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.