Hotel Afrique

The eternal question in every city I come is: Where do I swim? Taking a dip in the pool and making some 30 odd rows is an undispensable part of my work out. That is when I am not filming. Then my training is a direct result of having a heavy camera stand. I can assure you, carrying that thing the whole day really keeps you fit, and reassures you of a really deep sleep (even without beer). I remember when I was shooting a documentary on a child soldier in Southern Sudan, I asked the boy to carry it (I told him that becoming a television journalist starts with taking care of the tripod). When we walked for a few hours, he realised something. ‘You know, shooting a gun is not the hardest part,’ he said with his bright eyes. ‘It’s the fact that you have to carry it the whole day that makes it heavy.’ That kind of revelation is what I am looking for as a journalist.

Work out
So in the rare moments I am idle, I work out. The easiest way would be to join a gym, and to start wrestling with these mechanical creatures. I don’t like it, it has this atmosphere of showing off, and everybody using them start to move like a robot. Also the sweat smell can be horendous. I prefer swimming, it’s just me and the water, and on hot days it’s refreshing. Now, finding a pool in African cities is a challenge. In Nairobi where I regularly come I finally know where to go. My favorite spot is the pool of the Panafric Hotel. Bad thing is that the management recently tripled the price (probably to keep guys like me out. I can still remember that I used to eat chips there after swimming. Of course I took a lot of Heinz ketchup. Some months later all the bottles were replaced by a cheaper brand. It makes me feel guilty.).

Junk
Now I am in Kampala and ready with the job I came to do. Now I have to start the usual investigation. In The Netherlands there are well-kept public pools, mostly managed by the city council. In the African cities never discovered any public pool. So you have to rely on hotels. In Kampala I assume the search at the Sheraton Hotel. That drab of white concrete in the city centre, visible from virtually every corner. However, it boasts a very nice and large pool. It’s circular, and has a lot of sun beds. When I am standing pool side I realise that I forgot to carry my swimming gear. I rush back to town to get one. Now, buying something as a white guy in Kampala is a challenge. You know that your actual presence will double, triple, quadruple, the price. It’s something you have to live with as a white African. That’s why I came to appreciate department stores. The prices are fixed. So there’s no bargaining, and no cheating. People who pretend that bargaining is fun, didn’t do it enough. It’s just a waste of time, and you can wonder if you ever get the real price.

Boxer short
Outside the Sheraton I halt a motor bike, ‘boda boda’ in local language. ’1,000 Shilling,’ he asks for a ride to city centre, not even five minutes. ‘Stop it my friend. I pay you 500. Let’s go.’ He wants to insist, but I just sit down on the back seat. He decides to go. Even 500 is too much, but I don’t want to be too strict because I know they have big families to feed. 500 is about 25 Dollar cents. So we go to a main street, near the Tourist Hotel (no pool there FYI). A nice boxer short would have to do for the swimming of today. I don’ even know if they still make specific shorts for swimming, so I stick to the cheap boxer shorts. Also it’s a nice opportunity to improve on your collection of underwear. ’10,000 Shilling,’ says the first shop keeper. Incredible, that’s the same price you would pay in Europe. Six Dollars for a cheep boxer short, imagine. That’s what I tell him. ‘These are made of real cotton. We have to keep certain standards.’ He tells me to go to the market at the taxi park.

Mzungu
That market is not much more then a row of improvised stalls near the muddy tracks that lead down to the taxi park. ‘Mzungu, mzungu!’ the guys are shouting, meaning white man. What I learned is that it’s actually friendly to be called like that. Since you’re the only one, it’s effective. You will look, and sometimes when I feel annoyed, I just reply ‘Mwafrica!’, meaning African. Usually that makes people smile. There is nothing wrong with it, and at least the shouting stops. There are lots of boxer shorts here, and the one guy who attracts my attention offers me a nice blue one for 2,500 Shillings. He came down from 4,000 and that’s reasonable. Holding my trophee in the hand I climb back to a boda boda, and the Sheraton. At the entrance my luggage is checked, and I enter withouth hinderance. There’s not so much metal on me. When you would have piercings that could result in embarrassing situations, depending on where you have them.

Bored
‘We charge 10,000 Shilling for swimming,’ the man at the reception tells me with a generous smile. ‘Yes, the towel is included.’ Also it’s more then you would pay in Holland. Although there you have to bring your own towel. I decide to have a look again at the pool. It’s nicely laid out at the back of the building on a elevated level. There I take the stairs, and when entering the place everybody looks up, like saying: ‘A new one? Who’s that?’ Around the pool there are only half naked wazungu (plural for mzungu), lying on sun beds or sitting at the edge of the pool. Nobody is saying anything, let alone swimming. They look bored, seemingly just killing their time up to the next flight or workshop session. That’s it, people are not here for fun. I didn’t want to be part of that. Life is too nice to be bored. From previous visits in Kampala I remember Hotel Equatoria. They might have a pool there, and at the gate of Sheraton I take another boda boda, of course after the compulsory bargaining.

African
Hotel Equatoria is an African style many star hotel, and the nice thing about it is that most of the residents and visitors are African. The pool is in the middle of the building, surrounded by terraces. The price is also 10,000 Shilling, including a small towel. The lady at the counter is very friendly, and shows me the changing rooms. There I finally put my newly obtained boxer short, and the size appears to be perfect. Okay then, now comes the actual entering of the pool area. Usually when you enter a place you inmediately notice that you’re the only mzungu, and also in Equatoria that is the case. I am only wearing this blue boxer short, and over my shoulder I am carrying the towel. Being half naked in public is one thing (I am not the world’s most physical guy), but entering a pool area half naked with only black people around you, is another thing. You feel double naked and double white. It feels like everybody is staring at you. When walking it was like hearing the tune of the Pink Panther or rather Mr. Bean. I had to be careful not to trip over something. My blue boxer short? My slightly bronzed skin? The only solution is to walk very decided to a sun bed, put your towel, and enter the water as soon as possible. The other swimmers are black Africans, and they welcome me with big smiles. It is a group of boys and girls who are getting swimming instructions. ‘You are an expert,’ one of the boys says to me. In the shallow part of the pool he is practicing free style. Slowly he is moving his arms through the water, and tries to use his legs simultaneously. ‘I have to practice,’ he admits. A man on the side of the pool says something to the group. The boy smiles again. ‘Our instructor says we have to look at you to learn.’ I must say that over the years in Africa I did a lot of practicing, although I only mastered free style. The other types of swimming are too macho for me, and you cannot see anything while doing it. So I continued swimming, giving some advice to the boys and girls. The trainer is nowhere to be seen by now. Maybe he is off for a beer. I swim some 35 rows, and enjoy a book on a sun bed. This will be the hotel pool I use in the future in Kampala.