As I return from Africa and settle back in my life lots of feelings and thoughts flood my mind. It is hard to sort through all of them and try to sum up my experience of the last four months in a simple and reflective blog. So here are some of my thoughts and my opinions, as they flow freely from my mind to the page. Some of them are raw and real but their expression is necessary for me in recounting my experience and what I have learned.
I have to be honest. The first night that we spent in Uganda and at least once during the first week, I balled my eyes out. Not out of fear or homesickness, but because the culture shock was so strong and it was everywhere I turned and affected all 5 senses. There was also this sense of feeling out of place and being uncomfortable and I cried because I had no idea how long this feeling would last. If you have never been to Africa it is impossible to know what to expect and to prepare yourself for such a trip. I knew this was the case when I decided to go but of course I was still a little anxious about it because I was going into something that was completely unknown. Part of the reason we traveled to Africa was to experience a new culture and this was just part of the drill. I knew it wouldn’t last forever and I knew that no matter how tough things got I would be able to get through it. That was part of the adventure though and the reason why I was expecting it to be an unforgettable experience from which I would gain a lot.
Over time the way I approached the unknown and uncomfortable changed and doing so enriched my experience. The uncomfortable factor became more bearable and life became more interesting and invigorating. This is how I explained it in another post I wrote for a blog called Adventures With Intention… One reason why we came here is to engross ourselves in new and uncomfortable situations and you can’t escape those situations when traveling in a foreign country. When you are in them there is a little voice in your head that’s super cranky saying “What the hell is going on? When is this going to be over?” Well, I haven’t shut that voice up but I have learned to either ignore it or better yet embrace it. Embracing it is an important tool here because THIS IS AFRICA(TIA) and things NEVER happen how or when you expect them to. Someone who is living in the moment is not wasting time and energy thinking about outcomes, they are just trying to live and hopefully learn from their experience. I saw more, did more and learned more than I ever could have imagined or expected.
Another reason why it was difficult at the beginning was because it took a few weeks to figure out what the heck I was doing there, how I could positively impact the community. Also for the first time in my life I stood out in a crowd because of the color of my skin. It was obvious that I was a visitor and was not familiar with their culture. I did not want to offend the entire community or step on anyone’s toes, so it took a few weeks to settle in and become acclimatized to their way of life before becoming actively involved in the community. Time definitely helped with this but so did meeting people, going places, seeing how they lived and learning a tiny bit of the local language. Once we learned how to greet someone in Lugisu, the local language, we used it whenever we could. Folks were often surprised and thrilled that we were speaking their language. The funny thing was that once we greeted them in their language they rambled on in Lugisu and we had no idea what they were saying. The other odd thing about standing out in Africa is that most of the time we were received as welcomed visitors, not unwelcome outsiders. And although many people saw dollar signs when they saw mzungus (white people) and asked us for something, many of them were grateful just to have us visit and thanked us for coming and for our work.
Slowly we found ways to be active members of the community and we helped a lot with promoting the vocational school and organizing things for the orphans program. When we weren’t working with the program or reminiscing with the other volunteers about the cultural differences of being in Africa we sought out adventures. Adventures such as climbing over mini-buses in a jam-packed taxi park, white water rafting class 5 rapids on the Nile, getting too close for comfort to a hippo, going 40mph on dirt roads and getting stuck in the mud, killing my own dinner or watching it get slaughtered, bushwhacking over numerous mountain tops and experiencing first hand the intense role religion plays in their culture. (During my time there, two seemingly opposite things happened to me both having to do with religion. My spiritual side was reinvigorated and became more at peace, while I was also turned off by organized religion even more after experiencing its presence in Africa.) I also saw some pretty odd things, such as a girl peeing in a plastic bag on a bus, a beggar on the streets of Mbale that had no pelvis or legs and creepy marabou storks that stand 1.5 meters tall and are probably capable of eating a baby although their diet consists mostly of garbage.
Our time in Uganda quickly came to an end and just like I expected it was bittersweet. Before we left the States a friend told us that once we go to Africa we won’t want to leave. I can’t say there was ever a point where I wanted to stay in Africa forever because my family and my life are in the states and always will be. I don’t love Africa enough to totally redefine my life but I am definitely a different person then when I left. This place is so beautiful and unlike any other place in the world and for that reason it changes people and their worldly perspectives. The people are amazing and the relationships that I made with them will always live in my memory. Also this continent needs so much support and help that once you have seen it with your own eyes it becomes impossible to forget or ignore. Even though I only experienced a fraction of the adventures that one can have in Africa and only scratched the surface of how I can help out the people of Uganda, I am leaving with a sense of fullness, gratefulness and a wider and clearer perspective. I do not regret doing anything or not doing anything while I was there. My experience was so unforgettable and powerful that there is no need for disappointment or regret. Sure there are things I wish I could have done, both for my own adventures and ways to help out the people, but that just gives me a reason to come back someday.
Just like Mike, I was reminded of all the cultural differences at every handshake, interaction and introduction to a new place. Two things stand out for me from all the differences we experienced. The first has to do with the attitude the people had towards life and the second is how much help Africa needs to improve the everyday life and well being of the people. In general Africans live day to day. They live in the moment and they do a wonderful job at being present and seeing life as a gift rather then miserable hard work that’s full of struggle. This attitude of being present is a blessing and a curse. It is a blessing because they have an incredible ability to let struggles and hardships roll off their back as if they are ordinary parts of life. It is a curse because they are in a way completely accepting of their situation and are stubborn towards making change, especially if that change doesn’t involve immediate gratification.
This attitude can be seen in their land ethic. They are closely connected to the land because they depend on it for food and therefore survival. Almost everyone in Bududa grew what they ate and ate what they grew, with a few exceptions being staple foods like rice and flour. Everyone at some point in their lives worked on the land either to eat or make a livelihood. Their concern is for food today, so their relationship with the land in other aspects is very poor. For example they just toss their trash into giant holes, into the street or they burn it. A sad sight that I often saw was children playing close by to giant piles of garbage or people scrounging the rubbish piles for food. Another example is that eucalyptus is grown everywhere because it grows quickly and straight and it is used for timber and firewood. Eucalyptus is not a native species and it soaks up all the water in the soil making it hard for other plants to grow under it and decreases the integrity of the soil. The extensive planting of eucalyptus trees and cutting down natural forests on steep hills to plant crops are the two biggest environmental factors that contribute to the deadly mudslides in eastern Uganda. These mudslides are tragic but this system is working for them because they are more concerned about eating today then the mudslides that might happen in the future. I don’t blame them for having this attitude; many of them are grateful for everything they have now and aren’t concerned with the future consequences. The down side is as their population continues to grow it is going to have more affects on the environment and Uganda doesn’t have a perfect system to look to when it come to environmental ethics.
This attitude of living life day to day without concern for consequences can also be seen in almost every aspect of their lives. We as westerners see the consequences this attitude is having but the Africans don’t see the effects as consequences because they have accepted them as everyday parts of their lives. The consequences I am talking about are environmental degradation, sexual abuse, political corruption, gender inequality, overpopulation, poor education and health care, HIV/AIDS, etc. This attitude is why Africa needs so much help, but it is also this attitude that makes cultural change very hard.
I won’t go into all the sad stories I heard from women and families in Bududa about how they are dealing with life, but I would like to share with you one. On Saturdays we had about 160 children come for the Children of Peace Program, so Saturdays are always hectic. One Saturday as the program was coming to an end, I noticed a little boy vomiting behind the bushes so I went to go help him. This boy’s name was Isaac, he was about 10 years old and you could tell he was very sick because he was weak and very skinny. Isaac had been very sick a few weeks earlier and we gave his mother money to take him to the hospital and get care. As we were waiting to be seen at the hospital we figured out why he was still sick even though he had received treatment. Isaac had malaria and was taking antibiotics. He was supposed to take the antibiotics everyday for three weeks but he stopped taking them once all the symptoms of malaria cleared up. His mother stopped giving them to him because she believed he was better and she wanted to save the medication for the next child who gets sick.
Isaac needed our help and we were going to leave the hospital until we knew he was in good hands and getting the right treatment. This was not an easy task. Our trip to the hospital highlights how bad the corruption is in Uganda. Many of the staff looked like they didn’t want to be there including the man behind the reception desk who was drunk. If we weren’t persistent about asking for care they would have sat there and done nothing. It is common fact that the hospital staff steal supplies so they can sell them and get money. We found this to be true because they didn’t have the medication Isaac needed, so we had to go across the street to buy it. We went to visit Isaac in the hospital the next two days to see how he was doing and it was a good thing we did because we found out that the nurse never gave him his second dose of medication. A few days later we had made it over all the hurdles and Isaac was in good hands, getting the right treatment, feeling better and going home with his mom.
This story makes me sad because even though we were able to help Isaac there are probably hundreds of children in Bududa dying of malaria because their families can’t afford medical care. It is difficult to figure out the best solution for problems like these. The easy answer is money, resources and education but corruption and cultural attitudes often prevent those things from getting to the people that need them the most. Having said that, there are hundreds, probably thousands, of NGOs in Uganda that are working on changing that. They are making a difference on a small scale since it is hard to make a difference on a big scale when corruption is everywhere and cultural attitudes run very deep.
Looking back on my experience I ask myself “Did I make a difference? Did I help this community?” I went hoping to having an unforgettable experience but also to see if I could help. I mean whenever you volunteer the hope is to leave the place a little bit better then when you came. There were times when I asked myself this and I would pessimistically answer no because I feel like the change I want to see is impossible for one person to accomplish. I know that that is not true; one person can start a movement and in that way change cultural perspectives. But I didn’t start a movement and the change I hope for Africa can not happen in just four months.
If I take a closer look at the people I met, the conversations we had and what I taught them, the answer is yes I made I difference, even if I can’t see it or measure it. I brightened the kids’ lives every time I waved to them or gave them a piece of candy. Or if I helped one of the teenage girls in our program from not getting raped or having an unwanted early pregnancy I made a difference. Over all this trip was an amazing experience and I am left with some great stories and a better understanding of our global community. It taught me to think a little more deeply about what kind of world I want to live in and what can I do personally to make it a better place.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
My Last Post
This post has turned into a final summary of my experience. It’s a bit raw and unfiltered, and I thought about keeping it to myself. It is honestly what I have experienced in four months’ time, and I understand that it is my opinion and it is not without limitations and personal biases. I am open to the thoughts and perspectives of differences of opinions, in fact I would greatly appreciate them. That is one of the greatest ways in which I grow and learn. To be closed to differences of opinion, is to be closed to growth and knowledge, and that is exactly the opposite reasoning for which I came to Africa in the first place.
What should I say? Where do I start or end? I suppose here is as good a place as any. Many times on vacation I approach the end of my time and I secretly perseverate about all the things I wish I could still do. I know this to an unhealthy habit, but honestly, it happens. I remember and cherish all the experiences I have been lucky enough to have as well, but part of me can’t help but fantasize about all of the adventures I have heard tale of but for one reason or another, won’t be able to experience. The city in the south, that beach on the coast, historic isolated islands, remote waterfalls, ancient ruins, beautiful museums, a nameless mountain on the horizon. Not enough money, not enough time, the area is inaccessible or too dangerous. Blah blah blah…there is always something.
I know this is an inevitable challenge about traveling to wonderful places with wonderful people. I always leave happy, but there is a small tickle of regret that I couldn’t do it all. I smile to myself and say “It’s Ok. It gives you a reason to come back!” I know that to be only a half-truth consolation prize I often tell myself to fight-off unwanted feelings of regret or disappointment. I think maybe the only notable exceptions to this experience have been Latvia and Florida. I went, I left; and there were no regrets.
I have never been anywhere quite like Africa. Or maybe, more accurately, I have never had the opportunity to get to know someplace quite like Africa. Either way, the fact remains that my experience here has been different than any place I have ever been. Most of my travels have been transient whirlwinds, racing through a land with a backpack and a sense of adventure. I rarely stayed in the same place for more than a couple of days before moving on. I got to experience a little about a lot.
This trip has been quite different. I was able to tap into the flow and pace of daily life in a small village tucked away in the luscious green mountains of the east. Here, I was able to experience a lot about a little. As a result, I have come to be a part of the community and experience it in a way I could never have imagined or anticipated. Though truthfully that was partly what I came seeking in the first place.
The cultural difference I experienced in the first 72 hours was enough to make me dizzy and short of breath. The inner city squalor is impossible to ignore or avoid like in the US. It’s right there in the open with not even a hint of shame. No cover-up campaigns. Shoeless people, dressed in rags, mill about everywhere. Not all are poor. Plenty have jobs in the capital. It’s just that there are so many that are poor, and have nothing. The streets in and out of the city are lined with shanty towns like an almost endless unemployment line.
At first glance, it almost seems to be a country populated by children. Like Lord of the Flies, without the white children lawlessly killing one another. The average mother is roughly 25 yrs old, and already has 4 children. 50% of the population, currently at 33 million, is under 15 yrs old, while 69% is under 27 yrs old. Try to imagine what that looks like. Furthermore, AIDS is devastating the population, and a lack of education and honesty is preventing efforts to help.
And in spite of this, Ugandan’s, more than any culture I have met, approach life with tremendous optimism. They smile, laugh, dance, and sing with such energy you would think those are the only weapons they have to fight with. In many cases they are, but what surprises me most is how often those tools work. Most people are happy and light hearted; quick to joke and dance.
Where the people may be sick, the soil is still healthy. Winston Churchill, after a trip to Uganda prior to WW II joked: “…the soil is so fertile one could leave a walking stick stuck in the ground, and by the end of the day, it will have sprouted roots!” With my own eyes I have seen this to be not so far an exaggeration. The land is magical. Everything grows and it grows quick! The vibrant contrast of the rich red-brown soil and lush tropical green is so starkly different from any environment I have ever seen.
Even the senses are overwhelmed upon arrival. The market is possibly one of the best examples, with its smells of slaughtered animals hanging in the sun, wood-smoke, sweat, and urine. Hard to describe really. I hardly notice it at all now, but at first, it was nearly enough to send me scurrying to the trees with my hand over my nose and mouth. Now I walk through the market and take long deep inhalations for memory’s sake. The markets are wonderful. Huge fields where you may buy anything from cattle to shoe polish. Road’s lined with families selling their wares; sugar, salt, cabbage, tomatoes, bananas, mangos, fish, potatoes, flour, or maize. The selection and variety goes on and on. The colors are a great mix of natural earth tones and vibrant African fabrics.
Then the hawkers sell their locks, ropes, polish, candles, bowls, cups, knives, soap, lanterns, shoes, sandals, hats, and racks of second hand clothes from the West. In rural Uganda, it is a Free-market economy in the truest sense of the word. I have come to the conclusion that regardless of where you are, if you lose something in the world, inevitably it makes its way to Africa and ends up in a community market. You can buy anything in Africa. This unfortunately includes things that should not be purchasable. Use your imagination…or nightmares.
Then there are the machetes. I can’t describe the cultural differences without mentioning them. They are everywhere and they are used by everyone to do everything. They are Africa’s multi-tool. It is not uncommon to see children under the age of eight with machetes almost as long as they are, dragged laboriously behind. They cut grass, hunt rats, trim hedges, chop wood, split bricks, butcher meat, harvest crops, heard cattle, even discipline children. They cost about $1.50 and can be purchased almost anywhere.
I am reminded of the cultural differences with every handshake. I notice it when I eat my lunch and realize I am the only person in the room eating steaming hot rice and beans with a fork. The differences are present at the construction site where bricks are made by hand and extensive foundation excavations are dug by three men with hoes for 8 days. Rain here means roads turn to Willy Wonka’s Milk Chocolate Rivers.
Music is everywhere! Africans seem to always have a song or rhythm in their heads while they go about their day. I can wake to the singing voice of a women digging in the fields at dawn (usually with an infant tied to her back) and close my eyes to far off drums at night. Song and dance is in church and school; birth and burial.
My time in Uganda has been uniquely different from any other trip before. On one hand it is a place with limitless opportunity for adventure. You could spend your whole life here and never do or see everything. Maybe it is that fact that contributes to my feelings of contentment with leaving. I have done less than a pin prick of what is possible to experience, and I am strangely ok with it.
But my time in Uganda was not just about adventure. There is a greater understanding that has come from it as well. A broader perspective perhaps. You can argue that every day, every minute, has the capacity to open your mind and expand your perspective. Regardless of where you are. While this is true, I have found that new experiences have the capacity to accelerate that process. Life and death experiences even more so. Life is sharper, clearer. I came to Africa thirsting for it. I came looking for it in every handshake, raindrop, and sun beam. I found it in places I wasn’t looking, which, in my experience, is often how that works.
I came to Uganda with a teacher’s role and a student’s mind. What can Africa teach me about the world? About myself? I feel like I have accomplished more than just travelling to Uganda. I have actually lived here, among its people and its land; triumphs and failures. I have seen some of the best and worst its people have to offer. I have seen the sites of mass executions by the Lord’s Resistance Army in the North and deadly mudslide memorials in the mountains to the east.
I have seen children raising children and have been treated with more respect and honor than I deserve. I have often tried to take the advice of a mentor of mine and a progressive wise educator named Leah Mason, who has taught me many valuable lessons. One such lesson came by way of introduction to a quote by Albert Einstein that reads: “There are two ways to live your life: one is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle.” While this is often very challenging at times, it has allowed me to see the glory and beauty in any given moment. It is always there if you look.
Everyone knows that Africa needs help. That’s one reason, there are many by the way, why the continent receives more aid than anywhere else on earth. It is often labeled as “Third World”. Third World, in my opinion, is somewhat of an outdated term and has a negative, almost disrespectful connotation, like “step-child” (of which I am and never openly referred to in person). Most folks opt for the more politically correct term of “Developing”. Africa is the Developing World and the West is the Developed World. Right? Almost like it’s a race with a finish line. The West won a long time ago and we are sitting back enjoying the spoils of victory while the rest of the world chases after us hoping to “Make It” to the finish line.
I don’t believe growth and development to be fixed, finite, or linear beginnings or endings. It might be a race, but only because we make it so. If it were a race, we (the West) actually started real late, comparatively with the rest of the world. We made up for it by hopping on the backs of others, sometimes half-heartedly convincing them that we were actually trying to help them, and let them carry us a good distance to where we are today. All the while complimenting ourselves on our hard work, ingenuity, and superiority. When we really take a look at ourselves, how developed are we really? I still think we have a long way to go. That’s not pessimism; its realism.
My time in Uganda, has shown me that most Ugandan’s want to be uniquely African and have what the West has. I think there are misconceptions of both: What does it mean to be African? And what exactly does the West have that they want? I am not referring merely to material wealth and possession, although many desire after those allures as well. Most Ugandans want what many of us take for granted every day. They want a trustworthy government; fairly elected by the people, for the people. They want police and military that protects and defends, not a king’s private security force to ensure his claim to the throne. They want a health care system that takes care of its people; all of its people, without prejudice or corruption. Good education and reasonably priced healthy food. Safe roads and environmental protection.
The truth is Uganda does not have these things. They look to the west as a model, even a provider. Before coming to Africa, I could have written a very similar list of problems facing my own country, but as I sit and talk with the people of this land it gives me that greater perspective I came to find. I am not so disillusioned to believe that we are the “Developed” world. Done. Game-over. Race won. Hamburgers and Coke-cola for everyone! We are struggling just as our brothers and sisters are in Africa. But I do see how much we have grown. What headway we have made. I can’t tell you how often I have had that realization here. How often I have silently appreciated the fact that my time here was temporary. That I would eventually return to America.
Uganda is developing. It is “behind” the West. This term is often meant or understood from a political or economic stand point. While this is absolutely true in most cases, my own experience has shown me that they are “behind” in many other areas. Its religions, which it defends strongly, influence every aspect of life from governance to sex (and are almost entirely adopted from the “developed” world) are divisive, repressive, and ignorant. I have witnessed its ministers, preachers, and priests openly condemn homosexuality and the use of condoms as perversions against God in feverish sermons that last for hours. While they themselves, many of which practice polygamy, choose which parts of the Bible they follow and which they conveniently ignore. Women are second class citizens, children are slaves, and homosexuals are demonic perverts, worthy of capital punishment.
It is the same with nearly every aspect of society; education, healthcare, environmentalism, even transportation. Children are still caned for misbehavior, doctors steal free medicine and sell it and there service to desperate patients requiring immediate care. Trash and waste clog gutters and burn for hours in huge piles. Traffic accidents are a leading cause of death due, in part, to deteriorating roads and little governance.
So where are the miracles? They are in fact everywhere, every day. They are easy to miss, and are often over shadowed by the daily horror. Ugandans, however, are committed to developing. They want it more than anything. They work hard given the chance and show compassion when it is needed. They see all their short comings and, rather than point the finger at their neighbor or the West for its hand in making the mess, they smile, sing, dance, play and carry on with undefeatable spirit. Sometimes it is this impression of acceptance that frustrates me. They put up with unspeakable hardships that the Western world would never stand for. We have had our revolutions and we have made our mistakes. Our history is not much different from Africa’s present. We are all trying, questioning, and growing. We are all developing. Or at least we should be.
My time in Africa has given me the space to think about my life. It has also given me the space to understand the lives of others. This quest for greater perspective has enlightened my sense of self, others, and place and the responsibility I have to each. I am so grateful for the opportunity to come teach and learn. Thank you to everyone who encouraged us before we left, followed our adventures while we were here, and to all our loved ones who will support us when we return. I have gained much and I have no regrets! Wanyala Nabi!
What should I say? Where do I start or end? I suppose here is as good a place as any. Many times on vacation I approach the end of my time and I secretly perseverate about all the things I wish I could still do. I know this to an unhealthy habit, but honestly, it happens. I remember and cherish all the experiences I have been lucky enough to have as well, but part of me can’t help but fantasize about all of the adventures I have heard tale of but for one reason or another, won’t be able to experience. The city in the south, that beach on the coast, historic isolated islands, remote waterfalls, ancient ruins, beautiful museums, a nameless mountain on the horizon. Not enough money, not enough time, the area is inaccessible or too dangerous. Blah blah blah…there is always something.
I know this is an inevitable challenge about traveling to wonderful places with wonderful people. I always leave happy, but there is a small tickle of regret that I couldn’t do it all. I smile to myself and say “It’s Ok. It gives you a reason to come back!” I know that to be only a half-truth consolation prize I often tell myself to fight-off unwanted feelings of regret or disappointment. I think maybe the only notable exceptions to this experience have been Latvia and Florida. I went, I left; and there were no regrets.
I have never been anywhere quite like Africa. Or maybe, more accurately, I have never had the opportunity to get to know someplace quite like Africa. Either way, the fact remains that my experience here has been different than any place I have ever been. Most of my travels have been transient whirlwinds, racing through a land with a backpack and a sense of adventure. I rarely stayed in the same place for more than a couple of days before moving on. I got to experience a little about a lot.
This trip has been quite different. I was able to tap into the flow and pace of daily life in a small village tucked away in the luscious green mountains of the east. Here, I was able to experience a lot about a little. As a result, I have come to be a part of the community and experience it in a way I could never have imagined or anticipated. Though truthfully that was partly what I came seeking in the first place.
The cultural difference I experienced in the first 72 hours was enough to make me dizzy and short of breath. The inner city squalor is impossible to ignore or avoid like in the US. It’s right there in the open with not even a hint of shame. No cover-up campaigns. Shoeless people, dressed in rags, mill about everywhere. Not all are poor. Plenty have jobs in the capital. It’s just that there are so many that are poor, and have nothing. The streets in and out of the city are lined with shanty towns like an almost endless unemployment line.
At first glance, it almost seems to be a country populated by children. Like Lord of the Flies, without the white children lawlessly killing one another. The average mother is roughly 25 yrs old, and already has 4 children. 50% of the population, currently at 33 million, is under 15 yrs old, while 69% is under 27 yrs old. Try to imagine what that looks like. Furthermore, AIDS is devastating the population, and a lack of education and honesty is preventing efforts to help.
And in spite of this, Ugandan’s, more than any culture I have met, approach life with tremendous optimism. They smile, laugh, dance, and sing with such energy you would think those are the only weapons they have to fight with. In many cases they are, but what surprises me most is how often those tools work. Most people are happy and light hearted; quick to joke and dance.
Where the people may be sick, the soil is still healthy. Winston Churchill, after a trip to Uganda prior to WW II joked: “…the soil is so fertile one could leave a walking stick stuck in the ground, and by the end of the day, it will have sprouted roots!” With my own eyes I have seen this to be not so far an exaggeration. The land is magical. Everything grows and it grows quick! The vibrant contrast of the rich red-brown soil and lush tropical green is so starkly different from any environment I have ever seen.
Even the senses are overwhelmed upon arrival. The market is possibly one of the best examples, with its smells of slaughtered animals hanging in the sun, wood-smoke, sweat, and urine. Hard to describe really. I hardly notice it at all now, but at first, it was nearly enough to send me scurrying to the trees with my hand over my nose and mouth. Now I walk through the market and take long deep inhalations for memory’s sake. The markets are wonderful. Huge fields where you may buy anything from cattle to shoe polish. Road’s lined with families selling their wares; sugar, salt, cabbage, tomatoes, bananas, mangos, fish, potatoes, flour, or maize. The selection and variety goes on and on. The colors are a great mix of natural earth tones and vibrant African fabrics.
Then the hawkers sell their locks, ropes, polish, candles, bowls, cups, knives, soap, lanterns, shoes, sandals, hats, and racks of second hand clothes from the West. In rural Uganda, it is a Free-market economy in the truest sense of the word. I have come to the conclusion that regardless of where you are, if you lose something in the world, inevitably it makes its way to Africa and ends up in a community market. You can buy anything in Africa. This unfortunately includes things that should not be purchasable. Use your imagination…or nightmares.
Then there are the machetes. I can’t describe the cultural differences without mentioning them. They are everywhere and they are used by everyone to do everything. They are Africa’s multi-tool. It is not uncommon to see children under the age of eight with machetes almost as long as they are, dragged laboriously behind. They cut grass, hunt rats, trim hedges, chop wood, split bricks, butcher meat, harvest crops, heard cattle, even discipline children. They cost about $1.50 and can be purchased almost anywhere.
I am reminded of the cultural differences with every handshake. I notice it when I eat my lunch and realize I am the only person in the room eating steaming hot rice and beans with a fork. The differences are present at the construction site where bricks are made by hand and extensive foundation excavations are dug by three men with hoes for 8 days. Rain here means roads turn to Willy Wonka’s Milk Chocolate Rivers.
Music is everywhere! Africans seem to always have a song or rhythm in their heads while they go about their day. I can wake to the singing voice of a women digging in the fields at dawn (usually with an infant tied to her back) and close my eyes to far off drums at night. Song and dance is in church and school; birth and burial.
My time in Uganda has been uniquely different from any other trip before. On one hand it is a place with limitless opportunity for adventure. You could spend your whole life here and never do or see everything. Maybe it is that fact that contributes to my feelings of contentment with leaving. I have done less than a pin prick of what is possible to experience, and I am strangely ok with it.
But my time in Uganda was not just about adventure. There is a greater understanding that has come from it as well. A broader perspective perhaps. You can argue that every day, every minute, has the capacity to open your mind and expand your perspective. Regardless of where you are. While this is true, I have found that new experiences have the capacity to accelerate that process. Life and death experiences even more so. Life is sharper, clearer. I came to Africa thirsting for it. I came looking for it in every handshake, raindrop, and sun beam. I found it in places I wasn’t looking, which, in my experience, is often how that works.
I came to Uganda with a teacher’s role and a student’s mind. What can Africa teach me about the world? About myself? I feel like I have accomplished more than just travelling to Uganda. I have actually lived here, among its people and its land; triumphs and failures. I have seen some of the best and worst its people have to offer. I have seen the sites of mass executions by the Lord’s Resistance Army in the North and deadly mudslide memorials in the mountains to the east.
I have seen children raising children and have been treated with more respect and honor than I deserve. I have often tried to take the advice of a mentor of mine and a progressive wise educator named Leah Mason, who has taught me many valuable lessons. One such lesson came by way of introduction to a quote by Albert Einstein that reads: “There are two ways to live your life: one is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle.” While this is often very challenging at times, it has allowed me to see the glory and beauty in any given moment. It is always there if you look.
Everyone knows that Africa needs help. That’s one reason, there are many by the way, why the continent receives more aid than anywhere else on earth. It is often labeled as “Third World”. Third World, in my opinion, is somewhat of an outdated term and has a negative, almost disrespectful connotation, like “step-child” (of which I am and never openly referred to in person). Most folks opt for the more politically correct term of “Developing”. Africa is the Developing World and the West is the Developed World. Right? Almost like it’s a race with a finish line. The West won a long time ago and we are sitting back enjoying the spoils of victory while the rest of the world chases after us hoping to “Make It” to the finish line.
I don’t believe growth and development to be fixed, finite, or linear beginnings or endings. It might be a race, but only because we make it so. If it were a race, we (the West) actually started real late, comparatively with the rest of the world. We made up for it by hopping on the backs of others, sometimes half-heartedly convincing them that we were actually trying to help them, and let them carry us a good distance to where we are today. All the while complimenting ourselves on our hard work, ingenuity, and superiority. When we really take a look at ourselves, how developed are we really? I still think we have a long way to go. That’s not pessimism; its realism.
My time in Uganda, has shown me that most Ugandan’s want to be uniquely African and have what the West has. I think there are misconceptions of both: What does it mean to be African? And what exactly does the West have that they want? I am not referring merely to material wealth and possession, although many desire after those allures as well. Most Ugandans want what many of us take for granted every day. They want a trustworthy government; fairly elected by the people, for the people. They want police and military that protects and defends, not a king’s private security force to ensure his claim to the throne. They want a health care system that takes care of its people; all of its people, without prejudice or corruption. Good education and reasonably priced healthy food. Safe roads and environmental protection.
The truth is Uganda does not have these things. They look to the west as a model, even a provider. Before coming to Africa, I could have written a very similar list of problems facing my own country, but as I sit and talk with the people of this land it gives me that greater perspective I came to find. I am not so disillusioned to believe that we are the “Developed” world. Done. Game-over. Race won. Hamburgers and Coke-cola for everyone! We are struggling just as our brothers and sisters are in Africa. But I do see how much we have grown. What headway we have made. I can’t tell you how often I have had that realization here. How often I have silently appreciated the fact that my time here was temporary. That I would eventually return to America.
Uganda is developing. It is “behind” the West. This term is often meant or understood from a political or economic stand point. While this is absolutely true in most cases, my own experience has shown me that they are “behind” in many other areas. Its religions, which it defends strongly, influence every aspect of life from governance to sex (and are almost entirely adopted from the “developed” world) are divisive, repressive, and ignorant. I have witnessed its ministers, preachers, and priests openly condemn homosexuality and the use of condoms as perversions against God in feverish sermons that last for hours. While they themselves, many of which practice polygamy, choose which parts of the Bible they follow and which they conveniently ignore. Women are second class citizens, children are slaves, and homosexuals are demonic perverts, worthy of capital punishment.
It is the same with nearly every aspect of society; education, healthcare, environmentalism, even transportation. Children are still caned for misbehavior, doctors steal free medicine and sell it and there service to desperate patients requiring immediate care. Trash and waste clog gutters and burn for hours in huge piles. Traffic accidents are a leading cause of death due, in part, to deteriorating roads and little governance.
So where are the miracles? They are in fact everywhere, every day. They are easy to miss, and are often over shadowed by the daily horror. Ugandans, however, are committed to developing. They want it more than anything. They work hard given the chance and show compassion when it is needed. They see all their short comings and, rather than point the finger at their neighbor or the West for its hand in making the mess, they smile, sing, dance, play and carry on with undefeatable spirit. Sometimes it is this impression of acceptance that frustrates me. They put up with unspeakable hardships that the Western world would never stand for. We have had our revolutions and we have made our mistakes. Our history is not much different from Africa’s present. We are all trying, questioning, and growing. We are all developing. Or at least we should be.
My time in Africa has given me the space to think about my life. It has also given me the space to understand the lives of others. This quest for greater perspective has enlightened my sense of self, others, and place and the responsibility I have to each. I am so grateful for the opportunity to come teach and learn. Thank you to everyone who encouraged us before we left, followed our adventures while we were here, and to all our loved ones who will support us when we return. I have gained much and I have no regrets! Wanyala Nabi!
Saturday, September 24, 2011
A Trip Within A Trip: Part 6 Welcome to Fort Portal
Out of all the places we visited during our stay in Uganda, Fort Portal was by far one of our favorites. It has great energy, good people, and delicious food. It was clean. It had several successful ecotourism businesses/campsites run by Ugandans. All in all, there was lots of fun to be had and the Rwenzori Mountains created a beautiful background that offered tons of adventure and stunning sunsets. When we arrived we didn’t have any plans for what to do but based on what we had read and heard about Fort Portal we knew we weren’t going to be bored. We had a guide book but we only used it for general information, partly because it was old and outdated, and also because we wanted to have our own unique adventure, go places that white people rarely roam and let our hearts and eyes be our guides.
During the majority of the day we would go on our various outings outside of town and we explored the city in the late afternoon and evening, which is really the best time. We arrived in town at 11:15pm and the place was hopping. Before this we had never experienced a night life in Uganda. (Bududa might have a night life but I imagine it isn’t like that of the city and it may even be more dangerous. Not to mention we usually go to bed around 9pm.) Fort Portal has a main street that has several bars, restaurants, banks, internet cafes, food markets as well as several other businesses and a traditional outdoor African market. The sights and smells were the same as any other market we have been to in Uganda except across the street was this huge, lavish restaurant called the Gardens. We thought about eating there but instead we decided to be kinder to our wallets and we ate at Master Snacks down the street. We paid about $2 per person versus $5 or $6, and it was more filling and more locally grown. You know you have been in Africa for a long time when you would rather eat at a local joint than a comfortable, predictable restaurant with a Western menu. However when the menu included made to order brick oven pizzas we couldn’t resist.
Mike has already talked about our interesting bike tour so I won’t get into that. Except I had a blast, I am almost more happy that we got lost because we got to see and experience a part of Uganda that otherwise we wouldn’t have seen. We were never actually lost, but Ugandans use that word to explain why you aren’t where you are expecting to be or when you arrive somewhere late. The ride up the hill was a bit reckless but it saved our legs and I didn’t realize how dangerous or terrifying it was for Mike until afterwards. I had the common sense not to sit on the tail gate but inside the back, since I consider my life more valuable than the bike. It was interesting that even though we stopped about 3 times to ask for directions everyone said to keep going. So it wasn’t just a bad map but also a thick language barrier and our attitudes of “this is beautiful, let’s keep going” that factored into a remarkable bike ride.
We woke up early the next day to go check out an area that is known for having lots of crater lakes. We got on a piki and drove for miles and miles and already we could tell it was going to be a great day. The hills were endless until we got to that top of one and took a sharp right hand turn and right before our eyes was this massive crater lake with steep banks on every side. Then less than a ¼ mile down the road there was another one, then another. The piki dropped us off in a tiny village called Kabata and instantly we were surrounded by a dozen kids who couldn’t stop staring at us. They all wanted to be our guide but we kindly told them we were just here to walk around, unfortunately they did not understand us and several of them followed us part way down the road. We did not know exactly which way we were going but we had an idea of where we wanted to end up. Along the road our first pleasant surprise hit us via our nostrils. The smell was soft, sweet and intoxicating and it didn’t take Mike long to figure out what it was… vanilla. A giant vanilla plantation nestled in the rolling hills of western Uganda; is there anything that they can’t grow in Uganda?
Occasionally on the road we were passed by local people with fishing poles and bundles of fresh fish they caught in a nearby lake. After walking for about 40 minutes we saw another massive crater lake which helped us figure out where we were. This is when the real adventure started because we turned off the road and for the rest of the day we trekked on the paths that winded through the jungle covered hills. Many locals just stared at us as we walked by. They were probably surprised to see us since we travel a different route than most mzungus. At one point this little kid, no older than two, looked at me and let out this loud and horrifying scream and instantly had tears running down her cheeks. It could have been the first time she saw a white person and based on her scream I probably looked like an alien or monster to her and thought I was going to eat her. We had a full day of trekking that included swimming under a water fall, two river crossings (once a little above the waterfall and once where the bridge was taken out), walking through a giant banana plantation, swimming in a crater lake (400 meters deep!!), and checking out a local ecotourism spot.
The next day was similar in that we saw more of the countryside and more crater lakes but this time we hired a guide and saw more cool things. We hiked through a jungle that was so thick we almost had to curl on our hands and knees and in some place the mud would have come up to our knees if there weren’t planks laid in the path. We trekked through caves, behind a waterfall, up and over hills and down dirt roads that rarely have cars pass. The cave we saw was Ambere Cave and our guide told us the history and legend of the cave in wonderful detail. I don’t remember most of it except that it had to do with this ancient woman’s breasts that were cut off and she was banished to the caves and to this day you can still see her breasts hanging from the roof of the cave. You can take my word for it; the stalactites actually look a bit like breasts.
The thing that we were most impressed by during our stay was the presence of African run ecotourism businesses. They dotted the area like bars dot a ski town in the United States. They offered a variety of tours and activities for every kind of tourists and every budget. The first day we rented bikes from one. The next day we stopped to have drinks at one, and the last day the caves and surrounding area was run by one. It was relieving to see that these businesses were doing well, they were well lead and organized and in many cases they were run and owned by Ugandans. Not only that they were giving back to their local communities by building schools or donating to schools in exchange for having students come and volunteer there. Many of them seemed to also have a more conscious environmental ethic. The local people were taking care of the land and since it was owned by Africans that prevented Westerners from coming in and building giant resorts. Some of them had even been recognized by the government as community development organizations. It was the opposite of what we experienced in Sipi Falls. Now if only that business model was used all over Uganda, including Sipi Falls area, within a few years Uganda could become the tourist center of Africa.
During the majority of the day we would go on our various outings outside of town and we explored the city in the late afternoon and evening, which is really the best time. We arrived in town at 11:15pm and the place was hopping. Before this we had never experienced a night life in Uganda. (Bududa might have a night life but I imagine it isn’t like that of the city and it may even be more dangerous. Not to mention we usually go to bed around 9pm.) Fort Portal has a main street that has several bars, restaurants, banks, internet cafes, food markets as well as several other businesses and a traditional outdoor African market. The sights and smells were the same as any other market we have been to in Uganda except across the street was this huge, lavish restaurant called the Gardens. We thought about eating there but instead we decided to be kinder to our wallets and we ate at Master Snacks down the street. We paid about $2 per person versus $5 or $6, and it was more filling and more locally grown. You know you have been in Africa for a long time when you would rather eat at a local joint than a comfortable, predictable restaurant with a Western menu. However when the menu included made to order brick oven pizzas we couldn’t resist.
Mike has already talked about our interesting bike tour so I won’t get into that. Except I had a blast, I am almost more happy that we got lost because we got to see and experience a part of Uganda that otherwise we wouldn’t have seen. We were never actually lost, but Ugandans use that word to explain why you aren’t where you are expecting to be or when you arrive somewhere late. The ride up the hill was a bit reckless but it saved our legs and I didn’t realize how dangerous or terrifying it was for Mike until afterwards. I had the common sense not to sit on the tail gate but inside the back, since I consider my life more valuable than the bike. It was interesting that even though we stopped about 3 times to ask for directions everyone said to keep going. So it wasn’t just a bad map but also a thick language barrier and our attitudes of “this is beautiful, let’s keep going” that factored into a remarkable bike ride.
We woke up early the next day to go check out an area that is known for having lots of crater lakes. We got on a piki and drove for miles and miles and already we could tell it was going to be a great day. The hills were endless until we got to that top of one and took a sharp right hand turn and right before our eyes was this massive crater lake with steep banks on every side. Then less than a ¼ mile down the road there was another one, then another. The piki dropped us off in a tiny village called Kabata and instantly we were surrounded by a dozen kids who couldn’t stop staring at us. They all wanted to be our guide but we kindly told them we were just here to walk around, unfortunately they did not understand us and several of them followed us part way down the road. We did not know exactly which way we were going but we had an idea of where we wanted to end up. Along the road our first pleasant surprise hit us via our nostrils. The smell was soft, sweet and intoxicating and it didn’t take Mike long to figure out what it was… vanilla. A giant vanilla plantation nestled in the rolling hills of western Uganda; is there anything that they can’t grow in Uganda?
Occasionally on the road we were passed by local people with fishing poles and bundles of fresh fish they caught in a nearby lake. After walking for about 40 minutes we saw another massive crater lake which helped us figure out where we were. This is when the real adventure started because we turned off the road and for the rest of the day we trekked on the paths that winded through the jungle covered hills. Many locals just stared at us as we walked by. They were probably surprised to see us since we travel a different route than most mzungus. At one point this little kid, no older than two, looked at me and let out this loud and horrifying scream and instantly had tears running down her cheeks. It could have been the first time she saw a white person and based on her scream I probably looked like an alien or monster to her and thought I was going to eat her. We had a full day of trekking that included swimming under a water fall, two river crossings (once a little above the waterfall and once where the bridge was taken out), walking through a giant banana plantation, swimming in a crater lake (400 meters deep!!), and checking out a local ecotourism spot.
The next day was similar in that we saw more of the countryside and more crater lakes but this time we hired a guide and saw more cool things. We hiked through a jungle that was so thick we almost had to curl on our hands and knees and in some place the mud would have come up to our knees if there weren’t planks laid in the path. We trekked through caves, behind a waterfall, up and over hills and down dirt roads that rarely have cars pass. The cave we saw was Ambere Cave and our guide told us the history and legend of the cave in wonderful detail. I don’t remember most of it except that it had to do with this ancient woman’s breasts that were cut off and she was banished to the caves and to this day you can still see her breasts hanging from the roof of the cave. You can take my word for it; the stalactites actually look a bit like breasts.
The thing that we were most impressed by during our stay was the presence of African run ecotourism businesses. They dotted the area like bars dot a ski town in the United States. They offered a variety of tours and activities for every kind of tourists and every budget. The first day we rented bikes from one. The next day we stopped to have drinks at one, and the last day the caves and surrounding area was run by one. It was relieving to see that these businesses were doing well, they were well lead and organized and in many cases they were run and owned by Ugandans. Not only that they were giving back to their local communities by building schools or donating to schools in exchange for having students come and volunteer there. Many of them seemed to also have a more conscious environmental ethic. The local people were taking care of the land and since it was owned by Africans that prevented Westerners from coming in and building giant resorts. Some of them had even been recognized by the government as community development organizations. It was the opposite of what we experienced in Sipi Falls. Now if only that business model was used all over Uganda, including Sipi Falls area, within a few years Uganda could become the tourist center of Africa.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
A Trip with in a Trip: Fort Portal Part 5
We awoke, groggy and swollen-eyed, from a restful, though short lived, nights rest. Our plan was to stay for 2-3 days, depending on how much fun there was to be had. It was overcast, as it often is in mountainous regions of the world. After all we were in the shadow of the fabled Rwenzori Mountains, and the third highest peak in Africa, Mount Margherita (5,109 meters). We walked into town and found a place that rented bikes for a small fee. Our plan was to ride out to where a series of crater lakes dotted the country-side. We were also hoping to find the ancient Ambere Caves. That was the plan…but plans change! We were given a crude little hand drawn map, but what we didn’t know (and weren’t told) was that the signs and landmarks we were to follow had been removed because of construction. T.I.A.
We peddled right past the turn-off and rode into nowhere. To make matters worse, Therese’s chain kept falling off, my breaks were a bit shotty, we didn’t have helmets (sorry Mom) and two police officers said we were on the right track! Eventually we came to a large hill that was under road construction. By the looks of things, it seemed like they were widening a pre-existing road. What was somewhat surprising was that traffic was allowed to pass while construction was underway. There was no road crew with hard hats, two-ways, or “Stop/Slow” signs. We biked right down. By this time, we were pretty sure we were not where we wanted to be. We stopped for some water and a picture, before approaching the next section. It was around a steep, blind corner and we took the turn slowly. A pick-up could be seen 40 meters away coming at us. The road was extremely wet and muddy and the truck needed to get speed to race up the slope, allowing its momentum to carry it through the mud, not its traction. We quickly realized it was not a very safe place for us to be at the moment, especially considering the death and oblivion that awaited anyone who was unlucky enough to go off the road and tumble the steep 300 meters down into the river and ravine.
The truck raced up the slope, splashing and skidding its way to dry level land, while Therese and I looked at one another with that calculating look that we have given each other often in Africa. We continued on in haste, hoping to beat another approaching car; the beauty of the area pushing us to continue. As another car approached, heavily laden with people, we noticed what looked to be a rock slide cascading down from above. We watched as the car, gunning the final section through the mud, was pelted with baseball size stones. Any slower, and the car would have been struck by the basketball size rocks that continued to rain down over the road. In shock, I looked up to see a back hoe precariously situated over the edge above us. His excavations on the road above had sent the rock slide down.
At this time we came to our senses and realized descending down the road would probably lead to our untimely deaths and was almost certainly not going where we wanted to go anyway. We were able to hop in the bed of a Uganda Wildlife Authority Range Rover pick-up. In hindsight that was also a poor decision. The driver, showing absolute conformity with every other driver I have had in Uganda, sped recklessly up the slope, taking blind corners at over 40 mph, the back wheels sliding out to the far side of the turn. To make matters worse, I was positioned on the top of the tailgate, desperately holding onto the car and my bike. The rest of the passengers (maybe 5-8) in the back with Therese and I, seemed to look at us with something between curiosity and annoyance. Every time we took a corner I feared I was going to tumble right out and over the side of the ravine. We hit one particularly bad bump that send the handle bars of the bike into my face. The force of it almost made me lose consciousness and I screamed up to the driver to stop! Honestly, my fear in that moment was on par with the hippo sighting only a few days before. I was on the verge of tears as I lifted my bike out of the back, thanked the driver, and pedaled my way up the remainder of the hill.
We biked into town for some food and water. I drank a cold beer and thought about life, death, and what other adventures I could get into tomorrow. I love when life becomes that simple!
We peddled right past the turn-off and rode into nowhere. To make matters worse, Therese’s chain kept falling off, my breaks were a bit shotty, we didn’t have helmets (sorry Mom) and two police officers said we were on the right track! Eventually we came to a large hill that was under road construction. By the looks of things, it seemed like they were widening a pre-existing road. What was somewhat surprising was that traffic was allowed to pass while construction was underway. There was no road crew with hard hats, two-ways, or “Stop/Slow” signs. We biked right down. By this time, we were pretty sure we were not where we wanted to be. We stopped for some water and a picture, before approaching the next section. It was around a steep, blind corner and we took the turn slowly. A pick-up could be seen 40 meters away coming at us. The road was extremely wet and muddy and the truck needed to get speed to race up the slope, allowing its momentum to carry it through the mud, not its traction. We quickly realized it was not a very safe place for us to be at the moment, especially considering the death and oblivion that awaited anyone who was unlucky enough to go off the road and tumble the steep 300 meters down into the river and ravine.
The truck raced up the slope, splashing and skidding its way to dry level land, while Therese and I looked at one another with that calculating look that we have given each other often in Africa. We continued on in haste, hoping to beat another approaching car; the beauty of the area pushing us to continue. As another car approached, heavily laden with people, we noticed what looked to be a rock slide cascading down from above. We watched as the car, gunning the final section through the mud, was pelted with baseball size stones. Any slower, and the car would have been struck by the basketball size rocks that continued to rain down over the road. In shock, I looked up to see a back hoe precariously situated over the edge above us. His excavations on the road above had sent the rock slide down.
At this time we came to our senses and realized descending down the road would probably lead to our untimely deaths and was almost certainly not going where we wanted to go anyway. We were able to hop in the bed of a Uganda Wildlife Authority Range Rover pick-up. In hindsight that was also a poor decision. The driver, showing absolute conformity with every other driver I have had in Uganda, sped recklessly up the slope, taking blind corners at over 40 mph, the back wheels sliding out to the far side of the turn. To make matters worse, I was positioned on the top of the tailgate, desperately holding onto the car and my bike. The rest of the passengers (maybe 5-8) in the back with Therese and I, seemed to look at us with something between curiosity and annoyance. Every time we took a corner I feared I was going to tumble right out and over the side of the ravine. We hit one particularly bad bump that send the handle bars of the bike into my face. The force of it almost made me lose consciousness and I screamed up to the driver to stop! Honestly, my fear in that moment was on par with the hippo sighting only a few days before. I was on the verge of tears as I lifted my bike out of the back, thanked the driver, and pedaled my way up the remainder of the hill.
We biked into town for some food and water. I drank a cold beer and thought about life, death, and what other adventures I could get into tomorrow. I love when life becomes that simple!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A Trip Within A Trip, Part 4: 99 Jeri-cans on top of the bus
It is hard to describe what it is like to travel in an African country by public transport. It is kind of like Forrest Gump’s quote “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get” but times 1000 and the opposite of sweet. Finding a bus that is going to where you want to go in Uganda is actually not that hard. If you ask someone they will point you to the right direction, but the ride is no where near comfortable.
The day we traveled from Murchison to Fort Portal was by far the longest and most epic day of traveling of our trip and possibly of my life. If you took 100 snapshots of me from that day, in 40 of them I would be praying, in 50 of them I would be nervous, uncomfortable or terrified, in 9 I would be calm and accepting and in 1 I would be pushing a coach bus up a muddy hill that resembled a road. We were able to live through that day without a nervous break down because before we even left we accepted the fact that we had no idea what was going to happen or where we would end up. Having each other has a traveling companion made it possible for us to have serenity in the face of such craziness and uncertainty.
The 250 mile trip took us roughly 16 and1/2 hours and consisted of 2 piki rides, 2 minibus rides and one coach bus ride. To give you an idea of how muddy the roads were and how crazy the drivers are if Mike drove the same route with his Jeep he would have done it in the same amount of time. The first piki ride was like picking a piece of refreshing milk chocolate with a strong hint of danger in it. The ride took over an hour but we didn’t mind since the morning breeze and rising sun felt good on our faces. But this ride was probably the most dangerous part of the day even though it wasn’t nearly as terrifying or uncomfortable as the rest of the trip. The danger factor was that the majority of the piki ride was inside the park, the same park that has elephants, hippos and buffalo, all of which could easily outrun an overloaded piki carrying three people and two backpacks. The closest we got to seeing any wildlife on the ride though was seeing lots of hippo tracks in the road from the night before.
The first piki took us to Bulisa, a small village at the northern tip of Lake Albert that is a fraction of the size of Bududa. Somehow finding our next bus was much easier than finding something to eat for breakfast in the village of Bulisa. The bus ride from Bulisa to Hoima was the most spectacular leg of the trip. It was also the shortest of all the bus rides, being only a 3.5 hours trip. One really interesting and ironic thing I saw during the ride was a giant cell phone tower in the middle of a village that consisted of about 100 mud and thatched roof huts. As a whole Africa is developing at a slower rate compared to the U.S. or any other first world country. But what happens in countries, such as Uganda, is that their technology is so far behind that when new technology is introduced it skips whole stages in development. 15 years ago no one in a village in Uganda had a phone, today I bet half of the population has cell phones and that includes in the villages.
The road passed through some plains and rolling hills that ran along the eastern shore of Lake Albert. From there the road started to gain elevation. It went up and up and up and we were able to see great views of Lake Albert and the Congo on the other side. We were lost in the beauty and vastness of the country and before we knew it we were in Hoima. We did not spend any time exploring Hoima because we were still hopefully to end the day in Fort Portal and we didn’t want to waste any time. We spent over an hour there and for the majority of that time was spent in the bus waiting for it to leave. Buses here only leave when they are full, and this one filled up in about 30 minutes. Then we waited another 45 minutes for them to fit all the luggage in, get the back door closed, fill up on gas, put air in the tires and strap another 40 jeri-cans to the top of the bus. (Jeri cans are 20 liter jugs that are used for carrying anything from water to gasoline.) All of this proved to be challenging including getting gas because the bus ran out of gas and staled about two hundred meters away from the gas station. As if things weren’t ridiculous enough it also poured rain for the whole time we were there. It was like going into the box of chocolates and having a sea of chocolate fondue spill into your lap. I was literally rained on while in the bus because it rained so hard and the seal between the frame and the window nonexistent.
The chocolate fondue flowed into the roads and tripled the number of potholes, mud puddles and rivers that the driver had to navigate around. The roads were so bad they made Deer Hill Road look like the yellow brick road. Twice in the first hour of the ride we hit ruts big enough to cause the back door to fly open and have luggage spill out. One of the times a jeri-can filled with gasoline also fell out and somehow got a hole was punched into the top of it. So for the better part of the next four hours Mike and I and the rest of the passengers were inhaling gasoline fumes. Occasionally I stuck my head out of the window to get some fresh air and my nose and mouth rejoiced when ever a new scent hit them. Never before have I been so happy when the smell of shit hit my nose.
The most eventful and comic part (looking back on it) of the trip was when the bus got stuck in the mud. The first time the Ugandan plus Mike made quick work of pushing it up the hill and out of the mud. I didn’t have time to get my camera out. Their energy was high and the stubbornness fierce; there was no way they were going to let a little bit of mud stop them from getting to where they wanted to go. I enjoyed watching them push because I had total faith that they could do it and because I was happy to be out of the bus for a little while. Fortunately the rains stopped but the road continued to get worse as the waters drained down from the hills. The bus jostled from sides to side, fell in ruts and slid all over the place. Slowly my serenity began to wane and I held Mike’s hand tightly in mine and I started to wonder if we were still going to make it to Ft. Portal. When the bus got stuck in the mud a second time I almost lost it because I did not feel safe anymore but I was neither surprised nor upset. I was extremely grateful to get out of the bus and stretch my legs. This time I captured the epicness on camera, although at the chagrin of the driver and conductor. On a good day the bus ride from Hoima to Kagadi only takes about 3 hours, that day it took us 5.5 hours (6.5 if you count the 1 hour we waited before we left).
When we got to Kagadi there was no waiting around to start the next and last leg of our trip. Within minutes we were sitting in the relatively comfortable seats in the second row of a coach bus. Our hope had been revived because Fort Portal was the final destination for this bus and only a third of the road there was unpaved. For the first 30 minutes of the ride I couldn’t stop thinking how grateful I am to be alive and amazed that our bus only got stuck twice (don’t think happen in 3s). Little did I know my mind had the power to jinx the whole bus… it got stuck in the mud again. So there I was in a coach bus raging as fast as it could up a slipper muddy slope and even though we were fortunate enough to have the best drive in the world there was no way…there was no way. Instantly the driver started to scream and everyone rushed out of the bus slightly amused, perturbed and perplexed. How does one go about getting a coach bus out of a 12 inch muddy rut and then 100 yards up the rest of the hill? Like I said the stubbornness of African is fierce and every time they pushed they didn’t stop until it moved. And every time it moved a couple of inches their spirits went up and their stubbornness just got more intense. An hour went by with very little progress and I was becoming more and more pessimistic. Mike on the other hand was trilled to watch such an epic scene unfold and he was optimistic that their stubbornness would make them triumphant. One of our fellow passengers said this is an historic trip, it was indeed. After the sun had set and the stars came out there was a sudden roar in the crowd as the bus gained traction and moved several feet. The driver put the pedal to the metal and everyone kept pushing and soon the bus was safely waiting for its passengers at the top of the hill.
Three hours later the bus came to a stop, our journey has come to an end. It was 11:15pm and we were exhausted. We had lived through one of the longest, uncomfortable and most epic days of our lives. But we accomplished something that many Uganda doubted was possible; we made it to Fort Portal from Murchison in one day. All we had left was a quick piki ride to our hostel before we slumbered into our warm, cozy beds and called it a night.
The day we traveled from Murchison to Fort Portal was by far the longest and most epic day of traveling of our trip and possibly of my life. If you took 100 snapshots of me from that day, in 40 of them I would be praying, in 50 of them I would be nervous, uncomfortable or terrified, in 9 I would be calm and accepting and in 1 I would be pushing a coach bus up a muddy hill that resembled a road. We were able to live through that day without a nervous break down because before we even left we accepted the fact that we had no idea what was going to happen or where we would end up. Having each other has a traveling companion made it possible for us to have serenity in the face of such craziness and uncertainty.
The 250 mile trip took us roughly 16 and1/2 hours and consisted of 2 piki rides, 2 minibus rides and one coach bus ride. To give you an idea of how muddy the roads were and how crazy the drivers are if Mike drove the same route with his Jeep he would have done it in the same amount of time. The first piki ride was like picking a piece of refreshing milk chocolate with a strong hint of danger in it. The ride took over an hour but we didn’t mind since the morning breeze and rising sun felt good on our faces. But this ride was probably the most dangerous part of the day even though it wasn’t nearly as terrifying or uncomfortable as the rest of the trip. The danger factor was that the majority of the piki ride was inside the park, the same park that has elephants, hippos and buffalo, all of which could easily outrun an overloaded piki carrying three people and two backpacks. The closest we got to seeing any wildlife on the ride though was seeing lots of hippo tracks in the road from the night before.
The first piki took us to Bulisa, a small village at the northern tip of Lake Albert that is a fraction of the size of Bududa. Somehow finding our next bus was much easier than finding something to eat for breakfast in the village of Bulisa. The bus ride from Bulisa to Hoima was the most spectacular leg of the trip. It was also the shortest of all the bus rides, being only a 3.5 hours trip. One really interesting and ironic thing I saw during the ride was a giant cell phone tower in the middle of a village that consisted of about 100 mud and thatched roof huts. As a whole Africa is developing at a slower rate compared to the U.S. or any other first world country. But what happens in countries, such as Uganda, is that their technology is so far behind that when new technology is introduced it skips whole stages in development. 15 years ago no one in a village in Uganda had a phone, today I bet half of the population has cell phones and that includes in the villages.
The road passed through some plains and rolling hills that ran along the eastern shore of Lake Albert. From there the road started to gain elevation. It went up and up and up and we were able to see great views of Lake Albert and the Congo on the other side. We were lost in the beauty and vastness of the country and before we knew it we were in Hoima. We did not spend any time exploring Hoima because we were still hopefully to end the day in Fort Portal and we didn’t want to waste any time. We spent over an hour there and for the majority of that time was spent in the bus waiting for it to leave. Buses here only leave when they are full, and this one filled up in about 30 minutes. Then we waited another 45 minutes for them to fit all the luggage in, get the back door closed, fill up on gas, put air in the tires and strap another 40 jeri-cans to the top of the bus. (Jeri cans are 20 liter jugs that are used for carrying anything from water to gasoline.) All of this proved to be challenging including getting gas because the bus ran out of gas and staled about two hundred meters away from the gas station. As if things weren’t ridiculous enough it also poured rain for the whole time we were there. It was like going into the box of chocolates and having a sea of chocolate fondue spill into your lap. I was literally rained on while in the bus because it rained so hard and the seal between the frame and the window nonexistent.
The chocolate fondue flowed into the roads and tripled the number of potholes, mud puddles and rivers that the driver had to navigate around. The roads were so bad they made Deer Hill Road look like the yellow brick road. Twice in the first hour of the ride we hit ruts big enough to cause the back door to fly open and have luggage spill out. One of the times a jeri-can filled with gasoline also fell out and somehow got a hole was punched into the top of it. So for the better part of the next four hours Mike and I and the rest of the passengers were inhaling gasoline fumes. Occasionally I stuck my head out of the window to get some fresh air and my nose and mouth rejoiced when ever a new scent hit them. Never before have I been so happy when the smell of shit hit my nose.
The most eventful and comic part (looking back on it) of the trip was when the bus got stuck in the mud. The first time the Ugandan plus Mike made quick work of pushing it up the hill and out of the mud. I didn’t have time to get my camera out. Their energy was high and the stubbornness fierce; there was no way they were going to let a little bit of mud stop them from getting to where they wanted to go. I enjoyed watching them push because I had total faith that they could do it and because I was happy to be out of the bus for a little while. Fortunately the rains stopped but the road continued to get worse as the waters drained down from the hills. The bus jostled from sides to side, fell in ruts and slid all over the place. Slowly my serenity began to wane and I held Mike’s hand tightly in mine and I started to wonder if we were still going to make it to Ft. Portal. When the bus got stuck in the mud a second time I almost lost it because I did not feel safe anymore but I was neither surprised nor upset. I was extremely grateful to get out of the bus and stretch my legs. This time I captured the epicness on camera, although at the chagrin of the driver and conductor. On a good day the bus ride from Hoima to Kagadi only takes about 3 hours, that day it took us 5.5 hours (6.5 if you count the 1 hour we waited before we left).
When we got to Kagadi there was no waiting around to start the next and last leg of our trip. Within minutes we were sitting in the relatively comfortable seats in the second row of a coach bus. Our hope had been revived because Fort Portal was the final destination for this bus and only a third of the road there was unpaved. For the first 30 minutes of the ride I couldn’t stop thinking how grateful I am to be alive and amazed that our bus only got stuck twice (don’t think happen in 3s). Little did I know my mind had the power to jinx the whole bus… it got stuck in the mud again. So there I was in a coach bus raging as fast as it could up a slipper muddy slope and even though we were fortunate enough to have the best drive in the world there was no way…there was no way. Instantly the driver started to scream and everyone rushed out of the bus slightly amused, perturbed and perplexed. How does one go about getting a coach bus out of a 12 inch muddy rut and then 100 yards up the rest of the hill? Like I said the stubbornness of African is fierce and every time they pushed they didn’t stop until it moved. And every time it moved a couple of inches their spirits went up and their stubbornness just got more intense. An hour went by with very little progress and I was becoming more and more pessimistic. Mike on the other hand was trilled to watch such an epic scene unfold and he was optimistic that their stubbornness would make them triumphant. One of our fellow passengers said this is an historic trip, it was indeed. After the sun had set and the stars came out there was a sudden roar in the crowd as the bus gained traction and moved several feet. The driver put the pedal to the metal and everyone kept pushing and soon the bus was safely waiting for its passengers at the top of the hill.
Three hours later the bus came to a stop, our journey has come to an end. It was 11:15pm and we were exhausted. We had lived through one of the longest, uncomfortable and most epic days of our lives. But we accomplished something that many Uganda doubted was possible; we made it to Fort Portal from Murchison in one day. All we had left was a quick piki ride to our hostel before we slumbered into our warm, cozy beds and called it a night.
Monday, September 12, 2011
A Trip within a Trip: The Good German, Part 3
So, as I finished my “007”, I pondered the next leg of our journey. Arriving at the park proved to be quit simple, as we were driven by Solomon and his private vehicle. Owning one’s own vehicle is a luxury not many Ugandan’s, and even more so for Bududan’s in my experience, have the means to afford. We felt quit privileged ourselves to be able to travel with such comfort and convenience. We would soon learn, and more intimately than ever before, how convenient and comfortable we truly had it.
When we parted with Solomon and his family, we didn’t just say goodbye to good friends; we also said goodbye to our means of transportation. There is no town to speak of in the Park. There are lodges. Guest arrive, usually in rugged Safari Land Rovers, chartered through tour companies based in Kampala. They shuttle their clients, almost all of which are muzungus, from airport to hotel and from there…anywhere their money wants to go. A few adventurous souls drive their own vehicles, Solomon being one. Furthermore, the overwhelming majority of visitors arrive, and leave, by the paved road to Kampala, or roughly SE. A small few may come from the East or the North where there is a fair amount of NGO’s operating. Even fewer still, choose to leave from the SW. Especially without their own vehicle. Except us. Our plan was to continue traveling SW to Ft. Portal.
As I sat at the bar, continuing to sip my whiskey, shake off my hippo encounter, and inquire about the possibility of such a trip with the bartender James, I observed a patron sitting alone. He was in his early 40’s; tall, stern, dirty and sunburned. At first I thought maybe he worked at the camp, a guide or driver perhaps. He was completely uninterested in interacting with the other guests, who loudly tried to one-up each another with their safari stories of the day. One large group was actually in a heated game of “Asshole” with a deck of cards. This man sat, uninterested, with three empty Niles in front of him.
I slide over to the empty bar stool next to him and introduced myself. He was polite enough, but clearly thought I was of the same crowd as the others behind us. I asked him how long he planned to spend in the park, to which he replied with a shrug and a thick German accent: “Don’t know?” I asked him where he was headed after he left (somewhat hoping he might be heading our direction) and he replied with the same gesture and response, then sipped his beer. Despite the small disappointment that he was not traveling my direction, I immediately liked him. I asked him where he came from, as I was almost sure he was not from a Kampala tour company. To my excitement, he explained how he had arrived by public transport (boda-boda) from the south-west!
I informed him of our intention to leave via that route, and that any info he could pass on would be greatly appreciated. He went on to elaborate on his travels a bit, starting from Kampala, where he took a bus to Ft. Portal, our intended destination. He spent several days there climbing in the fabled “Mountains of the Moon”, the Rwenzori Mountains. My heart began to sink a little when he described how the trip from Ft. Portal to Murchison had taken him 4 days and was some of the roughest traveling he had encountered. We were hoping to travel the distance in a single day. Most of these challenges and delays he attributed to the condition of the road and the heavy rains.
I took out my map and he showed me his route, which was similar to the one Therese and I intended. He said that securing transport was no problem from Bulisa, the closest town outside the park to the west, as there were many boda-boda men waiting for passengers. The ride, he reported, was somewhat perilous, on account of the animals present, and took over an hour.When I informed him of our intention to travel the route in a single day, he chucked and took a large gulp of his beer. He smiled and said, with absolute sincerity: “Good luck!”
We had found the information we needed but we still had one problem. There were no boda-boda men in the park. James, who had been listening on intently, announced that he had a friend who was a boda driver in Bulisa. He arranged a phone call, and within minutes I was negotiating the price for transport. He agreed to meet us at the camp at 7 am sharp. I finished my whiskey, shook the hands of James and the good German, before retiring for the night. I had a suspicion that tomorrow would be a long eventful day, and a good night sleep could prove essential.
When we parted with Solomon and his family, we didn’t just say goodbye to good friends; we also said goodbye to our means of transportation. There is no town to speak of in the Park. There are lodges. Guest arrive, usually in rugged Safari Land Rovers, chartered through tour companies based in Kampala. They shuttle their clients, almost all of which are muzungus, from airport to hotel and from there…anywhere their money wants to go. A few adventurous souls drive their own vehicles, Solomon being one. Furthermore, the overwhelming majority of visitors arrive, and leave, by the paved road to Kampala, or roughly SE. A small few may come from the East or the North where there is a fair amount of NGO’s operating. Even fewer still, choose to leave from the SW. Especially without their own vehicle. Except us. Our plan was to continue traveling SW to Ft. Portal.
As I sat at the bar, continuing to sip my whiskey, shake off my hippo encounter, and inquire about the possibility of such a trip with the bartender James, I observed a patron sitting alone. He was in his early 40’s; tall, stern, dirty and sunburned. At first I thought maybe he worked at the camp, a guide or driver perhaps. He was completely uninterested in interacting with the other guests, who loudly tried to one-up each another with their safari stories of the day. One large group was actually in a heated game of “Asshole” with a deck of cards. This man sat, uninterested, with three empty Niles in front of him.
I slide over to the empty bar stool next to him and introduced myself. He was polite enough, but clearly thought I was of the same crowd as the others behind us. I asked him how long he planned to spend in the park, to which he replied with a shrug and a thick German accent: “Don’t know?” I asked him where he was headed after he left (somewhat hoping he might be heading our direction) and he replied with the same gesture and response, then sipped his beer. Despite the small disappointment that he was not traveling my direction, I immediately liked him. I asked him where he came from, as I was almost sure he was not from a Kampala tour company. To my excitement, he explained how he had arrived by public transport (boda-boda) from the south-west!
I informed him of our intention to leave via that route, and that any info he could pass on would be greatly appreciated. He went on to elaborate on his travels a bit, starting from Kampala, where he took a bus to Ft. Portal, our intended destination. He spent several days there climbing in the fabled “Mountains of the Moon”, the Rwenzori Mountains. My heart began to sink a little when he described how the trip from Ft. Portal to Murchison had taken him 4 days and was some of the roughest traveling he had encountered. We were hoping to travel the distance in a single day. Most of these challenges and delays he attributed to the condition of the road and the heavy rains.
I took out my map and he showed me his route, which was similar to the one Therese and I intended. He said that securing transport was no problem from Bulisa, the closest town outside the park to the west, as there were many boda-boda men waiting for passengers. The ride, he reported, was somewhat perilous, on account of the animals present, and took over an hour.When I informed him of our intention to travel the route in a single day, he chucked and took a large gulp of his beer. He smiled and said, with absolute sincerity: “Good luck!”
We had found the information we needed but we still had one problem. There were no boda-boda men in the park. James, who had been listening on intently, announced that he had a friend who was a boda driver in Bulisa. He arranged a phone call, and within minutes I was negotiating the price for transport. He agreed to meet us at the camp at 7 am sharp. I finished my whiskey, shook the hands of James and the good German, before retiring for the night. I had a suspicion that tomorrow would be a long eventful day, and a good night sleep could prove essential.
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