Village, Town, City

Africans live in one of three places: a village, town or city. It’s important to understand these rural, semi-urban (rather, semi-rural), and urban areas to appreciate life in Africa.

The Village

Villages are basically an area encompassing a collection of small subsistence farms. The farmers’ self-made homes are usually mud walls and thatch roofs, or if wealthier, concrete walls and tin roofs. The indoors are used for sleeping and sitting; the outside for cooking, laundering and often eating. Next to their dwellings are the plots of land where they grow their food. Their days are spent just trying to meet basic needs: they wake up early and if lucky, make and eat breakfast; they then tend to their fields and if blessed, they take lunch; they tend to their fields some more or perform household tasks, and then back to make supper. If their children are fortunate, their caretakers will have both the money and desire to send them to a local school. Otherwise, the older children help in the fields and with chores, and the young ones run around unattended.

The vast majority of Uganda is extremely fertile and does not suffer from drought and its people from starvation like many other African nations; nonetheless, many villagers struggle to feed their whole families. If they can overcome hunger, there is still malnutrition to face as many only eat the staples their land gives forth, and often go without much needed protein, making the children listless at school and the entire clan more prone to illness.

The first three things I noticed traveling through the villages were: one, all of the land has been developed; it seems all of Africa, except for the few conservation areas have been deforested; two, there are so many children, running about very dirty, wearing tattered clothes falling off their bodies, usually snot-nosed and sick; three, there is almost nobody between the ages of 20 and 40; most have died from AIDS or have fled to the cities and towns.

The AIDS epidemic is most visible in the villages where the middle-aged are almost nonexistent. Truly, you see almost exclusively countless children playing with each other and whatever trash they can turn into a ball or game, and their elder caretakers slowly making their way around with great dignity and a degree of resignation and pain. There is not much joy in the older peoples’ lives; having lost many of their children to the virus and urban lure, and watching after their innumerable orphaned grandchildren. The government claims that it has reduced the virus rate from around 24% a decade ago to about 6%, but Ugandans on the street acknowledge that can’t be so. Two friends of mine are physicians, AIDS specialists in Kampala. They put the infection rate at around 15 to 20%.

The villagers need so many basics to improve their standard of living: latrines for improved sanitation (just dug pits, not real toilets, mind you), seedlings for food security, wells for safe water, vocational training for income generation, clothes for half naked children, bed nets for malaria protection, a few dollars for school fees, a few dollars for live-saving medicine, accommodations for homeless teachers, accommodations for homeless orphans, community centers for educational courses, educational courses for just about everything: family planning, health intervention (malaria, HIV, etc.), nutrition and sanitation, agricultural practices, adult literacy, vocational skills, elderly care, orphan care, etc.

It is hard to describe this level of chronic poverty. I recently had a very kind friend inquire about fundraising for the projects I am coordinating. She asked if maybe we could raise money to give the village children backpacks stuffed with school supplies and vitamins. I use her thoughtful brainstorm as an example because it helps to put the need here into perspective. The village children don’t have or even need backpacks; many can’t afford the very meager school fees, and if they could, the schools don’t have books anyway. The children first need a secure food and water supply, mosquito nets, medicine, clothes and basic school costs paid before luxuries like shoes, books, vitamins, balls and bags.

Another way to conceptualize the poverty here is to understand the distinction and definition of the different types of poverty around the globe. International development economist icon Jeffery Sachs categorizes poverty into three groups. Poverty in wealthy countries is defined by those whose basic needs are met, such as food, water, shelter, schooling, but who are exempt from many goods and services the society has to offer. Poverty in emerging economies, or middle income countries such as China, Brazil, India and Mexico, includes those whose basic needs are slowly being met and who are on the verge of greater wealth and prosperity. And finally there is the poverty found in the poorest countries on earth, the bottom billion as they are called for the number of unfortunate souls in this group. These people’s lives are characterized by persistent, endemic poverty that proves almost impossible to escape both at a personal and societal level; a poverty trap. They wake up every morning spending the day just trying to survive.

The Town

Town is an area with many local shops, maybe a couple of small clinics or hospitals, and a few schools. There are usually a scattering of nicer homes near town, owned by the wealthier business people, and then the land gives way to the outlying poorer villages. People from the U.S. would probably call an African town a village, and villages would maybe be called farms.

The towns have more wealth than the villages. You won’t see the same widespread poverty. And the towns also have better infrastructure: maybe some street lights, a well or tank, public toilets. There are, of course, many destitute townspeople and an uncountable simply idle. As I mentioned in a previous blog, many Africans move to towns and cities looking for work that doesn’t exist. The town I live in, Lugazi, does not suffer from unoccupied people to the same degree as other African towns, but they are there nonetheless; lying in the grass, sitting on a stoop, lounging next to a shop, standing next to the road.

Most of the out of work and menial laborers, such as the sugar field workers and boda boda drivers, are uneducated. They comprise the very large constituency that voted for the town’s new mayor, Obama, to the dismay of the educated business owners. Certainly, classes exist in towns and even more so in cities. In the village, however, wealth distinction is almost unperceivable; everyone seems destitute.

Uganda is landlocked. This is a serious obstacle to its development. It also has no significant natural resources; another major development hindrance. It has a poorly educated public. Yes, yet an additional factor inhibiting growth. There are many barriers that we’ll explore later, but the point is that Uganda does not have the factors necessary for substantial business investment or the export of domestic products. This means that Ugandan businesses are usually small and serve the people in the immediate area. As such, towns and their shops pretty much all look the same. The shops are usually not more than maybe a dozen square feet, open air and unsophisticated: a small hair salon, a pharmacy selling a handful of medicines, a snack and soda stand, a music shop filled with African tapes. The shop owners usually sit outside all day exchanging gossip, their small children running around, doing little business.

The town schools are better than the villages’; the public schools are superior and there are more private schools, which offer the best education by far. Still, many town youth do not attend due to school fees. I watch them from my balcony running around when the others are in school. They are usually, as Ugandans say, rougher than their educated counterparts. Many also engage in small time crime: pick pocketing, stealing scrap metal from community property or the façade of personal residences, occasionally breaking into people’s homes. The limited opportunities that exist in this society for acquiring wealth are staggeringly small, effectively absent, for the uneducated; even house girls usually need to know English, which is only taught in school as many speak tribal languages in the home. These rough children in town, without an education and without land to farm have dismal futures.

The City

There are real African cities: Nairobi, Johannesburg, Cape Town. Kampala is not one of them. Kampala basically looks like a really big town with some tall buildings, lots and lots of traffic, and terrible, horrible, Sweet Jesus!, horrendous roads. The pot-holes are too numerous and too large for any small car to navigate. SUVs and trucks are a necessity; otherwise vehicles spend most of the time in the repair shops, which are usually run by untrained mechanics who oftentimes make the cars worse off.

There is still greater wealth and infrastructure to be seen in the city, compared to the towns. Some live in comfortable homes or apartments, own private vehicles, maybe even reside in mansions on the surrounding hillsides; affluence built legitimately and not, but always hustled. Even Ugandans with university educations, professional degrees and good jobs usually need to have a few sources of income to have a decent standard of living. For example, most physicians here are paid about $300 per month. This is about 300 times more than the sugar cane workers, and even more than the villagers, but it is still not enough to live very comfortably on. Many of my educated Ugandan friends have a full time job, or two part-time jobs and a series of things they are doing on the side: running internet cafes, owning sausage stands, performing outside consulting. The virtuous have to be shrewd and juggle to make ends meet. The dishonest will simply steal public or private funds when the opportunity arises; a depressing situation that occurs constantly in a country that is reliably in the bottom group on corruption indices.

For those that don’t have full time employment in the city with a reputable public or private enterprise, there are the opportunities also found in towns: shop keeping, boda boda or taxi driving, being a house girl. And there is begging. There are a number of beggars in the Kampala streets, although not as many compared to cities in other developing nations. Most beggars in Kampala are from the northeastern tribe Karamojo. They usually send their children out alone to beg, making it appear they are orphaned or abandoned to garner more sympathy, and therefore, more cash. The government is trying to intervene and mobilize these people to go back to their land up north. There are, however, a number of street children who are truly homeless, dumped in the city by overwhelmed or careless family members, or orphaned from war, AIDS or other symptoms of poverty.

To understand the lifestyle and business environment here in Uganda better, it is crucial to cite a recent government statistic that reported the national employment rate at 5%. You did not read that incorrectly. It is the employment rate, not the unemployment rate. Their employment rate is about what the U.S. unemployment rate is outside of recessions and depressions. The majority of Ugandans are subsistence farms, and the rest are partially or self-employed: selling mangos at the roadside, styling hair in a salon, driving a taxi between towns; living just on the edge of the next catastrophe that could send them deeper into poverty.

For the wealthy, life isn’t as precarious and offers some of the same luxuries found in the West, although of poorer quality. I’ve seen local fashion shows on TV of very low production value, both the program and the clothes. There are restaurants and hotels, but even the nicest ones would only be considered luxurious by African standards. Homes may have electronics and personal computers, but they are almost all Asian knock-offs; the low wage markets here can’t afford the high cost of the real deals. There are DVDs, but again, all seem to violate international copyrights. And when you check them out at the store, they come in covers that usually look legit, although slightly different than in the West (for example, all of the 24 series has Bower’s very beautiful white daughter on the cover despite her not being a main character), but the disc itself is plain with the sloppily written title in felt tip pen: 24 Season 1, Part I.

Ugandans Are Doin’ It for Themselves

Browsing the net, reading the paper, watching cable news, listening to NPR; Western media paints a picture of foreign aid agencies as ubiquitous as mangos in Africa. Not so. In seven weeks I have seen two UN vehicles on Kampala streets, a UNICEF tent in a Kisumu neighborhood, and just a handful of mzungus strolling through the capital’s city centre. The development work on the ground, the organizing, the planning, the exchange of ideas, the proposals, the needs assessments, the hope, the questions, the implementation, the data collection, the accountability, the evaluations, the early mornings, the late nights, the meetings in half constructed buildings, the gatherings next to maize fields, the discussions along pot-holed roads, the women’s groups, the elderly groups, the youth groups, the disabled groups, is all done by Ugandans.

Travelling in and around Kampala, you will occasionally see the tin painted signs for in-country associations and non-profits; women for democracy, HIV/AIDS outreach centers, human rights campaigns. I spoke before of the thieves that thrive here in the name of such work, taking advantage of the lack of laws and enforcement that plague this society; however, most people working at these institutions are honest, reliable and deeply concerned about the community. They do their work alongside those with bad intentions, accepting it as part of life, but undeterred nonetheless. And they are making a difference.

I am now reading the tongue-and-cheek titled White Man’s Burden by William Easterly. It points out that international foreign aid goals fail because the Planners ask the wrong question: what does the end of poverty require of foreign aid? Rather, we should ask how foreign aid can help the poor. The Planners’ approach of a master strategy with no accountability designed from top to bottom is destined to fail, as it has time and again. Throwing sweeping agendas aside, the piecemeal solution that includes accountability; creative, practical problem solving; and on the ground, real results is how the “West can help the Rest.” Easterly calls those with this type of involvement the Seekers.

Ugandans are Seekers, and I plan on being one with them. They are highly organized at the village, parish, sub-county, county, district and national level. Communities have all kinds of committees and groups representing the people’s interest and the local government deploys community development officers to assess problems and develop solutions. So with all this organization, why can’t Ugandans do it by themselves?

Quite simply, they are lacking funding. The community groups write proposals for development work, such as education and rights intervention for orphaned and vulnerable children, or maybe assistance for the elderly destitute who care for their dozen dependent grands. This is where outside aid agencies are very helpful. The community groups don’t have the money to buy markers and paper, much less hire staff, pay for travel, etc. The proposals are floated to donors, and they review it, accept it, grant the funding, then Ugandans perform the work and provide the funders with data on outcomes.

What else are Ugandans missing to make their work successful? More help. There are people working hard, but it is difficult to always find enough individuals with the skills and the time necessary. People here care for their children, grands, nieces, nephews, and cousins. They hand wash clothes. They prepare food for hours, then almost as long cleaning it. They dig holes in the deep mud for their plants, and harvest it months later. They raise and slaughter chickens and turkeys, and herd goats and cattle. They fetch water. They fetch milk. They care for the sick and the dying. They do not have modern conveniences, so they do not have much time for all else. Having basic needs met is time consuming, and community work, while highly valued and understood to be the backbone of society, is obviously of secondary importance.

They have everything in place, so I am just interjecting myself into it. I am currently assisting the Wakisi Sub-county with their SACCO (Savings and Credit Cooperative Societies) development. As the name suggests, SACCOs are community savings and lending cooperatives that provide small emergency and commercial loans to its members, and encourage member savings as well. SACCOs have existed in Uganda for some time, but the government has just rolled out a national program whereby it recognizes an official SACCO in each sub-county. The network of sub-county SACCOs forms a national association that offers greater oversight and support than previously available.

I am helping with the mobilization effort, trying to encourage more community involvement. The local board and I are holding a series of talks around the sub-county, which has over 130 villages and about 33,700 inhabitants. We are informing the community that the SACCO is now part of a national network with government backing, ensuring greater accountability and assistance.



My role is essentially that of celebrity spokesperson. Africans hear that a mzungu will be at the meeting and come in part out of curiosity. They also listen to me. There is a general understanding that I come from a place where things are better, including education. I am not sure exactly how persuasive my whiteness is, but apparently it does carry some weight. This actually makes me feel pretty lousy; authority by way of skin color. I suppose I could disprove their assumptions through purposeful incompetence and untrustworthiness, but I think I’ll take the more well-worn path to bridge cultural gaps in understanding: getting to know one another better.

BTW - I am okay! Really! Quit worrying about me! :)

A Week of Silence

I’ve been gone for a while for good reason. You’ll see why below. I had actually written an entry before I got sidetracked then wrote another on why I was sidetracked, so there are two entries below. In unblog-like fashion, the older entry is first.

DRINKING TEA (written 5/13)

A girl came by the night before last and began cooking in our kitchen, and then again yesterday evening. I recognized her, having seen her before briefly in the house. She keeps her hair short; unable to afford to have it styled in the salon. She wears the same thin white cotton, diagonally striped top; her breasts already big, but no bra.

Ester and I sat at the table drinking African tea as the girl moved quietly about the kitchen. I took the hot drink slowly for several minutes then approached the girl to introduce myself. She glanced away as I spoke and reluctantly, incompletely answered some of my questions. I gathered only that she was called Agnes, her English was poor and that she didn’t have much.

I sat back down at the table just outside the small kitchen. Ester looked at me and said that Agnes' family lived on the outskirts of Lugazi and that she was cooking for her sick mother who was admitted to the hospital near our home.

“Her mother was here once. You were resting in your room. The mother is very weak.”

We sat in silence for a few moments and I poured myself some more.

“So, how does Margaret know the mother?”

“Mummy brought her back to Lugazi to live here for a while. She is from Daddy’s village.”

“She brought her here when she was a child?”

"Yes.”

We stirred our tea and watched a Ugandan musician perform on the T.V. Ester told me he was singing about his ex-wife who left him for another man.

For a while we watched; the television barely audible; Agnes’ soft shuffling behind us. I began telling Ester about my trip to the village earlier that day. I told her the local priest was surprised to learn that most Americans have only 2 children.

“There are many differences between America and Africa,” I said to Ester. “I respect them, but I don’t understand why some here have so many. Some can take care of all of their children, but many can’t.” I sought an answer from my clever Ugandan sister. I have come to rely on her to reveal the unfamiliar to me plainly and perceptively.

“Yes. They have so many children and they can’t even take care of them.”

“Why do they do that?”

“I don’t understand. Maybe they have girls, but are trying for a boy. Like in your family there are three girls, then they want a boy.”

“But I know of many families with boy, boy , boy..”

“Then maybe they want a girl.”

“Okay. What if they had a girl, then a boy?”

She laughed. “They can’t stop there.”

“So, it’s not that they want a girl and a boy.”

“Yes, they want many. You know. Sometimes if they have more than one wife, they can have like 20.”

“I know. But if they can’t take care of them?”

Ester paused and raised her eyebrows, “They just don’t care.”

I stared into the full mug of light brown liquid absorbing Ester’s words; trying to make sense of the foreign and frustrating. My mind turning over and again the cultural absence of family planning like a coin in my hand. Ester knew these things. She has lived them. She is one of many, many, many. She calls Margaret and Steven her mummy and daddy, but they are not. She went to school as long as her own parents could afford it, until she was a teenager.

Nodding towards the kitchen, Ester then said “Agnes. She only went to P7 in school. She is the first of six. Both her parents are HIV positive. She’s 13.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in a vague smirk because she knew it so ridiculous, because she knew I never encountered such a thing before; Ester said, “She’s already been married and he’s run off.”

My gaze shifted to Agnes in the kitchen. She was smiling at her wrist, admiring a watch that she had found on the counter. She saw me looking and, embarrassed, quickly took off the watch. I reached again for my cup; knowing I must accept what I sought.

SURVIVAL BY FORTUNE

As my fever subsided, between moments of semi-consciousness and aching nausea I would gaze at the rust smears on the walls of my private hospital room in wonder. What happened to the patients whose blood remained? Did they walk from their beds to the arms of relieved family members? Or were they carted away by widows and widowers? How did they come to be here? What illness befell them? What good chance in life afforded them privileged medical care, rather than coping with illness at home or in the clinic?

The day I was overcome by severe malaria, Agnes’ mother died of complications related to AIDS. Diagnosed only a few months ago, the clinic gave her ARV drugs, which she did not take. Her husband, too lazy to test himself, assumed he was positive as well. Too selfish to get his own free treatment, he stole hers, effectively murdering her. She succumbed in the government hospital and her body was driven back to her family’s village in mummy and daddy’s car, otherwise her remains would have been transported like most Ugandans: wrapped in cloth and placed on the back of a boda boda.

I did not attend the funeral since I was still admitted. I would drift off and mummy would not be in the room with me. I would awaken and again she would appear, on the phone making funeral arrangements and giving updates on my health, providing me with food, water, clothes and bedding. She was tired and worried, but worked bone hard; as always. I told her I was sorry about her friend when I was clear headed. She nodded and said “it is unfortunate.”

Ester was by my side for two days in the small room that contained only a couple of mattresses and no shower or toilet, not even ones nearby. She cleaned my mess from diarrhea and vomit, ensured I received my medications, forced me to eat and drink, changed me, carried me, sat me up; was my nurse. I asked her why the hospital’s nurse in the hot pink uniform with white tubing didn’t tend to me and she said that they only treated you. I didn’t understand. It seemed there was no one else in the few dorms of this modest building. “What is she doing, just sitting in the room?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That is ridiculous,” I heard myself saying. Ester started to tell me that when you go to hospital you had to bring someone to care for you. And in the government hospital you don’t get your own room, and they don’t even have drugs there. Someone has to go to the pharmacy in town to buy them then the nurse will give them to you. I started to drift off again…

Restlessly moving my throbbing joints to no position of comfort, suffering from heat and cold at once, too fatigued to lift my head or talk, incoherent from the pain and the medication that filled my mouth with metallic residue, I knew I would be okay; thinking of my life compared to Agnes and her siblings.

The father ruthlessly beats them. Drug addicted, impatient and callous, he had run Agnes off once before, telling her to get married to an older man who quickly used her and left her. And the family in the village wouldn’t take the children in either. The father’s brother’s wife had chased Agnes away a couple of years ago when she was recovering from illness.

“She’ll probably get married again,” Ester told me.

“What about the little ones?”

“They will stay with the father.”

“She’ll probably get infected like her mom, marrying an older man,” ‘I said, hoping she would object.

“Yeah. And she won’t get married just once.”

“What do you mean?”

“The husband will probably run her off for a new wife after some time.”

“How long?”

Ester shrugged. “Maybe just a month because she is so young. Then she’ll have to get married again.”

I squinted. “What do you mean married?”

“They just start living together.”

“Oh.”

“They don’t go to church and have a ceremony. They just get married.”

The mother herself had been married many times before taking the husband who fathered her children and essentially took her life. Often the poorest families survive by pushing the adolescent daughters to live with an older man. The mother’s first husband had driven her away after a while, forcing her to take another man that did the same; again and again. And so it seems her daughter’s fate, trapped in the same cycle of poverty and abuse.

As anywhere, the destitute here bear the weight of life’s harshest cruelties. It is largely fate that distinguishes those that live just to survive, and those that are blessed with more; the family and circumstances into which you are born, and the doors that open and close along the way. It is mere chance that defines Agnes’ mother’s death and my survival; hers of being born poor and African and mine of being born rich and mzungu.

Orphans, Swindlers & One Big Sky

or There are abandoned children in the U.S., but it’s largely an untold story. A woman who works in a maternity hospital once described to me the not totally uncommon occurrence of drug addicted mothers leaving their newborns following delivery. Presumably these children are reared by relatives or adoptive or foster parents.

Abandoned children in Uganda do not have a foster care system to fall back on when their own families fail them. The extended family IS the foster care system. If secretly deserted by their parents, children die where they are left, survive in the streets, or, the few, the fortunate, are nurtured in foreign funded orphanages.

I recently visited one outside of Kampala. Since I didn’t seek permission in advance to write about it, I will not reveal its name, but I was absolutely astounded at the quality of the facilities and care provided.

The sprawling campus rests on soft, rolling grassy hills containing 10 modern homes, a full service kitchen, a large playground, a “football pitch” (soccer field), manicured landscaping, an extensive farm, real washers and dryers, two full time nurses, one part time doctor, a mommy for each of the house’s eight little lodgers, teachers and assistants, and countless staff for cooking, cleaning, repairing, coordinating, assuring, etc. And it all overlooks Lake Victoria.

These children live far, far better than most other Ugandan youth who often live in substandard homes with little food and no modern appliances; without toys or play areas; running barefoot on muddy, trash-filled roads or grass clearings; occasionally receiving paltry medical assistance when family funds allow; and lucky students squeezed next to 100 other classmates in meager school buildings.

The abandoned Ugandan children are rescued from anywhere: hospitals, police stations, plantation fields, or the hands of an abusive parent. Little Elijah, a toddler I met, was saved when he was just one week old by good Samaritans who saw his mother savagely strangling him. The infant struggled for his life in a hospital for the two weeks before the parole officer released him to the orphanage. As he ran towards me to catch my hand, the kind woman who is his orphanage mummy and my guide for the day told me that he is very advanced for his age in speech, movement and social abilities, and never gets sick. “God wanted him to be here,” she said as she watched him, gently smiling.

Maybe there is a special place in heaven for her and the thousands like her who dedicate their lives to the care and love for strangers. At the very least, I believe that Sir John Vanbrugh is right: virtue is its own reward.

But other non profits are not so exemplary.

There is a relatively large NGO in town run by a former Ugandan rebel who actually lives in the U.S.; shamefully, granted refugee status years ago. Charismatic and convincing, he seduces donors out of thousands of dollars so that he and his brothers can live lavishly. Friends who have been to his brothers’ mansions resting on the hills outside of Kampala say the residence are grandiose and filled with a small army of servants, including chefs (that’s plural) that serve the family and their guests in actual tall, white hats. The family is also constructing revenue generating buildings in and around Gulu, and God only knows what else for their personal benefit. Anyone care to guess how many schools would have actually been built with that money?

His style of non-profit management includes inflating school development costs to secure more funding than necessary; not forwarding donations to volunteers, in effect ensuring their projects will fail; and actually attempting to persuade the local government to block projects that volunteers then take up on their own.

Until recently you could legally establish an NGO in Uganda in about a week. The government has made the process more difficult in light of the countless people like the aforementioned supreme asshole who have taken advantage of international development interest and funds from foreigners.

Apologies, but again an example of the bad so that the extent of thievery in the name of charity sinks in. Another former rebel also granted refugee status in the U.S. and living in San Diego has swindled countless dollars out of the hands of wealthy women in Coronado and La Jolla saying he is constructing schools in his village; however, he’s probably showing pictures of already existing buildings to them as proof of the work he claims to be doing outside of his full time job at Catholic Charities. One of his coworkers tells me he has suddenly been buying electronics for his personal use and taking his family on trips to Europe on his non-profit salary.

(ADDED NOTE: This person is doing this "charity work" OUTSIDE of Catholic Charities. I am in no way suggesting that Catholic Charities or any other major charity organization, non-profit, or NGO engages in stealing. In fact, I hope I am conveying quite the opposite. It is these individuals and smaller in-country organizations that are often unscrupulous, and I hope all of you would continue to trust and support the work of large, legit, international aid groups.)

I hope there is a special place in hell for these thieves.

I also wish myself superlatively creatively minded and these swindlers a product of my brilliance; rather, they are very real threads in the fabric of Life here, and I seek in my blog to lay It bare. I spent years reading about Africa, talking to people who had been, watching documentaries and films, but nothing entirely prepares and educates you, and I am slightly surprised at the aspects of life that weren’t revealed to me previously. The parts that, maybe, foreigners didn’t discuss to avoid perpetrating negative stereotypes; backwardly woven are many fibers here. Fortunately, there is also extraordinary and inspiring kindness and determination knit through It. I’ll be telling these stories, the good and bad, side by side, as I go along.

Which brings me to the blog title. I carefully considered it while drifting off to sleep, hiking through Mission Trails, reading the morning paper, listening to music….

The sky is limitless; a void of light and dark. Stretching as far as our imaginations, it reflects infinite possibilities existing within us; our potential and nature revealed faintly in lives of want, and starkly in crushing need. I anticipated witnessing it vibrantly within others Here, but within myself….what will I do faced with the novel and unknown?

Surrounding me Here in the extreme is the sublimely virtuous and the hideously appalling; pushing past each other on crowded grimy streets; polluting and nourishing the lush Eden that abounds; in Christian hymns and prayers and whispers of witchcraft; aside, along, courting and ruining each other in the same minds; as boundless and luminous as the pearl blue, puffy cloud Uganda sky.

Oh, and it is also inspired from a song title from one of my favorite artists and humanitarians, Annie Lennox. It’s a beautifully wrenching melody and story about overcoming the oppressive and overbearing.

I hope my writings enrich your understanding of Africa – enjoy!

Kenya Exposure

I went to Kenya two weeks ago to visit Ester's family and see the Masai Mara. Here's what happened...

Binti, Baba & Sandrin ~ Daughter, Daddy & Sandrin

Two weeks into living in Uganda, I was standing next to the dining table one afternoon when Ester walked up to me and simply handed me a picture of a young girl. I said, “She is cute. Who is she?” Ester said it was her daughter. I exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were a mommy! What’s her name?” “Her name is Asher,” she replied smiling. I didn’t realize until the day before Ester and I left for Kenya to pick up her daughter that Asher was the girl’s last name. Her first is Natalie.

Because there was no one to watch Natalie after school when she lived in Uganda a couple of years before, she had gone to live with Ester’s sister, Harriet, in Mumias, Kenya. Now that Natalie is older and her schooling lasts all day, Ester wanted to bring her back to Uganda where the education is better and, of course, so she could be closer to her daughter.

Ester and I arrived in Mumias in the late afternoon on Monday, the 20th. We walked through the outdoor market in the fading light and bought a few bags of groceries for Harriet, who has two little ones of her own, Sandrin and Lawrence. I asked Ester if I could put the bags in the kitchen. She said, “No, just set them here.” We sat in the front room furnished with a couch, coffee table, a couple of chairs, and a cabinet. After some time, I realized that the entrance to the rest of the home on the far side of the room that had a white woven cloth for a door, lead only to a bedroom where the parents and three children slept on mattresses on the floor. Their bathroom was the big rocks on the side of building, or the wooden outhouse in the courtyard. The kitchen was a small, portable charcoal stove used outside weather permitting, otherwise lit inside choking the house with grey smoke. The dishes were done in a pot behind the chair. I had been aware of the Balaza’s relative wealth to other Africans, but the vague became tangible that evening in the airless room.

The sitting room was decorated like most I’ve seen in Africa. From the off-white paint walls soiled with dirt smudges, insect remains and greasy hand prints hung outdated calendars and religious pictures and prints. Harriet’s wall had something a little unique: a photograph of two children sitting facing each other above the words, “kindness is loving someone more than they deserve.”

The kids were excited to have visitors, especially to have a mzungu in the home. Sandrin and Natalie looked and acted like twins; speaking to each other in hushed murmurs; exchanging quick, understanding looks; giggling suddenly over a secret joke. Lawrence is known as Baba, which is appropriate because he thinks himself a daddy. So little and so animated, I would laugh at him despite not knowing what he was saying. He would swagger and stomp, talking aloud to the room, shaking his finger and throwing comical glances. Once when stopped from doing something by his parents, he started teasing “I’m gonna make you cry. I’m gonna make you cry. I am getting my cane.” In the car the next day, he was leaning into the front seats and his sister told him to quit. He starting exclaiming in Swahili, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?” Over and over and over. He’s just two and a half.

The following morning I hired a private driver who took all of us to the Kakamega Forest Reserve about an hour away from their home. As I mentioned in a previous blog, most Africans can’t afford to attend their parks and reserves, and the only thing more rewarding to me than trekking through a deserted virgin forest was watching Harriet and the kids’ delight. Through the mass of green leaves and vines we watched three different kinds of monkeys play in the branches above our heads.

We also picnicked in the clearing in the front of the park, and walked through a small educational building and saw preserved snakes and butterflies. From morning till night the kids thrilled in doing the unusual: eating an egg for breakfast, riding in a car, drinking mango juice, looking at pictures in my camera.

That evening, and the one before, Ester and I slept in the hotel on the other side of Harriet’s courtyard. It cost the equivalent of $3 a night. At the end of the small hall outside our perfunctory room was a shared sink. On the concrete wall above it were the sloppily painted words Toilet-Shower and an arrow to an adjacent room the size of a broom closet. The sign was quite literal. In the ground was a non-flushing toilet. Above was a shower head. It smelled, well, like a toilet, but the bathing water was steaming hot.

Akuna Mazuri ~ There Is No Good

Early the following morning Ester, Little Natalie and I left for the Masai Mara, Kenya’s premier safari destination with sweeping savannas, abundant wildlife and the famed indigenous tribe, the Masai. Studying the map, the Mara appeared about 90 direct kilometers from Mumias, maybe 150 driving kilometers. We reasoned it would take about 6 hours using African roads taking African public transportation. We miscalculated by about 10 hours. The trip to the Mara proved to be as memorable as the safari drives we took the following three days.

The staging area for the Mara, Naruk, is on the eastern side, but we approached from the west. We realized en route that we would have to travel an additional 100 kilometers to the opposite of the Mara and then double back. We also inadvertently took a more circuitous course by traveling via matatus (Kenyan term for taxi minivans) from Mumias to Kisimu to Kisii to Naruk. The stop in Kisii was unnecessary and added 3 hours onto our trip.

The positive in all of the road travel is being to say that I have seen virtually all of Western Kenya, which actually isn’t such a great thing to be able to say. The landscape varies little; maize field after maize field; little town after little town. At one point we dropped down through a series of rocky hills to climb again to an elevation that left the land desolate, wind-blown and spotted with tall, twisting cactus. The people walked in fleeces and shawls amidst the visibly blown dust; reminding me vaguely of a scene from the Southwest U.S. From there we dropped again into the flat plains of the Mara and continued for another hour onto Naruk. When we finally arrived tired and irritated in the late afternoon, the buses had already left for the day, forcing us to hire a taxi. The drivers assured us they knew how to get to the town in the middle of the Mara, Talek.

After veering off the paved road it became apparent that a four wheel drive would have been a better choice over a small car. We rattled, bounced, lurched and stumbled along the dust and rubble, then, BANG! - a large rock flying up against the underside metal as if trying to shoot through the floor. “These guys are professionals,” I assured myself. Smiling. Still hopeful.

Now it was completely dark. The kind of darkness that envelopes you; the kind you never experience living in or near a city. The only perceivable light radiated from a myriad of overhead stars, the occasional Masai flashlights flickering to our sides, and pairs of animal eyes darting along the road ahead. Gazelles. Zebras. And WHOAH a giraffe! We were told the trip from Naruk to Talek took 2 hours and it had already been that long. Surely we were close.

The dusty path then gave way to a mud, which overcame our tires as easily as melted wax. While helping us past our first mud trap, the Masai ranger said we were only about 40 minutes away. Twenty minutes later we stopped for almost an hour as the driver walked and studied a series of mud hills and streams in our direct path. After traversing over this and worse for another 2 hours, we were finally, completely, impenetrably stuck. From the darkness emerged the Masai to assist. Ester, Mini Me and I sat in the car as 11 of them tried pulling, pushing and lifting the car out of a patch of mud that went on for 70 yards. They left us to return with a vehicle that they claimed could clear the road. As they disappeared back into the night, we finally convinced the operator of our campsite, Peter, to pick us up. He arrived in a proper safari vehicle apologizing for our long journey, but annoyed that the cabbie had taken a different road than instructed on the phone; a road that he described as “the worst in the whole Mara.”

Akuna Matata ~ There Is No Terrible

The next day was one of the greatest of my life. We awoke early despite going to bed late for our first ever safari game drive. We were visiting the Mara during the rainy season, which meant we were the only people at our campsite; therefore, the only guests that the staff had to wait on and the only passengers in our safari jeep with Peter, also the campsite’s safari guide. The morning light shined clearly on the gently sloping green hills and the animals that covered them. All of the savannah wildlife I had seen in National Geographic, on the Discovery Channel, and at the zoo was there, grazing, napping, playing, hunting and… copulating.

After driving past herds of zebra, gazelles, topi and some wart hogs in our first few moments on the reserve, I asked Peter the likelihood of seeing lions. Not 15 minutes later we saw two mating in the tall grass.

It would be the first of several times we would come across lions over the next three days, and the first of two times I would see them copulating. Their love-making is quite a sight. It lasts for maybe 30 seconds and usually the female roars at the male upon completion because, if not done properly, his removal is painful. I joked with the Peter that I hoped she at least got dinner out of it, but apparently she doesn’t get that either. When mating, lions will not do anything for a week besides copulate a few to several times an hour.

The only way to describe our three days on the Mara is as absolute bliss. Not only was the entire campsite and staff at our disposal, the reserve was virtually deserted of tourists. Alone rolling over the grassland, we saw every animal on the Mara except for the elusive leopards and white rhinos. A highlight was watching brother cheetahs lazily lounge next to some shrubs, then attempt to hunt a jackal, only to be run off by a herd of elephants.

Even Peter, a Masai having lived on the Mara his whole life, described it as “amazing.” We also saw a number of baby elephants slowly amble and graze with their mothers and aunts, cousins and sisters. I’ve decided there is nothing cuter in the world than a young elephant. They play with their trunks; whirling them in the air, over their heads, curling them tightly, launching them quickly. This one is giving me a good luck pose!

Our morning walk through the reserve on the second day was also memorable. We told Peter that we were interested in walking rather than driving, so he drove us into the park entrance and gave us a pep talk before sending us off:

Peter: So you know. There is no, like, animal insurance. If you get stepped on by an elephant, that’s it (clapping hands hard). Now if an elephant charges you, run down a slope. And get out of the wind. They smell you from far away. They don’t like crossing water, so try and run across a river. If a hippo charges, they are fast. Run straight ahead then make a sharp turn in one direction. If a water buffalo charges, go up a tree.

(Big Natalie and Ester looking at each ot

her wide-eyed and laughing. We also know there are not many trees or rivers.)

BN: Do you still want to do this?

Ester: Yes. (laughing)

BN: Do you still want to take her? (pointing to Little Natalie)

Ester: Yes. (laughing) This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

Peter: If you come across a lion, DON’T RUN. Try and look big.

BN: I have a whistle. Should I use that?

Peter: Yes.

BN: Can I use that on all of the animals?

Peter: Yes

BN: Shoot. I forgot my pepper spray in the tent.

Peter: I don’t think you will have a problem (slowly, gazing past us at the land)

Yeah, a whistle against a lion. Anyone willing to take that bet?

We weren’t alone though. Accompanying us was Daniel, a very funny Masai who the day before, without being asked, told Ester he was too young to get married. For the rest of the trip we privately referred to him as Ester’s future husband.

Ester’s finance entertained us with stories about the Masai as we strolled through the reserve for the next 4 hours. He told us that the Masai send their teenage sons into the wilderness for a week of hunting training where they only eat meat, blood and milk. They must kill several types of animals with their spears, including an elephant. If they run away, the others will spear them.

I asked him if the Masai ever used guns. Ester often had to translate into and out of Swahili since his English was poor. He would talk, she would start laughing, then pause, and retell me. He claimed that the Masai were too hot-headed to own guns because whenever neighbors quarrel they spear each other. He also said there was deadly poison at the end of his spear. Later that afternoon Peter told us that the poison was found only on the arrow tips, not on the spears. Daniel lost quite a bit of credibility with me with that one, but whether real or creative, his stories were fascinating nonetheless.

Through talking with Daniel, we also learned that the Masai were allowed to take their herds of cattle onto certain parts of the reserve at specific times. The indigenous animals, particularly the carnivores, move to the other side of the park because they are afraid of the Masai. Peter obviously had us walk through the area with the cows and few wild animals, although he didn’t make that clear in advance. This is quite common I’ve noticed with Africans; they do not fully, directly explain themselves like Americans, which can be frustrating for me at times.

We walked past zebras, gazelles and a large family of giraffe, but no elephants, hippos, water buffalo, or lions. Gesturing wildly, Daniel proclaimed that two weeks prior he and his brother had killed an adult male lion that had slaughtered their cattle. He also proudly offered that the animals run when they see the Masai’s inconspicuous, vibrant clothing. Ester and I felt more secure after learning this, even as we passed along a grassy clearing strewn with bones. Daniel looked at the remains and said, “Lions eat here.”

Tukutuku Kenya ~Rough Kenya

Walking through Mumias on the first evening I sensed a difference from Uganda; a subtle underlying disturbance. The people did not smile and greet me as I passed; they eyed me studiously and distantly. When we disembarked from matatus during our trip to the Mara, people would flood toward me, harassing me, asking me where I was going, pleading and cajoling, occasionally just sticking their hand in my face for money. I now understand why Ugandans describe Kenyans as “rough.”

Kenyan culture is distinct from Uganda, as is their land. Western Kenya is the country’s agricultural basket, but its fertility can’t hold a mango branch to Uganda. The only crops I saw sail by my matatu window kilometer after kilometer were maize and sugar cane. At market maybe one person sold overripe bananas and a couple of vendors offered mangos. Ester, who is Ugandan, but spent most of her life in Mumias, tells me that Kenyans import their fresh produce from Uganda.

Ester also explained Mumias life to me. It is a small city home to a large sugar company that attracts people looking for work from tribes all over Kenya. One night after dinner in the Mara Ester said:

“It’s all mixed up. The Masai are in Mumias too. They come. They come from all over [Kenya] to get work. Most people just get up in the morning and go to town. They sit all day. Try to get a few shillings. So many people are idle.

Maybe they can afford to go to school, but not food. They don’t take breakfast. At lunch they go home for sugarcane. You see them. You see them walking with just sugarcane. Maybe they take dinner at night. A lot don’t go to school…

So many people are idle. They come and they live in horrible conditions. They pay rent, but the place is no good.”

I asked her why the people who never found work in Mumias didn’t return home. She shook her head and said, “They don’t have money. They can’t save the money for the ticket. They just die there and are buried there. ”

This is not simply a Mumias story, but an African one. I watched a documentary on suffering in urban South Africa the other night and shook my head. It revealed a situation that I now understand; that I have now witnessed: people languishing in cities and towns with nothing to do.

An article in BBC Focus on Africa described African urbanization rates rivaling that of China and India, which surprised me. The following statement, that African economic development fell far behind, did not. Countless impoverished rural Africans move to cities attracted by the prospect of jobs, services and infrastructure not available in villages and small towns. Some move and do find work. Maybe some are able to educate their children. Others might have running water. But many suffer in slums with no jobs, no education, no clean water, no food, no money, no opportunities. So many people are idle.

Rest of Kenya pictures here.

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.