Walking the Nile

by Levison Wood

Then it was off, into the wild.

  The contrast with the Uganda we had been trekking through could not have been plainer. The bush was thick and green, and before we had walked a few steps we were treading in elephant dung, and there was an overpowering smell of ammonia, a sure sign that wildlife was close to hand, marking its territory everywhere we trod. Almost immediately we were greeted by the sight of bush buck flitting away, and before we had stopped for a first break we had seen warthog cross our path, and the majestic necks of giraffes bending to graze from the uppermost branches. Down by the river, with the sounds of Karuma Falls now having faded completely away, we heard the unmistakeable grunt of hippopotami. Venturing down the bank to fill our water bottles, I saw the grey hummocks of several lurking in the shallows only ten metres away. As I marvelled at them, Maureen idly filled her mug from the river and crouched as she drank. It was only then that I properly heard what the rangers were saying: hippo meat, they all agreed, was very tasty indeed.

  Boston gave me a knowing look, and then we took off again.

  This was the restorative I needed after the bleak walk north from Jinja. For ten kilometres we hacked our way through steaming, sweaty forest, until we broke for the first time on the beach near a river eddy. Julius took delight in telling us that this was the exact place he came to fish, and, though he was keen to stress that he had a licence to catch fish inside the park, Boston was under no such illusions. ‘His licence will let him catch a fish a day,’ he said, ‘but he’ll be taking more. Trust me, Lev. All these Bunyoro are on the take.’

  It took three more days to push north to the falls. Along the way, we camped wild by the banks of the river, or in poachers’ camps deep in the bush. With no food except that we could carry on our backs, and no water except the Nile’s frothy offerings, it was the most visceral experience I had had on the expedition. We spent the days in agonising bliss, the forest jagged and dense, the air thick with tsetse flies that made a mockery of our exposed flesh. Hacking across scrub, or through impossibly tall elephant grass, we dodged crocodiles disturbed from their slumber, and steered clear of the hippos who snorted in the shallows. This was African wilderness untouched since Samuel Baker walked here all those years ago; here the river was no longer paralysed by dams, no longer being bent to the needs of man, straddled by bridges or plundered by fishermen. The country it fed was not being razed to make way for plantation land, and the forests were not being destroyed at the altars of industry. It was my African idyll and, for a few days at least, I was able to forget thoughts of South Sudan and whatever else lay head.

  We would have made the falls much sooner, but after a day it became clear that the rangers themselves were holding us back. Francis had become a ranger simply because he liked guns, while Maureen – constantly lagging behind – had signed up so that she could spend her time among animals; but neither had fully appreciated the stamina it would take to complete a trek like this. Julius had begun the journey eager to test his mettle in the hope of one day becoming a full-blown ranger himself but, by the end of the second day, he was recanting his former ambitions; Murchison Falls, he declared, was just too much hard work. Nor was our other porter, George, in better spirits. On the third day, when we came across the remains of an elephant trap lying in the bush, he announced that he, too, had changed his mind: now he wanted to become a soldier and fight the rebels in South Sudan, not a ranger whose only battle was against the ‘honest’ poachers working in the park.

  By the end of the third day we were close to Murchison Falls itself. Across the scrub we could see a herd of over twenty giraffe, marching north to better grazing, while antelope flitted in their shadows. At the head of the procession, Boston cast disparaging glances at the rangers lagging behind.

  ‘We should push on until the falls.’

  I knew how aggravated he was. Only an hour earlier I had heard him barking at Maureen to hurry up, telling her that she ought to be ashamed at wearing the Ugandan flag on her uniform, but the truth was the heat was getting to me as well. It was near forty seven degrees, the tsetse flies were unbearable, and the thought of coaxing another twelve kilometres out of the rangers today was just too much. Ignoring Boston’s lament, I led the rangers back to the riverside and, amidst yet more swarms of tsetse, we made camp.

  In the morning, we made the decision to leave Maureen and Julius behind to make their own way back to the ranger station, and pushed on through the heat. The bush seemed to get thicker and thicker and the going was hard. Sometimes it was so steep we’d have to shimmy up or down vines, doing awkward impressions of Tarzan, the lord of the jungle himself. Danger lurked at every step – one false move could result in a slip to the bottom of a chasm filled with rattlesnakes.

  ‘Stop!’ said Boston in a whisper. He raised his hand towards me but his eyes didn’t move from a spot ten metres away. Grinding to a halt, I opened my mouth to listen for movement around me. ‘Hippo!’ he said, in evident alarm.

  We froze.

  There, right behind a tree, was a large, boulder-like lump. Until now, it had lain motionless, wallowing in the shallow mud of a half-dry creek. But now, disturbed from its slumber, the enormous beast was slowly emerging from the hole.

  Hippos are the biggest killers of humans of all the large animals of Africa. They kill more people than lion, buffalo, crocodiles and elephants combined. Incredibly territorial and defensive of their young, they don’t like people – and nowhere are they more dangerous than on land. ‘The most dangerous place in Africa,’ Boston had repeated several times along our journey, ‘is between a hippo and the water . . .’

  I looked at Boston, who was usually so unflappable, treading slowly backwards. Behind me, Francis and the porters were doing the same. I followed suit. As it stood, the hippo began to sniff at the air. Suddenly, it caught our scent and inclined its massive head towards us.

  ‘Run!’ I cried.

  In an instant, we darted for a cliff face, intent on scrambling to safety. Behind us, the monster began to charge, its cavernous mouth open to reveal skewer-like teeth. Every animal has different instincts and any human foolish enough to invade their habitat must know what they are thinking. For instance, you should never run from a lion – its cat instinct will always compel it to chase you down. Rhinos have terrible eyesight so, if you can hide behind a tree, you’ll quite possibly lose it. With elephants, you need to give them plenty of warning – spook them and they’ll run away before getting aggressive. But, if you come across a hippo on land, there’s nothing to do but climb. There’s no way you can outrun a hippo on the flat as, despite their clunky appearance, they are fast, able to charge at thirty kilometres an hour. Believe it or not, hippos are actually cousins of the horse.

  As the beast gained ground, we grappled with thorns and vines, without regard for pain, until we had hauled ourselves to the safety of a ridge overhead. Beneath us, the hippo gave a dismissive snort and then slumped away into the undergrowth. As one, we all breathed a sigh of relief. For the longest time, we basked in silence. Fresh from our close call our hearts were pounding, our bodies full of adrenaline. Short of patrolling through a minefield in Afghanistan, I don’t think I’d ever felt quite so vulnerable, or so exhilarated.

  ‘Are you ready, Lev?’

  ‘Ready for what?’ I asked, as I doused my face in water.

  ‘Ready to do it all again. Well, we need to get to the river, don’t we?’

  We picked ourselves up and hacked on through the spiny acacia, the river’s presence felt rather than seen. Eventually, blue shimmers could be made out – and then a beautiful glistening beach onto which our bedraggled party emerged. It was a relief to be able to replenish our water and, moreover, be out in the open where we could at least see where danger lay. There were dozens of hippos in the water, noisily grunting – but as long as they remained in the river, we were relatively safe.

  We walked along the soft sand westward but, as we progressed, the beach narrowed to the point where it became less than a met
re wide. Occasionally, fallen trees blocked the path so that we had to scramble over them or risk the water and wade into the river.

  Then, as if we had escaped the frying pan and fallen into the fire, the unimaginable happened.

  On the far side of a log, a massive, eight feet long crocodile was blocking our path. I froze. Francis raised his rifle in its direction but Boston, this time emboldened by his successful escape from the hippo, picked up a stick and moved closer to the reptile. Only when he was almost at the point of touching its tail, did the prehistoric lizard snap out. With the speed of lightning, it launched itself at my guide and snapped its jaws shut. I stalled, convinced Boston’s hand had been lost to the beast – but the monstrous teeth had clamped shut just an inch away from where his fingers still hung.

  In that instant, the crocodile ran, disappearing into the placid water of the Nile. Moments later, it reappeared only metres away, this time just its eyes and the end of its nose poking out of the black depths. I looked back along the beach, from the direction we had come. More crocodiles, five or six huge beasts, had emerged out of the forest, awoken no doubt by the commotion on the beach. There was no way back, no way to retreat. Our only option was moving forward along a twenty metre stretch of narrow sand that probably contained more of the lurking beasts.

  Perversely, Boston seemed to be enjoying the experience. ‘Like the one in the museum, Lev!’ he was shouting, a demented grin on his face. Beside me, Francis was gripping his AK-47 tightly and the porters simply looked terrified.

  As one, we began to run, raving like mad men as we dashed along the beach. As expected, the forest alongside us came alive as gigantic crocodiles darted out of the undergrowth to take shelter in the safety of the water. At one point, as I ran, I had to jump over the tail of one crocodile as it slithered past me into the depths. Finally, and with all our limbs intact, we made it to the security of a rocky headland. We were safe, for now.

  The fierce heat made the rest of the day intolerable but, by dusk, we had reached our first destination. It was the noise that came first – a clash of water that marked the top of Murchison Falls. As we approached the top, from the opposite direction to Baker – who had come from Lake Albert, still some miles further west – the roar of the rapids grew louder and louder. At last, we crested a hill – and there, in all their glory, lay the magnificent Murchison Falls. Below us, all the pure white water of the Nile was forced through a chasm of hard rock only a few feet across, the entire power of the river converging into one almighty chasm. Even from the top of the falls, the force seemed tremendous. More than the rapids outside Jinja, more than the dams we had seen harnessing the power of the river, this was a sight to prove how mighty the Nile truly was. From where we stood, the bottom was totally obscured, only a dense mist of spray from the falls to say there was a river there at all.

  THE GATHERING DARK

  Murchison Falls to South Sudan, March 2014

  Two days later, as refreshed as it was able to be in the blistering forty-seven-degree heat, Boston and I were preparing for the final leg of our trip through the park. We had spent the days exploring the vicinity of Murchison Falls. Patrick, a contact from the Uganda Conservation Foundation, had taken us out on a marine patrol. Lake Albert loomed in the west, beyond a vast estuary of papyrus marshes, and it was here that the patrols picked up illegal fishermen and poachers. According to Ugandan law, fishing is illegal within two hundred metres of the borders of the National Park, but this didn’t stop enterprising fishermen crossing the imaginary line in the lake and casting their nets.

  Illegal fishing, though, was the least of the threats Patrick exposed on our patrol. Far worse were the floatation markers we saw along the river and cast across the lake. These were the early signs of seismic testing – the first stage in oil companies looking to take advantage of the park. According to Patrick, the deals had already been struck at the highest levels of government; there was a predicted $55 billion worth of oil waiting to be tapped inside Murchison alone – and, whenever riches like that await, conservation is quickly forgotten. Drilling was already happening on the outermost stretches of Lake Albert. Soon, it would creep inside the park itself – changing this wonderful, wild part of Africa forever.

  On the morning we resumed our trek, turning north where the river met Lake Albert, we heard news from further north: in South Sudan, the fighting was spreading in intense bursts across the north of the country. Boston and I listened to the news soberly before hefting our packs onto our backs and making for the estuary.

  The river meets Lake Albert near its northernmost point, but the few kilometres walking along its shore before seeing the river reemerge seemed to take forever, the heat and entangled bush hindering us with every step. At last, we made the northern tip of the lake and saw the Albert Nile rise. At the tumbledown town of Pakwach we crossed the river again, this time by an old military bridge constructed during Idi Amin’s rule, and arrived at the Heritage Lodge before dark. The owner, William, seemed a shadowy sort, with a smile vaguely reminiscent of the hundreds of crocodiles we had seen lounging along the banks of the river – and, though he had arranged for our arrival to be greeted by a troop of Acholi dancers, taking part in their elaborate ritual was the last thing on my mind. Exhausted, at last I could retreat to my bed. Tomorrow, Boston and I would meet up with Matt Power and Jason Florio, two journalists who had been keen to accompany us on part of the journey. But, before then, we needed the comforting blackness of sleep.

  It was evening before Matt and Jason arrived, to be greeted by Tamarind juice – just like Samuel Baker, all those years ago. While Boston had spent the day scrambling for a phone signal to contact his family, I had wandered from shadow to shadow, seeking some respite wherever the sun was not casting its most destructive rays. For long hours I lost myself in Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, but his ruminations on Tanzania were difficult to concentrate on, with one eye always on the sun hanging in the sky.

  I was holed up in the newly built bomas of the Heritage Lodge – a camp built in the traditions of the Nilotic tribes, with thatch huts covered with colourful decorations on the adobe walls – when Matt and Jason finally arrived. The rooms looked out over the river which seemed to melt into the vast forest around, and the town of Pakwach was nothing more than a grey smudge in an otherwise verdant landscape. When Boston introduced them, the day was paling to dusk, and with it the edge came off the heat. I was glad of it and we gulped down the Tamarind juice with relish. For the moment, Matt and Jason were just glad for the chance to drink something; I could tell they’d had a long journey to get here, and probably weren’t acclimatised yet. Debilitating as it was for me and Boston, at least we had been introduced to it, one degree at a time.

  ‘Captain Wood, I presume?’ said the man before me with a grin. He was all teeth and smiles, with a pair of dark sunglasses and an air of cheery mischief.

  I suspected I was going to like him straight away. Matt Power was an American travel and adventure journalist, who had been commissioned by his new editors at the US magazine Men’s Journal to accompany me for a week and write about the expedition.

  ‘Hi, mate,’ said Jason. I broke into a smile at the familiar sound of an English accent. Jason was perhaps forty, with an enormous beard and long, straggly hair. There was something about him that had the air of a guerrilla fighter, a kind of English Fidel Castro with a camera. It didn’t surprise me, therefore, to find he’d travelled all over Afghanistan with the Mujahideen and happened to be in New York for 9/11. For all his tame demeanour, this man was the real deal, and I was intrigued to find out more of his adventures. Matt and Jason had been friends for a few years and had long planned on working together on an assignment, but, while Matt had plunged straight into this fierce Ugandan heat from the tail end of a bitter New York winter, Jason had come from the Gambia in West Africa, where he lived and worked as a photographer. Jason had made Africa his speciality and was well-versed in the conditions we would be facing.
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  ‘Come and settle in,’ I said, motioning them to take a seat in the shade of the thatched hut.

  ‘God, it’s hot out there,’ said Matt. He was still sweating, but he had a smile on his face that belied an excitement at being here, about to embark on a great adventure. Even though he’d done this a million times before, he seemed to be feeling the shivers down the spine that always precede the start of a journey. I felt the same way.

  As they relaxed by an electric fan, I took the opportunity to look them over. We’d had some email contact but, since I’d been out in the bush, I hadn’t been able to find out all that much about the two men who would be joining the expedition. Matt was originally from Vermont in the USA and had carved out a career in adventure and travel journalism in an era when the industry was in tailspin, writing for National Geographic and countless other publications. He’d walked in places of the world of which I could only dream, trekking along the Great Wall of China, through India’s Sikkim State, and had even spent time with Ed Stafford, an adventurer whose journey, to some extent, mirrored my own: three years before my own trek began, Ed had completed walking the length of the Amazon river, an expedition that had taken almost three years of his life. Softly spoken, Matt’s voice had an almost nasal quality – but, as the night wore on and barriers broke down between us, I saw he was exactly the same as me: energised, not by the idea of a world-first-record, but by the opportunity to be out here, walking, just because the world was there and we didn’t want to miss a single thing. I liked his style of documentation.

  ‘Lev,’ he said calmly, ‘I’m here on a job. A very exciting job. I’m gonna tell the world your story. Do you mind if I just keep my Dictaphone handy and record stuff you say?’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied.

  ‘It seems to me that we could learn a lot from Africa. On the way here, I saw a kid with a bike made entirely from wood. From wood.’ He said it with such passion that everyone in the room turned. ‘And kids in America whine that they don’t have the latest PlayStation . . .’