Edition #184: What Happened in Uganda, Part 1
A story about pretending to brave and making assumptions. Plus, when your only job is to cuddle, a visual diary, and some feel-good songs.
A Note From the Editor
When you’re a writer, and when your brain works the way mine does, it isn’t easy to find the origin point of any given story. Did it begin the day you were thrust into this world, your mother howling in pain after 9 hours of trying to push your gigantic head out of her body? Or did it begin in the fourth grade, when you were assigned Auckland, New Zealand as your International city to research? Where we begin any story is an authorial choice, and I will begin mine here: November of 2023, on a press trip to a cool, gorgeous hotel in Mexico.
I was deep in the season of trying to decide where and how to live. New York was not it for me anymore, but where else? I’d traveled plenty and spent some extended time in Costa Rica already, but I wasn’t ready to commit to that lifestyle. There was a strong internal resistance toward accepting the discoveries I had made about my preferences, my thirst for exploration. I wanted to lobotomize myself, to take a long, cold swig the Kool-Aid of my born culture, to want what I was supposed to want at this juncture. Stability! A family! A real home! And so I found myself in Venice Beach, attempting to re-create my life in Costa Rica. Barefoot surf town, but trade dirt roads for capital C Capitalism, beautiful waves for one crappy, crowded wave.
Except I wasn’t physically in Venice during this origin story, I was reading a book in a little dipping pool, pausing to watch the birds fly low over a man-made lagoon.
This trip was insane and serendipitous on so many levels, but what struck me most was the feeling of landing in Central America after some time stateside. I exited the plane and immediately wanted to cry; I missed this feeling and didn’t expect to. The hum of chaos, the thrill of unfamiliarity just before I was whisked away into a world of luxury.
The day after arriving at the hotel, I called my best friend in Costa Rica. A man was coming to buy my quad and he needed to pick it up from her. This was the final straw in my plan of self-imposed normalcy. I would sell my quad, giving up on the potential to return to Costa Rica and use the money for a downpayment on a Tesla (LOL), a formal induction into Los Angeles life. Over the phone, my friend only said, “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”
And that is where our story begins.
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1: What If He Has A Heart Attack And You’re Stranded In The Middle of Uganda, Alone?
I was about to leave for Africa, spending my final days as one does before a massive trip: running here and there, panic ordering things on Amazon, making final arrangements. It was March of 2024, three months into my traveling year. I’d just returned from Central America and was doing my final round in New York before venturing solo to a land that felt as foreign as any place I’d ever been.
My first stop was South Africa. Africa Lite, I told myself, and an easy place to get acclimated. The main event would come a few months later, gorilla trekking in Uganda. This was a lifelong dream of mine, birthed right around that time in fourth grade when I wrote that report on Auckland, New Zealand, and realized the world was huge. There are only three countries in the world where you can trek for wild mountain gorillas. In order from the safest to the least safe, according to Western dialogue, Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. The latter was my real dream, but not a feasible reality given the ongoing armed conflict there. I chose Uganda primarily for its middle-safe reputation. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it right.
A guide is necessary for a trip like this; finding such a guide is a near impossible task. So many guides, and I would be alone with whomever I chose for hours and hours at a time. The guide would take me from A to B to C. I’d see some of the country along the way, we’d make some stops, I’d sleep at B&B's. The guide would eventually drop me off at the gorilla trek, at which point I’d be split into groups with the other trekkers and handed off to a ranger. Gorilla trekking in Uganda is regulated by the government. Permits are expensive and there are only so many doled out each month. In short, I needed to choose my guide and fork over the roughly $4k I would spend for this trip, which included the cost of the permits.
My first pause came during a date with a Tahitian climate activist. He was handsome and extreme, practicing what some might consider gentle climate terrorism tactics. I liked his boldness. We spoke about my upcoming trip and I mentioned how technically Uganda was on the Level 3, Reconsider Travel list because a European couple and their tour guide got killed there the year before. They were in a National Park I would be visiting. My date wondered aloud whether I needed to do this alone.
“Why? You don’t think I should?” It’s worth noting I did not know this man particularly well, but his hesitation spiked my heart rate. I hadn’t disclosed the particular details of this trip with my mother or my sisters or even my friends, knowing I would get some pushback. From the climate activist, I was not expecting it. He suggested I alert the US Embassy of my travel plans, tell them I’m a journalist and that I’ll be there in Uganda in June of 2024. “Just in case.”
The following evening at a dear friend’s apartment in Williamsburg, I recounted the conversation with my date. We reviewed my proposed itinerary, a process during which she gently reminded me of all that might go wrong while alone halfway across the world with even the kindest, most competent of guides. There would be no cell service on much of the trip. “What if he has a heart attack and dies and you’re out there, alone? In the middle of Uganda? It could happen.”
Maybe I chickened out, maybe I came to. I never wanted to do this alone, I just hadn’t found a friend willing to spend thousands of dollars to hike hours through the Impenetrable Forest to see some wild gorillas with me. All these concerns started to feel valid. I had to admit to myself that there was some real fear brewing in my gut. Also to note; my dominant hand was in a brace. I had fallen off my skateboard.
Alone in Africa for the first time and with limited mobility, perhaps not my finest idea.
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2: The KFC-Slay-Queens & Incorrect Assumptions
I was picked up in Entebbe by Emma, one of our two guides for the week—both born and raised in Uganda and both men named Emma, so we called then Little Emma and Big Emma. Little Emma was 27-years-old with a sweet smile and a kind demeanor. I was hot and tired and my face was crusting off from a poorly timed CO2 laser treatment, so Little Emma and I didn’t talk much on that first day’s drive.
I was thrust into a new world straight away. Heat pressing in from everywhere and a brand of chaos I had not yet experienced; dusty dirt roads, squat buildings in fifty shades of tan and brown selling couches and dresses and flip flops, all on display out front, getting blasted by drivers’ dust. Men and women and children walked between jammed traffic, school-children road on the back of boda boda’s in their uniforms, giant trucks toted sheets of scrap metal scarcely secured.
I saw little I recognized on that drive until we came to a full stop in a traffic jam. To my left, rising out of the city like a mirage, was a KFC. I pointed to it and scoffed. KFC, all the way out here. I asked Emma whether he had tried it.
“That is where you take the Slay Queens,” he said. It had been a long, long travel day, I thought I had misheard him. Excuse me?
“The Slay Queens. The fancy girls. If you want to take a Slay Queen on a date, you have to take her to KFC. They all want to get a selfie there.”
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Later, at the beautiful hotel in Kampala, our agenda called for a 7 pm welcome dinner. I can’t say I was looking forward to it, but I remained curious. This was my first group trip. There would be about 12 of us embarking on this journey together, led by a travel influencer I’d never heard of called Emily Rose. She had organized the trip and hired the Emma’s to be our local guides. Because I was no longer traveling solo, my 4 days turned into 10 for the same price. I was pleased to see more of Uganda than originally planned, but hesitant about how I would feel traveling with a group led by an influencer. Let’s just say I made a few assumptions.
None of them proved accurate. Over a few glasses of red wine during dinner, I discovered most of the group had traveled with Emily before. They’d summited Mount Everest, camped under the stars in Tanzania, and ventured around Egypt. They were from South Dakota and Minnesota and Illinois, a mother-daughter duo and an ER doctor, a teacher, a nurse, a waitress with a love for vintage cars. Emily was not a glossy, irritating travel influencer, but a sincere, warm person with a seemingly inexhaustible social battery. Everyone was enthused about the journey to come.
Lying in bed that evening, I considered how wrong I had been about everything. How people will always surprise you. I considered myself; the New Yorker who had never met anyone from South Dakota, the travel writer surrounded by people with regular jobs who were better traveled than she, the girl smugly off Instagram who made assumptions about anyone who made their livelihood on it. I didn’t love these observations, but I allowed them to humble me as I reoriented myself into the present. From that moment on, I vowed to become more aware of my biases, to let them pass through me without sticking, I would let this group, this country, these people, surprise me.
And then we were off.
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Cheers, my dears, and as always thank you for reading. As I began to write about my formative trip to Uganda, I realized there was far too much to say in one edition. Part two is coming next time. There are gorillas and there are tears.
Have a wonderful weekend. I plan to surf without getting stung by a jellyfish, to attend an agriculture walk and dinner at a local farm, and to visit a dear friend’s new home. Cook yourself some fresh fish, buy a beautiful piece of clothing that makes you excited for the coming season, spontaneously call your best friend to say hello.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
When Your Only Job Is To Cuddle. In the world’s current iteration, sweet stories feel more and more difficult to come by. Modern Love can sometimes awaken the eye roll-inducing cynic in me—the editing style borders on Hallmark movie script—and though this one had its moments, I ultimately softened to the tender tale. A good reminder about how pre-stacked the cards of life are, either for or against an individual, long before they are able to make any decisions about who they might be.
Resolution #1,003: A Poem. The way I see it, there is hard poetry and there is soft poetry. Poetry is not, by nature, soft, though that is how many less familiar with the form might view it. Poetry is best written when the writer is plugged into the socket, the words flowing out from some elsewhere. Poets are the great channelers of the artistic realm. This poem is frank but there is softness there, too. It is the perfect poem for our time indeed.
The Rabbit Hole: A Visual Diary. I intentionally attempt to avoid recommending other newsletter pieces in this content section. Why? I suppose it’s because I use newsletters as a mechanism to direct me to other corners of the internet vs. to other corners of Substack, so I want to do the same for you. Either way, this is an exception to that rule because it isn’t an article at all, but a visual diary that I look forward to scrolling though every month. It reminds me of the old Tumblr days, a nice break from all the digital yelling/ads we encounter elsewhere online. Best consumed on a laptop browser.
Perhaps You Should…Find Some Feel-Good Music
I’m always curious about what role music plays in people’s lives. I’m not a big podcaster, but I am a music-most-of-the-time girlie. Music when I cook, shower, apply makeup, do my hair, get ready to surf, sweep the floor, etc. Sometimes it is intentionally curated—I love a candle-lit shower with classical music, for example—but other times I let Spotify run wild.
The other day, the app’s algorithm delivered. I was thrust back into high school. It was homecoming, 2008, and the memory was so visceral and sweet that I giggled aloud. I’d forgotten about this whole era of music, which led me to seek out other songs that could evoke a joyful mood for one reason or another. Here are a few in no particular order:
The Aforementioned Homecoming Song. This was a very specific Golden Age of poppy, hip-hop adjacent male artists coming together and having FUN! Let’s bring it back?
A Cheesy John Mayer Song That Hits. I didn’t want to love this song as much as I did when it popped back into my life last week, but here we are.
You Won’t Believe This, But It’s Jason Mraz. This is where you start to think I have shitty taste in music. Stay with me. After this SYTYCD dance randomly popped into my head the other day, I was led back to this song and proceeded to listen to it about 100 times last week. It tells a cute story! I stand by it.
It’s A Classic For A Reason. Can you imagine what a bop this must’ve been when it came out? You already know the dance halls were BUMPING.
You Can’t Not Dance To This. I’m dancing right now. And it isn’t a cute dance.
A Song For My Surprise Birthday Party Playlist. One day, my dream will be fulfilled and I will show up to my long-awaited surprise birthday party. Ideally it’s a dance party, and ideally everyone’s being a good sport and dancing to the music I like to dance to—AKA this song.
**Bonus Content** (If Social Media Apps Were Parties You Were Obligated To Attend)
The TikTok party sounds like the most fun, the LinkedIn party has some low-key potential, and the Twitter party sounds like a nightmare I’ve lived through many times—fun with the right crowd/buzz combo, terrible otherwise.
Also, I live in the tropics but want these jeans—will sub for this perfect raincoat instead, a zingy lil piece from one of my current favorite newsletters, when a hot take pisses people off you know it’s good, intrigued by this cleverly positioned astro-cartography service, and me this week.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“The need to call this thing “good” and this thing “bad,” this thing “white” and this thing “black,” was an impulse that Effia did not understand. In her village, everything was everything. Everything bore the weight of everything else.”
-Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi