Thursday, December 21: Managing Money and the Kasubi Tombs

Sometime in the early morning, we had a storm that I thought in my sleep-altered state was merely a freight train coming through the bathroom window. It turned out to be a severe thunderstorm with high wind gusts. It didn’t affect the power, however. It had already been off for some time. It did drop the temperature abruptly, enough so that I actually used a blanket for about an hour before the completely still air warmed back up to a level slightly below the needed level to fry an egg on one’s forehead!

They were due at 9:00 and arrived around 9:40. Our plan for the day was I would spend the morning talking to them about money management. So when they arrived, Joseph asked why we couldn’t talk here at the guesthouse. There is a comfortable lounge area at the end of the hall, so we took chairs there and I started talking. I have found that even though our guys are paid at a rate more than double the average for their congregations, they manage to spend every shilling every month, then ask for help when emergencies arise. I set a new policy: even in emergencies, our assistance cannot be 100% in the future. So we spent the morning talking about budgeting, about knowing where your money is going, about relying on wives as an equal partner in financial decisions, and about why savings is important. I even got out Excel and built a few spreadsheets showing what could happen if one saved only 10,000 shillings a month (about $6), an amount any of them could afford. They also wanted to see 20,000 shillings, then 30,000. Then they asked about borrowing money to buy a house and we built spreadsheets to amortize loans.

The most interesting part of the morning, however, were questions about how to know who to help. The community knows these guys get money from us. If some of them and their wives would tone down their wardrobes a bit, it wouldn’t be quite so obvious, but it appears the word is out, and a steady stream of needers/wanters comes calling all the time. They were dealing with guilt of having when others don’t. We talked for a long time about Biblical principles on helping others, and that we shouldn’t feel guilt when we turn down those who ask regularly while doing nothing to help themselves. Joseph has started keeping a bag of posho at his house. Posho is a corn based mush very much like Southern grits. It isn’t very appetizing, but it is very filling and much of Uganda lives on it. So rather than giving money, Joseph dispenses posho to those who tell him they are hungry. Some aren’t hungry enough to eat posho, which tells Joseph a lot about their need.

Around 1:00, we had talked budgeting and personal finance to death, so we got in the van and headed downtown. They had visited the hotel I was interested in, and they weren’t impressed, but they took me to it anyway. The hotel looked worn on the outside, a white colonial-like structure of three stories. The reception area was very strange, a stand-up desk that wasn’t much larger than a pulpit stuck in a closet sized room beside the hall into the main hotel. The manager let me see an occupied room (he had none available today). The room was of a reasonable size with a double bed and a desk. The carpet was now a dusty gray, but it was worn and could have been any color in the beginning. The room had a small tv and an Internet connection, but the cost with air was $10 extra per night. The manager said he had only one room available so I needed to sign for it now. I thanked him and left.

We were in an area near the Sheraton on the hill where the State House stood. It was very green and more un-Ugandan than any place I’ve seen here. Any city anywhere would be proud to have this area in its downtown, so I asked if there were other options. Although there seemed to be a dozen hotels there, we passed each one, then Vincent suddenly stopped and said, “Here!” Everyone jumped out of the van and Vincent pulled away to look for a parking place. We crossed the busy street (always an adventure) and walked through a gate. The circular drive led past a short old once white building that appeared to grafted onto a much taller and rather long concrete institutional structure that reminded me more than anything of a retirement home for the criminally insane.

The reception area was much more conventional, a large room with a long, dark wood desk and three Ugandan clerks working with customers. One of these was Chinese, one was Ugandan, and one was a very dark man with a passport in a UN case. He had a large wad of money out trying to find shillings, and he kept dropping $100 bills on the desk in front of him. It took a while, but I finally got a chance to talk to a large, professionally dressed lady behind the desk. She said she had a room for about the same price as the other one, and she would have someone show it to me. Not only was this building terminally ugly, it must have been built by a maze designer. We walked down a very dark hall that was moderately filthy, then up a half-flight of stairs, down a concrete corridor, up two flights of stairs, across a walkway that was open to a courtyard, then up one last flight of stairs and down a hall to a room. Even with the light on, the room was dark. Stepping in, there was a small stove top and refrigerator to the right. In the dank, dark room, it looked like the perfect place to film a pesticide commercial. Looking left, there was a double bed and a very long piece of cable sticking out of the wall for Internet connection. There was a small desk and a balcony that looked into a triangular courtyard. Even though we had climbed enough stairs to get my heart pumping, apparently the building went a bit higher because there was almost no light in the tiny courtyard. The carpet wasn’t too much more worn out than at the other place. I didn’t even look in the bathroom.

I walked back downstairs, thanked the lady, and we found Vincent parked outside. I was tempted to ask them to take me to the Sheraton, but from what I’ve seen online, it would be somewhat expensive in New York. There is a brand new hotel next door, a mammoth white thing that belongs in a movie. It has recently opened and removed the Sheraton’s long-time claim to be Kampala’s only five star hotel, but from the gate and the number of smart young men manning it, I knew better than to even think about it.

I had eaten only a piece of bread and marmalade for breakfast (I was simply egged out!), so I was starving! Vincent stopped down the street from the hotels near Nando’s Cafe, better known as Domino’s Pizza, a favorite. We found it closed and out of business, however, so we continued up the street to another of the many Bon Appetit Restaurants. This one is much cleaner, but it has no tables, only a counter running around the wall.

There was a substantial line but it was moving quickly and our group soon stepped up. Everyone quickly ordered and moved on, leaving me to talk with the waitress. “I’d like fish and chips,” I said, already tasting fresh tilapia and African French fries, the best in the world.

“We don’t have,” said the waitress with no expression whatsoever in her voice or on her face.

“Oh, okay,” I said. “I’ll have two beef samosas.”

“We don’t have.”

“Then vegetable samosas.”

“I said we don’t have samosas.”

I smiled my biggest smile and said, “I’ll have a Coke.”

“You don’t eat?”

“No, I don’t eat because you have no food!”

She pressed a few buttons and handed me the bill for everyone’s lunch.

Our crew took seats along the wall and left me to claim the food. Apparently, everyone was either eating kidneys (from which animal, I wouldn’t even guess) or goat. I carried the steaming plates to them two at a time, and they argued that the order was wrong. I simply returned to the counter and grabbed two more plates. The woman asked me what kind of sodas. I had no idea what the others had ordered, but the person before me had succeeded in getting a Coke, so I ordered two Cokes. Someone else had ordered two juices, and someone hadn’t ordered anything or else I was cheated out of a drink, too. When I got to the counter with all the drinks, no one would take the Cokes because that was not what they wanted. Grace finally took one, but Joseph insisted that he would drink Fanta, so I had to get back in the line and wait again. The waitress took the order and my money, and it appeared I would have to wait until all the carry out people got all their food, but one of the other waitresses saw that I only needed Fanta, and she got it for me.

I delivered the drink and took my seat at the counter. A woman immediately asked me to move over so she could have room to eat. So I took my Coke and sat on a bench with the carry out people while everyone else ate.

During our discussions that morning, Jon and Jim’s trip came up. I mentioned for at least the fiftieth time in the last three years that visitors would like to walk in the jungle if there were trails nearby. They have always told me there were none, but I had consulted a book and knew the name of a park, and they instantly said that there were very good trails there. Our conversation had proceeded to other short stops we might make that would cost little but would help break up the long days of child visiting. They said there were many places.

So when we got back to the van, Joseph suggested that I take everyone to Kasubi Tombs where the kings of the Buganda tribe are buried. I asked about visiting Macrere University instead, but they said that would have to wait until Friday morning. So we started through downtown. As we entered the market area, my eyes simply could not phantom what was happening. In addition to the mayhem that had been there on every other trip, the merchants who had their clothing attached to a long wooden wall had been joined by merchants who had simply dropped their merchandise on the sidewalk. People could hardly get up the street to look at the regular merchants for the people scrounging along on all fours on the filthy sidewalk pawing through shoes and shirts and blue jeans. There were even some food merchants squatting in the melee, selling disgusting things wrapped in banana leaves.

But that wasn’t all. The lane of traffic nearest this mess was filled with cars, pickups, and vans that had simply parked and begun selling things from trunks or truck beds or van doors. So all the traffic – auto, van, boda boda, and bike – from earlier in the week had been reduced from four to only 2 ½ lanes because the shoppers at the double-parkers took up half a lane. And there were ladies with huge baskets of fruit balanced on their heads weaving in and out of the traffic, the pedestrians, and the shoppers.

And did I mention that volume had to be up at least 25% from earlier in the week?
It took us almost an hour to cover about eight blocks of this. But we finally came out on the other side and it was only a short drive to the tombs.

The entrance into the tombs is through a large thatched roof structure where the guards for the king stayed, and even though no living king was there, the guards were. We were taken into a shop where a man agreed to act as our guide. He was an older man, small and thin, with whitening hair and thick glasses. He took us into a large open courtyard dominated by a tremendous thatched structure. Eight small house-like structures formed a circle with the huge building at 12 o’clock. These structures had either thatched or green metal roofs and each had once housed a wife of the king who had some special role, like carrying his weapons when he went hunting or arranging official visits or keeping the king’s fire lit (no, not that! No one in the village had a way to get fire, so one of the king’s roles was to keep a fire burning and so that locals could get fire when they needed it!!!). We learned that unfortunately, the fire had been blown out last night by the storm.

Our guide told us to take off our shoes at the door of the huge structure that we learned was the tomb. We walked into a lightless chamber floored by brightly colored straw sleeping mats. The supporting columns and the interior walls were covered in dark brown barkcloth, cloth made from the bark of trees. A wall of barkcloth cut the room in half and a series of spears, shields, arrows, pictures, and war medals stood against the wall. There was a raised line of straw in front of this display, and we were told only a king (or Queen Elizabeth) could cross this line.

Suddenly, our guide stretched out on the floor and he told Joseph and me to do the same thing (the others had disappeared). So I lay down on my side on the mat before the spears and pictures. It was strangely cool in the darkened room and the mats were amazingly soft. Our guide proceeded to tell us the history of the Buganda tribe and all its kings. I spent a truly fascinating hour lying in the semi-darkness listening to this man tell stories about his kings. He obviously loved his subject and the depth of his knowledge was incredible.

I kept thinking I heard something as we lay there. Suddenly, I detected movement about fifteen feet behind our guide in the deeper darkness. A woman suddenly stood up and walked out a side door. A little later, I heard something behind me. I turned over and there stood another woman. She looked down at us, then followed the first lady outside.

“Okay,” I said. “Who was that?”

“They are two of the keepers of the kings.” You see, there are four kings of Buganda buried there. There was a fifth one, the first one, whose body was stolen back in the mid-1800’s, but all four of the other kings are buried behind the barkcloth wall. Bugandans believe that their kings are all still there, so each has an honorary wife who is always on call to meet whatever needs the spirits of the kings might have. There is also an official medium who listens to the kings and helps the women understand what needs to be done. It is a great honor to be an honorary wife of one of the kings. The current tribal leaders nominate women for this role, and each serves for 30 days. “These women are usually very prominent in Ugandan society. One of them now is a lawyer. She practices law all day, then comes and sleeps here at night. Another is a teacher, who is able to serve all the time because her school is closed for the holidays. In January, another four women will come and serve their kings.” He wasn’t real clear about what forms this service might take, and I wasn’t too sure I wanted to know a lot more!

Another group was coming in, so our guide suddenly got up and took us to the back corner of the building. There was a huge, stuffed leopard in a case. It’s eyes were glittery even in the near darkness and its teeth were bared in a snarl that no leopard has ever snarled. It looked to be a bit moth-eaten and its spots were fading, but otherwise, it was a prime specimen of leopardism. It had belonged to one of the kings (official leopard keeper was one of the titled wife roles that earned one of the houses oustside). When the king died, the leopard became so upset that it killed four people, so they shot it and stuffed it and it has watched over its king ever since. There were also two bar-like chairs standing on a small platform. These had been a gift from Queen Victoria, along with an oil lamp, also still on display.

Our guide took us to a building site where one of the traditional buildings is being rebuilt. We watched a man making the framework to hold the thatch in place using only a machete.

Our tour was over and we went back into the building to sign the guestbook. I bought a UNESCO book about the site and gave our guide a tip. He took us into another room where his batiks as well as those of several of his friends were on display. These were, by far, the most complex and interesting batiks I’ve seen in Africa, but I didn’t have the money to shop. Next time we buy batiks, however, I know where we will go!

We had to go through another market area to get back to the right side of town. This was a much poorer area. The shoppers were all on foot and the shops were mostly confined to small shacks. There was, however, one man with a wheel barrow fitted with a three sided frame filled with shirts. He pushed his cart through the narrow walkway, stopping whenever anyone wanted to look.

I could tell that we had no more work planned for the day, and it was only 4:00, so I agreed to take everyone to the Uganda Museum, which is very near my guesthouse. I had read that the museum was in pretty bad shape, and I wasn’t at all disappointed. One wing dedicated to Science and Industry had only one exhibit in it, which included a poster for an old version of King Kong, a comic book showing a giant ape, and a photo from Planet of the Apes. There was nothing to say why this was standing alone in a huge open room or why the rest of the wing was bare.

The rest of the museum contained archaeological exhibits and exhibits about the tribes of Uganda. There were also a number of cases of preserved animals and birds, but it appeared they had used the same taxidermist as the king’s leopard, so though funny, the exhibits weren’t very interesting. There was an interesting room of ancient Ugandan musical instruments and two ladies who were ready to demonstrate them, but our guys were so anxious to accompany them by banging on any of the many drums that it was impossible to tell what the other instruments sounded like. I waited for a bit thinking they would get tired, but they would beat on one drum for a while, then move to another one. Finally, I gave up and left. They were selling a CD of the music and I was tempted, but we once bought another CD of traditional music at the craft market and found it wouldn’t play in American CD players, so I decided to pass.

I was home by 5:15. I was starving, but also a bit sleepy so I stretched out for a brief nap. When I woke up, the power was out! I went to the kitchen, but it was out there, too, so there was no place to eat. I went back to my room and ate crackers, then read for a few minutes. The power finally came back on, and I went back to the restaurant. There was only one other group there, a Ugandan with a California couple who had brought out their Mac to show the guy their kids and home and nieces and nephews and. . . The poor Ugandan man was too polite to say much, but I am learning enough about the MM’s that dot conversation to spot an “I’m bored out of my gourd” MMM!

I ordered pork chops. Yes, I know pork is risky but beef is, too and I couldn’t face another of those anemic chickens made of shoe leather or a boney “boneless” fish fillet.
What I got wouldn’t be confused for a pork chop. At first, I thought I had only three bones, but each had at least a little meat attached. And it was delicious!

Tomorrow, we plan to go to the university. I also hope to visit the Mubirus at their clinic tomorrow. Joseph won’t be with us because he is taking his family to the village where Lydia was born. He should be back by dinner time!

And I have to decide about moving. Tomorrow will be my last chance to lock in a week-long rate at one of the hotels. I’m in a quandary! I’m tired of the scorching nights with no power. And I’m tired of the dogs. Joseph says instead of being the only person here, the guesthouse will probably be full of Ugandans because many here in Kampala invite families from the villages to come in for Christmas. He says being alone is the least of my worries!

Like I said, I’ll have to decide by tomorrow. So we’ll see!