Card from another world 1

Back again... On Entebbe airport runway, in the darkness of the equatorial night, passengers who are rushing towards the entrance of the police station for passport control are just shadows. Before me suddenly it appears a big man wearing the yellow bib of airport employees. Of his face I distinguish only the whites of the eyes. He is holding a sign with a name written in pen "Dr. Augustino". I remain surprised a moment, the time to say "I'm Dr. Agostino" that this big man smiling and courteous leads me inside, and hijacks me towards the "resident" gate, avoiding the tail of ordinary tourists, and the next moment brings me my bags on a carriage. He invites me to follow him and I find myself in the embrace of another big man smiling and friendly that, however, I know well. Is Quirino, my driver in Kampala. At the same time when in the past I was doing the queue at customs, this time we are already in the car direct to the hotel: now really I am a "resident". Quirino is always eager for news about Italy. "Today in Italy it's election day, doctor" attacks. "Yes, Quirino" I mumble. "And Mr. Berlusconi?" makes me happy. "And Mr. Museweni?" I reply cheerfully. He makes a big laugh, while driving in the dark tunnel of the road leading to Kampala, crossed by fools who risk death at every step and traveled by other crazy people who, thanks to driving on the left, they always seem destined to finish against us. We get to talk about the weather, drought, the guerrillas in the north and Karamoja: it is better, we are in Uganda and I do not care anything about what is happening in Italy. I will think to it when I will be back. I am at the Sheraton. I wanted to allow myself that luxury just to feel what may understand of Africa peple who come to look at it from places like this. I could do it, because I do not show an expense report. From the ninth floor I look in the city that looks like a nativity. His breath is a constant rumble, occasionally interrupted by approaching thunders. The profile of low hills rugged of houses lights up intermittently for the high beam of lightning that draw large clouds against a spooky sky. Then it begins to rain with the violence of a machine-gun fire and water curtains drape the air in the street lamps light cones. I smile to myself on the small terrace buffeted by a wind heavy with moisture, and by drops that look like bullets: fireworks and celebration for my return? I sleep no more than three hours. We leave for Matany. Quirino is on time as always. The dawn is gray, livid. It is dawn, it pours, but the traffic is already chaotic. The many pedestrians, cyclists and scooter riders move under water with total indifference, even with the risks they take to be hit. The road to the Kajansi airfield is a red river of mud and the poor houses and huts that flanke it seem even more miserable and precarious under the storm. The airstrip is turning into a swamp, but still holds. We are in seven in the usual shed where one weighs in with the luggage on the old scale which has no more desire to tell the truth about who and what you put above. I ask the pilot, a solid and jovial Swiss, if we will take off. He takes a look at the sky that is turning from London smoke gra to tar, he looks at the half flooded track and when I expect that he says no, he says, surprisingly, yes. In fact shortly after we take off, while the hills around are shaken by the wind, and their tops are shrouded by festoons of clouds. We takes off like we were on a seaplane, splashing water like crazy, with the heater on maximum and bouncing like a speedboat. "God, how I love it" I say to myself "where there are more places and characters like these?" I breathe deeply, I looks to the shrinking earth and I take a sip of life. A tight turn, with the wings nearly perpendicular to the ground and then to the north, the Karamoja, Matany ... and at the horizon you can already see a strip of blua. Back again, welcome back.

Agostino Gaglio

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