Flower Notes, Uganda, February, 2"6

Part 1, First week in Kampala

I may have been reckless. I notice that I'm the only one on the plane traveling alone. Everyone else is in pairs or in larger groups. There are missionaries, volunteers and a few sales people, but none of them are alone. I have reserved a room in Kampala and have decided to ignore the warnings I received from the travel medicine physician, and the cautions in the travel guide. I will take a taxi from the airport to Kampala even though it is night time and the road is allegedly dangerous. It is hard to discern what is fact and what is ction when it comes to fear. A friend of mine connected me to a nurse in the States who is from Uganda. She was full of "bewares" about the "dangerous men from the north" who pose as legitimate taxi drivers but who are intent on kidnapping westerners. "They wear suits and seem friendly but they are evil men. There is an election, there will be trouble. This is a bad time to go there." All of the cautionary advice I received and discounted as exaggeration or fantasy, now comes crashing in as the plane begins it's approach into Entebbe and I think, too late, that perhaps I should have listened. On the ground it is hot and near midnight. There are fewer than 50 passengers on the ight from Amsterdam, so the line through immigration moves quickly. I get my passport stamped, collect my luggage and look for a way to change some American dollars into Uganda shillings. I have about $300 in American 20's and two MasterCards. I have no luck at the ATM machine. It will not take a MasterCard so I go to the currency exchange window and have my second of several rude awakenings. The exchange rate is piracy for twenty dollar bills. It is better if you have a fty or higher. I exchange enough so I can pay a taxi and then get some advice from the exchange clerk about selecting a legitimate driver. There are lazy mosquitos in the orescent lights at the exit. The air is heavy with many-things-burning. I nd a driver named Robert who takes my luggage and escorts me into, of all things, a 1992 Dodge Colt, made in the USA. Robert is polite and chatty. He stops for gas and eases my concern when I ask why all the gas stations we are passing have at least two armed guards outside. He brushes it off - "just the way things are". It is well after midnight but the streets are lled with people - I mean thousands of people. "Just people out having fun," he says. He is a little disappointed in my choice of lodging. "Not the best place," he shakes his head. But before I can worry or think about nding

an alternative, he adds that it is clean and in a safe neighborhood. I'm tired and this is all I need. I am headed, full hearted, to the Athina Club House which will be my home away from home for the next four weeks. A guard in a full waterproof poncho opens the gate. It is hot and so the poncho turns out to be protection from mosquitos. A stern looking matron greets me without enthusiasm. No, they do not take MasterCard. She looks carefully at each of the. 20's I am laying down and begins to reject most of them. Only 1999 or later, she informs me explaining something about a counterfeit scam that almost broke the government in the 90's. She has plucked out seven 20's which will get me three nights and she kindly changes another one into shillings so that I will have enough for a taxi to the bank in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and the banks will be open until 2PM. I'm a little disconcerted but more tired than worried and follow the matron, who is now less stern, to my room. The not so good evening takes a turn for the worse. I am in the back of the Athina and just behind is an loud Irish pub that cranks up the noise until 4 AM. I have good ear plugs but discover in unpacking that my camera is missing and now my evening is in the can. My mission here is on a budget and depends on a good working digital camera to take photos of the owers that I will make into essences and bring home. I have gone from minor setbacks to major damage. Worrying now, I fall asleep to the mute sounds of a drunken Irish band. I am beginning to wonder why I decided to come here at all. In the morning things start out better. Madame, the proprietor, is kind and friendly. She will move me to a quieter room in the front today. The breakfast is not gourmet but it is nutritious. Last night's matron, Loice, is also friendly, since she is less tired. I am introduced around, fed, questioned and generally welcomed graciously into the Athina Club, which turns out to also be the Cyprus embassy. They are all curious about me, proud of the Athina, and friendly about business. Madame apologizes for the currency quirks and gives me some general lessons about safety: Stay in the neighborhood, take taxis, you can walk up to the crossroad restaurant but not at night, always check with her before going anywhere, she will recommend taxi drivers. I'm grateful for the advice but now more apprehensive. Robert comes to pick me up at 11 and we scoot off to the bank. Kampala was originally built on seven hills and now sprawls across 21 heaves of an old volcano bed. The churches, embassies and mansions are on the tops of the hills and the factories and shacks on the bottom,with the banks and downtown being somewhere in the middle. I am surprised at rst at how big and lavish the banks are in contrast to the poverty and squalor all around but realize eventually that this is the way it is in Africa. Some people live in it and others own it. I receive my next blow after visiting two

banks. I discover that none of the banks in Kampala takes MasterCard. Now I'm ofcially entering that stage of anxiety that one visits when nding one's self broke, in a strange land and 6,892.2 miles from home. Back in the cab Robert is sulking because he got a parking ticket. I pay him, pay for his ticket and head back to the friendly Athina to regroup and activate damage control. Things move on a certain clock at the Athina. If you want new linen on Monday, you are sure to get it by Wednesday. Loice is especially slow-moving, or else she does not understand that I often mean right away when I ask for something. After several hours of requesting, we nally get the Internet up and I signal home for help. There will be no response to my email for several hours which means I will have to bother Loice again to boot up the computer and log into a familiar server. I explain my plight to Madame who says she will inquire about getting cash with MasterCard for me. Right on Kampala time, she returns seven hours later to tell me that she has found a Barclay's bank that will take MasterCard. She tells me where to go and who to ask for and the next morning a taxi driven by a woman (Rose this time), pulls up to take me to Barclay's. Rose is not gentle with me. She tells me to fasten my seat belt and lock my door so I am not pulled out of the taxi and kidnapped. What the hell is this? I'm starting now to think about heading to the airport instead of the bank and screw the project I came here to complete. The drive downtown is scary. I imagine everyone looking at me and sharpening their knives. I take a pen out of my pocket and hold it as a weapon. Rose tells me to roll the window halfway up. At the bank, after inquiring, I nd the right section and a long line in the basement. The line is about 20 deep with only one clerk taking MasterCard transactions and a whitehaired armed guard holding what looks like a civil war rie. After waiting for almost two hours I am hit with another shock, this time more serious. Both of my cards are declined. I am almost out of taxi money, I have two nights paid for at the Athina, and then what? Maybe it's time for a suicide run at night. I fantasize that I will run screaming something like: "All Africans suck," through the bowels of Kampala sometime after midnight when the lowest element of society is just waking up. Another scary ride back. There are a lot of unemployed men in Kampala. They stand on the downtown sidewalks glaring at cars passing by. I feel nauseous. It will not be a good thing to heave out the window onto someone's shoes. I don't think I will be using Rose again. Late in the evening I reach Crystell by phone. I am not whimpering just yet. She explains that the nice people from MasterCard called to inform her that someone in Africa was using my credit card but not to worry, they caught the transaction and are freezing the card. She has told them that the criminal is indeed the cardholder doing who-knows-what in Africa but go ahead and unfreeze the card, he might need to eat, or buy a gun. Now she tells me that the bottle company who sent the 4 ounce dropper

bottles I will need for my project, called to say they are unable to track the shipment which they mailed six weeks ago. No camera, no bottles, no money. It is a special kind of evening in Kampala. Even though I am reassured that I may have some useable cash tomorrow, I am still anxious and unable to sleep. What else can go wrong? I am not used to things going badly like this and wonder again if I have made a mistake in coming here. In the dead of winter in New England it seemed like a great idea to go to the source of the Nile to make ower essences, someplace where the climate is warm and the owers are exotic and the people are poor but happy and friendly. Now here in the dark with the Irish music playing in the background and all sorts of bad luck hounding me, I realize that an unfamiliar fear has crept into my subconscious and is gnawing it's way through my grey matter like a voracious caterpillar or a tomato hornworm or a very small alligator. I take one of the two Ambien pills I was given to "reset my sleep clock". I was supposed to take this on the plane so that I would be on Kampala time when I got there, but forgot. By 4 AM I drift off to sleep and do not regain consciousness until 10:30 the next morning when I awaken to the sounds of loud hammering in the stairwell. I barely eat and run out to the street to hail a taxi. Screw the safety protocol. The line is not as long at Barclay's and I nally get thousands and thousands of shillings which amount to about $600. Instead of feeling relief I feel strange apprehension. "What next"? I am almost afraid to leave the bank thinking that another scary surprise awaits me just beyond the door. Outside there are young children begging for money. I am told that they are sent by their families in northern Uganda to beg for money in the cities. Northern Uganda is under siege by rebel forces who attack the villages there for fun and prot and to make anti-government statements. The children, most of them barefoot, walk over 150 miles to get here. I almost feel like throwing the whole pile into the air and yelling "come and get it". It has taken me three days just to get some cash and I feel giddy. I start to distribute some shillings and the crowd of children begins to swell like sharks after a bloody carcass. I can feel more than one little hand slipping into my pockets. A man nearby intervenes and begins beating the kids on the head with a newspaper to get them away from me. A general bad scene ensues including police and more guns. Note to self: nd a safer way to distribute money to the poor. Everyone at the Athina is happy that I am no longer poor or a risk or a problem they will have to gure out what to do with. Madame condes in me that last week a man died while he was sleeping at the Athina. They had to wait for his family to come from Germany before they could move the body out. I want to ask which room and which bed but the way my luck has been, I think that I would rather not know. There is a man named Ahmed who is drinking scotch at one of the tables in the dining area. He asks me to come over and have a drink with him. Since I am anxious, frustrated and alone, I agree. Since I have not eaten much over the past three days, it does not take me long to get plastered. Soon we are fast friends who have known each other forever and

have just been reunited in Africa. He is a rarity among men. He is a good listener, interested in what I am doing here, generous, helpful, knowledgeable, and content. He only talks about himself when I ask questions and seems to be interested in others and the world around more than himself. Ahmed lives in Canada and works for a human rights organization. He has been coming here every few months for several years, and he always stays at the Athina. He shares some gossip about the the clubhouse, gossip full of intrigue, betrayal and illegitimate children. Madame's sister-in-law Louise is visiting. She is from Cyprus and is very drunk. She asks me over to her table. Ahmed tells me to watch it and sits back to enjoy the show. She wants to know all about me and within moments has skillfully extracted from me that I have written a book. She asks if I am carrying any copies and soon she is telling me how to sign one for her. I can picture her telling her friends in Cyprus a story lled with shameless lies about a liaison she once had with the author of this book who wrote a romantic note to her on their departure. I have an early dinner and go to bed. I am hoping I can sleep but this anxiety is like a snake and will not let me go. I lie there for hours listening for mosquitos and thinking about buying a new camera and where I might nd storage bottles, and what would happen if I just called Robert to take me to the airport. Suddenly, something is happening to me. My heart begins racing and I feel an unusual sensation in my chest. My whole head is lled with light. I am going into the light. "I'm dying", I think to myself. "This how dying feels". Instead of afraid I am curious and amused. I wonder how they will get my body back and I think of the difculties it will cause my family, but what the hell do I care, I'll be dead. And then the thought hits me that I no longer have to do this bloody project. So now I feel elated and ready to go if this is it, but a deep, audible, masculine voice within me interrupts my reverie to tell me I am not dying, that I have not made a mistake in coming here, that I have been guided and will continue to be guided by this voice for the rest of the journey. All I have to do is ask and listen. "Who the hell is that," I think. I am overwhelmed, awed and confused but a deep feeling of peace takes over; the anxiety disappears and I fall into a dreamless, restful sleep. The morning feels somehow clearer and brighter. After some initial conicting feelings about my near death experience, I shufe off to breakfast. I am nally hungry. Ahmed is delighted to tell me that he has a friend who works for the Department of Agriculture who will help with my project. His friend knows just the places where wildowers grow prolically and the best way to get there. We will meet tonight and have dinner at a Chinese restaurant that Ahmed likes. Madame now joins us; I think she is a little sweet on Ahmed. She is gushing as she tells me that my bottles have arrived and that she has a driver who will take me to a mall that sells cameras. Pinch me, is my project back on track? Did this all just happen in the last 24 hours? Wait a minute, didn't I just

almost die? Maybe I did and this is heaven. I can literally feel the stress rolling off of me and evaporating in the Uganda sun. I eat such a large breakfast that my waiter, Thomas is almost scandalized. He hesitates, unbelieving, as I ask for more ham and eggs, more toast, more coffee. Prior to this I have barely touched my food and have probably been feeding someone else with my leftovers. My driver comes. His name is Leopold, he speaks English and he becomes my regular driver for the duration of my trip. Madame and Loice are in conference with him about me for a bout 10 minutes and then release me to his care. Off we go shopping for a camera. I am appalled at the price of cameras. They are almost three times the cost of similar models in the US. Digital instruments generally decrease in price the longer they are on the market and it occurs to me that the price wave here hasn't caught up to what I am used to. Leopold sees my frustration and when he fails to bargain a $600 5 pixel camera down to $400, he suggests another store. Here we have better luck. I nd something suitable for $389. One man shows me cameras, another is called to get the one I want from secure storage, a third brings the camera across the store to check out, a fourth is called to do a credit card transaction (perhaps the only store in Kampala that accepts MasterCard). A security guard is called to witness the transaction and a sales clerk bags the camera and smiles. The whole process from beginning to end takes over an hour. There is a tense moment for me as the credit card machine delays after the information is entered. I picture them throwing me in the slammer if my card does not go through. But all goes well. Five days after landing in Africa, I nave all I need to begin making ower essences. At dinner, Ahmed is gracious, charming and introduces me as a close friend to Petra, his Department of Agriculture comrade. She is a little surprised at my request - to travel Uganda looking for indigenous wildowers. I watch her eyes widen as I explain what a ower essence is and what is involved in making them - but she is knowledgeable about the natural world in Uganda and suggests a few parks, one at Jinja, one at Entebbe. The real wildlife however, is west towards the game parks and the Congo. She and Ahmed are a little shocked when I ask about taking a bus to Queen Elizabeth Park. "You will be the only white person, and the only one on the bus with money. What do think will happen?" I imagine this for just a moment before I get the point. The only other options are to nd a tour going to the park or hire a private driver for a lot of money. Here I am again disappointed but I am by now used to it and decide to ask Leopold about driving to western Uganda. For now I am enjoying good food, my new friends and a feeling of being alive and fat with cash. In the morning, I decide to go east to Jinja. It is about a two-hour drive through the Mabira forest. This feels like it could be fun and Petra suggested it. Loice gets me a taxi since Leopold is busy. We all agree on a fare but Loice cautions me that the driver

speaks only Swahili. She gives him directions to take me to a park, to the great dam and to the mouth of the Nile as it leaves Lake Victoria. I am just settling in for the ride when we hit the most intense trafc jam I have ever been in. Because there are so many cars here, drivers in Kampala take a driving survival course where they have to drive up on sidewalks and lawns and through back yards. I have never seen anything to compare this to except the perhaps bumper cars at Salisbury beach, that is if there were thousands of them. There is honking, swearing and car bumping. Since my driver, Peter is nervous, I decide that I should be also. I remember what Rose said and I decide to tighten my belt a little more. Peter is a lousy driver. Even on then open road he drives inches behind the car in front of us just so I can get a nice high octane lungful of exhaust. I can't seem to communicate that I want him to back off the car in front. This goes on mercilessly for 2 hours until we get to Jinja. It is not yet noon but I am exhausted (you get the pun). We nd the park and I nally see some wild African owers. The park is just past Victoria Dam and the rapids are swelling. There are young boys there that offer me the chance to watch them ride the rapids for a dollar. These rapids are scary. I'm not sure if I am sending these kids to their doom. I pay one boy and watch him tie himself to a ve gallon plastic jug and hike up the river bank to play chicken with spirit of the white-water Nile. Down he comes. At times I can only see his head, a black dot against the foam. But he makes it and I pay up but politely decline other offers. The tour of Jinja is not really what I am interested in. Peter cannot understand me and is focused on completing the assignment that Loice gave him. He doesn't want to wait around while I gawk at the owers. He seems nervous to stay at the park and keeps watching the boys whose numbers are increasing by the moment. "Mzungu with money" is being telegraphed so we leave fairly quickly. Peter wants to get on to Ghandi Park and the boat ride out to the place where Lake Victoria ends and the Nile begins it's long journey up through the Sudan and into Egypt. He is disappointed that I do not take the boat ride and he is surprised when I ask to see the town. He drives through it quickly and seems embarrassed at the poverty and the crowds of men that are hanging around in front of taverns and stores. I have not made any essences here. Perhaps I will come back but I do not think so.

Dear Crystell, in Thailand I was a farang. Here I am Mzungu. Madame says it means white. Leopold says it means blank or empty. It is unclear whether or not it is derogatory. There are t-shirts that say Mzungu on them and they are sold to white tourists who buy them and wear them. I cannot gure why a white person would do this. Can you imagine African Americans wearing t-shirts that say black? Back at the Athina, Ahmed welcomes and congratulates me for my bravery in traveling outside of the city. He admits that he, in all the years he has come here, has never traveled beyond the Kampala city limits. "it is less safe," he says." I enjoy sitting with him and it becomes a sort of end of day ritual for both of us. I am growing fond of the Nile beer they brew here and he is stuck on the same bottle of scotch, or maybe this is a new one. He tells me how he tips the staff each time he comes and goes. A bottle of brandy for Madame, a fty dollar tip to Loice. "And ask her to share some with the girls who make up the rooms." I make a note of this. This is not like Thailand where a big tip embarrasses service people. The two girls who are chambermaids here are refreshingly themselves. One time I walked in to my room and found one of them looking through my rst aid kit of ower essences. She was not the least bit embarrassed but began asking pointed questions about what was in the bottles. It is not unusual for them to barge in without knocking to bring towels or soap or have some other excuse to snoop if I am not there. But Ahmed assures me that they are not thieves and so I begin to enjoy their careless treatment of me. Leopold wants $500 to go west on a week-long trip to Fort Portal, the Ruwenzori mountains, the border of the Congo and Queen Elizabeth Park. This will include his living expenses and the park entrance fee. Round trip bus fare is $48, but then there is the issue of being beaten, robbed and kidnapped. I wonder what my family could come up with if i was held hostage for ransom. "You can keep him but if you decide to kill him, here's $500 to make it quick and painless." Before I decide about Fort Portal, I want Leopold to x his air conditioner, not so much for cooling as for being able to keep the windows closed when we drive around Kampala. My lungs and throat are getting a beating from the leaded gas. He gets an estimate for the job, I give him the money and he has it done overnight. Whee, I now can breathe in Kampala trafc. Dear Crystell, On top of everything else, there is an election going on in Uganda this month. The 20 year presidential incumbent, Yoweri Museveni, had promised to step down this year and allow a free election, the rst in Uganda since 1986 when Museveni took over the presidency from the notorious Idi Amin. When push came to shove, Museveni changed his mind and decided to throw his hat into the election. There are some mixed feelings here about this and Ugandans are very passionate about their politics. There are now 6 ofcial candidates and there are political rallies all over the city. The people's favorite here is Kizza Besigye. It is like the 60's all over again. Besiege was arrested and tried for treason and rape last year, and there were protest riots all over

the city, people believing the charges were trumped up by the government. Recently he has been acquitted of most of the charges. It is a real circus here. Yesterday's news reported that Museveni's cavalcade was attacked by a mortar shell. Like I said, just like the 60's. I explain what I am doing in Uganda to Leopold three times before he understands. This is new for him. I show him some of the bottles of essences I have with me for jet lag, for parasites, for viruses; I show him the bowls I use and explain how the essence making process goes. He is intrigued and asks some very good questions like: "How do you know that there is anything in the bottle when you are done?" He has an idea to take me to the Baha'i temple where there are acres of trees and owers and one is free to walk around undisturbed. We set out on a Thursday morning. It has been a full week since I arrived here. It feels like so much has happened in such a short time. We climb up dusty hills to a beautiful estate and temple. After asking for permission to walk around, I leave Leopold to talk with some other drivers and hike about some beautiful semi-wild gardens. I am enchanted and at once heartened by the sight of trees and owers I have never seen before. I am drawn to a Datura tree and before I know it the owers are in my bowl sitting in the African sun. From the Baha'i temple grounds, you can see all of Kampala. It is wild, sprawling and beautiful. There is still dew on the grass and owers, but it won't last long in this hot and dry sun. To make this even more interesting, i have a new voice inside my head that sounds like Barry White. We have had a few conversations since our late night introduction. I wonder if this is genuine craziness. This voice has cautioned me not to use the traditional three-hour time frame to make the essence. Or the way I heard it was: "What do you think will happen to your essences if you leave them in the sun for so long this near the equator"? His suggested time was just under an hour if the day is sunny and warm. This actually makes things a lot simpler and gratefully, quicker. I make ve essences that morning, two trees, two shrubs and a gorgeous coral colored Hibiscus. I nd Leopold irting with some Baha'i women. He is pleased that I have found what I am looking for, and even more please when he sees the bottles that I have completed. He is mystied that there may be "medicines" to be made from simple owers. He ask a dozen more questions and I am pleased at his growing interest. Finally a few essences made and for me the discomfort, disappointment and anxiety of the week is now a thing of the past. The weather recently in Uganda has been quirky resulting in some problems. The rainfall has been sparse which has caused Lake Victoria to be unusually low. This in turn has caused the power from the dam in Jinja to be half of what is necessary to keep the electricity in the country at operating level. What this means is the power goes out for 24 hours every third day. What this means to me is no fan and no lights some nights. I have to be careful now about what I eat preferring restaurants that have

generators. Other countries are donating generators to Uganda but now their increased use is driving the process of gas upward. All the candidates are promising more electricity and blaming someone else but not God, but only because he is not running for president.

Part 2, The Journey West

We leave for Fort Portal on Monday. It is an odyssey across roads that are smooth and paved for a few miles and then bumpy cowpath for a few more. Because the rains are so heavy at times, the roads can be washed out leaving gaping holes a car could fall into. And so we are careful not to exceed a speed which will leave us unexpectedly in a ditch. There are thousands of people walking this road, some carrying bananas, some carrying children, some carrying luggage or mattresses. Some have shoes, most do not. At one gas stop I ask for a bathroom and get a surprise. Since I am white, they will not allow me to use the facilities. Instead I am directed to a room in the back with a hole in the middle of the oor and a stick to hold onto in case I have to squat. Leopold is angry, and embarrassed about this treatment. Whatever sentiments I have are far overshadowed by this lesson in what it feels like to be a despised minority. We reach Fort Portal by mid afternoon. I have a room at an inn owned by a German couple. Here in western Uganda there are the same power restrictions because of the dam. We will have no power tonight. I look around the grounds for owers but see nothing special or unusual. I get directions from the friendly innkeeper to some local caves and Leopold and I drive several miles to some old volcano beds where hiking is permissible. Here the hike is exhilarating but the owers growing here are past their prime with a few exceptions. We pass some local villagers who hail us with a song-Ike greeting. Leopold translates their words: "Thank you for coming here. You honor us by coming here". I honor them by making three ower essences. Leopold keeps watch. The sun heads for the horizon; we head back to the inn. Leopold does not stay with me in the guesthouse. Instead he has secured a room in the downtown area. There are rooms for drivers near all the guesthouses and hotels or they have special rooms set aside for bus and taxi drivers. I have paid Leopold in advance but he has used the money to help pay for the schooling of his six children. His youngest

goes to school in Buscemi, a town we will pass through on the way back from western Uganda. I can see that he is eating sparsely and probably skimping on the lodging. I hand him some extra cash and make him promise to use it to eat well tonight and get a decent room. He promises me but I can tell he is lying. He is a dedicated father and most of this money will go to his children's education. I ask him to itemize his expenses for his children and promise to send him some money towards it over a few months when I get back. We become good friends over the next two weeks. He becomes an invaluable asset to the project and one of the main reasons I get out of Uganda healthy and alive. Dear Crystell, Western Uganda is wild. The terrain, the people, the mountains, the sun all feel primitive. Many people I see walking on the roads have no home. The sheer numbers are a problem for the government since the natural resources are limited. Food is limited; space is limited. There is a rebel faction in the north attacking villages and killing people yet the government seems slow or reluctant to respond. Now I see why. A few thousand less mouths to feed makes the government feel all that much more stable. Leopold says that they do not have to worry about starvation since bananas grow so freely here. He eats a lot of bananas. I am getting used to them. Perhaps when I get home you can make some banana pancakes, that is if you can learn to cook them before I get there. In Uganda, children are sent away to boarding schools when they are ve years old. They do not have summers off or long vacations. For all practical purposes they become wards of the state. In a way this is good for the children since they get good food, clothing, shelter and medical care along with their education. Here you can not take these things for granted. Leopold's children are in schools all over the country and he tends to visit two of them each weekend. He is sad when they leave home but happy that they are being cared for. It is just the way things are. I try to think of what it would be like to lose my children when they turn ve and it is heart wrenching. I also think to myself how good it would be for our children to live in Africa for a year after they reach their 12th birthday. We now head south towards Queen Elizabeth game reserve. The Ruwenzori mountains and the Congo are just west of us. It is stunningly beautiful. This landscape I am enjoying has been untouched for countless centuries. They are building a new road south to allow for more and smoother trafc, but this makes the travel slow. Because they do not have modern equipment or factories that produce asphalt, it takes years to build a road. But what they lack in modern equipment and raw materials, they make up for in manpower. We pass a road crew of perhaps 300 men and women who are carrying crushed stone in wheelbarrows or sweeping the red dust that is everywhere. They are building layers upon layers of crushed rock and packing it by running over it with heavy trucks. Since this road is a government priority, Leopold

estimates that the 30 mile stretch will take 5 to 10 years to complete. He says this without a trace of cynicism. Just outside of the park we see our rst herd of elephants. They do not know that they are outside of the park and my guess is there is no one who is going to tell them. There are two bulls and a few mothers and calves. I count 16 elephants all together. We are a good two hundred yards away and Leopold is reluctant to drive closer. One of the bulls trumpets us a warning not to come closer and before long they move away. Leopold explains the reasons for his trepidations by recounting some urban legends about drivers who have been attacked and killed by bulls. In one story, an elephant smells bananas in the trunk of a Volkswagen and lifts the car up and drops it several times killing the driver but getting the bananas. I half-believe the story but I check to make sure Leopold is not carrying any bananas in the car. Inside The park we stop several times to watch elephants, hippos and water buffalos in the distance along the shores of the Kasinga channel. My camera, bought and paid for in Uganda, does not have the distance lens that my lost camera had. I am slightly bummed, but who can stay bummed when all around are rare and wild animals. Leopold is like a little kid. I am a little surprised thinking since he is from Africa, this must be ordinary. Not so, he tells me. He only comes to the parks when he drives someone, which is rare. His last time here was six years ago. And so we become like little kids together. From the Mwaya lodge where we are staying, there is a channel sunset boat ride. The boat takes lodge customers across to where the animals are watering. Leopold talks his way onto the boat form free and I go look for owers. Dear Crystell, There thousands of different kinds of birds here in western Uganda. It's a way that the insect population is kept down. One of the birds is a type of nch called a weaver. The male weaves a nest to attract the female of his choice, sort of like the men in Michigan. The nests look like hanging baskets and some villagers here used to take them down and sell them to tourists until the government stepped in. Now everyone leaves the nests alone although I imagine there are poachers who wait till night stealing nests by ashlight and getting their asses bit by mosquitos. At night time we watch the weavers eating the bugs who are attracted to the lights. It is quite a sight. I can't decide if there are more birds or bugs.

The park is full of owers. I wander around and select a few for today and a few for tomorrow. On the grounds of the lodge there are warthogs grazing on the lawn. There are four of them camped at my back door. I have to walk around them to get in. One of the porters says he has never seen them do this. I sit and watch them for a while. They are incredibly ugly and endearing at the same time. One has a blond mane, another is a red head and the other two are brunettes. I amuse myself by thinking that this is the karmic price of vanity. This blond, for instance, must have been an actress who was caught up in her own looks. Or perhaps this is a spell cast by an evil magician on a beautiful maiden who rejected his advances. A lot of maidens her who should have known better. One of our guides says that the warthog is a prolic breeder yielding up two litters a year. Otherwise, he says, they would probably be extinct. Apparently, the warthog has such a bad memory that he forgets who he is running away from. Imagine running for your life from a lion and then forgetting why you are running. The Mwaya lodge is strictly high class and the guests are westerners all dressed in safari clothes and look like clothing magazine models. There are no wrinkles or dirt visible, and i wonder how everything can be pressed so crisply from a suitcase. It is difcult for me to keep a straight face when talking to one of them. From the dining area you can look out over the channel and watch the hippos trying to swallow each other. I was fortunate to get a room that someone cancelled at the last minute. I get a good deal and Leopold grumbles when he is told the price of his lodging. The porter warns me to stay inside at night and keep the doors closed. I ask why and he replies, trying to not act surprised at my stupidity, "Why because of the animals and insects". I nod. I am denitely not going strolling in the evening.

There are owers both inside and outside of the lodge compound. I am warned not to wander too far away from the lodge grounds which are surrounded by a tall fence and gate. During the day the gate is opened, but after sunset it closes to protect us from being eaten. I get lost briey but nd my way back bringing my newly made essences with me. I like this one hour process. It allows me to make essences more quickly and not linger too long outside of the lodge proper. I can't decide which is more dangerous, Kampala with it's volatility towards violence, or the game park with it's predators. I

decide its a toss up but I realize that I am less afraid of being attacked by a wild animal than of potential urban violence. Wildlife scouting time is 6 AM. There is great excitement: Lions have been sighted near the lodge. We get a wake up call, there is a quick coffee in the lodge foyer and everyone scrambles into their vehicles. I am a little slow to get to the foyer because there are two big cats, a male and a female right outside my back door. It is just getting light and I hear some noises outside. When I part the curtains, one of them, the female, is looking right at me. An outside light goes on and the lions scramble down toward the channel. It amuses me that everyone is running to their jeeps to see lions and they are right nearby. Leopold is excited to get going and a little impatient with me for being tardy. He has spoken to the game spotters this morning and know just where to drive to. I keep my already-seen-them experience to myself and get with the program. Right away we see the same cats in the brush leaving the lodge. We see hippos, elephants, a great forest boar, many antelope, lots of elephants and a hyena who comes running right at the car and veers off at then last minute. Later we see another female lioness on the savanna in the distance crouching and looking off into the distance. We pass two men who are working cutting grass with machetes. I am sure they must be what the lion has been staring at. Not seeing a vehicle near them, I ask Leopold about their safety. He tells me that they are wearing charms made out of lion hair which protects them. I look again. They are both old men. Rather than the charm, I think the lions must be selective about what they eat. Leopold is getting a little freaked out at some of the close encounters we are having with the animals. Yesterday an eagle landed on the hood of his car and stared at us before he took off. Today an elephant crossed in front of us so close that Leopold had to brake fast. He says that hyenas avoid people and denitely do not charge at cars. I'm about to ask him what his point is when my internal voice pipes up and tells me I am being "imprinted" by the animal's energy and that when I return home I will be shown how to use the imprints to make a certain kind of essence. I le this information away but then think about my own close encounters with the warthogs and lions. It now feels as if these incidents are part of a bigger pattern. At the lodge are a family of mongoose who run around me in a circle. People nearby see this and laugh. This trip has gone from disappointing and scary to wonderfully exhilarating and profound. My Uganda ower essence total is now up to 16. I'm nally having fun.

For some reason, the word spreads that Leopold and I have good juju in nding animals. In fact our sightings were considered unusually lucky by the spotters who spend many hours tracking game. The staff here seems a bit superstitious and a few drivers approach me and ask if they can follow us in the morning. We have decided to decline and even wait until everyone has left before we go out the next day. We are in no hurry and take the south road where no one seems to have gone. Lions were sighted on the north road and everyone scampered that way. As we come around the last curve before the savannah, there they are, the lion pair waiting for us. Leopold slams on the brakes and we watch, maybe thirty feet away while they loll around and perform for us. The female actually stares at us. Leopold starts to roll up the windows but I feel safe enough to go pat them. Leopold begs me not to do this and we compromise by keeping the windows open. A few minutes later two open jeeps come up behind us and the pair are off into the bush. We are both pissed to have our moment interrupted and now the jeeps are following us, so we call it a cut and a wrap and head back to the lodge to pack.

Part 3, The Road Back to Kampala

We are in ne spirits as we start the trip back to Kampala. Instead of heading north back to Fort Portal and then east, we head south to make a loop back through Busenyi, Mbarara and Masaka. If we are lucky the trip will take 10 - 12 hours and we will be back by dark. I have called ahead to Loice to make certain there is a room available in the front. She tells me that Ahmed has left but will be back early next week. She sounds glad to hear from me, and seems happy that our trip was successful. Leopold's youngest daughter has just started school in Busenyi. He is anxious to visit her and we decide to stop at her school. On the way we pass through some tropical regions where bananas grow in abundance. The people in this region seem happy and content and untouched by the violence and strife in the north. Leopold warns me not to get out of the car or we will be swarmed by the children asking for money or selling things and indeed this is just what happens. The village and the people are so colorful that I want to snap a few pictures. The people, however will not let us do this unless we pay a sizable amount of money. Leopold is forceful in telling them no and in staunching the tide of people swelling around us. Just outside the village we make a ower stop. I nd two wildowers and make essences. The owers are more colorful than the villagers and do not ask for money. Soon we are on the road again drinking water and laughing. Leopold likes to tell stories but his accent is thick and I catch only half of what he is saying. I show him some of the ower photos I have taken and he is amazed. He cannot recall seeing any of these owers. He is even more confounded when I point out that they grow everywhere. Apparently owers are simply not in his high interest category.

In Busenyi we nd the school and I wait outside of the car while Leopold looks for his daughter. There is a church next to the school and some kind of service going on. Two boys nearby tell me it is a funeral for a young man from here who died in a motorcycle crash in Amsterdam. The young man's father is a political dignitary here and so the church is full of famous people. A very short old man wanders over to me, probably bored with the service. He starts asking me questions in a friendly, polite and curious way. He is dressed in a suit that looks like it was his rst one in 1950. The collar is frayed. The shiny suit material has long lost it's texture. He introduces himself with a long title and letters at the end. I smile and try to act humble and impressed. Next he launches into a polemic lecture laced with intense hand gestures and passion. Now and then his voice raises pitch and volume as he comes up on his toes for emphasis. I am a little dumbstruck. I had my arms folded leaning against the car but now I am at full attention and a little worried about the scene he is causing right outside a solemn gathering. The service is concluding now and people are coming down to see what the display is all about. Apparently they can't gure it out either but what it looks like is that he is chastising me, and soon a fair-sized group of very serious faced adults are standing around us. OK, honestly I am freaked. Ahmed has told me all about village justice. What it means Is that the psyche of a mob is never questioned by the law enforcement system. A mob can burn down a house or kill someone and it is never investigated. I can't even decide whether to act serious and add to the serious intensity of his diatribe, or to smile and be amused which might seem smug and disrespectful. I can't even make out the words he is saying and wonder if he has lapsed into Swahili. Before anything escalates, Leopold shows up with his daughter. She jumps up into my arms, gives me a big hug and the spell is broken. People begin to laugh, someone tells the professor to shut up and the natural peaceful order of things is restored. Leopold has not fully grasped what has happened but the size of the crowd and the fact that I am the only white person within kilometers has got him on full alert. Some people are walking away scowling at me, for what I'm not sure, but as long as they're walking away, I don't particularly care. And so for a few sweaty moments we stand there smiling and nodding while the people disperse and forget about us. Leopold's daughter is a sweet, angelic and affectionate. Leopold takes a photo of us together and she clamps onto my hand and wraps around arm for the shoot. After we have taken a few shots, she is in no hurry to let go, and we walk around hand in hand like I am the dad, which seems funny to everyone but her. She shows us around and protests when it is time for us to go. Leopold bestows a string of bananas on her. She does not want him to leave and cries a little but she rallies quickly and runs off with some friends. Before we go, we retrace steps back to a pond full of Papyrus. I make the ower essence to mark this part of the journey and we head west.

Mbarara is quiet and not remarkable. We have stopped to use a public bathroom and a tour bus has just stopped for the same reason. There are perhaps 50 men and women ling out and heading down the walk to use the facilities. Leopold suggests that we wait a little but he is talking to the wrong guy. I assert my Mzungu right to pee and stride into the john. I am not sure what to expect but no one gives me a second look ( or even rst come to think of it). Leopoldo is next me but I can sense that he does not want me to talk to him. Back at the car he is amused and relieved as if we have just done something forbidden. I'm new here and do not know all the rules and for now would rather not. On the other hand I grew up during the civil rights era and I'm guessing you know by this story what I thought was right back then. Masaka is the last major town and stop along the way. Kids are running, chasing busses with jackfruit and meat sticks. The equator runs right through here so we stop and take photos. Leopoldo shows me how water, if it is poured right at the equator will spill either to the right or left but will not fall directly downward. I fool around with this for a while until I see that what he says is true. The town is depressing. There is a tangible dark feeling about it. Leopold now recounts the story of Masaka and the AIDS epidemic. According to his story, a trader from Rwanda had a business agreement with some merchants here in Masaka. At some point in the late 70's the merchants decided to buy the goods elsewhere. The trader then put a death curse on the merchants, their families and the whole village. Not long after this, people in Masaka started to come down with a strange illness which caused them to become sick emaciated and eventually die. The whole village became infected. People would just go into their houses and close the doors and die. Nearly the whole village was wiped out. When world health workers came in the 80's and discovered that the illness was AIDS, no one would believe them. Everyone was certain (and some are to this day) that is was the curse of the Rwanda trader. The story gives me pause. This is ofcially the rst place that the AIDS appeared. Such a coincidence cannot be simply dismissed, yet it sounds crazy to think that curses can bring on epidemics, yet no one can say just where the virus came from. I le this information in the same place I le all the things that are happening here that I do not understand. At the same time I could swear I hear Barry White chuckle. Two weeks in Uganda and I am more that half done the project. Leopold has become a valuable resource for locating plants, for rinsing the bowls, for protecting me and the essences while they are being made. He has also introduced me to Waragi which is a local brew which they call a gin. It is nothing like a gin, more like a moonshine. The diluted 60 proof imposter is sold in stores, but Leopold is carrying the real thing he insists is 120 proof and by the taste of it I can't argue. He tells me it is ok to drink out of the bottle after him since no known germ could survive on the mouth of the bottle. I think to myself "when in Africa," and we both get slightly loaded in the car during the last hour of the drive. We laugh a lot, everything seems funny to both of us. The sun is just setting over Kampala as we cross the city limits. We have been gone less than a week

but it feels like a month. I no longer feel like a stranger here. I receive a warm welcome at the Athina that makes it feel like home. I laugh to myself as I think of the contrast with the rst week here when everything was strange and hostile. Madame is reading my thoughts. She hugs me and declares, "You are a lucky man." Dear Crystell, A fth of Absolut vodka here costs about $30. I have been using it both as a preservative for the essences and to rinse out the bowls between use when I am not able to wash and sterilize them. They let me use the kitchen at the Athina to boil water but in between essences in the wild I use the vodka to clean them. After I swirl it around a bit in the bowl, I dump it into a plastic jug and the left over booze is then the province of Leopold. The rst time I rinsed and threw the expensive stuff away, Leopold was horried. He asked me to give him the throw-aways declaring, "David, I have a very estrong estomach". He gets about a pint of this every time we go out and has a party when he goes home. I have been stockpiling cash ever since I found the way to get it. It has become a slight problem. Since 100 dollars is about 256,000 shillings I have become a shilling cash millionaire and have a wad that would ll a pillowcase. I know this is excess and came exclusively from my fears but it's too late and I can't put it back. I cannot carry this around and I don't completely trust the snooping housemaids so I give it all to Loice for safekeeping. She has too much fear of loosing her job and being sent to eternal damnation to be dishonest. Her hands are trembling as she counts the shillings at a large table in the ofce. She is visibly sweating as she writes out a receipt. I tip her generously for her trouble and now can make withdrawals from the Uganda Bank of David which I now own. It feels great to be a millionaire. The Athina is full this week. A group called Bicycle for Peace based in Switzerland has just made a 600 mile trek from Nairobi and they are guests here for three days while they rest and do PR for their sponsors. I am a little put out. Madame, with apologies, has relocated me to a mini size room, but is not charging me so I can really not complain. The bikers are true adventurers and peace lovers. There are about 15 of them from various European countries. They are each very colorful and have great stories about their travels, including having police escorts in Kenya and being chased by children as they bike through villages in both Kenya and Uganda. One of the bikers has no legs and has used a bicycle powered by hand pedals. I am truly inspired by their enthusiasm. To make things even more exciting, President Museveni himself is coming to the Athina to welcome and thank the group. There is such a buzz here. Presidential security is due soon to check through the hotel. They will need to interview all the guests, check passports and look through all the rooms before the Chief enters the premises. Since I am not part of the

group I wonder if I should pose with them, stay in my room or generally hang out on the sidelines. Perhaps Thomas will let me be a waiter for the afternoon. After all of the preparations and worry and excitement, the president does not come. The word is one of his aides was shot this morning during a rally in West Kampala. I let Madame know that I think this is a lame excuse. She totally agrees with me; the president should live with these life and death situations and still have time for his admirers. We have a little party anyway and soon forget the important men of state. Monday morning, Leopold and I are back to work. We head west to Entebbe to a large botanical park and garden. We both comb the park for an hour before I select our owers for today and tomorrow. The Breadfruit Tree is especially exotic. The owers grow right out of the sides of the tree instead of growing from the ends of the branches. There is a very sweet fragrance and a kind of pink-coral color. The male and female owers are lined up opposite each other in rows so when then ower closes, the pollination happens without help from insects. The fruit of the tree is like a large baseball bat and very nutritious. The taste is hard to describe. I would probably not buy it unless I had no other fruit, but it is sweet and lling. Leopold assumes his role as protector, time keeper, bowl washer and manager of me. He has become quick and procient at preparing the bowls for me, keeping time and getting the solarized ower water into the bottles. Today we attract a crowd of about 20 people who have wandered our way. The park was empty just an hour ago. I don't know where all these people came from. But Leopold is lecturing them in Swahili, keeping them away from the bowl and probably telling them how important I am and therefore he is. He is now waving people to move back because it is time to move the ower water from the bowl into the four ounce storage bottle. What fun watching him command the crowd. I supervise, playing my role, and making certain no ngers get on the rim as the water passes into the bottle. Another live one bagged for research. Initially things do not go well at Fedex when I begin mailing the essences back to the States. They cannot understand what ower essences are and everyone here passes the controversy up the ladder. I try to explain they are used for stress and right away this means to them that they are drugs. Finally the Fedex supervisor agrees to send them but warns me he is sure that they will not make it through customs in the U.S. The thought that all that I've gone through will not yield a new set of research essences is crushing, but my voice tells me all will be well and suddenly I have a pass to not worry. I have made the mistake of bringing the bottles in unwrapped assuming they would open the package as they did in Thailand. Here if it is wrapped, they don't look, they don't

care. Each time I send a package of essences after this, I wrap them, ll out the form and they go merrily on their way without a blink of an eyelash. Leopold waits in the car each time and we celebrate this nal step with a healthy swig of the deadly Waragi. Before the trip west I had asked Leopold to help me nd gemstones. He did not know what i meant. After several minutes of explaining, Leopold piped up "h'rocks, you want to buy h'rocks?" The cultural gap was too great; there was no explaining. I asked around the Athina but no one knew where to buy gemstones. However, on the rst day in Queen Elizabeth Park as we were looking across the channel at a herd of elephants bathing, I looked down at the gravel road and noticed that it was loaded with crushed semi-precious stones. Although they were small, they were just what I was looking for. I managed to sort out some quartz, jasper, smokey quartz, agate, opal, citrine and amethyst. I think a rock collector would have a eld day here. I now have a pocket full of h'rocks that are mined in Africa. Dear Crystell, I am nearly nished making 30 essences. Leopold and I will drive to the Mabira forest on the way to Jinja tomorrow and hike around looking for the nal few owers we need. Yesterday I found some vendors that sell local handmade items to tourists. I thought I would buy a few authentic African crafts as gifts to prove I actually came here. In the rst shop a very strongly-built and not-really-friendly woman was minding the store. She said to me as soon as I walked in: "Do not leave my store until you buy something." I let her know that I would be looking in all the shops before I decided what to buy. She was not pleased but she backed off. I got to wondering if this works for her with some people. Then I decided I should try it as a sales technique. At the Steiner seminar next month, when I talk about my ower essence book, imagine if at the end of the talk I say to everyone: "Do not leave here until you buy my book". I think it might just work. The election is swelling to a fever pitch. Museveni and Besigye are the nalists. Since Besigye has a real chance of winning, there is passion and tension all over the city. Depending on whom you talk to, there seems to be a real chance of violence erupting. If Besigye wins, it will overturn the conservative order here. It comes down to this. The poor want change and favor Besigye and the rich want to protect their investments and property and are counting on a win by Museveni. The neighborhood I am staying in is considered upscale. There are armed guards posted behind solid iron gates and high concrete walls. These are remembrances of the past when violence was a daily bread for Kampala. I have noticed an increase in the armed personnel in on our street. And they are posted through the night now. When I rst arrived they were dropped off during the day and picked up at sunset. On the streets there roving groups in open truck beds with colors and music that indicate their candidate. After some paranoid rumors screech through the Athina, Madame approaches me to ease any worries I might have. As it is, my plane leaves the day after the election so I am here for the whole banana as they say in Uganda. I have no real fear of an uprising. After a near-death experience,

real or imagined, one tends to learn to go with the ow and not worry... Too much. What I have learned about fear here is invaluable. Every day you can read about all the violence in the newspaper. Then you can shake and cower and hide. Or you can see the beauty here and relax and enjoy yourself. When I am not working the project, I take daily walks and say hello to everyone I pass. Without exception, all smile and return the greeting. Many stop to chat. No one asks me for money. One young man who goes to a school nearby, comes to visit me regularly. He asks all kinds of questions about life in the U.S. , about George Bush and snow and the girls in America. Over this last topic we laugh a lot. Neither of us can understand women. The election is over and Museveni has won. There are cries of fraud and xed ballots and shameless cheating but I've seen it all and can even guess what is going to happen next. If Besigya is smart, he will head for then hills and resurface later. There are minor incidents all over the city and one report of a quelled riot near the presidential residence. Madame's husband, the consulate from Cyprus is happy about the results and the staff here pretend to be if they want to keep their jobs. I am neither happy or upset about the results. I have decided to be Switzerland and stay out of the local politics. One can't help but see this little slice of Africa as a metaphor for politics everywhere. Power rules, power wins, power keeps power by whatever means necessary. On the day of my departure there is an embarrassing and painful display of emotion. This is worse than Thailand since the people here are in touch with their feelings and don't hold back. Loice has a handkerchief going and Madame bear-hugs me and makes me promise to come back soon. I have found her favorite brandy and she is more than pleased. There are promises to email, hugs, kisses, waves and nally I am safe in Leopold's taxi. On the way out of the city, we drive by several crowds being dispersed by armed police. We can near shots red but do not know where they are coming from. I ask Leopold If the police use rubber bullets. He thinks this is funny and swears rubber bullets would do no good against an African mob. I give my cell phone to Leopold. This was a local phone I used to stay in touch with him and to call taxis when he was not available. This model has a battery charge that lasts ve days and doubles as a ashlight. You could not nd such a technological prize in the U.S. Of course Leopold is going to give this one to one of his kids. We reach the airport. The airport is predictably crazy. Westerners are getting out while the getting is good. Most ights are booked. Leopold and I wave a nal wave through the glass barrier and I say goodbye to a strange, wild and intoxicatingly beautiful time full or raw feelings, full of adventure, full of the unknown, or as Madame put it: "you got a real bellyful of Uganda."

David Dalton is the founder and director of Delta Gardens, a center for ower essence research since 1986. Uganda was the second of seven countries he visited to gather essences of indigenous owers. The fruits (or owers) of his research can be seen at www.deltagardens.com

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