Bottoms Up to Destruction
Mar. 23rd, 2006 06:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amalthyaWednesday 11:55 pm
Some days are so surreal, if I hadn't lived them myself, I would be like "Shut up. You're joking"... And really, yesterday was one of them.
I started off with Chris and Felicia, the directors of Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project, who generously allowed me to stay at their home in Ruhengeri, Rwanda, since I didn't have enough money to pay for a hotel, my Ugandan visa, AND the bus trip home.
To keep track, remember that I started with 120,000 Ugandan Shillings to my name. $60 to get me back to Entebbe.
We ate at the Muhabura again, and I ran into Simon again, although we were decidedly less drunk/raunchy.
Anyway, it was lots of fun, and I slept so peacefully at their house, with their 3 dogs, 1 cat and orphaned gorilla (the gorilla was actually in the bedroom next to me too). Oh, AND they gave me an original Empire Strikes Back pillowcase.
... Really, it was perfect.
I had breakfast with Felicia too before she drove me to the matatu stage. She said, as we went, "Wow, I'm so reminded of myself 15 years ago, when I was driven to the border-matatus by ____ in Burundi." It was funny but it felt like a compliment. Like my response should have been "Well, if I'm where you are in 15 years I'll be in heaven" but instead I probably cracked some joke.
Before breakfast, I sat outside and played with their nice dogs, Simba and Dan and ____. When out from the side of the house comes their gorilla -- this 3 (?) year old orphaned male. I'm sure my jeans stunk of chimpanzee, because this male gorilla was so curious and just kept following me around, and running back and forth in front of me. I was taking photos, amazed at being so close to a male (all the orphans at DFGFI are female). There's an element of fear, because there's a think gorilla musk-scent. I'm taking photos and I realize that he's sniffing and sort of licking my toes! I can feel his hot breath on my cold toes-ies in the chill Rwandan mountainside morning.
I try to move away sort of, since it's not really good for me to be close to him for anthropozoonotic disease issues, but he's putting his face right close to mine. I'm not sure whether or not to maintain eye contact, because he doesn't KNOW me but the fact that he's getting really close to me suggests that he feels pretty comfortable. But the fact is if he did get upset, my face is uh... right there.
What was incredibly cool was having the sun be in my face and seeing my little pale red-headed reflection in this gorilla's big brown liquid eyes.
Anyway, onto the journey...
I got to the matatu and they charged me an extra dollar for my enormous hiking pack. It wasn't a very long journey, but every single money changer and taxi driver at the border town of Cyanika was determined to become my best friend.
I managed to make it to the immigration window but was told I had to come inside even though the clerk could have very well come to the window. Of course, my hiking pack didn't FIT through the door, so I had to take everything off and come in to get my stamp.
I walked across the border and a man with a car asked me if I'd like a cab to Kisoro. His price was sort of double the usual, but I wasn't in the declining mood just yet since there usually aren't many cabs or matatus there. I had my 60,000 Uganda shillings ready to get my visa ($30 US Dollars for a month). I head into the office, and this old old old man is like "We don't take shillings."
"But this is Uganda!" I decry. I mean, I've run out of dollars in Goma long ago. So he tells me to go to the money changers outside and having my Ugandan shillings converted into dollars. Mind you, these are the guys I just told to bugger off not 10 minutes beforehand.
So, I call them over and 5 guys come, even though I just need $30. One guy gives me a 20 and 2 fives, and I run back to the immigration office. Remember that the border opens at 8 am, but I lose an hour going from Ruhengeri to Cyanika (Africa/Cairo timezone to Africa/Kampala) and I had a really long trip ahead of me and wanted to hurry up.
I go into the office, and the guy looks at the bills and throws them back to me.
"These are dirty!" he cries. "This one even has INK on it!" So, I have to go ALL the way back to the money-changers and get different bills.
I finally get my visa, but I'm close to being rejected because he has to put it on the "Amendments" page because I just don't have any pages left. He decides to give me the visa anyway, and I decide after seeing NO other modes of transport that yea, I'll take this cab. He asks me once inside where I'm going, and I tell him Kampala, via Kisoro, Kabale, Mbarara, Masaka, etc. He says that he'd like to drive me to Kabale.
Now, the road between the two places is bad, muddy, windy and probably 2 hours. I ask him how much he'll take me for, since the matatus going there are REALLY irregular and really crowded.
He asks me how much I have, a typical "bargaining" tactic (I can't help but think of Peter Griffin "haggling" for a coffin) and I tell him to just tell me the price. He says "You give me 9"
Now, it costs 30 to get from Kampala to Entebbe, which is half the distance and twice as good a road.
So, I think this guy is somehow wrong, so I say "9...thousand shillings? NINE-ZERO-ZERO-ZERO?"
(this is the equivalent of about $5. Remember that I have 60,000 shillings left at this point too.)
"Yes," he says, nodding his head affirmatively.
So off we go!
You know, in Southwest Uganda there's a lot of white resentment because most whites there are going to Bwindi to see the gorillas at $375 a pop. They're coming in huge safari trucks and well, I'll just say I can empathize with the feelings.
It made me feel extra guilty as I travel through the same area in my cab, the entire back seat full of nothing but my bags, and we bypass at least 30 people all waiting for the ne'er-arriving matatus going through the area and they get up to flag us down, only to have to sit again.
Anyway, we get to Kabale and I've given him 10,000 for petrol on the way so I figure we're squared away. But he's following me into the taxi park. He parked way far away too, because I figure he doesn't have a license to taxi in Kabale and is there illegally.
It's a long walk and I'm walking faster to put some distance between us, and I turn to see if he's still there, step on a stray road-rock and go sprawling. D'oh! He runs over and picks up some of my stuff and helps me up, so I let him walk with me to the matatu.
I find one to Mbarara -- we're way too far out to get a direct matatu to Kampala -- so I put my stuff in the back, take a seat.... and the cab driver gets into the matatu. I say to him "What, you're going to Mbarara too?" and he's like "No, pay me."
UGH. We get into this huge fight and he basically is saying that I agreed to give him ninety thousand shillings. Now, whether his English is bad or he was trying to scam me, I don't care. First off, if you're keeping track, I don't have 90,000 shillings and if I did I'd bloody well use it to get home, not get 1/5th of the journey via cab. Secondly, I don't abide by price-changing.
It's a really common muzungu ruse for guys to quote you one price and demand another upon arrival. On the basis of principle alone I don't stand for it, and here, I was sort of in a bind. The cab driver is shaking this calculator at me, and everyone in the taxi park is getting involved, along with everyone in the matatu itself.
Everyone wants to know what was said, in what order, what price was agreed on, what money was exchanged, where I'm from, and Do I Believe in His Holiestness His Lord Jesus Christ?
Finally, this very old man ("mzee") asks what was said, and I say that I repeated nine thousand shillings to him and that he agreed, and that really, it's not my fault if he can't tell the difference between nine and ninety, and that if he's not sure he shouldn't agree.
The mzee gives me an approving nod and motions that the cab driver get out immediately. Poor cabbie, he looks at me and I see this look of perceived and genuine panic in his eyes that he doesn't have money to get back to Kisoro.
So, foolishly, I give him another 10,000 shillings (I'm down to 40,000 shillings now) and he leaves, complaining as he goes to anyone who'll listen.
I felt sort of sheepish then, because really, I'd blown my top during the fight, yelling about Inequities For Muzungus and the crap we have to deal with, so I was happy when, after sitting in the taxi park for an hour, we finally fill up and go on our way.
I'm crammed into the back seat, my laptop between my legs and my big basket on my lap. I manage to sleep a little and my iPod drowns out the sound of the TWO infants screaming.
Different mothers, different families, but one family was sitting surrounding me, so it was quite surprising when I looked left to see scenery and saw boob instead.
Sure, I don't mind public breast-feeding, but usually there's some sort of warning before you see someone else's nipples. Maybe a lead-up in the soundtrack?
*sings Jaws music*
The ride is 6,000 shillings, so now I'm down to 34,000 shillings. And I'm not even halfway there yet.
We get to Mbarara, and every taxi driver in the world wants to be my best friend and help me. Two guys from the first matatu from Kabale get out and tell me to be careful, but that I'm a good muzungu, very strong, and that they're proud of me for sticking up for myself. Well, hurrah, but where the hell is my next matatu?
Chagrined that there are NO matatus to Kampala and realizing that it is now nearly 5, will be dark soon, and that I don't want to be stranded in Masaka (at least Mbarara has a hotel and an ATM), I decide NOT to get on the matatu for Masaka.
Instead, one cabbie offers to drive me "to the big bus" which is filling up for 2,000 shillings. Tired and resigned, I get into his cab and tell him, once inside and wary, that if the big bus is gone or isn't going to Kampala, I'm giving him nothing.
I can't afford to mess around :P
We get to a huge bus, filling up, and it IS in fact going DIRECT to Kampala!! Hurrah!
I pay the cab driver (down to 32,000 now) and head over to the bus. This random man comes and goes to take my big hiking pack out of the trunk of the taxi, lifts it up, and promptly falls on the ground, essentially tossing my bag and causing my toothbrush to go flying out and into the mud.
Oh, bugger.
He later calls through the window of the bus and asks me for a tip for helping me carry my bag. Fah!
I decide after sitting for many hours with my basket on my lap that the 4+ hour back to Kampala is worth investing in an extra seat, so I buy 2 seats instead of one. Of course, in the duration of the bus trip, no fewer than three bus employees come to the back of the bus, scowl at the "empty" seat and demand to see the tickets of the people riding next to the Alleged Bag.
The bus ride ended up being fine, and I iPodded it most of the way. It should be indicative of how tired and frazzled I was that signs made me laugh, like
Farmer's Ass Dairy
and
Would clients please prefer to go in the back door?
I giggle and needlepoint on the bus, which is no easy feat, I'll tell you. Finally, it's too dark and I'm just suddenly horribly bored. The iPod dies, and I'm just itching to get there. It doesn't help either that Debby calls and tells me that, by her estimation, we should already be in Kampala.
The bus stops by the side of the road, causing the entertainment -- a VCR at the front of the bus with no sound and atrocious tracking -- to pause its showing of Jackie Chan in Jackie Chan Does Marshall Arts While Also Flashing His Heiny. Seriously, are you allowed to show Jackie Chan's butt in America?
I'm not sure why we're stopped, but suddenly, 4-5 men get up and walk out. I crane my head out the window to see what's going on and suddenly am barraged by the odor of.... urine?
I look down and the four men are each standing by the side of the bus peeing ON the bus. Just standing there, content. They get back on and I think we're about to leave when a new cluster of men goes outside.
It's like women going in groups to pee, except that it means that instead of just all going at ONCE at taking FIVE MINUTES, they stagger out and stagger in and it's a good 25 minutes until we head out on the road again.
Finally, we pull into Goma around 9-something at night -- it's close to 10 pm. The lights come on in the bus and, standing with my bags, I've been spotted!
... By every. taxi driver in. kampala.
They're all calling to me. Muzungu! Taxi! Special! We go!
It's like the Mamma Mia chorus from Bohemian Rhapsody Except not funny, or sing-a-long-a-ble. Or written by Freddie Mercury. And without the high note.
Anyway, instead of being in the bus park, we're by the curb. People are SWARMING the side of the bus, especially me and I'm already feeing claustrophobic. My bag comes out, and I realize I'll have to put down ALL my other bags to get it up onto my back. In this crowd? No way!!
So, I just pick it up by the external frame and drag it across the street to get some personal space, slowly losing my sanity as persistent cab drivers follow me.
I threatened to punch one guy if he didn't take two full steps back, mostly because I didn't think he'd understand a reference to Seinfed's "Close Talkers" as an alternative.
I asked where the matatu park was, because, at this point, after paying 16,000 to the bus from Mbarara, I'm down to 16,000, which is uh....10,000 shillings too little to take a cab home.
Debby had told me that it was "right across" from the bus park... which, well, it sort of was.... from the BACK of the bus park. So there I go, walking through the slums of Kampala at night with my 40 kilo hiking pack, my basket full of presents, my purse dangling from my front strap and my computer bag.
I get to an intersection at the back of the bus park, and this guy is like "follow me!"
Of course, he fails to mention that his 3 swarthy friends are going to follow right behind me and try to stay out of sight... So when I turn around and see them, they disband, but I'm immediately feeling a bit... uh.... vulnerable?
I continue down the road, and ask where the matatu park is, and the boda guys just want to take me.
"You come and we'll go."
To actually GET some directions I had to yell. But, uh, well, *shame* I was already doing a lot of that. They point me up this street which is totally dark because the power is off in Kampala. There are no cars, no bodas, no stores, no people. Just total, utter, Please-Rob-Me darkness.
I realized that I was in WAY over my head, called Debby, and talked with her up the road until I passed through, so that if i DID scream, well, at least someone would know what happened to me...
I got to the other side (the chicken was right behind me) and made it into the bus on the way to Entebbe. Barely. It was like a strange familiar dream being on the way back to Entebbe.
I got to the Entebbe stage and looked around for Debby, who was picking me up, but she was nowhere to be found. I was once again accosted by the Entebbe Queen asking me for specials and bodas and everything else. I started walking towards the turkeys, thinking at least there I could put my bags down.
Ugh, okay, I've been writing this entry on and off for like, 5 hours.
I'm exhausted. The point was, I got home, and the day was wild, surreal, and stressful.
The end!
Some days are so surreal, if I hadn't lived them myself, I would be like "Shut up. You're joking"... And really, yesterday was one of them.
I started off with Chris and Felicia, the directors of Mountain Gorilla Veterinary Project, who generously allowed me to stay at their home in Ruhengeri, Rwanda, since I didn't have enough money to pay for a hotel, my Ugandan visa, AND the bus trip home.
To keep track, remember that I started with 120,000 Ugandan Shillings to my name. $60 to get me back to Entebbe.
We ate at the Muhabura again, and I ran into Simon again, although we were decidedly less drunk/raunchy.
Anyway, it was lots of fun, and I slept so peacefully at their house, with their 3 dogs, 1 cat and orphaned gorilla (the gorilla was actually in the bedroom next to me too). Oh, AND they gave me an original Empire Strikes Back pillowcase.
... Really, it was perfect.
I had breakfast with Felicia too before she drove me to the matatu stage. She said, as we went, "Wow, I'm so reminded of myself 15 years ago, when I was driven to the border-matatus by ____ in Burundi." It was funny but it felt like a compliment. Like my response should have been "Well, if I'm where you are in 15 years I'll be in heaven" but instead I probably cracked some joke.
Before breakfast, I sat outside and played with their nice dogs, Simba and Dan and ____. When out from the side of the house comes their gorilla -- this 3 (?) year old orphaned male. I'm sure my jeans stunk of chimpanzee, because this male gorilla was so curious and just kept following me around, and running back and forth in front of me. I was taking photos, amazed at being so close to a male (all the orphans at DFGFI are female). There's an element of fear, because there's a think gorilla musk-scent. I'm taking photos and I realize that he's sniffing and sort of licking my toes! I can feel his hot breath on my cold toes-ies in the chill Rwandan mountainside morning.
I try to move away sort of, since it's not really good for me to be close to him for anthropozoonotic disease issues, but he's putting his face right close to mine. I'm not sure whether or not to maintain eye contact, because he doesn't KNOW me but the fact that he's getting really close to me suggests that he feels pretty comfortable. But the fact is if he did get upset, my face is uh... right there.
What was incredibly cool was having the sun be in my face and seeing my little pale red-headed reflection in this gorilla's big brown liquid eyes.
Anyway, onto the journey...
I got to the matatu and they charged me an extra dollar for my enormous hiking pack. It wasn't a very long journey, but every single money changer and taxi driver at the border town of Cyanika was determined to become my best friend.
I managed to make it to the immigration window but was told I had to come inside even though the clerk could have very well come to the window. Of course, my hiking pack didn't FIT through the door, so I had to take everything off and come in to get my stamp.
I walked across the border and a man with a car asked me if I'd like a cab to Kisoro. His price was sort of double the usual, but I wasn't in the declining mood just yet since there usually aren't many cabs or matatus there. I had my 60,000 Uganda shillings ready to get my visa ($30 US Dollars for a month). I head into the office, and this old old old man is like "We don't take shillings."
"But this is Uganda!" I decry. I mean, I've run out of dollars in Goma long ago. So he tells me to go to the money changers outside and having my Ugandan shillings converted into dollars. Mind you, these are the guys I just told to bugger off not 10 minutes beforehand.
So, I call them over and 5 guys come, even though I just need $30. One guy gives me a 20 and 2 fives, and I run back to the immigration office. Remember that the border opens at 8 am, but I lose an hour going from Ruhengeri to Cyanika (Africa/Cairo timezone to Africa/Kampala) and I had a really long trip ahead of me and wanted to hurry up.
I go into the office, and the guy looks at the bills and throws them back to me.
"These are dirty!" he cries. "This one even has INK on it!" So, I have to go ALL the way back to the money-changers and get different bills.
I finally get my visa, but I'm close to being rejected because he has to put it on the "Amendments" page because I just don't have any pages left. He decides to give me the visa anyway, and I decide after seeing NO other modes of transport that yea, I'll take this cab. He asks me once inside where I'm going, and I tell him Kampala, via Kisoro, Kabale, Mbarara, Masaka, etc. He says that he'd like to drive me to Kabale.
Now, the road between the two places is bad, muddy, windy and probably 2 hours. I ask him how much he'll take me for, since the matatus going there are REALLY irregular and really crowded.
He asks me how much I have, a typical "bargaining" tactic (I can't help but think of Peter Griffin "haggling" for a coffin) and I tell him to just tell me the price. He says "You give me 9"
Now, it costs 30 to get from Kampala to Entebbe, which is half the distance and twice as good a road.
So, I think this guy is somehow wrong, so I say "9...thousand shillings? NINE-ZERO-ZERO-ZERO?"
(this is the equivalent of about $5. Remember that I have 60,000 shillings left at this point too.)
"Yes," he says, nodding his head affirmatively.
So off we go!
You know, in Southwest Uganda there's a lot of white resentment because most whites there are going to Bwindi to see the gorillas at $375 a pop. They're coming in huge safari trucks and well, I'll just say I can empathize with the feelings.
It made me feel extra guilty as I travel through the same area in my cab, the entire back seat full of nothing but my bags, and we bypass at least 30 people all waiting for the ne'er-arriving matatus going through the area and they get up to flag us down, only to have to sit again.
Anyway, we get to Kabale and I've given him 10,000 for petrol on the way so I figure we're squared away. But he's following me into the taxi park. He parked way far away too, because I figure he doesn't have a license to taxi in Kabale and is there illegally.
It's a long walk and I'm walking faster to put some distance between us, and I turn to see if he's still there, step on a stray road-rock and go sprawling. D'oh! He runs over and picks up some of my stuff and helps me up, so I let him walk with me to the matatu.
I find one to Mbarara -- we're way too far out to get a direct matatu to Kampala -- so I put my stuff in the back, take a seat.... and the cab driver gets into the matatu. I say to him "What, you're going to Mbarara too?" and he's like "No, pay me."
UGH. We get into this huge fight and he basically is saying that I agreed to give him ninety thousand shillings. Now, whether his English is bad or he was trying to scam me, I don't care. First off, if you're keeping track, I don't have 90,000 shillings and if I did I'd bloody well use it to get home, not get 1/5th of the journey via cab. Secondly, I don't abide by price-changing.
It's a really common muzungu ruse for guys to quote you one price and demand another upon arrival. On the basis of principle alone I don't stand for it, and here, I was sort of in a bind. The cab driver is shaking this calculator at me, and everyone in the taxi park is getting involved, along with everyone in the matatu itself.
Everyone wants to know what was said, in what order, what price was agreed on, what money was exchanged, where I'm from, and Do I Believe in His Holiestness His Lord Jesus Christ?
Finally, this very old man ("mzee") asks what was said, and I say that I repeated nine thousand shillings to him and that he agreed, and that really, it's not my fault if he can't tell the difference between nine and ninety, and that if he's not sure he shouldn't agree.
The mzee gives me an approving nod and motions that the cab driver get out immediately. Poor cabbie, he looks at me and I see this look of perceived and genuine panic in his eyes that he doesn't have money to get back to Kisoro.
So, foolishly, I give him another 10,000 shillings (I'm down to 40,000 shillings now) and he leaves, complaining as he goes to anyone who'll listen.
I felt sort of sheepish then, because really, I'd blown my top during the fight, yelling about Inequities For Muzungus and the crap we have to deal with, so I was happy when, after sitting in the taxi park for an hour, we finally fill up and go on our way.
I'm crammed into the back seat, my laptop between my legs and my big basket on my lap. I manage to sleep a little and my iPod drowns out the sound of the TWO infants screaming.
Different mothers, different families, but one family was sitting surrounding me, so it was quite surprising when I looked left to see scenery and saw boob instead.
Sure, I don't mind public breast-feeding, but usually there's some sort of warning before you see someone else's nipples. Maybe a lead-up in the soundtrack?
*sings Jaws music*
The ride is 6,000 shillings, so now I'm down to 34,000 shillings. And I'm not even halfway there yet.
We get to Mbarara, and every taxi driver in the world wants to be my best friend and help me. Two guys from the first matatu from Kabale get out and tell me to be careful, but that I'm a good muzungu, very strong, and that they're proud of me for sticking up for myself. Well, hurrah, but where the hell is my next matatu?
Chagrined that there are NO matatus to Kampala and realizing that it is now nearly 5, will be dark soon, and that I don't want to be stranded in Masaka (at least Mbarara has a hotel and an ATM), I decide NOT to get on the matatu for Masaka.
Instead, one cabbie offers to drive me "to the big bus" which is filling up for 2,000 shillings. Tired and resigned, I get into his cab and tell him, once inside and wary, that if the big bus is gone or isn't going to Kampala, I'm giving him nothing.
I can't afford to mess around :P
We get to a huge bus, filling up, and it IS in fact going DIRECT to Kampala!! Hurrah!
I pay the cab driver (down to 32,000 now) and head over to the bus. This random man comes and goes to take my big hiking pack out of the trunk of the taxi, lifts it up, and promptly falls on the ground, essentially tossing my bag and causing my toothbrush to go flying out and into the mud.
Oh, bugger.
He later calls through the window of the bus and asks me for a tip for helping me carry my bag. Fah!
I decide after sitting for many hours with my basket on my lap that the 4+ hour back to Kampala is worth investing in an extra seat, so I buy 2 seats instead of one. Of course, in the duration of the bus trip, no fewer than three bus employees come to the back of the bus, scowl at the "empty" seat and demand to see the tickets of the people riding next to the Alleged Bag.
The bus ride ended up being fine, and I iPodded it most of the way. It should be indicative of how tired and frazzled I was that signs made me laugh, like
and
I giggle and needlepoint on the bus, which is no easy feat, I'll tell you. Finally, it's too dark and I'm just suddenly horribly bored. The iPod dies, and I'm just itching to get there. It doesn't help either that Debby calls and tells me that, by her estimation, we should already be in Kampala.
The bus stops by the side of the road, causing the entertainment -- a VCR at the front of the bus with no sound and atrocious tracking -- to pause its showing of Jackie Chan in Jackie Chan Does Marshall Arts While Also Flashing His Heiny. Seriously, are you allowed to show Jackie Chan's butt in America?
I'm not sure why we're stopped, but suddenly, 4-5 men get up and walk out. I crane my head out the window to see what's going on and suddenly am barraged by the odor of.... urine?
I look down and the four men are each standing by the side of the bus peeing ON the bus. Just standing there, content. They get back on and I think we're about to leave when a new cluster of men goes outside.
It's like women going in groups to pee, except that it means that instead of just all going at ONCE at taking FIVE MINUTES, they stagger out and stagger in and it's a good 25 minutes until we head out on the road again.
Finally, we pull into Goma around 9-something at night -- it's close to 10 pm. The lights come on in the bus and, standing with my bags, I've been spotted!
... By every. taxi driver in. kampala.
They're all calling to me. Muzungu! Taxi! Special! We go!
It's like the Mamma Mia chorus from Bohemian Rhapsody Except not funny, or sing-a-long-a-ble. Or written by Freddie Mercury. And without the high note.
Anyway, instead of being in the bus park, we're by the curb. People are SWARMING the side of the bus, especially me and I'm already feeing claustrophobic. My bag comes out, and I realize I'll have to put down ALL my other bags to get it up onto my back. In this crowd? No way!!
So, I just pick it up by the external frame and drag it across the street to get some personal space, slowly losing my sanity as persistent cab drivers follow me.
I threatened to punch one guy if he didn't take two full steps back, mostly because I didn't think he'd understand a reference to Seinfed's "Close Talkers" as an alternative.
I asked where the matatu park was, because, at this point, after paying 16,000 to the bus from Mbarara, I'm down to 16,000, which is uh....10,000 shillings too little to take a cab home.
Debby had told me that it was "right across" from the bus park... which, well, it sort of was.... from the BACK of the bus park. So there I go, walking through the slums of Kampala at night with my 40 kilo hiking pack, my basket full of presents, my purse dangling from my front strap and my computer bag.
I get to an intersection at the back of the bus park, and this guy is like "follow me!"
Of course, he fails to mention that his 3 swarthy friends are going to follow right behind me and try to stay out of sight... So when I turn around and see them, they disband, but I'm immediately feeling a bit... uh.... vulnerable?
I continue down the road, and ask where the matatu park is, and the boda guys just want to take me.
"You come and we'll go."
To actually GET some directions I had to yell. But, uh, well, *shame* I was already doing a lot of that. They point me up this street which is totally dark because the power is off in Kampala. There are no cars, no bodas, no stores, no people. Just total, utter, Please-Rob-Me darkness.
I realized that I was in WAY over my head, called Debby, and talked with her up the road until I passed through, so that if i DID scream, well, at least someone would know what happened to me...
I got to the other side (the chicken was right behind me) and made it into the bus on the way to Entebbe. Barely. It was like a strange familiar dream being on the way back to Entebbe.
I got to the Entebbe stage and looked around for Debby, who was picking me up, but she was nowhere to be found. I was once again accosted by the Entebbe Queen asking me for specials and bodas and everything else. I started walking towards the turkeys, thinking at least there I could put my bags down.
Ugh, okay, I've been writing this entry on and off for like, 5 hours.
I'm exhausted. The point was, I got home, and the day was wild, surreal, and stressful.
The end!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-31 05:12 pm (UTC)Kudos for doing what you needed to do.