Uganda: Shoebills, Chimps & Mountain Gorillas
- hm
- Feb 25
- 20 min read
More than fifteen years ago, a friend returned from Uganda raving about her encounter with mountain gorillas, and ever since, that experience has lived quietly but firmly on my bucket list.
This year, the stars finally aligned. Once I decided to make the trip happen, I dove into the planning: researching routes, permits, and tour companies. I eventually found Encounter Africa through a simple web search; they offered a five‑day chimpanzee and gorilla itinerary priced at $5,400 for two people or $4,000 for one person. I reached out to a friend I’d first met on a previous trip to Ethiopia, and together we signed up, while also negotiating the cost down to $4,700.
One requirement for the trip was a valid yellow fever certificate, and somewhere over the years mine had disappeared. Fortunately, during a visit to India I was able to get both the vaccine and a fresh certificate, clearing the last major hurdle. With that sorted, I booked my flights and hotels, paid Encounter Africa the $1,050 deposit for the gorilla and chimp permits and received their invoice. That allowed me to apply for the East African Tourist Visa, $100 for a 90‑day multiple‑entry pass covering Kenya, Rwanda, and Uganda.
I flew into Entebbe Airport, adding Uganda as the 130th country on my quest to visit every nation in the world. My friend had arrived earlier from the US and was already exploring Aero Beach, just a short drive from the airport. I took a cab to meet him there. Aero Beach sits along the shores of Lake Victoria, and the first thing that struck me was the birdlife, marabou storks and sacred ibises wandering casually across the sand. Scattered around the property were several dilapidated and mangled aircraft, remnants from the 1976 Israeli raid on Entebbe during Idi Amin’s rule. The whole place felt like a surreal mix of lakeside calm and historical debris.
We headed to Kampala, about 40 km away, and somehow let ourselves be talked into taking two boda‑bodas, hopping onto the back of motorcycles for what was promised to be a quick 30‑minute ride. For 30,000 UGX ($8.50), it sounded harmless enough. Instead, that “quick ride” stretched into two chaotic hours of threading through some of the densest motorcycle traffic I’ve ever seen. At one point a rider shot past carrying five bicycles stacked like a moving sculpture; another balanced two pigs strapped on either side; a third had three goats wedged in with the casual air of someone transporting groceries. Our drivers kept stopping to sync with each other, ask for directions, and debate the best route, a kind of live, crowdsourced navigation system. By the time we finally rolled into Kampala, I felt like I’d survived a masterclass in controlled chaos, equal parts adrenaline and comedy.
Back in Kampala, we checked into the 1937‑established Sheraton, the grand old hotel that once hosted none other than Idi Amin during his reign, a strange bit of history to sleep under, but the staff were warm and the treatment genuinely excellent.
Later that night, around 9 p.m., I stepped out for what I assumed would be a quiet, uneventful walk through the neighborhood. Instead, it turned into a frightening moment of the trip. A man came up from behind, snatched my iPhone clean out of my hand, and sprinted toward a waiting motorcycle. Instinct took over, I ran, caught up, grabbed the back of the bike, and tried to pull it down. He gunned the engine. For a few surreal seconds I was being dragged along the tarmac, clinging on before finally letting go. My hands, knees, and shoulder were shredded, and the thieves vanished into the night. A different boda rider pulled over, genuinely concerned, and offered to help. We chased after them, weaving through the dark streets, but they were long gone.
My hand was bloody, my knees were skinned, and my shoulder felt pulled and oddly extended. I limped back to the Sheraton, where the staff immediately brought out a first‑aid kit and cleaned me up with the kind of calm efficiency that only comes from having seen far too many Kampala mishaps.
But the bigger question hit me almost instantly: How do you function in Uganda without an iPhone?
No phone calls.
No photos.
No health tracking.
No directions.
No OTPs for banking.
No blogging, no email, no Teams.
No Audible books on long days of driving between national parks.
No checking blood sugar.
No access to documents, reservations, or anything stored behind two‑factor authentication.
It was a complete mess, a digital blackout at the worst possible moment. First things first, I called Apple Support from the hotel lobby and locked and erased the phone remotely. Then I initiated an AIG Theft & Loss claim, which thankfully approved a replacement device to be shipped to a U.S. address. That solved one problem, but created another: how on earth was I going to get the new phone from the U.S. to Africa?
The next morning, still hurting and moving a little stiffly, I stopped at the MTN store in Entebbe’s finest mall to pick up a temporary phone on my way to Mabamba for the shoebill trip I’d booked through Viator. Josh, the guide, even used his national ID to get me a SIM card, one of those small kindnesses that feels enormous in a foreign country.
We drove his car onto the Nakiwogo–Banga ferry, crossing Lake Victoria toward Mabamba Bay, the heart of Uganda’s shoebill territory. After reaching the village landing point, we transferred into a narrow wooden canoe and pushed off into the wetlands, five feet deep, thick with reeds, and alive with birdsong. It was just the five of us: one guide, one boatman, one helper, my friend and me, gliding quietly into the marsh where the prehistoric shoebill hides.
Shoebills are rare, only about 3,000–5,000 remain in the world, and roughly 20 of them live in the Mabamba wetlands, a shallow papyrus swamp, so finding one was never guaranteed. As we drifted deeper into the marsh, the place came alive with birds: Jacanas tiptoeing across floating vegetation, long‑toed lapwings, purple herons, and yellow‑billed ducks gliding past as if performing for us.
Then, suddenly, our guide pointed upward — two shoebills flying overhead, their massive wings beating slowly and deliberately. He explained that these prehistoric giants can soar up to 5,000 meters when they choose, which only added to their mystique.
Despite knowing there were about twenty in the wetland, spotting one on the ground was still a challenge. But our guide maneuvered the canoe with quiet mastery, threading through reeds until, finally, there it was: a solitary shoebill standing motionless, statuesque, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
These birds can hold a pose for three to four hours while hunting, and we watched ours for nearly two, observing it stalk, spear, and swallow fish with astonishing precision.
Eventually, we paddled back to shore, retraced our route to the ferry, and crossed Lake Victoria once more toward Entebbe. From there, the drive back to Kampala took nearly three hours, the traffic so dense it felt like the entire city had decided to be on the road at once.
The next morning, the official five‑day chimp and gorilla‑tracking adventure finally began. We climbed into a sturdy Toyota Land Cruiser with Patrick, our guide, a soft‑spoken veteran with 12 years as a ranger in Kibale National Park and another 15 years as a tour guide. He had the kind of easy smile that instantly settles your nerves, the calm confidence of someone who has spent half his life reading forests, animals, and tourists with equal precision.
We’d started an hour late and were already losing time to Kampala’s legendary traffic, a slow‑moving tangle of cars, bodas, buses, and sheer improvisation. Patrick, unfazed, simply nodded, turned off the main highway, and announced that he knew a shortcut. The “shortcut” turned out to be a 15‑kilometer dirt road, a rutted, bone‑shaking track that bypassed the 70‑kilometer highway section we were supposed to take. Within minutes we were bouncing so hard our bones shook. Patrick grinned in the rear‑view mirror and said, “Welcome to your African massage.” He wasn’t wrong.
After eleven hours on the road, a stretch broken only by a roadside stop for goat meat and easy conversation with a Canadian couple on a similar circuit, we finally rolled into the Chimpnest Lodge. The relief of arrival was tempered by a curious instruction: we were firmly told not to carry our own bags. Patrick explained with a nervous laugh that if his boss saw guests hauling luggage, he could lose his job. So we surrendered our backpacks and shoes, feeling slightly guilty but amused at the strict hierarchy of hospitality.
The lodge itself was tucked into the forest, a scattering of cottages with wide verandas overlooking the valley. Dinner was four course with soup, appetizer, main course and dessert. Tomorrow would bring the chimpanzees, but tonight was about rest.
The next morning began with a breakfast that felt more like a banquet than a simple meal. Course after course arrived, fresh fruit, eggs, pastries, and coffee, delivered by highly attentive staff, a reminder of how seriously hospitality is taken here.
Afterward, we set out on what the lodge called a “pre‑trip,” a sampler of experiences designed to ease us into the rhythm of the forest and the community around it.
First came a rainforest walk, where the air was crisp and moist, carrying the scent of damp earth and leaves.
The forest pressed in from all sides, dense with shrubs and tangled vines, weeds like goatweed sprouting in unexpected patches, and massive buttress‑rooted trees anchoring the canopy.
Along the trail, the forest revealed layer after layer of its hidden life. We spotted red colobus and red‑tailed monkeys, two species that share the canopy but not always peacefully, as chimpanzees are known to prey on red‑tailed monkeys. The guides pointed out how these monkeys have a small fifth finger, and how their families often number around thirty individuals.
We passed black ant nests and towering termite mounds, learning that highway authorities sometimes remove the queen before demolishing a mound, and that the fine, clay‑like soil inside is used locally as medicinal earth for swelling. The air carried a sharp, musky scent, the urine of black‑and‑white colobus monkeys, whose babies are born white and turn black within three months.
Every few steps brought a new detail: the peppery smell of wild black pepper vines, the knowledge that chimpanzees balance their diet with meat, leaves, snails, and ants, and the sight of wild jackfruit or avocado seedlings sprouting wherever fallen fruit had germinated.
When acacia pods drop, caterpillars, bees, and woodpeckers feast on the seeds; monkeys prefer the flowers, while elephants and giraffes go for the leaves. The guide pointed out medicinal plants and explained how locals use certain vines for water or rope.
Birdlife was equally abundant. We spotted a red‑bellied paradise flycatcher flitting through the branches, great blue turacos gliding between trees, safari ants marching in perfect formation, black‑necked river birds near the water, a grey‑headed negrita, and even palm‑nut vultures circling overhead. It was a reminder that the forest is an entire world of interconnected lives, each with its own rhythm and role.
Then we went on a coffee tour, tracing the journey from bean to cup, complete with tastings that made us rethink what “fresh” really means.
The coffee experience began with a panful of dried pods, their shells rattling as we poured them into a mortar. One by one, we cracked them open with the pestle, releasing the robusta beans hidden inside. Winnowing followed, tossing the beans lightly so the husks drifted away on the breeze, leaving behind the clean kernels.
The roasting was done over a small fire, the beans shifting from pale to a rich brown, filling the air with a smoky, nutty aroma. We stopped at a medium roast, the point where the oils just begin to glisten. Then came grinding, sieving, and finally the moment of reward: brewing.
We sat in a circle, cups in hand, sipping the freshest coffee. The flavor was bold and earthy, nothing like the packaged blends back home. It wasn’t just about taste; it was about connection. Each step had been communal and rooted in tradition. The final sip carried the satisfaction of having walked the entire journey from pod to cup.
Finally came the Banana Gin tour, a spirited dive into local ingenuity, where bananas are transformed into a surprisingly smooth liquor. The demonstration began with sourcing and ripening African sweet bananas, nothing like the familiar Chiquita variety. Their intense sweetness was crushed into juice and boiled into a rich brown liquid, then cooled in barrels before sorghum was added as a natural yeast. Over six days the mixture fermented into a lightly carbonated banana beer, reaching about 5–8% alcohol turning into a rustic, refreshing, and surprisingly complex flavor.
From there the process shifted from beer to spirit. The brew was poured into a drum, heated, and distilled, the vapor condensed in a small bath of water to produce a clear gin at 40% ABV, sweet, strong, and far smoother than we expected. For the adventurous, a second distillation yielded a 60% ABV version, delicious in its own fiery way and absolutely deserving of its nickname: “rocket fuel.”
It was equal parts chemistry lesson and cultural immersion. By the end we were laughing with our hosts and fellow travelers from half a dozen countries, clinking glasses, saying “Bonga,” circling the shot glass around our heads, and going bottoms up — a joyful, cross‑cultural toast to the creativity hidden in a simple banana.
If coffee had been the morning’s comfort, banana gin was the early afternoon’s adventure, a fitting prelude to the primates we would meet later in the day.
As we drove toward the Kanyanchu Visitor Center for our 1 p.m. chimp tracking, the road offered its own wildlife documentary. Baboon families lined the highway, but not randomly, they had a strategy. They waited in the narrow stretches between speed bumps, the exact spots where trucks were forced to slow down. As soon as a lorry carrying bananas crawled over the bump, the baboons leapt aboard with the confidence of seasoned commuters, rummaging through the cargo for a quick snack.
It was impossible not to admire their intelligence. While we humans planned our trek with permits, guides, and schedules, the baboons had perfected a far simpler system: know the terrain, know the traffic, and take advantage of the moment. Watching them, you got the sense that the forest wasn’t the only place where primates displayed cleverness, the roadside had its own masters of adaptation.
After registering, we gathered for the briefing. The rangers reminded us to follow their instructions closely and to keep our masks on at all times, a necessary precaution given how closely chimpanzees mirror us genetically, making them vulnerable to human respiratory illnesses. Once the formalities were done, we were divided into tracking groups: five Brits, two Dutch travelers, and two Americans, all buzzing with anticipation.
The guides explained that tracking usually takes one to two hours depending on where the chimps had nested, followed by a precious hour in their company.
Before we set off, the rangers added a few sobering details about chimp life. Four armed rangers accompanied us for safety, as the forest is also home to leopards, pythons, and large eagles — all potential predators of young chimps. We learned that chimpanzees sleep in nests they build fresh each night, use leaves as natural sponges to drink water, and live roughly 45 to 55 years in the wild. Their social world can be harsh: if an infant wanders into a rival community, it may be killed, and chimps have been known to cannibalize the young of other groups. They also hunt red colobus monkeys, adding meat to a diet that otherwise includes leaves, fruit, snails, and ants.
With masks on, cameras ready, and a deeper respect for the complexity of chimp society, we stepped into the forest fully aware that we were entering a world where every rustle, call, and shadow carried meaning far beyond what we could see.
With expectations set and masks in place, we stepped off the main road and into the forest, ready for whatever the afternoon would bring. To our great surprise, barely five minutes into the walk, the trackers motioned for us to quiet down.
Then they pointed ahead: the chimp family was right in front of us. Six chimpanzees were resting in a loose cluster, grooming each other with the easy intimacy of creatures completely at home. One lay stretched out on the ground, fast asleep, no more than three meters from where we stood.
The closeness was surreal, we had expected hours of searching, not this immediate encounter. We were silent, barely whispering.
The chimps barely acknowledged us, continuing their grooming, shifting positions, occasionally glancing our way with a calm, almost human curiosity. It felt like we were watching a family on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Then, without warning, a sharp chimp call echoed from somewhere deeper in the forest. Our group froze, but the chimps reacted instantly. The entire family erupted into startled screams and hoots, a sudden, chaotic chorus that ricocheted through the trees. For a few seconds the forest felt electric, alive with tension and communication.
And just as quickly as it began, it ended. The chimps fell silent again, settling back into their grooming as if nothing had happened.
One full hour later, the chimps began to stir. We followed a large male as he lumbered through the undergrowth, unhurried and utterly indifferent to the small parade of humans trailing behind him.
After a few minutes he paused, glanced back as if to check whether we were still keeping up, and then climbed a tall tree with effortless strength. Within seconds he vanished into the canopy, swallowed by leaves and distance.
Content with the encounter, we continued our hike through the forest with a satisfied calm. The path looped back toward the starting point, where the rangers greeted us with broad smiles and a small ceremony. Each of us received a completion certificate.
We still had more enthusiasm left in us, so we signed up for a night hike. For two hours we walked through the dark with only our flashlights cutting narrow tunnels of light through the forest. The nocturnal world felt completely different, quieter in some ways, but full of tiny movements once your eyes adjusted.
We spotted small critters everywhere: birds tucked into branches for the night, spiders suspended on delicate webs, beetles glinting like bits of metal, and even fish darting in the shallow streams we crossed. A hadada ibis let out its unmistakable, honking call somewhere above us, and a sunbird flashed briefly in our torch beam before disappearing again. It was a gentle, curious kind of adventure, not dramatic, but intimate, the forest revealing its quieter residents one by one.
After the great time we’d had at the Chimpnest Lodge, half of our epic Uganda tour was officially accomplished. Dawn came early in the forest, a soft grey light filtering through the trees, bird calls alerting us to daylight and by 6 a.m. we were up, bags packed, and ready for the long journey ahead. Breakfast was waiting: a Spanish omelette, hot coffee, fresh fruits, and a spread of juices, not to mention all I could eat servings of their huge, creamy avocados. Chimpnest didn’t hold back on food; the portions were generous, the options plentiful, and the warmth of the staff made it feel like a farewell from friends rather than a checkout from a lodge.
By 7 a.m., we were back in the Land Cruiser, settling in for a full‑day drive toward the next adventure, gorilla tracking in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest.
There was a quiet excitement, the kind that comes when you know the next chapter holds something extraordinary. Chimpanzees had been magical, but gorillas were the dream. Patrick turned the ignition, smiled in the rear‑view mirror, and said, “Ready for part two?” We were.
The road ahead would take us through villages, tea estates, crater lakes, and long stretches of countryside where time seemed to slow down. overall we traversed through the equator 3 times so far and the small monument at the last spot was a great one to take a picture.
The road ahead carried us through small villages, rolling tea estates, crater lakes shimmering in the afternoon light, and long stretches of countryside where time seemed to slow to its own rhythm. Over the course of this Uganda trip, we crossed the equator three different times, each crossing marked by a simple monument. At the final one, we finally stopped to take the obligatory photo — a small but satisfying milestone on a long journey. At an earlier stop, we were given the classic equator demonstration: water swirling clockwise just north of the line, straight down on the equator itself, and anticlockwise a few meters to the south, a fun, theatrical bit of science tourism that still makes for a memorable moment.
What started as a simple long drive quickly became unexpectedly fascinating. We skirted the edge of Lake George, shimmering in the midday sun, and crossed the Kazinga Channel, the narrow waterway that links Lake George and Lake Edward. Patrick reminded us that the bridge here cannot be photographed, a rule enforced because extremist groups once attempted to sabotage it years ago.
But the real magic was on either side of the road. Without even trying, we spotted herds of elephants, troops of monkeys, antelopes, waterbucks, buffaloes and an endless parade of birds, all just casually going about their lives, visible from the window as if the national park had spilled out onto the highway. It felt surreal, almost unfair, how effortlessly wildlife appeared. One moment you were chatting about road conditions; the next, an elephant materialized from the bushes. Uganda has a way of turning an ordinary transfer day into a wildlife documentary.
We had started at 8 a.m. with the goal of reaching the Four Gorillas Lodge in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest by 4 p.m. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon when we pulled into the Hot Springs Restaurant. Patrick eased the Land Cruiser to a stop and scanned the grounds with a practiced ranger’s eye. “This is a good spot,” he said, and he was right. A wide, sun‑soaked lawn stretched out before us, framed by distant hills in the vicinity of geothermal steam rising from the nearby springs. We settled under the shade of a tree, and lunch arrived: stir‑fried BBQ flavored goat and guacamole‑topped fried papadums that felt like a cross‑continental culinary handshake.
Over the meal, Patrick opened up in that quiet, matter‑of‑fact way of his. He pointed toward Queen Elizabeth National Park, not far from where we sat, and recounted the gruesome story of the honeymooners who were burned alive in their car, their driver shot by insurgents. His voice didn’t waver, but the weight of the memory settled heavily between us. “I don’t miss being a ranger,” he said softly. “We stalked the poachers… and they stalked us.”
Then he added. “Got shot in the leg once,”, as if mentioning a minor inconvenience. It was a reminder that behind his easy smile and gentle manners was a man who had lived through things most of us only read about, a man who had chosen a quieter life guiding travelers through forests instead of fighting battles in them.
While enjoying lunch, I struck up a conversation with a cheerful group of thirteen travelers from Vilnius, Lithuania. They were on the final stretch of their Ugandan circuit, the Big Five, the gorillas, the chimps, all checked off with the satisfied glow of people who had squeezed every drop out of their journey. They were heading home the next day, blissfully content, and when they heard I planned to visit Lithuania someday, Vito shared his WhatsApp and immediately launched into travel suggestions.
It was one of those small, serendipitous travel moments, strangers from a country I hadn’t yet visited, standing in the middle of western Uganda, giving me ideas for a future trip. Soon enough, they waved goodbye, climbed into their van, and rolled off toward Entebbe. We packed up too, the afternoon sun dipping lower, and continued our long drive toward Bwindi, which was now projected to take four additional hours.
Just after 7 p.m., we finally reached the Four Gorillas Lodge, perched only a few meters from the boundary of Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. The staff welcomed us with the kind of warmth that instantly dissolves road fatigue and casually mentioned that they routinely see gorillas from the lodge’s long balcony — a claim that didn’t feel far‑fetched once I stepped outside.
The view was spectacular: a sweeping panorama of dense, emerald‑green forest, the canopy rising and falling in waves, punctuated by towering trees that seemed to hold up the sky. The lodge itself sat high on a hillside, which meant climbing a series of steep steps to reach our room. At 6,000 feet, the altitude made itself known immediately, by the time I reached the door, I was winded and wondering how I was going to manage the gorilla trek at 7,700 feet the next morning.
But the forest was right there, close enough to feel alive, and the anticipation of meeting its most famous residents outweighed the fatigue.
Dinner that night was unexpectedly elegant, a four‑course meal served fireside: a warm soup to start, a crisp spring roll, perfectly cooked Nile perch, and a simple dessert to close it out. I added a Singleton 18 as a nightcap, the kind of small indulgence that feels well‑earned after a long travel day. By 9 p.m., the lights were out; tomorrow’s gorilla trek demanded an early start.
Morning arrived with a mix of excitement and nervous energy. I layered up and packed carefully: gloves, mask, rain poncho, two liters of water, and the lunch box the lodge had prepared. At 6:30 a.m., we climbed into the Land Cruiser and drove through the misty hills of Rushaga.
Half an hour later, we reached the gorilla tracking assembly point, a surprisingly large clearing with stadium‑style seating built into the hillside. Officials moved through the crowd, checking registrations and assigning groups. Nearly eighty tourists had gathered — people from the US, Spain, France, Germany, the Netherlands, all buzzing with anticipation, adjusting backpacks, tightening boot laces, and whispering about which gorilla family they hoped to see.
Before we headed out, we were welcomed by a group of local students who greeted us with song and dance. Their performance was full of energy and heart, and the sincerity of it caught everyone off guard in the best way. It was a simple gesture, but deeply touching, a reminder of how closely the community is tied to the conservation efforts here. At the end, all the tourists pitched in with a small monetary contribution, a token of appreciation for the warmth they had shared with us.
The locals also offered porter services for about $20, a tremendous help on the steep, muddy sections where an extra push or pull could make all the difference. And for anyone unable or unwilling to tackle the rough terrain, there was the so‑called “African helicopter”: a stretcher carried by a team of strong porters who could transport a person through the forest for roughly $300.
Many of these porters were once poachers, now turned protectors of the very forest they once threatened. Conservation programs had shown them that tourism brings steady income, and that keeping the park pristine, reporting poachers, stopping illegal tree‑cutting, and supporting the rangers, directly benefits their families and communities. Their presence wasn’t just practical; it was symbolic of how livelihoods and conservation can align when people are given a stake in the ecosystem’s survival.
Of the eighty‑plus tourists gathered that morning, our group was assigned to the Muchunguzu gorilla family. Thanks to decades of conservation work, Uganda’s mountain gorilla population has risen from roughly 350 individuals to more than 1,300 today — organized into about fifty families, twenty‑six of which are habituated to human presence for tourism and research. Our tracking team, led by guide Jen and accompanied by armed rangers for safety, consisted of seven Japanese tourists and the two of us. It felt like a small, international expedition heading into one of the world’s most remarkable forests.
We were fully prepared to walk up to three hours through steep, muddy, and slippery terrain in search of the gorillas. But about forty‑five minutes into the hike, Jen received word from the trackers: they had located the Muchunguzu family. Our luck was still holding strong. The weather was bright and sunny, the forest glowing, and then almost suddenly, we found ourselves surrounded by at least ten gorillas, going about their morning as if we were simply part of the landscape.
It was a surreal experience. The rangers had warned us beforehand: if a gorilla charged, we were not to look it in the eyes and instead make ourselves small and submissive. That advice came in handy far sooner than I expected. An adult male suddenly fixed his gaze on me, his eyes flashing red with irritation, and he let out a deep growl before charging forward.
For a split second, pure fear took over. I dropped to my knees and lowered my eyes exactly as instructed, heart pounding. After two more grunts, a clear dismissal, he turned away, satisfied that I had shown proper respect. The whole encounter lasted only seconds, but it left an imprint.
During the hour of tracking the gorillas, we moved as they moved, continuously descending through overgrown bushes and narrow, slippery paths that always seemed to angle downhill. The trackers showed us how they read the forest like a book, recognizing the subtle patterns left by gorillas as they passed through. Their trails were distinct from those of elephants or chimps, marked by bent stems, broken branches, and the stripped leaves and bark that make up a gorilla’s entirely vegetarian diet. Each sign was a quiet clue, guiding the trackers forward and confirming that we were following the right family through the dense, living maze of the forest.
A delightful hour had passed, and it was finally time to head back. The climb uphill was daunting, a slow, lung‑burning ascent through thick undergrowth where even the rangers occasionally struggled to find the right way. Bit by bit we worked our way back to the main trail. About half an hour later, the beautiful weather turned without warning into a torrential downpour. We took shelter in an unfinished building, eating our packed lunches while the rain hammered the roof. When it finally eased, we continued the long descent to the pickup point, where Patrick was waiting with the Land Rover to take us to Bwindi's four gorillas lodge. And yes, we each got a certificate as well.
This marked the most exciting week of our time in Uganda. What had begun with the bitter memory of being robbed had steadily transformed into a journey filled with beautiful wildlife, gracious people, generous staff, and stunning natural landscapes.
Back at the lodge, we finally allowed ourselves to relax as the staff cleaned our mud‑caked shoes, offered much‑needed massages, and served a four‑course dinner. Outside, we watched a humongous downpour drench the valley, the kind of rain that makes a rainforest as lush and alive as the one we had just trekked through.
The next morning we headed toward Rwanda, marking country number 131 in my lifelong quest to see every nation in the world. I was already intrigued by everything I had heard about it. Before entering, all vehicles are required to be washed, everyone must sanitize their hands, and petty crime is reportedly rare. Even the boda‑boda drivers wear numbered vests for easy identification, and speed cameras enforce traffic rules with an efficiency that has become part of Rwanda’s reputation for order and cleanliness.
We left Uganda with Patrick driving us through the border, guiding us through immigration, and then onward toward Kigali. As the landscape shifted behind us, I carried with me a beautiful set of Ugandan memories — moments that were heartwarming, humbling, and far richer than anything I had imagined at the start of the trip.
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