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.
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.
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.