Travel Features

Coming face to face with a teenage boy brandishing a high-powered rifle was not something I had pictured happening during my first visit to Uganda. Especially as the incident took place in the middle of a golf course.

I was visiting the capital city, Kampala, as part of my job as a humanitarian worker and was returning to my apartment after a day spent visiting slums around the city. The apartment complex was situated in the middle of Kampala’s most exclusive golf course. Swaying palm trees surrounded the grounds and armed guards wearing black berets patrolled the area. Although I was uncomfortable with the idea of local charity money being used to house me in such plush surroundings, the guilt was suddenly replaced by fear when my translator and I pulled up to the front gate in our utility vehicle. The young Dirty Harry wannabe on guard took one look at me and put his finger on the trigger.

He wanted to know all about me and exactly which apartment I was staying in. Every other guard I had dealt with over the past week had just smiled sleepily and waved me through.

“I’m not telling you,” I started to blurt out, trying to protect my privacy. But I stopped short when I took another look at the weapon he was holding, its metal glinting in the sun. When there is a gun between you and another person, you tend to be a little more cooperative. However, with a sudden burst of confidence, I decided to lie and told him I was in Room 413, just to make sure I didn’t get a visit from him later.

The young man cocked his head to the side and squinted at me. My bravado receded, and I could feel the back of my neck getting hot. After a few moments, he let out a slow, steady breath and swung open the gate for us to drive through.

I visited two charities specializing in social work while I was in Kampala and checked up on the projects my agency had funded in different neighbourhoods. At one charity, a surprisingly young social worker named Juliet greeted me. She worked in a dusty place that hadn’t had electricity for a month. Her computer sat unused while a stack of spiral-bound notebooks contained her notes.

The two of us drove to a small neighbourhood on the edge of the city, where Juliet checked up on a teenage boy named Eric. His father had just died and Eric was on his own. His eyes showed he hadn’t slept well in days. He welcomed us into his home, and once inside asked if I would like to see his bedroom.

I didn’t know what to say, as we had only just met. Sensing I was confused he opened the bedroom door, and inside there were hundreds of chickens, clucking up a storm with feathers flying everywhere. If there had been a chicken swinging from a chandelier, it would have looked like a scene straight out of The Muppet Show. Some chickens had made themselves comfortable on the bed, while others were up on the bookshelves. He had simply wanted to show me his prized possessions, which he kept so he could sell their eggs. After a few minutes, I went outside so I could meet other people in the neighbourhood. Eric came out and asked me to write to him when I got home and gave me his address. I could tell he was lonely without his father.

Next door to Eric, a man with a faded leather jacket and a big white-toothed smile was charging people to watch Manchester United soccer games, which he received through his satellite dish. When he saw me, he took me by the arm and showed me his pet pig, who was eating corn in a pen behind his shack of a house. The neighbourhood seemed very proud of its animals.

The following day, I ventured out on my own and visited an orphanage my agency funded, where I met a young woman named Nicole. She had been there since she was a girl. Friendly and soft-spoken, she was excited to tell me about her new job working at a bank and her upcoming wedding. Both meant she would soon be leaving the orphanage. One of the directors came in after her and told me the orphanage was like one in London compared with others in the country. This I could see, as Nicole had her own stereo, television, and closet full of stylish clothes. At one point during our conversation, a little girl named Maria ran in, grabbed my finger, and squeezed it hard as she gave me a big smile. It was heartwarming to see a young girl thriving and so happy despite not having a family of her own.

One of Uganda’s biggest tourist draws is the Nile. The orphanage director suggested I visit Bujagali Falls, a two-hour drive from Kampala, where the water moves so quickly that expert kayakers make it a destination. I drove to the falls with a group of social workers. By the time we arrived, my throat was sore from inhaling diesel fumes for several hours and my face was brown with dirt. An Australian TV crew was filming kayakers making their way through the rushing water as locals danced and drummed for tourists by the water’s edge. For the first time since my arrival in Uganda, I felt relaxed. No guns here, just nature and people enjoying it.

Throughout my stay, I was struck by how far removed I seemed to be from witnessing real hardship. It was as though the charities had given me the glossy version of the country. I felt like I was missing something.

Then one day, while Juliet and I were out on a field trip, she confided in me that she was the child of a polygamist father. She used the word product to describe herself. I could see the hurt in her eyes. It slowly dawned on me that the people I had met had been putting on a brave face. Everyone had their struggles—I just hadn’t looked closely enough.

Access: For information on visiting Uganda, see www.visituganda.com/. For information on safety issues, see Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada’s site at www.voyage.gc.ca/.