Tag Archives: First world

First World Trouble

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Been in Uganda more than a month now. Adapting well to the new reality: poor transport over moonscape roads, intermittent wifi, scarce power at times to charge my Apple family of devices.

Now add inability to access lifeblood of cash.

Even here in Bwindi there is a need for currency. I need Ugandan shillings to support the bevy of boda drivers I rely on for quick lifts from my home to the guest house for one of my three squares. More is needed for airtime for my Ugandan cellphone used for chats and texts of plans and schedules. I talk too much it appears.

Saturday morning, Paul and I set out for Kihihi to visit the Stanbic Bank ATM to get large sums of shillings ($100 = 250,000 UGS). Paul is one-half of an Episcopal missionary couple that arrived about the time I did. He and wife, Barbara, have 30-years experience in Africa and elsewhere as long-term workers. They’ll be here for three years!

I arranged for a lift in a hospital vehicle, a Toyota Landcruiser that easily handled the unpaved surface. We got to within 5 miles of Kihihi where we were disgorged and piled onto a boda for the rest of the trip.

It was hardly smooth sailing. Two muzungus behind the driver who took a safari-like shortcut through the brush to get us to our destination.

Arrived safely at the ATM, a familiar spot that I’ve visited several times in the past year. OK, let’s get going then get on our way.

NOT!

UNABLE TO COMPLETE TRANSACTION shouted the computer screen. Paul tried his Visa card after me and got the same result. We tried other cards, same result. There would be no cash from Stanbic.

My driver friend, Chris, lives in Kihihi, so I summoned him with a call and directed him to take Paul and me to Kunungu where there were two more banks to ply our plastic.

Forty minutes later we were face-to-face with the fact that neither of of the two banks accepted Visa cards. Visa, the biggest card company of them all, left me with my hands in my empty pockets.

In this land of subsistence living, a couple of Americans frustrated in their attempts to get cash is hardly noteworthy. But it points out the vast cultural differences between guests and hosts.

Residents here work and scrape for any advantage over the daily demand for food, water, heat. Guests, like me, do the best we can under austere conditions but continually look for conveniences of home…

The Invisible Man

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My first day back in the West didn’t turn out too well.

The day started out fine. I awoke in Entebbe about 4 a.m. anticipating my long flight to London, preceded by an unpredictable trip to the business office at the airport.

But it ended in loneliness, as if I didn’t exist.

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Joseph, my Ugandan driver, arrived about 25 minutes before our agreed upon departure time of 6 a.m. He told me he had trouble sleeping…he was concerned about getting me to the airport on time.

Joseph impressed me. He would have gone to any length, short of giving up his life, for me to complete my business and check in successfully and on time this morning. Then again, he may very well have given it all for me.

The flight out of Africa was smooth, uncrowded, a piece of cake.

Once I got on the ground at Heathrow, the obstacles came fast and furious. I called my friend, Rob, with whom I’d be staying, at work. He was incredulous over the fact that I arrived. “We weren’t expecting you until Friday.”

Really? A half dozen or more email were sent back and forth. They weren’t ready for the American invasion so I told him I’d get lodging for the night.

Got my bags, but they were both bulky and heavy, and difficult to transport along with my two handhelds through the Heathrow labyrinth. Why would that surprise me?

Trying to walk London streets at rush hour with about 100 lbs. of luggage became an ordeal. My mission was more difficult as I had no reservation for a room. I hailed a taxi, who recommended a hotel near Paddington Station.

At 5 p.m. commuters are out in force, so travel was slow. The hotel was booked. A Hilton Hotel was suggested, a two-block walk…not a simple task with the anvil-like baggage I was pulling. It was hard work for this mzungu, just in from the jungles. I stopped frequently before I was told, again, “we’re booked.”

A second taxi ride dropped me in an area close to Rob’s house, a fact that should win me some points.

The small hotel had a double room…upstairs. I lugged my weighty western excess up the stairs then set out for a supper.

There was a classic British pub nearby. Football was on the tele. Beer was flowing, food served. I had a beer, sat down, reviewed the menu…and waited. A second beer (hey, a long day!). Watched the game. Forty minutes passed without a waitress stopping by. I left.

A pizza oven nearby was full of young urban professionals. It was busy and I sat near the kitchen and waited. Gave it fifteen minutes without a look. Time to go.

After receiving care and feeding from those who struggle to provide for themselves, my inability to get a room, as expected, or consummate a dinner deal confused me.

Hardship suddenly showed up alongside, a stunning contrast to the glorious months just past. How do people see me now? Do I appear different? Am I here before you or am I invisible?