We made our way to the border town Malaba where we had a few
problems as Javan had forgotten to bring his identity card, but he
talked his way through and we headed into no-man’s land between Kenya
and Uganda. Javan decided that he couldnt go any further without
eating, so we retired to a bar by the Ugandan border post for a
feast.

This was my first encounter with the Ugandan staple dish, the
banana. It is prepared in a special way so as to ensure the worst
possible dining experience. The recipe goes something like this:

• Take a banana that is about a week short of turning into a
  delightfully sweet juicy expression of all that is good about
  the world
• Boil it and its colleagues in its skin for at least an
  hour. Ensure that any possible flavour leaches out into the
  water
• Remove the flesh from the skin and place into a pot with
  some more water. Boil some more in case any flavour remains
• Mash or serve whole as your preference dictates

The end result is something with almost as much flavour as a
boiled potato. Having said all that though, you get used to it and
by the end of the trip I guess I was starting to enjoy it. And the
Waragi and Coke that I was washing it down with certainly enhanced
the flavour.

An aside about Javan. For a teetotaller, he spares no effort to
ensure that I have something alcoholic to drink. I seem to spend a
lot of time with him either deflecting requests or slowly sipping
extremely strong drinks. Uganda was going to be no exception

Most African nations have a ubiquitous spirit which is
available everywhere, sometimes even bottled by the
government. Malawi has Powers No 1, Tanzania has Konyagi and Kenya
has Kenya Cane. Not having been to Uganda before, I didn’t know
the local variety. Before I’d even had my passport stamped, I was
served my first glass of “Uganda Waragi (Extra Quality Gold
Seal)”

I was pleasantly surprised to find that Waragi was almost
identical to Konyagi. The local rumour was that it was made from
bananas (what else), but whatever it was made from, it was
alright. The meal finished, we completed the border formalities
and drove towards Tororo, an imposing volcanic plug we could
already see in the distance.

The town of Tororo lies on the western slope of Tororo,
exploiting the rich volcanic soil of the area to grow tea, coffee,
maize and of course bananas. We drove through town looking for
someone who could show us around. we eventually found Moses who
jumped in the car and directed us through a maze of dirt tracks
until we came across a clearing where we alighted and started
walking up the hill.

We soon came across a cave which had been appropriated by
thousands of bats, and on Sundays the congregation of the local
Pentecostal church. We set on further up the hill. My extreme lack
of fitness and belly full of bananas and Waragi had me calling a
halt about halfway up the hill, where Javan, Esther and I rested
while Cheserem and Moses and my camera proceeded towards the top.

Even from where I was, the view was breathtaking, starting with
the farms below us on the sleep slopes, over the local golf course
and the town, with Mt Elgon (Kenya’s third highest mountain)
providing the backdrop. Once Moses and Cheserem returned, we made
our way down the hill and drove into town to buy the hardy
adventurers a drink.

On the way, we stopped to meet Moses’s wife who greeted us in
the traditional Ugandan way by kneeling on thr ground before each
of us and taking our hand. From there, we made our way to a flash
hotel where we bought sodas and enhanced them from the bottle of
Waragi hidden in Javan’s jacket.

We were all set to head back over the border before it shut at
8pm when Javan decided that I needed to try some local beer. Never
one to shy away from cultural exchanges involving alcohol, I
readily agreed. we drove around like tourists for a while, asking
people for directions to the groups drinking local beer, when we
finally found whjat we were looking for behind a furniture
showroom on the outskirts of town.

A group of people sat around a large plastic tub containing
what looked like a thick porridge. Each held a long narrow bamboo
straw to their lips, imbibing from the bubbling brew, occasionally
pushing their straw gently into the pot to gain better access to
the beer within.

At first they looked at us curiously, but quickly some space
was made and I was given a straw so that I could join them as they
imbibed. The beer tasted like most African home brews, like a
sweet and sour porridge, and the circle were impressed that I was
able to drink it.

This ritualised beer drinking was a typically African affair,
highly social and organised, and while we sat around drinking,
various members of the group stood up and introduced themselves
while welcoming us. There was the chairman, the secretary, the
treasurer (a large woman who looked like she could down the whole
bucket in one go), and so on around the group, each person
describing the important role they had, from sourcing the beer, to
the boy who collected the firewood which warmed the brew.

I never found out exactly, but either thr beer, the ritual or
the group I joined was called chambla. After all the speeches, I
felt I should contribute, so I stood up and introduced myself in
my faltering Kiswahili, said where I was from and thanked them
heartily for allowing me into their circle. Javan was keen to get
moving so we said our goodbyes and returned into town.

Having missed the border closing, we needed to find somewhere
to sleep in Tororo. Thus began about two hours of driving around
town, inspecting rooms and haggling over prices, made more
difficult by a heavy thunderstorm and subsequent
blackout. However, I wasn’t feeling a lot of pain by this point
and was happily led from room to room through the mud while the
more choosy amongst us made their selections. Early in the piece
Cheserem and I had decided to save money and take a twin room at
the New Life Hotel.

Once everybody had settled, we set out to sample the best of
Tororo’s nightlife. George had hooked up with a Kenyan student
studying in Uganda and she took us to a nightclub which had an
impressive array of UV lighting. It was like dancing in a sea of
teeth but my Rarotongan shirt ensured that I stood out amongst the
crowd. that or my outstanding sense of rhythm. I can’t be sure.

As everybody grew tired, we retired to our respective
hotels. The New Life even by African standards was a brothel and
no sooner had we sat down for a nightcap than we were literally
covered in hookers. I even had one on each knee fighting at one
point. Needless to say, that last beer went down fairly quickly
and we headed to bed. The plaintive knocks of the women on the
door was the last i heard before I fell asleep.

And that was my day in Uganda. The following morning after
banana soup with tomatoes and onions, we returned to the border
and on to Bungoma