To Think That I Saw it on Kampala Road

To avoid entering Justice Lugayizi’s chambers a sweating mess, I usually take a bodaboda to work rather than endure the equatorial sun in a dark suit for ten minutes. If you watched the video below (upon further review, it was definitely more than one part idiot), you know what the commute to court is like. The walk back from the High Court provides a totally different experience.

For one thing, I walk back along Kampala Road, which is the Broadway of this city, if there is such a thing. It is the most heavily trafficked road in Kampala and provides no shortage of distractions on the ten-minute walk home.

Vendors have taken care to lay out their fare on a mat not usually larger than five feet by five. Among the things you can buy are belts, ties, dress shoes, and socks. I actually bought some gray socks (two pair for 2000 schillings, slightly less than a dollar).

Some are selling Bibles or magazines and newspapers. There are G-nuts (b/c they come from the ground), crickets (salty and a little chewy), candy, or bananas if you’re hungry. Maps of Africa and Uganda, Swahili-English dictionaries, and posters that look like they belong on the wall of a first grade classroom can be had while waiting at a stoplight. Generally, it seems that whatever fell off the last truck through is now for sale.

Men and women with disabilities and amputated limbs beg for money. You will also pass children, many no more than two or three years old, sitting alone with their hands cupped, ready to receive money. Many of these children are left for the day by an older child or young mother in the hopes that a solitary child will engender more sympathy and collect more money over the course of the day. Sometimes you will see a mother breastfeeding as she sits in the middle of the sidewalk.

Jane, a woman I’ve worked with during the last few days in the Directorate for Public Prosecutions (DPP) office, told me that the last time she visited her village a day’s drive “up country,” an old friend of hers asked her if she could find his children in Kampala. Evidently, his wife had taken them there. When Jane returned to Kampala, she sought out the woman who did not know where her children were. Jane suspects they are alone on the streets, begging for money.

Yesterday, as I was walking back to the apartment, I saw a man carrying turkeys. Plural. Big bastards, too, probably 15-20 pounds each. The man had one stuffed in a bag hanging from his shoulder and another stretched over his shoulders, legs gripped in one hand, neck in the other, like you might hold a towel behind your head. Oh yeah, the turkeys were alive.

Today, I saw a marching band walking down the street. Not the sidewalk, mind you. The street. About twenty children in green and gold band uniforms playing their worn instruments and leading a parade of several hundred. The people behind held banners speaking out against child sacrifices, touting a new cell phone company, and advertisements for what I think was a dance club. This was at about 11 a.m. Traffic was still moving, just slowly navigating past the band in the open lane, as drummers drummed, trumpeters trumpeted, and the conductor spun and bounced his baton in rhythm. While the band passed, the otherwise bustling sidewalks stopped to watch the show. Vendors stopped vending, policemen stopped policing, the homeless stopped begging, businessmen, ears to phones, halted conversations, and one very amused muzungu looked on and smiled.

Shots from the balcony

A “Kampala vulture,” who hasn't left the nest in more than two weeks, tidies up.

A waxing moon rises in the east as the setting sun casts Kampala in a fiery glow.

One of thousands of homeless children in Kampala looks up from his seat on a dirty sidewalk.

Re: Strange and vivid dreams

If you read “Hooks and Dreams” below, you know that one of the side effects of the anti-malaria medication I’m taking is the possibility of vivid dreams. (As an aside, if you didn’t read that post and want to know how to scare the shit out of me, just scroll down.) As a general comment, the weirdest part of these dreams is that they include many people from my childhood and high school years, some of whom I haven’t seen in years. Without further ado . . .

If you are going to be surfing in Rwanda, just know that you’ll have to travel north from Santa Monica along PCH. Hidden from the road by a large grove of trees, there is a nicely furnished resort that has great views. But lock your doors at night.

When you travel across Lake Washington to Leclercq’s house to watch the Huskies play in the Rose Bowl during Seafair, just know that the television isn’t very big, and you’re liable to get pulled out of his house by Islamic Militants who will sit you in folding chairs alongside the dusty road as they check your documents.

Evidently, Seven Star, the restaurant Mormino and I visited several times a week when we were skipping journalism our senior year, doesn't make you pay for food you order in space. But I have no idea how to get there.

The Commute

Here is a short "documentary." You should be able to watch it from this page. If not, hopefully it works by CLICKING HERE.

I filmed it last week; it should give some insight into my daily life in Kampala. It is my directorial debut. When asked to describe it, here's what I said:

"This is a film that has many working parts. It's one part inspiration, two parts labor of love. It's three parts Blair Witch shaky camera, two parts ego, three parts Beastie, one part idiot, at least five parts danger, and totally kickass! If you're keeping score at home, that's at least seventeen parts--one for every Oscar it's going to win.

"I see you, Spielberg! But you can't see me."



(*Editor's note: The case I discuss in the video is detailed in the post below. Also, you can attribute the idiotic quote above to the fact that this video took about an hour to upload and I got bored. Thanks internet. Thanks alot.)

The "Black Mambas"

Last week Justice Lugayizi asked me to help edit a judgment of an appeal he was to read in court last Friday. (This case is discussed briefly in the post above. I recommend that you watch the video first.)

For procedural reasons, the judgment was not read until Monday. The appellant in the case, a woman who had worked as an employee of the state house, had been convicted in a lower court of embezzling millions of Ugandan shillings (thousands of dollars).

Government embezzling has become so prevalent in this country that an Anti-Corruption Court was recently instituted to handle these crimes exclusively. Given the woman’s political ties, the case was at least a blip on the political radar. Given his history of judgments in politically sensitive cases, I imagine it was a stressful decision for Justice Lugayizi.

***

In 2005 as democratic elections were approaching in Uganda, the incumbent, President Yoweri Museveni rescinded presidential term limits, allowing him to run for a third term in office. Because there were no other candidates with significant support, the move seemed effectively to extend his presidency.

That November, Kizza Besigye, a man who had opposed Museveni in the 2001 elections and had fled to South Africa in exile after treason allegations, returned to oppose Museveni again in 2006. He posed the only potential threat to Museveni’s re-election.

Upon his return to Uganda, Besigye was arrested and charges of treason and rape, both crimes punishable by death, were brought against him. For crimes that carry a possible death sentence, bail is not typically granted until after the accused has been detained for six months. That six-month term would have kept Besigye in prison until after the presidential elections.

On November 16, 2005, the High Court heard the bail application of Besigye. Justice E.S. Lugayizi presided.

As Justice Lugayizi was ruling that the Constitution of Uganda guarantees the right to bail, a group of heavily-armed men wearing black t-shirts surrounded and stormed the High Court, re-arresting Besigye. President Museveni publicly censured Justice Lugayizi the next day, saying that his decision to grant bail was improper. On that same day, the Daily Monitor’s front page showed the armed men in black shirts as they arrested Besigye, labeling them the “black mambas.”

The raid on the High Court was criticized both locally and internationally. The Principal Judge of the High Court described the incident as a “naked rape defilement and desecration of our temple of justice.” The Constitutional Court later held that the raid was illegal and unconstitutional. It subsequently affirmed that Justice Lugayizi’s original ruling had been proper.

The rape charges against Besigye were dropped and an army tribunal on the treason charge, also ruled unconstitutional by the High Court, was ultimately suspended by Museveni. Shortly thereafter, Museveni won the election, securing more than 80% of the vote. President Museveni has been president now for 23 years.

***

At the reading of the judgment in the embezzlement case on Monday, the appellant seemed disinterested in the proceedings and did not react when Justice Lugayizi addressed the decisive issue in the case. I thought perhaps she did not understand the judgment as it was being read, but then I remembered that she previously served as a legal adviser to President Yoweri Museveni, so that wasn’t it. Perhaps she felt the verdict was a foregone conclusion and the lower court’s judgment against her would be upheld. Maybe she was supremely confident that she would be exonerated.

Ultimately, Justice Lugayizi reversed the decision of the lower court, and the woman was acquitted of the 13 charges brought against her. Only after the entire judgment had been read did she rejoice.

D-Day

Today is the 65th anniversary of the D-Day Invasion.

When I was twelve and again when I was sixteen, I visited the American Cemetery in Normandy. The cemetery sits on a bluff that looks out over the beaches that were the stage for the Allies' invasion of German-occupied France.

I don't remember my first visit very clearly. It was, on the occasion of my second visit with my grandfather, the most humbling experience of my life. It still is.

For anyone who has been to the cemetery, you know that it is a hallowed place, whose magnificence and beauty are overwhelming. Row upon row of crosses and Stars of David stretch as far as the eye can see. In perfect symmetry they serve as headstones and reminders of the sacrifice made by thousands of Americans and other Allied forces for something far greater than themselves.

Remembering what happened June 6, 1944 gives us an opportunity to remember these young men who, to paraphrase Lincoln, laid the ultimate sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. So today, I will take a moment to remember not only the veterans of WWII, but all men and women who serve or have served in the United States Armed Forces.

For all of its problems, it is easy to forget just how special America is. Coming to a place like Uganda serves as a reminder of that. When I meet Ugandans in cafes, restaurants, at the High Court, or on the streets, they often ask about America with a kind of awe that such a place exists. Many of those people I speak with express their desire to visit, if only they could afford it. Some of them tell me they are saving, but that it will take years. That alone is something special; that people will spend, literally, years worth of savings just to travel to a place not because of its physical beauty, but the beauty of its principles. From our government’s ability to have peaceful transitions of power to the fact that most anyone can get a student loan to pay for college, there is something special about America that makes it unique among nations.

Much of that beautiful, principled uniqueness is built upon a foundation of the men and women who have fought and sacrificed for this country. Let us remember them, especially today.

Scenes from Kampala

When you travel to a foreign country, you expect that there will be cultural differences and you adjust accordingly. You bargain for everything. You take your life into your hands every time you cross the street. You ride to work on the back of a motorcycle. The pollution eats at the back of your throat. Bananas and boiled eggs are sold on the streets. A jogging club provides an early wakeup call on Monday mornings, chant-singing as they pass below the window. Orange Fanta is everywhere. (*Note: If the internet in Uganda were slightly quicker than, say, a glacier, there would be a picture of me drinking Orange Fanta above. Instead, you'll just have to imagine the look of satisfaction on my face.)

You accept these things because they are what make places and people different; and you can’t get enough Fanta. They allow you to appreciate your own culture and see the richness of others. But there are some differences that don’t really enrich the experience.

When I meet Ugandans and introduce myself, they have difficulty pronouncing my name. The long A in Shane is not a natural sound to Lugandan (the first language of most Ugandans), so they end up pronouncing my name “Shan” like the English word “than.” I repeat my name and emphasize the long A.

“Shaaane.”

“Shan?” Then they will look at me and laugh. “You have garl’s name. Why Shan?”

No explanation satisfies them, so I’ve stopped trying. The truth is, in Uganda, I have a girl’s name.

***

Daily maid service is included as part of our monthly rent charge. The woman who cleans our room, Rose, is very pleasant, and while communication is often difficult because of her thick accent, our brief exchanges are, if nothing else, an opportunity to share a smile or laugh.

Yesterday, as I was preparing to head to work, Rose was in the room exchanging towels and mopping the floor as I was applying sunscreen to my ears (SPF 30, Mom). She turned to see me rubbing my ears, but she hadn’t seen me pour the sunscreen from the bottle into my hand. She asked what I was doing.

“Oh, it’s sunscreen. So I don’t get burned.”

She looked confused.

“My ears burn easily,” I tried to explain. “From the sun.” I tried to pantomime a sunburn, which must have looked totally ridiculous to Rose.

“You work outside?” She knows that I work at the High Court, and she couldn’t understand why this muzungu would need sunscreen on his ears if he worked inside.

“No, I just burn very easily. My ears burn on the way to work.”

“Oh,” she said slowly. A smile she tried to conceal crept across her face and she laughed a little as she returned to her mop.

***

I mentioned in an earlier blog post that security guards carry single shot rifles with them. Two days ago I was up before the sun and took a seat on the balcony to watch the city wake up. At 6:15 a.m., a large truck came to a stop just below the balcony and approximately 50 men poured out of the back onto the street and dispersed in every direction.

It was the truck owned by a security company that provides guards for companies in central Kampala. Many of these men are employed by banks, stores, or, as is the case where I live, apartment complexes.

As I was heading to work later that morning, one of the security guards outside my building wasn’t sitting at his usual post behind a desk next to the building’s main entrance, but had gotten up to do something or other at a shop across the alley.

He was no more than twenty feet from his post when an old man grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and began chastising him.

“You don’t leave your weapon. Or stick. Or whateveryoucallit!” Total disgust as he pointed to the weapon leaning on the unoccupied chair behind the desk. The security guard’s young face revealed his embarrassment as the elderly man, who I imagine had been a soldier decades ago, smirked his disgust and walked away.

I guess it’s nice to have a security guard at the entrance to the apartment, and old men to remind them to do their job properly, but maybe hang on to the gun next time.