Return to Uganda

The north-east winter gave me a frigid send-off, and now, after several airline meals, some bottles of British Airways wine, cramped legs, laps around the cabin, too many movies, and not enough sleep, I'm back in Uganda, where I was welcomed by a wall of hot, heavy air as I stepped off the plane. I can't seem to find moderate temperatures. It's a transition to a different world, but the sights, sounds, and smells have a familiar feel this time around.

Kampala:
The thick dust that stings my eyes. Roads that are more pothole than pavement. Waking up with absolutely no idea where I was. Jetlag. Dogs barking all night; birds singing all morning. The loud, chaotic, lawless rush hour traffic. The hair-raising rides on a boda-boda, weaving in and out of traffic, but only once truly fearing for my life. The equatorial sun. Haggling over prices.The little boy who cautiously approached me and then took my hand and walked with me for a minute - he trying to tell me something, and I trying to tell him I don't speak any Luganda. The ubiquitous garbage heaps. Eating Indian food. The ash floating slowing down through the air like black feathers, and landing on my table, as well as any other exposed place in downtown, as a result of the burning of a major trash dump in the city. Meeting up for a lovely reunion with Heidi. Being completely overwhelmed by the prospect of shopping for the next few months, and responding by shopping barely at all.

The Road:
The first leg is four hours of pavement - using the term loosely - between Kampala and Fort Portal. No lanes: survival is the rule, and the bigger vehicle is always in control. Coach buses come hurtling down hills, swinging onto the other side of the road at breakneck speeds around bends, pushing other cars off of the road, always giving the impression of being about to roll over and smash through anything caught in their way. Children run along the sides, sometimes a mere foot or two from the cars going by. Cows saunter across, seeming unfazed by the vehicles screeching to a halt to avoid them. And the birds - massive, beautiful, tropical birds - swoop overhead, majestic creatures like the Great Blue Turaco and the Black and White Casqued Hornbill.
The second leg is the Bundibugyo road - to which I have dedicated a fair amount of writing in the past year - 3 hours of dirt, rock, craters, and dust. Dust in my hair, dust in my teeth, dust coloring my skin red. Running along the side of the Rwenzori mountains, there is often nothing separating the edge of the road from a drop of several hundred feet. It's beautiful, but the dry-season haze filled the air and shrunk the stunning vistas to small, fuzzy hints of grandeur. On the western side of the mountains, the slopes were ablaze. Fields are often burned periodically, but in the dry conditions and hot breeze, many of these fires seemed to have spread up the mountainside, through forest and brush. I heard it said that many young men sometimes burn land "stubbornly" - probably best translated "just because." Black and gray dominated. The further we came off of the mountains, the more green we saw, the more people we encountered, and the more cries of "Mujungu!" we heard, a sound that I had almost thought that I missed, but quickly remembered that I didn't.

I arrived in the early evening and had great reunions with the Myhres, Ashley, the Clarks, and my neighbors. Kids jumped all over me, telling me they were starting to think that I had lied to them, and wasn't coming back; their beautiful smiles and exited laughter were heartwarming. A clean house was a pleasure to come back to (Scott Will, you are the man), and I took a lovely cool shower to quite literally wash off the road before sharing a wonderful dinner at the Myhres. We sat around, catching up and telling stories long after dinner was over. In addition to all of these great things, there were no snakes, rats, or giant lizards in my choo. But I do hear there have been bats in my house. It's good to be back.