Water Falls, Taxis, and Purple Hibiscuses

The falls were beautiful. Leaping off a clay colored arched cliff into a rocky vegetated pool below. Our guide down the steep gorge wore no shoes as we passed over the muddy and rocky trail. He wore a threadbare shirt that creped above his waist, exposing his

A group of children became our entourage, with Isaac, a thirteen year old who possessed the greatest English skills, as their attaché. Like many kids even in remote parts of Uganda, he wore used Western clothing: a Winnie the Pooh and Eyore shirt traced with the mountain’s dirt. Badru asked him what class he was in (P6) and what he wanted to be when he grew up (a teacher) and told him about being a journalist. He was interested. If you’re ever in Kampala, stop by our offices and ask for us, Badru offered. I found the promise both encouraging and defeatist to a boy 260 some odd kilometers from Kampala and a 12,000 Ush taxi ride away. He asked us for 200 shillings, but we’d paid all of our change as entrance to the falls. I gave him my pen and told him to write down anything he felt like writing instead of something he was supposed to write at school.

The Crows Nest, where we stayed, was filled with Ugandan Christian University college students on a holiday from rural home stay. Many of the all female group had corn rows. They prayed often and in their spare time talked about American Prom Dresses.

It stormed at night and was so cold in the tent that I had to sleep in my jeans and sweatshirt. My New York blood has thinned. It was probably 60. Maybe 50.

The journey back to Kampala involved two taxis so we left early Sunday morning after watching the sun rise over coffee. The same taxi driver in the same neon green Alligator print shirt who took up from Mbale to Sipi picked us up.

Chickens and ladies in their best Sunday gomesi and farmers carrying heavy bunches of green matooke to market filled the taxis. They all got on and off in the endless musical chairs played as we stopped every fifty meters for a new passengers’ entry or exit. From Mbale to Kampala we caught a big Gateway bus, complete with Somali conductor and baggage in the aisles. I finished the book I had been reading, “The Purple Hibiscus,” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and the girl sitting next to me started reading it. I had borrowed it from my roommate, who had specified I return it, so when the girl got off just past Mukono, she gave it back to me. Young lady, if you’re reading this, and you remember me and the book, remember that I asked you if you liked the book and you said yes. I said I hoped you got to finish it eventually, since I saw you furiously turning pages and even skipping some as we approached your destination. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t just offer you the book and replace it for my roommate. I’d like to give you the book now, so please send me an email.