Is it Possible to be Happy All The Time?

April/May 2007 (UGANDA)



Lake Bunyoni near Kabale



IS IT POSSIBLE TO BE HAPPY ALL THE TIME?


It is an intangible fact that one can judge a country pretty quickly without being able to say why or wherefore. It is just a 'feeling' one gets. Uganda immediately left me with that kind of feel-good sensation and it persisted even after saying goodbye in Kampala to Davey and Ben. It was a happy time spent with them. One soon learnt to ride on the death-defying Kampala motorbike taxis and I was glad for the 'practice' this allowed. After such rides, anything on two wheels was a doddle. I moved on to Kabale in the south west near the Rwanda border, to stay with Ben's mother.

Liz is a delight to know and she made me, a stranger, totally welcome and invited me to stay as long as I liked. Which worked out very well as I could visit Rwanda, go to the north-western parks and go on a canoeing/trekking trip without having to take my big sucsac along. So far on this trip it has been a pleasure to be able to dig deep into my possessions for comfort and familiarity, but the contents of my big bag has really not been essential and I have proved that I can travel very lightly if I made the effort ('for a short time', my conscience reminds me). And of course, I have not had the emergency which needed the piles of medicines I scrupulously carry with me. By the way, not to be too pedantic about this, most of the antibiotics are out of date, the plasters stuck or melted through the heat, the tubes and phials of creams gooey and watery..... One day I shall need them all, I have to assure myself.

Despite this warm welcome from a mzungu and the luxury of staying in a comfortable house with Liz, the feeling of ease which Uganda emanates remained. English is the official language, so that that also helped to make the contact with people more relaxed. They were friendly and did not constantly harass one for money or goods. And when the wonderful Kabale bicycle taxis tried to get my business and I told them that I was given legs for walking, they would greet me as 'legs!' when I went past. One took these taxis very often though as they are cheap and the town is very elongated. Early one morning when I left to catch a bus to Kampala at the bus station on the other side of town, the bicycle taxi was quite happy to put my large rucsac on his handlebars as well as me on the back rack with small rucsac and bags of fruit and books. Quite a weight!
Kabale has the usual quota of aid workers and NGOs. We occasionally met for a drink or meal. Conversations were interspersed with acronyms and I was lost! Liz's colleagues were also working for VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) and one became very aware of the need for these workers to be properly briefed and trained for their two-year stint. It is accepted that it needs at least 6 months in a country before beginning to do something positive. An example in reverse: A Chinese girl, who teaches IT skills, had never left her country before going to Canada as an immigrant some years ago. She talks about her surprise and confusion when she went to the toilet in the airplane and found this strange white ‘seat’ facing her! Eventually, in desperation, she climbed upon it and squatted. Now she is used to our Western ways… I heard too many stories of well-meaning volunteers who thought they were doing ‘good’ by coming over for a short stint of volunteering. It generally just upsets the system and confuses the recipients. Later, when I had a conversation with a local woman and she had my confidence, she confirmed to me that many of these volunteers are really not very welcome and the locals would be better off doing things their own way. To prove a point, I have met two groups of local women (Kenya and Tanzania) who had organised themselves to look after orphans and support them with their own funds. It seemed the obvious thing to do to them and they did not want to go to an NGO to have to go through all the bureaucracy and hassle and accountability it involved,despite there being money available. .Liz introduced me to Warren who worked with her for a few hours a week as a volunteer. If and when the funding for the project came through, he might be offered a permanent job. He also worked part-time for Edirisa (see below) and also lectured in 'tourist guiding' at a college and the local university. Warren was enthusiastic to learn all he could from me about Guiding. I had been sceptical about the quality of guiding instruction the local college was giving when I visited them and Warren then told me that he lectured there as well as at the local university. Anyway, the outcome was that he asked me to give a lecture to students from both organisations. It was hard work!

When the combined classes finally came together one morning (I had stressed to him that Guides are punctual to a fault and as the tourists are driven by their watches, the students must make an effort to show me they understood the principle of this) only 20 minutes late, I really found it difficult to give them any understanding of what the subject is all about. They sat immobile and I could not get a reaction. In the end I took them all outside and continued there with practical work. The place was in uproar and students totally bemused. When I tried to persuade a student to 'steal' my mobile phone, he was horrified by the idea of doing such a thing. I finally thrust it in his hand and told him to run off a bit. This was just my usual exercise in trying to make Guides aware of what they have to do when a client is robbed. But my play-acting fell on deaf ears. All they want is notes and silence. I was once told that if the students question the teacher or in any way try to have a discussion, the student may be blacklisted by the teacher and fail exams. Teaching throughout Africa still has a long way to go.

Before I went to Rwanda, Warren wanted to 'show me off' to his family and district. He suggested that I accompany him to his home village one day because he needed to ‘inspect’ the roof of his father’s new house. Liz had 'lent' him money to put a new corrugated iron roof on his father's house and this had to be approved. Only once before, a mzungu had been in this remote area where Warren was the first person ever to go to university. It would be a 6-hour walk there and then a 6-hour walk back, I was told. Of course I suggested that if I pay for a taxi, it would be easier… I am beginning to understand the African mentality! On the basis of that, I bought all kinds of presents for his father and his 7 wives and 37 children and also invited two backpackers I had met to come along. We set off into the hills where mzungus never go. The road was newly built, but out in the countryside there was no traffic and when we stopped in the village, it was fascinating to see all the male elders sitting in the sun in a half-moon around the chief. This was a weekly meeting for the District and they were discussing honey collection inter alia. Beehives belong to individuals, but where they are placed in trees, has to be agreed. The countryside is spectacular but intensely farmed as it is all over in these fertile parts. Warren had arranged for us to attend the local primary school where the end-of-term prize giving celebrations were taking place. This way he could show off his mzungu friends, impress on the children that he was the first…. etc etc…

On arrival we created sufficient stir. Most children had never seen a mzungu and we allowed them to touch our skins and hair. At least they had been forewarned and were not afraid of us. Very often, when a small child sees me for the first time, it starts to cry because the kids are taught that, if they are naughty, the mzungu will eat them!


The man-eating story as told to me by Richard, my respected Guide:

Whenever I go to places where Mzungus have never/seldom been, the small children all run away or hide behind their moms' skirts and fearfully peek out at me. I try to sit down and stretch out my hands with a smile. It can take a bit of patience to win their confidence... So I have been trying to find out quite why they are so scared of 'white-skins'. It goes back to a relatively short time ago: Traditionally, the Pastoralists of these parts rate their cattle as their most prized possessions. One asks 'How are your cattle?' not 'How are your wives?' A time-honoured practice is to shoot an arrow into the main vein in the neck of their cattle to gather blood which is then mixed with milk for a very nutritious meal. During the Second World War, many Africans were co-opted into the army and were active fighters throughout East Africa, Egypt, Italy and Burma. But the medics needed blood for the wounded and all soldiers became blood donors... Today mothers still tell the little ones if they are naughty;" If you do not behave, the mzungu will eat you". I gave the above explanation to an ex-pat who has lived in Africa all her life. She doubted that it is true. Once again, I like the story and recount it despite the unscientifically proven source!

We met the head teacher in his office. He was resplendent in his university gown and mortarboard. Weeks later I watched a procession of students from the Kabale College march through the streets. They followed a banner and brass band and were also all dressed in their graduation gowns and wearing their mortarboards. This is a real status symbol.

We sat in to listen to every class sing the national anthem, then a song which often referred to Aids/HIV followed by a traditional dance. Fortunately I could hastily find ‘prizes’ for the best of different categories. After a long speech by Warren, I was asked to address the school. What to say? I could only think of the beauty of their hilly surroundings; of the abundant foliage and rich soil; of the fresh, chemical-free food they ate; of the wonderful weather and freedom to roam that they have. So I told them of the crowded streets and houses in London; of the polluted air and chemical/old food we eat; of the cold weather and need for lots of clothes; and of my children’s school where there was insufficient space and the girls had to play on the roof. Maybe one day, when they have achieved the Western Ideal, they may look back and remember that life was not bad during the ‘poverty years’. By the way, Uganda has never had a history of famine. The volcanic soil is far too fertile and, being on the equator, there are two seasons for crops.

We continued to Warren’s family compound where they were all out in force to greet us. Women and children clustered around and were very pleased to shake hands. The wives had been cooking all day and a table was laid with many different traditional dishes. What a feast! We were served and the women retired but the grandfather and uncle joined us. During the meal, Warren’s father showed us the uncle’s left hand. It is missing a thumb and small finger. Years ago, when he was poaching gorillas and held a spear in his left hand, a gorilla had bitten into the hand and walked off with the two missing digits. Today they respect the nearby National Park and talk about conserving the gorillas.

A thoroughly pleasant day was had by all and Warren was happy. His visit with the mzungus will be remembered for many years.
I saw much of this way of life while staying with Liz who was in the process of starting up an anti-corruption organisation. Liz is the consummate professional. Her nails are always immaculately painted, her smart clothes are crisply ironed linen and she has the experience and diplomacy of a saint. Her vast knowledge of how to do things like apply for funding or make lists for the Donors of where/how money will be spent is impressive. She knew just how to draw up all the spreadsheets required etc. But her strength was in how she handled the people working with her. TIA, so one does not expect perfection. People whose second language is English and who have not been brought up in a Western Culture, find office work very difficult.

Ugandans are notoriously unable to do mathematics. If I bought something for 6000 shillings and paid with a 10000 shilling note, the calculator would have to come out to assess the amount of change I needed. One of my 'tests' of a nation's mathematical skills is reflected in Su-doku. I play this game whenever I am on bus. It generally gets my neighbours interested and I then try to explain the theory behind it. My Dutch friend, who is married to an Ethiopian, is an avid book reader, but her husband never reads. However, you can seldom get him away from his puzzle books! Whereas the Ethiopians seemed to catch on pretty quickly, I am yet to find a Ugandan who has had more that a baffled interest in it. No one I showed it to could understand the principle of the puzzle. Which reminds me of my prejudiced, non-pc conclusion: Races/tribes do have different aptitudes.


Am I prejudiced? Yes! But Liz knows that her staff will have to take over and her endless patience and skill in trying to get them to understand, is awesome! I certainly do not have that skill and find it easier to just do the job myself. Not Liz! She survives the most trying of jobs and is always cheerful.
I also saw the same skills being applied by Miha, a Slovene who runs an organisation called Edirisa, which tries to help the locals and to integrate visitors so that they can understand the communities and learn from them whilst the locals earn money from these projects. One such a course is 'Learn From Africa' in which visitors spend two weeks living with the locals and every day doing and learning something like weaving, dancing, basket making, teaching in the primary school, cooking local food and so on. The last three days are spent on a canoeing/trekking expedition which is open to visitors. This is what I later joined. However, when I enquired about it at the center’s headquarters, I asked the man behind Reception, who had been there throughout the project, who is a member of staff and who attends all meetings, to tell me about it. He said something that I could not understand and I asked him to write it down. He wrote 'Live for Africa'. In other words, he had never been able to grasp the name of the project everyone was involved in. I quote this only as an example of the frustrations people have to go through in a developing country. I freely admit that I do not have the patience, but thank goodness for people like Liz who believe that they will/can make a difference.

MISCELLANEOUS FACT: Out of the $100billion of Aid Money spent in the Developing World, only 30% reaches the needy. Not all of it goes into administration. The Global Fund has had a very good example in Uganda where a Doctor connected with it, mysteriously started building a massive Conference Complex on the shores of Lake Bunyoni. He died suddenly and the half-built structure is an eyesore in this very beautiful area. His widow does not know where he got the money from.... Not that there isn’t corruption in the west either. It is just more subtle.
Uganda has been a delight and there is nothing I have seen or done to change my opinion of this welcoming country. I am constantly happy and carefree and share the positive attitude, which Davey also reflected in his enthusiasm.

Because it was a protectorate and not a colony, there was never the large landowning expatriate sector to create tensions between them and the locals. Although 33 languages are spoken and there is an active history of infighting and warfare with various groups insisting on power, it is calm on the whole. (Those people receiving international media coverage will not believe me when they yell ’Lord’s Resistance Army’ at me!) English is the official language, so one is understood most of the time. The country has survived the horrible years of Amin and Obote (more people slaughtered by the latter), and although I am not so naïve as to say that there will not be problems, as is the case in all of Africa, the current climate is ready to welcome visitors. I was with Davey and Ben in Kampala during the anti-Govt. march in April when 3 people were killed. The Govt. had said that a piece of Protected Natural Forest could be given to an Asian-owned company for sugar planting. This just reflected the corruption in higher circles, which is endemic in most of Africa. The good thing was that there was enough public concern for the crowds to feel free to protest and save a bit of heritage. One Asian was killed and the police brought out teargas. Reminds me of protests I have witnessed or read about in London… except that Tony Blair would not listen to the majority of people when they protested against the Iraq war…. At least the forest sell-off plans were scrapped as a result. On the whole the Asians have been welcomed back to Uganda after the time of their expulsion and in most places, they run the shops and successful businesses.

The recent riots placed a question mark over the forthcoming Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) in November, but the country has been declared safe and enough has been put in place to ensure the comfort of the Queen. Once again, I have been witnessing preparations for an international event; streets being cleared, trees and flowers being planted, buildings being painted and general excitement all over. In the Queen Elizabeth National Park, a special apartment next to the luxury lodge already there, is being built for the Royals for when they visit to relax for a day or so. And no doubt the over 2m long forest cobra, which was trapped in the pit latrine being built, would have been removed by then. I saw it when it was being fed mice rather than being killed outright as would have been the case before the importance of environmental and conservational issues were imbedded into the people’s psyche. Africans have a great fear of snakes and automatically kill them when possible. Co-incidentally, the newspapers and radio were full of the opinions of readers and listeners after a recent incident in which a frightened (?) soldier, confronted by a large python, emptied the magazine of his riffle into the harmless reptile. Conservationists, animal–lovers, National Park employees, anti-waste vocalist (all that expensive armament!) and others were having great fun.

After a while in Kabale, I popped over to nearby Rwanda/DRC, which is detailed in another chapter.

My return to Uganda after 18 days in Rwanda and the DRC was quite memorable. On the way to the western Rwanda/Uganda border, my matatu broke down and I hitched a lift in a 4x4 vehicle with two Rwandan ladies in the back. Sitting in the best seat in front, was quite a luxury. The one lady is married to a French EU Diplomat and the cousins were researching good Hotels for a proposed visit by friends from France. I was happy to accompany them, as it meant that I saw places I would have had to pass by without my own transport. Also, because I had a Guide Book, I could suggest places they had not heard of. A very happy day seeing spectacular scenery and beautiful hotel settings was spent in their company. Our route was along the northern lakes and at the foothills of the Ruwenzori Mountains where I went to see the gorillas in 2002. Twice we were held up for over an hour by road works. The fascinating thing was to watch the Chinese men in charge. Nothing like the old colonial supervisor; these men got stuck in and gave orders in Kirwanda. Complicated works were completed and the patiently waiting vehicles moved on.

However, all these delays meant that I arrived at the Rwanda/Uganda border just as it was closing at 6pm. It was 7pm Uganda time and I had said to Liz that I would be back in Kabale that night. My motorcycle taxi said that the road past Kisoro to Kabale through the hills was OK.

“Is it tarred?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it far?”
“No.”
“How far?”
“About 80km.”
“It is dusty,” chipped in another cycle rider.
“So it is not tarred?”
“Yes.”
“OK, how long will it take?”
“Two hours.”

We negotiated a price. I had enough money on me to either pay him or stay overnight in a hotel in Kisoro. The former seemed a viable option and it meant I would be ‘home’ to catch the washerwoman the next day.

We arrived in Kabale 4 hours later. It was probably the scariest ride of my life! Yes, the road was dusty all the way with deep ruts and potholes and corrugations. It was pitch black and the cycle had minimum power or light. I had my rucsac on my back and the driver balanced my volcano-climbing gear in front. At one stage he was so scared that he had to stop and vomit. At other times I told him to stop so that I could get feeling back into my legs, stretch my aching back or walk up a hill, which the struggling cycle could not quite manage. There were no vehicles going in our direction, but quite a few trucks were coming to the end of their journey from Kampala to the Congo. They blinded us and we had to stop or flounder in the soft sand on the side of the road. The incredible dust (the other cyclist was right!) choked and blinded one and lay in the windless road so that one could not follow it. We rode blindly. And all the time we were either going up steep hills or down steep hills with precipitous sides. I remembered! Of course: this was the spectacular road we had traversed in 2002! It is 1000m up and 1000m down. The roads then were in the same terrible state and we did it during a clear day with everyone determined never to do it again, so we hired an airplane to take us back to Entebbe. And I remembered the spectacular views of Lake Bunyoni thousands of meters below. I had promised myself that I would return one day to investigate this amazing lake. But not like this in the dark!

On the way up the pass, before it got too dark, I recognized the little school tucked into the hillside that we had passed on our incredible descent. The kids had seen the 16 mad mzungus on bikes from afar. They raced out of their classes and ran to the roadside to cheer us on. However, teaching being what it is throughout much of Africa, the enraged teachers had followed the kids with long whips and got stuck into them! How dare they run out of class! This attitude to teaching is still very prevalent and a teacher can leave a classroom knowing that the children will sit quietly and ‘study’ without disruption. What a wonderful opportunity for teaching was lost that day!

Now I was back on this road in the dark and traveling ‘blind’! We lost the way twice and I just kept reassuring myself that I would be able to tell a story the next day. That is, if I did not break my back in the mean time! Then I remembered my one and only fall off a motorbike. Jeremy and I were in Capadocia in Turkey and we had hired a small bike to take us to the various underground cities and Byzantine churches hewn out of the rock. Jeremy was in the driving seat. I was heavier than Jeremy for a start and also had a rucsac on my back, so when our small bike skidded whilst struggling up a ground road, we came off and lay in the grit. All we could do was burst out into laughter. I constantly reminded myself of this.

With jelly legs and virtually unable to stand, we arrived in Kabale. The driver agreed that he could not return home that night. I was covered in fine dust and it had seeped through everything. Thank goodness for Liz’s hot shower!

The morning after I had been on the bike-ride I read a quotation in Lt. Gen. Romeo Dallaire’s book, ‘Shake Hands with the Devil’: ‘A man who is afraid of death does not have the courage to live.' I hope that my fears of that night were not of death, but just how to survive the next minute.

Once again, Liz spoilt me and made me so welcome that I stayed in Uganda for far longer than originally intended. But it was time for me to move on and continue being a good tourist. I wanted to explore a bit more of Uganda. Liz was as full of advice and with good books to read as always. I could leave my main bag with her. This time I left for the western Rwenzori Mountains and game parks in that area to the north-west of Uganda.

On the way to Fort Portal, I spent the night next to Kibale Forest (in a comfortable Banda, I hasten to assure you!) so that I could do a three-hour Swamp Walk early the next morning. With the help of a pair of Wellington boots and two guides to direct my gaze, we did see the endemic birds and primates for which it is famous. But leaving the area was a bit of a problem and after a few hours’ patient sitting by the side of the road, I hitched a lift on a large truck delivering crates of beer to all the little stalls and villages along the road. This was magical because, not only could one observe the life of the people from so high up (only one empty crate would be exchanged for a full one by a local ‘entrepreneur‘, or the driver and his mates would stop for a drink or meal wherever there was a gathering of people, or they would stock up with cheap fruit and vegetables to no doubt sell off in Kampala) but I could slowly move through the forest and, while ducking to avoid branches, see the ancient trees from a different angle. The view from up high is quite different!

It is difficult to give an adequate version of the sheer beauty of this part of the country. I stayed in Fort Portal for a few days. It is an attractive hilly town with superb view of the Rwenzories. Richard, the owner of the local Tour Company, booked me into a hostel where American the owner was using profits to sustain an orphanage. It has no restaurant and is quite far from town, so, as the only customer, I was allocated my own cook. John set to with gusto and I carried a table and chair onto the lawn overlooking the mountains and setting sun. In the silence of this glorious setting, the food arrived. Mzungus are so famous for having delicate stomachs, that the locals are fearful of offending these organs in case of disaster... Soup was out of a packet. The sauce with the meat was from a ready-made mixture and the coffee was instant granules. Having traveled for 14 months in Africa, reveling in the natural, fresh food constantly available, my body reacted to all this western factory-produced artificially flavoured 'food'. That night the MSG (Monosodium Glutamate) kept me awake for hours and I learnt what it is like to be an insomniac! I asked John to give me 'real' food in future.

Still in Fort Portal, I cycled in the area one day with a Guide. We saw historic caves and walked around crater lakes as they nestle amongst round hills. There are hundreds of these crater lakes along the fault line of the Western Rift Valley and the looming bulk of the Rwenzori Mountains to the west of it is the highest massif in Africa. Sadly, here the third highest peak in Africa is also rapidly losing its glacier as the world warms up.

For three days I was incredibly fortunate to have Richard as my guide. I had booked the three days and hoped for other paying customers, but as it was the off-season, no one turned up to share expenses. Richard decided to take me himself. We spoke the same language. Thanks to Idi Amin who had an aversion to education and did not pay the teachers, Richard had to give up teaching and therefore eventually started his own business. He could see the potential for tourism. We had a good time exploring much more than the usual tour would include. But I saw enough elephants (they nearly made us late for the game viewing launch on the Kazinga Channel as they would not get off the road), hippos, buffalo and crocodiles to last for a long time. This is what the Queen will see in November when she visits the Queen Elizabeth National Park.

We visited a cave complex with millions of bats. I had never been so close to so many bats before. Unusually for them, fish eagles come to the caves for their meals. But so was another long forest cobra. It was disturbed by us as it was about to have its supper and we watched it gently retreat into one of the many fissures in the cave. Apparently there are also pythons that live off the bats, but I did not see them. However, in the north of Zanzibar I did see a python with an incredibly full stomach. It had been fed three cane rats in the small concrete enclosure where it was part of the attraction for the sea turtle aquarium. I wanted to pick it up and set it free like its Ugandan relation!

Another visit was to a defunct copper mine. Once thousands of people worked there and then the price of copper slumped. Now the Govt. is negotiating for renewed mining concessions and the lovely valley will once again be devoid of green. The slag heaps are going to be re-processed with modern technology and a smart tar road has already been built. We could go inside and see the workings, which have been kept safe for years. It will provide work for thousands, so how can one justify anxiety about pollution and spoilt rivers?

We were up early one morning to get fish samples from Lake Edward and once again, children were fearful of the mzungu.

The salt Crater Lake is fascinating. One descends to the enclosed lake where the edges are intricately divided into square pans by earth walkways. The salty water in the pans is of different colours, depending on the strength of salt/natural chemicals. Here salt mining has been going on for at least a 1000 years and one watches the women scrape salt from the bottom of their family-inherited pans and wash it to produce white salt, which is much prized. It is hard work and people stand in the salt water all day. Fortunately they can use plastic buckets in which to collect and clean the salt. This has made the process very much less time consuming. During the wet season, no work can be done and in the past, during this time, men would carry the precious commodity, wrapped in banana leaves against the rain, on their heads for days. They would walk thus for the hundreds of miles to Kampala. Richard's grandfather was such a salt-worker.

This trip was full of places like that to see and of course the advantage was that I had a vehicle at my disposal.

There, I have been a good tourist!

When leaving this area, I decided to take whatever transport I could get, to follow an obscure road back to Kabale. I chatted to a man next to me in the matatu and he tried to get me somewhere to stay in a small village as it was getting dark. No luck, so he said I should go with him to where he lives. The usual overcrowded car-ride later and we arrived at his Technical School. By the way, a car will not leave unless it has four people in front (the driver sits on one person’s lap) and six passengers on the back seat. The incredibly run-down and overcrowded Technical School teaches students for two years in the skills of brick making, car maintenance, carpentry and general building skills. The over 100 students live in very close proximity to each other in bunk beds, they eat their vegetable meals standing or sitting on the grass outside under the trees and there is one solar panel which supplies enough light for two classrooms every evening so that they can study. The school cannot afford to have electricity connected. My friend took me to his house, which he shared with a student teacher who cooked us a wholesome meal. His wife is also a teacher in another part of the country and they commute regularly to see each other. Their 7 children are all doing well in education/jobs and it was a pleasure to be staying in this modest but happy environment. The students know that they will have good jobs once they are qualified. With minimal facilities because the government has withdrawn funding (practical skills are not fashionable) the teachers are producing productive citizens. Once again my prejudices come out. There are apparently 20,000 CBOs (Community Based Organisations) in Uganda. But where are they or the NGOs who are willing to fund such undertakings instead of ‘gender issues’ or suchlike? If only plumbing was taught! One could make a fortune in this country if one just knew how to change a washer or connect a pipe without it leaking at the joint. Once a building has been completed, there is no maintenance procedure installed and it is incredibly sad to see how quickly a place can deteriorate for want of a screw.

After my return to Kabale and the inevitable clean-up and good food coming from Liz's hospitality, I set off for the three-day canoe/trekking trip around Lake Bunyoni.
This little outing is what eco/cultural tourism is all about and I am fully in favour of it as the local people benefit from direct contact/payment. It is good to see similar projects evolve all over Africa.

I joined the 'Learn From Africa' people who had been staying in the lakeside villages. In total a group of 16 set off with food and tents in dugout canoes. We quickly learnt how to maneuver our mode-of-transport-for-the-next-few-days with the help of our confident and strong guides/porters. We spent the day paddling in these incredibly skillfully dug-out tree trunks and visited 6 of the 29 islands on the lake. Each island presented a different experience:
ex leper colony and now a secondary school (boarding and canoe-commuting pupils),
luxury lodges for a fresh passion fruit drink,
island ideal for swimming,
all-fruit lunch on the island lived on by original Scottish doctor of leper hospital,
natural forest and bird life sanctuary.
We paddled close to the little island with one tree where pregnant unmarried women were left to die within living memory (how come, I innocently ask, are men who impregnated them never punished? -- weeks later I visited a famous waterfall where similarly unfortunate girls were bound and then pushed overboard to drown).

On the first night we set up tents in a compound (OK, I had nothing to do with it and our porters did all the hard work). Although the owner of the house only had the one building, his yard outside is called a compound. The local ladies provided us with a feast of traditional dishes. The next day, we paddled over to the western shore and had a hard day of climbing and walking. But the view of the Rwandan border-lands and ‘my’ volcano in the DRC in the distance was worth the huffing and puffing. We met the Batwa people who are better known as Pygmies. As happened with the Australian Aborigines, these small people were forced out of their natural habitats in forests where they lived in harmony with nature. Today they lead precarious lives amongst the local agriculturalists and do not have land or forest with animals to live off. Alcoholism is a problem. Miha has tried to encourage them to do their traditional dances for tourists, but they just imitate the locals and do not have much will to do anything. Thankfully, internationally, conservationists are changing attitudes and allowing a certain amount of 'buffer zones' between intense agricultural/pastoral development and National Parks. But this movement has been slow in being implemented throughout Africa and in the mean time, people are loosing their traditions. On top of the highest hill in the area (did I say 'never again'?) we had a superb lunch of mzungu-type food...tuna, sardines, olives, cheese… That night, at another compound on another island, we were very happy with the very simple two-dish traditional meal we were given. Our last day ended in a spectacular luncheon at one of those luxury lodges on an island where money really can buy you peace and exclusivity.

As a footnote to the Batwa-visit:
In 1952 in South Africa, we celebrated the 300th anniversary of the arrival of the Dutch representative Jan van Riebeek to start a refueling settlement at the Cape of Good Hope. The white man had landed... Cape Town went over-the-top to celebrate and my mother and we three older kids went there for a treat during the summer holiday. Two days' driving just to arrive was normal! One of the many innovative exhibitions amongst the vast array of ‘the great and the good’ was of a sandy enclosure in which crude shelters had been built by bushmen (now called Koi) and a bushman family was installed for all to gape at. A standing tap for water had been laid on and I remember the awe with which they regaled this 'stick' and asked the whites to give it to them when they returned to their desert dwellings.

And whilst on this theme, a story my mother used to tell and which I quote when people discuss the racial issues of SA: My mother, born in 1907, was brought up in the South Western Cape where only Hottentots were native to the land and where Malay slaves were imported to work on the vineyards. Miscegenation was rife and most old Cape families have a bit of coloured blood in them. Mom trained as a teacher and in 1933, decided to move to Natal on the East Coast to continue her teaching there. It was usual in those days to travel by the Union Castle Line around the coast of South Africa. When she stepped off the Liner in Durban, she saw a black man for the first time in her life.
All good things come to and end and I left Kabale and the hospitality of Liz to have a few days in Kampala, staying with her son, Ben.
This time I decided to get to know the town a bit better and hired a motorcycle taxi for the Saturday. Most impressive was the Royal Tombs. The last few kings are buried there and their wives or their female descendants still keep watch and maintain the site on a monthly moon-related rota basis. This complex with huts surrounding the main, vast straw-roofed hut, where the kings are buried and the graves are hidden by incredibly large bark-cloths, is the equivalent of Westminster Abbey, I was proudly informed. The Queen is due to visit in November and there is great excitement. She will be able to sit in the sacred part beyond a buffer-mat. During the 19th century, Queen Victoria sent the king a present. As she and Albert used to sit opposite each other doing their 'boxes', she must have had an image of the local king doing the same. So she sent a little table and two bent-wood chairs. What she was not told, was that the king had 900 wives!The other touristy site I enjoyed in Kampala was the Baha'i Temple. This is a smallish religion which became well-known at the time of the suicide of Dr. David Kelly, the man who was accused, some time after the Iraq invasion, by the British Govt. of leaking secrets about WMDs. Kelly was a member of the Baha'i movement and as such, did not believe in a heaven or hell, but just a state of being. It is regarded as one of the major 9 religions of the world and originates in Persia (Iran). Every Continent has only one Temple and the African one is in Kampala. Set on a calm hillside with tree-shaded lawns around it, it is a haven of calm and peace. One can just go there to relax and enjoy the quiet and views of Kampala. Inside the 1950s building with its tall dome, there is no ostentatious decoration and you can browse through all the major religious books like the Koran or Bible. Sunday gatherings are quiet and unstructured and I am reminded of the Quakers (not the 'Friends' church in Kisumu though!).Throughout Kampala there are still activities going on to beautify and repair the city for the forthcoming CHOGM event in November. When I was last in Kampala nearly two months before, the town was in disarray after the organised protest against the President/Government for planning to give away a part of a National Forest to an Asian-owned sugar company. One Asian and two protesters were killed and there was a real possibility that CHOGM would be cancelled. All now is sweetness and light and the deal has been signed and CHOGM goes ahead. What the protest proved so efficiently, was that a demonstration could be organised through email and SMS in no time. No wonder the Ethiopian Govt. banned SMS on mobile telephones after the last anti-Govt. election demonstrations in which many were killed. Now, years later, those demonstrators and Opposition leaders have finally been sentenced by the Ethiopian Courts: Guilty. My cynicism about the state of 'democracy' in Ethiopia waxes.The first day of me being a good tourist in Kampala, was a memorable one for Uganda. For the first time in most citizens' lives, they were able to ride on a train. An old track had been re-instated and with new rolling stock, was open to take football fans to the National Mandela Stadium. The times 'Mandela' is used in Africa to name all and every kind of building, road or structure is quite impressive. This afternoon there was an important match against Nigeria in the Africa Cup series. Ben and friends had left early to experience this ride and make sure that they were in their seats on time. I spent the touristy afternoon with my cycle taxi calling in at various places where crowds were gathered to see the latest score. Near the end of the match, as we were nearing home on one of the typically bumpy murran roads of Kampala, with the last score still 1-all, the streets suddenly erupted with cheering people, whistles, hooting and general celebration to let everyone know that the final score had been changed to 2-1 in Uganda's favour. Ben and friends arrived back in the early morning and could stagger to bed after a bowl of onion soup which I had made and left for them. One really does enjoy being a housewife and doing some cooking for a change.
The following day (3rd June) was 'Uganda Martyrs Day' which is celebrated annually throughout the world. In the 19th century, when converted Christians (Protestant and Catholic) did not want to renounce their new religion, the king had them tied in bundles of twigs and put on a giant pyre where they were roasted to death. Over the years, the site, a few kilometers outside Kampala, has become very important and there are buildings to commemorate the event. Pilgrims come from all over and many walk for days to be there on the day. The Archbishop of Canterbury has been to the site and their representative cathedral. Pope John Paul 11 also visited the Catholic cathedral and their martyrs were canonised. Seems a bit unfair to me.... My cycle taxi and I arrived near the site as the throngs of thousands became a mass of people. Cycles were banned and we had to walk to the area. After trying to get close to the buildings for 2 hours, I decided to go back to Kampala. We had circled the masses and mingled and gotten lost and generally enjoyed the atmosphere of incredible singing and speeches over loudspeakers from the President and others. I have respect for people who have such strong faith to warrant such discomfort for so long.The following morning (and thanks to my faithful cycle-taxi driver who willingly carried me and all my stuff on his bike) I was at the bus stop for Nairobi. In the shaded area where people sat around waiting for the bus to arrive, I noticed two young men bent over the feet of some of the women passengers. Each lad had a large, flat wicker basket filled with all kinds of bottles, cotton wool and nail varnishes. To me this is enterprise at its best. You have a captive cliental who are only too pleased to freshen up and have a funky colour and pattern painted on their toenails whilst waiting for the bus. I requested the service (without the paint) and could thus use up my last remaining Ugandan coins. What a joy to have my nails expertly cut and toes superbly cleaned and buffed! And full marks to the lads for spotting a gap in the market.I have always maintained that happiness is not an emotion one has to strive for. It smacks too much of wide smiles and Disney World-like activities which are as false as can be. My word for the ultimate emotion to aim for is contentment. But that is not a catchy phrase.
I remain happy and am content.