Letters from Uganda

It's been wonderful keeping in touch with the friends I made this summer. While I readjust to business suits and heels, it's nice to know that not too far away is this lovely world where kids still go play in the yard and women lay down fresh cow dung flooring to welcome their guests. I feel balanced, knowing that both worlds exist and I have recourse to either, and I love hearing that my friends are for the most part doing well. Some of the messages I've gotten since my return have been disturbing, though. A lot of Ugandans seem to think that we in the United States have that we have an unlimited supply of money. Actually, the perception isn't limited to Uganda, it seems to be a global phenomenon. This e-mail is one of those examples ...


hullo maisha i hope your fine this is (OMITTED) trying to communicating to you but my sisster i want to inform you thart I was stoped from work since (OMITTED) so ssister Iam just rguesting you to send for me some money because iam too brock my ssister as you know being amareid person so ssister maisha put my reguest into your considaretion and reply to here is my telephone number (OMITTED) and ssister what ever small it my be I will be glad to recieve it IF you send it by western union PLEASE SSISTER MAISHA HELP ME BECAUSE YOUR THE ONLY PERSON TO HELP IT IS LIKE YOUR MY GOD LET ME END THERE BY WISHING YOU ANICE DAY AND AREPLY TO IAM YOURS (OMITTED)


What can I do with this? I am more offended than sympathetic -- not that this individual is asking for money, but that the individual is intentionally debasing her/himself in order to appeal to me. This is a nasty power dynamic: the supplicant would control my responses, and I have a choice of two evils. I can be the heartless pseudo-friend, or I can be the condescending rich foreigner. I never asked anyone to grovel. I'll help anyone with an honest need. But how do I ascertain whether the need is honest?

I'm going to ignore the e-mail, and any others like it. It's one thing to look out for an IDP kid showing signs of ringworm and unable to pay school fees, it's a different story when an able-bodied person asks for cash for no specific reason. But aside from my personal discomfort, I am reminded of one truth:

If you want to be a respectable person, you have to earn that respect, yoruself. No one else can do this for you.

I love my Dad because he made a life for himself out of nothing. Well, that's one of the reasons. All of the people I love most have overcome enormous odds, or work hard in one way or another, to make the world a more positive place. That is the kind of person I want to be, and that is the kind of person I wish we all were. I'll have to remember that, and keep working always.

Retrospective post #2

This is a second retrospective entry from Gulu. I have at least one more to publish, possibly two.

***


Well, Gulu is over. I know I haven’t written much about it – the Institute didn’t really give me time. Also, I think it was one of those experiences that I couldn’t write and feel at the same time. There was just too much going on.

I realized how much I had changed this morning when I got on the bus and leaned back to take a nap. Leaning back aimed my eyes right at the ceiling of the bus, where the first thing I saw was grasshoppers crawling out of the bus lights and around the storage compartments. For a second, I felt my body start to tense up, and then I just decided, nah, isn’t worth the effort and went to sleep. I didn’t wake up again until Karuma Falls. Figured if the bugs really bothered me that much, I’d just eat them.

You know, it really has been a journey for me. Yesterday I didn’t even know for sure how I’d get back to Kampala. I was completely reliant on Maisha’s Number One Rule of Travel: As long as you have your passport and a working credit card, you’ll be okay. I’d heard rumors that you could take the Post Bus back to Kampala, that it was new and comfortable and driven safely. The best part is it only costs 20.000/= as opposed to 450.000/=, like I’ve mentioned before. The only problem I could see was transport from the hotel to the bus at 5:30 in the morning. Gulu wakes up at 6 a.m. sharp. Not before, not after. Even the roosters wait until the church bells ring to start crowing. (Okay, maybe one deviant little clucker will let out an early cock-a-doodle-doo, but it’s pretty rare.) So how on earth was I going to get someone from town to bring a car around and pick me up with the delinquent roosters?

I went to the bus park the night before and made an appointment. Of course, I made the one cultural faux pas: I asked how much it would cost. Have I learned nothing in my travels here?

“Fifteen thousand!” one eager driver shouted. Great. It costs fifteen thousand to get from downtown Kampala to Ntinda, and this wasn’t even half of the distance. I mock-scowled at the driver.

“Ten.” I insisted. This was probably still about five times the regular pay, because the guy beamed immediately. Oh well. I swallowed my pride and told myself I had really only spent about $8.

The guy came to pick me up in the pouring rain at 5:25 a.m. He was actually early. I, silly munu, had turned off my alarm clock and gone right back to sleep, figuring he would be at least 30 minutes late and I had time. Uh, oops. It was the horn that woke me up. Forget the fact that the entire ritzy hotel population was sound asleep, this driver just put his hand in the middle of that steering wheel and leaned. I hadn’t even finished packing. I slumped out of bed, threw my things into the bag, deliberately abandoned what I felt I couldn’t carry (i.e., two pairs of shoes that have literally skinned my feet since I got here, medical supplies that I won’t need in Kampala, and Jacqueline’s tub of groundnut paste), and oozed down the stairs to the car. It was raining like mad, one of those blinding Ugandan lightning storms again.

The driver took me to the post office. No one was there. I got out of the car and asked the post office guard when the bus was leaving, and he said it only traveled Mondays through Fridays. My driver snickered. The little cretin! I’m pretty sure he knew this would happen.

“Well,” he had the audacity to say, “you can always hire me.” I thought about all that money going down the fuel pump.

“Do you know the way to Kampala?” I asked. My driver didn’t answer. He just looked sideways and grinned. No way was I going to hire him.

“How about you just take me to the new bus park, just to see if any nice buses are going? I’ll hire you if no one is there.”

He took me around, and sure enough there was a bus with its engine running. Looked pretty full from the outside, too. “But you have resolved to move with me!” my driver said. Yeah, sort of. I had resolved to move with him if my luck gave out.

I smiled a tight little smile and said, “Let me just check with these guys; if I go with them I will pay you for the trip back to the bus park, too.” You could see the little shilling signs lining up in this guy’s eyes. Munu was going to give him even more cash than before, and he wouldn’t have to waste the day trying to find Kampala. Great.

I stepped up to the bus. Three young Ugandan men were lounging on the stairs, trying to look tough and American. It’s cute when Ugandan men do this, because they usually miss the cultural nuances completely. Exempla gratia, one of these fellows was wearing an oversized Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt. I burst out laughing.

“What?” my driver said behind me.

“That guy is wearing a Pooh Bear shirt!” I laughed, trying to keep the giggles to a minimum. Even if Ugandan men might not look tough doesn’t mean they weren’t child soldiers five years ago. I’m not sure if the driver understood or not, but he heard the word “poo” and started chuckling uncertainly. I just let that one go. Way too early in the morning to offer cultural explanations.

I climbed up to the bus and asked the guys, “Hey, what time is this bus leaving?”

The boys didn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t you climb on board and find out?”

I shrugged. I looked into the bus. There were a lot of people wearing professional clothes, and some kids. It looked safe enough. “Okay, I’m going with them,” I told the driver. He looked at me funny.

“You call me when you get to Kampala,” he said. Great, that raises my confidence tons.

The ride itself wasn’t bad, though. The only bit that got a little scary was where road repairs forced us to detour across a really pitted, narrow road. The bus kept sloping off the side and driving tilted for 100 meters or so before righting itself again. I told myself two things:

1. Mom would kill me if she saw me doing this. I’d better never take this bus again.

2. I’m a fat American. If I lean opposite the way the bus is tilting, I can keep the cabin balanced all by myself.

Number two was a lie, but it made me feel better, and we got through safely after all.

Actually, the ride was pretty exciting. I sat by two silent, strong-looking men and one small talkative fellow who had the most adorable little girl cradled in his arms. He played with her the way I remember Dad playing with me when I was a kid, and it brought all sorts of memories rushing back. Turns out this guy, Peter, works with Invisible Children, and I did a little interview with him along the way. He didn’t really say anything I didn’t know about child soldiers trying to get through school, but it was engrossing all the same.

The two strong silent types to my right sounded like they were offended to be crammed onto a bench with a large tourist. They spoke in rapid Luganda and sounded a little annoyed. That changed, though, when we hit our first pit stop. I wanted goat muchomo so badly (hadn’t eaten dinner the night before, or breakfast that morning), but I only had 10.000/= notes. Muchomo costs 500/= … it’s meat on a stick, a salty roadside bbq kebab that I have learned to love over my road trips. One stick is enough to satiate hunger, two is enough to make your tummy bulge. I got ten. No way would somebody on the side of the road have change for a 10.000/= note; they just don’t carry that much or make so much in sales. Buying ten sticks meant they only had to find a 5.000/= note, possibly an easier feat. But there was no way I could eat that much muchomo – it would probably make me sick. So I gave two to Strong Silent #1, two to Strong Silent #2, and four to Peter and his daughter. It made the Quiet Ones explosively happy.

“Oh, where are you from?” they asked me. “You act like an African!” And they bought extra cassava and water and shared it all around. Peter got extra plantains, so we had a little feast in our bus row. It was kind of nice.

Turns out the two guys on my right are from Kampala, but doing construction work in Juba. They are very disenchanted with Sudan.

“How is Juba?” I asked them.

“Ah, it is a little bit behind,” #1 said.

“Nobody wants to work!” #2 exclaimed. “You see guys our age, and they just want to exchange money.”

“You see people sleeping under the trees.”

“No villages?” I asked. “Used to be, people built huts.”

“No,” the answered, “not anymore.”

I wonder exactly what is happening over there. Are the people really in such bad shape? Has the war exhausted people? Or maybe there are a nomadic group of people living in the Juba region? I don’t know. I will have to ask Dad. I really hope folks are better than that, though.

I mostly hung on for dear life, after that conversation, because road repairs had turned the tarmac into dust, and the bus wobbled the rest of the way to Kampala. I’ve been sneezing black goo since we got into town, and I really hope this doesn’t make me sick. At least on the bus, I was further away from the dirt than I would have been in a car.

Anyway, we made it back into town in one piece, and Vincent from Avarts took me to the cottage I’ve rented. Have I mentioned that I was bloody tired of managing my discomfort? I decided to splurge, this week. Happy birthday to me. I am paying a whole $50 per night for luxury lodgings in Kampala. I was supposed to have DSTV (I don’t) and an internet connection (it doesn’t work), but even without that, I’m in heaven. There’s a miniature market next door. The resort itself is fenced and guarded, secluded in a beautiful residential area on Naguru Hill. Wander outside, and there are goats all over the place wagging their little tails, and kids (the human kind) playing football. Inside, the landscaping is beautiful. Flowers drip off the trees, the neat stone walkways look like someone has polished them, and the lawns are well manicured. Every room is actually a separate porched cottage with a little glass table and African-print chairs in front. Inside, the floors are freshly tiled, the plaster is in perfect condition, the shower has an electronic temperature regulator, the kitchen is complete with a toaster oven and tiny refrigerator, the furniture is made out of wicker, the windows and doors are covered with glass that seals (read, no insect invasions unless they come out of the walls), and all of the cabinets and closets are new. The rooms are bright, the windows are enormous and let in a lot of sunlight; it’s all just perfect. Oh, and the bed! The bed is twin-sized, the comforter is a light blue embroidered with flowers, and the mosquito net is actually tented and framed with pink lace. I feel like a princess in here. I kept oohing over the place until the hotel owner actually got embarrassed, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve lived for nine weeks with dirty concrete floors or gaping holes in the windows and doors to let the insects in. For a month now I’ve been living with cold showers in Gulu, and barely any room to turn over in my sleep, let alone a lacy mosquito canopy. Who cares about television and internet? I feel clean for the first time in months. I even took a shower and then cleaned the bathroom, because there was Tilex available and it made me feel good.

Anyway, Jane Bagonza, the hotelier, says she is going to name this place Maisha. She likes the name and the meaning behind it. I am super happy that such a nice place is going to be named after me. I hope I get to see it someday, after Jane is done. Right now it’s just four little cottages, but she is installing a restaurant upstairs, and she plans to add a mini-mart and a business center. I probably won’t be able to afford this place, by that point, but I sure would like to see it.

Anyway, I’m going to take a nap now. I can feel the muscles behind my eyeballs twisting. There’s something about traveling that is just exhausting. Or maybe it’s just relief to be back in Kampala. G’night!

All gone

The power was out for three or four days. Then it came back, but the water stopped running for the next two days. It came back this afternoon, right as the power went out again and my computer crashed. The power has returned (again), but my computer is down for the count. I might have lost all of my pictures and video, which would really be a pity, because I was putting together an advocacy video for the UCICC.

Anyway, I have two major events left to blog about (the Ndere Troupe, from weeks ago in Kampala, and my trip to Pabbo last week). But this probably won't happen until the power is stable and I can slow down, take a shower, and use a computer for the afternoon without bleeding shillings. So my friends, this may be goodbye for a time.

I hold out hope that if I can hard start my computer by exhausting the battery first, maybe I can get into diagnostics at reboot and get the OS running again. Wish me luck, and e-mail me advice!

Your Worst Nightmare & Etc.

From a few nights ago

Your first night in Gulu, you wake up with buzzing in your ears. Two mosquitoes are hovering no more than an inch above your head inside the mosquito net. There are another half dozen still trapped outside. You don’t like bugs. You spray the room. The next night? It is another mosquito in your net and a whole bunch outside the room. You spray again, decide you’ll have to get used to it, try not to choke on insecticide. The night after that there are two or three of these dragonfly-like pests sort of like June bugs that have beaten their wings off against your floor. You think maybe they’ve come in through a crack in the wall or something, so you spray the windows and set up your mosquito net extra tight. Tonight?

Whizz. Whizz. Patter patter patter patter. Whizz! I wake up. I have fallen asleep with my lights on, so there is no darkness to obscure the view. When I look up, there are about a dozen of the dragonfly things batting themselves against my mosquito net. I instantly scrunch into the tiniest ball I can manage, but they’re hurling themselves full throttle into the mesh. I can’t take my eyes off the sheets without flinching because it looks like they’re going to stick right in my eye. So much for being the mighty adaptable tourist.

This is an entomophobe’s nightmare. I look down at the ground, and there are at least another dozen of these things, not counting the stray bug parts. Some of the insects are crawling around like cockroaches, having torn their own wings off. Others are still fluttering about, in the process of beating themselves to death. Some are fighting with each other for God knows what. Survival instinct, I guess. They know they’re history.

You squeal. You are really not comfortable with this. You think, God, I have to call reception. But you don’t know the number. You don’t know if anyone is actually awake. What you really want to do is cross this room full of bugs and get outside to safety.

It takes you thirty minutes to work up the stamina to put on your clothes (checking them for bugs first), pack your two most important bags, and rush outside. And as any rational-thinking person would have guessed, things outside are even worse. The ground is littered with these bugs; carpeted. You dance onto the empty spots on the floor as fast as you can and run downstairs. You try not to think about how many insects have been compacted under your feet, or whether any have flown up your pants. The stairwell is more cluttered still. Nobody is in the reception area. Maybe the bugs ate them. The things are here, too, although in smaller number.

You decide, in your delirium, that this feels exactly like a Stephen King novel come true.

Eventually, you make your way into an alley that has been only minimally invaded. You find a dark tiled room with a door that almost seals itself shut. Not really, but it’s closer than the gaping window shutters they have everywhere else. It’s where you are typing now – your dark sanctuary behind closed glass doors. Every time a mosquito gets close to you, you don’t just flinch, you thrash. And that’s when you realize: No. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Your suitcase is still in your hotel room, and the door is wide open.

In your fantasy world, you ran down a stairwell free of bugs, found someone at reception, begged for a new room, and demanded that they relocate all of your personal belongings. Cost didn’t matter; you could pay for the transfer. You curl up in a nice, cushy bed and watch TV (this room actually has one) until the nightmare goes away. But in reality, not only do dreams not come true, but you need to go back upstairs. Your feet are already covered in insect bites, and you’re sweating profusely – and it stinks.

I want to go back to Kampala tomorrow.

The trip up

After surviving minor flooding in Karamoja, I decided to hire Aron to drive me to Gulu. He’s a friendly man, I talked with his wife on the phone once, and I like the couple. The rate was reasonable – 150.000 /= to hire the car for the day, plus fuel. The total price would have been about $300, the same as Onyango would pay.

A few days after I made the arrangements, Joyce from the Human Rights Network of Uganda comes by and tells me to cancel my driver. I’m not sure why, but after a while I discover that her mother lives in a village near Gulu and Joyce wants to visit. She has her own car and can locate a driver, but she doesn’t have money for fuel. That’s where I would come in. I pay the fuel, I save the 150.000 /= hiring fee, and life is beautiful all the time.

Only I don’t know Joyce’s car, and I don’t know Joyce’s driver, and I already have these arrangements. So in an act of extreme caution, I explain to Joyce that I won’t change my plans. I invite Joyce to ride with me in the car that I’ve hired, and we’ll detour to her village. This infuriates her. She spends the entire day making increasing efforts to pressure me into ditching my driver. First she offers to call and cancel the arrangements herself. Then she slips me a note that says “please think of my son as your own. Do not disappoint me,” as if her boy might die if we arrive in a different car. Finally she walked into the room and just stared. This had the opposite effect than she intended. Instead of acquiescing to hire her driver, I got very, very angry. I mean, I am a human being entitled to my own volition. I am not an ATM. I do not dispense cash on command. And I don’t bend my plans to travel with a strange driver who, it turns out, has not even been formally hired yet. Certainly not two days before the trip with a woman who previously got me lost in Kampala. I rarely put my foot down, but I did this time. No. I will not be manipulated into changing carefully laid plans.

Ha ha.

Joyce pouts because she really wants to spend the night at her mother’s house, and I can only hire the car for one day. But when she discovers I won’t flex, she apologizes for being pushy and agrees to ride with me. Aron has told me he would pick me up at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning, so I tell her to meet me at K.K. Health Club at that time.

Saturday morning rolls around. 6:30, 6:45, 7 a.m. I get a call from Joyce saying she’s coming right over. 7:15 a.m. and she shows up. But no Aron. I apologize, tell her to hold on for a second, and I ring Aron. No answer. So we keep waiting. 7:30 a.m. 7:45. By now I’m getting embarrassed. Something in the back of my head whispers, he’s not coming. He found another job that’s paying him more, and if you’re lucky he’ll find you another driver, but it’s going to be late and he’s not coming. About two minutes later I get the call.

“Hello, madam!” It’s Aron. “Why have you not been picking up your phone?” Because it hasn’t been ringing. “I cannot drive you. I forgot that there is a presidential convoy and I have been hired.” What did I tell you? “I have told my friend to come and get you, he is on his way.”

Great. So all that planning, all that quarreling, and I still have to ride with a stranger. I go back to Joyce.

“Hey Joyce, still want to go in your car?” Joyce looks at me like she’d like to do some oil drilling in the general region of my frontal lobes.

“Yes,” Joyce says. “But what about your driver?”

“Yeah,” I say sheepishly. “Turns out Museveni wanted him more.”

So I wound up going with Joyce, after all. I paid the driver 50.000 /= to apologize for the short notice. Joyce told me later that the driver was her husband, which ticked me off, but by then the money was gone. But I guess in the end I saved money, even if the car we rode in was smaller.

The ride itself was surprisingly uneventful. I didn’t much want to talk to Joyce, so I wound up just sleeping in the passenger seat. Occasionally I would wake up and talk to Joyce’s husband (she refused to tell me his name) about the Rift Valley or the tobacco plantations, and I took a quick film of a baboon sitting by the roadside. We saw some falls on the ride over, passed two small IDP camps, and suddenly we were there.

Despite taking half the time we took to reach Moroto, this ride was both hot and humid, so I pretty much curled up in my miniscule hotel room and went to sleep as soon as I checked in. And that was it.

WHO TOLD???

Someone told Mom that I'm heading to Karamoja, and that Karamoja is dangerous. Please, please, with all respect, don't tell Mom things like that! I always leave my location with my travel insurance company in case anything happens, and we have lawyers and CSOs here who know our position -- as well as the military, since they're sending us with an escort. I promise we'll be fine. We take overly cautious measures. Telling Mom will just worry her when there's little she can do. I just blog about these things because I need to get concerns off my chest, but that's because I'm a worrier.

... Maybe I should save these posts until I get back ...

Advocacy and cattle raids

It looks like I am in charge of organizing and hosting the UCICC's annual general meeting. I just found out today. I have three days to figure everything out, from budget requisitioning to catering to minutes to scheduling. After that, we will be traveling north to Karamoja, and I will be out of commission for a full week. The UCICC meeting is two days after I come home.

I guess it's not that bad, except that I have to write and organize a petition to the Parliament of Uganda, first. That part ... yeah. That's going to take time. Petitions out here are published as books. The sample copy of a Kenyan petition that I'm holding in my hand right now is about 40 pages long. And I have to figure out how to distribute this thing, and get the signatures for it. So I broke out in a cold sweat when I heard the news this afternoon. Advocate for the nationalization of the Rome Statute? Me? Well, if you say so.

On the other hand, psh, I can totally handle it! I've already got a five-page document, and I've barely started. It's just surprising, suddenly becoming the point person for a national campaign after having been here for only two weeks. I kind of love it. And I feel much less guilty about not having written memos or opinions, now.

The trip to Karamoja actually gives me more concern. Supposedly we have to arrange a military escort. The soldiers will be there as an extra precaution, but I'm still nervous. There are a lot of cattle raiders in that district, and I don't mean cute cowboys with spangled outfits. I have a friend who got caught in one of those raids, once, and had to duck under her counter while gunfire whizzed overhead. I suppose I'm not in as much danger as my journalist friends who have spent time in Iraq and Jerusalem, but then, I never intended to put myself in a potentially dangerous situation, either. So I'm trying not to think about it. It's funny, because you ask people here if it's safe, and they say "Sure, it's safe!" Then they talk about potential guns and death while I quietly try to slow my heart rate.

Please don't tell Mom until I'm back in Kampala safely. She's already so scared, she can barely speak coherently. Poor Mom. This internship is a lot harder on her than it is on me.

Anyway, I'm going to get back to working. These next two weeks are going to be busy. Do me a favor and send me an e-mail to let me know how you're doing. It feels so good to hear from people in the United States. Like strawberry ice cream on a muggy day in Philadelphia.

Western Union is my best friend

The crisis is over, after only one night. I even remembered I had soup mix, so I got to eat something yesterday. Still, it gives me a little perspective on what the days must feel like for people who don't have enough to eat. I was scared.

Mom sent me enough money to live off of for weeks, bless her heart. I have to find a good way to pay her back. She and Dad always say "what is ours is yours" (honestly, they just might be the best people in the world), but days like this, when I literally feel cut off from every resource I have, mean a lot. I don't have a credit card, I don't have a bank card, international calls don't work, the power goes out, the water gets shut off, and the roads are closed down ... but I still have my family! I wish they knew. My eyes are literally welling up, right now. I love them so much.

Uganda for less than $3

Ack.

I tried to go to the bank on Friday. Work was busy, though, and when I finally got a chance to hit the road, traffic was so backed up I realized there was no way I would make it to downtown Kampala while the doors were still open. So I gave up.

I tried again on Saturday, and certain roads were shut down. It took two hours to get from Ntinda to downtown Kampala, and by the time I got there, the bank was closed.

The banks aren't open on Sunday.

Today I went back, and the teller refused my credit card. She also refused my debit card. Which means I have no money. Well, that's not entirely true. I had 10,000 shillings. I spent 5,000 trying to call the bank to get them to reopen my account. I got as far as giving my social security number before the phone cut out on me. And as much as I argued, the girl at the phone booth insisted I owed her the full 5,000. Then I had to take a matatu back home. I am down to 4,000 shillings now -- less than $3. Thank God for Skype and Western Union. I think I'm getting Mom to wire me some cash. I think.

So I probably won't get to eat tonight. Well, I have peanut butter and Nutella at home, for what it's worth. Which is still probably more than most people get on a daily basis.

I did, however, have myself my first good cry.

Getting around

The power died a lot, yesterday. No problem, really, except that I had to throw away my leftover goat meat (BOO) and I couldn't finish writing in the dark. Today is Akim's birthday. I hope my phone works enough to call him.

Jamira came over this morning with a bunch of gigantic, intensely sweet bananas and three newspapers: The Monitor, New Vision, and Red Pepper. The papers were really interesting. I'm taking them home. A lot of what we study is in their pages.

Since today is a public holiday, I think I'll venture out to town and have dinner somewhere. Jamira tells me there's someplace called Nando's on Kampala Road. Maybe I'll try that. She's also mentioned the Sheraton, Grand Imperial, Equatorial and some other spots. Those are supposed to be harder to find. I wish I could take Jamira to Buddakhan. Maybe if I go corporate, I'll buy her a trip the U.S. She's helped me so much, I want to pay her back. Maybe I could send her money for school.

What was I writing about, yesterday? Oh yeah, the boda boda. So I hop one to get to work in the morning, and when we stop I offer the driver 1,000 Uganda shillings (USH). I know this is too much. It costs 1,000 USH to take the taxi from Ntinda to Kampala. You go through several other neighborhoods to get there. A boda boda is more expensive, but not that much more. I probably owed the guy 500 USH. He doesn't neglect the opportunity to extort more, though.

"Why not make it 1,500 USH?" he asks.

I pause, grinning. "Because I'm only half mzungu."

The driver laughs so hard he almost knocks himself out of his seat, and he drives away, waving. Later that day, I took another boda from Kampala to Karamoja. The driver stopped in Kololo. "Here you are," he says.

"Uh, no." I argue. "I am supposed to be near a police station."

"How do you get there?" the driver asks, challenging me. Lost, I call Vincent, then hand the phone to the driver so he can get instructions. They talk for a minute in Luganda, then the driver gives the phone back. "You told me Kololo, but it's Karamoja. That's farther! 10,000 shillings."

I pretend to be upset. "I said Karamoja in the first place! I'll just find myself another boda." And I started walking away.

"No, no, come back, come back," the driver shouts, and I turn around.

"Five thousand," I demand. Little do I know, I have just stumbled upon the actual price of the ride.

"Make it seven thousand," he counters, and I grumble.

"Fine, but I'm still a mzungu." I think Ugandans are tickled by this, because the driver laughs his head off. When we finally get to the police station of Kiira Road in Karamoja (like I had directed in the first place), I gave the guy his 7,000 shillings. Then I held up another 500. "If the man on the phone had paid you, how much would you have gotten?"

The driver looks down at his pedals, but it doesn't take much coaxing to get the answer out of him. "5,000," he says.

I handed him the money and grinned. "That's what I thought."

The driver saw the laughter in my eyes and flashed me a big grin. "God bless you," he said, before scooting off. I really do have to learn the value of things.

Back to my day, today. I am way too shy. I go from my room and safe talks with Jamira straight to the internet cafe. I should go find some beautiful place to walk and see the wildlife. But just watching people seems adventure enough. Folks stare, and I grin like an idiot to make them feel comfortable, and they stare more. I am meeting people, though ...

Out of time, more later.

LHR

Flying British Airways was absolutely magnificent. The seats were big and squishy, with headrests that were actually designed to support a nap. There were video screens on the back of every chair, and an entire movie and television lineup. I watched a lot of Doctor Who. (I know, there's no accounting for taste.) Where domestic airlines serve peanuts for food (literally), we had complimentary wine, dinner with dessert, multiple beverage services, AND breakfast. And this was a seven hour flight. I wanted to stay awake to watch The Godfather and a few new releases I've been meaning to catch, but the plane hummed me to sleep. What a great flight.

I think Fate was preparing me for what would come next. Heathrow was a mess! The check-in attendant in the United States advised me to speak with an employee about my luggage as soon as I touched down in London. Only, when I touched down in London, there were no airline employees to be found. Only a long gray hall, followed by another long gray hall, followed by another, and another, and another. I stopped counting at five, and focused instead on putting one foot in front of the other. I have about 80 pounds of carry-on luggage, and 100 pounds of checked luggage. Carrying all those books for Gulu has its costs. Just ask my traps.

Anyway, after a long, long walk I finally progressed from Terminal 5 to Terminal 4. I was supposed to go to Terminal 3. The sign pointed me out an automatic sliding glass door. Full of confidence, I walked toward the door. It never opened. There was a bus outside leaving for Terminal 3. I tried to wave down the driver, tried to slide the door open -- no luck. I turn to the woman at the security desk behind me. "Is something wrong with the doors?" I asked.

"No, it's my job to open them. Oh look, you just missed your bus. The next one will be by in a few." I sigh. I wait for the bus. It's a ten minute DRIVE to get from terminal 4 to terminal 3.

I am falling asleep as I type, so if you see a random note about purple bumblebees playing poker in the shower, you know why.

Upon reaching terminal 3, I am told that my flight was canceled. The airline blames it on a technical strike. It took three hours just to get a turn to talk with the booking agent. He told me I wasn't stranded. He told me that all I had to do was get my paper ticket from the Virgin Atlantic main desk and take it to Kenya Airways so that I can book a new flight with them. Sounds easy enough. I start to leave when I realize ... I have no idea where I'm going. So I ask a security guard for directions. He says something in a thick British accent that I barely understand.

I tried to follow the directions. Exit, left right left. Only that doesn't work. I wind up going in a circle. I smile at the flight attendant offering directions as I go by the second time. The third time around the terminal, I wind up in immigration. Not what I thought I wanted! The time after that, and I'm actually having conversations with the security guard outside of Virgin Atlantic. He asks where I'm going. I tell him. He sends me back to the little Virgin Atlantic desk upstairs that can't help me.

It turns out, everyone is wrong about where this desk is. The desk isn't even IN the building. Finding it on my own was a minor trick ...

Okay, must finish typing quickly, because I really am falling asleep with my eyes open.

Seven hours later, and I am officially rerouted through Kenya airlines. There were some great moments. I made friends with a lot of folks going Nairobi who were likewlse stuck in London. I got to hear the "Mind the Gap" recording on the underground, again when I took the Heathrow Express train, at one point. And when I explained my ticketing situation at the Kenya Airways counter, four clerks simultaneously break out into a rousing chorus of "Always Look on the Bright of Life."

So I'm just rolling with the punches. Or sleeping over them. I'm going to go take a nap.