Our buts have drummed their way through the bumpy, dusty roads of Uganda. We've felt the sticky and stinky sweat of fellow matatu passengers and the restless wind of boda-bodas driving us into the sunset. For living in a time when adventure's fairly limited by the internet (or the destrucion of unreachableness) and Lonely Planet's allknowing guide to every-small-hidden-corner-on-this-planet, I feel we've had our share of wild exploration.
There's a strange rythm in our path that connects every place we've been in a wicked balance. The tranquility of the air at the source of the Nile in Jinja loses bits of its ethereal feel to the very real mud huts, nonsense letters on walls and pothole hotels.
Kampala's heart is the nest of a snake of smog who's getting entangled in itself trying to bite its own tail. But in spite of the dirt, the shouting, the burned-up ruins and the running for your life across tarmac lanes there is a hidden, shaky order, a flow that pushes everything -even you- ahead.
The blue and white horizon of the Ssese islands is soul-morphine, but the majestic solitude is shattered into pieces by the ever-so-lively birds, the screams of hippos, thunders at night and the pure force of life crawling on the ground and on the trees, making you feel like a tiny piece of something endless. The hunger for more roads leads you into lost bubbles of sky and forest. You learn how to slow yourself down without crashing and how to accelerate without burning up the engine.
The slow breathing in of grass and leaves beside volcanic Lake Nkuruba puts you to sleep in the evening, while the playful screams of funny-looking monkeys wake you up in the morning. An upside down plant is growing inside of you. Its roots are your brain. They're steady and always reaching out for more. Its leaves are your feet, dragged away by the wind.
There's a strange rythm in our path that connects every place we've been in a wicked balance. The tranquility of the air at the source of the Nile in Jinja loses bits of its ethereal feel to the very real mud huts, nonsense letters on walls and pothole hotels.
Kampala's heart is the nest of a snake of smog who's getting entangled in itself trying to bite its own tail. But in spite of the dirt, the shouting, the burned-up ruins and the running for your life across tarmac lanes there is a hidden, shaky order, a flow that pushes everything -even you- ahead.
The blue and white horizon of the Ssese islands is soul-morphine, but the majestic solitude is shattered into pieces by the ever-so-lively birds, the screams of hippos, thunders at night and the pure force of life crawling on the ground and on the trees, making you feel like a tiny piece of something endless. The hunger for more roads leads you into lost bubbles of sky and forest. You learn how to slow yourself down without crashing and how to accelerate without burning up the engine.
The slow breathing in of grass and leaves beside volcanic Lake Nkuruba puts you to sleep in the evening, while the playful screams of funny-looking monkeys wake you up in the morning. An upside down plant is growing inside of you. Its roots are your brain. They're steady and always reaching out for more. Its leaves are your feet, dragged away by the wind.
No comments:
Post a Comment