gone.

I grab the small daypack we took with us and try to hold it over my head. I lunge for one of my flip-flops, as the other along with a water bottle, floats away. I take a quick survey of the sun’s position. Not good.

I kick hard to stay above water. Jeff meanwhile dives under.

“What are you doing? I yell to him.

“I’m trying to right the kayak,” he yells. I think we both thought we’d slide out, flip the boat over, and then hold on to it and kick into shore, but the kayak has other ideas. It’s gone Titanic. The front points straight up, the back straight toward the bottom of the lake.

“Screw the boat,” I yell. “There’s too much water. You’ll never get it up.”

He agrees. But then goes underwater again.

“What are you doing?” I yell again.

“I lost my sunglasses,” he replies.

“Screw your sunglasses,” I answer, thinking that he’s lost his mind. It’s nearly dark now, and we’re still a few hundred meters from shore. We have to start swimming. And most importantly, we have to stay together. If we’re still in the water when it gets dark, we’ll never find each other if we’re separated. Staying together is number one on the importance list. Getting to shore is number two. Luckily, while evacuating the boat, I had the good sense to hold tight to the paddles, the only slightly buoyant items we have, and so I thrust the a kayak paddle toward Jeff. He grabs ahold of one end, I cling to the other, and together we start kicking.

Fortunately, we’re both good swimmers. But still we struggle. It’s not easy.

Fortunately, we also both keep our heads. Our boat is gone. We’re in an angry lake that is hundreds of meters deep right up until you reach shore. We’re on the cusp of darkness. But we know what we have to do: swim. We know that’s the only thing there is to do. We know it’s the one thing we can’t stop doing. We’re focused.

My life doesn’t flash before my eyes; I think only of how it would kill my mom if I drowned here in Lake Malawai. I’m not brave; I’m just determined. In fact, I say more than once to Jeff, “I’m scared,” but always calmly, detached, as a statement of fact not emotion. Jeff has left his pessimism behind with the boat and is only reassuring: “We’re almost there. We’ve made it one rock (referencing a peninsula we could still see further down). We’ve made it two rocks.”

And then, after what seems like the longest swim of my life, there’s solid ground under our feet. We pull ourselves up onto the big boulders lining the shore and take big gasping breaths. Our kayak is gone. And with it, the light. Darkness has come to Likoma Island. And though we’ve made it on to land, we’re nowhere near any signs of life. The nightmarish adventure isn’t over yet. We still have to make our way back to the lodge.

(To be Continued…)

1. Hiking Torres del Paine

Of all the landscapes we saw on our trip, I think the mountains of Torres del Paine were the most majestic. The sheer beauty of this place was breathtaking for each and every moment of the four days we spent hiking the W.

2. Traveling the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu

Machu Picchu itself is mindboggling and not just because of the altitude. The amazing architecture and well-preserved state of this city in the sky wowed us. But what made seeing it really special was the intense three days of hiking through the Andes that we had to do to reach it. We also got to enjoy the company of my brother Gregory on this part of the adventure.

3. Cruising the Galapagos

This was eight days of pure bliss. From swimming with sea lions, sharks, and penguins, to laughing at the antics of blue-footed boobies, to marveling at the beauty of the natural landscape, to watching the stars rise from the deck chairs of our catamaran, our experience in the Galapagos was top-notch. It was far and away the most budget blowing of our adventures, but it was worth every single penny.

4. Living it Up in Buenos Aires

An apartment in a nice neighborhood, big steak dinners, ice cream every day (at least once), and a visit from my parents…our stay in Buenos Aires was like a vacation within a vacation. The city is vibrant and easy to get around with great architecture and atmosphere and tons to do.

5. Going on Safari in southern Africa

We saw our first lion in Kruger,  got up close and personal with rhinos in Hluhluwe Imfolozi, encountered more elephants than we could count in Addo, found a few new species at Mountain Zebra, and became king of cheetah spotting in Etosha. We did a lot of safari-ing and never once got tired of it. In fact, I’m ready to go again.

6. Seeing the Surreal Landscapes of Namibia

Namibia might not have many inhabitants but they sure do have impressive landscapes. At Fish River Canyon, in the Quiver Tree Forest, atop the red dunes of Sossusvlei, in the forests of Naukluft, or along the Caprivi Strip, we were pretty much constantly snapping photos.

7. Meeting the Lovely People of Likoma Island

Until we ended up there, Likoma Island was never even on our radar. Malawi was supposed to be more of a pitstop on our way up east Africa, but it turned into one of our favorite spots. There’s not a lot to do on Likoma Island besides lounge on the beach and enjoy the turquoise waters of Lake Malawi, but the people are among the most friendly, welcoming, and fun loving that we met on our journey. I think we wore a constant smile the entire week we were there.

8. Trekking with Uganda’s Mountain Gorillas

Bwindi Impenetrable Forest is not a misnomer as trekking through the dense forest is not easy, but every step is worth it for the opportunity to spend one hour in the presence of mountain gorillas. These magnificent creatures left us all awestruck. They are impressive in size, in expressiveness, in the way they reflect so much of us and we of them. Another pricey experience, but again worth every penny. Plus we had the good fortune to get to share the experience with Jeff’s parents and sister.

9. Learning to Scuba Dive

Experienced scuba divers claim that once you start, you can’t stop, and they know what they’re talking about. We’re already addicted and can’t stop thinking about when and where we can next dive. Take any of the underwater shows you’ve ever seen and multiply the magic quotient by 100. It’s that good.

10. Exploring Rajasthan

India was tough, but we did greatly enjoy our foray into Rajasthan. The forts, palaces, and heritage hotels preserved fantastic architecture and the feeling of glory days now gone. Though hassle was still present, it was low in comparison to other parts of the country, and we met some very friendly and interesting locals. This seemed to be the India of lore.

Suffice it to say I didn’t sleep much the night before our rafting trip. I was too busy seriously reconsidering whether I actually wanted to do it. But when morning broke, I got up, got dressed, and boarded the shuttle that would take us to the Nile River Explorers site. I knew I’d regret not going. And I knew if I didn’t go, I’d probably be more worried as I spent all day wondering what the heck was happening to Jeff. It would be better to just witness it all in person.

But they weren’t about to make it easy on me. In addition to the two hour ride from Kampala to Jinja, I also had an additional hour to sit around, think about what the heck I was doing, and watch a video of a raft flipping time and time again as we waited for another group to arrive at the site. Seriously, could you just put me on the raft and in the water?

Finally, they did just that, launching us at a deceptively calm and peaceful site where the seven of us crazy people in our boat could learn from our even crazier guide how to front paddle, back paddle, hold on (for small rapids), and get down (for big rapids). Then, as we approached the first small rapid, we got a taste of what it would be like if the boat flipped, as we all moved to one side of the boat and purposely sent ourselves somersautling backwards into the water. I came up sputtering, trying to catch my breath between waves, practicing the crucifix position in which you float downstream with your feet high up and in front of you in the hopes of avoiding any real collisions with rocks. I came up with a bit of a fat lip thanks to someone’s flying paddle. And I came up wondering if maybe they could just let me swim to shore and walk back to the campsite where I could meet everyone later. What the hell was I doing? I am a girl who likes to be in control, and in an inflatable raft in the rapids of the Nile, you’re anything but in control.

I’ve rafted before. This wasn’t a first, and I knew that the fear was part of the thrill, but I still wasn’t sure I was up for it. Last time I’d rafted was in the Grand Canyon, where the rafts were much sturdier, where I didn’t have to paddle but instead held on for dear life while our guide used oars to row us through the rapids, and where our old-hand guide seemed a bit less crazy than the Aussie directing us on the Nile. Though technically in the same category, the experiences weren’t going to be quite the same. I’d also never met a Grade 5 rapid before, the highest grade of rapid considered to be navigable in a raft.

Luckily once on the water, there isn’t too much time to think. After passing through a few riffles, the first real rapid you meet is called 50/50, its name an indicator of your chances of making it through this Grade 3 Rapid without flipping. Let’s just say we were on the losing end of that wager. With the first coming together of waves, the left side of the boat was tossed into the water. With the second wave, one person from the right side was tossed. That left just me and another girl Dierdra hanging on for dear life, the boat pretty much on its side. And we really didn’t have a chance. With the third and final wave, the boat flipped, dunking us into the fortunately quite warm water of the Nile. The two of us plus the guide were able to hold onto the boat and ride it through the rest of the rapid. One other person was able to grab back on after being tossed and ride with us. The other four paddlers, including Jeff, had been picked up by the safety kayakers and transferred to the safety raft, from where we picked them up once we were back in calm waters and had managed to flip the boat upright.

Though it wasn’t quite the start I had hoped for (I’d been hoping to not end up in the water at all), it was probably the start I needed. I’d survived. It wasn’t that bad. The fear of the unknown was no longer hanging over my head, and for me, that is the worst fear.

Baptism by fire is the name of the game on the Nile as our next rapid was to be the biggest of the day, a Grade 5 rapid called Silverback. We were to paddle to the precipice, and then at the command of “Get Down” we were to squat into the boat, face outward, and cling to the rope. Slam, we hit the first wave, water rushing into the boat and washing over all of us, but not yet ripping any of us out. Slam the second wave followed immediately, slamming us around but not getting permanent hold of any of us. We were almost through. Apparently some people thought we might just make it. I wasn’t thinking at all, just holding on. But in the end it was all futile. Wave three grabbed us and flipped us upside down sending each of us scattering in different directions. No one managed to hold on to the boat this time. Luckily we were through the worst of it and there were no massive waves waiting to drown us, just lots of medium waves stealing our breath for snatches at a time. Over the sound of the waves, I could hear a safety kayaker yelling “Feet up! Feet up!” and so as a current pushed me right past Jeff (both of us with it enough to say hello and make sure each other was okay) and towards the rocky shoreline, I got into the crucifix position and used my feet to push off the big boulder in front of me and redirect myself back towards the center of the river and the calm pool awaiting at the end of the rapid. There, the boat floated, still upside down, and I, followed right away by Jeff, was able to grab on and hold on until it was time to flip it back over and get back in. A tiny scratch on my ankle was the only battle wound I had to add to my fat lip. Not too bad.

And after that, well things were smooth sailing. We managed to keep the boat upright and intact over waterfalls and through raging rapids, though there were a few close calls and we certainly had plenty of waves wash over us. In fact, at an optional rapid called Chop Suey, which our boat chose to brave while the other boat bypassed it, a gigantic wave washed over the boat, pretty much sinking it for a moment. I was so surrounded by water that I couldn’t tell if I was actually in the boat or not until it popped back up and I felt the plastic of the raft under my butt. The strange thing was that although I had been in the third position when we entered the, I was now in the first. The two people in front of me, Jeff and Dierdra, had borne the brunt of the wave and been washed overboard, though both managed to hang on, and we easily pulled them back aboard.

The worst part of the remaining trip, which was about 5 hours in total, were the calm, empty stretches in the middle where you could lay back and relax or get out and swim. It wasn’t that there was anything scary here–no crocodiles that we saw–but the calm gave time for the anticipation to build. When rapid follows rapid, you have no time to think. You just act. You forward paddle and back paddle as told. You hold on and get down. You swim and gasp for breath and try to avoid rocks. But in the calm periods, where you can only hear the rapids building up in front of you, you have plenty of time to imagine the possiblities.

Fortunately, none of the imagined possibilities became realities. Though the Grade Five rapids of the white Nile are some of the biggest in the world, it’s actually a very safe trip, as the water is deep and the rocks are relatively few. Plus the safety kayakers are so bad ass that they’d have you out in a second if you really needed a rescue. It’s a thrill though, a mix of fear and exhiliration. And in the end, when you make it through the final rapid, which is named “The Bad Place,” with only a few small battle wounds, one missing contact, and a body thoroughly exhausted, you think that given the chance, you’d definitely do it again…though you’d still prefer to just be thrown in the boat and sent downstream, without even a second to think about it.

You’ll miss some of the typical animals. Due to a case of rinderpest that struck in the early 1900s, there are no zebras, giraffes, and wildebeests. As you usually see these in great abundance, their abscence was, at least for us, quite striking. You also won’t find rhinos, which I believe were pretty much poached out of existence. And you won’t find cheetahs stalking across the plains, though I’m not sure whether their absence is due to disease, poaching, or simple geographic issues.

You will, however, find heaps and heaps of antelope, most notably waterbuck, Uganda kob (their national animal), and tobi. You’ll also find elephants, large herds of Cape buffalo, and leopards (but only if you are much luckier than we are). All cool for sure but not really worth going out of your way for.

But if you like lions, then Queen Elizabeth National Park should be on your list, as we saw many. One morning we observed a group of female lions with their cubs, while the next morning we were treated to a large male lion lying right next to the road.

Best of all, however, are the park’s famed tree-climbing lions. Though no different genetically from any other lions in Africa, these lions, which live in an area populated with easy-to-climb fig trees, have developed the behavior of resting in trees during the day. (Or at least the females have; the males are too heavy and remain in the thickets at the base of the trees.) Located exclusively in the Ishasha section of the park, an area a bit off the beaten track, the lions are an unusual treat, and we were lucky enough to spot two lazing in a tree, seemingly without a care in the world and without even the slightest bit of interest in us.

If primates are more your thing, the park is also a prime destination. On guided chimpanzee walks, you can descend into a lush gorge and track down our closest ancestor. You’ll probably find them high above you in the trees, but sometimes they scamper down and share the path with you.

You may also spot baboons, colobus monkeys, and a variety of other species. And since the paths you are walking are actually animal tracks, you could come across pretty much any other animal that lives in the park. Though we saw hyena and lion dung, we only actually spotted a few elephants making their way down to the water as well as a school of hippos.

Speaking of hippos, they gather in great abundance in the channel that runs through the park, connecting Lake Edward and Lake George. On a boat ride down the water, you’ll catch hippos barking, hippos yawning, hippos exhaling, hippos lumbering, and hippos doing pretty much anything else that hippos do. You’ll also spot zillions of birds as well as a few small crocs and some buffalo. And if you’re lucky, perhaps the bare bum of a local bathing just a few meters away from a hippo!

If you don’t want to take a boat ride but want to get up close and personal with a hippo, then just plan to have dinner at the lodge. As the sunsets the hippos waddle out of the water and plant their enormous selves on the lawn, which they very kindly mow each evening. It’s a charming way to end the day at a park that isn’t quite top-of-the-list but is quirky and fun and boasts a few features that you’ll be hardpressed to find elsewhere.

And while Bwindi Impenetrable Forest did prove to be mighty difficult to penetrate, the gorillas were nice enough to stick quite close to the edge. Within fifteen minutes, we found them feeding on leaves on a steep hillside, the sun shining brightly behind them making visibility poor. But after a few minutes fraught with fear that they wouldn’t move for the whole hour, the whole group, led by the silverback, paraded out in front of us and down a creek bed.

For the next hour, they meanered around hills, many times walking right in front or behind us. It was simply magical and amazing.

And the expressions on their faces and their eyes were just so … human. 

Majestic creatures, without question. And an amazing experience, totally worth the high price. Especially when you consider that this price is what protects these animals and their environment.