Coming Soon...

The Mountains of the Moon; Bwindi Impenetrable Park, Mgahinga volcanoes......

Coming Soon......

Toward the South

Here we are, geographically.

From Gonder to Nanyuki. Over 1000km in southerly direction. This has been our longest stretch in our favourite direction. It fills one with exhilaration and is just the tonic for morale - that tangible sensation that we are nearing the bottom of the continent. Our merry band has been bolstered. James White, Dave Cloete, Lawrence Mallen - all mentalists - have joined us for a gambol up Mount Kenya. McAlpine and I awaited their arrival with relish, deliberately abstaining from merriment on the Friday that they spent in transit in Nairobi. We couldn't wait to make contact with the outside world, and embrace family and friends who really knew us. No such approach for them, they had hardly touched down in East Africa before the Tusker started flowing. James lost his fleece on a grubby dancefloor and now he is very cold. Lawrence, who tripped on a cats eye and landed on his head in Comrades last weekend, arrived wielding a 12 year old single malt. He has made it very clear that we shall share the burden of this most prized possession and that James should rather focus on its safekeeping than his shivering bones.

She leers from the horizon.

A Reasonable Dependant

The dependant's lodgings. With view.

 
 hoped it wouldn’t come to this.Some whisperings in Morocco, a few discreet rustles in Mauritania and some early-morning chittering through the rest of Francophone Africa.  Yesterday, though, I had to pull myself towards myself and put an end to living in denial. And I don’t mean this in a punny sort of way, either. It would be unworkable to live in such a large African river. No, I had to confront something even greater – the thing in my bag. An extended quiet period, intended to catch up on reading and journaling, only allowed the full horror to rustle away, undisturbed by the usual clamour of a rambling life. The thing was wriggling around with such an impressive array of noises that it became unavoidable for me to continue denying that it was, in fact, a thing. And, moreover, that it was animate - very good at being, animate. I haven’t looked at myself for several weeks but this would have been one of those moments, had a mirror been about, of solemn acceptance. In that strangely formal tone – for ensuring clarity - that I reserve for exchanges with myself; it would have played out thus: ‘something has been living in your backpack for a long time now and it’s not going to go away’.

I shall not name this beast. I know people enjoy doing that with their cars and fluffy toys. I suppose it is loveable, in a way. But, it’s probably more for the indulgence of entitlement, that inimitable human faculty to classify things and enjoy all the connotations therein:

“There, bear, your name is now Sir Edward Tedward, or Ted, and you can’t moderate your flattery or run away or consider subterfuge, because you have been titled, identified, nay, defined, by me”.

I should actually check on Ted. He’s been stored in a chimney for the last few years. And, even if he hasn’t enjoyed it he isn’t sanctioned to say so. 

The differentiation here is important; the agitator in my backpack answers to no-one. It has courage - unlawfully occupying a man’s backpack. It has authority – ferreting around at all hours with limited regard for the man’s personal effects. It has cunning – concealing delicious morsels by rearranging everything inside the backpack. The worst outcome would be a baptism of this creature. With a name comes familiarity and, well, that’s enough already. Let it through that tiny opening of acquaintance and, before long, it’s testing the curfew and demanding medals and enfranchisement.

The status quo, though begrudgingly for my part, works. I have compassion, and, more importantly, I allow the thing its dignity. If it does hail from Africa – I hope it does – then its behaviour is understandable. In territory too unforgiving to contain its pitiless human history, where every patch of ground belonged, at some time, to another, where else should the little critter bed down? I am far from enamoured, but I do admire inventiveness. Besides, in the often estranging interludes on such a considerable journey, it’s quite nice to hear the occasional rustle of encouragement. Together, it is not unreasonable to venture, we are more than the sum of our parts.

The thing and I with my luggage. I carry.