First Day in Uganda

If you haven't yet read Part One, keep scrolling down.

The intrepid explorers last left you on the way to the Guest House. Now we can rejoin them as they arrive ...

Part Two

After arriving at the Guest House, we had enough time to have a quick shower and, in some cases, a little sleep (staying up all night watching films on such a small screen really takes it out of a person) before having lunch.

Meals at the guest house are in a buffet style, with food such as fish, rice, chips, a meat dish of some kind (sometimes beef, sometimes... not...) and various other foods. Despite expectations, all the food is excellent. The fruit that is served after the meal, and with breakfast, is phenomenal. Next time you go shopping, buy a pineapple and eat it. That taste is nothing like as good as it should be. Even if you have the nicest pineapple Tesco's has to offer it won't come close. As well as to-die-for pineapples, they also serve would-murder-for melons, and try-and-stop-me-eating-them bananas.

Back to the narrative however.

After lunch, we headed off to see the Tiger's clubhouse. It's fair to say that some of us were fairly apprehensive about the visit. How would we be recieved? What kind of state would the centre be in? What about the boys themselves?

As it turns out, we needn't have worried. Its fair to say that we now have a good idea of how celebrities must feel. We couldn't have imagined a warmer welcome, from the boys and the staff.

We were shown around the different parts of the clubhouse by Chris, the owner. It is hard to describe it here. There must have been 50 boys around the communal areas. There are also showers, a kitchen, school rooms and a main hall. There are also lots of courtyard areas where the boys can play and hang out.

After being shown around, we spent some time talking to the boys themselves.

This is Will's account of the experience:

Talking to the boys was such an eye-opening experience, and yet somehow it didn't quite register - it couldn't be real. There was no way that a child of 12 years old could have seen both parents die, and have to fight for his survival on the streets of Kampala. Yet he was still able to laugh and shout as he beat me at a thumb war. To be able to get on with life in such a way, with laugher and games, requires a strength that I, in my reletively cotton-wool and bubbled-wrapped exsistance, cannot begin to fathom.