Golden Room

The Golden Room.  Although now it has a big bed net around it that makes me feel like an Indian bride.  I'll try to post a photo tomorrow.

Two Lies and a Truth, or, Mr. Vegas

After a classic Clark Griswold missed turn, going round and round on the six-lane wide roundabouts of Kampala, and after a good 30 minutes of thinking “I know it’s over in this directions somewhere” but with no idea how to actually get there since there are no right angle streets in Kampala, I decided to turn right to make it to Garden City Mall & take the kids out to pizza and just walk around.  Right turns are left turns, just so you know.  So far, no harm, no foul.  We found parking, I got out & there was a cop there waiting for me. 

“Sir, you made a wrong turn to get here.”

“Huh?  How did you get here? I made the turn a half-mile back.”

“You made a U-turn in a no-U-turn lane”

“Is there a sign informing drivers of this?  I’ve driven Kampala for years (lie) and have never been pulled over (true).  How can drivers know what is allowed and what is not allowed if there are no signs?”

“May I see your drivers license?”

“Of course.  Can’t you just give me a warning, since I was unaware of the infraction?  If this is about getting a bribe from a Muzungu, it’s not going to work.  I’d like to see your superior.”

“Yes, sir. Come with me.” (50 feet later) If you just give me some lunch money I can just give you a warning.”

“I think I want to speak to your superior”

(100 feet later & at the very roundabout I got stuck in, four cops on motorcycles).  “Hello, I seem to have been detained due to an unmarked and undetermined traffic violation.  If the intersection were adequately marked I never would have made an illegal turn (lie).  Your colleague here solicited me for a bribe, asked me to pay for his lunch and this would all go away.”

“Well, we are a developing country and we are all trying to get ahead.  Where are you from?”

“Idaho, it’s in the western U.S. in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Is it near California?”

“Well, no. Las Vegas is about ten hours away.”

“Oh yes, (three in unison) Las Vegas!  And what brings you to Uganda?”

I’m teaching at Muteesa I Royal University.”

“Oh, you are a professor?  What are you teaching?”

“I’m teaching a course on how damaging it is to the nation to have a corrupt government.”

Long pause.

“Las Vegas, eh?”

“Thank you for helping to correct our country, you know we are developing.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Let us just give you a warning this time. Please know that it is illegal to make a U-turn over there.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy Las Vegas!”

Lost in Kampala

Attending church in Kampala instantly took me (Kathleen) back to my childhood in Guam in the 60s.  The church compound is a series of white cinderblock buildings.  The main service is held in the largest building.  It is a small enough room, but because the windows are open and the property is right next to a very busy main road, the speaker must use a microphone in order for the congregation to hear him or her.  And even that doesn’t help when a “party bus” (our description—I don’t actually know what it is called—of a very tall bus with very loud speakers that drives through the streets either playing music or having someone shout over the speakers, saying who knows what) drives by.  The meeting stops until the party bus is out of earshot. 

The children have class in an open-air room (closed on three sides, open in the back).  Joe recognized most of what went on except for the primary songs sung in Luganda (one of the languages here).  The other children stared and giggled at him, but a few were brave enough to approach him.  One particularly friendly baby (maybe two years old?) repeatedly slapped Joe on the knee and stared intently at his face.  Joe thinks he was trying to see if Joe was real!

After church Dave took a wrong turn (which, incidentally, isn’t hard to do) and we ended up lost on dirt roads in a small village when the skies opened up in a tropical downpour.  Even the cows ran for cover under whatever small ledge they could find.  The roads turned to red rivers as he tried to navigate back to somewhere he recognized.  I suppose I should have been nervous, but I found it quite exhilarating.  I’m not sure the kids felt the same way.  I knew we would eventually find our way back.

A box spring is not a bed

Dear Landlord,

 I think you must have forgotten something.  The beds in your house are not beds.  Well, they are technically beds in that they are several inches off of the floor and have covering on them that is entirely lovely if you want to tell everyone who visits your bedroom that you are a rich African with an affinity for gold fabric and tassels.  But they are missing a key element:  mattresses.  The first night I was here I really didn’t care.  The melatonin took care of me and my fully-clothed, incredibly jet-lagged, can’t-believe-I-am-in-a-golden-room-in-Africa self.  However, the second day I was slightly more aware and slightly less tolerant of the fact that the bed was not a bed.  It was a box spring topped by a BOARD. As boards go, this one was particularly hard, too.

We thought there must have been a mistake, so we asked your son, who incidentally lives in the garage for the time being (story later).  He assured us that no, there was no mistake, these are indeed the beds.  Dave, equally as intolerant, and I went in search of a solution.  Over the dirt roads rutted from the downpour of the previous night, through the village marketplace (sounds WAY nicer than it is), through terrifying traffic to the Muzungu (white people) store we went.  Our car was inspected at the “mall” entrance by an unnecessarily stern policeman with a mirror on a long pole to see if our undercarriage was fitted with a bomb. In all fairness, I can’t say that for sure, because I didn’t ask.

The only thing we could find that might make sleep an option again were a few “foam” mattresses. (Let me explain the quotation marks: I do not have the words to describe certain things.  Maybe my vocabulary will grow as I am here a little longer, but it may need to be censored). 

I’m going to skip forward a few hours to the moment when we got to try out our solution.  With great anticipation we tried to rest.  I wish RIGHT HERE that I were able to say that the solution was magic and that we would be able to sleep again.  If that were the case I might be in bed right now enjoying a deep sleep.  Alas, I am typing this and avoiding the golden, foam-topped box-spring bed because I know I will wake up (which assumes I would have been asleep, which I wouldn’t) in the morning feeling far worse than I feel right now.  Although the pads upgraded the bed from a board to, let’s say, the ground (or a softer board), it’s not soft enough for my Muzungu, pampered, soft, American body.  

I promise to be more upbeat about your beautiful country in the future, but that might be difficult unless I can get some sleep.

Intersection of Beauty, Fear, and Color

In western Uganda there is a refugee camp where those fleeing the turmoil in eastern Congo have fled, located about 40 miles west of Hoima. I couldn't resist taking this shot of a young girl carrying her young baby.  Typically I don't take the portrait style snapshots, because I see it as exploitative.  She graciously gave me permission.  I think the shot captures the fear, determination and overall dignity of this people who simply want to live in peace on their lands, but for the militias patrolling the areas, seizing mining areas for foreign interests.

Monkey Meat

Looks like this monkey will be this lucky boy's dinner tonight.

A wonderful hike up a muddy trail led by barefoot village boys expecting tips from rich Americans.  Quite spectacular!  Hope to take the family here soon.