The Lowest Point

Chapter Four

Uganda had a rough start to put it lightly. A few days into a new volunteering gig I took my phone off of airplane mode and connected to the internet. Upon checking my messages I found out that a close friend of mine had died. I was devastated and after a brief moment of shock and denial, I broke into uncontrollable sobs.

As if things weren’t bad enough, my host became angry that I was no longer able to meet the village elders, due to my emotional state. He mocked and patronized me before starting to lecture and yell at me. I was going through something extremely painful and instead of having sympathy he made everything worse. I realized I had no time in my life for his negative energy and I told him I would no longer be volunteering for him. He then essentially held me hostage.

The next day he took me to the Uganda Police claiming that I needed to legally sign out of his care so that if anything happened to me he would not be liable. At the police station he flipped the story, saying that I snuck into Uganda “through the back door” which meant the Kenya border. In the past he had Westerners coming to Africa only to volunteer for him so he picked them up and dropped them off at the airport. The idea that a female could travel Africa alone and already had, was beyond his mental capabilities.

I told the police that I wanted to leave this cruel man and travel on my own again but the police laughed at me. They asked where I would go and I quickly pulled out my pre-downloaded map of Uganda (like the well prepared traveler that I am) and showed them my intended area. They asked if I had ever been there. I said no but explained that I just navigated across Kenya and I was not afraid. The Police continued to underestimate my abilities and acted like my workaway host owned me.

Workaway is not a binding agreement. Nothing is signed, he had no right to keep me. However, the police confiscated my passport and despite my tears and begging, I was trapped. They would only let me be on my own again if the host drove me three hours to the U.S. Embassy in Kampala. I told them I did not feel safe with the host and only wanted to be free of him. No way was I getting in a car with him. In response, a female police escort rode along with us as the insidious host took me to Kampala. I protested all of this. I could have walked to the street and waited for a minivan and gotten to Kampala on my own for very cheap. This police escort and private ride were against my will and they were going to charge me for it!

I had done many other workaways at that point and knew that there was no protocol of signing in with the police and out with the embassy. They were making up rules to torment me when all I wanted was to curl up into the fetal position and cry about my dead friend. I felt so vulnerable but I had to be tough. My host sat in the police station with the officers speaking Luganda and heckling me. I tried to walk out of the room and continue my travels but they had my passport and bag. I value freedom more than anything so this was torture.

We finally made it to the U.S. Embassy and this spiteful man got what he deserved. He tried to spin his story but the embassy made him step back and they asked me what actually happened. They were appalled that I was held against my will and brought to them with a police escort like a criminal. They asked how they could help and I told them I just wanted my bag that was locked in the host’s car and for him to leave.

A United States Marine came down and got my bag and then asked the host to leave the property. He refused, saying that I owed him money for the ride to Kampala and the police escort. I am so thankful to the U.S. Embassy for having my back. The Marine defended me for having wanted to find my own transportation to Kampala and got the deplorable man to leave.

I was then left in Kampala with another failed workaway, no plan, and a shattered heart over my friend. I spent two days hiding at a guest house, not sure if my former host would find me and seek revenge. Then I became terribly sick with what I believe was malaria. I blame the host, his house did not have bug nets. I was already taking doxycycline malaria pills so I continued to take them and felt better a week later.

Bedridden, with a fever, aching muscles, no appetite and digestion issues: all I wanted to do was go home. I tried Africa, it didn’t work, time to move on. My parents urged me to come home but I just couldn’t accept failure. I decided I would try one more workaway and hopefully it would workout. I contacted my next host and asked if I could come much earlier than expected. She agreed to take me and I gave Africa one last shot.