The first time I went to Kampala the third time I was there.

Kampala through the eyes of a tourist can be ‘done’ in one day. A ‘special-hire’ taxi takes you from the imposing Gaddafi mosque, to the museum, to the Kasubi tombs, and can drop you in some nice restaurant in Kololo in time for a dinner of ostrich curry and grilled crocodile imported from South Africa. That’s all very nice.

Kampala

Kampala through the eyes of those who live and work there is, inevitably, another city. Felix is the contact who has brought us here, to make some media appearances on behalf of our organisation. He got his first job at ten, founded an events management company at the age of fourteen, has worked for the government, in another life was a DJ, and now finds himself a civil society activist more-or-less under the wing of a leading Ugandan philanthropist. From our mzungu-dominated hostel, where loud pop music oppresses those eating breakfast and Sunday is mudwrestling day, he leads us through 

Kampala’s rush-hour of snaking taxi-buses and swarming taxi-bikes. London has far more inhabitants than Kampala, but here it seems that more of those inhabitants find themselves in the same place at the same time. It’s overwhelming. Through this density of street-vendors, commuters, high-rise blocks and small identikit businesses, we reach the industrial area all-concrete, all-broad streets, and comparatively empty. This is where the media studios can be found. 

Snaking taxi-buses

Robert is our host on the show. He speaks English with a soothing, honeyed accent, a mixture of educated Ugandan and BBC World Service. And he talks with a disarming, welcoming familiarity, dropping in reminiscences of his time in south-west London and lamentations about the teaching style in Ugandan schools. It’s like a conversation with an old friend. He’s the exception, though, in this environment dominated by young, energetic media professionals. The next show to be filmed is on social media, and the 24-year old producer Irene, in ripped jeans and converse, is running around trying to locate a Mac charger whilst shouting her Twitter handle at me. Our turn is over, though, and Felix leads us out and on.

The next stop is the offices of the civil society organisation, aimed at inspiring and empowering Ugandans. The office is luxurious - dark polished wood and leather seats - and the partitions are in an Oriental style; we are told that it was a Chinese company that did the renovations. While we wait for the organisation’s head to finish a meeting, we are shown pictures of events, of massed crowds, tree-planting ceremonies and panels of speakers. Certificates on the wall give further proof of success. When we are finally shown in, John is a whirlwind; leisurely seated, one leg over the other, he unleashes a wave of charisma and forthright opinions about anything we care to mention or not mention, which stuns us into awed and appreciative silence. He speaks with such passion that I don’t want him to stop, as the whole of Africa’s problems are laid out and solved in a matter of minutes. There is a lot of wisdom there – “if you want anything out of Africa, you must involve Africans... if you are not impacting the lives of people then you should go on holiday”- and whether or not you agree with all that he says, you have to respect this man, who is made “bitter, and hungry and angry” by the state of his country, and has contributed a large part of the fortune he has amassed to doing something about it. Abruptly, our interview is over, and we file out, clinging to his business card and recoiling from the force. We continue our journey with Felix.

His manner now is informal and confident, self-assured, throwing in jokes here and there and indulging in directness that verges on bluntness with these people he barely knows. This is his city and he leads us, halting traffic with his hand and informing us about the buildings we pass. We reach the enterprise fair, which is slightly limp in the light rain. There are stove-manufacturers here, ‘Uganda’s first chocolate-makers,’ spice-sellers, and a woman much-celebrated for making jewellery and accessories out of drinking straws. The soundtrack is pop, interspersed with comments from the eccentric MC – “Go and eat lunch, I want to see happy, smiling faces... Microfinance, the next song is yours”. His slight absurdity leaks into reality with the appearance of a solitary camel, which strolls through the stalls. Just when we turn to leave, the dancers arrive, hips detached from the rest of their bodies as they shake. Felix’s invitation to us to join in is politely declined.

Gratuitous camel at the SME fair

We wander back towards the mosque, which we do intend to visit (we are tourists, not natives of Kampala), back through the many layers of the city. Our guide and the language barrier insulate us from the slight intimidation I have felt before here. He does translate the occasional comment, though, and they range from the outright offensive to the strangely epic: “there are many white people roaming around”. We negotiate the taxi park and climb the Old Kampala hill, reaching the mosque with Felix’s shoes and suaveness intact. It’s here we part, the visitors dropped delicately back into the role of bazungu tourists, where perhaps we belong.

Names have been changed.