On the eastern shore of Lake Albert is a small town called Kisenyi. To get there, we took a car from Fort Portal around the winding foothills of the Rwenzori and then, unexpectedly and for free, through a game reserve of long, dry-white grass, antelope, guinea fowl and thorn trees.
We reached the grubby port town of Ntoroko around mid-morning and headed off to find immigration and the ferry. Someone gave the immigration official a call and he came and stamped us out of the country. We were told we had to take the fast ferry, so we dutifully climbed on board and waited five hours for the boat to fill up.
It was a beautiful, hot, summer’s day with the water sparkling into the distance. Nearby, a moving line of men and women loaded all manner of supplies onto what looked like an over-sized wooden row-boat. Three small boys splashed and laughed and did back-flips in the water near the shore.
Towards late afternoon, we set off across the lake. Lake Albert is beautiful. A wide expanse of silvery water, with the occasional clump of greenery. In the distance, the silver water met the light blue sky, the horizon invisible. Fishing boats dotted the lake, dark against the shining water. Wooden boats, poled slowly across the water or still as a fisherman threw out his net. Some of the boats had what looked like shade-cloth structures in the middle, looking in silhouette strangely Japanese. People waved as we passed. Birds took off from tree trunks and glided away. The light was perfect on that first trip over the lake and the photographers among us virtually vibrated with frustration as we tossed around whether to risk what we’d heard was Congolese officials’ vehement dislike for people with cameras.
In the distance, the shadow of a mountain began to grow. As we got closer we saw what looked like a coastal resort or a fishing village. Cream and blue houses nestled in the green with towering hills beyond. We landed at a dock where many people were gathered below the rusted corpse of an ancient metal crane.
As we stepped off the boat, a border police-man took our passports and led us to the small, white and blue house that served as the immigration office. The office was simple and clean and the immigration official was relatively pleasant and polite. Before long, we were stamped into the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
The original plan was to head straight for Bunia but it was getting dark and there was uncertainty about being able to find transport. I’m so glad we stayed. Not that we had anywhere to stay, but small towns are small towns, especially when you’re friendly, and the border police-man who had shown us to immigration quickly jumped in to help and hustle two of our group off to inspect the potential accommodations. The rest of us lazed in the late afternoon sun and watched the cows grazing and looked out at the lake. People wandered by and greeted these strangers before moving on.
We stayed that night at a very basic little guest-house, the name of which I never did figure out. The rooms were sparsely furnished but everything was clean and actually quite comfortable and there were mosquito net on the beds. We got three rooms at $10 per room, which would turn out to be one of the best prices of the trip, and for one of the nicest places.
I was tired, that first evening, and stressed because I wanted to contact home and let them know I was okay. I couldn’t sms because the text message services had been suspended after the DRC elections and roaming charges on MTN in a non-MTN country would be extortionate. Sorting out sim-cards helped, as did a good bucket-shower and good dinner. Dinner was great, actually. Ugandan food didn’t thrill me, but it wasn’t until that first meal in Kisenyi that I realised what I had been missing. The Ugandan food was bland. It wasn’t bad or offensive; it just didn’t taste of much. That dinner in Kisenyi was delicious: spicy cabbage and beef with plantain that wasn’t mashed and rice.
After dinner, I phoned home and felt much better. The phone reception in Kisenyi was great – possibly because the place we were staying was just near the cellphone tower. By 8 o’clock, I was climbing into bed and turning off the light in the room – which for some reason had a red light-bulb – and falling asleep to the gentle sounds of a lakeside town on a warm summer evening.
At 5:30am we were woken by the sound of drums. Loud and actually pretty good, they welcomed us to the day with intricate, delicate rhythms. We eventually figured it must be a church service. It was definitely unexpected but not unpleasant. It was early, however. I tried to drift back to sleep but the morning had started and the ducks and chickens and motorbikes were all adding their voices to the dawn. Slowly, the sunrise turned the world beyond the bamboo fence a gentle orange. Inside the room, tree-dappled light fell onto the white mosquito net. It was peaceful. The drumming had stopped and I could hear birds chirping and some sweeping in the yard.
Eventually, we were all up and about. We headed to the centre of town and ate a good, if slow, breakfast before getting onto the back of boda-bodas and driving off to Bunia. It would be nearly ten days before we returned to Kiseyi, ten days in which we saw so much and travelled so much. Kisenyi was as much of a joy on the return journey as it had been on the way out.