The night bus to Kampala had originated in Goma, Democratic Republic of Congo. As a consequence, it was really packed and we were forced to stand in the aisle, sandwiched between broad-shouldered Congolese women. While I understand that life in the DRC is definitely quite difficult, that is not a justification for the way they treated us.
The groups of women would look at us and laugh, unjustly push us and even speak in their language and appeared to be cursing us. It made me happy to hear the attendant state that we would be changing buses shortly after the Ugandan border.
For once the border crossing was uneventful except for a Congolese man pushing me and butting in line. They already face enough punishment in their country so there was no need to retaliate or say anything in French, although I really wanted to.
Once we changed buses the mood changed entirely: the hostility-fueled bus was left behind and now we could thankfully sit without conflict. The road between Ruhengeri and Kampala was treacherous to put it lightly. The gravel mountain roads were narrow, winding and seldom had guard-rails. The driver seemed to get enjoyment from fishtailing on the sharp turns, letting the rear of the bus drift over the gravel-covered roads.
Luckily, the darkness of night hid the hundred-foot drops mere feet from the side of the bus, save for the flashes of lightning that illuminated the sky and escalated my anxiety. Fortunately for me, I took an Ativan tablet, which doubles as an anti-anxiety medication and sleeping pill: all my worries about falling to my death in this large steel-coffin driven by the grim-reaper himself seemed to fade into a chemically-induced slumber.
I was at peace.
When I awoke 6 hours later, we were already in the outskirts of Kampala. We were advised to stay on the bus until sunrise as to prevent any unwanted theft. We quickly found a connecting bus to the city of Jinja, a mere 80 kilometers away.
Jinja is Uganda's second largest city and is where the original mzungus concluded their search for the source of the Nile. A quiet, sleepy town except for the fact that this portion of the Nile contains some of the biggest class-5 rapids on the planet, attracting scores of rafters, kayakers and adrenaline junkies from all over the world.
Erik was intent on rafting here and I decided to join him. We spent our day searching for a reputable company with a good safety record. Our search led us to Nile River Explorers, which also had it's own backpackers on the cliffs overlooking the Nile.
Erik had opted to do a tandem kayak ride and I would be joining 5 other people on a 6-man raft. Now that our adrenaline-fix was booked, we decided to check out what those crazy Mzungus were searching for for so long: the source of the Nile.
A stroll seemed in order, but as we were walking it started to rain. And not just a drizzle, but a torrential downpour. We found shelter in a conveniently located bar and commenced to sample all the local brews. We deemed Special Nile our favourite even though it was a puny 500ml compared to Rwanda's Goliath 720s.
After 3-beers time, the rain had ceased. We made our way to the gait and bargained down the price of admission. The 3 of us were the only tourists there save for Alli, an American and Joel, her Ugandan friend. Alli was a wedding photographer and I was elated to finally find someone who could accurately capture the beauty of BMC.
BMC is the abbreviated version of the group that Erik, Chris and myself had formed in Rwanda while in Kigali. Erik had grew fond of his Birdman nickname but decided that Chris and I needed one as well. Due to my poor sight and even worse night vision, I was nicknamed Moleman. Chris was nicknamed Catwoman for no other reason than how hilarious Erik and I found it. Hence BMC was born!
We spent the rest of our evening with our new friends and Erik and I mentally prepared ourselves for our adventure on the Nile.
Early the next morning, we packed our bags and were picked up by a large off-road vehicle. We were accompanied by various other white people and were paraded through the streets like some voyeuristic Caucasian tour-group gawking at an African population from their over-sized, open-aired safari truck. Pretty embarrassing in my opinion, but I digress.
We were then fitted with our gear, briefed and were transported to the Nile. I would be joined by Zack and Beck, two Aussies working in Tanzania; two Dutch girls and a German girl whose names evade me. Our guide's name was Henry and he assured the disproportionately female raft that he wouldn't go too crazy.
In comparison to the Zambezi, rafting the Nile was definitely less terrifying but maybe only due to the fact that I did not almost drown. Due to my physical prowess and rippling muscles, I was put in the front of the raft along with Zack. The four girls were behind us with Henry barking orders and steering the raft.
The day was actually quite enjoyable. Erik seemed to really enjoy his kayak experience and even had a chance to join us in our raft when we went over an 8-foot waterfall (they didn't allow him to do it in his kayak). Because the rapids were scattered along the length of the Nile, we had time to enjoy the tranquility of the non-rapid portions and even swim for several minutes while being pulled along by the moderate current.
That evening we got to watch the videos of each raft's most memorable moments and watch with hilarity as Erik entered each rapid poised like a frightened medieval jouster meeting the black knight head-on. It was also Erik's last night and we all decided to have a proper sending-off bash to commemorate the almost 1-month journey we shared with him.
The following day we said farewell to our dear friend Erik, as well as Zack and Beck, as they made their way back to Kampala. Chris and I had one more day to lounge around before we made our way back to the Ugandan capital. So we spent it chilling with our American friends Mark and Julia who were coming to the end of a year's trip across the world.
As I paid my final respects to the magnificent Nile river, I couldn't help but wonder what adventures and amazing things I would encounter before reaching the Nile delta in Egypt, an incredible 6680km away. However, little did I know, but an unforeseen and unfortunate incident was only a few days away that would ultimately change the course of the rest of my trip.
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