So I've left Nairobi. Not forever, of course, but until the next time I'm in Kenya, which could be anywhere from two to ten years away. It was hard to leave, to say goodbye to the people and places I've poured my heart into for the past year. I'll miss the colour and grit and attitude of the city. I'll miss the matatus, the music, the ghetto, my favourite haunts, my own little servant's quarters. I'll miss my friends and co-workers, the Roots kids, the hawkers and security guards and people I'd meet every day. But I'm sure I'll be back. It's just a question of when, and how.

After a week of frantic packing and heart-rending goodbyes, George and I were off to Kampala, the capital of Uganda. We went with Akamba bus, supposedly one of the most reliable bus companies in Kenya, and set off at around 7pm. It was meant to be a 14 or 15-hour journey, which would have been bad enough on its own. Unfortunately, the "reliable" company we went with had stuck us with an old bus on its last legs (last wheels?). From the very beginning, it was obvious that the engine was struggling, but it was only when we broke down at 1am in the middle of nowhere that we realized how serious the trouble was. Luckily, the place we stopped at was a police roadblock, so we weren't completely vulnerable to whoever or whatever might be lurking in the forest at night. It turned out that a gas line had come loose, and gasoline was actually dripping out the bottom of the bus. How the company let such an unsafe and unsound bus on the road, I have no idea. The driver and mechanic were having a hell of a time trying to secure this tube with ropes and improvised materials -- at one point, one of them actually went into the woods and came back with some hacked-off branches, to attempt to somehow stop the leak or secure the line with them. We were sitting out there for an hour, to no avail; after all that work, the bus would only move in fits and starts. It was only when Akamba sent out another mechanic with a replacement part that we were able to travel again.

Two aspects of the breakdown were kind of amazing to me. The first was that during this entire ordeal, neither the driver, conductor nor the mechanic made any kind of announcement to the passengers to inform them of what was going on. They simply went ahead, trying to fix up the bus while leaving the passengers to grumble amongst themselves. The second amazing thing was that, while sitting and grumbling, none of the passengers except George did anything to contact the company, or even speak to the driver or conductor. Though they were obviously unhappy about the situation, their complaints and suggestions about how to handle it were directed only at others who had no influence over the course of events. Georgie, however, did call the company itself to let them know what was going on and suggest a solution. I suspect that this tendency not to address "authority figures" or those directly in charge may stem from having grown up in a dictatorship. In that environment, people learn that their complaints and opinions will generally not be received well, and that they should simply accept whatever comes their way. At any rate, aside from the night-time breakdown which stretched our journey to 17 hours, it actually wasn't too bad a ride.

Kampala is a beautiful city, filled with greenery and spread out over seven hills. It does get pretty hectic during the day, but somehow feels more laid back than Nairobi. There are matatus here (though they're painted a boring, uniform white and have no music), but the biggest deal in transportation is the boda-boda, the motorcycle. I've taken boda-boda rides in rural Kenya before, when no other means of transportation has been available, but never in a city. I tell you, it's quite a different experience. After taking half a dozen rides on somewhat dated machines which wove their way through traffic and pot-holed roads and breakneck speeds, we decided to stick with cabs, at least until we get to Rwanda where the passengers as well as the drivers are supplied with helmets (or so we hear, it seems kind of fantastical to me), and only one passenger at a time is allowed on the bike. Here it would be funny if it weren't so frightening, the way it seems like a competition to see who can pile the most people and goods on the back of one bike.

One of the things I didn't expect about Uganda is that hardly anyone here speaks Swahili. At least, it's not used in everyday conversation. Luganda is the dominant language in Kampala, and English is also quite prevalent. The food is pretty similar to Kenyan fare. However, matoke, which is basically mashed green plantain, is the staple food here, and many dishes come with a yummy peanut sauce. Ugali, Kenya's stable food, is conspicuously absent from the menu. The weather has been terribly hot and dry, though broken at times by heavy downpours which last about twenty minutes and create rivers, red with dust, which stream down the streets.

Here we've mostly been catching up with a Congolese friend who studies here, exploring the city's attractions and nightlife, and doing a little shopping. Of Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, the latter is known to have the best education system. Kampala is home to the famed Makerere University, which attacts students from all over the East African region. The student area is a bustling neighbourhood filled with little restaurants and stalls open 24-hours to accomdate odd student hours. There you hear people speaking French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and more. Kampala is full of neat little pockets like these, and is a city worth further exploration.

Tomorrow, however, we're moving on to see a bit of the Ugandan countryside. Our destination is Lake Bunyonyi, near the Rwandan border, for a bit of exercise and fresh air (biking, canoeing and kayaking, hourrah!), before heading to Kigali.