On my last day in Uganda, I woke up to french toast being cooked for me by the interns: a delicious way to start off 40 hours of travel. They were inspired to cook for me since the night before, I had prepared vodka sauce and pasta for the crew staying at the office (probably because it was heavy on the vodka). I had to feel a little bit guilty about this meal, because it cost more than most Ugandans probably spend on a week's worth of meals, but I wanted to do something nice for these interns, who were spending some of their last days in Uganda working hard on their final reports and helping to clean up our incredible mountain of random items in the storeroom.
After saying many goodbyes, I hauled my two large suitcases down the dirt path towards Igangatown, creating quite a spectacle. "Mzungu, those bags are too heavy for you!" "Madame, let me assist you!" "Mzungu byeeeee!"
It took me so long to drag them around all the potholes and over the uneven ground that I arrived in town at the time when I was meant to meet my ride to the airport, instead of early, as I had hoped. I was planning to stop at the police station to try to pick up some piece of paper to certify the situation regarding my lost wallet, for insurance purposes. Instead, I just waited at the main intersection of town for my ride to show up. After 20 minutes, I was pacing in circles around my bags. After 30 minutes, I had stomach cramps, convinced I had been forgotten but with no more mobile phone to communicate, since I had donated it to UVP. After 45 minutes, just as I was ready to toss my french toast up by the side of the road in a state of panic, my ride pulled up. I decided that I needed to join this man on Africa time, and stop being such an American. I sent him to pick up the other traveling interns, and stopped at the police station.
I walked in to a crowd of people staring at me, which has stopped seeming strange. "I'd like to report a lost wallet." I said. A woman in a police uniform, scribbling in a notebook at the desk, asked "when did this wallet go missing?" I felt rather silly, realizing that it had been nearly a month since the wallet was stolen, though Dad had stopped in the day after the theft and told me that the police did not have it. "Just recently," I said, bashfully. "I know I will never get it back, but I just wanted to make a report." The crowd stared at me some more. A man leaning up against the counter next to me in a suit jacket raised an eyebrow. "Alison, you did not lose that wallet just recently." He said. This time I stared at him. "Do you know something about it?" "We have recovered your wallet." The policewoman said to me. I was incredulous. "We have spent money on your case!" She emphasized, giving me a meaningful look. She led me to a side room in the station, where a man opened a locked drawer and pulled out my wallet. I burst into tears, and then felt even more foolish. "Why are you not happy?" The woman asked me. "I thought I was never going to see it again." I blubbered nonsensically. I had cancelled all the cards inside, and the money was, of course, gone, so I have no idea why I was getting so emotional about my driver's license recovery, except that I was emotional because I was leaving Uganda.
I found out that the local councilman from one of the district villages had arrested a man carrying my wallet just that week and brought him into the station. That man was still at the station and they planned to press charges for the theft. The police claimed that they had had to pay the councilman 20,000 shillings for the return of the wallet. I wasn't sure what to make of this tale, but I was willing to give up everything I had at that point. I pressed the 15,000 shillings I had kept for emergencies on the way to the airport into the policewoman's hands. "Please, take this, thank you." "What about my gift from America?" She asked. "You own me many thanks because I have worked so hard on your case." "Yes, next time I return you can have something from America."
When I finally finished making my police statement, I ran out the door, hopped into the car, and started the trek to Entebbe. We made it exactly 2 hours prior to my departure time despite the hours spent at the police station. I just couldn't believe that from some village out in the bush, my wallet had come back to me. I didn't realize until after I left that I should have urged for leniency for the thief, since stoning to death is a common local penalty for stealing.
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