When I find a place to get my ears lowered…

My haircut is about as low-maintenance as you can get, so when I’m looking for a barber to go to I want someplace that can give me a story to tell– something with a little character.

Before I started cutting my own hair, I had a place in Toronto that I loved going to. The man in the dimly-lit barber shop could barely speak English, but he had an up-to-date collection of Sports Illustrated and a penchant for asking whether I wanted my hair “short, medium or long” in a thick Iraqi accent (this, despite the fact that my hair was never longer than a half-inch when I would get it cut).

 So when I moved here and realized I’d need to find a barber, I set out to find someplace with a story to tell. I first went to a stall in a nearby market that was all well and good (happy with the haircut, friendly barber) but wasn’t very special.

The search continued.

Until the other night when I was in a matatu (the taxi vans) not long after dark and we drove by a slum next to the nearby market. I hesitate to use the word ’slum’ because it’s such a loaded word, but there’s not really any other way to describe it.

Anyway, the shacks were all dark, as few have electricity. But in amongst the shadows of the stalls was one beacon of light. There, through a beaded curtain, in what can only be described as an ice-fishing hut with a barber chair, was a barber.

 That’s the place, I thought.

I went back tonight and it was great. The two men who work there were friendly, and the haircut was great. Newspapers line the walls and the floor underneath the chair sank every time the barber shifted sides. At one point I stuck my foot out to the counter to brace myself from falling back. On a string to the right of my head hung three rags that looked like they’d been used to change the oil in a car.

“What’re those for?” I wondered.

They’re for wiping down the head and face of a customer after they’ve had their hair cut, I later found out.

It was capped off with a feather duster used to dust off my head and neck, and a spray bottle full of cologne.

As he was cutting my hair, the man said “I’ve seen you walking around the city.”

I smiled because he’s the third person I’ve met randomly who has said that. It’s a sign that a) I walk a LOT and b) There aren’t many mazungu’s around so I tend to stand out.

“What do I owe you?” I said to him when we were finished.

“Whatever you’ve got,” he answered.

Wherein Chris learns a lesson…

I’ve done fairly well so far when I experiment with foods while eating out. This morning, though, did not go quite as well.

While down at the local outdoor market buying newspapers I thought I’d find somewhere to get breakfast. There was a take-out stall nearby that I’d had dinner at before, and there were people there eating breakfast-y looking foods, so I figured it would be a safe bet.

I walked in and asked the man working there if he could suggest something for breakfast. He nodded, and turned his back to me to prepare something. A few minutes later, he presented me a plate of sliced, deep-fried “chop” (we’re not quite sure what animal this chop came from) and a hard-boiled egg. Mmmm. I had to laugh when I asked for a cup of mango juice and he gave me a one litre container of it.

Deep-fried meat chop, a hard-boiled egg and a litre of mango juice: the breakfast of champions.

On a brighter note, I’ve discovered the wonder of rolexes. Not the watch, but the roadside food.

All over the city, usually near the markets, you can buy a rolex for 500 shillings (about 30 cents). It’s esssentially a crepe, with an omellete wrapped up inside. It makes for a tasty, and quick, meal.

Comments and photos

Thanks to everyone who has posted a comment, and to everyone who has checked out the site. Sorry I haven’t been responding to the comments– the internet connection is so slow, but I’m hoping to spend a bit more time on things when I find a better connection. But keep posting comments, it’s great to hear from people!

Also, I’ll be putting up photos soon enough, when I get my laptop up and running. The IT people at work are configuring my laptop so I can tap into the network in the newsroom. Though so far “configuring” seems to mean putting my laptop high up on a shelf and not really doing anything with it. But I’m not bitter, I swear.

Nighttime antics

A bit of a community has developed here at the hostel amongst those of us who are staying “long term”. It’s a quirky mix of two Canadians (myself included), a Slovak, an Australian, an Israeli and a Brit. Last night we got together with some others and, well, had ourselves some fun.

Things started at the hostel bar, then next door to an outdoor bar where friends of Ola’s, the Slovak, were having a going-away party before they left Uganda. It was a mix of westerners and Ugandans having a great time. At one point the group spontaneously formed into a dancing line (picture a conga line, but to raggae) and headed down the road to another outdoor club. There, we danced on a sloping hill overlooking the entire city. The view was amazing– sort of like standing on the north shore of Vancouver looking over the city. The Ugandans there, about 30 of them, taught the rest of us a style of Ugandan line dancing (at least that’s what I’ll call it). It was a simple dance, but, put to raggae pop, the rhythm was infectious, and the sight of a large group of people dancing together couple with the view was incredible.

At one point the Brit, a masters student named Nick who has delayed his return to London at least five times by my count, leaned over to me and, observing the crowd, said, “It’s like watching a flying flock of birds– it’s mesmerizing and you’re not quite sure how they do it!”

I laughed.

 After that we caught a ride with a South African named George to an Irish dance pub in Kampala.

(Quick aside: The scene of me meeting George:

Me: What do you do for work?

George *shouting over the music*: I do conflict resolution.

Me: Oh. We’re not talking about resolving conflicts on playgrounds, now are we…

George, laughing: No, we’re talking my-illegal-weapons-cache-is-bigger-than-your-illegal-weapons-cache style conflicts.

All in all, a good guy to have on your side.)

Anyway, the bar was great. For Ottawa folks, picture a smaller version of the Heart and Crown, but without the live music. They’re showing Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail on a movie screen on Tuesday, I think I might go.

I ran into the newspaper’s business editor and some friends of his at the bar and hung out with them for a while. Eventually we stumbled back to the hostel, thanks again to a ride from George.

This morning, I woke up a little bleary-eyed and fuzzy-tongued. Turning, I noticed that Ola was awake in the bunk beside mine. “You feel good, yes?” she said in her thick Eastern European accent, with a wicked smile.

(Context: Ola spent most of the night drinking vodka out of a water bottle and was up until 5 a.m. drinking whiskey with George. She does her country proud.)

I hurt, Ola, I hurt.

What I do during the day…

Gov’t probes police role in Muhumuza kidnap

By Jude Luggya and Christopher Mason
Parliament
July 27, 2007

The government yesterday announced that the inspector general of police has launched an inquiry to examine how Mr. Goddy Muhumuza came to be whisked away by police and taken to Butabika Hospital under the premise that he was suffering from mental health problems.

Minister of State for Internal Affairs Matia Kasaija told Parliament that the inquiry would investigate how policemen picked Mr. Muhumuza from his home and the role of Butabika hospital staff in the saga.

“The law will take its course if anyone is found wanting in this case,” the minister said.

Daily Monitor last week broke the story of how Mr. Muhumuza was picked from near his home in Mukono District and taken to Butabika where he survived being injected with a sedative, allegedly to calm him on the premise that he was mentally ill.

Mr. Kasaija’s pronouncement is a reaction to last week’s demand by Parliament that a probe be instituted to determine the circumstances under which police ‘kidnapped’ Mr. Muhumuza and took him to Butabika.

The investigation, according to Mr. Kasaija, will examine the basis under which the order was issued, as well as investigate whether anyone misled authorities with allegations that Mr. Muhumuza was insane.

Mr. Muhumuza, a Makerere University legal advisor and attorney to the high court, was arrested from his home in Kirowooza, Mukono and taken to Butabika national mental referral hospital on July 10 under the pretext by policemen that he was mentally ill.

Mr. Muhumuza claimed that Inspector of Police John Okalany, Mr. Rashid Agero, Mr. Robert Okia, and Mr. James Magade led the policemen to his home.

Mr. Kasaija said the Inspector General of Police, Maj. Gen. Kale Kayihura, instituted the inquiry.

Reacting to the development, Oyam North MP Ben Wacha said with or without the inquiry, the conduct of the police, to selectively react to particular complaints leaving others unattended to, is suspect.

“I think in this case police failed,” Mr. Wacha said. “And that left a lot of latitude for other authorities to act.”

However, Mr. Kasaija insisted that the police acted upon complaints by some of Mr. Muhumuza’s relatives that he [Muhumuza] was mad.

Parliament on Wednesday summoned Dr. Fred Kigozi, the director of Butabika hospital, to shed more light on claims that his medical staff connive with police and end up declaring clinically sane people mad.

Curious Chris Goes to Parliament

Politics have always fascinated me. I loved covering Canadian politics whenever I got the chance. Although much of the time was spent eye-rolling at the ridiculous games politicians play, there are times when you become consumed by the debates, the personalities, the policies and what impact they have on citizens living far, far away.

Beyond hanging out on Parliament Hill, I made a point of visiting
provincial legislatures to compare how each region represents itself.

Yeah, I know, it’s geeky. But I’m happy to have added another one to the list. Twice this week of I’ve been down to the Ugandan parliament to cover stories happening there. It’s been a great chance to get a feel for what issues are on the minds of MPs, not to mention a chance to play tourist and take in the sights within parliament. I met some of the MPs, and we agreed to speak later about stories going on in their constituencies that may be worth covering. Might be a good way to build a pile of story ideas for a trip up-country.

Tuesday I went down to cover a committee meeting, and spent over an hour wandering around the buildings with another reporter trying to find a single committee meeting that had started on time.

None had.

Finally, well over an hour late, the meeting we’d come for started.

I bought a watch before I left on this trip, since I’d gone years
without one. I’m slowly learning that I may do just as well without it.

Can’t a brotha catch a break?

Tonight I was walking home and feeling a bit hungry. It’s about an hour’s walk between work and the hostel, so plenty of time to think about where to go for dinner.

I ended up at this tucked-away place with a thatched roof and cold beer. Just what the doctor ordered.

When the waiter was listing off the menu, the offering of fish and chips caught my attention. Everything else they were offering would fall under the category of traditional Ugandan fare. I’ve been loving the new cuisine, and especially the full, all-you-can-eat traditional Ugandan meals served at work for 1,000 shillings (about 60 cents).

But a fella can only take so much matooke. (Steamed banana)

So I ordered the fish and chips and thought it would be a little taste of familiarity.

A couple beers later (which says a lot given that they come in massive bottles and pack about 6% alcohol), my dinner arrived.

There, staring back at me, was a head-to-fin deep fried fish, over a foot long. I looked up at the waiter with the eyes of a small child who was just told there’s no such thing as Santa.

“Oh please, no….”

A couple eyes and a gaping mouth facing you is a bit disarming. It ended up tasting okay, but I’ve learned my lesson. “Fish and chips” is not a universal dish.

On a side note (and not related to the beer, I swear) I took a tumble walking home in the dark tonight. The path alongside the busy road is uneven at best. In the dark I didn’t notice the drop-off and went ass-over-tea-kettle. I swear before my knee hit the ground there were three sets of hands on my back saying “So sorry, so sorry” and “Are you okay?

That’s MR. Missy to you

Apparently I have an accent. Twice in the last two days people have mistaken “Chris” for “Grace”. The topper was today when someone thought my name was “Grace Missy”. Hurrumph.

 Oh yeah, and a government spokesperson refused to do an interview with me because she couldn’t understand my accent. I’ve never paid so much attention to enun-ci-ation in my life.

Every Man For Himself: A Lesson in Traffic

Traffic here is crazy. Cra-zy. And I say that as a bemused, pedestrian observer who hopes never to have to get behind a wheel in this city. (This is about the time I pat my international driver’s license and smile coyly, much to the chagrin of the Journalists For Human Rights folks).

Walking to work today I got an up-close view of rush hour traffic.

Basically, here’s the formula:

 Thousands of belching, noisy cars, vans and trucks + pot hole-filled roads + a close-your-eyes-and-hope-for-the-best approach to merging with traffic = chaos. Utter chaos.

And there’s nothing the gun-and-whistle-toting cops at most intersections can do about it.

As far as I can see there are only two traffic lights in this city. Both of them are marked on the map and largely ignored. I crossed at one a few days ago. Wow. Those of us trying to walk, even though we had the walk signal, had to cross one lane at a time. Run across a lane of oncoming traffic, wait at the dotted line for a gap, run across another lane, wait at the line, and so on. It was like an adrenaline-filled game of Frogger.

Except without the knowledge that you could press “Start Again” if you got smushed.

“Are you saved?”

Well am I?

I wasn’t prepared for such a deep question as I trekked along the red, dusty road back to the hostel. But as I walked, dodging matatus and boda-boda’s, two boys about 12 or 13 years old appeared beside me with big smiles on their faces.

“Hi mzungu!” they said. (“Mzungu” is swahili for “white person”)

“Hi guys,” I said.

“Are you saved?” the one wearing an over-sized basketball jersey, ball cap and huge gold chain said.

They both stared at me as we walked, waiting for an answer.

“Are you born-again?” the other asked.

Ahhh, so that’s what they mean.

“No, guys, I’m not.”

“That’s too bad,” the one with the basketball jersey said, adding that they were just returning from church. 

“Would you help us find a beautiful mzungu girl if we help you find a beautiful African girl?” the other then asked.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not today guys. Remember, it’s Sunday. It wouldn’t be right.”

They both agreed and ran off.

The British Invasion

The hostel I’m staying at w invaded by a group of British volunteers who came to Kampala for a weekend of fun. The dorm has been filled with complaints of not having brought enough bar clothes for their trip, and late-night talks amongst the girls about their various boy problems, that invariably conclude with one of them saying, “You know what it is? I love him, but I’m not IN love with him.” followed by knowing agreement amongst all the others.

 And so it was a joy to see them packing their bags this morning to return to wherever it is they’re volunteering.

That was, until I returned from a trip into town to find a massive pink safari bus parked at the hostel, having just released a bevy of blond-haired, blue-eyed Swedish travellers. This should be fun.

The Ugandan night life

My instructions were to wait outside the post office for my ride. I took a matatu (the taxi-vans that careem wildly around the city) from the hostel to downtown, where the post office sits across the street from a huge Barclay’s bank. The streets of downtown were filled with well-dressed men and women, but there are always reminders of the poverty that exists here. Walking to the post office, I passed a young boy, no more than three years old, sitting alone, cross-legged on the sidewalk begging for money. Everyone passing by, not paying him much attention. I soon reached the post office and waited for the ride that would take me out for my first taste of Ugandan night life.

 Elias and I first went to a bar near where he lived, which meant navigating the terrible roads this city is trying to fix in time for the CHOGM conference happening here in November. Once there, we sat back with a couple beers and talked before the others arrived.

 ”It doesn’t matter where you come from, journalism is universal,” Elias said, with fire in his eyes. It sparked a wide-ranging talk about business reporting, currency, and policies developed countries have towards the developing world.

 The others soon arrived and off we went to Fat Boyz, a club that had the music pumping and the drinks flowing. We danced the night away and had a great time. I stumbled back to the hostel about 3 in the morning feeling pretty good about being here.

 Yesterday was also my first market experience. It was a bit intimidating, but fun. I bought a nice shirt, dress pants and a good pair of work shoes to get me started. The others were surprised, and impressed, when I told them I’d gone there alone so soon after arriving. But I’ve enjoyed walking the city these past few days, getting lost, and findnig my way out. It’s the best way to get to know a new place.

surprise food

Sometimes things are best left unplanned. Last night I sat down in the bar at the hostel here with my book, figuring to hang out for a bit before heading off to bed. I had been reading for a little bit when someone came over and asked if I’d mind if she’d sit down in the group of chairs with me. I said not a problem and we got to talking. Fay, from Australia, was spending her last night in Uganda before heading off to Rwanda as part of her month’s leave from teaching in Tanzania.

Neither of us had really had dinner so we headed off to find some food and ended up at this tucked-away place that served the most fantastic dinner I could have imagined. We just asked them to bring us whatever they tought we’d like. S with a couple local beers to wash the food down we had stewed goat along with three vegetable side dishes and a potato-like concoction that was great but I can’t quite explain. All in all a wonderful night, that cost us each about 7 or 8 dollars. Not bad! Must be brief as many waiting for internet, but more later.

Kampala, chapter one

“Elias!”

It was all I could think to shout when I was greeted outside the Entebbe airport in Uganda by a crowd of taxi drivers and others there to pick up passengers on my flight. Elias was the name of the man who had very kindly agreed to meet me at the airport. I heard my name shouted from somewhere in the crowd just before a hand shot through the bodies, grabbed mine and pulled me in, where I was greeted by Elias’s wide smile and introductions to his two friends who had come as well.

 When Elias had said he would meet me, my plane was scheduled to arrive at 8:15 p.m. local time. But delays in Amsterdam meant that the plane didn’t touch down in Entebbe until about 1:30 a.m., and it was 2:30 a.m. by the time I got through customs and tracked down my backpack. But despite so many delays, they still had a smile when I arrived and it was a wonderful welcome to this country and this city.

We chatted during the 40-ish minute drive into Kampala. My eyes were like dinner plates as I took in all the sights, or at least those I could see in the darkness.

 I arrived at the hostel here just before 3:30 a.m. and laid in my bunk for an hour or so before I could get to sleep. But I was up at 7 in the morning for a full day yesterday of wandering around the downtown markets, buying things like a musquito net, power adapter and air time for my mobile. Then it was off to meet someone about a place to live. The cottage, on the university campus, looks like it’ll work out great, and at $200 a month, who can complain? I’ll move in sometime in th enext week or so.

 I’m still getting used to the currency, though. While on campus I popped into a bar for a drink. Upon ordering a beer, the woman said “That’ll be one-seventy-five.” Me, not thinking, pulled out a 500 shilling coin and gave it to her. She held it, and looked up at me like I should be wearing a hockey helmet for my own protection.

Because the currency works on such a grand scale (1,650 shillings is equal to about $1 U.S.), the thousands often get knocked off. So “one-seventy-five” really meant “one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five.” Whoops. I walked away laughing about it. 1,175 shillings is still only about 60 cents. The trip to the university, on the far other side of the city from the hostel, cost 900 shillings, which included a bewildering, but fascinating, wander of the downtown taxi park where hundreds of taxi vans, and thousands of people, converge in one chaotic mass that somehow works.

I laid down about 9:30 last night to read, and made through probably one paragraph (granted, it was a long pargraph) before I fell asleep, to wake up 12 hours later finally feeling rested after so much chaos getting ready for this trip and the travel that brought me here. 

 Today I walked for hours through the streets. I was generally aimless but I hoped to find where I’ll be working, the Daily Monitor. Low and behold, I eventually found it, so that’s another thing off my to-do list.

The landscape here is fascinating. Red clay everywhere, palm trees and other trees as far as the eye can see, and monkeys! I saw my first monkeys yesterday. The people are wonderful, and the streets are a dichotomy. Beautiful buildings next door to slums. Men in suits walking by open sewers. Today I walked past a dump. At its entrance, a man in a suit was having his shoes polished while a sign next to him pointed to a children’s nursery perched on a hill overlooking the vast dump.

But this is a wonderful place, and I’m excited knowing that I have seven full months to explore it.

Waiting and waiting…

Coming to you live from the airport in Amsterdam. Flying in over the country you could see the beautiful, lush landscape and this airport is incredible. Very cosmopolitan and efficient. But KLM and I aren’t getting along too well right now. They’ve delayed my connecting flight to Entebbe twice, with, of course, no explanation.

…Though the fact that the guy next to me in the internet cafe here just started blaring the Bloodhound Gang brightened my day.

Anyway, I should be arriving into Entebbe airport about 1 a.m. local time. Not a great start, but it’s all part of the adventure.

The flight from Toronto went smoothly, though it was slightly unsettling to be sitting next to a man who crossed himself and began reciting prayers as the plane prepared for lift-off. He and I really bonded later in the flight when he dropped a suitcase on my head from the overhead storage. But one mini-can of Heineken later, everything was okay.

A watched pill never side-effects…

You know, pill/side-effects, pot/boils. Day four of Operation Malaria pills and nothing to report. I should be thrilled, but instead I’m a little disappointed. All that hype for nothing.

The side effects could show themselves yet, so I should watch what I say. But so far, so good.

Packing an apartment into a backpack: A tragicomedy in four acts

Thank the good Lord for Craigslist. And friends who need stuff. And family with big cars and generous hearts. My worldly belongings here in Toronto have almost all been accounted for, boxed-up or moved away.

And now, with the purchase of my trusty backpack, the real fun begins.

I leave July 16th, a week tomorrow.  To all I come across between now and then: I apologize in advance for being scatter-brained, forgetful, or for being unable to focus on things that don’t somehow involve Uganda, malaria pill side effects or advice on the best accommodations in Kampala. Sitting here, surrounded by gear in a sparsely-furnished apartment, it’s tough to think of anything other than the trip.