Kampala

Kampala is frenetic. Clouds of fumes and dust hang in the air. It’s hot. People lay and sit and wait. Cars weave in and out; minibuses crammed with people, horns blaring, push their way through traffic jams. Small wooden stalls, jam packed next to each other line the streets. A butcher swats flies off his display of goat meat. A row of huts selling spare parts for cars bustle will men welding, hammering, tinkering. Men in suits walk with purpose, a briefcase in hand. A woman, poverty stricken, barefoot, lays in the shade of an official looking building, occasionally shouting obscenities as people pass. The market is busy: women arrange their wares, piling tomatoes into small pyramid displays, deals are made, there’s gossip and laughter. Outside buildings the men with AK47s stand guard. Five policemen in white uniforms direct traffic; a man on a camel waits at the junction. A mosque comes alive announcing evening prayers; an elaborate Hindu temple stands tall on the horizon. Billboards encourage people to vote; a giant Coca Cola bottle is the centerpiece of the main roundabout. T.I.A.