September 1, 2010
Uganda – Day 2 – Lake Bunyoni
Woke up to the soft light of morning and the sound of one of those birds that are frequently enlisted for atmosphere in jungle scenes.
“This is it,” I thought. “Africa.”
I took another awesome shower and we went to face the day in the form of a full English breakfast.
After breakfast, we met our driver, Dominic Kizito. Dominic is the proprietor of Assured Uganda Safari, a tour company he began two years ago when he obtained a loan to purchase the vehicle for it. He came to us highly recommended by one of Kristi’s colleagues, and I’m happy to say that we will extend the recommendation. Dominic is soft-spoken, sometimes with a kind of relaxed pronunciation (I think of it as a Ugandan drawl) that put me at ease. His mouth was often set in a slight smile, and he was very friendly and engaging. We had hired him for the full time we’d be traveling, so it was important that we got along well. Also important was his 14 years of experience and his knowledge of routes, locations, and people. More on that later.
Dominic’s car is a 4WD Toyota van with seats for 9 passengers (passenger seat, then 3, 2, 3 seats in 3 rows behind) and a top that can be raised for game drives. We sat in the first row behind the driver and set off out of the city.
Uganda is ostensibly “drive on the left”, but it’s actually more like “drive where you damn well please.” Part of this is due to the generally poor condition of the roads. We traveled on a few good roads, but even in the capital city, there were serious potholes, and once you got out of the city, you were lucky if there was even one lane’s worth of pavement, which both directions of traffic would use until a larger vehicle came along going the other way. Cars definitely had the right of way over pedestrians, and trucks over cars. The bigger the truck, the righter the way. Dominic made liberal use of the horn to alert motorcycle and bicycle riders of our approach, and we regularly forced smaller oncoming traffic off of the pavement (or even off of the road entirely, onto the shoulder) even when we were driving on their side of the road. No one seemed the slightest bit put out by this.
We headed south west out of Kampala toward Masaka. The road was bordered by swamps filled with papyrus, which looks pretty much like what dandelions would look like if they grew eight feet tall. There were a few open markets and, at regular intervals, villages, which appeared at first glance to be about 30% cell phone sales outlets. There are several competing cell phone providers in the area, and they will pay building owners to paint the road-facing sides with their colors and logos. Many people agree, and the result is an odd colorful and commercial juxtaposition with the other brick and mud buildings.
We stopped at the equator and took touristy photos, then ate at a nearby cafe. We ordered some veggie wraps off the Mzungu menu, and Dominic ordered some local food. We asked him about it, and they brought us out a plate as well. The food was matoke, which is green boiled bananas. It was served with a light vinegary tomato sauce with a few other vegetables in it. It was pretty good. There’s a little bit of banana flavor, but it’s mostly just starchy, like potatoes.
After lunch we drove another quite long way, through Mbarara, toward Kabale. Before we got to Mbarara, we passed by the Lake Mburo National park, and Kristi spotted zebras! We pulled over, got out, and walked out into the countryside to get a better look. There were eight or ten of them standing around in the shade of some trees, a few of them eating. We took some pictures and watched them for a few minutes, until they decided that they’d rather go be zebras somewhere else, and wandered off. We drove on. We passed a little village a mile or so later, and I couldn’t help thinking: “Look at all these people just walking around like there aren’t zebras back there!”
As we got near Kabale, the landscape became very hilly, and you could see all the terracing of farms on the hillsides. We eventually arrived at the Bunyoni Overland Resort, on Lake Bunyoni. We arrived not long before sunset, and immediately set off on a hike up the hill. We were joined by several locals, first a boy of about eight, and then later two of his cousins, who were about fourteen. One of them introduced himself as Bernard, and we had quite a discussion with him about many things. He was an orphan. His parents both died of AIDS, and he lived with his brothers and sisters with his aunt and uncle. We enjoyed a nice view of the lake, then started down, since it was growing darker. We stopped by at Bernard’s family’s house, and the children did a traditional dance and sang a few songs for us. I took a picture of them, we gave them a little money, then headed back toward the resort. It was quite dark by the time we finally got down.
We went to the resort’s restaurant, and ordered goat curry and goat stew, and a few drinks. After a long while, they brought out some chips, because the goat was still not ready. After another bit, the food came out. The two bowls looked identical, and tasted like the only difference was a bit of chili powder had been added to the curry. The goat was so tough as to be inedible. We ate the vegetables, made a heroic attempt to obfuscate how little goat we’d actually eaten, then went to bed.
August 30, 2010
Uganda – Day 1 – Kampala
I arrived in Entebbe at around 11pm. The first thing I noticed as I stepped off the plane was the scent of woodsmoke in the air. It wasn’t overpowering, but it felt out of place at what otherwise seemed like a modern airport. The smell would be a constant companion for the next two weeks; even in relatively urban areas, a significant amount of cooking is powered by wood or charcoal fires.
I found my bag quickly, quite thankful that it arrived at all after four planes over three continents, and was one of the first in line to go through immigration. I provided my passport and immigration form, and the agent behind the counter told me that the visa fee was $50. I was ready for this, and handed over a crisp $50 bill. She put it into a drawer, shuffled some papers around, asked me a question, stamped some papers, and told me that I needed to pay $50 for the visa. I was ready for this, too, since Kristi had warned me that the same had been tried on her. I pointed out that I already gave her $50. She pretended not to hear me, and told me again that the fee was $50. I said, more loudly, this time. “I already gave you $50. You put it in that drawer.” and pointed. She pretended to check, stamped my passport, and I was on my way.
Kristi met me near the airport exit and introduced me to her friend Leanne (from the States) and Leanne’s boyfriend Emma, a native Ugandan, who were giving us a ride. The car was one that Emma had borrowed. Actually, not borrowed: was holding as collateral on a debt that was owed him. It was a heap. When they’d gone through airport security they’d popped the trunk, then discovered that they couldn’t get it closed again. It still wasn’t closed so, after a bit of ineffectual pounding, we used a piece of the clothesline I carry with me when traveling to tie it closed. I felt very boyscouty.
We drove about an hour into Kampala, to the Emin Pasha, a very swanky hotel there, and I experienced the best shower of my life. The shower head was a large disk, about a foot in diameter, with evenly spaced water outlets, and it poured such a torrential flow of water that, were you to be subjected to it involuntarily, it would qualify as a war crime.
Then sleep.
March 1, 2010
Better than a poke in the eye
Kristi and I are watching a movie. It is not a particularly violent or gory movie, or we would probably not be watching it. It is, mostly, a starkly eerie movie with bits of oddball humor. It is a Sam Rockwell movie, so there is lots of squinty smirking.
But, at this particular moment, it is Sam Rockwell bleeding. He has gotten into a fight, and his face is pretty well bashed in. It is not a pretty sight, and as I take it in, I notice that Kristi does not. She has turned on the couch to look at me, and cupped her hands up around her eyes so that the movie cannot enter her field of view. Kristi has a thing about blood.
She offers, as explanation: “I’d rather look at you than look at him beaten up and bleeding all over everything.”
“That may be the least nice thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say.
November 16, 2009
AintGonWriNoMo
Last Tuesday, I met with my book club. Caitlin asked me what I was up to, and I mentioned that I was writing a novel for NaNoWriMo. I told them about the concept and they asked me about my novel.
I told them that it was set in post apocalyptic San Francisco, but I was still figuring out the story.
sound of a record skipping
Why did I do that? I brushed past it and changed the topic. On the drive home I kept thinking about it. I was embarrassed that I was writing a story about zombies. But that wasn’t it; I wasn’t embarrassed by the zombies. I was embarrassed that I was writing toward a goal that was meaningless.
Two years ago, when I failed to complete the novel I was writing, it was because I didn’t know how to write it. I was so out of touch with my romantic side that I looked forward into the heart of the story and froze up. This year, as the beginning of November approached, I chose my topic because I knew it would not be challenging. It turns out that it was, but in a way I didn’t expect. It was challenging to even work on it because it felt hollow.
Driving home, I was fired up about just chucking what I had done and starting over completely. A day later, I realized that I was still thinking about it the wrong way. One of the reasons that NaNoWriMo is great is that it provides an external motivation for something that I really wish I’d do more of on my own. But in this case, it was an external crutch. I was focused on meeting that goal, but it was a completely arbitrary one. It’s not actually what I want to do.
Three years ago, after I had finished my first novel, I decided that the next year, I was going to write short stories instead of another novel. I never did it, but I should have, because I love short stories and I want to write them. So, that’s what I’m going to do for the rest of the month.
Three short stories in 15 days.
Then at least one each month for the next eleven months.
November 2, 2009
Look! An Update! (Also, 275 words)
I’ve started NaNoWriMo again this year, for the first time in 2 years. I’m off to a fairly unimpressive start, with only 275 words written yesterday.
My stated plan is write a murder mystery slash political thriller set in a post-zombiepocalypse world. It should be awesome and/or gruesome.
You can follow my progress via this image: 
. At least, once it starts working, you can.
September 22, 2009
This Must Be Incredibly Annoying When Americans Do It
A Parisian man just attempted to ask me… something about my computer. I replied that I don’t speak French (in French. One of the few things I know how to say). He then spoke more loudly and slowly.
Sorry, dude, I don’t speak loud slow French either.
September 9, 2009
To My Great Credit…
This morning, I was sitting in the lobby doing computery things, and I struck up a conversation with Veronique, a Quebecoise who had just arrived at the hostel and was planning her day out on a big map of Madrid while waiting for check-in time. It turned out that we were both planning to go see the Museo de Arte Reina Sofia, a Spanish modern art museum, so we went together. It was a great museum, with lots of Picasso, including Guernica, which is so impressive that I took a picture of it, even though I think taking pictures of art in museums is silly. But before that (for this is not really a post about high culture), as we were about to leave the hostel for the museum, I put on some sunscreen and offered it to her. She declined, saying that we would be inside, and
“…besides, I don’t like the cream, on my skin.”
She continued.
“I’m not sure how I manage to not burn yesterday with all the outside, but I only creamed myself once.”
…I did not laugh.
A Moment of Pathos
For a moment, the bull quieted.
He stood stock still in the dust of the arena, his sides heaving with the residuals of his exertion. The matador shook his cape to capture the bull’s attention, but he was far enough away that the bull did not charge. The bull lowered his head to sniff at the ground where it was damp with pools of his blood.
He sniffed cautiously, raised his head quickly to check that none of the toreros had advanced, then sniffed another pool. He raised his head and looked all around in bewilderment, and at that moment the pretense of the bull as primal aggressive force fell away, and he was just a confused and frightened animal.
Then the matador drew closer and the bull lowered his head and charged.
September 6, 2009
First Culture Shock
In Barajas Airport, an announcement comes on over the PA system, first in Spanish, then in English
The law requires that we remind you that smoking is permitted in Barajas Airport. Out of consideration of others, please use the designated smoking areas.
Not only is smoking allowed in the airports, they’re apparently required by law to tell you it’s allowed.
September 2, 2009
Google Voice Has a Sense of Humor
Typing an SMS on Google Voice’s website, there’s a little counter that displays how many characters you have remaining. If you go over the 160 character limit, it starts counting down again, but prepends the number of the message you’re on, like this:
2.128
If you go over the limit a second time, the display just changes to this:
Really?
