Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
As the shanties closed in around us, great crowds began to throng the streets. Our arrival
had been heralded by an article in the Ugandan press, written by a photographer and
freelance journalist named Matthias Mugisha. The piece in
New Vision
magazine had an-
nounced to Uganda's literary classes that a white man was daring to walk the length of
the Nile, and crowds of fishermen, drunk from bags of cheap waragi gin, lined the streets
to welcome us. One vociferous rascal even had a microphone and announced our arrival
to the eager mob. Off to the side of the first street, African rap blared out of big black
speakers sitting outside a barber shop where a badly drawn sign advertised a trendy mullet
cut. Half of the population seemed to be wearing red and white Arsenal football shirts, the
other half whatever ill-fitting garments had come over from Europe on the last charity de-
livery.
'But how do they all know?' I asked, as Boston and I were subsumed by the crowd.
Surely these fishermen weren't the types to read Uganda's literary magazines.
'This lot don't read,' Boston confirmed. 'Not unless it's the
Red Pepper
, full of scandal
and what-not. They wouldn't be interested in our trip unless you'd been terrorising young
boys like those corrupt pastors they have here.'
At that moment a man emerged from the crowd, wearing a guilty grin. I could tell in-
stantly that he wasn't one of Kasansero's fishermen.
'How do you enjoy your welcome to Uganda, Mr Tembula?'
'Matthias,' Boston began, 'it's madness!'
I looked sidelong at Boston; despite his protestations, the fact was he seemed to be en-
joying being the hero of the day.
'Tembula' means 'to walk' in the Bugandan language, and that is what Matthias had
called me in his article: the white walker. Now, as we followed him deeper into Kasan-
sero's dense streets, that was what the crowd relentlessly cheered. One of them tried to
force a bag of the cheap gin into my hands, but most were keeping it for themselves. Even
the workers about to depart for their night fishing were still having a few for the road.
Being a Ugandan - and, as a journalist, prone to a bit of playacting - Matthias took my
hand and led me towards the shore of the lake. Dusk was deepening and we would soon
have to find somewhere to stay, but first I wanted to see the shore.
The waters of the lake appeared through the filthy streets like a light at the end of a very
dark tunnel. Beyond the shacks and corrugated tin structures lay the beach, which seemed
completely crammed with boats. Most of them had little coloured flags at the bow, and
others, less quaint, used white plastic bags instead. Many barely looked like they could
float, although they must have done judging by the size of the catches coming in. The air
reeked of fish and you couldn't walk across the sand without stepping in guts or tripping
over discarded bits of netting.
