Getting from Here to There.

True, the days have been busy at the office and around town. I’m starting to write my weekly reports and find my way in the organization. I’m making my way around Kampala and showing up on the doorsteps of different corporations asking them if they’re interested in buying some of our Christmas cards to help fund our annual Christmas festival in Gulu.
But I’ve mentioned to a few people at home that half of the exhaustion comes from simply travelling to work and back.
Each day is full of seemingly insignificant choices in transportation, yet I believe that they determine quite a bit.

Each morning I leave the hostel’s compound with a little bit of Swahili banter with the guard, who seems delighted that a Westerner knows a bit more than the typical “Jambo”. We greet each other, tell each other to have a nice day and “Tutaonana Baada Ya” (We will see each other later, Kiswahili)
Then I begin the walk down the hill from the hostel. Every morning there are boda boda drivers (motorcycle taxis) yelling from the bottom of the hill. “Yes! We go?” I shake my head no. A few mornings in a row, one particular man drives his motorcycle up and asks if I need a ride. I’ve already told him I’m going to Gulu soon so he greets me in Acholi. “Kopango?”
I answer “Kope”. But that’s all the Acholi I know so far, I have a lot to learn. He leaves, and I wonder if maybe one of these days I should just let him drive me to the taxi to give him a little extra income.
I reach a busier road which takes me to the main road where I will catch a taxi into town. I get a lot of stares, a lot of “Mzungu!” even though most of these people see a lot of Bazungu (white people) every day. We’re still a spectacle.
Depending on what time I leave, there is usually a pretty serious traffic jam so I have to wait a while for a taxi. One Ugandan guy in a BMW pulls up and rolls down his tinted window and winks, asking me if I want a ride. Hey man, it’s tempting, but I think I’ll stick with the lesson I learned from Sesame Street on how to say no to such offers from strangers.
I see a few Westerners occasionally in their big SUV’s with whatever NGO branded on the side of their vehicle as I’m waiting for a taxi. I wonder if they ever took public transportation or if they started out in that SUV. Then I wonder how much I can really judge them because I would probably opt for an SUV right about now too.
A taxi finally arrives, beeping its horn, with the “conductor” hanging out of the window pointing his finger down. Kampala. “Nakasero road?” I ask. “Yes, Nakasero”. Shoot. That means I’ll be walking a longer way this morning but I better take the chance I have to get into town.
I judge how the day is going to go by which kind of seat I get on the Matatu. If I get in the front, it’s going to be a good day. That means I don’t have to empty out of the van every time we make a stop so the person behind me can get out. I just get to sit and enjoy the scenery of the chaotic Kampala streets on a Weekday morning. If I get stuck in a “jumpseat” in the middle, it’s probably not going to be such a good day. They’re flimsy fold down seats that are usually angled in an awkward way that makes you feel like your hip might be out of joint by the time you get out of the vehicle.
And then there’s the whole part about asking the taxi to stop. If I don’t say “Masao Ssebo” (Stop Sir) loud enough, numerous other people feel the need to repeat my words until the conductor hears. Poor white girl in the back, can’t speak up for herself. This is another reason I like sitting by the driver, I know he’ll hear me in time.

When I get to downtown Kampala, this is where some of the harder decisions begin. Do I wait for another taxi (which seems a bit silly because it could take a while and it’s not so far to walk), do I take a boda (which is more intense than a theme park ride. Oh, and there’s no safety features. Oh, and I hate theme park rides.) Or do I walk.
I remember my Urban sociology class where we talked about how much the automobile has changed our culture, how we have become so very isolated from one another, and how there is much value in walking or riding a bike and interacting with those around you. I’ve decided to walk every morning except for one in the beginning, just to see if I could find the right taxi.
Walking the rest of the way may seem like no big deal but it is actually quite a heavy decision every morning. It means that I’m going to be a bit more tired and sweaty by the time I get there but more importantly, it means that I’m going to have to pass by the begging mothers and children. It means I might shamefully avoid them by crossing the street or turn my eyes from their gaze and their hand as I make my way to work. I hate this part and I feel completely helpless and white and privileged and ashamed. I also feel like blaming someone like Museveni or the churches on this busy road or the beggars themselves because surely there must be another way. I know that you’re not supposed to give money to begging people, I know that there is deception and corruption and unhealthy structures supported by this practice, but I still feel guilty. So then my mind is turning. If I gave, is it really to help the person or soothe my conscious? Maybe I should’ve risked taking the boda so I don’t have to go through this thought process . . .

So then I put in a days work at the office or around town visiting businesses, maybe risking a bit by taking a boda here or there (I’ll spare the details in case my parents are reading, which I’m pretty sure they’re actually some of my most faithful subscribers. J )

Then I start the journey back. Who I am surrounded by depends on what time I leave the office. If I leave at about 5:00 pm I’m surrounded by a bunch of school kids, which is probably my favorite time. There’s something about their presence that takes the edge off maneuvering the streets.

“Luzabelo! Luzabelo!” That’s my taxi. Took me a day to figure out that stood for Luzira and Bugolobi, the direction I need to travel in. I’m pretty excited because there’s an empty front seat. I get in and wait for the taxi to fill so we can leave.

“Yes, my dear. You are very beautiful . . .” Oh boy, here we go. This is my taxi driver starting in on me.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“American?”
“Yeah.”
“You see, I’m looking for a beautiful American wife.”
“Good luck with that, man.”
He laughs.
“But you see, you’re very beautiful.”
“So then do I get a free lift?”
He keeps laughing. “No, no.”
“Well I guess I’m not beautiful enough then . . .”
He laughs as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
He makes similar comments the rest of the way back, cracks up when I know some cocky things to reply with in Lugandan, and I keep asking if I get a free ride. Doesn’t happen, they still take my 700 shillings.

I get off the taxi, cross the busy street and make my way up the hill to the hostel. I see a mother trying to rewrap her baby and carry her umbrella as well as a bag of stuff. I ask if she needs any help.
“Yes, thank you sister.”
So we walk together and talk a little until I branch off to go up the second hill.
As I pass through the gate, the guard asks me in Kiswahili how work was and how the day was. I reply and ask him the same.

This account is a pretty average day. Yesterday was different because one of these kids who was begging me followed me for a while and I ended up sitting with him and buying him dinner and talking to him for a while. I didn’t get home until quite a bit later. And I was a bit of a wreck, but that story is for a whole other series of blogs.

The first few days . . .

October 8, pm

Yes, it’s all a bit surreal right now, being back in Uganda for about two hours.
It hasn’t even been a year since I stepped in (and out) of Entebbe airport.
I remember wondering why it would take so long to get to Uganda going through Brussels this time. It’s because it didn’t say on my itinerary that it was Entebbe “via one stop in Burundi”.
I’m also asking the question all over again of whether or not its better to travel alone or in a group. If you know me well, I’m not a big fan of traveling with larger groups of Americans. Yes, I’m one of those people who think they are seasoned enough in the international scene to be embarrassed by stereotypical loud and obnoxious Americans, especially when I’m associated with them. It’s one of my more shameful tendencies, I promise I’m trying to work on it. (At least I’m honest.)
Tonight I’m thinking it might not be the worst thing in the world to be traveling with a group of people, even if its just someone to share in the absurdity. Everything went incredibly smoothly when I came in regarding buying a visa and getting my luggage quickly (mind you, there were a few tears in my bag upon receiving it, I hope it doesn’t completely fall apart before I leave.)
However, after walking out into the area where you look for that special sign with your name on it (my hostel was supposed to be picking me up), indeed, there was no sign saying “Dana”. Thankfully, there was an MTN (cell phone network) store open where I could buy a SIM card and some airtime. Unfortunately, my cell phone was so dead it was going to need a long time to charge. Meanwhile, all of these guys were offering me a taxi ride into town, which I am very used to saying no to, because surely, my hostel would be picking me up.
One of the coordinators for airport transportation saw that I was looking for a ride and offered an airport taxi. He said the driver would even let me use his phone if mine wasn’t charged and I needed to contact my ride. I was thankful for the offer and called the Red Chilli Hideaway.
“Yes, my name is Dana and I called earlier this week to book an airport pick up.”
“Uhhhh, can you get a taxi from the airport?”
“I’d rather not since I booked a ride from you and I was hoping someone was already on the way.”
“One moment.” *Lots of background noise for over a minute, keep in mind I’m still on the other drivers phone.
Another voice is there. “Yes, hello? Do you mind getting a taxi from the airport?”
I had no choice. Now this turned out to be a lot more legit than what I’m used to at Entebbe airport and the ride to the location went very smoothly. My taxi driver was very thoughtful and offered to stop and get some food on the way to the hostel, which I declined since I was still sort of full from the airplane meals. (Sick.)
If you’re traveling to Uganda, I wouldn’t really recommend the Red Chilli Hideaway. For some reason, it’s not quite as nice as I remember it being 5 years ago. Perhaps I’ll feel differently about it in the morning.
I walked into the reception area at about 11:45 and told the guy my name as he looked at the books. I booked a single room instead of staying in the dorm so I could spread my things out and have a lock on the door this first night.
“Yes, ahhhh, your room that you have booked has been having some electricity problems.”
Oh boy, Dana’s been traveling for 24 hours straight and is trying to be as civil as possible.“And what else is available?”
“Well there are the dorms, and there is a twin room, but that will be 35,000.”
Of course it will be. Charge me 10,000 more for a room upon arriving after not picking me up at the airport. Awesome. Oh well, at least I have electricity so I can plug in this phone and call home. That’s worth the extra.
Not the case. Electricity means there is a lightbulb, but no outlets.
I rushed back to the reception to try and quickly plug in the phone. They were trying to shoo me out because it was midnight and they were closing. I convinced them to let me plug it in for a bit.
So I finally plugged it in and it turned on and I tried to write a text to my parents because I didn’t have enough airtime to call. The T9 option was on, however, and I couldn’t remember how to use it nor how to turn it off. And then I couldn’t remember if it was just triple 0 to dial out of Uganda or if I was missing a step.

So hopefully my parents got a text message, misspelled, saying “I an here.” My phone died and they turned the lights off and now I’m back in my little room with no outlets, wide awake with a computer about to die. It’s 1:00 am Uganda time and 6:00 pm Michigan time and I’m hoping I’ve got some good books and that I don’t sleep past 10:00 because that’s check out time and they’ll probably make me pay more.

I’m happy to be back in Uganda but I’ll probably be happier to greet her in the morning. (And maybe I’ll also feel better about Red Chilli Hideaway.)

October 9 & 10
Its true, I felt quite differently in the morning. This is because I found the bathroom around the corner and it had warm water. Pretty wonderful. Red Chilli Hideaway, not so bad after all.

I spent the first half of the morning in Kampala running a few errands and then continually got more excited as I thought of going to Mukono and seeing all of these people from my semester that I grew to love.

I was not disappointed in the least bit. Seriously, I’ve been able to see so many people in the last two days here in Mukono, I had forgotten how many people I loved during my time here! The best part was shocking everyone, most people had no idea I was coming. Everyone was so dramatic in their own way.

My first visit was Divine, the girl I worked with regularly during my semester in Uganda. (Also the smiling girl in the orange, in the picture at the top of the page.) I worked with her on beginning the alphabet, counting, and English. Since I left she has joined the new daycare on campus and has been learning so much. I was walking toward her house in hopes that she was still there and it hadn’t been torn down to make way for the new library. And there she was, on the same step we used to sit on for hours.

“Divine!” I called as I approached and both her and her mom stopped. Then huge smiles. Then her mom, Peace, “I can’t . . . believe my eyes . . .” Divine was just giggling and saying, “Come, come!” It was SO good to see them. Divine pulled out her school work and started showing me what she’d been learning.

As I was sitting with her, my dear friend Brenda walked by. She was on her phone, stopped in her tracks pointed at me, quickly finished her conversation and came running. She spent some time with both of us and then told me she wasn’t going to tell the other girls because she wanted them to be surprised just like her.
I wandered over to the Dining Hall later on, looking in the general direction of where my friends used to sit and suddenly heard my name behind me, it was said with an unsure tone, like she was hoping she wasn’t wrong. (Which my friend Eve thought all along. She kept saying, “I was going to laugh so hard when you were calling her name and some other girl turned around!”) Shabaan and Eve were two of the girls I missed the most. Their surprise and reaction carried on the rest of the night as they ushered me around to surprise people and tell them the story of how they first saw me in the DH and they had just been talking about our USP group earlier that day.

. . . . Oh, and so it begins. I have five minutes left for internet (even pricey "fast" internet) and I've got to post this.

I wish I could tell you every story about the people I was able to see in the last two days, it was seriously WONDERFUL. I was able to stay at my Host family's house last night also. It was like coming home.

Okay, peace for now, love you all, and hopefully this updating thing happens regularly but from what I continue to hear about internet access in Gulu, this may be unlikely.

Til next time,

Dana

Ready.

People have been asking me if I'm ready to leave for over a month now. I guess that's a common filler in "so you're going away again" kind of conversation.

Up until now I've been saying, "Not quite yet, but I know I will be when I get on the plane."
There's a lot to that answer. Some of it is logistics, like getting packed and finding a place to stay in Uganda, and making sure I've got my vaccinations updated and such. Then there's the emotional side, the spiritual side. Am I ready to say good-bye to the niece and nephew everyone hears about from me? Am I ready to leave my community of friends who I love here in Grand Rapids? Am I feeling confirmed, at peace, equipped, prepared by God way down deep?

I haven't been ready, and I've been answering honestly when people ask me.

But I can tell you now that things have changed in the last week. Yes, I cried when my grandpa stood up out of his chair and wrapped his arms around me to give me a hug and say good-bye. He's had a lot of health issues this year and I barely see him stand anymore. But he stood up to hug me that day. And I cried and prayed that God would keep him while I was gone. I hate saying good-bye to my grandparents. And yet I know I can count on them for being some of the most dedicated people who pray for me while I'm gone. Yes, I also cried tonight when I said good-bye to my niece Laney and wondered how long her hair would be when I got back and whether she would have a little sister or a little brother by then.

But along with these good-byes, many new people have been brought into my life in this past week. The ones that stand out most clearly are the inspiring people I will be working with in Uganda. I wish I wasn't so tired right now and could describe in detail to you these people I will be working with. They are people who are dedicated to their communities and they are bringing change and hope and working towards peace everywhere they step.

I am especially looking forward to telling you more about Hope Okeny, the woman I will be working with most closely. Already, we're finding that we have mutual friends in Uganda (and it shows that we both have great taste in friends.) She carries a lot on her shoulders, she walks by faith, and she is committed to the children of Northern Uganda.

Somewhere, way down deep, God has also been reminding me of how long I have been waiting to step into this. This is not just an internship, a spot for "experience" on my resume'. It is the fulfillment of prayers prayed five years ago, an opportunity that fits me well, and it is a group of people that I will share my life with in this coming year.

I'm getting ready. I'm almost there. My bags are (sort of) packed, some good-byes have been said, and I'm dreaming of what this next year will be.

I'm almost ready.