Kyangwali is a day trip. Yea right.

 

A happy face after a happy day.

 

So, the crazy day I was alluding to before finally has the justification to be told. Friday, I wasn’t going to do a “woah me” post when more lives were spent at the hands of Ugandan police, the arm of “he who shall not be named”.

As the story goes, I was going to get on the 7AM departure vehicle for Kyangwali Refugee Settlement but Mr. Flaky, excuse me Mr. Jean Paul Asami, a Congolese refugee in the Educate program said that he wanted to meet me in the morning. The day before he had been surprised when he didn’t find me at our meeting point three hours after he agreed to be there. Sure, African time is different, people are late, but eff off if you think you can keep people waiting for three hours like it‘s a casual mistake. Again, his nickname rang true Friday morning; he never showed up, so I left at 10AM.

There was no bus that went to Kyangwali, only private cars, sedans–like on the way to Gulu. Comfort has become a totally remote concept in my brain nowadays after riding Ugandan transportation for the past three months. But to bring that idea new meaning, I was one of four people in front seat of the sedan this time. There were five in the back too. Having so many people, I was the lucky one by the window while one person actually had to share the drivers seat. Extremely dangerous? Probably. When I expressed my disbelief with the man when he told me how many people would be riding in the car (jutting my head out in disbelief and lifting up my sunglasses to show my bulging eyeballs) he said, “C’mon. This is how we do things in Africa.” And he’s right, so I shut up and got in.

There was a midway stop where I met another Educate student named Deo. Deo is beginning his fourth social project having only completed the program in December. He has created a musical group of orphans, brought a piggery and poultry project to his poor community, and is now generating income for elders by teaching them to plant trees and sell them. Educate is amazing. Actually, Mr. Flaky was part of a vast number of projects himself, which I got to eventually talk to him about on Saturday and Sunday. But I’m still bitter so I’m leaving him out of my kudos.

After talking with Deo for an hour or so, I flagged down my second sedan to take me to Kyangwali. With nine people in the car last time and similar numbers beginning to swarm around the car this time, I played my diva card to get a window seat–which actually just involved asking the driver very nicely for the spot and hoping he liked muzungus. As we were getting in, the large maama next to me in the passengers seat said, well actually her bum said, that the window seat next to her was filled up. Instead, I got to be the drivers-seat-sharer on this ride. Me and a stick-like Ugandan with great tunes.

The driver kept his word though, it was the most comfortable seat in the car. Please, let me invite you to picture this: we had four adults, one child, and two toddlers in the front; in the back, there were five adults, two children and three other babies. Grand total: seventeen human beings in one sedan. They were literally picking up the children to load them in through the window as if sliding a body into a morge. And, no, this was not a 700 series BMW or luxury vehicle. It was at best a Celica. (The car brands here are as recognizable as those Fucci and Prado handbags you see in New York.)

The high point of the day was turning around a bend to see a huge black momba cross the road. This, my dear readers, is arguably the most deadly snake in the world. It was so awesome; I can still picture it slithering into the grassy forest out of view while thinking, Woah, I wonder if that was a black mamba. Asking the driver, he didn’t know what a black momba was so I instead asked, “Poisonous?” YES, he said, with a smile for the understatement.

Less than a minute down the road, about thirty monkeys were crossing the road and seeing the seventeen of us, probably thinking, Wow, look at those dumb animals in the Celica.

Two hours later, we came to arrive in Kyangwali and the driver who now loved me (after our two hour chat about music) agreed to get me a boda-boda so that he could negotiate a price for me. Random muzungu in Kyangwali equals “spectacle”; so, when I arrived all the boda men and other people came to be part of the negotiating action. When I took out my 20000 shillings to pay the sedan driver 5000, some drunk, old woman outstretched her hand, wanting a piece of the cake. I ignored her but she persisted like a drunk beggar. Oh wait, she was. I kept having to turn my back so that I could handle my money without her seeing it. I jumped on the boda knowing my transactions were coming to a close as she took her empty beer bottle and started raising it over her head. (These are the images in my mind I wish I didn’t have to take back from Africa, where I’ve run into so many good people.) Luckily the crowd was around because they stopped her. Simultaneously, with the boda driver sensing the tension and need to flee, he took off… without getting my change from the other man.

So in the conversation I was having with one of my many new best friends, the driver with whom I was sharing a seat, I found out some bad news. It was becoming apparent that I would be having some major monetary troubles during my stay in Kyangwali. Having traveled to Pader, the boondock of boondocks in my eyes, I assumed that Kyangwali would have a bank. On my map of Uganda, both are marked with the same kind of dot which told me they were of comparable size and comparably developed. Stupid, I know: a refugee camp with an ATM. As a second resort I thought they would at least have mobile money exchanges (which is the way that many rural farmers get money here in Uganda on their cell phones, within their own respective boonies). But, I was wrong. So I had about 40000 shillings which was barely enough to get through one night at a hotel anywhere, counting money to eat and travel back to Hoima.

Having just pulled away from the drunk wanna-be Barry Bonds (where the baseball would be a muzungu in this case), I asked the driver if maybe he’d been given my change from the other man as they were discussing. “No. Four thousand.” What? He gave you only four thousand? Sir, did that man give you my money? “Yes.” Okay, can I have it? “Yes.” Sir, are you understanding what I’m saying? “Yes, Hotel St. Patrick. We go.” Sir, turn around, that man stole my money. “Okay…” (Still cruising) SIR! (Now shouting) I can’t pay you unless I have that money! “Okay.”

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finally, a word got through.

With the stupidest conversation of the day delaying our turnaround, the taxi man, now my new worst enemy, had already taken off with my shillings. We saw Barry again so I told the man just to go. I didn’t need any more scars than I already have from Uganda and I still had another 20000 on me–not much, but its something. When we got to the hotel, I tried to bargain with them to give me a hotel for 15000, even pulling out some tears–that were pretty genuine at this point–but no luck. So, I had them call a boda for me to go back to Hoima.

Yep, a three-hour boda, a three-hour boda (Gilligan’s Island theme). There was no use to stay and get in a bigger predicament than I was already in. I told the boda man that I could pay him when we got to the bank in Hoima.

Oh, and to add to the drama, a storm was on it’s way. Luckily, very luckily on account of my camera and laptop with me, the man forced me to wear a raincoat before we left–the sun was beating down at 80 degree temperatures at the time. Thirty minutes in, the rain was showing no mercy. I tried to enjoy it with some music from my iPod but the truth was: I was on a three-hour boda in the rain.

Dirt roads don’t like that much water all at once either. At one point I had to get out and walk barefoot through the mud, after the boda had tipped for being unable to grasp any turf. So, I slipped and slid down a huge hill in thick mud. It trashed my jeans and muddied my shoes but I was still breathing, with my iPod, and actually enjoying the feeling of the mud gushing through my toes after I took off my shoes. My boda driver said, “Welcome to Africa,” and I shouted in response, “Welcome to AFRICA!” He said, “You see, people here are suffering…” and I thought, Oops, that is the opposite of what I was just doing. He was another Congolese refugee and as the rain died down, I learned a lot about his story. While Uganda may be a little haywire, unpredictable, and obviously, third-world, it seems organized and peaceful compared to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

After a stop at the bank, I arrived back at my lovely, oh so lovely, hotel around six oclock–with a butt that was very sore from three hours riding over tractor grooves or potholes. I had a huge bruise on my shin from when the boda tipped and when I found a mirror, my forehead had a huge line of dust on it from where dirt had caked in the outline of my sunglasses. It was the typical looks-like-you-got-run-over-by-a-truck look, which wasn’t too far off. Western Uganda had stomped all over me that day: the weather, the earth, a boda, all the other poor means of transportation, it’s people… yet, there I was still standing tall.

And as you know, there were much greater losses that day so my day was simply a lesson to never assume something so dumb again. What a blonde. Good thing is that I can pat myself on the back after it all because my resilient positivity is my strongest tool against these sort of days. And the reason I always come out on top. J

In Swahili (the main spoken language used in Kyangwali),

Hakuna Matata (ha-koo-nah ma-tah-tah): Don’t have worries.

In other, unrelated news, this is the hills I ran up to get a view of the city. B-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l view on top.

 

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