Two Walks in Buziga

Two walks of an hour or so. One to the beach. One 'into town'. Birds. Security guards down the hill. Curious and friendly children. The Jesus Saves Restaurant. Churches. Many Boda Boda boys. Many hairdressers. Uganda Telecom. The Maribou Storks, relics of the Pterodactyls on the beach. Jon the Belgium 'photographer' who is also a science teacher in Brussels.

George and Betty

I saw George first. From the swimming pool. Yes, that was definitely an AK47 he had in his lap. He was sitting on a plastic chair by the entrance to the hotel below. There was a little hut beside him and there he was in a military style uniform I guess guarding us.

But the gun still made me nervous. Who was he guarding us from? What if he suddenly lost it and started to take it out on us swanning around the pool? So later on, I got dressed, got my camera and pretended to take some photos round the grounds making the way towards the front lodge. \

By this time he was joined by Betty but I didn't know it was Betty then. I wasn't totally sure it was a woman even. I didn't know he was George even. They were now both sat on plastic chairs. Khaki Uniforms. Betty has a kind of kepi cap on, and quite trendy square 'secretary' specs. The morning was overcast after a night of torrential rain so there was no question of them sitting somewhere shady. Everywhere was shady - and quite cool.

Hi! (Why not? My Lonely Planet Guide said Ugandans always like greeting you and are happy to talk so why not talk to two police persons - because I was now close enough to see it said 'Police' on their epaulettes) 'Hi' back.

And so I started to talk to them. I think my first question was about the guns they both had. Because Betty had one too. I think I may  have asked about their training to use them which was a bit of a daft and maybe insulting question because Betty said, yes, they had had three years of training to use them. They were part, it seems, of the VIP police. Apparently there are many departments. But their job is to protect places like the Cassia Lodge hotel. The point being that if something bad happens here the tourist trade dries up and Uganda suffers.

So. An important job. And this is what I find out:

They are here every day. A polilce vehicle brings them from the police barracks where they live. They get up at four in the morning - I know this because Betty is an athlete. That's how she got into the police. That's how she 'survived' the training (some people, she tells me, died on the training). And the only time that Betty gets to do her running is between getting up, breakfast and the trip to guard the hotel.

They are here, at the hotel, 12 hours a day from morning to night and then there's a night guard too. I ask if either of them has ever had to use their gun and George looks at Betty and Betty says she has. I must have pulled a face because they laugh but I don't ask what happened.

Betty's dad died young she tells me. This came out of a conversation we were having about education in Uganda. It's not free. You have to pay fees. So, I ask, what happens if your parents are poor or something happens and you have to struggle. Then you don't go to school they tell me. That's why you see so many beggars in Kampala. (I haven't seen any beggars in Kampala because I haven't been into Kampala yet, but I take her point).

And she was one of these kids. But, she was lucky. She was an athlete. A runner. And so the school gave her a grant. And she ran for her education. And when the time came to go to University, the same system applied. She got her Higher Education because of her lungs, he legs and her running action....

And when she came out of University and couldn't find a job her running helped her again. There's no way, she tells me, she could have made it through the training if she hadn't been an athlete.. 'When they tell you to run up a mountain, you need to be an athlete..'

I asked if there were many women in the police. They said there were some, but I gathered it was the same training for men as for women so you had to be tough. Betty, by the way, was pretty petite. Slim. And, though she was sitting down the whole while we talked, probably no more than 5'6".

I asked her, kind of trying to find out more about her personal life, whether you could be a woman in the police force and be married. Yes, they both said. And would there be special police houses for you to live? A room in the barracks, they said. A room.

And could a police woman have a baby and still be in the police, I asked. Yes, they said.

We got on well. We laughed a lot. I got the impression that this would not have been Betty's first choice of job. But I think she was pleased she had a job. And she wasn't complaining. They both came to the same hotel here every day. They both seemed relaxed in each other's company but there didn't seem anything 'going on' between them. Nothing sexual I could make out. They seemed like colleagues. Equals. Perhaps she more equal than him. Possibly more outgoing. Possibly better educated.

I asked them if they were from different parts of Uganda. They were. I said: Did that make it difficult for you to get on? No, they said. They were working together. It made no difference. I asked them what language they would speak together once I'd gone. They said: English or Swahili because I think they did have different mother tongues.

We talked about the riots. About London. About people getting on together in London. I was trying to make a point about people mixing well in London. I think more so than in New York or the US in general. In Uganda, they said, people mixed well too.

Entebbe to Kampala

At first there’s nothing remarkable about the road. It’s two-lanes. Light traffic. Little cottages and bungalows in amongst lush-ish vegetation lining the route. A guy on a motorcycle with smiley pillion races us for a bit. We overtake and leave him for dust. Then we’re stuck at the rear of a little open-backed van piled with pineapples, a boy sitting on the tailgate grinning a big grin at our driver as we look for our chance to get past.

And then it happens. Africa. The one I remember from Morocco. Suddenly a little town. A ribbon of tumbledown shops, and motorbikes parked at corners, and twenty sofas set out for sale, and then twenty chairs, groups of men and boys stood around, twenty, thirty of them.

People crossing the road on suicide missions between the speeding traffic. Mini-buses by the dozen pulling out and weaving around the bosa bosa taxi-bikes. Them weaving too.

Walkers along the 40 kilometres of route. Cyclists. Parties of school-kids in yellow and brown uniforms, even though it's August and they're on holiday, I'm presuming.. Many people well turned out. White shirts and ties. Christian missions. Nursery schools. Doctors clinics. All higgledy-piggledy.

Sometimes 'supermarkets' and sometimes little huts on stilts selling a few eggs, milk or fruit. A million Coca-Cola signs hand-painted all over the front of a building.

Traffic jams soon. Diesel air you could cut with a knife. White-uniformed, white- helmeted motorcycle police and then five- and six-strong pick-up trucks full of military type police in blue camouflage uniforms. We follow one as it swerves through the traffic trailing a line of us in its wake until even it is brought to a halt on the outskirts of Kampala....

We skirt the town. But the scene grows more and more biblical. One track up a hill chocabloc with vehicles, little shops on either side and hundreds, thousands of people moving from left to right across our path. A mile or two this lasts, our taxi crawling round potholes behind a truck with Chinese marking on its side as it finally turns off and allows us the open road. Open track, rather.

And then the houses - up this track - suddenly grow rather smart again. Walls and gardens and trees.

We wind up a hill. And soon we are at our hotel.

Landing at Entebbe

We see nothing of Africa until the plane drops through clouds ten or so minutes from landing. Then, green. It's green outside. 9 in the morning. Little low-roofed buildings. Through the plane window, I don't see a tarmac road, just red-dirt tracks cutting through the vegetation. And then we're touching down.

There's one runway and when you land the plane climbs up-hill to the taxi-way that takes you back to the airport building. Over the port wing, some kind of brown heron escorting us in.  

Can't help thinking suddenly of the Israeli raid here to recover the El Al hostages. Tales of daring-do. Netanyahu's brother copping it somewhere in the fire-fight. No justice. A hero dies. A total c**t still alive.

 It's a small airport once you get inside, past the woman soldier/policewoman in white shirt, black combat trousers and beret. She props up a stanchion on the tarmac and totes a sub-machine-gun. Then, into the shade of the building. Basically a couple of low-ceilinged halls and an area to queue as they check you through passport control.

We discover we need a visa. 50 Dollars US or 26,000 local. And we don't have a penny on us... :( 

So the customs guy keeps our passports, takes our photos on his little webcam - and we get fingerprinted. Four fingers and then the thumb separately on the right hand. Green light. And then the same on the left. And we're off to find a cashpoint. Once cashed up, we return, pay our dues and, redeeming our passports and luggage, go back to the arrivals hall whence we've just baptised in Africa our Visa card.

Then, amid a hundred signs held up, the taxi guy is waiting. Tiller. Cassia Lodge Hotel, Kampala.

We walk out to the minibus, the only two passengers for him today. He goes to pay the parking fee. We sit in the heat not speaking. He returns. Starts up the engine. We're on our way.