A Sunday morning jog!

Did I mention that I ran a half marathon yesterday? That’s 21km, or half the distance from Kampala to Entebbe and WAY more than 6 laps of the school field (as my kids thought today). Just in case you weren’t in the staffroom for the morning briefing where it was announced, haven’t read my facebook update or read my previous blog or heard me twittering on about it, then I would just like to make it known! I’m not normally one to blow my own trumpet, but I am very proud of myself and today is all about rewarding myself for my achievement! I’ve treated my weary feet to a pedicure, indulged in Indian take-away and am about to have a massage in the comfort of my own room to soothe my aching joints.
Things did not appear to be going to plan at the start. We arrived in Jinja to find that some unscrupulous back-packers had decided to upgrade themselves from their nasty dorm room to our cosy safari tent, the restaurant was almost fully booked and one of us was missing the registration pack. As always these things were soon resolved and we eventually sat down to a carbo-fuelled dinner with a few friends.
Alarms were set for the crack of dawn for the big race, not just one, but at five minute intervals, just in case we overslept as it would have been a shame to wake up at noon to say ‘oh shit, we were supposed to run a half marathon this morning!’ . This proved to be unnecessary, as the torrential rain woke us up early instead. We threw on our clothes and I had my Weetabix by the light of the torch on my mobile phone and set off for the run. Worried glances were exchanged as we had to walk through the mud bath that the boda couldn’t get through.
We arrived just in the nick of time (had the race actually started on time) and with plenty of time to spare for the actual starting time. We positioned ourselves a fair distance from the starting line so that anyone wishing to rush through would not be hindered! So after a few announcements and playing the Ugandan National Anthem, we were off.
We had a strategy in mind from the beginning. Just like ‘The Hare and the Tortoise’, slow and steady wins the race. We let people pass us out and managed to be somewhat unaffected by the fact that most of the runners were hurtling off ahead of us. After ten minutes our theory seemed to be working. I would love to know what happened to the lady who had already virtually given up after about 2 km. We asked her if she’d like to jog along with us, but after another 500 m or so she really had burnt out, poor love! We carried on, chatting away to keep our spirits up. By the time we reached the 5km mark, the fastest of the 10km race runners were catching us up and overtaking us, running gazelle-like in elegant formation. (Time to reassess here – slow and steady just gets you through the race but you need fast and furious to stand a chance of winning that 10km race.)We made a gap and allowed them to pass, enjoying the cheers as we went by.
After the 5km mark, the routes split and we separated from the 10 k-ers. The next 10 km was long and tough going. We hardly passed a soul and any onlookers were very bemused, unsure whether to cheer us on or just laugh out loud whole-heartedly – it was mainly the latter. Thank goodness there were two of us. We intermittently commented on multi-coloured birds, the lush green fields, the ever stunning sky and the way the light reflected so prettily off the. It sure beats running through the pollution fest that is Kampala. If only it wasn’t so bloody long and tiring! Sorry, I was meant to be looking for the positive!
By 9.30am we got onto the main road again and neared civilisation again. And I started to need the loo! Trust me – over an hour of empty roads and I feel fine – surround myself with cars and people and I desperately needed a wee. Focus, focus, focus … oh I know what can distract me – the excruciating pain in both knees. By this point I was having conversations with my legs, ‘don’t worry,’ I promised, ‘you won’t have to do anything all week and I’ll treat you to a massage’. But we were so close, and I knew that if I stopped then it would be all over. Overtaking a few flagging runners was definitely a boost and after a long stretch back into town we saw the sign for the final kilometre. We used every remaining bit of energy to make it to the end and my running buddy grabbed my hand as we made it to the finishing line.
An hour later, the three of us (my flatmate also ran the 10km – yay well done!!) were sitting by the Nile basking in our own glory, enjoying a hearty breakfast and a well earned glass of bubbly, then beer, then … well I’d fallen asleep by then! It’s amazing how the brain works and allows you to forget pain, as we were soon left with just a warm glowing feeling – be it from pride or alcohol, who cares? We bloody did it!

Countdown to the Jinja Half-Marathon

Oh my goodness - in less than 24 hours I will have (hopefully) have completed my first half marathon! We're heading off to Jinja in a little while to stay the night, before setting off on The Source of The Nile run.

It's been a long 5 or so weeks of training since I first started training. I'm not quite sure how I managed to tick the box for 21km and not 10km - probably because I have this secret, underlying competitive streak in me that only rears its head now and again. So myself and my good friend and running buddy have been obsessing over where to run, for how long, for what distance and so forth.

The training has had its highs and lows. We're just coming out of the rainy season, so we missed a practise or two due to the weather. This isn't because we're wimps, but because a rainstorm here means that the roads turn to squelchy mud and even the paved roads get flooded. But on the whole I'd say we've been pretty disciplined. Our training hasn't exactly been hi-tech. I know runners who have these clever devices called Garmins that record your speed for every kilometre, the distance you have run and of course the time. We don't have such things. At one stage, neither of us had a watch, so we had to incorporate a loop into Kisementi where there's a big clock in the car park to have an idea of how long we had been running.

Then there are the clothing issues. Two weeks ago I discovered a big hole in the only running pants that really fit me properly. So I decided to pop to the shops to see what I could find. The first shop had an array of fleece lined trackie bottoms suitable for Arctic conditions and most definitely not appropriate for tropical Uganda. On I went to Mr Price (some sort of South African Primark style shop only with inferior quality clothes at triple M & S prices)to find shiny neon pink or green nylon track suits - not quite what I was looking for either. The next stop was the tiny but genuine Nike outlet in Garden City, but all they had was a pair of white trendy harem pant thingys costing around 40 quid - pass again! My final port of call was another sports shop selling more shiny multicoloured lycra trousers last fashionable in 1986. Needless to say, I am going to wear a pair of slightly big trousers of my own.

This week was meant to be a semi-rest week. That means that you don't run too much so that you can be fully rested and in tip-top condition on the day (hmmm supposedly). I decided that I would go on the hash run as the final practise on Monday. Bad idea. This turned out to be through the the slum areas of Bukoto (not far from where I live) and Kamwokya. Not only did we pass through this area, but the entire run involved leaping over open sewers, tip-toeing along precipitous edges with festering awamps threatening below, dodging people's drying underwear on washing lines and generally making a good attempt not to contract cholera or typhoid in the process. In the end, I did feel a certain sense of karma though. The hare, who is the person who sets the route, thought it would be an amusing touch to have a camel strategically placed at one point of the run. It will come back to haunt her forever though, since she did not have a hash handle (nickname) and came to be baptised Camel Toe!!! I think she will be most upset when she discovers what camel toe actually means!

Finally I come to nutrition and a generally healthy and balanced lifestyle. Last night was a bit of a challenge as I had to (and managed to) avoid the FREE OPEN BAR after the graduation ceremony at school. I decided to also avoid the party afterwards as this would almost certainly lead to my downfall. Tonight we're packing Scrabble and cards to entertain ourselves instead of glugging wine. Although I do have to say there is a bottle of bubbly chilling for afterwards ...

International Day

“I know, let’s have a normal week. You know, one where we just teach our lessons all week and nothing exciting happens!” was the cry from the staffroom. Our school year is jam packed with special themed days to make the year more exciting for the kids. Barely a week goes past without something out of the ordinary happening. If we’re not rehearsing for a school production then it’s Literacy Week and if it’s not that then it’s Earth Day or something! This is all great, but it doesn’t half get the kids hyped up. Sure, we all enjoyed honing our mental mathematics skills on the worldwide online game for World Maths Day, but it was a bit disappointing for those who didn’t have internet at home. Athletics Day is great for a select few, but for many kids, it seemed to be an exhausting and disappointing day. And the less said about Invention Convention the better (OK I will say it ... I HATE Invention Convention – 2 weeks of clutter and confusion in the classroom, where the entire class are expected to invent something completely new and functional out of a bit of cardboard and cellotape. It can’t be much fun for the kids either, as they are told that ‘no, you can’t make a robot out of a shoebox and water bottles and expect it to work’, or, ‘no, you just stole that idea from the ‘Wallace and Gromit’ clip we just watched’).
Anyway, I digressed. This week we had my favourite school event of the year, International Day. Yes I was a little grumpy first thing in the morning as I confiscated a Fez type hat, a Masai stick for clubbing lions, a German flag and an Indian scarf … all before 9am! However, as we gathered on the field for the Parade of Nations, my spirits lifted. Children came to school in their traditional national dress or the colours of the flag, then found other children from their country. We have representatives from all over the globe. Some nations are represented more strongly than others – while the UK, India, Uganda and perhaps South Africa stood out as the biggest groups, on small boy held up the flag for Nepal alone!
Our stomachs grew bigger as the morning wore on. I was impressed that Year 4 were scheduled to go to the Asia tent first as we could get first pickings on the food! By 10am I had gorged myself on falafel, hummus, dips of curry, spring rolls, mini-pavlovas and whatever else I could lay my hands on. My hand was decorated with a henna tattoo and I tried to burn off a few of the calories with an attempt at belly dancing. So in each of the tents, we had a little ‘taste’ of the continent.
In the afternoon, we sang and danced the ‘Waving Flag’ World Cup song so many times it nearly drove us mental. The kids went home happy and energetic. The day’s success could be measured in the children’s smiles!

The Sound of Music, Kampala style

A few months ago, auditions for The Sound of Music were mentioned in the staff-room. Rumour had it, that you only had to turn up to the audition to be offered a part as a singing nun. The hysteria started to build over the next few days as friends debated what song they should use and practised their scales in the lunch hour. I almost got carried away, but thankfully friends from far and wide warned me not to when I updated my Facebook with a comment about trying out for the chorus. It was agreed that somebody had to be in the audience! Luckily, some of my friends are far more musically talented than I am, and they were offered parts.
As time went on, I was very relieved that my inner-diva did not suddenly emerge! There was talk of four-part harmonies in Latin and what’s more, these brave souls had to sit in Kampala traffic three or more times a week to rehearse. My friends came into school with sore throats and tired eyes, but they worked on through it all.
So how was it? I have to say, that if the stage version of ‘Allo ‘Allo ever comes to Kampala, then there will be some serious competition for the roles – the accents were fairly comical. I am not sure what Hitler would have made of the Ugandan Nazis either. A friend of mine who has a reputation for being a little bit cheeky was perfectly cast as the naughty nun. Then we come to the Von Trapp family – well we know that the Captain must have travelled around a fair bit as he had sired children from the UK, Canada, the USA, Uganda and who knows where else! I am sure that the amount of lipstick the male characters wore would have been frowned upon in German occupied Austria too. The nuns apparently broke their vows of poverty and abstinence to have a couple of tipples backstage! This is truly amateur dramatics Kampala style! Well done to all of you I know who took part – you did a great job and I really enjoyed it. Nakasero Hill sure was alive with the sound of music.

So long, farewell ... the comings and goings of Kampala

Life as an international teacher has its ups and downs. Unlike working in the UK, you often find that your friends are your colleagues and at times it can feel as though you are living inside a bubble. Friendships are forged quickly as people share their new experiences and your colleagues become your friends, your exercise pals, drinking buddies and often closest confidantes. It all goes swimmingly well, then around the third month, if you’re not careful, then cabin fever sets in. This is why it is really important to seek friends outside of the workplace. In Colombia, this was a bit of a struggle due to the language barrier and a lack of other ex-pats. Sure, there were people who I met who were kind and patient enough to listen to my crap Spanish for half an hour, but I must have made pretty exhausting company with all my mistakes and misunderstandings!
Kampala, however, is a little different. For an African city, there are literally thousands of foreigners staying here for different reasons. It’s pretty easy to spot who is who too! Anyone who walks around Garden City shopping mall in hiking boots and trousers with too many pockets is here on a visit for safari. Then there are the young gap year volunteers, who can be heard bartering with locals in order to save a ha’penny from a hundred yards away. There are probably thousands of young, well-educated folk working here for various NGO organisations, teachers and medical staff working in both private and public schools and hospitals for an average two or three year stint (this would be my category!), living on a moderate wage. If you walk into the Irish pub, you will find a huge crowd of South Africans watching the rugby or just enjoying a pint or eight, who are working for big multinationals like the phone companies and so on. Then there are the old timers – the families who have stayed here for generations and feel completely at home, be it in Kampala or out in the country.
Many people are only staying for a month or two and it soon becomes clear that people want to know which sort of person you are. A first meeting with a foreigner in Kampala will usually establish what line of work you are in and, the key question, how long are you staying! The long-timers see my time here as a fleeting visit and it would be very easy for me to think the same of the folk staying here for 6 months or so. Many a conversation has ended, and many a friendship has not had the chance to get off the ground in this city, just because of how long you are staying. I get it – it takes much precious time and effort to make new friends, and it’s sad to see them go.
This year though, I have started to break out of the bubble a little. Monday is the hash day which provides me with a good run and a chance to meet new people and catch up with old friends. On a Wednesday I go to yoga and have made a few friends there too. Many of us are trying our hardest to branch out, which then means that we get to meet friends of friends. I know that this does not sound very remarkable to anyone living in their home country, but believe me when I say that this is progress! This weekend I went to Jinja with a couple of friends to farewell one of these newer friends. It’s sad to see people go, but making the effort most definitely helps keep you sane here!

Rainy school days

A rainy Sunday is one thing, but a rainy school day is quite another. As any teacher will tell you, wet playtimes lead to hyperactive kids, who have been cooped up all day with no exercise or fresh air. It astounds me that even the kids who have lived her all their lives, and have witnessed these downpours all the time, still can’t help but stare out of the window at the storm. Our school was not designed for this climate. I think it may have been designed for the middle of the Sahara Desert. The reception area looks very grand, with its shiny marble floor, but add water, and you have a law suit waiting to happen. Every staircase is open plan and made of a different, but equally dangerous, slippery material. To get anywhere, you have to walk outside and get soaked to the skin. Almost every big storm is accompanied by a power cut and loss of internet connection, so you have to sit in the dark and quickly replan any activities that required power or internet. The windows don't seem to be water tight either and every classroom, which should still have a gleam of newness, has watermarks dripping from the windows. Some places have snow days, I think we should have rain days!

Rainy Days and Sundays

A rainy Sunday in Kampala gives you the perfect excuse to curl up in bed and do nothing. This morning, I had planned to get up early to go for a long run, in preparation for the half-marathon in a couple of weeks. As soon as I woke up, I heard the patter of rain and peered through the window to see grey skies and the rain bouncing off the ground. A series of phone calls and texts followed, weighing up the options – should we wait a while, should we go to the gym, should we run on the paved roads? We really ought to be running 18km today, and had hoped to attempt one of my old biking routes through small villages and past the Baha’i Temple. But these are dirt roads, and when it rains, dirt roads turn into mud roads, as slippery and treacherous as black ice in an English winter. When it rains, the potholes turn into crater lakes of unknown depths. In the end, we all decided to do nothing. To crawl back into bed and enjoy the sensation of being wrapped in a duvet while the temperatures dropped to a cool 20 degrees or so. It’s the perfect time to catch up on reading, movies and blogs. When it rains I take the time to cook for the week, or, on rare occasions, I even bake a carrot cake. In all honesty, it is the only time when I actually stop and relax, so for that, I am grateful for the rain!

Come on Blackpool!

Ugandans are passionate about Premier League football. Speak to the average man on the street, and he will be able to tell you all about his favourite team, the players and the results of the last few major matches. When Arsenal or Manchester United score, a massive cheer erupts that resonates up and down bars along the road. Ashley Coles’ extra-marital affairs and Rooney’s poorly ankle and groin make for lively discussion on the Ugandan radio breakfast shows in the mornings. When you meet a Ugandan guy for the first time, the conversation goes something like this:
Ugandan: Where are you from?
Me: The North West of England.
Ugandan: Which town?
Me: Blackpool
Ugandan: I’ve never heard of that. Where is it near?
Me: Manchester
Ugandan: Ohhhhh – Manchester United
If the guy then says he supports Man U, I will usually follow this up with
Me: Of course you support man U – you aren’t from Manchester!
I can’t profess to feeling the same way. I never really have. I wasn’t brought up in a football house, as I have no brothers and sisters, my Mum thinks it’s too noisy and my Dad is just too cricket-mad to care about football. But this morning, as I was browsing the newspapers online, I spotted that if Blackpool wins the next match, they will be in the play-offs for the Premiership. This is amazing news. OK, I can’t name a single player and I don’t know what matches have been won and lost over the past … hmmmm decade? Century? Whatever! But in football, as in life, I generally support the underdog. I know that they must have worked very hard to get from the fourth division some years ago to the Championship and I applaud that effort and admire the support of any loyal fans. Only this week, a Kenyan boy (and Arsenal supporter) in my class asked what team I supported and I replied Blackpool. He then asked what colour they wore, and I told him, in no uncertain terms, that it was tangerine and most definitely not orange!
I would love to see them in the Premiership. I would be proud to drum up a bit of support around here and to finally replace the Cheslea, Liverpool and Manchester United posters that adorn the walls of the bars here. Best of luck boys!

Kampala Rocks!

When you say you live in Africa, most people react with raised eyebrows and then exclaim that you must be very brave. For many, the word Africa conjures up images from the television, such as Micheal Buerk’s reports from the famines in Ethiopia in the 1980s or of various wars. When you are more specific, and mention that it is Uganda, the common response is to comment on Idi Amin’s brutal regime of over 30 years ago. I am often asked questions that range from the naive to the outrageous. So now I would like to paint a little picture of modern Kampala. Here are some of the things I have been asked:
1) Do you have to teach under a tree?
No, of course not. I teach in a newly-constructed, well resourced International school. My classroom is spacious and I have more than enough room to capacitate my small class. The classroom is bright and has lovely furniture, unlike the majority of the schools in the UK that were built in the 1930s and are no longer fit for purpose, with expanding curriculums and increased class sizes. I have a Smartboard in my class, which allows the kids to interact with the computer, shows movies and accesses a plethora of online activities (OK sketchy internet permitting). There is a beautiful 25m swimming pool on site, so the kids can have swimming lessons on site, rather than wasting an hour on a bus each week. There are fully equipped ICT suites and the kids have specialists for many lessons. This is the best teaching environment I have ever experienced by far!

2) Do you feel guilty for earning money and not working in a village school as a volunteer?
Well, yes and no. I like to think of myself as quite the socialist, and I never would have opted to teach in the private sector in the UK. There are times when I see the level of privilege the children in our school have and the fact that some of them are blissfully unaware of the conditions most people in this country endure. However, I work hard and deserve my pay. Some of the parents of the children in my school work for NGOs, the UN and other charitable organisations and naturally any foreign worker would hope to offer their children the best education possible. Furthermore, I actually earn considerably less than many of the people working in development, so if they don’t feel guilty, why should I? Like many people of my generation, I took a gap year after university and volunteered in a school in Ghana. Looking back on that experience, it is clear that I benefitted from this more than anybody else did. The teaching methods I had learnt on a whistle-stop ESL course before going out there were simply not suitable for the classes of 50 plus and when I tried to use the drama and games they had suggested, I simply had chaos on my hands! In the end, I resorted to the chalk-and-talk that the local teachers used, so I really do believe that Ghana would have survived quite well without my input! But I gained a great deal, making lifelong memories and discovered that the whole world is not quite the same as Europe.

3) Do you think you’ll get really skinny, because there won’t be much to eat, will there?
Not a chance! When it comes to food in developing countries, I think the motto should be ‘You can never get enough carbs!’ Local food, which I eat from time to time, consists of posho (a kind of millet porridge), matooke (a type of bananas), rice, beans, pumpkin, peas, and a few other things, sometimes accompanied with chicken, goat or tilapia fish. However, Kampala is a city that is developing at a very fast rate. Every month, new restaurants and bars seem to pop up around town. In the past few weeks, I have eaten pizza made by real Italian chefs in the new trendiest spot in town, pain au chocolat in the Belgian patisserie, Indian food that has more delicate flavours and yumminess than any I have ever tried in the UK, my special birthday treat at the Emin Pasha and probably a few more. I haven’t even mentioned the Turkish restaurant, the Thai, the Greek, or the Chinese. It’s a surprise I can actually move after all that fodder to be honest. But the point is that in Kampala, like in any capital city, you can eat your way around the world.

4) Is everything really cheap?
Again, no! The cost of living has risen dramatically in Uganda over the past couple of years. Locals will tell you that the costs of grains and basic food stuffs have gone up by massively, and here we are affected by climatic change and world trends. Last year, there was quite a large drought in the summer, so many crops failed, bumping up the price of and decreasing the availability of basic foods for many. A litre of petrol costs about a pound, which is ludicrous when you consider the average Ugandan wage. It would be like you trying to fill your car with finest champagne! On my wage though, I could very easily survive if I wanted to live like a local. But I don’t (or am too soft to live without my home comforts). As soon as you import anything, then you may as well say charge whatever you like. Some of the craziest prices are nearly 10 quid for a week old edition of The Sunday Times, £4.00 for a box of cereal, £5.00 for mushrooms that don’t taste of rubber and a whopping £25.00 for a Body Shop moisturiser that you could pick up for less than a fiver at home. Travel is also costly – only the richest people can afford to fly here, which combined with a lack of competition, equates to literally sky-high fares. So there we have another myth busted.

5) Is it dangerous?
For crying out loud, I lived and worked in Dagenham and used to catch the fright, I mean night bus back in the small wee hours through some of the less salubrious areas of East London for 3 years! I walked through the centre of Blackpool in the early evening last time I was home, and have to say that I was far more petrified of the dodgy characters hanging around the rundown buildings than I have ever felt either in Bogota or Kampala. Unfortunately, I can’t say that Kampala is crime free, but most of us living here feel perfectly safe, day or night. Yes there are instances of opportunistic theft, but name me a city where this doesn’t happen. Of course, people are also referring to the bigger picture, thinking of the wars and military coups that have blighted this continent in history. Before I left Colombia, one parent physically shuddered and sucked in her breath when I mentioned I was leaving for Uganda, uttering the words “Aye no, es peligroso, receurdas Idi Amin”. Well get over it! It was a long time ago and nobody would worry about your safety in Germany because a very mean man named Hitler was once in charge! A well meaning friend once pointed out that there had been some violence reported in the DRC, which they claimed is ‘near you’. I don’t think any of you would be worrying about dodging bullets if a civil war broke out in Denmark, would you? Ironically, when there were instances of riots and violence in Kampala last September and following the fire in the Kasubi Tombs, most people had no idea because it was not headline news in the UK. It was reported in the newspapers, but only those searching for news in Uganda would be likely to come across it. So do please keep an eye out on what’s going on here – your concern is very much appreciated!
I think I may have wandered off the point a little, as I am always liable to do, but I hope that this has given you a little bit more of an idea of what life is like here. Kampala rocks!

My Road

Bukoto Market Road

If you step out of my house, you arrive at Bukoto Market Road. At first glance, there is nothing particularly unique about this road – it is the usual dusty, many potholed road that you find all over Uganda. However, having lived here for some time, I started thinking that this street can provide you with pretty much every service you could possibly need, it just isn’t that obvious to the untrained eye.

One of the first things you notice is the market itself. The stalls are filled with an abundance of tropical fruits and vegetable that people pay a small fortune for in Waitrose, from ripe and delicious avocados to sweet and juicy pineapple or bundles of green bananas known as matooke. There are small cages filled with squashed looking hens to provide eggs laid right there on site, fresh tilapia fish from Lake Victoria and butchers selling every last part of the animals for meat (to be honest, I try to avoid even looking at the butcher’s – it is quite gruesome to a veggie like myself and gives off a horrendous stench due to the lack of refrigeration).

As far as entertainment is concerned, you can drop into any one of the dozens of local bars along the road. I can walk to at least 5 within a couple of minutes. My favourite is the Beer Garden, which has shady areas for an afternoon tipple and some decidedly scary statues inside that can take you by surprise after a few Tuskers! More recently, The Upper Ends Terrace has opened up only a few footsteps from my house, and the waitress has been well trained in the art of chopping off the head when I order fish and chips. In November and December, local vendors drop by offering fried grasshoppers – a local delicacy. Should you wish to continue into the wee small hours, you simply walk next door to the nightclub, which blasts out R & B music most evenings. If premiership football is your thing, then there are countless small bars with Ugandans gathered around small televisions or big screens of their favourite English teams. If you get the munchies later on, then you can pick up samosas, a chapattis on the corner and of course the famous the famous Rolexes. To the uninitiated, a Rolex is not an expensive watch, but some fried eggs rolled into a chapatti with some chopped onions, cabbage and tomatoes and fried on a pan over charcoal. Kampala’s very own version of the kebab shop!

After all this food, then a bit if exercise is surely in order. Running and cycling down this road is always a bit hazardous, due to the number of matatus, bodas and potholes, but there is also a gym above one of the small supermarkets. I tried out a few of the aerobics classes in the Sunrise gym and it wasn’t too bad, but obviously not on the same scale as the Kabira!

There are a number of local clinics, where the medical equipment and hygiene levels resemble something out of the dark ages. One of the shacks has a sign advertising counselling for rape victims and I also spotted a clinic offering HIV tests. In the UK, I understand that you are strongly advised to go through counselling before even taking an HIV test and even having being tested can have adverse effects on your health insurance and all kinds of things. Sadly, in Uganda, HIV rates are high, and not everyone has access to testing and treatment. I can’t imagine having to go through such a traumatic experience as that in such dismal conditions – and yet it happens on my doorstep every day.

Anything and everything can be fixed in Uganda. Nobody throws anything away unless it is absolutely done for, and even then, somebody would probably be willing to try and sell the parts for a few hundred Shillings. At the top end of the road, you can witness a total lack of regard for health and safety as you see a metal workshop, with sparks flying across the open street and the workers rarely wear any sort of protective clothing. Electricians tinker with appliances so ancient looking that you wonder whether they were originally powered by steam. Roadside mechanics can fix up your car at bargain basement prices if you’re willing to take a chance on their level of expertise and the quality of the parts. Numerous hardware stores are fully stocked with every type of not, bolt and screw and sell the widely advertised paint. Tailors use old fashioned Singer sewing machines to make and repair garments.

Bukoto Market Road can also take you by surprise. Who could guess, that in the midst of all this, are a couple of art galleries that sell paintings that go for hundreds of dollars? Just off the road, there is a studio where a collective of artists sell their work. Inside the galleries, the artists have depicted and interpreted Ugandan life for us, in vibrant colours and larger than life.

If you do decide to stray from this road, there are a number of public transport options available. If you’re feeling flush, you can take a private hire, which is better known to us as a taxi. For short journeys, boda bodas (motorbike taxis) provide a more economical option and are the perfect way of dodging through the busy Kampala traffic. If you want to use a helmet, you have to bring your own, but Ugandan ladies have no problem with riding through the streets side saddle. If you have time on your hands and don’t mind getting up close and personal with your fellow passengers, then you can take a matatu. These battered and crowded minibuses can take you to the furthest reaches of Kampala for about 10p. Again they are not known for their great safety record, as the drivers are somewhat kamikaze and fail to use their indicators. Don’t expect to see an organised timetable or route map though – if you wish to know where they go, you have to ascertain this information from the conductor, who yells the directions of the window in rapid Lugandan.
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If all of this has persuaded you to pay a visit, then you will be happy to hear that there is a hotel, so you can stay as long as you like. I don’t imagine the nightly rates are too high and you could probably secure a booking even in high season. I’m not sure I can vouch for the comfort levels and bathroom facilities – I haven’t been inside, but it does look pretty basic, but I am sure it would offer a very interesting experience!