Mzungus on a Mission

After some advice from friends, and a little research with my friend Google, I realized that I might just need a yellow fever shot to reenter Pakistan. Uganda itself is not endemic, but Kenya is, and since I had a stop over in Nairobi (even though I wouldn’t be leaving the plane) there was a chance I could get stopped in Dubai or Karachi as a possible health hazard (irony, irony). Since even the chance of Pakistani quarantine was just about as appealing as urinal-mint duty at Grand Central, I decided not to risk it. Besides, it seemed like the perfect reason to delay my return and stay on with my sister for an extra week.

So I called up Emirates in Uganda and told them I would like to change my flight. All well and good, I was told, I could do it at their office in Kampala. Right, I said, but I’d like to do it over the phone because I’m four hours away by bus. No, apparently that was no longer their policy. You’re sure? I asked. They were very sure.

So this was troubling. My flight was scheduled for Sunday night and here it was Friday morning. So I did the only thing a man in my situation could do, I grabbed my brother in law for moral support and headed off on a crazy cross-country odyssey. We packed two bags and within half an hour were standing on the main road, waiting for a lift. Within five minutes a taxi pulled over that only had 7 people in it, so, plenty of room. We drove the 40 minutes to the town of Mbarara where we arrived at the bus-park just as a bus was leaving for Kampala. This meant that the bus was nearly full to capacity, but it also meant that it was leaving right away. I didn’t realize how lucky this was until later in the week when we got on the 2:00 bus and waited until 4:30 until it filled up and departed.

Mike found a seat about midway back and I made my way all the way to the back and sat beside an old man and his daughters. As soon as I sat down, I knew this was going to be a long ride, since these folks were obviously right off the farm, and by the smell of things, it was some kind of manure farm. My only consolation was that I stayed exactly in the middle, so I could stretch my legs out and read. The man to my left introduced himself as a Pentecostal minister and bragged of how he was married to a white woman. I said, that was very nice, and that I approved of his choice of wife, since I knew many nice white women. I suppose I should have anticipated the next question: "Are you saved?" I considered this slowly and carefully. "Yes." I said, with a definitive nod of the head and a big smile that I hoped affirmed my love for Jesus while avoiding all further discussion. It seems my response was adequate, and I breathed a long sigh of relief that I had somehow avoided the single longest ride of my life.

We arrived in the capital city just under four hours later. We jumped on boda-boda’s and headed to the travel agency at the local shopping mall. They informed me that since I hadn’t made my original booking there, I would have to go to the Emirates office directly. We got directions and headed out. On the way down the stairs, Mike said, "That cute girl with the Afro was totally checking you out." I looked around, "Really? Where?" "The girl on the bus." I stopped to consider this. "The bus we were on a half hour ago?" … "Yeah" … "The bus I was on for 4 hours between the Shit Family Robinson and God’s own personal accountant, desperately looking for any distraction?" …"Uhmm, yeah, that’s the one." I shook my head and marveled again at Mike’s amazing wingman skills.

We jumped on two more boda-bodas and headed to the Emirates office. There, after a few false starts in the Ugandan system of "no real use for any line or system whatsoever" (much like the Pakistani system), I used my "Big White Man" status and walked up to the desk. I kept expecting trouble, but my flight was changed with no hassle and as I sat there waiting for her to tell me the service charge, she just kept sitting there waiting for me to leave. Finally I said, "Is that it?" waited for the confused nod, and then rocketed out of there. I guess I’m still a little too used to Air Canada and their bullshit.

We rode over to the International Clinic, where I found a yellow fever shot for just $35. The same thing would cost me about $180 at home. Sweet I thought. I’m getting all my shots in the third world, even if the nurse's fingernails are dirty. I asked her if I should sit for twenty minutes to wait for any effects. She told me to just make my way back if I felt funny. Fair enough... fair enough.

Then it was off to Nando’s and a quick lunch, where I was also able to use the internet café and email off my changes of plan to everyone concerned. As we sat and ate, Mike and I both silently agreed not to mention how well everything was going, since this was, after all, the third world, and we had a long way to go before we were home. No need to jinx it now.

We grabbed a rid to the bus-park, and may miracles never cease, we caught another bus within five minutes of pulling out. Even more surprising, Mike and I found seats together. That is, until a huge, arrogant black woman (why do I keep describing Africans as black I wonder?) slapped me on the back and started yelling at me for stealing her seat and throwing her stuff on the floor. As most people know, I’m very slow to anger, but suddenly my blood was on boil. This was the only Ugandan I had ever met with an attitude. What a huge, fat, bitch. "Fine. Fine!" I said, "Sit!" And then under my breath, "If you can fit." … "What?" she said." … "I said…I’ll just switch."

And so I found myself beside a Muslim natural herbalist. I hit him with an Asaalam and we were on our way to fast friends. Besides, I’ll take a Muslim herbalist any day over a Pentecostal priest or a bulky bush bitch. Poor Mike. I pitied him sitting with her. But not too much. I was still irked about the Afro girl.

And so we arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after we left. Everything accomplished exactly according to plan. It was so extraordinary and out of character that I just had to tell the tale.