Sunday, June 18th
Seventeen American students, one Ugandan student, and two tour guides set out to roam West Uganda’s *best* mountain: Lake NKaruba Natural Reserves. We hiked up a dirt path to “the top of the world,” oohing and aahing at the incredible sights – mountains and lakes and forestry as far as the eye can see. Rain had just fallen, leaving behind a somewhat overcast sky and cool air. Rays of sunlight burst through grayish blue clouds, lighting up large patches of land….. so dramatically beautiful - much like a painting. In fact, standing on that hill, with a 360 degree panoramic view, I did feel like I was in a painting.

We had left later than we planned that morning and thus began the hike late. With so many people, it was inevitable that this mini hour long “walk” took almost two. At two to three hours before sunset, we embarked on another one – this time to see a waterfall – that should have been two hours long.

This second walk led us, staggered and paired off into twos and threes, through exciting patches of sugarcane plants that we snacked on and banana trees with leaves large enough for me to wear as a shirt. It also brought us face to face with Uganda’s most destitute: rural farmers living in this mountainous region below the international poverty line of $1 (developed by the World Bank in 1980’s, somewhat problematic). As a child, when I wanted to depict a “house”, I drew a rectangle with two windows and a door in between and a triangular roof on top. And that is how the houses, scattered throughout the greens (lack of better word) looked. They are constructed of reeds and mud and do not have plumbing or electricity, The children, many of whom must travel off the mountain to attend primary school if they are lucky enough to do so, wear tattered clothing and run around barefoot, cheerfully greeting visitors with “How are you! How are you!” repeated over and over. The adults are equally friendly; presumabley they’ve seen muzungus before. In fact, they have seen them enough and learned to also say (perhaps the only other phrase of English spoken), “Give me bottle” or “Can I have some money.”…Peeking into their homes and seeing toddlers running around pantless or shirtless, I want to.

The dirt path becomes uneven and winds through more exotic forestry I’ve never seen – cornstalks seven feet tall, trees with beautiful upside-down bell shaped flowers. The sun begins to set as the dirt path gives way to no path – we must follow those in front to find the path obscured by grass taller than us. The sun produces powerful, virbrant rays behind a mountain – “the circle of life” - before the sky turns pink and purple. We finally wade through bushes and stalks to a steep hill, where sounds of water are heard. I literally ski down the dirt path, grabbing onto stalks on either side to brake. I don’t fall, but many other do and end up sliding down on their bottoms. It was so difficult going down the hill that I can’t imagine actually climbing up. After a good agonizing 10 minutes of hiking down what felt like a vertical slope, we climb over large, intertwining roots and finally emerge to see the waterfall. By then, it is getting dark and within a few minutes we are ushered to head back. But with seventeen people and only two tour guides, the process is much slower than we expect. Long before we reach the main road (and by that I mean a distinguishable dirt path, as opposed to the lack of path we are still wading through) it gets dark. We only have three flashlights, suddenly one of the tour guides has disappeared – supposedly to find a boda boda for a girl who couldn’t make it all the way on foot. After a bit of arguing on whether to wait for the last few or have the first few start heading out, a bit of freaking out, a bit of frustration, a bit of some trying to take control and simply chaos in general, we finally gather everyone and decide to keep an stay in an even spaced chain. The second tour guide leads us to a fork in the road, and we follow him one way. After 10 minutes, he stops, and asks us to rest here for a few as he goes to find local boys to lead us back to a path. We turn off the flashlights to save energy and douse ourselves in bug spray. As if perfectly timed – there is a flash in the sky. “Did someone just take a picture?” “No, it’s lighting.” And it begins to rain. By then, it is 9 pm. So there we are – cold, hungry, wet, tired, lost. I wish my camera still had battery life to tape this “Blair-witch project” meets “Road Rules” meets “Leadershape team building” adventure. The boys come and lead us to the main path, after few miles of walking in the dark, albeit on a path finally, we finally hear music – ah, civilization! Trek a bit more, and we finally reach our bus.

For us, it was an adventure, a scare. For those who live in the mountains, ending the day’s activities at dark and trekking up and down the steep slopes for water is normal activity. It is such a hike up and down the hills – I wonder if their children go to school. I wonder what the inside of the mud huts look like, and types of social or health infrastructure is available to these people. The tour guide had told me that part of the money raised through tourism is put towards a local orphanage.

As I passed the houses, I thought of the Namuwongo slum area. The children wear much more tattered clothing, and fewer speak English here. They stare at us, the muzungus, wide-eyed and ask us for money. Lily’s comment – “the difference between urban (non-slum) and rural areas of a particular African country is greater than differences between countries” – runs through my mind. I want to empower, not simply give aid. But how would I interact with people on the same level when simply by my ability to enter their community (as opposed to them entering mine), I am so much more privileged? Will they really treat or view me as an equal?