Road Trip Uganda #1: “You Two Will Definitely Die in Uganda”

“You absolutely must plan Uganda, otherwise you won’t make it back from Africa.” My long-time friend was doing his best to prepare me for our African trip. But in the end, we failed miserably at planning anyway. We booked accommodation for the first and last night, sorted out a car, and bought a gorilla trekking trip. That covered 3 out of 14 days. And honestly, that was more than usual for us. We were counting on mobile internet — though we had no idea how well it would work. Some people on Facebook had a very clear opinion about how our Uganda road trip would end: “You two will definitely die in Uganda.”  

At the airport: “Is Uganda good for tourists?”

Not planning wasn’t exactly a free choice. Fresh information about Uganda is surprisingly hard to come by — it’s not exactly the most popular tourist destination in the world.

Our conversation at the airport pretty much sums it up: “Do you live in Uganda?” “No, we’re going there on holiday.” “Is Uganda good for tourists?” “Well, we certainly hope so.”

Guidebooks are only available in English, and even getting hold of one proved a nightmare. We ordered from an online bookshop and waited three weeks, with them reassuring us every other day that it would arrive within three days. It never did. Eventually they admitted they didn’t have it in stock. Looking back, maybe they were just giving us a preview of how things work in Uganda.

That’s when the nerves kicked in. A week before departure, we had nothing. The internet offered only scraps of information. Because when tourists do go to Uganda, they travel with a tour company or a private driver. Not on their own, camping in a tent, and certainly not without a proper plan. But that’s exactly what we did.

We nearly ended up in an Egyptian prison

The adrenaline hit before our feet even touched Ugandan soil — we nearly ended up in prison in Egypt. After landing in Cairo, we spotted a massive sign right before the security checkpoint: DRONES PROHIBITED. There was no time to think or discuss. We’d noticed the sign about a minute before our bag went through the scanner. I stood on the other side of the conveyor belt, watching our carry-on with the drone go through the tunnel again and again, silently reciting every prayer my grandmother had taught me as a child.

“Open it,” said the Egyptian officer, pointing at something on the monitor. But it wasn’t the drone. What looked suspicious to her was the drone’s external battery. She examined it for a moment, then handed it back. We were free.

Africa’s greatest enemy: The drone

The relief vanished when we discovered there would be another round of scanning before boarding. We hadn’t found any mention of a drone ban on EgyptAir’s website. “Apparently it’s illegal to even own a drone in Egypt. It says here they can just lock you up.” “Fine, we’ll hand over the drone. Someone online says they just took their propellers.” Almost resigned to our fate, we stepped up to the second checkpoint. It passed through again.

But they confiscated it anyway. Right at Entebbe airport. It turned out that when it comes to Uganda, you can’t find accurate drone information online either. The lovely Ugandans were incredibly apologetic. “We have a special room for drones here, so you can just pick it up later.” We later found out that if you slip them 200 dollars (roughly €185), they’ll let you walk away with it. “We have about 54 tribes and they all have their own language. That’s why it’s good that English is the official language.” It’s four in the morning and we’re driving through dusty streets in a car that’s at least twenty years old. Our lift from Guest House Via Via is passionately telling us about Ugandan culture, describing the customs of individual tribes.

“And then there are tribes that practise circumcision. On women too. And that’s really horrific,” he comments matter-of-factly before moving on, while the road keeps getting worse and we’re hoping we’ll arrive soon. Then he stops by a concrete wall topped with barbed wire. We see the sign for our accommodation and an enormous gate slowly swinging open. “What’s the barbed wire for? Is it to keep animals out?” Lukáš ventures, though we both already know the answer. “No. It’s for people. Even this neighbourhood has its problems.”

To Ugandans, I’m just a walking dollar sign

We woke up to our first Ugandan morning in the former capital, Entebbe. I’m sipping coffee at the guest house, chewing on banana pancakes piled high with exotic fruit. It feels like paradise. Everyone is lovely to us, and I start saying they’re like the Canadians of Africa. But that only lasts until I realise that to them, we’re nothing more than walking dollar signs.

They emerge from a filthy shack — wearing their finest clothes Our car isn’t arriving until the next day, so we set off exploring on foot. Children wave at us, adults stare or wave too, as if they’ve never seen white skin before. Women here carry absolutely everything on their heads — straw, petrol cans, even logs.

Men do it too, but it’s the women who fascinate us more. No matter how rundown the house they step out of, they’re always elegantly dressed in colourful clothes with flawless hairdos. Standing in front of a dirty straw hut, these apparitions look like walking oxymorons.

“I’m a volunteer guide here. For free. But now pay up.” At the local botanical garden, we paid admission and a camera fee, already picturing a romantic stroll through the jungle surrounded by monkeys. But the moment we handed over the money, we noticed a Ugandan man standing next to us, telling us in his African-accented English that the tree ahead was a mango tree.

“I work here as a volunteer guide. I don’t get paid because I’m a university student. I want to become a ranger.” Neither Lukáš nor I are great at saying no to people, so we let him tell us about flowers, turning our romantic monkey walk into a botany lecture. “And now it’s time for you to pay me.” Lukáš stared at him, then handed over 10,000 Ugandan shillings (about €2.50). “That’s not enough. I normally get 10,000 per person.”

Learning to say no

People always try to get more money out of you. Sometimes they’re upfront about asking, but usually they venture into emotionally manipulative territory. So we’d spend a few minutes each day listening to how poor they are, or our guide-ranger would ring his wife in English right in front of us, saying they didn’t have enough money for Christmas. We might not have twigged he was angling for cash — if he hadn’t called her in Swahili just ten minutes earlier. Why would he suddenly switch to English? Other times they’ll invent road fees for the national park, or try to convince you that camping costs $20 (€18.50) per person when their website clearly says $10 (€9). We usually cough up the extra, but gradually our funds start running out. Uganda is paradoxically quite expensive for tourists. So we learn to say no. The Ugandans take it in their stride. “$10 per person works too.”

You won’t forget you’re in a developing country

Time works differently here. Buses leave when they’re full, so you might wait an hour — or an entire day. When we ask the receptionist what time the bar closes, she answers “Later.” At first we think it’s a joke, but “later” is a perfectly standard unit of time here. We don’t know how many hours that is, or whether it’s even a specific number, but supermarkets sometimes have it on their signs too: “Open until later.”

The bar is open until later Numbers seem to be a genuine Ugandan struggle. Entry fees are sometimes listed half in Ugandan shillings and half in dollars. Admission for people is in dollars, but the car fee is in shillings. If you want to convert it all into one currency, it takes them an awfully long time. Subtracting 13,000 shillings from 20,000 is a job for a calculator. Not occasionally — always. For some reason, they also refuse US dollars issued before 2011. They get a worse exchange rate in shillings for them. Why? We never found out.

In the morning, a Ugandan man delivered our car. Ugandans are generally not the best at organisation, but this particular guy was perhaps the most scatterbrained Ugandan we encountered on the entire trip. He had to come back to us several times. First he forgot to give us a phone, which he then sent over with another local. “I’ve just noticed he forgot to buy you a SIM card, so you’ll have to get one yourselves.” If you’re heading to Uganda, consider getting an eSIM from Holafly before you leave — it’ll save you the hassle.

But it didn’t end there. Four hours later, we’re chasing our forgetful friend through the streets of Entebbe again, trying to correctly interpret his African-accented English and hoping we’ll actually manage to leave today. He’d forgotten to hand over the most important thing of all — our gorilla trekking permit.

Why Ugandans are afraid of rain

When we finally leave Entebbe, it’s noon. To reach our destination, we have to drive through the capital, Kampala. It’s impossible to tell whether you’ve entered the city or not — buildings stretch on without a single gap, and the traffic just gets denser by the mile. Signs? Forget about it. Two original lanes morph into five through sheer Ugandan creativity, with taxis and boda bodas (motorcycle taxis) honking all around us. Lukáš’s knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. African roads are nothing like European or American ones. Oh, and they drive on the left here. Then the rain arrives.

At first we’re delighted. With the first drops, the streets empty. When it rains in Uganda, people do absolutely nothing — except sprint for the nearest dry spot. Life comes to a standstill. The boda bodas vanish and we can drive freely.

Soon enough we understand why. We stop celebrating. Within 10 minutes the road is completely flooded and it feels like a biblical deluge has hit. The road beneath the water takes on entirely new shapes, and eventually we have to stop too. Getting caught in a downpour at the worst possible moment would become a regular feature of our trip. But we were glad for the rainy season. An hour-long shower once every four days is perfectly survivable, and in return, nature rewards you with lush greenery. Stunning, vivid green that in the dry season quickly fades to a barren yellow landscape.

Next time: wildlife encounters and the road of death to the national park…