The Various, Curious and Spurious – Sex and Food

In this series of posts I have decided to bundle together some of the random flavours of Uganda. This practice will be entirely at odds with the modern socio-anthropological practice, which abhors pointing fingers at other cultures’ curios and idiosyncrasies and prefers to look at them as comprehensive, self-explanatory systems, where nothing is ‘weird’, just yet not understood. Good for them. I will nevertheless revert to pre-Bronislaw Malinowski techniques of those good old fashioned nineteenth century armchair anthropologists who found utmost pleasure in trying to make sense of the quirkier, more colourful and unusual aspects of ‘exotic cultures’. With all due respect, that just makes for a better read than Levi-Strauss.

This is a rather eclectic combination of facts, images and impressions that have surprised, intrigued or amused me during my travels. While some of them are peculiar to Uganda, others I have observed Africa-wide and others are just non-European. But they all make Uganda a colourful, fascinating and perplexing place.

Relationships

The Saturday editions of the two main newspapers, the government New Vision and the independent Daily Monitor, have a rather sizeable agony aunt and matchmaking inserts. These make for a fascinating read.

Firstly, white is still in demand. For example, in the recent issue out of 23 ladies 11 were searching for a white man, out of which two requested that he be wealthy too. The guys were less fussy, only 6 out of 40 wanted a ‘beautiful white lady for love’. Secondly, most of the posts contain a note that HIV test is a must. Not so surprising when one considers, that despite commendable government and NGO efforts (on the Kenyan-Ugandan boarder there is a free condom-dispenser, although I do wonder why there) still over 6.5% of Ugandans are thought to be HIV positive. This also explains, why there are three categories of match-adds ‘man seeks woman’, ‘woman seeks man’ and ‘HIV positive’. ‘Man seeks man’ does not feature but that should not surprise you if you recall that Uganda made headlines worldwide with its attitude to homosexuals not that long ago. Lastly, the adds also often contain tribal affiliation requirement, for example Acholi, Langi or Mukiga; more often so than religious, although adjective ‘God-fearing’ is used in many.

This is a subject meriting its separate entry but it is worth noting that Uganda (and Kenya) has a striking number of single mothers. This problem has been raised by many women with whom I have spoken and their explanation is usually poverty and the fact there are more women than man out there. If there is a husband, the families are usually large (the record so far was a man who claimed to have 24 kids with 3 wives, second came a policeman with 12 kids with one wife) but I have also spoken to many girls of my age struggling to make-do while also caring for one or two love-children. Ugandan law provides for them in theory but in practice tracking a run-away dad is next to impossible, in particular if he has enough money to pay bribes. As in many developing societies, boys are still preferred to girls, the explanation given being that the girl leaves the household (i.e. supports her husbands parents in their old age) and usually brings a lesser return on educational investment (women earn less, especially if they have children). Sadly, many women seem to be convinced that, given the large number of NGOs dealing with orphans, their children would be better off without any parents.

Bus Rides and Hawkers

I love riding buses and matatus, despite their smelliness, hard seats, crowds and long waiting times, for two reasons: the views and bus-stop hawkers. Not much to be said about the views in general (they are pretty) but the hawkers are fascinating. Whenever a vehicle pulls up en route to let people off or on, its sides get flooded with a throng of sellers trying to reach its windows and offer their wares to the passengers sitting within. They mostly sell food, although other articles, like watches, belts, perfume and live chicken also feature. The nicest thing about them is that the hawkers are not aggressive or persistent in the slightest, a polite ‘no, thank you’, or even a smile and headshake is enough to make them turn their attention elsewhere. Given the fierce competition between them (there are usually many people selling the same thing) this is rather surprising. It makes me wonder if the profits, at least in some villages, are not shared somehow or if there is not a rotation system in place.

In any case, travelling on an African bus is like being in a moving restaurant. You don’t have to move from your seat to be able to enjoy refreshments and local tastes. You can start the journey by stocking on biscuits, water and chewing gum, which local boys carry on their shoulders in cardboard boxes. The drinks are usually nice and cold but you should always check if the seal is unbroken. As you stuff yourself with cookies, you might want something more watery – that’s when you could reach out for fruit which is sold either as fruit salad on trays (watermelon, papaya, avocado, durian and carrots (don’t ask me why carrots)) or separately (good luck fitting a durian through those little windows). After a couple of hours its time for something more substantial: there are chucks of meat on a stick (goat, beef, liver (yuck!) and chicken), roast sweet-corn (my favourite), roast bananas (one of the basic staples), chapattis (pancakes) or roasted cassava. Should you feel that has not been sufficient, you can always fill up on deep-fried locusts, peanuts and pumpkin seeds, or popcorn. There are also muffins, banana doughnuts (yummy) or mandazis for dessert.

Stuffing yourself too much however might not be advisable as there are usually no toilet breaks and if there are the bus just stops on the side of the road and both men and women squirt in the plain view (you are lucky if there are bushes). Instead, you can always buy that live chicken (usually three in a bunch tied by their legs) for later.

African Christmas Carol III

The list of selfless, kind acts bestowed upon me by Africans and Mzungus alike continues to continue:

29. Assaska, a friend of Jedrek and Kate’s immediately took me under her wing. Not only did she take care of me in Nairobi, showing me nice places, introducing to her friends and helping out when I could not find the PIN to my card, but also invited to a fascinating event, the Rendille traditional wedding. She organised the whole trip to her home village and, together with her mum, hosted us royally making sure we notice, understand and appreciate all the local customs and traditions. Her boyfriend, Jeff, an anthropologist by training, was especially helpful in the latter task.

30. I was very much impressed with the amount of time and effort Albert, a local Ngo worker, with whom I sat trembling from cold and fright during an incredibly fast and rough ride on the back of a pick-up truck with no number plates driven by a Sudanese soldier on the way between Gulu and Pakwach, put into helping me get into the Murchinson Falls park and then, when the attempts failed, to organise me a lodgings for the night and transport for the next day. He spent over two hours just sitting with me and calling his various friends and relatives in the vain hope that someone knows someone who might let me into the park after nightfall. We talked to a dozen people but none of them were able to help and Albert was as inconsolable as if it was him that wanted to get to the park, and very apologetic that I had to spend the night in a local hotel, which he also organised.

31. In Malindi, a sea-side “Italian” resort, a friendly girl working at my campsite offered to show me the way to the beach, which was surprisingly difficult to find. She did not want to swim so she just sat at the shore watching over my things as I negotiated my way through the disgusting brown weeds to take a quick dip in the sea.

32. Politicians are rarely credited with selflessness and altruism, and in this case too the motives of Ugandan politicians I met in Gulu might have not been entirely pure. No matter why they did it, the contacts they provided and the rides they gave me during my chase after Museveni were very helpful.

33. One afternoon I was walking back to Bros Camp in Juba, when a motorcyclist pulled up, said he works at Bros and saw me there and can take me back with him if I want to save myself the 10 minute walk. And why not?
Joy, also from Bros, is a singer at a local band. I met her at a birthday party and pronounced my admiration for her African dress. She immediately offered to take me to the market the next day so that we can choose the material and find a tailor to make me one. We did that the next day and she was very patient with my fussiness over the colours and prices, as well as very helpful with some pattern tips.

34. In Lokkichoggio a friendly Methodist missionary met on the bus offered me shelter for the night in their surprisingly fancy teaching compound. He left me his room, spick and span, with shower and internet, while he slept in the dorm. Did not expect such comforts in the friendless North. I was fed, entertained with conversation and then transported to the bus stage from where I could cross over to Sudan.

35. Although I have already covered “transport kindness”, these guys need a special mention, as they have not only provided a vehicle, but also lunch and a hassle-free border transport. I am talking of the ‘governor’s men’ a group of constructors and businessmen who were leaving Lokichoggio for Torrit. There is not much transport from Loki, so their decision to take me to their already nearly full car was much appreciated. Thanks to the fact we were travelling in the car of the governor of the Eastern Equatoria province I had no problems at the border – as a matter of fact I did not even have to see a border-clark but gave my passport to our driver who arranged a stamp for me. Once on the other side, we stopped in Kapoeta, where they were building a hotel, for lunch which they kindly shared with me and then proceeded to Torrit, to report at the Governor’s residence.

36. The Governor turned out to be a very nice man, who was only a little surprised to see me roll in onto his yard with his men, but who did not let his astonishment affect his hospitality. We all sat at a table in the garden, just as if I was also one of his men returning from fieldwork. We were treated to cold drinks and later to buffet dinner, also in the garden, during which the governor kept insisting I take one helping after another. The food was delicious, so after a couple of hours and shaking the Gov’s hand goodbye, I rolled out on my fat belly into the night.

37. Tea and cattle break.


38. Again, this is but a transport rescue but it came just in time to save me from being eaten alive by tsetse flies. I was walking back from Murchinson Falls NP in the early hours of the morning. There is but one road out so the idea was that I walk until someone comes and picks me up. The air was cool, my luggage not too heavy so for the first half an hour I thoroughly enjoyed my walk. But as the sun warmed the air those little bastards appeared out of nowhere and started feasting on me. Mind you, they no longer carry sleeping sickness (I think) so there was no immediate risk of death. But had I not covered every inch of my skin, I swear, I would have died from thousands of painful bites. I found myself practically running, with a 18kg backpack, not to outrun the swarms but to make the bites that little bit less frequent. The appearance of a jeep with two American girls who decided to stop at pick me up was a saving grace and I owe them if not my life, then certainly my sanity (such as it is).

39. This story actually happened not during my current trip but during an equally crazy venture onto Mt Kenya with my mum, some 13 years ago. With not much preparation, inappropriate gear, no guides or porters we elected to climb this imposing mountain on the Chogoria – Naro-Moru route. We succeeded and rushed down to get some transport on the way back. On the way down, we met out first fellow-climber. A tall British guy, immaculately dressed in Bergson-wear, carrying a light day pack and a bottle of water and stepping daintily. We, on the other hand, were exhausted, sun-scorched, dehydrated, mal-nourished and, in my case, altitude-sick and were running and stumbling to get down fast. Really, in these circumstances my dry lips were the least of my problems but I still very much appreciate that, after some greetings and comments about the weather (treacherous, very treacherous), he looked at me with concern, produced a lip-balm from his pocket and would not let me go until I made sure my lips were properly re-hydrated.

40. Another generic group of helpers are those who have kindly been showing me the way. I have never been in a country with people hostile enough to refuse giving directions, but East Africans go out of their way to make sure you don’t get lost, often walking with you up to your target. Don’t try to ask boda-boda drivers about directions though – they might be best informed but, unlike the London cabbies, they will insist on taking you there even if it’s a few meters away!

41. During my ascent up the Jbel in Juba, I had the help and guidance of a little boy by the name of Monday. He nimbly climbed in front of me, waited for me to catch up and then run ahead further. I did not want a guide but his company was quite pleasant so we climbed the mountain together, then sat on the top and ate bananas, whose skins we would throw onto the rocks in frost of us and watch the falcons swoop and pick them up, only to throw them down from lofty heights with disdain once they figured what that was. Luckily, not onto our heads.

42. and 43. In Loralang I was treated to lunch, a place to nap and invaluable advice by Sarah, Mama Habiba’s daughter who runs a hotel on the other side of the lake. In the very same place I was first greeted by the chief of village himself who admitted me to his kraal, seated in the shade, treated to sodas and then escorted to my onward transport.

44. This point is less of a single act of charity but more of a charitable phenomenon which I find very touching. African obligatorily wash their hands before meals and, given the lack of running water, it is often done at the table with water, soap, bowl and towel being brought to the diners. Sometimes the waitress or hostess does it but more often the water in a jug and the utensils are left to the guests, who help each other pour the water over their hands, pass the soap and hand the towel. It is moving and humbling to see strangers render this small service onto each other. Part-taking in the ritual made me think of the biblical foot-washing and was a deep bond experience.

45. Deeply touching were those occasions when local people after a few moments of conversation offered me a piece of their jewellery as a token of remembrance. I have already described my encounter with Halima, but another memory I treasure if of a girl from Soricho who I met when I was trying to explore the local church. Or at least I was told it was a church (it was the only 2-storey structure in the village), but when I very confidently strode in opening the heavy metal door wide, it turned out it is actually someone house. Lilly, was one of the inhabitants but she unabashedly came up to me, took me by the hand and showed me around the house. Then, all the time holding hands, we went outside to find her father, who spoke a little English and told me that the girl was one of his 6 and 17 years old. We strolled around the village for a while, went back to my kraal where she was reluctant to enter. But she took a string of beads with a single white shell from her neck and hung it on mine. This time I felt both compelled and able to reciprocate so I gave her my sunglasses in return. She was overjoyed.

46. Deeply grateful to Fasel and his family for hosting me on Iddi Ahdua day. Their hospitality was overwhelming and I had an amazing time in their house.

47. I feel a little bad about this one. After 2 days of waiting I was desperate to cross lake Turkana. When a boat finally appeared I was overjoyed. I went to the owner to discuss the price of passage. He quoted me a price 5 times higher than what I had been told by other villagers is fair. I was tired (it was 6am), impatient and very anxious to go, I really did not want to haggle. But in a moment of divine inspiration I said: “Very well, I will pay whatever you say. But you look into your heart and ask yourself if this is a fair price. If it is, god will undoubtedly reward you, if not, well..”. He looked at me carefully, seemed to think about it and then…. took me for free.

48. Last but not least, I have to thank my family and Tom, even though their links with Africa are tenuous at best. Yet without their support, both emotional and material, I would never have made it to Africa in the first place.

African Christmas Carol

Still in the spirit of Christmas good-will and the nostalgic introspection that comes with the beginning of a New Year I have decided to compile a list of all the little acts of selfless kindness and altruism of which I had been a grateful recipient. Without them my journey would have not only been much less pleasant; parts of it would have not happened at all or other, nasty things might have happened.

I was away for 47 days; so here (in 3 instalments and with relevant links) are 47 acts of kindness, friendliness and charity from Africans and Mzungus alike, arranged in no particular order to prove that there is no place like Africa where hospitality is concerned!

1. The pride of place goes to Topol, Marcin and Phil, three lovely boys from Europe, who supported me with books, advice and contacts before I set off. They had made Uganda seem like a friendly and easy place to travel, which indeed it was.

2. Mama Habiba took me under her wing when I was stranded in Selicho, a small village on the shores of Lake Turkana. Her food was delicious and her smile lovely but what I will always remember most vividly were her touching little gestures of hospitality: the time she cleared out her things from the coolest hut during the unbearable midday heat and placed a mattress there for me to lie down or insistently offered me a small tetra-pack of pasteurised milk when she was worried that I was still hungry after the meal she had prepared.

3. Small but very thoughtful and of immense practical value (as those with long hair will understand) was the gesture of a fellow-lady-passenger, who, seeing my failed attempts to tie up my unruly hair with a blade of grass, got out of the matatu, untied one of her braids and handed me a hair-band that supported it. It was unexpected and very touching, as were the frequent attempts of local women to brush my hair away from my face and place them behind my ears!

4. The truck going from Longalani to Lodwar was so packed so full of passengers and dried fish that it was for a long time uncertain if there will be enough place for me even on top of the load. Luckily, just before it set off, I got a come-on from the driver to climb up and perch. Yet, before I did, an elderly man had got out of the driver’s cab and insisted I take his comfortable seat instead (travelling in the cab is usually twice as expensive as the cargo ‘seat’). When I protested and assured him I would be very comfortable sitting on the fish, he cut the discussion short with the sacrosanct and undisputable: “Please, you are our guest.”

5. I am very grateful to all the drivers on all the roads in all the countries who took me (for free or not) in their cars, motorbikes and boats. Special mention needs to be made of a boda-boda driver in Lodwar who offered to take me to a hotel for a few shillings when I alighted from a truck at 2am. When I declined and said I would walk (I don’t even know why I did that, as I had no idea where the hotel was, it was the middle of the night, my rucksack was heavy and the price he quoted was very reasonable) he sighed and told me he’ll take me for free as it is not safe for a girl to walk alone at night.

6. I am of course very grateful to the thieves who stole my phone and camera. Not for the thieving per se but for the fact that when I caught one of them and asked him kindly to give me my things back they came back after twenty minutes and returned my camera. They did not give the phone back but it’s the thought that counts. I am also grateful to the sellers at the stands nearby who gave me a seat while I waited for the pick-pockets to return and who, I am sure, exerted subtle pressure on the rascals to reconsider stealing from guileless mzungu girls.

7. I could not do half the things I did in Uganda if it wasn’t for the advice, contacts and support from Kizito Serumaga, the editor of Ggwanga newspaper. He is a very busy man but took time out of his busy schedule on a number of occasions to patiently explain the intricacies of Ugandan politics to a newcomer that just did not know the first thing about any of it.

8. Andy, who took me on a private boat safari in Murchinson Falls Park, lent me his camera when mine run out of battery and, most amazingly of all, delivered the forgotten, ice-cold beer to my retreat at the top of the Falls, will forever be held in grateful memory, especially on full-moon nights.

9. Without Hakim, the North Kenyan Godfather, and his extensive network of men and trucks, I would have never managed to get to the shores of Lake Turkana. Despite doubts about the sanity of my resolve and the chances of success, he elected to facilitate my search for transport and accommodation en route to Lake Turkana with all the means at his disposal, making it seem like a walk in the park, not a harassing trek though hundreds of miles of wilderness which it would have been without his help.

10. Abdrizzak and Abdoud (pictured with our lunch), were two of these men who on Hakim’s request helped me find transport from North Horr to Lake Turkana. Stranded on its shores without their company I would have been not only more clueless but also much lonelier. They went far beyond their call of duty, I’m certain of that, to make my stay in the North pleasant and interesting.

11. Peter and four other boys I hitched a ride with in Soroti helped me to organise a motorbike in the middle of the night so that I could continue my chase of Beti Kamya. Without their assurance who would have given their prized motorbike to a strange mzungu girl on a vague promise that she will bring it back the next day?

12. Alex from Mbale was unrelenting in his resolve to get my lost luggage back. Admittedly, he was the one who allowed it to be carried away into the unknown by four random Swiss people but his dedication and effort in getting it back have to be commended.

13. It was very nice of an airport staff member who I talked to in Lamu and whose name I cannot remember to indulge my whim and ask the pilot on my behalf to allow me to sit on the second pilot’s seat during the flight to Nairobi. It was nice of the pilot to agree.

14. A nice young student met on a bus helped me to find a hotel in Gulu and bargain the price down even though he was in a hurry to get home.

15. Another nice young student met in a matatu helped me to find my way, buy phone cards and fruit on my very first day in Kampala. And he too was in a hurry.

16. I was treated to lunch by a fellow truck traveller when we arrived in Marsabit. Joseph helped me find an internet café, attempted to organise onward transport and fed me in the nicest restaurant in town only because he knew I knew someone he knew.

17. Paul, a lovely half-Canadian, half-Iranian, half-Scottish (yes I know that does not add up) NGO worker in Torit, Sudan upon hearing that I posses neither a map of Sudan nor a vaguest inkling of its geography promised (and delivered) to print for me some of his maps of Sudan and Juba. And walked all the way to my hotel (twice) to hand them in.

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