The town of Kalango, Uganda, in which I
am crosslegged on my foam mattress and working up with little effort
a fish-like sheen of standing sweat, is found crouched behind a small
granite mountian which looms perpetually overhead like some
indifferent observer. The air is without the humidity of Entebbe, and
the sun burns with little mercy. This morning, well before dawn, some
of us rose to pit our quads and cardios against our stony rival. We
shuffled to the bus, most of us denied the simple pleasure of a cup
of coffee, and bounced the short distance to the trailhead. With
water bottles in hand and headlamps at the ready, we bid our driver
spur his diesel steed and we struck off eastward. After a spell of
confusion over why the trail had ended so abruptly and, in fact, not
at the summit of the dark peak, we backtracked to the main road and
struck off further westward. On the correct trail at last, with the
setting moon on our left and the first soft oranges and yellows of
dawn to our right, the trail lost its pleasent incline and progressed
steadily in steepness. I resolved to stay at the brisk pace of our
leader, Olara Geoffery, who, as I have found of most native Ugandans,
has me beat in both athleticism and fortitude if not length of
stride. I was soon huffing and presumably puffing my way up the stout
trail. After the first third of the hike the trail leveled out
considerably, and I was subject to the beautiful landscape and
foliage the rising sun slowly brought to light. On we walked. I,
behind a few of our group and ahead of three, was left to my thoughts
(none of them really very profound or exciting). We reached the top
in good time and were greeted by rifle-toting guards who wanted to
know if we had brought them ciggarettes. Sadly, we had not. They let
us pass with little dissapointment. The view from the peak of the
mountain (yes I'm purpously avoiding the name of it. I was told
twice. Its something like Urunga, I think) was incredible! The local
farmers had been burning slash which had saturated the morning air
with thick, low hanging, white smoke. Now above the smoke, we were
stricken with the happy illusion that we had climbed much higher than
we had and were above the clouds. From the summit we could hear the
music of the town: at least twenty stereos cranked to full volume
around the streets, each playing different songs. My dad got nervous
when my brother and I got close to the "edge" which from
his point of view looked like a sheer drop to the foot of the
mountian but was in reality only a slope of maybe 7 feet to another
broad ledge. After drinking some much appreciated water and giving
tender American thighs a few minutes' rest, we said goodbye to our
armed friends and headed back for showers and some breakfast. Dr.
Hinshaw told us the hike would be easy. Don't listen to a word he
says.
By Canon Parker
No comments:
Post a Comment