Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Four thousand, two hundred and fifty miles, to be precise - and that didn't even include
the diversions we were bound to have to make in trying to cross the river's most inhospit-
able domains.
We had driven all day yesterday and camped in these rain-drenched hills, but this morn-
ing the wait was almost at an end. Mist seeped through the forest as we rose, but occasion-
ally we'd burst through one of the reefs and I could see the forest dropping steeply away
beneath us. It was, I knew, almost time.
At last, the car came to a halt on the very edge of the Nyungwe Forest. It was known loc-
ally as the 'buffer zone', an expanse of planted pines and eucalyptus, trees alien to Africa
but introduced in colonial times to meet the growing need for firewood. Stepping out of
the truck, I got to thinking how very English it all looked, like a tiny piece of Stafford-
shire plucked up and planted on top of the indigenous tropical forest. Under other circum-
stances, it might have been disappointing - but not for me, not today.
Our local guide was waiting for us under the trees. Amani was a representative of
the National Tourist Board of Rwanda, a Tutsi by ancestry. There was no mistaking him
against the backdrop of dense foliage: he was wearing a fluorescent red plastic raincoat
and carried a tattered child's rucksack over his shoulder. No sooner had I set foot outside
the truck than he was shaking my hand earnestly. 'Come, it's this way!' he declared, taking
off into the bushes before the introductions were even concluded.
Setting off to follow, Boston muttered into my ear, 'Don't trust this man. He is a govern-
ment agent.' I looked sidelong at him; Boston was deadly serious - but, up ahead, Amani
was waving us on with the vigour of a young man who genuinely loved his job.
'Government tourist agent,' I said, and started to follow.
Amani was a government guide by profession but, as we entered the forest, I got to
thinking he was probably far more at home taking corpulent Russian businessmen around
the night spots of Kigali than he was hacking through the jungle. Before long, it seemed he
had lost his bearings, and I doubted he could find his way back to the trail where we had
begun. Still, his efforts at pretending he knew where the river flowed were second to none
and soon, whether by accident or design, we had joined a path that screamed out 'tourist
trail'. I could tell this path was well-trodden because its edges were crisp and clear, the
encroaching foliage beaten back. Spanking new signs and litter bins reinforced my impres-
sion that this was as tame as England's own woodlands.
As we went, Amani gave us a spiel I knew must have been given to a thousand other
visitors. 'Most people think the source of the Nile is in Uganda at Lake Victoria,' he began,
'but most people are wrong. What you're about to see is the true source of the river - it's
furthest tributary.'
Once again, Boston wasn't impressed. I heard him tut beside me. Boston, it seemed, had
his own beliefs about where the true source of the Nile was, but people have been fighting
