Kampala, Kampala, Kampala!

This is the cry from the "conductors" of the Matatus around Jinja. These small, minibus style vehicles are the only cheap way to travel from city to city; very handy but you certainly get what you pay for. Want to share three seats with five people? Want to fly over speed bumps at 80km an hour? Want to stop every 10 minutes to pick someone up? Hop aboard a Matatu! Jinja to Kampala in 2 hours for just over a pound though works for me - I didn't come here expecting extreme comfort after all.

Upon arriving in the capital you can immediately feel the difference between the sleepy, colonial-style town that is Jinja and the bustling, almost manic, atmosphere of Kampala. It's a good change of pace....for a while at least. As I have learnt from my travels, the key to a successful day is plenty of assigned rest periods involving at least one cup of tea, some water and perhaps even some food. If you're feeling especially fruity you can even have a beer or two. With this rule in mind I suggested that our posse (Mike, Debi and me. Is that enough for a posse?) jump into the nearest cafe before we even started the day. Our chosen cafe was a nice enough place - quite modern by Ugandan standards - and we settled down to some tea and toast. Having ordered English tea, real tea, I was quite surprised to find it smelling distinctly like cinnamon and served with hot milk. I may have commented to my amigos (big on the Spanish theme today) that it was "a bit weird", to say the least, having hot milk and cinnamon with real, quality, British tea. In fact, now I think about it, I probably remonstrated quite audibly about the quality of the beverage served to me. The waiters picked up on this and asked if everything was satisfactory, and in true British fashion I answered "Yes, everything is just splendid, thanks". Unfortunately my initial complaints had caused an atmosphere between us and the staff. One waiter asked me four or five times if everything was okay, but said it in a manner which suggested that he'd rather things weren't alright at all and, indeed, wished me to choke on my cinnamon and hot-milk tea. There were other incidences throughout our  brunch, involving cutlery and ketchup, that led it to become less than civilized and as we left I had to assure the staff that we had enjoyed our beverages and that I would blog favourably about the cafe (hence this overly long reminiscence).

Fully replenished, we headed towards the Parliament area of the city to see some government buildings and the like. Along the way Debi was in "Japanese tourist mode" as she calls it and snapping away with relish. Mike and I spotted a police van and, after our experience at Mandela stadium, began warning Debi to put her camera away. She seemed not especially bothered by our sound advice and continued taking pictures, even managing to point the camera directly at Mike's face - which happened to be right in front of the van. Only afterwards when Mike and I asked why she had done such a thing did she realize what had happened. "There were police there?! I took a picture of them?! Oh, scheisse!", was her response.

After checking out the parliament buildings (not especially exciting) and visiting the craft market (bought Mum and Fern some stuff) we went to get a couple of Bodas to take us across town to the Anglican cathedral. The usual haggling over price ensued, but we were soon off, holding on for dear life. It was an interesting experience to say the least - we saw the presidential convoy working its way through the city, saw some guys scrapping, another group of guys being chased down the street, dodged our way past cars and had a mid-Boda-ride high-five. Sorry mum. Our only regret was that we didn't film it.

The Anglican cathedral was nice, but we spent only about ten minutes there. After which we headed down towards the old town where lies the recently completed mosque, funded by the one, the only Colonel Gaddafi. It was a stunning building and we got to have a wee tour around it; only after Debi had kitted herself out in veil and leg coverings. Turns out it was started by Idi Amin (if you don't know who he was, look him up) way back in the day (70s) and sat unfinished as a concrete eye-sore until 2003. The Muslims within Uganda wrote to Gaddafi asking for his assistance who promptly came in, ripped down the original structure and built what is standing now. Good on the ol' psycho.

Another rest, and a cheeky beer saw us ready to leave this busy, behemoth of a city. Before that we decided to quickly have a look at the old-town fort: turned out it doesn't exist (or so we told ourselves after half an hour walking around looking for it).

The "taxi-parks" in Kampala are not places you want to be - about 20million people, a lot of mud and exhaust fumes. After trying the "new" taxi park (didn't look that new to me) without any luck, we headed to the old taxi park in search of a Jinja-bound Matatu. After some arguments about price (Easter rates mean more than double the price it seems) we were away and fairly content to be heading back to our beloved Jinja Township.

My Easter weekend was very nice, but I don't have the energy to write about it now and I'm sure you good people are just about spent in terms of blogage. I very much hope everyone's easter was lovely - do feel free to tell me about it if the mood takes you.

Going on safari tomorrow, back on Monday, fly back to Blighty on Wednesday.

Much love mon amigos x