As I put my bike together I was startled by an explosive bang right behind me, like a gunshot. I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to know what that was." This was, after all, Uganda: a place best remembered by foreigners for the murderous dictators Idi Amin and Milton Obote, mass graves and hostage takings. The sound of laughter behind me, however, made me turn away from my task. David Mozer – our trip leader – was holding up a blown tire to the crowd of onlookers that had gathered to watch us assemble our bicycles in the dry heat outside of Entebbe's airport.
Uganda, home of over 22 million people, sits upon the northern waters of Lake Victoria, Africa's largest lake. While neighboring Tanzania and Kenya draw in far more tourists per year, Uganda has earned a reputation of having the friendliest, most open people in East Africa. Even so, my motive for coming to Uganda was simpler: If I was going to travel to an equatorial country, I wanted it to be during the dreaded Canadian winter.
As Christine (a bicycle mechanic from Portland), David and I prepared to meet the others at our nearby hotel, David warned us of the traffic we might encounter during the next 12 days: "Ugandans," he told us, "are quiet, gentle people. But when they get behind the wheel of a car, they check their brains at the door." With his words echoing in my ears I followed, both nervous and excited, towards our hotel where we would meet the others that would complete our adventurous group of six.
At the hotel we leaned our loaded bikes up against a tree and greeted the other two, stretched out on patio chairs and sipping sodas. I met Doug, a photographer from Montana who had been on several other tours with David, and Maxine, an outgoing geologist from Seattle. At 23 years old, I was the youngest of the five of us and also the only Canuck among the group of well-traveled Yankees. I was pleased to learn that Nathan, a bicycle racer and David's Ugandan assistant, whom we'd meet later, was my own age.
We spent the first two days of our visit getting acquainted with life in the city of Kampala, Uganda's modern, bustling capital. I was quick to learn that David's comments on the driving applied here and it was with sheer bravado that I wove my bike through the relentless, aggressive traffic.
Let the journey begin
Our third day in Uganda found us standing next to our bikes in the dirt streets of Fort Portal in the western part of the country. We had just disembarked the bus from Kampala where we had been scrunched inside, our panniers and helmets strewn throughout its length and our bikes lashed to the roof. I was glad to be off the crowded bus and eager for this portion of the trip: The real journey would begin here, bicycle touring through the Ruwenzoris – the legendary "Mountains of the Moon." I would soon be relieved to discover we would encounter very little traffic for the rest of our trip – and even then with the drivers more intent in getting a good look at us than in getting to their destinations.
After stopping for a filling Ugandan lunch of matoke (mashed plantain bananas) with peanut sauce, we set off at a leisurely pace into the countryside towards the Nyankuku-Kichwamba orphanage, our accommodations for the night. As we rode, children and adults alike smiled at our approach, waving and calling out, "Hi, how are you?" I learned that while English is the country's official language, there are many as 20 others spoken. David explained that English was chosen as a compromise – a language that everyone could both love and hate.
As children ran alongside us and people hurried from their homes to see us pass, I realized that this was what David meant when he wrote that, traveling by bicycle, you travel at "people speed." The difference from bus to bicycle seat was astounding. From the confines of the bus we hurtled past the scenery and people. Now, face-to-face, I felt buoyed by their enthusiasm and smiled and waved back as I responded to their inquiries with, "Fine! How are you?" I also couldn't help but notice as we passed that the locals seemed to find the sight of a bunch of white people ("Musugus!") on bikes particularly funny. Even the goats seemed to be amused by us.
The winding dirt road took us by spectacular views of the mountains in the distance – magnificent vistas that would be with us for almost the entire trip. We cycled up a hill and into the orphanage where we met Patrick, a 17-year old orphan who had spent his last 10 years there. He showed us around the orphanage, home to about 80 children. We soon discovered the “orphanage” to be a small community nestled in the lush mountains. Patrick showed us their schools, tilapia ponds, cattle and banana crops. I couldn't help but notice armed guards scattered about and wondered if it was common practice. We returned from our tour to meet Morence Mpora, the quiet, humble man who had founded the community after years of working as a civil engineer in the city.
As we had fresh Ugandan tea with Morence, he explained the presence of the armed guards. Seven months prior to our visit a group of unknown rebels had descended upon the community and killed some of the orphans. The other children had fled into the countryside and it was only recently that most of the children had begun to return. When asked about the rebels he told us in his soft-spoken voice, "I don't understand why people fight when they can be doing good." Despite the horror of what had happened not too long ago, I couldn't help but feel safe and at peace. It hardly seemed possible.
Afterwards we were invited to bathe – they had hauled up and heated some water for us, placed in a small bamboo stall. It was my first time bathing by bucket, and by the time my turn came around darkness had fallen. I ended up using far more water than I should have as I stumbled around with my flashlight, trying to rinse my hair. Fortunately, before long, bathing with a cup, a bar of soap and a bucket of water would become second nature to me.
After having dinner with Morence, Patrick and a few others, we retreated to our guest houses for the evening – small, round cement buildings with thatched roofs and a single kerosene lantern (that David thoughtfully turned down for me so that I didn't burn down the village). Christine brought over a sample of “banana beer” that they had poured into her water bottle. It felt like my first sip burned all the hair out of my nose. There was, it turned out, a small miscommunication: it wasn't banana beer, but banana liquor. Christine's water bottle would carry a faint reminder of that night for the rest of the trip.
Laughter lightens the heart
The next day we bade farewell to our hosts and traveled along windy, hilly dirt roads that ran alongside trees, bushes and homes. While blasting down one section of road, manure splashed up into my face. Then I failed to accurately judge my distance from a deep puddle that doused my leg and pannier with red mud. I was filthy and growing tired, but having far too much fun to do anything but laugh at my misfortune.
Midway through the afternoon we stopped, hot, hungry and tired, at a small nature reserve for lunch. While we waited for the food we hiked down through the forest to the crater lake, the product of a small, long-dead volcano. I hesitated a moment, imagining what could lurk beneath the tropical waters before throwing myself in the lake. The water was deep, cold and invigorating and I swam around with the others, all fears forgotten, leaving my bike shorts and socks on in hopes of freshening them up.
After a much needed lunch of beans, matoke and tomato sauce we watched Colobus monkeys with long, fluffy tails hopping around the branches in the surrounding forest. David had scouted a shortcut out of the reserve and so our departure found us pushing the bikes along a cliff edge through the brush. We coasted down a narrow, rutted trails, heaved our bikes over a mud-out, and then finally reached the “main” dirt road, which took us to Kibale National Park.
We blasted down into the cool park forest, sometimes at breakneck speed, listening to the rocks caught by the tires go whirling loudly into the trees. We quickly arrived at Charles Lubega's tiny lodge just on the outskirts of the forest and sat down at his table. He came out with fresh slices of juicy pineapple and cold (how, I don't know) soft drinks – unexpected and quickly devoured treats. David explained that Charles was a gourmet chef who had retired to the country. We were soon to learn that it's possible to cook up incredible meals using just a fire.
That night I pretended I didn't see the lizards on the walls of our cement rooms. While I set up my mosquito net, Charles came in to make sure I had a candle inside the empty soda bottle that lay on the floor next to my small bed. Though I seemed to be hundreds of miles from the nearest flush toilet, I felt like I was staying at luxury hotel. I eventually fell asleep to the sound of a mosquito buzzing ("Is it inside my net or outside!?!") and David, obviously more at ease with his surroundings, snoring loudly on the other bed.
The next few days brought us more exhilarating views and encounters, but it was early in the morning on our eighth day as we were leaving Queen Elizabeth National Park that we had an encounter of the large kind. We had spent the previous day passing warthogs, impalas and buffalo on the road, and then drifting by hippos and countless birds on a river boat tour. (That night Doug had got up to go to the bathroom only to find a hippopotamus right outside his door. He decided to hold it.) I cycled groggily down the dirt road that morning, pulling back my shirt to take a sniff, wondering if that awful smell that seemed to permeate the air was me. Reasonably certain it wasn't, I asked David what it was.
"Elephant dung," he told me.
After finding a place nearby for the usual breakfast of omelettes, chai (milk tea) and mandazzi (a kind of biscuit-bread) we turned for the main road.
As we made our way back, David, ahead of all of us, pointed to something in the bushes as he rode by. Doug, myself and then Christine passed, all of us stunned to see it was an elephant in the nearby trees. The four of us waited a short distance away. When Nathan passed he slowed down to look, then leapt off his bike and started running when the elephant, snuffling, took a couple of stomps towards him onto the dirt road. (The theory is that the elephant will be content to stomp on your bike instead of you.) Laughing, David called out, "Now how are you going to get your bike?" Nathan did – carefully. We waited for Maxine to pass by, and when she did we all stopped, staring at where we had seen it. Then, suddenly, one by one, seven elephants came out – two adults and five younger ones – and lined up across the road. We all started snapping pictures.
My nerves were as taught as wires. I asked David, "How fast can they run?"
"Faster than you can ride," he answered.
The elephants stopped on the road and the big one in front turned our way and started to growl – a low, guttural bass that I could feel rumbling in my chest. After having successfully threatened us, they eventually walked away, leaving us there, our hearts racing.
The next night we dined on fabulous Nile Perch, but I would live to regret it. I went to bed feeling bloated and spent the next day exhaustedly following the group around. My stomach was gurgling and I was barely able to stand as we toured a tea plantation. When my tire went flat that afternoon I got off my bike in resignation. Before I could even start changing my tube, David came back and practically did all the work for me as every Ugandan within a two-mile radius gathered around us to watch the tire-fixing process, clearly amused by it all. At the end of the day I was the first one to bed, a fever causing me to shiver under my sheets despite the warmth of the Ugandan night.
African thunder
I felt much better the next day, and I was completely well again by the time we visited Kisiizi, a small piece of paradise centered around the village hospital. We spent the day touring the lush, colorfully flowered village and the hospital, which admits over 30,000 people per year. Shortly before bed that night, Christine, Nathan and I went outside our guest house and pressed ourselves against the wall, under the eaves, to watch the storm that was brewing. We were treated to a blinding displays of lightning and listened to the thunder roll in the distance and explode above us. We stood under cover, wind blowing, lightning strobing for a long time, soaking up the African thunderstorm.
That night – one of the last – was a magical moment in Africa, but the real magic of the trip arose not just from the beauty of my surroundings, but from the kindness of the people. Never before had I felt so humbled by how such materially poor people who had suffered so much could be so welcoming and generous to me, a stranger with white skin.
There are so many other vivid memories of Uganda – coming over a rise to be see a crowd of stern-faced men holding spears; slashing through the rainforest, hoping to catch a glimpse of chimps in the trees; chatting with a friendly Ugandan on market day; watching the moon rise over the mountains, bats screeching overhead. In his book, Bicycling in Africa, David writes that, "Done intelligently, Africa is a wonderful, welcoming and heartwarming place to bicycle." If David can be guilty of anything, it's understatement.
The sun was setting as we made our way back to our hotel in Entebbe on our last day, bathing the scenery in golden light. Sadly, I bid farewell to the others who would be moving on to tour Tanzania. After cleaning up, David rode with me through the rapidly darkening evening to the airport. As we shook hands inside the terminal I told him that this – my first bicycle tour – had been the best experience of my life. Gazing out the terminal window, watching the flames from burning crops lick in the darkness at the end of the runway, I knew I would forever be hooked on bicycle touring and Africa.
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