Uganda. What a beautiful country. On the flight from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, my nap was broken by glimpses of semi-arid regions, savannahs with forested riverbanks (sadly, I did not spot any elephants or giraffes – I tried really hard), and burnt red earth juxtaposed by lush green hills. We landed and I had to put my scarf back on because it was wet and cool. It reminded me of a rainy summer day in Vancouver.

My first impressions of this new country I am to call home (for the next several months, anyway)…

The country operates on organized chaos. The international airport had extra security measures due to the Ebola outbreak in Western Africa, so before we queued for immigration, we had to fill out and submit a medical form to nurses wearing masks and gloves. A single nurse was standing in the middle of the arrival hall handing out forms to passengers arriving from three different flights through double doors, while another nurse offered hand sanitizer. There was no proper instruction to arriving passengers; most people were turned back before the immigration queue to realization that they had to fill out another form and stand in a “line” of people waiting to get their medical forms cleared by nurses. A lack of tables meant that there was a mass of passengers sitting on the floor frantically filling out their forms and checking on swelling lines. I was one of the lucky ones. I was one of the first people to disembark one of the first planes to arrive and was able to navigate the medical checkpoint before most people had even entered the arrival hall.

People are relatively friendly, and feel less inclined to point out that I am a foreigner than their West African (Ghanaian) counterparts. I did not observe a significantly larger expat population in Kampala compared to Accra that might explain this difference, but perhaps a distinction in history with foreigners has resulted in this disparity. In Ghana I had to get used to being (affectionately) called “whitey” by almost every person I passed on the street. I assumed I would have to adjust to something similar in Uganda as well. Fortunately, this is not the case. Perhaps anonymity is more achievable here.

Kampala is notorious for having bad traffic. FACT. Even on a Sunday afternoon, traffic was pretty bad. This was contributed to narrow roads and exacerbated by a day of heavy rains, which had resulted in flooding and bad road conditions. Of course it does not help that there were no obvious observable road rules. Traffic lights or signs were pretty rare. There is no yielding for vehicles already in a traffic circle. Like most developing countries, vehicles go when they see space to occupy. Motorcycles use the shoulder or even the sidewalk if they want to. Crossing the road as a pedestrian seems like a Darwinian test of fate: survival of the fittest. At one point, the road had a tributary flowing across it. We had to slow down to make sure there was room in front of us to accelerate through the several feet of water without stopping to ensure water did not get sucked into the engine, which was the fate of one truck downstream, abandoned and leaning on its side – presumably propped up by the sidewalk. As we stopped, several pedestrians jumped into the back of the truck and hitched a ride across.

It is jackfruit and avocado season. Yum. Enough said.

For the next six months, I will call this country home. There is this brew of emotions bubbling up: excitement, anxiety, and curiosity all currently overpowered by the feeling of exhaustion after a 24-hour long journey. I know that there is a tonne of time to feel all of these emotions and others. Then I remember: I have been told that I will likely see giraffes en route to my project sites for work. I am like a giddy schoolgirl just thinking about it. E-X-C-I-T-E-D!