Tagged: Travel

Details: Uganda.

Uganda. Two p.m. on Sunday circling over Entebbe and Lake Victoria. Dipping right down, skimming the lake, and landing without a jolt or bump onto the smooth tarmac. Stepping out into Uganda: the air is the safe, heat, humidity, a cool breeze since it’s “winter” or the rainy season. Lake Victoria, shining, no fishermen this time bobbing in their little wooden canoes. The same “Arrivals” hangar,shoddy and small with strange smells, but charming, because it’s still there. A long wait in line for a VISA, already suspect that I might have to throw a fit to be let into the country, but yet everything passes smoothly. Neither bank machines take my bank card. I walk out into the sunshine after 56 hours of only airports and airplanes and I might as well have been in heaven. I see N., who’s offered to pick me up, he’s wearing a white shirt and around his neck is tied a large shell on a leather string. He hugs me, but can’t wrap his hands around the massive traveling bag clinging onto me. I show him a bag of donations, that I was quite proud to negotiate through, and thank-you J. and M. for very neat donations (and the bag itself, J.). We get into a beat up white car and his friend Hussein sits on the “wrong” side, they drive on the left side of the road, and I’m startled by each passing car for the first few minutes. But, the countryside is the same: ramshackle huts and metal lean-tos, little shops selling all the same things, the color, the confusion, the bed-makers, the furniture makers, the boda-boda drivers, the taxi drivers, the women selling ground nuts and corn from woven baskets, the fancy clothes of all kinds – prom dresses to tuxedos. People’s mannerisms are the same, vastly different from constrained and conservative Denmark, exclamation points at the end of many sentences, hands waving in multiple directions, smiles and greetings. I shake N.’s hand a dozen times, the typical hand-shake, one that I’ll never forget and just comes to mind now, automatically.

In Kampala: it’s a city, dusty, dirty, orange-tinged from red dirt and noisy. But, charming, somehow. We drive up familiar streets, past banks and hotels. Past hotels built for the Queen’s arrival (CHOGM) last year. Down to Kira. Rd where I’m living: around a corner and stopping in front of a tall metal gate. Across the street a small restaurant sells chicken and other types of food, there are a few stores, houses, and a group of men welding metal in the corner. That and the boda-boda drivers who never waste a second to say something that I will find obnoxious, but yet can’t resist saying ‘hi’ because I’d rather be polite than the alternative. After dropping my bags and meeting my new roommates, I head to the supermarket. Groceries are expensive I discover, I spend 50,000 shillings on vegetables, oil and vinegar for salad dressing, two cans of chickpeas, a Heineken, yogurt and eggs.

The next morning I head to my first day of work at WOUGNET. My colleagues are great: very kind people, all from Uganda, smart and sharp. I get a vague idea of what I’ll be doing and then apply for a Citizen Journalism Grant that we’ll be using to host a CJA workshop that I’ll probably organize (this makes me nervous). I head home around 1 pm, to lock out behind Annie, the young lady who comes occasionally to clean-up after us messy beasts – and eat some salad. I head back to work not long after, it’s a 2-minute walk, and sit down for an afternoon of reading a report about Gender Equality (or lack thereof) in rural areas of Apac district (more on this later). In the afternoon I wonder down to the mzungu bar which has wireless (the only reason I can step in there!) and drink a Nile while finishing my article and listening to all types of mzungu music including Coldplay which blares over the sound system. S. joins me later. It’s wonderful to connect with an old friend and soon enough I’m falling off my chair giggling at the idea of him running next to a group of women running like ducks around a track somewhere in India. We catch up – I, of course, have forgotten the content of many of his emails, which I apologize for. He tells me I look different, he looks the same, he’s probably one of the people in Uganda that I will remain in contact with for a long time. Exchanging ideas, borrowing ideas, keeping general tabs on each other. I head home around 11after meeting another one of his brothers and their friends. One of the friends mischievously suggests we should try getting into Southern Sudan (easy for him, nearly impossible for me). I might apply for a VISA when I go up to Gulu next weekend, though I understand I’m going to need an invite from an NGO.

Must get back to work.

Dubai airport.

Dubai airport. I’m not in the Middle East, really. Just bits and pieces mixed up here. Men wearing the long white Saudi gown, the igal, tied around the ghutra, red and checkered. I remember that I have one of those tucked away in my bag, it seems inappropriate here though, where symbols and pieces have significance. There’s a lot of men: not many women traveling alone, some in groups of women. A few women wearing black head to toe, the narrow slit, eyes hardly perceptible. But, mostly, there are women wearing these long, beautiful hijabs (though this many not be the right word in the context). Face uncovered, the fabric is lively and reaches half way down the ankles. One girl wears bright red tights underneath, soft brown leather sandals – straps over tanned feet – a tight belt at the waist cinching the material together, dark Gucci sunglasses.

I’ve walked up and down the long hallway that leads from one gate to another trying to find the women’s room. I find a women’s mosque, but I don’t go in. I find a long carpeted area where men have lain their scarves and are asleep on rucksacks. I find small pockets of women and I try to sit near them. There isn’t a chance my bright yellow hair and red scarf don’t stick out. The airport is somber in a sense, but then the walls are painted with Aladdin like windows and purple skies and stars. One of the flat escalators goes by a mural. On it are painted a dozen Arabian horses. I want to be outside Dubai: in those desert-like areas amongst the steep hills and sharp cliffs that we flew over. A string of towns strung together by a narrow road, parallel to a narrow river glinting underneath. I read Christina Lamb’s new book, Foreign Correspondent of 2007, she started working in Afghanistan at 21. I’m behind, I feel urgent. If I wasn’t broke I would head out at least into the city center.

I’ve sat on the floor and talked to a Cameroonian guy. Friendly, staring in an awkward space when my scarf slipped, sells random items in Cameroon, exported from Dubai. An apartment costs $3000 in Dubai he tells me. He checks his cellphone (I think) to verify. He tells me, almost gruffly, that not all countries are undemocratic in Africa. I ask him which is the most democratic, he says South Africa. I tell him I’m not a fan of the current government. We’re speaking in French by now. He knows I’m from Montreal, it’s one of his dreams to visit. I can’t figure out why, if he lives in Dubai, he’s at the airport waiting for a 10 a.m. flight. I eventually depart. I buy some orange juice at a stand, I have no idea of the currency here so it ends up costing me 6 dollars, or something ridiculous. But, it’s delicious. Sour, and sharp and fresh, no sugar, no water. Like Svea’s delicious juice, courtesy of summer and large boxes of oranges in the garage and the little juice squeezer who’s top was always lost in the chaos of the cupboard. A group of Iranian men come and sit next to me. Eventually, I can’t help it, I ask him about Iran. I was reading about the recent deal the country has been offered in regards to cutting its nuclear plans. He tells me I speak too harshly, he doesn’t speak more than a few words of English, I feel a bit insulted and realize that my gruff attitude that some find charming in Canada is something I’ll have to shed. Soft approaches, asking about family, asking about health, then leading into the questions I want answers for.

Eight and a half more hours before I’m flying to Uganda. Emirates plies you with food during the trip, so I should eventually sleep. I’m sitting in the “Irish Pub”. I was trying not to go in, it’s a very ‘white’ place, except the other one or two bars had only men inside, most alone, and it felt inappropriate to join. How quickly confidence inside me changes. I must be exhausted. Expectations, preconceptions.
 
Birthday has come and gone. Thank-you to everyone for the kind wishes. I am 20. B. – the attempted birthday wishes over the loudspeakers in Gatwick would have been very neat, I appreciate the thought. T – your message was beautiful. S., I am listening to this new tune while drinking a cider in a very Western bar. I guess I can’t get much closer to home for this 20th birthday event.