The punishment for cycling is prison......

After ten weeks of pedalling through Kenya we're heading for our 21st country: Uganda. The 28th of July we leave Kisumu at Lake Victoria. It's not easy tot say goodbye to the hippos, especially for me. Peter always wonders what attracts me in all those big, fat monsters like elephants, pigs and now hippos, he has his own private suspicions. The departure, or something in the food, doesn't agree with me. The rest of the day is dominated by cramps and thin green rhubarb that leaves my weakened intestines undigested. Which is very strange, because we haven't eaten any rhubarb for the last year and a half. During the morning all kinds of blisters start showing on my arms, which could be a sign that my body is reacting on some indigestible thing. But what? Hippos?

Having cycled over a beautiful road alongside hills that are covered with giant pebbles thrown by giants we reach a stretch where people are repairing the road. Next to the road we cycle on over a dusty and rocky narrow path. Trucks causes huge dustclouds and our freshly washed clothes are brown with dust and sweat again. Thanks very much.

Lake Victoria

The best recipe against diarrhoea and cramps is eating fish; fried, steamed or boiled, it helps to relax our intestines and diminishes the cramps. The fried tilapia's I eat at night do their cleansing work very fast. The next day all complaints are gone and I can cycle with joy. We stay overnight in guesthouse St. Michael in Uganja, a small and lively village some forty kilometres before the border. A guesthouse that can't be found in any travel-guide and is meant mainly for truckdrivers. Being mzungu's (whites) the staff is a bit reluctant at first, which changes very fast in curiosity and an informal service the visitors of the Sheraton-hotel would be jealous of. A big disadvantage of the hotels and guesthouses mentioned in travel-guides like Lonely Planet, Footprint, Bradt and so on is the increasing indolence, price and indifference. They don't have to give any service anymore, tourists do come anyhow.

Halfway during the day we reach Busia that, like many bordervillages, consists of two parts, this time a Kenyan and an Ugandan part. Like always we look forward to entering a new country. Other travellers told us positive stories about Uganda; the inhabitants are supposed to be even friendlier and more hospitable than the Kenyans. The customs formalities in Kenya are settled within five minutes. We manoeuvre our bicycles through the line of trucks and pass dozens of traders, shops and money-changers. Peter enters the Ugandan customs-office while I watch the bicycles. Without problems or delay Peter returns ten minutes later, with all necessary stamps in our fat passports. This goes very smooth. At on official black market money-changer we change 50 euro into Ugandan shillings, because there is no bank in Busia. Then we unsuspectingly get on our bicycles to cycle the last 200 metres to the entrance of this 'promised' land. It's warm and moist when we slalom between the overfilled carts with food and household effects to cross a border again. Right in front of the gate a soldier is standing, who has quite different plans. We are not aware of him yet.

Without speaking a word he signals us to stop. After having complied to his wish he handsignals that we have to park our bicycles at the fence. Apparently the man can't talk. Peter asks him politely whether he'd like to see our passports, with very new visa. Still he doesn't speak, but looks like Peter just made him an indecent proposal. After having parked our bicycles on the indicated spot we ask him what's the matter. Again only silence. Instead of giving an answer he directs us to a sign that once stood in the ground, but stands lazily against the fence now. The sign barely stood the wear and tear of time, but after peering at it for a long time we read that 'Cycling in the customs courtyard is prohibited'. While Peter tries to keep his boiling blood under control, he says in a manner as neutral as possible: "I'm very sorry sir, we did not know. At the entrance was no sign, so we were not aware of this rule." Bewildered we hear that the man is able to talk: "You understand that you committed a crime; I can send you to prison for this, are you prepared to go to court?" Without waiting for an answer he turns around and accepts a small bundle of money from a truckdriver who then drives his truck swiftly through the gates. We have encountered the terror of a corrupt, military customs officer who's luxuriating in his power, that's clear. Peter is at his worst in situations like this. Would he be on his own he would ignore the man (whilst receiving a bullet in his back), unless he would gather the courage to hit him flat on the mouth. Without saying anything I take over. My advantage is that I'm a woman and blond, so very stupid and ignorant. Of course I don't understand that he wants money and of course I am shocked that we committed a crime and yes, if we have to go to prison we will do so. Half smiling because somehow I don't really understand that people like this really exist I say: "Yes, we made a mistake and are prepared to go to court. What can we do, where do we have to go?", ever so sincere and innocent. The soldier looks at me very disappointed and answers: "Okay, this time you're lucky. Next time: no cycling and greet me friendly." We return to our bicycles and walk (!) to the gate, while Peter (as a former pacifist) in his mind loads his AK-47 and gives this son of Idi Amin a terrific broadside.

So far our welcome in Uganda.