The King of Gruff
Uganda, 1984
I found a cheap room in a Somali-run hostel and met fellow travellers: two black Amerikans who I had met briefly in Bangui and a Sudanese man who immediately offered me tea. But although I spoke to other travellers, I did not find any companions.
I looked around for a lift to the border. Several pick-ups were parked in front of the hostel but the drivers were certain to want money and after paying for the hostel, I was almost out of Zaïres. I could not afford to change any more US $.
One of the lorries had a window-sticker that read “Allah Kasim” God is merciful. I decided to try it first. I was in luck. The driver nodded straight away: “I’ll help you get to Kasindi.”
We drove through a landscape of gently rolling hills which would be perfect for vinyards and reached Kasindi, 12km north of the equator, by early evening.
I seemed to be just the right age for travelling (at 19). I felt adult enough, but the people I dealt with, including officials, seemed to develop parental instincts towards me. There was always somebody who would look after me. At the border, someone brought me water to drink and to wash with, I was allowed to put up my tent right next to the checkpoint and nobody showed the slightest interest in either my luggage or the missing stamps on my money declaration form.
The same was not rue for the hapless black Americans who arrived shortly after me. They had come to Africa to “find their roots” but they were treated like shit.
Early the next morning the weather was drizzly and cloudy, just like back home. I was sitting with the crew of a coffee lorry under their tarpaulin and we shared rice and tomatoes.
“Eat with us,” they had said: “Feel at home. Here we are all brothers and sisters!”
However, the friendly guys couldn’t help me out with a lift into Uganda; they had to wait another week for the rest of their convoy and had to arrange a military escort from the Ugandan border. The landscape around here might look a bit like Switzerland, but it sure wasn’t peaceful. I decided not to worry about it. About the bandits, the rogue army, the rapes, the killings.
One thing that is decidedly not like Switzerland are the bananas. I have never seen so many banana plantations.
Eventually, I caught a pick-up for the 4km ride to the Ugandan side of the border. Once there, I started to pace and ask around where to turn first: customs, immigration, money declaration, the police?
“First you come with me!” said a man who introduced himself as the IO: “But wait. You have time, don’t you? Are you unhappy? Tell me?”
I wondered what sort of freak he was. Reinhold had told me never to appear rushed, especially not with border officials. “Sit down, smoke a pipe,” he had said, but I was out of tobacco. Plus I was agitated. After sitting down under a tree for a little while, I jumped up, walked over to the IO and glared at him. It was a bit of a war of attrition.
“OK, come on,” he said eventually and started to stroll towards his office. “Do you have a visa?”
“I don’t think I need one,” I said. I was far from certain but that was what I had been told in Kisangani and where should I have obtained a visa from anyway? I breathed a sigh of relief as the IO stamped my passport, pushed two forms in my direction and asked for my vaccination certificate. Eventually all the paperwork had been completed, even the money declaration form, and I thought I was through, happy that my luggage hadn’t been searched.
I walked through the barrier.
Suddenly somebody shouted: “Stop!”.
Oh shit, I had forgotten about the police. The police wanted to see my cash and it turned out that the money declaration form was 3 $ short (in addition to the dollars I carried in a secret zip inside my belt).
“With blatant disregard of Ugandan law,” one of the officers said: ” you have failed to declare three dollars.”
He fixed me with a stern stare over his plain glass lenses.
I squirmed and acted suitably chastised . I got away with it — and just three dollars poorer. The little girl act was still working.
I walked across the barrier a second time and onto Ugandan soil.
“Stop!”
I froze, my heart in my boots.
One of the soldiers walked towards me — and held out a piece of his sandwich.
“Have a good journey, sister!”
There was no traffic on the road to Kasese. I had no idea whether there were any villages nearby. I had no choice but to walk, thinking back to my recent 100 km jungle trek with some trepidation.
I walked until the shadows grew long without finding any signs of human habitation. Then, to my relief, a white Toyota pulled up. The driver was — the IO. He smiled.
“Get in,” he said: “where you hoping to walk all the way to Kasese?”
“I was going to stop at the next village.”
“There are no villages around here.”
He frowned seriously, the smile gone from his face, and continued: “There are man-eating lions in this bush. And bandits with guns. Only a few weeks ago a tourist was killed for his camera. You should not walk around on your own!”
He drove me all the way to Kasese and the local mission.
The Father was not pleased to see me, mumbling about tourists. The IO tried to placate him, but even he could not melt the old priest’s stony heart. Eventually the Father sent me off with two boys to a hostel nearby. The hostel was full. The two boys took me back to the mission.
“What do you want now?” the Father asked as I knocked on the door once again.
“Er…I have a tent. Could I put up my tent somewhere in the garden?”
“Come in,” he grumbled: “let me see if there is room here.”
I followed him inside slightly startled; I had half-expected the gruffy old man to refuse me a patch on the lawn to pitch my tent. He turned to one of the boys and grumbled: “In my time little girls stayed at home with their mothers!” then, turning back to me: “You know, we do not run a hotel!”
I had noticed.
As soon as I had stepped over the threshold of the lounge, his demeanour changed. He offered me a glass of water and as I thirstily stretched out my hand, snatched it away and sent one of the boys off to fetch fresh water as it wasn’t cold enough. He offered me food and while it was being prepared asked the other boy to cover my bed with fresh linen. He apologized that he did not have a duvet.
“Like I said, it’s no hotel, just a house with two old priests…”
Talk about a lamb in a wolf’s coat! I must have been the first traveller to be invited to stay at that particular mission in a long time, even though I must have looked a fright. My backpack was filthy, my shirt was in shreds and I had not washed recently. Maybe that had something to do with the Father’s change in attitude. When I looked into the mirror in my room, I saw that the many patches of my shirt had ripped open to reveal bleeding scratches all down my back from the pipecleaners I had used to fix my backpack. My face was gaunt, my eyes piercing ice- blue from dirty and tanned skin. I was hobbling owing to the blisters on my still bleeding feet. I looked a fright indeed. But I felt great.
Before he went to bed, the Father showed me the bathroom. There was a bath, hot water, shampoo and fluffy towels. I had died and gone to heaven.
I met the second priest at breakfast. He had vacated the room in which I had slept.
The two of them waited on me lavishly. There was fresh coffee, toast so hot that the butter melted on it and a giant omelette. I repaid the two wonderful men their kindness by taking one bite of the omelette then bolting to the bathroom to throw up. Too much rich food!
Denni