129 - The Last Resort and Flashbacks (Nepal, Uganda, DR Congo)
AFTER WRAPPING UP MY KHUMBU TREK, I returned to Kathmandu for physical recovery and existential stagnation. Photos to sort. Thoughts to collect. Experiences to describe. Streets to wander. Pirated DVDs to watch. And if that wasn’t taxing enough, I had to decide on my next move. Oh, the toil of it all.
Time to leave Nepal, but where to? I considered Mongolia, but getting there was an expensive hassle. Any follow-on destination other than China would be decidedly inconvenient. I wasn’t ready for China. Several lifetimes wouldn’t suffice to explore its depths, and I wasn’t prepared to spend the next six to eight months scratching the surface. I needed to be fresh. Perhaps, in a few months, I’d change my mind.*
*(This never happened, but I thought I would get there one day. Now, I’m not so sure. Between China’s descent into an authoritarian police state and the lingering influence of Covid-19, I fear I may never have the privilege.)
Something told me to head west. I peered at a map and made the logical choice—Dubai, then Azerbaijan. Duh. It’s hard to describe the feeling of opening a map and settling on a place simply because you know nothing about it. Azerbaijan? What the hell is in Azerbaijan? Only one way to find out.
Dubai was the ideal jumping-off point. I considered zipping through but saw folly in such haste. Curiosity reigned supreme. I wanted to see the apex of runaway development and conspicuous consumption in the Arab world, at least for a few days. Big cities weren’t my thing, especially ones that include ostentatious displays of wealth like the Burj Arab (arguably the world's most obnoxious hotel), the Rose Tower (the world's tallest hotel), the Dubai Mall (world's largest), and the Burj Khalifa (the aforementioned world's tallest man-made structure). Still, this was an experience in itself, so why not? If you’re going to condemn the excess, you should witness some of it firsthand, no? I’d also hoped to expand my camera lens repertoire. Dubai’s shopping opportunities are fabulous.
I couldn’t leave Nepal without pumping myself full of adrenaline via a bungee jump and canyon swing courtesy of the Last Resort on the Bhote Kosi river three hours northeast of Kathmandu. Nothing like flinging yourself off a bridge twice to punctuate four months in Nepal. Yes.
After the fall, I relaxed with new friends—four medical students from the UK taking a break from a three-week surgical internship in Nepal. We got along famously. They seemed to appreciate my brand of potent sarcasm… or excelled at concealing their disdain.
We laughed. We cried. Emotions ran deep. We watched Harry Potter in High Def Helium (there was an issue with the DVD player's audio) and had long thoughtful discussions on a myriad of topics where I acquired new vocabulary words like “crease,” “thrush,” “the squirts,” and “D-bag.” I met a man with three first names: Micheal Paul John and was fortunate enough to have a five-year plan laid out by the ladies, a plan culminating in my adoption of a “everything-is-beautiful-just-lay-back-and-enjoy-no-need-to-get-angry” attitude, the sporting of dreadlocks, the wearing of robes, and the tattooing of “LOVE” and its translation into as many languages as would fit on my back. Didn’t quite work out that way, but it was a nice effort.
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I had something of a flashback as I collected thoughts and updated the bloggy blog in the days before leaving Kathmandu. In October 2006, I visited the Pearl of Africa (Uganda) for a few weeks. I had three reasons for doing so: 1) mountain gorillas; 2) mountain gorillas, and; 3) mountain gorillas. I squeezed in a few other activities while I was there, but King Kong was my goal. Back then, I worked for a living and was thus compelled to engage in an activity I loathe: planning. A flurry of e-mails and wire transfers was required to ensure a rewarding gorilla experience.
When I arrived in Kampala, I hired a car with a driver (I'm that important) and headed to western Uganda. I wasn’t keeping a journal, but photos confirm frequent vehicle breakdowns. When it came time to enter the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, I never had the chance to penetrate. The gorillas were hopping along the hillside à la cleared forest slash-and-burn style. They’re fond of invading banana groves, much to the chagrin of local farmers. So a two to four-hour treacherous jaunt inside an unforgiving jungle turned into an hour and a half stroll through the Ugandan countryside. This was just as well because two fellow adventurers appeared on the verge of collapse after a half hour. As a whole, the experience was decent but most disappointing. Best laid plans of mice and men…
There was a gentleman peddling gorilla tours at my guesthouse, The Traveller's Rest. (Diane Fossey's old hang out.) The only catch? His gorillas were across the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo (former Zaire). This title is accurate if you replace “democratic” with “anarchic.” Still, it was clear I’d have a private viewing, so prudence be damned! To the jungle, Bubba!
My driver brought me to the border where I was met by my Congolese tour guide and ushered through immigration. On the other side, I sat in his Jambo Tours office (I've forgotten his name) while he gave me the “don't get too close to the gorillas because you might transfer disease or get hurt” speech, after which I was ushered into an SUV with employees I'd never met. He wasn’t the guide, only the owner/facilitator. Excellent. Bon voyage!
If you think Uganda’s poor, cross into DRC. What I saw (admittedly, very little) made Uganda look like Dubai. Abject poverty on an unimaginable scale with a road system to match. It took us almost two hours to drive twelve miles. When we arrived at the ranger “station” (bamboo hut with grass roof), I was greeted by about twenty men whose purpose I never did determine. There was some discussion about my video camera, which meant a $25 additional “tax.” As I was alone and without my AK-47 (as opposed to my chaperones), I acquiesced without dissent.
And we (as in two rangers carrying AKs and a guide) were off. No one spoke English, only a tribal dialect and French. I was told the weapons were in case we encountered elephants. Uh-huh. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the other species of guerrilla. After two hours of hiking through the jungle, we found our target, a gorilla gang presided over by a single silverback.
Two words: F***ing. Amazing. Just me, the guide, and gentle giants. This group was habituated, so they paid us little mind, except for the youngins. Baby gorillas are insatiably curious, and if not shooed away by my guide, would’ve latched on to me. It was nothing to pick one up. They almost begged me to do so. Not sure how mommy and daddy would’ve reacted. Tearing off my arms wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but then again, these folks were so calm I had a hard time believing violence was their jam.
Even with groups not habituated to humans, the ruckus young males stir up is only for show, a pants-shitting display of dominance. As long as you avoid direct eye contact or aggressive behavior, you’ll not be harmed. Try to run, and they might pursue and bite you in the ass… literally. To be honest, this is something I would’ve liked to have seen (the yelping and pounding of the chest, not the ass-biting) but the alpha was cool as a cucumber.
I just stood, mouth agape. Look into their eyes and you see an equal, a sentience almost haunting. There’s a person behind those eyes. At one point, two goofballs wrestling on a pile of brush tumbled off the heap and almost took out my legs. I grabbed my guide's arm and shrieked like a little girl. Later on, I was almost close enough to the silverback to hump him. I refrained.
Looking back, I realize we lingered longer than the prescribed time and were closer than we should have been, not for our safety, but for theirs. Mountain gorillas lack natural immunity to some human illnesses, the transfer of which could have severe consequences. In a way, getting that close is tragic, as not all human encroachment is benign. In addition, civil unrest and instability make it difficult to protect these magnificent creatures in the DRC. Gorillas don’t recognize the sovereignty of nations. They go where they please. The ambivalence plaguing me after my encounter is still with me to this day because I know they’d be better off never seeing another human. The same reason for not habituating grizzly bears applies to gorillas.
Other stops on my Ugandan journey included Mga Hinga National Park, Murchison Falls National Park, Jinja (for some rafting and kayaking), the Ssese Islands, and Kampala. Once, in a desperate state of bladder overflow, I attempted to piss in my Nalgene bottle on a bus. Technical difficulties prohibited success. (Try shoving your junk into a bottle while sitting. I dare you.) I was forced to evacuate the bus and leave my backpack behind. Nobody touched it.
I waited for hours on the shore of Lake Victoria for a boat to the Ssese Islands that probably never left. Upon hiring my own boat and arriving after nightfall on Banda Island, I had the pleasure of walking through a small village riddled with drunk fishermen without so much as a flashlight on my way to the lodge. That wasn't intimidating at all. In Murchison Falls National Park, I came out of the shower to see a hippo trotting along through the encampment like he was part owner. Hippos are responsible for more human deaths than any other animal. That didn’t stop me from approaching and snapping a pic or two. He was in front of my tent, so… Also, sometimes I’m a fucking moron.
