Are you there God? It’s me, a first-year law student

Basically, I have two things on my mind these days: the law and school, in other words, law school.  Being nearly past the two month mark, I think maybe possibly there is a chance that I know what I’m doing.  AKA, I have no idea.  But things are getting easier as the days go along.  Cases only take one read-through nowadays and my teachers don’t seem like all-knowing, riddlers speaking in legal tongues.  They seem like teachers.   In fact, there was only one day when I felt like the dumbest person on earth but then I remembered: nope, I’m just the dumbest person in law school and that ain’t bad!

While it is easy to get lost in the day to day assignments and in the all-encompassing life of homework as a first-year law student, a part of the old me is still in there.  The reason I’m writing is because I went back and read some of these blogs tonight as I was procrastinating on my criminal law case briefs (least favorite class since guns, sex, and violence don’t really excite me; but contracts do).  Remembering Yovan, Maama Lubega, and Northern Uganda in detail was nice again.  And it made me think about how I left that post (R.I.P.) with a dream deterred.

I was wavering between adjectives on that African Dream—deterred? Absurd? Cured? Blurred?  But now, being five months away, the prevailing feeling is: a dream preferred.  And that’s a wonderful feeling in my eyes especially after reading that sad post.

In truth, every time I hear about a new career possibility, my daydreaming wont let the thought in unless it passes a simple test: Is it going to prepare me to get more jobs into rural Africa or is it not?  If it’s the latter, it’s out; the former, then I’ll think about it.  But basically, this is for you all to know, that I know, that the dream has not died.  In fact, I refuse to accept death myself until I have made a difference.  Stubborn?  Always have been.

On that same note, there is a possibility that I will be going back to Uganda within the next few years.  There are just too many possibilities and too much that I want to do with a little law under my belt.  Before you think it, I’ll say it: Slow down, tiger.  Two months in and I’m ready to start swinging a white wig around in rural Africa.  But really, I’m ready; I just have to get more prepared.  Until then, I’ll be studying, so if you need to get in touch with me, I’ll be at 900 Albany Street Los Angeles and I’ll be in the library next to the real estate section with pink highlighter on my face.  And I’ll probably be thinking about how I’m going to get there—to the dream that is.

(Transitioning to Legalese)

Hypo: The cool law school lingo for “hypothetical situation” where we test the application of the law to new facts.  So here’s one for you…

A girl walks into rural Africa with a law degree and a smile…

Until next time, dear readers, I’ll be studying.

The Loyola Lions’ Den

Last night I attended my first Loyola Law School event–a general information session for incoming students.  Did I feel super cool walking onto campus as one of the newest students?  Yes.  Was it invigorating to walk across the quad with a sense of purpose rescuing me from my recent boredom?  Yes.  Will I feel cool or invigorated for much longer?  I don’t think so.

The first segment of the information session: open discussion panel with current students.  Second: financial aid presentation.  Third: open discussion with alumni who’ve made it through the three years of library lockdown.

Some of the highlighted advices received were to pick your favorite spot in the library and try to remain there for nine months (the advisor, an alumni, was not joking, saying you can measure whether you’re doing right or wrong by whether you’re in that spot or not); to relax this summer, while you can, which is harder than you think for the eager people like me; to not plan any trips or side activities or really anything because you probably won’t have time; and finally, to not worry about not having a clue because nobody does.  The latter was the biggest relief to me who knows she’s not the sharpest tool in the law school shed.

But regardless of all this, I am so freaking excited that the word “Relax” makes me anxious.  How can I relax?  I’m about to enter into the biggest challenge of my life!  Forget dodging drunk beggars in Hoima, Uganda, forget pitching to the Japanese National Team, forget the 38 hours I spent awake for finals my first semester during freshman year–that’s bound to double!  Bring it on!

Hearing all this hard-to-swallow advice about relaxing is making me think twice about this outlook though.  It’s like I’m looking at a lion saying, “Oh, how cute!  I wanna pet it!”  Maybe it will take my hand getting bitten off, or a caffeine-induced coma, to knock some sense into me, but until then, I’m a raging bull in the corner, hopping back and forth on my tippy toes ready to go.

I learned a lot as a Florida Gator and I’m ready to learn more as a Loyola Lion.  The saying in the Swamp is that only Gators make it out alive… but what about the Lions’ Den?

 

R.I.P. African Dream

Uganda, Uganda, Uganda.  I gone da Uganda and I gone dun come back.

So what happened within those three and a half months.  Sure you’ve all been reading all about it but the Stacey Nelson that arrived on February 2^nd is surely not the same one that left on May 15^th.  Both of them were doomed to 20+ hours in airports and both were combining coffee and free inflight wine to go with their peanuts because both were anxious.  The first was about to embark on the journey of her life.  What she didn’t know was that Africa was not as scary as others made it seem.  What she did know was that she was about to scratch an itch that had been there for a long time.  The second was returning from this journey, deflated from having left her heart in Uganda.  Love is unexplainable, and dramatic, and wonderful and I use all these words to explain my love for Uganda.

At peace, in the Pearl of Africa.

The exact time is unknown when I decided that I wanted to go to Africa (generalizing the entire continent into one destination).  It was somewhere between my Freshman and Junior year of high school.  Back then it was as flippant a dream as wanting a chocolate chip cookie or for my belly fat to go away—it was an appetite I had without realizing the A to B connection for making the dream to come true.  But the more I said it, the more it became clear the reason I was saying it: my appetite was growing stronger.  The mysterious, the awe-inspiring, the forbidden fortress that was “Africa” kept glowing in my mind.

Things moved along and in college, I was accomplishing things I had never even dreamed of wanting.  In fact, I’d never really wanted anything in my life.  I had no passion, except for maybe a constant striving toward happiness and positivity.  (Today I still stand as the most positive person I know, and I’m proud of it.)  As my softball prowess grew, reporters would ask what I wanted to do with my life.  Without other worthy goals, I would say, “I want to go to Africa.”  The only excuse I had to justify this want was to help the many people suffering there.  I’ll admit this was not the first straw on my camel’s back, but it was a darn good reason.

As you all know by know, this fascination with Africa took on a new life when I started researching about children in conflict.  Being a philosophy major, I could argue both sides of anything in my mind but this was the one issue within my lifetime that I found horribly, indisputably wrong.  All of a sudden, the two things I cared most about became apparent and they were conveniently intimately related.

The fascination with exotic Africa and the moral convictions growing within me turned into stubborn determination.  After being picked for the USA team, we had a minute to describe ourselves in front of the group for team bonding.  All my weird quirks like refusing to tie my shoes, still using CDs rather than iPods, and my fascination with the color yellow were all subsequent filler facts for the allotted time.  The first line that came out of my mouth, “My name is Stacey Nelson and I want to go to Africa.”

So Mrs. February 2^nd was on board the airplane descending into Entebbe Airport like Alice’s free-fall into wonderland.  Driving to the hotel in a cab through the darkness on Entebbe Road, all I could see were candle-filled shops with people, animals, and things just as darkly mysterious as dodos, wingwoms, and cheshires.  But this was AFRICA.  To say I wasn’t scared is a huge lie.  I was scared to constipation my first day walking the streets of Kampala, in a group of five!  The first night, I remember being a total crackhead with germ phobia, which is a hard concept for anyone to grasp who knows me well.  (By the end, I’d accepted my old ways and the saying that “African germs are lazy.”  Building my African immunity, right?)  I didn’t feel safe until I began travelling by myself, which is a little late, but better late than never.  Coincidentally, this is when I felt totally submerged, and totally in love with Uganda.

Along the way, the thing that moved me most were the friends I made.  Uganda is the easiest place in the world to make friends, I’m convinced.  Heck, 50% of people who say, “Hello, muzungu,” consequently ask you how you’ve been and for your contact information.   The others that ask for money or for a visa can be interpreted in different ways: either as opportunists trying to take advantage of you or opportunists trying to take advantage of an opportunity to get out of their desperate situation.  (I just always looked at it as the latter because of something I tell myself: “the worst they can say is ‘no’.”)  To counter this though, Ugandans reciprocate with their offerings; they shine with their hospitality, their warmth, and their welcome.  Always self-conscious of how we outsiders are perceiving their country, they always ask, “How do you find Uganda?”

To answer, lets ask that girl flying home on the May 15^th flight: “How did you find Uganda?”

On that day, and still today, I found Uganda to be everything I imagined it to be, yet opposite because I found the reality, not the fantasy.  People there are suffering.  This is the exact words of a handful of Ugandans I spoke with.   Amazingly, I didn’t see it as much as I heard it mainly because I was walking the streets everyday with smiling people, not living in their homes where there wasn’t enough food to go around.

The biggest pain in my chest is the lack of opportunity for hard-working people trying to make it out of poverty.  Even if poverty can’t be totally solved, at least these families could cross the threshold from extreme to relative poverty with just some small opportunities.  There is a big difference between the two levels of “poor”.   The latter is linked to the economic ladder, clutching to the bottom, while the former, frankly, is not at all.  Extreme poverty perpetuates itself because there’s no opportunity for growth.

The other pain Mrs. May 15^th was feeling was a major headache.  This was the flight I discovered that all spirits on international flights were free and the anxiety of returning home kept sucking them down during the second meal service.  Flying over Greenland and Canada, seeing the sun reflect off ice-covered lakes and ice-capped coasts, it dawned on me that the journey had ended.  Actually, it felt like the dream had too.

For so long, I’d been carrying with me this drive toward venturing to this forbidden land, with a mission.  I’d had a great time being there and now, not only was this longing satisfied, but the only thing I felt I’d learned was how complex and intertwined the problems in Uganda (and more poetically, Africa) were.  Millions of people are stuck.  The weight of their problems—the hospital costs, the number of children to feed, the amount of school fees that can’t be raised—is a weight that, when you times it by millions, could crush all the happiness in the world.  But it doesn’t; their spirits are resilient.   Yet, you can’t ignore the million pound monkey on Africa’s back no matter how great of a time you had being there.

So here I am, staring at these sparkling white giants wondering where the hell I’m going. Why am I leaving?  Why didn’t I do the thing I was so tempted to do and miss my flight to stay a few more months?  Most of all, the thought that is still haunting Mrs. May 24^th is: If you’ve left, then what are you going to do with this knowledge now?

I’ve scratched the itch, I even made a little difference (I hope) with the chicken farm and other projects.  But the dream, the unshakable, stubborn longing, is gone; it’s satisfied.  When will it start itching again?  No doubt it’s lost it’s zest and left me with a sort of somber topic to post: a dream deterred.   I keep hoping that this is just a temporary feeling, still aching from the forced break-up.  Dear Uganda, it will be a long time before we can be together again, and I look forward to the day, but now I’m stuck in my former world feeling powerless and disconnected to you.

I’m hoping that I start to feel normal again, to feel inspired, to feel like I have the power to make a difference, and that I get back that glowing dream.  Until then, I’m still feeling the love: calling all my Ugandan friends, sending love to Maama Lubega, and (by carrying some responsibility toward my previous convictions) plotting how I can use my law degree to get back to Uganda. But things have changed, now I’m forced with the choice of either locking these ideas in the past or doing a “lock and load” to bring Uganda again into my future.

I’ll admit it, still in there I have the same naivety toward the exotic continent that makes me generalize Egypt and Uganda and Mali and Zambia into one big, huge, lustering idea: Africa.  I guess that dream is still in there: a dream absurd; but now I know.  My passion has just got to be found again, fester like a sore for a little bit longer, get that itch back… and of course, explode.

Until then, I’ll keep you posted.  And if you haven’t read some Langston Hughes.

Thank you for reading, dear readers.

Weebale (Way-bah-lay): Goodbye.

Gaddafi, a mosque, and me

Here it is.

So, speaking of Ugandan hospitality…

Yesterday night I went to the National Theatre (the theatre featured in the movie War Dance if anyone has ever seen it–good movie about N. Uganda), to do what? To learn how to dance traditional Ugandan dances. Having been out of town so much with my work on Wednesday nights, I hadn’t been able to take a dance class and had been waiting for this last week to do so. As I traveled there, I was sad to find that the normal sessions were cancelled on account of a huge performance that night. Disappointment was an understatement. The one thing I wanted to do in Africa was learn their crazy gyrations (please feel free to enjoy the mental picture of me attempting to do so) but no such thing was going to take place. So who came to the rescue of my disappointment? Gaddafi! The most hated man in the world now that Osamas dead.

He built a huge, huge, beautiful mosque here from 2003 to 2006 that sits upon a tall hill adjacent to downtown Kampala. Alex and I one night ventured into a high rise building, found a bar, bought a beer, and watched the sun set over the mosque in what was engrained into my memory as one of the most fantastic sunsets I’d ever seen. Adding to the ambiance was the taxi park we were overlooking as well, at the bottom of the hill, which is a complete frenzy, or what my generation would call, “a cluster**ck”, in the most poignant sense of the word. While I don’t have pictures from that day because I didn’t have my camera, I went back to get some shots on another, not-as-magnificent day, too early before sundown. I hope you enjoy them anyways.

So, to get to the point of my story. Marika and Kira had invited me to the mosque for the evening, but I’d declined because of my African cha-cha lessons. With my newly freed up schedule, I hopped on a boda and took a ride to Old Kampala. As I got there, the girls had just arrived too, without any communication between us… perfect timing. Even better, after they’d just got turned away because the afternoon prayer had subsided and the mosque wasn’t fully open on Wednesdays, they’d negotiated. With 5000 shillings given as a donation, and 6000 to pay for renting the necessary attire, Mahkmud, the prayer caller gave us a private tour. We were the only people at the mosque, standing on a huge veranda with a golden arch pointing them toward Mecca that was some of the most heavenly architecture I’d ever been able to see. Once inside the main mosque, where the men pray, Mahkmud sang us the Quran and interpreted it for us. Then, we waited to hear him call to prayer when? Right as the sun was setting. The clouds turned pink and orange across the cityscape while we bounced around taking pictures. Somehow I got stuck with awkward Hawaiian fabric that would not stay on my head, which only added to the memories I will now forever have thanks to Gaddafi, that crazy fool. The real point of this post though was to just have an avenue for you all to see these pictures, so here goes:

Absurdity: A Top 10 Countdown

 

So, my SIT-mate Kyla wrote about the most absurd things that she’s gotten used to over the past three months and I thought it was a great idea. Here are the Top 10 Most Absurd (Though Now Absurdly Normal) Things I’m experiencing in Uganda, everyday.

10. Eating dinner at 11 oclock at night. Actually, the more absurd thing is the lengths I have to go to in order to avoid it or eat as little as possible. Maama Lubega is always saying, “Take more… You have taken little…” Yet, I eat like a madman here.

9. Bathrooms or lack thereof. Today I found a hot water knob on my shower and got super giddy. Too bad it was a pipe dream, literally. The other day, I was in a public restroom and it had a pristine toilet, that flushed. It was amazing. (Out of toilet paper though.)

On a “luxury coach” to Mbale, name the Elgon Flyer, we pulled over for a potty break. There wasn’t plumbing for miles. Protocol was to pick a spot behind a big enough bush and to not make a mess on your feet. By the way, I’m now a pro at pop-n-squat and/or aiming into latrine holes the size of a piece of bread. Can I add that to my resume?

8. One thing I will never forget about Africa is the word “muzungu”. No joke, everywhere we go besides the muzungu mall in town called Garden City, people call us “muzungus”. Wake up in the morning: Good morning, muzungu! During the day: Muzungu! How are you?! In the evening: Good evening, muzungu! At the market: Muzungu, give me 1000.

The best is while I’m running: Muzungu! How are you?! I’m dying, okay. Smoke everywhere from fires and old mufflers… hills of Kampala kickin’ my butt… I’m out of shape, okay… its not the time for a chat…

Muzungu! How are you?! Oh, damnit. “I’m fine!”

When I go back home, I’ll be honest and say I’m going to be a lot less cool than I am here. People aren’t going to be yelling at me wherever I go, asking to talk to me, and then wanting my phone number (only to call and tell me they “miss me” the next day). And it’s not only men that want the digits; women call me too. They tell me they miss me after knowing me 10 minutes, and then ask how they can get a visa to “come visit me”. Money can’t buy friendships but it can buy visas!

7. African Time. Like Mr. Flaky whom you met in the last post, there is Mr. Never-going-to-show-up; Mrs. You-expect-me-to-be-on-time-after-the-rain?; Mr., Mrs., and Dr. Unpunctual, Mrs. You-expect-me-to-be-on-time-with-the-traffic-jam?; Mr. My-meeting-has-run-late; Mr. You-expect-me-to-be-on-time-ever?; and, my favorite, Mr. Heyyy-its-African-time-baby.

6. Restaurants. I will say it now and stick by it: I absolutely hate the way that most restaurants are run here. The only time I’ve been mad in the past few months have been in restaurants and not because of the matooke.

Take this scenario: you walk into a place, see something on the menu and think, Oooo, that sounds good. When you ask for it, they give you a dirty look and say, “We don’t have.” Your second, third, and fourth choice aren’t there either, so you ask, “What do you have?”

“We have rice, matooke, goat meat, beans, and fresh fish.” When you ask for the beans, the waitress says, “We have fresh fish,” you think of all the “fresh fish” you see sitting in the hot sun at the markets and say, “No thank you, I’ll have the beans with half rice, half matooke.” Another dirty look while she walks back to her post.

Then, they bring it, you eat it. Across the room, you see a man with the first thing you asked for. When you ask the waitress about it, she gives you some bad explanation as to why they now have it five minutes later, along with a dirty look. When she brings the bill four hours later after you‘ve been ignored sitting at your table, she’s charged you for two meals: one rice with beans and one matooke with beans. Customers are always wrong in Uganda, so you briefly contest but end up coughing up the extra 2000 shillings leaving with a bad taste in your mouth, from the matooke and the circumstances. And the soda you ordered never came because the two ladies were laying on the bar chatting looking at you like a disturbance to their day. Customer service sucks here. There’s my rant.

5. Onto more lovely thoughts, like animals. When I walk to the market, or to school, or anywhere outside of the city center or the taxi park, I feel like an African Mary Poppins. There are cows, goats, dogs, chickens, and a number of other critters right there with me. Sure they may not be parading behind me like Mary may have had them but being an arms length away from a bull with five foot horns is probably more exhilarating. No? Is it just me? Yea, probably is.

4. Trash. Anywhere at anytime–again, except the city center or taxi park–fires are raging. What are they doing? Rioting? Maybe. More likely is that they’re taking out the trash… into hazardous chemicals… right into the atmosphere. At least nobody has to be the trash man! (Actually, there are about three trash trucks in Kampala and I will truthfully say that I’ve seen way more albino black people than I have trashmen.)

3. Corruption. It is a part of everyday life here. When talking to my host sister about her trip to Rwanda she described a scenario where she wanted to sneak something across the border. She told me, with awed disbelief, “The policemen don’t even take bribes!” I feigned surprise.

For further discussion about corruption and unsound political systems, see Museveni 1986-Today with special attention to Besigye: Walking Violently.

2. How the US seems like a fantasy world when I describe it. Talking to one of the workers at my house, he was asking some questions about my homeland. He said he wanted to come sweep the streets of dust (like ladies with babies-on-back do here). I told him that we don’t really have too much dust in America. We have pavement. And we don’t have people do that job, we have huge machines that you drive with huge brooms on the bottom that swirl and sweep the street for you. I felt ridiculous like I was describing Mars. Then he asked what they would call him there (since he’s a black man). I told him that we have a lot of black people and it’s not really good to point people out by their skin color at home. Its seen as disrespectful (here it is just the truth, no hard feelings). Then he asked about local languages and our local food. I told him that we speak English and eat food from all different cultures all the time. I don’t think he got me at all.

Last, I always try to describe Las Vegas for people enquiring about the US because its so fun to watch their reactions. Typical conversation:

“Yea, there’s hundreds of huge hotels that go up hundreds of meters with thousands and thousands of rooms… and everyone pays a lot of money to travel there, and stay, just to do bad things.”

“Bad things?” Says the devout Born-Again Christian.

“Yea, they drink, they gamble, they go dancing or see naked people dance, and many of them wind up married in the morning.”

“What? They get married? That is how they get married?”

“No, they accidentally get married. Britney Spears did it.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Yea and they have thousands and thousands of lights, just for decoration, that stay on all the time, all day and night.” Saying this to people who have daily blackouts is just absurd–which is why it is listed here, of course. “… And there’s roller coasters which are like taxis (Ugandan taxis) that have the top cut off that bounce and spin, for fun.”

“For fun?”

“Yea. That is why people go just to have fun…. And a lot of people lose thousands of dollars gambling.”

Remote concept=conceptualized, maybe. Now can you conceptualize what they heck they may be thinking at this point?

1. Ugandans and their absurd hospitality. True they’re self-proclaimed Muzungu Lovers, but I’ll take it an call a to-may-to a to-mah-to. If you ask a Ugandan for directions, its like giving a mouse a cookie in the social sense. They’ll close up the shop they’re working at to walk you all the way to where you need to go. If you say, “How are you?” You’re a friend for life. Once greeted properly, they’ll give you whatever you need. I’d say, Ugandans are the most smiley, wonderful African people I’ve ever lived amongst. (Which means they beat Rwandans at least.) But really, the hospitality I’ve received here has been incredible and like I’ve said so many times before. I have to leave?????

Kyangwali is a day trip. Yea right.

 

A happy face after a happy day.

 

So, the crazy day I was alluding to before finally has the justification to be told. Friday, I wasn’t going to do a “woah me” post when more lives were spent at the hands of Ugandan police, the arm of “he who shall not be named”.

As the story goes, I was going to get on the 7AM departure vehicle for Kyangwali Refugee Settlement but Mr. Flaky, excuse me Mr. Jean Paul Asami, a Congolese refugee in the Educate program said that he wanted to meet me in the morning. The day before he had been surprised when he didn’t find me at our meeting point three hours after he agreed to be there. Sure, African time is different, people are late, but eff off if you think you can keep people waiting for three hours like it‘s a casual mistake. Again, his nickname rang true Friday morning; he never showed up, so I left at 10AM.

There was no bus that went to Kyangwali, only private cars, sedans–like on the way to Gulu. Comfort has become a totally remote concept in my brain nowadays after riding Ugandan transportation for the past three months. But to bring that idea new meaning, I was one of four people in front seat of the sedan this time. There were five in the back too. Having so many people, I was the lucky one by the window while one person actually had to share the drivers seat. Extremely dangerous? Probably. When I expressed my disbelief with the man when he told me how many people would be riding in the car (jutting my head out in disbelief and lifting up my sunglasses to show my bulging eyeballs) he said, “C’mon. This is how we do things in Africa.” And he’s right, so I shut up and got in.

There was a midway stop where I met another Educate student named Deo. Deo is beginning his fourth social project having only completed the program in December. He has created a musical group of orphans, brought a piggery and poultry project to his poor community, and is now generating income for elders by teaching them to plant trees and sell them. Educate is amazing. Actually, Mr. Flaky was part of a vast number of projects himself, which I got to eventually talk to him about on Saturday and Sunday. But I’m still bitter so I’m leaving him out of my kudos.

After talking with Deo for an hour or so, I flagged down my second sedan to take me to Kyangwali. With nine people in the car last time and similar numbers beginning to swarm around the car this time, I played my diva card to get a window seat–which actually just involved asking the driver very nicely for the spot and hoping he liked muzungus. As we were getting in, the large maama next to me in the passengers seat said, well actually her bum said, that the window seat next to her was filled up. Instead, I got to be the drivers-seat-sharer on this ride. Me and a stick-like Ugandan with great tunes.

The driver kept his word though, it was the most comfortable seat in the car. Please, let me invite you to picture this: we had four adults, one child, and two toddlers in the front; in the back, there were five adults, two children and three other babies. Grand total: seventeen human beings in one sedan. They were literally picking up the children to load them in through the window as if sliding a body into a morge. And, no, this was not a 700 series BMW or luxury vehicle. It was at best a Celica. (The car brands here are as recognizable as those Fucci and Prado handbags you see in New York.)

The high point of the day was turning around a bend to see a huge black momba cross the road. This, my dear readers, is arguably the most deadly snake in the world. It was so awesome; I can still picture it slithering into the grassy forest out of view while thinking, Woah, I wonder if that was a black mamba. Asking the driver, he didn’t know what a black momba was so I instead asked, “Poisonous?” YES, he said, with a smile for the understatement.

Less than a minute down the road, about thirty monkeys were crossing the road and seeing the seventeen of us, probably thinking, Wow, look at those dumb animals in the Celica.

Two hours later, we came to arrive in Kyangwali and the driver who now loved me (after our two hour chat about music) agreed to get me a boda-boda so that he could negotiate a price for me. Random muzungu in Kyangwali equals “spectacle”; so, when I arrived all the boda men and other people came to be part of the negotiating action. When I took out my 20000 shillings to pay the sedan driver 5000, some drunk, old woman outstretched her hand, wanting a piece of the cake. I ignored her but she persisted like a drunk beggar. Oh wait, she was. I kept having to turn my back so that I could handle my money without her seeing it. I jumped on the boda knowing my transactions were coming to a close as she took her empty beer bottle and started raising it over her head. (These are the images in my mind I wish I didn’t have to take back from Africa, where I’ve run into so many good people.) Luckily the crowd was around because they stopped her. Simultaneously, with the boda driver sensing the tension and need to flee, he took off… without getting my change from the other man.

So in the conversation I was having with one of my many new best friends, the driver with whom I was sharing a seat, I found out some bad news. It was becoming apparent that I would be having some major monetary troubles during my stay in Kyangwali. Having traveled to Pader, the boondock of boondocks in my eyes, I assumed that Kyangwali would have a bank. On my map of Uganda, both are marked with the same kind of dot which told me they were of comparable size and comparably developed. Stupid, I know: a refugee camp with an ATM. As a second resort I thought they would at least have mobile money exchanges (which is the way that many rural farmers get money here in Uganda on their cell phones, within their own respective boonies). But, I was wrong. So I had about 40000 shillings which was barely enough to get through one night at a hotel anywhere, counting money to eat and travel back to Hoima.

Having just pulled away from the drunk wanna-be Barry Bonds (where the baseball would be a muzungu in this case), I asked the driver if maybe he’d been given my change from the other man as they were discussing. “No. Four thousand.” What? He gave you only four thousand? Sir, did that man give you my money? “Yes.” Okay, can I have it? “Yes.” Sir, are you understanding what I’m saying? “Yes, Hotel St. Patrick. We go.” Sir, turn around, that man stole my money. “Okay…” (Still cruising) SIR! (Now shouting) I can’t pay you unless I have that money! “Okay.”

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Finally, a word got through.

With the stupidest conversation of the day delaying our turnaround, the taxi man, now my new worst enemy, had already taken off with my shillings. We saw Barry again so I told the man just to go. I didn’t need any more scars than I already have from Uganda and I still had another 20000 on me–not much, but its something. When we got to the hotel, I tried to bargain with them to give me a hotel for 15000, even pulling out some tears–that were pretty genuine at this point–but no luck. So, I had them call a boda for me to go back to Hoima.

Yep, a three-hour boda, a three-hour boda (Gilligan’s Island theme). There was no use to stay and get in a bigger predicament than I was already in. I told the boda man that I could pay him when we got to the bank in Hoima.

Oh, and to add to the drama, a storm was on it’s way. Luckily, very luckily on account of my camera and laptop with me, the man forced me to wear a raincoat before we left–the sun was beating down at 80 degree temperatures at the time. Thirty minutes in, the rain was showing no mercy. I tried to enjoy it with some music from my iPod but the truth was: I was on a three-hour boda in the rain.

Dirt roads don’t like that much water all at once either. At one point I had to get out and walk barefoot through the mud, after the boda had tipped for being unable to grasp any turf. So, I slipped and slid down a huge hill in thick mud. It trashed my jeans and muddied my shoes but I was still breathing, with my iPod, and actually enjoying the feeling of the mud gushing through my toes after I took off my shoes. My boda driver said, “Welcome to Africa,” and I shouted in response, “Welcome to AFRICA!” He said, “You see, people here are suffering…” and I thought, Oops, that is the opposite of what I was just doing. He was another Congolese refugee and as the rain died down, I learned a lot about his story. While Uganda may be a little haywire, unpredictable, and obviously, third-world, it seems organized and peaceful compared to the Democratic Republic of Congo.

After a stop at the bank, I arrived back at my lovely, oh so lovely, hotel around six oclock–with a butt that was very sore from three hours riding over tractor grooves or potholes. I had a huge bruise on my shin from when the boda tipped and when I found a mirror, my forehead had a huge line of dust on it from where dirt had caked in the outline of my sunglasses. It was the typical looks-like-you-got-run-over-by-a-truck look, which wasn’t too far off. Western Uganda had stomped all over me that day: the weather, the earth, a boda, all the other poor means of transportation, it’s people… yet, there I was still standing tall.

And as you know, there were much greater losses that day so my day was simply a lesson to never assume something so dumb again. What a blonde. Good thing is that I can pat myself on the back after it all because my resilient positivity is my strongest tool against these sort of days. And the reason I always come out on top. J

In Swahili (the main spoken language used in Kyangwali),

Hakuna Matata (ha-koo-nah ma-tah-tah): Don’t have worries.

In other, unrelated news, this is the hills I ran up to get a view of the city. B-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l view on top.

 

I had a crazy day but then riots happened in Kampala so I’m the lucky one.

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DZoNt_RKhIdk&h=b3a51

Basically, the rumor today that this guy had died caused quite a stir. Gun shots, people dead, 120 injured, teargas galore. Glad I missedo out on thise one. All SIT Personnel are safe.

Well, this made my day:

Hello Stacey
I hope your Easter was colourful. On behalf of FRO Management, Students, staff & my own behalf, I would sincerely want to thank you so much for all your good innovative ideas and great work you accomplished while still here. I am so so sorry for not giving you all the necessary support you might have wanted from me. As you witnessed, I was & still too busy with lots of work to do for the benefits of our community & FRO. I promise to continue giving you whatever information & support u might require esp during your next visit to Pader. However, you need to think a head for the sustainability of the prog. you initiated

I got the FRO Alumni & Financial Notebooks for Tama & other Teachers, printed them this morning & only waiting to distribute when they appear. All teachers are still for holidays upto 23/05/2011 coz our training which was meant to be going on by now has been posponned.
 
What a briliant idea for the guitar musical trainer? I like this & even our students shall be happy to have such a person as their lasting mentor/leader different to how Natalie left hers.
Could u tell that person to get me in the office & we discuss with him in detail.
 
Incase u want a recommendation from us, let ne know & prepare one for u.
 
Many Many thanks & may God bless u in all ur endeavours. Our regards to ur people
Obaaita Charles
Incharge Training-FRO

Coffee and a Quickie (blog post that is)

 

This was at my hotel, just not functional. Actually my hotel was really wierd because it had everything someone could as for a gym, a sauna, steamroom, full bar, pork joint, full kitchen… but when you’re the only guest, its just not really being used anymore. Gotta love Hotel Pader.

Wow. You can tell I’m starting to get back in the California mindset–forced to leave in three weeks because United Airlines wants an arm and a leg for a flight change–and coming to the end of my semester,  Why? I’m all hopped up on coffee at my second coffee shop within 24 hours. Home away from home.  There’s a lot of work to get done in between all the fun that needs to be accomplished as well.  What a predicament I’m in again.

By the way, I’m back in Kampala. Traveled here on Saturday because it was the day least likely for riots (they only riot now on Monday and Thursday, but Easter threw ‘em back a few days. Easter was nice by the way; Maama Lubega had the whole family over for a wonderful meal. But now it is crunch time with 34 pages still left to write for my final paper and two more sites to visit. Refugee camp is t-minus two days. Paper is t-minus 18. Plenty of time, for fun and focus, if you ask me.

Because of the potential riots, yes, still being provoked by police response to people walking, I’ll lay low tomorrow (no early morning taxi ride… boohoo). Then I take off yet again to Hoima on Wednesday. AKA Humpday. AKA Relative-safety-for-transport Day. J T.I.A.

Starting to freak out that I leave in less than three weeks, which is actually only two more weeks experiencing the culturally-submerged portion of the stay because for the last weekend, SIT Uganda is going to rock the city of Jinja one more time. Booze cruise anyone? The program set this one up and they have no idea about our Jinja reputation.  Alex now works for the rafting company we stayed with and, supposedly, the staff and crew still talks about us. J T.I.SIT.

Anyways, back to tons more work but not before a heartfelt shout out to my new homies in Northern Uganda.  Ugh, it all comes and goes so fast…

I said goodbye to more than a handful of new friends, including four extra special new buddies this past weekend.  Martine and Dennis, the boys who worked the hotel, along with Yovan and Geoffrey, the boys who ran the town for me; they were my little crew and we did–we ran things. (Or rather, they did for me.) Dennis and Martine cooked breakfast for me almost everyday, walked me to town and back, not to mention took me on early morning jogs; Yovan and Geoffrey always stayed at the boda boda stand in the middle of town making sure that other bodas/other random people didn’t mess with me or overcharge me for being a muzungu.  The latter two were also responsible for the bday party.

They were all such good guys, plus Terri and Todd, the visitors from Boston who were great humor to have around for a week and a half. Todd got off safe without having to do any major surgeries.

Then there were all the students at Friends of Orphans who were so wonderful and open to us visitors. Thank you to everyone who made my stay in Pader so great.

Though I must tell you readers that something kinda weird happened; some are going to like it, some are going to hate it…

As some know (for example all my college friends who had to see me at Senior day, every year, getting hysterical because I hate “goodbyes”) I don’t the idea of goodbyes. They are so depressing to me. Really. But there I was in Pader, saying goodbye to all these wonderful new people–my 2-week old, new friends for life. I was saying the g-b word and not getting worked up at all. Last time I left Pader, I was a wreck in the window of the bouncing bus and I’d only been there for two days!

If I were to guess, I wasn’t getting worked up because it’s not a goodbye. I have a strong feeling I’ll be back. Before getting to Uganda, all of Africa seemed like a wonderful place to be explored, and it still is I guess, but my feeling now is: why would I ever go anywhere besides Uganda?

Winston Churchill calls it the Pearl of Africa and it has definitely become such a gem to me. And my favorite part was Pader. Sure they didn’t have much, no hospital, no ice cream, no option other than African food in the whole town, no theatres, no post office, but they still had some spunk. In fact, the people there have touched me for life. Maama Diana has claimed a new daughter from the US (Yovan’s mom) and she’s only one of the many smiling faces I’m taking back with me in my memories. Perhaps it’s the sad state of such a reason but there is much to be done in Pader, and I felt capable of some of it.  Plus, I enjoyed it.  So “ta ta for now” N. Uganda. See ya around the bend.  And see you American readers soon… (there goes the tears)

Afwoyo Matek (ah-fwoy-yo mah-tek): Thank you very much.

Hallelujah, I Finally Did Something

 

My savings group. What an egoist--the FRO graduate savings group. Tama Pastore is the man on the left, the catering teacher and the woman on the right is the organizer.

Here at Friends of Orphans (FRO), it has been a little bit of a tough road. The program was perfect for me and they were loving the work I was going to do, I just couldn’t do it. The first week I was here, the man who was helping me organize my project got a bad toothache (?) and his laptop was in the office while he was doing whatever it is you do when you have a toothache. As I was trying to contact alumni, one of the teachers helped me out a lot, one a little, and the rest steered clear of “Stancy”. To make matters worse, all the kids were in their final exams these past two weeks–thanks for the warning FRO–so I couldn’t talk to any of the current students either. Poor muzungu trying to help.

The meeting that I did arrange with the alumni the week prior was to organize them into a cooperative savings group. Many of them complained that they had been given skills by Friends of Orphans (tailoring, catering, bricklaying, welding, carpentry, computer, or motor vehicle repair), but nobody had the means to start a business–and jobs are few in Pader. When I say few, I mean few. Imagine a tryout for American Idol and how many get picked. That is trying to be a motor vehicle mechanic in Pader.

So, my bright idea, have them save about 2000 shillings each, about 80 cents, bring it in to the group of 20 that I could actually get a hold of, and start an “income-generating project” (one of my new favorite phrases to use in rural Africa). Oh the possibilities! They could start making chalk to sell to schools, they could buy an oven to start baking bread (because all the bread that comes into town is baked four hours away), they could start cutting their own timber, or plant trees to sell, or pool the money and open a small restaurant… your head could explode just thinking about all the ways these people could “show themselves the money”! But my dream died when I got crazy looks after mentioning the idea. One woman asked, after my short schpeel, “How do you expect me to save 2000 shillings a month when I make 20,000 and have children to feed?” What an ass I was.

Feeling dumb was an understatement; not to mention that all the possibilities dancing around in my head went *poof*. I dismissed them with a meager attempt to at least organize them into groups and elect leaders. Chairpersons decided, then bon voyage. And a thanks but no thanks to one dumb American girl.

Actually, before I get too ahead of myself, the problem was that in calling the meeting, they all thought I was going to be giving them a handout. They even said it out loud–So why the heck are we all here if you’re not going to “help us”? Well, “I’m trying to help organize you all! Into a savings group!“ And it turns out that the disappointment had bred some closed-minded, pessimistic thinking on their part. Thank goodness I called another meeting.

Tonight at 5, which means 6:30 Ugandan time, not all showed but magical things still prevailed. At the first meeting, when they expected something but there was nada, I had 20 people. Today I had six, though they didn’t know the tricks up my sleeve. Like I’d mentioned, in Gulu the reason I’d gone was to get chicken medicine and eye drops–for me not the chickens. This chicken medicine is not available in Pader so I had to stock up for a years worth, for five hens and a cock. (You can giggle but lets move along…) I apologize too, you all are probably so sick of me talking about chickens.

Tonight, I surprised the women with the medicine, money to buy the birds, and a leader to show them the ropes of chicken rearing while I go away back to Kampala and eventually America–I don’t want to talk about it, sore subject.

Anyways, in doing the math, within a year if they sell the eggs and hatch enough to sell as full chickens, they can make six times the money that I put in to start them. Granted it was a pretty chunk of change on my end, a whopping 50 dollars, but it was W-O-R-T-H it, granted I get a good report back from them.

I still had to knock a little bit of their “gimme” attitude away–when I gave them the 40,000 shillings for the birds they told me they needed 20,000 more for the feeds. Standing up to a very scary, tall, Acholi woman I told her that it is always easy to identify problems but the challenge comes in finding the solutions. This was my proverbial way of saying: C’mon lady, use that brain of yours–DO IT YOURSELF. What do you know, all of a sudden everyone had the 2000 to fork up in buying the feeds. Two of them are going next week to learn the official ins and outs of chicken rearing and all officially have a stake in the new business.

Did I mention, that 50 dollar investment, if they keep the chickens healthy will multiply by six (!) this year, and every year after with good management. I think I did but it needed more emphasis. I wish the stock market grew like that. Even if they grow the money at half that rate, by Christmas 2012 that 50 will be 225 already, and that’s dollars mind you. In shillings that’s 115,000 to 517,500. Do you know how much maize smash that can buy? Actually, I don’t want to think about. I’m pretty sick of maize smash.

Here in Pader, hearing that many families this Easter will not only lack a feast but won’t eat anything due to horrible drought, at least we know that these families will be fed for the future holidays, and the days in between–keep those fingers crossed. Besides, the real reason I chose to do this is because of the exponentiality of it. Made up a word, deal with it. Exponentiality. Basically, the truth is, especially here in traditional rural Africa, women take care of families. These were all women, with children, who could use some money badly. And to go out on a universal note, let this be a lesson to a) stay humble and be careful about our assumptions. Not doing so can make you look like a big, stupid prick. But also, b) to be open to new ideas because exponential profits could be made! Ba-caaaaaaaaaah!

Acholi:

Mia silingi (Mee-ah sill-in-gee): Give me the shillings!