Day 2 Part 1: Around Mpigi

"I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke up and was not happy." -Ernest Hemmingway

"Tourists don't know where they've been; travelers don't know where they're going." -Paul Theroux 

"You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." -J.R.R. Tolkien

The last ululating note of the pre-sunrise call to prayer reverberates through the valley. I part the mosquito net more deftly this time and swing my legs over the bed frame. The most acute waves of anxiety have long since drained away and the tense apprehension I was feeling is quickly replaced with an excitement that builds with the brightening of the day. Alright, 5:30am, about an hour till the sun comes up. I pull the slide bolt and tug the door open; it drags viciously across the concrete slab emitting an obnoxious racket that I'm sure will wake my neighbors—if, in fact, the other huts are occupied. I step, barefoot, into the cool humidity of the early dawn. The moon, which was beaming directly overhead when I last emerged from my hut, has traversed the back half of this starry dome and is now shining brightly above the eastern hillside. Jupiter, suspended low in the sky, burns intensely and strobes blue red white blue red white. The thick incense of aromatic wood smoke has faded; in its place an earthy petrichor wafts from the fog laden valley. I breathe in deeply and savor the sights and silence, the tranquility of the early morning before the boilers of daily life are stoked.

 Dipping back into the hut, I choke down four gigantic vitamin C chewables. The sickly sweet bitterness shocks my taste buds into submission. I am grateful for the relief of my cache of spring water as I wash the sourness down along with a couple doxycycline. The doxy is prescribed for malarial prophylaxis but, I'm told, it should also help to ward off running stomach—that bane of Third World travelers. So far, I have managed to survive the ravages of airline food and snacks labeled in a variety of unintelligible languages without feeling the need to drop everything (pants included) and run madly for the toilets. Apropos of these musings, I decide I have just enough time to try out the mock-up western-style toilet before the sun makes its way over the eastern hillside.

 The crowing of many roosters begins to compete with the knuck-knuck-knuck metronome of waking tinkerbirds as I walk the gravel path to the toilets. The tin roof of this outbuilding resonates with the creaks and groans of the wooden doors as they protest the soft breeze through rusted hinges. Each door opens outward about eighty degrees before it is stopped by the stucco privacy wall. I push the first door closed just as the next one whinnies open in front of me, giving the short walk to the final stall a distinctly maritime feel. As I enter the western-toilet stall, my headlamp illuminates a half-dozen large spindly black spiders who have established themselves in the rear right corner [30]. They look askance at my intrusion and begin furiously shaking their webs. As a recovering arachnophobe, I find this slightly perturbing but the spiders appear to have no desire to leave their webs so I let them be. "Stay right there and nobody gets hurt," I say aloud, mostly to myself. A cloud of small black flies swarms angrily out of the toilet as I lift the lid. I rummage through my pockets, retrieving an alcohol prep pad which I tear open while swatting the flies that buzz in my ears and eyes.

 The toilet seat is not visibly soiled but I wipe it down meticulously with the alcohol pad anyway. As I do this, the close-range spot light of my headlamp picks up some motion from inside the toilet. I take a closer look and am startled to see that another half dozen of the same species of spider have made their home in the toilet and are frantically bundling the small hapless flies in their webs. Toilet spiders. Awesome. We are definitely out of our comfort zone now [31], I think, suppressing a light shiver of disgust. My morning constitutional beckons ever nearer, raising the stakes. Luckily, I have always kept a cool head in an emergency. I trot back over to my hut and pour a few liters of rain water from my jerry can into my small blue bucket. Sloshing my way back to the toilets, I notice that there are lots of small brushy trees poking through the chain-link fence just behind the outbuilding. I break off a leafy branch and head back into the stall with a look of cold-forged determination on my face. Hoisting the bucket nearly overhead, I violently flush the arachnids down the concrete tube and proceed to spastically clear the network of webs, using the branch like a drill instructor waking recruits with a baton and trash can.

 I set these weapons of mass destruction aside and take my seat as the day brightens further. This improvised toilet isn't too bad after all. It's a little tall for my liking and my knees stick too far out across the threshold to permit the door to close. I could definitely do without the spiders. Other than that, it's a pretty good deal. Minutes later, I emerge from the outhouse building carrying a bucket and an abused-looking tree branch. I am thankful that no-one is stirring to witness this. Just on the outside of the stuccoed privacy wall there is a thin metal stand supporting a 25 liter water jug with a small spigot. I have no idea how often this jug is filled so I open the valve just enough to permit a small stream of water to trickle out. I wash my hands thoroughly from my small bottle of Dr. Bronner's tea tree oil soap [32]. These ablutions complete, I return to my hut to suit up for the day.

 Today's plans include a long walk down the dirt road that runs for miles into the bush. As such, I outfit myself in long pants and a long sleeved shirt against the equatorial sun. I apply a thin coating of bug spray to the areas that won't be covered by clothing. It is now 0630 on the dot and the sun will rise in a mere six minutes. I pick up my camera and remove the lens cap. Then I put it down again. I want to experience this fully without the intermediary of the camera, without the pressure of documenting anything. I want to be in this moment. That being said, I am hungry, so I snap off a few small bananas from the bunch that rests on the goatskin table and head out the door.

 Three larger, more well appointed huts, lay directly behind mine and behind them, the hill plunges dramatically toward the eastern valley. Not knowing if these, or in fact any of the other huts are occupied; I creep methodically around them, taking short steps with the ball of my foot and rolling my heel down. Reaching the back of the rearmost hut, I notice it is equipped with an enchanting little concrete porch on which there are two plastic patio chairs. Heavy curtains completely occlude the interior of this hut but it does not appear that anyone is stirring inside. The warm sin of pride gurgles within me as I muse: poor sap thinks he's roughing it in this hut. He has a friggin' porch! About 2.5 meters of shaggy weeds and brush lay between the hut and the precipitous drop-off. Rusting galvanized steel fenceposts  emerge from the ground at odd angles; the barbed wire once strung across them no longer in evidence. I peel the first small banana.

 Looking eastward, I imbibe the absolutely breathtaking view. Dense fog has collected in the bottom of the valley, pierced every so often by a towering fig tree. The larvae of this afternoon's cumulus clouds cling to the horizon shining as though their inverted anvil bases are plated with gold. I bite into the banana which is incredibly delicious and has the most concentrated banana flavor I've ever experienced. I toss the peel into the valley. It lands in a large bush where several go-away birds are yucking it up noisily. The dawn chorus intensifies and I can hear the mad squawking of hornbills in the jungle below. I check my watch: 0636. As I read the numbers, my hand and wrist begin to incandesce with a brilliant golden hue that is felt as much as it is seen. The sun breaks over the horizon and paints the entire valley orange. The black silhouettes of large birds of prey lift, flapping heavily, out of several tree tops. I hear the opening fanfare of Thus Spake Zarathustra in my mind clearly enough to warrant a psychiatric evaluation. This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful sight I have ever been privileged to experience. Perhaps due to the intrinsic beauty of the moment; perhaps due to my anxiety frizzled and sleep deprived state, maybe because this moment represents a sort of apotheosis of all that I have been through to be here—all of the hurts, sorrows, joys, and stresses of my 36 years on this planet; I begin to weep.

 I have used every trick in Carss' SAS Guide to Tracking to arrive stealthily behind this, somebody else's, hut. Now, the periodic sniffles and erratic breathing of my fragile emotional state are giving away my position. I take a few more deep breaths and manage to pull myself together. The young sun's heat is felt strongly on my face and through my clothes. The thick gray lake of fog that rests at the bottom of the valley begins to lift and disperse in thin wispy tendrils. This moisture will travel skyward joining the juvenile cumulus clouds which will grow taller and angrier until, sometime this afternoon, exasperated by the strain, they lose their grip and unleash torrents of pelting rain. This strikes me as a fitting allegory for my present state of mind. With the sun warming and reddening my face, I reflect upon the last few years, which have not been easy.

 The death of one's parents is a universally transformative experience. Because my relationship to my parents—both of them alcoholics [33]—was unhealthy and extremely difficult; I had imagined their passing would yield only relief. This was not the case and I had not really been prepared for the confluence of complex emotions that would be roiling and bubbling through to the surface at inopportune times. In the midst of this emotional turbulence, the very real stresses and dangers of my job became too much for me to continue to bear, my wife became seriously and chronically ill; and so I had been left feeling untethered, directionless, overburdened, and generally dispirited. I needed a change of venue. I needed to tune-in to a different pulse— new rhythm to guide my movements. I needed to clear my synapses and blow my receptors free of the chemical bonds of life's grinding vicissitudes.

 Now I am perched on a hilltop in Sub-Saharan Africa, squinting into a sunrise of immense and nearly unbearable beauty. Thousands of birds have worked themselves into an absolute cacophony of chirps, shrieks, warbles, whistles, and hoots. A speckle lipped skink races across my shoes at incredible speed, its tiny clawed feet scrabbling over the red pebbly clay as it disappears under a crushed Rwenzori water bottle. The temperature is increasing rapidly and I decide I'd better get a move on. I stalk quietly back to my hut and open the padlock. The door pushes in, dragging loudly on the floor. So much for stealth. I chug about a liter of water from my canteen to fortify myself for a long walk and refill it from one of the large Rwenzori jugs. I stuff my rain gear into my backpack, shoulder it, and snug down the straps. My face, ears, and neck receive a generous slathering of SPF 50 which I rub in haphazardly; not particularly caring about my appearance. With my camera and binoculars slung over each shoulder, I step outside and secure the padlock on the door.

 Two tan colored dogs amble in my general direction, pausing here and there to sniff  and timidly looking up at me out of the tops of their eyes. Their tails begin to wag as I approach them, walking under the rickety observation platform. They whine and shove their noses expectantly into my palms. I give them a few pets before pressing on. The morning dew soaks the tops of my hiking boots as I walk through the shaggy grass in the center of the compound. A white man emerges from one of the large barracks-style buildings wearing nothing but a towel and carrying a blue bucket just like the one in my hut. I give a friendly wave but the man, not wanting to drop the bucket or release his grip on the towel, shrugs his shoulders and smiles self-consciously before issuing a salutatory nod. Few others seem to be up and moving at this early hour as I walk by the smoldering embers of last night's campfires and the piles of various hand tools that were thrown haphazardly down at the end of the work day.

 I train my binos on a robin-sized bird perched on one of the inert power lines that head into the village. It has a brilliant white breast, a black cap, and a long narrow tail. The small hook at the end of its bill tells me that it must be a species of shrike—a predatory songbird. A few meters further down the same set of wires sits a swallow with a heavily streaked breast and a long forked tail. I snap a few  photos as I continue walking. There is an uproarious squabble taking place in the top of a mango tree over my left shoulder. Several slender birds with outrageously long tails are dive-bombing each other and launching themselves out of the tree in wide sweeping arcs before doing it again. The rising sun is now perfectly centered through the tree's tight clusters of rhododendron-like leaves and I come close to blinding myself as the powerful rays flash through my lens and directly into my retinas. The cloyingly sweet smell of boda exhaust and the sound of a small two stroke engine arrive simultaneously as I begin walking down the steep driveway.

 Several women are hanging laundry on the iron railings of Kaleke Kasome Children's Center. I smile and wave, saying "good morning". They reply "good munning" in a soft sing-song unison as I carefully pick my way down the driveway, my shoes periodically slipping on the gravelly earth. I make a hard right hand turn when I reach the road and the sun swivels around to warm the right side of my face and neck. The road itself is of the same dusty red clay that seems to be the substrate upon which this entire country is built. Low scrub, tall trees, and broad leafed palmate bushes coalesce to form deeply green walls which line either side of the road and contrast beautifully with its deep terracotta color. Many small birds are cavorting in the bushes. They chitter and squeak, bubbling to the tops of the vegetation to get a look at me as I swing my camera in wild excited arcs. Several tiny finches called cordon bleus are pecking industriously in the dust of the road itself. With every fourth footfall, they flush and move a few meters down the road, keeping pace with my advance.

 In what seems to be a nearly universal Monday morning ritual, people are heading off to work. Children, many appearing under the age of ten, are walking to school in their mish-mash of school clothing. Some appear to have uniform tops which strike an odd juxtaposition with basketball shorts or Adidas-style warm-up pants with varying numbers of stripes. Their shoes, almost certainly donated by Kaleke Kasome, are a miscellany of flip-flops, trainers, sandals, and every once in a while, leather dress shoes. Men in suits and ties balance confidently on the back of dusty bodas that go tear-assing around turns and nearly catch air when cresting hills in the road. The boda drivers wear thick parkas with fur-lined hoods as protection against the morning chill. They beep their tinny horns to alert pedestrians of their presence before flying by in hair-raising proximity.

 I train my camera on a small kingfisher perched in a mango tree. As I focus, I hear a boda approaching from some distance away. The driver is beeping his horn frantically. I wonder why this particular boda is so adamant that I acknowledge his approach but, intent on capturing a photo of this exotic bird, I ignore the increasingly plaintive warnings. When the boda driver begins yelling in tight percussive Luganda, I step off of the road into the bush and look behind me. The boda whizzes by, flinging dust and a stream of imprecations my way. I instantly realize what the fuss was all about: bungee-d across the boda's seat are three heavy railroad ties that span the entire width of the road. I fire off a quick photo, taking a silent oath to be more attentive to my surroundings.

 Continuing down the road, it is easy to see the economic disparity endemic to this region. People dressed in rags are toiling in the shaggy yards of their small ramshackle dwellings. Thick overgrown brush is beaten back with worn pangas [34], mattocks, hoes, and other ancient agricultural hand tools. The majority of villagers living along this road are subsistence farmers, eking out a meager living with small crops of matoke, banana, mango, or jackfruit. Just like in Kampala, it is easy to tell, from outward appearances, who has money. Every now and then, the thick vegetation that lines the road is interrupted by two-meter high stuccoed walls topped with sharpened iron pikes, razor wire, or broken glass. Behind these walls lie modestly sized but impressively appointed bungalows with Spanish tile roofs and large satellite dishes. Toyota Land Cruiser Prado seems to be the preferred vehicle of these residents and pale gold mirrored window tinting is de rigueur.

 As I walk further down the road, boda and other traffic becomes much less frequent. I walk cheerily on, taking many photographs and in general amazement at the diversity of bird species. Some of these will turn out to be bona fide good photographs, most of them will simply serve the purpose of helping to identify all of the different birds I am seeing. I realize it's gotten fairly quiet these last few minutes—quiet enough that I am now aware of the sound of multiple shuffling feet behind me. I raise my phone as if I'm taking a picture of the road. In the reflection on the darkened screen I see that I have attracted a small crowd of children. I wake the phone up and take a candid selfie with my new fans. The phone emits a camera shutter sound effect which causes the children to giggle. I turn and smile at them. The older ones smile back while the smaller of the group stare at me with expressions of astonishment that would be no less severe if I had horns and tentacles.

 I have it on good authority that I am very likely to be only the second mzungu that children this young have ever seen in such close proximity. The first would be my friend Brendan, who I expect is currently sleeping off a night of socializing in Kampala. As the children and I stare awkwardly at each other, a fairly large bird is flying a very fast course parallel to the road and about 25 meters away. I swing the camera up to my eye, leading the bird like a duck hunter and fire off a few shots. The children are instantly sent into paroxysms of laughter. They poke at one another and pantomime taking photographs of the many birds that are bustling in the trees. I check my camera's screen and zoom in to get a better look at the bird. An ear-to-ear grin splits my face as the image is revealed to be that of an African grey parrot. Amazing.

 The children draw closer, curious as to what I'm doing with the camera. I excitedly show them the tiny image of the parrot. Laughter once again erupts and they begin pointing to birds flying in the distance. Some of the older kids speak very serviceable English and they entreat me to "Take a pickcha of dat bahd!", each of them pointing in a different direction. One of them points to the silhouette of a large bird flying over the hillside about 150 meters away. I raise the lens and snap a photo then I show the closest child, a boy of about 12 years, how to pinch zoom on the camera's touch screen. Five wide-eyed faces crowd around the camera. As the boy zooms in on the picture I see the expanding image of some species of hornbill reflected in all of their eyes. Their mouths slacken into astounded O shapes as they come to grips with the camera's power to snatch ephemeral objects out of thin air and solidify them in time. They ooh and ahh and smile, seeming to regard me as a magician. I begin to feel very self-conscious.

 My clothing, backpack, camera gear, and other supplies comprise a dollar amount that is far in excess of the average yearly income for this rural area. It is likely more than double the per capita GDP of this country. I am the walking manifestation of First World wealth. An elderly man with a well-worn but comically long panga emerges through the herringbone of tangled leaves at the edge of his small yard. He smiles and points to a tall tree across the road. "Musizi," he states. I scan the top of the tree, checking for motion, and see the dark shape of a large bird with a long tail perched in some dead branches. I snap a photo and show it to the man saying "I think this is some kind of trogon or turaco". He smiles wider, revealing a paucity of teeth which look like cracked tombstones in a disused graveyard. "No," he says, "Tree. Tree is musizi".
 "Moo-sheej," I repeat, trying to replicate his pronunciation.
 "Moo-shee-jih!" he corrects before continuing, "Good firewood. Good shade for fruit tree. Grows very very fast!"

 Not knowing exactly how to respond, I simply say "thank you" and introduce myself, offering my hand. I learn the man's name is Arnold as he vigorously shakes my hand, rotating the grip up and down many times with enthusiasm. My small crowd of followers has not yet dispersed. When the man releases my hand it is immediately taken up by a small child whom I had not noticed was standing right next to me. The child is holding my hand in both of his and examining it with great focus. The old man says something in Luganda to the child which causes the latter to giggle. I catch the word mzungu in the stream of rapid syllables as the child peaks under the cuff of my sleeve, checking to see if my arms match my hands and face. "Well, it was very nice to meet you," I say to Arnold, "it's already getting very hot so I'm going to keep walking". He smiles and waves saying "Nice to meet you too" as I take my leave.

 Rush hour seems to be slowing as I proceed further down the road. My shoes and pant legs are now coated with a layer of red dust as fine as ash. As I crest a rise in the road something catches my eye in the dense tangle of underbrush. I point my camera toward the movement but it instantly disappears. Was that a rabbit? Weird. Not exactly the type of wildlife I was expecting. Presently, I come upon two women conversing amiably in the dirt yard of a doleful looking residence. They are dressed conservatively in long skirts and cloth headwraps. Both of them smile and wave as I approach. The woman nearest the road is wearing a bright red Coca-Cola tee shirt. She addresses me in minimally accented English: "Good morning, how are you?"
 "Good morning," I reply, "I'm well, thank you. What a beautiful day."
 "Oh yes," she says as her cohort smiles and nods, "We have had a solid month of rain. It is good to see the sun. My name is Hope and this is Maxencia. What brings you to Uganda?"
 "Well, I'm somewhat of an amateur wildlife photographer. My friend Brendan—maybe you know him—has been coming here for years and I decided to tag along this time." I notice their eyes lit up at the mention of Brendan's name.
 "Yes! We know Brendan," Hope says enthusiastically. "He is a wonderful person. He pays for Maria's school fees. Maxencia is Maria's mother."
 "Oh, wow," I say, a little stunned. "Small world!"

 I am probably in excess of three kilometers down a dirt road in a very rural village where few mzungus are ever seen and yet people here know Brendan. Hope goes on to relate how she, herself, was sponsored as a child much as Brendan is sponsoring Maria. She pauses every now and then to translate our conversation for Maxencia who is leaning on a long handled garden hoe and smiling brightly. A man dressed in ragged knee-length cutoff shorts and a threadbare button-up collared shirt emerges from the mud brick shack and ambles our way. Hope introduces him as Maria's father and we shake hands in the African fashion. In my peripheral vision I see a great deal of motion in the woodline that hems in this small homestead. As I look more deliberately, I see that there are several, if not many, black and white rabbits frolicking around the property. Hope follows may gaze and laughs when she sees what's drawing my attention. "Maria's family raises rabbits. They also grow matoke," Hope says, pointing to a blanket on the ground on which the banana-like fruit is drying in the sun.

 I once again invoke the rapidly increasing temperature and overbearing sun as I wish the three well and prepare to depart. Hope reaches out and shakes my hand warmly in both of hers. "We hope you are enjoying Uganda. You are most welcome," she says with sincerity. As I once again take to the road I notice a rabbit slowly emerging from the brush. The little guy isn't hopping but is crouch-walking on all fours like a cat. It stalks in this fashion up to the matoke blanket and begins munching energetically. I have to cross the road and step into the tall jungly brush in order to get a shot with my 400mm lens. I snap the picture. Hope, Maxencia, and Maria's father—whose name I did not retain—laugh and wave.

 I am amazed by the sheer variety of birds that perch, flit, and fly all around me. I pause frequently to photograph the many different species of sunbird that are plying their trade among tall herbaceous plants with tubular flowers. I can already tell that I'm going to have a hell of a time identifying these birds to species. Sunbirds are a family of songbirds with a very similar niche to that of the hummingbird. They have long decurved bills that are perfect for extracting nectar from tubular flowers, the can hover briefly, and they generally spread pollen everywhere. I am noticing that they all seem to be molting into their breeding plumage. What's more, many of the bright colors that flash and shine as these birds move about is the result of iridescence—meaning the colors change depending on the angle of light reflecting off of the feathers. Good luck figuring out which is which.

 When I departed from Maria's family's home I hadn't really noticed that my crowd of followers had dispersed. Now, as I painstakingly track the manic movements of a sunbird as it dashes from one cluster of flowers to another, I hear a muffled giggle behind me. I turn around and see a small girl, maybe six years old, standing there smiling joyfully. She is holding a jackfruit quarter in her left hand and peeling the fibrous sheath from the pods with her right. Her face is covered in the sticky juice and pulp consequent to this endeavor. As has become my practice, I show her the image of the sunbird on my camera's screen. Her eyes widen at the sight of this frenzied little bird frozen in time amidst a cloud of pollen. The sun is now high enough that we are no longer shaded by the taller trees that line the road and I'm beginning to feel a burn coming onto the exposed areas of my body. I say goodbye to the girl who manages a small wave, still clutching a jackfruit pod.

 I've exhausted the water supply in my backpack and I'm sweating clean through my clothes. The right side of my face is definitely beginning to burn. I do a one-eighty to return to the village and the sun wheels around to broil the left side of my face. It's like flipping a steak. As I walk, I continue to pause and photograph birds but I quickly decide I'd better get a move on. My Casio Pathfinder wristwatch [35] tells me that it is 9:45am and 27 degrees Celsius. That's in the neighborhood of 81 degrees Fahrenheit already. Having come from the freezing cold state of Vermont less than two days ago, I have not yet acclimated to this sort of thing. I walk on, beginning to feel slightly nauseous. Just then, I hear a boda approaching. The rider comes to a rapid scraping halt right next to me, the puffs of red dust from the wheels continue down the road ahead of us.
 "You want a ride," he says in heavily accented English.
 "How much to take me to SINA village," I reply.
 "SINA village, SINA village," he repeats—a common feature of English-as-a-second-language diction for East Africans, "Two thousand!" Now, 2,000 shillings is less than 60 cents but for the relatively short distance we'll be traveling, it's highway robbery. Almost literally. Unfortunately, he has me right where he wants me. My sun-addled and desiccated brain is not up for the delicate dance of the bargain.
 "Ok fine," I say, "two thousand. But let me ask you this: are you a real boda guy or just somebody that has a motorcycle?" [36]
 "Yes. Real boda." His tone doesn't inspire confidence but at this point I'm willing to risk it.

 Having learned from my previous boda experience, I ask the driver to wait as I hop on and settle my soggy ass into the seat. When I've secured a death grip on the sissy-bar and under the seat, I say "OK, go". He opens the throttle and eases the clutch out much more reasonably than the aspirational Kamikaze that nearly killed me yesterday. Still, we are soon moving at a totally inadvisable speed given the road conditions. The driver beeps the tinny horn spasmodically as we pass men casually walking the road and small girls with huge yellow jerry cans balanced on their heads. Because much of what I've seen has first passed through my 400mm lens, I don't quite recognize any landmarks and I have no real sense of how long this trip should take. We come around a bend in the road in hair-raising fashion and I soon see Maria's family's house. Shouldn't be long now. After a few livestock-related near misses, we arrive at the steep driveway that will bring us past Kaleke Kasome and back to my humble hut.

 The driver slows and turns onto the red earth driveway. We've lost quite a bit of momentum and the bike's small engine begins to bog down under the strain. We roll a few feet backwards and come to a stop, both of us firmly planting our feet. The driver looks at me over one shoulder and says "Extend."
 "Extend?" I say, not understanding. "Like, pay more money? We agreed on two thousand."
 "No. Extend," he says, rather unhelpfully, then "Lean forward".
 "Oh, I get it! We need to transfer weight to the front so we can climb the hill."
 "Yes," he says pulling his feet up and opening the throttle. I follow suit and extend, scootching my butt forward and leaning into him. We have a couple of false starts as he works on the delicate balance between the throttle and clutch. With the rear wheel kicking out a small rooster-tail of red dust, we manage to climb the hill. Kids are playing on the rusty swings in front of Kaleke Kasome. A man that might be Hasa waves at us but I am unwilling to release my grip on the bike to wave back.

 The driveway levels off as we approach SINA. We're still moving at a good clip when the driver says "Okay, okay".
 "Ok? Yeah, you can let me off here if you want, I'll walk the rest of the way," I reply, not catching his meaning.
 "No," he says, "No more extend".
I realize that I am still pressed firmly up against him even though the steep hill has long since receded in the bike's wing mirrors.
 "Oh, sorry," I say, easing myself rearward. Soon we arrive in front of the large barracks-style building from which my towel-clad fellow mzungu emerged during my departure. The driver stops and puts both feet down. I hop awkwardly off of the bike and fetch 2,000 shillings from my wallet. Without a single word of goodbye, the driver pockets the cash and tears off down the driveway. It is about 10am as I walk back to my hut, drenched in sweat, covered in a fine red silt, mildly nauseous, and for the first time in a long time; enjoying myself immensely.

Continue to the next post!

~~~

Speckle-lipped skink.

SINA village huts as seen from the shaky DIY observation platform. My hut is fourth from the right. 

Fiscal shrike. One of ten species native to East Africa. There are only two shrike species in Eastern North America.

Lesser striped swallow.

Male and female Red-cheeked Cordon Bleu. I have yet to properly identify the small hopping yellow bird.

Nearly clotheslined! Situational awareness fail.

African pygmy kingfisher. East Africa has several species of forest kingfisher that are not dependent on water. This little guy goes after insects and other small prey.

A small crowd begins to follow me. The kid in the orange shirt is totally wise to my selfie-as-countersurveillance trick.

African grey parrot—not in a pet store!

Eastern grey plantain eater.

Maria's family grows matoke and raises rabbits. This rabbit is munching away on the matoke they're drying in the sun. 

Scarlet-chested sunbird (probably). 

______

[30]: ...or back left corner if you're sitting on the john.

[31]: It's a little disturbing that I sometimes think in terms of "we" when there's nobody else around. This is diagnostic of something, I'm sure.

[32]: Tea tree oil is antimicrobial, antifungal, and kills small parasites like lice and scabies. It is an excellent choice for general use in the bush and in areas where these threats are prominent. There's probably a better way to say that last part.

[33]: Among other incontestable diagnoses. Their passings were a little under two years apart.

[34]: Panga is the Swahili word for machete or other similar large hard-use knives.

[35]: I am totally open to endorsement deals. Canon would be best but I'll take whatever I can get.

[36]: Chance encounters with random riders of motorcycles along the road always carry the possibility of a less than desirable outcome. It can be hard to tell if the rider is actually doing this for a living or is simply a guy with a motorcycle who is looking to transport you to a second location where his buddies are waiting to rob you. This is much less of a concern if you pick a boda up from an actual boda stage. The best practice is to get to know a particular boda guy and stick with him for all of your boda needs.

Day 1 Part Two: Kampala to Mpigi

"If you want to walk fast, walk alone. If you want to walk far, walk with others." - East African Proverb

"Yes, I see that you are very tired. I will make it fast. So, the third stage is called 'bargaining'..." -Monica

"It's about saving life."- Hasa

Brendan and I have been slowly inching his balcony chairs ever further away from the encroaching sun—like an Attenborough time-lapse of starfish meandering across barnacled rocks to keep ahead of the receding tide—when Brendan sees a Toyota Spacio with large rainguards on the windows slowing in front of the building's driveway.
 "Ruth's here. Only twenty minutes late, not bad!" he says. Just then the driver, barely visible through the tinted glass but obviously tall and male, hits the accelerator and speeds off.
 "Welp, that definitely wasn't Ruth," I say, "Dude, what if she doesn't show up? How will I get to Mpigi?"
 "Relax man, transportation is not an issue in Uganda. Taxis go that way all day long," says Brendan supportively.
 "Alright, but I'd rather not be sardine-d into a taxi with 14 other people. Oh well. Whatever it takes, I guess."
 "She'll be here," Brendan replies with confidence.

 Brendan and I are perhaps an unlikely pair to have traveled halfway across the world together. I have a propensity for overthinking things, imagining every way in which the wheels can come off in any situation (no matter how innocuous), and for constructing highly detailed mental narratives regarding the complete and total destruction of everything I have ever known and loved for no reason whatsoever. Brendan, on the other hand, seems to genuinely exist in the here and now—full time. I find myself asking him litanies of very specific questions[19] as I seek to assuage my own anxiety. He is very patient with my talmudic style of reasoning but it is often clear that he cannot follow my mind to the same dark anxious places. He simply no longer speaks that language. Years of dedicated meditation practice and individual therapy have taken him from the depths of crippling agoraphobia and panic to the intrepid world traveler he is today. He is often more patient with me than I am with him. Somehow, we get along famously.

 Upon our return to the apartment, after the sphincter-tightening boda ride, I had changed (for a variety of reasons) into shorts and a tee shirt. It is now 2:45pm and I am thinking that Ruth must at least be on her way so I go into the apartment to get myself together for the trip to Mpigi. I am in the midst of changing back into my quasi-military adventure travel gear [20] when I hear the telltale scrape of Ruth's car making a carrier-landing on the driveway.
 "Ruth's here!" says Brendan from the balcony.
 "Shit. I'll be ready in a minute," I say feeling unprepared.
 "Don't sweat it. She's on our time now."

 I manage to make my way down the stairs without tripping. Fourth time's a charm. Charcoal man continues to fill bags, the DVD boys are now blasting something Latin-sounding, and my coffee cup and paper bag continue to languish in the culvert. We pile into Ruth's car as Brendan explains that he'll need to stop at Vodafone to get his cell phone working. At this point in the trip, neither one of us has a working phone. The Ugandan mobile system does not play well with our American equipment. Ruth advises that Soraya had texted her with feigned surprise that Brendan was not at the restaurant.The four kilometers between the apartment and said restaurant goes by much more quickly in the car than on foot, but about ten times as slow compared with our near-death boda experience. Traffic forces us to a natural stop in front of MF Foods and we see Soraya waving to us from under the awning. I slide over in the back seat as Soraya gets in the car. She introduces herself and reports that she had been waiting there for us since 12:45.
 "We were sitting right there for two hours! Don't even try to tell me you were there the whole time." says Brendan before adding "No fuckin' way!"

 Soraya is sticking to her story but the matter drops away as we discuss our plans for the rest of the day. We are to visit Kaleke Kasome, the charity that Soraya and Brendan are involved in, and meet its founder Maurice Hasa. Then, it'll just be a quick hop up the road and I'll be installed in my village. After several minutes of fighting dense traffic, Ruth pulls the car over to the left hand shoulder and parks next to a sign announcing No bodaboda with a red circle and line through a representation of a motorcycle. Brendan says "I'll be right back" as he exits the car, taking his life into his hands crossing the street. He then disappears into the shadows of a deep awning over the Vodafone store. Multitudes of pedestrians are flowing around the car like a stream around a rock. Many of them perform double-takes upon noticing the mzungu sweating in the back seat of this car. Taxis temporarily park inches from my window, their drivers and hype-men looking hungrily at Ruth and Soraya[21]. The heat is becoming intolerable yet Ruth admonishes me to keep my window up to ward off potential camera thieves.

 While we wait for Brendan, the three of us converse comfortably. I learn that Soraya is a founding member of Kaleke Kasome and was the 1st runner-up in the 2012 Miss Uganda pageant. As these long, balmy minutes tick by, Ruth and Soraya are increasingly speaking to each other in Luganda. I suspect they're cajoling Brendan in his absence as I hear his name interspersed between otherwise unintelligible words. Ruth decides to take a short walk to retrieve some ice cream against the broiling heat. When she returns, the ice cream is shared equally between the two of them. They offer some to me but I politely decline. There is a genuine quality to this interaction that is typically lacking back in the States. Sharing, here, seems to be a way of life and it is offered with sincerity and an expectation that one will partake. For the time being, however, I am being extremely conservative about victuals in order to safeguard against the dreaded but inevitable running stomach. So far, so good but the night is young.

 After what seems like an outrageous wait, Brendan returns to the car. Ruth and Soraya immediately start abusing him for taking so long and attribute the wait to his having been "talking with girls". This may or may not have been the case. Ruth fires up the Spacio and we merge courageously into traffic. We encounter the usual mixture of cars, large trucks, taxis, bodas, and pedestrians as the road begins to leave the city. Most of the larger vehicles are elaborately stenciled with religious or philosophical slogans. By my unscientific count, it seems that there is a roughly fifty-fifty distribution between Christian and Islamic sentiments. The foreboding Masha Allah!, familiar from this morning's near collision, now appears on an enormous petrol tanker. Bismillah is frequently represented as is Jesus Reigns. I am fairly handy with simple Arabic religious expressions but I rely on Ruth and Soraya to translate automotive adornments appearing in Luganda. I take a swing at pronouncing Olokoka ddi? placing the emphasis on the second syllable as is often the case with four syllable English words. Soraya corrects me by placing, to my ear, equal stress on all four syllables of the first word. She advises that this phrase means "When are you getting saved?", firmly putting it in the Christian category.

 The road opens before us leaving the dense traffic of Kampala in the hazy distance. I snap many pictures as we hurtle along gaining speed steadily. A woman in a long skirt is making her way to the shell of a brick building. She has a small child swaddled on her back and is balancing what appears to be a reasonably heavy load on top of her head. I have about one second to compose the shot as we race along. Thank god for fast shutter speeds. I see a round sign with the number 80 in a red circle. Looking over Ruth's shoulder I clock our current speed at 105kph.
 "Was that a speed limit sign?" I ask of all three of my companions.
 "Yes," is Ruth's simple response.
 "Do you ever get stopped by the police for speeding?"
 "Maybe if you were driving crazy but not just for speeding. Everybody does it," advises Ruth [22].

 Every K or so we pass a roadside stand where locals are selling their wares. Intricately woven baskets are stacked hourglass style next to gourds of various sizes. Loofahs hang at the end of tree branches. We pass a small hovel, next to which are parked a Toyota Hilux, two bodas, and the wreck of an old-style ambulance with a red sheet uselessly slung across its gaping interior. The now familiar brilliant white uniform of a traffic officer is dimly visible in the doorway. The Hilux is marked Police and has a blue and red lightbar on the roof. I am in the midst of thinking the phrase it doesn't look like they can handle much of an emergency when another police Hilux goes screaming past us in the oncoming lane. In the short bed of this truck there is a double-sided black vinyl bench. Each side of this bench contains two soldiers (for lack of a better term) rigged for combat. They are wearing dark blue and black urban camo fatigues and helmets. Each of them has a Kalashnikov, muzzle down, resting between their knees. The rear-most soldier, his arms casually folded over the butt of his rifle, looks directly at me as we pass. Having seen this, I strike the previous thought from my mental record. It seems that the Uganda Police Force is ready and able to deploy complete fire teams at a moment's notice. As we near Mpigi, I see several more of these trucks, often with three soldiers on each side of the bench instead of two. The UPF rolls deep.

 Having almost reached our destination, we decide to stop for provisions. Ruth pulls the car into one of the few open spaces in front of a small grocery store. The four of us get out and walk through the open doorway, beside which sits a security guard in a slightly disheveled navy blue uniform with gold epaulettes. He startles mildly and clutches his outrageously long and well-worn Mosin Nagant rifle as if the sound of our doors closing woke him from a deep sleep. Once inside, I am immediately drawn to a pyramid of five liter Rwenzori spring water jugs. I pick up two in each hand, devoting two fingers to each carry handle, and begin the short farmer's walk to the cash register which is a mere three meters away. I am intercepted halfway there by two Ugandan teenagers who pry the water jugs from my fingers and carry them the remaining distance to the counter. They smile at me before dispersing back into the aisles to complete whatever tasks they had been attending to. As I ask the proprietor behind the register—a middle-aged Chinese woman—if I pay here for the bananas displayed outside, I see Soraya coming to the counter with an armload of snacks and sundry items. The johnny-on-the-spot teenagers are nowhere in sight to help Soraya. There is a sort of colonial feeling about the service I received and Soraya didn't [23] that leaves a cold lump in the pit of my stomach.

 The Chinese woman rings me up and explains that the banana stand is not affiliated with this establishment. I stuff my change into my wallet and turn to pick up my water jugs. The teenagers materialize out of thin air and will hear none of it as I explain that I'm quite comfortable carrying my items by myself. I now follow as the lads take my water out to Ruth's car and load the heavy bottles into the trunk. They smile expectantly at me so I divide the coins in my pocket between them[24]. They both trouser the coins in unison and run back inside. Soraya emerges from the store carrying her purchases in two plastic bags. She informs me that she already bought a bunch of bananas from the stand for me. I thank her as we all get back into Ruth's car. Soraya is daintily munching some sort of snack from a thin clear plastic bag. She turns to me smiling and says "Want some?" I say "sure", my peripheral vision identifying the snacks as cashews or something of that ilk. As I reach into the bag, the picture comes into focus and I am somewhat shocked to learn that it contains a few hundred deep-fried grasshoppers. The handful I was about to take drains through my fingers as I decide to eat only one. I pop the little guy into my mouth and begin chewing with a bemused smile on my face. Not bad. A little stale but not bad. "Mmph, turmeric," I say around the masticated chitinous parts of the bug's exoskeleton. Soraya nods approvingly. 

 Soon we leave the relative comfort (if not safety) of the highway and begin trundling along the red dirt roads of Mpigi. As we slowly negotiate craters and channels carved into the road, bodas pass us by at alarming speed, leaving trails of thick red dust rising skyward. Shepherds lead teams of livestock from their daily grazing sites. Clusters of forlorn dwellings give way to larger buildings as we approach Mpigi's small but dense and energetic market district. Ruth heaves the car over to the shoulder at Brendan's request and shuts it down. "I just need to pick up a few things for Hasa," says Brendan as the four of us step out of the car and into the dust and bustle of the market. We are parked next to a boda stage where there are more bodas than riders in evidence. Taxis come groaning down the road, slowing briefly to entice any would-be passengers.

 A deep culvert separates the road from the shops. We cross rickety lengths of gray plywood and flakeboard which are laid across the trench as ad-hoc footbridges before ascending the crudely carved clay stairs that lead up to the shops. There are a few flea-market style tents near the road which appear to have no other purpose than to shelter the townsfolk from the last leaking gasps of the rainy season. The smell of charcoal from several improvised barbecue grills mixes with the dust and odors attendant to livestock to form a sweet and heady olfactory miasma which is, in truth, experienced with all five senses. Lacking any proper innate sense of direction and dazzled by the frantic insectoid motion of this place, I feel pleasantly disoriented [25]. I snap a few hurried photos as Brendan emerges from the shade of a dilapidated storefront carrying a large bag of rice and a stack of chapatis. He explains that these provisions are for Hasa, Kaleke Kasome's founder, who spends many consecutive days at the organization's small center and often forgoes eating if he feels it would delay his work.

 The sound and fury of the marketplace recede in Ruth's wing mirrors as we press on toward the village. Many narrow tracks and cowpaths switchback up and down like tributaries flowing from our hilly road. We stop periodically to allow teams of livestock to pass. The many bodas shooting by in both directions do not defer as we do and near-misses occur frequently. Eventually, as the car climbs steeply up the dusty two-track, a mobile-home sized stucco building appears over my right shoulder. A man in blue jeans and a striped tank top is leading a Sanga cow across the building's lawn with a long frayed rope of impressive diameter. The cow plods on disinterestedly, swiveling its massive horns rearward in lamentation of grazing yet unfinished. We come to a complete stop to allow this duo to proceed before Ruth negotiates a hairpin turn and parks the car in the grass.

 The sound of our doors closing causes several small children to emerge. They greet Brendan enthusiastically and look cautiously my way as I fiddle with my camera. This vanguard is followed closely by two adult men who are presently negotiating the concrete stairs as they come out of the building. One of the men is wearing faded jeans and a blue Rotary Club tee shirt. He smiles broadly as the pair approach. The second man's bearing radiates an intense and solemn energy. His gait is slow and rhythmic. His gaze is steady, evaluative, deliberate. Unbelievably, given the climate, he is wearing a knit winter hat and a thin white sweater over a pink long-sleeve collared shirt. This is Maurice Hasa, founder of Kaleke Kasome Children's Centre. He strides toward Brendan and they embrace. The man in the blue shirt introduces himself as Azariah and we shake hands in the African fashion. Brendan presents me to Hasa with a simple introduction.
 "It is so nice to finally meet you," says Hasa, his words spilling softly around the frozen ropes of his very direct and intense eye contact. "Equally," I respond, shaking his hand. Hasa and I had been chatting periodically via WhatsApp for several weeks before my arrival. The impression I had formed of him, though eminently positive, had not prepared me for the air of earnestness that is now deeply impressed upon me.

 These introductions complete, Hasa says "come" and leads us into the building for a brief tour. Upon entering, we are admitted into a medium sized room with lime green walls. There is a large mural of a man helping a small girl put on a pair of new shoes. Smaller and more numerous posters announce "Let girls learn!", "Girl Power Saturday", and "Men Against Defilement"[26], giving a sort of overview of the Center's raison d'etre. Hasa quietly narrates the purpose of each room as he leads us through the narrow hallway. Large, one meter diameter drums with goatskin heads are clustered invitingly in a corner next to a 73 key Casio keyboard. This is the music room. Hasa's voice is quiet and forceful as he explains some of the other activities that are part of the Center's programming. There is something deeply engaging about his manner. He pauses frequently, inserting "yes?", between every third or fourth sentence. I nod attentively. Azariah smiles.

 Months ago, when he first put me into contact with Hasa; Brendan gave me the briefest sketch of who this man is and what he represents. Maurice Hasa was a very popular Ugandan R&B singer with a promising and accelerating career in the music industry. His hit single Kaleke Kasome, now the appellation of the Children's Center, means "Let the girl go to school" in Luganda. Realizing that there weren't enough hours in the day to sustain his music career and his charitable work, Hasa simply walked away from a life of wealth and fame—a life that most Ugandans can only dream about [27]. Now he is leaning on the concrete wall of his small building, looking pensively out the window. There is something incredibly poignant about this tableau, the late afternoon light filtering through the open window into the tiny unlit room, Hasa's hand resting on the steel security bars that both adorn and defend, his benevolent thousand yard stare contrasting with Azariah's good-natured grin. I try futilely to capture the moment with my camera but it runs through my fingers like sand. A thousand pictures and a million words will never communicate the impact of this moment in time.

 "Come. I will show you the village and how our people are living," says Hasa beckoning us toward the exit. We walk down the concrete stairs and across the lawn, Ruth and Soraya in tow. A boy of no more than ten kicks a soccer ball our way as we walk; it whizzes by us and comes to rest under a creaking metal swingset. Hasa looks over his shoulder and gives the boy a mischievous smile. Azariah kicks the ball back. We continue down the potholed driveway (that had given Ruth some trouble on our way up) and cross the dusty main road. Flattened plastic Fanta bottles and other assorted detritus peak out from under the road's overgrown margins. We step carefully around cow patties camouflaged by the blowing red dust. Children materialize from places unseen and begin to follow. Soon our party numbers in the teens. Hasa reaches into a tall bush and extracts a perfectly straight walking stick. I wonder how or even if he knew it was there in the first place. As our retinue continues down a side street we are taking on the appearance of a flock of sorts. Hasa leads the way, walking stick in hand. Many children follow and frolic around him. I catch up to Brendan who is walking hand in hand with a small boy in a yellow collared shirt. I come up alongside the pair and the boy takes my right hand, his tiny grip holding on to my last two fingers. I have always been uncomfortable around children but the sweetness of this moment disarms me completely. If I did not come here to step boldly and thoroughly out of my comfort zone, then why have I come? I ponder this as the golden hour light sets flame to the western sky.

 The small shops we pass are closing in preparation for the equatorial darkness which falls like a curtain when the sun goes down. Soon we follow Hasa down a singletrack path worn into the grass and dirt by the passage of many feet. He pauses to examine the quality of a large ear of corn growing in a small plot. "We have big plans for this community. A grain mill. If these people are able to mill their own maize then they can feed themselves and have an income. Big plans," he trails off, continuing down the path. Tall trees and jungle-y brush begin to encroach to our sides. The boisterous voices and low thump thump of rap music blasted from shop windows recedes into the distance. Strange bird calls and the buzzes and clicks of a multitude of insects take their place. We come to a stop as Hasa explains that this is the route that girls as young as five years old must take to fill their family's jerry cans with water. A route that, sadly, leaves them alone and exposed to the whims of soulless child predators. Defilement. The word somehow sounds more appropriate, more sinister and evocative than the almost euphemistic language we use in the West. I suppress a shudder and fiddle with my camera settings to cleanse the thoughts and images from my mind. They retreat from the forefront but still they remain.

  Azariah looks down and draws our attention to a writhing sea of large black ants that are not at all pleased with our presence. "Eh! Ants!" he remarks, stomping his feet forcefully to dislodge the many insects that are now rapidly climbing up our legs. On cue, the children all begin stomping their feet and we start moving again, this time more quickly. The children's random stomping footfalls naturally coalesce into a marching unison that gives the impression of a tiny army. I am close to making a joke of this when I recall that armies of child soldiers—no older than these young ones—are an abominable reality in many African countries. Not long ago, the child slave armies of Joseph Kony terrorized the north of this very nation. Unbidden, radio pioneer David Sarnoff's quote enters my mind: "Let us not paralyze our capacity for good by brooding of man's capacity for evil". I look up to see Hasa smiling as he musses the hair of a small boy with his left hand. The other children are orbiting him, smiling, poking, gamboling freely in the calm of his wake. My eyes begin to well up. Not for the last time.

 We arrive at the village well. a muddy concrete structure with several stairs leading down to a shallow pool of water. Brendan is attended by an almost equal number of children as Hasa; among them is a small girl called Maria whose clothing and school fees he sponsors. "Let's get a picture," Hasa says, herding the party down the few stairs of the well. Brendan remains off to one side but Hasa insists he joins the children on the steps. I have to redirect the entire group to the other side of the well in order to take advantage of the remaining light. I snap a few photos and show Hasa on my camera's screen. "Yes, it is good" is his simple response.  We leave the well by a different path and soon we are among the mud huts, pens, and brick houses of the village proper. Chickens roam freely, pecking at the ground and clucking disapprovingly at us. There are many small goats wandering through the village and standing awkwardly on gigantic anthills; the tiniest ones bleating plaintively as they aggressively nose under their mothers to nurse. Several columns of large black ants march with military precision, perhaps feeding the swarm through which we waded earlier. Dogs lounge on the red earth appearing content.

 We come to a small courtyard of sorts, nestled between a large brick house and several mud outbuildings. Hasa proceeds to collect and arrange a series of small wooden chairs and bids us to be seated. I remain standing in order to continue taking photographs. "The young girl who lives here became pregnant and had a child last year," Hasa explains in low tones. "She had been going to school but her grandmother wants her to remain in the village with the child now. We are working with the family so that the girl can continue her schooling." Soraya is now sitting next to the grandmother, holding her hand and conversing in Luganda. The young mother Hasa was describing emerges from the house with a woven mat. She lays the mat on the ground next to her grandmother's chair and sits. "Take a picture," says Hasa pointing to the girl. I compose the shot, feeling intrusive and voyeuristic. The girl looks at me through the lens and does not smile. There is a palpable energy between the girl and her grandmother, like two opposing magnets that repel each other for no other reason than the accident of their orientation in time and space. The girl sees the open door of a better future— just out of reach. The grandmother sees the girl's true and rightful place to be in the village: she is a mother now. Neither is necessarily wrong. Neither wishes anything less than a happy and fulfilling life for the other. Yet they are bound by their irreconcilable conceptions of what the future must be. As Terence McKenna was fond of saying: Culture is not your friend.


 After several minutes, Hasa stands and taps his walking stick on the dirt. This is our cue to press onward, back to the Children's Center. We say goodbye to the girl and her grandmother and continue up the trail, passing small plots of corn and short, broad leafed trees heavy with bunches of matoke. I am walking next to Azariah and we chat amiably. He is a dentist who volunteers his time and efforts at Kaleke Kasome. He asks how I am finding Uganda. I ramble for a minute, trying to aggregate the thoughts that writhe and swarm through my consciousness like the ants we had tread upon earlier. "I love it here," is perhaps the most coherent thought to emerge. "Every single thing I've seen is brand new to me and the wildlife is outrageous!" Azariah smiles warmly and says "that's good to hear". In punctuation of this exchange, a gigantic bird comes to a rambunctious and noisy landing in the top branches of the tree under which we are standing. The bird calls repetitively and noisily, sounding like a mallard on steroids...and meth. I backpedal furiously to get the angle for a shot, simultaneously raising the camera to my eye and trying to focus. Azariah can't help but laugh as I trip on a fallen branch and barely remain on my feet.
 "That's amazing! Look at that thing!" I say gleefully. Now Azariah is really laughing.
 "They are very common," he states, "Actually, kind of a nuisance." the last word broken into three syllables by the escape of a few chuckles.
 "I just can't believe that everywhere I turn, I see something incredible. I love this place!"
 "You are most welcome," says Azariah turning to catch up with the group.

 We arrive back at the center and say our goodbyes with many handshakes and fraternal embraces. Hasa tells me that I am welcome to visit him at any time and says "If you need anything, I am right here" with the same earnestness that seems to characterize all of his speech. Brendan, Soraya, and I pile into Ruth's car as she turns the key. The sun has now set over the western hillside and a dull purple twilight illuminates the red and green landscape as we climb the rutted road. I am surprised that the trip from Kaleke Kasome to the place where I'll be billeted takes under one minute. As the road levels off, I am able to see a collection of barracks-style buildings and large circular huts with thatched roofs. A small sign pegged into the ground on a piece of lath reads People who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are already doing it. This is SINA village: Social Innovation Academy.  Despite my penchant for preparedness and the exhaustive research I've done regarding Uganda and third world travel in general; I actually have very little idea of what goes on at SINA. Having determined that it is a safe place to stay with rustic if not primitive accommodations, I simply ended my investigation, thoroughly satisfied.

 Ruth drives past the barracks, the large huts, and an enormous brick building with garish green trim now only dimly visible in the failing light. She parks in front of some kind of elevated platform of obvious DIY construction and shuts the car off. Very few people are stirring and we stand next to the car for several minutes wondering how to "check in" to this place. The echoes of low voices carry across the open field as several small campfires crackle and scent the air with exotic-smelling wood smoke. I immediately notice the aroma to be virtually identical to a pipe tobacco called Latakia which is cured with the smoke of aromatic woods [28]. Savoring it, I proceed to unload my bags and provisions from Ruth's car. A young woman ambles by and we get her attention.
 "My friend Mike is here to check-in. He's registered under my name." says Brendan.
 "Oh ok. Let me go find someone for you," the girl reports appearing a little taken aback. She reverses direction and walks back toward the large circular huts, disappearing between two of them.

 The final minutes of visible light exhaust themselves, ringing the dinner bell for the most dangerous animal in all of Africa. Many of them have gathered stealthily in the shadows. They quickly fall upon us and begin slaking their bloodthirst on our defenseless party. The Anopheles mosquito, the primary vector for malaria, claims half a million lives each year in Africa alone. Modern mosquito nets and programs to distribute them to rural areas are responsible for this relatively low mortality rate. The presence of these nets in the huts where I'll be staying was a major selling point. I swat several of the little buggers as a young woman with very long braids approaches through the darkness. She introduces herself as Majo and beckons us to follow her to my hut. Brendan, Ruth, and Soraya assist me in carrying my twenty liters of water, bananas, and luggage as we walk under the shaky DIY raised platform just behind Ruth's car.

 Majo leads us through a small neighborhood of about ten huts connected with gravel walkways. We arrive at a small, square hut of mud brick construction. Majo produces a key from a pocket and unlocks the brass padlock on the hut's wooden door. I cannot help but feel some disappointment that my hut will not be of the more traditional circular mud-and-stick construction. As she opens the door, Majo advises that the solar electrical system is currently down. She flicks a light switch on and off to demonstrate this. The single light bulb suspended by a length of narrow-gauge lampcord in the center of the hut's conical ceiling remains inert. By the light of my headlamp, I see the hut's simple appointments consist of two steel twin bed frames, one with a mattress and mosquito net, a ten liter blue plastic bucket, a 25 liter yellow jerry can (intended for Diesel but used extensively in Africa for water), and a small three-legged stool-like table which is upholstered in goat skin. I set my bags down and explain to Majo that I have no earthly idea how to operate the mosquito net which is currently twisted and tied in a compact bundle, swaying over my soon-to-be bed. She undoes the knot at the bottom of the bundle and the pink gossamer material spills silently downward reaching the ground. She stretches the ends over the bed frame and expertly tucks the excess under the mattress. I am impressed with her facility with this equipment, so alien to me.

 I am beginning to feel the effects of having been awake for the better part of 48 hours and the bed calls to me seductively. I somewhat rudely preempt Majo's explanation regarding the electrical system's likely rehabilitation and ask her to show me where the bathrooms are. A short walk of about ten meters brings us to a rectangular building with a corrugated steel roof. There are two stalls with creaking wooden doors which Majo advises are "for bathing". The remaining two stalls in this building are the toilets. I peek timidly behind the door of the first toilet to discover the typical African facilities—a twenty centimeter square hole in the tiled floor. Disturbed by my presence, many small flies blow out of the hole and begin buzzing around. The smell is as one would expect but, in my headlamp's small puddle of light, the stall does not seem overly filthy. I am quite pleasantly surprised to discover a mock-up of a western style toilet behind the next stall's door. This was effected by erecting a concrete box over the open pit and mortaring a plastic toilet seat onto its top. An equal if not greater number of flies call this stall home. Many of them are trapped, quivering in the elaborate webs of the many spindly black spiders in the corners of the concrete walls.

 Majo walks us back to my hut. "Please wait here and I will get someone to give you a tour," she says before hurriedly walking away into the darkness.
 "You good, bro? We're gonna take off," says Brendan appearing concerned.
 "Yes. I'm all set. Thanks so much for everything. I'll be in touch as soon as I can," I reply. I had been planning on using SINA's wifi to send messages to my wife and Brendan as needed but the wireless router obviously succumbed to the same fate of the electrical system. I will be incommunicado until either the grid comes back online or I can wangle a local cell phone. More pressingly than this, however, I am extremely disappointed that the light bulb in my hut will not light. I have been mentally preparing for much greater vicissitudes for months but I am thrown for a loop by my inability to get organized in my pitch black hut on this first night. This weighs heavily on my mind. I could, of course, sort all of my gear and provisions by headlamp and flashlight—but, like a child, I want it my way. As such, I sulk, feeling sorry for myself. The intrepid world traveler. Yeah, right. Brendan clearly reads these thoughts on my face as if they're projected, picture perfect and transparent.
 "You sure you're all set? You can come back to Kampala just for tonight if you need to," he says.
 "No way. I'll make the best of it. I think I'm just tired," I report, telling half the truth. If I did not come here to step boldly and thoroughly outside my comfort zone, then why have I come?

 After a round of hugs and general well-wishing; Brendan, Soraya, and Ruth are back in the Spacio. With a salute of closing doors and the sound of the four cylinder engine chugging back to life, they are off. I turn back toward my hut and take a few crunching steps on the gravel pathway when I hear an elated-sounding female voice rapidly approaching out of the gloom.
 "Mike! Mike! Hello!" A young woman of no more than 25 years and probably a little less than 1.5 meters in height is trotting merrily my way.
 "Hi, how are you?" I say, somewhat stunned and rapidly approaching desperation for a good night's sleep.
 "I am well, thank you! My name is Monica and I am very happy to be giving you the tour." she says enthusiastically.
 "That's great, Monica. I don't mean to be rude but I am extremely tired. Maybe you can just show me where to fill my jerry can and we can pick the rest of this up in the morning?" I am acutely concerned about causing offense, especially given that I've been here for less than 30 minutes, but I am having a difficult time imagining myself enjoying a tour of the village, in complete darkness, and under intense air assault from malaria carrying mosquitoes.

 "This is the first time that I am giving the tour to a guest and I am very excited," she says through a smile that could easily replace my inoperative light bulb.
 "Monica, I promise you that I would have much more enthusiasm for this had I not been awake since early Friday morning. Can we please make it a brief tour?"
 "Yes! A brief tour it will be," she says leading me away from the huts and toward what appears to be the center of the football pitch sized area in the middle of the compound.
 Pointing to something that looks like a miniature greenhouse about the size of a dresser, Monica gushes "This is a drying box for matoke. We grow, harvest, and dry our own here!"
  I am having a difficult time matching Monica's effervescence and I'm becoming increasingly self conscious that my lack of patience is being telegraphed by my facial expression and body language [29].

 What I had failed to extract from Brendan and what I had glossed over in my own research was the fact that SINA is somewhat of an intentional community. Though the website is extremely clear regarding the Academy's raison, I had given most of my attention to the Airbnb page on which I had booked my stay. Through Monica's dauntless and fervent orientation spiel, it is now slowly dawning on me that I should have made it clear (during booking) that I am simply availing myself of their spartan accommodations and am not here to participate in the program. I look for a way to break this news as Monica continues.

 "Each scholar has his or her own project and the mentors help us with personal and professional development! They are making clothing out of upcycled materials in this hut!" she enthuses.
 I smile around my involuntarily closing eyelids and between overly aggressive swats at the swarms of malarial insects presently harrying every inch of exposed skin. Now Monica is elaborating at length on the overarching philosophical framework of the organization. I deliver a brutal open-palmed strike to the right side of my neck and am temporarily stunned as my carotid artery, scandalized, takes a second to recover from the blow. It seems I am providing an unsolicited practical demonstration as this violence interrupts my amiable tour guide. "The second stage is called 'anger'," Monica continues, her eyes widening dramatically as my palm comes away from my neck pasted with no less than four crushed mosquitoes.
 "Monica, I am so sorry. I have been awake for 48 hours and I am desperate to get some sleep. Can we please do this tomorrow?" I plead.
 "Yes, I see that you are very tired. I will make it fast. So, the third stage is called 'bargaining'," she carries on, unfazed. In due course, she completes her explication of Kubler-Ross and its implications for the lives of SINA's scholars. It is abundantly clear that her presentation has barely reached operating temperature when she reluctantly accedes to my increasingly despairing pleas for my release. She shakes my hand in the Western fashion and bids me a good night. As her slight frame evaporates into the darkness, she turns smiling and says "See you at morning meeting!"

 I teeter toward my hut, groping my way through the darkness and mumbling I do this shit for a living. I didn't come to Africa to go to morning meeting. My headlamp illuminates the wooden door of my hut as I fumble through my pockets for the padlock's large key. The word Zambia is stenciled in black spray paint at eye level—each hut being named for a country in Sub-Saharan Africa. I turn the key and the padlock gives way. An extremely loud scraping sound echoes through the sleepy village as I push my door open, its bottom dragging on the concrete floor. The light switch clicks uselessly between the on and off positions. Grid down. No light. I momentarily consider organizing my gear by headlamp-light but my exhaustion and childish disappointment sweep this notion aside. I strip off the shirt and pants that I've been wearing since leaving my house in Vermont early Friday morning. It is now Sunday evening and my watch reads 2047. I set an alarm for 0600 having made a commitment to see as many African sunrises as I can during my trip. Grateful that no-one is watching, I make several comedic attempts at parting the mosquito net that Majo had so expertly sealed my bed within. This slapstick concluded, I turn down the corner of the very thick down comforter with which the bed is equipped. Though the air has cooled significantly since the sun's departure, it is laden with the humidity from this morning's rains and, sweating mildly, I decide to sleep atop the covers. 

 Mere minutes ago my eyelids were losing a pitched battle with gravity. Now, as I lay on a foam mattress, on a steel bedframe, under the pink gossamer dome of the mosquito net, in a mud brick hut, on top of a hill in a very rural part of equatorial Africa; huge waves of anxiety erupt violently from the deepest recesses of my being. I am alone. Hopelessly far from my home. My phone is inoperable—I get up and furiously root through my backpack. My hands close around a tiny plastic bottle containing an assortment of OTC medications for a variety of eventualities. I dry-swallow 75mg of benadryl hoping that this infusion will speed the arrival of the morning. Laying down again, my mind is flooded with vivid vignettes of the many abandoned comforts of home. My wife's smile. The plaintive mewing of our cats around feeding times. The warmth and light of our wood stove. The wild caterwauling of the many barred owls which roost and hunt in the thick woods that hem-in our small house. These images and sounds scroll rapidly through my consciousness, each one plunging daggers of homesickness deeper into my gut. I discover that I am breathing shallow quaking breaths and take steps to remedy this. As the minutes slowly pass, I welcome the disjointed hypnagogic thoughts that herald impending sleep. Mercifully, the curtain soon falls.

 My eyes open into groggy slits admitting the soft blue glow of first light that leaks through the open windows of my hut. I am overcome with relief as my eyes widen and take in the brightness of this African dawn. Amorphous shadows sway on the portion of the adjacent hut's thatched roof that is visible through the window. Must be overcast this morning, I think, noting the absence of the typically golden hues attendant to the rising sun. Maybe the sun's not over the horizon yet. I paw around my pillow, find my phone and check the time. I stare at the illuminated screen blinking in disbelief. It reads 2145. My heart sinks. 9:45 pm!? My near heroic dose of diphenhydramine certainly helped to usher me off into dreamland but it didn't take. I have been asleep for approximately one hour. I jump out of bed nearly taking down the mosquito net in my haste. Stepping outside, I am treated to the most brilliant display of vigorously twinkling stars that I have ever seen. The sky is so clear that starlight and a radiant half moon are sufficient to create the shadows that I was so sure implied the dawning of a new day. I should be in awe of this tremendously beautiful sight but I am crushed to be facing the prospect of a long sleepless night. I slip back into my hut, lifting the wooden door as I close it to avoid the ignominious scraping sound. Back in bed, I jam my earbuds in and cue up a playlist of the least overstimulating music downloaded onto my phone. 

 And so the night grinds on. Minute by sleepless minute. I listen to the two most recent Om records, the droning fuzz of distorted bass guitar and funereal quarter-note ride cymbal accents help to guide my thoughts away from the pull of homesick anxiety. Somewhere around midnight I switch to Dan Carlin's excellent Hardcore History podcast and while away several hours as he regales us with the brutal story of Genghis Khan's conquest of the Eastern Hemisphere. When the last episode ends I am too apathetic to play something else. Resigned to my fate, I simply stare upward tracking the movements of mosquitoes and the small beetles that cavort on the outside of the net. I am in the midst of a vortex of self-critical thoughts when my reverie is broken by a voice slowly crooning out a harmonic minor melody. For a second I cannot tell whether this is purely in my head, in my headphones, or coming from outside. I pluck my earbuds from my increasingly sore ear canals and quickly realize that the song is indeed coming from the outside and from some distance away. La ilaha illa allah echoes through the valley, each syllable ululating between semitones. This is Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. It inspires faith in many, fear in some; but it is objectively beautiful. At the conclusion of my dark night of the soul it means relief. It means dawn has arrived. 


Continue to the next post!

~~~

Life goes on.

Baskets, gourds, and loofahs!

This guy has the loofah hookup. I'm not sure what the banana/matoke leaves are for.

Police station.

The UPF rolls deep.

The cows coming home.

The bustling market in Mpigi. Our driver, Ruth, in the foreground.

Kaleke Kasome. A humble building where many lives are changed for the better. 

Hasa and Azariah. Their lives are a testament to service and self-sacrifice. 

Hasa and kids.

The retinue expands.

Everybody loves Brendan.

Mpigi village well.

Azariah and a girl fetching water.

Outdoor kitchen wall construction. Local materials.

African dog relaxing.

Grandmother and Soraya. Granddaughter, now a mother herself, approaches with a woven mat.

Different futures collide.

Black-and-white casqued hornbill. One of the most exotic birds I've seen. Extremely common and considered a near-nuisance in Uganda.

______

[19]: A very abridged list: "What kind of noises would be abnormal to hear in the village at night—gunfire?"; "How many obviously rabid animals have you encountered on the road?"; "How bad are the toilets, like Worst Toilet In Scotland style, or not that bad?"; "What if I miss my flight?"; "What if I can't find my gate?"; "What if Ruth never shows up?"; "How many mzungus are arrested in one month?"; "Was that over the top?"; "Was that assertive enough?"; "What about eye contact?"...

[20]: As my friend Neil put it: "You finally have a use for all those tactical button-ups!" I was defenseless against this accusation.

[21]: By law, licensed taxis (which can be identified by a border of blue and white blocky stripes around the van's beltline) are allowed to stop anywhere on the road at any time. Each taxi has a sort of "hype man" who leans out the window and flogs rides at passers-by, remonstrates other drivers for failing to show deference to the exalted legal position of the Taxi, and generally hurls misogynistic comments at women.

[22]: In an August 2015 article titled "Kampala-Masaka Highway: Cursed or Flawed?", the Uganda Daily Monitor reports this road to be one of the most dangerous in the world in terms of traffic accidents.

[23]: After all, Soraya was the first runner-up in Miss Uganda and I'm just some asshole from New Jersey.

[24]: I'm really not sure how to feel about this interaction. On the one hand, I am unaccustomed to tipping for a service that I am energetically refusing; on the other hand, I expect that tips constitute a healthy percentage of the youngsters' income. The disparity between their treatment of me and non-mzungu clientele complicates these thoughts significantly. Should I have tipped at all? Was my tip of loose change insulting given my obvious means? Travel to the third world puts one in situations where the ethical territory is terra incognita and there is neither the time nor the information to make the "right" decision—whatever that may be. ...and this was a very, very trivial example.

[25]: I have also not slept properly in 48 hours. A few contorted and claustrophobic naps while a guest of Turkish Airlines has done little more than to temporarily stave off the worst ravages of sleep deprivation.

[26]: Defilement is a term referring to child molestation which, horribly, is an endemic problem to these rural areas for a variety of reasons. More on this later.

[27]: ...or most Americans, for that matter.

[28]: For an excellent idea of what these campfires smelled like, go to a tobacconist or drug store and take a whiff of the strongest "English" blended pipe tobacco you can find. These blends are made with a heavy dose of Latakia.

[29]: I am given to understand that it is not difficult to tell how I'm feeling in this manner.