Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
he has somehow evaded capture. As Boston and I sat by the bank of the river, I gazed north
and had the unshakeable feeling that the country we were walking into was hiding him.
'Some of these kids are barely old enough to remember all that,' I said.
'It's the memories that live on, Lev. Their parents tell them about what happened.
They're terrified of northerners, of Nilots and Sudanese, the Kakwa and the like. And it's
not just them - they're scared of all foreigners here. They're so superstitious. They prob-
ably think you're here looking to steal children for witchcraft or something. You know . .
.' And here Boston winked at me in delight. '. . . you Muzungus eat babies! That's why my
son was so scared of you when you came to my house.'
'Yes,' I said, 'you might have disabused him of that notion. Do you want him to grow
up scared of white people? Isn't that irresponsible?'
'It's only tall tales, and a bit of fun.'
I wondered what my reaction would have been if, back home, a friend told me they were
raising their children to be afraid of black Africans. 'But these villagers,' I went on, 'they
actually believe it.'
There came the sound of an engine. When Boston and I peered down the road, we could
see a cloud of red dust slowly moving towards us. Moments later, a shape started to form
in the dust: a motorcyclist was coming towards us. I motioned to Boston to grab our packs
and we scrambled to our feet, ready to flag him down.
'It's because that stuff happens,' Boston went on. 'Not the whites - but people do go
missing here all the time. Only last week they found a woman just outside Masindi -
murdered, with her breasts cut off. That's witchcraft. I'm telling you.'
The motorcycle rider slowed down as he approached, and we launched into our familiar
haggle. This time we were lucky. For a fee, he agreed to tag along behind us, with our
spare rucksack strapped to his saddle. Wearily, we took off. There were still some hours of
daylight left and Boston wanted us to reach the village of Bweyale before nightfall.
And so, we followed the river north. Although vast areas of the bush here have been burnt
down to make pastures for cattle, it still felt bleak and wild, so much so that Boston and
I had to find some local herdsmen to guide us through the maze of scrub until we could
rejoin the river. A day further on, the Nile makes a sharp turn west and enters the an-
cient land of Murchison Falls National Park. Murchison Falls is the largest wilderness area
left in Uganda, and is steeped in history. It was traversed by Samuel Baker and his wife
Florence in 1864, and it was Baker himself who named the spectacular waterfalls at the
heart of the park, in testament to the president of the Royal Geographical Society, Sir Rod-
erick Murchison. Baker entered this area of wilderness from its western extremity, sailing
upriver in the opposite direction to the one Boston and I were walking. What he discovered
was beauty untouched. As he described it in his journal, 'the fall of water was snow-white,
