The mystery
surrounding our arrival in Entebbe was underlined by a thick, peculiar fog.
When the
plane door opened Emily and I were greeted by a warm tropical air. Runway
lights were dulled by the humidity and, at 2:30 in the morning, the
international gateway to Uganda was eerily quiet. After clearing customs we
were greeted by two sleepy Ugandan drivers holding signs with our names. They
quickly whisked us away to a hotel somewhere in the urban center. We climbed
under a mosquito net and had a brief nap before waking a few hours later. By morning
our drivers had vanished. We asked the hotel’s proprietor where they might be,
but a language barrier/confusion kept us from understanding where they were. We
simply shrugged our shoulders and passed the time by packing up our belongings
and having a basic meal of egg and coffee at the hotel. With mug in hand, I left the table to stretch
my legs. The drivers were back and were leaning against the car. “We’re waiting
for you”, one said. I chugged my cup and squeezed into the backseat. After
traveling for 24+ hours, we still had another 8-9 hours to go before reaching
our final destination, the village of Matuwa, somewhere deep in the mountains
near the Kenyan border.
Our drivers,
Ema and Sula, wasted no time while on the road. They drove as fast as they
could through Entebbe and on to the capital, Kampala. Kampala was teeming with
people. Men, women and children, wearing vibrant reds, yellows and blues,
shared the road with bicycles, mopeds and motorcars. I constantly worried that
Ema would clip the handlebar of someone’s bike or the elbow of a wandering
child, but thankfully, amazingly, that never happened (though I swear he came
within inches, within millimeters). My wide eyes scanned this new land and
everyone, it seemed, stared back at me. Though white people aren’t too
uncommon, we, naturally, seemed to stick out more than the rest of the
population.
Twice our car
stopped at places swarming with roadside vendors. When we did, our vehicle was
surrounded by people shoving cooked bananas and sticks with chicken in our
faces. The drivers rolled our (rear) windows up while they negotiated in the
front seat. Eventually some deal was made, they got their chicken, and we sped
off again. I never really knew what was going on.
Our car came
to a stop at Jinja, a town located on the edge of Lake Victoria. For some
reason Jinja is filled with Western ex-pats; Germans, Brits, Americans,
Scandinavians, etc. Known throughout Africa (and the world?) as being a hotspot
for white water rafting (maybe this is why Westerns come/live here?), it is
also the source of the Nile. We pulled up alongside a Western-looking café. Our
driver instructed us to get out of the car and said “here is a good place to
eat” (I guess he wanted to spare us from the chicken on a stick). I wasn’t entirely
hungry, but I didn’t know when the next available chance to eat might be and I
also wanted to get on a new schedule. My stomach had been cramped since the
morning so I opted for a giant bottle of Bells; a highly touted Ugandan beer. I
chugged the cold bottle with a smile and mopped my wet brow. I cracked my neck
and loosened the button on my shirt. Then I ordered a second to wash down the
rest of my chicken sandwich. Now feeling a bit better, I stumbled around the
restaurant and then leaned against the front door to watch the world go by. I
glanced to the right and noticed my drivers waiting on a bench, “we must get
going, we still have a very long journey.” Feeling a little embarrassed and
inconsiderate I quickly grabbed Emily, polished off the rest of my Bells and we
proceeded on our adventure.
After another
few hours of driving NASCAR-like ‘round slower cars and villagers alike we
arrived at Mbale, the closest “main” city to where we would be staying. Here
the drivers filled our car with a giant jug of water, bread, tea, toilet paper
and other miscellaneous (which we learned later was for us). Sula hopped out
and told us this was as far as he was going. Then we were off again. Our car ventured
off a paved road and then began ascending a hill that seemed to go on for miles
and mile. The dirt path (a dare say road) was filled with potholes and
speed-bump like things so the going was tough and slow. In fact, the 25 mile
trek from Mbale to our village takes 60-90 minutes! Higher into the sky we
drove, past men herding goats, young girls balancing bushels of firewood atop
their heads, and babies tightly clenching chickens and dragging yellow plastic
jugs filled with water twice their size.
FINALLY we
arrived at the lush green village of Matuwa. Tucked deep within a fertile range
of steep, rolling hills, Matuwa was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever
been. It was cooler here, but still quite warm. Some villagers wore earth toned
pants and shirts while others donned old, dirty tweed sports coats. I was
amazed at how well everyone was dressed, despite how agrarian the community was.
They all looked like gentlemen farmers. The women, also dressed smart, wore
dresses or lose fitting pants. Many, from both sexes and all ages, clutched
hoes and machetes. Proprietors on the side of the dusty road sold beef, grilled
corn, fried bananas and warm beer. It soon dawned on me that I was exhausted. I
had traveled from the most powerful city in the world to a dusty, albeit
beautiful, hamlet somewhere deep within Africa’s interior.
I was in
another world. Tomorrow I’d run.
