Collingswood, NJ
7:30 PM (Although in my jet-lagged stupor, I’m not sure what time zone I’m in, let alone what day it is.)
As I walk around the corner towards home, the sun is dipping, low and warm, into the trees. Suddenly, Uganda seems far away. I am surrounded by houses with colorful porches with flowerboxes; telephone poles stretch up from the ground; cables run like tightrope down the street. This night, I brush my teeth with tap water for the first time in weeks. I have to remind myself that electricity does not only come on between certain hours of the evening. There are sidewalks everywhere, streetlights, running water. No bicycles piled high with matoke, no goats, no people stopping to chat with me on the street about the pride, the care, with which they consider their country.
With every step I take back into my familiar world, my home, I feel Uganda recede.
How easy it becomes to slip into our daily routines and ignore the world around us! I can feel myself doing it already. But I don’t want to. I don’t want my visit to the Minakulu IDP Camp to fade into fantasy; I don’t want to forget the time spent speaking with children (children!) who had spent years of their lives in the bush as unwilling soldiers. As we were interviewing one former child soldier, a nineteen-year-old young man named Dennis came up to us. Through our translator, we learned that Dennis had heard that some people (us) were there “to write the names of those who had been in the bush.” He wanted to tell his story, and patiently waited five hours to do so as we finished speaking with others before him.
My point is, people want their stories told. Problems will not improve until people are no longer faceless. I already long to return to Uganda, but until then, I will myself to remember. I resolve to tell their stories, to write their names. I can only hope that others will do so, too.
Posted by Elizabeth
July 18th--A Note About Postings
To my students ,friends, and family,
We have had numerous requests for pictures, but the computers and Internet are so slow here that it takes hours to upload photos. Additionally, we have had minimal time to write due to our very full schedule. We will continue to write over the next several days, and then when an efficient system is available, we will publish some highlight photos of our journey. Thank you for traveling with us.
Love,
Gretchen, Doug, and Elizabeth
We have had numerous requests for pictures, but the computers and Internet are so slow here that it takes hours to upload photos. Additionally, we have had minimal time to write due to our very full schedule. We will continue to write over the next several days, and then when an efficient system is available, we will publish some highlight photos of our journey. Thank you for traveling with us.
Love,
Gretchen, Doug, and Elizabeth
July 18th-- Ms. Seibert's Post: "Mongoose in the Hotel Lobby!"
“Elizabeth, Gretchen, come here. You’ve got to see this! There are about fifty mongooses in the lobby!” Those were the first words I heard shortly after arriving at our last safari destination, Myewa Lodge in Queen Elizabeth Park, Uganda. By the time I reached the lobby all of the little critters were scurrying, squeaking, and skittering out into the parking lot, gently shooed out by the hotel staff. Tiny babies followed their mothers closely, and from a distance they looked like a gang of momma cats with their babies.
As I made my way back to my room, I met three warthogs chomping the lawn. Warthogs look surprisingly humble when they eat for they kneel down on their two front legs—a manner which belies the intimidating tusks that jut out from either side of their snouts. The coarse hairy skin that covers their bodies ends in a cute little tail that stands up like a wiggly antenna when they run.
Then, on the way to track chimps this morning in Kyambora Gorge, we came across a lion nonchalantly sauntering down the road. He was not more than five feet from our car. It was an electric beginning to a wise day. One hour after hiking into Kyambora Gorge, the piercing scream of chimps shot through the forest. A haunting, beautiful sound that seemed to say: This is as it should be. The group of nine swung from the trees, ate Ironwood tree fruit, and periodically rested on branches. A mother and baby reclined lazily in a large chimp nest constructed of twigs and leaves. The baby’s pink little face peered out from the nest as it reached for leaves with its toes. Nature silenced us with awe. I have never been a zoo person, but after seeing chimps joyfully rustle tree tops, a herd of elephants run freely across the savannah, lions hide in tall yellow grass, and warthogs search for the best tree on which to scratch their rumps, I never want to see an imprisoned animal again.
But we, Doug, Elizabeth, and I, were most fortunately imprisoned by the jungle, and that is the reason we have not written for several days. The Internet does not exist where we have been. Electricity is only available for several hours a day. That makes the evenings in a safari tent magical. Kerosene lanterns create soft orange light. Hundreds of species of birds call from the jungle. Insects whisper and millipedes crawl. The occasional roar of a lion slices through the gentler melodies. Stars burst through the darkness because they are the only light out here in the jungle night.
And tonight is our last night in western Uganda. Tomorrow morning we return for ANOTHER long drive on dusty “dancing” roads as our optimistic driver and guide, George, calls them. We will tie up loose ends and, it is hoped, see Savior and Sanyu one more time before returning to the United States. But I know I will be back to Uganda.
This is not the land of Idi Amin. Nor is it the land of “Raid on Entebbe.” This is not even the land of Kony, the current sinister leader of the LRA. This land is so lovely and varied. Mountains. Lakes. Jungle. Savannah. All flecked with wildlife eager to flourish under the right leader. Mud villages. First class safari lodges. Wood carvings and woven baskets. The best pineapple I have ever tasted. And most importantly, the gentlest, kindest, most generous people I have ever met. This is the Uganda I know to be true. Now.
As I made my way back to my room, I met three warthogs chomping the lawn. Warthogs look surprisingly humble when they eat for they kneel down on their two front legs—a manner which belies the intimidating tusks that jut out from either side of their snouts. The coarse hairy skin that covers their bodies ends in a cute little tail that stands up like a wiggly antenna when they run.
Then, on the way to track chimps this morning in Kyambora Gorge, we came across a lion nonchalantly sauntering down the road. He was not more than five feet from our car. It was an electric beginning to a wise day. One hour after hiking into Kyambora Gorge, the piercing scream of chimps shot through the forest. A haunting, beautiful sound that seemed to say: This is as it should be. The group of nine swung from the trees, ate Ironwood tree fruit, and periodically rested on branches. A mother and baby reclined lazily in a large chimp nest constructed of twigs and leaves. The baby’s pink little face peered out from the nest as it reached for leaves with its toes. Nature silenced us with awe. I have never been a zoo person, but after seeing chimps joyfully rustle tree tops, a herd of elephants run freely across the savannah, lions hide in tall yellow grass, and warthogs search for the best tree on which to scratch their rumps, I never want to see an imprisoned animal again.
But we, Doug, Elizabeth, and I, were most fortunately imprisoned by the jungle, and that is the reason we have not written for several days. The Internet does not exist where we have been. Electricity is only available for several hours a day. That makes the evenings in a safari tent magical. Kerosene lanterns create soft orange light. Hundreds of species of birds call from the jungle. Insects whisper and millipedes crawl. The occasional roar of a lion slices through the gentler melodies. Stars burst through the darkness because they are the only light out here in the jungle night.
And tonight is our last night in western Uganda. Tomorrow morning we return for ANOTHER long drive on dusty “dancing” roads as our optimistic driver and guide, George, calls them. We will tie up loose ends and, it is hoped, see Savior and Sanyu one more time before returning to the United States. But I know I will be back to Uganda.
This is not the land of Idi Amin. Nor is it the land of “Raid on Entebbe.” This is not even the land of Kony, the current sinister leader of the LRA. This land is so lovely and varied. Mountains. Lakes. Jungle. Savannah. All flecked with wildlife eager to flourish under the right leader. Mud villages. First class safari lodges. Wood carvings and woven baskets. The best pineapple I have ever tasted. And most importantly, the gentlest, kindest, most generous people I have ever met. This is the Uganda I know to be true. Now.
July 14th: Gretchen's Post--"Who I am Now is not Who I Was."
What is Heaven? It is realizing and appreciating the complexities and nuances of life. It is looking inside each of those moments of bliss, despair, awe, to savor the shiny and the dark. Those are my thoughts as I sit here on Saturday, July 14th, in Paraa Lodge at Murchison Falls Park, Uganda, and look back on the tiny seconds of my trip.
SAFARI
Like yesterday. Seven hours—again—in a car on dusty, unfinished roads watching the bush rush by. Our driver and safari guide, George, is another skilled pothole dodger and an expert on the flora and fauna of Uganda. He and Birdman, I mean Doug, became fast friends as they discussed the Blue Teraco and elusive Spoonbill, the two birds Doug really wants to see.
George’s smile is full and white as a new half moon in the night sky. His laugh rumbles from low down deep somewhere inside him and warmly spreads out across the savannah we view. His laugh, an invitation to laugh as well. George points out that the darker giraffes are aged, and the young ones light in color. A herd of giraffes gazes inquisitively at our car—not fifteen meters away. Throngs of giraffes stretch their necks out atop the distant hills, like statues reaching for the sky.
Elephant dung rich in undigested food indicates a wise old bull or female. The large grinding teeth wear down after years of eating grasses and Acacia trees. Sweet and earthy, the unmistakable smell of fresh elephant dung indicates they have just passed very close. But I need not even venture from the balcony of my room to watch elephants. A tiny herd lives near the hotel. I watch one forage through the bush from my hotel balcony, and I hear the hippos call, gruff and throaty, from the Nile. In the afternoon sun, the hippos resemble a collection of giant polished black stones emerging from the water. Squares of sunlight reflect off their backs.
The lions hunt late in the day, hiding in the tall yellow grass. Ugandan Kob, giraffes, Kep Buffalo, Harte Beest, and Oriki , a small antelope, walk nearby. The lion and lioness stand now and again to look at their potential meal. I lock the cats in my binoculars. Large, brown eyes peer through the grass right down the barrel of my binoculars at me. Or so it seems. Yawning and stretching, they settle back in the grass. Even wild cats are lazy.
Whistling Acacia trees grace the landscape of this African Rift Valley. Insects bore holes in the tiny berries that hang from the thorny tree, and when the wind blows the berries sing. Softly. I really have to listen. And Sausage trees. Three foot long grey seedpods shaped like giant sausages dangle from the tree’s vines like pieces of sausage in a butcher’s window.
CHILD SOLDIERS
As I look at the vegetation in the savannah, I wonder what it was really like for the former child soldiers I interviewed four days ago. How was it to live out in the bush up north—unwillingly—away from family and home? Those children, ages twelve to nineteen, told Elizabeth and me their stories. Sometimes waiting even five hours to be heard. To show us their official white papers with their small black and white photograph stapled in the time right hand corner. Their name. Date of abduction by Kony’s Lords Resistance Army. Date of return. And formal signature at the bottom of the paper by some unknown official to validate the truth of their days under Kony’s command. As if the shrapnel in one’s leg, the bullet wound in another’s neck, or the nightmares that plague all of them were not testament enough.
I promised the children I would tell their stories. They want the world to know. The following are very brief and the least upsetting excerpts from just a few of the interviews. I have given the first name and last initial of the children to protect their identities. Every child was abducted by Kony’s LRA and forced to fight against his or her will.
SAFARI
Like yesterday. Seven hours—again—in a car on dusty, unfinished roads watching the bush rush by. Our driver and safari guide, George, is another skilled pothole dodger and an expert on the flora and fauna of Uganda. He and Birdman, I mean Doug, became fast friends as they discussed the Blue Teraco and elusive Spoonbill, the two birds Doug really wants to see.
George’s smile is full and white as a new half moon in the night sky. His laugh rumbles from low down deep somewhere inside him and warmly spreads out across the savannah we view. His laugh, an invitation to laugh as well. George points out that the darker giraffes are aged, and the young ones light in color. A herd of giraffes gazes inquisitively at our car—not fifteen meters away. Throngs of giraffes stretch their necks out atop the distant hills, like statues reaching for the sky.
Elephant dung rich in undigested food indicates a wise old bull or female. The large grinding teeth wear down after years of eating grasses and Acacia trees. Sweet and earthy, the unmistakable smell of fresh elephant dung indicates they have just passed very close. But I need not even venture from the balcony of my room to watch elephants. A tiny herd lives near the hotel. I watch one forage through the bush from my hotel balcony, and I hear the hippos call, gruff and throaty, from the Nile. In the afternoon sun, the hippos resemble a collection of giant polished black stones emerging from the water. Squares of sunlight reflect off their backs.
The lions hunt late in the day, hiding in the tall yellow grass. Ugandan Kob, giraffes, Kep Buffalo, Harte Beest, and Oriki , a small antelope, walk nearby. The lion and lioness stand now and again to look at their potential meal. I lock the cats in my binoculars. Large, brown eyes peer through the grass right down the barrel of my binoculars at me. Or so it seems. Yawning and stretching, they settle back in the grass. Even wild cats are lazy.
Whistling Acacia trees grace the landscape of this African Rift Valley. Insects bore holes in the tiny berries that hang from the thorny tree, and when the wind blows the berries sing. Softly. I really have to listen. And Sausage trees. Three foot long grey seedpods shaped like giant sausages dangle from the tree’s vines like pieces of sausage in a butcher’s window.
CHILD SOLDIERS
As I look at the vegetation in the savannah, I wonder what it was really like for the former child soldiers I interviewed four days ago. How was it to live out in the bush up north—unwillingly—away from family and home? Those children, ages twelve to nineteen, told Elizabeth and me their stories. Sometimes waiting even five hours to be heard. To show us their official white papers with their small black and white photograph stapled in the time right hand corner. Their name. Date of abduction by Kony’s Lords Resistance Army. Date of return. And formal signature at the bottom of the paper by some unknown official to validate the truth of their days under Kony’s command. As if the shrapnel in one’s leg, the bullet wound in another’s neck, or the nightmares that plague all of them were not testament enough.
I promised the children I would tell their stories. They want the world to know. The following are very brief and the least upsetting excerpts from just a few of the interviews. I have given the first name and last initial of the children to protect their identities. Every child was abducted by Kony’s LRA and forced to fight against his or her will.
WARNING: SOME MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING INCIDENTS TOO DISTURBING TO READ. IF YOU THINK THESE BRIEF NOTES FROM FORMER CHILD SOLDIERS MIGHT UPSET YOU, SKIP AHEAD TO: "WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD."
Winnie A.—Fourteen years old. Spent eleven months in the bush until she was freed by the Ugandan army. Remembers carrying huge loads, including hundred pound bags of maize, during the day and sleeping on the loads at night. Children’s injuries tied with spear grass. Her strongest memory: when a person was killed the children would have to beat the corpse with a stick.
Dennis O.—Nine years old when he and three siblings were taken by rebels. Dennis marched with rebels for one year. Ordered to kill someone and did so in order to live. Sticks the size of a giant pestle used as weapons. Legs became so swollen from carrying heavy loads that he could not move. LRA abandoned him in the village of Opete. Dennis crawled for three days until he reached a hut. People took him to an IDP camp (a place where Internally Displaced People set up camp to escape the war) where Dennis was reunited with his mother. All of his brothers and sisters escaped and found their way home.
Kenneth O.—Now fourteen years old. Spent one year and ten months with the LRA. Escaped around Uganda’s Independence Day, October 9th. Kenneth was sent by his parents to dig in the garden when the rebels, led by his auntie, captured him. Beaten fifty times with a Panga (machete) every time he expressed a desire to go home. In the LRA, if beatings failed to make a child conform, the child was forced to kill. Carried a commander’s chair from one location to another. Knelt by his commander during battles. During one battle, bombs from the Ugandan army exploded near him. Remembers a close friend dying in front of him. During the confusion of battle, Kenneth crawled under leaves and hid until morning. Alone. Emerged from leaves and while walking, met an older man. Together they found the man’s IDP camp. Stayed there two weeks. Kenneth then taken to a reception center, a place where escaped child soldiers are received and rehabilitated. He was given a basin, a foam mattress, saucepans, maize, cooking oil, and jerry can for carrying water. Eventually reunited with his mother, but now lives with grandma since mother worries he will be abducted by the LRA again.
George O.—Ten years old when abducted and spent four years in the bush with the LRA. In the beginning, LRA superstitiously smeared his hands with Shea butter to keep him from escaping. Brought a “heap of sticks” and beat him terribly with sticks and wire locks as part of initiation. In one large battle at Kaberadmaido, LRA left their wounded to die. George was shot in the stomach. Bullet went out his back but he kept walking with LRA to Acholiland, without medical care. Became too sick and couldn’t move anymore. LRA abandoned him. George crawled to Pajule and after being harassed by the Ugandan army for being a “returnee,” George received care. In hospital for one month since wound was severely infected. After being released from the hospital and spending one month in a counseling center for returned child soldiers, and three weeks for more services at Gusco Center, George reunited with his mother. Village had a traditional cleansing: an egg was placed between two Opopo branches. George stepped on the egg. A goat was sacrificed and George was welcomed back into his village. Dreaming of coming home kept George alive while he was in the war. George thinks the world should get rid of Kony.
WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD
We interviewed many other children and mothers, and since their stories were even more upsetting I have decided not to include them here. I did ask them what they would tell the world if they could tell the world anything about their ordeal, and the following are a few responses:
1. “Being a child soldier destroys their academic future; lasting psychological effects make them abnormal in the mind.”
2. “I want Kony to accept the peace talks and then he can come and live with the people again. If he refuses to accept peace, he should be made to disappear. More than anything, I want all of the children to come back from the bush and be assisted with their education.”
3. A mother said, “I am afraid to tell the world anything because my child is still in the bush with Kony’s commanders.”
4. Another mother said, “Being a single mother and raising a former child soldier is very hard—especially when sickness comes. The only source of income is digging in the garden.”
5. Perhaps fourteen year old Bonny, a former child soldier, said it most succinctly, “My present state is not what I desired. What I am today is not who I was.”
WHAT I WOULD TELL THE WORLD
Seconds are composed of what is before us, what is behind us, and what is in us. What is before me is a plane flight in a four-seater (UGH!!) to Semliki Park tomorrow; a chimapanzee walk; tea with my family in the morning; another jungle exploration with George, our guide, work in September, more Ugandan smiles, and the unwritten pages of my book. What is behind me are days spent with Betty, a new Ugandan friend who served as our translator in the IDP camps and facilitated interviews with former child soldiers; being sung to by the children of St. Clare’s Boarding School in the Budaka district; eating dinner with Savior and Sanyu and holding them as tightly as I could when saying goodbye; shopping for Ugandan crafts in the African Village; watching a mother baboon carry her brand new baby on her back; countless Ugandan smiles; listening to the stories of former child soldiers. What is in me: all of the above dark and shiny moments, for as fourteen year old Bonny said, “Who I am now is not who I was.”
Winnie A.—Fourteen years old. Spent eleven months in the bush until she was freed by the Ugandan army. Remembers carrying huge loads, including hundred pound bags of maize, during the day and sleeping on the loads at night. Children’s injuries tied with spear grass. Her strongest memory: when a person was killed the children would have to beat the corpse with a stick.
Dennis O.—Nine years old when he and three siblings were taken by rebels. Dennis marched with rebels for one year. Ordered to kill someone and did so in order to live. Sticks the size of a giant pestle used as weapons. Legs became so swollen from carrying heavy loads that he could not move. LRA abandoned him in the village of Opete. Dennis crawled for three days until he reached a hut. People took him to an IDP camp (a place where Internally Displaced People set up camp to escape the war) where Dennis was reunited with his mother. All of his brothers and sisters escaped and found their way home.
Kenneth O.—Now fourteen years old. Spent one year and ten months with the LRA. Escaped around Uganda’s Independence Day, October 9th. Kenneth was sent by his parents to dig in the garden when the rebels, led by his auntie, captured him. Beaten fifty times with a Panga (machete) every time he expressed a desire to go home. In the LRA, if beatings failed to make a child conform, the child was forced to kill. Carried a commander’s chair from one location to another. Knelt by his commander during battles. During one battle, bombs from the Ugandan army exploded near him. Remembers a close friend dying in front of him. During the confusion of battle, Kenneth crawled under leaves and hid until morning. Alone. Emerged from leaves and while walking, met an older man. Together they found the man’s IDP camp. Stayed there two weeks. Kenneth then taken to a reception center, a place where escaped child soldiers are received and rehabilitated. He was given a basin, a foam mattress, saucepans, maize, cooking oil, and jerry can for carrying water. Eventually reunited with his mother, but now lives with grandma since mother worries he will be abducted by the LRA again.
George O.—Ten years old when abducted and spent four years in the bush with the LRA. In the beginning, LRA superstitiously smeared his hands with Shea butter to keep him from escaping. Brought a “heap of sticks” and beat him terribly with sticks and wire locks as part of initiation. In one large battle at Kaberadmaido, LRA left their wounded to die. George was shot in the stomach. Bullet went out his back but he kept walking with LRA to Acholiland, without medical care. Became too sick and couldn’t move anymore. LRA abandoned him. George crawled to Pajule and after being harassed by the Ugandan army for being a “returnee,” George received care. In hospital for one month since wound was severely infected. After being released from the hospital and spending one month in a counseling center for returned child soldiers, and three weeks for more services at Gusco Center, George reunited with his mother. Village had a traditional cleansing: an egg was placed between two Opopo branches. George stepped on the egg. A goat was sacrificed and George was welcomed back into his village. Dreaming of coming home kept George alive while he was in the war. George thinks the world should get rid of Kony.
WHAT THEY WOULD TELL THE WORLD
We interviewed many other children and mothers, and since their stories were even more upsetting I have decided not to include them here. I did ask them what they would tell the world if they could tell the world anything about their ordeal, and the following are a few responses:
1. “Being a child soldier destroys their academic future; lasting psychological effects make them abnormal in the mind.”
2. “I want Kony to accept the peace talks and then he can come and live with the people again. If he refuses to accept peace, he should be made to disappear. More than anything, I want all of the children to come back from the bush and be assisted with their education.”
3. A mother said, “I am afraid to tell the world anything because my child is still in the bush with Kony’s commanders.”
4. Another mother said, “Being a single mother and raising a former child soldier is very hard—especially when sickness comes. The only source of income is digging in the garden.”
5. Perhaps fourteen year old Bonny, a former child soldier, said it most succinctly, “My present state is not what I desired. What I am today is not who I was.”
WHAT I WOULD TELL THE WORLD
Seconds are composed of what is before us, what is behind us, and what is in us. What is before me is a plane flight in a four-seater (UGH!!) to Semliki Park tomorrow; a chimapanzee walk; tea with my family in the morning; another jungle exploration with George, our guide, work in September, more Ugandan smiles, and the unwritten pages of my book. What is behind me are days spent with Betty, a new Ugandan friend who served as our translator in the IDP camps and facilitated interviews with former child soldiers; being sung to by the children of St. Clare’s Boarding School in the Budaka district; eating dinner with Savior and Sanyu and holding them as tightly as I could when saying goodbye; shopping for Ugandan crafts in the African Village; watching a mother baboon carry her brand new baby on her back; countless Ugandan smiles; listening to the stories of former child soldiers. What is in me: all of the above dark and shiny moments, for as fourteen year old Bonny said, “Who I am now is not who I was.”
July 12th: Elizabeth's View - Gulu
Posted by Elizabeth
On Monday we arrived at the Gulu area in Acholiland, so named for the Acholi tribe that lives there. Gulu is about six hours from Kampala and the drive is so bumpy that, at the end of the day, I left the car with bruised knees. We were in the north, where the war has been for the last twenty years. It’s only been in the last year that one can travel there without a military convoy.
As we moved farther and farther north, the landscape changed from lush green hills to flatter, arid yellows. Traveling anywhere in Uganda, you inevitable pass through towns—essentially a row of beat-up stores along each side of the highway. After a few hundred yards, they end abruptly. (Consider them a sort of commercial oasis.) As we drove north, we still passed such towns, but more and more of them began to remind me of a “wild west” movie. Boarded-up shops. Fewer people out and about. Several towns looked as though they had been abandoned.
For those towns still functioning, it was all too clear that the poverty worsened in the north. More people were barefoot. Kids in school uniforms ran along the highways as always. The existing towns looked even more run-down than usual.
As we neared Gulu, the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps began to appear. We stopped at one of the first ones we saw and our guide, Betty, got out of the car to try and find someone who could show us around, or at least answer some questions. She returned with Mr. Onyik, who had served as the elected camp leader for the last six years. He spoke with us for a few minutes and we arranged to return the next day to interview several former child soldiers. For now, he said, he would give us a tour.
The Minakulu IDP Camp houses about 5,013 people at the moment. It began in 1996. Most of the camps around here seem like they were “self-started.” For example, Minakulu began when a group of people felt unsafe in their homes due to the war. They approached several landowners, who generously donated their land to house the IDPs. We met one of the landowners, a kind man who lives in the same type of hut as everybody else there.
The camp is an expanse of round huts made from brick and mud with thatched roofs. To give you a better picture, each hut is about the size of two queen beds pushed together and holds one family. Sometimes there will be as many as ten people living in one hut. People do their laundry and dishes in small plastic pots outside of their huts. There is a small secondary school built especially for the camp, and when not in class, several teenagers lounged about in the grass in their navy and white uniforms. Throughout the camps, here and there, there are scraps of attempted beauty: patterns painted on the outside of a hut in mud and chalk, colorful lace hung across a door made of flattened USA cooking oil cans.
The camp’s latrine is made from mud with a corrugated steel door that looks as though it’s on its last hinge. In several places throughout the camp, straw mats are stood up to make an enclosed area for bathing. The same kind of mat serves as a mattress and drying area for plants grown in the camp gardens. On these mats, people spread out beans or raw cassava to dry. Fresh-picked beans are dumped on them as well, and children dutifully thrash the pods with sticks to shake the beans loose. We meet one man—about twenty years old—who serves as the camp’s butcher. There are several animal skins drying on the ground outside his hut. He tells my dad that people used to go the market for meat. Now, because of lack of money, they raise all of their own goats and chickens.
Digging is the main source of income around here. People dig in their own gardens for food (this food is literally their only income), or are paid to dig in others’ gardens. Sometimes this payment is monetary, other times, people are paid with the very vegetables they dig up. All around us, people are coming back from the garden just beyond the camp limits with baskets or bowls or bundles of produce on their heads. Corn is grown in any available space here, sometimes even only a few stalks at a time.
I must admit—and I am somewhat ashamed to say this—but the people in the camp surprised me. I had imagined everyone sitting around, sullen, unable to return to their homes. I hardly thought that we would be given a warm welcome. But I was quite wrong. From the moment we entered the camp, everyone came up to greet us and tell us that we were welcome there. Most people spoke very limited English, conversing instead in the local languages of Acholi or Luo. “Afoyo,” I kept repeating, the one Acholi word I know. “Thank you.” “Afoyo, afoyo.” I was thanking everybody left and right.
Everyone wanted us to take their picture, and we had an entourage of about fifteen kids following us the whole time. And cuter, filthier kids you have never seen. They ran behind us, giggling and dancing and trying to get into the picture whenever they could. But their smiles didn’t hide their dirt-streaked, half-dressed bodies, their bellies swollen from malnutrition and worms, or the small bald patches on their heads from ringworm. One boy, about six years old, was wearing torn surf shorts that were so big for him he had to constantly pull them up with one hand. His other hand was supporting a naked baby, propped against his body. This is hardly an uncommon sight here.
In the camps, I got the sense that everyone there was just waiting. They no longer have the same jobs or gardens or farms that they used to work. There is little for anybody to do. As a result, alcoholism has become a severe problem. Aside from the household chores—which are traditionally completed by the women—people don’t have much else to do besides wait. Although some began to move back home when the peace talks started, others are still waiting for the day when they no longer feel afraid of living in their own homes, when the LRA is no longer a threat, when their children may return home safely.
But even when this happens, the country will bear the scars of this war for some time to come. Many kids were born in the camps. For those from the north and under the age of twenty, war is all they have known.
On Monday we arrived at the Gulu area in Acholiland, so named for the Acholi tribe that lives there. Gulu is about six hours from Kampala and the drive is so bumpy that, at the end of the day, I left the car with bruised knees. We were in the north, where the war has been for the last twenty years. It’s only been in the last year that one can travel there without a military convoy.
As we moved farther and farther north, the landscape changed from lush green hills to flatter, arid yellows. Traveling anywhere in Uganda, you inevitable pass through towns—essentially a row of beat-up stores along each side of the highway. After a few hundred yards, they end abruptly. (Consider them a sort of commercial oasis.) As we drove north, we still passed such towns, but more and more of them began to remind me of a “wild west” movie. Boarded-up shops. Fewer people out and about. Several towns looked as though they had been abandoned.
For those towns still functioning, it was all too clear that the poverty worsened in the north. More people were barefoot. Kids in school uniforms ran along the highways as always. The existing towns looked even more run-down than usual.
As we neared Gulu, the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camps began to appear. We stopped at one of the first ones we saw and our guide, Betty, got out of the car to try and find someone who could show us around, or at least answer some questions. She returned with Mr. Onyik, who had served as the elected camp leader for the last six years. He spoke with us for a few minutes and we arranged to return the next day to interview several former child soldiers. For now, he said, he would give us a tour.
The Minakulu IDP Camp houses about 5,013 people at the moment. It began in 1996. Most of the camps around here seem like they were “self-started.” For example, Minakulu began when a group of people felt unsafe in their homes due to the war. They approached several landowners, who generously donated their land to house the IDPs. We met one of the landowners, a kind man who lives in the same type of hut as everybody else there.
The camp is an expanse of round huts made from brick and mud with thatched roofs. To give you a better picture, each hut is about the size of two queen beds pushed together and holds one family. Sometimes there will be as many as ten people living in one hut. People do their laundry and dishes in small plastic pots outside of their huts. There is a small secondary school built especially for the camp, and when not in class, several teenagers lounged about in the grass in their navy and white uniforms. Throughout the camps, here and there, there are scraps of attempted beauty: patterns painted on the outside of a hut in mud and chalk, colorful lace hung across a door made of flattened USA cooking oil cans.
The camp’s latrine is made from mud with a corrugated steel door that looks as though it’s on its last hinge. In several places throughout the camp, straw mats are stood up to make an enclosed area for bathing. The same kind of mat serves as a mattress and drying area for plants grown in the camp gardens. On these mats, people spread out beans or raw cassava to dry. Fresh-picked beans are dumped on them as well, and children dutifully thrash the pods with sticks to shake the beans loose. We meet one man—about twenty years old—who serves as the camp’s butcher. There are several animal skins drying on the ground outside his hut. He tells my dad that people used to go the market for meat. Now, because of lack of money, they raise all of their own goats and chickens.
Digging is the main source of income around here. People dig in their own gardens for food (this food is literally their only income), or are paid to dig in others’ gardens. Sometimes this payment is monetary, other times, people are paid with the very vegetables they dig up. All around us, people are coming back from the garden just beyond the camp limits with baskets or bowls or bundles of produce on their heads. Corn is grown in any available space here, sometimes even only a few stalks at a time.
I must admit—and I am somewhat ashamed to say this—but the people in the camp surprised me. I had imagined everyone sitting around, sullen, unable to return to their homes. I hardly thought that we would be given a warm welcome. But I was quite wrong. From the moment we entered the camp, everyone came up to greet us and tell us that we were welcome there. Most people spoke very limited English, conversing instead in the local languages of Acholi or Luo. “Afoyo,” I kept repeating, the one Acholi word I know. “Thank you.” “Afoyo, afoyo.” I was thanking everybody left and right.
Everyone wanted us to take their picture, and we had an entourage of about fifteen kids following us the whole time. And cuter, filthier kids you have never seen. They ran behind us, giggling and dancing and trying to get into the picture whenever they could. But their smiles didn’t hide their dirt-streaked, half-dressed bodies, their bellies swollen from malnutrition and worms, or the small bald patches on their heads from ringworm. One boy, about six years old, was wearing torn surf shorts that were so big for him he had to constantly pull them up with one hand. His other hand was supporting a naked baby, propped against his body. This is hardly an uncommon sight here.
In the camps, I got the sense that everyone there was just waiting. They no longer have the same jobs or gardens or farms that they used to work. There is little for anybody to do. As a result, alcoholism has become a severe problem. Aside from the household chores—which are traditionally completed by the women—people don’t have much else to do besides wait. Although some began to move back home when the peace talks started, others are still waiting for the day when they no longer feel afraid of living in their own homes, when the LRA is no longer a threat, when their children may return home safely.
But even when this happens, the country will bear the scars of this war for some time to come. Many kids were born in the camps. For those from the north and under the age of twenty, war is all they have known.
July 8th: Sanyu's Post
(The following was written and typed by Nakyeyune Sanyu, left with Elizabeth. Sanyu is a friend of Savior’s who came to visit with us at the hotel for the weekend. She was seven years old when her parents died and lived alone with her five sisters until the age of ten. She is currently twelve years old.)
I was .born in Rakai district. My father died in 1999. By that time I was in primary two
And my elder sister was in primary six.
My father died when my mother was prignant. After one month, my mother beared a baby girl. How joyful we were from sadness .
Three months past and my mother died. We were very sad because no one was going to pay for us school fees, buy for us food,
When my elder sister went in a bording school, I had to look after the baby and I had to go to school and when I come back I had to go and collect firewood. I had to cook food for the kids. But now Iam veryt happy because Iam in school and being sponsored by OUT SIDE THE DREAM.
I was .born in Rakai district. My father died in 1999. By that time I was in primary two
And my elder sister was in primary six.
My father died when my mother was prignant. After one month, my mother beared a baby girl. How joyful we were from sadness .
Three months past and my mother died. We were very sad because no one was going to pay for us school fees, buy for us food,
When my elder sister went in a bording school, I had to look after the baby and I had to go to school and when I come back I had to go and collect firewood. I had to cook food for the kids. But now Iam veryt happy because Iam in school and being sponsored by OUT SIDE THE DREAM.
Elizabeth's Post - July 8th: Savior and Sanyu
Posted by Elizabeth
Pictures to come!!
On Saturday my parents and I went to Budo Junior School (where Savior attends) to donate some materials and hold a workshop with the kids. Along the way, there were a few curveballs thrown at us. Based on the supplies we had brought from home, we had requested twenty-five students. We entered the large classroom (which also serves as the school’s chapel) to find seventy-five students waiting. The power was out at the school, so we couldn’t do the activity we originally planned. And the school’s materials were limited: no maps, no overhead projectors, no computers to use, some of the kids didn’t even own writing utensils…we had only some limited craft supplies that we had brought 8,000 miles in a suitcase, some chalk that crumbled in the afternoon humidity, and our ideas. Hmm. It's a wonder, what you can do with just those things.
And thank goodness for my mother.
We scrapped the original lesson plan and she improvised, handing out flowers picked from the school grounds to each table of students. She did a simple descriptive exercise with them based on the flowers. At first, you could tell the kids were thinking, “Who are these crazy bzungu?” (Bzungu means white people. You hear it a lot here.) But eventually, we won them over. :) We did a basic poetry workshop with them, my mom directing, and my dad and I moving throughout the tables of students to answer questions and just help out where needed. Then, we showed them how to make “star books” out of folded printer and construction paper. They loved it! And a lot of the kids were incredible writers, too. I mean really, really amazing. It’s fascinating to see what kids will do when you give them a little confidence and the materials to do it. It was also interesting to see the way a different cultural sphere influences one’s writing. For example, there was also a lot about the Ugandan countryside, crested cranes, city streets, poultry farms, markets or the Sahara desert. Many of the kids wrote about home or their parents (many are orphans boarding at the school).
We returned to our hotel with Savior and his friend Sanyu, who had gotten passes to leave the school for the night. Both are twelve years old. Savior has no living relatives and Sanyu was orphaned at the age of seven. (Her sister--age twelve at the time --raised both Sanyu and the five-month old baby. Their ages are now seventeen, twelve, and six. All are currently in school.) The kids spent the night at our hotel and the next morning watched television and made more “magic” star books in their hotel room. Savior wrote a letter for my mom’s students, and Sanyu wrote something to post on the blog.
We also gave Savior his early birthday gifts, and gave Sanyu the gifts we had set aside for her. I will never forget the way Savior’s face lit up when he saw his birthday card, or the way Sanyu traced the fur on the stuffed animal we gave her to take back to her six-year old sister, Sarah. “It is beautiful,” Sanyu said. We gave them each a teddy bear, which they hugged tightly to their chest. (Courtney, Savior read your letter and says “Thank you.” He loves the bear.)
Then my mom and I took them shopping in a commercial district of Kampala. As my mom put it, “it ain’t Target.” The blocks were a dizzying maze of small stores, or malls made up of hole-in-the-wall stalls selling clothing. Blankets were spread out on the sidewalks to display the watches, candy, sunglasses, or clothes for sale. My mom and I quickly got the hang of bargaining with the storeowners. It was hard to believe, though, that we were shopping with twelve-year-olds. Both were right up front at the stores, haggling with the shopkeepers for lower prices. We told them to pick out whatever they needed, and they picked out jeans, sponges for bathing, a soap dish, handkerchief, shoes, socks, underwear, umbrellas, suitcases for a school trip, and hooks so they could hang their laundry to dry. And let me repeat, these kids are twelve years old. When I was twelve, I probably wanted CDs or books or toys, because my parents took care of the rest. These kids wanted underclothes and a way to better dry their laundry. They didn’t even have sweaters to wear if they were cold. And the sad thing is, they are among the fortunate.
When we returned to the hotel, the kids were so excited to show my dad what we had bought. Sanyu spent most of her time folding and packing the clothes she had picked out for her little sister, Sarah, and kept biting her lip and looking up at me with a big grin. “Sarah’s suitcase,” she said, holding up the little “collector’s item” package that originally held a stuffed animal. On the way back to the school, my parents stopped to buy them some sandals. Sanyu asked to borrow my dad’s permanent marker (most kids stitch or write their names on everything to prevent theft). He gave it to her and watched, expecting her to label the shoes with her name. But instead of writing her own name, she carefully marked the sandals “Sarah.” She is still taking care of her six-year-old sister.
Pictures to come!!
On Saturday my parents and I went to Budo Junior School (where Savior attends) to donate some materials and hold a workshop with the kids. Along the way, there were a few curveballs thrown at us. Based on the supplies we had brought from home, we had requested twenty-five students. We entered the large classroom (which also serves as the school’s chapel) to find seventy-five students waiting. The power was out at the school, so we couldn’t do the activity we originally planned. And the school’s materials were limited: no maps, no overhead projectors, no computers to use, some of the kids didn’t even own writing utensils…we had only some limited craft supplies that we had brought 8,000 miles in a suitcase, some chalk that crumbled in the afternoon humidity, and our ideas. Hmm. It's a wonder, what you can do with just those things.
And thank goodness for my mother.
We scrapped the original lesson plan and she improvised, handing out flowers picked from the school grounds to each table of students. She did a simple descriptive exercise with them based on the flowers. At first, you could tell the kids were thinking, “Who are these crazy bzungu?” (Bzungu means white people. You hear it a lot here.) But eventually, we won them over. :) We did a basic poetry workshop with them, my mom directing, and my dad and I moving throughout the tables of students to answer questions and just help out where needed. Then, we showed them how to make “star books” out of folded printer and construction paper. They loved it! And a lot of the kids were incredible writers, too. I mean really, really amazing. It’s fascinating to see what kids will do when you give them a little confidence and the materials to do it. It was also interesting to see the way a different cultural sphere influences one’s writing. For example, there was also a lot about the Ugandan countryside, crested cranes, city streets, poultry farms, markets or the Sahara desert. Many of the kids wrote about home or their parents (many are orphans boarding at the school).
We returned to our hotel with Savior and his friend Sanyu, who had gotten passes to leave the school for the night. Both are twelve years old. Savior has no living relatives and Sanyu was orphaned at the age of seven. (Her sister--age twelve at the time --raised both Sanyu and the five-month old baby. Their ages are now seventeen, twelve, and six. All are currently in school.) The kids spent the night at our hotel and the next morning watched television and made more “magic” star books in their hotel room. Savior wrote a letter for my mom’s students, and Sanyu wrote something to post on the blog.
We also gave Savior his early birthday gifts, and gave Sanyu the gifts we had set aside for her. I will never forget the way Savior’s face lit up when he saw his birthday card, or the way Sanyu traced the fur on the stuffed animal we gave her to take back to her six-year old sister, Sarah. “It is beautiful,” Sanyu said. We gave them each a teddy bear, which they hugged tightly to their chest. (Courtney, Savior read your letter and says “Thank you.” He loves the bear.)
Then my mom and I took them shopping in a commercial district of Kampala. As my mom put it, “it ain’t Target.” The blocks were a dizzying maze of small stores, or malls made up of hole-in-the-wall stalls selling clothing. Blankets were spread out on the sidewalks to display the watches, candy, sunglasses, or clothes for sale. My mom and I quickly got the hang of bargaining with the storeowners. It was hard to believe, though, that we were shopping with twelve-year-olds. Both were right up front at the stores, haggling with the shopkeepers for lower prices. We told them to pick out whatever they needed, and they picked out jeans, sponges for bathing, a soap dish, handkerchief, shoes, socks, underwear, umbrellas, suitcases for a school trip, and hooks so they could hang their laundry to dry. And let me repeat, these kids are twelve years old. When I was twelve, I probably wanted CDs or books or toys, because my parents took care of the rest. These kids wanted underclothes and a way to better dry their laundry. They didn’t even have sweaters to wear if they were cold. And the sad thing is, they are among the fortunate.
When we returned to the hotel, the kids were so excited to show my dad what we had bought. Sanyu spent most of her time folding and packing the clothes she had picked out for her little sister, Sarah, and kept biting her lip and looking up at me with a big grin. “Sarah’s suitcase,” she said, holding up the little “collector’s item” package that originally held a stuffed animal. On the way back to the school, my parents stopped to buy them some sandals. Sanyu asked to borrow my dad’s permanent marker (most kids stitch or write their names on everything to prevent theft). He gave it to her and watched, expecting her to label the shoes with her name. But instead of writing her own name, she carefully marked the sandals “Sarah.” She is still taking care of her six-year-old sister.
Doug's Post: Friday, July 6th
“This…is…Africa,” I heard Robert mutter softly. We were trying to maneuver a beat up Toyota down an 8 foot wide red dirt “road” riddled with foot deep gulleys. Lining the path were shanties made of block, cardboard and a little metal. Six little kids, half naked, stood in a muddy patch of a yard next to one of the shacks, smiling, laughing, and waving at us.
Robert is a Ugandan working with one of the foundations helping orphans. We had just left the OTD orphanage house in a slum on the east side of Kampala. It was of better construction than the shacks, having concrete walls and floors and a metal roof that only leaked a little. I counted 3 light bulbs. The toilet flushed, but the shower and faucets were shut off because the pipes leaked too much. Water for bathing and cooking was drawn from a faucet rigged up under the water tank out back. The mammies cook meals for the twenty some kids on a charcoal burner made out of an old car wheel and re-bar. This is Africa.
The need here is so severe, so pervasive. Crushing. Grinding. Crippling poverty. I’m a smartguy- “I can fix anything” type. But here I don’t even know where to begin. There is so little infrastructure, no tools, no money, no materials. I get a lump in my throat and a knot in stomach. Maybe if I can approach it one pipe, one person, one kid at a time…This is Africa.
The Ugandans we’ve met are the most friendly, generous people I’ve ever encountered. There are few street signs in Kampala, so we get lost about 4 times a day. When you ask someone for directions they not only stop what they’re doing and give you directions, but they insist on taking you there. They deliver you to the destination, shake your hand, say “You are most welcome” and walk away, wanting nothing in return. One guy walked us 8 blocks out of his way and, as we walked, sang songs for us that he had written. Upon arriving, I thanked him and pressed a few coins in his hand. He looked at me like I was crazy and laughed. Fearing I had insulted him, I apologized & suggested he buy a little breakfast & coffee for himself. He said he was not insulted, but did not want anything. And then said “you are most welcome”. This is Uganda.
There are over 1000 species of birds in Uganda, a country about the size of Oregon. I bought a bird book two days ago, and have been trying to I.D. birds. I sit on the balcony outside our room in the little guesthouse we’re staying at in Central Kampala and watch the birds land in the stand of Acacias below our hotel. Elizabeth’s started calling me Birdman. So far, I’ve seen Dark Chanting Goshawks, Glossy Ibises, Maribou storks, Great Grey herons, Pied crows, numerous Bee-eaters, and Silvery beaked Turacos. The Turaco is a weird looking long black bird, with bright red underside and what appears to be a second upside down beak on top of its main beak. Its song sounds like a monkey’s. All of this in the middle of a chaotic, gritty city of 1.2 million people. This is Africa.
Coincidentally, 1.2 million is the estimated number of orphans under 15 years of age in this country of 27 million. This is Africa.
Robert is a Ugandan working with one of the foundations helping orphans. We had just left the OTD orphanage house in a slum on the east side of Kampala. It was of better construction than the shacks, having concrete walls and floors and a metal roof that only leaked a little. I counted 3 light bulbs. The toilet flushed, but the shower and faucets were shut off because the pipes leaked too much. Water for bathing and cooking was drawn from a faucet rigged up under the water tank out back. The mammies cook meals for the twenty some kids on a charcoal burner made out of an old car wheel and re-bar. This is Africa.
The need here is so severe, so pervasive. Crushing. Grinding. Crippling poverty. I’m a smartguy- “I can fix anything” type. But here I don’t even know where to begin. There is so little infrastructure, no tools, no money, no materials. I get a lump in my throat and a knot in stomach. Maybe if I can approach it one pipe, one person, one kid at a time…This is Africa.
The Ugandans we’ve met are the most friendly, generous people I’ve ever encountered. There are few street signs in Kampala, so we get lost about 4 times a day. When you ask someone for directions they not only stop what they’re doing and give you directions, but they insist on taking you there. They deliver you to the destination, shake your hand, say “You are most welcome” and walk away, wanting nothing in return. One guy walked us 8 blocks out of his way and, as we walked, sang songs for us that he had written. Upon arriving, I thanked him and pressed a few coins in his hand. He looked at me like I was crazy and laughed. Fearing I had insulted him, I apologized & suggested he buy a little breakfast & coffee for himself. He said he was not insulted, but did not want anything. And then said “you are most welcome”. This is Uganda.
There are over 1000 species of birds in Uganda, a country about the size of Oregon. I bought a bird book two days ago, and have been trying to I.D. birds. I sit on the balcony outside our room in the little guesthouse we’re staying at in Central Kampala and watch the birds land in the stand of Acacias below our hotel. Elizabeth’s started calling me Birdman. So far, I’ve seen Dark Chanting Goshawks, Glossy Ibises, Maribou storks, Great Grey herons, Pied crows, numerous Bee-eaters, and Silvery beaked Turacos. The Turaco is a weird looking long black bird, with bright red underside and what appears to be a second upside down beak on top of its main beak. Its song sounds like a monkey’s. All of this in the middle of a chaotic, gritty city of 1.2 million people. This is Africa.
Coincidentally, 1.2 million is the estimated number of orphans under 15 years of age in this country of 27 million. This is Africa.
Elizabeth's Post: Your education is your future. Guard it well.
Posted by Elizabeth
9:40 pm Uganda time
Well. It has been quite a day.
I am taking these few moments alone to write and to try and process what I have seen and experienced here so far. If my posts get irritatingly long, I’m sorry—there is much to write as each day here feels like a week, and our internet connection is unreliable so I am trying to post whenever I can! We are also trying to post pictures, but our days have been so busy that we come back to the hotel at night exhausted; the thought of dealing with technology at the end of the day seems next to impossible. We are, however, taking lots of pictures and I am also videotaping plenty!
Today we visited one of Uganda’s best schools, which is both a boarding and day school. (The title of this post comes from a sign outside of the school.) It is also where Savior attends, and we met him upon our arrival. For some reason I can’t explain, I wanted to cry when we met. I feel that we have been planning this trip and talking about him for so long, it was so wonderful to be able to meet him in person. At about age thirteen he is a sweet, sweet young man. He spent much of the time photographing his friends with my mom’s camera and walking around the campus with us as we toured the school. As we were leaving, I went to shake his hand—I was too shy to hug and not sure if it would be okay—but he came up and wrapped his arms around me. In the car on the way back to the hotel (it is an 1 ½ hour drive each way) those with us from local organizations told us how excited and happy Savior is. I was glad to hear it—he is so soft-spoken with us, it is hard to tell! We are going to try and take him out to dinner this weekend and spend more time with him, and also to buy him some of the clothes, etc. that he needs. I want to get to know him as much as possible while we are here.
We took a tour of the school with several people from local organizations and the school’s headmaster. They have a library, and very, very few computers, and are in desperate need of books and supplies. The headmaster showed us a building under construction; it is already housing several classes and will eventually hold all of the school’s classes. There are 1,520 students there. (Many of the students, I believe, are orphans; others come from families afflicted with AIDS) The classrooms have or will have electricity, chalkboards, and desks or tables for all of the children; nevertheless, their somewhat run-down state would never be acceptable at home…and it saddens me that we accept it here. What line do we cross where we lower our standards, decrease our expectations?
A college student from Kampala (he helps out at the school when he is not at university) asked my mom if we could visit his class and answer some questions for the kids. We did so and were greeted with the shy, excited smiles of many students. I was happy to answer the questions as I could and to see my mom work her magic in the classroom once again. The students (all around the ages of 11-13) asked us about US history, how they could find sponsors for their education, about the differences between American and British English, why we are white-skinned, and where the town of River Fork is located in the US. One student asked us why the American president decided to attack Iraq. Answering that one took us a while.
And the kids were so cool! Of course, they were shy and giddy and curious and smart like other kids. When they see you, many come up and shake your hand and introduce themselves like the young adults they are. Meeting them today was such a joy for me. I got the feeling they had fun, too. :)
Our visit to the school made this entire trip worthwhile. Despite the beauties of the country and its people, coming face-to-face with such relentless, pervasive, grinding poverty every day is really hard. (And I’m just seeing it—not even experiencing it!) Yesterday I really began to wonder if it is possible to change the world. As someone raised on a diet of Gandhi quotes and mantras of “Go out and make a difference!” (my mom’s students can attest to that), this is a big deal for me. And I’m still wondering.
But after meeting all of those kids today, I do not doubt the value of even the smallest efforts. Maybe we can’t change the whole world…I don’t know. But that tiny effort is so, so, so worthwhile. It may not shift the universe, but undoubtedly changes the entire world of one person. That has to be worth something.
9:40 pm Uganda time
Well. It has been quite a day.
I am taking these few moments alone to write and to try and process what I have seen and experienced here so far. If my posts get irritatingly long, I’m sorry—there is much to write as each day here feels like a week, and our internet connection is unreliable so I am trying to post whenever I can! We are also trying to post pictures, but our days have been so busy that we come back to the hotel at night exhausted; the thought of dealing with technology at the end of the day seems next to impossible. We are, however, taking lots of pictures and I am also videotaping plenty!
Today we visited one of Uganda’s best schools, which is both a boarding and day school. (The title of this post comes from a sign outside of the school.) It is also where Savior attends, and we met him upon our arrival. For some reason I can’t explain, I wanted to cry when we met. I feel that we have been planning this trip and talking about him for so long, it was so wonderful to be able to meet him in person. At about age thirteen he is a sweet, sweet young man. He spent much of the time photographing his friends with my mom’s camera and walking around the campus with us as we toured the school. As we were leaving, I went to shake his hand—I was too shy to hug and not sure if it would be okay—but he came up and wrapped his arms around me. In the car on the way back to the hotel (it is an 1 ½ hour drive each way) those with us from local organizations told us how excited and happy Savior is. I was glad to hear it—he is so soft-spoken with us, it is hard to tell! We are going to try and take him out to dinner this weekend and spend more time with him, and also to buy him some of the clothes, etc. that he needs. I want to get to know him as much as possible while we are here.
We took a tour of the school with several people from local organizations and the school’s headmaster. They have a library, and very, very few computers, and are in desperate need of books and supplies. The headmaster showed us a building under construction; it is already housing several classes and will eventually hold all of the school’s classes. There are 1,520 students there. (Many of the students, I believe, are orphans; others come from families afflicted with AIDS) The classrooms have or will have electricity, chalkboards, and desks or tables for all of the children; nevertheless, their somewhat run-down state would never be acceptable at home…and it saddens me that we accept it here. What line do we cross where we lower our standards, decrease our expectations?
A college student from Kampala (he helps out at the school when he is not at university) asked my mom if we could visit his class and answer some questions for the kids. We did so and were greeted with the shy, excited smiles of many students. I was happy to answer the questions as I could and to see my mom work her magic in the classroom once again. The students (all around the ages of 11-13) asked us about US history, how they could find sponsors for their education, about the differences between American and British English, why we are white-skinned, and where the town of River Fork is located in the US. One student asked us why the American president decided to attack Iraq. Answering that one took us a while.
And the kids were so cool! Of course, they were shy and giddy and curious and smart like other kids. When they see you, many come up and shake your hand and introduce themselves like the young adults they are. Meeting them today was such a joy for me. I got the feeling they had fun, too. :)
Our visit to the school made this entire trip worthwhile. Despite the beauties of the country and its people, coming face-to-face with such relentless, pervasive, grinding poverty every day is really hard. (And I’m just seeing it—not even experiencing it!) Yesterday I really began to wonder if it is possible to change the world. As someone raised on a diet of Gandhi quotes and mantras of “Go out and make a difference!” (my mom’s students can attest to that), this is a big deal for me. And I’m still wondering.
But after meeting all of those kids today, I do not doubt the value of even the smallest efforts. Maybe we can’t change the whole world…I don’t know. But that tiny effort is so, so, so worthwhile. It may not shift the universe, but undoubtedly changes the entire world of one person. That has to be worth something.
Gretchen's Post--July 3: "Do You Love Us?"
“Do You Love Us?”
We went to the Outside the Dream house yesterday and today, but between recovering from jetlag and adjusting to this new world, I am unsure where to begin as my memory proves hazy from the past thirty-six hours. At the house we did meet Monica, Kanome, and Lawrence.
Kanome is HIV positive and one of the caregivers for the children. We had lots of questions for her about her needs and the needs of the children. Although reluctant to express personal wishes, she did indicate she would like a door (she is able to forgo windows) for her small structure in her village. You see, although she lives at the OTD when caring for the children, she comes from a village in which she has built a small structure near her father. When she becomes ill, she will go to her structure. Kanome said people with HIV do that here: build small structures and retire to them when seriously ill or death is imminent. A small metal door—a simple wish.
Kanome had many questions for us, following my questions for her. Her questions included: What is snow? Could she touch my skin? Could she touch Elizabeth’s hair? Do you love us?
We did meet one of the students at the OTD house today, a lovely young girl who was busy working on her school work. The house is need of paint, reliable indoor plumbing, window screens, and games and books for the children. The children take their mattresses to boarding school with them, so the house was primarily empty. We saw where meals are prepared over a charcoal fire; the kitchen’s supplies are minimal. I am unsure about the work we will be able to accomplish in such a short period of time, but at the very least I am getting an education about specific needs.
After visiting OTD, we stopped at Nakawa Market today. It is a large open air market that sells food, cooking items, clothes, hardware, and the like. The vendors were a bit more jaded than the people we have run into. Although some people do not want to have their picture taken, many people ask me to take a photograph and then are delighted when I show it to them on the digital camera.
We also went to a local craft market today. As usual, we had difficulty finding it because most of the roads are unnamed. As usual, when we inquired of directions, a young man offered to take us to the market—expecting nothing in return. We did get to hear his original song about Uganda, though. Other people came up and thanked us for coming to their nation. These people live with open hearts. It is so remarkable given the tremendous breadth and depth of poverty here. We Americans could certainly learn a thing or two from the Ugandans. So yes, Kanome, “We love you.”
We went to the Outside the Dream house yesterday and today, but between recovering from jetlag and adjusting to this new world, I am unsure where to begin as my memory proves hazy from the past thirty-six hours. At the house we did meet Monica, Kanome, and Lawrence.
Kanome is HIV positive and one of the caregivers for the children. We had lots of questions for her about her needs and the needs of the children. Although reluctant to express personal wishes, she did indicate she would like a door (she is able to forgo windows) for her small structure in her village. You see, although she lives at the OTD when caring for the children, she comes from a village in which she has built a small structure near her father. When she becomes ill, she will go to her structure. Kanome said people with HIV do that here: build small structures and retire to them when seriously ill or death is imminent. A small metal door—a simple wish.
Kanome had many questions for us, following my questions for her. Her questions included: What is snow? Could she touch my skin? Could she touch Elizabeth’s hair? Do you love us?
We did meet one of the students at the OTD house today, a lovely young girl who was busy working on her school work. The house is need of paint, reliable indoor plumbing, window screens, and games and books for the children. The children take their mattresses to boarding school with them, so the house was primarily empty. We saw where meals are prepared over a charcoal fire; the kitchen’s supplies are minimal. I am unsure about the work we will be able to accomplish in such a short period of time, but at the very least I am getting an education about specific needs.
After visiting OTD, we stopped at Nakawa Market today. It is a large open air market that sells food, cooking items, clothes, hardware, and the like. The vendors were a bit more jaded than the people we have run into. Although some people do not want to have their picture taken, many people ask me to take a photograph and then are delighted when I show it to them on the digital camera.
We also went to a local craft market today. As usual, we had difficulty finding it because most of the roads are unnamed. As usual, when we inquired of directions, a young man offered to take us to the market—expecting nothing in return. We did get to hear his original song about Uganda, though. Other people came up and thanked us for coming to their nation. These people live with open hearts. It is so remarkable given the tremendous breadth and depth of poverty here. We Americans could certainly learn a thing or two from the Ugandans. So yes, Kanome, “We love you.”
Elizabeth's Post: You Are Most Welcome Here
July 2nd, 9:41 Uganda time
Posted by Elizabeth
And so it begins.
Or rather, so it ends. Our first day in Uganda is just winding down. We got a late start today, as Mom and I slept in (well, slept WAY in for me) to the slovenly hour of 10:30, trying to shake off our jet lag. In the early afternoon we took a taxi out to the OTD Foundation house; our cab driver had to stop four times along the way to ask for directions. Finally, he asked a man how to get there and the man came over to the car, shook our hands, and hopped in, offering to help us find our way. We eventually found the house down a narrow road and went in to meet the house’s “Mom” (she lives there full time) and Monica, a former OTD house director.
There we planned out the workshop that my mom and I will be doing with the kids; we expect about twenty students from ages 7-16. My dad, the eternal carpenter, may try to put up a netball court (a popular game here; none of us had any idea what it was and had to have the sport explained several times, complete with numerous repetitions of “No, it’s not basketball!”) with some of the kids so they can play when they’re staying at the house when school lets out. Mom and I have a lot of planning to do for our workshop this weekend; we came with some basic supplies and a lot of ideas… but now it’s time to get moving! We also spoke with Monica to plan our trip up north to Gulu, where we will visit the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons)/refugee camps. That will take a couple of days, as well. Figure a few other day trips we’ll be taking, and we’re going to be busy this week!
On the way back to the hotel, we had our driver drop us at the Constitutional Plaza and we walked some of the way back, stopping a local crafts store and then a mini-mart to pick up some bottled water. (I also got a few local newspapers to check out what’s going on from a more local perspective; I will bring them back with me.) Now: a word about Kampala, as we will be spending most of our time here for the next week and a half. It is a very gritty city (pardon the rhyme). Between the diesel fuel, red dirt roads, and wood smoke, the air is uncomfortably hazy in the city center. I came back to the hotel to wipe a fine layer of dirt off of my face. (Otherwise, the city is really clean—less trash on the streets than most other cities I’ve seen.) Crossing the street is also, at times, hazardous—the lack of traffic lights and often lane markers force you to go as quickly as possible the very second you get a chance! (Of course, the British-style driving doesn’t help. My dad said he almost got a hit by a car this morning because he forgot they drive on the left side and didn’t look the correct way before crossing the street.) (None of this, however, is meant negatively—it’s a simple “as-is” description of what I’ve seen of the city so far.)
The people are so incredibly friendly. This cannot be overstated. Whenever someone hears that this is our first time, let alone our first day, in Uganda, they grin and say “You are welcome!” Everyone shakes hands with you and introduces themselves upon meeting you. People wave and smile from the houses and shops. Everywhere, so far, the Ugandan people have been most kind, open, and warm.
I want to mention the incredibly long journey getting here, but also want to wrap this up as it’s getting looonnngg, so… a few quick things that I will always remember about the trip here:
The feeling that crickets had hijacked my body on the way to Newark Airport—I was hoppy and chirpy as could be. Flying into Amsterdam, where everything looks like it came straight out of IKEA. Trying so very, very hard to pass for Dutch. Cajoling my parents into the rainy city streets so we could, during our five-hour layover, just get a quick peek of the city, which I’ve always wanted to see. (I then took them on Elizabeth’s Impromptu 6 AM Tour of Amsterdam on a Rainy Sunday When Nothing Is Open. And I loved every second of it.) That thick, sweet smell of wood smoke when I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Entebbe. (My mom always tried to explain it from when she lived in Ghana, I now know what she was attempting to describe!) The polite chaos of the Entebbe baggage claim. The full moon over Lake Victoria. The orange glow of lanterns from houses, shops, markets on the side of the road. The crunch of gravel under my feet, the creak of the rust-colored metal gate as we walked into the hotel. Being told, repeatedly, everywhere I go, that I am “most welcome here.”
When you think about it, it’s really a wonderful thing to say.
Posted by Elizabeth
And so it begins.
Or rather, so it ends. Our first day in Uganda is just winding down. We got a late start today, as Mom and I slept in (well, slept WAY in for me) to the slovenly hour of 10:30, trying to shake off our jet lag. In the early afternoon we took a taxi out to the OTD Foundation house; our cab driver had to stop four times along the way to ask for directions. Finally, he asked a man how to get there and the man came over to the car, shook our hands, and hopped in, offering to help us find our way. We eventually found the house down a narrow road and went in to meet the house’s “Mom” (she lives there full time) and Monica, a former OTD house director.
There we planned out the workshop that my mom and I will be doing with the kids; we expect about twenty students from ages 7-16. My dad, the eternal carpenter, may try to put up a netball court (a popular game here; none of us had any idea what it was and had to have the sport explained several times, complete with numerous repetitions of “No, it’s not basketball!”) with some of the kids so they can play when they’re staying at the house when school lets out. Mom and I have a lot of planning to do for our workshop this weekend; we came with some basic supplies and a lot of ideas… but now it’s time to get moving! We also spoke with Monica to plan our trip up north to Gulu, where we will visit the IDP (Internally Displaced Persons)/refugee camps. That will take a couple of days, as well. Figure a few other day trips we’ll be taking, and we’re going to be busy this week!
On the way back to the hotel, we had our driver drop us at the Constitutional Plaza and we walked some of the way back, stopping a local crafts store and then a mini-mart to pick up some bottled water. (I also got a few local newspapers to check out what’s going on from a more local perspective; I will bring them back with me.) Now: a word about Kampala, as we will be spending most of our time here for the next week and a half. It is a very gritty city (pardon the rhyme). Between the diesel fuel, red dirt roads, and wood smoke, the air is uncomfortably hazy in the city center. I came back to the hotel to wipe a fine layer of dirt off of my face. (Otherwise, the city is really clean—less trash on the streets than most other cities I’ve seen.) Crossing the street is also, at times, hazardous—the lack of traffic lights and often lane markers force you to go as quickly as possible the very second you get a chance! (Of course, the British-style driving doesn’t help. My dad said he almost got a hit by a car this morning because he forgot they drive on the left side and didn’t look the correct way before crossing the street.) (None of this, however, is meant negatively—it’s a simple “as-is” description of what I’ve seen of the city so far.)
The people are so incredibly friendly. This cannot be overstated. Whenever someone hears that this is our first time, let alone our first day, in Uganda, they grin and say “You are welcome!” Everyone shakes hands with you and introduces themselves upon meeting you. People wave and smile from the houses and shops. Everywhere, so far, the Ugandan people have been most kind, open, and warm.
I want to mention the incredibly long journey getting here, but also want to wrap this up as it’s getting looonnngg, so… a few quick things that I will always remember about the trip here:
The feeling that crickets had hijacked my body on the way to Newark Airport—I was hoppy and chirpy as could be. Flying into Amsterdam, where everything looks like it came straight out of IKEA. Trying so very, very hard to pass for Dutch. Cajoling my parents into the rainy city streets so we could, during our five-hour layover, just get a quick peek of the city, which I’ve always wanted to see. (I then took them on Elizabeth’s Impromptu 6 AM Tour of Amsterdam on a Rainy Sunday When Nothing Is Open. And I loved every second of it.) That thick, sweet smell of wood smoke when I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in Entebbe. (My mom always tried to explain it from when she lived in Ghana, I now know what she was attempting to describe!) The polite chaos of the Entebbe baggage claim. The full moon over Lake Victoria. The orange glow of lanterns from houses, shops, markets on the side of the road. The crunch of gravel under my feet, the creak of the rust-colored metal gate as we walked into the hotel. Being told, repeatedly, everywhere I go, that I am “most welcome here.”
When you think about it, it’s really a wonderful thing to say.
Gretchen's Post--July 1: We're Not in Kansas Anymore
We arrived last night after a long but lovely, uneventful flight. Thirty hours without sleep made the drive from Entebbe to Kampala (traffic going both directions have to share a small shoulder and one lane) even more interesting. However, I went into writer's mode making as many illegible notes as possible in the dark of my car: wood smoke fills the air, earthy and sweet; unfinished buildings loom in the dark as if taunting people to finish them; no streetlights, it's midnight for as far as I can see aside from the small groups of people huddled around a single, deep yellow bulb in their rooms; small flames on the side of the road invite people to gather and talk; we are halted by a traffic jam caused by two men pushing their car up a hill.
Doug is out on his second walk for the day, trying to get his bearings and looking for a place to exchange money as well as a grocery store to purchase bottled water. Upon arriving home from the first walk at 9:00 a.m. he declared, "We're not in Kansas anymore." Then he proceeded to elaborate about the African stork he saw on the lawn and other birds that were unfamiliar to him. Knowing Doug, I am sure he will come back from this walk with a wildlife book—ever the learner.
Elizabeth and I slept for ten hours and are now having tea out on the veranda of our charming little hotel. The owner, Guido, a lit up Italian gentleman, has settled in Uganda with his wife and daughter after living through Tanzania, Ethiopia, Sierra Leon, and the civil war in Liberia. He speaks highly of Uganda’s beauty and the warmth of its people. His remarks make me even more eager to discover what awaits us.
He and his wife work with an organization called Watoto. It builds villages and schools, the goal being to create homes for the many orphans. I met a woman on the plane last night who works for the International Rescue Committee up north. The IRC works with children in areas of conflict around the world, improving education, sanitation, clean water, and health care for children. She shared her phone number and email so that she could provide me with contacts for my research.
Elizabeth sat next to a Ugandan man named Daniel on the plane. He inquired about our visit and provided us with his phone number in Kampala. He wanted us to call him so he could arrange for his wife and five year old daughter to host us in Jinja, a striking town he said we must see. As we landed in Uganda, Daniel smiled and said, “You are so welcome to Uganda.” And yes, when I awoke this morning I thought, I am in Africa.
Doug is out on his second walk for the day, trying to get his bearings and looking for a place to exchange money as well as a grocery store to purchase bottled water. Upon arriving home from the first walk at 9:00 a.m. he declared, "We're not in Kansas anymore." Then he proceeded to elaborate about the African stork he saw on the lawn and other birds that were unfamiliar to him. Knowing Doug, I am sure he will come back from this walk with a wildlife book—ever the learner.
Elizabeth and I slept for ten hours and are now having tea out on the veranda of our charming little hotel. The owner, Guido, a lit up Italian gentleman, has settled in Uganda with his wife and daughter after living through Tanzania, Ethiopia, Sierra Leon, and the civil war in Liberia. He speaks highly of Uganda’s beauty and the warmth of its people. His remarks make me even more eager to discover what awaits us.
He and his wife work with an organization called Watoto. It builds villages and schools, the goal being to create homes for the many orphans. I met a woman on the plane last night who works for the International Rescue Committee up north. The IRC works with children in areas of conflict around the world, improving education, sanitation, clean water, and health care for children. She shared her phone number and email so that she could provide me with contacts for my research.
Elizabeth sat next to a Ugandan man named Daniel on the plane. He inquired about our visit and provided us with his phone number in Kampala. He wanted us to call him so he could arrange for his wife and five year old daughter to host us in Jinja, a striking town he said we must see. As we landed in Uganda, Daniel smiled and said, “You are so welcome to Uganda.” And yes, when I awoke this morning I thought, I am in Africa.
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