The land that time forgot……&# 8230;…… 230;.. (Ruwenzori)

Member Name: strangepower

Product:	Ruwenzori
Date:	14/07/00 (102 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Strangest landscapes on earth.

Disadvantages: Not suitable for all fitness levels.

Do dinosaurs still roam the earth? I can’t answer that but I know if the did they would hang out in the Ruwenzori mountain range in SW Uganda, better known as the Mountains of the Moon.

I went there in 1992, and very nearly didn’t return. On the second day of trekking through hours and hours of jungles, bogs and vegetation so big that it felt like you’d been shrunk by twenty times, I lay down exhausted on this ball of moss the size of a minibus, and gratefully let it swallow me up. Sweet sleep embraced me in its arms. I was still an hour and a half from the next camp, it was getting dark and cold, I was dressed in wet T-shirt, muddy shorts and strangely enough ski boots. My fellow trekkers were far ahead of me - peace at last. Moments later our guide angrily shook me out of my slumber “move, must keep moving, dark soon, must get to camp” Bugger, I’d been found, “please can’t you just leave me to die in peace?”

The events that led to this almost terminal junction in my life merit their separate review, but in brief: I was on a four-month student loan funded trip to East Africa. After four or five weeks of bong-coated, beer-bloated, fag-smoking idleness on the beautiful island of Lamu in Kenya, a couple of us decided that we probably ought to be a little more active and seek out some adventure. The possibility of going deep into the Sudanese jungle, finding Pygmies, hanging out and hunting with them was dampened only by the small detail of an ongoing savage civil war, so we were looking for alternatives. On the train up to Uganda, I overheard a conversation about a place called the ‘Mountains of the Moon’. With a name like that, and my hippy disposition at that time, I didn’t need to investigate any further, this is where we were going, show me the way.

So it was two weeks later that I found myself in the town of Kasese from where most trips to the range are arranged.
The town is characterised by the wild west swinging saloon doors and tumbleweeds rolling down the dusty streets. On every rooftop stands marabou storks, one-legged, with faces like badly drawn cartoons. Preparations were made: a guide, two porters, dehydrated food, a chocolate bar a day, boots for crampons (ski boots), park permit, and the odd jumper. The 10 days came to $35 each all in. We were just a bunch of hippies, wanting to “climb a mountain, man”, we were desperately under-prepared, we had no idea what to expect.

The first day we were in high spirits, the reefers had been cracked out, we were joined by little kids skipping along as we passed through farmland. Taylor was regaling us with “when I was in Nepal stories”. A few hours in and the chirpy comments were slowly being replaced by desperate grunts, and hacking coughs. This little walk in the mountains was shaping up to be a right pain in the arse. Questionable fitness levels aside, the terrain we were passing through, was classic mountain foothills, bamboo forests, turning into rain forest. Fast flowing mountain streams requiring fording or balancing on slippery moss covered fallen logs. Eventually we got to base camp, having climbed a good 6000ft, wet and exhausted, and still having to cook our own food. I won’t even begin to describe the problems associated with finding firewood in a mountain range, called by the locals ‘the leaf that eternally drips water’, suffice it to say it had the making of a Greek tragedy.

The pattern of the next couple of days went something like this. Get up, not wake up, because you never really slept, too frigging cold for that. Make porridge in dirty pots. Stare enviously at the porter’s breakfast of rancid meat stew and mouldy tomatoes. Take off comparatively warm clothes, put on fetid shorts, t-shirt and socks. Put on ski-boots that locate immediately the wounds of the previous days trekking. Try and pa
ck rucksack, the contents have expanded and grown heavier over night. Set off on day’s trekking. The trek involves long periods of jumping from tussock to tussock of the sedge that dot the bogs. If you fall short you will sink into the mud up to your hips. This requires strenuous energy sapping wriggling to extricate oneself. Eventually stop for meagre lunch, watch enviously as porters eat decent lunch. Cross several steep 3000ft passes, which offer relief from bogs, but are so steep and slippery that you start missing the bogs. The guide informs you that camp is close by, you know he’s lying. You know his idea of close by is very different from yours, you hate him. For the last couple of hours your mind has been playing games on you. “Just sit down for a little snooze, just a little snooze, it won’t do you any harm, you’ll be able to catch up” Shut up. Eventually camp looms in the distance, you try not to cry. When you get to camp, a sense of euphoria sets in, and you forget the day’s agonies quickly. Reefers are lit, fires are stoked, gruel is prepared. However there is just one more misery in store for you, you’ve forgotten that you’re on pan cleaning duty. This entails leaving your snug fireside comfort zone, and trekking to the nearest running water supply. Your pleas of clemency fall on deaf ears. Your promises of unlimited beers when we get back to town are ignored, you have no choice but to move. You whimper like a scolded puppy, and trudge into the cold scary darkness.

It was on the third night, after the worse days trekking imaginable, that this onerous task befell me. I was livid. I couldn’t believe my so-called buddies would make me wash up the plates and pans in my state. Of course they were in the same state, and I would have done exactly the same to them. I limped down a steep embankment juggling the pans and plates in my arms, cursing all the way. I reached the water’s edge
and started scrubbing in the ice cold water (14 500 ft remember). As I scrubbed I was thinking for the hundredth time “what am I doing here, and how can I give up without looking like a wussy?” As I was pondering these things I looked up just as the full moon emerged from beneath the parting clouds, to reveal a canopy of stars framed by the branches of some giant tree fern. The light of the moon illuminated the strangest landscape you could ever imagine. It was one of those celestial traveller moments, the ones that you have very great difficulty articulating when pressed by your friends at home, rushes of euphoria and energy course through your body. The message of the moment was this –you are in one of the most awesomely uniquely cool places in the world, be strong, enjoy the beauty. Conquer the mountain, don’t let it conquer you.

With this new resolute attitude, even though the conditions didn’t get any better, the state of mind did, so it became comparatively easier. Our guide got poorly on day five which afforded us a one day break, by a beautiful mountain lake at 14 000ft. It was a well-timed illness, as we all needed a rest from the endless muddy swamps. It was on this rest day that our solitude was interrupted by the arrival of a very eccentric Hong Kong expat, accompanied by an entourage of about twenty porters, and one shrill voiced female butler. His attire was Victorian trekking gear, complete with brass-topped walking cane, and cap at rakish angle. He was very pompous and affected, for the majority of the time preferring to address us through his butler, rather than speaking to us directly. His porters amongst other things had to carry an antique wooden table, chairs, whole chickens in a can, a selection of single malt whiskies and a gramophone. It was all a bit too much for us gruel eating hippies. Revenge came from an unexpected quarter. Halfway through the day we decided that we wanted to have kidney beans for
supper. We got out our 1 kilo bag, and started soaking them. After about four hours of soaking, we were far too hungry to wait any longer, and thought a little heat assisted soaking would speed things up. Two hours of boiling later and they were kind of soft, a little bit al dente, definitely tasty. We were very hungry – we devoured them all. Cut to next morning – pompous expat dandy – leaning out of the door of the shelter, retching into the rain, as he gasped for fresh air, desperately trying to escape the charnel house atmosphere that our flatus had created. Wrapped in our sleeping bags, we tried not to laugh too hard, as each fit of laughter increased the pain in our already painfully distended abdomens.

Our guide’s unforeseen illness meant that we could not attempt the summit of Mount Stanley, which is the second highest peak in the mountain range. This may have been a blessing in disguise, as we were dangerously under-equipped, and would have almost certainly perished. We reached the camp from which you attempt the summit, which was at approximately 17000ft, some achievement for a bunch of long hairs. Here the landscape was much more barren, with huge boulders scattered around a harsh landscape of glaciers and hard gravely ground. Above you looming down are snow-capped craggy peaks, constantly being hidden and revealed by thick mists and clouds. Although we didn’t scale a peak, we did fulfil one of our lesser objectives, which was to have a snowball fight on the equator, even if it was very token one. It is incredible to think that this snowball fight took place in the heart of tropical Africa.

On the way down the order of trekking was reversed. The earlier stragglers were now so eager to get down that the pace was more a gentle jog, than a leisurely stroll. As we descended the bare rocky plateau, we started to return to the big plains of giant lobeliae, groundsels and other strange plants. They really are spec
tacular landscapes. Sometimes you will be trekking up a high pass, and eventually you reach the last ridge. As you struggle over it, the view below opens up revealing a vast plain of giant vegetation. You look up half expecting there to be a flock of pterodactyls swooping in the air, or a hungry tyrannosaurus bearing down upon a herd of diplodoci. The vista is bizarre, otherworldly and extratemporal. Was that a wormhole we went through earlier, have we gone back in time? Sometimes we’ll get to the beginning of one of the swamp forest I was telling you about earlier, the mist would drop, and your whole focus would be on the legs of the person in front of you. It reminded me of Sam and Frodo’s crossing of the Dead Marshes in Lord of the Rings, all we needed was Gollum on a lead to complete the re-creation.

The last couple of days were a lot easier. As we descended more, the marshes were replaced by jungle and river gorges. The temperature picked up so we at least managed to catch a couple of hours sleep a night. Our appearances were quite a fair reflection of the trials and tribulations that we recently had to endure. My exposed limbs were a uniform dark mud-caked brown, with a generous distribution of cuts, some weeping, some crusted. My hair was a matted wild man of the forest look, plenty of vegetation entwined within the locks. Removing the outer garments one can see the strange rash that has emerged in the last few days. The size of the main rash cluster is quite impressive, more impressive is its ability to move around my body. It is a true fungus, sinking below the surface of my skin and emerging somewhere totally different minutes later. All in all I am in pretty bad shape, but far from worrying me, it is a constant source of fascination, and often wounds are compared with fellow trekkers.

On our final day in the mountain, we decide that we will attempt what should be two days trekking in one day. It is a massive undertaking, but
the thought of cold beers, eggs, chocolate and chapatis at the bottom, spurs us on. It takes 12 hours of trekking with about a ten-minute break for lunch. Our total descent was about 8000ft through rain forest, jungle, bamboo forests, up and down gorges and across swollen rivers. Our legs look like they have been flayed by thorny branches, which is not far from the truth. Finally we emerge from the last of the forests and reach agricultural land. The same children that escorted us up this far 10 days ago join us for the last half-hour, although this time we are a little less responsive to their spritely banter.

Sipping my second lukewarm beer at the little shop at the entrance to the national park, I gaze back at the mountain’s snowy peaks. It looks so tame and docile, and it is already difficult to believe that it could contain such a hostile environment. The temperature is tropical once more, and the heat already oppressive - less than 24 hours earlier, you were so cold you couldn’t sleep. On the very few occasions that I have met anyone who has been to the Ruwenzori, you don’t have to say anything – there exists an unspoken and secret compact. Almost all experiences are the same; it is one of the most basic and oldest struggles – man against nature. Would I do it again – yes definitely. It is a trip that I would like to experience now that I am older and wiser. Next time perhaps I would be a little better equipped. If I couldn’t do it again though it wouldn’t matter. The Mountains of the Moon once experienced stays with you forever.

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