A Day in the (Kampala) Life

How I know I am (slightly) adjusting to living in Africa:

-Fried grasshoppers are my favorite afternoon snack
-I no longer care that my face, clothes and hair are always covered in a fine layer of red dirt
-I can finally choke down more than a few bites of matooke (mashed plantains... not as good as they sound)

-My British accent is coming along nicely (water = wooh-tah)
-I can eat rolex (scrambled eggs with veggies wrapped in fried bread, roughly $0.50) all day, every day

I currently live in big, beautiful house in the suburbs of Kampala. Our neighborhood is far removed from the traffic and smog of the city, with a big backyard, avocado tree, and the occasion monkey. The call to prayer from the nearest mosque wakes me in the morning, and the howling dogs (at least a full two dozen) from my neighbor's compound lulls me to sleep at night.

I live with four other students--three from Uganda, and one from Colorado--along with a rotating cast of characters associated in some way with the Global Livingston Institute. Before leaving for work each morning, I gorge myself on fresh fruit from the local market: pineapple, mango, and bananas.

For the past few weeks I have been interning with a very small NGO that works in Nakaseke, a rural district about two hours north of Kampala. I am designing a pilot project to introduce sanitary pads and menstruation hygiene education (and possibly sex education, a very taboo subject) into three schools in Nakaseke. The problem we're trying to address is that many girls in East Africa stay home (or drop out all together) when they start their periods. This is largely because they don't have access to resources (like pads or tampons), any source of formal education (they get their information from their family or friends), coupled with a cultural norm that women should be pulled out of school and married off as soon as they can start having babies.

Work is frustrating. A big problem is with the schools themselves. While they do have pit latrines (pictures included below for your viewing pleasure), they do not have locking doors, soap, sinks, toilet paper, and most importantly, water. Plus, they have bigger fish to fry--many Nakaseke residents suffer from typhoid, as they lack access to clean drinking water during the dry season. Another problem is with sustainability. I am brainstorming ways that the project can be funded in the future, without having to rely on donor handouts ever year. But this is hard, because no one has money to get the project up and running.

And then there's my office itself. There is no internet access, and half of the time my supervisor struggles to keep his computer running. On the plus side, I am enjoying the challenge of putting together a project from scratch. I have one week left to pound out a project description, timeline, and fundraising proposal--and I'm excited about doing it. My coworkers are also fabulous, and they have made me feel welcome in my new environment. And I am right next door to the most beautiful coffee shop I have ever witnessed (imagine finding a cafe in the middle of the jungle), which has excellent African coffee and wifi.

Oh, and I have a driver! His name is Lawrence, and he is quickly becoming my new favorite person. We spend roughly two hours together sitting in snarled traffic, which gives us time for some fabulous topics of discussion--political corruption in Uganda, cougar attacks in the US (which he is fascinated by), and gay marriage (we disagree slightly, but that's okay). It really shows you how little you know about your own country when you are constantly being asked to explain how it works, and defend your basic beliefs.

In the evening I have developed a routine of going on an evening jog through the red dirt streets of my neighborhood. I normally attract at least a few kids chanting "mzungu!" who drop whatever they are doing to run alongside me. I buy local eggs and produce for my dinner from Mary, my favorite street vendor, on my way home. I always end my day with backyard yoga, World Cup with my roommates, and occasionally a boda boda (insane motorcycle taxi) ride to a nearby bar.

On the weekends, my roommate Morgan and I hop on a public bus bound for Jinja, which is two to three hours away from Kampala. Jinja has an Asheville vibe--it is a small touristy town full of super friendly people, a huge ex-pat community, lots of art, and tons of adventure sports. Morgan lived here for a few years, and her friend owns the biggest club in town. Needless to say, our nights are usually long (I went home early the other night, when everyone else was heading to the club... at 5 am). Jinja, and also Morgan, have become my sanctuary from the madness of Kampala.

Although I definitely have moments of intense homesickness, I also have moments of clarity when I realize that I am exactly where I need to be. I am learning a lot about myself and what I need to survive--and for that, I am grateful.

T minus 9 days until I pack up and come home. More to come...

Drinking Nile on the Nile... whoa

Walking to the swimming pool in Jinja

Kyajjinja Primary School, Nakaseke, Uganda

Kirema Primary School - Nakaseke, Uganda

Witness the glory of the pit latrine

Africa, one month later

One month ago today, I left behind my life in Denver and came to Africa. Running on almost no sleep, I finished packing, bullshitted the last pages of a final paper for class, and drove to the airport. Although it has only been four weeks, the memory is already blurry--like the final moments of a fever dream before waking. It could have happened years ago, or not at all.

Since landing in Uganda, my brain has been completely overwhelmed with sights, sounds and smells--a plethora of new people, food, and adventures. All of this information has been almost too much for my mind to handle. At a very basic level, I crave routine, structure and order. Sometimes it calms me down just to count things--like chairs in a restaurant, or the passengers on my daily #32 bus ride. Anything I can do to establish some kind of order amidst the chaos brings me a great sense of peace.

Africa is where structure and order goes to die. Everything that should be easy suddenly becomes hard. One day, it hits you how damn convenient your life back home is--where you don't have to worry about your power cutting out in the middle of a shower, or getting caught in a three hour traffic jam, or finding something to eat that won't give you parasites. 

And drinking water out of the tap. Dear lord, how I miss having pure, delicious, free water at all hours of the day and night. 

Aside from feeling completely overwhelmed from time to time, my trip has been incredible. My class from the University of Colorado traveled from the capital city of Kampala, to the source of the Nile river at Jinja, to Lira (a town once dominated by the Lord's Resistance Army), to beautiful Lake Bunyonyi in southern Uganda, and finally ending in Rwanda. 

During the class, we spoke with a variety of Ugandans about their lives, experiences, and thoughts about the country--private business owners, directors of community organizations and NGOs, and public servants. We set up make-shift medical clinics, where we gave children vitamins and taught them how to brush their teeth. We visited dirt-floor school buildings, and learned about public education. And we saw so many beautiful things--white rhinos, Lake Victoria, and the forests of southern Uganda. 

In all of these places, I met children who were healthy and smiling, who grabbed my hands and looked at me with wide, curious eyes. I also saw children who were ravaged by malnutrition, parasites, and HIV. These experiences might take me months, years, or even an entire lifetime to fully process. 

The class has now ended, and I am back in Kampala. I will be interning with an NGO for the next few weeks--another post about that coming soon. 

There's a fine line between between excitement and fear--and I'm straddling it. Stay tuned, friends.

Ghosts of Kigali

Kigali is a city of ghosts. Walking through the streets of Rwanda's capital city at night, I can almost reach out and touch the unknown presence that surrounds me. High walls made of rock and brick, some topped by large steel spikes, loom high over the road. The people who walk past cast their eyes downward--when they speak, their voices are soft and apologetic. Everything is quiet, still, and unnerving.

Although Rwanda has gone through a major recovery process in recent years, the feeling that this country and its people are still struggling to cope with its past is palpable.

Exactly 20 years ago (to the day), this city was the scene of one of the largest genocides in recorded history. The background leading up to this event is quite fascinating--and greatly disturbing. Germany and Belgium colonized Rwanda in the 1800s, and eventually implemented a policy to divide the native residents by socioeconomic classes--even going as far as forcing residents to carry ID cards with their stated class. Tensions grew between two particular groups: the more well to do Hutus, and the lower class Tutsis. After decades of assassinations and political strife, a plot to destroy all Tutsis, along with Tutsi sympathizers, began in April 1994.

Armed with clubs and machetes, Hutus tortured, raped, and murdered 1.2 million Tutsis during a period of 100 days. Just think about that: 1.2 million people were killed in 100 days. How is that even possible?

No one was spared. Brothers killed their sisters--priests betrayed their entire congregations--babies were drowned in wells. The Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre explains in graphic detail how a country can be torn apart by hatred, fear, and the basic principles of dividing and conquering a people.

Kigali's transformation over the past twenty years has been incredible. The city today is flourishing, with a thriving economy, vibrant cultural scene, and an expensive price tag for tourists. It has the hallmarks of very few East African cities--being clean, quiet, and orderly.

Rwanda left me with a strange sense of peace amidst the chaos of Africa--but also a deep sadness. I now return to the chaos of Uganda, where the streets are loud, abrasive, and very much alive.

Note: none of the following pictures are mine. 

Getting Down at the Big Ol' Prison Dance Party

Thumping bass, colorful jumpsuits, and frenzied dancing.

Are you at a 1980s hiphop show? No. You are at a prison in central Uganda.

I always enjoy visiting public institutions in foreign countries--schools, hospitals, and the like. Somehow, detention centers have stayed off my list. This changed after my recent trip to the country's second largest prison, located in Jinja--a beautiful tourist town and the source of the Nile.

Do me a favor. In your mind, picture your idea of a detention center in a developing country. Now, let's compare this with my experience:

1. A sign on the wall reading "Prisoners are people too!"
2. A friendly warden who stressed the value of rehabilitation instead of punishment
3. An idyllic setting overlooking beautiful Lake Victoria, surrounded by rolling hills, farmland, and baby goats. Fucking baby goats, people. 

As you can imagine, this was not the prison experience I had expected. Our class visited with a group of ministers from Kampala, who were certainly proselytizing but seemed very nice. They set up a speaker system in the rectangular, open-air courtyard in the middle of the three-story facility. Once the music got going, several hundred prisoners in bright yellow and orange jumpsuits began to laugh, sing and dance to Ugandan-style gospel music. They were absolutely beaming.

"Is this real life?" I asked my friend Claire over and over, as we sat at the front of the stage, seemingly on display to the entire prison population.

"No... this is certainly a malaria dream," she replied.

Of course, I am not so naive to believe that this is how the prison functions every day. Human rights abuses at this facility have been documented in the past. Several years ago a man was tortured almost to death by a prison guard--a story which drew national attention. It was interesting, however, to see so much joy in a place you would think would be terribly depressing.

There is beauty in the chaos.

Rambling

You are a fly, buzzing carelessly through an open field. It is night, and the moist, tropic air feels good on your wings. You do not know it--flies don't know much, do they?--but 200 people are being killed in the field below you. They run, screaming, on fire, bleeding in the darkness. They are running away from something so terrible and frightening and horrible that your brain will never be able to fully comprehend it. Even if you weren't a fly, you could not stop this. No one can stop this.

Now, you are in a primary school. You are a 13 year old girl, and you are bleeding for the first time. In your village, this is the signal that it is time for you to leave school and become a stranger's wife.  Your parents will sell you off for a dowry, because they are poor. You are scared, and you are alone.

Now, you are in a medical clinic in a rural village. You are me. Can you imagine being me, and look out of my eye sockets? A circle of villagers completely surround you, studying you and your white mzungu skin inquisitively. There is a three year old girl with bloody lesions covering her arms who reaches out for you. You are untrained, have no supplies, and cannot help her.

What do you do this information? What can anyone possibly ever do?

Please, tell me what to do.

Recovering from the Lord's Resistance Army

This blog was written for class--as you may be able to tell from the lack of explatives. 

In the late 1980s, Joseph Kony formed the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) in northern Uganda. Operating as a cult-like rebel group, the LRA rapes, tortures, and murders both soldiers and civilians. Kony built his army by kidnapping children and forcing them to kill their family and friends, in order to eliminate their incentive to run away. To date, the LRA has murdered over 2,400 civilians, abducted 3,000 adults and children, and displaced more than 400,000 Africans from their homes.

After Kony fled Uganda in the mid-2000s, most media attention concerning the LRA shifted to other parts of Africa. The country has been largely forgotten in recent years--although it continues to suffer the aftermath of the rebel group’s atrocities. 

This raises questions regarding how a country can possibly expect to recover from such terrible violence. What happens after the UN peacekeepers stop providing food and shelter? How should we care for child soldiers and victims of rape after they are recovered from the rebels? And how can this recovery possibly take place amidst such extreme levels of poverty?

One response is the creation of rehabilitation centers and schools to serve the LRA’s victims. Our class had the unique opportunity to visit and tour one such school, located in the small town of Lira.

The students here look like regular teenagers--they smile, laugh, and flirt with each other. They live on campus, attend classes from 5:30 a.m. to 10 p.m., and receive therapy sessions. An outsider would have no idea that many of these children once committed unspeakable acts of violence. The school offers many children the most stability they have ever had--and likely will ever have--in their lives.

 

The small village of Barlonyo, about an hour north of Lira, is home to a large Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp. These camps are filled with Ugandans who fled their homes during the height of Kony's reign of terror. LRA soldiers infiltrated the camp in 2004, killing over 200 refugees and creating hundreds of orphans.

Our class set up a makeshift health clinic in order to provide basic medical care and clothes to residents. Saying that these people have nothing is an understatement. Many were wearing little more than rags, and the toothbrushes we handed out during the clinic were treated as precious gems. They seemed to be pleased by our presence--the opportunities for work and entertainment in the camp are minimal.

Recovery in northern Uganda is slowly taking place. Residents no longer live in fear that Kony will return to abduct their children and kill their loved ones. Five years ago, this threat was a very real possibility. The towns affected by the LRA are slowly rebuilding and returning to life. Although these communities have a long road to recovery ahead of them, the process has begun.

African adventures: an intro

"The first rule in Uganda is that there are no rules."

My new friend, Charles, stated this bluntly as we sped down a two-lane dirt road toward the country's capital city of Kampala.

He was referring to the terrible traffic that cripples this city of over 11 million residents. Cars compete with giant buses, pedestrians balancing baskets of fruit on their heads, and the occasional long-horned cow for precious driving space. Motor bike taxis (called boda-bodas) with beautiful African women perched delicately on the back seat weave dangerously in and out of the street. There are no lane markers, stop lights, or sidewalks. There is only chaos.

Loud, dirty, glorious chaos.

The lack of rules and order in Uganda extends far beyond transportation. The government is terribly corrupt, and bribing must be done in order to accomplish almost anything. The amount of car exhaust and smoke hanging in the air would give an EPA employee a panic attack. The concept of time is also skewed--African time runs anywhere from one to three hours behind schedule. And the rest of the city is an abstract painting of red dirt, bits of trash, pounding music, and a constant sea of people.

This scene would no doubt be terrifying for some to witness. But the rawness of life here exhilarates me in a way that nothing ever has, or probably ever will.

My first 10 days in this very new and mysterious continent have been a whirlwind of sights, sounds, and smells. Sharing in this experience are eight other students from the University of Colorado, plus professors and staff members from the Global Livingston Institute (GLI). Our three week class is entitled "International Development in East Africa," and encompasses many facets of this highly complicated and volatile issue.

GLI's motto is "listen, think, act." A basic premise of the class is that too many solutions have been implemented in the developing world by those who acted before truly understanding the needs and capacity of the community. Of course, there are a plethora of factors as to why international aid has caused little growth in developing countries, including political instability, corruption, exploitation, colonialism, slavery, war, disease, a lack of infrastructure, holy shit I could go on but I won't. In a nut shell, we are here to identify problems, analyze the solutions being implemented, and form our own conclusions.

My time is too short--and the internet access far too slow--to detail everything I have experienced in the past two weeks. The short version is this: I have witnessed the most extreme poverty of my life in the slums of Kampala. I worked with refugees who fled from the Lord's Resistance Army in Lira--including the former child bride of Joseph Kony. I witnessed a massive dance party at a prison in Jinja. And I have been thinking deeply about my immense privilege as an American, and wrestling with white guilt, on the daily.

Hopefully I will have more time to write about my experiences in the coming days. Until then...

Spray-painted sign on a girl's school in rural Uganda

I found a baby goat! It does not look pleased..

This guy pulled the sunglasses off of my face and started modeling. Taken in the Katanga slum during a mini-health clinic we put together. 

Katanga slum, Kampala, Uganda

Street kids in Kampala

The peanut struggle is real, y'all. 

Street market... somewhere

A white rhino grazing on some delicious grass

This is the road... yeah. 

Best bad translation to date

South America Wrap-Up

"Get ready South America. I'm coming for you." I vividly remember writing this statement after purchasing my plane ticket to Peru last April.

Fast forward to early August. I was suffering through an absolutely insane 30 hour bus ride- one in which I went through all stages of fully accepting my impending death- when I realized that those words had equated to a challenge. I had accidentally provoked an entire continent, and she was showing me who was boss. 

South America 1, Keri 0. 

The last week of my journey was a mixed bag. On one hand, I had some excellent adventures. On the bus to Sucre, I met a man named Johnny. He was a PhD dropout from New Orleans, a recovering drug addict, and had spent the past year backpacking solo through Central America with a machete strapped to his back. He was adventurous, brilliant, and absolutely out of his fucking mind. We spent every day in Sucre together-- wandering through the markets, chewing copious amounts of coca leaves, and playing video games in rundown arcades with local teenagers. Life was good. 

On the other hand, my body was shutting down on me. I had developed another sinus infection, and my cough was getting worse each day. I wasn't sleeping at night, and the lack of rest made me anxious and depressed. After a few days, I knew I had to scrap my plans to visit the Bolivian salt flats--a cold, windy, and ruggedly beautiful place--in order to go home and recover. 

Although leaving a week early made me feel a bit defeated, it did not detract from the overall amazing experience I had in Peru and Bolivia. I gained a wealth of knowledge about myself and the world, which I will not attempt to spell out in detail here. This journey was the impetus for making several major changes in my life and way of thinking, and for that I will be forever grateful. 

So, after a full year, South America has been officially wrapped up. And just in time for my next adventure in Africa. Stay tuned...

The above picture, which I have entitled "The Pam and Caroline Fry Reunion Special," was taken on the sly by a random photographer in a diner outside of Atlanta.