Cleansing my insides and leaving Kampala

The time is ten past eight. The night is pitch black and my world is only visible thanks to my laptop's backlighting and a slender, precariously balanced candle.

It's probably not one of the things I ever associated Africa with, but being so close to the equator and still not having fully embraced electricity means that it gets truly dark, very early, every day. Having spent virtually my whole life in Europe and very rarely having strayed from the safety of home or cheap hotels, I'd never really seen true darkness; it's all rather magnificent having only stars (and, I will admit, the occasional electric light or the odd boda boda's dim, surely not roadworthy, beams) to guide your way. I stumble quite a lot... but no one can see, so what does it matter!

This evening's stumble has taken me to a thoroughly unIndian-looking Indian restaurant called 'The Coconut Shack', which has had some less than disastrous reviews and thus is worthy of further investigation. I'm getting rather fond of eating alone. In England one might assume I am a sad loner (shut up!), but in Kampala a muzungu eating alone almost certainly means that I am looking for an escort, not a prostitute, but someone who will love me dearly for a couple of days, claim they've become pregnant and milk me of my riches until I die. I've taken the precaution of getting a table outside that is discreet by nature of the complete absence of light in the street. I'm still not convinced the evening will be completely hassle free.

Life has been quite busy since my last post, generally in a positive way, but starting in possibly the most harrowing way imaginable.

In 27 years I can only recall three occasions where I have been unfortunate enough to involuntarily soil myself and I find it to be an extremely uncomfortable statistic that two of these occurrences have been within the last twelve months. Each new occurrence seems to take on a new level of embarrassment.

At 8 (it could've been slightly older) I think I managed to disguise the waddle back to my front door from my fellow footballers on the green outside my house, but my mum soon pieced together the mystery of why a pair of my y-fronts were bobbing around in the downstairs loo. Lesson learnt: y-fronts do not flush. Last Christmas I couldn't hide my shame, but I took others along with me, infecting my whole family and almost seeing off my grandma.

However, this was something else. I always imagined shitting yourself as a pupil at school to be probably be a fate worse than death. I don't think I'd even contemplated the prospect of this happening as a teacher. Having nominated myself as the meat taster at a friend's barbeque, I have no one else to blame. I won't go into all the details, but needless to say, I am now grateful for the odd shower contraption in school's toilet cubicles, copious amounts of toilet roll and for owning boxer shorts without holes in them. I somehow managed to escape school without having to admit I'd shamed myself, although the harrowed look on my face must've raised some suspicions as must my sprint to the toilet from lunch.

Ah well, three days of solid shitting (the shit itself was anything but solid, if you care to know) seemed to sort me out. I'm sure I joked about dysentery helping me to lose that extra bit of weight, but it hasn't worked and I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone (maybe Gove?). This episode delayed my first departure from Kampala by a week.

For those ignorant few of you who don't know about Jinja, it's the home of arguable the best rafting in the world. Apparently I'm a couple of years late for truly the best rafting, which has been ruined by a great, whopping hydro-electric dam, but it was pretty amazing all the same.

It is a fairly large town/city by Uganda's standards, which means, if I'm ridiculously generous to the point of lying, it's of a roughly equivalent size to Stockport. One roundabout, ten or eleven shops and lots of shacks... and that dam. The adventure tourism industry is fairly well developed, but from what I saw of it, these companies tended to be based a little bit out from the town and my group stayed at a campsite around 15 minutes outside the town.

Setting up a tent was interesting as we arrived in almost total darkness, but somehow was achieved without death or serious injury (my pride aside as the girls took charge). A few drinks and a rather aggressive Dutch drinking game later, I slipped off to sleep in comfort despite being afforded the most meagre of sleeping areas.

I'm glad we arrived in darkness because it made my morning so much more sweet. Emerging from the tent (to boos and hisses from my tent buddies) I was greeted with a magnificent view of the Nile and what used to be known as Bujagali Falls, but since the dam has become Bujagali Lake. In some ways it is just a very large river, but all I could think about was the history, the length and the prominence the Nile retains in every Geography classroom the world over. It was teeming with wildlife and just stunningly beautiful. I was joined in my gazing by a family of monkeys who didn't seem troubled in the slightest by my presence next to them on the wall.

I didn't get into my raft until around 11am, after a completely unnecessary preamble by our guides. For $115 I got to spend all day on the river and getting very wet, I initially thought this was an unreasonable sum, but now I'd happily pay twice that. You forget how hot it is and how easily sun lotion rubs off with a bit of water, but my body does not forget the excruciating burns... at least I'm getting used to it now and knees aren't anywhere near as painful as shoulders. I'm a very odd multi-tonal colour now, with my back and groinal region completely letting the side down.

Anyway, I abandoned my friends in favour of a raft with folks prepared to tackle rapids up to grade 5 and quickly found camaraderie with my crew (I was up front and leading the stroke rate, therefore silently assumed the rank of captain) who were a charming bunch of American volunteers doing various odds and sods in Kenya. Each rapid was such a rush and every break between them was a chance to take in the mesmerising beauty of the river and all of its wildlife (which unfortunately did not include any marauding hippos or crocodiles the size of a bus, despite our guides assurances) and the even more interesting site of the local villagers gathering to do their washing and exploding with joy every time they caught sight of us: one continuous word 'Howreyou's and cheers of joy when I was able to respond in Lugandan.

Eventually my friends decided to upgrade to the proper rapids so I joined them for the second half of the voyage. Almost immediately I started to get very wet, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and claim the rapids jumped up a notch at this point. The first submergence felt very much like the end, stuck under the raft for a good 5 seconds that felt like hours, emerging to two massive engulfing waves. The second of which housed one of my friends wielding her paddle like a weapon and trying to make absolutely sure I didn't survive, but thankfully my head appears to be indestructible.

The one thing better than rafting was getting multiple chances to swim. I'm not much of a hot holiday sort, so potentially the feeling is fairly common, but the water felt so fresh, warm and easy to be in that I could barely drag myself back onto the raft (not an easy thing to do, if talking literally). Anyone who does come out to visit me in the next two years is definitely repeating this experience with me.

Next week it's Murchison Falls, which is apparently where I will see hoards of the animals that define Africa: elephants, lions, hippos, hopefully leopards and all the boring ones like antelope and that sort. Expect lots of pictures.

I've gone on a fair bit and my curry is long finished. Even in Ugandan, Indians still insist on not being able to provide desserts so I am sipping the last dregs of a black coffee and am starting to feel eyes begging me to leave. I've not even had chance to mention Independence day (really good fun), getting stoned (three spliffs for less than 50p), my African instrument collection, my new job as school photographer nor to regale you with more stories of my completely barren love life!

Independence Day celebrations with my gang/form

Ugandan dancing accompanied by the cry 'Waaalllaallllaaawaaaalllaaallwaaa!!' Very entertaining

Primary school singing: dreadful with an element of cute

Flag hats. Why not?

All my form - favourites are all posing on the left hand side

Morning view from camp in Jinja

If you leave food on the floor of my house this is what happens in 30 mins

Sunset, well just after, on the Nile

Tranquil, sexy Nile

Monkey family grooming each other

Picking at her beard

Sinister baby monkey eyes

More of my lot dressed up

Please enjoy some pictures and I expect to start having people sign up to come and visit me. I've got very long Christmas holidays if you can't wait until the summer. Much love! xxx 

About to drown

Man overboard

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.

My first day at school

In Uganda every day is a day of firsts, well, for me at least. Today has been no exception and a particularly significant one at that as it Rainbow International  (I didn't name it, don't blame me) opened its doors to about a thousand little whipper snappers.

Having spent the rest of this week in school preparing and receiving the usual monotonous training reteaching me how to suck eggs, marbles and keyboards, I was beginning to feel pretty composed about the big day and being able to find the way to all my classrooms (i.e. my one classroom). However, come this morning I took on the persona of a timid ten year old girl having moved to a new school mid-school year and was considering the implications of phoning in sick with a case of sun burn.

I did eventually overcome these nerves, but not before ruining two work shirts within a matter of minutes, all thanks to this bloody sun of ours! I've only briefly mentioned my sun-burn so far as it has caused a great deal of pain and suffering all week, but for the sake of grossing a few people out of being as idiotic as I happen to be, I will tell the tale, but it's rather long and disgusting, so please avoid if of an uneasy disposition (bottom of the post). 

So, my first day. Up at 6:30, driven to work by my neighbour Max (Uganda's number one badminton player, swimmer and soon to be taekwondo champion) at 7:15 arriving at 7:30. All the pupils were told to assemble on the field to be sorted into their form groups, which I suppose would normally have been a sensible suggestion; the rain was relentless and reminiscent of 'The Day After Tomorrow' or at the very least a typical Mancunian day. Ugandan mud, which is a cross between sand, soil and clay and a bright red colour, doesn't cut up as quickly as UK mud, but it sticks to shoes and leaves awful stains on shoes, clothes, floors, everything. The irony of leaving Burnley for hotter climes and being greeted with a torrential downpour was not lost on me or my fellow 'Muzungus' (a phrase reserved for anyone who is white, but which apparently suggests someone who is hopeless lost or confused).

By 8:30 I was snuggled up in my form room (a box) with around 25 wet, grumpy year 10 pupils. All the forms are shared, so I was helped by Lois (a Ugandan) who has been teaching English at Rainbow for a few years now, and we went through all the normal induction bollocks fairly quickly. Straight away I know I've got my hands full, the form is full of trouble makers and the behaviour is completely unacceptable... and by that I mean, one extremely pleasant girl forgot she was chewing and seemed racked with guilt before coming to confess, another boy continued talking for a second after I had signalled my intent to waffle with a booming 'OOOKKKAAYY' - always does the trick. 

We had two hours together in which time: I explained all their timetables individually (unnecessarily complicated); we set year targets and aims; went through expectations and that sort of nonsense; and they each prepared a presentation about their neighbour to help me get to know them. These presentations would have been assessed as Speaking and Listening coursework if they were last year's Year 11 pupils at Unity. Superbly confident, a bit of humour and understanding their audience to the tee. I'd asked them to include their top tips for me in my struggle to adapt to life in Uganda, which generated a few interesting comments. Three restaurants, a bar and two supermarkets are apparently the only places to go; coincidently their owners happen to be parents of six of my motley crew. I should be careful in the sun... I'd told them my sun burn story in my own introduction. My favourite, however, without explanation, was 'don't trust Ugandan women after 10pm'. I'm still trying to figure out if the chap was implying they'll all give me HIV, are prostitutes or will want to lure me to my death, but the reaction he got from the girls in the class was wonderful to watch.

I only had two proper lessons, but they were characterised by the same good humour, attitude and desire to impress. I've never seen so many children smile for such a prolonged period of time. It remains to be seen whether they will amuse me as much as my Burnley bunch (who all did very well in their exams by all accounts... if anyone can give me more details as to who got what I'd be grateful), I think they may take some provoking before they will begin to abuse me with such gusto. 

I left the school beaming! My, newly appointed, regular boda driver, Issa, picked me up and gave me some advice about places to visit in Kampala. Once back at the compound, I was greeted at the door by Grace, my house girl, for the first time (she was chatting and ironing while I type the first part of this) and a sparkling house and a crisply ironed wardrobe (the clothes in the wardrobe before racists damn her). I've just sent an email to another Grace, a beautiful, younger Grace, to arrange a drink next week and now have nothing of importance to do with my evening. I'm feeling quite smug... which is a pleasant change from just feeling constant agony the rest of the week.

Three lessons tomorrow and then a very late night in Miki's bar (3am last Friday after being dragged into a pool tournament with backing music from Tina Turner with a couple of the new Rainbow girls (that sounds horrendous... Rainbow girls...)) followed by Saturday's annual goat racing festival. I was bemused when I was introduced to the concept, but apparently I need to think Aintree, but with goats, more booze and nobody giving a damn about the goats. Sounds interesting. I will be backing number 4 in every race and expect to be a Ugandan millionaire by the end of it. (UGS 4,000 = £1).

Pictures! 

This is a quiet day on a main(ish) road, but I'm not convinced it shows the absurdity and danger of Ugandan roads. I'll try to get one of the next crash I see.

This little chap is a) not naked (before I'm accused of something) b) chased me down a round shouting 'Muzungu! Muzungu!' relentlessly until I distracted him by taking a picture, which amused him greatly c) has flies on him, but did not look worthy of an Oxfam advert or a charity run.

I have a lone chicken who I believe lives on my compound, but he is usually very shy. Not tonight, he wandered into my kitchen before growing wary of my hungry eyes. Very cocksure.

There's another picture at the bottom, but I must warn you. Definitely NWS as I am half naked trying to demonstrate my pre-utterly disgusting sun burn torso. Mike, my 'burger-nips' are in full view... you cock!

Disgusting optional account of sun burn:

It all started so well. 

Toward the south of Kampala there is a huge holiday resort that is virtually the only thing in a largish district called Munyonyo. A huge, luxurious pool; a fully equipped gym; several bars; a beach, well, a sort of beach that touches upon the impressive Lake Victoria; several restaurants and anything else you care to imagine. Several of my 'Muzungu'  buddies had recommended it as a great place to relax at the weekend: wankers! In truth, it was fairly amazing until it became fairly disastrous. An hour in the gym, which I can assure you is the equivalent of a month in Burnley's finest gym purely because of the searing heat, followed by half an hour or so of lengths in the pool and then lying back on a sun lounger, admiring the palm trees and devouring a new book. I was even treated to pool side service and demolished a tasty tilapia (Uganda's national fish dish) in paradise.

And then I fell asleep. It was fairly overcast, for Kampala, but that doesn't excuse my ridiculous attitude: 'I've not been burnt so far, so I guess I'll be okay for a couple of hours'. I've taken a couple of pictures of my salmon pink chest (probably closer to a Rioja colour) for your enjoyment, but as my skin has deteriorated I have grown more shy. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I could not lift my arms above my head without being blinded with pain, which made dressing and decorating a classroom slightly problematic, and when I went to bed the slightest move would leave me in tears.

Today, the pain is significantly reduced, but I've been left with the most disgusting yellow blisters. My favourite is/was based on my right shoulder. It covered the entirety of my shoulder and was so full it stuck up a good 2-3cms above my normal skin level. Grotesque. Even more so when it decided to pop as I struggled into my shirt. A freshly ironed, light blue shirt covered in yellow pus/blister bile and possibly beyond hope now. Shirt changed, I ventured to work. This shirt has survived the full wrath of the super blister, but one sleeve has changed from a check red-blue-white to a check red-blue-yellow. I got a few funny looks. 

Summary: do not sun bath recklessly when you live on the Equator or anywhere other than Burnley/avoid the sun at all costs.     

Sorry for the large ramble, but it really has been a dominating theme this week and has led to me quickly establishing myself as the main figure of ridicule in my new school, the position I never struggle to find in any job, regardless of continent. 

Burn!

Kansanga

A quick post to report that I have successfully arrived and am alive and well. Added two new continents to my travelling life in just one day!

I'm extremely glad I limited the amount of research and preparation I did prior to setting off as everything is taking me by such pleasant surprise. It's different, really different, but in such a fantastic way.

Currently I'm sat in my little villa, which is pretty spacious and has two massive double bedrooms and two bathrooms... note to potential guests! It's situated near the top of one of Kampala's seven hills, which means I can see for miles around from my veranda... sorry, I meant to say sun-drenched veranda. I'm based in a district called Kansanga, which, from what I can tell, seems to be a bit like Chorlton: up and coming, with several nice venues for food and drink and with lots of new things being built and going on.

 Having never left Europe before, every bird and plant is new to me and they are all fascinating; I spent twenty minutes last night watching huge hawk-type birds circling my villa and having a bit of a scrap. The people seems to be extremely friendly and I had made three or four friends on the plane from Dubai. After explaining I'm here for a while, people seemed really interested and were keen to tell me everything I need to know... which is quite a lot apparently. So far my impression of Uganda people is that they just love laughing! I'm not always sure why they are laughing, but I've been smiling, nodding and laughing along with them all. I've already been invited to a wedding, to go and stay with a chap in Jinja (as apparently I won't be able to be myself in Kampala...?...) and been got one girl's phone number. Incredibly beautiful women... must control myself... must think carefully...

Anyway, I'm off on an ill-advised wander now with my illegible map to try and find Lake Victoria. It's fairly large so should be hard to miss, but this map isn't really worthy of the name. Sun-burn, robbery, being lost are all anticipated. Ah well, all part of the experience.

D Day

Jesus Christ, mother Hubbard, bollocks!...

Today is not only remarkable as the start of the new Premier League season, the hottest day of the year and potentially the day that Prince Philip popped his clogs; Saturday 18th August also happens to be my last full day in Europe for two years. Up until now I've been impressed at my lack of panic, but now I am a little bit of a mess and starting to realise that I have absolutely no idea what I've let myself in for.

Packing has never been so much of a chore. Please explain how anyone can condense their life to one large suitcase weighing no more than 30kgs!? I've had to compromise my impeccable fashion sense (leaving a stash of my ill-fitting t-shirts and jeans that have been with me since the thin days) and content myself with only the most basic of entertainment rations. However, this compromise has been achieved the hard way: packing, unpacking, repacking, realising I've not packed any kegs, unpacking, repacking, realising my laptop wears a fair old bit that I've not accounted for... In the end I've spend £150 and bought myself an extra 5kg, but even now I cannot fit my Lynx Africa shower gel in, which has been used for the past fortnight to try and get me into the spirit.

Don't get me wrong, I have managed to make time for some important things like watching Football Focus, the early kick-off, a 3pm kick-off and Spurs getting beaten and eating a fair well battered sausage. To be honest the sausage and her accompaniments were average at best, incomparable to offerings in the North West, but it put me to wondering about the things I'll miss about the UK. Friends and family boringly, my Corsa (RIP baby... £60 and crushed out of this world), a good cheddar... so many things... I doubt I've even considered the things that I'll really miss, it'll probably be things like comfortable chairs, Saturday bumming around routine and Hollyoaks... bugger! Hollyoaks. Hopefully I'll have at least one friend prepared to take on the task of watching religiously so they can keep me up to date on Brendan's various shenanigans.

Anyway, I'm just about ready now. The folks will be driving me to Heathrow at 1pm, arriving around 3pm and with time to watch Man City vs Southampton (how kind of the schedulers to arrange this as the last match before I bugger off!), checking in for 6pm and flying at 8.30pm. I won't arrive in Entebbe (Ugandan city with an airport) until lateish Monday 20th and presumably by the time I get to my shack in Kampala I'll be straight to bed. (If someone could let me know how my Unity kids get on I'd be grateful!) 

I promise all future blog entries are significantly more interesting and have some suitably exotic photographs to prove that I have indeed buggered off and left the rainy isle. I'm going to be very lonely so please do stay in touch: let me know how much hotter the UK is; or bug me about things you want to know about Uganda, emigrating, fashion; or inform me of pregnancies, marriages, new partners, holidays I'll be missing out on.

Will miss you UK, but I'm a muzungu now! x 

My trusty companion...

After failing to convince any friends or family to take the plunge and move to Uganda with me, I've started recruiting gadget companions in the hope they will keep me entertained while I'm trying to fit in.

The first new addition: a spanky new camera!

Once again I've proved that I am good with my money as I smashed my £200 maximum budget by some 300%. Of course, it's definitely worth it... and I'm sure I'll believe that for at least the post-purchase fortnight, but there is an awfully familiar feeling at the back of my mind: Keyboard £300, E-reader (prior to the boom) £250 and gym membership £350 all gathering dust as we speak!

Anyway, it's a pretty nifty piece of kit. An SLR (an acronym I have no intention of delving into) with some great big whopping zoom things that make me look like a professional. Nikon D3100 with some added bits and bobs.

Here are the first pics of the house in a state of disrepair: