Adventures in the little blue car

Last weekend we set off to drive to the other side of town to pick up our friend Michael Fardella who was here with the Sister School group from Seattle. We have been driving a fair amount and feeling pretty smug about it, but we haven’t spent much time in the part of town where the group was staying. So I propped the map book on my lap to direct Bill; the map is kind of a joke, there are NO road signs in Kamapla (or very few), and often the roads on the map don't really exist. Everything was fine until we got to a very congested roundabout and I couldn’t tell which road we should turn on. (As always, the word “road” doesn’t really apply – more like dirt track.)

We turned on a dirt track and found ourselves smack in the center of Owino Market. Now, Owino Market has a reputation for black market operations, pickpockets, unsavory characters -- no mzungus, in other words. We have been planning to go there with our money hidden in all our REI "secret" pockets, just to see it. But not this way!

There was no room to turn around. We were instantly plunged into a crowd with kiosk-style shops on all sides, hawkers and shoppers pressed up against our car. Men carried huge sacks of something inches from the bumper. Boda-bodas flew by, even though there was no room on either side of us. Trucks came lumbering toward us, swerving to avoid the potholes. (Let me repeat – there was no room.) Bicycles squeezed between the trucks and us. Bill inched us along, miraculously keeping the side mirrors intact, begging me to find a way out on the map. There was supposed to be a road at the opposite end of the market, but we couldn’t see anything except chaos. We had no choice but to be pushed along with the crowd regardless. At one point, Bill said, “Is your window rolled up?” Yes, my window was definitely up.

We have seldom felt unsafe in Kampala, more on our guard sometimes. But here we felt like interlopers – two pink and pale white people in a little blue car, one of those people with a map on her lap, obviously lost. When we thought about how we looked to the people in the market, the only thing we could do was laugh, which I imagine they were doing too.

Eventually we turned onto a side dirt track, drove into and out of a pothole the size of Crater Lake, and saw a big billboard that could only be on a big road. It was like a lighthouse indicating a haven, no matter how rocky the shore. We found the bigger road, and eventually (totally by accident) found the place we were supposed to be.

Later, Bill saw Elias, who has driven us often and still does when we need him. He told him about Owino Market, and Elias said slyly, “Owino Market! Mr. Bill, you need a compass in your car.”

Hard to be on a first-name basis

It's not that people aren't friendly -- they're wonderfully friendly, that's one of the things we love about Uganda. It's just a little tricky to be on a first-name basis because, well, how do you know what the first name IS?

Today I met a young woman who introduced herself as Pheona. But when she gave me her business card, I saw it read "Nabasa Pheona Gladys." Ummmm...if she hadn't told me her name, how would I have guessed at addressing her?

Names here are different. There's a family or tribal name, which often is written first but not always; and there's usually a "Christian" name; and there may be one or two other names. Here are some names exactly as they appeared on a sign-in list at the workshop Theresa and I conducted last week:

Bwogi Buyera John
Fred Turyakira
Kakuruga Fred
Ebenezer Bifubyeka

In other words, it's inconsistent. And it's not just how they write their names. Once a New Vision reporter whose byline reads "John Eremu" called me on the phone and greeted me by saying "This is Eremu John."

Many people here have addressed me as "Mr. Bill" -- because the fact that "Bill" comes first must signify it is the family name. And this explains our favorite driver Elias's little joke. One day he asked me: Are you related to the president? I blanked for a second and then realized: Bill Clinton -- Bill Ristow. We must be in the same family, or at least the same tribe. Very amusing, Elias!

There's quite a bit more on this name business, but I'll leave that to Theresa. Oops -- I mean Ter-ay-za.

Life (and death) on the savannah

One thing that makes Lake Mburo unusual -- yes, we're returning there briefly -- is that you can go for a walk out in the wilds. You must do it with a ranger, and the ranger carries a rifle, but there you are -- out in what's called an "acacia savannah," following trails that are animal trails, not human ones, and with no other people around.

We did not see a lot of wildlife, either. A relatively rare eland off in the distance; a buffalo staring at us from far away that made Moses, the ranger, decide to take a different route; the sounds of a hippopotamus snurfling behind the papyrus; and of course many many birds.

But with Moses's help, we did see the signs of where the animals had been. He stopped at one tree, spotting something he hadn't noticed before: up above us, on a large branch, the carcass of a male impala draped over the limb, hooves and skull and antler still distinguishable but not much else left. A leopard took it up there, to keep it away from hyenas.

"Imagine what it took to carry that deer up into the tree," Moses said. Indeed: the carcass was 15 feet up in the tree, and the leopard had nothing but its jaws to carry it in.

A little later, we tried to see those hyenas, but they weren't home. So we wandered through the dirt area that is their den -- littered with the skulls of animals they had brought there for the young hyenas to feed on.

It was an enlightening walk. No, no sightings of the famous predators everybody wants to see on a safari. But we were still seeing them -- through the signs of their activities -- close up, and personal. It was a peaceful morning's walk in a place that often is anything but peaceful. And it is all part of the amazing natural world here.

Of cattle-keepers and the queen

"If you squint a little so you can't see the banana plantations, it looks just like Italy, " I said as we drove early this week to Mbarara in western Uganda. Mbarara has lovely rolling hills, with little houses tucked into the folds, cultivated fields, green trees and plants dotting the hillsides. It is a far cry from Bugolobi with its chaotic market and mud-hut settlements. Mbarara is in what they call "cattle-keeper" country, and the cattle-keepers are relatively well off.

We were there for two days of training of the rural reporters for the New Vision. They were an eager bunch, wanting to learn. "Mr. Bill" and "Ter-ay-za," as they call us, presented in between tea time (they have two teas per day, one in the a.m. and one in the afternoon) and lunch. It seemed as soon as we started talking, bam! It was tea time again!

After the second day we decided to treat ourselves to a dinner that was not the traditional food we had been eating non-stop since we got there Sunday night. Matoke is okay, but our American stomachs can get tired of it. So we wandered along (we weren't driving this time ) and found a driver named Enoch to take us to a "fancy" hotel on the outskirts of town. Enoch owns 12 cows which he milks in the mornings, and someone helping him milks them in the evening when he is driving. The milk from the morning goes to market, the evening milk goes to his family. He says he knows a place in the district where one man owns 5000 cows!

We arrived at the hotel to find it was under construction for when the queen comes in November of this year for a Commonwealth meeting. (Everything in Uganda is under construction for the queen - can she possibly know what she's in for?) Enoch said he would stand in the middle of the road to see the queen when she goes by. We picture her covered in red dust, but of course they will close the roads when she is traveling; we didn't tell Enoch, but we have also heard she might fly to Queen Elizabeth National Park, in which case there will be lots of disappointed cattle-keepers.

One thing we've learned here is that nothing is like what you expect. The dining room was under construction, so we ate dinner with the sound and smell of a Skilsaw by our shoulders. And it was buffet night: matoke and other traditional foods. This time that included ox liver, so we did have some variety!

Who's in the zoo now?

We had a black-and-white weekend at Lake Mburo National Park where we spent hours examining the stripes on the zebras, those gentle and shy creatures who hid in the trees and slowly peeked out to see who was in the blue Rav4. And who was? The two of us and Matthias, eyes glued to binoculars to see if the stripes were real. They looked as if someone had taken a big paint brush dipped in black and very carefully painted them on. They galloped across fields, foals following mom, the black-and-white stripes forming incongruous patterns against the green acacias. (Why black and white stripes? What possible relation could that have to camouflage?) Even their tales are striped, so that they look like they are braided. Their manes stick straight up as if they've had an electric shock. Other than that, they look just like horses - and extremely healthy, sleek ones at that.

And then there were the impalas, graceful deer made for speed -- they leap straight up into the air. They have markings on the rear legs that look like they are wearing high heels. And very striking antlers on the males. (There are whole herds of bachelor impalas, all waiting for a chance to wipe out a male leading a herd of females.)

Warthogs too, wallowing in mudholes to escape the bugs. Topis, a strange kind of deer related to hartebeests. They have very short back legs, almost like a smaller version of a giraffe (without the long neck). Birds of all kinds: crested cranes, go-away birds, rare barbets. We now have an impressive list of birds, thanks to Moses, our ranger/guide at the park. And waterbucks, buffaloes, oribis, crocodiles - even an eland (look it up). We sought the leopard until after dark, but he eluded us. As did the hyenas, though we found their den (which didn't exactly smell like roses).

On an early morning walk with Moses, we met a dangerous solitary, black male water buffalo. He was staring at us and not like a friend. Moses changed course so we could make our way around him at a safe distance, but we could still see him watching us ominously. Moses had his little rifle, but it didn't seem a match for the buffalo - those things are evil.

On the boat trip on the lake, a hippo charged us - three times -- hurling its huge body out of the water toward the boat, yawning its pink mouth at us (which I later read is a threat), and creating his own bow wake. Moses laughed, but he again changed course, and pretty quickly we noticed. (I think Matthias was praying, which was a good thing.) Ditto the gun vs. the hippo.

We stayed in a tent on stilts (so the hippos can't climb in, hmm). All night we could hear snuffling, harrumphing, chewing, barking (hyenas!) and an occasional bellow. In the morning there was a zebra right outside our tent, just beneath a tree with a huge owl in the top branch. And we heard there had been a hippo too, though we didn't see him (fortunately - talk about nightmares.) The warthogs were all over the camp, huge waterbucks too. A year or so ago a water buffalo killed a guide on the little road to the restaurant that is on the lake, so now you have to have an armed guard escort wherever you go, unless you are in a car.

So it occurred to us that in Africa the roles are reversed. There we were encased in our car, or in a boat, or in a tent -- cages, really -- while the animals were roaming free, and free to do to us as they pleased. A little like we are when we go to the zoo. It feels that this is as it should be. But then, nothing is black and white. Except the zebras.

Left is right -- we're driving!

We spent the weekend practicing driving in our new (used) Toyota Rav 4. Why are we practicing?

First, here is the recipe for Ugandan roads: Combine huge potholes; the stray cow (or entire herds); people walking, walking, walking within inches of your side mirror; bicycles piled high with jerry cans; goats grazing in the ditch; construction to supposedly fix the potholes; little kids rolling a bicycle inner tube along the shoulder. Take all those and stretch them out in a line to make a road, then add cars, boda-bodas, trucks, buses and taxis, each zooming to get around each other and the potholes -- and out of the way of oncoming traffic. For spice add the fact that there are no lanes or center line, and that trucks and buses are overloaded and speeding. And everyone is honking.

Then there are the boda-bodas (motorcycle taxis). They come up on your right, left, in front and behind, and sometimes they are going in the wrong direction. Almost everyone we know has hit a boda man, or been hit by one; side mirrors are mostly cracked or missing. And if you hit one, a crowd gathers because everyone figures they will get paid off by the car driver for siding with the boda man. Or so we've been told.

And there's that bit about driving on the left. (But those of you in Bath with us going to Harry Potter's home or whatever it was will remember the fun of that!) We've pretty much got that down (we think).

And almost every time we have gone anywhere of any distance we see major accidents. We aim to avoid being the victim of those!

So REAL the question is, why did we get a car with all this danger around us? We've been using drivers and walking, which is great. But this is not an easy city to get around in, and we were extremely tired of using drivers for every little thing, plus it is expensive. We can still hire a driver, but use our car, if we feel like it. Mainly it gives us freedom.

For example, yesterday we drove to the Gaba Market on Lake Victoria. We had no idea what to expect, we just went. And it was great: fisherman with loads of fish, a woman selling dead grasshoppers (they fry them), ferries to islands in the lake (see pix - the ferry says "In God all things are possible" -- presumably even this ferry arriving safely), even a medicine man selling vile looking potions in bottles displayed on the hood of his car. We asked what was in them and he said it was medicine made from trees and herbs. Then he slyly looked at Bill and said they would make him "strong." And he didn't mean his triceps.

Also, we went to a play -- it lasted 4.5 hours, mainly in Luganda though they swore it was in English -- just because we could.

Above Bill is holding the worry beads, which are now hanging in our car. So we are well protected.

Snow, cotton candy and crazy mzungus

This past Saturday we went to a village called Kammengo with our friend Matthias who is a priest in that parish. Matthias lined up some kids for us to meet for a video the Sister School people in Seattle want to make when they come later this month. They were mainly about 11 or 12, speak a little English and are apparently quite gregarious -- until they see a white person.

To get them talking, Bill asked them if they knew what snow was, and they didn't. So he explained how it falls from the sky, and kids slide on it, and make snowmen from it. Their faces got scrunched up as they tried to envision this - and to understand these white people.

So he tried another tack (okay, it was my idea, and I admit not a good one). He described cotton candy, and their faces looked even more scrunchy. So he tried Easter baskets, and dying Easter eggs -- now they just thought he was crazy. At least they laughed.

We met them at the parish churchyard, which is lovely. Bright yellow weaver birds strip banana leaves to make these intricate nests in the trees, and they make lots of noise while they weave. They rejected one of the nests and it fell to our feet so I took it home for an Easter basket, no matter what they think of us.

The church is 60 years old and is crumbling a bit in the humidity. Inside, the benches are mostly broken, the confessionals in ruins. Matthias explained that during the war (which ended in 1986), the soldiers stayed in the church and smashed everything and there is no money to fix it. Also, in the yard there is a gun they abandoned on their way out; it's extremely incongruous to see it in this peaceful setting. But that recent history is evident throughout Uganda and we meet plenty of people who just want peace at almost any cost.

At any rate, we had a peaceful lunch with the pastor and Matthias. And we'll be back to see the kids. Maybe we can think of another story about America for them, something a little easier to grasp.