Umuganda in Uganda?

With just three and a half weeks until Kili, it’s really time to step things up a gear. Even though I have done something almost every day, I am driving myself slightly mental with worries over the training. If I go for a walk, then I panic about whether it will get me fit enough to get up the mountain, but if I go for a swim or a bike ride, then I start worrying about whether my boots will be broken in sufficiently for the super long walk.

One thing about walking is that you have more time to take in your surroundings than when you run or bike past.  While it’s great to see daily life up close, it’s not always a bed of roses. The amount of litter and the way rubbish is dealt with here in Uganda is disgusting me. TIA is not an excuse – Nairobi city centre has litter bins AND people actually use them. Rwanda has something called Umuganda, which is a monthly community service where every adult resident is expected to make some sort of contribution, including taking to the streets and picking up litter. There is a now notorious story of when our secondary school kids went to Bukoto market to clean up some of the rubbish and found … wait for it … a rotting, dead dog! Yesterday, we literally held our noses and ran as we passed a stinking tip of burning rubbish. I pay 10 000 Shillings a month for my refuse collection, but have no idea what happens to it afterwards. I have a sneaking suspicion that it is loaded onto the truck and just dumped on one of the numerous tips in and around the city.

In school, we have a constant battle to get the kids to pick up their litter responsibly. Little wonder they leave a trail of snack wrappers behind them when they see adults throw their litter on the street or out of matatu taxi windows on a daily basis.

The other day I heard an interview on the radio with a politician and they were discussing the subject of litter bins in the city. The politician seemed to think that Ugandans wouldn’t bother using them, even if they were there. When is Uganda going to wake up to the fact that this litter is not just unattractive, but harmful to the environment and health of the people?

It's not the destination, it's the journey ... yeah, whatever!

I no longer subscribe to the student myth that a journey is only worthwhile if it is a long and painful endurance test. I much prefer a flight and a comfortable bed. However, my budget does not always stretch to the idealised Condé Nast style of travel I dream of having one day, so every now and again, I have to suck it up and take the local transport. Of course it will always provide you with anecdotes, but are the stories worth the back-ache?
In Colonial times, the British sent thousands and thousands of Indian workers to East Africa to build a railway all the way from Kampala to Mombasa. These days, passengers can only travel from Nairobi to Mombasa, although the line to Kampala is still used for freight. The idea of travelling through Kenya on a train in a special compartment was appealing and is definitely worth a try – but just the once! We arrived at the train station in Nairobi to find it looked pretty much the same as any British railway station – well perhaps 50 years ago! Tickets checked, we boarded the train and slowly chugged out of the station. A porter came by and unwrapped a special kit bag with our blankets, sheets and pillows and made our beds. We were contented, thinking we had definitely found the ideal way of travelling through Africa – all the beauty and none of the discomfort! A few hours into the journey, the dinner bell rang and we headed for the buffet cart. As Second Class passengers we discovered that we were not entitled to a fresh table cloth. (Second class on grounds that the compartments hold 4 people instead of 2 and we were a group of 3, rather than second class on grounds of being tight-fisted). I later berated a friend who was travelling First Class for making such a mess whilst eating, but she complained that they were forced to rush their dinners in order to make room for the people in the second sitting. As the soup arrived, the train ground to a halt. My friend commented that it was very considerate of them to stop the train so we could enjoy our dinner without fear of slopping soup or stew down our clothes …Two minutes later came the announcement that a cargo train had derailed further down the track and that we would have to wait until somebody arrived from Nairobi to clear it before we could continue and that we should expect a delay of around 4 hours. 6 hours later, at 3am, we set off again. We weren’t worried though – we were comfortable in our beds and slept soundly during the wait.
In the morning we awoke to a fabulous sunrise overlooking Tsavo National Park (we think – if not, then something similar). We gazed out of the windows, looking out for any wildlife and we were in luck. We saw several goats and a herd of cows. The journey was still enjoyable and comfortable. After breakfast, we headed back to our carriage and relaxed some more. Then we started to notice the smell of diesel was getting a little stronger. We dutifully ignored it until we stopped again. We were right to be concerned – the underneath of our carriage was on fire! I get the feeling that these incidents are pretty run of the mill. The staff found that the brakes were jammed, removed the offending dust or whatever it was, squirted the fire extinguisher until the flames were doused and off we went again.
After something like 22 hours, we arrived in Mombasa. I have to say the approach was not the most scenic or fragrant, as we passed by the most enormous rubbish dump I have ever seen. But we knew we were heading for Watamu – and that’s another story!

Welcome to the future ... welcome to Nairobi

Nairobi gets a bad press. Its reputation for crime has earned it the nickname 'Nai-robbery' and neighbourly rivallry means Ugandans don't speak particularly highly of it (and vice versa we discovered - I became quite defensive of my adopted country!). If you read the Lonely Planet, then it advises you to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
We spent a couple of nights there before boarding the train to Mombasa and I have to say I was more than pleasantly surprised. As you leave the airport, a shiny modern car takes you along a smooth 3 lane dual-carriage way into the city. Nairobi is a pillar of organisation compared to Kampala. I am ashamed to say that after living in Kampala for 2 years, I have never used a matatu. Not a single journey. On Day One in Nairobi, I was hopping on and off the buses like a local, taking advantage of the neatly painted signs on the sides of the buses and standing in the designated spot in the signed and official bus stop. Much easier than trying to decipher rapid fire Luganda!
The supermarket Nakumatt offered a dizzying range of products which left us Kampalarites awe-struck - ready-made hummus, aubergine dip, Dorset muesli, freshly baked granary bread topped with sunflower seeds, Philadelphia, cheddar cheese with a real bite to it, a whole range of lip balms and many more. I'm even considering taking a mini-break to Nairobi just to stock up on goodies!
Nairobi has all mod-cons. I bathed under an electric shower, a real one, not the Bolivian type that gives you an electric shock if youput your hand too close to the control unit. There are washing machines and vacuum cleaners and all sorts of gadgets - crikey if I lived in Nairobi I may not have enough excuses to have a maid!
Central Nairobi seems calm and collected. Even in the rush hour, the drivers keep their cool, patiently waiting to get through the throngs of traffic. I certainly didn't miss the honking of the horns. People dress smartly and walk briskly with a purpose. The city centre has wide roads and none of the litter thant plagues Kampala. It is pleasant to see and shows a pride in where they live.
Then there is the 'Little England' of Karen, the suburb named after Karen Blixen, author of 'Out of Africa'. This is true Muzungu Land, with a couple of buses passing through now and again to transport the hoards of askaris, maids, cooks, gardeners and other staff of the privileged few. The tree lined avenues hide the mansions that lie behind and signs point towards horse riding schools, private country clubs and exclusive restaurants. Oh to live in Karen ... I am starting to feel hard done by!