🇬🇧 In search of lions, author Maja Roedenbeck traveled to the Ugandan savanna—and found 67-year-old Dutchwoman Petra Hogendoorn. A remarkable life spanning South Africa, the Caribbean, and Malta has made this free spirit at least as strong as the kings of beasts themselves.
As a rainbow forms over Murchison Falls, tears come to Petra’s eyes—and mine. „A sign from Benjamin!“ she says. A sign from Andy, I am thinking. Meanwhile, a Swabian tour group—which, much to our dismay, happens to be stopping here at the same time—is downing one beer after another instead of marveling at the African wilderness. Their guide mimics a farting hippo, and everyone roars with laughter. I’d love nothing more than to throw them to the crocodiles sleeping in the grass along the riverbank. Families of elephants trudge past them in long lines, searching for a muddy spot where they can cool their massive bodies. I am so glad that fate brought Petra and me together! Two independent women who have plenty to talk about, yet also know how to respect the silence when they sense the other needs it.
I met the 67-year-old Dutch woman with a mane of blonde curls at the hostel. There aren’t many of those in Uganda. Nor are there many typical backpackers. Instead, you find middle-aged expats with incredible stories to tell. Petra’s story begins like this: grew up in South Africa, lived there for 27 years. „At heart, I am an African,“ she says. The British proprietor of the Red Chilli Hideaway, on the other hand, is the widow of a former diplomat who, starting in 1999, established the very first backpacker accommodations in Uganda. In 2005, near the tented camp in Murchison Falls National Park where Petra and I are staying, he was shot dead by rebels from the Lord’s Resistance Army. He had been helping a group of paddlers who had gotten into trouble in the Nile’s rapids during a record-breaking attempt.
„A Magnificent Sight Bust Suddenly Upon Us“
The first European to lay eyes on Murchison Falls, in March 1864, was the British explorer Samuel Baker. As Governor of the Equatorial Nile Basin region, his task was to explore the stretch of river beyond Lake Albert—relying solely on his own eyes to „settle the Nile question once and for all.“ This quest cost him the life of his second wife, Florence, who succumbed to malaria shortly before reaching Murchison Falls. Baker had purchased her freedom at a slave market in Europe. As I read the entry from his expedition diary, I find myself overwhelmed by emotion once again. For we have traveled by raft along the very same route he took—and after five weeks in Uganda, the harshness of daily life in Africa has left my nerves quite frayed.
„The roar of the waterfall was extremely loud, and after sharp pulling for a couple of hours, during which time the stream increased, we arrived at a point where the river made a slight turn. Upon rounding the corner, a magnificent sight burst suddenly upon us. On either side of the river were beautifully wooded cliffs rising abruptly to a height of 300 feet; rocks were jutting out from the intensely green foliage; and rushing through a gap that cleft the rock exactly before us, the river […] plunged in one leap of about 120 feet perpendicular into a dark abyss below. The fall of water was snow white, which had a superb effect as it contrasted with the dark cliffs that walled the river while the graceful palms of the tropics and wild plantains perfected the beauty of the view. This was the greatest waterfall of the Nile, and, in honor of the distinguished President of the Royal Geographical Society, I named it the Murchison Falls.“
Bitter blood mosquitoes don’t like to taste
In this uplifting place with its atmosphere of daring feats, Petra naturally unpacks her own adventures. From our camp’s fire pit, we can see the mighty river flowing past in the distance as she begins to tell her story: “My father worked in the real estate business. In the 1960s, there was no work for him in the Netherlands. An opportunity arose in South Africa, and he seized it.” The family followed suit, hoping the climate would be beneficial for Petra’s severe asthma. “I was raised in a colonialist fashion,” she says in her refined, British-accented English. For malaria prophylaxis, she swears by tonic water, as it contains quinine: “My blood is so bitter that the mosquitoes don’t like the taste!”
Because the collapse of the real estate market in the late 1970s threatened the family’s financial security, Petra returned to the Netherlands with her parents after finishing school. “But very soon I realized that I didn’t belong there,” she admits. Leaving her family behind, the young woman set off for South Africa once again. For ten years, she kept herself afloat by working various jobs. At the age of thirty, she met a Hungarian refugee named Leonard*. “I hopped onto his boat and ran away with him,” Petra giggles like a young girl. I adore this woman!
Shell Bartering in the Indian Ocean
Together with Leonard, she spent several years sailing around the Indian Ocean. A daughter was born in an island hospital in the Comoros. The couple—who had dropped out of conventional society—earned their living by bartering soap and cigarettes with locals on remote islands in exchange for rare seashells. These could then be sold to dealers on the mainland, who in turn peddled them in tourist markets. Since this activity was undeclared, trouble eventually loomed. Leonard and Petra made their escape toward the Caribbean.
Their baby was only a few months old when the young family was caught in the outer bands of Luis—a Category 4 hurricane during the historically intense 1995 storm season, a season that also saw the cruise ship Queen Elizabeth II struck by a 30-meter-high rogue wave. „We were awake for 72 hours straight and threw almost everything we owned overboard to lighten our load,“ recalls Petra. „Twice, the boat tipped completely onto its side, with the mast submerged in the water. When we finally reached a more sheltered stretch of sea, we dropped multiple anchors because we desperately needed to sleep. But the wind was still raging, and every single anchor chain snapped.“ Fortunately, the Coast Guard had picked up the shipwrecked couple’s distress signal. „I will never forget the moment we woke up and saw the rescue boat bearing down on us!“ sighs Petra. By comparison, my own fear of the baboons—which roam the area around Murchison Falls, looting cars and tents, and have even been known to abduct and devour local human infants—seems rather faint-hearted.
Riding a Wave of Sand into the Ditch
Shortly after the stars have risen in the night sky—sprinkled like powdered sugar—Petra and I turn in for the night. For we want to get an early start the next morning. Kerosene lamps are set up in front of our tents to ensure we don’t accidentally stumble into a hippo on our way to the restroom. While they cool off in the river during the day, at night they roam up to seven kilometers inland in search of food. „If there’s a hippo nearby, you certainly can’t miss the sound of it,“ the camp manager says with a chuckle. „They rip the grass out in clumps—it sounds like the earth is shaking. They’re actually vegetarians, but they can kill a human if they feel the need to defend themselves.“
Before the sun has even risen, our driver, Meddy, comes to pick us up. „After I dropped you off yesterday, I spotted a pride of lions!“ he reports excitedly. „Right up by the Nile bridge! If they’d settled down there, I would have come back to get you, but they kept moving.“ What a shame! I wonder if we’ll be just as lucky today? We pick up Ranger Patricia and go barreling through the darkness into the savanna, speeding along gravel and sand tracks. Meddy has flipped up the roof of our minibus so that we can stand up and look out. It quickly becomes clear, however, that this is something best attempted only when the vehicle is stationary. For it’s a breakneck ride. At one point, we lose traction on the wet sand and—riding it like a wave—slide three or four meters into a ditch before Meddy manages to regain control of the vehicle.
Giraffes at First Light
Meanwhile, Patricia scans the surroundings for animals using her laser flashlight. Due to the heat of the savanna, they prefer to be active at night and during the early morning hours. The ranger momentarily blinds two giraffes, which gallop away in fright. I am not yet convinced that disturbing nature in this way is a good idea. But then the sun rises over the acacia trees, and it is simply magical! That sharp, intense light! The remote, otherworldly solitude! The incredibly numerous, incredibly beautiful animals roaming the land! Why are there no elephants along the Rhine? What must the first Muzungus (white people) have thought who laid eyes on one of these pachyderms?
About fifteen vehicles are out on patrol. The rangers and drivers keep in touch—shouting to one another and using their mobile phones—relaying information about which animals have been sighted and where. Then they come rushing in from all directions, crisscrossing the terrain—sticking to established tracks, but executing wild turns and overtaking maneuvers. Petra and I feel like game pieces in a PlayStation action game. We observe countless elephants: nursing calves, mighty bulls, and boisterous teenagers—hidden in a thicket of fan palms—threatening us with their ears flared wide. We see herds of buffalo and grazing antelopes. Patricia spots a leopard in a tree. One leg and its tail dangle from the branch where it has settled in comfortably.
Within minutes, the wind blows us dry
By late morning, the ride becomes smoother. We travel along the shores of Lake Albert on a scenic track—little more than two tire ruts winding through grass turned to straw. Lake Albert is the lake into which the Nile empties after the Murchison Falls, and where it changes course to flow straight north all the way to the Mediterranean Sea. Storks forage for food among the water lilies, while two vultures are waiting for the Grim Reaper. Back at camp, I try to catch up on some sleep, but it is too hot inside the tent. The only way to cool down is to take a cold shower and—without drying off—climb right back into your clothes. In the warm breeze, it takes a few precious minutes to be blown dry before you start to melt all over again.
Petra picks up the thread from last night: “We lost our boat to Hurricane Luis. It was severely damaged and sank in the harbor. Seeing nothing but the two masts sticking out of the water was absolutely devastating!” With their daughter, two cats, three dogs, and the few photo albums that remained of their personal belongings, the couple moved into a shipping container. “The atmosphere in the aftermath of the storm was truly unique,” Petra recalls. “Complete strangers helped one another—and us, too—in any way they could. The Red Cross gave us clothing and tarpaulins. I found new hope.” But the loss had settled deep into Leonard’s bones; he began to change. Although Petra bore him a son, the wind—two years after the great storm—drove him toward new sailing adventures. Two lovers coping with a twist of fate in different ways, and losing one another in the process—that is something I know all too well.
Family Life in the Caribbean
Petra settled on the island of St. Martin—which is half Dutch—and thanks to her citizenship, she was able to stay without any complications. She lived there for 21 years and raised her children, finding a stepfather for them whom they adored. Yet, as time went on, she began to feel confined on this charming, idyllic island. „It is very small and expensive; everything has to be imported. It’s hard to get anywhere else. Even a flight to the neighboring island costs hundreds of Euros,“ Petra explains. Her daughter, however, continues to live on St. Martin to this day. She works for the government and is expecting her first child.
Her brother lives in the Netherlands. Petra returned there as well; she bought and renovated two dilapidated fishermen’s cottages and spent her time roaming the countryside in her campervan. On one occasion, the female adventurer being entirely on her own, a ruptured liver abscess turned into an acute medical emergency. While in Malta, Petra met a ship’s captain named Benjamin—and fell in love with him. He secured her a position as Head Concierge on his cruise ship, and once again she was sailing the seas with a sweetheart by her side. What a life!
Between a Thirst for Adventure and a Longing for Intimacy
Petra is far braver than I am; she climbs onto the daredevil boda-bodas in Kampala without a shred of fear. Yet, as kindred restless spirits, we have a great deal in common. Both of us lost a beloved husband to illness—first in spirit, then in body. Benjamin died of a heart attack in 2025—shortly after Petra’s mother passed away. „As a solitary soul, I never needed many friends,“ she says. „But losing my two favorite people within the span of just fifteen days was traumatic.“
Both of our husbands were consumed by their own inner turmoil—and yet, we loved them and continue to mourn them. Both of us raised fiercely independent children under challenging circumstances—children who now, having reached adulthood, need us even less than most grown children do. Both of us have been left behind, alone. And although we know we are strong enough to get by on our own and find love affairs along the road, we yearn for a steady partner by our side. Someone capable of being both: adventurous and dependable. Someone to lay the world at our feet—and, for a change, to look out for us.
One must not glorify a life lived outside the norm; it is not always a rose-tinted paradise filled with self-realization and picturesque sunsets. „My relationship with alcohol has left deep scars on me,“ reveals Petra—a teetotaller now—during an unguarded, vulnerable moment. „I’ve been in relationships with aggressive, maudlin, and high-functioning drinkers. Each of them was incredibly charming, intelligent, and witty—yet simultaneously destructive and hurtful.“ It is a testament to her inner strength that she continues, with undiminished optimism, to keep an eye out for her knight in shining armor.
A Miserable Death right there in the Jungle
A flirtation with the camp manager. The man—sporting a Hawaiian shirt, a beer belly, and a receding hairline—identifies as a white South African, just like Petra. „He lived in Switzerland for a few years, but he found life there too hectic and overly regulated,“ she learned. „He needs the freedom of Africa—a place where you can make problems, like a missing fishing permit, vanish with the help of a banknote. I can certainly relate!“ But living with him forever in a tent camp in Uganda? That, she decides, is something she simply cannot imagine.
Health-wise, Petra and I are both facing our own struggles here. When traveling—especially alone—there are always moments when you become absolutely convinced that you are about to die a miserable death right there in the jungle. All night long—with my gut full of Giardia and liquid filth that the Imodium I’d taken was preventing from being expelled—I worked myself into a frenzy of fear, convinced I had contracted typhoid fever. Petra, meanwhile, is complaining of worsening asthma. Something is definitely in the air. The dust kicked up from the ground carries a strangely metallic, chemical scent—particularly near water. Petra is also suffering from heart palpitations. She isn’t sure whether she’s having a panic attack or her body is struggling with the physical rigors of the safari.
Wildlife Urgently Needs a Respite
Now that we have visited the rhinos at the Ziwa Rhino Sanctuary, completed a game drive through the savanna under the scorching equatorial sun, navigated the Nile by raft, and viewed the Murchison Falls from both above and below, our journey is drawing to a close anyway. For our finale, we stand directly above the hissing rocky gorge into which the river thunders down, letting the fine spray envelop us. Were it not for the chemical scent, the experience would feel akin to a baptism. From this vantage point, one can spot a second waterfall that formed following a flood in 1962: the Freedom Falls. The steel bridge—originally built in the 1950s based on an idea by former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill—was destroyed during that event. Only a single concrete pillar remains, still marring the landscape.
If Uganda were to construct a dam upstream from the Murchison Falls—as some have advocated—this natural spectacle would undergo yet another transformation. Opponents of the project fear that it might have a detrimental impact on tourism. The loss of the waterfall’s raw power would be truly regrettable. For the wildlife, however, a decline in visitor numbers would actually prove beneficial, allowing the ecosystem a chance to recover. The park has already endured a period in the 1960s when an annual influx of 60,000 tourists contributed to a decline in biodiversity—a time when the rhinoceros population was driven to complete extinction. We should be grateful that, today, we have only thirty Swabians to contend with!
Our Driver Has Become a Dad
„My wife gave birth to our third child last night,“ Meddy proudly announces as we begin our journey back to Kampala—“my first son!“ We feel terribly sorry that he missed the event of the birth because of us! Meddy himself, however, is in high spirits and keeps stopping to immediately spend the money he earned from the safari. He buys bananas, jackfruits, and natural sponges at the small roadside stalls. „Everything out here is much cheaper than in the city,“ he explains. A stalk of sugarcane is intended as a sweet treat for his children; it is peeled and scored so that one can suck out the sugary liquid.
Sometimes Meddy simply pulls over to the roadside and climbs down the embankment to gather thick, straight sticks or cuttings from various plants. „I can put these to good use in my garden!“ he says happily—especially when we pass a tree with red blossoms. A remedy for the eyes can be made from them. „You see, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and my doctor told me to eat the ‚fire flower,'“ Meddy explains. We’re glad we only found that out on the return journey!
A Soapstone Lion Will Have to Suffice
After one last weekend together at the hostel—during which I visit the Basilica of the Uganda Martyrs while Petra goes shopping for second-hand clothes at Owino Market—our shared adventure come to an end. Petra gives me a small soapstone lion as a gift. She knows how deeply I wished to see a real one out in the savanna—as a sign from the beyond on the anniversary of the death of my children’s father. In return, I give her a wooden carving of a bird with a fish in its beak—a gift I have received from an impoverished family during my time as a volunteer. It will find its place in Petra’s “cabinet of curiosities.”
And then, my safari companion boards a traditional fishing boat and, along with the other passengers, pulls a tarp over her head to shield herself from the rain. The boat will take her to Bulago Island—an island in Lake Victoria where a friend of Petra’s runs a lodge. She, too, is one of those courageous female adventurers in Uganda—but that is a story for another time. At the moment, there are no guests on Bulago Island for Petra to help with; but there are a few holes in the mosquito nets that she can mend. After spending the past year winding up Benjamin’s household and her mother’s, as well as settling their final administrative affairs, she simply felt at a loss for what to do with herself back in the Netherlands during the winter months. And deep down, in her heart, she is an African anyway.
*All names, with the exception of Petra Hogendoorn’s, have been changed.