WORDS: DOM TULETT
Nelson plays the drums by firelight. Isaac sits on a tree trunk bench and swings a bell with unending vigour. They carry no tune and I hear no rhythm, but still I join in, screaming my lyric: “Mouse!”
A similar stuttered symphony had kept me awake the previous night at my camp on the fringes of Uganda’s Queen Elizabeth National Park. At breakfast, I asked the waiter, Barnabus, if there had been a party.