It’s been over 2.5 years since I last visited this beautiful land. To say that everything went smoothly, both in the lead-up to leaving and once on the ground, would be the opposite of reality. That being said, I would have many less stories to tell you had it gone the way I envisioned. Or perhaps they would have just been different. Every great adventurer has told the tale that it doesn’t become an adventure until it involves some level of misadventure. It’s all part of the journey.

*Two boys greet me with intrigue in a remote village near Adliang, Agago District, North Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

Team McCrae

Much like my last trip, a phone call came through just before I left, this time with Sally McCrae on the line, a mere three hours before my flight was set to take off on a Sunday in Fresno, CA. She said, “Mitch, I have a project I need you on for this Tuesday in Lone Pine. Can you make it?” To which I replied, “Absolutely!” I found myself changing my flight and driving back towards Mammoth to reconfigure my equipment at home. I’ll leave the details of exactly what project we were working on to Team McCrae, but I had an absolute blast flying drones and filming BTS for it. MacKenzie McCrae, the subject of our shoot, is a beast! It was also a sweet time getting to meet fellow creatives Jesse Cornelius and Matt Shapiro. I’ll include a few photos below.

*Mackenzie McCrae and photographer Jesse Cornelius work to capture some early morning imagery. Mamiya RB67, 65mm f4, Ilford HP5+ 400.*

*Mackenzie McCrae learns to shoot on the Mamiya RB67. GFX 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7. Whitney Portal Road, California. May, 2025.*

The shoot was a breeze, but with all the travel, long days, and rearrangements, my partner Bekah and I got quite sick just after the shoot and right before my next rescheduled flight date, which left us laid up in Mammoth for the rest of the week. This resulted in yet another travel delay. Admittedly, it was nice to be home at least for a bit. Later that week, on Thursday, we finally felt well enough to travel, and my flight had been changed again to a Saturday departure from Fresno.

As we headed north from Mammoth, aiming to cross Sonora Pass into the Central Valley, a wildfire broke out along Highway 395 an hour before our arrival, closing the highway for several days between Lee Vining and Mono City and leaving us stuck and unable to continue north. Feeling dejected after so many delays and setbacks, I nearly canceled the trip altogether, as that once-eerie sense of serendipity had begun to feel more harmful than fateful. After one more night in Mammoth, some soul-searching, and a long drive south to Bakersfield and around to Fresno, I finally departed Saturday afternoon and began the 48-hour journey to Uganda—34 of those hours spent in the air.

Rome

I had an unavoidable nine-hour layover in Rome, which I decided to use to my advantage by seeing some things I hadn’t seen before. Since I was flying through on a Sunday, I also figured it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to see the Pope — who, as we now know, is the first U.S.-born Pope. The when’s and where’s weren’t made public, and any encounter would happen by pure serendipity.

Having been through Rome before, I’d never been afforded the time to visit the Vatican. Even though I was traveling on multiple airlines, my bags were checked all the way through to my final destination, a first in my memory of international travel. I was able to deplane and exit the airport in Rome with minimal baggage, cranking my “possibility meter” to the max.

I mapped my intended transit by train and foot and, about 30 minutes later, arrived at the station closest to the Vatican. I went through security and walked into Saint Peter’s Basilica, the most ornate and beautiful church I’ve ever stepped foot in. The grandeur and opulence were astounding: marble, gold, silver, and bronze everywhere. There was almost no untouched space — from the walls to the ceiling, everything was covered in art, wood carvings, statues, metalwork, and candlelight. A warm glow filled the space from the light filtering through the stained glass. At its highest point, from floor to dome, towers a ~400-foot ceiling encompassing everything beneath it.

There were ample visitors, both religious and not, taking in the spectacle. For a Sunday, the crowd felt surprisingly light. Voices were kept low, and a choir singing hymnals gave the atmosphere exactly the reverence one would expect in such a place.

I left the Basilica and mapped a long walk from the Vatican through the streets of Rome toward the Colosseum. I spent a few hours wandering, sightseeing, stopping for food and drink, and doing whatever felt right. I reached the Colosseum by early evening, just in time to sit and admire it once again — this time, again, just as it was closing. I felt content with my day, despite not running into the Pope. I took my wins as they came and began walking toward a train station that would connect me back to the airport line.

Thirty minutes of strolling through pre-sunset Rome had me feeling deeply grateful for my unplanned adventure. The leaves rustled, the sun cast soft speckled light through the trees, and the laughter of nearby children was infectious. Then, as I pulled out my phone to check the map, my positive attitude faded. I had walked in the wrong direction. With no time margin to backtrack, I risked missing my next flight entirely.

I spotted an electric scooter for rent nearby and bought some time back by hopping on and zipping away. I did my best to follow the map, stopping frequently to check directions, though the winding, twisting streets of Rome had other plans. Eventually, I reached a roadblock, a crowd gathered behind security personnel. I parked my scooter and heard someone shout, “Papa! Papa!” About fifteen seconds later, the Pope rolled by in the Popemobile, waving and gesturing to the crowd. He entered a nearby church and addressed the people for about ten minutes.

Because I had gone the wrong way, rented the scooter, and ended up there by chance, I accomplished my true objective: seeing the Pope. It felt like an omen for the journey ahead, that things wouldn’t go the way I expected. What at first seemed frustrating and defeating revealed itself as opportunity once I let it play out.

I returned to the airport with a deep gratitude for the wonders of travel and one hell of a layover adventure story.

BACK IN UGANDA

I had my creative heart set on seeing more of the Southeast after being told on my prior visit that I should not miss another opportunity to go to Jinja, with its spectacular Lake Victoria access and its distinction as the source of the Nile River.

I have spent the better part of a decade building an action sports portfolio, which has been incredibly rewarding. However, the industry has changed in ways that have made it harder to sustain a living. Though I still pursue action sports, I’ve long been drawn to more intimate settings that focus on people and their stories. Documentary-style work—some of my earliest photographic inspiration—has continued to shape my creative direction during both personal and professional downtimes. I’ve kept traveling and seeking stories I can tell, with the goal of building a human-centered body of work that strengthens and supports the opportunities I pursue in the future.

The primary purpose of the trip was to complete a follow-up journey to a place where I felt I had made great work years ago, and hopefully find new stories to tell—both now and in the future. One of the hallmarks of a successful trip is having people in your corner to help facilitate translation, access, and local customs. On my last trip, I met a family in the North, whom I wrote about extensively in my last blog. I stayed in contact with them as they eagerly awaited news of my return to Uganda. I had been in touch with one of the children in the family who was attending university in Kampala about my trip’s desires and goals. Conveniently, she was going to finish her schooling just as I was set to arrive.

I was excited to have prearranged a facilitator for my trip, as I had mounting trepidation beforehand, most of which I hoped had manifested itself as travel delays. After the plane touched down and I sat through the five-person, hour-long customs line, I made it through and quickly greeted my host for the trip. I realized quickly that my stress meter was, unfortunately, tuned accurately. I was greeted by a solo individual with one simple question: “Where is your car, and where are you staying?”

I felt I had done adequate legwork beforehand, conveying my photographic ideals, the places I hoped to visit, and my general inability to navigate the country without help. Based on prior conversations, I fully anticipated this individual to be my host and guide, who had agreed to meet me, pick me up, and help me achieve my goals for the next couple of weeks. It became immediately apparent that she was in no way prepared or equipped to help in almost any capacity and continued to inquire about why I wanted to come to Uganda and what my plan was.

As I stood there, four massive gear bags in hand, watching the cab drivers swarm us and beg to be the ones to transport us to a place that was yet undetermined, I was overwhelmed—about as overwhelmed as a person can be. I fought the urge to turn around and buy the first plane ticket back home, nearly giving in to the substantial anxiety than veiled my body.

Somehow, spending another forty hours on planes, trains, and automobiles back home sounded less appealing. I quickly decided that we should head toward Kampala. It seemed like a solid place to basecamp and plan for whatever I could do to make the trip successful. After we were dropped in Kampala near the university, I dragged my heavy load of equipment through the broken, dusty streets until I found a suitable accommodation.

I felt quite vulnerable doing this, especially being in a neighborhood removed from the mainstream. Thankfully, I felt more comfortable this time, since having all eyes on me during my first visit had conditioned me for future trips. I called Bekah back home and conveyed the predicament I was in. She utilized many of her sports psychology skills to help walk me through an action plan—essentially, make a plan to accomplish whatever I could given the circumstances and enjoy the unknown. Success would be defined in the micro instead of the macro.

My option was to become my own producer and fixer or go home with my tail between my legs.

What’s becoming a bit of a tradition is to break my photographic ice by shooting a favorite static subject—a vehicle. This one happened to be a pretty nice Toyota, though it appeared broken down. Source of the Nile River, Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7.

I woke up the next day to pressure from my Ugandan family friend head north from Kampala to Pader on a 12–14 hour overnight bus that very night. I was not keen on this, of course, given my desire to explore the East. Amazingly, Uber is quite popular around Kampala, and, unimpressed with host, I booked a ride to Jinja and invited her to continue her journey home alone, assuring her that I would catch up later in my travels. How I would travel north after that was a huge unknown, though I was not overly concerned and wanted to enjoy the first journey before me.

I found a guesthouse on Google Maps called Studio 62 and decided to be dropped there. After a 90-minute drive through thick Ugandan traffic—the “jam,” as it’s called—I arrived at the guesthouse, where only one accommodation was still available. Studio 62 was nice for the area, enclosed within a large red gate and shaded by plentiful deciduous Albizia Zygia trees marking the property. It was warm and spacious, with a welcoming patio. It felt empowering to navigate there without help, even though it was by more conventional means.

The hosts were very kind, and though I was fairly certain the room they gave me was a former garage or storage space, I was grateful nonetheless. Annoyingly but unsurprisingly, the family friend who had declined my invitation to head home alone had decided to join me on my trip to Jinja, which I wasn’t thrilled about. Once I was settled, it was late afternoon, and I was eager to get out and begin to get a lay of the land.

Given that Jinja contains the source of the Nile River, I decided that was an unmissable part of the town to visit. We took a short boda boda (motorcycle taxi) ride, and I paid an overpriced foreigner’s fee to enter “The Source,” which turned out to be a large tourist trap, only leading to a boat dock. From there, visitors were expected to hire a boat & captain to reach the true source a few minute ride from the dock. I opted not to pay for the boat ride to the actual source—the Nile is fed both by Lake Victoria, the largest tropical freshwater lake on the planet, and by natural flowing springs—because seeing it from a short distance with my own eyes was enough, even if I felt slightly deceived. Still, I was able to make some of the first photographs of the trip there, which made the visit worthwhile on its own.

*Subsistence fishing is a lifeline for locals with access to Lake Victoria or the Nile. Source of the Nile River, Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7.*

After turning down the boat ride, I walked on a path that led away from the boat ramp and into a grassy open space, bordering the shoreline. A few hundreds yards away, I noticed an older gentleman lounging on another part of the grassy space, sitting in his folding chair and playing soft music from a little bluetooth speaker. The older gentleman, a Kiwi, and I exchanged pleasantries, and it was nice to chat with someone who made me feel a bit more at home after the days of turbulence and, honestly, loneliness I had felt. He seemed just as surprised as I was by our encounter and asked what I was doing in this obscure part of the world. I shared my photographic and exploratory interests with him. He was a self-described expat who had lived in the area for many years and had a wealth of knowledge that I was grateful to glean from.

He suggested I start by visiting a small fishing village called Ripon, about a 10–15 minute boda ride from Studio 62. In addition to its fishing heritage, Ripon was known for its proximity to a large port called the Gombo landing site. The port received goods shipments—mostly from Kenya—crossing Lake Victoria, and was said to be full of all kinds of colorful characters. I made early plans for the next day to take a boda there, explore the area on foot, and hopefully hire a small boat to show me around.

Early the next morning, I made my way to the outskirts of Ripon via a boda. I paid my 2,000 UGX (about $0.57) fare and started down a narrow dirt road leading to the village entrance at the water’s edge. Jinja is considered one of the nicer and more upscale areas of Uganda, a destination prized by travelers from around the country. While it’s relatively developed, there is still considerable visual evidence that it remains a town in a developing country. Rough roads, crumbling or incomplete buildings and infrastructure, and open piles of trash offset the natural beauty of the area.

Upon entering Ripon, that reality became deeply apparent. Modern-style structures and homes gave way to shanties and makeshift dwellings. Trash was scattered everywhere, with even the small waves of the lake pushing discolored plastic and refuse to shore. A woman stood nearby, just off the waterline, filling her jugs while moving surface debris out of the way. I wondered what life was like for her but felt I already had a decent understanding based on what I could see.

*A fisherman prepares his boat for a day of fishing on Lake Victoria. Ripon Fishing Village, Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7.*

I noticed some rustic, worn wooden canoes along the shore and hoped it might be possible to hire a local to take me for a paddle and show me around. When I entered the village, I was greeted by a few puzzled onlookers and was eventually approached by a man named Emma. Emma, the owner of a small tourist boat company that mainly operated Nile Source tours, negotiated with me about my request. One of his workers, a Ripon local named Isa Mwambu, agreed to take me out on the water. I paid somewhere between $5 and $10 USD for about 30 minutes on the lake, which seemed fair enough.

I was handed a tattered and utterly useless personal flotation device (PFD), and off we went. It wasn’t ideal that Isa didn’t speak English—aside from “hi”—but he made up for it with his cheerful energy and pride in the beauty of the surrounding area.

*Isa Mwambu paddles out canoe out on Lake Victoria. Ripon Fishing Village, Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7.*

Lake Victoria, named by a British explorer after Queen Victoria, is Africa’s largest lake by area, the world’s largest tropical lake, and the second-largest freshwater lake by surface area. Its size is immense and feels overwhelming and endless in person; it may as well be an ocean.

Lake Victoria supports many industries, primarily fishing for Nile perch, tilapia, and silverfish. Most of the larger fish species, such as Nile perch and certain tilapia, are considered invasive, having been introduced in the late 1950s and 1960s. Their introduction devastated many of the native cichlid populations that once flourished in the lake. Nonetheless, these fisheries continue to sustain millions of East Africans today.

The more I learned during my brief time in Ripon, the more interested I became in seeing and understanding more. Emma told me that if I was truly interested, I should return the next day and pay to be canoed across the channel to a fishing village on the opposite shore called Kikongo. The entire village, he said, was dedicated to fishing for silverfish, known locally as mukene. Intrigued, I made plans to depart at sunrise the next morning. After my time in Ripon, I desired to continue on with the Kiwi’s suggesting, this time heading for the Gombo landing site, next to the Jinja Pier—all of it a short walk away.

As promised, characters were abound at the Gombo landing site. A group of people were loading sand onto a truck that had just arrived by boat. Nearby were clusters of long motorboats and an equal number of waiting bodas—both with their captains or drivers patiently waiting for passengers. The motorboats, for a small fee, ferried workers, travelers and goods across the channel, acting as a water taxi. Others were washing themselves or their bodas in the water, while groups of people prepared local fish for sale. In the not-so-far distance, the occasional waft of an intense, rotten fishy smell surprised me.

I walked farther up the street, passing the pungent smell of fish-processing factories, figuring this is where I caught the first whiffs. I expressed an interest in entering one to see what it was like, but a local Ugandan gate guard warned me that the Indian-owned businesses there were not known to be welcoming to outsiders and that it might not be safe. I decided to continue on my way and caught a boda toward Jinja Central Market—a sprawling, multi-story concrete complex filled with stalls, produce, goods, and products in seemingly endless supply, far outnumbering the customers. I walked through in utter amazement, wondering how it all managed to function. When there are floors and floors of the same fruit stalls, how does most of the product not rot away? I remember the smell of over-ripe fruit as I pondered this, spending the rest of the day exploring more of the city before turning in early.

Jinja Pier, a large access point for goods coming from Kenya and Tanzania. The port utilizes an aging and decripid rail system that many locals are saying they see less and less frequently. This site also overlook a prison across the water. Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Stitched imaged (3), Fuji 100sII, 55mm @ f/5.6.

*A supervisor oversees workers moving recently-devliered sand onto a truck for transport. Gombo Landing Site, Jinja, Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm 1.7 @ 1.7.*

Kikondo Fishing Village

As scheduled, I arrived at Ripon Village again the next morning at sunrise. My canoe captain, a different person this time, was already waiting in the boat. Muted blue tones of early morning were complemented by the stillness of the lake. There was no sound except for the faint calls of distant birds. Emma greeted me at the water’s edge, and we went over the plan once more. He made no introduction to the captain beyond explaining where he would be taking me. I climbed into the boat, and we pushed off into the still, glassy water—oar stroke after oar stroke—toward Kikondo. The high humidity on the lake and the cooler temperatures kept the clouds low, forming a vast diffusion layer for the emerging orange sun.

The new captain spoke no English but wore his tattered PFD with pride, unlike Isa, and carried himself with mild disregard for our activity. We moved steadily across the water and into the open passage as the orange glow overtook the muted blues all around us. In the distance, a loud foghorn blared, signaling the arrival of a supply ferry from Kenya. The captain didn’t say anything but began to paddle with more intention, frequently glancing toward the direction of the sound. As we crossed the end of the pier, he called out to a few workers waiting for the ferry. They all laughed—presumably at the sight of the random white guy with a bright orange backpack sitting in a dugout canoe—and we continued on.

The bugs emerging from the water with the morning sun were rampant and relentless, especially after we crossed the end of the pier. I hadn’t encountered them the day before, likely because of the lack of bright morning sun. Their presence that morning ensured I wouldn’t forget them anytime soon, as they seemed determined to occupy every exposed sensory port on my body.

As we neared the opposite shore, I could make out what I’d been told earlier was a prison, still distant but visible. A large group of people dressed entirely in yellow worked in a garden enclosed by razor wire. About ten minutes later, with the prison now out of sight, the captain guided his vessel between larger fishing boats docked at Kikondo, marking our arrival.

*My cross-passage canoe captain has a laugh after speaking with workers on the pier. Lake Victoria, Uganda, May 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm @ f/1.7.*

When I got off the boat, I was met by a young villager named Swamie, probably in his early twenties. He introduced himself by his company’s name, “Swamie De Boat Guy Jinja.” He offered to take me around the village of Kikondo, and I readily agreed. My boat captain didn’t seem too keen, but after they exchanged a few words in Lugandan, he asked that we return quickly.

Swamie filled me in on some of the village’s history but mainly explained that the people of Kikondo collect and dry mukene (silverfish) for sale. He told me that villagers fish for mukene at night using floating battery-powered lamps to attract the fish into preset nets. Once the nets fill, they are collapsed, pulled in, and emptied into storage basins aboard the boats. In the morning, the catch is brought ashore, where women and children spread the fish out on large mesh drying nets. Afterward, the dried mukene is further processed, sometimes ground into paste or pressed into cakes, for sale in local and regional markets.

Because it was still morning, the night’s harvest had just ended, and the women and children were already hard at work spreading and turning the catch to dry under the hardening sun. I made a few photographs around the area on my trusty Mamiya RB67 film camera.

*Boats rest at the shore of Kikondo Fishing Village. Kodak Portra 400, Mamiya RB67. Kinkondo, Uganda, May, 2025.*

*Mukene dries in Kinkondo fishing village. Kodak Portra 400, Mamiya RB67. Kinkondo, Uganda, May, 2025.*

Swamie hurried me back through the village so I could catch my return canoe ride across the water. I was eager to learn more about the fishing process and hoped to try it firsthand. I collected his WhatsApp information and made plans to return in two days. Conveniently, his main business was running a motor taxi across the water, so I would be able to meet him about an hour before sunset at the Gombo landing site for a quick motorized ride back across the channel.

The return on the canoe was much less buggy but slower, as the boat captain frequently stopped rowing to take phone calls on an old flip phone. I couldn’t help but admire it. I’ve often thought about going back to a flip phone myself to regain some digital autonomy and escape the social media cycle. I suspected his choice of phone was more practical than philosophical, unlike my own. For a fleeting moment, I even thought about tossing my own phone into Lake Victoria and beginning that digital reset right then and there, but logic prevailed.

We docked back at Ripon, and I caught a boda back to Studio 62, grateful I hadn’t tossed my phone into the abyss, but jealous that I couldn’t.

Kevin and Debbie

When I arrived back at my accommodation, a man and a woman were outside with a motorbike, the man attempting to teach the woman how to ride. I ate a breakfast of two eggs, avocado, fresh fruit, fresh juice, and Kenyan tea on the patio, prepared by the lovely staff. When the two finished practicing on the bike, they joined me outside to eat. The woman, a local, introduced herself as Debbie. The man, a Belgian national, introduced himself as Kevin. They were both kind, and I got along with them immediately.

As part of our small talk, we shared what had brought each of us to the area. Kevin and Debbie were a couple who had met online and were spending time together in Uganda since they had been unable to get Debbie a visa for the EU. Debbie told me she was from a village not far from Jinja and that they were in town on vacation. I told them I was there to travel, explore, and photograph. I shared some of my travel woes so far and how, despite the setbacks, I had continued finding interesting people and stories to tell.

I admitted that I was still unsure how I would make it north. The idea of traveling in one of the crowded Coaster buses—mid-sized public buses that are often packed, uncomfortable, and unpredictable—was unappealing, especially with all my gear, and I wasn’t even sure it would be possible. Debbie said she might have a solution: a hired driver. She explained that she and Kevin would be heading back to her village the next day with that same driver and invited me to join them. Of course, I accepted. She quickly notified her family, who were thrilled to host another guest. Kevin joked that he was glad to have me along since her family always overfed him and that another mouth at the table would help.

I appreciated the warmth of their offer and Kevin’s humor. If the driver was truly available, it would feel almost too good to be true. I held back my excitement and waited to see what the next day would bring.

The next morning, I waited patiently at Studio 62 for our driver, Henry, to arrive, though he wasn’t yet late. Ugandans are often known for running behind schedule, but there was Henry, perfectly on time at 8:30 a.m., just as requested. I took this as a good sign that he was a true professional and capable of transporting me safely to the far north. My intended destination, Pader, was roughly nine hours away with stopping—about 290 miles (470 kilometers) one way—across varied terrain.
We loaded into his midsized Toyota hatchback and began our journey to Debbie’s village. We drove for about an hour through a series of similar small towns until the pavement ended.
From there, it was another forty-five minutes along dusty dirt roads, with Debbie calling out directions from the back seat. It was just before noon when we arrived. The entire family stood outside waiting in anticipation. They greeted me warmly, and preparations for dinner began almost immediately.
I noticed a few rabbits hopping around near the chicken coop, and a goat grazing close by and it quickly became clear what dinner would be.

*On the left, a local prepares the innards of a goat after it had been hung and skinned.*

*Debbie and her father at their family home. Her mother and grandmother sit idly by in the background, talking. Debbie’s Village, rural Jinja, Uganda. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7. May, 2025.*

Eventually, we all loaded back into Henry’s Toyota and began another trip to get closer to the lake, since Debbie’s village sat near the shoreline of Lake Victoria. We traveled for a couple of hours, stopping first at Kevin and Debbie’s newly purchased land to admire all of Debbie’s hard work. She had planted and cultivated acres of bananas, coffee, mangoes, herbs, corn, potatoes, and cassava.

We then stopped at another landing site and fishing village called Bugoto, near Mayuge District, which was a beautiful spot. We were in a rush to get back for dinner, so I had little time to photograph. The light was soft and hazy, turning the reds of the dirt and the greens of the plants into gentle pastels. I watched two men building a canoe in an open field of low-cut grass and saw many fishermen and their families working along the shore. It was the kind of place I knew I would want to return to and learn more about every day life for these people..

When we arrived back at Debbie’s family home, dinner was hot and waiting. Our once-hopping furry friends had been prepared, along with goat, chicken, and even a pigeon. These were served alongside local dishes such as steamed sweet potato, mashed cassava (posho), and matooke (mashed plantains). It was a true feast. I had never enjoyed a meat as much as the fresh rabbit, which reminded me of a sweeter, more delicate version of chicken.

*Sugarcane transport. Rural East Uganda. May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7. @ f/1.7. Processed visually to match old Kodachrome.*

Outside, the chores continued as we ate. Traditionally, the family eats first, serving guests afterward while cleanup is underway. We all ate until we were full, enjoying each other’s company and offering to help, which was kindly declined. Across from their family home were plots of land filled with rice and sugarcane plantations. As the sun began to set, I felt the familiar pull to make photographs in that perfect light.

I made a few portraits of Debbie, who said she would never say no to a photograph. Then, from a distance, I noticed a woman in a scarlet red dress tending to her field and carrying a large bundle of firewood. She contrasted vividly against the warm greens of the earth beneath her feet. I asked Debbie to speak with her and request permission for me to photograph her. The woman seemed hesitant at first but agreed. Earlier, I had seen her standing near a drainage ditch, framed beautifully by some of the final sun of the day. By the time I approached, she had moved too far for the composition that earlier I had made in my head, so I asked through Debbie for her to retrace her steps.

After a few exchanges, she began walking back toward us—likely to tell us she was finished with the idea—but in doing so, she walked the same path I had watched her take before. The moment was perfect. I raised my camera and made the photograph I had envisioned and the woman returned home.

The sun had fully set by the time we said our goodbyes to Debbie’s family and started the long drive back to Studio 62. During the ride, Debbie, Henry, and I discussed my upcoming travel plans. Henry agreed to help with the journey north, which came as an enormous relief.

*A woman completes her field work for the day in her rice field. Rural East Uganda. May, 2025. Fuji 100sII 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

*Debbie working the garden hoe. Rice fields, Rural East Uganda. May, 2025. Mamiya RB67, Portra film.*

I enjoyed a much-needed rest day, marked mostly by a slow, easy morning. I had a big breakfast and what felt like endless cups of hot Kenyan black tea. I spent time going through my notes and began compiling thoughts for the writing of this piece, as well as organizing my images. Like the photographs themselves, my written reflections were curated into what would become this final narrative. I also included a few less-than-perfect images to highlight moments that stood out, since this blog post is meant to represent the trip as a whole, not just the polished highlights.

I wish I could include every detail, but as with any writing, that would quickly become long-winded and tiresome—something I may already be guilty of. I also brought my Ace Pro camera to capture short video clips of different moments. Some of these have already been included, and I plan to keep using the camera in places where I didn’t or couldn’t shoot stills. A few clips even show behind-the-scenes glimpses of how certain photographs were made.

I felt pretty satisfied with the imagery I’d created up to that point, considering so much of it had been spontaneous and improvised, guided only by instinct and vision. I love shooting with flash for my portrait work when it fits, but with how fast-paced and unscheduled everything had been so far, I hadn’t yet used it in the field.

After my slow morning—since it was my final full day in Jinja—I spent the afternoon with Kevin and Debbie exploring lesser-known spots around the town. Kevin and I even found a gym to work out in which was obscure, but surprisingly nice.

A Return to Kikondo

*Fishing boats on the shores of Kikondo Fishing Village. East Uganda, May, 2025. Fuji 100sII 55mm f/1.7 @ f/2.8.*

A little more than an hour before sunset, I caught a boda to the Gombo landing site. Swamie was there to meet me when I arrived, enthusiastic and clearly excited about our night mission ahead. When we reached the other side in Kikondo, the afternoon clouds had begun to gather, creating a soft, diffuse layer of light—not as strong as in the mornings, but beautiful all the same. Fishermen and women were hard at work preparing their lamps and fine-mesh nets for the night’s fishing.

Thanks to Swamie’s quick motor taxi, we had some time before the sun was fully down, so he took me around a different part of the village where we spoke with a few locals. On our return, we passed a section of the landing site that we had avoided a few days earlier for reasons still unknown to me. As the sky turned a warm orange, the diffuse cloud cover made it possible to shoot backlit without much flare. In person, the scene was a perfect mix of calm and energetic, peaceful yet full of intent.

The sounds of children laughing and splashing, nets hitting the bottoms of boats, and small waves lapping at the shoreline were met with the shouts of fishermen calling for lamps and equipment. The air smelled of open fires and searing meat, and music drifted from the main corridor of the village. It was a day like any other, built on routine and the shared purpose of doing one thing: fishing.

Whenever I travel through Uganda, especially with my large load of camera gear and bright orange Fstop camera bag, I tend to draw attention. In the small village of Kikondo, this was no exception. My presence briefly disrupted the rhythm of the evening—hopefully in a positive way—as I worked as unobtrusively as possible to make photographs before true nightfall.

*After I took a portrait of a fisherman, I turned around to see this young boy sitting and watching. Kikondo, Uganda. May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

*Golden hour sets as a fisherwoman preps her nets. Kikondo, Uganda. May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

Golden hour faded into blue, and Swamie motioned for me to wait closer to his boat. After a few minutes, he disappeared, mentioning briefly that he had an errand to run. At the far end of the landing site, a small open patch of land had become a gathering place for children who stood waving and calling out goodbyes to their friends and families departing on boats for the night.

A large pontoon boat passed by, packed with people laughing, dancing, and playing loud music. The children danced along from the shore, their silhouettes flickering in the fading light. In the final moments of blue hour, a few fishermen began setting their nets, trying to catch what they could before the lamps were needed.

Swamie soon returned and guided me onto his boat. We pushed off into the deepening twilight, heading toward the mukene fishermen he had arranged for me to meet.

*Blue hour fishing. Kikondo, Uganda. May, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

Swamie knew exactly where to go. He didn’t hesitate or wander but navigated confidently through the night straight to his target. We watched as the fishermen set their nets and lamps. We circled the area until it was time for them to pull the nets back in. Swamie pulled his taxi boat alongside one of the fishing boats. The water was smooth and glassy, making the transfer easy. I climbed into the small fishing boat, where three fishermen were already working with no room to spare. I felt uneasy leaving my camera bag on the larger boat, but I didn’t have a choice.

Together with the fishermen, we unfurled the large, wet orange nets in a systematic rhythm. They placed a floating light on the water, held aloft by sealed plastic jugs acting as pontoons. Then they tossed the net over the side and circled around until it enclosed the light in a wide ring. We moved on to another set of nets that were ready for harvest, and I followed their lead, helping to haul them in. They worked quickly and efficiently, and there was little room for error, but they were patient with me. I tried to match their pace, pulling the nets in unison.

When we reached the end, we pulled up a modest catch and dumped it into the boat. They told me they repeat this process every night, all night—rain or shine, fish or no fish. Earlier in the day, when Swamie had shown me around the village, we passed several drying nets full of mukene. Among them were a few small fish that looked different. I was told these were juvenile Nile perch and tilapia. It is illegal to harvest them at that size, a practice referred to as bycatch, but enforcement is minimal. The fishermen said it’s part of net fishing and that they don’t take the time to return the small fish to the water, seeing it as inefficient.

I thought about that as we dumped each new load into the boat. I wondered about the health of the fisheries and whether anyone was truly tracking it. After some time, Swamie came back alongside and collected me, and we began our return to the Gombo landing site. I felt that what I had just witnessed would make for an interesting video piece, since motion often captures night scenes better than still images.

When we arrived, a prearranged boda was waiting to take me back home. A quick night of sleep, and I would be off to the north.

The Long Drive North

*Portrait of Bruno on his dirtbike. Pader, Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

It was a long drive north. The last time I was here, I had traveled up through the western route, which passes through Murchison Falls National Park. This time, I went east, through a town called Lira, before turning north. Each time I pass through these places, I feel a twinge of regret that I haven’t carved out the time to go on a safari. I’ve never intentionally pursued wildlife photography, but it’s on my list—particularly a safari in Africa or photographing wildlife in Alaska.

My Ugandan host was thrilled to finally be heading home, and I was equally relieved to not have her in tow anymore since I was still quite frustrated with her. Debbie and Kevin also joined us for the first couple of hours before we dropped them off in a village called Iganga, where they met up with family friends. We took a group photo, thinking it might be the last time we’d see one another.

Henry didn’t talk much during the drive. He kept his eyes on the road, speaking up only occasionally. We made brief stops for bathroom breaks or to grab snacks from roadside stands, but otherwise we pressed forward into the obscure north. A few times, while stuck in traffic, I bought pieces of sugarcane from passing sellers. I’ll admit, I expected to see more variation in the landscape this far east, but after Iganga, everything began to blend together. The rice and sugarcane fields gradually gave way to rolling fields of maize and cassava, offset by occasional small town centers.

After passing Lira, it was another two hours or more of rough dirt roads before we turned off toward Pader. To my surprise, there was quite a bit of road construction underway, with crews beginning to pave sections of the route from Lira to Gulu. Henry remarked that elections were approaching and that this was usually the only time significant infrastructure work ever got done. Uganda has faced political turmoil for generations. While the country maintains the appearance of democracy, Henry told me the current President, who is sometimes called a ruler, has openly promised war if he is removed from power. Political rivals are often silenced, detained, tortured, or killed. “At least we are finally getting a road,” Henry said with a quiet shrug.

I wondered who was responsible for such major construction. Uganda doesn’t have a strong history of building reliable infrastructure on its own. As we drove past the work crews, it was clear that Chinese contractors were overseeing the project, as they often do with larger national developments across East Africa.

After a full day on the road, we arrived at the same restaurant that had marked the beginning of my deeper Uganda journey on my last visit—MidTown. Betty was outside with a huge smile, greeting me with a warm hug. The reunion didn’t last long before she insisted we sit down to eat. It was late evening, the sun low but not yet gone. A group of Egyptian men stood outside a nearby barbershop, and we exchanged curious glances, each likely wondering what the other was doing in such an obscure place. They asked for a selfie, and I obliged before heading inside to eat by the dim light of my phone’s flashlight.

Betty had arranged for me to stay in a much nicer accommodation than the one I used before. The same security guard who had harassed me on my previous trip had since been beaten, robbed, and strangled by a local gang. Understandably, they decided that property was no longer safe. The new place was far better—cleaner, more secure, and equipped with a large generator to make up for the frequent power outages that are so common in the north.

It was only day eight of my trip, but it already felt like weeks had passed. I took a down day to catch up with friends, especially those at the NUMEM Clinic and others I had met during my last journey. On that previous trip, I had made many photographs and decided this time to bring back prints to give as gifts. It was a really enjoyable day of driving around, sometimes venturing deep into the surrounding villages, returning the gift of photography to the people who had allowed me to make their portraits. It was deeply rewarding to see their reactions, and the gesture seemed to be warmly received. I hope to do it again on future visits, if time and travel allow.

That evening, a large market was being held on the outskirts of Pader—one of the twelve biggest of the year. Vendors from as far away as Kenya came to sell their goods: textiles, produce, meat, crafts, toys, and countless other items.

I spent part of the evening with Bruno, Betty’s youngest son and a talented woodworker, wandering through the market. On our way back toward the restaurant, I stopped to photograph a few vendors, including one man who had traveled from a far distance away. He was fairly drunk and spoke only French and Swahili. We communicated through gestures, handshakes, and shared expressions. He was kind, and when I motioned for a photograph, he stepped into the harsh northern sunlight and stood proudly for the shot.

*Portrait of John Niikobaye outside of a large market in Pader. He only spoke Swahili, and was incredibly drunk. Pader, Northern Uganda, June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

After a full day of catching up and walking through the evening market, I sat down to plan the days ahead. I had an original list of goals that I had sent to Betty and her family, though, as you might have guessed by now, those plans were mostly disregarded upon my arrival. That evening, I made arrangements with Bruno to rent a motorbike and head to Aruu Falls the following day. His two sisters later decided to join us. I was told the ride would take between sixty and ninety minutes each way, depending on conditions, and that we should avoid getting caught in the rain at all costs.

As we entered the second hour of riding through the empty backroads of northern Uganda, I started to question my fuel levels, the darkening clouds overhead, and how confident my companions really were about the route. My fuel had been measured colloquially “in thousands,” referring to the money spent to fill the tank. “All you need is three thousand to get there,” I was told. Sure enough, it was exactly three thousand shillings’ worth of fuel, though I had my doubts along the way since that was only 1-2 liters of fuel.

When we finally arrived at Aruu Falls, we changed into cleaner clothes and prepared for the hike down into the canyon. We were required to hire a guide for the group, and a friendly young man named Patrick joined us to show us around. The falls were stunning, surrounded by rugged jungle that felt untouched. At the base of one of the cascades was a large pool where Patrick said we could swim, though he and I were the only ones in our group who knew how. Patrick jumped in first, cutting through the current and swimming out to the base of the falls. He smiled and motioned for me to join him.

I dove in and fought against the strong outflow until I reached him. We spent the better part of an hour swimming and talking while the rest of the group explored a lower section, splashing in calmer water more to their liking.

On the ride home, I put in my headphones, played some Fleet Foxes, and let the rhythm of the road sink in. I thought about how unexpected this entire trip had been—and how, had everything gone according to plan, I never would have found myself here at all.

*Portrait of Mwaka Patrick. Aruu Falls, Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm @ f/1.7.*

I had so much fun on the motorbike that I decided to rent it again the next day. About forty minutes from Pader is a small town called Kalongo, dominated by Mount Kalongo, a striking rock massif that rises roughly 400 meters above the town. I had visited this town before on my last trip but only stopped briefly. It had been pouring rain, and my friends and I played pool and drank beer in a bar instead of sightseeing. Thankfully, this visit was much sunnier.

I made my way to Dr. Ambrosoli Memorial Hospital, the large Roman Catholic medical center that serves as the heart of the town and one of the most important hospitals in northern Uganda. Founded in the 1950s by Italian missionary doctor Giuseppe Ambrosoli, the hospital has become a vital regional facility, providing care for tens of thousands of people each year. It also houses a midwifery and nursing school that continues to train medical professionals from across Uganda. Much of Kalongo’s infrastructure and development grew around this hospital, which remains its economic and social anchor to this day.

I walked the grounds out to an old cemetery on the hospital property, taking in the quiet atmosphere. Beyond it, the hospital’s small private airfield stretched into the distance—used for medical supply deliveries, though such flights have become increasingly rare, or so I was told. From the cemetery, I could see a group of men repairing a tractor across the runway. I rode my motorbike over and spoke with them about their work ahead.

At first, they seemed confused by my presence, but they quickly warmed up, displaying the same kindness and curiosity I’ve come to associate with the Ugandan people. Before heading back, I took advantage of the empty airstrip for a short joyride. I shot all of the images from this part of the trip on my Mamiya RB67, split between Portra and HP5+ black and white film.

I spent my remaining days in the north doing what I could to seek out stories while also enjoying the adventure itself. This trip had taken me to new places and back to others I remembered fondly, where I was able to create newer, more vivid memories in their place. One thing that always strikes me about Uganda is how many people there are—everywhere. Even in the most remote corners of the country, there seem to be people on every road, at every stream, in every field, and in nearly every building.

This constant presence of life makes connecting with locals easy, except in the more isolated areas where few speak English. Having a local companion is invaluable for translating, navigating, and understanding cultural nuances.

That evening, after returning from my trip to Kalongo, I walked the streets of Pader just as the sun was setting, soaking in the magic of the fading light. The atmosphere was perfect, and I knew the soft glow would blend beautifully with the use of flash. A small group of young girls were walking along the main road toward their homes, when my local aides and I were marveling at the sunset. As they walked by, my aides asked, without consulting me prior, if I could photograph them. They were kind and shyly curious, fulfilling the simple evening tasks common among young girls stepping into local womanhood. They accepted, and I quickly assembled my portable flash kit, it would be my first time using it on this trip.

We made some beautiful photographs in a matter of minutes, and they were ready to continue on their way home. My aides recommended I gave them a bit of petty cash so they could buy some candy. I obliged, and they ran off giggling, my friends telling me they would probably have to keep the candy a secret to avoid scoldings or beatings from their mothers.

*Portrait of Lakica Racheal. Pader, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

*Portrait of Atimango Patricia. Pader, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7.*

Adilang

On my second-to-last day in Pader, I finally secured a dance showing with the Bwola dancers, which took place in the village of Adilang, about a two-hour drive away. For a long list of reasons, it almost didn’t happen. I asked around Pader about who I could hire to drive me and a few friends out there. My local friend Patrick—nicknamed “Surgeon,” not to be confused with the swim guide—found a vehicle for us and agreed to drive. I paid him for his time and for the fuel.

We departed Pader and began the long, bumpy, winding journey northeast toward Adilang. It wasn’t immediately clear whether Surgeon was an experienced driver; he pressed the gas and brake pedals with equal intensity. We sped out of town, passing a seemingly endless stream of walkers, cyclists, and bodas, each time jolting forward as he hit the brakes hard to avoid a collision. As we left the plains surrounding Pader, the landscape began to shift dramatically. The dry, dusty savanna gradually gave way to rolling green hills, patches of farmland, and large granite outcrops rising abruptly from the earth. Clusters of acacia and shea trees broke up the horizon, and the air grew cooler and cleaner as we gained elevation.

The closer we got to the borderlands between Agago and Karamoja, the more rugged the terrain became. It felt even wilder here, less settled and more raw. We passed through small roadside villages where makeshift barracks stood beside simple mud homes. When I asked what they were for, I was told that local defense groups, known informally as “citizen soldiers,” occupy them, especially during the night. Their role is to protect cattle herds from Karamojong warriors who sometimes cross the hills from the east. The Karamojong are a semi-nomadic pastoral people, traditionally armed with spears and, in more recent times, old rifles. For generations, cattle raiding has been both a cultural practice and a survival mechanism in the region, though in recent years the Ugandan government has made efforts to disarm them. Still, tensions and occasional cross-border raids persist, especially during the dry season when grazing land becomes scarce.

I didn’t get the chance to photograph any of this, but it’s a story I hope to pursue more deeply on a future trip to the region.

When we arrived in Adilang, we were greeted by a local government official who had helped arrange the Bwola dancers. He also happened to be Bruno’s father. We all sat together in a small restaurant, shared sodas, and discussed the plans. The dancers wouldn’t be ready for a couple of hours, so Bruno offered to take me to his home village just outside Adilang and to show me around a local chief’s dwelling.

*Traditional African Mud Home. Kanyipa Village, Adilang, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII 55mm f/1.7 @ f/5.6.*

While Uganda is officially recognized as a constitutional republic, it still operates alongside a deeply rooted and complex network of kingdoms and chiefdoms that predate the modern state. Although these traditional systems no longer hold formal political power, they continue to play a vital role as cultural institutions—preserving customs, languages, ceremonies, and oral histories that define the country’s diverse ethnic landscape. Kings, paramount chiefs, and clan leaders hold ceremonial authority and wield significant social influence, particularly in rural areas where cultural governance often feels more tangible than state bureaucracy.

The Acholi people of northern Uganda fall under the Ker Kwaro Acholi, a federation of fifty-four clan-based chiefdoms, each led by a Rwot (chief). The Ker Kwaro’s central office is based in Gulu, and it serves as a unifying body representing Acholi interests in cultural preservation, land mediation, and post-war reconciliation following the decades-long insurgency led by the Lord’s Resistance Army. Chiefs are custodians of Acholi tradition, overseeing matters of clan identity, marriage customs, and conflict resolution, often through symbolic and ritual means. Bruno’s offer to take me to one of these fifty-four chiefdoms was something I couldn’t pass up.

We passed through microvillage after microvillage until we arrived at a property deep within a maze of red-dirt roads. The compound was tidy and peaceful, with women and children moving about their daily chores. Bruno introduced us and asked to meet the chief, who unfortunately wasn’t present that day. One of his wives welcomed us warmly and offered to show us around in his absence, leading us through the property before finishing our visit inside a traditional ot pa rwot, the chief’s ceremonial hut.

Inside the hut was a sacred display of heritage: traditional drums, spears, shields, and other ritual artifacts, all arranged with careful respect. None of them could be touched, especially the drums. According to Acholi oral tradition, these drums are said to “beat themselves” when the rightful chief stands before them, a spiritual sign confirming his legitimacy. The story reflects the Acholi belief that leadership is both inherited and divinely sanctioned, guided by the spirits of ancestors.

My friends and the Chief’s family watched my reaction closely as it was explained that the drums play themselves, perhaps expecting awe or belief. I smiled, unsure how to respond. When they asked if I believed it, I wasn’t sure that I did, but I found myself admiring their conviction. There was beauty in their certainty, a quiet strength in knowing who they were and what they stood for. And perhaps, I thought, in a place where tradition and spirit still intertwine so seamlessly, those drums really might know the truth.

*A Chief’s son. Outskirts of Adilang, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7. A small use of the removal tool in Photoshop was used to enhance framing.*

After we departed the Chief’s property, we drove to Bruno’s home village of Kanyipa, about fifteen minutes from the dwelling. As we arrived, a large group of people began to gather, curious and excited, though some faces were filled with more trepidation than intrigue. Some couldn’t believe I was real. For several of them, I was the first white person they had ever seen with their own eyes. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and I was asked if others from neighboring villages could come to see me and touch my skin. It was a surreal experience, though not entirely surprising given how deep into the north we were.

The village elder approached us, smiling broadly, the smell of homemade alcohol heavy on his breath. Cassava was the dominant crop in the area, and he had mastered the process of turning it into a potent local moonshine known as waragi—a traditional Ugandan spirit distilled from fermented cassava, bananas, or sugarcane. Waragi is often produced in small batches using improvised metal drums and open fires, resulting in a rough but powerful drink with a sharp, smoky aroma.

After the fanfare subsided, a young woman began mashing stewed cassava in a large wooden bucket, a first step in the production of waragi. The rhythmic thump of the wooden pestle was present as I made a few photographs. Before long, Bruno’s phone began ringing repeatedly. The Bwola dancers were ready, and we needed to return to the town center. We packed up quickly, said our goodbyes, and set off down the dirt road. I made a few mental notes to return one day—to stay longer, listen more, and see what daily life there truly looked like beyond the brief spectacle of my visit.

*Portrait of Bruno in his home village of Kanyipa, Adilang, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7. Flash. Processed visually like Kodachrome.*

Now, I’ve already told you that during my 2023 visit to Kalongo, my friends Daniel, Benson, and I were rained out shortly after we arrived. We took shelter in a local bar and had a few too many beers, playing pool until the downpour eased. What I didn’t mention was what happened after the rain stopped. Drawn by the sound of rhythmic drumming and chanting, we decided to wander through the muddy streets, following the pulse of the music. Eventually, we came upon a large group of young dancers, all dressed alike, with small feathers adorning their heads.

We watched from the edge of the clearing, trying to understand the pattern of their movements. Before long, we were invited into the circle. The dancers were practicing Bwola, an ancient Acholi courtship and royal dance performed in honor of chiefs and community gatherings. We danced alongside them, not knowing the steps or when it might end, but carried by the rhythm and joy of the moment. We found the end as the sun set, releasing us back into the quiet night for our return to Pader.

When I later told Betty that we had danced Bwola, she was incredibly amused and insisted that next time I had to see the “real” dancers, the professionals often invited to perform at key cultural and political events throughout northern Uganda. Now that I had returned, I was thrilled to finally witness their practice in person.

As is customary, I paid the group for their time and performance. We drove down a short dirt road that ended at a wide grassy field where the dancers were rehearsing their final moves. I readied my gear, and soon their performance began. I filmed at first, then switched to stills as the energy built. The locals couldn’t help themselves. One by one, they joined in, dancing in conjunction. It was second nature to them. The music was infectious, the atmosphere electric. Watching the dancers, dressed in full traditional headdresses and beaded attire, I felt as though I was a part of the centuries-old tradition of passing stories and traditions through song and dance.

After the final sequence, I set up a small portrait station and worked quickly against the setting sun, capturing as many frames as I could while the dancers laughed, fidgeted, and waited to go home. We departed for Pader in full darkness, rain beginning to fall again. Lightning flashed across the busy sky, thunder echoing louder than the music inside the car. Even then, along the slick dirt roads, I still saw walkers, cyclists, and boda riders pressing on as if nothing had changed.

*Portrait of Dominic Owiny, a Bwola dancer. Adilang, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/1.7. Flash.*

*Dominic Owiny and fellow Bwola dancers perform in Adilang, Northern Uganda. June, 2025. Fuji 100sII, 55mm f/1.7 @ f/2.8.*

My friends back in Pader had agreed to find me a ride back toward Kampala, which I found out wasn’t happening at all as we arrived late from Adilang. I sent my new friends Kevin and Debbie a message in panic, since I was unsure how I was going to get myself back on such short notice. She was a miracle worker and reached back out to Henry. Henry drove through the night, picking me up early from Pader and driving me through the country, delivering me to Entebbe.

We got to drive through the outskirts of Murchison National Park, seeing street-side baboons and even a giant elephant making its way across the street. Kevin and Debbie were in Entebbe, anticipating my arrival, since Kevin and I were on the same flight out from Entebbe Airport the next night. We met up and conjoined forces with more of Betty’s kids, who were living in the Entebbe area, enjoying local sights and experiences (like swimming in Lake Victoria) before getting set to depart. Henry returned to Jinja, and I will be eternally grateful to him as my reliable transport around the country. He will definitely be one of my first calls on a future visit. No great adventure happens because everything went well. Overall, I am grateful for my experience, frustrating initially as it was, because of all the downstream opportunities it afforded me.

*Hasan at Lake Victoria. Entebbe, Uganda. June, 2025. Mamiya RB67, Gold 200.*

See you again, Uganda.

Uganda: The East and more from the North