Uphill, both ways

Fun fact for the geographically or linguistically curious: Kampala, Uganda's capital, used to be home to a large impala (antelope) population back in the day. British colonists creatively referred to the area as the "hill of the impala," which was translated by the Banganda into Luganda as "kasozi k'empala"...eventually shortened to the present day Kampala.

Kampala is a city of seven hills. Or 18 or 21, depending on your source. This makes for stunning views and really hard runs. Uphill, both ways, with no shoes, in a blinding snowstorm. Ok, fine, I’m wearing shoes. Alright, alright, we’re on the equator and it never even comes close to snowing. But the hills, man, they’re killer. Short, steep, rises. Painstakingly slow, gradual, seemingly never ending inclines. Winding roads with surprise attacks around each corner. Paved streets. Gravel roads. Dirt paths. Plentiful potholes. I feel like I’ve huffed and puffed and sweated up them all.

This is not without attracting a certain amount of unsolicited attention. Granted, mzungus attract attention in general, but ones that engage in unusual pastimes seem to be especially attention worthy. “Mzungu, mzungu!” Concentrated staring. Men sticking their hands out of matatus for high fives. Contrasted with small children, roadside, sticking out their hands and asserting, “Money!” Vehicles flashing their lights. As a warning or a greeting, I’m unclear. “Run! Run! Run! Run! Run!” exclamations. Folks of all ages, shapes and sizes in street clothes spontaneously running with you for short stretches. A couple weeks ago it was an entire high school soccer team, just out of practice. Most of the time, it’s amusing. I smile or wave or nod or high five or thow out a humorous and self-deprecating comment. But sometimes? Bugger off.

I’m trying to assimilate, damnit.

Running is, however, another hands-on (…feet-on?) way to learn one’s way around the city, whose roads have no apparent rhyme or reason. A grid? No no. More like swoopy swirly whirly gigs that fail to intersect in logical places and dump you out at random embassies without warning, leaving you confused and backtracking while putting on your best, “I meant to do that” face. Rachael and I ran around Kololo for over an hour (truly) attempting to re-find an apartment complex she had previously spotted. To no avail. And in trying to recreate the Muyenga route I did with my first “family” here, I ran down and back up no less than seven dead ends. I’m beginning to think street names ending in “Close” aren’t randomly titled… Needless to say, my sneakers and a non-negligible portion of my socks have turned that permanent shade of African dust. Last weekend I caved, followed Rachael’s lead, and bought "Kampala: A to Z," a 164-page guide to the streets of Kampala city.

Busaka Close, I’ll conquer you yet.