10 Days in Uganda, Day 7, Denis
Penina, the director of Denis project arrived “side-saddle” on the back of a motorbike/taxi. It was a good way to travel if you wanted to avoid the squash of an over full minibus/taxi. If you couldn’t afford the motorbike taxi you used a push-bike taxi. I had been wondering why rows of young men on bikes and motorbikes lined every town and village we drove through. I though they were just the local youths “hanging out” and littering the roads like they do in Britain. Instead, they were working hard to earn a living. You had to feel sorry for the poor chap puffing and panting up a steep hill with a large woman on the back. He earned his money. Sometimes a motorbike would zoom past with the passenger frantically trying to hold onto a pig or goat that didn’t want to go to market that day. Everywhere young lads were struggling with bicycles piled high with plantains. Another popular crop in this region was sorghum. Sheets covered with the grass-like seeds were drying in the sun. It is used for food and for an alcoholic beverage. If you see a man with the yellow, plastic water bottles it is probably his supply of alcohol, especially if the bottle is bulging. It is only the women who carry water. The zombie-like expressions of many of the men, standing by the side of the road testified to the fact that this “gut-rot” was a potent brew. As Paul, the assistant director of Denis project said, “Unfortunately, continued over indulgence can destroy not only him but also his family and, ultimately, the fabric of society”. Most weddings take place in the sorghum season because that is when alcohol is available to give the guests. At the project a bridal procession was leaving the church. She looked pretty in her white bridal gown, her eyes demurely lowered to the ground. Her uncle, one of the project’s trustees told me that the usual cost of a Ugandan wedding was about 5 million Ugandan shillings, which is about £5000 – a lot of money by anyone’s standard.
We drove across the airfield to Denis house. The nearby mountains looked like pudding basins on the landscape. We parked in a field and started to walk the rest of the way to the house. Paul drove up on his motorbike. “Anyone want a lift?” Georgina was on the back of that bike before anyone could say,” yes, please” and they were off, bouncing across the countryside. Denis came running out to meet us. His expression didn’t show it but he had been so excited at Sally’s visit that he hadn’t slept the previous night. Paul explained that this was the happiest day of Denis’ life. Even when given presents Ugandan children don’t show emotion on their faces, but they are happy and grateful inside. This rang true with our experience at the previous project. We were shown the large water tank that Sally’s sponsorship had bought along with the “portaloo” toilet in the garden. Sally was given beans, sorghum and Irish (ordinary as opposed to sweet) potatoes. Like the chicken at Kasese, these were given to the project. We had visited Denis’ secondary school that morning. The classrooms were basic, empty apart from a blackboard and rows of wooden desks crammed in. A few students were using their holiday doing extra maths. Education is one way out of dire poverty and the competition is fierce. Extra, hard work is necessary. The students were courteous, charming and didn’t seem to mind that our distraction had probably cost them a couple of marks in their next maths exam. On our way out we met the headmaster. When he had worked out who Denis was he told us all about his progress. Moses suggestion that Sally might like to see some of Denis’ work was a bridge too far. “I think we’ll leave it at that,” he said friendly but firmly. One doesn’t mess with the headmaster so we didn’t hang around to be put in detention. It struck me that Moses at school had been well-experienced at winding up headmasters.
“Virginity is for both boys and girls”, “Say no to casual sex” “Say no to bad touching”. These were some of the slogans painted on the exterior walls of the primary school attached to the project. Provided you could read English there was no getting away from the message. It was something to read at playtime. The previous sponsor visitor had taken exception to the school and moved their child to another one.
There was no avoiding the switch-back ride back to Kabale. We stopped at the top of a hill and Sally gave the remaining gifts to two ragged children at the side of the road. Suddenly, we were besieged by swarms of them, clambering around and pushing forward with their hands out. They had materialised out of thin air. “Go away. You mustn’t beg.” Moses waved his stick at them. We were lucky to get away with our lives. By this time, I was beginning to suffer from a distinct case of goodwill fatigue. Maybe it was creeping old age but, by then, I’d had enough of children for the time being. My benign smile was beginning to droop.
The smooth tarmac and the White Horse Inn of Kabale improved our spirits. This hotel, though patronised by the President of Uganda on his forays into this region, had seen better days. The restaurant was particularly grand and well decorated and we had the waiter’s full attention being the only diners at one point. The lounge boasted a vigorous log fire which seemed strange and out of place so near the equator.
We spent the time before dinner walking along the main street where we attracted the inevitable posse of children. We were helped by an armed security guard who kept them at bay while we drank our fizzy Mirinda Fruities (Vimtos) on a café veranda. “I need to buy books for school” was on of the lines. If that didn’t work, “I’m an orphan. Please assist me” would surely follow. It’s not that we were unsympathetic, but harassing strangers was no long-term solution to their plight. We’re not monsters, honest.