Uganda 2009 Part I: Do They Drug The Chickens?

My fourth trip to Uganda began inauspiciously with a dead battery on the way to the airport. After many, many hours of intermittently compressing my calf muscles on a plane, I thought my luck might be changing when an artist from Kampala offered my father and I a ride from the airport. We slogged through the muddy taxi park - Dad took this rather well for a newcomer to Uganda - and spent several hours dodging our way down the Trans-African highway towards Iganga.

I learned that my father, at 6'2", does not actually fit in the back of a Ugandan taxi (also known as a mataatu). He has to be wedged between the two bench seats, bowing out in the front due to pressure from his knees and the back as he tries to relieve the crushing knee pressure.

We stopped when jerry cans went tumbling off the back of the taxi, and while the conductor paid a social call to a woman standing beside the road, and of course, to drop off the 6 chickens who had been curled under our seat, who had been only occasionally been engaging in a seat-shaking protest. "Do they drug the chickens?" Dad asked seriously. You see, my dad may not yet realize that now that he is a fellow traveler to Uganda with me, he gets to become a character in my travelogue. He can be Katz, and I of course am Bill Bryson. Therefore he is charged with providing the comic relief, and I will make money for wandering around the world and doing whatever I please. Or at least that is my daydream.

Arriving in Igangatown after dark, we exhaustedly dragged our luggage off the taxi. I was too tired even to realize that the taxi driver had overcharged us for the fare, in addition to demanding further payment for the luggage. I argued with him for several minutes, then stomped off into the dark but busy streets with Dad, with cries of "mzungu we go!" echoing behind us. It wasn't until I arrived at the new Uganda Village Project offices that I realized the streak of unfortunate luck had continued: my wallet was missing. I'm still kicking myself for not arriving with money belt in place - instead the money belt was packed into my suitcase. I have been trying to reassure myself that I did not lose anything irreplaceable ever since. My final thought on this unfortunate episode was to comfort myself with the idea that I had disbursed an unplanned microloan to an impoverished entrepreneur. This briefly made me feel better. Please do not tell me that this does not make any sense. Bring on the stormy seas - I'm making lemonade from these lemons no matter what.