The pearl is dirty but it still shines

OH UGANDA MAY GOD UNFOLD THEE


I decided to come to UG after 15 years away and didn’t now what to expect, the ticket was cheap about $15 by bus, to be honest I preferred it this way because I wanted to see one of the most scenic routes you could ever see by car. Rwanda has such an easy-going lackadaisical charm so I wanted to contrast it with some hyper speed activity. The bus was Jaguar, it has a daily service to Kampala and the trip was to take 8 hours or so. The bus was already Uganda, I got on at 8:30 and some money-changers saw how green I was. They approached me talking in Luganda, I told them I didn’t speak Luganda and resented their familiarity, and they switched to French which I found even more annoying. They settled on English but I replied in Rwandese. They offered me 28,000 UGS for my 10000 RWF a lot less than the going rate but delivered me 21,000 plus a long bullshit story of how the rate had really jumped over-night but they were deeply disappointed that I didn’t have more. They assured me I would receive the rest in due time, I have been spoiled in Kigali because people are honest. I gave a random guy $50 to change for me and he came back with the correct amount.


So I asked the man sat next to me whether I had gotten a good rate, he assured me that I had been swindled so I got off the bus to search for the thugs in question. They were stood round the side of the bus giggling like little kids, happy at their little con trick. I walked up to them with pure rage in my eyes, they knew I wasn’t joking; they then laughed and said they were coming to give me the rest but couldn’t find me. I pushed one against the bus and stared him in the face; his friend had shrunk like a coward and dashed away. My money was swiftly handed over and the thug in question was happy not to be reported to the police. That reminded me of the essence of Uganda; a nation of conmen and thieves who would rob their own mother on her deathbed. It pains me to say that because I was born there and had Ugandan nationality until recently.


The ride was spectacular; we rose up into the mountains with terraces on the hills, neat symmetrical plots of green that circled the dome-like terrain. This is mainly to stop erosion and maximize space. You see the fields of green that make Rwanda the real beauty of Africa. We wound our way around the hills and you see what a logistical conundrum it was to build roads in this kind of country. There is never any straight road, you are either going up or down. The tea plantation of Mulinde has a real significance in Rwandan history; this was where the RPF hid as rebels, in underground bunkers and secret lairs. It showed the scale of Rwanda because within one hour and a half we were at the border. We all disembarked to go through customs and were swiftly through in no time; most of the border-crossers were captivated by a Nepalese man who was crossing the world on his Harley-Davidson. The lack of a common language added to their bewilderment, he spoke in broken English while they tried pigeon-French. The impasse was palpable, but with a few grunts and nods a basic communication was established.



Crossing the border into the “Pearl of Africa” was a 100 meter walk and the difference was instant. My first sight was the cops; in Rwanda the police are a select bunch, they make you feel proud and safe. They are tall, even the short ones have an imposing stature; they dress in a Spartan dark blue with a confidence that reassures you. The Uganda cops were like mangy dogs, dressed in a colonial khaki with beer guts denoting their rank and size of bribe. The tallest was 5’5 with a dirty uniform and a venal glare; he checked my passport with glazed eyes and a drooping chin. The difference was amazing with utter chaos in full command; it was like a stampede to customs. I was faced by a horde of malcontents stomping on anything in their path and had to get out of their way.



Customs took about 40 minutes and I was glad to get back on the bus and my panoramic widescreen adventure resumed. There is no difference in terrain between Kigezi in Uganda and Rwanda; they were once the same country until the Berlin Conference divided it. The hills were truly spectacular; the tops are shrouded in mist and clouds while the bottoms are as green as Ireland. On the higher hills rocks and outcrops jut out of the ground with artisans trying to harvest rocks for various purposes, such as building. It is now that you see the difference between the two nations. Here you saw a variety of crops being grown, such a cabbage, vanilla, sorghum, lettuce, and so many others; while in the less exposed Rwanda you see mostly banana groves and beans.



We drove into a cloud and were covered in spray as opposed to rain, the driver simply ploughed through because he knew the road so well. It struck me that in Uganda they never make roads that are wide enough, whenever the bus encountered another car, it had to swerve off the road to make room. The bus stopped to buy matoke, the local plantain was much bigger and juicier that the ones you get in Rwanda, just one could feed you quite well. People ran and brought sizzling sticks of barbequed meat; the type of meat was never mentioned, they just said “Nyama”. I used one stop to relieve myself and while doing so I was offered a sizzling stick to eat but I declined.



We rolled down into the hills of Ankole; where my grandfather was born on a long cattle drive. The banana groves gave way to flowing savannah, with acacia and thorny bushes dotting the landscape. The sight of long-horned cattle stirred my soul, it was a truly awesome sight, there was room enough for thousands to roam and they waved their horns at me as if to acknowledge a brother. I was truly stunned by their numbers, in Rwanda there isn’t room to swing a cat let alone breed cattle so I was slightly jealous.



I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up till Mbarara, I was surprised to see it has grown substantially, which is not surprising seeing as it is the presidents hometown. The stop was brief; we had a refuel and pee. The sizzling sticks were abundant; the shop was full of hungry customers so I munched on the dry rock-hard tasteless cakes I bought at the border. My brother had recommended these egg-chapati rolls so I bought one off a street-boy. This turned out to be a mistake, while it was no doubt delicious it had an added ingredient, soil, it crunched against my teeth like a screeching blackboard, it was like eating crushed glass. I shouted at the boy even though he wasn’t the one who sold it to me; he shouted in Kinyankole while I shouted in Kinyarwanda. He was kindly offering me another but I declined and quite rudely threw it at him.



The road was clear and the driver floored it till Kampala, sadly we got there when it was dark, the one thing I saw was a traffic jam, from 25km out. The number of car was astounding; when I left traffic jams consisted of 10 cars, now it was 25km long. We inched through fumes of sulphur and carbon-monoxide and soon we were in town. The light were blinding, the sound deafening, the feel was numbing. I waited to be picked up so I went to the nearby café, I ordered a cup of tea but was told it was 500 but I only had 400. The owner was a Rwandan lady so she gave me a cup for free, when she asked how many sugars I wanted I said only one and she freaked out, I lied that I was diabetic but she was still perplexed.



My cousin Tim picked my up and I was glad to see him healthy and glowing, fresh from a trip to Dubai where he was blown away by the decadence and obscene amounts of money on display. “I couldn’t believe. Imagine walking around with a briefcase with $100,000 and not being afraid of anyone stealing it. The taxis are all Mercedes S-class; you see money that is off the scale. Then you come back here and realize that the richest man is a pauper. The next day I drove around Kampala and was appalled. WHAT HAD THEY DONE? It was development but with no planning whatsoever. Like they blindly put up buildings in the most inappropriate places, you just had to feel for them.



The rubbish was as abundant as ever, they are preparing for CHOGM, the Commonwealth heads of government meeting but the potholes were like Olympic swimming pools while goats chewed on rubbish in the middle of town. Pickpockets just walked up to you to ply their trade. In the town center you had the usual miscreants; the cornerboys who specialized in wise-cracking, in Uganda it is called “Lugezigezi” a woman in high-heels who happened to be a dwarf walked passed them and they actually took the time to remind her of her stature, it made you wonder why they bothered.



My cousin was supervising a project in Bugoloobi, a mini-hotel and guest house that was having the usual difficulties that construction in Africa has. Delays, delays and even more delays; like it was the world frustrating championships, materials were being pilfered by the minute, disgruntled workmen were vandalizing the building and laziness was rife. There was as much destruction as construction going on; you find a general need to destroy what they can’t own. Everyone from the engineers to the labourers was trying to hold the project to ransom, knowing that delays cost money. Even a kid is out for his cut; I love an entrepreneurial sprit but not when a 10-year old is trying to rob you.



I needed some peace so I went to Makindye; the house stood magnificently but was a lot smaller than I remember. The road was a lot shorter; it shows that when you are a child your sense of scale is smaller, I was a lot shorter, and my stride was shorter. I met the English couple who lived there now, they had lived there for 10 years and I understood why. They house was like a person; it welcomed you into its heart and kept you warm. The garden is my place of refuge I keep in my mind when I want to get away, if I could buy anything in the world then the house would be it. It is my world and will always be, how can you explain that? I said to them “This house brings back so many memories to me; I guess in life you never know when you are happy you never know it. It is only when you look back and think about it that you realize it was a happy time.” I had to leave before the tears became too much. As dirty and chaotic as it is I love it.