In the morning, trusty Ally was waiting for us to get off the ferry with his taxi.  We had texted him earlier, asking him to join us for breakfast before we headed off to the bus station.  He also had made our bus reservations for us.

At Chefs Pride, Ally ended up treating us to breakfast, despite us trying to pay for his.  (This man can be more stubborn than Lauren – impressive.)  He then drove us to the bus station where we were catching a bus to Arusha for a night stopover before our trip to Kampala.

One sad thing to report: at the bus station, while we were getting our bags out of the car, a thief stole Ally’s mobile phones!  We were so busy keeping an eye on our stuff, we didn’t see them steal his… 

We said goodbye to Ally and had an uneventful bus ride to Arusha.  When we got there, we checked back into Backpackers Hostel and headed to the real draw: one more dinner at Khan’s Barbeque (the mechanic’s joint). 

The next morning, we headed over to Scandinavia Bus, booked our tickets for Kampala, leaving later that afternoon.  We quickly ran errands, getting U.S. dollars for our visas, and made it to the bus station with plenty of time to wait for the bus (late, as always).

(Lauren: As we were waiting for the bus, Beth and I read the paper. We were dismayed to first see a story about a bad accident between a matatu and a truck that killed 15 people. Reading on, we found another story about corruption in the Kenyan Land and Roads committee. Apparently, millions of dollars had disappeared from a fund that was meant to pave roads throughout the country, and officials were being investigated. With this knowledge, we boarded our bus.)

The drive from Arusha to Nairobi was beautiful.  Empty, lush mountains and green fields.  And the sure sign of Africa: a cell phone tower on distant mountains.

We arrived in Nairobi around 10:30pm at night and after some confusion, we learned we would have to change buses.  We were a bit uneasy about hanging around Nairobi after sundown, but the bus finally showed up, and we left for Kampala around midnight.

About an hour and a half outside of the city, the road started getting a little bad.  The bus started bumping up and down like we were riding over gravel – very large, uneven gravel.  I was impressed that Lauren seemed to be sleeping through the bus shaking, and closed my eyes, hoping it would end soon.

It didn’t.  Over the next 5 hours, Lauren and I were bumped so hard that we had to put on our seatbelts not to be knocked out of our seats.  A suitcase fell from the overhead compartment and hit Lauren on the head.  The bus driver sped through potholes that were the size of craters.  I couldn’t believe this was the road between the capital of two major countries, and I also couldn’t believe that a bus this size would be allowed to drive down such dangerous roads.

(Lauren: I kept going back to the articles we had read – no money for the roads and fatal accidents. Also jostling around my head with each bone-crunching, breath-taking blow were the gruesome stories we had heard back in Dar from Frank and Latifa about a bus they had hit, all the people who had died, and the lax reaction from the police (and the absence of any ambulances). I started thinking through escape routes if the bus went over and we had to get out.)

 ‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘We have taken our lives into our own hands.’

Lauren and I alternated between hanging on and trying to will ourselves to sleep so we could ignore what was happening around us.

Finally, in the morning, we arrived at the border of Uganda.  Immigration was easy although we had to walk the mile between the Kenyan and Ugandan checkpoints.  The Ugandan immigration officer was unbelievably nice. Though we had only planned to stay for about a week, he said, “I will give you a month. You will love it and stay. Everyone who comes loves it, so why not you?”

Almost immediately upon crossing the border, the landscape seemed changed.  Uganda is much greener, with more trees and foliage.

On the Uganda side, the roads were mad from red dirt.  We wouldn’t see pavement for nearly three hours – until we were nearly to the capital.  But these roads were preferable: although we were covered in red dust when we arrived, the roads were much smoother.  And we spotted a first for us in Africa: a construction crew working on the roads.

Despite the roads being smoother, though, the now low-grade bumping was still constant.  And I hadn’t gone to the bathroom since we left Arusha, more than 16 hours ago.  I wasn’t sure I would make it all the way to Kampala.

We finally made what seemed to be a longer stop, and a British girl and I asked the driver if we could go use the bathroom.  (Many guys, as per usual, stepped off the bus and were going on the side of the road, but she and I had spotted a petrol station that we thought might have a toilet.)  He said yes, and we hurried off.

I was still going when I heard the bus honk its horn.  I quickly tried to button up, and when I ran out of the bathroom, the bus wasn’t where it was before.  I took off running as fast as I could, spotting the British girl running ahead of me, and the bus 200 feet down the road.

When we got on, the bus driver looked peeved at us, but we were annoyed too.  Hadn’t we asked him if we could go?  Didn’t he realize we hadn’t gotten back on?

(Lauren: He had, because the British girl’s boyfriend and I went running down the isles, screaming for him to stop. All the people on the bus took up for us, and also yelled for him to wait. He stopped, reluctantly, still rolling at about 1 mile per hour once we “stopped.”)

We arrived in Kampala a few hours later, and the Brits used our cell to call their friend who was meeting them at the bus station.  According to the Lonely Planet we had, a Barclay’s bank was just two blocks away.  The Brits offered to watch our bags for us while we ran to the bank to get some shillings.

We started walking in the direction of the bank.  After three blocks, we started realizing that we weren’t where we thought we were.  It was also boiling hot outside.  A Ugandan man offered to help us, and Lauren and I looked at each other skeptically – an offer to help usually ended with someone wanting money.

We relented though and asked if he knew where Barclary’s was.  After talking with our friends, he started giving us instructions that were pretty complicated.  Then he stopped another man on the street and asked him where he was heading.  That man agreed to walk us there.  It was on the way to where he was going. 

The man taught us how to cross the street in Kampala – walking in groups, to try to intimidate the cars into stopping.  From that moment on, Lauren and I would start looking for Ugandans who were crossing the street and just follow them. Lauren also saw a beer sign, and asked him about it. “Oh, yes, Bell is a Ugandan beer. You should also try Nile and Club, they are good, too.”

Five minutes later, the man pointed out Barclays to us and walked away, asking for nothing in return. 

We headed to the ATM, only to discover it didn’t take MasterCard.  Asking around inside the bank, we were told to go downstairs. 

When we got there, we discovered a line where MasterCard transactions were accepted.  We waited in line for our turn.  When we got to the counter, though, the teller informed us that there would be a 50,000 Ugandan Shilling service charge!  That’s a $30 ATM fee!

Lauren and I were shocked and we stepped away.  Could we figure out a cheaper way to do this?  Use Traveler’s Checks?  Exchange US money?

By this point, we also started to worry about our bags.  It had been more than half an hour since we had left them with the Brits, and despite calling and texting their friend (whose number we had, since they used our phone to call her), they hadn’t responded.  Lauren and I were panicking that we had been foolish to leave the bags with them.

We decided to split up: Lauren would go back for the bags and I would wait in another long line to exchange our Tanzanian Shillings into Uganda Shillings.

After waiting for 15 minutes in the Foreign Exchange line, I was told that Barclay’s doesn’t take Tanzanian Shilling for exchange.  (How can this be?  The countries actually share a border!)

I went outside, quickly found another change bureau that did take Tanzanian Shillings, and headed back to the bus station.

Lauren should have gotten there by then, but still, there was no call or text message. 

‘That’s it,’ I told myself.  ‘The bags are gone.  What have I lost of importance?  One credit card was in there, my Traveler’s Check receipts…  At least I have my Leatherman on me…’

I finally arrived at the bus station, sweating and out of breath.  Lauren waved to me.  The bags were there, the Brits were there and their friend was there too.

Lauren and I decided to go check into a hostel just outside of town and to figure out the rest of the money situation the next day.  We said goodbye to the Brits and headed out.

When we were checking into the hostel, Lauren noticed that the guy who had signed in before us was from Madison, Wisconsin. “I have to find this guy,” she said.