UGANDA: ADVENTURE AROUND THE EDGES

Unable to sleep, I stare out at darkness as the plane hurtles through Sudan airspace. Around me, others are slumping over under airline blankets, trying to rest. A young boy cries.

On an earlier trip to Africa, I’d gone shopping in a Togo fetish market. Stalked a bull elephant with a camera. Crossed a lake by dugout canoe to watch voodoo under the trees.

On the outside, I’m a nice older lady on the Amsterdam-Entebbe flight. On the inside, I’m still an 11-year-old girl who’s keen to explore.

Clearly, Uganda offers grand adventures. Dozens of tribes speak exotic languages. Gorillas wander about in mountain forests. There are ten kinds of monkeys, more than 1,000 species of birds. Yet, I’m travelling to Kampala to hear lectures, attend workshops, sit on a panel. I’m going to a conference!

My biggest challenge: finding ways to experience Uganda, around the edges of the core convention, before flying home.

Outside the terminal, I drag rolling cases over a bumpy walkway. Masses of people are milling around in darkness, waiting for loved ones, holding up signs. Sweating in the tropic heat, dehydrated, unable to buy water—and still wearing my chill-chasing jacket—I eventually find a driver with an IIPT conference sign.

Each morning, jangly noises echo upward through a transom in the bathroom.

After breakfast, I take a notebook with questions to the reception desk. Perhaps I can ride a boda-boda  (motorcycle taxi) during the commute to the conference hotel. Not a good idea, the receptionist says, they’re not really safe, especially during rush hour.

Behind the reception desk, an extra-wide window, open to catch the breeze, overlooks the sprawling marketplace. Motorcycle engines roar. Tradesmen haul baskets, buckets, bananas, and hand tools. Truck horns honk; people call to each other in tribal languages. Brakes screech as drivers nearly miss slow-walking pedestrians.

It seems wise to let both hotels select the taxis. A bellman leans out the window to yell at the taxi driver who comes up the stairs. We’re introduced, and soon on our way.

Tropical Kampala has grown across several green hills north of Lake Victoria. The  conference takes place in an upscale, urban resort under tight security. Before I can enter the property—lavishly landscaped with fountains and flowers—the taxi halts for inspecton at the gate. At the doorway of the conference centre, my photo ID allows me to pass through a scanner, while a guard examines contents of my briefcase.

The delegates seated around me have come from 30-some countries to support “sustainable tourism development, peace, and reconciliation on the African continent.” The IIPT (International Institute for Peace Through Tourism) leaders give welcome speeches. The keynote speaker has been delayed--so has the luncheon. Jet-lagged, my mind wandering, I fidget in my seat, sipping bottled water, and wondering why I’ve come.

Then I hear drums! Ugandans in bright clothing come prancing, drumming and dancing from four corners of the hall. Lusty men who stomp and shout are shaking dried gourds. Busty women in tight T-shirts rock to the drum beats while plumes of their hair bob like dark bird tails.

Each day I commute to the Kampala Serena Hotel and Conference Centre. There I blend in with a diverse crowd. The lunch buffet offers local dishes like matooke with ground-nut sauce. It’s a pleasure to meet educated Africans taking part in discussions and workshops. They are not the stereotype.

Each evening at Tourist Hotel, I’m a pale-faced older lady who doesn’t blend in. Dark-faced local people—men in white shirts and slacks, women in flowery dresses—join hotel guests in the dining room. One night, I try the Italian dishes; another, I sample the braised goat.

Mid-week, the IIPT conference has organized day tours. During a fast guided walk through the crowded city centre marketplace, three student volunteers guard my flanks. I hold a camera with both hands, having left my purse in a safe place. Once, when I fall behind taking a picture, unseen hands grope my pockets. Fortunately, I’m carrying no money at all.

The driver lets us out at Uganda Wildlife Education Centre (UWEC) in Entebbe. The facility houses species from the country’s ten national parks and resembles an old-fashioned zoo. We stroll past black rhinos, storks, crocodiles and shoe bills. Chimpanzees have their own island. A fenced-in lion naps on a hillock.

While the tour guide lectures about tortoises, I notice a man with a notebook.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I want only to see birds,” he replies. So far that morning, Geofrey has spotted nearly 20 species.

Where snakes are concerned, I have a phobia. Before leaving UWEC, I notice a man in a hallway holding a large bag. Visitors stand around the man, gawking.

“See, it won’t hurt you,” the man says as he allows a three-and-a-half- foot python to escape from the bag. Eager to avoid the snake, I quickly join children playing with black-faced vervet monkeys on the grass.

The gala conference farewell dinner takes place under open white tents on the Kampala Serena grounds. Who knew that such a serious crowd (academics, tourism officials, tour company executives, non-profit volunteers) could be such party people? Wine, beer and conversation flow at the white-draped tables.