Thomas G. Fiffer

Entebbe. For most people, this Ugandan city and synonymous airport conjure the daring Israeli hostage rescue of 1976. While I recall that gripping crisis and its electrifying resolution, I have my own set of Entebbe memories—and my very own “tail" of Ugandan adventure.

Just months after my father died in February, 1975, my mother took nine-year-old me on safari to East Africa, where we saw lions and tigers (no bears) up close, ceded the road to an elephant en route to Ngorongoro Crater, and were stalked one night by a water buffalo who urinated on our tent. Our driver, Hamisi—who taught me hello in Swahili (“Jambo!”) and whose bloodshot eyes could spot animals miles away—told us that Idi Amin, Uganda’s dictator, would sometimes shut off Kenya’s power (which flowed from hydroelectrics at Victoria Falls) because a) he hated Kenyans, b) that’s what despots do, and c) he could. (Reasons b) and c) are mine, not Hamisi’s.) So when our return flight from Nairobi to London made an unscheduled stop at Entebbe, we and the other members of our Alumni Flights Abroad tour group were legitimately frightened. For a moment, everyone hesitated to get off the plane (what if we were indefinitely detained), then we did what all good tourists do—disembarked and bought everything in sight. My souvenirs were a small leather and horsehair shield (now gone) and a horsetail flyswatter that—unless it saw use before I purchased it—has never swatted a fly.