Getting Directions & Police Reports in Kampala

If they haven’t already, they really need to run an episode or two of the Amazing Race in Kampala. 

As mentioned prior, most people aren’t really aware of street names (outside of the major arteries), but rather landmarks. And often, the landmarks have multiple names, appear in different locations than boda-drivers remember, or are something that a Canadian wouldn’t normally perceive as a landmark, i.e. gas-stations.

Yesterday, I went for a walk with a few American friends to find some art galleries and if someone had drawn out our paths, they would have thought we were a caged zoo tiger. For example, we were told to go to the end of one road and ask for directions. Sure! We get there and get directed to the left looking for a street called “Princess St”. We walked and walked until we found some bored Boda-drivers, who instructed us to back-track. Ok, sure … we started to exchange uncertain looks. We walked for about ten minutes before we asked for directions again … and were once again told with all certainty that we needed to back-track yet again towards the drivers … Sigh. But wait! After a few steps, we asked another security guard for directions who said we never should have headed this way whatsoever, and had to back-track and turn right at the first street we had come to. Eventually we found the gallery, but not before adding an additionial two kilometers to our trek.

On a very amusing and positive note: on the way to our next gallery, we were helped out part of the way by the Ugandan Ashton Kutcher. Yup – we met the three hosts of Ugandan Punk’d ("Pranks" as it is called here), a show where three tricksters pull pranks – generally fake arrests – on big Ugandan celebrities and politicians. Not going to lie, I suspected that we might be on camera, being led into some serious hazing … but luckily we got fairly close to where we needed to be. However, once in the vicinity, the procedure from the previous paragraph happened again, although this time we decided to ask many people where to go and get an aggregate of responses. The amazing thing is that at one point we heard advice to go in three entirely separate directions….

The conclusion: Ugandans will never, ever say “I don’t know” when asked for directions.

Where the next step in the process comes in, I am not sure: guesses, mental coin flip, a basic reflection? Luckily I know my part of town fairly well and can guide wandering boda-drivers home, but it worries me when I get a confident “YES! I know where that is – sit down!” and then we start meandering, before asking other Boda-drivers for directions. That is why my rule of thumb is to 100% know where I am going before setting out, so I don’t end up in Nairobi by pure accident. Considering, there is that 1% of Boda-drivers who also con people into late evening rides and drop them off in the middle of nowhere and demand money … it’s at times worryingly hard to decipher if they are legitimately taking a short-cut alternative route, are lost, or are on the way to stick you in the worst part of town and leave you.

I’ve long learned to expect to wear down my shoes a lot when accomplishing any of my missions, because a) the already established lack of clear or accurate directions; and b) things often being much more complex than they should be.

Case in point: for my work permit, I needed to navigate a police check. Here are all the steps that took place:

1) Get staff to call police station and request information on what is needed. The presence of a letter of introduction is apparently not needed (doubt on my end …)

2) Show up at police station. Letter is very sternly required by a man with K-57 assault rifle.

3) Go back for letter.

4) Stand in a tent that is trapping heat and sitting around 40 degrees C.

5) Fill out paperwork in duplicate.

6) Go to “Room 2”

7) Get cross examined. Sent to Room 5.

8) Wander aimlessly, till Room 5 is found.

9) Get receipts that need to be paid at a national bank.

10) Go to bank.

11) Return to sweaty tent. Fill out a deceleration of my good intentions. In pen. In my own handwriting.

12) Return to tent. Get bounced around three separate lines. At one point my security officer and I stand in separate lines just in case.

13) Get finger prints taken. Angrily. Wrist almost broken.

14) Asked to stand on line on other side of finger-print dude.

15) After 20 minutes of sweating and being glared at by police officers, the officer hands the paper with prints on it. Take note: Rather than handing it back right away, you literally need to stand and sweat in a different line before being handed the paper.

16) Drop off papers with prints at tent number 2.

17) Get told wait time is 2 weeks. Security officer informs them, that 4 days is "quite good, please and thank you".

18) Return five days later. Go to sweaty tent. Get sent to Room 2.

19) A pile of dossiers is angrily pointed out to me. I need to go through them by myself till I find my report.

20) Get sent to a dizzying amount of rooms with my paper.

21) Get photo taken. Angrily (Yes, yes, this is a trend).

22) Get told that it will take 12 hours to print off my final report. Security officer says he prefers 20 minutes. Since my security officer isn’t Canadian, this now seems reasonable (the lady ahead of me, British, was not so lucky).

23) After 20 minutes, get handed paper with police report.

And this was the easiest part of THAT process ………. One of the Amazing Race challenges should be to get ANY official paper completed in a single day. 

As a final anecdote on complex processes and directions: when I finally received word that I can pick up my passport with work-permit, we got told angrily(yes, even at the Ministry … actually, especially) that we needed to go to Room Number Five to pick it up and told to go across the yard. We promptly go there, speak with some number cruncher with an oversize calculator, and get sent all the way across the compound to the parking lot … and then bounced around the compound four different times over a period of over twenty minutes, before eventually finding out that the number cruncher (read: tool) who had sent us all the way to the parking lot was actually sitting directly beside Room Number Five. At this point, I remain pretty certain that they were playing a trick on the Mzungu and seeing just how hard they can make we work to get the precious document.

The moral of these stories: Ugandans always want to help with directions (unless they work for the bureaucracy), they just don’t always actually know where to point you…. And if you work in the bureaucracy, you are always angry no matter how big of a calculator, or gun you are holding.