Hello From Hoima

I'm in Hoima at the minute – I stay in a guest house rather than rent my own room here which is a bit of a mixed blessing. The food is good, there is a real life flushing toilet and, when there is not a power cut, there is power! On the flip side, the guest house shares a compound with a tailoring school (the students of which spend ALL of their time singing – badly) and, unlike Kasambya, I'm not allowed to paint smiley things in vulgar colours all over my bedroom walls. The students of the tailoring school had a retreat last week. This meant that they needed not only to sing, but to sing through a microphone and very distorted speaker – and that they had to begin doing so at 6am. I've still not quite composed myself after the trauma of 300 verses of “Good morning Jesus” in the early hours of Saturday morning.

There's a great bunch of kids here who turn up for activities after school every single day (they're only supposed to come Wednesday to Friday but they decided to start coming on Monday and Tuesday as well and there was not a lot any one could do about it!!) I enjoyed/suffered a rather fast paced, violent, lawless game of netball with a group of the primary school girls last week – I still have the excessively swollen finger to prove it (and a slightly wounded soul after they told me that I had no power)! As well as the netballing girls, there is a group of footballing boys (with rebellious footballing girl who always ends up in goal) plus a group of budding musicians – some of whom are being taught guitar and keyboard and the rest of whom compose songs and dances to the demo buttons on the keyboards. It's such a genius set up. They also come on Saturdays for a prayer meeting (plus football, netball, music and demo-button-related-fun) and on Sundays for a Xaverian Square Formation (the Xaverians are like a Catholic scouting movement) - last weekend they were learning to march – a very amusing experienced for all concerned!

I went to the post office yesterday in the hope that the parcels that I knew had been sent around three weeks ago might have arrived. I asked the lady whether there was anything there for me. She picked around inside her ear for a bit before looking under a pile of papers on her desk and then returning to the apparently infinitely more satisfying job of searching for ear wax. “No,” she replied in a silent, disinterested voice. “Do you think you could check box 34 for me?” I patiently asked. Five minutes later she returned from box 34, scuffing her feet painfully slowly along the tiled floor, still attending to her ear drums. “It's not there” she moaned in a half hearted attempt at sympathy. “But do you have a special place for parcels” I asked, hoping to remind her of the large parcel cupboard directly behind her. “No,” she declared, “if we have your parcel we will send you a sheet to inform you.” Hoping that I would now go away, she sat back down and continued her aural excavation. “Erm.... do you think you might be able to have a look in the parcel cupboard for me?” I persisted. Moving more slowly than anyone has ever moved in the history of the universe ,she got back up, finger still in ear, and moved towards the wardrobe/parcel cupboard. In the universe's attempt to propel life and energy into the situation, two parcels cascaded out of the wardrobe onto the post office attendant. Unphased, she picked the parcels up, examined them, brought them over to the counter and began to prepare herself for the immensely important task of filling out the duplicating receipt book. Once my name had been carefully spelled out in blue biro and the receipt duly stamped, three times, with the Post Office Uganda rubber ink stamp of approval, I was eventually set free. Thanking her earnestly for her assistance and wishing her a wonderful, joy-filled day, I left, goodies from home in hand. God bless Uganda!