June 16, 2013 · 8:34 am

An ode to a Scotsman from an English son on Father’s Day

Dad…well, where do I start?

The obvious place is your warm heart,
which rests in those chilly northern lands,
captured by memories of living in Dundee,
and yet with just enough space for little ol me,

Dad,

Forever a kid, I’ll be looking up to you,
my feet never big enough to fill your shoes,
and like a kid, you still lift me up high,
onto your shoulders, all 6 ft 2, it’s because of you,

That I still dream to the skies.

You see Dad,

All my human righting, the gay rights thing,
that’s is because of what you taught me,
your example shone and taught me to be,
the most tolerant man, and that’s why I’m your,

forever fan…But Dad,

I know this fan club is not an exclusive one,
and that in your heart, next to Dundee and,
of course, little ol me, you save a small slot,
for everyone you meet, the whole bloody lot.

But in this heart it matters not a jot,

That this son of yours is an English son,
who shuns the Scottish fun of wearing a skirt,
who backs the rugby rose before the thistle,
who with a plate of haggis seems so noncommittal,

but this Scottish culture of yours…he didn’t miss it all.

On top of every Monroe he appreciates what he sees,
as well as that Scottish attitude to an education that’s free,
but you see, there is nothing that this English son enjoys more,
than sitting with his dad, late at night, as his dad goes to pour,

just one more wee sneaky drachm.

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June 13, 2013 · 2:26 pm

Time travelling in Uganda

Ssese 1There is a generation for whom Goa (circa 1990s) holds a certain reverence – a timeless perception of freedom. The sight of bronzed bodies tattooed with Indian gods bouncing in near hypnotic ecstasy on Goa’s beaches is an image that is engrained onto a generations psyche.

These days are gone though. Today Goa has replaced the hallucinogenics for chilled beers and cocktails. And it is not just the mind altering substances that have changed. So too has the music and perhaps more importantly – the ethos.

The freedom of Goa (circa 1990s) is gone and it is a fool’s game to try and replicate it. It was with hesitance then that I walked into the Hornbill Campsite on the Ssese Islands in Lake Victoria, and my first thought was ‘Goa’.

On first impression, the ‘Goa ethos’ seems alive and well in this run down beachfront campsite.

The German owner sits in a string hammock, his grey hair pulled back into a lose ponytail. He wears ripped jeans and a t-shirt that proclaims the divine nature of cannabis and looks very, well…’Goa’.

Across from the owner a wooden hut’s door swings on its hinges in the afternoon breeze. Inside the hut sits a simple single bed that can be hired for a nominal charge. The outside of the hut is painted with murals of faces that stare out through integrated maps of Africa and are decorated in a psychedelic array of colours.

Ssese 2In the early evening light, the owner’s eyes follow an abundance of wildlife that drifts through the campsite. Birds flitter between tree branches, chickens scratch and peck in the lake-front soil and monkeys rustle in the bushes just behind the bar.

Walking into the Hornbill campsite really does feel like you have time travelled back to Goa circa 1990s.

On closer inspection of this alternative reality though you begin to see that at best, this isolated campsite is a reflection of something that has come and gone.

The hammocks look older than their owner and the murals painted on the wooden shacks are fading in the sunlight.

As the sunsets on this small strip of idyllic beachfront, so what remains of the ‘Goa illusion’ also disappears.

Next door a Justin Timberlake club remix shatters the night’s silence and reminds everyone within the near vicinity that these islands are not just a hippy get away but are also used by a growing group of Ugandan fasionistas.

Sat around the campfire that night, bottles of cheap red wine are passed around between strangers as the conversation meanders over the top of distant music.

Speaking to others sat around the fire it is clear that the Islands get mixed reviews. For some the Ssese Islands are a flashback to an ethos and way of travelling that has come and gone. For others though, this flashback is a faded reflection and the Islands are crying out for new energy, infrastructure and most importantly, investment.

Uganda is not going to be the next Goa, but it has got the most earth shatteringly beautiful Islands perched in middle of one of the biggest lakes in the world that could be the perfect backpackers get away. To utilise this though, something though has to change.

Ssese 3

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June 10, 2013 · 10:05 am

From war zone to tourism: the transformation of northern Uganda

The people of Agoro in northern Uganda were some of the worst hit by the Ugandan civil war. As the village slowly recovers, Steve Hynd from the Mountain Club of Uganda visits Agoro to explore the surrounding mountains and what role tourism might have in the regions recovery.

The car pulls up next to two piles of red mud bricks. Behind are a handful of thatched mud huts that mark the edge of the village of Agoro. Ahead, beyond the mud bricks , is another collection of mud huts. The latter are UPDF army barracks. The pile of red mud bricks is the checkpoint into the barracks that cannot be passed until ‘clearance’ has been approved.

A smartly dressed soldier appears and waves the car through. The soldier introduces himself as Lieutenant Everest. Dressed in ironed khakis and polished leather boots Lt Everest stands tall with his chest puffed out. His appearance would have been archetypically military if it wasn’t for his curious grin and unashamed enthusiasm.

When the prospect of climbing the surrounding mountains is mentioned, the aptly named Lt Everest describes in some detail the security challenges. He talks about the landmines that line the border with South Sudan and claimed a UPDF soldier’s life in 2011 and countless other lives during the civil war. He also talks though about the ‘potential’ of armed conflict breaking out from over the border.

The village had been spooked recently by reports that Kony, the wanted Ugandan war lord, is being harboured by Sudan.

The village which is two hour’s drive north of Kitgum, the most northerly town in Uganda, has every reason to be on edge. Agoro has been devastated by 17 years of almost continuous civil and tribal conflicts. Many people have been killed or forced into fighting for rebel factions including Kony’s notorious Lord’s Resistance Army.

Human Rights Watch (HRW) have documented wide spread human rights violations including reports of cutting the lips and breasts off women who dared leave the internally displace people (IDP) camps.  Agoro’s children were also hit particularly hard.

The Lord’s Resistance Army, notorious for its use of child soldiers, operated heavily in the area. One 12 year old child from Agoro told HRW how he was beaten until he agreed to kill a civilian. His experience is sadly not unique.

In light of this very recent history, Lt Everest’s opinion that armed guards were a necessity for any mountaineering expedition had to be taken seriously, despite the relative stability and peace of recent years.

Pub 4Two soldiers, carrying nothing but dust covered AK-47s led the way through the fertile fields in plastic wellington boots with the local guide, Jeffery, following suit. As Jeffery walked he pointed with obvious pride the varied fruit and vegetables that flanked the small path that he was walking.

This pride stems from both the villages new 680 hectare irrigation system and, in contrast, the near starvation that many in the village faced just a few years previously. The International Rescue Committee described Agoro’s recent history saying:

“Most of Agoro’s residents had been driven from their homes into a makeshift camp that grew up around the local trading center. These displaced farmers, with little space or incentive to grow their own food, lived on relief rations provided by the United Nations.”

It is no surprise then when Jeffery takes pride in both being able to walk freely through the fields but also being able to reach up and pick some mangoes from near-by trees.

These agricultural fields sit in the bottom of a valley which is encircled by imposing mountain peaks, the highest of which on the Ugandan side of the border stands at over 2,800 meters.

As the agriculture gives way to uncultivated bamboo forest though, so the path soon disappears. The soldiers though march on insisting that they regularly walk these routes for ‘surveillance’. The pace of the walk drops only occasionally to drink some water or to stand for a nervous few seconds as everyone waits for a snake to slither off.

The higher up the ‘path’ goes, the less apparent the ‘path’ becomes.  So, the last hour before summiting is spent scrambling through thick grass up improbably steep slopes. The soldiers who at the bottom seemed at best bemused about why anyone would want to go to the top of the mountain are now clearly enjoying themselves.

Standing on top of the peak the soldiers explain that we cannot go any further in case the South Sudanese soldiers see us. “It might cause problems” says the younger of the two soldiers as he pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket.

As he explains this though, he does not look up to the border of South Sudan but instead he looks out over the plains that stretch for miles out to the south. The plains are dotted by the volcanic mountains that hint at the potential for other walks in the area.

Pub 7Just as the agriculture of the plains is booming in this formally ‘no go’ area of northern Uganda, the potential for tourism is also growing.  The Ugandan Tourism Association has documented the so far mainly untapped tourism potential of northern Uganda. There is no reason to think that Agoro could not be at the heart of this tourism revival.

The village of Agoro has seen an unimaginably difficult couple of decades loosing men and women and children in a bloody conflict. This history requires visitors to be sensitive to such loss, but should not stop them from coming.

As we leave Agoro, we say good bye to Lt Everest and thank him for his help. We pull up at the pile of red bricks that mark the entrance to the army barracks and Lt Everest, now in civilian clothing, beams a smile at us and says, “Tell your friends to visit, they too can be our guests.”

Steve Hynd is a freelance journalist based in Kampala and is a member of the Mountain Club of Uganda. 

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June 7, 2013 · 10:17 am

Beers of Israel and Palestine…

During my time in Israel/Palestine I got to taste some wonderful beers. Israel especially has a impressive and growing craft-beer scene.

You can read some of my comments on two of the widely produced (and consumed) beers in Israel/Palestine – Goldstar and Taybeh – in this CNN article by Orlando Crowcroft.

You can also have a read of my visit to Taybeh Brewery in the West Bank – here.

Cheers.

Steve

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June 6, 2013 · 11:00 am

The whispered words of Musa Okwonga

Part of what I do at Hynd’s blog is to try and draw to people’s attention the people, poetry and issues that are important to me.

I am fully aware how limited this platform, Hynd’s Blog, is. But still, I keep adding to this platform because if you do not dare to whisper out loud the things that are important to you, they will never be heard.

Someone who whispers with more wisdom and wit than I could ever imagine mustering is the poet and journalist, Musa Okwonga. Musa has unwittingly been on-going source of inspiration to me over the last few years.

He has a turn of phrase unmatched and yet, inexplicably, he is yet to become a household name.

Let me give you a few examples of why I think he deserves to be huge:

I spend a lot of my time trying to articulate the blight of racism in football. I struggle though, constantly, to put into words the human stories that football projects without losing the impact and influence the game holds.

In response to Roberto Carlos’ decision to walk off a pitch after a banana was thrown at him; Musa articulated these imagined thoughts of Roberto in the first person:

“I am a man first, and a footballer second.  I am a grown man, not an animal, and I am not a creature on display for your entertainment.  You have come to a stadium, to watch human beings play football.  This is my place of work, and if you will treat it like a zoo, I will show that this pitch is not a cage, and I will leave it.”

And thus he treads that fine line that I so often miss.

A second example: Whenever I dare to whisper out loud about something personal to me such as my family or my partner I instantly clam up with dread. Exposing yourself on the internet’s oh so very social platforms, is something that I think people under-estimate. Just as standing on a stage to perform takes admirable courage, so I also think, writing about personal issues online does.

Musa, in an ever self-effacing way, manages to both perform and write about the most personal of issues with a confidence and coherence I cannot help but to admire. Here I would urge you to watch his performance of his poem, ‘Passport’.

But, it is when he integrates this personal with the overtly political does he really come into his own.

At this point, I would urge you to watch his performance of his poem, ‘Love versus Homophobia’. It is an articulate outpouring of anger at the ambivalence, arrogance and anger that some people hold for his understanding of love.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think the Vatican will be playing this on loop. Nor do I think the US or UK government’s will be listening to his latest poem, ‘Monotony’.  But I leave you with this because, he has dared to whisper these words out loud not knowing who will hear them. All I can do is echo them and ask you to do the same.

This is our monotony:
They bring the most hateful of rainfalls,
And don’t make apologies:
They send storms from the jaws of a drone
To slay those who’d take the USA off its throne –
So each day, we’re preparing for rain;
For these drops not of water
But rage;
Wait –
All you’ll hear is the hum as they’re closing
A teenaged male isn’t safe in the open –
So we’ve taught them to run,
Our daughters and sons –
Taught them something most terrible:
That here in Yemen, it is never wise
To gaze up and daydream into our own skies:
This is –
The only way, we are told;
That’s not so bad as it goes:
No:
Shattered bone,
Shattered hope,
Shattered homes,
We all raise our eyes at the drones –
And so:
In many decades, our youth will explain
Why, when about town, they still walk with necks craned

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May 30, 2013 · 10:19 am

An Englishness that appeals to me

Traditionally I was one who would rather sit on the fence,
take it or leave it I wasn’t concerned to jump to the defence,
of this rather dense idiotic abstract notion of Englishness,
but like a true Brit, against the odds, I defend this underdog.

Like it’s a demi-god I worship that afternoon cup of tea,
the crashing sea that laps up onto our shores for an eternity,
our punctuality, our sense of hospitality and our individuality,
this is what makes pride pulse through me, not the EDL’s idiocy.

You see, when those EDL thugs takes to the streets, to shout,
that those Muslims don’t know what Englishness is about.
What do we see, but those Muslims responding with, cups of tea.
What a fucking beautiful sight to see, an Englishness that appeals to me.

At the same time I listen to the EDL shouts, of ‘get those black cunts out’
and because they are defiantly not racist they clarify it aint the blacks,
they just seem to attract the flak, it’s those immigrants we want to go back,
it’s all those god-damn Pakistanis, corner shop owners, the free-loaders.

Well here’s the low down, and tell me if you need me to slow down,
my understanding of Englishness can be simplified to one question,
this question, asked when your chips are down and you’re nearly out is,
how’d you respond to adversity? With some anger and arrogance or…

a nice cup of tea.

Now that’s an Englishness that appeals to me.

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May 26, 2013 · 7:57 am

On happiness and being with the one you love

The candles flick in the warm breeze that circles in our courtyard. Glasses of wine sit on the table in between us as I watch with growing nerves my partner open the last of her birthday presents – the engagement ring that I have wrapped up. I had, in my mind’s eye every intention of getting down on one knee but in the end all I could manage was to meekly mutter the words, will you marry me, as she finishes unwrapping.

My nerves intermingled with a sense of excitement that I cannot do justice to with the words on this page.

Through this one symbolic, public and to become legal declaration I found a happiness that is hard to explain in any rational sense. In a way nothing has changed, we are still living together happy, content and confident about the future. But, love – and as such this declaration of love, engagement – is not rational. It is something much more special than that.

In the following 24 hours I have found an immeasurable amount of happiness at just glancing across and seeing a ring on her finger, of knowing that we have the rest of our lives together.

But in the midst of this happiness, I cannot help but to reflect on the millions of people across the world that are denied this basic happiness.

To give just three examples that spring to mind:

When I was living in the West Bank I met Palestinians who, because of the permit system that has been imposed by the Israeli government, were separated off from families and loved ones. Indeed, in January 2012, the Israeli Supreme Court endorsed a law banning Palestinians married to Israeli Arabs from obtaining Israeli citizenship or even residing in Israel.

This is an example of a state separating people who are in love, denying them the basic happiness of being together.

In my home country of the UK we have an immigration system that keeps families and loved ones apart. I won’t go into the technical details here but I would encourage you to read these testimonials of people who have had their lives ripped apart by arbitrary new immigration laws.

Once again, an example of a state separating people who are in love, denying them the basic happiness of being together.

Where I am currently living, Uganda, the state deems it illegal for couples of the same sex to not only marry, but to even be together. Uganda is just one of 76 countries around the world where homosexuality is illegal.

Once again, an example of a state separating people who are in love, denying them the basic happiness of being together.

With a small amount of research, you can find laws and customs around the world that keep millions of people apart. Why?

This is not a well researched policy blog about the need for immigration law reform, but an indignant reaction to state’s knee jerk acceptance that they have the authority to keep people who are in love apart.

I cannot explain to you the happiness that I have felt not just over the last few days, but the last decade that I have been with my now fiancé.

A happiness that I want everyone to be able to experience.

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May 20, 2013 · 10:45 am

Losing count

Speaking to no-one in particular, he says she’s spoken for,
but wanting something more her young heart breaks in two,
inside himself, to no-one else, he tells her that she’s the one,
but it’s been too long since he has spoken these three words.

Back home, she opens her mouth, and his anger and fists begin to rise,
she closes her eyes, and tries to hide, to put all of this out of her mind,
she pictures in her mind’s eye the softer touches of other calmer nights,
as she reaches out, with pleading in her eyes,  he reacts back, and

That was that. .

The morning after, her cheeks are bruised and smudged with mascara,
she goes to work and thinks of nothing but him and her cracking heart,
she knows her mind is crumbling and it’s not just her bodies that suffering,
there and then, she says, enough is enough, I won’t take this no more.

He stops in his tracks, he’s been walking the streets running from himself,
his mind is dwelling on the job he doesn’t have, and his fists are swollen,
He stops and stares, but does not dare, to dwell on his aching heart,
that is overflowing with the shame. Who is this man that he has become?

With his body numb, and this thought dwelling on his mind, tears starts roll,
down go his defences and down goes the possibility of carrying on as if nothing,
is going down. His hands tremble and his legs give way. Sitting there slumped,
he knows he can’t get much lower, and so he too decides to lift himself up.

Staring at her own front door she resolves that she’s worth something more,
turning on her heel she takes hold of herself and her trembling hands,
she strides with small steps away from her house and her home, all alone,
she walks and turns the corner of her street and her life and resolves that,

never again will he cause her mascara to streak….

Turning his keys, he realises his hands are shaking and his stomach is turning,
with flowers in hand, bought with an empty wallet he wipes away his tears,
stepping over the doormat, he resolved this would be the fresh start they need,
he drops his car keys onto an empty hallway table where her car keys should be.

The silence engulfs him. Finally, whispering to no-one, he says those three words,

she’s the one, and there and then, his heart starts to break in two.

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May 8, 2013 · 2:18 pm

Photo essay – palliative care workers from francophone Africa

I am not a photographer, and would never claim to be. But these are photographs that I took of a few of the participants of the palliative care training course for francophone Africa that is currently being held at Hospice Africa Uganda. Some of these photos are published on the African edition of ehospice.

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May 6, 2013 · 10:10 am

The State of Play: Education in Uganda

This is a guest post by Anya Whiteside who is the Education Advocacy Officer at the Forum for Education NGOs in Uganda (FENU).  She is also my partner and her blog can be found  here. 

I ask students what they think about their education in a learners workshopBack in 1997 Uganda was proud to lead the way in the provision of universal primary education. Enrollment boomed from just 2.5 to 8.8 million and this was seen by many as a major success.

Despite this seemingly rosy picture, Uganda is a clear example of how focus on access to education alone is not the be all and end all and is not the same as a good education.

It is generally recognised that in Uganda education is in crisis, a crisis that needs urgent action.

Although enrollment has remained high the drop-out rates in Uganda are also high. Uganda’s completion rates in primary education are only 25%. This is compared to 84% in Kenya, 81% in Tanzania and 74% in Rwanda.

Even for the minority of children who stay in school in Uganda the picture is not much better. A report recently released by the government confirms what teachers, politicians, parents and children already know; that even children who stay in school are not learning.

The NAPE report states that for P6 pupils who are at the end of primary school, only 45% of them have reached proficiency in numeracy and only 41% in literacy. As the report starkly puts it ‘less than a half of the P6 pupils have mastered most of the competencies in the P6 curriculum’.

Most worrying of all the results show that education results aren’t improving, and are worse than the results in 2009.

There is not doubt that Ugandan education faces many challenges. Uganda has the second youngest population in the world with 55% of the population under 18 years. When universal primary education was introduced children flooded in to access ‘free’ education with schools and teachers overwhelmed. There are no-where near enough teachers, classrooms, books or sanitation facilities to teach all these children.

It is not uncommon to have teachers attempting to teach classes of over 100 and children taking it in turns to use a pencil. Children often come to school without lunch and so are sat all afternoon hungrily waiting for the end of the day.

But political will is also an important element in this. The percentage share of the Uganda national budget dedicated to education has fallen from 17% in 2007/8 to 15% for 2013/14.

This situation is likely to only get worse after aid donors pulled out after allegations of corruption by the prime ministers office, leaving sizable holes in the education budget.

Funding to government primary schools comes in the form of a grant given per child, per year to each school. On average this is 5,000 Ush (about £1.25) per child per year, so it is unsurprising schools charge parents significant, often unaffordable extras for books and uniforms.

Unlike other countries, where even if they are not paid enough teachers are afforded at least some degree of respect in the local community, in Uganda teachers are considered socially at the bottom of the pile. In government primary schools teachers are paid an average of 260,000Ush a term (£65 a term).

To give you some context, VSO gives me a stipend of 895,000Ush (£223) a month which is meant to cover my basic living costs, excluding accommodation. So you can see that being a teacher is not exactly economically desirable.

When you add to that the appalling delays that teachers experience, waiting months for their salaries due to inefficiencies, it is unsurprising that teachers often don’t turn up or have additional jobs on the side.

Teachers are also not given good training and the style of teaching is extremely reliant on teaching by rote. A colleague of mine told me how she sat in on a teacher training course where the lecturer, with no irony, started by saying ‘in teaching the most important thing is to be interactive and not just talk at students’ and then proceeded to talk at the teachers for several hours.

Teachers are rarely, if ever, inspected and there is little support or ongoing training. On top of this they are blamed consistently for the poor state of education in Uganda – no wonder no one wants to be a teacher!

So is there any hope for education in Uganda?

I would argue that there is, based on all the people I have met who are dedicated to improving education. Everyone knows what the problems in education are and the buzz-word at the moment is ‘quality’ education.

The organisation I work for (FENU) helped to set up the new ‘Parliamentary forum on quality education’. A few weeks ago FENU coordinated the first ever ‘Quality Public Education Week’ which saw Anglican, Catholic and Islamic leaders (70% of schools are linked to religious institutions) come together with trade unionists and politicians. This focus on quality is important, especially as it moves away from only focusing on getting more children into school and also looks at the education those children are receiving.

There are so many different challenges to education here, and I haven’t even touched on child labour, gender inequalities, capital punishment, secondary schooling or vocational training.

Nonetheless there are inspiring people working for change, and no end to the children keen to learn if they are only given the opportunity to do so.

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May 2, 2013 · 7:43 pm

Fish and Chips in Uganda

Think you know about fish and chips? Think again. I used to think I knew about fish and chips, that wonderful institution of the British diet, until I visited Uganda that was.  

“This is good, I mean really good”, said my partner glancing up from the massive plate of fish and chips that sat between us.

I however was not wasting crucial seconds with peripheral tasks such as talking; after taking another swig of my ice cold beer I was straight back in, my fingers pushing together the crumbling bits of perfectly cooked Taliapia.

As we scoffed down our freshly cooked food, the smoke from other barbecued fish drifted through the packed restaurant and out into evening sun. We were sat with views out onto the very northern tip of Lake Victoria just outside of Kampala.

The restaurant in which we were sat was lined with charcoal barbeques cooking that day’s intake from the lake. All around us small groups of local guys were huddled around old rickety wooden tables on which large shared platters of fresh fish rested.

We had been lucky, when we arrived after a day’s walking, all the tables were taken. Within seconds of entering into the shade of the restaurant though, what looked like a full table had been rearranged and we had been squeezed onto the end.

We shared our table with three Ugandans, two locals from Kampala and another just visiting from the Karamoja region in the east.

All three of the men sat with that happy contented look on their faces that gave away the culinary experience they had just enjoyed. Looking around I could see this same look on faces of men all around me. Each sat leaning back on their plastic chairs, one hand on their belly and the other around a cold beer bottle.

I struggle to think of an image that better embodies the Ugandan understanding of contentment.

As I ate, I listened to the guys sat at our table chat about how Ggaba had the best fish and chips, not just in Kampala or even Uganda but, so their beer induced conversation went, in the world.

As they spoke I found myself thinking though, “What about British fish and chips – our national dish?”

Then it dawned on me, these fish and chips were, by far, the best fish and chips I have ever had in my life. No country pub, inner city chippy or homemade meal from the UK had ever come close. They were simply delicious and they were supported by the most wonderful of ambiences.

In a conciliatory backlash to my own thoughts, I joined in the conversation with the comment, “these fish and chips are even better than in the UK you know.”

The guy on my left responded, “Really?”

I half joked, “yeah, and we invented the dish.”

My new Ugandan friend from Karamoja, a restaurant worker himself it would turn out, swiftly responded, “ahh, I am afraid that is a common misconception my friend. Fish and Chips were bought to the UK by a Jewish immigrant in the late 19th century.”

I responded dumbly, “oh”.

A later Google search would tell me that there is at least an element of truth in his assertion. Who would have thought that it would take a Ugandan to educate this Brit on his supposed national dish?

I left the restaurant that evening with the sun slipping behind the hills. The air was light and there was a low level of noise in the fruit and veg market that surrounds the harbour.

I don’t think I could imagine a nicer place for a wee Ugandan style culinary master class.

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April 23, 2013 · 10:27 am

“You cannot be happy to see your dad suffering…”

This is an article that I wrote for the Africa edition of ehospice.


Mutagubya Bruno is the son of Lawrence Ssenyonde. Lawrence has cancer of the prostate and needs oral morphine to relieve his pain. Bruno recently talked to ehospice about what life is like caring for a family member in severe pain.

On the outskirts of Kampala, Mutagubya Bruno lives with his mother and father. A small alleyway leads to a neatly kept garden that is lined with palm trees and freshly hung clothes on a washing line. Bruno breaks the conversation he is having with his mother as a small delegation from Hospice Africa Uganda arrive through a side gate to their house.

In the living room, the three health care professionals sit in a line craning their necks to try and listen to Bruno’s father as he describes his pain. As Bruno’s father speaks, one of the nurses sorts through her case notes. She glances at the previous dosages of oral morphine Bruno’s father has received.

Throughout the conversation Bruno sits on the edge of a worn-out arm chair opposite his father looking on.

Read the full article here >> 

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April 21, 2013 · 2:45 pm

Artist Richard Woods is “unashamed to be political”

This interview was originally printed in New Europe.


Richard Woods describes himself as “more social commentator than artist” and has been compared to the likes of Peter Howson. Woods is famed for his grotesque caricatures and macabre take on places, politics and people as he explores the “absurdity of human existence”. On the back of another critically acclaimed exhibition at the Garden Gallery in the UK, Steve Hynd met up with Woods to find out what drives the painter behind the canvas. 

Can you tell us a bit about your background – where did you grow up  and where did you study?

I was born in Harrogate, but moved with my family to Cheltenham when I was seven. My parents would often take me abroad, so from a young age I had already seen a lot of the world. As an only child I had a lot of time on my hands and spent most of my time drawing and watching cartoons, leading to an extremely active imagination.

Is there any one person that inspires you?

The artist Peter Howson has been the biggest inspiration on me. He’s the official war artist for Bosnia. I remember going to Art College aware of the fact I wanted to paint people but was unsure of how I wanted to do it. When a tutor showed me Howson’s work for the first time I was blown away. That’s when I knew the type of artwork I wanted to make -Distorted characters and stories which are rooted to real issues within society. All of a sudden I felt I had a real sense of purpose, that I was doing something greater than just painting a picture. Perhaps that sounds a bit egotistical, but I don’t really mind that to be honest.

Would you describe your art as political?

Yes certainly. When I first began creating social commentaries I was really focusing on the darkest aspects of the world. I was tackling the ugliest problems in society head on with huge dark boldly painted canvases.

But I was young and full of enthusiasm then, I somewhat reckless with my choices. I soon realised what I was painting could alienate some people more than inspire them – although all those early paintings are now in private collections. I wanted people to reflect on my art but also to enjoy my work visually. I wanted people to be inspired to also try and fix the problems I paint about

Are you an artist first, social commentator second, or vice-versa?

I think at one point I was more social commentator than artist, but over the past couple of years I would say I’m more of a visual artist.

Most of my imagery begins with the idea or the inspiration which can be a news headline or something as simple as a personal experience. That’s the foundations of a work before I indulge my imagination and build up a composition. As an artist my experiences and surroundings mould my perspectives on life. Artists create work in response to these whether consciously or not.

Is there a message or ethos behind your art? If so, is it important to you that people understand that message?

Yes I would like them to but at the same time I’m just like anyone else, I need to make a living and I want people to want to hang my pictures on their walls.

Visual art is essentially about creating something unique and aesthetic that visually people can enjoy. I am always trying new things out. At my recent solo show in Cheltenham I had quite a diverse exhibition to show people what I can do with a paintbrush. Quite often artists develop a comfort zone (including myself) which is actually quite anti-creative. To find true originality you need to experiment.

I have even been painting landscapes outdoors recently. I know, a bit of a cliché.

How have the UK’s coalition years affected your art?

The coalition creates a lot of interesting imagery. I did one painting of Cameron and Clegg titled “Cutting Corners,” which interestingly got a lot of attention in Scotland. It was sold along with some of Peter Howson’s paintings from The Braewell Galleries. I think people value a visual representation of the political issues that they cannot always articulate themselves.

Your art is often a grotesque reflection on life, does this reflect your personal take on life?

It’s definitely how I view the world. I always loved looking at the German expressionist paintings, like Otto Dix and Max Beckman. They were so grotesque and surreal yet held so much truth about the world in their content.

I really thrive on making work which has a cause or purpose. With my early work some people seemed a bit shocked by it but for me I didn’t see what was so shocking, it was just normality to me.

In complete contrast my more recent work which has seen huge ice cream cones filled with fluorescent ice cream has been really appealing to people, especially children. Yet they actually represent a number of dark topics including The Fukishima nuclear disaster and the idea of economic meltdown. This is a good dynamic, having people enjoy the visual imagery then afterwards can discuss the politics.

For more information on his art please visit http://www.art-spaces.com/richardwoods/

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April 12, 2013 · 6:56 am

A moment, nothing more

This is just a moment of my life, nothing more…

I was sat with a cold beer in hand. The evening air was still warm and insects collected around the lights that were illuminating the garden in which I was sat. There was live music in the background but I had predominantly let it slip over me as I sat with some friends chatting happily. Half a dozen new friends in this new country sat in my immediate circle, all their shadows cast inwards from the overhead light. Dotted around the garden though were a dozen other similar groups, most of whom were newly made friends of mine.

What caught my attention and drew me out of this social haze though was the silence, the break in the music. The silence rippled into other’s conversations and soon heads were turned to look at the silent small stage.

One friend, the person who had perhaps made the biggest effort to make me feel welcome when I arrived to this new country was on the stage. She was due to leave in the coming weeks to head back to her home, Holland. The stage lights shone up on her and those who had been dancing looked up expecting, waiting, and anticipating.

Then it happened, that moment….

She broke out with the impromptu band with the most earth-shatteringly-good voice. Everyone was either in silent awe or whooping in delight. She held a presence on stage that is hard to describe. Her voice though carried in the night air, each note hanging for an improbably long time. The dancers in front of her half danced and half stood transfixed.

Personally, I sat towards the back, unable or unwilling to move. I sat transfixed as her voice glided effortlessly around the silent circles of friends. I sat back on the garden furniture and sipped my beer. I think that I was, in that moment perfectly contented.

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April 9, 2013 · 9:53 am

Uganda’s Lawless Mountain: Mt Moroto

This article was written for Cotswold Outdoors Community Blog.

Mount Moroto stands at 3,082 meters above sea level in the Karamoja region in the north east of Uganda. Over the last few decades the region has witnessed war and conflict which has left its peaks predominantly unclimbed. Recently there has been a large-scale amnesty on guns and dip in the levels of violence. Steve Hynd from the Mountain Club of Uganda took this opportunity to see what the mountain has to offer.

P1120081The Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) advise against all travel to Karamoja. They describe it is as:

“largely lawless. There are frequent road ambushes and tribal clashes. Small arms are widespread and there are regular deaths or injury from gunshot wounds”

As it turned out, guns were the least of our problems…

We were travelling in a convoy along a dirt road which locals had told us was impassable during the rainy season. It was Saturday 30th March – the rainy season was due to starts on the April 1st.

On the road, there were a couple of hairy moments; wheels spinning on steeply banked rivers edges, deep mud that resulted in everyone getting out and walking but it was, in a 4X4, passable.

Two and half hours and 45km after leaving Moroto town we arrived at the small mountain village of Tapach.

Tapach sits at the head of a valley tucked in underneath the imposing ridges that lead up to the peaks of Mt Moroto. The village boasts stunning views of the plains of Karamoja that stretch out away from mountain.

Living with some of the best views high on the side of the valley we found Friar Gerald – our only real contact in the village.

With a warm smile he greeted us while glancing at our mud covered cars before asking, “How was the road?” The only honest answer any of us could muster was, “passable”. He grinned a knowing grin and said, “It will be fine along as it doesn’t rain”.

P1120032Friar Gerald was accommodating and kind in helping us find local men to guide us up the mountain and ensured that at least one of them spoke English.

As we waited for the ‘guides’ to come back from the fields where they worked, I asked the Friar a little bit about the valley and the region. We talked about the lasting legacy that the conflict had on the village.

On the drive in we had passed a number of UPDF army camps and I asked if they ever came to the village and the Friar responded saying,

“They keep themselves to themselves nowadays. I think that’s better for everyone”.

Clearly the memories of what happened in the region had not gone away. In 2007 Human Rights Watch described a government disarmament drive headed by the army in their report, “Get the Gun”. The report documented wide-spread use torture and a number of murders.

As the Friar said, perhaps it is best they keep themselves to themselves.

The guides soon arrived though and we started snaking our way up the hillside behind the monastery. The climb was tough going and this was extenuated by the 5 litres of water we were carrying as the guides were unsure as whether or not there was any water available on the mountain. The hot sun beat down on us as we huffed and puffed our way up the valley side.

The collecting storm clouds offered us only occasional shade.

Within an hour we were rewarded with panoramic views. In one direction there were the endless plains of Karamoja, on either side deep valleys with small hutted villages and in front of us the peaks of Mt Moroto.

Kyle IMG_3708By mid-afternoon we had climbed around 1,000 meters. High in the mountains the heavens opened in spectacular fashion. The intensity and consistency of the rain slowed our progress as we picked our way across rocky ridges and up steep muddy slopes.

About an hour before dark we stopped high on a ridge to pitch camp.

The guides collected wood and lit a fire, the rest of us erected our tents and prepared food. On the equator the sun sets in a blink of an eye. For a brief moment though the storm clouds were silhouetted in front of departing sun before darkness descended on us.

P1120067That night we lay in our sleeping bags counting the seconds between thunder and lightning while the rain thundered on our tents. I am not sure if I have ever camped in more torrential rain.

Trying to not think about the rain and the state of the road back to Moroto I closed my eyes and let sleep take me.

The next morning we awoke before light and set off in a slow drizzle for the summit leaving our tents pitched on the ridge. The short walk took us through thick forest that clung to the ridge top. We scrambled up steep scrub land making the final assent with anything but elegance. Just under two hours after leaving camp we stood on the summit of Mt Moroto.

Starring into the thick mist I wondered how many other had stood where I was now stood. The answer, of course, is ‘not many’.

We made our way down, packing the camp on the way, slipping and sliding in the now thick mud. We arrived back at to the village at about 4pm with a sense of achievement but also dread about what lay ahead on the now sodden road back to Moroto.

Phoning ahead we found out that friends who were driving a Toyota Rav4 had left the village at 11am and were, at 4pm, still not back to Moroto.

I’ll admit now that I was worried – would we get back to the Moroto before dark? Would we get back at all?

Driving back was in itself an adventure. On a couple of occasions water came over the bonnet of the car, and on countless occasions the ground clearance proved in to be insufficient. But, just over two hours later we arrived back to our rendez vous in Moroto – 10 minutes after those in the Rav4 who left at 11 that morning.

I tried really hard not to be smug.

The other car load that left Tapach after us didn’t arrive back until 11 that night, they told me the next day that they had to cut out the seatbelts to use as a towrope.

The whole weekend was a mini adventure. We were not sure what we would find when we left Kampala for this remote region.  We had heard stories of guns, torture and of course incredible peaks. But what we found were warm welcoming locals who were slightly bemused as to why we wanted to climb Mt Moroto. The soldiers were courteous though and the locals delighted though that we were visiting.

Moroto district doesn’t yet have the infrastructure or the information to really capitalise on its mountaineering-tourism potential. But it does have mountains that are as beautiful as any in the national parks of Uganda.

With a good 4X4 and sense of adventure there is no reason why you cannot enjoy them as well.

If you fancy the trip – feel free to be in touch.

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April 3, 2013 · 6:21 am

A visit to Hospice Africa Uganda

This is an article that I wrote for ‘ehospice‘ about my recent visit to a hospice in Kampala.

An incongruous collection of books sit on the shelves next to hand-made jewellery and other bits of bric-a-brac. I stand and flick through the books for a minute enjoying being out of the hot Kampala sun. As I rummage around looking for a bargain the shop assistant, Joy, begins to talk to me about her role at Hospice Africa Uganda.

Joy is one of a dedicated team of volunteers who make it possible for the hospice to carry on offering palliative care services to patients with Cancer and/or HIV/AIDS. Joy, a recently retired surgical nurse, is clearly someone who is driven by the need to help others. When I ask her why she gives up five days a week to help at the hospice she explains:

Read the full article here >>

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March 20, 2013 · 9:46 am

The pursuit of happiness

This is an article that I wrote for the Africa edition of ‘ehospice‘ on the overlap between happiness and palliative care. It marks the first ever International Day of Happiness:

“The pursuit of happiness is enshrined into the US Constitution, the subject of countless books and is now even being measured by governments. Policy makers and development agents are now recognising that ‘progress’ should be about increasing human happiness and wellbeing, not just growing the economy at all costs. In light of this, the UN today marks its first ever ‘International Day of Happiness’.

To read the full article click here >>>

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March 17, 2013 · 1:37 pm

Walking the Bwamba Pass with the Mountain Club of Uganda

A low level of laughter drifts in the air through the wood smoke as we crouch around the flickering campfire. Dotted around the fire are bits of bamboo that protrude from the ground. The sticks are sharpened to a point at one end and have chucks of beef skewered on them hanging over the open fire. The beef both absorbs the smell of the wood smoke and gives off a tantalising aroma.

Bottles of warm beer are passed around the circles while those who have learnt from experience sip of glasses of red wine poured from the box perched within arm’s reach. The sun has long since set on this small campsite in the northern tips of the Rwenzori mountains and the only light now comes from the flickering flames of the fire.

Sat around the fire are members of the Mountain Club of Uganda – a hodgepodge of people brought together by a passion for the mountains. The backdrop to this campfire is the highest mountain range in Africa – The Rwenzoris.

Sat next to me is Tom, a British ex-pat who spends his days working as a photographer for NGOs. He happily tears into the meat fresh from the fire and generously passes it around. I comment on how disappointing my oodles of noodles are in comparison and he laughs a knowing laugh as he takes a sip from his wine.

Opposite me I watch as Daivd, an American law graduate working in the Ugandan courts, chats happily with Manjit, a retired Indian British Doctor who is now volunteering in the International Hospital in Kampala. I catch their expressions in the fire light and their faces give away that they are evidently entering a conversation of substance, the sort of conversation that only occurs after a few beers when you are sat around a campfire.

People begin to pull jumpers on as the fire reduces to embers and the cool mountain air pushes the last of the day’s heat from the campsite. Most people head to their respective tents as the evening draws to a close leaving only the tough or the foolhardy passing around the Waragi. The knowledge of the next day’s walk acts as restraint for some but not all.

As I close up my tent door I listen for a few minutes to the conversation continuing between people who just 24 hours ago were strangers to each other. An ease of conversation created at least in part by the evenings consumption allows for jokes and jesting that would never have occurred elsewhere between such an eclectic group of people.

Despite the differences in age, nationality or anything else, we all there because of an unspoken timeless love affair between man and mountains.

I wake early the next morning before sunrise. The cool dew on the ground soaks into my flip flops as I stumble around half asleep making my preparations for the day’s walk. With a mixture of admiration and annoyance I meet the gentlemen who chose to stay the longest round the campfire and they look surprisingly sharp.

We collectively stumble into a convoy of cars and are driven for a couple of hours to the DRC side of the Rwenzoris from where we will trek over the Bwamba Pass back to the Fort Portal side of the mountain. Everyone sits in a dazed early morning silence as scenery slips pass the car window and we bump our way along increasingly pot holed roads.

We start our accent of nearly 1,400 meters with instant-grueling gradient. The group almost immediately splits into two as people begin to struggle in the now severe morning sun. Once again, with a mixture of admiration and annoyance, I note all of those who remained around the fire the longest striding away at the front. I sigh out loud and convince myself that I am at the back because I am being supportive to the others who were struggling with the heat and gradient.

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On the way up I walk the first couple of hours with Stephanie, an American originally from Florida who now lives in the northern Ugandan town of Gulu.  We meander together through agricultural land waving at the cries of the local children as we pass them. With good grace and admirable perseverance Stephanie walks up the unrelenting ascent listening to my equally unrelenting views on the Israel/Palestine conflict.

P1110965
To give everyone a break from the ascent and Stephanie a break from my incessant chattering we regroup and stop for lunch. The views are breathtaking as we look down over the steep slopes onto the plains which stretch out into the Congolese rainforest. From this vantage point you can begin to see why Stanley referred the Ituri Forest as “nothing but miles and miles of endless forest.”

With stomachs filled our small group set off in the heat of mid-day sun with nothing but altitude as relief from the heat. We move out of the agricultural lands and into deep thick rainforest. Walking in these conditions is a continuous contradiction as everything is sodden in the humidity and yet the heat forces a near continuous thirst. Many began to realise that their three litres of water might not be enough to get them over the pass.

Five hours, 1,400 meters ascents and some tired looking walkers later we reach the pass surrounded by thick bamboo forest. A second wind enters the group safe in the knowledge that it is all downhill from then on.

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It isn’t long though until the heavens open and hamper our progress.  Heavy balls of rain hit the red earthed paths we are following and reduce them to streams of slippery clay. As I pull on my full waterproofs I watch as Manjit smiles to the sky. With a twinkle in his eye he embraces the rain in his shirt sleeves and skips through the thickening mud.

While Manjit dances his way off the mountainside, others slip and slide their way down a series of precarious paths. Red mud marks the bottoms of those who lose their grip while red faces give away that for some the decent is as hard as the way up.

Walking with now almost unrelenting rain we finish our walk on the Ugandan side of the mountain range some seven hours after we set off.

Manjit stands topless as he wrings out his sodden t-shirt while the rest of us peel off our boots. Looking back I see the cloud curl round the hills and cover the path on which we had just descended. There is no hint at how far into the cloud the path goes or how far we had just come.

This small bit of knowledge remains for those who had just walked the Bwamba Pass.

 

*2 photos taken from Manjit’s blog – http://manjitsuchdev.wordpress.com/ *

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March 10, 2013 · 12:26 pm

Intervening in New Delhi for International Women’s Day

This is a guest post by Angelique Mulholland. Angelique is a tireless human rights campaigner, articulate social commentator and a very good friend of mine. Please read, comment and share.

As part of my trip around Asia to find out more about women’s human rights at ground level, I have spent a week in New Delhi in the lead up to the big event in every activists’ calendar- International Women’s Day.

Within 72 hours of arriving in New Delhi, I was sexually harassed twice, both times on the Metro. With the “New Delhi gang rape” fresh in my mind, I can honestly tell you, I have felt a number of extreme emotions over this past week. Fear and anger are just two of them.

Both times, I said nothing to these men who presumed they had a right to touch me without my permission. In your head, when you imagine this happening to you, you always think you’ll fight back and give them hell. But in the reality of harassment – it doesn’t always work that way.

sexual harrassment on metro
I am fortunate though. I am fortunate because all week I have been working for a human rights charity called Breakthrough. They understand better than anyone why it can be hard for the victim to speak up. That’s why they encourage intervention from others; both men and women. Their most successful campaign here in India is called “Bell Bajao” which in Hindi means “Ring the Bell”.

India’s biggest women’s human rights problem is not in public spaces, it’s actually in the home. The objective of the campaign is clear and effective; if you hear a woman being subjected to violence next door, then “Bell Bajao.” Get up, go next door and #RingTheBell. Intervene. Stand up for that woman. Here is one of the powerful videos, created by Breakthrough which shows how the people of India can do just that.

As I have learnt, intervening is an extremely important part of ending violence and harassment against women. Why? Because very often it is too difficult for the victims of violations just to speak out for themselves.

Why is it so hard to speak out? Why did I say nothing to these men?

I said nothing because I was shocked – beyond belief – both times. You may think I would have been prepared after all the reading I had done on the daily harassment that many women face in New Delhi – but no – I assure you, nothing prepares you for a man grabbing your breast when you innocently get off at your stop, or a man pushing himself up against you after he glimpses your shoulder when your top slips down by accident. Nothing prepares you for either of these things and shock is definitely the first emotion.

I said nothing because I was scared of the repercussions. I estimate that there is a ratio of 100 men to 1 women on the streets of Delhi. If I had shouted at either of these guys on the train, would the other men have stood up for me? Would they have laughed? Would they have understood? Would I have put myself in more danger? Would they have given a shit? I don’t know. I really don’t know…

I hope that Breakthough’s new campaign “One million men, One million promises” will galvanize men into standing up and intervening. The campaign aims to get men in India and around the world to make a promise to stand up for women’s human rights. Make a promise to intervene if they see a woman being harassed. Make a promise to tell other men who are behaving inappropriately to start behaving appropriately and with respect. Putting it simply, it’s about getting the good guys, and there are so many of them, to stand up and tell the bad guys where to go…

“One Million Men, One Million Promises” was launched on International Women’s Day at the British High Commission in New Delhi. I was there and tweeting with the digital team. Please do follow both @LeakyM and the Twitter account for the event which is @bell_bajao for updates. The hash tag is #RingTheBell.

For the women of India who are harassed and subjected to violence on a daily basis – I ask you to join the campaign and make your promise to help end this.

http://breakthrough.tv/ringthebell/

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February 24, 2013 · 7:06 pm

Talks on Israel/Palestine

In 2012 I spent five months living in the West Bank as part of the Ecumenical Accompaniment Programme for Palestine and Israel. I then undertook a speaking tour about my experiences.

I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who hosted me and to everyone who attended one of my talks.

So a huge thank you to:

I am still available for further one off talks, commentary or debate. My contact details are here.

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