The Commonwealth Chronicles

A meeting of Commonwealth leaders and a visit from the Queen has been looming since I arrived here in July.

In those first months, I spent a week in camps in the north, interviewing people whose lives have been ripped apart by years of rebel fighting. Two trips to Karamoja allowed me time to learn more about a land frozen in time and shattered by famine and tribal fighting, while a trip to Kenya opened the window to a country quite different from Uganda. That is the kind of reporting I came here to do, and to encourage, and yet throughout that time I was looking ahead to the Commonwealth meetings.

It was difficult not to. The signs of the coming meetings were everywhere: In the billboards; in the massive construction; in the chatter amongst friends and strangers about what the meetings would, or would not, bring to Uganda.

The meetings came and went with a bang last week. The first round of meetings, amongst youth delegates, began Nov. 14. But the real work began on the 21st, with the arrival of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh.

Beginning then, through the 25th, thousands of delegates, dozens of presidents and prime ministers and hundreds of journalists descended on Uganda for a series of meetings.

On the 21st, I visited the media centre for the first time. The facility, in a newly-built hotel, had been constructed strictly for the Commonwealth meetings. What I found was a massive operation, built to allow scores of journalists to work simultaneously. What I also found was a hotel that had clearly been slapped together in a hurry. Despite charging $400 US a night, parts of the hotel’s exterior was still covered in construction wrap; toilets did not function properly; pipes leaked and the media centre’s cavernous main room was leaking from day one. A few days later, when a few of us wandered up to the rooftop terrace for a beer, we discovered where the water was coming from. On the rooftop, directly on top of the media centre, sat a half-empty pool that was slowly draining into the building. We laughed, shook our heads and enjoyed our beer with a sweeping view of Kampala.

On Wednesday, the Queen was scheduled to arrive in Uganda. I had been assigned to cover the Royal visit and so met up with other reporters to head out to State House Entebbe some 35 kms away to attend the welcoming ceremony.

Driving out there, it dawned on me how the symbolism of a visit from the Queen is manifested in everyday life. There, on the roadsides, were hundreds of people lined up hours before her expected arrival, hoping for a fleeting glimpse of the Queen. When a radio reporter friend called me on the way, I told her how electric the atmosphere was. She got out to the roadsides and spent the night filing live pieces about the mood sweeping throughout the crowd.

Security at the state house was expectedly tight. Upon arriving at the side gates, the guards were unsure of quite what to do. Have us journalists all get off the bus? Allow us all to pass? Or maybe just have those with cameras come off the bus to have their equipment inspected? After much discussion the chief guard came onto the bus and told us “If you have a camera, then come off the bus. If you do not have a camera, then also come off the bus.” So that leaves… right, everybody off the bus.

We surrendered our cameras, tape recorders and microphones for inspection as we individually went through a metal detector and thorough search. I watched through a window as an officer inspected each piece of electronic equipment individually. When he got to my camera, I watched him open the bag, dig through the pockets, then pull out the camera, turn it on and press several buttons.

With everything eventually checked out, we got into place for the Royal arrival. The grounds of the state house are quite impressive. There are lavish gardens, extravagant water fountain and pristinely refurbished (in time for the meeting) mansion that serves as a vestige of colonial rule when Entebbe was the base for the British governor.

Our group of journalists—British, Ugandan and me (a demographic make-up that persisted throughout the Royal tour)— gathered on one side as the convoy carrying the Queen and Duke wound its way up the hill that overlooks Lake Victoria.

The ceremony was brief. The Queen accepted some flowers from a young girl, then inspected the guard of honour before giving, with a nod of her head, her approval to their commander.

She smiled and thanked him as she walked back to her post. He smiled and nodded in response. Following a 21-gun salute, the Royals and Uganda’s president walked into the state house for a brief welcome. We headed back to our bus, hoping to make a quick getaway since it was getting close to 7 and we all had stories to file on deadline.

But in the time it took to get things organized, we were held up having to wait for the Queen’s convoy to pass us by. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We tucked in behind the convoy, allowing us to watch the wave of emotion sweep through the swelling roadside crowds. By this time, thousands upon thousands were packed along the roads, cheering, singing and dancing. My photographer colleague from the paper spent much of the trip hanging out the bus window, snapping pictures of the crowds.

I had kept my tape recorder running through parts of the ceremony in Entebbe, and so brought it out again to record the mood. Listening to it now, I hear men and women whooping, schoolchildren singing amidst a din where one crowd’s cheer melts into another as our bus passes them by. Over the top of this, I hear my mobile phone ring. “Alex, hi,” you can hear my voice say in greeting my editor. “Yeah, yeah, it’s crazy out here… We’re moving at a good clip, do you need me to dictate you the story now over the phone?” Then a pause. “Well, I’d rather write it myself when I get back… I’ll need about 20 minutes… What’s my deadline?” I recognize the tone in my voice on that recording as the one that surfaces when I’m on deadline. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a mundane story, a colourful one or front-page breaking news—If I’m on deadline, I get a surge of adrenaline that is addictive in ways I can’t describe.

Coming into Kampala, our bus slowed as the crowds grew larger. We came down a gentle hill, where I looked to my right and saw the rusted iron roofs of Katwe. I spent a day in that slum—one of Kampala’s poorest and most violent— to document life in a part of the city that is so close to the millions of dollars spent to get ready for the Commonwealth meetings, but in reality is light years away from the façade that the influx of money created for the thousands of visiting delegates.

There in that slum, gangs and thieves terrorize residents; few people have access to latrines and clean water comes at a price that can be difficult to afford. I remember sitting in the clapboard office of the local councilor that day, hearing the man tell me in that darkened room that he planned to organize roadside protests during the Commonwealth meetings so that delegates would see how most Ugandans live.

As we drove by, I looked for any sign of these people. I saw none. Only cheering, smiling faces. I wondered if any had come from Katwe. I also wondered if the man we met lying in the shade of a tree that day, shaking uncontrollably next to his wife, was still alive. (I had found out the BBC radio, having seen this article, would be hosting a show in that slum during the Commmonwealth meetings. They asked me to come on their program, but unfortunately I had assignments I couldn’t shift. Still, it was good to see the issue getting attention).

I arrived at the media centre at a dead run, as we had arrived in the city a bit later than I expected. I had pre-written parts of the story earlier in the day, which the news editor e-mailed me as I got back into Kampala with the subject line “chris update this story/ you have 20 mins max/ good luck”. Thanks.

After filing, a group of journalists got together at a bar to watch a football game and talk about the various stories we’d written and characters we’d met. It was a good, quasi-responsible way to begin a busy stretch. It proved to be a display of responsible behaviour that made itself scarce in the coming days.

Thursday had two main events scheduled. First, a speech by the Queen in the Ugandan parliament and secondly a late-night decision on whether Pakistan would be suspended from the Commonwealth because of its failure to meet deadlines on reform (namely to have their leader take off his military uniform and end a declared state of emergency).

Walking into the press gallery in Parliament, I was greeted by an unfamiliar din on the floor of the House below. There, the benches were packed with politicians— something I have not seen or heard of since moving here. During most parliamentary sessions, attendance is well below half. But on this day, everyone had shown up in their finest clothes to be a part of the occasion. If only they showed this much interest in everyday politics.

The upper galleries were full of traditional leaders, religious leaders and diplomats. Everyone rose when the chamber doors opened to allow the Queen and Duke to enter. She gave a brief speech that alluded to the pride Uganda should have for overcoming so much adversity in its history.

The president then gave a speech that began with a promise that he would keep his remarks brief (he is notorious for showing up to functions hours late and then giving marathon speeches). He then spoke about the country’s dark periods and the state of optimism that he said exists in the country today.

When leaving Parliament, I gave thought to the piles of money invested in sprucing up the Parliament building for the Queen’s visit. The visit lasted about 20 minutes. A pattern was beginning to form. Mountains of money spent to prepare a site for a visit by a Royal figure or world leader during the meetings. Those visits would inevitably last a few fleeting minutes, perhaps an hour, and then the delegation would move on, leaving the refurbished site behind. I wonder how long the renovations will last before the paint again peels, the walls beings to crumble and the potholes make their inevitable return.

The rest of the day was spent mostly waiting. Journalists in the media centre had largely filed their stories and only now waited for the announcement on Pakistan, which was scheduled for 9 p.m.

But by about 8:45 we heard the announcement would be delayed. It was annoying, but many who weren’t still filing simply went to the hotel bar to visit, laugh and have a few drinks while waiting. It was an atmosphere that persisted throughout the conference. It was a building full of people working long hours, writing pages and pages of copy. But my god, was it ever fun. Jokes and stories would float from desk to desk. Languages blended together as clusters of journalists filed to their news agencies back home. By 6 or 7 o’clock each evening, beer bottles and food would begin appearing on the desks. Work would continue— often at a more furious pace as deadlines neared— but with loosened ties and rolled-up sleeves.

And so we sat around a table waiting for the Pakistan announcement, taking turns arguing why they would or would not be suspended. Finally, close to midnight, the announcement came.

Pakistan would be suspended (most expected the committee of foreign ministers to delay a decision). We all rushed back to the centre to file our stories. Most of us cleared out shortly after 1 a.m., tired after a long day. I returned the next morning to find two reporters who hadn’t finished work until about 3 in the morning and, figuring it wasn’t worth going home for only a few hours, ordered a bottle of scotch and a couple packs of cigarettes from the hotel bar and stayed up in the media centre all night.

Friday had a certain anti-climatic feel to it. So much had been written and recorded about the Pakistan decision that there was a sense of “Okay, what next?” I spent most of the day in the media centre, working with other reporters from the paper to cover off the various meetings. It ended up being a busy day, though, and when all the stories were filed I went off for a late dinner with another reporter since neither of us had found time to eat anything that day.

Over dinner we got to talking about the culture of journalism we were witnessing unfold. For both us, it was a new kind of reporting. We are more comfortable, and experienced, at reporting out in the field, meeting people, finding stories and putting together colourful pieces. Here, we were watching hundreds of journalists who had come to Kampala from all over the world, none of whom would set foot outside any of the host hotels for more than a few hours in the three or four days they were here. We got to talking about that bubble atmosphere, and what we would prefer since the type of reporter that usually covers these conferences are the top correspondents for their news agencies. So is that the trade off? That to reach that level you need to take a foot out of the “real” world and cover these conferences and summits of world leaders? For us, the Commonwealth meetings were a novelty but would we be happy doing this kind of reporting more frequently?

We also got talking about the lifestyle. We, like most others covering the conference, were working more or less around the clock and then going out to socialize for hours, only to catch a few hours’ sleep before starting it all over again. Is it possible to find a balance between loving what you’re doing and having a somewhat stable personal life? In amongst all this chatter, she said, “But really, think about it. Last night we were sitting around in a bar, waiting for world leaders to decide whether or not to suspend Pakistan so that stories could be sent off all over the world. Is there anywhere else you would have rather been?” It stopped me in my tracks. Because no, my knuckles would have turned white hanging onto that experience.

These conversations unfold often amongst the small group of us working here as journalists. Everyone is far from home, far from friends and far from loved ones. But amidst those thoughts is the sense of just how engaging it is to live in this type of environment. The stories are often jaw-droppingly fascinating, tragic or heart-warming. You find yourself constantly writing about the extremes, both good and bad. And as a result there is such a bond between those who immerse themselves in these stories. “Man, you’d have a hard time going back to covering city hall,” a Canadian reporter I met at the meetings said after we’d chatted for a bit.

Later Friday night, there was a party for journalists. It is supposedly common for a local media organization to host such a gathering, and this was a fun one. Live performances from Ugandan artists, speeches and dancing and drinks. Later in the evening, foreign journalists were given a wooden carving as a gift. I set mine aside to take home at the end of the night, but it later went missing. When it came time to leave, I got a ride home by a group heading my way. I got into their van, only to find the carving sitting on the dashboard. I smiled, figuring it was a fair enough trade-off for a free ride home.

One of our group here left at a somewhat reasonable hour because she had to be up at 6 a.m. to do a live radio program. I often jokingly tell her that she needs to get better at telling me it’s time to go home since she is often smart enough to leave at an appropriate hour. I, mostly, am not so smart in those ways. And so as she left that night she smiled and said, “You know, Chris, this is where I’m supposed to tell you to go home.” Yep, it sure is. Maybe I’ll eventually learn my lesson, but I wasn’t about to that night. And so I stayed on, with the others, sharing stories and dancing to the contagiously rhythmic Ugandan music.

Saturday was climate change day, with the expected announcement of a deal between Commonwealth countries. The previous day, the Commonwealth secretary-general had said in a press conference that the leaders were having a difficult time reaching a consensus on climate change. From what we were hearing, the divide was between industrialized countries who refused to commit to binding emissions caps unless industrializing countries like India and China also made the same commitments. We would later find out that Canada was the main opponent to these caps.

I spent the bulk of Saturday in Jinja, at the Source of the Nile site where Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall were to cross the Nile River and attend a brief cultural ceremony.

This was one the sites that had tons of money poured into it, for what proved to be a walk-about that lasted only a few minutes. “All that work and money… for this?” I thought as we sped through the proceedings.

I was happy to get back to Kampala. I filed the article and photos just in time to catch the release of the environment plan. When the plan was released journalists dispersed to weed through the thick document and pick out the stories. But before long, small groups formed, all asking each other the same questions… Is this it? Am I missing something? There was nothing to it. No binding commitments, no caps. No requirements, just commitments that basically no Commonwealth country supports environmental impacts that will negatively affect the earth. Thanks for that, guys. Word spread fairly quickly that it was Canada that was most strongly opposed to a binding agreement under the belief that no agreement should be signed unless everyone, rich and poor, commits to it.

Later in the day there was time for a small dinner at the hotel restaurant. This place had become a bit of a running joke amongst everyone. The food was terrible and insanely over-priced. Tea cost 6,500 shillings (when I can get it at work for 500 shillings, or about 30 cents); local foods that cost a few thousand shillings were instead priced at 18,000 shillings. The service was laughable. At one point a reporter friend and I took advantage of a quick break between stories to get some tea. About 40 minutes after we ordered tea, we received two pots of coffee. It took about 30 minutes more to correct that mistake, and then the pot fell apart as I poured a cup. Some variation on that experience happened nearly every time we set foot in that restaurant.

Late in the night, with stories again wrapped up, everyone headed off to have a good time. We don’t need to go into details on this one, but the sun was preparing to crest the horizon as I got home. A few hours later I was awoken by a phone call from a colleague asking when I’d be coming into the media centre. “I’ll be right there,” I said a bit fuzzily as I picked my suit up off the floor and dashed out the door.

This would be the last day of the meetings. Aside from the closing press conference and resolutions, it was expected to be a fairly straightforward day. The atmosphere amongst journalists was certainly one of everyone having released a deep breath, knowing that the bulk of the work was behind us. It still ended up being a fairly busy day, however, writing wrap-up articles, reviewing what had, and had not, been accomplished and then covering the final meeting of the leaders before the conference was officially closed.

We also had fun putting together a piece reviewing some of the lighter moments that took place over the course of the conference—leaders falling asleep behind the Queen as she gave a speech, the pool leaking into the media centre, etc.

But by 7 or 8 p.m. things were wrapped up. I was heading off to the gym to have a quick shower (for the first time in longer than I would care to admit) when I got a call from a radio station in Rwanda that I had been filing reports to throughout the conference. They wanted a final report on what came out of the end of the meetings. As I dictated the report to them over the phone I found myself struggling to be even remotely coherent. I’d officially hit my breaking point, so apologies to anyone in Rwanda who heard that one.

After getting cleaned up, I went out with the Canadian print reporters who had come to cover the conference. We spent a few hours getting to know each other, which was great. But they had to be up before dawn to continue on to Tanzania so they went back to their hotel in good time and I went off to meet up with all the other Kampala-based journalists who were celebrating the end of a conference that had dominated their work for weeks, if not months.

Again, no need for details on this one. But it was a fitting cap to an incredible experience. Monday, I could not get out of bed I was so exhausted. I finally got moving, but only to pick up a pizza to take over to the house of a couple reporter friends. The three of us lazed about most of the day, enjoying our first chance to relax in quite some time.

Now there is a strange feeling that something that so consumed us is now over. I’m hoping to do a reporting trip in the next week or two to get back into the groove I had when I first arrived and to get back to doing the kind of reporting I came here to do.

But there are broader issues at play here, and issues that will certainly be good fodder for stories in the coming weeks. Uganda sunk mountains of money into hosting this conference—about $130 million. When you figure that the majority of Ugandans live below the poverty line; when 3 per cent of rural Ugandans have electricity; when its health care system is completely unable to serve a rapidly-growing population; and when millions of citizens are coming out of years spent living in camps because of rebel fighting in the north and millions more were displaced by flooding in September… when you figure all these things, you can’t help but wonder: will the new hotels, the for-now patched roads and the refurbished tourist sites help any of these people?

All Chogm’d out

Things have gone dark on this site for the past week or so because of these Commonwealth meetings. It’s been a crazy run, and a lot of fun if not a little bit tiring (for instance got home at 5:30 this morning, to get a few hours’ sleep and head back to work). I’ll post a proper account of the meetings shortly. But for now it’s time to go off and have some fun with other journalists…

Pencil me in for a visit to this town

Anyone up for a road trip when I get back?

Because I know where I’ll be heading…

Derailed plans, a lack of depth and books that keep on waiting

I was six hours into my stay at the pub yesterday when I got a phone call at six p.m.

No, I don’t need to own up to any drinking problems. I was there for strictly professional reasons. (No, seriously, the Internet was down, or shaky, at most places around the city so I spent the day working in a pub that had functioning wireless Internet.)

But I was just packing up my bag to go to the gym and have an otherwise relaxing evening (‘Hey, maybe I’ll watch a movie,’ I thought. ‘No, I’ll dive into that great-looking book I just borrowed from a friend’) when my cell phone rang.

The call display showed it was one of my editors.

With all due respect to editors everywhere, that is never a good sign.

Editors don’t call to say hi; Editors call to ruin plans.

“Chris the Commonwealth secretary-general’s plane comes in at 9 tonight. Transport leaves Kampala at 7. Be there.”

Oh man. Secretary-general means I have to dress nice. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m not exactly a suit and tie kinda guy. So, it being a day when I was catching up on writing and not attending any events, I had worn jeans, running shoes and casual shirt on Friday. This meant I had to get home, change, pack my bag full of all the normal accessories (tape recorder, extra tapes, extra batteries, notebooks, pens, back-up pens, camera, extra camera battery, Commonwealth meeting media accreditation, Monitor press pass and other photo I.D. since security is so tight, a book to read in case we have a long wait, etc.) and get back downtown in horrific traffic, all in 45 minutes.

Somehow, I did it, though I had to flag down the van so I could hop on as it drove away from the meeting spot.

It was already getting dark as we began leaving the city for the airport. Traffic has been horrendous these last few days, as the city slowly fills with Commonwealth delegates and security officials begin closing off major roads for convoys of dignitaries.

Last night was no different. We sat in traffic for what seemed like ages. I was tucked in a corner of the van with penlight clenched between my teeth as I jotted down questions and issues to raise with the secretary-general if I, by chance, got a moment to talk with him.

I looked up periodically, often finding us careening into oncoming traffic as our driver tried every tactic he could think of to get us out of the traffic jam. But don’t worry, he was leaning on the horn the whole time, which, apparently, repels oncoming traffic.

Feeling no desire to witness a constant progression of near-accidents, I kept my eyes mostly peeled to my notebook. What I don’t see can’t hurt me.

About 90 minutes after we left, we finally pulled into the airport. It has gone over a major, major, MAJOR overhaul in preparation for the Commonwealth meeting. Over the past four months, the airport seemed to be in a greater state of chaos each time I went there for a flight.

So as we pulled in last night I was curious to see how they’d managed to get it fully operational in time for the arrival of some 5,000 international dignitaries.

To their credit, and my surprise, they seem to have pulled it off. The new terminal is all lights and shiny surfaces. I had to stop for a minute and think about how this was, somehow, the same airport I arrived at in July when we crowded into a tiny arrivals’ area, slapping away the thousands of flies that feasted on their contained prey.

After some confusion with security, who hadn’t been told that there would be media present for the secretary-general’s arrival, we got through to the tarmac and waited with Uganda’s foreign affairs minister for the official greeting.

We walked out to his plane, and greeted him as he walked down the steps to the tarmac below. The secretary-general and foreign affairs minister exchanged pleasantries and chatted during the long walk back to the airport terminal.

As we walked, I realized that this was probably going to be the extent of the opportunity for us journalists. We had come out to essentially watch him walk from plane to terminal, and then we would probably be made scarce. It all seemed a bit ridiculous to not get some sort of comment from the secretary-general, so I walked up alongside him.

“Sir, would you have a moment to answer a few questions?”

He looked at me as though he had just stepped in dog poop and grumbled something.

Guess not.

But luckily my colleagues kept at him and he eventually consented to answering one question. Which he did. In very general terms. We asked the foreign affairs minister a couple questions as well before we had to go.

It was all a little disappointing, given how many worthwhile issues there are to discuss, but hopefully there will be opportunities for those questions as the conference unfolds.

After more delays– this time, the foreign affairs people realized they didn’t have enough vehicles for more VIPs arriving later on at night so they temporarily suggested we wait with our van for another couple hours to shuttle them back as well. That suggestion was, thankfully, abandoned after much protest on our part. And so we piled back in our van and began the drive back to Kampala.

I looked down at my notebook, and its one and a half pages of notes from the secretary-general’s arrival– most of which consisted of jotted notes about the state of the airport. The notes lacked substance. Usually I come out of interviews and events with pages and pages of notes. It may prove to be a sign of things to come: World leaders gathering here to discuss important issues (Pakistan will most likely be the most interesting one) and yet, in terms of information for public consumption, a lack of substance, of depth.

As we pulled into Kampala I suddenly became aware that it had been nearly 12 hours since I’d eaten. Seeing that we were passing a take-away restaurant that was open, I asked the driver to let me out. I had a quick meal before heading back into the night.

The city is normally bustling on a Friday night. But here it was, about 11:30 p.m., and the streets were dead. I looked for a boda-boda motorcycle to take me home, but had to walk a distance to find one, past spots where there are usually clusters of 10 or 12 waiting for customers.

The city atmosphere has become polarized. By day, the city is chaotic as traffic is diverted because of Chogm delegates. By night, it is empty as Ugandans go home as early as possible for fear of arrest by the thousands of police deployed to keep the city orderly.

Our motorcycle had a clear path as we drove home on empty roads. I asked the boda-boda driver how things had been since the meetings began.

“Bad, very bad,” he said. “There is no money. People are afraid to be out.”

I’d heard that from several boda-boda drivers, who said business had all but disappeared because people are staying home.

Nearly home myself, there was a sudden pop and hiss– the sound of a tire deflating. We pulled over and both got off the motorcycle to examine the damage. His back tire had been punctured. The driver shook his head. In normal times, replacing a tire would consume one day’s profit for a boda-boda driver. However, with Chogm, this was not normal times. And for someone who likely lives very much day-to-day, having to replace a tire was the last thing he needed.

I gave him a bit more than we’d agreed on to help him pay for the tire and flagged down a passing motorcycle to take me the rest of the way home.

Upon arriving, I crawled into bed with the book I’d been waiting all night to get into, but didn’t even finish the introduction before I fell asleep. The book was lying on my chest when I woke up early this morning to head into work and write the article.

Quote of the day…

With the Commonwealth conference gearing up, everyone is trying to get in on the action.

And apparently prostitutes are no different. But fear not, they won’t be allowed to get a piece of the Chogm pie, or so says this city official in today’s paper:

“But the Deputy City Clerk, Mr William Tumwine, said there was no way the girls would be accredited for Chogm.”

Review of a book documenting the Queen’s last visit to Uganda

I haven’t posted an article in a while– Of late I’ve been writing almost exclusively about this upcoming Commonwealth conference. Here is an article in today’s paper reviewing a recently-released book about the Queen’s last visit to Uganda in 1954. 

CHRISTOPHER MASON

KAMPALA

Anyone doubting the perceived significance of a visit from Queen Elizabeth II should have a look at a newly-released book that details the Queen’s last visit to Uganda in 1954.

“And so the most splendid three days in Uganda’s history drew to their close,” reads the final chapter of the book, which is titled “The Royal Visit to Uganda, Commemorating the Visit of H.M. Queen Elizabeth II and H.R.H. The Duke of Edinburgh 1954”.

Most splendid three days in Uganda’s history?

Is Uganda, in preparing to host the Queen yet again as she comes to open the upcoming Chogm conference, about to witness a handful of days that will mark yet another landmark in the country’s history?

Saying yes or no now would, perhaps, be pre-judging. But it is safe to say that a visit from the Queen held greater significance for the colonized Uganda of 1954 than for the independent Uganda of 2007.

The book is a fascinating examination of the visit, as well as of the Uganda the royals saw during their three-day stay. A lot has changed since 1954.

At that stage in its history, Uganda was a British colony about to enter the dawn of independence. It was a region with a growing sense of prosperity and self-importance that saw itself as the true jewel of Africa, or at the very least East Africa. In studying this book, readers see a Uganda that was not trying to step out from under the shadow of a ruthless dictator, as it is today nearly 30 years after the fall of Idi Amin.

Queen Elizabeth II, only two years into her reign, set foot in a Uganda that had every reason to believe that prosperity was on its doorstep. In fact, one of the Queen’s activities during her visit illustrated that sense of potential and prosperity.

She officially opened the Owens Falls hydroelectric dam in Jinja, which the British government had built in part to have control over the Nile River, but also because the power churned out by the dam would help develop infrastructure in a protectorate they saw as perfect grounds for economic growth.

The book provides a detailed account of the Queen’s visit with her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh. In 26 pages, the book illustrates in picture and text every aspect of the visit, from the receptions in Entebbe, to the opening of the dam in Jinja, to her cultural visit to western Uganda.

The book is the brainchild of Moses Zikusooka, managing director of QG Saatchi & Saatchi, the company that published the book and has handled much of the Chogm promotion and advertising campaign.

Mr. Zikusooka said at the book’s launch on Monday that he hopes to sell the book to Ugandans for about Shs10,000. Beyond being available in town during and after Chogm, he hopes it will be available at the airport in Entebbe and at area hotels so that Chogm delegates can also purchase copies.

Many of the photos were thought to have been lost, as many records and archives in Uganda were destroyed during the Amin era. But Mr. Zikusooka said he managed to find this collection of photos through the Royal Printers in Britain, as the Royal entourage had a photographer document their trip in 1954.

What the book does not explain in detail is why the Royal entourage did not visit Kampala. Though Entebbe was then the colonial capital, Kampala was a significant commercial hub, home to the prestigious Makerere University and the seat of power for the Buganda Kingdom, which was the protectorate’s largest and most-organized kingdom.

But the itinerary did not include a stop in Kampala because of the Buganda Kingdom, whose push for independence threatened to grow violent.

The book sums up this period in a single paragraph, explaining why dignitaries from Kampala had to attend Entebbe to meet the Queen.

“It was originally planned that the Queen would spend the morning of her second day in Kampala,” the book reads. “But because of the security situation in neighbouring Kenya, this arrangement had to be altered and those who were to have met the Queen went to Entebbe instead.”

Mention of Kenya aside, the Buganda Kingdom was, at the time of the Queen’s visit, in turmoil.

The Kabaka had been deported in Nov. 1953 because he refused to “co-operate loyally” with the British in forcing the Buganda parliament to withdraw a resolution demanding independence.

The deportation, however, did nothing to quell the push for independence and the colonial government declared a state of emergency at the end of November in 1953, less than five months before the Queen’s visit.

The royal visit was not in direct response to this instability, but was instead part of a tour of 14 Commonwealth countries the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh made between November 1953 and May 1954.

In an age when politicians and royal figures jet from one locale to another in a matter of hours, not days, it speaks to the great deal of change that has occurred over the course of the Queen’s reign, now into its sixth decade.

Today, a big deal is made of the Queen leaving England for a few days, when in the early stages of her reign she went on months-long tours.

Because the Queen’s visit largely avoided the controversy of the Buganda uprising, it is perhaps to be expected that the recently released book also glosses over the issue.

Instead it focuses on the various ceremonies that took place during the royal visit.

The trip, and the book, begins with an elaborate reception at the airport in Entebbe. The book documents this in photos, as well as a written account of the warm welcome.

“A 21-gun salute thundered out and puffs of white smoke drifted across the airport as the Queen inspected the guard of honour of the Uganda Police drawn up with immaculate precision,” the account reads.

“Then came the moment which provided one of the loveliest pictures of the whole Royal tour as a white-frocked African schoolgirl, Beata Kabasindi, went down on her knees to present the Queen with a bouquet of lilies, gardenias, orchids and ferns.”

A photo in the book nicely illustrates this moment.

The photos generally show a very different Uganda from today—but not because of the buildings and landscapes in the background, because the ceremonies took place mostly at colonial government sites.

Instead, the photos are a reminder of how much has changed in the country’s leadership.

Many of the photos share a common thread.

Nearly to a person, photos of local leaders— commanders of the 4th (Uganda) Battalion of the Kings African Rifles, officials from Makerere University, civil service leaders or the director of National Parks— show Uganda’s major institutions being controlled by British representatives.

Today, those positions, or their modern equivalents, are occupied by Ugandans who do not have to answer to a colonial power the way their British predecessors did. Those Ugandans instead have to answer to fellow Ugandans.

As such, the upcoming visit by Queen Elizabeth II, the Duke of Edinburgh and Prince Charles will perhaps not be later recognized as the most splendid three days in the country’s history, as the last visit has been in this book.

Instead, the trip will hopefully be remembered years later as an honour bestowed upon a country that remains a proud member of the Commonwealth and one that, at the time of this year’s visit, was restoring the pride and potential Uganda held at the time of the Queen’s last trip to Uganda in 1954.

When the draw of matooke and red clay is just too strong to resist

Katie is a large part of the reason I’m here in Uganda.

Long before I got the opportunity to come here, I listened to Katie’s stories about her experiences reporting in Uganda. And it was her words that came back to me when I was offered this chance.

Not long after I moved here, Katie, a fantastic friend I worked with in university, moved to Toronto to take up a very good reporting position at one of the big papers.

But she had an itch, and thankfully she scratched it.

She quit yesterday, and is on her way back to Uganda to report from here, where I’ll have a cold beer waiting.

Thanks, Katie, for being the devil on my shoulder, telling me I should drop everything and set off on the trip of a lifetime. Glad to hear you’re still listening to the devil on yours.

On the eve of Chogm, who will benefit, and at whose expense?

As the upcoming meeting of Commonwealth leaders (known as ‘Chogm’) draws near, more questions are being raised about just what impact this short meeting will have on everyday Ugandans.

For a long time, local politicians and other Chogm organizing officials suggested the only question in their mind was how much Ugandans will benefit from Chogm.

Re-paved roads, improved infrastructure, and intense international attention would not only improve everyday life for Ugandans, but also attract investment and tourist dollars, these officials told the public.

Those all may prove to be true. But other questions are now surfacing as well.

To what extent should Ugandans be restricted in their freedoms and rights in the name of facilitating the conference?

Will any of the funds flowing in trickle down to the vast majority of the country’s residents? Or will it all stay within the wealthiest who, not coincidently, are often in politics?

These questions arise while watching everyday life unfold here, as well as while scanning stories in the newspapers.

Of late, my boda-boda motorcycle driver has stopped working as late as normal, for fear of being arrested by the thousands of additional police officers who have been deployed throughout the city.

Recently I asked him to pick me up from the gym at about 9 p.m.  He sent me a text message earlier in the day asking me to please keep time because he was worried about being out on the road any later than that.

A friend of mine who lives above a restaurant said staff at the restaurant have stopped going home after the restaurant closes at night, because they fear being arrested for being out at night. So instead they sleep at the restaurant.

To boost security ahead of the conference, the government has brought in thousands of forces called “Special Police Constables”, or “SPCs”. These SPCs had previously worked in local villages around the country, helping police there to keep the peace. They do not have the same powers as a full police officer.

Because the demand on police in and around Kampala was so high for Chogm, the government brought in thousands of these SPCs, gave them some additional training and deployed them at nearly every intersection throughout the city, where they now stand with their fingers on the triggers of their AK-47s.

Recently while stopped at an intersection, I counted 10 of them stationed at that one intersection. This morning I counted over 20 police, soldiers and traffic wardens at this same intersection.

The government has reassured Ugandans that the SPCs are only there to help keep the peace, and will not exert excessive force.

But there have been many letters to the newspaper complaining that because the SPCs come from villages all over the country, many speak very little English, if any at all. This makes it difficult, they say, to explain your business if they stop you on the street.

Monday’s newspaper carried a story that will surely lead to further concerns about the safety of Ugandans in the presence of so many law enforcement officers.

Over the weekend, two people (one 13-year old girl and a 22-year old man) were shot and killed by SPC officers at a market in the city. There has not yet been an in-depth explanation of just how and why the incident occurred.

Also on Monday, politicians sitting on the committee that is overseeing Chogm organizing, heard an update on the transportation plan to be put in place during Chogm.

Nov. 22 and 23 will be a national holiday for Ugandans, they heard, in the hopes of reducing the stress on the area’s traffic system because there will be so many convoys of delegates traveling the city.

The minister of foreign affairs said at the meeting that Ugandans will be allowed into the city centre, as if it was a possibility that all Ugandans would be banned from their own city, but he added that there would be some restrictions at times depending on the travel of Chogm delegates.

There will also be restrictions placed on matatus (taxi vans) and boda-boda motorcycles in the city centre. They may even be banned. Amidst talk of this plan there is no mention of how Ugandans will be able to get around the city given that the vast majority of them rely on matatus and boda-bodas.

And so, at yesterday’s meeting with all this talk about travel restrictions and security issues, did a single politician ask what Ugandans should do if they have no choice but to get to and from work?

Nope. Not one. Instead, they asked the government to issue stickers to themselves to put on their cars so that they, the politicians, could move freely around the city. This would save security officials the “embarrassment” of finding out they were holding up someone as important as a politician, one of them said in explaining why the stickers were so crucial.

When all that’s left is the sound of one hand clapping

The house I’m living in has been a constant hive of activity throughout my stay. At one point we had 16 people living in the house.

The last month or so it’s been me and eight Dutch students living together and generally having a good time. But in the past three days they’ve all gone home and it looks to be a while, at least three weeks, before a new group comes to the house.

So what used to be a busy, jammed kitchen is now sporting some pretty bare cupboards. What used to be a bustling living room is now an oasis of tranquility.

There are no longer line-ups outside the bathroom that resemble the returns desk at a department store the day after Christmas.

That part of it, I could get used to.

Having some quiet might be nice for a while, but on evenings when the power goes out and there’s nothing much to do it is nice to have some people around to chat with.

But in the meantime I’ll try to avoid the temptation to pull a Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

Dawn of a new era

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to announce some big changes here at Caked in Red Clay: Full-sized photos!

That is all.

We now return you to programming in progress (most likely involving steamed bananas and boda-boda motorcycles).

The boda chronicles (continued)

The boda-boda trips to and from work have been a bit more subdued of late. My boda driver has been sick with a fever, and also been dealing with two painful teeth that have slowed him down.

As such, our trips have been quiet. He has spent a few days in bed, hoping the fever and tooth pain would go away because he couldn’t afford the doctor visit. But even on those days, I would leave the house and there he would be, waiting for me with his motorcycle.

“I thought you were staying home today,” I’d say, surprised to see him.

“I am, but I come for you then go back to bed. How is your morning?”

“Fine, Joseph, my morning is fine. You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling well…”

But off we’d go each morning for the trip to work. Finally I asked him yesterday when he was going to get to a doctor because the tooth pain especially didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere.

“Soon, soon. I must save up more money first,” he would say.

“Joseph, how much does the doctor charge for pulling a tooth?” I asked, as we arrived at work.

“6,000 shillings,” he told me.

6,000 shillings is about $3.30.

Reaching into my pocket, I gave him 6,000 shillings. “Go to the doctor today, okay?”

Last night he came to pick me up from the gym, and I asked about his mouth.

“The doctor, he pulled the tooth, but there is another that needs to go.”

He told me how the doctor said he would have to wait four days before the second tooth could be pulled, and how he had also gotten some pills for the fever— no information apparently on what was causing the fever.

Heading home, I asked him whether he’d been able to eat since the tooth was pulled earlier in the day.

“Ah, no. That will have to wait. It is too sore, only drinks.”

As we sped through the city street’s I crossed my fingers that he had stuck to water and the like instead of the cheapest painkiller of them all—alcohol.

We soon arrived at the barbershop where I had asked him to drop me.
“You must be hungry, yes?” I asked him.

Joseph shrugged.

I looked down at the macaroni and cheese I had leftover from my dinner at a restaurant (yes, I’ve found a restaurant that serves macaroni and cheese) and opened the lid to show Joseph.

“Would you eat this? It would be soft for your teeth.”

With hardly a glance into the box, Joseph said that yes, he would like that.

This morning, I hopped on the motorcycle and as we took off, Joseph turned his head slightly.

“That dinner last night was very good. It smelled good, it tasted good. I liked it very much.”

“Glad to hear, Joseph.”

“What do you call that?”

“Macaroni and cheese.”

“Ah, I do not know that food, but I like it very much.”

One moleskin notebook gives way to the next…

“The best stuff you ever write comes from a place you don’t understand.”

I read that line in the obituary of journalist R.W. (Johnny) Apple, Jr., who passed away in Oct. 2006, and immediately knew I needed to write it down, because it expressed that exact feeling you get when you’ve written something that clicks. It’s a sort of “Hey I never thought of it that way before, but I like it” feeling.

Luckily, I had my moleskin notebook nearby to jot down the obituary quote. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so much a case of luck. That little notebook has a knack for being there when I most need it (other lines from that obituary that made it into the notebook: “Drama, and a lot of dash, followed Mr. Apple as night follows day” and “He looked like a wrinkle bomb had hit him.”)

Flipping through the now-full notebook, whose first entry is dated just over a year ago, I am reminded of the places I visited, and people I was with when something— an idea, a quote, a reminder— presented itself. There are lists of books to read, itineraries for reporting trips, ideas for planned afternoons with friends or a friend and certain phrasings I stumbled across reading articles and books that I wanted to remember (such as describing a winding river as being “all elbows”).

In fact, I happened to be writing in the book when I got the call offering the opportunity to drop everything and move to East Africa. “UGANDA!!!!!!!” is written in huge lettering across that page.

One entry still intrigues me: taking the train back to Toronto from Montreal, we passed what looked to be an abandoned train station with very little around it. In shaky, I’m-writing-this-while-riding-a-train handwriting, appears the note “Ernestown, west of Kingston. Abandoned railway station with a few houses. Ghost town? Jan. 30.07”

Anyone know the answer to that one?

About half the book is filled with notes from here in Uganda. There are a few interviews with residents of IDP camps in Northern Uganda: “Man hid under shea nut tree during massacre. Has bullet wound on left wrist (showed me). Told villagers to run away as the rebels stormed from the far side. Today he wears torn knit sweater. He left his home at 5 p.m. that day. Going to harvest honey at nearby village. But met rebels on the way so turned and ran back. When he arrived he was asked by the military why he was running. They wanted to know where the rebels were coming from. He told everyone to run east. The military went to meet the rebels but rebels had since moved and so entered the village while military was out looking for them. Three groups of rebels attacked from three fronts. When he was pointing people to run, the rebels shot him in wrist. Government forces were on one side, rebels on the other. He was caught in the middle under the only tree. So started praying to Job (Why Job?). Then he tried to run (says he did it unconsciously). Can’t explain how he got away. Fell in a hole and shell exploded nearby, covering him in dirt. But jumped out of trench and ran. They were shooting at him. He came back next morning and there were dead bodies everywhere, and all huts were burned.”

At the end of this entry is the man’s name, “Tom Omara”, written in his shaky penmanship. So shaky that I had to ask him to verbally spell his name so I could re-write his name above his writing of it to make sure I had the spelling correct.

On the next page, the testimony of a 16-year old boy who three years ago survived the massacre described above. But not before witnessing the execution of his older brother and then being abducted by the rebels. Here, he describes the forced march through the bush: “They were killing people on the way using pangas and spears. They didn’t want to waste bullets.”

There are, unfortunately, a fair number of entries like that in the last half of the notebook. But they’re not all so tragic.

There are notes about words and phrases in Luganda that I was told and now try to remember. There are e-mail addresses and phone numbers of fantastic and wonderful people I have met along the way and random jottings of wild travel ideas that have come up in the company of others here.

But with the jotting of one final wild travel idea, and a couple more books I want to read, I have reached the end of one moleskin notebook.

When a Canadian flying here asked me if she could bring anything from home, my answer was “Yes! Bring a moleskin notebook!”

And so a new, fresh notebook, still in its wrapper, waits for its pages to be filled.

A small, lopsided and subtitled, dose of familiarity

Within days of arriving here, I was out for drinks with new friends who were saying goodbye to a couple who were soon leaving the country.

The departing couple mentioned that they were leaving behind a collection of DVDs that included movies and episodes of various shows. Others in the group were immediately excited about the new movies and shows now available to watch.

“Oh come on, what’s the big deal?” I asked. It’s just a few movies and shows, right?

They all looked at me, amused. “Give it time, you’ll understand,” one of them said.

I think I’m beginning to understand.

At our house sits a growing collection of DVDs bought at the nearby market. Most people who stay at the house buy one or two during their stay, and leave them behind for those coming next.

And these aren’t old, B-List movies you’ve never heard of. No, these ones are hot off the presses, er, reels.

The Bourne Ultimatum, which came out recently? It was available in a small hut at the nearby market as soon as it was released in theatres. Sure the movie was filmed using a camcorder in the cinema (meaning you sometimes have to put up with a cameraman who has a skewed sense of ’steady hand’), and sure, parts of the screen are periodically blocked by the shadowy figures of people leaving their seats to get popcorn, and yes, you can hear people laughing or crying in nearby seats. But you can at least see the movie, right?

Right.

And so you can wander down to the market and browse the various stalls that sell movies. Each disc typically has six or seven movies on it, organized in some sort of theme (my favourite theme so far is the “Mel Gibson vs. Bruce Willis” movie collection), and sold for about $4.  Yesterday I took a friend visiting from Rwanda into the market to check out the movies (because they aren’t available in Rwanda). He found one collection he liked and asked the vendor to play it to ensure the movies actually work.

She put it in, turned the volume down conspicuously, and pressed play. The movies played fine but the title screen said French Movie Collection.

“Madam, why does this say ‘French’?”

“That’s just the name of the collection. The movies are in English.”

“Could you please turn the volume up so we can hear for ourselves?”

*Woman turns volume up. Dialogue is clearly in French*

“That movie is in French.”

“It’s only this one. The rest are in English.”

*We ask her to play some of the others, all of which are in French*

And so on. Besides being a great way for ex-pats to stay plugged-in to the latest releases, these movies also allow many Ugandans to watch movies they could not otherwise afford. They are available for sale in nearly every market, and there are also small, ramshackle, cinemas that show these pirated DVDs on TVs, to an audience of Ugandans who paid a small admission price.

Of the movies in our house, some of them work, others do not. It recently took me four tries to watch The Pursuit of Happyness from start to finish.

Poor camera-work, malfunctioning discs and hilariously skewed subtitles would normally be a major pain, but here it’s a small price to pay for a dose of familiar pop culture.

Playing tourist: It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it

This week, the newspaper asked me to put away my (metaphorical) reporter’s fedora and take out my (thankfully metaphorical) gaudy tourist hat for a series of articles on the region’s cultural sites.

Considering many of the stories I normally report on can, at times, weigh a little heavy, it was a welcome change.

I have spent most of this week traipsing around, taking day trips, snapping a million pictures of monkeys and statues and trees and asking tour guides the types of questions they’ve answered a thousand times over— all to test the readiness of the biggest tourist hot spots for the upcoming Commonwealth Heads’ of Government Meeting.

Earlier this week I visited the tombs of tribal kings, then went to a shrine built to Christian converts who were slaughtered by a tribal king in the late 19th century, and Uganda’s National Museum. All were educational and mostly interesting. It was nice to not have to take notes for a change, but to instead just take things in and otherwise enjoy the sights and sounds of places I had not yet visited.

Today I had a packed agenda centred around a trip west to Entebbe to visit the botanical gardens and the wildlife education centre (which is most certainly not a zoo… yeesh, you only make that mistake once around tour guides). I was up and out the door shortly after 5 a.m. to get some work done in the newsroom and then get an early matatu west to Entebbe.

The boda-boda dropped me at the old taxi park (there are two crazy, chaotic taxi parks in the city where matatus heading all over the city, and the country, gather in a frenzy akin to a colony of ants that just discovered honey). I waded my way through the crowds and found the matatu heading for Entebbe.

Getting into these matatus is always a bit of a crap-shoot. They don’t leave on any fixed schedule. Instead, they leave when they are full. Sometimes you are in luck and the van leaves moments after you hop on. Other times, you are one of the first to arrive and end up sitting and sitting and sitting, to the point where vendors making their rounds begin recognizing you and know in advance that no, you are not interested in buying a watch. Or a fly swatter.

Today, I was in luck. I arrived just as the van was filling up and even got a spot in the first row of seats behind the driver (the three rows behind this one operate like a puzzle that has to be disassembled completely each time someone wants out).

And so, in short order, we were off. The matatu, as always, was full. To my right was a young man who was busy drawing up plans for a solar panel. His precision lines were somewhat compromised by the steady procession of potholes. To my left was the source of the trip’s joy (I at first meant that to be sarcastic, but I think now it is mostly genuine). A woman had climbed on after me, with her baby daughter. We were tight, with four of us plus the baby on one van seat.

As we drove I became increasingly aware that this little girl was staring at me. I glanced down to find a pair of saucer eyes and a slacked jaw, as though she was staring at a UFO that just landed in her cornfield. I smiled and waved at her. She slowly reached out and poked my cheek, as though to verify that, yes, this muzungu sighting was legit.

This poking and prodding continued for most of the hour-long trip. Much to the rest of the delight of the other passengers.

I was eventually dropped at the side of the dirt road leading down to the Wildlife Centre, and walked in for a fun hour or so of viewing animals— in particular watching the monkeys fight and observing the hyenas chase after birds (kind of like watching the futile hunt of a cat going after a butterfly). It was fun and relaxing, and after making a few notes about the facility’s readiness for the increased tourism during Chogm and talking with a couple of staff, I set off for the nearby botanical gardens.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect here. Other sites I had heard about before visiting them. The botanical gardens was a site of which I knew very little. But I walked in, bought my ticket, paid extra because I had my camera (genious price scheme: set a ticket price and then charge the same rate again “if” they have a camera. Who doesn’t bring a camera to botanical gardens?)

A guide materialized out of thin air, and by “materialize” I mean “came sprinting down the road at a track star’s pace because somehow in 30 seconds word had spread that there was a visitor who had arrived without a guide of his own”. So off we went for an hour-plus walk around the 75 hectare grounds of the gardens, which slope down to Lake Victoria.

It was a beautiful setting, and not so much “gardens” as “dense forest”. The variety of trees was incredible. There was a towering 200-year old mahogany tree that would have had any carpenter drooling, as well as a wide variety of other trees and flowers that proved far more interesting than I had anticipated.

There was also a wide variety of wildlife. Massive lizards (like big enough that they’d be good practice if you wanted to eventually wrestle crocs), tons of different bird species, the omnipresent monkeys (and their penchant for dropping fruit shells disturbingly close to passers-by) and flying tree squirrels.

My guide proved to be remarkably knowledgeable. He is studying agriculture in university and spends his free days at the gardens giving tours, which he has been doing for seven years. At one point I asked him about termites (since there were massive termite hills everywhere) and so he peeled away part of a hill to show me the workers, the soldiers and explain the various layers leading down to the queen.

Throughout the tour he had been explaining how each tree, plant and flower is used for traditional healing. Here, he explained the termines’ role (beyond being an apparently tasty treat… no thanks). If you’re out in the bush, he told me, and suffer a wound, experienced people know to head to the nearest termite hill and pluck the male termites off the hill. One-by-one, you pinch them and put them face-first on the wound. When they bite into your skin, you rip off the back end of their body. The teeth remain clenched for up to two days, he told me. So a series of termites can stitch up a wound.

Here is a picture of the guide demonstrating how it works:

We then checked out the view from a cliff overlooking Lake Victoria:

And then began making our way back to the park gates, but not before first walking through the “jungle” forest where, apparently, the first Tarzan film was shot in the 1930s. From what I’ve read, that claim hasn’t been verified, but it’s plausible to imagine when you’re in the bush, with thick vines weaving off in all directions.

Here’s a shot from inside that part of the forest:

I eventually left the gardens, and hopped a matatu back to Kampala. I was the first person on, and so got the prime front passenger seat, where I could enjoy the extra legroom and revel in the cool breeze as we sped back to town.

Tomorrow? We do the Source of the Nile River in Jinja, which is an hour or two east of Kampala.

I could get used to this whole tourist thing…

Oh, wait, how could I leave before including a picture of a baby monkey? Everybody loves a baby monkey: