My long and scary trip to Karamoja

By James Odong IT does not really matter how many times you have been to Karamoja. travelling there is like going into the world of the unknown.You can never tell or even guess what might happen to you until you have actually arrived in one piece.And so when my long journalistic nose smelt news in this far northeastern sub-region, I first thought of writing a will.But who could inherit my third hand pair of trousers, one thread-bare nylon shirt, a lousy enkofira (hat), a worn out toothbrush and a century old metallic box, which are some of my assets. In the circumstances, thinking of a Will was clearly a waste of time. My host in Kotido, Lucy Daxbacher, who manages the Oxfam Pastoral Livelihood Programme in the district picked me from Kampala and we hit the road to the east at 9:30 a.m.It was apparent that the journey was a bad omen right from the start but we insisted and left all the same. Just after the junction to Namagunga Girls in Mukono district, one of our vehicles went on a sit down strike, arguing that in the face of the forceful Karimojong disarmament, it was suicidal to proceed to the region without a comprehensive insurance policy. I am sure you have never heard of a vehicle demanding to be insured, but I have already told you that Karamoja is no ordinary place and it is understandable that even a non-living thing like a car had reasons to fear travelling there without assurance.Daxbacher called the head office of Oxfam and a Land Rover was sent. As the cowardly van was being towed back to Kampala, we hit the road once again in the Land Rover, optimistic that we would reach at least Moroto district.When we reached Mbale, the sun was already wishing us good night. The best we could do was to drive to the splashy Wash and Wills hotel in Mbale and book ourselves in for a night.We soon invaded Mt. Elgon Hotel like hungry lions.The hotel which until recently was the ‘Sheraton’ of Mbale is no more, thanks to the liberalisation of the industry and the inefficiency of the workers of the hotel.No sooner had we parked and entered the hotel dinning hall, than we were greeted by darkness as electricity apparently took cover in fear of the invading strangers.After a long wait without anybody taking our orders, the good Lord somewhat sympathised with us –– He released the power from its hideout.We settled down to reflect on what lay ahead of us the next day as we waited, hours on end for our orders to be taken.By the time the waiter took our orders and actually delivered the drinks and later the food, my appetite had long lost patience. After supper, we returned to the comforts of our rooms in readiness for the next day’s journey.Being an early riser, I was already tuned to the BBC Swahili programme on my portable radio by 6:00 a.m. One blunder I made though was to take the manager seriously. I was sure that breakfast would be ready by 6:30 a.m as mentioned in the hotel room information kit.We departed from Wash and Wills at 6:57 a.m., by which time the kitchen was still locked and the breakfast together with its cook nowhere to be seen after having paid sh40,000 for their services. The journey from Mbale to Moroto was largely uneventful, save for sporadic reminders by an inner voice that any time a marauding Karimojong warrior would happily dispatched me to the next world by a mere touch of the trigger of his AK47.In Moroto, we quickly picked veterinary doctors Delia Grace and Walter Jura Oriwa from the organisation of African Unity/ Inter-African Bureau for Animal Resources (OAU/IBAR) based in Nairobi and hit the road to Kotido in a three-vehicle convoy.Shortly before Nakangole in Lupe sub-county, Bokora county, where three Incafex engineers were killed recently by the Karimojong warriors, Daxbacher ’s car, which was leading the way, suddenly stopped. I gazed in horror as she got out and started knocking at our window saying: “we are now entering a danger zone, so let’s agree on the speed at which we should be moving such that we remain close to one another.”That seemed the moment my loose heart had been waiting for. I missed, I don’t know how many beats, but quite many. I, however, quickly recovered from the shock somewhat contented that my poor, lousy and skinny self would not mean much if I surrendered it to some merciless pastoralist.By the time we arrived in Kotido town at 10:45 a.m., my blue-black complexion had turned into a muzungu colour, thanks to the dusty Moroto-Kotido road.“That road is very bad, I will never recommend Oxfam staff to travel on it again,” Daxbacher swore as we took tea at the Kotido Oxfam offices, which also serve as her residence.I was last in Kotido in December last year, but one thing that struck me was the lack of guns in the hands of the Karimojong. The machines, which only a few months ago were being used as sticks by children and adults alike, were missing.For those who have made it a habit to ‘change human diet’ whenever they are on a trip, Karamoja has bad news for you.The Karimojong girls are either too disciplined to be turned into take-aways or they consider non- Karimojong too decent to manage their wild goose chase courtship manner. You may not be sure of travelling to and back from Karamoja safely, but you will be sure of not seeing a girl roaming around drinking joints looking for someone to de-tooth.The journey to Kotido is ever scary, but once you are there, it feels relaxed. I am looking forward to going back and returning to Kampala alive so that I can tell the story, once more.