LittleWarthog

I´m sitting in an internet cafe in Ibiza with little time and lots to report... sun is shining and it´s a balmy 30 degrees outside.  Think I might resort to time-efficient bullet points!

• Our Owino-themed party was a HIT.  Never before have I seen adults play dress-ups with such reckless abandon. There were puffy wedding dresses, ball gowns and something that looked straight out the set of Priscilla Queen of the Desert.  Photos will follow, once I am reunited with my laptop.
• Amsterdam was fab.  We timed our visit with an AC/DC concert and subsequently shared public walkways with metalheads from all over Europe.
• Madrid was hot.  We met up with our fabulous friend Bede who´d unfortunately come down with swine flu-like symptoms.  It was Orgulloso 09 (Pride) which provoked sideways glances towards me as an expectant lesbian.
• Bilbao was gorgeous.  Bede was diagnosed with pneumonia and my Spanish medical vocabulary improved dramatically. Guggenheim building really impressed, but some of the art... not so much.
• Guernika and San Sebastian made for a super day trip.  Turns out that not all Spaniards are beautiful, tanned and toned - pale beach goers also exist!
• Madrid x 2 involved Dave and I being heckled by a drag queen who then proceeded to grope our friend Javier´s private parts on stage.
• Ibiza is beautiful.  I´ve seen my biological father Antonio but no extended family as yet.  Our friends Matt and Neena arrived last night and we´re super excited to be exploring the island with them.  Tomorrow we´re off to Formentera by boat for a sunny, beachy day trip.
• We arrive in Brisbane around 20 June.
• It´s a boy :)

I'm sitting on cushions on the floor of our bare, furniture-less house. The packers came today: after 8 hours of paper wrapping, box folding, sticky-tape-ripping madness, all that remains is a lonely looking indoor plant and a few little piles of rubbish. And me. Dingo was picked up by her new family today, and Dave is attending farewell work drinks.  A solitary moment is just what I need after a pretty hectic few days. Goes without saying that now would be a supremely bad time for a power cut - no candle or battery back up!   

Mazhira's 1 year anniversary was on Wednesday, and despite the flurry of removal preparations, we were able to push everything aside for a day of remembering her.  Family and friends called and sent beautiful emails (*thank you*) which made the day that bit more special. We had a morning tea with a few close friends - coffee, cake and candles hitting the spot.  I guess if Mazhira was alive we'd all be making a big fuss about her first birthday, so it means a lot to know that people remember her despite her absence.  I think one of my lingering fears is that she'll one day be forgotten.

The fact that I'm pregnant on her birthday is actually a wonderful thing. It brings Dave and I a lot of joy to know that, hopefully, we'll be able to move beyond the point of baby-making into the freaky world of parenthood.  Only 3 more months!  The last couple of weeks I've really noticed my trepidation giving way to big doses of excitement and anticipation....  plus, we know the sex :)  Will we reveal?  We haven't had time to decide yet!

Tomorrow we celebrate a friendship-farewell party, and the following day we fly to Spain for 3 weeks. Not sure when or where the time for blogging will crop up - hasta pronto mis amigos x

One of the best things about having family stay, is that they help you see Uganda through fresh eyes again.  Mum's visit has certainly done this for me. 

Highlights of week 1 have been a positive ultrasound scan and day trip to Entebbe to visit the Wildlife Education Centre and eat freshly grilled tilapia overlooking Lake Victoria.  Last night's Ndere Centre cultural dance performance was also pretty good (even if the food was cold).  We also had a day out at Garden City where mum had a 90min massage, followed by us catching a flick at Cineplex ("12 Rounds" - not bad considering the actors were unknown and we had the entire cinema to ourselves!) 

Tomorrow we're off on our 3 day, 2 night Sipi Falls adventure.  In the meantime, some pix of local infrastructure which have pricked mum's interest:

My mum arrived last night for a two week visit - she's sitting in our living room as I quickly bash out this entry.  All luggage in tow and her flight arrived bang on time.  The traffic out and back from Entebbe was also well behaved!  Mum's energy levels are pretty damn good considering it took her about 2 days to get here (via Joburg).

An unforseen African event was bound to happen in the lead up to her stay...  2 days without power (our longest power cut to date) - and this morning the gas cannister pathetically ran out of gas after 8 months of reliable supply.  The last time it ran out coincided exactly with Dave's parent's visit - only then there was no bloody gas to be found in Kampala!  I'm hoping I'll have no problems 'topping up' this morning. 

We've got a range of mum-friendly activities planned, as well as a 2 nighter to Sipi Falls next week.  Later folks x

Turns out there was plenty more happening on Saturday than me hanging out at Kigo.  Saturday evening our very wonderful, very pregnant friend Nora finally went into labour.  At 41 weeks, an induction was looking likely until she rather conveniently picked up a bad case of food poisoning on Friday night.  As happens, the 'both ends' method of natural labour induction kickstarted everything and on Sunday morning, Dave and I woke to the happy news that baby boy Huriya had made it safely into the world. 

In the last couple of months of Nora's pregnancy I had become very excited about her bub's impending arrival. When we arrived at the hospital on Sunday, I was struck by the (rather obvious) realisation that little Huriya was *alive* - nothing morbid, it was simply a little reminder to myself that the odds of having a healthy baby to take home from hospital are really very, very good.

Nora is German and her partner is Ethiopian.  Rather ignorantly I had expected Huriya to be coffee-coloured with a funky newborn afro.  I'd overlooked the fact that even 100% African bubs are born very pale; their skin darkens to its natural colour in the weeks and months after birth.  As for the hair, he's got a headful under the hat!  Here's a picture of the little man - 1 day old :)

Yesterday was my second visit to Kigo Prison, about half way along the road to Entebbe.  I was one of about 10 lawyers and paralegals who helped deliver some basic training on self-representation and detainee's rights at both the men's and women's prison.

The first time I went to Kigo I was pretty impressed: the prison sits on the edge of Lake Victoria and is very open-plan (no high barbed wire gated entrances).  The men's prison is basically a large green space, with cell blocks forming the perimeter boundary.  All around the grassy area are vegetable gardens (grown and maintained by the prisoners).  As well as veggies, there are a few large trees inside that provide decent shade, and together with a permanent lake breeze, birds singing and the sun shining, the whole thing has a bit of a village feel to it.  Not only that, but the prison guards smile and say things like, "Thank you for seeing them!  We are grateful. Please come again!"

That was my initial impression. It would've been different I think if I saw the prison cells.  I'm told each cell is a bare, dark concrete room with tiny barred windows near the roof. Apparently each one fits about 30 men and there is no bedding apart from the odd blanket.  Nor is it uncommon for prisoners to take turns sleeping because there is not enough floor space for everyone to lie down.  At Kigo, the men are served 1 meal a day at 4pm (porridge) and after that they're locked in their cells until the following morning... so about 15 hours a day in cramped, stinking cells.   

Despite our 3 hour delay to get started (prison security checks and general logistical slowness), the training was well received. All of it was in Luganda - we had 3 groups of about 150 participants for each session, with 1 or 2 lawyers per group delivering the content.  My overwhelming contribution was to role play a "witness" and "prosecutor" for our mock English courtroom scene. Oscar-deserving, I tell you.

Maybe it's due to my increasingly compulsive addiction to The Wire, but Kigo Prison yesterday felt quite different.  Actually I think it was being inside for a whole day, seeing a few shady hand-passes and finding out about Kigo's safe house (torture) reputation.  I also heard new stories about guys being on remand for years and years. It's normal in Uganda for prisoners to be on remand (charged but not convicted) for ages before their case ever gets to court.  The two Kigo clients I interviewed on my first visit had each been on remand for 4 years, with no indication of when their matter would make the court list.  (Apparently this isn't bad - one guy had been on remand for 9 years!)  Getting bail is rare: most guys don't have sufficient cash or sureties, and even if they do, a lot of Magistrates flatly refuse bail because of the risk of offenders failing to return to court.  

The system is clogged, corrupt and painfully slow, but at least there are a few pro bono efforts going on. The org I've been volunteering with has a public defence unit that only just scratches the surface, but it does yield results.  And given the absence of State-funded legal aid services, pro bono work is usually the only legal help blokes like those at Kigo can look forward to.

Operation Relocate is in full swing:

Dingo - new owners TICK. Lovely Dutch family with two small girls. Dingo was on her best behaviour for their meet 'n' greet (barely any excitement pees and lots of submissive "tickle my belly and I'll love you forever" moves).

House - new tenants TICK. Lovely Dutch family with one small adopted Ugandan baby.  Yes, it's true: (a) there is a disproportionately large Dutch diaspora in Kampala, and (b) I love Dutch people. 

Dave's bicycle - TICK. Sold to a Ugandan work colleague. 

Car - NO... gotta get onto it.

Shipment - aka the process of getting a relocation company to come to your house, bubble wrap your entire life contents and pack it suitably for shipping back to your Country of Origin.... TICK.  At least, the quotation process has begun.

Job for Dave - TICK, no cross, no TICK, no... half-tick?  Ongoing and a little nerve-wracking, but exciting all the same. 

And I'm breaking the rules here, but Baby  - TICK TICK TICK!  Today was our 20 week scan and bub's scorecard is 100% healthy, active and plum bloody normal.

All in all, we're on track people.

Pretty much every day I drive up and down Kira Road, a major route that feeds northern traffic in and out of Kampala city.  It's a two lane road although it could easily become four: in peak hour traffic it's usually bumper to bumper (a round trip to Dave's office and back home can take up to 1 hour instead of the usual 20 minutes).  Once we join Kira Road it's about a 2km downhill crawl to the bottom roundabout.

Kira Road has no shortages of service stations or supermarkets.  In fact, on our modest 2km slope there is a veritable glut of both... 4 service stations (a Caltex, Shell, Total and Shell) and 6 supermarkets (quality supermarket, safeway supermarket, kenjoy supermarket, allwin supermarket, payless supermarket and, my personal favourite... super supermarket).  There's also 1 hospital, 1 country club, 2 churches and 3 private medical clinics.

So my question is, what is going here?  More importantly, what happened to the people whose homes were demolished?


This cleared piece of land (about the size of a football field) was excavated and levelled about a month ago.  I didn't see anything in the papers or hear anything from friends about why or what for.  The demolition of small houses and shopfronts took place a couple of months beforehand, and after the bulldozers did their job this big vacant block is all that is left.  For now.

So, what do we think - more petrol, anyone?  Some friendly next-door competition for super supermarket?  Maybe I'm just cynical and it'll be medium density affordable housing units.  Perhaps a small school?  Or a green space for public enjoyment?  I think I'll go with petrol....

Kampala City Council is fairly notorious for it's loose urban planning regulations, and the private sector seems to be given free reign to build what it wants, where it wants.  How else could you buy fuel every 500 metres? 

I'm open to suggestions (and desperate to be proven wrong).

Lately I've been feeling as though I'm running out of things to write about.  There are lots of Uganda observations I could be making... I could post about our weekend trip to Nairobi for instance... but somehow it all seems a little blah.  I think it might have something to do with the fact that we're leaving, and there's a part of my brain that doesn't want to make new friends or have any explosive new experiences - I've gone into 'containment mode' which feels a bit like wanting everything to finish smoothly: no more Africa excitement that could possibly lead to harm or raised blood pressure.  Of course, this could also be because I'm Pg but I'm not mentioning that, remember? We're supposed to be pretending it's not happening.*

Despite my poker-faced exterior, there are a couple of exciting moments tucked up the proverbial sleeve which I'm looking forward to. My mum is planning a visit in early June, and in late June/early July Dave and I are heading to Spain for a Final Hurrah before returning to the southern hemisphere for a probable long time. Spain in summer is something I've never experienced in my adult life (all nude Ibiza beach activity took place before the age of 3) - so I'm keen to see what all the hype is about. 

Apart from that, I'm starting to get a little preoccupied about leaving well.  Finding a new home for Dingo and new jobs for our two wonderful staff Florence and Paul are at the top of my Leaving Well List.  Further down the list is all the ordinary stuff: selling the car, white goods, shipping our stuff so that it hopefully arrives in Brisbane before baby does.  Seasoned expats used to relocating keep telling me not to underestimate the amount of work involved.  I can't say this fills me with organisational fervour. More like, urgh.

*4 months and going well. Not much weight gain yet but a definite baby bump... this time swaddled in a lovely layer of baby belly fat, courtesy of Mazhira.

The LGBTI community in Uganda is having a rough time of things at the moment.   A former gay campaigner has turned sides and aligned himself with the religious right, claiming that he used to 'recruit' school age children into homosexuality.  He also claims that he is now 'saved'.  This is an irresistable, delicious news story for the New Vision (Uganda's national broadsheet), which for the past week has been perjoratively splashing the word HOMOSEXUAL on its front page like some sort of new strain of the Ebola virus. 

All this is predictable behaviour from both a hurting individual and a trashy tabloid: it is not what is making my blood boil.  What IS, is the fact that our saved friend is publicly naming people who he says is gay, on Ugandan Christian radio and in the newspaper.  People are having their private lives turfed out and dissected by an ignorant, hateful public who believe that being gay is akin to having the devil in you.

There is talk of regulating gay campaigners' activities and launching a war against homosexuality.  MPs are being lobbied to widen the law criminalising homosexual 'acts' ie. sodomy, to homosexual 'behaviour'.  From a purely political viewpoint, you'd have to have rocks in your head to approve of a law that could potentially be levelled against anyone! 

Why can't people accept difference in this country?  Why demonise diversity?  How can you think that by publicly outing your former community, you have something (other than money) to gain? 

Gay Uganda is following this story - follow the link if you're keen to read more.

Time for a bit of gratuitous garden gloating, me thinks.

Anyone for paw paws?  Last count, 47, although they keep multiplying!


Sweet bananas?

Cucumbers -  our gardener Paul designed the nifty "ladders" to keep the vines off the ground so they don't rot:


We also have lettuce, carrots, pumpkin, zucchini, onions, ground nuts (Ugandan peanuts), parsley, basil, coriander, a fledgling passionfruit vine and some baby tomatoes.  Not bad eh. All credit to our wonderful gardener, Paul:


Until Sunday we also had our faithful layers, Bellatrix and Nugget, who were reliably producing 2 eggs a day.  That was until Dingo the Destroyer (aka murderer) finally acted on her hunting instincts and killed them while I was out. As Dave said, it's hard to teach a dog morality.  I was very upset and pissed off - but seem to have bounced back alright.  I just don't want to be reminded of death, thank you very much.

A while back, me and the PAG* settled into an uneasy harmony of sorts -  it toned down its bleating tunes of worship, and I magnanimously put up with its presence in my neigbourhood, usually on a Sunday morning when I would inevitably be woken up by their religious refrains.

No more, people.  Friday night I went to bed around 11pm.  Two hours later I was roused from my slumber by an angry preacher whipping his congregation into a religious fervour at 1am in the morning.  My ear plugs couldn't block out the sound and I lay there in a state of homicidal rage for about 1 hour before drifting off to sleep.  Dave missed the whole thing (he's in Dadaab on another 3 week scoping mission).

Then, today being Sunday, the whole thing started again. Around 8am the PAG gently eases into worship with a few songs sans microphone, drumkit and boom boxes. I'd actually quite enjoy this if I didn't know what follows - in went the ear plugs at 8.30am as they turned the sound up and got cranking.

It's now 12.30pm and they have progressed to the "shout like maniacs at your congregation" phase.  How do people sit there and take it?  They make God sound like some sort of multi-headed monster with tentacles and smoke coming out of His nose.  Being in Luganda I don't understand a word, but it doesn't take much to realise that the sermon is light on theology and heavy on, well, verbal abuse. It's really aggressive.  

Oh how I'll miss the PAG once we're back in Brisbane!  

*Pentecostal Assemblies of God Church

I've gone quiet.

I'm 12 weeks pregnant.

There, I said it.  My rather large secret is out.   Spilling the beans second time 'round is not nearly as fun as the first time.  Dave and I are very excited but also nervous (me especially) about this baby bean journey.

Our bubba is due 2 October and this time we'll be birthing in Brissie, close to family and friends.  This means leaving Uganda in August, probably for good.

Littlewarthog won't become a chronicle of pregnancy like last time.  I'd rather like to forget the whole thing until our little bean arrives safely.  Why is there no pregnancy fast forward button?!

I'm off to South Africa!  Flight leaves 7.15am tomorrow from Entebbe, which means I need to be at the airport at about 5.30am, which means leaving Kampala at 4.30am and getting up at oh, 4am....

No thank you.  Seeing as Dave arrives tonight from his three week mission in Nairobi, we've hatched a plan to stay in a hotel in Entebbe rather than Kampala.  That will at least give us a few hours extra of waking time together, and I can pick him up - rather than him slogging through 2 hours of Kampala peak traffic to reach home at 9pm, only to go to bed and get rudely awoken by my 4am departure. 

I've been invited to attend the 2009 International Stillbirth Alliance conference.  It's a good thing.  Ties in with our ideas for a grief and loss project that we're trying to get going as a result of our fundraising efforts last year.  

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed right now - not because of the conference, but just how much I've got to do before I get on the plane.  Had best go pack my toothbrush.  'Til next week xx

I woke up this morning and this is what I found: 



Dingo has been steadily destroying her bed.  It's a hand-made cane dog basket from Ggaba Road.  She's ripped out the stuffing of the pillow and chewed off one side of the binding, and is now making serious inroads into the other side.

To all dog owners out there: when does the destruction stop?

I'm not sure if it's a Dingo-thing, or just a dog-thing.  I don't mind the bed so much, but it's hard to laugh at some of the stuff she's destroyed - Dave's mobile phone, the guard's mobile phone, a friend's children's book with lots of sentimental value... you really can't leave anything within reach of her.

Still. Despite the ripping and chewing and mauling, I do love having a pet that weeps with excitement for me every morning. Weeps!  And wets herself!  Unconditional canine love really is quite scrummy.

One day, when I'm rich, speak French and have plenty of time on my hands, I'd really like to go to FESPACO.   How cool is this film festival?

FESPACO is the Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso.  It's been going for years and years (2009 is the 40th anniversary) and it showcases films from all over the African continent.  I've been listening to the BBC World's special FESPACO broadcast and getting all excited... and a little restless over my current lack of cinematic exposure.  We watch a lot of DVDs here.  Not having TV, it's a good way to spend an evening.  We have a modest mountain of pirated flicks, courtesy of a few, faraway friends who shall remain nameless.  Even so, there's nothing quite like a Film Festival to tap into the buzz and love of film - and the FESPACO vibe sounds oh so lovely.

Guess I'll just have to be content with the BBC to feed me tantalising morsels of FESPACO happenings.  Or, in an attempt to sate my desire for a good arty flick, I could treat myself to a Cineplex Garden City outing and watch one of their current screenings - wait for it.... Pink Panther, Seven Pounds or Bedtime Stories.  aaarrgh!!!

Poor Kampala is in a bad way at the moment.  On Wednesday morning a big fire destroyed much of Owino Market - it was lucky that it happened at night, not during the day when there are literally thousands of people crammed into tiny alleyways and stalls, mostly made of wood. 

Owino is the largest open air market in East Africa.  It has some crazy statistics, like 20,000 traders and about 400,000 customers passing through every week.  Goes without saying that none of the traders who eek out an existence by selling their wares have insurance.  I've been stuck in Owino before, when a truck dropping off goods broke down across an exit point preventing me, my mate Kirsten and about 300 others from going anywhere.  We were in a rickety, bunker-like alley in the 'cooking herbs' section, and were surrounded by stallholders and their burning charcoal stoves.  My thoughts went something along the lines of charcoal, wood, barred exit... death trap. Please people, fix the f*cking truck!   It is nothing short of a miracle that no-one died in the Owino fire, especially given that it has no fire assembly points, no fire fighting equipment, no sand buckets or water points (according to this New Vision editorial).

Apparently it took the police fire brigade over an hour to arrive, despite being just 300m away from the market.  Furious traders started mobbing and looters took advantage of whatever was left in the rubble - iron sheets, aluminium pots etc.  It got ugly when the police started using tear gas on rioting traders, and then the special anti-terrorism unit and anti-riot police joined in the fun.

So that was Wednesday.  Yesterday, a construction site collapsed in town, trapping about 20 people and killing one guy who worked on the site. Casual labourers are typically paid about 5,000 shillings a day (about $2USD) to work on construction projects.  My friend Richard who is currently unemployed, has been doing this sort of work in another part of town.  Young men desperate for some money turn up early and get selected for a day's work - no safety equipment, no protocols, no paperwork.  My bet is that no-one will be prosecuted and Kampala will soon forget about the guy who died yesterday.

I'm back from a weekend away with Dave in Fort Portal.  We decided to get out of Kampala for the weekend because, (a) Dave flies to Nairobi for 3 weeks tonight; and (b) he actually had some work to do in Fort Portal, and I was happy to tag along in the guise of a gainfully employed human rights worker. Still not much luck on the job front.

We stayed at a friend's B&B and had an enjoyable time, although I did get a little peeved on the way home.  I need to monitor my Africa Frustration Levels - they seem to be at a record high at the moment.  Humour down, frustration up: not a good sign.

About halfway through our five hour drive back to Kampala, we decided to stop for lunch in Mubende.  We had two choices: 1. a cheap, local meal on the main drag, or 2. a cheap, local meal at the "Town View Hotel" - a hotel restaurant situated at the top of Mubende hill.  Not really a tough decision (view of town v. watching trucks roll past). 

Up we drove, watching the view of Mubende and surrounds open out as we climbed the dirt road and entered the Town View Hotel's main gate.  

Now, I don't want to be unfair, but when I climb a hill to eat lunch at a restaurant called Town View... a town view is what I expect.  There weren't even town glimpses - the only view (and a rather nice breeze) was through the bricks in the bloody toilet!   There was a pokey little uncovered verandah with loose shale stones and a couple of bar stools overlooking the town - that was good - but in the hot, midday sun we couldn't comfortably sit there.  So instead we sat in the main dining area under a tin roof, our backs to the concrete wall that completely hid the town from view.  It was suffocatingly hot and entirely breeze-less (unless someone went to the toilet, in which case we received a windy reprieve when they opened and shut the door). 

So that got me started.  Then the waitress came for our drinks order.  Every time we asked for something she had to go and see if it was available.  No juice.  No Mountain Dew.  Only one Stoney (ginger beer).  Yes, they had Coke.

Then we asked what was ready.  Rice, chapati, cassava, g-nut sauce.  No beans, no peas, no greens, no Irish (potato).  Some fried chips (after double-checking). 

I know that when Ugandans dine out, they like to eat meat.  But in a country that is so wonderfully fertile and great for growing vegetables, why is it so incredibly difficult to find even a hint of vegetable matter at lunch time.  Yet another carb plate of rice, cassava and g-nut sauce, washed down with sugary soda.  Ugandan cuisine: hitting the gastronomical high note, oh yeah!

It's cool. I'm back in Kampala now where I cook and eat pretty much what I do in Australia (minus tofu and a few other staples), and where we have home-grown broccoli and a daily supply of eggs from our hens.  And, because Dave and Michael our housemate are both leaving tonight,  I went out this morning and bought some foodie treats to keep me happy - green apples, snow peas and fetta cheese.  Rocking out, I tell you.

Warning: long, grisly post.

I've been researching the death penalty for one of the community legal orgs that I volunteer with, and recently read the Supreme Court's decision.  On the question of whether hanging as a method of execution is cruel, inhuman or degrading, the dissenting judge quoted some very powerful affidavit evidence.  Not what you'd call a light read... but I felt compelled to post.  I've modified a bit to make it shorter.

For those readers who are curious about what happens at Luzira when someone is about to be executed, read on.   

• When the President of the Republic signs the death warrants, the executions are supposed to be carried out within 1 week.
• The warrants are then handed over to the Commissioner of Prisons who hands them over to the Officer in Charge, Luzira Upper Prison, who then liaises with the Officer in Charge, Condemned Section.
• No notice is given to the Prisoners as to whether there was going to be an execution.
• The officer in charge then starts the repair of the execution machine, the cleaning of the gallows, the restriction of the prisoners’ movements, the making of coffins in the prison carpentry workshop and the making of lists of which particular cells the prisoners are resident. 
• The warders selected to take part in the execution as well as the Executioner are normally brought from outside the condemned section of Luzira. This is because the prison warders who are stationed in the condemned section are normally close to the inmates and would not feel comfortable helping in the execution of the prisoners. These different prison warders are paid a special allowance to participate in the executions.
• When the initial preparations are complete, the condemned prisoners selected to be executed are taken from their cells. This is usually done very early in the morning. The prison warders go from cell to cell, calling out names of prisoners and forcefully ordering them out of the cells. All the prisoners are terrified, as they suspect that this removal from their cells is about execution but do not know for sure.
• The selected prisoners are handcuffed and leg-irons are put on their legs. They say their last goodbyes to their fellow condemned prisoners. Some prisoners are taken kicking and screaming. Many of them soil themselves in the process.
• The prisoners are taken to the Officer in Charge’s office. The Prisoners are then arrested before execution. The Officer in Charge announces to the each individual prisoner the crime he was convicted of, as well as the date and time of his execution, which is normally 3 days thereafter. At that stage, most of the prisoners collapse, soil themselves, cry and wail and start praying to the Lord.
• The prisoners are then taken to the death chamber/gallows in Section E of the prison and locked up in individual cells.
• The prisoners' heights and weights are recorded. The recording of the heights and weights is part of a formula to measure how far the prisoners would drop when the lever of the execution table is released. The formula is supposed to help the condemned prisoners to drop without their heads being plucked off. It also helps in measuring coffins.
• After recording the weights and heights, the prisoners are then given 3 days before their executions. This 3 day period is to enable the prison authorities to get in touch with the prisoners relatives and for the prisoners to make their wills and make peace with God.
• In the meantime, preparations for the execution continue. Coffins are made in the courtyard of the upper prison directly next to Section A of the condemned section. The prisoners in Section A can hear the sounds of the coffins being made, and this puts them on notice that an execution is imminent. This increases the terror, horror, and apprehension of the rest of the prisoners in the condemned section.
• Prisoners in Luzira Prison who are not in the condemned section are deployed to make the hoods and clothing that the soon-to-be-executed prisoners are to wear. This is done in the tailoring section of the prison, and this process ensures that all the inmates of Luzira prison know that an execution is imminent. The number of hoods and clothes made also informs the other prisoners of the number of prisoners due to be executed. This adds to the general unease, fear, alarm and dread in the prison.
• For the 3 days, while the prisoners await their respective executions a dark cloud of death descends upon and engulfs the whole prison. Everyone is tense especially the prisoners slated to be executed, the warders and everyone connected to Luzira prison.
• During the 3 day wait:
  
  • Some of the prisoners confess that they are guilty but that they are now ready to meet their Maker as they had become born again. Others insist that they are innocent but that they had found peace in God and forgiveness for the people that had falsely or maliciously caused all this misery upon their lives. At this time, the priests and imams are present, giving the prisoners solace and comfort in this most trying of times.
  • The lights in the cells are left on all day and night and the prisoners are under 24 hour surveillance. The prison warders ensure that there are no instruments that can assist such prisoners to commit suicide during those 3 days.
  • A prison warder reminds each prisoner hour after hour of the crime he was convicted of, the sentence imposed upon him and the number of hours remaining to the carrying out of the death sentence by hanging.
  • The prisoners normally write notes/chits/letters to their fellow condemned prisoners who are not scheduled to be executed that day. These notes/chits/letters normally serve as their last Wills and Testaments. The prisoners are normally pitifully poor and all they have to will are items like flasks, bedroom slippers, soap and their threadbare clothes. These are usually willed to their death row colleagues. These notes/chits/letters are given to the prison warders who pass them on to the intended recipients.
  • The prisoners are also given a last chance to be visited by their friends and relatives, but hardly any prisoners receive family visits. This is because many prisoners are poor peasants whose families cannot afford the fare to Kampala, or the prisoners have spent such long periods in prison that their families have forgotten or abandoned them.
  • The prisoner’s skins normally appear faded, wan and washed-out. Their faces appear ashy, pale and white.
• On the day of execution, in the middle of the night the prisoners are herded to the Pinion room and the Officer-In-Charge reads the execution order for their respective executions. The shaken prisoners at this time usually turn whitish with popped out eyes. Some start wailing afresh while others sing hymns and accept Jesus Christ as their personal Saviour.
• The prisoners to be executed are taken to the dressing room and dressed in an unusual overall-like outfit and are covered from head to toe without any openings for the hand or feet. They are also hand and leg cuffed to avoid incidences of violence. Black hoods are passed over the prisoner’s heads. Weights are placed in the overalls of the smaller and lighter prisoners to make them heavier.
• With black hoods over their heads, the prisoners cannot see or tell how they are going to be executed, or who is present to witness their executions.
• At that time, the priests and imams normally read to the prisoners their last rites, and bless them. Most of the prisoners are usually still wailing, bawling and lamenting. Some of them admit their guilt and ask for forgiveness, but many others maintain that they are innocent until the very end.
• From the time the prisoners are led to the dressing room and hence to the gallows themselves, their colleagues in the death chamber are, through hymns, recounting the proceedings to the rest of the prisoners in the condemned section below. Graphic details are given out through these songs, telling the other condemned prisoners of who is being taken for dressing, or for execution and what is being done to him at every moment.
• At the execution chambers, the prisoners’ legs are tied up and the noose pushed over their heads to their necks. At the back of the prisoners’ heads the noose is tightened, cutting off their breathing.
• The prisoners are then put atop a table, 3 at a time. The table is one that opens at the bottom when a certain gear-like lever is pressed. The aim is to place the noose around the prisoner’s head, press the lever so that the table opens and let the prisoner hang from the neck until he is dead.
• When all is set, the executioner releases a gear-like lever and the table opens into two, each side gets stuck against the rubber under the table leaving the space of the two joined tables open and the 3 prisoners drop down.
• There is an extremely loud thud when the two sides of the table get stuck against the rubber, and an even bigger one when the prisoners hit a table in the basement room directly below the gallows.
• After the bodies drop, the Officer- In- Charge, and the priest go down to the ground and enter the basement where the bodies are hanging to ensure that the prisoners have been executed. The prison doctor is normally already in the basement.
• The Doctor examines the corpses to confirm that the prisoners are dead before the corpses are placed in poorly made ceiling board coffins ready for burial in shallow unmarked mass graves. 
• In case the prisoners are not certifiably dead, they are then killed by hitting them at the back of the head with a hammer or a crow-bar. 
• This process is repeated until all the prisoners due to be executed that day are executed. 
• The shallow mass grave is situated next to the Women’s prison, Luzira and the prisoners’ families have no access to the corpse. They are not even told where the grave is situated. 
• The corpses are deposited into the mass graves and sprayed with acid to help them decompose faster. Subsequently, cabbages and other vegetables are grown over the mass graves to feed the remaining prisoners.

According to the dissenting judge, this evidence was not challenged or contradicted by the Ugandan Attorney-General. And yet, he was the only judge who found hanging amounted to cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment.   Dissenting judges really are worth their weight in gold.  Brings to mind Australia's beloved Kirby J (how he'll be missed!)  Still, in the end, one dissenting voice didn't prevent a finding that Uganda's death penalty is constitutional and that hanging is a perfectly acceptable method of execution. 

Sorry for the negative (and long) post.  I just thought it was worth sharing.  This is the type of information that should be aired if Uganda is going to properly and honestly debate the merits of the death penalty.

Friday is my 'rush around Kampala doing errands' day. If you've ever received mail from me, odds are I posted it on a Friday.  First up on today’s rather long list* was getting fuel.  I went to Engen Petrol Station at Lugogo Mall. 

Petrol stations in Uganda are the ultimate in lazy consumerism; everything is done for you.  So, after programming the petrol bowser to put 60,000 Shillings into my fuel tank, David, my polite service station attendant, kindly offered to check my oil and water levels.  Sure, I said, and popped the bonnet.

From our car’s driver seat you can see what a person is doing under the bonnet. I watched David diligently checking the oil dip stick and water levels.  He came over to my window, dip stick in hand.  

“Madam, you see?  Oil is low.”

 “Oh really? That’s ok, just leave it and I’ll tell my mechanic.”

 “Aaa ah madam, it is very bad.  Let me put oil for you.”

 “No thank you.”

 “But madam, it is very bad.  Let me put for you.”

 “How much?”

 “30,000. But I know You People [meaning white people].  If it is too much, you bring for me later [meaning, you’re stupid and will fall for my scam…]”

At this stage, I believe David more than I don’t.  More to the point: I want to believe.  Inside I was thinking, some hard-to-find customer service… a good worker, proud of his job... maybe the oil does need filling.  Call me a protestant work ethic driven nutter, but these little daily interactions mean a lot to me.  They communicate a feeling of cross-cultural well-being.  They say, the system is working, Uganda is pleasant and friendly and worth hanging around for.     

David proceeded to fill my oil.

As I watched him through the car window, I realised something wasn’t quite right – David’s hands were blocking the oil flow from my view and he was very deftly throwing the bottles into the bin next to the car.  A little suspicious, I got out of my driver seat and stood by him to watch.

The particular bottle of oil he was holding (each one 500ml white plastic) seemed to take a long time to fill.  We stood together in silence, both our eyes on the bottle.  Then with quick draw speed, David removed and threw it into the bin so I didn’t see the open nozzle.  I quickly went over to the bin to pick the bottle. David tried to stop me, and we had a very awkward physical tussle – me trying to pick out the oil bottle he’d just thrown, him trying to stop me.

I grabbed it.  It was full.  I morphed into Angry White Woman on a Rampage.

“What is this! You are cheating me!  This bottle is full!  You’re pretending to fill oil but you’re not.  This is theft, sebo.  I am not paying you anything.  Where is your supervisor?”

David gestured to another Engen work colleague who also looked suspiciously complicit.

“He is not your supervisor. Where is the Manager?”

“Ah madam, he is not here.”

“Well I am going to come back and make a complaint.”

Angry Littlewarthog was trying to make Thief David feel sprung, humiliated and embarrassed.  A little audience of adjacent fuel bowser customers was watching my little outburst, no doubt with some level of amusement.  

I huffed my way back into the car, slammed the door, paid for the fuel and drove off.

The incident really shat me.  I’m ordinarily quite conscious of how I interact with people and try not to make a scene – primarily because, being a Whitey, you’re always being watched.  I therefore have this chip on my shoulder about being a ‘good muzungu’: try to tread carefully, treat people well, don’t go where it’s not your business to go etc.  Sometimes though, on the rare occasion, the veil lifts and a simple, opportunistic scam attempt like this one really pisses me off.

Yes, David is scratching a living.  Yes, I’m a relatively rich white person.  Yes, incidents like these are borne out of poverty.  I get it.  But man, sometimes not having to second-guess politeness is really, really nice.  

Whinge complete. I now feel a whole lot better!  And I managed to get all errands finished. Take that, David.


* buy internet airtime, go to post office, go to bank, buy car tyres, update blog (assuming there is power).