It might have been the name of the "Mountains of the Moon" that first attracted me to the man on leave from Africa that I was introduced to in London. He worked on a copper mine which was dug horizontally into the Ruwenzori Mountains, 3000 feet up and 10 miles from the Equator. A land of perpetual summer and the source of many fables, this was in what Mr Churchill had called "The Pearl of Africa:" Uganda.

The children and I read about it in our Encyclopaedia, studied our atlases, and when, a year later, he asked me to marry him, we looked at each other and said, "Let's go!"

Maurice had been in the Indian bush for 23 years before going to work in the African one, and thought that the shopping in Kilembe was rather good. The "mall" consisted of the butcher's shop, a small shoe shop (mostly flip flops and mining boots), an Indian dhuka, which sold buttons, cloth, shoe polish and tin mugs, and the local market. There women sat on the ground in front of neat little heaps of dried beans or perhaps six small eggs in a pile, each one with her baby resting beside her. When all was sold the saleswomen would go and buy some freshly caught tilapia, fish brought from lakeside to market in the fisherman's car.

Shopping done, their plump and contented little ones would be picked up by one arm and slung over the mother's back, coming to rest in a swathe of cloth, quickly tied in a knot in front in a very secure fashion. The mother would then casually toss another piece of cloth over her shoulders, with unerring aim, covering the baby's face from the flies. Putting a large tin of water on her head and holding it with one hand, she would carry her shopping in a large cloth covered basket on her hip. With no apparent effort she would then walk off in a graceful manner on her journey home. The tilapia was delicious, and the fish eagles and pelicans also enjoyed it, but there were plenty to go around and the local fishermen made a good income from them.

The butcher was rather a trial for me. I would go into that smelly dark room pausing in front of a large sliced off tree trunk - the butcher standing behind it with a sharp panga in his hand. Bowing slightly and giving me a big smile he would tap the home made chopping block with the panga handle. This was the signal for all the cockroaches to scamper around from the counter and block where they were grazing, and run down the crack which ran across the centre of it, just before the butcher swung a piece of unidentified meat on the cleared surface and asked, "How much would you like, Madam?"

Eventually the way I looked at it was that as I was cooking the meat straight away after washing it - any germs would be disposed of - the general opinion of all housewives there.

Coming from the centre of London, I could only grit my teeth and find out how to cope with providing food and clothes for my family. I soon learnt how to do this - just forget about other places and live as our forebears did. Getting out my cookery books I taught myself and William the cook how to make bread, how to make ham and bacon and other delights that I had always thought were only obtained in shops. My sausages were voted excellent and I learnt how to make samosas, spring rolls and curries from Asian friends I made there, while I showed them how to make sponge puddings - their favourite. I bought an ancient sewing machine from a going home expatriate. I came to love that machine and spent many an hour turning the wheel and producing fairly reasonable clothes for all of us. There was a good supply of materials for sale in Kampala, the capital, and anyone going there would take shopping lists for all their friends - it being at least a three day trip there and back.

Drinking water was a bit tricky. We lived below the Bukonjo village, where all sanitary actions took place in the river. The Copper Mine had a rudimentary water processing plant, but still the water had to be boiled for ten minutes before using it. William the cook boiled gallons of the stuff every morning, cooled it and then filled several two-litre bottles and put them in one of our two enormous refrigerators. This water was not only used for drinking, but for ice cubes, cleaning our teeth and salad and fruit washing.

Our bungalow, taking place of Maurice's previous small bachelor house, had been built in a clearing, so we had to cut down and dispose of the elephant grass, at least two feet taller than any of us. In fact it was three feet taller than Serapio - we thought that he was related to some of the pygmies who lived in the Impenetrable Forest on the other side of the Game Park. The clearing of the land was important to keep the snakes away; with no grass to hide in they left us more or less in peace. We had two gardeners cum handy men, and with their help Maurice cleared about an acre, to begin with. They planted tufts of lawn grass which started to grow immediately, and made flower beds and drystone walls with the stones they dug out - we were on a steep slope, so this was necessary to stop the garden being washed away when it rained.

One day Serapio and Damiano the gardeners, came to fetch me to show what they had found while they were digging - a lot of bones. We dug them all up and laid them out on a rug. Putting them together rather like a jigsaw puzzle we ended up with a skeleton of a tall person with a hole in his skull. I wrapped him in a length of Americani, tough cloth woven from Ugandan cotton. We dug a hole under a banana tree, and making the men promise not to laugh or spit (frequent occurrences, possibly owing to the cannabis they smoked), I said a prayer to the god of the Bakonjos, the local tribe, covered him with earth and laid flowers on the grave. I think I did the right thing as the gardeners took it all very seriously, I had no ghostly encounters and I didn't have to bother the local troops or police, which could have been not a good thing.

I was sitting on the verandah one day, looking through our binoculars at the goings on further up the mountain, in the little group of straw huts up there. There had been rhythmic drumming coming from there all day long. Now they had slung a large bundle wrapped in leaves between two boughs stuck in the ground. Could it be a pig? A trail of people were walking round it in a circle, some of them beating the ground with sticks, and I could hear them chanting or singing. I rushed to meet Maurice as he drove into our lean-to garage, "Come quickly and look. They are going to have a barbecue up there!"

A quick glance through the binoculars and he turned to me. "Not unless they are still practising cannibalism - it is their sort of funeral."

The next day the bundle had gone. The singing and drumming went on for one more day and then all was peace. William told me they banged the ground with sticks to keep the evil spirits away. Maybe our own skeleton had gone through a ceremony like that, but I still wondered about the hole in his head.

Paul, our nearest neighbour had made a very attractive name board. We had no house numbers out there as we all knew each other in this small expatriate community, but it looked smart stuck in the lawn outside his house. One day it had disappeared, but looking through my binoculars I found it. It was stuck in the ground outside one of the straw huts in the Bakonju village, proudly announcing that Mr and Mrs Paul Jarvis lived there...

As we lived near the Queen Elizabeth Game Park, part of the great Rift Valley, we often went there on Sundays bird and game watching. There were no fences or gates, it was just an area where it was forbidden to shoot animals without a permit. The children loved to go there and it was mandatory to stop at the line painted across the road, indicating the Equator and stand astride it. On the way there we passed two or three notice boards stating "Elephants have right of way," all leaning at an angle for they were the only convenient scratching posts for large and small animals for miles around. Animals roamed around all over the vast plain, herds of antelopes, water buck, hartebeest, Thompson's gazelles leaping through the air, elephants, water buffalo and my favourites - the warthogs.

Some time during the afternoon we would stop before a large pile of elephant droppings. We would get out, leaving the engine running and the doors open, with the children watching out particularly for elephants or lions. These animals could and occasionally would lurk behind a clump of trees and then emerge, making us leap back into the car and drive off down the twisting grassy track at speed. If all were well, I would hold the sack open, turning my head slightly away from the odorous mass on Maurice's spade as he slipped it adroitly inside. I do remember though, one day when we were a bit cross with each other he let some drop over my hands. He did say it was an accident, but I had my doubts.

Why did we do this? Manure for the garden, particularly the roses, which thrived on the mixture. They needed manure badly as they were perpetually in bloom. I once sent a sealed plastic bag of dried elephant manure via my returning schoolboy son to England, where he sent it to my Mother for her window box. She said she had the best hyacinths ever that Spring.

We had to make do with manure from other animals as no horses were allowed in Uganda. The dreaded tsetse fly lived on them, their bite infecting people with Sleeping Sickness, which killed many thousands of the inhabitants until horses were forbidden in the country and Sleeping Sickness almost disappeared. When driving in remote parts we were sometimes stopped by officials who showed us tsetse flies pinned on to a board, asking us if we had seen any like that, so they were rightly checking on this pest. After filling our car with evil smelling du-du killer spray, we were waved on our way.

There was no television there and no telephones apart from a house to house one provided by the Mine. Radio reception was very poor, owing to the mountains, so we just listened to barely heard news headlines every morning and then switched it off. I was surprised how quickly the children and I became adjusted to their loss. The Mine ran a language laboratory where all working expatriates had to learn Swahili - failing to pass the test after three months meant they were not required there any more. I did the course and was able to talk in a very basic way to William, Serapio, Damiano and Virginity, the ayah (not very well named I fear). Swahili was their second choice, each one speaking a separate tribal dialect or language, apart from William who also spoke a little English.

There was a library in the Clubhouse, topped up by the readers' own books from time to time, when they left the country. We also had an Olympic sized swimming pool, tennis courts, badminton courts, a football field and an excellent golf course. This had a siren, which called everyone back to the clubhouse if any wildlife such as lions or water buffalo were seen stalking on the fairway. To me the worst wild life there were the insects, particularly the tiny red ants that gave a very bad sting. The only thing to do when attacked is to strip off completely, and friends beat the wretched things off your clothes and you beat them off your body. Very painful, and I have seen both men and women going through this after inadvertently standing on an ants' nest. The other thing they sounded the siren for was a thunder storm approaching. The lightning was frequent and furious and a great danger, with many Ugandans being killed every year that way.

There was a good clubhouse where we could see a film every Sunday afternoon, moving our chairs around to sit where we fancied and fetching drinks and walking around talking to friends while the reels were being changed. Dances were held there too, the biggest occasion of the year being "The Copper Queen Ball," the winner being selected by a committee chosen by taking names out of a hat. This resulted in a variety of types of beauty queen, black and white, tall and short and fat and thin. We all took it as great fun, cheered the winner and loved the chance to dress up and enjoy ourselves.

Unfortunately, one year the retired and very plump belly dancer wife of our doctor was only given second place, and the infuriated doctor challenged the head of the committee to a duel in the football field. We were all for this, and started to gather there to watch the fun, but the accused man's wife poured a jug of punch over the doctor's head and all was forgiven and forgotten.

I went to see the doctor one day. On entering the surgery I saw him at his desk, head in hands. After quite a long silence I asked him how he was - rather hoping that he had asked me that question.

"Dreadful," he sighed.

"Should I come back tomorrow?"

"No, she?ll be just as difficult then."

This doctor, an Indian, was last seen jumping over a hedge at the back of his garden, being chased by two of Idi Amin's soldiers firing wildly at him and vanishing into the night. I did hear later that he went to a friend's house for the pre-arranged help, managed to get to Kenya and started a new life with a different name and passport in Mombassa.

We had a wonderful life there, though things became difficult when Idi Amin started his reign of terror. He also made himself our Chairman and paid us several visits. But that is another story.

Copyright © 2002 Cecile Hare
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Cecile Hare, the mother of three, has lived in Uganda and Zambia and now makes her home in North Yorkshire, England. She writes poetry as well as prose, and her poetic work was featured in the November, 2001 Kudzu Monthly. Cecile says that her writing is a form of "mental exercise," and we think she's keeping very fit that way.
        Ms. Hare currently has had an article accepted for British Airways's inflight magazine and is contemplating a trip to America this year.
 

Images: All images are property and copyright of Cecile Hare. Used with permission.

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