Living in a hot and humid environment has made me realize just how rubbish I am at drinking water. In this heat I need to be drinking at least 4 pints a day, some days I don’t manage even half of this. 
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
In my previous corporate life, I never made time to go to the bathroom so unless I was in a long boring meeting when the only way to stay awake was to drink copious amounts of caffeine laden coffee while stabbing myself regularly with a pen lid, I would go the entire 12 hour day perhaps only visiting the bathroom once. It didn’t occur to me that this was not normal and not good for my body.
Ironically, this poor behavior started in Uganda and I can trace it back to dealing with and managing the relationship with President Museveni. When we first start working together I’m summoned to State House whenever he has a question or just wants to chew the fat about our project, or other matters. Very quickly I learn this means to cancel all plans, bring a book and 200litres of patience. The security guards confiscate all mobile devices, pagers or laptops (unless previously agreed) at the gate. Frustratingly this means I cannot do any meaningful work, the wait is often 4-6 hours, the ladies bathroom is a walk away and I always worry I’m going to miss the meeting window. So I learn to ‘go’ before heading to State House and then I drink nothing until after I’ve seen him.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Later on I’m thrown out of my inner turmoil as he directly asks why I’m not drinking. I explain that the female anatomy means it’s more difficult to relieve oneself in the bush and I receive a long and, I think, well-meaning lecture on the perils of not staying hydrated. He’s amused as my response includes a joke regarding him not having this issue. 
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
The consequence is a long and most uncomfortable drive back to Kampala. My battered Toyota LandCruiser is not known for its comfortable suspension and each lurch and bump is a test of my pelvic floor.
Made worse by the fact I know he knows that I know that his power reaches beyond the normal transactional business of a tamper-proof automated electoral voting system.
Yes, doing business in Africa requires tolerance, perseverance, patience and heaps of flexibility, as well as the ability to adopt all the characteristics of a camel.
The car is filthy. The grime from the rear windscreen wiper builds up either side of the blade creating my rear window on a murky world.
On the plus side, it’s very prettily decked in Christmas lights, all twinkling in the dark, cool, night air and it has some of the very best public conveniences of any retail park I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to a few retail parks in my time!
Quality Cuts, the Belgian butcher serving fresh meat and cheese, European style. Food quality is good in Kampala but in my early days there, choice was limited. And food from the UK was rare. I once called Craig in the office to excitedly tell him I had bought a Frey Bentos pie for tea. This ‘delicacy’ being a rare find. Needless to say, this was a one time purchase.
But I left empty-handed, as I got to the cereal aisle and became so bewildered by the amount of choice, that I stood silently stupefied in front of the garishly coloured, neatly stacked boxes. The entire aisle was cereal – both sides – stacked high. It was just too much contrast from where I had come from.