I am sitting at home, snug in front of a blazing fire with a warm sweater on and a scarf around my neck. I have a little bit of a cold - just enough to compel me to stay home and sit still for once. Life is quickly settling back into a routine, and the frenzied urgency of American life is taking back hold.
It's winter here, and the weather has been gloomy and overcast. I remember that once I liked this weather. I saw it as romantic and pensive; it was free license to be lazy and immobile. But right now I am thinking about Uganda's warm moist air one can just about drink, the braising equatorial sun, and the brief spontaneous baptisms of thundering rains.
I want to be practicing Rukiga (ru-chi-ga) and Luganda, learning about African history and politics. I want to be dancing with women in the village and learning how to make a new friend without sharing a common language. I want to remimber how simple life really is.
I want to live in the real world - not in a fantasy land of Toyota 2008 models, white carpets, and $300 sunglasses (or shoes, haircuts, purses, etc). The coffee we drink for $3 a cup - people in Uganda may grow the beans and earn less than $1 a day. They have HIV and malaria and worms and no clean water or electricity or health care. And we sit around discussing what the other thinks of the new Peppermint Latte at starbucks. Gross. I am not saying we're bad people, it's more that we're asleep.
We're not only asleep to the poverty and suffering - we are asleep to our immense power and capacity to change things. We simply have to decide that it is more important to bring balance to the world than it is to go on living in fantasy land. We have to realize that bringing the rest of world along would be more nourishing than the fake emotional food we consume - tv, cars, long hot showers, perfect bodies, home remodeling, dance clubs. It's not as though we even happy living here! Come on, we're miserable; spiritually malnourished; emotionally isolated.
I can't be happy - deep in my soul at peace happy - when so much of the world has so much suffering.
It's kind of like when your house is really messy, and your mind keeps stressing out about it, and you get a little paralyzed because the mess is so big that you don't even know where to start. You know how once you just START, once you start moving and cleaning and addressing the problem little by little, you start to feel more at peace.
That's how I feel, and I won't have peace until I start putting my efforts on the side of the scale to bring more balance to the world.
I feel as though sitting on a meditation cushion seeking spiritual awakening, and "taking care of myself" with expensive massages is not going to set my soul free. I feel like sitting still in meditation and listening to my breath simply allows me to percieve ever more clearly the hurt that exists in the world. The more I "treat myself" with pedicures, and shopping trips the more lost I feel.
In Africa I felt connected to life again, and now that I am home I feel like things are not right and they won't be quite right again until I get back.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Dayz wth Sara
It's Charity again, Saraz friend,.....
With all the perceptions I and everyone had about the Muzungu it turned out not to be true. She was just like any other person. That we knew right from the day that she didn't ran away the day of the floods!!!!,.... Each day was of such a great experience being wth Sara.
Actually suprisng one of our friends Timothy took her to one of the good hotels and guess what her comment was? That its a good place but she sees that all the time in Califonia! hmmmmm.....
Things became normal and we all treated her just like anyone else. I missed going with her to the village, I wonder what her first expression was, I am personally not comfortable with the village, and the fact that she was a muzungu! I wasnt suprised looking at the crowds in the pictures that were always following her, I even think nyakarambi people are more enlightened than other villages coz if she moved to mine....I am sure people would want to camp in my home to see even how the muzungu chews her food. Here everything good or unique is said to be like a muzungu or from bazungu or done like bazungu!!!!!!!!!!!
With all the perceptions I and everyone had about the Muzungu it turned out not to be true. She was just like any other person. That we knew right from the day that she didn't ran away the day of the floods!!!!,.... Each day was of such a great experience being wth Sara.
Actually suprisng one of our friends Timothy took her to one of the good hotels and guess what her comment was? That its a good place but she sees that all the time in Califonia! hmmmmm.....
Things became normal and we all treated her just like anyone else. I missed going with her to the village, I wonder what her first expression was, I am personally not comfortable with the village, and the fact that she was a muzungu! I wasnt suprised looking at the crowds in the pictures that were always following her, I even think nyakarambi people are more enlightened than other villages coz if she moved to mine....I am sure people would want to camp in my home to see even how the muzungu chews her food. Here everything good or unique is said to be like a muzungu or from bazungu or done like bazungu!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, December 16, 2007
4 am California time
I am home. I absorb the words as I flip up the water facet handle to find clean, heated water limitlessly flow forth, just so I can splash off the bit of milk that spilled on my hand as I prepared my African tea this morning just before 4 am.
I continue preparing my tea, following the instructions from Clara's aunt; three parts milk, one part water, black tea (i use djarling), fresh ginger and a blend of spices called tea masala that includes things like cinnamon, black pepper, cardamon, nutmeg and others. As I flippantly turn on the stove, I don't worry about my electricity bill jumping unaffordably high just from making this pot of tea. Nor do I wonder if an unexpected "load shedding" might force me to resort to lighting the charcoal stove.
I don't begin boiling several pots of water for drinking water - or to prepare warm water for bathing this morning.
All the clothing I took with me to Uganda lies crumpled and warm, soft and smelling of dryer sheets - waiting to be folded. The red clay dirt has been washed away from my old jeans at the push of a button.
I don't make extra tea to put into a flask for the rest of the family nor do I start a big pot of white porridge. There is no one else here. My sister lives several miles away, and despite being the unmarried younger sister, I don't live with her.
As I pour this luxuriously, deliciously spiced tea into my favorite (and well missed) mug, I consider how it came to lay clean in the cabinet; placed there after being washed by a machine that swirled gallons of hot soapy water, and followed by a rinsing with more surging gallons of hot clean water. Wow.
It's still dark outside and I am wide awake. It may be 4 am here, but it's 2 pm there.
By day I am back in California - driving on smooth paved roads, past gutters that drain into a sewage system which flows underneath the roads. I spend the days reconnecting in increments with my much loved community of friends and family - turning my attention to the coming holiday. I am relishing the loving reaction of surprise and affection that I get every time I see someone again for the first time. It's beautiful and affirming. Throughout the day I feel so thankful and filled with gratitude for my friends and family. I know this will continue for some time as I re-engage my life in California.
But at night I return to Africa. I mean this as close to literally as I possibly can, considering the undeniable reality that I am in fact, physically in California. But there is a part of me, I perceive, that did not accompany me home. I know this sounds silly and over dramatic - but I am simply trying to describe the feeling that I have - my experience - and the only way I can describe it is to say that I feel split into two and stretched over the two places - a ghost like split - with a taut weave of cords or threads binding the two .
For the third night in a row I have woken utterly confused about where I am; I sit eyes-wide-open trying to remember. Seriously it's weird. I think it might be what it feels like to have Alzheimer's disease.
This morning I couldn't remember where I lived or who my roommate was. I was no longer asleep and sitting upright in bed racking my brain. An image of a dark skinned woman kept coming forward. Not Clara, but she looked like Clara. "No, I don't know that woman", I thought, "who lives here with me?", I asked myself, struggling to remember. "Laura!", I breathed in relief, the image of my actual roommate returning to me, orienting me to the correct continent and life I physically occupy.
I know that at this moment in time, Clara is sitting at the movie library - probably alone since Marcy, her only employee, traveled home to Kenya for the election. The girls who are out of school right now are probably with her - playing solitaire on the computer or dancing to music. I picture Millie energetically beating a broom (made from a collection of sticks tied together with string) to accompany the beat of the music as both she and Maris dance skillfully on the porch of the shop.
The men who sell newspapers on the street are thousands of miles away, I picture them determinedly bypassing women with baskets of oranges or bananas on their head as both compete for the attention of drivers who wait patiently for the police man to waive their lane through the intersection.
I wonder how Johnson's daughter Chantal is doing - the day I left she was in hospital being treated for malaria. She was doing much better and was expected to be sent home the next day, but I would like to have it confirmed that all is well.
Coming home, I am grateful for the generosity of attention I have received. I know that I am not unique in traveling to a distant country. I have no fewer than 5 other friends who've traveled to exciting places this autumn, and most of us have an experience in the somewhat recent past where we've traveled and loved another place and culture.
This was my adventure - and I do feel some sadness that it's in the past tense. I love my friends and family for wanting to share it with me. It makes it so much more real and tangible.
I love my friend Elizabeth for pointing out that it is also in the future tense. I feel truth in that.
While I was in Uganda I opened myself fully to it and connected deeply with it. Life normalized somewhat in the short time I was there and aside from the occasional hour or two I spent in the internet cafe writing this blog, my my whole being was there. Everyday I awoke with a sense of connection and curiosity, openness and presence to whatever the day might bring. Coming home I'd like to cultivate that same feeling wherever I am.
I continue preparing my tea, following the instructions from Clara's aunt; three parts milk, one part water, black tea (i use djarling), fresh ginger and a blend of spices called tea masala that includes things like cinnamon, black pepper, cardamon, nutmeg and others. As I flippantly turn on the stove, I don't worry about my electricity bill jumping unaffordably high just from making this pot of tea. Nor do I wonder if an unexpected "load shedding" might force me to resort to lighting the charcoal stove.
I don't begin boiling several pots of water for drinking water - or to prepare warm water for bathing this morning.
All the clothing I took with me to Uganda lies crumpled and warm, soft and smelling of dryer sheets - waiting to be folded. The red clay dirt has been washed away from my old jeans at the push of a button.
I don't make extra tea to put into a flask for the rest of the family nor do I start a big pot of white porridge. There is no one else here. My sister lives several miles away, and despite being the unmarried younger sister, I don't live with her.
As I pour this luxuriously, deliciously spiced tea into my favorite (and well missed) mug, I consider how it came to lay clean in the cabinet; placed there after being washed by a machine that swirled gallons of hot soapy water, and followed by a rinsing with more surging gallons of hot clean water. Wow.
It's still dark outside and I am wide awake. It may be 4 am here, but it's 2 pm there.
By day I am back in California - driving on smooth paved roads, past gutters that drain into a sewage system which flows underneath the roads. I spend the days reconnecting in increments with my much loved community of friends and family - turning my attention to the coming holiday. I am relishing the loving reaction of surprise and affection that I get every time I see someone again for the first time. It's beautiful and affirming. Throughout the day I feel so thankful and filled with gratitude for my friends and family. I know this will continue for some time as I re-engage my life in California.
But at night I return to Africa. I mean this as close to literally as I possibly can, considering the undeniable reality that I am in fact, physically in California. But there is a part of me, I perceive, that did not accompany me home. I know this sounds silly and over dramatic - but I am simply trying to describe the feeling that I have - my experience - and the only way I can describe it is to say that I feel split into two and stretched over the two places - a ghost like split - with a taut weave of cords or threads binding the two .
For the third night in a row I have woken utterly confused about where I am; I sit eyes-wide-open trying to remember. Seriously it's weird. I think it might be what it feels like to have Alzheimer's disease.
This morning I couldn't remember where I lived or who my roommate was. I was no longer asleep and sitting upright in bed racking my brain. An image of a dark skinned woman kept coming forward. Not Clara, but she looked like Clara. "No, I don't know that woman", I thought, "who lives here with me?", I asked myself, struggling to remember. "Laura!", I breathed in relief, the image of my actual roommate returning to me, orienting me to the correct continent and life I physically occupy.
I know that at this moment in time, Clara is sitting at the movie library - probably alone since Marcy, her only employee, traveled home to Kenya for the election. The girls who are out of school right now are probably with her - playing solitaire on the computer or dancing to music. I picture Millie energetically beating a broom (made from a collection of sticks tied together with string) to accompany the beat of the music as both she and Maris dance skillfully on the porch of the shop.
The men who sell newspapers on the street are thousands of miles away, I picture them determinedly bypassing women with baskets of oranges or bananas on their head as both compete for the attention of drivers who wait patiently for the police man to waive their lane through the intersection.
I wonder how Johnson's daughter Chantal is doing - the day I left she was in hospital being treated for malaria. She was doing much better and was expected to be sent home the next day, but I would like to have it confirmed that all is well.
Coming home, I am grateful for the generosity of attention I have received. I know that I am not unique in traveling to a distant country. I have no fewer than 5 other friends who've traveled to exciting places this autumn, and most of us have an experience in the somewhat recent past where we've traveled and loved another place and culture.
This was my adventure - and I do feel some sadness that it's in the past tense. I love my friends and family for wanting to share it with me. It makes it so much more real and tangible.
I love my friend Elizabeth for pointing out that it is also in the future tense. I feel truth in that.
While I was in Uganda I opened myself fully to it and connected deeply with it. Life normalized somewhat in the short time I was there and aside from the occasional hour or two I spent in the internet cafe writing this blog, my my whole being was there. Everyday I awoke with a sense of connection and curiosity, openness and presence to whatever the day might bring. Coming home I'd like to cultivate that same feeling wherever I am.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Amsterdam, the return
I am now sitting in precisely the same internet cafe as I did for my very first post over a month ago. I have just returned to the airport from a gorgeous excursion to the city center; just long enough to get my passport stamped, absorb the stunning canals and mismatched, patched together archtecture of red brick buildings, grey cathedrals and clock towers, and gluttony of tall blond men with striking blue eyes.
I haven't seen one speck of dirt. No. I mean it. Not only are the roads impeccably clean - only a cigarette butt here and there to be found, but literally every square inch of the city center is paved or cobbled or a canal. It's not just that there's not any dirt - there's not any earth to be found either.
My boots and the hem of my jeans are still caked with the red clay mud we passed through late last night (or was it only earlier today) after hopping over the drainage canal since for some reason the makeshift bridge we'd been using was gone. I am finding myself looking down and smiling. "Now where did that mud come from?" "Oh, that's right - it came from Africa"
My flight was uneventful, and fine except that the woman next to me somehow didn't understand that I'd been promised by Laura Kerr that headphones were the international signal for "don't talk to me". I didn't want to talk to her, to hear about her firm that she started or to answer her questions about my personal life.
As the plane left the ground, I wanted only to stay connected to the people and country that I really have come to love in such a short time. I felt so SAD to leave, in a way that I somehow did not feel when I left Bolivia.
I arrived early in the morning - and by 7 am the city was still completely dark and asleep and FREAKING COLD. Of course I am not wearing appropriate attire here, just a warm sweater and scarf (I bought a hat), and with nothing open I was starting to get really cold. So cold in fact that when a young man asked me "Do you speak English?", I could barely get my mouth to move to reply "Yes, but I'm American too and won't be much help."
Sam, it turned out is a college student who just arrived and (like any self respecting college student in Amsterdam) got really drunk with his friends the night before and was alone looking for someplace to feed his hangover. We decided to pool our efforts and found ourself a nice buffet of eggs and toast for a modest 9 Euros (I think that's like 20 dollars). Sweet. Afterward he suggested we go get a Heineikin (afterall we are in Amsterdam), but I declined, wanting instead to just walk around and see the city.
I feel good. So grateful. So grateful for this wonderful experience - I am definately a better person for having been in Uganda.
A few days ago I finally met Dr. Rugunda who I had been hoping to meet throughout my trip. He is a good friend of Richard Quint who is a physician I work with on health reform. Rugunda also happens to be the Minister of Internal Affairs for Uganda and is a lifetime civil servant and a right hand man to the Prime Minister of Uganda.
I was able to have lunch with him on Friday and afterward was invited to a dinner party with him, his wife, his son Kwame and his new wife Roberta, as well as a few other people. They were wonderful people. Before meeting Dr. Rugunda in person I heard nothing but good things about him. In a country where most government workers are sterotyped as corrupt, most people praised him as a rare breed of honorable civil servants. "At least", people said, "he's had no scandals that I've ever heard of". When I entered his office he was immediately warm and inviting and had a very large commanding presence.
The experience was a sharp contrast to my time in the village and with Clara. It was surreal driving around the same Kampala I'd been navigating with boda's and public taxi vans, but now in a nice SUV driven by the police. Dr. Rugunda reminded me greatly of the men and women I work with in the California legislature. Longtime public servants - good people - who chose their career out of a genuine desire to "make a difference" but whose expectations for change become steadily diminished. You can't be the passionate reform candidate when you're the long time incumbant. I recognized the all-to-familiar look I get at home from many older colleagues - amused condecension as they nostagically appreciate my youthful naiveity.
With an Ebola viral outbreak that had just been announced (3 months after the first indications of a strange viral disease), the just completed Commonwealth Summit, protests in which the opposition leader of their parliament was pretty badly beaten, among other major issues, there were loads of dicey topics for me to try to ask about. I figured here this is where my youthful naiveity pays off.
The next day I spent luxuriously ordering cocktails poolside at a swanky resort - trying in vain to get some sun on the rest of my body. It was pretty much the only day I spent doing anything of the sort. My awkward tan is just gonna have to be a testament to my decison to live normal life in Uganda...
Charity wrote such a nice post - I told her about my blog and realized it would be so much more interesting to have my friends there add their perspective, rather than just hear mine. My last days were such wonderful love fests of gifts and friendship. Charity actually asked a woman in her village to make for me a traditonal basket that "no mother allows her daughter to marry without one". So, now I'm all set. I was so touched that this beautiful basket was actually made especially for me! I am supposed to serve Kalo (a food made from ground millet) to my future husband out of it.
Bob, Clara and Charles wished me off at the airport - Charity and Agaba couldn't come for lack of space in the car. It was so so hard to say goodbye to everyone. I guess that's exactly how I wanted it - I wanted to connect - and when you do that leaving hurts.
So onward home. Thanks to all who cared to read my posts. Love to you all. I can't wait to see you!!!
Sara
I haven't seen one speck of dirt. No. I mean it. Not only are the roads impeccably clean - only a cigarette butt here and there to be found, but literally every square inch of the city center is paved or cobbled or a canal. It's not just that there's not any dirt - there's not any earth to be found either.
My boots and the hem of my jeans are still caked with the red clay mud we passed through late last night (or was it only earlier today) after hopping over the drainage canal since for some reason the makeshift bridge we'd been using was gone. I am finding myself looking down and smiling. "Now where did that mud come from?" "Oh, that's right - it came from Africa"
My flight was uneventful, and fine except that the woman next to me somehow didn't understand that I'd been promised by Laura Kerr that headphones were the international signal for "don't talk to me". I didn't want to talk to her, to hear about her firm that she started or to answer her questions about my personal life.
As the plane left the ground, I wanted only to stay connected to the people and country that I really have come to love in such a short time. I felt so SAD to leave, in a way that I somehow did not feel when I left Bolivia.
I arrived early in the morning - and by 7 am the city was still completely dark and asleep and FREAKING COLD. Of course I am not wearing appropriate attire here, just a warm sweater and scarf (I bought a hat), and with nothing open I was starting to get really cold. So cold in fact that when a young man asked me "Do you speak English?", I could barely get my mouth to move to reply "Yes, but I'm American too and won't be much help."
Sam, it turned out is a college student who just arrived and (like any self respecting college student in Amsterdam) got really drunk with his friends the night before and was alone looking for someplace to feed his hangover. We decided to pool our efforts and found ourself a nice buffet of eggs and toast for a modest 9 Euros (I think that's like 20 dollars). Sweet. Afterward he suggested we go get a Heineikin (afterall we are in Amsterdam), but I declined, wanting instead to just walk around and see the city.
I feel good. So grateful. So grateful for this wonderful experience - I am definately a better person for having been in Uganda.
A few days ago I finally met Dr. Rugunda who I had been hoping to meet throughout my trip. He is a good friend of Richard Quint who is a physician I work with on health reform. Rugunda also happens to be the Minister of Internal Affairs for Uganda and is a lifetime civil servant and a right hand man to the Prime Minister of Uganda.
I was able to have lunch with him on Friday and afterward was invited to a dinner party with him, his wife, his son Kwame and his new wife Roberta, as well as a few other people. They were wonderful people. Before meeting Dr. Rugunda in person I heard nothing but good things about him. In a country where most government workers are sterotyped as corrupt, most people praised him as a rare breed of honorable civil servants. "At least", people said, "he's had no scandals that I've ever heard of". When I entered his office he was immediately warm and inviting and had a very large commanding presence.
The experience was a sharp contrast to my time in the village and with Clara. It was surreal driving around the same Kampala I'd been navigating with boda's and public taxi vans, but now in a nice SUV driven by the police. Dr. Rugunda reminded me greatly of the men and women I work with in the California legislature. Longtime public servants - good people - who chose their career out of a genuine desire to "make a difference" but whose expectations for change become steadily diminished. You can't be the passionate reform candidate when you're the long time incumbant. I recognized the all-to-familiar look I get at home from many older colleagues - amused condecension as they nostagically appreciate my youthful naiveity.
With an Ebola viral outbreak that had just been announced (3 months after the first indications of a strange viral disease), the just completed Commonwealth Summit, protests in which the opposition leader of their parliament was pretty badly beaten, among other major issues, there were loads of dicey topics for me to try to ask about. I figured here this is where my youthful naiveity pays off.
The next day I spent luxuriously ordering cocktails poolside at a swanky resort - trying in vain to get some sun on the rest of my body. It was pretty much the only day I spent doing anything of the sort. My awkward tan is just gonna have to be a testament to my decison to live normal life in Uganda...
Charity wrote such a nice post - I told her about my blog and realized it would be so much more interesting to have my friends there add their perspective, rather than just hear mine. My last days were such wonderful love fests of gifts and friendship. Charity actually asked a woman in her village to make for me a traditonal basket that "no mother allows her daughter to marry without one". So, now I'm all set. I was so touched that this beautiful basket was actually made especially for me! I am supposed to serve Kalo (a food made from ground millet) to my future husband out of it.
Bob, Clara and Charles wished me off at the airport - Charity and Agaba couldn't come for lack of space in the car. It was so so hard to say goodbye to everyone. I guess that's exactly how I wanted it - I wanted to connect - and when you do that leaving hurts.
So onward home. Thanks to all who cared to read my posts. Love to you all. I can't wait to see you!!!
Sara
Monday, December 10, 2007
FROM CHARITY SARAZ FRIEND!
Being a friend to Clara i was among the first people to know about the American visitor.Sara was her name, guess what; just like anyother African/Ugandan i expected a true ''American'', what do i mean by this; a typical muzungu, that is a white who cant eat certain foods,is only confirtable with the likes of five star hotels,can share a bed room,with the white persons perspectives that africans are not anygood but idiots,not educated and cant do anything good for them selves.It made me alittle bit uncorfitable and worried especially for clara the host because i knew it wld be alittle hard for her to try and make the muzungu not to run way!
why did i have this in mind....
its because of my past experience with people from the western world.Every muzungu comes with this idea that he/she knows more than any ugandan. They give this impression that Africans are nothing but stupid. i never figure out why, maybe its because of what is only written about africa and its people, everyone here knows how africans are thought of being bushmen, stay with lions in the wilderness(homes) and so they are more less wild.
But on the other hand i said to myself, why shld we(Ugandans) worry abt criticism, coz in the end its what everyone is scared of.
i thought 2myself that this is my home and its my responsibility so is evryones to make it a better place for even a muzungu to realise that theres the good in africans that most bazungu dont know yet.i went straight to clara and told her to relax and welcome the muzungu just like she would welcome anyother visitor in her house, she was not to put the skin colour differences in consideration.so she was to recieve Sara as Sara not as amuzungu!we all agreed to that and looked forward to meeting her. The 9th of november was getting closer eachday.
The 9th november came.......................
Oh mygoodness, everyone was waiting, though the unfortunate bit of it is that the galz ie me clara,and rita would be away that day to the village for a friendz traditional marriege ceremony.
You cant believe that our phones worked more than they had ever that day, Johnson and Agaba who were to pick her from the airport were not left to rest from their Phones, we called them each minute from the time she was to arrived.
There had never been any relief that occured to us than when Johnson told us that she looked very friendly and nimurungi munonga okukira abazungu abalarebire(that she is very beautiful, more than any muzungu he had ever met) you should have been there to see the excitment on our faces we got more excited and anxious to meet Sara.
I spend most of my time at Claras house but i wasnt there the time Sara was brought to the house, but i was told only good things that were already noticed about her be4 i met her myself. i was actually told that ninko mukigga(literally meaning that just like a mukigga,the hosts tribe, she was ok not a muzungu but Sara as in Sara her self)
I didnt take it wholesomely i had to first get used to her and know more about her, the truth for sure i was not so so free with her, i always tried to be conscience of what ever i said and did when with her...this happened an intensionally because of what experince i had with other bazunguz i happened to meet be4.
Each day Sara turned out not to be a real muzungu, she seemed to look at things in a more realistic way than anyother muzungu i had met be4. i liked her for that, but i again said to myself is she real or shes acting or something, maybe she wanted to study us and get stories to write and tell people back home but i neva said any of this to myfriends i just kept on thinking abt it.
It was one day wen i dropped all this craziness.... coz i realised she was not ''muzungu'',
we were in claras car we call it emamba coz it an old car, we re going to claraz video shop and it had rained heavily the previous nite, guess what the africa showed its self to Sara, floods were every where, we didnt have where to pass, clara cld not drive through herself, she was terrified, i was seated at the back seat worried abt the muzungu than myself, coz i was very sure that this was the most disgusting thing that would happen to make her ran away.It had to be someone else to help drive through,Sara sat relaxed, she could have been scared but didnt show it which was ok, but deep down in my heart i knew that she was going to ask clara to get her another place some where in the town maybe a hotel room, o as she moved around in town, she would meet fellow bazungu and find away of ranning away.can u imagine that craziness!!!!!!!!! oh my goodness it will take me more time to write it all that i experinced with Sara, it alot more .........................u want to know everything????????..........next time....wil be back to write it all i cant do it now but its unbelievable.................
why did i have this in mind....
its because of my past experience with people from the western world.Every muzungu comes with this idea that he/she knows more than any ugandan. They give this impression that Africans are nothing but stupid. i never figure out why, maybe its because of what is only written about africa and its people, everyone here knows how africans are thought of being bushmen, stay with lions in the wilderness(homes) and so they are more less wild.
But on the other hand i said to myself, why shld we(Ugandans) worry abt criticism, coz in the end its what everyone is scared of.
i thought 2myself that this is my home and its my responsibility so is evryones to make it a better place for even a muzungu to realise that theres the good in africans that most bazungu dont know yet.i went straight to clara and told her to relax and welcome the muzungu just like she would welcome anyother visitor in her house, she was not to put the skin colour differences in consideration.so she was to recieve Sara as Sara not as amuzungu!we all agreed to that and looked forward to meeting her. The 9th of november was getting closer eachday.
The 9th november came.......................
Oh mygoodness, everyone was waiting, though the unfortunate bit of it is that the galz ie me clara,and rita would be away that day to the village for a friendz traditional marriege ceremony.
You cant believe that our phones worked more than they had ever that day, Johnson and Agaba who were to pick her from the airport were not left to rest from their Phones, we called them each minute from the time she was to arrived.
There had never been any relief that occured to us than when Johnson told us that she looked very friendly and nimurungi munonga okukira abazungu abalarebire(that she is very beautiful, more than any muzungu he had ever met) you should have been there to see the excitment on our faces we got more excited and anxious to meet Sara.
I spend most of my time at Claras house but i wasnt there the time Sara was brought to the house, but i was told only good things that were already noticed about her be4 i met her myself. i was actually told that ninko mukigga(literally meaning that just like a mukigga,the hosts tribe, she was ok not a muzungu but Sara as in Sara her self)
I didnt take it wholesomely i had to first get used to her and know more about her, the truth for sure i was not so so free with her, i always tried to be conscience of what ever i said and did when with her...this happened an intensionally because of what experince i had with other bazunguz i happened to meet be4.
Each day Sara turned out not to be a real muzungu, she seemed to look at things in a more realistic way than anyother muzungu i had met be4. i liked her for that, but i again said to myself is she real or shes acting or something, maybe she wanted to study us and get stories to write and tell people back home but i neva said any of this to myfriends i just kept on thinking abt it.
It was one day wen i dropped all this craziness.... coz i realised she was not ''muzungu'',
we were in claras car we call it emamba coz it an old car, we re going to claraz video shop and it had rained heavily the previous nite, guess what the africa showed its self to Sara, floods were every where, we didnt have where to pass, clara cld not drive through herself, she was terrified, i was seated at the back seat worried abt the muzungu than myself, coz i was very sure that this was the most disgusting thing that would happen to make her ran away.It had to be someone else to help drive through,Sara sat relaxed, she could have been scared but didnt show it which was ok, but deep down in my heart i knew that she was going to ask clara to get her another place some where in the town maybe a hotel room, o as she moved around in town, she would meet fellow bazungu and find away of ranning away.can u imagine that craziness!!!!!!!!! oh my goodness it will take me more time to write it all that i experinced with Sara, it alot more .........................u want to know everything????????..........next time....wil be back to write it all i cant do it now but its unbelievable.................
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Staying here
The title of this post is a little alarmist since it may give the impression that I am hereby announcing my intent on ditching my return ticket and staying in Uganda -- a thought which I admit has crossed my mind, but the practical realities of such an idea quickly assert themselves.
Staying here is what I am trying to do, while I am still actually here. Facing the last days of this trip, and the gripping reality that I am about to go back to (ominous music begins)....WORK.... it's been a struggle to accept that I will leave here without having some kind of transcendental life altering spiritual awakening like the one described by the author of "eat, pray, love" or without having any kind of deep understanding of what I am actually seeing and experiencing living in the middle of what is regularly referred to as one of the slums of Kampala.
Reading the book "eat, pray, love", Elizabeth Gilbert writes how it was only after deciding to spend one year traveling to Italy, India and Indonesia did she realize that all three destinations shared the same first letter, "I". reflecting her voyage of self discovery. In looking at my recent travels to Bolivia and Uganda I put the first letters together to happily discover the letters B and U. B U. Be You. My own new mantra to take home with me.
Despite this fun little realization, I still feel a little jealous of the nutritious, beautiful, fulfilling, peaceful experience that the author of "eat, pray, love" describes at the end of her trip. My experience honestly doesn't feel like that. Instead of returning home all serene and at peace you can expect me to come home covered with mosquito bites and huge bruises (the result I believe of my very limited carb heavy diet and countless bumpy bus and microbus taxi rides). I've gained weight - and got a great tan on the upper half of my body.
More challenging for is not to become overwhelmed by the incomprehensible contrasts and heart breaking sights -- massive piles of garbage on the side of the road, (or as I found today) being industriously used to fill pot holes and a bridge over a water drainage trench. The ubiquitous Toyota Land Cruisers bypassing a disabled woman begging for spare change, her bent back forcing her to walk on all fours as she manuvers speeding cars. Reading the political cartoon in the paper depicting women in Gulu living in IDP camps who, facing hunger, have been forced into prostitution selling sex for 200 shillings (about 15 cents). The cartoon features a fat man asking a woman, "would you rather die in 4 days of hunger or 10 years from AIDS".
I don't want to look around and just see the poverty and desperation - because there is so much more - but it's hard. Really hard to see the beauty underneath/within/throughout the suffering.
Clara's water is now shut off. Something happened to the pipes, and she'll probably have to bribe someone to come and fix it anytime in the next month. So no running water. As it was the only running water we had was through one single tap in the bathroom/washroom. Now she's forced to pay a young boy to fetch water in yellow jerrycans - the same ones I watched people carrying around the village. The boy is maybe 8 years old and those suckers are freaking heavy. He lugs 4 full ones over and earns about 1000 shillings (less than a dollar).
Last night we went to a club which charged a 10,000 shilling cover.
At the same time the house was hit with an unexpected "load shedding" so no water no electricity. Just like in the village. Clara tells me that her electricity bill reaches nearly 100 dollars per month - and this is with regular load shedding and few of the electrical appliances that fill our houses. In fact, their per unit cost is about 3 times ours. Water is similarly unaffordable. Just the basic necessities of sending her children to a decent school, food, water and electricity leaves her regularly in the red. She's very well off, at least she owns her own home and doesn't pay rent....
I can totally understand people at home probably looking at these posts and finding them unreasonably depressing. I get it. Right now I am feeling it a little. I am about to leave and with the realization that I have come to "see" and will be able to do very little to change anything at all. I really can't blame anyone for simply thanking their lucky stars they were born in the United States, shaking their heads in sympathy, and then accepting their inability to hold space for both realities in their life.
One beautiful thing is that my family I have heard has decided to forgo the traditional gluttonous gift giving and instead pool money to help people in the village I visited. I love my family.
Also, I will leave with very deep and lasting personal connections and love with Hilda and Clara's family and friends. I believe these connections ultimately matter a great deal - both in a practical and metaphysical sense.
Me, I don't know exactly what I will do with this information after I return. In the meantime, Gilbert is right. You have to eat, pray and love. Only now I believe that my circle of love is going to be greatly extended.
Staying here is what I am trying to do, while I am still actually here. Facing the last days of this trip, and the gripping reality that I am about to go back to (ominous music begins)....WORK.... it's been a struggle to accept that I will leave here without having some kind of transcendental life altering spiritual awakening like the one described by the author of "eat, pray, love" or without having any kind of deep understanding of what I am actually seeing and experiencing living in the middle of what is regularly referred to as one of the slums of Kampala.
Reading the book "eat, pray, love", Elizabeth Gilbert writes how it was only after deciding to spend one year traveling to Italy, India and Indonesia did she realize that all three destinations shared the same first letter, "I". reflecting her voyage of self discovery. In looking at my recent travels to Bolivia and Uganda I put the first letters together to happily discover the letters B and U. B U. Be You. My own new mantra to take home with me.
Despite this fun little realization, I still feel a little jealous of the nutritious, beautiful, fulfilling, peaceful experience that the author of "eat, pray, love" describes at the end of her trip. My experience honestly doesn't feel like that. Instead of returning home all serene and at peace you can expect me to come home covered with mosquito bites and huge bruises (the result I believe of my very limited carb heavy diet and countless bumpy bus and microbus taxi rides). I've gained weight - and got a great tan on the upper half of my body.
More challenging for is not to become overwhelmed by the incomprehensible contrasts and heart breaking sights -- massive piles of garbage on the side of the road, (or as I found today) being industriously used to fill pot holes and a bridge over a water drainage trench. The ubiquitous Toyota Land Cruisers bypassing a disabled woman begging for spare change, her bent back forcing her to walk on all fours as she manuvers speeding cars. Reading the political cartoon in the paper depicting women in Gulu living in IDP camps who, facing hunger, have been forced into prostitution selling sex for 200 shillings (about 15 cents). The cartoon features a fat man asking a woman, "would you rather die in 4 days of hunger or 10 years from AIDS".
I don't want to look around and just see the poverty and desperation - because there is so much more - but it's hard. Really hard to see the beauty underneath/within/throughout the suffering.
Clara's water is now shut off. Something happened to the pipes, and she'll probably have to bribe someone to come and fix it anytime in the next month. So no running water. As it was the only running water we had was through one single tap in the bathroom/washroom. Now she's forced to pay a young boy to fetch water in yellow jerrycans - the same ones I watched people carrying around the village. The boy is maybe 8 years old and those suckers are freaking heavy. He lugs 4 full ones over and earns about 1000 shillings (less than a dollar).
Last night we went to a club which charged a 10,000 shilling cover.
At the same time the house was hit with an unexpected "load shedding" so no water no electricity. Just like in the village. Clara tells me that her electricity bill reaches nearly 100 dollars per month - and this is with regular load shedding and few of the electrical appliances that fill our houses. In fact, their per unit cost is about 3 times ours. Water is similarly unaffordable. Just the basic necessities of sending her children to a decent school, food, water and electricity leaves her regularly in the red. She's very well off, at least she owns her own home and doesn't pay rent....
I can totally understand people at home probably looking at these posts and finding them unreasonably depressing. I get it. Right now I am feeling it a little. I am about to leave and with the realization that I have come to "see" and will be able to do very little to change anything at all. I really can't blame anyone for simply thanking their lucky stars they were born in the United States, shaking their heads in sympathy, and then accepting their inability to hold space for both realities in their life.
One beautiful thing is that my family I have heard has decided to forgo the traditional gluttonous gift giving and instead pool money to help people in the village I visited. I love my family.
Also, I will leave with very deep and lasting personal connections and love with Hilda and Clara's family and friends. I believe these connections ultimately matter a great deal - both in a practical and metaphysical sense.
Me, I don't know exactly what I will do with this information after I return. In the meantime, Gilbert is right. You have to eat, pray and love. Only now I believe that my circle of love is going to be greatly extended.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Gulu
Back safely from Gulu, which less than two years ago would have been a much more dangerous trip. The city center was always a reasonably safe place, but anywhere outside of it - and travelling to and from - was traveling into or through a true war zone.
I visited a camp but took no pictures, it did not feel right or respectful, and even somewhat awkward even to be there. Despite all of my good intentions, I am still little more than a disaster tourist there, and there is little my good intentions can do to help people here on a practical basis.
I learned a few important things. One - trust my instincts. The man who was to be our guide gave me an immediate sense of distrust, and luckily I did follow my instincts and ditched the guy at the first sign that my instincts were on. I'm almost out to time so I'll save that story for later. Two - the people living in these camps were largely involuntarily placed there. The people here call the camps concentration camps and they are equally angry at the government soldiers who brutalized and terrorized them as they are the Lords Resistance Army who is publicly blamed for the atrocities.
Families living in these camps were denied the ability to continue farming their land - thus leading to major food insecurity. Most people I talked to said that the lack of food here was due to the policies of Aid providers and government. People were rounded up into camps, supposedly for their own protection, and yet the camps were precisely where many of the atrocities occured.
Having now lived in the camps for more than a decade, they are now being asked to go home. To farms that are not developed, huts that have disintegrated, with very little assistance. Gulu is an Aid economy city, and yet it seemed very unclear just what the NGO's were doing. It seems to me that the help people need here is for some people to pick up a fucking hammer and start building some god damned houses, plowing some land. But when I asked what they were in fact doing the answer was "sensitizing". Now there are some organizations that were exceptioms here - and I will name them, but there is some major evidence that the notion of Aid is nonsense. I just saw alot of nice hotels and big 4 wheel drive cars and lots and lots of hungry poorly clothed children.... More on this later.
I visited a camp but took no pictures, it did not feel right or respectful, and even somewhat awkward even to be there. Despite all of my good intentions, I am still little more than a disaster tourist there, and there is little my good intentions can do to help people here on a practical basis.
I learned a few important things. One - trust my instincts. The man who was to be our guide gave me an immediate sense of distrust, and luckily I did follow my instincts and ditched the guy at the first sign that my instincts were on. I'm almost out to time so I'll save that story for later. Two - the people living in these camps were largely involuntarily placed there. The people here call the camps concentration camps and they are equally angry at the government soldiers who brutalized and terrorized them as they are the Lords Resistance Army who is publicly blamed for the atrocities.
Families living in these camps were denied the ability to continue farming their land - thus leading to major food insecurity. Most people I talked to said that the lack of food here was due to the policies of Aid providers and government. People were rounded up into camps, supposedly for their own protection, and yet the camps were precisely where many of the atrocities occured.
Having now lived in the camps for more than a decade, they are now being asked to go home. To farms that are not developed, huts that have disintegrated, with very little assistance. Gulu is an Aid economy city, and yet it seemed very unclear just what the NGO's were doing. It seems to me that the help people need here is for some people to pick up a fucking hammer and start building some god damned houses, plowing some land. But when I asked what they were in fact doing the answer was "sensitizing". Now there are some organizations that were exceptioms here - and I will name them, but there is some major evidence that the notion of Aid is nonsense. I just saw alot of nice hotels and big 4 wheel drive cars and lots and lots of hungry poorly clothed children.... More on this later.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Nyakarambi - the village
I am now in Kampala, and spent the last week travelling with Charles, Hilda's cousin, who has become a dear friend. He's close to my age, and spent his childhood in a small village until he moved to the still very rural town of Kabale. He has a fascinating perspective of someone whose life has bridged three very different worlds. From the village, to the town and to the city. He still has not travelled abroad, but hopes to one day. Charles was supposed to leave me in the village and come back to Kampala, but he ended up staying in the village and traveled with me (which I am sure will relieve many of you) to Kabale - the town where Clara's mother Joy lives.
We left Kampala on bus, and had some adventure. On the way there I jumped off for a quick "short call" at what was supposed to be a long pit stop, but I returned to find the bus had left without me! I jumped on a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) to catch up to the bus and found it stopped some distance ahead. When I got on, the bus started moving again but as I made my way to my seat I found Charles had jumped off to find me! I called to the bus driver to stop again, and called Charles on my cell phone - a miracle that it happened to have reception at that moment since it hasn't had any since - and told him I was on the bus. He made it back quickly and the rest of our ride to Nyakarambi was uneventful aside from the incredible landscapes and blurry glimpses of african life I caught as we drove by.
I am getting used to the scenery of the highway, children playing beside the road as cars race by, women walking long distances carrying jugs of water, bananas, or other things on their head, with a baby wrapped up on her back, beautiful cattle with long magnificent horns. I no longer want to snap a photo of every graceful african woman I drive past, or wizened gray haired african men riding bicycles with humourously large objects strapped to the back.
The bus dropped us in the middle of nowhere on the side of the highway, in front of a handfull of small shops and women selling sweet potatoes, matoke (a type of banana that resembles more a plantain) and tomatoes.
Immediately, at least 10 men rushed up to us yelling "Muzungu, where to?" I pointed them to Charles who knew where we were going. He negotiated for some time with the men, it was funny to watch him with them without understanding the words. They argued for awhile and eventually we boarded a small taxi which drove us along a series of small dirt roads lined by thick vegetation. It had recently rained and the roads appeared completely impassable to me -- to 4 wheel drive pickups much less the rickety old 20 year old 4 door sedan we were in. After a fairly long distance and a short time spent g lost arriving at another village we arrived at our destination -- Nyakarambi.
It's a small community of maybe 1000 people, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. Green lush banana plantations, green hills with terraced farms in the distance, just incredible. The entire family came out to greet us and they were warm and welcoming and wonderful. They were so happy to have a visitor, much less one from so far away.
Byamukama, our host, is my age but had to leave university lacking money for the fees, and unable to find a job in Kampala decided to return to village life. It would be easy to romanticize life there, for much of what I expected to see - tight family communities, happy children playing in wide open spaces, an abundance of culture and a more stable life was absolutely there. However that was far from all I saw, and I have learned a great deal about real life by my visit.
After arriving, Byamukama, Charles and I walked down to see the primary water source for the people here. A small very dirty stream. Some children had come down with their jerry cans to fetch the water - the ubiquitous yellow jerry can. You can't go 10 feet here - even in Kampala without seeing some transporting water in one. In Kampala the water found inside at least reasonably clean and comes out of a facet with treated water (though families may pay a great portion of their income for it).
Here in the village, I watched as the children (between 8-10 years old) walked up to the edge of the stream and dumped the can into the water letting it fill. We asked to take their picture and they were thrilled. For them getting water like this was completely normal. Many of them don't even boil it.
Before long we had a throng of children behind us, their numbers exponentially increasing as soon as I brought out my camera. They all yelled, "yeah!" when I asked if they wanted a picture. They crowded each other to get into the shot. After taking a few I showed them the picture on the camera and they were so delighted and laughing and pointing out their friends.
So nice, sweet and and good except these children were not well. Most of them had impossibly extended stomachs, their belly buttons sticking out like pregnant women. Apparently this is due to a kind of worm I think that comes from the water and the ground. They all had runny noses and many had serious coughs - drinking water from the river immediately causes flu. None had shoes (which is how they get worms I am told) and their clothes were truly tattered rags - rips tied together to keep shirts on the sholders. These were just little boys and girls - happy smiling faces.
They all wanted to touch me and feel my skin and hair, and I felt like it was a great thing for them to be able to explore how white skin is no different from theirs. I told them that as they all scrambled to get ahold of my hands and arms and hair. I immediately decided that if I caught something - so be it. When I'd had enough they immediately listened and followed us a little distance behind.
I tried to talk to people, and started to learn a few phrases and they were really appreciative that I had made an effort. I danced with them, and drank the local brew from the communal pot out of straws (real straws - not plastic straws), and all the time they laughed and encouraged me warmly. Everyone told me "You are welcome! You are welcome!".
Families live in mud houses with thatched roofs or houses from clay bricks attached with mud. Dirt floors and mud walls, with newspaper as wallpaper. But they were just normal homes - with tended gardens, clothes drying on a line. These were different, but I could see that the materials that constituted their home is not poverty. It's warm here, so those houses were in some ways more comortable than the alumunium roofed homes that heat up unbearably in Kamapala.
I have come to get used to the pit latrines and showers from a bucket - it's really not that big of a deal. The poverty comes from lack of water, lack of basic health care, and information\education. One of the women who lives on the same compound where I stayed is dying of Aids, her beautiful son Allen wants to go to school to be a doctor. He's 14, and was one of those people you take one look at and know he is a good kind kid. His father is gone, and soon he will be orphaned - but his aunts and uncles will look after him.
There are so so many orphans. Oh my god. Aids has caused such great harm here. Aunts and grandomthers care for dozens of children even after they have raised there own. I have met countless African women who live in service to get their nieces, nephews, grandchildren, and children of friends educated and cared for. Here in the village, I stayed with Darfois who is probably in her late 50's cares for several children scraping to get money for school fees.
I visited two schools while I was here, and each made a huge production out of my visit - Gathering the entire school for me to talk to. I had brought with me some gifts, a large box of excercise books (notebooks), pens and pencils as well as soccer balls, a frisbee (which the positively loved) and a baseball. These schools had nothing more than benches and chalk boards, but when I asked the children who among them wanted to go to university every single child immediately raised their hand.
They had great questions - How old are you? Are you married? Do you have children? Are both of your parents alive?
Very few children here have both of their parents still alive. I think I have mentioned that the average life expectancy here is just over 50. These children were smart, kind, good, fun loving, hard working - every child I asked said they loved to go to school.
I can't even begin to describe the overwhelming feeling of injustice that washes over me when I play with these kids and realize how much we waste and take for granted and the disturbing sense of entitlement we have at home.
These children need clean water, medicine for worms and basic infections, they need to be treated for malaria - and even more importantly they need information and opportunity to envision and create a better life for themselves.
If people at home want to help - one thing is to pay the school fees for orphans. I have met many children who can't finish school because there is no parent around to pay. I have become friends with several head masters and mistrisses of schools I would unflinchingly trust with scholarship money.
Another terrible reality here in rural Africa is domestic violence and a total lack of women's liberation at it's worst. It's beyond anything I could have imagined. Literally - it is common for the woman's work to be doing all manual labor on the farm - all the digging (with a how) all the planting, all the work - come home and cook dinner, care for the children, clean the house, sell the produce - and the men then come and take what the women have earned and go buy alcohol. I am not kidding. I saw countless drunk men in the middle of the day, but few women.
Also, polygamy is common. I guess I can understand - for a woman a husband would have to be a huge burden - I literally struggled to find any way that the husbands were contributing to the household in many cases - why on earth would any woman want to have to support one all on her own? I am not being light, or funny here. I am being very serious. Educated men and women together list it as one of the major cultural obstacles to bringing Uganda out of poverty.
The men on the other hand can hardly grasp the concept that many American men don't want to get married or have children. Even the educated men here have a sensibility about family that resembles that of my grandfather's generation. They value it greatly, perhaps because they don't feel as invincible and invulnerable as we tend to feel at home. I don't know.
I have had several marriage proposals, including one to be someone's second wife. I had to take a moment to consider, but declined in the end.
My trip to Gulu has been postponed until tomorrow morning. I will only be there one night, and it's somewhat more dangerous than Kampala, but I am very determined to go, and am going with people and staying in someone's home, so I am confident I will be safe.
I am having the most amazing experience. I can harldly imagine going through my entire life not having this experience, coming to love people here as friends instead of images on a TV screen. I don't think I would have been the same person.
It is overwheling seeing such need, but I am reminded by many wise men who've pointed out that you build a house brick by brick. I have a brick, or maybe two or three to contribute - I don't need to be the ONE who BUILT THE HOUSE. I think that's just ego. We can all simply add our brick in whatever way we may feel called.
I am feeling sad as I approach the end of my trip. I have really falled in love here - this is a place I will certainly be returning to. The people here already feel like family in a way, I have such an affection for the friends I have made and I feel really accepted and loved as well.
But I miss you all terribly as well. Thank you to those of you who are reading and posting comments. It makes me feel like my community is here with me.
We left Kampala on bus, and had some adventure. On the way there I jumped off for a quick "short call" at what was supposed to be a long pit stop, but I returned to find the bus had left without me! I jumped on a boda boda (motorcycle taxi) to catch up to the bus and found it stopped some distance ahead. When I got on, the bus started moving again but as I made my way to my seat I found Charles had jumped off to find me! I called to the bus driver to stop again, and called Charles on my cell phone - a miracle that it happened to have reception at that moment since it hasn't had any since - and told him I was on the bus. He made it back quickly and the rest of our ride to Nyakarambi was uneventful aside from the incredible landscapes and blurry glimpses of african life I caught as we drove by.
I am getting used to the scenery of the highway, children playing beside the road as cars race by, women walking long distances carrying jugs of water, bananas, or other things on their head, with a baby wrapped up on her back, beautiful cattle with long magnificent horns. I no longer want to snap a photo of every graceful african woman I drive past, or wizened gray haired african men riding bicycles with humourously large objects strapped to the back.
The bus dropped us in the middle of nowhere on the side of the highway, in front of a handfull of small shops and women selling sweet potatoes, matoke (a type of banana that resembles more a plantain) and tomatoes.
Immediately, at least 10 men rushed up to us yelling "Muzungu, where to?" I pointed them to Charles who knew where we were going. He negotiated for some time with the men, it was funny to watch him with them without understanding the words. They argued for awhile and eventually we boarded a small taxi which drove us along a series of small dirt roads lined by thick vegetation. It had recently rained and the roads appeared completely impassable to me -- to 4 wheel drive pickups much less the rickety old 20 year old 4 door sedan we were in. After a fairly long distance and a short time spent g lost arriving at another village we arrived at our destination -- Nyakarambi.
It's a small community of maybe 1000 people, and it was breathtakingly beautiful. Green lush banana plantations, green hills with terraced farms in the distance, just incredible. The entire family came out to greet us and they were warm and welcoming and wonderful. They were so happy to have a visitor, much less one from so far away.
Byamukama, our host, is my age but had to leave university lacking money for the fees, and unable to find a job in Kampala decided to return to village life. It would be easy to romanticize life there, for much of what I expected to see - tight family communities, happy children playing in wide open spaces, an abundance of culture and a more stable life was absolutely there. However that was far from all I saw, and I have learned a great deal about real life by my visit.
After arriving, Byamukama, Charles and I walked down to see the primary water source for the people here. A small very dirty stream. Some children had come down with their jerry cans to fetch the water - the ubiquitous yellow jerry can. You can't go 10 feet here - even in Kampala without seeing some transporting water in one. In Kampala the water found inside at least reasonably clean and comes out of a facet with treated water (though families may pay a great portion of their income for it).
Here in the village, I watched as the children (between 8-10 years old) walked up to the edge of the stream and dumped the can into the water letting it fill. We asked to take their picture and they were thrilled. For them getting water like this was completely normal. Many of them don't even boil it.
Before long we had a throng of children behind us, their numbers exponentially increasing as soon as I brought out my camera. They all yelled, "yeah!" when I asked if they wanted a picture. They crowded each other to get into the shot. After taking a few I showed them the picture on the camera and they were so delighted and laughing and pointing out their friends.
So nice, sweet and and good except these children were not well. Most of them had impossibly extended stomachs, their belly buttons sticking out like pregnant women. Apparently this is due to a kind of worm I think that comes from the water and the ground. They all had runny noses and many had serious coughs - drinking water from the river immediately causes flu. None had shoes (which is how they get worms I am told) and their clothes were truly tattered rags - rips tied together to keep shirts on the sholders. These were just little boys and girls - happy smiling faces.
They all wanted to touch me and feel my skin and hair, and I felt like it was a great thing for them to be able to explore how white skin is no different from theirs. I told them that as they all scrambled to get ahold of my hands and arms and hair. I immediately decided that if I caught something - so be it. When I'd had enough they immediately listened and followed us a little distance behind.
I tried to talk to people, and started to learn a few phrases and they were really appreciative that I had made an effort. I danced with them, and drank the local brew from the communal pot out of straws (real straws - not plastic straws), and all the time they laughed and encouraged me warmly. Everyone told me "You are welcome! You are welcome!".
Families live in mud houses with thatched roofs or houses from clay bricks attached with mud. Dirt floors and mud walls, with newspaper as wallpaper. But they were just normal homes - with tended gardens, clothes drying on a line. These were different, but I could see that the materials that constituted their home is not poverty. It's warm here, so those houses were in some ways more comortable than the alumunium roofed homes that heat up unbearably in Kamapala.
I have come to get used to the pit latrines and showers from a bucket - it's really not that big of a deal. The poverty comes from lack of water, lack of basic health care, and information\education. One of the women who lives on the same compound where I stayed is dying of Aids, her beautiful son Allen wants to go to school to be a doctor. He's 14, and was one of those people you take one look at and know he is a good kind kid. His father is gone, and soon he will be orphaned - but his aunts and uncles will look after him.
There are so so many orphans. Oh my god. Aids has caused such great harm here. Aunts and grandomthers care for dozens of children even after they have raised there own. I have met countless African women who live in service to get their nieces, nephews, grandchildren, and children of friends educated and cared for. Here in the village, I stayed with Darfois who is probably in her late 50's cares for several children scraping to get money for school fees.
I visited two schools while I was here, and each made a huge production out of my visit - Gathering the entire school for me to talk to. I had brought with me some gifts, a large box of excercise books (notebooks), pens and pencils as well as soccer balls, a frisbee (which the positively loved) and a baseball. These schools had nothing more than benches and chalk boards, but when I asked the children who among them wanted to go to university every single child immediately raised their hand.
They had great questions - How old are you? Are you married? Do you have children? Are both of your parents alive?
Very few children here have both of their parents still alive. I think I have mentioned that the average life expectancy here is just over 50. These children were smart, kind, good, fun loving, hard working - every child I asked said they loved to go to school.
I can't even begin to describe the overwhelming feeling of injustice that washes over me when I play with these kids and realize how much we waste and take for granted and the disturbing sense of entitlement we have at home.
These children need clean water, medicine for worms and basic infections, they need to be treated for malaria - and even more importantly they need information and opportunity to envision and create a better life for themselves.
If people at home want to help - one thing is to pay the school fees for orphans. I have met many children who can't finish school because there is no parent around to pay. I have become friends with several head masters and mistrisses of schools I would unflinchingly trust with scholarship money.
Another terrible reality here in rural Africa is domestic violence and a total lack of women's liberation at it's worst. It's beyond anything I could have imagined. Literally - it is common for the woman's work to be doing all manual labor on the farm - all the digging (with a how) all the planting, all the work - come home and cook dinner, care for the children, clean the house, sell the produce - and the men then come and take what the women have earned and go buy alcohol. I am not kidding. I saw countless drunk men in the middle of the day, but few women.
Also, polygamy is common. I guess I can understand - for a woman a husband would have to be a huge burden - I literally struggled to find any way that the husbands were contributing to the household in many cases - why on earth would any woman want to have to support one all on her own? I am not being light, or funny here. I am being very serious. Educated men and women together list it as one of the major cultural obstacles to bringing Uganda out of poverty.
The men on the other hand can hardly grasp the concept that many American men don't want to get married or have children. Even the educated men here have a sensibility about family that resembles that of my grandfather's generation. They value it greatly, perhaps because they don't feel as invincible and invulnerable as we tend to feel at home. I don't know.
I have had several marriage proposals, including one to be someone's second wife. I had to take a moment to consider, but declined in the end.
My trip to Gulu has been postponed until tomorrow morning. I will only be there one night, and it's somewhat more dangerous than Kampala, but I am very determined to go, and am going with people and staying in someone's home, so I am confident I will be safe.
I am having the most amazing experience. I can harldly imagine going through my entire life not having this experience, coming to love people here as friends instead of images on a TV screen. I don't think I would have been the same person.
It is overwheling seeing such need, but I am reminded by many wise men who've pointed out that you build a house brick by brick. I have a brick, or maybe two or three to contribute - I don't need to be the ONE who BUILT THE HOUSE. I think that's just ego. We can all simply add our brick in whatever way we may feel called.
I am feeling sad as I approach the end of my trip. I have really falled in love here - this is a place I will certainly be returning to. The people here already feel like family in a way, I have such an affection for the friends I have made and I feel really accepted and loved as well.
But I miss you all terribly as well. Thank you to those of you who are reading and posting comments. It makes me feel like my community is here with me.
Friday, November 23, 2007
To the village
I have just returned from an amazing trip to the north east to Torouro, and though it is a town that shows prominantly on the map, it feels like one of the little agricultural towns you find along small highways in California, you blink and you've passed it.
It's dusty and slow and the air is so clean and the landscape unbelievably beautiful. Johnson's wife Rosette works at the nearby "hospital" which is really a group of small one story buildings. The inpatient ward goes without any medical staff for part of the night, and there are no lights. Family members have to stay and care for their loved ones - feeding them, bathing them, etc. It was fascinating because on the site are a series of clinics that are funded and operated by the CDC with funding from the Doris Duke foundation and some association to the University of California.
I met my first American, an Indian-American medical student from UCSF, Neil has been working at a pediatric outpatient reserach clinic for the last 4 months. He works alongside two amazing Ugandan doctors who recently finished their residency, and rather than going into private practice and making a pretty good living are choosing instead to serve this very poor rural population that suffers severely from chronic malaria and HIV. They gave us a tour of the facility and it was very very inspiring. Afterward we went out dancing at a party and I've developed a taste for the local beer.
Tomorrow I leave for Kabale where I will go to the village. I am a little nervous but also very excited. My trip to Torouro gave me a little taste of what I might expect. The bus ride there was filled with blurred images of the small round mud-walled and grass-thatched huts that I will find. It's supposed to be a really beautiful place, Kabale, much colder than Kampala.
Afterward I have an opportunity to head north to Gulu, where there is an Internally Displaced Person (IDP) camp. I am told the conditions are beyond imagination. Many of the families most harmed by the conflict to the north are here and you can imagine the kinds of physical and emotional human inflicted injuries that are endemic, not to mention the same kinds of public health problems that the rest of the country is facing.
I had a feeling that I might meet someone to go with, and a Ugandan friend I met through Clara in Kampala works for an NGO that has an office in Gulu has offered to come with me and we will stay in their office. I am definately going as long as my contact is still willing to take me.
Why do I want to go? I found a quote in a magazine (The Sun) I brought with me from home which jumped out at me -- "Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight". I don't want to just think of it and I don't want to go to Gulu simply to observe, I want to be in witness to what is happening in the world right now. And I hope that maybe people reading this blog will at least think of it.
I want to sit with people and pray to God that by connecting to suffering somehow we open doors for things to begin flowing again, for suffering to move away from these people who've known far too much of it, and for the wealth and plenty of our world to come to them in some way. I have no idea if it's true, I only know that it does not feel right for me to come to Africa and pretend that there are not women here without lips, children with missing hands, not to mention rape and torture.
I see people in the suburbs of Kampala, living in what feels like spontaneous homeless encampments, they have no way to earn any money at all. They try - young men 20 years old walk the streets selling newspapers, small candies, cheap sunglasses - and as they eye me deeply hoping I'll buy something for less than a dollar - there's a desperation there. Women sit all day long in shops staked with various goods and may fin 1-2 customers in a day - or none.
There are hair salons, mobile pedicure stations, everything, anything - trying to find a way to make a reasonable living. Jesus - it really should not be that hard in a country that has so much in the way of natural resources.
In the village I am told it's worse. I am sceptical that life in the village isn't somehow better than in the slums - despite a lack of modern conveniences such as running water. The slums seem completely demoralized, isolated from family, seperated from the surrounding community because everyone speaks a different language. People seem afraid of each other. I feel like the village which at least has a solid community and sustained culture must offer a happier existance. But I will try to see for myself.
And then there are the people living in IDP camps - truly hungry - malnourished - traumatized - hurt. These families really need help. And they need it right now. Honestly, can't we do something? There is a great need, and it's overwhelming for anyone to change it - we can't expect to satisfy our ego by seeing huge changes made at our hand alone, but at least we can know we are adding something to the scale on the side of change.
I want to care about people - and though it is hard in America to stay connected to these realities, and though it is impossible to avoid clueless white-woman syndrome facing such things, I want to do as the quote in Sun magazine suggests.
Uganda is really a very very stunningly beautiful country. With hills as green as Hawaii and an abundance of fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas -- bananas everywhere, sugar cane, cassava, tea, rice, coffee, guava and countless other signs of abundance - it is a very rich nation.
The soil here is pregnant. It's red and moist and rich; plants are growing anywhere there is undisturbed earth. Knowing that our most early human ancestors lived here; that this is the place where the human species was born is very magical.
I went on a short hike the other day and some small grey monkey's came out to see me and then ran into the forest. There could be no following them, I've never seen such dense forest.
This place should not be suffering like it is, and the people here love Americans, they want to study in America, they want to travel to America, they want to know the only American woman they've ever seen in person, we need to connect to places like this - come here - acknowledge the problems - see them in a global context, and be in solidarity wit the good men and women here who are working to change it.
If people want to help at all send me at email at my yahoo account. Now I am off to buy supplies to bring to the village. Hope everyone had a wonderful thanksgiving and I was thinking about all of you.
Much love,
Sara
It's dusty and slow and the air is so clean and the landscape unbelievably beautiful. Johnson's wife Rosette works at the nearby "hospital" which is really a group of small one story buildings. The inpatient ward goes without any medical staff for part of the night, and there are no lights. Family members have to stay and care for their loved ones - feeding them, bathing them, etc. It was fascinating because on the site are a series of clinics that are funded and operated by the CDC with funding from the Doris Duke foundation and some association to the University of California.
I met my first American, an Indian-American medical student from UCSF, Neil has been working at a pediatric outpatient reserach clinic for the last 4 months. He works alongside two amazing Ugandan doctors who recently finished their residency, and rather than going into private practice and making a pretty good living are choosing instead to serve this very poor rural population that suffers severely from chronic malaria and HIV. They gave us a tour of the facility and it was very very inspiring. Afterward we went out dancing at a party and I've developed a taste for the local beer.
Tomorrow I leave for Kabale where I will go to the village. I am a little nervous but also very excited. My trip to Torouro gave me a little taste of what I might expect. The bus ride there was filled with blurred images of the small round mud-walled and grass-thatched huts that I will find. It's supposed to be a really beautiful place, Kabale, much colder than Kampala.
Afterward I have an opportunity to head north to Gulu, where there is an Internally Displaced Person (IDP) camp. I am told the conditions are beyond imagination. Many of the families most harmed by the conflict to the north are here and you can imagine the kinds of physical and emotional human inflicted injuries that are endemic, not to mention the same kinds of public health problems that the rest of the country is facing.
I had a feeling that I might meet someone to go with, and a Ugandan friend I met through Clara in Kampala works for an NGO that has an office in Gulu has offered to come with me and we will stay in their office. I am definately going as long as my contact is still willing to take me.
Why do I want to go? I found a quote in a magazine (The Sun) I brought with me from home which jumped out at me -- "Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight". I don't want to just think of it and I don't want to go to Gulu simply to observe, I want to be in witness to what is happening in the world right now. And I hope that maybe people reading this blog will at least think of it.
I want to sit with people and pray to God that by connecting to suffering somehow we open doors for things to begin flowing again, for suffering to move away from these people who've known far too much of it, and for the wealth and plenty of our world to come to them in some way. I have no idea if it's true, I only know that it does not feel right for me to come to Africa and pretend that there are not women here without lips, children with missing hands, not to mention rape and torture.
I see people in the suburbs of Kampala, living in what feels like spontaneous homeless encampments, they have no way to earn any money at all. They try - young men 20 years old walk the streets selling newspapers, small candies, cheap sunglasses - and as they eye me deeply hoping I'll buy something for less than a dollar - there's a desperation there. Women sit all day long in shops staked with various goods and may fin 1-2 customers in a day - or none.
There are hair salons, mobile pedicure stations, everything, anything - trying to find a way to make a reasonable living. Jesus - it really should not be that hard in a country that has so much in the way of natural resources.
In the village I am told it's worse. I am sceptical that life in the village isn't somehow better than in the slums - despite a lack of modern conveniences such as running water. The slums seem completely demoralized, isolated from family, seperated from the surrounding community because everyone speaks a different language. People seem afraid of each other. I feel like the village which at least has a solid community and sustained culture must offer a happier existance. But I will try to see for myself.
And then there are the people living in IDP camps - truly hungry - malnourished - traumatized - hurt. These families really need help. And they need it right now. Honestly, can't we do something? There is a great need, and it's overwhelming for anyone to change it - we can't expect to satisfy our ego by seeing huge changes made at our hand alone, but at least we can know we are adding something to the scale on the side of change.
I want to care about people - and though it is hard in America to stay connected to these realities, and though it is impossible to avoid clueless white-woman syndrome facing such things, I want to do as the quote in Sun magazine suggests.
Uganda is really a very very stunningly beautiful country. With hills as green as Hawaii and an abundance of fresh pineapple, mangoes, bananas -- bananas everywhere, sugar cane, cassava, tea, rice, coffee, guava and countless other signs of abundance - it is a very rich nation.
The soil here is pregnant. It's red and moist and rich; plants are growing anywhere there is undisturbed earth. Knowing that our most early human ancestors lived here; that this is the place where the human species was born is very magical.
I went on a short hike the other day and some small grey monkey's came out to see me and then ran into the forest. There could be no following them, I've never seen such dense forest.
This place should not be suffering like it is, and the people here love Americans, they want to study in America, they want to travel to America, they want to know the only American woman they've ever seen in person, we need to connect to places like this - come here - acknowledge the problems - see them in a global context, and be in solidarity wit the good men and women here who are working to change it.
If people want to help at all send me at email at my yahoo account. Now I am off to buy supplies to bring to the village. Hope everyone had a wonderful thanksgiving and I was thinking about all of you.
Much love,
Sara
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Queen is coming
Kampala is getting ready for CHOGM. Many streets will be shut making daily life impossible for most of the people here. The President has asked that the shops stay open, but it's not clear who will be shopping.
I may have to cancel my trip to visit Johnson in Torouro because of road closures.
I had a beautiful trip to the source of the Nile river. It was stunning. The whole family came and we drove in Bob's car. We had some car trouble and had to stop in Jinga - but we made it and watched the sun set over the Nile river.
Everything is fine and I am settling into Ugandan life.... Heading to the village this Saturday.
I can't even begin to imagine what that will be like. I have tried to describe a little of the poverty here but it's hard.
There are no old people. Anywhere. Not hidden in the houses, not in convalescent hospitals. The average life expectancy of a Ugandan man is a little over 50 years old. Orphans are everywhere. In many neighborhoods I encounter the people have never seen a white person, or maybe only once before. Everyone stares as I walk by, work stops, they say nothing - I try to smile but after awhile it's hard. I can hear people whispering "Muzungu....."
In other areas it's totally different - the women and men smile at me and say "Muzungu! how are you?" The children follow me and try out their english.....
I may have to cancel my trip to visit Johnson in Torouro because of road closures.
I had a beautiful trip to the source of the Nile river. It was stunning. The whole family came and we drove in Bob's car. We had some car trouble and had to stop in Jinga - but we made it and watched the sun set over the Nile river.
Everything is fine and I am settling into Ugandan life.... Heading to the village this Saturday.
I can't even begin to imagine what that will be like. I have tried to describe a little of the poverty here but it's hard.
There are no old people. Anywhere. Not hidden in the houses, not in convalescent hospitals. The average life expectancy of a Ugandan man is a little over 50 years old. Orphans are everywhere. In many neighborhoods I encounter the people have never seen a white person, or maybe only once before. Everyone stares as I walk by, work stops, they say nothing - I try to smile but after awhile it's hard. I can hear people whispering "Muzungu....."
In other areas it's totally different - the women and men smile at me and say "Muzungu! how are you?" The children follow me and try out their english.....
Police state
**Note. This is an old post I wrote but chose not to post in the interest of not scaring my worried older sister.
Wow. CHOGM is here, and it appears they believe that filling the city with more police than people is a way to bring more security. I have never felt less secure.
Trucks roam the streets filled with police men dressed in a military costume carrying large guns. They are just about shutting down the city by closing all the main thoroughfares and telling businesses to remain open though I am told no one will be able to get where they need to go.
The other day, while touring around Kampala with Agaba, I was approached by a police man after taking a photo in front of the Ugandan Parliament. You know... a PUBLIC building that is the seat of Ugandan democracy. The policeman told me matter of fact, "You are under arrest." I said, "Oh! Wow....may I ask why?"
He procceded to tell me that I was under arrest for taking a picture in front of their Parliament building. Needless to say there was nothing to inform anyone that it was not okay, and my friend Agabe (and others I've asked since) said he'd never known it to be illegal. Then he told me I had to delete the picture, which I did immediately. I apologized and told him I was sorry, I didn't know, I'm just a dumb American, etc. Then he said, "no the picture is still inside, I have to confiscate this camera". At this point a wave of dumb courage washed over me and I looked him directly in the eye and said in a very calm matter of fact tone (think Obi Wan) "No. You're not taking my camera, I'd like to talk to someone else." This unsettled him, and I could see his hesitation. He motioned over his superior, who asked me if I'd rather accompany them to the police station for a full investigation to which I unhesitantly replied "sure". He was taken aback and asked, "are you serious?" I said, "absolutely". Of course these men figured it was one of two things, either I was incredibly stupidly foolhearty (I mean who willingly goes to a Ugandan police station?), or I knew something they didn't know. My bluff worked and they caved. After clearly demonstrated to him that there was no photo of the Parliament building in the camera and apologizing profusely, the superior (over the protest of the guy who'd "caught" me) at last said "you can go".
Later I was told what was really going on was that they were looking for a bribe. The police earn very little money so they make up for it by extracting bribes any chance they get. I've heard people say that if the police stops them they'll "have me for supper". Now whenever I see a police officer it fills me with dread. They are roaming the streets in armed patrols. Tip to the President (who is touting Uganda as a tourist destination) - guns make tourists nervous.
Wow. CHOGM is here, and it appears they believe that filling the city with more police than people is a way to bring more security. I have never felt less secure.
Trucks roam the streets filled with police men dressed in a military costume carrying large guns. They are just about shutting down the city by closing all the main thoroughfares and telling businesses to remain open though I am told no one will be able to get where they need to go.
The other day, while touring around Kampala with Agaba, I was approached by a police man after taking a photo in front of the Ugandan Parliament. You know... a PUBLIC building that is the seat of Ugandan democracy. The policeman told me matter of fact, "You are under arrest." I said, "Oh! Wow....may I ask why?"
He procceded to tell me that I was under arrest for taking a picture in front of their Parliament building. Needless to say there was nothing to inform anyone that it was not okay, and my friend Agabe (and others I've asked since) said he'd never known it to be illegal. Then he told me I had to delete the picture, which I did immediately. I apologized and told him I was sorry, I didn't know, I'm just a dumb American, etc. Then he said, "no the picture is still inside, I have to confiscate this camera". At this point a wave of dumb courage washed over me and I looked him directly in the eye and said in a very calm matter of fact tone (think Obi Wan) "No. You're not taking my camera, I'd like to talk to someone else." This unsettled him, and I could see his hesitation. He motioned over his superior, who asked me if I'd rather accompany them to the police station for a full investigation to which I unhesitantly replied "sure". He was taken aback and asked, "are you serious?" I said, "absolutely". Of course these men figured it was one of two things, either I was incredibly stupidly foolhearty (I mean who willingly goes to a Ugandan police station?), or I knew something they didn't know. My bluff worked and they caved. After clearly demonstrated to him that there was no photo of the Parliament building in the camera and apologizing profusely, the superior (over the protest of the guy who'd "caught" me) at last said "you can go".
Later I was told what was really going on was that they were looking for a bribe. The police earn very little money so they make up for it by extracting bribes any chance they get. I've heard people say that if the police stops them they'll "have me for supper". Now whenever I see a police officer it fills me with dread. They are roaming the streets in armed patrols. Tip to the President (who is touting Uganda as a tourist destination) - guns make tourists nervous.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Floods
It rained heavy last night and there is flooding everywhere. Truly the place where I live resembles much more a squatters refugee camp than a neighborhood. There is deep water on all the side streets laping the entrance of the houses. Children stand looking out from their houses, and boda bodas (motorcycle taxis) were slipping in the water. Mud everywhere.
Clara's modest house is surrounded by a very high iron gate. Everyone stares stoney eyed as we drive past. Clara's car is on its last legs to say the least. You can smell gasoline leaking somewhere, and water must be replaced every day. I am constantly amazed that it starts. It's safe to say that this car would not pass smog at home. And yet here it is an unmistakable sign of incredible wealth.
And with good reason. Clara's car and good education is what allows her to continue building a life that has a strong hope of one day reaching a western lifestyle.
Good news, Agaba has found out that he is the only person who will be retained and given another contract. This is very wonderful given that many of his colleagues have yet to find even a single contract of any kind. I have met many intriguing and thoughtful men and women who are unable to find a job.
Right now Uganda is hosting a forum of the Commonwealth and the Queen is coming. There is this sense of a last minute scramble to tidy up the place for the Queen. Last minute road improvements on the handful of paved roads you find in the city, plantings, repainting, etc. To renovate the hospital I was told they simply shut off the electricity to the critical care unit and many people died instantly. Any day now delegates from around the world will come to Uganda. They are spending millions of Ugandan tax dollars on this.....
Clara's modest house is surrounded by a very high iron gate. Everyone stares stoney eyed as we drive past. Clara's car is on its last legs to say the least. You can smell gasoline leaking somewhere, and water must be replaced every day. I am constantly amazed that it starts. It's safe to say that this car would not pass smog at home. And yet here it is an unmistakable sign of incredible wealth.
And with good reason. Clara's car and good education is what allows her to continue building a life that has a strong hope of one day reaching a western lifestyle.
Good news, Agaba has found out that he is the only person who will be retained and given another contract. This is very wonderful given that many of his colleagues have yet to find even a single contract of any kind. I have met many intriguing and thoughtful men and women who are unable to find a job.
Right now Uganda is hosting a forum of the Commonwealth and the Queen is coming. There is this sense of a last minute scramble to tidy up the place for the Queen. Last minute road improvements on the handful of paved roads you find in the city, plantings, repainting, etc. To renovate the hospital I was told they simply shut off the electricity to the critical care unit and many people died instantly. Any day now delegates from around the world will come to Uganda. They are spending millions of Ugandan tax dollars on this.....
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
It's a small world
Hi everyone -
If anyone has their feelings hurt that I have not written directly, you should know it has taken me approximately 30 minutes just to open, open and still not reply, to one email. So the blog is the only real way for me to communicate.
Last night it rained, no it stormed, and the aluminum siding roof (there is no ceiling) pounded like you wouldn't believe. It was incredible, the vibrations shaking the house. I am enjoying life out here, the bucket baths are truly no problem. We heat water on a little charcoal stove and it is warm outside so they feel nice. I washed clothes with Clara today and she laughed at the fact that we don't really know how to wash clothes by hand. Now of course I have handwashed clothes, but washing them with very limited water is different than having fresh water on tap at your finger tips. It was pretty hard work.
Yesterday, Agaba, the younger brother of Clara found out that his contract at the bank was not going to be renewed. He was worried about this. His manager really wanted to keep him, but there is no opening.
I am stunned. Agaba, is 23 years old, very bright, well educated, creative, kind and just such an incredible man. He treats his nieces so lovingly, and so generously. I really like him alot. That he can't find a job at all, says so much. What a complete waste.
The city is filled with men and women trained as engineers, plumbers, in information technology, all kinds of things, and there is simply no work. Imagine those who don't have a good education? They might earn as much as $1 day. Yet things like food or gasoline are not much cheaper here than in the United States. And again, this is in the city.
In the village there is no well. Not even water.
Everywhere here, people have so much hope for something to change - they are doing their part - educating themselves and preparing themselves for a better life. Yet even after obtaining a college degree there is the distinct possibility of ended up destitute.
What I can't get over is what a complete WASTE it is to not have these people working. They could make Uganda a nice place to live if only they had access to a little capital. Big dam projects don't help because they hire American contractors and even import professional workers. Only African manual labor is used. If we really wanted to help this economy I am totally convinced that the people here could take great advantage...
If anyone has their feelings hurt that I have not written directly, you should know it has taken me approximately 30 minutes just to open, open and still not reply, to one email. So the blog is the only real way for me to communicate.
Last night it rained, no it stormed, and the aluminum siding roof (there is no ceiling) pounded like you wouldn't believe. It was incredible, the vibrations shaking the house. I am enjoying life out here, the bucket baths are truly no problem. We heat water on a little charcoal stove and it is warm outside so they feel nice. I washed clothes with Clara today and she laughed at the fact that we don't really know how to wash clothes by hand. Now of course I have handwashed clothes, but washing them with very limited water is different than having fresh water on tap at your finger tips. It was pretty hard work.
Yesterday, Agaba, the younger brother of Clara found out that his contract at the bank was not going to be renewed. He was worried about this. His manager really wanted to keep him, but there is no opening.
I am stunned. Agaba, is 23 years old, very bright, well educated, creative, kind and just such an incredible man. He treats his nieces so lovingly, and so generously. I really like him alot. That he can't find a job at all, says so much. What a complete waste.
The city is filled with men and women trained as engineers, plumbers, in information technology, all kinds of things, and there is simply no work. Imagine those who don't have a good education? They might earn as much as $1 day. Yet things like food or gasoline are not much cheaper here than in the United States. And again, this is in the city.
In the village there is no well. Not even water.
Everywhere here, people have so much hope for something to change - they are doing their part - educating themselves and preparing themselves for a better life. Yet even after obtaining a college degree there is the distinct possibility of ended up destitute.
What I can't get over is what a complete WASTE it is to not have these people working. They could make Uganda a nice place to live if only they had access to a little capital. Big dam projects don't help because they hire American contractors and even import professional workers. Only African manual labor is used. If we really wanted to help this economy I am totally convinced that the people here could take great advantage...
Monday, November 12, 2007
Muzungu in Kampala
I am here in Kampala, and have now spent three nights here. I can't quite say that I am settling in although I have gotten a Ugandan telephone number (It's 0775170211). I don't really know how to describe my experience here. Everything just completely contradicts itself.
My flight: Let's just say I wasn't sure if I was taking a flight to Africa or to a Southern Baptist bible study conference in South Carolina. A large majority of the passengers were white, wearing baseball caps embroidered with "Jesus", or the name of their church. They had a great confidence of someone embarking on a noble quest of some kind. They completely intrigued me. These were just normal Americans wearing embroidered fleeces and khakis; Soccer moms and Nascar dads...going to Uganda to teach the locals about God. And they'd been to Africa before, and they weren't nervous in the slightest.
Me, I was still scared. I just watched them. Watched them talking to a Ugandan man who'd been working for the Lutheran church and was returning. He was asked repeatedly what church was "supporting" his church in Uganda.
I sat next to an interesting Ugandan man who was working on his PhD in Amsterdam in Psychiatry, and we talked about mental health care in Uganda, and health care policy. He knew far more about the health care system in the United States than most Americans. He and his wife and their child were all in Amsterdam - she was getting a degree in Applied Physics.
This was my first exposure to how educated people are in Uganda. They really are more educated than most people I meet at a bar in Sacramento.
I was greeted at the airport by Johnson and his younger brother Michael (also called Agaba) - and knew instantly - as in across the crowd instantly, that these were nice people that I would connect with.
They had a car and drove me from Entebbe to their apartment in Kampala. It was dark so I couldn't see much, as we got close to Kampala I got my first of the Africa that you see in the movies. The side of the highway was lined with tiny shops built out of scrap wood and sheet metal or shipping containers. It was very dark except for single florescent lights hanging in the shops or small kerosene fires outside of some of them with small groups of people sitting around them, presumably cooking something to eat. African music blared, horns honked, cars swerved to avoid bicycles, or pass slower moving minibuses unsafely.
It was late, like 10 pm, and there was a steady stream of people out. Not just out, but doing things like getting their hair cut. Raw mean hung from one stall, eggs were sold out of another, packaged consumer goods and clothes lined another, and women (and some men) were walking beside us carrying enormous loads on their heads. People stared at me as we passed, and I felt like Alice in Africa.
Once we arrived to their house, I was amazed. Their apartment looked pretty much like that of a couple of bachelors that I know. White walls, simple nice furniture. A TV and DVD player at the center of the room. My room housed a nice computer, the twin bed was a very simple thin but comfortable mattress on a frame. Other than the house having no internet, landline or hot water, it was virtually indistinguishable from an American bachelor pad.
The kitchen was the exception. They used a tiny refrigerator, and a kerosene stove. Water was boiled from an electric kettle.
I use the past tense because I am not staying here at this point. Now I am home with Clara. Michael and Bob's apartment (they are brothers sharing the place while Johnson stays there occasionally), was a really good way to ease into urban African life. With them I had things like a cold shower, and flushing toilet, mosquito free house, etc. The water turned off a couple of times as did the electricity - a way of rationing I am told.
At Clara's we pour water into the toilet to make it flush, and bathe out of a large bucket. At the same time there is a TV and DVD player, refrigerator, and they have a live in housekeeper who takes one of the three bedrooms. Clara owns a DVD rental shop - which is about 10 ft by 10 ft, and stacked with DVD's and VHS tapes.
She's a beautiful woman, and strong mother and speaks great English. She has graduated from college, and her husband is in Japan getting a Masters in Agriculture and Peace and Conflict studies.
Her daughters Millicent and Maris are gorgeous girls, 7 and 4 respectively. They speak excellent English and boy can those little girls dance. I brought them toys including glitter pens which they loved. They immediately began drawing pictures and climbing on me and playing.
Clara cooked am amazing meal to greet me - Matooke (mashed bananas), sweet potato, beans in a delicious sauce, green beans and a beef stew. Oh my goodness, it was a delicious carb feast that I ate greedily - which is the polite way to eat here. Take small portions and the cook is insulted.
The idea that is sinking in powerfully is how relative poverty really is. To Johnson and Bob I was rich, to Clara they are rich, Clara is rich to her neighbors and to Inid the live in housekeeper, and Inid is rich to the people in the village.
Already I have seen poverty like I have never before witnessed. To get to Clara's we pass through unbelievable slums. I mean houses scraped together from scavenged boards and sheet metal, dirt floors, holes for windows. The children see me and they all start yelling Muzungu Muzungu!!!! I am living in a neighborhood such as this. I have to remind myself to stay connected instead of simply observant.
I still haven't even come to the village yet.....
My flight: Let's just say I wasn't sure if I was taking a flight to Africa or to a Southern Baptist bible study conference in South Carolina. A large majority of the passengers were white, wearing baseball caps embroidered with "Jesus", or the name of their church. They had a great confidence of someone embarking on a noble quest of some kind. They completely intrigued me. These were just normal Americans wearing embroidered fleeces and khakis; Soccer moms and Nascar dads...going to Uganda to teach the locals about God. And they'd been to Africa before, and they weren't nervous in the slightest.
Me, I was still scared. I just watched them. Watched them talking to a Ugandan man who'd been working for the Lutheran church and was returning. He was asked repeatedly what church was "supporting" his church in Uganda.
I sat next to an interesting Ugandan man who was working on his PhD in Amsterdam in Psychiatry, and we talked about mental health care in Uganda, and health care policy. He knew far more about the health care system in the United States than most Americans. He and his wife and their child were all in Amsterdam - she was getting a degree in Applied Physics.
This was my first exposure to how educated people are in Uganda. They really are more educated than most people I meet at a bar in Sacramento.
I was greeted at the airport by Johnson and his younger brother Michael (also called Agaba) - and knew instantly - as in across the crowd instantly, that these were nice people that I would connect with.
They had a car and drove me from Entebbe to their apartment in Kampala. It was dark so I couldn't see much, as we got close to Kampala I got my first of the Africa that you see in the movies. The side of the highway was lined with tiny shops built out of scrap wood and sheet metal or shipping containers. It was very dark except for single florescent lights hanging in the shops or small kerosene fires outside of some of them with small groups of people sitting around them, presumably cooking something to eat. African music blared, horns honked, cars swerved to avoid bicycles, or pass slower moving minibuses unsafely.
It was late, like 10 pm, and there was a steady stream of people out. Not just out, but doing things like getting their hair cut. Raw mean hung from one stall, eggs were sold out of another, packaged consumer goods and clothes lined another, and women (and some men) were walking beside us carrying enormous loads on their heads. People stared at me as we passed, and I felt like Alice in Africa.
Once we arrived to their house, I was amazed. Their apartment looked pretty much like that of a couple of bachelors that I know. White walls, simple nice furniture. A TV and DVD player at the center of the room. My room housed a nice computer, the twin bed was a very simple thin but comfortable mattress on a frame. Other than the house having no internet, landline or hot water, it was virtually indistinguishable from an American bachelor pad.
The kitchen was the exception. They used a tiny refrigerator, and a kerosene stove. Water was boiled from an electric kettle.
I use the past tense because I am not staying here at this point. Now I am home with Clara. Michael and Bob's apartment (they are brothers sharing the place while Johnson stays there occasionally), was a really good way to ease into urban African life. With them I had things like a cold shower, and flushing toilet, mosquito free house, etc. The water turned off a couple of times as did the electricity - a way of rationing I am told.
At Clara's we pour water into the toilet to make it flush, and bathe out of a large bucket. At the same time there is a TV and DVD player, refrigerator, and they have a live in housekeeper who takes one of the three bedrooms. Clara owns a DVD rental shop - which is about 10 ft by 10 ft, and stacked with DVD's and VHS tapes.
She's a beautiful woman, and strong mother and speaks great English. She has graduated from college, and her husband is in Japan getting a Masters in Agriculture and Peace and Conflict studies.
Her daughters Millicent and Maris are gorgeous girls, 7 and 4 respectively. They speak excellent English and boy can those little girls dance. I brought them toys including glitter pens which they loved. They immediately began drawing pictures and climbing on me and playing.
Clara cooked am amazing meal to greet me - Matooke (mashed bananas), sweet potato, beans in a delicious sauce, green beans and a beef stew. Oh my goodness, it was a delicious carb feast that I ate greedily - which is the polite way to eat here. Take small portions and the cook is insulted.
The idea that is sinking in powerfully is how relative poverty really is. To Johnson and Bob I was rich, to Clara they are rich, Clara is rich to her neighbors and to Inid the live in housekeeper, and Inid is rich to the people in the village.
Already I have seen poverty like I have never before witnessed. To get to Clara's we pass through unbelievable slums. I mean houses scraped together from scavenged boards and sheet metal, dirt floors, holes for windows. The children see me and they all start yelling Muzungu Muzungu!!!! I am living in a neighborhood such as this. I have to remind myself to stay connected instead of simply observant.
I still haven't even come to the village yet.....
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Amsterdam
So, this will be my first post as I sit at an internet cafe at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam. I am certainly in Europe, judging by the oh so tiny cups of coffee and abundance of cigarette smoke.
I am very excited, and not tired in the slightest. This is surprising since I've had very little sleep over the last 40 hours, and it is approaching bed time back home. Instead, I feel very engaged and awake. I have wanted to come to Africa since I was a little girl. Somewhere I got the idea that I would go to Africa and "learn to speak Zulu".
Actually, I think I do know - it was a National Geographic documentary that I saw nearly 20 years ago. I had no idea where in Africa they spoke "Zulu", but the image of beautiful Zulu women adorned with exquisite beaded jewelery in a backdrop of a golden savana has stayed with me ever since.
Lots of people are asking, "why Uganda?". The only answer I have is that my experience is more of Uganda picking me. I just knew I wanted to travel, and knew I wanted to do more than stay in hotels and tour around a country. I just opened myself up to whatever might arise. I met two dear friends who introduced me to a wonderful Ugandan nun, Hilda Bamwaine, who is living here in the United States in Redwood City. We have become great friends and with a generosity that has left me nearly speechless, she extended her network of friends and family to me as I travel to Uganda. This, along with many other accounts describing the incredible beauty and richness of this country, was a major inspiration for choosing Uganda.
I will arrive in Kampala on Friday night, and will stay in a nearby suburb for the first few days and in the general vicinity of Kampala for the first week.
After this I will travel to Hilda's home village which is near Kabale, close to the Rwandan-Ugandan border. Here is a community, that includes Hilda's sister Teopista, that has a very rural life. No electricity, and water is fetched 3 miles away out of the river. I will sleep in the thatched roof hut that belongs to Hilda's family, and am told I will be warmly greeted by the women. I have a suitcase full of soccer gear, clothes and other toys for the women and children of the community - thank you to everyone who contributed.
The lack of a clean water supply is obviously a grave concern. In addition to the obvious bacterial and viral risks associated with drinking water out of a river that is used for many purposes, malaria is a very heavy burden on the women and children who draw the water from the river. They are far more likely to catch malaria due to the constant need to visit the mosquito infested river bed.
I have discovered an organization called Drop in the Bucket that works to build bore wells in rural villages. Only $3500 pays for the construction of a new well, and I will be working to raise money to build a well in this village. They have built a number of wells already and say that the improved health of the children is abundantly clear only a year after a well is installed.
There are many many villages that lack clean water, and helping make it happen in one village is a very small thing, but I suppose not for that one village. I am hoping that as I travel to this community I can bring my community (you all) to them a little as well.
All for now, going to check on my flight status.
Much love to all,
Sara
I am very excited, and not tired in the slightest. This is surprising since I've had very little sleep over the last 40 hours, and it is approaching bed time back home. Instead, I feel very engaged and awake. I have wanted to come to Africa since I was a little girl. Somewhere I got the idea that I would go to Africa and "learn to speak Zulu".
Actually, I think I do know - it was a National Geographic documentary that I saw nearly 20 years ago. I had no idea where in Africa they spoke "Zulu", but the image of beautiful Zulu women adorned with exquisite beaded jewelery in a backdrop of a golden savana has stayed with me ever since.
Lots of people are asking, "why Uganda?". The only answer I have is that my experience is more of Uganda picking me. I just knew I wanted to travel, and knew I wanted to do more than stay in hotels and tour around a country. I just opened myself up to whatever might arise. I met two dear friends who introduced me to a wonderful Ugandan nun, Hilda Bamwaine, who is living here in the United States in Redwood City. We have become great friends and with a generosity that has left me nearly speechless, she extended her network of friends and family to me as I travel to Uganda. This, along with many other accounts describing the incredible beauty and richness of this country, was a major inspiration for choosing Uganda.
I will arrive in Kampala on Friday night, and will stay in a nearby suburb for the first few days and in the general vicinity of Kampala for the first week.
After this I will travel to Hilda's home village which is near Kabale, close to the Rwandan-Ugandan border. Here is a community, that includes Hilda's sister Teopista, that has a very rural life. No electricity, and water is fetched 3 miles away out of the river. I will sleep in the thatched roof hut that belongs to Hilda's family, and am told I will be warmly greeted by the women. I have a suitcase full of soccer gear, clothes and other toys for the women and children of the community - thank you to everyone who contributed.
The lack of a clean water supply is obviously a grave concern. In addition to the obvious bacterial and viral risks associated with drinking water out of a river that is used for many purposes, malaria is a very heavy burden on the women and children who draw the water from the river. They are far more likely to catch malaria due to the constant need to visit the mosquito infested river bed.
I have discovered an organization called Drop in the Bucket that works to build bore wells in rural villages. Only $3500 pays for the construction of a new well, and I will be working to raise money to build a well in this village. They have built a number of wells already and say that the improved health of the children is abundantly clear only a year after a well is installed.
There are many many villages that lack clean water, and helping make it happen in one village is a very small thing, but I suppose not for that one village. I am hoping that as I travel to this community I can bring my community (you all) to them a little as well.
All for now, going to check on my flight status.
Much love to all,
Sara
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