Christmas with the parentals - PART 2

After the excitement of the safari we returned to Kampala for our first Christmas together in 3 years. It was always going to be a little different though. We decided against buying alive turkey on the road and decided to just make whatever we could for Christmas dinner. I cooked up some roast veggies and Mum made a scrumptious lemon surprise pud and we had a very lazy day. Mum went for her first ever swim on Christmas day in an outdoor pool and in the evening we tried to watch the latest James Bond film on dvd on the terrace (don't waste your time, it is totally incomprehensible - I was very disappointed that the dodgy dvd shop across the road could not manage to find Only Fools and Horses for us). Then on Boxing Day, which is also Dad's birthday we treated ourselves to a lovely meal at the Emin Pasha - the very nice hotel with a lovely garden and so on in town.

One of Dad's favourite haunts in Kampala was The Surgery. He must've read up about it before arriving in Kampala because he was asking to be taken there on the second day, complaining of a gammy eye. He was immediately impressed with the quick service, because unlike in the UK, you can see a doctor within an hour's notice here, rather than having to book your appointment 6 weeks ahead of actually catching the 'flu. After a small wait, he emerges from the surgery, pleased that he does not have a tropical disease and retelling the expat doctor's claim to fame of appearing in 'The Last King of Scotland' (the rest of us have heard it all before). After the safari, he goes down with the notorious traveller's tummy and I although i had been telling him for several days that it sounded like an amoeba it took him the same amount of time to admit that I was correct, so sadly not enjoying the xmas dinner too much.

Just before Christmas we took a day trip to Jinja. Again the day was not uneventful. Before we had even got out of Kampala, I was pulled over by the police and heard those fateful words'Madam, did you know you had committed an offecnce?'Now the best way to get out of this is just to wait until they give you the cue to bribe them. I sneaked across 20 000 Shillings, but then unbeknown to me Dad had also given him the same amount. I was just living in fear that Mum was going to innocently whack out a whole stack of 50 000 notes and mistake them for the 5000s! After a serious wait in traffic we hit the open road and got to Jinja. After stopping for lunch, we took a bot trip out to the 'Source of the Nile' where the river meets Lake Victoria. It was a very small boat, so I felt a bit seasick afterwards, then we wended our way home. The journey back was going so well, until we hit a diversion sign. The only problem being that they only instructed you to leave the road you were on and didn't give any further directions - so we got very lost, to the point that we arrived at some government office that was unmentioned on the map and had to give the guard a lift, who then directed us home.

Our final day was spent in Entebbe, looking at the Botanical Gardens, which were in all honesty, a bloody mess, as nobody had bothered to clean up after a big party the day before, so we had to treck through the masses of litter that had been left behind. A bit of a shame really, as the guide book had promised that you could swing like Tarzan on the vines and would have really liked to have had that image in my head. In the end, we went back to my hotel, packed up and I said a tearful goodbye to Mum and Dad before heading off to Mombasa the next day.

Africa with the parentals - PART ONE!!

The day finally arrived when my parents came to Uganda. They seemed to be the last people off the plane and I had started to wonder whether they had chickened out of coming to Uganda and just stayed in Amsterdam for the holidays where they connected. Eventually they did turn up though, complete with many-pocketed trousers and the matching hats I had heard much about.

We spent the first couple of days settling into Kampala, getting them used to the heat, the mozzies, the currency, the potholes and Kampala traffic. Mum enjoyed bartering for a few bargains in the craft market, while Dad attempted to buy some very embarrassing shirts, but eventually settled for a Muzungu t-shirt.

After the weekend we set off on the big journey to Queen Elizabeth Park. I managed to bagsy the smoothest roads, leaving Dad the Raleigh driving experience between Masaka and Mbarara (I already knew the state of that road from the trip to Rwanda at half term). We stopped at the Equator for some piccies, then carried on with the driving. We made it in one piece in spite of the numerous trucks and buses hurtling down the middle of the roads and avoided being ramrailed off the road completely.

Arriving at Katara Lodge was unbelievable. the view across the plains is enough to fulfill the dreams of any filmaker or artist. The rooms were also fantastic, with a bath with a view over the plains and lovely fluffy white towels and white bedlinen, all immaculately presented in the wooden cabin. I have to say that I was very impressed with Alex's recommendation.

Over the next few days we went out on game drives, coming within a few metres of elephants, lions, cobs, buffalo, various types of antelopes and so on. I never imagined that I would be able to drive so close to all these animals. We had a very experienced and interesting guide who managed to find all of the animals for us, so we were very happy with ourselves for that.

On the other hand, we did have a truly African experience one afternoon, whilst taking the 'community walk'. I had an idea that this was going to be interesting the moment I asked the guide if we needed to take anything particular on the walk with us (thinking of insect repellent, sun screen and the like) only to be told to make sure that I had a notebook and pen. So we set off to the local village for a short tour. He explained the histories of all the Ugandan tribes explicit details and expected us to write it all down for later. I tried to explain that we wouldn't know how to begin to spell the words in Lugandan. In the end, Dad and I dropped back and let Mum get on with it. Every so often he would ask if 'Madam Margaret' was listening carefully. On we went and I giggled to myself, letting the rest of them get on with it, as Dad huffed and puffed his way up the massive hill in the tropical heat that they were given no warning of and we were shown such exotic crops as carrots and potatoes - astounding. Patience would only last so long and by the end of the day Dad had given him a full training course on how to be a good tour guide!

Now perhaps the most dramatic event of the holiday would be the fire. As I already mentioned, the lodge was built entirely out of natural materials and borders straight onto the national park. So on our second evening, as we sat eating our dinner in the restaurant at the top of the hill, we spotted some small 'burn off' fires in the distance. the only problem was that after a while it was not so distant anymore. I popped down the stairs to get my car keys and passport in case of emergency and spotted that they were getting closer. We suggested they call the fire brigade ... except that there is no fire brigade in the middle of nowhere in Uganda - only the local men with buckets of water. As the fires burned brighter and stronger emotions started to run high. I became a little hysterical, claiming that I did not bring my parents to Africa in order to burn them alive. Mum was getting a little agitated by the fact that the room was by now, filled with smoke, and insisted that we all packed our bags and brought them back up the hill. I decided it was more crucial to make sure my clothes were OK, since I have to travel several hours by plane in order to get to a decent clothes shop. The staff continued to troop up and down the hill with buckets of water and eventually put them out. Mum was still a little concerned though as the room was filled with smoke. We were offered staff accommodation (which was probably THE NICEST staff accommodation in the whole of Africa) but declined it as there wasn't an en-suite bathroom and decided she would risk being burnt alive in her sleep after all. So we went to bed in the room that was now cleared of the smoke and I slept very soundly until the door started banging first thing in the morning and mum leapt out of bed and declared that the fires had started again. So we repacked again and dragged the suitcases up the hundreds of steps up the very steep hill yet again, to have an early breakfast and head off in search of tree climbing lions.

I have to say that the tree climbing lions are quite possibly the cutest things I have ever seen. Sleeping peacefully in the trees, they looked like cuddly over sized teddy bears.Nobody could ever suspect that these gorgeous looking creatures could harm anybody. This did not stop Mum from grinding her teeth as I leaned out of the window to get a closer look though - but it was so worth it for the photos. Sadly the quest to find the tree climbing lions was not so easy - an 80km drive over a dirt road, followed by many hours driving round numerous feckin fig trees was exhausting and I was about to give up and drive back, but am glad we persisted.

On the final day in the park I set off to track chimpanzees while Mum and Dad had a lazy morning. Again, I was very lucky as we saw many of them only a few metres away. There were loads in the trees and some were very close to us on the ground and they were only distracted by the sound of my phone going off when the typically disorganised school was ringing me to ask where i wanted my salary to go that month - grrrrrr.

On the way back we stopped in Fortportal. It's a very different landscape there, in the foothills of the Rwenzori mountains and was good to show my parents a different aspect of Uganda. We went on a tour of some caves and saw some beautiful crater lakes. We stayed in a very nice hotel with very slow service, but TIA. Then the trip back was sooooo much smoother, with lovely tarmacked roads.

Waltzing Matilda, Waragi and frisby

Oh where do I begin? Let's start a few months back, before Christmas, when the running hash ended in Bubbles and we found a friend chatting to her friend who runs a sugar plantation in Tanzania. Why not come down, he asks, why not we reply. So last week was a long weekend in Uganda and a few of us decided to make the journey.
On Saturday morning we got up at the crack of dawn to make sure we could make the most of the day. I had 8 people's luggage crammed into the tiny boot of my car and we were all ready to go. Except for one thing - this is Uganda - and the other car was not ready, so we had many cups of tea, some breakfast and waited for another 2 hours. Eventually we got off and were making good progress. we had a leisurely break at the Equator, taking lots of silly photos and a cup of coffee. The first hitch was a bird that flew straight into the windscreen and killed itself. I was too squeamish to deal with it, so heather picked it out and threw it away. On we went, through the rain, but still making good time. Until ... BANG ... a horrible noise was coming from the engine. So being girls, we did what we knew best and turned up the music to ignore the noise. This was OK for a few minutes, but then the car was really starting to lose power. We pulled up by the roadside and called the others to come back. But none of the three men we brought had a clue what to do. We tested the water and the oil, which both looked fine and rooted around, eventually reaching the conclusion that the problem had nothing to do with the spare tyre and that we hadn't got a clue. We tried to set off again and had to drive at a snail's pace, again increasing the volume on the music as the banging was getting louder. As we reached a small town we decided to drive into a garage. Aaaahhhh - we discovered an oil leak and the mechanic told me my car was broken and I should just leave it there and buy another one (because clearly, being a muzungu, I can do that no problem). We refilled the oil and set off again, this time even slower, then after a few more kms we came to a complete stop. We all poked our heads under the bonnet again and quickly realised that none of us had a clue. So what to do at a time like this? Well, as it was Australia Day weekend, Stacy gets out Waltzing Matilda and we all have a dance around to that. Ange gets out the waragi and red bull and she is a happy lady. Next thing, the Swiss boys get out the Frisbee, which starts up a game with the local kids, entertaining everybody around. By the time we left, pretty much an entire village worth of kids had gathered for the game. Meanwhile, the rescue operation was under way. Neil was coming up in his car, with a driver to come and tow us (the grand distance of around 80kms - oh dear god). As he had just been expecting to meet us at the border, he did not have his passport with him, so he asked a very friendly customs officer if he could pass through to help a friend, and lo and behold, he made it through with a hand written letter. He has a quick look at the car and tells me it's F*&^$# and I try my best not to burst into tears on the roadside. We pack up and tie the cars together and start being towed along. The ropes break a few times and we have to stop to retie them. Then we get to the border. At this point I do get a bit of luck, as we manage to persuade them to give me free insurance, since the car can't actually be driven anywhere. Unfortunately though, they don't let the other car through as it has no registration paperwork. So now there are 10 people, 1 broken down rav 4 and a land cruiser. It's a bit of a crush to say the least.
We eventually arrived and saw fit to crack open the beers and start up the barbecue. Clearly we were in need of a fair few after the trials and tribulations of the day. At this point, I should also mention that there was a great big inflatable swimming pool in the back garden ... so you can imagine what happened later on. I managed to avoid being thrown in (mainly coz I ran inside and locked myself in the loo), but did manage to fall over on the slippy step and take a big chunk out of my leg. So the day was not getting any better - medical assistance was quick and efficient, in the form of a big bandage and a bottle of whisky to calm my nerves - which were more than a little frayed by this point.
The next day we woke up to pouring rain, so we were forced to go to the pub and have a few more beers and play games. Stacy is now hooked on poker and keeps asking if we can go to the casino. I discovered a talent for darts and the others continued with drinking practise. Later on, the weather brightened up, so we were able to take a walk through the acres of sugar cane fields, then took a drive down to the river. I think I was having better luck that day, as there were no crocs or hippos in sight - I probably would have been eaten alive had they been there. So we took in the views of the pretty river, then went to see some of the locals setting burn off fires, where they literally burn off most of the leaves, so the air was filled with smoke and ashes - the photos look cool if I can ever actually upload them, that is!
My luck was not to last for long. As a pretty much life long vegetarian, who does not even like to walk past the butcher counter in a supermarket, then what I am about to talk about is very disturbing. I had heard the guys mention that they often do a bit of hunting. This is quite understandable, as it is many miles from any large town and it clearly is the best source of food available locally. However, i was not so rational when I was told that there was a dead impala on the porch ready to be butchered. What I then witnessed was a large deer like creature, minus the head and the fur, but complete with legs and full body outline, lying on the counter. It was then hacked into small pieces (probably better known as steaks to the carnivores amongst you), then being carefully placed in the freezer box to be taken up to Kampala. All very disturbing.
On the Monday we set off back to Kampala, and we were very lucky that our friend was kind enough to lend us his car and driver and take us all the way home. Am also very grateful for Neil's help in sorting out the wreck that is my car, that is still in Tanzania. So keep your fingers crossed for me and my little motor!

Jambo!! New Year in Watamu, Kenya

The day after my parents left I hopped on a plane to Mombasa in Kenya. A couple of hours drive north up the coast took me to the village of Watamu. I had not really known what to expect and I was not disappointed. When I arrived the sun was just setting over the beach of white sands and clear blue water. The girls had the wine chilled and poured me a welcome glass before we ran into the water for a twilight dip. On the first evening we went out for Italian food – a real treat as there’s not much of it in Kampala really. After satisfying our appetites we decided to go down to the local bar, where we danced with Masais and watched the acrobats perform! We have some classic photos of Masais in traditional dress complete with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and a mobile phone stuffed down the front of the skirt. There’s not too much to tell you about the days as they were just the usual sun holiday – chilling on the beach and swimming in the sea. I missed the Christmas treat of camel rides, but think I can live without it anyway.

For New Year’s Eve we had grand plans of going into the bigger town of Malindi. When we got there we soon found out that the better parties were going on in Watamu – where we had just come from! So after dinner we hotfooted it to the nearest offie, stocked up on vodka and bottles of bubbly and went home. Now we had no real plans, since the party at the British hotel (which was full of, to quote an Aussie friend, pompous arse pommes, and I will not disagree with her) cost well over a hundred quid and the other alternative was equally pompous arse Italians (or Spaghetti people as the locals referred to them) who were afraid to get on the beach and sully their precious Gucci bikinis. So we made our own party, and just before midnight, followed the crowds down to the place where they were going to set off the fireworks. As midnight struck, we were the only muzungus on the beach and were surrounded by Kenyans, whilst all the tourists refused to stray from the safety of their hotels. We swigged the bubbly from the bottle and watched the fireworks. Later on in the evening, as things were starting to get a little more messy, we strolled into the Italian resort, dancing g barefoot, rather than in 3 inch heels and dived into the pool fully dressed to the horror of those around us!

I had hoped to go on a dolphin safari trip where you get to go snorkelling and possibly swim with dolphins. Sadly for me, the boat drivers chose that time to go on strike. Instead I witnessed mini-riots on the beach, with the boat drivers and the police exchanging sharp words in Swahili. Since this was cancelled I decided to take myself off souvenir shopping and picked up a couple of paintings and some kikoys and kangas ( different types of Kenyan sarongs basically). I had also ordered some flip flops, but when I went to collect them I found they had been sold to Spaghetti People!

Motoring Madness Part Two

Owning a driving a car in Uganda is definitely a steep learning curve. I am now starting to grow accustomed to the sensation of driving over the surface of the moon brought about by all the pot-holes and the famous ‘lying police-men’. When I arrived here, I had thought that the term for speed bumps was sleeping policemen, but I now realize that ‘lying policemen’ is far more appropriate as it holds a double meaning. I have been lucky enough not to have been pulled over by the police so far, but am waiting for the day that I make a silly mistake and get caught by an opportunist copper. A friend of mine was driving along a dual carriage way a few weeks ago. When he wanted to change lanes, he looked in the mirror, signaled and maneuvered. This would seem to be perfectly reasonable behaviour. However, the local bobby would disagree with this, as he was clearly causing other motorists great confusion, as they thought he was going to do a u-turn right in the middle of the road. A few days later, his girlfriend was pulled over, because she had driven over a line that did not actually exist at traffic lights. I believe that she smiled sweetly and promised to remember to drive better in the future and managed to avoid a fine.

I have had to get a couple of things fixed on the car before going on the big journey at Christmas. I managed to get a flat tyre only 24 hours after getting the car. Although I was angry at the time, I now see it as a good thing, as at least I was close to home and able to get it fixed. Neither myself, nor my housemate felt confident enough to change the tyre on our own (I know what you have to do in theory, particularly after watching them change 5 tyres on the Fortportal trip) , so I called my friend’s mechanic the next day and got it sorted. It has then taken me a week of phonecalls and trips to various garages to find the correct replacement. I have heard it said that customer service is everything and nothing in Africa. So while in England, I would have popped down to Kwik-fit or similar, and had it fixed within about half an hour, this option simply doesn’t exist in Uganda. However, where there’s a will there’s a way. I did not really fancy driving through the traffic and getting lost trying to track one down, so I asked in the local garage when they would be getting a delivery. I was told that they could get one the following day, and true to their word, they did. I called them to say what time I would be arriving, then in true Ugandan style, they then called the other place to start sending it (there is no way of beating it – you have to wait a long time for anything, however clever you think you get) and quarter of an hour it arrived on a boda-boda. Perfect! The other thing that needed fixing was the seatbelt. Normally I would have called the good mechanic, but the girl who sold me the car told me that it had already been paid for, so I called up what I expected to be a garage. They told me to meet in a hotel car park in town. So I got there and was then directed to the garage. As soon as I met this guy I suspected that he was a bit dodgy. Within minutes he confirmed my suspicions, as he started to tell me that my engine was making a funny noise and all the rest of it. I made it quite clear that I had not come up the Ribble in a banana boat and the rest of the journey to the garage was passed in silence. When we finally reached the ‘garage’ I realized it was not really a garage, but more like a whole street of markets selling car parts and mechanics. The work space would be a parking space on the road. The weather is getting hotter and hotter at the moment, so I was not impressed when I was told that ‘whoops – this seat-belt (the one that had been paid for already) was not the right one. So off he went into the market to find the correct type. Twenty minutes later he returns, only he has got one for the driver’s side, not the passengers. So off he goes again. By this point, I was literally wondering whether I will melt, fry or spontaneously combust in the heat. I had to send a guy to the shop to buy me water, as there was no way that I was going to leave the car open in the middle of the street. Eventually he retuned with the correct seatbelt and they managed to fit it fairly quickly. Then came the final issue of payment. Even though I had the receipt and everything, yes I don’t have to tell you, do I? It was for the wrong one, and I would have to pay more money. I asked if I could see the price list as it sounded a bit expensive to me. He went to find the price list (which I am convinced does not exist) and came back with another guy. They told me that the price list was in the other office right now, but they were happy to negotiate the price. I got it reduced, but am sure that I still probably paid at least double the going rate.

One thing that I have noticed is that having experience of driving down the promenade in Blackpool in the middle of the season has definitely put me in good stead for dealing with pedestrians here. They certainly do not observe the Green Cross Code. Yesterday, a woman dressed in a full Burkha emerged from nowhere right infront of my car – it almost scared me to death, as it is not a common sight round here, although it is Eid today, so maybe they wear them more for special holidays. When I drove around the corner onto my driveway the other day, I was just in time to spot a woman lying on the ground. I swerved round her and went inside. I then spoke to various people, as I was clearly a little concerned by this, but was told not to worry, she was only sleeping. I thought she was ill, so brought her some water and told her to find a safer place to rest. Each day, more people stroll in front of my moving car with not a care in the world, and each day, more Ugandans are becoming more familiar with my whole range of English swear words!

Lost on the hash

The running hash usually has three different routes. One is for runners and is the furthest, the middle one is for hashers, who are people like me, who run part of it, but generally walk up the hills and the slowest group is for walkers. A couple of weeks ago the hash run was leaving from a bar in an area of town we often frequent on a Friday night for meals and drinks. This all seemed well and good, as they are often in far-flung and unknown areas of town. So at last we were in an area in which we were familiar. I have been gradually been building up my stamina and am now able to run along the whole of the hash route. I prefer to stick to this group, as I reason that it is better to be at the front of a slower group than at the back of the faster group. The only exception to this rule is that it is not wise to be in the first ten people in the hash group, as if you reach certain points, you have to run to the back of the group and double back on yourself, or wait until the very last hasher passes, therefore forfeiting any advantage of running faster in the first place. Therefore, I usually aim to be about eleventh or twelfth in the group. All was going according to plan for the most part of the run. Then, after the final pit stop I made a fatal error. I accidentally followed the path for the running group. And did I run? For the most part of the run, I had absolutely no idea where I was. Then, we turned a corner and once again I was on familiar ground. I was happy to be on Acacia Road, the street with the Irish pub, the Latino Club and The Surgery. I jogged along fairly well, with people still in sight, then, at some point, I must have missed spotting the chalk marks on the ground that indicate that you should change direction. So I ran and I ran, like Forest Gump. Just as it was starting to go dark, I realized that I could see nobody in front of me. I turned to look behind and realized that I couldn’t see anybody there either. I kept going to the end of the road and noticed a couple of policemen. I asked them if they had seen anybody running past, as surely it would be impossible to miss a group of people, all dressed in the same t-shirts, running past. They said they hadn’t. I started to panic a little, but at least I was fairly familiar with the area and knew that we had to turn right. I ran like I had never run before, even though I was feeling more tired by the minute, the fact that the light was fading quickly and I was all alone drove me forwards. As there is virtually no dusk on the equator, ten minutes later it was pretty much pitch black. I started to run even faster. I was considering taking a boda boda back and giving in, but I refused. Then, I became aware of a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Emerging from the woods by the side of the golf course, was a herd of men dressed in bright yellow MTN (the local mobile phone network) T-shirts and shorts. By this point I was sprinting. I managed to catch up with them and the first person I saw was the man who was very loud and very drunk on the way back from the Fort Portal weekend away. It was, however, a friendly and familiar face. I explained what had happened to me and it turned out that I had missed the chalk marks to tell me to take a short cut across the golf course. I must have added at least another 3km to the run, which was already the longer running route. Clearly, I was devastated and made no bones about it when I eventually got back. When the hash master heard of my plight, it resulted in all the muzungus being dragged into the middle of the circle and all of the Ugandans being told to look after us! Not only that, but the hash was again organized appallingly. There was no water left by the time I made it back and the local feast of matoke (some kind of cooked plantain or banana – but leached of all flavour somewhere in the cooking process) and beans (or often nothing for the vegetarians among us) had not arrived. I was not disappointed to end the evening in the Turksih restaurant instead!

Driving about in my automobile

The big thing in my life recently has been buying a car. At first, I had no intentions of doing so, particularly as the combination of the chaotic traffic, numerous pot-holes and meandering pedestrians makes driving look a little ominous. Then when you start to read into the Bradt guide book, which mentions the precautions you should make in the case of running over a snake (basically to make sure it is dead and to close the windows so that it can’t jump up and attack you) it all seems like a bit of a bother. However, when I started looking into the cost of hiring a car when my parents come, it seemed like it may be worth the while after all. So after looking at a few different cars, I eventually made my decision and am now the proud owner of a shiny blue Rav 4. I think it’s the girliest of 4X4s, which suits me! Now I have a funny tale to tell you about buying the car. A friend of mine recommended a reliable mechanic to have a look at the different cars I was looking at. I agreed to meet him at the car park outside the club and school. Now, bearing in mind that this meeting depended on two different Ugandans arriving on time, I decided to sit by the pool, armed with a book and i-pod to entertain me during the almost certain wait. Imagine my surprise when my phone rang exactly at the time agreed! I had never seen this guy, so asked him to get out of his car and wave at me. He told me that he was on the car park and was getting out of a silver car. I spotted him immediately and wandered over to introduce myself. He seemed a little surprised by my stream of questions about the car and was hardly over talkative. When I asked him what I should look for in a car that I intended to drive ‘up-country’ to Queen Elizabeth Park, he replied that I should get the one with the sun roof so that my passengers could stand up and stick their heads through to get a good view of the animals!!! And I had been expecting to get answers about the engine or technical things that I have no clue about. About 20 minutes later, my phone rings again, and the girl who I eventually bought the car from tells me that she has arrived. She drives onto the car park, so I tell the guy to follow me. He obeys, but still seems a little bit reluctant. We open the car bonnet and he has a look inside. A moment later, my phone rings again with his number displaying – by now I am totally confused. I ask him if he is calling me and he says no. I make some comment about the mobile phone networks being in such a mess here. I do, however, answer the phone. Only to discover that the man I had been speaking to for the past half hour was not the mechanic, but a random taxi driver, who also happened to have a silver car and to have arrived at exactly the same time. Needless to say I was a little embarrassed by this point. Luckily for me, he was not offended by this mix up and continued to look at both cars for me. A week later I had collected a ridiculous amount of Ugandan Shillings from the bank and was given the keys. So I am now trying to find my way around Kampala and am getting more adventurous by the day. It is truly amazing not to have to get the death trap boda-bodas any more. Petrol is quite expensive here – about a pound a litre, but am reasoning that if I nominate myself the designated driver on Fridays and Saturdays and drink water instead of wine, I will surely be winning, as wine is considerably more expensive by the litre, although I guess the tank takes about 60 litres and even at my very worst, I don’t think I ever drink too much more than a couple of litres (that’s glasses mum, if you’re reading this) of wine in an evening! I am also starting to make sense of the maelstrom of traffic. It seems that because there are really no rules, then you can do exactly what you want and nobody really gets angry. People aren’t really aggressive, so let you pass or in at junctions where in Britain you would get honked to death for the same manoeuvres. I do find it helpful though, to remember the Ugandan Highway Code –

There really are no rules, but the trucks rule the road, next come the big buses, followed by the matatus, after that are the big land cruisers and so on, then smaller cars and finally, right at the bottom of the food chain, are the pedestrians. The only exception to the rule, in this survival of the biggest, is the boda boda, which weaves in and out of traffic, virtually knocking over pedestrians and cutting up each and every sort of vehicle.

So my final question goes to Mum and Dad, who arrive in less than a fortnight: Who’s up for driving?