10 Days in Uganda, Day 9, Is that a baboon jumping on our roof?
The engine on the boat fluttered a bit then gave out completely. The people showed no sense of panic as the boat drifted towards the weir, the boatman vigorously tugging at the engine’s start-up cord. He was fighting a losing battle.The engine was completely dead. The bystanders looked on anxiously, the boat picking up speed as it was pulled inexorably towards the weir’s deadly boulders. A rescue boat was hurriedly sent out and reached its target in time. The Nile would claim no victims that day.
We were at Jinja, a short journey from Kampala and where Lake Victoria pours out its massive waters into the source of the Nile. In the nineteenth century the location of the Nile’s headwater had been a puzzle for many eminent Victorian explorers including David Livingstone, and it wasn’t until John Hanning Speke found this very spot that the actual source was discovered.
Just down the river was Bujagali Falls, a series of dangerous rapids where you could pay a local to throw himself into the water with a plastic yellow bottle tied to his body so that you could watch his deadly progress over the rocks.I did not wish to be a party to this assisted suicide attempt, so graciously declined the offer. Apart from our visit, two significant events occurred at Bujagali Falls that day. One was a visit from the Ugandan President who was inaugurating the building of a new hydro-electric dam, The other was the ritual of gaining the approval of the water spirits by relocating them before the dam destroyed the rapids. The local witch doctor announced that the water spirits were appeased and showed their approval by causing a rain storm. Moses laughed cynically, proclaiming it a scam to attract tourists. I think he had a point.
Huge jackfruit, like giant elongated melons, grew everywhere in this region. Moses stopped to buy a slice. Before we could eat it he had to clean off the dust and grime of the road with an old piece of newspaper. Newsprint was the flavour of the month, apparently. The jackfruit tasted sweet and not unlike pineapple, though nicer.
The tree-lined town of Jinja was well built, spacious and hinted of richer colonial days. There was a large Asian population and decent, well-stocked shops. Surrounded by Coco-pops, Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut, and Bird’s Custard Powder, we could have been at home. Even the prices were the same. We bought Snickers. They had been made in Egypt and tasted as if they had been dug up from Pharaoh’s tomb.
We stayed in a Mexican hotel that night. It had been owned by an Asian man who had been expelled by that evil tyrant Idi Amin dada (who may at this very moment be rotting in hell). After restitution, the son returned from Leeds, improved the hotel and landscaped the grounds. He was enthusiastic about the British Royal family and grateful for the opportunities he had been given while living in Britain. Our villa-type rooms, hidden by climbing vegetation, over-looked the swimming pool. The hotel was beautiful, though strangely devoid of guests. The owner’s wife was Texan and had started the nearby Amani orphanage to look after orphaned and abandoned babies.
Georgina couldn’t resist the lure of the swimming pool and joined 2 black girls who were being given a swimming lesson by their father who sat fully clothed on the side. “ Precious, keep kicking”. “Precious, keep moving your arms.” “Precious, swim over here.” Precious paid little heed. Georgina joined in, moving Precious arms & legs in the required directions. “That’s it, Precious. You’re in school now. Do as teacher says.” “Precious, though reluctant at first, was warming to her lessons.” The father, sucking on a clear bag containing amber liquid, was becoming more and more incoherent. His wife, sitting alone on the other side of the pool paid little heed to the proceedings and seemed pleased when it was time to go. “Say goodbye to the dog”, the man shouted to his children as they left the pool. “It’s rude to go without saying goodbye to the dog”. Precious had already gone. He stumbled his way towards me. I kept my head down and pretended to carry on reading my book. “It’s good that people can get on and live together.” He slurred at me. “”We can be friends together. You help my children. We are friends. My father was a professor. He wanted me to be one too, but I was a failure and let him down. I don’t beg. There are people who beg. But for what? Eh? I just want contacts. It’s just contacts. Some people beg. But what for? He hunched his shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “But I don’t beg. What for? Eh? What for?” He was waving his arms about and seemed to want a response.” Not knowing what he was talking about I struggled to find one. Best agree with him, I thought. “Yea, what for?” I ventured. This was not an adequate response. He carried on as before. “My father had expectations of me and I could not live up to them. I was a disappointment.” This man clearly needed counselling. “All I need is contacts. Contacts are good, no?” Some people beg. But not me. It’s contacts, eh?” “Yes,” I agreed. Suddenly his tone changed to one of annoyance. “You are friends to my children, but you are not my friend.”With that he stormed off.Being particularly dense that day I had not realised he was asking for my name and address etc. What would he have done with them? He doesn’t beg. The bag he was sucking turned out to be “Mike Tyson, the drink with extra punch, 40% alcohol.”
That night we slept in a mad house. Rats were running a marathon in the roof space. Was that a baboon jumping on our roof? In the early hours, a chorus of raucously discordant birds screeched incessantly, and continually dragged us back from sleep. There was nearly a serious case of bird murder, but we later discovered that this horrific noise was made by a tiny tree frog attracting a mate. It wouldn’t have needed a mate if I’d have caught it.