Murchison Falls National Park, The Victoria Nile (Side note)

The Victoria Nile

At this point the Victoria Nile having flowed from Lake Victoria through Lake Kyoga and squeezed through the Murchison Falls (also known as Kabalega Falls), then flows onwards to Lake Albert approxiately 32 kilometres (20 miles) downriver. It then emerges as the Albert Nile when it flows out of the northern tip of Lake Albert as it travels north towards South Sudan. The Albert Nile and the Victoria Nile are part of the White Nile system.

I have now seen the rivers Nile, Niger, Congo and Zambezi up close. As children we learnt a song titled "The Rivers of Africa", a song that named the continent's main rivers—Nile, Niger, Senegal, Congo, Orange, Limpopo, Zambezi. I have also seen the Benue, Gambia, Volta, Chobe, Tana and Mara, the latter two in Kenya. 

As an aside, vertigo has become a recurring problem as I advance in age. It was apparent on this bridge again, just as it had been on the Kazungula Bridge over the Zambezi in Botswana last year. Vertigo is that false sensation that you or your surrounding environment is spinning, whirling, or moving when you are actually still. I almost lost my balance just from looking down at the river from on top of the bridge. 🙃

Murchison Falls National Park (Side note)

I captured this (and a few other shots) with my phone camera while seated in the car.

The Ugandan kob is a subspecies of the kob, and it is one of the most common species of antelope in Murchison. The coat of arms of Uganda features a Ugandan kob alongside a grey crowned crane.

At first glance, the Ugandan kob may be mistaken for the impala, but it is more heavily built. An average male weighs 94kg whilst an average female weighs 63kg.

In Murchison Falls National Park, lions prey on the plentiful supply of Ugandan kobs. We saw many of them, their unique, orangey colour stood out in the brush, even when just resting under a tree in the distance. 

We didn't see any large predators such as hyenas or any of the big cats, but I did explain to my friend that where there are a large number of prey animals, there must be large numbers of predators as well. We did see a herd of giraffes though, Rothschild's giraffes with their coats glowing, reflecting the soft sunlight, but they were too distant to capture properly on camera, although not for want of trying. We also saw a herd of elephants, African Savannah elephants, a family group, but also from a distance; and water buffalo mucking about in a mud pool. There were numerous impala too, and gazelles, and all manner of birds. 

The most striking feature for me, however, were the Borassus palm trees also known as palmyra palms that dominate the open savannah landscapes of the park's northern sector. The landscape's beauty was truly extraordinary, I had seen nothing like it before.

The Weight of the Closed Suitcase

The suitcase sits half-packed on the edge of the bed, a physical boundary between two entirely different states of existence. Outside the window, the sun is still warm, casting long, golden afternoon shadows across a landscape that has spent the last one month feeling effortless and slow. Inside the room, however, the psychological climate has already shifted. The holiday is not yet officially over, yet the mind has quietly abandoned the present, slipping ahead down the highway, past the airport gates, and straight into the grey, uncompromising machinery of everyday life.

There is a distinct, melancholic weight to this mental transition. During a holiday, time loses its sharp edges. Days are measured not by alarms or deadlines, but by the heat of the midday sun, the rhythm of your friends' moods, or the casual drift of an unplanned afternoon. Yet, as the final evening approaches, a subtle cognitive gravity takes over. The brain begins its defensive rehearsal for reality, pulling up unread email queues, doctor's appointments, and the domestic chores that have been left to gather dust in quiet defiance. The washing machine at home broke down before I made my escape, now I'm going to have to confront the reality of dealing with that problem the moment I return. Escapism is valid only for so long after all. 

Compounding this re-entry is the looming shadow of the season left behind—or rather, the season waiting ahead. To return from warmth and ease to the onset of winter, is a double displacement. It is the psychological shock of trading open horizons for sealed windows and the abrupt decent of pitch dark four-o'clock afternoons; the vibrant textures of travel for the muffled, monochromatic silence of cold months. The impending winter feels less like a natural change in the weather and more like a closing trapdoor. The mind projects forward into the chill, bracing itself for heavy coats, scraped windscreens, and the general hibernation of the human spirit.

And yet, this bittersweet ache is perhaps what gives a holiday its value in the first place. If leisure stretched out indefinitely without contrast, it would eventually lose its lustre; it is the impending return to the mundane that casts such a vivid, hyper-saturated glow over the final hours of escape. Standing in the quiet room with the zip half-pulled, one realises that the resistance to going back is proof of having been fully present.

The mundane tasks at home—the laundry, the mail, the early alarms—will inevitably be absorbed and conquered, just as they always are. For tonight, however, the mind lingers in the threshold, holding onto the warmth of the sun just a moment longer before turning towards the cold. 

Murchison Falls

A visit to Uganda’s Murchison Falls National Park is an unforgettable journey into the heart of wild East Africa. Located in northwestern Uganda about 300 kilometres from Kampala, the 3,840-square-kilometre reserve is Uganda’s largest and oldest national park, offering a dramatic mix of sweeping savannahs, palm-dotted plains, and the mighty Victoria Nile.

The adventure begins long before you enter the park gates. Driving northwest from Kampala, the road passes through changing Ugandan landscapes—bustling small towns, green banana plantations. In my head I was travelling from Buganda to Bunyoro, two of Uganda's oldest and most influential traditional kingdoms. As you approach Masindi that served as a royal capital or stronghold for past kings of Bunyoro like Omukama Kabalega during the 19th century, and descend the Bunyoro escarpment, the air grows warm and smells of sun-baked earth and wild grass. The sheer scale of the park hits you immediately as you cross into the sprawling savannah.

The climax of the trip is the waterfall itself. Here, the entire Victoria Nile forces its way through a narrow rock gap just seven meters wide and plunges 43 meters down into the "Devil’s Cauldron". The roar is deafening, shaking the ground beneath your feet and throwing a cool, permanent rainbow mist into the air. Hiking to the top of the falls allows you to feel the raw, untamed energy of the planet's most powerful waterfall.

Leaving Murchison Falls leaves a lasting impression—a rare place where the rhythm of wild Africa continues largely untouched.

 

A Polite, Deliberate and Respectful Communication Style

The Kalenjin people of East Africa, primarily living in Kenya's Rift Valley, are widely recognised for their polite, deliberate, and respectful communication style. In Kalenjin culture, speaking gently and avoiding unnecessary loudness or aggression is deeply tied to traditional values of humility, self-control, and respect for elders and the community. 

This soft-spoken nature is often observed during social gatherings, traditional dispute resolutions, and everyday interactions, where active listening and maintaining harmony are highly prioritised.

I observed this softspoken nature and its impact independent of having it confirmed to me after I had brought it up and expressed my observation in a conversation. I found the softspoken nature striking, coming from the background that I come from — softspoken is NOT what Nigerians (of all ethnicities) do. 

I appreciated it, seeing it as a better alternative to the loud abrasiveness that one has been more exposed to. It is beautiful to watch, even if one does not understand the language. The deliberateness by which conflict is kept out the picture and everyday interactions are conducted, and potential conflict situations resolved, all with polite comments and smiles. 

I witnessed first-hand where a potential conflict situation was dissolved instantaneously. This was new to me, but that's just the way things are done here.

The Kindness of Strangers: A Testament to Human Connection

For a brief moment I was lost in Kenya. Then humanity showed up.

There is a unique vulnerability in being completely lost in an unfamiliar place. The world feels larger, colder, and distinctly indifferent to your anxiety. I found myself in this exact state of distress recently, standing at a designated meeting point in a strange location where my friend was supposed to be. When I arrived, the landscape was unfamiliar, my friend was nowhere to be found, and my calls to his phone went completely unanswered. In that moment, isolation settled in heavily. I was an outsider, swallowed by a strange environment, with no clear path forward.

It was during this peak of panic that the true beauty of human nature revealed itself. Two local men, total strangers to me, noticed my visible distress. Instead of walking past or ignoring a foreigner in need, they chose to step into my situation. They approached me not with suspicion, but with genuine concern.

Their assistance went far beyond merely offering directions. From the moment they stayed by my side, their presence became an anchor. They spoke to me with calming words, reassuring me that I was not alone and that we would solve this problem together. In a situation where they owed me nothing, they gave me their time, their patience, and their protection. They walked with me, guided me through the unfamiliar terrain, and actively helped me navigate the area until, at long last, I was reunited with my friend.

This experience left a profound mark on me. It serves as a powerful reminder that beneath the divisions of geography, language, and background, there is a shared thread of humanity that connects us all. These two men did not see a stranger to be ignored; they saw a fellow human being in trouble and chose to act with empathy. Their selflessness turned a terrifying ordeal into a beautiful lesson about grace, community, and the quiet heroes who restore our faith in the world. I will carry their kindness in my heart, a reminder to pay that humanity forward whenever I encounter someone lost in their own storm.

Note from Kampala

We've just been on a drive around Kampala in the early evening as the sun set, and I was taken aback by just how large this city is. This is my second visit to the city in the space of two years, but it has taken this long for me to fully appreciate the city's true size, how spread out it is, and its magnificence. 

Previously, my knowledge of Kampala was limited to the Central Business District, Entebbe Road, (which is the direction towards where I have my lodgings—I'm lodged in the same place as last time); Masaka Road, Bwaise, the Express road from Entebbe, Namirembe, and not much else really. From the Expressway I always saw the roadsign with arrow pointing towards Mulungu, but we often came off the Expressway at the Kajjansi exit, with Mulungu still further forward; mysterious, out-of-reach. This evening that mystery was unravelled. 

I should start by doffing my hat to the architects profession of Kampala. They are doing an amazing job. I'm still picking up pieces of my jaw that dropped to the floor from how awestruck I was just from seeing such dazzling architecture as I did, driving down this road; homes styled and built to such stunning effect, accentuated by a hilly landscape that makes for structures located on a higher elevation at the rear being just as visible as those at the front. It was like a mural of stunning architectural magnificence presented to my visual senses that left me totally stunned, and utterly dumbfounded that I knew nothing about this at all before now. And this was just the beginning, as we drove down this Expressway towards Mulungu. 

For the duration of the drive until we reached Mulungu I remained in shock for having no idea that I actually knew so little about this city that I like, one that I have often described as one of my favourite cities. 

It was calming to later on stand on the shoreline in Mulungu in the fading light of the dusk, an anticlimax to the earlier surge of emotion. I came away from the lake with a large, deep-fried Tilapia fish to console myself.

Visiting Botswana 9 (Side notes)

I was waiting for the driver, and then this new friend of mine came round to keep me company. My friend likes chicken, I've been feeding him some scraps.

Oh, by the way, we came upon a whole herd of elephants as we approached Kazungula last evening, and even before that, the van we were travelling in had had to halt its progress when a bull elephant stepped into the middle of the road. And this happened just a couple of hundred metres from the next village, so the much talked about conflict between wildlife and humans showed up in stark relief right before our eyes.

Cotonou

I watched the dust of Cotonou settle onto my shoes, realising how strange it felt to be an outsider in a place that looked exactly like home. As an African travelling across my own continent, crossing a border doesn't mean entering a new world; it means entering a mirror that has been slightly tilted. Back in Lagos, the cacophony is loud, the soundscape is always of busy traffic, loud car horns, and raised voices, but here, there is hardly a noise, with the Atlantic humidity wrapping around you like a heavy, familiar cloth, as if you are constantly in the pleasant Lagos city district of Victoria Island wherever in Cotonou you are.

Walking through the Dantokpa Market I didn't feel the sharp detachment of a foreign tourist. Instead, I felt a quiet frustration—the sensation of recognising everything and recognising nothing at all, all at once. The rhythm of the women bargaining, the vocals of the Beninese local music spilling from speakers were familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time; the aroma of roasting plantains was entirely intimate, but I could not speak the local Fon and Egun languages, or French, fluently enough to blend in.

My friend and I went to the city’s port. There were newly imported used cars from Europe for sale, and my friend was interested in replacing his car. The ambience was relaxed, nothing like the hurried helter-skelter of Lagos where everyone seems to be dashing around at a frenzied pace. It was in Cotonou that I heard Zouk music for the first time, this French Caribbean music genre pioneered by the French Antillean band Kassav' in the early 1980s. In Cotonou, in the Republic of Benin, the word "chill" took on a new meaning for me.

Stranded between the comfort of shared identity and the isolation of being a stranger, I found a strange kind of peace. I didn't need to explain myself here. The land understood my bones, even if the city didn't know my name.

Journey Journal 5 "Oga just hold on, these are my boys"

We arrived at Abuja just before 5am following our 10pm departure from London Heathrow the previous evening. No, I couldn't sleep at all, I had underestimated how cramped and uncomfortable it would be in economy class when I had thought I could just sleep through the flight. Also, the flight itself was particularly bumpy, with severe turbulence commencing just after we passed Barcelona, and continuing until we crossed the Algerian coast. The captain, who even before departure had warned us about this turbulence, later came on the speakers to explain the reasons why the turbulence was happening, saying that it was worse than had been expected—something to do with the Atlas Mountains and converging winds. But in my weariness I paid little attention to what he said.

It was with this same weariness that having cleared the tedious border health and other immigration procedures at Abuja, I responded to being summoned by two very astute foreign exchange dealers, who seemed to have positioned themselves strategically to waylay passengers disembarking from this early morning flight who were desperate for Naira at 5am, when all other outlets would likely be closed. In exchange for three crisp currency notes, I received a thick wad of Naira notes that would not fit into my wallet, so I requested an envelope and stuffed the parcel of money into my shoulder bag.

I then logged my two other bags across the parking lot from the international terminal to the domestic departures, where upon entering the building I was approached by a young man, "To where, sir?" 

As it turned out, it was this young man who led me to the correct check-in counter for my onward flight scheduled for 10am; it was he who weighed my bags, advised that I carry the less heavy bag as hand luggage, and he who transferred the heavier bag personally to the inner office for loading. As I waited for him to return, being mindful that I owed him a reward for his 'kindness', another young man came forward, "Oga, I can take you upstairs to the departures lounge to relax while you wait for your flight. You can even use the executive lounge.." as he leaned forward to pick up my hand luggage, insisting on carrying it, motioning with his hand that I follow him. 

But at the foot of the escalator leading upstairs, the first man whose return I had been awaiting suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, the two of them standing side by side. So I put my arm around the shoulders of the first guy and pulled him aside, whispering that I wished to give him something and give something to the other guy too, but that I wasn't comfortable doing it all out in the open. He agreed to share with his colleague whatever I gave him, so we moved further away to a more secluded area where I opened my shoulder bag and flicked some notes off the top of the bundle those currency exchange men had given me and handed the notes to him.

We returned to the foot of the escalator where after having received his own share, the enthusiasm of the second guy who was still holding my bag seemed to escalate. After I bid a warm farewell to the first guy, the second guy led me upstairs, where on arrival at the entrance to the departures lounge itself, we were confronted with another security gate complete with a full body scanner similar to the one at the front entrance of the building.

"Oga, just hold on, these are my boys," I heard him say to me, with a hand gesture signalling that I should wait. He then walked over to the men manning the gate and said something to them, before signalling that I could come forward. 

On seeing me arrive at the gate all three men jumped to attention, and I was greeted with repeated shouts of "Welcome sah", " You're welcome sah", "You're welcome", then "Oga, oya, pass, pass, just pass by the side," meaning I should walk around the side of the scanner bypassing it completely.

The guy still insisted on taking me to the executive lounge, something he had proposed the minute he met me. But I wasn't keen on making a statement that seemed to be saying that I was more important than everyone in this large crowd of people seated out in the general seating area by walking past them, and entering this place boldly signposted as the EXECUTIVE LOUNGE. My natural inclination is to identify more with the ordinary people, 

If importance comes to me, let it be bestowed on me by others, not by my own self.

And so it was that I ended up sitting on a hard uncomfortable bench among the crowd in the general seating area for upward of four hours, waiting for my flight to Port Harcourt, tired after a sleepless night, and with pains to my backside from sitting for so long on that hard bench. I did eventually make it to Port Harcourt, though, even if this is not my final destination. 

I intend at some point to say one or two things about my experiences in Port Harcourt too, and how different it is from how I remember it from the 1970s and 80s.

Soft spoken?

So I've been accused, for the first time in my life, of being soft spoken. Me? Soft spoken? Well, I call this an accusation because it is a description of myself that I do not recognise, but this claim has come from two different unrelated sources. The first time I heard it was when I went to meet my friend at a location that we had agreed to meet. I arrived early, so rather than enter into the building I went to sit with a woman selling snacks and drinks by the roadside under a commercial umbrella.

"Madam I beg, make I siddown, I dey wait for my friend, give me Coke make I drink", were the words I said to her while gesturing that she kindly make room for me on her bench where she sat. "Oga, welcome o", was the reply as she moved aside creating room for me to sit while at the same time digging into her cooler to fish out my Coke. "Your friend know say you dey here? You don call am?" (Meaning, does your friend know you're here? Have you called him?). "I go call am again to tell am where I dey", I replied, and all this while I thought I was trying to be very Nigerian, embracing my Nigerian roots.

So I called my friend who said he had already arrived and that he was inside the building looking for me. Our arrangement had been for us to meet at the building, not necessarily inside it. Our plan was after meeting, to proceed somewhere else together. I then told him that I was outside sitting by the roadside among the stalls where people are selling things. As I sat I had my back turned to the building, which likely explains why I had not seen him when he arrived, so even as I was still on the phone with him I turned around and saw him emerge from the building. "I can see you, just look straight ahead, you'll see me." 

I understood that he would not have expected me to be sitting by the roadside, but that's where I was, and try as I did to steer him towards me while calmly speaking to him on the phone, he seemed to be resolute in his belief that I could not possibly be sitting by the roadside. The woman, the stall owner, while sitting next to me had also turned around to see my friend approaching us, but whom she could see was staring in a completely different direction. So she stood up, waved both her arms, and shouted at high decibel levels, "Brother, na here, na here o", which finally caught my friend's attention. 

After my friend and I were reunited, this woman now turned on me and accused me of speaking in a soft bedroom voice when trying to communicate my location to my friend, saying this in jest, mockingly. But I had seen no need to raise my voice or put up a theatrical display. My friend had his phone clutched to his ear and I believed he could clearly hear the instructions I was delivering to him.

The second time I was accused of this was by my own brother. Last year on my previous visit to Nigeria I never heard the accusation that I am soft spoken, so did something happen between that time and now? That said, I cannot but attach a lot of weight to my brother's observation. He would know, and he himself put it down to me having lived in England for as long as I have. Could it be true that I might be losing some of my Nigerianness?

Banjul, Gambia 8

The Cape Point beach resort makes up the north-eastern part of the town of Bakau, in the Kombo St Mary District, in the West Coast Region of The Gambia, and is 12km to the west of Banjul capital. The district is a promontory and its beach area is where the River Gambia and the Atlantic Ocean merge at the estuary. To Cape Point's eastern coastline is a wide seafront of fine, golden sand, while much of its north-western coastline starts at sea level, then, as you head south west it rises up to over 15 metres, and is mostly characterised by laterite cliffs dotted with palms along a narrow strand. Further to its southeast are the brackish mangrove swamps of Cape Creek. 

Cape Point beach and its adjacent area is one of The Gambia's most family-friendly holiday resorts, and here the wide, beautiful strip of sand is lined with mature palm trees, grasses and thatched sunshades. You might also see some basalt boulders strategically placed along part of the shoreline to counteract erosion of the sands.  Although erratic currents make it unsuitable for swimming, it's perfect for sunbathing, volleyball, strolling, picnics, and making sandcastles, and there's a broad choice of restaurants and beach bars close by.

In the country as a whole there are often sightings of roaming livestock, so don't be surprised if you see the odd goat or cow trudging along the sand roaming and looking for anything edible to eat. There are also juice stands near the southern part of the main strand selling various juices such as mango, melon, coconut, baobab, orange and grapefruit.

Sunday is the main day when local Gambians come to the strand to relax with their families or play a bit of football or volleyball.

Not only is the district's shore area a tourist magnet it is also an exclusive residential location which has a large number of people from the diplomatic community, such as Britain's diplomatic residence, 'Admiralty House', well-to-do businessmen, politicians and some well established family compounds. The vast majority of these homes are within the triangle formed by the Kofi Annan Street, the Old Cape Road and Capepoint Road.

A Little History:

The promontory was 'discovered' by Portuguese navigators of this part of West Africa in the 15th century, and they named it 'Cabo de Santa Maria' (Cape of Saint Mary). The name overflowed to the nearby island (Saint Mary's Island) when the British established the capital Bathurst (now Banjul). It was part of 'British Kombo' in the mid 1800s

Source: Access Gambia

Promontory: "a point of high land that juts out into the sea or a large lake; a headland."

This, for me, was the most desirable part of the city. We approached it via the scenic Old Cape Road and crossed the narrow bridge over Cape Creek, an area covered with pristine mangrove swamps. I immediately made the connection to how similar the swamp looked, and smelt, with the mangrove swamps of the Niger Delta, but the swamps in Gambia are cleaner, and look similar to the way the mangrove swamp in the Niger Delta was many decades ago when I saw those swamps for the first time as a young child, with the added advantage of the swamps in Gambia having suffered no impacts of oil industry activities. 

Land and environmental degradation are a real problem in Nigeria due to the petroleum industry, and population pressure.

Berekum, Ghana

The Berekum roundabout is a roundabout in the city of Berekum, Ghana. The roundabout is located on the main Berekum-Sunyani Highway. The statue of the woman with a baby on her back and a basket on her head is the most iconic symbol of this pleasant regional city.

Based on oral tradition there were three Akan people groups who originally migrated and settled in the area now known as Berekum. The first branch to arrive, known as the Awasu people, are said to be migrants from Denkyira now residing in Biadan. (I visited Biadan yesterday).

Berekum, nicknamed "The Golden City", is the capital of Berekum East Municipal in the Bono Region of Ghana. The city had a population of 62,364 as of 2012. The native language of the Berekum people is the Bono Twi. This nickname of Golden City was coined by Queen Elizabeth II upon her arrival here on the invitation of then President of Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah, during her visit to this country shortly after its independence. The name has stuck since.

The city is located in the Berekum Traditional Area in which the paramount chief or the Omanhene is Daasebre Dr. Amankona Diawuo II.

These photos of the roundabout were taken from a moving vehicle yesterday, but I've walked past it several times, mostly in the evenings. Berekum is 32 km from Sunyani, which is close to where I'd had my first month-long sojourn in Ghana just over a decade ago. These regional towns and cities offer a more intimate appreciation of life in Ghana.

Banjul, Gambia 7

The Boeing 737 MAX 8 has a range of approximately 3,550 nautical miles (6,570 km). This allows it to operate on medium-haul and some long-haul international routes, thanks to its improved fuel efficiency compared to previous models.

Definitions:

Medium-haul 1,500 – 4,000 km

Long-haul more than 6 – 7 hours and more than 4,000 km.

My flight from Banjul to Istanbul will cover a distance of 5,367 km. It is a long-haul flight. This particular aircraft with reg. TC LCN is the very one I will be flying on. It was delivered to Turkish Airlines in June 2021. This is the first time I'll be flying on such a long flight, 7 hours, in a mid-sized airliner, although I've previously done 4 – 5 hour flights on the 737-800, and 5 hours on the even smaller Embraer ERJ190 regional jet from Abuja to Nairobi. 

The world’s longest scheduled commercial Boeing 737 MAX 8 route is operated by Brazilian carrier GOL Linhas Aéreas, flying nonstop between Brasília International Airport  in Brazil and Orlando International Airport in the United States - Distance 3,777 miles (6,079 km), Flight Time approximately 8 hours and 15 minutes. 

Lake Nakuru

I visited Lake Naivasha, and now regret not having gone onwards to Nakuru. But it's still on my bucket list, and next time I should also make it to Lake Bogoria. When one's companions are locals, the focus is in getting to know, understand, and share in their mundane everyday life experiences, which, although worthwhile in its own right, takes away from having the more usual touristic experiences.

The same happened in Congo where I missed out on visiting the famous Les Rapides, the powerful rapids on the Congo River; and the Nabemba Tower, Brazzaville's 30-storey skyscraper, because I was preoccupied with learning Lingala, the local language, or helping out my friend practice his English; and all this while sampling the local Congolese cuisine with considerable enthusiasm.

About 10,000 years ago, Lake Nakuru, in Kenya, together with neighbouring Lake Elementaita and Lake Naivasha (60 km further south), formed one single, deep freshwater lake that eventually dried up, leaving the three lakes as remnants.

Water levels in Lake Nakuru have since varied considerably, with the lake almost drying up several times over the past 50 years. A significant drop happened in the early 1990s. In 2013, levels again increased rapidly, leading to the migration of many flamingos to Lake Bogoria in search of food supply.

Lake Nakuru is famous for its large populations of flamingos, both greater and lesser flamingos, which are drawn to the lake's algae-rich waters. The number of flamingos at the lake can fluctuate due to water levels and algae availability. Flamingos feed on the algae in the lake, which thrives in the alkaline waters.

Between 2010 and 2020 Lake Nakuru increased in surface area from 40 to 68 square kilometres (15 to 26 sq mi). 677 households, parts of Nakuru town and some National Park areas had been flooded.

Since 2021, there has been an alarming increase in the rising water levels at the lake caused by climate change. This upsurge of water levels led to displacement of animals from the park and destruction of property, submersion of the main entrance gate and other park infrastructure.

Brazzaville 3

7 February, 2019

That being Anglophone is an endearing quality in itself is a reality that was unknown to me. At least not quite as strongly as it is now.

It first struck me many years ago while in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, how when anyone given the chance to practice their English who was within earshot of me struggling to have a conversation with someone else, would leap at the opportunity to interject, keen to be of assistance, help to interpret, then themselves try to engage me in conversation and say to me what English words they knew.

In Rio I heard the words "more or less" in reply to the question "do you speak English" so many times, that it seemed as if this was the standard answer to that question, at all times; and whether or not this person knew any more English than those three words.

Though I did not make much of it at the time, I do have a better understanding of it now. But the story of Rio de Janeiro is for another day, I intend for today to remain in Brazzaville.

My first impressions of Brazzaville have been altogether positive. The sights sounds and smells are familiar, and similar to those in other African cities I have visited. But there are things peculiar to Brazzaville that must be said.

First of all it is a clean and well ordered city and in ways that are unlike other similar cities. There is an almost complete absence of chaos, with smooth flowing traffic everywhere. It is obvious that keeping the streets clean and tidy is taken seriously, with a refuse bin positioned approximately every one hundred metres from the last one on every street in the city centre. Municipal workers and road sweeping machines are seen sweeping the streets constantly.

Then there is the conspicuous absence of motorcycle taxis, tricycle taxis or tuk-tuks, or indeed any vehicles of questionable roadability or age. On this point, Brazzaville is completely unique. The people too are on average better turned out than in most other African cities I have been to. I have seen no destitute people, although it might be naive to think that there are none. Also, I have seen no beggars on the streets, or street kids, both sights that are commonplace in other places I've been on the continent.

One thing of note, though, which I consider to be a bit sad, is the near absence in Brazzaville of old French colonial architecture, which for me is something of a disappointment, given the country's lengthy French colonial history; a history at par with that of countries like Senegal and Cote d'Ivoire, where colonial architecture is still aplenty and reasonably well preserved. Unfortunately, the historic Brazilian architecture in Lagos, Nigeria has in many cases not enjoyed that same level of conservation and appreciation. Most of that rich historical record, save for a few precious examples still bravely standing, has been lost in favour of soulless modern high-rise office blocks.

For Brazzaville it is not easy to understand the reasons why this record of history is scant, but the many newly constructed modern structures in Centre Ville, the city centre, might be an indication of where those colonial buildings once stood. I have heard of, and seen photos of a magnificent well preserved colonial railway terminal building in Pointe Noire, this country's second city. So perhaps there might be some redemption there.

Of course, as in any other similar country there are pockets of deprivation and poverty to be seen here and there, but these are less visible and less profound than in several of the other African capital cities I have visited. Brazzaville is well ordered and things are better organised than one might expect.

Also, to notice the overwhelming presence of 'big government' is unavoidable, since the government is apparently the largest employer. This could be one of the lasting vestiges of this country's experimentation with the socialist system during the 1970's and 80's, but there is also clearly to be seen a strongly emerging private sector, one that appears to be thriving.

Then there is the impact of Chinese finance, in particular, the impacts of that oriental funding on physical infrastructure development, and at a rapid rate; development that is expansive and visible across the city, and unmissable even from the air when approaching to land at the city's China-financed ultra-modern Maya-Maya Airport. The Republic of Congo is one of the African countries with a huge amount of Chinese debt.

On being Anglophone, well, others on realising this has quite often earned for me a smile from that person who just learned that I am English-speaking, then a discernible slight embarrassment that they are incapable of continuing with the conversation competently. Then when I try to salvage the situation by launching into my bad French, that inevitable rush to politely correct my faulty grammar.

#Travel— in Brazzaville, Republic of the Congo.

Brazzaville 2

6 February, 2019

The word 'pleasant' can hardly be used to describe the experience of being in several other cities in Africa, but for this city it is a word that can fairly be used. My stay here has been an unmitigatedly pleasant experience so far. 

The whole country, The Republic of Congo (Congo Brazzaville) is sparsely populated, with a population of only 5.2 million, of whom 1.37 million live in the capital Brazzaville. Kinshasa, which the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo, is located just across the river (the Congo River) from where I am seated typing this. I can stare at the city of Kinshasa (Africa's third most populous) just by raising my head. Kinshasa's population alone is more than twice that of the whole country of Congo Brazzaville.

Population density for most of the city of Brazzaville in my estimation would be around 20-25 people per sq km on average. I have seen no crowds anywhere, but lots of open spaces, well tended gardens in public spaces like parks, ornate roundabouts (rondpoints), with fountains and statues of eminent people. 

I'm sure that there are aspects of the city that a visitor like myself here for the first time and only for a relatively short period of time would not be privy to. Those who live and work here permanently are better placed to give a more accurate report. Also, comments I have elicited so far from my contacts here would seem to suggest that they believe their lives aren't that great, and could be much better if they lived elsewhere. But I put this down to that 'the grass is greener on the other side' syndrome that many of us suffer without full appreciation of what we do have and enjoy where we are at present. 

The day-to-day living conditions for the ordinary Brazzaville resident for example, are better than those of the ordinary Nairobi, Accra, or Lagos resident, by far, who everyday has to contend with difficult and stressful traffic conditions, overcrowding, especially in Lagos, high crime rates, and so on. This is not to say that these are not relevant to Brazzaville too, but even if they were, it is to a much lesser degree, and lower scale. And this not only because of the city's relatively smaller population and size, but because of just how well organised and well run the place is. 

Everything in Brazzaville seems to be working as it should, everything seems orderly. There is a noticeable absence of chaos. The taps are running (in the hotel) for example, mains water supply from the waterworks; individual private boreholes for water, familiar to most Nigerians, are unknown here. Traffic is flowing smoothly, things appear well ordered. Also, the electricity supply has been constant since I arrived. I am informed that outages when they occur are not for long, and are rare. There is no constant electricity generator noise in the background as in Lagos.

One thing I must briefly comment on though, is that the experiences of the African tourist in an African city are vastly different from those of the non African tourist, including blending in more readily, and seeing places and doing things that might not come so easily if one stood out from the crowd. I have observed this everywhere I have been on the continent, and I hope to be able to discuss this in more detail in a separate post at some time to come.

I write down things like this as a way to preserve my thoughts so that I can come back later to reminisce on my experiences at the time, and on how my mind reacted to those experiences. To share the thoughts on social media is a bonus. 

I like this place that I am currently visiting and I intend after this visit, to visit it again sometime in the future to explore it more deeply.

Brazzaville

10 February, 2019

"This modernist 1949 building was the crowning achievement of French architect Roger Erell, who was known for fusing Western architectural ideas with local building techniques. It's easily one of the city's most striking buildings, with its dazzling green roof and carved copper doors – try to come by around 5pm for mass, when the nave is a sea of beautifully dressed locals.". says Lonely Planet of this marvellous structure. 

It is described by one reviewer on Tripadvisor as: 

"This really is one of the highlights to visit in Brazzaville. The bright green roof is beautiful, and the copper panels on the doors are amazing! Easy to find in the walk-able downtown area."

Globe Holidays describes it as:

"A fabulous example of religious architecture which represents one of the most important religious monuments of Central Africa by presenting a combination of traditional techniques and innovations in Europe, a union that has made the basilica a formidable work. Covered with green tiles, the basilica was built in 1946... and today it is a destination not to be missed for those who go on holiday in Brazzaville."

I had heard of this basilica before I came to Brazzaville. So last evening after days of inclement weather that had impacted much of my outdoor activity, in the company of my friend Achille, we set out together on a long walk through the streets of Poto-Poto in downtown Brazzaville, with the intention eventually to wind up at the basilica. 

The sun had set by the time we reached our destination, or to be precise, the park immediately adjacent to the basilica. Where on several park benches were sat couples snuggled up together, shielded from prying eyes by the shadows and gloom of the dusk. As we picked our way gingerly across to the far side of the park, to the fence separating this park from the premises of the basilica itself, there was a sense of melancholy that I had arrived at this beautiful place not in bright sunlit daytime so as to take photos and to appreciate the basilica's beauty that much better. Nevertheless, we did get up as close to the building as we could, and took in as much of its magnificence as the limited visibility allowed. 

I take comfort in the knowledge that if asked the question "Did you see the Basilique Sainte-Anne?" The only answer, of course, is "Yes, I did". And it's true too. These photos I have posted here are not mine, unfortunately, but this is the basilica I saw last evening, complete with a view of a part of the park that I mentioned.

Moving on, that long walk itself left me with much to comment about. Marché Poto-Poto (Poto-Poto Market) is a busy sprawling market along the Rue de la Paix in the centre of town.

And it is full of West Africans. 

I noticed the pronounced difference about the place as soon as I reached it. It was very unlike the rest of Brazzaville that I had seen before then. It felt more like being in a bustling street market in Bamako, Mali, or somewhere in Burkina Faso, or northern Ghana.

This link provides some context. It is in French but is easily translated.  https://www.jeuneafrique.com/mag/255219/societe/congo-brazzaville-les-ouest-africains-rois-du-commerce/ 

It is the story of how during the colonial era the French colonial authorities had brought skilled workers over from West Africa to fill shortfalls in manpower in the Congo, and how many of those workers had stayed, and were followed subsequently by traders and other merchants.

Achille pointed out that most of the merchants here are of West African origin, but only after I had already noticed the sharp difference in tempo and ambience from the otherwise sedate Brazzaville that I had become accustomed to by then. It was noisier, rowdier, and it was surprising to me overhearing greetings shouted out in the Hausa language in a place in Central Africa so far away from Northern Nigeria. I had until then heard only French and the local Lingala language spoken at my lodgings, and everywhere else I had been. 

This was a very interesting mix of people and things, a Lebanese-owned ice cream parlour, boulangeries (bakeries) with French baguettes in the windows; patisseries; meats roasting over fires on the street; loud modern Congolese music blaring from loudspeakers in music stores leaving no one in doubt that this was in fact Congo, a very French Congo. 

There are two branches of Nigeria's United Bank for Africa (UBA) on this one street, (UBA is called ooo-bah here). And for good measure, for the very first time since I arrived in this city, I saw lots and lots of people together, with busy vehicular traffic, even busier pavements on both sides of the street and crowds of people shuffling past each other. This is only worth mentioning here because of how different from the rest of Brazzaville this area is, and how surprised I was by it. It was impossible not to notice how different it was. 

I've been having some trouble with the WiFi internet at my place, so I might be offline for a while. But even if I am, it won't be for long. And I'll soon be back home anyway, although having to leave this beautiful place is not something that I am particularly looking forward to. #TravelAfrica #ILoveAfrica #notjustwildlife #Africancities

My error-ridden schoolboy French is being stretched to the limit.