Inspired by Sigourney Weaver, it was a childhood dream to visit the gorillas in the mist. As part of my four month journey through Africa, there was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to fulfill this dream. The ridiculously expensive visa, bribery at the border, broken buses, pointed arrows, armed guards and warnings of vigilantes were not going to stop me. It’s not every day one attempts to fulfill a lifelong dream. Throw in stubborness, ambition and attitude and there was no way anyone was going to stop me trekking the Ruwenzori’s in search of my very own gorilla experience.

Stashed in my storage shed in Brisbane is some incredible footage of the mountain gorillas I encountered over two days of long treks. From only three metres away, the experience I had over these days is one that will never leave the memory banks.It is also an example of never letting opportunity pass by, for you never know when it may pass your way again. In the case of the Ruwenzori gorillas, due to poaching, war, disease and murderous attacks, the opportunity for others to experience this journey is now, unfortunately, diminishing. If not, impossible.

But this story is not about gorillas. It is about imprints. About faith. So let’s pull out the memory card and share the colour and vibrancy of a story that deserves as much mention as the gorillas.

It was my turn to cook breakfast. Only problem is I’m about 2600m asl, surroundered by jungle, in the middle of Zaire, have two armed guards on my tent, there’s no local corner store for about 500km and all we have left is a couple of smoked fish.

Never one to be undone and passionate about cooking, no matter where I am, I was pondering my options (for all of about two minutes considering there was only one) when I heard a voice from the distance.

Hi. My name is Elvis. Can I help you?

Looking up, I cast my eyes over a young boy: a skeleton covered in a dirty orange tshirt, ripped shorts, no shoes and scabs and open wounds covering his body.

Never one to refuse an offer of assistance, I sit down with young Elvis and chat with him a little about his life, his home, his existence. Although the size of an 8 year old, Elvis was actually 13 and quite bright given his non-existent education.

Eggs. It’s a rural paradise. Bound to be some chickens around the place. Always thinking, I finally had another option besides tuna on toast.

Do you think you could organise some eggs? I’ll need about 20.

No problem m’aam. I will get them for you.

Now I can’t exactly dig back into the memory bank to exactly specify how much I gave young Elvis to pay for the eggs. But with the smallest note in my pocket being 1million zaires, I figure I gave him about $5 to organise our breakfast feast. Waving him farewell, he headed off with a huge grin on his face and a promise that he’d bring the eggs as soon as he could.

Off I headed to set up my tent, prepare the fire, chop up some vegetables for dinner, wander around the local village, chat with the guards, plan the following day’s expedition, do some laundry and take a nanna nap.

Three hours later, the sun was setting, the night’s fare was smelling mighty good, marshmallows were ready to be toasted and there was no sign of Elvis.

Another hour later, the other four I was travelling with were categorically convinced Elvis had disappeared into the jungle with the equivalent of six month’s salary. How could I be so stupid? How could I have had so much faith?

As the temperatures plummetted and marshmallows ran low, I started mixing up some smoked fish and potato in preparation for an early breakfast. As I looked up at the shadows of the Virunga volcanoes, a small figure broke through the evening mist from the depths of the plateau below.

Miss. I am sorry it take me so long. So very sorry.

I am a self-confessed sook. I cry at sad movies. I sob when others feel pain. I feel anguish at the suffering other humans must endure. When I saw this skeleton of a boy walk towards me holding his tatty orange shirt out from his front, filled with the requested 20 eggs, I could not hold back the tears. Not because I was sad. In the back of my mind, I had already said goodbye to my $5 and had hoped Elvis and his family would use the funds wisely.

Elvis had walked for six hours from village to village in search of our breakfast. In a subsistence economy where the chickens are as malnourished as the children, he was lucky to find even one egg at each property he visited. And as I had given him the highest value note in the currency, his ability to extract change from any of the locals was a task, that in itself, required a great deal of negotiation, tact and honesty.

I cried because out of the depth of poverty came an incredible example of trust, faith, honesty and a young man keeping his word, despite every opportunity to win the lottery.

A couple of day’s later, all of the boys from the surrounding villages turned up at the camp to offer assistance in carrying our packs to the base of the mountain. Half the size of all the other boys, I headed straight for Elvis and gave him the job. I soon realised my pack was as big as him, so opted to carry my own while he took my day bag. We walked for six hours down the mountain hand in hand, like two old friends that knew they would soon part.

Talk about imprints. Siting and spending time amongst the gorillas of the mist is one of my most memorable travel experiences – both the getting there, and the time observing their grace and power.

I never travel purely for the sights. As I’ve mentioned before, interaction with the locals is something I seek and gain much pleasure from.

Next time someone tells me to buy a lottery ticket, I won’t be rushing out. Elvis had six hours of opportunity to have a winning ticket. But he reminded me there are so many other ways that we can be winners.   The lessons he taught me will never die. They will never leave the building.