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Published: April 2nd 2010
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Like the poor boy in that news story I also get a bit shafted on my way out of Uganda's capital. Once again I am shamelessly lied to by the usual hucksters that inhabit the main bus station in Kampala. Although repeatedly assured that the bus goes to my desired destination of Fort Portal, I learn too late that it in fact does a massive loop south-west then north to Kasese. Discovering this halfway into the journey I get off at the tongue twisting Mbarara, demand half my money back and give the bus guys a self-important and inevitably futile telling off for their mendacity. They give me that typically blank look of incomprehension that gradually morphs into the hurt visage of the personally insulted. They react as if I'm crazy for not wanting to double the distance and price of my journey before arriving in the wrong town after dark and still having to change bus (if there are still any running). I am obliged to waste a night in Mbarara but ultimately the inconvenience only costs me a day and a few extra shillings and, with the most direct route (a least in terms of distance) to Fort Portal
now along a neglected dirt track, I alter my plans to incorporate the Bigodi Wetlands which lie about three quarters of the way along this path. I have to change vehicles between Mbarara and Bigodi and the last hour is spent in a battered saloon car in which we cram eight other passengers; the sort of squeeze you might do for a laugh as a teenager with mates back home, but not for an actual proper journey.
I'm starting to get a little bit miffed with Uganda's unrelenting downpours. The rainy season isn't due for at least two or three weeks, yet every day the clouds mercilessly hunt me down and drop their load on my bedraggled head. This is a serious inconvenience for my visit to the wetlands because the reputedly abundant butterflies and birds, of which there are supposedly 200 species in the area, have all dived for cover. We spot a few birds and some Colobus monkeys but all are cowering high in the trees. I enjoy the walk itself, but the scarcity of fauna, and my lacklustre guide - I suspect he too would much prefer to be under some shelter - make the
excursion a bit of a damp squib.
I hitch a lift on the back of a pick-up out of Bigodi - the seats are reserved for the driver’s healthy looking crop of pineapples, papaya and pumpkin. As I hop off in Fort Portal I reflect with a little sadness that in three months of travel this is the first time I’ve had a free ride.
The town is a relaxed place and, when the clouds part, it offers great views of the distant Rwenzori Mountains. From here I can make a detour to visit a village of Batwa pygmies a couple of hours away via a spectacular drive down through the Rwenzori foothills, which finishes just beyond the geysers of Semuliki National Park. The establishment of this park has forcibly displaced the Batwa out of their traditional homes and away from their hunter-gatherer way of living. They now scrape by with unfamiliar pastoral ways and whatever they can make from limited tourism. After a perfunctory guided talk, I can see their struggle for myself. The village is small and I am told the total population in this area is only 96. One man proudly shows me
Raindrops
Bigodi wetlands his home of two rooms and I congratulate him on his seven children. They all sleep in a room of just a couple of square metres. The whole experience is very voyeuristic and I feel thoroughly uncomfortable throughout. The pygmies do a "traditional dance" half-heartedly then ask for hand-outs or for me to buy their handicrafts before losing interest and going back to lounging around listlessly. They have no qualms about me photographing them but their melancholy disinterest makes me feel like I'm looking at forlorn prisoners that have lost all hope of freedom.
After returning to Fort Portal I march on south to Kasese and from here I head right up to the base of the Rwenzori. For the last segment of this journey I catch a boda-boda to Ruboni Community Campsite. Either the gods have grown bored of teasing me or are at least prepared to throw me a reprieve, because suddenly the sun rips apart the shapeless haze of cloud and bathes me in its late afternoon rays. This brief journey is fantastic, bouncing along the gravely dirt track up to the campsite accompanied by whoops of "mzungu" on all sides, with the intimidating, jagged
Rwenzori, blanketed in billowing, fluffy cloud, rising ahead. This is what I love about travelling.
My visit to the mountains of western Uganda is a very masochistic exercise. The mystical 'Mountains of the Moon' as the Rwenzori are known provide some of Africa's most spectacular and challenging hiking, including the continent's third highest peak; Mt. Stanley. Unfortunately they require at least a week to tackle and at a cost of around $100 a day this is far beyond my budget. Instead I have come just to gaze longingly at them and to venture briefly into the foothills. This is a lot harder than I naively expected. I ascend about 4500 feet in only a couple of hours and the going is very tough. Thick, vindictive vegetation overgrows the "path" and lashes out repeatedly as I pass. The summit offers decent views of the Portal Peaks but the distant peak of Mt. Stanley is obscured by cloud. I take a slightly different track back. This route is even more densely covered by hostile plants, making it impossible to see the scarce flat patches for footholds. Combined with the already slippery mud and reedy vines which populate the path this
makes the descent like trying to walk down a sheet of ice. I fall. A lot.
Returning to Kasese I am fortunate to stumble across a matutu crew heading for Kabale. I specifically ask them if it's direct. They say yes. They are lying. Nevertheless I am able to change along the way without too much hassle. The ride however is terrifying. I am lodged in the 'death seat' at the front and pretty soon the rain begins to fall heavily. I can barely see anything through the condensation on the front window and worryingly the driver's view is hardly any better. This doesn't faze him and he speeds furiously for the entire journey, overtaking blindly when summiting crests in the road on more than one occasion. I've become accustomed to reckless driving in Africa but this guy is an absolute imbecile. Anything at all coming the other way and we would all die a swift, concertinaed death. For the fifth time in total, and the third in five days, I cross the Equator without being able to stop for a touristy picture.
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