Day 1 Part 1: Entebbe to Kampala

"You're going to see light like you've never seen before!" -Mark Denoncour

"Ruth, if you were driving in the wrong direction on this road, how would you know?" -Author

"Ruth, I want to stop as soon as possible. I need donuts." -Brendan

Ruth is driving as the three of us depart the airport. The rising sun, hidden behind a dense layer of low dust-laden clouds, is casting an omnidirectional orange glow that gives a distinctly apocalyptic feel to the rapidly passing scenery. An intense, frog-choking rain begins to beat my window and seems to be causing tiny explosions as each fat drop impacts the layer of mud covering the road. When I first laid eyes on Ruth's car I took note of the particularly oversized rainguards on each window. I am now thankful for them as the temperature and humidity rise by the minute requiring me to keep the window cracked. I am sitting in the passenger-side rear seat of this vehicle, which happens to be on the left or port side for clarity's sake. Brendan is riding "shotgun" directly in front of me yet this unusual seating arrangement (from my American perspective) gives the impression that it is he who is driving. This causes me a few moments of alarm as he is gesticulating wildly with his hands while talking with Ruth. The radio serenades us with gentle crooning R&B which creates a bizarre backdrop to the frenzied sights visible through the windshield. Though traffic moves swiftly, the road is choked with taxis[3], heavy trucks, pedestrians, and countless motorcycles which are locally referred to as bodas[4]. These various vehicles are engaged in a literal race to find a clear lane of travel. As I look out the window, two bodas simultaneously pass our car on the left and the right. Ruth applies the brakes sharply as we rapidly approach a slowing flatbed truck. The two bodas criss-cross in front of our car and narrowly escape being crushed as the large truck accelerates once again. Seconds later, a taxi stacked to the gills with passengers and luggage passes a drab tan Land Rover in the oncoming lane, enters our lane, and begins a game of high speed head-on chicken before swerving to avoid us at the last minute. Ruth is completely nonplussed. She is singing along softly with the radio and periodically reaches down to check her phone for messages. These near head-on collisions occur with  such an alarming frequency  that it doesn't take long for the half-life of my abject terror to winnow down to a duration manageable enough to permit me to speak. "Ruth," I say, "if you were driving in the wrong direction on this road, how would you know?" She laughs politely but otherwise declines to answer.

 The rain stops suddenly as we pull into a petrol station and convenience store. Getting out of the car, it takes me a few seconds to stretch my weary body into a position sufficiently upright for walking. A group of hadada ibis wheels over the parking lot emitting an extremely loud and raucous series of calls which sound like antagonistic laughter. I instinctively reach for my camera but it remains in my backpack in Ruth's car. Ruth looks at me and smiles as if, up until this very point, she did not believe Brendan regarding my obsession with birds. We enter the store. Brendan is examining a display of curiously small bananas which are shrink-wrapped on foam trays. Ruth waits in the car, communicating with her Uber driver group on WhatsApp. I locate a 1.5 liter bottle of Rwenzori spring water and begin the hunt for coffee. There is a large glass case filled with delicious looking plain donuts and various other simply prepared pastries. Above it hangs a menu advertising a variety of espresso drinks. I ask the young man behind the counter if they have any black coffee. He pivots to the espresso maker and begins making what will turn out to be an Americano. Even better. I advise that I'll take it fresh from the machine without any cream or sugar. "No sugar?!" he demands, appalled.
 "No sir, this is for medicinal purposes. I'll take it black." He shakes his head in wonder as he hands me the searingly hot paper cup. "On second thought," I say, "I'll also take one of those donuts please". He extracts a donut from the case, wraps it carefully with a paper towel and pops it into a small microwave oven for 30 seconds. When he hands it to me, I see the paper towel is generously spotted with oil. I haven't eaten anything since Turkish Airlines provided me with scrambled eggs and hummus somewhere over the Balkan states about 18 hours ago. I am ravenous but for the sake of decorum, I decide to pay for my items before consuming them like an animal. The cash register display reads 10,000 when the clerk rings me up[5].  I give him a fifty (thousand) and he hands me several multi-colored bills of different physical sizes for change. I stuff these into my throw-away wallet[6] and we head out the door.

 The clouds are dispersing rapidly as we continue driving toward Kampala; Uganda's capital and largest city. Until now, the sights flashing by my window have been a mix of rural and suburban tableaux. Modern-looking buildings are under construction, encased in shaky bamboo scaffolding. Small livestock animals amble along the road's gutters sniffing at discarded banana peels and the plethora of rubbish that litters[7] the entire country. A Toyota MPV, festooned in the blue and white stripes of an official taxi is up to its wing mirrors in mud on the soft shoulder of the road. Minarets occasionally punctuate a horizon rarely broken by buildings of more than four stories. A boda rider is straddling the petrol tank of a late seventies Honda CB200 to accommodate his passengers: three small boys (all of whom appear to be under five years old) and their heavily pregnant mother. The mother confidently rides side saddle and is shielding the tiny screen of a flip phone from the strengthening sunlight with both hands. Needless to say, there is no helmet law. Men lacking uniforms of any sort walk sullenly through the remaining raindrops carrying ancient Russian bolt-action rifles. Ruth advises that these men are likely "private security" guards hired to protect small businesses and apartment buildings. One such individual has his rifle, this one lacking a trigger guard, casually resting on his shoulder. His right hand grips the barrel loosely near the muzzle which is pointing toward the ground at an angle so shallow that a bullet fired from it would likely travel tens of meters before impacting the soaking red earth. Survival is Job One. Safety is a luxury. I consume my donut with great relish as I contemplate this.

 As Ruth's car carries us closer to Kampala our surroundings become more urban. Buildings now reach higher into the changeable skies, traffic slows and becomes more dense, and there are many more pedestrians. I am eager to photograph everything I am seeing but as our speed decreases it becomes more likely that a pedestrian or boda rider will opportunistically snatch my camera or phone. I keep my camera lens-down between my knees and cover it with my hat, furtively raising it and "shooting from the hip" from time to time. We come to a rapid stop at what appears to be about a five-way interchange. Large trucks, cars, bodas, bicyclists, and pedestrians are all vying to make their various ways through the gridlock. In the middle of this automotive scrum stands a very tall man in an absolutely spotless crisp white military-style uniform. His white pants are expertly bloused into a shiny pair of combat boots and a black beret rests atop his head. He is variously pointing, shouting, waving, and wagging his finger remonstratively at each contestant that noses into the interchange. Periodically, he produces a small notepad from his pocket and writes something down. Amidst all of this chaos, I wonder how he decides one particular driver is culpable for any infraction. From my perspective, the whole display appears to be an exercise in completely unbridled bedlam.

 As we attempt a left hand turn, a taxi sidles up on the inside shoulder. We are so close that I could pluck a hair from the driver's nose without even straightening my arm fully. The taxi driver shouts a few angry words at Ruth in Luganda [9]. Ruth will give not one centimeter and continues to proceed into the maelstrom. The taxi driver utters a few more choice words but the interaction does not escalate. I am amazed at the conspicuous absence of road rage in this country. We are now traveling through the community of Ntinda and Brendan points out a small restaurant with a bright red awning. "That's where we'll get lunch. I figure we'll walk there later," he says.
 Ruth wrinkles her nose, "You are going to walk? It is a long way!"
 "It's not that bad. I do it all the time!", offers Brendan in rebuttal.
 "I'll reserve judgment until we get to your apartment," I say to Brendan, already feeling the astonishingly strong sun sapping my enthusiasm for long treks through the concrete jungle. Almost four kilometers later we pass a three story building with security bars on the windows and doors. The sign near the road reads "Najjera Hospital" and specifies a list of services. A red banner underneath announces "Open 24 Hours!". We proceed one more block, dodging bodas and pedestrians, before making a left onto Brendan's road.

 Very soon after turning onto the road we have to slow significantly to negotiate crater-sized potholes and huge eroded channels carved out by runoff from torrential rains. Ramshackle shops and hovels predominate this neighborhood but there are several less care-worn structures interspersed throughout. I can see no evidence of a larger logic at play in the distribution of desperately poor rooming houses-cum-storefronts and spanish-tile-and-stucco apartment buildings. One thing, however, is clear: those with interests in the more economically advantaged buildings are not screwing around in terms of security. High stuccoed walls are topped with a thick layer of mortar into which has been set thousands of jagged shards of broken glass. Where this irrefutably effective technique has not been employed, long sections of tightly coiled razor wire take its place. Sometimes both are in effect at the same time. After several minutes of weaving our car around potholes, sinkholes, and washed out shoulder (which brings to mind an old joke about how to tell a drunk driver in Africa[10]), we arrive at Brendan's apartment building. I know we have arrived 1) because Ruth is busy analyzing the best approach angle with which to vault the car over a very deep culvert that separates the building's driveway apron from the road and 2) because it is the only four story building on this road.

 The car revs dramatically and we are hurtled across the culvert. A sickly scraping noise is heard from underneath the car as it bottoms out on the driveway apron. Ruth squints as if in pain. It is approximately 9am when she throws the gear shift into the park position and we open the doors. I step out onto the very stylish pavers which make up the driveway/parking area in front of the building. I am immediately assaulted by the intensity of the equatorial sun. This is an entirely different animal than we are used to in the northern hemisphere. The sky is now perfectly clear and offers no resistance whatsoever to the powerful UV rays that reach the completion of their 150,000,000 kilometer journey on my bare forearms. The sensation is remarkably similar to being scorched over a barbecue grill when flipping steaks by hand. The ambient temperature is hot, for sure, but it is nothing that would be out of the question during a Vermont summer. It is the quality and power of the sun that makes it impossible to imagine one is anywhere else on earth than the equator.

 Not wanting to be impolite, I am holding the refuse from my donut and coffee purchase outside of Entebbe. There is not a trash can in sight. I look quizzically at Brendan and Ruth and say "what should I do with this?"
 "Just throw it on the ground," Ruth states helpfully. I look askance at them both.
 "Really!?" I inquire. My anti-litter cognitive dissonance is getting the better of me and preventing my hands from complying.
 "Yes. Really," comes the reply in unison. I am unable to think of a genteel way of doing this so I just huck the paper bag and coffee cup into the culvert with an overhand throw [11]. When in Rome, I guess.

 The front door of Brendan's apartment building is held open with a small wooden wedge. The three of us enter toting our backpacks and rolling luggage and are immediately relieved from the oppressiveness of the sun. Brendan points out a sort of bulletin board listing every apartment in the building. The word "taken" is written by hand next to each apartment number. "Full house," Brendan quips as we begin climbing the stairs. I take the first few stairs confidently, farmer's carrying luggage in both hands, then I trip and almost go ass over teakettle. Though the stairs are poured concrete with large ceramic tile set into them, they are of wildly varying heights. When we reach the third floor, Brendan unlocks a series of deadbolts as Ruth and I remove our shoes. I am immediately impressed upon entering. Large white floor tiles contrast nicely with the deep maroon walls. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, front and rear balcony, nice kitchen. All of this for a price that would make most apartment-hunting college graduates gnash their teeth with jealousy and frustration. That being said, there are 20mm iron bars on all of the windows and the door to the balcony is preceded by an extremely heavy welded iron security door that evokes a medieval portcullis. One is given to think that these measures might be a little over the top for the third floor. Then again, in the presence of sufficient desperation, it is not impossible to imagine the sound an improvised grappling hook might make as it catches on the balcony railing at 3am. I put these musings aside as we say goodbye to Ruth and bid her to return here no later than 2pm for our trip to Mpigi, the village where I'll be staying.

 Brendan immediately sets to work unpacking as I give myself a brief tour and step out on the balcony. The now familiar laughing call of the hadada ibis is heard as several of the birds alight on a spanish tile roof some few hundred meters away. I see what appears to be a mourning dove sitting idly on a telephone wire. Having had occasion to thoroughly peruse the bird book while we were in the air, I know that there are approximately ten species of dove native to this area, all of them very similar in appearance. I run inside and frantically dig through my bag to locate my binos. Returning to the balcony, I train the optics on the unsuspecting bird and am able to identify it as a red-eyed dove. As I fish in my pocket for my notepad I happen to glance down and across the street. Amidst the comings and goings and general bustle of the road, there are no less than four people staring up at me with expressions of abject wonder on their faces. I give a simpering wave and recede into the apartment. "Hey B, I think I'm attracting some attention on your balcony here," I announce.
 "Yeah man, these people are probably wondering what the hell a couple of mzungus are doing in this neighborhood," Brendan replies from the bedroom. "I'm home," he exhales to himself, sounding relieved.

 I devote the next hour or so the the project of getting organized. As is my wont, I have outfitted myself with the tools necessary for a worst-case-scenario survival situation in an alien land. Many of these items, being generally unfriendly to TSA regulations, were squirreled away in my checked luggage. I conduct a brief inventory [12] before redistributing the gear into the appropriate pockets and bags. Beginning months before our trip, Brendan had advised me that I probably would not want to sleep when we arrived regardless of how tired I was. Until now, I had childishly clung to my plan to get a few Zs before heading off to my village. Though I have been in-country for only a short time by now, my head is already reeling with the attempt to process all that I have seen. I put any idea of squandering this time by taking a nap firmly out of my mind. A shower, however, seems like a sufficient and necessary substitute.

 "I think I'm gonna take a shower, bro," I say to Brendan.
 "Do you want hot water?" he replies, "I'll turn on the switch for you."
 On the wall outside of the bathroom there is a toggle switch that says Lorenzetti. I look warily into the bathroom and see the same logo on the oversized shower head. Three twelve-gauge wires of varying color emerge from a tiny hole in the wall and are connected to the shower head through a bolus of black vinyl electrical tape. The whole arrangement provokes less confidence in on-demand hot water than in instantaneous accidental suicide. "Is this thing safe?" I ask; a phrase that will be repeated many times before my trip is concluded.
 "I dunno. It's so hot here I usually take cold showers," replies Brendan.
 "You know what? That's a fantastic idea."

 Feeling refreshed, I dress and join Brendan on the balcony. We sit on sturdy handmade cube-shaped wicker chairs which comprise two thirds of the furniture in Brendan's apartment. I casually rest my feet on the balcony railing for a moment until my calf can no longer stand being roasted by the mid-morning sun. A panoramic view of Kampala unfolds before us. A myriad of terracotta roofs dot the rolling landscape which is broken here and there by copses of deep greenery. Pale, earthy smog clings to the horizon, periodically pierced by radio and cell towers. I feel we are seated in the center of a coiled snake. Beautiful and terrible, dangerous in its apparent repose. Our ground-floor neighbors across the street are busy about their daily work. A man with several small children clinging to him is filling a bag with charcoal by hand. Women in long skirts arrange bunches of bananas, matoke [13], and other dry goods. Two young men huddle in the shade of a phone booth sized stall with a slab of rough-edged corrugated steel for a roof. They have placed two large stereo speakers out on the dirt sidewalk and are blasting what sounds like traditional East African music at improbable volume. Peering from my elevated vantage point into the booth, I see little more than a laptop and stacks of DVD cases. "These guys blast music literally all day," I remark to Brendan, "Doesn't it bother you?"
 "Nah man, I love it," he replies, "It let's me know there's life out there. Those guys burn pirated DVDs. They can get you any movie you want."

 We pass an hour or so in this fashion before deciding to venture out and get lunch. I screw my Sigma 18-250 lens onto my camera body, sling it over my shoulder and follow Brendan down the treacherous stairs. We spill out onto the pavers in front of the building and into a wall of stifling heat. My hat and long pants shield my skin from the sun's fury but my bare forearms immediately feel as if they're beginning to burn. I unbutton my sleeves and roll them down to the wrist. "You're gonna be hot as fuck dressed like that, " Brendan offers.
 "Probably, but I'll burn to a crisp otherwise," I say, shielding my eyes from the glare. Brendan is outfitted for this adventure in a white tee shirt, camo shorts, and flip flops. "How do you not get sunburned walking around like that?" I ask, incredulous.
 " I guess I'm just used to it."

  Brendan snugs a pair of large white headphones over his hat and begins walking up the shoulder. I follow closely, shadowing his every move and hoping that he possesses some undisclosed sixth sense that will prevent us from being run over by the many vehicles passing us in uncomfortable proximity. I do not have to take Brendan's word for the fact that it is extremely unusual for two mzungus to be casually walking through this neighborhood. The reactions and looks on the locals' faces endorse this idea fully. We are almost universally stared at. The overwhelming majority of passers-by hail us with waves and broad smiles. Children giggle. People loitering around the open storefronts gaze upon us neutrally. A small but very apparent percentage of people regard us with looks of out-and-out malice but we are not hassled in any way.

 The end of Brendan's red earth road gives way to sun-bleached tarmac as we hang a right onto the main drag.  We engage in a game of third-world Frogger as we pick our way through the swift-moving and boisterous traffic. I cannot help but whistle the Benny Hill theme as we narrowly avoid being run over by taxis and near-suicidal boda riders carrying all manner of passengers and trade goods. I keep my camera at chest height, raising it frequently to my eye to fire off a series of shots. This causes several near misses as my foot falls into a pothole, I trip over a chunk of concrete, and am briefly snagged on an errant length of barbed wire. Shortly after passing Najjera Hospital ("Ultra-Sound Scan Now Available!") we enter Brendan's old neighborhood of Kiwatuli. Immediately he is enthusiastically greeted by several passers-by who call him by name. We stop at a series of shops when Brendan runs up to a young woman and hugs her warmly. Others flock to the scene and many handshakes are exchanged. In front of this shop is a boda stage [14] where two boda guys are lounging on their bikes and enjoying a leisurely lunch. I ask these gentleman if they wouldn't mind being photographed as Brendan reunites with old friends. The first one sneers dismissively at me but then rotates to face the camera. I take a quick snap and thank him. Boda Guy #2 says "Wait!" as he tests out a few different poses. "Perfect," I announce. This seems to satisfy him as he holds position while I compose the shot. Returning to Brendan, he introduces me to his former neighbors and we exchange friendly handshakes [15].

 Several shops are daisy-chained together in this arrangement. Wares vary from local produce to bottled water and soda, washing soap, cell phone airtime cards, and just about anything else man-portable that one could think of. Clucks and crows are heard as chickens peck the ground; now furtively sneaking between my ankles, now running under parked bodas. There is a heartbeat to this place. A simultaneous sense of urgency and langour. This is the land of dichotomy. Wealth, poverty, energy, inertia, brotherly love and predatory greed are all equally at home here. I feel alien and yet welcome, like someone attending a dinner party where the guests are warm and friendly but the dishes are startling and bizarre. I am hungry to see more.

 It takes some effort for Brendan to break away from the small crowd that has accreted around him but presently we proceed down the street. As the neighborhood progresses the shops lining the road increase in size. They display their wares right on the edge of the sidewalk. The sounds of handsaws and sandpaper echo from the dark interior of a furniture shop. Many wooden bedframes with expertly turned spindles are stacked vertically next to intricately carved dressers and end tables. I avert my eyes away from the biting glare of an arc welder as we near a metalworking shop which is producing huge numbers of security shutters, doors, and gates with very aggressive anti-personnel features. Redundantly, the 2.5 meter iron fence which surrounds the shop is coiled tightly with razor wire. Sides of goat and sheep hang in the open windows of a tiny butcher shop attended only by flies.

 Brendan has once again retreated into the solace of his headphones and I follow him at some distance, taking many photographs. I am beginning to get a feel for the rhythm of this place as we now more confidently cross the busy street. Children giggle and whisper to each other conspiratorially as we encounter them. I stop a group and ask if I can take their picture. The kids snap into a pose on the sidewalk. Brendan presses on. I take the picture and show it to them on my camera's LCD screen. They laugh uproariously and run off exchanging pokes and jeers. A tree sporting many ripe jackfruit erupts from the sidewalk next to a gauche billboard for "Praise Court International Church".  Brendan turns to look for me and stops as I point my camera skyward to capture a black kite which is wheeling in tight circles at treetop level searching for prey. I trot up to Brendan after getting the shot but am immediately distracted by a loud chittering bird call. I go down to one knee to steady the camera and train the lens on a dead tree in the middle of a disused parking area. Two woodland kingfishers are cajoling each other while exploring holes a woodpecker must have created. I am deeply impressed with the bird life of the city of Kampala.

 By and by, we arrive at our destination. MF Foods is a small restaurant with outdoor seating under a broad red awning.We take the last table nearest the sidewalk and make ourselves comfortable. A very soft-spoken waitress with long braids greets us and smiles at Brendan, recognizing him from previous trips. She hands us menus but Brendan preempts her, saying "You know what I'll have. Rice and beans, Fanta, and a bottle of water". The waitress giggles timidly and looks my way. "Exact same thing," I report. We are supposed to meet up with Brendan's friends Soraya and Ashley who are to accompany us later on our trip to the village where I'll be staying. Traffic continues to flow at a fevered pace as cars, bodas, taxis, and large trucks weave around each other and the many pedestrians both on and off of the road. Brendan is in the midst of pointing out a wandering Maasai warrior in a brightly colored Shúkà [16] when our food arrives. We are each given a very large plate of steaming white rice with finely chopped carrots and spices. Next, a soup bowl half filled with red kidney beans and broth is set down on the table. The waitress delicately uncaps our Fantas and places bottles of Dasani brand water on the table. Following Brendan's lead, I dump the bowl of beans onto the rice and mix them thoroughly together. I am famished and proceed to inhale this simple but flavorful dish. I intend to casually sip my Fanta but end up chugging the whole bottle having just realized how thirsty I am. The waitress returns to check on us and I ask for another Fanta. She conceals a small chuckle and disappears to retrieve another.

 Brendan and I are lost in conversation for a time before he realizes, with some alarm, that Ashley and Soraya have yet to make their appearance. This concerns me specifically because Ashley was supposed to drive us back to Brendan's apartment and I am not entirely looking forward to repeating what ended up being a fairly long walk in the brutal midday sun [17]. The waitress removes our thoroughly cleaned plates as Brendan stands to survey any likely areas where Ashley may have parked. Looking across the road, I notice a very official looking security guard pacing in front of Stanbic Bank. His khaki uniform is pressed and starched. BDU-style pants are bloused into spit-shined combat boots which flash brightly in the sun. He is carrying a fairly modern AK-47 in the low ready position with his pointer finger indexed over the trigger guard. The safety is off. I casually place my camera on the table in an effort to snap a candid shot while avoiding detection. As soon as I do this the guard pivots on one heel, turns, and looks directly at me. Missed opportunity. I put my camera away and the guard returns to pacing a small circle on the blazing hot tarmac.

 My second Fanta appears as Brendan returns to the table. "Ruth is supposed to pick us up at my place around 2," he says, "I'm not sure what to think. If we wait any longer for Ashley we'll have to take a boda back. Are you up for that?"
 "I'll be honest," I say, "I'm terrified of the boda but I really don't want to walk all the way back to your apartment."
 "Alright, if Ashley shows up she can drive us. We'll wait another fifteen minutes and if she doesn't show, we'll take a boda back," says Brendan, appearing concerned. Fifteen minutes elapsed without the merest suggestion of Ashley or Soraya. We pay the bill, tip generously, and start for Brendan's apartment on foot. "This sun is outrageous," I say to Brendan.
 "Let's get a boda, man. You have to do it sometime," he replies. I consider this carefully.

 "Ok, fine. But I'm not riding two up...well, that would be three up, on a boda for my first time. I want to take two bodas and I want you to pick my boda guy," I say, sounding braver than I feel. Brendan agrees to these terms as we pass a boda stage where several riders are in heavy negotiations with prospective passengers. Crossing the street, we arrive at a less crowded stage where the three boda guys take an immediate interest in we two sweating mzungus. Brendan says "Najjera Hospital," holding up two fingers to indicate we'd like separate bodas. "How much?"
 "Three thousand," comes the reply with a tone of finality.
 "Three thousand!? Heeeell no! One thousand," says Brendan with feigned outrage. He leans in and says to me in a stage whisper, "You have to bargain."
 "Ok, two thousand," [18] the boda guy responds, as if we are forcibly robbing him.
 Just prior to this last utterance, a boda guy who had been biding his time at the back of the stage fires up his bike and wheels it right in front of me. "Najjera Hospital? Two thousand?" I say as my adrenal system begins its pre-flight check. Brendan hops on the back of his boda, an early 80's Yamaha XJ with what looks to be about a 400cc engine. The driver cracks the throttle, dumps the clutch, and the two of them disappear into the maelstrom. "Wow!" I say, "That was fast!" My boda guy ignores these superlatives and simply states "Get on."

 I throw my leg over the ripping hot black vinyl seat and am in the process of securing a hand-hold on the aptly named "sissy bar" when the driver revs the bike up to about ten grand and lets the clutch out none-too-gingerly. The combination of my fat ass hanging off of the rear of the bike and huge amounts of torque being mercilessly delivered to the driveshaft causes the front wheel to come off of the ground. In this fashion (i.e., doing a "wheelie"), we are propelled at incredible speed into a ruthless stream of traffic. Having almost fallen off of the bike, I frantically grab for the sissy bar in broad clawing motions. My left hand jabs under the bottom of the seat and I secure a death grip on a length of frame. This is not as bad as I thought it would be; it is very much worse. The sound of the engine moving through rapid gear changes remains about an octave above where you would want it for a nice leisurely ride about town. This boda guy is committed to keeping it in the "power band" for sure. We rocket up the left hand shoulder of the road and the driver begins to nose past a large white taxi with the phrase "Masha Allah!" colorfully stenciled on the rear window. Our front wheel is extremely close the the taxi's bumper and actually rubs several times. Ahead, and unbeknownst to us, an attractive woman wearing a colorful headwrap enters the roadway, crossing the street on foot. Perhaps out of deference to this woman's looks and quite possibly to avoid running her down, Masha Allah! panic brakes locking up all four wheels. At this point I am contemplating the irony of my imminent death being inflicted by a high-energy impact with a rear windshield cheerily announcing the Arabic sentiment "God has willed".

 But it was not my time to die. My quick thinking boda driver, seeking to avoid a costly traffic accident, drops a gear and throws the bike hard to the left. At this very instant, the aforementioned and temporarily stunned attractive woman, having collected herself sufficiently to complete her crossing of the street, emerges from the front of the taxi.This gives my fearless driver absolutely no pause whatsoever. He simply continues swerving to the left, scattering pedestrians, small children, and several chickens as we launch ourselves onto the fucking sidewalk. My hands are now completely numb from clutching the structural members of this motorcycle with an iron grip that only true howling terror can inspire. I fear that I may not be able to hold on for much longer. Continuing on the sidewalk at a completely inappropriate speed, we are fast approaching another boda stage from which, of course, several bodas are simultaneously departing. By now I feel that I truly understand my driver's psychology. Hell, we've already been through a lot together. And so, it comes as no surprise that his response to this imminent danger is to open the throttle savagely in an attempt to outrun the impending collision. This is partially successful as only the left mirror impacts one of the emerging bodas, canting it uselessly toward the ground.

 Returning to the actual road, it becomes evident that my intrepid boda guy does not see the advantages inherent in rear-view mirrors as he makes no attempt to correct its new angle. Several less dramatic near-misses ensue before we finally reach our destination. Brendan is already off of his boda and waits for me with a look of complete imperturbability on his face. I dismount, breathing heavily and sweating pure cortisol from every pore in my body. I pay my driver the agreed-upon 2,000 shillings and breathlessly advise "Let's do that again sometime". Brendan looks at me, his expression changing to one of both concern and mirth and asks, "So, how was it?"
 "One of the top five most terrifying experiences of my life. Easily."

 We walk a block past Najjera Hospital and hang a left on Brendan's road. The continuous stream of taxis, cars, bodas, and pedestrians carries on as before; the only evidence of the progression of time being the position of the sun. I notice the boys in the bootleg DVD booth are totally unconcerned that their speakers are clipping nastily with the incredible volume at which they are being asked to broadcast what now sounds like Ugandan hip-hop. The man we saw from the balcony earlier is still hand filling gigantic bags from a dwindling pile of charcoal. My coffee cup and donut bag remain where they landed in the culvert, gently nudged by the hot breeze. Ruth is nowhere to be found. We scale Brendan's uneven stairs and repair to the balcony to await her arrival.

~~~

The call of the Hadada Ibis is an incessant mocking laugh.

Brendan's gear for equatorial sun.

Everybody loves Brendan

Angry boda guy 1

Angry boda guy 2

Your one-stop security shutter shop!

Security measures at the security shop.

Aggressive anti-personnel door jambs now available!

The ubiquitous red clay of this region is used here for some purpose that I could not easily discern. Wild guess: the mud is smeared on the uncoated iron security products in lieu of more expensive methods of rust prevention such as spray paint.

Local, free-range protein!

Kampala kids posing. Brendan plods on.

Exotic fruits grow in the middle of this urban jungle.

Black kite is equally at home in the jungle, on the banks of the Nile, and in the city.

Palearctic migrant Woodland Kingfishers. 

Rice, beans, Fanta. Cheap, simple, delicious.

Brendan on a recce for Soraya and Ashley.

Continue to the next post!
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[3]:  MPV-style minivans into which are shoe-horned up to 14 people. Taxis do not necessarily have a regular schedule but simply leave when they are full. This is a very cost-effective mode of transportation that would be intolerable for anyone with even a touch of claustrophobia.

[4]: Boda is short for bodaboda, an onomatopoetic expression that evokes the sound these small Japanese motorcycles make. Many have 250cc or smaller engines. This is the primary mode of transportation in Uganda. They are cheap, unlikely to be hindered by the outrageous traffic jams which are a daily occurrence, and tremendously unsafe.

[5]: $2.85. Hell of a deal.

[6]: To guard against losing huge amounts of cash and important travel documents to a mugging, I have populated an old wallet with expired credit cards and only a "walking around" amount of cash. My passport, drivers' license, debit card, and primary store of cash are concealed in my passport wallet which is attached to a belt loop with a length of paracord and stuffed down the inside of my right pant leg.

[7]: Literally. Pun intended.

[8]: Safety is no accident.

[9]: Luganda is the most common native language in the southern half of Uganda. Other languages include English, Arabic, and various Nilotic and Sudanic dialects.

[10]: They drive down the road in a perfectly straight line.

[11]: In much of Uganda they do not lack for an effective waste management system. They lack a system of any sort whatsoever.

[12]: COMING SOON: exhaustive gear list for this adventure. Stay tuned.

[13]: A species of banana which are harvested green and mashed into a plantain-like dish. Somewhat of a national dish in Uganda and East Africa at large.

[14]: A boda stage is an area where boda riders congregate and wait for passengers.

[15]: East African Handshake; begin as you would a standard Western handshake. Grip firmly. Rotate up to an "arm wrestling"-style grip. Complete the process by returning to the traditional Western grip. This change of grips most often occurs once per interaction but depending on the enthusiasm of the greeting it can switch up and down as many as five times.

[16]: Traditional Maasai clothing. Essentially a sheet cleverly wrapped around the body; similar to a toga.

[17]: As friends of comparable size will endorse; a good pair of sport underwear goes a long way toward the prevention of chafing- but they're not magic.

[18]: This is the equivalent of 57 cents; a pittance for Brendan and I, but bargaining is endemic to the culture. Moreover, if (relatively) wealthy tourists make a habit of paying overinflated prices, it disrupts the local economy and drives prices up for those who truly cannot afford it. This will be evidenced later in the trip at a small market which caters to tourists.

Arrival

Like most worthwhile things, travel to Africa requires patience, endurance, and the management of stress and discomfort. Though I am known for my patience and easy-going attitude; I am finding it difficult to endure the alternating pain and numbness the previous 16 hours of air travel have inflicted on my posterior. I have been following the slow progress of a tiny airplane icon as it traverses a map of Northeast Africa displayed on an LCD screen embedded in the seatback in front of me. This screen is a blessing and a curse . I am acutely interested in learning which cities' lights are glowing along the Nile many thousands of feet below. I am rudely reminded, in two minute increments, of exactly how much longer I'll have to sit in this seat. For almost half an hour now there has been little to suggest signs of human life amidst the darkness visible through my window. As the airplane icon advances toward a dot on the map labeled "Kigali", tiny clusters of light begin to appear below.

 Since changing planes in Istanbul, my neighbors on this journey have been primarily African. I am intrigued by the distribution of western and traditional African dress and I listen closely to see if I can determine whether there is more than one language being spoken among them. Mercifully, the plane for this second leg of the journey has many empty seats. I have taken a window seat in order to see as much of Northeastern Africa as I am able given the late hour. In the aisle seat sits an elderly woman in an ornately patterned dress and shawl. She has pulled the shawl down over her eyes and is resting her forehead on the seatback in front of her. Though we share no common language, she and I have reached a nonverbal agreement regarding our mutual use of the empty middle seat for our extra pillows and other Turkish Airlines accoutrements. Across the aisle are seated a rather dashing-looking gentleman wearing a fedora at a jaunty angle and a young woman with an elaborate profundity of braids twining round each other like snakes emerging from a hibernaculum. For many hours all has been quiet save the normal sounds of protracted air travel in the early morning: snores, coughs, the crinkling of an empty 4oz water bottle as it is stuffed among the magazines and safety cards in the seat pocket. It is 3am and the Fasten Seatbelts sign is lit for our descent into Rwanda. Immediately, there is an energy shift. People begin making their way to the bathrooms for and aft. The embers of long dead conversation are once again blown to life. Smiles return to sleepy faces. Those coming back from the bathrooms or simply stretching their legs remain standing in the aisle. Jokes and good-natured jeers ensue. The girl sprawling across the three seats in front of me wakes, stretches extravagantly, peers sleepily through the window and grins. A gentle falsetto sketches out the verses of a song in a language I do not understand. New voices join. Passengers who existed for me as inert shadows over the last six-and-a-half hours are now dancing in the cool cabin lighting.  Different melodies compete as others begin to sing. The meaning of the words, though they are foreign to me, is plain. We are home.

 The aircraft banks somewhat sharply causing the dancers to brace themselves against the seats. The captain utters an announcement in Turkish and repeats it in English: "Cabin crew prepare for landing". I stare fixedly through my window as the sparsely lit city of Kigali, Rwanda unfolds into three dimensions. Despite the blackness of the predawn hour, it becomes clear that this is a city built into a collection of sharp ridges and plunging valleys. The revelers take their seats, barely restraining their joy. I am struck by the contrast in enthusiasm between these East Africans and my own countrymen when returning to our respective homelands. We are landing in a nation whose GDP is one fourth that of Vermont, a country riven by ethnic tension which has erupted into full-blown genocide more than once. Yet there is pride and exuberance on the faces around me. I do not remember seeing its equivalent among my fellow American citizens when landing back in the states. The plane touches down gently and we begin to taxi toward the small terminal. Elated passengers exit onto the tarmac from the front and rear of the plane. Though my destination is Uganda, I cannot help but feel disappointed that I am not going to see what they are seeing. I decide then that someday I will visit Rwanda. We sit motionless on the tarmac for about an hour and twenty minutes. Those of us traveling to our final destination of Entebbe, Uganda wait as the Turkish flight crew inspects and assigns ownership to each piece of carry-on luggage in accordance with regulations. A fair amount of confusion occurs as passengers who do not speak English or Turkish attempt to communicate with the flight crew. There is much pantomime and gesturing before the baggage is all accounted for. New passengers are now boarding the plane for the short hop from Kigali to Entebbe. My friend Brendan, with whom I'm traveling, boarded from the front of the plane back in Istanbul and has not been seen since. I suspect he's asleep. The PA system crackles "biniş komple" and then "boarding complete". I am ready for this final 45 minute leg of the journey.

 My excitement builds. I find it interesting that we do not scribe a straight line from Kigali to Entebbe by flying over Lake Victoria but instead travel due North and hang a right only when we've reached Entebbe's lattitude. Rain begins to splatter on my window as the plane once again banks to prepare for landing. The intervening 45 minutes have, perhaps paradoxically, passed very quickly. Our touch down is every bit as gentle as the one in Kigali and after nearly 40 hours of travel I am quite ready to set my feet on Ugandan soil. I am directed by the flight crew to exit at the rear of the plane. I can already feel a plume of warm, moist air entering the plane from the open door. As my head clears the doorway I am struck by the fact that Entebbe International Airport appears to have undergone no changes whatsoever since the filming of "Raid on Entebbe" in 1977.

 It is November 26th and we are at the end of Uganda's second rainy season. The tarmac glistens with puddles and large pools of standing water from the rains that assaulted my window just prior to landing. These rains seem to have scrubbed from the air the fabled smell of Africa about which much has been said and intimated to me. Brendan deplaned from the front exit just behind the cockpit and I see him waiting for me at the base of a 1960s vintage mobile stairway. In my excitement to begin this African adventure, I manage to ignore the traffic cones and frantically waving airport employee as I head right for Brendan and right into an invisible wall of oven-hot jet exhaust. My eyebrows thus thinned, I execute a confident "I meant to do this" left hand turn and get myself properly oriented with respect to the "safety zone" which, in retrospect, is very clearly demarcated. Brendan and I share enthusiastic grins as we proceed inside the airport and to the Yellow Fever checkpoint. We are herded between a set of faux-velvet ropes where passengers are presenting their passports and records of vaccination to a slight female airport official. There is a sinister-looking nurse in green scrubs standing in the corner and awaiting anyone who has not arrived with proof of having been given the Yellow Fever immunization. A large and well-used rolling med cart stands as evidence of her willingness to make any unprepared traveler right with her country's entry requirements. The line moves quickly and the slight female airport official gives my "yellow card" vaccination record a cursory glance before gesturing for me to proceed.

 I am temporarily stymied by the choice of immigration desks but after a brief fashion my brain is finally able to process the terms "foreigners" and "visa on arrival". Brendan and I approach. Two customs officials are seated behind the same desk. One has an officious air and looks extremely squared-away. The other is about 20 kilos overweight and clearly has something much more entertaining on his mind than admitting plane-weary tourists to his country. Brendan chooses the latter. I answer my official's questions cheerily, doing a poor job of masking my excitement. When asked "what is the purpose of [my] trip?", my reply is found mildly stultifying. As I report "to take pictures of birds", a look of surprise briefly crosses the official's stony visage and is followed by a muffled laugh that did not give the impression of being with me. I could see the phrase "crazy mzungu[1]" traveling from his mind to his lips but stopping just short of being made into audible noises. He then takes me through a pas-de-deux of digital contortions on the fingerprint scanner. I am beginning to feel as though I'm being inducted into the Brotherhood of Free and Accepted Masons. Having scanned all eight fingers and both thumbs, the official stares searchingly into my face and asks me to remove my hat. He aims a tiny spherical webcam carefully at my head with the relish of a small child swiveling the turret of a plastic tank and takes my picture. He is concerned not at all that I was looking at him instead of the camera. He then announces "fifty dollars!". I fumble through my super high-speed RFID shielded tactical passport wallet and am unable to come up with the exact amount.   "I don't suppose you make change?" I ask.
 "No," he replies. Then, looking at Brendan, "Ask him for it."  At this moment, Brendan himself was engaged in the act of paying his fifty dollars to his immigration official (which official had done an excellent job of matching his counterpart step for step despite the obvious disparity in motivation). As Brendan was unable to break a twenty, I hand my official sixty US dollars and advise him to keep the change.
 "What!? Really?" he exclaims, his paraverbals clearly stating crazy mzungu once again. These negotiations completed, the official applies a very handsome entry visa to my brand new passport and we are on our way.

 After visiting the restroom (which was astonishingly clean in stark contrast with the general air of disrepair that afflicts the rest of the airport), Brendan and I advance to baggage claim. I am greatly relieved to see my bag being disgorged onto the conveyor belt as it contains all of my worldly possessions save my camera gear which has never been more than 36 inches from me these last 24 hours. Brendan, on the other hand, is beginning to lose hope that his second bag will ever emerge. His tone ever-friendly and confident, he consults a baggage handler who advises that the last bag has already made its way onto the conveyor. We are then remanded to the care of Entebbe Airport's Lost Baggage desk which is staffed by woman who is dividing her attention between a radio blaring dancehall music and an overly jovial janitor. As we approach, I remember that the missing bag, though technically Brendan's, just so happens to be the one that I represented as my own to help Brendan get around paying Turkish Airlines for an additional checked bag [2]. This causes some confusion as the woman, upon inspecting my baggage receipt, is now wondering why she is speaking with Brendan instead of me. After clarifying that it is my bag which is lost, I somewhat reluctantly surrender my passport and watch carefully as the woman makes several photocopies. I am then required to complete a form which includes my home address, telephone number, and email address. All of this begins to play on my anxiety and I silently spin a mental narrative- the conclusion of which has me, withered and gray, composing a memoir of decades spent in a Ugandan prison. After applying my signature to several copies of this form, I am given a sort of chit as documentation of the discussion and we are summarily dismissed. I decide to give my worries about a baggage fraud conviction no further attention for the time being. Our final task before leaving the airport is to supply ourselves with Ugandan currency.

 Six days prior, I had bravely waded through my bank's kafkaesque customer service system in order to implore an actual human to ensure that my debit card would work properly in Uganda. The moment of truth arrives as Brendan and I visit the airport's ATM. I insert my card, momentarily fearing that I will never see it again, and am greatly relieved when the display announces "Greetings Michael A. Cancellieri". I am mildly perturbed to be typing the amount 1,000,000 into the tiny keypad but a quick consultation of my phone's calculator reveals that this kingly sum is the equivalent of only 285 US Dollars. I will later come to realize with astonishment and some small measure of shame that this relatively modest amount of money will be entirely sufficient to sustain my upkeep and activities for the next ten days. I am struck by the beauty of these twenty 50,000 shilling notes which are adorned with images of mountain gorillas and celebratory representations of Uganda's independence.

 In my admiration for the artistry of these notes, I forget that I am standing in a third-world airport displaying a very large sum of cash. "Don't flash that around in here," Brendan quietly advises. I fold the bills into my passport wallet which again finds its home deep inside my right pant leg. Brendan and I then walk through the doors and into the cool humidity of a Uganda dawn. There are many people waiting for arriving friends and family members. An equal number of men stand near the doorway offering transportation to the exiting passengers. As my eyes adjust to the darkness I see a young woman walking quickly toward Brendan and me. She approaches smiling broadly and embraces Brendan. I am thus introduced to our driver, Ruth. She strikes me as bubbly and energetic but there is also an air of street-savvy about her. Brendan and I wheel our luggage to Ruth's car, an interesting looking Toyota with the curious name "Spacio". It looks like a Corolla that has been overinflated to assume a sort of truncated minivan shape- and as it turns out, that's exactly what it is. The three of us engage in a brief game of sleep-deprived Tetris while stowing our luggage before getting in the car and heading into the rising sun and toward Kampala. The adventure has begun.

Continue to the next post!

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[1]:  Mzungu is a word from the Bantu language group which literally means "wanderer". Colloquially, it is often translated as "ghost". In any case, it is the term that people in East Africa use to refer to white people. It is not, in and of itself, a pejorative and is most often used in a friendly manner.

[2]: This, of course, is merely a rhetorical device used to enrich the story. I would never consider representing another passenger's bag as my own as this would be wrong and potentially illegal.

Introduction To My Uganda Adventure

PHOTO: Mpigi Sunrise.

"There's nothin' out there, man! You would love it."- Brendan

I traveled to Uganda primarily to take pictures of birds and to get a taste of adventure. I have returned safely but very much changed. It will take me some time to integrate all of my experiences and process the emotions and changes in perspective resulting from my stay. With each new day I found myself spending less time focusing on birds and more time immersing myself in the culture and being with the wonderful people of this immensely beautiful place. This is a country of extremes in all the domains that make life meaningful: beauty, community, joy, adversity. There is a frenetic energy in the towns and cities which borders on mayhem. The villages and rural areas contain a palpable sense of being timeless and hopelessly estranged from the rest of the world. Life and death are much closer together here.

I feel that I could talk for hours about my experience of Uganda without even scratching the surface. I am deeply grateful to Brendan Crowley for providing guidance and logistical support when I asked for it and for allowing me the space to make my own mistakes and discoveries when I did not. This was no vacation. It wasn't a safari. I was not safely delivered into a Disney-esque African experience by men with Australian accents in crisp white shirts. This was an experience of the reality of how most of the world lives. Stranger in a strange land time. YOYO territory- You're On Your Own. Real [period] Life [period].

This was the single most powerful experience of my life. Over the next few months I will be endeavoring to communicate what I found in Uganda through writing and photographs. I fear that I am not equal to the task but I invite you to follow my fumbling attempts on my heretofore derelict blog: angrybirding.blogspot.com.

I was going to end this with several caveats regarding the idea of sensitivity but it seems to have turned into a brief essay. In the United States we have frustrated ourselves into outrage and silence when trying to communicate with each other about our differences. Race, religion, family dynamics, sexuality, economics, and politics will be treated in my work with the openness and unselfconsciousness with which they are discussed by Ugandans. I cannot allow myself to be hamstrung by the fear of offense our culture suffers from. As such, I will make no further warning or apology. I will simply ask that those of you who know me appeal to your knowledge of my values and that those of you who do not know me well consider that fact before attributing callous or malicious motive to my capturing a particular image or using a particular string of sentences.

That being said, there will be much humor (to the best of my ability), there will be many more smiles than you might expect to see, and there will be pictures of birds.

Continue to the next post!

I've disabled comments on this blog simply for my own convenience. Friends, let's have any discussions on my Facebook posts that will announce each post here on the blog. For the two people I do not know who will stumble upon this blog and care to comment- please email me at angrybirdingadventures (at) gmail (dot) com. [Emails that are simply critical of my positions without offering anything substantively thought provoking will be ignored. If I suddenly am inundated with emails, even positive ones, I will not be able to respond to them all. This last is highly unlikely anyway.