I have explained several times now how impressed I am with James and his IVN organization. Each day I spend out here in the village interacting with him provides me with a better idea of who this man is, but the story I heard last night is just absolutely phenomenal. Our volunteer was sitting around having a few beers with James’ oldest son Grace when the girls asked him why James had signed a receipt earlier in the day with a name other than Nadiope. Grace humbly explained that the family tries not to use the Nadiope name in public too often. We asked why and he said it is because Nadiope is a royal name, and that some people tend to make a big deal about it. We were shocked, “What do you mean royal?” we asked. Again, as humbly and nonchalantly as only a Ugandan can, Grace informed us that Nadiope is the family name of the Kings of Busoga.
Brief history lesson: Traditionally, Uganda has always been split between three regions or kingdoms: Ankole in the west, Buganda in middle and Busoga in the east. The kings of these regions held great power until the foreigners showed up with their bibles and their guns in the middle of the 19th century and proceeded to pit the kings against one another in a power struggle that has shaped the political climate ever since. At one point, post independence (1962), all powers and titles were officially stripped from the three kings. Museveni recently restored their titles, but there is very little power attached. However, the kings are still revered by most Ugandans today.
The story Grace was telling us was mind-boggling, as he explained that James would literally be the King of Busoga right now if he had not refused the position. Furthermore, Grace and his brothers are Princes who can ascend to the throne if they so chose. Grace and Tim, the two oldest, have also chosen not to get involved in politics, but their younger brother definitely has his sights set on ascending the throne someday. Right now James’ younger brother (brother does not always mean an actual sibling) is the King because James refused it. Much like his decision to not become a pastor, James simply felt that he would not be able to help the people of Uganda as effectively as he does now by getting caught up in the politics of being a figurehead King. He admirably choose to live and work in the communities he is striving to help instead of living the life of a King in the palace in Jinja that is rightfully his. What a remarkable role model for a struggling nation.
Sunday, 26 September 2010
Day 10:
Today was dubbed ‘Naked Monday’ by the three British girls who are fellow IVN volunteers. In an all too common miscommunication, the girls were brought in to volunteer in the health program, but when they arrived the health clinic thought they had medical training. Turns out, they are recent psychology graduates who were hoping to do counseling work, so with little to do at the clinic, they did a mixture of things at the clinic, the school and out in the field. Anyways, back to ‘naked Monday’. As I sit in the teacher’s lounge preparing my lessons each morning I often find myself gazing out the door watching the young P1’s, 2’s and 3’s who for some reason are always running back and forth across the school grounds. However, on this day the boys were running around without their shirts and the girls had removed their dresses, now running around in just their underwear, shoes and socks. It was very cute because the kids don’t always wear shoes that fit, so every few minutes a tiny girl would run by with giant shoes on that appeared even bigger without her dress on. BTW…as in Asia, there is no such thing as modesty here in Africa because when every day is a struggle it seems that body image simply does not matter all that much. Turns out that a couple of times a month the students get a rudimentary health check up to make sure that they are not suffering from something that could possibly be treated. This gave them an excuse to run around all morning half-naked, which by their screams of laughter is the way they prefer to run around. I don’t blame them, as it is bloody hot here unlike Mbarara.
Unfortunately, the bi-monthly check up does detect, nor could it solve anyway, the fact that many of the students at this school as well as the rest of the country do not get nearly enough food to eat. The insidious part of supposed “Universal Primary Education” (UPE) in the Uganda is that the only rule for the school is to not charge for tuition, which is subsidized, however poorly, by the government. Knowing that they cannot charge for tuition, but are always far short of funds, schools tend to charge for everything else they can think of, such as uniforms, books, exams and lunch. Lunch costs 25K shillings ($12) per term, which consists of a daily bowl of posho and beans (same for the teachers). Sadly, many of the kids’ parents or guardians cannot afford the lunch fee, so those kids go hungry all day usually only getting one solid meal per day at night at home. In fact, Wilson informed me that 75% of the students at Seguku Primary failed to pay their lunch fees this term, which was many more than I had guessed. Because of this, I don’t even bother to wake the students who are sleeping in my afternoon class knowing that their energy level is probably very low by that time of day. It is also quite possible that I bored them to sleep, but I’ll stick with the hunger excuse.
Unfortunately, the bi-monthly check up does detect, nor could it solve anyway, the fact that many of the students at this school as well as the rest of the country do not get nearly enough food to eat. The insidious part of supposed “Universal Primary Education” (UPE) in the Uganda is that the only rule for the school is to not charge for tuition, which is subsidized, however poorly, by the government. Knowing that they cannot charge for tuition, but are always far short of funds, schools tend to charge for everything else they can think of, such as uniforms, books, exams and lunch. Lunch costs 25K shillings ($12) per term, which consists of a daily bowl of posho and beans (same for the teachers). Sadly, many of the kids’ parents or guardians cannot afford the lunch fee, so those kids go hungry all day usually only getting one solid meal per day at night at home. In fact, Wilson informed me that 75% of the students at Seguku Primary failed to pay their lunch fees this term, which was many more than I had guessed. Because of this, I don’t even bother to wake the students who are sleeping in my afternoon class knowing that their energy level is probably very low by that time of day. It is also quite possible that I bored them to sleep, but I’ll stick with the hunger excuse.
Day 9:
Today I was finishing up a science lecture on, ironically, infectious diseases (science here encompasses much of what would be taught in a health class back home), and I was explaining how animal bites could cause rabies. The curriculum book I am using states that only dogs will cause rabies, but I knew this not to be true. For instance, bats are quite common here in Uganda and they also cause rabies, so I was asking the kids if they knew what bats were. Only a few said yes, but I knew more of them have seen bats so I asked one of the students how to say bat in Luganda, their local language; he said they are called Kawundo. I repeated the word a few times, which of course made them crack up laughing, as they always do when I attempt to use their native tongue. However, they kept laughing so I asked them what was up and they started pointing at the upper corner of the classroom saying, “Kawundo!” Sure enough, there were two baby bats living in the corner of the classroom in a hole in the cement…what a coincidence.
The bats reminded me of when we lived in Mbarara and my friend Dean and I, upon returning home from having some goat and beers, were frantically charged with trying to remove a huge bat from the screaming girls’ apartment next door. I acted out for the students the hour long ordeal that Dean and I went through that night: with straw floor mats for armor, trash can lids for shields and sticks for swords, Dean and I were thoroughly defeated by the bat until I finally nudged it onto a tennis racket and set him free into the night to horrify other unsuspecting muzungus. The kids loved the story and everyday now we have a ‘kawundo’ check to see how our little friends are fairing up in the corner. We also get daily visits from ‘amunyas’ (geckos), and every once in a while, the most beautiful ‘konko me’ (a big lizard with at least four different fluorescent colors) climbs the tree right outside our classroom window; I have never seen anything like it.
The bats reminded me of when we lived in Mbarara and my friend Dean and I, upon returning home from having some goat and beers, were frantically charged with trying to remove a huge bat from the screaming girls’ apartment next door. I acted out for the students the hour long ordeal that Dean and I went through that night: with straw floor mats for armor, trash can lids for shields and sticks for swords, Dean and I were thoroughly defeated by the bat until I finally nudged it onto a tennis racket and set him free into the night to horrify other unsuspecting muzungus. The kids loved the story and everyday now we have a ‘kawundo’ check to see how our little friends are fairing up in the corner. We also get daily visits from ‘amunyas’ (geckos), and every once in a while, the most beautiful ‘konko me’ (a big lizard with at least four different fluorescent colors) climbs the tree right outside our classroom window; I have never seen anything like it.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Day 8:
I realize that I have not yet fully explained what it is that IVN is doing here in Seguku village. James’ projects typically involve building or renovating schools, staffing health clinics, setting up water pumps, planting trees, etc. and, of course, providing volunteer teachers. He and his family have been in Seguku for about a year and a half now after completing a two-year project outside of the city of Masaka. The Seguku project is focused mainly on renovating the primary school that I volunteer at, but he also helps staff the health clinic next door and put together health & hygiene talks for AIDS widows in other outlying villages. The great thing, as I have mentioned before, is that James is a Ugandan helping Ugandans, which is how it should be. Sure, he uses volunteers from abroad, but his own family does a lot of the work and he employs a local bookkeeper. He needs capital investment to accomplish his goals of which 95% comes from us, the volunteers; this is one of the ways aid should work. The volunteer knows exactly where every dime of money is going and IVN spends every dime locally, boosting the economy while allowing the community to help itself. The less he relies on foreign or domestic aid with strings attached and little or no oversight, the better off IVN and the community will be. What I think is most refreshing about IVN is that it is one of the few organizations that claims no religious affiliations. James is a religious man, but he realized many years back that strict church practices and beliefs were limiting him from helping all people no matter what religion they practiced, if any. James may be part of the same religion as the Pope, but he would never, ever tell Africans to not use condoms, because he is a rational, reasonable person who deals with the reality on the ground rather than ideology. And reality in Africa is typically a far cry from what the “think tanks” in the developed world are espousing.
For instance, in 1997 Hillary Clinton apparently showed up in Seguku village, at our very school, with a huge entourage of well wishers promising that the US was a good friend of Uganda and that we would help the country develop beginning with rebuilding this school. I have a feeling the speech sounded a lot like this to the Ugandan officials. “Hi, I’m Hillary Clinton blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah so here’s a million dollars and remember to make sure you stay a friendly democracy and continue to buy lots of crap from us. Thank you, bye.” Well, the reality is that 13 years later, it is volunteers from IVN who are renovating the school, and since 1997 tens of millions of dollars have poured into this country from the US and others, yet very little if any seems to have ended up in Seguku village.
For instance, in 1997 Hillary Clinton apparently showed up in Seguku village, at our very school, with a huge entourage of well wishers promising that the US was a good friend of Uganda and that we would help the country develop beginning with rebuilding this school. I have a feeling the speech sounded a lot like this to the Ugandan officials. “Hi, I’m Hillary Clinton blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah so here’s a million dollars and remember to make sure you stay a friendly democracy and continue to buy lots of crap from us. Thank you, bye.” Well, the reality is that 13 years later, it is volunteers from IVN who are renovating the school, and since 1997 tens of millions of dollars have poured into this country from the US and others, yet very little if any seems to have ended up in Seguku village.
Day 7:
So my class has now jumped up to 80-85 students (in a 500sq/ft room); it is literally too hard to count at this point. When I ask a student from the back of the room to come to the board to solve a problem, it take him 30 seconds or so to climb over his other classmates while they poke him and giggle because he was called on. Unfortunately, I’m realizing that my otherwise terrific $30K Lewis & Clark education did not really teach me how to teach a class of 80 students and with virtually no resources. There is only one light bulb in the entire school, in the teacher’s lounge, so the thought of having a copier or even a computer is laughable. I’m trying to figure out how to incorporate more group work into my lessons, but is difficult and I fear that I am resorting to teaching methods that Lewis & Clark implored us not to use.
I was finally able to give a social studies lecture last week and yesterday. The lecture was on Africa’s Challenges, which is right up my alley so it was quite enjoyable. I gave the lecture to the P7’s whose English skills are great and who were very engaged and had many great questions for me. The second part of the lecture only took 30 minutes, so for the next hour I encouraged them to ask me any questions they had about America, just as I had done with the P5’s earlier in the week. Their regular teacher asked them to prepare some questions and I think some of them were trying to trick me. For example, the second question asked, “Who was your 12th President?” at first threw me for a loop, as I groaned complaining that we are now on our 44th and the 12th was long ago. But then my history dorkiness kicked in: I knew that Lincoln was our 16th President, so I counted backwards 16 years to 1844. I knew that we were in the run up to the Mexican/American War in 1844 and therefore knew that Zachary Taylor was President at that time. Oh yeah…from that point, after a Tiger Woodsish fist pump, I was on a roll answering any random question they could think of, such as “What are cowboys called in Mexico? Who is the President of Colombia? (after a while the questions always veer away from just America) and my favorite of the day, “Why can you white people not handle our climate?” Apparently they see me trying to fan myself whenever I show up to school after the 20 min walk from the house.
They did, however, stump me on some very detailed African history questions, which I soon realized were coming straight from their practice exams; clever kids, but unfortunately for them, I did not know the answers either.
I was finally able to give a social studies lecture last week and yesterday. The lecture was on Africa’s Challenges, which is right up my alley so it was quite enjoyable. I gave the lecture to the P7’s whose English skills are great and who were very engaged and had many great questions for me. The second part of the lecture only took 30 minutes, so for the next hour I encouraged them to ask me any questions they had about America, just as I had done with the P5’s earlier in the week. Their regular teacher asked them to prepare some questions and I think some of them were trying to trick me. For example, the second question asked, “Who was your 12th President?” at first threw me for a loop, as I groaned complaining that we are now on our 44th and the 12th was long ago. But then my history dorkiness kicked in: I knew that Lincoln was our 16th President, so I counted backwards 16 years to 1844. I knew that we were in the run up to the Mexican/American War in 1844 and therefore knew that Zachary Taylor was President at that time. Oh yeah…from that point, after a Tiger Woodsish fist pump, I was on a roll answering any random question they could think of, such as “What are cowboys called in Mexico? Who is the President of Colombia? (after a while the questions always veer away from just America) and my favorite of the day, “Why can you white people not handle our climate?” Apparently they see me trying to fan myself whenever I show up to school after the 20 min walk from the house.
They did, however, stump me on some very detailed African history questions, which I soon realized were coming straight from their practice exams; clever kids, but unfortunately for them, I did not know the answers either.
A Little R&R in Kampala, and Day 5 in the Village
I was able to spend a relaxing 3-day weekend in Kampala last weekend due to the Muslim holiday Eid, which celebrates the end of Ramadan. I don’t get to see Lynn all week and she was noticeably bigger than when I last saw her four days earlier. Our little girl is growing quickly, and we were able to feel her move for the first time, which was pretty exciting. Lynn had a tiresome but good week teaching at the Infectious Disease Institute (IDI). She has 16 doctors from Uganda and Tanzania in her class and it sounds like they are very much appreciating Lynn’s knowledge on everything from HIV/AIDS itself to how to effectively locate helpful HIV research through the Internet. She is a natural teacher who possesses a knack for clear explanations of complex ideas, a trait that I wish I possessed more of…you know, being a teacher and all.
Our roommate in Kampala apartment, Peace, is a remarkable example of “Wow, what a small world,” and coincidence. She is a Ugandan woman, about Lynn’s age and also a doctor who grew up in Mbarara just yards from where we lived for 10 months. She is currently receiving her Masters degree in public health from the University of Washington (she is here doing 3 mo. of fieldwork), so she lives 3-hours away from us in Portland. Lynn and I went out to dinner the other night with another doctor that Peace ended up knowing from Mbarara and, finally, we found out at lunch the other day that her and I share a birthday (Amanda, we have another b-day twin)! More importantly, though, is that her and Lynn work in the same building and watch out for each other, so I know that Lynn is safe while I toil out in the village.
The apartment in Kampala is the life of luxury with two TV’s, free internet, a microwave and a toaster, so it was a bit shocking to come back to village life of intermittent electricity, squatter toilets, and cold showers. Actually, I don’t mind the squatter toilets, especially since they are not on a moving Chinese train, and the cold showers are a relief, as Kampala is bloody hot. So I guess I’m not really complaining, but it is nice to spend the weekends in the city.
My first day back at school, the other teachers informed me that they would be having a staff meeting from 12-1pm, but when I returned from lunch at 2pm they were still meeting. My closest colleague, Wilson, asked me to entertain the P5 class while the teachers finished the meeting, which means I did not have time to prepare a my algebra lesson. This was fine, as I always like to set aside time with the kids for casual questions and answers about America and me, and anything for that matter. The questions ranged from, “Who is the governor of your country,” to “What is the biggest lake, tallest mountain, largest forest(?),” and finally ended up with, “How many bones are in the body,” and “Who is your favorite actor?” After an hour or so of that, the teachers were still meeting, so I taught the kids how to play my old favorite word game ‘Hangman.’ The meeting finally ended at 4pm, and I have no idea what the other 500-600 students were doing all that time, but I was mightily impressed that the rooms were relatively quiet for four hours; there is definitely something to be said for discipline.
Our roommate in Kampala apartment, Peace, is a remarkable example of “Wow, what a small world,” and coincidence. She is a Ugandan woman, about Lynn’s age and also a doctor who grew up in Mbarara just yards from where we lived for 10 months. She is currently receiving her Masters degree in public health from the University of Washington (she is here doing 3 mo. of fieldwork), so she lives 3-hours away from us in Portland. Lynn and I went out to dinner the other night with another doctor that Peace ended up knowing from Mbarara and, finally, we found out at lunch the other day that her and I share a birthday (Amanda, we have another b-day twin)! More importantly, though, is that her and Lynn work in the same building and watch out for each other, so I know that Lynn is safe while I toil out in the village.
The apartment in Kampala is the life of luxury with two TV’s, free internet, a microwave and a toaster, so it was a bit shocking to come back to village life of intermittent electricity, squatter toilets, and cold showers. Actually, I don’t mind the squatter toilets, especially since they are not on a moving Chinese train, and the cold showers are a relief, as Kampala is bloody hot. So I guess I’m not really complaining, but it is nice to spend the weekends in the city.
My first day back at school, the other teachers informed me that they would be having a staff meeting from 12-1pm, but when I returned from lunch at 2pm they were still meeting. My closest colleague, Wilson, asked me to entertain the P5 class while the teachers finished the meeting, which means I did not have time to prepare a my algebra lesson. This was fine, as I always like to set aside time with the kids for casual questions and answers about America and me, and anything for that matter. The questions ranged from, “Who is the governor of your country,” to “What is the biggest lake, tallest mountain, largest forest(?),” and finally ended up with, “How many bones are in the body,” and “Who is your favorite actor?” After an hour or so of that, the teachers were still meeting, so I taught the kids how to play my old favorite word game ‘Hangman.’ The meeting finally ended at 4pm, and I have no idea what the other 500-600 students were doing all that time, but I was mightily impressed that the rooms were relatively quiet for four hours; there is definitely something to be said for discipline.
Saturday, 18 September 2010
A Few Reflections and One Profound Experience
The village I am living and working in is only 10 miles from our apartment in Kampala, but the phenomenal amount of traffic in the city can make the drive vary from 25 minutes with no traffic to 1hr 45m last Thursday night. We have made friends with a special-hire driver named John who is very punctual, helpful and an overall nice guy. Our long journey together the other night provided ample time for me to not only observe the outskirts of a large African city, but also have an amazing conversation with a hard working local.
At first we stuck to the back roads through several villages and trading centers to avoid the main road as long as possible. I have been through places like this at night many times in many different countries, but this night seemed different. Why…I don’t know; maybe because I had never been this very road, or maybe I was just in a reflective mood. As we slowly drove the remarkably rain-rutted dirt roads I was taken by how life (and by life I mean everyday activities that people engage in) in rural Africa proceeds much like the developed world only it is conducted in much less light. As one drives these roads, one tends to forget that the light that that is allowing for such observations is coming from the headlights of the car and the cars coming the other way. It was only when I would turn around to look back that I remembered just how dark it really was, and that the hustle and bustle of town life exists in the dim lights of a mix of candles, sparse low-watt light bulbs, Christmas lights, charcoal cooking fires, or a kerosene lamp here and there. Friends chat, business takes place, kids run around playing, and dinners are prepared in the same dim light. Most impressively, people walk along the roads in the pitch black yet always know exactly where to step.
It made me think of the now famous picture, ‘The Earth at Night,’ that seems to be in every social studies textbook these days, or in poster form on classroom walls. It is a map of the world depicting the most populous places by how much light is shining. For example, the entire east coasts of both the US and China appear as big globs of light, as does the entire island of Japan, but what always amazed me was that the giant continent of Africa was virtually devoid of light. Of course, in my western, developed world frame of mind I always assumed there was not much going on in the dark areas. Now I know that the dark areas are actually teeming with people who are living life to the best of their abilities whether there is ample light or not.
When we finally reached the “paved” roads of Kampala proper the streets were clogged with cars, trucks, busses, boda boda’s (motorcycle taxi), bicyclists and pedestrians alike. There are very few stoplights in the city and what appears at first glance to be an unruly free-for-all, upon second glance, turns out to be more of a semi-organized chaos. The orderly US idea of taking turns when there is no stoplight, or when they don’t work is non-existent here, as the intersections stop dead every few cars until someone decides to move just enough to let another car or truck inch through. And I’m not kidding when I talk about inches of clearance, because no matter how little space one thinks there is, a boda boda or two always manage to squeeze beside or between the vehicle at the last second. Without fail, every one of these frenetically chaotic intersections is home to one poor, lonely traffic officer standing in the middle of the mess, whistle in mouth, sucking fumes, looking like a deer surrounded by lions. What I realized is that much like the villagers persevering in the dim light of the dark nights, the city dwellers too were persevering the choking, potholed streets of Kampala knowing they would eventually get to where they were going. I guess what struck me on this night was the interminable resilience of the Ugandan people to survive no matter what challenges they may face, and there are many.
Aside from my deep thoughts on electricity and traffic, what ended up making this drive such a profound experience is the conversation I had with John, the driver. Over the last ten years I have read numerous books attesting to the misery of vulnerable people around the world caught up in tragic episodes, such as war, genocide, or just general oppression. I have even visited sites where some of these atrocities took place, reading first-hand accounts of survivors, but it has never felt so tragic and real as when John told me of his experiences of growing up during the “bush war” of the 1980’s when the current President of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni, fought a five-year civil war for control of the country. The conversation began benignly, as I simply asked him where he was from because I know that most people are from villages away from the big cities. When he told me he was from Luwero, I guessed by his age that he had been quite young in the early 80’s. Brief history lesson: When the murderous regime of the infamous Idi Amin was overthrown in 1979, the former President, Milton Obote, re-took power in a very dodgy election. Museveni, not keen on letting a former terrible President be President again, took his loyal soldiers from the Amin war into “the bush” to fight to overthrow Obote. This five-year bush war primarily took place in an area called the Luwero triangle just north of Kampala. John’s hometown, the city of Luwero itself, was right in the center of the triangle and therefore in the middle of the civil war.
I was right that John was somewhere between 12 and 14 (he is not sure of his actual age) when the bush war started. He began his story by saying, “Oh, let me tell you please that life was so hard for us during that time,” a phrase that he would repeat many times over the next hour. He explained that Museveni’s strategy of making the bush war a peasant uprising meant that there was no distinction between peasants and soldiers. In fact, he said that Museveni’s army enlisted people of all ages into the army so he had to stay out of sight to avoid conscription, which was virtually impossible, so even he was eventually trained to fight for a short while. The problem, though, was that the peasants, John’s family included, were already desperately poor, and this new war would be the worst of all. John’s family often had no food or water for days, and medicine was even scarcer. Museveni’s army controlled the Luwero triangle, but Obote’s soldiers would often make incursions into the area killing soldiers and civilians alike because they could not tell the difference. John said, “We had to watch our family and friends die because if they were hungry, we had no food, if they were sick, we had no medicine; we could only watch them die.” In fact, John lost both of his parents and 8 of his 13 siblings during the war. When I asked how they died, he said, “Oh, they died from so much, from hunger, from disease, from bullets. It was a terrible, terrible time for everyone.”
In Luwero John could only move around at night so as to avoid conscription into Museveni’s army. Four years into the war in 1985, he decided to get out of Luwero by walking the 60 miles to Kampala. He made it to a district just outside of the city where he found an Uncle to live with for a while. In late ’85 he arrived in Kampala where he could now only move around during the day. Obote’s army still held the city in late ’85 and apparently the soldiers would go out at night stealing from anyone they came across and breaking into homes to loot what they could find; it was a desperate army by that point. John explained that as soon as the sun went down he and his roommate would go inside their place, shut the lights off and try not to make a sound in order to avoid Obote’s pillaging soldiers.
Needless to say, I was astounded by the story John was telling me, because hearing it straight from the mouth of a survivor puts it in much more tragic perspective than simply reading about it. And John is an impressive survivor, as he ended up marrying and having three kids, all of which he is putting through school as a special-hire driver. I finally asked John if he felt after 25 years and so much suffering in the early years, that Museveni had done the right thing in fighting the bush war. He shook his head and said, “Yes I do,” which tells you just how bad Obote was.
As I sat there simultaneously feeling abject sorrow for this man next to me and continued appreciation for his resilience and the resilience of the Ugandan people, he launched into one final cruel twist of fate. John makes a decent living as a special-hire driver, but he could make much more money driving for a large company or for the government. However, as a child he was only able to complete primary school before the war forced him to just survive. In Uganda students take a test at the end of secondary school to acquire a certificate called “O-levels.” Ironically, neither big companies nor the government will hire people who have not obtained their O-levels, so the very government that so terribly disrupted his life will now not give him a better job, disingenuously apologizing, claiming it is simply their policy. Sometimes life can be remarkably unfair.
I usually complain about traffic, as do most of us who have the good fortune of allowing it to be something we can care about, but on this night, the traffic instead produced an unforgettable experience.
At first we stuck to the back roads through several villages and trading centers to avoid the main road as long as possible. I have been through places like this at night many times in many different countries, but this night seemed different. Why…I don’t know; maybe because I had never been this very road, or maybe I was just in a reflective mood. As we slowly drove the remarkably rain-rutted dirt roads I was taken by how life (and by life I mean everyday activities that people engage in) in rural Africa proceeds much like the developed world only it is conducted in much less light. As one drives these roads, one tends to forget that the light that that is allowing for such observations is coming from the headlights of the car and the cars coming the other way. It was only when I would turn around to look back that I remembered just how dark it really was, and that the hustle and bustle of town life exists in the dim lights of a mix of candles, sparse low-watt light bulbs, Christmas lights, charcoal cooking fires, or a kerosene lamp here and there. Friends chat, business takes place, kids run around playing, and dinners are prepared in the same dim light. Most impressively, people walk along the roads in the pitch black yet always know exactly where to step.
It made me think of the now famous picture, ‘The Earth at Night,’ that seems to be in every social studies textbook these days, or in poster form on classroom walls. It is a map of the world depicting the most populous places by how much light is shining. For example, the entire east coasts of both the US and China appear as big globs of light, as does the entire island of Japan, but what always amazed me was that the giant continent of Africa was virtually devoid of light. Of course, in my western, developed world frame of mind I always assumed there was not much going on in the dark areas. Now I know that the dark areas are actually teeming with people who are living life to the best of their abilities whether there is ample light or not.
When we finally reached the “paved” roads of Kampala proper the streets were clogged with cars, trucks, busses, boda boda’s (motorcycle taxi), bicyclists and pedestrians alike. There are very few stoplights in the city and what appears at first glance to be an unruly free-for-all, upon second glance, turns out to be more of a semi-organized chaos. The orderly US idea of taking turns when there is no stoplight, or when they don’t work is non-existent here, as the intersections stop dead every few cars until someone decides to move just enough to let another car or truck inch through. And I’m not kidding when I talk about inches of clearance, because no matter how little space one thinks there is, a boda boda or two always manage to squeeze beside or between the vehicle at the last second. Without fail, every one of these frenetically chaotic intersections is home to one poor, lonely traffic officer standing in the middle of the mess, whistle in mouth, sucking fumes, looking like a deer surrounded by lions. What I realized is that much like the villagers persevering in the dim light of the dark nights, the city dwellers too were persevering the choking, potholed streets of Kampala knowing they would eventually get to where they were going. I guess what struck me on this night was the interminable resilience of the Ugandan people to survive no matter what challenges they may face, and there are many.
Aside from my deep thoughts on electricity and traffic, what ended up making this drive such a profound experience is the conversation I had with John, the driver. Over the last ten years I have read numerous books attesting to the misery of vulnerable people around the world caught up in tragic episodes, such as war, genocide, or just general oppression. I have even visited sites where some of these atrocities took place, reading first-hand accounts of survivors, but it has never felt so tragic and real as when John told me of his experiences of growing up during the “bush war” of the 1980’s when the current President of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni, fought a five-year civil war for control of the country. The conversation began benignly, as I simply asked him where he was from because I know that most people are from villages away from the big cities. When he told me he was from Luwero, I guessed by his age that he had been quite young in the early 80’s. Brief history lesson: When the murderous regime of the infamous Idi Amin was overthrown in 1979, the former President, Milton Obote, re-took power in a very dodgy election. Museveni, not keen on letting a former terrible President be President again, took his loyal soldiers from the Amin war into “the bush” to fight to overthrow Obote. This five-year bush war primarily took place in an area called the Luwero triangle just north of Kampala. John’s hometown, the city of Luwero itself, was right in the center of the triangle and therefore in the middle of the civil war.
I was right that John was somewhere between 12 and 14 (he is not sure of his actual age) when the bush war started. He began his story by saying, “Oh, let me tell you please that life was so hard for us during that time,” a phrase that he would repeat many times over the next hour. He explained that Museveni’s strategy of making the bush war a peasant uprising meant that there was no distinction between peasants and soldiers. In fact, he said that Museveni’s army enlisted people of all ages into the army so he had to stay out of sight to avoid conscription, which was virtually impossible, so even he was eventually trained to fight for a short while. The problem, though, was that the peasants, John’s family included, were already desperately poor, and this new war would be the worst of all. John’s family often had no food or water for days, and medicine was even scarcer. Museveni’s army controlled the Luwero triangle, but Obote’s soldiers would often make incursions into the area killing soldiers and civilians alike because they could not tell the difference. John said, “We had to watch our family and friends die because if they were hungry, we had no food, if they were sick, we had no medicine; we could only watch them die.” In fact, John lost both of his parents and 8 of his 13 siblings during the war. When I asked how they died, he said, “Oh, they died from so much, from hunger, from disease, from bullets. It was a terrible, terrible time for everyone.”
In Luwero John could only move around at night so as to avoid conscription into Museveni’s army. Four years into the war in 1985, he decided to get out of Luwero by walking the 60 miles to Kampala. He made it to a district just outside of the city where he found an Uncle to live with for a while. In late ’85 he arrived in Kampala where he could now only move around during the day. Obote’s army still held the city in late ’85 and apparently the soldiers would go out at night stealing from anyone they came across and breaking into homes to loot what they could find; it was a desperate army by that point. John explained that as soon as the sun went down he and his roommate would go inside their place, shut the lights off and try not to make a sound in order to avoid Obote’s pillaging soldiers.
Needless to say, I was astounded by the story John was telling me, because hearing it straight from the mouth of a survivor puts it in much more tragic perspective than simply reading about it. And John is an impressive survivor, as he ended up marrying and having three kids, all of which he is putting through school as a special-hire driver. I finally asked John if he felt after 25 years and so much suffering in the early years, that Museveni had done the right thing in fighting the bush war. He shook his head and said, “Yes I do,” which tells you just how bad Obote was.
As I sat there simultaneously feeling abject sorrow for this man next to me and continued appreciation for his resilience and the resilience of the Ugandan people, he launched into one final cruel twist of fate. John makes a decent living as a special-hire driver, but he could make much more money driving for a large company or for the government. However, as a child he was only able to complete primary school before the war forced him to just survive. In Uganda students take a test at the end of secondary school to acquire a certificate called “O-levels.” Ironically, neither big companies nor the government will hire people who have not obtained their O-levels, so the very government that so terribly disrupted his life will now not give him a better job, disingenuously apologizing, claiming it is simply their policy. Sometimes life can be remarkably unfair.
I usually complain about traffic, as do most of us who have the good fortune of allowing it to be something we can care about, but on this night, the traffic instead produced an unforgettable experience.
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