Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
to mountain to jungle made for tough-going. In a day we'd sometimes gain a thigh pum-
melling thousand feet as we crested a ridge, only to drop down again into a misty valley
where we'd get lost amongst the reeds and orchards, cursing the muddy slopes as we fell
over every few steps. Mentally it was tough too; although we'd started off eager to make
headway, the reality hadn't even sunk in yet as to the magnitude of the distance we were
undertaking. Neither of us had any clue whether our feet and minds would hold up.
The Rwandan wetlands are dominated by great lakes and, though I knew none was as
great as the one we would eventually reach - Lake Victoria, the vast inland sea of south-
ern Africa, was already looming in my mind - after a few days the river wound between
shimmering expanses of grey and brown. On the west were the smaller lakes - Gashanga,
Kidogo, Rumira and Miravi - while, on the east, were the bigger, more majestic Sake and
Mugesera. Soon we had to give up our attempts to stay true to the riverbank itself and
followed it at a distance, sticking to the higher ground above the marshes, from which
we could look down on these magnificent natural reservoirs. A series of finger-like ridges
pointed south to the point where the river curled east and became the borderline between
Rwanda and Burundi. The trek through the hills was slow-going and, though I sometimes
wondered about Vianey and his past, I was glad he was with us to help shoulder our packs.
As we tramped slowly onwards, the silence was broken only by the drone of mosquitoes
coming up from the swamps, and Boston's continual lament. He had somehow pulled a
ligament in his left heel.
'I thought you used to be a soldier. A leader of men,' I said jokingly.
'That was a long time ago. I was a young man. I am not used to hills, not after seven
years in Uganda. Kampala is completely flat.'
'You spent long enough in the Congo,' I said. 'What about Goma? It's full of moun-
tains.'
'Yes,' said Boston, with newfound nonchalance, 'but who's stupid enough to climb
them?'
Each day we gained and lost a thousand feet or more in height - and, on the eighteenth
day, reached the Rusumo Falls border crossing. Back home, the festivities of Christmas
would be fast approaching, but this was a different world. At 1600m above sea level, the
land felt almost Mediterranean. The villages had terracotta tile roofs, and were surrounded
by beautiful orchards and meadows. It was easy to get lost in daydreams as the walking
found its own rhythm, and to forget the thousands of miles that lay ahead, and for a mo-
ment or two the pain in my feet, and to sink into blissful immersion in this wonderful for-
eign land.
At the falls, we stopped to take in the view. We were approaching the point at which
three borders meet: Rwanda was behind us, Burundi to the south, and ahead, Tanzania,
where the river banked north towards Lake Victoria. As Vianey set down our packs and
