We had another 7 o’clock departure so that we could get back to Kampala as soon as possible, to have at least half a day there (for those leaving ‘early’ the next day, and a day and a half for those leaving late). Nothing eventful happened on the bus – but we got to Kampala, back to our “nice” backpackers’ hostel at around 2. The day would be free time until dinner at 6.30. Most were planning to go to a shopping center even newer and better than Garden City, where we had gone last time and I was so disappointed. I wanted to go to the market, but since everyone else was going to the shopping center, my roommate and I made a deal that we’d have time for both, so we could head to the market afterwards.
The place was called Acacia Mall, and we had some troubles with it because our group leader had only heard of it but never been there and didn’t know where it was – and neither did any of the first five boda boda (the Ugandan motorcycle taxis) drivers, nor the (normal) taxi driver. Eventually, we found a boda boda driver who knew where it was, or so we thought, and he told the taxi driver where it was. So the taxi went off with 7 people, but our group leader went back inside to our hostel to find out more. Unfortunately for us, the Internet was down exactly at that moment so eventually we went with the driver who said he knew where it was, with the rest of the drivers following him. That was my first time on boda boda. They’re much crazier than the Rwandan drivers – and there are no helmets for the passengers. We got there safely though, a very modern shopping center, some of the girls referring to it as ‘even having KFC’. The first thing we saw after entering (security scan and bag check) was an Italian ice cream shop where we all decided we wanted ice cream. The price was high – pretty much the same as it would have cost at home, and there was no discount on the second or third scoop, like we’re used to in Europe. I was first only going to get passion fruit, but then saw that they had caramel as well and needed to get that one too.
We looked around and they seemed to have quite some quality clothing and electronics store, including apple. I, of course, was the slowest to eat my ice cream and so the girls had already looked through one of the stores I wanted to see by the time I finished. However one girl and woman from my group were still there, the girl having a huge freaking bunch of clothes that she was going to try on. It was an African design shop, extremely nice clothes but most of it way too big for me. Nevertheless I found a blouse in small, and two dresses. Two girls from my group had already tried one of those dresses on and something with the design didn’t suit because the bottom part became fluffy too high up, so they all looked a bit fatter. Apparently it looked better on me, but I still didn’t find it suited me. The blouse was very nice and fitted and suited but since I eventually decided to go for the other dress, I didn’t feel the need to get the blouse as well, since it was extremely discretely African… The dress was also discretely African, but at least a bit more visibly.
I also went into a store with funny t-shirts and amazing African patterned bags, but I realized I wouldn’t use the bag even though I loved them. However, I could resist buying a t-shirt with the following “dictionary” definition of boda boda: 1. A fast but risky means of transport; he dodged the traffic on boda boda. 2. A menace to all drivers and pedestrians. 3. The fastest way to get between point A and point B, if you make it.
It was just too funny not to buy it. They had another one saying “Life is too short, wear miniskirts. #Uganda” (to understand the context, you must know that the Ugandans recently put laws banning too shirt skirts – why haven’t they thought of that in England!) What obviously makes it even more funny is the added hashtag at the “end” of the shirt.
(I also later saw that my friend had bought a shirt with “dictionary definition” of matatu, the Ugandan/Kenyan busses. Something along the lines of “goes along a semi-defined route” and “2. A redefinition of personal space”. That was the funniest part, because, at least for Europeans, that has to be totally true. Even in Rwanda they have minibuses that are completely stuffed with things and people and no personal space whatsoever. In fact, a woman in the queue when we were all waiting to enter Rwanda, was standing so close to me that I kept moving closer to my Danish friends (perhaps I already wrote this?) but then she just moved closer again.)
Afterwards I looked for some people I knew and found one group leader and two other girls heading to an outdoor, obviously Western, café. Two of them got coffee so we sat down and talked. I wanted to go the market but the leader didn’t know what was best and none of them could be bothered, so after 45 minutes or so, after drinking the coffee, we took boda bodas back to the hotel.
This ride was definitely more crazy that the last, the drivers slaloming between cars and even driving on the wrong side of the road with oncoming traffic in the opposite direction!!
We got to the hotel where my roommate still hadn’t returned from her taxi driver (and we hadn’t seen any of the girls who had taken the taxi at the mall), which was somewhat problematic since she had the key to our hut. Fortunately though, they had a reserve key in the reception. I was actually just going to leave my pretty dress and awesome t-shirt and get my computer and head back upstairs to get on the internet, but then my roommate returned and we ended up talking about what had happened and showing what we had bought.
It turned out their taxi driver hadn’t actually known where he was going, ended up asking lots of people, and eventually the car had broken down. He had insisted the pay even though he hadn’t taken them to their destination, nor even close it seems. Then they had taken some local bus and ended up in a mall, but not this one. They had, nevertheless, found a craft shop where they had bought some things. I of course also showed my dress and t-shirt and told her what it had been like at Acacia.
I wasn’t planning on changing to the new dress, but my roommate told me that people were dressing up a bit because it was our last night, or well, their last night in Africa.
We went to a place that, we were told, was Argentinean although weirdly they had lots of pizzas – which most of the group ordered, including myself. The pizzas were indeed very good, with thin bottoms and proper cheese. I had also got passion fruit juice along with it (my new favourite thing) so it could barely have got better.
I was exhausted, and so were many others, but about half the group decided to go out since it was their last night. The bus took those home who wanted to go back to the hostel.
Day 23 - craft market and Gaddhafi mosque
Since we had gone early to sleep, we were also up rather early, even before our alarms. Yet when we got up, met with the leader, we learn that we nevertheless had very little time to eat and stuff because we were to meet one last person, Larry, who, goodness knows what he did, headhunting? The group that had, and would go through Qatar, were leaving town at 11am, so it was a bit strange that they had to meet him at 10am, because that was the only way our driver could drive us to Larry, and then the group to the airport. In fact it was a bit weird to leave so early, because the flight wasn’t until 5pm, but apparently the traffic to Entebbe could be up to three hours, and you obviously have to get there at least 2 hours ahead… However the other group (going through Nairobi – Amsterdam) wasn’t as paranoid, leaving not until 6.30 (expecting to have dinner in Entebbe town) and not departing until 11pm.
Anyway, in the end, since it wasn’t completely mandatory, I decided not to go see Larry, partially because my cousin also had taken that decision and so I didn’t feel compelled. Also, I had met another Swede who had just arrived and had nothing to do, or didn’t have any plans, so basically he was willing to do anything.
So after I had said good bye to half of the group, including my roommate (I don’t know why everyone seemed so sad – they were going back to Denmark, not as if we’d never see each other again), I took a boda boda with the Swede to some craft market that I had asked about in the reception. They took us to what seemed to be a small backyard, yet we probably stayed for well over two hours, looking at everything, negotiating, thinking… I bought lots of stuff of all kinds, because they had some things I had seen and wanted to buy but hadn’t found, and other things I had not seen and wanted to buy…and some things that I bought just because they were small and practical as gifts. I don’t even know how many shillings I spent – but a lot. The best bargain I believe, was three small bracelets, matching the necklace I bought in Tanzania (black, red, yellow and green), that cost 800 USh per piece, but I asked for three for 1500 USh and surprisingly she accepted immediately, although of course not completely without reluctance. (The other things I can’t talk about due to gifts to people who are reading this blog, hint, hint…) We got something to drink in a canteen sort of place above the market, where I got a coke, and my friend got some samosa with mountain dew. He had, after his one week in Kenya, apparently still not seen any, and when asked what they were, the waiter and I had simultaneously replied samosa and explained what it was.
After the market we took another boda boda to the Gaddhafi mosque, even though we could see it from where we were, but because we thought it might nevertheless be further than it looked.
There we got a guide for a small price, who would take us through the mosque, and up in the tower, and we could take all the photos we wanted. My male fellow Swede could go ahead but I got both fabric around my waist as a skirt (I was wearing long pants, really don’t know what’s wrong with that), and a headwear thing covering my hair, then we were ready to go. I asked if I could take my jacket off, because I had bare shoulders underneath, in case I’d get hot for example when walking the over 300 steps up the tower – and that was somehow OK, but the hair had to be covered… Weird.
Inside the mosque (having taken our sneakers off), we learnt that it was the third biggest mosque in Africa, after Morocco (Casablanca), and then Egypt (Cairo). Our Muslim guide seemed surprised when asking us, that I had been in both countries. Nevertheless, I have never been to Cairo and I believe we didn’t go to Casablanca…
It was a very sympathetic, patient guide and my new friend and I could ask all the questions we wanted – still completely alone in this huge mosque. He also didn’t just let us take pictures but took (lots of) photos on both of our cameras for us, of us, in my pretty Muslim outfit and my friend got to borrow the guide’s Muslim hat.
Afterwards, we went up into the tower. The ‘first’ floor break made it all a bit more easy, but nonetheless, despite the double steps of the tube stations in London, I found it much easier to climb than Covent Garden or something in London, which I have done twice (can’t recommend it with a winter coat and a huge backpack).
From the top of the tower the view reached pretty much all of Kampala, or so we had been told by some other tourists that we had asked to see if the price the guide had charged was correct, but I believe there were also a few hills potentially blocking the view of some parts. Of course, it was still amazing, and the guide started another lecture about all the houses, the famous places and the different parts of town. Before going down we had more pictures taken of us – and of course shot a lot from up there too.
Before the tour ended, we got a few more pictures from downstairs (a few meaning ‘a few more angles’ but our guide took at least 5 picture on each camera from each angle, both landscape and portrait).
Afterwards we decided to walk to the protestant church that the guide had pointed out from the tower. It was on an almost straight line from the tower, and also located on a hill, so we could just follow the street and see where it was. There wasn’t much to see and the guard said (or shall we say hand gestured) that it was closed and we weren’t allowed inside. So we planned to take boda bodas back to the hostel, so he could take a shower (which had planned to do upon his arrival in Kampala, but since he had met me circumstances had obviously changed…) and I could get my suitcase. Then we would go to my new hotel with my suitcase and find some dinner close by. So that we did.
When we got back to the hostel, I found some of the people from the Nairobi – Amsterdam group there. They were leaving soon, so I told my friend to take his time, I would stay to say good bye. They had gone back to Acacia mall today (or some had obviously been in the taxi yesterday and never actually arrived) and done some more shopping. While we were waiting for “my people” to leave, I also met another Dane, a Japanese, talked a bit more to my cousin and packed all the things I had shopped in my suitcase. Eventually it was time for them to leave. The two remaining guides made me promise to write to them if I had any questions or got into any trouble – then they would know someone in each country I was going to. I said bye to my cousin, and the rest of the gang wishing me a safe (or extremely safe and careful) onwards journey and an amazing time.
When the bus turned around I also shook hands and said bye to our driver, Misi, who has been a most amazing person on this trip (when I needed to buy airtime in Kigali, he took my money, asked how much I wanted to buy for, then left, came back two minutes later with the airtime from the company and to the amount I had asked. He helped me carry my suitcase into the bus on numerous occasions, making funny comments about ‘eh, who was here?’ because whoever had packed the bags that were already there, they were terribly organized. Not to mention when the car tyre got flat in the middle of Tanzania, he had stopped the bus and helped us so it only took about 15 minutes to change it, and then he had said to me and my roommate as a joke that we were overweight for having ‘caused’ the tyre to get flat. Yes, a very good person indeed and literally everyone in the group loved him. He might have done some crazy things, but he was an extremely safe and competent driver, able to reverse in any situation).
The internet being down again, my Swedish friend and I had nothing left to do at the hostel but leave. We took boda bodas to my hotel, which was quite far away, and nota bene with my driver holding a suitcase on the steer! I left my suitcase in my decent room and then we headed out to find something to eat – and an ATM. We had seen a Barclays ATM on our way which was within 1 minute walking distance. I had reserved money for the hotel and bur the bus trip to Kigali but seemed like I didn’t quite have enough to any worthy dinner and I was getting up so early the next morning that I needed to buy breakfast as well, and preferably something to eat on my 8 hour trip to Kigali. We found an ‘Italian’ supermarket where they had all kinds of things, and lots of Western chocolate and snacks. I first got an apple that a lady in the store weighed on those electric scales that spits out a sticker with a barcode and the price like we have in some countries at home, but then decided to get another apple. That was easier said than done though because the electricity (or the generator?) went off, and so the electric scale couldn’t print any new stickers so I had to wait for the power to come back on. Meanwhile, the lady who had weighed them started talking about my hair, and how it was very “long”. The first thing I replied to that was that I used to have hair down to me knees, my hair now really isn’t much in comparison, especially since I had made a French braid of it that morning. She said my hair was very ‘slippery’, and that was going to get her hair braided, you know the African way, the day after. She had a friend who did it, but she still had to pay, because it was hard work.
My friend, who had also searched for some juice and found some bounty or something to buy, thought he had lost me but came with his torch on his phone and found me. With my own phone, I also found some yoghurt and bread that would be good in the morning. I was sure I would get to keep the yoghurt in the hotel fridge until the morning. It took some time to pay for it as well, since their computers to scan the products also had died in the power-cut, and were quite slow to restart. Eventually though we could continue our search for dinner, which ended up being at my hotel where I got something really simple to be on the safe side (worst thing to be sick on a public African bus for 8 hours…) and my friend tried something neither of us knew what was, but turned out quite spicy.
I got his phone number (couldn’t give him mine, since I don’t know what the Rwandan number I got is) so I could message him the cost of bus to Kigali, since he would go to Kigali after Kampala – and his flight back to Europe is scheduled from Kigali. We also planned, if he would finish Kampala in one more day, that we could meet in Kigali.
When I got into my hotel room, I took a shower that ended up being almost too hot for me. Then I repacked my whole suitcase so that I could pack the new things I had bought (which were all in plastic bags, which, as I’ve told you already, are illegal in Rwanda) at the bottom of the suitcase. Also, it’s practical to have the gifts at the bottom, because I won’t unpack them until I get home anyway. Nevertheless, I must admit the suitcase was much worse packed with the things on bottom than on the top, for some reason. Then I went to sleep, putting the alarm on 5.30am.
Day 24 - back to Kigali, new record on the road!
I obviously got up very early in the morning, got my yoghurt in the reception and asked if anyone knew how far, or how fair a price I could get with a boda boda to the coach station. The woman in the reception didn’t know anything, so I asked a black man outside in the parking lot, who also looked like a driver, if he knew anything, or in fact I started with asking where he was from. He was from Kenya, so I didn’t ask any more questions but ended up talking to him because the bus was driving back to Kenya today, to Lake Naivaisha, where I’ll be going on my safari. So I told him I was going to Kenya, and Lake Naivaisha in about a week. He said (and I couldn’t agree more) that it was a pity that I had plans in Rwanda, because otherwise I could have got a free ride with them (all the way) to Kenya!! Oh, how spontaneousness would have been great…
I got to the coach station by boda boda, about 25 minutes before departure (6.35am). My driver needed to go to the ticket booth to get change for me and afterwards it was my turn to go there to try and get my ticket. Like normal, the “queue” was a living hell and I somehow managed to squeeze myself before another black man to finally get my ticket, 7 minutes before departure. It only cost 40 000 USh, but I had reserved 60 000, so in fact I wouldn’t have needed the ATM the night before…
I asked what the difference was between a VIP seat and a normal one (about which I had read in my tourist book) but those cost 90 000 and the only difference was that the seats were 2x2 instead of 3x3, so I got a normal ticket.
It was only once we had started driving that I realized just how much I had “misunderstood” the system. I had got on board, just taken any free window seat I could see. Seat 26, with only one seat next to me. As I said, I later realized that those were the VIP seats, and that my ticket had a seat number on it. In that case you can definitely say it wasn’t worth paying the extra money, since I got that “VIP” seat anyway. The first two hours I even had the two seats to myself, but after some stop somewhere, a very well dressed young Muslim man sat next to me.
I slept for most of the time, like I normally do, with headphones and one of those inflatable traveling neck pillows. There were three white girls sitting two rows behind me, thankfully. The rest were black. The radio was on the whole time. The bus got fuller by every stop. I don’t know how it can even be legal, but people were standing! On a 8 hour (or so) ride to a different country! And with like 5-year old kids! My goodness…
The first memorable stop was the ‘peeing’ stop. Just like we had needed to do with the group, we had taken toilet breaks in the middle of nature. This was completely different though, since the bus could take (with people standing) over 60 people. Black people. Running into the savannah in all directions to pee. It just kinda looked funny and even they seemed to think it was slightly funny because everyone was laughing.
The second memorable stop was the petrol station in Mbarara. I had recognized the university we had visited, and then our hotel. Most people got out, including myself eventually, but people were selling drinks and samosa and other things into the bus, which was kinda tricky I bet because the bus was really big. So even when the black people stretched their arms completely up in the air, they could only barely receive the money they were paid by customers.
That’s also where the guy next to me started talking to me. Nothing special, just asking some things.
The third stop has got to be the most memorable, not just on the way to Kigali, but the whole trip. I was asleep, but woke up by a really loud bang on a really bad road. We stopped a few meters ahead and it wasn’t hard to figure that a tyre had gone flat. Some people got outside, but surprisingly many of them stayed inside. I realized I didn’t want to be inside if the bus would fall though, so I got out. The savannah was burning hot and the only shade was right next to the bus, in the direction it would fall if it did.
I have seen flat tyres on pictures, and our tyre there in Tanzania…but this was not just flat, this was… Lets just say I’ve never seen such a broken tyre before, if one could even call it a tyre anymore. The rubber was not just broken and had fallen off the wheel, but I’m pretty sure big pieces of it was missing. In all honesty, I don’t even know how we drove those extra meters after the bang, that’s how messed up it was. Changing the tyre took an hour, in burning sun. Meanwhile one of the white girls had made conversation with me; she and the other girls were German, and all lived in Nairobi. They were finishing their internships, work and volunteering, respectively, and were traveling a bit in the region before they’d head back to Europe.
When we could finally get going again, the people who didn’t have any seat were standing in my way. Eventually someone realized that the mzungo (I saw on other funny t-shirts that that’s how you spell it) wanted to get to her seat and they were pointing that ‘no, she was sitting there!’ in whatever African language, but very obvious.
The border we passed wasn’t the same as the one we had passed with the group. I had started realizing that quite early, because the road to Rwanda hadn’t been as bad as the one we had driven on when the tyre got flat. The procedure went well, they didn’t even take my photo or fingerprints like with the other German girls, perhaps because I was here just a few weeks ago. I had borrowed a pen from some local guys, who, perhaps as a joke or for friendliness sake had asked ‘amakuru?’ (How are you? in Kinyarwandan), to which I had replied ‘nimeza’ (I am good). They had laughed, being extremely surprised, then asked something else in Kinyarwandan that I hadn’t understood. Also when crossing the border itself, by foot, you need to show an officer that you have got an ‘exit’ stamp from Uganda. He started laughing, and said something to his two fellow officers so that, when he was about to give my passport back I couldn’t, because the other officer, and then the last officer, wanted to see my name, because apparently it was funny and they told me “your name makes us happy!”
Okay…?
When I got back to the bus, two scary officers, or custom guys, or police men or army, whatever, were standing in front of the entry to the bus and were checking everyone’s bags. They asked me to open my backpack where the first things visible were my apples and bread I had bought in Kampala – each wrapped in a plastic bag each. Surprisingly though, they were only interested in me opening my camera bag but when they saw it was a camera, it was OK.
Then they asked if any of the suitcases they had unloaded from the luggage boot and put on some fabric so they wouldn’t get dusty were mine. I opened my suitcase, relieved that I had packed all the plastic bags at the bottom. He told me to unpack everything but I tried to just sort of ‘open’ or show the two piles in my suitcase, without going all the way to the bottom, and it seemed they were content without me throwing everything everywhere, so I closed it again, put it back into the bus, and went relieved back to my seat. I even started eating one of my pieces of bread because I had got hungry, and the Muslim next to me said that the officers could have taken the plastic bag.
‘I guess I got lucky,’ I replied – and that’s really the only explanation I have for why they didn’t take it…
I got to Kigali at about…7pm local time I think, or something like that. That’s 8pm Ugandan time, so yes, 13 hours on a crowded bus. My poor friend had already waited for me at the bus stop for over an hour (because I had asked the Muslim next to me how long he thought before we got to Kigali and he had said one hour…but it obviously took a lot more than one hour) so he very quickly found me despite that it had got dark.
We got my suitcase and then went through the even more so crowded bus/coach station where people were waiting in long lines to get onto busses. Our bus, luckily, didn’t have any line and we boarded it immediately. It was another hour on that bus, even though it didn’t feel like it was that long. Then we took a moto the remaining way to where we would be staying.
It was a huge house, with two big cars, with private gates. Of course though, we lived in the backyard of this big fancy house. I only found out later that my friend rented it so that I could have a slightly better place than where he lives where there is no private bath and stuff…
We have a room each next to each other, I have my own shower and toilet (which was fine the first night but now there’s not much use, since they’re cementing the street we live on, so in fact there is no water anymore, in our rooms, nor in the big rich people’s house) and we have another room where we store some food things – “obviously” no fridge. Yeah, life is interesting.
I only had some remaining bread while drinking some squash with my friend but otherwise went to sleep quite early after this exhaustively long trip.
Day 25 – outside cooking and walk to the airport
I slept in, although since I had gone early to sleep, that meant only to about 8 o’clock. I knew my friend was out to get some stuff from the apartment he normally lives so I took my time to get dressed and eat the last piece of my bread and squash.
When my friend got back, he had brought another friend, who had brought gas, and a three-plate hob. Apparently he had insisted on bringing it, and he would help us cook lunch because my friend doesn’t know how to cook, except for pasta.
We walked to the market, which was only supposed to take 10 minutes, “just on the other hill up there”, but I very quickly found out it had to be 10 African minutes… That means at least half an hour – and the sun was burning, even they said that it was unusually hot and my friend could feel as if his skin was burning. It was also extra hard because most of the way was such a steep uphill.
We eventually got to the market though, and it must have been an experience even for them to be there with me. Most people turned my way, and many said something like ‘sister’ or ‘hello’ or something indicating they wanted me to buy from their stalls. They got some vegetables, and even had a young boy carry the bag for them when they went looking for rice to buy as well. I just followed them closely to avoid getting held behind by desperate shop, or market, keepers. We took motos back.
I helped ‘cut’ the vegetables (i.e. breaking things with my hands), while our ‘expert chef’ peeled the carrots and tomatoes with a sharp knife – but without a cutting board. I’ve heard they don’t really exist here. The cooking itself took about another hour but was very good indeed. Rice, and matoke (non-sweet bananas) in tomato sauce, with more tomatoes, carrots and…green things that we have at home as well, yet I can’t remember the name.
After lunch his friend had to leave, but my friend and I went for a walk – a long walk. Three hours at least and believe me my feet were exhausted afterwards. We ended up walking to the International airport, which is just here in town, very bizarre indeed, so not really ‘ended up’. I also found a small shop where I bought some fruit juice and happened to stumble upon some yoghurt that I wanted to drink straight away. Somehow, my friend keeps on meeting people he knows in the street. We met/saw at least 3 or 4 people he knew just on this walk. Even back home you wouldn't meet that many people in such a walk! Even a guy on our way home that lives in the same street (and hence very close the the university where my friend studies) and had lived there for quite some time, and they went to primary school together! Yet we're talking a country with over 11 million people! I can't even start to count how many times bigger that is than at home...
For unknown reasons I was exhausted when we got home, not just in my feet, but felt like I could fall asleep on the spot. Nevertheless I managed to ‘survive’ until dinner, and after dinner my friend and I ended up talking until 1.45am, just about everything. We could have continued for longer but obviously realized it was late so we went to sleep at last.
Day 26 – Internet at last
Not an eventful day, except I had a gigantic cockroach in my room when I got back from having washed my hands (somehow you don’t relate it to dirty places when here in Africa…it’s just like any other disgustingly big insect). I had omelette for breakfast (made in a pot, without handles, with a fork – interesting) and then we went out so my friend could print something and to get some internet. We were meant to go to “Expo”, a place and event that’s only on for one week every year, where you can buy all kinds of things from different parts of Africa it seems, but we printing took quite some time so I don’t think we will. My Swedish friend is also heading to Kigali already so we’ve invited him for dinner at our ‘exotic’ outdoor kitchen and hope he will arrive soonish. Until next time!