Memoirs of Rwenzori: Bog, Boulders and Beauty

Strip down, start running—and never quit! Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we’re in. Study how he did it. Because he never lost sight of where he was headed—he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever. And now he’s there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!              – Paul of Tarsus

Well, morning came. And the sun did shine again, dispelling the dark cloud that that had been hovering over our heads the previous night. The mood in the camp was upbeat. It was a new day and hope had taken it’s rightful place.

Compared to the rude introduction to mountaineering 101 that we had been subjected to the previous day, today’s climb, though going through bog and boulders, was going to be an individual test of courage for me. 

Just as we descended from the moraine to cross the Mubuku River, I missed a step, slipped and tweaked my left knee. What irony, considering the many horrendous “opportunities” I had had the previous day to do just that. Only then, that tumble would have resulted in a free fall ending either in raging river or very hard rock. Coming from the many years of running on tarmac and uneven ground, I have what is termed “Runner’s knee,” the irritation of the cartilage on the underside of the knee-cap. Whenever this condition escalates, all I have to do is rest my knee for a fortnight. On the other hand, “Time-Out” is an altogether strange phenomenon that does not blend on this terrain. Sitting down to nurse myself, I had to quickly choose between two propositions: Carry on or Go on. You see, coming to this mountain for me was synonymous with going all the way up to Margherita peak. There was no two ways of seeing this. And sitting on the dirt that morning, it dawned on me that Margherita was not going to yield her beauty without a fight. 

I was reminded of a fellow in a similar predicament. Well, not exactly. There was a lot more at stake for John Stephen Akhwari. The country’s honor was on his head. On October 20th 1968 (at around 7pm, long after the winner of the marathon had tucked away his medal at the Olympic village in Mexico City, a forlorn, limping figure came out of the shadows and made his way into the stadium. Nobody glanced in his direction until, over the the din came the voice of the announcer requesting the few remaining spectators, all starting to leave the stands, to honor a true sportsman. A lone clap erupted into a deafening crescendo as he was cheered on to the finish line. Hardly anyone remembers who the winner of that marathon was. But of John Stephen Akhwari it was written, “today we have seen a young African runner who symbolizes the finest in the human spirit; today we have seen a performance that gives meaning to the word Courage.” For his part, asked why he did not quit even when it was obvious he was badly injured, John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania had this to say; 

“My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race. My country sent me 5,000 miles to finish the race.”

It’s not how you start the race that counts. Its that you finish the race. In life, the highest mountains we climb are not physical mountains. And so with a limp and a prayer – and a bandage firmly wrapped on my visibly swollen knee – I carried on. Stumbling, wobbling or limping, it did not matter. For the joy set before me, I was going to summit Margherita. And nobody was going to know how badly injured I was, lest they conspire with the guides to send me back down. Yesterday’s events had schooled me enough to know that this was not a far-fetched notion.

The Rwenzori mountain range is the most challenging of all African mountains to ascend. Over the next next two days, we were going to climb up an elevation of 4600ft (1400m), a little over what we had already covered. Unlike the steep climb the first day, it was going to be a seesaw going forward – down and down, and up and up. Then down. And then up. And then down again. And that cycle would pretty much repeat itself for the rest of the climb. As in life, whatever altitude is lost had to be regained; an obviously daunting task. We descended to a valley between two ridges at the confluence of the Mubuku and Bujuku rivers. Here, the two rivers join up and flow as one – The Mubuku River. Mr and Mrs Mubuku (nee Bujuku); the imagery of Biblical marriage was not lost to us. Over this confluence is the Kurt Schaffer Bridge, one of the many bridges criss-crossing the mountain. Further from this crossing is a steep incline overlooking the Bujuku valley, allowing for the transition from montane to thick bamboo forest and eventually giving way to the heather zone that has trees coated with moss and ferns. Continuing from the John Matte hut, we traversed the Lower Bigo Bog that leads to the now abandoned Bigo hut and then onto the Upper Bigo Bog, ending at Lake Bujuku. We did the shorter part of this crossing by hopping from tussock to tussock; any misstep being sure to get you tumbling in the mire of the bog. A bridge consisting of irregularly spaced wooden slats is overlaid on the better part of this crossing and is a hazard of its own. With my bad knee, I couldn’t stop thinking what absolute torture I would have had to endure if it was the tussock dance, like we called it, all through. From majestic groundsel, giant lobelia plants to the Everlasting Flower (with a flowering cycle of 50 years), we were in awe. Waterfalls. Lakes. Rivers. Mystic Flora. All in a stone-throw’s distance of each other. It was a whole new world. 

My debilitating knee “disability” came with benefits. Being relegated to the rear guard meant I had all the time to take in the views and beauty. Yesterday’s frenzied scramble to the top morphed into an unhurried trek up the next boulder. This badly packaged blessing also came in the form of  a very amiable and knowledgeable guide, Josephat Baluku. Am still in touch with him. And the cherry on the cake was the opportunity to hang with Titus, one of the men on the expedition. I have known Titus for the better part of my earthly existence. As always, we talked, laughed, wondered and rested at will. Josephat was at our beck and call. That took the sting out of the climb. And I was reminded that life is in the journey. Not even the formidable boulders or the waist-deep bog (swamp at high altitude, for the uninitiated) on successive days were going to steal our joy. 

The facilities at both camps (John Matte and Bujuku) are much the same but John Matte is still close to home for me. Not only did it give us our first clear glimpse of Mount Stanley but also had splendid views of the mountain. With the excruciating pain in my knee, I still afforded a very uncomfortable shower. And one of the men shook his head when he saw me apply my Giorgio Armani cologne. I intended to smell good even on the mountain; a certain level of propriety and decorum had to be maintained, I retorted. There was a lightness of heart at this camp as we prayed and talked late into the night and reminisced. We even talked about the trouble that brought the barbed wire many years ago. And the things we couldn’t change then. And how we told the girls we loved them. Wonder-smitten and awestruck, I later sat under the moonlit sky into the small hours of the night and was up at the break of day to worship the sun god. Oops, God the Son!