To quote Boyz II Men, it is SO hard to say goodbye. These here are the very last moments I will be in Uganda until...next year? The past few days have been a crazy whirlwind of fun times and sad lasts. In the last week I have shelled g-nuts for odi (peanut butter), I have had a sleepover with 14 DMP kids where I slept on a mat in our office, I have recorded an 80s revival Chistmas song in an actual music studio in Uganda, and have otherwise tried to enjoy every moment I still have.
I kept trying to kid myself that I would not cry, but who am I kidding? I'm a big softie.
I will write a wrap up blog soon. Next time you hear from me I will be own your side of the world again. Until then, but maber and apowyo matek!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Some fun times
Things have been going really well here lately. I have been spending most of my days playing with Brian and Sue who recently came up with a song whose lyrics consist only of “Madisson, Madisson, Diana, Diana.” I have been eating lots of chapatti, drinking some Nile beer, and doing my best to take everything in before this is over and I’m sitting in the States waxing nostalgic. Thursday I made a small child scream bloody murder simply by existing. She was wearing a bright orange dress and looked so adorable that I thought I would greet her. As soon as she saw me there was loud frightened crying and a look on my face that said, “What did I do?” Monica called from a distance, “She fears your color!” Whoops!
Anyway, I figured I would continue the ramblings of my Rwanda vacation. Not all of my time in the country was as serious and momentous as my last entry might suggest. For most of the time, we simply had a lot of fun. We got into Kigali late at night, without a hotel in mind and without a basic knowledge of the languages spoken (Rwandan or French!). This was the way most of our trip would go, without a plan. At first I worried about our lack of planning but the impromptu nature of our vacation allowed us to adventure and rely heavily on the kindness of strangers. So it happen when we first arrived. Cramped into a overloaded taxi van, I found myself practically hugging a nice young man with a video phone watching scandalous music videos. In a crazy twist of fate the man spoke a little English. I asked him if he knew a hotel we could stay and he not only recommended one but also found us a private car to take us there and ensured that we did not get overcharged. Oh thank you taxi man! You have no idea how much you helped us and how much we truly appreciated your kindness. We got to the Hilltop Hotel and randomly met the manager of the place. He gave us a ton of information about where to go and things to see.
The next day we explored Kigali, went to the Memorial Center, and checked out the office of tourism. They told us there about some places we could go to camp and hike which we decided to do the next day. For lunch we went to a place called Bourbon Coffee. It was a cuter, less corporate Starbucks with a full food menu. We sat outside, which gave us an incredible view of Kigali, and ordered some delicious American style food. I had a vegetable sandwich (with cheese!) and French fries. Between the five of us we also consumed a full bottle of Heinz tasty, wonderful, perfect ketchup. Fabulous. Late into the day we went to the supermarket to buy food and water for our next day’s camping adventure in Nyungwe Forest, my very first camping experience ever.
Aftet a long bus ride through practically the whole country (it’s true, Rwanda is small) we arrived at the national park. We were greeted by a hiking guide and some primates as well. It was getting late by the time we got there so we rented our tents and set up camp. The night was one of excited firsts: first time pitching a tent, first time starting a campfire, first time peeing in the forest. It was all very thrilling. The rest of the night was spent around the campfire chatting, telling secrets, and wishing for marshmallows. We met some guys who had been spending their summer exploring the continent. We spent a good time exchanging stories about African transportation (broke down taxis, puking children, cramped spaces, etc.). After a while, we got into our tents and sleeping bags and spent our night in the hills of Rwanda.
In the morning we awoke early and started on our hike. Rwanda is known as the land of a thousand hills and I am proud to say that I successfully hiked one of them. We found out that to hike in the forest we would each have to pay 30 US dollars. LAME. We thought we might be able to get around it by going without a guide. So we followed the signs for the green trail, which we knew was easy. It was gorgeous scenery with beautiful views of the Rwandan hills. We walked into some waterfalls and saw a pretty interesting caterpillar. Some how and without our knowing it, we traveled off our easy green path and stumbled upon what we would later know as the difficult red path. We figured we would continue on our path hoping for that trail’s end. However, when we did not find it after an hour and a half, we decided to turn around and go back. What was once a relaxing simple downhill trek became a strenuous uphill battle with nature. I soon grew exhausted and every group of steep wooden steps felt like another mountain. We finally, breathless and thirsty, made it back to reception where we were promptly and kindly asked to pay our 30 dollar hiking fee. Ho-hum.
From camping, we went back to Kigali where we spent one more night before heading back to Uganda. We were leaving Rwanda a day early to go white water rafter on THE NILE RIVER. I will admit I was feeling mildly (okay, terribly) nervous about the venture as I had never been rafting before and am not the most expert of swimmers. I figured though that the company would not let me go if they thought I might die trying. Right? So we went ahead. We got on a bus early in the morning and after watching a few people bungee jump, we got ready to raft. We were told to get into groups of 9, find life jackets, a helmet, and a guide and we would head to the boats. We did just that and found Greg, a mildly (okay, terribly) attractive white South African with a lack of propriety and a love of flipping rafts. We got into the rafts and learned the basics of rafting. We talked about safety and what to do in sticky situations like being flipped or trapped under the boat (Hold on to the boat, it’s a big life preserver. Get under the boat, find the air pocket, breathe, get out). With all of that talked about Greg flipped us over for practice and we all got back into the boat heading for some sweet rapids.
The morning rapids were supposed to be the tamest, preparing us for an afternoon of grade five rapids. However it was in these that Greg took the liberty of flipping us over. I held on for my life but went under the boat. I did just as I was supposed to except for perhaps a little extra panic than was necessary. The most important thing they told us was not to panic but it just is so hard not to when you are not sure where you will find your next breath of air. Even though it was death defying, being swallowed by waves was completely exhilarating. The day continued on just like the morning, full of rapids, flips and verbal abuse (PADDLE! HARD FORWARD! PADDLE! COME ON!) from Greg. At one point, I was thrown so far from the boat after it flipped that a friendly kayaker had to take me aboard and bring me back to the boat. For the last rapid of the day, we had to climb out of the boat because between where we were and where we were going was a huge group of rapids grade 6 and 7 that are only for the most extreme, skilled kayakers and rafter. It was terrifying to see those rapids up close and know that one wrong move and we could have been in them. Eep! The last rapid is called “The Bad Place” and Greg told us that he had a bad feeling about us going there that day. Instead he opted for the “chicken line” which was not dangerous but still gave us some waves. We got through and had a short bit of paddling to the other side of the river where our belongings and free drinks were waiting. As we paddled, I heard a hissing noise of sorts and when I inquired about it, learned that it was a leak in the raft! Ah, I felt pretty happy to skip “The Bad Place” after I heard that one.
After the rafting, everyone drank and talked and hung out until it was time to get back on the bus heading to Kampala. We had met a woman from Michigan on our boat named Kerry and we chatted with her. She is in Uganda working on a public health proposal for HIV/AIDS education and her company put her up in a really fancy hotel for her time in the country. She invited us over for breakfast and hot showers, partially out of kindness and a little out of pity. We parted ways and went to the travel hostel we got a discount for by rafting.
In the morning I did that which I never thought I would. I took a boda boda in the capital city of Kampala. It was so busy and the driver zipped in and around cars rather dangerously. I was so happy to have survived when we finally reached Kerry’s hotel. We got to her room, which was nicer than any I have ever stayed in in the States. She ordered us room service and trusted us in her room as she went to meetings. We took hot glorious showers and slept in a king size bed with a padded headboard and we watched hours on end of awful movies (Fantastic Four, Herbie Fully Loaded). It was an unexpected wonderful way to finish off our vacation, in the lap of luxury surrounded by American movies and excess.
Anyway, I figured I would continue the ramblings of my Rwanda vacation. Not all of my time in the country was as serious and momentous as my last entry might suggest. For most of the time, we simply had a lot of fun. We got into Kigali late at night, without a hotel in mind and without a basic knowledge of the languages spoken (Rwandan or French!). This was the way most of our trip would go, without a plan. At first I worried about our lack of planning but the impromptu nature of our vacation allowed us to adventure and rely heavily on the kindness of strangers. So it happen when we first arrived. Cramped into a overloaded taxi van, I found myself practically hugging a nice young man with a video phone watching scandalous music videos. In a crazy twist of fate the man spoke a little English. I asked him if he knew a hotel we could stay and he not only recommended one but also found us a private car to take us there and ensured that we did not get overcharged. Oh thank you taxi man! You have no idea how much you helped us and how much we truly appreciated your kindness. We got to the Hilltop Hotel and randomly met the manager of the place. He gave us a ton of information about where to go and things to see.
The next day we explored Kigali, went to the Memorial Center, and checked out the office of tourism. They told us there about some places we could go to camp and hike which we decided to do the next day. For lunch we went to a place called Bourbon Coffee. It was a cuter, less corporate Starbucks with a full food menu. We sat outside, which gave us an incredible view of Kigali, and ordered some delicious American style food. I had a vegetable sandwich (with cheese!) and French fries. Between the five of us we also consumed a full bottle of Heinz tasty, wonderful, perfect ketchup. Fabulous. Late into the day we went to the supermarket to buy food and water for our next day’s camping adventure in Nyungwe Forest, my very first camping experience ever.
Aftet a long bus ride through practically the whole country (it’s true, Rwanda is small) we arrived at the national park. We were greeted by a hiking guide and some primates as well. It was getting late by the time we got there so we rented our tents and set up camp. The night was one of excited firsts: first time pitching a tent, first time starting a campfire, first time peeing in the forest. It was all very thrilling. The rest of the night was spent around the campfire chatting, telling secrets, and wishing for marshmallows. We met some guys who had been spending their summer exploring the continent. We spent a good time exchanging stories about African transportation (broke down taxis, puking children, cramped spaces, etc.). After a while, we got into our tents and sleeping bags and spent our night in the hills of Rwanda.
In the morning we awoke early and started on our hike. Rwanda is known as the land of a thousand hills and I am proud to say that I successfully hiked one of them. We found out that to hike in the forest we would each have to pay 30 US dollars. LAME. We thought we might be able to get around it by going without a guide. So we followed the signs for the green trail, which we knew was easy. It was gorgeous scenery with beautiful views of the Rwandan hills. We walked into some waterfalls and saw a pretty interesting caterpillar. Some how and without our knowing it, we traveled off our easy green path and stumbled upon what we would later know as the difficult red path. We figured we would continue on our path hoping for that trail’s end. However, when we did not find it after an hour and a half, we decided to turn around and go back. What was once a relaxing simple downhill trek became a strenuous uphill battle with nature. I soon grew exhausted and every group of steep wooden steps felt like another mountain. We finally, breathless and thirsty, made it back to reception where we were promptly and kindly asked to pay our 30 dollar hiking fee. Ho-hum.
From camping, we went back to Kigali where we spent one more night before heading back to Uganda. We were leaving Rwanda a day early to go white water rafter on THE NILE RIVER. I will admit I was feeling mildly (okay, terribly) nervous about the venture as I had never been rafting before and am not the most expert of swimmers. I figured though that the company would not let me go if they thought I might die trying. Right? So we went ahead. We got on a bus early in the morning and after watching a few people bungee jump, we got ready to raft. We were told to get into groups of 9, find life jackets, a helmet, and a guide and we would head to the boats. We did just that and found Greg, a mildly (okay, terribly) attractive white South African with a lack of propriety and a love of flipping rafts. We got into the rafts and learned the basics of rafting. We talked about safety and what to do in sticky situations like being flipped or trapped under the boat (Hold on to the boat, it’s a big life preserver. Get under the boat, find the air pocket, breathe, get out). With all of that talked about Greg flipped us over for practice and we all got back into the boat heading for some sweet rapids.
The morning rapids were supposed to be the tamest, preparing us for an afternoon of grade five rapids. However it was in these that Greg took the liberty of flipping us over. I held on for my life but went under the boat. I did just as I was supposed to except for perhaps a little extra panic than was necessary. The most important thing they told us was not to panic but it just is so hard not to when you are not sure where you will find your next breath of air. Even though it was death defying, being swallowed by waves was completely exhilarating. The day continued on just like the morning, full of rapids, flips and verbal abuse (PADDLE! HARD FORWARD! PADDLE! COME ON!) from Greg. At one point, I was thrown so far from the boat after it flipped that a friendly kayaker had to take me aboard and bring me back to the boat. For the last rapid of the day, we had to climb out of the boat because between where we were and where we were going was a huge group of rapids grade 6 and 7 that are only for the most extreme, skilled kayakers and rafter. It was terrifying to see those rapids up close and know that one wrong move and we could have been in them. Eep! The last rapid is called “The Bad Place” and Greg told us that he had a bad feeling about us going there that day. Instead he opted for the “chicken line” which was not dangerous but still gave us some waves. We got through and had a short bit of paddling to the other side of the river where our belongings and free drinks were waiting. As we paddled, I heard a hissing noise of sorts and when I inquired about it, learned that it was a leak in the raft! Ah, I felt pretty happy to skip “The Bad Place” after I heard that one.
After the rafting, everyone drank and talked and hung out until it was time to get back on the bus heading to Kampala. We had met a woman from Michigan on our boat named Kerry and we chatted with her. She is in Uganda working on a public health proposal for HIV/AIDS education and her company put her up in a really fancy hotel for her time in the country. She invited us over for breakfast and hot showers, partially out of kindness and a little out of pity. We parted ways and went to the travel hostel we got a discount for by rafting.
In the morning I did that which I never thought I would. I took a boda boda in the capital city of Kampala. It was so busy and the driver zipped in and around cars rather dangerously. I was so happy to have survived when we finally reached Kerry’s hotel. We got to her room, which was nicer than any I have ever stayed in in the States. She ordered us room service and trusted us in her room as she went to meetings. We took hot glorious showers and slept in a king size bed with a padded headboard and we watched hours on end of awful movies (Fantastic Four, Herbie Fully Loaded). It was an unexpected wonderful way to finish off our vacation, in the lap of luxury surrounded by American movies and excess.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
14 Years
So we are back from our week and a half vacation and there is so very much to update you all about. I spent my Independence Day in a small village IDP camp and spent that weekend going to Acholi masses, dancing with the local women, singing with children, and eating lots and lots of food. My time in Pajule was some of the best I have spent since I have been in Uganda. I want to write much about it but I want to do it justice and right now the events of my Rwandan vacation are at the forefront of my mind. So I shall start there and tell some stories from Rwanda.
While I was in Rwanda, the main thing I wanted to do was visit some of the memorial sites from the country’s 1994 genocide. Perhaps this sounds morbid, and not too exciting a way to spend a vacation from my humanitarian work in Uganda. I will admit though, the genocide is one of the few things that I know about Rwanda, and its story intrigues me greatly. Most of what I knew came from scattered reading and a compelling movie starring Don Cheadle, so coming to the country was a chance to understand better just what happened.
When we arrived in the capital city of Kigali, one of the first places we went was the Kigali Memorial Center. The building is situated on the top of a big hill, with an amazing view of the city below. Part museum, part memorial site, the center is dedicated to telling the story of the 1994 genocide and remembering its victims. The inside begins with an incredible exhibit explaining Rwanda before the genocide, telling the story of colonization and racial division between the Hutu and the Tutsis created by the European powers as a means of social classification. It explains the events leading up to the genocide including the killing of the Hutu president, which brought the country into great upheaval and chaos.
The exhibit continues with Rwanda during the genocide. It gives the history of what happened, personal accounts from survivors, photos and stories from the mass killing sites including a church where 10,000 were killed and a church/school where 20,000 were killed. They talked about the horrific ways in which people were killed, how rape was used as a weapon, and how so many children were left without parents. It was all so much to take in, so much to think about.
Through the hall, the story continued about the end of the genocide and told stories of the western world that did little to help the situation and in fact evacuated all aid workers, whose presence could have helped to end the war. Stories of survivors and those who helped them escaped were particularly compelling. One woman was known for her spirits and told would be killers to stay away from her home or the spirits would get them. They ran away in fear and she continued to hide a number of innocent Tutsis in her home.
The hall of information led to a big circular room. On the entire surrounding wall were pictures hung on wire with metal clips. Hundreds of pictures showed the faces of victims, all put there by surviving family. Seeing all of these faces made it all seem so real, this man stuffing his face with food or this woman with the hilarious hair. These are the people who were killed from no reason, thrown into latrines, shot and left for dead, raped by known HIV+ men. It is one thing to hear the stories but to see the faces just brought it all so close.
Just when I felt like I saw more than I could bear I walked into a quiet, empty room with class cases lining the wall. I walked up to get a closer look at the contents of the cases and was confronted with the skulls and bones of the unknown victims of the genocide. The fact that they were there nameless spoke loudly of the anonymous and indiscriminate way in which they were killed. Seeing those pictures and moving next to a pile of bones really hit me hard. In the last case I noticed some smaller skills. Though I am not sure, I thought they might be of children and the thought of it really brought me to an awful place.
When I left this room, I continued on to one that held the clothes worn by victims, including kid pajamas and a Superman sheet. A video played with survivors talking about their lives now. It was hard to think about these people, so affected by the genocide, so much taken away from them. And they must simply try to move on and live because they were the ones lucky enough to do so.
I finished on the main floor and went up to the extended exhibit upstairs. There I saw that which brought out a lot of the sadness I had tried to suppress downstairs. This wing of the exhibit was a special memorial for the children killed. Big posters with the most recent picture of the child told the “vital stats” of the children: name, age at time of death, favorite food, favorite drink, personality. I would read the first few stats chuckling about someone’s love of Lemon Citron or beans and rice or gregarious personality and then I would get to the last two lines. Last words: Mom, when do we run? Cause of death: Hacked by machete; Cause of death: Thrown against a wall; Cause of death: Shot in the back; Last words: The UNAIR will help us; Cause of death: Grenade explosion; Cause of death: Torture wounds.
In that room, I actually released some of the sadness I was holding onto since I entered the building. I shed a few tears but I think the biggest part of me didn’t feel I should. There was just so much there, so much sorrow that I tried not to think about it because if I did, it might just debilitate me. At the time of the genocide I was 7 years old. These children are me. These children are my brothers and my cousins. To think that as I was in my home protected, safe, and in the company of a loving family, Hubert sat scared unsure of whether he would live or die, hoping badly that someone would help him.
When I finished in this room, I walked down a long hallway filled with pictures just as the one I saw downstairs, this time the photos were of children. I left the building and headed outside to the memorial gardens and mass graves. When we passed, I saw this huge group of tourists, mzungus most of whom I thought were Americans. Seeing all of them there really made me think hard about why they were there, why I was there. I think that the whole time that I was there, I felt guilty being there, being a tourist to another person’s hell, death, misery. Who am I to see the skulls of those who died? Am I deriving some sick twisted pleasure in witnessing another person’s agony? I felt guilty, as though I should not be there, should not be taking a picture, should not be there. I don’t know why I felt this way, but it was strong and relentless. I struggled with myself, justifying that I needed to see it. I need to see what can happen when people ignore problems, seeing them as “tribal fighting” or “ethnic tensions”. I need to see it because I need to feel the reality of a situation I had only before read about or seen a movie version of. I had see it because it strengthened my resolve to help where others turn their backs, and to educate the youth in America to do the same. I had to see it because looking at the sorrow does not bring me sick pleasure but saddens me and inspires me to work to ensure it does not happen again.
When we left the Memorial Center, I was feeling very overwhelmed and introspective. I was shut down, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to hear anyone share their thoughts or ask me mine. I was silent. Then as we were walking up to the hill to find a taxi, this little boy carrying a jerry can full of water was standing right next to me, looking at me with a smile on his face. We were walking pretty fast and he was keeping pace, his mother a few feet behind him. Unfortunately I did not know the greetings in the Rwandan language and so I could not even speak to him. I relied instead on faces. I smiled at him and made silly faces and waved at him and his mother all of which were reciprocated. We soon found a taxi, parting ways with the small boy but this moment shared with the child really meant a lot to me. After all of the sadness of the memorial, here was this little boy living life, happy, walking down the road amazed at the site of a mzungu. In that moment the hurt and the conflict I was feeling very much washed away and was replaced with joy, energy, and silliness.
As we made our way back to Kigali for lunch, I was confronted with one thought over and over again. 14 years. The genocide occurred in 1994, a mere 14 years ago. 14 years and the city was a wasteland. 14 years later and the city is gorgeous, nicely developed with paved roads and much business. It is pretty, modern, and peaceful. 14 years to forget the pain of the past. 14 years to rebuild.
My time in Kigali was not the only moment the genocide showed itself to me while I was in Rwanda. On a return bus ride from the Nyugwe Forest, I sat next to a kind man with his own story to share. The bus was not particularly crowded and I looked forward to a nap after a long hike in the hills. However, the roads were curvy and it was nearly impossible to fall asleep. To keep myself entertained for the remainder of the ride, I began chatting with the man sitting next to me. He worked in the prosecution office in the district of the park, though I was not sure if he was a lawyer or not. He told me that his family lives in Kigali so he was on his way for a visit. We made idle chitchat about the best national parks in Rwanda, but soon the conversation took a more serious turn.
I asked if he had ever traveled outside of Rwanda before and he, perhaps confused, asked if I meant during the genocide. I hadn’t meant that so we talked about general travels, but since he brought it up, I figured it was okay to inquire further. I asked if he had been in the country during the genocide and he said yes. I clumsily asked, “What was that like?” As though answering an overly curious child he said, “There is nothing I can say to you to express what it was like.” He went on to tell me that his family was over one hundred before the genocide and afterward they were only about twenty. His sisters and father were all killed. He told me the story of when his father was taken. He was 14 then and twice before the army had come to the house searching for them. Both times prior, they had hid behind something and were not found. This time though, his father was tired of hiding and would not any longer. When they came to the house, they took his father. He did not know what came of his dad until about a year later when they found his body where it had been left after he was killed. My new friend told me this story so openly and honestly and so very matter of fact. Though telling a tale wrought with grief, he did not cry. He was calm and stern. Again I was brought back to the thought of 14 years. 14 years a scared teenage sat trembling behind a cupboard while his father faced his destiny. 14 years later and that boy is a serious man of the law, prosecuting and working for justice.
My friend tells me that he wants to write a book about his experiences. I tell him that he really should, that many people would be interested in reading it. I ask him if he has thought about a title of the book yet. He tells me, “I have been thinking about it a little bit. I think I might call it, ‘My Life in a Genocide.’”
While I was in Rwanda, the main thing I wanted to do was visit some of the memorial sites from the country’s 1994 genocide. Perhaps this sounds morbid, and not too exciting a way to spend a vacation from my humanitarian work in Uganda. I will admit though, the genocide is one of the few things that I know about Rwanda, and its story intrigues me greatly. Most of what I knew came from scattered reading and a compelling movie starring Don Cheadle, so coming to the country was a chance to understand better just what happened.
When we arrived in the capital city of Kigali, one of the first places we went was the Kigali Memorial Center. The building is situated on the top of a big hill, with an amazing view of the city below. Part museum, part memorial site, the center is dedicated to telling the story of the 1994 genocide and remembering its victims. The inside begins with an incredible exhibit explaining Rwanda before the genocide, telling the story of colonization and racial division between the Hutu and the Tutsis created by the European powers as a means of social classification. It explains the events leading up to the genocide including the killing of the Hutu president, which brought the country into great upheaval and chaos.
The exhibit continues with Rwanda during the genocide. It gives the history of what happened, personal accounts from survivors, photos and stories from the mass killing sites including a church where 10,000 were killed and a church/school where 20,000 were killed. They talked about the horrific ways in which people were killed, how rape was used as a weapon, and how so many children were left without parents. It was all so much to take in, so much to think about.
Through the hall, the story continued about the end of the genocide and told stories of the western world that did little to help the situation and in fact evacuated all aid workers, whose presence could have helped to end the war. Stories of survivors and those who helped them escaped were particularly compelling. One woman was known for her spirits and told would be killers to stay away from her home or the spirits would get them. They ran away in fear and she continued to hide a number of innocent Tutsis in her home.
The hall of information led to a big circular room. On the entire surrounding wall were pictures hung on wire with metal clips. Hundreds of pictures showed the faces of victims, all put there by surviving family. Seeing all of these faces made it all seem so real, this man stuffing his face with food or this woman with the hilarious hair. These are the people who were killed from no reason, thrown into latrines, shot and left for dead, raped by known HIV+ men. It is one thing to hear the stories but to see the faces just brought it all so close.
Just when I felt like I saw more than I could bear I walked into a quiet, empty room with class cases lining the wall. I walked up to get a closer look at the contents of the cases and was confronted with the skulls and bones of the unknown victims of the genocide. The fact that they were there nameless spoke loudly of the anonymous and indiscriminate way in which they were killed. Seeing those pictures and moving next to a pile of bones really hit me hard. In the last case I noticed some smaller skills. Though I am not sure, I thought they might be of children and the thought of it really brought me to an awful place.
When I left this room, I continued on to one that held the clothes worn by victims, including kid pajamas and a Superman sheet. A video played with survivors talking about their lives now. It was hard to think about these people, so affected by the genocide, so much taken away from them. And they must simply try to move on and live because they were the ones lucky enough to do so.
I finished on the main floor and went up to the extended exhibit upstairs. There I saw that which brought out a lot of the sadness I had tried to suppress downstairs. This wing of the exhibit was a special memorial for the children killed. Big posters with the most recent picture of the child told the “vital stats” of the children: name, age at time of death, favorite food, favorite drink, personality. I would read the first few stats chuckling about someone’s love of Lemon Citron or beans and rice or gregarious personality and then I would get to the last two lines. Last words: Mom, when do we run? Cause of death: Hacked by machete; Cause of death: Thrown against a wall; Cause of death: Shot in the back; Last words: The UNAIR will help us; Cause of death: Grenade explosion; Cause of death: Torture wounds.
In that room, I actually released some of the sadness I was holding onto since I entered the building. I shed a few tears but I think the biggest part of me didn’t feel I should. There was just so much there, so much sorrow that I tried not to think about it because if I did, it might just debilitate me. At the time of the genocide I was 7 years old. These children are me. These children are my brothers and my cousins. To think that as I was in my home protected, safe, and in the company of a loving family, Hubert sat scared unsure of whether he would live or die, hoping badly that someone would help him.
When I finished in this room, I walked down a long hallway filled with pictures just as the one I saw downstairs, this time the photos were of children. I left the building and headed outside to the memorial gardens and mass graves. When we passed, I saw this huge group of tourists, mzungus most of whom I thought were Americans. Seeing all of them there really made me think hard about why they were there, why I was there. I think that the whole time that I was there, I felt guilty being there, being a tourist to another person’s hell, death, misery. Who am I to see the skulls of those who died? Am I deriving some sick twisted pleasure in witnessing another person’s agony? I felt guilty, as though I should not be there, should not be taking a picture, should not be there. I don’t know why I felt this way, but it was strong and relentless. I struggled with myself, justifying that I needed to see it. I need to see what can happen when people ignore problems, seeing them as “tribal fighting” or “ethnic tensions”. I need to see it because I need to feel the reality of a situation I had only before read about or seen a movie version of. I had see it because it strengthened my resolve to help where others turn their backs, and to educate the youth in America to do the same. I had to see it because looking at the sorrow does not bring me sick pleasure but saddens me and inspires me to work to ensure it does not happen again.
When we left the Memorial Center, I was feeling very overwhelmed and introspective. I was shut down, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to hear anyone share their thoughts or ask me mine. I was silent. Then as we were walking up to the hill to find a taxi, this little boy carrying a jerry can full of water was standing right next to me, looking at me with a smile on his face. We were walking pretty fast and he was keeping pace, his mother a few feet behind him. Unfortunately I did not know the greetings in the Rwandan language and so I could not even speak to him. I relied instead on faces. I smiled at him and made silly faces and waved at him and his mother all of which were reciprocated. We soon found a taxi, parting ways with the small boy but this moment shared with the child really meant a lot to me. After all of the sadness of the memorial, here was this little boy living life, happy, walking down the road amazed at the site of a mzungu. In that moment the hurt and the conflict I was feeling very much washed away and was replaced with joy, energy, and silliness.
As we made our way back to Kigali for lunch, I was confronted with one thought over and over again. 14 years. The genocide occurred in 1994, a mere 14 years ago. 14 years and the city was a wasteland. 14 years later and the city is gorgeous, nicely developed with paved roads and much business. It is pretty, modern, and peaceful. 14 years to forget the pain of the past. 14 years to rebuild.
My time in Kigali was not the only moment the genocide showed itself to me while I was in Rwanda. On a return bus ride from the Nyugwe Forest, I sat next to a kind man with his own story to share. The bus was not particularly crowded and I looked forward to a nap after a long hike in the hills. However, the roads were curvy and it was nearly impossible to fall asleep. To keep myself entertained for the remainder of the ride, I began chatting with the man sitting next to me. He worked in the prosecution office in the district of the park, though I was not sure if he was a lawyer or not. He told me that his family lives in Kigali so he was on his way for a visit. We made idle chitchat about the best national parks in Rwanda, but soon the conversation took a more serious turn.
I asked if he had ever traveled outside of Rwanda before and he, perhaps confused, asked if I meant during the genocide. I hadn’t meant that so we talked about general travels, but since he brought it up, I figured it was okay to inquire further. I asked if he had been in the country during the genocide and he said yes. I clumsily asked, “What was that like?” As though answering an overly curious child he said, “There is nothing I can say to you to express what it was like.” He went on to tell me that his family was over one hundred before the genocide and afterward they were only about twenty. His sisters and father were all killed. He told me the story of when his father was taken. He was 14 then and twice before the army had come to the house searching for them. Both times prior, they had hid behind something and were not found. This time though, his father was tired of hiding and would not any longer. When they came to the house, they took his father. He did not know what came of his dad until about a year later when they found his body where it had been left after he was killed. My new friend told me this story so openly and honestly and so very matter of fact. Though telling a tale wrought with grief, he did not cry. He was calm and stern. Again I was brought back to the thought of 14 years. 14 years a scared teenage sat trembling behind a cupboard while his father faced his destiny. 14 years later and that boy is a serious man of the law, prosecuting and working for justice.
My friend tells me that he wants to write a book about his experiences. I tell him that he really should, that many people would be interested in reading it. I ask him if he has thought about a title of the book yet. He tells me, “I have been thinking about it a little bit. I think I might call it, ‘My Life in a Genocide.’”
Thursday, July 3, 2008
The Children
A note to my readers: Hello everyone! This update will be the last one for a while as my Dwon Madiki coworkers and I are travelling to Rwanda and will be spending a week there. We will be touring the country on motorbikes, hiking on volcanoes, and exploring some of the country's genocide sites. I shall update again when I return with many stories from Rwanda.
P.S. Before I left, I interviewed with the Dearborn Press and Guide, the paper in my hometown. They wrote a really lovely article about what I am doing here in Uganda. If you would like to read it, it can be found online at: http://www.pressandguide.com/stories/070208/loc_20080702006.shtml
I have reached the halfway point of my trip here in Uganda. Less than a month remains until I leave here for home and the start my life in “the real world” with apartment hunting, job interviews, and responsibilities. As the days bring me closer to my journey’s end, I find myself trying to hold on to everything, knowing that soon this whole experience will feel like some distant and beautiful dream. I have been spending my days at the office in the back of the compound playing with the neighborhood children. They are the ones who continuously fill my heart with joy, and the ones who inspire me to continue working with Dwon Madiki. I thought I would take the time now to tell you a little about them
(This group shot was taken by Brenda. Diana is on the far left and Sue next to her.)
Brenda
I have written about Brenda before and the first video I posted before my trip even began was of her singing to us. In a way I felt like I knew her before I even arrived. Brenda is one of the DMP children who I know the best. She is frequently around the office, always doing work and helping out. The day I learned to cook cabbage, she made g-nut paste, started the fire, and helped us sift through the rice for stones. When she is not working, Brenda loves to sing, and always does so for Madisson and I. She is a blossoming reader of English and an expert on just who finds the “Reel of Cotton”. Recently her true calling may have been discovered. Sitting around in the office, I had my camera out and I showed Brenda how to take a picture. She loved it and was soon taking pictures of all of us. Today, a group of girls were hanging out in the temporary structure. Brenda told all of them where to sit, (including me) and when we were situated, said, “Okay, I take a picture.” The group shot of all of us turned out excellently. Also discovered today, her oddly ticklish ears!
Sue
Susan is a young girl of about three years old. She almost always wears a red white and black dress. She has the biggest eyes I think I have ever seen and she always just stares into your soul. She laughs big and with great joy. She loves to dance with the munus even when there is no music playing. Today, as I talked on the phone with my mom, Sue climbed on my lap, grabbed for the phone and giggled wildly. I had never known who she was or where she lived, figuring she just was from around the neighborhood, but today I learned her story. At the age of one, her mother abandoned Sue. Remarried, she wanted nothing to do with the baby of her former marriage. Friday, the woman who cooks for us when we are in the office, is her aunt and took her in as her own.
Diana
There is a special place in my heart for Diana. She is boisterous and playful and always asks me to, “Come!” pulling on my hand and leading me to …wherever. Usually it is to play Fossi or to just walk around. She hugs me and gives me high fives and just always hangs around me. Kevin tells me it is because we have the same name. Today she asked me to sleep here in the office one day and I told her I would as soon as we get back from our trip to Rwanda. I recently learned about some of the troubles Diana has faced. She has epilepsy, which she takes medication for. Last year Diana’s brother took some of her tablets and got sick. Though he was rushed to the hospital he could not be saved.
Derrick
Derrick is one of the most mischievous yet loveable boys. When I see him around the compound, his first reaction is usually to run. I chase him around and bug him like he is the little sibling I never had. When he is feeling a little calmer, he reads with me, especially the story of “The Rainbow Ball”. Though he seems more the class clown type, he is a very bright student. When he is not at school, he likes to take Grace’s bicycle out for a spin. Recently he has missed a few days of school because of a bout with malaria.
Baby Nathan
Baby Nathan was born around six months ago and was named after the Invisible Conflicts founder of the same name. He is a very happy baby and usually very quiet. He is very active and loves to stand. He does not yet know how to crawl but I think if it were up to him, he would skip the step completely; he’d rather walk!
Bria
n
Madisson likes to refer to Brian as “your favorite” as in, “Your favorite is here; I was playing with your favorite today.” There is good reason for this title. Brian is a boy of about four who lives in the home right next door. I first encountered the little guy as he sat in front of the office holding onto a pole. When I looked back a moment later he had scurried up the pole and was looking down at me from five feet above. He follows me around and gives me high fives and sometimes I just run after him as he squeals in fear of tickles. As we sat together in the temporary structure, he gave me a high five and I put my other hand on top of his. He followed suit and we continued the pile of hands, a fun game indeed!
Ephraim
Ephraim is a recent addition to the collection of children I have gotten to know here. He is fifteen years old and in secondary school. He loves math and one day hopes to be an engineer. When I asked him what he wishes he could change about Uganda, he said, “When I am an engineer, I will fix the roads. They are so bad here.” He has a lot of drive and I truly believe he will accomplish this goal. He has not been in school as of late and I did not find out why until yesterday. Ephraim goes to one of the best secondary schools in Gulu district. The school was well known for its athletics team, and had won many awards. However, this was due to the fact that the head teacher was letting in athletes even though they were not very great academically. A new head teacher came and decided to stop this practice, letting in students based solely on merit. When the athletic team lost its first meet in thirty years, an uproar was caused and the student athletes trashed the school. While the school repairs are made, the teachers have gone on strike. The students must wait patiently for word on the radio that their school has been reopened. To fill his days away from school, Ephraim has been working with Madisson and I doing algebra problems, solving system of equations.
These are just a few of the faces I have come to know here in Gulu. These are the children who have known nothing but a war torn country their whole lives. I work for peace in Northern Uganda because I hope that one day soon they will see it.
P.S. Before I left, I interviewed with the Dearborn Press and Guide, the paper in my hometown. They wrote a really lovely article about what I am doing here in Uganda. If you would like to read it, it can be found online at: http://www.pressandguide.com/stories/070208/loc_20080702006.shtml
I have reached the halfway point of my trip here in Uganda. Less than a month remains until I leave here for home and the start my life in “the real world” with apartment hunting, job interviews, and responsibilities. As the days bring me closer to my journey’s end, I find myself trying to hold on to everything, knowing that soon this whole experience will feel like some distant and beautiful dream. I have been spending my days at the office in the back of the compound playing with the neighborhood children. They are the ones who continuously fill my heart with joy, and the ones who inspire me to continue working with Dwon Madiki. I thought I would take the time now to tell you a little about them
(This group shot was taken by Brenda. Diana is on the far left and Sue next to her.)
BrendaI have written about Brenda before and the first video I posted before my trip even began was of her singing to us. In a way I felt like I knew her before I even arrived. Brenda is one of the DMP children who I know the best. She is frequently around the office, always doing work and helping out. The day I learned to cook cabbage, she made g-nut paste, started the fire, and helped us sift through the rice for stones. When she is not working, Brenda loves to sing, and always does so for Madisson and I. She is a blossoming reader of English and an expert on just who finds the “Reel of Cotton”. Recently her true calling may have been discovered. Sitting around in the office, I had my camera out and I showed Brenda how to take a picture. She loved it and was soon taking pictures of all of us. Today, a group of girls were hanging out in the temporary structure. Brenda told all of them where to sit, (including me) and when we were situated, said, “Okay, I take a picture.” The group shot of all of us turned out excellently. Also discovered today, her oddly ticklish ears!
SueSusan is a young girl of about three years old. She almost always wears a red white and black dress. She has the biggest eyes I think I have ever seen and she always just stares into your soul. She laughs big and with great joy. She loves to dance with the munus even when there is no music playing. Today, as I talked on the phone with my mom, Sue climbed on my lap, grabbed for the phone and giggled wildly. I had never known who she was or where she lived, figuring she just was from around the neighborhood, but today I learned her story. At the age of one, her mother abandoned Sue. Remarried, she wanted nothing to do with the baby of her former marriage. Friday, the woman who cooks for us when we are in the office, is her aunt and took her in as her own.
Diana
There is a special place in my heart for Diana. She is boisterous and playful and always asks me to, “Come!” pulling on my hand and leading me to …wherever. Usually it is to play Fossi or to just walk around. She hugs me and gives me high fives and just always hangs around me. Kevin tells me it is because we have the same name. Today she asked me to sleep here in the office one day and I told her I would as soon as we get back from our trip to Rwanda. I recently learned about some of the troubles Diana has faced. She has epilepsy, which she takes medication for. Last year Diana’s brother took some of her tablets and got sick. Though he was rushed to the hospital he could not be saved.
Derrick
Derrick is one of the most mischievous yet loveable boys. When I see him around the compound, his first reaction is usually to run. I chase him around and bug him like he is the little sibling I never had. When he is feeling a little calmer, he reads with me, especially the story of “The Rainbow Ball”. Though he seems more the class clown type, he is a very bright student. When he is not at school, he likes to take Grace’s bicycle out for a spin. Recently he has missed a few days of school because of a bout with malaria.
Baby Nathan
Baby Nathan was born around six months ago and was named after the Invisible Conflicts founder of the same name. He is a very happy baby and usually very quiet. He is very active and loves to stand. He does not yet know how to crawl but I think if it were up to him, he would skip the step completely; he’d rather walk!
Bria
nMadisson likes to refer to Brian as “your favorite” as in, “Your favorite is here; I was playing with your favorite today.” There is good reason for this title. Brian is a boy of about four who lives in the home right next door. I first encountered the little guy as he sat in front of the office holding onto a pole. When I looked back a moment later he had scurried up the pole and was looking down at me from five feet above. He follows me around and gives me high fives and sometimes I just run after him as he squeals in fear of tickles. As we sat together in the temporary structure, he gave me a high five and I put my other hand on top of his. He followed suit and we continued the pile of hands, a fun game indeed!
Ephraim
Ephraim is a recent addition to the collection of children I have gotten to know here. He is fifteen years old and in secondary school. He loves math and one day hopes to be an engineer. When I asked him what he wishes he could change about Uganda, he said, “When I am an engineer, I will fix the roads. They are so bad here.” He has a lot of drive and I truly believe he will accomplish this goal. He has not been in school as of late and I did not find out why until yesterday. Ephraim goes to one of the best secondary schools in Gulu district. The school was well known for its athletics team, and had won many awards. However, this was due to the fact that the head teacher was letting in athletes even though they were not very great academically. A new head teacher came and decided to stop this practice, letting in students based solely on merit. When the athletic team lost its first meet in thirty years, an uproar was caused and the student athletes trashed the school. While the school repairs are made, the teachers have gone on strike. The students must wait patiently for word on the radio that their school has been reopened. To fill his days away from school, Ephraim has been working with Madisson and I doing algebra problems, solving system of equations.
These are just a few of the faces I have come to know here in Gulu. These are the children who have known nothing but a war torn country their whole lives. I work for peace in Northern Uganda because I hope that one day soon they will see it.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
America Eats Africa: A Night Spent in Pabo
I am sitting in the back of a white pick up truck speeding down a burnt sienna road. Above me cotton clouds fill a bright blue sky and all around me tall grasses, a myriad of green and yellow, sway with the breeze. In the distance the rolling land exposes clusters of trees and bushes and a horizon of shadowy hills. We are driving through an oil painting entitled “African Paradise”.
Inside the truck I am surrounded by jerry cans, boxes of curry powder and other groceries, and a large machine tied down with twine. There are six others traveling with me today. Along the window of the cab, my Dwon Madiki companion and a young woman sit on boxes of salt. Beside them sits an elderly woman with a tall thin stick. She is wearing a pastel shirt with a loud early 90s pattern. Over the pocket it says “Original JAMS”. Two middle aged men sit on the opposite side of the truck from me and a young guy about my age hangs dangerously close to the edge of the vehicle. As we bumpily maneuver through potholes, I grip the side railing for safety. In the middle of this stunning scenery, wind cascading through my hair, I cannot believe that we are leaving Pabo. Though mere minutes, I feel worlds away.
Pabo is an Internally Displaced Persons camp in the Gulu district of Uganda. It is the largest in the country and perhaps the most impoverished as well. We are going there today to check in on two students from the Dwon Madiki Partnership who live there. In order to experience life in an IDP camp, Madisson and I have decided to spend the night. There has been much discussion about whether we should sleep in the hut with the family or in the camp’s parish but I think that we will play it by ear and decide once we get there.
Megan and Kevin have some work to do before they join us in Pabo, so Kevin shows us where to catch a bus and we wait. We just missed one bus, so the wait time is long. I wander to a food stand nearby and grab some chapatti before settling in to play some Snake Xenzia on our phone. After an hour, a bus arrives heading to Pabo and for 4,000 shillings we board. I am leading the line of DMP travelers and am first to notice the four large sacks of cabbage blocking the aisle to the only empty seats left. In an act of desperation, I climb over seats and leafy vegetables to a window seat in the back. After a half an hour of possible mechanical problems, we take off on our way to Pabo. The ride is bumpy and combined with the smell of exhaust, I feel quite nauseated. Luckily we arrive in one hour, despite Kevin’s estimated travel time of two and a half. Because of our delays, Megan and Kevin have beaten us here, so we walk to find them. When we reunite, we make our way to Pabo Primary School.
It is soon apparent that we have arrived at an incredibly poor time: lunch break. As we walk toward the school, hundreds of students donning pink and blue uniforms are heading in our direction. The first small wave of
children wave and greet us, “Munus! Kopa di?” Soon the small wave turns into something more like a swarm. As we walk at least a hundred kids follow us. They shake our hands or simply try to touch us, laughing, squealing, and greeting. To them we are a novelty; to them we are money. In this moment I know exactly the feeling of an international celebrity. Kevin, trying to avoid the crowd has sped up and is walking 20 feet ahead of us. Having driven here on his boda, he wears a large puffy coat and sunglasses. In this moment he is our bodyguard. And he is doing a poor job. In a lapse of judgment we take out our cameras to capture this moment, exciting the masses even more. Kevin finally comes to our aid, shouting at the children in Luo telling them to go home and leave us alone. Some scatter but most stick around until the head teacher at the school appears and shoos them away. He leads us to the school and I see that Megan is reading a letter. It was given to her by one of the many children, and I soon find out that it is a hand written plea for help from an orphan who is unable to pay school fees. The saddest part of this scenario to me is that the thought that Moses was holding on to this letter just waiting and hoping for someone who might be able to help to come on by.
In the office of Pabo Primary, we remind the head teacher about our program and explain that we wish to check in on our students. He calls for their teachers and while he does the five of us wait. All around the walls are posters. I notice one that reads, “Overworking women makes them grow old quicker. They get ugly.” I’m mildly disturbed by this hanging in a school, but I try to ignore it. When the head teacher comes back with the student’s teachers Kevin, Megan, and Laura leave, allowing the education majors to talk it out. As with most of our experiences talking to teachers, I am not assured that they actually know who our students are. They give us generic answers when we ask how they are doing in class saying, “She is active. Her English needs work. She behaves well.” It seems rather unproductive. We plan to come back to the school to observe a lesson after lunch and we meet back up with the others.
Kevin takes us now to the family’s hut. We walk through the congested camp, most huts close enough that I could lie between them and touch both. They are made of clay and have grass-thatched roofs, but many cover their roofs with tarps for fear of fire which easily moves through the camp. I walk past huts that have doors fashioned out of USAid cans, USA, USA, USA written all over the door. I feel as though this is a statement on something but I’m not sure what. We are invited into the family’s hut, and I must duck down beneath the roof to enter. They have set out two wooden benches for us to sit on while they take seats on the floor. Along with Beatrice and Wilfred who are in DMP, their mother has two other children. Daniel, who is about three years old, has bad burns covering most of his face after falling into a fire when he was a baby. And being held closely by his mother is baby Ogenrwot David. This was the baby our fellow ICer was asked to name last year and he gave him his exact name. This gives us a good chuckle.
Beatrice ran to fetch us some soda, a treat given to us regularly as a sign of hospitality. Fantas and Pepsis all around, we begin discussing some business. Kevin talks about putting the children into boarding schools next year, which seems to be positive news. There are some requirements like mattresses, shoes, and a Bible that we leave to the guardians to pay and we ask if this will be feasible. I am happy to hear that it likely will since there are eight months to prepare. During this conversation we learn that Felda is HIV positive and the children’s father died from the disease. I had not known this before and I wonder if the children are inflicted too. I am told they have not yet been tested.
We leave the family and start walking to the parish. Kevin told us that it would be safest to sleep there tonight. Because we worked up so much attention just walking through the camp, it would be known munus were staying in the hut and it would be a likely target for attack. So we decide to stay in the hut until eight and then have the children walk us to the parish to sleep. When our living arrangements are made, Kevin leaves with Megan and Laura. Though I am happy to be staying tonight, I feel a little anxious to be there without Kevin. He is like our big brother here and to not have his protection is a little unnerving.
Madisson and I walk back to the school and are escorted to Beatrice’s P5 classroom. The man taking us there tells us a little about the school. During the war, many of the village schools closed and so the Pabo School was built hastily to accommodate the floods of displaced children. As we walk through the patchy, half dead grass, he tells us the lawn was once used for food distribution during the war.
We finally get to the class, and sit in the back of the room. We are observing an English lesson today and the topic is turning nouns into adjectives using the “ish”. The kids recite England/English, Britain/British, fool/foolish, and child/childish. The teacher asks for some example sentences using one of these words and (because there is already a sample on the board of “She is so foolish”) a boy raises his hand to answer, “She is SO British.” The thought of Mary Poppins comes into my head, thinking of what it would take to make someone so emphatically British. At the end of the lesson, the teacher writes some exercises on the board. The first asks the students to change the nouns into adjectives: boy, girl, woman. I contemplate these for a minute and when I think of womanish, I exchange confused looks with Madisson. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word before. The students don’t seem bothered by this and get going on their practice work. We are sitting closely to Beatrice and I watch her complete the work. Her teacher comes by to correct her and the only one she gets wrong is womanish.
At the end of this lesson, the class says goodbye to us and performs a special clap and we head to Wilfred’s P4 room. The day is almost done and they have completed their lesson. We sit for a moment and greet the students and the teacher introduces us to the wrong child: here is Alfred, your student. The teacher speaks in Luo to the kids about us and they laugh. I make an exaggerated confused face and the laughter becomes uproarious. I am happy to only spend a few more moments in this room. Class is dismissed, we find Wilfred and Beatrice among the sea of children, and they walk us back to their home.
Back in the home, Felda and another woman are cooking dinner. Madisson and I sit with Beatrice and Wilfred. There is an obvious language barrier, their English about as good as my Luo. I had wanted to simply hang out with them and do what they do when they get home from school, but I think there is something special about our visit that robs their day of its normalcy. So we sit. I pull out a piece of paper from my bag and some paper and see if they would like to draw. They take them happily and we all draw quietly together. I draw the only thing I can think of how to say in Luo: gueno or chicken. When I show the kids, they laugh. Beatrice pulls out some of her school notebooks and writes some things down. When she shows us, I see what she has written, “America Eats Africa.” My mind searches for a context or possible mistake, but I have no ideas. Again Madisson and I exchange looks, this time one of amusement.
Soon we are served dinner, a large portion of maize and beans. I am grateful that this family, with so little, goes so far to welcome us into their home and feed us. I am not sure why but the family eats outside without us. Beatrice stays with us and I am happy about that.
With dinner done, Madisson and I sit outside with the family. Little words are exchanged due to language but I don’t mind much. Kids start to notice we are outside and a buzz is created. After a while Felda gets a stick and starts shooing them away. I think in a weird way she enjoys having the attention munus bring. After a while, I see Wilfred writing “one, two” in the dirt with a stick. I take this as an opportunity to start an impromptu lesson.
We start writing numbers, which soon leads to math problems in the dirt. It is fun and Wilfred is quite good at addition. Madisson begins doing the same with Beatrice. What started with playful math soon becomes a game show. A large group of people (children and adults) gathers to watch us. With each problem, I feel the eyes of the masses waiting for the correct answer. I hear whispers of people (children and adults!) helping Wilfred along with the answer, saying the numbers in Luo. The attention feels a little awkward to me, but I feel like we are bringing some excitement to the evening and so I try to squelch my discomfort.
At the parish we are kindly welcomed and given coffee, water, and two bottles of Coke each. We are given g-nuts, which tastes absolutely delicious. Beds have been made up for us with green and pink mosquito nets. We wind down after a long day and spend hours talking until we finally give in to sleep.
In the morning, we are served a light breakfast and head on our way. With the help of a man from the church named Peter, we head to the main road in search of a ride back to Gulu. Peter suggests we take a taxi, but because they wait for full capacity of 14 people, the vehicle will likely not leave for hours. Ahead we see a pick up truck loaded with cargo. They will be leaving shortly. I am extremely hesitant to take this ride, questioning the safety of it, but do not want to wait for a taxi. I decide, perhaps against my better judgment to hop in the truck’s bed and we head on home. Soon the camp is behind us and we are driving through an African Paradise.
Inside the truck I am surrounded by jerry cans, boxes of curry powder and other groceries, and a large machine tied down with twine. There are six others traveling with me today. Along the window of the cab, my Dwon Madiki companion and a young woman sit on boxes of salt. Beside them sits an elderly woman with a tall thin stick. She is wearing a pastel shirt with a loud early 90s pattern. Over the pocket it says “Original JAMS”. Two middle aged men sit on the opposite side of the truck from me and a young guy about my age hangs dangerously close to the edge of the vehicle. As we bumpily maneuver through potholes, I grip the side railing for safety. In the middle of this stunning scenery, wind cascading through my hair, I cannot believe that we are leaving Pabo. Though mere minutes, I feel worlds away.
Pabo is an Internally Displaced Persons camp in the Gulu district of Uganda. It is the largest in the country and perhaps the most impoverished as well. We are going there today to check in on two students from the Dwon Madiki Partnership who live there. In order to experience life in an IDP camp, Madisson and I have decided to spend the night. There has been much discussion about whether we should sleep in the hut with the family or in the camp’s parish but I think that we will play it by ear and decide once we get there.
Megan and Kevin have some work to do before they join us in Pabo, so Kevin shows us where to catch a bus and we wait. We just missed one bus, so the wait time is long. I wander to a food stand nearby and grab some chapatti before settling in to play some Snake Xenzia on our phone. After an hour, a bus arrives heading to Pabo and for 4,000 shillings we board. I am leading the line of DMP travelers and am first to notice the four large sacks of cabbage blocking the aisle to the only empty seats left. In an act of desperation, I climb over seats and leafy vegetables to a window seat in the back. After a half an hour of possible mechanical problems, we take off on our way to Pabo. The ride is bumpy and combined with the smell of exhaust, I feel quite nauseated. Luckily we arrive in one hour, despite Kevin’s estimated travel time of two and a half. Because of our delays, Megan and Kevin have beaten us here, so we walk to find them. When we reunite, we make our way to Pabo Primary School.
It is soon apparent that we have arrived at an incredibly poor time: lunch break. As we walk toward the school, hundreds of students donning pink and blue uniforms are heading in our direction. The first small wave of
children wave and greet us, “Munus! Kopa di?” Soon the small wave turns into something more like a swarm. As we walk at least a hundred kids follow us. They shake our hands or simply try to touch us, laughing, squealing, and greeting. To them we are a novelty; to them we are money. In this moment I know exactly the feeling of an international celebrity. Kevin, trying to avoid the crowd has sped up and is walking 20 feet ahead of us. Having driven here on his boda, he wears a large puffy coat and sunglasses. In this moment he is our bodyguard. And he is doing a poor job. In a lapse of judgment we take out our cameras to capture this moment, exciting the masses even more. Kevin finally comes to our aid, shouting at the children in Luo telling them to go home and leave us alone. Some scatter but most stick around until the head teacher at the school appears and shoos them away. He leads us to the school and I see that Megan is reading a letter. It was given to her by one of the many children, and I soon find out that it is a hand written plea for help from an orphan who is unable to pay school fees. The saddest part of this scenario to me is that the thought that Moses was holding on to this letter just waiting and hoping for someone who might be able to help to come on by.In the office of Pabo Primary, we remind the head teacher about our program and explain that we wish to check in on our students. He calls for their teachers and while he does the five of us wait. All around the walls are posters. I notice one that reads, “Overworking women makes them grow old quicker. They get ugly.” I’m mildly disturbed by this hanging in a school, but I try to ignore it. When the head teacher comes back with the student’s teachers Kevin, Megan, and Laura leave, allowing the education majors to talk it out. As with most of our experiences talking to teachers, I am not assured that they actually know who our students are. They give us generic answers when we ask how they are doing in class saying, “She is active. Her English needs work. She behaves well.” It seems rather unproductive. We plan to come back to the school to observe a lesson after lunch and we meet back up with the others.
Kevin takes us now to the family’s hut. We walk through the congested camp, most huts close enough that I could lie between them and touch both. They are made of clay and have grass-thatched roofs, but many cover their roofs with tarps for fear of fire which easily moves through the camp. I walk past huts that have doors fashioned out of USAid cans, USA, USA, USA written all over the door. I feel as though this is a statement on something but I’m not sure what. We are invited into the family’s hut, and I must duck down beneath the roof to enter. They have set out two wooden benches for us to sit on while they take seats on the floor. Along with Beatrice and Wilfred who are in DMP, their mother has two other children. Daniel, who is about three years old, has bad burns covering most of his face after falling into a fire when he was a baby. And being held closely by his mother is baby Ogenrwot David. This was the baby our fellow ICer was asked to name last year and he gave him his exact name. This gives us a good chuckle.
Beatrice ran to fetch us some soda, a treat given to us regularly as a sign of hospitality. Fantas and Pepsis all around, we begin discussing some business. Kevin talks about putting the children into boarding schools next year, which seems to be positive news. There are some requirements like mattresses, shoes, and a Bible that we leave to the guardians to pay and we ask if this will be feasible. I am happy to hear that it likely will since there are eight months to prepare. During this conversation we learn that Felda is HIV positive and the children’s father died from the disease. I had not known this before and I wonder if the children are inflicted too. I am told they have not yet been tested.
We leave the family and start walking to the parish. Kevin told us that it would be safest to sleep there tonight. Because we worked up so much attention just walking through the camp, it would be known munus were staying in the hut and it would be a likely target for attack. So we decide to stay in the hut until eight and then have the children walk us to the parish to sleep. When our living arrangements are made, Kevin leaves with Megan and Laura. Though I am happy to be staying tonight, I feel a little anxious to be there without Kevin. He is like our big brother here and to not have his protection is a little unnerving.
Madisson and I walk back to the school and are escorted to Beatrice’s P5 classroom. The man taking us there tells us a little about the school. During the war, many of the village schools closed and so the Pabo School was built hastily to accommodate the floods of displaced children. As we walk through the patchy, half dead grass, he tells us the lawn was once used for food distribution during the war.
We finally get to the class, and sit in the back of the room. We are observing an English lesson today and the topic is turning nouns into adjectives using the “ish”. The kids recite England/English, Britain/British, fool/foolish, and child/childish. The teacher asks for some example sentences using one of these words and (because there is already a sample on the board of “She is so foolish”) a boy raises his hand to answer, “She is SO British.” The thought of Mary Poppins comes into my head, thinking of what it would take to make someone so emphatically British. At the end of the lesson, the teacher writes some exercises on the board. The first asks the students to change the nouns into adjectives: boy, girl, woman. I contemplate these for a minute and when I think of womanish, I exchange confused looks with Madisson. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word before. The students don’t seem bothered by this and get going on their practice work. We are sitting closely to Beatrice and I watch her complete the work. Her teacher comes by to correct her and the only one she gets wrong is womanish.
At the end of this lesson, the class says goodbye to us and performs a special clap and we head to Wilfred’s P4 room. The day is almost done and they have completed their lesson. We sit for a moment and greet the students and the teacher introduces us to the wrong child: here is Alfred, your student. The teacher speaks in Luo to the kids about us and they laugh. I make an exaggerated confused face and the laughter becomes uproarious. I am happy to only spend a few more moments in this room. Class is dismissed, we find Wilfred and Beatrice among the sea of children, and they walk us back to their home.
Back in the home, Felda and another woman are cooking dinner. Madisson and I sit with Beatrice and Wilfred. There is an obvious language barrier, their English about as good as my Luo. I had wanted to simply hang out with them and do what they do when they get home from school, but I think there is something special about our visit that robs their day of its normalcy. So we sit. I pull out a piece of paper from my bag and some paper and see if they would like to draw. They take them happily and we all draw quietly together. I draw the only thing I can think of how to say in Luo: gueno or chicken. When I show the kids, they laugh. Beatrice pulls out some of her school notebooks and writes some things down. When she shows us, I see what she has written, “America Eats Africa.” My mind searches for a context or possible mistake, but I have no ideas. Again Madisson and I exchange looks, this time one of amusement.
Soon we are served dinner, a large portion of maize and beans. I am grateful that this family, with so little, goes so far to welcome us into their home and feed us. I am not sure why but the family eats outside without us. Beatrice stays with us and I am happy about that.
With dinner done, Madisson and I sit outside with the family. Little words are exchanged due to language but I don’t mind much. Kids start to notice we are outside and a buzz is created. After a while Felda gets a stick and starts shooing them away. I think in a weird way she enjoys having the attention munus bring. After a while, I see Wilfred writing “one, two” in the dirt with a stick. I take this as an opportunity to start an impromptu lesson.
We start writing numbers, which soon leads to math problems in the dirt. It is fun and Wilfred is quite good at addition. Madisson begins doing the same with Beatrice. What started with playful math soon becomes a game show. A large group of people (children and adults) gathers to watch us. With each problem, I feel the eyes of the masses waiting for the correct answer. I hear whispers of people (children and adults!) helping Wilfred along with the answer, saying the numbers in Luo. The attention feels a little awkward to me, but I feel like we are bringing some excitement to the evening and so I try to squelch my discomfort.After a while, Madisson and I decide we would like to go for a walk around the camp. We end our math problems and get up. There seems to be confusion that we are unpleased and are walking away. We explain that we just want to take a walk but we are not understood and do not know the words to say what we mean. Felda happily walks with us and we think somehow that we have made our meaning known. We walk a little way down until we reach a shop. Felda speaks to a man in Luo. He turns to us with a smile and says, “She has no idea what you said. Can you say it to me in English so I can translate?” We explain ourselves and Felda happily shows us around the place. Though I find this situation funny, it saddens me a little to be so ignorant of Luo.
Walking around the camp, I get my first real view of the stereotypical Africa, the one seen on those late night infomercials. Families are living in extreme poverty here in small clay huts with only the very basic necessities. I see children with the potbelly of malnutrition. I see children playing with the rubber of bicycle tires. One little boy has a small wooden box with a string tied around in. In it he has put a brick and he is running around toting the innovative toy around with him. He seems genuinely delighted by it. As we pass, people happily greet us with big smiles. When I look behind us I see a line of children following along behind us. We cause quite a stir. For a moment I think about what Kevin said about our presence making an attack on the family’s hut more likely. Even though we are not staying there I hope that this parade through the camp does not cause the family any unwanted attention or harm.
Walking around the camp, I get my first real view of the stereotypical Africa, the one seen on those late night infomercials. Families are living in extreme poverty here in small clay huts with only the very basic necessities. I see children with the potbelly of malnutrition. I see children playing with the rubber of bicycle tires. One little boy has a small wooden box with a string tied around in. In it he has put a brick and he is running around toting the innovative toy around with him. He seems genuinely delighted by it. As we pass, people happily greet us with big smiles. When I look behind us I see a line of children following along behind us. We cause quite a stir. For a moment I think about what Kevin said about our presence making an attack on the family’s hut more likely. Even though we are not staying there I hope that this parade through the camp does not cause the family any unwanted attention or harm.
When we get to an open area of the camp, I look to the horizon and see the rolling landscape. In the states this would be a million dollar view. Seeing all of this open and beautiful land, I am filled with anger that these people have been wrangled and forced into this tiny patch of earth.
We return from our walk and spend the rest of our night sitting outside with the family. Again, a mass of people surrounds us, just watching us in silence. We take out our cameras and photograph the family and the hut. It is a fun time, and I am glad the digital camera allows us to show the pictures off as soon as we take them. After a while, a nursery school teacher who happens to speak English joins the crowd. She talks with us and translates for us and this is how we spend the rest of our time with the family. Dusk falls and we walk to the parish. The whole family accompanies us on the walk there. We say our goodbyes and part ways. Though we will be leaving early tomorrow I know I will see them again, for I want very badly to come back.
We return from our walk and spend the rest of our night sitting outside with the family. Again, a mass of people surrounds us, just watching us in silence. We take out our cameras and photograph the family and the hut. It is a fun time, and I am glad the digital camera allows us to show the pictures off as soon as we take them. After a while, a nursery school teacher who happens to speak English joins the crowd. She talks with us and translates for us and this is how we spend the rest of our time with the family. Dusk falls and we walk to the parish. The whole family accompanies us on the walk there. We say our goodbyes and part ways. Though we will be leaving early tomorrow I know I will see them again, for I want very badly to come back. At the parish we are kindly welcomed and given coffee, water, and two bottles of Coke each. We are given g-nuts, which tastes absolutely delicious. Beds have been made up for us with green and pink mosquito nets. We wind down after a long day and spend hours talking until we finally give in to sleep.
In the morning, we are served a light breakfast and head on our way. With the help of a man from the church named Peter, we head to the main road in search of a ride back to Gulu. Peter suggests we take a taxi, but because they wait for full capacity of 14 people, the vehicle will likely not leave for hours. Ahead we see a pick up truck loaded with cargo. They will be leaving shortly. I am extremely hesitant to take this ride, questioning the safety of it, but do not want to wait for a taxi. I decide, perhaps against my better judgment to hop in the truck’s bed and we head on home. Soon the camp is behind us and we are driving through an African Paradise.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Teacher Moments
So, as I have updated I have been spending most of my days as of late seeing primary schools here in Gulu. Yesterday I went to Negri primary, a boarding school for boys. I was so thrilled to see posters on the walls, children with books, and a (relatively) small class size. We talked to the head teacher there about getting our boys into this school for the upcoming year. He was very encouraging and I got the impression that if we can foot the bill, we will be able to move our kids there. When we went to the girls boarding school up the road the same sentiment seemed true. Today we have been looking at our budget trying to see if this all would be feasible.
It excites me to think that next year we could move these students from a class of over a hundred to one of forty. I have met almost all of the children of the Dwon Madiki Partnership now, and I see great potential. I know that despite the hardships they have been handed, they can succeed with just a little support.
I know this because in the short while I have been here I have experienced a moment that would fill any teacher's heart with joy and a sense of purpose.
On Saturday, I was asked to teach an English lesson for the students who came to the office. I had no idea what to do given my limited knowledge of student skills or the Ugandan English curriculum. We have a small number of books in the office and I simply decided to take some out to the kids and read them. After a short read aloud with about 10 kids (maybe 2 of whom actually understood the book), I noticed Brenda sitting with a book, looking at it, flipping through the pages rather unaffectedly. While the other kids began drawing pictures or reading other books, I suggested to Brenda that we read her book "The Reel of Cotton". She was very hesitant at first, suggesting instead that she just copy it down on paper as some of the other students were doing. I insisted that we read the whole book so that she would know what she was writing.
When finally she agreed, we settled down and began reading the story of Mayaka who lost his reel of cotton his mother had just bought him. Carefully we read through the story, each page a struggle. Brenda would stop at word and ask, “this one?” and I would read it. When she struggled with “reel of cotton,” I made her read and reread it at least a dozen times, enough for her to find humor in the situation and laugh at my persistence. We at long last finished the story (the dog triumphantly discovered the cotton and was rewarded with bread!), and I could tell Brenda was proud of herself which brought the same feeling about in me.
This in and of itself felt successful, but Monday at the office Madisson went out to greet the kids and when she did, Brenda, the reluctant reader asked, “Can I read?” Well of course! Madisson brought out “The Reel of Cotton” and Brenda said, “I have to read the whole book and answer the questions on the back!” (which we had also done Saturday with minimal success). Any one who has ever spent time in a classroom can relate to triumph of this moment. She asked to read! I am reminded that these students are brimming with potential and so excited to learn. I am proud of the Dwon Madiki Partnership for being a part of their education, and I am hopeful that we can do even more. Because surely, in a class of 121, that individualized attention that brings out the desire to learn is rare.
In all of this I cannot help but think about my teaching experiences in the U.S. As Brenda and I read, I felt like I was in Hayt School Room 107. I had that same experience of laboring through a book so many times there. The environment was different, but the teacher moment was exactly the same. It is a weird feeling I have, happy to know that the power (and joy!) of education is universal, but saddened by the fact that so many kids here miss out on the opportunities to know it.
I knew that spending my summer in Uganda would have its effects on my teaching. Certainly with more than a month to go it still will in new and unexpected ways. Right now however, I feel lucky to return to a classroom with 30 students with books and an abundance of scholastic materials. I know that there are many problems facing public schools in the United States, but I have a renewed energy to work toward fixing them.
It excites me to think that next year we could move these students from a class of over a hundred to one of forty. I have met almost all of the children of the Dwon Madiki Partnership now, and I see great potential. I know that despite the hardships they have been handed, they can succeed with just a little support.
I know this because in the short while I have been here I have experienced a moment that would fill any teacher's heart with joy and a sense of purpose.
On Saturday, I was asked to teach an English lesson for the students who came to the office. I had no idea what to do given my limited knowledge of student skills or the Ugandan English curriculum. We have a small number of books in the office and I simply decided to take some out to the kids and read them. After a short read aloud with about 10 kids (maybe 2 of whom actually understood the book), I noticed Brenda sitting with a book, looking at it, flipping through the pages rather unaffectedly. While the other kids began drawing pictures or reading other books, I suggested to Brenda that we read her book "The Reel of Cotton". She was very hesitant at first, suggesting instead that she just copy it down on paper as some of the other students were doing. I insisted that we read the whole book so that she would know what she was writing.
When finally she agreed, we settled down and began reading the story of Mayaka who lost his reel of cotton his mother had just bought him. Carefully we read through the story, each page a struggle. Brenda would stop at word and ask, “this one?” and I would read it. When she struggled with “reel of cotton,” I made her read and reread it at least a dozen times, enough for her to find humor in the situation and laugh at my persistence. We at long last finished the story (the dog triumphantly discovered the cotton and was rewarded with bread!), and I could tell Brenda was proud of herself which brought the same feeling about in me.
This in and of itself felt successful, but Monday at the office Madisson went out to greet the kids and when she did, Brenda, the reluctant reader asked, “Can I read?” Well of course! Madisson brought out “The Reel of Cotton” and Brenda said, “I have to read the whole book and answer the questions on the back!” (which we had also done Saturday with minimal success). Any one who has ever spent time in a classroom can relate to triumph of this moment. She asked to read! I am reminded that these students are brimming with potential and so excited to learn. I am proud of the Dwon Madiki Partnership for being a part of their education, and I am hopeful that we can do even more. Because surely, in a class of 121, that individualized attention that brings out the desire to learn is rare.
In all of this I cannot help but think about my teaching experiences in the U.S. As Brenda and I read, I felt like I was in Hayt School Room 107. I had that same experience of laboring through a book so many times there. The environment was different, but the teacher moment was exactly the same. It is a weird feeling I have, happy to know that the power (and joy!) of education is universal, but saddened by the fact that so many kids here miss out on the opportunities to know it.
I knew that spending my summer in Uganda would have its effects on my teaching. Certainly with more than a month to go it still will in new and unexpected ways. Right now however, I feel lucky to return to a classroom with 30 students with books and an abundance of scholastic materials. I know that there are many problems facing public schools in the United States, but I have a renewed energy to work toward fixing them.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A Day in the Life of Laker Diana
5:27 am
In my sweet slumber I lie, covered in a bed sheet surrounded completely by a mosquito net. Somehow the sounds of cats in heat infiltrate my dreamland. In my sleepy-eyed confusion I am worried that friends are calling my name from the next room. They sound as though they are in pain. When I find myself fully awake, I realize the noise was coming from some frisky felines instead. I am wide-eyed and unable to sleep until they have completed their deed.
7:14 am
My internal clock wakes me this time, 16 minutes before my phone alarm was set to sound. Quietly I stumble out of be and begin my morning routine. From my suitcase I grab some fresh clothes (a skirt and a plain t-shirt as usual) and head to one of the most luxurious bathrooms in Gulu. There is no toilet seat or lid to the tank, but the fact that there is a toilet rather than a hole in the ground is an immediate plus. To flush, I must fill the tank with water from a jerry can and pull hard on a black cord. I notice today that a grasshopper has met his demise in the tank and there he will remain until I find something with which to fish him out. This particular morning I decide to bathe. I fill up a plastic basin and step in. After my soap and shampoo I use a cut up water bottle as a cup for rinsing. The shower is cold and mostly unpleasant but when it is done, I feel absolutely clean.
8:20 am
When my Dwon Madiki coworkers and roommates are ready to leave, we head out. A short walk down the road and we are greeted by numerous boda-bodas (motorbike taxis). I hop on back of one and ask to go to Lacor Hospital. The price is 2,000 Ugandan shillings (UGX) equal to approximately one U.S. dollar. We leave town toward the office down a long dirt road I have come to know quite well. We pass small businesses and many signs for NGOs (Feed the Children Uganda, War Child, World Food Program, Catholic Relief Services) but mostly small clay homes covered with grass-thatched roofs. My boda driver speeds along expertly dodging potholes. It has not rained in two days so the road is dusty. I never fully could imagine the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression until a truck whizzes past and kicks up the dirt. I close my eyes wishing I hadn’t lost my sunglasses. We drive past children walking on their way to school. Every once in a while a small child (usually a girl) shouts from the side of the road “Munu, munu!” beaming brightly. I wave and giddy laughter follows. This used to bother me but Megan likened our presence here to that of a monkey wandering the city. I know that to see such an odd sight would bring me joy and if she waved at me?! So I have come to accept this. Finally after fifteen minutes or so we arrive at the Dwon Madiki office.
8:41 am
We arrive to find Kevin already there working. He is DMP’s administrative secretary, but we have come to know him as the hero of DMP. He does so very much for the organization. Twenty-four and always looking sharp, he is exactly how I picture a young businessman. Today Kevin will be taking Madisson and I to St. Joseph’s Primary School to observe the classes three of our students attend.
10:10 am
Breakfast is served, brought to us by the women from the compound behind the office. Today’s breakfast is mendazi (fried dough), avocado, and tea. There is always tea. We are not quite sure about eating plain avocado so we run next door and buy some chapatti. We use the thick tortilla-like bread to make our own burritos.
10:30am
Kevin shows us the way to St. Joe’s. He tells us it will be a long walk, but it is not too bad. The scenery is quite nice, lush and green. After about twenty minutes walk we arrive at the school and go straight to the head teacher’s office. He is a friendly man and he is prepared to show us around. As we wait for him to talk to the P7 teacher, he has us sign the guestbook, something so many places in Uganda have. I write my name Laker (La-kay) Diana, using the Acholi name I was given by the women of the compound. It is a name given to royalty or important people. We talk to the head teacher a little more before we make our way to a P6 classroom.
In the class the teacher greets us and special chairs are brought in for us to sit in the front of the room. The students are crammed together in a small classroom, sitting five to a bench or more. This is our second day in a Gulu school so we are not as surprised to see more than a hundred students in the classroom. We introduce ourselves and sit back for a lesson on the people of East Africa. I have my video camera and I film for a bit and take a few pictures but it is hard to be discreet with so many eyes on me. I take notes on a few things I notice but I nearly lose my cool when I see this quick moving newt crawling toward me. For the rest of the lesson, I have one eye on this creature and the other on the class.
12:30 pm
We are in a P4 classroom now and the subject is maths. Today we are learning multiplication. We sit in the back of the class and watch as the teacher explains the lesson with an obvious amount of passion and excitement that makes me happy to be there. Even though there are 111 students in class today, it does not seem too crowded, as a group of students sit in the front on the floor. After examples with the whole class, students go to the board to practice. They go over each one together. I am reminded of my experiences in American schools for I have seen these same things there. One of our students goes up to work on a problem and unfortunately gets it wrong. When she corrects herself with the help of the class they all clap for her. I try to join in on the clapping but it is a practiced rhythmic clapping I do not know and so I stop. I was so happy to see this student succeed, knowing especially of her many problems in school. In this moment she was able to do well and 110 students applauded her. Despite the crowded conditions and limited resources, great educational moments exist here. This moment fills me with hope.
1:00 pm
We go back to the head teacher’s office to say our thank yous and goodbyes. He encourages us to come back again sometime. We walk to the major road and take a boda back to the office.
2:30 pm
At the office we find out that Kevin has gone with Megan and Laura to talk to someone about joining the Board of Directors for DMP. As we wait for them we are served lunch. Today it is rice and beans (our staples here) and eggplant, which tastes so delicious. When we are done, we work on some things and wait for our roommates to come back to the office. When they get there we will all leave for home together.
5:00 pm
Megan and Laura finally have come back to the office, but instead of going home together Madisson and I will travel alone. Our two coworkers wish instead to run the four miles to our hotel. Fine by me, I will see you guys at home! Us non runners grab a boda boda and began our trek home. The journey is the same from the morning. The sides of the roads are now filled with children walking home from school, their uniforms telling which school they attend. Also along the road I see many goats grazing. Recently I have noticed a great influx of baby goats to this road. I think about how I want to bring Tracy’s goat to take a picture with her relatives. Nearing the end of our journey home I feel a raindrop. It is only starting the sprinkle but my boda driver, not wanting the rain to catch up to us, speeds up, zipping past cars and bicyclists. For a moment I fear for my life.
5:30pm
We are at home now. When we enter our hotel we are always so cheerfully greeted by the staff. “Welcome backs” and “Apwoyos” are exchanged as we make our way back to the room. Upon opening the door we see our bed nicely made and our pillows and covers creatively and hilariously arranged, a sure fire sign that Molly has come in today to clean.
I have started to write in my journal and Madisson has begun working on some things for the partnership. She is making a spreadsheet with all of the students’ information on it for quick reference in the future. For the most part we are just relaxing and enjoying our post work evening.
6:45ish pm
Laura and Megan have made it home from their run now. They try to embrace me in a sweaty hug but I refuse their advances. They clean up and we laugh together about their faux tan lines caused by dust.
8:55pm
We decided to go to Kope Café for dinner. It is hot tonight, and Kope is the only place I know that serves yogurt, which sounds absolutely delightful. A man named Jamie, who works for Invisible Children, owns Kope. Their menu has lots of good American foods like yogurt, pizza, and burritos. We go there when we need a change of pace. It is usually quite bustling with munus, and my first reaction when I see them is “What are you doing here? What brought you to Uganda? Won’t you be my friend?” When we get there tonight we are disappointed to find out that they do not have yogurt! Bummer. I opt for a cheese pizza instead. At every restaurant we go to food takes a while so I hunker down and wait. By 10:30 our food is served.
11:30 pm
We are not usually this late getting home. I am exhausted beyond words. I change into pajamas, use some left over bottled water to brush my teeth and climb in to bed. The thought of tucking in my mosquito net seems too big a chore for me to complete so I just sit there until Megan scolds me. As soon as I surround myself with insect repellent netting, I pass out, hoping not to be disturbed by cats again!
In my sweet slumber I lie, covered in a bed sheet surrounded completely by a mosquito net. Somehow the sounds of cats in heat infiltrate my dreamland. In my sleepy-eyed confusion I am worried that friends are calling my name from the next room. They sound as though they are in pain. When I find myself fully awake, I realize the noise was coming from some frisky felines instead. I am wide-eyed and unable to sleep until they have completed their deed.
7:14 am
My internal clock wakes me this time, 16 minutes before my phone alarm was set to sound. Quietly I stumble out of be and begin my morning routine. From my suitcase I grab some fresh clothes (a skirt and a plain t-shirt as usual) and head to one of the most luxurious bathrooms in Gulu. There is no toilet seat or lid to the tank, but the fact that there is a toilet rather than a hole in the ground is an immediate plus. To flush, I must fill the tank with water from a jerry can and pull hard on a black cord. I notice today that a grasshopper has met his demise in the tank and there he will remain until I find something with which to fish him out. This particular morning I decide to bathe. I fill up a plastic basin and step in. After my soap and shampoo I use a cut up water bottle as a cup for rinsing. The shower is cold and mostly unpleasant but when it is done, I feel absolutely clean.
8:20 am
When my Dwon Madiki coworkers and roommates are ready to leave, we head out. A short walk down the road and we are greeted by numerous boda-bodas (motorbike taxis). I hop on back of one and ask to go to Lacor Hospital. The price is 2,000 Ugandan shillings (UGX) equal to approximately one U.S. dollar. We leave town toward the office down a long dirt road I have come to know quite well. We pass small businesses and many signs for NGOs (Feed the Children Uganda, War Child, World Food Program, Catholic Relief Services) but mostly small clay homes covered with grass-thatched roofs. My boda driver speeds along expertly dodging potholes. It has not rained in two days so the road is dusty. I never fully could imagine the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression until a truck whizzes past and kicks up the dirt. I close my eyes wishing I hadn’t lost my sunglasses. We drive past children walking on their way to school. Every once in a while a small child (usually a girl) shouts from the side of the road “Munu, munu!” beaming brightly. I wave and giddy laughter follows. This used to bother me but Megan likened our presence here to that of a monkey wandering the city. I know that to see such an odd sight would bring me joy and if she waved at me?! So I have come to accept this. Finally after fifteen minutes or so we arrive at the Dwon Madiki office.
8:41 am
We arrive to find Kevin already there working. He is DMP’s administrative secretary, but we have come to know him as the hero of DMP. He does so very much for the organization. Twenty-four and always looking sharp, he is exactly how I picture a young businessman. Today Kevin will be taking Madisson and I to St. Joseph’s Primary School to observe the classes three of our students attend.
10:10 am
Breakfast is served, brought to us by the women from the compound behind the office. Today’s breakfast is mendazi (fried dough), avocado, and tea. There is always tea. We are not quite sure about eating plain avocado so we run next door and buy some chapatti. We use the thick tortilla-like bread to make our own burritos.
10:30am
Kevin shows us the way to St. Joe’s. He tells us it will be a long walk, but it is not too bad. The scenery is quite nice, lush and green. After about twenty minutes walk we arrive at the school and go straight to the head teacher’s office. He is a friendly man and he is prepared to show us around. As we wait for him to talk to the P7 teacher, he has us sign the guestbook, something so many places in Uganda have. I write my name Laker (La-kay) Diana, using the Acholi name I was given by the women of the compound. It is a name given to royalty or important people. We talk to the head teacher a little more before we make our way to a P6 classroom.
In the class the teacher greets us and special chairs are brought in for us to sit in the front of the room. The students are crammed together in a small classroom, sitting five to a bench or more. This is our second day in a Gulu school so we are not as surprised to see more than a hundred students in the classroom. We introduce ourselves and sit back for a lesson on the people of East Africa. I have my video camera and I film for a bit and take a few pictures but it is hard to be discreet with so many eyes on me. I take notes on a few things I notice but I nearly lose my cool when I see this quick moving newt crawling toward me. For the rest of the lesson, I have one eye on this creature and the other on the class.
12:30 pm
We are in a P4 classroom now and the subject is maths. Today we are learning multiplication. We sit in the back of the class and watch as the teacher explains the lesson with an obvious amount of passion and excitement that makes me happy to be there. Even though there are 111 students in class today, it does not seem too crowded, as a group of students sit in the front on the floor. After examples with the whole class, students go to the board to practice. They go over each one together. I am reminded of my experiences in American schools for I have seen these same things there. One of our students goes up to work on a problem and unfortunately gets it wrong. When she corrects herself with the help of the class they all clap for her. I try to join in on the clapping but it is a practiced rhythmic clapping I do not know and so I stop. I was so happy to see this student succeed, knowing especially of her many problems in school. In this moment she was able to do well and 110 students applauded her. Despite the crowded conditions and limited resources, great educational moments exist here. This moment fills me with hope.
1:00 pm
We go back to the head teacher’s office to say our thank yous and goodbyes. He encourages us to come back again sometime. We walk to the major road and take a boda back to the office.
2:30 pm
At the office we find out that Kevin has gone with Megan and Laura to talk to someone about joining the Board of Directors for DMP. As we wait for them we are served lunch. Today it is rice and beans (our staples here) and eggplant, which tastes so delicious. When we are done, we work on some things and wait for our roommates to come back to the office. When they get there we will all leave for home together.
5:00 pm
Megan and Laura finally have come back to the office, but instead of going home together Madisson and I will travel alone. Our two coworkers wish instead to run the four miles to our hotel. Fine by me, I will see you guys at home! Us non runners grab a boda boda and began our trek home. The journey is the same from the morning. The sides of the roads are now filled with children walking home from school, their uniforms telling which school they attend. Also along the road I see many goats grazing. Recently I have noticed a great influx of baby goats to this road. I think about how I want to bring Tracy’s goat to take a picture with her relatives. Nearing the end of our journey home I feel a raindrop. It is only starting the sprinkle but my boda driver, not wanting the rain to catch up to us, speeds up, zipping past cars and bicyclists. For a moment I fear for my life.
5:30pm
We are at home now. When we enter our hotel we are always so cheerfully greeted by the staff. “Welcome backs” and “Apwoyos” are exchanged as we make our way back to the room. Upon opening the door we see our bed nicely made and our pillows and covers creatively and hilariously arranged, a sure fire sign that Molly has come in today to clean.
I have started to write in my journal and Madisson has begun working on some things for the partnership. She is making a spreadsheet with all of the students’ information on it for quick reference in the future. For the most part we are just relaxing and enjoying our post work evening.
6:45ish pm
Laura and Megan have made it home from their run now. They try to embrace me in a sweaty hug but I refuse their advances. They clean up and we laugh together about their faux tan lines caused by dust.
8:55pm
We decided to go to Kope Café for dinner. It is hot tonight, and Kope is the only place I know that serves yogurt, which sounds absolutely delightful. A man named Jamie, who works for Invisible Children, owns Kope. Their menu has lots of good American foods like yogurt, pizza, and burritos. We go there when we need a change of pace. It is usually quite bustling with munus, and my first reaction when I see them is “What are you doing here? What brought you to Uganda? Won’t you be my friend?” When we get there tonight we are disappointed to find out that they do not have yogurt! Bummer. I opt for a cheese pizza instead. At every restaurant we go to food takes a while so I hunker down and wait. By 10:30 our food is served.
11:30 pm
We are not usually this late getting home. I am exhausted beyond words. I change into pajamas, use some left over bottled water to brush my teeth and climb in to bed. The thought of tucking in my mosquito net seems too big a chore for me to complete so I just sit there until Megan scolds me. As soon as I surround myself with insect repellent netting, I pass out, hoping not to be disturbed by cats again!
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