by Lindsay Clark

Created on: March 12, 2009

The first time I flew into NYC at night, the infinite stretch of lights had a deep impact on me. To see the development and magnitude of the world from a pilot's-eye view was a shock. A like, yet opposite, moment occurred with the descent into Entebbe, Uganda. There were minutes of time when I saw not one single light in the darkness. What was below me was simply nature, no embellishments.

After immigration, I paced around the exit, hoping my first Couch surfing host would recognize me from my profile picture. Paul appeared and took me away from the probing taxi drivers towards the capital city of Kampala.

I knew I made a fantastic decision to couch surf when my drive from the airport got me closer to the real Uganda than I ever could have gotten otherwise. As our chatting and cultural exchange passed the hour-long drive, I realized the scene outside was unfolding something so eerie and intense. The dust of the streets created a fog through which car headlights revealed hundreds of wandering silhouettes. Things didn't feel so familiar anymore, as I realized the streets were littered and webbed with people, even out here in the dark of night, somewhere on a stretch of highway. Finally there came the realization, the zing I sought for months.

"Wow, I'm traveling."

Paul lives in a village on the edge of Kampala, one called Masajja, which is connected by dirt roads, all veined and rutted by the wet season's downpours. The first few bouncy minutes brought to mind Ace Ventura on his jungle rides through Africa, singing "Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang," his head bouncing from the passenger's seat across and out his driver's side window. I needed a helmet in the back seat.

The Ssenoga family, Paul and siblings, live in a home attached to a few rooms, which they rent out for their income. My travel goal of never using a squat toilet went out the window when I got a look at the compound latrine. I was in no way discouraged though, as I knew my immersion was deeper than I could have anticipated (and that doesn't mean I fell in).

Though I hadn't slept in about three days, I stayed up to chat with my host about his family, his village, and life in Uganda. Outside his window, the sun was far set, but the neighborhood was still throbbing. On the corner, a man sold chapattis (essentially flour tortillas) for cost flow. Boda-boda drivers (guys with motorbikes) surfed the dirty waves while trying to find passengers to transport and charge. In this community, everyone was a family man and

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