#13 - June 15th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Masaka

The hardest, and easiest thing…is saying no…

Today I celebrated my 24^th birthday in Uganda. Although a higher power did indeed do its level best to put me in as many precarious situations as it could, (there was even an earthquake!) I survived! The drive from Kampala to Masaka, a couple of hours in Dr.Nianze’s car, was only slightly treacherous (mostly because of cars coming in the other direction swerving all over the road). We arrived in Masaka, picked up Peter’s friend Lindsey and her friend Andrea (both Canadians), and all headed out to Dr.Nianze’s school. The doctor grew up in a small sub-county of Masaka where there was no access to education, so as a way of giving back to his community, he donated a huge parcel of land and the materials to build a secondary school, which is now known as Lakes High. At the school, they treated us to songs and dance, a traditional way of welcoming guests in Uganda. The children all have beautiful voices and dance moves that are beyond the comprehension of most Westerners.

I felt a little awkward as the five of us sat watching these performances in the midst of hundreds of Ugandan children, all looking at us with expectant eyes, their teachers giving speeches that implied we were there to help in one way or another. There seems to be an unspoken expectation that wherever Muzungus go, help will follow. Although every cause seems worthy of support, it would be a mistake to spread ourselves too thin. The projects in Bwera and Kampala already support hundreds of people and it doesn’t seem fair to add more. That would only serve to lessen the impact of our assistance. Thus far, this has been one of the most difficult things I’ve had to contend with. I’ve mentioned before that everyone’s lives here could be ‘saved’, and if I came across anyone in Canada with these kinds of problems it would be ridiculous not to help – however, its absolutely impossible to help everyone here. As I travel across the rural areas of Uganda, most of the children I meet ask for assistance; imagine, hundreds of children, their tattered clothing barely concealing their distended bellies, asking you for the equivalent of fifty cents, or for a pen, or even a pen-pal. You cannot say yes to everyone.

Picture this scenario: you’re downtown window-shopping on a sunny summer day, you’ve got a toonie and a loonie in your pocket, and a crumpled five dollar bill. You’re feeling good, enjoying the warmth on your face, excited to go home and try on the new shirt you’ve just bought. You turn the corner and there stand two children, the smaller boy is six, and the girl holding his hand might be eight. They are wide-eyed and inquisitive, you immediately wonder where their parents are, are they lost? Their clothes are a little too big, their hair a little unkempt, you push aside thoughts that they are alone. They share their big smiles as you pass. Around the next corner you see two more, this time you know they must be homeless, the tell-tale smudges of dirt on their cheeks, ripped clothing, battered shoes. You squeeze your hand into your pocket and produce a toonie. The children give a small bow in thanks and you have trouble feeling any satisfaction – how did they come to be here? Does anyone care for them? Is there more you could do? Several excuses come to mind; you’re too busy, you have an appointment, you just bought that new flat screen and have too many payments, how could you really help them anyway? Your thoughts are interrupted by another group of children, this time more numerous, maybe there are seven. These children cup their hands out in front of you. They ask for money, “One dollar please, ma’am, please?” You only have the loonie and the five left. Coffee and a bagel for the drive home. You decide to skip the bagel and pass them the loonie, to share. You arrive at your car fairly distraught by your experience. All the children, alone, and you can’t tell yourself they are too lazy to get jobs or help themselves – they are just children. At your car you find twelve more – twelve! You shake your head, what is going on? This is unbelievable. These children are no different from your cousins, just as cute, their small, intelligent eyes pleading with you for acknowledgement. They know you have money, they see the bags – there is no denying it no matter how many payments, debts, or responsibilities you have. You have a car, you have time to shop, you are smartly dressed and your hair was cut just last week. How do you feel when each and every one of these children comes up to you and asks for one dollar? Are you saddened? Do you feel a twinge of guilt? Do you immediately want to give them everything you can? Or do you feel a little angered that they are begging for money? A little annoyed that they are surrounding you, getting their dirty fingerprints on your vehicle? A little impatient because you are now going to be late for that appointment? These kids have no one to help them, no where to go, no skills to work with in order to support themselves, they have nothing. Maybe you say that you have no money, but these children do not even have the possibility of acquiring income. You climb into your car, that five dollar bill burning a hole in your pocket, your mind heavy and your appointment forgotten.

That’s enough for now. I sit here 100% guilty of experiencing every single one of those thoughts mentioned above. I’ve felt saddened, and also guilty, angry, annoyed and impatient. I’ve thought of all the excuses (I’m a student, in debt, car payments, credit card bills, etc.) and even expressed them to those asking for help. In rural Uganda, the above experience was mine, maybe not with loonies and toonies, maybe I don’t have a car or shopping bags, but they know I have more than them. They see my clean clothes without holes, they see my new shoes, they see my MEC backpack, cell phone, and digital camera. They ask for 100 shillings; less than five cents and I shake my head. I have never felt more befuddled, confused, exasperated. I do not know how to deal with this situation. In Canada it isn’t so hard to walk past people without so much as a second thought. Here, hundreds are hard to ignore. Children are hard to ignore. They shouldn’t be ignored. But then I think to myself, what about the boys? The boys back home in Kampala need me, my time and money and support, and they have already started to see me as a part of their lives, as their older sister in whom they can trust and find comfort in. I only have so much in me to give. So, I find myself shutting down, shutting off to these kids here in these small communities. I didn’t want to, but that is what happened. I don’t know what the solution is, I hope in time I will find one.

~Nicole

#12 – June 14th 2007

A birth, a renewal…

My feet rest on an old sun-drenched lawnchair, my head rests against a window’s ledge. My mountain-top view from Jjaajja Gewn’s Guesthouse, through two gigantic palm trees, is of Kampala’s suburban areas, of red-roofed houses and miles of luscious greenery. Flowers grow wildly everywhere, pink spikes, red bells, blue poppies, bursts of orange. I hear only the songs of the neighbors and chirp-chirping of hundreds of local birds, none of which I am familiar. Breathtaking, all of it. I sip a sweet red South African wine and watch the breeze rustle the banana-tree leaves, creating a sound quite similar to a light rainfall. I think about Africa. About Uganda. About all I have experienced thus far, and all that is to come. Tomorrow is a big day and I am in need of some reflection and some foresight. Tomorrow, twenty-four years ago, I was born. Twenty-four seems to hold an importance unlike other years, it seems to represent something pivotal, it represents growth and transformation. I feel that I am exactly where I need to be for these things to occur. I feel that I am ready. No longer a child, no longer a teenager, no longer a student; now what? Still a friend, still family, still learning, but as something new, as an adult in many ways independent, but in many ways still completely dependent. Where am I going from here?

Tomorrow, fittingly, I begin a ten-day journey across south-western Uganda, from Masaka to Kabale, Lake Bunyonyi to Kasese to Bwera, through Queen Elizabeth Park and back. It is a time for discovery both of Uganda and of myself. It is a time for the extreme solitude of Lake Bunyonyi, where I will stay in a hut on a deserted island for four days; a time for celebration as I hike up the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains to visit remote Ugandan villages; a time for awe as I am introduced for the first time to the famous five of the safari; elephant, giraffe, hippo, wildabeast, and the king, lion. In Masaka we will be visiting a school created by a doctor at Mengo hospital – and in a random coincidence fitting of Uganda, Peter’s good friend Lindsay and a friend are staying in the same town, so we will lodge with them for the evening, at ‘Zebra Hotel’. The five of us will continue on to Lake Bunyonyi, a lake speckled with twenty-four volcanically-created islands reachable only by dug-out canoe. Here, we will immerse ourselves in our thoughts, our novels, and the 25 degree waters surrounding our sanctuary. I miss the boys already and can imagine I will be thinking mostly of them as I lay in a half-enclosed grass hut staring at familiar constellations from the equator’s perspective. I expect I will have a lot to write about Bwera upon my return, many of the villages we will visit having never experienced an outsider. We must tread lightly and take our footprints will us as we leave. There is the potential for a safari in Queen Elizabeth, a possibility I am quite enthusiastic about. I pray that it happens.

Oh this magical place. Oh how it dances. I will leave Kampala twenty-three, wide-eyed, with a host of new friends wishing me well. How will I return? Yes, its only a short time I will spend away, but here in Uganda, for a visitor, ten days means a life-time worth of experiences.

Until I return,

~Nicole

#11 – June 8th 2007

Time and distance…

Although emotions run amuck, round in circles in my mind, time goes slowly here. My thoughts have ample space for development. I can think and ponder and question, what a luxury that is. Power may be intermittent, appointments always tardy, but I have realized that all this ‘wasted’ time goes towards something much more precious, time to think. Here in Uganda, people take their extra time to think; sometimes alone, as they walk quietly along the red trodden path, sometimes in large groups, sitting on ramshackle benches, chewing raw sugarcane as they mince words. While most cannot afford even the simplest luxuries most Westerners ‘couldn’t live without’ - laundry machines, hot running water, or a television set - they have a possession we covet but rarely obtain – a calmness of mind available only to those who refuse to rush. Ugandans do not rush, they do not click their tongues in traffic jams, they do not fret when someone is a half hour late, even an hour. Their gait is slow and relaxed. Food takes its time to arrive. Even the planes flying into Entebbe seem to run on ‘African’ time. I can hardly find the words to describe what happened to my concept of time from the moment I stepped off the plane into Uganda. It was as if my brain had been shaking like a rattle before I arrived, then shortly after I landed the contents inside began their inevitable dénouement and started circling the drain. Now they continue to circle but slowly, deliberately, with a purpose and intensity but not with speed. For the past two years at school I have had the overwhelming sense that I didn’t have my bearings; that I couldn’t grasp onto anything in a solid and complete way. It felt like a dream, where everything is rushing past too quickly for you to comprehend; a blur of events and you are standing still as they whip around your motionless, helpless figure. In Uganda I see what is happening. I experience it with all of my senses and I am an active participant in my own life. I feel connected to everything I am doing in a way that I was unable to in Canada.

What seems like decades ago now, I had just arrived in Uganda and proclaimed that although it seemed exciting and different, I would not want to live here. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to become acclimatized, or if I could possibly get along alone. Well, Natalie and Peter arrived back from Kasese yesterday and it was only after their return that I realized I’d been ‘alone’ for seven days and had not once actually felt alone. In Uganda, I believe it is impossible. People here are too friendly, too curious, too concerned to let you feel alone. A community is not something you may or may not live in, its something everyone actively participates in. I am so far away from ‘every-person-for-themselves’ I don’t know if I want to come back. The individualist culture is only rampant in the upper echelons of Ugandan society. Everyone else eats, drinks, prays and survives together. If your neighbor is hungry you make sure he has enough to eat, if your neighbor is out for a drink, you join. I see very strong examples of this every day. Last night while Natalie, Peter, and I were catching up over a Nile on the patio of a local pub, an older man passed whom we’d spoken to briefly before. He asked to join us and soon we were engaging in conversation with him about soil samples, selenium, and HIV/AIDS. He has been doing research in preventionary methods, which is, ironically, exactly what Natalie studied on her last trip to Uganda. What an experience to sit listening to them excitedly discuss the latest developments in the connection between levels of selenium in the soils around Uganda and immunity to HIV. I sat sipping my Nile, wondering if I was listening to a conversation about the future answer to Africa’s biggest threat. I’m not sure if it was the Nile or the topic, but something was stirred inside me. It is an everyday occurrence that people will stop and sit for a drink. The questions and topics always differ, but I always find myself walking away richer in knowledge and somehow awed and motivated by the spirit of these people. So many other countless examples of the sense of community here run through my mind, I have little room to share them all here. It will suffice to say that not a day goes by where I am not invited to a dinner, offered food from someone who has barely a bite for themselves, or stopped on the street by a stranger for some light conversation.

Now to move on to something a little more personal. I wished to make friends here. I wished to learn more about the culture, the language, the history and the people, to enhance what I learned at university. To discover the truth in relation to what I read in academic journals and novels. As the boys here say, I was coming for ‘researching’. While I am learning all of these things, making comparisons to what I thought I knew and learning many things I didn’t, something else is happening here. Something unexpected and bittersweet. I am forming a new life. I have a new family. Here, I have brothers and sisters and friends. At home, my beautiful sister is turning fourteen next week, here my new brother Robert is the same age. My brother Scott just celebrated the pivotal sweet sixteen, here Ronald, Eddy, Moses, and David are also in their sixteenth year. I spend every day with them. These boys have welcomed me into their home, into their lives, into their hearts, and I’ve formed bonds with them that will last a lifetime. Their leaders, Abbey, Junior, Tony, and Roscoe, are my peers, my advisers, my friends. Sandra, who’s grandmother owns the house the boys live in, is my new girlfriend, my confident, my sister. I feel so blessed to have met them and to have gotten the opportunity to know them on a deeper, more personal level. There is ample time to form trusting, lasting relationships, to get to know these people who live a world away so that even when we are again separated by oceans of distance we can remain close. As for the ‘bitter’ part of the equation, I will, once again, be oceans apart from this new family. It was difficult to leave my family in Canada, but to no great extent because I knew I would see them again in a year. Of course I plan to return to my home in Uganda once I have completed my Masters degree, but that could be a couple of years from now. How can I leave them? How can I leave not knowing when I will return? How can I come into these peoples’ lives for so long, get so close to them, to children, to teenagers, then disappear? I can’t even begin to think about it. A phone call will hardly be sufficient; their accents over the phone are extremely difficult to decipher and its simply not the same as personal contact. These boys don’t have parents, they don’t have someone to offer them that parental connection. No one to hold their hand, squeeze their shoulders, give them a goodnight hug or a kiss on the forehead. No one to help make sure their collars are folded down, that their school books are in order, no one to ask them about their day. No one to cry to, and although they are strong, these boys have much they could cry about. How can I leave knowing I’ll be taking my ability to offer them these things with me? My plane is scheduled to fly out of Entebbe in six months (then I’ll be living in Holland until the spring), and I cannot imagine how I will feel on the day of my departure. I’ve been here not yet one month and already the thought of ever having to leave fills me with anxiety.

I am accustomed to the climate, the traffic, the food, the stark contrast between rich and poor, to being called a Muzungu, to speaking Luganda, and I’ve come to love it all. Could it really be over in November?

Alas, once again this has turned into a small novel and I haven’t said half the things I wanted to say. It must wait until the next time…

Weelaba,

Nicole

#10.5 - June 10th 2007

A day in the life…

His name is Junior. His skin is dark chocolate, almost midnight black. You cannot see the pupils of his deep brown eyes. He has the build of a typical twenty-something who sees regular time at the gym. He walks with confidence, yet has the air of a humble philosopher. Thoughtful, considerate, wise. He will be turning twenty-three before he begins his second year of Business Economics. He rises early to taxi to class, he returns late to the taxi park then walks the hour home to save the cost of transport. He arrives home to a zoo of young boys, practicing their trumpets, boxing, reciting school work, singing, praying. By the time he eats it might be 10pm. Rice and beans. Posho and peas. matoke and chicken on a good day. No after-school snack…no at-school snack on a bad day. Breakfast? How about some tea? The pressure of responsibility to his sponsor weighs on his shoulders. University in Uganda is only for the rich and the sponsored. Essays must be written, tests must be studied for, presentations must be prepared, but when, with twenty teenagers piling around your bed, needing your advice, craving your attention, looking to you as a father-figure. In the ‘winter’ of the night, that’s when. He sleeps atop his bed, a bed that sits crammed in a room with five other beds piled high to the ceiling, filled with upwards of ten restless boys. The chill night awakens him for studying around two or three, the only time to fill the brain with knowledge that will lead to a better life. He maintains an A- average but hopes to improve. He is taking courses I can barely pronounce. He is quick and witty and intriguing.

I have yet to learn of his history, of why he lives here with the boys – what happened to his parents? What are the thoughts that cross his mind as he climbs the long hill home each night? What disasters befell his youth? What struggles does he tend to above those I already know of? There are undoubtedly many. What does he fear? What does he love? To whom does he seek advice and support? This young man, on the surface so similar to me; a student, a sibling, loves to dance, loves to sing, loves kids, a passion for history, concerned about the state of the world, a big fan of smiling and laughter – underneath, the circumstances couldn’t be more opposed. His parents are not in the picture, he relies on the support of a faceless foreigner, his government would never put him through school as mine did. No car, no laptop, no sanctuary. I walked ten minutes to reach campus, he takes over an hour by foot and by taxi. I had the pleasure of rooming with two of my best friends, he contends with more than a dozen orphaned street kids. My A- average no longer carries the same meaning…actually it seems quite laughable. I honestly do not know how long I would last in Junior’s situation. I do not know if I am composed of the same fiber, the same strength. I imagine what I could accomplish if I applied myself with the same drive and determination.

~Nicole

#10 – May 31st 2007

We will, we will…rock them

Up until this past Saturday I could honestly say I had never seen a soccer game, not live, nor on television. I’ve always been a hockey girl, and other than a sincere appreciation for David Beckham’s model-esque appearance, I’ve never taken an interest in this phenomenon known as football to 90% of the world. Fervor began to grow around Uganda last week and soon Natalie, Peter and I discovered that an African League game was taking place in Kampala between Uganda and Nigeria, huge rivals. Both teams are composed of Ugandans and Nigerians who play for professional European teams, all of whom are hugely popular here in Uganda. The three of us decided to get tickets and thus began my first adventure into the crazy world of football.

We woke up early on Saturday to prepare for the big game. Down in Kampala we had a hearty lunch at Mateos, a cool little restaurant that serves delicious local food as well as Western style meals. As we ate we watched hundreds of taxis drive by, their drivers repeatedly beeping the horns, passengers screaming from the windows wearing yellow jerseys, blowing long yellow trumpets and waving their arms wildly. The city was pulsing with excitement for the big match. We were told to get to the stadium early because of the open seating, so we decided to boda there. Thankfully my boda driver was understanding, possibly he realized from my death grip on his shoulder that I would freak out if he went too fast. In essence his boda was a dirt bike. We weaved in and out of traffic, my legs grazing passing vehicles, my eyes stinging from the red dust, my heart beating excessively fast. Every car or boda that past us seemed to be piled with screaming fans, blowing horns and whistles, pumped for the big match.

We arrived at the stadium to even more pandemonium. Thousands of people were already streaming in at 11am, five hours before the game was set to begin! We found some decent seats and settled in for the wait. I had brought a book to keep myself entertained until the game began, but I didn’t even have a moment to take it from my bag. There was so much to look at; face-painted fans, live entertainment, preparations on the field, there wasn’t a moment of boredom. Several big-name Ugandan singers performed, and got the entire 50,000 capacity stadium to its feet, dancing and singing. I’ve never seen anything like it.

The first half of the game was fairly uneventful, with Nigeria scoring the only goal. The noise level in the stadium died down quite a bit, apart from the small section of Nigerian fans. The second half, however, was possibly the most exhilarating sports event I’ve ever witnessed. Long story short, Uganda scored two goals and played (according to my neighbor) better than they ever have, so driven, so fast, so skilled. It was a sight to see, and completely worth the…ahem…$20 ticket. Roughly a thousand times cheaper than going to an NHL game in Canada. To the shock of most in attendance, Uganda won the match, and as the seconds ticked off the end of the game, Natalie, Peter and I were taken aback as everyone started jumping from the stands onto the field! It was slightly scary at first, as we weren’t sure exactly what was going on, but our neighbors ensured us that it was how Ugandans celebrated a win and it would remain peaceful. Nonetheless, the riot police with their batons and guns surrounded the field, ready in case of a problem. Of course, there was none, just hundreds of extremely happy fans streaming in bright yellow across the field, dancing and performing acrobatics. I’ve really never seen anything like it in my life, and I don’t think my descriptions here can properly represent the euphoria in the stadium or the experience of being there.

We had to walk half way home, for about an hour, because traffic was at a stand-still as 50,000 people exited the stadium simultaneously. All the way back to Kampala Ugandans lined the streets, cheering and congratulating everyone that walked past. I’ve never given ‘props’ to so many people. Back in downtown Kampala we went to City Bar, where we ate delicious Chicken Tika Masala with rice and downed a couple of ice cold Nile while we watched the uproar on the streets. Eventually the fervor took hold of us and we too were hooting and hollering. We were invited to sit with a group of Ugandans, mainly local businessmen, who bought us drinks, taught us traditional Ugandan songs and made us feel like part of the celebration. All-in-all, a fantastic evening.

Go Uganda!

~Nicole

#9 – May 30th 2007

“He beat me. He resented me. He refused to help me. He died. I survived. I am alone. I survive.”

If I said the above to you, if you heard it from me, one-on-one, face-to-face, you would react. Possibly with dismay, disbelief, possibly with sorrow or anger. You would question why, and how, and who. You would ask if there was anything you would do. And you would be thankful it wasn’t you.

I just had a friend sit down with me, one-on-one, face-to-face, and tell me that story. A little longer, a little more detailed, a little harder to hear, but the same story, more or less. I felt dismay, disbelief, sorrow and anger. I did ask the questions of why (“because he did not like me,”) how (“with his fists and his boots”), and who (“my father”). There are a million things I could and could not do to help, and of course I am thankful it was not, and is not, me.

This story could belong to any of the boys. Being beaten, being resented, being unloved and uncared for. Surviving alone. Each one was walking destitute and hungry when they discovered the band playing in a field, a disheveled band of boys squawking on tubas and trumpets, playing songs about salvation. Each one approached Abbey with his own song, his own past and problems, and needs. Each time Abbey assessed the situation, researched the circumstances, and gave his final approval. Living arrangements, food, clothes, and a spot in the band were provided as per each child’s need. Some needed a place to sleep, some needed nourishment, some needed a family. All needed appreciation, understanding, and a place where they could just be. Where they could just be loved, be taken care of, just be teenagers. One by one I hear these boys’ stories and each time I find myself completely incapable of comprehending how they have survived, how they are the smiling, intelligent, charismatic characters that they are when they have experienced such hardships, as they continue to experience great obstacles and misfortune. They are pillars of strength that could teach Westerners a thing or two about complaining, about privilege, and about appreciation.

Every night this past week I’ve walked to the boys’ house. It has been more emotional than I bargained for. Mpola mpola (slowly by slowly) I get to know the boys better. I spar with Ronald, a sixteen-year-old weighing in at no more than 70lbs with a speaking voice that makes me melt. I share headphones and an appreciation for gospel with Eddy, lending him an encouraging gaze as he struggles with a stutter and the English language. I am tugged between Kimala and Robert, brothers eager to one-up each other. I am a fly on the wall when three of the boys jam with their instruments, one recording the event with my camera. I marvel at their dance moves when Akon’s new song comes on the radio. On the one hand I am these boys’ friend, with whom they can play with, be rambunctious and rowdy with, and just relax around. On the other, I am a confidant, someone who will listen to and record their personal story and positively reinforce they hopes and aspirations. I feel ill-equipped for such tasks, my heart does not seem nearly big enough to hold the histories of so many amazing children, so many of their stories heart-breaking and tortured. I can only try to offer them my friendship, my time, and my advice. Beyond that, they inspire me to further my education in order to orient my career towards international development, and do what little I can to achieve a more balanced position for developing nations such as Uganda.

When I am not with the kids, I sit in rapture as Abbey weaves for me a new lesson in Ugandan history and Museveni’s politics, while somehow entwining advice and inspiration, and making me feel like I am completely inadequate morally and intellectually. He is the sort of leader, the sort of teacher you dream about having but cannot believe exists. He takes all of your weaknesses, all of your faults and your unpleasant characteristics and tendencies and in one fell swoop is able to simultaneously heighten your awareness of your inadequacies while also convincing you of your ability to change them. The word inspirational does not begin to encompass this man.

To be single-handedly in charge of sixty-two young boys is a responsibility not many twenty-six year olds could handle. Although many of the boys are able to find some support with extended family, Abbey ensures that every boy has a home, a bed, food, and the potential to earn some money. Sponsorship for their schooling is the other top priority after the basic essentials. With a degree in social work, Abbey could easily find decently-paid employment and be working on making his own family, building a house, etc. Instead, he has chosen to dedicate his life to the lives of orphaned street kids. The other night he said to me, “Nicole, do you know what I pray for every night? I pray that God will not bring for me money, that he will not give me too much, for it is when you have too much that you forget the important things in life. That you forget the people, and struggles, you forget happiness and God. Once you have materialistic gain, you have an insatiable desire for more, and even when you die you will find that you are left unsatisfied. It can never be enough. So I want for less, I want for only the basic needs, and then I can be happy and have my faith.” I only hope that I can discover the same prayer within myself. To not want for more seems almost like an impossibility from the standpoint of a fortunate Canadian. We are practically bred to desire material achievement. I am not even sure how to dream for success in my career and separate that from the desire to have material gain, to want for the car, the clothes, the condo. I must be honest in this, there is no point in pretending I have no desire for these things, but I can imagine that the longer I spend here, the longer I can learn from these boys and from Abbey, the closer I will get to furthering myself from those things.

I was worried that once I graduated from University I would stop learning, but it seems that I am learning just as much here as I ever did in class, if not more. I think that while my experiences at university taught me many things, the education I receive here is deep and meaningful and will change me forever.

Until next time,

~Nicole

#8 – May 27th 2007

An education for me…an education for them…

There is no difference

not in the mind.

Circumstantial, yes.

Situational, yes.

Why do they call us so?

Thank you. Thank you to the circumstances that sent me here. Thank you for the road that led me to this place. Thank you for providing me with the courage to begin this journey and the motivation to see it through. Thank you God, thank you family, thank you friends. More and more every day I realize this is where I am meant to be at this time, in this place. In this, Africa. I have been searching for answers, even searching for the right questions, but I have to stop searching and start being and living and seeing and doing. I was trying to find out where I am suppose to be, where I can have a purpose, where I can feel like I am doing what I am meant to be doing. And the answer came to me today, from the mouth of a twenty-year old Ugandan wise beyond his years. “Necrol,” as they call me here, “you are meant to make people happy.” And for the first time I didn’t feel the need to question, to ponder, to deliberate and situate and configure. I simply knew that he was right, and so I found something that had never actually been lost, but simply hiding beneath layers of materialistic desires, status symbols, and self-doubt. Here in Uganda I believe I could indeed label my future aspiration as “making people happy.” Sometimes we run so hard and so fast to catch the thing that we want, we don’t realize that the only way to catch it is by standing still. Here in Uganda, I stand still in a sea of unfamiliar faces and intense eyes, listening to murmurs in Luganda, and do all that I can to remain standing when all I’ve been taught to do is run.

The past couple of days I have been spending most of my time with Grace and the African Heart boys. The experiences I’ve had with them inspired me and opened my eyes to some things I hadn’t thought of before, mainly the similarities and the differences between Ugandans and Canadians, between our circumstances, our lifestyles, our personalities and our desires. Let me start by saying more about Grace. Grace Wamala is twenty years old and although he looks much younger, his personality in “Canadian” years would put him at about twenty-six. He is quickly becoming a good friend, I can already tell it is going to be difficult to leave after spending several months getting to know him and all the other people I am meeting here. Before I knew his ‘story’ Grace made it quite clear that he wanted to get to know me more first. We went for walks, went for lunch, just hung out and talked, the same way I would with a new friend in Canada. He is so insightful, honest, and intelligent, things I began to see more and more of as we spent more time together. The reason I mention this is because I feel that sometimes in the West we are presented with this picture of Africans as these helpless, vulnerable, puppy-dog-eyed, ‘uncivilized’ people anything but equal to ‘Westerners’, but reality could not be any farther from the truth. Reality is the exact opposite of that statement: Africans are self-sufficient, resilient, and sharp, with an unparalleled determination and passion in their eyes. Yes of course there are those that are sick or dependent, and there are many of them, but these people persevere as they overcome hurdles a thousand times more difficult than anything we have ever been faced with.

When Grace was a teenager he lived with his parents and three younger brothers (who are now 16, 17, and 19). Tragically, when Grace was seventeen, his father died, leaving Grace to care for the entire family. His mother remarried and now lives in a small ‘house’ (all cement, no doors, tin roof, a couple of beds with foam, a fire pit) with her new baby (one year, five months), Grace’s brothers, and a few other children about whom I will speak of in a moment. Grace was not able to go to school and eventually ended up on the streets attempting in any way he could to provide for his family. I have yet to hear all the details. Grace’s grandmother has a small house in Kampala that she was allowing some street kids to stay in, and eventually Grace ended up staying there while he attended a near-by church and attempted to get his life back on track. Through his experiences on the streets he met a lot of children in similar situations, one or both parents dead, desperately trying to survive, and Grace decided that as his grandmother had done, he would like to find a place for these children to stay. His father’s house remained empty, in need of repair, and thus began Grace’s quest to start a sort of orphanage. A lofty and incredible goal for a nineteen-year-old with no schooling, no support, and certainly no money. Grace began sharing his story with members of the church, while orphaned children began filtering into his late father’s house. Slowly, he was able to match some sponsors from the church (mainly a few American and Canadian visitors) with the children, enabling them to attend school. At Grace’s grandmother’s house, a man named Abbey had formed his own program for street kids, that you now know as the African Hearts program. Two outlets for orphans or single-parent children who have no alternative forms of support and would not otherwise have a roof over their head, warm meals to eat, or the opportunity for an education (the most coveted possession in Uganda).

It is with these Abbey’s group that I am now involved. Thus far I am learning the details, getting to know the children, and discovering in what ways I can help. As I’ve previously mentioned, there are 62 African Heart boys, and I believe only 18 of them are able to attend classes. School is so ridiculously expensive here (in Ugandan terms) that it is only through sponsorship that any child without two successful parents can get an education. To give you an idea: there are three terms every school year, you must pay tuition every term, and additionally, in the first term you must pay for textbooks, school supplies, a school bag, one daily meal, a uniform, shoes, and school trips. Here is an estimate of the costs:

1^st term in Ugandan shillings

50,000 School Uniform (shirt, pants, sweater, t-shirt, tie) ($35)

20,000 Shoes ($14)

10,000 School Bag ($7)

30,000 Writing Material (notebooks, paper, calculator ($21)

17,000 Admission fee ($12)

150,000 Tuition (120,000 for lower grades) ($105 or $84)

2^nd term:

150,000 Tuition

3^rd term:

150,000 Tuition

Grand Total: 577,000 or 487,000 (divided by ‘1,430,” the current exchange rate)

= $400 or $350 per year

For a child with no parents, it simply isn’t feasible to get an education at these costs. For the African Heart boys, Abbey has provided a source of income with the brass band they have formed, as various organizations pay them to march or perform. Also, Partnerships for Opportunities is assisting in various ways.

After having learned of the situation both groups are in, I now want to take the time to get to know the kids involved. Natalie began taking down the stories of the African Heart boys, and when she and Peter head off to Kasese this Friday, I will continue where she left off. I will sit down with each boy individually and copy down word-for-word their story; where they came from, the obstacles they face, their family situation, whether they’ve attended school, their future aspirations, their hobbies and favorite music. Before I start getting into their personal histories, I really wanted to just hang out with them, get to know them as friends. The last two nights I went to the place where a lot of them stay and just ‘hung out’. I wish I could explain to you the time I had. I don’t know if it’s possible, and while I will try my best to describe it to you, I don’t think anything could compare to the experience of actually being with these boys.

As you approach the house where 16 of the boys stay there are usually a couple of ribby dogs running around or lying exhausted in the heat of the sun. Two goats bleat from their small abode in the corner of the red dirt yard. A thin path to the right of the house takes you to an open area (12x7ish) with a fire pit and all the cooking and washing pots. To the left is a couple of bedrooms, a hallway and a living room, to the right a room stacked full with bunk-beds, and Abbey’s office with all of the band’s second-hand instruments and tattered uniforms. In the boy’s room, where numerous boys share three-high bunk-beds, there is the wooden skeleton of a couch, a few posters on the cement walls, a small broken cd player and some sheets for privacy. No TV, no playstation or xbox, no stacks of magazines or model cars, no wallpaper or carpet. There are no windows, no doors, no mirrors or closets or dressers. The boys have never seen an ipod, but can sing every Eminem, Akon, Snoop Dogg and Chamillionaire (oh, and Celine Dion is a fav too, no joke!) song ever released. They have no magazines or TV stations but know of the O.C., MTV, Britney Spears and Brad Pitt. They have never owned a computer, but all have hotmail accounts and would sooner buy internet time at an internet café then eat lunch, in order to reach out into the world. They are lucky to have one pair of shoes, one outfit, and only dream of owning a Manchester United jersey (their favorite soccer team). Although they have none of these things, they know of them, talk far more articulately (in their second language) than most Canadian teenagers about them, and have no desire for anything but an education and a bright future.

I bring in my ipod, take a moment to explain how it works, and four of them are off sharing the ear buds, harmonizing to Akon’s “Don’t Matter”. Two of them are off with my cell phone playing the soccer game it comes with. One takes my camera and comes back with 161 new pictures. The rest pile around me on the ‘couch’ and I open iTunes. The boy on my left, Kimala (pronounced Chee-mala) is 19 and looks quite similar to Taye Diggs (mmhmm). He is the obnoxious loud-mouth of the group (although in a much more parent-friendly way than Canadian 19-year-olds), and although he wears tattered clothes, his personality is hardly represented by his surroundings. He is confident, cool and positive. He is anxious to sing local songs to me, which he then translates into English. So anxious is he that he constantly forgets I don’t speak Luganda, and continues to rail off in words I can’t understand. It is completely adorable, the girls would go crazy over him in Canada. To my right is Moses, also 19, with a strong jawline, the blackest skin, and very defined features. Gorgeous. I have thus-far pegged him as the down-to-earth, thoughtful one, kind-of the cute mysterious guy at the back of the classroom sort. I can tell we will be good friends. He asks me to sing and when the power goes out (pretty much every other day) I grab some nerve and give them my best rendition of ‘Killing Me Softly’ by the Fugees. They’ve never heard it before, but by the second chorus most are singing along. As we go through the songs on my laptop, some dance, some sing. I get much-coveted lessons in Luganda and we talk about easy stuff, about music and sports and Canada. The next night is the same, and always I get a ‘push’ home. Last night a total of five boys escorted me, one carrying my laptop, one carrying my bag, one dancing ahead with my ipod glued to his ears. The young Ronald holding my right hand, Kimala with his arm over my shoulders on my right. They joke about how as they walk me home people will assume them to be rich because they are with a white person, but when they walk back, people will see the reality, a ‘mangy bunch of street kids’. I tell them that I feel rich for having their friendship, that I see no difference – that we are equal but in our circumstances. They look at me and express gratitude with their eyes and say, “Weebale nnaybo, weebale.” Thank you, madam, thank you. It is a moment your mind may only attempt to envision, I will treasure it.

We arrive at the gates of Mengo hospital fifteen minutes later, I buy six Rolex’s (remember, the chapatti and egg rolls?) and as we wait, we sing and I teach Kimala a simple dance. He reciprocates with tango lessons. Of course. Did I mention they all speak French? I say sula bulungi and good night and go to bed disbelieving and thankful for all that I have learned, all that these “street kids” have taught me. Also, I question how I will reconcile these new friendships with what I will soon learn about their backgrounds, their history, their hard stories far beyond anything we can fathom in the comfort of Canada. How will I continue to be light and playful and fun once I have heard how their lives have been the opposite of that? How will I live with all that has been given to me in my life once I come to understand all that has been taken from them, and yet still deal with the fact that we all share the same passions, the same love of music, the same intelligence and wit and so many other characteristics and quirks?

As I learn and write more about the boys, I will, with their permission, include some of their e-mail addresses. If you ‘meet’ a boy you find intriguing, send him a message. I think we should break down barriers and borders every chance we get. You don’t have to write a novel, but if you have any questions for them or just feel like chatting, they are all great conversationalists.

~Nicole

#7 – May 25th 2007

The hunting and the dancing…

We began our Friday with an adventure in downtown Kampala. We were attempting to hunt down supplies for the beekeeping project, which ended up being much more of a fiasco than any of us had bargained for. The project is based in Bwera, which is a small township in the Kasese district; Natalie and Peter have been going out to this remote township, an eight hour drive from Kampala on the Congo border, and working with the local people there since 2005. There is a very high prevalence of HIV/AIDS in Bwera, which has had a devastating effect on the community. After Peter’s initial visit to Bwera in 2005, a school was created in his honor, now named the “Peter Hunt” school, as Peter discovered on his recent return to the town. Natalie visited separately the same year and after she left, another school was created and named after her. Peter and Natalie, two of the most humble people I know, are slightly embarrassed by the names, but recognize the sincerity of gratitude they represent. These two schools are mainly educating orphans who have lost parents to HIV/AIDS and cannot afford school fees. Since the creation of the schools, Natalie and Peter have been supporting them in ways that are sustainable for the community, with goat and beekeeping projects. With money raised from schools in Canada, specifically Quamichan middle school (Lanie, that’s you girl!), they have bought eleven goats for the community, and will be buying fifty more! Bwera also has a beekeeping project that Natalie and Peter began assisting. Right now we are in the process of finding a market for Bwera’s honey (specifically in Kampala), and are also working on utilizing the wax in a joint project between the African Heart boys and Bwera, where the boys will buy the wax and create candles to sell in Kampala. The purpose of our Friday excursion was to buy the materials necessary for candle-making.

This is how “shopping” in Kampala takes place: you begin with a treacherous taxi ride downtown (surprisingly, I am completely accustomed to it now, and every near fatality barely makes me blink), then maneuver your way through the thick crowds of Ugandan street vendors, business people, and loiterers, to the ‘shopping’ areas. Each road seems to have a set theme, whether it is kitchen supplies, household appliances, clothing, tools, etc. We needed two double-boilers, thermometers, two hotplates, candle wicking, a filter of some sort, and candle moulds. As you pass, Ugandans notice your searching eyes and inquire as to what you are searching for, “Oh, I see, candle, yes, inside the candle, yes yes, the wick! I will help you!” Then they run off to who-knows-where and magically appear with several packages of birthday candles, tea lights, stick candles, string, rope, and seven of their friends. I didn’t get the impression that the reason they were so incredibly helpful was because they hoped we would buy the stuff, they just had a genuine desire to help. It is exactly the same when you need directions. Ask a person where you might be able to find a thermometer and after several detailed instructions from everyone within earshot, you get offers for an escort to the destination. This is perhaps my favorite part of Ugandan culture, the genuine friendliness and eagerness to help, the true sense of community and the way everyone works together. I think a Ugandan would be quite disappointed if they suddenly found themselves on the streets of North America, a dark-skinned African in search of the nearest candle-wicking place, inquiring with a thick Ugandan accent to distracted, hurried, self-engaged passer-by. Obviously I am generalizing but I think to a certain extent it is a fair situation to pose.

Although everyone is so helpful and endearing, having actual success locating any of the items you hope to purchase on a shopping trip ends up being virtually impossible. We began at ten, looking for six items, and left frustrated and exhausted at five with three. I believe we walked through the entire city seven hundred times. Also, I managed to roll my ankle jumping out of the way of a boda-boda, and had to limp to the taxi park while carrying a double hot-plate, sweating profusely in the 26 degree heat, and dodging vehicles, people, and thick sludgy red mud. When we arrived back at Mengo we purchased 3 Nile beers, 2 mangoes (Nat is deathly allergic) and 3 samosas for the equivalent of $3 and felt much better about the whole situation.

Friday night we met up with some other Muzungus we’d heard were staying in Kampala. They were all Americans (cough cough), and thankfully only one was overtly ‘Laguna Beach’. It definitely took some more Nile to be able to handle some of the conversation and the way they talked to the server. After a good Ethiopian meal (mmm, gotta love eating with your fingers!) we ventured out to Stake Out, a local outdoor pub/club. The music was bumpin’ (I can hear some of you laughing at that statement), they had a DJ mixing hip-hop, reggae and dance beats, cheap drinks (less than $1/beer basically), and the best dancing I’ve ever witnessed. I called up Grace, one of the friends I’d made at African Hearts and he came down ‘to make sure I didn’t get into any trouble’. A few Niles gave me the courage to brave the dance floor, and all I can say is wow. Sorry to say, but Canadian guys do not know how to dance. Not compared to Ugandans. I’m sure most of you know what I mean.

Quite an exhausting day if you can imagine. It was lovely to wake up this morning lacking the ability to walk. The Nile temporarily made me forget I rolled my ankle, but my swollen foot quickly reminded me this morning. Lovely.

Until the next adventure…

~Nicole

#6 – May 24th 2007

Babies…and ethnic conflict

On the 23^rd, we went to Sanyu Baby Home, right below the hospital, where forty-six abandoned or orphaned children live. Some of these children, who range in age from four days old to three years old, were left on the doorstep of police stations, found alone on the streets, or dropped off at the home. We just went for a quick tour; I will be going back there again to spend some quality time with the children. It is heartbreaking to see tiny babies all in ramshackle cribs, with only a few caretakers to tend to them all. The home is run solely off donations and therefore has to make do with some fairly sub-par materials; broken toys, worn-out shoes and clothes, the very basic food necessities, and extremely low-paid (and some volunteer) staff. Amazingly, the home has been around since 1929, and has been raising small children and sending them off into the world for over seventy years. When I eventually return to Ugandan, I will definitely be bringing baby clothes, shoes, and toys for these kids. After cooing with the infants in their cribs we first visited the ‘crawling’ group, then moved on to the ‘walking/talking’ group, where we spent most of our time. As soon as we opened the ‘walking/talking’ group door we were bombarded by stomping toddlers, eager to touch and say hello. There must have been at least 15-20 kids running around, with three women to care for them all. Can you even imagine? One woman with responsibility for six kids, having to play with them, feed them, change them, day in and day out, for years? It’s a 24-hour job. I can’t even fathom how they do it.

On the morning of the 24^th, we rushed to the gates of the Buganda king’s palace, which is a five-minute boda-boda ride from Mengo Hospital. Yes, I rode my first boda, side-saddle. Great day to wear a skirt, Nicole. To say that I was terrified and making small girly noises the entire time would be a tiny understatement. The African Heart Boys marched in a parade to celebrate the king’s birthday. They looked great in their uniforms, marching down the main street, playing their hearts out. Peter took some videos with his new video equipment, which looks so professional someone mistook him for a reporter for the BBC! I took a couple of pictures, which you can see at:

http://uvic.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042809&l=7d8f1&id=122501804

Also, check out Natalie and Peter’s webpage for the boy’s singing and performing videos at:

www.partnershipsforopportunities.org

After the parade we had some matoke (tastes like mushed up yellow yam with a little bit of banana mixed in, not too bad) with beans and chapatti (a staple food in Uganda) and pop, for 3500 Ugandan shillings (approx. $2.50 split between the three of us). Back at the house I was introduced to our new roommate who is a doctor interning (think Grey’s Anatomy) in the surgical unit here at Mengo Hospital. He just arrived yesterday, having done a nine month placement in an IDP (Internal Displacement Camp) in Lira. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the situation in Northern Ugandan, there has been up until just recently a civil war raging in the districts of Lira, Pader, Gulu and Kitgum, plus a few smaller areas. The history of the region, and the sources of the conflict are quite complex and I will continue to write more on the subject as time goes on. For now, I will say just that that the rebel group fighting in the north, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), led by a man named Joseph Kony, has signed a cease-fire and peace talks are currently under way. The conflict has displaced hundreds of thousands of Acholi people (the ethnic group of the north), who are living in these camps that are similar to what you would call refugee camps. The conditions in these camps are deplorable; people are constantly getting sick from the water and unsanitary conditions, there is barely enough food, an extreme shortage of living space, and little medical assistance, not to mention the fact that people have absolutely nothing to do, and often idle time gives way to violence and higher rates of pregnancy. When my roommate was up there he dealt most often with cholera and various intestinal diseases. Also common (warning: not for the faint-hearted) were victims of LRA attacks, people who had their lips or ears cut off, who were in desperate need of surgery. The situation in the north, although the fighting has stopped (albeit who knows for how long), is beyond anything that I can personally understand.

My original reasons for coming to Ugandan, there are several, include an interest in the northern conflict. As many of you know, I took courses on African history and politics, and recently did a research paper on ethnic conflict and Northern Uganda. I hoped to make contacts here in Kampala that would eventually lead me to the north, where I could see the situation for myself, compare what I have learned to what I witness with my own eyes. After having talked with my roommate for only an hour I had a list of people and NGOs (Non-governmental organizations, who are the only agencies providing monetary and material support in the north) to contact. I hope to email these contacts shortly and see if there is an opportunity to give my assistance. Peter and Natalie are also interested in going, so I believe we will venture up there in July. This is a very exciting turn-of-events, and I am looking forward to finding out more!

~Nicole

#5 - May 21st 2007

Osiibye Otya? (How is your day going?)

For an hour today I played outside with one of our little Ugandan neighbors, Vicky. She speaks about as much English as I speak Luganda and therefore it was a very interesting test of our communication skills. We went through the English alphabet, colours, and numbers, and she laughed as I tried to pronounce some words in Luganda.

Here are some of the words I’ve learned (you can learn along with me!):

How are you? – Olyootya? à when pronounced, double vowels are prolonged

Thank you – Weebale (pronounced way-ba-leh)

Goodbye – Weeraba (pronounced way-la-ba à ‘r’s are pronounced like ‘l’s)

Pardon me? or Yes? – Wanji (pronounced wan-jee)

So there you go, your first lesson in Luganda! You can imagine how much I butchered those today.

The highlight of my day was going to visit the African Hearts boys. While Natalie discussed various projects Partnerships for Opportunity’s financing, I ventured off to talk to some of the boys. I spent a good deal of time with Matthias Mnlumba, a boy of maybe nineteen, who was quite inspirational. He began by asking me a lot of questions about my schooling, then some tougher questions such as who was my most favored African politician…my mistake for saying I knew something about African politics. I took the easy way out, “I recognize and respect the difficulties faced by the politicians of this region and would have to say that Koffi Annan for me represents a person in the political realm who’s heart was in the right place, but was faced with enormous, often insurmountable obstacles.” Matthias’ role model is Nelson Mandela, understandably, and although I have heard quite a bit about Mandela before, Matthias had a unique and inspiring position on him. Matthias gave me his e-mail address and I hope to be able to send you some of the things he has written; he is so eloquent and vibrant in his speech, and I read over some of the things in his notebook, which was also quite good. He has a determination and a drive to see change in Africa and believes his generation can and will be the ones to do it. This is coming from a boy who’s parents died when he was three, his uncle kicked him out when he was nine, and he lived on the streets of Kampala, alone, until just a couple of years ago when the African Hearts boys band welcomed him in and offered him some support.

While I’m standing there talking to different people, various boys will come up and shake my hand, say hello and ask me about my day. They shake hands much like teenagers do, and often continue holding my hand while we talk. One of the boys, Grace, whom I mentioned reminded me of my brother, asked if he could ‘push’ me home, which just means he’d accompany me home, so I pulled out my ipod and we listened to music and sang the whole way. We also had a really good chat about life in Uganda, and the differences between Uganda and Canada. Grace is studying to take the national exams in three months, and told me he studies Literature, Divinity, Physics, Chemistry, and History. While Grace and I were walking some Ugandans passed us and said something to me in Luganda that I didn’t understand, and Grace refused to tell me what they said, claiming it would upset me. Later he finally told me they had asked if I would marry them, apparently something a lot of Muzungus get asked, and that Grace thought was rude.

A rather uneventful night was followed by another adventurous day, as Natalie, Peter, Peter’s dad, and I set out for what was supposed to be a nice hour-long walk to a resort pool in lake-side town. This walk turned out to be four hours in 26 degree heat. I resemble a sun-dried tomato now, which is quite the opposite of pleasant. However, the pool was almost worth it; it is an Olympic-size pool surrounded by huge palm trees and green grass, with wooden lounging chairs all around, and servers to bring you whatever you wish. I felt more than a little spoiled. It was great to relax and read a book after the exhausting walk. The resort is actually where the Commonwealth Conference is being held in November, so the Queen of England will be staying there!

Thankfully we taxied home (which took about twenty minutes…maama nyabo!) and as I write this I have now had a good night’s rest and am about to head off to an orphan baby clinic. Will update you soon!

Weeraba!

Nicole

#4 - May 20th 2007

Death-defying drive…

First thing in the morning Natalie, Peter, Peter’s dad, Persis, her friend Sam and I all headed downtown to the new taxi park (there is an old and a new one, basically the same destinations) to find a ride out to Jinja. Jinja is a small, sleepy town northeast of Kampala, situated at the exact spot where Lake Victoria feeds the Nile. For those of you that didn’t know, Lake Victoria is the base of the famous Nile river, which runs north through Uganda, Sudan, and Egypt, and has various tributaries running throughout the African continent. The drive took about an hour an a half through a paved and potholed ‘highway’ of sorts, in a taxi with about 15 other people in it. I’ve just begun to get used to driving in downtown Kampala, and now I have to work on getting used to ‘highway’ driving, which is an even more extreme experience. Very similar to the feeling you get on your very first rollercoaster ride, there is a fear, a rush of adrenaline and a small amount of pure terror at various parts of the experience. We would pass on the right with huge trucks coming straight for us on a road barely big enough for two vehicles, we would pass on the left with large ditches inches from our tiny tires, we would fly at 140 km/hr down hills as the taxi shook and creaked and wobbled. I noticed myself praying for salvation several times. I attempted to distract myself with the beautiful countryside, by the intriguing roadside stands, by the dilapidated huts and naked babies running around, but alas, it was as futile as running in the opposite direction on an escalator.

We ate lunch in Jinja, where we were less than delighted by our bowls of dyed green rice with chicken bones dispersed throughout. Our own faults for going to a restaurant geared towards ‘Mazungos’. We slowly made our way down to the exact spot where Lake Victoria flows into the Nile, which was beautiful, but also very touristy. There were some American Missionaries there who were doing everything in their power to ruin the experience for me. One of the women was trying to buy a tacky knick-knack from one of the stands by the mouth of the river and was basically demanding a better price, “Look here, I am a Missionary, I don’t have money, I need a better price now.” It really turned my stomach. They were all so loud, bossy, and intrusive.

Walking through Jinja on our way back to the taxi stand, we passed many decapitated old colonial mansions. From the few pictures I took you may be able to imagine what the town would have looked like in the 40’s and 50’s.

I think the power is about to go off again, so I had better be going, bye for now!

~Nicole

#3 - May 19th 2007

The rollercoaster…

What is it that they say about an idle mind? Perhaps I’m getting confused with some other saying, but what I say is that it is dangerous and leads to less-than-positive thoughts and feelings. Between a busy morning with the ‘Saturday Club’ and an interesting night in downtown Kampala, I had a lazy afternoon which allowed for all sorts of ponderings about why I am here, what I am or should be doing, what my future holds and how this trip is relevant to that, and so on and so forth. I think I underestimated how different this all would be from the life I was used to living in Victoria as a student. There, I was surrounded by friends, and my family was a short drive away. I had control over where I went and what I did, I knew how to get around the city, how to get help if I needed it, and could chose to be independent or reliant depending on my mood. It was easy to ‘get away from it all’ by going for a hike up Mt.Tolmie, or be in the midst of people by planning a big night on the town. Here in Uganda that world ceased to exist.

I realize I’ve only been here for three days but I am completely and utterly dependant on Natalie and Peter. I can barely leave the house without them. Although most people here speak some English, I have yet to decipher the thick Ugandan accent and constantly have to ask for people to repeat themselves. Secondly, I cannot seem to figure out the money thing (big surprise there, it involves math), both because I don’t know which coins are what amount, and I have no idea if I’m paying a reasonable about for things. Thirdly, you can’t just leave the hospital compound where I live and go for a leisurely walk. You exit the compound right onto a busy road with dozens of taxi cars, matatu vans and bodabodas wanting to give you a ride; you must know where to get off because its not like they announce your stop, and road signs are few and far between. Natalie and Peter know the city so well, its completely impressive…I have a lot to learn. I don’t know what the food written on the menus represent so Nat and Peter order for me, and because of the whole money issue I can’t yet get food from the corner stands by myself. Also, I’m not entirely sure how safe it would be for me to go walking around downtown by myself until I get my bearings and can navigate the city, the people, and the ‘economics’ better.

The uncomfortable feeling that settled within me today stemmed from a situation at the Saturday Club this morning. This club is for children ages 3-17 who are HIV positive, in hopes of allowing them to socialize in an environment where they won’t be stigmatized. There were about 30 kids there today; they colored, sang songs, and played on the playground at the hospital. These kids were all far more shy than the African Heart boys, and it took me about an hour to work up a rapport with a few of them, which I did by ‘lending’ them my camera. One of the oldest girls did a solo singing performance and I was totally blown away – amazingly she came up to me after and asked if I could video record her, which I did…hopefully I can place the video on youtube soon. Two things stuck me during my time with these kids. They were asked to draw pictures of how they felt about HIV, and while I was sitting there drawing flowers and trees (I never claimed to be an artist people…) they began drawing coffins and writing things like, “My mom and dad died from AIDS,” and “My sister and I are the only ones left.” I wanted to feel deeply saddened by this, but honestly I feel so far removed from their situation it is impossible for me to understand their experiences and my tears would do little to comfort them. Instead I complimented their meticulous artwork and printing and happily answered their questions about Canada and my family. I tried to give them something positive rather than focus on the negative that they live with everyday. There were some other Mazungus there who were snapping away with their cameras, not even taking a moment to talk to the kids, colour or play with them, or even get close to them. After awhile one of them pulled out a bag of beaded bracelets (only for the girls) and told the children to get in line. The woman then practically demanded that I take pictures of her giving the bracelets out, “because the people who made them needed proof.” I politely declined. She was snappy and demanding of the children and there was a complete lack of compassion or altruism. Thus, you can imagine that for the rest of the day I had a nagging voice in the back of my mind questioning my motivations for coming to Uganda, reminding me that there are right ways and wrong ways to go about ‘helping’ people and that I had better choose the former if I expect to complete this journey in a respectable, decent manner.

Peter’s dad took us to an Indian restaurant for dinner, and boy was it ever ‘ritzy’; moist towelettes before your dinner, your chair tucked in for you, two servers just for your table, the best service I’ve ever had, and quite possibly some of the best food. For those that don’t know, there is quite a large Indian population in Uganda (although former president Idi Amin attempted to curb that trend), and wow, the Ugandans sure knew how to present an Indian dish. Walking home was the…interesting…part of the evening. At least every third person you pass says, “Mazungu, how are you? How is Uganda?” and smiles and waves. No one begs or cat-calls, or yells at all really, although there are hundreds upon hundreds of people lining the streets, lying on blankets, some with very small children sitting with them. Two things got to me. Having spent three day with my very young cousin Lina in the Nederlands before I came to Uganda, I got used to caring for a tiny baby, and realized what a work-load they truly are. Lina was fed and changed several times a day, and although she barely ever fussed or cried, she was still a lot of work for her parents to handle. I saw a mother tonight, homeless with only a blanket under her, breastfeeding a tiny baby on the street. I have no concept of how she even gets through a day. This next thing that I saw may be hard to read. As we walked on past the mother and I tried to deal with that in my mind, we walked up to a small form on the corner of a busy intersection. It was a child no older than 10 months completely alone, eating from a pile of dirt. I couldn’t even react, complete shock. Natalie and Peter looked around for some sign of parents and after about 2 minutes a young boy of maybe seven came over and scooped up the child. A seven year old and a 10 month old, alone on the streets, orphaned or discarded, everyone passing them by without a second thought. How do you even begin to deal with that in your mind? I don’t think you can.

I’m sorry if some of these stories seem difficult to read or seem familiar to things you’ve all heard before, I just think that it helps hearing it from someone you know, someone you can trust is telling you the real truth of the matter. I will tell the good and the bad and let you decide for yourself the problems and potential within Uganda. Although, that said, you will never truly understand until you come here. And even then, that may not even be enough.

~Nicole

May 18th 2007

Jambo! (Swahili for Hello!)

Today I got my first real taste of Kampala. Black fumes, street vendors, honking, four white people and what seemed like millions of Ugandans, languages I couldn’t understand, shouts of “American?” pronounced Amer-E-can, boda-boda’s and taxi vans coming within inches of each other, Ugandans weaving in and out of traffic barely being missed by the vehicles – pure chaos to a Canadian’s eyes, perfectly orchestrated by the Ugandans. The roads are clay-red and pot-holed, and it’s a fight to get up the street whist attempting not to hit other people or get hit by a passing car. Not only do cars come at you from a direction you don’t expect (British system remember) but because all the drivers are speed-demons they are passing on the wrong side. When you cross the road you basically take your life in your hands; if you get stuck between to Matatus and they get too close to squishing you, you have to bang on the side of the car. Lovely. Happened to me twice today.

The city was sticky and hot by mid-afternoon, I would guess 25 degrees with little wind. I came close to grabbing a pair of scissors and chopping off my hair, what was I thinking coming to Uganda with long locks, silly Mazungu (white person)! Most people smile and say Hi or Good Morning, everyone has curious eyes, as of course do I. Just as in any big city in Canada, you see all kinds of people, from the very poor, who lay on blankets on the street, selling old sun-bleached books, pens and bootlegged videos, to business people dressed in nice suits, briefcases in hand. Many women are dressed in beautiful African-patterned outfits, all have their hair and nails done and most wear heals.

Lots of stores sell bottled water, and you can easily hop into any bar and grab a nice cold Nile beer to cool yourself off. I was able to buy a cell phone today (absolutely everyone has one here), which cost me 90000 shillings, about $65 for a new Nokia.

Upon returning from downtown, we had a bit to eat before heading to meet the “African Hearts” boys. A typical meal from a restaurant includes rice with beans and chapati, which resembles a thin pancake, or fries and chicken drumsticks, or matoke (a banana-like paste) with groundnut sauce or goats meat. Corner stores carry more typical Western food, but not a very large variety. Street vendors have goat-kabobs, matoke, passionfruit, oranges and mangoes. Many people sell grasshopper, a yummy treat apparently. I’ll let you know once I’ve become brave enough to try it. So far I’ve enjoyed all the food, and wow is it ever cheap. A person could easily get by on $10/day and be quite satisfied.

Now for the best part of my day. Natalie, Peter and I walked to the place where the African Hearts boys stay. These boys, between the ages of 6-19, are all orphaned and live together under the care of a couple of young adults. I walked down a dirt road to where the boys were warming up their instruments (they have formed a brass band!), and immediately the boys started running up to shake my hand and introduce themselves to me, “Hello, nice to meet you, I am Moses, what is your name?!” It was unlike anything I’ve experienced. All these beautiful faces, all speaking perfect English with thick Ugandan accents, all wildly intelligent, sincere, and truly pleased to meet me. We’ve all heard the stories about the big brown eyes staring up at you, curious, perhaps a little shy, pulling at your shirt, instantly tugging at your heart, drugging up emotions – well, I was not emotional, shockingly. I was surprised. I will be completely honest although it may reveal my naiveté and show some hidden biases, but I could talk to these kids on a level I never imagined would be possible. Their English was fantastic (in many cases more proper than mine), their understanding of the world was expansive, and their familiarity with Western culture almost disturbing. I say disturbing because there are certain things I had hoped wouldn’t take root, such as pop-culture (they decided to call me Nicole Kidman, oh jeeze!).

We had to walk to a nearby school in order for the boys to perform and I instantly had two boys on either side of me holding my hands all the way there, apparently a typical Ugandan thing. Briian on my left is a sweet, soft-spoken 14 year-old who plays the trumpet, and the boy on my left is 19, plays the drums, and is ‘Mr.Slick’, a smooth-talker, extremely smart, already asking if I want to go clubbing (I thought he was 16, and far too much like my brother – Scott, you would have been instant friends!). The boys asked me so many questions; What is Canada like, how big is Victoria, are you religious, what denomination, what did you take in school, what do you want to be in the future, how long are you staying, what do your parents do, what are your siblings like, do you like boxing or play football, what is your favorite football team, and on and on. For two hours at the school we talked and laughed, sang Akon songs, they rubbed my arms and compared our skin, they put on an amazing performance and wowed us completely! Natalie and Peter recorded a demo CD for them and hopefully I’ll be able to send a copy to Canada shortly.

Must get going, talk to you all soon,

~Nicole