Arrested Developments in Hoima

We left Kampala on Saturday morning at 8:00 a.m. planning to make the four-hour journey to Hoima where we would meet up with Henry.  The rest of my family has never met Henry or his family, though they have spoken to each other via Skype.  We realized early on in the day that things were not going to according to plan on this trip.

One of primary goals of this trip is to purchase for Henry’s family the cows and chickens they lost and/or had to sell when Henry, Joseph, and their father were wrongly imprisoned for nearly two years.  This idea came from one of my former students, Holly Phillips, who recruited nearly forty other Pepperdine Law alums to join her in a surprise Christmas present for Henry’s family.  The original goal was to get enough money to buy one cow.  The response was so overwhelming that many cows can be purchased (my parents and sister also kicked in to the tune of about a cow each).  I previously told the whole story here.

Since Uganda is still almost exclusively a cash-driven society, cows cannot be purchased with a Visa card.  Accordingly, I called my bank in the United States on Friday night and got them to raise the limit on my ATM withdrawals in order to pull from the Barclay’s Bank cash machine half of the amount previously donated as we were leaving town (I had pulled out the other half previously).  I really should have known better and not waited until the last minute.  In Africa, nothing happens how it should.

When I pulled the first two million shillings out (we were pulling out 4.5 million), the machine hummed and whirred, and then spit out forty 50,000 shilling notes.  So far so good.  When Joline tried to get the next two million out, the machine hummed and whirred, then squeaked and moaned.  Uh-oh.  After a short delay, the machine screen instructed us to take the money and the receipt.  Two problems.  No money.  No receipt.  So I guarded the machine (telling would-be customers that the machine was out of order – my first (but not last) deceptive act of the day), while Joline went into the bank to tell them what happened and to make sure that we didn’t lose the $850 or so in shillings that should have come out.  Next problem.  The bank didn’t open until 9:00.  So much for getting to Hoima by noon.  So we sent our driver and the Gregstons (who were accompanying us on this weekend trip) to the foreign exchange location to turn ten $100 bills I had brought with me into shillings.

After nearly 45 minutes with a customer service rep in the bank, we finally got on the road at 9:45 a.m.  At this point, we have no idea whether we will get the money back that didn’t come out of the machine but was taken from our account, but we have filed the proper paperwork.  The trip was pretty bumpy, but otherwise uneventful.  As we were checking into our hotel, Henry arrived and I had the opportunity to introduce him to my family and to the Gregstons.  Lots of hugs.

After a few minutes of introductions, I told Henry about the collection that had been taken and about our desire to buy his family some cows and chickens.  He was stunned and thrilled.  More hugs.

Henry had told me the night before that he had a surprise for me at his house when we arrived, so we drove the ten minutes from our hotel to his house.  (On the way, we stopped at the Hoima Barclay’s, which let us take out the rest of the cash we needed).  I had met his parents before at his graduation from S4, but I hadn’t met three of his four siblings and our families had not met each other.  The surprise was that they had prepared a full Ugandan meal for us and the Gregstons – two kinds of beef, potatoes, rice, soup, bananas, papaya, carrots, and tomatoes.  They also had plenty of soft drinks and bottled water.  It was delicious and we felt so grateful because this food cost them much more than they could reasonably afford.  Henry gave me a tour of his house, which is no more than 700 square feet – three bedrooms (only one of which didn’t have a dirt floor), a dining room, and a sitting room.  There were no doors or ceilings on any room, just hanging sheets for doors and rafters under the metal roof.  They have two pigs (the three piglets that were there had already been sold to someone else).  They have a fair bit of land on which they grow bananas, sweet potatoes, cassava, corn, and avocadoes.

Eating with Henry's Family at their House

Group Photo in Front of Henry's House

After this meal and tour, we set out to try to get some cows.  Since the prices always skyrocket when mzungus are buying goods and services in Uganda, we dropped off everyone but me, Henry, and Tango (the driver, who is also from Hoima) at an outdoor market near (sort of) our hotel.  When we arrived at a farm where Tango had arranged for us to look at cows, I waited in the car.  Within a few minutes, the car was swarming with little Ugandan children looking at the museum oddity inside the car – not many mzungus make it up country.  My cover was blown.  In the end, we were told we needed to come back on Sunday when they would have more cows for us to see.  We could have purchased one today, but the cost of transporting just one cow didn’t make sense when we could get more the next day.

While it was disappointing not to be able to spring the surprise on Henry’s family on Saturday, there were still a few more surprises for today we needed to deal with.  The first came when Henry told me that when he had told his pastor that we would be worshiping with them on Sunday, his pastor insisted that Joline and I preach in the morning.  Surprise!

The second came a bit later.  On the way back to pick up Henry’s family to bring them to our hotel to join us for dinner, I had the bright idea of taking pictures and filming Henry narrating from the significant locations that had led to our unlikely meeting two years ago.  (I had previously filmed him giving me a tour of his house and yard, including where the herdsman had been killed and buried in his yard).  So we stopped at the school where he had been when the voice “alarm” had sounded in June of 2008 that indicated that something big was going on.  I took some pictures and videoed him explaining what had happened.  We then went to the place he had been arrested, and I videoed him narrating that.  After we picked up his family for dinner, I had the bright idea to stop and film him in front of the police station telling the story about being taken and held there.  Big mistake.  Huge mistake.

About fifteen seconds into the filming on my Flip video camera, a police officer approached us in a rather hostile manner and asked us who were, what we were doing, and under whose authority.  I stopped filming, offered a big smile and my hand, and tried to introduce myself.  The only introduction the officer was willing to make, however, was us to the inside of the police station.  He summoned to Mr. AK-47 who was standing guard and jabbered something in Runyoro.  Mr. AK then motioned to us with the 47 to move inside.  We were led through the front door, down a hallway, around a corner, and into a holding room.  A superior officer then proceeded to question us and berate us for violating the law.  (Keep in mind that Henry’s two-year nightmare began in this very police station and I could tell that he was rather uneasy).  We were instructed to produce identification.  Thankfully, Henry didn’t have any with him.  While I had brought my passport with me on this trip, I had left it at the hotel, so I pulled out my driver’s license.  My wallet was bulging with cash (a fact not unnoticed by the officer), and I was wearing one of those money pouches around my neck that was swollen with more shillings than this officer would make in several years.  It, too, was rather noticeable under my Pepperdine Law t-shirt.  He demanded to see the pictures we had taken.  Since he said “pictures,” I pulled out my still camera (keeping the video camera stowed in my safari pants’ pocket) and showed him the photos I had taken of Henry at his home and at his school.  I had yet to take any pictures of the police station.

“So you did not take any pictures of the police station?”

“No, no pictures.  I was planning to take pictures, but had not yet done so.”  Another minor deception – sorry mom and dad.

He held us there for about ten minutes (likely looking for a, well, private donation), but I gave him nothing other than a description of who I was working for while in Uganda and what I was doing.  That helped, but only a little.  We were then taken to his superior who refused to listen to us at all, instead choosing to lecture us about violating Uganda law.  When it became clear that I was not in the donating mood, he sent us to yet another official who demanded to see my passport before I could be released.  Stalemate.  After a few minutes of negotiating, he agreed to allow me and Henry to go to the hotel and get my passport while he held my driver’s license as collateral.  When we got to the hotel, I offloaded the video camera and all but 20,000 shillings (about $8.50), and grabbed my passport.  Henry insisted on coming with me, but I insisted that he stay behind.  I won.  So me and Tango (the driver) headed back to the police station.

The official was standing in front of the police station holding my driver’s license.  I handed him my passport (including the 6-month visa that backed up my story).  He inspected the passport carefully and demanded to see the camera and questioned me about whether I took any pictures.  After satisfying himself that there were no pictures, he again told me that it was against the law to take a photograph of a police station without first getting permission.  In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have, but I then said, “OK, then can I have your permission to take a picture of the police station right now?”  I actually said that.  He looked like he was considering hitting me, but simply said “no.”

The dinner with Henry’s family was very nice, and we enjoyed getting to know them a bit better.  I hope to have fewer surprises tomorrow, other than surprising Henry’s family with some cows.