We were supposed to leave at 9 a.m. on the free staff bus arranged by UMU. When we got there, however, it was already full. Instead, we took boda-bodas to Kayabwe, the main trading center, where the taxis stopped to pick up passengers on the Kampala-Masaka Road. I should explain that taxis here are more like mini-busses with four rows of seats. They have a fairly fixed route and no time schedule to speak of--they depart when they are full and try to fit in as many extra people as they can along the way. The driver has a conductor onboard, who hawks rides to bystanders and collects arbitrary fees from passengers. The vehicle itself is always the same model of old, beaten-up van and has either a religious message or a favorite soccer team's name painted on the front and back windshield.
The first taxi we approached was nearly full, and the driver tried to kick off a nun so he could squeeze in our large (mostly white) group. Obviously we weren't going to let that happen, so we found an empty taxi nearby and waited for it to fill. I was puzzled as to why the driver kept the car idling as we waited for more passengers. Gas is very expensive, even more than in the U.S., and the heat from the engine only added to the stuffiness of the van. Then he turned it off, and I regretted wondering why he hadn't done it sooner. It would not start again. No matter how many times he ruthlessly cranked the key in the ignition, the engine simply whined helplessly and painfully flipped itself over, undoubtedly causing even more damage. The driver's first solution was to have a bystander add a miniscule can of gas to the tank. Nosir, no luck. The second solution involved the ejection of the front-row passengers from the vehicle. The driver proceeded to open a hatch in the floor that presumably revealed the engine. His head and left hand disappeared into the hatch, while his right hand still groped at the key, turning it in vain. Sadly, the open-heart surgery was futile, and the remaining passengers were forced to exit and find a new ride.
The third taxi ended up taking us successfully into Kampala. It also smelled strongly of fish. The source of the smell was a large sack of not-so-fresh tilapia stored directly under my seat. We slowed several times along the route so the conductor could drop off various cargo at roadside markets. One of these deliveries was a plastic shopping bag filled with something that strongly resembled a large brain. The car never stopped completely during the recon mission; only enough for the conductor to slide open the door, jump out, run next to the moving van, throw the bag towards the market, and jump back on, landing on someone's lap as the driver suddenly accelerated.
Monica, Dom, and Kristen chillin' in the back seat.
And so we bumped our way along the busy, half-paved road to Kampala. When we arrived at the chaotic city center around noon, the sky was threatening rain. We found a nearby bookstore to buy the textbooks, and then followed Dennis to the National Theatre, which also houses a craft market. Before we'd made much progress, it started to rain. Hard. Then it poured, torrentially. We sought shelter under the roof of a gas station, squished into place by hundreds of other foul-weather refugees. Ugandans melt in the rain, you see. Judging from the shrieks of displeasure when a gust of wind blew sideways into the crowd, you'd think they were soaked with acid rather than water. I have to admit, I was rather uncomfortable myself, hearty midwesterner though I am. I'd prepared for a scorching day in the equatorial sun. Now, I was sopping and cold, and there was no prospect of a break in the flat, iron-grey sky. Every so often, a thirsty vehicle would try to inch its way into the crowd, honking the asylum-seekers away form the gas pumps. The people, though, wouldn't budge, and soon the entire block was jammed with unmoving traffic.
We ran across the road, dodging coin-sized raindrops, and found a better vantage point from a retail center's third-floor balcony. The scene below was depressingly ugly, so much that it gained a hint of unorthodox loveliness. Rivers of rich, brown water flowed over the curbs, colorful trash bobbing like dreamy jellyfish in the swift current. A line of bodas stood axle-deep in water. A splintered wooden sign, reading "never give up," floated prophetically beside them. The surrounding hills were shrouded in mist, and on the street below, women lifted colorful skirts as they picked their way delicately across the flood.
Rain halts everything.
The rain never stopped, but it let up enough for us to continue our journey. Damp with drizzle, we walked for 45 minutes (a Ugandan's definition of a "short way") to the theater. Dennis guided us through the impossible tangle of unmarked streets, shepherding us across terrifying intersections and pointing out significant government buildings. I don't know what I was expecting, but Kampala is far more rundown than I imagined. Even Parliament and the Central Bank seem to be falling apart. Most buildings are unfinished and dingy; the concept of "inside" doesn't seem to exist anywhere. This is not to say that I hated the city, but the lack of beauty was startling. I've been to many towns with bad neighborhoods, sometimes extensive ones, but there were always a few places to admire. Kampala is another animal. The city grew fast right before and after independence, and it seems that no one remembered to incorporate the beautiful African landscape into the final product. Instead of banana trees and flowering bushes, there is pock-marked concrete and rusty tin roofs. Dirt and noise and street vendors selling old shoes. It was illuminating for me, but not enjoyable. I hope that doesn't make me sound terrible. Everyone speaks so highly of Kampala--even the wealthier Ugandans treat it as a haven for entertainment and culture. It's a city with jeans and ATMs and private cars. These things, though, are normal to me; the marvels that make Kampala exciting for a Ugandan are the things I take for granted at home every day. On the other hand, to a Ugandan visiting an American city, the overabundance of cars and food and fat people would be equally disconcerting. I guess discomfort is a matter of perspective.
The craft fair was nearly deserted due to the rain, but the shops were open and I bought several nice souvenirs for friends and family (that means you!). I would have gotten more, but I was fresh out of cash and planned to find an ATM later. But that's another story entirely, and not a very interesting one. Suffice it to say that no ATM in Uganda takes Mastercard. I came to Uganda with a Mastercard and about $150 in cash. Oy. Wish I had known that beforehand. I've become way too accustomed to paying for things with a narrow piece of plastic. Armed only with that now-useless symbol of capitalism, I felt pretty helpless and foolish. I obviously made it back (with--Cue Beatles soundtrack--a little help from my friends) and paid my debts with the money safely hidden in my room. But that small crisis caused significant stress.
Anyway, back to the main plot.
We grabbed lunch at a makeshift cafe behind the market. Enticing aromas wafted from the huge silver pots, and for a price of 3,000 Ugandan shillings (about $1.50), we couldn't refuse. I had a big plate of rice, matooke, fish, and groundnut sauce. We never imagined we would willfully order matooke, but this stuff was definitely a cut above the UMU dining hall version. I'm not saying I'll be craving it once I get home, but with the sauce and fish, the mashed plantain dish was pretty satisfying. I'll write another post entirely devoted to food later--you know it's one of my favorite subjects.
With damp clothes and full stomachs, we set off across the city back to the taxi park. After my debit card misadventure, surrounded once more by the chaotic bustle of the city, I could feel myself getting pretty irritated. I always hope that days like this will crush the anxiety out of me, forcing me to become easy-going. The truth is, it hasn't worked yet, and I don't think it's going to. I'm a worrier, and that's OK. It's part of me. Anxiety can be channeled into some very fruitful results. I can, however, change the way I handle the outward manifestation of my stress. Without repressing and denying my emotions, I'd like to make them less obvious to the outside world, and less exhausting for myself. How? I don't know, but it's not by diving head-first into Kampala.
Before heading back for UMU, we took a short taxi ride to Dennis's house in a "suburban" village alongside the main road. After slogging through copious red clay mud, we left our shoes at the door and entered the small, cozy house. The power was off, and as we sat in the dim light listening to the rain bounce off the tin roof, I felt more relaxed than I had all day. Behind the house, huge avocado trees (they grow on trees! Who knew?) were laden with hundreds of perfectly round, green fruit. Perfection.
Dennis grabbed a few things he needed and we walked down the road to find a taxi to Kayabwe. By this point, our shoes and lower legs were covered with a comical amount of mud. Passerby stared at us in wonder, their feet miraculously spotless. Passing on a bicycle, a young boy shouted at us, "Dis is U-GAN-da. Pearl of Africa!" The first sentence is a bit of good-humored cynicism Ugandans use whenever something goes wrong, The second is straight from Winston Churchill. I sensed a certain schadenfreude in the boy's delivery.
Dennis excavating Kristen's lost shoe.
We finally found a taxi headed in the right direction, but the driver wanted to charge us 6,000 shillings (it should have been 4,000), presumably because we were muzungus. It was starting to get dark, though, so we boarded with the secret intention of paying no more than 5,000 apiece.
It was an awful ride. More than awful. The driver made frequent stops, trying to usher more passengers into the full van. When he failed to do so, he made up for lost time by driving and blinding speeds down the potholed road. Passing is allowed, but but since the road is only two lanes and traffic is heavy, it is infrequent. Not for this driver, though. He spent more time in the opposite lane than the correct one, often swerving just in time to avoid a pair of headlights looming meters ahead. The asphalt was frequently interrupted by stretches of dirt road, deeply eroded by the heavy rain. Every time the surface changed, we crashed into a pothole with a fantastic "BOOM" that certainly should have ruptured the tires and broken the axles. Sometimes we weren't even on the road, hurtling instead down the shoulder as our heads bumped against the ceiling. It would have been terrifying, had I not been sitting in the back row with very low visibility. Instead, it was just surreal. Especially when I realized there was a live chicken in the front seat. It's hard to be scared when there's a chicken in the front seat.
When I was little, my brother and I would curl up inside a big cardboard box and roll down the hill in the backyard. The drive was kind of like that. After several hours of crashing through the darkness, our feet joyfully descended onto the clay road at Kayabwe. We'd handed the conductor 25,000 shillings-- less than his demand of 30,000, but certainly more than he and the driver deserved. We thought we were home-free when, a few seconds later, the two cronies came charging after us, screaming threats in Luganda. Dennis was not having it. Yelling equally loudly and equally Lugandan, he said they were overcharging us because we were muzungus and that he would bring the case to the police. The driver then threatened to take him to the police to report him for stealing. (I got this translation from Dennis afterwards; at the time, it was simply clear that everyone was damn angry.) Things were getting very uncomfortable, and soon enough, the driver lunged for Dennis and started pushing him. Luckily, some bystanders pulled them apart before anyone got hurt. The yelling continued. Th conductor turned to me, railing against us with a mix of English and Luganda. Finally, Curtis handed him the extra 5,000 to avert disaster. Immediately they calmed down, walked back to the taxi, and started laughing and high-fiving their friends. What bullies- they got what they wanted out of us, small sum though it was. My blood was boiling at the injustice. It wasn't jail time in Birmingham, but it was still discrimination, and it was totally alien to me.
The tension was lightened when a grown man ran by with a huge stuffed-animal snake, tapped Curtis on the back with it, and then ran away giggling. In Uganda, you don't stay mad for long. But you are pretty exhausted by the end of the day. After a final boda ride back to UMU, Kristen and I changed into pajamas, put on a season of "Friends," and ate a dinner of bananas and peanut butter (a holy relic brought over from home) before going to bed.
The next day, it took over two hours to document our adventure in my journal. This post, believe it or not, is the abridged version. Those are the kind of days I've been having--days with enough substance (and dysfunction) to fill a novel. So much happens, and yet there is endless waiting, staring absently out the window. It's a paradox of the senses. But not necessarily a bad one. You run, you rest, you eat a mango in the shade. This is Uganda.
What a fantastic experience, so emotionally draining. Hard to believe it's real. Thank you, Katie.
ReplyDeletexox, Big G
"it's hard to be scared when there's a live chicken in the front seat"
ReplyDeletelove it