On the Road Again

The road to Karamoja is long.

Kilometers of red marum slice through the underbrush, twisting around foothills dotted with withered acacia trees. Dad wished to be in Nakaale intime for the morning worship service and so though we had arrived in Mbale, exhausted and quite travel worn, well after dark, we left town before the sun rose, caravanning with the newly married Dr. Jim and his wife Jenny.

Leaving Mbale, we were not shaken – for our passage over tarmac was too smooth for that – yet I was stirred by the familiar sighs and sounds. Fires were being lit alongside the road as women awoke and began to fry Sunday morning chapatti.

Mileage hardly matters in our corner of Africa: state of the roads is the key here. We describe the length of a journey in hours taken, not kilometers covered. Pitted and post-rains and we could crawl along at a snail’s pace, newly graded and the whole experience is a swifter and much more comfortable one. Unfortunately Sunday’s roads fell into the former category.

The first time our car became stuck in the marum-turned-mud road, Zack and I only had to climb out into the ankle-deep muck in order to lighten the load just enough for the land cruiser’s tires to stop spinning and the steel beast to escape.

The second time we got stuck, Jim drove around us, doing a full 180 degree spin in the mud as the vehicle slipped and our cars met, face to face in the sludge. Still, though we were facing each other, Jim was able to pull us out and we continued on our way.

The third time we got stuck, there were already two heavy trucks and a bus caught on the side of road, tipped and sagging. Dexterously driving in between and around them stalled vehicles, Jim managed to pass the trucks, but his tire tracks in the red red road made the marum all the more slick, and one more our land cruiser’s tires began to spin.
We were stuck.
More stuck than before.
All cars were turned off, crowds gathered and we traipsed around the Cuiser, pointing, digging, shouting and somehow hoping that the mud would not continue to suck us further down than we already were. After fiercely negotiating a price, the only large truck that had yet to succumb to the mud pulled us free from the mire. Clods of greasy mid clung to our shoes as we climbed into the car once more, thankful to be free.
We chuckled. Church has long been over.

The large delay in our journey did, however, afford us the opportunity to catch sight of a dozen or more ostriches congregating near Monkey Bridge.

Those glimpses of rare game, unexpected even this far out now for the creep of humankind and the erosion of forests and morphing highways, are gifts. We considered ourselves lucky.