In Kampala I stayed at a hotel overlooking the Owino street market, a chaotic sprawl of tarps, cardboard boxes, and just about any second-hand item from America you can imagine: shoes, shirts, radios, backpacks, batteries. Inside it was a muggy, claustrophobic sea of mud, splintered wooden planks, and vendors crouched next to their parcel of merchandise. Conveniently, the bus depot was only a block away, and I easily bought a ticket and boarded a rather civilized bus headed west for Fort Portal.
The 300km journey took only 7 hours, with the usual mysterious stops along the way, for which everyone had their own explanation. I’ve learned that questions such as when will we get there? or how long will it take? are futile in Africa. And the most challenging aspect of public transportation is not the inefficiency, but rather the pervasive, nauseating stench brewing among the passengers. Thus, window seats are imperative.
Many times the only means of public transport is the matatu (above): a rusted, squealing minivan brimming with up to 20 humans along with produce and livestock, driven by an overly aggressive teenager with nothing to lose. Speeding down highways and side streets on tiny bald tires, they whiz past cattle, bicyclists, and pedestrians like slalom poles. Fun for the whole family!
Mountains of the Moon
About an hour south of Fort Portal, I hopped out of a matatu at a lonely intersection, home to a dozen or so loitering young men and a chapatti stand. I quickly found a kid with a boda-boda (motorcycle) to give me a ride to Ruboni campground, 16km up a steep river canyon to the edge of the dense forests of Rwenzori National Park.
As I approached the park office later that day to inquire about trekking, I roused the two staff who were asleep on the benches outside the office. They informed me of the park regulation that a guide is required to enter the park. I asked, “Will I encounter poisonous snakes, leopards, or elephants?”
“No. Very rare.”
“Then why must I be accompanied by a guide carrying an assault rifle?”
“Ahhh- yes, the animals.”
In reality, I believe the purpose of the guide was to protect me from people, not animals. We were hiking less than 10km from the porous border with Congo, and it was not unheard of for guerrillas to enter Uganda from DRC and kidnap tourists. And, of course, it created a job for Eric.
Eric charged $5 per day as a guide. For a tip, I gave him a pair of Ray Bans that I found on the trail; he could sell them at Owino market in Kampala for nearly one month’s income. Eric’s physical fitness, English fluency, and knowledge of Rwenzori biology were rather mediocre. But he was a nice guy and I let him lead most of the way as a show of respect. After all, he was carrying an AK 47…
Lake Nkuruba
Stumbling upon Lake Nkuruba was a heartening improvement from the rigors of Kenya. A lush perch atop a hill with bandas (bungalows), hammocks, loads of monkeys, and several full-time cooks; a place you could easily waste away several days of doing nothing. The surrounding area is a dormant volcanic region beneath the Rwenzori Mountains, dotted with crater lakes among small villages and banana plantations.
Leo is surely one of the older men in the community, at age 62. A brick-maker, father of five, grandfather of perhaps a dozen, and a genuine statesman.
