Uganda

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My first stop in Uganda was a provincial capital, Mbale, overlooked by a mountainous ridge.

The main street was lined with banks, none of whose ATMs would accept international cards.

Then I discovered that none of them would give cash advances on credit cards or exchange travellers cheques. This included Barclays and Standard Chartered, big international banks who you would expect to have their acts together.

I was most dischuffed to have to use the bulk of my emergency stash of cash on my first day in the country.

Later on I had the opportunity to moan at the Barclays bank manager.

'I can sell you US dollars on your card, if that’s any help' she said.

Well, its better than running out of money so I replenished my emergency stash, changed some dollars to Ugandan shillings and tried to ignore the hefty transaction charges at each step of the process.




An hour into the mountains above Mbale lies the extremely beautiful Sipi Falls.

There are three sets of falls along the route of the river passing the small settlement.

The lowest are the most spectacular.

There is a vast U-shaped cliff below which the plains spread into the distance. The waterfall is perfectly placed on the tip of the U where the falling water marks the transition from the mountains to the plains.

This can be seen from miles around and the edge of the ridge is populated by a succession of guesthouses, all capitalising on the view.

There were few tourists around despite the special nature of the location.

I walked through cultivated farmland to some of the falls in the company of local guides.

The cliffs clearly show the striations of various volcanic eruptions, some of which have been eroded into narrow caves of up to 26 kilometres deep (I was told).

Sipi should be one of those places that you can relax into for days on end but unfortunately the lodge had no electricity, no hot water and only two things on the menu, so two days were enough.

It was cheap though. As I departed I calculated that I had enjoyed full board for only £8 a day.




Next i went to Jinja, famous as the location of the source of the Nile where it emanates from Lake Victoria.

The riverside location is only a short walk out of town. There are boats available for those who must get to the exact official point, which is inconveniently situated behind two midstream islands.

Jinja is an attractive bustling town with a well developed tourist trade.

It has become known as the centre for whitewater rafting in Africa, the early stretches of the Nile having plenty of high grade rapids.

Rafters can be observed from the vantage point of Bujugali Falls, 10 km outside town. I really enjoyed rafting when I did it years ago, but I don't think I fancy the weeks of recovery time that would be necessary these days.



I ventured out to the Mabira Forest reserve, where colour coded paths snake through the primeval forest.

It was a beautiful sunny day when I reached the view point 8 km from the start, but I got drenched in the half hour it took to get back. I guess it's called a rainforest for a reason.



One Saturday night I was in the hotel bar watching Premiership football. Suddenly I became aware of an attractive African lady in an adjacent room smiling and waving at me as if we were long lost friends. I smiled and nodded to acknowledge her and, come half time, I changed seats as she was distracting me.

Now she came and sat at the bar and, during the course of the second half, knocked back two sachets of cheap whisky and made a start on a half bottle.

Also, she was now ignoring me. I couldn't decide whether she was studiously ignoring me or had just lost interest. I was soon to find out.



After the match I had to walk past her to leave.

'What is your room number#' she demanded sotto voice.

'Never you mind' I replied.

'I will come to your room' she said.

'Please don't' I said.

With that I bolted up the stairs.

Somehow I knew it wasn't over. Sure enough, after only a couple of minutes there was a knock on the door. I opened it halfway and stood against the frame.

'Hello, I am Rose.'

'Hello Rose', I said 'what can I do for you#'

'I want to meet you. I like white men. I have had a white boyfriend'

'Err, I’ve got a girlfriend thank you. I'm really not interested in prostitutes'.

'Oh no', she protested, ‘that is not me. I just want to meet you',

Thus we went backwards and forwards for a few minutes. It is embarrassing talking to a girl in a hotel corridor and she was insistent of her friendly intentions so I agreed to let her come into the room for a few minutes.

Immediately she spied my cellphone on the table.

'I will call my phone so that we have each others number'. This was accomplished before I had time to register what was happening.

Then she sat on the bed and shimmied her shoulders so that her top fell revealing a full pair of black skinned breasts.

'Are you sure you're not a prostitute?'. I felt the need to double check.

'No, I told you. I am a receptionist in a big hotel. 'Look, I am fat’, she said, rubbing her hand over her ample belly.

'Yes, you are fat. You are also drunk.' I replied. She denied it but I had already witnessed her alcohol consumption and that was only during the second half.

'I must be twenty years older than you' I pointed out.

'If we take ten years off you and add it to me then we are the same' she responded triumphantly. Once again I was flummoxed by female logic. Actually I was already fairly flummoxed and those liberated bosoms weren't helping.

'I have had a white boyfriend before. He paid my school fees.'

Despite such brief acquaintance, I could deduce that subtlety was not among her strong points.

'I don't want to be a sugar daddy', I replied.

Sugar daddyism has an established culture in Uganda. A wealthy man might pay university fees and other costs in return for the benefits of having a nice young girlfriend for a couple of years. There are established locations where both sides of the transaction go to meet.

'No, I am independent woman', said Rose.

I was beginning to wonder how this was going to end. How does one evict a half naked female from a hotel room without creating a scene.

'Oh, Big Brother is on', she realised,' I want to see who is up for eviction.'

Another quick movement and her top was back in place.

'I will call you after church tomorrow.' She was gone.

I thought that was the end of it, but later on there was another knock on the door.

'Hello. I have bought my sister to meet you.'

She trooped in with a rather younger, rather more beautiful and rather more voluptuous young woman.

'How long have you been seeing my sister?' said the girl.

This meeting was much briefer and all the tops stayed in place.

The next day I was wondering how I might deflect her, but the call never came. Perhaps she is a bit more circumspect when sober.




Murchison Falls National Park is situated in the north-east of the country and cannot be reached by public transport.

Since it is the main 'must see' in Uganda, I booked a tour through the Red Chilli backpackers hostel in Kampala.

Part of the trip included a free dorm bed in the hostel the night before departure, but as my bed was riddled with fleas I didn't consider this good value.

Of the eight people on the trip there were four English student doctors, three Danish student nurses and one aging English backpacker (me).

This is probably a fair representation of the white people I met in the country.

Most were doing a bit of sightseeing before, during or after their stint of voluntary work.

Apparently British medical students may be found in hospitals worldwide gaining experience as a compulsory part of their course.

I was very grateful that we formed an inclusive group and had a good laugh all the way through.

The whole of the first day was spent travelling north in the minibus.

As we were in two man safari tents, I paired up with one of the English students called Simon. Sometime in the early hours I was woken by a strangled cry. I turned to see Simon sitting up in bed.

'Get off me, get off me,' he shouted.'

'What’s going on?' I said. He slumped back onto the bed and I realised that he was still asleep.
Next morning he asked me how I had slept.

'Fine until you had a bout of the terrors' I replied. '

'Sorry,' he said, 'I'm still hoping to grow out of those.'

Following a powerful rainstorm we spent the next morning on safari in the park. The thunderous black sky made an interesting alternative backdrop to the wildlife photography.

There was an abundance of animals, especially giraffe, elephants and buffalo. A lioness casually sauntered past the van.

A park ranger came with us carrying an AK47. When I jokingly asked him if I could have a go he misunderstood and started throwing the machine gun around over his shoulders etc.

Somewhat irresponsible, but it made for some good photos.



In the afternoon we took a boat trip along the Nile towards the base of the falls. Here the river was wide and slow, ideal for wallowing hippos, as well as attracting a lot of other animals to the banks.

It was not possible to get close to the bottom of the falls as the water was too rough, but the next morning we drove to the top where we realised their awesome power.

At this point the whole of the river Nile passes through a drop about six feet wide.
That’s a lot of water through a narrow space and the result is a truly impressive display of raw power.

Thus the trip was short but hugely enjoyable.

I learnt far more than I would ever want to know about the dire states of Ugandan hospitals and comparative systems of European medical training.

Back in Kampala I gave Red Chillis another chance but slept in a different bunk. (I had told them about the fleas but didn't want to test their remedial powers).

Kampala is not a city of great interest but at least it feels safe, has some decent eateries and the only internet cafe in the country equipped with skype (AFAIK).

Perhaps the main risk comes from the Marabou storks, great ugly scavengers nesting in trees along the pavements.
They do what pigeons do, but in day ruining quantities.

I had been told that the main branch of Barclays bank had a row of 3 ATMs of which the two on the outside would accept international cards while the middle one would not. I was able to confirm this and also tested others around the city, some of which worked and others didn't. Its all very strange.



One afternoon I was in a pizza joint when I got chatting to a middle class family.(They must be middle class to be able to afford pizza). They invited me back to their house, which I thought might be interesting.

We took a disorientating minibus ride through the suburbs then walked along some dirt tracks to get to their newly built property. It was actually the fourth dwelling in a terrace of five.

The first thing I noticed was the terrible workmanship, as the walls were constructed of approximately equal proportions of bricks and mortar.

The house consisted of only two rooms. Into the front room was squeezed a 3-piece suite, coffee table, TV and fridge - they had electricity (again, middle class). There was just enough room for the family to sit on the floor, which was the coolest option.

The back room contained a double bed with a mossie net, which I was pleased to see.

The communal toilets were situated in an adjacent block at the end of the row. When I tested them out I detected a long drop, so obviously built to last.

I was invited to sit in an armchair and watch the highlights of their DVD collection while they all passed backwards and forwards between the two rooms in a seemingly haphazard manner.

Some of the neighbours dropped by to have a look at the mzungu and a girl who I had not so far met was preparing vegetables on the porch.

I was getting a bit bored when the husband asked if he could 'borrow' some money. I had been expecting this from the outset and handed over a few thousand shillings.

He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a big bottle of cheap whisky.
He and his wife started knocking back the stuff. I could have joined in had I been more relaxed, but I was beginning to think that I might have to find my own way home.

After a couple of hours the conversation had long since dried up and I was getting both bored and fed up when the young girl came in with a typical Ugandan meal of cassava, matoke (boiled and mashed banana) and a small piece of boiled beef.

I ate the matoke and beef and managed a couple of pieces of the unpalatable cassava, did my best to look appreciative and asked to go back to town.

By now the parents were not much use so they sent the girl into town with me and, of course, I then had to pay her fare back.

It wasn't a very inspiring journey as she was too shy to talk to me and I could not determine whether she was a daughter, sister, cousin or housegirl. (I didn't think they were rich enough for a housegirl but, hey, what do I know).



It is a short journey from Kampala to Entebbe, probably the only other Ugandan town famous outside the country - as the location of the terrorist airline hijack rescue in 1976.

It is a very agreeable town with nice houses in sizeable plots along unhurried streets. I surmised that wealthy people find it a pleasant alternative to the capital city.

The town centre is surprisingly small. A single street about a hundred metres long houses a limited collection of shops and bars.

There is a botanical garden along the side of the lake, in which I passed a pleasant afternoon.

The backpackers hostel was one of the nicest I have been to - until I found my legs itching from fleas again.

I was the only person in the dorm so I had a quick midnight shower and changed beds.




The ferry for the Sisi Islands leaves from just outside Entebbe.

This three and a half hour journey into Lake Victoria makes you realise how big the lake is when you look at the map and see what a small portion of area has been covered.

These islands are known in Uganda as a blackspot for HIV/AIDS.

I wouldn't normally raise this with the locals, but when a fellow passenger on the ferry said 'do you know that these islands are a blackspot for HIV/AIDS?', I asked him why. He explained that when the fishermen landed their catch they spent their money on booze and prostitutes, who had come over from the mainland to meet the demand.

At its worst the rate of infection reached 20% but was now down to 6%.

As we spoke I noticed a UN vehicle on the ferry which was crammed full of boxes of condoms to be given away to the local populace.

I got chatting to a German guy called Frederik and we found that we had quite a lot in common. In particular, he revealed that he was carrying books on Ugandan culture and the crisis in international aid (or why the poorest people are now poorer than ever).

We teamed up and I worked my way through his mini library while he typed up his PhD on the adoption of western farming practices in developing countries.

The Sisi Islands were once a favoured destination, boasting white sandy beaches and being handy for Kampala, until the ferry service was suspended for a few years.

A new service is now running but the resorts along the islands coastline are no longer as pristine as their publicity photos suggest.

That said, we were happy with the place we selected, next door to the grotty cheapie that was attracting most of the white trade.



We ordered tilapia fish for dinner.

'Is this caught by local fisherman?' I asked.

The staff shook their heads and we learned that the fish stocks in this part of the lake had collapsed due to overfishing. Once the economic mainstay of the island, the local fishing industry had been virtually wiped out.

Whilst Frederik spent most of the time working and I spent most of it reading, we did manage numerous games of pool on a beachside pool table.

In the evenings workers from some of the resorts joined the visitors around the table and it was winner stays on, challenger pays.

I turned out to be a better player than the bulk of the local lads and started to feel a mite guilty as they pumped their meagre earnings into the machine to keep me occupied for the evening.

We did venture the 2km uphill to the local town a few times. Frederik wanted to visit the Icelandic aid office that was located nearby.

Apparently, being a small country, Iceland has carefully targeted its aid effort to specialise in its area of expertise. i.e. fishing.

Frederik had spoken to an Icelandic aid worker in the past and now had some supplementary questions that he wanted to put to the islands representative.

We walked the length of the shack based town and out the other side.

Soon we found the sign to the Iceaid offices up a short track. We came to a large high-fenced compound containing three large executive villas. The gates were chained and locked and there was no sign of life though, in fairness, it was a bank holiday weekend.

'I am disappointed to see the opulence of the Icelandic mission’ said Fred.

Disappointed, but not surprised, I thought. The high salaries and luxurious lifestyles of the foreign governmental representatives are beyond the imaginations of the people they are here to help.

Here we have a plush government mission to provide fishing advice in an area where there are no fish and no fishermen.

Since most of the forests on the island have been cut down in favour of palm oil plantations one might assume that many of the former fishermen have found alternative employment. The prostitutes will have long since left (or died), taking their human immunodeficiency viruses, and the infection rate, with them.

'I will just take a picture of the sign to prove I was here' said Frederik.

'Let me take one of you in front of it', I offered.

'Oh, I can't stand that sort of photo', he said dismissively.

Yeah, I'd much rather have a collection of signs on pillars.




You might recall in the previous journal I had a tiff with a hotel when they tried to charge me an extortionate amount for laundering my underpants.

Well, as time went on I began to realise that I had stumbled onto something of a taboo.

Other hotels posted laundry lists with the rider 'we will not accept underwear'.

It turns out that East Africans are very sensitive about their undies because they have been in contact with their private parts.

No one would ever dream of hanging them on a line where other people might see them, for fear of engendering offence in the observer.

Furthermore, if they are hung outside someone might steal them to cast black magic curses of impotence and infertility.

As the Ugandans are dedicated launderers there is always plenty of washing on the line. I made a point of looking at the contents of washing lines over the next few weeks and saw not a pant or knicker out to dry.




I next went due west to Fort Portal, on the edge of the Rwenzori mountains.

The town itself is nothing special, but it is the jumping off point for the attractions of the local countryside.

I started off at a highly rated resort called Chimps Nest. This place occupies a large area right on the edge of extensive forests inhabited by chimpanzees.

The cottages are located in splendid isolation several hundred metres into the vegetation providing an immersive jungle experience. Very nice so long as you don't have to carry your own bags.

The dorm was set in the long grass in the other direction and they laid a fire under the water drum so that I could have a hot shower, despite being the only resident.

If the staff had been friendly I might have liked it but they were absorbed with their own language conversations and I felt isolated. One night was more than enough.



The next place, CVK resort, could not have been more of a contrast. Again I was the only guest, but the staff couldn't have been more welcoming and made me feel very much at home.

In fact the manager there, Peter, liked long conversations about all sorts of subjects: - 'Why are white people so much more intelligent than black people?'. Despite a lengthy debate full of worthy examples (I thought), I could not get him to change his view.

This area is known for its lakes, pooled into volcanic craters.

CVK is situated on the edge of Lake Nyabikere which means lake of frogs. The frogs start croaking after dark and are joined by a chorus of cicadas. The volume becomes so intense that it is barely possible to hear anything above the din.

One day I went for a walk along a random dirt track.

This took me into the heart of the rural land. The local people were out tending their fields far from the nearest road.

I came to a village in which the children were wearing those brown mud caked garments that you see on news reports of refugee camps.
All their heads were shaved as an antidote to lice and fleas.
At least they were well fed (this land is very bountiful) and excited to see a mzungu in their area.
They sat in a circle at my feet as i drank a Coca-cola. I wondered how many of them had ever tasted this sugary concoction.

I kept following the track upwards until I came to some mobile phone towers on a hilltop.

I could see for miles in every direction and it was all green fields and shining tin roofed huts.

I took a wrong turn on the way back which could have been a serious problem had not a local youth chased me to let me know and then made sure I was headed in the right direction. I got back just in time for the daily downpour, which was fortunate.

A strange thing I have seen often in Uganda are the 'Not For Sale' signs.
In almost every town there is the sign: 'This property is not for sale.
Please contact.....'. At first this seemed distinctly wierd, but it turns out
that the owners are trying to protect themselves from scammers selling
the land from under them.




I stopped briefly in Mbarara to catch up with Frederik, who is researching with local farmers, and then continued south.




Arriving at Lake Bonyonyi I was greeted with mouth watering scenery of green mountainous hills dropping down steeply to the waters edge.

The hillsides are divided between fragments of forest and a patchwork of fields worked by the local homesteaders.

The lake, set at 2000 metres above sea level, is crowded with small pointed islands which can easily be imagined as the exposed summits of submerged hills.

It is 28 kilometres long but is anything but regular in shape, undulating magnificently to create a multitude of bays, arms and dog legs.

Around this length there are only two mapped roads to the waters edge.

One goes to the village of Rutinda, which is a focus for local trade and houses a number of lodges.

I teamed up with a German traveller, Carlsten, and we covered many kilometres following tracks to the top of the hills and along the ridges, continuously marveling at the views laid out before us.

Local people appear confident that the lake descends down to sea level. A quick Google demonstrates that this would make it the world’s deepest lake, but officially it does not make the top twenty, as it is estimated at 500 - 800 metres deep.

Eventually I ran out of reasons to stay and reluctantly moved on to the nearby town of Kabale. This was distinguished only by the cheapest bed of the trip so far - £1.50 in a decent dorm.




Uganda is such a pleasant country that I tend to forget that I am travelling in a totalitarian state. Officially there is an opposition but I think it is only tolerated as long as it is losing.

During the recent riots in Kampala (did you hear?), two newspapers and two radio stations were closed down, yet to reopen.

General Museveni, who came to power by military means in 1986, faces an election in 2011 though when the ruling party is called the National Resistance Army you do wonder who would have the temerity to oppose.

More obviously, the country is clearly a client state of the aid industry. Everywhere you go a host of development endevours are signposted from the roadside.

A few people have suggested that, should I be unable to find a job at home, I should come to uganda and set up an NGO. They say there is oodles of cash just waiting to be assigned.

A knack for form filling with the right key words (empowerment, transformational, vulnerable) will open the door to generous project funding and a new career.




The road to Kisoro is known for its excellent views.
This is volcano country.

Unfortunately the heavens opened just as we set off in an aging Toyota (Crammed full, of course).

We were climbing mud roads that were washing away beneath our bald tyres. The protacted wheel spins, coupled with the precipitous drops at the roads edge did not enamour the driver to the other passengers, judging by their vocal outbursts.

Sane people would pull over and wait for the rain to stop.

That is not how it works in Africa and we ploughed on with the windscreen wipers at full tilt, occasionally managing to splash our own windscreen in thick muddy water.

Missing the view was not my main concern.

We were engulfed in murky white cloud and assaulted by thunderous rain.

I was just hoping that nothing was coming in the opposite direction.

The rain was still pounding 2 hours later when we arrived in Kisoro, but at least we arrived.

Later on the rain clouds dispersed leaving a clear afternoon.

A string of four volcanoes receeds into the distance from the rural town.

Kisoro was a fitting last stop for my visit to Uganda:- families living in tiny mud huts, women in shawls carrying their wares on their heads, unemployed men hanging around while their wives and mothers till the fields, and water filled potholes so entrenched that they house their own frog populations.

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