Escape from the City

I’d reached a point of desperation.  Kampala and I were no longer on amiable terms, and I knew if I didn’t escape its hold soon, I’d spiral into a pit of negativity that may spoil my experience.  My two biggest priorities before leaving for the field, however, were still looming before me.  I still had no permits from the Ugandan Wildlife Authority (UWA) and the Uganda National Council on Science and Technology (UNCST).  Without these, I was at the mercy of this city, and its thick crowds and noisy evenings were beginning to suffocate me.

I woke up on Monday morning, 5 days after my departure from home, with a weight of determination that becomes dangerous in my hands.  “I will get out of here tomorrow,” I told myself.  After another breakfast of fruit and yogurt with a cup of coffee, I raced back to my hotel room to begin making phone calls.  After 40 minutes of calling back and forth, I had reached my latest UWA contact and been told to meet him at the Post Office in five minutes.  The representative for UNCST told me to make it to her office outside of the city to “discuss this matter in person.”

I grabbed my heavy pack, loaded with all of my valuables and paperwork, and rushed out of the hotel and onto the hot, congested street.  No time for getting lost right now, I thought, and quickly decided to resort to a boda-boda.  I jumped on the back of a motorcycle and was off to the Post Office, my hair blowing wildly as my fingers gripped the back of the seat hard enough to leave bruises and cracked knuckles.  Boda drivers move quickly and fearlessly through those crowded streets, weaving through the traffic and cutting off any motorist in the way, large or small.

Once I located the UWA official, the process was quick and painless.  I had my first permits.  My heart seemed to lose a few grams of weight, giving me hope that my determination may finally pay off.  The man insisted on escorting me to UNCST.  How, after all, could a Mzungu woman possibly make it to Ntinda safely on her own?  I appreciated his helpful attitude, and hopped onto a matatu with him.  These are large, dilapidated vans that are packed with more passengers than any single vehicle should ever hold.

The woman at UNCST was not as amiable.  The building was air conditioned though, so I faked patience and a pleasant attitude with ease.  She tried to write me off several times, claiming that without a title number for our project she would never be able to write me a permit.  I know that if someone wants rid of you enough, however, they will give you any kind of permit on earth.  I acted as though I did not understand her desire to just be rid of me, and kept politely stating that I would be in the waiting room until she found the record and finished the permit.  “No problem,” I kept saying, “I don’t mind waiting until you work it out,” adding a nice smile at the end.  After two or so hours she shoved a permit into my hand and marched back into her office.  I rushed out of the air conditioned room before I could make a fool of myself with a victory dance, not managing to avoid tripping over an end table and sliding down a couple of stairs.  I practically skipped out to the street, and was back at the post office buying a bus ticket before I could catch m