great EscapE uganda

safari on foot and by boat

It is not easy to nap on the drive from Entebbe to Lake Mburo. The view outside the window puts paid to any attempts to doze. Our Land Cruiser trundles through hills planted with sweet potatoes, yams and banana palms, passing villages where small kids run out to wave, men gather round to fix beaten-up old motorbikes, and goats nibble at the verge. Vendors at roadside tables sell watermelon, pineapples and jackfruit, and grilled tilapia freshly yanked out of Lake Victoria, a strip of gleaming blue visible across the fields. The sweet smell of warm dust and wood smoke wafts through the open windows. 

At the turning to Lake Mburo, tarmac turns to mud, and goats are replaced by zebra and giraffe. A national park since 1983, the area is not fenced, and cattle constantly wander in and wildlife out. Stopping to pick up a guide, Bonny Baloiganikiya, at the park entrance, we bump along an orange track through a landscape pocked with candelabra trees and termite mounds. Baboons casually move off the road to stare at us from the thickets. Warthogs match their indifference for a while, then whirl off through the bush in a panic. 

‘Wild animals, cattle and humans compete for food, land and water here,’ says Bonny. ‘The secret is for people to benefit from the park, to support them by putting up a school or a health centre. You can’t have conservation without the community.’ Lake Mburo is a success story, with high numbers of zebra and antelope, among which are topi and eland. ‘The population is crazy because they have no predators,’ says Bonny. ‘There is only one lion, and one lion cannot do much against 3,000 zebra.’

The centrepiece of the park is Lake Mburo itself. We swap Land Cruiser for boat as the heat of the day starts to fade. Swallows flit over the water, competing for insects with wagtails, sandpipers and weaver birds. Tiny malachite kingfishers sit in the papyrus, flashing orange and blue, while their larger cousins, pied kingfishers, hover then suddenly dive, sending up splashes as they break the surface. 

They’re not the only ones fishing. Men in small boats let down nets, steering clear of the hippos that honk from all around the lake. Thirty-three sets of pink ears and piggy eyes turn towards us as we drift near a pod in our own boat, the engine momentarily stalled. Our captain, Yusuf, has been merrily recounting tales of the 500 people who die annually from hippo attacks in Africa. ‘If a hippo capsizes the boat,’ he says, ‘what happens next is between you and your god.’ With the swallows in a riotous swirl above us, he gets out an oar and starts to paddle. 

track chimps in the forest

‘Were you greeted nicely by our receptionists?’ asks Gerald Kiriyingi, rifle slung over his shoulder, feet in green wellies. He is referring to the baboons that sit at the entrance to Kibale Forest National Park, waiting for an opportunity to jump into a car to steal food. The baboons are not why most people are here, though. Known as the ‘primate capital of the world’, Kibale is home to 13 species, including the star attraction – and man’s closest relative – chimpanzees. There are 1,450 in the forest and, with 28 years’ chimp-tracking under his belt, Gerald is the man to help us find them. 

‘I cannot guarantee we see the chimps,’ he says, as we start down a narrow track in the dim dawn light, enormous palm fronds pressing in on either side. ‘I would say there is a 90 per cent chance, but you cannot control nature.’

We push through the jungle, clambering over tree trunks, twisting around strangler vines, walking face first into enormous spider webs, and wading through water-filled craters left by the feet of passing elephants. The calls of black-billed turaco, tambourine doves and pied hornbills are a constant accompaniment, joined by sudden crashes as colobus and red-tailed monkeys swing through the canopy above. Several hours’ clammy marching induces a zen-like focus, and I have almost forgotten why I’m there when we first hear
the screaming.

It echoes through the forest for a few seconds, then falls silent. The sense of urgency increases and our pace picks up. Gerald stops to listen every so often, changing tack when the shriek starts up from a different direction. After 15 minutes, we see it: a dark shape moving swiftly through the undergrowth. We set off in pursuit, flailing clumsily through the forest, but quickly lose it. Soon, however, we find some of its community. Two young animals chase each other in the branches far above our heads. A female rifles through the leaves looking for fruit, and a large male stares down at me staring up at him, and grunts. He decides the show’s over, and the family moves off. 

‘So, this is chimp-tracking,’ says Gerald with a smile. ‘Sometimes you come across them and spend ages with them. Today, I don’t know, so you may as well get comfortable in the forest.’ Not to be defeated, we plough on, Gerald regaling me with tales of simian encounters. ‘One time, I saw a chimp swing a colobus monkey round and round, and then throw him away,’ he says. ‘He was too dizzy to defend himself when the other chimps attacked him. They pulled him apart and ate his stomach first.

’It’s mid-afternoon when we catch up with a second community, a group of 30 or so males. This one is fully habituated to humans, and is almost entirely indifferent to our presence. One lolls in the crook of a tree, another two sit grooming each other. A massive chimp, 35 years old, scratches itself all over, and eats what it finds in its nails. Occasionally, an ‘ooh ooh ooh’ starts up, and all begin shrieking and screaming, bouncing up and down in a show of strength.

‘Chimps have their own language,’ says Gerald. ‘Researchers have identified 52 different calls, but only know the meaning of two or three.’ We watch a chimp slam his hand down hard and make a short low bellow. ‘We think this one means “we go, we go, we go”.’

Right on cue, the community gets up and stalks off, their black fur swallowed by the tangled green of the forest. They won’t stop moving now until they’ve eaten and built nests for the night. We leave them to it, and make our own way out of the forest. 

seek gorillas in the mountains

If anyone in search of the gorillas of Uganda wants reassurance for their mission before they enter the jungle where these creatures live, they won’t get it from its name: Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. The previous day’s storm has cleared and the cloud over the mountains has lifted, revealing their impossibly steep slopes, thickly swathed in vegetation. 

Leading the small band of hikers is Stephen Bwigyirire, who has made the trip more than a hundred times. Ahead of him is a guide with a gun. ‘If an animal is not used to people, it is often aggressive,’ he says, with a nod towards his colleague. ‘That is why we have an aggressive animal in front ourselves.’ He laughs and strides up the mountain with the ease of someone strolling to the shops for a lunchtime sandwich.

Tree roots have, in places, formed convenient natural stairs in the path, but it is still hard going, the trail crumbling away at points, and mud sticking to hiking boots in unwieldy clumps. It is hard to pay much attention to anything but the next step, but all around is a proper Lost World: trees towering above us, the canopy breaking to reveal the valley far below. 

After three hours’ climbing, the news coming in on Stephen’s walkie-talkie is good. Our advance party of trackers has found the family we’ve been seeking: the Mubare gorillas are ahead. To get to them, we learn the true nature of the Impenetrable Forest. Leaving the path, we hack through the jungle with machetes, slithering down one valley and hauling ourselves up the next. Too often we realise too late that the branch or vine we’ve grabbed to keep from falling is attached to neither tree nor ground. 

After a final burst of scrambling, we are with them: three gorillas loll in a clearing, nibbling branches. Stephen points to the male. ‘That is Maraya,’ he whispers. ‘The biggest gorilla in the forest, 250kg. If he approaches you, sit down to show you are not fighting.’ Maraya gives us the side-eye for a while, and briefly gets up on his haunches to reveal an enormous, muscled chest, but is otherwise uninterested in his audience. 

It takes two years to get gorillas this used to humans. The two females are so relaxed they lie down and snooze. Maraya squats by them, examining the bark of a tree and staring into the treetops, emitting a low rumble.  

The Mubare family is one of 15 in Bwindi. Home to almost half the world’s mountain gorilla populaton, the park has seen its conservation efforts pay dividends. The last census counted an estimated 430 animals, and Stephen believes the next one will number over 600. ‘Progress is being made,’ he says. ‘They are still endangered, but no longer critically.’

To reduce stress on the animals, only one hour of contact with them is allowed per day, and we are too soon marching back down the mountain. We emerge wearing half the forest, our skin scratched and bruised, our clothes drenched.

‘On a difficult day, we get back here with someone carried on a stretcher,’ says Stephen as he hands out tracking certificates. ‘But visits help with conservation, so tell your friends, tell them all about Uganda and the gorillas they’ll meet here. Everyone always comes out of the forest more satisfied than they ever expected.’

travel in cattle class

It’s early morning on the farm and a low mist blankets the soft surrounding hills. A mourning dove calls from the trees, setting off an unseen dog in a fury of barking. Shapes appear through the gloom, spindly silhouettes that rise into the air like a forest of swords. 

Striding towards them is farm guide Christine Munyantwali, her blue fleece zipped up against the cold. As we get closer, the shapes turn into cows, and the spindles into their extraordinarily long horns. These are Ankole cattle, a distinctive sight in this part of Uganda and something of a local status symbol. 

Christine stops at one and rubs its brown hide. ‘This one wants a massage,’ she says. ‘Herdsmen do this to clean off the mud, and the cows are very happy they do it.’ She stops scratching and the cow turns its head to look at her with mild disapproval. ‘It’s no wonder people love them,’ she says with a laugh, and starts again.

The 100 or so cattle in the fields belong to Emburara Farm Lodge, which aims to educate visitors about ranch life and the importance of cattle in the local culture. ‘Cows are a source of pride here,’ Christine continues as we amble after the grazing herd. It settles beneath a lucky bean tree, an egret watching from its branches. ‘Traditionally, they are a dowry. If the man’s family doesn’t have cattle, the bride’s family will say “Don’t show up, please!”’

The two herdsmen look after the farm’s cattle throughout the day, milking them in the morning, leading them to ponds in the afternoon, lighting fires in the evening to ward off the cold and flies, and putting calves in grass-roofed bandas overnight to keep them safe from predators. ‘The herdsmen talk to them, sing to them, massage them. They know every single one, and they spend more time with them than with their own families,’ says Christine as we make our way back to the lodge. ‘The herdsmen really love their cows.’  

drift through a swamp

‘Just call me Maria Shoebill,’ shouts Maria Shoebill, standing on the prow of the boat and shielding her eyes from the sun. At the bow, her helpers Tony and Wilson are in the water, pushing and pulling the vessel through the reeds. On occasion, the boat subverts all conventional qualities necessary to the definition of ‘boat’ and has to be carried, such is the density of the mangrove.

We are in the Mabamba Swamp, a vast patch of wetland near Entebbe, looking for its elusive resident: the shoebill bird. We are close enough to the city’s airport for the rumble of planes to sometimes intrude on the gentle croaking of small frogs hidden among lily-pads with flowers pointing skywards. Reaching a narrow channel where the reeds clear, Tony and Wilson pull themselves back into the boat to start punting.

Purple and squacco herons lift off as we approach, circling through the air before landing again when we’ve moved on. Bitterns and lapwings pad about on floating clumps of vegetation. With the sun slowly arcing towards the horizon and the gentle poink of water dripping off the punting poles delivering a pleasant evening lullaby, a state of happy drowsinesss ensues. 

‘Quick! I see one,’ says Maria in an urgent whisper, and I struggle to my feet, squinting in the direction of her pointed finger. I raise my binoculars towards a dark blob some distance away. The distinctive head of a female shoebill is revealed, its long curved beak swooping down from a crested head. It is a thing of prehistoric beauty, and to see one seems miraculous – in an area of 24,500 hectares, there are thought to be only nine birds. 

‘Shoebills love this swamp,’ says Maria, as we stealthily approach. ‘They feed on the fish, snakes and frogs that live here, and there is nothing that wants to eat them or their eggs.’ We get close enough to observe the bird’s yellow eyes, and watch a drop of water hanging from that magnificent beak break free and fall. She stalks regally from side to side, then spins her head round to assess us, like a stern headmistress catching an act of disobedience. ‘Ah,’ says Maria. ‘That really is super quality.’ 

The shoebill clearly does not think the same of us. Fixing us with a final imperious stare, she takes off, long legs dangling behind her. She drifts over the reeds away from us, heading towards the setting sun, and is gone.