Last week I took a seven-hour bus ride down to the capitol city of Kampala. I was traveling with my good friend Dr. Fred and a couple from Norway named Ruth and Knut. Our departure time was supposed to be 10am, but as usual we left two hours later. While I was waiting, I decided that I should put this extra time to good use and get myself a haircut, which I would regret almost immediately afterward.
There are several options for barbers since the average Ugandan male will get his hair cut almost once a week. So as I walked through the beaded threshold of a fully mirrored barbershop full of patrons. It was as if the music stopped and they all looked at the musungu with a curious awe. Musungu is the term used to describe a foreigner, the further away from town you travel the more you will hear it. The kids in the surrounding villages run behind me pointing and trying out their English “hi munu (the shortened version of musungu) bye munu”. As I return pleasantries they roar in laughter and repeat whatever I said in response. Some will go on to say “good afternoon” or “good evening” if they are feeling really talkative. When it comes to be my turn all of the barbers are arguing about who has to cut the musungu’s hair. Finally, one of the barber’s comes up to me and says “you sit there” then he plugs his clippers in and … nothing.. Unplugs and plugs again… nothing I notice that one of the wires has come out of the end so he unplugs and unscrews the cover, strips the plastic off of the wire and reconnects the now shortened cord. There is a little box that looks like a toaster oven that has the word “sterilizer” on the front. He opened the lid and placed the clippers into the “sterilizer” for a few minutes and attempted to us another pair, but they wouldn’t work either so he went back to the original pair. I could tell that he was a little bit frazzled so I introduced myself and he told me his name was Mike so I asked him “Mike is it difficult to cut musungu hair” he said “yes but I will go slowly, slowly and I will shave you very well.” He did exactly that. Despite the power going out midway through and having to go outside to fire up the generator. He also wanted to wash my hair afterward but the wash basin was outside on the ground where you would normally find a sidewalk in other parts of the world, here it is just dirt with scattered trash and a few puddles here and there from the rain storm the night before. So he settled with spraying me down and wiping me off with a towel that I am pretty sure has not been cleaned in at least a few months. After thoroughly wiping me down with the dirty towel and then whacking me on the back with it to help remove all the small hairs created by the clippers which he “slowly, slowly” used going from a 6 to a 5 to a 4 to a 3 to a final 2 on the sides. So all the hair clippings were short and fine allowing the hair to work into every nook and cranny I have, also weaving into the entire surface area of my shirt.
Being the savvy traveler that I am, I decided since I was only going to go down and them come back the next day that I wouldn’t need a change of clothes. I even opted for a small bundle of dental floss and the finger method for my dental care. The itching started almost immediately, in fact, I am still itching a bit a week later. I tried to get the hair out of my shirt by taking it off and beating it on a fence while I continued to wait for the others to start our journey. The locals were looking at me like the big musungu had finally lost it.
Finally, we are ready to go. We stroll through town on our way to the bus stop. We are greeted/grabbed by this guy with dread locks and a Rastafarian caricature displayed on his shirt. “You sit there,” he said to the Norwegian couple and “you two sit there” he pointed to two seats behind the Norwegians. Fred was by the window and I crammed myself into the middle a smaller man sitting next to us was not about to give up his isle seat. As soon as I sat down I immediately started to regret my decision to travel in this fashion. I was going on this trip to check out a group of monks that had been taught to build guitars as a local initiative to build revenue. I had a broken conversation with a man who convinced me he could get me a guitar, which was not what I was really after, but I thought it was a good place to build from. The trip was a total of 200 miles, which would take 3 hours tops anywhere else but here. We stopped every ten to twenty minutes, either to drop or pick up someone or to pay the police off for speeding. We got pulled over five times on the way down. The cops stay parked and flag you down and then collect the fines. If we stopped near a village people would swarm the bus with meat sticks, bananas, water, juice (in reused water bottles), g-nuts (which look and taste just like peanuts, but I am told they are different), then the non-perishables such as beard trimmers, sun glasses, watches (which are worn more for decoration then actual functionality), and a whole lot more that would blur around the outside of the bus. The Girl in the row in front of us did not like to have the window open so she kept closing it causing me to continue to drip with sweat, which I have been doing since we touched down in this country. About three hours into our sojourn the man in the isle is shaking his head in disapproval that I can only believe is because of the amount heat and sweat that I am producing. Fred is sleeping as soundly as a baby. I do not know what to resent more the disapproving glances from the little guy in the isle or Fred being able to sleep away in these horrible circumstances. With about two hours and 100 km to go the little guy got off the bus. It was a huge moral buster, that didn’t last. I scooted over to find this little girl had already squirmed her way into the vacant seat. I picked her up and placed her in the middle between Fred and me. She began to complain to Fred about me by saying that “the musungu is too fat he is taking up too much space” as she starts pushing on my leg that is firmly pressed into the seat back in front of me. All of the seats have been welded together with a piece of ½ inch thick metal that is exactly at my knee height and the welds are very sloppy leaving sharp exposed metal in between the seats where my knees would have wanted to go. As we get closer to the capitol, the traffic jam begins. Kampala is just one big traffic jam, apparently all the time. The last hour we traveled probably 20 km. Fred decides that it would be best if we get off and walk up and over a hill in order to access a taxi. I offer to carry Ruth’s bag since I traveled so light after all. Fred tells us all to be aware of pickpockets apparently they are very prevalent in the big city. We get to the taxi stand get into a matatu (which is a mini-van with jump seats). The legal capacity for a matatu is 14, but they will remain stationary until they have at least 20 people on board. There is a discussion and then an argument, and Fred tells us all to get back out of the matatu. We walk past three more matatus and Fred tells us to get in a less full and somewhat cleaner matatu. Every public transportation vehicle will only put enough gas in it to do the current trip, so every trip starts with a stop at the gas station where they will put 1-3 liters at a time. They are usually not the owner of the vehicle so if they end up taking it back to the owner with gas in it the owner would have the chance to us up the gas and not reimburse the driver. We proceed to get off and on three more matatus with short walks in between until we are finally to Fred’s neighborhood. As we are walking up the dark alley and about 20 yards from Fred’s house Knut slips in the mud and twists up his knee and ankle, not the best way to end a very long day.
The next day Fred and I go out in search of the guitar-making monk. I have another broken conversation, and then Fred has a conversation, and we decide on a place to meet. We go to the first place and he is not there anymore. So we arrange another place and go back the way we came. Then we wait, and then we wait some more. After about an hour (right on time by African standards) he shows up with this broken down guitar that was made in China. He had removed the manufacturers labels and applied his own. After a while we find out that the habit that they were working out of kicked them out and they really haven’t made any new guitars in about a year. They have had a hard time procuring the hardware, such as tuning pegs and strings. He did say that they have a shop, but he can’t take me there without an appointment and permission from his boss. He did promise me that he would show me the shop the next time I’m in town, I am not going to hold my breath however.
We go back to Fred’s after our fruitless mission to have lunch. After lunch Fred sends me off to the main bus station in the heart of Kampala. It was busier than anything I had ever experienced, it made India look very subdued and organized. Thank goodness I met a guy named Stephen on the matatu who offered to take me down to the bus station or I would be still wandering around the crazy streets of Kampala.
The return trip was worse than the previous days journey. I was placed in the back next to a Family with three kids (kids ride for free in Africa, but they don’t get a seat) all eating mangos with juice running down their arms and faces. I had the option to ride next to the sticky kids or scoot over by the window. I scooted; it was the worst decision I have ever made. The exhaust from our bus plus the bus next to us was funneling right into my window. If I shut the window I would start sweating and it still didn’t stop the exhaust from streaming into the broken window I was sitting next to. After an hour of exhaust fumes and a serious headache we were on our way. It took us two hours to get out of the congested city. Got pulled over four times by the cops. In one of the last villages I ate one of the meat on a stick skewers. I am pretty sure it was dog, because I have now tried everything else and it didn’t taste like goat, cow, or pig, and it was definitely not chicken.
I think it is time for the people of this world to realize that we are all one. How much is enough? How much is not? This little planet of ours is divided and continues to be further and further divided everyday. Countries and corporations interested only in profits are exploiting people. People that do not have a forum at which to speak from. There is enough for all. We only have to decide to share. Does anyone remember kindergarten? “Share your toys” was and continues to be one of the main lessons taught. It is too bad that the majority of us have forgotten it. I have learned a lot over the past few weeks and I am ashamed of myself for not knowing these things earlier. I use to be hidden under a big hat of ignorance; I vow to not be anymore.
We had an opportunity to go to a big celebration dinner. To start off the festivities, a group of acholi dancers of all ages put on a show that lasted close to an hour. When I say dancers I mean it… they put on a show, giving it all they had. It was organized for all of the Norwegians, and Canadian donors for “the Child is Innocent.” There was also a barbeque, but what is interesting about the grilling process here is how there really is no distinction between steaks and ribs or for that matter organs it is all just chopped up put in a pot then stuck onto some skewers. Then stuck into a large metal cabinet looking thing that has coals in the bottom of it. Dr. Fred and myself, once again, were the very last people eating. We drank luke-warm beer and watched the moon rise up over the village of Kamakuri. I don’t know what was a bigger attraction the dancers or all of us white people all gathered into one place, but the whole village came to inspect the event. Emily and I would like to send out a special thank you to Grace and Edward for inviting us into their home for this once in a lifetime experience.
Sunday breakfast of street food: Rolex! Emily surprised me and had one all to herself.
Rolex: egg, onion, garlic, tomato, cabbage...all rolled up in a fresh tortilla. Mmmmm!
Oh yes, these chickens are still alive, but not for long!
Emily's response: "I've never had so much meat in my face before!" She's actually sitting in the seat right under the meat sticks.
