Dispatches from Uganda

What a welcome...and a good bye

My last day in Uganda has been extraordinary and all because of my friend in Canada, Henry Lukenge.

I met Henry at a fundraiser I held for GIVE Int'l in June and when he learned I was coming to Eastern Uganda, he asked if I would visit his mother, a retired nurse who founded a high school open to all children, regardless of whether their parents can pay or not (Ugandan education is not supported by the government and must come from school fees)

The school, Cambridge Secondary School, is located near Kampala at the end of a typically horrible Ugandan road full of washouts and pot holes, but it was worth every bump, every grinding gear.

I was welcomed by the entire school, about 400 kids, given a seat of honour in the large hall that also serves as a classroom and theatre space, then in came a troop of dancers in traditional dress, moving to the beat of half a dozen drummers in the corner. Several students are former child soldiers from war torn Northern Uganda and in this school they have rediscovered a normal life where people care about them. The performers are in the Music Dance and Drama class and it was apparent these children feel the music deeply in their hearts.

Ugandan dance is largely about shaking the hips with blinding speed as the drums beat loudly in the background, a thunder that seems to grab your soul and pull you into someplace primeval, someplace raw and sensual. I was so filled with emotion over just how wonderful it all was, how moving, that I couldn't help but cry. Big, tough journalist that I am.

The girls then came forward and acted out a poem they had written about how important girls are, that they have the right to go to school and should not have to face a life of drudgery and servitude (several had been former house servants with not much of a future). They showed their defiance, their determination to suceed in both movement and words. I just wanted to leap up and holler "you go girls."

I was asked to address the school at the end of the performance and told them they were living in an extraordinary time, a time when they have the power to make serious changes in Uganda and I know they all believed me largely because this is what they are taught at the school.

We toured the school, had a lunch of traditional foods, with a photographer shooting every movement I made. He was my very own paparazzi though I drew the line at him photographing me blowing my nose.

It was both unsettling and a little ego boosting though I know that back in Canada I'll hardly have any paparazzi following me around. Sigh....

At the end of the day, I was brought to a guest house near Entebee Airport and tomorrow, I'm off to London, England then home.

I will be writing a couple of larger features for the Record when I return, certainly one on the Cambridge school so please, stay tuned. And thank you for following my blog.

My life as a development worker

A couple of years ago, I had toyed with the idea that if I ever got out of the newspaper game (note to my editors: it's never going to happen. Deal with it) I might like to work in developing countries. I was even considering taking courses at Laurier. After two weeks in Uganda, I have been completely cured of such aspirations. I don't have the selflessness, I don't have whatever it takes to give up the comforts of Canada to live in place where poverty and misery is always in your face.

That is not to say I can't help. My role will be to help raise money for GIVE Int'l and its many projects here in Eastern Uganda. I've seen what Western generosity can do for the people here and how grateful they are. In a country where it seems the government is paralyzed by problems, we in Canada can make an appreciable difference.

The workers I've met here, Ugandan, Canadian and American, are all educated and could be leading much easier lives but they choose to be here. Amy Washington is a case in point: a young American woman from a well off family who chooses to live here, adopted Ugandan children and plans to open a maternity home for pregnant girls. Amy is the sweetest, most delightful young woman who just oozes love.

There is Sarah, a Ugandan and the director of the school in Nawuntumbi who lives with her husband and two children in a small, concrete house in the middle of the bush and her only desire is that the proposed new school being erected (thanks to funds donated by the Walper Terrace Hotel in Kitchener), be completed and open to the estimated 1,000 kids living in a community that spreads for kilometers in all directions, small clusters of huts dotted throughout the bush.

There is such lush, tropical beauty here, but also choking pollution and dust. After two weeks here I don't pretend to understand the problems Ugandans face I just know that I could never spend day after day watching such suffering. I've always considered myself a brave person, but I'm not brave enough for this.

I leave Jinja at 7 a.m. tomorrow for Kampala, to visit my friend Henry's mom who runs a highschool for teens, many who were former child soldiers. She is then cooking me a traditional goat dinner and on Friday I'll be winging my way back home, via Heathrow.

I'd like to think I've grown from this experience. My daughter thinks I might just have a whole new arsenal of ammunition when I lecture my kids about how much they have and how grateful they should be.

I fear she may be right.

 

 

Call me the missus

Today was my final visit to Nawantumbi, delivering some school supplies and saying goodbye to everyone. Of course, we had to face a typical backcountry road in Uganda which was, to say the least, a wee bit muddy. A group of men standing nearby chuckled at our feeble attempts to get this little Toyota through a quagmire and eventually had to push us out. Thank goodness they were there otherwise it would have been up to me and diminuive Betty, my GIVE Int'l guide to stand knee deep in mud and water and give the old heave ho.  

Next little surprise was when the school's administrator told me he had decided on my Ugandan name. On my first visit, he told me he would come up with something special, and I was excited.

I had dreams of being called Queen of the Nile, Adventure princess or She who braves terrible roads to deliver gifts, but alas he said "you are big and you are tall, so I'm calling you Muchaka" or something like that...I feared it meant tubby but in fact, Betty told me it means wife.

Now what on earth about me screams "wife?" I'm about as wife-like as Cruella DeVil. But he was grinning at me as if this was a great gift so I smiled, thanked him, and decided to give myself a Ugandan name. How do you say "ticked off white chick?" in Lugandan

My time here in Uganda is winding down. Tomorrow I visit the Sonrise Orphanage and Wednesday the Railway school. Unfortunately, I also came down with the flu yesterday and today felt pretty crummy.

I hate flying when I have a head cold in particular, the pressurized cabin makes you feel like your head will explode.

I am, admittedly, homesick, to be back with my family and my friends. It will be an interesting season of sharing. One friend has been living in northern England for much of the summer with her new beau, another spent a month in Ireland, another was in Italy for two weeks.

We have been to all parts of the globe and soon, we will all be back together, friends who have experienced the world outside our borders and outside our way of thinking. I wonder how we have all changed.

 

 

A day of reflection

At home, amid the flurry of Thanksgiving celebrations, everyone's mind is on turkey, on family and the joy of being together. Let me add one more thought: celebrate that you, by a simple accident of birth, were born in Canada. Celebrate that every morning you don't waken in a dark and dirty hovel, having to cook what little food you might have over some smelly charcoal pot buried in a pit. Celebrate that you have choices, that you can receive an education, you can eat what and when you want and even the poorest of poor Canadians can easily find a hand out and a hand up.

Celebrate that there is always medical care available to you, for  free and that it will be in a clean and modern clinic. Celebrate that our government, despite its many flaws, is there to support and protect you, that our very constitution is based on taking care of its people.

Celebrate that you have a warm and safe home, that your problems, for the most part, are petty compared to the rest of the world. That traffic jam, that long line at Tim Hortons, should be nothing more than a reassurance that you have been born into privilege.

Celebrate that you are Canadian, a rare jewel in a world were there is so much misery.

Happy Thanksgiving

River Wild

I have to wonder who, at some point, looked at the roiling, crazy rapids of River Nile in Uganda and thought "hmmm, this would be a good place to bring innocent tourists."

Well, apparently they were right because tourists - including me, today - flock to this place, eager for some white water action and by golly, we got it.

Adrift (www.adrift.ug) white water rafting was launched in the 1990s by a couple from New Zealand. Oh those crazy kiwis and their adventure sports.  The company has been tremendously successful, largely because of their safety record, a cadre of highly skilled guides in kayaks following nearby and some of the most incredible white water I've ever seen.

We started north of Jinja, three inflatable dingies carrying 6 passengers each and our guide Tutu, hence our name Team Tutu. First stop, teach us what to do: paddle into the middle of the river and make us all jump out, then crawl back on and next he dumped the whole raft upside down and again, we had to crawl aboard, with help of course. There is something disturbingly intimate about having some aboard a raft haul you up by the shoulders of your life vest, face first into their lap. Oooops, sorry about that.

As we neared the first big set of rapids, I honestly couldn't beleive my eyes. It was like looking at the Pacific Ocean during a storm surge. There were huge waves and pits into which our raft nearly flipped several times as water poured over our heads. It was scarey and so much fun, if I grinned any wider my eyes would bug out.

Tutu told us that we were next coming up to some Class 6 rapids, too dangerous for a raft so we paddled to the side of the river and portaged. I thought we'd be getting into a nice calm pool. No way. We got into Class 5 rapids and had the ride of our lives.

In one rapid, Tutu called a club wave, we paddled through, and then crazily, returned and Tutu was able to keep us in the middle of the wave, having the beejeezers knocked out of us.

By mid day, we stopped for lunch at one of the company's sites, a long climb up a very large hill but the food was good and I felt energized.

Next were another series of huge waves and boiling water and one of our team members, a young woman from Malta really wanted our raft to flip (this was optional as long as we all agreed). Somehow, I was like a suction cup on that raft, not coming off for anything. At one point, I looked over at Walter, a tourist from Holland, just as his feet were coming straight up out of the boat and over he went. Walter, bless his heart, was well into this 70s, and a real keener. He repeated this highly entertaining though not voluntary trick at least three times.

When the water calmed, we all jumped in and swam, the slow current taking us downstream. The Maltese woman was quite insistent that she wanted us to flip and as we plowed through the last set of rapids, Tutu tried, but I swear it was me keeping that darned boat upright. Our dangerous diva seemed ticked off that we were still upright (though Walter and her boyfriend were both in the drink) so I said "let's jump overboard." And so we did, into what was by now much calmer but still fast water. We made it downstream in record time.

At the end of the day long trip, we dragged our sorry behinds up to another building to pick up  our photos and grab a beer. It was a new kind of exhaustion I felt, but above all that feeling that heck, if I can raft down class 5 rapids on River Nile, I can do anything.

But right now, I just need another beer.

 

 

Don't forget me

The old man look at me, grinning with amusement and said "don't forget me and I won't forget you." I chuckled, but realized his words were prophetic. How could I forget him, forget this place, forget the children?

I had spent the morning in the Railway yards, former housing for railway workers, abandoned more than a decade ago and taken over by the poorest of the poor, about 800 people living in rooms perhaps 5X6' and a overfilled latrine as their only bathroom. Goats roam freely, the red clay soil sticks to everything and everyone. Children are mostly in rags. They eke out the merest of existances and yet they all smile, the children play and laugh.

My guide, Lillian lives here, a volunteer at the Railway school though she has precious little herself. Lillian had arranged for me to help with the breakfast feeding of the children, but started by parading this Mzungu around the buildings as an ever increasing number of children clung to my hands, my arms, my legs, whatever bit of body they could grasp. Some ran their fingers over my skin as if they couldn't beleive the paleness.

And just like all children vying for attention, older kids knocked away smaller kids and everyone chattered "she's mine, she's mine."

I wish people fought over me like this in Canada. There it's more like "she's yours, please take her.":

Three women from the community, plus Lillian brought out the huge metal containers of boiled, liquidy porridge. The children were told to line up, a double row of 400 mostly obedient hungry kids holding plastic cups and waiting to have their cups and tummies filled as I handed them a package of two cookies. The women had to be vigilant, making sure everyone had the nourishing treat before the kids pushed their way into the lineup for round two. Then round three. These kids were insatiable and some were perhaps 18 months old. Others as young as six carried younger siblings, responsible for ensuring they too were fed.

These breakfast feedings take place whenever there is enough money available through GIVE Int'l.

I find it interesting that it is mostly Canadians helping people in this region. I wonder if it has to do with Uganda and Canada's shared British past.

After the feeding, Lillian took me on a walking tour, past the only water tap in the community, where a guard must be paid a fee before water can be drawn. Few can afford such luxuries and must hike down to the River Nile to draw water. It's not unusual to see five year olds carrying jerry cans of water on their heads. Here there are no arguments about doing chores.

I saw women, bent at the waist mixing millet for a type of beer they make and sell locally. In a small hut in the centre of the community several men sat around a pot of the beer, their long rubber straws snaking from their mouths down into a single bucket which was filled with a lumpy mash of beer. The Ugandans who live in such places find whatever small pleasure they can in life and by anyone's standards, it's small indeed.

So at the end of such a day and a man says "don't forget me" he can be assured, I never will.                     

 

 

 

Street kids find a place to call home

Visited a home for street boys called The Sanctuary, where a dozen or so former street kids are being cared for and educated. These are kids who, for whatever family dysfunction, ended up on the streets. Some are 14 years old and have never been to school Needless to say, they are very wary of any grownup. One boy has an injured eye after being chased by a police officer.

The worker/teacher told me they have to tread very lightly with these boys, they are so ready to flee at the first sign of anger or upset.

The home was purchased for them by Canadians and the staff spend their time not just caring for the boys but teaching them life skills and basic education so they can eventually start school. They are all such handsome boys, watching me shyly, grinning from ear to ear when I smiled at them, touched their hands. This place is likely the first time they've been shown love and they have blossomed under such care.

In the afternoon, we had a relaxing time. Betty my host from GIVE took me to the source of the River Nile. Wow, doesn't that sound exotic? It's a lovely, slightly touristy place on the banks of the river but it gets really interesting once you're in a boat out on the water. My guide, Brian (everyone has both a Ugandan and an English name) is a third year business university student and a very eager guide. We went out to where Lake Victoria empties into the River Nile and he showed me the most extraordinary sight: Lake Victoria only provides 70 percent of the water in the Nile. The other 30 percent comes from underground springs that you can easily see bubbling to surface of the water on the north shore.

We stopped on the shore for a bit to get a closer look. Apparently the water depth is about 25 feet so you can imagine the power of those springs to break the surface in cauldron like bubbles.

A Source of the Nile sign is posted on the shore and there was a school group there who became extremely excited to see this Mzungu wandering up. Each one of them wanted to have a photo with me and they were actually fighting for the privilege. I understand, at least a little bit, what it feels like to be the object of attention because of the colour of one's skin. 

I later took Betty to one of the best restaurants in town, each had a delicious entree, four drinks and dessert and the entire cost was about $40. And she finally let me come home by myself on the back of a boda boda. Miriam won't let me cross the street by myself and Betty won't let me travel alone.

They're such little mother hens

 

Call me mzuwgu or just Val

My friends in Canada know how much I dislike being called Val, so it has come as a bit of a kick in my substantial ego that here, I am simply Val and only because Ugandans find it difficult to pronounce the 'erie' in my name.

Any white person, however, is instantly called Mzuwgu, which isn't an insult though it is odd while riding along on the back of a boda boda or in a car, people along the roadsides, particularly children, yell "Mzuwgu, Mzuwgu." I need to get a t-shirt made...

Yesterday, I was back at the mud walled school in Nawantumbi to teach the kids and this time I felt better prepared thanks to Margaret Plagens, a teacher living in Ayr and working with the Thames Valley board of education. She suggested playing the verb game: give the kids an action word and have them act it out.

They loved this, particularly when I got them to pretend they were sleeping and all snore, loudly. They also liked to 'wash' and giggled when I told them to 'wash their armpits, wash their bum'

I was like some kind of stand up comedian and even funnier when I said "let's dance" and shook my booty, which is substantial, especially by Ugandan standards.

When I had first arrived and was just sitting in a chair waiting for their break to be over, nearly every child in the school, at least 300 of them, stood around me and just stared at my pasty white face which, in Canada, is actually quite brown. I started the verb game and got them to jump, which they did willingly, but when I said "run" nobody moved. The teacher told me "they don't want to move away from you." It had nothing to do with my irresistible charm, just that pasty white face thing again.No one was willing to give up their prime 'stare at the Mzuwgu' position.

I have to admit to having some preconceived notions when I came to Nawantumbi, about what the teachers are able to achieve with the kids given they have almost no resources. But they all knew their alphabet and several came up to lead the class with their own action words. A few even wrote sentences with action words on the blackboard (which is rather warped and hangs by a piece of twine from the wall brace).

The kids are all bright and eager and just a joy, if only they'd stop staring at me.

Returning to the guest house in Jinja by late in the afternoon I needed a two hour nap (more like I was unconscious) then it was off for a visit to Main Street in Jinja, where I met a guy who custom makes CDs and DVDs for customers from his data base. We sat together and he played different pieces of mostly Ugandan gospel music, which he then downloaded onto a disk for me. The cost of two CDs and the DVD was about $5.

The entire time were on in the downtown core, my friend who had taken me wouldn't let me cross the street alone. In fact, she held my hand the entire time. I told her that in Canada, holding hands is done between partners or children and parents. In Uganda, it is simply a show of friendship. Grown men walk hand in hand as do women.What a lovely custom. I felt a bit like a kid, but I also know she was proud to be taking care of the Mzuwgu who could easily be run over in this crazy traffic where there are no stop signs or lights. So I followed along, obediently.

 

As the sun went down, I hopped aboard a boda boda and headed home, another remarkable day in a remarkable country.

Valerie

Call mzuwgu or just Val

My friends in Canada know how much I dislike being called Val, so it has come as a bit of a kick in my substantial ego that here, I am simply Val and only because Ugandans find it difficult to pronounce the 'erie' in my name.

Any white person, however, is instantly called Mzuwgu, which isn't an insult though it is odd while riding along on the back of a boda boda or in a car, people along the roadsides, particularly children, yell "Mzuwgu, Mzuwgu." I need to get a t-shirt made...

Yesterday, I was back at the mud walled school in Nawantumbi to teach the kids and this time I felt better prepared thanks to Margaret Plagens, a teacher living in Ayr and working with the Thames Valley board of education. She suggested playing the verb game: give the kids an action word and have them act it out.

They loved this, particularly when I got them to pretend they were sleeping and all snore, loudly. They also liked to 'wash' and giggled when I told them to 'wash their armpits, wash their bum'

I was like some kind of stand up comedian and even funnier when I said "let's dance" and shook my booty, which is substantial, especially by Ugandan standards.

When I had first arrived and was just sitting in a chair waiting for their break to be over, nearly every child in the school, at least 300 of them, stood around me and just stared at my pasty white face which, in Canada, is actually quite brown. I started the verb game and got them to jump, which they did willingly, but when I said "run" nobody moved. The teacher told me "they don't want to move away from you." It had nothing to do with my irresistible charm, just that pasty white face thing again.No one was willing to give up their prime 'stare at the Mzuwgu' position.

I have to admit to having some preconceived notions when I came to Nawantumbi, about what the teachers are able to achieve with the kids given they have almost no resources. But they all knew their alphabet and several came up to lead the class with their own action words. A few even wrote sentences with action words on the blackboard (which is rather warped and hangs by a piece of twine from the wall brace).

The kids are all bright and eager and just a joy, if only they'd stop staring at me.

Returning to the guest house in Jinja by late in the afternoon I needed a two hour nap (more like I was unconscious) then it was off for a visit to Main Street in Jinja, where I met a guy who custom makes CDs and DVDs for customers from his data base. We sat together and he played different pieces of mostly Ugandan gospel music, which he then downloaded onto a disk for me. The cost of two CDs and the DVD was about $5.

The entire time were on in the downtown core, my friend who had taken me wouldn't let me cross the street alone. In fact, she held my hand the entire time. I told her that in Canada, holding hands is done between partners or children and parents. In Uganda, it is simply a show of friendship. Grown men walk hand in hand as do women.What a lovely custom. I felt a bit like a kid, but I also know she was proud to be taking care of the Mzuwgu who could easily be run over in this crazy traffic where there are no stop signs or lights. So I followed along, obediently.

 

As the sun went down, I hopped aboard a boda boda and headed home, another remarkable day in a remarkable country.

Valerie

A day of contrasts

After a thunderous storm last night, I awoke to a moist and damp morning which at home is welcomed, but here means the red clay soil that is everywhere will be even messier and the only pants I have left to wear are white. What the heck was I thinking?

My ride arrived around 9 a.m. the motorcycle taxi called a boda boda which I'm becoming quite fond of actually. No helmet laws here, just the breeze in your hair. We were off to the Railway school so called because the school and living quarters for a couple of hundred families are in abandoned railway employees housing.

The children were mostly in uniform: purple pants or skirts, torn shirts, broken shoes and huge grins. It's enough to melt your heart.

Thanks to my friend Barb Aggerholm, I had along a few books to read to the children, each with a message and while I'm not sure they understood, I certainly was popular when, at the end of the class, I pulled out a sticker book and started handing each child a sticker. I was immediately mobbed, little hands reaching out grasping.

The rule was, one sticker each and the little dickens were getting sneaky, hiding the hand with the sticker behind their back pretending they didn't have one. Some got away with it, but not the ones who had wanted their first sticker in the middle of their forehead. It was a bit of a giveaway when they looked at me imploringly with their one hand covering their forehead. kids are kids everywhere.

Compared to Nawantumbi, the railway school is relatively nice: long benches for the children to sit on and use as a desk and there are blackboards though they are so faded, each must be at least 20 years old. The windows are all broken, the walls grimy (though painted not long ago by GIVE Int'l volunteers...nothing lasts long in Uganda)

Teachers here are paid $100 per month and must pay all their own expenses. There are not enough text books, so groups of children must share a single book. Pencils, the most precious of commodities, are handed in at the end of the lesson.

The teacher helping me with the children told me when children arrive to start school in what is the equivalent of kindergarten, they all speak a different dialect, from Luganda to Swahili and teachers must be fairly fluent in all the languages, though they teach in English.

After one morning teaching, I was exhausted and developed a new appreication for teachers at home. Thank you, for your talents and abilities. I could never do this for a living.

After a short rest back at the guesthouse, my host from GIVE Int'l  Betty, came to pick me up and on separate boda bodas, we sped about 8 kms out of Jinja to a place called Bujagali
Falls on the White Nile River, a spectacular series of brial veil falls that will soon be flooded when a new hyrdro electric dam is built starting this month. People have protested, but it does no good. The country needs the power and the income it will recieve from this huge project.

I was at least happy I could experience this magnificent place in its raw and natural beauty. Then, one of the guides standing on the shore pointed to a rather peculiar and dangerous tourist attraction: a Ugandan riding on his chest on a plastic jerry can (gas can) down the river, over the falls and through the rapids and his counterpoint on the shore collecting money from tourists. It was the most insane thing I have ever
seen.

I gave him 10,000 shillings (about $3.50) and the same amount to see a guy dance in traditional style right there on the rocks. He just waits for someone to come along and performs, quite well actually.

This is such an odd place sometimes. The roads for example, are a maze of pot holes and the boda boda drivers weave in and around them, barely avoiding oncoming traffic, ignoring pedestrians, then every half a kilometer or so are speed bumps. Not sure the need for speed bumps on roads where hitting 50 kpm would be breakneck dangerous

But that is the charm of Uganda, an enigma wrapped in a warm blanket of craziness.

I'm starting to love this place.

Valerie