Despite the fact that Kampala is in a tense, twitchy state, Christi and I elect to continue on to the Ugandan capital. We are a little nervous to be honest, although with Ugandan security on a heightened sense of alert, now is as probably a safe a time as any to visit. And it’s not as if Nairobi has a glowing reputation for safety; it hasn’t been nicknamed Nairobbery without good reason. Safety aside, I shan’t miss the atrocious roads in and around the Kenyan capital nor the associated traffic chaos. Traffic lights and traffic police attempt to maintain some semblance of control, but it does seem to be a free for all. That the extreme frustration does not descend into violence is a minor miracle. The Kampala Coaches bus is a typical African bus with limited leg room and no on board toilet, yet according to Jocky Tours (with whom we arranged our trips in Kenya), Kampala Coaches have the best reputation for safety and comfort. Clearly the bar is set pretty low around here.
We head northwest through Eldoret (where we stop for lunch) and then continue on to the border town of Malaba (some 300 miles from Nairobi). And just to avoid confusion (or may be to spark confusion), the town on the other side of the border is also called Malaba (some 150 miles to the east of Kampala). Uganda offers single entry visas for US$50 a pop, which means every time you leave and return to have to pay US$50. And this will impact Christi on our travels – bummer. Security is tight, although as appears usual with land border crossings the scenes are quite chaotic. The Western Highlands of Kenya (and presumably Uganda) – which is exactly where we are right now – has a reputation for malaria so Christi and I keep well covered as we negotiate immigration and customs. Our passports have an impressive array of stamps in them now.
Little changes as we cross into Uganda. The roads remain clogged with traffic, especially large trucks moving to and from coastal Mombasa (in Kenya). We do see a quite intense advertizing campaign on our way to Kampala, though. Whole houses are painted in the rival colors of ZAIN (now Airtel) (pink) and MTN telecommunications (yellow). It certainly enlivens the otherwise dull shacks. Progress slows to a crawl at Jinja and remains slow and painful all the way to the main bus station in Kampala at Arua Park. It’s been 13.5 hours and 450 miles of bad road since leaving Nairobi this morning. Arua Park is hell on earth. It is the perfect traffic jam. Nothing moves. Christi and I retrieve our bags and warily and wearily look for a taxi to take us to the Backpackers hostel and campsite, which bills itself as an oasis just 2 km from downtown Kampala. Our taxi driver asks us to pay half the fare (10,000 Ugandan Shillings [US] – less than US$4) upfront. We’re too tired to argue and hand over the money. After we painfully extricate ourselves from Arua Park, our taxi driver pulls into the nearest gas station and puts 4 liters of gasoline into his tank; the fuel gauge on the dashboard anemically crawls off the E.
Perhaps it is a sign to come of our time in Uganda, but as soon as we arrive at the Backpackers hostel the power fails. The restaurant has also just closed so we go to bed tired, hungry, and longing for the Java House in Nairobi.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes.
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