It is my second to last day in the office. Outkast is playing in the background and Julie and Abra are moving to the beat while they use the colored pencils I brought to draw out shapes. I just finished all the last details for all the projects plans, updated every excel sheet, and created the final list for every avenue of funding and grants I could find. God, I will miss this place.
Others may have spent their internships using public transport to air-con offices, below florescent lights, spending 8 hours a day learning the workings of large international orgs, or doing research under highly qualified and intriguing professionals. Me, I wake up in my hut under a mosquito net, have my typical breakfast - talking African politics with Emma, and walk down the dusty road to my office around 9:30am. The walk never seems to get old. To me or the children who sit under the shade of a tree below the quarry where there parents work. They shout "mzungo, mzugno!!" "goodbye mzungo!!" - to them I am always leaving. I reply, smile, wave. They burst into a fit of laughter, each morning exchange is funniest thing they have known. And for two months this is the routine - the joke has not lost its humor. I will miss this.
At the office it is a mix of gospel, country, rap, r&b, and the occasional alternative. This is when there is power, if not - I sit in silence and work on as much as I can without my computer. I break for lunch at about 1:30, talk with Victoria. We brainstorm, we talk business - and we joke. Usually after this I return to my hut - lately I have returned to the office to try and do more. Working overtime - over 6 hours a day. This is my life. I will miss this.
I have yet to see a project materialize, the proposal for Centenary Bank is still under review, and funds for the children to return to school are extremely low. The 10 Year Celebrations that will take place this Saturday have not quite reached the standards that were hoped for one month prior. There is not much else I can do, although I continue to try.
I will continue even as I return home because this is an organization I believe in and the smiles on the children's faces are something I cannot soon forget. Even though some unexpected circumstances stirred up some negative feelings and left me seriously reconsidering the little faith I had in the good, I came out of the whole situation with a different perspective. I have adopted BIBAAWO as a personal motto (a similar motto to that of "shit happens" - Uganda style), and however difficult it may be, to look past the wrongdoings that people will do unto others. I cannot say I have even been in a situation where right and wrong begin to blur due to the pure need of survival, and therefore, I cannot be one to judge others when they have reached this point. Nor can I deny that these behaviors can remain in someone, even after they have found security, love, and been provided a second chance.
My last time in Africa taught me, strengthened me in ways that took months after to fully understand. And it has happened yet again. After two months, I am just beginning to fully understand ways I have changed and the confidence I have found in others -- and myself. It is all coming a bit too late. Only four days remain. All I can do at this point is to take in everything fully, savor every moment, and know that I will be back.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Shoestring Adventures
[First, I would like to apologize for the major slacking I have been doing with this blog. I start to write but then get caught up in something else, and recently I have been trying to sort out all my thoughts after some unfortunate events. But I have decided a post has been long overdue, so here it is!]
I have made it, yet again, on another successful travel solo. Crossed a border at the break of dawn and managed, once we arrived at the taxi park, to negotiate a boda ride to the guesthouse I made last minute reservations at. I had to pronounce the name at least five times before there was an understanding, but I it was finally clear and I was handed a helmet and we took off (side note: bodas require the passengers to wear helmets in Rwanda – a concept up till then that was foreign to me). On the way I noticed a lot about Kigali in contrast to what I was used to in Kampala. First, the roads were in incredible condition – as if they were just paved last week. The streets were also so clean. Or clean at least in my book, after walking down numerous roads in East Africa filled with potholes of murky water and lined with layers and layers of garbage. The streets were also a bit tamer – stoplights were much more prevalent and cars actually paid attention to them. There’s a shocker. I arrived at the guesthouse. It was the cheapest place I could find but surprisingly close to the city center and fairly clean. It was only about ten in the morning, and after a sleepless bus ride I should have napped for a bit, but I was ready to take on Kigali and see what it had to offer. I asked the reception how far the Memorial Center was in relation and before he answered my question he looked a little puzzled. He asked how I was not tired and said I at least needed to have some breakfast before I took off again. Fair enough. He led me to the little bar and restaurant and in no time another man came out with some coffee and breakfast rolls. Not quite sure what to think of the butter-colored powder they set in front of me for creamer, I just added sugar and drank. It could have been a little exaggerated by the lack of sleep, or the fact that the majority of my coffee consumption in Africa has been of the instant variety, but I was sure that was the best sip of coffee I have ever had. It really didn’t need sugar. I really didn’t even need food after that. I thought for a minute I could sit in cafes in Kigali for the rest of my time and just drink coffee (mind it tasted like that) and be happy as a clam. I didn’t go that far, but I did finish every drop, paid, and took off for the museum.
The Kigali Memorial Center http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/old/index.html is a newer attraction in Rwanda, opened about 6 years ago, and is dedicated to the remembrance and education of the genocide that struck the country only 16 years ago. I have seen numerous films (mostly documentary) and read up a decent amount on the Rwandan genocide. During my study at University of Queensland I even wrote a research paper concerning the problems with the ICTR in providing justice for the crimes committed. All of that paled in comparison to the museum’s powerful effect. I think a lot of this is due in part by the fact that you are not only reading about the history, accounts told by survivors and walking through rooms filled with articles of clothing worn by the victims – but you are in the heart of the city where such unimaginable autocracies were committed less than two decades ago. Walking down the road outside of the museum I think, anyone over the age of 18 must have some recollection of these events, how could anyone ever be the same? How did, or could, these people start anew? How could one try to forget what a group that was not given dominance by some colonists did to a group that was deemed more powerful according to the standards of people that really had no idea of the culture and way of life before they came upon the land? I feel very fortunate to have had the experience of visiting the memorial. Feeling a bit pensive after this experience, I took off to do things that most travelers would think to do from the start – exchange currency, get airtime and see what else the city had to offer during my short visit.
Once I return to Aubergne Cavernes (the guesthouse that is nearly impossible for me to pronounce) I talk to Erick, the manager, about tours of Volcanoes National Park. He has a friend come talk to me about how much it would cost, after transport and lodging, etc, etc it came to about $250US for a day, and about $400 to stay until the next afternoon. And that wasn’t even for gorilla trekking. I try to explain to him, I just want to get to the park. I don’t necessarily need to see African wildlife or hike a volcano (lest it may erupt months after I leave – Volcan Pacaya case in point). I just want to hike a trail, enjoy the views – nothing fancy. So then comes the part where I get a bit frustrated with the conditionality of my travel. Granted I did not plan ahead enough to even obtain a permit for the gorilla trekking, and I did not do quite enough research on nearby places to visit – I knew that most of that would be out of the budget anyhow. Honestly, while sometimes it can get a bit irritating, I can see the point of those who sit on the side of the road asking for money from travelers quickly passing them. I am almost sure that the majority of the white population in Rwanda were either NGO workers and the like or those staying in the plush hotels that lined the tops of the hills and only venturing out to climb in their 4-wheel drive vehicle to take off for some exotic adventure that cost more than what most people in that country make in a year. Ok, so I am a little jealous that I can’t take part in such adventures, but I also understand there are other ways to experience a country rather than fork out exuberant amounts of money to pay park fees and a tour guide and ride around with the safety of their knowledge and the rabbit ear folds of your guide book. So that is exactly what I intend to do. So the next morning I went for breakfast (basically more coffee – my diet in Rwanda was predominately coffee), and with the intentions to navigate my own adventure – on a tight budget and following many winding roads. I stopped at the internet cafe to look up parks, and according to the Rwanda Tourism board you could take a public minibus taxi to a place called Masenze, the town that lies on the outskirts of the volcanoes and where large populations of the world’s gorillas roam. I did not know where that was in relation to Kigali, how far the park actually was from there, or even what I would be capable of seeing once I arrived, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give it a try.
I returned to the guesthouse to grab a few things before I took off. After glancing at the map by the reception desk and not finding Masenze anywhere I turn to the front desk.
“Where can I get a minibus taxi to Masenze?”
He looked puzzled, “Do you want me to hire a taxi for you?”
“No, just a public taxi will do.”
“Masenze?” His face still held that furrowed brow.
I raised my eyebrows and gave a slight upward nod (something I find myself doing very frequently now, and without any thought). I knew what he was thinking. ‘Where is this mzungo planning on going and how will she manage on her own?’ He also figured I was still trying for the whole ‘safari’ thing – which was only partly true, but at this point I just needed the road. He was about to inquire about this but I think he saw a stubborn determination in my eyes and with that he replied,
“Try Virunga Express, about 300 RFr for a motorbike there.”
That was all I needed. I thanked him and headed that way. At the taxipark I went in to get a ticket, only about 1,700 RFr ($3US), for noon. I had about 20 minutes, or so I thought, because once I stepped on the “12’oclock” bus the conductor picked up my ticket and grinned at me. “Wrong one” was all he said. “But Masenze, yes?” I was confused – apparently it was the time, I did not have the ticket for that bus’s time. I walked off, a little embarrassed for being caught so unaware and walked back into the ticket office. The clock read 11:30. I had been one hour ahead the whole time, not realizing we weren’t on East African time anymore. Hah, of course. After this little misunderstanding (it’s only time, right?) I was back in the game and eventually back on the (right) bus. The first problem in leaving was the (minor) accident. Apparently two cars cannot merge off a roundabout together, who knew? Ok, so there were some similarities to what I was used to in Kampala. But after only about 10 minutes or so of police showing up, both parties defending their innocence, etc, we were back on the road.
I can’t really explain Rwanda’s beauty, but it is something that makes me wish my eyeballs were cameras to capture the panoramic views in their true sense. While it happens more than I would like, it is always disappointing to know what you are seeing could never be captured in any other way, so you just have to savor it them and hold onto the picture in your mind. The trip was windy, traversing up, down, and around the ubiquitous hills of the countryside. Groups of trees are spotted all throughout the hillside, as are brown and red patches etched out into various rows, columns, and plots offering substance to the Rwandans who stake their claim on that particular part of the hill. The clouds hung so close you feel like you could reach out and grab a ball of its fluff. Children ran alongside of beaten dirt paths that acted as stairways through the land. During this trip I realized there was a big chance I would get there and ultimately have to turn right back around. But I was okay with that. I was taking a road trip (and a cheap one at that!) and happily content with the views and the “ok, we go” playlist on my ipod. However, I must point out that there are some stark differences between the pervasive American road trip and what I was doing. These reasons being, one, you can’t just stop by the side of the road to capture a good photo or venture off some beaten path for a spell and spread out a blanket and just picnic right there, and two, this driver was taking the sharp turns around the endless hillside a bit faster and with less finesse than I would myself. But for $3, whatever, this was all I needed.
During the trip I wasn’t really thinking through what my next move would be once I got off that taxi, and as we neared the destination my heart races a bit with the anxiety of the unknown. So, now what? As a mzungo, I try exceptionally hard to make it look as if I always have some idea of where I am going. While I know I could never possibly slip right in with the surroundings, I try to make up for standing out so much with a forced confidence. After walking a bit down a road and realizing I am getting farther and farther from where I probably should be heading, I stop a boda.
“Bonjour” – On a side note the languages in Rwanda have been quite a barrier for me, Kinyawanda or French. Both not phonetically pronounced whatsoever and therefore impossible for me.
“Parle English?” What the hell, I don’t really know French. But somehow I managed to, very loosely, to tell him I am going to the entrance of the park, and how much?
We go, and it’s pretty far. About 12 km. Once we arrive I am walk to the reception to ask about entrance fees and if hiking was even a possibility. There were two trails I could hike relatively cheaply, but they have to be planned and it was already too late. A bit disappointed I return to the boda driver. I think he understood what I was trying to do, and that it didn’t work. He asked if we would then return, but on the way back he pointed out different sights, taking me around the countryside, and even stopped a few times so I could get photos of the landscape and the volcanoes lying in the distance. It wasn’t much and there were some points I would have liked to stop and take more photos, but again with the theme of the day. It was enough – and it was cheap. I got back to the city center and went into a nearby hotel for yet another cup of coffee. Volcanoes in the distance and the sun beginning to set behind them was truly picturesque. I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I realize I did not get to go on some great expedition hiking through the jungles and observing the wildlife, but simply the fact that I tried seemed enough. Putting myself out there and still getting to witness the incredible countryside of Rwanda, attempting to talk to locals and navigating my way through the unknown was quite the adventure in itself. And I didn’t spend more than $20 for the whole day. I chalked it up to be a pretty big success, and made it back to Kigali just after sundown.
So I left Rwanda, maybe not seeing as much as I would have liked – but I got a pretty good idea. I ventured the streets of the city a little more, saw Hotel Millie Collins (Hotel Rwanda) and perused the markets. I got a good sense of things and got the experience. And then, as quick as I had arrived, it was time to head back what I call home.
I have made it, yet again, on another successful travel solo. Crossed a border at the break of dawn and managed, once we arrived at the taxi park, to negotiate a boda ride to the guesthouse I made last minute reservations at. I had to pronounce the name at least five times before there was an understanding, but I it was finally clear and I was handed a helmet and we took off (side note: bodas require the passengers to wear helmets in Rwanda – a concept up till then that was foreign to me). On the way I noticed a lot about Kigali in contrast to what I was used to in Kampala. First, the roads were in incredible condition – as if they were just paved last week. The streets were also so clean. Or clean at least in my book, after walking down numerous roads in East Africa filled with potholes of murky water and lined with layers and layers of garbage. The streets were also a bit tamer – stoplights were much more prevalent and cars actually paid attention to them. There’s a shocker. I arrived at the guesthouse. It was the cheapest place I could find but surprisingly close to the city center and fairly clean. It was only about ten in the morning, and after a sleepless bus ride I should have napped for a bit, but I was ready to take on Kigali and see what it had to offer. I asked the reception how far the Memorial Center was in relation and before he answered my question he looked a little puzzled. He asked how I was not tired and said I at least needed to have some breakfast before I took off again. Fair enough. He led me to the little bar and restaurant and in no time another man came out with some coffee and breakfast rolls. Not quite sure what to think of the butter-colored powder they set in front of me for creamer, I just added sugar and drank. It could have been a little exaggerated by the lack of sleep, or the fact that the majority of my coffee consumption in Africa has been of the instant variety, but I was sure that was the best sip of coffee I have ever had. It really didn’t need sugar. I really didn’t even need food after that. I thought for a minute I could sit in cafes in Kigali for the rest of my time and just drink coffee (mind it tasted like that) and be happy as a clam. I didn’t go that far, but I did finish every drop, paid, and took off for the museum.
The Kigali Memorial Center http://www.kigalimemorialcentre.org/old/index.html is a newer attraction in Rwanda, opened about 6 years ago, and is dedicated to the remembrance and education of the genocide that struck the country only 16 years ago. I have seen numerous films (mostly documentary) and read up a decent amount on the Rwandan genocide. During my study at University of Queensland I even wrote a research paper concerning the problems with the ICTR in providing justice for the crimes committed. All of that paled in comparison to the museum’s powerful effect. I think a lot of this is due in part by the fact that you are not only reading about the history, accounts told by survivors and walking through rooms filled with articles of clothing worn by the victims – but you are in the heart of the city where such unimaginable autocracies were committed less than two decades ago. Walking down the road outside of the museum I think, anyone over the age of 18 must have some recollection of these events, how could anyone ever be the same? How did, or could, these people start anew? How could one try to forget what a group that was not given dominance by some colonists did to a group that was deemed more powerful according to the standards of people that really had no idea of the culture and way of life before they came upon the land? I feel very fortunate to have had the experience of visiting the memorial. Feeling a bit pensive after this experience, I took off to do things that most travelers would think to do from the start – exchange currency, get airtime and see what else the city had to offer during my short visit.
Once I return to Aubergne Cavernes (the guesthouse that is nearly impossible for me to pronounce) I talk to Erick, the manager, about tours of Volcanoes National Park. He has a friend come talk to me about how much it would cost, after transport and lodging, etc, etc it came to about $250US for a day, and about $400 to stay until the next afternoon. And that wasn’t even for gorilla trekking. I try to explain to him, I just want to get to the park. I don’t necessarily need to see African wildlife or hike a volcano (lest it may erupt months after I leave – Volcan Pacaya case in point). I just want to hike a trail, enjoy the views – nothing fancy. So then comes the part where I get a bit frustrated with the conditionality of my travel. Granted I did not plan ahead enough to even obtain a permit for the gorilla trekking, and I did not do quite enough research on nearby places to visit – I knew that most of that would be out of the budget anyhow. Honestly, while sometimes it can get a bit irritating, I can see the point of those who sit on the side of the road asking for money from travelers quickly passing them. I am almost sure that the majority of the white population in Rwanda were either NGO workers and the like or those staying in the plush hotels that lined the tops of the hills and only venturing out to climb in their 4-wheel drive vehicle to take off for some exotic adventure that cost more than what most people in that country make in a year. Ok, so I am a little jealous that I can’t take part in such adventures, but I also understand there are other ways to experience a country rather than fork out exuberant amounts of money to pay park fees and a tour guide and ride around with the safety of their knowledge and the rabbit ear folds of your guide book. So that is exactly what I intend to do. So the next morning I went for breakfast (basically more coffee – my diet in Rwanda was predominately coffee), and with the intentions to navigate my own adventure – on a tight budget and following many winding roads. I stopped at the internet cafe to look up parks, and according to the Rwanda Tourism board you could take a public minibus taxi to a place called Masenze, the town that lies on the outskirts of the volcanoes and where large populations of the world’s gorillas roam. I did not know where that was in relation to Kigali, how far the park actually was from there, or even what I would be capable of seeing once I arrived, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give it a try.
I returned to the guesthouse to grab a few things before I took off. After glancing at the map by the reception desk and not finding Masenze anywhere I turn to the front desk.
“Where can I get a minibus taxi to Masenze?”
He looked puzzled, “Do you want me to hire a taxi for you?”
“No, just a public taxi will do.”
“Masenze?” His face still held that furrowed brow.
I raised my eyebrows and gave a slight upward nod (something I find myself doing very frequently now, and without any thought). I knew what he was thinking. ‘Where is this mzungo planning on going and how will she manage on her own?’ He also figured I was still trying for the whole ‘safari’ thing – which was only partly true, but at this point I just needed the road. He was about to inquire about this but I think he saw a stubborn determination in my eyes and with that he replied,
“Try Virunga Express, about 300 RFr for a motorbike there.”
That was all I needed. I thanked him and headed that way. At the taxipark I went in to get a ticket, only about 1,700 RFr ($3US), for noon. I had about 20 minutes, or so I thought, because once I stepped on the “12’oclock” bus the conductor picked up my ticket and grinned at me. “Wrong one” was all he said. “But Masenze, yes?” I was confused – apparently it was the time, I did not have the ticket for that bus’s time. I walked off, a little embarrassed for being caught so unaware and walked back into the ticket office. The clock read 11:30. I had been one hour ahead the whole time, not realizing we weren’t on East African time anymore. Hah, of course. After this little misunderstanding (it’s only time, right?) I was back in the game and eventually back on the (right) bus. The first problem in leaving was the (minor) accident. Apparently two cars cannot merge off a roundabout together, who knew? Ok, so there were some similarities to what I was used to in Kampala. But after only about 10 minutes or so of police showing up, both parties defending their innocence, etc, we were back on the road.
I can’t really explain Rwanda’s beauty, but it is something that makes me wish my eyeballs were cameras to capture the panoramic views in their true sense. While it happens more than I would like, it is always disappointing to know what you are seeing could never be captured in any other way, so you just have to savor it them and hold onto the picture in your mind. The trip was windy, traversing up, down, and around the ubiquitous hills of the countryside. Groups of trees are spotted all throughout the hillside, as are brown and red patches etched out into various rows, columns, and plots offering substance to the Rwandans who stake their claim on that particular part of the hill. The clouds hung so close you feel like you could reach out and grab a ball of its fluff. Children ran alongside of beaten dirt paths that acted as stairways through the land. During this trip I realized there was a big chance I would get there and ultimately have to turn right back around. But I was okay with that. I was taking a road trip (and a cheap one at that!) and happily content with the views and the “ok, we go” playlist on my ipod. However, I must point out that there are some stark differences between the pervasive American road trip and what I was doing. These reasons being, one, you can’t just stop by the side of the road to capture a good photo or venture off some beaten path for a spell and spread out a blanket and just picnic right there, and two, this driver was taking the sharp turns around the endless hillside a bit faster and with less finesse than I would myself. But for $3, whatever, this was all I needed.
During the trip I wasn’t really thinking through what my next move would be once I got off that taxi, and as we neared the destination my heart races a bit with the anxiety of the unknown. So, now what? As a mzungo, I try exceptionally hard to make it look as if I always have some idea of where I am going. While I know I could never possibly slip right in with the surroundings, I try to make up for standing out so much with a forced confidence. After walking a bit down a road and realizing I am getting farther and farther from where I probably should be heading, I stop a boda.
“Bonjour” – On a side note the languages in Rwanda have been quite a barrier for me, Kinyawanda or French. Both not phonetically pronounced whatsoever and therefore impossible for me.
“Parle English?” What the hell, I don’t really know French. But somehow I managed to, very loosely, to tell him I am going to the entrance of the park, and how much?
We go, and it’s pretty far. About 12 km. Once we arrive I am walk to the reception to ask about entrance fees and if hiking was even a possibility. There were two trails I could hike relatively cheaply, but they have to be planned and it was already too late. A bit disappointed I return to the boda driver. I think he understood what I was trying to do, and that it didn’t work. He asked if we would then return, but on the way back he pointed out different sights, taking me around the countryside, and even stopped a few times so I could get photos of the landscape and the volcanoes lying in the distance. It wasn’t much and there were some points I would have liked to stop and take more photos, but again with the theme of the day. It was enough – and it was cheap. I got back to the city center and went into a nearby hotel for yet another cup of coffee. Volcanoes in the distance and the sun beginning to set behind them was truly picturesque. I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I realize I did not get to go on some great expedition hiking through the jungles and observing the wildlife, but simply the fact that I tried seemed enough. Putting myself out there and still getting to witness the incredible countryside of Rwanda, attempting to talk to locals and navigating my way through the unknown was quite the adventure in itself. And I didn’t spend more than $20 for the whole day. I chalked it up to be a pretty big success, and made it back to Kigali just after sundown.
So I left Rwanda, maybe not seeing as much as I would have liked – but I got a pretty good idea. I ventured the streets of the city a little more, saw Hotel Millie Collins (Hotel Rwanda) and perused the markets. I got a good sense of things and got the experience. And then, as quick as I had arrived, it was time to head back what I call home.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Strange times in Kampala
I realize I am a bit odd about places I chose to travel to. I love Africa for a lot of reasons, and oddly enough, one is the aspect of uncertain danger. Granted I don’t look at the next hot spot for violent rebel group behavior, but I also feel that I am young and resilient enough to go somewhere that keeps me on my feet. When I was living in Nakuru I was right across from one of the slums that had seen some of the worst violence and destruction during the election clashes of 2007. However, during that time I typically did not feel unsafe. Now Uganda, I had heard nothing but good things. I truly believed that it to be one of the safest places to be in Africa. Ok…well, minus the whole war in Northern Uganda and Joseph Kony’s child soldier stealing, Ten Commandments following gang. But where I would be traversing about – Entebbe, Kampala, Jinja – I felt very confident that if I just used proper street smarts I would be fine. After the past week I have really grown to love Uganda. Jinja was amazing, met so many friendly people in Kampala, and saw some great landscape traveling through Mbale and Kumi to deliver sutures to the hospital. Eventually I began picturing myself coming back to Uganda to live, granted I found a job.
It isn’t hard to feel the comforts of home when you can go to Garden City and pick up the latest reading material, or whatever else you may need. Or meet up with friends for Thai food and feel comfortable enough to walk to the next meeting spot at 9pm down a dimly lit street. The other night out having beers and snacks at the Boda Boda bar I look around and realize I don’t even go to bars that nice in Pittsburgh. Then there is the time you meet someone for lunch in Lugogo Mall and see that the white people largely outnumber the Ugandans. Well Sunday night for the final World Cup game, just across the street from that mzungo-ridden mall, bombs went off killing over forty people. In another part of town, just down the road from the American Embassy and the little frozen yogurt place I stopped at on my way home from another fail at project planning, another bomb went off. Ashley and I, both starting to get sick, made the responsible decision to stay in that night…more responsible than we both had intended. Monday morning I woke up to the news – I couldn’t believe it. Granted something like this could possibly happen anywhere and at anytime, I would have never expected that I would hear that news after a week of being in this city.
On top of digesting this news was how I should react to it, seeing as the body count continued to go up throughout the day and the internet and phone connections were choppy if not completely severed. Seeing as emails were not an option and I didn’t have nearly enough credit to call anyone from my phone, I was lucky to get a facebook status in. It is then that my whole love for traveling, working, and living in Africa becomes harder to explain to friends and family. Sending out emails as casually as I can that I am fine, and there would be no reason to worry. It is much harder to explain when I know the threat really doesn’t end there, not when dealing with and rebel or terrorist organization. After talking to many locals, a student from Makerere, and of course Victoria (who never ceases to amaze me with her Intelligence background) it is evident that the streets of Kampala cannot truly be called safe. Not when in two weeks members of the AU, related organizations, diplomats and various development workers will gather in Kampala for the African Union Conference. Not when news stations and authorities call for Kampala residents to stay away from busy areas and not attend large gatherings. Not when I read the latest news article in which Al Shabaab states those blasts were only a “prelude” to what is to come. But this is not limited to Uganda, and people should not suddenly see Uganda as a hotbed for rebel and terrorist activity. It can happen anywhere. It happened September 11th 2001, it has happened over the past several years on trains, subways and national embassies. One cannot travel to any city center and realistically know that nothing could happen to them there.
And now, of course, I should reassure loved ones reading this that I do truly feel safe where I am staying. I am far enough away from the city center, but still close to everything I could need. Everything I usually do in a day’s work is within a 5 minute walk from my room. If I need to meet someone in the city I can go in the afternoon and be back before dinner. I feel that I have nothing to worry about. I also do feel that people not dwell on this tragic event as the only events to be concerned about in Uganda. There are still all the problems that remained before that cannot be ignored. More parents die of AIDS in a week than those that died in the bombings, leaving more orphans and greater problems for the people of Uganda to move forward. There are still issues to be worked out with rebel groups in the north that often seem to be ignored by its cosmopolitan neighbors in the south. I can only hope that threats will not materialize and no one innocent lives will be taken in the name of peacekeeping efforts in Somalia. And I will also remain aware of daily threats to people’s lives that can be helped – and hopefully others will continue to recognize them as well.
It isn’t hard to feel the comforts of home when you can go to Garden City and pick up the latest reading material, or whatever else you may need. Or meet up with friends for Thai food and feel comfortable enough to walk to the next meeting spot at 9pm down a dimly lit street. The other night out having beers and snacks at the Boda Boda bar I look around and realize I don’t even go to bars that nice in Pittsburgh. Then there is the time you meet someone for lunch in Lugogo Mall and see that the white people largely outnumber the Ugandans. Well Sunday night for the final World Cup game, just across the street from that mzungo-ridden mall, bombs went off killing over forty people. In another part of town, just down the road from the American Embassy and the little frozen yogurt place I stopped at on my way home from another fail at project planning, another bomb went off. Ashley and I, both starting to get sick, made the responsible decision to stay in that night…more responsible than we both had intended. Monday morning I woke up to the news – I couldn’t believe it. Granted something like this could possibly happen anywhere and at anytime, I would have never expected that I would hear that news after a week of being in this city.
On top of digesting this news was how I should react to it, seeing as the body count continued to go up throughout the day and the internet and phone connections were choppy if not completely severed. Seeing as emails were not an option and I didn’t have nearly enough credit to call anyone from my phone, I was lucky to get a facebook status in. It is then that my whole love for traveling, working, and living in Africa becomes harder to explain to friends and family. Sending out emails as casually as I can that I am fine, and there would be no reason to worry. It is much harder to explain when I know the threat really doesn’t end there, not when dealing with and rebel or terrorist organization. After talking to many locals, a student from Makerere, and of course Victoria (who never ceases to amaze me with her Intelligence background) it is evident that the streets of Kampala cannot truly be called safe. Not when in two weeks members of the AU, related organizations, diplomats and various development workers will gather in Kampala for the African Union Conference. Not when news stations and authorities call for Kampala residents to stay away from busy areas and not attend large gatherings. Not when I read the latest news article in which Al Shabaab states those blasts were only a “prelude” to what is to come. But this is not limited to Uganda, and people should not suddenly see Uganda as a hotbed for rebel and terrorist activity. It can happen anywhere. It happened September 11th 2001, it has happened over the past several years on trains, subways and national embassies. One cannot travel to any city center and realistically know that nothing could happen to them there.
And now, of course, I should reassure loved ones reading this that I do truly feel safe where I am staying. I am far enough away from the city center, but still close to everything I could need. Everything I usually do in a day’s work is within a 5 minute walk from my room. If I need to meet someone in the city I can go in the afternoon and be back before dinner. I feel that I have nothing to worry about. I also do feel that people not dwell on this tragic event as the only events to be concerned about in Uganda. There are still all the problems that remained before that cannot be ignored. More parents die of AIDS in a week than those that died in the bombings, leaving more orphans and greater problems for the people of Uganda to move forward. There are still issues to be worked out with rebel groups in the north that often seem to be ignored by its cosmopolitan neighbors in the south. I can only hope that threats will not materialize and no one innocent lives will be taken in the name of peacekeeping efforts in Somalia. And I will also remain aware of daily threats to people’s lives that can be helped – and hopefully others will continue to recognize them as well.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Grassroots Unplugged
Various modes of transport throughout south western Uganda, white water rafting grade 5 rapids, boda bodas across a busy city with all my belongings stuffed in my Kelty, and walking up and down streets that appear to be loaded with NGOs and larger organizations only to be blocked off by gates and hidden compounds. This is how the past twelve days have gone for me. Well that and having my frustrations lead me to a pub watching the World Cup games or back at the backpackers to meet up with friends and forget about the possible failures of my internship. Throughout all of what could be chalked up as failures over the week, I have learned a lot about how the “grassroots” idea and holistic approaches to problems goes wrong. In the U.S. if you want to get a small organization recognized and attempt for funding you send out emails for appointments, you typically get responses, you walk into a building with a pretty recognizable address, and you meet with someone. Granted I don’t speak Lugandan and I don’t really know anyone personally working for a large NGO, I do have access to the internet and a mobile phone with me at all times. I have money to take transport around the city to find the street that the organization should be on. I have some basic knowledge of writing business and project plans to present, and the access to print everything out and buy folders to make it look somewhat presentable. So what I am wondering is how we were unable to get any responses to emails, not set up a single appointment, and rarely could find the listed organizations – much less get access through the gates. After starting out with ambitions of getting funding, possibly an idea of how to apply for a microloan, or even fundraising sponsors – it basically came down to getting someone to look at our proposals and at the very most tell us how we can polish them and take it to the next step.
In African time and with the little resources to work with, it really does just come down to the little successes…
Luckily we did talk to someone, a GSPIA alum, on the last day. Finally able to present all the work I have actually done so far, over cold Fantas, we finally got one foot on the ground. Not quite taking steps yet, but that foot is at least in the right direction. It is with these little successes and working with the contacts that are actually had, hopefully slow progress can be made. However, the whole process left me really thinking about how this whole microfinance, “small steps” approach actually works. True, I have read great things about the microcredit. Mohammad Yumus’s “Banker to the Poor” left me feeling more optimistic than the past nine months of my GSPIA career. But then this whole experience seemed to eliminate that type of faith in such an institution from my mind. How do these grassroot organizations, especially ones based in rural areas with little access to such NGO offices, have access to the funds needed to promote their causes? What is the process in which aid workers elect a group worthy to receive a (usually larger than necessary) grant to get their projects off the ground?
What bothers me even more is how I see such an organization as Bright Kids Uganda with a woman who has given up so much and is so dedicated to providing the best life possible for these children struggle with how she will provide the next term of school fees – and then hear about corrupt orphanages who bring in children with parents to lure in clueless sponsors, and gets large amounts of money doing so. How does this all work? How do these groups of women living out in rural villages go about getting these microloans for setting up small shops in front of their door steps? Especially when two capable graduate students set out for five days on the streets of Kampala to end up with little results.
It is all a learning process and I am currently behind the learning curve. I am only hoping that about the time I am getting ready to leave, in African time, things will start to materialize for the organization. That the topics in the development world one can actually be optimistic about still stand a chance for worthy causes.
In African time and with the little resources to work with, it really does just come down to the little successes…
Luckily we did talk to someone, a GSPIA alum, on the last day. Finally able to present all the work I have actually done so far, over cold Fantas, we finally got one foot on the ground. Not quite taking steps yet, but that foot is at least in the right direction. It is with these little successes and working with the contacts that are actually had, hopefully slow progress can be made. However, the whole process left me really thinking about how this whole microfinance, “small steps” approach actually works. True, I have read great things about the microcredit. Mohammad Yumus’s “Banker to the Poor” left me feeling more optimistic than the past nine months of my GSPIA career. But then this whole experience seemed to eliminate that type of faith in such an institution from my mind. How do these grassroot organizations, especially ones based in rural areas with little access to such NGO offices, have access to the funds needed to promote their causes? What is the process in which aid workers elect a group worthy to receive a (usually larger than necessary) grant to get their projects off the ground?
What bothers me even more is how I see such an organization as Bright Kids Uganda with a woman who has given up so much and is so dedicated to providing the best life possible for these children struggle with how she will provide the next term of school fees – and then hear about corrupt orphanages who bring in children with parents to lure in clueless sponsors, and gets large amounts of money doing so. How does this all work? How do these groups of women living out in rural villages go about getting these microloans for setting up small shops in front of their door steps? Especially when two capable graduate students set out for five days on the streets of Kampala to end up with little results.
It is all a learning process and I am currently behind the learning curve. I am only hoping that about the time I am getting ready to leave, in African time, things will start to materialize for the organization. That the topics in the development world one can actually be optimistic about still stand a chance for worthy causes.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A note on ingenuity
Alright, I get it. I am a mzungo and I will never be quite as capable of doings things with such ease or be quite as resilient as the Africans I watch with such intent here. I will always be the one to trip on a rock in the road the minute I look up as I am walking. I will never be able to make mdazis with such ease of just knowing how much baking powder to throw in the mix or how hot the oil must be before throwing in all the little balls of dough. I try to kick around the soccer ball with the kids in just my sandals (and try to actually look good doing it) – but can’t stop the goal of a 4 year old because my sandal falls halfway off. I try to gain some kind of street cred by acting a little tougher than I actually am, but I still just can’t get the hang of it all – dealing with life’s little complexities with such ease and capability.
Today we went over to Victoria’s after the day’s work to watch (and really learn) how to make mdazis. I watched very closely too, seeing just how I failed at it during the last go. But the whole time I was also just telling myself, no matter how much I watch and take mental notes, it will never quite turn out the way they are meant to be. All during this learning experience, one of the younger boys helping out with the cooking is over in the corner just grabbing the edges of, what I imagine to be, a scalding hot pot and splashing burning oil all over his hands as he drops the mdazis in to fry. As we try to fill the fire pit up with charcoal up for the next batch, we just end up making it far too lumpy to put a pot back over and Mutebi quickly shows us how it is really done by throwing the little bricks of charcoal on the ground to break them apart and spreading them over the burning coals. During this whole experience, Victoria makes a comment on how Ugandans are always thinking the mzungos are so rich, but she wishes that they would see that they are richer in many ways. As she explains how we must rely on everything in the states, Ugandans are able to grow much of their own food, use a charcoal stove to cook if electricity is turned off, and open windows to stay cool during the heat of the day rather than turning on the AC. She goes on to say that we must pay for everything. We must rent a house and then are trapped with all the bills that we are sent for the lights and stoves and cool air we must have to live our comfortable lives. I do see her point, but it just makes my whole point stronger of how incapable we are with certain aspects of life. It would be great if I could use a charcoal stove in my kitchen to make dinner – but I am sure that would just result in my losing all of my possessions in some fire (not to mention be in some serious trouble with the fact I don’t have renter’s insurance). I try to make it through the heat without AC, but when the humidity gets too bad…well, U.S. houses just don’t seem to keep as cool as Victoria’s stone kitchen can after making damn near a thousand mdazis. Her point is valid, to a certain extent. We do rely on things way too much, partly because we are forced to in circumstances of renting an apartment with no land to grow our own food, or having property cost too much to actually own with as much student loan debt as I am carrying right now, but partly because we just aren’t as sufficient as we could be. And no offense to us white people, I am not saying we are not capable of survivor skills when pushed to that limit, but we are just never really put in those situations frequently. Africans are not only extremely resourceful, but very lucky for that trait – as I am positive that without it, well, things could get pretty ugly at times.
I also have to end on how grateful I feel to see this firsthand, to know what one is capable of. It has made me become a lot tougher (although, a large percent of that is just an act…I can still be a pretty big wimp…). But I don’t think the pre-Rachael would have been quite so tolerant of a scorpion in her bed, or able to go through a day without washing my hands and then eating my ugali and kale with my bare hands. Africa made me strong enough to handle dealing with getting a hold of enough food for 120 children on the tiniest budget ever in a town where I can’t go 3 yards without getting ripped off – and managing to make it work. I wouldn’t try to get out and play soccer with the kids in sandals, or barefoot. I think the more and more I am here, Africa will toughen me up. And, perhaps one day, sometime in the future, I will be able to imitate their ingenuity – at least to a certain degree. Until then, I can still try to play it cool and seem like I know what I am doing at times when I am completely lost.
Example A: First timing my white water rafting experience at none other than the source of the Nile river…
Today we went over to Victoria’s after the day’s work to watch (and really learn) how to make mdazis. I watched very closely too, seeing just how I failed at it during the last go. But the whole time I was also just telling myself, no matter how much I watch and take mental notes, it will never quite turn out the way they are meant to be. All during this learning experience, one of the younger boys helping out with the cooking is over in the corner just grabbing the edges of, what I imagine to be, a scalding hot pot and splashing burning oil all over his hands as he drops the mdazis in to fry. As we try to fill the fire pit up with charcoal up for the next batch, we just end up making it far too lumpy to put a pot back over and Mutebi quickly shows us how it is really done by throwing the little bricks of charcoal on the ground to break them apart and spreading them over the burning coals. During this whole experience, Victoria makes a comment on how Ugandans are always thinking the mzungos are so rich, but she wishes that they would see that they are richer in many ways. As she explains how we must rely on everything in the states, Ugandans are able to grow much of their own food, use a charcoal stove to cook if electricity is turned off, and open windows to stay cool during the heat of the day rather than turning on the AC. She goes on to say that we must pay for everything. We must rent a house and then are trapped with all the bills that we are sent for the lights and stoves and cool air we must have to live our comfortable lives. I do see her point, but it just makes my whole point stronger of how incapable we are with certain aspects of life. It would be great if I could use a charcoal stove in my kitchen to make dinner – but I am sure that would just result in my losing all of my possessions in some fire (not to mention be in some serious trouble with the fact I don’t have renter’s insurance). I try to make it through the heat without AC, but when the humidity gets too bad…well, U.S. houses just don’t seem to keep as cool as Victoria’s stone kitchen can after making damn near a thousand mdazis. Her point is valid, to a certain extent. We do rely on things way too much, partly because we are forced to in circumstances of renting an apartment with no land to grow our own food, or having property cost too much to actually own with as much student loan debt as I am carrying right now, but partly because we just aren’t as sufficient as we could be. And no offense to us white people, I am not saying we are not capable of survivor skills when pushed to that limit, but we are just never really put in those situations frequently. Africans are not only extremely resourceful, but very lucky for that trait – as I am positive that without it, well, things could get pretty ugly at times.
I also have to end on how grateful I feel to see this firsthand, to know what one is capable of. It has made me become a lot tougher (although, a large percent of that is just an act…I can still be a pretty big wimp…). But I don’t think the pre-Rachael would have been quite so tolerant of a scorpion in her bed, or able to go through a day without washing my hands and then eating my ugali and kale with my bare hands. Africa made me strong enough to handle dealing with getting a hold of enough food for 120 children on the tiniest budget ever in a town where I can’t go 3 yards without getting ripped off – and managing to make it work. I wouldn’t try to get out and play soccer with the kids in sandals, or barefoot. I think the more and more I am here, Africa will toughen me up. And, perhaps one day, sometime in the future, I will be able to imitate their ingenuity – at least to a certain degree. Until then, I can still try to play it cool and seem like I know what I am doing at times when I am completely lost.
Example A: First timing my white water rafting experience at none other than the source of the Nile river…
Monday, June 28, 2010
The many "facades" of development
The past week has been everything I would expect it to be, and nothing I had imagined at all…
The last time I got off of a plane in Africa I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and it turned out to be a constant struggle of what is right and wrong and what should change but never will. I did not have this same attitude going into this, but knew in the back of my head that nothing is ever as it seems. This rings especially true when talking in development terms. Since I have been at Bright Kids days do seem to go by slower (although the week has seemed to past just as quickly as U.S. time), and the usually daily activities of reading, writing, etc are to be expected. Not a whole lot of moving around really, which can be a bit hard to get adjusted to after knowing only chaos on a daily basis for such an extended period of time (really since the last time I was in Africa…although that is another type of chaos entirely). The biggest surprise, however, was learning more about the faces behind the names of the Bright Kids operation. Having an idea about Bright Kids Uganda goals was about all I had really, until I saw how all the facets of the organizations work. That’s when the realities of development come through.
Nothing is as it appears.
Victoria’s goals for Bright Kids Uganda are admirable and her mission is pretty amazing. She is an extremely qualified and intelligent woman whom I am only getting to know bits and pieces of her past, but just by stories I hear from her and things Ashley has told me – I think there is little she has not seen or heard. But for someone to dedicate their own life to better those of children taken in as complete strangers is something that only a very small percent of people could admit to even dreaming about doing. What is more is how she manages to make everything work. She could just put the children into government schooling and still have school fees, but not nearly the expenses she has now for education. Instead, she wishes for all children to complete private education – half of which are complete boarders at these schools – to ensure they receive the absolute best Uganda has to offer so that they have the most promising of futures. While this fee is included for sponsors for the children, only about a fourth of the children are sponsored as of now. This means, somehow, Victoria is able to put the remaining unsponsored children through this same education without much support at all. And education is just one of many expenses she faces in order to operate Bright Kids Uganda and offer the best life for her children that she can.
I guess it goes without saying that Bright Kids Uganda is one of the better organizations I have ever come across in all my experiences with development. I am pretty lucky to be working for such a noble institution, but it also stresses me out more because I want these projects to be as successful as possible and get as much support for Bright Kids Uganda as possible – basically I will not let myself leave Uganda without trying to contribute as much as I am capable of to BKU.
But this brings me to the other faces of development, the facades that are a little trickier to detect and don’t always operate as smoothly as claimed. It is actually interesting how my ideas of how things might be before I got here were completely reversed after arrival. The support that acts as a backbone for an organization such as Victoria’s must be reliable and transparent if it expects the same in return, but that does not seem to be the way some things are going. Promising money for a child will only cause this word to be passed on a school’s headmaster, who then expects the debts to repaid within a span of time. If that does not come through, it will only make the middleman look incapable of keeping their word. Pretty unfair if you ask me. I suppose I have a little experience with dealing with organizations that get all of their support from across the world, only to be run haphazardly and lacking the basic ideas behind a properly functioning institution. I see how Bright Kids Uganda is so much more than that, and is based on such essential values. It is unfortunate that others with such control over such a good cause cannot see this.
Just another “bureaucratic bullshit inhibits the successes of a positive local organization” story, really. But…there is possibility for that to change.
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