The Journey up North

Karamoja is a region in the Northern sector of Uganda, one littered by raids, ambushes and worst of all, NGOs. We were instructed by a semi-reliable Rastafarian gentleman who Luke knows somehow that traveling up north is perfectly fine as long as you travel with cigarettes, soap and salt (quite the triple threat I might add; what can’t you accomplish with such an arsenal?) to appease any ambushers. Described by Lonely Planet as a region “where the Karamojong dress in traditional clothes, and AK-47s are as common as walking sticks and blankets,” we simply had to check it out.

The bus broke down precisely as we crossed the boarder into Karamoja, conveniently the most desolate, unpopulated dyke I’ve had the pleasure to grace with my presence. As people roused and an unsettled aura descended over the passengers, I observed one gentlemen wearing a grin suggesting he obtained the location of Atlantis and couldn’t wait to spill the beans. Curious, I spewed a serious of innocuous jibberish hoping to gain insight into our precarious situation. He looked in my direction and exclaimed with the passion of a schoolboy’s first love, “The bus broke down!” In Uganda, when Joel orates a monologue rather than emit a simple question, his sophisticated lexicon is usually reciprocated with a blank stare suggesting he’s actually speaking Mandarin. This time, it was my turn to gawk in disbelief at his eagerness to further my understanding by stating facts I had previously observed. To further my elation, he announced, “They’re going to pour water on it!” Oddly relieved by his enthusiasm, I quickly regained my precautions when the smell of burning rubber and charred brakes wafted into the cab. After dubiously taking in my surroundings, trying to decide if my stamina, accrued by many years of intramural collegiate sports, would allow me to run back to Soroti (a mere 50 kilometers), I heard somebody shout from halfway along the bus, “Don’t worry, they’ve got the water!” About a minute later, the bus was shimmying along like a drunken caterpillar attempting to avoid the police by pretending to be accompanied by a hive of bees.

We (Luke, Joel, Justice and yours truly) arrived in Moroto, Karamoja, and were promptly blasted by a surging hot wind carrying as many dust particles as the World Bank carries rumors about its accomplishments. It was like being slapped in the face by a beach. Coupled with the equatorial sun, this introduction to the northern region left my pours seeping enough fluid to irrigate an Iowan corn farm. Fortunately for my comrades, the protruding vulgarity that would make a bottle of Febreeze lactate in fear and incompetence was dwarfed by their own perfumes, of which I might label Mid-Summers Day Stench.

Stepping onto The Street (emphasized to demonstrate the structural characteristics of this civil engineering debacle), we discovered an instant dichotomy: inhabitants vs. NGOs. U.N. Land Cruisers littered the road like termites below the roots of a Honey Teak, scampering in every direction attempting to appease the queen while gnawing away the foundation. The NGO compound was located some 10 minutes walk outside the town, surrounded by 4 meters of barbed wire, suggesting in equal proportion their inability to accept nonwestern ideals as their refusal to release harbored intentions of inequality. Fighting poverty and violence with wealth and armed guards equates to fighting fire with watermelons: almost comical, but tragically ineffective. The most functional policy I have unearthed in Karamoja is that if you are caught in possession of a firearm, you are shot.

Chronic water shortages coupled with a daily electric allowance between 7PM & 11PM left us with little to do but drink warm beer. Traveling proposes a stipend for beer, proportionately accentuated with assumed risk, so we purchased some Luke-warm cervecas and strolled up a nearby hummock to observe the sunset, pictures of which are posted below.

Because it was the Christian Sabbath, our courier allowed us additional beauty sleep, a much needed commodity these days. Although my brother maintains traits from our Norwegian heritage and produced an encompassing beard at the ripe age of fifteen, I inherited from my father’s side the prepubescent facial characteristics of a rabid mountain goat at the age of twenty-four, which necessitates a disproportionate amount of sleep. I was aggressively denied my rest beginning at 4:30AM when the busses started communicating with each other in Morse Code, toting their horns to discuss the previous day’s cricket test over the roof of our hotel. The raucous subsided around 6:00AM only to be replaced by the arousal of hotel staff, announced by “All the Single Ladies,” a universal slow jam favorite among Ugandans. My brother’s beard is a fiery red, while mine is quickly turning gray.

Our experiences in Karamoja were jarring, but I am consciously choosing to highlight the events in a droll manner to avoid ruining someone’s day, illustrated during our departure with the vendors approaching the bus windows.

Bus vendor #1: “Mzungu! Water?”
Me: “No thanks”
Bus vendor #2: “Mzungu! Ciapatti? Samosas?”
Me: “No thank you!”
Bus Vendor #3: “Mzungu! Bow and arrow?
Me: “I said NO THAN… Wait, what? Give me that! How much?!”
Excited Vendor #3: “5,000” (about $2.75)

In the land where AK-47s are outlawed, the bow and arrow salesman is king.