#25 – July 15th 2007

Footballer…

Today I played. And played, and played. Oh boy, did I play. I played until you could barely determine where the red dirt ended and I began. As I mentioned before, I had never watched a football (soccer in Canada) match, and that lack of experience extended to my ability to play. It had been decided that I would learn to play on Sunday, when the boys were free from band functions, allowing them to dedicate hours (and hours and hours) to teaching me the skills of their preferred sport. I donned shorts and sneakers and headed out to the field kitty-corner to the boys’ house, usually their band practice field, converted for football games on weekends. The next hour and a half was dedicated to the delicate art of kicking, receiving, and “piggy-in-the-middle” type games. These boys were mini-Manchester-U players in the making, dancing with the ball like professionals. Little David Beckhams with a tan. A small break and it was time for the big game. Apparently I was deemed ready. Several missed passes, one painful cleat-toe collision, and many streams of sweat later, I was a dirty and determined footballer, albeit on the verge of exhaustive collapse.

There was a noted difference between playing football with the African Heart boys and guys in Canada. I’ve played a lot of basketball with guys back home and always felt like I was completely invisible. Granted, I’ve never been up to their skill level, but I also wasn’t ever given a chance to show what I had to offer. My confidence level dwindled as it became obvious they had zero confidence in me. Playing yesterday was a different experience. Although the boys were quite resolute in their desire to win, they didn’t hesitate to pass to me, to include me in the game. They complimented each other on good passes or moves, and although it didn’t happen very often, I was included in that as well. At times it turned playful, with guys picking me up to move me away from the ball, but all-in-all I felt like I was as much a part of the game as them. They never made me feel stupid or inadequate. I had an absolute blast. Granted, I fell twice and scrapped up my hands, I have a hole in my sneaker from a cleat, and my legs were plastered in red dirt I have yet to be able to scrub out, but my grin was ear to ear.

After four hours of playing the sinking sun forced us to pack up. The game was called a draw. Robert and I ran to buy some fruit juice and muffins for the boys. Back at home we all plopped down exhausted on the bunk beds and divided the refreshments. I’d gotten enough for the players but hadn’t planned for ten other boys to be home. I was once again surprised (although by now I should be used to it) to see twenty-five boys share food and drinks for ten without a complaint, ensuring everyone had an equal share, so polite, so appreciative. I spent the rest of the evening in satiated reverie, feet kicked up, head against David’s shoulder, tapping my fingers against the floor to the beat of Bash’s guitar, reminiscing about the game, chitchatting and joking with the boys.

~Nicole

#24 – July 10th 2007

Me and da-Nile…

Natalie, Peter, Lindsey, Andrea, Mark, and I decided to throw caution to the wind (or the water, I suppose) and attempt to raft down the Nile. Apparently the most superb white water rafting in the world, the Nile hosts hundreds of exuberant rafters each year, most of who have previous rafting experience in their home countries and are looking for the ultimate trip. My previous experience count stood at zero and my desire for the ‘ultimate trip’ hovered somewhere around the same area. But having blabbed on about living life outside the home, doing things that scare you, etc., etc., I thought it would only be hypocritical to sit safely at home while my friends risked their lives in the treacherous Nile rapids. Gulp.

An hour bus ride brought us to Jinja, the source of the Nile (from Lake Victoria), and the location of “ White Water Adventure Tours,” our guides for the day. Here, we dropped our bags for when we would return to spend the night later that evening, and gobbled down a hearty breakfast courtesy of the lodge. We were led outside to pick out helmets (this is where reality started setting in…We need helmets?) and life-vests. Ten inflatable red rafts piled high on a trailer; 60 energized twenty-somethings piled into the back of a truck. And we were off. Twenty anxiety-building and bumpy minutes later we were hauling our rafts and ourselves into the not-too-cold Nile waters, most people pumping their arms in the air, yelling in anticipation. Here, the water was calm, lapping gently against the shore. If I could have known at that moment how much I would yearn to return to such peacefulness. If I could have known the deception of this tranquil water.

Our personal guide, Henry, a humble, relaxed Ugandan started things off slowly, teaching us paddling techniques, pointing out various landmarks along the shores. My heart was at ease, the sun kept us warm poking from behind small clouds. I was tricked into thinking I had made a mountain out of a mole hill. A small rapid approached, so similar to every rapid I’ve seen along the Chemainus or Cowichan river. Nothing we all haven’t tubed through before. Quietly, Henry mentioned that now we should jump off the raft and swim through the rapid. To get used to the currents, and being sucked under water, in a low-stress situation. Excuse me? I had about two seconds contemplation about “being sucked under water” when Henry pushed me off the side and down I went. Under, under, under. “If you fall out during a rapid run get yourself into the crucifix position if you can. If not, let the water take you and rest assured that you will surface in enough time to catch a gulp of air,” I remembered Henry explaining earlier. I failed to “rest assured” but thankfully I did pop up seconds later, only slightly unnerved. I struggled back into the boat, lifejacket stuck awkwardly around my neck, tank-top and shorts clinging, wet. We all helped each other into the raft, traded moments of dread, apologized for kicking/ swimming over/pumping into each other in the first moments of confusion. That was a Grade 1 rapid, according to Henry, and would be the easiest of the day. Of course, we wouldn’t be swimming through the rest, instead attempting to make it through without flipping the raft. Flipping the raft? Oh Lord, I should have watched the video on rafting before jumping headfirst into this little adventure. Henry announced that now would be a good time to purposely flip the raft, to practice being stuck underneath and having to swim your way out. I would have to say that at this point those of us in the boat who hadn’t rafted before took our last easy breath, had our last regular heart beat and proceeded to move towards sheer terror for the remainder of the 8-hour day.

Two practice runs and Henry determined our group of six was ready. All ten groups effortlessly maneuvered the Grade 2 and Grade 3 rapids that lay ahead. Our fourth rapid, known as the G-spot, was a Grade 4. Looking at it, 200-meters of frothy white water pirouetting ten feet in the air, angry and chaotic, smashing against rocky peninsulas, made me nauseous. Two people in other rafts decided they were done for the day. We all floated in the calm waters, wide-eyed and silent, listening to the guides explain that we should not try to swim if (aka: when) we get thrown from the raft. That will only lead to things broken and bruised. Okay then. The first group went; we watched as they paddled furiously into the rapids, caught the first wave and were immediately bounced from the raft, thrown randomly into the torrents of water. Perched eagerly on the edge of the raft attempting to see if anyone popped up I almost fell overboard as Henry pushed us out toward the G-spot. I was about to discover there was nothing pleasurable about this experience.

We paddled as if to win an Olympic medal, knowing this increased our chances of successfully riding the wave through the rapid. Yes! We caught the wave and swiftly flew above the perilous storm below. Suddenly the nose of our raft seemed to be traveling higher than the rest of the boat and I realized with horror that we were flipping in the air, a rollercoaster destined for a fiery crash. I dropped from the capsizing raft, fetal position into the white rapid below, my body ripped in seven directions at once by the conflicting torrents. Under for fifteen seconds with no reserve of air to get me through. Blackness as my head ripped left to right, my neck snapping. I prayed only for air. I had no thought of rocks, of broken bones; just air. Ten more seconds and my lungs screamed. Like someone was siphoning oxygen with a tiny needle I needed air. Up for one gulp of watery air, down again. Aching arms, aching legs. Abs torn like a million sit-ups. The last five seconds and relief when my head crashed into the side of my overturned raft. No Henry, no friends, just one lone paddle floating calmly by the boat. I discovered the rest of my crew in another boat nearby, all exhausted, worried about how long I’d been gone. I’d bourne the brunt of the rapid’s contempt with intrusion.

Each succeeding rapid was a repetition of the same yet completely different in its approach. None were as bad for me personally. We all took turns living through the panic. We flipped on every single rapid, Grade 4, Grade 5, Grade 6. Grade 6 evoked a fear within me I had never experienced. A fifteen foot waterfall at the end of a succession of treacherous rapids. More people decided not to partake. They climbed out, hiked down the shoreline, through locals gathered for the show. The only thing holding me in my seat was the rest of my group sitting steadfast in theirs. We were sheer determination; or rather, they were and I was trying my ought most to fake it. I don’t know how, but we survived. Elation and exhaustion at the end of our journey down the rapids of the Nile. And at the finish line, an ice cold Nile beer and a game of Frisbee to unwind. I felt courageous, jovial, satisfied. And like I would have to wait at least another year before trying anything so death-defying again.

~Nicole

#23 - July 7th 2007

Conservative Miracles…

I’ve been hesitating to write about this particular story because I know my own personal biases will really stand out. There are certain people I won’t even be able to send this entry to. Please try to read it with an open mind and know that I can only write how I feel about a particular situation and I am not necessarily telling you how to feel about it. Religion is always a touchy subject, and has been the root cause of so many problems across the globe. If you have any doubt about this, just read up on news in the Middle East. Here in Uganda religion is less of a contentious issue because almost everyone is religious. What I mean to say is that whereas in Canada people seem hesitant to talk about religion, here it is a part of almost every conversation. I failed to mention this earlier simply because my opinions on the matter will differ greatly from those who read these e-mails and I really don’t want to offend anybody or force my opinions down anyone’s throats.

Let me begin from the beginning. When I first arrived in Uganda I noticed “Praise Jesus” signs everywhere; on the back of taxis, in people’s shop windows, on clothes. Music playing in the shops was either 90’s pop or gospel. There are as many churches in Uganda as Starbucks in Seattle. It seems like everyone is either born-again, Pentecostal, Catholic, or Muslim. For the most part people respect everyone’s right to choose their own denomination. When I moved from the original place I was staying, up to Jjaja Gwen’s guest house (at the top of the hill Mengo Hospital is perched on), I moved in with a family from Victoria that is ultra-religious. They prayed before every meal, every sentence started with, “and Jesus said…” or “praise to God…” It was a little overwhelming. Unlike at home, where if you don’t attend church it is rare to hear about such things, religion was exploding in my ears twelve hours a day. Although I was baptized Catholic and converted to Baptist in high school, I have now made a personal decision to carry out any spiritual quests as an individual. I have lost a great deal of my faith in everything church-related; from their historical crusades and missionary exploits, to their current politics regarding human rights. To live in a house where most of the inhabitants believe in the opposite ideal is quite trying. Needless to say, I spent a lot of extra time at the boys’ house.

I have attended several churches here in Kampala, mostly accepting invitations from Ugandan friends. I am always amazed by the beauty and magnitude of these palaces. The services are always elaborate: the choir angelic, the sermon ear-splitting, the congregation overtly enthusiastic. Eddy took me to Miracle Center, a praise-the-Lord, dancing-in-the-aisles, trembling-on-the-ground type church where the animated pastor performs “miracles” on people who are able to donate an appropriate amount of money. I was aghast when not once but five times the pastor called for donations for this or that during the service. I surveyed the audience, mainly impoverished locals in their mismatched Sunday best, praying for salvation from their daily struggles, for a better job, for healing, for hope. I shuddered as women and men approached the alter, apparently suffering from HIV/AIDS, apparently healed after the pastor smacked them on the forehead and two men dressed in pure white suits caught them as they fell backward. Eddy whispered to me that his ulcers had been healed this very same way. I wondered how much that cost him. The first Sunday I attended, the pastor called on anyone who could afford to donate $1000 to come forward for a special prayer. Come forward they did. Seven of them. The second Sunday I attended the pastor announced the purchase of a brand new keyboard for the church, worth…$7000. What a coincidence. Sunday after Sunday the schemes continued. He preached about tithing, about material gain, about paying for prayer, about money, money, money. I felt more and more sick.

After some digging I discovered that the pastor is now one of the largest Ugandan landholders. That he and his wife drive Porsches. That they live in a mansion which, if the Queen is unsatisfied with her hotel, will be the second choice for her accommodation when she comes in November. I cringed to discover several of the boys attend this church. I got into the habit of leaving after the initial worship. The service beings with a half-hour performance by various local groups; large choirs, single acapella performances, break-dancers. You name it, they’ve got it. The sound system, paid for by ‘donations’, is out-of-this-world. I would pay to see this concert. I wouldn’t, however, pay a dime in the form of a ‘donation’ and will do my best to convince the boys to do the same. Its horrifying to think of the way this church, and many others, are exploiting these people.

All of that said, there is a lot of good work being done by churches all over Uganda. If not for many of this missionary-types, a lot of schools and hospitals would not be in existence. There is definitely a good to go along with the bad. I am continually torn though, because it seems like the negative is constantly outweighing the positive. Along with abusive churches, there are several other glaring problems. Overwhelmingly, Ugandan churches preach abstinence. It is quite obvious that teenagers and adults alike are having as much sex here as their counterparts do in Canada or anywhere in the West for that matter. You cannot stop it from happening in the West, nor can you stop it here. Therefore, it is my personal belief that you must also teach the fundamentals of birth control, protection, and family planning. Most churches condemn this, while the pregnancy rates and prevalence of HIV/AIDS continues to climb. Because of the country’s religious tilt, abortions are illegal. A lack of education causes most women to think birth control will rot their insides. Misinterpretation of the bible has allowed a great majority to believe men hold a higher importance and status than women, which also has many dire consequences. Instances of abuse and rape are commonplace. Women are expected to occupy servantile positions within the household. Oftentimes men have more than one wife, spreading disease and an overabundance of children across a resource-stricken country.

I find myself completely frustrated by a phenomena that in its essence is supposed to be about respecting a higher power, appreciating nature and humanity, and behaving in a responsible, loving manner. Religion has turned into a controlling, demanding, restrictive set of rules and practices no one can hope to abide by. Where it should unite it divides. Where it should heal it harms. Altruism is replaced by fraud and trickery. Generosity by greed. It teaches subjugation and submission instead of equality and empowerment.

My small trip allowed me to gain some perspective on issues surrounding my frustrations with religion and the church, but I was thrown right back into the fray upon my return. A few days after I arrived back from my trip, a group of people arrived from Dallas, Texas. Their church sponsors the African Hearts organization. From what I could deduce, three of the men were pastors and had come with their wives and three of their children (girls around my age). They all seemed friendly and anxious to meet me. I hung back and watched them interact with the boys and it appeared that they had genuine affection for them. They brought the boys new trumpets and drums. Their plan was to stay for a week, giving the boys lessons in jewelry-making and preaching to them about ‘relationships’ for two hours a day. The first day I watched as the women taught a couple of the boys how to make certain kinds of earrings and necklaces with supplies they had brought along. I was drawn away by the pastor’s booming voice coming from the living room. The pastor had gathered most of the boys, about thirty of them, ranging in age from eight to twenty. I was quickly stopped from entering, “this is only for boys, ma’am,” I was told in a thick Texan drawl. Okay then. I’ll listen secretly outside the door, no problem. Here’s what I heard:

“First, I should tell you its important to respect a girl. Your role is to be kind to her, protect her and provide for her….Only associate with other Christians, they are the light and the way of the Lord. If you have a girlfriend, she needs to be a Christian. If you do have a girlfriend there are only certain things you can do with her….So now boys, you know where its appropriate to touch a girl, right? Nope, not there. Nope, not there either. Lets just keep it above the neck. Yup, that’s the only place ya’ll should be venturing. Anything else leads to temptation. Its just like walking to the edge of the cliff; you’re much less likely to fall off the edge if you don’t go anywhere near it. And as for hugs (he gets one of the boys to stand up, I assume); keep a foot-length between you and just pat her back. If you get to close you might get excited and that would be wrong….What about kissing you ask? A peck on the cheek might be okay, but boys, you stay away from anything else. Certainly don’t get your tongue anywhere near that girl. You know what that can lead to. Lead us not into temptation, the Bible says. Now, does anyone have any questions? (One of the boys asks about condoms) Boys, condoms break, or fall off, they just aren’t safe. Best we just stick with abstinence. You treasure the gift God gave you and wait for marriage. Now, listen here, these girls are very manipulative, they might try to convince you that you should have sex with them. They might try to trick you. Girls these days are very aggressive, putting their hands all over you. But you just get the power of God in you and tell her no. I guarantee you that if you tell her to stop and you both pray, you won’t go any further. Now, girls are always very emotional and they will probably cry, but you just have to know that God is with you, He’ll get you through…”

At this point I had to stop listening. My jaw hurt from how hard I was clenching it. For starters, provide for and protect women? What about treating us as equals? What about working together in partnership, in compromise, equally providing for the family? What rock has this guy been living under? This is a bright, impressionable young generation of Ugandans he’s speaking to, a generation that is poised to change their country’s situation, to bring their country forward into a new era of equality, sustainability, and well-being. He’s preaching inequality, division, and dysfunctional relationships. He’s telling twenty-year-olds not to touch a girl below the neck. He’s telling eight-year-olds to provide for girls. Your damn right that’s going to make me emotional, in a fire-breathing-dragon sort of way.

Thankfully, the younger ones probably couldn’t decipher most of what he was saying due to the thick accent and the speed at which he was speaking. The older ones probably, hopefully, realized he was slightly out of touch with reality. I took it upon myself to sit down with a couple of them for a heart-to-heart, to see what they really thought of his talk. First of all, the boys belong to a wide variety of religions, not all are Christians. So right off the bat, they disregarded his advice about only befriending Christians. I was quite aware that many of them have girls who are friends, and some also have girlfriends. I told them that it is perfectly healthy to do certain things, and dangerous to do others. I warned them about the consequences of their actions, but versed them in precautionary measures ‘just in case’. I would rather they be equipped with all the information, and hope against hope that they make smart decisions, than betting on their restraint and having to deal with an unwanted pregnancy, or a positive HIV-test. I gave them some of my own anecdotal stories to show them that I relate to their various situations, and told them that I am always here for any advice they may need, no matter what the topic. Kimala, one of the boys I had spoken to, came up to me afterwards and said, “Nicole, as long as I live, I’ll never forget what you’ve said to us and I’m going to listen to every word you said. Thank-you, sister.” And I believed him.

The final straw occurred when one of the girls from Texas took me aside and inquired about my religious beliefs. What exactly did I believe in? What were my intentions for the boys? I could tell I’d thrown her when I explained I wasn’t attached to any specific church. “Oh really?” she exclaimed in her thick drawl, “well that’s just…hmmm, well, I’ll pray for you girl.” I explained how some of the churches’ beliefs went against my own. Unfortunately I think she misunderstood me, judging from her response; “I too have had great difficulties with the tough issues, but ya’ll know that things like abortion and lesbianism are sins and lead you straight to Hell. So I just trust my Bible and carry on.” I think the blank look on my face caused her to hesitate. “I just keep tellin’ the Muslims at my school that they need to find Jesus, and I tell my lesbian cousin in California that I pray she changes her ways.” At this point I was having to bite my lips in order not to blast her with a rebuttal more shocking than the first detonation of “shock and awe” her ultra-conservative government deployed on the Iraqi people. I’m sick of the unrealistic attitudes, I’m sick of the divisionary tactics, of the fear-mongering, the superiority complexes and the misinformation. People have lost sight of reality in their quest to be the best, to be the group that “got it right”. We’re all human. We were all created equally. I refuse to support anything or anyone that teaches anything different. I can only hope that these boys will be influenced only be those who feel the same, and will have the intelligence and insight to recognize those who don’t.

~Nicole

#22 - July 3rd 2007

Mending the heartbreak…

I first found out about Robert’s family situation a couple of weeks ago and have been working hard to find solutions since then. At first it was devastating to discover all his family’s problems, but with a little encouragement from my family, friends, and from Abbey, I’m feeling more hopeful.

Abbey had a meeting with Robert’s mother in order to get more information, information I was unable to get due to my lack of fluency in Luganda. He discovered that she has been enrolled in a free HIV treatment program at a near-by hospital. This program provides her with free medication and check-ups, and also sends someone to check up on her weekly. I will make a visit to the hospital to ensure she is able to get proper care. Abbey said that she was very concerned about the time she had left; whether she would be able to continue providing for her kids, whether they would survive once she was gone. She confessed that she worried about Kimala, her eldest son. He is making his third attempt at completing Primary 6. He is not performing well at school and is constantly getting himself in trouble. He lies. He is disrespectful to his mother and cruel towards his siblings. He’s beaten up Robert on several occasions. His mother is quickly losing faith and trust in him. She is deeply concerned that when she passes he will suppress the other children and become a tyrant.

This paints a fairly bleak picture of Kimala, a boy I have previously described as “confident, cool and positive…the girls would go crazy over him in Canada.” Let me try to explain. Kimala is an actor, an actor that plays multiple parts in the play of his life. To me, he is suave, charming. He fronts self-assuredness, giggles bashfully in uncomfortable situations. He walks a tight-rope line between confidence and embarrassed anger. If Robert is around us, he’ll bite his lip to keep from yelling at him in my presence. He never speaks to Robert in English in front of me, only stern Luganda. I pick out a few words and realize why he avoids English. It is difficult for me to accept his ulterior personality, I really haven’t witnessed it. But its there, and it is venomous. He’s a poor influence for Robert. Abbey worries about him failing a third time at school, his next option being an apprenticeship. I understand his mother’s concern. This is one part of the equation I have yet to elucidate. One of my family members at home has similar attitude problems, never mind the addition of being poverty-stricken and orphaned.

Abbey said that Robert’s mother has all the faith in the world in her other son. She recognizes Robert’s intelligence, his special spirit. I’m beginning to believe he got it from her. She trusts him implicitly. She leans on him often. She has so many hopes and dreams for him. As do I. Here, my family will step in to help. My mom, desperate to help relieve this family of their extremely difficult burdens, has offered to sponsor Robert through his schooling. We’ve already drawn up plans to switch Robert to a better school, buy him a new uniform, purchase new books and school supplies, ensure he is introduced to the best teachers. He will begin Primary 5 in February 2008 refreshed, rejuvenated. With new hope. I haven’t seen a happier face than the one smiling back at me when I told this to Robert.

Sponsoring Robert will relieve some of his mother’s burden, unfortunately its not nearly enough. Abbey inquired about her work; she sells maize on the road-side, but this is seasonal. She also marinates and cooks cow’s lung to sell on the street, but Uganda’s supply of cattle is dwindling, and thus so are the business opportunities. She is currently looking into other areas of work, and with Abbey’s assistance we are hoping to successfully brainstorm other options. That said, regardless of whether we can create income-generating alternatives, she is still very sick. She shouldn’t actually be working at all. If there was any sense of fairness in the world, this extremely hard-working, dedicated mother of three would be in a comfortable hospital bed getting properly cared for, her family taken care of by other family members and friends. The reality is that her kids are all she has left, her manual labor their only method of survival. The extended family took all of her deceased husband’s possessions and left her without enough money to bury his body. Left her with three kids, alone.

Abbey came back from the meeting as upset as I had been from my first visit. He described Robert’s mom as humble and sweet. He said there was something special about her. Something rare. The work she has done to keep her family afloat is phenomenal, he said. He has seen more than a few mothers drop their kids off at his doorstep, women whose situations haven’t been nearly as bad as hers. That she has nearly completed the family’s house is incredible, that she manages to send her children to school beyond belief. Abbey is taken by her. “She’s extra-ordinary, Nicole. Extra-ordinary.”

After discussing everything with Abbey and my parents, we’ve decided my family will ‘sponsor’ Robert’s family. We will enlist in the help of the African Heart boys and get the rest of the house built. We will remove one of the tenants in order to free up one more room of the house for living space. The beds will be moved into the extra room, mosquito nets bought and put in place. The other room will become a kitchen/sitting room. I will ensure they receive enough money each month to make up for the lost tenet. Fundraising in Canada will buy new clothes to replace the rags they are all wearing. It will also buy food. I discovered yesterday they have been going without breakfast and lunch for weeks. A friend in Canada is preparing a will, to ensure the house goes to the children in the event that Robert’s mother succumbs to her disease. It will stipulate that the house is not to be sold until the youngest child has reached the mature age of twenty. Hopefully Kimala will have a good head on his shoulders by this time. This week I will be speaking with a female social worker in hopes that she will be able to talk to the mother and Robert’s sister, find out how they are both dealing with this situation as women, to see what kind of extra needs they may have. Also, I have a friend that runs a similar program to African Hearts, but for girls; I plan to speak with this woman to determine whether Robert’s sister would have a place at her home should her mother pass.

Last night I took Robert out for dinner and explained some of these things to him. As per usual he understood everything perfectly and had some interesting and helpful suggestions of his own. He worried about burdening my family financially. He didn’t eat a single morsel that day and was concerned about my family. Is it coming across just how amazing this kid is? I hope so. As we walked home, he passed me a note. In bed that night I opened it; a sweet, sweet letter and beautiful drawing of Robert and I, both donning our country’s flags proudly. The letter was full of thank-you’s and appreciation. I really can’t explain how badly I want to help this boy, help his family. Help give him some of the comfort that I had every day of my life growing up.

~Nicole

#21 - July 1st 2007

Heartbreak…

I lay here a top the sheets, the warm midnight air drifts in with the moonlight. The mosquito net falls around me, a flickering candle casts shadows. My eyes are heavy but my heart is heavier. I want desperately for this burden to be lifted but it only gets heavier with the knowledge that this situation will probably continue to get worse. Today my heart broke, not in the usual way, but in a new way I never thought possible, a way I never imagined. This isn’t your typical love-lost broken heart, its more desperate, unmendable, a deeper wound.

Robert, my little brother here in Kampala, my sidekick, confidant, and translator. Perhaps the most intelligent and thoughtful twelve-year-old I’ve ever met. He tells me which boys he trusts and why, he tells me who he feels is genuinely good, who is callous; he is constantly evaluating, assessing. He appreciates honestly, generosity and compassion in those he calls friends and won’t stand for ego or insolence. He tells me not to give him anything because “that’s not what our friendship is about.” He tries to hide his fears, his problems, because he says he’d rather see me smiling. Today, despite his efforts, I discovered some of those problems.

I found him in the afternoon at the boys’ house, unusual because he has school during the day and goes to his mother’s house for lunch. Kimala, his older brother, explained that Robert had been excused from class because he wasn’t wearing proper black shoes. Uniforms are strictly enforced in Ugandan schools; after several warnings for improper apparel you are not allowed back at school. Concerned that Robert would miss even more school, I decided to go visit his mother to see why she hadn’t gotten him proper shoes. They cost 10,000 shillings here ($6.50); expensive for a single parent but not impossibly so. I had visited his house on one previous occasion, met the lovely woman who provides for Robert, Kimala, and their seven-year-old sister Judith.

Today I arrived to find Robert’s mother curled up on a wooden ‘sofa’, skinny and sweating, offering a wavering smile, too weak to stand. I had never entered Robert’s house before and was shocked with what I saw. Other than the emaciated appearance of their regularly chipper and bright mother, the state of their living quarters was appalling. When Robert’s father died in 2004 of HIV/AIDS he left Robert’s mother with three children and an unfinished house. Robert’s mother was able to finish constructing three quarters of the house but had to stop for lack of funds. She began selling maize in order to provide each child with school fees and was forced to rent out three of the four rooms of the house to pay for food. The remaining room, 10x10, now houses the four of them, the kitchen supplies, clothes, one bed and a mattress. All their earthly possessions.

While I was away on my trip Robert’s mother fell ill and was unable to keep up with her regular tasks. I found the cramped room in an unlivable state. In the left corner a broken bed frame hosted piles of dirty clothes and a toppling mountain of unwashed pots and pans, a haven for flies and small rodents. In front of this unusable bed a rolled up foam mat leaned against two ancient suitcases. Kimala informed me that the foam mat, covered in a moth-eaten sheet, was the bed he shared with Robert. It can’t be true, I thought. Please let it not be true. Please tell me these sweet kids do not sleep on a single filthy mat on the cold cement floor. I glanced at Robert and he nodded and looked at the ground.

It gets worse.

On the other side of the room there was a dresser covered with pots, sheets, five big canteens of unboiled water, and the sofa their mother had been using as a bed. I asked Robert’s mother how she was feeling, and with Kimala’s help (their mother only speaks Luganda) I determined that she had gone to the hospital, received some pills, then taken them without food. She now had an extremely upset stomach, understandably. Not knowing what else to do, I sent Robert with some money to get juice and muffins, then enlisted in Kimala’s help to drag all the dirty dishes out of the room. While he washed everything, I piled clothes, all tattered and dirty, into baskets and placed them under the sofa. We swept and reorganized as Robert’s mother devoured her food. Kimala told me that ever since their mother had been sick they hadn’t eaten. She’d been sick for three days. Once the room was more presentable we moved Robert’s mother to the bed and fanned her face. Robert showed me their family album. First, pictures of their father and mother, happy and healthy. Then snaps of Robert and Kimala, fat and little and adorable. At the end, pictures from 2004, of their father sick, thin, sad eyes. Kimala has those eyes. As the boys spoke of their father I could feel the love they had for him. I could see Robert closing up, hiding from the pain. Then it hit me. Their mother has HIV.

This isn’t the first time she’s been sick. The name of her pills. Her emaciated appearance. Robert hiding it from me, the shame of the disease. I had to ask; Kimala confirmed, much to Robert’s dismay. His eyes pleaded with his brother to keep it from me. My God, what is happening here? This decrepit room, this fragile, sick woman, these sweet, sweet kids. One parent dead. One parent dying. They have no food. This situation is beyond my comprehension, completely beyond it. I wanted to run from the house; run and cry and cry and cry. But Robert and Kimala sat there, across from their mother, unable to run away, and therefore I wouldn’t either. Instead I stayed and vowed to become part of this family and do what I can to help. These boys and their sister cannot come home to a dirty bed, unwashed clothes and empty plates. They cannot continue to share a room the size of a bathroom while attempting to care for their ailing mother. The house must be finished, food bought, new clothes found, school fees paid. I’ll find a way. I have to find a way.

~Nicole

#20 - June 26th 2007

A sweet reunion…

The boys expected me home on Monday afternoon; I arrived at the gates of their yard Sunday evening. At that moment, as I stood just beyond the entrance, my heart raced and I realized what I had been missing. I had been missing my family. My new family. I have spent minutes and hours and days and weeks with these boys now; I’ve played football with them, shared dinner, sang and danced; I’ve heard their stories, discussed their problems, given advice. I know their individual characteristics, their personalities, their likes and dislikes. Every day I discover new things, their goals, their dreams, their fears. I speak to each of them as if they were my own siblings, my brothers.

I stepped through the gate, Junior and Sandra were seated on the porch. Junior jumped up, a wide grin on his face, clapped his hands and let out a “whoop!” He ran over and squeezed me hard. I was elated to see him. As I hugged Junior I heard a squeak and turning around saw Robert, jaw dropped, standing at the gate. We ran towards each other and embraced, I swung him around in the air and his tears instantly brought tears to my own eyes. I was only gone for ten days yet it felt like years. Can I leave this place? I mean, can I leave in November? How? I can say for absolute certainty that unless my Canadian family decides to up and move here I will be returning home, but I honestly have no idea how I’m going to do it. It may be the hardest goodbye I’ll ever experience.

David, Marvin, Moses, Bash, Ronald, Joel, Simon, Samuel, Hamuza, Kenneth, they all came in, they all received gigantic hugs, all had a billion questions. We talked and talked and talked. It was a warm evening, the setting sun cast a coppery light around the porch. After a couple of hours of catching up it was time for the boys to return to their studies. Those in senior level were beginning mid-term exams the following morning. They have three exams per day for the entire week. At senior level in Uganda, students take fifteen subjects, including commerce, economics, entrepreneurship, geography, French, and agriculture. I promised to help them revise in all subjects except math, a subject in which I would be more of a hindrance than a help. Junior, who I mentioned in a previous entry is in his first year of a Business Economics degree, also had preliminary exams this week. I browsed through his notes and realized a lot of the courses he’s taking are similar to those I took at University. After assisting some of the younger boys with History and Geography I settled in for a long night of Development Economics with Junior. Its great because his lecture notes are very evenly presented; you get a pro-World Bank argument and on the following page the anti-WB position. Those of you who know me well can deduce which position I chose to elaborate and focus on. Thankfully, Junior leans just about as far left as I do. It made for some intriguing conversations; I’ve been discussing and learning about these issues, of the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the World Trade Organization and Structural Adjustment Programs, with Canadians, from a Canadian perspective, but I’ve never had the opportunity to discuss it with someone who is actually from an LDC (Least Developed Country). I have to say though, it made the issues more frustrating; Junior has no option but to work within a structure that systematically abuses and exploits his country. I can only hope that one day the tables turn and there will be chance for Uganda to rise up and find its voice, so driven people like Junior can be successful and proud of their country and its people. So that all of these boys whom I’ve come to love like a family can have hope that their goals and dreams will come to fruition.

~Nicole

#19 - June 25th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Queen Elizabeth Park

Back to the fifties…

It had now been some time since I’ve returned from my trip, most memories good, some scary, some bad. Let’s start with the good. It seemed to take forever for me to actually get to the park, so upon arrival I ordered a Nile and tried to relax. I met up with some friends and we ate a buffet dinner that consisted of an unimaginable array of African and Western foods. I began to notice people filling their plates, bypassing the staff who were trying to explain the local dishes. I looked around at the tables in the Mweya Lodge Restaurant , where again Muzungus were ignoring the servers. I watched as the staff bowed every time they delivered a drink, their voices softly uttering niceties, Muzungus oblivious, joking loudly with their friends. I felt the complete disconnect between the staff and the guests, more pronounced that I’d ever noticed before. I felt like I’d been thrown back into the fifties. At the buffet table I met Tophil, one of the cooks, his father is the head chef. I greeted him in Luganda and we became fast friends. The food they had prepared was beyond fantastic. After trying just about every dish, I grabbed another Nile and headed into the lobby where again it was segregation-city. I ended up being the “crazy” Muzungu who chose to hang out with the staff instead of comparing vehicle sizes and paychecks with my friends.

A white South African man bought me a drink and took it upon himself to tell me about how he is infuriated about the BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) program in his country. BEE is a program designed to ensure South African companies hire a certain percentage of black Africans. If you know anything about the torrid history of South Africa you should understand why these types of policies might be necessary. This man then went off about how his company only hires whites and that other businesses seek him out for “certain reasons”. I politely excused myself and went back to Tophil, who chose not to lambast an entire nation of people in one sentence. Without going into excruciating detail, I can tell you that the rest of my stay at the park was filled with similar experiences. I ended up eating all of my meals with the staff and avoiding the lodge in general.

The animals certainly made up for most of my experiences with people. My friends and I left for our game drive at 6:30am the morning after my arrival. Almost immediately after departing, we were stopped by a family of elephants. You are probably picturing an elephant in your mind now – enlarge it. These animals are colossal, like I never imagined. They are small houses. Magnificent, and very dangerous. Tip: when your guide gets nervous, you should be on the verge of terrified. A father and his baby (the size of a small car) stood in front of our Landrover; the father flapped his ears and stomped his feet, forcing our driver to throw the vehicle in reverse. Unfortunately, the rest of the family had surrounded us from behind. It is not unheard of for cars to be completely flattened by elephants that feel threatened; visions of our pancaked car flashed before my eyes. Thankfully ten minutes was all the time needed for these giants to become bored of our motionless presence and they wondered away. Once my heartbeat returned to normal I was able to enjoy the water buffalo, Ugandan Kobs, cranes, hippos, and most importantly, lions. We searched for the beautiful cats all day and it wasn’t until we were about to leave the park that we discovered seven of them lying low in the grass quite a good distance from the road. Too far for pictures. After gazing in awe for several minutes our guide rushed us into the car and took off at top speed across the grass, directly to where the lions lay. We were terrified. He yelled “photo, photo, photo” and we snapped away as he reversed back to the road. Risky, but worth every minute. Back at the lodge that night, we were warned that there had been lion sightings around the building the night before and told to take a vehicle back to our rooms. Unfortunately a gigantic hippo was grazing beside our only form of transportation. After several minutes he moved on, but when we reached our room, another hippo was by our door! Surprisingly these seemingly slow, fat animals are actually quite quick and dangerous so we took caution and waited for him to finish his midnight snack before we crept past.

After a lazy Sunday morning it was time to head back to Kampala. Rogers, a Ugandan special hire driver from the city, had driven my friends out to the park then spent two nights in a near-by hotel waiting to drive them back. I’ve used Rogers as a driver many times before, a very quiet, well-spoken, kind man with a very interesting background and a good heart. I was amazed that he’d been willing to drive all the way out to the park, about a seven hour drive, wait two days, and drive back (paid of course), but was thankful that I wouldn’t have to brave one of the buses. The two friends that I had visited the park with, whom I had previously met in Kampala, had not enjoyed their initial journey to the park. They complained that Rogers was depressing and slow, that his car stunk of pollution, and that he had over-charged them. I found this strange, as I had always known Rogers to be overly fair and quite charming. I agreed to sit in the front so they wouldn’t have to “listen to him complain” the whole way home. The trip started smoothly enough, Rogers became very interested in learning about my degree once I told him I had taken African history and politics. We traded stories about my academic pursuits and his real-life adventures. Sadly, his father was killed in the Luwerto uprising, a conflict I studied in school. His parents had a dozen children that were then forced to fend for themselves. He had been witness to many tragedies in his lifetime and was only now able to make a decent living for his family by becoming a special hire. While we were talking, I could hear my friends in the backseat snickering and gossiping about Rogers’ supposed “complaining”. To them he was just a silly man complaining to a white, but I saw it differently. It was two friends sharing experiences. I am beginning to notice more and more that two people can be saying exactly the same thing or acting in the same manner and depending on whether they are black or white, people make entirely different judgments. It was as if he was the driver and therefore should have kept quiet.

Halfway through the trip my friends asked if we could make a detour to a park where there were often Zebra sightings, about 40km out of our way. Keep in mind that fuel is quite expensive here, more so than in Canada, and time is money to special hire drivers. Rogers did not hesitate to comply and even got us a deal at the park gate. The real ‘fun’ began when Rogers wanted to stop to buy some matoke at a road-side market a couple of hours later. My friends, who as you may have guessed will remain nameless, had an absolute fit. Apparently they weren’t paying for Rogers to “grocery shop”. I really hoped at that point that Rogers couldn’t understand English swear words. I sunk low in my seat and hoped I wouldn’t be associated with them in his mind. Unsuccessful in finding what he needed, Rogers hopped back in the car and off we went, not two minutes later. In Luganda he said to me he would try again at a different place. I said a silent prayer my friends wouldn’t kick up another fuss. Alas, my prayer went unanswered and at the next stop they were yelling and not so secretively calling him retarded. I was beyond embarrassed and apologized to Rogers in Luganda so they wouldn’t understand. It continued to get worse from there and by the end of the seven hour drive Rogers looked more like an abused animal than the bubbly man he usually is. My friends refused to pay him extra for the Zebra side-trip, accused him of stealing, told him they were already paying an “astronomical” amount, “more than you guys make in a month”. They stormed into the house with their fists shaking, their faces red and fuming. I was left to apologize profusely, pay an appropriate amount for the side-trip, and thank Rogers for the three days he dedicated to the trip.

I think it goes without saying that I was desperate to forget the situation and even more anxious to see the boys, whom I knew would instantly make me feel completely at ease.

The reunion still to come…

~Nicole

#18 - June 22nd 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Bwera

Goodbye Bwera…

Two of the people I am here in Bwera with have been unable to go to the bathroom since we arrived. Yes, yes, I realize this is a strange way to start a journal entry, but for them it’s a strange way to start the day. The bathroom ‘facilities’ here consist of a small mud hut one must crouch down to enter. It is dark and dank and littered with tiny flies (cockroaches at night). You enter one of the two ‘stalls’, claustrophobia creeps into your mind and you remove the cover from the hole. This hole is less than a foot wide, a baseball cap could cover it and not fall in. You must then get in position by squatting over the hole at just the right angle or…ahem…you’ll have some cleaning up to do. Its not pretty. While you are “taking care of business” its not unusual to hear the giggles of school children as they peek through the door. It is completely understandable why my friends experiences some stage fright.

After a laughably large breakfast, seven of us piled into a five-seater Corolla and bumped down the road to where the bee-keepers reside. We were able to see some of the hives and taste the wondrously sweet honey. Right now they sell their honey at a market across the DRC border, but we’ve since set up a connection with a marketing company in Kampala, so hopefully this income-generating project can take off. It is great to be able to support these grassroots sustainable development projects. Lindsey and Andrea brought beekeeping equipment with them from Canada that will go a long way to enabling this project to expand.

Next on the agenda was a traditional concert downtown. In the community of Bwera there are seven singing/dancing groups; the best from each perform together for special functions. Natalie and Peter recorded the group on their last visit (which you can hear on their website www.partnershipsforopportunity.org), so I was able to hum along to some of the songs. The traditional dances were intriguing; they depicted a variety of different scenarios, including traditional hunting practices, modern family problems, circumcision rituals, and even a procreation dance that made us all blush. They all danced and sang with the biggest smiles and oodles of enthusiasm, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they would have continued had we not had to leave and hour and a half later.

After eating to the point of potential explosion, Andrea, Lindsay and I said our goodbyes and headed off to our weekend in Queen Elizabeth Park. In typical Uganda style our one-hour trip turned into five hours. I will update you shortly on the Park, and all that has been going on since I arrived back in Kampala.

Check out the new pics at:

http://uvic.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2047988&l=35fd0&id=122501804

~Nicole

#17 - June 21st 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Bwera

And the exhaustion sets in…

Here I am struggling. I don’t speak the language. I am not here long enough to make a connection with anyone. Many of the kids (and oh there are an overwhelming number) have learned to ask for money from white people. Our hosts, Nelson Tangatanga and his family, are extremely gracious and hospitable, feeding us more food than any human should consume in a day, but I miss my Kampala family. I feel a loneliness here I haven’t felt since I arrived in Uganda. I met the African heart boys almost immediately and cultivated friendships that allowed me to feel completely at home in Kampala. These last couple of days I’ve felt disconnected. The boys have called, which only makes me yearn for Kampala more. I called Junior yesterday and he mentioned that the day after I left, all the boys came home from school and felt sad; then they realized it was because I wasn’t there! That really touched me. I cannot wait for Monday when I see them again!

I am so thankful for the opportunity to see the rest of Uganda, and although I am at times feeling lonely, the beauty of my surroundings makes up for it. Thus far we have traveled across the entire southwest of Uganda, over the equator twice, and are now three kms from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, at the foothills of the Rwenzori Mountains. When we woke up this morning, after a huge breakfast of coffee, eggs, bread, freshly picked avocado and pineapple, noodles, and potato wedges, we set out on an adventure up and across the mountain foothills. If only I had known what I was getting myself, and my body, into. We practically hiked across an entire mountain range. It was incredible. It began with a trek up a steep sparkle-encrusted dirt road. The light red soil contains shiny white stones that shine like diamonds in the sun. Soon we were winding through tiny man-made trails along the mountain, up one side, down another and back up again. The sweat started beading after the first hill and as the first hour ticked by I was completely drenched. As the view got more and more spectacular the hills got steeper and more craggy, the jungle thicker. A combination of dizzying heights, heat, and pure exhaustion culminated in some sort of asthma-attack/hyperventilation around hour three. I survived and carried on, with concerned Ugandans bringing me walking sticks, passion-fruit, and words of encouragement. I felt silly and embarrassed and tried my best to suck it up for the remainder of the hike. We reached the final peak after five long, sweaty hours. I’m not entirely sure how I survived. At the highest peak we stood with a 360 degree view of all the surrounding mountains and valleys, awash in a light green hue that burst from every crevasse. To the west, the DRC loomed, to the east, had it not been hazy, we could have seen all of Kasese. I sat in awe, caught my breath, and devoured a day-old banana pancake I discovered at the bottom of my bag. No one thought to bring lunch.

On the return trek we visited two nursery schools for children too young for primary, both atop the mountain. Over 200 children attend these schools, all of whom hike across mountain ranges to attend. The teachers themselves walk two hours to get there, without the promise of a reliable paycheck to motivate them. On a good month they receive 40000 shillings ($25). The children and parents sang for us, speeches were made, and we handed out clothes, teddies and money for school supplies. Lunch was served with the teachers in a nearby hut, and although we were all quite hungry by then the amount of food presented could have fed a whole village. In Bwera it is typical to receive a bowl of food piled half a foot high with rice, beans, noodles, potatoes, beef, pork, and avocado. Then you are expected to grab a chunk of tapioca (think big blob of sticky dough) with your right hand, and dig into your mound of food. Someone will likely say, “in Uganda, the food does not conquer you, you conquer the food!” and thus you feel obliged to clean your plate. My sister, a vegetarian at the best of times, will be pleased to know that halfway through my meal I glanced at the hunk of pork on my plate and noticed singed hairs sprouting from the thick layer of skin atop the meat. I quietly handed my plate through the window to the children outside and decided that I too could have become a dedicated vegan had I bit into that meat.

After a good hand-scrubbing and many thank-yous we continued our journey down the mountain all the while accompanied by numerous mountain residents. Back at home we enjoyed a ‘splash’ in the shower bucket, two more full meals (enough already!) and some laughs over the various scratches, bruises, and bites from the hike. To cap off my night, the boys phoned, anxious to hear about my day, tell me about theirs, and express their excitement about my return. My grin stretched from ear to ear as I said good-night.

~Nicole

#16 - June 20th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Bwera

We said goodbye to Lake Bunyonyi today, how bittersweet. Sad to leave the tranquility, glad to be one day closer to seeing the boys. I miss David’s smile, I miss Eddy’s kind eyes. I miss my young brothers Robert and Ronald. I miss the inspiring talks with Abbey and the heart-to-hearts with Junior. I miss dancing and singing with Moses and Bash. I miss the sounds of their voices and my lessons in Luganda. Although I am glad to be experiencing these new places and people, if I could transport myself back I would.

Our last day on the lake was spent hiking around the island beside ours, a breathtakingly beautiful mountain area. We walked all around the island. We lost track of time and had to find a shortcut back home, so we high-tailed it through a Papyrus swamp! We each got sucked down into the watery ground, screaming and tee-heeing all the way. Back on our island five sun-scorched bodies catapulted into the refreshing lake water. We left the island at four and were at a hostel in Kabale in time for dinner. Our bus to Kasese arrived at the lovely hour of 3am the following morning and off we were to being our adventure in Bwera. I was distracted by my ipod for this bus ride, which actually turned out to be fairly slow and steady. We mostly slept and drowsily peered out at Uganda’s strikingly green landscape. As we came closer and closer to Queen Elizabeth Park (which you have to drive through to get to Bwera) rolling hills congested with gigantic trees and banana palms gave way to fields of tea. Queen E Park is a flat expanse of soft yellow grass with random bushes peppered across the terrain. I was able to catch a glimpse of my first three “safari” animals, the Ugandan Kob, buffalo, and baboons!

We hopped off the bus in Kasese district and were bombarded with offers of meat-on-a-stick, pineapple and bottled water. It was a swirl of noise as locals ran from their roadside stands and offered to carry our luggage, drive us to Bwera, or suggest that we “give them 100”. Eventually we arrived at our final destination, some ten hours after we began. Highlights upon our arrival include approximately one hundred small children following our every move, enjoying “lunch” at 3, “dinner” at 7, and “supper” at 10pm., attempting to suck-in after eating your body weight in food so the locals don’t call you fat (people have absolutely no qualms about doing so), and bathing with a tiny bucket of water at the back of the house while eyes peer at you from the bushes.

Thoughts of sleep are consuming me, I must cut this one short!

~Nicole

#16 - June 19th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Lake Bunyonyi

Shhhhh……

We talk too much. Too damn much. Pardon my language but I’ve just had this shocking revelation and feel the need to express myself. We talk and talk and talk, rarely listening, rarely taking a minute to think about what we are saying. Today I have had, quite possibly, the most noiseless day of my life, but the moment I am around the other Muzungus staying here all I hear is “blah, blah, blah, blah,” not to mention the swearing and the “um, like…yeah’s”. The complaining, the bragging, etc. I am, of course, completely guilty of being an over-talker myself, as most of you probably know, but I am quickly beginning to realize that periods of talking must be followed by long periods of silence. The overarching theme of my journal entries on this island seems to be having space and time to think. I apologize if this gets monotonous. I feel that unless I write honestly, unless I write what I feel, it will come out forced and unnatural. Bear with me through these next couple of entries as I philosophize through my days of solitude. Yes, I am with Natalie and Peter, Lindsey and Andrea, and of course we talk and laugh, play poker and drink, play ultimate, etc, etc. But we also spend time alone, swimming, reading, studying Luganda, thinking.

Today was a typical day on the island. After spending the morning alone, we all met at the dock. I traversed down the narrow dirt path, through the tall banana palms, my ears delighting in the sweet chirps of yellow birds. A white wooden dock protruded from the shore, through the reeds, into the dark lake water. The sun poked between a thin layer of clouds and I grabbed the chance to plunge my feet into the tepid water. Gloriously refreshing. A quick swim before the fear of water animals overwhelmed me. Up on the dock I tended to an already-forming burn. Doxycyline, my malaria medication, ensures that less than ten minutes of sun turns me into a pretty shade of pink. The rest of the day was spent perfecting my “flick” for ultimate, wondering slowly around the island to capture birds and flowers on film, writing, and reading. The other Muzungus here (not part of our group) spent the day talking in the common area. They didn’t see the island, didn’t meet the locals at the island’s northern edge, didn’t experience the solitude or the calm. I am afraid I have often failed to do these things myself, but hopefully now that will change.

~Nicole

#15 - June 18th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Lake Bunyonyi

Jumping outta that box…

These last few days have been…how can I even describe them? This island has been a sanctuary for my mind, a release, a relief, a time to decompress and rejuvenate. Life in Kampala is amazing, but sometimes its necessary to remove yourself from a situation in order to get some perspective, in order to reevaluate what you’ve been doing and reaffirm your purpose. All too often we stay within the box, continuing the same patters and routines over and over, too afraid or too comfortable to change things. I don’t think this is the way we are supposed to live. I just finished reading “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho, which cautions against staying in one place too long. The story follows a young Spanish shepard as he sets out to discover his destiny, traveling across the northern deserts of Africa, learning life’s lessons along the way. The most important moral taught is to throw caution to the wind and follow your destiny. The author says that “to die alive is to take risks. To pay your price. To do something that sometimes scared you but you should do because you may like it.” You may be afraid of failure but “when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” This boy could have remained a shepard his whole life and been perfectly content, but instead he chose to take a chance, sell his flock and do what he’d always dreamt of doing. I think all too often we find a place where we are comfortable, maybe not even that happy, and we stay there because we are afraid of going through the stress and difficulty of change. Yes, change is always difficult, but the last hour before dawn is the darkest. If anything, this trip to Africa has taught me that taking chances and following your dreams can lead to the most wondrous discoveries. Discoveries of other cultures, new people and different ways to live; discoveries about yourself, where you came from, and most importantly, where you are going. We’ve all had personal experience with “you don’t know what you’ve got till its gone,” which is often meant to say that you never appreciate something until you lose it, but can also mean that you didn’t know you could have something better. If you stay in one place you’ll never know how you would feel somewhere else. Worst case scenario you can always go back to where you were, but I’d be willing to bet that won’t happen.

The travelers I meet here all seem to be people who follow their dreams, not just dreams of coming to Africa, but in their lives back home as well. These are not rich people, just people who know what they want, follow their hearts and head off in the direction of their destinies. They don’t know where the road will lead and they expect to meet the unexpected, but they trust that they will be delivered, in due time, to the right destination. I’ve always felt certain yearnings that I’ve pushed aside for the reasons that come with a thousand excuses; What if it doesn’t work out? What if I’m not up to the task? What if I drop everything here and I fail, then what? What if its impossible? But I think the most important question to ask yourself is, Will I ever be completely satisfied if I don’t try? Will I be living up to my full potential, getting everything I can out of this life? When I die, will I be able to say that I really lived? Maybe it is better to risk living and losing, than to never really live at all.

~Nicole

#14 - June 16th 2007 – Southwestern Uganda Trip – Kabale

Connections…

My new traveling group, which consist of Natalie, Peter, Lindsey and Andrea, spent the night in Masaka’s Zebra Hotel. The staff put on a wonderfully delicious buffet first thing in the morning; I gobbled down the scrumptious steamed matoke, papaya and avocado, and we headed off on our adventure. It turns out I got a little more of an adventure than I bargained for. We boarded the bus that would take us to Kabale, the district that hosts Lake Bunyonyi, beginning our journey on a barely road-worthy ‘Greyhound-ish’ bus with standing-room only. The ride, five hours, was at times treacherous, terrifying, exciting, and breath-taking. At first I was nauseous and pale, as I stood gripping the small ceiling bar and praying for my life. The rickety bus plowed forward at 80+ km/hr around tight twists, and even faster down hills. The woman in the seat to my right threw up for five hours straight. Back in Canada I am a fearful passenger and although in Kampala I am fully used to the crazy taxis and bodas, these buses have given me an entirely new fear to overcome. They have an extremely high crash rate (sorry Mom!) and most bus lines have infamous nicknames (Gateway buses are known as Gateway-to-Hell buses, for example). After the first hour I decided to imagine I was traveling by train and that no matter how much the ‘car’ leaned left of right, or how fast we went, we wouldn’t leave the tracks. My mind eventually relaxed, my fingers loosened their grip. After two hours some passengers got off, allowing me to snag a window seat. This is where the breath-taking part comes in. Picturesque scenery continuously rolled past the window. Banana trees, towering eucalyptus, brilliant flowers, rolling green hills, clay mud huts dotting the countryside. Every turn was a new world. Uganda has unlimited beauty.

In Kabale we hired a 4x4 to take us to Lake Bunyonyi. We climbed through the mountains towards the secluded lake, passing young children clutching hammers, breaking up large rocks on cliffs. Next time you complain about a monotonous job, remind yourself of these children! Soon we found ourselves squished into two dug-out canoes, paddles in hand, ready to take on the lake. The calm waters, sinking sun and cool lake air made the journey through the islands magical. However, after an hour I was excited to see the shore of Byoona Amagara, island of little birds (check out the retreat at www.lakebunyonyi.net). To add to the mystique of the island, we lodged in a geodome; a horseshoe-shaped grass hut on the side of a mountain, completely open to the lake. Paradise was the first word that came to mind. Dinner was coconut curry and a cold Nile in the rustic thatched-roof restaurant. Delicious, hot, and satisfying. The island runs on solar power and thus is completely dark in the evening, save for candlelight. This is a good thing for several reasons, not excluding our inability to see the family (and extended family) of spiders that crawled in through the walls of our geodome while we were at dinner. As I begged Lindsey to tuck the mosquito net into my bed I pondered whether these fears of mine, of speeding buses and long-legged creatures, would eventually leave me. At that moment it seemed unlikely, but I said the same thing about taxis and bodas, which now seem like more of an adventure than something to fear.

I think there is a good possibility that after spending several months in a country where every experience is new, slightly frightening, and usually somewhere just outside my comfort zone, I will return home a different person. I already know for certain that I will be more calm and relaxed, less materialistic, more appreciative, more open. I also think I will have more confidence in myself, in my ability to stretch beyond my self-imposed box, to try things that used to give me hesitation. Not to sit at home and think of the things I wish I could do, but to be out doing them. Uganda has given me the push I needed.

Ugandans live life outside the home, with friends, with family, with nature. It is easy in Canada to do the opposite, to sit at the computer or in front of the television, to grocery shop and ride the bus with your ipod in your ears. The connection between ourselves and the outside world has disappeared. I think that each time you lose a connection, each time you check your voicemail instead of chatting with the cashier or look the other way when passing a neighbor on the street, you lose a chance to be happy, to learn something. Here in Uganda these chance meetings always lead to a new adventure, yet we close off those opportunities in Canada. The loss of human connection mirrors a similar disconnection with nature. Although Kampala is not a good example, outside the capital city people work with nature, not against it. I cannot draw such a striking contrast with Canada, as there are many environmental abuses in Uganda as well (damming the Nile, clear-cutting forests at a rate of 2% per year), and I’m sure a lack of financial capital is a large determinant of the lack of ‘urban sprawl’, but these factors aside, life isn’t an intense rush to build sky scrapers and mini-malls here. Its about growing your own food and taking care of your family, working with the land in a sustainable way. Rural Uganda is clay huts and red dirt roads and footprints that disappear after a moment’s rain.

I can’t put my finger on what it is about being here that is making me appreciate my natural surroundings so much more. Perhaps its something many travelers experience, but for the rest of my trip and when I return home, I will make every effort to conserve where I can, to explore and appreciate whenever I can. Being out on this island in the middle of nowhere, thankful for what I can’t hear (motorboats, jet-skis, vehicles) I now realize how unnaturally loud our world is, and how important it is to get away from it. To find a piece of solitude to think and reflect. If we continue to rush from one place to another, from work to supper to sleep, from school to career, from computer to phone to tv, when will there ever be time to evaluate the present situation? When would you get the opportunity to analyze whether you were truly happy with the path you are on? When would there even be time to make changes? If Canadians could learn the lessons of Uganda, of time and the importance of connections, if we could alter the way we measure success and happiness, I think we would have much to gain.

~Nicole