Getting out of the public taxi-van, Cassie and I wade through a crowd of boda-boda drivers clamoring for our business. We don't know where we we're going yet, so how could we tell a boda driver where to take us? Stretching our cramped bodies from being squished into one seat for three and a half hours, we look beyond the little town, into the Mornee Hills. "Is that where we're headed?" I ask, pointing at the hills. "I think so—they're the only mountains around here, and we're in Mbale," she replied. Ok, we're in the right region, those are the only mountains we see, so by process of elimination…yep—that has to be where we're headed.
Ten minutes later we're zooming down Mbale's main drag, warm air whipping at our faces. We break out into giggles—I mean, could we have any less of a clue? We don't even know where the hiking trail begins. Our boda-boda driver indicated he knew what we were talking about, but as he zips up and down a local dirt road, we only seem to be driving alongside the hills rather than getting closer to them.
"Um, can you take us closer?" Cassie asks our driver while pointing to the hills.
"There?" He asks.
"Yes, there," she affirms. A few minutes later we're still no closer.
"Ssebo, please stop…Stop," Cassie commands. Hopping off the bike we look between the driver and the hills.
"We want to go there, Ssebo. Do you know the way?" I ask him in my Ugandan-English accent.
"Where?" He asks blankly. I look at Cassie. He has no idea what we're asking, and no idea where he's going. He's just driving. We laugh, because we both know what I'm thinking. My "Oh Africa" look says it all. Just then, an elderly man comes up to us. "Where are you going?" he asks in English.
"We want to hike, um, I mean walk, to the top of those hills," I answer.
"The Mornee Hills?"
"YES!!" I chirp, thrilled that someone knows what we're talking about. What a relief—we're not delusional. "Yes, do you know if there is a path to the top?" I ask eagerly.
"You want to go? But who will you go with? Who will show you the way?" He quizzes.
"We just want to go alone. Is there a path? We'll just follow that." By now we're surrounded by a crowd of children and a few young women, wondering what these two white women and a boda man could be up to. I hear children whispering "Bzungu" under their breaths. Yes, "whiteys." "Stand out" doesn't even begin to describe the scene that this is amounting to.
"Yes, there is a path, just back there."
"Great, can you please direct our boda driver to where it starts?" I implore. Directions flying in a Lutoro, I hope our driver's getting it all. Clearly confused, the driver looks from the old man to us. The man interprets. "You can take a car?"
Oh boy, I think to myself. "No, no," I explain slowly and patiently, "we want to walk. He should just get us close to a path that goes to the top. Or a road that goes to the top. But we will walk."
Finally the driver is convinced he knows where he's going. Thanking the man and our audience, we hop back on the boda to head back where we came from. Laughing all the way down the road, we wonder where we'll actually end up. If we get up the mountain, great. If not, the past 20 minutes have been entertaining enough for us to go back to Kampala with a great story.
Wow. Banana trees, simple mud homes, and lush greenery surround us on both sides. To our left are high cliffs, while our right stretches out far and flat. As we walk past peoples' homes, children run from their front doors up to the edge of the road waving and yelling "Bzungu! Bzungu! Howareyou?" Mile-wide grins are plastered across their little faces as we wave back. "Fine! How are you?" we reply without stopping, leaving them little time to respond as we pass. Some kids follow us for a while; some implore us for money, hands outstretched, impish grins on their faces. They know what they're asking for, and they know it's just because we're white. They see white and think green. Cassie and I keep up our conversation about our favorite books and soon the kids fall back. We've been walking along a local road for an hour, without seeing a path into the hills, but beauty surrounds us and we're happy just to be outside; outside of the city, outside of the smog, outside in eastern Uganda. We've committed to turning around and making our way back to town at 2 p.m. so we don't miss the bus. But for the next three hours, we're just going to follow the road, maybe to Oz. We don't know.
"What? There's a path just a few meters back? Can you show us?" Cassie asks the young man we've interrupted from his midday break. He cheerfully leaves his post and walks us the hundred meters to the start of the path. "Thank you, thank you!" we cheer. Finally, a way to the top! It almost seems too good to be true—we are actually doing what we came to do, without any maps or guides, just through the help of people we meet. The ascent is pretty steep with very few switchbacks, but it's fantastic. We stop every once in a while to catch our breath and admire the view as we get higher and higher. Uganda is so flat! It's incredible to look out onto so much land without the smallest hill in sight. When we reach the rock wall, we discover that the path essentially requires some bouldering techniques. Hand holds are even carved into the rocks we're climbing over, to assist our ascent. It turns out that the path is actually a local path used by people to get up and down to various farms and resources on the mountain. Even on the "bouldering" section we find ourselves being passed by Ugandans without shoes and bunches of bananas on their heads. Cassie and I just smile at each other. Of course that's how they'd go up, while we're struggling not to slip and fall.
But we make it. It's a grand view. It actually reminds me of a view I had in England last summer, overlooking the moors from a tall cliff. There are distinct plots of land, but the green here is different than England—it's much more vibrant and one can clearly make out the banana trees which I'm sure are hard to find in Britain. The view takes our breath away but reminds us that we're hungry. Pausing for an apple break, we take in all that we are seeing. Smiling and chomping and happy. Just a few minutes later we head back down. While coming up was tedious, going down is that much more frightening. We precariously scoot on our butts to keep from sliding off the side of the mountain. We pass two children, a girl and boy no more than 6 and 8. They quietly watch us attempt to maneuver down the rocks. As I hesitate before finally resorting to bottom-sliding, I hear the kids burst into full belly laughs—one of the most innocent, sweetest sounds I've ever heard. Seeing myself and Cassie from their eyes I burst out laughing as well and laugh with them for a few minutes. Their giggles take a while to quiet, but I'm not embarrassed—I'm sure I looked ridiculous to them.
Safely down the mountain, we headed back into town in time to wash our hands, enjoy some water at a café, and make the bus back to Kampala. What a splendid "abenture," as a friend of mine would say. A day full of unknowns but plenty of wonderful surprises.
