Last night while we were walking in the street I had exclaimed to Corey that, even though it’s only been a week that we’ve been here, I can’t wait for the day that I can walk down the street without being hassled by the boda boda drivers. Not 5 seconds after that, we heard “Boda, boss?” as a driver pulled up beside us. I shook my hand “no” and he drove away. We laughed at the coincidence.
Not another 30 seconds later, another motorcycle driver pulls up just behind us, but we paid no attention. In the middle of our conversation, I felt the firm grasp of a hand around my forearm, and a man yell with a Ugandan accent “HEY, STOP!”.
I did what any sane and self-respecting human being would do, and shrugged him off, thinking he was an overly aggressive boda driver. He had a passenger on the rear of his seat, so I found it strange that he would be asking us if we needed a lift. He continued yelling as I explained to Corey what he did. The street was poorly lit, and the incident occurred so quickly that I thought Corey might have missed what the driver had done. I don’t think either of us could entirely make out what he was trying to yell at us.
About twenty meters down the road, the same motorcycle pulls up again and starts yelling “STOP, STOP!” and tries to grab me again. We were stopped about ten meters away from the nearest lamp post, so it was still relatively difficult for me to make out any details of the driver’s features. I thought I heard him say the word “police” and, thinking there might be some kind of trouble, we stopped and tried to talk.
The driver immediately asked us if this is how we responded to police in our country when an officer orders us to stop. We explained that we had no way of knowing that he was an officer, and that we thought he might have been a boda driver as one had offered us a ride just moments ago. Apparently, he took it as an insult, and pointed to the tiny decal on his bike that said “police,” but I thought it was a little strange that just about everything else about this guy said he was anything but.
The two men articulated themselves no better than street beggars, asking us circular questions and making irrational statements. At first, I was apologetic and attempted to explain myself as logically as possible. It didn’t take long for me to realize that these men were not here to listen to reason and as their incoherent chatter went on, I very rapidly began to lose my patience.
Corey, on the other hand, has had similar encounters in other foreign countries, and did his best to diffuse the situation. Unfortunately, even keeping his cool didn’t seem to do much. The men repeatedly asked to take our phones, but we ignored. They showed us their IDs (which were nothing other than blue plastic cards that said “Ugandan Police”) and told us it was “only fair” to see ours. We both hesitated to take out our wallets, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, we had no choice but to respect their wishes at the off chance that they were police.
What I learned yesterday is that I definitely have no patience for unnecessary squabbling, especially when coming from incompetent thugs. When I realized that they were not there to “protect and serve” as they had quite literally pointed out in their black and white, printed out and stapled “police hand book”, I began to very generously express my feelings toward them.
I don’t know what the chances are of a police officer driving by (in what resembled a swat suv), but when I saw the vehicle I pointed and said “That is what a police officer in our country looks like.” I’m only now realizing that this is probably what caused that officer to pull over and come to our aide.
When he arrived in a full police uniform, he sternly questioned the other two men, who were then unable to state which department they were from. The real officer told us we were free to go, and we continued on our very short journey (probably 50 meters) to meet our friends. What a crazy experience that was.
Walking home from brunch today, we were about a block away from our apartment when we noticed a huge gathering of people and cars in the street. As we got closer to the commotion, we could see that there was an accident about 30 meters away. As we approached, we could see a crowd of men striking each other and yelling. A Mercedes had hit or was hit by a rundown van (could have been a bus — busses here are in the form of vans, which are not nearly as spacious as back in Canada, but they seem to fit about the same amount of people.). Unfortunately, we had to pass directly by them in order to reach our apartment. I remarked to Corey that we ought to move as quickly as we can by them. He agreed.
As we made it to our apartment and walked up the short flight of stairs to the second (really, the third) floor, the roaring in the crowd got louder and louder, and the sirens could be heard approaching from distance. Earlier, we had made plans to walk over to the country club and hit the pool but honestly I think we’ve both had enough of the random bullshit that we’ve had to put up with over the past 24 hours (this is really only about the half of it, but the rest I think is better kept private, for now). We stayed in for the rest of the day.
It sucks sticking out like a sore thumb here, and I mean more than just our skin colour. The clothes we wear, the equipment we use, how we walk, even down to the food that we eat, is really representative of the difference between first and third world counties. Earlier in the week, there was a day that the weather had “cooled down” (it was still about 27-28 degrees), and Corey and I laughed at how we were finally able to wear pants to the office. When we started our walk to work that morning (and you can’t make this up), we noticed that just about everyone was wearing full on parkas in the street. I felt like I was in the twilight zone.
Unfortunately, these are not easy things to change, though I’m finding ways to cope. I hope the next time I write, I will have more positive things to say. Ciao, for now.
Jamal
Quite the adventure! Stay safe x