The game reserve was part of Idi Amin’s Africanization campaign. Colonialism had left Uganda with artificial borders and crisp British names. On December 17, 1972, Idi Amin announced that the Ugandan government would takeover British tea plantations, media companies, and country clubs, and that meaningless, imperialistic names would be changed to good Ugandan ones. Murchinson Falls became Kabalega Falls; Lake Edward became Lake Idi Amin Dada; and Queen Elizabeth National Park became Rwenzori National Park. These names would not last. It would not be so easy to shake off colonialism, even the names of colonialism. In 1991, Rwenzori National Park — the longest hold out — once again became Queen Elizabeth National Park.

To drive through Uganda was to be charmed. The road west was a patchy stretch of tarmac, with frayed edges and a center lavished with potholes. The ground, it seemed, was trying to reclaim its own. “These roads,” my father announced every few hours, “are horrendous.” It was a congenial complaint. The roads might be worn down, but the terrain was starkly beautiful. There is no land as lovely as Uganda. If you drive long enough, you will begin to hear its music, the song of earth and leaves, of jacarandas and the reeds of Lake Victoria, of sunbirds and cassias. The song is also of banana plants, the leaves an emerald green. They color the hills and small yards. Their leaves, like bolts of silk, rustle in the breeze.

Lions at Queen Elizabeth National Park^[1], 1977.
© Gary Fordham

Women walked beside the road. They wore dresses — bright and voluminous. The patterns were a geometry of colors: turquoise flowers, tangerine paisley, magenta circles. On their heads, the women balanced jugs and pots and jerry cans. This was the way things moved across the land. The journey might be miles of aching necks and cracked feet. The anomaly of a private vehicle was as ostentatious as a yacht, and we its privileged inhabitants traveled west.

We left the medical technician at Ishaka Adventist Hospital. My father shook his hand, and my mother invited him to visit. He was welcome anytime. The hospital was a cement building, with a cement floor. The cots were thin and the wards smelled of illness and urine. In less than two years, the hospital would be commandeered by Idi Amin’s soldiers. For a time, the clinic would be a barracks. My parents did not hear again from the technician. They did not hear him spoken of either — and by this they knew he had found a safe way out of Uganda. When an expatriate was harmed, everyone heard of it.

Rwenzori National Park was exactly how my parents imagined Africa. The grassland stretched out yellow and disheveled and brimming with possibility. You just knew there were buffaloes here and giraffes and baboons and all manner of antelope. The park was bordered by two large lakes — Edward and George — and the Kazinga Channel ran between them and was famous for the hippos slumped along its shores. This was it, as my mother liked to say. The crater lakes attracted an abundance of birds. On a fortuitous day, one could glimpse the whale-headed stork, a bird that might look ridiculous if it were not so authoritative.

We drove through the reserve, searching for wildlife. A guide sat in the front seat beside my father and laughed at my parents’ enthusiasm, at my mother’s frequent referencing of Animals of East Africa. The guide was as knowledgeable as he was kind, and he taught my parents tricks not found in books. We would become champion spotters, all of us. We looked for shapes and motion — two triangles, dipping and rising above the grass, might be a silver-backed jackal, a grey tassel dashing through the brush, a warthog. And always, always, we looked out at the sky for vultures. A carcass was the surest way to find lions. The second was to know where they liked to congregate. The guide directed my father south. We bumped through the savannah, our eyes searching. If there were fewer animals to be seen, and there certainly were, my parents didn’t notice. The zebras in the distance made them nearly swoon. The heat rose in vertical waves, and against these stripes of fever, the zebras seemed to vanish.

The guide was determined to show us tree lions. No more dilly-dallying over Thompson’s gazelles or baboons, we would stop only for important game. Elephants? Of course. Giraffes? For a short while. When he indicated my father should stop for antelope, my parents were surprised. “Ugandan Kob,” he told them. This antelope was on the coat of arms, he said with regional pride. The kob stepped restlessly in the grass, looking at the vehicle, tails twitching. They were a beautiful antelope, reddish-brown with dark ears, and sturdier than the impala. The males had swooping horns like Grant’s Gazelles, of whom my mother could read plenty. Maberly, however, had written nothing of the kob. He had titled his book Animals of East Africa, but focused exclusively Kenya. “And why is that?” my mother asked. But who could answer, except Maberly?