Okay, I thought. No rearranging the furniture. Just rearranging the continent.
In addition to the cats, the cappuccino machine, plates that said “Plate,” and bowls that said “Bowl,” a television and a VCR, I inexplicably packed a dozen wool sweaters, to go to a country that's on the equator. For his part, John prepared for our journey by buying scissors and reading up on how to cut his own hair.
As we made our final preparations CARE repeatedly assured us that reports of sporadic guerrilla activity in Arua were largely overblown. However, our departure was delayed by a month when the CARE country director was shot by armed bandits while visiting Arua. I think he was attempting to show everyone what a nice, safe place it really was.
Dear Susan,
Okay, so I was all big and brave until you and Brad left us at the airport. And then I just bawled like a baby. What the hell am I getting into? It took me all the way to our layover in Nairobi before the reality of the situation hit me: We're going to Africa! Okay, by then we were already in Africa. But that's when I finally started to get excited.
Sometimes I wonder, though, how will I survive two years without you and Jean? I really don't know. I mean, missing John was one thing, but can a woman really stay sane for two years with only her husband for support? Oh, no, now John is jealous! Listen, it's okay for you to have lunch with other gals, now that I won't be around the hospital anymore. Just don't tell them all your deep, dark secrets. Okay?
Well, it's a good thing Jean is getting married. I swore to her that I'd come back to be in her wedding. So at least we know I'll be coming home in May. That's only forty weeks away. Surely I can hang on for that long. Can't I?
I'll keep you posted,
Eve
A Lovely Little Corner of Hell
Idi Amin and AIDS. That was the sum total of what I knew about Uganda before we arrived there in August of 1993. And then, of course, there were all the hellish reports that most Americans heard about Africa from the news: famines, droughts, refugees, and civil wars. So I was not feeling particularly reassured as our plane made its approach into Entebbe International Airport.
“Out your windows you can see Lake Victoria,” our pilot said. We circled low over a huge body of water interrupting the lush landscape below. The lake was dotted with tiny green islands, some of which were ringed by white, sandy beaches. “It is the biggest lake in Africa. The second biggest lake in the world.”
“Huh. It's a lot greener—and wetter—than I thought,” I said as I looked out the tiny window.
“See, I told you, Africa is gorgeous,” John said, grabbing my hand as we bumped down onto a runway lined with gently swaying palm trees.
“Is that what I think it is?” I pointed through the palm fronds to a rather dilapidated compact building. Rusted metal letters that seemed to be trying to spell out “Entebbe” hung off at odd angles, the whole building looking as if it had been strafed by bullets. “And that?” I pointed through the palm trees to the rusting hulk of an airplane on an adjacent runway. “Is that what I think it is?”
Okay, I actually knew a few more things about Uganda. In preparation for our journey, we had watched any and all movies that took place there. Raid on Entebbe was about the 1976 Israeli army raid that freed a planeload of Jewish travelers being held hostage, with President Idi Amin's blessing, at Entebbe Airport. Our plane doubled back, taxiing past the hijacking relics, and came to a stop near a wide, two-story building with yellow columns out front and no noticeable bullet holes.
Okay, just breathe, I told myself as the plane came to a full stop.
“Ready?” John asked.
“Hmm-hmm,” I breathed as we got up and began shuffling toward the exit. In through the nose and out through the mouth, I reminded myself. There is nothing to panic about. I will not have an anxiety attack today. I will not have an anxiety attack now. Well, certainly not before even setting foot on African soil!
I stepped off the plane and into air that felt like a warm bath. I took another deep breath and got my first whiff of Africa: a mixture of melting tarmac, perfumed flowers, and just a hint of BO. It reminded me of summers at my grandparents' bungalow colony in the Catskills. Smelly but soothing.
As we entered the sparse white customs hall at Entebbe International Airport, I realized for the first time that practically everyone around us—the pilots, the baggage handlers, the customs officials, and the overwhelming majority of our fellow passengers—were black. I wondered if I would be treated differently, discriminated against because of this. My question was quickly answered as John and I were almost immediately summoned from the back of the milling crowd.
“Please, please, come,” a guard said, motioning us toward a counter. “We do not like to make our guests wait.”
At the counter, a uniformed man took a cursory glance at our passports and visas and banged his stamp down hard. “Karibu. Welcome to Uganda,” he said, smiling.
“Karibu, Mr. Waite John! Karibu, Mrs. Brown Eve! Karibuni! You are welcome!” Someone was yelling our names backward and waving frantically at us as soon as we came through customs and into the main hall of the airport. A man next to him smiled broadly and held up a sign marked “CARE.”
“I guess that's us,” John said, grabbing my hand.
“Well, hallo there. I am Ogora Adam. Your deputy project manager.” A very dark-skinned man about our age vigorously shook John's hand. Then he turned to me. “You must be Eve! I am Adam!” He laughed and offered me the same vigorous handshake, which involved most of my lower arm. Adam was black. Not brown like a lot of the African Americans I knew. Adam was blue-black, making his brilliant white smile practically glow.
“Karibuni to you both. Welcome. Welcome to Uganda,” he said in an accent that seemed half British and half mouth-full-of-rocks. “I hope you will enjoy our country. Adam and Eve. Adam and Eve,” he repeated, laughing. “Oh, I love it. This is going to be what? This is going to be great!” Based on what I'd heard about Uganda, I couldn't quite figure out why this guy was so happy. I thought maybe the parasites had gotten to his brain.
“Sir, madam.” The older man holding the CARE sign offered his hand to each of us and bowed slightly. “I am Alex. I welcome you to Uganda and I will be happy to collect your things and drive you to CARE headquarters in Kampala.” Alex's skin was lighter than Adam's, but he spoke in the same, thick accent. He reached for my carry-on bags.
“Yes, we should go to where the baggage will be coming out,” Adam said, leading the way.
“You will have much more, I assume.”
“Actually, most of our things were shipped freight. So we don't have that much stuff with us now,” John explained.
“But there are the cats,” I added, slightly embarrassed.
“You brought cats?” Adam asked.
“Cats?” Alex echoed.
“Our pets,” I stammered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it must look to bring house cats to Africa. “They're part of our family. We couldn't just leave them.”
“No, of course not,” Adam said. “Let us go find out where we can meet your cats.”
“Oh, what big, beautiful cats,” Adam exclaimed when we had located our pets in their travel crates. “No wonder you could not leave them behind.”
“Do you have names for them?” Alex asked, putting his fingers into their crates.
“This is Beijing. She's a female,” I said. “And the boy here is Berlin.”
“Oh, what wonderful names!” Adam said. “Maybe soon you will have one named Kampala! Or Arua!”
“Well, only if some major world event happens there. I got Beijing during the Tiananmen Square massacre,” I said, reaching in to give her a reassuring pat.
“And Berlin? Did you get him when the Berlin Wall came down in 1989?” Adam asked.
“Yes. Exactly.” I was thrilled that our new friend kept up with world events. Like a lot of Americans, I had just assumed that Ugandans didn't have access to world news.
“Ah,
when they have babies, madam, I would very much like to have one,” said Alex. On a continent where ten percent of all children died before their fifth birthday because of lack of access to basic medical care, I couldn't possibly confess to having had our cats surgically sterilized.
“I'll let you know if that happens,” I said.
Alex loaded our baggage and our cats into a Land Rover with the CARE logo painted on the doors.
“Madam,” Alex said as he graciously opened the back door for me.
“John.” Adam held open the other door. Then Adam and Alex got in up front and Alex settled in behind the steering wheel on the right side of the vehicle, which was the wrong side of the vehicle as far as I was concerned.
“You have seen our beautiful what?” Adam asked as Alex eased us out of the airport parking lot. I began searching for the correct answer, when he continued. “You have now seen our beautiful new airport. And I assume you also saw what is left of the old one.”
“Yeah, I wondered about that,” I said.
“And you know about the what?” Adam asked.
What is with the “whats”? I wondered.
“The hijacking and the Israeli raid on the Entebbe Airport,” Adam said, answering his own question.
“Yes, we know about all that.” I was glad we'd done some research—even if it amounted to watching movies—because if Adam was any indication, there were going to be quizzes.
“Well, in rescuing their people, the Israeli army destroyed what? They destroyed some Ugandan airplanes during that raid. We have a shiny new airport, but no money to take down the old one or remove the old airplanes that were destroyed in the raid. So they remain there, like a what?” Adam asked, but this time I just waited. “Like a museum.”
I watched in quiet horror as Alex swung us onto the wrong side of a very nicely paved road. I thought that cultural sensitivity might require that I keep mum about someone's speech quirks, but I wasn't sure what it said about screaming when your host drives down the wrong side of a highway. But the vans and four-wheel-drive vehicles around us, advertising Missionary Aviation Fellowship, Save the Children, Mulago Hospital, and Lake Victoria Hotel from their flanks, were all driving on the left-hand side of the road too. None of their passengers seemed to be screaming, and as they say, “When in Rome.” Or Africa, as the case may be. I must have skipped over the part in the CARE packet that said they drove on the wrong side of the road over here.
So I didn't scream, I just looked out the window and counted bridesmaids. At least, I thought all the women in elaborate dresses with flared waists and puffy sleeves were bridesmaids. Who would wear that kind of thing of her own accord? A little formal for shopping, I thought, as I watched them pick over papayas, mangoes, bananas, and pineapples piled up at the side of the road. The rubber flip-flops are a practical touch.
“Adam,” I asked, “are those women buying fruit for a wedding?”
“Excuse me?” he replied.
“Those women,” I said, pointing to yet another group of shiny polyester-clad women at yet another thatched-roof fruit stand. “Why are they dressed like that?”
“Oh, those are gomesis. That is traditional Bugandan dress for women. My father is a tailor. He can make you one if you would like one.”
“You'll look great in that, Eve,” John said.
“Here in Uganda we have forty-eight different what? We have forty-eight different tribes. Buganda is the biggest tribe and many of them live around Kampala. Up in Arua, we have the Lugbara tribe. You and John will now be Lugbara!” Adam laughed. “Which is kin to my tribe, Achole. We are also from the north, in Gulu. My wife and children are still there. But they will join us soon in Arua.”
“Do Lugbara women wear gomesis?” John asked.
“Ah, what the women in Arua wear you will soon find out,” he said, laughing.
“Is it like Burkina Faso?” John asked. “Do they wrap themselves in pagnes on the bottom and not much on top?”
“Ah, yes, in the villages, they do!” Adam said. “But here we call them kitenges. Those are the very pretty pieces of cloth you will see all the women wrapped in. Eve, I am sure you will be wrapping yourself in a kitenge in no time!”
So this was going to be my new wardrobe choice: topless or polyester bridesmaid? I spent the next few minutes pondering which option I preferred.
We passed by several hotels with manicured lawns and gardens and then far more small shacks with corrugated tin roofs. Branches sporting clusters of red, purple, orange, and yellow flowers covered the sides of every building, arched over every gate, and sprouted out of cracks of red dirt in the sidewalk, making even the most ramshackle hovel look tropical and exotic.
“What are those beautiful bushes that are growing everywhere?” I asked.
“Oh, that one is bougainvillea,” Alex said, pointing to the flowering branches that seemed to cover everything. “And that one with the big flower”—he pointed to the small bushes sporting plate-sized pink and red blooms—“that one is hibiscus.”
“They are gorgeous. I didn't know Uganda would be so beautiful.”
“Oh, madam.” Alex sat up straighter in the driver's seat. “This is Uganda. Put a stick in the ground and it will bloom!”
“You have heard of what?” Adam asked. “You have heard of the Pearl of Africa. There is a reason the British called this place the Pearl of Africa! Uganda really has many wonderful things. But, unfortunately, people tend to hear only about the bad things.”
“You have heard of what?” Adam continued. “You have heard of Idi Amin.” Alex shook his head gravely and let out a tiny sound like air escaping from a tire.
“Of course we've heard about Idi Amin,” John and I both said.
“Of course, you have. The whole world has heard of our Idi Amin. Crazy man,” Adam laughed. “But before and after him we had what? We had Milton Obote. I bet you have not heard of him.” And for the remaining forty-minute drive to Kampala, Adam kept up a steady stream of political and historical questions and answers about Uganda and East Africa. I was thoroughly impressed with his vast storehouse of knowledge, but far too jet-lagged to take in much of it. I enjoyed listening to his rich accent, though, and began to relax when I figured out that we weren't really expected to fill in the “whats.”
As we got closer to the city, the fruit stands were replaced by wooden storefronts stacked tightly against one another, all covered in the same reddish brown mud that crept up between cracks in the sidewalk. An animal carcass hung from the awning of one shop, a pile of grease-covered car parts in front of another, soda and beer cases spilled out the door of the next. People milled about in front of them all. Variations of this same scene went on for miles. We bumped along surrounded by cars, motorcycles, four-wheel-drive vehicles, filthy white vans, and bicycles all crammed with passengers, until we finally crawled to a stop at a huge traffic circle.
“Welcome to Kampala,” Alex announced as we inched our way clockwise around the circle. The mix of people, vehicles, and vendors didn't look so much like a capital city as a flea market gone mad. We turned onto one of the roads that fanned out in front of us and in the distance I saw several large, modern buildings that seemed to grow out of the smaller mishmash of one- and two-story structures made of wood and cement. We passed through a block full of sturdy cement shops, some with awnings painted with names like “Patel” and “Choudhury.”
“You've heard what?” Adam asked. I've heard I'm going to die of malaria and parasites, among other things. But I don't think that's what he was looking for. “You've heard that East Africa has many resident Indians, yes?”
“Yes!” John and I both chirped, thanks to the fact that our pre-departure movie education had also included watching Mississippi Masala. “Idi Amin had expelled them all in 1976. But many are coming back now,” Adam said. He waved his arms at some of the brightly painted buildings and I noticed for the first time a fair number of Indians—women in saris and men in crisp Nehru-collared shirts—in
the mix of brown and black faces on the street. “They are good business people and own many of the shops in Uganda.”
I took a closer look at the array of shops. Who knows? I thought. Maybe they will have decaf cappuccino after all!
“What are those?” I asked, pointing hopefully to several Western-looking stores with plate glass windows and signs that read “Duty Free!”
“Kampala has several duty-free shops,” Adam said.
“Like at airports?” John asked.
“Yes, just like at airports.”
“What can you get there?” I asked, vowing to stock up.
“You can get anything you want there, Eve. Alcohol, chocolates, perfume, cigars, electronics. All kinds of fancy things.” Okay, I thought. Now we're talking.
“Yes, nice, isn't it?” Adam seemed as happy as I did. “I can't get anything there, though. You have to have a foreign passport to shop there.” He laughed, although I couldn't for the life of me figure out why that was funny.
“But don't get too used to it,” Adam said. “There are no duty-free shops in Arua.” He swept his arm out the window and laughed once more. “In fact, there is not much of any of this in Arua.”
“Okay, what the heck are those?” I asked, pointing to three prehistoric birdlike creatures towering over a pile of garbage. They looked like something out of a Flintstones cartoon.
“That is a marabou stork,” Alex said. “Ugly, eh?”
“Scary is more like it.” I couldn't stop staring—bald, scabby heads, sharp, pelicanlike beaks, huge black wings, and big white bellies, all balancing precariously on top of long, twiggy legs.
“Hakuna matata. That is Swahili for ‘no worries,’ Eve. They like garbage and dead things, but not people.” Adam laughed. “Of course, the national bird of Uganda is the what?” Ooh, I knew that one, having read it somewhere in that huge information packet from CARE.
“What is the crested crane, Alex?” I shouted.
“Yes, the crested crane,” Adam said. “But I am Adam. He is Alex.” Adam pointed to Alex.
First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria Page 10