On Changing your Life

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Did you, or have you ever considered carrying a gun in case you are somehow the victim of an angry mob? I mean, if they are not the party directly wronged, do they still want to risk their lives to get somebody?

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No, I mean you'd need to carry an AK47 to have any effect. Ugandans are the nicest people, but get them in a mob and it's trouble. An example;

A thief was apprehended in the center of Kampala. This just means that somebody grabbed someone else and started screaming thief. He might have been a thief, he might not have been. Anyway, instant mob forms to partake in the ritual beating to death of said thief. This is right in front of the main post office on the main street. Two uniformed policemen happen to be there and go to rescue the thief from the mob. I've seen a mob in action. They aren't angry as they kill some guy, they're usually laughing and having a great time.

The mob is not happy that their fun is about to be taken away. The mob turns on the two policemen. The two cops are in serious trouble. They take the only option available to them - they start shooting with their AK47's. The final balance is something like ten dead and a bunch wounded. There were so many killed because the cops had to keep shooting to save their lives. The mob wouldn't stop even when bullets were flying. The next days newspaper had a tally of the dead with photo's. There was a lawyer, an architect, a local businessman, an off-duty cop, women, children, you name it. The newspaper was calling for the heads of the cops for killing these 'fine', innocent, upstanding citizens.

So really, carrying a gun was not an option. I much preferred to rely on my wits to get through these situations. Safer in the long run.

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Our new general manager didn’t fool any of us. We knew he had no interest in promoting Adrift. He kept up the marketing charade for a few weeks and then it was left to the guides to do the real marketing. We would go to all the hotels in town, handing out flyers, trying to drum up business. One of the better marketing tricks was to just hang around the Sheraton pool. Meanwhile, the GM ordered 500 more T-shirts. At least that was the official number. The real number was much, much higher. The T-shirts were very high quality and were manufactured and printed in Kenya. They cost around $3 each with shipping, and they sold for $20. He was making a killing selling them out of his shop. We were making feck all on the river.

Things couldn’t go on this way forever. He had to show some progress to the owner. I was his very vocal opponent. I called him out regularly at staff meetings for being an out and out crook. He tried to cut back on costs. Apparently instead of three safety kayakers, now we only needed one. So we had this photo-shop owner trying to tell us how to work on the river. Most of the guides muttered and complained behind his back. I preferred to do it to his face. Because I was out of control. Africa had gotten to me. I was pushing the boundaries too hard. I was becoming very antagonistic on the street. I got involved in more and more hairy situations. I wasn’t drinking too much, taking too many drugs or banging hookers. No, I was trying to take on the whole country.

One night we were at some crappy club. Full of the Ugandan upper and middle classes, but the girls still came right up to you and asked you for sex. Because you were a mazungu. And when I brushed them off they got pissed with me. Their faces turned to sneers. They joked with their male friends that I couldn’t get it up. The males laughed and scoffed – these pathetic losers who were happy to watch their women throw themselves at whites and then degrade themselves even further by joining in the jeering. All so that they might have some slim chance of getting their dick wet. I said to my mates that I was going. I couldn’t stand being in the club any more. They said that they would be right out. I walked outside and stood off to the side of the club, leaning against a wall. There was a line of people waiting to get in. I was nowhere near them. A bored bouncer thought he could have some fun with me. Show the waiting Ugandans how to boss around a mazungu. He had a pump action shotgun. He walked over to me and told me to get away from the wall. I just looked at him. I didn’t say a word. He pointed about 50 meters down the street and told me that I could wait over there. I kept staring at him. He started getting worked up. Didn’t I know that I had to do what he said? I remained silent. It wasn’t going the way he wanted. He was looking like a [censored] in front of the crowd. He un-slung the shotgun from his shoulder and let it hang down by his side. He repeated again his demand for me to move.

I looked down at his gun, looked back up at him and said, “What the feck do you think you’re going to do with that?”

He came right up close. Our faces were inches apart. He told me that I had to move now. I told him to go feck himself. By now there was a big crowd. Everyone was watching. Some of them began calling out; “Mazungu, you move! You do what he says!” I ignored them. I just stared this prick out. I wasn’t moving. I had my piece of wall. It was a nice piece of wall. It felt comfortable behind my back. My arms were loose by my sides. I wanted him to start it. I was prepared to ram that gun down the back of his throat. All my time in Africa, all the crap I had put up with, all the frustrations, it was all right there below the surface, itching to get out. And he knew it. He saw it in my eyes. At that moment I was prepared to do anything. He backed up a few paces. He jeered at me, called me some names. The crowd made disparaging noises. But I wasn’t moving from my stupid piece of wall.

My mates came out about five minutes later. They walked over to me, unaware of what had just happened. I started to walk away with them. The bouncer called out some comments. I didn’t care. I was just sick of the place. I’d had enough.

We had a staff meeting. I don’t remember the details. All I know is that I was angry. I was angry at the way we were being treated. I was angry at this moron thinking that I was really that stupid to not know what was going on. We had an accountant from New Zealand. He was a good kayaker. When he had first come out we had had high hopes for him. We thought that a kayaker would be on our side, would understand how things worked on the river. We were wrong. He was a typical accountant. For him there existed only numbers. It was impossible to reason with him. He was also a fool. He truly believed that our GM was a good guy. So when he thought he had found evidence of someone stealing he went straight to the GM with his findings. The GM was delighted. He immediately emailed the owner, informing him that he had discovered that one of the guides was a thief. The owner was happy. Progress was obviously being made. He told the GM to deal with it. The thief was me.

After the meeting the accountant and the GM invited me to go up to the office upstairs. The other guides were outside playing some volleyball. They presented me with their evidence. It was nonsense. It was easily explainable. I wasn’t a thief. I clearly explained what the discrepancies were. The GM was not happy. He had found a thief, he had contacted the owner, the thief had to be fired. He was realizing that he had acted prematurely. But then I did a very stupid thing. In my naivety, in my misunderstanding of how the world worked, I found myself volunteering to resign. I have no idea why I said this. Perhaps I thought that it would prove my innocence. Who knows. Looking back I think that it might have been a part of me that knew I had to get out. I had to get out of Africa before I got into some serious trouble. The GM accepted my resignation. The guides were stunned. They demanded that I be reinstated. He held firm. He had been offered a way out of his predicament. He wasn’t silly enough to throw away such a gift. The guides demanded that I be given time to save up for a ticket out. He gave me two months. Then I would be without a job. It was February 2000. I had been in Africa for a year. Now I had to find a way to get the hell out.

[ahnuld]

what year are we in in this last part?

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what year are we in in this last part?

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It was February 2000.

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[orange]

keep going man, great work so far!

[Parlay Slow]

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keep going man, great work so far!

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we aren't doing these posts anymore

[Erik779]

Wooww. Really good stuff here. You should write a book.

Thank you for sharing

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There was no point in getting out if I didn’t have a destination. Australia was out of the question. It would be too much like giving up. But I was in a bit of a panic. The poker game had ended some time ago due to several diplomats and UN boys being moved around. I had about $150 to my name. I would need at least $800 just to get a one-way ticket to London. I went into the main internet café in Kampala and emailed my dad. For the first time since leaving home I was going to have to ask for some help. My dad replied to the email the next day. It was curt and to the point. He had remarried a few years previously, and at the tender age of 55 had begun the whole family thing all over again. When I dropped into Perth on my way to Africa I had met my baby sister for the first time. They had just had another daughter a few months previously. He gave me the bad news. She had a heart defect and required radical new surgery to correct the problem. He had a great deal on his plate. He did give me an option – he’d pay for a ticket, but only to come back to Perth.

There was no way I could do it. I was blown away by what I felt was level A abandonment, but at the same time for worry for what was going on back home. I had a few black days and then I started to get my act together. First I needed a job. I narrowed it down to three options. I could go back to Canada and work for the dude who originally wanted me the last time I was there. I contacted him and he was extremely keen. Jeno had two good contacts as well. The company he had previously worked for in Norway, and a company in Italy where a friend of his had just done a season. The problem with Canada was the distance. It was going to cost a lot more to get there. I asked them if they could help spring for the ticket. The response was cold. So Norway or Italy it was.

The decision that swayed me was the chance to learn a language. The idea excited me, and put down as a choice between the two I felt that Italian was a more useful language to learn. I contacted the company in Italy. They were looking for two guides. Jeno decided to come as well. He’d had enough of Africa. We hit the company up for two jobs and a few days later they email their confirmation. Destination and job resolved. Three things remained – the cash, the work visa, and revenge.

I began my now long and familiar relationship with Italian bureaucracy. There is an Italian embassy in Kampala, and Jeno and I spent a great deal of time there getting next to nothing achieved. On top of this, the other guides were slipping the two of us as much work as they could. Colin had been running some kayaking courses down at Bujagali, and he kindly swung most of the work my way. I was slowly dragging the cash together. The accountant had become a non-entity amongst the guides. He lived with us, he worked with us, he went paddling with us, but we only acknowledged him on a professional basis. He couldn’t understand why, which spoke volumes.

Mick was gearing up to the launch of his new rafting company. He offered me a job, but I turned him down. I was now focused on getting out. There was just one other little problem. I had been seeing a Spanish girl who was a diplomat in Kampala. Spanish girls are awesome, just awesome. She was a tidy little number and a whirlwind in the sack. She was also good to talk to, held her drink, didn’t nag and had realistic expectations of life. She was a good thing. I told her that I had to get out, but that I was going to Europe. She understood, and we made plans to meet up as soon as we could.

I was hell bent on planning out some elaborate revenge on the GM, when his brother died in mysterious circumstances of a heroin overdose. The three brothers ran the shop together. I started picking up on disturbing rumors, and after a chat with Mick I decided to leave well enough alone. I felt that I was getting out at just the right time. Sometimes the Universe gives you a sign, sometimes it gives you a nudge as well if it thinks you need it. I have learnt to listen to these hints, as you ignore them at your own peril. What in the short term could be construed as a disaster often turned out to be a blessing in the greater picture. I have had this happen to me often in my life and travels. It is best to be calm in these situations. Sit and think things over without emotion. Work out what needs to be done. Change is often painful, as we do not like the unknown, even if the known is not a good place to be.

I went into the South African Airways office to find a ticket. I got extremely lucky. There was a nice Ugandan girl working there and I happened to get called up to her window. She possessed a rare ability not found often in Africans – initiative. I explained my problem. I needed the cheapest one-way ticket possible to London for the beginning of May. There was a special on. There were 10 seats available for the special and about 250 people had applied for them. But she liked me, and god almighty I liked her. I went into their office on the crucial day. She saw me and gave me a big smile. I had jagged the last ticket for the princely sum of $650. I had my ticket out.

My last night in Kampala I spent with Mick and Amanda. Mick and I dropped some excellent acid and we went to the Kampala casino. We got slaughtered. Amanda got slaughtered. We were so off our faces that we started taking other peoples chips when we ran out of money. At one point I remember leaning over towards this very large South African and telling him in a serious and confidential tone that I was on drugs. “No sh*t”, came the reply.

On leaving the casino at five in the morning Mick drove his car through the plate glass window of a jewelry shop. We sat there pissing ourselves with laughter amidst broken glass and jewelry, while alarm bells shrieked into the early morning hours. Mick put the car into reverse and we just drove away. We were driving back home when we got pulled over by two policeman. Mick stopped the car as they had guns and a radio. We were drinking bottles of beer. Amanda was unconscious in the back. The policemen saw the beer and their faces lit up into huge smiles.

“Ah, mazungu’s! You are drinking! This is very bad! We must arrest you.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” said Mick. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh yes I do. You are drunk and very bad people. You must be punished!”

“We’re not drunk!” said Mick. The cop pointed at the bottles of beer. “Well, maybe a little bit, but where we come from that’s ok.”

I looked at Mick with some confusion. It is?

The cops looked equally dubious. “This I cannot believe. You are making fun of me.”

“It’s true!” Mick protested.

“Where are you comes from?” asked the cop with great suspicion.

Mick and I answered together with enthusiasm, “Australia!”

The other cop sneered. “This is not possible. I cannot believe that in Australia you can drink and drive your car.”

“Well,” Mick began, “It’s like this. In Australia, if you drink a lot and get drunk, then you have to drive more slowly, because it’s harder to drive, so we drive slower, and then we have less accidents, so drinking and driving in Australia is encouraged and we have very, very, very safe roads.”

I looked at Mick. He had to be kidding. The cops looked at Mick. The cops looked at each other. There was a long silence. And then the first cop said;

“Okay, you can go.”

And we sped off into the night, pissed out of our minds and laughing like crazy. And Amanda slept through the whole thing.

[Holden Caulfield]

The thing I don't understand is, how come everyone hated the accountant? How come he was so oblivious to the fact that you all disliked him?

Great post, looking forward to more.

[barryc83]

I just sat here at work and read that whole thing, its awesome obv. I believe everything that you wrote but one detail seems kinda cheesy to me. When you go to find the kid who stole the stereo, does a cobra really come out from under his bed? Once again I'm not calling you a liar, but doesnt that seem like some sort of allegory in a fictional story?