Mob Justice in Kampala

I left the hostel this morning to have a walk around town and take care of a few errands, and just after my morning coffee I was treated to a mob beating the shit out of some thief who purportedly stole some guy's necklace. I had heard about the 'mob justice' mentality in African cities before, but this is the first time I've actually seen it.

A group of about 20-30 men chased this thief down, caught him, and starting whaling on him. When he fell to the ground they continued to kick him, and one of the attackers took off his shoe and started slapping the thief across the face with it. Meanwhile, passerbys (I was most definitely the only mzungu) were laughing, chuckling to themselves and displaying grins that said "justice has most clearly been done". Right when I thought they were done with this poor sap, they stripped him naked and left him there on the street. No serious injuries were done, for as soon as the crowd dispersed the thief took off running down the street, covering his jewels in shame.

It was quite a sight to see, and one that made me uncomfortable. There is something scary about the anonymity that a crowd provides. It's as if it gives license to people to let out some side of their humanity that they have to keep restrained in the normal course of going through life in a civilized society. I think what scares me about it is that this desire to injure others exists in people. I'm all for justice being done, and I appreciate that Kampala is one of the safest African cities perhaps in part because of this behavior, but someone could have just as easily pointed at me and shouted "thief!" and then where would we be? This crowd was on fire, and no one was stopping to inquire as to the evidence behind this thief's guilt. Scary stuff.

Other than that, Kampala is lovely. It is the quintessential African city: full of belching fumes, of loud music on every street, of heat and humidity, of pollution, of throngs of people on bicycles, on foot, on motorbikes, and of traffic that boggles the mind. At each street corner, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and charge headlong into traffic, trusting that people are going to drive around you as long as you keep your pace and direction steady. It's not the worst city for traffic that I've been to--that title definitely goes to Saigon with its millions of motor bikes--but Kampala is right up there.

The only real way to get around town other than walking is on the back of a motorbike, which here they call a boda boda. I had a nice walk around town this morning, then hired a guy to take me around town on his bike to run some errands (to the bank to buy some U.S. dollars for the Congo, to the bus station to buy my onward ticket to Nairobi, to another bus station to buy my ticket for tonight's trip, to the pharmacy to get treatment for malaria [just in case], etc., etc.). We'd bob and weave in and out of traffic, and I would hold on for dear life, thinking that if I were a Christian man I'd be praying right at that very moment. Or I could just rely on the fundamentalists who are on the streets of Kampala preaching, with a Bible in one hand, fire in their eyes, so much energy in their bodies that their limbs shake, and a loud voice preaching eternal damnation/salvation. I never cease to be amazed by the religious fervor that exists in these African countries (and in my hostel: there is a group of college-aged fundamentalists staying here, and their fervor scares me), and I look forward in that sense to getting back to the heathen-filled cities of San Francisco and Seattle.

People speak English incredibly widely and well here, in marked contrast to Tanzania which I'm going to give the self-important title of Worst-Speaking Sub-Saharan African Country That I've Been To. Credit Tanzania's former President Nyerere though for unifying the country under Kiswahili and virtually eliminating the tribal tensions that exist so strongly in other African countries. If that comes at the expense of English proficiency, then so be it.

Kampala has the feel of the "Africa" that's popularized in movies. Perhaps that's because I watched The Last King of Scotland on the plane ride over, which incidentally is a great movie. But it really does seem to have all of the ingredients: rolling green hills that fade off into the distance like a watercolor painting; men on the streets everywhere with AK-47s (every shop here, even businesses as innocuous as travel agencies, seems to have an armed guard posted up out front); women's clothing styles that are at once conservative and reminiscent of what was popular in the U.S. in the 80s. You know, Africa. I really like it here.

Off on the overnight bus tonight to Kisoro, and then with luck to see the gorillas. For those interested, Newsweek just did a write-up on the park that I'm hoping to go to. Sad that the gorillas are getting killed; the inside scoop is that the culprits are disgruntled farmers who are upset they are not getting their share of the $300 park permit.

I'd love to take a shower before I get on the bus, but the water's out throughout Kampala. It's now been three days since I've taken one. Mmmm, lovely.