It had been four days since we left Kampala, much of it standing on the backs of trucks or crammed into crowded cars, only to find that we wouldn’t be climbing the Rwenzori Mountains. The next day, we refused to let our disappointment turn into total failure. Asking around, we were told there might be Indigenous forest peoples, then referred to as pygmies, to the west of Fort Portal, a town about 75 kilometers north of Kasese.
After discussing whether we wanted to be 75 kilometers closer to the fighting in northern Uganda that Sara had warned us about at Mrs. Roche’s, we decided to take a look. At the market, we found a truck packed high with sacks of milled cassava and climbed on top. Late in the morning, we arrived in Fort Portal, covered in flour and the insects that eat it. After finding a hotel, we spent the early afternoon cleaning ourselves and our packs, then walked to the market, where we asked a fruit seller how we might meet pygmies.
“Ah, yes,” said the man, “there are pygmies to the west. They live near Bundibugyo, but I think perhaps you don’t want to go there.”
The word ‘perhaps’ was becoming familiar to us. Africans used it to indicate that we were on the wrong track without saying so explicitly, which would be considered impolite.
“Why?” Vivian asked.
“The road to Bundibugyo leads north before going around those mountains.” He pointed toward distant hills to the west. “There is still fighting to the north, and the road is not well-maintained.” For a local to describe a road as not well-maintained meant something. “And I think the pygmies are perhaps not worth seeing. Some say they are animals that speak.”
“Animals that speak?” I asked.
“If you go near them, you may become polluted.” He turned back to his fruit. “I think perhaps you don’t want to go there.”
We spent the rest of the day searching for transport to Bundibugyo. It wasn’t a popular destination. One truck driver told us to meet him at the market that afternoon. He never showed up. Another driver canceled because of a flat tire. Just as we were about to give up, we met a young man named Moses. After we told him what we needed, he said he had a motorcycle he would rent to us the next day.
“Is there anything we should know about the pygmies before we go?” I asked.
“How do you mean?”
“A man at the market said the pygmies might pollute us if we got too close to them. He called them animals who speak.”
Moses looked slightly embarrassed. “Many Ugandans consider pygmies untouchable.”
“Why?”
“The pygmies believe they are part of the forest where they live. The forest has its spirits, and people inhabited by spirits can be dangerous.” He paused, as if to read his audience. “But perhaps it’s also because they’re so different.”
When Moses said the 180-kilometer round-trip would take a full day, we told him we would be ready to leave by eight the next morning. He nodded with complete confidence. That wouldn’t be a problem.
Promptly at eight, we arrived at the meeting spot. A small crowd of children gathered to watch us. Having learned some African patience, we waited until after nine before asking whether anyone knew where Moses was. A boy offered to find Moses if we paid him, but we decided to wait. At eleven, we got up to leave.
As if by magic, Moses appeared. “You are going? But everything is almost ready.”
At that point, there was no way we could make it to Bundibugyo and return the same day. Frustrated, Vivian looked at me, then turned to Moses. “Of course. Just wait for us. We’ll be back.”
“Good. I finally found petrol.”
We left with no intention of returning, and telling Moses we would was thoughtless. Later that day, Vivian said, “I hope he’s still waiting.”
We had no excuse, but that Africa was wearing us down. It’s probably better to call it a reason than an excuse.
Vivian later wrote:
Die Fahrt nach Fort Portal war umsonst … The trip to Fort Portal is in vain. We find the driver of a banana truck who says he is going past Lake Edward. For a little extra, he drops us inside the Queen Elizabeth National Park.