interlude

a stinging explosion on my left cheek. i look up in surprise—forehead, nose.

another fast curve, and a downpour.

the hillside to my left was imposing and beautiful in the storm: black slabs of gritty stone soaring to the heavens. to my right, overwhelming open space is interrupted only by the tauntings of distant monoliths.

white knuckles.


we roll to a stop. i grab my camera bag from under an AK47. Kaabong.

a surreal world between or within or combining worlds. fried chicken and mashed potatoes with chocolate cake. empanadas.

lizards scurry behind the rock wall of the pavilion where i read.

the Mening language is listed on ethnologue as a dialect of Teso. Katibong isn’t listed at all. there are others, too. and, of course, Nyang’i. on Monday i’ll take the last leg to Karenga, where i get to start to tease these languages apart.

too soon

‘you are looking for the Lokíru Kosma who has died last week, the musé?’ and silence.

probing eyes. a van in Entebbe. the minor inquisition. i had then said ‘oliotia’. the child had then lost interest.

the flowers were beautiful as they fluttered to the ground. pink and backlit—they were stronger than they were delicate, but the ornateness that they did possessed was all the more beautiful for the rough country that they inhabited. my company was not what i had expected. i could faintly smell the sweet aroma of the flowers when i held them to my nose. but Stephen assured me that the smell was befitting their visual beauty.



my feet had begun to chafe in these too-seldom worn shoes. weeds had brushed against my feet as i turned the last corner. a feeble, crumbling cross. piles of small marble stones. mining had become a new source of income here—the wealth had been fitting.



i waited until 9am to call. i was here, and i was the last to know.

the wheels had lost traction. the corner had come too quickly for my ignorant high speed. as we had graciously slid to a stop, rocking gently back and forth, i had turned to Kosma. ‘Larry doesn’t need to hear what just happened, ah?’ ‘I know nothing!’, he had proclaimed.

his shirt was red. probably neither of our faces expressed what we felt. ‘i meant to give this to your father,’ i said. it meant, but not soon enough.



‘yes, i will sponsor all.’ my pronouncement seemed flat and unbecoming the harsh circumstances that had brought us all together. the cokes, at least, arrived too early.

‘ga ica leɓ, leɓ, leɓ, leɓ,’ he had said. i had been irritated, and had ignored that what he had said was neither what i had wanted nor what i had heard.

i pinched the tobacco between my thumb and forefinger. with my middle finger i sealed my right nostril. i snorted with my left. coarse burning. i clearly didn’t know what was good and what was bad, if anything was supposed to be good. i ignored the burning. ‘It is good!’ i said—an act of faith. i couldn’t wait to see his pleasure when i presented him with even this small gift.

perhaps my convenience was an extraordinary dying old man’s sorrow. i hope not. it has rained a lot more this year than the last time i was here. i notice more and more that what makes life easy for me seldom makes life easy for the people here, and what makes life easy for the people here seldom makes life easy for me. surely this means something, but i can’t begin to know what.

there are too many beginnings to have also a middle, and especially an end.

always time

i rode back and forth between entebbe and kampala today. nakasero market was mild and familiar. the glorious scent of burning meat blended with the stagnant odor of rotting produce.
fresh pineapples.
i learned today that there are things that are days of the week. i had forgotten that thing when i was flying aimlessly around the world for a couple of days. places aren't really open on sunday in christiany places like uganda.

children smile and say 'hello mzungu how are you?'

Anthony helped us find the bus to Moroto, not that we will be using it (from Kampala anyhow). We met back up with him some time later.

'There is so much inflation. The people, they are fearing to put their money in the banks, so they sleep with it in their homes. They are fearing that if they put it in the banks, they will be asked many questions: Where did you get this? for what? where did that person get it? They are fearing, and it is very hard to make a good living. You get one chance, and you have to take it. I have had three dreams: to be a farmer, to be an artist, and to be a pilot. I am already doing some farming now, and I will maybe still be a pilot. But i do not think that i will be able to pay for the training to be a pilot.'

When he says 'pilot', it sounds like 'pirate'.

The little girl on the taxi back to Entebbe says 'mommy! mommy! mzungu!'

She smiles and giggles the rest of the time that they share the taxi with us. She has a high-five for stephen when she leaves.

evening and morning: the first day

i had walked past the man into his shop, not realizing that he was the owner.
‘Very sorry! Do you sell MTN airtime?’
His eyes had a hard time focusing, but he was quick to smilev. ‘I have some. I have only small money.’
Clouds had covered the sun. The air was mild and moist, cooled by a pleasant wind. We quickly completed our transaction.
‘wébale!’
‘Ah! You have been here only today and you know today say wébale! Wow! Solid! That is very nice, but when you say ‘wébale’, you will also say something else if you want to be polite. If are speaking to a man, you will say ‘wébale sebo.’ If you are speaking to a woman, you will say ‘wébale ɲabo.’
His name was Michael.

i saw him approaching while i took some pictures of banana plants, sunset, and a cow.
‘olyótya, sebo.’
‘jandí! what are you doing, mzungu?’
‘i have just gone for a walk to enjoy the sunset! Is that private land ahead?’
‘Ee. This is my family’s land. My name is Emmanuel.’
Emmanuel asked me to let him help me enjoy Entebbe while i am here.







‘Ah! You are taking pictures of the chicken!’
i was slightly embarrassed. i thought that the morning light on the chicken was actually rather nice, but i had had too much shame to lie down and shoot from the low angle that would have made for the best picture. i had been caught anyway.
They had large rifles and green fatigues.
i greeted them, and asked how they were.
‘We are fine! We are going back to the station.
As they walked off, i took a quick picture of their silhouette in the hard morning light.
‘You will take our picture, ah!’, one said, looking back.
His name was Bonniface. His friend was Emma.













i am staying at Backpacker’s Inn, about three miles from the Entebbe airport. Sometime in the next 48 hours i will relocate to Moroto, where i will hopefully locate Lokiru Kosma.

strangers: fast times in dubai

strangers playing frisbee in boulder
or watching fountains dance in dubai
or being known only by their eyes
or cutting off all of their hair.














































































































we took the metro to the burj khalifa. it and everything else in this town is overwhelming. particularly the smells. food. coffee. perfume. cologne. the sea.