The Border Walk
On our way back from our Kabale-Lake Bunyoni hike, we ran into Felix, the owner of a tourist agency, who asked us if we were interested in going to the Congo to see some mountain gorillas. Desha's eyes lit up. We entertained the possibility long enough to meet disappointment when we realized neither Desha nor Nate had brought a passport along. Next time, we promised Felix, as we took his publicity leaflet; the number of entrepreneurs in this country, young and charismatic people who make a career out of the most ingenuous and original services, is astounding. Economic potential abounds. We did end up calling Felix again for a ride to Kisoro on Sunday morning, after countless failed attempts at hitching a ride and a self-loathing moment upon meeting hostility and stupidity from the mzungu overland truck passengers who had no idea where they were nor where they were going and were entirely uninterested in giving us a lift.
They say the road from Kabale to Kisoro is in terrible condition yet the most beautiful and scenic drive in the country, and again - those travel guides are correct. Hills become patchworks of bean, sorghum, and potatoe plantations and a quick stop in the middle of this canvass felt truly magical. Our driver dropped us off at the Uganda Wildlife Authority Office at 1pm, and when the ranger mentioned a 5-hour border walk as one of our hiking options, Desha's eyes immediately sparkled. The border walk, you mean the border with the Congo? The ranger nodded. Nate had no more say in any of this. We inquired about this border walk, and insisted we could do it that very day; we really didn't have much of a choice, since we all had to be back in Kampala by Monday night. The ranger seemed quite skeptical, but he radio'ed a few people and came back with good news. It seemed this was our lucky day. One guide, Sunday Charles was his name, would wait for us until 2p.m. at the mouth of Mgahinga National Park. This was 13 km away on a very bad dirt road. A 40 minute car ride. A 30 minute boda ride. In the following 20 minutes, utter chaos ensued; I'm not sure how we did it, but we snapped at each other and we snapped at the hotel managers who promised good rates and then refused to budge and we snapped at the vendor who only had crackers called "Glucose" for lunch and we snapped at the boda drivers who wanted to charge us USh 10,000 for a USh 6,000 ride. We were certainly victims of the mzungu price. Yet by 1.30pm, we had our hard-ass negotiated USh 7,000 boda rides, our hard-ass negotiated USh 18,000 hostel room for three, our stock of glucose and water, and our mission to get to Sunday Charles by 2pm.
We got to Sunday Charles by 2.30pm after a boda ride across a wall of dust, and the campground manager laughed at me when I arrived, and unabashedly exclaimed that I was so dusty I "looked oriental". Cultural norms are very different in Uganda.
Sunday Charles rocked. We strolled into the park for 20 minutes, waited in a hut for reinforcement, and then headed out - three bazungus and three armed rangers - to the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
The weapons, they were to scare off the animals. And the border with the DRC, it was in the middle of the Verunga Forest and the Verunga mountain range. Panicking at this point in the blog post would be entirely unjustified.
The hike to the border was single-handedly the best hike of my life. It was physically intense but beautiful and ever-surprising with new fauna and terrain. From the eucalyptus trees to the bamboo shoots, from the dark density of a tall forest to the refreshing light of a clearing, from steep climbs to pleasant strolls. The dormant Verunga volcanoes towered over us in the background, looming and majestic. To our right was the DRC. To our left was Rwanda.
We reached the border and did the silly thing of jumping from one side to another, DRC, Uganda, DRC, Uganda, failed state, recovered state, failed state, recovered state. Heck, one picture of us and our armed rangers on the Congo side and you could even say we smuggled weapons into the DRC. You see, when you do political science, it's possible to be a big dork even in the field. No need for libraries and pristine university settings.
It was an amazing experience. We toyed with the idea of doing an early morning walk to the Rwanda/Congo/Uganda summit, but the logistics of having to get back to Kampala by Monday night got in the way. It had, after all, taken us three long and bumpy drives to get to where we were and we had to condense it all in one day to get back to the capital in time to meet our responsibilities and our schedules. The only consolation for me, the same justification I've used for not going to Kigali and for not going to Zanzibar, is this firm and steadfast belief that I will be back shortly.
We spent Monday on the road, hitching a beautiful ride on the back of a pickup truck with locals and empty jerrycans for the Kisoro-Kabale leg, catching an overcrowded matatu for the Kabale-Mbarara leg, and jumping on an overpriced bus for the Mbarara-Kampala leg. The rides got less and less comfortable and less and less beautiful and more and more expensive as we approached the capital. It was dark and cold by the time we reached Kampala, and we returned home after an endless day of travel.
We were cold. We were exhausted. We were starving. We had four days of dust under our nails and behind our ears. We had sore muscles in places we didn't even know muscles existed. And I fell asleep with a giddy heart, still pounding to the rythm of the Western landscapes and ready for my last week in the Pearl of Africa.
They say the road from Kabale to Kisoro is in terrible condition yet the most beautiful and scenic drive in the country, and again - those travel guides are correct. Hills become patchworks of bean, sorghum, and potatoe plantations and a quick stop in the middle of this canvass felt truly magical. Our driver dropped us off at the Uganda Wildlife Authority Office at 1pm, and when the ranger mentioned a 5-hour border walk as one of our hiking options, Desha's eyes immediately sparkled. The border walk, you mean the border with the Congo? The ranger nodded. Nate had no more say in any of this. We inquired about this border walk, and insisted we could do it that very day; we really didn't have much of a choice, since we all had to be back in Kampala by Monday night. The ranger seemed quite skeptical, but he radio'ed a few people and came back with good news. It seemed this was our lucky day. One guide, Sunday Charles was his name, would wait for us until 2p.m. at the mouth of Mgahinga National Park. This was 13 km away on a very bad dirt road. A 40 minute car ride. A 30 minute boda ride. In the following 20 minutes, utter chaos ensued; I'm not sure how we did it, but we snapped at each other and we snapped at the hotel managers who promised good rates and then refused to budge and we snapped at the vendor who only had crackers called "Glucose" for lunch and we snapped at the boda drivers who wanted to charge us USh 10,000 for a USh 6,000 ride. We were certainly victims of the mzungu price. Yet by 1.30pm, we had our hard-ass negotiated USh 7,000 boda rides, our hard-ass negotiated USh 18,000 hostel room for three, our stock of glucose and water, and our mission to get to Sunday Charles by 2pm.
We got to Sunday Charles by 2.30pm after a boda ride across a wall of dust, and the campground manager laughed at me when I arrived, and unabashedly exclaimed that I was so dusty I "looked oriental". Cultural norms are very different in Uganda.
Sunday Charles rocked. We strolled into the park for 20 minutes, waited in a hut for reinforcement, and then headed out - three bazungus and three armed rangers - to the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
The weapons, they were to scare off the animals. And the border with the DRC, it was in the middle of the Verunga Forest and the Verunga mountain range. Panicking at this point in the blog post would be entirely unjustified.
The hike to the border was single-handedly the best hike of my life. It was physically intense but beautiful and ever-surprising with new fauna and terrain. From the eucalyptus trees to the bamboo shoots, from the dark density of a tall forest to the refreshing light of a clearing, from steep climbs to pleasant strolls. The dormant Verunga volcanoes towered over us in the background, looming and majestic. To our right was the DRC. To our left was Rwanda.
We reached the border and did the silly thing of jumping from one side to another, DRC, Uganda, DRC, Uganda, failed state, recovered state, failed state, recovered state. Heck, one picture of us and our armed rangers on the Congo side and you could even say we smuggled weapons into the DRC. You see, when you do political science, it's possible to be a big dork even in the field. No need for libraries and pristine university settings.
It was an amazing experience. We toyed with the idea of doing an early morning walk to the Rwanda/Congo/Uganda summit, but the logistics of having to get back to Kampala by Monday night got in the way. It had, after all, taken us three long and bumpy drives to get to where we were and we had to condense it all in one day to get back to the capital in time to meet our responsibilities and our schedules. The only consolation for me, the same justification I've used for not going to Kigali and for not going to Zanzibar, is this firm and steadfast belief that I will be back shortly.
We spent Monday on the road, hitching a beautiful ride on the back of a pickup truck with locals and empty jerrycans for the Kisoro-Kabale leg, catching an overcrowded matatu for the Kabale-Mbarara leg, and jumping on an overpriced bus for the Mbarara-Kampala leg. The rides got less and less comfortable and less and less beautiful and more and more expensive as we approached the capital. It was dark and cold by the time we reached Kampala, and we returned home after an endless day of travel.
We were cold. We were exhausted. We were starving. We had four days of dust under our nails and behind our ears. We had sore muscles in places we didn't even know muscles existed. And I fell asleep with a giddy heart, still pounding to the rythm of the Western landscapes and ready for my last week in the Pearl of Africa.
posted by cla at 6:11 PM
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