They say you should never return to places or people you once loved.
I go back to Kampala, with Craig and Roscoe, to where we all began. This exploration of rootedness is also a celebration; we are here, together, twenty years on. Still talking, still breathing, still loving each other. These small miracles acknowledged and noted. What seems simple, is not.
We fly Uganda Airlines, cramped together in an airless cabin, in seats so close together you could kiss your neighbour by a simple turn of your head. Unfurling ourselves in Entebbe, we walk through the sanitised airlink sealing us away from the welcoming smells of rich red murrum earth. However, the stench of progress is quickly wiped by the familiar chaos of immigration. One day a country will design an immigration service that reflects the warmth of the people within. This is not that day.
The vast emptiness of the Chinese built airport building, is in contrast to the melee of humanness which swarms outside. I’d forgotten the propensity for noise and nearness. These are a people who can create a noise level unmatched outside of a premier league football ground on a Saturday afternoon and an ability to stand so close that they can see the freckles on my nose.
We spend 30 minutes in the car going nowhere; embroiled in a queue of traffic inching towards the two barriers which offer a tantalizing escape from the airport confines. The argy-bargy of cars, trucks and Matatu’s bursts onto the Chinese owned highway where every toll shilling goes ‘Kerching‘ into the coffers of the Chinese government. This is a prime example of the Belt and Road initiative, binding Africa to the future of the Far East; an active choice of the current political elite who ignore the vision of their new colonial masters.
I still marvel at this highway; 20 years ago a drive to Entebbe could take 1 hour or several, if you made it at all. From 1998 to 2000 it was so dangerous and the kidnappings and shootings so frequent, you had to be escorted by armed guard. Given I travelled across Africa so frequently, I was incredibly blasé about a truck full of loaded AK 47’s ahead and behind my regular airport convoy. I look back at my old-self life and wonder what happened to that woman; the one full of ignorant bravado.
Now we are in Kampala in 50 minutes. The city has grown four-fold in the twenty years since our first departure. It’s a grown up city with high rises vying with traffic lights and the hive of boda-bodas swarming every inch of tarmac and murrum road. It’s interesting to see a rise of middle class affluent Ugandans unabashedly flaunting their wealth and good fortune, this alongside the obvious increase of international populations from the Middle and Far East, lends a curious distinction between the haves and the have-nots.
We stay with friends in Kololo, the same familiar suburb where we used to live. That word familiar is an oxymoron- what remains is the names of the streets, what exists today is an capricious mix of office blocks, and high rise apartments crammed together next to restaurants, clubs and bars. These compete with each other to be heard in a cacophony of thumping baseline beats lasting until 4am. Ear plugs are essential for a good nights sleep.
I drag the boys to Owino market. I want Roscoe to see and experience real life for ordinary Ugandans. It’s hugely entertaining to hear the calls of “Big Man, Hey, Big Man” and “Mzungo, Big Man” as I trail in his wake, letting him take the heat in the hope of a white-man sale. We eventually reappear into the light of the day not having spent a dime but rich in the assault of all senses.
After the clamour of noise and hustle of Owino, we jump in the car and crank it up the hill towards a new attraction; the mosque which was completed in 2006, two years after our departure. Funded and opened by Gadaffi, it is the fourth largest mosque in the world and the largest in sub-Saharan Africa. It is well organised and dressed appropriately we embark on our tour which culminates in a circular climb of 272 steps to the top of the minaret where we are rewarded by a 360 view of Kampala. It is comforting to see a few green spaces in about the morass and jumble of concrete and brick. From up here there is an obvious haze lying over town, created by over industrialization, belching black smoke from old cars and trucks, the burning of charcoal and anything else from the city slums and a general lack of regulation. The plethora of shisha pipes in every bar adds to the already poor air quality and my pretend tongue fizzes warning signals leading me to wonder about the longer term health of Kampala residents.
Back on the ground we head off to the place of our betrothal; the Baha’i temple. Even here, the pace of industrial development is ever present- the steam roller and digger are both noisily busy creating a new murrum road up to the temple itself. The building itself is reassuringly familiar and we hide on the other side of its sunshine yellow decagon walls, enjoying the setting while reminiscing and concurrently boring Roscoe who indulges us with feigned interest.
The next day we leave Kampala just after sunrise, the city is already bustling with busy people and tired revellers returning home from the jangle of 24/7 bar fun. We are heading towards Jinja and the promise of a Grade 5 white water rafting experience. This drive is not for the faint hearted and we pass several lorries and sugar cane trucks upended on both sides of the road. Years ago, as we drove through Mabira forest, we would see local folks walking with big stones in their hands, to throw at the marauding baboons who fight each other harder than rival supporters at an ‘auld firm’ game. This trip there are no baboons but the road sellers are still peddling their well-cooked ‘chicken on a stick’ proving the longevity of old favourites. Arriving at Nile Explorer River Lodge, it’s fascinating to see the wide age range of dwindling tourists still seeking Ugandan thrills. I’m not daft enough to go anywhere near the raft- I left my need for that kind of excitement somewhere on the birthing table- so I spend the day watching the backpacking youngsters chasing adrenaline kicks offered by bungee jumping, white water rafting, kayaking and the catapult slide into the Bilharzia infested waters of the Nile. I know we will need to attend the Doctors surgery the following day as the boys will need the necessary medication as payment for their day of fun.
There follows a lovely day catching up with old friends in new haunts and a final meal in Aurous, the fine dining bar and restaurant which has been created in our old house and garden at plot 11 Roscoe Road. It’s surreal to be drinking cocktails in that garden, with our boy. A plot beyond imagining when we locked up the house for the final time all those years ago.
Being here with Roscoe has been all I had hoped for. He understands our passion for Africa much better by stepping onto Ugandan soil. But there are other African nations waiting to be explored.
So as we say our farewells, I think this truly will be my farewell. I love the Ugandan people who are, without doubt, one of the warmest, most hard working and diligent African people on earth. But I cannot support the values of the political elite and some of their recent draconian laws, challenge my personal values to their core.
Uganda won’t miss me or my tourist dollar. It’s thriving, attracting alternative continents of nationalities to its borders. But understandably its lack of tolerance to difference has negatively impacted its attraction to Western tourists and the knock on effect on local businesses and the economy, alongside reducing the exposure of Ugandans to the rich myriad of cultures, attitudes and beliefs, will be sadly felt for years to come.
But in the intervening 4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.
Sadly, my conclusion is that there is little joy in the hearts of the elders. Conversations are formed of complaints and injustices, of things going wrong, not done right, criticisms, finger pointing, blame. Not one person offers an opinion or thought focused on solving issues or making things better, not one seems grateful to be there, to be able to stand in line. This negativity is like a poison filled boil; it’s toxic in its ability to swallow folks into the swamp of disapproval and distrust. Since when does growing older mean growing grumpy?
Here in Barbados many still cling to their history of slavery and servitude as a cloak of context and rationale for all slights and ills. It’s been explained to me that this history justifies why women view other women not as sisters but as competition; and culturally why men don’t feel they have the same responsibilities for contributing to family life. I don’t know if any of this is true but what is interesting is that when I ask about culture and patterns of behaviour – trying to understand why things work the way they do – quite often the response is to go back 200 years. I even had one lady tell me she feels the pain of her slave ancestors every day. If folks always live in the past, how can they bear responsibility for the here and now, for what’s going to go on in the future?
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
In fact on our wedding day, the only words she uttered in my direction were to tell me to get the band to turn the sound down as she couldn’t hear herself speak to her friends! But saying nothing is almost easier than stepping up to the plate. So I admire May Fulton’s honesty although it’s obvious to me now that it wasn’t personal; no woman would ever have been good enough for her wee boy.
The temple itself is a nine sided building designed to represent unity of all faiths. Its golden brick gleams in the sunlight and the green 44ft diameter dome stretches 130ft into the blue cloudless sky. After a leisurely wander around the temple, we sit in the well manicured garden, shaded by a large tree. I fuss around with eats and drinks all the while thinking Craig is quietly subsumed by the serenity and peace of the place. Below us a group of school children are listening intently to their lessons, the sound of the African lilt coming from the teaching nuns is being carried upwards in the light breeze. Craig jolts me out of my revere with a meaningful speech about there only being seven Baha’i temples in the world. That’s one for every continent so we’re sitting in a most special place in Africa, a place where all faiths and beliefs come together under the larger concept of humanity. He says some other lovely things and by the end of his discourse I’ve agreed to make a lifetime commitment and I’m wearing a stunning diamond on the 3rd finger of my left hand. Of course we hug and kiss and then look up to face an irate nun, angrily admonishing us for such a public display of affection in a holy place. We apologise and listen to a long lecture about the sanctity of innocence and the need to avoid encouraging the virginal young minds down the hill into wanton ‘harlotedness’
These contraptions were how the ladies in the 30’s and 40’s achieved curls and ringlets in their hair. You grasp small sections of hair in the metal grip in the middle, twist it round until you reach your scalp and close the attached metal clasp over so it’s kept firmly in place. You then sleep with a head full of these and in the morning uncurl your hair and look like Mae West or Sophia Loren. At least this is the theory, I found these chunks of metal impossible to sleep in and my best ever result was more Lena Zaveroni than Shirley Temple. 
My grandparents had very little but they scrimped and saved to give us children memorable holidays and loads of love and attention. Much of who I am today came from what I learned from and observed of them.
The illusion of any room to move was also impacted by Nana’s decision to cover her floors in brown and tan flecked carpet so you were never sure where the heavy dark furniture ended and the carpet began. She also liked her heavy tan and taupe settee suite. “It’s easy to clean” she would say, moving one of the several sheepskin rugs and brown blankets off it to give it a daily brush down. “Brown is a practical colour” she would tell me. I would nod my head, mute. I was not expected to proffer any opinion but to silently agree.
follow StopFake.org on Twitter and perhaps even donate. Paying for well researched, corroborated and factual news reports may be one of the ways we can ensure we have a better version of truth in the years ahead. Let’s not be lulled into cosy comradeship ‘BS’ – the Russians are well schooled in this cyber-war. And don’t get confused between this and Trump’s versions of ‘Fake News!’. I believe they both want the same outcomes – to destabilise and discredit news reporting which challenges their actions and ideology. To create fear and mistrust in established organisations, in experts, so that when Putin or Trump are called to account over actions in places like Syria or the Middle East, they can manipulate or shout Fake News! And the electorate, with doubt in their hearts, turn on each other. But there the similarities end. Trump is the amalgam of Billy Graham and Ian Paisley when they were spitting and spewing hell, fire and damnation from the pulpit. Putin is the New Seekers crooning Kumbaya, lulling us into singing and swaying along.
I happen to really like her, she appears to operate from a place of great insight and integrity and is not afraid to call a spade a spade when necessary. She’s been reporting on politics for many years and is widely regarded by her bosses as being “tough, influential, exceptional and hugely knowledgeable about Westminster politics”. James Harding, BBC head of news, made clear they support her completely and while respecting the Trust, they disagreed with this finding. However, it was disappointing that they did not report on this story more widely. Democracy is not a linear process but it flourishes in climates of openness and trust.
Occasionally the weather quietens, allowing us to stop and enjoy the magnificent views of sky and cloud and the old course. It’s Christmas Eve and Roscoe is in full- flow, charm-chat mode with his Aunties, who enjoy his exuberance, allowing Craig and I to walk and talk without having to entertain. On the 9th we cross a style, clamber over the sand dunes and start walking back towards St Andrews town with the East Sands beach to ourselves. It is a perfect start to our Christmas break.
When the Scots last ruled themselves, there were clan wars and bloodshed and alliances were made, and broken as the wind blew. Our natural tendencies are towards socialism which is why so many of the national trade union leaders are from Scotland. It’s a matter of belief that we should have free car parking at hospitals, free public transport for OAPs and free higher education for Scots based children but all of this costs money. I’m struggling to see how we can balance the books if independence from Great Britain was ever on offer again. And without the Auld enemy to unite us, would we not end up turning on each other once more?
Nana had lots of friends through the Brethren church and they visited each other often. Never would she go anywhere without a packet of biscuits or some homemade cake or jam in her hand. It was considered impolite to not have something to offer to supplement the hosts hospitality.
Just as not all Germans are highly individualistic with a preference for direct, honest communication and not everyone in France agrees that their superiors or elders know more, can bend rules or are better than they are.
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.
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.
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.