September 12, 2011
Oh how the mountains call me to them every once in a while. After an intense second week of being with the girls, which went wonderfully by the way, my friend Jasmine and I decided to head to the Rwenzori Mountains in western Uganda for some hiking and relaxation. It did not disappoint.
We arrived Friday evening at the Rwenzori Trekking Hostel, which was a simple and clean place – all you ever want from a hostel. Because we arrived rather late in the evening, we didn’t have much time to walk around, but we did get a bit of a look at the town. Once a mining town, Kilembe has an abandoned mining factory that sits at the base of the beginning of the mountains. Closed around 1975, the factory as well as the still chair lift leading up into the mountains are spotted with the rust of what could have been and is now not.
The people, to some degree, wear that same face of unfulfilled hope – a distorted, half smile that is quickly cursed by the eyes. The children still play in the streets, rolling empty bottles attached to sticks, with faces that are endearing and innocent, but the constant presence of the adults surrounding either side of the road somehow continually brought me back to the loss. And, in my journey thus far, I had not yet experienced the begging I experienced in this town; I was fully initiated this weekend. Children surrounded me at one point, rubbing my skin and kissing my hands, and they kept asking me to, “Give me my money.”
I know they don’t realize what those words actually mean and in no way were they offensive to me, but it was a moment of pause for me, as it made me aware of whose money it was to give. It was almost shocking to me when that thought crossed my mind, because I have only ever been asked to “give money” and usually always do; ownership of the money was never put into question, and by somehow phrasing it in that manner, I was keenly aware of the need to teach rather than give. The old saying – Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. – resonated.
I will forever believe in helping other people, but I understand more and more the essential role education and training plays in really fostering sustainable “help”. Change will only come when the fundamental issues of the problem are addressed and, if possible, amended. Nevertheless, seeing the sign in the hostel asking guests NOT to give money to the children was somehow reassuring.
Saturday was an early morning, as we prepared for our trek up the steep doormat of the mountains’ house. As we set off onto our hike, the initial pass was striking to me, as I was amazed by the drop-offs that attached themselves right beside our eight inches of path. I deemed the drop a killer at certain points, and due to my fear of heights and utter clumsiness, I paid homage to its power by losing my own. I really wondered whether or not I was capable of surpassing the fear (and shortness of breath!). However, I somehow pushed through, taking great pleasure when we came upon the leg-breaker drop-offs. Those I can handle…or, at least, survive.
Our six hour ascent was, luckily, uneventful, and our views throughout the climb were wonderful. You see why Uganda was termed “the Switzerland of Africa.” It is stunning.
We arrived at the top of our climb, which unfortunately was not in the actual park itself, but fortunately, it provided a lovely place to camp as well as a reasonable trek for someone like myself. I was quite happy with our feat, and even more so when the next day brought climbers who had summitted the mountains into my path. I, in no way, would have been prepared to summit, as it is a very serious climb in need of the proper gear and strength, neither of which I had this weekend.
The trek up the mountain was sprinkled with stories from our guide and information about local uses for the plants surrounding the area. I found his talk fascinating, as through his telling, I got a greater understanding of the culture. For instance, we came upon what he termed a “bark tree,” which is a tree whose bark is used in making material for clothing, blankets, etc. And, he went on, the tree also acts as a lawyer in local disputes; this, of course, left the three trekkers (Jasmine, a gentleman named Arnold from the Netherlands who was on the trek with us, and me) with puzzled looks on our faces.
How is the bark tree a lawyer? was the obvious next question. Our guide explained. The tree, you see, is the judge when two people claim the same land. For, when a person acquires property, they plant a bark tree on that property. They watch as the tree grows and use the tree’s bark to make clothing (and in my mind, have a relationship similar to the characters in Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree). Should a person (the owner or otherwise) claim the land justly or unjustly, the community will challenge the man to cut the tree down. If the property truly belongs to the man, the tree will simply fall. If the property does not belong to the man, the tree will fall on top of him and kill him. I think it may be the best logic I have ever heard. The bark tree rests its case…both literally and figuratively.
The campsite where we did stay was also surrounded by children, and their interest in us was interesting to us. They wanted us to play, and they wanted to us to talk. They wanted us to take their picture, and they wanted us to simply be around them. Perhaps, in some way, we provided to them what the mine had once provided to the town – an option.
We rested and played with the children, and when night fell onto our mountain, I was quite ready for sleep. It came and went throughout the hours of the moon, and I wasn’t sure if it was the notion of needing a guard carrying a spear or the rock in my lower back that kept it from enveloping me.
Either way, when I woke up, I somehow wasn’t tired, as I think the rest I needed was simply a break from daily, all-consuming life.
Coming down the mountain only took two hours, and the little rain we encountered was just enough to say I have experienced the rain in the Rwenzori Mountains. Other than that, our stay was dry, safe, and so enjoyable. I needed the mountains, and maybe they needed me, too.
Our drive home in the afternoon was lazy, and we stopped at the salt mines of Katwe before heading back to Mbarara. Fascinatingly enough, the Salt Mine had also closed down around 1975 due to corrosion in the pipes, and the same rust and ghostly memories surrounded the building’s dilapidated structure. I realized at this second, decaying location how stories change as they travel from person to person, year to year. They can, virtually, decay not only metal, but also history.
I got home late last night and crawled into bed and slumber. Today proved to be full of go, as I went from one project/issue directly to another, leaving the office at 6pm and not even realizing everybody had left. I had too much to do, and tomorrow is another day in the field and with my girls.
How funny that phrasing it that way gave me another moment of pause! Perhaps it is good to constantly be reminded that individuals and their spirits may never be owned; they can only be loved and appreciated…which is what I do and feel for my girls. I guess in that context the “my” is very appropriate.
