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!)

The 8 days of Safari

In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey....

(mind you I am now posting this a week late)

It’s a Monday and I’m not at work. That, in and of itself, is reason to be glad. I am currently writing this post from Kyambura Gorge in Queen Elizabeth Park. By the time I get Internet access and get this online, I will probably be in the middle of Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, or maybe even Rwanda. I’m on an 8-day “familiarization” trip with four other staff from the Kampala office. It has been wonderful thus far to get out of the city, see the lodges and meet the extraneous staff sprinkled around Western Uganda and Rwanda.

Yesterday was my first time seeing game in the wild. I got some blurry and other less-than-terrible pictures of elephants, water buffalo, warthogs, kob, waterback, birds, etc. Then my camera battery ran out. Unfortunately this happened on the boat cruise portion of our day, and prior to our insistent search for a lion during our evening game drive. To which we actually succeeded—a mother lion and three cubs. It was incredible to see them in the wild, although she was wearing a sort of radio collar, apparently tagged by park rangers or something, which I admit removed quite a bit of the wild African allure.

We began the journey in Kampala, driving about six hours to Queen Elizabeth National Park "Uganda's most visited game reserve," and finally Kyambura Gorge Safari Lodge. Enroute we stopped for street food, pineapple, roasted casava and bananas, I tried (mostly unsuccesfully) to understand my three coworkers' conversations in Luganda with our guide, Amon and enjoy the scenery.

 

...

We rolled into the town of Kasese, and took a little side-road detour. The conversation the car was lively, and the guys had decided we would stop briefly to attend a kwanjula. I had no idea what a kwanjula was, and they told me quickly it was a wedding introduction ceremony, where the bride is formally introduced to the husband's family, and the village-at-large.  At this type of ceremony, she is also bartered for, and it's officially decided how many cows (or a combination of cows/goats/chickens/land) she's worth. Then the husband's family is expected to pay up.

 We didn't seem prepared to attend anything remotely related to a wedding, but I was trapped in the car.

Amon approached an area full of locals, literally 100 people crammed into a picnic-area sized field. To my complete embarrassment, we rolled right in: rumbling safari vehicle full of plain-clothes dressed Ugandans and two muzungus. Everyone stared. In my mind, crickets chirped.  The crowd's attention had shifted from the ceremony to the strange group that had crashed the party. My coworker Didas said hello to a woman he was friends with (apparently the reason we were crashing this thing in the first place) and we were ushed to a bench near a pile of children, that had been cleared for our behalf.

If not for the man with the microphone shouting things in their local language to the crowd, everyone would have probably kept staring--but music was playing the bride was dance/walking toward the groom tent, and everyone wanted to see what would happen next as she played the game of "where is my husband-to-be?" There was a table full of symbolic food items and decorations, matching bridesmaids (I imagine) and people seated in rows to participate in the celebration.

I could have taken photos for hours with all the children and local Ugandans in traditional dress, foreign displays of tradition that I was suddenly allowed to witness and participate in. Rarely do I get a chance to point a camera in people's faces without having to ask permission or feel like some shameless tourist.

  
 
 
 

…

Now it’s Wednesday. I am in Mt. Gahinga lodge, where I spent Easter. I love the scenery.

(That’s as far as that post got—which I find funny, so I am leaving it in its “eloquent simplicity.”)

I had very limited and spotty Internet access over the course of this trip, and not much time to myself, nor leftover willpower at the end of the day to actually write or process anything, so I did a pretty crumby job at detailing this trip.... 


Good thing I've got photos to make up for it! More safari fun to come!

Lights, camera, AcTioN!

Over a month ago, I was invited to join a local makeup artist, Sylvia Kawalya, to prepare models backstage for the Sylvia Owori "Forever Love" fashion show. The planned, donated makeup services had folded last minute because of funds being sent to hairpieces (and someone who knew how to assemble them) so we were called in as a favor.

The Ugandan models were visibly underwhelmed by the idea of having some unknown muzungu do their makeup for the show. I knew this was one of those "fake it til you make it" moments in life so I acted completely unaffected by the arrogant attitudes of the models, and made it look like something I had done a million times before.

We worked frantically on 20+ models for almost two hours until the start of the show.

It was great to pretend to be a "serious" makeup artist....

I may have another, completely unrelated fashion show coming up in May. It's funny, in some ways you can really become whoever you want here. I think that's something about Uganda that appeals to Westerners. You can suddenly feel like a big fish in a little pond, or have opportunities that might evade you back home.

Some pics from the event are below.

 

 

 

 

 

Alive!

Saturday night something happened that today feels like a bit of a dream. I went to a big house party with two friends, Andro and Anna. We left around 1:30am and were walking along the road back towards his apartments which was approximately a 15 to 20 minute walk away. Anna wanted to hop on a boda boda, so we flagged a guy down. We were squishing together to see if all three of us could fit together, trying unsuccessfully to end the evening in a comedic downward spiral. We could have made it work, but another boda guy pulled up, so the driver we were smooshing told one of us to get on the other bike. We were literally going to just ride them down the hill, for about 2 minutes, to reach the "Radio Simba" building, a very centralized, well-known place, and walk down that little dirt road to Andro's place. I hopped on the other boda as driver number one was telling him in Luganda where we were headed, just down the road.

Andro and Anna's guy took off, and we trailed behind, slowly. Very slowly. I had been imbibing, so to speak, and therefore happened to be only half-watching where we were at on the main road. The boda driver was driving for about a minute and then he said something about how we had passed Radio Simba. "Oh, ok well I guess it's right back there then," I remarked, and we slowed and took a 180 degree turn to head down a small road. By now I was actually looking at where we were going, trying to shake the gin-fizziness out of my head. The driver took the dirt road, which dipped sharply off the main, and I realized it was definitely not the Radio Simba road. He accelerated suddenly, and I had a strong wave of instinctual, self-preservation-type fear jolt through my body. This road was completely dark, and he seemed to suddenly be in a hurry, (in stark contrast to how quickly we had fallen behind the other boda guy with my friends) and we were definitely not going the right way.

In my mind, flashing thoughts passed of warnings I had heard about riding with strange boda drivers, especially at night. A friend of a friend recently relayed a story of a female friend of his who had a boda driver take her down some wrong turn, a quiet road, and throw himself on her. She managed to fight him off and get away, but it actually had caused me to think twice about being so casual with whose bike I was getting on the back of, especially as a single female at night. The funny thing was, since I was only going about five minutes down the road, and following behind my two friends on another boda, I hadn't thought twice about riding with this guy.

As I said, he had accelerated and that moment of fear and pure adrenaline rushed through me, and I felt cold-stone sober as I instinctually grabbed his neck from behind, digging my fingers tightly into his jugular, and growled, "Turn Around, NOW! This is not Radio Simba!" I think I scared--or at least surprised-- him at that moment because he slowed and quickly turned the bike around. He then acted like he didn't know where Radio Simba was, and needed me to direct him. I couldn't tell if he was putting on an act at this point, because he realized that I was a fighter and wasn't going to be some easy victim. He acted like he didn't speak much English (many uneducated Ugandans actually don't speak much English) and kept remarking about which way he should go, and I needed to tell him and whatnot. This seemed incredibly strange. Here I was, mostly drunk, wondering if I just misinterpreted the entire situation, but also not trusting this guy at all, and completely in-tune with the strong self-preservation instinct that had taken over me. It was strange for several reasons: the driver had received directions from boda-guy number 1, any driver I've ever spoken to about this area knows where this radio station is, or at least knows the grocery store right next to it off the main road, and this guy's behavior just seemed sketchy to me, for whatever paranoid (or upper intelligence) reason.

We made the remainder of the three minute journey down the road where Andro and Anna were standing next to their driver, worried.
"What happened?!" "I was about to come back and look for you."
"Apparently we got lost." I deadpanned. I had no intention of paying the driver who may or may not have been trying to assault me, but Andro handed him 1,000 shillings. We began walking down the dirt road and I relayed my story to them. We realized that even if Andro had come back for me, if we had continued down that dirt road, he would have had no idea how to find me off the main route.

I'm still not sure what happened. I hope I only misinterpreted the situation and borderline attempted to strangle a stranger. All I know is that whatever voice that sometimes speaks up within us and guides us in an enlightened way told me to do something fast in that moment, and strangling my driver was the first thought that crossed my mind.

Other than that, all's well that ends well in Kampala. Stay tuned!

Self-deprecating thoughts

I'm feeling pretty technologically overwhelmed right now.

I don't know if it's normal to have this kind of inferiority complex--or if I'm just in some weird (lasting) mood, but I feel like:

I'm not doing enough to contribute to the well-being of others, humanitarian issues, general do-gooderness.
I'm not well enough informed about political and social issues, here in Uganda, at home, and elsewhere in the world.
I don't know what I should be doing for work or how to improve my daily situation to feel useful in more ways.
I can't write well enough, nor do I even understand social media well enough to create any useful blog, site etc, that could share said intelligent information, assuming I could actually figure out how to measure it in a consumable way (articles, photos, etc)
I feel like my education and experience thus far has been wasted. I have a Masters Degree in Communications, I've had professional jobs for ten + years, and for what?

When work is slow, I sit here in front of the computer, and don't even know where to start. Do I look for a new job? Do I start researching places to move to that I might enjoy living in more? Do I find volunteer opportunities so I can stop looking inwardly so heavily, invest in others and try to take it day-by-day? When I read other people's blogs, photo diaries, and news reviews, I feel like I should pull down this blog and give up.

Am I just lazy and hate working? All I can think of when I ask myself "what is it I most like to do?" are strange, random things:

playing soccer
being outside, preferably in the sun
creating perfect playlists (would gladly accept a job as a movie soundtrack compilation artist)
being near the ocean, on a beach, in the water (but have an irrational fear of sharks, nonetheless)
learning languages, being somewhere where I see myself improving in that regard
speaking Spanish
travelling to new, fascinating places
dancing
eating dessert and delicious foods in general

None of these things are jobs! How can I be professionally unemployed?!

Do other people feel this lost all the time?

Love Lost

I could be anywhere in the world right now, and I’d still be feeling and thinking the same thing. I just so happen to be in Kampala, Uganda.

What, pray tell, is occupying my mind?

A couple of things.

But mainly love.

That wonderfully complex emotion that isn’t even a tangible thing, and yet no one would dare deny its existence.

I, like many (or most) hope to fall in love, be in love and/or stay in love. I am super cynical and jaded of the reality of it happening, thanks to a handful of failed relationships that have left me gasping for air, and at the same time I'm relentlessly hopeful that it still will. So allow me to wax poetic a moment while also riddling this posting with links to songs about love. 

What I don’t understand is how men and women can be so completely different when inherently we want the same things: compassion, support, laughter, companionship, intimacy, etc. Sure, people care about those things at varying levels, and some might argue that they don’t want to be in relationships, but for the most part, I think people crave love.

Now, it’s always hard to be the one at the end of a relationship who has to hear that the other person has moved on faster, is dating (or marrying!) someone else, and is no longer hung up on the idea of getting back together, working things out, seeing what the future brings, etc, etc.  I just feel like for the past few years (gulp!) I always end up being that person. I’ve called myself a commitment fluffer. (I just get the guys ready for the next girl that comes after me, then they’re ready to be that committed boyfriend or husband I was hoping for all along.) If you don’t understand the reference of this terminology you are a better person than I.

And I’m not a relationship-dependent… I spend a significant amount of time alone attemptin to be an autonomous, complete person in spite of my relationship status. It really bothers me when friends consistently ditch out to be with their significant other, or can’t seem to stay single longer than a week.  I truly appreciate independent women that know how to be happy and don’t need to define themselves by being with another person (which is basically impossible anyway, by the way.) It just gets harder each year. And I am of the age where friends are starting to get married, (or have been married for years already,) have babies and settle into some sort of domestic “bliss.” The challenge for me is negotiating among the two sides of my personality that are constantly battling. I crave that sort of security and companionship in a person who fits me completely; I would love to be in love. (It’s seriously the best thing when it’s good… isn’t it!?) And at the same time, I cannot imagine feeling stuck, stationary and option-less in Small Town, USA. I still want to see many parts of the world. I still need to figure out who I truly am and what my purpose is.

But I crave love anyway.

So it’s hard to be that person that seems to be left behind in that regard. It takes me a long time to trust and fully let myself love someone, but once I do, its real and doesn’t seem to go away... um, like, ever. Too bad it has never yet been the case on the other end.

It may seem melodramatic, but I do often wonder if I am going to be a single woman forever, and have to learn to deal with that. Maybe it’s a cultural faux pas that makes me believe these things, maybe it’s my biological clock freaking the eff out. Who knows. But here I am, in Africa, feeling lonely and thinking these thoughts.

And the problem is, I don’t think I like cats enough to make that whole crazy cat lady thing work for me. Maybe I’ll create a zoo, then at least I can have a little more pet variety.

....

And because one of the beautiful things about blogs is that they are InTErAcTiVE… if any of you 15+ readers (or secretly more, this blog has 700 views since Feb!) have thoughts to add on this topic, I’m seriously grasping at straws here.  xo

Sabyinyo with AK-47(s)

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.