It takes close to an hour to negotiate the traffic of downtown Kampala and make it out of the city, but soon the country opens out around us: lush, undulating, endless, with sheets of smoke rising from the burning crops in the distance. It’s a beautiful, bumpy drive. We stop in small towns for passengers to get off: men with battered suitcases, women with burbling, bleary-eyed babies on their backs. Young boys approach the bus waving skewers of goat meat and packets of peanuts; women suggestively wag a few bananas or bunches of small red onions. I grin and wave but [View Full Entry]

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Having put the finishing touches on a few stories and stocked up on supplies, I’m suddenly gripped by a restless urge to get this show on the road. It’s been a long slog through the start of the New Year, with my ankle hobbling me for the first two weeks and a couple of deadlines keeping me busy for the better part of the month. Now I’m hell-bent on getting out of the country before the calendar turns to March. I make plans to head west to Fort Portal, in the foothills of the Rwenzoris, before veering south to see Mai [View Full Entry]

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A few weeks ago, hobbling around Backpackers on my bum ankle, I was approached by the owner, John, and one of his employees. Hasifa has been working at the hostel for almost a year, as part of a work-study program through Makerere University. Now, with graduation just days away, and Hasi completing her degree in Tourism and Business Management, John had penned a vigorous letter recommending her for highest honors. Hasi, blushing and effusive, thanked him for the kind words. But John, pulling me aside, asked if I might do him a favor, using my editorial skills to smooth out the [View Full Entry]

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Having finally made it back to my feet, I’m on the first bus out of Kampala, desperate for a change of pace. Sitting at the “Source of the Nile,” Jinja is a quiet, leafy respite from the capital’s congested mayhem. The center of town is colorful and compact - brightly painted shops, flowery sidewalks, women selling withered produce in the market - and around it dirt roads shoot out toward the dark, still waters of the Nile. It’s friendly and low-key and mercifully flat, and I spend a few days strolling around, down the colonnade of palm trees by the waterfront, [View Full Entry]

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It’s been two weeks since I hobbled into Backpackers in the wee hours of the New Year, and it’s taken two weeks for me to get back on my feet. For most of the past fortnight my ankle was as fat and purple as a ripe eggplant, ensuring that 2008 gets off to the same sorry start as its predecessor. It’s no surprise, given my recent history of disappointing New Year’s celebrations. If nothing else, it’s allowed me to console myself with the fact that, after this, things are only bound to get better. Unfortunately, it’s a rosy prognosis not everyone [View Full Entry]

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It was a year ago that I left Morocco during the frantic build-up to the Eid - one of the most important celebrations on the Muslim calendar - and ferried my way back to Spain. In Malaga I wandered the Christmas markets and pounded the flagstones with restless feet, overcome by a sudden surge of holiday longing. What was I doing so far from home, sulking into the New Year? In Barcelona I was a riot of emotions, lonely and lost and hopelessly in love with that inspired city. The streets festooned with garland and lights; the bars brimming with cheery [View Full Entry]

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It’s late in the day when we get to the Red Chilli Camp at Murchison Falls, our minivan rattling over the gravel in the parking lot while a few warthogs munch industriously on the grass. It was a rough, dusty drive from Masindi - close to two hours for the 80km haul - and it wasn’t until we reached the park’s outskirts, where a cool green canopy spread over the road and the baboons watched us with mute inquisition, that I began to feel that I’d left hot, sun-scorched Gulu far behind. By sunset I’ve worked through two stiff Niles (5.5% [View Full Entry]

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The commotion at the Gulu bus station has already hit full-stride by 8am, when I arrive like a pack mule, weighed down by my bursting bags and set for the bumpy drive to Masindi. Young guys are perched atop the buses and minivans, strapping down bags and baskets and basins, bed frames and seat cushions, boxes straining at the joints, spare tires, colorful plastic chairs. Schoolkids in rumpled uniforms sit in idling buses, their faces pressed to the windows. Guys are circling through the crowd, scribbling on little ticket pads; in fact, so many of them are selling tickets and calling [View Full Entry]

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After a few days of watching Emmy lead his ragged troupe through a series of unruly pops and locks, a real, bonafide breakdancing crew has arrived from Kampala. They roll into the HEALS courtyard one afternoon, a half-dozen b-boys and -girls in bandanas and camouflage shorts and shell-top Adidas, looking like they just stepped off the A train. They scurry around for an hour, stacking speakers and testing mics and running cables across the yard, as if this wasn’t a lazy afternoon in Gulu but Showtime at the Apollo. I suspect it’s just a matter of time before I’m throwin [View Full Entry]

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I’ve come to pass most of my mornings at the Kope Café, a Western-style coffee house run by the family of Jolly from HEALS. With the café’s proceeds going to help local kids through the organization, it’s become a favorite pit-stop for NGO workers looking to indulge their philanthropic impulses over coffees and curries. Partly they come to help a worthy cause; mostly I suspect they - like me - are happy to find a place in Gulu that feels close to home. With colorful murals on the walls and fairy lights twinkling over the couches, it’s just a shade removed [View Full Entry]

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