Tugende

Saturday

I'm in the middle of east Africa. It’s a scene that inspires stories, overlooking vast, lush green tea fields, a mountain range in the distance, beyond which lies the Congo. Sharply dressed black and white birds sporting bright red tails are swooping and alighting on nearby trees, while tiny bright green ones fly around in front of me, chirping sweetly, reminiscent of that scene from Cinderella. Flowers from the frangipani trees have fallen to the ground and Ka’ili picks up a few to fashion a crown; they smell heavenly.  

The grass is soft and green, the landscaping idyllic.  The air is warm and the breeze is cool.  There is no buzz in my ear, no traffic sounds, no phones ringing, no construction noises – just birds and the breeze and the faint sense of exhaling. I sit under a thatched roof on hand-crafted wood furniture, sipping a cold beer, taking it all in. 

Day 9 in Uganda. After eight days in Kampala, we decide, tugende – let’s go. Seven of us rent a pop-top van and drive west. We were destined for a volcanic crater in the southwest, to trek and swim and escape the city. We almost made it. This lovely, serene campsite that we stumbled upon has us unconcerned about our unrealized plans for the day.

Along the way we pass through expanses of green country side, dotted with town after dusty town, filled with people peddling their wares along the road side. The low generic concrete buildings have hand-painted crowns with ads for telecom carriers, paint companies, laundry detergent, beer, and soda with flavors called “funtime” and “what’s up.” 

There are small wooden huts with corrugated metal rooftops, and makeshift fruit and vegetable stands – after a while, they don’t really seem makeshift at all; they’re all built similarly, of slim logs and a slanted thatched or metal rooftop, all selling similar items - tomatoes, bananas, plantains, mangoes, onions. Some pineapples and jackfruit make guest appearances. As we pass through the towns, people look up and pause for a moment as our van full of mzungos, the two blondest and fairest seated in front, zooms by leaving a cloud of dust. 

At one of the small towns, we stop for fuel. The van takes diesel, so we pull around to the stand-alone pump. The guy removes the cover, fishes out the rubber belt from the floor of the inside of the pump, and feeds it around the wheels until it’s properly fitted. Then he attaches a handle to the left side of the pump and begins to turn it; this guys is now manually pumping the fuel into our car.

Around and around this crank arm goes, until we have added 40,000 Ugandan shillings (UGX), about $16.  We continue on.

We stop in Fort Portal for directions, some internet, and a few snacks – our guidebook calls it “Uganda’s most attractive town.” It is pretty adorable, with a strong colonial legacy evident, and the faded orange, arched-entranced open-air market makes me want to stay all day and browse through the giant bags of grains, admire the tidy piles of produce, and chat with the lovely shop keepers who show me everything from popcorn to used watches to toothpaste in an effort to make a sale. But alas, we head onward. (Ok, yes, I bought popcorn).

Our drive in search of the intended campsite is reminiscent of the mountain roads of Kigutu – it now feels familiar. Hard-packed dried mud, deeply divoted, dusty, windy, overgrown brush, dotted with small homes and gardens, animals roaming along the roadside.

Only as we’ve gotten over five hours out of Kampala do we start to see children intrigued by the mzungos, screaming and waving, and the occasional woman or girl dressed in colorful pagne. 

We’ve now popped the top and those of us in the back are standing with our heads peeking up through the roof as we wind and bounce along the rural east African roads.  An elderly man in a tattered too-large dusty blazer holding a walking stick gazes at us suspiciously as we pass, but cautiously grins and tentatively lifts a hand as I wave and smile.  Nathaniel is now driving like an African – weaving through the divots, dominating the road, sending animals scurrying.  After an hour of this, we are almost expecting to see signs that read “Welcome to the DRC.”  We instead see a sign for a campsite – not the one we were searching for, but still, a campsite – so we drive down the path, and discover the beautiful spot where we will set up camp for the night, and plan tomorrow for the volcanic crater.

Two tents, seven travelers, plenty of cold beers, and countless rounds of cards. At dinner, Evan suggest we go around the table and say what we're thankful for.  I am very aware of the great privilege and blessing it is to be able to say "tugende!" - let's go - and just pick up and explore the world - to get to know the people, the culture, the landscape where the air is different and life is different and I can discover a new me.  Shortly after we eat, the rain begins but holds off enough for us to get cozied into the tents before it starts coming down. The soft ground and the sounds of rainfall and crickets lull me to sleep.


Sunday

We rise with the sun, to birds singing and a dusty orange stripe burning through the last of the early morning clouds. 

The ground and our tents are still wet with last night’s rain. We enjoy coffee under the thatched roof with a mountain view, throw the tents in the van and set off for the Kyaninga lake, which is actually a volcanic crater surrounded by lush beauty.  

So beautiful in fact that an American decided to build – with his own hands and those of many Ugandans, no doubt – a spectacular resort lodge atop one of the peaks along the edge, overlooking the magnificence.  We choose the “crater walk” as it takes up high, versus the “forest walk” which would take us along the edge of the water. 

It’s the perfect day for a pseudo hike - the sun feels warm behind the intermittent clouds, and the breeze is perfect - we take time to admire the vast variety of vibrantly colored wild flowers along the way.  When we are almost around, we meet a Belgian motor-biking along the top of the crater; he has bought the property neighboring the resort, where he plans to build a sustainability and arts center.  Naturally. 

We finish up our walk, arrive back at the van, grab our suits and descend the endless rocky steps until the brush opens up to a small dock inviting us into the clear beautiful water. Lake Victoria is terrifying, filled with microscopic snails that will set up camp inside of you, but we think this water is safe, so we each discreetly strip to swap into our suits and dive in; only my pesky sunglasses keep me from being the first to plunge. It’s glorious. We swim and goof and take ridiculous photos, and soak it all in.

On the dock, we’re careful to keep our flip flops close – a guy at the GIS consultancy where I'm working revealed just before I left that his entire family caught chiggers, presumably from that dock. Is there a bigger fear than something alive burrowing itself into your skin and living under it, feeding off of your flesh and insides and procreating in there?  I think not. Every day thereafter, my feet tingle and itch and I’m convinced I have them. (editor’s note: over a week has now passed; confident I’m chigger-free).

We of course have one towel between us. We grab our stuff and make our way up the eternal ascent back to the car. A loitering cat falls prey to Evan’s Lion King re-enactment just before we head out. 

Along the way home, after being temporarily roadblocked by a posse of baboons, I announce I’d like a pumpkin. We pass through several towns with small stands, but eventually come to a proper roadside market, where Nathaniel pulls over. The women flock to the van and escort me out, trying to sell me everything they are convinced I need. It works. I buy a pumpkin. And a few bunches of tomatoes. And an entire bagful of avocados. Orders are being conveyed from the van. Two cabbages – one for Ka’ili. Joey wonders aloud if she should get some eggplant. A bag is 40 cents; we decide yes. Onions?  Of course, why not. Eventually I climb back in, loaded up with fresh local produce, and we continue our journey homeward.

We arrive back to Kampala just at nightfall, around 7pm. The city is massive and the traffic is completely nuts in ways I cannot adequately describe. Getting home is slightly harrowing, and an errant turn has us overshoot our neighborhood.

Two conflicting GPS reports later, we finally arrive. Nathaniel has truly become African over these two days.  An added dynamic is that Ugandan roads are left-hand drive, and cars are right-hand drive. In spite of this would-be impediment, he’s maneuvering like a boss – no Kampalan would take this blond-haired blue-eyed guy behind the wheel for a mzungo, based on driving ability alone.

Home, we shower, eat, chill out. Dogs bark and horns honk in the distance, the air smells faintly sweet of burning garbage, boda engines drown out sounds briefly as they pass, the nightclubs of Kabalagala are already throbbing. What a difference a day makes. I am in the middle of east Africa. But the same Africa from the beginning of the story?   Mere hours, but it feels like another world.  The blessing of the privilege of being able to say "tugende" settles firmly in my heart.