WALKING ON WATER

RACHEL RIEDERER

I stared out the window of the Jeep at the spot where the Nile had been halved. One side of the riverbed had been completely filled in—a combination of soil, stone, and concrete piled high and dense enough to force all of the water to the other side. In the driver’s seat of the Jeep was Kenneth Kaheru, a civil engineer and manager at the Bujagali Dam construction site just outside the town of Jinja, Uganda. It was July 2009; two years later, the transformation would be complete, and in place of that expanse of earth and river would lie the foundation of a massive hydropower dam. Dams on this scale have to be built in two parts, Kaheru explained to me, so his company had filled in one side of the river first. They would build it up, then open a spillway to extend the structure to the other side of the riverbed.

The construction site was downstream from another dam, one completed fifty years earlier by the British colonial government. That older dam marks the edge of Lake Victoria, the largest lake in Africa. Water spills through the dam’s turbines, creating a big part of the nation’s electricity, before emerging to form the headwaters of the White Nile. It wasn’t far from the guesthouse where I was staying, a little house run by a group of siblings in their teens and twenties, whose parents lived in one of the villages outside of town, and populated by a bunch of British teens on a gap year, and me. I’d visited the dam as soon as I’d arrived in town. Looking over the edge, I hadn’t been able to comprehend how anything man-made could hold back such a large body of water. I didn’t have time to ponder the view for long—a soldier with a rifle approached and told me to keep moving—because of its role in the nation’s energy production, the dam is a national-security asset as well as a wonder of physics.

I had come to East Africa to write about a trio of dramatic environmental issues that were plaguing Lake Victoria. The gigantic Nile perch, an invasive species of fish imported during the colonial era, had gobbled most of the lake’s other inhabitants to near extinction, turning the lake into a giant monoculture. Another invasive species, the water hyacinth, an ornamental plant with long purple flowers that grows in thick mats on the surface of the water, had become so overgrown that it had, in some places, choked out whole docks and ports—scientists and local fishermen were beating it back with everything from machetes to dynamite. But to me, the most intriguing of these problems was the question of the missing water.

For years, Lake Victoria’s water level had been dropping drastically, and there wasn’t a consensus about how or why. A mild drought had recently plagued the lake, and some population growth in the region had increased the amount of water use, but neither change fully accounted for the way the water was slipping away from the waterline it had held for decades. But while traveling around the lake pursuing these stories, I’d gotten sidetracked by the new dam. The Bujagali Dam was being hailed by the Ugandan government and the World Bank as a source of clean and renewable energy. Its sheer scope was arresting: when completed, it would control the headwaters of the Nile.

It was also the center of a heated controversy—many big dams are. They displace people and disrupt ecosystems. They are complicated from a carbon perspective—certainly cleaner than burning fossil fuels, but their reservoirs are sources of surprisingly high emissions of the global-warming gas methane. And, as John McPhee writes in his 1971 Encounters with the Archdruid, dams are rich with symbolism. “The conservation movement is a mystical and religious force, and possibly the reaction to dams is so violent because rivers are the ultimate metaphors of existence, and dams destroy rivers,” he writes. “Humiliating nature, a dam is evil.”

I was not yet a student of dams, or the movements against them, but it was clear even in my naivete that the Bujagali project embodied especially weighty tensions. The nation needed energy, and building a new hydropower dam was one way to get it. But the dam would also displace the indigenous Basoga community that lived along the river, and further throw off the water balance of the lake that millions of people depended on. So often, the questions of environmental justice are subtle, played out in particulate-matter levels invisible to the naked eye or across time scales too slow to register as emergencies until it’s too late. But with this dam, central questions of environment and development—How much is enough? Which communities have to bear the costs? and, crucially, Who gets to decide?—were being made visible in real time. Their answers, in this case, would emerge from the building of a massive structure extending nearly 100 feet into the ground and 150 feet above. The project was divisive, though, for reasons beyond the usual: as one local professor explained to me, “For the Basoga, the Bujagali Dam will mean spiritual death.”

Touring the Bujagali construction site, with its mountains of gravel, battalions of earthmovers, even buildings to house on-site cement production and stone-crushing—I could see a controlled fire burning in one such structure—I began to understand how these hydrologic leviathans come into being: through the accumulation and exertion of a huge amount of material, machinery, energy, capital, and will. I was fascinated with the dam—and with all of Lake Victoria’s environmental troubles—because it seemed to make clear the connections and interdependence among vast systems that were masked in my own experience. Living in New York City, I was separated from the sources of my own food, water, and power by miles, by complex arrangements of shipping and purification and transport and infrastructure that I depended upon but that were all invisible to me. That trip taught me to investigate these systems in my own life; at the time, I just wanted to go to a place where they were more on the surface, more easily seen.

At the Bujagali construction site, the banks of the Nile were steep. There, water pushed against the riverbed, smashed into the partially submerged boulders where cormorants perch and dive. It frothed against the few small islands covered with primordial-looking ferns that had managed through some tenacious geology not to be eroded or carried downstream wholesale. The riverbed’s downward gradient wasn’t dramatic—the water tumbles forward so fast it’s easy to overlook that it’s also falling downhill—but it was enough to give the water tremendous force and speed, pushing even against its own surface, mixing with the air above it. The water that had looked like an expanse of black glass, during its rest in Lake Victoria, became an opaque white froth.

Today, the water no longer looks like that. The dam that was being built—and contested—when I visited in 2009, was completed in 2012. The Bujagali Falls are now submerged beneath the surface of another reservoir.

This spiritual controversy had to do with the falls from which the then-embryonic dam got its name. The Bujagali Falls did not look like my conception of a waterfall—rather than a cascade dropping in a vertical wall, they were a series of descending whitewater rapids. They were just a few kilometers upriver from the construction site, in the zone that was submerged when the dam was completed. I kept thinking about what the professor had told me about “spiritual death,” and the vague references I’d kept hearing about how the falls were “spiritually significant” to the Basoga—but I was nagged by the distant language, and wanted to understand what it meant for a stretch of rapids to be so holy.

Since the dam was funded by the World Bank, it had to follow the bank’s rules about protecting culturally sacred places, which dictate that the funder and developer must work with community leaders to mitigate irreversible cultural damage. In the case of Bujagali, that meant working closely with the Basoga’s local spiritual leader, the Nabamba Bujagali, for whom the falls were a sacred site, a home to both gods and ancestral spirits. To prepare for the construction of the dam, the hydro developer, AES Nile Power, needed to engage the spiritual leader to relocate the spirits from the falls. That leader, a type of shaman, was to move them—via a spiritual ceremony—to some nearby shrines, where people could continue to worship or pray after the relocation.

The problem was that at the time, it wasn’t clear—at least to outsiders—who the Nabamba Bujagali was, because there were two men claiming the title. The older of the two went only by Jaja Nabamba Bujagali; he didn’t use—and nobody else seemed to remember—the name he had before he’d adopted the religious title. The younger man also claimed the title of Nabamba but still went by his original name, Benedicto Nfuudu. (To avoid confusion, I will call the older man Jaja and the younger, Nfuudu.) Years before, AES Nile Power had contracted with both men to perform the ceremonies and get the falls spiritually ready for submersion, a sort of hydrological last rites. This didn’t go as the developers had hoped.

It’s hard to know exactly what happened at those spirit-relocation ceremonies, which took place in the late 1990s. I’ve read accounts by foreign correspondents from the United States and Europe that include a bonfire, dancing, and the sacrificing of a chicken and a goat. Other retellings are more sedate. A member of the World Bank Inspection Panel sent to assess the situation in 2001 wrote: “Both mediums have contacted the spirits on behalf of AESNP. Both have signed contracts with AESNP.” Nobody I met during my time in town believed in the authenticity of both Jaja and Nfuudu—their relationship seemed strictly either/or. But the World Bank and the power developer were committed to hearing both sides (a decision that, in a way, diminishes the authority of both). The report continues: “Both have stated that if appropriate ceremonies were financed by AESNP and carried out by themselves, the spirits will accept project-induced changes to the spiritual landscape.”¹

Whatever exactly happened, we know that the two diviners summoned the spirits and asked them to relocate to a place that would be safe when these banks were inundated. Jaja says the spirits never agreed to move. Nfuudu says they did.

My visit to Uganda was nearly ten years after those spirit-relocation ceremonies, and, as I grew more and more curious about the story of the dam, I visited the spot where the relocations had taken place. I hired a motorbike taxi in Jinja and we traveled north out of town, on the highway running parallel to the river. After a while the driver turned onto a hilly dirt road flanked by the waxy bright green of banana trees. We zipped down the hill through clouds of red dust, the bike stuttering and slowing as we climbed up the other side. Eventually the road leveled off and the forest gave way to rows of small tin-roofed houses, the women inside them selling soda, bracelets, fruit, batteries, and phone cards, or roasting meat to serve with steaming portions of matoke, Uganda’s ubiquitous plantain mash.

In addition to spiritual leaders and hydro developers, the visible power of that stretch of river had attracted the attention of whitewater rafters, who flocked to Jinja from all over the world to experience the rapids’ energies. Beyond the vendors a steep staircase of stones and tree roots wound down to the riverbank. I climbed down the steps, past the rafters’ cabins, past the row of rustic bathroom stalls, past the open-air thatched bar where tanned Australians sipped Bell Lagers, to the launch area. A group was getting ready to start their trip down the river. Six rafters waited, tense in their helmets and life jackets, cushioned from the rocky shoreline by layers of inflated vinyl. Their guide waded in up to his shins and gave the raft a shove, hopping onto the rubber inflatable just as the river caught hold and whisked it downstream. In seconds, they were around the bend and out of sight.

It was easy to see what made this place so special, how it drew so many different types of people to it. I’d never seen so much water exerting so much force. The air was full of mist, and constantly moving. The ground itself seemed to vibrate the soles of my feet—maybe it did, or maybe it was just the effect of the roar of the water. But all these elements—the sound, the thrum of the bank, the cool wafts of fog—were peanuts compared to the river itself, an arc of pure force carving its way through stone. The Basoga, the whitewater rafters, the hydropower company were all responding to the same awesome, encompassing energy. Their responses to that power were different: to worship it, to ride it to an adrenaline high, or to wrest it into submission and transform it into the domesticated form of power that runs our lamps, the fridge.

I walked farther downstream, to where the riverbank curved in a protective S shape, creating a small inlet of calm. Two young men had docked their wooden rowboats with outboard motors, offering trips out to the islands in the middle of the river. I paid for my passage and hopped into a rickety boat along with two young Danish women. The driver barely used the motor at all during the ten-minute ride. Talkative on the shore, the boatman was quiet on the river. He focused on navigating, his relationship to the water at once cooperative and adversarial. He seemed to know the spots where the current was gentler or even shifted direction entirely. Using a long paddle, he eased the boat through this network of secret swirls and ebbs and flows so that we moved slowly toward the center of the river instead of being pulled straight downstream.

He pulled the boat up to the lee side of the small island, a mound completely covered in thin-limbed trees, which were in turn covered in ferns and climbing vines. We climbed over rocks and up a path to the top of the island, about twenty feet above the water. “This island,” the young boatman shouted, “is a spiritual place, used for special spiritual purposes.” His voice barely carried over the noise of the water crashing into the boulders around us on all sides. “Who uses it?” I shouted back. “What kind of rituals?”

“The spirit of Bujagali, he walks here, on the top of the water,” I thought I heard him say, but I wasn’t sure I had heard him right over the roar of the river. Basoga tradition has it that, when a new Nabamba Bujagali assumes the title, he does so by walking across the rapids—reading about it, I had supposed it was a metaphor. I didn’t want to interrogate the young boatman with incredulous questions about religion. But I knew who I had to talk to.

Before leaving the river, I stopped again at the bank. It was hard to look at the current and not imagine oblivion—the edge of the water had the siren song of a cliff. Mesmerizing, deadly. Yet in that huge, muscular cord of water, small birds were diving. Scrawny cormorants with long curved necks that gave them the silhouettes of snakes floated along in calmer portions, jauntily diving for fish. Earlier on my trip, some boys in town had tried to impress me, shown me a cormorant they’d captured and clumsily tied up with twine. It was wet and wriggling, on its side in a cardboard box, and I’d squealed with pity and said that they should let it go. Here were its cousins, casually diving through water that set my human heart trembling. I felt high on the river’s power, felt I could see the power that was being exchanged and exerted everywhere, usually invisibly. Each bird that dove, I thought would certainly be smashed against an underwater rock and drowned—I laughed with relief and awe as each one surfaced and resumed its unbothered bobbing.

I arrived at Jaja’s home one morning and was welcomed past a low, cracked concrete wall into a large plot of land with the brick frame of a large but incomplete house at its center. Some rooms were covered with sheets of corrugated metal, but others were open to the leafy tree branches above. A disused car sat in front of the house, several small goats picking at the grass around it. Beyond the goats was a series of squat earthen structures: shrines to house the local spirits. It was a humble place for the man on whom the last hope of the anti-dam movement was pinned.

In the yard, Jaja’s son Moses greeted me and my translator, Anthony. Anthony and I had met and become friendly at the loud parties that were always being held in the backyard of the guesthouse—he’d grown up in the Basoga villages and knew the language and the religion. He usually led safari tours but agreed to be my translator and help me make appointments, even though he was always saying he was mystified by my interest—the traditions were old and boring to him. Moses led us inside to a living room stuffed with two massive armchairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. Jaja was visible in the other room, sitting on the floor with three women, all four of them shredding their way through a large pile of dried leaves that would be part of a medicine, Moses told me. Moses had short hair and wore Western-style slacks and a white button-down shirt; he would have looked at home walking along the modern streets of Jinja or Kampala, but his father, Jaja, had long, yellowing dreadlocks and wore over his shirt a tattered barkcloth vest covered with cowrie shells.

Jaja came out of the other room and produced a large reusable shopping bag emblazoned with a picture of a young couple kissing, which served as his filing cabinet. I asked him about what sorts of spirit-relocation ceremonies he had participated in over the years, but he wasn’t interested in these questions and seemed intent only on providing me with evidence that he was in fact the real Nabamba. He pulled out a booklet produced by the World Bank Inspection Panel detailing its mission and featuring a photo of himself with some members of the panel. He showed me notes addressed to “Mr. Bujagali,” inviting him to various ribbon-cutting and groundbreaking ceremonies that had taken place over the past twenty years.

I hoped he’d produce one particular 2001 letter I’d read a copy of in a World Bank report, sent from a public relations firm to request the initial appointment between the Nabamba Bujagali and representatives from AES Nile Power. The letter declared its purpose to “humbly request an introduction meeting between the Living Bujagali and Shandwick UK Public Relations Consultants.”

I’d been fascinated by the collision of worlds that letter represented—the world of international power development, speaking a language of corporate public relations jargon, and a tradition with a relationship to nature in which the highest spiritual role was the guardian of a waterfall—and the same unexpected mixing was visible in Jaja’s house. We sat on furniture that could have been pulled from the floor of a Raymour and Flanigan, looking through a gaping hole in an unfinished brick wall at a shaman shredding leaves for medicine.

This juxtaposition of tradition and newness also showed up in the way that people talked about the spiritual leaders of Bujagali. When I talked to a young reporter friend in Kampala about going to see Jaja, he had laughed and said, “That crazy one with the dreadlocks?” When I told one of the brothers running the guesthouse where I was staying in Jinja, his face turned suddenly very serious and concerned. His response made me nervous: he warned me to be very polite to the Nabamba to avoid incurring a curse. He advised me to bring some kind of gift, like maybe some eggs.

I did not bring eggs (Anthony had been mortified by the egg idea—he had a general horror of the rural—but hadn’t suggested something else). I did make a donation to a basket of cash that one of Jaja’s wives brought out. Jaja didn’t want to talk about the ceremonies of the past. He preferred to discuss his plan for an ecumenical meeting. He had not been able to get the spirits to agree to leave the falls and was unsure how to proceed. This made sense to me, after visiting the river—the power was the place. I didn’t know much about the spirits he was talking about, but if they had something to do with the awareness I’d felt at the riverbank—of my own smallness, of the way that force reverberates, of the secret quiet parts inside of tumult—I understood why they could not just be packed up and moved somewhere more convenient. But he was sure he could figure out what to do next; he just needed to bring together all the other major spiritual leaders from Uganda and discuss.

From the shopping bag, he pulled out a proposal requesting several hundred thousand dollars of funding for the conference, which would bring sixty-five spiritual leaders together. “My interest is not financial,” he insisted—reflecting the fact that, as international controversy had grown around the dam, each side accused the other of bad faith and bribery. “It’s just that I want this all to be done.” The conference would help him and the other leaders figure out how to proceed, to appease or persuade the gods and avoid tragedy that would result from the dam going forward without divine approval. “People working on the dam would die,” he said. “I’m very worried.”

In fact, the entire delay was about money, and the steep tag for his proposed ceremony reflected his experience that the World Bank and the entities involved in the hydropower operation had not just deep but bottomless pockets. Indeed, it must have seemed that way: the price tag for the dam project recently topped $800 million U.S., an amount that expressed in Ugandan shillings is so high as to be essentially nonsense to someone who makes a living dispensing medicine and advice for donations nearly always under a dollar. Since the 1990s, Jaja’s neighbors had been offered cash and plots of land for their own resettlement; he was given money to perform ceremonies to relocate spirits that he didn’t control. The way that developers deal with cultural property and spirituality had become clear: monetize it.

I had not, until that day, stopped to think about why or how religion might be one of the last possible ways to stop a dam from displacing the Basoga. Why did this extremely old man, a frail figure in a falling-down house outside of town, seem to be the last bastion against a collection of international corporations and financiers? The fact is that, in guidelines governing World Bank financing rules for such projects, designating a property as spiritual or cultural is one of the few ways that spaces can be safely removed from the realm of what’s for sale. There are no special provisions for land or water that is especially beautiful or biodiverse. You cannot block a giant infrastructure project from inundating your home by simply saying that your family has lived there for generations and that you prefer to stay.

A few weeks earlier, I had visited the offices of the existing dam at Owen Falls. There, I was asking the engineers and operators about another pressing question of mine, one that had nothing to do with Bujagali Falls. I wanted to know more about the missing water in the lake. Lake levels had started to recover, since their lowest point a few years earlier. But it was still unclear why they had dropped in the first place. A hydrologist I’d met in Nairobi told me he had been modeling the lake level for years. He had factored in municipal uses, rainfall, drought, temperature—everything—and had concluded that the missing water could only be explained by operators of the Owen Falls dam releasing more water than usual to generate more power.

If true, his conclusion would have international implications, because water-release protocols were bound by an agreement among nations that share Lake Victoria (Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania) and many more that share the Nile, which the lake feeds. The dam operators insisted that the amount of water flowing through the dam had never exceeded the levels legally determined by “the agreed curve.” But, in between meetings, they also left me alone in an office with a poster, possibly not realizing that it contradicted what they had just told me.

This wasn’t the first time, of course, that struggles over electrical and political power intersected. When the Owen Falls Dam was completed in 1954, the United States and Britain had offered to fund the construction of the Aswan Dam, on the Egyptian Nile. But in July 1955, Egypt’s President Nasser arranged an arms purchase from Czechoslovakia, ending Egypt’s dependence on Western weapons and angering the British, who saw it as an overture to the Soviet Union and withdrew their offer of financing. To pay for his dam, Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal, the passage between the Mediterranean Sea and Indian Ocean that had since 1904 been a neutral zone. Nasser took control of the canal and planned to use toll revenue to complete the dam at Aswan. In October, France, the United Kingdom, and Israel invaded Egypt.

During this time, British military officials stationed in Uganda developed a plan to use Owen Falls as a piece of weaponry. They calculated that by decreasing the outflow through Owen Falls by about 85 percent they could in effect shut off the Nile, at least during the winter and spring, when the Blue Nile would run low. Memos were passed back and forth between intelligence agencies and the prime minister, who was planning the shutdown. I kept thinking about this plan, about the ways that geography and hydrology make politics, about the many ways that power can be harnessed or transformed. Ultimately, the plan was abandoned, as it would have been too slow-moving as an act of war: it would have taken sixteen months for the plan to affect the lower reaches of the Nile. It also would have put much of British East Africa underwater.

A few days after meeting Jaja, I visited his rival, Nfuudu. His compound was farther from the river, on a road that leads out of town to the nearby army barracks. A tidy hand-painted sign gave his full name and title: Mzee Nfuudu Benedicto Badra Jjaja wa Lubaale Kimaka (“Sir Nfuudu Benedictor Badra, Grandfather of the Spirits of the Lake”), and listed the price for a consultation as two thousand Ugandan shillings, about ninety U.S. cents. The yard was covered with a layer of leaves drying in the sun—leaves from the same medicinal plant Jaja had been shredding. When I arrived in the morning there were already six men and women sitting on folding chairs on a cement platform in between the long rectangular structure where Nfuudu and his family lived and the small earthen dome-shaped shrine where he met with clients. He was too busy to see me that day.

I returned a few days later. Nfuudu met me wearing the same pressed pink shirt and trousers he’d been wearing when I last visited, but before going into the shrine, he changed into a long barkcloth vest and wrap covered with shells. The difference between the two men’s financial situations was immediately clear: like his compound, Nfuudu’s ceremonial clothes were in better shape than Jaja’s. Inside, the shrine was dim. Our interview followed a similar pattern: he mostly wanted to impress upon me that he was the real spiritual leader. When I asked him about the older Nabamba, he laughed and told me that “the spirits cannot work with dirty people.” He described moving Lubaale, one of the highest spirits, from the falls to this compound. “There are fifteen shrines here,” he explained, “and now Lubaale lives inside of them.” He made the same accusation that Jaja had made of him: that the other Nabamba was a false leader, that he was just telling lies so that he could make money.

I told him how Jaja had described his relationship to the spirits differently, saying that he was only a medium and that the spirits made up their own minds about when and whether they would move. He laughed and said, “Of course I can move them. I am like the president to these spirits,” and banged a long beaded pole on the ground for emphasis.

At one point, while he told a story about the 1953 ceremony that opened the Owen Falls Dam, I asked him to slow down to make sure my translator could get everything he was saying. “I want to make sure I have direct quotations,” I said. He stopped talking and looked at me for a moment, nodding. Then he rolled his eyes back in his head and shook his head and torso, and let out several high-pitched whoops. He looked at me and delivered, in a deep rumbling voice, a few lines my translator translated as “It is me. I am here. I am the one, Lubaale, the spirit from the falls.” Nfuudu, it seemed, was momentarily possessed, or at least acting that way—perhaps misunderstanding that I wanted direct quotes from him, not from the spirit realm.

This seemed to perfectly exemplify the difference between the two Nabambas: Nfuudu would enact spiritual possessions, and Jaja would not. Nfuudu said he had power over the spirits; Jaja said the spirits had power over him. With the controversy around the dam, both had found themselves in a position to liaise with wealthy strangers who wanted something from them. One was able and prepared to give that thing, the other not. The veracity of either man’s claim was still unclear to me, but it started to seem almost beside the point. As a practical issue, it mattered little who was right. The dynamic between the two of them, and between them and the hydro developers, demonstrated a larger phenomenon happening all around the developing world—at all of the front lines of extractive industry, really. Things were changing: those who could find a niche for themselves in the giant, internationally financed systems would prosper. Those who can’t—or choose not to—won’t.

The Bujagali Dam was completed in 2011 and started operating in 2012. Three thousand households were relocated or lost property when the reservoir filled in over their land. In hindsight, it seems inevitable—the taking of indigenous land for such projects is a worldwide phenomenon, one that continues even if it sparks outrage. Even when I was there, when the controversy was swirling, with international and local environmentalists petitioning the Ugandan government and the World Bank, the machines were already at work, plowing ahead in spite of the confusion and disagreement. I think often about one of the American executives at the hydropower company, whom I’d interviewed in his office at the construction site. I’d been asking him about the two spiritual leaders—these two rivals were, in the view of the developers, simply a hurdle on the road of modernization. Their competing claims to the spiritual title were just so much backwater nonsense. He had laughed loudly, leaned all the way back in his chair—so far I thought he’d top over backwards—and said, “You want to write nonfiction, and you came here. What a fairy tale.”

That comment haunts me. It embodies an idea that’s truly sinister—that the worldview you don’t understand must be nonsense. That if something’s worth is established according to a calculus you don’t understand, it must have no value at all. This is how cultural misunderstanding gets spun into exploitation, erasure, theft. I didn’t, during my months in Uganda, ever fully come to grasp what the Bujagali Falls meant to the Basoga. But I do think I glimpsed it a few times, imperfectly. It isn’t mine, but I certainly saw and heard enough to know it was real.

Jaja Nabamba Bujagali died in October 2019 and will be remembered as “the oracle of Bujagali.” He was, according to the news reports, 113.

Notes

1.The Inspection Panel, Report and Recommendation on Request for Inspection: Uganda: Third Power Project (Credit 2268-UG) and the Proposed Bujagali Hydropower Project, October 10, 2001, www.inspectionpanel.org/sites/www.inspectionpanel.org/files/ip/PanelCases/24-Eligibility Report (English).pdf.