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My first Christmas in the Ugandan bush was not turning out too well. Could
I be homesick? But my home was here now. I wanted the traditional
festivities - at least, the usual sort for me. Christmas tree, decorations,
carols on the radio, turkey, brussels sprouts, brisk walks in frosty weather
to shake off the effects of overeating, streets with coloured lanterns and
stars, old and favourite films on the TV - and lots more. None of these
were present in Kilembe, and I was not too happy about it. However,
I started being more sensible when I saw how happy Maurice was to be
having a family Christmas with his new wife and children. And the
children were delighted with everything.
Youngest daughter was content provided that Father Christmas knew she was
living there now and that we would have a Christmas Tree. I had a word
with Serapio and William, the gardener and the cook, describing the sort
of tree I would like them to find and dig up (no rules and regulations
about that sort of thing there), and offering a fair reward. The next
day they arrived with big smiles and asked me to look in the porch. Standing
four feet high was a cypress tree, or something like that, covered with
little blue flowers. It must have involved a long walk further up the
mountain to find it as there were none that I knew of growing in our home
area. Maurice wondered if it had come from someone's garden, but both men
said they couldn't remember where they had found it. Anyway, we thought
it was the loveliest Christmas tree we had ever seen and planted it
in a large sawn off chemical container from the mine stores, which
Serapio quickly painted. Daughter spent a happy time making
superfluous tree decorations out of eggshells, crepe paper, painted
bottle tops, and woven elephant grass and hair ribbons. It was
voted a great success.
There were about 150 expatriates there in those days, half of
which went 'Home' for the holiday. A lot of the wives never got
over their homesickness and wanted to return to their village or
town where Mum lived down the road and Grandma lived next door.
Husbands regularly returned without wife and children to work out
their term of contract and then to rejoin their families.
The people who decided to stay and enjoy themselves there formed
a wonderful community - everyone helping out in cases of emergency
and welcoming newcomers with open arms. Apart from the indigenous
workers, we were a mixed bunch - Italian, English, Kenyan, Scottish,
Welsh, Serbs and Croats, Canadians, Indians and South Africans.
In our household all was fine. Sorrel was on holiday from the
mine school, our son arrived from his school in Kenya for the
holidays, and Maurice worked two seven day weeks in a row, so
as to have two extra days off - Christmas and Boxing Day - and
took another 3 days to go with me to the capital city, Kampala,
for shopping.
Christmas Eve came and I was wrapping the last of the presents
when I heard steps approaching the french windows, much murmuring
and clearing of throats and then, suddenly, voices rang out with
'Away in a Manger'. We dashed to the screen and opened it to see
a lot of black shiny smiling faces -the choir from our little
thatched church was there singing their hearts out, conducted
by the Vicar. The singers consisted of the official choir from
the church and assorted girl friends and wives, including three
of the Vicar's, plus children and babies slung across their mothers'
backs in a length of cloth, all bouncing to the music. They finished
off with a great rendering of 'Glad Tidings we Bring' and 'We All
Want Some Figgy Pudding, so Bring it Out Here!'. I thought, as I
handed round the mincepies (yes, they had mincemeat in Kampala),
that it was really setting the scene, and decided to enjoy myself
as much as possible.
If you are wondering about the extra wives of the Vicar's, my
friend who had the voluntary job of handing out free birth control
advice and equipment once offered some to him His reply was, "Oh,
no, my dear. I mustn't spoil God's plans for me - my wives and
children" (at least eleven offspring at the last count) "have
been sent to take care of me in my old age". He was quite popular
so was given two houses next door to each other by the Mine, and
they all lived happily together.
The following Christmas we decided to take local leave and go
to the Karamoja, right up in the north of Uganda, on the borders
of the Sudan and near Ethiopia, in a very remote part but there
was a lodge there where we could stay. Our son decided that he
would like to go to England for his school holidays, catch up
on the music scene and buy clothes so went to stay with his
aunt and uncle.
Maurice had a bachelor friend, Peter, and we asked him to
join us - very important to have two cars and another man in
case of breakdown or problems of any sort. We took a frozen
fillet of beef and some pork chops, packed potatoes and salad
from the garden in our two cold boxes, two jerry cans of water in each car,
plus first aid kit and fly spray. I baked two dozen mincepies and
loaded them, plus a secret: a box of crackers [firecrackers]
that I had bought
on the visit to the capital city and had kept hidden.
Maurice had designed a rather cunning camping barbecue which
could contain various cooking sheets, kebab sticks, pots and
assorted cutlery. This was made for him in the always helpful
mine workshops. Sorrel spent a happy time transferring
carols and suitable songs on to tape and the recorder was packed
along with some Waragi - the local sort of gin. This was made
from bananas and quite acceptable once one realised it was no
good wanting anything superior, and which we drank with my home
made lemonade (lemons from our garden). All that and some books
and a pack of cards, and we were ready - presents could wait
until we came home.
We set off at dawn one morning - 7 o'clock that would be - it
always was within a few minutes as we only lived ten miles from
the Equator. We stopped at the little hotel in Mbarara for the
night, one of the two towns between us and Kampala, three day's
journey in the rainy season. I handed over all our foodstuffs
for them to keep frozen or put in their 'fridge - a common
courtesy in Uganda - and we were off again the next morning heading for
Soroti, staying at their lodge. The road we travelled on was
made of earth, and a fine red dust permeated everything in the car,
inside our clothes, and in our hair, so it was necessary to shower
as soon as we could after arrival.
Having washed away the red rouge-like dust, I now joined Peter
under a thatched umbrella in the hotel garden, ordering a pot of tea.
Peter said he hadn't had his shower yet and wanted one. When I asked
him why the delay he said " it is only 3.30 pm, shower time is 4.30"!
Very much set in his ways, though attractive to most women there, Peter
always had the same tea after his evening shower. Joseph, his cook,
would bring in the tray with a pot of tea and a jug of milk covered
with a cloth to keep the flies out. Alongside that would be what
he had every day - a banana sandwich. Sometimes he would invite us
to tea, which was banana sandwiches all round. He once told me that
a bachelor friend of his used to have baked beans eaten from the
tin, while drinking his first Waragi of the evening - Peter was
anxious not to follow down the same path. When he left Kilembe,
he told us he was going to Mombassa, to live near some 'chums'
of his. Sadly no one ever heard from him again.
We had one other night stop in a small hotel, miles from anywhere, looked
after by the surprised staff who lived in a group of mud walled huts nearby.
We had chicken curry that evening. I know the chicken was fresh as the
cook gave me reassurance by wringing its little thin neck in front of me.
The next morning we drove in a very hot and dry area, with only a few
thorn trees dotted about to give shelter to any person or animal who
wanted some shade. This was Christmas Day, and we hoped to reach the Game
Lodge before dark. It became quite obvious to me why we needed two
cars. There were no houses, or garages, or police stations for the last
130 miles, and it was very hot. A break down could be life endangering,
and at each stop we drank as much boiled water as we could get down
having replenished our jerry cans in each overnight hostel. The road
was just dried and corrugated red earth, and we chose to keep in front
to avoid the clouds of bright red dust that rose up behind our car
and made poor Peter keep about 300 yards behind us, as it all floated
in the still air.
I saw a solitary figure ahead of us, one foot propped up against the side
of the other knee, a traditional stance. He was leaning on a stick beside
the road. As we drew near I couldn't help noticing that something was
hanging down in front of him. I thought it was a sort of large dried
sausage, maybe for sustenance until he got home, wherever that was.
When we reached him and slowed down because of the dust, he gave us a
big smile, which we returned. He was dressed in a short cloak made of
some skin and just reaching to the small of his back, and he had a
little belt of beads. That was all. He didn't have any lunch with him
that I could see. As we drew away, a little voice from the back seat
said "Oh Mummy! Did you see?" I said in as normal and cheerily
accepting type voice as I could manage, "yes dear".
"What was that?" said Maurice, interested to see what she would say.
"Why, Daddy! All his teeth were filed to points!"
He was carrying a little wooden one legged stool with him, a common thing
we learnt later, to sit on and to use as a pillow, protecting his hair
style from harm. The men of his tribe had very extraordinary hair-dos,
covered with red earth and cow dung smoothed and shaped by careful hands.
The hair was trained from childhood into the desired shape, being woven
and matted into a high cone. In some cases wire cones were inserted into
all this, permanently there to hold an extra ornament, an ostrich plume
or an animal horn. Each headdress was different - giving the men a
dramatic and intriguing look when combined with their minimal dress
attire. When a man died it was often the case that his hair was cut off
and parts of the matted age-old mass were divided between his sons,
each one proudly adding that to his own hair.
All the people up there belonged to the Karamajong tribe. They lived in
mud huts inside a circle of thorn bushes, woven together. This wall was
to keep raiders, poachers, and wild animals out, as not only the people
lived inside the barricade but also their cattle, rather thin creatures
with long curving graceful horns. These beasts had leather plugs in their
necks, making it easy to open a vein whenever required to draw off
fresh blood. Mixed with milk, this was the main food for their
owners. Rather cunning really, I thought, to have your food supply
alive and with you wherever you went.
The men were very tall, six foot and more, and slim with finely
chiselled features and straight noses. The women had fine features,
too, and little plaits of hair sticking up all over their heads.
The fashion for them was a tiny apron hanging from a bead belt,
earrings and several bracelets... and that was all. The cook at
the lodge later told us that all the men, when small boys, had
weights attached to parts of them. These were added to as years
went by. Don't know if that is true or not, but if so, it worked.
Lunchtime was to be our Christmas dinner. With not a soul in sight
for miles, we all went to various thorn bushes to relieve ourselves - I
had soon learnt to be very careful when doing this, as those thorns
were needle pointed and to be well avoided - and rinsed our faces
and hands in some precious water. We got out the barbecue set,
put up two large umbrellas, unpacked the food and plates, and
spread rugs on the ground. Peter lit the charcoal and Maurice got
the wine out of the cold box, and, to the music of Sorrel's tapes,
we started to eat our steak and tomatoes. 'Mary's Boy Child' rang
out over the plain, followed by the Choir of King's College Chapel
and 'We Three Kings of Orient Are.'
Just as I opened the box of crackers there was a little cough, and looking
up we saw a few men approaching quietly. "Keep singing and smile!" said
Maurice, waving at them. There were several more (where from? Not a soul in
sight before), and they all sat round us in a circle, some on their little
stools, carefully lifting their penises and putting them over their legs,
to avoid ants, I suppose, and watched with amazement as we pulled our crackers.
Sorrel handed round the cracker remains, which they wanted, and then I
got the tins of mince pies out and we handed them round, too. Was there
ever such a Christmas dinner? We loved it and I think they did too. When we
left, we gave them our paper hats and mottoes, and they stood waving at us,
the lucky ones wearing their hats and finishing off their mince pies before
rejoining their cattle - the most precious things in the world to them, their
pride and joy, and the providers of their regular diet.
We made good time after that, despite the constant rattling of the
car over the corrugations, and arrived early at the Lodge. Just
five thatched huts, but very cool and clean inside with reasonable
beds with mosquito nets and rugs on the bare floor. There was a
separate large kitchen, complete with cookers run on paraffin
and camping gas, with staff to cook for you and to do the washing up - which I took full advantage of. They also washed our clothes and dried and ironed
them beautifully with antiquated irons packed with hot charcoal .
As soon as they saw our dust clouds approaching they lit a fire of
dried twigs under an oil drum of water and on our arrival said our
showers would be ready soon. At the back of each hut was a three-sided
canvas screen with a bucket on a rope with a complex arrangement of
ropes and a metal plate with holes in it. At a shout from me saying I
was ready, an unseen hand pulled the rope and warmish water poured
over me, head and all, which was most welcome, followed by a bucket
of cold water, also very pleasant and refreshing.
What better thing
to do then, while food was being prepared to sit outside the hut,
Waragi in hand, to watch the immense parade of completely indigenous
wild game pass before our eyes - all grazing and wandering on the
age-old trail. Ostriches (we didn't have them in the Queen Elizabeth
Game Park or in Kilembe), deer and antelope of all kinds, zebras,
elephants, hyenas, and warthogs.
As the sun set, we talked for a while bathed in the reflection of
the wonderful red African sky, then went to the 'dining room'.
It was a thatched roof on poles, open sided, over well-trodden
earth with bench seats round one big table, lit by oil lamps,
where we had another Christmas dinner of barbecued hartebeest
and antelope with steamed bananas and beans, followed by bread and
cheese, and tinned peaches. Rounding off the meal we pulled
the rest of the crackers, wearing the hats and laughing inordinately
at the jokes. Well, we did have the wine too, of course.
Well filled and fascinated we listened to travellers' tales
from the other two guests there, Game Rangers, under the bright
light of the moon and millions of stars, and then went to our hut
to read in bed by the oil lamp's light, with the background noises
of mysterious bumps, roars, screeches, and howls. Most were distant, but
some were rather alarmingly near. I was woken up in the night by crashing
and breaking noises, men's voices and shouts. In the morning we found
the shade tree by the end hut and the hut itself had been smashed by
an elephant, but we were told it didn't often happen and not to worry.
The panorama of wild life continued all the time we were in Karamoja.
For thousands of years animals had crossed over the flattish land,
that had a pool to drink from with a stream which would become a
torrent of water during the rainy season. All human beings left
that area then, coming back to repair the lodge and enjoy the
grass and flowers that seem to spring up in a day or two. There were
not as many birds as we had in our verdant valley, but several birds
followed the herds of hartebeast and antelopes. White egrets hitching
a ride on the animal's backs paid for their transport by daintily
eating any tick or du-du they came across. The viewing area was vast. We
could see for about ten miles, we thought, though it was hard to assess.
The air shimmered in the heat so that the further animals seemed to
be walking through rippling water - a mirage shown against distant hills.
The view from side to side was unlimited. Sorrel said to me as we
watched some ostriches running around chasing each other (males or females?
I couldn't tell), "The land and sky are so much bigger in Africa than
they are in London, aren't they?"
The second night we were there Maurice went out and gave the guards
a tip, making sure that they stood outside our hut that night,
and promised more if he went outside during the night and found
them awake. They were well armed, both against wild life and against
Sudanese poachers, who sometimes slipped over the border a few miles
away, killing elephants for their ivory and also killing anyone who
tried to stop them.
The next morning Peter said he was going to have a lie in. We were
very surprised, as he was a creature of habit and always rose at
six o'clock. He eventually told us that he had to go out of his
hut in the night to the little thatched hut built over the long
drop, the local and efficient equivalent of a desirable lavatory.
Emerging with a happy feeling that he was going back to his warm
bed (cool out there in the night), he shone his torch to see his
way and saw reflected in the light two large green eyes glaring
at him. He rapidly returned to the still warm seat and waited
a while. Emerging and carefully shining the torch, the eyes
glared back again. He spent the whole night there until dawn.
I think he was too embarrassed to shout for help, and I thought
he should have shone the light right back as he ran to shelter,
but kept that thought to myself as he was being very stiff
upper lipped and silent about it.
That day we rested again. Maurice hardly ever had time off without
gardening or playing golf, and he was finding it good to do nothing
for a change. Leaving Sorrel to play cards with Peter, I went to see
the Head Cook. He had told me he had some things for sale and produced
the usual tourist items we saw at Entebbe Airport, or in the Information
Centre in Kampala - carvings of animals and elephant hair bracelets.
But on a side table I saw something interesting - one of the hand-carved
one legged stools with a worn leather thong for hanging over the arm. Alongside
it was a little carved snuff bottle and a beautifully woven container about
two inches high. Best of all there was a plaited leather leg bracelet, with
a little bunch of beads and two dik-dik hooves hanging from it and giving
a good rattle when worn on the leg for dancing. All these were from the
Karamajong, and I bought all four, hurrying back to Maurice to show him
my treasures. Today I can see them still, on the shelf in my sitting room,
reminders of that fantastic Christmas holiday, never to be repeated.
Rested and refreshed after a three day stay, we set off at dawn, water
bottles full, tanks full of petrol, and large doorstep sandwiches made by
the camp staff for us, containing some unidentified cold barbecued animal. When
I asked them what it was they just smiled and said "meat!". Sorrel asked me
if I thought they ever cooked dog or cat. "Of course not - there aren't
any here,"I said.
"Well", she replied in a philosophical way, "perhaps they have cooked them all!"
How Africa was changing her...
Peter followed us in his car, as before, and we set off, our compass fixed
to the dashboard, as no road or path maps existed here. Maurice continued
this method, without the compass when we finally returned and lived in England.
If I was driving he would say " turn West when you can. When I remonstrated
with him he pointed out I could tell where west was by looking at the sun - even
on a rainy day he seemed to manage, having the experience of years in the wilds
of India and Africa to help him.
We did go wrong once on our way back home. We saw a low building which we
thought might be a lodge or travellers' resting place. All was very neat and
the earth was well swept. Plenty of men around but no women. We then realised
that we had driven into a prison. There was no need for cells with iron bars
or fences cutting off escape. There was no water for many miles, and no
houses, and no food, unless you had a gun, but plenty of wildlife. Those
prisoners knew when they were well off. They were very interested to
see Sorrel and myself, as were the warders, all crowding round the car
to look in the windows, and Maurice drove out as quickly as he could
politely manage.
On then to three overnight stops at the previously stayed in hotels where everything was spick and span, even though they were miles out in the bush, and then thankfully home again, welcomed by Virginity, the ayah, and William.
Great to have an ice cold drink and a comfortable bed again, and no need to shake the cockroaches out of my clothes before dressing the next day.
And still the pleasure to come of opening our Christmas presents piled up under our beautiful Christmas tree.
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 visiting America as this is posted.
Images: Drawings by Dr. Hugh B. Scott, © 1959 Macmillans UK, Used with permission.
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