Brakeless In The Pearl of Africa. A Fixed Gear Adventure in Uganda. (Part 2)

Jan 26

By Kai Pringle and Stan Engelbrecht

Read Part one here ➡️ Brakeless In The Pearl of Africa. A Fixed Gear Adventure in Uganda. (Part 1) !
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Enjoy the read!

Fixed Gear Tracklopacking Bikepacking Fixed Gear Africa Uganda Film

Next to a fading “Welcome to Sipi Falls” sign a few locals beckoned us under cover. Hid on someone’s porch, we watched the sky give in right before us. Houses on the side of the road flooded and the mountain pass we had just climbed resembled more of a river than anything else. We grinned smugly. We had made it, and just in the nick of time. Looking like two very wet, stray dogs, we found a place to stay - in dire need of a hot shower and warm food. The room was overpriced, the power was limited, but the view was nothing short of fucking spectacular. In the valley below us, through a thick curtain of grey rain, was Sipi Falls. We had made it. Hot water, however, would have to wait, a fire needed to be made under the boiler. Wifi? No sir. But that damn view could have fixed anything.

Due to a need for jobs in the area we were told we would have to hire a local guide to hike to one of the many waterfalls. Which we did - while it kinda cramped our style of trying not to be tourists, we understood the politics. Electricity is almost as scarce as tourism up here. We met our guide early that morning, he smelled of booze and looked a little rough, but hey, I can’t imagine we were doing much better. We walked down into the valley and to the foot of Sipi Falls. 100 meters of cascading water, near gale force wind erupting from where the tons of water hit the bottom, it was satisfying to say the least.

We revelled in our accomplishment; our half baked pilgrimage had been a success.That afternoon we found the only decent bottle of wine in the area, a Cape Town vintage! Laughing at the irony of drinking wine from our hometown, we drank and ate heartily that evening. Overlooking the valley and plains below us we felt rather damn accomplished. Life was good. The following morning came with a harsh realisation. Remember that massive mountain pass we climbed a few days prior? Yeah, now we had to descend it: without brakes, with loaded bikes and less than ideal gear ratios. What goes up… well you know the rest. Looking down from where we had taken shelter a couple days prior, I was nervous to say the least. Stan, however, had a look in his eyes that was nothing short of maniacal. We began the descent, Stan like a hungry wolf and myself more akin to an animal being led to the slaughter. We quickly gained speed, my legs struggling to keep up with the pedals.

Anyone who has ridden fixed gear knows the feeling, and anyone who has ridden fixed gear often, knows what a cog slip feels like. About 100m down I attempted a skid to scrub some speed: my cog slipped, I freewheeled for a split second and the cog engaged again, violently yanking my leg downwards. Pain shot through my knee as I scrambled to slow down and Stan passed me as I tried to come to a stop. Eventually, after using every trick in the fixed gear book I managed to come to a halt and dismount. Stan long gone by now, I inspected my already throbbing knee. Much to my dismay it had started swelling almost immediately. Not good. I had a monster of a pass to descend and without being able to slow down, I was gonna have to limp the bike to the bottom.

I felt miserable, not only feeling like a complete failure for not being able to ride down the damn hill, I was also concerned about the rest of the trip. I didn’t want to hold Stan back, and at this point wasn’t sure if I’d be able to ride at all. After about 30 minutes of hobbling down I saw Stan riding back up, he looked relieved to see me in one piece. He had one look at my knee and told me to take a Cataflam.

I rested under some shade and we discussed how we would carry on. We decided to alter our route back to Entebbe, go back to Mbale for the night as it was close and take it from there. I told him I’d meet him at the bottom of the pass and see if I could ride on the flats. It took me a couple hours to get down but eventually found Stan lounging under a tree. We rode the 30 odd km back to Mbale. I could move forwards but slowing the bike down was the issue, a little worrying when your knees are your brakes and one of em ain’t doing what they need to.

Back in Mbale I got what looked like the honey moon “suite” and tried to put my leg up for a bit. However, a cacophony of bangs and shouts had us investigating. We had pulled into Mbale during some kind of protest; the military were firing off rubber bullets and tear gas into crowds of people. We grabbed our cameras and set off. While we never found the action, we did find plenty of political gatherings, stages of men with microphones mixing biblical language and political propaganda: it was voting season. We would rather mingle with the less politically inspired and walked off to chat to mechanics working on motorbikes in the periphery.

The next day we set out on a slightly altered and shorter route back to Kampala. We wanted to spend the night in a small town called Pallisa, before heading to Jinja for a couple nights to camp out on the banks of the Nile. After some lunch in Pallisa we decided to push on to an even smaller town - Kaliro. We had already found out that google maps are less than accurate around these parts, so more often than not we would ask locals about possible routes. We inquired about a backroad that leads to Kaliro and were told it was tarmac. It was not. What followed was over 50km of gravel with some incredibly beautiful scenes, we wound through tiny traditional villages, family farms, swamplands and open plains. Mud, sand, you name it, it had it. I had all but forgotten about the pain in my knee due to the level of concentration it took to survive these back roads. The day was brutal, but beautiful - possibly one of the greatest days of riding.

Kaliro was the kind of town you pass through without noticing and quickly forget. Limping in, I had doubts regarding finding decent accommodation. My knee was reminding me of my mortality and I was drooling at the thought of a bit of WiFi, a decent meal and a cold drink. Then, rising out of the nothingness like a desert oasis: the Kaliro Country Resort. It embraced us lovingly with its luscious green lawns, carefully kept gardens and the promise of food and drink. We stuck out like sore, dirty thumbs, but that had been the theme of our trip. We plopped our dusty and haggard arses into two barstools and promptly downed some sugary alcoholic goodness. We could tell it was a pricey place, it was a “Resort” after all, but it felt like the drinks were instructing us to haggle with all our hearts. Rooms were expensive, but the gardens looked welcoming. We managed to convince them to let us set our hammocks up for the night and include breakfast in the small fortune we were paying to sleep outside.

That afternoon brought us back to Jinja. It was my hardest day yet, my legs felt like lead and I was in the deep recesses of my mind after a bad night's sleep. I basically crawled through the first forty-five kilometers, shoulders slumped in defeat, wondering why the hell I’d signed up for this kind of suffering. The main roads were chaotic with trucks bearing down, horns blaring, hot wind throwing dust into our faces.My patience was wearing thinner than the shoulders we were being shoved off. But it felt good to be back in Jinja. Coffee on every corner, bustling markets full of fresh fruit and a little cooler air courtesy of the Nile. We pitched camp on its banks, lulled by the current and the promise of rest.

The next day, I tattooed myself beneath the John Hanning Speke monument - the explorer who found the source of the Nile. “ROLEXPRESS,” a tribute to the street food that had kept us alive and moving. That evening, Stan talked two local fishermen into rowing us out to one of the tiny islands that freckled the Nile. Forget Speke, Stan wanted a photo of himself, bike and all, standing in the middle of the river, like a man staking his claim at the edge of the world.

Stupid mission accomplished, we made our way into town. There’s a local moonshine brewed in backyards and homes in Uganda. It’s called Waragi and it’s made from sugarcane. We had been curious yet a little scared to try it, with it being one of our last nights we figured it was about time. Sickly sweet yet awfully close to hand sanitizer, with its high ethanol content it could have easily substituted fuel. It did not go down easily. A couple sips were more than enough to redden our faces and put a fire in our belly. The night passed, punctuated by plastic bottles of waragi, rolexes and full bellied laughs with our fisherman friends. The walk home was more of a half lost wander and we were grateful to find our hammocks in the dark. They seemingly swayed back and forth a lot more than usual that night.

The following morning I awoke with a gong going off in my head and the taste of stale waragi on my tongue. Truckloads of tourists were showing up to our little camp, cramping our style, so we packed up and went searching for coffee and cake. Stan reminded me that I was turning 27 that day, something that I had forgotten in my hungover state. We were headed back to krazy Kampala that morning, a long day of ever punishing rollers and scorching heat. It felt bittersweet, just as we were settling into the rhythms of Uganda and its people, our trip was coming to a close. Though the thought of going back to work and reality was awfully depressing, a steak and a little Netflix on the couch sounded pretty good.

Sunburnt and streaked in dusty sweat, dragging the smell of the road in with us, we pulled up to our backpackers. Stan had made a dinner reservation around the corner - at, of all places, what turned out to be the fanciest restaurant in the city. I figured they’d take one look at us and send us away. We looked like two strays who’d just pedaled in from somewhere nameless - sandals, half-washed shirts, and thousand-yard stares.

The menu was Italian. My stomach practically barked. We ordered a bottle of Chianti and a couple plates of pasta, and suddenly it felt like we’d stepped through a crack in the world and out of Africa, into somewhere with linen napkins and the smell of garlic butter. We talked about future bike trips through Europe, the kind of plans you make when you know damn well you’re broke but drunk enough to be ever the optimist.

Then came the ambush. A small army of waiters descended upon our table, carrying a cake and sparklers, singing Happy Birthday like a military operation. Cursing Stan, I tried to melt into my chair while the restaurant cheered.

The next day we explored Kampala by bike - darting through traffic, jostling with boda-bodas, inhaling the dirt and diesel of a city that never really slows down. The taxi rank looked like a living organism, a vast field of white minibuses jammed nose to tail. There was definitely some system to it, though only God or the drivers themselves seemed to know what it was.

Later, I tattooed Stan - a sharp, crooked “KAMPALA” just below his knee. A little reminder that we were here, once, alive and moving. We decided it would be a tradition for future trips

And then it arrived: the final day. We were flying out of Entebbe early the next morning. Only 50kms from Kampala, but it felt like another world waiting to swallow us. We were gonna grab dinner by Lake Victoria and kick about until it was time to face airports and customs lines and all that civilised crap. We stopped for one last Rolex on the way out, the perfect punctuation mark.

We practically fell straight into Lake Victoria. We’d started the trip with a swim here, and it only felt right to end it the same way. Sitting on the shore, watching the sun drag itself down behind the water, I remembered a story about Hemingway.

Seventy-two years ago, his second plane in a week went down - on its way to Entebbe. The man was a magnet for disaster. Witnesses said he broke his shoulder ramming open the door, crawled out with a fractured skull, ruptured organs and covered in burns. Days later, someone saw him strolling through the Entebbe market, bananas in one hand, a bottle of gin in the other.

There’s something in that image - stubborn, broken but still moving. Sitting on the shore of Lake Victoria I couldn’t help but think that’s what all of this is about. You crash, you crawl out, you get up and you keep riding.