Recently I was asked to write about myself including why I blog and I quickly realised to sum myself up in 100 words was not easy.
I guess one of my top talents is talking – non stop and complete nonsense. It is a talent I suppose. My family have always said kidnappers would just let me go to save themselves from my unstoppable mouth.
It is just like the famous “word vomit” from Mean Girls, except mine is constant. So I used a talent I have had since I was born to good use and started blogging.
However it never really would have started if I hadn’t gone to Uganda which is where the Tales of the Lost Mzungu was born.
The word Mzungu is used across Africa with the odd tweak here and there and basically means white traveller. It isn’t a racist label but if you do ever go to Africa be prepared to hear it a good few times.
I haven’t spoken much about Uganda on this blog. I feel like it is a completely different life that doesn’t match anything I write here. But I am feeling nostalgic today and I think it is time to share it.
The main reason, you ask. It is a celebration of 52 years since Uganda gained independence and although they get a lot of bad press, I feel like it’s high time that one of my all time favourite places should get recognised for it’s real, natural beauty.
I was lucky enough to be in Uganda during the 50th year celebration of independence which was, as you can imagine, a huge shindig. One which I will never forget. Not only because I painted the kitchen in our Ugandan house that week but also because it was when I fell in love with Kampala and when I realised what beautiful people the Ugandan’s truly are.
To celebrate, Holly and I headed through to Kampala for the first time after a crazy night of one WKD in a scummy hotel in Masaka which let us walk straight into the biggest and craziest parade I have seen.
When we met our friends they were all decorated in colour with Uganda football tops and a mass of paint and filled to the brim of stories about how they had jumped on one of the parades and drummed along with the Ugandan’s and danced through the streets all night.
Kampala was full of colour, fun and excitement. And that only continued through the country. Even my little village put up signs, held parties and had concerts that went on into the next day.
Women put their best Gomez’s on and headed to the fields to dance with the other celebrators.
Men smiled at the beauty of their wives and children and thanked God for what they had been blessed with.
Churches sang and danced with moor oomph that usual. Drums were brought out. Children danced. Grins went from ear to ear.
Beauty completed encompassed me. And that was when I realised that it wasn’t that Uganda had suddenly become beautiful. I just had been too material obsessed to realise that although these people had nothing; they had smiles, hope and so much love that I never felt alone.