My LABE ride to Gulu was to pick me (we’re speaking Uganglish now)  at 9:30, so I had plenty of time.  I packed – a little heavier load on the way back.  Remember  I am carrying a small wart-hog and a few other assorted treasures.  I have the general feeling of dis-ease, attributing it to the fact that I may arrive at a time when my soon-to-be-former-housemate  is moving out.  Time passes – I have a tiny cup of coffee, thinking ahead to the fact that there are woefully few bathrooms on the way home.  (One you have to pay 200 shillings for the privilege  of fighting your way through a throng of road-side vendors selling animal parts, soft drinks, fabulous pineapple and chiapati to head down a dirt slope and use the fly infested, wreaking latrines.)  At least the LABE vehicle chooses its stops with greater discernment, but that means waiting until past halfway to get to the service station.  Also, I will be riding with three people instead of 103 and I like them.

Enough of that.  9:30 passes, now they will pick me at 11:00.  I’ve had to check out of the room and have various and sundry assorted parcels.  I wait for a bootlegged copy of The Iron Lady to be burned at the hotel video store.  It’s not happening – because it had started pouring rain and the one man who can do it is delayed.

While I wait, the phone rings and I assume it’s my ride out front, but it is Caroline, my landlady.  I assume she’s calling about the rent, but she tells me my house has been broken into.  My heart is pounding.  My housemate just moved out and someone has watched, seeing that I also am not there.   The connection is bad, I can’t hear because of the maelstrom of rain on the plastic roof, but I hear, “window broken, master bedroom, didn’t get into the house, pulled things through the window, clothes scattered in the front yard, police.”  That’s plenty.

Lost connection.    Well – that about sums it up.

The LABE vehicle finally leaves at 2:30.  Yes – 5 hours later.    But wait, it gets better.  Two and some-odd hours after leaving Kampala, an alert sound screams in the truck (a toyota affectionately called “The Daughter of Japan,” except she is behaving like The Shrew of Japan at the moment).  She is having a breakdown and we are in the middle of nowhere and I am beginning to wonder if I will be spending the night in the cab of the truck.  But ultimately gather my resources, shift gears and mentally suggest to the heavens that the next vehicle down the road a nice white (they’re all white…) NGO vehicle I can flag down and hitch a ride into Gulu.

I turn to my right to check and there it appears over the “hill.”  A nice, white ActionAid vehicle.   It pulls over and stops.  Really?  Why didn’t I think of this sooner….

There’s white smoke coming from the Shrew and they are giving her a drink.  I’m thinking don’t they know if you pour cold water down the throat of a hot radiator the engine block can crack????  I mention this to no avail.  I’m just a woman.  STILL – I KNOW  SOME THINGS.    Well – the Shrew finally starts with water pouring from underneath and is able to slog to a service station and I wave goodbye from the back seat of ActionAid while I have a fine conversation with the Charles and James, stellar men who work on Women’s Rights.

I arrive “home” at 8:30 and Jenna and her mom are there having used the extra key and responded to my plea.  They have white wine and broccoli cheese soup and hugs waiting.  Thanks god the electricity “is there.”  Nothing worse than trying the ferret out what was stolen in the dark.

The good news is the thieves have NOT been able to break into the house!!!  But, they have artfully cut the glass in a bedroom window and used a series of long sticks with hooks on the end to drag and pull things out the window through the burglar bars – still in tact.  The clothes that were strewn over the front yard have been thrown back in the room courtesy of the police and the wonderful compound mates who live here and thought to report the crime.  Seems the thief has no use for my underwear (that’s a relief).  But they have managed to take my iPhone that Brett spent DAYS loading music, movies, books and even a Luganda language program on. Also took off with my MacPack of Apple adapters and chargers, the chargers for the camera and the Kindle, AND a bag full of CD’s consisting of family videos, pictures and movies.  Still I can ultimately replace most of it and the kids have a copy of the pictures.

This morning was spent at the Police Station, another Gulu experience, but they were extremely courteous, took a detailed report and I’m pretty curious about what they did with the finger prints they took, since there was no report filed there (?????????).  Hmmmm

Well – we shall see.  In the meantime, I am somewhat philosophical and considering this a lesson in non-attachment to either things or outcome.     Had they stolen my computer or clothes I can’t replace here, I might be less philosophical – murderous in fact.  It’s pretty creepy knowing that all my comings and goings are watched (obvious because Jaron had just moved out and they clearly knew WHICH room to target and when to do it).    Probably neighborhood kids and I am safe when I am here – it’s just stuff they want. I’m headed out to buy a steel locker, masonry nails to nail the damn thing to the cement floor and a good padlock.

In answer to a question from a friend, “Is there every a day with out some adventure – good, bad or otherwise?  I would say very few.   In the Mandarin language the symbol for Crisis and Opportunity are the same.    Plenty of crises – plenty of opportunity here.

The post What Fresh Hell Is This? appeared first on Nancy Wesson Consulting.

So , I say “Travis!  How wonderful to hear your voice!  This is unusual – a call – how are you?”
Travis, savoring the moment and his news:  “Well, I thought  a call would be appropriate after the events of the day.”
“Oh yeah?  What did the day bring?”
“Well – I got your package mailed!”
“Good, good – that is a big event – I know what a pain in the ass that can be…”
“Yep – and it cost be $75.00.”
“Damn Travis!  That a lot!  Sorry about that!”
“Well – it’s OK – the Post Office ate that one.”
“Hmmm – sounds like a story behind that… knowing that the Post Office never gives anything away.”
“Yeah – considering I was robbed at gun point…”

HA! The other shoe has dropped…  Proving once again, that danger is not always where you expect it.  “Oh my god Travis!  Are you alright???  Tell me!!!!”

As the story unfolds, it seems Travis has gone out on what should have been an ordinary mission of mailing a Christmas package.  In retrospect, though,  I can remember some forays to the PO during the Christmas rush that would qualify for combat pay…  and feeling like I’d been robbed after paying for the privilege.

It was 11:30 in the morning in a Prince George County PO (near Hyattsville, MD).  As he was filling out customs forms, a masked gunman came in brandishing a gun (which Travis described as a pocket pistol or some such but he knew exactly which one it was…) and started banging on the PO counter for the attendants to come out  (as he would like to rob them).  Naturally this approach didn’t work real well and the employees stayed where they were (they’re smart like that.)  Having failed to collect his intended stash, he decided he’d rob the captive audience of seven or so people who had come into mail packages.   I’m guessing he probably didn’t think it through that well.

After some fairly frantic bounding around and collecting about $200 in cash, the bandit ran out, no shots having been fired and all are well.  Travis was  the only one who thought to call 911 and the only one with enough presence of mind to pay attention to the kind of details police want.    It was a TV scene – complete with black hoodie, black pants, black mask, shiny gun (well I’m not really sure how shiny it was).

Having donated $100 to the cause already, the PO Police evidently decided he’d already over paid for the package.  I think I’ll save the wrapping on this one.

So next time you go the Post Office to mail a package and think you’ve been robbed – consider the price of a “refund” – in the Twilight Zone.

Merry Christmas ya’ll

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