Uganda

Border formalities are simple – once I’ve shooed away a few dozen potential ‘advisors’ – though the Kenya side does subject my vehicle paperwork – especially all pertaining to importing it via Mombasa – with the closest scrutiny I’ve gone through yet. And I earn the respect (admiration?) of a group of fellows queued with me on the Uganda side when I query why it is that when I head upstairs to the bank office to pay my road tax fee – in addition to the 50 USD visa- I am made to pay them for the privilege of doing so. Speaking that which is apparently thought but not spoken, I am greeted with laughs, knowing nods and a shoulder pat from one of the gathered gents when I rather derisively dismiss (now that proceedings have been completed) their explanation of a necessary ‘processing fee’ ...

And so to Jinja, Uganda’s ‘adrenaline sports capital’, and the recommended Nile River Explorers campsite. Unfortunately for vehicles such as mine that means a space in the uneven and rock-strewn parking lot and a front row seat to a constant parade of tour buses and overland trucks dispensing people to hit the bar above the rapids, or jump into them from the next-door bungy tower. Not so peaceful, and a not very scenic camp ground when seated at the truck, but definitely lively and with a stunning view of the river from the terrace – with the added bonus of fantastic fire-stoked hot showers delivering better force of spray and constant temperature than enjoyed anywhere previously.

Here I meet two LR’s from SA travelling together: one of wife, husband and 4 year old; the other the family patriarch – very much in control of all he surveyed and suffering nothing he did not accept – and his son (wife in vehicle number one the daughter). Cruelly dismissive of anything his son-in-law had to say and keeping his daughter (who must have been in her mid-40’s) hopping this old lion had lead a very tight (no frills, no laughs, no nonsense) expedition right up through the route I was about to undertake so was invaluable in sharing his coordinates and up-to-date route info. And he did make me laugh (under my breath); didn’t need to understand Afrikaans to feel the crack of the whip when he spoke - he had that group jumping like troops during Basic (save for the grandson, who had him wrapped around his finger; and who elicited comments from his like “This one? He’s no problem at all – not like this lot” gesturing dismissively at the adults assembled before him ...).

Into ‘town’ to view the marker for the northern source of the Nile (not from the city-sponsored beer gardens but instead from the far bank at the lovely, private gardens) with obelisk marking the vantage point from where – it is said – Speke made his calculations and decision that this was indeed the source, a decision later to be proven more an educated guess than one specifically supported by data collected up to that point and making it a contentious call at the time (Burton specifically calling him out on it) that it is believed to have caused him to commit suicide the day prior to debating the point at the Royal Geographic Society in London.

Also a chance for some supplies, and a quick haircut and beard-trim (which extends to eye-brows, nose, ears and forehead) with a set of bare and un-shielded electric clippers (I say “number one” he says “only got this one”) that, with eye-brows now gone and facial/head hair down to a blonde shadow on not-yet-faced-the-sun pale skin it leaves me looking like Samantha Morton’s character in Minority Report : very clean-cut, but also now very featureless ... Swabbed down with that blue alcohol usually reserved for disinfecting combs (Barbasol?) then a quick spray down with aerosol olive oil and I’m out the door well-sheared and slick as a seal ...

Battling through the madness of Kampala – there is a circle route around town centre but nobody can explain where exactly to link up with it nor is it apparently clearly (or otherwise) marked in any way – I made my way to Red Chili Hideaway. An overland classic, it’s not bad at all with only one truck in and another, empty one, arriving later – otherwise its rooms (and resto) were full of earnest volunteers and groups of youths out spreading The Word so a relaxed vibe.

However, did have a odd run-in with the Manager worth relating for anyone looking at it as an option: on arriving I’d been shown where to park, where the ablutions block was for truck campers, etc and had been settled in for hours when a security guard came over and told me I needed to move “over there” gesturing to the parking lot (which is right next to the front gate and guardhouse, is bathed in bright light and up against the bar area). When I asked why he said another truck “might be coming.” I said “is, or might be?” and as “might be” was agreed I said I’d stay put and move if and when there was a need but there appeared plenty of room for both of us regardless. Not 5 minutes later I am interrupted mid-sentence in my chat with driver of empty overlander by a woman (Kiwi, Aussie?) who, striking herself on the chest, announces “I am the Manager here” and proceeds to tell me I need move to the parking lot and just why was I parked right here anyway? When I said her staff had walked me down to this spot and specifically told me to park exactly where I’m at she replies “Well, they shouldn’t have done that and obviously need to be better trained.” Uh, wouldn’t that be your job then, as Manager ...? I reiterated it was no issue, if a big truck arrived and I was in the way I’m fine with moving but not if I don’t need to and with some back and forths agreed this could be the case.

Either way a) not the way to address me, or the issue; and, b) camping in the parking lot with bright lights and music from the bar til midnight is just not on when there are acres of free space across the grounds ... So, good spot, but certainly could be better supportive of us ‘little guys’ ...

Making headway south towards a western turn to Lake Bunyoni I get as far as Mbarara – on decent tar, through rolling hills of verdant green - before darkness looms. Tracks for Africa (T4A, the GPS software) has an annotated recommendation from a previous traveller concerning a riverside campground but on arriving I find a 4/5 star hotel full of gorilla trekkers and, while they are amenable to my camping in their parking lot, they’d like 25 USD for me to do so ... No. So, heading back up towards ‘town centre’ I stop into the Acacia Hotel and am enthusiastically greeted by all and sundry and told by Reception camping is “no problem, no problem for you at all sir!” It’s the parking lot, but it appears to be free as no fee is discussed so for economic parity happily get stuck into a cold beer and goat stew with boiled bananas (Uganda’s staple food, and one I’m taking home, it’s outstanding ...) and with a further bit of internet’ing and a beer or two feel I’ve made fair payment for their hospitality and so retire to my tent for the night ...

... To be then rudely roused at 0230 by guard rapping on the ladder with his nightstick (cue sitting bolt upright, barking aggressively at sight-unseen transgressor ...), insisting I must move into the hotel. When I inform him this was cleared at Reception he backs down somewhat but the mumbles continue as do the gestures towards the hotel. He finally leaves when it is clear I will not be coming out of my bolt-hole, to return with the Night Manager. On, again, explaining my case he is – to his credit – wonderfully conciliatory and says it is fine that I stay as is now that he understands why it is I am camped out in the parking lot ... However, somewhat disturbed by the nights events I make a hasty departure early next morning well-prior to the day shift’s arrival, as I fear there’s been a beeeeet of a misunderstanding and I’ll be a) owing for my night’s camping and; b) someone’s going to be owing for my having been allowed to do so (without paying) and I’d rather not be around to see how either of these two will play out ...

To Kabale and the Lake Bunyoni Overland Resort. Located on a beautiful stretch of the lake just east of the DRC border it “has no hippo, no crocodile and no bilharzias – just like you are at home!” as my friendly man-on-the ground informs me (he, who is soliciting for laundry, being far better and more welcoming than the official one at Reception, who had left me standing at the desk for 10 minutes whilst completing an apparently riotous call on his mobile ...). Pink Caravan, an insane, so-very-Scando tour company where the travellers – aged 17-70 – sleep either in or on top of the old, bright pink school bus, is there as well, but they are behind the resto and I well the other side of the property placed very much alone and for that so close to the lake I must be careful checking my oil lest I do a header into the waters with a miss-placed step ... The only downside being there is an elephant statue located in the water there and a constant stream of Indian families come to have their picture taken at it – many walking right under my tent overhang to get to it and completely invading my personal space as only oblivious, live-surrounded-by-millions Indians can ...

Disrupting, but really just an annoyance for my serenity more than anything else but one day’s enough – and a somewhat weird night left on my own out 400 metres from camp and guards on the side of a lake where canoe traffic is a constant (has nobody ever done a canoe-by robbery here ...??) and it’s back up the crazy, hammer-the-shocks-twist-the-chassis road to tar and a straight run SE for Rwanda.