rezendi

So I'm plotting out my autumn expedition to Africa, inasmuch as one can plan such an expedition in advance.

If I was going just for pleasure, I'd fly to Kilimanjaro, climb the mountain, tour the Serengeti and Uhuru Crater, then go scuba dive and lounge on the beaches of Zanzibar. But a) this is supposed to be research not pleasure, and b) such a journey would be more fun with a girlfriend. (Assuming, of course, that I somehow acquired a girlfriend whose idea of a good time includes a strenuous climb up and down a 6000m mountain, and neglecting the fact that I'm a little gun-shy about travel a deux, having twice now broken up while on the road.)

No, what we're looking at is a slightly more macabre itinerary. I'll probably fly into Nairobi, sometimes mordantly known as "Nairobbery" for its extremely high rate of muggings; then up to Mount Elgin National Park, believed to be the ultimate source of the Marburg virus; thence Uganda, a country whose bright future was dashed thirty years ago by its brutal cannibal tyrant Idi Amin, and which since has fought a bloody civil war in its north with the bizarre, fanatical Lord's Resistance Army; to the Nile's Murchison Falls and then the Ruwenzori Mountains, the glacial "Mountains of the Moon" in the heart of the Dark Continent, for a six-day hiking expedition considered to be tougher than the ascent of either Kilimanjaro or Mount Kenya (this is the fun part of the trip); thence to Bwindi Impenetrable National Park - great name, eh? - where forty tourists were kidnapped, and eight murdered, by thugs associated with Hutu genocidaires back in 1999; over the border into Rwanda, which of course needs no introduction, a tiny nation where almost a million people were slaughtered, primarily with sharp sticks and machetes, eleven years ago; hopefully a couple of day or overnight trips into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, just beginning to recover from an insanely complex and savage civil war that happened to involve six other nations and led to almost four million deaths; then, somehow (air? road? rail? Lake Tanganyika boat?) make my way to Zimbabwe, a once-paradisical nation now ruled and ruined by an insane despot; down to Johannesburg, until recently the world's most violent city; and finally to Cape Town, one of my very favourite cities, where I shall hang out, write, hopefully entertain friends, and visit whythawk.

I can't hardly wait!

(note to whythawk: I can probably make some time for Angola, while I'm visiting interesting places with horrific histories).


Meanwhile, in ma vie quotidien(ne?), my UK publisher has gotten back to me. She doesn't hate Book 3 - in fact she quite likes it - but Marketing and Sales hate its working title, Black Bloc. Aaaaaargh. (Grabs nearest wall and pounds head into it until both structure and cranium are visibly dented.) Here we go again. Titles remain the bane of my professional existence.

I ran up to the cross again tonight, in lieu of going to boxing, as I was feeling lazy. Might have been a poor choice - I was nearly defeated by the heat. But I persevered, and when I finally made it to the great cross atop Mont-Royal, there, in the bushes at its base, I saw a snake. Yea, a veritable serpent. I don't think it's a good sign when your exercise routine starts developing disturbing biblical overtones. If there's some dude selling apples there next time 'round, I am so switching parks.