When traveling stopped feeling romantic
By now, I’ve been in Kampala for a couple of days. The din of the city has faded to a steady hum in the background. I know where to go to find a taxi. I can follow the seemingly optional traffic rules. I’ve even experienced a bit of the famed Uganda nightlife. I’m feeling comfortable but excited as I figure out how to navigate.
But it was the day after the concert that I realized how easily comfort can be shattered. Isa and I are in planning mode for transportation to Kenya, so while researching, we head out to see a few monuments. In Rwanda and Tanzania, finding a bus was as easy as doing a quick Google search. We’ve found a number for a bus company that a few other travel blogs mentioned, so we try to reserve tickets. We go back and forth with the representative, asking and answering the usual questions: departure time, ticket prices, and seats, things we’ve done over and over as we’ve traveled overland in Africa. It’s when it’s time to pay that things seem a little off. The price he gives us is in Kenyan shillings, and the number we’re supposed to send money to is a Kenyan number. The bus we’re taking is from Uganda to Kenya, so we think it’s a little odd. It’s when we start asking for the conversion to Ugandan shillings that the man’s scheme starts to fall apart. We’re going back and forth as the price changes. While trying to confirm the price, Isa says, “Hmm, this feels like a scam.” We check Google Maps and, even though we went to the wrong monument, we’re actually closer to the bus company’s office, so we head there. We ask for a bus for tomorrow only to be told that it’s fully booked. When we show them the number we’ve been messaging, they don’t even react. It’s a scam number that’s gotten a few people before.
We got lucky but barely.
We’re walking taller after avoiding a scam. I can feel how light my steps are as we walk to a famous mosque that’s nearby. Imagine our surprise when we find a huge market in the middle of town. Filled with fruits and vegetables, we wander up and down, taking in the sweet smells and filling our bags. We walk down the main street surrounded by people. There are stalls for everything from flip-flops to home goods, and people move from seller to seller, shopping, while others, carrying heavy loads on their heads, weave gracefully to deliver stock to shops. I love a market, with its hustle and bustle. I triple-check all my zippers because with such a busy area, it's so easy to get pickpocketed.
But I was watching for the wrong crime.
It’s when we get past the main hustle and bustle and the streets thin out that it happens. I’m walking, turning my head to the side to take a quick glance into a shop, when I feel a snap around my neck. I feel my loss as my hand goes to my throat. It doesn’t fully register until I hear the footsteps of someone moving away. I turn around, and a kid is jogging down a side street when the light catches it. My chain in his hand. I’m frozen. Until reality comes crashing back down around me. My head spins as choices fly before me. Do I follow this kid down the street to confront him? Do I yell for help, hoping there’s a bystander who will be a hero? Or do I walk away and count my losses, thankful that it wasn’t something more valuable that was stolen? I walk away. But I walk away angry that it happened, angry and frustrated that securing my chain didn’t even make it onto my security checklist. I’ve lost my sense of security, and glances from strangers in the street make me feel like I’m a target.
I’m quiet as we continue walking, replaying the scene in my head to see what cues I missed. It’s while I’m deep in my reflection that we run into some more enterprising individuals. We have to cross the street to get to the mosque. Crossing this small median would be the fastest and safest way to get to the other side, and the grass has worn down into a footpath that people obviously use. So, we take the path, and as soon as we set foot on it, it’s just “Eh, eh, eh. Walking there is trespassing,” from a group of men standing around in the neon green traffic vests. “Oh, this is such a big problem, you must stay here while we call the police to come arrest you,” They say as we step onto the sidewalk. “Or you can pay us a fine, and we can let this go. Come, let us solve this problem together.” I’m going back and forth, venting my frustration at getting my chain stolen as I argue. If they’re really concerned citizens, they should go find the thief from the market, as I recognize this as yet another scam. Isa doesn’t have time for their flimsy scheme, so she swoops in, counters all the points they were stating, and whisks me away before they have time to react.
The day has been wearing us down, and so when we get to the mosque, and they tell us an outrageous ticket price just to enter for a few minutes, it’s a no-brainer that it’s time to give up our sightseeing plans. By now, the sun is bearing down with no clouds in the sky, and the only thing that sounds like it could make the day better is some ice cream. We pull out Google Maps and check for nearby cafes, and we walk to the closest one. Okay, that one doesn’t exist anymore. We check for another one. This one doesn’t even serve ice cream. We pick our next spot, but this one is out of our price range. We need a win today. The high we were on from avoiding the bus scam has faded to nothing as we walk under the weight of the day. No ice cream, but we finally find a place to eat and grab a pizza that revives our spirits.
It's been a long day, so we find a motorbike to go back to the hostel. Sitting on the back, I think that the city has had its fill of fun with us today, but as the driver pulls onto the highway, Isa’s hat flies off. By now, we’re so delirious that we can’t do anything but laugh at all that has gone wrong today. Of course, it’s that very moment when we turn around from watching her hat land in the street that the driver asks us how we’re enjoying Kampala so far. Talk about timing.
No pictures from the bad day but this is us walking on a sidewalk through the least crowded part.
Book that’s currently distracting me from writing my next blog post: The Race for Life: Memoirs of a Rwandan Genocide Survivor X Theo Makombe
Song that is probably getting played way too many times: Save Room X John Legend
