10 Days in Uganda, Day 8, The Slaughtered Goat
Day 8 took us from Kabale to Kampala. It was Sunday, the day when, traditionally, people either go to Church or wash their cars. As we drove out of Kabale…drivers were washing their lorries next to signs that read, “Washing vehicles by the side of the road is prohibited”. A bit further down the road a goat had been strung upside down on a wooden scaffold and was being drained of blood.
Moses notices some carrots for sale and stops. He wants to take a present to his wife in Kampala. When he returns to the car we can tell he is slightly annoyed. “The trouble with these people (street sellers), is as soon as they see white people in the car they double the price.” As we approach Lake Victoria we see stalls of large fish for sale. His wife would like a fish. They are large tilapia and have been freshly caught. It’s a delicious fish and we have eaten it nearly every day. The first negotiation is unsuccessful.. It’s the “white” problem again. Next time, Moses parks beyond the stall and manages to secure a satisfactory price. He ties the large, silver fish to the front of his car like a hunting trophy. We’ll probably be chased down the road by a pack of hungry dogs. At least the inside of the car won’t smell and we are grateful for that.
I had switched on the TV again that morning expecting to find soccer. Instead, it had been Ugandan Big Brother, and quite riveting. For twenty minutes a girl lay on her bed reading a book. The highlight came in the twenty-first minute when she coughed. The excitement was too much for me and I had to switch it off. I’m not sure why that came to mind as we sped back to Kampala with a large fish tied to the front of the car. “This is the region I come from.” Moses brought me back from my reverie. Suddenly, we swerve off the road into a garage forecourt and narrowly miss the girl petrol attendant. The man standing by the back wall looks worried as we approach but smiles when he recognises Moses. This is Farouk, one of Moses brothers. Moses is laughing when he returns to the car. “Farouk said to me,’ what’s this? You only drive whites now?’” and he continues to laugh. Moses seems pretty pleased with himself.
We pass a diesel lorry and trailer overturned by the side of the road. Villagers were gathering with plastic containers to collect their share of free diesel. It reminded me of the Cornish “wreckers” who lured ships onto the rocks to steal their cargos. No, that couldn’t be happening here.
Our journey ends at the Red Chilli Hideaway in Kampala. Monkeys shriek as they jump from tree to tree in the garden. As it was Sunday we took a minibus/taxi to the Kampala Pentecostal Church in the centre of the city. Sally had heard of its connection with the Watoto Baby Project and their Children’s Choir. We squeeze into a minibus/taxi legally registered for only fourteen passengers. We didn’t know it at the time but any excess passengers can be prosecuted along with the driver. There were nineteen of us in that bus and we were the last to get on.
The church (a theatre) was full. We had to stand at the back, no, we could sit at the front in seats reserved for the pastors. We hoped we wouldn’t be called up to speak. The evening was given over to 2 visiting groups, one, a dance troupe, the other, a comedy group. We heard the satirical song about the Queen’s impending visit but we didn’t see much, as the cameraman was plonked directly in front of us. They don’t seem to think much of their pastors, or maybe their pastors were blind? Never mind, we wouldn’t stay long as it would soon be dark and we didn’t want to negotiate Kampala at night. It was dangerous. “It’ll look rude if we walk out from the front row,” said Georgina. “Let’s stay a bit longer.” The entertainment began to over-run, seriously. I began to stress out. Would they let us stay in the theatre until morning? No. Kampala was black when we pored out onto the street. The minibus/taxis were full and not going our way. The driver of one thought he might be going our way and we could get in anyway. We got in, though logic dictated otherwise. It’s strange how we can act against all common sense and reason. The girl in front of me turned around. She had heard me mention The Red Chilli Hideaway. She lived behind it and would tell us where to get off. What an answer to prayer. She had been at the church and might be sold into slavery with us. At least, she could help ward off our attackers or hurl insults at them in their language. Sharon, our girl, disappeared at one stop. I panicked. Where was she? She turned up sitting behind me. She was with her sister Dorothy who became Sally’s instant friend and accompanied us up the dark lane to the hotel. They didn’t seem to be at all afraid. What? A silly baby? Who me?