It’s the week before Christmas and we’re in the midst of dry season so the sun has a piercing hot-heat known for turning my particular shade of Scottishness, pinky-red.
Thankfully I’m sitting under a open-sided white marquee and the breeze from Lake Victoria is most welcome. We are located on the edge of the “sports field” in front of the manufacturing plant as I’m attending the Uganda Breweries Christmas party. Guests are made up of management and their families, and all staff, first wives and first wives children. Uganda is still fairly polygamous and to make sure we don’t end up with half of Kampala here, HR have been quite strict in managing numbers. Even so, the sea of children outnumber the adults at least 5 to 1.
We’ve all enjoyed the matoke, ground nut sauce and goat stew and with bellies full, we await the arrival of the Big Man himself. (In this instance it’s not Yoweri). After a considerable period of time and much muttering from the East African Breweries MD, a flatbed truck appears and there indeed is the star attraction. Decked out in black welly boots, and rubber gloves, his velour red suit tightened by his shiny black belt and his cotton-wool beard firmly attached, the bell announcing his arrival is still clanging in my ears.
He balances precariously on the back of the truck as it starts to slowly make its way around the edge of the playing field. The children seem to appear from everywhere in that magical way that 
African children can – emerging from the earth in a smiling burst of humanity. The swell of children are beginning to shout and taunt Father Christmas, they are keen to know what he is planning next. In a fit of madness, or fear, he decides to start throwing the gifts from the mound of sacks piled high on the back of his flat-bed truck. Of course the larger, stronger children can catch and whoop, the smaller ones start to cry. The South African MD who has stood in silent shock, galvanises and begins to try to make his way to help Santa, but he cannot get through the sea of children. Now off script and besieged by a flood of children, the flatbed truck comes to a shuddering halt and in three seconds flat Father Christmas disappears under a tidal mass. It is chaos. Then, almost as soon as it starts, it is over. Father Christmas is lying on the ground, naked apart from his underpants. Red velour suit, gone. Welly boots, gone. Stuffed tummy and cotton beard, gone. Rubber gloves, gone. Presents, all gone.
I look to see the older children charging away with shirts untucked and full of gifts and the littlies begging them for small morsels. The parents seem unconcerned and return to their conversations and their beers.
The remains of Father Christmas clambers back onto the flatbed truck and it roars off in the direction of the Brewery.
I’m not sure if he’ll volunteer for the job again….
The car is filthy. The grime from the rear windscreen wiper builds up either side of the blade creating my rear window on a murky world.
On the plus side, it’s very prettily decked in Christmas lights, all twinkling in the dark, cool, night air and it has some of the very best public conveniences of any retail park I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to a few retail parks in my time!
Quality Cuts, the Belgian butcher serving fresh meat and cheese, European style. Food quality is good in Kampala but in my early days there, choice was limited. And food from the UK was rare. I once called Craig in the office to excitedly tell him I had bought a Frey Bentos pie for tea. This ‘delicacy’ being a rare find. Needless to say, this was a one time purchase.
But I left empty-handed, as I got to the cereal aisle and became so bewildered by the amount of choice, that I stood silently stupefied in front of the garishly coloured, neatly stacked boxes. The entire aisle was cereal – both sides – stacked high. It was just too much contrast from where I had come from.
This necessitates several visits to the Alps so as to improve my fitness and ski-touring and ice axe techniques. I am also keen to understand and train for the threats and signs of avalanche. So we are on the Haute route ski tour, a high Alpine 120km traverse with 6,000m of ascent and descent linking two historic Alpine centres, Chamonix and Zermatt. It’s a structured route travelling Alpine hut to hut with little time for ‘ dilly-dallying’. It’s a hot day and so I take off my fleece before putting my outer gortex layer back on. I’m carrying my rucksack with a week’s worth of provisions, largely a few pairs of clean knickers, a couple of T Shirts, my sleeping bag and mat and a bare minimum of toiletries. I also have another pair of lightweight skis and my crampons and ice axe strapped to my pack.
Tired, I am slowly zig-zagging my way across a mountain face, when I feel a cold wind. The storm comes out of nowhere and very quickly I am confused and disoriented. My companion is a fair distance ahead and as the storm rages, I get angry and common sense flies away. I take my skis off, to walk my way out of the mess, and find myself up to my waist in snow. Defeated, I howl in despair and somehow the wind carries my call. He stops, looks back and retraces his steps. 30 minutes later, exhausted, I have my skis and skins back on. But my legs are no longer playing, they are shaking and struggling with the weight of my pack and with the biting wind and whipping snow. Slowly, laboriously, we make our way to an outcrop of rocks to hide from the wind and regroup.
Thankfully when the storm came down and we did not appear, they came out to search. After some discussion, he lifts my pack and heads off into the storm. This time I find my voice and demand to know where he’s gone but there is no answer. I am being pushed to my feet and ordered to get moving. It’s a tone of voice that does not allow argument and I shuffle a few steps forward and using all my strength turn once more into the wind to zigzag upwards. Then the mountain man is back. There is more discussion and we move on, heads bent.
He guides my every step up to the door of the hut and has obviously warned the team of what to expect. They are on me like locusts, pulling off my wet gear, drying my hair before putting a tinfoil type hat on me. I stand for a moment, like a compliant rag doll, before falling to the floor in an undignified heap. They carry me upstairs to a huge log fire where I am put in a wooden chair almost on the hearth itself. I have a man either side of me rubbing my fingers, another two men have a foot each and they are vigorously working my toes. Someone is behind me making my ear lobes sing. They swap around taking turns as, rhythmically, they bring the blood back to my veins. It happens slowly and then, with a whoosh of almighty pain, it is there, throbbing with every heart beat. I am given hot, sweet tea and they feed me sausages before cleaning my teeth and helping me to bed. I don’t sleep – my fingers are swollen larger than the sausages I have eaten and they hurt so much that I put them in my mouth to stifle my cries. My companion snores in the bunk bed next to mine. The next day there is the roar of the helicopter blades and we find ourselves and our gear being airlifted down the mountain.
