Filmmaking turned out to be more than just storytelling, it’s about living a story yourself! It became my ticket for exploring new places. In June 2023, I got a call to join the Film School in Kabale as one of the trainers. I boarded a midnight bus from Gulu carrying not just my hopes and dreams but with several bags and two massive boxes packed with delicate learning equipment from our training sessions in Gulu. I triple-checked and prayed over the packaging, if anything broke, my conscience would never recover.
Now, from Gulu to Kabale is no simple hop—it’s a journey of nearly 800 kilometers, with no direct route. That means heading south to the capital city, Kampala, and then catching a bus to Kabale, which is another 411 kilometers away.
We arrived in Kampala at around 5 a.m., and I caught a quick nap until 6. I needed to transfer to the Western Bus Park. Normally, it’s a short walk—but not when you’re dragging the entire weight of a film school with you. Boda boda riders kept approaching, offering to carry my things in shifts, but listen—this is Kampala, the city where my phone was once snatched straight out of my hand while exiting a taxi. That memory still haunts me. No way I was letting my precious cargo disappear into the chaos.
Then came a wheelbarrow guy. He stacked everything onto his wheelbarrow, and I walked right behind him like a personal bodyguard through the madness of downtown. It was my first time there, but I had done my homework—I knew which buses were decent.
I was told the Kabale trip would take 7–8 hours, so I’d probably arrive around 5 p.m. The wheelbarrow guy delivered everything in one piece. As expected, the moment I stepped into the bus park, I was “warmly welcomed”—in that typical chaotic Ugandan way. Bags were grabbed, people were shouting, and one overexcited guy nearly carried me onto the wrong bus.
I stood my ground—difficult when you barely know the local language. But thankfully, some form of order emerged, and I finally spotted a sleek new bus loading passenger. It looked like a Boeing compared to the rest.
I got a good seat, secured the equipment in the luggage compartment, and exhaled. But then… the wait began. By 10 a.m., this bus still hadn’t left! Two mechanics disappeared under it. A few moments later, the conductor apologized and asked us to shift to another bus. The next bus was already half full, and now it was survival of the fastest. No seat numbers—just chaos, imagine me with two giant boxes trying to navigate that madness.
I stood outside, refusing to board until I saw my equipment was safely loaded. “Enter inside, you man!” the conductor shouted.
“Not without my stuff,” I replied. Eventually, after lots of gesturing, I managed to get a seat—after someone else was kindly convinced to give theirs up. That bus, which was supposed to leave at 9 a.m., didn’t depart until 1 p.m. My brain was fried. I hadn’t eaten, the sun was boiling, and traffic was unforgiving. I just wanted to leave Kampala.
Somewhere around Mbarara, I remembered with a chill that matched Kabale’s future weather! I had left two essential pieces of sound equipment in the overhead compartment of the first bus. Panic mode activated, I scrambled to the conductor to explain what a boom pole was using everything from gestures to synonyms and sound effects. Eventually, he said he’d call the station. I wasn’t sure he knew what I was asking for—but I had to trust him.
Back in my seat, I turned to my neighbor. “How far to Kabale?”
He smiled. “Yes.” Okay then. He only knew how to say “yes.” I eventually gave up and stared into the darkening sky.
Around 8 p.m., we reached Ntungamo, the last district before Kabale. My heart raced with anticipation. Finally, after climbing countless hills and taking endless sharp corners, the sign I’d been waiting for appeared: Welcome to Kabale. Time? 9:30 p.m.
We parked near Kabale Main Market. Everyone else was heading on to Kisoro, two hours away near the DRC border, but for me, this was the end of the road. As my gear was offloaded, the usual boda chaos began again. Bags were being grabbed, men were shouting in Rukiga, and I was torn between tracking my stuff and asking the conductor one last time, about my boom poles.
Amid the chaos, my designated boda guy finally arrived and rescued me. At last, I was in my hotel room. That’s when I was hit by the real culture shock—Kabale is cold! The blankets felt freshly washed, the bed sheets were icy, and the room itself could’ve stored meat.
Monday came with fog so thick it felt like I’d woken up in a cloud. I couldn’t see the sky, the street, or even the nearby buildings. I snuggled back under the covers. But soon, training had to begin. I jumped into a shower—which turned into a game of patience. The water heater acted like it was on vacation. It barely got warm until the sun came out to assist. When it did, though, the water went from freezing to scalding in minutes. Classic Kabale!
By 8 a.m., we were having breakfast and starting our sessions. The turnout was great, and classes went well. But weekends? That’s when things got tricky. The students went home, and I was left exploring Kabale with just a handful of local words for survival. But I was determined. I walked confidently toward the Rwanda border until I couldn’t go further, then grabbed a boda back to the hotel.
By the second weekend, I had gotten my bearings. I could stroll around like a local and even greet people (badly, but still). Though I didn’t make it to Lake Bunyonyi, Kabale is crown jewel, I don’t regret the experience. Coming from the North, Uganda’s hottest region, it was quite a good experience that filmmaking gave me. Now, I’ve got friends in Kabale. I know the best buses, I know the streets, and even if I arrive late, I know exactly where to go. All thanks to filmmaking for this journey to the sunset to go and make more filmmakers.