This time I leave from Garden City (image left a bit updated since my days there) where I have indulged in breakfast.  Ben, a very well-spoken and intelligent young waiter who knows my name and preferences, asks if I want English coffee (black coffee with hot milk on the side) and an Almond Croissant, but I order pancakes instead.  Next time I’ll stick with the croissant.   But it’s pleasant out – cool breeze, people meeting over coffee at this upscale place.  

Remembering I need to buy my bus ticket, I set off through the 30 or so Boda drivers blocking the sidewalk signaling and calling, “Madame! Muzungu! – Boda?”  Declining their offers, I pick up my pace and thread my way through traffic, remembering to look out for and avoid the flock of street urchins begging money in the median yesterday, but they haven’t assembled yet –  just more Boda drivers on the other side.  I walk up the hill, past the Annex skirting the old women street sweepers, bending at the waist to brush rubbish into rice sacks using the local 3-foot brush-broom and wonder if their backs hurt.  Stepping over a few sewer openings (literally open) and holding my breath as I hop over questionable streams of foul-smelling icky water coming down the hill in my direction,  I see a Hindu meditation store front with books about chanting and reincarnation and a young woman arranging a basket of roses celebrating the birth of a baby girl.

On my right is the National Theater and African Market with crafts and artwork, just setting up for business; a line of waiting vehicles – matatus, the ubiquitous white NGO SUV’s with whip antennas, Private Hires – already blocking the entrance. A few private hire taxi drivers whose names I now know ask if this is the day I’ll ride with them.  Not today – but someday!

On up the hill, across another death-defying intersection, I become aware of a freakish number of  dark blue trucks with POLICE stenciled on the door and double joined bench seats in the truck bed seating 12 camo-attired police brandishing big guns.  What’s up?  There’s a lot of hubbub near Parliament– not a demonstration – but just lots of coming and going of people with brief cases. 

Peppering this mix are old women in their bright Gomez dresses (always shiny with pointed sleeves at the shoulder and a wide trailing bow at the waist), others balancing monstrous baskets of bananas or mangoes on their heads, Muslim women dressed in their Hijabs, vendors selling everything from phone-time, artificial hair, and school supplies to sliced mangoes and newspapers.  The newspapers have headlines like:  Congo Rebels to Take Kabili in 90 Days(things are heating up there again), Sex Scandals Rock Parliament…., Deadly Mudslides Near Mt. Elgon. 

I’m walking, I’m walking…..  Now onto Kampala Road preparing for the assault of matatus with their conductors yelling destinations I don’t know, accented by the constant honking of horns.  (You can’t drive without a horn here.)  The new Museveni owned buses add to this mix, theoretically reducing the clamor of Matatus and Bodas. The verdict is still out on that one.   Onward I trudge, past a pitifully emaciated man with skeletal legs pretzeled beneath him – sitting with his hand out.  A young Ugandan woman with spiked Halloween-orange and black hair and a row of ear studs struts past a dazzlingly beautiful woman with an elegant headdress, but in shabby clothes, and both weave among students, people in business suites and women in traditional dresses of bright African prints.  It is dizzying mix.   Many of the Ugandans meet my eyes and we exchange hellos, but the Muzungus stare robotically ahead, speaking and smiling at no one.

I have my purse searched before being allowed to enter the Post Office, buy my ticket, and head back via the same route, stopping at Aristoc to check out office supplies for a project at Peace Corps.  This feels kind-of normal, but lost in a time warp.   

Back the same route… to arrive at the Annex and call to see what time my ride from LABE will “pick me” for my meeting with the Director.   As I sit here in my room and write, there is a jack-hammer to my left down below and two doors down, an adopted Ugandan toddler who has been wailing for the past 30 minutes.   His very Nordic parents are pacing up and down the halls and stairway to try to console him – but it’s not working… only reverberating and bouncing off the concrete walls. This portends a long day – glad I’m leaving.   

And so that’s my morning in Kampala and it’s 12:01.   Later, at LABE, I read in the paper that today is the day before the one year anniversary of the Al Shabab terrorist activity in Uganda and things always get tense on anniversaries.  Tomorrow seems to be a good day to be leaving Kampala and – after buying my Bus ticket, it seems LABE has a vehicle going that way and I’m getting to make the trip with them.  Yeah!  The Gods smile again.  

The day is done and it’s time for my weekly chat with Brett.  Always gives me a lift and he finished third in the Mt. Hoodathon!  Training for the Portland Marathon.  Congrats Brett!  Travis is now is Qatar for a one month fill-in and I got to Google chat with him as well, an unexpected treat because in Iraq, Google chat was off limits.  When he gets back, he’ll head to Afghanistan.  So close to here, and but his work being what it is, he can’t get here from there without going back through D.C. !  Thank God great kids, good friends and Internet and phone service

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I’ve been working at PC HQ for the past four days doing what I love to do – organize stuff.  I’m learning a lot about the inner workings of PC in the process.  The new PC HQ site is on a hill and has a beautiful view and constant breeze.  Today a storm blew in and it was fabulously dark and rumbly.  I was nearly drunk with delight at being able to watch it blow in (and not be IN it when it happened).   To this day, I give thanks that I’m not on a tea-cup sized sailboat in the middle of the sea – but you’ve heard that story.   (But I AM dreaming of being on the water at the end of all this.) I’ve eaten great food while here:  had a real honest to goodness fish curry complete with Mango Chutney last night.  Tonight – Hot and Sour Soup at the same place.  There is life out there.  

Don’t get me wrong – the chaos of Kampala is still bordering on insane.  Yesterday, I had a dental appointment and hiked back to the grand digs of the Annex (yeah – that one: concrete, noisy, communal everything) and shopped for supplies on the way.  Got gorgeous tie-dyed fabric, found some new places where I feared a bit for loss of back pack, computer, purse, etc. but  acted like I knew what I was doing and forged ahead through the mayhem of stalls and sellers to find some beautiful African designs.   

My mistake was going forth and trying to find office supplies.  Many stores later, on foot – searching for a  few specific places recommended for things like hanging file boxes, colored bulletin board tacks and crochet thread….  No Office Depot like store here.  No JoAnn’s fabrics.  And many people have never seen or heard of such a thing as a portable, desk top box for hanging files.  Hanging files are new to many, file folders  – ditto.  Crochet????  So to use a word no-one knows to describe something they’ve never seen is tricky.  It’s helpful to remember that English is not always English in any case and this also confounds getting directions. Directions here almost always include:  “it is just there (accompanied by a vague sweeping wave of the arm), first you just cross, then slope down – it is just that side (that side of WHAT!?)” and so on.  After many attempts, one guard just took me.  It was, after all – just there!

On the way, I was able to step back a bit a remember the abject horror which consumed me on our first group visit to Kampala during training.  So some small progress has been made.  I am on the other side of bowel-loosening horror and am now vacillating between idiot-bravery and simple-terror. I was able to be an observer this time of hundreds, nay- thousands – of matatus (built for 16 and always carrying 20 or more) competing for passengers.  While slowing (somewhat) the conductor hangs on one-handed out the open door screaming the name of the taxi’s destination.  At first, as a new arrival – it seems very personal – they are all screaming at you!  Musungu! Mama!  Jenga! Bukota! and an infinity of names-of-places-I-can’t-pronounce-much-less-know-where-they-are. And the Boda drivers – reaching out – calling, haranguing.  Once you get over the initial assault and learn to throw yourself in front of-between-behind the 30 or so vehicles swarming at a stage/hive/gathering place and not get crushed you’re home-free.  And, by-the-way, just because you’re on a sidewalk, doesn’t mean you won’t be run down by a Boda.  It a total free-for-all here.

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