If ever there was a rude awakening, this was definitely it.
Itâs early. Itâs been one hell of a journey to get here, the house rat has kept us awake and I need my shut-eye. I turn over and try to get back to sleep.
But itâs not to be.
Above my head the gates of hell burst open. Â
At any moment I feel the roof will give way and whateverâs out there will land on us; I canât imagine whatâs making such a racket. The noise seems to move from one side of the roof to the other.
âWhat the hell âŚ?â I shout at Steve.
The unholy din subsides.
Woken from my deep sleep Iâm not appreciating the hullabaloo created by the family of Red-tailed monkeys â locally known as Enkima – emerging from the forest to clamber across Stevieâs little tin-roofed shack in search of breakfast.
Thereâs a rat in the rafters, what Iâm a gonna doâŚ
Across the field of pineapples, tucked away in a damp corner at the edge of the Impenetrable Forest, stands my home for the week-end. Itâs a typical Ugandan construction: a coating of plaster covers a wattle and daub box; shutters cover the two paneless windows. Thereâs no electricity, no running water and the toilet, an earthen pit latrine, is a two minute stumble in the dark from the house.
My first night in Bwindi, mosquito nets tucked in tightly, we take bets about whose bed the rat will scamper across in the night. We snuff out the kerosene lamp. As our laughter subsides, the house comes to life. Thereâs a definite pitter patter of small feet and itâs getting louder.
âItâs in the rafters above us!â Steve cries. âItâs coming over!â
Weâve attempted to pull the warped bedroom door shut but rats make their own rules. They love height. I try not to snigger; I secretly look forward to a rodent encounter.
The morning after
With the upstairs neighboursâ party over, but unable to go back to sleep, I get up to make some tea. As I go to light the gas ring, the rat leaps out from beneath the metal casing. Itâs a whopper.
Mug in hand, I wander outside to investigate the bird-like âtut tutâ coming from a nearby tree. I twitch, ready to reach for my binoculars.
A blue face peers down at us. He sports a white, heart shaped patch on his nose. Pure white cheek whispers frame his distinctive features. Â Seen straight on, the effect is quite alarming.
Resting to feed on some leaves, his sumptuous long copper tail loops suggestively around a branch. He quietly chomps away. His thick tail fur glows russet in the sunâs early rays.
âHe must like women,â Steve comments âheâs never let me get this close before,â he says, sounding slightly put out. Steve has lived here for six months. I smile at my luck.
Wildlife enthusiasts thrill at the chance to get so close to nature but itâs a grind to have to deal with this kind of behaviour every day, especially when you have your own family to feed, but I admit to a real soft spot for these forest guenons.
Nagawa, protector of the Red Tailed Monkey
âYou must have a Ugandan name,â my friend Rashid had insisted one day, and so I was named Nagawa, protector of the Enkima clan. In Uganda, each clan is represented by a totem, which can be an animal, bird, fish or plant. You are not allowed to hunt, eat or kill your totem. I am honoured to have been awarded custody of such a fabulous creature.
Our red-tailed observer follows us around the clearing as we finish our tea.
The sunlight picks out a spectrum of colours in the grizzled brown fur of his back. The white fur on his belly looks as soft and downy as a baby rabbitâs. I imagine how it might feel to brush my face against it.
A little later, Enkima pauses on the dry banana leaf roof of the chicken shed, peering beneath his front feet into the empty shed below. The chicken was carried off by the Safari ants one week-end while Steve was out of town.
The chicken may have gone but a bag of feed remains to tempt a hungry monkey. He quickly climbs down the outside of the shed and hops inside to grab a handful of feed before heâs jumping away across the roof of the house, back to his family waiting in the larger trees.
Monkey business done for the day, a bucket shower and a breakfast chapatti beckon.
To find out more about how protecting your totem can help conservation, visit the artist Taga’s brilliant Me and My Totem web site.
This story took place on the edge of Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, south western Uganda. It was my entry into this year’s BBC Wildlife Nature Writer of the Year competition. Alas I was unsuccesful – fingers crossed for another year then!