That was a sign on the road between Entebbbe (airport) and Kampala. Fresh Cuts. Meaning impenetrable - meat? Trees? It was a business closed up.
First impressions: darkness, no city light spill. Life in outline on the road between Entebbe and here -- people walking, side-saddle on motorcycles, crowded on the edge of the road, on balconies, in little hut businesses with blue bare tube fluorescent lights, turned sideways. Shell the most visible brand, with the shock of the same gas station convenience signage as the potato chip and lottery ticket purveyors at home. Acrid smell in the air, the chaotic traffic I find I take for granted.
Saw the road in shadows and through the chatter of a fellow passenger, ex-pat american from CT living in the netherlands, software sales, friendly and unnerved by the driving.
I'm kind of reeling from the absurdity of driving through this african strip of life and ending up in... a Sheraton, complete with white terry bathrobe and wifi that works better than the wifi in the KLM lounge at Pearson airport. Waiting for room service pasta and a glass of wine. Through looking glasses darkly.
A long slow gurgle of a journey, but leavened by two things. One: meeting an american political scientist who teaches at Syracuse, of all places, and who lives part time in Madrid. The perfect seatmate -- I want to take him on all my trips. We'll connect again.
And the serendipity of gazing out the window casually after sleeping, mid-trip, and seeing the sahara below. Desert as it is supposed to be, cartoon desert, camels. Sharp intake of breath. This IS africa. Shared it with K, my seatmate, and watched the sand shift for a while. When I woke up again, it was dark.
Am glad to be here. Can't wait to find out where here is, tomorrow.