Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'What's a tree fish?' This sounded like the beginning of some terrible joke.
'It is a snake. Everything is related to the trees in the Congo. Lev, I believe I should lead
from now on.'
As I tried to pick my way through the logic of this particular argument, Boston un-
sheathed the machete I had bought for him and encouraged us to take off. It was a sturdy
army-issue panga with a comfortable wooden handle, not like the flimsy machetes that are
for sale all over the African bazaars. Gripping it with an iron fist, he pushed past Amani
and started cutting blindly at vines and branches. I gave Amani what I hoped was a con-
ciliatory smile and, together, we followed.
Boston's path didn't seem any better than Amani's - but his panga was making short
work of the dense vegetation, and our progress was faster. With Boston blazing the trail,
too, we were able to stay closer to the occasional gurgle of water that marked the Nile's
first passage. In places the water didn't seem to flow at all, and the only indication that we
were following the mighty Nile was the soft earth underfoot. Sometimes this bog seemed
to suddenly grow deeper and more expansive, so that we had no choice but to pick a way
across. Thick and glutinous beneath the feet, it had the same effect as quicksand, and on
more than one occasion I plunged into the quagmire up to my waist. As I wriggled, shout-
ing profanities and grappling for Amani to help me, Boston seemed to float above the filth,
keeping his boots as clean as the moment they came out of the box. He really was a jungle
man.
As Amani hoisted me from the quagmire for the second time, I fixed my gaze on those
boots. A nice pair of desert Altbergs, they were the best money can buy. I knew it - be-
cause I'd bought them for him. He looked back at me from the undergrowth ahead, beam-
ing. He was proud of those boots, determined not to get wet feet.
With Boston hacking away, I could better take in the wonders of the Nyungwe Forest.
Amani might have been a poor bushwhacker, but he was good at one thing: it was Amani
who first saw the colobus monkeys leaping through the trees above us like little black
ghosts. By mid-afternoon, we had dropped a couple of hundred metres in altitude, follow-
ing the natural contours of the valley. In a short distance, the stream had grown from a
pure, clean trickle to a bog and then, as it filtered through layers of vegetation, it finally
emerged as a fully-fledged little river. At the moment it was hardly a foot's length across,
but it was clean again and definitely flowing. Trailing my fingers in the stream, it felt as if
the water - even more than me - wanted to be rid of its forested womb and head out into
the open sunshine beyond.
The water and I both got our wish when, in the late afternoon, we emerged from the Ny-
ungwe. The forest ended suddenly, snatching us from the close darkness under the canopy
to the bright sunshine of fields and mountains. It had been silent in the forest, save for the
