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.
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Day 3:
As I write we are experiencing one of the strongest rainstorms I have ever seen. It is probably raining at a rate of 3 inches per hour right now with gusting winds and lightening. Believe it or not the roofs of the school are holding up fine, but the foundations are not, as water is leaking through the bottom corner of the teachers lounge right now. Uganda is amazing! It has rained very little in the two weeks we have been here, even though it is the beginning of the heavy rainy season, and it was sunny and blazing hot just a half hour ago. I had to finish my math lesson a few minutes early because no one can hear above the crash of the torrential rain on the tin roofs. Also, because the school has limited electricity, the rooms get very dark when the sun is not shining. What is mind boggling is that it rains in Portland almost everyday for 7-8 months and yet I am fairly certain that we just received the same amount of rain here in just the last 75 minutes.
The teachers here are really wonderful people; they have even given me a Ugandan name, Mr. Lumu, which means ‘alpha’ or ‘one’; it’s a tribal thing. The five teachers, including the headmaster, whom I am sitting with now waiting out the storm, have combined teaching experience of 98 years! They all completed teacher training programs and genuinely seem to care about the children. It is very refreshing to see their dedication to their profession and to be part of their team for three weeks. I am quite lucky to have found this school.
The teachers here are really wonderful people; they have even given me a Ugandan name, Mr. Lumu, which means ‘alpha’ or ‘one’; it’s a tribal thing. The five teachers, including the headmaster, whom I am sitting with now waiting out the storm, have combined teaching experience of 98 years! They all completed teacher training programs and genuinely seem to care about the children. It is very refreshing to see their dedication to their profession and to be part of their team for three weeks. I am quite lucky to have found this school.
Day 2:
Teaching has been great fun so far. I teach science for one hour in the morning and math for one hour in the afternoon. The rest of the time I spend preparing lesson plans, grading, and chatting with the other teachers in the teachers lounge. Sounds like a normal teaching day back home, and in many respects it is, but there are many more differences. For example, there is tentative class schedule for each grade level but I can negotiate my teaching times with another teacher if I so choose. My number of students in P5 jumped from 44 the first day to 71 today; when all 104 students are finally able to attend, the class will be split into two streams. There are about 18-20 books available per subject, and the pockmarked blackboards eat at least a stick of chalk per lesson. I have yet to complete an entire word without breaking a new piece of chalk; luckily blackboards are seldom used these days back home.
Every time I walk into the classroom the kids stand up and shout in unison, “Good morning teacher, thank you for coming to teach us,” and then will not sit until I ask them. When I finish a lesson they shout, “Thank you for teaching us and may god bless you and your family.” Not that I’m craving a blessing, but it’s a far cry from back home where the kids tend to walk into class dejectedly asking, “What are we doing today,” and after the lesson, “Can we go yet?” Being able to attend school in Africa is quite a luxury for most kids and they do not take it for granted. For the most part, they are proud and honored to be part of the education system.
Uganda has a year-round school system with Aug., Jan. and April as their vacation months. They go to school from 830am until 5pm M-Sat., and have much the same curriculum as us. The government schools, however, lack most of the electives that we are used to, such as music, art, woodshop, etc…due to lack of funds. These electives are often replaced with Christian religion classes, as Uganda is a fervent and sometimes quite radical Christian nation (87% Christian, 12% Muslim, 1% traditional); in my opinion, a very unfortunate consequence of missionary arrogance and zeal backed by British guns.
As I have mentioned, the students are incredibly polite, always greeting me with “good morning teacher,” or “good afternoon teacher.” The other teachers are very friendly and appear to be quite dedicated to their jobs. They spend 8-10 hours per day six days a week at the school and make about US $100 per month for their services. Of course this sounds like a pittance, but it more or less matches the current GDP per capita in Uganda making them quite well paid, although, they would hardly agree with that assessment.
Every time I walk into the classroom the kids stand up and shout in unison, “Good morning teacher, thank you for coming to teach us,” and then will not sit until I ask them. When I finish a lesson they shout, “Thank you for teaching us and may god bless you and your family.” Not that I’m craving a blessing, but it’s a far cry from back home where the kids tend to walk into class dejectedly asking, “What are we doing today,” and after the lesson, “Can we go yet?” Being able to attend school in Africa is quite a luxury for most kids and they do not take it for granted. For the most part, they are proud and honored to be part of the education system.
Uganda has a year-round school system with Aug., Jan. and April as their vacation months. They go to school from 830am until 5pm M-Sat., and have much the same curriculum as us. The government schools, however, lack most of the electives that we are used to, such as music, art, woodshop, etc…due to lack of funds. These electives are often replaced with Christian religion classes, as Uganda is a fervent and sometimes quite radical Christian nation (87% Christian, 12% Muslim, 1% traditional); in my opinion, a very unfortunate consequence of missionary arrogance and zeal backed by British guns.
As I have mentioned, the students are incredibly polite, always greeting me with “good morning teacher,” or “good afternoon teacher.” The other teachers are very friendly and appear to be quite dedicated to their jobs. They spend 8-10 hours per day six days a week at the school and make about US $100 per month for their services. Of course this sounds like a pittance, but it more or less matches the current GDP per capita in Uganda making them quite well paid, although, they would hardly agree with that assessment.
Day to Day Teaching In a Small Ugandan Village, and Other Observations
Day 1:
Today was my first day in the classroom. I had to set aside my 13 months of social studies training and instead rely solely on the 13 months of general teaching skills that I learned, as my first class was beginning algebra. As a matter of fact, I will primarily be teaching math and science the entire three weeks; luckily this is a primary school and I still know the basics of both subjects. The school system is set up such that primary school is P1-P7 and secondary school is S1-S7 with S6&7 being much like junior college in the US. I will mainly be teaching P5 because of the language barrier. Students are taught in their native language up through P3before shifting to English and so are not comfortable with English until P5. The school has just over 700 students making it almost the same size as the school I taught at last year, however, that is pretty much where the similarities end.
There are only 14 teachers at Sseguku Primary School meaning that the student to teacher ratio of 50:1 matches the overall national average. My class today had 44 students, but that will increase greatly over the next few days as more parents come up with the fees to send their children to school. Of course, it is a great struggle for many kids to be able to afford the time and money to attend school on a regular basis, so the student population fluctuates from term to term (3 terms/year) and even day to day. Also, some kids are not able to begin school until age 9 or 10 making it common to have 16 or 17 year old students at the end of primary school.
One of the first things I noticed at the school, which I had a sense of before, is the level of discipline that is expected of the students. Don’t get me wrong, as a new teacher it is certainly nice to have incredibly well-behaved students to teach, but some of the interactions concern me as perpetuating the hierarchical nature of Ugandan society, which I have long seen as one of the roadblocks to development. When I see the students coming into the teacher’s lounge and kneeling before asking a question or taking an order, all I can think of is that from an early age Ugandans are taught to be submissive. I believe this submissiveness is a trait that many hold on to as they grow up and encounter everyday obstacles for which there is no accountability on the part of those who are in authority or power positions (i.e. company managers, police, army, government officials). I understand respect for one’s peers and elders and encourage it, but I also believe it is healthy to be able to question those same peers and elders when fairness or equality is being tested. This hierarchy of power exists from the top level of government down to the village and household level, in my opinion, impeding any sort of progress on important national and local issues. My local friends are always telling me that there is no one that they can confidently approach who can or will address issues that affect their daily lives. From what I have seen, this is the status quo here in Uganda and the continued hierarchical nature of the society only serves to perpetuate the problem.
Today was my first day in the classroom. I had to set aside my 13 months of social studies training and instead rely solely on the 13 months of general teaching skills that I learned, as my first class was beginning algebra. As a matter of fact, I will primarily be teaching math and science the entire three weeks; luckily this is a primary school and I still know the basics of both subjects. The school system is set up such that primary school is P1-P7 and secondary school is S1-S7 with S6&7 being much like junior college in the US. I will mainly be teaching P5 because of the language barrier. Students are taught in their native language up through P3before shifting to English and so are not comfortable with English until P5. The school has just over 700 students making it almost the same size as the school I taught at last year, however, that is pretty much where the similarities end.
There are only 14 teachers at Sseguku Primary School meaning that the student to teacher ratio of 50:1 matches the overall national average. My class today had 44 students, but that will increase greatly over the next few days as more parents come up with the fees to send their children to school. Of course, it is a great struggle for many kids to be able to afford the time and money to attend school on a regular basis, so the student population fluctuates from term to term (3 terms/year) and even day to day. Also, some kids are not able to begin school until age 9 or 10 making it common to have 16 or 17 year old students at the end of primary school.
One of the first things I noticed at the school, which I had a sense of before, is the level of discipline that is expected of the students. Don’t get me wrong, as a new teacher it is certainly nice to have incredibly well-behaved students to teach, but some of the interactions concern me as perpetuating the hierarchical nature of Ugandan society, which I have long seen as one of the roadblocks to development. When I see the students coming into the teacher’s lounge and kneeling before asking a question or taking an order, all I can think of is that from an early age Ugandans are taught to be submissive. I believe this submissiveness is a trait that many hold on to as they grow up and encounter everyday obstacles for which there is no accountability on the part of those who are in authority or power positions (i.e. company managers, police, army, government officials). I understand respect for one’s peers and elders and encourage it, but I also believe it is healthy to be able to question those same peers and elders when fairness or equality is being tested. This hierarchy of power exists from the top level of government down to the village and household level, in my opinion, impeding any sort of progress on important national and local issues. My local friends are always telling me that there is no one that they can confidently approach who can or will address issues that affect their daily lives. From what I have seen, this is the status quo here in Uganda and the continued hierarchical nature of the society only serves to perpetuate the problem.
I had to come to Uganda to find a teaching job.
So when I committed to coming back to Uganda with Lynn, being the incredibly sensible person that she is, she encouraged me to look up some volunteer programs to get involved with, as three weeks in Kampala with nothing to do would not be very productive. The third organization I contacted got right back to me and was flexible enough to accommodate me on a weeks notice; usually people set these things up many months in advance, but that’s not how we roll. Anyway, now I will have something fun to do while Lynn is busy teaching an HIV/AIDS course to a group of Ugandan and Tanzanian doctors. Sadly, I will be living out in the village M-F because it is too difficult to go back and forth everyday, but we agreed that this will make my experience so much better. She will be very busy during the week herself and we will spend the weekends together, so it has worked out nicely.
Lynn and I made the short drive from Kampala to Sseguku village near the Kajjansi trading center where I will spend the next three weeks as a volunteer teacher at Sseguku Primary School. I am volunteering through an organization called International Volunteer’s Network (IVN) run wholly by a local Ugandan named James Nadiope. Because I found IVN online only a week before leaving the states, I knew very little about the program, but after sitting down with James for an hour, both Lynn and I were very impressed with James’ commitment to helping struggling communities, and even more impressed with the nature and efficiency of his operation.
IVN is a “volunteer tourism” company, a type of foreign travel that is becoming quite popular around the developing world. Essentially, it caters to people who want to visit foreign countries as tourists, but who also want to give something back to the country and communities they visit in the form of time and energy rather than money donations. It is a sound idea if it is done properly with a strong sense of the particular community needs, which James appears to have. In the case of IVN, tourists (or people like me who are here for other reasons) pay US $150/week to work Monday through Friday in one of three programs offered, construction, health, or teaching. This leaves the weekends to travel the country, go on safari, raft the Nile, etc. The $150/wk covers room and board, including 3 meals a day. James’ wife Sara is an amazing cook and the food has gone far beyond my expectations considering I have basically become a true Ugandan who enjoys a simple meal of posho (cornmeal) and beans, or some chapatti (tortillas) and goat. I believe I might actually gain weight on this trip rather than losing a ton as usual.
Lynn and I made the short drive from Kampala to Sseguku village near the Kajjansi trading center where I will spend the next three weeks as a volunteer teacher at Sseguku Primary School. I am volunteering through an organization called International Volunteer’s Network (IVN) run wholly by a local Ugandan named James Nadiope. Because I found IVN online only a week before leaving the states, I knew very little about the program, but after sitting down with James for an hour, both Lynn and I were very impressed with James’ commitment to helping struggling communities, and even more impressed with the nature and efficiency of his operation.
IVN is a “volunteer tourism” company, a type of foreign travel that is becoming quite popular around the developing world. Essentially, it caters to people who want to visit foreign countries as tourists, but who also want to give something back to the country and communities they visit in the form of time and energy rather than money donations. It is a sound idea if it is done properly with a strong sense of the particular community needs, which James appears to have. In the case of IVN, tourists (or people like me who are here for other reasons) pay US $150/week to work Monday through Friday in one of three programs offered, construction, health, or teaching. This leaves the weekends to travel the country, go on safari, raft the Nile, etc. The $150/wk covers room and board, including 3 meals a day. James’ wife Sara is an amazing cook and the food has gone far beyond my expectations considering I have basically become a true Ugandan who enjoys a simple meal of posho (cornmeal) and beans, or some chapatti (tortillas) and goat. I believe I might actually gain weight on this trip rather than losing a ton as usual.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Mbarara: Old Friends, New Roads and Dodgy Elections (part 2)
Speaking of Gordon and elections, Lynn and I headed out to the village that I coached soccer in when we lived here to say hi to some friends. She went back to town to visit the hospital while another friend, Moses, and I went walking through the village catching up with old friends (we must have walked 8-9 miles that day). We were told that Gordon was somewhere down the trail doing something for the elections. The primaries for electing new Mayors and MP’s (Members of Parliament) had just happened the day before, except that they had to be canceled at the last minute in 40 out of the 90 counties in the country due to missing ballots, fraudulent ballots and violence at the polling stations. Can you imagine an official primary being canceled at the last moment in the US? Anyway, Gordon happens to live just across the boundary in a different district from Mbarara and the primary was not canceled in his district. He was acting as a junior officer in charge of handing out the ballots and counting them afterwards. We found him as he was finishing up some paperwork for the chairman of the election committee in that area (mind you, this is taking place on his lap, sitting on a dusty bench outside a mud hut). After a hearty greeting, as we had not seen each other in 16 months, I asked him how the voting went. He said that many people showed up to vote and that many were still lined up at 4pm when the polling station was supposed to close. I said, “Isn’t 4pm very early to close a polling station?” He explained that they kept it open for 30 extra minutes, but that the ballot buckets were full by that time so they closed for good. I came to find out that he was given two plastic buckets about the size of a large bathroom trash can to collect ballots and when those were full, the polling station was closed. He was then told to count them and then the chairman would come by to pick them up. The chairman did not show up so Gordon took them home. The chairman called him four times throughout the night saying he was coming by to get the ballots, but did not show until the morning when we found them at about 10am. Now I know that Gordon is completely ethical and extremely honest, not to mention he volunteered to do this, but I can only imagine what happened to thousands of other ballots around the country. Accountability is in no way a part of the election system in place here at the moment.
Sadly, this coming election has been a forgone conclusion since Museveni bullied the Parliament into changing the constitution in 2005 and scrapping term limits. He “won” a contentious victory in 2006 and will most likely win again in 2011 even in the midst of an electoral process that seems to have virtually no validity, at least among the people I have talked to. The most hypocritical part of this for me is that for all the misplaced rhetoric the US spews about bringing democracy to wanting nations (i.e. Iraq and Afghanistan), Musevini pulled the most egregiously undemocratic act possible by changing the constitution to keep himself in power, and yet the US continues to pour hundreds of millions of aid dollars into Uganda while holding them up as some kind of example of good governance. So not only has aid money worked counterproductively all over Africa, but it seems also not to really matter all that much who we shovel money towards. Try to ponder the fact that between 40-60% of the Ugandan budget is from foreign aid while you read this quote from a local magazine regarding the pseudo-primary held last Monday. Also, keep in mind that this was the ruling party’s primary not the oppositions’. “During the NRM internal elections, voting was scuffled…in Kapchowa, violence erupted between two NRM MP’s. In West budama Minister Otala drew a gun at supporters of his opponent; in Kibale MP Tinkansimire’s car was stoned;…In Kaliro, elections were canceled twice over malpractice. In Butaleja the elections were canceled after a mob attacked the organizers. Up to 12 people were seriously injured.” If this is kind of mayhem is going on during the primary for the ruling party, can you imagine the scene that will play out during the general election in February? And yet developed nations around the world perpetuate these actions by continuing to send unaccountable loads of money. Makes you wonder really. And before my comments degenerate into whether it’s the Democrats or Republicans fault, which seems to happen with every single issue these days; rather, the finger points to everyone because it has been going on for five decades.
Sadly, this coming election has been a forgone conclusion since Museveni bullied the Parliament into changing the constitution in 2005 and scrapping term limits. He “won” a contentious victory in 2006 and will most likely win again in 2011 even in the midst of an electoral process that seems to have virtually no validity, at least among the people I have talked to. The most hypocritical part of this for me is that for all the misplaced rhetoric the US spews about bringing democracy to wanting nations (i.e. Iraq and Afghanistan), Musevini pulled the most egregiously undemocratic act possible by changing the constitution to keep himself in power, and yet the US continues to pour hundreds of millions of aid dollars into Uganda while holding them up as some kind of example of good governance. So not only has aid money worked counterproductively all over Africa, but it seems also not to really matter all that much who we shovel money towards. Try to ponder the fact that between 40-60% of the Ugandan budget is from foreign aid while you read this quote from a local magazine regarding the pseudo-primary held last Monday. Also, keep in mind that this was the ruling party’s primary not the oppositions’. “During the NRM internal elections, voting was scuffled…in Kapchowa, violence erupted between two NRM MP’s. In West budama Minister Otala drew a gun at supporters of his opponent; in Kibale MP Tinkansimire’s car was stoned;…In Kaliro, elections were canceled twice over malpractice. In Butaleja the elections were canceled after a mob attacked the organizers. Up to 12 people were seriously injured.” If this is kind of mayhem is going on during the primary for the ruling party, can you imagine the scene that will play out during the general election in February? And yet developed nations around the world perpetuate these actions by continuing to send unaccountable loads of money. Makes you wonder really. And before my comments degenerate into whether it’s the Democrats or Republicans fault, which seems to happen with every single issue these days; rather, the finger points to everyone because it has been going on for five decades.
Mbarara: Old Friends, New Roads and Dodgy Elections (part 1)
As usual I am writing too much, so I will break up this up into parts.
In my final blog from our last trip to Uganda, about 16 months ago, I noted that the Ugandan government, which has kept itself in power for 25 years now through “democratic” elections, was coming up woefully short in many aspects of governance. One aspect in particular was the terrible state of its roads, especially the main artery running from Kenya through Kampala, right past our old place in Mbarara and on down to Rwanda and Burundi. I wondered how a country so desperately looking to boost its economy could allow its main avenue of commerce to remain an absolute crumbling mess of vehicle killing potholes. When we left they had just begun to renovate a small section of the 150 miles between Kampala and Mbarara. Fast-forward 16 months to our friend Herbert picking us up from the airport the other morning and explaining that the government has been furiously working on the road as of late (probably no coincidence that fresh elections are due for Feb. 2011).
It was amusing to note that while driving through road construction zones back in the states is typically a giant pain in the butt, here, the half-renovated road is actually far better than the original. The section from Kampala to Masaka is in stage two of the renovation meaning they have gotten rid of most of the deadly potholes and have laid a layer of base on the road in preparation for the asphalt. The base they use here is extremely dusty with fairly good size rocks that fly up from speeding busses cracking windshields (our car had 8-9 solid rock impacts on the windshield). However, the flying rocks are not the problem so much as the unrelenting dust from the multitudes of vehicles rushing back and forth. The road is left with base only for several months to be compacted by the vehicles before the asphalt gets laid. The problem is that there are no water trucks to continuously spray the road, combined with the fact that southwest Uganda has just suffered through a very hot dry season and the rainy season is already two weeks late. The road became so dusty on several occasions that we had to stop the car until it cleared enough to see. None of this was a big deal to us, as we were traveling in the safety of a car, but much of the population in this area live or work along the road in places called trading centers, and there are always numerous people, including small children, walking or riding bikes on the shoulders of the road. The unimaginable amounts of dust settle in thick layers on everything in sight, including on the crops and banana tree plantations, which is not at all good for either. One can only imagine the effect this dust has on people’s lungs everyday for months at a time.
I discussed this very fact with some local friends in Mbarara because we were chatting about individual rights and the rule of law. I was explaining that, though we certainly have many problems with the US political system, we generally have a sense of accountability among our officials. If a political official ignores important issues for a long enough period of time, or commits enough egregious errors, that official will eventually be voted out of office in a free and fair election by constituents who are sometimes more, sometimes less aware of their individual rights. Sadly, that does not seem to be the case here in Uganda. I asked my friends if they thought most Ugandan people had any idea what their rights were and they laughed while shaking their heads, no! My friend Gordon used the dusty road as an example as he explained that a villager covered in dust will look at the road and boast that this is development while not even contemplating the damage to his health and livelihood. This is exactly the type of constituent the government wants, naïve about, yet supportive of a project that should have been done a decade ago.
In my final blog from our last trip to Uganda, about 16 months ago, I noted that the Ugandan government, which has kept itself in power for 25 years now through “democratic” elections, was coming up woefully short in many aspects of governance. One aspect in particular was the terrible state of its roads, especially the main artery running from Kenya through Kampala, right past our old place in Mbarara and on down to Rwanda and Burundi. I wondered how a country so desperately looking to boost its economy could allow its main avenue of commerce to remain an absolute crumbling mess of vehicle killing potholes. When we left they had just begun to renovate a small section of the 150 miles between Kampala and Mbarara. Fast-forward 16 months to our friend Herbert picking us up from the airport the other morning and explaining that the government has been furiously working on the road as of late (probably no coincidence that fresh elections are due for Feb. 2011).
It was amusing to note that while driving through road construction zones back in the states is typically a giant pain in the butt, here, the half-renovated road is actually far better than the original. The section from Kampala to Masaka is in stage two of the renovation meaning they have gotten rid of most of the deadly potholes and have laid a layer of base on the road in preparation for the asphalt. The base they use here is extremely dusty with fairly good size rocks that fly up from speeding busses cracking windshields (our car had 8-9 solid rock impacts on the windshield). However, the flying rocks are not the problem so much as the unrelenting dust from the multitudes of vehicles rushing back and forth. The road is left with base only for several months to be compacted by the vehicles before the asphalt gets laid. The problem is that there are no water trucks to continuously spray the road, combined with the fact that southwest Uganda has just suffered through a very hot dry season and the rainy season is already two weeks late. The road became so dusty on several occasions that we had to stop the car until it cleared enough to see. None of this was a big deal to us, as we were traveling in the safety of a car, but much of the population in this area live or work along the road in places called trading centers, and there are always numerous people, including small children, walking or riding bikes on the shoulders of the road. The unimaginable amounts of dust settle in thick layers on everything in sight, including on the crops and banana tree plantations, which is not at all good for either. One can only imagine the effect this dust has on people’s lungs everyday for months at a time.
I discussed this very fact with some local friends in Mbarara because we were chatting about individual rights and the rule of law. I was explaining that, though we certainly have many problems with the US political system, we generally have a sense of accountability among our officials. If a political official ignores important issues for a long enough period of time, or commits enough egregious errors, that official will eventually be voted out of office in a free and fair election by constituents who are sometimes more, sometimes less aware of their individual rights. Sadly, that does not seem to be the case here in Uganda. I asked my friends if they thought most Ugandan people had any idea what their rights were and they laughed while shaking their heads, no! My friend Gordon used the dusty road as an example as he explained that a villager covered in dust will look at the road and boast that this is development while not even contemplating the damage to his health and livelihood. This is exactly the type of constituent the government wants, naïve about, yet supportive of a project that should have been done a decade ago.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Last Buoy Before France: Adventures With Alice
Remember our honeymoon to Scotland, Tanzania and Kenya? We ended up on a little island, Lamu, off the coast of Kenya where Lynn’s best friend Alice was able to convince 40 people to fly half-way around the world to celebrate her 30th and her mom’s 60th birthdays. Alice is the quintessential jet-setter; partly because of her love for travel and people and partly because she was born and bred to experience the world in ways that few people can imagine. She was born into one of the most famous families in England, and then moved to Africa where her sister was born. She immigrated to America when she was 13 and met Lynn who had just emigrated from Scotland at the same age. They bonded forever when they both professed their love of the British singer Kylie Minogue.
Alice has friends and relatives all over the world, and is most likely visiting one at any given time, so Lynn and I have made it a priority to “see what Alice is doing” before making any concrete travel plans. We called her a month or so ago and told her we were heading back to Uganda for a month and that we should try to get together, as she is currently living and working next door in Tanzania. She informed us that she was actually going to be back home in England with her mother to attend the annual Dartmouth Regatta, which was the same week that we would be flying through London on our way to Uganda…shocking! Well, we could not pass up a chance to hang out with Alice and her mom Sally so we finagled a few extra days, rented a car, drove across southern England to Dittisham and joined two other friends of Alice who have also taken up the practice of scheduling their vacations based on “what Alice is doing.” Oh yeah, one more thing, Alice pretty much flies by the seat of her pants so one can always expect some kind of wacky mishap, which makes our time with her all that more adventurous and fun.
Dittisham, about a mile and a half up the Dartmouth River from the sea, is the definition of a hamlet with its rolling green hills and hedged roads (that rarely allow two cars to pass each other side by side) giving way to the waterside village that boasts two bars, two restaurants and an 800 year old church still in use. With a population of about 500, everything one does in the village is common knowledge within a couple of hours (e.g. I met a woman on the third day who said, “Oh you’re the one who eats like a horse”).
Alice’s family owns seven boats, all small 12-15 foot whalers or sailboats, as well as their 35’ regatta racing boat called ‘Rocket.’ Alice took us sailing in her favorite boat named after her grandmother Dillis. The winds can be very unpredictable in Dittisham and in Dartmouth at the mouth of the river. Also, the river Dart is a tidal river so the currents and tides can be extremely strong and difficult to deal with in a small sailboat. Because of this, Dillis comes equipped with two oars and a tiny Yamaha outboard engine. The regatta is a huge event that turns the little town of Dartmouth into one giant weeklong festival with rowing races, carnival rides, good food, lots of drinking and one very odd Native American, electronic flute band trying to sell CD’s to a bunch of fascinated Brits.
After much debate over which boat we would be able to use on Friday to head downriver to the festival, it was settled that we would use Dillis. Six of us jumped into Dillis and we motored, with the current, down to Dartmouth where, because there appears to be no boating protocol during the festival, we decided to tie up to a garbage barge to get out of the mayhem and watch some rowing races. It turned out to be a great place to chill for awhile. Next, we headed to the mouth of the river to get some pictures of the 16th century castle built to defend against the dreaded Spanish Armada. After tooling around near the castle for a while, we decided to go out to sea just a bit to catch a glimpse of the big regatta boats racing. It started to get a little choppy so we turned around a speed limit marker and right away realized that while our tiny Yamaha outboard engine was quite adept at motoring us downriver with the tide and current, it was going to be a whole different story trying to get back. This feeling was crystallized by the fact that the speed limit marker that we turned on was still right next to us about a minute after we turned it and the 10 knot current made it look like the marker was sitting in a whitewater rapid. Just as we all became quite alarmed by that fact, our engine slowly started to lose what little power it already had. We started to think light and aerodynamic while we puttered up river wondering what we were going to do, as we were pretty sure by now that the engine was surely going to die. We luckily made it back to the mooring buoys and were able to grab hold of one and tie up. We shut off the engine “to give it a rest;”
Alice and I took the engine cover off and proceeded to stare at all the different parts hoping that staring and resting would cure the engine of its woes. After a five minute rest, Alice fired her up and she sounded a little better, but she was not in gear yet. A brief miscommunication lead Angela to let go of our mooring rope just as Alice put the engine in gear, which subsequently killed it again. Now we were untied, in a 6-7 knot current with a dead engine. It became a bit chaotic as we whipped out the oars and started rowing against the current (luckily Angela and Rita rowed in college and Lynn was calm as usual as she helped row). We somehow managed to make it over to the last mooring before the castle and the open sea where we were able to tie up again and collect our thoughts. As we settled and looked around us, we laughingly realized that we had indeed captured the “last buoy before France,” and so added another story to our long list of wacky adventures with Alice.
Alice has friends and relatives all over the world, and is most likely visiting one at any given time, so Lynn and I have made it a priority to “see what Alice is doing” before making any concrete travel plans. We called her a month or so ago and told her we were heading back to Uganda for a month and that we should try to get together, as she is currently living and working next door in Tanzania. She informed us that she was actually going to be back home in England with her mother to attend the annual Dartmouth Regatta, which was the same week that we would be flying through London on our way to Uganda…shocking! Well, we could not pass up a chance to hang out with Alice and her mom Sally so we finagled a few extra days, rented a car, drove across southern England to Dittisham and joined two other friends of Alice who have also taken up the practice of scheduling their vacations based on “what Alice is doing.” Oh yeah, one more thing, Alice pretty much flies by the seat of her pants so one can always expect some kind of wacky mishap, which makes our time with her all that more adventurous and fun.
Dittisham, about a mile and a half up the Dartmouth River from the sea, is the definition of a hamlet with its rolling green hills and hedged roads (that rarely allow two cars to pass each other side by side) giving way to the waterside village that boasts two bars, two restaurants and an 800 year old church still in use. With a population of about 500, everything one does in the village is common knowledge within a couple of hours (e.g. I met a woman on the third day who said, “Oh you’re the one who eats like a horse”).
Alice’s family owns seven boats, all small 12-15 foot whalers or sailboats, as well as their 35’ regatta racing boat called ‘Rocket.’ Alice took us sailing in her favorite boat named after her grandmother Dillis. The winds can be very unpredictable in Dittisham and in Dartmouth at the mouth of the river. Also, the river Dart is a tidal river so the currents and tides can be extremely strong and difficult to deal with in a small sailboat. Because of this, Dillis comes equipped with two oars and a tiny Yamaha outboard engine. The regatta is a huge event that turns the little town of Dartmouth into one giant weeklong festival with rowing races, carnival rides, good food, lots of drinking and one very odd Native American, electronic flute band trying to sell CD’s to a bunch of fascinated Brits.
After much debate over which boat we would be able to use on Friday to head downriver to the festival, it was settled that we would use Dillis. Six of us jumped into Dillis and we motored, with the current, down to Dartmouth where, because there appears to be no boating protocol during the festival, we decided to tie up to a garbage barge to get out of the mayhem and watch some rowing races. It turned out to be a great place to chill for awhile. Next, we headed to the mouth of the river to get some pictures of the 16th century castle built to defend against the dreaded Spanish Armada. After tooling around near the castle for a while, we decided to go out to sea just a bit to catch a glimpse of the big regatta boats racing. It started to get a little choppy so we turned around a speed limit marker and right away realized that while our tiny Yamaha outboard engine was quite adept at motoring us downriver with the tide and current, it was going to be a whole different story trying to get back. This feeling was crystallized by the fact that the speed limit marker that we turned on was still right next to us about a minute after we turned it and the 10 knot current made it look like the marker was sitting in a whitewater rapid. Just as we all became quite alarmed by that fact, our engine slowly started to lose what little power it already had. We started to think light and aerodynamic while we puttered up river wondering what we were going to do, as we were pretty sure by now that the engine was surely going to die. We luckily made it back to the mooring buoys and were able to grab hold of one and tie up. We shut off the engine “to give it a rest;”
Alice and I took the engine cover off and proceeded to stare at all the different parts hoping that staring and resting would cure the engine of its woes. After a five minute rest, Alice fired her up and she sounded a little better, but she was not in gear yet. A brief miscommunication lead Angela to let go of our mooring rope just as Alice put the engine in gear, which subsequently killed it again. Now we were untied, in a 6-7 knot current with a dead engine. It became a bit chaotic as we whipped out the oars and started rowing against the current (luckily Angela and Rita rowed in college and Lynn was calm as usual as she helped row). We somehow managed to make it over to the last mooring before the castle and the open sea where we were able to tie up again and collect our thoughts. As we settled and looked around us, we laughingly realized that we had indeed captured the “last buoy before France,” and so added another story to our long list of wacky adventures with Alice.
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