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I knew I was in trouble when everyone on the platform of the railway station in a remote area of Uganda, just over its border with Kenya, took one look at me and shrank away.
I was puzzled. As a solo female traveller, I was hardly likely to pose a threat to anyone and, up until that moment, I’d been treated only with friendly curiosity everywhere I’d gone. But then I saw the reason: two soldiers in bush camouflage gear, with machine guns slung over their shoulders and revolvers tucked into their pants, marching determinedly towards me.
As they came closer, I tried to smile. They didn’t. Uganda in the early 1980s was a desperate country. Idi Amin had just been deposed, his military had been vanquished by the invading Tanzanian army, soldiers hadn’t been paid for three months, and the bush war was starting between rival groups vying for government.
Close to that very border near Tororo, the body of an English nun had been found two weeks before, raped and murdered. No one had been arrested. So I immediately knew I was in trouble. And I wasn’t wrong.
At gunpoint, the two soldiers hustled me away from the station, away from the comforting crowd of people waiting there, and into their “office”, a lonely hut standing on waste ground a kilometre away. There, they “interrogated” me, threatened me, and played a home-grown version of Russian roulette.
By the time they finally let me go, firing over my head for fun as I ran back to the station, I was considerably lighter in both Ugandan shillings and weight after all the nervous energy I’d expended in pleading for my life.
It was a horrible experience, one of travel’s almost-worst nightmare scenarios. But then came an incredible act of kindness from the locals which put it all back into perspective. As I climbed wearily back on to the platform this time, I couldn’t have received a different reception.
The waiting passengers crowded around me, asking if the soldiers had hurt me, and was I OK. They then warned me the soldiers would return for a second go and, despite my protestations, insisted that I lay down on the concrete, while they covered me with their luggage – blankets, bags of groceries, pots and pans strung together, and chickens – and told me to remain silent and still.
After half an hour, the train finally rumbled up and my new friends scooped me, together with their goods and chattels into a carriage and up onto the luggage rack. And finally, as I lay there, feeling extremely foolish, their prediction came true. The soldiers reappeared to stop the train from leaving until the “mzungu” could be ordered off for some more questioning.
They then marched up and down that train, up and down, searching each carriage for me and asking every passenger whether they’d seen me and where I was. Yet despite their growing anger, their threats and their trigger-happy demeanour, every single passenger on that train denied all knowledge of me, saying I must have gone off in the opposite direction.
It was a breathtaking display of courage in the face of such clear and present danger to each and every one of those people, all determined to protect someone they didn’t know, didn’t owe any allegiance to, and might never see again. The men finally left, the train pulled away, and everyone cheered as I was helped down from the rack, paler than ever.
Of course, most people would be extremely unlucky to have that kind of experience on their travels, but that day taught me something incredibly important.
It reassured me that most people in the world are essentially kind, generous and determined to help others, often whatever the cost to themselves. People are usually pretty good the whole world over; it’s incredibly rare, and unfortunate, that you’d chance across anyone truly bad, desperate or zealous to the point where they’ve lost all reason.
And while others at times have scoffed at what they choose to see as my naive belief in the essential compassion of the human spirit, I’ve found it confirmed, time and time again, and wherever I’ve been, even in the most unlikely of places.
GENEROSITY OF SPIRIT
In Syria, in the tense months between being branded part of the axis of evil and its final implosion, I clambered into a little local minibus in Aleppo. It was gloomy inside, with the curtains drawn, the women dressed in black burqas and the men in dark suits. All were staring at me, with what might be seen as a display of blank hostility.
I chastised myself, however, for being so negative, smiled broadly and said, “As-Salaam-Alaikum!”, the standard Arabic greeting – peace be with you. Immediately everyone broke into beams, greeted me warmly back and tried to press gifts on me, from a necklace a woman was wearing to some fruit from someone’s basket, and invited me to their houses for dinner at our destination. That drive was physically one of the bumpiest journeys I’ve done in the Middle East but, psychologically, it was the smoothest.
Even where people have been poor, the generosity of spirit remains unstinting. Once, in an outer suburb of Managua, Nicaragua, I joined in a game of football with some little kids. They didn’t even have a proper ball, or even a can to kick around; their ball was home-made of papier mache.
For them, having a tourist join in their match was an absolute novelty, and for me, it was enormous fun, despite being monstrously outclassed – surprising really since Nicaragua is renowned for not being too great at the sport. Their first US-influenced love is baseball and their very first foray into the international world game ended badly with a 9-0 loss to nearby El Salvador.
But despite that, the children’s parents all came out of their houses to watch, and then a couple invited me into their houses for lunch. I eventually agreed to one invitation, but when I went inside, I was shocked at how bare and empty their home was. When they opened their food cupboard, it was even worse; there was only a small bag of rice, some dried beans and a can of sardines.
Yet they cooked it all up and insisted I eat as much as I possibly could. It was the first time they’d met a foreigner, they said. They apologised for the paltriness of the meal, but they were honoured I had joined them. I ate as little as I could to spare their precious supplies but enough to avoid embarrassment, and spent the rest of the day wondering if I’d be quite so generous to a complete stranger. I hoped I would.
Wealthier locals can be enormously munificent with their time, too. Once in Japan I became impossibly lost in one of the vast train stations in Tokyo. I wanted to go to the night-life area of Shibuya but the train lines map on the wall bore little relation to the one in my hand (I discovered later my map was wrong, but my hotel had printed so many, they preferred to hand them out than to trash them).
Eventually, I approached a smartly dressed young man walking towards me, pointed to where I wanted to go and tried to look quizzical. He understood immediately. He held up my map, turned it round and round, and peered at it some more. “No good,” he finally told me. Then he insisted on walking me all the way to the right platform (a 20-minute walk in the opposite way he’d been going) to see me on to the correct train.
I made a mental note to always, in future, take the time to help lost tourists wherever I encountered them at home. And I do, to the continual annoyance of whoever I happen to be with.
PAYING IT FORWARD
As we all know, travel can be tiring, difficult, messy, sometimes frustrating and occasionally disappointing. The scenery, like Mount Fuji, can be shrouded in cloud with too much snow on the road to get close, the border to Somalia might be suddenly snapped shut, the nicest hotel in Havana might be full, the unwise side salad with the expensive meal in Udaipur, Rajasthan, can make you sick for three days.
But, whatever happens, there’s usually a local there to lend a helping hand, give you some advice, cheer you up or, in the last instance in India, give you a free massage, telling you it will help. (It didn’t, but I appreciated the gesture.)
I’m always amazed how frequently this happens to instantly renew one’s faith in the essential goodness of humankind. It’s also changed me for the better. Quite apart from my insistence on marching tourists all over the place, I’m always absolutely determined to try to pay forward the many favours I’ve received overseas with courtesies at home.
One time I was in Cusco, Peru, when my purse was snatched from my hand in a crowded market.
Going into a bakery that afternoon and paying for bread from a little plastic bag of change, another customer asked me why I carried my money like that. When I explained, she immediately brought out her purse and insisted I take it, as the whole shop apologised and presented me with more bread, cakes and biscuits than I could conceivably eat in a lifetime.
The next time I was in a supermarket at home and a frazzled mum with two kids found she was short of money to pay at the checkout (she obviously didn’t own a credit card) and started putting items from the conveyor belt aside, I raced over to make up the shortfall myself.
It’s a small gesture, but one that probably brought me as much pleasure as it might have done her. And, you know, in a very small way, I’m sure it helps make the world a better place, one kindness at a time. I’ll be repaying those selfless Ugandans, in spirit at least, probably for the rest of my life.
Sourse: stuff.co.nz
