Walking the Nile

by Levison Wood

  ‘I think I’m going to call her Florence,’ I said, ‘after Samuel Baker’s wife. He rescued her from captivity too.’

  But Boston wasn’t listening. For the time being, there were going to be three of us on this trek.

  North of Baale, we followed the river for another hard day, along a dirt red track that ran parallel to the water. The road seemed endless, sparse and unpopulated, the indigenous forest razed but with so little agriculture in its place that it made what we had seen yesterday seem even more hopeless. Our goal was to reach Lake Kyoga by nightfall but, delayed by Florence’s constant chewing of my earlobe, stops to catch her when she scrambled from my shoulder, and my repeated attempts to find her a safe haven, we fell 10km short and spent the night in a little village called Galiyiro. North of us, the Victoria Nile disappeared into Lake Kyoga and emerged again on the lake’s most westerly point, then wending its way due west to Lake Albert. We had fallen a day behind and, with Florence, would fall even further – but that was a problem for another day. Now, hot and exhausted as we were, was a time for clean water, laundry, and clean clothes.

  In the village, we shared dinner: big plates of chapatti and beans, with Florence bouncing between the two and stealing morsels from our plates. When I was finished, I looked up to see Boston stifling a smile. I thought he was laughing at the monkey, but he had a different kind of sparkle in his eye.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How did you like it, Lev?’

  I had liked it well enough – but, then, I had eaten enough rotten goat and bush rat in the last weeks to make anything hot and filling feel like a banquet.

  ‘Haricot viande!’ he declared. ‘Meat beans!’

  ‘Meat beans?’ I asked, noting that Florence still held one in her tiny paws.

  ‘It’s the dish of refugees,’ Boston explained. ‘We’ll see a lot more of it the closer we get to South Sudan. You see, Lev, these beans, they’re rotten. Full of maggots.’

  My stomach clenched. Instinct was telling me throw up, or at least throw a punch at Boston for not warning me before.

  ‘It’s protein, Lev! You whites wouldn’t understand. This is good food for starving Africans.’ He leaned across the table, wearing his familiar conspiratorial smile. ‘Trust me, Lev, when we cross over the border, you might be grateful to find a plate of haricot viande . . .’

  At that moment, my phone rang. Boston was lucky: it was the only thing that stopped me from throwing my plate at his face. On the other end of the line was Pete Meredith. Pete had been in touch with a representative of the Ugandan Wildlife Education Centre in Entebbe, a big town sitting on one of Lake Victoria’s many peninsulas, some forty kilometres away from Kampala. The endless calls I had made during the day, it seemed, had not been so fruitless after all; if I could get Florence back to Jinja, the Education Centre would pick her up and rear her in safety, before aiding her reintroduction to the wild.

  When the phone call was finished, Boston was still smiling.

  ‘You can wipe that smile off your face,’ I said, refusing to admit that the memory of the beans was not so disgusting after all. Even maggots taste good when you’re as famished as I was. ‘We’re marching again tomorrow, without this vervet to slow us down.’

  In the morning, we bid goodbye to Florence. I had arranged for a taxi and local guide to take her back to Jinja and, outside the guesthouse, made certain she had a clean nappy and wished her a good journey. To me, Jinja seemed far away, but by car the journey would take only a few hours. Before Boston and I had reached Lake Kyoga, Florence would be safely with the representatives from the Wildlife Education Centre. Watching her little face peering through the glass, suddenly I understood how much I was going to miss the little monkey. My earlobe would heal, the smell of her faeces constantly dropping down my back would be gone, but for all of that I still felt torn. Perhaps it was only the heightened emotions that come with undertaking an expedition like this, but watching Florence go affected me in a way I had not anticipated. Suddenly, I was thinking of all the family and friends I’d left behind in Britain. Was this, I wondered, the first intimation of some sort of homesickness?

  Boston was already half-way down the road. He turned and yelled for me to hurry up. We had taken on a local boy as a porter. Emmanuel was seventeen, of South Sudanese origin, and had a bicycle with which he could help us carry our packs. Some of the other local boys were pouring scorn on him as he trotted after us, but Emmanuel didn’t seem to care. ‘Perhaps if they’d gone to school, they’d be carrying the Muzungu’s packs too,’ he declared, though I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of him being proud to be my servant.

  ‘Are you okay, Lev?’

  ‘That monkey’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to having a baby,’ I replied.

  ‘You should have children, Lev. It is the best thing a man can do.’

  I hung my head, half-afraid I’d prompted Boston to embark on another one of his rants. But, this time, he remained silent. ‘I think I’ll leave it for a while,’ I said, and took my first step out of Galiyiro.

  It was another ten kilometres to the shore of Lake Kyoga. Compared with Lakes Victoria and Albert, Kyoga is a shallow body of water – all of its 660 square miles are less than six metres deep, with most of the water having a depth of only three to four metres. The shallow waters are perfect for lilies and water hyacinth, and as we came to the shore we first had to pick a way through thick, glutinous swamp land. Out on the water, floating papyrus islands and acres of water lilies gave the false impression of a succession of much smaller lakes. In places it seemed as if we might even be able to walk across the surface, if we balanced delicately on the slowly bobbing green sheet.

  Boston, Emmanuel and I gathered ourselves. The only clear water we could see was the expanse where the Victoria Nile fed into the lake. According to the increasingly cumbersome self-imposed rules of my expedition, we could not use the flow of the river to gain an advantage, and had to follow its length in its entirety. Right now, that meant crossing the lake and continuing our trek on its northern bank, where we would follow the shore westwards unobstructed by swamps. There, we would find the headwaters of the river where it emerged from the lake.

  It took some time before we found passage over the water, paying for the services of some local fishermen and their precarious river-boats. Though we set off at midday, by the time we had crossed Kyoga the afternoon was paling, the light soft and diffuse. We had spent those hours clinging to the bow, trying not to panic at the sight of the alarmingly big holes in the basin of the boat, while Boston used a small tin dish to bail out water.

  It was with some relief, then, that we came to a landing site on the northern bank. The village, the fishermen told us, was named Kiga, after the people who have lived in this region for generations untold, and we had attracted quite a welcome. Standing on the banks was a crowd of other fishermen, all staring inquisitively at the prospect of a white man intruding on their routine. A tall man stepped out of the crowd, and introduced himself as James. I was surprised to hear how clear his English was and, before I had introduced myself, he took me by the hand. ‘You will come and meet the chief,’ he began. ‘Leave your boy and bike here.’

  Boston and I looked at Emmanuel and shrugged, but if Emmanuel minded being left by the lake he didn’t say a thing. Emmanuel was already further away from home than he had ever been, had already accomplished more than he could have done in his old job as a village water porter. The money we were paying him was to go towards his dream of one day owning a motorcycle, and he was happy to wait for us, thinking of the day it would come.

  Up the bank, the shacks sat closely together, though there was nothing that could be easily mistaken for a road. Boston and I followed James through a dirty fishing village – every house surrounded by bones and fish guts, the huts no more than ramshackle piles – and came, at last, to a mud brick house. Inside, a middle-aged man slept sprawled on a wicker bed, his chest rising and falling with every whinnying
snore.

  At once, the man woke with a start and, barely pausing for breath, ordered James to provide seats. Moments later, small plastic chairs were arranged in a circle around the chief and his bed. Some other villagers were arriving, now. I took them to be villagers of note and, soon, they were introducing themselves as such. ‘This is the chief, Geoffrey,’ began a lanky youth in a gaudy red Arsenal football shirt, who had previously introduced himself as the head fisherman.

  Geoffrey’s eyes fell on us. ‘Before you present yourselves, you must first sign the visitor’s book.’

  If I had expected a grand, leather-bound ledger I was mistaken. A tattered school notebook was produced and Boston and I scrawled our names inside. ‘A relic from British times,’ he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  Once the signing was complete, I prepared myself. Just as I was about to launch into a speech detailing who we were and what expedition we were on, another man interrupted. ‘First, we pray!’ he barked, and led us back into the light. Outside the chief’s hut, it seemed the whole village had assembled. There must have been two or three hundred people here. As Boston and I faced them, I had images of how it had been for Baker, Stanley, Livingstone and Speke when they had first come across remote villages like these. Their journals are filled with stories of the contrasting hostility and welcome they received across inland Africa.

  Around me, everybody lowered their head and folded their hands in their lap.

  As the village pastor launched into his prayers, welcoming us to his village, Boston and I looked at each other in mute disbelief.

  ‘Lord!’ the pastor began. ‘Let us pray. We pray for our guest, this Muzungu who comes across the lake from the land of England. We pray for his health, that he does not catch any bad diseases. We pray that his children are big and strong and that he has many more. We pray for his goats and his chickens, and if he is a fisherman that his lakes are full of tilapia. We pray that he will have lots of money so that he may return to Kiga and give us some of it. Lord, we pray too for this Congo man, who is clearly not of sound mind, that he survives this great journey and may return to make more children with his wives . . .’

  Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in my side. I looked round, to find Boston’s elbow being driven into my ribs. The faces in the crowd were all staring into me. It was time, it seemed, to add my own voice to the prayers.

  ‘Chief,’ I began, acknowledging each man with a nod. ‘Pastor. James. People of Kiga!’ Boston nodded in approval, but the more I went on the more foolish I felt; my skin was turning an unmistakeable shade of crimson. ‘My name is Levison Wood. Tembula Muzungu from over the water. And this is my companion, Ndoole Boston of the Congo. We have come from Kampala and beyond – from the mighty Lake Victoria . . .’ In spite of myself, I realised I was actually enjoying this. Beside me, Kiga’s collected dignitaries were nodding away, while the faces in the crowd were rapt. A flash of inspiration struck me, and I remembered the copy of the New Vision magazine in my rucksack, in which the journalist Matthias had written about our trek. As I produced it and Geoffrey handed it round, I continued my tall tale. I spoke of the greatness of the Ugandan people, the kindnesses we had come across in our journey, the beauty of the land and generosity of the tribes. As I concluded my spiel, rapidly running out of superlatives with which to describe the people of the north, the pastor translated the article and, at last, the chief’s face seemed to brighten up. Once we were done, he stood and surveyed the crowd.

  Now it was time for a speech of his own. With his white string vest, fat belly and ragged trousers, I did not expect the voice that came out of his throat to be so bold. Yet, in seconds he had the village transfixed. James whispered in my ear, translating as he went.

  ‘The chief welcomes you to Kiga. We are blessed by your arrival, and may God bring you safety on your great journey. For the moment, Kiga is yours and you must feel at home. The chief has told the people of the village that they must not disturb you, harass you, or ask you for money. Nor,’ he added, ‘must they threaten to kill you.’ I made eyes at Boston, who was only beaming. ‘He has told them you are not only a white man – you are a Britisher, and must be afforded our respect. We hope that you will go away from here and tell people that Kiga is a good place. We expect that you will tell your queen and your president, and your minister for development, that Kiga needs the help of the white man to develop, and that we need the government here to give us more money so that we can buy better fishing nets. Also, Levison, we need another toilet. The one we have is almost full.’

  As James continued to translate, each sentence one behind the chief, the crowd burst into laughter, loud enough to drown out what he was saying. Only when the laughter had died down, could James carry on.

  ‘He tells the people they must not be afraid. Even though you are English, you have not come to turn him into a homosexual. No matter how hard you try, he will not marry you.’

  I cast a look at Boston, expecting him to be as outraged as I was, but his laughter was as loud as any of the villagers, and seemed to cut through the general throng.

  Moments later, I found the copy of New Vision being pressed back into my hands. ‘Fetch your boy,’ said James. ‘You may spend the night in our police station. Not as a prisoner, Tembula. You are our honoured guest.’

  As James led me there, I was not sure how honoured I actually felt.

  It was too late to continue our journey, and the fish that the villagers supplied was enough to convince me to spend a restful night here, rejuvenating ourselves for the day to come. Inside the lock-up, Emmanuel was asleep almost as soon as dinner was done, so it was only Boston and I who sat up, watching the sun setting over the lake. Around us, posters clung to the walls. In England they might have been declaring “Don’t Do Drugs!” or “Report Suspicious Behaviour!”, but this one was different. “SAY NO TO CHILD SACRIFICE” were the words that glared out at us from the wall. I made a silent gesture to Boston. ‘Just like your nanny,’ I whispered – but Mama Fina was in my thoughts as well.

  ‘Only human sacrifice is guaranteed to bring wealth to the man who consults a witch doctor,’ Boston snorted. ‘It used to happen in Congo until we banned it. Not so in Uganda. Here, everyone believes this shit. It’s like I told you – these people need education, Lev.’

  I glared at him, compelling him to be silent in case any of the villagers heard, but sometimes Boston could not be stopped. He was standing in the door of the station, drinking bitter coffee from a chipped glass. ‘The problem with Africa,’ he went on, as a dying sun reddened the endless stretch of papyrus, ‘is that people are shortsighted. They follow any mafia hard man or jumped-up village bully if he offers them cheaper gin or free firewood.’

  The sound of crickets was almost drowning out the waves lapping against the lake’s rocky banks, but they could not drown out Boston when he decided to get on his soapbox. ‘The chief doesn’t seem like so much of a bully here in Kiga.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Lev. Give him half a chance, and he’d be . . .’

  ‘He’s hardly Idi Amin.’

  ‘Well, why not? Amin is a classic case of a jumped-up village bully. But take the Congo, for example . . .’

  I hung my head. I had already heard Boston’s war stories ten times over.

  ‘In the Congo,’ he continued, ‘we have eighty million people. Eighty million! That is more than you English. And do you know how many of them were educated when the Belgians left?’ The Belgians, Boston had repeatedly told me, had left the Congo in 1960, part of the first great wave of African independence. ‘Not a single one!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Belgians had banned it. At least you British educated your natives. Not so the Belgians – they were total bastards. How can a country be expected to start from scratch when even the leaders haven’t been to school? That’s how it happens, Lev. Without education, it’s the thugs who rise to power – they’re the only ones who can take control and rule. It’s the law of the fist.’ He paused, seeming to c
ontemplate his own words. ‘People without education don’t think about the future, so these villains take over, and because the villains are short-sighted too, they’re corrupt. They steal and pillage their own country. You get generals who are only in command because they’re related to the president – just like here in Uganda. And those same generals have three or four big mansions each, just like those Sudanese! And the politicians, they’re all murderers these days. You can’t be a politician in the Congo without having been a fighter. And do you know what that means, Lev? It means you’ve probably raped women and killed children. That’s what qualifies you for government.’

  ‘Boston,’ I ventured, ‘you were a fighter.’

  ‘Not like that. I didn’t rape. I didn’t murder. And that’s why I’m here, tramping along this river with you, instead of in government. It’s a disgrace.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know what I’d do if I was an MP, Lev?’

  Whether I wanted to know or not, I was about to find out.

  ‘I’d start again. I’d wipe out corruption and ban the tribes. I’d kill anyone that dissented and force peace on people.’

  ‘Do you know, Boston, you’re beginning to sound like Idi Amin yourself. Kill anyone who doesn’t agree with you because you know you’re right. You’d be a dictator.’

  ‘I’d be a great leader of a great nation. How do you say in English? You cannot make scrambled without breaking eggs.’

  ‘Omelettes,’ I interjected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Boston barked. ‘I think I’d probably need to kill at least half the population though. Maybe as much as two thirds. By then, we’d be left with decent people.’

  There was a glimmer in Boston’s eye that told me he was aware of how outlandish he sounded, but the way he could nonchalantly profess all this after what we had seen in Rwanda, not to mention Uganda’s own recent past, struck me as bitterly ironic.