American Life In The Summertime #11 - Mzungu In The Mist

11 April 2008


I love Uganda, but we had to work at it. Our relationship was tested from the very minute I arrived, when I jumped fresh off the plane from Kenya into the capital Kampala, collected my bag, walked through customs to find the driver for my arranged pick up to the hostel, walked to an ATM, withdrew the maximum amount possible because I was planning some expensive stuff like white water rafting, collected my card and receipt, reached for my cash, and watched in bemusement as it was sucked back into the machine right in front of my hand. In Uganda, as a security measure, if you don't collect the money within a certain time (my estimate would be about 40 milliseconds), it is drawn back into the machine. I groaned inwardly, not so much at the money, but at the all day form-filling process, bribes and bureaucratic pantomimes that would now be necessary to sort it out. If it hadn't been for a significant amount, I would honestly have written it off, but we were looking at around $450 Australian dollars, although even then it was a close run thing. I decided to implement the mature and adult strategy of refusing to leave the ATM until someone came to open it and give me the cash on the spot. I was quite vocal about it. Being Sunday, all banks were closed, and Uganda does not yet have the 24 hour customer service line mentality, so I would have been staying there until 9am the next morning when the branch opened again (although presumably I would have been first in line). After about an hour of trying to bluff someone into helping because they thought I was not going to move otherwise, I finally realised that it just wasn't going to happen, and reluctantly followed the driver out the door, resigned to wasting my entire time in Uganda in an endless line of banks, police and other officials in uniform, although at least I was now pre-warned about wearing camouflage shorts.

On the way from the airport to the hostel we came over the top of a hill and were greeted with a long line of traffic pulled over to the side of the road as far as the eye could see. It appears that the great and glorious Libyan leader brother Muammar Ghadaffi was arriving in Uganda on the same day to open a mosque and make disparaging comments about Christianity. All traffic had been pulled over so the Colonel and his 47 support vehicles could get into the city as quickly as possible. The entourage passed us flanked by what seemed thousands of poster-waving Ugandan supporters, and then, approximately 0.8 seconds after the last vehicle in the motorcade had passed us my driver (who was obviously born in Tanzania) pulled out and followed the motorcade at speed all the way into town. Actually, became part of the motorcade would perhaps be more accurate. I considered pulling out my Aussie flag boxer shorts and pinning them to the bonnet to achieve the requisite fluttering effect and waving to my adoring masses as we flew past, but it was impossible to reach out the window at the speeds we were travelling, so I sat inside and waved regally to what I can only assume were warm messages of support as we made our way into central Kampala.

When I arrived at the hostel I started chatting to a couple of people in the dorm and after hearing my ATM tale of woe we were to be found in the hostel bar minutes later. In the bar there was an older guy of around 45 who didn't seem to quite fit the mold of budget African backpacker, well dressed, standing at the edge of our table half-looking over in that manner of people hoping for an invitation to join. After introducing himself it turns out he was a Swedish national working in Rwanda and owned a business that appears very shady but was described to us as "importing". I asked if he had given up the exporting and was now focussing on just the importing and if this was causing problems, and the blank look I was rewarded with was all I needed to dub him Mr Vandelay for the remainder of my time in Kampala.

Well, Mr Vandelay became sort of a minor celebrity at the hostel. The next day was actually St Patrick's Day and in the evening we met up with some Irish girls already decked out with shamrocks and guinness glasses drawn on their faces, and were promptly adopted as honorary Irish for the evening, and also promptly drawn all over. After several beers at the hostel bar who should walk in but Mr Vandelay, and eventually we all made the move, Mr Vandelay in tow (who was by now also adopted as a kind of mascot), to Kampala's only Irish pub where we proceeded to commandeer the place: the Mzungu took over the bar, the music, the dance floor and had just about the best night of my trip so far. Around 3am after far too many guinnesses I looked around and it suddenly occurred to me that the 6 others with me (who, to be fair, did know each other previously) seemed to have all paired up, and Mr Vandelay was standing in front of me informing me that he was in room 212. How on earth I ended up drawing goddamn Mr Vandelay in the great hookup lottery that occurred at the end of that evening is a mystery that will continue to haunt my waking hours (and I suspect quite a few sleeping ones) for the rest of my days, especially considering the alternatives, however it must be said that room 212 was very nice indeed. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Next morning with a slightly dry mouth it was up early and into Kampala to sort out the ATM issue. The bank employee simply handed me a form and told me to come back tomorrow, for reasons unknown. I also decided that if I somehow needed to make an insurance claim over this, I should make a police report. I must say that attempting to obtain a police report in Kampala central police station without getting further cleaned out in the never-ending request for "gifts" was not the most positive experience of my life. Eventually I was summoned into a private room behind closed doors with the sergeant on duty, the completed report, and a serious expression. I was informed that the report, at great expense, was ready, but that I would be required to hand over 30,000 Ugandan shillings - around $17 - for "secretarial costs" which seemed to involve, chiefly, photocopying the report for their files. Unfortunately for the good sergeant this time, with no cash anyway, all I had was time to play this game for as long as it took, and I explained that I could perhaps arrange to photocopy it more cost effectively myself at another establishment. At this I was mildly surprised to be given the report, with no money having yet changed hands, to be photocopied and brought back. I'm not sure what the record is for exiting the central Kampala police station but I am fairly confident in estimating that I broke it easily as I headed for the door with my report, promising to photocopy it and bring it back immediately. I never did quite manage to make it back but I like to think that the sergeant remains in his interrogation room to this day waiting for his big payoff.

I have a new favourite newspaper, and it is called the Red Pepper. The Red Pepper is a daily equivalent of News Of The World for Uganda, filled with articles such as the out-of-control planet that is going to crash into the earth and kill us all on 28 December 2012, and editorials where the writer solemnly informs us that "When I was a younger man myself and my friends used to enjoy looking at the thighs of women who sat badly". The Red Pepper became my daily treat during the slightly surreal life in Uganda. On our trip to Murchison Falls National Park I met a Canadian journalist who was living and working in Kampala, who informed me that it was possible, in fact reasonably easy, to get your picture in this paper if you simply danced with a local girl in one of the "locals" bars, rather than the tourist hangouts. Without fail next morning the picture would miraculously appear in the paper with a caption "Terminally ill cancer mzungu chooses to spend final night in the pillowy embrace of local girl" or something similar. It immediately became my goal for the remainder of my stay in Kampala to get myself in this fine publication. Not quite the Andrew Johns of Tamworth, but not bad after one week I thought.

Next morning it was back into Kampala to see what hoops the good people of Crane Bank would require me to jump through today before I was allowed to see my money. I managed to find the same woman I spoke with the day before, and upon seeing me she led me straight to a teller, and gave me all the money I had "withdrawn". Just like that. I don't think it would even have been that easy in Australia. Not really that interesting now that I have considered it, but thought you would like to know

I was not planning on doing the gorilla trekking in Uganda but everyone I spoke with raved about it, so with a few phone calls I had actually managed to track down a gorilla pass leaving on my first free day. However at this point my good fortune in being able to find chickens and cashew nuts to live on exclusively in Africa ran out, and this, combined with swallowing about half the Nile river while white water rafting, finally saw me succumb to the dreaded African traveller stomach upset. Considering I was also suffering the worst sunburn of my life (the anti-malaria medication has a side effect of higher sun-sensitivity, which doesn't help when you are out on the river for 3 hours with no access to shade or sunscreen), the dehydration would have made hacking through the forest for 4 hours searching for gorillas impossible. So I had to abandon my plan to play Mzungu In The Mist and the gorillas, and move onto my next destination, Malawi. That story will have to wait until I can bring myself to brave the African internet cafes once again, and because some guy has just been roughed up for attempting to steal the calculator from the establishment that I am now sitting in, but Uganda was definitely my favourite country so far. Despite the incredible poverty all around you, there is also unbelievable generosity and kindness. When I arrived in the country, due to keeping the driver waiting for over an hour as I tried to sort out my ATM issue, when finally I got to the hostel I tipped him the biggest note I had in my wallet: 20,000 Ugandan shillings - around $10-15 Australian dollars, which was about half the cost of the entire fare. He accepted it gratefully, but then I saw him walk into the hostel bar later that first night, talk to the staff, and leave. A few minutes later the hostel staff member walked up to me and handed me 20,000 shillings for "accidentally overcharging" me on the transfer. After having to wait around at the airport for over an hour while I ran out of steam, the driver had gone to the trouble of coming back later to give back my tip, which was probably an entire day's wages for him, and in a way which made it look like he wasn't giving it back at all so I had no chance to refuse. So with that mushy thought, it's time to channel Springer again and remind you 'til next time, as the Ugandans do, take care of yourselves.....and each other.