WorldTripping.net - Uganda travel writing and travel articles.

WorldTripping.net - Uganda travel writing and travel articles.,WorldTripping - Simon and Leah tour Uganda by bicycle. Read the Uganda travel journal. Peruse the online travel articles. It's all about cycling in and around Uganda and traveling by bike.,worldtripping,world tripping,simon,leah,simon green,leah ingham,cycle africa,bike africa,bicycle africa,brighton,cape town,overland,brighton cape town overland,uk,sa,overland,uk sa,uk sa overland,coast to coast, coast to coast overland,cycle uganda,bike uganda,bicycle uganda,travel uganda,traveling uganda,travel writing uganda,travelogues uganda,cycle touring,bike touring,bicycle touring,cycle travel,bike travel,bicycle travel,cycle traveling,bike traveling,bicycle traveling,publishing,publishing online,travelogue,online travelogue,travel writing,travel writing online,diary,diaries,online diary,online diaries,weblog,web-log,web blog,web-blog,blogger,blogging,

"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.
Cash n' carry.
We arrived at the port in the searing heat of the mid-day sun. Corrugated roofed shacks adorned the quayside. An all pervading stench of fish suffocated us. Shop vendors shouted out their wares and streetsellers plied their trade along the narrow lanes. A near miss for Simon as a car careered into his bike and we retired to the safety of a nearby garage. From there I was able to rejoin the flood of people heading for the water. On foot this time.
Stepping over bags of foodstuff and dodging around fishermen mending their nets, I was able to locate the boats, soon to leave for the Sese islands. A line of raggedy children followed me, Pied Piper style. Blue and pink shirted men approached, asking if I needed a "wader." Amidst all the confusion, I was able to hire two men before scurrying back to fetch Simon.
The activity in the port soon became frenetic. People pushed and shoved their way to the water's edge. Children cried and scavenging dogs yelped, avoiding the crush. Gulls screamed overhead. The "wader" and his friend arrived and I was carried "over the altar" to the tethered boat. The bikes were then hoisted, bags still attached, above the heads of the men, keen to out perform each other. I watched, open mouthed, as my luggage began to unclip itself and swing to and fro, in time with the man's step. Caught and thrown into the boat, disaster was avoided and I could breathe again. A shoulder ride for Simon.

Starry skied, shooting stars.

Simon sat on the front, the pilot ''Fred'' at the helm. The small boat chugged forward. The light was fading and the sea birds were swooping for their evening supper. The light glimmered its last and the sun dipped beneath the waves. A peppery starlit sky. Stars broke free across the darkness, yellow streaks soaring a high arc before plummeting earthwards. Sea splashes as the boat plunged relentlessly on. The girl child beside me was leaning, sleep heavy on my shoulder and I found it impossible to move and get comfortable. Suddenly she awoke and dived down on the floor of the boat, lifted her skirts and peed. No-one seemed to notice or care as the liquid ran in rivulets around our feet. She leapt back beside me and snuggled down in my lap. The boat rocked gently in the lake breeze and we pushed on. Occasional fishing vessels passed too close and a torch light would flicker followed by shouted greetings or obscenities, I couldn't tell which. Land ahead. Darkness. No jetty. Fred suddenly demanded payment plus ''bike fees.'' A stupidly high amount. The bargaining began. The boat jutted into the land but we could see that we would have to wade with our luggage and bicycles to safety. There were voices in the darkness. Finally, we agreed on a price. Still too much but Fred offered to help us get on land and lead us to the road to Hornbill. As Simon stood on the beach, I passed down our belongings. He fended off the grabbing hands and I attempted to hold a torch pointed in his general direction so he could load each bike. That done, I lowered myself into the water, ankle deep, and joined him, eager to find the campsite and sleep. Although unaware at the time, it would be another two hours to cover the five kilometres to achieve this goal.

	Lost in the Seses.
	Blackness you could touch. No moon to guide us. No bike lights only Simon's tiny maglite. The road was barely a path, which pinged and cracked as we cycled along it. Simon held the torch in his mouth, and its light wound a curving trail on our ''road.'' Several times we almost crashed into one another. Mumbled curses firing from Simon, unable to release the full volley for fear of dropping his light. Undoubtedly, this was to my advantage and I was able to retaliate with much vitriol, winding him up even more.
	As the path began to climb, we dismounted and crawled our weary way upwards. Chattering voices approached and we shouted through the dark night for directions. "If you have a mobile phone, we can call Luke to come and lead you to his camp," came the sing song reply. "We haven't got one," came our disgruntled answer. "Oh, then it is a long way through the forest to Luku Town. You must take care. Follow the road straight and ask again when you reach the crossroads. There will be wild animals and thieves." I hoped that we'd stumble on a friendly wood cutter rather than a hungry wolf.
The voices grew distant and the trees leaned menacingly across our path. Twigs cracked and I was sure I heard a low growl. Our pace quickened despite the gradient rising sharply. My legs ached and my shoulders hurt from pushing my heavy load. My feet kept slipping on the gravel and my bike would rear out of control. More cursing. We had all but given up of ever reaching the town when we spotted one or two stray lights in the distance. We could make out the darker shades of thatched huts. There were no people around when we reached the crossroads so we guessed which way to go. We reached the hilltop and stopped, breathless. More huts and two drunks. "It's that way," they both pointed, in different directions. "I sil take yoush to a nice beachsshh," shouted one, grabbing, without success, at my handlebars. "I'm sure you would," I gasped, "but not tonight." As we jumped astride our bikes and freewheeled down the hill, they tagged along, stumbling and falling, but soon lost interest and stopped. We hoped we were still aiming in the right direction. It was way past midnight. Our "woodcutter" arrived in time, in the form of a Boda Boda biker. "I have to take this girl home," he apologised, "or I would lead you there. Here, let me draw you a map. More fumbling in the dark but salvation had arrived. Many twists and turns, uphills and finally a long long downhill stretch, and we were there. The site was in darkness but a few tents littered the grounds. The dogs barked their greeting and accompanied us as we found a clearing and put up our little house. It was 2 a.m.

	Silver Shimmer.
	It was worth it. Waves transformed the early morning lake into an expanse of sea and hornbills helicoptered overhead. We lounged in the hammocks on the beach and watched a lone fish eagle swoop hungrily into the water, hunting for breakfast. Hens scrubbed in the undergrowth for insects, occasionally waking a resting moth which would flutter away in the wake of a clucking killing machine, feathers flying. We watched lazily as the tethered goat was moved from shade to shade. The lake quietened and turned mirror silver, shimmering in the afternoon heat haze. Life in Africa was good. We feasted on huge veggie samosas and then settled down to watch the sunset. A myriad of colours, pinks, oranges, reds, the lake and sky merged before turning powder blue as the sun faded and sank. The dogs began chasing shadows and we retired to the bar.
Four days later, three days later than planned, and we were off on our travels once more. A 40 kilometre cycle to the other side of the island to catch the ferry back to the mainland. The road was stony and potholed but easy enough to negotiate by bike. As we passed through small villages, children would wave and chant, " How are you M-zung-U."
On a difficult uphill climb, a mixed group of two foot somethings surrounded us, silently grabbed our bikes and heaved them up the hill. As we remounted, there was the inevitable giggling chase and screamed goodbyes.
The heat grew intense and we were grateful for the shaded stretches through the forest, a much less threatening place during daylight hours. A night in a local guesthouse and an early morning ferry. A sad farewell to gentle Sese.

Simon's Stuff.
Jinja Showers.
Bujagali Falls needed no extra water. This is close to the source of the White Nile, and water from here flows all the way to the Mediterranean. But it was still raining and had been for several hours. So, we stand in the rain watching the tumbling white mass thunder past our feet. I wonder, if I threw a bottle in here, how long it would take to get to Cairo? Then I remember about the Aswan High Dam and wonder how long to Khartoum. Would the bottle be faster than we had been?
In the drizzle, we made our way up the slippery orange embankment, away from the constant humming thunder of powerful water. We are headed for a different kind of shower. Possibly the best in Africa.
At some arbitary afternoon time, the donkey boiler is lit. As the sun sets beyond the wide and white river, the temperature is perfect. High on the side of a densley wooded valley, overlooking one of the wonders of the natural world, sits a three sided shower complete with piping hot water. Ablutions are conducted watching ibis circle far below. The occasional raft passes, screams barely audible. Just under the sound of gushing water is the ever present hum. The noise of the Nile in your ears as you lather soap and gaze towards its source. Surely the water from this shower must somewhow meet the turbulance below. Maybe then some small part of me will return to Khartoum after all.

Crossing the Lake Part 1 - Stargazing from a canoe.

The prow had been aiming for the Southern Cross since the constellation first made its appearance. The lake lapped at our craft, a twenty foot fishing boat, its boards containing the memory of the morning's cargo. As the light faded from burning blue to moonless black, the waves grew in stature, violently tossing the vessel sideways and drenching my casually draped arm. The phosphor glow of distant Entebbe faded from sight and we were marooned, guideless, save for the kerosine lanterns of lone fishermen, seeking fortune from perch. An electrical storm exploded over the mountains on the Western horizon, tearing the darkness as lightning struck the far off peaks. I was reminded of the fact that if capsized, there is a 100% fatality rate on Lake Victoria, and rued the complacency that had prevented me asking for a lifejacket.

My state of mind concerning our precarious mode of travel had already been augured. Our journey to the port had been beset with unavoidable delay. Our arrival had almost incurred a cruel squashing. Attempts at finding transport had been met with quizzical humour at our definition of time. Even the simple act of boarding had been fraught with the prospect of drowning. Wiry men, half soaked and looking gangly in their blue or pink shirts carried matoke, maize, baskets of bread or any other burden to the waiting boats. Eventually, they carried us, ploughing adeptly through the waist high water to return with our fully laden bicycles.

The black hours passed, and on entering a channel, the waves lost their vicious nature, and we skidded over malformed glass betweeen inky island shadows and the glimmer of faint and distant civilisations. We were still guided by starlight and away from interference the Milky Way drew a river of light over our heads.

Would you like to read more ?

Before here we were in Kenya. After here we were in Tanzania.

Copyright (C) 2002 - 2008 by Simon John Green and Leah Simone Ingham - WorldTripping.net
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means) without written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Any unauthorised act in this respect may lead to legal proceedings, including a civil claim for damages.
WorldTripping.net is not responsible for the content of external web pages.