Random

Just when you think it's all getting a bit repetitive, possibly a bit stale, maybe a little boring, you have a Tuesday night in Kampala.

The Irish Minister for Foreign Affairs, Michéal Martin, has been on a five-day visit to Uganda. Uganda is Irish Aid's single biggest aid and development program, apparently, and the Irish are well known within Kampala for being one of the most prominent and active of the diplomatic missions here, being almost universally well-regarded. On Monday Michéal Martin announced a pledge of €166 million for Uganda over the next four years, which is an amazing and encouraging promise to make during a year when every diplomatic mission, NGO and aid project is experiencing budget difficulties. All of which makes me very proud; Ireland gives more per capita in foreign development aid than many European countries, and to lose this uniquely generous characteristic due to domestic crisis would be a true shame.

Anyway, there was a drinks reception at the Irish Ambassador's residence to mark the occasion. I would imagine most of the Irish in Kampala – and quite a few from upcountry – were there. The Residence is a nice spot: beautiful but not imposing, luxurious but casual. The wine was flowing along with 2-litre bottles of Paddy whiskey, and brown soda bread and smoked salmon was being served on trays. And more wine was flowing. The Ambassador and the Minister made short speeches (a group of Ugandan school girls had sung the Irish national anthem as gaeilge to the Minister at a remote rural school earlier that day, and yes, he made Cork-Kerry football jokes). More wine. We briefly said hello to the Minister and shook his hand. Another glass of wine, and then one for the road.

Who did I meet at the Residence?

An instructor from a teacher-training college in Dublin who was travelling all over the country visiting students who are on placement in Ugandan schools for the summer, and his teenage daughter who was accompanying him.

A girl from Galway who took a year out after her Leaving Cert to come here, aged 17, alone, to teach English. What was I doing when I was 17? As far as I can remember, I nervous about leaving my uncle's shop and getting a job somewhere else in town. Which is more unusual – that I was nervous and shy, or that she is so brave?

Some people I'd met very, very late on Saturday night, who didn't remember meeting me. Enough said...

People who knew Front Line, and my Director in Dublin, and Margaret, and my housemate Sarah. Kampala is a small place.

Another glass of wine.

At about 10.30, we all went off down the road to Bubbles O'Leary's, the Irish bar (yep, everyone I meet down here can mysteriously remember my surname...) There had been wild rumours that the Minister would make an appearance there, but it wasn't meant to be. In fairness, he had flown across the country and spent the day trecking around Karamoja, one of the most devastated and remote parts of rural Uganda, so it was probably a good reason to be tired.

Who did we meet at Bubbles?

A group of Mexicans who were in Uganda making a horror film. Not that they were just in Uganda making a horror film, but they had come to Uganda especially to make a horror film. Strangely I never found out exactly why Uganda was the place for the project. Also with them was a guy from Dun Laoighaire who had somehow met up with one of the crew and had come down here specifically to help out. Makes me feel I really don't ever come across the right people in my wanderings. I'm still disappointed they didn't ask me if I'd like to be a zombie or chain-saw victim or a poltergeist.

Three Irish soldiers who have been sent down here by the Defence Forces to join an EU Joint Task Force to train members of the Somali national army, the training taking place in Uganda. Yes, I did ask the very question – Somalia has a national army? Indeed they do. The problem is that they don't have jurisdiction over very much territory. One of them - of course - was from Killarney, a Ronan Corcoran from Lisivigeen, who knows my uncles (he seemed a bit upset actually that they were my uncles rather than my brothers – I take it I made him feel old...!) Talking about the Spa football team and explaining just where in Tiernaboul Knockeragh is located, in a pub in Kampala, with a guy wearing full khakis and a beret, was one of the more bizarre experiences I've had in a while.

An Irish lady I had previously heard about but hadn't met, who runs an organisation here that works with refugees, with whom I promptly had an energetic argument about the International Criminal Court.

Amongst others.

At about 2.30am, we were arguing with the single taxi driver left outside the bar, who was predictably trying to overcharge us, when a guy we had been talking to inside earlier on came along and told us he was going to Muyenga if we wanted a lift. We had never met him before, and had only talked to him for five minutes that night, but he went out of his way to give us a drive home. Not only that, but it turns out he is from South Africa and works in Kampala training a local football team. So a South African football coach gave us a lift us home on the night Spain beat Portugal. Why not?!

Don't mention the fact that I have to leave Uganda in two weeks' time. It's nights like these, random, spontaneous and beautifully wholesome fun, that makes the idea of it break my heart.