Uganda
Mary Hall
In December I992 I arrived in Uganda, loaded down as usual with bike, extra luggage and all the ideals that anyone ever dreamt of before working in Africa. Yes, I was going to help, to sort out the problems and generally be a modern day heroine loved by one and all.
Why else go to work there?
One year later, a wiser more realistic person emerged from the pit latrines, the no-running water house and the pressures of being a white worker in a black environment. I’d never thought about that side of it before, having some sort of idea that I’d make lots of friends who’d show me the town, the village, the customs and way of life. Not so easy.
For a start I went to work in a clinic where, despite my non-existent knowledge of tropical medicine, I was placed in an unenviable position of power and status. No longer just ‘Mary’ but ‘Sister "Mary’ (instant promotion) at work, at home and in town. In the town! Even when I wanted to get away from work I was still ‘the sister at the clinic’.
During my first week I was labelled as the ‘one who came on the bike’ which was a lot more preferable, but which soon degenerated into the ‘sister who came on the bike’. I used to go out on my bike just to keep that notion in, plus it gave me a legitimate chance to wear trousers, a practice normally frowned on.
Whenever any white worker went out they would usually be followed by a chorus of "MUJUNGU!" (white person) from all around. Normally OK but on those increasingly frequent occasions when I Just wanted peace and quiet away from everyone and thing it could get downright annoying.
Being well known had other down sides when it came to the local bar. A respectable Sister of the local clinic does not drink. Not even one beer, so it was a case of sneak it in while I got a chance. I liked to think that while doing this I was showing people the true, real side of me and getting rid of a few of their ideals as well.
A various assortment of friends and travellers helped to dispel the few remaining illusions as they traipsed up the hill to visit. It’s difficult to know quite what to do: initially I thought I should do everything as it should be done, wearing skirts, not drinking and at least, if not exactly going along with the religious side of things, then not openly opposing it.
However as I got more stressed with the job, I started to be a bit more ‘normal’ and a lot more relaxed as a result. It didn’t seem to make that much of a difference as by that time people seem to have realised that I wasn’t such a terrible person riding a bike and wearing trousers (of which Ugandan women do practically neither) and everything got just a little bit easier.
I seem to have painted a bit of a bad picture; looking back I can say I enjoyed the whole experience. I think I stayed a bit longer than I wanted to and was probably raring to go in the last couple of months, making them drag somewhat. It didn’t help breaking my foot or doing whatever I did to it, no-one seems to know as we didn’t have an x-ray machine.
Well there, was one, but no-one knew how to work it, about par for the course. Anyway I couldn’t walk on my foot for five weeks and got sort of stuck in the house. A house on a hill with the loo just a little way down said hill, help! I have never been so concerned with going to the toilet before.
The Ugandans themselves are wonderful people. After all the troubles and hassles they’ve had you’d have thought they would be at least bitter and very twisted. Not at all, a more friendly and warm-hearted people I have yet to meet.
Although I always remained the ‘Sister’ I was able to break through the barrier enough to laugh at the nurses at the clinic and be laughed at in return. Our senses of humour differed enormously, so to start with I could wind them up never endingly. They’d believe anything I said, and would get practically hysterical once I told them the truth. The concept of lying never seems to have occurred to them before, although that changed pretty quickly! Even the patients enjoyed making fun of themselves.
I think it’s a national pastime, laughter. One patient had some facial paralysis after a reaction to a drug. We gave her another drug to counteract this and she was soon back to normal. However the next day as we were all laughing and imitating her paralysis, she decided this wasn’t enough and mimed the whole event for the benefit of all those who’d missed the previous performance.
Laughter came at every opportunity even in otherwise painful situations. I never ceased to be amazed at the stoicism and tolerance to pain. I remember sewing up a young boy’s thumb; he held his arm out rock steady, never flinching during the whole procedure even though the local anaesthetic hadn’t taken.
The countryside around is beautiful. Lots and lots of hills, all cultivated but going on for miles and miles. Just over one was a large lake, Lake Bunyoni, where a few of us would hire a dugout canoe, paddle to the middle and have a swim, avoiding all signs of reeds and the dreaded bilharzia. Everything had to be haggled for even the hire of the canoe.
After a year there and knowing most of the market traders by name it was still haggle and barter for a good five minutes or more before each purchase. I enjoyed this, as it is always a bit of a laugh, everyone saying the most outrageous thing to try and get the price lower. There are generally three different rates: the local rate, the local white rate and the tourist rate, which would be way over and above everything else. Tourists take note.
Most tourists or travellers came through Kabale on their way to see the gorillas either in Zaire or Uganda. I was lucky enough to see the Uganda gorillas for free with just the trackers and guide (friend of a friend). It’s quite expensive now, but I reckon well worth the effort. As opposed to the Zaire experience, seeing the Ugandan gorilla requires a lot of effort and the viewing is not normally as close and spectacular.
Well this is just opinions as I thought they were fantastic, with fantastic setting and totally exhausting day. If you’ve seen ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ then you’ve seen Buhoma, where these gorillas are. Mist laden forest going up and down (albeit a bit steeply in places) for miles.
In the evening we heard chimpanzees whooping and calling across the valley, baboons perched on the toilet roof and the birds blasting out their goodnight songs. Truly idyllic. The only draw back is getting there, as there is no local bus or taxi service. A private pick up truck can be hired in Kabale but he has been known to dump unsuspecting tourists on the roadside demanding extra money before continuing, beware.
After a year in Kabale and on Rugarama Hill (Incidentally a good place for any sick or injured travellers to go to as it does have a good supply of drugs) I was ready to leave and head off into the distance with bike and luggage ready for more adventure.
What I did do was have a slap up Christmas dinner.
Followed by another slap up meal the following day at a christening.
Followed by another slap up meal at a party in the evening and then staggered
onto the bus, with bike and luggage on top and headed for Kenya, then
Tanzania.
Before finally using the bike for its original purpose and headed down
to Cape Town.