The honest amongst us line up to be processed through the X-ray. The rest just stream through customs and into the lobby. No one appears to stop them. Large posters bearing inscriptions like 'Pay your taxes, help rebuild Uganda', and 'A true Ugandan cares for his neighbour' do little to exhort the throng to higher duty. A short, African youth in his early twenties is stopping passengers apparently at random. 'Is there a bomb in there?', he asks one bearded man who shakes his head vigorously while his two sons look on. 'Very good, this way this way'. He directs him to skip the scanner and into country. No one is hurrying. There's no point. This is the dance of Uganda, and no amount of hurrying will get you anywhere any faster. You must just keep the tempo. We dance our way from the luggage retrieval and hand our passes to a middle-aged woman with short-braided hair.
Without warning the lights blink out and the scanner stops. Everything is in pitch darkness, but there no public dismay like you might expect back home. The chatter of incoming pasengers continues. Families continue to embrace their loved ones. People continue to push their way past customs, without so much as an acknowledgement of the officials. It was as if nothing had happened. Evidently power cuts aren't that unusual, even in the sole international airport of the country. The dance continues as if led by a drummer not dependant on electricity or procedure or any of the traditional beat keepers of the West. Just as suddenly the lights flick on again. Eventually the man taps Pete on the shoulder, 'What's in there?'. 'Medical supplies. For Kibale hospital'. Inpatiently he gestures us to the declaration desk and moves on down the line of incomers. A similarly disinterested woman asks a few questions. Where are they for again? And for what? She doesn't open the box but directs us straight through the main gates.
We step through the gates and into the country.
No comments:
Post a Comment