Chapter 18
For the most part, Garen and I were busy soaking up this amazing country. We didn’t want to miss anything. But there were a few incidents that reminded us how far from home we truly were.
We were taken to a Mexican restaurant in the middle of a large slum in Kampala. Best Mexican food we have ever had, by the way.
To get there you had to drive between these tall walls on both sides of the road. The walls were topped by broken glass or barbed wire. This made the streets incredibly narrow. Made even more narrow because of the deep ditches dug for drainage when it rained. Pedestrians were everywhere even though there wasn’t really any room for them to walk on the congested roads.
We turned, drove through the iron gates, and parked. We found a table in the tiny courtyard and figured out our order. As Garen and our driver were coming back outside from ordering, Timos ran. He grabbed his little backpack that he never left behind, and he ran.
My heart nearly stopped beating. I was overwhelmed by an immediate rush of terror. My legs got tangled in the chairs crowded into this tiny space. Our handler made a grab for Timos but missed him. He too was trying to get his legs free from the benches and chairs. Garen and our driver took off after Timos. I could see nothing because of the damn walls.
I was yelling for Garen, trying to find out what had happened, but it was too loud, and he couldn’t hear me. I could only see the top of Garen, and the driver’s heads and I saw them stop abruptly. Then I heard shouting, cars honking and the sounds of heavy running. That could only be soldiers. What was going on?
One thing we brought with us to Uganda was a giant bag of DumDum suckers. Timos used to stuff his little backpack full with suckers, every single day, before we headed out. Garen and I assumed it was so he would have food with him at all times, even though we rarely saw him eat one.
Driving down the dirty, crowded road Timos had seen a crowd of street kids. Being only a few days removed from them, his little heart was heavy with his own blessing. He ran to the street kids and began handing out the suckers from his backpack. Seeing this more street kids came running until there was a large mass of homeless children clogging the street in front of the restaurant.
Seeing the congestion, the soldiers came running and pointed their machine guns at Timos, since he was the one causing the problem. Garen and our driver finally got to Timos and walked him back to the restaurant between them, scolding him as they walked. What he had done was incredibly dangerous. A very unrepentant Timos sat down triumphantly at the table and ate his lunch with a spirit filled with peace.
Garen and I were incredibly overwhelmed by the generosity of this little person who was suddenly our son. That was just the first glimpse of what we came to term Timos’ Golden Heart.
A few days later we were taken to the place where we would apply for Timos’ passport. It was the most heavily guarded place we had been yet. We parked on the hard dirt, across the street, and then played a dangerous game trying to dodge cars to get to the other side. Our driver would only be able to escort us to the gate, after that we were on our own. And it was surreal. A large, hot, dusty courtyard, packed with silent people, quietly waiting. How could so very many people be so very quiet? It was a bit eerie.
We passed security and got in line. We stood in the yellow, wavy heat of the sun, sweating, thirsty, exhausted. Suddenly a soldier came and ordered us out of line. We followed him, wondering what we had done wrong. He bypassed hours’ worth of line, walked into a tent and ordered an elderly couple out of their seats. I tried to get the couple to sit back down, but they shuffled away, giving up their spot in line to the only white people in the entire throng. The soldier didn’t like that we weren’t grateful for his intervention.
My heart broke with the privilege of being white in that moment. It hurt me that people were suffering so that we could have the best comfort and convenience in an inconvenient place. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people standing shoulder to shoulder. They had been there for hours, many of them had been coming back for days. But we were prodded through in about two hours.
Part of it was that the color of our skin meant we would pay for the privilege of not waiting. Not that we were given a choice. It was pay or be sent away. And I was not leaving that place without submitting Timos’ application.
I cried on the way back to the hotel. I will never forget the faces of the couple who were forced to give up their place at the beginning of the line. The woman had on a gold and brown traditional dress. Her husband had on a blue shirt and a faded, red ball cap. They never looked us in the eyes, so I could never properly apologize. But they HAD to walk away. You just don’t disobey a soldier.
Every place we went there were two sets of prices. One for Ugandans and one for Mizungu, white people. We had to pay more for food, entrance fees, drivers, had to pay to be seen for appointments, to submit applications, everyone wanted their payout. Everyone wanted a piece of who we were. And all we were to most was white.
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