Mudwrestling in west Uganda

The first two days after our departure from Kampala the tarmac is very smooth; only once in a while there's a pothole that's easily avoided. The landscape keeps undulating and we discover 400 metres that are actually level in these two days. Uganda is very fruitful: put a stick in the ground and within a week it has rooted. The landscape is green all the time. Children play between banana trees, corn, sugarcane, yam, papaya and sweet potatoes. There's almost no mechanisation, the land is tilled by hoe and -most of the time, female hand. Mityana is the largest village around and is chock-full with shops, vegetable stands, bicycle-repairshops, basket weavers and cabinet-makers. The latter also make coffins, that are provided with windows on the sides and the head end. Eternal view for the deceased.

Between Mityana and Mubende we see - like in the rest of Uganda - a lot of hardworking men dig ground. The juicy ground is stamped in brick-shapes and dried in the sun. When there are enough 'stones' they re stacked into a hollow tower, covered with mud and heated for a long while from the inside. Every village produces their own bricks this way to build houses that replace the mud and reed huts.
Everywhere where we cycle the muddy waterholes are replaced by handpumps that bring the groundwater to the surface that's far cleaner and is a significant improvement for the population's health.

Cycling into Mubende there are black clouds approaching very fast, that seem quite sinister. At the edge of the village a garbage-dump provides dinner for a number of vultures and marabou. Just before we reach our guesthouse it starts raining in torrents. We take cover under the roof of a bookstore annex cafeteria. When we're convinced that it's raining very hard, the floodgates really open. Through the waterfall the other side of the road can hardly be seen. Within minutes the road changes into a destructive stream that brings back memories of our rafting-adventure. In the paper we read about the rainseason starting a few weeks early this year. A prediction we know to be true more surely every day, unfortunately for us.

After having visited the giant Nakayima-tree, which houses several ancient spirits of the Buganda-ancestors, we cycle to the north two days later. We've completely dried up again and ready to visit Kakindu, Hoima and Masindi. The road is unpaved from here, this kind of road is called 'murram': hard tamped earth, mostly red in colour. The traffic is reduced and consists mainly of pedestrians and cyclists. Past Kakindu another cyclists talks to us, after riding behind us for fifteen minutes.

"Good afternoon Sir, how are you?" Like always this is the first question, it doesn't matter whether they address Peter or me."
"Fine, thanks. And how are you?"
"Fine, fine, fine. Where do you go?"
"Today we will go to Kakindu," I answer.
"Iiiiiiiiii……," at a high pitch he expresses his amazement. "That's very far!"
"Well, it's no problem. We're used to it," I reply casually.
"It's not possible," he says, quite sure of himself, "it really is too far from here."
"Actually, we cycled from the Netherlands, so…" A remark that's very risky, people could drop from their bicycles.
"With that bike?" he asks, in the meanwhile staring bewildered at our bicycles and luggage.
"Yes, with this bike."
He looks at me unbelievingly, thinks again very deep and says resolute: "No, I don't believe you. You can't go from the Netherlands to here on a bicycle."
"Well, I'm sorry, but we did and it's a very nice thing to do."
"Aha, I don't believe you," he says triumphantly.

He looks at me like he's on to me, wishes us a good journey, turns his bicycle and returns to his village where he undoubtedly will tell about this strange encounter.

During the last thirty kilometres the sky becomes overcast very fast. The sun's heat that completely soaked our shirts makes room for dark clouds and cool air, that feels just as moist as before. The first cautious raindrops change into a steady drizzle. The idea of having to wear our raincoats isn't very inviting, mainly because it's still 30 degrees Celsius. A few minutes later the gates of heaven are opened completely and we jump into our jackets. Slow but sure the hard murram turns into soft mud that sucks on our tires and takes our speed away. Half an hour later we're gliding more than we're cycling and the mud flies around our heads. Of course this mud has got the best glue-qualities you can imagine. The tires are getting thicker and thicker, juicy lumps moor themselves between wheels and mudguards and the break-levers are invisible. Breaking isn't necessary anymore: nature is doing it for us. I can't cycle anymore and get of my bicycle to remove the mud, so my wheels can turn again. Five metres later I'm standing still again to repeat my actions. This time I'm helped by a few schoolchildren that remove the big lumps of mud from my bicycles, panniers and me while saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" all the time. "Yes, I'm sorry too." I answer.

One hour later the rain stops, but it left its traces. Feet, legs, back, head: everything is red. Bicycles and panniers are beyond recognition. Despite the mud we're welcomed in a mini-guesthouse in Kakindu, where the local handpump makes overtime the next hour.