The Genocide Memorial was not too far from the hotel so I decided to walk the couple of miles. Mind you walking anywhere in Kigali is tiring, as every single street is on a hill.

Security was as tight on entering the complex as it is everywhere in this part of Africa. It was explained to me by one of the guards that they are constantly worried about al-Shabab who are an islamic fundamentalist terrorism group and who would be happy to destabilise the region.

An atmosphere of reverence pervades once passed the security checks and visitors spoke in hushed tones. It was not dissimilar to the way you would feel in Auschwitz, Dachau or any other former Nazi concentration camp memorial.

Historically the root of this appalling tragedy goes back to the Belgian and French occupiers of this beautiful land. They sowed seeds of tribal division many years ago and this ultimately boiled over into one of the most intense mass slaughters of civilians in world history – over one million people butchered in one hundred days. That’s an unthinkable average of ten thousand men, women, children and infants for every single day during that period. On this site alone over quarter of a million people were murdered.

I went into the building which houses an exhibition of haunting reminders of the Genocide along with excellent video presentations. The first person I met was a middle aged woman, probably local, who was visibly very upset. Any survivors over the age of thirty would remember that time in Spring 1994.

There are representative photos and remains of the victims and they are portrayed very vividly yet without having the intensity of Aushwitz where the quantity of memorabilia is much greater.

It is nonetheless stark and upsetting and when you look at the damaged skulls in particular you think about how awful a death these people suffered.

Many were murdered in the the most brutal fashion and, without being too graphical, a method which sticks in my mind was where victims were thrown into open latrines, ten person deep, and left to drown in these open sewage pits.

“Man’s inhumanity to man” at it’s most depraved.

Yet while all this was happening it was being observed by military satellites and reported by some very brave journalists who risked their own lives in order to let the world know what was happening. However while their western editors printed it as mere civil and tribal conflict, the U.N. were fully aware of what was happening. Their chief military officer begged for just five thousand troops and, with them, he would have been able to stop it immediately. Back in U.N. Headquarters they argued amongst themselves about who should pay for such an operation.

In the end it was the (then exiled) leader of the Tutsi rebel force, Paul Kagame, who led his large but badly equipped army of men into the country and thankfully they prevailed, bringing this massacre to an end one hundred days later.

Even within a site of such ugliness beauty finds it’s way to the surface.

I spent a few hours here before taking a slow walk back to the hotel…

Waking up in a new city, town or village brings a sense of excitement and anticipation. It was no different here in Kigali and I was looking forward to exploring whatever there is to see here.

But before heading out on shank’s mare I spent a while trying to organise a gorilla trekking permit. I wanted to do it in one day, regardless of how early I had to start, and, after veering down a few cul-de-sacs, I got lucky. They couldn’t take me until Monday so I postponed my departure from Kigali by a day and signed up.

Without exception, Kigali is perhaps the safest and cleanest city I have yet to visit in any country in Africa. There isn’t that feeling of mayhem, tainted with the whiff of oil scented pollution that you get almost everywhere else. Traffic is calm and well controlled, with traffic lights that show second countdowns on both red and green. More importantly, these controls are adhered to. The police are very visible but not in an “in your face” or aggressive way. So people are free to get on with their lives in a relaxed yet busy atmosphere.

The way this small country has turned itself around in twenty four years is little short of a miracle, and I don’t have the words to describe how different it is, in my experience, to any of it’s neighbours.

It’s new and modern buildings provide the space that a country like Rwanda needs to offer in order to entice the global corporate world to come in and do business. And you don’t feel that these people will not be suckered by Wall Street or Frankfurt sharks.

I had read, and perhaps you already knew, that the Rwandan government version of Bord Failte have sponsored Arsenal F.C. and, from being here even so briefly, I can see how clever a tourism marketing strategy this is. Hats off to them for their ingenuity and I hope that it works.

Overall it was a pleasant and interesting day. I came back to eat at the hotel and planned to visit the Genocide Memorial the next day which, no doubt, would evoke a very different kind of emotion…..

Today’s ride was going to be quite short at about 180 kilometres so, despite the border crossing, I wasn’t going to push too hard.

The African bed was quite comfortable but the bathroom was odd in that there was no wash basin. I just had to adapt and at least there was a sit on toilet.

Breakfast was healthy and tasty as usual and then I set about loading up Simba.

I left my little room and off again to hit the (initially rough) road towards the Rwandan border.

The ride was really pleasant as the road twisted and turned up into the mountains of southern Uganda and everywhere people were working hard in the fields.

Or perhaps I should qualify that by saying ‘women’ hard at work in the fields.

It wasn’t long before I could almost smell the border. As ever, it was a cesspit of humanity and this time I gave the nod to a pleasant young guy called Patrick to assist me.

Exiting Uganda was seamless enough until, when crossing to the Rwandan side of the barrier, I was for the first time ever stopped to have my temperature taken. There has been an outbreak of Ebola in the region and everyone passing through had to be checked.

The Rwandan clearance was also quite straightforward after some pushing and shoving, and then we moved back into “no man’s land” to get the required insurance. I queried Patrick as to why he doesn’t call it “no woman’s land” and I regretted this as soon as he started to lecture about how God created man first and then woman from some bone on the side of man’s body, his rib I presume. I couldn’t be bothered discussing it further and nodded blankly in abstract agreement. Time for me to get out of here.

I almost had a little mishap immediately after crossing the border when I hadn’t realised that they drove on the right side of the road here.

Thereafter it was pure motorbiking bliss the whole way to Kigali. The road surface was as good as you will find anywhere, there was very little traffic and the soft bends through the mountains were a joy to ride. The first thing you notice about Rwanda is how immaculate it is. Regularly you will see people, young and old, brushing down the dust on the side of the road.

Proper drain gullets were everywhere and the place just had a spotless feel to it.

Kigali is the “city of a thousand hills” and it wasn’t long before I pulled up at Hotel Rwanda.

This is the actual hotel that is depicted in the movie and what a tragedy that was. I would learn more about it over the coming days.

One last thing that I wanted to do before turning in for the evening was to get a haircut – wouldn’t be a Baldy Biker without one….

I don’t know whether my host family were a bit sad to see me go or if it was the effects of the Jameson from the night before that made them so subdued looking. I had drunk very little of it so they must have been very hungover.

After exchanging handshakes and goodbyes, I left at about 8am, taking the new city bypass so as to avoid Kampala rush hour and, once I got clear of the smog, it was a gorgeous morning and already in the early 20’s.

These little roadside markets pop up regularly and they are far cleaner and less manic than their claustrophobic equivalents in the cities and large towns. I stopped off to buy a couple of bananas to have during the day and, as has invariably been my experience, I was taken with the friendliness of the people.

It was not long before crossing the equator and I was lucky to meet up with a Tanzanian couple who were traveling in the same direction.

For me they were unusual in themselves in that they are the first African motorbiking tourists who I have ever met. Meeting fellow bikers in Africa is rare and it turned out to be fortunate that I was able to chat with this friendly Tanzanian couple about the route that I was hoping to take through their country in the coming days.

When planning this trip I have always had a niggling concern about the safest and most doable way of getting from Kigali in Rwanda down through western Tanzania to Mbeya in the south. I am comfortable with the route thereafter (with a question mark left hanging over the Zimbabwe leg) but am still a bit unsure about the few days before Mbeya.

When I told them about my plans, my new Tanzanian biker friends warned me against riding the route that I had intended taking, saying that many sections of it were impossible on a motorbike, regardless of what various maps say, and could only by crossed with a 4×4 once south of Kigoma at Lake Tanganyka. They told me that I would have to travel further east before taking one of the better dirt track roads which would link up after a couple of days with the main Dar es Salam to Mbeya Road. So back to the drawing board once more which I will do when I stop off for a few days in in Rwanda.

I moved on through the gorgeous Ugandan countryside stopping off occasionally to take water and have a banana. On one occasion, in the middle of nowhere, two old guys startled me when simply appearing out of thin air and they began touching Simba and laughing uproariously. A bit weird but it must be remembered that I am the one who is the alien in this particular setting.

These particular “horny cows” as I have named them are everywhere and I was later told (whether accurately or not) that they are indigenous to Uganda.

Rudimentary brick making is a frequent sight and I guess that’s why you rarely see the straw/mud hut dwellings that I will be passing as I journey further south.

I eventually reached (after getting lost!!) the approach road to my Airbnb for the night. I was welcomed by a delightful woman, appropriately named Patience, who also started and runs a local primary school. She began in 2002 with two pupils and now has over five hundred along with thirty staff.

By any standard this is a remarkable achievement as it get’s no state funding and is totally dependent on contributions and volunteer helpers. She showed me around the school and I was treated to a recital of some local songs. The headmaster was disappointed to discover that I was not a new volunteer teacher and he looked like a man under a lot of pressure.

(the menu at the food hall where I was the only customer – 1 euro = 4,000 schillings)

Later over dinner in the food hall we chatted about her enterprise and she wondered if it would be possible to set up a volunteer program with students from Ireland (if you are reading this Leah Foyle I will be chatting with you – it’s only half a day away from the hospital where you have just been working!)….

From way back when, I have always wanted to see Entebbe Airport. That might seem a little bizarre to most people but it has held a mild fascination for me ever since the Israeli hostage rescue in 1976. A week after that outrageous feat, myself and two fellow intrepid and adventurous seventeen year old school friends, Bill Shipsey and Dave McCann, flew to Israel to work on a Kibbutz for the summer.

I won’t tell you the story of that journey other than to say that our seven hour travel schedule took two days. And during those two days we enjoyed bomb scares, body searches, flight diversions, military escorts and enough excitement to leave an indelible imprint on our impressionable young minds – and all because Idi Amin allowed Israeli hostages to be held at Entebbe.

So off I headed with my new friend Nasser on the short seventy kilometre spin down to Entebbe. The best part of a fabulous new road has already been constructed between Kampala and Entebbe but Nasser said that the old road would be quicker for some reason.

So there it was, laid out before me, and after all these years, seeing it as I rock up on an Irish registered motorbike felt a bit surreal.

There has been little by way of modifications to the building and it was pretty much as I had imagined it to be. Nasser and I went in to the terminal which confused the legion of security personnel, as they were suspiciously unable to understand why anyone would come to an airport unless they were either going somewhere or collecting someone.

This is the area where the hostages were held and, hard as I tried, I couldn’t see any bullet holes anywhere. We stayed for a while pottering around and lo and behold, there before me was a shop selling Jameson whiskey. I bought a bottle as a gift for my hosts, although the seller was reluctant to let me buy it without a boarding pass. I showed her a $20 bill and telling her that she could keep the $3 change helped. When she said that I must be from the local U.N. base I assured her that I was and off we popped with our little piece of Ireland.

After we got back I started preparing my pannier bags for the next morning. When I looked outside my window there were the two lads washing Simba.

I produced the Jameson after dinner and between all of us (except young Sammi) the litre bottle got polished off to a backdrop of the Riverdance video belting it out on my iPad. Thankfully it wasn’t Ramadan for this delightful young moslem family…..

Today turned out to be a bit of a non event. I had intended hopping on one of those combi minibuses and traveling into the city centre. If you know anything about them then you will know that they are the staple mode of transport throughout Africa – always way overcrowded and always driven like crazy.

There are thousands of them in Kampala alone, as there are in every city, town and village in Uganda. I have never experienced one from the inside and I was feeling a bit “what the heck” in wanting to travel by one.

However my hosts told me that there were protests and riots in the city and that it would be best if I stayed away. Reluctant, but willing to err on the side of caution, I took their advice. Apparently there has been a reaction to the imposition of a tax on on social media messaging but perhaps it’s best that I touch on this later.

In any event by early afternoon the heavens opened up and the rain thundered to the ground in bucketfuls like I have never seen.

Perhaps it was as well that I wasn’t caught out in it. It continued well into the night and I was glad that I was not motorbiking today.

As darkness fell the electricity went off and power in the whole area was knocked out by the storm.

Nonetheless I was still fed with some of the best fried chicken that I have ever tasted – obviously cooked as usual over the charcoal stove…

As it was Sunday, and certainly not out of some “born again” religious fervour, I wanted to find a church service where I could perhaps peek in. My moslem hosts told me that there was a catholic church within walking distance so off I headed.

I met some of faithful (or gullible depending on your point of view) strolling along in the same direction under the hot sunshine. Most were carrying gifts/donations for the church but I sadly feel that these were not for sharing with the community at large. My sense of how these ordinary (mostly poor by any standard) people were being pickpocketed by the local clergy just for the sake of an imaginary ticket in business class travel into the next life was exacerbated when I saw the scale of the almost brand new church.

It was built in 2015 for a papal visit, and you wouldn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that whatever it had cost would have been far better spent on health, education and food programs in the immediate vicinity. I’m only passing through so I am not going to judge but rather just express my feeling about it – a tad offended.

A more typical local church by comparison!

The purpose of the papal visit was, I gather, to honour christian subjects who were killed on this spot by the then local king who was not so pleased with the spreading of christian doctrine.

I must say however that the singing which I could hear wafting out from the large dome was exquisite. As I walked away I heard a rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus that would have lifted the heart of even the harshest cynic.

I walked on for a while until I reached the lake shore which was a hive of Sunday afternoon activity. I was approached by a woman selling water and, as it was really hot, she also kindly gave this sweltering mzungu a plastic chair under the shade of a big tree.

I sat beside these guys for a while listening to them chatter without understanding a word of what they were saying. Looking down at the lake and I could see three men wading into the water fully clothed. One of the guys beside me explained that it was an adult baptism and that one of the three was a pastor.

So a Ugandan John the Baptist did his thing and I watched as he performed the ritual on three separate men.

This was the official part of the ceremony before the immersing into water. The pastor is the man in the brown shirt and beige trousers.

A few locals swimming after washing in the lake. Quite honestly I would not need a fear of Bilharzia to stop me getting into that lake. It is pretty gross, with raw sewage easily visible to the naked eye.

I wandered on until I came across a local fish market. It was quite pleasant to walk around until being confronted by the local drunk who suggested that I should bugger off. I guess that this is just the same sort of racism that black people experience back home and it gives me an idea of how they must feel intimidated. I didn’t notice anyone prepared to challenge the drunk so, not being one to argue when you are outnumbered, I duly obliged and buggered off.

It was late afternoon by now anyway so I walked a different route back in the 30 degree heat.

Everywhere you go you will find small shops and/or street stall. Nothing gets wasted in Africa and everything gets resold.

Once back in the comfort of my little flat I took a long cold shower.

Rather than eat with the family I went on Simba to a big hotel close by for dinner as I was craving a nice bit of meat and some decent WiFi. I experienced neither unfortunately.

Later back at the house I introduced the family via their YouTube to Riverdance – they were surprised to see that some white people can dance but I was quick to assure them that I didn’t fall into that category……

I slept like a baby and woke up to the sound of a cock crowing outside the window. I thought about it during the night and decided to base myself here for a few days before moving on. It was ideal in that I had my own privacy and this was about as perfect a base as I could find.

It was a lovely little self contained unit and the hosts also provided breakfast and dinner.

I looked out the window to see my clothes washed and drying in the morning sunshine. The lady of the house had offered to do any laundry I needed and, while at first being a bit loathe to give my by now pretty manky bits and pieces, I was nonetheless quite happy to have them done for me. My system for washing clothes has always been to wash whatever I need when I am showering and then either dry them there or at the next destination. Then get them done properly wherever it’s possible.

Breakfast was huge and, as they are a moslem family, their food seems to be predominantly vegetarian.

They told me that there was likely to be rain in the afternoon so I headed out into the immediate locality to get some more Ugandan schillings and wander around a bit. One thing that I enjoy doing in a new place is to potter around a local shop or supermarket if there is one. You learn a lot about people this way and it’s interesting to the types of products being bought and sold.

At first I thought that these were some kind of nuts but when I saw the eyes looking out a me I decided to pass. Not the type of snack that you will find in Tesco!

After a while I saw the rain clouds forming and decided to get back to my little studio. I just spent the rest of the day reading and decided to leave any more exploring until the following day.

Dinner was once again cooked over an open charcoal stove……

…. and my new friend, Sammi, insisted on presenting it to me…

My host kindly insisted on making me a coffee before heading off and we ended up chatting for about half an hour.

Then, once Simba was packed up, I headed off into the city to find the road to Busia as this was the border crossing into Uganda that I opted for. I had read previously that the British government donated millions to improve this particular crossing so as to speed up goods in transit which previously could take days. How benevolent they can sometimes be to former colonies. I wonder how that will work post Brexit.

The first few kilometres was rough, dusty, potholed dirt road but once I hit tar I was able to push on. I was giving myself two hours to get to the border and would get petrol and something to eat there.

Brunch was what you see in the photo but would do until evening. I had slowed down earlier for a couple of roadside vendors who were selling bananas but the crowds around them suggested more hassle than they were worth. But I was dying for a banana.

I pulled over at a quiet spot about five minutes before the border to sort out paperwork, smaller amounts of dollars etc. rather than do so under the watchful gaze of border vultures.

The run up to the first army checkpoint was as manic as I have come to expect at an African transit post with hundreds of articulated lorries and thousands of hot and tetchy people knocking around. As usual, I was the only “mzungu” within a hundred kilometres which always draws slightly uncomfortable attention. Unless I feel that it is safe to do so I would not produce a phone or camera to take a photo.

As I have done previously I picked out one of the dozens of “official” helpers who were pounding on me to assist. I actually picked well this time, a huge but seemingly pleasant guy called Derek. We agreed on one thousand Kenyan schillings (€9) but for that he was to assist me on both sides of the border, because you have to go through the same process twice. How he got over to the Ugandan side was to be his problem (but I did notice him later handing a donation to a group of soldiers at the barrier).

There was a bit of flapping at the Customs on the Kenyan side but it was basically down to her both not having a clue and wanting my Kenyan schillings that I no longer needed. I ended up showing her how to treat the Carnet and I told her loudly in front of big Derek that I had only enough schillings for him. I think that his large presence was enough to end that conversation. Immigration couldn’t find where my passport was stamped back at Mombasa but realistically she was also just looking for her piece the perceived pie that I was carrying.

On the Ugandan side there was a longer queue in the Customs office and boy was it hot and sweaty in that confined space. I measured it at two by six metres and I counted fourteen people squeezing together, each trying to push ahead of the other. After a while Derek pulled me to the front and nobody argued with him, least of all me.

After more fluting around he (correctly) advised me to buy insurance. This is the single biggest rip-off as I already have insurance from a company in Rotterdam for all African countries. On previous crossings I usually paid about $15 but the guy in the insurance office insisted that it would cost me $100. I told him I could buy a very good bike in Uganda for that money and I put a $20 note on the desk in front of him. He wasn’t going to give in until I started to pull the note away saying that I was fine with traveling on the insurance I had. He accepted the $20!!

After a bit of haggling for Ugandan schillings with “official” currency traders I said goodbye to Derek and actually gave him twice what he asked for as he had been a great help.

So after about one and a half hours getting across the border, hey presto, I was motorbiking in Uganda. The first noticeable thing was that the road was significantly better. No potholes and an even surface, at least until Kampala that is.

I pulled over to chat with Hans from Frankfurt who is spending two months cycling around Kenya and Uganda. I suggested that he put his hat back on or else he would have a fried nose by the time he got to the next town of Jinja.

It was at Jinja that I crossed the official source of the River Nile at the point where it enters Lake Victoria (please don’t message me debating the matter – it’s official, so Top Gear made their version up!!).

The outskirts and woeful traffic of Kampala starts about forty kilometres before you even get near the city. The road turned to crap and riding into the city felt like a game from a Mad Max movie. Christ it was wicked. At one point I spent twenty minutes on a completely jammed roundabout as the directing traffic policeman chatted away on his mobile phone – and it was 32 degrees Celsius.

I had a fairly good idea of where I was going and tried several detours, not one any better than another unfortunately.

By the time I arrived at the Airbnb I was knackered. However it was a perfect property in a really quiet and peaceful area south of the city overlooking the lake. They were a lovely family waiting to greet me and showed me into my annexe room/bathroom/sitting room off the main house. Boy did I need a shower.

The view over the lake was spectacular and I was really made feel at home.

I was even invited to join in on a penalty shootout. So much for my gammy knee!!

Food (vegetarian!) is cooked in a traditional manner over charcoal…

….. but I was starving and would have eaten a bowl of raw carrots.

At the end of a hectic slept I slept like a baby….

At 6am I was wide awake after a good sleep and wanted to get on the road early. However when I looked out the window there was a very heavy fog outside so I decided to hold back for a couple of hours until it would burn off.

I loaded up Simba and then had some breakfast. A South African news channel was on in the background reporting from Zimbabwe and I noted that I must keep an eye on the political situation there over the next couple of weeks. If the violence escalates then I might have to change my route a bit.

The clock read 10,083km at the start of this adventure and I wondered what it would be when it returned to Ireland.

The fog cleared by 9am and off I went into the African morning. It took about an hour just to get out of Nairobi and that was using the southern bypass and not even going into the city. After Istanbul it has the worst traffic of any city I have ever ridden in.

It wasn’t too bad from then on, mostly lorries and combi vans heading towards the Ugandan border. At least half of them belched out thick black smoke from burnt oil and it was a good thing that I had remembered to pack my bandana.

I stopped for petrol after a couple of hours and was not encouraged to hear the attendant’s view that it would take two days to reach Kisumu on a motorbike. I passed through several towns and villages where there was just dirt and mayhem everywhere. Some of them literally resembled a rubbish dump but I guess that people adapt to an environment and that this sort of existence is just a way of life.

I turned west off the main northbound road soon after Nakuru and the landscape almost immediately changed. It became more hilly and everywhere was green and agricultural.

There were tea plantations everywhere and people were hard at work gathering this nationally important commodity. I have never been to this part of Kenya before and it really is beautiful.

Simba never fails to arouse curiosity whenever I pull over and even when you think that you are in an isolated area kids just appear out of nowhere.

The ride to Kisumu took over six and half hours with very few stops and the roads had been fine until I got to the city itself. The last few kilometres was a difficult run of potholes and tarless road past one of the slum areas of the city.

The Airbnb host was there to welcome me and once I got everything unpacked the first thing I did was to immediately jump into the shower. It had been 31 degrees at midday and I needed it.

I asked about where I might get some food and she very kindly volunteered to drive me to a restaurant where I had a gorgeous piece of local fish which was probably caught in the lake that day.

Fishing on Lake Victoria is very important to the local economy but these guys take their lives in their hands as the hippos don’t take kindly to being disturbed.

We drove back through one of the slums and this is were you see poverty at it’s most stark. These are like open scars being left to fester with very little being done to heal them. The open sewers reminded me of the “flying bags” at the last slum that I visited with Kerrie on the previous African trip in Nairobi. Yet people living here have no choice but to adapt and forage on.

Once back to the Airbnb I was glad to hit the hay as I was a bit weary after my first day back on the road. It was a very nice room with a very clever curtain style mosquito net around the bed so no feeding time for the local mozzies tonight….