How not to go on holiday

To keep you entertained while you look at our professional-quality photos from our recent holiday to Uganda, here is a brief How-To note to spicing up what might otherwise be an uneventful holiday abroad.

Principle 1: Leave your wallet in your checked-in luggage.

Although not seemingly a catastrophic act, this makes your flight immeasurably more exciting once you realise that you will need to pay $50 per person to enter Uganda, and that your money is awaiting you on the other side of the nice customs officer. It is further enhanced by the kind Ugandan in the seat next to you, who swears blind that the baggage handlers in Entebbe will identify your bag and steal your wallet from it before it ever reaches you. Sadly the fun was spoiled by a very helpful attendant and the bag turning up intact. Unlike our other bag, which enjoyed an extra little holiday in Nairobi.

Principle 2: Use a bank that regularly blocks your card when it is used to draw cash overseas.

A cast-iron banker for setting your heart beating slightly faster is the polite message at the ATM that your only source of money for the holiday has been rejected, and is to all intents and purposes a useless piece of plastic. Although Lloyds do give you a number to call should this happen, they make up for it by insisting on your secret telephone banking PIN code which you made up in 2005 and have not used since. We reduced the fun factor by having access to the internet and therefore answers to obscure security questions about my account, but this one clearly has a lot of potential if done right.

Principle 3: Use a ‘cheap’ car hire firm

Our kind friends whom we were staying with had a deal with a tour company, getting us cut-price rates on a car for our little planned safari. So much the better, we thought. And when the nice Land Cruiser turned up, we saw little room for adding to the excitement. We were effortlessly disabused as the support bar broke (does a car even have one?), leaving us stranded for 5 hours on the side of a west Ugandan road. Handy hint – if you can secure a driver who will not tell you what is wrong or how long it will take to fix, so much the better. It is also useful to make sure that the owner of the company considers it your fault that the car is broken, rather than his.

Principle 4: Assume that a security guard will ‘secure’ or ‘guard’ your belongings

On the way to a hotel with some other nice friends, we had the opportunity to verify for you, the attentive reader, that little can trump this very simple but effective rule. On reaching a fuel station in a sleepy little town and deciding to grab some food there, we cleverly assumed that the presence of an armed guard within touching distance of the car would keep it safe for 20 minutes. 20 minutes later, and minus 2 passports, 2 flight tickets, a few books and 3 bags of clothes, we asked the guard what might have happened. Out of the question that he had hidden inside during the rainstorm, he steadfastly informed us that we must have forgotten all of the above at home, that he was standing by the car at all times, and that as a man of God he never lied.

And two rules to make life easier:

1. Trust God. When all has gone wrong and there is nothing you can do, we remembered that there is a time to give up trying to make things happen and railing at the world. And that relying on the Big Man breeds patience and peace that we couldn’t have otherwise.
2. Depend on others. A whole network of kind people, foremost Gandalady, her husband and their very cool kids who put us up for a week, combined to get us back less than a week late and still reasonably sane. And reminded us that the best bits of a holiday are not necessarily the ones you have planned and paid for…

Rapping for peace in Darfur

I’ve never been to a rap concert before, but I’m fairly sure they don’t look like this.

Thinking that it would be more interesting than watching a DVD, we took up the invite to go and hear Al-Nour and his friend rap for peace in Darfur. Arriving at a residential house in a smart part of town, we found the rap massive in a small garden politely sitting in neat lines of plastic chairs facing a high stage with a couple of enormous speakers.

As we came in, an old woman was swaying as she played a tune from her mobile phone into a megaphone. A few mildly interested people looked across at her, while the majority went on chatting. We were greeted and led to a couple of hastily vacated chairs near the front. Sneaking a look round while trying not to look as conspicuous as two khawajas in seats of honour usually do, the audience was mostly made up of middle-aged men in smart shirts and women in colourful topes – material doubling as a wrap and a headscarf – surrounded by large numbers of children.

The atmosphere was wedding-festive. But instead of a beaming bride and groom, two scowling young men in baggy jeans strut-danced their way onto the stage, breaking into a few rap-grunts before bigging up the crowd. After a couple of numbers in Arabic, they tried their hand in English and French, singing a little bit about ethnic tolerance and a lot about women. Their credibility was only slightly damaged by the huge un-rapper like smiles they burst into now and again. And the singing was impressive - if they hadn’t swiped some lyrics from MC Solaar, then they must be the most talented people involved in the peace process so far. Though that might not be saying much.

In case this started getting too hardcore (not a huge risk), every couple of songs the rappers disappeared to stock up on water and lurk coolly in a side garden, to be replaced by a string of unlikely comperes who obviously felt things would get nasty if the crowd wasn’t entertained.

One of them, an old man in a dazzling all-white get-up, recounted what seemed to be the conjoined histories of rap and colonialism in Arabic, with the occasional explanation in English and nod in our direction. The man to be was clearly James Brown. Jazz and rock and roll beforehand, and the progression through to modern RnB had only happened to frame Brown’s greatness. He emphasised this with boyish wide-eyed excitement and a couple of slick pirouettes at every mention of his name.

As the sweaty evening progressed, we were treated to a second act – Breakdancers with moves and kit right from the 70s. The only things missing were the afros. The Omdurman Dancers, for these were they, were a group of ethnically mixed (tall, thin Dinka from the south, ethnic Arabs from the north and many others), very serious young men who had clearly grown up on a diet of 70s TV shows and football. Football, because after half an hour of whirlwind stunts, we were treated to a whole session of Peter Crouch robot impressions.

Thankfully, our friendly rappers returned, rescuing us from the risk of any Robbie Fowler or Rio Ferdinand-style efforts. By now the crowd was properly warmed up, in particular a group of distinguished old men in the front row. Getting up every five minutes with youthful shouts, Grandad A swayed in an immaculate ankle-length yellow-green Jallabiya, shaking his beautiful silk turban to the choons. Grandad B, complete with Samuel Lee Jackson reverse flat cap and glasses, clutched his bottle of chemical cherryade as he boogied backwards and forwards, desperately trying to persuade us to join him. Grandad C went a little further, jumping on stage and grabbing the microphone before launching into a beat-perfect accompaniment to the performers. A group of young girls in veils also excitedly simpered to the front, only to be struck each time by shyness and stand at the side of the stage giggling at each other.

And so the time came to leave. Walking back through the sauna of downtown Khartoum, we figured mandatory rap concerts at all future peace talks might just do the trick.