#48 – January 6th 2008

Home coming….

I sit here thinking, thinking so hard. As you may not be aware, I have changed my ticket for the third and final time. I remain with precious little time here in this country I now call home. The time has come for reflection, final moments, good-byes.

Where do I begin? Where do I end? How did I get here, and how do I leave? I may have had mixed emotions when I arrived but what I’m experiencing now is more heart-in-the-blender type feelings. One hour I find myself breathing in excitement imagining the airport arrival, seeing those faces again, the whip of cold on my face as I step from the plane. Moments later I feel a deep ache, each time one of the boys does something sweet or funny; if I even allow myself for one second to imagine leaving them. It is okay to imagine being home, but not okay to imagine not being here.

I am not going to sift through the details of my decision to return home at this particular time. I am confident and resolved that it is the right decision, however. It was not an easy one, as choices tied so much to emotions never are. If I could find some way to live in both places at once, I would. I have promised the boys I will make every attempt to return by 2009 and plan to follow through.

As time ticks I think and think, about what I’ll miss and what I’ve been missing.

Bubble baths and sweet white wine. Downloading little-known indie tracks, cranking them in my car. Driving. Restaurants with unique menus. Cheese. Lulus and the gym. Snow, frost, icicles, mist, fog, dampness, single digit temperatures. Snuggling by a toasty fire with fuzzy socks and a blanket. Salads. Google and Wikipedia at my fingertips. Web pages loading in less than 5 minutes. Washing machines. Drinking water straight from the tap.

The rush of wind past my ears on the backseat of a boda boda. Fried cassava, kikomando, rolexs at 2am. Friendly greetings. Squishing 24 into a 15-person taxi. Thirty degrees and sandals. Noise freedom. Blunt honesty. Attention from everyone. $1 meals. Juicy mangoes. Beeping. Speaking Luganda. And above and beyond all, 64 boys who have accepted me into their lives and loved me unconditionally for nine wonderful and wondrous months.

And of course, the things I won’t miss and haven’t been missing.

Avoidant glances. Rules. Stress. Impatience. High prices. Disrespectful kids. Wastefulness. Materialism. Ungratefulness.

Dirt. Unwanted attention. Standing out. Blunt neo-imperialists. Chaotic driving. Traffic jams. The inability to find anything you’re looking for in a sufficient amount of time. Doing laundry by hand. Starving dogs. Inequality. Abject poverty.

I’m getting that strange prisoner-syndrome: fear of release. Obviously I have felt nothing like imprisonment, but I am apprehensive about going home. I fear change. I fear difference. I fear feeling different. The space I occupied will no longer fit my mould, as my mould has been altered by my Ugandan experience. In a quick self-assessment I remain too materialistic yet wishing to eradicate that very thing from society; I continue to organize and plan yet find I have slowed down considerably; I still desire a hot shower, washing machine, and electricity, but am far more appreciative and conscious about such things than ever before. I have always in some manner cared for these people even before I met them but will now work steadfastly side-by-side, hand-in-hand with them towards a better tomorrow…or better yet, a better today.

My final e-mail will arrive to you from Canada in less than a few weeks’ time. Thank you to everyone who has stuck it out and traveled along this journey with me. Your time, comments, and encouragements have been much appreciated.

~Nicole

#47 – Dec 16th 2007

I’m dreaming of a 30 degree Christmas…

Palm trees. Sweat. The beach, sand, surf. Not things generally associated with Christmas. No evergreens, no scarves and mittens, certainly no snow. The temperature hasn’t dipped below 30 degrees in months. It’s too hot for jeans; I walk around in sandals and a tank-top, my skin alternating between golden brown and ruby red. Tropical flowers abound; mosquitoes feast on any ounce of my flesh not covered with 30% D.E.E.T.; I haven’t seen my breath in cold morning air in eight months.

It would be inaccurate to state that a Ugandan Christmas is incomparable to a Canadian one. More precisely a poor Ugandan Christmas is completely incomparable. One of my roommates, Angela, has a circle of upper-class Ugandan acquaintances with whom she’s been spending the holiday and has noted marked similarities: decorated stores in the “rich” part of Kampala, snappy African-ized Christmas carols blasting from said stores, gift-buying frenzies, the occasional in-store artificial tree. I, however, have experienced none of this. Save for the occasional Boney-M tune crackling off a battery-powered radio or a faded Merry Christmas banner dangling from a shop window, Christmas is nowhere to be found. There is no holiday commercialization in the ghettos of Uganda. No shopping, no gift-buying, no Christmas parties, no Santa Claus. Sleighs, reindeer, elves? How ‘bout jobless parents, three less relatives than the previous year, and children dreaming of a glass of milk on Christmas morning? I suppose a Ugandan Christmas more closely resembles the holiday’s humble beginnings; a crumbling backyard shack, a poor baby hungry, dirty; people cast out to fend for themselves in the worst possible of moments.

I decided to take a new approach to the holiday; don’t celebrate it. Rather than try to create some semblance of a pseudo festive feeling, I poured my money (and the generous donations of others) into making the day as fun (and un-Christmassy) for the African Heart boys as I possibly could. My family back in Canada puts on a pretty good show for the holiday, complete with turkey, plush tree, Christmas playlist on repeat, family gatherings, etc., and in order to avoid any nostalgic feelings I steered clear of said things like the plague. I refused to download O Holy Night (my favorite carol), I refrained from buying a cute artificial tree from the men that approached me with one in restaurants (I kid not), I bought not a single gift, no wrapping paper, no tinsel, no cards. It was going along quite splendidly until two packages arrived from my parents complete with Santa Hats, gift wrap, angel ornaments and my favorite stocking stuffers. St.Nick reared his head momentarily as I tore open the package with kidish anticipation and eagerness. I admit I sat for several seconds, head in hands, remembering each treasured Christmas moment, the taste of eggnog, the sweet smell of pine and freshly peeled mandarin oranges, new socks, prayers for snow.

But my thoughts turned. To my boys, to their lack of anything joyous to celebrate. The 25^th of December is memorable to them not because it is the day they found that shiny red BMX in the backyard. Not because they received that gift on pg.96 of the Christmas Wish Book they’d placed strategically on their parents bed months earlier. Not because they went to Mexico or Hawaii, or got to snowboard for two weeks straight. Its memorable because it’s the day they bring out the one pair of clothes they’ve been saving all year; clothes no one has seen yet. Everyone waits anxiously to see their peers’ new threads. Ewes and awes abound. It is memorable because, for many, it is the one day of the year…one day…they get to eat meat, drink milk, and feel satisfied when the food is over. Memorable because, if they are so very lucky, they might get to go to the beach.

Many Ugandans go to their villages for the week surrounding Christmas. Sandra and I visited hers for a few days, returning on Christmas Eve. In the village there is food a plenty, relatives measurable in the thousands, and hospitality abounding. The nine hour bus ride was quickly forgotten as we were whisked from house to house, piled plate of food to piled plate of food, one intriguing conversation to the next. But again, this tradition is for those with money. Sandra hadn’t visited her village since she was in grade 7, she’s now in University. I picked up the transport costs and was infected with her excitement as we approached the area and she could barely sit on her seat, so excited was she to see her relatives, her old haunts.

My boys will not being seeing their relatives. Out of the 64 boys, two were able to find the money to go see their extended families. The rest remained in Kampala, the city of dust and poverty. I took Robert and Sammy to Watoto’s Christmas Cantata, a production by the charity group that wowed me like no other Christmas concert world over ever has. It was colourful and lively and brilliantly presented. The singers brought goosebumps to my flesh, the dancers surpassed any I’ve seen, and the smiles never left my boys’ faces. For a brief moment, as the lights turned off and drums beat and the nativity scene came to life, I experienced a surreal merger of the Canadian and Ugandan Christmas experience; the baby’s birth as it really would have been, in the heat and the dust and the strain, together with the feeling of family and warmth and love I’ve been gifted with each holiday season in Canada.

I realized then and there, as I watched Sammy and Robert’s faces, that this was their first moment of absolute happiness over the holidays. Their bellies were full, their bodies rocking to the beat of the music, their eyes wide drinking in the production, anxiety building in their throats for a night of Christmas movies and treats. It’s easy to say they are happy; they aren’t materialistic like Canadian kids, they won’t be let down when they don’t get the newest X-Box or the most kickin’ snowboard. It’s easy to say they will be satisfied with very little. Although all that is true, the grit and grime of it is that they aren’t stupid. They know what they lack. They miss family even if they’ve never experienced it. They’ve tasted love, had glimpses of it and crave it now most of all. They may not write lists for new shoes, new jackets, jewelry and electronic gadgets, but there isn’t a single one of them that wouldn’t cry alligator tears if he received a new sweatshirt (knitted or otherwise), a soccerball, an Akon CD.

We had porridge with milk and sugar for breakfast Christmas morning. Lunch was a feast of fried cabbage, sweet greens (like spinach), matoke, rice, chicken and beef, and groundnut sauce, washed down with soda. 64 kids running wild around the boys’ home, bellies round and bloated, literally bulging with the consumed food like I’d never seen before. No less than three of the boys approached to tell me that was the first meat they’d tasted since last Christmas. I smiled and rubbed their heads and enveloped them in huge hugs, standing in utter blankness as they trotted away. Blankness because how do you react to that? I would write more about how I felt but there simply isn’t anything to say.

We ended the day at the beach. All the boys crammed in a huge bus. A mad sprint to the water, clothes stripped off halfway down the sandy path, some buck naked, some in boxers, surprisingly none wearing the latest billabong shorts, ha. Some swam, most hovered safely in the non-drowning zone, afraid to venture too far into the murky waves of Lake Victoria, unable to float or tread any amount of water. I gave ad-hoc lessons to all within shouting distance. Night-time fell, mosquitoes closed in, towels were shared, Akon sing-a-longs died down half way home. One child’s head in my lap, a hand sprawled through my hair, a lone leg crossed against my ankle. Contented silence.

As Christmas should be. Happiness, satisfaction, contentment. We all get there in different ways. No New Years Resolution but that this can be experienced more than one day a year over on this side of the globe.

~Nicole

#46 – Dec 12th 2007

Erupting volcanoes and rebel fire…

I ended my last entry with Austin, Owen, and I touring the Kigali Memorial Centre. After that sobering experience we decided to get out of the city in hopes of seeing more of Rwanda’s countryside. We had read that Gisenyi, a small town on the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) border, had long stretches of beach beside Lake Kivu. After enjoying a sunset beer and some local grub we stuffed ourselves backpacks and all into a local taxi bus and spent the next three hours in awe over the luscious green mountains, seriously regretting the pre-trip bevies. Austin and Owen chatted to a local in a jumbled mix of French and English about recent events in the world of European football while I soaked up the Rwandan landscape. As we climbed higher and higher across the rolling hills I noted that the village houses were all surrounded by beautiful flower gardens and neatly swept yards. The areas of Rwanda we saw were generally cleaner than any places I’ve visited in Uganda.

Darkness fell before we reached the lakeside town. Heads leaning out the window enjoying the cold breeze coming off the lake, Austin and I noticed a fiery red glow emanating from the mountain-top clouds. Curious, we asked the woman beside us who explained that the mountain was actually a volcano, active for the past week. It had previously erupted in 2002, draping the neighboring town in lava, creating a mini-Pompeii. Once we knew what we were looking at we couldn’t remove our eyes from the surging crimson plume.

Later that evening we caught an English Premier League football match at a local hotel then took a walk along the moonlit beach. Guards toting French assault rifles followed a short distance behind, making us painfully aware of the security risks in the area. As we talked to security guards, restaurant attendants and locals we realized that things were a little more insecure than we’d initially thought. Congolese rebel forces a short distance across the Rwandan border are wreaking havoc on civilian populations within the scope of a civil war that has been raging in the DRC for many years. Ugandan, Rwandan and United Nations forces are involved in the fray, although the conflict has yet to travel across the border. As we were walking along the beach that night, machine gunfire rocketed into the air just up the hill, Rwandese soldiers firing warningly at Congolese rebels passing across the lake that separates the two countries. Even for Austin and Owen, who live near a military rifle range in Brentwood Bay, the sound was shocking. My initial wonder was quickly replaced by slight panic as we were quickly escorted back into the hotel.

After a long beach walk the following morning and an afternoon spent enjoying cold brews and deep-fried Talapia at a local joint uniquely named Bikini Tam Tam, we decided that erupting volcanoes and gunfire wrapped up our trip nicely and it was time to head home. We spent one more night in Kigali then choose a slower mode of transport back into Uganda, taxiing across the border and spending the night in Kabale before heading back to Kampala on the Post Bus. It was far more relaxing than our death-defying ride into Rwanda and we had already experienced just about enough excitement for one trip.

~Nicole

#45 – Dec 8th 2007

Genocide and Ebola…

The last weeks of November ballooned with study session all-nighters, congratulatory end-of-exam celebrations and the anti-climactic CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting). The guesthouse was chaos, the boys’ home crazier, the city of Kampala a tornado of preparations, construction, and panic. The capital prepared for foreign dignitaries from across the globe by hiring hundreds of rookie security constables and arming them with assault rifles, throwing up statues, splashy new hotels, and street lights, and dipping into the pockets of the Ministries of Health and Education to pay for such crucial expenditures. The African Hearts boys juggled class, band performances, and late night cramming. Band practice followed by endless revision into the early hours of the morning, not a space in the house free of books piled high, calculators, protractors and faces awash with deep concentration. At the guesthouse we said a teary goodbye to Grandma Hilda and welcomed two additional guests from Canada, bringing the house total to six and the noise and commotion level to an all-time high. There was no relief from pandemonium, no quiet corner to turn.

Amidst the clamor I realized my passport visa would expire in the first week of December and I would have to leave the country and re-enter in order to extend it until March (when I will be returning to Canada). A quick discussion with Austin and Owen, the twins from Canada I’ve been living with these past few months, and it was decided we’d drop everything and venture into Rwanda for a week. We boarded a Jaguar bus at 9am last Friday morning, paying the equivalent of $10 for the nine hour ride between Kampala and Kigali. We chose this bus specifically because the word “executive” in the adverts led us to believe it would be a moderately safe, well-paced journey. That may have been a slight miscalculation. Austin and I sat in the seats directly behind the driver, able to distract ourselves with discussion for the first few hours, the remaining time spent with teeth clamped, death grips on our seats, eyes wide and stunned. The greyhound-sized behemoth screeched past petrol trucks around blind corners, the ancient speedometer not able to register the speed of the maneuver. We contemplated begging the driver to slow down, we discussed getting off in a random Ugandan village and hitching. We prayed for our lives and promised not to tell our parents. Sorry Mom. Somehow, by sheer luck, we arrived in Kigali with nothing but shaky legs and tension headaches.

While the Rwandan countryside was only slightly different from Southwestern Uganda, with more tea fields and endless towering mountains lush and emerald green, the capital city of Kigali was a striking contrast to Kampala. Where we expected dust clouds, traffic jams and crowds upon crowds of people, we found a modern, clean, well-organized city devoid of the hordes in K’la. No garbage, beautifully manicured lawns, boda-boda drivers wearing uniforms and helmets (unheard of in Uganda). We hesitated in disbelief as cars actually stopped when we approached a crosswalk. Unlike Uganda, laws were put into place and actually followed. Thousands of pedestrians die each year in the city of Kampala alone; I’d be willing to assume the figures are far lower in Kigali.

Austin and Owen were able to converse with the locals in French while I was continually asking people if they spoke any Luganda (Central Uganda’s official language). Not surprisingly most Rwandese could speak upwards of five languages, including English, French, Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, and Luganda. Generally I found the Rwandese very friendly and approachable, although they appeared to be less open than Ugandans. In Uganda Muzungus are definitely given celebrity status but in Rwanda I felt a little less “white”.

Our first few days were spent exploring Kigali, tasting the delectable French and Rwandan cuisine, pondering the source of the development we saw springing up all over the city. We explored the sobering Kigali Memorial Centre for several hours; a crisp white building perched atop one of the cities looming hills. Surrounded by a labyrinth of gardens and trails interspersed with the mass graves of the genocide’s 800,000 victims, the Memorial Centre is a somber remembrance of the horrific 100 days in 1994 when Rwanda was reduced to a bloodbath of hatchets, bodies, and ultimate suffering. Inside, the three-story building is divided between Rwanda’s history and a lead-up to the atrocities, a vivid and disturbing recollection of the events themselves and various attempted explanations, as well as a dark, respectful room presenting victim’s bones and clothes, a documentary viewing room, and an entire floor dedicated to other genocides that have taken place throughout our history.

I sat alone in a shadowy pentagon-shaped space filled only with wire lines and hanging photographs; pictures of the victims donated by their families. Glancing at each photo I noticed time and time over striking resemblances to my boys; I thought of them, of the what ifs. At the time most of them would have been taking their first steps, saying their first words, but what if it happened now? Is it so improbable that this situation could arise again? Eyes welled I pictured children so innocent, as they always are, experiencing things we can never imagine, and I do mean never imagine. You try, I try, but we can’t. My boys live in helpless, death-gripped poverty; they live in a country just as easily swayed by mass hysterics, just as persuadable, manipulatable. Rwanda and Uganda are divided by a border, but little else. What happened in Rwanda, what is happening now in Sudan, could happen here. The sheer horror of the genocide; of the bones, the bits of ripped clothes, the blood-stained school bag and guiltless eyes sickened and repulsed me. From Canada I cannot fathom these events. From the memorial in Kigali images of my friends’ hacked limbs were too crystal clear, the potential far too near.

Questions with no answers abounded. The three of us ran through the gamut; International leaders failed to act, why? How could the situation have been avoided? Should the U.N. have sent in the troops Dallaire requested? If in a positions of power how would we personally have handled the situation? And the issue that really got me: if it happened in Uganda would I run? 257 Americans were evacuated hours after the violence began, only one remaining to hide his Rwandan co-workers at his residence. If Kampala erupted into a massacre of the Buganda (the dominant tribe favored by the British) would I risk my life to protect the boys? Of course the response is yes, I would stay, but the reality is who knows? Who really knows how they’ll react in any given situation until directly presented with it.

Interestingly, or perhaps frighteningly, I’ve been presented with a similar albeit much less drastic situation recently. Although I believe there is not yet cause for serious alarm, there has been an outbreak of Ebola, a highly contagious virus spread through bodily fluids (such as saliva), in Southwestern Uganda. Within 14 days of contracting the virus the victim is overtaken by hemorrhagic fever (i.e. internal bleeding). Of the hundred or so people who have been diagnosed, 24 have died in the past two days. The Canadian consulate has been keeping us informed via text messaging and has sent warning that we should not venture into other districts for the time being. This information came to us as we were one hour outside the Rwandan border passing through one of the affected towns. As we contemplated our luck at having made it through before borders and towns were sealed off the questions previously asked about the genocide were reiterated. Should the Ebola virus spread to Kampala, would I run? Would I risk my life to protect the boys? The point was brought up that the situation is different, that my ability to protect them is limited in the case of a rapidly-spreading virus.

The internet connection here is terminally slow and thus the remainder of my Rwandan adventure will have to wait until next time.

~Nicole

#44 – Nov 16th 2007

School sponsorship…

Many of you, perhaps in light of the coming holiday season, have been requesting information regarding sponsorship for the African Hearts boys. For those of you interested in learning more, please read on or download and peruse the attached sponsorship form. For the rest, this isn’t technically an official journal entry, please await the next issue.

The basic nuts & bolts of sponsorship is as follows: if you are pondering the idea of becoming a child’s school sponsor, you will be committing yourself to a monthly payment of $35, and, hopefully, regular e-mail contact with the new student. We have set up a bank account with TD Canada that accepts automatic monthly direct deposits from any Canadian banks; after giving your bank the African Hearts account information you just sit bank assured the money is being safely delivered directly to the organization here in Uganda. 100% of the money goes directly towards the child’s schooling, I can assure you of that. You will receive receipts as well.

You may recall the journal entry about Kato Richard, the African Hearts boy who walks over two hours to and from the Organization’s home every day. He was desperate to return to school but there were no sponsors available. A good friend of my mother’s read Richard’s story and decided to help. She has set up a simple direct deposit system through her bank and Richard is now studying hard and preparing to write mid-term exams. He cried when I told him we’d found him a sponsor. Just yesterday he was able to attend his first-ever field trip thanks to his new sponsor’s additional $7 donation. It has been amazing for me to witness this; seeing a family friend’s money go directly towards helping a Ugandan friend. Sponsoring a child through well-known organizations such as World Vision is great, but in this particular situation I am able to be the link in the middle, an eyewitness to the direct effects of the donations, seeing the reactions on my friend’s faces when they find out they’ve been chosen for sponsorship, it’s better than Christmas morning.

I can send out the official sponsorship form to anyone interested; read it through and let me know if you are able to help. I will be more than happy helping you choose which boy to sponsor. Even if you feel like making a one-time donation for Christmas, everything is welcome and greatly appreciated.

~Nicole

#43 – November 5th 2007

Pornographying poverty…

While perusing a friend’s blog yesterday, www.headdownfistup.blogspot.com, - a witty, intelligent, subversive discourse tackling the issues of global ‘development’ - a certain entry had the effect of a slap in the face. My breath caught. I was stung by the words on the page. His accuracy was so crisp, almost tangible. He reached into my mind, extracted my unarticulated thoughts and put them to print in a way I couldn’t conceive of. And it made me cringe, standing on stage, splayed naked for everyone to see, so acutely did he describe a situation I’ve been passing through.

Awkward, uncomfortable; like airing dirty laundry or revealing a salacious secret. Compare it to your best friend finding out you’ve been bad-mouthing her for months or accidentally forwarding a gossipy e-mail to the entire contents of your address book. Revealing one’s innermost thoughts is difficult in the most intimate of settings; perhaps enlightening a secret crush to your true feelings or exposing your dislike of a certain co-worker, but on an entirely different plane altogether is admitting to incomprehension, incompetency, inferiority. The words spoken in the blog had me admitting to all three.

My friend, who is currently doing a Masters degree in global development recently traveled to Nicaragua where his experiences led to said blog entry. As he articulated the point so well, with his permission I have reprinted a selection of his entry below.

“It's difficult to write about traveling without sounding either contrived, clichéd or exploitative. I don't know if it is because most of us have shared different versions of the same experiences, or if it is because we have a tendency to plagiarize expectations and thus mold our encounters into those premeditated designs, but I do know that the standard formula usually begins (and ends) with some variation of the profoundly tired “I found myself” narrative. There are two problems with that claim. The first is sounding sincere. The second has to do with the idea of finding your self in the first place.

I think it's fair to say that most of us want others to understand our travel experiences as somehow being exceptional, if not simply particular from anybody else's. This in itself is hardly a bad thing. However it can lead to the pursuit of exploitative traveling, wherein we feel that in order to stand apart – or to really get it – we must pretend to understand what certain things feel like (living in poverty, with TB or HIV, political violence); or to use that trendy anthropological saying, we must claim to know what it feels like to be the other. This is not exploitation in the typical sense, but it is exploitation no less. When we see tragedy, especially tragedy that is so distant from the kind we are familiar with inside our cozy borders, it stokes a need for many to try and identify with it, and to share in the pain of others. For many it is not enough to just see it. People want to say they tasted it too.

Individuals that have traveled to AIDS orphanages in Soweto, through the shacks of Kibera or the landfill communities that border Managua, often come away with a sense of overwhelming confusion that is ironically (and unfortunately) articulated as a sense of understanding. Rarely will you meet a backpacker that has been to one of these places, or others like it, that does not have an easily accessible explanation or account of what it’s really like there. It is not acceptable to admit that such places bring about feelings of sickness, confusion and alienation, because that is to sound crass and separated. However to describe these places as “beautiful”, where “so many people with so little” are “as happy as us” if you just “get to know them” is the garden variety answer. It is stories of these sorts that I have found (pun not intended) inevitably lead to ultimate conclusions of self discovery, and they are too often founded upon an unconscious glorification of other people’s tragedies.”

Slap. My cheek is still stinging. And unfortunately he’s so right, and even worse, I know better. I am fairly certain you could search back through my previous journal entries and discover almost word for word his quoted material above. What do I have to say? We’re beyond apologies here. Excuses are just that, excuses. I could tell you that it is true, that that I have found my ‘self’, whatever that is, that people here are happy, that even the slums radiate a certain beauty, but as my friend so accurately puts it, “it’s hard to write about the beauty of a slum without pornographying it.” Its hard to describe anything here without coming across as having a superiority complex, without skating across the issue of race, without glorifying or exploiting.

There is a trap set. A malicious alliance waiting for new recruits. It’s a group of self-professing do-gooders and I’ve been pissed off at most of them one time or another. I was quite certain I hadn’t fallen into their tangled web and quite certain I never would but my friend illuminated my actual proximity.

“It forces us to question the degree to which the validation of our own self is contingent upon the suffering of others. This is especially crucial for people that choose to make issues of oppression and poverty the crux of their career – be they HRW field researchers or resident development economists for the World Bank. There is quite often a unique type of arrogance amongst these NGO people “in the field”, as if their willingness to live a comfortable life in these countries is more admirable and profound than the perseverance displayed by the real victims of predatory globalization. The self-congratulating tone of many NGO workers can be nauseating, and can completely undermine whatever good work they may in fact be doing….I have been told by some people in my family that I've been “brave” to travel to certain places, and for wanting to make my career revolve around being in those places, addressing those issues. But there is nothing brave or admirable in any of it, because it is as much about self-interest and personal preference as making money is a necessary preference for an investment banker. To rely on the fact that traveling to or working in these places sounds exotic, and to use it as a tool for self-discovery is to use the victims of poverty and oppression as peripheral beings, as if minor actors in the play of your life.”

Let me make something perfectly clear. Maybe you think I am brave. Maybe you think I’m altruistic and munificent. Maybe I’ve implied that life is somehow ‘difficult’ for me here, that I am ‘becoming one’ with the Ugandans and suffer along with their sufferings. If I have at all implied this I am guilty of, perhaps sub-consciously, deceiving you and now is the time for my confession. It is too late for redemption, the damage is done, and perhaps even in this diatribe I dig myself deeper into the pit. Nonetheless. As much as I rabble on about becoming Ugandan, I am not and will never be. The idea entices me but that enticement is contingent on my position of privilege. Few if any beings on this planet would prefer the constant fear of hunger to the security of a full stomach. None would trade dollars in the bank for the anxiety of an empty pocket. My comfortable bed, my cold bottled water, three meals a day, these are not things I would willingly give up. I do not want the stigma of HIV. I do not want to walk barefoot through red mud because I can’t afford shoes. I cannot live where chickens run beneath chairs and rats climb in through broken glass. Although I could handle 80% of Ugandan life, 50% of it would make me miserable. I live like a Canadian in Uganda, not a Ugandan.

Anyone can come here, anyone can do this. The difference being how you do it. No neo-imperialism, no white man’s burden. Ditch the superiority complex and do not pretend that walking a mile in someone’s shoes compares to wearing them for a lifetime. I’ll walk out the door today aware of my position while continuing my search to bring others closer to it.

~Nicole

Please don’t hesitate to check out my friend’s blog: www.headdownfistup.blogspot.com.

#42 – November 1st 2007

Feelin’ the burn…

It is Eddy’s turn to prepare supper. Ready by 11pm. Posho made from millet flour and fried brown beans. The taste barely registers on my tongue, so accustomed I’ve become. Fourteen plastic bowls, red and blue, two scoops of posho, one of beans. Lawrence eats with his fingers, I get a fork. Not satisfied but full, in bed by half past midnight. Tonight I won’t wake up at four to revise my books, rather not risk the hunger pangs. 6am comes early enough, Akram and Grace take tea, the rest of us leave with only the grit of toothpaste passing our lips. I struggle for alertness in Math, and lose all hope by Social Studies, the quick nap a welcome relief from my grumbling stomach. By 1pm I can’t get to the front of the lunch line fast enough. Posho and friend brown beans. Imagine if it were chicken? Ha, kidding. I immediately regret my loss of self-control. If I had refused the beans I could have avoided this pain. The pain of the ulcers, the accumulation of acid in my stomach catalyzed by fried foods, gassy foods. Milk would help. I can’t afford milk. Nobody can.

I’ll have to wake up to revise tonight; there’s no concentrating with this sharp gnawing behind my belly-button. I leave school at five to find my band-mates sharing around sweet tea and a few dry buns. Eddy doesn’t take lunch at school, I leave him my share. Band practice tries me. I’ve been told by the leaders to take time off from the trumpet; my lips are changing colour from the instrument, to the outside world the trait of a drug addict. Every second I am not blowing into that mouth-piece I am reminded of my hunger. From an ache to a burn to a deeper indescribable sensation. I imagine my stomach lining eating itself and I don’t know how I’ll make it till 11. But I make it because I always do and this is how it goes every minute of every day of every year for the fifteen I’ve been alive.

And this is how it goes. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Posho and beans for lunch at school, posho and beans for dinner at midnight. Near starvation every other hour of the day. From birth a lack of protein, extreme vitamin deficiencies. Since early childhood no access to milk or clean drinking water. The extreme poverty of Ugandan children’s diets stunts their growth, inhibiting their bone development, their flesh stretched thin across narrow limbs. A 16-year-old appearing more fragile and small than an eight or nine-year-old in the West. It has been my experience with the African Hearts boys that they go through this situation courageously, uncomplainingly, only airing their discomfort when the pain of the ulcers they’ve developed becomes unbearable. It is beyond my comprehension what it would be like to eat the same meal everyday, I simply can’t imagine it. I have gotten used to mixing and matching a core group of ten foods, including rice, matoke, cassava, chapatti, chicken thigh, cubed beef, Nile perch, tomato, avocado, and an array of tropical fruit. I slowly adapted to the lack of variety, my cravings for pasta, pizza, bagels, dressings and sauces, salads, and baked goods slowly subsiding. But take away eight of those ten options and I would be quite miserable, not easily biting my tongue to refrain from complaint as the boys do.

Even more frustrating is the total cost of feeding fifteen boys for one week is significantly less than what a Canadian individual would spend on one restaurant meal. I was aware that it would be considerably cheaper to feed these boys compared to attempting to keep Canadian teenagers satisfied, but until recently I wasn’t completely sure to what extent. Roscoe, treasurer for African Hearts, informed me the organization spends 100,000Ush per month on food. Equivalent to $15 a week. For fifteen boys.

The equivalent of $60 per month buys 1 sac of millet flour ($24) per month to make posho, $0.60 is used for charcoal and $1.20 for baked beans every day, and 1kg sugar and 1 litre milk ($2) for porridge on Saturdays. On Saturday evenings the organization doesn’t provide the boys with supper because they are expected to use the money they made from the functions performed that day. Unfortunately each boy only makes 1,000Ush ($0.60) per function, leaving them with little else after they’ve purchased dinner. To march with a heavy brass instrument strapped across your back for several hours in 27 degree heat only to receive enough money for dinner hardly seems fair. No water, no milk, no soda, no juice. No fruit or vegetables. No meat. Thankfully, for the past month “Grandmother Hilda,” who has been visiting Uganda from Victoria, has been supplying the boys with rice, green pepper, onion, cabbage, pineapple, and bananas. It has cost her less than $15 a week to ensure they get a slightly varied diet with nutritional value. An added bonus are her weekly mental, physical, and sexual health talks, stemming from her experiences as a public health nurse in Canada. Unfortunately when she leaves in two weeks its back to posho and beans.

Even if the boys were to miraculously gain the ability to change their diets there remains the issue of ulcers. A very high percentage of the boys have developed the h.pylori bacteria in their stomachs, the causes of which range from lack of proper nutrition and going long periods of time without eating. The bacteria digs holes in the stomach wall, which then fill with stomach acid, causing a horrible burning sensation. Last week one of the boys’ ulcers were causing him so much agony things could no longer be ignored or brushed aside. Thankfully one of the twins from UVic was able to consult with a pharmacist and purchase a cocktail of drugs to eradicate the problem. After following a strict week-long regimen, Eddy should be back to normal. We would immediately get every boy on this program, had we not discovered the drugs cost $40. As you now know, that is almost as much as they spend on food for a whole month.

As with most things here, we’ll continue to take it one step at a time, one boy at a time; hopefully a solution will present itself.

~Nicole

#41 – October 19th 2007

Back to business…

I don’t really know where to start. Generally I attempt to have some semblance of order and cohesiveness in my entries but since I arrived home from Zanzibar my mind has been assaulted by so many divergent issues its hard to focus them into a single theme. In some ways this is emblematic of my experiences in Uganda; everything is always amplified, more chaotic, more cataclysmic, just more. Multi-tasking takes on new meaning.

I visit Sowedi and Davis’ school to purchase their new uniforms and ensure they are adapting well, passing by Sammy and Simon’s classes down the road to check on their mid-term marks. I take three calls during the visits, organizing meetings with Abbey, offering suggestions to a bank that wishes to donate money to African Hearts, and finalizing a trip with my book club. In town I buy school textbooks and supplies, meet Junior for lunch to research his latest Economics project, then stop by Oweno market on my way home to bargain for a tank top, desperately necessary as the temperature has risen above 30 every day this past week. Back at the boys’ home I attend band practice, where I am (very) slowly learning to play the trumpet as per the boys’ request, but I leave after an hour to help Sandra shop for the week’s groceries. After shopping I have private meetings with Benon, Bossa, Moses, and Eddy to discuss new school shoes, a mother’s inability to pay rent, the possibilities of working for a telecommunications company, and a poultry project. The setting sun finds me moving between the living room answering geography questions and the boys’ bedroom, advising about futures or determining the exact lyrics to Akon’s latest single. Sandra, Junior and I eat around 10pm then begin our own studies. Junior deep into the principals of marketing, Sandra revising parasitology, and me, desperate to memorize my latest Luganda lesson for tomorrow’s class. At midnight I drag myself home often to fall asleep on top of my sheets, fully clothed, unable to move another muscle.

My free time, which consisted of a few hours in the morning when I would write, work on African Hearts files, or do some reading, has been drastically reduced. I began official Luganda lessons last week at a language center close to my house where I’ve been taking classes for two hours every day. Also, there are new visitors staying at the guest house with whom I’ve been getting acquainted. The first to arrive was Hilda, a 77-year-old Brentwood Bay resident who is fulfilling a dream of visiting the continent by volunteering at the HIV/AIDS counseling center at Mengo Hospital. A kind, compassionate and extremely big-hearted woman, Hilda is the ideal grandmother figure. From the moment I met her I felt at ease and comforted. She is quite the host, having hospital attendants over for home-made soup and tuna-fish crackers daily, making numerous plans for dinner parties and gatherings. She is fit as a fiddle, her four-foot-nine frame scurrying unfearfully into chaotic life in Kampala. The next to arrive were the Gagne twins, Austin and Owen, also from Victoria. It seems I’m meeting just as many people from home as I would if I were still there! The identical twins (who are actually quite easy to tell apart) are finishing up their last courses in a biochemistry degree at the University of Victoria, and are here at Mengo Hospital to gain some experience and donate their time and energy to making a difference where they can. We’ve gotten on very well and I’ve been enjoying my career as a tour guide, finally having the opportunity to utilize my experiences of the last six months in a useful way. Teaching them how to not get killed weaving through traffic on Kampala road, giving lessons in Ugandan bargaining, tipping them off to the correct prices for things, introducing them to matoke, posho, and the ultimate rolex. The last to arrive was Angela, a Victoria-born burgeoning journalist whose purpose here is slightly unclear, but will soon take shape I’m sure.

The guest house has gone from a refuge of calm to a choral cacophony. Laptop speakers pulsing out playlists, five people worth of groceries spewing from the miniature fridge and cupboard, a constant flow of visitors swarming, shoes, camera bags and empty glasses littering every surface. Every time I enter the front door there is a new face. While I’m thankful for the familiar accents, colloquialisms I haven’t heard in six months, and the refreshing ability to reminisce about missed things from home, it has been difficult to adjust. Home was my retreat from the boys’ pandemonium. Without a quiet place to escape to in the a.m. I won’t be in the right state to deal with rambunctious teenagers all evening. I’ve been contemplating a change of residence, originally because the rules of who is and isn’t allowed at the guest house are too strict, perhaps now I have enough incentive to pursue the idea farther.

This may sound strange, but it almost makes me feel uncomfortable to spend my time with so many Muzungus. In Uganda I’ve become accustomed to surrounding myself with Ugandans; their mannerisms, relaxed ways, their easy happiness devoid of any complaint, depression, or negativity. Their acceptance of any situation that comes their way, their strength in adversity, their generosity and unfaltering helpfulness. I’m not saying the new arrivals don’t possess these qualities, only that Ugandans have a certain way about them I have yet to discover in a Westerner. Of course I would love to think some of the Ugandan characteristics have rubbed off on me but I somehow think it remains an aspiration. Hilda had a dinner party a few days back, I came home to twelve Dutch, American, and Canadian visitors raucously thrashing out Uganda’s idiosyncrasies. Within twenty minutes I was ready to leave. My good friend Persis, the Ugandan woman who looks after the guest house, was in attendance with one of her friends, and as the guests went off about the chaotic traffic, unscrupulous hawkers, street children, etc., I felt as I imagined Persis and her friend felt, like they were talking about our home as if we weren’t there, as if we wouldn’t care as they insulted our way of life. Maybe its crazy to state that I feel as though this were my home, but as per now it is, and anyone’s judgments who has only been here but a few weeks comes off as callous and rash. I’m beginning to feel more and more Ugandan with each new person that arrives, more protective of Ugandan culture with every Westerner that guffaws at a unique custom, more offended with each wad of cash waved around, more taken aback by Western comparative vulgarity and abrasiveness. Unknowingly I’ve been leaving behind the regretful aspects of the West, replacing them with redeeming African traits, yet every new visitor drops me back into reminiscence.

It is with this newfound sense of ‘Ugandaness’ that I have been directed to re-think my travel plans. In combination with the fact that I feel nauseous every time I drive the road to the airport and absolutely refuse to discuss my plans to leave in mid-November I realized I must be honest with myself and where my heart lies. I feel that I have much more to do here, that I am needed here like I have never been needed anywhere in my life. Young children who love me like a parent or a sibling; unquestioning, unshakable, all-encompassing love. New friends whose lives I’ve been able to infuse happiness into, with whom I’m making new memories they’ll, and I’ll, never forget. I’ve had years and years to cultivate my friendships in Canada, I must give my time here as well. Christmas spent without my friends and family in Canada will be difficult enough, without also missing my Ugandan family. Thus, I have decided to prolong my stay in Uganda, and in that thought I find solace. I do not know how long I’ll stay and my family worries it will be a perpetual extension but for now I only know that I am not in any way ready to leave. I may have to find a job to sustain myself, I may have to find a cheaper place to live, but I’ll be content and that is all that truly matters.

~Nicole

#40 – Sept 30th 2007

Zanzibar Entry #4

It was with mixed feelings that I headed away from Stone Town towards the northern coast on my fourth day. Although my experiences hadn’t all been wonderful, I was slowly starting to become accustomed to the area, the people, the way things worked. When you are traveling alone, I’ve come to discover, the initial loneliness starts to dissipate as your surroundings become familiar: recognizable faces, places, sights and sounds. I’m learning that for me loneliness has trouble surviving in the face of familiarity and routine. Of course the moment I achieved those two things I jumped on a bus and headed somewhere new. Off to Kendwa, known as one big ‘party in paradise’, on the north-west side of the island.

An hour and a half along a miraculously un-potholed road brought us to Kendwa. Our bus dropped off each tourist at their destination resort. My choice, Kendwa Rocks, seemed to be a good one, based on the others I had the opportunity to peak at. I was led down to the beach where my wooden bungalow was perched in the sand. The location was prime although the deep mahogany wood washed the room in depressing darkness. No matter though, 95% of my time was spent on the most beautiful beach I’ve ever laid eyes on. Thirty steps from my bungalow’s hammock positioned me on the shores of the Indian Ocean. Thatched cabanas dotted the otherwise empty beach, partially naked tourists taking refuge from the equatorial sun’s glare under their protective cover. To my left stood a massive bar and restaurant, tables and chairs in the sand. Beach music hummed softly from invisible speakers. The restaurant was nestled amongst the palms and was composed entirely of local wood and palm leaves; one giant palm rising from the beach. On my right the beach stretched on endlessly.

I bathed myself in sunscreen, fluttered my towel down in the waves of sand and listened to the water lick the shore and return in lulling repetition. The hours before and after lunch were spent in blissful relaxation, tanning, reading, and the piece de résistance, swimming. Never before have I experienced the euphoria of dipping into water like this. My feet, dusted in white sand, met the warm milky foam at the sea’s shore. The sun’s reflection danced across the water, whose calm turquoise colour washed peace over my mind. I moved through as if descending stairs into a ballroom, drinking in the infinite water touched only by the sun’s rays. The temperature barely cool enough to refresh my skin, the slightest breeze kicking off the water to moisten my face. I dove through the water, floated lazily on its surface. Swam out far enough to discover an unending expanse of clean, shallow water with nothing but white sand below. I felt as if I could happily swim forever. I ate my meals book in hand, permanently barefoot, toes beneath the sand. I delighted in fresh tuna steak, crab salad, octopus curry, all washed down with a cold Kilimanjaro beer, or a frothy tropical shake.

Zanzibar Entry #5

A few days later it was time to move to Zanzibar’s eastern coast. Another leisurely hour and a half drive and I arrived at Sunrise Hotel; several beach-facing bungalows connected by decorative walkways and a grand open-air restaurant and pool. Very picturesque, with Zanzibari antiques on each brightly painted wall, and a beautiful pond flowing around the grounds. The guidebook mentioned Sunrise restaurant boasted some of the best food on Zanzibar and I would not hesitate to agree. I fear I will never taste anything quite the same for that price ever again. Completely affordable but presented as if by a 5-star restaurant. Dinner the first night was a crab-filled crepe starter followed by croquette-style potatoes, curried tiger prawns and marinated vegetables. Dessert was Belgian chocolate mousse.

On the third day on the East coast I moved down the beach to a quaint little place called Robinson’s. Nestled amoung the trees, this 5-room retreat owned by a lovely Zanzibari-German couple was backpacker-friendly and much less resort-y. I stayed in the bottom floor of a tree house! I spent the days reading and feverishly trying to remember to re-apply sunscreen every hour. This equatorial sun burns like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Dinner, served by the Zanzibari owner on a communal blanketed floor, was an entire ‘robbot’ fish, rice with coconut vegetable stew and a friend sweet banana. The company included a reflective Englishman and his take-charge girlfriend, a lone German woman straight out of the steroid drama and Danish honeymooners who wouldn’t have felt out of place had the dinner been at Paris Hilton’s house, such was their choice of conversation topics, their dress, and their mastery of MTV colloquialisms.

The Danish woman, a 25-year-old self-professed ‘Bollywood’ look-a-like took half the night describing her newly purchased “cutestpuppyohmygod” and her husband felt it appropriate to share his “African” story about a drinking contest in a ritzy South African safari lodge that involved shoving toilet paper ‘where the sun don’t shine’ and lighting it on fire. Both husband and wife continued to refer to Africans as ‘the black people’ and spouted such gems as “I wonder how black people get married?” as if it would be some barbaric naked dancing-under-the-moon ceremony. To be fair, they were equally prejudiced to people in their own part of the world, mentioning how ever since the European Union expanded its membership, “dirty Polish, Romanian and gypsy thieves and beggars” had “infiltrated the clean streets of Copenhagen”.

This couple reminded me once again of the many shades of ‘Muzungu’ who visit Africa, and how you can generally line up the purpose of their visit neatly in a personality column. I hate to generalize, and complain uproariously against people who do it, but for the purpose of explanation, allow me to illustrate my point. I find that on a scale of how much respect is shown for local culture, and the extent to which locals are treated as normal human beings, ascending from the bottom up you would have two-week vacationers, followed by safari-goers, missionaries, adventure backpackers, well-traveled backpackers, jaded NGO-workers, optimistic NGO-workers, then finally, volunteers.

Before I go and offend half the people reading this, please know that I do not dare present this as fact, but simply as something I’ve noted in my personal observations, having lived in Uganda for 6 months. Of course not everyone who visits the continent falls neatly into a category. This is just a different way of expressing my experiences thus far. I’ve been witness to disrespect, disinterest, disregard, and even outright racism, but have of course also seen humble, selfless, truly altruistic and entirely respectful visitors as well. Unfortunately, as is usually the case, the bad tends to outshine the good.

Zanzibar Entry #6

I don’t have to pull my foot too far out of my mouth. I stand by my original statement, the Danish couple remain the ditsy-est Europeans I’ve ever encountered and when they claimed to be thirty I almost asked if I could see their passports. I do, however, confess that some of the other fellow guests, namely the British couple, turned out to be very decent people.

Steven and Debbie invited my to join them for dinner at a seafood bar down the beach on my second night on the East coast. The meal was a delicious medley of octopus, prawns, and marlin, washed down with armarula and fresh coconut. I was grateful for the company. Being a single traveler can really wear on a person. It’s wonderful for short periods of time; you make your own decisions, don’t need to take anyone else into consideration; you can go anywhere, do anything. You have ample time to think, reflect, contemplate; you can write, read, daydream to you heart’s content. You can walk slowly through your day, soaking up all the sights and sounds with no distractions. Unless you’re extroverted, however, this silence can become deafening. No one to bounce ideas off of, no one around for advice, no one to express you thoughts to. No one to notice what you’re noticing. Things become a little monotonous, a little mundane, they seem to lose their vibrancy. Food tastes good, but may have been better if you had someone to share a bite with. The sunset would have been up in my top 5 ever experienced, if there had been someone sitting next to me. I might have been a little braver bargaining with a friend by my side. You begin to realize how much you appreciate your friends and how you often take their presence for granted. I consider myself extremely lucky to have the group of close friends that I do, and am fully aware now that they added so much meaning and vibrancy to my life.

Zanzibar Entry #7

My final days in Zanzibar were interesting, to say the least. On returning to Zanzibar I was almost out of cash, so I paid a visit to the bank, which refused to accept my ATM card. It dawned on me that I had enough money to last me one more day, yet I wasn’t booked to fly home for four. The next 24 hours were spent begging for a free flight change, attempting to redeem my previous experience at the Fish Market by getting a towering plate of seafood for 2000Tsh, whose sustenance had to last for a day and a half and soaking up the free sunset. My last bills were spent on the ride to the Airport, leaving me to beg forgiveness for having no cash for the $30 Airport tax. Upon arriving in Uganda, I had no money for my Visa and would have been stuck living at the Airport Tom Hanks-style had a man behind me in line offered to pay the $50 and give me a ride to my house. In an interesting tid-bit, I discovered along the ride he worked for the African National Congress in the nineties and was Nelson Mandela’s speech writer!

Arriving at home I was at once reminded about what I had been missing. My boda-driver friends drove up to welcome me home, the woman I buy my phone minutes from came running up to give me a hug, everyone was all smiles, genuinely welcoming. Of course my reunion with the boys was euphoric. My trip allowed me to realize how blessed I am to have such an amazing family here in Uganda, and how much I don’t want to leave them again.

~Nicole

#39 – Sept 21st 2007

Zanzibar Entry #1

Papaasi…“ticks”

Paradise has not yet beheld me. A series of annoyances have catapulted me into a state of constant apprehensiveness. I am anxiously awaiting the demise of this state of being. Thus far my holiday has had potential but no follow-through. Let me explain.

It began when my plane started to descend an hour early. I was distracting myself from turbulence with my latest itunes playlist appropriately titled ‘Beach,’ when there was a drop in altitude. I peered out the window expecting to see the sandy beaches of Zanzibar. Instead I saw the expansive desert foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Already an uneasy flyer, the unexpected addition of another landing and take-off wreaked havoc on my nerves. After a 30 minute stop over at the base of the famous mountain, and another 45 minutes in the air, we began to descend once again, this time over the turquoise waters I expected. My heart leapt at the sight of lapping waves foaming onto miles of palm-lined beach. A smooth landing, hassle-free visa purchase, a short taxi ride into Stone Town and I was being escorted to my hotel room.

As I set out for an evening stroll my step and mood were light; I expected to gain the island’s acquaintance and to enjoy it tremendously. The first person to approach me did so innocently enough. “Jambo! Habari gani?” I was fine, I replied, and stopped for a small chat. We talked for a while but when he asked for my phone number I knew it was time to move on. The warm sea breeze blowing against my face returned my thoughts to those of seafood and solitude, but only temporarily, as I was stopped several more times before I cut down a path to the beach to get away from all the people hassling me. I had read about these Papaasi or “ticks,” the infamous beach boys known for pestering tourists, and hoped they would eventually take a hint and leave me alone.

Down by the shore line I was surrounded by white sand, the broad open Indian Ocean crawling towards restaurants whose patios stretched to the shore. I arrived just in time for the sunset. Within minutes I was joined by a Rasta (very prevalent on the island) who manipulated my naïve newness into thinking he wasn’t like all the other lecherous beach boys who had harassed me on my walk. He accompanied me to Forodhani Fish Market where I had planned on eating dinner. A rite of passage for first-timers to the island, the market is essentially small individual stands set up at sundown, selling the fresh catch of the day for a steal. Octopus, crab, lobster, squid, tuna, muscles, even shark, all piled high on paper plates for less than $2. I had unfortunately decided to play the roll of gullible tourist and walked smack into a trap. I was whisked by my new Rasta “friend” to a picnic table over-looking the ocean, softened up with a sweat cold glass of sugarcane juice and presented with delectable samplings of seafood. My taste-buds were overjoyed, having gone five long months without tasting descent fish. My spirits were quickly climbing. I chuckled as the rich German tourist next to me unblinkingly over-paid for his meal, 10,000 Tanzanian Shillings, for what should have been less than 4000Tsh. I wasn’t the least bit concerned that I would share his problem, as I consider myself a seasoned bargainer, and hey, my new friend wouldn’t let me be overcharged right? I had been smart enough to come to the market with a local, hadn’t I? The last drop of sugarcane juice gone, I asked how much I owed. For me they’d make a deal, he said, 25,000Tsh. They weren’t joking, and when I gaffed and stuttered and claimed I didn’t have that much, then offered 10,000Tsh while backing away, they started following me to my hotel. A strong image of my mother came into my mind, imploring me to pay the money and get myself out of there. To give you an idea of how outrageous that price is, I’ve taken Sandra, Junior, David, and Tonny out in Kampala for a nice dinner and paid 18,000 for food and drinks. I begrudgingly paid the money and hurried into my hotel.

Back in my room I was stuck with the most depressed feeling; of being used, taken advantage of. I felt embarrassed. To cap it off, my cell refused to work. I went to bed early, hoping the bitter taste of the evening would disappear by morning.

Zanzibar Entry #2

My second day started out innocently enough, with a morning of bargain shopping in the small stores that sit hidden down the long, narrow streets of Stone Town. The sun’s hot and humid beams were deflected by crumbling stone buildings, once white, now blackened with age, all in various states of disrepair. Each house hosted a craftsman’s masterpiece – grand doors, whose fine intricacies could hold one’s attention for hours. Later in the day I escaped the sun and explored one at length, admiring the painstaking detail carved into the wood.

I visited interesting shops; Indians selling antiques, Masai selling traditional jewelry, Zanzibaris selling spices and ‘Muzungu’ t-shirts. Malachite bracelets and ebony necklaces, hand-woven bags and pillowcases, treasure chests and ancient clocks. Some shop owners humble and quiet, some pushy and greedy, most tourists deserving whichever treatment they received. My previous day’s experiences apparently did nothing to dissuade me from thinking I could wheel and deal in Stone Town the way I could in Kampala. In Uganda my experience has been that a kind smile and a few worlds in Luganda goes a long was to receiving kind and fair treatment. Not so in Stone Town. More often than not I was herded into the store by obnoxious owners who shadowed my every move and fell just short of clasping their jewelry around my neck and arms, imploring me to “Buy, Buy!” until I showed enough disinterest to make them ignore me completely.

I apparently arrived at my lunch destination too late to receive any service whatsoever and was left alone just long enough to discover I was the only person in the restaurant not smoking. After a similar experience at the next restaurant I decided to forget about eating altogether and made tourist mistake #57, walking around, camera in hand, staring inquisitively at things. I’m sure in Paris this is safer to do, but as a solo female traveler, I’m beginning to discover it’s unadvisable. At every turn, every stop, every moment of indecision I was greeted (not a problem), approached (fine), stopped (annoying), and followed (not cool). I’m not in the habit of being rude to strangers, but by the end of the afternoon I was for once thankful my t-shirt read ‘California’ so it wasn’t my country getting the bad rap for my discourteous behavior.

Unable to take refuge on the beach for fear of being accosted by beach boys, I ventured into a ritzy hotel called The Serena, which advertises ‘stunning beach views’. Thankfully I wasn’t disappointed. I chose a cushiony seat beside the pool, with a breath-taking view of the sea, and ordered a strong tropical drink and a seafood salad. Generous helpings of lobster, crab, and prawns and the pleasurable comic relief of a Joseph Heller novel, and I finally felt myself starting to relax.

Zanzibar Entry #3

Early Saturday morning I embarked on a spice tour. Zanzibar is famous for its sweet-smelling exports, which have been finding the world marking increasingly uncooperative. A main staple such as cloves used to fetch 10,000Tsh per kilo, now it barely scrapes up 1,500Tsh. Up to 80% of the islands’ inhabitants who relied solely on this income-generating crop have been forced to seek out other forms of employment. Although my first few days culminated in loathsome disregard for the solicitous, unscrupulous beach gnats, as I wandered through the spice fields and inhaled the delicious aromas of lemongrass, ylang ylang, and vanilla, I was reminded that the West is not blameless in this situation. These beach boys could not work in what should have been their county’s booming spice trade because the powerful players in the International Financial Institutions and trade organizations spread the competition and keep prices low, ensuring all the while that we have ready access to any spice our palate desires; turmeric, cumin, ginger, pepper, etc.

I crushed each clove, each bead, each stick, between my fingers; powders of bright yellow, deep red and brown dyed my hands. I envisioned the arduous, time-consuming work that went into the process of taking root, flower and seed and transforming it into the spice in its consumable form. I imagined the price Zanzibaris sold it for, and the price we buy it for. I imagined what our meals would taste like without spice, what our soaps and shampoos would smell like, whether perfume would exist. No vanilla-scented candles, no cinnamon sticks, no tikka masala.

By my third night in Stone Town I was starting to get into the swing of things. As unfortunate as it felt to ignore people, I learned that if I wanted to get through the day without being accompanied or followed by someone anxious to dip their hands into my wallet I had to be rude. This personality tweak felt foreign, like temporarily housing someone else’s mannerisms, each greeting met with a barely audible ‘Jambo,’ eyes cast downwards, speeding up my steps. I felt awful but to do the opposite would only lead to more trickery and false friendship. To the shop owners and restaurant staff, virtually anyone who didn’t look like they wanted to hassle me, I was my normal self, and indeed the African charm and hospitality was alive and well within many of the Zanzibaris I met.

~Nicole