M’Bale and the Great Journey

M’bale is about 60 kilometers (you see what I did there?) south of Namalu. M’bale is the second largest city in Uganda by population, but it looks nothing like the developed areas of Kampala – it is essentially one big town. Edmund (our Controller) drove me up there, and we met up with George, who is our head of operations and whose father is the primary reason we have access to this land.

The market was filled with people buying and selling all kinds of food, mostly homegrown. Young boys would stand with identical bags of potatoes for sale and then argue with customers over whose were better. From our standpoint (feeding workers), the food can get expensive, but it is otherwise very cheap – a 100kg bag of rice that was up to my chest was $70-$80. Edmund told me that Uganda actually has a decent sized Indian population, and many of them sell at the M’bale market.

We drove all over town buying food, fuel and some supplies. Most merchants don’t want to provide receipts, primarily because then they have evidence of a sale that they would likely have to pay taxes on. To solve this, our accounting team has had to create their own receipt book that they bring everywhere, and then chase shop owners all over the place to sign.

The town sits at the base of Wanale Hill (a mountain), and feels like a cross between Denver, the old west, and Manhattan circa Gangs of New York. After spending 3 hours getting to M’bale, and another 3 making purchases, we grabbed lunch at a casual restaurant. I asked to wash my hands, and was directed to a sink in a back alley with a communal bar of soap. I declined, thinking that would almost certainly make my hands dirtier. George was fasting for Ramadan, but Edmund was there, and kept asking me if I wanted to try his Irish. While I thought this was either an extremely uncomfortable request or that he knew Matt Kurz, it turns out that’s what they call their potatoes, which I find hilarious.

Edmund then left, and I was now in George’s hands for the first time as we headed to Namalu. It was 3:45 PM. Namalu is 60 km away. This will be important shortly. George, a driver and I all shared the front of a pickup, with 5 workers in the back. George mentioned that we should take a shortcut, because we had people in the back and we should avoid getting a ticket ($25) at a police checkpoint.

Shortcut, as a general rule, implies going slightly out of one’s way, perhaps utilizing a different road. Where we went lacked roads completely, so this wasn’t possible. While this picture to the left appears to be someone’s yard, it is actually where we were driving. Once we got out of the bumpiest trail I’ve ever been on (Note: that statement lasted approximately 2 hours), we got back on a road and had some more Oneonta-esque views, along with one event that would probably never happen on the way to school.


We stopped for some extra flour at a trading post (?!) , and a bunch of children ran over to our truck and started giggling uncontrollably at…me. One little boy was walking around selling sugar cane stalks so I bought them for the workers, which seemed to be a big hit. We then headed on a dirt road towards a mountain in the distance, which George said was near the farm.

The problem with flat land is that distance is very misleading. I say that, because after driving another 3 hours, we were still apparently not any closer to the hill. Again, I would like to point out that this is a 45 mile trip. We drove, and drove, and lightning started, and we drove some more, and we still seemed to be no closer.

The one cool thing was the sunset – the land on either side is savannah and dotted with trees, so it had a very Africa feel to it. The pictures don’t do it justice but this was the first time I really felt away from everyone. It didn’t hurt that for 3 consecutive hours of driving, we hadn’t seen a single person or structure.



Anyway, after literally 7 hours, we arrived at Namalu and it was pitch black. It’s a town of 20,000 but looked like nothing was there because they don’t have electricity, despite the size. This is one of the things we want to help change.

A Lt. Colonel in the Ugandan military shook my hand and welcomed us to the farm, which was a little odd. They help guard the fields, but when you really (really) have to go to the bathroom, an AK-47 is the last thing you need. We then got a tractor escort.

It had rained the night before, and not all the roads to the farm have been properly graded, so it’s about half quicksand and mud. This may be hard to believe for people who know me well, but our truck got stuck in a ditch. A big ditch. When we tried to get out, the truck slid on its side at about 30 mph, and I almost went flying out the window. This story sounds very familiar.

At one point, we hit a huge bump and 2 minutes later the driver started hysterically laughing. When I asked why, George told me two of the people in the back went flying off the truck into the mud. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but this adventure was the first time I thought the wedding speech was in danger of not happening.

Four assists later, we made it to the farm, and the living quarters. I’m tired so I’ll save the description for Wednesday’s post, but let me just say now - if your drinks don’t come from a hole in the ground or a goat, you’re not roughing it.