Tonight has to go down as one of the wildest nights of my life—but let me start from the beginning.
A couple of days ago, Nikki and I were looking for a budget way to get out on Lake Victoria without copping the full “mzungu price tag”. A private boat tour? Forget it—way out of our budget. But then we discovered a little travel hack: we could take the public ferry from Entebbe to Kalangala for just 15,000 Ugandan shillings (that’s about $6). Add in a budget hotel room for around 70,000 shillings, and it turned out that a whole night away was actually cheaper than doing a local boat cruise.
So we made our bookings, and the next day we boarded the ferry.
It’s a fairly new ferry, pretty quick too—but that speed came with a good 90 minutes of stomach-churning, choppy water. The crew were handing out lollipops and sick bags (which, let’s be honest, some folks definitely needed).
When we arrived, we hopped on two boda bodas (motorbike taxis) to get from the lakeside up the hill to our hotel. We paid 5,000 shillings each, but our hotel later told us we were overcharged. The “white tax” strikes again—apparently it should’ve been 3,000. What can you do?
Once we were settled, the next mission was cold drinks and some local food. Unfortunately, this involved walking back uphill (not my favourite thing), but the promise of cider and carbs made it bearable. We wandered around for a bit, eventually finding an awesome bar—and this is where the night got… interesting.
We were sipping our first drinks when a group of eight to ten local guys joined our table (uninvited). A few were probably underage, most didn’t speak English, and yet somehow the language barrier did not stop the marriage proposals from rolling in. By the end of the night, I’d received three proposals, multiple declarations of love, and a handful of “special friendship” offers. There were selfies, hugs, and—brace yourself—a very enthusiastic dude who managed to sneak in a cheeky boob grab during a photo op. Charming.
In a surprising twist, that same guy even bought me a drink—a rare move in East Africa, where it’s usually assumed the mzungu foots the bill. So, credit where it’s due.
Next to the bar was a skinny alley full of roadside BBQ stalls. We skipped the beef and chicken and went for pork with matoke (green banana) in a cabbage and tomato stew. On its own, matoke is like a tasteless turnip, but in a sauce, it’s not half bad. By the time our food showed up, our fan club had vanished—as if on a tour bus schedule. We stayed on, chatting with the bar staff and a few locals. Even if you don’t speak the same language, it turns out there’s always a way to connect.
By the end of the night, I was full of pork, a few drinks, and I am possibly married to someone—or maybe several someones. Who knows? One thing’s for sure: Lake Victoria won’t be forgotten any time soon.
