Blood, gore and tennis

My life as a stuntman. Picture the scene: Charlize Theron is struggling in the front seat with an abusive punter/boyfriend/super villain, her only option is to plunge out of the car onto the open road, despite her assailant driving way above the speed limit. 

Now replace Charlize with me, the villain with a packed car of helpful so and so's, the struggle with a helpful suggestion that I have a lift hanging onto the roof rack and standing on the step next to the door and the break-neck speed with at best 20mph. And then the dismount.

Needless to say I expected to land, stagger and stand to rapturous applause from all around. Several somersaults into a filth-filled drainage ditch and raucous laughter were not part of the plan. However, I managed to conceal a fairly bloody knee and elbow and limped off adamant that I wasn't injured and had performed the stunt for their amusement. I guess it was a fairly fitting way to end a week of injuries and mockery (worryingly, mockery appears to be becoming a consistent theme). Today is being used as a recovery day with lots of nothing and maybe football at a bar later.

I spent the rest of the week coping with another serious injury. Teaching barefoot as a result of a thoroughly irritating blister that refused to allow me to put any pressure on my left foot whatsoever. Unfortunately, all the staff and children at the school are very caring and nosy, which has meant I had to reveal the cause of my sorry state. It's hard not to laugh at a giant hobbling round like a war veteran as a result of a blister, harder still to listen to the abuse. Although, I was grateful that two year 7 girls offered to carry me to the staff room at the height of my suffering; I'm not convinced they know how heavy I really am thanks to my deceptive baggy trousers.

This 'injury' stemmed from my first foray into staff football and the studs in my new boots refusing to sink into the school's cement like pitch. Perhaps even more traumatic than the blister itself was the quest to find boots in Kampala. As I'll not be playing in any kind of competitive manner, I was advised to visit Owino, Kampala's biggest market, to find a cheap and cheerful pair with strict instructions not to pay more than 50,000ugx (£12).

Owino is the Ugandan equivalent of the bazaars of Morocco or Istanbul. If you're imaging tightly packed stores and the rich smell of spices then my comparison is useless. It started off a bit like that, but then it turned into maze-like, narrow warrens cut through piles of rubbish, plastic tac, rotten meat, animal (I hope) faeces, second-hand (questionable) clothes and distressed Ugandans. These Ugandan were poor, really poor and as the only white person (an immediate confirmation of extreme wealth) in the maze I was a popular attraction.

'Bida, bida, bida, bida, bida' was consistently screamed in my face. I'm still not entirely sure if this was an invitation for me to buy some of the muck by, or under, their feet; a threat; or pleas for help. By the anguished expressions, I'm fairly confident it must be option one or two. Either way, my polite excuses were ineffective, so I decided to demonstrate rude indifference to their pleas and focused on navigating. On three separate occasions I ended up back at the entrance having spun myself into confusion.

The shoe section of the market is found just beyond the meat section. Now, I'm a little peculiar about meat here based on the state of the meagre and diseased looking cows and chickens that litter all the roads and find most of their sustenance in huge heaps of rubbish pre-burning. In any case, like most people, I'm a bit iffy with butchery and carcasses. Owino's meat section is the most repulsive experience of my existence: rotting, discoloured, covered in flies, having spent days in the baking sun, within feet of excrement on the floor. The narrowness of the walkways meant that I had to push meat aside to get through, retching and then having the stench on my hands until I got home: truly harrowing.

It took an hour to haggle for the boots. I was quoted 500,000ugx (£120ish) initially for a pair of second hand boots with a huge hole in the front, but eventually secured a pretty average pair for 50,000ugx after agreeing to take the three salesmen for lunch (another 3,000ugx).

Other news:

Next weekend I will be leaving Kampala for the first time and getting to experience some of Uganda's natural offering in Jinja, which is famed for its extreme sports. Hopefully that will also mean more wildlife and I'll try to be a bit more prolific with my camera.

I've made friends with a baby monkey at school. He hangs around in the tree outside the staff room and I've been teaching him to wave. Apparently I will forget how cute they are, when they invade my classroom and start flinging chalk around... Surely this would only make them cuter?

Hobnobbing has started as I've joined a group of tennis players, which includes an European ambassador, the director of a large airline, the head of a NGO and a university ambassador. Patronage within the year, I reckon.

Hope you're all well. Have some random photos:

Demon: Dr Ian Clarke, who set up a big hospital in Kampala and became the first and only elected muzungu in Uganda, presenting some awards to our kids.

 One of the weird and wonderful birds that frequents my garden.

 There is a quarry at the top of my road. This thing is the hub of the operation and is clearly well constructed and suited to purpose.

 The school football field, half of it, and the building in the background houses my classroom, as well as the dance studio and drama rooms above it... not at all irritating.

 School pool dressed up for the awards evening.

 Close up of my chicken looking pensive.

 A view down my road.

Boda drivers. These helpful chaps take me everywhere and tried to charge me 100,000ugx for this picture and then told me they were all members of Al-Shabaab to try and scare me... I couldn't remember what Al-Shabaab was and talked them round with my charms.

On being arrested, the date that wasn't a date, goat races and sun burn...

Another week, yet it feels like another life time of oddities and absurdities. A fairly revealing title for this entry and I will try to keep each affair succinct for all our benefits. I'll try to be relentlessly chronological, but I fear my mind is pretty muddled.

Just after the previous post, I was whisked off to the number one society event for Kampala's movers and shakers: the Goat Races (the 20th annual). If you're struggling with the concept think of Aintree, but replaces the horses with... well, goats. And replace the racing with a man chasing ten bemused looking goats with two double mattresses loosely strung to a shopping trolley. And replace Aintree's modest sunshine or modest showers with excruciating heat followed by Day-After-Tomorrow storm and you're starting to get the picture.

As absurd as it sounds it was absolutely fantastic. As a new member of staff I was given VIP tickets to the tent sponsored by the school's sponsor, which meant all the free booze I could drink (spirits by the pint full if I had been so inclined and as a surprisingly large amount of people were) and free disgusting spicy Indian grub I could tolerate. In the early afternoon it was the shade more than the booze that I appreciated; I don't think I've ever been hotter. My emotions watching the races changed from bemusement; to concern for the welfare of the goats, ethical questions surely have to be raised about hounding any animal with double mattresses; to extreme mirth, as many goats decide a forceful raping of their competitors was in order; and finally to anger as I managed to lose everyone of my bets, UGS40,000 (about a tenner), including one race where I bet on 8 out of the 10 goats. Robbed! My favourite goats were, of course, Usain Goat and Who Wants a Blosser.

School continues to be joyful, but was interrupted by my 'date' on Wednesday. Meeting a stranger, in a strange and unfamiliar bar, in a strange and unfamiliar neighbourhood... but on a school night as well: I'm an idiot! Now, as many of you will know, I've had some unmitigated disasters in my dating career ('Do you want some Sammy?'; the Estonian girl and the rape, abortion and serial killer play; the girl who didn't know who Sylvester Stallone was; and the whole sleeping with the boss' wife's married sister) and I don't think this is up there. Grace was stunning, we got on really well and I seemed to be a hit with her family... herein lies the problem.

I was feeling particularly smooth and charming, but was completely disarmed when after our initial greeting she bundled me into a car to meet her older, burlier brother, Patrick, and his non-English speaking spouse. It rather took the sting out of my tail, he had quite a mean look while he sipped on his warm milk (he's a big socialite in Kampala, but apparently it is accepted that he just drinks warm milk, even in clubs!) and as much as I could've seduce her despite the obstacles... hmmm... I decided to fight another day. In truth, in spite of my initial disappointment, it was quite a good evening (more free drinks and chaffeured round to some lovely bars) and I got quite friendly with them both (not like that) and ended up training his football team this weekend and watching a rugby 7s tournament with them both. Patrick also managed to introduce me to one of Uganda's biggest popstars, Jose Chameleon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MnOTDjvFzM A solid tune if I ever heard one!

How ridiculously cool and well connected am I? Don't answer that.

So on to the whole 'being arrested' affair. Firstly, I'll just set this in context. I've been warned by virtually all the muzungus I've met that any kind of official in Uganda is not to be meddle with or will take any opportunity to fiddle me of a bit of cash. It's how things work over here according to my many sources (although I'm not convinced this is totally true). Bottom line: stay clear.

My first experience of this kind came yesterday. I'm constantly concerned that I'm not taking enough photos and set off on a mission whose dual goal was to capture the stunning landscape around my villa, while locating a suitable breakfasting venue. After taking a few pictures of Lake Victoria, some huts and some odd looking purple birds (photos even an amateur would be ashamed of; I've still not really got the hang of my camera), I decided to take a picture of the rather shabby police hut at the end of my road, less than 50 metres from my villa. My big zoom really does look a sight when fully extended and it caught the attention of a brutish looking policemen who raced out of the police hut straight for me clutching his AK47 menacingly.

Now, in my eyes, whether you think I'm an undercover reporter trying to expose the shadowy goings on of the Ugandan police force or not, an AK47 shaking is not the appropriate response. However, to my complete surprise, I think I handled him expertly with a good old dose of British indignation (I like to think I was a modern day Flashman) that seemed to put him in his place. Initially he was adamant that I should follow him into his hut, but I was concerned this could lead to a beating, a forced bribe or heaven forbid... an old fashion raping. I think I muttered something about the British embassy and challenged him on the absurdity of an arrest for a photograph and then showed him the picture I'd taken. This seemed to calm him down and we agreed we would let bygones be bygones if it were to be deleted. After being informed that police don't like pictures without their permission, I promptly asked him if I could take another picture, which seemed to do a bit of damage to the understanding we'd built up. I left swiftly... and took another picture when I was further up the hill and out of chasing range.  No bribes will be paid and I will have my sodding photo!

Oh and I got sun burnt again. Back of the neck: extreme agony. Who knew there were so many parts of your body that could be exposed. I'll make the next post photo heavy, just need to watch my internet usage as it costs a sodding fortune.