Kampala Dreamin’

I took a “short little trip” to Kampala last weekend, not realizing that it would be a miserable almost-6 hours each way.  Since Kampala is the only Ugandan city I’d ever heard of before coming here, it was a must-see.  Also, I appreciate it’s orderly mix of consonants and vowels — other towns here have consonants stacked upon consonants, like Mbarara and Mbale, which results in people sounding very unsure of themselves. 

“Where is your hometown?”

“Mmmm…Barara?”

On the way down, the organization I was working with was kind enough to let me hitch a ride in their Landcruiser pickup, since it was heading south anyway.  I crawled into the back of the extended cab, and two hefty Uganda ladies piled in after me.  Who needs a radio when you’ve got a very disgruntled and dramatic NGO worker talking nonstop in English and Luganda for the entire trip about her children’s school fees and which co-workers should be fired, punctuating every emotional sentence with a painful-sounding knee-slap. 

We stopped in every little trading center along the way so my travel buddies could pick up the best cassava, the best pineapples, the best charcoal…(how do you judge the relative merits of charcoal?).  At one stop, a teenage boy thrust three live chickens through the window at us.  What I considered assault by fowl, the Ugandan ladies called a bargain.  The chickens were paid for and tossed, feet tied together and eyes wild, into the back of the pickup with everything else (except the pineapples, which were rolling around at my feet).  A couple of hours down the road, as twilight was settling, I got out and inspected the pickup bed.  There were no chickens to be seen or heard. 

I asked the driver, “So, are the chickens dead yet?”

“Dead?! No, they’re not dead!”  He laughed.  “They’re back there under the charcoal, keeping warm!  They enjoy the ride, just like you!  When we stop, they’ll be happy!  They’ll say, Cluck, Cluck!”

Yeah, I’ll bet.

 We finally arrived in Kampala around 9 p.m., with chickens and charcoal presumably intact, though I had been squashed by my seatmates into a space the size of one lady’s purse.  I know, because she made room for it on the seat to her right while making sure her thighs were taking up the space of about 2 of me. 

The hostel, Kampala backpackers, had lost my reservation, but put me in the lovely (no, really, it was nice) “Nature’s Dorm,” with one wall open to the outdoors.  I was lucky to get a bed at all, since the hostel was hosting a tribal king from a neighboring district who’d come to see visit his subjects living in Kampala.  Nothing but the best, I tell you.  I felt around in the darkness for my flashlight, gave up, and spread the mosquito net around the top bunk, after removing the last tenant’s lace bra (which had gotten tangled in the net) from my face. 

The next morning was much brighter, though, as I was awoken by a monkey alarm – a couple members of the hostel’s resident troop chasing each other onto the roof.  The Hilton couldn’t have done any better. 

More to come – with photos!