Africa sucks

I have no trouble saying that this is the hardest travelling I have ever done. Not that I am a hugely seasoned traveller – but these countries we are passing through are far more foreign than any other place I have been to.

And it all seems to come down to the one unavoidable fact about a person like me on a continent like this: my skin is white, and it’s never been more apparent -- especially given where we've come from. Where we are taught to ignore skin colour, our experience here has been completely different. Everywhere we go, we are greeted by shouts of "mzungu! mzungu!" -- mzungu being the Swahili word for white man. We are told it's not pejorative, and much of the time it's shouted in a happy tone by people who want to shake our hand and then make a friendly pitch for us to buy a cab ride or Coke or trinket. We also get a lot of stares -- especially Mo, whose appearance seems to have struck the fancy of just about every man we pass here. My presence does not appear to be an obstacle to their expressions of appreciation -- whistles, cat-calls, kissing noises and the like.

But for the most part, we had found that it's all pleasant enough.

That was, until our last night in Kampala. Tired after a bruising day of rafting in nearby Jinja, we came back to the city at 5 p.m. and had to while away the hours until our early morning bus to Kigali, Rwanda left. We headed first for the bus operator's office, to buy tickets. We had hoped to be on the 2 a.m. departure, which was an "executive" bus that had two reclining seats to a side. But it was full, so we ended up in cattle class, on a bus with two plus three non-reclining seats that left at 3 a.m. We had a lot of hours left to kill, so we headed downtown for a bite to eat. Dusk came quickly upon us as we walked, and it was difficult to see. All we could make out in the headlights of the mad Kampala traffic were the silhouettes of a swarming throng of people heading up the sidewalk toward us. We were engulfed in people, and it felt a bit like being dragged underwater in the rapids. We needed air -- space -- but there was none to be found. The sidewalks were uneven, people were pushing, we couldn't go out into the street since doing so would likely end in death, and it seemed endless.

Adding to the troubles were the sidestreets we had to cross. In Kampala, like most of Africa, stop signs aren't just optional -- they appear not to exist at all. One takes one's own life in one's hands crossing the street, and you have to time your jog across for the half-second between the over-crowded minibuses and the kamikaze motorbike taxis. It all sounds fun enough, except when you're already surrounded by that huge crush of people -- and you're trying to stay together with your wife. At the same time, you are being hassled by every taxi driver you pass. It was infuriating, and a bit panic-inducing. It took 45 minutes to escape the people, and a few more for my heart rate to return to normal.

After dinner -- the Indian presence in Uganda provides for some very tasty restaurants -- we headed for the bus station, and arrived just before midnight to find the power out and dozens of people sitting on the cement parking lot in the pitch black. A single candle lit up a small restaurant area; the drivers were attempting to load the buses with their cell phones as lights. I eventually pulled out my flashlight to try to make their lives a little easier, and to help pass the time.

When we did board the bus, it was a scene of mass confusion. People pushing to get their bags checked. People shoving to get on. We found our seats -- which were assigned, thankfully -- and sat down. They had oversold the bus, so people were standing in the aisles. We, however, were beside an empty seat for a good 45 minutes. That was long enough to hear just about the whole bus talking in loud voices, their speech regularly punctuated with "mzungu." We knew they were talking about us, since we were the only non-Africans on the entire bus. We knew we had an open seat beside us, and that people must have been trying to see who drew the short straw and had to sit beside us. But we had no idea what people were actually saying -- and not a single person talked to us directly. It's an entirely unpleasant feeling to be the topic of a loud conversation among people who don't even show the decency to address you in person. We were furious, and wanted to scream out at them to shut up -- save that we didn't know how.

We were also furious when, in line at the border to get to Rwanda, we were routinely cut off by people who shoved themselves in front of us. This place functions in a state of continuous, loosely-organized anarchy, and for a couple who comes from as orderly a place as Canada, it is difficult. I am not sure if people are being rude, and perhaps it is culturally condescending or insensitive to feel as much. But when you feel like such a target for people's impolite gestures and conversation in foreign languages -- it's hard not to feel as much.

In any case, we made it safely to Kigali. Tired from 10 hours on the bus without much sleep, we took our own turn at being impolite -- at least, as much as our Canadian upbringings would allow for -- as we shouldered aside the horde of salesmen at the bus stop and grabbed a taxi for our hotel. It was, thankfully, clean and staffed by welcoming people. We talked to a Ugandan here who said even she could only stomache the Kampala madness for three days at a time before needing to get out again, and it felt good to know we weren't the only ones.

And Rwanda feels more relaxed, and the people fairly pleasant. We're looking forward to the days we have to spend here, and are feeling more relaxed already. Our first stop, however, will be a difficult one. We're heading to the genocide memorial centre here. I'm sure it will provide plenty to reflect on.