We have now been and come home after several faulty starts with transportation.  But that’s to be expected.  See – I’m becoming acculturated…

Predawn on the last day we were awakened by the most horrific, rusty-door-squawking of a demented chicken that went on forever.  I think the chicken must have just passed out  – or maybe made into lunch.  My roommate and I started giggling – well – I started – she followed and so the day began.  This inauspicious wake-up call followed the 3:30 crowing of innumerable roosters, synchronous with the electricity being “finished.”  It’s true what they say about Kitgum, it IS hotter than Gulu, Pader and any number of other places except summer in Texas. Because of this, and being old farts (well a few of us anyway – Carla I don’t put you in that category yet) who chose the possibility of sharing a room with just one other person – as opposed to fifteen or twenty – we stayed at a little place called Fugly’s, run by an Australian woman.  The least costly are the dorm rooms (for 2 – 3) boasting fans, communal showers and toilets, etc. – and a SWIMMING POOL!   It is not cheap by Ugandan standards, but not high end either.    And – it is quiet. That’s worth something.  And then there’s Betty-the-watchdog, a brindle Blue-heeler mix who “speaks.”

The remainder of the group shared the school’s dorm quarters and a distant latrine.   Having been without the fans (electricity is finished) for two of our four nights, on the last day of the workshop we “footed” the four miles or so down an impossibly dusty road to get to Fugly’s in time to enjoy the fruits of our 50,000 UgX accommodations – namely the swimming pool. As we rounded the corner, practically tearing off our clothes in anticipation of submerging in cold water, we discovered – to our horror – that they were in the advanced stages of draining said pool.  This is because of the vast quantities of ash  falling from the sky – fallout from the rampant burning of harvested crops.  Bereft, filthy, hot and not too happy, we stripped and stood under cold showers for thirty minutes instead.  It could have been worse – the pump for the bore hole broke that night…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Arriving at the venue for this 4-day workshop we were escorted to a Mango tree with mats under it.  

The agenda was taped to the wall of the mud hut that represents home to the organizer of the event.  Call me crazy, but I had anticipated some sort of a classroom, with actual chairs.  See what I mean – there’s always a surprise around the corner.  

After the first day, it seemed completely normal to have a diminishing clutch of freshly hatch chicks escorted by a very protective mother hen pecking through our midst.  A drove of pigs oinked as they uprooted the field next to us and goats occupied the tops of ant heaps and the random brick wall.  Various critters periodically fell  in our laps from the mango tree as the breeze dislodged them from their perches, but all in all it was thoroughly entertaining.  Moving into the computer lab for one of the sessions was a drag.  

Every moment of Africa is a new “surprise,” in part because after six months we can still be surprised.

To get from Gulu to Kitgum, we hired a taxi, which arrived an hour late, having to deliver charcoal before we could get in, then get gas (a second attempt).  Bumping along washboard roads, and tilting at impossible angles for several hours to get here, we were thrilled at the possibility of showers and a meal served at a table.  It was to be our last meal time elegance for several days, other meals eaten balancing our plates on our laps while sitting on  mats,  assorted chairs, bricks or tree stumps.

But the evening meals were truly delicious.  How several people managed to cook for a group of almost thirty on two Sigiris and one propane burner is amazing.  It was Chinese food one night and Indian the next.  Some of the best I’ve had in Uganda!  I appreciated having my little micro-light from Travis and Brett, to occasionally check what I was eating – sitting there in the dark.  I avoided crunching down on a grasshopper sitting on the Nan bread at one point.  Don’t know what else I might  have eaten in the interim though.

Transport away from this garden spot was another eyeopener.  We had planned (no I mean really PLANNED) to ride with PCV Response  (former PCV’s who return in response to some specific need – this one being malaria prevention) Volunteer who rated a driver and a vehicle. We certainly felt plans had been made abundantly clear, having told the volunteer in the presence of the driver that two of us would be joining them.  We even gave the driver our phone number.    All planned – to leave at 9:00 the next morning.  We tried to give him details of where, but this was not to be as he insisted on calling us in the morning…    Ah – that was the crux of the problem.    Never do this again.

Next morning –  the network?  It is finished.  There will be no telephone calls.  But we are certain that our fellow volunteers will NOT let them leave without us – everyone knows where we are staying after all.  We waited – and waited – and  were left.

 Fugly’s owner, brenda, tok mercy on us and finally drove us to the bus park where we discovered all three busses to Gulu were booked. – There was no room for these Munus.  So we eyed an almost full Matatu, 10 in a vehicle made for 12 and we made 12  because it claimed to be going to Gulu “non-now.”  (Now-now in the local vernacular means really NOW.  Now just means sometimes today…)  Ah HA!  We negotiated a price and paid – a mistake.  We were then informed that they are waiting for another 10 people before leaving.  Full is never full in the world of Ugandan transportation.  It’s not full till it leaves – and it ain’t leavin’ till it’s full.  And that means 24 in a vehicle made for 12.  

We waited…. more people came.   Women with small children piling in and on top of each other.  In a last ditch effort to get this thing moving, I found they were finally only waiting for 2 and one was in the process of paying.  I offered to pay for the last seat so we can leave – and selfishly, so we can sit only three to a row, instead of  – well one never knows.

Miraculously we left almost “now-now,” but not before  another man piled in, leaving the conductor (who I call a referee because he referees where people will sit) to squeeze in a spot where only a chicken will fit.  He was relatively small…

We started and bumbled back along the washboard road, stopping to pick up another 6 or so people and all their luggage on the way back to Gulu.  I stopped counting at 20, but god bless the referee – he protected the sanctity of our three seats – so, Ugly Americans that we were, we arrived three hours later, covered with grime, hair caked in dust, luggage coated in dirt – but in better shape than we would have had we not bought that seat.

The crowning piece of the trip was that when we arrived in Gulu, there were the folks we were supposed to have ridden with (in a nice comfy vehicle) already there enjoying lunch.   Stunned, we approached – wondering WTF,  and how did you think we might get home???  It seems communication debacles are not just the province of  locals.  Americans can claim equal bragging rights to total screw-ups.  There was nothing malicious about our being stranded, just assumptions and mis-communication.  One is left wondering if there is any way to override such possibilities when the channels we are accustomed to  are simply “finished.”  We are creatures of convenience and in a country were nothing can be relied on except that it will be “finished” when you need it, well – all bets are off.

One must rely on wits and goodwill.   I remind myself that I chose this adventure and the nature of adventure is constant exposure to the unknown, some hazards, some danger, but mostly just stuff you don’t encounter in the safety of your known world.   This qualifies.

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