Skip to main content

The Uganda Diaries: Green Hills Hotel, Kabale - 22.24 05/04/2009

So I have been meaning to write all day but many things have conspired against me - none of them quite as serious as that introduction may have implied.

The day started a little fuzzily after the four 100ml whiskey and Stoneys that I had last night. After clearing my head somewhat and, with the aid of four bananas, getting some energy into my system, we made for Kigezi High School for 'chapel'. This was not chapel as we know it. There was singing, dancing, clapping, a thousand "Praise the Lords" and a smattering of "hallelujahs". The atmosphere was a million mils away from the dour normality experienced within the regular Holy Roman Catholic Church in the UK.

After three hours of chapel a desperate phone call came. Raj, and the rest of the group that had decided against attending chapel, were waiting outside and had been since about three minutes into the preacher's one hour and fifteen minute talk. Thermostat or thermometer I ask?

A large buffet was awaiting us back at Green Hills, the majority of which I couldn't really eat. It was splendid though to meet all of the teachers, staff and students - one of those networking occasions that many shier Thomas Kellys wouldn't have coped with!

After a trip to the Little Ritz with Jeff, a phone call home and walk to town and back, a rather packed, but calm, day was over.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Atay Maghrebi: To Essaouira and the Atlantic

Leaving Marrakech, the landscape stays flat, except for a few distant outcrops of rock. The sensation of the inhospitality of the environment creeps up on you as the olive groves become fewer and further between and rough scrub runs away to the base of distant hills.
Eventually, the landscape starts to undulate as you pass through small towns like Sid L’Mokhtar, and, after two hours, Morocco simply runs out of land as the coach starts to plummet down to the Atlantic coastline and the peeling whitewash of Essaouira’s medina.

The morning started with the obligatory slices of sweet cake dipped into apricot jam, with a side of yoghurt and coffee. I had a chat with Merissa who was already awake and wearing sunglasses like she was nursing a hangover.
I packed up my bags and meandered my way out of the medina towards Bab Laksour to get a taxi.
Having learned the lesson last year that taxi metres are always mysteriously broken in Marrakech, I readied myself for a battle with the driver who…

Atay Maghrebi: Out of the Dark and into Jemaa El-Fnaa

The night time offers a wealth of opportunity and intrigue in almost any country, but when I'm somewhere where my understanding of the language extends to just a handful of phrases and disconnected words, I find it all the more enthralling. Marrakech genuinely quickens the pulse and widens the eyes by night, with the famous Jemaa El-Fnaa as its wildly arrhythmic beating heart.

After a day of perfectly idle wandering and preparing for my journey to Essaouira, I sat up on the roof terrace, ordered atay, read the ending of Alex Garland’s The Beach and waited for sunset.

During this time, a Dutch woman and a Belgian man sat near to me and started to talk about a range of subjects. Most of their discussion was centred around the regular banalities of two travellers who don’t know each other well and clearly don’t have a great deal in common.
Shortly before sunset, the Belgian man caught my attention as he started to regale his newfound friend with quotes from the Quran taken both ou…

From a Crooked Rib by Nuruddin Farah

I stumbled across Nuruddin Farah’s novels when searching for something written by a Somali author. Perhaps due to the conflict that has raged for years in Somalia, it is very difficult to find much from Somali writers published in English.
From a Crooked Rib was published in 1970 and tells the story of Ebla, a young, orphaned, illiterate nomadic girl, who runs away from her encampment. She takes the decision to leave upon learning of her Grandfather’s intention to marry her off to an older man within their Jes (a group of families living in an encampment together).
She firstly escapes to a town, Belet Amin, where she finds her cousin and his pregnant wife. She also finds a guide and confidante in a character known only as the widow. Things seem settled until, yet again, Ebla finds her freedom compromised by a male character – this time her cousin, whose wife and child Ebla has been nursing.
In her haste she leaves Belet Amin with the widow’s nephew, bound for Mogadishu – still called