If you sit outside on the terrace after sunset, you will hear the choir of frogs. It is relentless at first, almost intrusive, then it settles into you, becomes background music, part of the furniture. The charm of the place.
Serena Kampala has somehow maintained its shape over the years, at least since I was there nine years ago. I had an evening nightcap recently with a Rwandese gentleman who wanted to write a book. His story of genocide. He had a scar on his neck that he kept touching absentmindedly, as if checking that it was still there.
