Hayestack

Etosha is one of the best game reserves in Africa. It is amazing that anything can live on this vast arid plain and the fact that elephants, giraffes, zebra and many kinds of antelope amongst other large animals thrive in such abundance is a miracle.

We took the “gravel” road to Etosha. This kind of road is one that the builders forgot to finish, or they ran out of tar. Consequently, your car, leaving a billowing trail of dust in its wake, will rattle and shake until the joints knock and bits start falling off. An ordinary saloon is no good for this kind of road. You need a 4×4, and a tough one at that. Then you can fly at speed across the ridges and bumps, sneering at their attempts to slow you down and wreck your car. The roads inside the game reserve were even worse. Here there were ridges the size of the Grand Canyon and pot-holes the depth of Cheddar Gorge. We zigzagged our way along the Etosha roads like drunken maniacs with the ominous clanking of universal joints in our ears. But the view outside the car was astounding. In the distance we saw a group of giraffes towering above the trees. We had to take photos. We had not seen a group of giraffes before. By the end of the day, after photographing dozens of giraffes within kicking distance we realised how lame the first photos were.

We seemed to see springbok, impala and zebra at every turn. They watched us from the side of the road as though thoroughly bored by the whole business. At least they didn’t demand money to have their photograph taken. Humans are more canny. The other day I took a photo of the River Kavango as it meandered through a particularly interesting piece of countryside. In the distance I heard a woman calling to me. It turned out she wanted money as I’d apparently taken her photo. She was a blob in the far distance and not a very interesting one at that. Though I admired her enterprising spirit and sheer gall, she was disappointed that day.

We hadn’t seen an elephant all day and when we’d just about given up, a proud male came marching majestically out of the bush. For some reason all the other animals abandoned the water hole allowing the elephant free reign to wallow in the mud.

We visited several water holes that day and saw many elephants squirting water and chucking dust over themselves. Springbok lined up at the water’s edge sipping nervously, giraffes splayed out their legs doing the splits in an effort to have a drink. Amazingly, they managed to recover their posture with little effort. The birds were too laid back and didn’t notice the black-backed jackal stalking them until it had one in its jaws. It was a light snack and gone in a second. The jackal had a harder job surprising the birds after that. One very common bird was the kori bustard. Karin, our Dutch friend, misheard this, we assume, and every time she spotted this large bird she would shout with glee,

“Look, there’s another bastard over there!”

There were lions and leopards in the park but we didn’t see any that day. As the sun sank, the hyenas began to slink out of the shadows one at a time on their way to the water-hole. Looking sly and savage they gathered together for the night’s hunting.

We looked around. All the other cars had left.

“The clock at the entrance definitely said closing at seven-thirty,” announced Georgina with her usual tone of misplaced confidence.

It was now getting quite dark and we were the only people on the road. We were locked in. I was driving and we picked up speed, considerable speed. We nearly took out an impala but it managed to jump off the road just in time. A large mass came into view by the side of the road. It was black and had a horn at one end.

“Rhinoceros,” I shouted, slamming on the brakes. By the time we had reversed, the rhino had sloped off into the bush leaving us with a view of its disappearing rump, which, strangely, resembled the expression on the face of the woman gate-keeper when we eventually arrived at the exit.

The tense conversation went like this:

“You’re late”

“The clock said 7.30 closing time.”

“The clock’s broken. Closing is seven.” (How did everyone else know?)

She frowned and obviously thought we were idiots or desperate criminals.

“Where’s your tickets?” Yes, we still had tickets.

“You Namibians?” As VSO we paid the local rate. Tourists pay at least double.

We didn’t look like Namibians and were obviously confidence tricksters.

With a humiliating amount of profuse apologies, ( I was prepared to go so far as throwing myself on the ground and kissing her feet) she capitulated and instructed her henchman to unlock the gate and let us out. As we drove back to the campsite we felt relieved that we had experienced a close encounter with the wildest creature in the game park and survived.

So you’re on your way to Tesco, you turn the corner and there’s an elephant in the road, staring straight at you, wondering if it wants to charge you. You would have a fright, right? Well, we were sort of expecting it as we were in elephant country, Mahango Game Park, to be precise. Not that I want to play down the danger of our predicament and the courage and fortitude we displayed in facing up to it. The elephant, after all was wild (well, a little cross, at least). He was a handsome young male (and he knew it) who had spent the morning polishing his tusks, grooming his hair and was now nonchalantly walking down the strip looking for some smart chick to pick up. He chewed on the branch of a tree trying to look cool.

“Hey you,” he said (he was a talking elephant). “Wotcha doin’ here? This is my spot for pickin’ up chicks.”

“OK, man, we’re not going to cramp your style.”

We edged the car forward.

He stared at us for a bit wondering if he should give us a bit of action. No doubt he had a flick knife hidden about his person.

“Don’t go any nearer,” warned John, our Namibian gardener and whose ancestors had been mighty warriors.

“These animals are dangerous. They could flick this car over easily.”

Maybe his forebears had had trouble with elephants flicking over cars?

“Don’t be such a wimp, John, “ said Linda, (or words to that effect). “We’re miles away.” Nevertheless, all our senses were on full alert looking for the slightest sign that this cool dude was beginning to heat up. He flapped his magnificent ears and lifted one leg. Was this the first sign of a charge or was he waving goodbye? Apparently it was the latter because he turned and sloped off into the undergrowth without even a high five.

Linda, Georgina and I had driven the 2 hours to Mahango with John, his brother, Andreas and 3 children from their extended family. Although they were native Namibians they had little experience of the local wildlife. As we drove through the park there seemed to be elephant droppings everywhere. This was evidently an elephant toilet.

On first arriving at the park, the childrens’ entertainer in Linda had come out.

“What animal will we see first? A prize for whoever gets it right.”

“A lion,” said one. “Elephant,” said another. “Giraffe, buffalo.”

I plumped for “kangaroo” as the others seemed a little obvious. They, unanimously, and I might add, rather unkindly, pooh poohed my suggestion. Given the number of droppings in the park, there seemed to be a lot of pooh poohing going on that day. I scoured the scrub for a kangaroo in vain. Were those kangaroo droppings? If you threw them would they bounce?

Springbok and impala were everywhere all wanting their photo taken. The latter have the markings of a Macdonald’s “M” on their rumps which is apt as they are a favourite “take away” for lions. Zebras crossed the road, buffalo hid in the bushes, wart hogs did “piggy” things and monkeys sneered at us from the tree tops. If we are descended from apes surely I would be better at climbing trees? A herd of 22 elephants cavorted in a swamp trying to keep cool.

A huge boabob tree stood in the centre of the park. It looked as though it had been there for thousands of years. It had that “established” look.

“From the time of Jesus,” suggested Linda. John nodded in agreement and, as he was the only one with a book on boabob trees at home (just how many books on boabob trees are there?) we deferred to his greater authority.

Mahango is one of the few game reserves where you can get out of your vehicle. No doubt there is a disclaimer against being eaten by lions or trampled by buffalo. For some reason John didn’t want to be mauled by lions and only left the car with great reluctance. Attracted by the evocative sounds of singing hippos we pushed our way through the bushes behind the boabob tree to be confronted by a vast plain stretching out before us. The river with singing hippos and flying white egrets was a fair distance away, and beyond that lay a range of mountains from which many palls of dusky smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

I had made a carrot cake especially for the trip. After slicing off its burnt bottom and disguising it with a soft cheese and icing sugar topping it looked almost edible. Unfortunately, the heat of the car melted the top, and most now was creeping across the boot of Linda’s car leaving the cake looking as though it had a pepperoni pizza topping. Strangely enough, the monkeys at the picnic site made no attempt to steal our food. The cake was unexpectedly delicious. I may try putting real pepperoni on the top next time.

I went shopping today. This is not exactly news as I go shopping most days. Today, however, was different. I have given up looking out of the window in the morning and wondering what the weather will be like as it is hot and sunny most days. The days when it is not hot and sunny it is sunny and hot. I am not yet fed-up of this as I am still making up for a life time of sun deprivation. But when I ventured out of doors this morning the sky looked different. It was still blue but today there were some white, wispy things up there. I haven’t seen one for a long time but I think they call them clouds. There are two periods of rain in Namibia, the little rain and the big rain. The little rain occurs mid October and the big rain at the end of December. It was 1^st October today, so the little rain is imminent. Georgina and I are only equipped for the little rain as we only have a little umbrella. When the big rains come we are going to get wet.

The clouds were premature. It has not rained today. The only wet I became today was from my own sweat dripping onto my neck and trickling down my back. Had I stayed out any longer, the trickle was in danger of becoming a raging torrent.

Shopping recently has become a life and death experience, quite literally. Rundu has opened a new shopping mall, small, compact and boasting a brand new escalator. It has opened for business but they are still building it. To by a loaf of bread you have to enter a building site, and without a hard hat. Avoid the piles of bricks and dumper trucks. Weave your way around the scaffolding and pray that the workmen above you don’t drop a brick or piece of scaffolding on your head. Don’t look up or you will lose your footing on the polished marble ramp which, I suspect is Rundu’s substitute for a ski piste. Try as it might, I don’t think Rundu will ever be in contention to host the Winter Olympics. I inadvertently tried out the ski slope this morning and nearly fell on my first attempt. I was spared any serious injury (no bruising to my first attempt) apart from the horror of hearing the peanut butter jar crash against the marble ramp and realising the eggs were in the same bag. Miraculously, nothing was broken, though the peanut butter seems crunchier now.

Once you are in the mall the only other danger is from high prices. Food prices seem comparable to those in the UK, the choice isn’t as big and the quality isn’t as good. I suspect the managers ring Mr Sainsbury everyday to find out what he is charging. The shelves are fully stocked but this may be because no-one can afford to buy anything. Stealing isn’t an option either if you were that way inclined. To leave the shop you have to negotiate what can only be described as a tight line of riot police who will study your receipt, inspect your bags, eye you up suspiciously and only let you out if everything checks out. If you buy nothing you will be frisked. This, I suspect, may not be an altogether unpleasant experience for some, but Marguerite was outraged the other day when an overzealous guard wanted to see inside her handbag.

“I have come here to help this crazy country, yet you treat us like criminals.” She protested.

But all the stores are the same. They are all rife with crime and that’s only the prices they charge. Two new supermarkets have opened in the last month so competition may push prices down unless they, too, have a hotline to Mr Sainsbury. I am not holding my breath.

The most exciting thing about the mall is the escalator (I can’t believe I said that – my life must have become very sad). But it is a very versatile escalator. When I saw it the other day it was full of joy riders and they were going up. Today it was empty and the direction of travel was down. There are not yet any shops on the upper level so the escalator’s use is purely for pleasure. You can tell the escalator virgins as they have not yet realised that hands and feet have to be co-ordinated. One without the other spells disaster but great entertainment for any onlooker. One brave lady, the other day grabbed hold of the handrail as though her life depended upon it, but her feet let her down at the last minute. She was practically sprawled on the steps before her feet decided to join her. Her 2 children looked on aghast as if this monster was devouring their mother. It was not enough, however, to stop them trying out the novelty for themselves. Don’t mock. We were like this once.

This will probably be a short entry as I shall probably fall asleep over my computer. The reason is simple. Throughout every night we are subjected to the deafening cacophony of a hundred Baskerville hounds seemingly baying for our blood. The effect is spine-chillingly awful. It can start with one puppy spluttering over a chicken bone and within seconds the whole of Rundu resounds to the howls of huge packs of pseudo wolves. They snarl and threaten each other. “You want a piece of me, you come and get me”. And they often do. One place for carving each other up seems to be just outside our bedroom window, and given the fact that there is no glass in it, just fine mosquito net and a few slats, a savage fight can sound alarmingly near. I have not dared put on the light in case they are actually in the bedroom.

Almost as annoying is the irritation felt at seeing these very same dogs the next morning stretched out under a shady tree snoozing the daylight hours away so that they can stop us sleeping at night. Rose took us on a tour of Rundu in her car. We passed many dozing dogs. “Swerve to the left,” I urged as we approached one, but Rose could not be prevailed upon to decrease the dog population by a measly one. Neither should revenge tempt you to give a dozing dog a hefty kick up the north pole. This is rabies country, after all. Let sleeping dogs lie. What puzzles me, though, is, if Africans are prepared to eat dog, then why are there still so many of them around? They are a good source of nutrients and they probably taste as good as a steak. Eat more dog is what I say.

Then the cocks start crowing. Don’t believe these creatures only crow at dawn. I can personally vouch for the fact that, given half a chance they will crow all through the night. There is a cock a few houses away. Its call is answered by one a quarter of a mile down the road, then by one a quarter of a mile further on and so on until the sound of the cock reached Windhoek seven hundred miles away. Georgina assures me that when her grandfather kept cocks he would put them overnight in a coop where the ceiling was so low the cocks couldn’t stretch out their necks to crow. Ignore the connotations of medieval torture. This sounds like a good idea.

In the rare and, oh so brief, moments of silence in the night I can hear something prowling in the garden. It sounds as if it has the weight and dimensions of a gorilla. It can’t be John the gardener as he only comes on Mondays and Thursdays. What it is and what it’s doing I do not and don’t wish to know. Besides, Georgina is safely between me and the window, so I snuggle down under my mosquito net choosing to ignore that a rampant primate would make short work of a flimsy bit of lace.

A new horror has emerged to destroy any chance of a goodnight’s sleep. Yesterday, a couple were married next door. Part of the tradition is to ensure that anyone within a one mile radius gets no sleep that night. They easily achieve this with what sounds like a hundred African drummers a choir of a thousand well versed in African chants and excessively loud ululations. You have to remember that our windows are neither double nor even single glazed. This facilitates the sounds travelling directly from their drums and voices to our ears with no let or hindrance. After 2 hours your brain begins to throb. After 4 you are on the verge of insanity. After 6, your thoughts turn to bloody murder. Each of our gardens in this part of town has a large and substantial air raid shelter plonked in the middle of it to protect the population against Angolan shelling during the regional uprising a few years ago. Contrary to popular belief, they were not shelling Namibia for helping their enemies in the war but, I believe, to stop the nightly cacophony of dogs, cocks and weddings. Unfortunately, they did not succeed.

Go to Head Shave in the Gallery to see more photos.

I bet you’ve never seen Sir Nigel D, Momma G, Sal, and Han Han shake their groove-thangs like this before!

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9553446510

For Georgina and I, a long car journey can hold a considerable element of surprise. They say (women mostly) that men cannot do 2 or more things at the same time. Well, in my case, they are right. Yes, I can pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time, but I have yet to find a practical application for this. (If you have any ideas please let me know.) I cannot, however, drive a car and faultlessly navigate at the same time. Georgina likes bats (the flying rodent type), so being as blind as a bat generally works in my favour.

“Look at the deer in that field,” she says.

I visually scour the field. Nothing, apart from a large area of green, presumably grass.

“Over there!” I follow the direction of her finger. Still nothing.

It turns out to be not one deer but a whole herd.

“Munich is that way,” she says as we hurtle past the junction. I look at her hands to see if there is an indication whether she means left or right. I suggest she has “L” and “R” tattooed on the appropriate hands. She ignores me.

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Why does that not surprise me, even though it was the size of a double-decker bus?” She can be very hurtful at times.

“Turn around and go back!” Her tone is unnecessarily imperious.

By now we are at least 3 miles past the turning.

“We’ll take the next right and link up.” I hate going back. It seems such a waste of time (and an
admission of a mistake).

“How will you know the way?”

“Just trust my sense of direction,” I assure her.

She makes no attempt to stifle an ironic and, I may say, a rather cruel snigger. It only serves to harden my resolve.

Two hours later, a city looms up ahead of us. “See, I said I’d get us to Munich,” I announce triumphantly.

“Then why does the sign say “Frankfurt”?”

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Well, at least we can buy some sausages.”

Georgina has the gift of sarcasm. If she read the telephone directory she could make it sound sarcastic. It’s an endearing trait.

Our problem (the navigation one), is not made any easier by the fact that Georgina She can have the soundest and most refreshing sleep since Van Winkle hit the sack, but, once in a car, she has nodded off before it’s left the drive. It’s on a par with Pavlov’s dog...cannot keep awake in a car.

Five hundred miles later she will wake up.

“Where are we?”

“Just passed Nouvion on the Brussels road”, I reply confidently, though I have a sneaking suspicion that we are hurtling towards Paris.

She picks up the map. She and maps just don’t get on. They sulk, they hide things from each other, they do not communicate.

“Find where we are? “ I ask in all innocence.

She ignores me.

I must say, though, that Georgina’s skills are improving. Navigation is no longer a threat to our marriage. Driving to unfamiliar destinations is now a positive pleasure.

Back in the summer, Georgina and I were trailing my brother-in-law David’s car as he took us to see my sister Myra in Bordeaux. About 10 miles out we hit congestion. We sit and watch snails overtaking us. Suddenly, David shoots down a side street. Left, right, right, across the junction, left, around the roundabout.. A trail of breadcrumbs would not have taken us back home. We are awestruck at the extent of David’s local knowledge.

“It wasn’t me,” David later confessed. “It was Jane”.

David has a new friend? No. You’ve guessed it we are talking satnavs. Jane is one of the names of his satnavs voices. Ours are “Emily”, “Daniel” and an American voice that sounds remarkably like Drew. These little remarkable boxes are the greatest invention since the wheel, when man ventured beyond his village into the unknown thereby making the satnav invaluable. They are a little short of miraculous. “Emily” knows exactly where we are, even the name of the road. She can plan a route from home to Timbucktoo in a matter of seconds. It would take me a day and we’d still end up in Warsaw. She knows how far we are from the next junction and where the fuel, parking, shops etc are. She knows the instant I take the wrong turn and finds a solution without shouting at me. I suggest that the satnav will save many marriages and decrease much blood pressure.

I was a skeptic. Now I am a firm believer. After all, you wouldn’t go into a strange, dark house without a flash-light?

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.

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.