As promised, the story continues...
Jen and I double-boda'd (like how I've made that a verb?) to
the bus station, remarking on the way about how both of our mothers would die
if they saw how we traveled around, helmetless, through the city traffic
madness. We met the others at the station and boarded the packed night bus.
Once everyone figured out where they were sitting and
settled in (which took about 40 minutes for some reason) we departed from
Kampala for Kisoro. I sat next to Anna and we chatted for a while before
eventually shoving earplugs in our ears and burrowing into our hoodies. Unfortunately, Anna's observation of
cultural differences in seemingly simple understandings of common courtesies
was tested thoroughly throughout the evening. The main culprit was the guy
seated directly behind her. He acted like a 7-year-old, but was clearly in his
20s, first actually hitting her on the head by grabbing the seat back several
times, then repeatedly turning his phone radio on, full volume and holding it up
in the bus to get a better signal, right behind our heads. This might not have
been too much of a bother if it just happened at the beginning of the trip, but
this dude would turn it off for a while, then decide at 2am that it was time to
listen to some songs again, and on full blast it would go. Funnily enough, even
though this guy was waking up the entire bus, no one said a word. Other times
people would be standing in the ailes and just start yell-talking to each other
without any regard to the fact that the bus was full and it was now 4 in the
morning.
The long, treacherous bus ride arrived to Kisoro around
6am. We departed, delirious, and I
haggled with the boda guys at the stage outside the bus station in order to
catch rides up to Mt. Gahinga lodge, at the base of the dormant volcano. This
rode up was unreal. Not only was it mostly mud, entirely uphill, and incredibly
slippery, it was riddled with pot holes and large rocks, so the bike would spin
its wheels or spit out randomly, and we fishtailed all over as I gripped the
"oh shit" back handle for dear life for about 45 minutes as the sun
rose. Anna got dumped twice as the boda driver lost control of his bike and I
realized I actually lost skin on my pinky finger knuckle from holding so
tightly to the back of the scooter. We arrived with blood-shot eyes and shaking
nerves to the lodge, a rustic, charming place with eight private bandas built
into the hillside. We dropped our bags, used the eco-friendly "drop
toilets" and sat down in the lodge for breakfast.
After a delicious breakfast of toast, nutella, eggs, fresh
fruit, porridge and coffee, we retired to our room and collapsed into the
fluffy beds. Two hours later, I realized I was still sleeping, and dragged
myself out of bed. We were considering the likelihood of motivating ourselves
for a hike when it started to pour. And I am from Oregon, and this was some
serious rain. (See ominous clouds below.)
So we went to the lodge, sat by the fire, ate some more, chatted with the others that arrived, drank tea, played a rousing tournament of "Shithead" (a card game) and generally acted like little old women. It was great.
The next morning we arose for breakfast (a welcome repeat
performance) and met up with the others to head to the base of Sabyinyo. This
mountain is quite tall, and I think I suddenly realized what hiking uphill for
8 hours might mean. We met our guide, John, who explained the journey and the
fact that we shouldn't be alarmed by the other guide walking ahead of us with
the AK-47, because he was just there to protect us should an errant buffalo
come charging our way. Super reassuring.
We began walking around 9:30am, and got about 20 minutes
away from the wildlife center when Anna stopped. Her chest cold was bothering
her, and she was having trouble catching her breath. She decided to drop out of
the hike, realizing that if she was having trouble at the beginning, she would
never make it for the next 8 hours. And so four became three. We waited as our
guide walked her half-way back down the trail to meet someone to escort her,
and began our hiking again around 10:00am. At this point we were about two
hours behind schedule, and I was restless and ready to get going. I soon
discovered the pace we were to be traveling would involve quite a bit of
patience. Jen and Ric were in
horrible shape. That, paired with the fact that we were essentially trudging
through a swamp for the first hour and a half kept the momentum at a crawl. My running shoes were soon black with
mud and soggy. At one point my
foot sank knee-high into the mud, and visions of quick sand and The Princess
Bride flashed through my mind.
The swamp opened to a bamboo forest area, as we clacked
along, using our own bamboo walking sticks to hop over muddy sections and
support ourselves along the banks of
the water as we walked. Bamboo opened up to another marshy section, then
more bamboo, then, about 2 hours in, John announced that the real hiking was
about to begin.
We were blessed with dry weather for most of the trip, which
was incredibly lucky this time of year. I was hiking ahead with AK-47, then
stopping and waiting frequently for the others to catch up and catch their
breaths. We were about 45 minutes away from the first peak when John was
remarking about the time and how far behind we were. I asked if we would have
to turn around early, disappointed, and he finally gave me the go-ahead to walk
on with AK-47 and reach the peak. (We were beyond buffalo danger at that
altitude and it wasn’t as necessary to keep together, apparently.)
And so three became one.
Relieved, I set off, trailing behind AK-47 as he left me in
his dust. (Apparently hiking this thing like three times a week makes you
pretty fit, and quick.) My heart
pounded as we reached vertical areas fashioned with hand-made ladders nailed
into the mountainside, gnarled branches serving as stairs, not without gaps,
broken areas and times when the whole ladder would shift under pressure. At
certain points we had to crawl upward on all fours, not unlike the great apes
that used to frequent the area. (The gorilla families have since moved south to
Rwanda.)
We stopped, suddenly. There was rumbling below. I couldn’t tell if it was
thunder or mortar fire. Unfortunately AK-47 didn’t mince words, (or speak a ton
of English,) and wouldn’t explain to me what was happening. We stood in one
spot for about 15 minutes as he called to the guide below, eventually taking
the walkie-talkie from him in order to call the Ugandan Wildlife Authorities
and ask questions in Luganda about what was going on in the Congolese jungle. I
asked if there was danger, and he seemingly scoffed at my question.
About 45 minutes later reached the first peak of the three
“teeth” after which Sabyinyo is named. “Peak One.” AK-47 expressed, matter-of
factly. We stopped for a brief rest, I dug into my packed lunch and shared my
gorilla-shaped cookies and hard-boiled egg with him. The gunfire below
continued, and it was clear that it was no longer just the occasional burst of
thunder. I asked if they were firing in the Congo and he said yes, the rebels
were fighting down there. I didn’t
like the way he would stop and listen to the walkie talkie and stare down
below, but it seemed we were safe where were were. We were waiting for the rest
of the group, but I asked if we could continue on in order to finish all three
peaks. The clouds in the distance were dark and rain was on the way. He also
made a comment that it wasn’t safe to still be hiking in the dark since he only
had one gun. Yay!
We continued, down peak one, and up the dip to peak two, climbing
ladders almost entirely now up the vertical sides. “Peak two,” he
unceremoniously stated. Same routine and we reached peak three. It was a lot of
sweat labor to get up and down these peaks quickly, but I did get some
beautiful pictures on peak two before the clouds rolled in. We turned around
after reaching peak three and headed back to meet the others. It was
precarious, to say the least, to navigate these shifty ladders back down the
mountain, and I had several flashing images of my body bouncing down the
mountainside, never to be seen again.
We caught up with the others on the way down about an hour after we had
initially left them. Then the rain
caught us.
The downward hike continued for about 2.5 more hours, with
stop-an-go shuffling to keep pace with the others. It probably didn’t help that
I was now completely soaked, mostly muddy, and my muscles were already cramping
a bit, but I definitely felt “over it” at that point. By the time we reached
the alternating bamboo/marsh areas, I barely attempted to avoid the waterways
and muddy sections, since “keeping clean and dry” was now futile. I finally
went ahead during the last 15-minute leg to the wildlife center, because I was
planning on catching the night bus back to Kampala, and it was already nearing
5:30pm.
At the lodge, I reunited with Anna, and upon realizing that
the bus would leave Kisoro at 8:00pm (instead of 9) and it was at least an hour
to get to the station, I was still covered in mud, soaking wet, hungry and
grumbling, it might be a better idea to skip out on work the next day (which
was pointless to attend anyway since all offices were closed for Easter Monday)
and take a morning bus instead. I called a couple of my coworkers to inform of
the new plan, and settled in for another (welcome) “boring” night at the lodge.
And like Jesus, we rose again Monday morning, and headed back to Kampala.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)