It is no coincidence that my last blog post aligns with the last day before Asha came to visit me in Uganda. In addition to spending my time celebrating her presence, we were not within earshot of any computers, let alone the internet. Unfortunately, my camera has fallen victim to the slogan “Africa, where electronics go to die,” and I don’t have any pictures to share. However, I will do my best to illustrate the story with words.
After spending the first few weeks gallivanting around East Africa without an itinerary or camera, I decided that she couldn’t come to Africa without observing one of Uganda’s renowned national parks. A decision based solely on our then current geographical location, ignoring things like availability of transportation, food or water, we elected to visit the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. Contrary to the suggestion of the title, it was easily penetrated. Getting out was the difficult part.
Beginning from Kisoro, a small boarder town near both Rwanda and DRC, we were told there was no public transport to the park. It took our taxi almost two hours to travel 35km up the most treacherous mountain pass imaginable with landslides that would have slowed down a rhinocerous but which our driver skillfully, even artistically maneuvered his 1981 Toyota Corona around. Once there, we hiked from the southern part of the forest to the northern part, ignoring the guerilla trekkers who had flown into the park in their helicopters wearing $2300 worth of Gucci Safari gear sporting carbon fiber walking sticks. Guerilla permits are $500 per person, the guerillas have all been domesticated (in fact they even have different classes of guerillas: “wild guerillas,” “humanized guerillas,” and “other guerillas”), and if you see a guerilla by chance without a permit, the safari guide is imprisoned for 5 years, which sounds more like the San Francisco Zoo than a Ugandan national park. We saw some guerilla poop, so I’m satisfied.
Once on the northern side, we opted out of staying at the recommended lodging at $500/night/person and picked out a nice bungalow a few km down the road. Exhausted and filthy, we were pleasantly surprised by the availability of hot showers, a commodity I am no longer familiar with. The emphasis here is on HOT shower. There was no cold water. I’ve decided that if I ever write a real piece of literature on my experiences here it’s going to be called “Out of Cold Water,” revolving around the topic of sidestepping basic needs to please the guerilla trekkers. So I stood next to the dripping, scalding hot water and tried to cleanse myself, escaping with burns limited to the first degree. The next day, we tried to leave.
We met a South African, Gordon, who kindly invited us to join us in his taxi to split petrol. Intended to depart at 11:00AM, we hurriedly packed our things and hustled to the meeting point. There was nobody there, and we feared that we had missed our golden opportunity. Our fears subsided when we spotted Gordon, who assured us that the taxi was coming but just a few minutes late. At 4:00PM, we departed for Kabale, slicing through the sticks in our Astro van because a truck had overturned on the main road, blocking traffic both ways. Merely 2 hours from the park, 5 hours had passed and Kabale was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any other cars or a road. We were stuck in some mud when thunder started ripping the sky apart like shotgun blasts and for the first time in as long as I could remember I muttered, “Ohhhh shit.” Before I forget, we already had a flat tire, which the driver replaced with NASCAR-like efficiency but which took over an hour to find a new inner tube.
We made it to Kabale at 9:56PM, and the only bus in Uganda that I’ve seen leave on time had a 10:00PM departure scheduled. We were hustled in through the door as the bus was pulling away, only to find that this 6 hour ride was already full, meaning the seats were occupied as well as the standing room in the aisle. One man in the back saw a distressed, female mzungu and immediately offered his seat. A very, very generous gesture. After standing for some time, the man now sitting next to Asha offered me his seat. I accepted. Props to these most charitable acts of kindness. Except for the unknown wet substance I was sitting on (by my sophisticated deduction and experience, probably vomit), I was content. The woman sitting next to Asha promptly handed Asha her baby and meandered to the front of the bus without uttering a word. I couldn’t help laughing, until I saw the unspoken discourse converging in her eyes, which probably went something like this:
Internal Monologue Step #1) Ummmm, what?
Step 2) OMG this woman just gave me her baby
Step 3) Oh you’re sooooo adorable! [Looks at me] Can I keep it?! Please!!!!!!
My verbal response to this developing scenario was, “It’s cute right now, but it’s going to spit up on your jacket,” which it did a little bit, but she dodged a bullet without the full projectile. Being in the back row, every speed bump catapulted us about 8 inches off our seats, and we were lucky to land in our original arrangement. If unlucky, we landed on the metal bars segregating the seats, bruising our tailbones. The baby slept through this carnival ride while I tried not to bite my tongue.
We entered Kampala at 3:00AM, waiting for the 5:00AM bus to take us to Jinja. We made it to Jinja at 6:30, and waited for the reception at the hostel to open at 8:00AM. We waited in silence because I know myself well enough to realize that the only possible thing that could come from my vocal cords were songs of contempt and disgust. Then, we slept.
Named the Impenetrable Forest for deceiving reasons, it should have been named the Singularity for its disproportionate difficulty to gravitate from this dense rainforest.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, December 28, 2009
Long Time
It has been some time since I have posted anything original. Unfortunately, I am still under the impression that I have nothing original to say. I only want to share a few insights into the hilarity that is my everyday life.
First, I have now met not one, nor two, but three people named Wilberforce. I have gone as far as to check the spelling of this name, as well as verify the pronunciation. It's phonetic.
Second, there are words that are frequently misspelled, which I hope to dedicate an entire blog to at some point. However, here are some of the highlights: Menus are an abomination. I have ordered "Cock Tall Juice," "Sand Witches" and several other anomalies I had not previously encountered. A few weeks ago I was selecting between "Vag" and "Non-Vag" options.
Finally, I think this guy really has it figured out. I need to take a page from his book of cool.
He's spotting his move....
His window of opportunity is quickly closing.....
He's got it! Gooooooooaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll!!!!!!!!!!
First, I have now met not one, nor two, but three people named Wilberforce. I have gone as far as to check the spelling of this name, as well as verify the pronunciation. It's phonetic.
Second, there are words that are frequently misspelled, which I hope to dedicate an entire blog to at some point. However, here are some of the highlights: Menus are an abomination. I have ordered "Cock Tall Juice," "Sand Witches" and several other anomalies I had not previously encountered. A few weeks ago I was selecting between "Vag" and "Non-Vag" options.
Finally, I think this guy really has it figured out. I need to take a page from his book of cool.
He's spotting his move....
His window of opportunity is quickly closing.....
He's got it! Gooooooooaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll!!!!!!!!!!
Monday, December 14, 2009
Uganda Considering Death Penalty for Homosexuals
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/12/08/uganda-considering-death_n_384650.html
Check this one out
Check this one out
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I have been blogging, but the posts have turned out to be more personal than I intended. Also, they have been somewhat morbid, due to the nature of my experiences of late, so I have elected to reserve the entries and spare the sob stories. The last thing I want is to elicit feelings of empathy when most look to a blog for a relaxing, humorous experience.
I have recently discovered that this terrapin-esque internet connection does support the uploading of pictures, illustrated in my last post. Infatuated with my new creative outlet, I will once again share some of the more disparate photos for your own edification, and so you have some clue as to what I'm referencing without necessitating a copy of National Geographic as a visual dictionary.
Ugandan pre-funk before our most recent, wildly successful trash cleanup. These are the kids of Childhood Restoration Outreach, meaning that each and every one of these children that helped us clean Mbale were rescued from the streets, most of whom are orphans.
Joel, Luke and Brad lead a parade of village kids down the mountain after our 7 hour hike
Sunset in Tororo
Eddie lets the turkey bleed out before Rachel cut its head off in preparation for our Thanksgiving feast. This was one of two turkeys, both of which were fried because we couldn't find an oven big enough to support either.
"Cuz I'm an OG, sippin on 40 ounces of OE"
This is the rest of our support for the trash pickup, students from Islamic University In Uganda
Sunset in Moroto, Karamoja
Dennis celebrates what he refers to as "his most difficult challenge in 22 years." A 25 minute, albeit practically vertical hike up Tororo Rock.
View from my back yard. Life is good.
I have recently discovered that this terrapin-esque internet connection does support the uploading of pictures, illustrated in my last post. Infatuated with my new creative outlet, I will once again share some of the more disparate photos for your own edification, and so you have some clue as to what I'm referencing without necessitating a copy of National Geographic as a visual dictionary.
Ugandan pre-funk before our most recent, wildly successful trash cleanup. These are the kids of Childhood Restoration Outreach, meaning that each and every one of these children that helped us clean Mbale were rescued from the streets, most of whom are orphans.
Joel, Luke and Brad lead a parade of village kids down the mountain after our 7 hour hike
Sunset in Tororo
Eddie lets the turkey bleed out before Rachel cut its head off in preparation for our Thanksgiving feast. This was one of two turkeys, both of which were fried because we couldn't find an oven big enough to support either.
"Cuz I'm an OG, sippin on 40 ounces of OE"
This is the rest of our support for the trash pickup, students from Islamic University In Uganda
Sunset in Moroto, Karamoja
Dennis celebrates what he refers to as "his most difficult challenge in 22 years." A 25 minute, albeit practically vertical hike up Tororo Rock.
View from my back yard. Life is good.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Luke selects the guest of honor
Luke honors the guest before the feast
Justice, Luke, Brad and Joel enjoy the sunset with some beer
The sun sets over northern Uganda through beer goggles
Words of wisdom for the children of the Northern Region
Caitlin, Brad and Joel pose for picture with trash cleanup crew. Only 1/5 of the crew stuck around for this magnificent photo.
Things Fall Apart
Not a day goes by when I don’t break something. For a while, I attributed this phenomenon to my clumsiness, which was miraculously absent before those wonderful years we fondly know as puberty. Since the 6th grade, however, klutz has become the median of my characteristics. It follows then, unsurprisingly, that I operate in a perpetual state of caution and still manage to break one out of every nine things I touch in a given day.
For all of those people who are upset about unfair competition from China’s labor force, you really don’t know the half of it. If you want something of quality in America, don’t shop at WallMart, where Chinese products smile at you dancing down the aisles. If you want something of quality in Uganda, you are in for an monotonous adventure. To the best of my recollection (a phrase I learned to utilize in depositions at the ripe age of 14; another story entirely) I have yet to examine a product label that boasted three words other than “Made in China.” Hats, Nokia and other cell phones, refrigerators, books, internet modems, illegal DVDs, Yamaha motorcycles, fabrics, posters, and wigs are all made in the land of the free [labor]. Although I make no excuses for being clumsy as a chimpanzee lacking opposable thumbs, this situation as accelerated my predicament.
Yesterday I broke two things. I was scooping fuel briquette materials into a bin to decompose when the plastic bowl I was using snapped in half. Specifically, the material was sawdust, which in my enlightened sense of precision weighed about three quarters of a pound. I just stood there with the look of failure etched into my eyes holding half a bowl while sawdust snowed over my feet. Later on, calmly cleaning up other people’s dishes, I cracked a plate all the way to the center. It looked like a physics experiment where I’d drawn the radius of the plate and was about to divide it by one over two times pi. Utterly worthless.
To my dismay and your entertainment, I must admit that breaking household items has become a regular engagement in my order of operations. The real debacles come from situations when I have to borrow something, and then I break it. This past week my comrades and I traveled to Tororo. Our insane acquaintance Simon insisted we borrow his car to accommodate our vast numbers, and he was leaving town anyway. Smitten at the opportunity to drive a Chinese-made, manual transmission Nissan March on the left side of the road and steering from the right side of the car, I accepted his offer.
After letting the Chinese Dragon out of the bag, we were riding dirty on our way to RestVille when I hit a pothole around a turn, locked up the Chinese drum brakes and slid the front left wheel into the embankment, putting a torso sized dent into the wheel well. Before I continue, Simon is a fanatic mechanic obsessed with his vehicles who somehow managed to get his hands on one of two Nissans in all of Uganda, made in China or otherwise. The following morning I could not fit the key into the driver’s door lock. I took a step back and observed that those kids had shoved a stick into the lock and broke it off, splintering into fifteen or twenty pieces. Then I observed that they had ripped the plastic décor off the rear quarter panel. Infuriated, I complained to their mother. I will quote her response, speaking directly to Luke and I: “What is wrong with you?! When they do bad, you beat them! Don’t tell me! You get a stick and you cane them!!!” My inaudible response: “Whoa… My mother didn’t raise me to hit kids, especially not my neighbors.” Anyway, I’m sure all caning sticks are made in China and would just break at the wrist when swung forward.
On our way to Tororo bumping jams, Simon’s rear left 6x9 [Chinese] Sony speaker blows up and starts squawking at us like an ostrich trying to sing Black Rob. About five minutes later, his power steering fluid runs out and proceeds to grind harder than a Taylor’s floozy on dollar beers eve. By the time we get to Tororo, my arm is exhausted from compensating for the car’s tendency to veer left, probably chasing the illusion of proper steering alignment. Finally, the inside handle of the rear left door decided that it would be more appropriately located in Joel’s fist, detached from the door entirely. This one required behavioral change because we then had to roll the window down to obtain door-shutting leverage. Oh yeah, and we ate all Simon’s candy, which was interestingly about $10 worth. I don’t think the Candy was made in China, but it could have been.
It’s my interpretation that all goods in Uganda coalesced before jumping the boat from China and decided that if they all exercise 10% of their projected life expectancy, they can ensure perpetual demand for their heirs. Also, this cartel of worthless goods comprise half the rubbish my team and I are trying to extract from the streets. I guess this is how the world goes round, assisted by my clumsiness with my aspirations as a counterpart.
Post-Scripted November 23rd: Uganda is where electronics come to die. Joel is an artist of electronic misery, breaking more devices than I own. My iPod has been slowly dying since it was born, and it lasted all of one week in Uganda. Joel broke his Sony eBook within twenty-four hours. My flash drive lasted two months before it coughed up its PDF files and sputtered out of existence. Rachel’s computer displays the blue screen of death twice daily, usually during online board meetings or cultural journal article readings. It seems to work fine when I want to play solitaire though. Left with dwindling hard-drive space, we decided to facilitate the use of the desktop computer Caitlin dutifully carried 10,000 miles with her. Upon plugging the computer into the outlet, the power supply exploded. I opened up the case to see if it was just a fuse and stared dumbfounded at the blackened, fuse-less power supply proudly displaying those three magic words: “Made in China.”
For all of those people who are upset about unfair competition from China’s labor force, you really don’t know the half of it. If you want something of quality in America, don’t shop at WallMart, where Chinese products smile at you dancing down the aisles. If you want something of quality in Uganda, you are in for an monotonous adventure. To the best of my recollection (a phrase I learned to utilize in depositions at the ripe age of 14; another story entirely) I have yet to examine a product label that boasted three words other than “Made in China.” Hats, Nokia and other cell phones, refrigerators, books, internet modems, illegal DVDs, Yamaha motorcycles, fabrics, posters, and wigs are all made in the land of the free [labor]. Although I make no excuses for being clumsy as a chimpanzee lacking opposable thumbs, this situation as accelerated my predicament.
Yesterday I broke two things. I was scooping fuel briquette materials into a bin to decompose when the plastic bowl I was using snapped in half. Specifically, the material was sawdust, which in my enlightened sense of precision weighed about three quarters of a pound. I just stood there with the look of failure etched into my eyes holding half a bowl while sawdust snowed over my feet. Later on, calmly cleaning up other people’s dishes, I cracked a plate all the way to the center. It looked like a physics experiment where I’d drawn the radius of the plate and was about to divide it by one over two times pi. Utterly worthless.
To my dismay and your entertainment, I must admit that breaking household items has become a regular engagement in my order of operations. The real debacles come from situations when I have to borrow something, and then I break it. This past week my comrades and I traveled to Tororo. Our insane acquaintance Simon insisted we borrow his car to accommodate our vast numbers, and he was leaving town anyway. Smitten at the opportunity to drive a Chinese-made, manual transmission Nissan March on the left side of the road and steering from the right side of the car, I accepted his offer.
After letting the Chinese Dragon out of the bag, we were riding dirty on our way to RestVille when I hit a pothole around a turn, locked up the Chinese drum brakes and slid the front left wheel into the embankment, putting a torso sized dent into the wheel well. Before I continue, Simon is a fanatic mechanic obsessed with his vehicles who somehow managed to get his hands on one of two Nissans in all of Uganda, made in China or otherwise. The following morning I could not fit the key into the driver’s door lock. I took a step back and observed that those kids had shoved a stick into the lock and broke it off, splintering into fifteen or twenty pieces. Then I observed that they had ripped the plastic décor off the rear quarter panel. Infuriated, I complained to their mother. I will quote her response, speaking directly to Luke and I: “What is wrong with you?! When they do bad, you beat them! Don’t tell me! You get a stick and you cane them!!!” My inaudible response: “Whoa… My mother didn’t raise me to hit kids, especially not my neighbors.” Anyway, I’m sure all caning sticks are made in China and would just break at the wrist when swung forward.
On our way to Tororo bumping jams, Simon’s rear left 6x9 [Chinese] Sony speaker blows up and starts squawking at us like an ostrich trying to sing Black Rob. About five minutes later, his power steering fluid runs out and proceeds to grind harder than a Taylor’s floozy on dollar beers eve. By the time we get to Tororo, my arm is exhausted from compensating for the car’s tendency to veer left, probably chasing the illusion of proper steering alignment. Finally, the inside handle of the rear left door decided that it would be more appropriately located in Joel’s fist, detached from the door entirely. This one required behavioral change because we then had to roll the window down to obtain door-shutting leverage. Oh yeah, and we ate all Simon’s candy, which was interestingly about $10 worth. I don’t think the Candy was made in China, but it could have been.
It’s my interpretation that all goods in Uganda coalesced before jumping the boat from China and decided that if they all exercise 10% of their projected life expectancy, they can ensure perpetual demand for their heirs. Also, this cartel of worthless goods comprise half the rubbish my team and I are trying to extract from the streets. I guess this is how the world goes round, assisted by my clumsiness with my aspirations as a counterpart.
Post-Scripted November 23rd: Uganda is where electronics come to die. Joel is an artist of electronic misery, breaking more devices than I own. My iPod has been slowly dying since it was born, and it lasted all of one week in Uganda. Joel broke his Sony eBook within twenty-four hours. My flash drive lasted two months before it coughed up its PDF files and sputtered out of existence. Rachel’s computer displays the blue screen of death twice daily, usually during online board meetings or cultural journal article readings. It seems to work fine when I want to play solitaire though. Left with dwindling hard-drive space, we decided to facilitate the use of the desktop computer Caitlin dutifully carried 10,000 miles with her. Upon plugging the computer into the outlet, the power supply exploded. I opened up the case to see if it was just a fuse and stared dumbfounded at the blackened, fuse-less power supply proudly displaying those three magic words: “Made in China.”
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