adventures in smog

Day 2 –
How to even begin? Let me first say how we’ve decided to write this blog. This is Kevin writing now. For those who know me well, you know how much I enjoy writing and how I could go on and on. So I’m aware that I could definitely hog the computer. I proposed to Aimee that I write my observations and then she write her observations, but she decided that we’ll both just sort of write it together, side-by-side… I’ll just be doing the actual, physical typing. So we’ll give it a go. The other thing I’ll say is that, at least at the Blue Mango, we buy an internet access card to get online with our own laptop. The cards cost 5000 Ugandan shillings and give an hour’s worth of internet service. One US dollar is worth about 1750 shillings. So what I’m doing now is writing the blog in Word. When I’m finished I’ll buy the card, get online, and copy and paste this entry into the blogsite.

So! Africa! Gosh, how do I start? We have been simply bombarded with so many sensational sounds, sights, smells, and experiences in the first 24 hours that I just don’t know how to slice it up into a coherent narrative. However, if I try to make excuses for not being able to find the words, Margot Ely, my friend and qualitative research professor, will have my head. So here it goes:

The roads are red. Red is the color of the thick dirt that creeps and climbs into and onto every pore and crevice. White smoke screams from the exhaust pipes of a million, billion bodhas, the one-stoke mopeds that act as the cheapest mode of transportation between two points. We could take matatus, the minivans that stuff themselves with people and stop every few hundred feet to drop off or pick up. They are slightly more expensive. Then there are the private taxis, which we took from the airport into the city. They are the most expensive way to fly, but probably the safest. We take bodhas today. Our new friends, four American women who have been here from two weeks to seven months, teach us how to bargain. We go to the end of the road and wave down one of the many mopeds that whizz past. They are all quick to stop. They see Westerners, who clearly have money – more money than they. They stop and we say something in a kind of clipped, British accent with questionable syntax, that they seem to understand much better than New York-ese: “We go to British Airways office. You know it?” He says, “British Airways. Yes, I know.” We say, “OK. We go. You take 3000 for two.” I nod toward Aimee, and I and I don’t ask; I tell. He smiles playfully and rolls his eyes, “No. It is too far. You pay me 5000.” Aimee protests gently (the MUCH better bargainer of the two of us), “No. It is close. You take 3500 to British Airways. For two.” The bodha driver explains that we are two and petrol is very expensive. “No. Please 4000.” We all agree and Aimee and I squeeze behind the man. We are Muzungu, “White Man”. He is Mudugav, “Black Man.”

Now we are flying, squeezing, somehow managing to make it through the wild streets of Kampala. I sit behind Aimee and see her pulling her shirt up above her nose to try and screen some of the ubiquitous black and white smoke that pours from every tailpipe. We nearly hit everything, but never do (except the one time our driver looked right to see how well he could manage the circle and wound up braking too late and hit our friend on another bodha). Laura, our friend from Blue Point, Long Island, scolded him in a clipped, British accent with questionable syntax. He reached and put her leg from one moped peg to another, as if it was her positioning that had caused the incident. She laughed and said, “Still you would have hit me. It is not my fault.” And as we sped further down the road, Aimee says in a loud, British voice, “Now you drive careful, yes?” “OK, OK”, he nodded.

Now, despite the fact that he assured us he knew the way back to Blue Mango, we are stopped on the side of the road in a random neighborhood street. Rows of houses painted in indigos and oranges line the red-clay road. Stopped, the two muzungos on the back of the bodha attract great attention from the residents, who now gather around to find out what’s going on. “Do you not know where is the Blue Mango?” He does not answer but gets off and asks some of the children if they know. There is a lot of pointing and gesticulating. They all speak the one of the main languages of the region, Luganda. After some discussion, he returns: “Now I know. I know.” Laura and Deb, our friends who had hired a bodha at the same time we did, but who were going to a different hostel, are somehow with us now. They are angry because they have tried to explain that, despite the fact that we are all muzungu, we are not all going to the same place. Now they are off their bodha, and walking away. Their bodha man is telling our man, who speaks better English, that they are not paying. A bit of tension ensues, Eventually, Laura and Deb flag another bodha and hop on. Laura says, “We do not know where we are and you do not know where we are. We will not pay.” They ride off and I am afraid that now, somehow we are in the middle. Out of fear, I say that we do not know them. Our bodha man drives off and we are again flying down the road, this time safely to the Mango. We get indoors, pull the mosquito net over the bed and sleep hard for three hours. I said I wanted to try to stay awake because I wanted to beat the jetlag, but I sleep. We wake up at 6pm and come to the restaurant, to write and relax. We meet some folks from Ottawa who are also waiting to see if their luggage arrives tomorrow. They are awaiting kayaks and are disappointed that their plan, to kayak down the Nile, has been delayed. It is night. A light rain falls as we eat outside, under a canopy. We hear loud drumming in the distance, through the palm trees. We are tired again. Tomorrow morning we will take a taxi to the airport to see if our luggage has arrived. If not, we will have to wait here in Kampala until Friday. We want desperately to head north to start our volunteer work. At the same time, what else can we do? I am reminded of my time in India. The only option is to surrender; fighting is useless. Nothing will come from resisting. Aimee has already mastered the art of insistence without pushiness. I am learning. We are a good team. We laugh a lot and marvel at all of the newness, all of the chaos and beauty.

We will write again tomorrow, unless we head to Gulu. We are told the trip north will be one that can take as few as four and as many as eight hours. We also understand that internet access is spotty up there. So we’ll see. More to come. Love to all at home.
A & K

hello friends and family, this is Aimee. As you can already tell, we are on a true adventure! I am excited to get up to Gulu and start volunteering in the Gulu Regional Hosptial. Our friends Jess and Meg have started a program called RENEW ( a program to rejuvenate the local hospital) and Valerie, from Invisible Children, has set up work for me once I get. The situation sounds dire and dramatic. They have so few resources. Jess and Meg are working on trying to get running water at the hospital. That’s one of their main goals. They can use all the help they can get. I remind myself that I am here to offer myself completely, and I am already receiving the gift of learning from everyone that I meet. In such a short time, this trip has fulfilled me, challenged me, and exhilirated me. The world is big! I’m reminded of the abundance back home, and humbled by the tenacity of the human spirit that I witness here. It is wonderful to be with my best friend and partner. We’re lucky to have crossed paths with so many helpful and kind hearted people. We haven’t even been here for two full days! I’ll write again soon…jetlag has caught up and I’m ready for a solid night of rest. sending love-a