Uganda

July/August 2004

My Akamba bus to Uganda was a local battered old Kenyan bus and I was the only tourist aboard. Most tourists catch the more expensive luxurious Scandinavian Tourist buses which have their depots in the better parts of major cities. I was waved aboard with my backpack (no room underneath) so I slotted it under my feet for a cramped journey. The bus was packed with the inevitable screaming baby behind me. My seat companion was an attractive Ugandan woman who was a fashion designer, down in Nairobi on business. The bus left at 7.30pm and as we headed North East, I fell asleep.

Around 4am, I was awoken. We had arrived at the Kenyan border. Because this was Kenya, the immigration office did not open until 5am! We lined up, only to find three other buses arriving with upstart single males trying to sidestep the lines. To their credit, officials dragged them out and told them to “join the line.” It was a little more organised than other borders I had crossed. A sign said “No Idlers”. I assume they meant the Immigration officials. I mean 4 buses roll up and they still sat inside the closed office until 5am.

Stamped out of Kenya, I walked along the road with my Ugandan lady to the Ugandan Immigration where we lined up again. I handed over $30 and told them I wanted 10 days. After my terrible attempts to learn Swahili in Kenya, it was a relief to find that English was the standard Ugandan language. We boarded the bus, walking past one that was covered in Arsenal logos (England’s top football team). Another bus had “In God We Trust” on its rear end to protect it from the driver?

As we entered Uganda, dawn approached and we drove past fertile green farmlands. The villages were as scruffy as Kenyan ones. At one point we were stopped for a “security check”. We got out while police boarded with torches to check the luggage. Thousands of giant moths fluttered around (probably trying to scrape their mates off our windscreen which was covered in large wings). Apparently, these are eaten in Uganda.

We drove on through verdant green landscapes, banana trees everywhere, truckloads of bananas and endless hoards of women selling bananas wherever we dropped passengers. We passed through Jinja, where I would return to white-water raft the source of the River Nile. I also caught my first glimpses of Lake Victoria, the second largest lake in the World. 15 hours after leaving Nairobi, (on top of the full day’s travelling before), we pulled into the capital, Kampala around 11am.

Ugandan Background; Lonely Planet said “Uganda is one of the most beautiful countries in Africa with fantastic natural scenery, half the world’s remaining mountain gorilla population and some of the friendliest people you could hope to meet (true). It also offers world class white-water rafting at the source of the Nile and some of the regions more peaceful natural parks.” It is the size of England, with 25 million people. Catholics and Protestants make up 60% of the religious beliefs. Major industries: coffee, tea, sugar (thanks, white with two for me), brewing, (your round), cotton, textiles and tobacco (and bananas). Most people I met spoke English.

However, Uganda’s long stories of tragedies after independence in 1962 from the English, has featured in the western media to such an extent that most people still regard Uganda as dangerously unstable. Before Independence, Uganda was a prosperous and cohesive country. Winston Churchill when pissed, called its great beauty “the Pearl of Africa”, but by early 1986, Uganda laid shattered and bankrupt, broken by tribal animousity, nepotism, military tyranny and politicians gone mad on power. Two words: Idi Amin (remember him? I remember watching the country self destruct on TV in the 1970s).

Nevertheless, in 2004, you will find a smiling and friendly people, glad to be getting back to normal. For me, it was great to have conversations in English. It is one of those countries, like Laos, that has a lot to offer, but the tourist infrastructure is only just starting. They are keen to get the tourists, but haven’t prepared for them. When they do, you will all visit the country. Consequently, they are open people, unjaded by tourists and you feel as if you are discovering an ‘undiscovered’ country.

Waving away offers of taxi drivers and boda bodas (motorbike taxis), I walked into the centre with my heavy backpack. The hustling was non aggressive. They asked and accepted a refusal. I was stopped by a South African man peddling religious literature. “Your smile is remarkable after such a long bus ride”. “Thanks, but if I have to carry it, I don’t need it” I replied.

Kampala is built on hills. It is a modern bustling capital city, the engine driving one of the fastest growing economies on the continent. It was hot and humid and the streets were buzzing. Lots of people sat on the uneven/broken pavements with their wares laid out beside them; newspapers, pens, bibles, watches, mobile phones etc. The main street had a Barclays Back (my English bank) and I could withdraw local currency from the ATM. In Kenya, I had got 143 Kenyan shillings to the English Pound. I got 3100 Ugandan shillings to the Pound which was strong and made Uganda very cheap. Locals stared at the unwashed, unshaven backpacker struggling down the street in his boots and shorts. A few friendly catcalls of “Hey Whitey!” but noone bothered me. Lots of laughing at my shorts and shaking of hands. “Where you from?” “England” “Ah, Chelsea, Manchester, Arsenal”. Everyone knew the English football teams. Many locals were acting as ‘walking parking meters’. Dressed in official orange bibs and pouches, car drivers gave them money to park their car on the roadsides.

At the ‘New Taxi Area’, hundreds of public minibuses swarmed around like bees, exhaust fumes choking the air. They lined up in the roads bumper to bumper, impossible to pass in between. Nearby, opposite the chaotic Owino market, I found the Mukwano Guesthouse, half of which was a construction site, and got a single ensuite room for ££5 a night. I spent the rest of the day exploring a capital with nothing to see! Endless crowded streets of shops, people doing business, lots of cripples and mothers and children begging. I appeared to be the only person in town in shorts. I spotted the occasional rare white face, but they ignored me.

Walking up to the plush (for Uganda, but still crappy) tall ugly concrete edifice of the Sheraton Hotel, in its own oasis of quiet gardens, I walked through the compound past western businessmen playing pool, oblivious to the real Kampala outside. Next door, at Adrift Rafting, I booked my white-water rafting and visited the Ugandan tourist office to check out the Wild Gorilla treks. $400 for one hour’s viewing was out of my league. I can see one in London Zoo for $20.

Late in the afternoon, near my guesthouse, exhausted by the heat and grime, I holed up in a small, cool, outside local beer shack and sampled the Ugandan beer. Ice cold &~163;0.50p (read and drink!) pints of bottled Nile Special Beer, Bells and Pilsner revived me (as it does). While I sat and wrote my diary, locals looked at my guidebook or after they asked me where I was from, told me that Norwich City Football Club had been promoted,. Small world.

Not a lot of people know this: Some of Africa’s capitals are notorious for muggings and robberies, but Kampala has never been one of them. This is because of the quaint Ugandan habit of mob rule, stripping down any caught thieves to their “Adam suits” or ripping their clothes off in public. The locals, distrusting the police, take the law into their own hands. I later met a tourist who had something stolen and a crowd caught the thief and attempted to strip him naked, before the tourist told them to stop. They probably looked at me in my shorts and thought I was a “western thief who has already lost his trousers”.

It was an early start for the “white-water rafting”. I was picked up at 7am and driven around early morning Kampala picking up other tourists. At the Sheraton we picked up an English family (who were pals with the British Ambassador and didn’t we hear about it!) and Lloyd, a 38 year old effeminate American, who I discovered, when he sat next to me, was a “Micro Financier” lending small amounts of money to women’s co-operatives. We got chatting. “How do you like Kampala?” “It’s another ugly African capital”. “I’ve been here 8 months and I think its beautiful”. “Have you been downtown to the market areas, the gridlock and the dirt” I asked. “Hell. No. I live on the golf course. I wouldn’t go down there, its awful!” He seemed to live in a bubble eating at the best restaurants and ex-pat places where his Ugandan colleagues “couldn’t afford to eat at”.

He pointed out one of Kampala’s two traffic lights and the new Shop rite Western supermarket and mini-mall “which is the best place in town for me. All those American products”. We discussed the economy. “Do you realize” he said, “that the economy is growing at 5% a year, but the population growth is 6%? So they are always behind. Someone in the Government should have a ‘keep it in your pants’ campaign for a couple of years and this country would be booming!”

He had taken his visiting mother on the “Wild Gorilla trek” a fortnight before. They were led into the forest and walked around the forests for an hour. “I realised later” said Lloyd “that the gorillas were 5 minutes away from where we started, but that was too easy, so we were walked around for an hour to return to the starting point, but the gorillas had moved. So they spent two more hours trying to find the gorillas which had left. They spent 20 minutes them watching and taking photos. I was glad that I had saved $400. When you consider that it cost $2 (count them) to look at the Urangatans in Sumatra (Indonesia) and Borneo (Malaysia), admittedly protected, it seemed rather overpriced.

Photo of a young wild gorilla

Finally leaving Kampala with a packed mini-coach of westerners, we headed east for 90 minutes to Jinja, to the Adrift base by the River Nile, just down from the source; a dam on the edge of Lake Victoria. There were enough clients (including an English school group already there) to fill 4 rafts with 8 people in each of them. Uganda’s biggest tourist money spinner. $85 for the daytrip. I had attempted to get in an “all male” raft but as Billy No Mates, I was slotted into a raft with Lloyd, his wimpy American friend, Anne, the English family (“Did we tell you we had dinner with the British and American Ambassadors last night” “Yes. Every bloody chance you get”), and another effeminate American, Steve, who looked like Kevin Spacey in the movie “American Beauty”. He was having “a personal crisis” about to turn 35. I told him to “get a life”.

Photos of Jinja
Photo of the source of the River Nile

The raft trip was 31km down through a series of 7 huge rapids; grades 4 & 5. The River Nile starts here on its 6000km journey to the Mediterranean Sea. It would be a day of plunging into the maelstrom and riding the mountainous waves over the rapids and through the walls of white water, and a (lot more than expected) drifting along the tranquil parts of the river in the equatorial sunshine. Our guide, Jane was skinny, muscular, and bossy 30 something South African who was in charge of the whole affair.

Having rafted in New Zealand and Australia, I knew (unlike all the others in my raft) what to expect and tied my glasses on with two lots of string and elastic bands. Tight fitting lifejackets, red helmet, no shoes and a paddle. We did a warm up on rowing/commands to follow etc. Kayak support (I had never seen this) was provided by local Ugandans and there was a ‘safety boat’ (rowed by a local) in case anyone bottled it and wanted an easy day.

First rapid. Bujagali Falls. I was at the front as one of the two main lead paddlers. The others half hearted paddled (which is the worst strategy. You need to dig those oars in to keep in control). Over we went and Steve fell overboard but was rescued by Jane. Total Gunga (G-Spot) would be a lot rougher. There were two routes; difficult and moderate but both could flip the raft. I was outvoted and we headed down the moderate centre. It made no difference. The raft plunged down the rapids and the whole raft was flipped. I was dragged underwater for what seemed like an eternity, rose to the surface, gulped some air and was dragged below for another beating. Complete bedlam. I swam to the river edge. The English woman was winded and gulping air like a beached fish hanging off a kayak. Wimpy Anne had her shoes sucked off her and climbed aboard the safety boat for the rest of the day. The others all looked shell shocked. As beginners, they didn’t know this was what usually happened.

Photo of Rafting
Video clip of rafting the Nile at the bottom of this webpage

Big Brother next. The raft flipped again and we all got launched out into the river. Less of a drag this time underwater, but the 14 year old English kid had had enough and boarded the safety boat (his 18 year old brother put on a brave face). Unlike, Tully, Queensland, where I had last rafted in 2001, there were no rocks. The river was so deep, your feet never touched the bottom and the surge was a lot stronger. One easier rapid called ‘Overtime’ before we reached Wakisi Island for a buffet lunch and recuperation.

It was a beautiful hot, sunny day and everyone got sunburnt. After lunch, we drifted for what seemed hours along the wide tranquil river. A thunderstorm chased us and gave up. African sea eagles in the trees, darter birds zooming across the river, black cormorants sunbathing on the rocks. A long bright green snake swam across the river in front of us. The others were relieved at the lack of rapids, but I was disappointed. I had come to raft the white water, not drift along on a ‘water safari’. The peaceful stretches allowed Lloyd and the English couple to compare the best restaurants and bore me rigid. “It’s not just about the rapids” said the now less winded English wife “it’s the whole experience”. Yeah, right. In retrospect, I agree, but I could have hired a local for a few bucks to show me the tranquil areas.

A couple of times, there were Grade 6 rapids (now we’re talking), but we had to drag the rafts around the side (“too dangerous”) and over the rocks. Locals were hired to drag the rafts around another massive set of rapids (Dead Dutchman Falls named after someone who attempted it and drowned). The rafts were put in half way down. Steve (Kevin Spacey) had another crisis about tackling the humongous rapids but we talked him into it (“I don’t want to die before my birthday”). We handled another ferocious battering and survived intact. Only because my colleagues lost faith paddling, and we were channelled down past the really big stuff.

Photo of the Grade 6 Rapids

I was starting to hate wimpy Americans. Note to George Dubya Bush; I don’t know if you realise this George, but the only American men I met in East Africa were pampered, ignorant, soft, gentile souls that seem to have had their balls removed at birth, by the current American lifestyle. I suggest the High Schools run a 101 class on “reaching down between your legs, grabbing your sack and finding your balls”.

Finally, we reached Itanda (the Bad Place) and over we went. The raft flipped and I came up underneath it, able to breath in the air pockets. So endeth the long, enjoyable day. Beautiful scenery, some great white water rapids and a different perspective on seeing the scenery. Despite all this, I’d still recommend Tully in Queensland as a better day out. Maybe it was the company. I almost peed myself laughing at Tully. Especially since I was the only person not to fall out. (See “Well, what happened there?” on my Webpage stories. Oh, most of you have (Dave Heaven – shut it!)). One added attraction on the way home was unlimited beer supplies from an icebox. Needless to say, I wobbled to a local store for chicken and chips feeling totally exhausted, and glad to be away from everyone I have whined about. I never did get to meet the British Ambassador. I wonder why?

The next morning, I caught a public minibus south of Kampala over the hills to Entebbe, about 25 minutes away, on the shores of Lake Victoria. Entebbe is an attractive colonial town that was once the capital of Uganda during the early years of the English protectorate. You only know of Entebbe Airport as a hostage crisis episode in 1976. As I walked down to the Lake, I passed the Imperial Botanical Beach Hotel with two large wooden arches erected that stated “Welcome to the President of the United States of America, His Excellency, George W. Bush Jr”. He had popped in for a night, earlier this year and disgusted the Ugandans. Rather than use a car, he even caught a helicopter for the 5 mile ride from the Airport and never left the Hotel. In comparison, Bill Clinton had spent 4 days here in 1998, travelling around the country, meeting the people, visiting schools, AIDS clinics etc and showing a genuine interest in the country. The Ugandans thought he was great and I met many Ugandans who heaped praise on him and his visit. I rest my case. (Note to Bill: maybe you should try ‘keeping it in your pants’ for a year or so).

Just beyond the hotel is the Ugandan Wildlife Education Centre. None of the animals here are exhibits; all are recovered from poachers and traffickers. I arrived just after it opened at 9am and for two hours; I had the place to myself. Many trees were labelled which was very informative, and a large herb garden was labelled with the medical complaints they could cure. There was a small collection of animals, but I was able to get close up photos and just sit and watch them undisturbed; a pair of otters that dived acrobatically around their pool, 4 ostriches, one of which was happy to munch grass a metre away. A pair of beautiful crested cranes with their ornate golden Mohican head crests (see photo) which is Uganda’s national emblem, stood and preened themselves next to me. A troop of monkeys in another field next to a waterbuck deer. Chimp Island had half a dozen black chimps. A mother sat on her haunches like a human while her tiny baby swung from a tire. The island was surrounded by a 4 metre moat. A warden threw a bucket of fruit and veg across the moat and they came down to gather them all up. A lovely assortment of birds darted around such as yellow gold wings and black/white birds with their nests hanging down from branches over the moat.

The star attractions were two rhinos, the first to be imported since they were all killed during the war. Across from them, a striped hyena lay slumbering in a concrete pipe. A lion (only 5 years old) also slept in a thicket two metres from the fence, watching me as I watched him, expecting it to jump out and attack. There were also 3 beautiful serval cats. The water aviary contained 4 shoebill storks with their large comical beaks that ended with an upturned smile and two widely spaced eyes over the beak staring at me, also only a metre away. An African sea eagle perched on a tree nearby, all under a vast net.

By now, coach loads of school kids had arrived, dressed in various smart purple or navy blue school uniforms. A kindergarten group of about 30 kids, all dressed in pink swarmed past me and all insisted on shaking my hand and saying “hello”. On the ‘forest walk’ I came across a troop of Velvet monkeys playing in the trees. One was happy to sit on the path a metre away for a photo (usually they dart off). The final field of African cob (Antelopes), deer and gazelles were also fed by wardens. I spent three hours here and it was a lovely morning. For £3, it beat the hell out of Mountain Gorilla trekking. Very recommended if you want to get up close and see the animals at arms length.

Photos of the Entebbe Wildlife Park animals
Photo of School kids in uniform

I strolled around Entebbe past the old colonial houses perched on the green hills overlooking the Lake. I popped into a small café for a beer and a plate of chips. A local policeman strolled in for his lunch. Outside, I flagged down a minibus and returned to noisy, grimy Kampala to check out the western ‘Shop rite’ supermarket near my guesthouse. All those American products and imported western foodstuffs. Armed guards stood outside. They stood outside every bank and major business. Not sure if the guns were loaded, I didn’t try to find out. When a security van pulled up outside a bank to collect the money, 4 armed guards sat on the roof. Late Friday afternoon, Kampala was packed with gridlocked roads of minibuses, crowded streets, and floods of people pouring into the markets. I was already a ‘regular’ at the local beer shack.

Much of North West Uganda is effectively off limits to travellers due to the ongoing war in Sudan, but Murchison Falls National Park remains the region’s saving grace. “Probably the best all round protected area in the country for wildlife and attractions” (LP). I wasn’t sure when the minibuses would leave for Masindi, the gateway town, so I turned up at the packed ‘New Taxi Area’ at 7am and found the minibus which took 90 minutes to fill. I sat in the front seat, while endless hawkers offered newspapers, sweets, and knickknacks. One guy walked around with a massive ghetto blaster and a backpack of cassettes. Every time he came past, a new cassette was blasting out. The bustling bedlam of the crowded minibus taxi ranks will always be my lasting image of Kampala. There was no hassle. A polite refusal was accepted and locals went out of their way to be helpful.

Photo of Old Taxi Rank in Kampala

Our packed minibus pulled out and filled up at a garage. The drivers always keep their tanks empty so if stolen, they don’t get very far! Then it was northwards out of Kampala and into the countryside. Long straight roads over undulating hills with small farms either side and banana trees. Wattle and dub, thatched shacks. Locals pushing bicycles with loads of wood or yellow water containers on the back. There was no running water or glass windows in the shacks. Small kilns by the side of the road and piles of grey bricks. Maize, sugarcane, tractors. Herds of goats and cattle with the largest horns I have ever seen. Both horns went straight up, nearly a metre long. A school had a large sign saying its mission was “To produce literate, social and morally upright citizens”.

Photo of a long horned cow
Photo of locals selling chickens

The surfaced road with occasional potholes, was virtually empty of motorized traffic. Good job too, because our driver was a demon, keeping his foot down at 100kph and blasting his horn to get locals on bicycles or on foot, off to the side of the road. A chicken run out in front of us and was squashed under a front wheel. 40km from Masindi (215 km from Kampala), we turned onto an orange dirt corrugated track and he kept the speed up. He didn’t care and I wondered how we avoided hitting cyclists or pedestrians.

Great photo of what it is like to sit in the public minibuses
Photo of a typical Ugandan road
Photo of a typical Ugandan bicycle

That morning, a dog had awoken and thought what a great day. Trotting down the side of the road he was humming Willy Nelson’s song “On the road again. On the road again. I can’t wait to sniff some assholes with my friends”. As we passed it, it turned it head. Its last living memory was a white minibus’s left front side smack into its head and it went under the front left wheel, taking out the headlight on the impact. It had been a while since I’d experienced a ‘bus driver from hell’.

We pulled into sleepy Malindi under 3 hours. I wandered around the wide grid patterned streets, (the ‘Titanic’ movie soundtrack was booming out of a shop), unhassled and found the Travellers Inn Restaurant, where hopefully a tourist bus for the Park would arrive in the afternoon. I found a deserted local bar and woke up the barmaid to serve me an ice cold beer.

I waited two hours at the Travellers Inn waiting (local sausages and chips!) for the weekly tourist bus to arrive. It never did (off season so not enough tourists), and attempted to hitch into the park. A few land cruisers full of tourists pretended I didn’t exist. Walking down to the taxi rank, a minibus was attempting to fill up for the hamlet of Busali on the edge of the park on a dirt road 65km away. First of all, there was a big argument because the conductor “stole” some passengers from another minibus. They wouldn’t let it out of the barricaded taxi rank. Lots of yelling and pounding on the bus. Half full, we drove around the town trying to find other passengers. A goat was loaded in the back and a couple of chickens.

Then an almighty thunder and lightening storm hit the town. We took shelter under a garage forecourt while water flooded down the streets. Everyone took shelter. The streets were deserted. So I’m sitting there (an hour after climbing aboard), next to the goat and chickens thinking;
a) We won’t reach Busali before dark
b) There is no accommodation at Busali
c) The dirt track into the park will be too muddy for a motorbike taxi to tackle it, even if I could find one willing to take me there in the dark
d) If the tourist bus hadn’t showed, then their camp (the only cheap accommodation in the Park) probably wouldn’t be open either. It was either that or a $200 luxury lodge.

I decided to cut my losses and climb out (yells of ‘Hey, brother where you bound?”). It was an example of how the tourist infrastructure for independent travellers is pretty non existent in Uganda. My main reason for trying was to see where the Nile River is squeezed into a 3 metre gorge to produce the Murchison Falls, but ultimately, it was just another waterfall.

Photo of Murchison Falls

The last minibus back to Kampala was leaving at 5.30pm and I had a seat. A repeat journey, catching a glimpse of the dead dog (bless) still lying in the road as the sun set. We bombed back to Kampala in three hours only to find the suburbs gridlocked in traffic. At 8.30pm, the markets were all still open. The market women sat by their piles of fruit with oil lamps without glass covers. There were no street lights. Bedlam in the streets. It was a relief to get back to the guesthouse after the 430km road trip.

I decided to tackle another waterfall on the Kenyan border. It would only be a 556km return day trip. At the New Taxi Rank, I was fortunate at 7.45am to find a minibus half full and we were away by 8am. I got to sit up front again. As with all Third World transport, there was always someone to help you find the minibus (out of 200) and the Ugandans seemed to enjoy having a token white man in his shorts to chat to and stare at. They were football mad and everyone talked to me about English football. They knew more than I did. One bus had a gigantic ‘Ryan Giggs’ (Manchester United footballer) over the top of the windscreen.

We headed east towards Kenya. Away from the taxi rank. Kampala’s early Sunday morning streets were deserted and it was a quick getaway on a beautiful sunny day. I read in a local newspaper that the road to Jinja had 19 deaths and over 100 injuries between March and May this year over the 90km stretch. Which made me feel confident! Back past the source of the Nile and the Nile Beer Brewery painted in bright yellow, and then through vast fields of sugarcane. Some of the men and women walked down the side of the road on their way to church, dressed in their Sunday best, the little girls in lovely colourful dresses. Tractors pulled large dumpsters of raw sugarcane like snails, their exhausts filling the air with dense fumes. At one point, a truck’s exhaust fumes completely filled the road and we drove blind into the smoke. Scruffy villages produced fruit sellers all running to any bus or minibus that stopped. At Iganga, we left the main Kampala – Nairobi road and headed Northeast to Mbale. It was a repeat of the scenery and activity, I described en route to Malindi yesterday.

On the fast new road to Mbale, our minibus had one of those systems where, if the driver exceeded 100kph, a bell repeated itself. Along the straight road, the bell chimed endlessly on top of the African music cassette playing. I had heard the ex-pats say what a beautiful country Uganda was and today, I felt as if I saw its best side. I never tire of just jumping on public transport in a country to see where I end up. We made good time and arrived in Mbale in three hours.

Mbale is a thriving provincial centre and “is one of Uganda’s nicer towns” (LP). It enjoys a superb setting at the base of Mt Elgon (4321m). This is another huge volcanic plug, said to have the largest surface areas of any extinct volcano in the world, and is peppered with cliffs, caves, gorges and waterfalls.

Dropped in the centre, I walked to another taxi rank to find a minibus heading to Sipi Falls. Climbing aboard, I found a party of five Ugandan women (dressed in their finest clothes) on holiday from Kampala and visiting the area for the first time. They read the newspapers and discussed the Ugandan President’s youngest daughter’s wedding yesterday. “I’m surprised she found anyone stupid enough to marry her” chirped one lady. The minibus filled to the sound of political discussion and laughter. I discovered that the older Ugandan women laugh like parrots. However, I saw very few old people. The hard life must kill them off a lot quicker than in the West.

We set off on a slow 55km climb up to Sipi Falls. The road is one of the best in Uganda, constructed by a Bosnian company. It was certainly the best road I saw in the country. As we looped up around the cliffs, we had spectacular views of the lush plains below, the occasional waterfall over the cliffs and small villages of primitive houses all under. glorious sunshine. It was nice to hear the women overjoyed at seeing the scenery.

Photo of scenery from the Sipi Falls road

I was dropped at the village of Sipi and fended off local guides. I paid £0.60 to trek down a deserted track past maize and bananas for a view of the long narrow falls thundering over a cliff. After four hours getting there, it was worth 10 minutes. If you ever see Ugandan tourist literature, these are the falls that are always featured in the pictures. I’ve seen smaller and a lot bigger (a bit like Mt Elgon), but on a 500km day road trip, you need to say you saw something.

Photo of Sipi Falls
Closer shot of Sipi Falls

With the beautiful green scenery all around, I decided to hike back down the road to take photographs. Small grubby children ran out of their shacks to yell “Hello” and “How are you?” Women walking down the road shook my hand, and marvelled at my shorts. I really enjoyed having this area to myself especially since it was the most picturesque part of Uganda I had seen. Who needed National Parks when you could enjoy the natural scenery and daily life?

Photo of rural Ugandan children

And then the daily, rainy season, thunder and lightening storm struck. Down it came and I sheltered under a large tree and coffee plants. A teenager sheltering under a nearby porch beckoned me over. The usual questions; name, where are you from, do you like Uganda, are you married, do you have children? “No. I’m 44 years old. I’m too young!” He introduced me to the others under the porch. “He is 30. These are his 4 children”. They sat in their torn dirty clothes outside their hut, very shy. Perhaps I was the first westerner to grace their porch.

The rain stopped and I walked onto the next village where the thunder storms continued. I ended up sheltering in a ‘pool hall’, the local neighbourhood community centre. Half a dozen teenagers pumped me for the same information. They guessed my age at 25. I guessed theirs at 14. They were 19 and going to college during the week and ploughing on Saturdays. Sunday was rest day. They were all Muslims. I spent half an hour joking with them how bad African reggae music was, relationships, football. I was getting a little concerned about the time because I had to get back to Mbale for the Kampala connection. The few minibuses that passed were all full. I saw one western female tourist doing a double take from one, when she saw me by the side of the road surrounded by the youths.

We waved down a local truck. It was going to Sironko “the long way around”. “Only pay 1000 shillings” (£0.33) they said as I climbed aboard the open back, on which were a dozen locals, women sitting on crates of empty beer bottles, some standing youths that laughed at the tourist, a chicken and some large logs for firewood. We left the main road and took a rough orange dirt track along narrow meandering cliffs, through poor scruffy hamlets. Everybody waved and yelled at us. It was one of those ‘off the beaten track’ experiences and seeing something of the country, that the average tourist on an excursion will never see. I felt as if I was seeing the real Uganda.

The slow, arduous journey stopped to let people off with their logs and chicken. Real local transport. Someone climbed aboard. A man in his 30s. He was self educated but well up on world affairs. “I read all the newspapers.” Along the bumpy trail, we discussed Uganda’s population growth. “It will take 10 years for poor people to realize that two children are enough” he said. Regarding the lack of development, he said “Anyone who gets elected gets five years to line their pockets. Once they realize that they are doing well, they forget all about the people they are representing”. He was a driver, but had travelled to all the nearby countries “to see for myself”. At Sironko, he found us a car heading to Mbale (50p each) for the last 25km and we rode in relative comfort back to the town where he bade farewell. One of those people that I could have learnt a lot about the country, given the time.

I found the central taxi rank with a minibus half full. Gagging for a cold beer and needing to change a 50,000 shilling note, I discovered that a) all the ‘supermarkets’ were owned by Indians. They had been kicked out by Idi Amin in the 1970s, losing everything, but had been invited back to reclaim their land and possessions and b) the supermarkets do not sell beer. I ended up at the Indian run Central Hotel and downed a beer while discussing English football with the barman. By the time I returned to the minibus, it was nearly full and they had saved me a seat at the front by the driver. We left at 5.30pm for the three hour journey back to Kampala.

After this ‘journey from hell’, I have decided to market the experience to Disneyland as the ‘Ugandan Night Riding Experience’. Here’s what you do. Firstly, fill the minibus to bursting and throw in a chicken. Then you lend money to the driver so that he can fill up at a garage. Next, you ensure that you have a driver who is crazy; blasting his horn at anything that moves; any pedestrian, cyclist (no lights), minibus or bus as he overtakes everything. In typical Middle Eastern fashion, he drives with his horn. Also, make sure that his speedometer is broken. He must also drive down the centre of the road. Throw in a brilliant scarlet sunset and then cut to pitch black. I knew he was flying because we covered the first 100 kilometres on a B road in one hour flat.

Now it gets interesting. There are no street lights anywhere. So it is pitch black and no cyclist, moped, or person has a light. Then you drive with just your sidelights on. His ‘upper beam’ was our equivalent to a ‘low beam’. So you barrel down the road at 100kph into pitch darkness. Only flash your lights at oncoming traffic that also just have sidelights. Use your horn constantly.

It was impossible to see anything. We zoomed past cyclists on either side or people, or chickens running across the road. Never use your brakes, just your horn. If there are 6 cars/minibuses stuck behind a slow truck, flash your lights and overtake all of them, even on a hill. Blast horn to complain at their slowness. I have no idea how we didn’t kill anyone. And I’m sitting at the front enjoying all this!

At the top of one hill, a dozen kids were playing ‘Dare’. They lined up across the road, jumping and yelling and even with our minibus fast approaching in the darkness, they only ran to the side of the road at the last moment. It must have been the ‘village idiot’ competition. I have no idea how we didn’t kill anyone. And I’m sitting at the front enjoying all this!

If you can overtake, make sure that the driver is only one metre behind the minibus or car, flashing lights until he finally overtakes into on coming traffic with just their sidelights on. As additional entertainment, have someone accidentally release the chicken just as you are about to overtake and let it fly around the minibus, bouncing off the driver’s head when he is only a metre behind the minibus or car.

Oh, and avoid the dead goat or cat in the road. I can’t remember the last time I have experienced such and horrendous and dangerous journey (and I’ve had a few). Talk about taking no prisoners… Do you think Disney will buy it? My advice is to never drive at night in Uganda. I haven’t seen such selfish, arrogant and careless driving, since, well, I was in my car! Having experienced Ugandan driving over the past few days, I wouldn’t trust them with a lawnmower. At a police check, I heard our driver yell “Come on. Get on with it.”

We entered Kampala’s suburbs with no lighting but the markets were still going. I did see a few humorous signs. The ‘Jesus is Lord Garment Shop’ (which must have a limited collection of togas), the ‘Davis and Shirtliff’(ters) pump manufacturers and the Schmuk factory which had a huge sign saying ‘Welcome Schmuk’ (Schmuck!) which said it all. I needed a beer after that journey!

Conclusion: Uganda is a very backwards African country for independent travellers. You can pay major bucks to the tour companies and get chauffeured around on excursions to the National Parks which lack the variety of animals that Kenya and Tanzania have (so why bother?), and its more fun to try and do it yourself. If you want a pampered 5 star tourist experience, you can get it, but for the independent traveller, I’d give it five years to get its act together. But if you come before then, you will have the country to yourself and be accepted.

Kampala is a nightmare of gridlock and aggressive minibus drivers, with nothing to see but it makes a good base. Ugandan people are some of the friendliest people you could ever meet. They speak English and are very inquisitive in a naïve sort of way. They smile, say hello and try to help you. There are no rip offs or double pricing. You pay what the locals do and they don’t seem to resent it. Noone ever tried to overcharge me. Uganda is embarrassingly cheap. A pint of beer costs £0.50, chicken and chips £1 and a 3 hour minibus journey to nowhere for £3.

The scenery outside Kampala is beautiful. Unlike Kenya’s dry areas, Uganda is a fertile country waiting to be explored. The people are hard working and cope with their lot. Unlike Nairobi, I never felt unsafe in Uganda, even in Kampala at night. Tourists are still a revelation to them. They laughed at my shorts, but it was friendly laughter. It was great to talk in English and learn about their country. After the incessant organised-give-us-Dollars-look at Kenya from a Safari Land cruiser window, Uganda was a free country to roam. They just don’t have the famous sights to offer.

But to see the ‘real’, non touristy Africa, at a cheap price, Uganda is unbeatable. Maybe I’ll return one day and pay $500 to see some gorillas, but Uganda is worth more than that. It’s a place where you can chill out, unhassled and be accepted. If I was a rich man, with money to spare, I’d finance fresh running water to every village. It wasn’t just me. Every tourist who I met that had visited Uganda thought it was a great place. You heard it here first! Like Laos, I missed it after I left.

On my final sixth day in Uganda, I walked up to the Scandinavian bus depot to find the bus full. Akamba had a 3pm bus leaving and I got a ticket. I explored the local markets which were cramped and crowded. No souvenirs in Uganda. I burnt up my remaining Ugandan currency at ‘Shop rite’ (£13 left and nothing to buy). I paid £0.60 for a boda boda motorcycle taxi to take me up to the Akamba depot. I don’t know how he balanced my fat body and heavy backpack, but we managed to climb pavements to avoid the gridlock.

The bus left and it was time to head back to Nairobi for a connection to Tanzania.

Travel - £47.76
Accommodation - £29.24
Food - £25.14
Other - £75.12 (including $85 River Nile Rafting)
Total - £177.27

Grand Total - £1100.20