It’s the beginning of the rainy season in Uganda and we forgot to check the weather. We hadn’t even thought about the possibility of rain given how beautiful our drive had been from Kisumu to Jinja. The country looked like a triptych: baby blue skies filled the top panel, followed by lush green palms, and red earth below. I was sure the Ugandan flag would be blue, green and red. (It’s actually black, yellow and red which, frankly, I think is an inappropriate color scheme for this country). Anyway, the skies were bright, the sun was shining, and we forgot to check for rain.

At about 2:30 in the morning the music blasting from the neighboring village gave way to rolls of thunder in the distance. Then, sure enough, the rain started and before we knew it, it was torrential. I lay awake in our rooftop tent with conflicted emotions: on the one hand I enjoyed listening to the sounds of the storm, yet I was also entirely positive, surrounded by metal poles, that we’d be struck by lightning.

Our drive to Jinja had been easy. We woke up in Kenya in Maricianah’s new home, to a decadent homemade breakfast of crepes, sweet potatoes, bacon and masala tea. Then it was time for the Kenyan/Ugandan border - which we had been dreading. The Tanzanian/Kenyan border had been tough enough, and we were told this one would likely be worse. Plus, we still didn’t know if we’d need a carnet de passage, but regardless we still didn’t have it. We got to the border, and then 33 minutes and zero bribes later, we were through. It was the fastest and simplest border yet. We danced our way to the car, celebrating our victory. We were done in record time! Tom jumped into the driver seat, reversed out of our parking spot, and then tapped into the car parked next to us. It was the type of innocent friendly tap between neighboring cars just saying hello. But we realized there was an officer with an AK47 walking towards us, having witnessed the “accident” aka “perfect opportunity to get money from white tourists.” He sauntered towards us with authority oozing from his skin. Damnit. At the beginning of our trip, this would have been the end of our fastest border cross and the beginning of our longest. But instead, this is where we thanked the Tanzanian/Kenyan border for stripping us of our final morsels of patience. The officer pointed to an array of scratches and dents on the bumper of the victim car, which obviously had not been from our light tap. We stayed in our car and just said no no no on repeat and kept the car moving. We preserved the 33 minute record and our pride.

Once we got into Uganda we drove west past flooded rice paddies and tea plantations. The Uganda landscape was by far the greenest so far. It felt truly tropical. I could feel the damp dew in the air and the humidity hung to my curls. Two easy hours past the border, we were in Jinja.

Jinja was really really dusty. The brick red dirt covered the roads, the sidewalks, the food stalls, the people and the cars. We went to the food market and criss crossed the stalls buying what we needed for dinner: tomatoes, chilies, garlic and onions, a handful of passionfruit and a pineapple. It was hot and the market was filled with tired vendors. A teenage boy slept at the base of a tower of cabbages, his legs covered in fallen leaves. A middle aged woman slept with her head resting on the pillow of a large purple eggplant.

We were camping just a few kilometers outside of Jinja, on the bank of the Nile, at its source in Lake Victoria. The fact that this day, of all days, had been such an easy journey felt especially ironic. For seven countries now we’ve listened to and learned about David Livingstone’s heroic feats; his enduring struggle to discover Africa and, particularly, his endless search for the source of the Nile.

Africa is obsessed with David Livingstone. Each country we’ve been to claims some part of his larger than life legacy. His heart is buried in Zambia. His body departed Africa through Zanzibar. His favorite porters were Tanzanian. He was the first man to map Lake Malawi, Victoria Falls and Lake Tanganyika. His name is bestowed upon towns up and down the continent: in Malawi there’s Blantyre (named after Livingstone’s hometown in Scotland) and Livingstonia; in Zambia it’s even more obvious, Victoria Falls is located in the town of Livingstone. Sadly after a series of failed expeditions, Livingstone was never able to find the source of the Nile. In fact, he died of malaria in Zambia in 1873 on his final attempt to locate the river’s source. We drove for 6 hours and were drinking beers by 3pm.

Tom claims he’s related to David Livingstone. His maternal grandmother’s last name is Livingstone and she was born in Scotland. Apparently (believe it if you so choose) someone in his family traced their lineage to David Livingstone, but Tom “can’t remember who did it” so we can’t “fact check” this story.