The Journey to Oyam

I hadn't started this journey with the idea that it'd be difficult. The roads between Kampala and Lira are good and there are many bus carriers heading there throughout the day. Little did I know…

9:00 AM

I began my preparations with the most difficult question: To bring a fork or not to bring a fork. [As it turned out, I didn't need one.]

11:34 AM

After an hour and a half of waiting for the bus to fill, we're on our way. There's a lady saying a Christian prayer for our journey. Amen! [Um…after this journey, I can see how pre-Christians wonder about our God. The explanation is simple…stupid people.]

I would never EVER want the job of backing busses into this tiny park.

12:13 PM

Aaaaannnnd…bus problems. [In retrospect, I wonder if the guy who was working on the bus before we left should have been a clue.]

1:32 PM

Fast food Africa. Vendors crowd the bus windows hoping to sell boiled water, roasted meat, and more. Friend and former Uganda housemate, Lauren, says she could go for chicken on a stick. [She's right…no matter how long it's been sitting in the sun, it's yummy.]

3:52 PM

A little sightseeing. I don't know about you but the last place I'd want my hiney is just above a truck full of longhorns.

4:18 PM

Bus just quit in the middle of the road to nowhere. I'm on the sun side. I knew I'd regret not taking that last short call.

5:08 PM

Broken down…#3.

5:46 PM

Shall we try for #4. Almost made it to beautiful Karuma Falls.

6:09 PM

Out of the bus and into a car hopefully the rest of the way. [Guys hire our their cars and fill 8-seaters with 12 people. It's a little like hitchhiking but somehow we're pretty safe. Once the car is full, which takes a while because lots of folks just don’t' have the money to pay for the bus AND the car - don't be silly, we don't get refunds for the broken down bus.]

6:20 PM

Chickens anyone? [Sitting at a stage stop for cars and busses, vendors try to sell their goods. I was impressed that this one had her chickens in the basket. Usually they're just running all over.]

7:35 PM

Stabbed deep w a porcupine quill. Too hard to explain how. Gushing blood all over the seat. Worried drivers stopped at the clinic. Giant bump. Oowie!

[Let me take a moment to explain. First of all, I made it almost an hour without stopping. Yea. Second, we have a saying…TIA (this is Africa). Lots of weird things happen here and you just learn to deal with it. But a porcupine quill stabbing just doesn't fit into even that kind of weird.

Here's how this went. I was in the front and needed to scootch to the middle "seat" to make room for an old man to sit next to me. I put my arms down to lift my rear and as I did that and leaned back just a bit the quill went deep in. Why? The second row of seats had five people so one guy was scootched forward to make room. He was in a park that day and found his porcupine quill treasure and was holding it in his hand in just the right spot for me to get stuck. He did not do it on purpose and was incredibly apologetic.

Okay, stick, ouch, and blood gushing. "Does anyone have a handkerchief for me to stop the bleeding?" Everyone looks at me with non-comprehension. "Okay, I know someone in this car speaks English, will you ask for a handkerchief." Yes! Got a very moist, possibly snotty kerchief for my arm all the while thinking of Dale DeWitt who was sure to ask for a photo and deciding there was too much going on to try that at the same time.

Now it's dark and the driver feels bad so he's going here and there trying to find a clinic that's open to get me a plaster. Don’t even think of asking for a Band-Aid here. Task accomplished and we're on our way again.]

Post sticking bruise.

8:54 PM

Arrived and picked by Pr George. Enjoying dinner with his family. Whew! [I love Pr George and his wife. They spoil me but even better they love Jesus so much. Such a sweet couple.]

[It's worth noting that in the past I'd get a 5:00 am bus in an effort to reach Lira in time for the one and only taxi going to Pr Patrick's place in Oyam. Typically we'd miss that taxi because of bus issues. I decided to plan ahead to stay in a hotel so that the next day we'd not have the rush. For a while I regretted this decision thinking I should just get up earlier. Today, though, I was quite thankful given the long long journey.]

9:07 AM the next day

Ready. The only thing missing is me.

11:55 AM

Arrived without incident. Praising God! [Our journey was a 2-hour boda ride on red dirt roads.]

My journey home was uneventful, praise God!

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Traveling to Bundibugyo

A diesel-fuel high made my ears ring as I contemplated how many people in Uganda died from such daily inhalation only to blame the likes of pneumonia or ulcers. Our eventual bus departure was met with great relief and a few aspirin. The journey was relatively uneventful given my recent trip to Congo, though no disappointment crossed these lips. After passing through the surprisingly large town of Fort Portal, the topography changed dramatically. The formerly lush green rolling hills gave way to far reaching mountains.

On this day ominous clouds hid the peaks of the Rwenzori mountains bordering the Great Rift Valley. Bordering DR Congo and sharing Lake Albert, Bundibugyo is rich with moist air and a variety of thick green vegetation, particularly given that this is rainy season. Stark contrasts play with my mind as I enjoy the freshly paved roads, mile markers, painted lines, guard rails, and road signs. Can I really still be in Uganda? Alighting at the taxi park, the end of the route, I waited for what would be a broadly smiling face to meet me. Bishop Hannington arrived on a boda with Pastor Timothy and gave up his seat so that I could join them all at their home.

That modern road system is juxtaposed against stick and mud houses made in the traditional fashion. Those who are less fortunate build their homes with what they find around them, crooked tree branches and clay mud gathered after the rains. Dried grass often protects the occupants from the elements. The Bishop’s house, like those who are only slightly more financially secure, was built with clay bricks made from the ground just outside the door and covered with a plaster mixture requiring the purchase of cement and sand.

A warm Ugandan welcome followed that long journey.

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Busing Uganda Style

Grabbing my bags before I could even protest, questionable bus attendants ushered me to the bus park at the same time demanding to know my destination. Stumbling past crowds of people, trying to keep up with my now fast-moving luggage, I struggled to keep up. Pushing me into the front seat of the big green Link bus, the attendant instructed me to wait the nearly three hours in the plastic covered seats as sleepy faces gradually filled in the gaps.

The Buganda Bus Park is home to most major long distance bus carriers and eager attendants sometimes get a little overbearing. Fights among them often break out with the customer caught in the middle. This is no place for the faint of heart – know where you’re going, know which bus line you need, and hold on to your bags. More importantly…know what time your bus departs.

I arrived at 6:00 am that morning sure of the 7:00 departure, based on past experience, only to find that the bus I needed was scheduled to depart at 9:00 am. Of course! Oh well, the early arrival gave me the opportunity to change buses three times and to allow one particular bus attendant to pave the way for me at each change. Eventually, he invited me for tea which would have meant leaving my plastic throne behind…and perhaps the bus departure as well. I remained.

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Gross Ouwie

The people of Congo like to say the bite came from Uganda. The Ugandans…Congo. Whatever the case, the bite became infected. I’m not saying this is what happened but…all the stuck truck situations often resulted in sitting on the ground in the dirt waiting to be unstuck and…well…that couldn’t have helped the situation.

I felt the lump grow and become tender under the skin and eventually that growth got hot…infection. Well, it’s a good thing I’m well versed in squatty potty because that lump took over my hind quarter (okay, it was only the size of a lemon with an opening the size of a quarter). Sitting was no longer an option and so I found myself lounging on my side as my companions became more curious at my odd behavior.

At first I used the camera as a means to see what the ouwie looked like and then Kizombo Jr. mentioned to Pr Mike that he’d brought a framed mirror – the only one in the house – to help with shaving. And so I snuck into the washroom and stood perched with one foot up on the small table holding the bathing basin, one hand holding back my skirt and a flashlight, and the other hand holding the mirror. I contorted my body just enough to see what was causing the anguish…I giant green lump. No, I couldn’t just squeeze it and get the goop out…my hands were occupied. Setting down the flashlight and the mirror I squeezed in the dark to see if anything would come out…no luck, lots of pain. What was I thinking!

Two more days and that Thing was no longer bearable. I was going to have to tell someone and hope that way out in the post-jungle surroundings there’d be some kind of medicine. As God had prepared, one of the people who came with us from Bukavu to Kitindi in the hot box was a nurse. The thought crossed my mind that medical practices in the developed world differ significantly from those in developing nations. But…what were my choices particularly given that I couldn’t even see this Thing.

Thoroughly and completely embarrassed, Kizombo Jr. asked Simone to look at my gross ouwie. He came quickly and willingly, and with Kizombo Sr. looking on (more embarrassment for me), he made an “eeew” face. Speaking only French and Kiswahili, Simone promised to send someone to find medicine for me.

The next day sometime late in the afternoon some salve arrived along with antibiotics. Salve, great! I know that stuff…it draws out the infection. Question…any bandages around? The next day I perched in my now practiced position in the wash room to see if the salve had done its work. Yep, a nice big green ball awaited me. Now…extricating that ball. A Q-tip was my preferred instrument but unlike the Chin Baby, this glob refused to let go. I finally resorted to using my fingernails to grab that nasty bundle. Apparently that green blob still had some tentacles down into my flesh because I almost passed out at the pain of yanking on that Thing.

I got it, though, the big green blob now laid on a small piece of TP and smaller green blobs remained inside the gaping flesh wound which was now dripping with blood. Guess I shoulda waited another day before yanking on that nasty Thing. That evening presented me with a fever. Sigh, what else? I’m the rough and tumble American who’s familiar with the challenges of life in Africa and yet I’m getting all kinds of sick. Malaria? Infection? Who knew. I had a few doses of ibuprophen with me and kept my mouth shut about the fever in hopes that it’d subside by itself and yet watching for the malaria signs. Kizombo Sr. asked why I was coughing the night before. I had to tell the truth. The cough was the result of the fever, an attempt to ease the internal pain. When the doses were gone and the fever remained, I was forced to admit that yet again I was in need of some care. The malaria specific meds helped immediately.

The next few days were filled with salve, antibiotics, and lots of very uncomfortable sitting positions. Kizombo Jr.’s first aid kit contained four bandages large enough to cover this wound and I strategically applied them so as to have one ready for our one-day return hot box journey. Problem…Africa is hot and bandages don’t stick in the hot. Three times I found myself stepping on that giant Band-Aid after it slid off my hind quarter and onto the ground. Uh-oh…the ride home.

We were confident that the journey out of Kitindi and back to Bukavu would be just one day and so my plan was to sit on that last bandage to keep it in place. No sense in adding infection to infection by having my dirty traveling pants in direct contact with that big hole in my leg. But wait…did I say one day? After the first time getting stuck the bandage came off. In and out of the hot box at least 10 times…the first day…went something like this.

Sit on the gaping flesh wound. Pants stick to wound and the wound starts to dry. Stand to get out of the truck because we’re stuck and rip the pants out of the wound…blood runs down my leg. Back in the truck to sit on the wound again. Pants stick to the wound and the wound starts to dry. Stand to get out of the truck because we’re stuck…again…and rip the pants out of the wound. Blood runs down my leg. Multiply this paragraph by three days – yes, DAYS – and at least 20 stick-and-rips and I really just wanted to cry it hurt so badly.

Our final arrival in Bukavu sent my heart into a little happy dance. Again with no mirror, I carefully cleaned this Thing I could not see with ice cold water from the bucket in my bathroom at the hotel. I donned my pajama shorts and washed the nasty out of my traveling pants, which would be needed the next day for the flight home. Thankfully, Simone came to the hotel one last time to check on me and pronounced the wound okay…at least that’s what I thought he said in French. He gave me one final bandage and I prayed for its stickiness during my final journey.

As I walked between the Congo exit and Rwanda entry, I felt something flapping on the back of my shoe. Good grief…no bandages left. Was I allowed to cry just at the thought of another stick-and-rip situation?

Now, just four days after returning home, the hole is dried enough that it doesn’t rip when I sit. I still can’t see it, but a gentle probe suggests it’s actually closing up. Whew! Honestly, I’m surprised this is only the second such infection in my three years here.

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The Dreaded Journey (Day 3)

Morning didn’t come soon enough, as a mosquito nibbled my elbow raw during the night, and once again we were off. At 5:30 in the morning we had a mere 72 kilometers (44 miles) to cover. About half way into that journey we stopped for a view of the rice fields offered by our somewhat elevated position. The stop, though, was necessitated by some hardware falling off the truck such that the gas tank was dragging along behind us.

Just three short hours later we reached town, and as we pulled into a gas station, the brakes gave out. So close, but yet so far. Ushered into a taxi, those of us staying at the Hotel de Nard were whisked away to beds and water and food. The meal I’d talked about during this three day journey…a fruit cup and crepes…and gave me hope to keep moving. This is, after all, a French colonized city.

In all things I give thanks to God. What would life be like without a little adventure?

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The Dreaded Journey (Day 2)

Only one thing could derail our return journey, so we thought, and that would be rain. And what was that pounding I heard? Yep, it rained that night…it rained HARD. Thankfully the early morning part of our journey was mostly on sand so the rain didn’t affect us the way we thought it might. But our second day of travel turned out to be no less hazardous than the first.

The very first obstacle, though seemingly small compared to the many others we’d overcome, landed us squarely in a completely stuck situation. Regrettably, I have no pictures for this one as I’d tired of getting my camera out every ten minutes for stuck pictures. I didn’t realize there’d be much of a story to tell about our return journey. The rescue team – an organization tasked with rescuing people caught up in the current war in the northern part of the country – was equipped with all the necessary gear and easily extricated us from the muck.

Our next challenge was a stuck of a different order. We reached the gold town – a very large town established primarily for gold prospecting – and the police officer refused to allow passage. She found all kinds of excuses to detain us and so all but the driver and Kizombo Sr. walked ahead for the exercise. As I passed the main corner, all eyes were on me. Um…well, you can imagine the kind of people such a town attracts. I quickly found Simone and Pepito and hid behind them as we waited. I’m not sure how, but an hour or two later that truck was released and a short visit to the police station resulted in setting off once again.

Not far after passing the gold town we stopped at a hotel for a bathroom and food break. We all needed a break. Our tolerance for all these challenges was running low. Though, not long after leaving the hotel the fuel in tank one ran out and the fuel tank switch refused to do its job. Sigh. Siphon didn’t work, playing with pieces under the hood didn’t work. Refilling the first tank was the only option and so Simone rode on the back of a taxi (literally) back to town to fill a small jerry can with fuel. More delay, hope is waning.

649 – gas tank thingy off

Next up, The Pit. We took every opportunity to ask how others so easily escaped from its jaws and applied what they’d advised. As a result…we passed through with relatively little damage to the vehicle. On the video Kizombo Jr. took, he can be heard saying, “This is our very last obstacle.” We’ll see…

Time was running low and our ability to reach Bukavu had been severely compromised given the various delays. Past all the log bridges and mud pits, we were now on the mountainside part of the journey. Apparently hauling at top speed around tight mountain curves was deemed the best approach to the remaining journey. About 15 minutes into the race our tire fell off the truck. Not only did it fall off but the steel ring (like a giant washer) broke in half. Now…we’re straddling the mountain road between two curves thankful we weren’t on the cliff side.

Breathtaking view!

Darkness approached as we borrowed a jack from a waiting truck and it became apparent that once again we’d stop for the night…but where? Apparently some little town was about an hour ahead and so once again we raced to beat total darkness. Once safely inside that small town we sought out the church pastor – known to no one – who kindly gave us shelter for the night. With a minimum of water, peanuts, and roasted corn, we hunkered down for the night. Pr Mike, Kizombo Jr, and I slept in the truck while the others slept in the pastor’s home.

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The Dreaded Journey (Day 1)

Fearful and confident. Those are the emotions we all shared as we prepared for our upcoming return journey from Kitindi to Bukavu. Our driver assured us that now that he knew the road he could avoid the various problems we had on the way in. I’m not sure how that logic works, but we all had hope of reaching Bukavu in the one day it should take. Wait, what is that noise? Oh, it’s only the now broken shocks…eh, no problem (serious sarcasm).

Several times the shock problem worsened and we all exited the vehicle. With no way to actually fix it way out here, the decision was made to continue carefully and slowly. We successfully passed the former traps, though a bit more blue in the face for having held our breath so many times. 

Having departed at 7:30 am, by 11:30 we’d passed the major obstacles this side of the hospital. And…just when we thought we might be home free…we somehow managed to straddle a log over a somewhat high ravine. The two font tires were on solid ground and the two back tires straddled the log. Four hours and a major miracle later we were free, but we were also keenly aware that we’d not reach Bukavu that day as planned.

The shocks worsened but our options failed to expand until we reached a village near’ish the hospital. Two hours of work on replacing that shock and it was obvious we’d go no further. Darkness set in and several of us were motorcycled to the main gate of that now familiar resting place, whose water pipes had since pursed and thus afforded us no bathing luxuries. The end of day one, whew!

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Log Bridge

Saturday was log-moving day and the local leaders coordinated work to somehow improve the bridge. Until one man got seriously injured, the work progressed. Once he was taken away, everyone lost heart and the log stayed in its place on the ground about 100 feet from the river gap. This was our problem solving example in the teaching to take place the next week.

Oh how I wish they would have finished the upgrade. This bridge was nerve wracking to cross. Children cross in the water, people with loads cross in the water, helpers are available to walk you across if so desired. I can’t figure out why they don’t just nail up a railing or drag that last log another 100 feet. Perhaps my problem solving exercise should have had a hands-on component J

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Traveling to Kitindi (Day 2)

BRIDGES AND OTHER OBSTACLES

Not designed for vehicular traffic, several bridges went “crack”
as we passed over them…hmm…how to return.

We walked ahead without fear, and wondered how exactly
 the hot box would pass the next obstacle…and the next…and the next.

The true jungles of Congo were depleted of their former wildlife
but bamboo blockages remained in abundance.

THE SECOND STUCK

Friday, July 19 at 11:30 am

It was simply too easy to slide off the narrow wet rails left by some passing tractor and to get one end or the other hung up in the muck.

THE THIRD STUCK

Friday, July 19 at 12:00 pm

Notice this stuck was perhaps 5 minutes after we were finally released from the second. A trailer broke down and was left overnight, though it was still there upon our return. Our only option was to go around it, doing so, though, meant filling in a swamp. Of course, the swampy ground was much MUCH softer than anticipated…and there was a tree stump just below the surface. This was just all kinds of stuck that I didn’t even want to watch.

THE FOURTH STUCK

Friday, July 19 at 2:16 pm

Perhaps 5 minutes after the third stuck…we were stuck AGAIN. Notice how slick the clay is and the high spots were deceivingly soft and positioned in all the wrong places.

 We began thinking we might never get unstuck, or at least that we might not reach Kitindi before nightfall, and so sent ahead for three motorcycles. The idea was to send the guests and the muse (mosay or wise, respected man…Kizombo Sr.). An hour from the spot from which we sent the messenger, an hour to return, and an hour back to Kitindi would get at least a few of us to arrive before dark. Off I went on a motorcycle.

Now…before I tell you this next part…I must say something as a pre-defense of what is to come. I grew up on motorcycles. Dad had one, boyfriend had one, I had one. I’ve ridden boda-bodas more than 10,000 times in traffic and on roads that were pretty dangerous in and around Kampala. I’ve even driven myself in the outskirts areas. What happens not 50 feet from where we began? I got dumped. Yep, the motorcycle slid off a high spot and we bit the dust. Kizombo Sr. then demanded I get back in the truck. Good thing I love him so much…or I’da argued in fierce protection of my pride. (Sorry, I was too busy falling to take a picture.)

The hot box and the motorcycles kept time together and finally a walking bridge (two logs sprawled across a deep river gap) presented itself before us. Wobbling our way across that bridge and up, up, up to Kizombo Sr’s home, the neighborhood children greeted us from afar. This journey wore us all down, but…wait till you hear about the return trip.

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Traveling to Kitindi (Day 1)

(Yes…Day 1)

The voluptuous Chain of Mitumba mountain range allowed intrusive driving paths to wind around its hills and valleys. The sometimes rocky roads would make for an easy propellant…over cliff edges. The 10 hour trip was broken by our first stop under that mango tree next to the lonely church. Encouraged by the roads thus far, though rough and dusty – the dust piles up in inches like snow and children kick through that fine powder as if it were snow – the remainder of our journey can only be described in pictures.

A SIGN OF THINGS TO COME

Someone else's stuck truck.

Don't slide off the edge.

This guy came around the corner and had the choice of either
hitting us head on or over correcting for the curve.
He over corrected and wiped out on the gravel...into the water.

THE FIRST STUCK

Thursday, July 18 at 12:38 pm

Not-so-affectionately referred to as “The Pit,” several trucks lined up behind us waiting to get their turn. Bottomed out and hung up, the driver immediately behind us refused to help. The next driver lent his cable, which snapped twice. People gathered and instructed and finally a shovel replaced our machete as the digging tool. After some talk about the competency of the driver – who could do little other than play bumper cars in this pit – the giant Mercedes truck also got stuck. This “stuck” lasted for about an hour and a half.

Look carefully at the ridge to the left...below that lies The Pit!

After about 1.5 hours we were unstuck and it was the next truck's turn to get stuck.

NYAMIBUNGU HOSPITAL

Thursday, July 18 at 6:19 pm

Delayed starts and The First Stuck resulted in the decision to put up at Nyamibungu Hospital for the night. The hospital looked deserted, but Kizombo Jr. was familiar with its grounds and its caretakers. Apparently this isn’t the first time the 10 hour trip turned into a two day trip. The caretakers graciously put us up for the night as the rain and the darkness set in (oh…the roads). The journey thus far was described as…the easy part.

Here, however, is where we were scheduled to take motorcycles to the end destination, an estimated six hours. Though, having heard that a truck made the entire journey in 10 hours just the week before, we’d already decided to complete the entire journey with the truck.

Now...go back to the top and look at the pictures again. Though we spent lots of time stuck, I also stood in awe of the majesty that surrounded us. Lush green hillsides filled the landscape at our various stucks. The scenery was breathtaking! I thank God for the reminder of his ever presence amidst every circumstance!

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The Hot Box

The Hot Box, driven by François (Frank), was to be loaded and on the road by 5:00 am thus allowing us to reach our 300 km (186 m) destination in about 10 hours. As is seemingly an all-Africa tradition, various delays resulted in setting out at 8:00 am. Given the estimated duration, we ought to reach Kitindi by 6:00 pm…just before dark sets in…ought to.

The Hot Box was loaded both inside and out, with Kizombo Sr. insisting that the most luxurious seat be taken by me, though at last he relented and took that spot himself after about four hours of jostling and jolting. We were finally ready to go.

Pr Mike, Kizombo Jr., and I were ready to go at 5:00 am.

Pepito, Pr. Mike, Simone, Kizombo Sr., Leslie, Julianne, Kizombo Jr., Pr Norbert

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