Not to be read on a full stomach

This weekend I was invited to accompany a friend on a boda-boda tour of Kampala and I jumped at the opportunity since in my four months here, I had yet to visit all of the touristy hot-spots (the Gaddafi Mosque, Baha'i Temple, Kings Palace, etc). The highlight of the five hour adventure however, was (rather morbidly) Idi Amin's torture chamber, originally built to be an armory in the courtyard of the King's Palace. For those of you who haven't heard of Amin (or haven't seen Forest Whittaker shine in The Last King of Scotland), he was the notorious President/tyrant of Uganda whom in the 70's persecuted between 100,000-500,000 Ugandans in an attempt to purge the country of anyone whom he considered to be a threat to his power. According to our tour guide, this list consisted of anyone who was too intelligent, not intelligent enough, ugly, influential, rich, Asian, sick, old...there wasn't much of a method to his madness. 

The prison chambers didn't look too menacing upon first glance; it wasn't until the finer details were disclosed that my stomach began to churn. Hoards of people were crammed into the pitch dark rooms that were suspended above a pool of electrically charged water, which meant that whoever attemped to escape, was instantly electrocuted to death. Apparently, to create some extra breathing space in the suffocating chambers, the oldest and/or weakest were sometimes pushed into the watery trenches by the other prisoners. The markings visible on the walls are messages and pleas for help written by the prisoners using their own feces, which covered the floors of each prison. Corpses from the prisons were fed to the (over sized) crocodiles in the King's Lake which accounts for the inability of the international community to produce an accurate number of those who were killed by Amin and his forces. 

A face only a mother could love

 Continuing with the eerie turn that the tour had suddenly taken, Walter then took us to visit a real Ugandan witch doctor. If I had any previous faith in witchcraft, this guy can be accredited to turning me into a non-believer. We were ushered into a small grass hut where Doc sat shuffling around some shells, burping loudly, and stroking what looked to be a stuffed leopard. He passed around some banana beer and a pipe. With every puff we took from the pipe, we were instructed to repeat our 'problem' for which we were seeking help. I said I needed to find a job. Walter said he wanted to sleep with a French girl. After more throaty burping, Witchdoc tells us that the ancestors would like 10,000 shillings (about $5) to solve our problems. We politely told him that the ancestors were being far too greedy, and promptly got up and left. There is a distinct possibility that I might now be cursed.