Stories from Africa

Reflections

2008-02-25T13:18:00.005+03:00

This is my last entry from Uganda.
For an hour now, I’ve stared at these first seven words and find that I am at a loss for more words (all evidence to the contrary, right?). How can I sum up my experience in Uganda in a blog entry? The truth is – I can’t. But I don’t have to either. I can just write about the things I’ve learned since September and leave it at that.
Hmm…
That seems a daunting task as well as I know no one will read the entry if it’s too long. But then – this blog is really for me anyway, isn’t it?
I think I’ve learned more about myself in this trip than about Uganda. Living somewhere for 6 months does not make you an expert on a country. But living somewhere for six months far from friends and family in a completely different environment tests a person – and thus I am more knowledgeable about who I am and what I actually want out of life. I can safely say that is the biggest accomplishment of my adulthood.
Other things I have learned –
1. The world we live in is a complicated system, but it IS a system. In order to change the world, we have to operate within that system. We can try to rewrite the laws guiding it, but it will be a long and inefficient process. My vote is – we learn about as many cultures as possible, do what we can to fight any injustices and try to relate to people by being accepting of their unique beliefs and customs. In a globalized world, this is a great feat. The world is flat as Thomas Friedman says and it is changing every second of the day. Change is hard (and will be very hard on countries of power) but it can also bring great things. We must have the strength to accept these inevitabilities and do what we can to give shape to a future we can be proud of.
2. It is crucial that people who want to work in policy, international development, the State department, etc. live and study different cultures of the world. Reading books and watching the news…and much to my dismay, surfing bbc.com and aljazeera.net give only a small appreciation of a community’s daily existence. The media is often politically manipulated and even when it isn’t, the articles are short and incomplete. We must visit the people in the field and MOST IMPORTANTLY we must learn from them – not necessarily the other way around. My aunt Carol taught me that.
3. There are so many injustices in Africa that are needless and avoidable. Hunger, poor education, political/electoral corruption, genocide, water and sanitation issues, the spread of disease…I could go on and on…are issues that have solutions. The first step in ridding the world of these endemics is to understand why they’re there to begin with. We must care! Then we must act. It is not the responsibility of one country or two countries to fix global evils. It is the responsibility of the entire global community.
4. We must learn to try not to live beyond our means. In Uganda, this was an easier achievement than I thought. It will be exceedingly harder next week when I am back in the States. Conveniences are nice and it’s perfectly acceptable to enjoy them. Resources will not last forever though and we need to learn not to depend on them as much as we do. Those who have the resources need to help those most marginalized who have no access to basic daily necessities of food, water, and shelter.
I reread my entry and I’m not satisfied. There is much more I need to say. But there’s time and I need to let it go.
It’s 90 and sunny today in Kampala– not a cloud in the sky and a beautiful strong breeze. Webale nnyo, eyalama noi Uganda. Thanks for giving me the fire.

Baby Boom

2008-02-20T12:56:00.001+03:00

Uganda’s population in 1911 was 2.5 million. At independence in 1962, the population was 8 million. By 2002 it was 24 million and now in 2008, the census estimates there are some 30 million Ugandans. According to Dr. Frank, Uganda not only has the largest population growth rate in Africa, but Uganda has the largest in the whole world (wikipedia says Uganda is #8 in the world – who knows?). Regardless, Uganda’s growth rate has become a contributing factor to its impoverished state. There are too few resources to feed the population, unemployment rates are really high, and schools and universities are far too crowded. While some countries promote family planning (Egypt for example has a rigorous family planning agenda promoted by the government), Ugandan culture allows polygamy and stigmatizes the use of contraceptives. It is quite common to find a man (Christian, Muslim, or other) who has more than one wife – my landlord for example.
Certainly some might argue that the influx of refugees into Uganda (recent numbers have gone up with the 10-15,000 refugees fleeing Kenyan violence) might have something to do with the population growth rate. Any effect refugees have on the numbers, however, is minimal.
Some argue that one of the most basic human rights of a woman is her ability to control her own reproductive choices. It’s not that simple in Uganda, however. Having babies at an early age (starting around 16), is often encouraged whether the girl is married or not. The World Heath Organization says in Uganda, 70% of women are mothers or pregnant before their 20s. Once married, a woman often has very little say in matters of sex. Not only does this have an effect on the birth rate, but the HIV and AIDS rate as well. Men often cheat on their wives and if they have more than one wife anyway, the chances of contracting HIV go up considerably. WHO also says 60% of people living with AIDS in Uganda are female and 80% of those women are faithful to their husbands.
If you’ve read any of my stories about my experiences working with AIDS affected and infected families in the Rakai and Sembabule districts, you know that a high AIDS prevalence rate can have a devastating effect on a district’s socio-economic potential.
There is no easy solution even though it seems the obvious recommendation would be to start family planning directives. The solutions to these problems, I fear, may not actually be feasible solutions – culturally anyway. Only 10% of Ugandans are tested for HIV. Behaviors are the hardest things to change.

Just Say No

2008-02-14T15:20:00.006+03:00

I wrote a blog entry 7 weeks ago that I never posted. I figured I’d let the news of “AFRICOM” sink in a little more before writing about it. It was a heated entry, I can tell you that much.
But today I opened the paper and started reading about President Bush’s scheduled trip to Rwanda early next week. The article mentioned that this was Bush’s last Presidential trip to Africa and that discussions with Rwandan politicians would focus on the peace talks, the interahamwe issue (those responsible for the genocide in 1994 who have since fled to Congo), and development. Apparently Rwanda and the U.S. are “presently strong allies.” There was a hint though that President Bush’s trip may have something to do with AFRICOM, the establishment of permanent US military bases in Sub-Saharan Africa to “enhance [our] efforts to bring peace and security to the people of Africa” and to promote the “goals of development, health, education, democracy and economic growth.”
AFRICOM is supposed to take off by September of 2008.
A realist, I say this is an effort to militarize Africa and expand US military involvement around the world. It’s America’s attempt to try to get a chunk of Africa’s precious resources before China can…and believe me, the Chinese are coming too…they’re no better. West Africa currently provides over 15% of its crude oil to the US. Diamonds are up there too.
Re-reading my old blog entry, I came across my rantings of how Bush was an idiot and all of his policy makers must have failed history class, etc. Peaceful ends do not come from violent means…duh! But I’m not so concerned about Bush or his policy makers anymore. 2008 is a new year and good policy changes are bound to happen. Aah…the optimist in me speaks up again.What does have me concerned is this inevitability that surrounds this neo-colonialism/neo-Cold War between the U.S. and China. Did we forget about US military involvement in Africa in the past? Have we forgotten the aftermath of European colonization and the heinous exploitation of the continent? More African problems than I can count are a direct cause of European, American, and Asian exploitation.
The thing is…this is not only bad for Africa. It’s also really bad for the U.S. Africa will become an even bigger breeding ground for anti-American terrorists and our soldiers’ bloody bodies will be dragged and mutilated across Africa’s soil, just like they were in the streets of Mogadishu 15 years ago. Uh, sorry…there I go again, the cynical historian speaks up again.
But we have to think about what all this will cost? In my opinion, it will result in the further destabilization of Africa, African civil wars blamed on corrupt US military involvement (where surely there will be a shockingly large sum of arms for resources trading falling into the hands of the ‘bad guys’), genocide (religious or otherwise), the loss of billions of dollars…and let’s not forget the terrorist breeding ground. If AFRICOM actually starts in September, Washington has failed at both coming up with an effective foreign policy in Africa and an effective agenda for national security. Yikes! You guys should have seen my original entry!

These are a few of my favorite things

2008-02-11T14:22:00.001+03:00

When my sister Liza and I were little girls, our favorite movie was The Sound of Music. Maria Von Trapp sings about her favorite things: “Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes, silver white winters that melt into spring, these are a few of my favorite things.” I called my sister when they showed the movie’s 40th anniversary on ABC a few years ago. It’s so nice to remember (and even better to re-experience) the little joys of our past.
I have two and a half weeks left in Africa. I am a mixed bag of emotions. I’m so excited to return to the States and start the next leg of my adult life, but I am also really going to miss Uganda. Work lately has been great, I’ve made incredible Ugandan and ex-pat friends, and I have had some of the most amazing experiences anyone could ask for.
There is no chance that I will forget the people I’ve met and the experiences I have had. They have become a part of myself. But I’m worried I’ll forget the little things that I experienced here. I won’t be able to turn on ABC’s annual showing of The Sounds of Uganda to remind me of some of my favorite things.
So here are a few things/sounds I want to remember (favorite or not):
1. Waking up at 5:30 a.m. almost every morning because the mosque down the street is calling the Muslims to prayer for their first of five offerings of salah. I actually have grown to love the sounds of the mosque.
2. Negotiating prices - that goes something like this: [boda driver]: “Muzungu, we go?” [me] “Muyenga, how much?” [boda] “10,000.” [me] “This guy will take me for less. Sabo, 5,000?” [boda] “No no no, come back. I’ll take you for 7,000.” [me] “I’ll pay you 7,000 if you go slowly and get me there without knocking my legs on any cars. Otherwise you get 5,000.” [boda] “Ok, we go.”
3. The back of almost every honking mutatu painted with one of four things: 1. God is almighty, 2. Allah Akbar, 3. Go Arsenal, or 4. Man U is #1. Religion and soccer are always on the hearts and minds of Ugandans.
4. Hearing “safe journey” when I leave my compound each morning and hearing “welcome back” when I come home each night – followed of course by my daily 20-minute conversation with George.
5. Boiling water to do dishes, laundry, etc.
6. When I’m in the field and the sun goes down, there are no lights in the town. Inevitably though, someone will turn on a generator. Does he turn on a light? No. He blares Juliana (famous Ugandan singer) from his radio.
7. Listening to myself laugh as I attempt to speak French to Congolese vendors.
8. When you go to a restaurant, you don’t ask to see the menu, you ask what they have today. This is usually followed by, “posho, beans, rice, matoke, fried beef, and chapatti.”
9. Watching and listening to the Gaba Road bats “chirp” each morning on my way to work.
10. Hearing what Karen and I call the “Bourne Identity sirens” 50 times a day in the weeks leading up to CHOGM.
These things may sound silly, but hearing them and experiencing them have become a big part of my life in Uganda. I don’t want to forget them. Maybe one day I will even experience them again.

Samantha Power at Boston's Night To Save Darfur

2008-02-06T14:50:00.001+03:00

Samantha Power has been my hero since 2002. I met her at a UVA special series lecture on the Rwandan genocide. She has inspired almost everything I have done in the past 6 years - personally and professionally. She was my most frequently used reference in my undergraduate thesis and I shaped an entire unit in my African history class around her book. When I got an email from her last winter advising me to move to Africa, I did. She's beautiful and brilliant and IS the most amazing scholar of issues of genocide. She was also appointed by Barak Obama to be his campaign foreign policy adviser. I can not think of a better person for the job and Obama, hands down, gets my vote because of it. Please take a look at this video and see why this woman has shaped who I have become. I share her reactions and analysis of pretty much everything. If I accomplish a billionth of what this woman has done to raise awareness and advocate for an end to global injustices, I will have accomplished everything I have set out to do.

Yes We Can

2008-02-06T11:32:00.001+03:00

Boys will be boys - bad boys, bad boys

2008-02-04T10:18:00.000+03:00

(Written on Sunday) Max picked me up this afternoon from Bubbles, the Irish bar in Kololo that lures its customers with free wireless internet. It was a 15-minute commute back to Muyenga and the conversation was anything but dull. “You’re 25? Wait, you’ll be 26 in April? You must get married right away and have kids! Even if you don’t get married, you need to start having kids soon or it will be too late.” Well gee, thanks Max.
One thing that bugs me bout Uganda is the men! Ok, so that’s more than one thing. Anyway, gender issues in Uganda (and most likely many/all African countries) are a serious problem – at least to an outsider’s standards. Most of the time, Ugandans, men and women alike, are surprised when I bring up an issue of gender stratification. It’s like it didn’t occur to them that it could be any other way.
There are lots of double standards. Max even said, “Why are you going to concentrate on a career? Women shouldn’t have careers. Having a family is what a woman needs to concentrate on.”
It’s true, at some point, I do want to settle down and have kids…actually I want lots of kids…but if it happens, it happens. Max suggests I go look for a good-for-right-now kind of guy. He wants me barefoot and pregnant by the fourth of July. I’m not so sure about that.
Oh the double standards...
On weekends I typically walk to Tank Hill Parade, a great Italian market, and load up on food for the week. I fill my backpack and carry one or two 5-liter jugs of water back to my apartment. This load can get very heavy. I sweat while doing it, sure. I could get a boda or a taxi, but let’s face it; we all know how cheap I am. If I can walk somewhere, I will. The young man who packs up my groceries at the check-out counter always smiles when he sees me…not really because he likes me, but because he finds it really amusing that a woman (or perhaps it’s also because I’m a muzungu woman) carries two ten-pound jugs of water 15 minutes back to her house. I tell ya, these double standards are turning me into a feminist! Plus, we all know how competitive I am and if someone insinuates that I can’t do something, I find no greater joy than proving that person wrong!
Men seem to have different standards for themselves. Many Ugandan men think they can have their proverbial cake and eat it too.
In any case, Ugandan females encourage this gender specific society by accepting their roles without fuss. Still, there are so many practices of Ugandan men that are simply unacceptable. Example #1: the electrician who lives in my compound doesn’t actually live in my compound. Despite the fact that he sleeps over at the maid’s apartment every night, he happens to be married. And believe me – they are not at all subtle. Example #2: my 50-year-old friend Joseph who is also married with 7 children frequents the Kabalagala bars on the weekends. No, he doesn’t just go shoot pool with his other 50-year-old friends, he goes dancing with the ladies – 16-25 year old ladies! When I asked if he would ever take his wife to the clubs, he laughed at me and said, “Of course not. I wouldn’t want someone touching my wife. It’s not a place for a woman like that.”
Mmm hmm…
Don’t even get me started on the inappropriate catcalls, hissing noises, and gestures I receive on a daily basis. Actually, that’s not entirely true…but I don’t pretend to flatter myself either. Most people in my neighborhood recognize me now and the harassment has faded to a bearable level. But in no way would you see a female acting that way.
I have three and a half more weeks in Uganda. I do not pretend that women and men are equal in the U.S. but I am looking forward to returning to a country where standards are not so…well, double…and a place where 25 year olds don’t have to be pregnant with their 4th child.
P.S. No woman has ever told me I have to settle down and have kids already.

Who’s the heavyweight champ?

2008-01-30T09:46:00.000+03:00

Rocky VI was a great movie. I didn’t even need to see Rocky I, II, III, IV, or V to understand what was going on! No, in all seriousness, I really liked the movie. I’m a Rocky fan and might have to have a Rocky movie marathon when I get back to the States and can see them without having to buy any more pirated videos from the guy on the street corner.
Rocky VI inspired this blog entry. Without going into much detail, Rocky VI is a movie about an old retired boxer (Rocky) who comes out of retirement to go against the heavyweight champion, Mason Dixon in an exhibition event in Vegas. The media instigated the fight by showing a computer-generated version of how former champ Rocky (now in his 50s) would do against the current heavyweight champ (barely 30 years old). The DVD stopped working during the training of Rocky (damn pirated videos), but I did get to see the end. I’m probably not spoiling the movie for you all to tell you that Rocky did an incredible job and the ending left audiences amazed and proud of Rocky’s persistence and heart! Although Dixon technically won the fight, Rocky won the hearts of everyone watching the event.
So then it occurred to me how interesting it might be to compare Idi Amin with Yoweri Museveni. Of the two, who would be the heavyweight champ…and by heavyweight champ I mean the worst dictator. Like Rocky, Idi Amin has an incredibly strong reputation. On the street, at the subway stop, and in restaurants Rocky was recognized and he would pose with his fist clenched at the jaw of his adoring fan waiting for the picture to snap. Idi Amin is in all the history books as being the most brutal dictator in Uganda’s history. They call his rule the reign of terror. “In the 8 years of his rule, 300,000 Ugandans lost their lives, often in horrific ways: bludgeoned to death with sledgehammers and iron bars or tortured to death in prisons and police stations all across the country,” says one book.
The same book goes on to say that when Museveni took power in 1986, it was a time for rebuilding. “Despite Museveni’s Marxist leanings, he has proved to be pragmatic since taking control.” Pragmatic? – I’ll say!
If someone ever counted the deaths of Ugandans at the hand of Museveni, I would wager that the number would far surpass that of Amin’s legacy. Why do I think this? Every Ugandan I have talked to has told me this is true. At the start of Museveni’s reign, he issued an ethnic cleansing just as his predecessors did. Tribalism is a huge problem in Uganda and when one leader of a tribe stages a coup and becomes president, all the members of the tribe of the former leader are captured and taken to prison and often killed. This is what happened to my guard and good friend George, except George lived to tell me about it. At the age of 8, when Museveni took power, George and his entire family – his entire village in fact – were taken to prison because of their tribe. Before his eyes, his father was tortured, his mother was raped and the 2-day old baby brother of his best friend was killed.
There are many stories like this – but not only that, Museveni has been in power now for 22 years, almost three times that of “former heavyweight champ” Amin. Museveni has allowed his country to endure a brutal civil war for over 20 years that has killed hundreds of thousands of people. He is wildly unpopular in Uganda despite all the photos of him hanging in the hall of every government building, hotel, grocery store, and shop. Guess why they’re there? If anyone is suspected of opposition to the regime it could mean trouble! Sound familiar? Anyone see Last King of Scotland?
So why don’t we hear about Museveni and this present “reign of terror?” I suppose if countries like the U.S. acknowledged the Ugandan civil war and the brutal regime of Museveni, they might feel obliged to do something about it. That would not be in the interest of America. It’s Uganda’s problem. And in most ways, I agree. It would be a risky move for the U.S. to acknowledge Museveni as being the heavyweight champ. Very risky indeed!
But kids, here’s a message for you: don’t always believe what you read in history books! Question everything!
So the real question is: Who’s the greatest heavyweight champ? Who will leave the bigger legacy? Amin or Museveni? Only time will tell.

It’s the dry season, people!

2008-01-29T10:50:00.000+03:00

So for the past 9 days, it has done nothing but rain. The months of December, January, and February are known as the first dry season of the year (or the last depending on how you look at it). The pleasantly comfortable climate of Uganda turns brutally hot. Boreholes run dry, crops don’t grow, people stop wearing clothes, and people die of heat. In the U.S. when Colorado is under feet of snow, Uganda is under inches of dry dust.
So the past week and a half has been incredibly rare. Actually, people are starting to think that it’s a new season already. They scratch their heads wondering how January and February passed so quickly. “Well, I guess it’s March,” they say. This is truly an exception to the rule of climate regularity in this part of the world.
Uganda has two “main” newspapers: The Daily Monitor and The New Vision. If I want to get the news, I go online. Although I enjoy reading the paper during my lunch break, the stories in there are mostly for entertainment value. It’s a rare occurrence when an entire article will be factually accurate as well as properly punctuated and spelled-checked. Regardless, I read an article in both papers last week explaining to people that in fact, it was still January and it was still the dry season. Remarkably, people didn’t believe them. Logically, they responded to the newspaper articles in the opinion section by saying they didn’t understand why the papers would be lying since clearly it had done nothing but rain for 9 straight days. It must be the next rainy season!
Global warming, anyone?

Land of the Free

2008-01-25T10:46:00.000+03:00

Trying to follow American politics while you’re living 8,000 miles away is not as hard as you would think. Candidates these days all have websites. In fact, Obama has a facebook page. Debates are quickly cast on YouTube and news sites like abc.com are interactive. You can easily download any rally and even post your own comments to websites. Technology is grand.
As Super Tuesday rapidly approaches (Feb 5th), I felt the need to put my two cents in about an issue that is getting much attention. Guantanamo Bay, Cuba first entered my vocabulary the same hour that “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth” did. For many years Guantanamo Bay only made sense to me in the context of the 1992 film A Few Good Men. After all, I was only 10.
Not so anymore.
The meaning of Guantanamo Bay has changed. Or has it? In the movie, a young American (fictitious) marine was killed using a torture tactic and the murder was covered up by the U.S. military. Granted, this story was completely made up and I highly doubt Rob Reiner was intentionally trying to make a prediction about future heinous crimes that would shame “Gitmo,” but regardless, it shed light into one of America’s contradictions.
Gitmo has become the target of international attention, and rightly so, in my humble opinion. Just a few weeks ago, it had its 6th anniversary as a military prison under the leadership of the Joint Task Force. Gitmo holds people accused of being terrorists as well as those no longer considered suspects who are being held pending relocation elsewhere. The U.S. has set international standards and has practically written international laws on systems of justice, human rights, and ethics…well maybe not ethics…but you get the picture. Forgetting international law, the practices of Gitmo clearly go against our very own Constitution. Let’s take a look at the words of our forefathers, shall we? Everyone knows the 14th Amendment talks about due process of law, so let’s skip that one. How about the 6th Amendment that says, “In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury…” By no means do I consider myself a strict constitutionalist, but I am a fan of the American Constitution. Clearly the Constitution protects the citizens of the United States, but what about the violators of laws? What about the inhabitants of Gitmo? The people locked up in the cells in Cuba may be some of the scummiest criminals on the face of the earth. They may be terrorist, murderers, or homicidal psycho-maniacs. But America has to put its justice system to work. 40% of the detainees have not had hearings. Is there no international law for human rights? Is there no military justice system in place to deal with such situations? It’s not justice if justice doesn’t have a chance to take its course (did I make that up or did I hear that somewhere?).
Here in Uganda, it’s a different story. The police, the army, and ordinary civilians take the law into their hands on a daily basis. People who are suspected of a crime are beaten, tortured, or even killed. How does anyone feel safe? Someone can just accuse you of something and that may be it for you.
When I was attacked back in September and my mother’s necklace was ripped from my neck, my boda driver David thought he saw who the perpetrator was. The incident was so upsetting to me, I wanted to go after the guy and beat him up (does anyone remember my fantasy of turning into a female Chuck Norris?). That was my initial reaction. But I didn’t see who the guy was. David went after a guy in a white shirt and confronted him. Although David was pretty sure this guy was the guy who attacked me, the necklace was not on his person. Maybe he passed it off, maybe it was hidden in his underwear, maybe he even swallowed the thing. When a crowd had assembled, everyone turned to me and said, “Lady, is this the guy?” If I had said yes the man would have been beaten right then and there. No more questions – because a muzungu said he was guilty. Instead, I said, “I don’t know” and walked away. Sure, I was miserable and heartbroken for losing something that was so valuable to me (and potentially not that valuable to him), but it would have been a lot worse had I said, ”Yes, he’s the guy.”
Uganda is not the United States. Sure Uganda has a court system but it’s not used properly and the rights in the Ugandan Constitution (if there even is one – honestly I don’t know) are not protected by the government. The government does little to protect its citizens from the LRA, Karamojong, HIV, and poverty. You think it’s going to protect the rights of the accused?
Although our current government leaders satisfy less than 30% of recently polled Americans, the United States is still a pretty great place to live. One of the greatest things about the United States is the fact that its people are protected by a system…a government of the people, by the people, and for the people – Thanks Lincoln!
Unfortunately in the last few years I have grown acutely more aware of the contradictions of America. I will never forget what one of my professors told me: “Every empire collapses if it does not correct its contradictions.” Terrorist attacks and recent market crashes have me worried about the United States. But nothing has me more worried about the future of the United States than our hypocrisy with regards to international law, foreign affairs, and universal human rights. We wrote the book on this stuff! We must practice what we preach.

Auntie Catie

2008-01-23T09:00:00.001+03:00

William raised his glass and said, “You went from my boss, to my friend, to my very good friend.” I tried to remind him that at no time was I his boss, but he still insists that I was. I met William on my first night out in Kampala. He was my first “special hire,” a taxi driver who charges about 3 times that of a boda boda and about 10 times that of a mutatu. Regardless, when you find a “special hire” who you like, you are assured that when you call them, they will be a) on time, b) friendly, c) safe, and most importantly d) not drunk. William doesn’t have the nicest car. In fact, William’s car is terrible. It has a severely cracked windshield, the windows don’t roll down in the back (clearly there is no AC), some of the seatbelts don’t work, and on most occasions, you have to be on a hill for the car to even start. None of it matters to me. If I need a ride, I call William.
Two weeks ago, 5 of us piled into his car on the way to take my parents and brother back to the Entebbe airport. I think it was finally obvious to William that I didn’t use his services because I thought he had a nice and comfortable car. Clearly I trusted him and could call him my friend. On the way back from the airport, instead of going straight home, William said, “Why don’t you come back and meet my family?” I hesitated since it was almost 9:30 at night and neither his wife nor his kids were expecting me. But William insisted. I walked into his house and startled his wife. She threw her hands up in the air and shouted and ran over and gave me a big hug. I had never met Rhita before, but she knew exactly who I was and she welcomed me as if we were old friends. “Catie,” she said,” I am so happy to finally meet you.” William’s girls Cindy and Ciara also greeted me with hugs and kisses. “Auntie Catie,” they cried! I was so completely taken aback, I had no idea what to do. After viewing their wedding photos and drinking, what I suspect was lemonade, I knew I had to be the one to bring the evening to an end. It was almost 10:30 and it was a work night. The girls were falling asleep in my lap. “I must be heading home now, but let’s schedule dinner for sometime next week, ok?” The girls were excited and Rhita and William accepted the invitation with pleasure.

Last night was the night. William, Rhita, Cindy, Ciara, and William’s niece Martha joined me in my tiny little apartment for a traditional American feast: Hamburgers, potatoes, and salad. Cindy who is almost 5, ate next to nothing. She ate the bun of the hamburger dipped in ketchup and a few bites of potato. Ciara, on the other hand, who is 2 ½ ate everything on her plate and went back for seconds on the hamburger and the salad. Remarkable! It was interesting fitting 6 people in my apartment and even more interesting serving 6 people when I only have four plates, glasses…oh and chairs. But we made do.
Dinner was followed by a little modeling walk from my kitchen to my bedroom (which is all of 3 feet) and a sing-a-long. I gave the girls some belated Christmas presents and some posters of Ugandan wildlife I acquired while at the National Parks. We looked at some photos of my family and my trips to the parks, but the hit of the evening was showing the girls their photos on the screen of my digital camera. The technology is astounding to them. They got more laughs looking at themselves on the camera screen than the whole sing-a-long, modeling walk-off.
This is a practice I try to follow when I am in the field as well. Most kids I met don’t understand digital photography, nor have they ever even seen a picture of themselves. Cindy, Martha, and Ciara all had seen photos of themselves before, but it was still just as much fun.
As we all started yawning, we knew we must bring the evening to an end. For the first time since I have lived in Uganda, I felt like I was a part of these people’s lives. William, Rhita, and the girls treat me like I am family. I may have given the girls a meal and a few presents, but that is the greatest gift I could possibly receive.

Nakachua at Camp

2008-01-22T09:49:00.000+03:00

Today I went to camp. With support from a group of Finns, LWF was able to sponsor three sessions of a weeklong camp for the children of the Sembabule and Masaka districts. At this camp, a select group of boys and girls ages 7-15 have the opportunity to play games, sing, dance, tell stories around bonfires, make crafts, learn a few basic skills, and most importantly make friends. Basically they have the opportunity to do all the things we loved to do as kids in the U.S. There are a few differences though: 1. The kids at the LWF camp have to learn how to use the toilets properly, 2. The kids have sex ed, 3. They learn how to bathe, 4. They have medical check-ups, including HIV and malaria testing, 5. They learn how to write their names, 6. They learn how to cook, 7. They all wear the same uniform everyday, and 8. The camp is free to campers.
A big fan of my own childhood, I too had the opportunity to go to camp. We played games, sung songs, danced, told stories around bonfires, made crafts, learned skills, and made friends. We did the same things…sort of. All of the campers at the Kako secondary school in Masaka come from very underprivileged backgrounds. Most are orphans who are living in extreme poverty. This was almost certainly going to be the most fun these kids have had in…perhaps their whole lives. They have three meals a day, they have a bed in which to sleep, a roof over their heads, new clothes on their bodies, and new shoes on their feet (thanks Nike).
In our morning assembly, the campers decided to come up with Lugandan names for each of the white people at the camp. My name was particularly special…apparently. “Nakachua” means bushbuck in Luganda…a type of rare antelope. It is also the name of a “special” tribe of Ugandans in the area around Masaka. Sensing how excited the kids were to give me the name, I can either assume it was a big compliment to have this name, or it really means something else. Regardless, I was Nakachua for the rest of the day (and besides, I would definitely give these kids the benefit of the doubt). After assembly and chapel, the kids gathered for handicrafts. We made dolls and balls from banana leaves, brooms from dried grass, and baskets from papyrus and dried banana leaves. The kids quickly caught on. I did not. I am surprisingly un-gifted in the art of crafts. But the kids loved watching me try!
I wish I could have stayed the night and joined them for their evening bonfire of stories, songs, and dances, but unfortunately my ride headed back to Kampala that afternoon. Even still, it was a great day. It wasn’t exactly like the camp experience I had as a child, but one thing is certainly similar: we all are happier people because we went to camp.
Happy 3rd Birthday Woody (which in dog years is 21)!!!!!

T.I.A. Baby!

2008-01-16T08:14:00.000+03:00

I have not written much about Ugandan health care in my blog for two reasons: #1 LWF’s work focuses on the prevention of diseases through the distribution of mosquito nets, sanitary tool kits, and through HIV and AIDS education, and #2 I had not personally visited a health clinic or hospital since I moved here.
As you might have guessed from my little preamble, I recently had to visit a health clinic. It all started on Saturday when I got a stiff neck, a wicked headache, hot flashes, lethargy, crazy dizziness and an upset stomach. I dismissed it as an African version of the flu (which is the virus that all Ugandans turn to when they don’t feel good) and I lay low all weekend.
Monday came around and by lunchtime, my neck was so stiff I could not look to the right or to the left and my head was pounding. Trying to cross the street from my house was miserable. I pushed the door open to my compound holding my head and George was immediately convinced I had malaria.
“Malaria! George there is no way I have malaria. I take a prophylaxis!” I explained to him with my eyes closed still holding my head. He told me it didn’t matter because no prophylaxis is 100% and I had all the symptoms. Before I could put up more of a fuss, George left my apartment heading straight for the clinic. Twenty minutes later, he was back with a malaria treatment pill. I told him he was being a “drama queen,” a term that clearly does not translate well into Luganda and he told me to sit down and take the pill. He pushed me into a chair and towered over me with a very stern, scolding look. “Malaria is very serious, Catie. If you don’t have malaria, these pills won’t hurt you, but you’ll be miserable if you don’t take them and you do,” George explained. Fine! Bring it on potentially-life-threatening-African-sicknesses! I’ll bite back!
It was Monday and I take my malaria prophylaxis on Mondays (“Malaria Mondays” remember?). I opened my Lariam tablet shaking my head wondering why I take a prophylaxis if I am just going to get malaria anyway. Actually, if you change the letters in Lariam around (and add another “a”) it spells “malaria.” Coincidence?
I was annoyed and a little worried. The next day, I would go to the hospital and do a blood test. For the time being, I would try to relax. I decided to take a cold shower. Well, I didn’t decide to take a cold shower – I had to take a cold shower. My hot water heater is broken and has been for a week. Halfway through my cold shower, I lost electricity. Soaking wet and covered in shampoo, I decided to drink some water and read all about malaria by candlelight. Typical scene. T.I.A. baby!
On Tuesday I went to the “Doctor’s Plaza” medical clinic to see a doctor about my condition. I was impressed when I walked in. There was a lovely waiting room with a TV and a very friendly receptionist…which is rare even in the U.S. But apart from the waiting room ambiance, I was not happy with the outcome of my visit.
Just as I suspected, I did NOT have malaria…thank goodness. “So what do I have Dr. Raymond? If I don’t have malaria, you must have some idea what I DO have.” “Well, do you travel in Uganda?” he asked. I told him that I travel all over Uganda and have recently vacationed in northern Uganda at Murchison Falls. Could I have picked up some sickness from the area? He narrowed his eyes and said, “Weeeelllll, you could just be tired from traveling so much. It can make your body very tense when you travel, you know!” PAUSE. I waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, I looked at him with a is-this-the-best-you-can-come-up-with look on my face. He sensed I was not satisfied, “Or it could be a virus going around. Yes, it might be the flu…” he continued. He acted as if he had just answered the 64 thousand dollar question. He even put his finger up in the air as if to say, “Ah ha, I’ve got it!”
Great, so, I don’t have malaria, but I do have either some unidentified virus, the flu, or just general fatigue. Well, I am sure glad we narrowed it down. He wrote “general malaise” on a sheet of paper and pointed to the door.
My only other experience at a health center was in Katakwi during the floods where the center was being used as a shelter to sleep 35 men and boys (the women and girls were sleeping at the school). There were no nurses, no exam rooms, no beds, no testing supplies, and no medicine. In fact, it was nothing more than a two-roomed shelter with little capacity for anything else. So despite being unsatisfied with my visit, I am sure my experience at “Doctor’s Plaza” was more satisfactory than the experience of those 35 soles in Katakwi. Even still, there is no process for responsible pharmacology even in Kampala. The nurse at the door gave me a handful of Valium and told me to go to home.

Demolition Derby

2008-01-10T09:59:00.000+03:00

My parents and brother left on the 11 p.m. flight last night. I had hoped for visitors while living in Uganda, but I never expected that so many members of my family would make it over the big pond to Africa. Delighted to have yet another “holiday” to plan, I quickly packed an exhilarating 11 days of safaris and a trip to the field for my family. We were to spend New Year’s Eve in Kampala, New Year’s Day rafting the Nile, the next few days interviewing villagers in Sembabule (showing the fam my work in Uganda and giving them a glimpse of the “real” Africa), and end with a 5 day safari in both Murchison Falls and Queen Elizabeth National Parks. Well, everything went as planned until the Kenyan elections. Kenya was in a state of hysterics because of the blatant rigging of the elections to give Kibaki the presidency for another few years. The streets of Nairobi turned into a blood bath and the entire country quit functioning. Unfortunately hundreds have already died in the riots and people are sweeping across neighboring borders. Not only did this mean a surge of new refugees in Uganda, but also a fuel crisis. Since Uganda imports almost all its fuel from Kenya, petrol prices soared to above 8000 shillings per liter, which is about $12.50 a gallon. Since Red Chilli Hideaway (local hostel in Kampala who takes camping trips up to Murchison Falls) vehicles run on diesel, our trip was still “a go.” Our trip to Queen Elizabeth, however, would have cost us thousands of dollars – so we bagged it. After a few minutes of disappointment, our thoughts quickly extended to the poor people suffering in Kenya and our conversations moved to how we could better spend our money – donating it to “The Corbin In Action Fund” – a charitable family fund started by Dad and Mom to help support causes we value the most. It was a proud moment.
We had a blast on our 2 ½ day trip to Murchison Falls (and the pictures are amazing by the way – more to come in a different blog post) but the unanimous highlight of the trip was visiting the people of Sembabule. We were so graciously welcomed by the community, my entire family was in tears and speechless. The orphans at the LWF vocational school came back early from their New Year’s holiday just to greet us and show us their skills in sewing, carpentry, dancing, and singing. My dad even said to them choking back tears, “I have never felt so welcomed in my entire life.” Each life story of the children at the vocational school describes a past unimaginable by any upper middle class American family - and still these kids shine with hope and promise. Children have been living on their own since 7 and 8 years old without food, a house, water, or parents to love and support them. Although it was wonderful to see that LWF has made an unequivocal difference in their lives, the need it still so apparent. Much more must be done. But how and who is going to do the doing?
Our conversations turned back to our “family fund” and we started discussing ways to help the kids who we actually met. We became frustrated talking about the politics and processes of NGO intervention. While Mom thought up ways to be able to send Samuel to secondary school and Dad and John thought about how Sandy’s wall could be fixed, my thoughts turned to the government. I thought about this car that I saw a few weeks back (shown above) – clearly a car supporting the presidential party that said the following: ”Please don’t cry for non stop loss, just join NRM, the strongest party.” My jaw dropped when I first saw this vehicle, but it wasn’t until the outcome of the Kenyan presidential elections when the significance of such a statement really hit me. “Don’t cry for non-stop loss?”… come on! Cleary the president knows he is doing nothing to help the most marginalized people in his country and these big yellow SUVs are rubbing that fact in their faces. And what choice do they have? If the vote is rigged…like it is in Kenya…and the President has been in power for decades…like many African countries…and the conditions of the poor are getting worse and worse…again, like everywhere…what are their options? It’s like a demolition derby.
I couldn’t sleep last night and decided to turn on my TV for the first time in about a month. I was sad my family had left and I had too many thoughts running through my head. American wrestling was on and I found myself staring blankly at the monitor. As the ludicrous display of barbaric drama unfolded on the screen, my thoughts wandered to the news coverage I saw about the riots in Kenya. Chairs were thrown, gas barrels were blown up, buildings were on fire, and people were hanging upside down on ropes. Clearly my eyes were blurring my memory of the riots and the wrestling right before my eyes. But was it all that different? Life shouldn’t be like that, I thought. I shut off the TV about 3 minutes later and tried to fall asleep. Again my thoughts reverted back to this yellow car. I couldn't sleep. What is going to happen to countries like Uganda and Kenya if democracy is not secured? Will “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” ever cross the lips of East Africans – or will it always be a struggle for “water, food, shelter, and security?” I could switch off the TV, but I could not switch off the East African demolition derby.

John Lennon's 'Imagine'

2007-12-28T10:17:00.000+03:00

Admittedly, I know next to nothing about Pakistan (this blog entry is pretty much based off of my fuzzy Al Jazeera TV news channel and a November edition of The Economist – thanks Paul Kim), but I felt dedicating this blog entry to Benazir Bhutto was the only appropriate thing to do today. Yesterday was not only a sad day for Pakistan, but for the entire world. Benazir Bhutto was the first female prime minister of an Islamic nation. She was assassinated by a suicide bomber who shot her just before he blew himself up. As of this morning, 20 people were killed in the suicide bomber’s blast and an additional 11+ people are dead just from the riots in the killing’s aftermath. What a tragedy!
I can proudly say that I had heard of Miss Bhutto before her tragic death, as her ascendancy into Islamic politics was unprecedented, but I can’t go much beyond that. She was highly controversial and faced corruption charges in both of her terms as Prime Minister. But who knows? These could have been politically motivated charges, no? Western Powers have pegged her as a liberal with the potential to bring democratic values to Pakistan. But Western leaders have been wrong before…they were certainly wrong about supporting Mr. Musharraf (current military dictator/President of Pakistan) with $11 billion of US aid since 2001 when Musharraf enlisted his country in the war against al-Qaeda and the Taliban. He’s now a nightmare.
Regardless of any political triumphs or mistakes on Miss Bhutto’s part (which clearly I know nothing about), I can’t help but feel overwhelming sadness when I hear of her death. I personally think she was an incredibly brave woman who must have known she was putting her life at risk every day. Every political member of her family was assassinated, several suicide bombings repeatedly threatened her life since her return from self-imposed exile a few months ago, and let’s not forget – she’s a controversial woman in an Islamic state! This is a very dark time for Pakistan as forces of terror and extremism are raping the country’s potential. A democratic election is supposed to happen in January – we’ll see if it does. I have my doubts. It makes me increasingly worried for the status of our entire world. This fad of killing proponents of change is certainly not new. But when is it going to end? John Lennon’s Imagine is haunting my thoughts.

Christmas “spirits”

2007-12-27T08:35:00.000+03:00

Pic 1: Just wanted you to see how curly my hair is...plus i like the picture. :) - taken by camera happy George.
Pic 2: Sirisha, George, and me at Christmas dinner!
I cooked Christmas dinner at my house for my Indian/American friend (she considers herself both, not hyphenated) Sirisha and my Ugandan guard and good friend George. It was not a traditional American “Christmas dinner” – no beef tenderloin, Uncle Dan’s oyster stew, blanched asparagus, mashed potatoes, and mom’s delectable pop-overs - but it was American food. I cooked cheeseburgers with caramelized onions, roasted garlic potatoes, grilled peppers, tomato/mozzarella/basil in balsamic, and a fabulous cabbage salad I make. I was very pleased with myself. It all tasted really great. And for the first time since I have lived in Uganda, I bought a bottle of wine. As we sat at the table overwhelmed by the amount of food I prepared, I laughingly admitted that it was characteristic of Corbin women to cook very big meals at the holidays (in fact, this was nothing compared to what I am sure my mother fixed). We started asking George all about Ugandan Christmas traditions and he admitted that Ugandans do the same thing. They also drink A LOT. This did not surprise Sirisha or me since Kampala is widely known to house a good number of the alcoholics in eastern Africa. However, I was not quite aware of the extent of this Ugandan Christmas tradition of alcohol. The invitation that George had extended to me earlier this week to go out with him after dinner Christmas night, he quickly reneged. He said, “Catie, tonight is not the night to go out in Kampala. I’ve thought about this a lot and it is not a good idea. Everyone is too drunk.” He continued to explain what young drunk Ugandan men do when they see any woman in a bar, so I promptly agreed to stay in for the night.
But I was curious about the tradition of alcohol in Ugandan celebrations. I explained to George that alcohol during the holidays in America was a tradition for most families as well – my neighbor Thomas’ famous eggnog can set your throat on fire and red wine is a must at the Corbin table. And it’s true, we might be a little bit tipsy singing carols at the 11 pm service at church on Christmas Eve (that follows our fabulous annual Christmas Eve bash), but that still did not prepare me for the image George was about to paint. December 26th is a national holiday in Uganda and now I can see why – everyone is hung-over!
George says, “Alcohol is used at every important ceremony in Ugandan culture and it is almost always local brew.” – moonshine, I thought to myself?
He goes on, “When a baby is born, the baby is not allowed out of the house until he has a sip of alcohol.” Sirisha and I give each other a look. “Really?” we say in unison. “It is the baby’s right of passage. The baby is taken into the bush and the father puts alcohol to its lips. If the baby cries, he is blessed.” I wrinkle my forehead – “And if the baby doesn’t cry?” I ask. “Then the father takes the baby back inside and tries again tomorrow.” I’m a little confused but I let George go on. “And if the mother has twins,” he says as his face lights up, “then that is a real blessing and a big big party with dancing is thrown in the babies’ honor. And very much alcohol is taken. They drink until they can’t drink anymore.” There are 3…yes 3 sets of twins in George’s immediate family so he knows what he’s talking about.
I sit there and ponder this thought thinking about the many villages I have seen where people don’t even have enough money for food and think about how they can afford all this alcohol. Hmm…
After thinking about my phraseology, I asked George, “Can everyone afford to drink alcohol on Christmas?” George’s eyes squint and he replies, “Surely! The whole village makes big pots of brew together and they all share it at the party.” That’s nice, I thought. I was quiet for a moment trying to get a visual of all this happening in the villages. George interrupted my thoughts with a smile and his outstretched glass, “I’ll take some more wine please Catie.”

The Color of Green

2007-12-24T10:25:00.000+03:00

Today is Christmas Eve and I am one of three people in the office. Some days I like the fast paced working environment but today I am really happy to be alone – good time for reflection. Today is an absolutely gorgeous day. It’s about 70-75 degrees and there is a nice breeze. There are few clouds in the sky and I doubt it will rain. It’s the hot, dry season in Uganda this time of year, but today feels like an exception. I look out my widow and all I see is green. The color green seems to be big in the month of December. Like many Americans, Ugandans like to dress in green, red, and gold to celebrate Christmas. Ugandans in Kampala are just as crazy about the Christmas season as the Americans I know. Women are running around buying last-minute presents, last-minute additions to their Christmas feast, and last-minute holiday decorations for their tree (sorry to all the feminists out there, but yes, it is the women doing all this running around). Traffic is pretty bad despite the fact that many Kampalans go back to the villages with their families.
But I can’t help thinking of the color green in a different way. Green is also the color of money. So much money is spent in the month of December – in a way, I get really sad thinking about it. You’d think Ugandans would not spend as much money as Americans on Christmas presents, etc. but they do (certainly not as much money is spent, but relatively speaking, Ugandans spend a small fortune on this season).
Hallmark…or whoever…coined December as the “season for giving.” Somehow this meaning has been interpreted as the “season of giving lots and lots of presents.” As a child growing up, I had NO problem with this concept. Give me, give me, give me!!! Even as an adult, giving a present and seeing the reaction on the face of the recipient is a wonderful thrill. I never minded spending all of my savings on presents for my family and even presents for my dog! It made me happy to see them so happy.
But then I realized something. Was I happy because I thought they were happy to open my wonderful present? Or was I happy to be spending time with my family? Could we be having just as good a time if we had no presents at all?
Ok, so I’m not advocating a do-away with presents at Christmas time altogether, but I realized that the greatest gift is time spent with the people you love. If we have extra money to spend once we pay for our transportation to be with those people, and perhaps some good food and wine, what should we do with that money? My good friend Brian leads a good example. Although he is still sending me a package of CDs for Christmas, he also supported one of his favorite causes, Heifer International and bought a half of a cow in my honor (“Hopefully the donation is for the front half and not the back half of the heifer. I would hate for you to get the ass end of the deal!” – sorry Brian, but that line was too funny not to put in this post). Apart from my parents and brother who bought plane tickets to come see me in Africa – clearly the best gift of all – this is a close second. What a great gift! We should all follow Brian’s good lead and think good and hard about this “season of giving.”
I feel incredibly blessed to have amazing support from a large group of family and friends and I wish you all a very happy holiday season and a wonderful New Year. Your love and support is all that I need. Unless any of you want to send me a small package with a CD and some mentos, think about supporting your favorite charities. Your life will be greener for it!

Counting the Cost of Uganda's War - and a little thank you from me...

2007-12-20T16:21:00.000+03:00

Surprisingly (???) most of the time I like BBC's news coverage of Africa. It's user friendly.
I thought this article was particularly interesting, especially because I have visited villages very near this one in Lira that tell similar stories. Give it a read.
I'd also just like to take this little space to thank those of you who read my blog...once, regularly - doesn't matter. I noticed that 225 people have viewed my profile on my blog so far - man, I'm popular! Many of you have conveyed a special interest in Uganda since I moved here. And it really means a lot. Some of you are educating yourselves beyond just my blog and others are even joining causes to help the children of the north, to help the flood victims in the north and east, and to help raise awareness of African issues in general. You all have really made me feel like the effort I put into this blog has meant something. The job isn't finished though. I still have 2+ more months of work here in Africa. And I plan to keep educating the world of Ugandan issues long after that. Keep reading folks!
Thanks. Happy holidays and remember the true spirit of this season - giving! (I know you know...but sometimes we Americans can forget).

Primary Colors of the Cell Service Provider

2007-12-18T07:57:00.000+03:00

-Uganda Telecom's logo: my favorite of the 3.

No two mornings are alike when I walk to work on the streets of Kabalagala, the district of Kampala where I work. You see something new everyday. For example, this morning I managed to cross the street relatively easily…and that is no small feat at 7:30 a.m. when everyone is out and about on bodas, bicycles, and mutatus (by the way, the notion of “civil society” does not exist in Uganda and it’s excruciatingly evident when crossing the street – my friend Karen even says, “there are two kinds of pedestrians: the quick and the dead.”). For some reason this morning I was so happy to have crossed the street without having to dodge oncoming traffic that I actually looked up to the sky and said a little “thank you.” Instead of having what I thought would be a spiritual moment, I got distracted by a flock of bats. I thought bats were only night creatures that lived in the bamboo in the backyard of my parents’ house in Baltimore. But here they were at 7:30 a.m. circling this tree above Gaba Road, one of the busiest streets in all of Kampala. I started to imagine that they were “Giant Vampire Bats” like in Indiana Jones, but then my wandering imagination traveled safely back to earth.
I kept walking, consciously reminding myself to pass people to the left and got distracted again by the dozens of advertisements on billboards and street flags that lined Gaba Road. Apparently I was examining the street signs too carefully because I walked right into a street lamp…and the two young college boys walking to class carrying their University notebooks got a big kick out of me rubbing my sore knee. I tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but I think my small limp gave me away (I didn’t get much sleep last night – that’s my excuse).
Anyway, I realized every single one of the advertisements on the street was for either cell phone service or internet availability. When my Aunt Carol (a communications professor) was here visiting me last week, we started talking about the advertisement strategies of service providers. There are three main cell phone service providers in Uganda: MTN, Uganda Telecom, and Celtel. MTN has a yellow logo, Telecom a blue logo, and Celtel a red logo. It occurred to me that these are the primary colors of the rainbow. The service providers paint whole buildings to advertise their products and you can buy cell phone airtime just about anywhere. I counted 12 airtime booths on my 20 - minute walk to work (one almost every hundred yards). Cell phone access is almost a necessity in Kampala. I was surprised when I first got here when I was told that I needed to buy a cell phone immediately. It was actually the first thing I did. Kampala could hardly operate without the use of cell phones. Land lines, on the other hand, rarely ever exist. And internet access is horrendous. Aunt Carol and I went to check our email at an internet café and she got one email off in the 25 minutes we were online. Internet is dial-up (at best) and is dreadfully slow. But broadband, high speed internet access and wireless hotspots are becoming the new rave of the ex-pat community and well-to-do-Ugandans.
At first it seemed to me that internet was by far the way of the future in Uganda and I was surprised and almost angry when I read that computers were not going to be part of Africa’s aid packages like they were in other parts of the globalized world. In one of the books that I taught in my African History course at FVS, Bill Gates even said that there was no way he wanted to bring the internet/computers to Africa. Africa had other problems. I was a little bit turned off by this comment. Well it turns out, Mr. Gates is smarter than I thought he was…surprise surprise. He was right. Ugandans are not surfing the net for job opportunities and they are not emailing their resumes. They are networking through cell phones. Nokia, one of the biggest tech providers here in Uganda even has changed its brand from one of technological innovation to one of social change and opportunity. They talk about "connecting people" and lead the way in corporate responsibility. So while the broadband billboards are trying to compete for space on Gaba Road, it’s the primary colors of the cell service providers that really shine through. Cell phones are the way of the future in Uganda…not computers. Aunt Carol, I promise to research this further!

Elephant Roadblock

2007-12-16T13:53:00.000+03:00

Joseph, Aunt Carol, and I pulled up to King Fisher Lodge late in the afternoon on Tuesday the 11th. The beautiful hotel is on a steep cliff overlooking Queen Elizabeth National Park. What a sight! Although sometimes elephants graze at the base of the lodge, there were no elephants today. We would see them soon enough! Early the next morning after a quick cup of Ugandan ginger tea and some beautiful local pineapple and watermelon, Joseph drove us to the mating ground, where we might catch a glimpse of some lions. Instead of seeing lions (which was a bit disappointing, but who can complain really?) we saw elephants and kob and water buffalo and waterbucks. Queen Elizabeth National park looks exactly how you would expect – savannah, acacia trees, small bushes and lots of prairie grass. It was beautiful. Unfortunately, the weather was rainy and cats don’t like the water…even big cats. We even heard someone say, “Leopards fear the dew.” I can’t imagine a leopard fearing much of anything, but I suppose he was right. We didn’t see leopards either.
But Queen Elizabeth was far from a disappointment. It is just gorgeous and the weather cleared up long enough for a sunny boat ride where we saw hundreds of hippos, several alligators, and young elephants kissing by the waterfront. Apart from the two obnoxious know-it-all American men who I swear were hitting on Aunt Carol, the boat ride was just lovely. Hippos are dangerous animals and can even kill people when they feel threatened. I have to say though, it was hard to imagine them this way as we motored our boat through their waters 2 feet away from their heads. I suppose they have grown accustomed to the tourists.
As our boat headed back to the dock, a herd of five or six young elephants were playing by the waterfront. They started to clear out when our boat neared the shore, but one young male stayed and seemed to want to perform. He stood tall and wiggled his ears and even did a little gig for us. Elephants are hilarious – by far my favorite animal in the park. One huge elephant even acted as a roadblock and stood in the road for almost 15 minutes before he let us pass. He crossed his back legs (pictured above with Joseph) and blew his trunk at us. Eventually he lost his willpower and he stepped aside. If I were an animal, I’d be an elephant! No one messes with elephants and they don’t care at all that they are fat and have wrinkly skin. What amazing creatures!

Lake Mburo

2007-12-16T13:31:00.000+03:00

Holding back our laughter, Aunt Carol and I lay in our beds with the covers pulled over our noses listening to the warthogs snort outside of our semi-secure canvas tent. We were at Lake Mburo camping out. Mburo is the only place in Uganda where you can see Zebras, so when my aunt told me she was coming to visit me, I wanted to take this opportunity to see some of the most beautiful animals in the world. We thought we were just going to a pretty lake where we might catch a glimpse of a few black and white striped ponies, but we got really lucky. We came into the park on Sunday afternoon and our driver Joseph told us that at this time of day, the animals hid under bushes and trees to escape the heat. We might not see much. But boy was he wrong! We saw elands, topis, impala, baboons, zebras, warthogs, water buffalo, monkeys, hippos, and a billion different birds including eagles, hawks, and the beautiful national bird of Uganda, the crested crane. It took us about 3 hours to get into the park because we stopped to watch all the animals. We were shocked when we looked at our watches and realized it was already time for dinner.
Camping in a national park in Uganda is beyond fun. Your imagination runs wild with possibility. Will we hear a leopard? What about the hyenas…will they come out tonight? What monkey will try to come into our tent because he smells our bananas for breakfast? Wow, that sounded like a big lizard on the roof of our tent! Aunt Carol and I struggled to fall asleep Sunday night – too excited and just a little bit scared. We got up the next morning at 5:30 a.m. to go on a morning safari walk. Our guide Andrew was absolutely amazing. He took us to see some of the most beautiful animals in the park and he was an expert on the thousands of birds in East Africa. He would sing to the birds using their distinct call and could name every single one of them – and believe me, we checked the bird book! He knew what he was talking about.
We had to work the next morning, so we only spent the night at Mburo. But what a night! Check out pictures on picasa!

Handing out Sandwiches

2007-12-08T10:01:00.000+03:00

My friend Jim (consultant from England helping the LWF evaluation team) said it best: “the thing about development work is that we are trying to kill the very institution that we have chosen as our livelihood.” He’s exactly right! Those of us involved in international development are trying to fight the very factors that create the need for development. We’re hoping one day we will be unemployed!
Jim articulated exactly what I’ve been thinking in the back of my mind, but something that I don’t think I fully realized until this week. I’m in Katakwi, Uganda with the LWF evaluation team. Katakwi is a district in northeastern Uganda where a large percentage of the population lives in IDP camps displaced by the Karamojong (a group of dangerous cattle raiders) and the LRA. They were displaced again this fall by the floods that swept across northern Uganda. Life here is pretty tough.
But before I go into that, let me preface my story by describing my conversation with Jim in a little more detail. Jim and I were talking over our dinner of rice and ketchup (at least that my was dinner) and he asked me what my background was in development work. I told him I had none and he flattered me by saying that it seemed my comments in our Day 1 Debrief let on that I know somewhat what I am talking about. I went on to tell him how I got into this field and that I always wanted to work with people (being an extrovert and all) and make a difference in a handful of people’s lives. Then suddenly I digressed and told him of the story of how when I was 8 or 9 years old, I made sandwiches for the homeless that lined the sidewalk on the way to Oriole Park at Camden Yards. I was curious as to why they sat on the sidewalks holding cardboard signs begging for food instead of joining the rest of the crowd into the stadium to watch the ballgame. My father briefly told me a little about the homeless of Baltimore and I was hooked. I wanted to help. Throughout my adolescence and young adult life, I volunteered at soup kitchens, built homes with Habitat, and lobbied in Annapolis. I surely didn’t understand the “institution” of homelessness at the ripe age of 8, but I knew that making sandwiches for them the next time I came to the game, would at least make them smile and give them a full belly for the night. As I passed out my first sandwich (which was actually my first two sandwiches because the homeless man asked for two and I didn’t want to let him down) I knew I wanted to do something with my life that helped change lives. So I went into teaching and now I’m in the world of development.
But Jim said, “Well that’s a lovely story but do you want to hand out sandwiches for the rest of your life?” Right then it clicked. No! Absolutely not! And today I feel I can really describe why in context.
Yesterday I went to an IDP camp and for the first time got really angry at the community. We had given the community a borehole and had trained them on how to maintain it. Instead of finding a responsible community, we came to the 1 year old borehole and it was practically destroyed. No one is caring for it and they are all pointing fingers at each other. A young man had even beaten the caretaker because the caretaker asked him to keep his cattle away from the borehole and asked that he pay his user fees. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the young boy laughing at the old caretaker when he was relaying this story to me. I lost it. I started scolding the boy and clearly relayed my disproval. The people in the IDP camps…especially this camp that has been around for the last 28 years…are used to handouts. And if they’re used to handouts, how are they ever going to learn to sustain themselves. But then another issue is: do we really want people in IDP camps to sustain themselves? Well clearly we want the people with whom we work to care for themselves, but we do not want these IDP camps to become permanent. And essentially that is what this camp in Katakwi has become.
Today I visited a village in the Amuria district (right next to Katakwi). This village was completely different. The first thing someone said to me was, “Since God created the earth, no one has ever come into this village to drill a borehole. We’ve been drinking from the swamps for as long as we’ve been alive. We are so thankful for LWF.” The village constructed a huge fence to protect the borehole and started a Water User Committee to organize its operations. People in the villages are used to fending for themselves, even in terribly situations.
It’s not that I want to stop helping the most marginalized populations in the camps, but there must be some way to get the communities to move away from this feeling of no accountability. I’ll have to let you know when I figure this all out.

Malaria madness!

2007-11-29T10:46:00.000+03:00

LWF Uganda is working on setting up a 2008 program that focuses on malaria prevention. It's possible that we will raise about $300-400,000 for this program. It's my job today to look up ways to prevent malaria so that we can write a preliminary report describing the techniques we hope to use. My research for the last few hours has told me things I already know: mosquito nets and indoor residual spraying - but don't worry, the day is young. Anyway, I came across this website and thought it was pretty cool. If any blog readers out there are involved in school community service projects, this might be a fun thing to start. There are SO MANY ways we can help make a big difference with just a little effort. Check out Madness Against Malaria!

Oil for food?

2007-11-28T15:14:00.000+03:00

So yesterday Texas oilman Oscar Wyatt was sentenced to one year and a day in prison for conspiracy in the UN oil-for-food programme scandal. The oil-for-food programme was a $60 billion scheme to allow Iraqis to buy food and humanitarian supplies with the proceeds of regulated oil sales. The scheme was set up over a decade ago but ended with US’s invasion of Iraq and the overthrow of Saddam Hussein (by the way, I’m getting most of my sources from BBC). Apparently UN officials, politicians, and oil companies have been profiting from this program – how much, I don’t know. The politics of oil is a tricky business. I don’t even understand the half of it, but I do know one thing – the politics of oil in Africa is killing the population of Southern Sudan.
Oil is something most Sudanese have no use for. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t paying the price for its existence under their villages.
In April 1994, no one cared that Rwandan Hutu rebels were instituting a genocide throughout the country. Rwanda didn’t have anything that outsiders wanted. Does Sudan have anything we want? Do we want to get involved? Well, yes and no. Sudan has oil. Sudan also is in the midst of a 27-year civil war and the government is absolutely crazy. So you see why intervention is a complex matter. But should intervention be delayed in a humanitarian crisis even if it does carry risks? I honestly have serious conflicting perspectives on this matter because I’m not all about the “white man’s burden” but I’m also not all about sitting there and doing nothing while innocent people are dying (clearly I recognize these are not polar opposites). When does intervention lead to positive outcomes? Please, if people have insights into this matter, enlighten me (and my blog readers)!
The government of Sudan launched a scorched earth policy in 2001 to drive everyone out of the oil fields. They were bombing the heck out of those areas killing hundreds of innocent civilians. In 2007 the same areas of earth have seen relative peace. But for how long? The Sudanese peace talks are not going anywhere. The north wants what the south has. Now, international companies and foreign governments are trying to get a piece of the action. They want Sudanese oil. And I’m not just talking about the U.S. and China here. But who is going to step up and help Sudan? Or is Sudan capable of helping itself? Should they start an oil-for-food programme? Would that help the people?
Well, my inclination is that an oil-for-food programme would NOT help the people of Sudan. But I’m also running out of viable solutions to the massive amount of human rights violations and humanitarian crises the country has seen caused by oil. I am beginning to see the reasons why it takes so long to fix the problems of the world.

The Perfect Storm

2007-11-26T10:28:00.000+03:00

This story may be long, but if you have the time, take a look.

Emily and I spent Thanksgiving “weekend” in the southern hemisphere on Lake Bunyoni, a fresh water lake in southwestern Uganda. It was absolutely beautiful. It’s a crater lake, the deepest in Uganda (6500 Feet) and is surrounded by rolling hills covered with banana, potato, maize, and bean farms. Every inch of the land is used by farmers. The mountains of Congo are to the west and Rwanda (“the land of a thousand hills”) borders the south end of the lake. I believe Duncan (our 16 year old self-appointed tour guide) told us there were 19 islands.
Friday was a market day and Duncan told us to head over to the east side of the lake where we would catch hoards of dug out canoes from around the lake bringing their goods to market. Instead of walking to the eastern point on Friday morning, Emily and I decided to rent our own dug out canoe. Trying to steer a dug out canoe is no easy task. Emily and I are both pretty decent paddlers and we were determined that practice would make perfect. Well, we didn’t reach “perfect” but we did manage to overcome paddling around in circles, known to most locals as the “muzungu corkscrew.” I started in the stern and found it incredibly challenging to steer. The boat is after all a hollowed out tree that is not uniform and has no keel. But nevertheless, I proudly figured it out. After paddling to the market and around the swamp area to see the many species of birds on Lake Bunyoni, we decided to paddle to Bushara Island. Bushara Island is about a 20-minute motorboat ride and so takes considerably longer when you’re paddling yourself in a canoe. But we thought a good workout would warrant a nice big lunch at the restaurant on the island and a nap after we rowed back. Such a nice idea.
Emily and I made it to Bushara after about an hour and fifteen minutes of hard paddling. There were times when I swear the lake was moving us backwards despite our efforts. When we made it to the island, the other guests could not believe we paddled all that way. That made us even more proud of ourselves. We were hungry and thirsty and tired, but we felt like we accomplished a great task…and in a way we did. We stopped to imagine if paddling across this lake would be our only mode of transportation, as it is for most of the locals, and we instantly felt a huge sense of admiration for the people of Kabale (local town). Seeing the ease at which their boats evenly and swiftly glided across the water made us jealous. Seeing the men, women, and children working hard in their fields from sun up to sun down made us incredibly thankful – perfect chance to reflect on our lives during our Thanksgiving weekend.
After a big lunch and a short rest on the Bushara grasses, Emily and I climbed back into the awkward boat and started for home. Those of you, who have lived or spent any time on a lake surrounded by hills, know that the weather can change very quickly on you. Emily and I were 20 minutes away from Bushara when we heard the first boom of thunder. We could barely see the black cloud when we heard the blast, but it climbed the hills in quite a hurry. Within two minutes, the cloud turned into this monstrous storm and we knew we were in trouble. We were too far away from Bushara to turn around but too far away from the Overland Resort to make it back before the storm hit. Emily and I knew we could not stay on the water and we looked for our nearest escape route. I called the Resort on my cell phone and told them we were in trouble. All they said was “Go to shore and wait the storm out.” Emily screamed, “Catie, get off the phone, I need your power,” as I shouted in the dead line, “well can you send someone to rescue us…hello? Hello?” The closest shoreline was a steep peninsula but we could see a dock with an overhang about a quarter kilometer down shore. There was a man in a red vest watching us and waving his arms, warning us to get out of the water quickly. Emily and I were on the verge of tears. We were paddling as hard as we could but the wind was preventing us from reaching the dock. We were in a state of panic. It had started to rain and the lake turned into this monster crashing waves into our low dug out. We could not reach the dock and paddled as fast as we could into a patch of reeds, dodging an otter that looked much less distraught. We tried to pull the canoe up on the shore, but didn’t realize the canoe was about 10 times too heavy for us. We were much less concerned about saving the boat than we were saving ourselves from the lightening and rain. So we left the boat in the reeds and headed inland. The man in red had disappeared for shelter but we could see his house and Emily and I tried to run to it. Unfortunately this peninsula was very steep and the rain had already caused mudslides down the sides of the hill. Any attempt to climb the hill resulted in sliding back down, sometimes not on our feet. We found a patch of small trees and vines and sought shelter under the leaves. The leaves and branches did not do much to keep us dry, but it prevented us from feeling vulnerable to lighting. About 20 minutes later, the storm seemed to calm down. Emily smiled and said, “Hmm, maybe the storm is dying down.” Just then, this huge crack of thunder shook the ground and the sky lit up like fireworks. Emily and I looked at each other with fright and figured then that we were in the eye of the storm. A second crack of thunder even louder than the one before shook the earth again and we heard a sizzle nearby. We were not sure if lightening had hit or if it was our imagination, but luckily we did not have to find out. The storm passed and although we were soaked to the bone (darn “water resistant” rain coat), we were safe. As we crept out of our hiding place, we heard the voices of children shouting something we could not understand. Within a few minutes, three young girls were running full speed towards us screaming words in their mother tongue followed by “sorry, sorry.” Instead of slowing as they approached us, they kept coming full speed and almost knocked us over as they hugged us and started to pat us dry with their small warm hands. Within a few minutes the man in the red vest appeared (the girls’ father, a man named Derek) and came down to us saying, “Sorry sorry, are you alright?” as the girls stroked our hair and brushed the leaves and dirt off of our pants. Emily and I started to laugh, which made the girls laugh and we carefully walked down to the shore holding hands.
Miraculously, our boat was still tucked snuggly in the reeds. We had a ride but it was full of water. “Oh no, how are we going to get the water out?” Emily whispered to me. The boat was much too heavy to drain like a normal canoe. Before she could even finish her question, the girls and Derek were in the canoe working at an incredible speed to rid our canoe of water. We stood on the shore watching in amazement. We thought it would take a half hour to bail all that water out of the canoe, but the girls were finished in less than 3 minutes. The boat was drier than when we got in it to begin with! As Emily and I gave our hugs and said our thank yous, the oldest girl noticed that our legs and feet were caked in mud. She hopped in the canoe, grabbed my leg, took off my flip-flop and proceeded to clean my shoes, feet, and legs. Feeling a bit awkward, I started to say, “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Oh. Oh, ok. Well, thank you,” realizing that nothing would stop this girl from finishing her task. When she was finished, Emily handed her 5000 shillings, which she graciously accepted and they waved with big smiles as we took off.
We made it back to the Overland Resort just before a second and longer storm hit.
The next day Emily and I decided to go to town. We bought some chocolate candies and lolly pops and decided we would walk back to Derek’s farm to say a proper thank you to the family. We headed for the peninsula and ran into about 20 kids having the time of their lives on a mudslide. The hill was as slippery as a water slide and kids would hold on to each other’s waists, turn backwards, and see if they could remain on their feet the whole way down the hill. None of them could and they were covered in mud, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. They especially liked two female muzungu spectators who found their laughter contagious. They eagerly watched the lines of our faces for any sign of amusement (which was not easy to contain). It was nice to see kids having so much fun.
But we couldn’t figure out how to get back to Derek’s farm though and we seemed to be walking in circles (another aspect to the muzungu corkscrew?). We kept asking locals, “Do you all know Derek? He has a farm somewhere over there and three young girls. Can you help us find him?” Well, no one knew Derek, which didn’t really surprise us. Most people in Uganda usually refer to themselves by their surname and not their Christian name, which is often much easier for white people to pronounce. So we climbed this big hill with an unfinished church and looked out to the lake. Sure enough, we saw the small dock and the big red tin roof of Derek’s farmhouse. But the “peninsula” was in fact an island! We had not realized this fact and now had no way of getting back to it. Luckily, a nice man named Gideon saw us standing on the hilltop looking helpless and offered us his assistance. We told him our predicament and without a second thought he said, “Follow me. I’ll paddle you over to his island.” So we hopped in his canoe and with remarkable ease, he paddled the two of us over to Derek’s island. Derek saw us coming and waved in excitement. Unfortunately, the children (whose names we later learned to be Marron, Charity, and Siren) had gone to their Aunt’s house for the rest of the weekend. Derek promised to save the candy for them. He was so happy to see us and gave us a long tour of his huge island. His father Onen joined us too. We all laughed as Derek retold our story.
After our walk, Derek, Emily, and I exchanged addresses and we promised to write. Anytime we want to go back to Bunyoni, we have friends awaiting us. We hopped in the canoe and Gideon paddled us back to the Overland Resort. As soon as we reached the freshly painted white dock, we heard the soft roll of thunder and saw the sky graying above us. Emily and I looked up and smiled as the first small raindrops hit our noses and foreheads. We wished Gideon a farewell and a safe journey and he was off with striking speed. We rushed to the safety of our porch and watched Gideon land safely home before the real rain came in. How he got there so fast, we’ll never understand.
Emily and I had no idea Bunyoni was experiencing such a long and hard rainy season, but in the end we were grateful for the storm.
I sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket listening to the melodic pound of rain on the tin roof. The sound of rain on a tin roof is my mom’s favorite sound. I thought for a moment how much I missed being surrounded by my family for the Thanksgiving holiday. I missed the turkey and the stuffing and the cranberry sauce – sure…but mostly I missed seeing their smiling faces. Then I imagined our family tradition of going around the table describing each reason why we are so thankful. I realized that I had so much more for which to be thankful now than I ever realized before. That thought alone will get me through the holidays until I can see my family’s faces again.

Oh and some have asked what I ate for Thanksgiving dinner. The answer is guacamole and chapatti chips, Hawaiian pizza, and beer. I also tried grasshoppers, the Ugandan delicacy in the November and December months. If you don’t look at the thing before you put it in your mouth, it is possible to imagine that it takes like shrimp. It was a great day.

"Are you ready for CHOGM?"

2007-11-20T10:44:00.000+03:00

Every two years, Commonwealth leaders (i.e. heads of government from countries that were/are part of the British Empire) get together for a meeting to discuss global and commonwealth issues and the collective policies and initiatives that will follow. This year, CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads Of Government Meeting) is in Uganda! This is the biggest thing to happen to this country since…since…since independence! For months (certainly as long as I have lived here – and probably much longer), this country has been “getting ready” for CHOGM. New roads, a new airport in Entebbe, new quality hotels, etc. are all quickly making their final touches. CHOGM starts this week. 53 country representatives (including the Queen of England) and 5,000 delegates are arriving any moment now for the meeting. The city is a madhouse. Kampala is in a state of hysteria. Thursday and Friday have actually been declared public holidays to get people to stay off the streets (and no, it’s not because the ex-pat community wants to celebrate Thanksgiving). There have been dress rehearsals throughout Kampala streets trying to divert traffic and do security checks. The roadsides are repainted each day because the fresh white paint turns brown by the time the next rush hour hits. There are countless billboards around the country asking the question, “Are you ready for CHOGM?”
Well, I’ve been asked this question a lot – “Hey Muzungu, are you ready for CHOGM?” “Sure,” I reply with a shrug, “Who isn’t?” Many (not most, but yes many) Ugandans actually have no idea what CHOGM is. One man thought it was a traveling entertainment festival and was disappointed to learn that no fun acts were going to be coming to town. Someone else thought it was a new pharmaceutical company to provide free Antiretroviral therapy to HIV infected people. *And my all-time favorite* - one man told me he thought it was the name of the Queen of England’s husband – so the King of England. I couldn’t believe it. Although the billboards give the meaning of the acronym and papers all around town have had articles about CHOGM since August, people still don’t understand what the meeting is about. They just keep asking Ugandans if they are “ready for CHOGM.” I think the real question is, “Hey CHOGM, are you ready for Uganda?”

Dear Sir or Madam:

2007-11-19T12:04:00.000+03:00

In honor of Thanksgiving week – I’m giving myself a whole week because I have so much for which I am thankful - I wanted to share with you a letter that an orphan named Daniel wrote to the LWF Kampala office. I don’t think he was forced to write it (although I could be mistaken) and I think it does a great job of showing the respect that LWF and LWF staff get in their communities. Many kids like Daniel who are orphaned have to look to their LWF community counselors for parental guidance and support. They have no one else. The LWF staff mentioned in this letter takes Daniel and his family to school each day, pays for their school fees through a Child Sponsorship scheme and visits the house once a week to make sure the kids are eating and are safe. I believe Daniel is 12. I have reproduced Daniels’s letter as he wrote it:

Dear:
SR/Madam
I am sening my greatings to the organasation of Lutheran (LWF). The main poupose of me to writting this letter is to sen my apprisation to the organasation of Lutheran and the donors who brings money to pay for me school fees. I was an ophan but now I am also looks like not an ophan. I was in the village no way of getting money for going to school and a pray day and night to get away of going to school but I have got and may God bless me and all the staff of the Lutheran world federation especially Okea Tom and Anjela Rose and the donors who take me to school and help me to give me goats and cassava and I will continue with my studies. I never grow tired of school. May the Lord bless you.
Thanks you,
Okongule Daniel

Otti: Dead or Alive?

2007-11-15T11:54:00.000+03:00

Second in command in the LRA, Vincent Otti is rumored to have been killed by Joseph Kony, LRA chief. In my opinion, his death is not a rumor - it's a fact. There's no way this guy is still alive.
On the one hand, any top LRA chief, in my opinion, is not a good guy. Yet at the same time, Otti played an integral role in the peace process between the LRA and the government (clearly the reason behind his assassination). His death could have really bad effects for the peace process in Uganda.
Another potential hindrance in the process is the fact that the International Criminal Courts have made indictments against several (four I think?) of the top LRA chiefs and they have since gone into hiding in the Congo. If chiefs feel threatened that they will be arrested if they try to participate in the peace talks (which they surely will), they have no incentive to come out of hiding and work towards peace.
And another hindrance in Ugandan progress is the peace process in Sudan. The Sudanese government has been aiding/funding the LRA for many years. As soon as the south secedes from northern Sudan and the peace talks in Sudan have been finalized, this could mean an end to war in Uganda as well. But since the north and south can't seem to come to any agreements, I have a feeling it could be years before this will have any positive effect on Uganda.
Anyway, here's an article about Otti if you are so inclined.

The C word: Part II

2007-11-14T13:48:00.000+03:00

-NGO vehicles waiting at the air strip in Pader.
-Some of Yoseph's dance troop, Kika.

Many people say I am one of the most competitive people they know. Sometimes they mean, “Catie, you’re obnoxious and driving me crazy.” Other times I take it as a compliment because it means they recognize that I try hard to do something better than I thought I could (or at least better than someone else). “Competition” is the other “C word” in Uganda: a four-letter word if you will.
In capitalist countries, freedom of enterprise is based on the idea that there should be competition in the marketplace so that businesses put out the very best product they can. Consumer products are continuously improving, technology corporations are trying to find the state of the art product, etc. (You all know what capitalism is – I doubt you need me to explain it)
A competitive spirit in Uganda can lead to death – it seems a simple way to put it, but I’ll give a few examples.
Many of you who have read anything about Uganda (or have seen the movie Last King of Scotland) know that Idi Amin killed many people for challenging his authority. While President Museveni would never dream of purposefully carrying on Amin’s legacy, the tradition of maintaining power by getting rid of any opposition is a tactic used by many powerful Ugandan groups.
Example #1: Yoseph is a 25-year-old actor, singer, musician, and community leader. He is quite possibly the most talented, charismatic Ugandan I have known. He has organized a group of children who each have their horrible stories telling how they became orphans. They all live together under Yoseph’s roof and have joined forces to use their talent (singing and dancing) to make better lives for themselves. Yoseph has taken desperate children off the streets and has created an extremely talented troop. Well, there is another dance group in Uganda that has traditionally been the best ranked dancing and singing group in the country. This group has been booked for many important Ugandan functions and has traveled all over the country. Yoseph is the type of guy who can sell absolutely anything. And when he started to sell his group called Kika (pronounced “chica”), he started to become very popular. Within 2 months, Yoseph had a price on his head. The competing group started to lose business to Kika and they wanted to put an end to it. Luckily for Yoseph, the so-called assassin, hired to kill Yoseph knew Yoseph’s father and refused to do it. He advised Yoseph about the hired killing and told him to lay low for a while.
Example #2: A young Ugandan female was making it big in an international corporation (the name of which I will not disclose). She was attending a conference in Canada and impressed American leaders. She was offered a job in the U.S. and went back to Uganda happy to tell them of her good fortune. Within 2 weeks, the girl was poisoned and dropped dead in a restaurant. No one knows for sure who poisoned her, but rumors say that her colleagues were jealous.
Example #3: Although this example may not seem as serious (or deadly), it is. The competition between NGOs in Pader has created serious problems. I was in Pader last week as part of an LWF evaluation team getting ready to write a new 5-year strategic plan. Instead of hiring outside consultants, the program managers from each district where we operate traveled in teams to other districts to see what we are doing well and where we can improve. One factor that has hindered our success in Pader is that NGOs in the area refuse to cooperate and collaborate. Instead they compete. Each NGO operates on its own and stakes claim on certain areas. It reminds me of the “Scramble for Africa” where many European nations competed over how many places they could post their flag and assert their power. Humanitarian aid is not efficient when it operates like this. They have to reinvent the wheel every time. Certain NGOs are great at drilling boreholes and providing sanitation tools. Others are good at helping communities learn how to use their land so they are food secure. But NGOs in Pader want to claim rights to an entire area. They refuse to offer their own services and allow other NGOs with different expertise to offer theirs. They do this because they think that donors will give them more money this way. In actuality, aid is far less effective and the minimum standards of humanitarian assistance are not met. Ugh. NGOs here need a lesson on team work. If you think about it, it’s hunger and disease we are fighting – not each other. And in fact, this example of competition has lead to many deaths because it has resulted in inefficient assistance.
Competition is healthy. In sports, we compete to push ourselves physically and mentally. And when we attain our far-reaching goals, we learn life lessons – clearly I’m a fan of sports. In the United States, competition creates an exciting, progressive, and thriving atmosphere. Evidently, it’s very different in Uganda.

Abduction

2007-11-13T09:55:00.000+03:00

Watch this Video

These stories are not unusual. This has happened to thousands of people in northern Uganda.

"Jerry-canning it"

2007-11-12T09:28:00.000+03:00

When I visited Rakai and Ssembabule, I only stayed the night and had no need for a hotel room with running water. I’ve gotten used to pit latrines and brushing my teeth out of my Nalgene bottle. Katakwi and Ikotos were the only two project sites I visited for an extended period of time and both places had lovely outdoor showers. Granted none of the places had hot water, my cold showers did not seem noteworthy enough to write an entry. My visit to Pader was 5 days and so a shower was sort of needed. I can go for a while bathing with baby wipes, but there comes a point when you want a shower. Most people I meet in the field, of course, have never used an actual shower, so my desire for running water seems incredibly trivial. Nevertheless, I’m an American and most Americans shower everyday.
In Pader, I have no running water. I have to, what we call, “jerry can it.” Jerry cans are the big plastic containers of water that frequent many of my pictures. I am given a small plastic tub and a towel (sometimes). Washing wasn’t an issue, but shampooing my hair…well…was. Unlike most female Africans who shave their heads or keep their hair very very short, I decided to grow my hair long for Africa. 99.9% of the time, I have really loved that decision. My hair is naturally curly and wild and the longer it is, the tamer it is. Washing that much hair in a bucket, however, is not easy. I had to kneel on the floor (which was rough on my post surgery knee), dunk my head in, and splashed water all about. It was like bobbing for apples without the reward. I used almost half the jerry can rinsing and made a big mess of the place. The toad that shares my bathroom (pictured above) was not impressed.
But like everything else in Uganda, it was an adventure!

Red Dirt Road

2007-11-12T09:19:00.000+03:00

(Odek Hill where the rebels hide - we were 5 km away, and Pater's cross on the side of the road)
Ambush! Sounds like a Blockbuster bestseller, right? Here in the district of Pader in northern Uganda, the word “ambush” has a serious and devastating definition. Pader used to be the most insecure region in Uganda. “This road was not passable two years ago,” describes Lucy, an LWF project officer. “Rebels hid in the bush ambushing cars as they passed and killed anyone in sight” “Would they ambush for money?” I asked. No. “Would they steal the cars for the parts?” No. “Would they abduct the men as soldiers and the women as concubines?” No. Lucy describes,” They only ambush people to make a statement to the government and to the world. They are enemies of the government and they are saying that the government has failed because they cannot control them. They ambush because it creates a great fear among the communities in this region and terror means power. It is their way of saying they are more powerful than the government.”
Lucy must have pointed out a half a dozen places along this red dirt road where she personally witnessed killings. It is a miracle that Lucy herself is still alive. On a trip back from Kitgum two years ago, her bus was ambushed. Rebels shot the tires of the bus and started shooting its passengers. Lucy described the feeling and the sound of a bullet passing under her chin, just barely missing her and killing the man two seats away. The bus kept driving but rebels were close behind. “I just got as low as I could and prayed for God to save me. I was very lucky.” The rebels killed 5 passengers on Lucy’s bus that day.
“A muzungu priest was shot and killed here in 2001,” says Lucy as she points to the white cross and plaque on the side of the road. “Some say Pader is named after him because locals called the “Pater,” (priest) “Pader.” “And over there,” Lucy points to a black, ruined structure on the other side of the road, ”is the church that the rebels burned. It was a Sunday and the people of this town were at worship and the rebels locked the doors and burned them alive.” “And that monument there marks the place where the LRA captured an entire village. They killed half of them, cut up and boiled their body parts and were about to feed it to the survivors when they were rescued.” The monument reminds Ugandans of the heinous act.
Even when you see these sites, it’s hard to imagine how these rebels could place so little value on human life. Even when you imagine them as desperate and brainwashed, it’s still hard to imagine.
I took a class at Colorado College two years ago called “The Causes of War and the Challenge of Peace.” The only thing that popped into my head was my professor saying, “War is a force that gives us meaning.” - a title of a book required for the class as well. This thought has yet to give me any consolation.
Today, the roads of Pader are passable. NGOs no longer use armed escorts. Still, I found myself getting nervous when I saw a truck stopped in the middle of the road or a group of men sitting on the side. Lucy described that these roads were very vulnerable to attack because the potholes forced drivers to slow. And rebels set landmines on diversion roads to reroute and control traffic. “Don’t worry Catie. These roads are safe now,” Lucy says smiling as she noticed my grip tightening on the armrest. I look ahead and see that today is a distribution day – meaning that the “mother camp” (IDP main camp housing anywhere from 800 to 7,000 displaced people) was distributing food relief to thousands of households. Women and children lined the red dirt road carrying sacks that said WFP (World Food Program) and brown boxes with the red and blue letters “U.S.A.” on the side. They delicately balance the sacks and the boxes on their heads moving out of the way of our passing car. The expressions on their faces made me realize that these people have made this journey hundreds of times back and forth to their villages. They have grown accustomed to an unsettled life where they cannot sufficiently fend for themselves. Rebels burned their homes and gardens and killed their families. Relief keeps them alive.
Some say that the dirt in Africa is red because of all the blood that has spilled on her soil. Perhaps this is just part of a legend, but today I saw that red dirt road and it seems a true legacy.

Mission Impossible: Riding the Mutatu

2007-11-05T08:55:00.000+03:00

(Too embarrassed to take pictures in the "old park" so here is a photo of a Mutatu from long ago).
I sat in Café Pap enjoying my expensive cappuccino having a lovely Sunday morning. I forgot for a moment that I was in Uganda as I was surrounded by lattes and laptop computers enjoying the café’s wireless. And then my internet cut off. I had paid for 2 hours and was only on for one hour and 15 minutes. I wanted my 45 minutes, damn it! But when I complained showing my receipt, the staff said they would send someone over and I should try again in 10 minutes. Well 10 minutes passed and then 20 – no one came over and none of the staff made eye contact with me in the interim. I was angry. I complained again. I had read all my emails and already published a blog post, but I really wanted my 45 minutes!
Café Pap was unwilling to give me a free hour and I was unwilling to pay them any more of my money. So I stormed out in a foul mood. It was raining of course but I didn’t care. It seemed very fitting.
In the rain, you stay safer and drier if you take a mutatu for public transportation instead of a boda. Mutatus are big van cabs that already have a set route and are licensed to carry up to 14 passengers (although they frequently carry as many as 20). You have to find the one going to your district. It’s MUCH easier to take bodas because you can find them in a split second and they take you door to door. Mutatus to Muyenga (where I live) are a little hard to come by. “You have to go to the old mutatu park,” the conductors would say. Oi vey! Where is the old park? Stubbornly unwilling to take the easy way out and catch a boda, I made it my mission to find “my” mutatu. I was in no mood to fail!
So I walked to the mutatu park, asking many mutatu conductors along the way whether or not they were going to Muyenga. “No, go to the park.” Alright already.
I reach the park after a 15 minute walk in the rain and there are anywhere from 300 to 400 taxis crammed into a muddy parking lot. I was overwhelmed. But as soon as I walked into the park I got a lot of attention. I wanted to think they were only giving me attention so that I would pay them (which has happened before), but the people in the park were actually quite helpful. I intended to stay in my bad mood, but these mutatu conductors were making it hard on me! Even in a downpour, they were willing to step into the rain and point me in the right direction. The corners of my mouth started to turn into a smile and I quickly shook it back into a frown. I wanted to sulk.
I finally reached “my” mutatu going to Muyenga and hopped in. Crammed with passengers, we stopped for gas, stopped to fill the tires with air, and stopped so the conductor could get a soda. It wanted to huff at all this wasted time, but instead I just started to laugh. I shook my head realizing how stubborn and childish I can be. I didn’t need to spend my Sunday being peeved at Café Pap for losing 45 minutes of my connection. Really, Catie! Priorities!
Everyday in Uganda can be an adventure! It’s much more fun when the people of Kampala help you realize it.

Grasshoppers by Starlight

2007-11-04T10:43:00.001+03:00

When you move away from the capital city, the sky seems to get bigger and brighter. Most of rural Uganda does not have electricity and where they do, they often use it sparingly. While this can make for difficult reading light, it creates an absolutely magical sky. I witnessed this sky in Colorado when I camped in the mountains, but somehow it’s different here – as if stars over Africa are telling a different story.
In Ssembabule, a district in Southern Uganda, it’s the simple pleasures that make these kids smile. November happens to be the month of grasshoppers. Grasshoppers are a delicacy in Uganda and I understood that they multiply in November and are caught and eaten (at least I think that’s what they were saying – it was all translated while the kids were squealing with excitement over a little grasshopper trying to escape the fingers of a 5 year old). When I asked them how they prepared the grasshoppers, Ssembabule residents listed endless possibilities, none of which included chocolate.
Although there were no (cooked) grasshoppers for me to sample, all of the children invited me back to Ssembabule later in the month to share in their feast. I accepted their kind invitation with pleasure.

Needless Acts of Violence

2007-10-31T11:33:00.000+03:00

Happy Halloween everyone! Missing the tradition of dressing up and doing pranks, Karen and I were talking today about how we could get away with wearing a costume (even a subtle one) in Uganda. We quickly decided against the idea fearing that locals might see whiskers on our faces and think we were involved in witchcraft. We then might be beaten or publicly shamed. That surely would put a damper on my Halloween.
Then I started thinking about the silly pranks that people like to pull on All Saints Day and knew that pranks in Uganda would be out of the question. They would seem strange, thoughtless, and inappropriate. Again, public beatings might be a consequence.
All this reminded me of an article I read in yesterday’s papers about a group of herders attacked by a local village. Only one person was hurt, but 60 some head of cattle were killed or seriously wounded by guns, machetes, and pangas. Although the peaceful herders had permits and had reported their travel plans to all applicable authorities in the area, they were still the victims of a needless crime. Villagers, who were reportedly enemies of this herdsmen tribe, decided to hurt them in the best way they knew how: killing their cattle. Cattle are considered (in most areas of Uganda) more valuable than human life. Therefore the punishment for killing cattle is as severe as killing a person. Authorities in the area are working hard to find all those responsible for the acts of violence and today’s paper featured a photograph of police beating and publicly disgracing a group of men accused of the crime. A believer in a justice system of some sort, I obviously had a sour reaction to seeing that photo. These men have not been tried or convicted of this crime and yet they are still subject to public embarrassment and physical pain. What if they are wrong? They didn’t seem to care. This was stage 1 of the Ugandan justice system.
My thoughts progress to the fires in California and the fact that at least 2 of them are suspected arson. I saw a clip from CNN yesterday about a husband and wife who escaped to their pool for protection from their burning home. Their neighbors down the hill were not so lucky. I think about all my friends and family who live in California and think about what they might be feeling.
The media shows death and destruction on TV so often that many people feel immune to hearing about it. When reporters talk about murder or violence, I often turn a deaf ear to it. But when someone other than a reporter is telling his/her story about death and violence, you can hear the pain in their voice and see it in their eyes. That was my reaction to the poor woman who cried for her friends and neighbors buried in ash in their California home. I too cried for their loss.
This was not my reaction reading about the herdsmen yesterday…I just shook my head and said, “how awful.” -standard response to unemotional media coverage. I was unhappy with my reaction though and on my way to work this morning I met a young boy named Joseph. Joseph was about 11 or 12 and he had stopped not far from my house to let his cattle feed on some public grass. I don’t live in a rural part of Kampala, however I see cattle grazing around my neighborhood quite often. I stopped to say hello to Joseph and asked how he was. He said, “I’m fine Madam, how are you?” I told him I was fine too and asked him if he was the only one caring for the cattle (he had about 20 head of cattle under his care). Joseph said that his brothers help him, but they were sleeping. I asked if he was scared to be all by himself since cattle are so valuable (perhaps not an appropriate question). He said, “No Madam. I’m not scared.” I prodded: “What if something happened to one of your cattle though, wouldn’t you be scared?” “Yes Madam, you are right.” He gave me a smile and I stopped asking all my questions realizing that he didn’t want to admit he was scared of anything. He was at that age where he clearly wanted to seem older and wiser than his years might dictate. And I already knew what the answer would be anyway.
Needless acts of violence happen all over the world everyday. Sometimes it feels natural to ignore it. My reaction may have been stronger in response to the Californian woman, but the cattle raid is equally poignant. I blame media coverage for any inconsistency in the human reaction. And since I am now working as a journalist in some respects, I find I have an extra burden to do each story justice. Regardless, it’s the people you meet and talk to who affect you most. To my knowledge, right now Joseph is somewhere in southern Kampala safely caring for his herd. But somehow, I find myself holding my breath for his safe return.

Rhythm and Blues

2007-10-28T15:17:00.000+03:00

Sitting on my front porch yesterday reading a book, my neighbor Silvia approached me asking if I had any plans for the evening. I quickly said “no, no plans at all” without even thinking twice about the fact that I had never met Silvia before. I was so excited about being invited to do something by a Ugandan, it didn’t occur to me to question the idea. Ugandans are very welcoming, but not exactly open to foreigners on a personal level…i.e. no one invites you into their home. Silvia changed my understanding of Ugandan hospitality.
“Today is my niece’s birthday and we’re having a party for her tonight,” said Silvia. “Great, I’ll be there…what time?” I asked. “I’ll have someone come get you at 7 and bring you around back.”
Well 7 rolled around and I sat on the edge of my bed listening for footsteps. Then 7:15…then 7:30… Should I just show up? I’m not quite sure what the protocol is, so I decide to wait it out. Finally at 8 o’clock, just as I am getting back into my book, I heard a knock at the door. Hooray – they didn’t forget me! Silvia and her 11 and 16 years old daughters were standing there all smiles. They walked me around to the back of the compound where they live. “Whose birthday is it?” I asked. As it turns out, Silvia’s niece turned 28 yesterday! I thought I was going to a child’s birthday party, when really I was invited to a grownup party. All of a sudden I got nervous.
My nerves did not abate for the remainder of the evening, but that is not to say that I didn’t have fun. I was treated with the utmost respect by my hostess and her guests and was given Fanta and a huge plate of food. I had already eaten dinner but knew that it would be rude not to eat a good portion of the food placed in front of me, so I did my best (samosas, fried matoke (plantains), hush puppies, fried chicken, cole slaw, potato salad, fried pork…oh my – this is more food than I would eat in 2 days – maybe 3).
Most of the guests at the party happened to be Congolese, five of whom were orphaned refugees from the civil war (they showed me their refugee ID cards – fascinating). We went back and forth between French and English – my French is rustier than I would like to admit. “Un petit peu,” I would say. ALL of the guests were men! So not only did I not speak the same language as the rest of the people in the room, but I was also the only mzungu AND the only female sitting in the living room (I was quickly shoed back into the living room when I offered to help the other women in the kitchen)! Two words pop into my head – awkward turtle – and if you don’t know what “awkward turtle” is – ask someone under the age of 20.
As the dinner portion of the evening came to a close, the dance party started. Now, in Les Etats Unis, I consider myself to have decent rhythm. I’m also not exactly shy when it comes to dancing. Also in the United States, women consistently dominate the dance floor. I automatically think back to 7th grade mixers when all the boys would be leaning against the gym bleachers watching the girls circle up and have a blast. In Uganda (and apparently the Congo) the men dominate. But the crowd was not happy with me as a spectator. Always looking to please, I jumped in and started dancing. Keep in mind, I knew NONE of these people and I had no idea what the music was that I was dancing to. Stepping right foot left foot with my elbows tucked nicely at my side (quintessential white dance moves – think of the movie Hitch) was clearly not going to do. But all the men (and women) seemed to KNOW the dance and KNOW every word of the song (which was of course in a version of French). So I stuck with my right foot left foot, elbows at my side routine until I could figure out some of their moves. I’d still be there this minute if I had stuck with this plan. I have never felt more rhythmically challenged. Africans use their heads, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, torso, hips, legs, feet and toes in every move that they do. Each appendage seems to move at a different speed than the others, yet they look so graceful and light on their feet. All of this gyrating is done in perfect rhythm. The men embrace – something American men wouldn’t dream of doing and they are completely 100% confident in their moves – again, an issue many American men face.
Our security guards George and Jericome look on smiling and laughing – at me, I presume. Heck, I was laughing at myself. But all the guests were very encouraging and got upset whenever I sat down for a break. Some of the men got a little too friendly – as African men tend to do – but Silvia was right by my side protecting me. Although it was quite possibly the most awkward night of my life, I was so glad I went.
Silvia’s niece gathered everyone around to cut the birthday cake. In Ugandan tradition, the birthday girl must choose one woman and one man to hold the knife with her for good luck. I sensed that she was debating on whether or not to choose me, but was relieved when she chose her Aunt. That could have been awkward.

The C Word

2007-10-26T13:47:00.000+03:00

Corruption – on many levels – has prevented political, social, and economic growth in Africa. This is not a little known fact. The front-page news story today focused on money fraud in Kampala. Apparently, some people have found a way to take the security strips off of lesser denominations of Ugandan shillings and have glued them onto fake shillings of higher value printed out on colored paper. Kampala citizens are urged to check their money and report any suspicious activity.
President Museveni has a different problem on his hands. He is working to crack down on the “ghost worker” industry. The article said that government ministries, hospitals, schools, and universities have been using money (totaling almost $1m/month) to pay salaries to non-existent staff. Corrupt officials are pocketing the salaries. Uganda receives nearly half of its funding from foreign donors. In May, one of Museveni’s closest allies, the health minister, was charged with stealing nearly $2m of donor cash earmarked for children’s vaccines. In my opinion, it takes a “special” kind of person to steal two million dollars away from children…but T.I.A (“this is Africa” – a quote I stole and have referenced before from Blood Diamond).
I was intrigued and really excited when Transparency International came to Uganda last week. Transparency International is a “global civil society leading the fight against corruption” and came to do a study with LWF on potential corruption in humanitarian aid. Africa is a continent with abundant natural resources but has been plagued with a history of inept governance (both European and African) and war. Sub-Saharan Africa writes the book on corruption. “It is the only region of the world where poverty has increased in the past 25 years and half of the continent’s population of 840 million people lives on less than 1 USD per day” – info from the T.I. website. This type of work is so crucial for the potential success of humanitarian aid in Africa. If Museveni gets over half of his national budget from foreign donors, doesn’t it make sense that there is some system of accountability in place to oversee the funds? Shouldn’t the money go to the people in need? Clearly the answer is yes. But it’s not that simple. Although there is a movement in this region of the world to end corruption, many governments are either unwilling or unable to address corruption effectively. Progress is slow. T.I. was only here in a research capacity and it will take months – years maybe – before their work even moves into the advocacy phase. Uganda has become one of the most corrupt places in the world. We even beat out Kenya in the fraud category – and that is hard to do! I would start the next sentence with the word “hopefully,” but…well…

Home Sweet Home

2007-10-24T15:31:00.001+03:00

At Fountain Valley School, we began the History of Modern Africa class each day discussing current events. Even though I had several BBC and American online news pages bookmarked to the Africa section on my computer, the current events I read were occasionally out of context. I am sure my kids probably felt this way too. Although I forced the kids to explain the “significance” of the current event (a word I used often, much to their dismay) and had them follow up on the story for future classes, we still sometimes didn’t see the big picture. News has a new meaning to me now that I live in Uganda.
Last night on the news I saw that about 8,000 Congolese refugees have fled to Uganda almost overnight. This year alone 370,000 Congolese have been displaced. The government and guerrilla forces have been fighting for as long as I can remember and recent peace talks have failed. The size of the militias is due to increase and more and more people will be displaced in the coming months.
Also on the news today: “Ugandan LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) commander surrenders” reads the headline. Opiyo Makasi gave himself up yesterday to the UN in Congo. He wasn’t the leading commander by any means, but it’s a start. The civil war that the LRA has waged against the Ugandan military for the last 20 years has led to the death of tens of thousands of people and the displacement of 2 million more.
And for a third time today Uganda hit the international news: Rains this week have exacerbated the flooding problems up in the north and northeastern regions of Uganda. Not only does this continue to cause serious food security issues and other health risks, but again the rains are displacing people. This time the displaced are displaced again.
This raises a very serious issue with me: the concept of “home.” Shelter is one thing…home is another. The Sphere Project is a program launched in ’97 that has worked to develop a set of universal minimum standards in core areas of humanitarian assistance. I reference this book a lot in my work. The Sphere Project states, “ Everyone has the right to adequate housing. This right is recognized in international legal instruments and includes the right to live in security, peace and dignity, and with security of tenure.”
Clearly humanitarian organizations are going to have a hard time sheltering all of these refugees coming from the Congo. They already have a hard time sheltering the IDPs up north. But beyond just shelter, don’t these people have a right to call a place “home?”
Children of military families in the U.S. often have a hard time calling someplace “home.” When you move around a lot, you don’t have sports teams alliances… you don’t have walls near your kitchen that denote your height changes since the age of 2… you don’t have piles and piles of junk sitting under your bed from the years that mom told you to “clean your room.” But you do have a house, you do have security, you do “live in dignity.”
Home is someplace we want to go. “There’s no place like home,” says Dorothy. Even sitting here at my computer, I pull up a webpage and it automatically takes me to my “homepage.” And if I should veer away from my homepage, all I have to do is go to my toolbar and one click of a button brings me home again. Home is emotional.
To me, home will always be Baltimore. I lived there for 18+ years – it’s in my blood, my accent, my culinary preferences… The Congolese refugees fleeing to Uganda – where do they call home? There are innumerable emotional tragedies that refugees and IDPs face when forced to leave their villages; loss of family, loss of possessions, the realization that your future is one of indeterminate anonymity. But what would it be like if the word “home” didn’t even register in your vocabulary?

Girl Power!

2007-10-22T16:40:00.000+03:00

-our CFO Agnes and HR Manager Annette

What is the role of women in Africa? This is a big question. I had two experiences this weekend that may help give a little insight into the role that women play on a daily basis.
Experience #1: On Friday night, the staff of the Lutheran World Federation got together at Le Chateau, a great local restaurant right next door to our offices. It was a going away party for our CFO who is moving to Geneva to work at the main LWF office – big promotion. Our CFO is a woman! In fact, many of the head officers at LWF are women. Part of our dinner conversation on Friday night focused on this very fact. The women who work in our office are very professional and confident – some of the men in the office visibly fear them. Our conversation focused on marriage, family and gender roles. They asked me, “So Catie, why are you not married?” Ugh…ugh… how do I answer this question? Panic. But then they laugh and one of them says, “Don’t worry, I’m not married either. I like being a single professional with power. If I got married, my husband would take all my money. I’m no one’s sugar momma.” (Sugar momma and sugar daddy frequent the Ugandan vocabulary – I’ll explain later).
Granted, although most women of marrying age (anything over about 17) are in fact married, there is a small movement of women in Uganda who want to delay the “inevitable” until they find a man who will treat them with the respect that they deserve. These women can be found in my office!
This is not typically the case for most Ugandans. Middle-aged men go to college campuses to identify the girl who will be his “girlfriend” for the next 3 years. (She calls him her “uncle” by the way – gross). In exchange, he provides her with school fees, fancy clothes, high-tech accessories, etc. These men are SUGAR DADDIES! Since the HIV/AIDS epidemic hit Uganda in the 80s, the only change in this business is that it has gotten more competitive for the women and sex workers embrace the condom like their life depends on it; and indeed it does.
The women at LWF are appalled by this practice and blame the females. But then the discussion turned to marriage. If the woman gets married and her husband cheats on her (which is so freakishly common, it’s scary) and contracts HIV, he’s not going to tell her – or he may not know himself. So is the woman better protected if she’s single or married? LWF women say that girls have the power in Kampala. Women in rural areas will tell you they are second-class citizens and all the men have the power.
Experience #2: I FINALLY went out in Kampala this weekend. “Going out” in Kampala is a little difficult because I am first and foremost concerned with my safety – I didn’t know how I was going to get home…didn’t know who I would go out with, etc.. Additionally, Ugandans go out starting at around 11 and stay out until 4 or 5 in the morning…so that’s a big commitment. My friend Emily works for Physicians for Humans Rights and lived here last year so knows all the fun and safe places to go. We went to O’Neal’s, an Irish Pub downtown. There was a big rugby match on the big screen (South Africa v. England) and so the place was packed (I’d say about 1/3 Ugandan and 2/3 ex-pats). Within about 2 minutes, we had men buying us drinks. The two men we talked to first were the two men we talked to all night – they did not let us leave. They were both South African working in Uganda for 3 months. They were older – hard to tell how old – but I’d say at least 50. Both wore wedding rings and I asked if their families were in town as well. “Oh no, we won’t see them for another 3 months.” – wink wink. Ok. I get it. Emily got it too. Apparently, fidelity issues go beyond just Ugandan borders and seem to be issues all over Africa. Emily and I were obviously not interested, but then something occurred to me – women who have no money can go out to almost any bar and easily find a man. This business requires the men to compete, not the women! Emily and I had to stand still for one minute before we were approached. If we had exerted any effort, it could have been 30 seconds.
So while Ugandan society tells us that women don’t have any power over men, my experiences in Kampala and my LWF colleagues say otherwise. Who has the power? I’d say the women!

Low Maintenance Woman

2007-10-18T09:58:00.000+03:00

-this morning's views from my front porch

Many of you know I have an old soul. I love dancing around my kitchen singing along with Frank (Sinatra of course) cooking up something gourmet. I get a lot of pleasure sipping honey-sweetened tea on a porch while tapping my foot to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. You even have to pry me out of the arms of some of my parents’ friends when there’s a good swing band or Motown tune (most young folks…with a few exceptions…just can’t keep up with the old men). I love tradition and I am a creature of habit.
I’ve had to adjust a little in Uganda. Change is really good, but it is hard for me. I have consciously decided to lighten up though! “Can’t have it all.”
Before Africa, after a long day at work, I typically liked to come home, lie down on the couch with Woody, turn on the TV or my CD player, sip some good wine and think about what delicious meal I will cook myself. Here, I don’t turn on a TV, I can’t afford drinkable wine or any gourmet food (as if there was such a thing as gourmet in Uganda) and I have no couch. I am conscious about how many dishes I use – I have no hot water. I don’t like using a lot of electricity - I constantly keep an eye on the meter.
All the food tastes different: e.g. mayonnaise always tastes like Miracle Whip, milk is cream that comes in a bag, lemons are green and bumpy, there is no such thing as cheese despite all the cows and goats running around, and African tea is brewed with milk and lots of sugar. I have to just accept the fact that nothing is going to taste the same.
I am not complaining. In fact, I am very very thankful for all this change. Here, you have to be creative, not just in cooking, but also how you spend your time and money. In the States, I hardly ever cared how much I spent at the grocery store…I’d buy a can of dilly beans for $8.99 without a second thought. Hey, they’re delicious and a fat free snack…what’s not to love? In the States I have a car…here I have my feet. In the States I have furniture…here I have a plastic chair. In the States, I left everything plugged in…here…well, you get the picture.
I am loving how this has changed my perspective. You just have to think of everything as an adventure. Lessons I have learned: 1. The little things really matter, 2. You can survive on a lot less than you think, 3. Reading a book is a wonderful means of entertainment (as is looking at the rainbow from your front porch), 4. You actually DO have time to study for the GREs, 5. You don’t need to belong to a gym to get a good workout, 6. If you close your eyes, you can make anything taste good…haha…I could go on and on.
I know when I go back to the States, I may enjoy my same old pleasures. But it’s nice to know that I at least can be a low maintenance woman should I choose to be. :)

"Safeguard your Future"

2007-10-16T12:45:00.000+03:00

-Dennis and his sisters

I wrote a story yesterday about a remarkable young man named Dennis. The purpose of the story was to say "good job" to the people of Icelandic Church Aid who donated money to build Dennis a house and give him a water tank. But I like the story the way it is and I don't want it dissected: "it lacks focus and does not fulfil its purpose," says LWF. So I'm putting it up on my blog instead. Otherwise, Dennis's story would not be justly represented. It would be a third as long and say nothing about his hard working nature. Just a story about a house...blah! So here it is, unedited and all:
(One quick side note, LWF likes everything in the present tense, so that's why it sounds like that)...

The Lutheran World Federation
Uganda Program

“Safeguard your future”

Dennis sits on the stoop of his new house with his two younger sisters on either side of him practicing English. At the age of 16, Dennis Kasule already has great ambitions for the future. Unlike many Child Headed Households (CHHs), everyone in the Kasule family remains in school.

Dennis and his sisters Sikola and Medius, both aged 15, were orphaned ten years ago when their parents died from AIDS. They live in the Rakai district of southern Uganda where the AIDS prevalence rate is 12 percent compared to the national average of 6.7 percent. Their eldest sister cared for them for some time but since the ages of ten and nine, the three of them have been on their own. “The house was in terrible condition, food and water were scarce and we had no clothes or bedding,” says Dennis.

Since no one tends the garden during the day, Dennis and his sisters often struggle to eat. Farming requires consistent hard work, time and energy. As head of his household, Dennis delicately balances farming, household chores, and school. The children travel two kilometers to a nearby stream to gather water two times a day. They spend additional time gathering firewood so their water can be boiled as a means of purification.

The Lutheran World Federation (LWF) has implemented a community based AIDS project in the Rakai region since 1995 to support those most affected by the epidemic. In 2002, LWF learned of the horrible conditions in which these children were living. They intervened with food, clothes, beans and maize seeds, and school materials. They also received goats they could breed to generate income from the offspring. In July 2007, LWF constructed a house and a water tank for the family with funds provided by Icelandic Church Aid. The lives of the children have improved considerably.

Dennis does not find that he now has more free time; he uses every minute of the day to work on his land, tend to the animals, care for his sisters, and study for primary school exams. He does this with the guidance of John, an LWF community counselor who visits the family once a week. John identified the family to LWF five years ago and has since educated Dennis about efficient farming techniques, the importance of good hygiene and nutrition as well as HIV/AIDS education. He also provides the children with psychological support. Consequently, Dennis has become a role model for his sisters and holds discussions about these issues on a regular basis.

The house and water tank have provided the Kasule family with basic needs for survival. Even still, Dennis finds the weekends are occupied at neighbors’ houses doing odd jobs for income. The family only eats one meal a day and the extra income helps supplement their diet with vegetables and proteins from the local market. Regardless, Dennis refuses to drop out of school. “It’s hard, but I must find the time to balance work with school. It is the only way I can have a future.”

When asked what advice he would give to other CHHs in his similar situation he says, “Safeguard against teenage sex so that you don’t contract AIDS. It can make you leave school and ruin your life.” Dennis is a bright young man who has managed to preserve his potential through school and discipline. LWF’s intervention has given this ambitious boy the opportunity to write his own history.

Malaria Mondays

2007-10-12T09:37:00.001+03:00

Every Monday evening I take my malaria prophylaxis. I call Mondays “Malaria Mondays” to help me remember my pill. The side effects so far have been mild, but supposedly they worsen the longer you take it. Great! Actually, the possible side effects like depression, anxiety, and hallucinations have not yet taken effect (with the exception of one random crying episode last week that I still can’t explain). I’ve always been blessed with the ability to remember my dreams. Now thanks to my malaria meds, I can really remember them. As readers, most of my dreams would be of no interest to you, but I did have one last night that I have decided to share.
As you know, I’ve been having a hard time defining peace. This dream will not help explain political, ethnic, and cultural peace in Sudan, but it has helped me better understand inner peace.
The dream was very short and simple. I was heading up a hill on a rocky dirt road but stopped to look back and listen to a skinny Indian man wearing a long white African robe with a white African hat. He was carrying his child on his back but was flailing his arms about in frustration over something. He was quite upset and his child was crying. I apparently spoke his language and could understand him, so I stood there to listen. He wasn’t directly talking to me, just ranting to anyone. People lined the dirt road trying to ignore the man, but as soon as I spoke to him in English, we were the only two left in the dream (even his child was gone). I walked down the hill and said, “Shh, give me your hand.” He hesitated, but I grabbed his hand and put it against my cheek. He was confused at first. I took my other hand and put it against his cheek. I said, “You see, we are the same.” And his irritated eyes turned into an expression of complete understanding and love and he immediately started to weep. He kissed me on the nose and the dream ended.
I woke up instantly and saw that it was 3:30 a.m. I sat up in bed completely awake and felt like I had just lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I really can’t explain it and the dream might not make any sense to you all, but I thought I would share it anyway. For the first time in a very long time, my heart felt full. And so that is my definition of peace.

My thoughts on what can be done.

2007-10-12T09:15:00.000+03:00

Perhaps it is still early, but several of you have emailed me and posted comments on my blog asking what I thought could be done about the state of Africa. So, I’ll try…
Well to start, it is really important to realize that each country in Africa has its own very specific problem…correction - problems. I’ve decided to start with Sudan and will admit from the beginning that my ideas are VERY basic, incomplete, and easier said than done. But perhaps Sudanese scholars are not reading my blog and it is better to be simplistic? I think so.
Ok, so here’s what’s going on in Sudan. South Sudan is completely different from North Sudan (culture, religion, topography, OIL, etc.). The North and the South have been fighting in a civil war for over 25 years now and the people are really suffering. It has been brainwashed into a large handful of the northern population that Arab and Muslim=good, everything else=bad. Anyone under the age of 27 has most likely only known times of war. The Christians in the South have been persecuted and driven into refugee or IDP camps. The Muslims in Darfur have been persecuted only because they speak their mother tongue and therefore are not “Arab” (although most people in Darfur speak Arabic). Political people in Khartoum are obviously corrupt and very dangerous. Right now, there are talks of peace agreements (and some have already been signed) and there exists a GOSS (Government of South Sudan). Sudan is not technically split, but there is even a capital of South Sudan – Juba.
My simplistic thoughts on creating peace in Sudan are two fold: split and educate.
When discussing peace, one must define peace but “peace” is not easily definable. I’m actually going to procrastinate on defining peace because I just honestly don’t know how to define it (and it’s not something you can look up in Webster’s) but I’ll let you know in 5 more months whether or not I have figured it out. So for now, we’ll just leave that one as a big question mark.
Split: In my opinion, Sudan, the largest country in Africa needs to split into at least 3 countries: North Sudan, South Sudan, and Darfur. I say “at least three” because there are lots of other problem areas, but three’s a start. The North and South have already been at war for…as I said…almost 30 years and the likelihood is that the south will secede. Although the north has sort of agreed to this, there is no way this is going to happen peacefully. The South has too much that the North wants... oil…and it’s not going to go quietly into the night. Darfur obviously needs to secede because Khartoum is crazy and will just not overlook the fact that some of its AFRICAN population don’t want to give up their AFRICAN culture to become Arab. Killing all the inhabitants of Darfur is just not a feasible solution. Darfurians need to live in peace as they are. I personally have little hope that Sudan can work out its problems from Khartoum. Agreements must be made to secede and they must be enforced by Sudan and its neighbors. (If I said it must be enforced by the UN or the AU (African Union) I would probably regret it in three seconds).
Educate: So many people in Sudan seem brainwashed (a word I have used before) into thinking that if other people are not exactly like them, they are bad. Some of the Sudanese in the north are taught at a very young age to be fanatical; hence the sanctuary for Islamic terrorists in the north. Keep in mind, there are thousands of North Sudanese who are peaceful followers of Islam and good people, so I am not saying everyone in the north is bad. But war and Islam (similar to war and Christianity) are interrelated and people (young children especially) are taught to think that they will have a better life and will receive salvation if they kill in the name of God. Not so. And if the west doesn’t want to see Sudan become a safe-haven for terrorists and religious fanatics, modern educational systems must be put in place. Some might be wondering what “modern” means, and I must admit, I’m having a hard time defining that one as well. I will say, however, that “modern” is not necessarily “western,” but it does carry some of the same values and principles that “western” values and principles carry on the surface. Man, I am cynical. If you tried to implement “western” schools all over Sudan without taking into consideration the important cultural distinctions, it would be a disaster. These kids must be educated about religion – not religious fanaticism – culture, history, etc. Above all, they must be educated in tolerance.
I fear that I have not fulfilled my job as an educator on this subject, but it’s what I can do for now. Come back again in 5 months (whereby I will certainly be an expert…ha! Yeah right!).

AIDS does more than just kill...

2007-10-12T08:49:00.000+03:00

Currently I am in Rakai, a district in southern Uganda that has been hit hard by the AIDS epidemic. Each person I interviewed today had his or her own unique story, but one thing is for certain, AIDS has completely disrupted any chance of social or economic progress in this area. These people are focused on surviving and little else. Thankfully, with the support of NGOs like LWF, these victims become beneficiaries of new houses, farming tools, water tanks, bedding, seeds, etc. People living with AIDS (PWAs) can focus on staying healthy so that they can care for their children.
Sarah Namutebi (pictured above) is a PWA widow who has 8 children. She allowed two of her boys to come talk to me. Both boys are members of a choir that performs songs about HIV/AIDS (this is a very common means of educating youth about AIDS in Uganda). I asked if they would sing me some of the verses that they knew. They were shy and embarrassed at first but the older of the boys obliged.
“When I think about AIDS,
I shutter.
All it brings is misery.
Singing about my father,
All AIDS has brought it suffering.
He provided for us,
He cared for us,
And now he is gone.
All we had is gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
When I think about AIDS,
I shutter.
All it brings is misery.”
The song continues to educate the listeners about how AIDS is spread, but I didn’t hear those verses. The boy started to cry and became too embarrassed to continue. His father died 4 years ago, but he was old enough to remember him well and he was still visibly distraught. Sarah comforted him by touching his knee, but he pushed her away with frustration. I immediately felt bad for making him sing me the song, but I was also really glad that he did. It reminded me that he’s just a kid who has lost a parent at a young age. He’s just a kid who doesn’t have time to play because he has to walk 2 km to the borehole to help his mother carry water. He’s just a kid who can’t go to school because he has to work in the fields so that the family can eat. He’s just a kid who reminds his mother to take her ARVs each day so that she can stay healthy and remain in their lives as long as possible. He’s just a kid. This 11 year old “kid” has become his brothers’ hero, his mother’s nurse and the breadwinner of the family. Is he just a kid?
When I interview beneficiaries, I often have to emotionally distance myself from their stories and their pain. I allow my face to show some appropriate signs of sympathy and understanding, but I try to make sure I don’t act patronizing. There is no way I can empathize with these people. There is no way for me to really understand. I prepare my list of questions and when I think of new ones, I ask them. Sarah’s boys stopped me in my tracks. I’ve met with so many people and heard so many stories. No one has yet to cry in my presence. An emotion that seems completely normal when talking about a painful past and a painful present is often deserted. Sarah’s boys reminded me that they are in fact human. Some of you might be reading this and thinking, “Catie, I can’t believe you would say that! Of course they are human! Why are you even over there if you can’t relate with these people on at least a “human” level?” Easier said than done folks. Easier said than done.
When the boy started to sing, he looked at me. I smiled because it sounded beautiful. I didn’t understand the words, but I could see the emotion in his eyes. Then the whole room filled with this very palpable sorrow. The air changed. When he started to cry, he instantly looked away. He was ashamed. At that very instant that we lost eye contact…at that very instant… I could feel his pain in my own heart. The smile I had on my face listening to him sing turned to one of complete anguish. When you can feel someone else’s pain, you want to either get rid of it as fast as you can or hold onto it forever. It’s hard to hold onto everyone’s pain. So I’ve decided to let some in and keep others out. It’s the only way I know how to deal with the things I’ve seen. Although they don’t know it and probably wouldn’t welcome it, Sarah’s boys will be with me forever.

GuluWalk Oct. 20, 2007

2007-10-08T14:15:00.000+03:00

Those of you looking for an easy opportunity to directly support the people of Uganda can participate in GuluWalk 2007. Click here. It's a walk to support peace in Northern Uganda with a particular interest in helping abandoned children. Participating in this event will directly impact the people with whom I work.

Gulu Walk originated to try to raise awareness for the "night commuters," children who would flee their villages in northern Uganda to larger cities (like Gulu) where they would be safe from LRA abduction. Thousands of children would commute daily just for the night. Even though there are peace settlements to end LRA fighting, night commuting still exists.

Cities of my blog readers where this walk is happening are: Boulder CO, Washington DC, West Palm Beach FL, Boston MA, New York NY, Charlotte NC, Norfolk VA, Charlottesville VA, and Halifax Nova Scotia. If you're free on October 20th, please consider spending the day outside helping the cause.

It’s a small world after all – Big Brother!

2007-10-08T09:15:00.000+03:00

We say “small world” all the time when we see people in places that we would least expect or we meet people who know people we know, etc. But I have a good one for ya…
I went white water rafting on the Nile this weekend with some friends from Nairobi I met through my boss Craig. I hop on the bus and spark up a conversation with Dr. John from Yale who’s doing a two month project in the hospital here in Kampala. I paused mid-sentence in my conversation because I thought I heard a voice I recognized. I look up and whom do I see but Tommy Roberts! Ahh! Tommy just graduated from Fountain Valley in the spring and is doing a post-grad volunteer/adventure trip to Uganda and Tanzania. I taught him African history! I could not believe it. What are the odds?
Those of you who know Tommy (any FVS people reading my blog?) will be happy to hear that he is doing well and is his usual quirky/hilarious self. He and I will be pictured above when I remember to bring in my camera cable…both of us are sporting our quick dry under armour shirts. When we stopped for lunch there were these three huge iguana type lizards (we’re talking 4 feet long here) and Tommy fed them some vegetables and ham without thinking twice about it. He also made a point to address all Africans he met as, “Hey dudes, what’s up? High fives all around.” His trip leader also went to Kenyon University and was in the same class as Kelly Johnson and Sarah Reder. Crazy!
So rafting was incredible. The Nile is a beautiful wide river with rapids named “~something~ falls.” They classify them as class 5 rapids, but only because class 5 is the highest rated rapid. These are “falls.” Unlike Colorado where many of the rapids are right on top of each other, the rapids here are spread pretty far apart, but when you get to one, you know it. You can hear the rush of water and when you look down river and it seemingly disappears, you know you’re in for it. But don’t worry…there are rescue boats and rescue kayaks and camera crews all over the place, so you can’t go missing for too long.
After successfully paddling through several amazing rapids, we came to “Big Brother Falls.” I’m smiling just thinking about it. It was an amazing ride/swim. Only one boat made it through without flipping…and that was NOT my boat. We approached the rapid with solid well times strokes and then sunk into the raft on our knees and held on for dear life. We sunk into the first 15-foot “dip” of the rapid and this huge tidal wave appeared over our heads (ok, so obviously it wasn’t a tidal wave, but the rapid was towering over us – I felt like I was in a movie). Our boat flipped on the left side (I was on the right, so I was in the air at this point) and we went for a swim. The rapid was a series of 4 big dips, so it was good if you managed to grab a big breath. Miraculously I managed to hang onto the boat and my oar. Meanwhile, our guide and the other 4 passengers were all thrown from the boat. The 3rd part of the rapid spun the boat around and the raft pushed me under. I don’t know why, but I actually didn’t panic. Still holding onto my paddle, I just took a breath from one of the air pockets and felt my way out from under the raft. After all 4 parts of the rapid, we assessed the damage. All of the passengers in my boat were ok and close but I happened to be the only one who held onto a paddle. Our guide, Juma even lost his. He claimed that he lost it in an attempt to save me, but the smile on his face told me otherwise. We got back in and rescued others who were far from their boats. Some people were visibly distraught, but I thought it was an exhilarating ride. The gut-wrenching feeling right before you fall into the rapid and right before you know your boat is going to flip is indescribable. I have a bruise across my right foot from kicking someone in the head/helmet, and others on my left thigh, right arm, and left rib cage. But my knee is in good working order. Aahh, it was a great day!

“Don’t Let the Bedbugs Bite” (Ugandan Peccadilloes Part II)

2007-10-04T10:37:00.000+03:00

As kids we would say, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” That little alliteration has a whole new meaning for me now. Fortunately it took me 25 and a half years (yesterday was my half birthday) before ever being bitten by bedbugs. But alas, my bedbug free days are over!
It’s strange really because I’ve been staying at the Hotel Diplomat for three nights now and this morning was the first morning that I woke up with bites. Bedbugs only come out at night and you can’t feel them biting you, so really, there is nothing you can do except change hotels and that is not really an option for me at the moment. And it’s not a question of whether the bedding has been cleaned or not. They live in the wood of the bed or in the mattress. Isn’t Mother Nature a genius? It may behoove me to ask to switch rooms tonight, however. And just when I got them to fix my hot water...
Oh, I also electrocuted myself last night too. One of the strips of carpet seemed to move out of place and I stepped on some lose open wires taped to the floor.
Aaah…livin’ the life!
(I hope all my family members are reading this and laughing. It really is quite funny when you think about it. Don’t worry folks…I’ll survive).

The Stories Behind the Stories

2007-10-03T09:23:00.000+03:00

-Maria and two of her grandchildren (Thomas and Regina)

So far, I have found my work as a photojournalist to be invigorating. It’s a huge challenge and I feel a rush of accomplishment when I see my story published. My human-interest stories have two purposes: to persuade donors that the money they have given has done great things and to persuade them to continue their donations because the need is still great. It seems a simple task, but today I am really struggling with the stories behind the stories.
I met Maria Masuo on my second day in Sudan. Neighboring tribes raided her village. All of her 7 adult children were killed and all of her possessions were taken. She was displaced to Ikotos because of extreme poverty. Maria is considered an Extremely Vulnerable Individual (EVI) and qualifies for emergency food relief. She is 60 years old and has 5 grandchildren. They are all starving.
When I met with Maria, I had a deeper connection with her than with any of the other IDPs I have met. It sounds really trite, but when she looked at me, she looked through me. Most IDPs speak to my translator, but Maria spoke to me. Slowly, she told me her terrifying history. When she finished, she embraced me and held my hand for about 5 minutes. I had a physical reaction to her presence.
After I met with Maria, I immediately marched into the office of Kennedy Onyergiu who is the LWF Project Manager in Ikotos. I told him that Maria and her grandchildren need to be at the top of the list of EVIs to receive food relief. The shipment was coming in 3 days from Kitgum, Uganda and she needed food today. Kennedy saw the desperation in my eyes. Even though he wasn’t supposed to, he went to the market and bought Maria some food so that she would survive the three-day interim. I felt a momentary surge of relief. I actually did something that may have saved the life of Maria and her grandchildren. And all I did was ask. After I felt relief, I felt this horrible flood of guilt.
I wrote a human interest story about Maria called “On the Edge of Survival.” I have it in front of me…all edited and ready to send it out. But I can’t seem to push the send button. My story is flat and it does not do her justice. But it is exactly what donors want. It accomplishes the goals mentioned above.
The problem is, there are so many people like Maria out there “on the edge of survival.” I was able to get Maria food, but would I be able to get food for the 1000s of other EVIs in Ikotos? It’s a tremendous burden. Today I must find a way to integrate the stories behind the stories.

Ugandan peccadilloes

2007-10-03T09:18:00.000+03:00

Disclaimer: I am not making fun of the Ugandan people. I am merely shedding light on a subject that is approached with snobbery in the United States…that of hotel accommodations.

So I am living in the Hotel Diplomat until my apartment is ready. My landlord owns the Hotel Diplomat, so I am staying here for free. By the way, my landlord is the Pakistani consul – not quite an ambassador, but a gentleman of esteemed reputation nonetheless. He’s also Ugandan. The hotel has the most beautiful view of Kampala’s city lights as well as that of Lake Victoria. But there are so many funny peccadilloes about the place that make me smile because it is so typically Ugandan. This hotel tries to be one of the best in Kampala. Its advertisements are everywhere and the restaurant has tablecloths and fresh flowers each day. For the average Ugandan, this place would be heaven.
Now let me tell you about my hotel room. The red carpet is in 7 pieces, cut in ways that make it look like distorted puzzle pieces trying to fit together. The TV doesn’t turn on because the plug has been cut off. The hotel staff appears to have attempted to insert the wires into the outlet anyway and have sealed it with tape. Hmm. Electrical fire hazard? Who knows. My view is of the mud wall and tin roof of the outdoor kitchen in the back of the hotel, so the only light that comes into my room is from the dim overhead light (one light bulb). The bathroom has NO hot water…I mean none. It certainly helps wake me up in the morning. And the shower is a shower head over the toilet so the water just covers the bathroom floor until the cleaning crew comes in after I leave for work.
Last night I had dinner at the hotel restaurant. For starters I had a wonderful salad of green and red peppers, onions, tomatoes, and ginger in a vinaigrette. It was actually quite delicious. I had a glass of white wine that unfortunately was not. You can get good wine here in Uganda because they import wine from South Africa, but last night I had a glass that tasted like a shot of hard liquor had been poured into apple juice (not grape juice…apple juice). Then for the main course, I had a “grilled” talapia fillet and potatoes. Really, it was fish and chips. When Ugandans say grilled, they mean heavily battered and deep fried. Waffles are quite popular here and my fish smelled and tasted like waffles, so my guess is that was the batter they used. Interesting choice. The potatoes were deep fried as well and served with ketchup. Maybe they knew I was an American? I like French fries.
After dinner, I knew I would be bored if I just went to my room for the rest of the night, so I decided to ask to play pool. The hotel had a nice pool table in their bar and it seemed like a good idea. I asked if I could play and if you ask, you are committed. All of the bar staff fought over who would play me, even though I hadn’t invited anyone to play with me. A young man named Wilson was voted in since he was the best pool player at the hotel. Wilson got 1000 shillings from behind the counter and put it in the table. We determined at the beginning of the game that the loser would pay to continue to play. Seemed like a logical deal.
The bartenders and hotel staff all joined the bartenders in the bar and became our audience. I had no idea this was going to be such a spectacle. Obviously I beat Wilson because I hate losing and I happen to be really good at pool. The bartenders were shocked at first, but encouraged Wilson to try again. So he took out another 1000 shillings and racked em. But sadly Wilson lost again. And again. After 4 games, Wilson was out 4000 shillings and I told him to try again tomorrow. A few minutes after I got to my room, I get a bill from the bartender for 4000 shillings. I told her that Wilson had paid the bill because he lost. Apparently no one has any recollection of that deal. I was the guest who “invited” a member of the staff to play, so it was my responsibility to pay the bill. Lesson learned.

I'm published

2007-10-01T10:36:00.000+03:00

Here is my first published story. It's sort of neat to see my name on the byline. Hopefully it's the first of many.
Next we will be displaced by a famine
Click on the title above and it should take you to the ACT Website.

Umbrella Thorns and Butterflies

2007-09-28T08:13:00.000+03:00

Southern Sudan is a magical place. On the one hand, it’s exactly what you would expect Africa to look like. Mud huts, grass roofs, Umbrella Thorn trees, and red sand. But on the other, it reminded me so much of Colorado…and I don’t usually think “Colorado” when I think “Africa.” It’s mountainous, the mountain roads are horribly flooded by mountain streams, the mosquitoes come out at night, the weather turns in a flash, and it’s full of butterflies. I felt right at home.
The people of Ikotos, Sudan are incredibly hospitable. And they’ve been through an awful lot. The LWF project in Ikotos focuses on 4 main initiatives: food security, HIV/AIDS education, water and sanitation, and capacity building. LWF and CRS (Catholic Relief Services) are the only 2 NGOs in the area. Most of the residents are in IDP camps because of the Sudanese civil war and because of LRA fighting in the mountains. The LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) is Ugandan, but Uganda is only about 10 miles south of Ikotos, so when the LRA is active, they raid all of the mountain communities, taking all their possessions and killing any insurgents to get ready to go back into Uganda and fight the army. Terrible situation.
The Sudanese civil war has been going on for well over 20 years. Most of the Ikotos IDPs were “captured” by the so-called “good guys” of southern Sudan known as the SPLA (Sudanese People’s Liberation Army). They’re “captured” because the government of northern Sudan comes and kills entire villages. The SPLA takes the villagers to the SSRRC (South Sudan Relief and Rehabilitation Commission) who then take the people to IDP camps so that they are safe. If you are under the age of 20, you most likely have only known life in the IDP camps.
Although these people have been forced to leave their homes and stripped of their belongings, they seem to have an amazing outlook on life. They won’t hesitate to tell you how hard life has been for them, but they also appreciate even the smallest gesture. They will go out of their way to make you feel comfortable. They’ll laugh for hours after you show them the screen on your digital camera of the photo you just took of them. The kids will follow you on your walk and repeatedly say, “How are you? I am fine. How are you?” because those are the only words they know in English. They’ll sit on the ground and give you the only chair (a carved tree stump) and they’ll ask if they can get you some food, when you know they don’t have enough for themselves. They share everything, not because they have to, but because that it what “community” means to them. The people are as beautiful as the surroundings; Umbrella Thorns and butterflies and all.

Such Great Heights

2007-09-28T08:03:00.000+03:00

Those of you who know me intimately, know that I have a mild fear of heights. You also know that I like to imagine all possible scenarios that could go wrong…and I get myself all worked up. Well, today I officially overcame my fear of heights and I did so with astonishing composure. I flew to Southern Sudan in a “Mosquito” a.k.a. “A Five Seater.” All I had to do was go to my happy place and it was all good.
Flying in a mosquito is like driving on most African roads. Like the potholes in Kampala, you can drive a mosquito through the clouds, but you better be prepared for a bumpy ride. Check out my picasa photos for some shots from the air (The Nile is especially beautiful).

The People Who Shape the Place: K-Rowe's essay

2007-09-28T08:01:00.000+03:00

This was a paper written for my English Composition class about a place/person that has made a profound impact on your life:

Written by Katherine Rowe

Our faces displayed frightened expressions as we moved into the dorms of an unfamiliar place. We would no longer have our parents around to tell us what to do. The house parents, faculty, staff, and upperclassmen would now replace our parents to aid us in this life changing experience. It was move-in day at Fountain Valley School of Colorado (FVS) which is located in southeastern Colorado Springs. To ensure that the school creates an invisible hand to guide the students, every college preparatory boarding school has a mission statement that sets its goals. The mission statement for Fountain Valley includes the common idea for traditional boarding schools of creating a rigorous curriculum for arts, athletics, and academics, but also includes progressive ideas. For example, while many traditional boarding schools offer advanced placement and standard core courses, Fountain Valley offered unique electives and experiences that showed the students how to look beyond their own teenage world. The class sizes, availability of teachers, and the quality of my peers also made the school a very special place. My teachers and coaches were tough and strict, and my peers were my competitors; however, in the end, they were my friends. My relationships with Mrs. Paula Walter and Ms. Catharine Corbin at Fountain Valley equipped me with the necessary tools to become a successful, confident leader in athletics, academics, and life.
The Penrose Athletic Complex is comprised of an old gym with a floor from the 1960’s and four of the most beautiful grass athletic fields in the state of Colorado. The gym was characterized by basketball practice with Mrs. Paula Walter, head of the Frautschi Campus Center and advisor for the Dane newspaper in which I was editor. Coach Walter believed in the team whether we were joking around in practice or studying hard during her required study halls. As a result, no member of the Lady Danes was ever academically ineligible in my three years of play. I could always go to her when I did not do well on a major assignment or a test. She would go out of her way to help me in any way to help me understand the importance of hard work in the classroom and how it paid off in the basketball court. When I arrived at Fountain Valley in 2004 as a new sophomore post player, she allowed me to play that position. Post players play from the free throw line to the basket and typically are the tallest girls on the team. I am the complete opposite: I am 5’6”, but I had a knack for getting to the ball and making plays when necessary. I proved myself to her by typically out rebounding taller and sometimes wider girls and fighting for loose balls on the floor, thus I was elected captain in my senior year. All of her coaching paid off in the 2006-2007 season when the Lady Danes made the regional tournament for the first time in seven years and she taught me how to lead the team with meaning. We were winners because she believed we could be just that.
In addition, Mrs. Walter was the faculty advisor for the student newspaper, The Dane. I first moved to Colorado after my freshman year. I felt I would never be creative in any way, as I had dipped my hand in visual and performing arts in middle school. I never was exceptional when it came to the arts. Mrs. Walter approached me because she heard of my extensive knowledge of sports. She thought it would be a good idea for me to write sports columns for The Dane. My column was entitled “The Rowe Report” and was printed every two months or so in both my sophomore and junior years. When junior year was coming to an end, I was approached by then editor Brittany Albert to be co-editor with my best friend Mike Komadina. I never thought it would be as hard as it turned out to be.
The newspaper was made from scratch on an outdated, dusty Macintosh computer in a room that was combined as a photography storage room and The Dane Room. There was no time slot for our work on the newspaper; it was all set on our own time. The computer would randomly decide to turn off when I was getting ready to save a finished page or not save the document at all. After The Dane earned second place in 2006 in the American Scholastic Press Association’s awards for small schools, Mike and I had the role of bringing the first place award back to Fountain Valley in 2007. This would take many more hours and for two college-bound seniors with a myriad of activities, this presented quite the task every deadline. Mrs. Walter was always there to help us feel satisfied with the fact that we spent thirty hours of our weekend to work on the newspaper, instead of studying that extra hour for a test or a major assignment. In the end, it all paid off when we won the first place award with high honors. I owe Mrs. Walter for believing in me no matter what. Without her, I would never have found the creative being inside of me to design a newspaper layout or my dream for a career in sports writing. I believed everything she told me and in the end, I learned how to lead a team and a newspaper to greatness.
As I walked out of the Penrose gym and towards the four athletic fields every fall season, I looked forward to time spent with my field hockey team. It is required to play a sport or act in the play every season of the year at Fountain Valley, so when it came to picking a sport for the fall when I was a sophomore, I did not know which one to choose. Mountaineering was enticing, but in the end I chose to play field hockey. It was also the first year for teaching and coaching for Ms. Catharine Corbin. The first couple of days were not easy, but as time progressed I had a natural talent for the game and Ms. Corbin knew how to use it. She saw my strength and tenacity, so she started me as a central defender. I was all over the opposition, but still did not understand the game as well as I should have. I could hit the ball hard, but without any aim or control. Finally in the first week of my senior season, Ms. Corbin approached me about playing center midfielder. I started gaining the skills necessary to play a new position and try something new. I dribbled up and down the field with consistency and strength and was named to the All-State team and Colorado All-Senior team. In the end, I was recruited by several schools and ended up here at Lindenwood University because of field hockey. I owe this all to Ms. Corbin, who taught me the game and how to push myself beyond my boundaries to reach my goals.
In addition to field hockey, I also had Ms. Corbin as my Western Civilizations teacher sophomore year and the instructor for the “Spies, Secrets, and the Price of Freedom” senior history elective which I took in my junior year. In these small classes, I learned the standard principles of high school classes including reading the textbooks, listening to lectures, and taking the tests. With the Fountain Valley mission statement in mind, Ms. Corbin included several different types of teaching styles to incorporate some creativity into the classes. She made us create maps, make guidelines for a particular event, act out a particular story in the book, create diaries, and write journal entries about how the lectures of the week have some meaning to our lives. In the “Spies” class, I was the only person to receive an “A” in the class. Ms. Corbin's teaching style and methods were monumental in my development as a student. I viewed school in a different way; it was no longer a monotonous place to be.
Besides being my coach and teacher, Ms. Corbin became a very dear friend of mine in my time at Fountain Valley. She became more of a big sister figure because she was someone I could relate to and look up to in times of need. Ms. Corbin had the perfect balance of keeping me in check when my obnoxious and unruly behavior ran out of line and laughing at my jokes when she really did find me funny. I listened to every piece of advice she could give. She showed me how to participate in community service on a school trip to Denver in 2006 and helped me through hard times when I was trying to choose a college. Her college recommendation for me was the best thing anybody has ever written for me. I look up to her the most right now as she is participating in a trip to Uganda to help in a war torn area. She gave up going to graduate school for a year and teaching just to help other people, which I think is the most admirable thing someone could ever do. In the end, Ms. Corbin is one of the best people I have ever met and I learned this on the field, in the classroom, and in my daily life as a student at Fountain Valley.
Ms. Paula Walter and Ms. Catharine Corbin taught me how to be a successful, confident leader now and in the future in academics, athletics, and life through the education I was given at Fountain Valley School of Colorado. Every minute I spent with these two admirable women was another new lesson to be learned. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a place that hosts an innumerable amount of people who will change one’s life, but Fountain Valley does just that. Although it may be scary at first, being far away from home is not as bad as it may seem.

K-Rowe

2007-09-28T07:57:00.000+03:00

Teaching is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I’m in Uganda…and still…teaching it the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It takes patience, creativity, intelligence, and a lot of energy. My early 20s were spent learning how to be a teacher. I still teeter as to whether or not I actually “became” a teacher…a good teacher, I mean. It is typically a thankless career, but one that I found to be invigorating and at times incredibly fulfilling. I certainly had my ups and downs in the classroom and on the field hockey and basketball court as a coach. I laughed a lot, sometimes at myself. I also cried a lot, at times happy tears, and at other times not so happy tears.
I left teaching mostly because I was burned out. Teaching at a boarding school is more than a job. It’s a life. If I had stayed, I could have become a great teacher. I feel like I had the potential…but I know that I would regretted staying longer at this point in my life. I was always tired, very moody…and I didn’t like myself like that. I needed to do something else and find out if teaching was really my calling. Besides, Africa was an itch I definitely needed to scratch. But teaching also taught me more about myself than I could find doing just about anything else. And for that (and many other things), I am eternally grateful.
Fountain Valley is a wonderful school with amazing kids and an ingenious faculty. Before taking the job at FVS, I went to “teacher camp” for 8 days in Virginia to prepare me for the coming school year? (Yes, that question mark is supposed to be there). I was forced to come up with a goal as a teacher. Vague, no? “Well, it’s crucial to set a goal before taking the field, right team?” So I said, “I want to change the lives of 2 students.” At first, I had the number 10 in my head, but decided I needed to start off smaller.
After year one, I felt deflated. I worked incredibly hard…staying in my classroom until 10 p.m. some nights, working on practice plans for field hockey as I was trying to fall asleep. It was overwhelming. And on top of it all, I failed to realize my quota of changing the lives of 2 kids.
Well, teaching got easier, but it never got easy. What made it easier were the relationships that you make while working with people on such a personal level. At a boarding school, you are a teacher, a coach, a class advisor, a personal advisor, a dorm aunt, a tutor, a bus driver, and a friend. You plan advisee dinners at your house, you take them fishing on the weekends, you drive them to Wal-mart to get cheese wiz, you sip coffee with them at Pikes Perk, you plan weeklong “Interim” trips to D.C. and Denver, you build trails with them on Senior seminar, you have them wash your hair in 33 degree stream water on WIP, you sit around camp fires with them singing songs, you write their college recommendations, you go out to dinner with their parents, you runs sprints with them at practice, you catch them drinking and smoking and act as any parent should. At 22, this was my Mt. Everest. What did I know about being a parent?
By the end of year 3, I was exhausted, but incredibly enlightened. Had I met my quota yet? I wondered.
Although leaving FVS was a good decision, I am incredibly thankful for the feedback I have received from my students. I came back from Sudan today to find 3 e-mails from former students, one of which was from Katherine Rowe (a.k.a. K-Rowe). K-Rowe is a freshman in college this year and will always hold a special place in my heart. In 2004, I was new and so was K-Rowe. By 2007, she was leaving and so was I. We both left FVS with amazing memories of the place. I attribute a large part of that fact to K-Rowe herself. I have selfishly put her essay up on my blog (to follow this blog) so that close friends and family can read her words. K-Rowe writes about two faculty members who have changed her life…and I was lucky enough to be one of them. I have truly never received a greater validation. I just hope that K-Rowe and so many of my other students (Maria, Kailey, Elie, Nora, Breezie, Chase, Cori, Thianna, Sean, Iona, Becca, Hannah, Claire, Emy, Andrew, Sarah – only to name a few) realize how they have changed my life. I hope that I have taught them as much as they have taught me. Thanks K-Rowe.

T.I.A.: Reality Check

2007-09-24T14:59:00.000+03:00

Just when I thought everything was going swimmingly in Africa, I hit a wall in my optimism. On Saturday after shopping at a craft market with a friend, I was attacked on a boda boda. My mother’s necklace (a St. Christopher’s medal), which was given to me just before I left to keep me safe and remind me of home was ripped from my neck. The thief ran away, but David, my boda driver, thought that he saw him trying to hop on another boda and went after him. Concerned for my own safety, I held back, trying to hold back the tears as well.
After a heated argument between David and the thief, it was clear that he had either swallowed it or passed it to a friend. Of course he claimed to not be the thief in the first place. I never saw the guy, so I can’t be sure. Regardless, the necklace was gone…the necklace that meant nearly nothing to the thief and meant the world to me. But T.I.A. (quoting “Blood Diamond”…”This is Africa”).
After hours of crying and questioning why on earth I had moved to a place that seemed to hate white people, I came to my senses. I realized that being a mzungu (a word I have spelled incorrectly until now) means that you have things that they don’t. And even though I am here as a volunteer, I’m not getting paid, and I too am poor, that stereotype is still true. I still have more than they do.
For the most part “mzungu” is no longer associated with “white imperial exploiters.” Now, however, it is associated with “white foreign aid workers.” And even though you would think that the title should be met with gratitude and appreciation, it still means, “I am here to help you because I have more than you.” And they are exactly right.
I have played Saturday afternoon over and over in my head. Each time, I have myself jumping off of my boda in one swift motion, catching the thief by the neck (as he did me) and practicing my Tae Bo moves on him. He falls to the ground moaning and the crowd cheers. It’s like a bad episode of Walker Texas Ranger. Ahh, justice! But despite all my urges to stare heroism in the face, we all know I am smarter than that. My first priority is to protect myself.
For a few hours, I wanted to give up on Africa. And I fear that this feeling will resurface on many future occasions. There will be times when I will become so frustrated with the politics of NGOs, that I will want to quit my job (or volunteership as I like to call it). There will be times when I want to scream at people who only see me as someone who has something that want. There will be times when I think I can’t do anything to make this world a better place. But giving up on Africa is not an option. Although others have, I won’t.

Eight Glasses a Day

2007-09-20T11:36:00.000+03:00

Although I am currently in Katakwi, the district in eastern Uganda that has been the victim of an exorbitant amount of rain, there is no water. Water to drink that is.
The flooding has caused a plethora of problems in the IDP camps…a chain reaction if you will. The rain has knocked down houses, made others inhabitable, and has left the crops to rot in a sea of mosquito infested water. While rain in Africa is often seen as a blessing, too much rain can have catastrophic effects. In Katakwi, it has destroyed everything. Some people have been forced to sleep in health centers or schools, while others don’t have the opportunity to leave their homes and thus succumb to sleeping in a puddle of water that make them susceptible to malaria, pneumonia, and cholera. There are no shelters for the animals so they just run rampant through the village. The latrines are completely flooded out and so people now just go wherever they can (as do the animals of course). Bore holes (pump wells) are contaminated and people have nothing to eat.
In America, we are scolded for not drinking 8 glasses of water a day. It’s good for us. And all we have to do is turn on the faucet and keep refilling. And if we fail to drink our 8 glasses, it is our own fault.
Things are certainly different here. Not only do they live without running water, but now they can not use their only remaining water source.

Burning Ears

2007-09-20T10:53:00.000+03:00

I feel that I should start out by saying that when I am in the field, I take my computer along and write entries there about my experiences. But since there is no internet (and sometimes no electricity) in parts of Uganda, I will just add all these entries at once, so pay no attention to the date at the top of each post.
Today I drove on a flooded road to a refugee camp that no car has gone down before…literally. When we arrived, everyone was so surprised to see the car in one piece, they hardly noticed that a muzungu was in the front seat. But the shock of the car quickly subsided when they saw me. Most of these people in this camp had never seen a white person before. I know that sounds so cliché, but in this case, it was true. Some children cried because they didn’t recognize me as a person, but most just wanted to come as close as they could. I shook some children’s hands and they were so excited they shrieked and ran off hiding under the skirts of their mothers. Others shouted (in their local tongue) what I assumed to be something like, “I touched a white woman. She shook my hand! Eee!” I’m not trying to sound immodest, I’m just simply trying to paint the picture here.
After the initial shock of my appearance wore off, the community all gathered around to hear me speak. I had no speech of any kind prepared, but with 200 eyes on me, I couldn’t keep them waiting. Talk about pressure. Babies stopped crying, goats stopped bah-ing and the dogs sat down in front of their masters with equal attention. Totally unprepared, I simply said (which was then translated), “Thank you all for your gracious welcome. I am here as an LWF representative (which was also clear from the big L-W-F on my t-shirt) to assess your community. Please help to show the damage that the floods have caused so that I can return to headquarters with an accurate account. I hope that the accounts I give will warrant the support you need to help make your lives a little easier. Again, thank you for your hospitality.” Eeek…it was the best I could come up with. But everyone clapped and bowed to me (which is hard to get used to). After a trip around the camp and dozens of pictures later, about 60 people walked me back to the car, lead by the local councilman. I sure felt important. I only wish I could have offered more than just my ears and my small digital camera.
As we drove away, my translator laughed and said, “your ears will be burning tonight. They will be telling stories of the white woman that came in a car to their village.”

Meat on a stick

2007-09-20T10:32:00.000+03:00

Past the tea farm, the Kibali rain forest and past the sugar cane plantations lies a rural district in Eastern Uganda called Kitakwi. It is a land that has been hit by so much rain this season that the entire district is almost completely flooded out and thousands of people are without homes, water, electricity or hope. But I will get to that in my next post. In this post I want to talk about just how I got to this region of Uganda. Only about 200 km away, you would think that Kitakwi would take about 3 hours to get to. Well, I left this morning at 9 a.m. and I arrived to my lovely guest house on the LWF compound at 9:30 p.m. Here I am in my lantern lit room, typing away on my computer under my mosquito net. It’s still raining!
I met Zeporah, an LWF project manager at the Muyenga Club in Kampala, only about a 7 minute walk from my house. Meeting times to most Ugandans are an approximation at best. So while I was supposed to meet her at 9, I actually met Zeporah at around 9:50. We then proceeded to take the mutatu (communal taxi) to the bus station in downtown Kampala. We boarded the bus where we sat 4 to a row of three (did I mention it can get hot in Africa?). The bus didn’t actually take off for another hour, but Zeporah was worried that if we left the bus to stretch, we’d lose our seats. She was probably right. The “conductor,” as he is called, collected my money (13,000 shillings instead of the 12,000 that everyone else paid because I was the only Muzungu on the bus and he knew I wouldn’t argue), and we were off.
The bus ride was an estimated 6 hour trip, with no bathroom and with few scheduled stops were just long enough for the people who needed to get off to jump. As I have mentioned before, roads in Uganda are poor at best. We were either bouncing up and down or tipping side to side for the entire duration. I stopped counting the times when I thought the bus would tip. I had already mapped out my escape route if the bus was going to do a roll. Traffic/pedestrian laws in Uganda are the opposite from the U.S. While people usually have the right of way at home, it is the responsibility of the people in Uganda to get out of the way of cars here. There’s a hierarchy in “the right of way;” the bigger, the better. Our bus driver certainly operated under that philosophy. The bus also had a horn and when he honked it, it sounded strangely similar to the Dixie Rebel call on the “General Lee” from Dukes of Hazzard…although I highly doubt the driver would appreciate the similarity. They both pretty much mean, “get out of the way!”
When there were cows in the road or some kind of traffic jam and the bus had to stop, hoards of locals would come to the windows of the bus trying to sell us an assortment of snacks. The most popular was meat on a stick. Chicken, beef, and what looked to be some kind of marinated liver appeared in the hands of my fellow passengers in exchange for a mere few hundred shillings (a few cents). The passengers would eat their meat and then toss the stick and whatever other trash they had out the window. (Aside: I know several people…ehemm...my dad…will have something to say about littering, but keep in mind, no one in Uganda can afford trash pick up, so trash is just thrown on the streets and put into piles and then burned. So this act was not at all surprising.) I liked this idea of meat on a stick, but didn’t have the nerve to try it. First of all, you never know how long ago those chickens were killed. Since no one has refrigerators outside of Kampala, it’s difficult to know what you can eat…so I chose just to go hungry. This was a wise decision anyway considering the potential result of the bumpy ride on a full stomach. It’s a good thing that I have grown accustomed to skipping meals.
When we were approaching Amuria, a town one stop away from Kitakwi, we ran into a different sort of roadblock. The road was washed away by the flood, which had created a swampy river where the road once appeared. Our brave (or stupid) bus driver decided to try to drive through it anyway (picture flashbacks of my planned escape route should we not make it). I gripped the armrest, which had lost its cushion cover, held my breath and closed my eyes. Some ladies screamed, some babies cried, and most of the men were laughing.
We made it! We made it to Amuria, where we got off the bus and Zeporah and I got into an LWF land cruiser for the remaining 50 km to Kitakwi. Ahh, but the roads to Kitakwi were worse than the roads to Amuria. A small bridge over a water drainage pipe had collapsed from the weight of an aid truck trying to deliver supplies to the IDP camps. Several hours before we got there, another bus had tried to cross but failed. So, upon our arrival, our LWF driver Charles, helped clear our path by lending some long sturdy rope to the bus so that a caterpillar (which had arrived several hours before, but had neglected to bring anything to rig his machine to the bus) could successfully clear the road. It worked. LWF got a huge cheer from the dozens of people impatiently waiting to cross the river/road.
The boy scout motto is helpful in Uganda: always be prepared. But when you have forgotten to bring a snack, no worries…there’s always meat on a stick.

Meeting the queen

2007-09-20T10:12:00.000+03:00

On Friday, I met the queen of Buganda, the largest tribe left in Uganda. And by met, I mean, she looked at me, nodded her head, and then continued on her way. She was the guest of honor at the LWF AIDS/HIV counselor graduation ceremony in Sembabule. It was my first exposure to live African dancing and singing. (The picture above is a picture of a group of young AIDS orphans doing a dance to welcome the queen). I was incredibly moved by the performances. These young kids showed disciplined and skilled dance routines and wrote their own music and lyrics. As the lead singer was singing a song in Lugandan (local language), she began to shake and cry as she became filled with emotion singing about both of her parents who were victims of AIDS. The crowd of hundreds of local Ugandans was silent listening intently and sympathetically to her story. The southern region of Uganda, including Sembabule, has a proportionately high rate of AIDS/HIV. Because of this, there are many CHHs (Child Headed Households) where 14 and 15 year olds are forced to care for their younger siblings. Since they don’t have any income, the standard of living for these kids is atrocious. The LWF projects in these regions focus on AIDS education and psychological services, but they also distribute aid to these CHHs (build them houses, give them food, clean water, etc.) so that they can survive. LWF has been a catalyst for improving the lives of these orphans, but they still struggle on a daily basis.
At age 14, I was worrying about making the sports team, finishing my first big research paper, and whether or not my parents were going to let me go to the coed sleepover (and the answer was always no…thankfully). These kids are dealing with the loss of both parents and the fact that they now have to raise their younger siblings without support from anyone else. It’s a tragic waste.
What were you doing at age 14?

Different Can of Worms - a note about Sudanese refugees

2007-09-12T14:01:00.000+03:00

Ok ok, so I clearly have been more naive than I would have liked about life, etc. in Uganda. But apart from underestimating my expected standard of living (which has been wonderful, I might add), I was also uncharacteristically ignorant about the clientelle with whom I will be working. My main mission here as "intern/volunteer" for the LWF is to write human interest stories, grant proposals, etc. to our donors about the good outcomes (in relief, rehabilitation, and development) that LWF money creates. We work with communities affected by a high rate of HIV/AIDS... and we work with communities whose populations consist of IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons) and Refugees...btw...refugees are people who flee from their home country and IDPs are people who have been displaced out of their homes but who stay in their country. Our project sites are mostly in Uganda. But we have one project site in Ikotos, Sudan...which I have the great fortune to visit from September 25th-27th. It was my assumption that the IDPs in the Sudanese camps were fleeing the genocide up in Darfur. Although this may be the case for a handful of the people I meet, it is certainly the exception. Most of the 2.5+ million people who are forced to flee Darfur from the janjaweed are going directly west into Chad. The people of Darfur are ironically (don't know if that is an appropriate word) almost all Muslim. The "Arab" government of Sudan has issued a genocide (at the hands of the rediculous African Hitler, Al Bashir) to cleanse the country of non-Arabs, including the non-Arab Muslim population of Darfur in northwestern Sudan. The Sudanese in the South are also fleeing from their government but because of a 20 year on-going civil war that has also displaced hundreds of thousands of people. Most of these southern IDPs are Christians fleeing religious persecution. Now if you're scratching your head because you don't get it...join the club. None of this makes any sense because...well, it's irrational...but when you combine extreme poverty, religious fundamentalism (or religious misrepresentation as the case may be), a history of exploitation, and irrationality with survival of the fittest, I guess you get something that looks like a presidential post in Khartoum. Rediculous! Dr. Muhammad Shamsaddin Megalommatis states,"This is the current state of the racist thugs, who are supported by the most disreputable organization of all times: the Arab League. For their inhuman Arab-Nazi ideal, only Arabic must be left as existing language for all the country’s populations that are entirely non-Arab!" Ugh, it's just hard to think about. But not thinking about it exactly what people like Bashir want Westerners like me to do...so that's not an option either.
I was disappointed at first that I wouldn't be helping the people who I directly intended to help, but I'm over that now. The need is certainly sufficient enough here in Uganda. Reminder - the IDP/refugee populations who I have generalized about in this post are Sudanese. I will certainly have much more to say about Ugandan IDPs when I get to meet them. But that's a different can of worms.

Morning marbles

2007-09-11T13:25:00.001+03:00

It was thundering and lightening this morning when I woke up. I had hoped that the rain would settle down a little for my 30 minute walk to my office, but it didn't. So I put my raincoat on and called Godfrey on my cell phone to open the gate (the guard call button doesn't work when the electricity is out). By the time I walked to the end of the driveway to Craig and Lois's house, my skirt was already soaked through where my legs kicked it out from under the shield of my coat. As I mentioned before, it takes me about 30 minutes to walk to my office. It takes longer to walk in the rain since you have to be careful where you step. The roads are paved, but the mud slides are treacherous in areas. Unfortunately, as I tried to dodge a puddle, a car drove by and got me pretty good. It was like being in a commercial or movie when the bus drives by and the puddle splashes in a wave over your head. Yup. That was me. A local saw it happen and shook his head at the car as it passed. (Public rebuke is frowned upon in Uganda). He apologized on behalf of his countrymen, which although unnecessary, was also quite considerate. You'd think I'd care a whole lot about being soaked all the way through with another 20 minutes of walking (and not to mention 9 hours of work). But for some reason, I woke up on the right side of the bed this morning and nothing could get me down. So I just laughed and looked down at my sad self and laughed again. I think most of the people I saw on the street this morning must have thought I had lost my marbles as I walked past them all soaking wet with a big smile on my face. One local shouted, "Hey Muzungu (white person), how are you?" I replied. "I'm wet." He said, "Yes, but how is your life?" And I said, "Couldn't be better." He laughed and slapped his knee and told me to have a wonderful day.

boda-bodas

2007-09-09T15:08:00.000+03:00

Futbol...i spell it like that, not because they spell it like that here in Uganda, but because they say football more like futbol, than football. Regardless, we're talking soccer here. It's an epidemic almost as serious as AIDS/HIV or Tuberculosis. My lord! Ugandans are nuts about their futbol. I went to the Uganda v. Niger game yesterday at the big stadium in Kampala. This game was the front page of the 2 local newspapers and monopolized about 70% of the articles as well. Uganda won 3-1 totally unexpectedly. The streets were mad houses. Everyone was out celebrating...good ole country spirit. I took my first ride on a boda-boda, which is one of maybe two modes of public transportation in this city. The picture of "bananas" to the right is a picture of a guy riding a boda-boda. They are moped like motorbikes that only slow when going uphill and are not at all safe to ride. On the way to the game, I rode on a boda that was small and had a back to it with handles to hold. On the way back, I rode on a much bigger one, but one that didn't have a back and didn't have handles...so I twisted my arms around the back and grabbed hold of the grocery basket for dear life. Keep in mind, roads in Kampala are full of potholes, ditches and speed bumps and the boda drivers don't seem to want to slow for any of it. Not only are they full of potholes, but also other cars, racing bodas, people, children, goats, dogs...and all obeying ZERO traffic laws. I often felt like I am sure my mom did when I was learning how to drive...pressing her foot against the floorboard as if it would help stop the car. It doesn't.
Now, dealing with boda drivers can also present issues. The fee for the ride must be settled before you start your journey and if not, they can charge whatever they want. So, this is a very important skill to learn and one that I was grateful to have help with. Lois and Craig (Craig is my boss and I am staying in Lois and Craig's house until I find a place of my own) have a daughter (Kim) a few years older than I, who was gracious enough to take me to the game and introduce me to the world of crazy boda-boda drivers and crazy Ugandan futbol fans. The rides are dirt cheap (ironic since the rides get you so dirty) however, and only cost around 3,000-4,000 Ugandan shillings (approximately US$1.75 - US$2.30).
What an experience. Not only was it my first boda ride, but also my first one on a day when everyone was on the road honking their horns, blowing their whistles, and riding 20 to a truck bed hanging out of the sides waving their red, black, and gold. It was a little scary. Somehow, however, I can see my Garrison friends loving this type of adventure. Sarah, for some reason, I was picturing you and your mom riding on bodas with your hair blowing in the wind. You too, Ann. Ha. It was thrilling.

Chair Kickers

2007-09-06T07:39:00.000+03:00

Currently it's 5:45 a.m. in the Amsterdam airport and I neglected to sleep on my flight from Newark. The plan was actually TO sleep, but unfortunately I got stuck in a middle row, in the middle, with two chair kicking, screaming at the top of their lungs, Dutch 5 year old twin boys behind me. Miraculously, they stayed awake for about 5 and a half hours before falling asleep. Wow. To my right, I had a lovely French (maybe Belgian) girl who sadly had really bad breath so every time she would breathe out, I'd try not to breathe all together. Oi! She also proceeded to curl up and practically sleep in my lap. So the arm rest was not an option on that side (and everyone knows that the people stuck in the middle get dibs on both arm rests). The people to my left could not have been lovelier, however. So I really shouldn't complain too much. I see this as a very appropriate transition from my life of luxury in Baltimore living rent free with mom's home cooking, while shopping for $300 bridesmaids dresses for my sisters wedding to...well, living in a refugee camp. It's hard to believe that in just 12 short hours, I'll be in Africa living with bugs bigger than Woody's dog toys. But now that I am actually half way there (well, almost) and can't pretend to lose my plane ticket so that I could stay in the States, I am so excited for what's next. More to come...

Chaos In Darfur

2007-07-19T07:41:00.001+03:00

This was the video I showed in all-school

Just getting started

2007-07-18T21:56:00.000+03:00

Friends,
On September 5th 2007, I leave for a 6 month stint in Uganda where I will be doing aid work with the Lutheran World Federation helping with their aid to refugees and AIDS education and prevention initiatives. So long as I can figure all this out, I will be posting photos, stories, and potentially movie clips from my experiences. Please stay tuned. Thanks.