Day 20 – I’m leeeeeeeav-ing, on a jet plane…

Here I am at Entebbe airport, watching my poor backpack scoot off down the conveyor belt into the hands of an athletic looking airport man.

He happily lobs my worldly possessions onto a metal trolley and somehow squeezes the entire bag into a gap half its size (an action that will have coincided with the end of my sunglasses.)

I wonder if I will ever see that bag again. Mmmmm.

Meanwhile, my impassioned efforts to secure an upgrade have fallen on deaf ears (as they have EVERY time I have ever tried).

An inauspicious, but somehow endearing end to my escapades as I am promised one last uncomfortable journey in this country.

So, yes, I am leaving Uganda – boooooooooooo.

However, I have resolved to come back. (Hoorah).

Among other things, I still need to go west into the mountains to meet the coffee and tea growers. And mull over life with a cup of local tea. And coffee.

 And I need to go north to meet (some of) the 500,000 people that are returning to their homes after more than a decade living camps, after being forced out by the Lords Resistance Army.

 But until then, (as I am called to board my plane):

 Cheerio backpack and CHEERIO Uganda.

Day 19 – The Godfather…

I met THE Godfather of Ugandan agriculture today.

Everything he told me was a) dynamite and b) strictly off the record, even his name, so if I told you anything, I would have to kill you.

Sorry.

Apart from the Godfather, I spent the morning with the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO).

FAO are extremely busy getting emergency aid to a million starving people in Karamoja (north east) at the moment.

I also meet a lovely farmer from Gulu District (north) – where the Lords Resistance Army forced half a million people off the land and into camps for 20 YEARS.

For the past three years, the violence has calmed down and people have been drifting back home. If they have a home. Some of the youngsters have never held a hoe, let alone planted a seed.

An incredible story that I WILL tell properly at a later date.

Day 18 – I am a MILLIONAIRE…

I am a millionaire, aged 29 and 5 months. A little later than my initial plan, but at last my time has come. Thank you.

Well, it does feel quite exciting to be walking around with over a million Ugandan shillings wedged into my back pocket, but actually now I feel more like a prime robbery target and actually I can’t sit down very easily because notes are spilling out all over the place.

No, being a millionaire isn’t all its cracked up to be.

Day 17 – Governmental affairs…

Just as our agriculture minister has a girl’s name – Hilary – the most powerful woman in Uganda’s agriculture has a boy’s name – Oliver. Must be something in the water.

I met the Hon Oliver Wonekha MP in parliament this morning, and she was great company.

Oliver, a coffee grower by trade, is chairman of the agriculture committee which scrutinizes and recommends ag policy to the President.

She fills me in on the years of trials and tribulations within government and talks me through the challenges agriculture in Uganda is faced with – namely getting food surplus to food deficit areas, rooting out unscrupulous seed distributors and finding ways to increase spending on research.

Despite 80% of the population relying on farming as their primary source of income, despite one third of the population living in poverty and despite over one million people currently facing famine – the President still does not prioritise agriculture in the budget.

The thing is, he can rely on the international community to act as a back-stop to any food crisis while he gets on with installing roads and electricity (both in desperate need albeit) and spending 20% of the budget on national security.

This year money is prioritised for energy and infrastructure (while 3.5% of the budget is going to agriculture). Next year something else will be the target. Oliver said she thought 2011/12 would be THE YEAR OF AGRICULTURE.

GENETICALLY MODIFIED CROPS

This afternoon I met the head of the National Agriculture Biotechnology Centre, Andrew Kiggunda. I think he was genetically modified to talk about the virtues of GM technology non-stop, without repetition, hesitation or deviation for 2 hours solid. Hugely impressive.

There is a vacuum of private investment into biotech in Uganda (the Monsanto’s of this world don’t see enough money in rural Africa) and as such national research centres are under resourced.

But Andrew does extremely well with the tools he has and where he can, he strikes up lucrative research partnerships across the globe.

Given the fact farmers cannot readily afford pesticides or fertilizers in Uganda, research is directed into developing methods that minimise the use of both.

He is currently working on a disease resistant this, drought resistant that and pest resistant the other. Actually, there is not a crop in Uganda that isn’t undergoing work to increase quality through breeding or genetic modification.

When I put him on the spot, Andrew told me Andrew he was most excited about a special healthy GM banana with extra iron and vitamins to benefit the malnourished.

According to my man Andrew, GM will be commercially grown in Uganda within 7 years (GM cotton and the healthy banana are currently leading the charge with drought resistant maize not far behind).

Day 16 – Zee Germans

Ziz iz a deeeeeezGRAZE said the German professor, rising onto the balls of his feet on the ‘GRAZE.

His body was rod straight but his anger had made him lean so far forward his nose was about 2 feet in-front of his big toe (how he didn’t fall over was a complete mystery, he was like a wobbly weevil).

His face was a raging red and his finger jabbed menacingly at the factory manager who I was willing not to cry.

So what had caused this Teutonic outburst you may ask…

We (me and a gaggle of the world’s foremost (mad) organic profs) were on a field trip in the lovely Luwero District, two hours north of Kampala.

Lush, green, tropical hills rolled out into the distance, yielding every fruit you could wish for. It was like a big can of Lilt waiting to be squeezed.

(Oh, and the sky was blue and the birds were singing. Right lovely.)

The purpose of the trip was to meet a bunch of peasant fruit farmers and find out how they had fared since they started to sell their produce to Biofresh – an exporter – as both organic and Fairtrade.

Pretty well, on the evidence I saw.

Biofresh were paying farmers an excellent premium for their organic wares (mainly pineapple) and because Fairtrade compelled Biofresh to return 25% of its profits back to the farmers – education, health, water quality and sanitation were all beginning to improve too, we were told.

One of the farmers took me aside. He spoke no English but just said “Biofresh”, and pointed from a mud hut to a brick house across the road.

Success, it seemed.

And apart from the bus getting stuck in a pot-hole for 40 minutes (which was actually fine because we just treated it as an impromptu lunch break) everybody was extremely happy.

After the bus had been dug out of its hole, we pottered off to the factory where the fruit was dried and packaged for export, mostly to Germany.

The factory manager proudly showed us the smart diesel engine he used to dry the fruit.

And it was while his hand was still pointing at the diesel engine, that the hitherto chirpy German prof picked up a pack of dried pineapple due for export to his homeland.

‘This fruit has been sun-dried without the use of fossil fuel‘ read the package, ie a direct contradiction to where the manager’s arm was still pointing.

I know it may sound like a small thing, and it was, but that was when the anger began.

Germans, it turns out, don’t like to be ripped off. At all. Who does?

When the BMW draws up to the supermarket and they pay through the nose to get a product that is labeled ‘organic, Fairtrade and dried using natural methods’ they expect those promises to be fulfilled.

To find on simple inspection that one of those promises was broken put doubt into the mind – are you really organic? Are you really Fairtrade?

It was the German prof’s conclusion that shoddy certification, such as this, could bring the WHOLE of Africa’s organic world crashing down. I agreed with his general train of thought.

Confidence in certification standards is essential and this schoolboy error did not bode well.

The prof blamed the Swiss certifiers IMO (often the certifiers of choice in Africa) for the clanger and said it wasn’t the first time they had been NEGLIGENT.

I am told the clanger has now been rectified by IMO but the horse has already ‘done one’ and they remain discredited.

Oh dear.

Certainly one thing I discovered yesterday was the EXTREME high standards the Soil Association demands from its producers – paperwork is returned if there is a mere comma in the wrong place.

So that was that. Luckily, a golf-ball-sized-raindrop-tropical–storm promptly arrived and gave us something else to talk about.

We returned to the city. Exhausted.

Day 15 – Kidnapped on Paradise Island…

Today had all the hallmarks of THE perfect kidnapping:

I was standing on the side of a road. It was rush hour (an absurd phrase) and traffic was crawling past. Black smoke was billowing out of every exhaust. A cacophony of angry horns was honking on top of a chorus of strained breaks. The usual.

Stir in a dose of humidity and a dollop of tropical sunshine and things were starting to get really uncomfortable.

Finally a white 4×4 drew up beside me. A blacked-out window was wound down and a hand beckoned me in.

I obliged, wedged myself in between 4 Ugandans and was promptly whisked off down a long dirt track for what seemed like hours to a swampy edge of Lake Victoria, miles from anywhere.

I tried to talk but a hand in the front seat was raised – be quiet, it said. Nobody spoke at all.

Two wooden canoes were waiting at the lake and we were all bundled in.  

When the paddling started an enormous Treasure Island map was unfurled and a finger pointed to Bussi Island – our destination. Very exciting.

On the black and white map I noted miles of marsh that stood between us and the island.

In reality I was treated to the most unbelievable scenery.

We coasted down a winding corridor of water that had been cleared through a field of thick rushes.

Apart from the lap of water on the vessel, everything was perfectly still.

In the distance I could see the object of our desire – a lush green island.

In the foreground I was treated to an exhibition of bright blue, red and yellow flowers, great big water lilies and some stupendous (not a word that should be used lightly) wildlife.

I am no qualified twitcher, but even I could see the magnificence of some of the birds we saw en route.   

My favourite, among hundreds, was the majestic Shoebill Stork (there are only a few thousand of the blighters in the world, apparently).

And I am certainly no fan of the snake, but when I saw a long black creature slither no less than two feet from my hand, completely oblivious to my presence, I couldn’t help but be impressed and exhilarated.   

Finally we arrived on the deserted island.

SO, as you can see, it WOULD have been a perfect kidnap.

However, I was actually on the island by invitation from a Ugandan man who inherited one square mile of it 15 years ago.

On inheriting the land, Ephraim (a big, booming largely incomprehensible Ugandan) ventured into the thick greenery and discovered 120 peasant farmers living there.

But rather than boot them off, as was his right, he decided to strike a deal.

Bussi Island farmers produce some of Uganda’s tastiest pineapples, so Ephraim decided to treat the world and set up an export business – called Jali – for dried, organic, Fair Trade pineapple.

So far, 39 of the farmers have joined Ephraim and together, they have become the first Ugandans to be certified organic by the UK’s Soil Association.

Soon they will be Fair Trade certified too – which streamlines at least 25% of Jali profits back to the farmers.

The pineapples are dried on the island by the locals and then exported to whoever will buy them (commercial exports are just about to begin).

When the commercial side does begin, Ephraim will pay the farmers double the local price of pineapple.

Like all the world’s best destinations, no tourists have ever ventured to this island and as such the farmers were a little wary of a Mzungu (white man) in their presence.

However, they soon relaxed and we spent some quality time walking around their small-holdings, chatting, putting the world to rights.

They told me they were pleased about the new outlet for their produce.

The Jali investment is already starting to tell – a water tank has been bought (previously there was no fresh water) to supply the village and there are plans to improve health and education services (also sorely lacking) as Jali grows.

It will be interesting to see what actually happens.

For the villagers to really benefit, Jali must first find a strong market for its produce, which could prove to be difficult in the current climate.

Ephraim was confident however. “Watch this space,” he told me sweeping his hand across the island. “You will see big changes for the people here”.

Oh dear, oh dear, it looks like I will have to come back to this glorious island again in a few months to see how things are progressing.

Poor me.

Day 14 – Your ESSENTIAL Ugandan vocab…

Today I experienced the following five traditional Ugandan words on frequent occasion. 

I describe them in no particular order:

Boda-boda – a bicycle or motorcycle taxi.

The principle job of a boda-boda driver is to scare the living daylights out of anybody who dares hitch a lift.

You don’t think you can hold your breath for 15 minutes until you jump on a motorcycle boda-boda in Kampala. But you can and you will – and it will help you slip through countless non-existent gaps in the thick traffic. Very, very exciting and extremely time efficient.

Boda-boda men are on every corner of every street of every market place, village, town or city, tut-tutting at pedestrians.

They sit proudly in great boda-boda fleets, their shiny steeds adorned with tassels or Man U stickers or even flashing lights.

Does the Queen have a passport?

Conversation had long dried up with my one-armed chicken-hoarding neighbour, as I rattled through the countryside on yet another mamouth bus journey today.

And so my mind wandered. As it does.

I couldn’t stop thinking about one thing: Does the Queen have a passport?

Day 12 – Is this Africa’s green revolution?…

When I told Reverend Samuel Ebukalin that I thought his flourishing fruit orchard was a TREE-mendous success story, he stared at me blankly.

His face did not even flicker.

I think it was the first time in 8 FRANTIC hours that his expression was not awash with unadulterated excitement.

Actually, if he had got the gag, I think he would have popped with delerium.

No escaping Manchester United

There are easily more Manchester United fans in Uganda than in Manchester. This place is crawling with AIG shirts. EVERYWHERE. Even in the darkest, deepest countryside peasant farmers are wearing the garb – there is no getting away from the red devils – they are a global phenomenan.