All the presidents men

Hey folks, long time no blogging - sorry. It's been a combination of no Internet cafes and having way too much fun in Uganda and Rwanda.

I'm safely back in Nairobi now and thought I'd share a little story about my arrival back.

I have been travelling for the last three weeks on a very large yellow truck. The photo doesn't do justice to its size - it really is enormous!! So we were driving through Kisumu when we decided to stop for lunch in the market. As the last person out of the truck I locked up and hung around for a few minutes taking piccies. I was there about 5 minutes when I noticed that the streets were swarmed with police and soldiers and that a very senior looking uniformed gentleman was heading straight for me (with a VERY large gun!).

Despite the slight language barrier I managed to ascertain that the Kenyan President was due any minute and our big truck was in the Presidents parking space. Big scary official man was not very happy about this situation.

How on earth the hundred or so police officers in the town square had failed to see the arrival of a massive yellow truck with 24 white people hanging out of the windows as it parallel parks in the presidents spot is beyond me, but alas they had and they had waited until our driver had disappeared before they told me the truck had to be moved immediately!!

Luckily for every other car on the road I didn't have the keys to start the engine so instead I found myself in the surreal situation of running through the Kisumu market screaming 'The President's coming and we're parked in his spot!!' Thankfully the armed officially running along behind me was the evidence our driver needed that I was not in fact talking utter bollocks as he'd initially assumed !

Thankfully the big scary official dude was actually quite friendly once our truck had vacated the space and we had a nice chat. He explained the reasons behind the Presidential visit and invited us all to some meet and greet do in the afternoon. Alas our schedule didn't allow.

In summary...

(a) Things I never thought I'd hear myself saying on this trip ..... 'The President's coming and we're parked in his spot!!'

(b) Things I never expected to hear (from the Chief of Police) .... 'I'll tell the President Vicci from England says hello!!'

Just too random !!

LOOK WHAT I DID !!!!!

No Training, No Equipment, No Worries !!

I never thought that I would cite Chris Moyles as an inspiration but by my reckoning if that Moyles can make it up the mountain then so can this one!!

Yes folks this is a piccie of me at the start of the Kilimanjaro climb!!


On the proceeding days before my birthday I decided that another solo celebration alone in a shabby hostel room was too much to bare so decided to try and experience it somewhere a bit more scenic.



I arrived in Moshi last Sunday and walked around every tour company in town trying to tag on to a tour leaving for Kili the next day, without any luck. Enter Africa's equivalent of Betty's Bargain Basement Tours, in less than an hour she had rustled up a crew and hired me the necessary equipment to do a solo ascent. So I did. On Monday morning I started walking and I am delighted to confirm that despite the leaky tent, ripped gloves, wafer thin sleeping mat and questionable food, on Saturday morning I actually made it to the top!!!!!




I may have not been the quickest person up to the summit but I was in much better shape than some of the poor buggers that didn't make it. In fact the worst medical complaint I can come up with is something I can only liken to Cabin Pressure, meaning that I was pretty much fart powered for the last couple of hours, that and the fact that my fingers swelled up so much it looked like I had five extra thick Walls sausages at the end of each hand (farts and fat fingers - now there's something Cheryl Cole failed to mention in the documentary!!) I did puke my guts up at the top but it is 5895m high so I think an empty stomach and a blinding headache are a small price to pay for making it up that high.



Now, I would in no way advocate my budget approach to the climb as my hastily acquired guide spoke little English and his conversation was very much limited to 'Go now', 'Stop Now', and my particular favourite 'This is where most people die'. The one day I tried to engage him in a longer conversation and asked him why the other teams on the mountain had medical kits and oxygen tanks with them he just barked "No medicine for mountain - just need power.' Every morning that was his mantra, 'You feel the power?', by Day 3 I was starting to feel like a cross between a Power Ranger and a Spice Girl!! That and the fact that the only other English speaking member of the crew was one of the porters who spent the whole time following me singing Enrique Iglesias 'I can be your hero baby'. Alas that was the only line he knew so he just repeated it over and over and over again!!



So, if you contemplate following in my (slow) footsteps, my advice would be this...
(a) Spend a long time choosing which tour company you go with and
(b) Spend even longer choosing which knickers to wear (its pretty tricky struggling up to the summit with fat sausage fingers stuffed down your freezing cold trousers trying to retrive deeply inappropriate pants that have taken up residence down by your equally chilly knees!!)

All this aside, I feel blooming fantastic to be the 2nd Moyles to make it all the way - Bring on Everest!!!


(Pic 1 - the start, Pic 2 - My Birthday accomodation, Pic 3 - the view from the top, Pic 4 - my certificate for making it down alive!!)

The curious incident of the headless chicken

My last mention of Village life....

Having left Yamba I waited in Milingano (the nearest 'big' town) for my bus. Whilst sitting there minding my own business I felt something tap me on the back, repeatedly. Eventually I turned round to find a chicken trying unsuccessfully to take flight. It kept making it about a foot off the ground before crashing back down again. This went on for a good 60 seconds before I realised the fundamental problem was the fact that the chicken was missing its head. Said missing item was being casually held by a nonchalant looking boy who was chatting away to his mate quite oblivious to the fact that the main portion of his dinner was making a bid for freedom by hitching a ride on my rucksack.

I have temporarily returned to my vegetarian roots!!

My crazy time in Yamba

I use the word crazy not because of any late nights or wild parties, but for the fact that I spent my entire working life in Yamba becoming a crazy paving expert. Seriously, If I could invent a time machine and head back to 1979 I could make a cracking living for myself doing up driveways - I'm that good!!

It's incredibly hard work, with long days spent on the site but its fab. The local builders are complete legends and delighted to have me here. Far from humouring me with easy tasks, they absolutely expect me to work beside them and equally as hard. I've became a proper little builder (with my very own hard hat and hammer!).

I take pride in the fact that I've completely held my own on the site and impressed the locals with my work ethic. I've even became a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to rock selection in my section.

Alas just 4 weeks is no way near enough time to get to know a place properly and it seems that no sooner have I arrived than its time to leave. The much needed school is well under way (with some super foundations - If I do say so myself!) and they are on schedule to finish in just three months time.


No matter how much credit I give to the men that are building the school the last mention must go to the women of Yamba village who are just incredible. They must have invented the word 'Multi-task'. Every single stone and bucket of water used on the site is brought there by a local woman. They carry them for miles on their heads. I have video footage to bore you with when I get back but the most amazing example was that of a girl, probably in her early 20s, who came to the site with 5 mud bricks on her head. This in itself is an incredible feat but she also had bags in both hands and on closer inspection a small child happily breast feeding on her front. She marched up to the site, offloaded the bricks perfectly, threw the bags at one of the men (his packed lunch I guess) , shoved the baby on her back and marched off to do it all again.

Makes a minimum wage job in McDonald's look pretty cushy eh!

I'm regretting not staying longer but for now it has been an absolutely amazing experience and I can't believe that I got to live somewhere so remote - albeit for such a short space of time. Life in Yamba isn't easy but you wouldn't know it from the welcome you get. They may hate their lack of electricity and transport but for me that this is all part of the charm. Unfortunately as well as lacking electricity and transport they are also missing a clean water source, a much needed doctor, affordable education, malaria nets and a sustainable way of living - the list goes on!

I'm still sitting on the fence with regards to the impact my presence (and the charity in general) has on the place. There is no arguing that the villagers need help and in many ways they are now getting it, but it'd be interesting to go back in 10 years time to see what impact Western support has had.

For now, this is Vicci Moyles saying farewell to charity work and heading back to a world of flushing toilets.
Till next time....
Vic xxxxx

A sad day in the village

As I mentioned in a previously entry one of my last days in the village was spent attending a funeral. I was working on the building site when we had word that a three day old baby had died and the funeral was that afternoon.

Immediately the men stopped working, as did everyone in the village, as they were expected to attend the funeral - as is the custom.

I was invited along and as callous as it sounds, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to go.

Luckily we only had to walk about an hour to get to the family's house (people often have to walk for 2 days to attend funerals) and immediately we were segregated. The women queued to offer their condolences to the Mother inside the hut and the men gathered on the grass at the back.

Before I really knew what was happening I was thrust inside a hut where the poor little body was laid out and lit up by candle light. It was hard to make out much else in the room as it was so dark so I mumbled my perfectly rehearsed condolence message to a table leg and hurried out.

We'd been told that the funeral was at 12 o'clock but at 4pm the priest still hadn't got there (due to the fact that he had to walk) and the village 'midwife' was getting tetchy as the body had started to smell. By this time I had got talking to some of the women outside (obviously with the help of a translator). The story was so incredibly sad.

The baby was born with an open sore on its back and needed to go to hospital. The family had no money to pay the medical bills so the father set off to the market with a goat to sell to raise the cash. On his way to the market one of the family had to run to catch him up to say it was too late, his son had died.

I asked a few questions later and it turns out that women in Yamba have on average 10 children, of which six are likely to survive. Meaning they will attend four of their own children's funerals (except they don't actually get to attend as only men can go to the burials). As this poor woman's child (her first) was being buried, she was stuck in the hut wailing.

It was incredibly fascinating as an outsider to be allowed to witness it all but unfortunately it is a regular occurrence for the locals, and an absolutely heartbreaking one at that!

Mrs Robinson I presume

I had made a promise to myself that on this trip I would avoid any situations requiring me to dress up in 'traditional' outfits but unfortunately due to a funeral in the village I was forced to strap on a khanga and bandage my head (I'll blog properly about the funeral later) for now I'll give you time to giggle at my ridiculous get up.

You can't really see in the piccie but each Khanga has writing around the bottom and ladies choose the fabric according to the message. Obviously my Swahili being very much on the basic side, I just said thank you to my neighbour for loaning me her stuff and strutted off down to the village.

Not surprisingly most Khangas have a religious theme, namely... My heart belongs to Jesus, God is the light etc, also some proverb-type messages... Be true to yourself, I will always be your friend, My heart is pure. It wasn't till I met one of the Village Africa staff with a better knowledge of Swahili than mine that I realised the message on my skirt read 'Fear not - I will not steal your husband' !!

I swear to you that's what it said !! The longer translation involved something about my heart being full already therefore meaning I wasn't looking for love and urgo all men in the village were safe.

Apparently being 36 and single is very suspicious and my neighbour obviously felt the need to help me put the record straight. Talk about a Khanga for every occasion!!