Friday December 29 Leaving Uganda

I'm sorry, but it has taken an entire week to get these last two posts completed. Work had a number of surprises awaiting me, and my jet lag was the worst it has every been!

If you were following, I'm sorry for the delay!


I didn’t get around to packing on Thursday night at all, so I had to get up at 6:30 and start throwing everything into my suitcase and duffle bag. But even though I got up early, with closing out the safety deposit box and checking out, I needed 30 extra minutes this morning. They came at 9:30. Checkout went smoothly this time, even though I used my credit card. A couple of years ago, this hotel found that my credit card company wouldn’t accept a charge from Africa and I had a frantic hour trying to round up enough shillings and dollars to pay cash for my bill. But this year was no problem: the bank took the charge as requested. We thought this time to have my charge privileges approved for Africa!

My only issues at check-out were two of the staff members. The woman who cleaned my room had asked the day before if I intended to give her another tip. I saw her in the hall outside my door as I started down to close out my safety deposit box. I gave her 5,000 shillings (about $7). She looked around my room and found a small book bag that I use as carry on. “Oh sir, my children would love this bag. May I have it?”

“No, I use the bag,” I said.

“Oh, my children truly need it.” I ignored her and started moving her toward the door. She stopped by my dresser. “Then what about this?” she asked pointing to my change.

“Okay, take it,” I said. And she left.

Downstairs, the bellhop that I had helped go home for Christmas was waiting for me. He kept trying to figure a way to get my luggage. I didn’t invite him up, however, and the guys were quick to carry it down once they arrived. I saw him taking the bags from them and carefully arranging them on his cart, but I didn’t say anything. By the time I got to the van, the guys had unloaded it and the bellhop was gone. He didn’t get another tip!

My first stop was Garden City for one last currency exchange and the purchase of a few more bags of coffee. Then, on to the craft market for a very quick stop. I knew what I wanted and went right to it, so we were only there for a short time.

I decided we should eat an early lunch so that I could get in dinner before going to the airport at 8:00 p. m. So at 11:00, we drove to the Shop Right on Jinja Road. The Rwenzori Café could be in any American city. I don’t really like to eat there because it has no African feel to it at all, and it is mostly populated by white people, but I was meeting Phil, who is a missionary in Uganda, and his family and I guess this place reminded them of home. I had Joseph, Grace, and Vincent with me. There are six in Phil’s family so I thought it best to split up the group. I gave our team cash and told them they were welcome to get a table at the café, or they could go someplace else if they preferred. They left as soon as Phil arrived.

We had a nice lunch, but we were eating a bit early for his kids so they weren’t very happy. His youngest daughter was also battling malaria. She was chilling during part of our lunch. It is always so good to talk to Phil. He provides a lot of insight into the things I experience there.

I told the team I would need 1.5 hours, so they called after about 40 minutes. I told them it would be a while yet, so when we were finished eating, they were no where to be found. I called once everyone had finished eating, and they said they were close by, but it took nearly a half hour for them to come get me. I was surprised to see that Mebel, Michael, and Lydia had joined the van group.

I soon realized that they had planned absolutely nothing for the day! Vincent finally said he wanted to take me to the B’Nai Temple. The temple set on a high hill on the far side of Kampala. I had often noticed it soaring above the city in my other trips to Uganda, but I had no idea what the magnificent structure might be. We entered the grounds of the temple through a tall gate. A sign inside the gate welcomed all and listed rules for visitors, such as asking us to be silent inside the temple and to avoid all lewd behavior on the grounds. The road up the hill was lined with all sorts of African trees from various palms to a wide variety of trees I’d never seen before. The grass was meticulously trimmed. We wound around the hill until we reached a parking area. The same sign outlining expected behaviors awaited us here, along with another large sign which outlined the B’Nai beliefs.

A man came forward and began telling us the history of the structure. We followed him up a short walkway to the temple. It towered above us, a simple rectangular building coming to a steep point high above. Inside, the walls were painted white all the way to the top where windows allowed light to pour in. The floor was dark and simple chairs were arranged in rows across the floor. It was a beautiful space in all its simplicity.

Michael and Vincent came inside the temple with me, but Joseph and the ladies wouldn’t come in. Michael said that Joseph had begun to run a fever and believed it was because he had entered the tombs last week. He said he wouldn’t be going into any temples any time soon. I tried to ask Joseph about this, but he said he was okay and just didn’t want to come inside.

We climbed back into the van and Mebel announced that she was hungry. Joseph agreed. “You already had lunch,” I said to Joseph.

“No, 11:00 was much too early for lunch. We didn’t eat.”

“What about the money I gave you?” Vincent returned a little less than half of it.

I decided not to mention lunch again. I’d provided a way for the ones who were with me at the time to eat, so I would wait until I was ready to eat dinner to mention food again.

Vincent drove through the gardens and back into the street. I had asked for a chance to hike a bit in the jungle, but for some reason, this is something the group simply doesn’t want to do! We drove for a long time through a part of Kampala that I didn’t know, then turned onto the road that led past our original guesthouse. In a few minutes, I knew where we were going: back to the agricultural research center.

It isn’t a long drive to the center, but there is always traffic through the Muslim market area. It seemed to take forever getting there! When we finally arrived, Vincent pulled up to the gate and the same man as last week let us in. And again, the place seemed deserted. We stopped at the administration building and Vincent went inside. He came back a few minutes later. “They are still closed for the holidays,” he said. “There is no one here to take us around. Most of the areas are locked and no one has a key.”

So we drove back through the market and into Kampala. “Why don’t we take a boat ride?” I asked. I had wanted to get out on Lake Victoria for my last several visits and there was never time. But my idea was met with extreme dislike. Everyone was afraid of the water!

We drove through the city one last time. Traffic, though not even approaching the levels we’d seen before Christmas, had returned to a level of steady congestion. We finally cleared the city and began driving toward the Entebbe. As we drove, the subject of lunch came up again. I told them we would need to wait, but no one had eaten breakfast anticipating a feast for lunch. So when Vincent pulled into one of the most expensive hotels in the airport area, I had to put my foot down. “Look, I’m almost out of money. Leaving me 20,000 shillings (less than $15) to have if I need it at the airport, I can only afford 12,000 shillings for each of you for lunch.” Vincent went into the hotel and stayed a few minutes then came out.

“We can get a boat nearby.”

“Vincent, I thought everyone had eaten lunch. I have no money for both lunch and a boat.” He went to the lake anyway, but the place where he thought boats could be hired was blocked. A large sign said it was now a military base. So he turned around and drove back to the small hotel where we had eaten pizza last week. Everyone piled out. It was around 4:00 so much too early for dinner. So I sat with them while they all ate pizza or chicken. In the end, I protected my 20,000 shillings.

It took a long time to be served, but it was pleasant sitting under an awning above the lakeshore. There was a large pool between us and the water, but vines covered the fence so that it was impossible to watch the swimmers. But there were pink flowers and yellow birds in the garden once again, and a couple of other late lunchers. So they all ate and seemed to enjoy themselves.

When they were done, I went out to the van and changed into a long sleeved shirt. I also replaced my heavy boots with casual shoes, and generally repacked my duffle bag to accommodate the letters for sponsors. We packed up the van again, and started driving.

Vincent seemed troubled because he had no where else to go, so I told him just to take me on to the airport. There would be places to sit there and that would be cheaper than continuing to drive with no place to go. So he drove slowly to the airport.

The van was searched briefly as we entered the airport, then we drove up to the departure lane. Normally, the airport has a very strict rule about check-in. You are expected to be there three hours early, but not earlier! I climbed down from the van and walked to the airport door. They were allowing people to go ahead and check in.

So I loaded my bags onto a luggage cart and started for the door. Vincent was parking the van, so I had to wait a few minutes for him. At church, there had been big plans for a group to come out and see me off, but they didn’t show up. So I chatted with the others while we waited for Vincent. I remembered that Michael had lost his phone. The one I had bought there was perfectly functional and not all that cheap, but I gave it to him anyway. When Vincent returned from parking the van, I hugged everyone, then went into the airport. Only ticketed passengers are allowed inside.

My bag were very heavy, and it was a job getting two carry-ons and two large bags through the screening machines. I cleared with no trouble, and so did my bags, even though I had hand gel in my pockets and scattered through my luggage. I had to gather everything up on the other side and put it back on the cart, then push it to the ticket counter. Uganda doesn’t get it with e-tickets! You have to have a printed itinerary for your e-ticket, which isn’t much different from having to have a paper ticket! I did remember this, however, and I presented my printed itinerary, which the agent stamped and returned to me. Had she paid attention, the printer hadn’t been set right when I printed it at the hotel and the result was there were no arrival times on the itinerary.

I took the stamped itinerary to the gate agent. She took my passport and told me to load my bags on the scale. “You are far over weight,” she said. “You must repack one of your bags.”

I opened the duffle and looked inside. She said I would have to put the overrun in my carry-on, but as I looked, the only thing of any size was the boots and I didn’t want to be carrying boots in carry-on luggage for the next two days! So I asked how much the fine would be. “Twenty five dollars,” said the woman. I dug out $25 and gave it to her. “You must wait,” she said. “There is a place over there.”

She pointed to a row of chairs off to the side of the airport. I gathered up my stuff and took one of the seats. I used the time to repack my carry-on bags. Then, I got out my book and read for a bit. By 30 minutes, I was growing nervous. They said I was waiting on a receipt, but could it be that they were calling Immigration so that they could cause me trouble? I realized suddenly that I had no phone and no way to tell anyone if I was having trouble. I turned to the window to wave at everyone. Unlike when Jon and Jim left and they stayed until they disappeared into the boarding area, everyone had said their goodbye to me and left! I was completely alone, knowing that I had a small technical violation with immigration that could cause me real trouble!

Finally, I went back to the desk. “I’m waiting for my receipt still,” I said.

“I told you to wait,” barked the woman in charge of the gate agents. This was a different woman from the nice one who checked me in.

“And I waited patiently for 40 minutes. Now I’m ready to get something to eat. So I want the receipt now.”

“YOU WILL WAIT,” screamed the lady.

I started to walk away, but then stopped. “Hey, how will you know if you have my receipt if you don’t know my name?”

“Give it then,” she bellowed. So I told her, and she even wrote it down.

About twenty minutes later, the receipt arrived. Another nice lady brought it in. She explained that it would keep me from having to pay again when I got to the US. I thanked her and went on to Immigration.

Well, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had known from the beginning I wasn’t supposed to enter the country while my work permit application was under review, and it had been under review for almost a year. I could imagine the airline calling the kind and considerate Immigration people who had thrown me out of the country in January and telling them I had somehow gotten back in and was now attempting to leave. As I walked up to the Immigration desk, I looked for the little lady with the very big gun I met last year. I looked into the glassed-in Immigration counter, half expecting to see the man and woman who had told me to leave or go to prison. The team was long gone. I had no phone. I was more or less in country illegally, and I had just spent an hour waiting for a “receipt. . . “

I didn’t recognize the man at the Immigration counter. I spoke to him, and he smiled at me! He looked at my passport, checked the date on my visa, stamped everything, and wished me a safe journey!

Uganda’s airport has several decent places to shop and a very good coffee shop. It was after 8:00 so I went in and had a final few samosas! I had a little money left, but nothing else on the menu sounded very good, so I went into each of the shops and looked around a bit. I finally bought myself a blue tie with elephants on it and a piece of chocolate. Then I took a seat and read for a while.

It wasn’t long before they called the flight, which meant another round of security screening. I didn’t set off any alarms, and I had gotten in line early, so I made it through in no time. I went into another lounge area and found that the mosquitoes that had plagued me the last two days had followed me to the airport. I had packed all my Deet, so I sat there swatting at real and imagined bugs waiting for them to call my flight.

A few minutes later, the woman who had made me pay the fine came up. “Are you Mr. Steele?”

“Yes,” I said, wishing I had my telephone back.

“Did you receive a receipt?”

I nodded.

“Okay, I was afraid they had forgotten you.”

I thanked her, and went back to reading my book and swatting.

When they called for people with small children, almost every single person sitting in the waiting area rushed the gate agent. But the agent was a very large woman and she was well equipped to handle the rude crowd. She announced in a booming voice exactly which rows were boarding first and she tolerated no one who wanted to enter the plane even a row before their turn. Those who attempted to sneak by, a truly ridiculous thing to do since the woman was almost as wide as the narrow exit door, were made to stand off to the side until everyone else had boarded.

I walked down a steep flight of stairs and out onto the tarmac. The night was pleasantly cool and there were no bugs out here, so I took my time walking to the steps up to the plane. I quickly found my aisle seat and loaded my backpack overhead, then sat down and waited for the person in the window seat.

I thought I was in luck because the plane filled up, but the window seat beside me remained unoccupied. However an older Ugandan lady did finally come in and ask for the seat. She immediately began waving to someone in the next cabin.

“It is my niece,” she said. I nodded and went back to my reading. “Do you think you could change seats with her?”

“I would be happy to change with her if she has an aisle seat,” I said, “but I’m not willing to move into a center seat. I really need an aisle seat because I need the leg room.”

“I will go and see.” The woman climbed over me and moved toward the rear of the plane.

While she was gone, a stewardess came back and asked the woman in the center aisle seat for her boarding pass. The woman dug through a pocket book and produced the boarding pass.

“You are in the wrong seat,” said the stewardess.

“I know, but I changed with another person,” said the lady.

“Who?” asked the stewardess.

“A very fat lady was sitting here and she changed with me.”

“Where is this lady now?”

“You took her to first class.”

“I what?” The stewardess’ voice was growing louder. Another stewardess heard her and began working her way up the aisle.

“It is true. You took this fat lady to first class. You said she was upgraded.”

“I haven’t even been in this part of the plane.” Her voice was quite loud now.

“Yes, you did. You took her up there. You said she was upgraded.”

“I DID NOT. . . “

“Is there a problem,” asked the new stewardess.

Her cohort turned on her and said, “This woman is in the wrong seat. She claims I upgraded someone who told her she could have this seat. The seat belongs to a gentleman who is waiting outside. I haven’t even been in this part of the plane tonight.”

“Then it was one like you,” said the lady.

The two stewardesses walked away. I had reached my seat well before this lady had taken her. There had been no fat lady, and no exchanged seats. In the next few minutes, they found now fewer than four people who had randomly selected the seats they wanted!

About this time, my seat mate returned. “My niece says she will swap with you. Her seat is much nicer, but she will trade so that you can have leg room.”

“Does she have an aisle seat?”

“She is in an area with much more leg room. Go back and see. It is a much better seat. You will like it very much.”

“Is it an aisle seat?”

“No, it is in the center.”

“I’m not interested in changing for a center seat.”

One of the flight attendants was coming by holding three boarding passes and several sheets of paper in her hand. My seat mate flagged her down. “My niece has agreed to let this gentleman have her seat so that he will have more leg room.”

“I AM NOT MOVING TO A CENTER SEAT.”

The woman smiled up at the flight attendant. “You must tell him that there is much more room back there in that area,” said the woman.

“It’s the same as here,” said the flight attendant as she hurried away.

The woman huffed and fretted. “Some people become so angry about their seats,” she said under her breath. “They do not own them. They should move to let families sit together.”

About that time, the niece came up. “Are you okay? You looked disturbed!”

“Oh, I suppose I am okay. This gentleman agreed to accept your seat, but now he is changing his mind.”

“I don’t blame him,” said the niece. “You should see who I’m sitting next to! She is very old and she spits when she talks. And there is no leg room at all! It will be a terrible flight.”

The older woman glared at her niece, then at me, then she pulled out a magazine and began to read. After a minute, the niece returned to her roomy center seat beside the spitting old lady!

About this time, yet another flight attendant came down the aisle. She stopped at the row in front of me. “Sir,” she said, “is it true that you are suffering from active malaria?”

I had noticed the man in the seat in front of me when he came aboard. His hair was wet and he was very pale. He had spoken a few words to the woman in the seat beside him, then reclined his seat. “Yes, but I am on medication,” he said.

“Come with me, please,” said the flight attendant. She led the man to the front of the plane and they began heated discussion that soon included the woman who had been seated beside him and two more flight attendants. I kept hearing things like ‘severe chills’ and ‘dizziness’ and ‘a fever for the last three days.”

While they were talking, a gate agent came down the aisle behind a very animated flight attendant. She stopped at the row behind me. “Show him your boarding pass,” said the attendant. There was a man standing in the aisle behind me. With all the excitement, I hadn’t noticed him. He pulled out a boarding pass.

“So what are do you propose we do,” the attendant shouted at the gate agent. “The flight is full, and you’ve given out two boarding passes for the same seat. What do you propose?”

The gate agent looked at the boarding pass, then at his list, then at me. “I must check something,” he said and he all but ran up the aisle.

“There’s nothing to check,” said the attendant. “You’ve given out two passes for the same seat. The question is what are you going to do about it?”

After a minute, I realized it was my seat they were discussing! I watched as the gate agent came back on board, then left again, then returned yet again. The flight attendant became a bit more animated with each visit, until I was afraid she was going to hit the smaller man.

Finally, they took the man behind me to the back of the plane and a woman and her daughter took the two seats in front of me. The man with malaria and his seat mate were escorted from the plane by the gate agent. Two of the flight attendants came past me on their way to the back of the plane.

“I think we were right to put him off,” said one of them. “He was a danger to the flight.”

“I don’t think he was contagious,” said the other attendant.

“The problem is if we got him up and he got worse, we end up having to land who knows where and send him to hospital. We could be hours late. And you heard him, his doctor advised him to wait at least 48 hours before flying. I think it was the right thing to do.”

Our flight finally took off 63 minutes after its scheduled departure time! I napped for a few minutes as we took off, but woke up for the duration of the flight within a few minutes. My Ugandan seatmate wanted to talk. She asked me why I was in Uganda so I explained about our project. She couldn’t understand that we weren’t part of a big organization, that it was just Lisa and me and a few friends. She was very supportive of what we are doing and told me she had raised two orphaned kids. She got out a magazine and showed me a picture of a lovely young woman who is a model in Africa. “This was one of those girls!” she said. Her smile showed proved her pride. “It is strange to read this magazine. I know the answer to all the questions. We have talked of her life and her plans many times.”

She read the magazine until she fell asleep.

The movie screen showed our route, and it was about then that I realized there was a bit of a problem. Ethiopia and Somalia had gotten into a bit of a skirmish earlier in the week. According to the BBC, there was quite a bit going on, and looking at the route, I realized we would be flying over a good bit of Ethiopia and we wouldn’t be far from the Somalia border.

But we would then turn over Libya, which isn’t the friendliest place under the best of circumstances. And we were flying over on the very day that Saddam Hussein was to be hanged. In fact, there was a chance that it would happen while we were in Libyan airspace.

But there was bad food to eat and a lame movie to watch. I tried to doze, but between the potential excitement of our route, the extreme discomfort of a large person in a coach seat, and the general excitement of heading home, I didn’t sleep at all. I read and I dozed a little, but it was a long and completely unrestful night.