Uganda is Green.

Uganda is green.

I arrived late at night, around midnight. The sun had well set and I couldn’t much see anything, but could tell immediately that the land was lush and green. Exiting the airport, the most striking difference between Kenya and Uganda to hit my senses was the air: full, moist and clean. We drove from Entebbe to Kampala with the windows down. Fresh air streaming into the car and clearing the lungs. I was sporting a full bladder and requested a pit stop. The driver chuckled and quickly pulled over onto the dirt shoulder of the streaming two-lane commuter.

Exiting the cab and out into the pitch midnight air. I could barely make out any shapes and was reluctant to venture too far from the car. I didn’t want some funky, non-existent Ugandan land croc to lunge on me unsuspectingly. I slashed into the roadside’s long grass. The shores of Lake Victoria shimmered twenty meters from the road. The trees were alive with a percussion sound resembling the knocking chime of a bell made from hollow wood. I still haven’t figured out if it was a bird, frog or bug, but the forest had a beat.

The next morning I walked outside and saw the green I smelt the night prior. Yet, more striking, even in the city of Kampala, was the clay red dirt. My shoes and clothes would adopt an orange tinge over the following few days; mostly from biking through the country dirt roads.

Megumi and I made our way to the Bus Park in the central core of Kampala to catch a bus to the western countryside of Uganda. There we met her friend Charlie. The bus park is accurately named – unlike parkways and driveways – for the buses spend a huge amount of time, well, parked. We located our bus. It was stationed tightly in a row of other idling diesel buses, all of which had been plucked out of 1990 Japan. Ours had a ‘Nissan Diesel: Saitama, Japan’ badge beside the entrance. The bus was half full at this point. The seats were all covered in plastic and in rows of two and three. I walked to the back and grabbed an empty three seater, slid open the window and leaned out to take in the ensuing chaos.

Thousands of people milled around. Some hawking typical wear – sunglasses, portable radios, bread, coke – some looking for their bus, some trying to grab luggage in escort, some banging on the sides of buses aiding the drivers to park, others simply loitered. One bus read ‘BORNTOSING HALLALUYA.’ A sign in the front window of another said ‘The Struggle!!! Kampala-Soroti-via-Mbale-Kumi.’

A group of guys gawked at a passing woman of full figure and tight jeans. She fired back a glance that only flared their catcalls.

The bus was heating up far quicker than it was filling up. We were still waiting. The bus was scheduled to leave at 2pm. It was 2:30. I was told it wouldn’t go anywhere until it was completely full. I was sweating from the brow and wrists. My legs stuck to the plastic seat cover. A man entered trying to sell queen size cotton-satin sheets with a floral print. He had about ten sets draped over his arm. He unfolded one entirely. The passengers held an edge and inspected the thread count. A captive infomercial audience.

My attention quickly turned to the commotion outside. A broad woman in jeans and a khaki top started throwing haymakers at a tall lanky man. Her left hand held his red button-up shirt in firm grasp. He ducked and she delivered. She was the only woman in sight. A crowd of twenty guys stood around laughing at the poor sap being slapped.

Through the crowd came a teenager carrying rip-off Timberland luggage and a jar of pencils above his head. He was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey jersey circa 1995. ‘GILMOUR 93’ stitched on the back. I called and got his attention, but he was suspect to allow me to snap a photo of him.

The bus was just about full. The driver was preparing to leave. One last hawker entered. He was peddling vitamin B complex pills. A worthy cause, but I respectfully declined.

The ride was bumpy. Slow in time, but fast in speed. These buses fly down the narrow two lane sparsely paved roads. Giant speed bumps the only deterrent. Being at the back of the bus, I would eject from my seat each time we passed over one. Sticky plastic seat covers my only restraint.

We stopped for fuel. The bus was surrounded by hoards selling sticks of grilled meat, corn and juice. I bought warm chapatti bread from my window seat. Staring back out the window I spotted a sign for Midas Cooking Oil, which appeared to read, ‘Give your Cocking that Midas Touch,’ which seemed to be more appropriate.

We ripped past the lush rolling green of tea plantations. A light cloud of misting rain hung over the western horizon and refracted the setting sun.

We arrived at our eco-lodge an hour after nightfall. The facility was perched on a hill overlooking the valley and hosted 4 cabins, an open air eating area and small private crater lake. The proprietor, a portly man with a graying beard, also runs an orphanage and offsets those costs by revenues generated by the lodge. We were fed an incredibly satisfying spread of beans, fried plantain and rice.

I retired to bed shortly after eating. Pull back the mosquito net, tuck in the corners and fall asleep.

Strolled down to the crater lake for a wake up swim the following morning. I joke overtly about fresh water crocs to conceal my legitimate fear – even though there isn’t even a fraction of a chance they live here. My swim is quick, but massively refreshing.

We rent mountain bikes and head off to explore. It’s hot, but the moisture from the valley is refreshingly cool. Our treads kick up red dust from the dirt road. Green as far as the eye can see. Lighter shades from young sprouting crops, fresh hues of tea, dark temperate rain forest tones in the horizon. Crater lake vistas, steep banks of tall non-indigenous eucalyptus trees.

We pass through a small village. Children come running, others stand timid behind their mothers. One child asks, “How are you?” I respond and the group follows with a chorus of “how are you.” Throughout the course of the afternoon I hear four lines: “How are you,” “I am fine,” “Give me money,” which later turned into, “Give me MY money.”  Efficient communication.

Nonetheless, the children are inquisitive and keen to engage in further conversation. A group of school kids approach on their way home. All in blue uniforms. We talk math and soccer. They see my camera and ask for a picture. They stare deep into the lens as if looking for something beyond the shutter.

We stop for a late lunch overlooking another crater lake and girls’ school. Their uniforms consist of white dress shirts and long pink skirts, which makes quite the contrast to the green hills when viewed from a distance.

Lunch is a local dish called a ‘Rolex’, which is essentially a shredded cabbage omelet, rolled in chapatti. Rolex. I order it out of entertainment of saying ‘Rolex.’

A game of soccer is being played on a red dirt pitch in Kampala. Locals sit, stand and watch on the grass hillside – a natural bleacher. Red versus Blue. Referee in yellow. It is still day, but light is fading and a shadow engulfs the field.

We head back to the car after dinner. An armed guard dressed in a bright red pleather windbreaker approaches us. He is tiny, but armed with rifle nonetheless. He stares blankly. I nod and grin. He flashes a huge teethy smile in return. I ask about his gun. He holds it out with two hands as if to offer it to me. I decline, but ask for a picture. He accepts. Bull Market moment.