Dispatch from Uganda

Last night I dreamt about Strictly Come Dancing. Well, it was Saturday after all. And then woke up under mosquito netting with the sound of Gandalady's kids playing in the next room. Yes, I am still in Uganda.

What hits you first about Uganda is the colours. Bright red earth, lush dark green vegetation and on a day like today a bold blue sky too (it is rainy season, so there has been a lot of cloud.) The dark black skin of the people. The jewel colours of school uniforms. And every shop that you pass - and almost every building you pass is a shop, even if a tiny bedraggled one the size of the cupboard under the stairs - is painted the bright colours of a company's brand, the hot yellows and pinks of the local mobile phone suppliers, the blood red of Coke, royal blue of Pepsi, and slogans, slogans everywhere: "Live on the Coke side of life!" "Cadbury's tastes as chocolatey as it looks!" "Africa's official drink of having a drink!"

And then the movement. People everywhere. Lorries, minibuses, cars, motorbikes, bicycles all weaving in and out of each other's dust. Nominally you drive on the left here. In fact it is survival of the fittest, or at least the biggest wheels. And anyway, the "left" might just be a great big hole. Cows, goats and chickens share the road with you, somehow managing to avoid getting hit. Ugandan cows have huge, long, curling horns that you really don't want wrapped around your fender. They move at a leisurely pace, unshockable. I suspect they are all deaf.

Oh yes, the noise! From those lorries, minibuses, cars and motorbikes, all hooting as loud as they can... And from the ubiquitous radio. The local stations are called Radio One and Capital FM. Sounds familiar? There is one English man who does all the jingles for every station before handing over to the Ugandan accented DJs. I imagine him as a young, blond dude hanging out at Kampala's swimming pools drinking cold beers and waiting for another radio station to start up. Ugandan taste in muic is broad. Sometimes a little too broad. If Phil Collins is tired of England he could start a new life here no problem. My personal preference is for the Dolly Parton that I hear everywhere, in cars, in hotels, on ths stereo in bars. "Coat of Many Colours" seems too appropriate here.

Everyone is warm and friendly. Elaborate greetings and even more elaborate handshakes from each person that you meet. The trick is to hold out your hand as limp as you can and let it be manipulated until the other person feels like stopping. Some handshakes defy even this manoeuvre. An elderly man holds out his arm, hand facing down. A village woman kneels at your feet.

People dress as smartly as they possibly can. Immaculately dressed women, every garment meticulously ironed, not a speck of dust on them despite the ankle-deep red mud, must look at me - creased and crumpled clothes from the bottom of the suitcase, Crocs on my feet (what looks ludicrous in London is perfect for rainy season Uganda) - and wonder what on earth I am playing at. Or perhaps they don't. A Ugandan woman speaks admiringly of the simplicity of European life. Even our politicians ride bicycles. (David Cameron's face is the first that I see stepping into my hotel, on a screen showing Sky News on the wall above check in.)

In the heart of this embracing, enveloping, charming culture is a hard stone. The people are poor. Poverty is boring to write about. What is there to say? We have money, they don't have money. We have stuff, they don't have stuff. I drive for three hours out of Kampala. Every single person I pass is poor. In the villages, you are wealthy if you have a second room to your mud hut, if you can eat more often than once a day. A family proudly display a clock, their only luxury. It doesn't tell the time. We ask whether a local school needs books. They reply that first of all they need a classroom.

Another stone: the threat to girls of enforced sex. From anyone, everyone. Primarily their teachers. How else to get good grades? Girls are sometimes pushed into sex with older men by their own families. It is a useful way to get them out of the house. After a while they get desensitised and then the borders between the exploited and the exploiter are more confusing. Girls will offer sex for university entrance, for one chapati. What does informed consent mean now? There are signs everywhere promoting abstinence. Posters in school read: "Young people refuse gifts for sex", "virginity is heathly for boys and girls", "sex does not make breasts grow" (It doesn't? Damn it). Huge billboards show a large, middle-aged African man: "Would you let this man have sex with your teenage daughter? Then why are you with his? Cross generational sex stops with you." I feel sorry for the model who has posed for the photograph. I visit a project for sex workers in Kampala. They sit guardedly, arms folded across their fronts, no elaborate handshakes from them. There are 3000 prostitues in just this one suburb. They tell stories of underage rape, unwanted pregnancy, being thrown out of home, that the sex trade is the only way they can make money. They are raped by their clients, they are raped by the police. The project promotes condom use. "We can make men wear condoms, but we are still sex workers", points out one woman: in other words, what is the point? They all want other jobs. But there are no other jobs. And for each one that leavs - or more likely, dies - there is another to take her place.

I say good bye, step back to the car. Dolly Parton on the stereo again: "Working nine to five". Did she mean nine at night until five in the morning? We drive off into the city. Everywhere, people smiling, working hard, making things, buying, selling, struggling to make a living, doing the best that they can. Children see our car passing and wave with excitement at the white people inside. It's a beautiful country.