I Got Caught Up

Sorry for the long delay. An explanation:

A necessary drawback of an east facing balcony with a beautiful view of the BELL Lager building is that the rest of Kampala is not visible from there, particularly the setting sun in the west.

Accordingly, to get pictures of the sun going down in Kampala, I needed a different, more advantageous vantage. The obvious choice was the tallest building in Kampala’s central district, the Price Waterhouse building, which conveniently is right across the street from my apartment.

From a reliable source, I learned that access to the building’s roof didn’t require John McClane-like heroics. My source further assured me that the view from the roof would give me the desired elevation and angle for the picture. This was going to be easy.

This was a decision I came to regret.

***

I decided last Friday, the 17th, would be a good time to “visit” the roof. Because the sun sets around 7:00 p.m., the business day would be over, and subsequently, there would be fewer people in the building. Also, it was the end of the work week, so security should be, I reasoned, at a minimum.

All of my colleagues had left Kampala for travels over the weekend, so this was a solo mission. Yippie-Kai-A!

When I got off the elevator on the building’s 15th floor, I walked to the stairwell, past the security guard without paying him attention, and up the stairs to the roof. I didn’t know what the baby-faced security guard would say to a 6’1” muzungu wearing cargo pants with a conspicuous bag concealing a camera slung tight over the shoulder. I had visited Freddy’s Parlour the day prior, so the fade, as they say, was tight. This completed the military look.

In retrospect, my choice of attire wasn’t clearly thought out. If I was a security guard in Kampala, someone dressed like me is exactly the type of suspicious character you wouldn’t want on the roof of the Communications House. I did not consider this ahead of time. In any case, I flew by the guard and up the stairs.

I knew that once on the roof there was an additional tower that could be reached by climbing the 10-meter ladder. I knew that once I got to the top of the ladder, I wouldn’t want to look down until both feet were firmly planted on the tower. Perhaps I should mention that, in addition to my source, I had scouted the location. It might as well have been Nakatomi Plaza.

On top of the roof, I took maybe the best picture of the trip (Bell Lager sign in the background). I also took one of my balcony from above. (*All pictures have been redacted from this posting for security reasons. That, and they confiscated the camera. Sorry, Dad.)

It was a great view, and worth the climb. It, however, was not worth another visit to one of Kampala’s police stations—this time unscheduled.

***

It couldn’t have been more than an hour from the time Babyface peered over the top of the ladder to when I found myself at Central Kampala Police Station.

Central, as it’s called, is kind of like the Lira Road Police Station I detailed in an earlier post. But on steroids. Bigger, louder, more cramped, and more chaotic. After being patted down and having my phone and my camera taken away, I was quickly escorted to one of those cylinder-holding cells I described in the Lira Road post.

To quickly rehash, it’s like a Coke can eight meters in diameter with a conical top. The door was like aluminum siding and there were two grated windows, probably no more than two feet by two.

When I was “escorted” into the cell—remember, this whole thing started with me wanting pictures of the sunset—it was comfortably cool and not baking those on the inside. This, of course, meant it was dark. Nearly pitch black. I moved to an empty space on the wall and sat down.

There is no way to describe how it feels to be put in a cell in a foreign country with a group of men you cannot see.

That night I did not get a good count on the number of cellmates in the Coke can. And I did not get any sleep.

***

Early during the arresting process, I chose not to mention to the officers the fact that I was working in the courts. The decision not to involve Justice Lugayizi in this seemed a natural one to me at the time—this was not his problem, he need not become involved. I made this decision at about 7:30 p.m. in the Security Room of the Price Waterhouse building.

Perhaps I should have.

By the time I got to thinking about things more clearly, it was probably 10 p.m. and I was in a dark, cylindrical cell, sitting on a dirt floor, my legs brought up against my chest, trying to limit the amount of skin exposed to the onslaught of mosquitoes and other creeping, crawling creatures. It was also about this time that it occurred to me none of my colleagues would know that I was missing because they were out of town. Had my roommate, Daniel, been staying in Kampala, he would have known something was up by the end of the night. As things were, it was likely no one would have any idea I was missing until Monday morning when I was supposed to be back in court.

I considered bringing my affiliation with the court to the attention of my jailers at the time, but near as I could tell, there were no jailers anywhere about, and if there had been, I imagine my pleas would have sounded a lot like crying to my cellmates, and I definitely didn’t want that. Instead I just sat, eyes open, trying to look as tough as possible. Seriously.

***

The morning light brought optimism. It also gave me an opportunity to properly assess the cell and the men inside it. Since I entered, I had not moved from the place I originally sat down, except to shift my weight or stretch my legs. Some of the men were still sleeping when light crept in, so perhaps it was this that set me a bit at ease. Whatever it was, I did not fear the men in the cell. They looked more tired and worn than anything else. Their only interest in me, it seemed, was that I didn’t look like any of them.

The sun came up around 7 a.m that morning. Within two hours, a bar of sliced light was hitting the floor just to my left. As the sun climbed higher, the rectangle of light moved across the floor of the cell, and the heat began to sap my will to do just about anything, except maybe speak to a police officer.

At what I guess was about 10 a.m., a guard opened the door and set a tray with six bowls—one for each man—on the ground. Five were quickly scooped up and devoured, the men using their fingers as utensils. I grabbed my bowl and sat with it, but did not eat.

From the first step I had taken inside the cell the night previous, the dank odor of dirt mixed with body sweat mixed with the smell coming from the hole in the ground and the bucket next to it had consumed my thoughts. The smell could not be ignored. It also served as a reminder that I might be in there a while, and if I had to go to the bathroom, it was going to happen there. Two men had gone during the night, and with each answer of nature’s call, the smell of human waste mixed and was airborne again.

Maybe Hans Gruber’s fate wasn’t so bad after all.

Hoping to avoid "stomach issues," I chose not to eat. Instead, I offered my bowl to the oldest man in the cell. I figured he had to be at least 70, and he was worse for wear. By giving him my food, I reasoned, I could generate some respect from the other men in the cell. It’s unclear whether this worked, but for his part, the old man, whose only English, as near as I can tell, was “thank you,” seemed appreciative.

***

By 3 p.m. that afternoon (or thereabouts), thirst, the heat, and the smell were crushing my will. I knew that 48 hours was as long as someone arrested could be held in the cell. Legally. It hadn’t yet been 24 hours and already I felt like I was going to lose it.

Two of my cellmates were taken out later that afternoon, and replaced by two others. The new guys seemed to know each other, but also seemed to have little interest in me, or anything else going on in the cell.

At one point as the sun was going down I tried to speak to a guard to tell him I needed to speak with an officer, to speak with anyone who could understand English. He had little interest in what I was saying, and I did not see another guard again that day.

After nearly 24 hours, I had not given a statement, I had not been questioned, I had not had the opportunity to call anyone.

***

Night brought relief from the heat, but the bugs were back, and it was at this time that I realized I had missed my malaria medication that morning, as I always took it on Saturday when I woke up. This is not a pleasant thought when mosquitoes are treating you like a buffet. But then again, neither is jail.

The second night passed much as the first, although I was able to sleep a bit. Very lightly. Each time I dozed off, I awoke with a start to find that this horror was actually taking place. But I tried to find a silver lining.

I had managed to avoid having to use the bucket or hole. The risk of getting sick from the food was enough to put my hunger to rest, and the fear of the water was greater than my thirst. I reasoned that I could last another day without either. And at some point, someone had to speak to me.

***

With sunrise on the second day, Sunday, I was determined to make my case. Early in the day, I walked to one of the windows and looked out. There seemed to be no one around. I stood there for what must have been an hour. I did not see a single uniformed person.

When our meal was brought, I tried to reason with the guard. He stopped briefly as I quickly tried to explain my position. He was not interested.

Like the day before, I gave my food to the old man.

In the afternoon, the old man was moved from the cell. When this happened, I pleaded as forcefully as I could with the guard taking him away. He looked exactly like the dad from Family Matters, Carl Winslow, so I figured he would be nice.

“I need to speak with someone. I’ve been in here two days. I know the law. You can’t hold me in here more than 48 hours.” This last sentence seemed to get his attention, but he did not say anything as he led the old man away, who was also the closest thing I had to a friend.

About an hour later, a separate man arrived to get me. The sun, although it was going down, blinded me as I stepped into the light for the first time since heading off to take pictures Friday evening.

“Can I talk to you? I haven’t been charged with anything. Why am I here?”

“Trespassing,” he said. Oh yeah. “I need to talk with someone.” No response.

He led me into the main building of the station where a crowd of officers and arrestees and complainants mixed chaotically in the front room of the station. He led me past them and down a long hallway. Some of the doors in the hall were open with men who looked like detectives sitting behind desks.

“Can I talk to one of them?” Nothing. “Please, I need to talk to someone.”

From the cell I had been in to the one he took me was a bit like passing from one circle of hell to the next. The smell was not as foul, but it was hot and I was alone. This last fact—I would have thought—should have put me at ease. It did not.

When the cell door clanged, I found myself in a windowless room with no lights. Solitary. I was in solitary confinement. After only a minute or two, I was convinced I heard the scurrying of a rat or some other rodent on the ground. At this point, I nearly lost it.

I stood and started kicking wildly in the dark at something that may not have been there. For probably ten minutes, I kicked frantically, trying to systematically cover every inch of the cell so that if something was there, it knew that it could not hide. All the while, a torrent of profanity rained down on the unseen menace. Had someone been watching, they certainly would have believed I was crazy. And in a way, I kind of was.

Exhausted from the tirade, I collapsed on the floor, and I am not ashamed to admit that I started crying. It was, without question, the worst moment of my life. I have felt hopeless and defeated at times, but never like this. They were tears of exhaustion and frustration and regret and anger.

When the tears stopped, I was as spent as I have ever been. If anything, I was too tired to cry anymore. I hadn’t had food or water in two days. I had slept maybe only an hour or two since Friday morning. It was nearly 8 p.m. on Sunday night.

Then, I did something I have not done in years. I prayed.

I prayed that if someone had made it this far in the story, they would have guessed, by now, that much of what they had just read is not true.

That’s right. It didn’t really happen—at least not all of it.

Sorry.

I just needed a good excuse for why I haven’t written anything on this blog in over a week and a half. I was on safari in Tanzania. Then I sat on a beach for a few days in Zanzibar. They were amazing experiences, which I’ll share later, but I was not going to interrupt them to add posts here.

And I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have a little fun at the expense of my friends. I guess old habits die hard.

Besides, you didn’t think I’d actually cry and then tell you about it?