Easy Rider II

For all those that did not read the previous post a quick re-cap: night has fallen over Soroti in Eastern Uganda and I am about to make off into the darkness alone, on a borrowed motorbike, the jump-start mechanism of which I am unable to operate, in order to cover a distance of 130kms, on an unknown African road to an unknown destination, in pursuit of a female presidential candidate that promised to give me an interview the very same night; all the while increasing the distance that separates me from my luggage, which – for all I knew – was stolen that very morning by the Swiss who were now making their get-away towards the Kenyan boarder with all my belongings, among others, all my warm clothing and my fluffy racoon.

That is the background.

And where do I start with the journey itself? It was horrid. It was cold. It was lonely. It was scary up to a point of despair. But when it was over, and I will allow myself to jump ahead just this once, it was a feat and exploit worth committing to those pages.

During the first few miles I was too busy trying to get to grips with the bike to have the time to worry about my circumstances or what lied ahead. The gears worked the other way round to what I was used to so I kept switching down when accelerating, sending the bike to spasms that more than once nearly ended in my flying over the handlebars. Moreover, I had no idea where the flicker was and kept honking whenever I tried to flick. But then in Africa that amounts to more or less the same, i.e. they are both equally valid and polite ways of making other road users aware of my presence. Not that there were many of them but the odd sidewalk walker or other bike did appear every now and again and I was careful not to add to my problems by hitting them. Finally, it was pitch-dark and my bike was one of those old-type ones whose headlight only works when the throttle is open. This meant that when I did not accelerate the light would go off, leaving me blind as a bat without echolocation. Now, all the villages on the Soroti-Lira road have speed bumps and quite steep ones at that. That meant that I had to drastically decelerate before approach and, just in the crucial moment before the speed bump, as I was preparing to break in order to avoid sending the handlebars straight into my teeth, I was entirely devoid of light and therefore of any idea where the speed bumps is and where I am steering. At least that kept me entertained.

Once I have ridden enough to feel confident with the bike itself, I could start worrying about the petrol. Out of completely unreasonable stinginess I have only poured 5 litres into the tank. I had a vague recollection what my bike at home burns for ‘a hundred’ – about 5 litres. But then I could not at all recall if that was a hundred miles or kilometres! And that’s a difference when the distance I am supposed to cover is 130km. Damned be the confusing British non-metric system! I swore under my breath and wondered if that was how the NASA guys who confused their pounds with kilograms sending a space probe crashing down felt.

Now you might be wondering why not just fuel up on the way. Indeed, this thought also crossed my mind. But I was loath to do it for two reasons. Firstly, I was desperate to make good progress and cover the distance as quickly as possible to meet my interview deadline. Stopping would mean avoidable delays – there were no ‘real’ petrol stations and I would have to ask for bottled petrol in the huts – and with every village I passed I was telling myself that it would probably be fine to fuel up at the next one.

In reality there was another reason why I kept putting the fuelling up off. It was much more powerful – it was so powerful to overcome my anxiety about running out of petrol as well as my ever-growing wish to stop to warm up my aching and cold muscles. That reason was fear.

It is hard to describe just how dark a moonless African night is. And, of course, I had been, walked and slept in dark places, where not even a flicker, not even a haze of far-away human abode with electric light could be seen. But I had never driven on a pitch dark road like that on my own, where the only source of light is the faint, narrow beam of my bike. This little, unstable patch of light is my only destination, the only guide – as a matter of fact it is the only reality because everything else is invisible in the dark and it is only that light that creates objects in front of me. I open up the darkness with my feeble light, not knowing what obstacles or dangers it shall reveal; and as soon as I’ve had a chance to catch a glimpse of the obscure shapes, the darkness is quick to close behind me; leaving me feeling exposed, visible, naked in the very light that allows me to move forward. I tried to make myself small and inconspicuous by lying low on the bike but I knew the treacherous light and the roar of the engine gave away my presence for miles around.

One might think that in these circumstances approaching the rare orange glow of fires and torches of the villages would bring comfort and be a welcome change. I thought so too in the first village I approached. I wanted to get the petrol and ask for directions (not that it was necessary – there was but one paved road). But as I slowed down and started rolling towards a group of men sitting by the fire, a sudden inexplicable fear ceased me. They did not seem to have hostile intentions, they were obviously just very curious. But then how could I be sure? If they did, what would stop them from taking my bike, my money? I felt that my only safety is in staying on that bike; as long as I’m on it and the engine is running I’ll be alright. So I pushed on past the villages, trying not to look white, lost or female, more or less in that order.

Keeping the motor running was vital not only for the reasons of safety. As I have already mentioned I had no idea how to kick-start the bike. The two times I had to start it I had someone to do it for me. And given my fear-induced reluctance to engage with any human beings met on the way, I knew I would be stuck should I let the engine choke. Alas, that I did. I had to stop to rearrange myself on the bike and was not quick enough with the revving. Oh, the unbearable silence that engulfed me! I was close to tears. With the leg still aching from the burn I sustained during my first attempts I gave the silly thing a mighty, angry kick. And lo and behold! it started from the first! I admit that might have been because the engine was warmer. But given that from that day on I never had a problem with kick starting a bike I will only say that necesitas est mater studiorum indeed.

If all these were should not be reasons enough to qualify this journey as a modern Odyssey, I have to give account of last final foe that I had to battle: the biting cold. Cold, hunger and weariness are not conditions whose magnitude and debilitating effect is easy convey to those who are warm, sated or rested. I will try nevertheless. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and trousers which left my calves bare and exposed to the constant rush of chill air. After an hour’s drive through the slightly damp, cold night I was trembling so badly I could hardly hold on to the handlebar. I had a shawl which I tried in vain to spread in front of me as a wind-screen – in vain, as it constantly flew up onto my face blocking my view. In order to shield from the wind then, I tried to lie flat on the petrol tank, closer to the delightfully warm engine. That was by far the warmest position but a highly dangerous one as I could not keep my balance very well that way. The added advantage of this position was that it minimised the number of huge, fluffy moths that would fly into my face and eyes at regular intervals. They were more a nuisance than a danger but I the soft splat with which they would bounce of my face was highly disturbing, not to say disgusting. Shivering from the cold and the occasional fluffy touch I rolled on.

Luckily, the road to Lira is exquisite. Smooth, fairly straight and well marked. I had no fear of getting lost but I did worry that I would never get to Lira in time to get my interview. The kilometres dragged slowly despite my best efforts. Throughout my drive I was in touch with a young journalist from Betti’s entourage who organised the interview for me. As I was calling hour after hour to tell him with embarrassment that I would be yet another hour late, he kept reassuring me that I am not too late for the interview. He also very kindly offered to find me accommodation in Lira.

It took me two and a half hours to drive so I rolled into Lira just before midnight. Naturally, it was too late for any interviews. I met Dean in town and we drove together to our hotel. I don’t know what I expected but I certainly did not expect a place that basic and that dirty. Moreover, we had to share a room with Dean as no other rooms were free; there was also no running water. I would have cried if my mind were not occupied by a comic twist – both my cicerone Dean and the hotel manager insisted I roll the motorbike into my room as no other place is safe. I open my eyes wide at the suggestion of rolling my bike through the hotel’s lounge and into the room but as they seemed to be serious that I did – it did not fit through the door but I left it just outside our room, blocking nearly the entire corridor.

Only then I could sit down and think. Or rather just sit down. I was so exhausted, overwhelmed, hungry, confused and aching that I could not gather a thought. I could only blankly stare. I noticed that the scalding on my leg turned into a disgusting, puffy blister the size of a hockey puck. Only very slowly Dean joyful chattering got to me and I realised he is suggesting late dinner. We went out to town for some nyama choma. He and another journalist were so talkative and at the same time impressed by my feat and so admiring that nolens volens I started cheering up.

It started dawning on me that my adventure is over and that I have made it. I was aching but safe, tired but within a walking distance of a bed, no longer hungry and with an interview re-scheduled for first thing the next morning. I did not have my luggage, and I still had to go back but that was something I would worry about the next day. I did what I set out to do, despite no minor setbacks. I was proud, happy and tired. I slept like a rock.

Easy Rider - Part I

Fun as chasing the President was it was now time to focus on the Opposition. I arrived back in Kampala and headed straight to the office of the invaluable Kizito Serumaga, my local source of inspiration and information. A quick look into the campaign calendar revealed that it would be most productive for me to head east, towards Mbale, as there I would have a chance to catch up with one of, or all, the three presidential candidates campaigning in the area: Mr. Jaberi Bidandi Ssali in Mbale, Mr. Kiza Besigye near and Ms. Betti Kamya in Lira.

There was no point in hanging around in Kampala so I set off the very same day. The sun was already below the horizon as we reached Mbale but its last rays gave enough light to allow me to make out the mysterious and imposing shape of Mt. Elgon (14,000 ft.) towering over the town in a blue haze. I was very pleasantly surprised with Mbale, which I had expected to be a slightly bigger version of the chaotic and ramshackle Gulu. Instead, I found wide paved streets sensibly laid out and flanked by a number of old houses with highly intricate tympana over the now run down porches. They gave a place a somewhat timeless colonial feel and it was easy to imagine how fine the place must have looked like those 60 years ago when those houses – according to decorative cartouche frames still visible on some of them – were first erected. Rows of shade-giving trees, uncharacteristically for Ugandan cities dividing the main avenues into two separate lanes, only added to the charm and appeal of the place.

I checked into the hotel recommended by Lonely Planet and made a few phone calls. I could not get through to anyone from Bidandi Ssali’s press crew (who were supposed to be in town preparing for the next day’s rally) but managed to arrange an interview with Beti Kamya for the next day in Lira. It was already pitch dark but I decided to go to the market and get some lovely smelling food from the stalls I was passing on my way into town. In the evening, the sides of the streets near the main roundabout change into a lively, seemingly interminable kitchen of dozens of stalls selling fried meats of all kinds, chapattis (pancakes), chips and other unnamed delicacies. I got my chicken and fries and looked for a place to sit and eat. Despite the late hour the streets were abuzz with activity and there was not as much as a meter of a curb free from hawkers or passer-bys. My chicken was getting colder and I was getting increasingly hungrier, so when a group of local men beckoned me to sit by their table outside a run down building that must have been a bar, I did not hesitate much. As I describe here (no. 27), they were quite drunk but most welcoming, generous and talkative.

The next morning was spent in an entirely unproductive attempt to contact the Bandini-Ssali’s entourage. I talked to people on the streets and bothered the very helpful but entirely ineffectual local police (a colourful experience allowing me to witness a stream of petitioners coming to give account of their woes and grievances to the patient, yet disinterested policemen). I even managed to hunt down a local journalist who was enjoying his no doubt well-earned Sunday beer and drag him back to his office so that he can give me some numbers to ring. All in vain, and I was faced with a dilemma if I should stay for the evening rally or proceed to Lira for the arranged interview. Having no guarantee that I would be able to meet Bidandi Ssali in the evening, and wanting to meet the only female presidential candidate, I chose the latter option.

As it was still early, no later than lunchtime, I had more than enough time to catch a matatu to Lira (300km) or at least one to Soroti (140km). I had already checked out of my hotel but left the luggage in the storage room; all that was left to do was to pick it up and go to matatu stop. But that smooth plan of mine did not take into account one important factor.

My luggage was missing! I returned to the hotel only to find that my rucksack was taken from the storage room. By the Swiss! That was unheard of: I drag the bloody thing untouched through slums and wilderness of Africa only to loose it to the Swiss! Naturally, I did not suspect them of malicious intentions. I met this group of innocent students in the morning and they told me they were waiting for a transport to take them to Mt Elgon for a week long hike. They must have put my bag onto their van by accident as our rucksacks were stored next to each other in the store-room. But the lack of evil design did not change the fact my bag was gone, either for good or for at least a week!

The situation was dire but not hopeless. I carry all my valuable belongings, like passport, credit cards, cameras and laptop with me at all times, so at least these I still had. But there is no denying that chargers, clothes, tent and toiletries also can come in handy and now I knew I had to do without them for God knows how long.

I was faced with a serious dilemma: to stay or follow the Swiss looking for my luggage, or to proceed to Lira for my interview luggage-less. With a heavy heart at the thought of never seeing my little fluffy toy racoon again, I chose the latter option. I charged Alex, the underage manager of the hotel, to find my luggage before my return in a few days, fully expecting never to recover my lost property.

My delay further complicated matters, as there were no more direct matatus to Lira when I finally got to the station. Undaunted, I took the matatu to Soroti. It took ages to fill up and when it did it was so full I could hardly breathe. Given the string of failures that day, I was not entirely surprised when our overcrowded matatu got an incapacitating puncture a couple of miles outside Soroti. We were told to get out and walk to town.

It’s funny how human mind works. This yet another obstacle should have probably driven me round the bend but I was not least affected by it. I knew I should be angry, disappointed, resigned and anxious but I was as if outside my emotional system. It was as if it was only natural that things go wrong that day and the only thing I can do is to ignore it all and carry on. I needed no special strength of will or stamina to push forward – my mind just knew that if it pauses to reflect and listen to my feelings we will be doomed to despair. So it just switched off so that I could calmly get on with getting to my destination.

I walked for half an hour to the town ‘centre’ only to find out that there are no more matatus to Lira that day. Moreover, as it was already getting dark, it was also not likely that there would be any private transport going. Everyone I asked advised me to stay the night and try the next day. There would be plenty of options to get to Lira the next day. But that was just not good enough; I just started walking towards the Lira-end of town to hitch-hike. I was desperate.

As a matter of fact, I was so desperate that I did not hesitate when a car carrying four young local guys pulled up and offered me a lift, as well as a bottle of vodka. They were off to a party but in such a jolly mood that, upon hearing of my predicament, decided to drive me to Lira and then go back to their party. I was apprehensive but had no choice. Unfortunately, or maybe quite the opposite, after a few minutes drive and a series of phone calls, they changed their minds but offered to take me to Lira after the party in a few hours time. That was not an option for me, but as I felt we have already become friends I asked them if they could not help to organise me a motorbike.

They were much perplexed by my request but agreed. We stopped at the edge of town and they started making phone calls. There was much negotiating, quizzing and haggling but after a while another guy arrived on a motorbike which I was to get in lease – and that does not cease to amaze me still – only on the promise of paying them 50.000 Ugandan shillings upon return the next day. It must have been the shock of seeing a white girl wanting to drive the motorbike, which she confessed she has little experience of operating, herself into the night on an unknown road over 130kms that deprived them of their usual shrewd negotiating skills.

It took a little while for them to teach me how to operate the kick-start ignition (I was used to just pressing the button on my motorbike) and in the process I scalded my calf badly. But in the end I managed to get the motor running and, slightly wobbly and uncertainly, I rolled back into town to get some petrol. The poor motorbike owner watched my disappearance with a horrified gaze.

Unsurprisingly, I caused a stir at the petrol station. More so that I was absolutely unable to either open the tank to fuel up, close it afterwards or get that blasted motor running again. Speechless at hearing where I want to go, the station boys did all those things for me and I drove off purposefully and confidently into the night, yet with a growing suspicion in my heart that this adventure might not end well after all.

TBC