In the shadow of the sun (apologies to Kapuscinski)

Under the burning glare of the equatorial sun, the cool confines underneath the canopy of a large tree can become a community’s everything— its classroom, its business centre, its boardroom, its only comfortable spot to rest.

Here, in this picture, is a community meeting taking place in northern Uganda last August. Residents of this trading centre had gathered to learn from their Member of Parliament what they could do to get electricity brought to the region. They are among the 90-plus percent of rural Ugandans currently without access to electricity.

This meeting, like every other of its kind during our trip, took place under the shade of a large tree that grew in the centre of the village. Each village had one thing in common. Whether it was a mango tree, a shea tree, or otherwise, each village had a large, shady tree in its centre under which all important business was conducted.

In this part of the world, shade cannot be taken for granted. On a particularly warm day, the darkened areas under the leafy canopy of a tree can be busy with vendors or, more likely, crowded with people lounging in the coolness that is otherwise elusive under the glare of the overhead sun.

Driving along an isolated dirt road, it is in the shade of a large tree that you are likely to find a woman roasting corn who, in selling you a cob of delicious corn for less than 10 cents, will keep you fed until you get to the next town. Likewise, in these isolated areas where the schools have been closed because of violence (or they are simply too far away), one can find a community leader, often a woman, teaching a handful of children under the shade of a large tree.

Here in Kampala, the lifestyle is different but respect for shade is exactly the same. A café I visit from time to time has tables outside that the staff there are constantly shuffling around, following the day’s shade to ensure customers are not directly exposed to the sun.

Once, when the other tables were full, I sat down at a table that was in sunlight. The server rushed over laughing as she could understand why someone would possibly want to sit in the sun.

Likewise, at a restaurant I met friends at for lunch last week, a server all-but-refused to serve us until we moved to a table that was completely shaded.

It being the hot season, the areas under trees have been particularly busy of late. So much of life here is spent waiting. Waiting for busses to fill, waiting for appointments to come, waiting for work that might come today, tomorrow, next week. Much of that time is spent in the shade. Homes are often not well-ventilated and a day spent exposed to the sun for hours on end is an unpleasant day indeed. So the only, and most comfortable, option remaining is to pass that time with back against bark, eyes closed, waiting.

The sights, smells and sounds that begin each day

The sounds that I fell asleep to (buzzing of mosquitoes I missed on my nightly hunt, chirping of crickets outside and scurrying of the odd cockroach that slipped under my door) have long disappeared by the time I wake up in the morning.

Instead, I awake to the sounds of a hundred birds and a smattering of chickens outside my bedroom window. The number of birds here still astounds me. All of the guidebooks say Uganda is a mecca of sorts for bird-watchers and one of my roommates in August was in heaven over the variety of species here.

Some are cute, like the tiny white bird that I often pass on my way out of the house. Others have a nice song, like the dark black ones with a white neck. Others still are comical, like the maribou stork. There are at least 30 storks that nest in the immediate vicinity of my house. These birds are nearly as tall as humans, with baggy necks that nearly touch the ground. They are, without a doubt, the ugliest bird I have ever laid eyes on.

But regardless of song and appearances, they all play a role in waking me up each morning. Sometimes the mosque, with its calls to prayer, or the born-again church, with the sounds of hundreds of people singing beautiful songs, beat them to it. Needless to say, alarm clocks are of little use here.

I leave my room to get ready for the day, and hear the two women who work here at the house, Edith and Debra, speaking in Luganda over their morning tea. I stop in to say hi to them on my way out the door. The path to our gate is crowded by flowers on both sides that attract several kinds of butterflies. Amidst a shining sun, this walk through nice flowers, with skittish butterflies and the songs of birds flying overhead, is the best possible way to start a day.

Outside the gate, I walk down to the road below where the boda-boda drivers wait for customers. Joseph waits for me there, along with four or five boda drivers who also work there. I greet them all, especially the youngest one, Godfrey, who cannot speak English and as a result is shy with Westerners. He laughs every morning when, after greeting the others in English, I say good morning (“Wasuze otya”) to him in Luganda.

This area is a gathering point of sorts for people on campus. Some gather around the newspaper vendor to read that day’s headlines. Others are buying mobile phone airtime from the kiosks. Often, several maribou storks are interspersed with the people, gathering sticks and grasses for their nests.

I hop on Joseph’s motorcycle and we head off, with him telling me his thoughts on that morning’s headlines. One lesson I learned from an experienced reporter at an earlier newspaper job was that the best way to get a feel for a new place is to go get your hair cut at a barber shop. For a reporter landing in an unfamiliar place and having to put a story together on a tight deadline, a barber, as well as a taxi driver, can be an invaluable source of local knowledge and insight. My boda driver has been that for me throughout my time here. I bounce ideas off him, I ask him about things that confuse me. Likewise, he vents to me about things he feels should be done differently. These conversations occupy most of our trips to and from work each day.

We pass by women bent at the waist sweeping the streets and sidewalks with their straw brooms. Just off the road, men swing pangas (a type of machete), cutting the grass with swings that require a ferocious effort.

Here, the poorer workers base their work on their possessions. Someone owns a panga, so they cut grass for a small fee. Someone else owns a broom, so they get work from the city to sweep the streets. Others own a pickaxe or a hoe so they do street works and gardening. Those with a wooden wheelbarrow transport goods to and from the market. Boda drivers, too, are like this. They have a motorcycle, so they drive people around the city for a fee. This environment partly explains why thieves, if they are caught, are beaten to a bloody pulp by mobs. Take a man’s panga and you’ve taken his ability to eat. Take a woman’s broom or plastic tub and you may very well have taken away her ability to feed her children.

Leaving campus, despite its bustle of students and abundant bird life, is like leaving a cone of silence. When we turn onto the main road into town we enter a world of traffic jams, careening motorcycles and dashing pedestrians who participate in a daily blood sport on the roads of Kampala.

The atmosphere is chaotic, and our motorcycle winds its way between cars with inches to spare and weaves around newspaper vendors who run between the cars looking for customers.

The matatus (taxi vans) add to the chaos. They break every rule in the book to get through traffic, cut off cars and nearly run over pedestrians to get customers. The men who operate the side doors leans out the window soliciting passengers. “Wandegeya, Wandegeya!” screams one, as others (“Kampala Road, Kampala Road!” “Nakawa, Nakawa!”) hope to get the attention of someone looking for a ride.

Further along, we often pass by burning garbage. The landscape here is peppered with black stains—the leftovers of the local form of garbage disposal. There is no government system of garbage removal here and the 5,000 shillings that private companies charge to take it away can be the equivalent of two or three-days’ income for the city’s poorer residents. So the only option left is to burn it. The smell, even now, makes you turn away and cringe as you pass it by. And that says something, given that I have almost no sense of smell. But the stinging smell of burning garbage is not one I have been able to escape.

We then turn onto another, usually less busy road, that passes by the city’s golf course. Here, Joseph usually opens up the motorcycle and we fly along. I lean out a little further to enjoy the breeze, feeling like a dog who just had the window opened for him in a moving car. It is these rides that I will miss when it comes time to move somewhere else.

We eventually stop at the traffic light—one of only four or five in this whole city of nearly two million. Unlike the other lights, these ones are usually working. (The traffic lights near my house are rarely working, making for a dangerous guessing game as cars take turns darting through the intersection amidst the constant flow of motorcycles). The motorcycles all filter to the front of the traffic line and the boda drivers chat to each other waiting for the light to turn green. Inevitably, one or two cars turning from the other direction will dart through the intersection after their light turns red. Joseph usually yells and scolds these drivers, as he does with most vehicles we pass that don’t obey traffic laws (which means nearly every car during the trip).

Later on in the ride, we get to a roundabout that is usually backed up with traffic. We, along with the other bodas, hop the sidewalk and pass by the stopped cars, crossing the railway and taking a sharp left for the last leg of my trip to work. Here, men on bicycles and women carrying fruits and vegetables on their heads are walking to a nearby market where they sell goods throughout the day. Others sit in the shade, waiting for work of some kind.

After climbing the last hill, I get off the bike, pay Joseph and let him know when I’ll expect to need a ride later in the day.

“Have good day, Joseph.”

“Same to you, see you tonight.”

Bits and pieces, this and that

The Kenya situation, from a Ugandan perspective, has been in a bit of a holding pattern of late. There are still people coming over the border from Kenya, about 6,000 now. Uganda has said that if, in a few weeks, the refugees are not able to return safely, then semi-permanent camps will be built further away from the border for their protection. Given that such a move more or less accepts that the instability will drag on, it would be a sad move to be made on both sides.

Today, the World Food Programme is doing a food distribution for the refugees. It’s another reminder of how bizarre it is to contemplate Kenyan refugees being given aid in Uganda– it is a notion that would have seemed unthinkable only a few weeks ago.

Some people have been swinging by this site because it’s been listed in a few different places as being among the blogs tracking the situation in Kenya. There has been (and will be, hopefully) updates about the situation from the Uganda side of the border. But for a much more detailed take on Kenya, from inside Kenya, go to the Web site of a friend of mine, here.

I haven’t had a chance to complete a proper account of the Zanzibar trip, which will happen in due time. But in the meantime,here’s a bit from one of my fellow friends on the trip, Brandon, who works in Zambia.

Otherwise all is well ’round these parts. A Canadian journalist friend, Katie, arrived Friday. We’ve been having a great time so far, and no my excitement from having her around doesn’t revolve entirely around the fact that she arrived in Uganda with a big bag of chocolate-covered almonds for me. Nope, not at all.

Hip to be square

I thought I was doing alright with keeping up on pop culture. Especially through keeping an eye on Internet news sites, and conversations and e-mails with those back home, I figured I had a pretty good handle on what’s been going on pop culture-wise since I left home.

Apparently not so much. Earlier today I read an article online about negotiations to follow-through with the Golden Globe Awards despite the TV writers’ strike. The article listed the movies nominated in major categories.

I did not recognize the name of a single one of the movies.

I suppose it goes to show that even though I swing by news sites to keep a finger on what’s going on, I’m really out of touch with new movies, TV shows, music and books.

In retrospect, it makes sense. I can’t remember the last time I turned on a TV here (not counting watching a TV briefly in Zanzibar to get an update on the Kenya post-election situation). I’ve watched a couple movies at the cinema in Kampala, but otherwise I’m completely out of the loop.

Just today I was having lunch with a friend and we were talking about how active the social life is here and wondering why that is the case. When in Kampala and not traveling, the pattern each day is the same. You work all day and then around 6 or 7 p.m. friends begin finishing up work and calling each other to figure where to meet for the evening. So today, a friend and I were trying to figure out why the social life here is so different.

Perhaps it’s because our basic responsibilities centre around work, so when we’re not working we might as well be social. But we also figured it’s because we don’t have access, or don’t want access, to the things that, back home, could whittle away an evening. With one exception, no one in our group of friends has TV (except a couple local channels you can pick up with rabbit ears), few watch movies, and given the frequency of power outages there are only so many things you can do in a darkened house to pass the time. So you might as well hang out with friends in the dark.
In the end, it means I don’t know which movie should win “Best Drama” this year, or which book deserves to be #1 on the best sellers’ list. I also have nothing to say on whether this season’s TV shows are better than the last.

And that’s fine by me.

Life on the Ugandan-Kenyan border

Early Sunday morning (so early that in my half-asleep stupor, I packed a pillow but not a crucial camera cord), I joined another reporter in heading to the Uganda-Kenya border to check out the refugee situation there. We got back late Monday night, having spent the two days interviewing refugees and local officials. The refugees are in a wide-range of conditions. Some are okay health-wise, others have deep wounds from pangas and machetes. Most have lost their homes and businesses in the violence. I have posted some pictures with this piece. A warning that a couple of them are fairly graphic. I don’t mean to offend anyone, but instead hope to give a clear picture of what it’s like on the ground. If you would rather not view pictures depicting the outcome of a panga attack please skip over those two photos.

Here in Uganda there is a widespread sense of disbelief over what is
happening in Kenya. Since the era of independence more than 40 years ago, Kenya has been the stable neighbour for not just Uganda but much of East Africa.

Uganda’s history has been pockmarked with coups, military leaders, civil wars and tribal clashes that have, at various times, sent Ugandan refugees fleeing into Kenya.

Today, thousands (the last report said 5,000 but it is higher now) of
Kenyan refugees have fled into eastern Uganda, seeking to escape the violence.

On our trip to the border, the conditions of those coming into the country revealed the extent of the violence in western Kenya.

Some had been hacked with pangas and machetes, and had
the deep, bone-revealing wounds to prove it. Others were limping or bandaged from having been stoned. Most I met at an impromptu refugee camp had lost their homes and businesses.

And that’s what makes this class of refugees unique. Today they are
typical refugees, with little more than the clothes on their backs.
But barely a week ago most of them owned homes and businesses.

“Two weeks ago we were business people, but today we are typical
refugees. We have nothing,” one refugee, who owned a dairy a week ago, told me. He said his house and business have since been destroyed.

“They even took my clothes,” he said.

Here is that man, Danson Nganga, with his three-day old son, Isaac, who is wife gave birth to after the couple arrived at the refugee camp.

This status as business owners is why, they say, they were targeted.
In western Kenya, the Kikuyu form the bulk of the business-owning
class. They moved west from central Kenya, into lands dominated those from the Teso and Luo tribes. The Kikuyu owned businesses, ran hotels and were generally better off than the rest of the western population.

Over the years this led to a previously-hidden hostility that exploded when last month’s election results were announced.

Ugandans have so far been welcoming to the refugees. Many of the
relief workers in eastern Uganda say they are happy to return the
hospitality that, over the years, Kenyans often offered to fleeing
Ugandans.

“Ugandans have been refugees and it was Kenya who sheltered us,” said one Ugandan relief worker I spoke with. “So when Kenyans began coming across it was a form of payback.”

Some of the refugees at the camp in Malaba, where we were, displayed injuries from the violence they fled. One, named Stephen, had a piece of gauze held on his arm by a short length of rope. He slid the gauze down his arm to reveal a gash so deep that the bone was clearly visible.

Here is Stephen. These are the two pictures that are fairly graphic, so skip them if necessary:

While we were at the camp, a young woman arrived from the border with a white shawl covering her shoulders. Upon removing the shawl, she revealed a gaping hole sustained in a machete attack. The attack had happened a week ago and she had spent the week fleeing violence. Upon arriving at the camp, she received medical attention for the first time since being injured.

Here in the capital, Kampala, people are far enough away from the
border that they rely on media reports for updates on the situation.
But the election and violent aftermath have had a tangible effect on
the region.

I mentioned in the last post that I returned to Uganda on Jan. 2 to find that gas prices had quadrupled to Shs 10,000 a litre (equivalent of about $6 a litre). Luckily, gas prices have now gone down to 3,500-4,000 shillings a litre, though many stations are still dry. But many drivers have still left their vehicles at home, unable to afford the cost of driving and unwilling to spend hours waiting in line for fuel.

When the worst of the shortage hit, Uganda worked out an agreement with Kenya that Kenya would provide armed guards to escort supply trucks to the border so they could reach Uganda. Once the crisis has passed, many here hope leaders will have learned a lesson that a more reliable system of supply, and reserves, needs to be established to avoid this from happening again.

Back on the border, there is hope that things will get better. The two Kenyan leaders have agreed to meet and most we spoke with said a deal between the two would end the violence. Despite all they’ve been through in the last couple weeks, everyone we spoke with said they would be able to return home when peace is established. They also said they would not hold grudges against those who attacked them even though many of them are neighbours. They do, however, face the problem of having to start from scratch with no capital. Maybe, once this is all over, the government will provide aid to help them re-start. The violence did, after all, begin because of political wrangling.

Keeping an eye on the neighbour

The line between the ”vacation world” and “real world” is often a distinct one. You cross it in stepping off a plane, closing the trunk of an over-packed car or coming home to find a mailbox full of bills.

But that divide was more blurred during our Zanzibar trip by the election in Kenya. Amongst our group, one came from Kenya and two others, including myself, were flying through Kenya. And so we all, especially the friend from Kenya, were eager for news as the election came and went. The fact that it took three days for officials to count the votes meant the result, and threat of violence depending on the outcome, loomed over our otherwise pleasant days of lying on the beach and touring the area.

Finally, when we moved to the island’s largest town, Stone Town, we had access to a television and the Internet. We stood in the breakfast room of the guest house we were staying at and watched footage of massive riots and read stories online tracking the mounting death total (now at over 300, with an estimated 100,000 displaced across the country).

In the months leading up to the election, the opposition leader was ahead in all but a few polls  and as the votes began coming in, he was in the lead. But at the last second the incumbent president, Kibaki, was declared the winner by the slimmest of margins. Since then, there have been many reports of vote-rigging, including one region where 25,000 more votes were counted than there were voters.

It is unsettling to watch all this violence happening in a country that is often seen as East Africa’s stabilizing influence. It is certainly the region’s strongest economy and is generally better developed and more wealthy than its neighbours. This includes Uganda, as during my trip to Kenya I was shocked at the everyday differences between infrastructure in the two countries.

The violence that followed the election outcome goes beyond fighting between government and opposition voters. Supporters for the two sides roughly follow the lines of two of the country’s major tribes and so there is now fear that those leading the riots could begin forgetting the reason they’re staging an uprising—the election results—and begin simply targeting anyone of a rival tribe.

So as our friend agonized over whether to fly back on her scheduled return date or stay longer in the hopes the violence would dissipate (she ended up flying back on schedule and got home safely), we all wondered what this meant and how it might play out.

Flying out of Zanzibar on Wednesday, my plane was to land in Nairobi before connecting to Uganda. Rounding the corner approaching the airport in Zanzibar, I was greeted with crowds of people lined up in the scorching mid-day heat. A flight scheduled to leave for Nairobi that morning had been canceled so there were dozens of people (including one of the friends in our group) who were not happy about the airline’s proposed solution: that they be flown to Nairobi that night and put up at a hotel in the city’s downtown. In other words, have them driven right into the thick of the city’s riots. I was happy to hear yesterday morning that my friend got home safely.

Luckily, my flight left more or less on time, and I caught the connection to Uganda. But the layover in Nairobi was long enough to get a sense of the atmosphere in the airport. It was jammed full of people who chose to sleep there instead of the city’s hotels. I spoke with one family on my plane who were booked into a hotel in Nairobi, but planned instead to sleep at the airport because they didn’t want to risk the violence.

As our plane took off for Uganda, I looked down at Nairobi below me to see a city on fire. All across the city, plumes of smoke rose in places where violence was fresh. Later, I mentioned this to a friend who lives in Nairobi and her response was that the street in front of her apartment was on fire at that very moment.

In all the talk about the violence I had not thought of how it would affect things in Uganda. But that changed the moment I walked out of the airport in Entebbe. While negotiating with the taxi drivers that flock the departures exit, they had a grave look on their faces. The main one I was bartering with said, “Sir, we need to discuss the price. Because of fuel prices we are now charging 100,000 shillings (about $60) for the trip to Kampala.”

I almost laughed. That’s more than double the usual price, and I figured there was no way gas prices (normally about $1.40 a litre) could have risen that much in the time I was gone. So I said there was no way I would pay that price, figuring it was just another ploy. Taxi drivers here will use every excuse in the book to justify asking for more money.

“No my friend, fuel is now 10,000 shillings a litre (normally about 2,440 shillings a litre) because no fuel is coming into the country from Kenya.”

Sure enough, on the drive into Kampala most of the gas stations were closed, or charging 10,000 shillings a litre. It is part of life as a land-locked country that the supply route from the coast, in this case Mombasa, is so vital. Not a single commodity has arrived at or left the port there since the election and that port supplies most of East Africa.

Putting the Kenya violence aside for a moment, think about what that fuel price means for the average Ugandan. Fuel prices here are higher than North America at the best of times, but they are now at the equivalent of about $6 per litre. Think of the uproar in North America when gas spikes by, say, 20 cents a litre. How would people react there if prices were suddenly $6 a litre?

Here is a situation where gas is at that price in a country where the average household income is $300 a year. Granted, those with cars are part of a higher income class but that rising cost of fuel affects commodity prices as well and suddenly rising fuel prices are not something to complain about over a morning coffee and muffin as they are in North America. Instead, they are something that stops lifestyles in their tracks. Or, people find another way. The roads are now bustling with pedestrians because public transportation has become too expensive, but people still need to work.

This morning I was talking with my boda-boda motorcycle driver about the Kenya situation on the way to work. “There in Kenya, the two major tribes are fighting,” he said. “We here in Uganda pray to God that the fighting does not come to Uganda because we have 32 tribes.”

He then proceeded to count off nearly every one of them while explaining which ones would be fighting against each other if rioting broke out. At first I tried to keep track of which tribes had issues with each other but it quickly became too confusing to sort out. It illustrates just how easily this type of fighting can explode and how powerless people like my boda-boda driver feel—that if the rioting comes to Uganda, the fighting can become a lightning rod for decades-old tribal differences that today are not apparent in the everyday street life.

But it is, hopefully, an unlikely scenario. This is a country that harbours its internal differences but also is aware of how damaging tribal fighting can be given the decades worth of destruction caused by the Idi Amin years in the 1970s.

This afternoon I sat working in a café, watching the news and listening to the BBC for news on the Kenya situation. Having just finished reading an article written for the Toronto Star by a friend of mine in Kenya that outlined concerns about the ethnic lines separating the two fighting sides, I watched a man in a Kenya slum being beaten to death on TV.

These next few weeks will be interesting.

I was going to keep writing, but Zanzibar wouldn’t let me

Things have been a bit dark around here lately. I just got back last night from a holiday in Zanzibar. Lengthy account of the trip to follow… Happy New Year!

When you’re not quite sure what to do with that extra $40 million…

Hmmm, what to do after cutting all government budgets to finance the cost of hosting a $130 million international conference?

Restore funding to the agency charged with bringing electricity to rural Ugandans?

Nah.

Invest in the Ministry of Works to ensure the miles and miles of new roads built and fixed for the conference can be properly maintained?

Psh, yeah right.

Oh I know. How about increasing relief to the hundreds of thousands who are still recovering from flooding in the eastern regions?

Nah, let donors handle that problem.

Instead, let’s buy a big-ass jet to fly the president around.

Brilliant.

Rural IDPs priority for refugee body

A follow up in today’s paper, to this story that ran last week.

 

CHRISTOPHER MASON

Kampala

A lack of resources has forced the United Nations to prioritise its resettlement efforts on camps in the north over those who sought refuge in urban areas during the Lords Resistance Army conflict, according to a spokesperson for the international agency.

“The reason our focus is not on urban IDPs is strictly a priority issue,” said Roberta Russo, spokesperson for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR).

“We have limited funds so we focus on where the highest needs are.”

Most of the 4.5 million people living in northern Uganda were displaced during the conflict. The majority went to camps that were established to provide security and allow aid organisations to access those in need. But estimates say anywhere between 300,000 and 600,000 fled to urban areas, like Kampala, to escape instability.

Now that the conflict has ended and the resettlement process is underway, it is becoming increasingly apparent that most of those going home are from camps and not the urban areas where so many fled.

On Wednesday, Daily Monitor published an article detailing life in Kireka on the eastern outskirts of Kampala where some 10,000 urban IDPS, mostly Acholi, live.

Many work in a nearby stone quarry for as little as Shs1,000 per day.  All those interviewed said they would like to return to their homes, but said they have not received any support from the government or international organisations that would help them do so.

A 2006 report by the John Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health in the United States illustrates how many people in the north, especially Acholi, fled to urban areas rather than camps. That report found that 33 per cent of Acholi displaced between 1988-1996 came to Kampala.

The report found that 75 per cent of Acholi IDPs in Kampala ate only one meal per day and that 44 per cent could not afford to eat meat.

Many of those conditions continue to persist today. Recently, an NGO, Kids Inspiring Kids, organized a Christmas party for children living in the Acholi section of Kireka (often called Acholi Quarter). At the party, a cow was slaughtered and cooked for the children, marking the first time many of them had eaten meat in months and in some cases years.

Ms Russo, in outlining the UN’s strategy for resettlement, said IDP camps had been prioritised over urban IDPs in part because security concerns in the camps are motivating officials to evacuate the camps as quickly and safely as possible.

“Most of the protection concerns are in the camps,” Ms Russo said.  The high mortality rates and documented assault cases in many of the camps illustrate those concerns.

But urban IDPs say they should get greater support in their efforts to rebuild their lives back home.  Ms Russo said no IDP, whether in camps or in urban settings, would receive money for transport back home. Instead, the support is focused on the areas to which people are returning.

The Forgotten Urban IDPs

This story ran in today’s paper, following my trip to the stone quarry on Saturday. I’m working on follow-up pieces detailing government/UN policies on resettling people following two decades of rebel fighting. But this piece shines a light on the everyday life of those who fled to urban areas during the conflict.

CHRISTOPHER MASON

Kireka

Under the heat of the mid-day sun, the hills that surround Banda, a Kampala suburb, ring with the distinct chink-chink-chink of metal hitting rock.

Following the sound along winding paths that descend into a massive rock quarry, reveals groups of women and girls, each wielding an engine gear fixed to a wooden stick, methodically crushing rocks.

Many, like 11-year old Irene Abalo who is a three-year veteran of life in the quarry, came here to escape violence in the north. Now, with tentative peace between the government and the Lords Resistance Army (LRA), a massive effort has begun to help the millions who fled to IDP camps in the north during the 20-year conflict.

But those who fled to urban areas in the south instead of the camps, estimated to number between 300,000 – 600,000, have so far been left out of the resettlement process and so continue to live a subsistence life as though the conflict never ended.

Abalo and her mother, 25-year old Paska Akello, work side-by-side in the quarry in the hopes of filling enough 20-litre jerry cans with crushed stones to make Shs2,000 between them.

“We came here to escape the LRA,” Ms Akello says. Asked whether she would like to return home to Pader, she nodded yes.
Abalo and Ms Akello are among about 10,000 Ugandans who live in an area that has come to be known as the Acholi Quarters.

Unlike most in the north, they did not flee to IDP camps, but instead sought refuge in Uganda’s urban areas.

Though they put distance between themselves and the violence, these urban IDPs are difficult to distinguish from the broader urban population even though they often have the same resettlement needs as those living in camps.

“The manner in which IDPs are identified tends to exclude urban populations, most of whom have the same needs as those in the camps,” said Mr Moses Okello, the head of research at the Refugee Law Project (RLP), which recently released a report calling on the government and international organizations to include urban IDPs in the resettlement process.

As hundreds leave the camps for home, many like Ms Akello and Abalo continue with subsistence living, unable to afford the costs of transport back home and the start-up costs of rebuilding homes, replanting crops and waiting for the first harvest to come in.

This has angered organisations such as the RLP who say the government’s own definition of an IDP, as established by the National Policy for Internally Displaced Persons, focuses on anyone who has fled their homes due to conflict, regardless of whether or not they fled to a camp.

“The fact that urban IDPs have been left out of the resettlement process is contrary to the government’s own definition of an IDP,” Mr Okello said.

Repeated phone calls to both the Minister for Relief and Disaster Preparedness Tarsis Kabwegyere and State Minister for Northern Uganda David Wakikona were not answered. Strict roles define life in the quarries.

Men cut the rock with hammers and chisels and transport the large chunks to open areas where women and girls use their metal-topped sticks to crush them into small pieces.

There is a stark difference between life here and life in downtown Kampala, only eight kilometres away. George Lajul, 57, is among the men chiseling rocks out of the high walls of the quarry. He fled Pader in 1993 because of LRA fighting. He once went back home but fled again because of the instability.

“If I could go home, I would,” he says. “But there is not enough money.”

The area around the stone quarry, part of Banda village, has become known as the Acholi Quarter because of the high Acholi population.

It became a magnet for people from the region because many lived here working for the Kireka Tea Estate. But the estate was closed in the early 1970s when Idi Amin expelled Asians.

Many Acholi stayed in the area and began extracting rock. When violence broke out in the north, many there fled to areas where they had relatives. In this case, thousands eventually came here.

Today, those Acholi continue to work in the quarry, where many have died from falling rocks or floods. Many of the workers have cracked and dry hands with broken fingernails from the work.

They talk of those who have died in the quarry, most recently a woman who was crushed by a rock.

“The people in the IDP camps left their homes, but so did those in the urban IDPs,” Ms Milly Grace Akena, 47 said.

She is the chair person of the committee that looks after the concerns of Acholi living in Kampala. After working in the quarry for sometime, she turned to alternative work and today makes paper bead necklaces.

“The government has ignored the urban displaced people,” Ms Akena says while standing in the quarry. “But we are all displaced.”

To catch a falling grasshopper, or “I just ate a freakin’ grasshopper”

Approaching the office yesterday I watched dozens of people, mostly women and children, running around in the tall grass that lines the rail line running behind the newspaper office.

“What are they doing?” I wondered.

So upon walking into the newsroom I went to back wall of windows to get a second look at the commotion. But I realized what the fuss was all about before I could even lay eyes on the people because there, covering the windows, were hundreds of massive grasshoppers.

Down below people were running around with plastic water bottles, containers and grocery bags, catching grasshoppers by the bucket load.

Apparently the grasshoppers are migrating and so were passing through Kampala yesterday. I watched with fascination as some others in the newsroom laughed at me for being so amazed at the activity below

“Have you never had grasshopper?” they asked.

Laughing, I said no, grasshopper is not something I’d eaten before.

All day long, reporters were reaching through the windows to pluck grasshoppers off the exterior of the building and putting them in whatever containers they could find. By the end of the day, many were going home with bags and big containers jammed full of grasshoppers to cook up that night.

One promised me she would bring me grasshoppers today to try.

I thanked her. Wearily.

And so, with a smile and a laugh, this was plopped in front of me today as I was writing an article:

Yep, those are grasshoppers alright. All beady-eyed and delicious-looking. Everyone laughed as I sized up my foe, but I had said I would try them and, having tried ground termites earlier, I knew that grasshoppers and black ants were the two common foods here that I had not yet tried.

So I went in for the kill.

 

 The verdict?

 Not bad. Crunchy. Beady-eyed. Kinda tasty, really. I’m not sure quite what to compare the taste to, though it’s definitely not chicken.

A trip to the quarry, in photos

 On the eastern outskirts of Kampala, some 10,000 people from Northern Uganda have formed a community. Over two decades of war in the north, they sought refuge here, at the site of a stone quarry where most of them work for less than a dollar a day crushing stones for construction.

Myself and a reporter friend went out there Saturday with another friend to do stories on these people. With tentative peace in the north, the government and international organizations have dedicated significant resources to getting people out of the camps and back to their homes. But no similar program has been put in place for those who fled to urban areas instead of the camps. So while so many are returning home, thousands continue to work so cheaply that they cannot afford the bus trip back north.

Here are some pictures from our day in the quarry.

This is 11-year old Irene Abalo. She has been working in the quarries alongside her 25-year old mother (wearing black in the background) for three years. Their family fled the north in 2003 because of rebel violence and have been here in the quarries ever since.

Most of the women’s hands are thickly calloused with broken finger nails and cracked skin.

Many of the women bring their children to the quarry with them because there is no one at home to look after them. With so many steep ledges and falling rock, they said there is a constant fear that the children will be hurt or killed.

This is George Lajul. He is 57 years old and has been working in the quarry since 1993 when he fled the rebel fighting in northern Uganda. He tried going home once but had to flee again because of the fighting. He cuts the rock out of the quarry by hand and then transports it to a pile. His goal is to make the pile big enough to earn him 5,000 shillings a day (or about $3).

This is George dumping a load of rocks onto his pile. This photo was taken at about 5:30 p.m. So the large red rocks you see are his day’s work. He was about two-thirds of his way towards having a pile big enough to earn him 5,000 shillings.

A reporter friend of mine interviewing Milly about life in the quarry.

On the day we were there, an NGO had organized a Christmas party for kids in the village. All the kids were given a bag of popcorn. Most ate it immediately but this young girl hid hers under a bowl so she could enjoy it later on.

 

 

 

 

Hanging out with Ebola

It’s been a bit of a strange week here. An Ebola outbreak has surfaced in the west, though curiously it became public more than three months after the first cases appeared and one week after the end of the Commonwealth meetings. There are now questions being raised over whether officials deliberately kept the outbreak quiet so it did not interfere with the Commonwealth meetings. Yesterday I met someone who has been working since August in the district where the outbreak started. Needless to say he is not happy that he was working amidst an Ebola outbreak for months without even knowing it. Luckily he did not get sick, but he knew one of the people who has died from it.

Numbers are sketchy, but it appears as though some 350 people have been suspected to have been exposed to it and at least 20 have died. One of those deaths came here in Kampala when a health worker from the west came to the city to pick up his child from school for the holidays, only to come down with the virus once he arrived (it can take anywhere from 2 to 21 days to surface once you’ve been exposed to it). So there are a few fears here in the city of whether that one case can spread, but so far the outbreak has been contained to the west.

The fact that it surfaced in the west isn’t entirely surprising. The east of the Democratic Republic of Congo, which borders western Uganda, had an Ebola outbreak in September. That part of the DRC is notoriously unruly and all but ungovernable for the country’s capital Kinshasa, thousands of kilometres away and essentially cut off from the east because there are few roads. So when an outbreak surfaces in the eastern DRC it can be left to the modest international presence to work to contain it.

I was in eastern Uganda covering the flooding there when the DRC Ebola outbreak surfaced. Those floods had displaced hundreds of thousands of people and a cholera outbreak loomed as malaria cases also rose dramatically. “My God, if that Ebola crosses into Uganda we’ll be in a real shit show,” a humanitarian worker told me there while we were discussing the floods (pardon the language). He was saying that their resources were so stretched by the flooding that they could hardly handle an Ebola outbreak on the other side of the country at the same time.

It didn’t come then, but it’s building now. Health workers in parts of the west have been told to evacuate the area. A small group of health care workers in Gulu, who handled an Ebola outbreak in that area a few years ago, have actually volunteered to go into the area because they say they know how to handle it.

Here in Kampala the risk hasn’t become much more than a topic of regular conversation. Though I did meet a friend of a friend last night who said he refused to go to Mulago Hospital (where the one patient died) to have the torn ligaments in his knee examined because he was worried about Ebola there. Mostly, people have been taking precautions like washing hands regularly (some bank workers have taken to wearing gloves while handling money) and keeping an eye on any sign of a more widespread outbreak.

A couple nights ago a group of us journalists were out at a bar and took to talking about Ebola– about who had done what reporting and what everyone had been hearing. Someone said how it was interesting that often at the first sign of a big story we all hop in a car/jump on a plane to go cover it. But in this case, everyone was staying here in Kampala covering it from afar. Nobody’s too keen on hanging out with Ebola, though one cameraman offered to go to the region to film. The response from his editors? ‘No, you can’t go. We need you alive to cover the Kenyan elections later this month.’

In Search of an Alternative to Cattle Raiding

An article that ran recently… 

By Christopher Mason

MOROTO, KARAMOJA

INSIDE one of the offices in the UPDF barracks here, the results of the army-led disarmament effort in Karamoja are on full display.

There, on a board, is a collection of photographs showing rows of guns that have been collected during the campaign. Others show men sitting with the guns they have surrendered to the UPDF, including one elderly man who is said to have surrendered some 150 guns.

The photographs are meant to illustrate that guns are beginning to dissipate, or at least become less prevalent, in Karamojong villages.

With the threat of gun violence beginning to subside, government and international aid officials working in Karamoja say they are pleased with the gains made by the disarmament effort. But to a person they all agree that the key to ensuring lasting peace is providing alternative livelihoods for those who otherwise stole cattle.

“We need to give people a way out of poverty because we are trapped in a situation where there are no jobs,” said Peter Ken Lochap, Moroto district chairperson.

“Presently, when you lose your cattle, that is the end of you. When you lose your crop, that is the end of you.”

Providing alternatives to cattle, and cattle-raiding, as well as small crops that are vulnerable to Karamoja’s notoriously inconsistent rainfall is easier said than done. Unlike many other parts of the country, Karamoja lacks even the most basic infrastructure that any business needs to function.

Local officials identify three main types of infrastructure that the region lacks electricity, an acceptable system of roads and the threat of road ambushes that makes travel dangerous and expensive because of the security required to protect against such threats.

There are few examples of business enterprises in Karamoja that employ any significant number of people.

Recently, the central government took a modest step towards supporting business ventures in Karamoja by helping start a co-operative called the Uganda Gum Arabic Cooperative Society.

The start-up is trying to recruit members, at Shs20,000 for a share in the business, who will collect the sap from trees that will then be used in beauty and cleaning products.

The operation has gotten off to a slow start, and with plans to build a factory in Karamoja, its leaders will soon face the problem of how to function in a region that lacks even the most basic support infrastructure.

“This region needs power,” said Timothy Lolem, the cooperative’s chairman, adding that it will likely take private investment in wind and solar alternatives for electricity to reach Karamoja.

The entire region, covering five districts and nearly one million people, is not connected to the electricity grid. Moroto town has a large generator that provides power to about 7,000 residents for five hours most evenings.

Otherwise, Karamojong have to produce their own electricity through generators or solar-power systems both too expensive for all but the best-funded institutions.”The region has been kept in darkness for too long,” Mr Lochap said.

Road infrastructure, like much of rural Uganda, has been a significant problem for business prospects in Karamoja. The centre of Moroto boasts the only sealed road in Karamoja. Many other roads routinely cross dry riverbeds, so in periods of heavy rains these roads can easily become impassable.

And then there is the issue of road ambushes. Moroto district officials boast that the district has not experienced a road ambush in over nine months, and international aid agencies in the area say the security situation has improved.

But assessing the threat of road ambushes is difficult, given the presence of many variables. All it takes is a group of cattle raiders returning empty-handed, a cattle herder who feels threatened or a vehicle being in the wrong place at the wrong time for an ambush to occur.

In an effort to address the problems of both road infrastructure and travel security that hinder potential business enterprises, the European Commission has funded a project to rebuild 600km of unpaved roads in Karamoja, particularly along the region’s eastern border with Kenya. The project is meant to improve transportation capabilities and also increase the ability of the government and UPDF to patrol the region.

On top of that, the EC and Uganda’s Office of the Prime Minister are offering some Shs9 billion to NGOs with project ideas that will offer alternative livelihoods in the region.

The move is seen as an important step to fill the void left now that cattle-raiding is becoming an increasingly less viable option. It is an effort local officials in Karamoja say is needed in settling whether the current trend towards peace will be a temporary phase, or part of a long-term cultural shift.

“The key is to divert people from the cattle, the guns, to an alternative way of life,” said Moses Kapolon, acting CAO for Moroto district.

Snippets of conversation, or ‘Why there ain’t no ring on this finger’

Scene: Entering the newsroom, Chris runs into a colleague from the paper. The colleague takes Chris by the hand, a common gesture here during conversation.

Colleague: Chris, how are you?

Chris: I’m good, I’m good. How are you?

Colleague: I’m good. How is Canada?

Chris (jokingly): I wouldn’t know, I’m not there.

Colleague: But you must talk with people in Canada. How is Canada?

Chris: Canada is good. But cold. It is very cold there now.

Colleague: How is your wife?

Chris: My wife? I do not have a wife.

Colleague, responding with mock horror: Why do you not have a wife? Do you want to die alone? Don’t you want to have children?

Chris, a little unsteady about having several major life decisions thrown at him before his day has even really begun: There is plenty of time for that. Just because I don’t have kids yet doesn’t mean I won’t ever have any. And look at you, you’re not married.

Colleague: But if I had enough money I would be married this year. I do not yet have enough money so I will be married next year.

Chris: Ah, ok.

Colleague: Do you not yet have enough money for a wife?

Chris, laughing: I suppose not…

When it rains it pours…

Just when you thought having ebola on your doorstep was bad enough, the bubonic plague apparently shows up for the party…

Cranking-up to get connected

One of the last things I bought before heading to Uganda was a $40 wind-up shortwave radio. It took me a while to finally buy the thing because I was worried it would take up too much space in my backpack. Now, nearly five  months later, I look at it as one of the most valuable things I brought with me.

Many of my mornings and evenings begin and end with the whirring sound of the crank that charges up the radio’s battery. One minute of cranking gets about one hour of play, so every now and then the voice on the radio begins to fade and so the whirring sound of the crank seeps out of my room as I wind up for another hour of listening time.

To say that I’ve been completely disconnected from issues outside Uganda would be wrong. The Internet has been a great way to keep up on things, but between the connection being unreliable (and slow, so no downloading video clips) and it just not being the same as reading the papers and listening to the radio every day, the ‘net doesn’t fully fill the void.

That’s where the wind-up radio comes in. The BBC World Service has been a blessing. Each day I spend about an hour tuned into whatever program happens to be on when I happen to crank-up the radio.

Sometimes it is current affairs programming; other times it is music programs. Sometimes it is even drama, like yesterday when I happened to tune in to a drama program about a rocking horse…

Regardless, it has been great, and definitely worth the effort it took to cram into my already over-packed backpack.

Critter companions

I have come to embrace the animal companions that are a part of everyday life here. There are the monkeys who are more often heard than seen, the chickens and hens that, with the church choirs and mosque calls to prayer, fight for the right to wake me up in the morning. There are also the marabou storks who simply creep the heck out of me and flock to the trees around my house in the dozens. If ever there was a creature lacking a redeeming quality, it would be a marabou stork.

Inside the house, the odd cockroach pops by to say hi. But it is the geckos that rule the roost. Come sundown, these little critters emerge from shady corners to prowl the walls in search of bugs. Given the ability of a single mosquito to drive one mad at night, I would gladly host a gecko commune.

The geckos are mostly shy, and tend to prowl most of the house. But one little guy seems to have taken quite a shine to my room, so much so that he has a name: Gord. This little guy has a curious streak that has him turn up at the least expected times.

A couple nights ago I was digging around in my backpack for something when, with all four legs flailing, Gord came flying out of my backpack, soaring for a few feet before he landed softly and made a dash for the outside world underneath my bedroom door. On more than one occasion, he and I have come eye to eye when, in the middle of the night, I roll over in bed to find him perched on the wall a few inches from my face. We stare at each other for a few seconds before I go back to sleep and he returns to his nocturnal hunt.

This morning I was coming home, eager to get some sleep before the sun crested the horizon, when Gord came wandering out from underneath my bedroom door just before I opened it. He, looking for somewhere dark and cool to rest after a long night looking for bugs, and me, doing the same. Except for the bugs.

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…