Mud Mud Mud (to Kampala)

George took a picture of me at 5 AM this morning. As you can see, between the time and the sunburn, I am happy and excited. After packing up and saying goodbye to all the incredibly nice workers who hosted me, we headed out. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, because it is 3 hours to M’bale, then another 3 to Kampala, and anything can happen in between. It was a great morning to be outside.

As we left, since we had 9 people between the truck seats and the back, I asked George if we needed a tractor escort again, since it rained so hard last night. He said we wouldn’t get stuck so not to worry. He was half right.

As soon as we left the slightly manicured dirt road that we built, we hit the mud again. There’s really no right way to drive it – if you stay in other people’s tracks, you slide up against a ridge and land in a ditch (obviously something I would do) but if you try to stay between the tracks, you end up sliding down anyway. Well, needless to say, we got stuck. Bad. About 6 times.

One or two people got out to push and told me to stay inside because it was hot and I would get dirty. Considering I was in Africa, and already both hot and dirty, I couldn’t miss this. First, all 9 of us got out and pushed, which got us through the first few hurdles. As we hit bigger ditches, George decided we needed traction. So, all 9 of us got in the back up the pickup, and started jumping up and down. Mohammed, who was with us, is about 220 pounds alone, and he was leading the effort.

Now, despite all the things I’ve said before, there is nothing funnier than the following: stand as 1 of 9 people in the back of a pickup truck flatbed as it fishtails at 40 miles an hour through mud while all 9 grown men jump up and down like 5 year olds. Also, try and hold on while you do this, then be the only white person as you drive past villagers huts. We were all hysterically laughing, and although it took an hour to drive a mile, this was probably the most fun I had the whole trip.

Notice the angle of the truck

This is when we finally reached the end of the worst part

I wish I took more pictures, but I was either helping or holding on for dear life. This is (L to R) George, me and Mohammed after surviving the first mile.
Right before we got back in the truck, I asked one of our guys to hand me some water to wipe off. He misunderstood me and dumped a bucket of water on me instead. Somehow George caught me on camera as it was happening (I think he was in on it). Blow this up if you love looking at mud.

The way back was probably the nicest drive we’ve had so far..here’s a sample

I think this is one of the best pictures from the trip

On the way home, we passed a huge expanse of land that George told me was a prison farm. This was probably 60-70 km from our farm. Apparently, someone escaped (there aren’t really buildings, just huts and the work farm), so he ran away. However, when you are hours from anything, this is not the most well thought out plan. By chance, the guy ended up at our location after walking for three days, then collapsed right at the entrance to the farm in front of our soldiers, which probably saved his life. They let him stay overnight, and then took him back to jail. He only had 2 months left on his sentence, but now he has 2 more years. Oops.

One other thing worth mentioning - I don’t remember if I did. The entire country of Uganda smells like a BBQ. Everyone, city or otherwise, uses fire pits or small charcoal stoves to cook. People are always either cooking or selling food, so wherever you go, it smells like BBQ smoke. It’s actually sometimes more prevalent in rural areas because entire villages will be doing it.

Running low on battery so I will spend the next 5 hours without the comfort of the blog. When we get back, I have about 2 hours more of work, then I’m grabbing dinner with Marcos (our CEO) and his wife at an Italian place here. That will be immediately followed by passing out in a real bed.
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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.
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