Kampala and Beyond

When the plane touches down in Uganda I’m not sure what to expect. A set of fairly steep steps is rolled out to the aircraft. As the descent is made I breathe my first breaths of African air.

I’m a bit uneasy about what is to follow. The only part of Uganda’s history which has made an impression on me is the reign of Idi Amin . His rise to power came at the expense of an estimated 300,000 Ugandan lives during my days in junior high.

Passengers move like cattle to the area where we will pass through customs. A visa must be obtained in order to enter the country. My passport is in hand as well as a carefully completed immigration card. Best I remember we were charged $50 to enter the country.

A representative from the mission house where we are spending the night is there to welcome us. She’s brought along a driver named Ernest who will transport us from Entebbe to Kampala (that's Earnest and Chuck below).

The ride is a short 30 or 40 minute journey made under the cover of darkness. For that reason there’s not a lot of scenery to take in. Perhaps that’s just as well. After 30 hours of travel I’m probably not in a position to fully appreciate the first views of this strange new land.

The amount of foot and bicycle traffic moving along the shoulder of the road at this hour is amazing. Every few miles there are collections of booths were people are selling and buying a variety of goods. People congregate around small barbeque grills. Sizzling meat and roasting corn are suspended over wood fires. Everyone along the road from Entebbe to Kampala seems to have received an invitation to one continuous block party.

Once in Kampala we ask the driver to take us by the bus station to inquire about tickets for the trip to Bukoba. The lateness of our arrival means that the station is already closed for the day. The bus leaves early in the morning. After the long journey no one is eager to be up before dawn.


We arrive at the guest house (above and below) and note the razor wire adorning the massive metal gates which shelter the compound. These precautions are necessary in a place where so many lack the basic comforts which we call necessities.

The accommodations are simple but appreciated. A deal is struck with our driver to transport us to Bukoba on the following day. This brings all of us a sense of relief as we prepare for bed.

Moments later the second personal crises of the trip confronts me. The first occurred in the Detroit airport. The four gig card purchased to record our journey could not be read by my camera. Unable to bear the thought of missing shots of the Serengeti there was no alternative but to purchase another card at a shop in the airport.

We packed light with anticipation of washing items during the trip. A discovery is made when opening my duffle bag to get ready for bed. The small container of laundry detergent packed for use later in the week has leaked. My clothes now sport dark navy blue stains.

One of my pastoral companions reveals that there is a washer and dryer located in room on the back of the house. A silent but ugly meltdown is no longer necessary. I wash everything in the same load regardless of color and pray that nothing leaches color on anything else.

An attempt to rid the bag’s interior of the soapy seepage succeeds in producing an infinite supply of suds. This further postpones bedtime. I’m up early to move clothes to the dryer and repack. Tragedy averted.

The next morning driver Earnest is sent to procure breakfast. Larry, the only layman on the trip, volunteers to go with him. They return with sliced salami, bread, jam, bananas and a few other accoutrements riding on the back of motorcycles driven by people they whose services they have employed. Hot tea is brewed from the cooler of filtered water in the guest house.

Scott S. succeeds in arranging a meeting with two young people sponsored by he and his church through Compassion International and another children’s aid group in Uganda. A monthly contribution provides a school uniform and the educational expenses that empower a child to have hope for a future. The face to face encounter is a rare and fulfilling opportunity. It’s another event which seems arranged by providence.

As we travel through Kampala I’m stuck by the smell and haze of exhaust belched forth from every car, truck, and motorcycle we pass. Burned diesel ash settles on our skin, shirt cuffs and collars. The smog conceals the landscape and makes taking pictures a frustrating process. The airborne impurities testify to the lack of emissions controls. I come to a deeper appreciation of environmental regulations enforced back home.

I quickly become convinced that the cost of measures to protect our natural resources back home is worth the price. Soon I realize that it is not enough for America to battle global warming. The ozone layer will not be salvaged unless the international community does something to address pollution in third world countries. Of course that means committing aid to these countries so I won’t hold my breath. Ironically, that may be the only option left to exercise one day. Sadly just because money is committed to deal with the problem doens't guarentee that it will be spent doing the right things.


English is definitely the language adopted for Ugandan business. I’m struck by how many people speak my native tongue and their proficiency. Most public signs are readable. I would soon learn that this is not the case in much of Tanzania.

Our first taste of African cuisine takes place during the six hour drive from Kampala to Bukoba. We stop at an outdoor café and are treated to a buffet which is surprisingly representative of the diet we would consume during the majority of our stay in Africa.


That’s rice hiding under a slice of pineapple at the top of the picture. On the right there's cubed meat stewed to make a gravy which stretches the meat and provides a flavoring for the rice. Matoki (at about seven o’clock) is made of boiled banana’s (green cooking bananas not the sweet variety we’re accustomed to here in the States) and has a taste that resembles mashed potatoes. The pale pink matter adorning the bananas is a peanut sauce only encountered on this stop. The yellow blob (at nine o’clock) is a local variety of sweet potato.


We crossed the equator during this part of the journey. We took turns posing for an obligatory photo as we straddled the imaginary line with one foot in the northern hemisphere and the other in the southern hemisphere. You can tell I was thrilled.

I also paid 500 shillings (less than 50 cents) at this stop to visit the “cho” or restroom. Paying for the privilege seemed wrong at the time.

Experience would soon reveal that it was worth the price. Most chos make memories of the old outhouse at my grandparent’s place seem pleasant by comparison (incidentally the first congregation I pastored here in the States had a vision for church growth that centered on installing indoor toilets so as to double attendance, but that’s another story). This one was a full sit down porcelain affair. That’s not available in your average accommodations.

I am grateful to report that our accommodations were well above average by African terms. But you should also know that first class accommodations indicates something very different there than here in the U.S.