Category Archives: Travelling in Africa

Falling for Fort Portal

Adventures, Fort Portal, Travelling in Africa, Uganda,

I lost my heart in Western Uganda to a small town set amidst emerald tea fields in the blue shadow of the mountains of the moon.

We travelled up from Kampala by bus on a hot, sticky summer’s day. The road wound up and up, past pampas fields and random felt until, slowly, we found ourselves in the rural areas. Proper rural areas, far from the chaos and the crowds, far from the luxury of depending on the city. Tiny farms clinging to steep hillsides on the fringes of natural forests and thriving with crops and vegetables. Goats were tethered nearby, tethered presumably because a goat wandering into that dense forest would never be seen again. Cows, whole herds of cows grazing in fields so green they could be paddocks beside a sparkling streams. Across the valley, in a tall, dead tree, a black and white colubus monkey and a black and white crow shared a bare branch.

And then the forests and farms gave way to rolling hills of emerald-green as far as they eye could see. It was magnificent. Occasionally there were sets of little cottages by the road surrounded by banana palms. Workers picked tea in some of the fields – colourful dots in a sea of green. We passed what must have been a tea processing plant. There were power-lines along these roads.

In the middle of all this green, not far short of the border with the DRC, sits Fort Portal, a medium-sized agricultural centre. The town is at a fairly high elevation and not far from the mountains of the moon, the Rwenzori. We climbed off the bus and trudged past the petrol station and up the hill in search of somewhere to stay. The conductor on the bus had recommended Rwenzori Traveller’s Inn. I wish I could find him and thank him for sharing this delight.

At the Rwenzori Traveller’s Inn, for around USh26000 pps, you will find a clean, comfortable room, hot and cold running water, fruit, eggs and coffee for breakfast (included) and the quirky, characterful joy that makes this place utterly unique. Wooden steps twirl up to the third floor, where two parrots chatter and call from their perch next to the coke fridge in an bar area all made of wood.  Bird carvings float in the open central area of the top floor. Chinese lions guard the entrance. From the back of the building at sunset, you can look out over the valley towards the mysterious Rwenzori. The beer is cold, the rain a glorious relief and that most appropriate of British colonial gifts, Gin&Tonic most welcome. There is also a functioning internet cafe next door.

Across the road from the Inn is the most awful statue of Major Sir George Portal, after whom the town is named. It really is a truly terrible statue – even his gun barrel isn’t straight! George Portal, rumour has it, never even made it to Uganda, succumbing to Malaria somewhere in Kenya. No-one seems to know what “noble” thing he did to win the honour of imposing his name on the town.

We take a walk at dusk, just as the sun is sinking. We find ourselves in a little market. Nothing like the crowded, muddy, cluttered markets so common elsewhere. This is a cluster of sturdy wooden structures sporting displays of every kind of fruit and vegetable arranged in beautiful splashes of colour, a little like the gorgeously colourful markets in Mozambique. Goats graze in the field beyond. Richard tries to take pictures of some giant birds, while two small children try to get him to take pictures of them. Evan buys fruit. On the way back, we pass a dozen men with huge bunches of green bananas hanging from the handle-bars of their bikes. Up the hill, bakkies and landcruisers are gathered outside a bar. It’s Sunday afternoon and people are relaxed. We have dinner at the “World 1 Restaurant” down the road from the Inn. Even the Ugandan food, of which I was rapidly becoming heartily sick, tastes better in Fort Portal. That evening we sit at the Inn and drink beer and chat. Relaxed and peaceful; a last repose before descending into the stressful unknown of the DRC.

On the way back, we stayed in Fort Portal again. When things got rough in the DRC, through the awful hotel of Bunia, the craziness travel and the terror of public transport/boda-boda mafia, this was place I held onto for return, respite. The afternoon we arrived back, after the hot ferry ride and the overloaded taxi trip, was precious. I insisted on eating at the Inn. I said the others didn’t have to stay with me if they didn’t want to but for the most part they did. It wasn’t amazing food and the service took some encouragement but it was exactly what I needed – familiar food in a lovely setting. We played cards and celebrated our return to the English-speaking world with G&Ts, while the rain poured down outside. That evening we sat on the second floor, on the open balcony area and talked. It was one of the few evenings on that trip that drifted into the kind of long, winding philosophical conversation I love so much.

Sometimes on days that are particularly stressful or busy or when I’m getting ready to travel, I find my mind drifting back to the Fort Portals of my life – the small towns, with agricultural flair, friendly people and a vibe, an atmosphere, an unpindownable something that makes them feel like home. Inhambane in Mozambique, Cheongsando in Korea, Fort Portal in Uganda, so many in South Africa. I love the excitement of chaotic cities from Kampala to Seoul and the decaying glory of Maputo and Cozumel and the majestic natural beautiful of the Drakensberg and the Boland and Vilanculos in Mozambique. They’re amazing places to visit and see and take pictures, but the places I long to return to, the places I could live, are the small-town centres. Fort Portal may not be the most obvious tourist-choice in the country but if I ever go back to Uganda, this is where I’ll be.

A night in Kampala

Kampala, Travelling in Africa, Uganda

The first night in Kampala doesn’t really count. We only got in after midnight and then there was the long ride – with quick stop when the driver nearly broke the car going over a ditch – to the backpackers. We sat on the roof for a while, meeting each other for the first time, feeling the group out. Then bed. That awkward moment with a new group of deciding who sleeps where. It’s not a big issue but everyone is a little weary to make a decision in case it offends anyone else. Tiredness wins over and we all sleep.

I’m last up in the morning. It’s been such a crazy few weeks; it’s left me tired. I sleep late. Eventually we’re all up and we start to make a move. We’re staying at a different place tonight, New City Annex, which is closer to the bus station. We take a taxi.

The drive through Kampala is the first I get to see of the city. I love that moment of discovery, walking or driving through a city, really seeing the place. Kampala feels strange, foreign. Different to the other African cities I’ve visited. I suppose, in retrospect, it feels less South African.

We pass a giant Hindu Temple in the process of construction. There is more religious diversity in this city than I expected – churches of all types and sizes, mosques, including the giant, showy, Gaddafi mosque, this temple.

But it feels as if they’ve poured their money into constructing religious symbols instead of into building the city. Kampala should be more developed than Lusaka. I’m sure it’s bigger. It should definitely feel more developed than Gabs. It doesn’t. It feels dusty and run down – but without any of the run-down charm of Maputo. It seems haphazard. It doesn’t feel like an aid agency capital. It doesn’t feel like a business capital either. There is a strange tension to the city I can’t put my finger on but it’s uncomfortable. The city doesn’t feel relaxed.

The day passes in a blur. There is shopping. There is walking.  There is currency converting. There is buying sim-cards and getting connected. There is glorious, wonderful heat. We eat at the Hari Krishna restaurant near the National Theatre. Chilli Paneer – delicious, especially when seasoned with hunger. Then first crazy boda boda ride.

The evening is gentle. We sit on the balcony and watch the moon rise over the city. We meet some friends of one of our group and taste, for the first time, cold Ugandan beer. It is a beautiful night. We sit in the evening, the first of many, and share the space quietly as each person reads and dozes and journals. It has been a busy day and tomorrow the journey north begins.

The girl in the red dress

Ideas, Travelling in Africa,

The girl in the red dress is beautiful. She’s has engaging, dark, laughing eyes. She is shy. Her smile sneaks up and rushes across her face and makes everyone around her smile, too. She brightens a room without trying.

The girl in the red dress hasn’t had it easy. She’s been through some of the worst the world could throw at her, in some of the world’s worst places. She still faces challenges every day. She still fears. She shares a room with five, ten people and a chicken. She has no assets and no money for college. Her family is mostly gone, except for an aunt on the other side of the world and her brother. He smiles, too, and supports Man United.

We want to tell her story. We think we can make her better. If we share her story, others might come. They might listen. They might help her. She is a victim.

She is uncomfortable. She doesn’t like the camera. She leans out of the picture. She doesn’t want to talk. She keeps looking towards her phone, which she left with her friend.

The girl in the red dress, the second-hand red dress that looks so good on her dark skin, the girl with the smiling eyes and the captivating laugh. The girl in the red dress is just another teenager. What if that’s true? What if our care, our sympathy is not the answer? An ordinary teenager who lives her life and giggles and laughs, like any other person. What if she’s just ordinary; not a victim, not a survivor? What if she’s just a girl, in a red dress, in a city, in a country? Not a sufferer, not a statistic, not a reason to build a story. Not a life we lived, not a wealthy life, but a life like thousands of others.

What if our help, our pity, serve no purpose other than to turn her ordinary, everyday experiences into something sad and heart-breaking and to be pitied? What if our well-intentioned interventions rob her of something – the ordinary, everyday of being a teenager? Vilifying what is normal and happy and ordinary for her. What if all she wants to be, just like anyone else – nothing special, nothing different – is a pretty young girl in a bright red dress?