Hayestack

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?

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.

“Do you have grasshoppers in the UK?” Moses asked. We assured him we did. “Do you eat them?” he continued. We assured him we didn’t. He explained that they were a luxury food in Uganda.  Men gave them to their wives and girlfriends instead of flowers and chocolates.  “The women absol-u-u-tley love them,” he said with a typically African, high-pitched chuckle.

We dared to leave the hotel and took a walk down the road past the market.  This was an informal affair where a widow might take two tomatoes and an egg to sell, unlike some of the roadside stalls where the variety, quantity and quality of the produce might even challenge Mr Sainsbury.  Like the Ugandans, he should consider building his tomatoes into little towers to attract custom.

Walking past the market was a terrifying affair.  Everybody just stood and stared.  Surely they’d seen white people before?   The children waved at us and shouted.  We hoped it wasn’t “Whites go home”.  But it sounded friendly enough.  And they were smiling.  We were approached by a relatively well-dressed teenage girl who was happy to chat in English.  “Can you assist me with some money?” she asked.  With such poverty in Uganda how can you criticise people for being driven to begging?  Children learn it from an early age.  But it doesn’t feel right.  There is a fine line between asking for help and asking with menaces.  The old adage “It is better to give a man a fishing rod than just one fish” is very true. We can give, we should give, but it’s best done through an agency such as Compassion where the money can be used wisely where it is most needed.

We were due to visit 2 of Sally’s sponsor children at their Compassion project about 10 miles from Kasese.  While we waited for Nelson, the project director, to accompany us, Georgina struck up a conversation with the hotel doorman talking about his family and Compassion.  “No sign of Nelson yet?” I asked when we were alone. “Oh, I thought I was talking to him,” she replied.  No wonder the poor doorman looked bemused.

The project was about a kilometre off the main road down a dirt track.  For a small rural community there seemed to be people everywhere.  We had not anticipated the welcome we were about to receive.   A mass of children, mostly in blue, school uniform surrounded the car.  Every eye was fixed on us.  We quite overwhelmed. It was the beginning of their school holidays and they had come especially to meet us.  The adults were lining up to shake our hands, Gladys, Festo, Charity, Rock and Nelson again.  They were genuinely pleased to meet us. We felt like royalty.  The buildings were basic but functional.  The main building was the church, made of brick and with a mud floor.  There were holes for windows which allowed outsiders to stand and watch the proceedings inside.  The buildings fitted well into the prevailing ambience of dire poverty. The children were sent inside while we were shown the classrooms (basic), the toilet block (clean), the dirt area with a rusty roundabout that served as a playground and the small office block.  It was clear that they had very few resources.  One small boy kicked around a “ball” made from a screwed up plastic bag.  But the atmosphere of the place was one of love and care.  The project children seemed to be thriving on it.  There was a stark difference between them and the children not selected.  Only one child in a family is usually chosen to participate in a project.  The project children were generally bigger, healthier and certainly better dressed.  The others were ragged and many had runny noses.  One child, no bigger than a toddler, was 8 years old.  Another wore a large, ripped tee-shirt which would only fit if he put both head and arm through the neck hole.

The children, gathered in the church, sang us songs of joy and hope.  They smiled and they clapped.  They praised Jesus, their Saviour.  They had precious little else to give him.  Sally taught them a song.

We visited Loyce and Jennifer with their families at home.   These were mud huts with straw roofs.  Inside, the few rooms were small, black and empty, apart from maybe a bench, a few chairs or a bed.  The kitchen was a stone shelf with a fire below. The few presents that Sally had brought for her children were the only splashes of colour in this bleak environment.

Loyce was being brought up by her grandmother who looked haggard and exhausted.  Her mother was ill.  Jennifer’s parents looked worn down by the grinding effort to survive.  Her father was pale and looked a physical wreck.  Nelson was very worried about this family.  I asked what they might have for breakfast.  He became animated and struggled to contain a growing sense of righteous indignation.  “How can you talk of breakfast, lunch or dinner when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from?  They are lucky if they have one meal a day. This family has nothing. Eh? Literally nothing,”  I felt ashamed.  He began to calm down.  I had taken the point.  And this was just one family in a country full of desperate families.

Back at the project I had no appetite for the meal they had provided.  It is a solemn point of culture to feed visitors.  There was boiled goat and chicken, rice, cassava (a cooked root), pineapple and the ubiquitous matoke (cooked plantain and Uganda’s national dish).  I tried the goat but it fought back as I tried to swallow it.  The chicken gave in more easily.  Though it was unfamiliar to our western tastes, moulded by the likes of Colonel Sanders,  this must have been a feast to the families we had just visited.  I sincerely wished they hadn’t squandered it on us.  They were so generous and gave us gifts of a hat, bag and pot before we left.  These people, full of love and care, were shining lights in a very dark Uganda.   Loyce had even given Sally a live chicken and had dutifully tied its legs together.  For a moment, I thought Sally was figuring out how it might fit into her hand luggage on the plane, but she came to the conclusion it was better to leave it at the project.  Good decision.