Dear Readers, I hope you’ll excuse the slightly erratic posting schedule of late. Due to some unforeseen speed bumps—that will no doubt work their way into future episodes—I’ve fallen a little behind on the timeline. To close this gap, and to ensure you’re not still reading about these events well into 2025, I’ve adopted a serve-when-ready policy until the time’s made up. For those avid Sunday readers, do feel free to consume at your leisure. There’ll be a stack waiting for you.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and the break I’d had from sitting astride Madonna was no exception. After the hitch-holiday-hitch sandwich that had been my experience of Uganda so far, the pull to return to two-wheels was gravitational. My usual concern for Madonna’s mechanical functions—which include an acute sensibility to the smoothness of her gears, the pressure in her tyres, and the integrity of her wheels—had faded, and I rode in quiet satisfaction, marveling at how efficient an aide she was in the pursuit of forward progress. We’d risen early in Hima, a small town south of Fort Portal, and set off into the bronze haze of dawn. At the equator, the sun is punctual and predictable. This discipline is appreciated, for it stirs similar qualities in those around it. After all, who isn’t imbued with a sense of purpose at the prospect of a dawn departure. The truth is that tyres on the tarmac at seven simply strikes a more commanding tone than tyres on the tarmac at six-thirty-four.
So at seven sharp we were on the road. Thanks to the other effect of the world’s waist—the way in which the sun hurries into the sky, thanks to its inclined angle to the horizon—we were soon stripping off layers and plastering on sun-cream in their place. After a brief breakfast of hard boiled eggs and some estranged cousin of coffee—whose grounds, despite vigorous agitation, resolutely refused to dissolve and had to be unceremoniously crunched down—we left behind a landscape of cordoned cultivation and entered a sea of boundless grassland. While I lounged over my aerobars, eyes fixed lazily at the metre-squared tile of tarmac ahead of my front wheel, Nadia was making the most of her time in the backyard of the Big Five. Ever the eagle-eyed zoologist, it didn’t take her long to make a discovery.
I heard her brakes squeal to a stop and cast an eye back to see her rummaging around for binoculars. I wheeled around and joined her to stare at what appeared to be an empty vista. After a good deal of guided squinting, however, the canvas began to colour itself in. Soon, the outlines of warthogs were sketched, whose long, flat snouts and handlebar tusks carved a path for their slim torsos to trot behind. The sleek horns of an antelope then materialised, the alert rigidity of which revealed them in contrast to the swaying grasses of their backdrop. At last, our eyes settled on the scene’s subject, an African Bull Elephant, whose mighty frame looked as if it might’ve been carved from the earth around it, save the stoic flapping of its weathered ears. We stood for a moment, drinking in the life around us, until the spell was broken by the nagging pull of progress, and we set off towards the gates of Queen Elizabeth National Park.
I say gates plural, as there remained a good deal of confusion about where exactly the park began. Our various sources had thrown up conflicting advice about where cycling was permitted, where exorbitant fees were charged, and where we’d be torn to shreds by prides of tree-dwelling lions. At the first gate, we were refused entry—something we were soon grateful for after spotting the unmistakable footprint of some ferocious feline or other on the sandy track ahead. The second gate followed suit, though the rangers did helpfully point us in the right direction—a service for which I unwittingly left a hefty tip. Tapping my now phoneless pocket a mile down the road I realised my mistake and was duly ribbed for my forgetfulness, especially by Seamus whose own tendencies I’d mocked frequently in blogs gone by. With yet another black mark on my record, to add to that left by the headphone incident, on the subject of carelessness I was quickly relocating to a fragile abode. Though, thankfully, this time, I was spared a frantic chase, and the phone was returned moments later by a moped-riding ranger.
When at last we reached the promised frontier—a river flowing through the town of Katanguru—we were surprised to discover there was no gate at all. In fact, it appeared we’d been riding within the park’s bounds for some time, and that passage was free for those who stuck to the asphalt. This was something of an anti-climax so, while I sipped a beer and failed to write, the others took a boat tour in search of more wildlife. This they found in droves, and marveled at herds of elephants, hippos and the occasional crocodile. Meanwhile, I had to settle for the company of a Malibu Stork—a mangey and ungainly bird that, at four feet tall, stalked about fixing people at close-to-eye-level with a lopsided stare. It was a generally unsettling presence, so I was glad when the bow of the boat-tourers’ boat slipped round the riverbend and back into view, and I could finally bid my ghoulish companion goodbye.
From Katanguru, the road began to climb, shrugging off the flat plains of the park and venturing into more corrugated territory. This was immensely exciting. Save the undulating hills of rural Tanzania, and the rocky outcrops atop which Earth Camp perches, I’d not ridden through any real mountains since the Highlands of Guinea’s interior. So far, in East Africa, the mountains had been almost entirely volcanic. It’s far easier to wind a road around these abrupt protrusions than it is to cross their tectonic counterparts. Tectonic mountains tend to form great fractured ridges—which makes intuitive sense when you think about great slabs of the earth's crust crashing into one another. They’re hardly likely to erupt neatly. Thanks to these ridges, the road can’t simply divert, but must instead face the mountains head on, snaking through them along the path of least resistance. The result is a liquid ribbon of tarmac that ducks and weaves and coils and creases as it tracks a course through the chaos of valleys and vertices. It makes for truly engaging riding.
As the road wound upward, the haze that had hung over the day began to lift, compressing the air above us into sinister clouds. We climbed higher still and, as we reached the climb’s apex, they broke. Seeking shelter under the veranda of a shoe shop, we were soon joined by half the village who cowered under the corrugated metal as the rain pounded down. Soon, the wind picked up, animating the deluge beyond its linear boundaries. The rain thrashed downwards, sideways, upwards, and our gathered group retreated further into the sanctuary of the shelter. A torrent formed, tearing through the gulley between the road and the concrete of the shop’s foundations. Plastic chairs became possessed and hurled themselves across the street as great claps of thunder and streaks of violet lightning struck around us.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the downpour abated, slumping into a steady stream of drizzle. We took our chance and ventured down from the hilltop, coasting into the larger town below. Our refuge for the night appeared, at first glance, to be perfectly satisfactory. The familiar iron door, bowed mattress, tired flip-flops and cold, dribbling shower greeted us, and we washed and changed into dry clothes before seeking out some dinner. As we walked out through the courtyard—which was attached to a bar, that was, in turn, attached to our rooms—we caught the first whiff of trouble. A formidable array of speakers lined the empty space. These were at the mercy of a man and a machine, both of whom appeared to be battling for control. The computer was attempting to play music, while the man seemed concerned only with drowning it out by shouting unitelligaby through a microphone. For every five seconds of music the computer managed to squeak out, the man parried twice the amount of shouting. The shouting itself appeared to have no musical quality, though even this was difficult to deduce given that the whole thing was happening at such a pitch that the overwhelmed speakers were struggling to distinguish between the frequencies.
Once we’d raided the market stalls for a patchwork dinner of fried goods, we returned to find the battle still raging. Tom, Seamus and I sat down to watch the football, while Nadia sloped off to bed, looking to put as much distance between herself and the wall of noise as possible. We fumbled our way blindly through the match, unaided by the obliterated commentary, and tried to numb our senses—particularly the aural one—with a small yet potent bottle of local spirits, from which we dealt out forfeits for lost bets on key moments. By the time the game ended—with England stumbling into extra time and then through to victory on penalties—half the bottle still remained, so we sought out another stage to continue our gambling. This happened to be the pool table, where we played round-robin games with consequences for the losers. As the last dregs drained from the bottle, I called stumps on the evening. However, as is the gambler’s destiny, I was persuaded to play one last game. The forfeit, Tom decided, was that the next day, the loser had to wear a pair of shoes of the winner’s choosing. Having only just escaped the dreaded Crocs, I hesitated. But I was confident in my game that night and I thought it unlikely I’d sink to last place.
A tense contest ensued, but my prediction held up and I emerged in second place. At this point, Tom—the victor and, conveniently, the forfeit’s mastermind—revealed his cards. Seamus, who’d lost, would indeed be wearing another pair of shoes, though he wouldn’t be the only one suffering. Tom decided he should wear my shoes, relegating me to once more to the Crocs. It had been a carefully calculated sting. Had I lost, he could have put me straight in the Crocs, but in the event I came second, he could still orchestrate his desired outcome. All he had to do was emerge on top—something that was all but certain thanks to the fact he’d skillfully sidestepped almost all spirited sanctions so far, and thus still possessed the majority of his motor functions. Touché, Tom. Well played.
I went to bed sulking, though I did manage to exact swift revenge by hiding a large rock in Tom’s frame bag. The next day promised to be hillier still, and I hoped a weight penalty might level the playing field with me once more at a disadvantage. I gulped down a litre of water—some preventative healthcare for the morning’s sore head—and settled down for a peaceful night’s sleep.
As you might’ve guessed, this was impossible. I’ll remind you of the fierce contest taking place between man, machine, and now, the volume limit of the speakers. Whilst man and machine remained equally matched, the speakers were suffering a bitter defeat and resigned to blasting at a deafening volume, no doubt at their own peril. After having spent the last four hours enduring this racket, by 1am, Nadia decided she’d had enough. Storming into the now crowded bar, she fetched the now drunk manager and told him the music had now lost its charm. In response, he informed her that the man who we’d first encountered shouting at an empty courtyard, and who was currently doing almost anything to upstage the music he was purportedly here to play, was in fact a famous DJ from Kampala. Many people had flocked to see him and he was set to perform until 2am. With that, the debate entered a typically circular zone and we resigned to suffer an hour longer.
By morning, we were all wrung out. We argued half-heartedly with the now hungover manager for a discount, and weren’t at all surprised to be met with a resolute no. I put up a similarly half-hearted—and ultimately futile—fight against my forfeit of a day in Crocs. My own revenge was short lived, and Tom soon discovered his unwanted passenger, given that, in my inebriated state, I’d packed it with the precision of a toddler. We began to chunk through the day’s distance and spread out as we made our way up one of the longer climbs. I trailed behind, thanks to my footwear, and soon the group had disappeared over the shoulder of the col. At this point, my chain came off and wedged itself between the spokes and the cassette of my back wheel, a predicament from which I spent several fraught minutes trying to relieve it. Covered in grease and sweating profusely, I called the ever-comforting Ellie to vent my frustrations. This moment of distraction gave the group of children—who’d gradually entered my gravitational field and were now slowly orbiting—their chance to make a lunge for my GPS. Thankfully, I caught them in the act and chased them off, hurling expletive abuse as I went.
When at last I caught up with the group, who’d stopped for a coke in the valley below, I made an appeal to Tom to relieve me of my suffering. The combination of sleep deprivation, mechanical frustration, and electronic appropriation had curdled with my lingering hangover to cast the consequence of the previous night’s gambling in a rather dim light. Graciously, he absolved me of my forfeit and I was permitted to don more appropriate footwear. This improved my mood immensely and an altogether happier afternoon of riding ensued.
By evening, clouds had gathered again overhead and we pedalled frantically to the nearest settlement in search of shelter. Lightening struck ever closer as we covered the final kilometres to a small rural village arranged around a T-junction. There, we located the only available accommodation—which was once more attached to a bar—and attempted to bed down for an early night. Sleep, however, yielded to the rowdy music of our lively neighbours. Luckily, our latest host was far more receptive to midnight complaints than the last. She was a force to be reckoned with, and held firm despite her patrons’ protests that their fun was being ruined by a group of foreigners. They’re my customers too! I heard her bark, and slipped off to bed, safe in the knowledge that the fate of our night was in good hands.
After what had now been the second night of cropped rest, it took some time to blow out the morning cobwebs. For such a case of indolence, I often find there’s no better cure than the exquisite effort of a grinding climb. As luck would have it, we had three such passes on the cards for the day. Two of them looked to be alpine classics—paved switchbacks with friendly gradients—while the third, a veritable sting in the day’s tail, seemed to be unpaved and inclined at a far more severe angle.
The first went by without a hitch. For all, that is, but Nadia, for whom two nights of sleep deprivation was about the limit. She was in the grip of a cold and gratefully accepted the assistance of a passing truck to haul her up. After cresting and descending the first climb, we stopped for a packet lunch at a petrol station to fortify ourselves for the day’s second. This was an altogether more devilish ascent, whose twists and turns allowed it to conceal the steepest of its ramps, only for them to leap out at the most inopportune moments.
One such unwelcome rise came as I was reeling from the realisation that Tom and Seamus—who’d been inspired by Nadia’s efforts on the first climb—had been successful in imitating them on the second, with their prayers of a tow answered by a passing banana truck. (That’s a truck that carries bananas, by the way, not a truck that’s shaped like one, as you might expect if you’re familiar with other vessels of the same name.) I’d glanced back to see all three of them hanging like ornaments from the potassium-charged wagon, something that spurred me to up the pace. As you know by now, there scarcely exists a smugger expression than the one affected by those who catch a successful skitch—especially if said skitch leaves a friend disappearing in the rear-view with a good deal of the climb left to conquer.
The road inclined sharply and I stamped on the pedals, giving my all to delay the inevitable overtake. Before long, though, with grim predictability, the trio whisked by. I laid chase, but not with the intention of becoming part of the truck’s decoration. Pride had gripped me. The race was on. As the road tilted yet steeper, even its petrol-powered users began to slow. I saw my chance and sank into the effort of hard pedal strokes, pumping my legs as the beat of Dani California pounded in my ears. Before long we were neck and neck, and, with each subsequent crank, I began to pull ahead. Eventually, the truck was a mere speck in the distance that disappeared as I tipped the balance of the climb and fell into the sweeping descent beyond.
At the base, as I feasted on a fresh pineapple and waited for the skitchees to catch up, the realisation slowly dawned that I may have let excitement get the better of me. There still remained a final climb and, from all we could tell, this was the toughest of the lot. It climbed up and into the cradle of Uganda’s largest crater lake, Lake Bunyonyi—a puddle of impressive proportions whose surface sits above 2000m. A single track winds up from the town of Kabale—where I sat fretting—that doesn’t prevaricate in the pursuit of progress. It sports an unyielding gradient, the type that can only be vanquished through the gritting of teeth and the hardening of resolve. It’s the sort of hill where if you stop, you’re unlikely to be able to start again.
Inevitably, a stage like this marked an opportune moment for the practical jokes—that had, until now, been hiding in the wings—to reveal themselves. If you’ll remember, the recent riding had been getting on Seamus’ nerves, the nerves of his palms in particular. In the hammering they’d taken at the hands of his handlebars, they’d become confused and had begun to question the existence of his little finger, an extremity to which they’d ceased to afford sensation. As a result, I’d offered up my riding gloves to fill the role abandoned by Seamus’, which had escaped during a rest stop a few days ago. I, in a seemingly innocuous trade, had then inherited Tom’s, who preferred to ride gloveless.
As I began the ascent and promptly began to sweat, I noticed my palms beginning to tingle. Presuming the sensation was a result of the all-consuming effort required to tackle the climb, I ignored it. A little further up—as I ground perilously in my lowest gear, fighting to draw traction from the skittish gravel below—I found that the tingle had morphed into a distinct burning sensation. What in the world was happening? As I climbed higher, and the sweat flowed more vigorously, the sensation intensified until it filled the entire scope of my attention. This was lucky in so far as it provided a distraction from my similarly burning legs, and I soon found myself at the top, tearing off my gloves and dousing my hands in water.
By the time we’d all gathered at the summit, the truth of the matter emerged. In an unfortunate turn of fate, just as I’d been the unassuming victim of Tom’s sting at the pool bar, it seems I’d also unintentionally blundered into a sting of Seamus’ device. Some weeks ago, as payback for some rock-related japes, he’d sneakily coated the inside of Tom’s gloves with the seeds of a potent chilli. Tom, having abandoned the use of gloves, had avoided the snare and Seamus, for his part, had since forgotten all about it. Only now, as my palms smarted with the fiery extract, did he remember, much to everyone’s amusement.
It seems, however, that I wasn’t the only victim of japery that day. Before he could indulge too heartily in the—albeit slightly skewed—success of his own scheme, Seamus was duly informed that he’d unwittingly ferried some unwanted cargo up the final climb. Tom, who’d loaded said cargo at Kabale’s market, after innocently offering to look after the bikes, had watched with glee as Seamus wheeled his loaded bike up five kilometres of precipitous gravel. Only at the top did he impart the news that some twenty rocks had somehow found their way into Seamus’ panniers. From the look on Seamus’ face as he untangled the intruders from his now dust-covered kit, I suspected these stings might take a back seat for a while. Either that, or an even more dastardly scheme was already brewing…
Nice work Jake! And (in another universe) we’re all on the bikes with the grand-kids at Center Parcs! XX
Great stuff. I was so hoping you were going to the Murchison Falls where I had the scariest time hallucinating on some pig de-wormer rolled up in cigarette paper.