Uganda Part II: You Got Your Passport Stolen Where?

Sept 12th -27th

The free shuttle from Jinja dropped us off at a backpackers in Kampala. From there we called a couchsurfer who was going to meet us at a gas station near her home.

Although the following ride was not our first exposure to a bodaboda, it probably was the scariest. A bodaboda is a motorcycle taxi, usually driven by a man with little regard for safety, road rules or the passenger's survival. Naturally, we declined the driver's initial offer to support Chris and I, along with both our 20-25 lbs packs all on the same pikipiki (motorbike) and we opted to each take our own.

The ride was exciting, if that's the word I want to describe burning down pot-hole-ridden roads, in calamitous traffic conditions, with no helmet on and a 25-pound backpack pulling me backwards with each acceleratory jerk on the throttle. Oh yeah, and in complete darkness as well.

Yeah, exciting is right!

Surprisingly, we both survived the 15-minute ride and made it to Kabalagala, where we would be picked up by our hostess. Shortly after, Viola arrived in her jeep and drove us to her lovely home where she lived with her 4-year-old son Preston and her sisters' Patience and Racheal. They had a spare room which contained a bunk-bed that Chris and I would be sharing.

Our initial intention was to spend a few days in Kampala and then make our way to the west to see Fort Portal's crater lakes, the awe-inspiring Lake Bunyonyi region and then make our way north to the impressive Murchison Falls.

Viola's neighbor, Jerome, was from Fort Portal and had made arrangements for us to stay with his family there. He even volunteered to drive us to the bus station and recommended which bus company to use.

Chris and I purchased our tickets, placed our day-packs above our heads (we had left our big bags at Viola's) and sank into our chairs for a pleasant ride. At around the midway point in our voyage, Chris had reached up to check something in his bag just before we disembarked for a rest stop. He said our bags were gone and we both frantically searched to see if they had just been moved or misplaced.

We asked the other passengers if anyone had seen anything. A man sitting beside us had said that he saw two men behind us taking two bags from overhead when we had dozed off and then had made their way to the exit and hopped off the bus as soon as the doors had opened. He hadn't said anything because he didn't know that that was not their luggage. We continued pleading with the passengers in hopes that someone knew who the men were or if they had any information. We even offered a cash reward.

No luck. We were screwed.

We got off the bus and I immediately realized that I had left my passport in the front pocket of my bag. The realization that my incredible African odyssey may be over without that immensely important booklet, shrouded whatever hope I had of our bags' recovery in a cloud of hopelessness.

We interrogated the fruit and useless-knickknack sellers swarming around the bus if they had seen anything. Their apologetic eyes and words providing nothing more than condolences. Our bags were gone.

Here is the painful list of what was in my bag:

• 2 ipods (I stupidly brought both because I thought I could use WIFI on the ipod touch, but WIFI does not exist in 99.99999% of Africa!)

• The 55-200mm lens I used to take my amazing animal photos.

• My point-and-shoot camera containing pictures with our new friends on nights' out.

• All of my toiletries including contact lenses and malaria pills.

• My one pair of pants and one bathing suit.

• Some small camera accessories

• 2 disposable underwater cameras with Great-white shark diving pics.

• Lonely Planet Africa guidebook

• My bloody Passport!

Undeniably lucky for me, that day I had put my wallet in my pocket instead of in my bag as it usually was, otherwise I would have been without any other identification or money as well. For 3-and-a-half months now, we had put our trust in people and did as the locals did. Erik had even mentioned that we were too trusting, too naive, but we could never adopt his don't-trust-anyone, New York City mentality. The worst part was that it easily could have been avoided if we had just kept our bags on our laps. Also, the fact that I had packed every conceivably useful item into my small bag to go on our short excursion to the west of Uganda proved to be far more detrimental than helpful.

We dejectedly hopped onto a bodaboda to the Mubende (the town where the men fled) police station, too upset even to comment on how gay 3 grown men on one motorcycle looks. We then filled out our respective police reports and tried to figure out what to do next.

The funniest thing (now, but not at the time) that happened was when the detective asked me to describe the man sitting behind me on the bus (I had looked back at him once during the trip) and I made the racially-ignorant description on an African man wearing a Gilligan-style hat! The police assured us that they would do everything in their power to at least retrieve the passport and that the same thing had happened a month ago to another tourist and that he got his passport back within a week.

Never Happened.

We boarded a bus back to Viola's place with more personal losses than new memories. Viola graciously assured us that we could stay as long as we needed.

The next day I headed to the Canadian Consulate to find out my fate. The wonderful Sarah and Pamela assured me that I would not be deported back to Canada and that my quest for Cairo could continue. But I'd have to wait a week or two to receive a temporary passport in order to enter Kenya.

The silver lining to all this is that it allowed us to spend time with some truly incredible people, in a city so commonly disregarded by other travelers. The overwhelming hospitality and love shown by Viola, Racheal, Patience and Preston towards us was more than we could ever ask for and we are eternally grateful. I could also never thank Sarah, Pamela and especially my saint-among-saints of a mother for all their hard work in helping me get another passport in order to continue my once-in-a-lifetime voyage.

Because we spent so many days in Kampala, I do not remember specific dates of events, but the most special moments are still very clear in my mind:

• Spending countless days at Flaming Chicken's "United Nations" Shisha bar. I will never forget the friendship of Hussein (Kenya), Magdi (Egypt), Emmanuel (Uganda), Abdalla (Sudan) and his majesty Masoud (Iran), Flaming Chicken's owner who treated us so well that it was painful to say goodbye.

• Playing with and listening to Preston's "what are you doing?" and little Jordan's repetitive but always adorable "How old are you now" song and listings of all the animals he knows.

• Exploring the incredible Owino market to replace items that were stolen and purchasing second-hand 80's bathing-suits and second-hand women's jeans off the street in Kabalagala. For the record, they fit well, didn't need to be hemmed and were actually looser than the ones that had been stolen. We both bought a pair.

• Chris, Racheal and myself all riding on the same bodaboda along with the driver.

• Attending the Muslim introduction ceremony with Isaac and wearing tradition Kanzus with suit jackets on top.

• Chatting and laughing with George, Charles, Moses, D and the rest of the Ugandan/Kenyan crew.

• Playfully chasing the local children who were singing mzungu songs about Chris and myself.

• Going out for drinks with Viola, Bill and Racheal and the never-ending party that is Kampala.

• Even though we probably overstayed our welcome. Viola and Racheal asking us if we could stay longer instead of going to Kenya and Racheal stating that we are the first couchsurfers that Viola had ever hosted that she was comfortable enough to talk to and even go out with.

To all my Kampala friends who may or may not read this. I hope that Chris and I have impacted your lives as much as you have ours. We will never forget you.

What I will never remember however, is my last night in Kampala...