First time in Africa. Stepping off the plane onto another planet.
	Flight BA63 on 4 February 2005. British Airways at this point flew daily to Uganda. The country was a British protectorate until its independence 1962.
	The relatively small Entebbe airport, south of the capital Kampala, is located almost right on the equator.
	Through the Friday morning traffic toward central Kampala.
	The front entrance of Nile Breweries (with ongoing building works) by the town Jinja, where Nile Lager is produced at "the source of the river Nile". The beer brewery is located on the slope of a hill with Lake Victoria and the Nile beneath.
	Pineapple salesman on the main street of Jinja. The average household (not individual) income in Jinja at this time was estimated at 100 US dollars per year.
	Seamstresses in Jinja, who with antique Singer sewing machines over a hundred years old were producing some of the most beautiful garments I had ever seen. However, protectionism in the developed world in the form of extreme import tariffs, quotas, purposefully designed government regulations, "anti-dumping" laws, etc, are keeping these women from selling their goods abroad and earning money for themselves and for Uganda. Living on the very margin and ashamed for it, they wouldn't let me take a close-up photograph so this one is from across the street.
	Waking up after my first night in Africa and first night under a mosquito net. But I was lucky, for me a night at this hotel suite with a bednet cost almost nothing. Over one million people die from malaria every year, 80% of whom in Sub-Saharan Africa. With mosquito nets most of those deaths could be avoided.
	Eastbound in southeastern Uganda heading toward the Kenyan border the unpaved rough road was red, and diesel and dust filled the air. The roads were generally quite empty with few other vehicles except of course for all speeding environmentally challenged mini-buses, the occasional Maersk Sealand freight truck, and rarely also normal cars like the one in front here.
	In Bugembe's little street market acitivity was high. The fruit and vegetables were fresh and juicy, pure and natural, and exceptional in flavor and taste. Unfortunately for most Africans, however, they are unable to compete on equal terms on international markets and are barred from exporting most soft commodities to North America and Europe due to protectiontism.
	The banana truck for the region broke down, and the villagers were helping to fix it.
	At the time of this RT, there were only 2 passenger cars per 1,000 inhabitants in Uganda, according to statistics. The same number for Western Europe was at this time about 400-600 cars per 1,000 people, and the number for USA about 765.
	Between the villages in southeastern Uganda women were carrying firewood and water on their heads for cooking, or fruit and vegetables to sell at a village market. Men were transporting heavy banana stems or bags of grains or other crops on old rusty bicycles. Since the European and North American markets are basically shut for these people and since this is all they are able to produce, every day is a struggle.
	The "bicycle taxi" common in East Africa is called boda-boda.
	At the border town of Busia all boda-boda entrepreneurs wore pink short-sleeved shirts. The bustle of the actual border crossing area to Kenya (not pictured, for safety reasons) was a somewhat chaotic mix of young but heavily armed soldiers, money changers especially targeting tourists, police, beggars, fervent chicken kebab and bottled water merchants, and hoards of curious children with wide open eyes.
	Village market in the western Kenyan countryside. Umbrellas protect for the tropical sun just on the equator. One of the top priorities of African families, next to surviving on their income, is to be able to pay their children's school fees and for their school clothing.
	Proud of their new bicycles, these men had dressed up for a ride and wanted me to take a picture.
	Ferry on Lake Victoria leaving Kisumu for Kampala in Uganda or Musoma in Tanzania.
	Little girl sitting on a bucket roasting maize over a small fire by the roadside, to sell for pennies to travellers.
	Children locked in poverty helping their parents out by selling seeds and dry fruit by the way. Congratulations French farmers, you won.
	The proud boda-boda team in the village of Dunga near Kisumu in Kenya by Lake Victoria.
	Doctor Angir and his laboratory assistant John at the hospital in Dunga. They showed me around on the premises including this miserably equipped operating room with tools not seen in Europe for 50 years, and just a painted board and four thin legs of metal serving as a table for both operations and childbirth. Afterwards we sat down and had a long talk. Doctor Angir had dedicated his life to the people of Dunga, but could no longer help the villagers as he would like with no money, no equipment, a high infant mortality rate, and teenagers carrying AIDS without knowing it and who are starting to fade around 20 years of age.
	My journey continued the day after through the hilly region of southwestern Kenya, with its many sugar cane plantations.
	After less than three days on the road there were already many impressions to absorb and process, and many reflections. Seeing Africa on ground zero level was an emotional rollercoaster, with the nature, the colors, the people, the authenticity and the life in the eyes of the children contrasted by the consequences of geopolitical games, trade discrimination, the splinters of arrogant past colonialism, corruption, and old-fashioned Western cowardice and racism.
	Another chaotic border crossing by Sirari between Kenya and Tanzania.
	The Mara region in northwestern Tanzania is occupied by various different tribal groups. Here is a man and his wife and three children outside their mud hut with straw roof.
	Termite mound. Termites are white ants, and some larger colonies can number several million individuals.
	Afternoon in Musoma in Tanzania, where I got a room for the night at a restful lodge just a few meters from the lake.
	In the evenings locals gathered by the lake, and I had a chat with a teenager whose parents were killed in the war in Somalia years before, and who had fled with his younger sister across two borders to live in peace. All the money he made from oddjobs - clean a sewer, scrub toilet, guide a tourist, whatever - went to paying for his sister's school fees.
	Children on the shore after a swim in the lake. It was the children along the way throughout the difficult RT05 that lifted my spirit more than anything.
	Sunset by Lake Victoria in the heart of beautiful, captivating Africa. I was trying out Tanzania's beers Balimi Extra Lager, Safari Lager, Kilimanjaro Premium Lager and Ndovu Lager. Plenty of trying till a million stars came out.
	Another day, another adventure. Leaving civilization behind with no mobile phone coverage, no swahili langague skills, no weapon to defend myself, no equipment to change the tyres of the car (it was discovered a few days later on the trip), and no idea what to expect. Food and water only for a couple of days. Straight out into the wild on a gravel road with no name, toward Serengeti.
	Not even having reached the border of the national park, I was mesmerized by the endless savannah.
	Passing a solitary village and its herd of cows.
	Entering Jurassic Park. After hours of driving the unassuming sign at the entrance of Serengeti finally emerged, with a small cabin nearby where the park fee was paid.
	The chosen road - the one less travelled, of course - went over boulder hills and straight through swamps. Sometimes you have to take chances on a roadtrip, you simply have no choice.
	The tallest of all land-living animal species, the giraffa camelopardalis tippelskirchi, up to 5.5 meters high. I was amazed at their abundance and how close I got.
	Shy female impalas...
	...and a lazy day in the hippo pool.
	You again!
	I drove slowly following the Seronera river, sometimes stopping to take photos of animals or the nature, like the acacia trees on this picture. Often I turned off the engine and only listened. It was peaceful.
	But wait a minute, what's that? The sign says "Seronera Air Strip". Small airplanes from Arusha or Zanzibar packed with Western tourists who are tired of the beach and want a "wildlife experience"?
	A few kilometers further down the road a cluster of 4x4s, converted minibuses with open roofs and lorries with makeshift tiered stands for a group audience were gathering.
	Communication radio between the many tour guides and contract drivers made sure nobody missed out when a rare animal was spotted, and that every vehicle could rush there as fast as possible in their loud diesel machines, with the pack of enthusiastic cheering "ecotourists" on board.
	Sometimes more than 15 heavy trucks and vehicles jammed the exact same spot. Traffic congestion out on the savannah in the middle of Africa, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town.
	The shameless tourists want closeups of every wild animal to show friends back home. Uncommon pictures mean prestige. In this case the frightened cheetah was only a few meters away. In the glossy brochures this is called "ecotourism", but it is nothing short of ecofascism.
	My sympathy lay with the terrified animal...
	...who after half an hour of watching the embarrassment and self-humiliation of modern "ecotourism" got up and left the scene with its own dignity intact.
	Sunrise over Serengeti the following day.
	The big migration of wildebeest. During the annual migration around 1.5 million animals move from the plains to the woods.
	Harmless zebras sharing the same planet.
	Further away a hyena had just killed a zebra. The hyena had ripped a chunk of side fresh from the animal and was consuming this alone on the side. Minutes later dozens of vultures descended on the carcass...
	...and one of the scavenging birds, who where literally stepping on top of each other, pinched a hole by the throat on the zebra, stuck his neck in and started eating. When the bird pulled out again, his neck and head were dripping with blood. I was only meters away in my car with the window down, watching the spectacle, and realized that stepping out would mean suicide.
	Finally, just before leaving Serengeti. We looked at each other not very far apart, both motionless and with eyes fixed, with incredible mutual respect. It was also an adrenaline rush, and afterwards felt like a dream. But it was for real.
	Back in Mwanza on the southern shore of Lake Victoria a few kids helped wash the soiled and dusty safari machine. After having worked on the car for an hour outside and inside it was shining like new again. They were asking for an amount in Tanzanian shilling equivalent to less than a dollar for it. I paid them five times as much, and they were cheering and clapping as I left.
	When crossing the Mwanza Gulf on a small ferry at dawn the following day, the fishermen were busy laying out their nets at the southern end of the lake.
	The plan was to follow the small country road B163 westbound, and avoid the longer route via B6 south and the larger paved road B3 west toward the Rwandan border. What looked like a shortcut on the map however turned out to be 10 hours of driving hell, where the dirt track basically limited the top speed to 10-20 kilometers per hour...
	...and on top of this there would be no rescue service around, let alone any nearby village, should the car break down. This was way outside any mobile network coverage zone. Another uncertainty factor in northwestern Tanzania at this time, which several European embassies had warned about, was the potential presence of armed rebel groups from Burundi and Rwanda with volatile and impulsive dissidents who wouldn't hesitate for a second to strip a Westerner of his rental car, money, passport, other possessions, and of course, his life.
	In late afternoon, closer to the Rwandan highlands and with the border only an hour away, the road was better. Still there were absolutely no other travellers in sight, only the rolling vast green panorama of the African plateau. Monkeys in the trees and on rocks by the roadside were the only curious onlookers.
	The hotel pool at Novotel in Kigali. I normally wouldn't stay at upmarket places like this when the purpose of the trip is to explore grassroot-level reality, but since I arrived in Kigali very late after dark, it became an emergency solution. Throughout the entire trip through poor rural areas of Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania - certainly off the beaten track - NGOs and UN had been absent. Invisible, nowhere to be seen. But here they were, all of them, loud and self-congratulatory behind their sunglasses, having breakfast by the pool and debating whether to do the minigolf before or after tennis and lunch. Zero field presence in the poorest areas of the world, everyone was instead holed up at a luxury hotel in Rwanda because their Western sponsors expected them to be in Rwanda, as if to make up for past failures and a troubled conscience.
	The Kigali Memorial Centre is located on a hillside in the neighborhood of Gisozi in Kigali. In front is a world map with the Rwandan flag.
	The Kigali Memorial Centre was opened on the tenth anniversary of the genocide, in April 2004. It is built on a site where over 250,000 people are buried. Inside the building is a museum with a permanent exhibition about the unfolding of the events in the 1990s, including geopolitical factors that allowed this to happen. The most gripping part of the exhibition is the children's section on the upper floor, with stories and profiles about individual victims.
	Mass graves.
	Bodies and skeletons, or parts, were still being found in different places in the country. They were taken to this place for a dignified burial. In this open vault are wooden coffins draped in silk fabric.
	Next to the graves is a rose garden. The horror, hatred and aggression between people cost up to a million lives (estimates vary), but the roses of different colors symbolize respect, reverence, humility, reconciliation, grace, life and beauty, and innocence. The rebirth of Rwanda.
	Street commerce in central Kigali.
	Pays des milles collines - Land of a thousand hills. The endless rolling green landscape of Rwanda extending toward Lake Kivu and the Democratic Republic of the Congo in the far distance (out of sight) where the sun would set in a few hours. This picture is from the road between Kigali and Ruhengeri in the northwestern part of the country.
	Street in Ruhengeri, a small town at 1,850 meters above sea level and just over ten kilometers from the Congo border. The town is a base camp for gorilla trekking in the Parc National des Volcans, situated immediately on the border.
	The highest peak of the volcanic mountains is Karisimbi at 4,507 meters. Starting at dawn at six o'clock, the guides took us as far as the road would take us, and further on by foot. However this particular area several European embassies warned about this time, as militias and rebel groups were still maneuvering in the region. In addition, UNICEF warned in 2005 that there were still 250,000 landmines in Rwanda that had not yet been cleared.
	The majesty and beauty of the nature was breathtaking.
	Dian Fossey (1932-1985) spent most of her time from 1967 till her death in this very area, in the jungle and in the mist, conducting some of the most groundbreaking research ever on primates. The cover photograph of Fossey and her gorilla Peanuts on National Geographic magazine in January 1970, brought immediate international fame and recognition for her cause.
	We were hiking slowly and carefully through the dense vegetation and in the shade beneath the thick foilage of the tropical forest...
	...when suddenly in a clearing a furry fast little fellow rushed by my legs, curious who the visitors were.
	The rest of the family or tribe was there as well. Some were lying around taking it easy...
	...while the silverback and others peeled bamboo shots for breakfast...
	...seemingly undisturbed and uninhibited as long as the homo sapiens kept a distance of respect.
	5.5 million years between Ubumwe and me, just different paths of evolution. Our ancestors way back could have been brothers. The contact with the gorillas was a gripping experience. The Old Testament had nothing on this, and the widespread popular notion in America about "intelligent design" is so inane and pathetic it doesn't even deserve to be mentioned.
	An adult male can eat up to 34 kilos per day.
	Playtime again, under the watchful eye of the silverback, Ubumwe, the guardian of the tribe in the upper right corner. Note the little baby riding on his mother's back in the middle.
	Two juveniles were chasing around in the trees before being told by their mother to calm it down.
	Ubumwe heard an unfamiliar noise in the distance and decided after an hour that it was time for them to move. He made sure everyone moved together and that nobody was falling behind. Junior on his mother's back passed by only a couple of meters away before disappearing with the rest into the impenetrable jungle.
	Back in Uganda the following day, a stop in Mbarara in late afternoon. During a walk through town after dark around midnight there was music playing, African rythms, and the smell of grilled chicken filled the air, and there were shadows of people and voices and faint lamps here and there. All tension about Africa was gone, and I felt a sense of belonging and an undescribable sense coming back to life after many years in the frozen north. Africa was another planet and a forgotten treasure.
	The main road in southwestern Uganda toward Kigali was good but empty.
	Crossing the equator again...
	...where a gift shop was selling handicraft and refreshments.
	After 2,548 kilometers having parked again outside the rental car company in Kampala. Many people had said beforehand that the project wouldn't work. Well, it did.
	Kampala street.
	The minibus terminal in central Kampala, seemingly chaotic in terms of organization but somehow the system holds up...
	...and the minibus transportation infrastructure is critical to the people and economy of the country.