Gorilla Tourism: Tracking Uganda’s Untamed Wonders

Imagine Africa as if it were the head of a magnificent animal—its Saharan skull in the north, a Somalian horn-like-a-rhinoceros to the east, and its lips nearly embracing the island of Madagascar in the south. The Nile River, like a pulsing, pumping, central artery, flows over 4,000 miles from the headwaters of Lake Victoria to the shores of the Mediterranean, while the towering heights of Kilimanjaro form the continent’s prefrontal cortex, near the cradle of life that existed long before the dawn of humanity.

Centuries of tribal empires clashing with European influence have left many African nations shrouded in relative obscurity, their stories rarely told in Western media. Yet, in the proverbial eye of the beast, the source of the Nile, in Lake Victoria in Uganda, the story just begins.

Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary

We’re crossing the equator on Lake Victoria, just miles from the docks of Entebbe, the Ugandan city of 70,000, home of the country’s major international airport, en route to a chimpanzee sanctuary on Ngamba Island. It’s dawn, and the hum of our fishing boat is the only sound breaking the stillness of the water. Soon, the eerie, almost human cries of the chimps will pierce the morning air. But for now, our eyes are fixed on the Compass app, watching as our latitude shifts from North to South—an invisible but significant line marking the start of a journey into Uganda’s untamed beauty.

Dr. Peter Apell from the Jane Goodall Institute is with us, taking me and a few other crew members to scout locations for a public television documentary I’m helping produce. Though it has been many months since Peter’s last visit, he shares the basics: about 50 chimpanzees, rescued from poachers and often rehabilitated from injuries, now live at the Ngamba Island Chimpanzee Sanctuary. Unable to be reintegrated completely in the wild due to lack of essential survival skills (chimpanzees are territorial, and alpha males can be murderous to newcomers), the chimps in Ngamba remain under careful supervision, while researchers from UC Berkeley conduct behavioral studies. The vast majority of the island’s 95 acres are devoted only to the chimps, giving them ample room to roam. The island is open to visitors by prior arrangement.

Upon arrival, we briefly dock to pick up Innocent Ampeire, a wildlife manager and photographer on the island, who carries a bucket filled with bananas, eggplant, and cucumber. We then maneuver toward the forested shoreline, where the chimps await.

Innocent cups his hands around his mouth and announces his presence. The trees rustle, leaves bend. We wait, still at a healthy distance. Then the scream—the kind that sends a chill down your spine. “AHHHH…. AAAHHHH.. OOH OOH.. OOOOOOHHHH…” the chimps belch in a high-pitched tone. One by one, about a dozen emerge from the woods at the edge of the lake, swinging from branches, eager and hungry. Our boat stops about 10 yards from the shore as Innocent grabs the bucket of food, exciting the chimps even more. Some of the larger primates wade into the water, one arm extended to catch food, another clinging to a branch for stability. Dr. Peter is in near disbelief: in his time on the island, chimps had been afraid of water. Now, they show remarkable confidence, their hand-eye coordination as precise as ever as Innocent deftly throws food from the boat to the chimps, who immediately chomp on their fruit, appeased.

Looking into their eyes, it’s impossible to ignore the depth of emotion and intelligence. They are wild and undomesticated, yet undeniably familiar. As we leave the island, the bucket is now empty, and I’m left pondering: how long will it be before they learn to swim?

Mountain Gorilla Trekking in Bwindi Forest

In Bwindi, at the southwestern edge of the country, bordering Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo the land is green and lush. The anticipation before a mountain gorilla trek is unlike any other. It is still dark as we prepare in our lodge, dressed in hiking gear, sipping instant coffee and nibbling on sandwiches. Not knowing exactly what we will see or how long the trek will take adds to the thrill.

Every trek is different. The gorillas roam freely, and park rangers scout in advance to streamline sightings. Some treks last under an hour with gentle terrain, while others involve steep climbs and narrow paths. Today, we are fortunate—ours is the former.

Driving through the mountainside roads and villages, it’s impossible to ignore the stark realities of rural life. Concrete huts with sheet metal roofs. An unknown quantity of children laughing and waving as we pass. Makeshift food stalls with produce displayed on cloth. The hope is that gorilla tourism will continue to bring growth to the community, and in many ways, it already has. Tourism provides jobs for rangers, porters, and guides, while conservation fees support local development initiatives. Entire communities now depend on the gorillas’ survival.

At the Rushaga Gate, we join other international visitors for a safety briefing. An official from the Uganda Wildlife Authority shares how Bwindi became a national park in the early 1990s, a crucial step in protecting the gorillas. To conserve our energy, we hire porters to carry our camera gear and other hiking supplies, a service they have performed so many times that their ease on the trail seems almost effortless.

The jungle of Bwindi, covered in a rainforest canopy, is dense and damp. Within minutes, our boots are caked with mud and socks are pulled over our pant hems to guard against fire ants. Trackers with walkie-talkies move ahead, their job to locate the gorillas before we arrive.

Then, after just 45 minutes, we stop. Our guides signal that the moment has come. We quickly put on facemasks—just like humans, gorillas are vulnerable to diseases like COVID-19.

Masked and holding our breath in anticipation, we step off the trail. Then, through the dense foliage, we see them—massive, serene, and almost otherworldly. The silverback watches us with quiet authority, while the younger ones wrestle in playful chaos. In that moment, the wildness of the world feels more intimate than ever.

I truly felt my humanity in that moment. The gorilla walks just a foot away from me, practically grazing my leg. This isn’t King Kong. This is the real world, and I feel slightly strange that I’m almost impeding the gorillas’ path. But if there’s one true thing – the gorilla couldn’t care less about us being there.

No photo can truly capture the feeling of being among the gorillas. Even with a telephoto lens, the experience is beyond what an image can convey. Watching them effortlessly roam the forest, climbing trees and taking in the rich scents of the jungle and the gorillas themselves—it’s an encounter that engages all the senses. After an hour of quietly observing, maintaining a respectful distance, and snapping countless photos and videos, we begin the hike back. But it’s undeniable—no image or video does justice to the moment. Gorillas must be seen, experienced, and felt.

As we hike a few kilometers back to the trailhead we learn that, since the park was established for tourism, the gorilla population has steadily increased. Once threatened by rampant poaching, they now have more than a fighting chance.

Murchison Falls National Park

On one of our last days in Uganda, we dared not put our hands in the water. Bubbles formed on the surface of the river, and we were warned that a crocodile den could be just a few feet below our boat. We floated in a pontoon on the Nile River in Murchison Falls National Park, home to what many call the most powerful waterfall in the world.

Unlike the dense jungles of Bwindi or the intimate encounters with chimps on Ngamba Island, Murchison feels vast, open, and untamed. As we cruised downstream, the landscape shifted—lush green banks gave way to golden savannahs, and the river teemed with life. Hippos bobbed in and out of the water, their eyes just visible above the surface. Along the shoreline, crocodiles basked in the sun, jaws slightly open, while giraffes moved gracefully in the distance, their long necks silhouetted against the horizon.

But the true spectacle lay ahead. The river narrowed, its calmness giving way to violent energy. The water thundered over the edge of Murchison Falls, crashing 140 feet onto the rocks below in a white fury, known as Devil’s Cauldron. Mist filled the air, cool and thick, wrapping around us like a ghostly veil. Standing at the viewpoint, I could feel the rumble in my chest—the sheer power of nature in motion.

Compared to the gorillas and chimps, the wildlife of Murchison felt more distant but no less awe-inspiring. Life on the river was different—wilder, less predictable. The water dictated the rules, and we were mere spectators. There was a strange comfort in that, knowing that here, nature was in control.

In preparation for my trip, I watched General Idi Amin Dada: A Self Portrait, the 1974 documentary by Barbet Schroeder. In one scene, the infamous dictator floated down this very stretch of the Nile, exuding power. Forty-six years after his ousting, the land remains unchanged. Crocodiles still lurk. Giraffes still graze on the floodplain. Birds still cling to the trees, watching the river breathe, pulsing with life as it has for centuries.

Winston Churchill in 1908 famously called Uganda “the Pearl of Africa.” Over a century later, the world has changed, but Uganda’s raw beauty remains. Nearly a year after my journey, I still think about those defining moments—standing face-to-face with a silverback in the misty jungle, drifting silently past crocodiles on the Nile, sipping freshly harvested coffee on Mount Elgon. Uganda, like many African nations, is often overlooked in the global narrative. “All news out of Africa is bad,” Paul Theroux once wrote. But if you look beyond the headlines, if you venture deep enough, you will find the elusive pearl in Uganda’s heart.

 

Anthony Prodis is a Los Angeles-based writer and producer specializing in travel documentaries. This is his first feature for the East-West News Service.