Lyantonde Living

Queen Elizabeth (July 12, 2014- July 13, 2014)

akramer — Fri, 18 Jul 2014 15:42:00 GMT

I saw Elephants. I saw elephants. I saw Elephants (now imagine that in a sing song slightly nagging voice). I have seen them before in the zoo, but nothing can compare to seeing tens of these mammoth pachyderms in their natural habitat of the African bush. I saw one on its own in the bush first. It looked like an adolescent bull male recently rejected from his herd, but we drove by to fast to tell. I already considered the trip a success.

As we were driving Courtney screamed. She sat a few rows a head of me. I saw her pointing at the thick bush to my right hand side. I turned just in time to see what National Geographic photographers pray to see. The matriarch’s barley stood out from the dark bush. Her face ears and tusks covered in a dark gray blue tinted mud. She almost melted into the dark shadows surrounding her. Her face took up most of the small opening. Her child stood next to her reaching up to the middle of her ears, as the rest of the family clustered behind, and disappeared into the bush.

I screamed as well. My mother told me I needed to read Elephant Whisperer before this trip. Learining about these amazing creatures heightened my sense of respect for them. I never expected to see them so calm in their natural home, and so close. They were just off the side of the road maybe ten feet from me. We drove so little time, and there they were right behind me.

“Can we go back? Can we reverse?” Courtney called up to the driver. “No we can’t,” Claire responded (she sat in the back seat with me). “They’re already crossing the road.” I stuck my head out the window to see not twenty feet behind me a herd of elephants crossing the road. Elephants of all ages paraded in front of me, in a line almost as neat as the one in Disney’s The Jungle Book. Only the baby, toddler and youth elephants broke the line. The babies and toddlers pranced next to their mother’s feet, while the youth stood slightly askew of the line. Their size astounded me. The stood taller than our van. Standing up out of the window I could not see the whole of their backs. The size of the mothers only made the babies more adorable as they tottered along, their height reaching just above the mother’s ancles.

I took a few pictures and tried to take a video, but found out later the video had not taken. After all the elephants vanished into the bush on the other side of the road we started to drive again. Not long after we came upon another mother and her young child grazing off of bushes just off the side of the road. We watched transfixed as the young elephant stripped the leaves from the bush with his trunk, and placed it gingerly into his or her mouth. The mother’s back faced us so we could not see how she ate. The baby elephant moved around and this time I got that on video.

We saw a few more elephants on our drive to the channel (we were going to take a boat tour). Their size became apparent when we could see a herd of elephant on the lakes banks from high atop a hill. The buffalo they mingled with looked like specks, but the elephants stood out clearly on the shore. Even from the other side of the channel you could distinguish the outline and movements of a massive bull elephant on the bank. Clair and I origionally sat on the right side of the boat, and the one that faced the opposite bank. Jenna then commented that the driver would probably take the boat around the channel turning to the right, which would put the left side of the boat closest to the bank with all the animals on it. Clair and I then shuffled onto the other side of the boat. Jenna was correct and Clair and I got to take good pictures without having to shoot over someone’s head.

Ruth served as our boat guide. She spouted facts about the animals as we drove by the herds of elephants, water buffalo, and hippos wallowing in the water together. She told us that elephants use their ears as giant fans to keep cool. When they charge they drag their front foot through the dirt repeatedly (like a horse). Our boat came too close to an elephant (we were at least 20 meters off the shore, but the elephant thought we were too close) and as we passed we watched him stare us down and stamp his foot. Ruth laughed and told us he was charging. they are matriarchal, and they jestate for 22 months. One bull elephant we saw on the banks had an odd discoloured spot behind his eye. It looked to be some kind of moisture. A woman on the boat asked Ruth what it was. I feel that she, and most of us worried, that it was a sign that the elephant had fallen sick. “It means that the female elephants are in heat. Yeah when you see the mark behind the eye that mean it is mating season.” We watched this elephant for a while. He ate from bushes and when he approached the bank the hippos just of the shore started to swim away, lest he decide to join them. He played with a rock for a bit and I managed to get a picture of the tip of his trunk curl around it. We also saw him poop. Ruth said this was rare to see an elephant poop, but I doubt it. Elephants are also amazing at camouflage. Despite their size they hide well in the bush. It had to look hard on the hills surrounding the lake to see the tops of some of their heads.

Water buffalo also run themselves as a matriarchal society. When the male buffalo grow too old the females kick him out of the group because the children he produces will not be able to survive in the wild. Whenever we passed by one to three buffalo on their own Ruth told us they were the ones that were too old. They formed their own bachelor groups to keep each other company and for protection. Lions most often kill these male buffalo because they are weak and live without the protection of the herd. Ruth also told us that when a buffalo has a light brown tint to their fur it means they are across breed between a buffalo and a forest cow. The buffalo like to spend most of their time in the water or near the beach. They enjoy this for two purposes. The water cools them off and protects them from the heat, and it helps with tick prevention. When they buffalo lay on the bank after chilling in the water the dirt turns to mud and attaches to their fur. Once the mud dries it suffocates the ticks. Birds also eat some of the ticks and yellow-billed haron follow buffalo around to eat the grasshoppers that fly away as the buffalo move through the grass. Buffalo can live up to 25 years.

Hippos can also live up to 25 or thirty-years, in fact, most animals in the park live around that long. Elephants and crocodiles stand out as the exception. Elephants can live to 45 or 50 years, maybe longer, and crocodiles live up to 150 years. Hippos, though, are not matriarchal. When a male hippos fights another for control of a pod they fight to the death. They are the most dangerous animal in water and kill hundreds of fishermen every year. At one point we saw a group of hippos wading in a smaller group away from everyone else. These were the pregnant hippos. Pregnant hippos sought shallower water when they came close to giving birth to prevent the baby hippo from drowning. They also move away from the head of the herd until they know the sex of their baby. If they have a male they keep away from the herd for up to three years. They do this because the head hippo is ready to kill any male hippo he sees as a threat. This includes newly born males who he sees as a future threat. But, for some reason when the baby hippo turns three the lead male no longer sees him as a threat. If the hippo has a baby girl she can re-join the herd immediately.

Other fun animal facts: waterbucks’ fur does not lie flat on their body. It sticks out straight off their bodies and exposes their skin to the sun. As the sun heats their skin they sweat, a lot. Their sweat produces a smell that lions cannot stand, and so lions and leopards usually keep away from them. They act much like deer and elk back home. Most of the year the males form groups separate from the females, and they do not come together until matting season.

African sea eagles, on the other hand, are never more than one kilometer apart from their soul mate. Once a sea eagle finds their mate they adhear to the till death do us part line of the marriage vow more strictly than most humans do. They remain with and close to their partner until one or the other dies. Even after this they do not find another mate. They will live the rest of their lives alone.

Hammar head birds also mate for life. These birds build elaborate nests with multiple rooms and a front and back exit for easy escape. They stay in the same nest year after year. Because of this the larger the nest the more times the bird couple has given birth. They continue to add onto the nest year after year. Some lazy birds, though, will steal their nests when the family are away, or have moved out. Another bird builds its nest in the side of the hill close to the water. From the boat you can see their nests burrowed into the vertical rock on the side of the lake. This bird takes time egg sitting, with the male doing some of the work, and the female the other. These nests are prime for monitor lizards (we saw one in a tree) to go egg hunting in. monitor lizards eat small birds and raid crocodile and birds nests for eggs to eat. Crocodiles are also their own worst enemies and it is hard for them to make it past youth.

Plenty of fish also live in the water, and where there are fish there are fishermen. Unlike national parks in the United States communities still live inside the park. These communities mine salt, fish, and heard cattle. As we made our trip around the channel and got close to lake Edward we saw a fishing community. Our boat joined a score of fishing boats as men set off to fish in the waning daylight. Ruth explained that the community new the importance of conservation and that the Ugandan Wildlife Authority granted them special permission to fish. Their lively hood depended on the sustainability of the fish population, so they new the importance of preserving it.

When the boat ride ended I hear one girl and boy talking about how they had been evacuated. I asked where from, and they said somewhere not far off. They were working at a bording school all summer in conjunction with a program based out of Philly. Eliza said she talked to one of the boys and they were missionaries. Go figure. We saw another group of mzungu “volunteers” on the boat behind ours. They came in Volunteer Uganda trucks, but it was obvious that most of the people in the group were voluntourists. The girls wore strapless shirts with short skirts or booty shorts. We could see a few of their bum cheeks hanging out. In Uganda strapless shirts are not that taboo. Breasts here are seen as utilities and are not overly sexualized. Short shorts though, are BIG no no’s. The region from the hips to the knees is the sexualized part of a woman. We felt offended that people who claimed to be volunteering would be that insensitive of the society they were in.

After the boat tour Horace, or driver, took us to a hotel on top of the hill that over looked the lake. We took jumping pictures. The hotel had a coffee table with cookies laid out on top of it. Jenna took one, and failed in her attempt to conceal the action. I, however, took it off the plate in a less overt manor. I took a chocolate macadamia cookie with fudge baked in the middle. It tasted so good I stole another one on the way out.

On the drive back to our lodging we looked for lions, but found none. We did, however, frighten a mama elephant and we needed to speed away as she trumpeted and turned to charge at us. We also drove by a muddy creater lake. Many of the animals went there to get salt, and when they were too old or too weak they often got stuck in the mud and died down there. We also had to keep closing our windows as cars drove by to keep the dust out of our vehicle.

At the end of the day we could not wait to return to our lodgings. The company booked us at Bush Lodge. From the pictures and the description online (and the price we paid for the whole Safari) we mentally prepared to stay at a place with modest accomidations. We were wrong. Bush Lodge served as everything I ever imagined going on a safari would look like plus a million. When we arrived for check in in the afternoon we saw that the lodge positioned itself on top of a cliff overlooking the lake. When we retruned we watched the pink sun and its reflections shimmer of the lake as the sun set behind the hills of the park. There were tents on platforms with grass-thatched roofs around the periphery with a stone path leading to each. Three larger tents were in the middle of the camp. One had tables, chairs, and a bar. The other stood empty, and the third had couches. They lead us to the ones with the couches, sat us down, and gave us a complimentary cold towel and mango juice.

We checked in and they lead us to our luxury tents. Clair and I roomed together. We shared a spacious tent. It contained two twin beds, a nightstand, and a table at least two feet long to put or other things on. We settled ourselves then headed for lunch. The food was the best we have eaten in Uganda. For lunch they served (it was a set menu) corn flower soup and twisted thick noodles with tomato sauce and cheese. The soup came with knotted buns that tasted an awful lot like mini Challahs. For dinner we had grilled tomatoes and eggplant with cashews, and a balsamic vicegerent dressing, cream of spinach soup, mashed potatoes and sautéed vegetables, and a delicious cake with raspberry syrup. They even asked us that night what time we wanted breakfast and how we wanted our eggs. I chose cheese omelette. Instead of eating in the tent like we did for lunch and breakfast we ate outside under the stars with a carocene lamp and a bonfire for light. For breakfast they served us eggs, cereal, toast, butter (real butter), jam, cinnamon bits, doughnuts, French press coffee and fruit. We felt as if we had accidentally won some lottery that placed us at such an amazing place. We continually thanked and toasted Jenna for arranging the trip. We could never be thankful enough.

Sunday morning we ate breakfast at 6:00 and were in the car by 6:30. We picked up our tour guide Robert and were off to see some lions, except we didn’t see any lions. We instead saw As we drove though, we noticed that the long tall grass we saw the day before did not show. We drove through green short grass. Robert said rangers had recently burned this area for fire protection. They didn’t do it well because they burnt all the grass. Instead of burning the whole area they should have left patches of tall grass for the smaller slower animals to hide in. The exposed areas of grass reviled the graveyard of the Savannah. White bones lay strewn across the ground and contrasted with the dark dirt.

We saw bush deer, Kob, and baby warthogs. When or drive was over we came home. I want to go back.

Rain (August 10th, 2014)

akramer — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 19:07:00 GMT

Today it poured. When it rains here the sky turns one colour like a clean slate. For the first time in over a month the sky turned one colour, and rain came down from the heavens. For a good while at work the windows were torrents of rushing water like the front windshield wiper in a carwash, or the end of the Tiki Room in Disneyland.

As I sat and pealed matoke with my new host mom Hajat Sarah I watched out the garage door as the dying crops soaked up the rain, and as red rivers that ran in the street washed away excess dirt. “But so many people,” she said, “the rain has ruined their houses. Eh, right now everything is wet and soaking. The roofs might be ruined and the children will catch a cold. Especially in the villages.” She paused. I thought of a family we visited earlier this week that lived in a thatched roof house on a hill. The women told us that when it rains everything gets wet. I thought of how the blankets we gave her were probably rendered useless because they were drenched by the cold rain.

“For me,” she started again, “I am so lucky to have this house. The old one, eh, it would leak! But now,” she motioned to the tin roof above our heads. I told her that I was happy she had this house, and how amazing it was that she worked so hard for it. As I continued to peal matoke I listened to the sound of the rain on the tin roof and watched it pour down outside.

Two week Reflection 1

akramer — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 19:03:00 GMT

Though Jenna and I told you about our project over the trip I feel the need to write it down. This will help you remember and will also help me to understand where I want to go with the project. Jenna and I are working on a video project for Salama Shield. This project seeks to encompass different aspects of Salama Shield’s programs through interview segments. These videos have two purposes. Salama Shield plans to use these videos to showcase their work to past and future donors to earn money for their programs. Salama also plans to use these videos as another method to capture their work for their own use in the future, so more as archivle sources.

The last two weeks Jenna and I have made good headway on our project. Before the trip we started an email conversation with two of Salama Shield’s employees in Toronto, and sent them our first completed video. They enjoyed our work. It encouraged Jenna and I to know that our work could be usable. It also gave me the feeling of validity in this project. I took video production in grade six and seven and I love watching movies, but besides that neither Jenna nor I had any real qualifications for this project. Besides our class the most useful thing I learned in university to help with this project came from reading They Say in Harlan County in Hist 433. Reading this gave me the idea to look at this project as collecting oral histories, but on a much smaller scale. The way Portelli organized the book also gave me a few ideas of how Jenna and I could arrange the clips we took.

When we arrived back from the trip we received an email from Luke, one of the staff members in Toronto, saying not to worry too much about creating a final product, or products. He said that instead we should focus our efforts on collecting success stories from the micro-credit and goat programs. This provided Jenna and I with a sense of relief. Our limited video skills would not need to be tested to create the overarching video to encompass the idea of Mbuntu, a complicated term for the community and the individual being inseparable.

The main problem with this task, though, comes in the unpredictability of the frequency of our trips to the field. Many times vehicles and/or staff are too busy to take Jenna and I into the field with them. Many of the families that the goat and micro-credit programs work with live deep in the bush. They often left school at an early age, or did not attend school, and are difficult to reach. These are often contributing factors that put the families in vulnerable situations in the first place. Because Jenna and I do not speak Lugandan or know where the families live we cannot get footage without an escort.

Even on the days we do go out we are unsure of the families we will visit, and their stories may serve to document how Salama Shield conducts their work, but may not be success stories. For example, one day last week Jenna and I were dragged along as Benon, the head of the Mbuntu department, interviewed families he deemed vulnerable, but because no one in their family tested positive for HIV/AIDS Salama Shield had not given them support yet. We also spent the afternoon following around a community member identifying new families that may or may not qualify for help. While the footage captures how Salama Shield works, and may prove beneficial for later use, it does not meet the direct needs of the project. Though our new designation pertains mostly to capturing footage, because we often have so much down time in the office, Jenna and I have since completed two more videos for a total of three. We have also labeled all of the raw footage that we have, as per Luke’s instructions. As of Thursday the 10^th Jenna and I have recorded over ten hours of video.

From last Friday to Thursday Salama Shield’s founder Dennis Willims, his wife Rita, his sister Ingrid, his brother in law Paul and his two nephews Brandon and Ben were visiting. We were able to meet with Dennis and gain a greater understanding of the organization and Dennis’ vision. The ability to understand the history from the man who started it, and to hear how Salama Shield has grown increased my respect for the work they do. Watching Dennis work with the Ugandan staff and treat them with such respect gave me a sence that I worked for an organization where the founder did care and consider the workers family. This attitude stood a bit in contrast to that of his wife and sisters.

The wife and sister were here working on two separate projects. One project focused on collecting pictures and recipes for a cookbook they want to make, and the other project focused on distributing teddy bears, hats, and blankets to vulnerable families. For the cookbook project Ssenga Namuli, one of the Salama Shield employees, hosted a traditional Ugandan banquet. To prepare everyone took turns through out the day cooking. When we were helping Rita told us we would need to move slightly so that our hands would not be in the shot. If our hands were shown this would make it “not authentically African.” This comment stood in contrast too much of what ISL warned us about creating a single story. It also contradicted the cookbook itself, which plans to take traditional recipes and give them a western twist.

Jenna and I got another opportunity to work along side Rita and Ingrid when they went to distribute the hats and blankets. Jenna and I, but mostly Jenna, got to work with Benon and another Salama Shield staff member to decide which families we knew of needed these items the most. Ingrid and Rita also invited Jenna and I to accompany them to distribute the goods to vulnerable families. In the car Rita, the wife, asked questions that I was shocked she did not already know the answer too. She asked why families needed tin roofs and what the goats were used for among other things. These are fair questions to ask, however, when you visit Lyantonde at leas once a year and fund and promote the organization and the goat program I would think that you would want to or would have figured out the answers rather quickly. Jenna and I asked the goat question the first day. I politely, explained that the metal sheets were necessary to keep the house dry during the rainy season, and many people cook near or in their houses and the thatched roofing can catch on fire. She did not know a person can’t milk these local goats. I know that her husband started the foundation and not her, but it seems an intergrle part of both their lives, and it interested me that she does not take a more serious interest in the organization.

During this trip we were able capture few interviews that highlighted the successes of the goat and micro-credit programs. The programs allowed many of the families to build homes, shops, and to send their children to school. But, because of the desperate situation the families found themselves in they still needed basic bedding. One family Jenna and I had visited earlier, but due to battery problems we were unable to film the families story. On our first we saw how the family had no back door to their house, and the water that they drank looked like chocolate milk. When Jenna asked him the biggest challenge the family of 10, two parents and eight daughters, faced he answered bedding. I am ecstatic that I got the reactions of his and all the families to getting the blankets on film. The stories of each of the families also could move even the meanest person to tears. The resilience and hope in this community astounds me.

Jenna and I also worked with the Paul, Brandon, and Ben, the brother in-law and nephews, on their project. They are creating a CD and videos based off of the drama group’s work. The drama group raises awareness about HIV/AIDS through traditional music, dance and skits. I filmed a few of their performances, and on Wednesday I ran around on the side of and behind the group filming, as they paraded around town. The people in town laughed as I almost ran into about four parked cars and seven parked bodas.

Jenna and I are hopeful that we will be able to get more footage in the next two weeks, and if not Dennis gave Jenna another project she can work on, and I can watch all the footage and go through and cut out long pauses to make it less for others to edit in the future. Luke and his partner Lisa also want to skype with Jenna and I tomorrow, so we may have more work from them.

ISL Field Trip Reflection

akramer — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 18:59:00 GMT

Our class covered refugee movement and NGOs in East Africa and a global context from roughly 1972 to 2012. We read numerous articles (around three or four a week) on different issues surrounding this topic. These articles discussed religious NGOs, the UNHCR and its challenges, physical health issues, mental health issues, and reasons for why refugees and IDPs needed to flee their homes in the first place. We went into the field trip armed with the knowledge from class, or as much of it as we remembered, and a greater understanding of the regions culture from our placement.

But, it feels almost completely different to engage with these topics on the ground. Many of the articles we read were written by what Ugandans would call a mzungu, or if not by a mzungu for a mzungu audience. Even if the articles are written well and “ethically” a degree of separation occurs when you read about refugees and conflicts thousands of miles away in a classroom. No matter how much you think you understand or sympathise, you can only understand so much. Like our placements the ability to engage with these topics on their own terms in their own settings deepens and enhances your understanding.

Of the articles we read many discussed the issues that occurred in refugee camps. The meeting with the man from the Office of the Prime Minister, I am sorry I do not remember his name, allowed us to understand these issues from an on the ground administrative angle. He worked as a commandant throughout Uganda including in the north when the LRA (Lords Resistance Army aka Koney) was most active. When I asked what he thought the biggest problem that he faced was, instead of saying money like I expected (that seemed to be a popular answer for almost everyone else I asked) he said, “educating all the children who live in the camps. We have man primary schools in the camps and settlements, but not enough teachers. They often leave. We have very few secondary schools. They are often far away from where people in the settlements and camps live, and so the kids cannot attend. That I think is the biggest problem.” From all the readings I expected a different answer. This issue also arose when we talked with the Windle Trust Foundation and visited the Nakivale settlement.

The refugee settlement even riviled the images I had in my head from the readings. The readings made camps sound like rotting hellholes where everyone walked around like with shell shock not trusting their neighbours, and had nothing to eat. I am sure there are camps that readings depicted accurately, however, it gave me some hope to see how this settlement ran. Because it is one of the older camps it seemed to be more structured and organized. The area and school we saw looked more established and secure than many of the villages we visited in Lyantonde. This brought up mixed feelings and emotions for me. On the one hand why should refugees get more funding for nicer houses when people in Uganda and other places in Africa lived in grass huts that flood when it rains? On the other hand they have experienced horrors most of us do not even like to imagine so why should they not have a stable, or more stable, place to live when the flee?

I also I gained a more significant understanding of the violence of the conflicts we learned about from the field trip. When we visited the Refugee Law Project exhibit it allowed our class to see how Ugandans viewed the conflicts we learned about in class with much of the western bias taken out. The visit to the Mengo Palace also resonated with me. Seeing the exploded cars and the writing in the ‘chamber’ where Obote and Amin killed 1000s of men made allowed me to see and connect with the violence. I could not hide behind the ink. The field trip placed the reality of the violence in my face, and I could not ignore it. The same experience happened when we saw the 108 skulls (I counted) and other bones in the genocide museum in Rwanda, as well as the skulls at Lake Kivu. Overall I believe that the field trip enhanced my understanding of the class, and the class prepared me to understand the conflicts that shaped the region and address issues that my organization work with today.

Privilege (June 30th, 2014)

akramer — Mon, 7 Jul 2014 00:59:00 GMT

I hate being white. Let me rephrase that, I hate that colonialism fucked people up so much that some people value me more than they do others because of the colour of my skin. It makes me sick. My sister Imachulet returned home from school with a fever yesterday. The week Eliza and I were away Agnes had such bad Malaria she stayed in the hospital on a drip for two days. Eliza and I worried that Imachulet may have Malaria (she sleeps without a mosquito net), and wanted to take her to the hospital to get her tested.

The one problem, the lab closed at five and the time hovered around six. Eliza gave Imachulet an Advil while we took our tea and waited for Agnes to return to see if she had connections in the hospital (Bibian said Agnes may know a nurse who could help). Agnes did not know anyone. Eliza, Imachulet, Bibian, and I still decided Eliza and I should take Imachulet to the hospital. They might open the lab up for the Mzungu. It was a shot in the dark and a power privilege play, but hey if it helped Imachulet why not try? Around 6:30 we walked Imachulet to the hospital. Bless her heart, she brushed her hair and put on a smart outfit with perfume to walk to the hospital. Even the small trip to the hospital allowed Imachulet the ability to feel that she was going out. She does not get this opportunity often. I am so happy to have her as a sister. Anyway back on track. When we arrived at the hospital we did not see anyone in the main reception are who could help us. However, we saw Sharon and a group of other teachers and students from Sharon’s school. They teachers were taking the students who were sick to get tested for Malaria.

After a few minuets of waiting Eliza and I almost turned back. Imachulet led us on. We wandered the hospital grounds without the sign of a nurse. She then led us to a back building, hidden behind the maternity ward. It almost looked like the houses that lay behind the hospital instead of part of the hospital itself. This section of the hospital had two wings devided by a small hall with a reception desk. On either side paitents lay on beds in the dim rooms connected to drips, while visitors stood around crowding the small areas the patients were given. The nurses and doctors hovered around the main reception desk. Their idle chatter ceased, however, when the two mzungu walked into the room. “Hello Madams,” a man said from behind the desk.

“Hello,” Eliza said in her slow high pitched speech, “my friend is feeling sick, and we were wondering if we could get a test,” she motioned to her finger, “for malaria.” “I have already called the man, has he not come?” “What? We have not talked to anyone yet, he was called for someone else,” she motioned to the door over her shoulder. “We have not talked to anyone.” “There is no one there?” The man asked. “No. And my friend is very sick.” “Which state are you from?” The man asked pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Colorado.” Eliza replied. “Yes hello,” the man spoke to an unidentifiable man on the other side of the line, “we have two visitors here from Colorado. Can you open the lab up? Uh hu.” He returned the phone to his pocket. “You come.” As we walked I told Eliza I would test for malaria with Imachulet. I had a feeling the man wanted to open the lab for us, and I didn’t mind getting my finger pricked. Eliza worried for me, but meh.

We followed him to the TV alcove in the hospital where many people gathered around the small-discoloured television to watch the France v Nigeria game. The man found the lab technician among the viewers, and after a bit of confusion Eliza, Imachulet, and I followed the two men down the open hallway to the lab. Eliza waited outside, while I went in with Imachulet. Imachulet seemed worried, so I told her to squeeze my hand when the technician pricked her finger so that it would not hurt as much. When we went to wait outside for the results the group of schoolgirls had gathered around the lab door. The man who got the technician for us looked confused as to what was going on. He asked if I was feeling ok. I told him I felt a little sick (I had the flue so it was true), but that I could come back to test in the morning; the girls would be in school so they should test first. “Madam,” he said, “come. I opened the lab for you.” “You don’t have to go.” Eliza said, panic all over her face. I went in anyway. They pricked my finger, took a drop of blood, and sent me outside to wait.

When I exited I saw Sharon kneeling over, blood leaving her nose like water out of a leaky faucet. “I can’t handle blood,” Eliza whispered. “Eliza go check the score of the soccer game for me.” She wandered away. I went back to Sharon and told her to pinch her nose just above the bridge for me. She seemed out of sorts and it took me a couple minuets to be able to get her to understand. I had to pinch her nose in the process for a minute for her to understand what to do. Imachulet stood by and waited for our results to come out. Sharon then went into the room to get tested. A few minuets later the technition handed us our papers just as Eliza wandered back. Both of our testes came back negative for malaria. On the one hand we could not just give Imachulet malaria tablets to feel better, but on the other hand at least it wasn’t malaria.

On the walk back I felt relieved that we got Imachulet tested. I also waged an internal moral battle wondering why my life seemed more important and urgent to the doctors than the young girls or Imachulets. Really almost anyone else’s for that matter. Historically I know the answer, but I wish it were different.

Lake Kivu (June 28th, 2014)

akramer — Mon, 7 Jul 2014 00:58:00 GMT

After we participated in the community works day our group loaded in the car for the two and a half hour drive to Lake Kivu, a large lake on the boarder of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. As we left the city we saw only a handful of cars, and maybe two or three-dozen people. It astounded me that the whole country participated so well in the community works day. Our two and a half hours turned into more four hours with an hour for lunch. We drove for an hour and a half and after two attempts at pulling our 15-passenger van into an odd space we went for lunch in a small restraint that served a buffet of traditional east African food. I am not sure if the food tasted so delicious because I was hungry, or because they cooked it better than Ugandan’s, but it was the best traditional food I had had on the trip.

We loaded back into the van and drove for half an hour in the wrong direction. To make up for lost time our driver decided to floor it. This would not have been an issue if the road did not consist entirely of the type of hairpin turns that scare people away from driving Berthed pass in Colorado. Each time we went around a turn I would need to use every muscle to keep myself in my seat. I sat in the middle and almost spilled out of my seat into the large space between the window seat and my seat. Claire, Courtney, and I felt the need to buckle our seatbelts for the first time in two months. Courtney almost had a heart attack and feared that we would spill over the edge. She crashed her car earlier this year on the Sea to Sky Highway, and experienced small flashbacks as we careened toward the lake.

The landscape of Rwanda amazed me. Each turn revealed more hills with terraced farming, and tiled roofs. It resembled what I would imagine the countryside of Italy to look like. A brown river wound it’s way through a few valleys, and we noticed a few streams. On the right side of the car the rocks that the road construction workers exposed glittered and glistened, as if someone threw sparkels on them. I imagined how much my aunt with ADOS (attention defficite ooo shiny) would like to see the rocks.

Around 3:45 we saw the lake out of the window. It nestled in with the mountains, but the other side seemed almost invisible. At 4:00 we unloaded at a church near the lake. Steve, our professor wanted to see the church because of the murals and the memorial shrine that the church constructed for the genocide. The church seemed like it jumped out of a fairy tale. It sat on a hill over looking a part of the lake that jettied in between the hills on one side, and on the other the lake wound its way around part of the town. The church itself found itself constructed of large stones with a tall bell tower. Stone steps lead to large wooden double doors offset to the right of the church. A large round stain glass window encompassed much of the wall on the left. We walked the steps to find people praying inside the church. The community situated the alter opposite a door on the side of the church, so we looked in and watched the people kneeling from the side. A stone path and wall wrapped around the church. We walked around in scilence to see the rest of the stain glass windows, and to look in on the murals to commemorate the genocide. On the other side of the church another doorway stood open. You could gaze inside and see the streaks of coloured light stream in and illuminate the concrete floor, and those people who prayed.

We walked back around and sat on the corner of the patio, gazing at the green hill and green blue lake bellow. It seemed so peaceful, so calm. Just behind us though, lay the mass graves of those who died here, and the building that displayed thirty sculls in the window with the words “Never Forget” written above. As we sat Steve told us how at that place some 11,000 people met their fate. The Hutu rebels had come with their machetes and guns to kill all those whom sought refuge in the church.

Eric brought one of the community members to talk to us. The women volunteered at the church and gave us a more indepth history of what happened. When the genoside started community members fled to the church, and another church on another hill. The one’s on the other hill were killed first and those whom survived ran to the church we visited. Thousands of people stayed in and around the church. One day the Hutu army came and demanded that the Hutu Priest give up the Tutsi he protected. He refused (which is more than you can say for many religious leaders who actually participated in masakers that occurred inside their churches). As a result the rebels killed the Priest and most of the Tutsi. For the third time that trip I could feel that I stood in the spot where someone lost their lives due to violence. My mind could not processes how twenty years ago violence disturbed and ruined the peacefulness and beauty of this area.

Georgia wanted to go back to Kigali, but we were able to convince her to let us go to the actual lake. Clair really wanted to put her foot in, and I told her I would join her. We drove around the lake until once again we realized we were going the wrong direction. We picked up a local and drove the other way. On the drive we saw traditional boats out to fish, and children swimming. We stopped of at a beautiful lakeside resort. Most of us agreed that we wanted to go there for our honeymoon. Georgia gave us half an hour. Claire and I ran around the hotel, out the gates, down a hill and finally got to dip our feet in the crystal clear (well once you got past the small edge of trash at any rate) cool water of Lake Kivu. We still had time left over so Claire and I situated ourselves on one of the walls that overlooked the lake and chatted about life, and the future. At that moment I understood what authors wanted you too feel like when the write “time felt like it was standing still.”

Rwanda Part One

akramer — Fri, 4 Jul 2014 23:08:00 GMT

Rwanda. A Phoenix. A country rose from the ashes to prosper. Twenty years ago, exactly, Hutu extremists slaughtered one million Tutsi and Tutsi sympathisers. It served as one of the worst genocides in the twentieth century. Twenty years ago Rwandese drenched Kigali in blood. One hundred days of violence left the city littered with bodies, many of them children’s that machetes hacked to death, and grenades ripped apart while the world did nothing. Today, only twenty years later, Kigali stands as a bustling metropolis; with streets so clean it puts many other cities to shame.

In many ways Rwanda stands as the antithesis of Uganda. Trees spot the hills, a few skyscrapers dot the skyline, the streets are clean, the roads are well maintained, people stop for pedestrians, traffic lights exist with timers so dirvers know when they can go, and boda drivers are required to have a helmet for both them and the passenger (bodas also look a bit more like sports bikes as well). Even the shops and stores that look like holes in the walls seem to be in better shape than those in Kampala. They even had addresses. This seemed to be the case not only in Kigali but all along the long drive we took to lake Kivu. Rwanda, like Uganda though, still has full building advertising.

This change did not happen over night. To heal the broken pieces the government headed by Kigami and the RPF drew from traditional practices, and applied them to a postcolonial world. The Gachacha Courts that tried thousands of Hutu addressers serve as one of the best examples of how the RPF applied old traditions to the new world. In the pre-colonial area when neighbours had grivences or disagreements the Gachacaha courts were established where in impartial elders would hear the case and decide the best way to return peace to the community. Because old friends and neighbours carried out the genocide people felt they could no longer trust their neighbours, and these courts were re-established to amend these feelings. Community members could share their concerns and grievances with impartial members of the court. Those hearing the case would then make a ruling on how much jail time or community service the person, if found guilty, would do. These courts heard hundreds of thousands of cases in a few months time, while the federal and international courts, which handled the more serious cases, heard only a few hundred if that. The government also did not need to spend much money on the Gachacha courts, which allowed them to save for other projects.

The RPF also drew on, and still draws upon the idea of community. The idea of Mbuntu (though it may have a different name in Rwanda, but I don’t know) became and remains a cornerstone of how Rwanda came to flourish after the genocide. In Rwanda on the last Saturday of every month every adult citizen by government mandate must participate in community works projects from 7:00 AM to 10:00 AM, then must attend a community meeting from 10:00 AM to 11:00 AM. In this manner the roads stay well maintained, the sidewalks remain clean, the gardens remain well maintained, and everyone feels invested in the community. It also probably motivates them to take better care of where they live the rest of the month so that they have less work to do that Saturday. We happened to be in Rwanda on the last Saturday of June. We origionally planed to stay back in our hotel until 11 when we could drive again, but at my and Mia’s request Eric (our in country contact) arranged for us to participate in the days activities. At 7:30 our group of Mzungu headed through road construction where community members were assisting to construct a stonework gutter on the side of the road. We walked until we met up with a group of people picking dried leaves, branches, weeds, and trash out of the gardens that lined the sidewalk to the right of the road and separated the road from private property. Every few minuets or so when the area looked clean enough the group moved down the road. We wandered our way into the stadium (once headquarter for UN Peace Keepers) dirt parking lot where I picked up scraps of exploded rubber, candy wrappers and bubble wrap. My group skipped the community meeting because we needed to prepare to leave for Lake Kivu.

The city that bustled the day before stood in eerie silence. Apart form the military pulling into the stadium to rehearse for a genocide commemoration event, and the people working on the road near the hotel we only saw four other people. People were taking a break from their lives to participate in the community building projects. It touched a part of me that longed for that sence of community/ civic duty back home. While those we talked to admitted that some people stayed home, the vast majority of the country, or Kigali at least, participated. Even those that did not help at least respected the day enough, or were scared enough, to stay home and not drive in their cars, or open their shops. We could never implement a mandate like that in the states without at least three armed standoffs, and appeal to the Supreme Court that would strike down the measure with some BS ruling. Even if SCOTUS ruled in favour of the measure the police would not have enough power to force people to participate instead of carry on with their daily lives. It made me wonder about all the amazing things, though, that Canada or the United States could accomplish if we all for 12 days a year donated five hours of our time. Maybe we’d manage to keep our streets as clean as those of Kigali.

After we removed all of the orange dust that the parking lot caked on our hands and re-applied sunscreen the large group of Mzungu plus Dan (in country rep for Uganda) and Eric piled into our massive van for the two-hour drive to Lake Kivu on the Congo Rwanda border.

Nakivale Refugee Settlement (June 26, 2014)

akramer — Tue, 1 Jul 2014 17:22:00 GMT

Today my class and I visited the Nakivale Refugee Settlement as part of our field trip to learn about NGOs and refugees in the Ugandan context. The drive to the settlement lead the van down a twisted dirt road filled with bumps, much like the rest of rural Uganda. It took about an hour to arrive there from Mbara. We drove to the middle of the camp to the central offices where we met the commandant of the camp, who looked around his mid thirties, young for the age I imagined in my head. We went through the usual routine of introducing our names and our majors. We told the commandant we were from British Columbia, and he started to list off our resources from when he studied them in school. The overlap sometimes astounds me. The commandant then shared the history of the settlement.

The Nakivale Refugee Settlement started (initially as a camp) in 1959 under the British Colonial government to host Tutsi refugees from Rwanda. Since then it has continued to accept refugees from 11 different countries including the Congo, Rwanda, Kenya, Ethiopia, Eritrea, South Sudan, Somalia, Burundi. As of the end of March the settlement hosts 67,988 refugees. Of these refugees 60% (around 42,000) are 18 years or younger. Some refugees arrived recently, and others whom have lived there for years. The settlement rests on just over 71 square miles of land allotted to the refugees by the Office of the Prime Minister. When the refugees register with the settlement the commandant and UNHCR provides each family with a small plot of land for them to cultivate on. The grounds host four health clinics, nine primary schools, and one senior school.

Similar to every other primary school in Uganda, children over crowd the classrooms. In the school we visited the students sat four to a long desk with four desks across the room and eight desks deep. One or two desks had more or less than four students so the total lingered around 128 students per classroom with one teacher to supervise. Overall the school employed 47 teachers for a population of over 1,000 students. Students from all over Africa, including some Ugandan nationals, crowded into the classrooms to be taught by the Ugandan education system regardless of where they came from.

Structurally, however, the school appeared more like an expensive private school than a government funded school under Musevini’s Universal Primary Education act. Teachers still plastered coloured papers with school schedules, teachers’ numbers, and teachers’ attendance on the walls of the head teacher’s office. Lessons were painted on the wall, and signs with positive messages could still be found in the yard of the school. The builders did not put glass in the windows, which left the classes susceptible to the weather. Positive messages such as “We will not forget,” and “We will not die a common man,” littered every empty space on the inside walls of the classroom. But, all of the underlying bricks remained hidden by the overlying plaster. The roofs did not shake, and the grounds looked well manicured. Few of the schools in Lyantonde appeared as neat and well maintained as this one. It gave everyone an errie feeling of abandonment for the people in Lyantonde and a feeling that could almost be labled envy for what our community lacked and the refugees had.

In fact, the whole of the settlement that we saw (granted this section may not be a full representative of the rest of the settlement) though still structures built of mud, were nicer than many of the structures even in Lyantonde town. Not all had tin roofs, but those that did not were covered by tarps provided by UNHCR and branches to keep out the weather. Many structures had tin doors comprised of cut and flattened food tins with USA written on them to ensure that they came from the American people. Even one of their health centers had a structure that resembled a hospital better than the one in Lyantonde. The health center did lack proper staff. They had one full doctor to service over 300 people a day, a few nurses, and three healthcare professionals. Unlike Lyantonde though, they were organized, and had proper equipment, once again to the thanks of USAID and the “American People” as well as another medical NGO. The Medical NGO also provided the nurses. The ability to see the NGO’s we discussed assist the refugees we discussed in class amazed me. They did so much work for so many people.

There are times in life when your brain can’t quite find the right words or questions for experiences. You can ask questions about how you feel about the refugee’s have nicer things than your community does. How fair you feel it is that the refugees get support from all of these NGO’s when your community does not have as much, why they should be left behind? Does my community even need these international NGOs (INGOs) or is Salama Shield a small grassroots organization enough? At the same time why should the refugees not get the support they do. They were forced to leave home and many have faced horrors we cannot imagine. Why should they not get at least a roof over their head? How do you feel about the over crowding? Are the refugees’ problems worse than anyone else’s? Or are they just the same as everyone else’s, but more publicised?

Questions over where the country and ex-pats fit into this scenario also come up. In Kampala we sat at a fancy gelato place and café in a mall that back home I would have felt inadequate to sit at. How can a place that feels so developed and calm exist in a place that 20 years ago less than 20 minuets away at the Mengo Palace political prisoners were thrown into electrocuted water? I know that the issues of privilege and poverty exist in the west as well. I have similar quandaries at home. Where do I fit in as a consumer? These places provide people possible even refugees with good paying jobs. If I have money to spend why should I stop providing jobs for these people?

Written down these questions do not sound as profound as they should. I know I am not a philosopher, or that I create ground breaking thoughts, but these questions do not sound as profound as they feel. These questions are feelings that reverberate from my core throughout my body. These words are how I can process the thoughts and attempt to identify them. I feel that I can never fully articulate the essence of or the implications of them my psyche.

Jackpot (June 20, 14)

akramer — Sun, 22 Jun 2014 15:34:00 GMT

Of the 16 ISL participants at the mid-session workshop Eliza and I are the only two that “have” to go a week to a week and a half between bathing. We could ask for water more at more frequent intervals, but our family does not have that much water, and we feel guilty to ask for it. As a result we give ourselves “baby wipe baths” every night before we go to sleep.

Claire’s family insists that she bathe every night, but she has to share a large walk in closet sized room with Jenna. Their room has enough space to fit their two twin sized beds, with two inches of space between them, and their luggage if they don’t unpack at all and stand their backpacks straight up.

This weekend ISL hosted our mid/in-session workshop in Entebbe at the Sunset Motel (hotel). They provided Clair and I with the key to room 8, and told us to follow the hall to the very end. Now as a bit of background, ISL told us that we would be staying in modest accommodations throughout our time with them. Last week we looked up the hotel on line, and saw they had private bathrooms, which excited us all. Anyway back to Claire and I going to the room.

The door to room 8 looked like it led to a small room tucked into the back of the hotel where the builders had extra space. WRONG! After Claire and I fought with the key and lock for a few minuets we opened the door to a crystal clean room with white smooth tile floors, two twin and one double bed with crisp white sheets and leopard print fleece blankets. Our mouths dropped and we started to squeal. I rushed over to the double bed, dropped my bags, and yelled, “Call it.” Our room also had a sitting area with a television, couch, and glass table. We could not believe our luck. Next we checked out the bathroom. The bathroom went long and narrow. The tiles from the hall turned to white bathroom tiles. We saw a toilet, and sink, and a squeegee in the corner. We didn’t think that the bathroom had a shower until we saw the gleaming silver showerhead and detachable hose nozzle mounted on the wall. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.

Claire and I, no joke, grabbed onto each other and started to scream and jump up and down like the girls do in the Disney Channel Original Movies. I left the bathroom, and threw myself full spread out on the double bed. We were still kvelling over the room when Eliza walked timidly poked her head into the room. “Hey guys. I’m in here with you I guess… Is this our room?!” She couldn’t help but erupt into a smile. When she walked into the washroom and saw the shower she also started to scream. We asked the rest of the ISL group if there rooms were as nice, and they were not.

That night when I did my abs workout I had room to do each exercise without hitting anything. I also had a small rug to work on instead of a concrete floor. The best part, however, was the hot shower I got to take after my sweaty workout. I cannot express in words the feeling of getting to rinse sweat off your body as soon as you finished a workout. I had not had a real shower in over a month, and had not bucket bathed in a week. That shower rinsed off a weeks worth of inadequet baby wipe baths, and sweat. It also washed off a months worth of stress. I rinsed, lathered, and repeated able to massage my soaked hair for the first time since I left Kampala. The water seemed to wash all the stress and exhaustion away down the drain.

After my shower I climbed into crisp clean sheets that fit my bed, and sleep with pillows not stuffed with small foam beads (a travel pillow, the one my host family gave me is a flat rock). At around 11 after a long day I drifted off to sleep with clean skin in a clean bed. These are joys and pleasures at home, but I don’t know if I have ever appreciated them as much as I did in that moment. I wish I could stay forever.

Cario and Cannibalism (June 17, 2014)

akramer — Thu, 19 Jun 2014 16:51:00 GMT

Last night our other older sister Cario came home. We met her two weeks ago as well, but she only stayed for a day before she went to finish her term at school. Last night after dinner Eliza and I got our first real chance to talk to her. I cannot remember the exact conversation that lead to the odd topic, but for one reason or another I found myself asking Agnes about cannibalism. One of my first weeks here as I washed dishes with Imachulet she told me about the cannibals that lived in Uganda. Then last week Courtney said that she saw a story on the news about how the Ugandan police arrested around twenty cannibals, but she could not remember where they lived. I asked Agnes if she knew where the cannibals were.

“They live in (insert name of town that starts with a K) in Rakai, “I heard the story. They ate a women and her baby. The man escaped by climbing into a tree,” Agnes said. “In Rakai?” Eliza asked in disbelief. “Yes, in Rakai.” Agnes and Cario both said together. Eliza with her mouth open like a cod-fish. Rakai distrect situates itself next to Lyantonde district, and the town were most of the cannibals live boarders Lyantonde district. Eliza drove through there twice last week. A family of cannibals are also rumoured to live in Kaliiro, a town an hour or two walk from were we live (aka close). It turns out, that not only do they live in Rakai, but because so many lived in Rakai the ones that did not moved there, so Rakai, and that one town specifically became the cannibalism capital of Uganda.

Over the next half hour Cario and Imachulet divulged information about the “night eaters.” These people “hunt” naked at night, hidden by the darkness. If they see someone coming they can “make themselves like pigs, and you cannot see them. If they want you they grab you and eat you.” They usually eat the dead though. They go at night and have machines that dredge the body from the grave, and then they consume that. They also only usually hunt at night. I made sure to ask if that was the case. “They never eat their family though,”Cario said. “When one member of the families dies they do not eat them. They trade another family. So they say, ‘here you have this and you give us one later.’ They can eat their clan, but not family.” “So it’s not like the people are being punished and eaten, or that it is part of a ritual when someone dies?” Eliza and I asked (we had been talking about funerals before this because Agnes had to cater a burial and when Courtney told us about the cannibals Eliza wondered why they ate people. I remembered this and asked). “No,” Cario said. “They just eat you.” Imachulet replied.

“How do they not get sick?” Eliza asked. “They start young giving their kids medicine. They then introduce the meat into their diet.” This medicine that they give the children builds up their immunity to the meat. “Even me,” Cario continued, “Can be made into one. If I see them, and they see me see them I can either go join them, and they give me the medicine so I can eat, or they kill me.”

“Do the kids go to school?” I asked. “Yeah they go. Some even go to boarding school.” Imachulet said. “They have problems with them though,” Cario said. “Once they get the taste for meat they crave it. They sometimes are found cutting their classmates, cutting their hair and eating it…” “They drink the blood of them sometimes,” Imachulet said. “And they have to expel them sometimes if it gets bad.” Cario finished.

“Really?” Eliza asked in a state of disbelief. “Yeah!” Cario said. By this point we all were laughing that uncomfortable laught that happens when reality suspends itself, and you are faced with the impossible and improbable being real. “We talked about this earlier,” Imachulet said between giggles. “Did you not believe me?” “No I did!” I said. “It is just so crazy to me!”

“Are you scared of them?” Eliza asked. “Yeah we are scared!” Cario said, exposing the whole white of her eye in the process. “But there is a medicine you can take, so that even in death you can refuse, so when you die your corpse,” she crossed her arms across her chest, “even your corps it can refuse to be eaten. Even if they pull you out of the ground, if I took the medicine this corpse it can refuse. They cannot eat you.” “I would take that,” I said, “I don’t want to be eaten.” Cario laughed.

“Eh, but you also have to worry about child sacrifice. There are people that they sacrifice the child and put the head on the ground when building a house so that they can have good luck.” Imachulet said. Ironically earlier that day I read a bit about child sacrifice in a paper. I found it interesting to hear about it from my family. “They (the gods) especially like private parts.” Cario said. “But you cannot be happy.” Imachulet continued. “If you sacrifice you can be rich, but never happy. Especially if you sacrifice a girl. Her spirit will haunt you, and at night she will come to you and say, ‘Get up, go work. Go work. You sacrificed me to get riches, you should be working. Do not sleep, go work to get rich.’ So you can be rich, but not happy.” “And once you sacrifice you have to keep going.” Cario added. “Once the gods you sacrificed to get a taste for blood they want some every two months or so, so you have to keep sacrificing or they will take away all your riches. But, you have to be whole. Chief is circumcised, so he cannot be sacrificed. Me I have my ears pierced,” She put her finger behind her ear lobe, “so I cannot be sacrificed. Many parents in fact pierce child’s ears so they cannot be used in sacrifice by those people.” “Even the boys?” Eliza asked. “Yes,” Carios eyes widened, “even the boys. But only one ear. So if you see some boys they have one pierced. You have to look for it though.” The next day (today as I write this) when Eliza and I told the rest of the mzungu about this Courtney said, “Hu, interesting. Evan (long a like pasta for Americans), Vanessa, and Vicki (the three small girls she lives with), both have one of their ears pierced, but never wear an earing.” It’s probably so they won’t be sacrificed.

The conversation fascinated me. I did not want to think that something that would still happen in attempts to rise above the stereotypes of the ‘savage’ African, but all these stories were verified by Eliza later that night. She found multiple academic papers that night that verified everything Cario and Imachulet told us about the “night eaters.” Apparently in recent years their numbers have increased, and no one knows why. You can bet I will not go to Rakai any time soon.

Dresses

akramer — Wed, 18 Jun 2014 16:15:00 GMT

I cannot sew. I made a half-hearted attempt when I was younger, but I never learned how to make my own close. I guess that is why I found myself so fascinated when I watched the tailor stitch the two halves of my dress together. Her nimble fingers pushed the fabric through the machine with ease. The machine made little sound as her bare foot pressed up and down on the pedal to operate the machine. Every few stitches she turned the fabric to stitch a new section. I admired the skill and detail that she paid to every motion. I watched her stitch the fabric until she completed it. The dress could not have looked more beautiful.

When my group first went to Masaka three weeks ago I found a blue, red, and white geometric flower fabric that I fell in love with. I planned to get a dress made for Big Block (the awards banquet for varsity athletes that UBC holds every year), and I wanted that fabric for it. Agnes also talked with me earlier about me having a traditional Ugandan dress made so that I could match hers. I found an elegant pink, brown, green, and ivory patterned silk like fabric for the dress.

The following Tuesday Agnes took Eliza and I (Eliza bought pink patterned fabric) to the tailor to have my dresses, and Eliza’s skirt made. Agnes also needed close to be mended. The tailors shop was different from the one that Peace had taken Courtney and I too, but I like these ones better. They asked me to look at the wall for a pattern I wanted for my Big Block dress, but I didn’t see one that suited the occasion. They then took an old book off one of the cluttered shelves in the back of the small one room shop. As I flipped through the pages a simple, but elegant patern jumped out at me. It might as well have had neon lights on the page. Eliza, Agnes, and I all agreed that the pattern would work well with my fabric. Eliza told the women she wanted a simple skirt that flowed a bit, and had an elastic waits band. The women took our measurements, and we were on our way. On our way home we saw the blood from the man. When I called my mom to process what I experienced I also told her about the traditional dress I was having made. “I wanted to get the fabric and just have the tailors make a sleevless dress, but I figured it was more important to get the full one and to make Agnes happy. She has been talking about it since I came home with the other skit I had made, and I figured it will make her smile, and if I really want I can have the sleeves taken off when I get home.” My mother said that was very thoughtful of me and I should write it down in my journal, so I am.

We returned the next (last) Tuesday to collect our things. When we arrived the women were still working on my Big Block dress. The fabric was sheer so they had sewn a blue liner into the dress that made it look so smart. As we waited we saw Claire, Sandra, and Jenna pass by on the other side of the road on a walk to the quarry. We waved to them, and an old man waved back at Eliza and I. When he realized his mistake, he turned around and waved at the other girls as well. I’m going to do that too the next time I wave at someone waving to someone else.

Agnes also arrived at the tailors. We told her that we would pick up her things, but she wanted to stop by on her way home to see how our things looked. I put the traditional dress on over my work shirt and pants. It fit perfectly and looked very smart. Well, for Uganda. The dress goes down to the floor, and slightly hugs your curves. The neckline is square with two buttons on the left side just above the breast. The sleeves are loose and stop just above the elbows. The most unique aspect the dress, though, is the shoulders. If I were to have worn this dress in the 1980s all my friends would have turned green with envy. They shoulders are pointed straight up, and rise up about five inches or so off the top of the shoulder line. The first time I saw a women in this dress I could not believe my eyes, but I have gotten used to them now.

When Agnes saw me in the dress she squealed with delight, and gave me a bear hug. “A mzungu wearing one of our dresses.” She laughed along with the other women as she repeated the phrase in Lugandan. By the time I got it off the seamstress finished with my other dress. For that one I went behind a curtain slipped off my over shirt, and put the dress on over my pants. It fit a bit wide, and Agnes noticed that it bubbled a bit at the bottom when it should have lain flat. Some time later, we saw the girls walk back from their walk, the seamstress finished my dress, and this time it fit perfectly. It looked like it had just arrived in a time machine from the 1960s, and I love it to bits.

Because my dress comes to just above my knees, and not lower I had fabric left over. Also because I am so small a substantial amount of the large swatch of “shiny” fabric left over as well. So instead to taking it home I decided to have a skirt made like Eliza’s, and a top that’s fashion I left up to Agnes and the tailor’s digression.

Eliza and I went to pick them up yesterday. To my surprise, the skirt did not resemble Eliza’s. Instead it had a zipper and clasp at the top. It hugged my hips, and bum before it flared out slightly, and stopped just bellow my knees. It looks smart and professional, and I can wear it to nicer events as well as dress it down for school. It was a pleasant surprise. I wore it to work today, and Sandra said, “That’s the kind of skirt I want. It fits nicely, but still flairs out…Oh and it fits your butt so well! How did they do that? It’s like it’s custom fit or something.” Jenna, Clair, and I all started to laugh. “As a matter of fact Sandra,” I said, “it is custom fit!” She started to laugh as well.

The shirt did not fit as well. I couldn’t even put it on all the way. The seamstresses made the cuffs for the sleeves too tight, and they would not go over my elbows. They re-measured me, and I will go back Thursday to pick it up. It looked beautiful though.

When Agnes got home later that evening she saw me wearing my new skirt. “It looks so smart!” she said. “Do you like the pattern?” she asked. “Yes. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but I really like it. It fits very well.” “That’s because I stopped by the tailor and told them to change the style,” she laughed. “You asked them to change it?” Eliza asked. Agnes nodded her head. We could not help, but join in in the laughter. Agnes may not be perfect, and she may have a bit more of a say in my fashion that I expected, but she looks out for me, and I am glad to have her on my side to help. I have now deemed Agnes my fashion guru for the rest of the trip.

Make 'em Laugh (June 15th, 2014)

akramer — Tue, 17 Jun 2014 21:35:00 GMT

On Friday I promised Agens I would show her the video of me Ugandan dancing on Sunday. Sunday rolled around, and as we prepared for dinner she politely demanded that I show the family the video. I brought my computer outside and placed it on the ledge of the house. Everyone gathered around my computer screen. Ensimere got up from the stairs, Bibian came over from the canteen (I forgot to mention that she sells chapatti to the school kids next door), and Chief climbed onto Eliza’s lap to get a better view. Imachulate grabbed a cushion from the old worn down couch in the front room to put the computer on, then joined the rest of the family. With the computer raised on the cushion I pressed play.

The next 8 or so minuets were some of the most embarrassing of my life. I got lucky that the low glow of the charcoal stove and computer screen didn’t expose how red my face turned (not that my family can notice anyway, I’m just always white to them). Agnes said, “you tried. You were trying,” through tears of laughter every so often. Everyone seemed to tear at least a bit. Eliza told me that she was impressed, but I could see her cheeks turning red from laughing so hard. Chief and Paitence giggled like mad and squealed in high pitches when I messed up. Ensimere took it upon himself to imitate my start-stop form of dancing.

As I observed everyone I started to laugh as well, and I mean really laugh. At first my laughter fell more in line with the uncomfortable sort of laughter that happens when you don’t know what else to do. Some of that remained, but everyone else laughing diluted that a bit, and laughter from joy mixed in. I did try. I may look like an idiot, but I got up there. The video added a few years to my families’ lives, and brought them joy at seeing a mzungu try to Ugandan dance. Sure it is embarrassing, but hell what is the point of having video of something embarrassing like that if you can’t share it?

Friends

akramer — Tue, 17 Jun 2014 15:44:00 GMT

Over the past week Eliza and I have made a few new friends in our community. We now have two boda drivers who we know “well” and use often. When we see them we take their bodas over anyone else’s. One day when we were walking to town one of the boda drivers drove by at a slower than normal pace to say “Hello ladies” to us then speed away. A few minuets later we saw him going the other direction, and he greeted us again. The other boda driver also said hi to us that day. Today he hid in the crowd of drivers and we did not see him until we agreed to take another boda home. He popped his head out to greet us and wave hello and goodbye with a smile on his face. His happiness at seeing us seemed genuine. Eliza and I both dislkiked that we did not take his boda, and agreed to not take another boda driver unless we were sure we could not take his.

There is a school located 10 meters from Salama Shield. Eliza and I have maintained our friendship with Kevin and Sharon, whom I have mentioned in a previous post. They wait for us to walk home at the end of the day from work, and we always stop to say even a quick hello. When either Eliza or I are sick they “pray for us” to get better, and Kevin always tells us to “send my greetings to your Ugandan mother.” We worried about Sharon for a while because often we did not see her, and when we did she talked little. This contrasted to the chatterbox she had been when we first met her. Last week though she returned too normal. She and Kevin were sick, and that lead to the hiding and running. Now they are both chatty Kathy’s, which can get tiresome, but it is worth stopping to talk.

Our older sister Bibian returned from university last week. She graduated with a degree in science and accounting, and is staying at home for about a month or so before she went to look for work. At first I worried what she would think about Eliza and I. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to come home to find two strange mzungu living in your house. Since then we have become closer. Last Thursday when Eliza and I came home late from dinner at the hotel Bibian greeted us by saying, “Well be back. I missed you both today.” We missed her too. Today I helped her with applications for work by letting her use my computer and Internet stick. We talk with her everyday about her dreams, music that she likes, and what university is like in Uganda. We asked her if she wanted to stay in Lyantonde or if she wanted to move to Kampala where she attended university. She said she wants to move to Kampala where there are more opportunities for employment. “Kampala,” she said, “also has everything you can imagine. If you imagine it, it is there, not like here. Here there is not much.” She scrunched her face when she said this. She has family in Kampala and plans to move in with them soon as she hunts for a job that will allow her to pay her own rent. She is quite sweet.

The last friend I have made recently is an adorable two and a half year old. The girl belongs to one of Agnes friends. I first met her a couple weeks ago. Her mother dropped the girl off to play with chief while she ran errands. The girl seemed scared and unsure of Eliza and I. She refused to talk to us, and stares were the only form of acknowledgement we received from her. Saturday Eliza and I came back from Mbarara the girl was at the house. She would be staying the night while her mother (a head teacher) attended an administrators conference in Mbarara. I tried to coxe her into talking to us for a bit, but she refused. I gave up and went on a run. When I got back Eliza was trying to decide how to fly to Jordan at the end of the trip so that she could meet her brother here. I went outside to be with the family. At one point Bibian tried to hand the girl to me, but she made herself a stick and slid through my arms. As she slid through she slumped into a ball segment by segment to make it difficult for me to pick her up. I stood a safe distance from her in a squat with my arms open. She refused to come. Chief, however, ran with open arms. I picked Cheif up and flipped him over my shoulder, and pranced around the yard with him like a sack of potatos. She Anges, who had disappeared while I was on my run, returned riding on a boda. By this point the sun disappeared and so had the mood. The little girl sat hidden in the dark courtyard. I knew she didn’t want to pick me up, but I didn’t want the boda to run over her as he left so I picked her up anyway. She squirmed and flailed. I left her to pout on the ground, and went inside to help set up for dinner. Picking her up seemed to do the trick though. The rest of the night she clung to me. She insisted that I pick her up. Later she, Chief, and all held hands and danced to the music on the radio. We swayed in time to the music until we went in for dinner.

The next day was more of the same. When her mother came to pick her up last night she held Eliza’s and my hands as we walked down to the main road for the mother to catch a boda. She nearly killed Eliza and I earlier while we watched her attempt to carry her overnight bag as we first left. The bag was a fairly sizable purse that just hung above the ground as she attempted to carry it. She tried to put it on as a back pack, then a shoulder bag, then slung it over one shoulder like a messenger bag. This gave her a distinct lean to one side. We were happy that Agnes carried the bag at that point in time. In a rare occurrence there were few bodas that passed by, and none that did not have a passenger on it. We waited for a while, and the little girl dragged me around in circles as we waited. After a few minuets Agnes told us, “come we go back.” Agnes still had the girls bag over her shoulder, and the girl tottered behind us. “Agnes,” Eliza asked, “is she coming with us? Is she not going with her mother?” “Eheh. She has refused to go.” Agnes started to laugh. “She refused?” Eliza asked, a stunned look on her face. “She has refused. She wants to come back.” Agnes laughed harder. Eliza and I could not believe it. There had been no crying, not fighting, no arguing. The girl refused and the two mothers accepted this as a reality. That would never happen back home. I remember begging to stay longer at a friends house many a time in my childhood, and cannot recall one time that I was allowed to stay with out profuse begging, and even then I probably went home. Tonight the girl and I played and made faces at each other over tea. Her mother went to Kampala to pick up tests for her school so she stayed the night again. Her name is Patience and she is precious. She also already knows how to boss Chief around. She will get what she wants in life, and I wish I could know her when she grows older.

Testing Day (June 12, 14)

akramer — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 20:34:00 GMT

Work started in a rather blasé way. Jenna and I edited some video footage while we waited to go to the field. The Heath team was conducting a community health programme where they partnered with a local health center to do on sight testing for HIV. The Salama Shield drama group was preforming, and Benon wanted us to get a video of the group’s performance. At around 11:00 Benon notified us that “we are going,” and Jenna and I slid into one of the trucks where we waited for half an hour before we left. For a bit of that time we amused ourselves watching the drama group (around ten people) stuff themselves into the cab of the other truck, and pile themselves on top of the instruments in the back. Jenna and I both wondered how the ones sitting on the chrome detail of the truck were going to stay on the truck down the dirt roads. A few people transphered into the back of our truck, and then the other truck headed off.

Juma, our driver, disappeared at one point in the loading process. As we waited for Juma to return, I drifted in and out of consciousness for about twenty minuets while Jenna finished the literary magazine she brought with her. He reappeared and we started off by driving the opposite direction as the other truck had gone. Confused Jenna and I waited inside the truck as we drove to town to get chapatti, back to Salama Shield to get something forgotten, then the half an hour drive out to Kaliiro Health Center to pick up the African drums, then to Kaliiro where we were hosting the event. We pulled up over an hour in the truck. We lucked out though because we did not have to helps set up the tents like Sandra and Claire had. They also told us that if we talked to the preacher to just say that we were religious Christians to save ourselves a headache. I didn’t end up talking to him at all so I guess that worked out well.

The event took place on the side of the road in what would be considered Kaliiro town center, which consists of about twenty buildings lining either side of the dirt road. We had one large white tent with no sides and a smaller green one with sides set up in a gap between two buildings. Another green tent sat in front of one of the buildings. The enclosed green tents were where the testing and counselling took place. The white tent with a white tarp underneath was where people sat as they waited for the health counsellors to come, and for their results to come out once they finished testing. To attract peoples attention the drama group set up near the road in front of the white tent.

The four mzungu watched in amazement as the drama group tuned the drums by placing them on the ground around a small fire. The heat dried the hide used to make the drums to tighten it and give it the proper bounce. I took a few pictures of everyone, then Jenna, Claire, Sandra, and I settled down onto the tarp for what would be a very long afternoon. At around 1:00 the drama group started preforming. The music worked like the pied pipers pipe. A primary school let their children out for lunch around that time, and they soon flooded the court area (they had actually been let out right as Sandra was using the washroom that faced the school and decided not to shut the door all the way, but luckily they were all too far away to see her). I filmed a bit, but the group was just warming up. Around 1:30 they really got going.

Once all the drums were tuned one of the dancers started to sing. The rest of the group responded then she sang another line. It went much like what you heard in elementary school when you were learning about African music. And that’s because it is. The drummers started to drum, and then the “madness” ensued. The dancers wore green tops to just below their brests. The rest of their torso to their waits was wrapped in a white cloth that connected to a red, gold, and purple striped skirt with “Salama Drama Group” stamped onto it. Tassels were attached to the back of their skirts, with a half moon of fur that went just bellow their bums tied around their waists. I have never seen anyone move quite like they did. As they stepped their buts shook at lightning speed. Their hip and food movements put hula dancers to shame.

I filmed the performance for about 15 minuets then decided that would be enough footage to have to go through so I went to sit down. I felt so amazed to see them dance. I remarked to the other three that we were in a special situation. We were fortunate enough to see traditional music and dance in a community setting. This performance was not designed for mzungu. A resort did not pay these dancers and musicians or Safari Company to show mzungu what “Uganda” is. They were there donating their time to entertain and draw in community members so they could test. The music and dance was for Ugandans by Ugandans. As they danced one would drop out or switch to playing the gourd shakers. One woman had her baby on her back, and another’s one year old banged away on the drums better than I can. It made the whole performance seem so much more genuine. So much more alive.

The testing was an event to be reckoned with. The community started to arrive over the next hour, and continued to come. Elana, one of the Ugandan health interns, Richard, and Senga signed people up as we waited for the health workers to join us. Almost without exception they all came in their best close, many of the women wearing their traditional Ugandan dresses. Young, old, women, children, men, everyone came out to the site. By the end of the day almost 200 people showed up to get tested (this includes Sandra and I, but more on that later). Sandra explained to us that these events were important because many community members expressed to Salama Shield that they felt afraid, and a bit ashamed of going to the health center to get tested. In talking with the community, however, Salama Shield discovered that people were more open to testing in a situation like this one. While it is terrifying to be testing and find out your status with so many people around, it is more comforting for the community to be with the people they know, and to know they are not alone. Watching the people come all-day and hearing made me a bit teary eyed. Because Salama Shield engaged in dialogues with the community and partnered with the Kaliiro Health Center almost 200 people of all ages came to know their status.

For the next few hours the four of us mzungus chilled underneath the tent. Jenna felt sick for a bit so she went to hand out in the truck away from the people. Our goal throughout the day became to not get dust in our eyes. The dry season is approaching, and because of that the topsoil is turning to dust. That combined with exceptional wind led to a difficult time keeping it out of our eyes.

The drama group had stopped playing to rest at around two. The school bell rung calling most of the children back, though a few stayed with their parents to get tested. The doctors and health workers had also just arrived. We all nearly went deaf as Robert and Juma set up the generator and loud speakers. The megaphone screeched fro ten minuets as they played recorded music to give the drama group a rest. Sandra and I were convinced that that would be how we died in Africa. Not of some strange disease or malaria, but due to bleeding from our ears caused by the high pitch of the sound system. Luckily for us they figured it out. Once the health workers showed up they used the sound system to hold a Q&A session. Richard translated while members of the community asked questions they had about HIV and AIDS into the loud microphone. They health worker would then answer the questions in the same fashion in attempts to “sensitise” the crowd.

When the results started to come back the health worker went and sat in the cab of one of the trucks to tell people their status. At this point the drama group felt rested and decided to start again. I sat on the tarp watching and a man motioned to me and the other mzungu. On the way over Senga had announced that the mzungu would be doing Ugandan dance, and I guess he decided to make good on that promise. One of the women came up and tied one of the furs around my waste. I started to follow the man and shake my butt. The whole crowd erupted with laughter and cheers. I felt like I was doing pretty well for the first couple minuets or so. My butt felt like it had been possessed and that Miley Cyrus had nothing on me. Senga saw me dancing and had me do the traditional shouts that went with the dance. I could barely dance because I wanted to laugh so hard. Claire soon joined me, and the two mzungu made fools of ourselves while Sandra filmed from the sideline.

The man sat down and two of the drama group dancer women took over in leading Clair and I. While I danced one of the drama group members came up to say thank you. She extended her hand out to shake mine. Except she wanted to do more thank shake my hand. To say thank you and show that she appreciated my dancing she placed a 500 shilling coin into my hand. Four other members of the community came up to say thank you over the course of my dance and placed 100 and 200-shilling coins into my hands. Claire also made some money. When we finished I joked that we can consider ourselves official buskers now. I appreciated the money, but it did make it a bit more difficult to dance.

Now for those of you who have never done Ugandan dancing, which I’m guessing is almost everyone reading this, it is exhausting. Your quads gluteus and a bit of your abs start to burn after about five or so minuets. They made us dance for about half an hour. It didn’t help that I wore a three quarter sleeve sweater and a heavy cotton wrap skirt (that I kept thinking would fall down, it didn’t though). By the time the song finished I could barely walk my sweaty shaking body to the backside of the white tent to sit down.

We waited in the tent for things to wind down for about another three hours. People continued to come and test. We shifted our seated positions about every 20 minuets as our legs continued to numb. We sat with our legs folded to one side, then the other, then stretched out in front leaning on our arms until our arms went sore, then seated legs out arms folded until our backs got sore, then wrapped our legs to one side again. One little girl started to play with Jenna’s feet. This hygiene concerned us all because by that point the tarp had engrained dirt into the small creased in our feet and ankles.

I got up to film a bit more when the drama group started to sing about AIDS. Robert came up and told me I should also film the crowd. So I did. It made me feel uncomfortable though when he told me to film inside the tent where Richard was counselling people about their status. At around four thirty things started wind down. They shut the generator off which left a dull buzzing noise in our ears as they adjusted to a normal volume level. Juma walked around handing kids tablets to help with parasites, and Claire and I tried to find shade to stand in (we were sick of sitting).

On Tuesday when Senga and Claire had been doing the mobilization (telling people about the event) Senga had said that the mzungu would be testing to reduce stigma-surrounding testing. Claire told this to me Tuesday in the evening, and asked if I would do it with her and Sandra. I said yes. It turned to 4:30, and no one had told us to test. All day I weighed the benefits and fears around taking the test. On the one hand I could not think of any ways I could have contracted HIV, on the other I had never been tested and did not know for sure. What if I came back positive? There were people everywhere too. Would I want to find out my status in front of all of them? I decided it would be better to test. I filled out the form and marched over to the testing tent with Sandra who decided to join in testing. We waited for one person in front of us then walked in with Clair tagging along for moral support (i.e. she wanted to see the test done). The doctor took my form. He told me to stick out my hand then swabbed my finger with an alcohol wipe. He pulled a blue blob out of one box, and a test strip out of another. He pulled a circle off the top to expose a small needle, and then pricked my finger. After squeezing a few drops of blood onto the test strip he handed me a cotton ball and told me to stay seated. I am not sure why, but I had to do the test again. He placed my strip on my form then added the blood reactant that would determine if I was positive or not. While Sandra tested I watched my blood and the reactint slide up the strip and make it a pink colour. I felt a pang of fear. The unknown can terrify a person, and the unknown meaning of that small strip sent moths fluttering in my stomach.

Sandra and I showed Senga that we tested and she cheered for us. She said she would go test soon too. She disappeared to the tent, and when she came back she asked if we needed councling. The moths in my stomach found a light and rushed at it. Councling started from the moment you tested, but I worried she knew something I didn’t. Sandra and I said it would depend on if we were positive or not.

A minuet later they called Sandra to the truck. She conferred with the women for a moment then left. Robert had a difficult time pronouncing my last name so I told him not to worry about it as I walked to the door to hear my fate.

The women stared at the stared at my sheet for a second, then two, three, four. My mind raced as I studed her face. Her eyes and mouth were set in a strait line. Her face looked like when I joke that I won’t do something for my mother then end up saying yes a second later after I have scared her. After two seconds I though the nurse would start to smile as if she were joking in the same way and tell me I am negative. Then after three I started to worry that I would not receive good news. At the fifth or sixth second with the same face she drew me in close and said, “Your result is negative. Stay negative.”

All the moths turned to butterflies! I grabbed my paper to keep as a momento then went to celebrate with Sandra. Half an hour later we were on our way to pick up Courtney and Eliza back at Salama Shield so we could all go enjoy a nice mzungu dinner at the Sky Blue Motel (hotel).

Football Jerseys (June 14th)

akramer — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 20:32:00 GMT

Whenever I go on a trip I try to bring my dad back either a hat or a jersey from one of the local teams. He loves soccer more than almost anything, and it has been a bonding point for us since I was little. Whether or not he wears what I buy him ever he knows that I was thinking of him on my trip, and that I love him. Even if he wears it once it gives him the opportunity to brag and say, “Look what my daughter got me when she went to (insert country here).”

In Uganda the national team is the Uganda Cranes. Since I have been in Uganda I have noticed a plethora of the population, especially the male population, sporting Uganda Cranes jerseys. For the amount of the population that owned the jerseys though, there seemed to be a limited supply for sale. In Masaka and Lyantonde the two shops I found that sold the jerseys none of the sizes they carried would have fit my father (Ugandan men are a bit smaller so that probably contributed to the lack of sizes). I have two months left before I leave, but I still worried I would not be able to find a jersey that would fit.

Yesterday June 14^th the six of us traveled down to Mbarara. Mbarara is just over an hour from Lyantonde in the opposite direction of Masaka, and is just under the size of Kampala. We were going for four reasons. One was to see Mbarara, two was to get away from our families for a bit, three was to celebrate Sandra’s 22^nd birthday (which was on the 14^th), and four to go shopping at the Knakumat, one of the two major grocery stores in Uganda (the next closest Knakumat is two hours away). We were running low on some basic supplies, and needed to restock.

The start of the trip felt more official than either of the two we had taken to Masaka. When we climbed into the matatu the man wrote out receipts for us. We left when the matatu was full, and did not pick up more passengers than there were seats. We drove into “matatu land” were drivers continued to ask our final destination as we climbed out of the matatu. We told them that we were at our final destination. We spent some time in the Nakumat where I bought a journal, chocolate peanut butter, water, and snacks for our class fieldtrip next week. After Sandra’s birthday lunch we walked around the market with everyone on the look out for jerseys for me. They knew that I wanted to get my dad the jersey for his birthday, which was also that day, so I could send a picture to him.

We finally found a store that had one. They also had one for girls that would fit me. The man wanted 50,000 shillings for them. I bargained them down to 40,000 shillings for the pair. That comes to around $10 American for each. They are nice Adidas jerseys that would be anywhere from $25 to $45 in the states. I cannot wait to see it on him. I called him later that day to say happy birthday and sent him a picture of it. I hope he likes it!

Moon Shadow

akramer — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 20:32:00 GMT

In the city stars are scarce. They shine, but they only spatter the sky. In Lyantonde the stars litter the sky. If you look away from the lights of town the stars appear to take over the black sky at night; except for last week when the moon out shown the stars. Monday night when Eliza and I went out to brush our teeth after dinner we walked into a lighted courtyard. No colours were distinguishable, but the orange tree in the yard cast long shadows. The stars that once blotted the sky had diminished so that the sky resembled that of a city. All but the brightest constellations hid themselves in the moons light. I decided to save the battery in my lantern and turned it off. The moon was bright enough. The next night Eliza and I sat in the moons bright light as Agnes cooked dinner. I asked her if they had a story in Uganda about a man on the moon. “Ahe Ahe. It is a woman. She was collecting firewood on a Sunday so G-d put her on the moon because she was supposed to restie. So he punished her and put her on the moon.”

The next few nights as the moon waxed it continued to rise further left in the sky, and provide us with increased light every night. On Friday the 13^th of June the moon filled out to its entirety. Even before dark the moon had already taken a prominent place in the sky, and startled me on my evening run. As I turned a corner its pale façade jumped out at me. That night the sun illuminating as much of the moon as it could. When we went out to brush our teeth lanterns were unnecessary even to use in the latrine if we left the door open. I stood in amazement as I read the words off of my toothpaste tube, and saw the blue and green plaid of my shirt.

Saturday night the moon came up blood orange with just a sliver missing from the top. I went inside to grab my camera, and amazed the family with its ability to capture the women on the moon. I do not know what it will look like tonight, but I know that I miss the stars and want them to come back.

Matatu Tetris (June 8th 2014)

akramer — Sun, 15 Jun 2014 20:30:00 GMT

In Uganda traffic rules are more like guidelines, unless the traffic police are out. On our way to Masaka last Sunday June 8^th we took a private taxi, aka a mini-van. We learned the week before that we would be shoved in with other people, so I sat half on Clair’s lap half on the windowsill to fit a women and her two daughters into the cab. At one point our driver pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car. A few moments later a traffic officer approached the window. His white uniform gleamed with the contrast of his dark skin. We worried that we would be in trouble, but he just said good morning and we were on our way.

As we drove we could see the front of the storm that raged over Masaka. Courtney made fun of me in the morning for wearing a long sleeve shirt, but I got the last laugh as we waited outside for Café Frickadellen to open for lunch. Jenna was feeling sick so after lunch, and an unsuccessful attempt to find non-shiny fabric, we loaded ourselves onto a crowded matatu. We sat scrunched against each other, but by then we had become used to the routine.

What we were not used to was the technique that the matatu drivers used to avoid getting ticketed by the traffic cops. Warned from a signal from an oncoming matatu, our driver pulled off to the side of the road, loaded three of the men onto two bodas paid the drivers. They then moved the rest of the passengers around so that Eliza was in the front, and there were three people in each of the rows. Once they arranged everyone they continued to drive. Once we were a few minuets past the traffic cops we pulled over to the side of the road, and the three men who they’d put on the boda climbed back into the matatu, and minus Eliza staying in the front, we all went back to our crowded seats.

We all burst out laughing. The rearranged us in order to avoid being pulled over by the traffic cops. This happened two more times on our drive. Eliza remained in the front like an amulet to ward off bad luck. The whole scenario seemed so ridiculous to us, and so brilliant. We couldn’t laugh hard enough the whole drive. I’m sure writing about it cannot do the scenario justice. I wish you all cold have seen it.

Lake Mburo

akramer — Sat, 7 Jun 2014 03:45:00 GMT

Saturday I got to see zebras, and hippos, and crocodiles, and antelope, and baboons, and monkeys, and awesome birds. I’m not talking about zebras in a zoo though. I mean wild zebras! Zebras that roam around the park and live free and happy! They are amazing! They were also so close when we saw them. Jenna, Sandra, Claire, and I all went on a budget day Safari trip to see Lake Mburo park. Before we even entered the park we saw a heard of wild zebras. Our guide Faruke spotted them about 40 meters away from our vehicle. We stopped for a moment to see them then started to drive again. “Don’t worry,” Faruke said, “we will see them much closer.” Well to be honest, all four of us were a bit anxious as to how many animals we were going to see that day. Back home you could drive or hike in a national park all day without seeing any animals. We worried that it would be the same case here. We drove another minuet and then saw a heard of zebras less than 20 meters away. Not a single one of us could contain our excitement as we giggled and squealed like schoolgirls getting to meet their favourite celebrity.

At one point our driver said you could stand up. We all looked up. The roof was disconnected from the rest of the vehicle and raised up on rods. This created a space for us to stand up and see a 360º view of the park as we drove. I had to stand on my tiptoes though to get the protective bars out of my view. Along the way to the park we got stuck in traffic. Not any ordinary traffic either, even by Ugandan standards. We got stuck behind over 100 head of cattle. We tottered along the dirt road at a pace just faster than the walk of the cowherds, and slower then them at some points. The cattle both cows and bulls grew long horns that came up almost to the roof of the car on the larger cattle. Once we made it past the cattle though, we had the road to ourselves.

The sun had not quite peeked out from behind the clouds, which for the morning at least, worked in our favour. Because the temperature remained cool throughout the morning we were able to see more animals than if the sun had blazed in the sky.

The first part of the drive, both in and out of the park, most of the animals seemed to stand on the left side of the road. I stood on the right side of the car next to Sandra. Sandra didn’t have a camera so every time we came across animals I would duck back into the van stick my entire torso and half of my quads out the window, and zoom in on the animals. I then ducked back into the car waddled to the right side of the car and stuck my head out the roof. It must have looked rather comical to Claire and Jenna who were sitting in the row behind us.

After a few more times of sticking my body out the window I decided to leave it there. I could see more that way and didn’t have to strain my calfs. The way that my legs were held inside the car made my awkward position fairly stable.

We turned down a side road in the park, and soon came upon a herd of buffalo. A few lay in the dust of the road as the other pouted (or looked like they were pouting) to the right of the road. Some of the buffalo stared at us, but most pretended we did not exist. They were caked in mud, and some had birds riding on their backs. I felt like a photographer for the National Geographic. Well, if National Geographic photographers had Coolpix cameras at any rate. I sat on the window ledge to snap a better shot of the ones in front of us and decided to stay there.

We then came upon two warthogs, and each of us shouted “PUMBA!” Sandra said that she believed them to be ugly, but Claire came to their defence, and said she thought that they were cute. Jenna and I were to busy singing “Hakuna Matata” to weigh in on the subject. The more warthogs we saw the more we noticed a trend. Warthogs almost always appeared in pairs. By the end of the day Sandra would feel bad for the single ones we saw and wish that they had a mate to be with.

We drove down the side road for about another half an hour. I kept trying to get a good photo of the baboons, but they continued to scatter before I could get the shot. That or the driver would stop the van and it would roll until the non-moving monkey or baboon I wanted a picture of disappeared behind a tree or rock. For those of you who will see my photos of the Safari later I apologise in advance for all the blurry pictures, but a blurry baboon picture is better than no baboon picture at all. Along the drive our driver also spotted Ilands. They are the world’s largest antelope, and they are also very “shy.” We chased them down a game path, but when we got a little too close (800 meters or further) they scattered. I managed to get pictures of their bums. We saw them one other time far away through trees, but I got a couple semi-clear photos, again I apologize to those of you who will see them.

After half an hour we turned around to go back to the main road, and to our two-hour boat tour of the lake. We saw all the same animals, I took a few more attempted pictures of baboons, we scared a couple ibocks when we started our car again after stopping to look at them, and Claire, Jenna, Sandra, and I all felt awkward when we saw another van full of mzungu. Until that point the only other mzungu we had seen that day were an old couple driving out of the park. Once we got to the lake, however, we say lots. And by lots I mean initially we felt uncomfortable about being around five other mzungu. Another ten or so showed up, and we got Annecy. We’ve grown comfortable to not seeing other mzungu. We also felt uncomfortable with what the other mzungu wore. On our boat there were two girls and one boy from France. One girl wore printed baggy pants and a tight spegettie strap. Not too bad. The other girl, however, wore shorts so short that I could see part of her bum when she sat down. I understood that they were camping, and back home I would not care, but they were not in France or a western country. They were in Uganda, and in Uganda the legs are the sexualised part of the body. The four of us from my program agreed that the girl dressed disrespectfully, and we thought stupid mzungu. Another women also had shorter shorts. They were down to her mid quad, but by Ugandan standards she might as well have been in booty shorts. I mean I get that it’s hot, but please be at least somewhat respectful.

The boat tour took a while to being. We were required to put on dopy oversized orange life vests, but at least I felt safe that the boat drivers knew what they were doing. The four of us worried that hippo sightings would be scarce, but like the zebras we saw plenty. They hid in the shallow waters, and under the branches that hung from the shore as if they wanted to drink the lake water like the roots. We could hear them come up behind us with a deep “puff” sound they admitted when they exhaled. Claire could not contain her excitement.

The boat ride lasted two hours. That allowed us plenty of time to view hippos yawning, though we could not get a picture it was cool to see, a baby hippo, birds, crocodiles, butterflies, animals on the shore, and a local fisherman. As we prattled along we passed our cameras around excitedly, and tried to capture our friends with the picturesque backdrop of the hills and the lake. Our guide for the boat seemed just as astute as our guide in the car, and pointed out disguised animals we never would have seen. He also knew the names of the animals, most of which I have already forgotten.

Once back on shore we ate lunch, went to a gift shop where I purchased gifts for my family. I also purchased a little wooden zebra for myself to commemorate the day. An adorable baby, the shopkeepers, giggled and played with kicknacks close to the floor as we shopped for gifts. I almost bought a bracelet that read, “my name is not mzungu,” but like most things, it fit too big for my wrist. We then drove out of the park with Claire and Jenna in the front row and Sandra and I in the back. We were all home in time for supper.

It's All About the Country

akramer — Fri, 6 Jun 2014 18:59:00 GMT

Fridays in Uganda are Country themed. At least my last two Fridays have had a country flair to them. On Friday May 30^th Eliza and I returned home as Agnes prepared tea. As we watched Agnes prepare the food we realized we were having grilled corn and watermelon. I laughed. “This looks so Southern!” Eliza agreed. She started to hum if “I die young.” Because I had not been sick at all I was demosanufu, so I ran inside to grab my computer. With the use of the Internet stick Eliza and I subjected our host family to country music. We had heard it on the radio a few days earlier and figured they would enjoy it. They did. We sat outside on plastic wicker chairs surrounded by maize (corn), and listened to Jason Aldeen, Miranda Lambert, Lady Antebellum, and John Denver as we ate our grilled corn and watermelon. Our watermelon had seeds. I asked Agnes if they ever had watermelon seed spitting contests. She gave me a puzzled look. So I demonstrated. Because no one has genetically modified watermelon seeds here they have more weight, and go further. I spit the seed pretty far out into the yard. Agnes laughed at the fact that people had competitions over that, and said they did not have them in Uganda. We then introduced Agnes to Aretha Franklin, whom she loved. Eliza and I continued to lick the watermelon juice off our fingers as we passed the computer back and forth to choose songs. As we did this Chief switched seats to insure he could always see what the images on the screen. It amused us a great deal. The only thing that could have made the night more Southern is if the ginger milk had been sweet tea (although they probably have the same amount of sugar). It gave Eliza and I sense of comfort and connection to something familiar that we had been lacking.

Today also reminded me of what I believe the South to be like. A small stand next to Salama Shield sells water and snacks. The security guard and a couple other people from Salama Shield help to run it. It sits in between the Salama Shield compound and a field of corn. When I went to go buy water I found many of the Salama staff standing and seated around the shed. They were eating sugar cane and shooting the sh—breeze, shooting the breeze. Benon offered me some and Richard handed me an already pealed bit of stalk. They didn’t want me to use the knife and cut myself. Now, for those of you who don’t know how to eat sugar cane it works like this. You bite a bit off the top and pull down with your teeth until you get a long strip off. You then chew until the juice runs out then spit out the pulp. We all could have used a spittoon. Richard had a bag that he spit his into, but the rest of us littered the ground with our sucked out stalk. One of the drivers David then handed me a plate of sugar cane he cut up for me. Sugared out, I walked it around to the different offices seeing if anyone wanted any. The plate had dainty designs around the outside of the plate. That combined with the skirt I wore made me feel like a southern hostess ensuring that all my guests were taken care of. When people also heard that Eliza was sick they told me they would pray for her. I know it’s not the south, but its just kinda funny. Anyway, Southern Hospitality has nothing on genuine Ugandan Friendliness. I would rather be here then the southern United States almost day.

Sickness Update/ Week Two

akramer — Thu, 5 Jun 2014 04:40:00 GMT

This past week sent me flash backs of miserable days in grade nine when my stomach knotted itself into a small ball and refused to unwind. On Tuesday Richard drove me home from work early after, as Clair says, I “sounded awful,” as the lunch I had eaten half and hour before came back up into the porcelain of the squat toilets. I spent the next two days laid out in bed moaning and feeling like an idiot. Jenna had gotten over whatever she had Sunday night and returned to work feeling fresh as a Daisy on Monday. That’s when my stomach situation started to deteriorate. I stayed away from bananas (not an easy task), I avoided avocados, I did not feel too stressed, and yet, my stomach revolted. Monday started out well. Jenna, Richard, and I conducted site visits to see how families were doing since Salama Shield had given them goats. The first women embodied the ideals of Mbuntu. When we arrived at her land Richard introduced her as one of the Snaga (aunts) in a program that Salama Shield had for youth. While she talked to us about how she had used the goats she sold to buy tin roofing material to build a sturdy house and school supplies for her children, Jenna and I noticed that there were children running around the yard. When we asked her about this she told us how the children were not hers, but her neighbours. She promised to watch them while their parents worked in the field. We also noticed another structure being put up near her house. When we asked her about this she said that she had extra space on her land and a recently widowed friend had no place to live. Because of this she allowed the friend to build a house on her land.

We saw a few more people before lunch then headed back. I ate at Jenna’s house and ate pineapple as I stared at the cute chickens clucking about in the yard. I felt wonderful up to that point, and quite thankful that my stomach had not given me issues… Two hours later that pineapple would come back up into a farmers patch of pumpkins. Though we stayed on the main roads, the afternoon drive felt more akin to off-roading than the usual drive down the dirt road. I also had to go to the bathroom. When we stopped I needed to stretch my legs, but found myself hunched over in a heap instead. I could feel something moving out of my stomach, but I could not tell which direction it wanted to head. As Richard scolded the father for not having taken care of his children’s gingas (paracites that live in fingernails and cause them to grow massive bumps) I had to run and yack. I walked down the dirt path to lie down in the truck. Richard thought that the sight of the nails undid my stomach, but it would have happened anyway. I lay in missiry the rest of the drive. Each bump caused my stomach to lurch and grown. It went beyond normal carsickness. As I walked home with Eliza most of the pain abated, and for most of the next day in the field it felt fine. Once again at lunch though it revolted and up came my lunch. When I came out of the stall I saw Claire standing in the doorway to the washroom. She had followed me down to make sure that I didn’t pass out in the stall. When I walked back to the room where everyone else had gathered Sandra had a cold Mountain Dew for me (I had said how I felt very hot), and everyone encouraged me to go home. Week and exhausted I agreed. I felt like a wimp, but I knew I wouldn’t be any help.

I spent the next day lying in bed. I read more of The Shinning than I expected to read up to that point, but my computer had low battery power, and I had too much energy to sleep. I felt ok in the morning so I walked down the street to buy a bottle of water then back to sleep. Chief (the six year old boy) also stayed home from school so we played a bit outside in the shade. At one point my 19-year-old brother returned for lunch and handed me a small little roll. He told me “this, this is Africa.” I asked him what it was. “Taste and you’ll see.” Skeptical I took a bite. It was rice wrapped in curry powder. I shared some with Chief then went in for lunch. My stomach felt fine until around 2:00 when it started to knot up again. When Agnes returned home at around 5:00 we took the five-minuet walk to the hospital.

The hospital terrified me. To be honest it looked more like a rundown train station than a hospital. The reception hall had walls on two sides and an off shooting hall. No doors, though, separated this room from the surrounding courtyards. Long wooden benches filled the waiting room, and people moved in and out in a hurry. Faded posters about the importance of getting checked for STDs and other diseases plastered the walls like wallpaper. I attempted to read a few of the ones in English, but many were only parts with the rest torn off. The nurse took a few minuets to arrive at the reception desk, and looked un-amused to assist us. She then in true bureaucratic style, took all the time she desired to draw new lines into the collage ruled notebook that served as the inpatient registry while my stomach growled. I nearly collapsed onto the floor from the heat and the pain as I waited for her to ask for my name.

That only complicated the situation. Addison. Seams simple enough right? Well in Uganda it’s not. Over the past two weeks I have come to introduce myself as Ari to save time in introductions. They think Addie is Ari anyway. I didn’t realize how odd my name was here until the nurse tried to write it down. “Name?” She asked. “Addison Kramer.” I then watched as she wrote down Edison. “No Addison,” I told her, “A-d-d-i-s-o-n.” “So two d’s” “Yes, no it’s an A in front.” She gave me a bewildered look. “A?” she asked. “Yes A.” She then went back and scratched out what she had written as I spelled my name again. The whole ordeal took over at least two minuets. Eliza later told me that when she called me later with Agnes’ phone she had saved me under Edison as well.

Once the nurse wrote my name down I shuffled into the hall to the left of the desk to wait for the doctor to end his session with the person in the office. That did not take long. Privacy in the doctor’s office did not exist. The door remained open (at the doctors request) as it had done for the person before me, and Agnes after me. I told the doctor of my stomach woes. He glanced at my prescription anti-malarial drug said, “this is making you sick take these instead,” and passed me a prescription. He said to come back the next day when the lab was open to get a malaria test. I then shuffled four steps down the hall to the pharmacy, handed in the note, then took a seat on the bench as I waited for my prescription to be filled.

As I waited my breathing increased, and my palms sweated from more than just the heat. A strange man looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Another man stood less then five feel away from me with a cloth covering his mouth. TB is a common disease in my region. The thought that that man might have TB unsettled me and sent shivers down my spine. This fear only worsened as the man exposed the bright red backside to the white gauze. He proceeded to throw the rag into the garden out of the doorway he stood near. The red and white contrasting with the brown and green of the ground as it waited out in the open. For a moment I believed that the blood could have only been a cut in his mouth, but then he continued to cover his lover face; his handkerchief loosely draped over his nose and mouth.

I sat in a hot daze. I did not realize that the pharmacist tried to get my attention until the third time he called “Madame.” I stood and went to the counter. The pharmacist shoved three bags full of colourful pills into my face, along with one packet of malaria pills. “Take these three two every eight hours, and this every 12.” The eight sounded like 80, and when I asked eight or eighty he said eight(y). I asked three times then decided it was eight. Agnes picked up her drugs and we walked back home. My stomach felt better on the walk back, so I decided to sit outside with the family. The 19-year-old brother asked me to join him for a walk so I did. My stomach felt better afterwards and I managed to get a decent amount of food in for tea (a whole plate of eggs and tomatoes with onions). I had a bit for dinner, and went to bed feeling pretty ok.

The next morning I woke up with what I would image having a handover and the stomach flu would feel like (seeing as I don’t drink though I have no idea what a hangover actually feels like). I sat around for a bit waiting to ask Eliza if I should go to work or not. She told me not to push it and that was good advice. I slept on and off all day. Benen, Claire, Jenna, and Sandra stopped by around 10:30 o say hello. Sandra told me that my skirt and shirt that I had made the weekend before were ready and that Eliza would bring them home for me. It was nice of them to check in on me. Agnes came back in the early afternoon and brought me a cardboard pouch of milk to drink Doctors orders (she had overheard him say I needed milk and fatty foods for the malaria medication I decided not to take because I didn’t have malaria). Chief, who had been seated next to me, disappeared inside the house and when he re-appeared presented me with a straw. It felt good to sit on the side of the house in the shade on the cold cement, and drink my milk. I went back to sleep till around four then got up to sit with the family. I had started to feel better by the time Eliza had returned home.

On Friday I felt fine. In fact my stomach didn’t hurt above more than a dull ache all day. At work I attempted to work on the video project, but my computer didn’t want to work. After lunch (which I didn’t really eat) all the Mzungu visited the Salaama Shield (yes two a’s in the middle) Vocational school. I felt a bit hot and fatigued, but nothing too bad. The school looked nice enough to rival some schools in The States. The buildings still shone like new. We talked to a few students and were shown the grounds. When I told the second year students that I do athletics (track) they all went “ooo a sports girl.” Benon described the future of the school to us. He showed us where the teachers would live, where the students would live, and where the interns would live. The brick lying and carpentry students would help to build all the buildings. The students were in the process of building a school cafeteria at the moment. The school had tens of chickens and cows for the agricultural students. The spot that I envied, however, was the joinery students shop. It made me wish I could go back to my junior (grade 11) year and retake cabinet making. My stomach made it the long walk back (an hour) to Salama Shield, and in fact the rest of the night.

The next day the six of us mzungus piled into a full, but not yet crowded matatu to Masaka. For those who don’t know a matatu is a 15-person van taxi that travels along the streets from one spot to another. A man shouts the destination out of the window and you climb in if that’s the direction you’re going. For the seventy-minuet drive it takes to get to Masaka I spent sixty-five of it with most of my upper body out the window because of lack of space to fit it inside. The matatu was stuffy though so I didn’t mind too much. I did mind having to clench my butt cheeks for most of the drive, as I was smooshed between a large Ugandan man and the side of the car.

In Masaka we saw Richard one of our co-workers at Salama Shield. We said hello then wandered the city. We bought fabric for skirts at prices that even our Ugandan family members agreed were steals. After Jenna discovered that bookstores in Uganda are actually school material stores we tottered off to lunch. Being the fried food out mzungus we are we decided to eat at a restaurant run by a Danish NGO that served “American food.” I had yogurt made in house with muesli and fruit. We talked and laughed for two hours seated in the shade. We were the only people there. We decided that Jenna won for most interesting person. She couldn’t stop making us laugh. My stomach felt overjoyed to have a light and fresh meal inside of it.

Well until 2:00 anyway. Like every day except for Friday my stomach started to feel as if it were eating itself. We purchased some articles from the craft store they had then asked the waitress how to get to the hospital. I was in luck. The walk took around 10 minuets. The hospital resembled a university campus. Instead of a towering building there were smaller one to two story buildings scattered inside a gated area. Most appeared to be closed, and though I would not have considered my stomach an emergency, we went to the emergency ward.

It looked like a real hospital. Just inside the large double doors (they had doors) stood a large desk. The floors were linoleum, and there were hospital beds lined up against one wall. Because it was a Saturday the hospital had one nurse to triage all the patients who walked in. She came over to check on Courtney and I. Everyone else decided to stay outside. I told the nurse of my troubles, and that the other doctor said it might be the Doxy (my meds). “You’re taking Doxyand your stomach hurts?” Yes. She provided me with a simple answer. “You’re taking it on an empty stomach. That’s why it hurts.” She gave me instructions to take it on a full stomach half an hour after I eat. Whoever had told me that I needed to take it two hours after I eat had provided me with the incorrect information. Since Jenna told me the two-hour thing and not a doctor I didn’t argue. The nurse also wrote me a prescription for an anti-nausea medication and told me to consume plenty of fluids.

The pain in my stomach went away for the ride back to Lyantonde. We hired an eight-passenger van to take us back home for 1,000 more than a matatu. What a bargain! Not! Well it kinda was but the middle seat continued to be packed with people until seven people sat in the middle row meant for three. Lucky for the two of us who had to sit in the middle the row did not stay crowded the whole drive though.

I have not filled the prescription for nausea yet, but taking the Doxy at night has seemed to do the trick.