UGANDA FACT SHEET

Below is some useful information about Uganda as seen through the fresh eyes of a new Ugandan Mzungu.

Water- Many in the cities and towns have running water, but it eludes most, including all villagers. If you do have it, you probably don’t have it much of the time for specific reasons that I don’t understand, but for the general reason of it being Africa. If you do have it, and it works, and want to drink it, you must boil it first. If you don’t have it, and need it, then you fetch it from a tank or a spring. If you have running water, and it works, you might also have HOT running water. If you do, then there is a button outside of your shower that must be pressed on. Ours has been broken since I’ve been here, so I have been bathing like a typical Ugandan, which is by heating water on the stove, pouring it into small plastic basin and sponging or throwing it on me like an inexperienced child. Bathing like this isn’t a problem though, especially since it is never cool here. Don’t tell that to a Ugandan though – that it never gets cold here, unless you want a laugh. They will say that it is cool when it is 73 degrees. And it never gets hot here, but don’t say that unless you want them to laugh at you again. They say it gets hot at 83 degrees. They are kind of like San Diegans that way, only even more so. Uganda is on the equator, but the elevation keeps the temperature very comfortable unlike most African countries.

Food- Ugandans are blessed with extremely fertile land. Unlike many African countries, Uganda doesn’t have to worry about hunger. They say you can stick anything in the ground and it will grow here. So true is it, I believe a piece of planted scrap metal would sprout a Miata in a few weeks; it’s incredible. As such, Ugandans have a diet rich in local fruit and tubers. Papaya (called po-po’s), mangos, pineapple, bananas and passion fruit are very common. Fresh passion fruit juice is a house hold staple, which I boast as having made already (with some help of course). There are quite a few varieties of the mangos and bananas, including very small, sweet bananas; a blissful revelation to a fruit-loving former suburban American. Ugandans also enjoy a dish unique to their country called matoke. It is prepared with unripe plantains, which are boiled and occasionally stewed. It is somewhat of an acquired taste, and I generally limit my portion sizes. Otherwise, there are several other options at lunch and dinner including beans, rice, “Irish” potatoes, sweet potatoes, cassava (a tuber) and maize bread. The latter is a misnomer. It’s a spongy white dish that when forced to describe, I suppose most resembles polenta. Along with the overload of complex carbs, there is usually a vegetable at meal time; almost always boiled or fried cabbage, but occasionally peas, mushrooms or eggplant. Stewed tilapia is the most often served meat dish, then stewed beef, and less often, stewed pork or chicken. Since I am with a family that is better off than many, we have meat every day, but most Africans may only have it once a week or so. Breakfast is usually coffee or tea, bread with margarine or peanut butter and jam, fruit and either boiled or fried eggs. African tea is a mouth-watering drink of milk and water boiled with ginger, cinnamon, other spices and tea leaves. It is spicy, sweet and I wanna… (Insert crude Sarah Silverman joke about liking cheese, which can be youtubed if you aren’t familiar with this bit of hilarity.)

Ugandans, and I would imagine most Africans, don’t consume store bought food besides bread. It is refreshing to have a diet sans processed foods and, I can’t believe I am saying this, alcohol and sweets. The downside of the diet is that everything is fried. For those of you that thought I would be losing weight, I am experiencing the exact opposite problem. They even fry cabbage. WHO fries cabbage?! Ugandans.

The Air, The Earth- I mentioned in the previous blog about the horrible vehicle exhaust. There is also burning trash, burning stoves, and burning sugar fields, all pouring soot and particles into the air, then into the eyes and nose. Some trash is thrown into the trash heap, which the government picks up to, of course, burn. At times people burn trash themselves, or just throw it on the ground. It’s everywhere; stuck between the pavement cracks, crushed into the ground, piled on the grass, lying in the street; bottle caps, water bottles, tin foil, and mostly plastic bag bits. The bags have been outlawed, but lack of enforcement means that shop keepers continue to fill them with purchases for customers to briefly carry to their homes, then they float into the cluttered wilderness.

The Animals- I say Uganda. You think giraffes, lions, monkeys and the like. You are right. They are here, but like most Ugandans, I have yet to see them. The wildlife I have witnessed has been limited to mangy dogs and these horribly large, vile birds called freezans that resemble a cross between a stork and a pelican beaten with an ugly stick. The diminishing lands of the indigenous animals feel almost as far away to Ugandans as they do to Americans. Life here is simple, and often at or just above a survival level. Ugandans don’t have the income to travel to their parks and pay the nominal entrance fees, which is about $25 for foreigners and only $1 for Ugandans. Any extra cash that blesses a family is spent on needy relatives. Cousins, nieces, nephew, and grandchildren will sometimes just show up at a better-off family member’s door to stay for a while. A while may last years. An American-Ugandan friend told me before I left that there is no such thing as a nuclear African family. She is right.

The Language- Uganda is a former British colony, so English is the official language. Most Ugandans know at least basic English, and the educated speak it fluently. Each region has its own tribal language though, which is the preferred form of communication. I can get by using English with some difficulty. Sometimes my exotic infections and accent make communication borderline impossible. Additionally, the verbiage and sayings are very different. When I first meet people, they will say “you’re welcome,” but in such a way as an American would say in response to “thank you.” I was embarrassed the first few days because I thought I was being prompted for a thank you not given. Then I realized they meant it in the sense that I was welcomed to be in Uganda. The speaking style is also more simplistic, polite and melodic, reminding me of how language both reflects and informs collective and cultural thinking.

Getting Around- If traveling a short distance, you can hoof it, or take one of the ubiquitous boda bodas. These motorcycle taxis are not very safe given the road conditions and the inexperienced young male drivers. I try to avoid them as much as possible. If traveling between towns, most people take a “taxi.” You’re envisioning a yellow sedan; don’t. It’s a beat-up white van with writing on the side in English, and sometimes in Asian characters, with a saying on the back window in English or Lugandan such as “Obama is Big Big,” or “Jesus Saves.” The vans are usually full and seat up to 14 during the day and as many as humanly possible after dark when police oversight is hampered. They are pretty safe, especially where I reside between Jinja and Kampala since congestion limits their speed. Also, with a small number of Africans experiencing increasing personal wealth, there are also a growing number of private drivers.

Music- Ugandans listen to many local musicians, which sound like a cross of American R&B and reggae. They do listen to some American music, namely rap and R&B. They also, incredibly, listen to American country music. In fact, there is an entire radio station dedicated to the genre. The first time I heard it I was sitting in the family’s living room and Dolly Parton’s distinct voice waivered in through the open window from a neighbor’s stereo. I realized that the people in the house all knew the words to the song. And the next. And the next. Don’t break my heart. My achy brakey heart. OKAAAY?!

Obama the Superstar- It would be an understatement to say that Africans love, I mean, LOVE Obama. There are Obama restaurants, Obama shirts, Obama calendars, Obama posters, Obama markets, Obamania! Ugandans will ask me where I am from, and strangely they never guess the U.S. I get Canada (What? Am I that unfashionable?), U.K., Belgium, but never the U.S. They inquire, and I say, “The U.S. You know. Obama.” I brace myself for a HUGE smile. They pride him as an African leading the world.

Uganda: The North and South- To understand Uganda is in part to understand the difference between the North and the rest of the country. The North has been decimated, victimized, pillaged, raped, massacred and terrified for nearly 20 years by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) lead by one Joseph Kony. It is a pseudo apocalyptic movement whereby Joseph claims to be a savior with a mission to overthrow the Ugandan government. He is not supported by civilians, so must abduct young children and turn them into soldiers. He has a following of a few thousand, and supports his troops by travelling from village to village stealing supplies, raping woman, killing men and taking children. It is also suspected that the Sudanese government supplies his modern weaponry. Fortunately, Kony has been forced into the forests of the neighboring Congo by the Ugandan, Sudanese and Congolese armies, and his demise appears imminent. He is a popular story with daily developments appearing across local headlines.

The North has had some respite from Kony in the last few years and stability has returned to the region. As one may expect, decades of war have left the area without infrastructure and the people simply without. Southern Ugandans do not travel to the North and view the people there as different from themselves. I have heard people around here call them “wolves.” Negative stereotyping aside, I imagine that merely trying to survive in the midst of prolonged violence, poverty, and uncertainty forces one to be selfish and untrustworthy; at times inhumanely so. Many Northerners stayed in their towns and struggled through the chaos, while others fled to an equally abysmal alternative, Internally Displaced People camps (IDPs). IDPs are like refugee camps, but the people are not from another country, rather their own.

A couple of years ago, my friends Jan and Don built a school on their own outside of one of the IDP camps to the North. (I am staying with Don’s family, the Balazas.) Jan originally came to Uganda though a non-profit organization, but unfortunately like many NGOs in Africa, she found that it didn’t live up to its stated morals and promises. Nonetheless, she was determined to finish her project and in the meantime met and fell in love with Don, and the two completed the school’s development. Successfully building a school - securing funding, developing plans, overseeing construction - is extremely impressive, but doing it in alone in a foreign war-torn region is absolutely amazing. At the time peace was still settling over the land, and the people, roads, hospitals, etc., were significantly more dangerous than now. I will be travelling to the North soon to see the school for myself, which is now run by the government, and to help a woman that still lives there who showed Jan unconditional kindness during her difficult times. Jan and Don, I hope you aren’t embarrassed by my writing about you, but your experiences are an important context to my work, and what you did is so INSPIRATIONAL! You deserve some recognition! ;)

Children- Uganda has experienced a population boom in the last decade with I believe just over 50% of the population being 18 and under. They are E-VER-EE-WHERE. I had another interesting encounter with them yesterday.

I left the house about quarter to seven in the evening for a short walk. There were about eight children pelting rocks at a freezan in front of our house. The bird was collapsing; its long wings and scraggly legs twisting around its oblong body; its head slowly bowing down as rocks thudded loudly and hollowly against its side. I yelled at the kids to stop, they called back in Lugandan, but continued to maul the bird. Ester was with me and said that they yelled that the bird ate one of the chickens. I didn’t feel bad for the bird any longer, but its gruesome body is still lying in front of our house today.

My walk took a lighter turn when I decided to take a different, more populated route than usual and walked into a group of children who instead of just stopping to look at me, walked behind giggling. This of course prompted more children to follow and before I knew it there where a dozen kids behind me laughing. I turned around and asked them if they wanted to run and they squealed “Yes!” So off jogging we went. More children joined and soon there were probably two dozen kids running behind me chanting and clapping. It was absolutely hilarious.

All my pictures at: www.flickr.com/photos/natalienicolecrane

Jambo from Uganda!

My first two weeks here have been incredible and I can’t fully express my gratitude to the Balazas for their hospitality, generosity and kindness. They have gone out of their way to ensure my comfort and safety and I am so fortunate to have such a wonderful Ugandan family.

My time here so far has mostly been an introduction to African life and culture, and I have been forced to rethink many previous (mis)conceptions about Africa. The Balaza’s spirit of sharing ismore endemic to Africa than the pestilence and violence that captures the Western imagination of the continent. To be sure, the negative exists, but the things that I now associate with Africa - or with Uganda at the very least - are friendly, sincere greetings; quick, enormous smiles; green and red splashed landscapes; and the slow, steady rhythm that underlies life here. My impressions of the people are admittedly shaped by those I am staying with and their circle of friends, but the vast majority of strangers I pass on the street share the same characteristics.

This brings up another outstanding impression thus far: my whiteness and the attention it attracts. I am a bit of a rock star, and no hat or sunglasses can cover up my entire body. The attention can be exhausting, but I am learning to live with it. Sometimes the adults pass without notice, other times they look at me with curiosity and a certain degree of bemusement. The kids are another story. They stare, giggle, shout, and occasionally ask me point blank for money. Sometimes people will initiate a greeting, other times I return their stares with a smile and say hello or good evening in English, Swahili or Luganda; it’s met almost exclusively with delight.

The house I am staying at is in Lugazi, which is about 30 kilometers from the capital, Kampala. It takes an hour to get to the capital though, since the single, narrow road that connects Kampala to the east and west is congested with boda bodas (motorcycle taxis), private drivers, minibuses, large buses, and trucks carrying cargo. There is a very limited functioning rail system in this landlocked country, so all people and virtually all goods travel along the same road in and out of the capital. Although the road is paved and is in decent condition, the congestion, lack of road rules, and dodging dogs, goats and pedestrians can make travel slow and at times a test of one’s patience. (As an interesting aside: there has been a rumor circulating for a while that the railway system will be reinstated; however, there is other gossip spreading that some in government have an interest in the cargo trucks that move the goods on the roadways.)

Lugazi town is surrounded by smaller villages and the Lugazi Sugar Company. I actually live on the company property just outside of the town, close enough though that I can hear the town’s horrendous PA system that blasts an instrumental version of the Titanic theme song for about a minute to notify people of the impending incomprehensibly stifled announcement; this happens at least twice daily. The locals appropriately call the sugar company a plantation. Unfortunately, Ugandans lack the capital to start businesses, so the company, like most in Uganda, is owned by foreigners. The Indians owners comprise the executive staff and live in the nice homes on the top of the hill, while the rest of the staff lives in simpler accommodations at the bottom. The surrounding hillsides are covered with sugar cane dotted with the seemingly self-made homes of the field workers. The field workers only make about a dollar a day for their hard labor, and it seems that many can’t afford to send their kids to school based on the walks I’ve taken along the roads that cut through the fields. Primary school in Uganda is free in theory, but there are fees associated with attendance, such as books and uniforms and those at or near the bottom of the economic ladder can’t always educate the entire family. As an example, one of the children in the foreground of this picture of my building came up to me to say hi after the shot. For a second I thought he was wearing a school uniform, and since school had already started that morning I asked him if he was on his way. He said, “No. School fees.” (i.e. - he couldn’t afford to go because of school fees.) I felt horrible as I put away my camera that could pay for his school fees for the rest of his life.

My walks along the plantation roads are a funny story unto themselves. I can’t blame the villagers that I pass for staring at me. There are no white people for miles and none visit for ages. Then. Suddenly. One appears in running shoes and a baseball cap out of the swirling sugar cane, strolling along the red rural roads. The poor children further back on the plantation are particularly intrigued by my presence, and I of theirs. They are not in school with the other children, wear well-worn dresses and street clothes instead of school uniforms, and usually look like they’ve been playing in mud most of the day. Sometime I hear them before I see them. Drifting over the hills comes the familiar, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” *White person! White person!* It should be noted that the children don’t always laugh when they spot me. I have made exactly three cry so far. Incredibly and hysterically, on separate occasions two of my neighbors’ toddlers started sobbing uncontrollably when they saw me. As their siblings dragged them closer, they actually put their little hands over their terrified, tearing eyes to put an end to the sight of me.

I have attended church three times in the past two weeks. That is precisely three times more than I have been in a dozen years. Needless to say, the Balaza’s, like many Africans, are very committed to their religious practice, and I have enjoyed meeting local leaders and getting to know the community better while socializing after mass. I met a few priests following last Tuesday’s 3 hour mass, and one of them greeted me as if he knew me. When he realized we hadn’t met before, he said that he must have confused me with the OTHER Mzungu named Natalie. I had to stop myself from laughing at him. There are better odds of me medaling in table tennis than there being another white Natalie in the Lugazi area. I also had the opportunity to meet a woman who is the program coordinator for a project that conducts educational seminars on a variety of topics in the outlying villages. I am hoping to work with her or at least accompany her on some of these trips. I had had in mind to become quickly become involved in a local project, but the pace over here S-L-O-W, and I am just learning to go along with it.

I’ve visited Kampala a few times. It moves faster and is less friendly than the villages that are becoming my home. It is also extremely congested and agonizing to navigate since urban planning is nonexistent. Last Sunday I bought some African dresses at a Kampala store, and while they are beautiful and I am grateful to look more African (Seriously. Who am I kidding?), the outing was literally painful. There are laws against vehicle pollution, but like many in the books, it isn’t enforced. Exhaust seems to emanate from every vehicle, and I still felt ill the following day from sitting in traffic and the city centre for hours breathing in the black air and churning dust. I told Sumete, the family’s driver, that I wasn’t accustomed to the exhaust and that my head, chest and eyes still hurt the following day and he just laughed at me. I guess I can’t blame him. I was being a bit of an American baby. The previous Sunday though the family took me to a cultural center in Kampala that featured native dancers and musicians, and I LOVED it! The photographs I took can’t fully capture the rhythm and movement of these incredible artists.

I have also visited a few nurseries around Lugazi that are for profit, but sell many of their plants to non-profits, which in turn give them to the local sustenance farmers. A couple of the nurseries supply “improved” plants. These are created by grafting the local version of a plant, such as a mango, with a foreign one to create a hybrid that is naturally resistant to local disease, but provides larger fruit than the native versions. In the little time I have been here, it is easy to see how sturdy and bountiful crops are integral to survival. It is also clear how changing weather patterns could directly and devastatingly affect sustenance farmers. Having heard that global warming most hurts those in developing countries, I am now witnessing it. I have been surprised at the lack of rain– only three downfalls so far– and we are in the rainy season. Margaret, the mother, nodded her head in agreement with my observation and confirmed that the weather had become “unpredictable” in recent years.

Another recent outing involved accompanying one of the family’s sons, Timo, who is a civil engineer, on a work trip to another large city, Jinja, to review the development of a couple of educational buildings. Like in the US, staying on top of the contractors is necessary for the completion of quality work, especially here where shoddy construction has lead to recent building collapses (not to worry mom and dad, I believe it is limited to office buildings and not residential and retail so much). I spoke with the principle of the vocational training school we visited, which has about 400 students and offers certification courses lasting three months to a couple of years. He said the student population is mostly in their early to mid-twenties and couldn’t afford to go on to higher education. Of interest to me though was the 54-year-old student he mentioned who wanted to develop her baking skills to earn an income after raising her children and not having much of an education previously. He also explained that the building being erected was necessary since their cooking classes were currently interrupted by the adjacent hotel, with which they shared a kitchen. I recall him saying that it didn’t help for the students to learn to make only half an omelet; yet another moment where I stop and appreciate the endless resources in America.

This Saturday I went to visit other family members in a village about 40 minutes away, which is even more rural than Lugazi. The Balazas also own some land nearby and showed me their crops and we discussed some ideas for developing the land for the community – possibly a primary school or vocational center. Easter Sunday involved mass, a picnic in the nearby Mabira Forrest Reserve (picture left), and another journey to Kampala to see Timo’s sick daughter. Unfortunately many hospitals were closed for the long holiday weekend and Timo could not see his regular physician on Friday when his daughter fell ill. Instead, he had to go to clinic where apparently people wear white coats as if they were doctors, but only have cursory medical training and view medical practice as a business rather than a service. They wouldn’t show Timo the lab results, but insisted the little girl had complicated malaria (extreme case) and charged them for the expensive and potentially toxic medication and two days hospital stay. The family wasn’t convinced the child was correctly diagnosed and suspected that the staff was cheating them, which unfortunately happens often here. Monday they learned that their suspicions were correct when the family doctor told them she only had a very mild case of malaria, and it was a terrible infection that was making her so ill. The drug therapy was altered and the family is now assured, but I am so furious that people lie and steal at all, much less when it has to do with the health of a small child. But what can one do here? Although systemic problems exist in American relating to medical insurance and lawsuit abuse, at least we don’t have clinics and hospitals filled with incompetent practitioners who lie to their vulnerable patients for self gain; again, a moment when I am grateful.

Other things? Hmmm… my new home has electricity, running water (most of the time) and a television – the latter providing a great deal of insight into African culture. I have had the opportunity to not only watch the local news, but local weddings, dubbed Telenovlla into English, dubbed American movies into Lugandan (the English parts are not entirely removed, and the family tells me that the interpreters don’t always know what is being said, so they just make up some of the lines), and, my personal favorite, Nigerian movies. I can’t tell you what you are missing if you haven’t seen a Nigerian movie. They are like American soap operas meet college film-making 101 made by and for Africans with witchcraft. Apparently, a great number of Nigerians believe in witchcraft – more so than Ugandans. My favorite film so far involved a woman being cursed to miscarry by her husband’s family who didn’t like her. Her husband then thought his wife was a witch sacrificing her own unborn children, so he left her. But then the woman who cursed the wife started having miscarriages because she was so wicked; however, the evil, former in-law mistakenly thought it was the wife putting a curse on her in retaliation, and went to the wife’s house to confront her and threw a talisman at her feet. An argument ensued. I’ll stop there to prevent spoiling it if you happen upon this fascinating piece of cinema.

That’s it so far. Here is a link to my photos on flickr. I also have my Dubai pictures up too.