Woke to the sound of a car arriving behind us and then voices. Kel helloed from the back that the plantation manager was a Sikh from Birmingham!
Out of the truck, I couldn’t believe the supports we’d slept on, one of them not in contact with the truck at all. Recorded by a hoard of photographers, Kel and Ben set to work to fashion a repair, gathering assistants to haul a found felled tree into place. Just got it in position when a Portuguese lad returned and declared that our tree was too weak for the job. He set about organizing the felling of a large gum, his team of Zaire axemen throwing themselves into the job.
We devoured a mammoth breakfast of pancakes with lemon and sugar before I climbed up the tree/tea plantation terraces to photograph the tree felling operation. Nikki started dismantling her tent because everyone assumed the tree would fall downhill into the cleared area - assumed the men knew what they were doing, having cleared much land before. We all looked up at the top of the tree when the black audience did, and all took flight when they did. They ran up the hill so I did too. I heard falling timber behind me and felt a rush of leaves and wind before the tree's crowning gum leaves collected me and threw me to the ground. Unscathed, I leapt up and assured the figures running towards me that I was unhurt. Phew! If I’d run anywhere except the direction that the locals did then the tree would have missed me. And if I’d stood still, I could have watched the whole thing.
Couldn’t believe the events of the last days, seemingly with me at their centre. Surely things will settle down again soon. At least it was an Australian eucalypt and not some African tree!
The bridge building continued with a massive team effort to roll the huge log and then haul it into place beneath Stanley, then some suicidal work by one black plantation worker and the Portuguese man to secure the felled tree in place, risking serious injury or even death if anything gave way. They levelled the new "beam" and released the jack holding up Stanley, his wheel dropping onto the log. We positioned our sand mats to spread the weight, and everyone cheered as Kevin revved the engine and drove onto firm ground.
Our large audience then gawped as we stripped off on mass for a cold wash on and under the bridge - I had to brace myself before taking the plunge. Then we stood at the end of the bridge and watched Stanley cross back over the repair, the log holding his weight. We had to drive back towards Butambo before we could U-turn and continue our journey.
We ceremoniously pushed Stanley over the equator - the sign was a poor monument to Vicki and my home coming - before driving on into the most wonderful scenery for months: lush green rolling hills, beautiful Belgian farm houses, banana plantations, tiny villages perched on a ridge with mountains rising behind; cows and sheep; towering gum trees; sheer valley walls thick with ferns; tall flat-topped trees with almost every leaf on the same level facing towards the sun, with canopies of velvety moss; wild pink roses; bubbling mountain streams cutting through valley floors - and all spread beneath stormy skies.
We stopped at roadside stalls selling pineapples, giant cabbages, leeks, onions, potatoes, persimmon and gooseberries. And Kelvin’s promise came true: girls came rushing to the back of the truck carrying bowls of plump red STRAWBERRIES and we pigged out! Stopped again to buy huge slabs of hard cheese, a luxury after months of soft, processed cheese triangles, at one of many “Fromage, lait” signs. After all the goodies we'd seen we wondered what we might get for lunch: scrumptious fresh bread from a bakery in a tiny village.
A massive rain and hail-storm forced us to evacuate the crows' nest and drop the sides and back of the truck. After the spectacular views, it felt strange being cocooned within plastic; lightening was just visible through the walls and thunder shook everything. Fortunately, the gravel road remained firm under the downpour, which eventually eased.
So much is happening to us on this trip, good and bad, small and momentous incidents in an adventure that's a string of incidents that would be exceptional, unbelievable even, back home. Now we just accept them and ready ourselves for the next drama. Our last three days have included swarming ants, a collapsed bridge and falling tree, crossing the equator, hailstones and strawberries (I added a leaf off that gum tree to the dead flying ant in the long letter home I was writing.). I wonder what it will be like to live a normal life again.
The afternoon had us driving uphill and finally camping around a locked house available for tourists, perched high above a small village and overlooking beautiful rolling countryside. The toilet was in a tiny slatted hut, the edges of the hole in the floor cracked and weakened, rather like yesterday's bridge, and I squatted with care, holding tightly to the walls.
Dinner was a mammoth feast finished with a pineapple upside down cake for Julie’s birthday and fresh strawberries.
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