Arriving in Kampala, Boda-Boda Grand Prix and How is Mr. Bush?
Sunday, April 8, 2007
KAMPALA - Uganda is only a seven-hour flight from London, but in many respects, it is light years away from the United Kingdom despite its colonial connection, the BBC world service, and the country’s obsession with soccer. It sits on the edge of Lake Victoria in East Africa, surrounded by Rwanda and DR Congo to the west, Tanzania to the south, Sudan to the north, Kenya to the east. It is one of the safest countries in Africa, but it’s plagued by a brutal history and a series of bizarre conflicts.
I wanted to come back to Uganda to see how much had changed since I first visited three years ago. Sitting in a cramped office in the suburbs of San Jose, Africa seemed like the perfect place to be. But the idyllic memories do not always match the reality. Lacking sleep from the flight, I was already beginning to feel nauseous and I hadn’t even tried to eat hooves or goat on a stick yet.
As we landed at the Entebbe airport, it became apparent how dependent we would be on the help of others and a bit of good luck. We discovered that our luggage had been rifled through, though only the identification straps seemed to be missing. And the driver we expected to pick us up at the airport informed us that we would not be going with him, turning us over to his trusted friend. I was also having a tough time with money. Three years ago, the exchange rate was essentially 1,000 to 1, making it easy to convert dollars to Ugandan shillings. Now the shilling had dropped to the point that I couldn’t figure out the exchange rate quick enough to ensure that the taxi cab driver wasn’t ripping us off.
I had wondered what would seem familiar to me. The first thing I noticed was the smell of diesel fumes and dust. Lots and lots of dust. It felt like a breath of fresh air. I could see lush green hills, burning trash, mobile phone billboard advertisements, and people walking along the congested road to Kampala.
Uganda’s economy continues to be one of the fastest growing in all of Africa. But most of the people earn very little. The contrast between them and us went far beyond the color of our skin. As a westerner in Africa, I was already a member of a privileged class, shelling out more than a thousand dollars for plane tickets and another thousand for immunization shots.
“How is Mister Bush?” asked the porter at the hotel.
“Not good,” I answered, much to his delight.
After our first night in Kampala, we headed to the outskirts to stay at the Red Chili Hideaway, a backpacker hostel set off from the road with wild monkeys, two overweight German Shepherds, and tranquil grounds with lots of shade. For a moment, it seemed we had entered a quiet oasis. But as the days passed, I began to feel as if I had entered a fraternity party. Each night, buses of suntanned backpackers from Australia, Europe, and the United States, pulled in and immediately began to drink themselves silly. The men took off their shirts to show off their new beaded necklaces. They sat around playing drinking games, loud and rambunctious. I was beginning to feel old.
In our room, I spent most of the time listening to the thump of the Euro trash disco beats coming from the bar next door. Instead of being lulled to sleep, I would find my legs nervously dancing between the sheets as if I had entered some strange Ugandan dance party. The only hope of falling sleep came sometime after midnight when the entire neighborhood lost power. Although it meant we no longer had a fan, we at least had some peace and quiet except for the occasional monkey fight, dogs barking, and drunken cell phone conversations that could be heard from our window.
Of course, it would be wrong to criticize others and avoid my own motivations for being here. Had I, like other desperate foreigners before me, come to Africa with the hope of improving my own fortunes? Was I simply avoiding the uncomfortable reality of working as a journalist in the United States, where the entire industry doesn’t seem to know where it’s going? How could I really criticize other backpackers when I was, essentially, one myself?
We’ve spent our initial days in Kampala, setting up contacts for a story at the Kibale Forest for the following week. One day, after failing to hail a matatu taxi, we decided to hop onto a boda-boda motorcycles. I was impressed with Anna’s driver, who seemed older. He even wore a helmet. My driver, on the other hand, did not have any money for gas so I had to give him money up front so he could put fifty cents worth of gas into his motorcycle and pump up his tires. He then tried to keep up with Anna’s motorcycle and kept zipping between cars and buses over potholes and occasionally riding on the sidewalk, which I wished he did not do since traffic has the tendency to change quickly.
Less than a week into the trip, as I ducked side-view mirrors of passing vehicles, I thought about how people would shake their heads at my death. No one disputed that the motorcycles were unsafe. Why, they would ask, had he not just shelled out the four dollars to take a taxi? Or waited a few more moments for the next matatu? When we arrived in Kampala, I swore that I would never get on a boda-boda motorcycle again. Unless, of course, I was really, really stuck.
I couldn’t wait to head west. I pictured a place where the chimpanzees ruled, a savanna with a resort where we could sip our beer and gaze quietly at the Rwenzori Mountains as we welcomed the malaria-infested mosquitoes. That’s when the real story, I was sure, would start to get interesting.
-jj
jon @ April 9, 2007