Chillin' Lakeside

I am now hosting a visit from my old cycling buddy Adam and his girlfriend Lindsay. Adam was the inspiration for my crazy trip across the Andes (which by the way was far less crazy than the things he used to get up to, before he met Lindsay). Lindsay suggested Adam use his artistic skills to paint a Muriel at one of our schools – I think she meant mural, but has now earned herself an endearing (and enduring) sobriquet.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

I caused much embarrassment to Adam and Muriel on their first night in Kampala when I vociferously challenged a minibus driver who attempted to short change my girlfriend by 200 shillings, when he’d already overcharged us by double. It wasn’t much money, but he soon discovered that he wasn’t getting away with stealing it.

There’s a lot of that about in Kampala – underhand theft. Basically, if you’re caught stealing then members of the general public will beat you up and run away with all your clothes. So if you’re the sticky fingered type, or, as is the case with some Kampalans, utterly kleptomanic, the trick is not to get caught. Which is why people do stuff like falsify receipts or bodge jobs or overcharge or, if they’re in government, demand bribes. Instead of stealing, it then becomes ‘cheating’ so is OK. It’s just the way things are done. I cheat you, you cheat him, he cheats me, and the world goes round. Many people don’t really see how honesty would bring about an improvement. Just don’t say the word ‘theft’ or someone’ll lose their pants.

Friendometer

Sunday saw a chilled-out trip to the beach. We left our cossies at home after a tip-off that were we to take a dip, we’d be swimming through a sea of floating turds, and the water would be warm not from the sun but from untreated effluent. Too much time in the company of Kampala’s stinking drains made this description seem utterly plausible. However, when we got there, Lake Vic proved utterly irresistible, just like the eponymous fat little queen must have been to hubbie Al. Adam and I decided we’d just have to plunge in in our boxers and hope nothing fell out.

Once we got in the therapeutically balmy waters, a kid called Maurice challenged us to a game of the thrilling see-how-much-sand-you-can-get-in-your-hands-from-the-bottom-of-the-lake. He went first, and I was disconcerted by the murky green hue of the sample of lakebed that he held in his fists. Maybe swimming hadn’t been such a great idea. Still, I was in now, and seemed churlish not to play the game, especially considering how absurdly easy it would for me to win and make him cry. So down I dived.

I resurfaced seconds later with a pitiful quantity of sand that wasn’t even half of Maurice’s entry, still lying there sloppily in his palms. I had also come back up minus my glasses.

As ideas go, diving whilst wearing spectacles is up there amongst my less inspired moments. After several endless minutes clumsily shuffling around the lake bed with our hands and feet, we started to wonder whether we wouldn’t do better to fly to Cairo and wait for the Nile to bring them to us. But no points for guessing who saved the day: Maurice, you’re a hero!