Too shocking for words...

September 22, we finally receive yet another package with spare parts from Holland
after 'waiting' for two weeks in Fort Portal. This time the package contains the new chain-blades for Peter's worn out bicycle. The next day we're gone: a short hilly etappe brings us to the Bunyuruguru Crater Lake over red murram roads. On the campsite at Lake Nkuruba we're welcomed by two Copper Sunbirds, a bunch of Black-and-white Colobus-monkeys, four Great Blue Turaco and a young English couple that manages the campsite with great trouble. While it starts raining we dive into the nearby craterlake, watched by a pair of bright green African doves.

The next day we take our bicycles for a ride (without luggage for a change) to explore the surroundings and are being treated to a bunch of bearded old men wearing a red wig: Red Colobus-monkeys. On our way back we're treated again, this time to an enormous tropical drencher which makes us feel like we're cycling in a swimming pool.

The morning after we're on our way to Kasese; via a small unpaved road we cycle to the big tar road, which isn't an easy job. Last days rains made this road partly impassable. We slave away for three hours through ankle deep mud passing trucks stacked high with bananas that slid off the road. With some luck we stay upright; the steepest hills are uncyclable: we're forced to walk. What a road, too shocking for words.
The tar road is heavenly, we enjoy the humming sound of our tires on the smooth surface and the warm sun while the lumps of mud fly around our ears. The people of western Uganda even have a more distorted idea of whites than the eastern part of the population. The demands for money are insistent and sometimes aggressive. The male part of the population seems to spend their days in idleness, until they spot the 'mzungu', that's asked quite urgently to donate money for booze. The women? They're working their buts off. They till the land, get water at the well or river, walk with big stacks of wood on their heads and sell their crops on the market. All of this with a child on their backs.

We're overtaken by overloaded mini-busses with fish tied to their bumpers. Just like the Dutch, Ugandans love to eat fish, but not the smell of it. The mirrors on our bicycles prove their use once again when yet another coach overtakes us like a maniac. In the bend it dangerously banks, with the rear almost breaking out, at a speed far above 100 kilometres per hour. Just in time we dive into the verge of the road. Only yesterday we read a newspaper-article about a bus-accicdent not too far from here. The 54 deadly victims are forgotten within a few days. Life seems quite worthless in Uganda. You could say that people here are closer to nature, which means closer to life and death as well. An article about a person being devoured by a crocodile is not unusual. And when your fellow-villagers catch you stealing a bag of charcoal or a bunch of bananas, they show no mercy. You're cut to pieces, stoned or just hanged. And you can't even choose. It's too shocking for words.
In Kasese we're amazed about other things. Even though we've seen it often, a goat or thirty chicken on the back of a bicycle stays a strange sight. With a piece of rope the animals are tied to the luggage-carrier, which isn't always very successfull on the bumpy roads. Chicken surrender themselves in situations like this. The goat in question bleats like mad and in no time only his neck rests on the bicycle while the rest of his body hangs next to it. Bleating changes to wheezing, until the owner notices the discomfort and ties his freight to the means of transportation again. Quite normal in Africa, too shocking for words in Europe.

Almost daily we pass schools, primary schools as well as secondary schools. To be honest their sight doesn't give us a lot of hope for the future of this country. At least nine out of ten times all children are playing outside, no matter what time we pass by. Nice for us, to be cheered by hundreds of yellow, green, purple of pink dresses and shorts, not very good for a decent level of education. When the weather is bad, like when it's raining, there's no school anyhow; the teachers can't be heard because of the clattering on the roofs of corrugated iron.

The last Saturday of september we cycle into the Rift-valley for the umpteenth time. Climate and landscape change dramatically with a few dozens of kilometres, from tropically moist to dry savanna. It's the 27th of September and just like March 21 the sun stands right above the equator (that we coincidentally pass again today). This is called equinox; probably this is the reason why it's so hot and our very brown faces get sunburned again.

The National Park Office assured us that its perfectly safe to cycle through Queen Elizabeth National Park. We enjoy ourselves immense with lots of antilope, warthogs, buffalos, hyena, elephants and a feasting flock of vultures. After the turn-off to Katwe pleasure changes to uncertainty, when we get stopped by a mini-bus:
"Good afternoon sir, you'd better go back."
"Oh, hello, what's the problem?" Peter asks the driver a bit suspicious.
"There are four lions, just one mile further on the road, waiting for you!"
" Are they hungry?"
"I don't know sir, but they'll probably attack you and your sister."
We are reluctant to give up this delicious cycling so easily and ask hopefully:
" But we are very skinny mzungu, they don't like us!"
"They like you too much sir, just like we do."
He probably has a point here, there are no other options than to arrange for a ride. Of course we do carry a knife with us, size potato-peeler, but four lions is a bit much. Against our will we put bicycles and luggage into the car and arrive in Katwe thirty minutes later. By the way, we didn't see any lions.
Katwe, situated at the banks of Lake Edward, prospered in the seventies of the last century. There's nothing left of this prosperity now. Houses, shops and people look dilapidated and shabby. Whites are rare here, that's very clear very soon. Unfortunately. The behaviour of some of the villaers is too shocking for words: "He, mzungu, give me my money." The proper answer is: "He mafrican, I don't have your money!"

Fortunately animals don't distinguish between race or skincolour; sitting on the verge of the lake we're observed by dozens of hippos. A mother and two children pass us at a short distance when they start their vegetarian grass-meal at night. We make sure not to stand between the lady and the water, because this might be life threatening. The owner of our guesthouse tells us that the hippos regularly pass through the village in search of greener grass. Frequently this has unfortunate consequentes: sometimes people get hurt or killed. A few of them are lucky and only get bitten in limb. Too shocking for words.
Katwe is predominantly christian, as we notice on Sunday. The small churches are overfilled and during a cycling-tour we're accompanied by pastoral singing, that we can almost join. How deep the faith is of the church-goers isn't very clear, since the Ugandan church-leaders complain about the increasing amount of fake money and empty envelopes that people put in the collecting-boxes.

Once again we cycle into the hills and mountains, on our way to Tanzania. As usual we're followed by a Ugandan cyclist, who tries to overtake us when there is enough public alongside the road. The moment he succeeds Peter calls to him: "He, what's this, stay behind me!"
The heavily breathing and sweating boy looks flabbergasted. Peter accelerates and cycles next to him, until the boy throws his last strenght into the fight. The moment he overtakes Peter, Peter grabs his luggage-carrier and lets himself be pulled for a few metres. The public clearly appreciates it: they laugh and cheer.
In Lyantonde we are questioned by the staff from our guesthouse about our journey, cycling and our experiences in Uganda.The standard-question: "Do you have children?" pops up quite fast. We answer "Yes and no": Peter has a daughter, but the two of us don't have any children. The next standard-question is obvious: "When are you going to produce?" Having children is something like baking bread or growing bananas and is honored with the economical term 'produce'. Most Ugandan women we see are pregnant or have just given birth. They always walk with a child on their back and a bunch of small children around them. Uganda has one of the world's highest birth-rates. A little while later we hear that the baby's names often refer to events at the time of birth, the traditional oral history. People assure us that a lot of babies that are born during the period that we've passed will be named 'white cyclist'or something associated with us. So we did produce something after all.

A few kilometers before we reach Masaka we cycle through one of the thousands of identical villages: stone and mud houses in a long row left and right of the road, never higher than one story, about ten metres from the road, gaps in between filled with goats, chicken, cows, children and mud. A group of overgrown traffic-watchers ask us the ever-repeated question: "Where are you going, mzungu?" There are no turns-offs and we're coming from one direction (Fort Portal), so its very clear that we have to be going into the other direction (Masaka). Peter calls: "Fort Portal!", to confuse them. "Okay, have a safe journey!" Strange guys, those Ugandans.
Masaka is a bit disappointing, but we still do our shopping there for the last stretch to the Tanzanian border. We have to pay 6.100 shillings for our groceries. We give a 10.000-shilling note and offer to give a 100-shilling coin as well. "No, that's not necesary," the cassier replies, "10.000 is enough." Calculating isn't their strongest point, we've noticed a lot of times before. Even the simplest of addition sums are carried out by calculator.

Our last day in 'the Pearl of Africa' knows highlights and a deep low; after having seen an amazingly beautiful couple of Saddle-billed storks and having had a tailwind for hours, we pass a dead woman, who was hit by a car the night before. Mourning family-members are sitting next to the body that's lying on the verge of the road. We evade a puddle of blood and have to swallow very deep before we are in our right sense again, just in time before reaching the border, three kilometres further.

After ten weeks and 1.500 kilometres we leave Uganda, where we've cycled the only level stretches on the last leg in this country. Uganda offers overwhelming amounts of beautiful nature, green matoke-bananas, friendy waving people and for our deadly aspirations escaping cockroaches. A fascinating cycling-country, too shocking for words.