I Remember...

I remember...

All those moments, fragments, anecdotes
They roll around like marbles in a basin.
I take great joy in mulling over them,
attempting to translate them into words on a page
Sentences form.
I remain unsatisfied
until a word springs to mind
dripping in meaning, depth, vibrancy, description
The discovery of the word, of the perfect phrasing of an idea,
is like finding a jewel in a toy chest
the forgotten coin in the pocket of a coat


As I have travelled I have spent much time
alone and wrapped up in my own thoughts
writing poetry in my mind to be shared
with my eager inner critic.
Poetry is a special form of expression
One does not need to scratch deeply to find it
it is always there
it lingers within us
but it does not often end up on paper
we become satisfied with simply battering it around
in the inner theatres of ourselves

But just don't let me forget
all the amusing smiles I wore
as I wandered slowly through busy city streets
all the evenings where I 'got by' eating strange combinations of food
Canned corn and a piece of bread.
I didn't even take it from the can
just ripped off the lid
drained the juice in the bathroom sink
and ate it with my plastic spoon.

Or the night where I was staying in a hostel
that did not have a kitchen for guests.
So I attempted to cook pasta by turning on the hot tap in the bathroom
and let it cascade over my plastic container of pasta
until it was as ready as it could get -
or perhaps out of my amused shame and embarrassment
I just didn't want to wait any longer.
And I chomped through that meal
Trying not to get distracted
by the constant feeling of swollen, watery, yet still uncooked pasta.

I remember all my cultural fauxpas
You learn to recognise them quickly -
suddenly the person's face will transform
from a neutral expression
to one of
horror
or
fits of laughter
I remember the look of absolute terror
on New Year's Eve
in Uganda
as I was having my handbag checked by a security lady at a jazz bar.
I was fiddling with the bag zip to get it open
when suddenly
my phone started ringing
On the cat miao ringtone I had chosen.
The security woman stared in disbelief and horror
at my miaoing bag
I assured her that there was no cat in my bag
but I'm not sure she was fully convinced.

I remember all the jokes with friends
stereotyping 'muzungus' (white travellers) and everything they wore
and the squeals of delight
when we would spot a muzungu
living up to the stereotype completely.
Khaki pants or hareems
Expensive and ugly practical hiking sandals
Head scarf
Neutral tones. Always neutral tones.
So casual and slovenly compared to the Ugandans
in their impeccably neat ironed shirts
and colourful fitted dresses.

I remember the warmth in the eyes of my friend's grandmother - her Jaja.
In the village in Mbale
when she turned to me and said
"We love you so very much!"
and I felt like I belonged.

I remember the fondness of arriving at each airport
With all the familiarity of home
The feeling of being in transit
Halfway to somewhere
but at some odd place in between
Sleeping on the floor on a corner of carpet
in an empty boarding gate
or propped up on my backpack on a chair.
Walking monotonously
on the travelator
backwards, as if it were a treadmill
Passing time.

Or that time I filled up my drinking bottle
at a water fountain
and then taught the little old lady beside me
how to turn it on
and how to drink from it.
Or the time I freed a woman trapped in a toilet cubicle
Or crying my eyes out
on the floor of the dirty bathroom
in Brussels airport
when they confiscated my Swiss Army knife
and I fully mourned its loss like a child losing a teddy.

Airports carry all the memories, the highs and lows
of coming of age
of adolescence becoming adulthood
the entire spectrum of emotion
is enacted at airports
such strange and fascinating places they are.
Bus stations and train stations
simply do not have the same effect.

While waiting for my flight
I take the opportunity to people-watch
Where have all these people come from?
Where are they going and why?

I sit awkwardly on a bench
I am in Guangzhou airport, China.
They are boarding my plane to New Zealand
I remain seated.
I watch as each passenger shuffles past the flight crew
Nodding obligingly in a friendly non-threatening manner.
I observe them with intense curiosity.
These are 'my people'
from 'my land'
Suddenly two years seems a lifetime

Do I still fit with 'my people'?
Can I still identify with the,?
I feel like a foreigner entering a new land
Like all the other times before
that I have stepped out onto the tarmac
and felt the winds of each different continent
flutter past my cheeks.

But this time is different
for these people are my people and this land is full of love.

The tale of Josephine and the Drunk Belgian

In the weekends I like to take a long walk into town. On the way I pass several main roads which are lined in small shops, restaurants, and stalls. One of the more interesting places lies behind a large bamboo fence that announces – in red spray paint - “Peace & Respect 2 all Rastas.”
It is a small local cafe, but it also sells clothes. I had passed it a few times, unsure of what it actually was. The bamboo fence makes it very noticeable, and clothes displayed outside make it look like a little clothes shop, but then a small chalkboard hangs from the fence and lists a petite menu of local and foreign dishes. The menu had been an amusement of mine for quite some time – it seems to be confused as to who it is marketing itself for. It lists local street favourites chapati and beans right beside western style chips and salad. All were listed very cheaply. It seemed to be catering to an unusual market – as if this humble storage container of a kitchen that didn't even have a sink (yes, literally a storage container) on this local road could somehow capture the lucrative expat dining community.

One day as I was passing by, a woman appeared from somewhere behind the container. She was athletic figured with a fierce determination about her and wild curly hair to match. She beamed at me, revealing an enigmatic smile with beautiful (if not somehow disproportionately large) gleaming white teeth. “Will you come and support me?” she asked boldly. I decided to take a look and find out what the place actually was. I hopped over the open pit drainage trench, which runs along all the city roads, and got my first proper look behind the bamboo fence. She introduced herself as Josephene. She explained that it was more of a restaurant than a clothes shop, and she told me all about the salads and other European food she makes – she obviously knew what muzungus liked. Actually, I had been warned to avoid buying salads in restaurants (and storage containers too, I would assume) for risk of food poisoning. I was actually after local food – my favourite, the rolex. I asked her if she made them. “No..” she replied thoughtfully, “but I could make it for you if you wanted one.” I thanked her and said that I would return if I ever wanted a rolex.

A couple of days later I was in want of a rolex, so, always being one to keep to my word, I walked down to the bamboo fence and stepped inside. Another woman greeted me. “Do you make rolexes?” I asked her. “No” she replied. “Oh” I said, and I turned and left. I crossed the road on my way to another rolex stall when suddenly a voice shouted “Gina! Gina!”
I twirled around and saw Josephine frantically waving at me from behind the bamboo fence.
“Come and I make you salad” she said. I explained that I was after a rolex. After a brief chat, she said “Go and get your rolex, and then come back and I will make you a salad for free!” “why?” I asked. “Because I like you” she replied. In fact, she would have had to have given me the salad for free because I had only carried enough money to buy a rolex – part of my strategy to keep to my budget.

So, seeing no reason to refuse her generous offer, I trotted off to buy my rolex. Rolex in hand, I plodded back up the hill to that famous bamboo fence. Behind the bamboo fence I was surprised to find another muzungu – an older white-haired man – sitting at the only table. Wow, she is actually pulling the muzungu crowd after all I thought to myself. I sat on an empty chair at the table and the man began talking to me.

“I love this woman!” he told me, pointing at Josephine. “I'm doing everything I can to show her that I love her.... and you know, I'd never cheat on her, because I love her so much!”
His professions of love and admiration for Josephine steadily increased over the evening. “I love her... I love her... even though I drink too much sometimes....” The man trailed off but his enthusiasm remained. The man was a Belgian medical counsellor. His wife had left him (I suspect due to the drinking) and his adult children were all living abroad so he had taken a trip to Uganda. It was originally planned as a 3 month holiday, but then he had met Josephine, fallen head over heels in love and had cancelled his return ticket. He had been in Uganda for 2 and a half years and did not plan on ever leaving. He was an older man, much older than Josephene, but he was full of gusto and was extremely optimistic. His light blue eyes sparkled when he spoke. He told me a strange mix of stories: curiosities from his travels, his frustrations at Ugandan incompetence in the counselling field, his Flemish history, the jealousy of his ex-wife, and his love of Josephine.

Josephine reappeared with a small plate of salad and avocado for me and joined us at the table. I ate the salad in between mouthfuls of rolex. The salad was lovely. I thanked Josephene for making it for me. The Belgian leapt in to praise her as well. “And you should keep making more salads too sweetheart” He cooed affectionately. “And other European dishes – hamburgers, hot dogs, kebabs...” Ahhh I thought to myself This explains the strange menu.

I was unsure of Josephine's true feelings towards this eager Belgian. She couldn't have minded him too much because he was living with her, but she definitely did not reciprocate the level of infatuation that he showed her. By the time I left, his constant praise of her was becoming a little over the top and I sensed tension in Josephene. I began to feel slightly concerned about her. I wondered how often he drank and if he frequently got drunk. I was sure that he drunk while I was talking to him, although he was only sipping water at the time. However, these thoughts did not overshadow the entire conversation and for the most part we had a positive and enjoyable chat.

Time pressed on and I had to be on my way, but I promised to return – and I meant it. I got a good vibe off Josephine and I wanted to support her, even just to get her side of the story about the Belgian and ensure that she was safe.

The other day I did just that. I purposely walked home the long way and passed by the bamboo fence. I stepped into the patio area and sat down at the table. Josephene was sitting there eating a plate of food. She was by herself. Perfect, I thought. She was surprised and happy to see me. We chatted for a while and she prepared me a salad (I didn't get sick from the last one, why stop now?). She explained that the avocados were not ripe. I was so disappointed – avocados are my favourite, and the ones in Uganda are the the most delicious I've ever eaten. Another customer arrived, he sat down at a second table that I hadn't spotted before. He ordered a beer. Josephine had to disappear off  down the road to buy him the drink because the she doesn't actually stock drinks, just buys them as she needs them. He was a rastafarian reggae singer – perhaps attracted by the welcoming spray painted message on the fence?

Josephine arrived back, carrying his beer and – bless her – an avocado for me! She cut it up and arranged it on my plate, it was smooth and creamy with the consistency of soft butter. She sat beside me and I began to ask her about the Belgian. I asked her if he drank too much and whether or not she was safe. She explained that he definitely had a drinking problem. In fact, he had a mental illness and doctors had told him that because of it, his brain cannot handle spirits. However he had never listened to their warnings, and often would end up being hospitalised for weeks on end. She said that he was not violent but would shout a lot and say horrible things to her children. I asked her why she put up with it. “It's not so bad. He helps me – he pays for my children's school fees” she answered. Then she added: “He's not bad when he's sober, and now that I know he has a mental illness I know his moods and how to calm him down... plus I feel a responsibility to his children and his grandchildren to look after him”

We spoke at length about it, and she was very pragmatic and reconciled about her circumstance. We were able to have a good laugh about the whole situation. Still, she had been living with this man for 2 and a half years which is not an insignificant amount of time! I was so glad I had been able to speak to her alone, I feel a kindred spirit in Josephene. I like her a lot.

“What do I owe you?” I asked as I rose to leave.
“1000” She replied. (1000 shillings is less than 50 cents US).
I gave her a funny look – I knew she should be charging me more – the avocado she bought me alone would have cost at least 1000.
She brushed me off with a wave of her hand “2000 shillings is muzungu price, you pay 1000”
I was really touched that she counted me as a 'local' and not as a muzungu. I gave her 2000 anyway. I gave her a hug and told her I'd come and visit again soon.

Josephine and the drunken Belgian make interesting additions to my crazy cast of acquaintances in Kampala. How I relish these chance encounters!

The Story of Prossy

Not far from our house is a small local market area. There are always things being sold there – fruits and vegetables, clothes, hot food. It is a buzzing place, I like it a lot. In the afternoons it is full of vans and bodas and people out and about. The sellers sit on the side of the red brown pot-holed road,  their wares laid out either haphazardly or very precisely (depending on the personality of the seller) on a tarpaulin or an old sheet. Crockery, shoes, hats, towels, books – anything you can imagine, they sell it. The fancy clothes are hung out on large coathangers, the rest are heaped – or neatly folded (depending on the seller) – into large piles that you can dig through. The clothes are second hand, imported from the States, or else are factory seconds – slightly imperfect. There are hits and misses – most are misses, but if you dig deep enough you can end up with some top labels in good condition.

As twilight descends the buzz continues. More food stalls appear, bathed in the golden aura of the candles that light their cooking. There is no electricity nor street lights available, so each stall sets up candles to see. They don't even use many – just one candle per stall. They set the candle on their little wooden tables and then set up their small charcoal cookers. They place small woks or pots on top of the coal and cook the food on that. Charcoal cookers are the main method of cooking, even in the home. They fry, boil, steam, roast and even deep fry foods on these small cookers, about the same diameter as a regular frypan.

The night market is a gorgeous scene to behold. The depth of the night's blackness, the warm orb of flame attracting you like a moth, shadows dancing and jumping across the sweat-coated faces of the hard working cooks, the sizzle of oil in a wok, the aroma of smoky charcoal, the odd pungent whiff of diesel, the chatter of the women selling vegetables talking amongst themselves, the warm, gentle evening temperature, and the pyrotechnic display of electrical sparks from the mechanic's workshops that run parallel to the market, hurredly fixing up the most decrepit of vans to make them somewhat road-worthy for tomorrow. I love to get a rolex from a stall closeby to the mechanic's shops. While waiting for them to prepare my rolex on their charcoal cooker, I love to peer in past the sparks and flashes of light and get a glimpse of what they are repairing. A hole in the floor? Unhinged door? Installing suspension (for a change)? Cut brakes? Broken wheel axle? My mind is endlessly amused with the possibilities, well, until my food is ready anyway.  

Every tuesday they have an even larger market. I like to stroll through it, deep into the heart of the market. As you walk further off the road, the paving gives way to dust. Rail Tracks run through the center of the market. The sellers arrange their sheets and tarpaulins directly onto the tracks and then dump large piles of clothes out for you to pick through. You can find things very cheap here, even as a stand-out muzungu I still managed to be offered good prices. I slowly meandered down the tracks, halfheartedly leafing through the odd pile of clothes to be obliging. I hadn't intended to spend anything, just wanted to get a feel of the pricing so I could know for next time. (As a muzungu I never buy too hastily to ensure I can find out if am being ripped off or not). I had  gone quite a way and was about to turn back when I met Prossy.

Prossy was a quiet, unassuming Ugandan woman. She was sitting on her tarpaulin with her legs neatly tucked behind her in a very ladylike manner. “500 shillings!” she called to me. “Everything 500 shillings!”

“Everything?”
“Everything”

She was so gentle and non pushy – unlike the overenthusiastic male sellers. 500 shillings is equivalent to 20 cents US. It was the cheapest price I had ever come across in any of the markets I had been to. I decided to take a look. While I hunted through the enormous pile of clothes, Prossy helped me to find nice tops. We made a small pile to one side and then she helped me to weed out what I would get and what I wouldn't. Despite the clothes being ridiculously cheap in Western standards, my budget is most definitely not in Western standards, and to be honest, 500 shillings was pretty much the only price I could afford for clothes at the time. However, I was in desperate need of clothes, I was surviving on the dregs of my poor used-and-abused backpacking clothes – most of which had been given to me by charitable travellers who had taken pity on me. I bought four tops. Prossy was lovely. She was honest and not out to deceive or swindle me. At my request, she even accompanied me through the maze of the market to show me certain places selling other items of clothing. I felt such love and admiration for this woman. I vowed to myself to come back and support her again. I left the market with a bag of tops and the satisfaction of a fair deal.

As I walked home, other sellers tried to ply their wares on me – at hilariously hiked muzungu prices.

“Muzungu!! You want shoe?”
“How much?”
“Good price for you”
“How much?”
“70,000 shillings!”

I couldn't help but smile
“No way!” I laughed as I walked on. Behind me, I could hear the man desperately calling out to me, a new price in every sentence. I blissfully ignored him and contently trudged on.

The Tale of the Kabalagala Sports Bar

I am back blogging after an absence caused by the malfunction of my laptop keyboard. My b, v, ? keys and the space bar decided to stop working. After exhausting every possible DIY fix that I could think of, I ended up spending a week painstakingly typing using my laptop keyboard and the Windows on-screen keyboard. It was slowly driving me insane. So today I took a walk to Kabalagala, our local market area, and I bought a USB keyboard. It was much cheaper than fixing my actual laptop and is a functional means to an end. It was also a good excuse to go for a walk. I enjoy walking, despite looking a little ridiculous with a keyboard sticking out the top of my backpack.

Kabalagala is a buzzing place. I enjoy it there. It is on a busy main road and consists of a lot of shops, restaurants, bars, betting joints, street food stalls and all sorts of other curiosities. I stopped at several places along my journey.

First I checked out the menu at a cafe which advertises WiFi. It was evidently marketed towards the expat or business hot-shot crowd. A few Westerners were scattered at a couple of the tables, other tables were occupied by men busily hunched over laptops, squinting in deep concentration. You can bet that any place which offers WiFi will be popular among Westerners – myself included. I made a mental note of the cheapest item on the menu (which was hugely expensive compared to buying local cuisine) just in case I was ever in need of WiFi. The cheapest item happened to be a slice of iced lemon cake. At least the enjoyment of the cake would overcome the sacrifice of the price. One must be prepared to compromise. I smiled and thanked the eager waitress as I handed back the menu and turned to leave. I promised to return someday and have a piece of the cake.

Back on the road, the heat of the day made the air heavy, and the black diesel smoke from all the bodas, cars and vans seemed to linger in the air like small levitating storm clouds.

I walked for another 15 minutes, enjoying all the sights and sounds – the bustle of the place. Soon I came to a glittering mall. I walked into a shiny supermarket on the bottom floor. It felt a little clinical and foreign compared to the marketplace outside. As I entered the supermarket I was checked over with a metal detector and had my backpack inspected by a chatty female security guard who enquired if I were out by myself. Sensing no danger, I replied truthfully.

“Yes, just me.” I replied.

“Perhaps then I could be your friend and accompany you!” She gushed excitedly, as if the prospect would make us like sisters. I zipped up my backpack and answered positively, all the while knowing that nothing could come of it, since she was obviously in the middle of her shift. I passed the door and made my way into the supermarket alone. She remained at her post at the door.

The supermarket was slightly cheaper than the small local supermarket I normally visit. Delighted, I wandered the aisles, bundling products in my arms, only to then decide that they were superfluous to my needs and replacing them shortly after. I bought a couple of things that managed to pass through my sorting-and-replacing process. I began to head back through Kabalagala toward home. I passed by another supermarket and decided to take a look there as well. I kicked myself when I saw a product slightly cheaper than what I had just paid. I was able to bounce back only when I found one item that was more expensive than the last supermarket. Swings and roundabouts.

I spotted a French patisserie. Curious about the novelty of a French bakery in Kampala, and also curious about the prices, I went in. The bakery is one of several buildings in a hotel compound. Outside the bakery, covered by a precise and well-made thatched roof (read: money) comfortable chairs and tables are casually arranged on the patio. The place had a breezy, warm vibe that instantly envelops you and puts you at ease. I gazed thoughtfully at the glass case of desserts, and I took a mental note of what was available, but walked away empty handed. Outside in the carpark, a woman called Ayesha had set up a small table of her handcrafted wares. I was drawn to this woman, and began a conversation with her. Ayesha had a small selection of products on display – including some necklaces, bags, and aprons. They were all extremely cheap – I knew this because I had been taking mental notes of the prices of things at all the shops and markets I visit. The necklaces looked like coloured beads, but they were actually made out of rolled paper. I had noticed that it was a common material in Ugandan jewellery – probably because it was inexpensive, but it is immensely intricate and time consuming to make: Ayesha had made each paper bead by hand. I bought the necklace and she helped me to pick out a nice colour. We spoke for a little while, I asked her about the different items she had made. She was gentle and softly spoken with a determined dignity and a business mind.

“Can I have your contact details?” she asked me before I left, “So that I can tell you of other things I make, and perhaps you can further my business by telling your friends?”

I gladly accepted and jotted down my number for her – I had to consult my phone to find out what my number was, I haven't bothered to learn it yet. I draped the necklace around my neck, smiled, shook Ayesha's hand and left.

I was starting to feel a little hungry. I walked along, assessing my different food options: Rolex? No, not that hungry. Chapati? Maybe, it's cheap enough. I spied a dirt pathway that led away from the main road and into a busy section of a slum, with makeshift structures housing a multitude of lively enterprises. I ventured further in to see what food options I could find. Women crouched over small plastic basins of water busily washing lunch plates. To my left, a restaurant/bar was full of patrons. Men swarmed around a pool table under a tumble-down bamboo shelter. A table full of men and women laughed merrily in between mouthfuls of food, their plates piled high with potatoes, chicken and some type of gravy. Across the walkway, an improvised stage had been erected using a jumble of foraged plywood. It sat waiting in expectancy of an evening performance. Well-fed hens scratched at the dirt and then clucked insolently upon finding nothing of interest. I wandered around for a while. I immediately loved the ramshackle charm of the place. The rusty mismatched corrugated iron that cladded the roofs of the shacks, the industrious manner which the women walked as they collected more plates to be washed, the casual way the men propped themselves up with their pool cues. The buzz of life, relaxation, and enjoyment in this bedraggled slum.

I spotted a chapati stall but it was unmanned and I couldn't be bothered waiting around. I turned around and started walking back to the main street. I was almost back on the street when a young man emerged from a dark doorway of a sports bar and began talking to me. He was friendly and polite. He introduced himself, said he was from Eritrea, and invited me into the bar. I shook his hand and followed him inside. The 'bar' was a large shack with mud walls and a thatched roof made of sticks. The only light was the shaft of sunlight from the open doorway, that, and a solitary dim lightbulb which illumed the bottles behind the counter. Plastic chairs were laid out haphazardly around a few tables. The man led me to a table where another man was sitting – a friend of his – and ushered for me to sit down. A petite cat sat on the floor in front of me and observed me hopefully to see if I had any food to give her.

The two men were both Eritrean – I surmised that this bar must be a popular hangout for Eritreans. The other man was busy studying a printout of betting odds. The man who I was talking to introduced himself as Yonas.

Yonas was a refugee journalist from Eritrea.. He was passionate about justice and human rights, and his own life story was captivating and tragic. Under the Eritrea dictatorship he had fearlessly written articles which exposed and opposed the regime. He was subsequently arrested without trial and locked in an underground prison for 4 years. He escaped by using a fork to scrape the mortar from between the bricks of his cell and breaking his way out. Exiled from his country and in fear of his life, he made the dangerous journey crossing multiple borders to seek asylum in Uganda. Uganda, he taught me, offers freedom and protection to refugees. Over 110,000 Eritrea refugees are stationed in camps in Western Uganda. It was fascinating to talk to Yonas. He paused our conversation to get me a Sprite and then disappeared to order something to eat from the local restaurant next door. He reappeared shortly after, carrying a plate of cut up chapati, a bowl of chicken soup and two forks. He dumped the soup over the top of the chapati and handed me a fork. I had just taken my first bite when the bartender switched on a television and the football began. Suddenly men flocked into the bar and jostled their plastic chairs into prime viewing positions. Everton were playing Liverpool, as a long standing Liverpool fan I was thrilled to catch the game. I was even more amused as I assessed my surroundings. The mud walls, the holey ceiling, the crudely printed signs which demanded in large lettering “No sitting in chairs without order!!!” , and “Cash payment only! No credit!” I figured that I was probably the first white chick to ever step foot in this dark den of a place. For all its faults, the place did not come off as seedy, and all the men there were extremely polite and genuine. We ate our fill of the chapati and soup, there was still a lot left, Yonas offered it to another man in the bar – this man looked a little older and his face carried the anxious and sad smile of a person who had witnessed atrocities. Yonas explained that this man had been with him in the Eritrean army 10 years ago. He didn't elaborate further or make any attempt to fill in any details of what pretence he had been in the army, nor how he had managed to get out of it. I listened in silence. The man gratefully tucked into the food and polished off the plate.

The football game was heating up, Everton had just levelled the score 1-1. Yonas' gambling friend smiled broadly – he was betting on an Everton win. However, we did not get to see the end of the game because just then the power went out. Ahh, Kampala! Such a regular occurrence, I am used to the powercuts now. The men were flummoxed and set to finding a solution. They whipped out radios and tuned into the sports station. Eventually, most left in search of a bar with a generator.

Yonas and I continued to talk. He told me that he had just been awarded a scholarship to do a Masters in human rights law in the States. He would be leaving in a couple of months. I hardly knew what to say to this man who had been through so much. I was thrilled that he had such an incredible opportunity. We spoke for a while longer and then I said goodbye and left. Yonas said that he often hung out at the bar and I would be welcome anytime to stop by and say hello. I agreed, thanked him, and stepped back into the daylight. As I left the dark den of the bar my mind was running overtime thinking over everything I had just learned about the refugee situation and the plight of the Eritrean people.

I walked home reflectively and fairly uneventfully, apart from one brief exchange with a man selling the contents of a large container he was carrying.

“Hi Muzungu” (white people/travellers are generally addressed as 'muzungu')

“Hi”

“You want eat grasshoppers?”

“No thanks” I smiled, laughed to myself, and continued walking.

The Rolex and the Boda Boda

I have been in Uganda for one month, and I have to admit that in that time I have been pretty insular in my life. I go to work, I come home, I go for a walk, I go to church, and I eat all my meals at home or school. Compared to my intense two months of travel, I would appear to be at a stand still! But I am enjoying it. After backpacking all summer, I am quite happy to be a homebody at the moment!

However, because of my fully contained world, I must admit that I have been rather slow in experiencing some typically 'Ugandan' things. One such thing being a boda boda ride! In one whole month I have not taken a boda boda ride, mainly because I walk everywhere or else travel in a car.

Boda bodas are men on motorbikes who offer rides like a taxi service. They are everywhere! And little did I know it, but today was my day to experience one!

My day started out fairly normally, I went to school and was chatting with the specialist drama teacher over a cup of tea. Our conversation gravitated to food, and she mentioned some sort of food called a 'Rolex'. I had never heard of it, but it did explain all the signs on small shacks that I had seen advertising 'Rolexes' - I had been pretty sure they weren't talking about watches! 

She explained that a Rolex is a chapati (flat bread, my favourite food) with fried egg, onion, tomato and capsicum; all rolled up and served hot and fresh. It sounded amazing! The more we talked about it, the more hungry we felt. Suddenly, she asked if I had free time right then and there, and suggested that her driver (many people employ a driver here because public transport is not so great) whisk us off to get a Rolex! I eagerly agreed and off we went! 

On the way, we stopped at an International school and she introduced me to the principal. He showed us around the school and we all chatted for a while. It was great to meet and greet another principal in the area, and to look around the school. It was extremely well resourced and beautiful. The kind of place that makes teachers drool in admiration. 

We then went on the search for a Rolex. Rolexes are made by small roadside stalls that dot the main streets. They normally consist of a small cart and a miniature coal cooker with a wok resting on top. We couldn't seem to find a stall nearby, we would have to go further down the main road, but we were in a hurry and it was too far to walk, and there is no parking on the main road. Luckily, there are boda bodas - everywhere! In fact there were about four of them within 2 meters of us. We jumped on the one literally right in front of us and headed off down the road.

It was great fun to be on the back of the boda boda! I felt the wind rush through my hair and the gentle undulations of the road beneath the tires. Our short ride ended right in front of a Rolex stand. My friend ordered in her best Lugandan (the local language) and I watched, mesmerised, their technique as they masterfully mixed and fried the chapati and the egg mixture. Then they take the cooked egg mixture - pretty much an omelette - and lay it on top of the chapati. Then they rolled it up and handed it to me.

I took a bite. It was delicious! And cost all of US$0.75. I can assure you I will be consuming a few more Rolexes before I leave Uganda! What a wonderful way to celebrate my one month anniversary!

Arriving in Entebbe, Uganda

17 hours and two stopovers later I arrived from Israel to Entebbe, Uganda. After a long night with little sleep, we touched down at 6.30 in the morning. It was beautiful and clear sky, I watched the sunrise from the plane and then watched in wonder as the sky lit up and revealed a lush green land below, covered in trees and foliage.

We disembarked and moved into the visa line at the airport. I was a little nervous because I had just come from Israel, where I had been extensively questioned, and I didn't know how strict or relaxed the Ugandan border security would be. Also, I had heard various reports of the Ugandan visa requiring several passport sized photos which I had forgotten all about. I had no photos at all! The best I could do was to hurriedly cut out the picture from my expired International Driver's License in the hopes that it would pass with a push. As it was, it was not a problem at all. They didn't even ask for a passport photo! I paid the US$50 for the 3 month tourist visa and passed through into the arrivals area. Straight away I saw a sign with my name.

I met my greeters, Jerry (the driver) and Dana (the school's accountant) as we walked to the car. All of a sudden, it began to pour down with rain, huge drops, which then turned into a torrential downpour. In seconds we were all soaked to the bone. We were only meters from the van but the rain was so bad it felt like we were fighting a war just to get inside! When we were safely inside, looking like drowned rats, they informed me that this rain would not last long, and was in fact a good omen for my stay!

In about ten minutes we had driven out of the rain completely and were met with warm sunshine and clear skies. On the way back I was able to chat to Dana and Jerry. Dana is the sister of Sam who I met in Switzerland, and of Christine, the principal of the school. Jerry is a Ugandan man who drives a van for the school. He said that he had two children but he doesn't get to see them because their mother ran off with the kids. He claimed that often Ugandan women do that to try and make the man chase after them. Then he turned to me and, looking at me dead in the eyes, said “But you are something special... if you bore my children and ran off, I would follow you anywhere”. Of course I was flattered by his unique way of asking me to have his children, however I politely refused and suggested that he focus on the children he already has.

We drove on to Kampala and stopped at the 'Big House' where I would be staying. We pulled up to a large gate with huge concrete walls and barbed wire running along the top. The gate opened and in front of me stood a massive house – a mansion, it felt like a palace! This was not what I had been expecting! They took me to my room on the top floor, where I have a huge king sized bed, an ensuite, an ornate dresser, tables, chair, a sofa and a set of drawers. The room is huge! They left me to change and put my things away.

A couple of hours later, Dana, Christine (the principal of the school), Lucinda (another teacher at the school) and Jerry came and collected me and we headed off right into the countryside, past many small towns and villages, into the jungle, where they had arranged to view some land to potentially develop into a hospital. The land was in an area which had been called the Luwero triangle – a place of fierce brutality and war in the early 1980's. The people who lived in the villages within the triangle (so named for it's geographical shape from above) were cut off from the rest of the world and many never saw their family members again. Many were killed and wounded. Now the area is at peace and the villages are bustling with activity. They are without power, but live in such abundance – large mango trees, cassava, bananas, paw paw, matoke, potatoes, pineapples, beans, onions, tomatoes and many other fruits and vegetables grow everywhere you look.

We met with the man who owned the land, and took a brief look around and then made the 2 and a half hour trip back to the Big House. By this time, I was beyond exhausted. I had had about 3 hours of sleep in the last 36 – 48 hours. I kept myself awake until we reached home, but as soon as we got home I just leapt out of the van, mumbled goodnight to everyone and ran upstairs to sleep. My eyes – which water when I am tired – were watering so much that I could hardly see the stairs as I climbed to my room.

I collapsed onto my bed, weary, but feeling wonderful and thrilled to be here in Uganda, the pearl of Africa!

In Summary

So to sum up a wonderful two months, here are my final thoughts on my experiences.

In two months I visited a total of 15 countries (18 if you include Slovakia and Slovenia that I traveled through but didn't stop in) and approximately 38 cities. However, the amount of countries and cities that I visited is irrelevant. What was important were the people that I met. They were far more valuable to me than sightseeing. 

There were some places where I spent basically the whole day doing nothing, just hanging out with people, getting to know them and watching movies together. Was this wasted time? Will I regret seeing all those 'must-see' tourist spots that I missed? Not at all. My priorities are in order. People come first. There is a proverb which I love and it says: 

He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tangata! He tangata! He tangata!
What is the most important thing in the world? It is people! It is people! It is people!

I made great friends, was treated to the best hospitality in the world, sang, danced, ate, drank (all nonalcoholic drinks mind you!), went to the opera, performed on stage, walked long distances, took buses, planes, ferries, trams, trains, hitchhiked, drove cars, and an ATV dune buggy. 

When I was running out of money and thought I would have to cancel plans, I was miraculously given money without even asking. I was able to expand my plans rather than constrict. 

All I can say is that my life is testament to the unbelievable provision and blessing of the Lord and His grace - for giving me such an amazing gift that I did not deserve. 

My final advice for you is this: 

1. Travel with integrity. Don't try to cheat the system. Always buy a bus ticket, even if you know you will get away with not buying one. If you don't want to spare the expense, walk. I met a lot of travellers who would try to save a buck by not paying for the bus/train, and certain cities have ticketing systems where you can get away with it. But don't do that! Don't save a buck when it will cheat someone else out of it - and don't put yourself in a position where you could be found guilty! Travel with integrity.

2. Travel without fear. Don't be so fearful when meeting new 'strange' people. Talk to them without fear. Go to places without fear. Don't buy in to all the scaremongering and warnings. Take heed of their advice and be wise, but follow your instincts. Go and see things for yourself. Don't let fear (and hearsay) stop you! 

Escapades in the Biblelands – Jerusalem and the Dead sea

On my second night in Jerusalem I had arranged to stay the night with a couchsurfer. He picked me up around 7 and we went back to his place. He was a great host and an interesting person to talk to. Some of his friends stopped by and visited as well, they were also really lovely people and we had a really fun night. After they left, he gave me a lot of help to plan my next day in Jerusalem – I was very short on time, so I needed to really make the most of every second. He gave me lots of tips and studied the map with me to help plot the best route.

Early in the morning I packed my bag and headed out on my adventure. I took the bus to the Old City, and then walked down the Via Dolorosa. The Via Dolorosa is the pathway that Jesus followed when he carried the cross to the hill. It was strange to walk the streets thinking that my beloved Jesus had been in this very city – and he was dead and resurrected by the end of his visit! I also walked by the Western wall, then exited the city gate and walked to the Mt of Olives and the garden of Gethsemane. These were places that Jesus had spent time teaching and praying before his arrest and crucifixion – in fact, he was arrested in the garden.

The garden of Gethsemane was beautiful. It was surrounded by a large wall. You walked inside and there in front of you – separated by a protective fence – was a beautiful garden of olive trees and flowers. Around the perimeter of the garden was a path that led to a church. The church was beautiful as well. It featured paintings and mosaics of Jesus' time in the garden. Mosaics of olive trees were decorated on the ceiling – it was spectacular. At the front of the church beside the alter was a large rock – apparently the one that Jesus had sat on. I am not sure how they worked out that it was that particular rock, but even for figurative value it was nice to have something tangible to touch and look at.

I really enjoyed being at the garden. I didn't want to leave! But time was pressing on, so I made my way to the Mt of Olives. I don't know how many pathways led up there, but for whatever reason, I ended up on a very steep one that had over 570 steps. It was the hottest part of the day, and I huffed and puffed my way to the top. When I reached the top I was a little disappointed because I could see nothing that resembled a “Mount of Olives” - all I could see were residential flats and a walled cemetary that had an entrance fee (and you know that I was NOT about to pay it!). I was not deflated though, and I got out the map and studied it very carefully. I saw that there was another road parallel to the one I had taken that seemed to be more 'scenic'. So I walked down that road, and was thrilled when I found a gate that led into a beautiful olive grove. It was one of the places where Jesus had spent time. It had a spectacular view of Jerusalem, and was a very quiet and peaceful place. The garden was empty apart from a talkative older man who claimed to be the garden's volunteer caretaker/security person. He told me that he worked hard to keep the garden tidy and litter free. He tried to talk me into giving him some money for his good service. As he talked, I watched him as he gathered up some rubbish and just tossed it over the wall into the empty plot next door, which was covered in litter. When I asked him why he was dumping the rubbish next door, and told him I had nothing to give him, he grew upset and stopped being friendly and talkative. I took no notice and continued looking around the garden, laughing to myself about the whole incident.

I headed back to Jerusalem – not the Old City, but rather the new city. I headed to the markets. They were jam packed full of people! What an incredible atmosphere! You could buy virtually any fruit, vegetable, bean or spice known to man – everything was fresh and smelled wonderful. I bought a delicious fruit salad from one of the stalls that consisted of fresh pomegranates, mangos, pineapple, grapes and dragonfruit (which I haven't had since being in Singapore/Malaysia!) and strolled around people watching.

Time was passing quickly, so I soon left and went to the central bus station. There, I caught a bus to Rishan LeTsiyon. Vered had asked me to come to Rishan LeTsiyon because her brother and his wife and children live there, and it happened to be her nephew's birthday. They were going to have a family get-together to celebrate, and I was invited! Vered picked me up at the bus station and we went to her brother's house just in time for dinner to be served! I met all of Vered's immediate family and we had a great night of celebration and food!

We drove back to Be'er Sheva that night and went straight to bed because we had a big day planned the next day – a trip to the Dead Sea!

Early in the morning we gathered up our things and packed lunch, then met up with one of Vered's friends who knew the area very well. We drove towards the Dead sea. Along the way, Vered's friend taught us a lot about the geography and history of the area. He drove us to remote locations inamongst the salt mountains off the main road. He took us down tiny roads carved straight into the salt. The roads were uneven and sloped in every direction, they twisted through the salt mountains at very tight angles. Then we came across a huge group of school children who were hiking through the salt mountains. The road was so narrow that it took a very long time to be able to pass the children. As we passed them, the children were begging us to take them with us so they didn't have to walk in the heat!

We finally passed the last group of children and then weaved through some very tight and difficult curves. I was very thankful that I was not driving – I still don't know how Vered's friend managed to navigate us through all of that and come out the other side in one piece! Shortly we found ourselves on the top of the salt mountains. Vered's friend explained that this was Mt Sodom – the location of Sodom and Gomorrah – the infamous cities that the Lord destroyed. The Bible says that the area had been well-watered and had vegetation, but as it was destroyed the Lord rained down burning sulphur on the cities and removed every living thing, as well as all the vegetation in the land. The only family the Lord spared was Lot's family – they were found to be honourable people and angels told them to flee. But Lot's wife looked back towards the cities, and the Bible says she was turned into a pillar of salt. Sitting there on top of that salt mountain, I looked as far as I could see, and – true to His word – even now it is still just an arid place of salt deposits. Nothing grows there.

Next, we visited some salt caves. We were technically not meant to go inside them, but when had that stopped me ever before? We squatted down and slowly creeped deeper into the cave. Soon it opened out into a large shaft of daylight. Water had slowly eroded the salt and formed a hole in the 'roof' of the cave. It was so beautiful! Near to the cave was a large pillar of salt that was standing separately from the mountain – it was the pillar of Lot's wife! It even looks like a woman.

By this time we had worked up an appetite. We drove to the coast of the Dead sea, found a picnic spot by the side of the road and laid out all the food. Vered had made some scrumptious healthy food for us, and Vered's friend whipped up a fresh salad right then and there for us! It was delicious.

It was late afternoon by the time we actually ended up at the beach. We parked easily and found a nice spot on the beach. There were quite a few people there, but it didn't feel crowded. We waded into the water. It was the perfect temperature! I was so curious to experience the effect of the salt content. At 400m below sea level, the Dead sea is the lowest point on earth, and the water has the highest salt content in the world. I knew that it made you float, but I was wondering to what extent – did you have to put in some effort too, or would the water really do it for you? At first I tried to sit down in the water, but immediately my legs flew up and bobbed on the surface of the water! It was unreal – you did not have to make any energy exertion at all – it really was like magic, one minute you were standing up, the next minute your legs would pop up in front of you and you would just bob there like a rubber duck in a bathtub. It was not very deep, so the best thing was just to lie on your back in the water and use your hands as paddles to move yourself around. I felt like one those sea otters who float around on their backs. There was even an umbrella in the water which provided some shade from the sun. The three of us made our way under the umbrella and just lay there in the water, relaxing and chatting about life. The water is thick and quite oily. It feels wonderful. Salt forms a thick layer on the floor of the sea, so you can find a nice spot and scoop up handfuls of salt to give your body a good exfoliating clean. From all my travelling – despite frequent showers – I felt so dirty, so I gave myself an intense scrubbing. My feet had been so filthy that it took two rounds of scrubbing to get them adequately clean. We took turns scrubbing each other's backs. It was wonderful to be clean again! And with the oil content in the water, you would come out with your skin feeling smooth and silky.

We left the water and sat down on beach chairs to let the salt dry on our skin. It was very restful. We people-watched all the other bathers. Every now and then you would see a child accidentally put their face in the water or rub their eyes with their salty hands, then we would watch the drama unfold as the child began to cry with the burn of the salt, and the parent would rush over and wash them off, scolding them for not listening to their instructions. It was quite amusing!

Over the course of the day, Vered had been complaining of a rash on her body, and after being in the salty water she was in a lot of pain. So we packed up and headed back the car. It had been an incredible day on the salt mountains and in the Dead Sea. I have to admit, if I had the chance, I would definitely visit the Dead sea again and stay there for a few days of pure relaxation.

The next day Vered was not feeling very well at all, so we went to see the doctor then just hung out at home talking and talking. Later on she had a rest and I packed. It was bittersweet for me – I was excited because my next stop was Uganda, but it also meant that it was the end of my 2 month backpacking trip. What an amazing journey I had been on.

The next morning Vered dropped me at the train station and I took the train to the airport. It was a long, slow process of intense security checks at the airport. I finally made it through and boarded the first of three flights to get to Uganda. I smiled as I reflected over my time in Israel, and my time travelling. All I could do was thank the Lord for everything – it was astounding to think of all the things that had happened.