...one village at a time.

We can change the world...one village at a time
Fish for Life (F4L) is a small charity based in London and working for the benefit of people in Northern Uganda. This region of Uganda has been at the centre of a war, raging over two decades.
Uganda rests next to Sudan in the north, The People’s Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda to the West; whilst Kenya & Tanzania are its East coast siblings.

There’s a lot of speculation about the current state of Africa. We’re all familiar with stories of war torn rural communities and images of children with flies around their mouths, living in abject poverty. But how true are these images..?

...very...

Initial research, carried out independently by F4L, shows that much of the help intended for this region is not reaching the people that need it most.
F4L has its representatives working on ground in Uganda, working with local people to ensure their future long term, economic stability. The ethos of F4L is to empower local people, giving them skills with which to help themselves alleviate symptoms of poverty. I along with Jennifer Ogole am and David Okello are one such representative.

Having never travelled to Africa before, I have had no imaginings of what to expect. However having spent some of my formative years growing up in Jamaica, I’d say that Uganda now, is Jamaica in the 70s...with mobile phones.
I have left a life of relative luxury London, England to experience life as it is here and help people where they need it most; in their economy.

I arrived under the cover of night Sunday 21st September, so had really no idea what the country looked like. After a 7hr flight from Heathrow to Kissumu in Kenya, then an inland flight to Entebbe, Uganda, then a 45min/1hr drive to Kampala. I don’t think I would’ve noticed much had it been in daylight, anyway. [BTW; Kenya Airways comes highly recommended! Never have I had airplane food so good with service to match. And no I am not being endorsed by them.]

We spent a day in Kampala and then left for Lira in the north on Monday. Lira is the nearest township to Loro-Atidi; which means ‘little’ Loro, and is to be our base of operations whenever we’re not in the village homestead.

The 5hr drive to Lira was bliss. Never have I been seated for so long without there being Dolby 7.2 Digital Surround Sound. Alas, this time the moving image was painted on nature’s canvas. There is just so much to see, from the local peoples to, foliage to, baboons swiping bananas from passersby and more sky than you can shake a stick at. On the journey north up to Lira from Kampala, you can lose count of the of the times you’ll see children, who should be in school, walking dangerously close to passing cars on the roadside; virtually oblivious to any danger our speeding 4x4 represents.
Nearing the village, though, you’ll see children showing signs of Kwashiorkor, hair loss and swollen stomachs due to malnutrition. How ironic that a disease that’s symptomatic of a poor diet has a visual symptom of someone who’s overfed. You desperately want to help each and every child you come across, but the need is so great, the doling out of food, just wouldn’t be enough.

The to Lira drive was so long, we more or less pass Loro-Atidi en route as it’s nearer than the town. Had we been in Jamaica, we would have been ½ way to Florida in the time it took. If in London; well on the way to The Lake District. We stopped off by a roadside cafe/hotel ¾ of the way in, somewhere near Karuma falls, where ____ meets the Nile. We had what’s locally called a Rolex; so named because it’s a chapatti rolled with various fillings, from meat to vegetables; we all vied for fried eggs...really, quite nice. (Next minute she’s eating my Rolex..? Wiley should cut a Ugandan version of his club classic.)

We had to venture to Lira, briefly to touch base with a few local people, already relocated from Brita

This is a little late, but relevant nonetheless.
Have the names been changed to protect the innocent...no.
Have the places and dates been changed to shield the public...no
Don’t be frightened by the length of this email. It’s been sitting in front of my laptop and writing which kept me sane, whilst on my international exploits. But moreover the reason it’s so long is cause I didn’t have regular internet access where I was staying. I started a follow up blog, but never got around to completing it. Right now it exists as a post modern Canterbury Tales – unfinished.
...no tales of debauchery... at least none I wish to publish. Just good clean wholesome fun, methinks. The difference between this trip and the last one in April is that I’m not here to experience stuff... but you can’t escape it, its nuts.

The events in this piece take place from 20th June 2008 and thereabouts.

Anyway enough preambles read on, at your leisure and share your thoughts. Just remember, this is written with tongue firmly in cheek, don’t worry if you don’t get the parlance or the pop culture references. The gist is the same in any language. Read on true believers.

Well this trips’ drama started waaaaaaay before I even left the UK. Take reference of this next episode if you plan on leaving England for anything longer than what appears as to be ‘holiday’ time.
So I wave goodbye to my family who’s come all the way to Heathrow to see me off, walk through the passengers’ only gate and begin my zigzags to queue for baggage metal detection. As I’m walking along a tall, white, classically English dude with a thick ‘tash and spectacles (glasses just isn’t English enough) approaches me with a pad and pen. “Hello” he says, “Hi” say I, smiling broadly, immediately getting his measure. “We’re just questioning every 10 passengers flying today”, he continues. I look at him, look at his suit (read: uniform) and back at his pad. KMT; this guy is some kinda immigration goon, trying to find out how terrifying I could potentially be, nah mean?

So the questions:
“How long are you leaving the UK for? Is it more than 90days or less than 90days?” Now I’m thinking WTF is he asking me this for when I’ve just checked in and it’s clear when my return flight is? I smells a rat.
“It could be 90days...or longer, it depends. “ I reply. He looks at his pad, looks at me. “Well is it 90days or longer?”
“I’d say it could be longer than 90days, it depends on the work situation.”
“Oh I see”, says he walking over to the nearest counter and flicking over some additional pages. It seems I’ve qualified for the bonus stage questions; “You’re travelling for work?”
“Yes”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance business consultant. I’m going to Dubai to work for a theatre arts group (ruse), and depending upon their timeline, the work may keep me out there longer...”
...and the questions continue in this vein, with me proffering no further information, to embellish my answers to the questions he asks. He says to me next; “Where are coming you from?” I retort, “London”. He says, “Which part of London”. I look at him and say, “North West London”. He looks over the rim of his spectacles and says, “where in North West London, exactly”. I look at him and say “Brent”... He writes it down. Thanks me and walks off. Now I’m watching this geezer and he couldn’t give a monkey’s about any other passengers, and since the time he’s been grilling me, at least another 15 have walked by. As I eye him, I see him enter a room with one way glass panels.

KMT! Hmph, looks like Dubai aint seeing me for now.

I continue to queue and am using my Jedi skills, gradually increasing my awareness and observing everything/one, ‘cause for all I know, the next thing is, I’m sitting next to Passenger 57.
Well sure enough, this gentleman of Indian descent walks out of t

...read, Black, Lesbian, Jew, Irish and delete as applicable.

I jest, and I don’t jest. I have had an absolutely mesmerising time out here in The United Arab Emirates. I have come out here on business; prospecting if you will and have made, if not lifelong friends; some bloody darn good associates.

This entire place is built off of networking. As I said previously, everyone speaks English. Palestinians speak English. Lebanese speak English. Algerians speak English, Italians speak English. Pakistanis speak English... etc, etc. As a result everyone knows everyone. This place is so that business relationship s are built off of rapport. Gossip versus camaraderie.

People there are so cool that upon the 2nd time meeting a mate of mine, he offered me a drive of his Subaru Impreza STI (Google it you C U next Tuesday). I was like OMFD, you're not serious. I drive stick but never on the right hand side and never in a car that eats Lamborghini’s & Porches like orderves...(sic). I'm driving this car and he's like "c'mon dude, you're not even red lining it.." WOW. But not only that he came up trumps with comp tickets to the Dubai Races where his car was in the starting line-up of enthusiasts lap of honour...OMG too much. The photos say more than I ever could.

So we have a work / life balance equation to work out. The average job is 40hr minimum requirement. And you’re worked hard. Mortgage rates are high, but then I was staying in the Kensington of Dubai. The opportunities for new arrivals such as myself are slim to nonexistent...unless of course I want to work for someone, which I obviously do not, hence I BE.
The biggest sway is of course that The United Arab Emirates is tax free. So what you earn on paper...is what you earn on paper. Oh yeah they’re a lot of hidden pitfalls such as 12months rent upfront on all properties. Or the speeding fines natch. But here’s the scenario; you’ve had a murderous day. Things are being lost in translation. People are not delivering on their promises. You begin to tire of your newfound ‘friends’ who really don’t get you. People, with whom you have nothing in common with at home all of a sudden, have commonalities. Shysters, Doctors, Hustlers, Blaggers and Financial Traders all meet at this new language of dumb-it-down. You tire of tolerating obtuse cultures and foreign values...paranoia creeps, who do you trust? Is that expression regional, or did that bitch just give me a bad look again? Why does my Indian boss always say ‘tell me’, without so much as a howdy-do? You tire of the once PC British, wearing their Mill Wall & West Ham kits amongst their peers.

Waddya do? You don’t go home and obtain some masochistic thrill watching other people’s lives go down the toilet even more than yours is (right now). No. You grab your beach towel , jump in your Cherokee or Hummer H3 or X5 and head down the beach which isn’t some 1hr 45min drive. No. It’s 5mins from your house. You simply drive because they’re no walkways. Do some laps and watch the sun begin to set. Oh and because your day finished at 4pm, you’ve still got time to make that social you had pencilled in your calendar where you’re meeting the Sultan of Sheikh.

So you’ve just had to pay out £7000 in rent, one time, no questions asked. But then you look out of your window to the Marina (nearly finished) below. You sit on your balcony, breath in the sea air and watch the sun set on another beautiful day...again. You’re looking forward to your family visiting and they don’t have to stay in a hotel cause you’ve got a spare, furnished double room with its ensuite washroom.

London’s hurly burley and strive for status quo is replaced by staying power and plastic opulence. It’s no-thing to get a loan and the car / pad of your dreams within a few months work.
...now the funny thing is; as racist as this sounds, virtually every white person I met was a caricature of someone I knew