Breaking up is hard to do

After two and a half months travelling together, Damo and I were to go our separate ways - both heading back to Nairobi, before he flew out and I made my way further north. However, I was taking the southern route via Tanzania (to avoid paying another 50 bucks for a Ugandan visa) and Damo the quick route through Uganda. For our last night we had chowed down at an Indian restaurant, that actually took our "hot as you can" request literally, and served us up a dahl and curry made from the fires of hell. We finished the night with a few fine ales at a local bar, and managed to roll home by 1 or so.
I had to take a 6am bus, so I struggled out of bed at 5.30, and we said our goodbyes, and I found myself wandering through the streets of Kigali alone, with a backpack a fair amount lighter thanks to Damo taking some things back to Australia for me. I arrived at the bus on time, but the moment I sat down the previous nights dinner came back with a vengeance, causing my stomach to spend the next three hours painfully rumbling away, shooting pain through me every time we went over a bump and leaving me in a cold sweat. The only time I escaped this pain was when I managed to fall asleep for 10 minutes or so every now and then. I finally reached the border 3 1/2 hours later, feeling tired, sore and a little alone. I passed through Rwandan immigration, walked across the bridge over a chocolate brown waterfall with a frothing pool at the bottom, and then up the steep hill for a kilometre or so to Tanzania immigration.
Weaving between the long line of trucks I managed to find the immigration office and presented my passport to the immigration official, feeling rather tired and worse for wear. After he looked through it with a passive disinterest he informed me that I would need a new visa as I had left the East Africa Community (EAC) area and my visa said single use. Blood started to rush to my head, I tried to control the rising frustration that I knew would blossom in to anger by attempting to explain the Rwanda was now part of the EAC, and that when I had purchased the visa on entering Tanzania they had told me that I could go to Rwanda and return to Tanzania on the same visa. We parried back and forth a few times, and to his insistence that I needed another visa I suggested that he needed to check with his superior. He paused for a couple of minutes whilst re-examining the passport. My spirits began to rise and I thought that my silver tongue had persuaded him the error of his ways or that his boss was not around and he would simply stamp my passport to get the whinging mzungu out of his office. My joy was short lived, a second official entered the office and they had a chat and then the boss arrived. The first official explained the situation to the boss, who then proceeded to repeat what the official had told me. At this point I suffered a sudden rush of blood, and one of those out of body experiences where my mind separates from my body and watches my body go about things without quite being able to direct the show. I tried the I had been told at the border line, the Rwanda is part of the EAC line, I already have a visa line, I am just travelling through line - but all were to no effect. He simply rejected each one in turn - I have not been told of any changes so you must get a new visa. The frustration was welling up inside of me, and I could hear myself starting to yell at him, which any rational person knows is only likely to harm my case, but rationality was in short supply. Eventually I cracked, and in a fit if pique yelled,
   
    Well if you are going to make me get another visa then I am not entering Tanzania"

and stormed out of the office. ( I may also have stamped my foot) The Loiterer at his petulant best. (Later I realised that for some reason I had treated the situation as though I was bargaining with a souvenir seller, expecting them to call me back and say, OK OK, last price)

I walked back down the hill between the trucks, pass the waterfall and over the bridge, fuming the whole time. As I approached the Rwandan immigration office it occurred to me that I was in that often imagined situation whereupon I had been stamped out of a country but couldn't enter the next country - trapped in no person's land. I started to worry that Rwandans might want to make me get a new visa, requiring the payment of more money. Fortunately the Rwandan immigration official swallowed my story that the Tanzanians wouldn't let me in to Tanzania and simply revalidated my old visa - I suppose technically I had never left. The whole painful process had taken less than thirty minutes and I was able to jump back on the same minibus that I had arrived on, and was soon on my way back to Kigali.

I arrived back in Kigali just as the skies decided it was a good time to open, and the rain started hammering down. I managed to find a minibus to the bus station to get on another minibus to the Ugandan border. I thought my luck was changing when I was the last person to get on to minibus but the driver then decided that the bus was overloaded and that I would have to get out. I ended up waiting another forty five minutes, trying my best to find shelter from the downpour, until we eventually had enough people to fill the minivan and we headed off. A couple hours later, at around four in the afternoon I was at the border, having effectively crossed Rwanda in less than a day. The Rwandan official had to double check my passport, noticing that I had been stamped out and stamped back in, but he waved me on. As I walked across the stretch of no person's land that separated the two border posts I was thinking of ways of sneaking past immigration in order to avoid having to obtain another visa for Uganda at the cost of US$50.  I walked past the first gate, and then sauntered towards the second gate, so far so good. I past the second gate and was in Uganda, but just as I was about to approach a waiting taxi, a guy rushed over from the immigration office, pointed to the office, and said "Where are you going ? There is the immigration office there. Why are you trying to enter Uganda ?" I pleaded confusion saying that I had been looking for a toilet. He clearly didn't believe my story and accompanied me in to the office and proceeded to explain to the immigration officials what I had been doing. After a bit of playing dumb, some smooth talking, and slapping 50 bucks on the table, I managed to get a visa and off the hook - one run in with immigration officials per day is enough.

After waiting around at the border for another forty five minutes, under the glaring eyes of the officials, the share taxi eventually left, and I rolled in the nearby town twenty minutes later with not much money in my pocket, and not much energy left in the bank. The taxi driver had told a local guy and myself there was a night bus to Kampala and then dropped us in the middle of town and disappeared. Both of us kind attached ourselves to the other, I thought his language skills and local knowledge would come in handy, and I have no idea what he thought. Needless it to say it was a disaster, we walked the length of town - about two kilometres, to be told we had to go back to where we started. When we eventually got back there, we were then told to go back to where we had just walked to. Fortunately we were rescued by a friendly local, who in response to my mate's question, said why don't we speak in English and then pointed the ticket office across the road. By this time I was almost ready to sit on the ground and start crying or laughing, or both.

I managed to bargain down the price of the ticket, which left me with about three bucks in my pocket to get from Kampala to the Kenyan border. I decided to keep the money in my pocket rather than buy some food - I hadn't eaten all day so why break the fast now. The bus arrived at 10pm, looking like it had been ten rounds with then champ, and already filled with people. I managed to get the last seat, which was right up the back. The back row from left to right went, woman with baby, man with baby, former heavyweight champion of Uganda, very tired mzungu, man with baby that wouldn't stop crying, and woman with baby. To add to the general aroma of urine, sweat, vomit and fried chicken and chips, every time the baby sitting on the man's lap to my right moved the putrid, gag inducing smell of old and fresh nappy urine mix wafted up, pass my nose and in to the ether. (It was so strong it is the only time I have seen an African pinch his nose and shake his head at a smell)

After sitting motionless for an hour, whilst the air became so hot, thick and foetid it was almost unbreathable - not one person opened a window and I was covered in sweat. As many people as possible were crammed on to the bus, including about 15 passengers who were standing in the aisle, and we finally set off. But the misery didn't end there, for the next six hours, along with the periodic wafts of nauseating urine smell, I had the pleasure of sitting directly under a huge speaker which blared out the worst that Ugandan music has to offer. It was so loud that even my Ipod at full volume couldn't compete. Naturally the driver decided to drive as fast as he possibly could, despite the rickety state of the bus, which meant that every time we hit a bump we were sent flying, driving my knees in to the sharp metal of the seat in front of me and making any sort of sleep impossible. To top things off, Mohammed Ali sitting next to me decided that my shoulder looked like a good pillow and fell asleep with his head resting on my shoulder.
At some point I must have fallen asleep because as we rolled in to Kampala at 4.30, I was suddenly jolted awake. I escaped the bus as quickly as I could, and managed to find an empty seat in the open air compound. As the sun began to rise at around six, as my luck would have it, the skies opened again and I watched the rain pour down for the next two hours, turning the compound (and most of Kampala) in to a pit of mud.
When the rain finally stopped I managed to make my way through the mud, and all the other rubbish that the rain had washed on to the road, and find the bus station to get a bus to the Kenyan border. I eventually found the minibus to the border and did a double take when I was told that the cost was thirteen thousand shillings - I only had five thousand shillings in my pocket. After completely failing to drive down the price - no African ever believes a whitey when we say we don't have any cash - I wandered around the chaos of the station wondering what I should do. After a while I decided I would get a minibus to as far as I could afford - Jinja - and then try and hitch the rest of the way. So I climbed aboard a minivan going to Jinja - all the drivers gave me the look of see I told you he had money , and I was on my way again. I had 1000 shillings (50 cents) in my wallet and about a litre of water left.
I slept all the way to Jinja and then got dropped out of town on the highway. I walked a couple of kilometres to get away for town, and then at a roundabout dropped my bag by the side of the road and started hitching - trying to flag down the few cars and trucks that were passing. Naturally the sight of a mzungu peaked everyone's interest and I think I spent about 2 minutes in total of the next hour answering the same questions over and over - where are you going ? why ? why don't you take a bus ? where are you from ?
About an hour later a car stopped and picked up a guy who was also waiting for transport. The driver, dressed in the full bishop regalia - radiant purple and embroided gold, called me over. He said the name of the town where he was I headed, I told him I was going to the border (I didn't have a map) and he said that I would be closer to the border, and indicated that I join him. He asked me to sit in the front because once the police saw a mzungu there were less likely to stop him and try and hit him up for a bribe. About two hours later I was dropped in a small town under the scorching sun, and the bishop seemed to accept my response that I had no cash to his question about paying him for the ride.

I wandered out of the town, and started dong the only thing I could - hitching. After about 10 minutes a truck stopped, and I quickly ran up to speak to the driver. Yes, he was heading towards the last big town before the border, yes he could take me, but how much would I pay. I explained I only had 1000 shillings, he smiled and said jump in. He turned out to be a friendly guy, he was on his way to the large cement factory to pick up a load to take to Kampala. We got back to talking about the fee and he said - I know what your problem is - you don't have any change - you only have big money. I explained to him that I had come all the way from Kigali, and that I could get money at the Kenyan border but until then I only had 1000 shillings. He asked me how I had eaten, and I explained that I was waiting until I got to Kenya. We went on to talk about how brave he thought I was travelling around alone, it always strikes locals that someone would travel alone without having family to visit, as though there were traps waiting to ensnare people where ever they went. As we were approaching his destination he reached in to his pocket and pulled out 10,000 shillings - $5 in real money - but a huge part of his monthly salary - and motioned for me to take it, saying I could buy some food. I refused and he insisted, but I continued to refuse, telling him the lift was more than enough. In the silence after the exchange I was overcome by the incredible generosity of Africans in general - how a low paid truck driver feels obliged to hand over some of his hard earned cash to someone he has just met - and is already doing a favour - was beyond me. Despite my hunger, tiredness, the smelly sweat enveloping all my clothes, the layer of general filth I was covered in, I suddenly realised these were the moments that made it all worthwhile - discovering that under that thick veneer painted by a paranoid Western media so afraid of what is on the other side of the world in deepest, darkest Africa, that in fact the other is quite like if not more human than us, or me. I was glad to be in Africa and glad to be on the road - all the bureaucratic hassles faded away, a moment of sheer bliss.

>From the town where I was dropped I found a minibus that would take me to the border for my last 1000 shillings. I wandered over to Kenyan immigration, who rapidly folded up with their argument that because I had been to Kenya I needed a new visa. They ended up inviting me in to their office and we chatted about Kenya for thirty minutes or so. Nothing was going to stop my moment of bliss !!!

The irony of it all was that I probably arrived in Kenya before Damo having followed the same route, although I never did see him again.