CHAPTER
1
Martin Fine was pumped. The big payoff, Mother Africa, was just below, so close he could taste it. From 20,000 feet it didn’t look like much, a vast brown carpet with intermittent splotches of green, not unlike the one he had slept on in London the night before. The jet banked gently, and a large expanse of blue appeared under the right wingtip—the fabled Lake Victoria. “Well, it took me almost as long as Burton and Speke,” he thought ruefully.
From the moment he’d first been exposed to African history, he had been completely infatuated. He’d read everything he could lay his hands on about the Dark Continent. He wondered if it would live up to all his dreams. After all, wasn’t it custom for young men of good families to be sent to the colonies to make their fortunes? Particularly, if their previous careers had been as checkered as his; somehow, those hippie, drug dealing days in Philadelphia seemed far removed, an earlier incarnation. Not that far, he arched his back off the seat and readjusted the bulging money belt around his waist. It was an ever present reminder of his links to the past and his hopes for the future.
He slugged down the rest of his bloody Mary and headed back to the bathroom for one last check on his grubstake. That familiar adrenalin rush was hitting his gut.
The eyes of the other passengers seemed to burn through his back; he hoped he didn’t look as paranoid as he felt. It was all there, $25,000 in crisp hundreds. Forcing the paranoia down, he washed the slimy sheen of perspiration off his forehead.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be making our final approach into Entebbe. At this time, the captain requests that you kindly fasten your seat belts and refrain from further smoking until you have entered the terminal.”
The professionally plastic tones of the stewardess jolted him out of his funk. He checked the documents in his briefcase. Passport with visa, vaccination certificates, and letter of acceptance from the university were all in order. As was the dash aka bribe money. Cash the developing world’s miracle drug, an instant cure for all bureaucratic illnesses.
The plane shuddered as the flaps whined out. They were coming in directly over the lake. Craning his neck, Martin could make out fishermen in dugouts setting their nets.
A few battered DC3s and a Caribou bearing the markings of the Ugandan air force squatted on either side of the runway. The new terminal, just completed by the Israeli Government was an appropriately futuristic concrete and smoked glass structure. A distinct improvement if the air conditioning worked to its predecessor, a corrugated iron sweat box of unmistakably colonial origins, that stood forlornly next door.
The dry heat seared his lungs, which were more accustomed to the moldy, dank air of Philadelphia or London, as he deplaned, but there was just enough breeze coming off of the water to keep things bearable. The terminal looked sleepy. From the vigor with which the porters roused themselves and hustled the passengers for their luggage, there couldn’t be much action on tap for the rest of the day.
For all its shiny newness the building still had that same pungent aroma of rotting vegetation mixed with vague hints of body odor, so familiar to Martin from the Caribbean. In fact, his hangover was contributing to a bad case of déjà-vu; the only thing missing was the free rum drink stand. Maybe he could sample some of the local brew on his way into town, but first business—immigrations.
Instinctively, he made for the youngest looking officer. He would have liked to have had time to size them all up before making his choice, but there was no line.
Experience had taught him that any sign of hesitation was always fatal when dealing with officialdom, so he walked confidently over.
“Good day, sah, welcome to Uganda. What is the purpose of your visit?” The young official gave him a pleasant smile as he flipped through his passport.
“Kwaheri, I’m going to be taking some courses at Makerere. My visa’s in the passport.”
“I see this is your first time in our country. I hope you enjoy your visit. I am going to give you six months. If you need more time to complete your studies, you will have no trouble getting an extension in Kampala.”
“I’m sure I will enjoy my stay. Can you tell me the best way to get into town?”
“Yes, Rafiki, there are cabs outside, but do not pay more than twenty-five shillingi. The best hotel is the International.”
“A senti-sana.”
That was easier than he’d thought it would be, right down to his few words of Swahili. Hello, friend, and Thank you, roughly a third of the words he’d memorized on the flight over. People generally liked to be addressed in their own language, even if it was only Hello. His pulse was rocketing as he pointed out his bags to the porter. Scanning the line, he selected a roly-poly, jovial sort of inspector.
“Hello, sah.” The moon-faced customs officer surveyed his luggage. “Two suitcases and a typewriter. You must be planning to visit us for a while. Any firearms, alcohol or cigarettes?”
“Just a studenti at Makerere. No guns, you already had one coup this year. I hope there’s not going to be another or my parents will be worried. I have one carton of cigarettes and no spirits. Is there some place I can get a beer before I catch a cab into town?”
If the customs man took offence at his maladroit humor he didn’t seem to notice, Martin kicked himself, stupid to be a wise ass when one didn’t know the lay of the land so to speak.
“Yes, sah, on your right as you leave the customs hall. May I suggest a Nile? It is the best of our local beers.” He chalked Martin’s bags with a flourish and waved him toward the door.
Relief washed over him as he walked over to the grimy bar. Piece of cake, the people were loose and the omens seemed good. A few beers for the ride and a little useful information from the cab driver and things would be off to a good start.
A predatory looking specimen pounced on him the minute he walked out of the terminal.
“Taxi to Kampala?” He gestured toward a dented Peugeot.
Martin sized up his opponent. “Maybe. How much to the International?”
“For you a special price, fifty shillingi.” He oozed.
“You suck his blood.” An indignant female voice chimed in from Martin’s rear. “It should be no more than half of that price, even for a Mzungu.”
Martin turned toward his rescuer. She was tiny and as beautiful as she was indignant. Her skin was the blackest he’d ever seen—almost eggplant purple. Surprisingly, her features were finely chiseled, distinctly Egyptian or at least the Hollywood interpretation of same. She let him admire her for a minute before giving him an impish smile.
“Is there something wrong with you, mzungu? You look at me like I am the first black person that you have ever seen. Or is it just that I am beautiful?”
He was groping for an answer when a commotion in the parking lot opposite the terminal caught his eye. “What’s going on over there?” He gestured at a shabbily clad figure who was dodging among the rows of parked vehicles.
She made no answer as Martin craned his neck for a clearer look at the action. Two policemen were relentlessly gaining on their quarry. He was obviously a beggar, a teenager with a ratty burlap sack clutched in one of his desperately pumping arms. Martin wondered why he didn’t drop the awkward burden. His gasping sobs were painfully audible as he drew nearer to them. Martin’s glance was riveted on the boy’s bugged-out, terrorized eyes.
The sharp crack of a pistol and the dull chunk of the bullet hitting the boy were almost simultaneous punctuated by an agonized grunt as he collapsed in a shapeless heap on the pavement not fifteen feet from them.
Holy shit, Martin thought, I can’t believe this is happening right in front of me. He glanced around; the whole scene was frozen in a silent tableau. Then two policemen arrived and commenced a panting argument. The African girl groaned and melted into the crowd. Martin was in too much shock to do more than register her departure. He’d never seen anybody shot before. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the grim scene. The boy was still alive his body twitched and he uttered slight groans from time to time. Martin found himself mesmerized by the intricate scarlet patterns the blood was etching into the pavement.
A shiny Mercedes screeched to a halt opposite the body a few seconds later, snapping Martin out of his trance. A squat African and a thin, dapper white with rigid military bearing climbed out and glanced at the body.
The African smoothly un-holstered an automatic and without a word casually shot the beggar in the back of the head. There was an explosion of scarlet and green. The gunman mournfully regarded the stains on his starched khakis and shook his head with distaste.
The white laughed and barked some orders in Swahili. His partner pried the bag out of the boy’s limp fingers and deferentially handed it over. He shouted more orders at the uniformed policemen who opened the trunk and unceremoniously crammed the body in, leaving the legs dangling over the bumper. At a curt hand signal from the white, they climbed into the car and drove off without a glance at the crowd.
Martin’s leg felt damp and he glanced down at his feet. A scarlet tinged, gray-green piece of brain was dangling obscenely from his sock just above the shoe line. Bile rose in his throat and his head swam. Concentrating on breathing deeply, he managed to swallow the lump down. He glanced at his watch, from start to finish; the whole grim scene had taken less than a quarter of an hour to unfold.
When the Mercedes was out of sight, the white tore open the sack and emptied its contents onto the bloody tarmac. A balled up wad of clothing, a pistol, and a large manila envelope fell out. He bent over and picked up the pistol and envelope. As he rose their eyes met momentarily. Martin thought he detected a sudden glint of recognition in them, and shuddered inwardly. They were the coldest eyes he’d ever seen: they were beyond evil, completely impersonal, as if the man was inspecting a pile of junk at a rummage sale.
Martin sensed that he was going to cross paths with this one again and it wasn’t a comforting thought. He shrugged it off as the white rose, contemptuously kicked the clothes into the gutter, and strode briskly off in the direction the car had gone.
Martin was all in favor of street theater, but that had been a little too intense for even his jaded tastes. This was definitely not going to be a drinks with cute tropical decorations kind of place. He wondered where the African girl had gotten too. He’d been on the point of asking her to have dinner with him. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. The locals had resumed their business as though nothing had happened.
The taxi driver smiled. “Kondo amekwisha, saua-saua.”
Martin had no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t really care either. Further Swahili lessons could wait until he found a local instructor, preferably female and attractive. In the meantime, he needed to get to a hotel, shower, and regroup.
“How much for a poor studenti?”
“For a lucky mzungu a bargain, thirty five shilingi.” “Thirty with a little tour around town.”
“You take the food from my children’s mouths, but a man must work.” He grunted and none too gently lobbed Martin’s bags into the trunk.
Score one for the opposition. The dialogue was straight out of the movies, but so was what he’d just witnessed. He sipped on an ice cold Nile as they pulled out of the parking lot onto an excellent tarmac road. The open savannah around the lake quickly gave way to cultivated farmland, interspersed with clusters of mud and thatch huts. There were bunches of green bananas alongside the road; matoke, the staple crop, he assumed. The clay-red soil looked as though anything would grow in it.
“First time in Uganda, sah?”
“Yes, it looks like pretty country.”
The light, hoppy Nile slid easily down Martin’s throat as the scenery became increasingly urban. He was just beginning to come down from the airport adrenalin rush. An almost post-coital calm settled over him. The driver kept up a running commentary on points of interest as they approached Kampala. At first glance, it looked like an attractive, small-sized American city. A handful of skyscrapers intermingled with the colonial bungalows that sprawled gracefully over the gently rolling hills. The rambling shantytowns on the outskirts of town were cleaner than he had expected.
“We are coming into the center of Kampala now.” The driver gestured toward a large complex of concrete sheds, surrounded by a rusty corrugated iron fence. “That is Nakasero market; you can get anything you want there.”
“Is that the main market?”
“For food and household goods. We are turning on to Nile Avenue now; this is where the expensive, touristi stores are.”
They drove for several blocks down the broad, tree-lined street. It was dotted with pricey-looking boutiques. Most of them appeared to be owned by Indians. The sidewalks were full and the storefronts revealed a variety of goods that would be of little use to the average Ugandan. They turned onto a road that meandered past luxurious bungalows with well manicured gardens.
“This is Kulolo, where most of the mzungus live. The International is just ahead.” The driver pointed to a modern steel and glass high-rise a few blocks ahead. It looked like a nice neighborhood, but not the kind Martin figured on passing much time in during his stay. He hadn’t come this far to eat hamburgers from the commissary and bitch about the servants. A few minutes later, they drove up a steep driveway to the main entrance of the hotel.
The International didn’t have a particularly African flavor. Apart from the black faces, it was your basic Hilton Intercontinental. Why did they always look like American milk cartons? At least the beer would be cold and the towels clean. As he checked in, Martin was amazed to see that it was only noon, time for a quick nap before he started to explore town. His double room in the back of the hotel overlooked a magnificent swimming pool. He unpacked, left an alarm call, and collapsed.
“Good afternoon, sah, it is one thirty.”
God, it felt like he’d only been asleep for minutes. Nothing a quick dip wouldn’t cure. The pool was quiet, but so was everything else about the hotel. Late September obviously wasn’t the height of the tourist season. The water was as invitingly cool as it had looked from his balcony. Martin felt the travel haze clearing away as he swam a few lazy laps. The pool attendant looked forlorn, so he ordered a beer. Stretching out on a deck chair, he let the sun bake out the last vestiges of his hangover. It was blisteringly hot; the taxi had passed over a black line marking the equator on the drive in from Entebbe.
“Excuse me, sah; you are starting to get red. The sun here is very strong if you are not used to it.”
Martin’s legs and arms felt scorched. “Just in time,” he thought, thanking the attendant. He decided to dress and head into town. After changing some money at the caisse, he set off down the hill in the direction of Nile Avenue.
The people seemed happy as they bustled about their business. Martin, expecting a heavy military presence so soon after the coup, was surprised by how few soldiers he saw. No shortage of deformed beggars, though. He made a mental note to select and cultivate a few. They usually turned out to be excellent sources of information. Because of their deformities, most people considered them subhuman. Consequently, they often said things in front of them that they would never dream of mentioning in front of “normal” people. Of course, one had to be selective. There wasn’t enough money in Fort Knox to take care of the Third World’s needs.
A few minutes of browsing on Nile Avenue confirmed his impressions from the cab ride. Though the shops were well stocked, there was virtually nothing in them of any interest to non-tourists. He noticed that the Indian shopkeepers were starting to close up. Belatedly, he remembered that Uganda kept Muslim hours and businesses closed by three. Just as well, he thought: the heat was sauna-like and he needed a beer to rehydrate. Scanning the street, his eyes fastened on a shiny, copper door with the magic word “bar” on it looked like as good a place as any to start. He strolled up to the large colonial gingerbread structure, which turned out to be the Grand Hotel.
It was like a refrigerator inside the bar. Martin slipped off his shades and let his eyes get accustomed to the soothing darkness. He grabbed a vacant seat and ordered a beer, and looked around. The vibes were good. A mixed crowd of expats and locals were shouting to make themselves heard over a thumping juke box. Judging from the number of Ugandan ladies sprinkled through the crowd, fraternizing with the locals was tolerated. He was in no doubt that it would improve his Swahili quicker than classes at the university ever would. There were also a few obvious police types sprinkled around; why else would you wear sunglasses inside.
Since the Ton Ton Macoutes, it was the official uniform of the security classes; at least they were easy to spot.
“Excuse me, can you tell me if there is something caught in my right eye?”
Twirling on his stool, he saw his neighbor regarding him with a good natured grin. He was a heavyset fellow of average height. His close cropped, blond hair and lightly accented English lent him a vaguely Germanic air. Intriguingly, his eyes were of different colors, one gold one blue. Martin wondered which was real.
“Your English is better than your color coordination.” “Yours is not so bad for an American either. Have a drink?” “Sure, a Nile. You German?”
“Jah, Stefan Schmidt at your service.”
“Martin Fine. This looks like a pleasant spot.” “Kampala’s international listening post. Just arrived?” “Flew in this morning, just exploring town.”
“You picked the right place to start. Permit me to introduce my partner in crime, Anton Springer.”
“Hey, Anton, hope he meant that literally.”
“No, man, strictly metaphysically,” Anton was a familiar sort, a tall, thin black dude in an elaborately embroidered dashiki. His English had an American bite. The inflection was streetwise, but there was something strange about it; as though he’d either not been back in a while or laboriously learned it from the movies. “Are you passing through or staying, Martin?”
“I’ll be around for the next six months taking courses at Makerere. I hope to get in some traveling while I’m over here, too. People have told me that there are lots of things worth checking out over here. You all?”
“We live here,” Stefan replied. “I work for a German engineering firm, and Anton does lots of different things around town.”
“Let me buy you all a drink. You can probably give me some good tips. I thought things would be a lot more uptight after the recent coup. Is it as mellow around town as it seems?”
“Not really. This place is an equatorial iceberg; everything important goes on beneath the surface. You’ll be OK if you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open for the first few weeks.” Anton answered in a paternal tone.
Martin almost expected him to make the sign of the cross over him.
“Moving right along, how’s the nightlife in these parts, guys?” Stefan laughed. “I can see that you have your priorities in order. It is more plentiful and amusing than you would think. Anton and I are planning on making our usual Friday rounds later on tonight. Would you like to join us?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day. I’m staying at the International.
Where and when do you want to meet?”
“In the bar there about seven.” Anton signaled for his tab. “See you then.”
Quite a pair, they might even might turn out to be useful sorts to know. He didn’t believe in coincidences, only karma, and his was running well these days, so he decided to check out the market on his way back to the hotel. It was still brilliantly hot when he emerged from the copper bar. Things took on a more distinctly African flavor as he turned down Liberation Avenue, the Third World equivalent of Elm Street. Garish signs proclaimed “world’s best doctor of watches” and “clothes surgeon.” The street teemed with hawkers selling everything from cigarettes to roasted matoke and pungent mystery meat on skewers.
The market was still in high gear, judging from the brightly dressed hordes milling in and out of its massive iron gates. Inside a collage of colors, scents, and sounds enveloped him. Buxom market mamas stood behind makeshift wooden stalls, heaped with fruits and vegetables, and cheerfully insulted each other as they vied for business. The constant background din of cheap transistors blaring Congolaise African pop music was punctuated by the shouts of hawkers. The stench of rotting food mixed with body odor was overpowering. Little children and scabberous dogs darted everywhere, foraging for edible scraps.
As he walked down the densely packed rows of stalls, Martin quickly picked up an entourage of youngsters. They were all touching and entreating him to let them get Bwanakuba the best deal possible. He ignored them, knowing they would lose interest after a while. Judging from the amount and variety of goods displayed and the large wads of currency changing hands, there weren’t any problems with the local economy. The center aisle seemed to run forever, offering everything from love potions to fake diplomas from major British universities.
After an interminable walk, Martin approached the end of it. His nose told him that he was nearing the meat section. The feral odors of rotting flesh and fresh blood made his head swim. Whole sides of beef were being butchered none too subtly. Not the place for filet mignon. He was fascinated by the efficient disposal system. Marabou storks, large ungainly things that looked like a cross between normal storks and pelicans, devoured the larger scraps and African purebreds gobbled up what was left.
Enough atmosphere for today, he thought as he struggled back to the main entrance and flagged a cab. The canned air of the hotel was a pleasant change from the fetid stench of the market. On his way upstairs, he stopped in the bar for a beer to wash the taste of it out of his mouth.
As he sat down, two Africans in shiny, black safari suits slid into the seats on either side of him. Again the Ton Ton mirror shades they were almost a self parody, but dangerous for all that.
“Hello, you are American?” The taller of the two enquired politely. Beanpole thin, his sharp, angular features and protruding forehead gave him a menacing air that was not entirely dispelled by his smooth approach.
“Yeah, the last time I looked. You must be Ugandan.” Martin caught himself and eased up. Being hostile wasn’t a constructive policy, especially when he was still wearing his money belt with its damning contents. He felt like a naughty little boy in the headmaster’s office. He knew exactly what he was going to hear and wasn’t the slightest bit interested, but he had to play the game, anyway. “I’m here to take some courses at Makerere. You have a beautiful country and I am looking forward to my stay here.”
His questioner seemed unperturbed by his petulance. That is good.
What are you studying?” he continued evenly.
“African history. I’m very interested in the ancient history of the Baganda and Toro. Can I buy you all a beer?”
“Asenti, Makerere is a very good school for studying such things.”
“You are not interested in modern history at all?” the shorter interjected. His face seemed familiar, but Martin couldn’t place it.
“Not really. I know what goes on generally from reading the papers in London, where I studied last year.”
“What did they say about recent events?”
The old hard guy, soft guy routine; these people must read the same spy books that he did. Martin sipped on his beer and gathered his thoughts. He realized that he had to handle this carefully.
It was a real pain in the butt to have to play childish word games with these clowns. The only problem was that in spite of their buffoonish exteriors, they emanated extremely nasty vibes and the last thing he wanted to do at this stage of the game was arouse any official interest.
They didn’t have a lot to say. They seemed favorable enough, if not wildly enthusiastic. Not much is known about General Amin. I must say, from what I’ve seen in the short time I’ve been here, the people seem happy with the change.”
“The General is a great man. He will be good for our country,” the taller volunteered.
It was a tough line to follow. Martin figured it was as good a time as any to take a powder. His shirt was sodden, delayed travel fatigue and the beers he’d consumed were taking their toll. He’d given enough correct answers to satisfy them for the time being. “I’m sure he will. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ve had a long day walking around your beautiful city. I am going upstairs for a shower. It’s been nice talking.”
The tall one flipped open his wallet, flashing a card with General Services Unit emblazoned on it “I am Harry Usongo. If there is anything you heed during your stay, please give me a call. Our number is listed.” The short one grunted noncommittally in Martin’s direction and they departed.
While he was waiting for the elevator, a handsome African, nattily attired in a blue blazer with a plastic name card, winked conspiratorially at him.”Hi, I’m Joe Kaberinge, beverage and catering manager here at the hotel. I just wanted to tell you that you handled them well. They hassle everybody who’s not a normal tourist. I am sorry it had to happen. If you feel like it later, join me upstairs in the Leopard’s Lair for a night cap.”
Martin thanked him and entered the lift. He took a long shower and flicked on the TV as he toweled off. Amin was giving a chest- thumping harangue against loose sexual mores to a bemused bunch of school girls in the Toro district. He appeared to be a friendly, avuncular type, but there was a subtle, calculated menace behind his jovial facade that disquieted Martin. Maybe it was his constantly darting, porcine eyes.
It was quarter to seven by the time he got down to the bar. He was relieved to see that the Mutt and Jeff G.S.U. team, evidently satisfied with their conversation, had not returned. Ordering a Nile, he watched the pretty waitresses set up for the evening shift. Stefan and Anton arrived a few minutes later.
“Hello, Martin, discover anything interesting on your travels around town this afternoon?”
“Just the market, Stefan. It was about what I expected. I did have a chat with two of the General’s personal representatives when I got back to the hotel, though.”
“G.S.U.?” Anton whispered.
The same. Their technique was none too subtle, but on to cheerier subjects. What’s on for my first night in Kampala?”
“How about dinner and some in depth research into local sexual mores? That ought to appeal to your academic bent. What kind of food do you like?”
“How about some curry? They’re enough Indians around these parts; there must be some decent restaurants.”
“I know just the place; Sinbad’s out at Bat Valley.
The best curry in town, combined with an incomparable natural spectacle,” Anton replied in his best tour director’s manner.
Martin paid for the drinks, and they climbed into Stefan’s battered Renault and roared off. Stefan’s driving style was not for the faint of heart, but it seemed admirably suited to local conditions. He laughed as Martin subconsciously tightened his grip on the arm rest. “I see you like my driving. Actually, my style evolved after a very scientific study of local conditions. You have to drive offensively over here to survive. If I drove like normally would in Europe, I would be terrified all of the time. I thought you might find it a little disconcerting, so I took the liberty of having Anton prepare a small religious ceremony to speed the acclimation process.”
Anton reached over the seat and handed him a man-sized Joint. Wonderful, these guys were looking more and more like his types. Martin toked on the joint and handed it up to Stefan. “OK I’ll bite.
Why’s it called Bat Valley?”
“I was hoping you would get around to that,” he exhaled with a smile. “Oddly enough, it is because of the thousands of fruit bats that live there. During the day, they hang on the trees like pods of fruit, but at night, they fly off to Feed — quite an impressive sight. Sometimes, they seem to blacken the light from the sun.”
Martin sat back and let the reefer go to work. It was as good as he’d expected. He felt its warmth enveloping his senses in that familiar, warm blanket. This was the life, no doubt about it. They were headed out of town on a smooth tarmac road. The surrounding country was lush. Groves of banana and its sister plant, matoke, covered the rolling green hills. The villages looked prosperous. It was dinner time and the cooking pots were going everywhere. Stefan conducted a running monologue on the charms of African women, many of whom were unabashedly taking their evening bucket baths beside the road. Every once in a while, inspired by a particularly noteworthy specimen, he would honk his horn and yell, “Look at those filet steaks, five pounds no bones.”
Far from being embarrassed, the ladies laughed at his attentions and made no attempt to cover themselves. “Now, I know I’m going to love this place.”
“You will find the mpenzis—that is the Swahili for ‘attractive girl’—very accommodating here,” Stefan said. “Things are much looser and enlightened.”
Anton theatrically cleared his throat. “If you two can tear your eyes off the country’s more abundant natural charms for a second, Bat Valley is coming up on the right.”
It didn’t look that exotic at first glance, more of a depression than a valley. A cluster of non-descript concrete buildings at one end hunkered up against the low-slung hills. Tall trees dotted the landscape. As they got closer, Martin could see that their branches were festooned with black pods. Judging from the rapidly descending sun, they weren’t going to have to wait too long to see the nightly show. Stefan rattled to a halt in front of one of the buildings, which had a weathered, wooden sign depicting a pirate. The minute they got out of the car, the smell told Martin they had come to the right place.
Anton snapped his fingers and gestured excitedly at the nearest tree. “Look at that, man. You’re right on time as usual, Stefan.”
Suddenly it was raining bats. The pods dropped slowly at first, opening magically before they hit the ground. Within minutes they were dropping so fast that it was difficult to see the last rays of the sun through them. The whole spectacle was over in a quarter of an hour, leaving the denuded trees looking starkly forlorn against the crimson afterglow of the sunset.
Martin was blown out by the fact that the natural spectacle was taking place so close to the urban sprawl of Kampala. “Wow, that’s a tough act to follow. Does it happen every night?”
“Always and forever,” Anton intoned as he ushered them inside.
They were given a table directly in front of the large picture window which overlooked the valley. Stefan waved off the menu. “How about sambosas, a vindaloo, and some chapattis?”
“Add some daal and you’ve got a deal. I spent a lot of time in London and ate a lot of Indian food.”
“Really? So did I. I went to school there for five years just after the war. That is where I learned my English. Ah, here are the sambosas. You may have had these in England, but I doubt that you know that they originated in East Africa.”
The sambosas, triangular pastries filled with curried meat and vegetables, were incendiary and delicious. Stefan explained that the English had originally imported the Indians during colonial times to build the railroad to the coast. They had stayed on to become the shop keeping class. Over the years, they had evolved their own local variations of classic Indian dishes.
The vindaloo that followed was equally good. Martin pushed back from the table and lit a cigarette to extinguish the fires. “That vindaloo was magical, Stefan, and I’m not going to spoil it by asking what kind of meat was in it. I’m ready for anything now, what’s next?”
Anton glanced at his watch. “Too early for the big S.
Shall we try the Gardenia? That’s always an excellent orientation point for newcomers,” he added with a smirk.
“Jah, maybe the Fairway, too, that is another good place to get one’s feet wet. We will save the Appetite Afrique and the Kampala Breast House for later. We do not want him to have a traumatic experience on the first night do we?”
“No he needs at least a week of seasoning before we hit those joints.”
“I take it that you all are referring to establishments around town that cater to a man’s every need?”
“You got it, broy Mpenzis to make the world go round. Sussana, otherwise known as the big S is the best spot. The other places are usually not that interesting, unless you’ve been on a desert island for a long time. The Gardenia and Fairway are worth a short visit for a few laughs on the hornier members of the expat community, though, if some of their wives only knew.”
The Gardenia was a two-storied, beige stucco structure with the standard corrugated iron roof. It had a pair of peeling, green lattice work, swinging doors straight from Dodge City in its heyday. A babble of voices, intermixed with snatches of James Brown’s “Can’t get Enough of That Funky Stuff,” assaulted them as they walked into the smoky, flyblown room. The first thing that caught Martin’s eye was an ornate wrought-iron staircase which descended gracefully from the second floor. Ladies were draped along its banister like mannequins or sides of beef, depending on your point of view. Pink and blue light from neon bulbs along the splotchy walls cast a surreal glow on the frenzied scene below.
“This place certainly doesn’t lack for local color,” Martin bellowed over the din. “What’s drinkable, only what they open in front of you?”
“Even then be sure it fizzes. The mpenzis here are a little on the brassy side, if your tastes are so inclined.” Stefan shouted.
He wasn’t kidding. Most of them would have been at home in the sleaziest topless bar in Soho or Times Square. They were teenaged for the most part which wasn’t surprising. He remembered reading somewhere that most African women were mothers by the time they were fifteen. They certainly seemed attractive enough to the highly inebriated crowd of expats, who were milling about in frenzy. The whole scene reminded him of a tea dance at a horny boy’s prep school, only the stakes were higher.
“See that guy in the blue safari suit over there?” Anton gestured to a corner by the juke box. “He’s the top surgeon at Mulago, the big hospital in town.”
Martin glanced over and saw the diminutive African drooling down the buxom cleavage of a blonde-wigged mpenzi. His hands were kneading her abundant rump in a most unprofessional fashion. He made a mental note to get up and leave the hospital if he ever had to be treated by the guy.
Sipping on his beer, he fended off the good natured advances of several ladies. They weren’t pushing the point, but the scene was getting boring. He was relieved when Stefan reappeared and suggested going to Sussana.”
The ride over took about twenty minutes. Sussana was on the outskirts of town. Martin didn’t know in which direction, but after Anton lit another joint he didn’t really care. The large Quonset building resembled a warehouse from the outside. Only the huge parking lot and a blinking sign of pink and green bulbs gave any indication that it was a nightclub.
The first thing that caught his eye, as they passed through the turnstiles into the cavernous room, was the huge stage at the other end. A sixteen piece show band, complete with dancing girls, was performing “Hold on I’m Coming”. Huge potted palms were dotted among the tables that surrounded the vast dance floor. Though there were few dancers at this early hour, the tables were full. The bar that ran the length of the wall by the Entrance was also three deep. It was so dark that it was hard to make out what kind of crowd it was. Only intermittent flashes from the rudimentary light show kept Martin from stumbling into the furniture. Stefan somehow produced a table out of thin air and a waiter to take their order.
“Hot enough in here for, you? Do not worry, if you don’t see something that interests you soon we will depart for the Leopard’s Lair. It tends to be less crowded, especially when the hotel is quiet.”
“That would suit me. I met the catering manager, Joe Kaberinge, this afternoon and he invited me up for a nightcap. At least I’ll know my way home.”
“He’s a nice dude. One word of advice about the Lair, Bro. Lots of government types hang out there in civvies. It’s not a good place for loose talk but it’s an excellent one for making useful contacts.”
It didn’t take long for Martin to figure out that Sussana was a place to bring dates not find them. He signaled Gel-hard and they left. From the look of the crowd in the lift riding up to the penthouse, the Lair appealed to the more upscale segment of Kampala society. It was a beautiful duplex room, with floor to ceiling windows that offered a magnificent view of the city at night. A balcony with a bar overlooked one end of the dance floor. The music was traditional western disco, but the atmosphere was just as frenetic as Sussana’s.
Joe came up as they were sitting down. “Good evening, Martin.
I see that you have found yourself two excellent guides.” He pulled up a chair and signaled the waiter. “Where have you taken this innocent visitor so far tonight?”
“The usual tour; curry at Bat Valley, drinks at the Gardenia and dancing at the big S. Did we leave anything out?”
“No, that is a pretty good start. He looks like he is doing OK for himself. What will you have?”
They ordered and sat back, surrendering to the booming sound system. The dancing was a little stiffer, as befitted the mostly expat crowd. Martin was beginning to feel the effects of his long day. The edges of the room were getting blurry.
Joe nudged him gently. “Would like to come to the
Bristol Bar on Sunday night for some traditional Baganda dancing?
Invite anyone else you want.”
“I’d love it. Consider me a definite. I’ll ask the others later.
Are you a Baganda?”
“Yes, some of my cousins will be dancing. We should leave about six. I’ll meet you in the bar downstairs. Enjoy the rest of the evening. It seems that you are in good hands.” He took himself off to another table.
Fatigue washed over him in waves. Stefan tapped him on the shoulder and clucked sympathetically. “You look all in, Martin. You must have had a long day with all the travel. We are going home now. I will give you a call in the morning. If you fee| like it come out to my place for lunch.”
“That sounds good. I’ve got to arrange some wheels and do some other errands around town, so you’d better call me early.”
The wait for the lift: seemed interminable. When the elevator doors opened, he was shocked to see the girl from the airport involved in a shoving match with one of his GSU interrogators from the afternoon. Without thinking he stepped forward and pulled her free. “We meet again and this time it looks like you are the one that needs help.”
The girl gave him a terrified look and opened her mouth to speak. She never got the chance. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fine, the famous American Boy Scout.” Harry was his usual suave self. “I see you have met one of our delightful countrywomen.” He grabbed the girl’s upper arm and squeezed until her flesh turned white around his fingers. “This one is well known to me. She is a bad woman. You had better watch yourself.” He threw down her arm with a cackle and strode off.
Martin turned to follow him, but the girl pulled him into the car. “Do not go after him, he is a very bad man. He will make trouble for you if you interfere.” She fought back tears as the doors closed.
He felt the adrenalin fighting against his fatigue. “I don’t let anybody treat a lady like that. Especially, one that I’ve had on my mind all afternoon. You seem to be involved in all the action around here. Who are you and what’s he got against you?”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. “It is a long story and I will tell you some other time. Would you please give me ten shillingi for the taxi home? “
“On one condition, let me have dinner with you tomorrow night.” “I will meet you downstairs in the bar at eight.”
“He gave her a ten shilling note and an inquisitive kiss before the lift doors closed, leaving only a tantalizing trace of her scent.
He still didn’t know her name, but his brain was too addled to think about what had just happened. It was all he could do to get undressed.
