Well Be Back

By Margaret McAlpine

Well Be Back is the story of how one woman who thought life lay smoothly ahead of her, realised that nothing is ever certain.

She fled to Uganda to work as a volunteer for a few weeks with Soft Power Education a UK registered charity and didn't look back.

Well Be Back is the traditional way in which Ugandans greet returning friends. The book tells of her visits to the country: the friends she made, the good times she enjoyed and the thought provoking events she witnessed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491897416

Margaret McAlpine

Margaret McAlpine decided after a sudden unexpected life changes to volunteer in Uganda for a few weeks. From that visit grew a fascination for the country and its people, the formation of friendships and the urge to return which she has done many times. Margaret McAlpine has three children and several grandchildren. She lives in Suffolk when she is not in Uganda.

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© 2014 Margaret McAlpine. All rights reserved.

Cover Image: Rachael Imam [e-mail]

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  03/29/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9693-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9741-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Arrival

Easter

Work

Findings

Murchison

Unwelcome Visitors

Buwidgee

Volunteers

Pre-schools

Special Needs

Container City

Celebration

Knitting

Buliisa

Football

Mango flies

Museum

Mixed feelings

Disaster

And so…

Arrival

N ERVOUS OF MISSING the plane and daunted at the idea of farewells, I arrive at Heathrow Airport two hours before check-in, to find I have mistaken the flight time and have three hours to spare. I settle for a glass of wine and a plate of pasta and try to forget that I can still call a taxi and head back to Suffolk in time for Sunday evening TV.

I check my boarding pass against the departure screens, try to relax and swallow my lasagne. Once on the plane I select ‘Pride and Prejudice’ as a suitable inflight introduction to Uganda and settle into my seat.

It’s too late now to change my mind. I’m leaving the last two years behind—the ovarian cancer, the hysterectomy, chemotherapy and sudden departure of the husband of forty years who, tired of the misery, found himself a younger fitter model and hot footed it to the south west of Ireland.

Thankfully a discreet cough above my head interrupts my train of thought. A smart middle-aged man is leaning over my seat, proffering a hand to be shaken. I offer mine in return and he points to a boy of about twelve standing next to him. He wishes to introduce us he says, with a charming Eastern European accent, because his son is to be my neighbour during the flight. He is sure he will be well behaved. Should there be a problem he and his wife can be found in business class.

The boy sits down and I smile as warmly as possible, wondering how far my responsibilities towards him stretch. Meanwhile he leans forward and rubs his fingers through a curly mop of very dry hair. The rubbing becomes scratching and the scraping of nails on scalp grows increasingly loud. Every so often the noise stops, as he shakes his head wildly in all directions and I move down in my seat to avoid what tumbles out.

Nine hours later he is still scratching and I have joined him.

It’s early morning and Lake Victoria shimmers in the sunshine as the plane circles above Entebbe Airport. After months of failing to come to terms with the disintegration of life as I knew it, I have escaped albeit temporarily from drinking, knitting and sending anguished emails to someone who is no longer interested in receiving them.

Six weeks volunteering with Soft Power Education lies ahead of me. I know little about the organisation other than it is small, non-religious and based in the town of Jinja, that it refurbishes government primary schools and funds two pre-school nurseries and an education centre. For me its great attractions are that it comes recommended by someone I trust and it’s a long way from home.

To my relief my suitcases appear on the carousel and I hand over the money for my visa to a customs official who enquires politely ‘How are you?’ and stamps my passport.

‘Mag McAlpine’. I spot my name on a piece of A4 paper being waved in the air.

‘How are you? How is there? I am Robert.’

My taxi driver greets me with what I later realise is the traditional Ugandan greeting. His English is good although at first I struggle with the unfamiliar accent. Once installed in his clean but aged car, I wonder at the modern road system and high rise buildings. Entebbe looks very like any other modern airport. Less than a mile further on and I see signs of Africa. The road has narrowed and is red and dusty. The lush green of the countryside is spectacular to someone who little more than twelve hours ago was driving through the uniformly grey dregs of an English winter. The modern buildings are replaced by shacks and trading stalls which every so often are painted in startling yellow or bright pink to advertise mobile phone companies or paint shops. Everywhere there are signs advertising schools, nurseries and churches, the latter offering friendship with Jesus and eternal life.

The traffic itself is exotic: minibuses used as matatus or public buses, painted white and blue, crammed with passengers with luggage tied precariously on top. Painted on the back windows are notices proclaiming ‘Man United for Ever’, ‘We support Arsenal’ or more soberly, ‘Jesus is our saviour’. Cyclists wobble along the road with pieces of furniture or huge bunches of bananas tied on to their saddles and boxes balancing on the handlebars. Adults and children dash from one side of the road to the other in and out of the traffic to the accompaniment of shouts, screeches and horns. It is chaotic and noisy but surprisingly good humoured.

Half an hour out of Entebbe and we approach the urban sprawl that is Kampala, the capital. Built like Rome, on seven hills, the city is impressive from a distance. The skyline is pierced by skyscraper buildings. Standing out on the horizon are the Namirembe cathedral and the Baha’i Temple, the only one in Africa dedicated to a faith with its roots in Persia in the 1850s. On closer view the city is less attractive as modern buildings jostle with ramshackle huts selling clothes, phone cards and vegetables. Along the central reservation are signs announcing optimistically ‘Green tea cures AIDS’. There is plenty of time to take in my surroundings as the traffic system is gridlocked through Kampala. Robert points out this regular occurrence is being made worse by a hold-up on the other side of the road. He is right. Armed lorries start to pass us filled with soldiers carrying machine guns, followed by an impressive line of limousines with shaded windows.

The next town en route to Jinja is Mukono which judging from the advertising hoarding is the schools’ capital of the world. Everyone is catered for: Little Angels Nursery School, Our Friend the Lord Secondary School, Muslim schools, Catholic schools, boys’ schools, girls’ schools, boarding schools and day schools—they are all there.

Soon we are in green undulating countryside, peppered by a couple of Chinese factories with dragons guarding the gates, an impressive school which I am told has recently been upgraded to a university, followed by coffee plantations sloping gently down to the road and then fields of sugar cane. According to Robert the sugar cane is causing problems.

There is not enough sugar produced in Uganda, which pushes up the price. The government wants to extend the industry by planting cane in what is now part of the Mabira Forest Reserve. The plan is complicated by the fact that the owners of the sugar company are Indian, which has stirred up some of the old prejudices many Ugandans have about the Indian community. The issue has led to riots in Kampala.

There are also tea plantations bordering the road. Tea is grown as a commercial crop and at one time both coffee and tea were thriving industries. Coffee is still grown by many in their gardens and sold to agents, although prices have plummeted. Tea planting suffered in the unrest of the 1970s and has never fully recovered.

The countryside changes as we reach the Mabira Forest Reserve itself with its tall trees and dense undergrowth. Ravaged for decades for its wild rubber trees, then cleared by landless subsistence farmers during the war years, there is now a strong feeling that the forest must be preserved for its animals, birds and trees and that given sensitive management it could become a major tourist attraction.

By the side of the road are rows of stalls laden with arrangements of pineapples, mangoes, bananas, tomatoes and aubergines. As the car slows down dozens of market traders all dressed in identical blue tabards, rush to the windows bearing plates of cut fruit, skewers loaded with meat lollipops and bottles of water. Robert makes a joke I don’t understand, the traders laugh and move back and the car edges forward.

As I nod off, lulled by the heat and sunshine, Robert announces we are approaching Jinja and my stomach lurches at what lies ahead. We cross the impressive bridge over the Owen Falls Dam and reach a large roundabout with a Chinese restaurant on one side and market stalls on the other, with piles of sandals and clothes on the ground, table cloths hanging on poles and joints of meat on hooks. We have left the main Uganda to Kenya road and are headed for the villages of Kyabirwa and Bujagali. Within a few hundred yards the tarmac runs out and the car bumps over clumps of dried red mud, throwing clouds of dust over anyone unfortunate enough to be close by. Children in dazzling school uniforms laugh and jostle each other, nipping around small groups of women with babies tied to their backs and bundles on their heads, avoiding the odd goat, which has slipped its tether and is sitting in the road.

It’s down into second gear as we struggle up a steep hill with a Nile Brewery sign at the top. We turn left on to an even more rutted track and finally stop outside a high iron gate. My ‘luxury tented accommodation’ beckons and I congratulate myself on booking ahead.

I am to experience the pleasure of glamping and intend to enjoy it. I have organised a week in a tent hotel, complete with my own bathroom and a spectacular view across the Nile. Whatever the future holds I have somewhere safe and comfortable to lay my head.

The manager who hails from Yorkshire has a tight smile and a voice like gravel. She loses no time in announcing I can only stay two nights as they are fully booked over Easter. I can come back afterwards but for four nights I am homeless.

‘Where can I go?’

She shrugs ‘It’s Easter. Everywhere’s booked.’

‘But I thought I was booked in here.’

The toss of the shoulders indicates that the matter is closed. After tomorrow I am on my own. Sitting temporarily in my luxury tent I am at a loss as to what to do. I need to be busy, or I shall sit on my very comfortable bed and have a good cry. Yet it hardly seems worth unpacking. I compromise by sitting outside admiring the view and reading my Bradt Guide to Uganda, the tourist Bible, packed full of practical information and fascinating facts.

A couple of hours later there is a volunteers’ meeting at Eden Rock, a nearby campsite where I sign up for painting the next day. There are around six of us from Sweden, Ireland, Australia and the UK. Everyone is friendly but centuries younger than me, confident, happy and with roofs over their heads. It’s a brief meeting because Shaz the manager is away in Kampala and Cibbi who organises the volunteers on the school refurbishment programme is out painting.

Casually I mention my homeless state, trying to give the impression that while sleeping under a tree holds no terrors for a well travelled, worldly wise woman such as myself, it might be of interest to someone else. A volunteer mentions that our meeting place has dormitories and there might be free beds. Could I cope with sharing a room with twelve or so volunteers forty years younger than me? Worse still could they cope with me? Do I still snore and if I do, how will I know?

Ben and Sonja, the Dutch managers of Eden Rock are lifesavers. Not only do they have beds in the dorm, but they have a banda or small hut free. The previous occupier has gone on safari and in need of money, has indicated he would be happy to sublet.

Safe in the knowledge that I have a bed, I wander off to explore my surroundings. Situated high on the banks of the White Nile, Bujagali is a famous kayaking and rafting spot with a series of hair-raising falls, including one called the Widow Maker. There are two campsites in the village and another in the process of being built. The village itself straggles along the road for around a mile with Eden Rock my new home at one end and the main road at the other. Some homes are built from locally made bricks but many are wattle and daub—a