It’s not Radio 2, but I like it..

Well chaps, we are back in Masindi, home of the edible Rolex (rolled eggs..get it?…in fact it’s an omelette of indeterminate ingredients cooked on the side of the street on a precarious metal plate sitting on white-hot charcoal, then rolled in a freshly made chapatti.) Hot and delicious with a cup of passion fruit juice.

Nothing else is particularly unique, but the buzz of this lively little town, its market, its friendly yet slightly diffident population, the music pouring and pounding on a Friday and Saturday night, the thousands of children, the perfect teeth revealed by wide, welcoming smiles make it feel truly alive.

The new swimming pool in a local hotel has people talking. The Europeans in town are a bit wary as the owner may be hoping to create a market for creamy green algae, possibly to be used as natural, chlorine flavoured face packs or fertiliser. But it is treated and the pool cleaned once in a while and if you are lucky, you can get a lovely swim and a soda by the pool…..and see the bottom!

It’s hot. No. Hot is not what it is. It’s &@£?%# hot. My tube of grip fill, bought innocently for some Minor repairs exploded today in the boot of the car while it was parked at work, in the Redearth Centre. A number of things in the boot that didn’t need repair are now well and truly repaired together like a sort of Tracy Emin sculpture homage to evostick.

But arriving at the house after 6 hours driving home from Entebbe was a pleasure. Stella came singing to the gate with her grand children in tow. Dressed in a woollen bobble hat, bare feet and largely unsupported upper chest area, she loped to the gate having broken off from sweeping the compound.

Her solos are a soliloquy to happiness as she glides and swoops from one tune to another, some recognisable and some I’m sure, just made up on the spot, in Runyoro and English, sometimes simultaneously. I think that because the lyrics can include references to fairly mundane domestic events eg. Getting changed to go home, Laundry powder, the 2 cats, sweeping the verandas, making school uniforms. Not radio 2 but I like it.

Mango, large, fat, black John Wayne of a cat greeted us by theatrically urinating on the car as soon as I Stopped in the drive. Up,went his tail, like a quivering fluffy umbrella handle and, fixing me with a ‘look’ out of the corner of his eye, peed a jetstream straight into the alloys; just sauntered off then with a ‘wotyoulookinat’ glance back over his shoulder.

He did it again an hour later while I was discussing a tree with potentially troubling branches. He reversed to my side where I was standing under the jack fruit tree, looked up at me, im sure he smiled, tickled the tips of my fingers with his upstanding tail, and irrigated the tree robustly, I think is the apt adjective. What’s it all about?

Stella loves him and talks to him constantly in English, so he’s able to join in the conversation. It’s unusual to say the least, but normal in our house. Pawpaw, his diminutive sister, just glares disdainfully and curls up, purring, on the verandah chair.

Not much has happened this week that would interest anyone who isn’t here, so I’ll hang on until I have more to tell.

– Redearth Co-Founder, Ronnie

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