Lunae Montes - Journey to the Source of the Nile : Detlef Palm

Identified by Ptolemy as  the source of the River Nile, the Lunae Montes remained shrouded in legends for 2000 years. The Mountains of the Moon are spectacular and unapproachable. In 1980/1981, I circled Lake Victoria  in search of ice on the equator.

(Click on an image to enlarge)  All equipment had to fit in a backpack. My friend Hartmut would come along only for the first few days to climb Kilimanjaro. The remaining three months I would be on my own.  

There were no useful maps. Terra Incognita.

Dar es Salaam, 1980.

I wake up and she looks at me. Not more than a few inches from my head sits the cockroach, on the inside of my bed net. I had never seen such big bugs. I have arrived in Dar es Salaam. Next time I tug the bed net under the mattress. Learning by doing.

***

We had taken the night bus from Dar es Salaam to Moshi and immediately started to hike up Kilimanjaro, against better knowledge. The hike takes several days. We knew that one needs to acclimatize, but my friend had little time and wanted to swim in the Indian Ocean before going home. 

On the Kibo Saddle, with the top of Kilimanjaro behind us. The temperature is below the freezing point. Yet another night  and another 1400 Meter climb lie ahead.

We are in no solemn mood. We are at Gillman's Point, on the summit crater of Kilimanjaro, 5681 Meter high. This is the roof of Africa, we are sick like a dog, have splitting headaches, and it is minus 20 degree. I barely manage to change the roll of film.

***

Hartmut has left. A party of Englishmen and -women invites me to join. It must be a cult. My English is poor. At midnight, they start a circle dance with their arms crossed. A man with a pirate hook where his hand should have been reaches for me. The steel is cold and pointed. Auld Long Syne. 

***

Gamalieli is my age, 25 years. His rifle is from Argentina and three times as old. A ranger must accompany anyone venturing on foot into the Meru National Park. Gamalieli keeps a few pebbles ready, as defense against buffaloes and other wildlife.

Like most mountains in the Rift Valley, Mount Meru is an extinct volcano. It takes three days to climb to the top. The first evening, I am allowed to sleep in a cabin (today: Miriakamba hut), with a view to the summit. The cabin is still under construction, without a floor. Gamalieli has loaded the campfire into a wheelbarrow and brings it inside. The rubber tire of the wheelbarrow catches fire, acrid smoke everywhere, I am suffocating and burst into the open.

The spectacular summit ridge of Mount Meru. 

It is snowing at the summit, 4562 Meter. Gamalieli reads from the summit book: "The Path to Socialism is long and arduous". 

***

My tent sits next to the workshop of the Makonde artist. He parlays in Oxford English, enlightens me about the situation in Germany. I have to check my dictionary to follow his explanations. I got permission to put up my tent on the lawn of the lodge. A guest offers the use of his shower, complete with soap and towel, in exchange for stories. 

***

The elephant stands in the middle of the road, for half an hour. Then the driver hoots. The elephant, with unmitigated force, crushes the Landrover and pins it to a baobab tree. The driver survives, because he sits exactly between the tusks.

This is how it was, says Ricky. He takes another drag from the joint and adds half a tree to the fire. We camp at Lake Manyara, where the Rift Valley is pronounced and the lions climb trees. He gives me a lift to the Ngorongoro crater and to the place where the zoologist Grizmek died when his little zebra-painted aircraft collided with a vulture.

***

A driver from the Serengeti Research Station had dropped me at the 'designated campsite'. I pitch my solitary tent on an un-fenced grassy patch in in the middle of the vast grasslands of the Serengeti. The only facility is a waste basket. I keep a campfire during the night, because of the lions. 

Next day, in the late afternoon, the first vehicle appears. It is a lorry full of jolly prison wardens; it is unclear whether they have any prisoners, and where they are going other than westwards.

*** 

Bismarck Rock, Lake Victoria. Tanzania suffers from a lack of beer. Brandy and tickets for the soccer game Mwanza - Dodoma are available from the Indian businessman, who owns the town. In the absence of fans from Dodoma, the Mwanza fans cheer for both sides. Highlights are shots above the fence and players tripping over the ball; two thousand spectators rejoice when a player grabs the ball with his hands. The Indian has the latest gadget: a VHS player. In the evening we watch Kramer against Kramer. 

***

I get arrested for spying and possession of a camera. I am handed to ever higher ranks for interrogation. Have I painted the visa for Burundi all by myself? Eventually, the chief of the Tabora police invites me to lunch, we discuss the significance of religion in Africa and Europe. He gives me a fond farewell and personally drops me at the train station so I can catch the inevitably delayed train to Kigoma.

The train is dead slow. This is the land of the tsetse fly. I sit on the steps of the wagon, rumbling over the sleepers, and turn into a hobo.

***

The end of the line: Kigoma railway station. I enjoy a swim - Lake Tanganyika, the second deepest lake on earth, is free of Bilharzia, as people said at the time. From the shore I watch the fishermen go out at night in their canoes, attracting fish with petroleum lights. I have been on my way for one month. There is a small parcel from home with energy bars, poste restante.

I want to sail with the MV Liemba, an old German warship that had already been sunk twice. It has an engine problem. Superstar, a local youth who had been to Shanghai and St.Pauli knows about a vessel from Zaire and arranges a ticket for Bujumbura, where I will find a lot of beer and cigarettes.

The steamer is filled twice to capacity. The journey takes two days, with stops in Zaire. The captain is perpetually drunk; for a little supplement he lets me sleep on the planks of the upper deck, until the silhouette of Bujumbara emerges from the haze.

***

I don't speak French, and while I learned to order a beer in Kiswahili, I never get to do so in Kinyarwanda. A general uneasiness was palpable, in Burundi and Rwanda, in 1981.

The famous view onto the Virunga National Park, when traveling from Kigali to Ruhengeri. As a warm-up for the Mountains of the Moon, I decide to climb the two highest volcanoes.

On top of Muhavura, 4100 meters, with its tiny crater lake at top. I am standing next to a Giant Lobelia. 

The Virunga Volcanoes are known for their mountain gorillas, which however avoided me. I pass  near Diane Fossey's research station; she would be found murdered four years later.

***

The shortcut leads through a labyrinth of maize. I am certain to run about in circles. A local youth gets me to Ruhengeri. On arrival, he hands me a piece of weed. A gift, for free. He also would love to invite me to the village party, live music. Regrettably, he has no money. The price is steep. Here is the music. I leave the party at 4 o'clock in the morning, for an appointment with two Italian aid workers, to climb Karisimbi. We depart from Ruhengeri in their Volkswagen beetle at dawn, the music still playing.

Karisimbi is 4500 meters high, and means as much as 'little white shell', because its summit is often covered in snow. It takes an overnight to climb it. The Italians have hired a guide, who has no socks nor a blanket, and only a light shirt. His rubber shoes disintegrate near the summit, in zero visibility.

***

Finally, a Toyota pickup arrives. It is filled way over capacity. Some shuffling and suddenly there is space for me and my backpack. The driver stops every few minutes to take up more passengers. I estimate 35 people, not counting babies and chicken. The pickup swerves through the ruts. Now a coffin is pushed in, together with some mourners. Someone throws a cross after the coffin. With several other passengers I can sit on the box. We reach Goma and Lake Kivu.

*** 

Suuuure, frieeend, don't worry about. The envoy of the Uganda embassy in Kigali smiles. Later, in the dimly lit backyard bar of the backstreets of Kigali, the waiter smirks: they will shoot you, cause they have no meat... Idi Amin had  been ousted by the Tanzanian army, and Milton Obote had won the elections widely believed to be rigged, sparking a guerrilla war by Yoweri Museveni's National Resistance Army. All red flags had gone up. According to common sense, travelling into Uganda was off limits, in January 1981.

A pole across two fuel drums. Nobody cares about papers, visa or vaccination certificates. The passport gets stamped without ink. I buy as many stacks of Uganda Shilling as I can stuff into my pack. On the Uganda side, well-dressed gentlemen in suits offer me cigarettes and diamonds.... Ahhhhh, from Germany. What did you bring us from Germany? The soldier at the roadblock goes through my belongings. I wrangle my  mountaineering boots from his hands. I need them for climbing the Mountains of the Moon. 

Mbarara is all but destroyed. The windows in my hoteli are missing window panes and mosquito netting; the lady of the house empties a full can of Doom into the four corners of my room, it is included in the price. The iron bed has neither mattress nor sheets. Finally I can count my money. 

From my hotel room I look onto burnt out and deserted buildings. At night, a madman runs up and down the street, bawling incessantly. Next morning, I find some mandazi and ndizi. The waitress apologizes for the pockmarks on the walls. She wonders about the current conditions in Germany and the benefits of climbing mountains. The madman hangs about, dressed in  sacks,  manipulates the obsolete electric wall switches and bums cigarettes. Someone buys tea for him; he used to be a professor. 

***

The Peugeot 404 familiale is the vehicle of choice. It is 150 kilometres from Mbarara to Kasese at the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains. We are 15 adults and three children. The driver has removed all door handles, so nobody will accidentally fall out when he is racing round the bends. 

***

Only nature separates me from the Mountains of the Moon.  I find the local warden of the defunct Mountain Club of Uganda. He rents me crampons and an ice pick that an expedition left behind, several years ago. At the local police post I sign papers that I will not be rescued. Kenneth and Salary will come along as guides, and I buy provisions for the trip: dried fish, cassava and cigarettes.

John Matte, the that time warden of the Mountain Club of Uganda, and his family. A hiker's cabin has been named after him a few years ago.

The last sign of civilization, before we disappear into the wilderness. We soon are swallowed  by the jungle.

They appear out of nowhere: a bunch of disheveled characters, blood-stained, some dressed in skins, armed with pangas and arrows. Bloody bones stick out of their bags. We look at each other; my guides want to muddle past. I call them back, we buy some venison, with some haggling, plus a kitchen-ready, smoked hyrax.

The hyrax is closely related to elephants and sea cows. It tastes way better than dried fish, and was good for a meal for the three of us.

We walk for three days, sleep in dilapidated shacks or under rocks, never mind the worms. At dusk, I listen to the gurgling, babbling, guggling conversations of Kenneth and Salary. Salary has two wives and 16 children, Kenneth is one of his father's twenty sons. To compromise and not to appear unreasonable, I am planning to have five to eight children. 

We are knee-deep into the bog, for hours without end. We jump from one tuft of gras to the next, with our heavy loads. There is nothing to hold on to: What looks like trees are giant flower stems, pushed over at a light touch. Giant Lobelia, Giant Senecia, Giant Heather. Wherever you put your step, everything crashes down. We are the bugs crawling in the moss. The swamp wants to keep us forever; a smacking sound whenever you pull your feet out of the quagmire. Several times we cross the ice-cold Bujuku stream - we just wade through because everything is wet already.

On the third day, the first glimpse of the high peaks. I am lucky. Only every third person who tries, gets to see the snow that feeds the source of the Nile.

The cooking pot cave is our base camp, at 3900 Meter. Kenneth and Salary will stay here, for the want of shoes and equipment. I will move on to higher camps and try to reach any summits. 

I managed to reach the top of Mount Speke, seen here. It involves some rock climbing and glacier travel.

I was lucky to get hold of the crampons and the ice pick.

Ice at the equator. The glaciers have much retreated over the last 40 years 

Only a few meters left to go. With 4890 Meter, Mount Speke is the second highest peak of the Rwenzori mountains, or the Mountains of the Moon.  

A high camp at Mount Stanley. It was in good condition, as it was difficult to reach. By candlelight I read the cabin-log where all parties, starting from the late 1930s, had left their stories of success and failure, accidents, and mountaineers that were never seen again. In the night, a snow storm blows over the cabin.

Goodbye to Kenneth and Salary

***

A high-rise. An elevator. A steel door. The German guard opens the door, gun at the ready. Posters of German terrorists are pinned to the walls. The Ambassador is in a meeting. While we wait, the guard organizes shampoo and soap, from his personal allocation. The Ambassador is also a mountaineer, has also climbed the Rwenzoris. I am invited to his residence in the afternoon. The embassy car takes me back to downtown Kampala, the streets are eerily quiet. Baddies siphon gas from cars parked in dark alleys.

*** 

Existential moments do not arise on mountain peaks or when lions sneak around your tent. You need a sleepless moon-lit night in suffocating heat, a cheap hotel with no electricity along a dusty road, and the echo of howling dogs. This is Gulu at the end of dry season. I have to hurry on to get to Mount Elgon.

***

The bus has no window panes, dust is everywhere. Steam spits, every ten minutes the driver stops to fill up water. A puncture; the spare tire is threadbare. I walk around the bus, diesel is pissing from the tank. We have lost time; the sun sets under a dark-red sky, then the night turns pitch-black. We see the burning tires from the distance. This is going to be awkward. The soldiers at the roadblock are nervous. It seems to be over; now they take two more people out of the bus, pointing machine guns. Bags are turned inside out, money is gone. I am spared.

We pull into Mbale late at night. The bars are brightly lit, music everywhere, everything is available. Everything except accommodation. A thirteen-year old knows hotels without signboards. They are fully booked, too. In the dark, we weave through a vast labyrinth of wooden shacks, until we reach a system of partitions, where he lives with his friends. I get a mattress behind a curtain. I leave my backpack and invite them to ndizi. I fall asleep while they are discussing their homework.

***

The elderly lady has no teeth; she offers me her drinking-tube, I can't refuse. Under the scrutiny and the applause of the crowd I take a tentative sip of the tepid brew. Someone notices my hesitancy, brings me a teapot of pombe for my own. It has been raining, and as I was looking for a dry place, high on Mount Elgon, I had crashed the party. They urge me to take a guide; as a farewell, the host hands me three eggs, someone adds a fourth.  

I go with you to Wagagei, I go with you. The so-called guides get on my nerves. They only carry a bunch of bananas. At the first rest, one of them disappears together with my watch and the eggs. I am incensed about the eggs, they have sentimental value. In the morning, banana peels scatter everywhere around the campfire; the remaining guide has eaten them all. He has no more food, it is snowing and he has no shoes; the return trip to Wagagei, the highest summit of Mount Elgon, will take another three days. I pay him his fee and demand him to return. Before his eyes, I am marching to my certain death; then he takes his leave. 

Mount Elgon is one of the giants of East Africa. Sitting on the border of Uganda and Kenya, it has one of the largest calderas in the world. 

Having visited Wagagei, I decide to stay for an extra night near the top and let my mind wander. In the morning, the tent is frozen inside out. I am running out of food. I hear voices. A gang of smugglers passes nearby, absorbed in their business. The walking is easier on the smuggler trail.

***

I step across the chicken fence of the vegetable patch. I am offered the only chair, someone is sent to cook beans. Thirty or forty spectators watch the white man eating. Many have brought their beer-tubes. Now it is dead quiet. A second later, thunderous laughter. The host explains: the local children younger than 10 years have never seen a Mzungu. 

***

The rainy season has started, the termites are swarming. The bus stops, the gears need fixing. Everyone stretches their feet. Men in suits, briefcase under their arm, pick termites from the windscreen and the radiator, termite wings between their teeth and sticking to their face.

***

Nairobi 1981

From my boarding house in the River Road I explore the parks and bars of Nairobi. After three months on the move, time to think. What have I been looking for, what have I found? 

***

Epilogue 

• Since then, most of the routes up the mountains have been developed for tourists. 
• You now can book a trip to the Rwenzori Mountains. There are board walks and bridges across the swamps, but it remains an arduous trip.
• Much of the glaciers have disappeared.
• The MV Liembe still sails on Lake Tanganyika.
• English is now the official language in Rwanda.
• Investors are planning to build a cable car onto Karisimbi.
• A one-hour visit to the Gorillas costs 1500 USD per person.
• Museveni has been in office for 35 years and some say he is one of the richest presidents in Africa.
• Upon my return, the German Ambassador in Kampala had arranged for me to work for an aid organization in Karamoja; the project site was raided before I could travel. I went to Somalia instead, and stayed for five years.

Monschau, Germany, 2021

All photos shot on slide film with a Rollei 35mm.

Other photo-stories by Detlef:

• The Somalia Experience
• Operation Lifeline Sudan, the first years in pictures
• A Walk on the Wild Side (New York)
• The Door to Hell and the Path to Health (Turkmenistan)
• Rudaki, a Wedding and Proto-Urban Sarazm (Tajikistan)
• Into the Midnight Sun (Journey to the North Cape)
• Top of Mexico
• Magic South (Southern Africa)
• Azhdahak (from Germany to Armenia, by road)
• At the edge of the bog - where we live

Detlef can be contacted via detlefpalm55@gmail.com