Notes from the "Jungle"

It is now Thursday, this morning we began at Mt. Gahinga Lodge, three of us tracked Golden Monkeys after breakfast, got caught in a rainstorm, ate lunch in a bamboo and grass-thatch hut to protect ourselves from the worst of the rain, then made our way back down to the lodge.  The rumbling thunder continued, reminding us that when it came to hiking on the Virungas, Mother Nature is still in charge.  Shameless plug: to remember my adventures in this same lodge over Easter weekend, check out the new addition to the company blog!

I changed out of my soaking-wet clothes and put more hydrocortisone on my eye. Why, you may ask, was I putting such a thing near my eye?

Well, banage (my friends,) yesterday, after eating my picnic lunch in the Rujiho forest enroute from Bwindi to Mgahinga, I so happened to be visited by a very pissed-off wasp. This little shit basically dive-bombed my face as I was walking to the toilets, stinger first, and stuck himself under my right eye. I realized quickly that I had been stung, but soon thereafter also realized that the convulsing I was feeling was its little body still writhing directly below my lower eyelashes thanks to his stinger, implanted in my flesh, trapping him from flying away. “Help, help! I got stung and it’s stuck!” or some other nonsense left my mouth, and Paul helped pull him out of my face. It hurt like hell and the first-aid kit in the car was entirely unhelpful, being filled with basically gauze and spray antiseptic.  I am pretty much on my own.

Today half of my face doesn’t look quite right, and for some reason, hiking in the morning inflamed the poison so everything is a bit off, I smile and one cheek won’t quite respond; looking down looks, well, funny. But I digress.

Upon arriving to the lodge, a small group of the Batwa pigmy people living in the area had gathered to wait for our return in order to perform a traditional dance. The Twa as they are called in plural, used to live in the forest that has since been changed to a national protected park and dislocated them from their traditional way of life. Their story is not unlike that of the Native Americans, Australian aborigines, and basically every other indigenous group that has been forced to change their way of life thanks to globalization, population-growth, modernization, politics and greed.  It’s entirely ironic that tourists come from all over to pay $500 for a one-hour permit to see protected gorillas in the forest, and learn about the need for care and conservation of this endangered species, while the people who lived in complete harmony with the forest got a big ‘eff you’.  And I sell them these permits.

I took a ridiculous amount of pictures as the dancers began—children and teenagers clapping in time next to their mothers and grandmothers, a woman beating on a hand-made, animal-skin drum with a stick, the dancers’ colorful, varied African-print skirts flapping above their ankles, bells affixed to clothes wrapped on some to augment and harmonize the sounds being made by the heavy stamps of their feet.  Two of the women had babies swaddled to them by colorful cloths throughout the entire performance, the babies rendered immobile by the tight knots, and yet, seemingly perfectly content. My theory that African babies are better behaved than Western babies was tested and confirmed when the rain reappeared, subtly at first, then with a vengeance. The baby attached to mama drummer remained relaxed, stuck on her back over her folded frame, directly exposed to the onslaught of rain, and basically just took a nap alongside the singing and drumming. My other theory is that many of these babies are malnourished, and thus lack obnoxious Western baby tantrum energy.

One of our Volcanoes staff members translated for the chairman of the group, a man small in stature (although they are not really “traditional pigmy” size anymore, as generations have now been ‘mixing’ with locals, it seems are now just basically shortish-regular-sized people) and the man told the stories of their songs.  Most ranged from tales of life in the forest, to telling people they should learn about what could be of use, how good life was when all the meat, honey, fruits, medicinal plants and water was plentiful and free, and how life has now changed that they have had to adapt to the village. The final song thanked us for taking an interest in them and their culture, and bid us a safe journey as well as hopes of us returning to see them again.  The passion and vibrancy of these people emanated through their songs, joyful expressions, powerfully stamping feet, and spontaneous, shrieking calls.  The experience transfixed the entire group, and for a moment, took us back to a time in the woods, when the honey, meat and fruits were plenty.

…

We left after a hearty beef and pea lasagna and cabbage salad lunch for Volcanoes Virunga Lodge in Parc National des Volcans, past the border of Rwanda. We passed by foot over the border (apparently that’s how you do it here in Africa) and I inadvertently (and illegally) took a picture of the border crossing. Ric informed me that the action alone could land me in jail and I shoved iPhone into my pocket, but the guard at the gate already had me placed. When we approached, he asked me if I was taking pictures, to which I replied that I was going to, but had been informed I wasn’t allowed, so didn’t. He asked where we were headed and for how long, and I told him Volcanoes Virunga Lodge and that we’d be leaving in three days. He said I could stay in Rwanda, the others could go, but I would be staying. Fortunately for me, at this point he happened to be flirting rather than threatening to throw me in jail.

Upon entry into Rwanda, we met a few staff from the lodge who had come to meet us at the border. We all piled back into the Landcruiser and headed off for the lodge, driving on the right (figuratively and literally!) side of the road. My first impression of Rwanda, based on gazing through the windshield, was that it was cleaner, more organized, and something about it just seemed really nice.

The road detouring from the main led upward, beyond farms and a small school, and a temporary tented settlement where some prisoners are staying to do some agricultural work. We continued to a breathtaking peak, some 7,000 feet above Lake Bulera, to find the staff members waiting for us with our “welcome juice,” tart passionfruit, (a little Volcanoes treat) and smiles-a-plenty. The lodge is truly magnificent. I don’t think I’ll be going back to Kampala. The lodge looks like some freakish eco-hotel out of Travel and Style magazine or Condenast, something I would normally look at pictures of admiringly and yet fully aware of the fact that it is unlikely I will ever know what its like to stay there. At Virunga Lodge there is a 360-degree view of the lake, the five main virunga volcanoes and cubism-patched farmland below layered over the rolling hills below. Fog settled above the layers of land as dusk approached, and I gazed across the expanse, too over-whelmed to go get my camera and try and breakdown the scenery to digestible memory bites.

Tomorrow Richard tracks gorillas, and I get to walk to the lake, patter around the lodge and enjoy some of the purest oxygen one can find. This part of the country smells like aromatic firewood, eucalyptus and open space.

(Will add pictures once I clean 'em up and get 'em uploaded!)