A bit over an hour into the five-hour drive across the ferrous red plateau, heading toward Uganda’s capital, Kampala, suddenly, there’s the Nile, a boiling, roiling cataract at this time of year, rain-swollen and rabid below the bridge that vaults over it.
Naturally, I take out my iPhone and begin snapping pics.
On the other side of the bridge, three soldiers standing in the road, rifles slung over their shoulders, direct my driver, Godfrey, to pull over.
“You were photographing the bridge,” one of them says. “We saw you.”