On Changing your Life

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adsman deserves a custom title!

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I asked for mazungu but it seems no dice. [img]/images/graemlins/frown.gif[/img]

There are three types of white people in Uganda. Tourists, ex-pats who get it, and ex-pats who don’t. The ex-pats who don’t understand how to adjust stay for the most part behind their bolted gates, while making quick trips in relative luxury to the must-see locations. Tourists for the most part, are walking ATM’s. Anywhere they go they will be ripped off and extorted. But they don’t know, so they don’t mind, because they’re in Africa and “Gee, isn’t this swell?”

Then there are the ex-pats who get it. When almost everyone wants to use you for your perceived status, you have to adjust your behavior. Some find this morally difficult to do. They think they are being racist. You’re not being racist, you’re doing it to survive. The Ugandans are playing a game with you. Either step up and take it to them, or stay behind your closed doors.

An example. It was Melbourne Cup day. The Melbourne Cup is a famous Australian horse race. The Australian embassy in Nairobi was having their yearly Melbourne Cup Ball. Mick and I had been invited, due to the fact that when we’re together, unusual events take place. We decided to dress up for it. We made jackets out of baby flip-flop sandals. Sewed them all together. Green for Mick, yellow for me. The Aussie colours. They looked great. We actually made the front page of the Australian embassy times, the in-house magazine that goes to all the Aussie embassies in the world. But I digress….

Nairobi is a one hour flight, or a twelve hour drive. Mick was busy at this time setting up his own rafting company. He had split from Adrift and gone into partnership with a local Indian businessman. As he had so much to do, he only had time to fly in. I took the bus with his crazy English girlfriend, Amanda. She had lived in Uganda all her life. She was a little flighty but we got along well. The twelve hour trip is along roads that are not of the greatest quality. It is important not to sit at the back of the bus. Your head will spend most of the time hitting the roof. Halfway between the middle and the front is the best spot. We got on and headed for the border.

The border is interesting. There is a 100 meter stretch of land between Uganda and Nairobi that belongs to neither country. It is no-mans land. So legally, in that stretch of earth, there are no laws. And you’re in Africa. Kind of scary when you think about it. What’s more daunting is the fact that when the bus arrives you have to get off the bus and walk the 100 meters to Kenya while the bus trundles past empty. At the Kenyan border you go to the customs house, get your visa sorted out and get back on the bus. The 100 meter stretch is packed with people. I was traveling with a beautiful six foot English white girl with large breasts. This would have normally been a problem, if not for the fact that Amanda was not clueless. She understood how the system works.

We hightailed it off the bus. There were quite a few tourists and we didn’t want to get stuck behind them at customs and lose our bus. There were a few guys sitting there on boda-boda motorbikes. These are little bikes that have had an extra seat attached to the back. They are one of the primary means of getting around the countryside. They are also bloody dangerous. Boda means border, and this is where they originated; to run people the 100 meter stretch between the borders. We grabbed one each, I flashed them some US currency and we sped off the 100 meters. When we got to the customs house the line was quite small. We paid the boys and got in line. I ended up in front of a scowling, fat, female, Ugandan petty official. Are there any other kind? She sneered at me and demanded my documents. We were about to play the game.

My documents were all in order. It should have been a simple charge for the Kenyan visa and then bye-bye. But no. She thought she had spotted a mark. She looked me up and down and said,
“Mazungu, where is your yellow fever vaccination certificate?”

It was back in Kampala, and there was no way I was going back to get it. I didn’t even know if I needed it in this situation, in fact I seriously doubted it as you couldn’t enter the country and get a Ugandan visa in the first place without it. But I wasn’t going to try and explain myself on the route. That would be a world of pain ending in me paying a nice little bribe. All of this flashed through my brain in a nano-second as I responded instantly in an aggressive tone with,

“I don’t need my yellow fever vaccination certificate!”

She was taken back by this. She reverted to charming personality. “Oh mazungu, of course you need your certificate. You cannot leave country without that.”

I replied as soon as she had finished speaking. Do not hesitate, do not show any doubt, show 100% confidence and be a prick. If she wanted a bribe she was going to have a hard time. “Yes I can. You know I don’t need one. Here’s my visa fee. Give me the stamp. Now.”

“Eh!” This is a word in the Ugandan language. It is used to convey surprise. It translates to; “I don’t believe what this person is saying. How could this be true? I have never encountered something like this in all of my life.” When they say ‘Eh’, you’ve got them. Behind me standing in the line, was an American couple. They were looking around in wide-eyed wonder. They were talking in loud voices. They were hoping that they wouldn’t have any problems crossing the border. They were clueless. The petty official heard them. She looked at me, made up her mind and without a word stamped my passport. Why bother arguing with this guy when there are two walking bribe victims right behind him? In my year and a half in Africa I never paid a bribe. Not once.

Amanda hadn’t had any problems either. We re-boarded the bus and headed for Nairobi. Don’t go to Nairobi. It’s a very dangerous place. Kampala is wonderful, Nairobi is a nightmare. We arrived and got something to eat in a restaurant while waiting for Mick to show up. We were in the centre of the city. In less than half an hour we witnessed three muggings outside the restaurant. I hadn’t seen one in all my time in Uganda. There was a different feel in Kenya. The locals do not like whitey. In Uganda the locals think that Jesus was white, and we are white, so we must be closer to Jesus. Not here. There was a ripple of nastiness traveling just below the surface. Mick arrived and we high-tailed it to the hotel where the ball was being held.

That evening was the semi-final in the rugby world cup between Australia and South Africa. Mick and I wanted to get a beer before the ball so we wandered into the downstairs bar. It was packed with Aussies watching the game and we were wearing our green and yellow flip-flop jackets. The place went wild when they saw us. We got mobbed, everyone buying us a beer. There were some very hot girls there. We decided to stay. Feck the stupid ball. Half an hour later one of the ball organizers came in. He was looking for us. He begged us to come up. In the end we had to go. Amanda would have been very pissed if we had abandoned her up there. The ball was full of ex-pat Aussies and Kiwi’s. Embassy-types, Kenyan cowboys, businessmen, etc. It wasn’t our crowd. They were all wearing ball wear stuff. Tuxedo’s. We were wearing flip-flops. But they loved us. We got spectacularly drunk and dropped some weak acid.

Mick flew out early and the only bus going back that day was at 8.30am. We dropped Mick at the airport and in the same taxi directed the driver to take us to the Akamba bus. He kept driving and driving. It was getting closer to the departure time. He pulled into a huge bus park and our spirits sank. He had taken us to the normal, crazy African bus park. The Akamba bus was a private line. We were in trouble. If an African doesn’t know what you’re talking about he won’t tell you. He will just smile and do whatever and hope that will be cool. He doesn’t want to risk losing his mazungu meal ticket. This had been the case here. We had said Akamba repeatedly. He had never had a fecking clue where to take us. I told Amanda to get out the map of the city and I pushed the driver into the back and jumped behind the wheel. He started saying ‘Eh!’ a lot. With Amanda directing me I rally-drove that piece of crap through the middle of the city. I didn’t stop once. I broke every driving law known to man and then some. We made it, just. Then he tried to overcharge us. Amanda just looked at him and then went to town on the guy. I hauled our gear to the bus which was just about to leave. Twelve hours later we pulled into Kampala. I’d never been so glad to see the place.

[TyFuji]

Freaking awesome.

[Joe Tall]

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Freaking awesome.

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I think you mean, "Fecking Awesome"!

[theBruiser500]

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Freaking awesome.

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I think you mean, "Fecking Awesome"!

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Joe Tall with wit like that maybe you should write a book too.

[r0eKY]

"that's africa" they kept saying in blood diamound. Sounds like you have to be one tuff mazungu to make it. You can go on all day with the africa stories, it sounds like it's the wild west

[BigPoppa]

You and your "Rally car driving a taxi through urban African slums".

I'm sure I've done something just as terrifying and cool.

Umm....

Umm....



I did raise a kid, that's close.

[PokerAmateur4]

More life stories please, more poker please.

thanks this is really superb reading

[Stellastarr]

Good stuff Ads. Keep it up.

[maniacut]

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You always have two decisions available to you. Yes and no. Shall I do this? Yes or no.

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Thanks for the great story so far. I quoted this part because despite its obvious simplicity, it's likely to have a profound effect on me.

[patrick_mcmurray]

Great read!!

Spent some time in Kampala myself 2000-2001.

Nearest I have come to death was on the back of a boda boda. We were zipping up the hill. Very big truck speeding down the hill. Road narrowed at exact point we passed truck. [img]/images/graemlins/tongue.gif[/img]