Sad state of affairs

i've broken from my tradition, and my oath, to never talk of social ills, political circuses, et al, on my blog. it's just that i saw this on the net and, i don't know, it touched something. i have seen it before but this time it was different.

bear with me.

The river and the source...

(we're back on air)

The trip to Indinda was a whole UTAKE-G affair. Following my impressive strike record, my Ugandan boy brought me a present. (oh, how I hoped it is the Ghanaian)

Right. Okay.

Observations (plus going with what the guy said) tell us this is a chick. She had, what’s that, mosquito bites? No, I believe they are, noooo, pimples! That’s a bra msee, so those must be, boobs. Yes, boobs. (don’t read it out loud coz speaking it means, if we put it relatively, her boobs were big. Just whisper). Her figure, hmm, I’ll give her a one. Okay, eleven, and that’s because she had two legs…sticks. She has these blood shot eyes that can chill blood in a lab vial let alone the veins. Let’s not talk about arse. When she sits down I bet she feels like she’s sitting in Pastor Wanjiru’s first church with those benches we fondly called ‘fomu’. Let’s not talk about the ‘book cover’. Just know it’s those ‘titles’ that don’t entice you to read the book.

Yaani, if anyone had missed the bull’s eye (and the dart board entirely) when trying to imagine my dream gal it was this guy. He hooked me up with a human. And ati she was from TZ. Now the ladies I encountered while in TZ were, eish, way better than what was standing in front of me now. And the stance she is giving us isn’t very feminine. I’m not surprised when she says she’s a black belt. But I take a step further back. (Yuko kwa picha moja ngoja mtamuona mniambie). Then she starts giving us lectures about drinking and smoking. Her smoking lecture is in detail, that the smoker around us lights up and purposely puffs in her direction. End of lecture. I ask her if she drinks and she says, “yes. Just like everyone” Aargh. Tanzanians! You must be specific. “Do you F**king drink beer?” “No.” “Thank you.”

So that is my situation when we go to the source of the Nile.

Oh, the Ghanaian in our company is none other than the official girlfriend to my Ugandan pal. Will it surprise you if I tell you that this guy who has game-plan A-H also has girlfriend one to I think three? And they all look similar. One day I almost confused number one for number two. You should have seen the look that was burning my face on the right side.

That’s our ‘posse’, two Kenyans, a Ugandan, a (it pains me to say this) Tanzanian and a Ghanaian, on our way to Jinja in two cars. The Ug, the Tz and the G in one car, us local boys in the other.

Uganda is a very beautiful place and needless to say I manage to exhaust two 36-exposure films on just the ride to Jinja. Between the two towns is this amazing forest that is just a pleasure to drive through. And more so for the driver. There are two spots where any dare-devil driver can finally get rid of the cob-webs found on the other end of the speed-o-metre. The end where 160-200 is found.

My pal does just that. He cleans out the webs. If it isn’t for that ‘stopper’, the speedo I assure you is about to do a 360. Meanwhile, I can taste my heart, I’m about to break the lens on my camera because of the tight grip, my arse has managed to grow hands and grip the seat, yaani, even in case of an accident I was never in danger of flying out any window (I had belted up).

One minute after the ‘ride’ I finally find my voice. My boy is quite excitedly talking about it and we check behind and discover either our Ug boy is bila balls ama the gals have grabbed them. He’s doing only 100.

After being mesmerized next by the Owen Falls dam we are then traumatized by the potholed road that leads to Jinja.

Because of a confusing session of hand-gesturing between the two drivers we start off the Jinja tour with a trip to the source of the Nile.

“You’re Ugandan. You hear.”

Okay, I know I’ve gotten into the groove of the Ugandans but I am surprised by this statement made by my boy. I’m about to ask what he means when I notice it.

It’s the board welcoming us to the Source of the Nile and informing us that Ugandans pay a measly fee while international tourists pay a humongous fee. And in Ugandan shillings it looks scary.

This is where I did my ‘first’ felony. I ripped off the Ugandans of their cash for growth. But somehow I doubt my cash would be enough to fill in a pothole, let alone line someone’s pocket. Mine is loose change. Nunua njugu nayo.

The source is deadly (‘nice’. ‘Beautiful’ for nature freaks).

We settle on the banks and enjoy more pints. Malt as usual. If I had tried waragi, the source would have been my end. Baadaye, rather between the pints, we had the local delicacy. Fulu na njiva. Fish and chips (sounds British). But chips aren’t ati chips. Some potato cubes treated like chips, which was served by some lady who was slower than .....(this is an interactive blog where you get a chance to fill in this space with whatever you consider slow).

The Uganda service industry sucks more than their DJs and their dancing combined. Have you ever seen a waiter who is taking your order and gives you that look like “why the fuck did you guys come here? Especially here? Over there is a better joint but you decided, noooooo, to come here…matusi in luganda.” Then she smiles, “how can I help you?” Our order makes her grimace like we just staked her heart.

After a laboured 30 minutes, our food arrives and we scoff it down mercilessly. The fish is huge and fresh. Poor fish. “You were warned not to leave home by your wife, especially during the festive season, but you had to go hanya, didn’t you? Now look at you. Mama watoto will mourn your loss. Wait, that looks like her on the plate at the next table.”

Next up, a boat-ride to the source.

If you’re expecting an arrow pointing into water with a sign that says “Start” to suggest this is where the Nile starts, you’re wholly mistaken. The source is just a spot where some long-dead Livingstone-type character looked at, mused at and while pulling on his Tipis moustache sagely suggested to the Luganda folk around…

“In the name of Queen sijui who, (who is busy being kulwad by King somebody in England) I proclaim this to be the source of the Nile.”

Mad clapping from the followers. But in the distance a Luganda fellow who has seen the lake ever since he was born knows that ‘bleached’ fellow is pulling everyone’s leg. He chekas and ends up being chased out of the village. Ati he’s the village madman. (Iwaya, your ancestor?)

Our guide then shows us where the locals believe to be the true source. Somewhere in the water is an underwater ‘spring’ where water seems to be flowing from. I put my Tusker down and squint. And squint. I’m not exactly sober, so…I just agree.

The boat takes us around the lake and we see some terrific sights. Birds (our guide gives us a long educational speech of which I gitch nada), local ferries to cross the lake, a land rover boat (picha iko), the Robben Island of here (jela) and a spot where some local Wanjiru comes to cast away demons. Honest, there’s a cross in the middle of the lake, rather in the river.

After that ride on the lake with ‘death’ jackets plus a missed opportunity to have my picture taken with Gandhi’s head, and a quick stopover at Jinja town to restock on film we go for…

BUNGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Yaright! Didn’t jump though. Two reasons. There was no one operating the elastic thingy plus I was low on funds. I’m going back. I definitely have to air my balls and frighten my heart a little and thrill my brain a ka-young one. I have to check if my adrenaline still rushes too. Labda ililala kitambo. Kuna vile.

It’s while here at a place I can’t remember the name (nakuambia I have issues with names. This a place for white-water rafting) that I try the Niro. Nile beer.

YEECH!

I reiterate my statement; Uganda pint is crap (except waragi). I labour through my Nile and head off with the ladies to the bottom of the cliff to where bungeed guys end up. If that TZ mama was fly, I would have got freaky. (LOL. I tickle myself. Me? Freaky. Mimi ni mtoto mzuri. Na pia huyo mdame ziii). The guys warn us the stairs are steep and we may suffer. Nani kama Modo? Piece of cake. I eat stairs for breakfast. (Sijawai choka hivyo. You should check out the squoks I got).

The sight here is tremendous. The rapids (they are called that aren’t they?) et al. Woe unto us. Before we can sit and enjoy the view it’s time to head back to Champara.

Aw man! This has been a fabulous day. And of course, later we go out to some rave and dance and drink the night away. The sun god busts me with a pint in hand. As usual, the guy who dishes out hangies, gives my pal two doses. He wakes up at three the next day. Me? I woke at around 11 and I’m now watching Superman playing baseball with planes…

Commercial break! From the archives. A drink to die for

It’s late in the afternoon, our hero here has been running his skinny legs off in the hood with other little brats in the hot sun. He rocks in home thirsty. He knows he can only quench his thirst with the waters from kanjo. (This was way before maji of nai became mud of nai. Hakukuwa na keringet hizo enzi. Kwanza mwenyewe sidhani alikuwa amezaliwa)

So anyway, chemical formula H20 is the only thing available. Juice (Treetop or otherwise) never existed in our house. We only saw that coloured commodity when we went a-visiting or when visitors came home (I never needed to be told twice this statement “modo, run and buy juice”).

I walk in and check the fridge. Don’t know why. I already know all I’ll find is nothing more than bags upon bags of boiled githeri waiting to be unleashed for the next 15 suppers and lunches. I also know I’ll find the occasional nyake and fathe’s soup in a twisted old juice plastic bottle (compe ya Treetop). Twisted, because my fathe had this habit of putting hot soup in jerricans and replacing the cap before it can cool. Of course, laws of physics would apply much to the chagrin of my mum. (Hizi juice bottle lakini zilikuwa zinatoka wapi? SHUVAAA NA NDEVEEE! [remember this homie?] Hmm!)

As I lazily browse through the contents of the fridge I notice another juice bottle. This one isn’t twisted (like Wambui’s, a chick of mtaani mzushi, knickers) and like the one next to it with fathe’s liquid gold. In fact the contents don’t even look anything like soup.

Could it be? Oh boy, it is.

JUICE!

My heart beats at 144 beats per half second in excitement. I close the fridge door quickly and open again sloooooowly, thinking perhaps I saw my own things. I breath hard. I open the door. Heavenly music plays. A glow of light (it’s only the fridge-light, lakini…) YES, it’s still there.

I listen for any movement. Nothing stirs. I know mathe is upstairs asleep so I must be quick. If I’m busted, I’ll be caned close to high heaven with a stick I’ll be forced to go get myself.

I quickly dump the NCC waters in my glass.

James Bond music checks in.

I open the door stealthily. Sean Connery eat that. I grab the juice bottle, carefully, like in those movies with jewel thieves. I open the cap. Pssst! I cough to mask the noise. Palms are sweating. I listen for noises. Nothing. I then proceed to put a generous share of juice in my glass. I replace cap. (Cut me some slack. I was still a toi and anyway I was behaving like James Bond’s villains who never think far, I didn’t think the level would be noticed. Who cared? So long as nimekunywa juo. I’ll be beaten while happy)

I return the bottle pale pale. I even wipe away the fingerprints (CSI Nairobi, eat shit).

I then bound outside and for five seconds admire the drink in my hand. Any second longer and you never know who will pop in.

I smack my lips.

I then proceed to take the hugest sip (if I’m busted at least I’ll have onjad like half)

Here I am readying my taste buds for the sweet sensation that is about to follo__

WHAT THE FUCK! (ok, I didn’t say “fuck” coz those days it was punishable by death with the cane/belt)

PTUUUUUUUUUU!

I spat out that s**t faster than I had gulped it. What crap is this?

I then remember my mathe’s words. (I’ll translate coz not everyone will understand the tongue spoken…mother tongue…hehe)

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

It repeats itself in my head.

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

My mathe had the night before boiled some mwarubaini (neem) leaves given to her (by some herbalist) because of her sickness and her well-being. Goodness gracious.

YEEECH!

My head spins but I can’t faint (it’s a health-drink)

I wash my mouth with water. Nothing. Soap. A bit of hope. OMO. Now that removed all the madoadoa.

THAT, was the worst drink I had ever tasted in MY LIFE! YEECH!

Wachana na kina sijui drink gani mnaita health drink, that one could kill anything creepy, crawly and unwanted in your body. One sip, kwisha.

I was through with taking coloured drinks not served at neighbours’ houses or in the presence of visitors.

BOOGIE WONDERLAND!

Note: all these clubs were visited on different nights. And Iwaya said Ugandan boys don’t know what to do with their female colleagues. I beg to differ. What I saw…

SMOOTH AS SILK…

The first night out was dedicated to Silk. Right after paintball, (and after catching one-two at a kafunda) we headed for Silk. I must admit, I wasn’t ready for what I encountered.

First metal detectors, it’s like I was walking into a bank. Empty all the coins in your pocket, which were many (I felt like a slot machine). Then metal detector goes off, kumbe I forgot to dump my cell and keys. They do not have flimsy and ‘personal’ searches as the ones done in Kenya. This night we were like celebrity. I had thought only Kenyans like free booze, nope. This night happened to be the office party for WBS and Scanad people were there. We (the guys I was with) knew them so we got in saree and each got like eight beer vouchers. LET THE PARTY CONTINUE! Nilikunywa kama mjinga. And I danced like one too.

Before I over-indulged (I have a beer pot now), I noticed something I haven’t seen in a club in Nai yet. WALL TO WALL CARPETING! Kudos guys, your clubs are off the hook.

But…

Two things I must say, na wa-uganda msiniue. Just prove me wrong. Your DJs suck. To high heaven. Not once in that club did I dance to two consecutive songs, but I did sit down for two and more.

And the other thing, Ugandans are stiff like that stiff drink Ichiena proposed (sijui kuweka link). Never once did I see anyone who could dance (I should have looked in the mirror). The guys, were busy trying to forcibly dance with chicks (just like huku home) and the chicks were, well, rolling around like timber from a truck that had lost control.

Okay, it wasn’t thaaaaaat bad, I wasn’t that great either, but they were nowhere near great. Where are the dancers bana? (some did come out of the woodwork on new year’s day)

Meanwhile, the Ugandan we were with was busy darting chicks. All chicks. Yaani any chick who passed by was grabbed and was darted. Well, he had a high strike out record. But once or twice he did hit home-runs. (On another night, he tried chatting up Kenyan chicks who came a-visiting, lakini we all know how ngumu Kenyan chicks are. Okay, he had lousy vibe, one of the chicks whom I knew confided in me.)

I’m amused, the smoking section at Silk is called Oxygen.

We stayed there a while and headed for…


ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH!

Rock Garden! Now how do I describe this place? Hmm. Let’s see. F2, F1, Pango, eh. The guys introduced it to me as the F2 of Ug. All along I had thought Silk looked like F2. But this now had the people of F2. What’s the politically-correct name? Enter-tainment pro-fessionals? Commercial sex workers? Dispensers of favours you wouldn’t ask of your wife? Argh, THIS, was hoochie land. And they came in all shapes and sizes from different locations. Mostly Rwanda and Burundi.

(This is where I bumped into one of God’s rejects wearing man’s greatest inventions. The wonder bra. She wasn’t ati the greatest creation. Hell no. She must have been those ones that are thrown out and dumped at the back of a factory. Lakini, she was wearing this wonder-bra that gave her…well y’all know what. Lakini kumbe huko chini (don’t ask how I knew) bana, flat chested is better coz at least you are dealing with something that never was. But here, hers were like used airbags. Even a breast-feeding kid would ask for a refund. Hamna pumz.)

Evidently, I didn’t stay long. And then, incidentally while on our way out I bumped into a better creation. But the earlier one had traumatized me so much that all I could say was “hi and bye”.

Rock Garden also packed in a crowd. There was no room to dance well or otherwise on that floor, not that the Ugandans cared. Hehe. Okay, I’ll stop dissing your dancing.

STAKING OUT…

Another nice joint in Kampala is Steak Out. Interesting. It’s got this buffet park kind of feel. TO ME! I’ve been known to make lousy judgments. Look at my digs. Look at my choice of conveyance. Look, I’m single because…

Anyway, now here I find much more decent music. But there’s bila dance floor as such. Guys dance where they feel. Speaking of dancing, there is a show of improvement (all isn’t lost). My boy, the Ugandan, is on a roll. He’s chatting up chicks left, right and centre. At one point he actually pulls a chick towards him and starts unleashing hot vibe. Only problem is, he already has another mama he’s chatting up but he had forgotten. Chick number one flees, leaving behind words I dare not print (Fucking bastard guy).

Right next to us is this chick that’s fly and looks like she can groove. She’s cast the line (her shapely body) with the bait (eish, the assets) and the waters are right (music is timam), shortly fish is hooked (yours truly). I reel myself in. I start the chat up. She’s ingianaring. I’m thrilled. I give my boys a thumbs up, then, THEN, the line snaps. She’s from Kenya. Banaaaa! I didn’t cross Malaba border and get stared down by a cop and I didn’t risk my arse at paintball just to come all this way to talk to someone I can easily find in Nai. A Kenyan. The only time it isn’t thrilling to meet up with a local person in a foreign land is when you want to taste the foreign produce.

I was upset. Yaani, I risked and unleashed the smoothest lyrics I had saved up for Ugandans just to hook a Kenyan? I was tired. I was bored, but I continued entertaining myself with her while I cast my fishing line elsewhere. Of course, a fishing line can only get one fish at a time, so……

She was a wild and crazy one though. She’s from coast (Mombasa) and studying in Ug. Apparently, she had weed (which I so wanted). She promised she’d call the next day and we’d smoke like chimneys on a cold winter’s night. This chick, like most Kenyan chicks, was just downing her pint like water. I knew why. She confessed that she’s done ‘unga’ (coke, for the dandas) and other shait! before. I trembled in my open shoes. I only wanted a puff (many puffs) of weed.

Night turned out interesting though, her friend was into my friend and he was so sure amepata ka-take-away. Shock on his bums. The chicks hepad into the night. But my boy wasn’t bothered. He had plan B.

Who also hepad. Time for plan C.

Hepad. Unleash plan D, E, F. Hepad. Hepad. Hepad.

I, who only had a plan A (I never carry the whole drawing board) was just amused and jazzed. He was so pissed that he wanted to now buy pint like crazy. But the time was against us. It was 5. So as we were leaving he spots plan G. And yap, she hepad too. By this time I was laughing my silly drunken head off. I was laughing coz of two things. He’s never encountered a dry night before. And two, I had never seen a guy with so many plans before.


A MYSTICAL NIGHT.

The club that had me in awe was Ange Noir/Ange Mystique. Dudes, and dudelettes, three or more floors of again, wall-to-wall carpeted boogie-floors. Of course I never got to see Mystique coz I was inappropriately dressed in a tee-shirt. Bloody bouncer. I have just paid sijui 10-12k to ingia and anyway, this is my hottest tee-shirt (if you ignore the Dettol logo). The nerve.

Twendeni.

So we while away at Ange Noir. The place is kicking. It has dance floors all over. I like the concept. They have dance spots all over that look like boxing rings. Okay, that’s me and my drunken judgment again. Man, these guys know how to invest. Lakini, why don’t they invest in DJs. Like I said Ugandans don’t mind. By this time I was feeling more Ugandan than a Ugandan, Ssebo! So as they say, while in Rome…yap, so I was in the groove before you could say Tusker baridi. (huku hamna Tusker ya kawaida. Ni Malt and it’s called just plain Tusker. Sema “Malt” na watakuangalia ni kama wewe ni pastor kwa bar. And it’s always served cold. Sio kama huku ni lazima useme baridi ama moto ama warm.)

I had a blast here. I also almost scored. Lakini I was having a spell of bad luck I tell you. I think my ‘chick’ in Nai had paid Bakari the witchdoctor a courtesy call. She must have unleashed some charm on me. Kila dame naongelesha ni ukuta. Sawa tu. So my fun was restricted to just dancing with fly chicks. And the dick, sorry, buck stopped there.

AND THE VERDICT IS IN!

Ugandans know how to party. Again I’ll say, Ugandans like drinking, but Kenyans are drunkards. You know, never once did I encounter a staggering guy. Not once. Was I that drunk myself? Walevi hawaonani.

As for the clubs, they get top marks. Ange Noir, Silk top the billing. The others are just drink up joints. The Fat Boys, the Steak Outs, The Al’s bars and another which I can’t seem to remember the name (must have drank the most there). It’s no surprise that I went out every single night of my stay there. Every single night. Only two nights I didn’t go out. One, when my pal was dehydrated and the second night was on 2nd, coz I was traveling back.

Interesting also, never once did I rock home stinking of cigarettes (just cheap perfume, kama Kenya tu). Ugandans either don’t smoke much or the no smoking in public places has hit home. I’m trying to imagine, five minutes, FIVE, in ka-choi and I’ll be stinking of every cigarette from Rooster to B&H.

Plus, hawana Kenchic. I’m used to going home with a kuku quarter or a ka-choi burger. In Ug, it’s rollex and chicken fry over at Wandegeya.

All in all I enjoyed clubbing in Ug and I’ll be back to chafua. And no I didn’t hook up with a Ugandan chick. I already have enough problems domestically I don’t want international problems. (not with Tuju as the foreign affairs guy)

P.S. Roho safi, pictures will be seen them in Feb. Saa hii nimesota. Si mnaelewa Jan wasee?

Day 1. Gun-totting!

My pockets are empty and I need some cash, so I walk many kilometers looking for a Barclays ATM. We finally locate one at Garden City. I’m rummaging through my wallet looking for my card when I look up and see a gangster with a shiny shotgun at the ATM. I freeze. But he beckons me to approach and remove money. Next to him is this guy who looks upset. He looks like he’s fallen victim to this thug and seems to be pleading for something. The guy notices me and gives me the try-your-luck look. I’m sweating. My hands are trembling. Needless to say I key in the wrong PIN and my card is vomited out. The thug eyes me. The other guy says, “you see”.

“Ssebo, maybe you need to relax.”

Oh great, now he also knows I’m nervous. It’s at this time that I look at him and notice his clothes. I burst out laughing. Nervously, of course. He’s not a thug. It’s a watchie with some faded uniform, but HE HAS A SHOTGUN!

Dudes, I have never seen so many guns in my freaking life. Jeez. Even in the cop station I never saw that many guns. Every watchie on ever corner, at every shop, at every petrol station and even duka, has a gun.

WA! I’m Kenyan and just those cops who accompany Wells Fargo with G3s freak me out. Now imagine my trauma. And these guys don’t have cheap-arse bulky G3s. A-AAH!

I recover and with a half-trembling hand and with half my jicho on this ‘watchie’ I successfully manage to secure a large amount of money…(pause, you’re in UG dude) Okay so it’s just a large number but the value is a twenty-fifth of that. Hesabu was ngumu and fractions split my head. So it’s like five minutes before I understand that I’m holding an equivalent of, one-two-three-FOUR ngwanye in Kenya money. Meaning I can stop my multi-millionaire swagger.

I get into the mots mortified and my pal quickly tells me that today, we are heading for paintball. Paint-who?

(pause again I’m shaggz material kiasi, therefore, fathoming what paintball is is hard. In fact, impossible, coz I have no idea whatthe crap he’s taking to)

All I get is that it involves ‘shooting’. More guns. Aw, man. These Ugandans have a fetish for guns. And the Ugandans we are with assure me that they do this for team-building. Ha!

But I’m easy and I’m down for whatever.

Now paintball is one of the best games you can ever play. In the beginning I was dharaoing the game. Some guy is telling us how he still has bruises from his last outing here. And I’m thinking. Wimp! Surely some small balls that look like, but don’t taste like, ball gums can’t be that painful.

However, I start getting worried when the guys running the show make us sign disclaimers releasing the-place-I-can’t-remember-its-name from any responsibility if we get injured or die.

DIE? Now hold on one dang minute. We’re going to die? Rather we could die? Bana, what game is this? The dudes laugh and assure me no such thing will ever happen. But injured we will be. Especially, if at any one time you remove your mask. Or if the opponent get you from a distance of less than five feet. I’m staying well away from y’all.

Before we start the game we are kitted like the SWAT team. Overalls, that are really short my ankles are sticking out like a stray dog’s willies. Gas masks, okay, masks lakini they look like gas masks, and as sure as hell am having trouble breathing…PANT. PANT. We also get these cool gloves and caps that are definitely not from the latest line of Milan. Maybe the garbage summer collection. Finally, we are hooked up with ‘bullet proof’ vests. Who’s the bad guy now?

“So where are the sissy guns?’

I’m eager to get blasting. This sounds easy anyway. We walk into a netted area filled with obstacles from tires, to crates to…what the crap is that? The guys tells us the rules, yada yada blah blah…MY GUN?

He unleashes the guns. Damn! COOL! He loads them with the paint pellets that burst on impact…bullets, man, bullets. Pellets are for chicks. He grabs one gun and tests it.

BANG!

This is followed by deathly silence. The silence found uniquely at the war cemetery…just minus the mathrees.

We all along had thought these guns are cheap stuff, kumbe…MAN, THESE ARE REAL GUNS! Shortly I start panicking. Maybe, enyewe, kuna vile tunaweza dedi. We split into two teams of four and the basic idea is to capture, without getting shot, the opponents flag. Right now, that word ‘shot’ is scaring me shitless. Can’t he use a safe word like ‘pelleted’? Anything above the waist, you’re dead and out of the game.

When we get onto the course proper and the ‘ref’ blows the whistle to start us off, I’m so tense and breathing heavily I manage to steam my ‘gas mask’ in two seconds flat. I can’t see jack, and right now where I’m hiding jack can’t see me either.

BANG! BANG! Go my teammates. BANG! BANG! Return the opponents.

Okay, I can do this. I peep round a tire…BANG! WHIZZ! I duck again. Oh my goodness, they want to kill me.

Come on Modoathii, you didn’t bring your sorry arse all the way to Uganda to hide it behind some worn-out Firestone.

YAAAAAAAAA! BANG! BANG! BANG! (x30)

I get up like Rambo and Schwarznegar (sp) combined and start firing like crazy. Well of course I hit no one coz first I can’t see and two the direction I’m pointing my gun will ‘kill’ nothing but a few molecules of air.

I duck behind other tires. I’m feeling great. I’ve finally broken out of my shell.

YAAAAAAA! BANG! BANG! WHISTLE!

Damn. Game 1 is over. So soon? Who won? Both sides claim victory. But apparently, the flags are still where they initially were. It’s happy chatter as we all troop back to the safety zone. Guys are excited, every one is talking about how they shot sijui who, who’s butt was exposed. Another is asking who shot him in the head. Man, it’s excitement all round. And I can’t wait to go back for game 2 up to 5.

We swap teams and the action is relived again. This time I do blast a few negroes and I do get blasted. But so far so good. No injury.

In the end, our team wins, because otero wowowo…that’s me, managed to secure the flag twice without getting shot by a ball gum. Okay, I did get shot once. Okay, twice…you insist, five times. But no injuries. Phew!

We leave the netted area and head for the chilling area happy like little children while sweating like horses underwater. After we strip we are given the next best thing to a cold tanye (tusker), vodoski for me. A towel dipped in ice cold water. My oh my. That’s sweet. After cooling down we settle to beers.

Something I never told you about Ugandans, they love pinting. Well, at least the crowd I was with. Every waking hour is all about drinking beer. Amka in the morning, beer. Take a walk to a…beer joint. Wash our cars while we…drink. It’s no wonder that one of us was almost hospitalized coz he had no water in his system, just alcohol. Si you know with alcohol what goes in must come out, so, do your math, he was dehydrated.

He’s given medicine, and what does he do, he teremshas it with, yes, a beer.

That was day one in Uganda. I had a blast (hehe) and it was the day I saw the highest number of weapons in my entire life. Na bado. And from that day on, after the paintball, I have much respect for our army brothers. During the game, we were ducking and rolling around like stiff commandos trying to avoid getting hit by pellets that only leave scars for at most one week (or one year depending), but in combat it’s real bullets, real death, real bloody injury. Msee.

The tour continues…

TRIPPING!

“I’ve had enough. This is too much!” screamed the lady next to me in the Scandi.

And I agreed with her. I never knew but we don’t have a road after Nakuru. It was such a bumpy ride that at one point I was so sure we were cruising through people’s shambas. Not to mention I was seated where, the back seat. Yep! That was my riding style to Ug. Back right on a Scandi.

How you ask did I end up on an enviable seat like this? Here’s my story.

Me, being the Kenyan that I am of course went to book a bus at the last minute…bana, there’s more adrenaline rush that way (watch Crank). So I rock up and I find this gorgeous looking lady at the counter. By the way, when in need of last minute favors everybody is gorgeous, and you must let them know otherwise you’ll be on the hell ride. The bus was fully booked but this ‘gorgeous’ lady managed to get me space, not a seat, space. As for where I was to seat…

“Come at 11.30 jioni and we’ll allocate you your seat number.”

Scary. Eleven thirty clocked and I am there like Phileas Fogg with a bag that makes me look like a backpacker and an extra bag that’s carrying the camera, which was to take many, and I mean many, incriminating pictures.

The bus isn’t there yet, so we wait.

We wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I get up to go looking for my traveling drink. A vodoski cocktail cleverly disguised in a Keringet or Aquamist PET bottle (not Dasani). I must have flunked in camouflage class coz how do you pretend you’re drinking fresh mineral water when clearly it looks like coca cola? I always forget that I need to mix it with Sprite.

I come back and continue the wait.

And wait I continue.

And while waiting we watch a 1990 Man U game sijui on which channel.

Finally. The bus rocks in. We learn that the bus was actually coming from Dar. Now they tell us. Scandi? Na ni nyinyi mlisema nisiende na Akamba. Now see.

I board and get my seat number. Number 46. Now in other buses, seat 46 is somewhere in the middle. I smile. Not for long. I discover on Scandi the seat is huko nyuma. Nyuma. Nyuma kabisa. And much to my dismay I discover the seat can’t lean back. Meaning I’ll be sitting like a student all the way to UG. But, afadhali mimi. One passenger discovers his seat is both number 43 and 44. So it’s a 1st come first serve seat. And number 44 checked in first. Number 43, ended up sitting on number 45, next to me. In the confusion the original number 45 passenger is left behind. Scandi?

After much back and forth, we are finally off at 1.30 in the a.m. two hours late.

Nothing much happens on the dark ride to the border other than the moans and groans (no, not those ones) from the disgruntled lady next to me. She’s Ugandan and she’s making my day. Suddenly, we pass Nakuru and we say bye to the road. This must be a guy’s shakee. Someone I’m talking on the phone with assures me that we are lost. I check out the window and I see a cow and chickens. And for a minute i believe we may be lost.

Yaani, the road is so rough I feel every pothole and its relatives. Wote. The sufuria-holes, plate-holes, pan-holes, the works. It’s hard to imagine but we got so used to the road that we actually slept (I’m ashamed to say I drooled on the UG mama. But since I woke before her I was able to convince her it was a bird).

After what felt like 69 hours, we made it to the border, shaken but not stirred.

Malaba was another story. Me, and this lady, number 45, potead. But first at the Kenyan post, there was this cop who was eyeing me suspiciously all the way. I was in the queue behind like 5 other people but not once did his eyes leave me. He was stamping guys’ passports on auto. He wasn’t checking them, just me and suspiciously. When I finally reached him, he scrutinized my passport, page by page. Which is weird considering I have a temporary passport. It’s a one leaf affair.

After getting our PPs stamped by the Kenyan cops we started the long walk to UG. Man, no man’s land is so huge. Me, and number 45 wandered into the town in Uganda side before we realized we were on the wrong side of the fence. And without proper authority. We had to walk back. We then entered the immigration area but again we found ourselves among the trucks. Lost. We had to go back again. Finally we got to where we were meant to be. Malaba post is huge, but I must say the Ugandan side is so organized. I was impressed. Kenyans wake up.

And all the way from Malaba through Jinja (Owen Falls Dam) to Kampala, I saw the most beautiful landscapes and forests i had ever seen. Plus a few relatives (if you believe in Darwin).

But the moment we rocked into Kampala, the image of a clean, organized Kampala that I had cultivated in my head vanished faster than the boda boda I saw carrying two huge mamas.

The potholes.

The jam.

The mayhem. What was going on here?

Everyone was on any side of the road. Traffic that was going up had a car going the other way. The bodabodas were zooming past in all directions like busted ants. For an inkling of five seconds, I was traumatized. But all in all…I WAS IN KAMPALA! I had seen worse during Nairobi’s shame days so I recovered quickly. But…I WAS IN KAMPALA!

And the ladies? WOOOOOOOWIIIIIIIIII! (Did I mention I got a little naughty on the bus and started clicking away at fly chicks traveling with me?)

The bus checked into home base and my boy came to pick me up…and began the first adventure…

Chikati....

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

i made it back in one piece, and maybe a few extras..hehe.

man, UG was a plot. lakini bana you ug bloggers desserted me. kina iwaya, kina baz (and baz i got your book lakini you was nowhere to be found. how i wanted an autographed copy), eddie aliogopa nitamhanda. they all left me on my own. nilijinunulia rollex, country boyi alinipromise lakini akahepa. nyi ni ma-hoax.

eddie, don't panic. don't panic. it seems you is a huge hit in ug.

let me get my thoughts in order and i'll be posting soon.

i'm back in the office with my mind still in uganda-mode. so you can imagine the hangii. i had to get tablets that whenever i feel i miss uganda i pop some in my system.

it's a good year (i have a good feeling about this one), james bond's year...007!

laters.