Top 10 Things We’ll Miss About Living in Africa

Number 10:  Living in a house blasting the same gospel CD every Sunday evening

Number 9.  Seeing our high school alma mata on a faded T-shirt worn by some one neither of us graduated with….Yeah Class of ’99 (or ’98)

Number 8: Intimacy of Matatu rides….and their efficiency, who knew that 23 people can fit into one of those things?

Fantasy Ride it was not

Number 7:  Practicing the artful ways of walking the streets of Kampala…Watch out … for the … hooooooole!

Josh's walk to work circumvented these obstacles

Number 6:  The sweet, sweet tastes of mangos, avocados, and pineapples all for a price WallMart can’t even beat.  While we’re on the food thing, we’ll also miss blending African and more familiar foods for a fine stay-at-home dinner…Do I smell chapati pizza?

Number 5:  Eight hour bus rides on the day before Christmas.  Not your average East African bus ride.  During the Christmas time of year the bus has about one live chicken for every 2.5 persons by the time it pulls into Kampala

Live chickens one for 20,000, two for 35,000

 Number  4:  Straight men holding hands

Number 3:  Backpacks and tote bags, What!  We have heads and bicycles for that sort of thing.

Number  2:  Celebrity status….Muzungu! Muzungu!

And the Number 1 Thing We’ll Miss About Living in Africa:  SAWA SAWA SAWA YEAH…everywhere we go, over and over and over again.

Of course, let’s not forget the sunsets

Our Last Day in Africa

2 January, 2012

The sun was shining bright this morning as we awoke for our last day in Africa.  Here in Kigali we can still hear the sounds of birds laughing at us, and smell the crisp fresh air—for some reason it doesn’t seem to be as polluted as other East African countries.  The Monday following New Years Eve (when New Years falls on a weekend) is a holiday—so we were told the genocide memorial sites would be closed (these are churches where many Tutsis sought refuge thinking they would be safe, but instead were the site of mass murders by the Hutus).  We were slightly bummed, as there is not much else to do in Kigali.  Although we had already spent a good part of the day at the Genocide Memorial Museum in Kigali before heading to the gorillas, we were told the other sites are extremely powerful as well and worth the trek.

After breakfast we took a walk up, up, and up some more.  I can’t help but think that these Rwandans must have some nice looking calves, probably all the Rwandans do in this hilly nation.   After some debate and talking to travel agents who had no idea as to whether or not the sites were open today we decided to give it a go.  After all, we’re in Rwanda and even if the sites were closed, it would be an adventure and surely worth the trip.

Since spending $80 on a private taxi isn’t really our style, we headed to the taxi park (here they call it bus park) with a few location pronoun pronunciations at the tip of our tongues ready to inquire about our destination.  Two muzungus walk into the Kigali bus park with no luggage and they are going to one place.  “Nyamata, here!”  We were shown a matatu just about fully occupied ready to take us in.  Are all these people going to the memorial sites?  Turns out, there are a lot of other reasons to go to this town. 

After a beautiful 50-minute ride, we arrived at the tiny town of Nyamata in the Bugasero district.  Although no part of Rwanda was spared in the genocide, the Bugesero district was hardest hit due to the high concentration of Tutsi people living there.  Back during the first few genocides in the area, around the 1950s, they were in some ways banished to the area, because of its high concentration of wild buffalo, elephant and other dangerous animals.  The Tutsi people, over the years, built a nice place for themselves in the Bugasero area.  From the town center, we hopped on a couple of “motos” (motor bikes) and the drivers escorted us to the first site.  On a money-saving side note, we ended up spending $16 on transportation (and met some interesting locals along the way not to mention the scenic and exhilarating moto ride), and decided that we need to re-write the guidebooks. 

We drove about 5 minutes to the main Nyamata church.  It had purple and white ribbons around the building and its columns.  Inside there were the triangle flags hanging from string sloping between the building’s support beams (these were also in purple and white, but were of the same type that we see at car dealerships).  I will admit that my naïve initial thought was that this was in anticipation of a wedding celebration, as it did resemble the decorations of the one African wedding I attended.  I was very wrong.

There is very much an exhibit here—and it is very disturbing.  The objects on display are in the open: clothing, bones, jewelry worn by victims, pens, student notebooks, machetes used to kill thousands of people, and a stick used to torture and brutalize women in the worst way imaginable.

The glass encasement surrounding the bones was open, the mass graves are still receiving remains.  In one part of our tour there were two bags with a typed name on a single sheet of paper.  One bag was filled with human remains, the other held the clothing of the victim, who, like many, was hiding in the field where he was killed on the spot, undiscovered until yesterday (17 years later).  Apparently this is a common scenario. A past so near you can touch it.

Much like my grandmother once led a group of visitors to the Birkenau concentration camp and told them the layout of the camp and how events occurred there, our guide at the second church we visited was a survivor.  He is a Tutsi, the group that was the focus of the genocide, who hid in a swamp for two weeks after his father was shot dead in front of their house walking in for lunch.  Our guide fled, narrowly escaping more bullets fired into their property.  He ran and never saw his mother and all but one of his brothers again.  He heard the grenade explosions at the church we were at that are still evident by the jagged gaping holes decorating its walls. 

In Nyamata the first evidence of the massacre is the exposed brick beneath the cement ground just outside the threshold.  The black security swinging gate is missing some of its crossbars.  The explosions around and in the church are a consequence of victims in the church staving off their eventual killers for a few days until backup (the government soldiers in this case) was called and grenades and guns arrived at the site.  Both guides made a point to emphasize the role the government played in carrying out the genocide.  Civilians, who made up both the militia and the victims, were not allowed to carry firearms. 

In both church memorial sites clothing was a prominent feature on display.  The clothing on the inside of the Naymaya church lay on benches.  Heaps of clothing are piled so that you cannot see the several layers on the bottom.  Once inside, visitors are surrounded by articles of clothing worn by the victims the day they were killed.  In the back, between the two entrances is a large alcove piled with the clothes children were wearing.  When adults realized that the end for them was imminent, they begged mercy for the children and babies, separating them in another part of the church where they huddled together.  No mercy was shown, instead children and babies were killed in the most gruesome manner: the killers held their leg and smashed them against the wall.

The shirts and dresses, once full of color and life, look like old dirty rags.  Everything was blood-soaked immediately after the massacre, so all the articles have a similar brownish stale color to them.  The floors, we were told, was a large pool of blood.

The ceiling also has bloodstains as grenade explosions left pieces shooting through the ceiling.    The evidence of this event is everywhere.

Relatives of the victims dug mass gravesites both inside the Nyamata church and immediately behind.  There are hundreds of skulls—some depicting exactly how each individual probably perished.  Mostly, there are machete wounds on the skulls, sometimes a skull shows a gaping hole in the head or where the eye socket was.  One skull had a bullet or the tip of a spear still lodged inside it.

Ten thousand people lost their lives at one church over two days, five thousand at the second, also over two days.  Thousands of Tutsis gathered in the church thinking that it would be a safe haven as it had been in past Tutsi killing sprees—surely other Christians would not murder people in the house of God.  Instead this place of peace became an easy target for the murderers as there was nowhere to run. To make this already nauseating story worse—neighbors, classmates, and friends were committing the killings.  The efficiency of the 100 days of genocide in 1994, resulting in the death of 800,000 innocent people was largely because the killers were part of the community, all over the country, each one having inside information.  Hutus were the majority of the population, and had deliberately and systematically been brainwashed by the government in preparation for the genocide.  There was nowhere to run.

At the second site we visited, after our tour concluded, I asked the guide what he thought when seeing victims of the genocide with missing limbs (many of whom beg for money)?  He mentioned something about the importance of being present for those absent and not absent in one’s presence.  He went on to tell us that he often gives motivational talks to young survivors about the importance of looking toward a bright future instead of letting their ideas and spirit be drowned in the wake of the terrible genocide  He is trying to be an honest, stand-up person who exudes the gentleness and fortitude of his lost parents.  He built a new house on the same site of the destroyed home he was raised in.  He is married and now has a daughter.  He is the presence of the victims and tries to embody their best characteristics.   

It is a very sad, terrible, and unimaginable event to scar such a beautiful country.  The paradox between it’s gorgeous lush rolling hills that rumble along to the sunset and the ugliness of what happened in those hills is hard to ever fully understand. Rwanda is now one of the safest and most developed countries in Africa.  The new government has made valiant efforts to erase the Tutsi and Hutu labels.  Now all Rwandans are Rwandans.  While that doesn’t make what happened any easier to digest, it does provide hope for a more peaceful future.

Gorillas, well, in the Mist

28 December, 2011

The Great Rift Valley in the morning haze

Susa Gorilla resting before lunchtime

Today we checked off another item on the Once-in-a-Lifetime Things to do in Africa list.  We saw firsthand the species with which our DNA most resembles, the great (and lazy) mountain gorilla.  That gorilla trek was pretty incredible.  We started out with the intention of fitting ourselves into a group that had a challenging hike before encountering the furry guys.  That was easy.  Our group assignment was the Susa group, the largest family.  The same family Diane Fossy studied in what became the well known flick, with a title that shares that of this post.  This family also happens to have three silverbacks, about 400 pounds of black furry brawn testosterone, and a set of two month old twins.  Needless to say, at the start of the day, we were excited.

After an hour drive to some area near where they like to roam, we embarked on a fast-paced uphill climb through farmland and many waving kids screaming, or just learning to say, Bonjour!  (Oh yes, one of the three Rwandan national languages is French, it is a little odd skipping around Africa and hearing a variety of Western languages.)  The steep, and sometimes rocky climb, came to a pause at the entrance to the actual Parc de Volcanoes.  It got dark and vine-y real fast.  We didn’t have to go as far as we anticipated before we ran into the trackers—the guys who set out at some ridiculous hour in the morning to find the gorilla family, who also stick around and protect the gorillas after we view them for the rest of the day until they nest for slumber. It’s reassuring to know that our money is going to protect the species as well as for our enamorment and enjoyment.

Sitting in the trampled fauna of the forest the Susa family were seemingly waiting for us, or at least that’s what we like to believe.  They were resting, napping perhaps, before their big lunch of bamboo and leaves—they’re vegetarians, save for the ants they eat for protein. 

The first 20 minutes we were watching them laze around, and sometimes pick at each other.  We saw a mama carry one of the newborns on her back, and were fortunate enough to have them both look our way.

The second silverback (not the clan leader) bounded away and the rest of them seemed to disappear as well.  We followed the silverback to our right and watched him commence lunch.

Bon apetit, Mr. Silverback

Our guide led us back up the way, through the now empty area where we first saw about sixteen Susa, and around a tree.  There was one juvenile up in a tree, another few eating right in front of us, the silverback, clan leader, scratching himself and picking ants out of his toes, and a few more soon joined the party.

I once had the seven year itch….I scratched real hard and got rid of it in three and a half years.

Quicker than a late season episode of The Wire, our time was up and it we had to say goodbyes.  It was incredible to see these mountain beasts in their element, so indifferent to us visitors whispering and snapping hundreds of photos.  As Nicole said, he looks like a man in a gorilla suit.  They are formed just like us: their mouths, fingers, and movements all so similar to ours.    Not much else to say.  You should go try it when you have a chance.

And like that, our adventures are nearing an end.  We are heading out to Lake Kivu in the western part of the country for the next three nights, then we start our journey to the Promised Land.

A Meeting with Sex Workers in Kampala

2 December, 2011 (from the archive)

Who’s a tougher crowd—sex workers in the slums of Kampala or teens in the South Bronx?  I’m still not sure.

Yesterday proved to be quite an eventful. day  My NGO works with several community based organizations (CBO’s) to more effectively accomplish our mission.  We train peer educators, provide resources and encourage communities to help themselves.  In this manner, ideally, a community is more invested in seeing projects through.

One of my tasks here is to “strengthen our relationship with HIV/AIDS prevention CBO’s.  So, I figured the best way to do this would be to meet with the head of a CBO and figure out their needs and then visit their community, one of the worst slums in Kampala.  Our meeting with the leader of the CBO went well, he was excited of the prospect of white people coming to talk to his community. 

In the hours leading up to our visit, I was trying come up with a an effective lesson plan for this community.  I decided that both a male condom demonstration and female condom demonstration were essential. And since EVERYONE talks about HIV/AIDS, I decided to focus on all the other STIs that are common here.

The team and I packed into the company car and we set off for Bwaise.  When we arrived at what we thought was the office, we were warmly greeted by a man named George who took us up some stairs and into a very modest office.  We quickly learned that we were in the wrong place—the office of a different NGO, but an admirable one at that.   Where I come from the normal courtesy would be to excuse ourselves and go on our merry way concerned about being late for our engagement, but here in Uganda there is no way to make a quick exit, and people are not caught up in the constraints of time.  We were given packets of information about the NGO, learned about their cause and brainstormed ways we can partner with them in future activities.  We learned, the NGO helps children with severe congenital problems find funding to have surgery in India.  Before we left, George, the director showed us their next case, an 8 month old boy whose heart is on the outside of his body. He is leaving for India on Saturday for surgery.  Fingers crossed all goes well. It was crazy.  I have never seen anything like that.

When we finally left our new friends (and potential new partners) at Action for Disadvantaged People, an hour had passed.  We found a leader of the CBO who directed us through the back of a slum, past people cooking and cleaning (all of whom exclaimed “muzungu! muzungu!” and touch me) to a small shack of a place.  We found out later that our meeting was being held in the local brothel.

About 20 people (mostly sex workers and a few men from the community) were waiting for us.  Another 20 people came and went during the session and many others poked their heads in periodically through a small window.   The women were extremely attentive and inquisitive, but with a tough affect and demeanor.  One of the first questions that came my way was “Why did you white people bring AIDS here?”  Wow—turns out this is a common myth, which I quickly dispelled.  Next question please: “Why are you white people hiding the cure to AIDS?”  Wow again.  I’m still not sure that they believed me when I told them people die of AIDS in America, too.  And I know they don’t believe me when I say there are poor people in America.  After navigating such questions, I won over the crowd with my condom presentation and showing them pictures of STDs.  It was quite a sobering moment when a hand shot up while I was talking about HPV and how it can cause cervical cancer,  “What is cancer?,” she asked.  A prime example of the stark contrast between our worlds.

After the presentation was over, and all questions were asked and answered, one of my colleagues went to get refreshments that we had promised the attendees.  One of the women followed him and said matter-of-factly, “Don’t get us soda—we’d prefer beer.”  At that moment, I couldn’t have agreed more!

The Beauty of Rwanda

26 December 2011

The other day we made our way from Kigali to Kinigi…by way of  matatu, would it be anything else?   Before the home of the gorillas, first we must discuss Rwanda, and it’s capital, Kigali.  Rwanda is home of the world’s most recent genocide, but one would never know it slicing into the country through the jaw dropping Great Rift Valley with hills upon hills that never seem to stop.  Rwanda is probably one of the most beautiful countries I’ve seen.  It sits in the heart of the Great Rift Valley.  Known as the land of a thousand hills, it is more hilly than the French Alps, and roads are more windy than the last song on Abbey Road.  There is a dense cluster of volcanoes on the border of Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC which makes up the heart of the lava bed which lives beneath the Rift Valley in these countries.  Apparently, the hills are slowly rising in the ring of bulges surrounding the core volcanoes. 

Rwanda is quite a shock for any persons, like ourselves, living in East Africa for the last four months.  For starters, the roads!  They are paved!  With lines painted clearly.  The sides aren’t a jagged erosion that looks like someone pulled old tape off a bad paint job.  There is a curb.  And sidewalks!  But people still walk on the side without the sidewalk, because they Afri-can.  Traffic lights exist and are obeyed, they even have a countdown to alert drivers when the green and red light will change.  The boda bodas are all registered which means drivers wear a vest of sorts with their number on it and are required to carry a helmet for their passenger (only one passenger per boda, unlike in Kampala where you can see upwards of 5 passengers on one bike: smallest kid in front, driver, kid, kid, parent). 

Kigali is set on a few hills and is very reminiscent of San Francisco in that regard.  The people are helpful, but seemingly not as friendly as those we have seen thus far.  As we all know in 1994 during the months of roughly April – June, 800,000 Rwandans were brutally murdered at the hands of the Hutu ruling majority, they made up about 85% of the population. The country was severely divided into Hutus and Tutsis, and after such a savage display of humanity, a future without similar reprisals and retribution seemed unlikely.  Despite the odds, Rwanda has pushed forward and been able to garner a reputation as a country without a divide, everyone is Rwandan, at least that is what we are told and read.

Beautiful roads and a government that scoffs at corruption aside, elements of 17 years ago are still in the forefront.  The man in charge of collecting money and distributing tickets at the taxi stand is missing a finger, another young man taps people with an arm that stubs after the elbow asking for money, the nice young gentleman who practically runs the hotel we patronize speaks of the genocide episode as something that we must never forget, but also a phase in time we must move forward from.  Most everyone we run into was there when during those dark 100 days hundreds of thousands of their fellow countrymen were brutally murdered.  It is a very discomforting idea to process.  We were not in Kigali long enough to really speak to anyone about this or get a general pulse of the people, but after visiting the Genocide Memorial, a museum erected to educate about the genocide, I did not know how the country can move forward from such a thing.  But as humans do, they have bounced back, however, awkward the bounce may be, and hopefully the future is bright.  

The Clinic Up Country and a Wedding

Monday, 19^th December

Last Friday Nicole left Kampala to travel up country to a birthing center/clinic started by two American midwives, one of whom is based in Brooklyn for half the year, now, and in Atiak, the town I’m resting in, now.

I say resting in, because it really is a rest.  I worked for the last 17 of 18 days to ensure a proper transfer of my activities, and I write you now from a hammock in the birthing quarters.  There are no birthing patience disturbing at the moment, though I’m told they don’t make much noise at all during labor.  Strong women.  Strong women who have a very tough life, but I’ll let Nicole opine more on that later.

Today is Monday, I arrived yesterday afternoon after attending my colleague’s sister’s wedding.  I don’t believe it was a full sister, more of a half sister of sorts, maybe what we would call a first cousin, or maybe a mixture of the two.  I didn’t really want to dig too deep into the familial dynamic so I can’t relay the particulars of that family tree.

Saturday morning I hitched a ride with my colleague, her husband, other sister (half sister? as I didn’t really see her at the wedding, perhaps I just missed her), and husband’s cousin.  We were packed in that car with my big backpack and their Christmas break luggage for their soirée in Soroti.  Early in the trip I had the opportunity to rearrange the “boot” so my bag could stop disturbing us in the back seat.  Ugandans need to start playing Tetris.

Despite arriving in Lira with plenty of time to spare we were still late to the ceremony by about 15 minutes.  The church made me think of what an auditorium for a school in the South would be like.  At least the benches were the height of an elementary school’s auditorium.  There were some nice purple and white decorations along the sides which matched the bridal party’s outfits, and the obligatory Jesus is Good banner with his picture.  A white Jesus I might add.  Maybe that’s why, as a white man in Uganda (who is Jewish, too) I am such a celebrity among the kids.  It’s the same man they see on the wall every Sunday!

Time for a Game of Fortunately/Unfortunately

Unfortunately: The whole ceremony was in Luo, the local language of my colleague’s family/tribe. 

Fortunately, I was the only white person in the room of close to 250, so it was expected I wouldn’t understand anything. 

Unfortunately, it was hot and I had to keep my shirt on, unlike the boy in his mother’s arms 7 rows in front from me.

Fortunately, the ceiling fan closest to me was working, there were six of them, and only one other was working.

Unfortunately, the ceiling was pretty far away. 

Fortunately, I had a personal translator for the pastor’s sermon which was about treating each other with love and respect,

Unfortunately, he didn’t use those words.  He said, Don’t beat your wife, she is a treasure; when you argue, argue in Luo or in English, don’t mix languages because you might say something you don’t mean (I’m still trying to figure that one out); and then something about the groom’s big forehead becoming a characteristic you come to loath in your later years, learn to love it (again, WHAT?). 

Fortunately, the precarious flower pot near my head did not topple over on me or anyone else around during the surmon.

Unfortunately, the sermon went on for over an hour and half. 

Fortunately, I had an aisle seat for the recessional action which involved a walk consisting of a pattern of one step forward, rock back, rock forward, back again, forward again and then the next step forward.  All the walkers performed it perfectly in sync.  Well done Betty and Gerald (is it ok if I call you Jerry), and the rest of your bridal party.

Speaking of party, the reception was shall I say a spectacle.  The scene involved a series of open tents housing the guests on the typical plastic, easily stackable, chairs, which were arranged in a semicircle around the center area.  Something I learned about these weddings is that there is a lot of community involvement.  A committee is charged with preparing all the necessary means for the reception to elicit a community feel.  Thus, only some people actually receive invitations, the rest of the community is entitled to come.  And they came….bearing gifts of giant ceramic pots, money and chickens, very much alive chickens.  The gift giving ceremony included a sort of African conga line of the people carrying the gifts, and it is combined with the reception line, so everyone has a chance to shake hands and hug the Bride and Groom. 

But the party didn’t start just yet.  There were plenty of speeches, not just by the immediate family but any Members of Parliament (MPs) related to the wedded.  This can make things go long and off topic if political talk is not your thing.  Since we are not near an election we were spared much of the political tangent.

The ceremony of the reception went on to the cake cutting (with dancing) and some more speeches.  Finally it was time for food, but before I could even say Mazel Tov, the five food stations each had a line of 70 or so people squished and queued up for the feast.  Sounds of Jesus is the Greatest and some Kenny Rogers blasted through the gigantic speakers situated very near these lines.  I knew some people so we managed to cut one of these lines for a fastlane to the feast.  The standard, rice, matoke, goat’s meat, chicken, g-nut sauce, beans, and greens.  Save for some fish. It was not much different than my everyday work lunch.  I imagine they don’t make such a fuss over caterers and tastings in these parts.

Just when the party was getting started and I was starting to learn some new hip gyrating moves, the rains came for the third time in the day.  Major bummer.  Many people left and others took their drinks under cover.  Almost 45 minutes later it let up enough for me to head to my hotel.  The weird thing was that no one seemed upset about this.  I think most of the wedding festivities were over and people were going to be leaving anyway. 

Though it wasn’t the rockin’ experience I anticipated, it was an authentic African wedding and I can say I’ve attended one.

By 2pm on Sunday I reached the clinic.  Yes, the road from Gulu to Atiok is bad, but what exactly does that mean?  1) it is dusty: when a double trailer truck or a bus passes by it is a good idea to have those windows closed, my bag sitting on the roof, I can ’t say I was able to keep that protected from the elements.  2) We rode at about 30 to 40 mph for over 2 hours to reach the town.  3) the ruts and holes on this road are bad, falling off the side of the road is a very real possibility if the driver is not careful.

But we were successful in our journey and I was dropped off right outside the clinic, door-to-door service.  It’s pretty much always the case.  Transportation here is no joke, there is a taxi, bus, or car to take you anywhere, it just requires some waiting.  I’ve learned to be patient.

The Clinic

The stories I’ve been hearing over the past week on my calls with Nicole are true.  It’s a compound of a few different huts, the hut Nicole was sleeping in has a nesting hen, keeping its eggs incubated at the foot of one of the two beds, it’s really quite nice.  The birthing center is basically a giant hut with eight small offshoot rooms which act as birthing rooms and one as an office.  The large middle space with bright orange and blue wall paint center around three very comfortable hammocks, which brings me to where I am right now, relaxing.  The business of birthing is slow at the clinic right now because of some rumors being spread by other traditional birth midwives who were not given the job at the clinic.  So there is some concern that a reputation building needs to take place: set a positive presence in the community.  I have a feeling that this won’t last long because this place is MUCH nicer than any option even within a two hour radius from here.  Two hours on a bumpy, dusty, sandy, skinny back—way-back—country road is nothing a woman in labor wants to experience. 

It’s no Ikea Bookshelf

I spent my morning helping out two, let us call them, contractors put together an 100% authentic African thatched roof.  They are building another sleeping quarters.  The circular shape foundation and walls are already in place, and today work on the roof began.  I was tasked with procuring material, specifically making the rope they will use to tie the skeleton structure together.  We used two kinds of wood, bamboo and another type of tree type from which we stripped long skinny pieces from to create the rope.  The starting point for stripping away the rope from the bark can be done with a few machete cuts or by merely biting into the bark.  I learned the proper method after some failure, but all learning comes with a little failure at first, and some Ugandans to laugh at you.  Each limb yields four long strips of rope.  And each hour of work yields some very numb finger tips.  It’s not easy work but the concept is certainly simple.  I’m on vacation now so I only worked half the day.  Tomorrow we put on the thatching and maybe throw that baby up on top.  You know, raise the roof.

All wrapped up in Kampala

….And a very merry Hanukkah Night 5  and a happy X-mas, too

Saturday, 17^th December

It’s been a while since I last spoke of the work I’ve been doing here.  I think the last thing I talked about was Interview Candidate #4.  Well I got a News Flash! Interview Candidate # 4 didn’t show up for an appointment he made to discuss terms of the contract.  Four days later another News Flash! Interview Candidate #4 alerts us that he has accepted a job from another organization (thanks but no thanks).  One and a half weeks later yet another News Flash! Interview Candidate #4 shows up at our door asking us to again to be considered for the position.  He says that the organization he accepted the job from had not been truthful about the amount of travel he would be doing. 

I discussed this with my colleagues and, at first, we disagreed on how to handle this.  My feeling was that he did a poor job managing his interview process and should have strung us along by not making the appointment to discuss contract issues.  Instead, he doesn’t show up for his appointment and prematurely sends us a notice about his other job offer.  He is a young man near the beginning of his professional career, let’s cut him a break.

However, my colleagues felt different.  They said that this exemplified the typical Ugandan way of doing things: coming to us when he wanted something but not alerting us of his absence for our meeting (his excuse was that his internet was down, he tried phoning the office but the office phone didn’t work, and the only other number he had was that of our ED, which he tried but she was in a workshop).  Perhaps this isn’t someone who will go above and beyond the call of duty, a key characteristic we are looking for.

Fast forward, we interview four more candidates for the position and hire a young woman capable of the job, though I had to teach her the double-click method for selecting icons (she has chosen to continue her right-click campaign despite my protests against right click > Open).  Almost simultaneously, we interviewed seven candidates for the Finance Officer position and found a really smart person from an International NGO, which we had to make a new category in our salary for, but he is well worth it.  He is plenty excited to get started and start tinkering around with the Excel tools I made to generate reports, and log transactions.  His past experience at a well run Netherland-sponsored NGO has equipped him with great ideas to make the internal operations more cohesive and robust.  Good Luck to you, Samuel.

One difference with employment in Uganda is that both these new employees’ former organizations required a one and two month(s) resignation notice, respectively.  If they were to leave any sooner, then the missing weeks of pay would be a burden of the employee.  In both cases, since we needed them to start during that penalty period, we shouldered the penalty.  We have also changed our contracts to reflect a one month notice, or pay stipulation.  When in Rome…

The rest of my time at work was spent training new staff, ironing out all the changes I made, teaching them to the staff, and making sure I leave a proper trail of the new way of doing things.  Dropbox was a big implementation—for those curious, I ditched the Google Docs because of strong recommendations from a consultant the organization will have as part of a grant they are participating in.  Concerns such as network reliability are serious here, and Dropbox allows users to update forms and documents while not online, which Google does not provide, yet.

So now I’m finished.  Made a few manuals and did my very best in attacking as many issues regarding the internal operations as I could with the intention that it is sustainable, easy to carry out in my absence.  I organized a protocol for budgeting which will allow them to better plan for the future as opposed to making funding requests based on short-term immediate needs, and I learned a lot about NGOs and how they can get so much done with so little resources.  There is a lot of work to do here, and people are knowledgeable in the subject matter, but there could definitely be more technical support when it comes to regular office management, financing, and conducting monitoring and evaluation (M&E) two to four times a year. 

What Was it Like?

The big question I would ponder before departing on this journey was What will it be like?  Working and living in Uganda.  What is Kampala like?  I’d never even seen an African city before this trip.  What will the office be like?  What will the people be like?  How will I get to work?  How big are the snakes?  Those were the fears.  My hopes revolved around being able to make an impact at my org.  Lucky for me and them, the role I played was in line with my strengths and much more pivotal than I could have ever imagined.

Working in Kampala was an experience, to say the least.  I can honestly say that the first month to month-and-a-half were much more difficult than the last month and change.  The longer we were here, the more I felt like we could do this for a longer stretch of time.  The this I’m referring to is not the life that Ugandans lead, though.  Our fellow muzungu friends all had cars, nice large living spaces, ate plenty of nice meals (out or cooking in), and had a comfortable network where they would frequently see each other as a large group.  Always something to do.  It was similar to life in New York, but a lot more manageable, we were not overwhelmed with a social life here, but we certainly enjoyed the company we kept: unique and fascinating people with similar interests to ourselves.

In the last few weeks I did not let my frustrations get the best of me.  Sure I had my rare—and much needed—venting of emotions in whatever form it came out in, but in Uganda, in Kampala, like any abroad situation, it is best to roll with the punches.  When the price is too high, bargain it lower; when the taxi is crowded, shrink up into a ball and throw your hand out the window beckoning for more to join; when it’s just another boring Sunday, go to church to hum along to the beats of Jesus and Jehovah; and when it’s raining so hard that you can’t see the ground in front of you, just wait it out, everyone will understand.  Just one thing I never got used to, everyone answers their phones.  I trained two new employees and each incoming call was handled.  Learn to expect it and use it as a bathroom break.

Wrap your Head Around This

Someone just asked me in an e-mail what has blown my mind, most, here.  As we near the end of our three-month stretch it’s probably a good idea to reflect back and begin to process all we’ve done and seen.  I thought about this question for a while, here’s my answer.

I wrote the previous post a few weeks ago—though I tricked you and posted it a few days ago—and I think is a good prologue to answering the question at hand.  We are both amazed, in a few ways, at at the world which exists here.  The first is communication and language among those that live in the slums and don’t speak a common language.  It is a world where day-to-day interactions between boda-boda drivers and the street-side lady selling ground nuts is done by pointing to the desired item and responding with the number of fingers representing the first of the four-digit price.  It’s like watching a foreigner buy something in the local language, but this is routine among locals.

Uganda’s national language is English.  The other East African countries—Kenya and Tanzania—both nationalized Swahili.  I’ve heard that Swahili was the language used by Amin’s men as they brutalized people in most of the country, and no one wants to speak it.  Luganda is the second national language (yup there are two national languages) and is most similar to the other 100 or so languages spoken here.  I’m guessing they chose English over Luganda because it gives the country a better chance of competing with the global world.  Still, speaking English outside of Kampala is like playing baseball on a cricket field, it just doesn’t work that well.  It is astonishing to think that an entire country can struggle to communicate within itself.

Unfortunately, even in Kampala it is difficult to understand the accent on some people.  There is a heavy accent from one’s local language, on top of the British accent they learn in the school.  I’ve been hearing a stronger, cleaner, British accent in the younger people, or those working at the bank, because they have been schooled abroad.  Yet, that is not always the case at our offices.  Often in meetings, and especially over the phone, I have realized I’m not the only one asking people to repeat themselves.  Maybe the phone network is not a high quality, or the phones are poor.  It just seems like there is always a wall to talk over and conversation does not always come through clearly.  Other times there is a failure to fully explain something.  For instance, we asked a man for directions and he pointed back the way we came and said, “slope down.”  (Maybe because Kampala is a city of many hills “slope down” and “slope up” are inevitably in every set of directions.)  The way I would have phrased those directions is this: “Turn around, and make your first right and go down the hill, at the end of the street turn left and you’ll find the restaurant you are looking for.” 

The glass is more than half full, Uganda has come a very long way in a relatively short period.  One hundred and fifty years ago the British came here with the English language and tea to name a few things.  Back then there were no roads, no shillings, no government and parliament system, and not much contact with the rest of the world.  When things move too quickly not everyone in a large country can keep up at the same pace.  We see that when we head up country.  People in the rural area are not too concerned with the government (they are easily bribed to vote a certain way), money, and all the other treasures from the developed world.  As long as there is land and perhaps a bicycle life is complete.  My colleague’s family in the “village” has never seen a TV, movie, and probably never read a book.  That’s sort of mind blowing.

One More Mind Explosion

Here’s something else that recently blew my mind.  A sack of sugar about one and a half the size of a large potato sack was purchased by someone at the office the other day.  Four of my colleagues split the sack for their own personal consumption.  Already knowing the answer, I decided to ask anyway: What are you going to do with all that sugar?  Use it for tea, of course.  Anything else?  No, just tea, maybe make a cake for the holidays.  There isn’t much baking going on in these parts.  Now, I’m fine with using the sugar strictly for tea, nothing wrong with that, but why is there basically one kind of tea?

Despite Internet and Mobile Phones….

….Everything else is a throwback to earlier times.  I am often reminded of the life my grandmother lived when she was a young girl in 1930s Poland.  Ugandans that are not wealthy, the majority—those without two-story homes and big fancy Mercedes Benz’s—use tools to clean and cook similar to those grandma likely used in the “old town.”  The main type of work is sustenance farming, cleaning, and running a small roadside business.  After work women sit on the roadside selling maize on the cob slowly roasted over a coal fire.  Commuters sitting in “the jam” place their order from the car (think taxi driver buying a pretzel just outside the Lincoln Tunnel).  Other times people walking home on the roadside will stop for a fresh roasted ear.  It’s interesting to see how the two worlds (those with cars and driveways vs. those who survive without electricity or running water) intersect. The class-divide, although in existence throughout the world, seems more apparent here.  I heard someone say that life in Africa is “life in the raw” and we both now have a very clear picture of what that means.  I’m reminded of this phrase often, especially when I  walk by dwellings with no privacy: where cooking, bathing, laughing, eating and general living are done essentially in public.

Instruments are seemingly impromptu.  Brooms consist of a bunch of straw tied together at the end.  Every once in a while a stick is attached to the bundle, but most everyone else I see with the broom, bends at the waist to sweep, sweep, sweep the dust that never seems to go away.  Mops are ad hoc too.  In the big center-of-town shopping center, much of mall promenade area is outside, covered by an overhang.  After it downpours—as it often does for a few minutes every day this time of year—the mall staff is out with squeegees that have an old towel draped over the rubber blade, pushing it around the floor and wringing it over a bucket.  I think I’ve seen them clean the floor with soapy water in much the same fashion.

How do I open this can of tuna that I brought 7,000 miles to my kitchen in Kampala?  Well, that dull knife used to peel carrots and apples, yeah, that one over there, point it straight down into the inside rim of the can and bang on the butt of the handle.  Move it over a centimeter or two and repeat, all the way around the can.  Tuna never tasted so good when the work to open it is so palm-numbing.  (Editor’s Note: In order to facilitate more quantities of tuna, I broke down and bought a can opener for $1.50.)

Grandma always had a way of getting the grass stains out of my jeans, and was the woman to turn to in order to get the good silverware polished and looking great for the holidays.  Now, when I scrub the heck out of my socks and other clothing, I realize that this is a much more efficient way to get those pesky stains out, at least to be certain they come out.  Sure there is Tide and Tide with Bleach, GM performs studies and experiments and spends millions of dollars to find the best way for their state-of-the-art machines to get those stains out without elbow grease, but from the looks of my sparkling clean tennis shorts, there is nothing quite like a bar of soap and some knuckle rubbing.  It’s too bad I have the cuts on my hands to prove it.

The Commute Smackdown: The Kampala Matatu vs. The NYC Metro

That Announcer Guy that Made Himself Famous on One Line:  Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the showdown of the world.  Northern Hemisphere vs Southern Hemisphere.  White vs Black.  Developed vs Developing.  Metro vs Matatu.  Who will win in the battle of the commute?  It’s New York City vs Kampala.   Let me ask you, ladies and gentlemen……ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLLLLE!!!!!

In the red and yellow trunks standing at a bustling 1.2 million people with many more uncounted.  A vast network of a soccer mom’s dream, a crusade of sliding-door vans in the hundreds, licensed to carry 14 passengers, but really, who’s counting?  All on the bumpy and often disappearing unnamed streets of Kampala.  Let me introduce to you the little engine that could… The KAMPALA MATATUUUUUU!!!!

In the blue trunks standing at 8.2 million people and counting.  A most robust transit system with both letters and numbers.  A sustaining record of timeliness and melting pot-ness, but don’t go near him on the weekends.  Ladies and gentlemen, your reigning heavyweight champ.  The NEW YORK CITY METROOOOOO!!!!!

[Crowd Cheers]

Hank:  Hi folks, we are just moments away from the first round action.  Bill, I think this is going to be a war of attrition.  Kampala has really been developing in the last few years.  He doesn’t have as much on the line tonight and should be very relaxed.  No reason to walk fast anywhere.

Bill:  Walk fast, perhaps not, but drive fast, he will.  But New York is banking on pure experience to keep the belt after this one is over.  And there is certainly that weekend strength he has that will cripple any commuter.  I’m sure The Matatu will come out swinging.

Hank:  To add to your point, Bill, we know the Matatu is a god fearing beast, and is working hard to have god.  Besides the regular Rasta-colored and sport fanatic decals on his front and back, he’s got all sorts of religious decals: God is Great, Jesus will Save, and The Lord is My Provider, Glory be to the Lord, and the most truthful, Sat is Sabbath.

[Ding Ding]

Hank:  There’s the bell and we have begun.  Right out of the gate, just as you predicted Bill, The Matatu is swinging.   It’s all offence with nothing much to protect.  It seems like he is always there begging you to come on for the ride even when you don’t want him.  And when you do want him he is there as well, waiting for you to walk down the street and reach the corner.  A model of efficiency….and care!

Bill:  Couldn’t be more the case right now.  The Metro took a big hit to the head as The Matatu comes out with his patented move: hitting a big bump when his opponent least expects it, driving The Metro’s head into the ceiling.  Those bumps are brutal if you don’t expect them.

Hank:  Ouch, that’s going to hurt in the morning.  I think The Matatu has a can of whiplash in his back pocket he will try and pull out later in the match, too.  So look out for that.

Bill:  Who knows if there will even be a later, Hank, The Matatu is being so efficient right of the bat.

Hank:  Another great attribute of the Matatu.  Seems like he’s always working together, with the people.  At a stop everyone exits the vehicle to let the last one, the person in the back corner, out through the one sliding door.  Then quickly piling back inside, in whatever order they happen to be in, taking whatever seat that will put them out of the way for the person coming in behind him.  It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

Bill:  And all the while Metro is just standing there, taking the beating.  Almost without movement, standing in front of the door.  Not releasing anyone or anything.  Oh Metro, why can’t you just move to the side to let your fellow passengers off?

Hank:  Bad news for The Matatu, he is overheating.  It’s just too hot in there for him.  No AC and the consistent overcrowding, day after day, seems to be getting the better of him.

Bill:  Cool as a cucumber in the summer, sometimes even cold as ice cream, and warm like a potato in the winter, temperature control is a Metro specialty in most of these showdowns.  He’s really starting to come around and finally fight back.

[Ding Ding]

                                                                                   

Hank:  And that’s the bell to signal the end of Round One.  What a fight, huh Bill?

Bill:  So true Hank.  The Kampala Matatu really came out strong.  You’d think with all those bumpy roads he’d be slow to react, but was quite efficient with the people inside, and using the bumps to his advantage, smashing The Metro’s head just after the opening bell.

Hank:  Matatu is looking real strong in his corner.  His team is singing and dancing and really being friendly over there.  And The Metro is getting reamed out in his corner. 

Bill:  …In typical New York fashion.  His team is shouting about all the potholes, and complaining to the referee. 

Hank:  Looks like Bloomberg will be out to fix those in a week.  President Museveni isn’t going to do a thing about the potholes in Kampala.  It’s another two years until the next election, and if those roads don’t get fixed in the months before the election, it’s going to be another five years of crater roads before we see an opportunity to get them fixed during the following election.

Bill:  No good for anyone, Hank.  Moments from Round Two, it will be interesting to see if The Metro will be able to pick up where he left off...

[Ding Ding]

Bill:  Here comes Round Two, and it’s a different fight already.  We’ve passed the town center and Metro has plenty of room to sit and spread out.  Meanwhile The Matatu is looking cramped.  Never a worry about overpaying, Metro is working without a care in the world, a real free bird out there in the ring.

Hank:  You are so right Bill.  The Matatu seems to be distracted because he is trying to get his change and the conductor doesn’t have small bills.  Nor do any of the other passengers.

Bill:  The Matatu is getting frustrated. Oh, but wait.  The Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon”???

                                                                

Hank:  Boy George!  Is this really happening?

Bill:  Amidst all that Luganda jabber and jabbing that’s been playing, it’s red golden dreams for everyone in here.  I’ve heard of this happening before in the welter weight division, but here….  It also looks like The Matatu is exchanging smiles with a pretty short-haired girl in the front row.  They are both mouthing the words.

Hank:  Oh boy!

Bill:  You said it Hank.  [Laughter]

Hank:  Culture Club couldn’t last long enough.  The Matatu is now stuck in a jam, that’s traffic for all you lay people.

Bill:  Bad news for the Tu.  He is frozen in his tracks….But wait, look at this!  He’s pulling a K-turn in the middle of the ring. 

Hank:  What a nimble guy!  Always able to find an alternate route when things get bad.  The Metro cannot do things like that.  He’s a one track mind, unless you count the express track.

Bill:  However that may be true, the other route is usually just as jammed for The Matatu.  That looks to be the case now. 

Hank:  Seeing that is the case, here comes the Metro on the attack.

From the Ring:  Ladies and Gentelmen, sorry to disturb you.  I am homeless and have eight children.  Please please please please please please help me.  Anything, a potato chip or a dime.  Please please…. 

Hank:  Looks like the Metro is pulling the old Jewish Mother move, guilting his opponent into submission.

Bill:  Perhaps Jewish Mother guilt, but no matzo ball soup with this kvelling.  [Laughter]

Hank:  Here comes the big Matatu with the rebuttal.  From outside the ring young men are selling phone airtime cards, bags of munchies, sunglasses, steering wheel covers, and sunglasses to whoever will make eye contact.  All the merchandise dangling off their arms and necks in long strips.

Bill:  Well that’s convenient if you’re into that kind of service.  There’s even a young lad selling the morning edition paper.

Hank:  It’s the evening, now.

Bill:  It’s Kampala.

[Ding Ding]

Hank:  And that’s the end of Round two.  It’s too close to call at this point.

[Commercial Break]

Bill:  Bill and Hank here, your trusty ringside announcers here.  Action for Round Three is about to begin.  It’s all tied up and we anticipate a great final round here.

[Ding Ding]

Bill:  And there’s the bell.  The Matatu looks a little broken, but then again, what else is new, that thing always looks like it only has got just one more kilometer left.

Hank:  But for the low price of $0.91 to get all the way across town, what do you expect?

Bill:  I guess it’s just the bang you get for that buck…errr nine tenths of a buck.  [Laughter]

Hank:  It’s go time for The Matatu, a homeless man just entered the ring and the Metro is suffocating from the smell.  And the Matatu is reeling off a flurry of stenches of his own. 

Bill:  This is the normal smell for the Matatu.  He thrives on the odor.  Some might say it powers the engine along with the $5.30 per gallon gasoline.

Hank:  Now that’s being resourceful.

Bill:  Hey, you gotta take what they give you, Hank.

Hank:  Speaking of taking what they give you, The Matatu just served up that can of whiplash he was saving up.  But why are the Metro’s shorts ripped in half?

Bill:  According to the reply I’m watching, it looks like there was a jagged piece of seat dangerously sticking out in the Matatu corner of the ring that the Matatu placed there earlier, or never bothered to fix.  The Metro had his shorts caught on that and now he’s basically naked, but still standing strong.

Hank:  The Metro fights back with a little help from a boda boda.  The brightly painted and sticker-covered boda just swerved in, seemingly out of nowhere and cut off the angry Matatu as he has to slam hard on the brakes.  There is no way The Matatu is going to get anything done on time.  Hope no one is in a rush.

Bill:  To make matters worse, the engine that sits just behind the driver has broken down. This Matatu has a flat front so he can get up real close to whatever is in front of him, but the passengers in that first row can get some hot legs.

Hank:  Well, it makes up for what they lack in hot pants.  [Chuckle]

Bill:  The Matatu is starting to lose that bounce in his step.  Looks like it’s all over for the King of Kampala.

Hank:  Wait a minute…The Magnificent Metro all of a sudden doesn’t look so well.  He’s starting to fade, too. 

Bill:  That’s because he just encountered a “Police investigation” on the track a station ahead, AND a sick passenger.  He’s not going anywhere. 

Hank:  The two Goliaths have both fallen to the mat.  Unbelievable.  It’s Rocky I all over again.

Bill:  My favorite is Rocky IV, I mean, that was so awesome when Rocky was training in the mountains of Russia.  Oh, I love vodka.

Hank: Shut up Bill, I’m making a pop culture reference here. 

Referee:  Seven….Eight

Hank:  They are both getting up now.  Yes, they have both found a way to stand back up.

Bill:  Uh oh, lookout, here comes a bus, it’s headed straight for the Matatu!

Hank:  Ouch!  That’s going to hurt in the morning. 

Bill:  The bus just took out the Matatu.  He is down for the count.  It’s all over!  The Metro has reigned supreme!  What a finish.  Just when you thought they were both going to be out, they both recovered but a bit of misfortune for the Matatu.  I’m sure the bookies are going to rake it in on this one.  No one would have predicted this.

Hank:  Well, the New Yorkers already paid so they are stuck and at the mercy of the system.  Fortunately, for everyone on the Matatu, they pay when they get off, so they are sticking it to The Matatu now.  He is not getting a shilling for all his efforts.