After leaving the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, Robert my driver and I had clattered down from the mountain and spent the night high on a ridge over one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen.
Lake Bunyonyi is a long, narrow flooded lake with 29 islands scattered over its southern end. Verdant terraced fields cascade down volcanic sugarloafs to the lakeshore spurring comparisons with Nepal. Over the far ridge, soaring volcanic cones line the border with Rwanda.
As we left the next morning, the lake and its valley were lost in a low white cloud. We drove north for the next 6 hours crossing a surprisingly diverse range of landscapes:
• bucolic rolling hills that grow much of East Africa’s bananas, watermelon and tomatoes in an irregular quilt of green textures,
• the dry grassland savannah of Queen Elizabeth National Park where a migration of white butterflies confetti the clear air between the thorn trees, 
• across the equator to skirt the foothills of the cloud-shrouded Rwenzori Mountains, their snow-capped peaks marking the boundary with strife-torn Congo,
• impossibly manicured green hillsides stitched with dark pathways and capped by one-storey villas - vast tea plantations established a century ago by the ‘colonialists’.
While the roads were relatively good, there were challenges. A low causeway through a papyrus swamp had been over-run by fast-flowing water. A lorry was mired in the middle of the deluge and a bus, attempting to skirt it, had slid off the road and into the swamp. Robert resolutely decided there was enough room to pass on the other side of the lorry and despite a mixture of warnings and urgings from the crowd that had gathered, gunned the motor and charged through the dark waters mere millimeters from the scratched steel of the obstructing truck. He told me later that he calculated we were only a hand-span from a 2 meter drop off the causeway into the swamp.
And minutes before we reached our destination, another lorry had missed a turn, climbed an embankment and landed on its side across the road blocking our path with a load of rocks. Without even hesitating, Robert gunned the Land Cruiser’s motor and climbed the same embankment to skirt the obstruction. He was bound and determined to get me to the ranger station by 2pm
By the time we arrived at Kibale National Park, they had to pry my white knuckles from the seatbelt and help me down from the truck. My knees held, and within minutes I was striding into the dense forest on the heels of Jared, a slightly built, 52-year old veteran ranger. As luck would have it, I was the only visitor that afternoon. We had the park to ourselves.
Kibali is a rolling rainforest landscape that sits alongside the savannah of Queen Elizabeth National Park. It is recognized as the home of a wide range of primate species, but the star attractions are its troops of habituated Chimpanzees (accustomed to human presence … not ‘tamed’).
Jared warned me that the morning tacking had last seen the closest troop a half hour into the jungle, but within minutes he stopped dead in the middle of the path, his eyes fixed on a point up a side trail to our left. “There” he said.
Nervously, I slowly swivelled my head and ‘there’, silhouetted against the filtered afternoon light, was the classic profile of a male chimpanzee. He was watching us, and once sure that we had seen him, loped slowly off into the forest.To my surprise, Jared took off after him, diving straight into the underbrush. Hesitati
ng only for a moment, I followed, climbing over roots and fallen logs, avoiding thorns and hanging vines, squelching through grasping mud and balancing across logs. The young male chimp stayed about 4 meters ahead of us, glancing over his shoulder every now and then as if to make sure we were following. He soon joined up with his mother and younger sister and as the lengthening rays of the late-afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, the three of them began to feast on hard-shelled fruit.
ng only for a moment, I followed, climbing over roots and fallen logs, avoiding thorns and hanging vines, squelching through grasping mud and balancing across logs. The young male chimp stayed about 4 meters ahead of us, glancing over his shoulder every now and then as if to make sure we were following. He soon joined up with his mother and younger sister and as the lengthening rays of the late-afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, the three of them began to feast on hard-shelled fruit. And then there were two. Where did little sister go? I caught a movement on the narrow tree limb over our head and had only a split second to warn Jared before she let loose a stream of pee, missing us by inches as we dove for cover. Chimp with a sense of humour; she sat there watching us and peeing.
Leaving the fruit eaters, we headed out in a wide arc through the forest and encountered another group – several adults and 2 small babies – all on the move. They led us right back to the original trio and Jared explained that the two groups may have been separated for a few days because, yes, Chimps exchange hugs as greetings. 
A little further on, we came across Matu – a relaxed, grizzled chimp in his 40s. He sat in a small clearing, a few pieces of fruit at his side, and contentedly ate, dropping seeds on his ample belly and occasionally glancing around to see what was happening. Jared and I leaned against a fallen tree about 3 meters away and talked, in normal voices, about his 6 children, his two dead brothers who had chosen poaching over an education and whose children he now supported. It was just us three old guys, sitting in the woods, enjoying each other’s company.
Occasionally, Matu would hoot a couple of times, and cock his head to listen to the response – and from all around us, tree shaking and hoots building to wild, alarming screams that shredded the peace of the forest and tightened my nerves. When the dramatic cacophony died away, Matu contentedly returned to his fruit, secure in knowing where everyone was and what they were up to.
When Matu got up and wandered off, Jared and I decided to as well.
No big life lessons or morals from this story, just another dimension in Uganda’s amazing natural wealth. In case you haven’t guessed, ‘Mzungu* loves Uganda’.
* Swahili word for a white person, generally shouted at you as you drive past. In the words of an adorable, barefoot six-year-old girl in a torn dress: “Hey mzungu, where is my money?”
* Swahili word for a white person, generally shouted at you as you drive past. In the words of an adorable, barefoot six-year-old girl in a torn dress: “Hey mzungu, where is my money?”
