UNDER THE UGANDAN SUN
A 12-hour bus journey and a mugging were never going to deter 20-year-old Congolese Miguel Masaisai from clocking up invaluable race experience at the Nabugabo Triathlon in Uganda. Journalist Sara Assarsson was there to chart his incredible day…
I’ve come to Lake Nabugabo in south-western Uganda to support Miguel Masaisai, a 20-year-old triathlete from the war-ravaged Democratic Republic of Congo [who featured in issue 382]. Triathlon is virtually unheard of in the Congo and Miguel’s opportunity to enjoy the race experience is to travel to neighbouring Rwanda, Uganda or – if he can afford the trip – to Kenya or Tanzania. It’s the third time we meet, after a chance meeting in his hometown of Goma in April last year and a brief exchange at the Rwandan-Congolese border in September. We’ve developed a friendship over the past year, keeping in touch on social media. And now we’re both in Uganda. He’s taking part in the Nabugabo Triathlon & Duathlon, in its fifth year, and I’m here on assignment for Swedish radio. Having watched Miguel pound those impossibly steep hills in Goma, I can’t wait to see him battle it out in a race.
RELENTLESS HEAT
I keep running up the dirt track, past mud huts and small hamlets. There’s no shade and I feel my neck burning. Kids gather along the roadside and high-five as I jog past. I glance at my Garmin. I’ve now been running for 37 minutes – the same amount of time it took the winner of the 12km cross-country race earlier that morning to complete the course. I’m still four or five kilometres away from the finish line, pretty sure I’m not even going to make it under an hour. How is it even possible to run that fast?
The sand and the heat are taking their toll, and I ease into a stroll rather than a run. “You’re going in the wrong direction,” shouts a guy heading towards me. “Yeah, I’m not racing, just fun running,” I reply as we pass each other on the dirt track. I’m only a mile from the camp, but no sign of Miguel. Judging by the other participants – middle-aged men, teenagers and a couple of professional-looking athletes – Miguel should stand a chance to reach the top. Finally, I spot his red tri-suit. “There you are!” I shout excitedly. He’s just started the second loop of the 6km course and I can tell from his weak smile that he’s tired. But he’s got a great stride, as he speeds past me. Running is Miguel’s favourite discipline and from his Strava records I know that he’s a strong runner. But will he catch up?
WORST POSSIBLE START
Nabugabo Triathlon & Duathlon is a family event held in beautiful surroundings near Lake Nabugabo in south-western Uganda, about three hours’ drive from the capital Kampala. The course is mainly dirt tracks and off-road paths snaking their way through villages, woodland and pastures.
It’s one of few races that are within reach of Goma in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where Miguel is training to become a world-class triathlete. Competitions are few and far between, and to get some race experience, Miguel has spent months trawling social media and eventually came across Nabugabo in neighbouring Uganda.
But getting there proved anything but easy. The first leg of the journey was a motorbike ride to the border town between Congo and Uganda. Then Miguel caught a bus to the Ugandan capital, a 12-hour journey on bumpy roads. On top of everything, he got mugged on the way. The worst possible start!
We meet in the beautiful campgrounds by Lake Nabugabo on Saturday afternoon. It’s the evening before race day and the grounds are packed with mountain bikes, campervans and towels hanging out to dry. I spot a group of prolooking cyclists – Miguel’s got some tough competition!
“Hello!” I wave to Miguel and give him a big hug. He looks fatigued from the long trip, but happy to have arrived. “I signed up for the long distance as I figured I’ll have a better chance of catching up. The swimming will be tough. But I’m going to win!” he beams.
I ask him where he’s going to stay. “I don’t know yet,” he replies and starts telling me about his nightmare trip. The sun is about to set, and I start worrying about
finding him a place to sleep. If Miguel is going to have a chance of winning tomorrow, he must get a good night’s sleep. All the cottages are fully booked but the race organisers kindly offer to put some mattresses in the conference hall. Phew! We settle in and join the queue at the buffet table.
“Please wear your face masks,” shouts a Dutch guy wearing a yellow t-shirt. “Breakfast is at 6:30am tomorrow morning and then we’ll have a brief. I won’t give you all the details tonight as you’ll forget it all by tomorrow. Just make sure you’re here early.” I glance around the tables while Miguel piles his plate with rice, chips, grilled chicken and avocado. Unable to find any empty seats, we sit down by a huge tree and tuck into our food. It’s not long before Miguel announces that he’s ready for bed. “Good night! See you in the morning,” I say before I rest my back against the tree trunk, sipping a warm beer.
ROOSTER ALARM CLOCK
The next morning a rooster gives us a five o’clock wake-up call. I grudgingly make my way to the shower block and splash some water on my face and walk down the grassy slope to the lake shore where breakfast is served. I tuck into my eggs, toast and fruit and sip my coffee while the sun burns through
“The first leg of the journey was a motorbike ride… followed by a tiring 12-hour bus on bumpy roads”
the morning mist. Sporty-looking families fill the tables, the plates piled with food. I still can’t see Miguel. Has he overslept?
Eventually, he comes walking down the slope. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “Good,” he replies, not quite awake yet. I sip my coffee and watch the participants get ready. There are people of all ages, from lanky teenagers to men in their 50s. I keep an eye on the professional-looking athletes and wonder who is going to battle it out with Miguel. The first race is a 12km cross-country run. The runners set off while the tri- and duathletes change into their wetsuits. Soon, a crowd has gathered by the shore. “I’m a bit nervous,” quips Miguel.
“Three, two, one, GO!” Miguel stands and let the others rush past him in the water. The lack of training facilities in Goma has left him ill-prepared and I can tell he’s uncomfortable. At last, he joins the other swimmers in the lake. I try to spot him in the water, but everyone looks the same from a distance. After a few minutes, the shortdistance racers start coming out of the water and run up the slope.
I see Miguel take on lap two, already several minutes behind the lead. A Spaniard named José Leon Barrena is the first long-distance triathlete to complete the 500m. I keep my eyes on the bobbing heads, eager to spot Miguel. One by one, the swimmers reach the shore. Miguel is the last one to run up the slope and change into his bike shoes. He puts his helmet on and starts running with the bike, a battered old mountain bike with malfunctioning gears. “Go get them!” I shout as he speeds along the dirt track.
OUT- OF-BODY EXPERIENCE
I change into shorts and my running shoes and head out on the track. Runners and cyclists jostle for space, but only a few hundred meters from the camp the crowd disperses. It’s already hot and the sun high in the sky. People are racing in different categories and it’s hard to keep up with the bibs. I start jogging along the cycle route, hoping to get a glimpse of Miguel. He’s never ridden a mountain bike
before, but at least he’s familiar with hilly terrain. My colleague Johannes hops on a motorbike to catch the cyclists in action. Meanwhile, I set out on my run, retracing the 12km cross-country route. When I finally spot Miguel, I feel ecstatic. “Go!” I hear José Leon Barrena shout as the two of them battle it out on the run. But the Spaniard is already a lap ahead of Miguel and only has a few hundred metres left to the finish line.
I make it back to the camp just in time to spot Miguel as he crosses the finish line. “How did you do?” I ask. “I think I was second or third,” he replies, dripping with sweat. “Five hundred metres from the finish line, I had an out-of-body experience and just ran with all my strength. My only goal was to reach the podium.” I see blood dripping from an open wound. “If I hadn’t fallen off my bike, I think I would have won,” he says.
In the end, Miguel finishes fifth. “I feel great,” he says when we sprawl out on the lawn and wait for the prize ceremony. It’s a relaxed atmosphere and you can tell people travel here to have a fun weekend. A few, including Miguel, have come to get valuable race experience in a region where competitions are scarce. “Was it worth the long journey?” I ask. “Yes!” A warm smile stretches across his face.