I left Jinja the day before yesterday. We came over to Kampala because Lori had some meetings and I had some interviews with a few kids from a home called Dwelling Places. I didn't have a chance to wash my clothes before I left, so I just packed like I normally would, except that I put the clean clothes in my bag, and I carried my dirty clothes in a plastic bag. The dirty clothes far outnumbered the clean. In fact, I had only one day's worth of clean clothes left.
So we got to Kampala late and went to bed and then I got up early yesterday morning and went to my day of interviews (which went pretty well, thanks for asking). When I came back last night, I was filthy from a long sweaty day on dirt roads, so I showered, put on my pajamas, and went outside to the clothes-washing tub to wash my clothes. I'm getting pretty good at washing clothes by hand, by the way. I washed everything except the skirt I was going to wear to church tomorrow and my long-sleeved t-shirt--and the only reason I didn't wash it was because it had gotten covered up and I didn't see it. When I finished, I had one of my many African "Oh crap" moments. I suddenly realized that all my clothes were wet. And they stayed wet all night long, hanging from my headboard, from the dresser shelves, from the mosquito net, and from the curtain rod. And they were still wet this morning when it was time for me to get dressed. So...today I'm wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and my Sunday skirt. Not exactly my finest fashion moment.
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Lori and I went up to a place called Bujagali Falls on the Nile earlier this week for a little rest from the madness. We spent all day just hanging out and doing nothing in an open air cafe on a hill overlooking the river. While we were there, the owner of one of my favorite restaurants came in with his mom. I was excited because I had wanted to meet him. He's from Iceland and seems to be a pretty interesting fellow. He proved me right when I asked his name, and instead of just telling me, he lifted up his shirt to show me his name, Ellert, tatooed in huge letters across his stomach. I will never, as long as I live, forget that man's name.
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I find it very interesting that when children here see us white folk, two words normally and almost universally come flowing forth from their little lips. The first word is "muzungu" which is the Luganda word for a foreigner. That's to be expected. But the second is always a little confusing; after they say muzungu, they say "bye." So I am greeted several times a day with "Muzungu Bye!" It makes me wonder if they hear muzungus saying "bye" more than they hear them saying "hello." At any rate, I greet people by saying "bye" every day.
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And finally, I learned the meaning of the phrase "white knuckles" the other night. Lori and I had just arrived in Kampala from Jinja, and had to take a matatu (minibus) to our guest house from the city center. So we walked down with all our stuff to the bus stop to wait for the matatu to come by. After standing there for about fifteen minutes with no matatu in sight, Lori gave me the look I'd been dreading. It was the look that said, "It looks like we're gonna have to take a boda boda."
A boda boda, for those of you who haven't already guessed the worst, is a motorcycle fitted with a tiny backseat upon which Uganda's bravest choose to sit daily, the wind and dust whipping around them, their unprotected bodies hurtling along crowded streets at 40 miles an hour, hovering a mere foot or so from asphalt, dirt, and rocks.
Now I don't mind the bodas in Jinja. My first boda ride was with Lori (yes, there's room for two passengers on a boda) on the way back from Ellert's restaurant. It was late at night and the dirt roads between there and our place were all but deserted. Only slightly terrifying. My next boda ride was out to Bujagali Falls. It was during the day, there was a little more traffic, but much of the ride was on village roads. Ok, no problem.
But my first boda ride without Lori was in Kampala, at night, with all my worldly possessions on my lap. I closed my eyes at first, determined not to see the calamity that certainly awaited me. But eventually I opened them because I decided I'd rather see it coming. I did alot of praying, and alot of plotting about exactly how I would try to position myself when I fell off. I was actually more concerned for my computer, which was at the time held in the vise-like grip of my knees, than I was about myself. I thought about my elbows alot, wondering how extensive and permanent the damage to them would be, since the plan was to shield my computer with my body, specifically the forearms. I thought about my elbows when the driver, unsatisfied with the speed of a truck in front of us, chose to leave the road for the dirt trail over the curb that people use for a sidewalk. I also thought about my elbows when he slid on gravel trying to get back on that road. And I thought about my elbows when he decided that traffic was moving too slowly on our side of the road and opted instead for weaving through oncoming traffic for a good half-mile.
When I finally arrived at the guest house, I had to concentrate to unweld my left hand from the bar on the back of the motorcycle. I may be scarred for life. But at least the scars are only mental...and I got them all for the low low price of $1.20. Uganda: Terror for Less.
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