Every ending is a new beginning

The more dedicated readers of this blog may be wondering how the story of our NGO registration ended, at the infamous, Kafka-esque NGO board. The good news is that they haven’t arrested me (yet). On Wednesday, feeling patient, I decided to go back. As I approached those hated gates, I felt a sea of patience swell up inside me. They could have made me thread a thousand needles with a pile of inch-long threads of frayed black cotton and it wouldn’t have broken my patience. I was aching with patience.

I entered the office clutching the battered and torn receipt that was our only official evidence of existence as an NGO. The ugly lady (a new one this time!) took it, picked up her envelope, rifled through its contents, and produced – could it be? Could it possibly our Certificate of Registration? I started to salivate. There it was, on her desk! The thing we had been waiting eight months to receive! The world went into slow motion. She picked up the signing-out book. She opened it at the page. She turned it for me to sign. I took the lid off my pen. I placed the nib in position. Then: “STOP! You cannot sign for this certificate! You are not the Director!”

Previously I would have shown great dismay at this revelation, but not this time. It barely even ate into the surface layers of my abundant patience. Instead, I smiled angelically. The ugly lady then started looking for our file to check exactly who the Director was.

After a cursory search, she failed to locate it so summoned a minion to hunt instead. This was when she took the opportunity to pass her judgment on our charity, ‘Promoting Equality in African Schools’, which she found highly amusing: ‘how useless, there is already equality in African schools!’ This was so funny she shared it with her ugly colleague, in Luganda, of course, so I couldn’t understand. After more than thirty minutes of three different people searching, they pronounced our file lost. Even after all this, my patience had barely waned.

I asked Mike to come down, who was the Director way back when we submitted the application. After lots more waiting and smiling and behaving very politely towards very unpleasant (and ugly) people, they clearly finally abandoned hope of a bribe and surrendered the damn certificate. I mentally cracked open a bottle of champagne, and then mentally cracked it over the ugly lady’s ugly head.

By this point, another gentleman had entered and was attempting to submit his NGO’s application – the stage we were at in February. The ugly lady refused to accept it because the annual report was the other way round to all the other papers. “How will the board members read it?” (It is beyond their intellect to turn it through 90 degrees, obviously). I couldn’t help smugly thinking “you’ve got a long eight months ahead of you, mate!”

Office Hours

As a teacher, I used to grumble about the long hours the profession inflicts upon its purveyors. I would hardly have been allowed to qualify if I had not mastered the skill of complaint, one of the most fundamental within the vocation. I shall now illustrate the relative validity of these complaints with a familiar analogy borrowed from cookery.

Imagine we are all sausages. As we sizzle away in the frying pan, we complain about how hot it is and how we let ourselves get fried without ever doing anything about it. The more inquisitive sausages among us wonder whether perhaps there is a nicer climate in that unexplored territory beyond the rim of the pan. Eventually curiosity draws one among our number to jump out, and we all know where he lands: in the fire! In the language of this inspired analogy, I am that foolish Frankfurter.

I’m working every waking hour and even when I’m asleep – last night I planned an entire meeting through the medium of dream. Sometimes such unrelenting pressure causes unchaste thoughts: working this hard could bring me pots and pots of gold as an Investment Banker in the City! I purge such filthy ideas with the following mantra: “Think of the children! Think of the children!”

Friendometer

I know this section is supposed to be for Ugandan friends, but to be honest, at the moment I don’t have time to make any. For now, let me draw your attention to another shout-out that is up for grabs in this very space – for the first non-Nigel’s-parent to talk to me on Skype. The current contestants – my cousins Eleanor, Lydia and Robert, and Julia, the girl-next-door of my teenage years, have been promised a mention for at least stating their intent in this respect.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

Last weekend I went to Jinja on the motorcycle to watch a car rally. The warm-up act was a spot of motocross (motorbike racing off-road, for the uninitiated). It quickly became apparent that what the considerable crowd liked to see most of all, mainly for comedy value, was riders stack it. As I enjoyed this spectacle, several people saw the motorcycle helmet that I was sat on and asked if I was going to participate. I remembered that I was in Uganda and therefore there was probably no reason why I shouldn’t, and also realised the bike I had was better than every single one currently on the field. So with visions of wheelying over the finish line in a glorious victory, I ambled up to the ‘paddock’ to inquire. Five minutes later I found myself amongst the riders I had only a short time ago been a spectator to, racing around the circuit.

I came very, very last, but I feel that isn’t important when you consider that I single-handedly turned the race into an international event, therefore promoting the winners to world champions. Another great service to Uganda through the fruits of my dedication.

Disclaimer for boss: I realise that this use of the motorcycle contravenes the PEAS asset policy, which only shows my stupidity in publishing the story on my blog.

Disclaimer for mum: I realise that this use of myself contravenes the family asset policy – same goes.

Competition Time

Since you are all useless at spotting mistakes, and the attempted caption competition yielded frankly dire results (although points are certainly due to those brave few who dared to try), I am going to abandon this whole idea of audience participation altogether. Kindly participate by calling me on the phone.

Worthy but hopeless attempts in the caption competition have put my Dad on a joint first place spot with Ben, as well as re-introducing my Mum onto the table (hooray). Phil’s attempt was probably the best of the three so he gets on there too.

Ben 2

Nigel’s Dad 2

Julia 1

Uncle Simon 1

Nigel’s Gran 1

Brother David 1

Volunteer Jo 1

Phil 1

Nigel’s Mum 1

Time for some serious thoughts

I’m going to inflict my opinion on you now in an attempt to be polemical, and also to show you why I wouldn’t make a good columnist.

The question that I want to answer is what’s so great about our way of life in developed countries that makes me and countless other misguided do-gooders work so hard to make developing countries the same? Many would say that we’re all fat and unhappy. No-one seems too enamoured with the pressures of modern life and lots even go so far as to plot their ‘escape’, by moving to the countryside, emigrating, retiring somewhere quiet or killing themselves. Contrast this with, for example, rural Africa. It has such alluring innocence and charm. People live off the fat of the land, share with their neighbours, go to bed when it gets dark and let their children play with each other in a playground with no fences: the entire countryside. Doesn’t it seem to address so many of our complaints with the world? So why are we trying to change it?

There are two answers. The first answer is simple: it is going to change whether it we think it should or not. Materialism is infectious and it spreads everywhere. If you have nothing and others have lots then it is natural that you should want to join them. So, since the change is inevitable, let’s try to make it an equitable change.

The second answer is that the change is right and good. People try to escape ‘modern life’ without realising that the imprisonment must be in their mind, because they are politically and economically free. You can exercise your democratic rights through a wide variety of means and although it sometimes might not feel like you have any influence over the government, together with your fellow citizens, you are empowered to end their dominion.

You are also highly likely to be economically empowered. Even at the bottom end of our society, people have enough money to make basic choices in their patterns of consumption and enough for basic luxuries like a really big TV. Higher up, you really do have that option of ‘escape’ if you want it – retire to Spain, buy a Post Office in Scotland, or volunteer for a year in Africa.

Contrast these freedoms with our rural African community described earlier. You are likely to be stuck with a government who it is impossible to shift out of power and who therefore have no incentive to work in your best interests, yet you probably don’t realise you have the right to demand more. Furthermore, you might not even be on the first rung of the economic ladder where people use money for the exchange of goods – the land provides all your basic needs, provided there is no drought, flood or hungry thieves. Your life may have a charm and innocence that people who have more enviously marvel at, but you don’t have the external viewpoint that allows you to appreciate it in that way: you aren’t looking at it out of a car window, you’re living it.

Peasant life ended in Europe about three hundred years ago. It was probably also charming and innocent until you caught disease, got on the wrong side of your grumpy Lord or were inflicted with a thieving neighbour. I don’t think anyone would advocate a return to feudalism.

Working Hours

Long, tiring and brilliant.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

Put a pothole the size of Wales in front of the car, and a drunk driver behind it, and I’m sure you can work out the outcome: car snooker. A light tap from the pursuing cue ball nicely potted our Toyota.

Friendometer

As you can see, I have responded to Ben’s valid complaint of increasingly short actual entries followed by increasingly lengthy regular features. The customer is always right.

Competition time

Well done to Volunteer Jo for pointing out the erroneous information so far missed: the Nile is not the world's longest river. The rest of you should be ashamed of yourselves!

Ben 2

Julia 1

Nigel’s Dad 1

Uncle Simon 1

Nigel’s Gran 1

Brother David 1

Volunteer Jo 1

Never admit it's your birthday

My birthday started badly when I got to the airport to pick up our boss from the UK only to find someone else had already got him. When I got back to the office I was just getting into the swing of my angry rant about the lack of communication in the organisation when Sylvia poured a jug of water over my head. This doused my fury somewhat.

Thanks to all of you who gave me your birthday good wishes (especially those of the more conventional variety).

Working Hours

The Holy Scriptures (aka Gannt chart) said that we should be starting to dig foundations on the site on Tuesday, but we still didn’t have a site plan to tell us where. That’s how I ended up walking around a big field in the dark on Monday night, in a thunderstorm, wearing someone else’s size 13 wellies, measuring the distance between trees. I always wanted to be an architect so drawing the little buildings onto the map later made it all worth it, even though I did get back home at midnight.

Friendometer

Miss Belinda Crombie of Manchester wins the prize for the first non-Nigel’s-parent to venture a phonecall to Uganda, thus proving that (a) it is possible and (b) you don’t need to be a millionaire. I am therefore expecting the rest of you to follow suit. Billy wins the traditional prize, currently coveted by Lizzie, of a shout out in my blog, catapulting her to the heady heights of international celebrity.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

A catastrophic mechanical failure on the motorbike left me stranded on the other side of town late at night. This had nothing at all to do with my neglecting to fill it up with petrol.

Competition Time

Thank goodness someone knows that the brain is not a muscle. Sadly it does not get bigger with use. So my brother wins his first point (at last!).

Ben 2

Julia 1

Nigel’s Dad 1

Uncle Simon 1

Nigel’s Gran 1

Brother David 1

There is still another brightly shining error that shockingly nobody has noticed. Just think what misleading information I could publish against such an absence of editorial rigour! In the face of such incompetence I am considering changing the competition from the flopped ‘spot the deliberate mistake’ to a caption competition (which will probably be much more fun anyway). So as a trial run let’s see what you can come up with for this bizarre specimen: