Yes?

'I was born in Uganda', Hassin was positively beaming. 'I grew up in Uganda, and I will die in Uganda, yes?'. He slaps the steering wheel emphatically and throws his head back in exaggerated laughter. Like most Ugandans, he is dressed smartly in a bright purple dress shirt and formal pants. His shoes are impeccably shined Swerving occasionally on the red dirt road to avoid pot holes, goats and the occasional small child, we bump along from Entebbe to Kampala. Every few minutes he pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and mops his shaved head. The humidity can be overpowering.

Two guards sit slouched against a watchpost, sheltering from the afternoon sun. Their uniforms are something from a time capsule. Colonial-era not modern combat fatigues, they look like something from a costume party. One has his cap pulled down over his face, the other an AK-47 couched casually across his lap. At his feet lies a bazooka. Not in immediate reach but close enough Clearly there was no immediate need for such high-power ordinance.

'This is your first time to Uganda, yes?'. I nod, watching him grin from ear to ear. 'Ah you have come to the right place, yes? We have the best. The people, the best culture, the best food, yes?' His laughter is uncontrollable. And he's not joking. Luscious fruit trees line the street, their produce being offered by street-side vendors. Despite the obvious poverty, people everywhere have smiles on their faces.

I'm struck by the massive number of boda bodas, small motorbikes lacking a speedo or any reasonable suspension. They fill the streets, zipping in and out of the traffic that frequently gets gridlocked. No one wears a helmet. Women always ride side-saddle. The sides of the road are filled with young men loitering on their bikes in groups. Clearly,it seems anyone who is anyone owns a boda.