A glimpse into real life
mumbled the word every African uses to describe things, “Fine.” I softly asked why she wasn’t looking up at me. Eve, (one of our cooks), told me, “It is because she is hungry.” I asked how she could tell: the sad, pained, downcast face, the slow shuffle. I’m ashamed to say I debated the idea in my mind for a few moments before I told Eve, “Well, give her my chapatti!” Giving is so easy in America, I’ve decided. Here every gift has strings attached: strings of expectation for more, dependence on an outsider, definitive level between whites and Africans… I find giving more difficult, because you have to counterbalance every action with thought of what will develop from it. I wish I could just wave a magic wand and know how people think so I could solve simple problems. Thing is that I’ve come to realize is that, really, some of the “problems” that I once saw in this culture/society are really just a challenge presented that the people must overcome. I can’t fathom how I would feel if foreigners came into our country and started helping us—I’d begin to feel more vulnerable, realizing I was in need of help that I could not give myself. The more I see people empower themselves, the more hope I have for development work. We say the word “development” so easily; but forget that really, the help that people need is not to advance their society technologically, although that makes life efficient. I wish to preserve this society, but already you see influence from other countries. Good or bad, no side is more influential. People are still meeting basic needs of, like the girl, finding food. Some schoolkids get their only meal of porridge from school. We all know how tasty school lunch is. ;) Speaking of, tell Miss Uintah County to promote Summer Free School Lunch as her new platform. Ha ha
Stolen Wallet
This seems old news, as it happened a full WEEK ago, today. A group of us went to watch a football game; I wordlessly set my bag down next to a group of volunteers in our group, and took my wallet to go buy me some nanners and avocados! So luscious they were… On coming back, I stopped short of where my bag was and French braided a volunteer’s hair. I heart French braiding, and I’m even practicing so I’ll get GOOD! Then Wilson, the president of TYOM (The Youth Outreach Mission—a volunteer group in the community we work with) asked us all to check our bags, that a thief may have stolen something. I got to mine, and my camera was not accounted for. My mind retraced my steps from that morning, but I could not conclude if I’d actually taken my camera with me to the game or not; so a volunteer & I hopped a boda back home to check. No camera. Suck. My heart sunk. Not so much for the lost merchandise, but more for the thief. Thieves here get stoned—even burned. I did not want such a punishment to come to anybody as a consequence of MY actions. My own irresponsibility of leaving my bag unattended may cause a boy—I found that the suspect was a teenage boy—great harm and pain. True, he did steal, but I’d placed the temptation right in his face: a bag unattended, a big group that wouldn’t notice a small slip of a hand… I say that in the time that I waited for Wilson and the “motorcycle gang”—AKA boda group—to return, I reached a new level of personal growth. My actions now affected people around me in a major way—I can’t go on my way flippantly and just expecting harm to only come to me from my actions. Everything in the world is interconnected—everyone is.
The situation turned out okay; Ii was lost as people around me shouted and spoke in Luganda about where he was, what to do, etc. Wilson was my translator, and I literally clung to his hand in the mess as people pushed and shoved. 
I had no idea for a time what the heck was going on—people crowded around, shouting, bodas took off together, Wilson among them. Me left with my thoughts, anxiously waiting to see their return. They return, Wilson talking in another language to the boda drivers, me having to cough up money for their work I hadn’t asked for, but was grateful for nonetheless. Wilson, Godfrey, Tim, & I going to the police station, where the boy and my camera are. My gratitude that at least the boy was safe at the police station. We got there, had to pay off a police worker for I don’t know what—his “help” or something. Isn’t that his job? Whatever. A small fee in return of my camera and a ticket out of this mess. The boy was only 15, and really shy-seeming. He wouldn’t make eye contact; poor kid. Maybe I’m too soft, but I feel bad. I can’t imagine the mentality: really not knowing wealth above what the television displays. You see white people busy with their own duties. Let’s see what’s in their bag… we both made statements, and I got pictures of them (ha ha! My triumph!). Part of his read, “…with a friend of mine called Hakim at Waguduju Football pitch at Namengo as some white (buzungu) were playing with young children of about five years. We then spotted a bag a small one behind the whites. I decided to pick to see exactly what was inside. I then found out that it was a camera. I ended up fearing so I decided that we hide it at my place…”
As we waited for Wilson to complete his statement, the boy sat in the corner on the floor. I joined him—my curiosity dying to talk to him. He was a really nice kid—we talked about school, his being an only child… I was slow to bring up the topic of what happened, but I did. He said he’d never stolen before, but that his friend had. It was hard to talk to him—he was so honest, and really seemed genuine, like he had nothing to hide. Here he was, probably afraid of the wrath of the muzungus, but I didn’t have the heart to even be mad he’s stolen my camera. I have the means to purchase a new one, if I even chose to. But that choice shaped his life—he could serve maximum SIX YEARS in jail for this theft. The principle behind theft pushed me to justice. If he—and others—saw that stealing was alright, then they would keep doing so. So while I had these thoughts of softness, I kept them to myself. I wondered if in talking to him, I was showing too much softness towards the reality of the situation. Defy THAT.
That part of the day was soon over; I was told I’d have to return on Tuesday to testify in court against him so he would be put in jail. Yeah, oops. We went to Rwanda that day and I think I may have had ONE phone call from an unknown number, but I missed it. I wonder what happened to him.
Wilson, Godfrey, and I went to meet up with the rest of the group for a movie we were going to watch, but they weren’t at the Patron (our hangout spot), so they offered to push me home. We got halfway there when the rain started falling. Africans are so funny—they fear the rain. We ran for about 5 minutes, Wilson whining the whole 
way about the rain, and then Godfrey stopped under a building and they refused to go on. I said I’d continue on home by my onesie, but they were the bodyguards who wouldn’t let me go alone—HELP rules. Yeah, I follow those REALLY well….. *gigglegiggle* Luckily in my handbag/towel (ha ha) I had SkipBo, so I taught them that and was mercilessly beaten in my own game. As the rain let up, they took me on a detour to see Godfrey’s house. I’m amazed at the simplicity of it—two rooms—one bedroom, one main room. Nothing on the walls, no accessories to accentuate the room… just a couch in one room and a bed in another. Godfrey is a carpenter, and SO cool. My FAVORITE among everyone, no lie! While there, he pulled out what is EVERY African’s pride and joy—the photo album! The prints are always pretty old, kinda hard to make out, but soooo funny! People DON’T smile in pictures, and the pictures are always of them standing there, solo or in a group, just looking anywhere but at the camera. Yet they are as proud of their photo books as they are a newborn baby. I delight so much in those funny books.
On the way into town, I was commenting how this seemingly “cheap” day turned out robbing me of about a week’s worth of money—paying off the boda driver who took me home, the ones who found the boy, the ones taking us to the police station, the police officer…. Wow. I thought I’d have an expense-free day. Nope. Then Godfrey insisted he get me a banana as we passed a fruit stand—I felt TERRIBLE! I was just making a wise crack, not asking someone who had so little money to buy me something, cheap as it may be. No convincing swayed him, and I left that fruit stand with more than just a banana in my tummy—an understanding of how kind and perceptive these people are. They will give whatever they have to accommodate for others; we see this every day as the moms work cleaning clothes, selling fruit, selling charcoal—doing anything they can—to help not only their children, but other children whose parents don’t take the initiative or are no longer living. I love Ugandans.
Musana Jewelry
Another quick example of how our actions affect others. We work with a women’s group who makes jewelery they then sell in the U.S. called Musana Jewelry. Well, we at HELP are supposed to pay them their monthly wages, but this requires them reconciling their expenses before we can make a withdrawal, to ensure that funds are used properly. Because we haven’t seen a reconciliation for the previous $750 we’ve withdrawn, we are not able to make another. I’ve been working exclusively with Paul and Sandra, the people who work with finances. I HEART Sandra—she is feisty and fun to be around! Anyway, we’ve been pouring over the finance books to reconcile where their money has gone. As we were doing so, I came to find out that while the women have not been paid for the past 3 months, their children have been turned away from school because the parents couldn’t pay school fees. Everyone’s actions—Paul&Sandra for not reconciling, HELP’s for not communicating the importance of such a reconciliation—has caused kids to be denied an education because school fees were not met. And we just thought that it was Musana’s problem for not giving us their expenses. Crazy. But yeah—I’ve LOVED doing the Musana thing; I think mostly because I need something to occupy my mind, and throughout the summer I’ve never really found a project I want to be my BABY, y’know? Nothing has captured my full attention, and I have instead played the role of a follower. I want to be useful and make the most of summer, and I feel that I have. Looking at what I solely have accomplished, one may not think that I have maximized my time & experiences; but I have. I’ve come to really love international work, develop MYSELF, and help people in more every day, simple ways. I’m not huge into the fanfare of a big project. Maybe that is because of my difficulty in honing in on details and sticking-with-it.
As the summer winds down and I have literally only 3 weeks left, my heart is breaking. I feel like I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis: Did I get everything done I wanted to? Will people remember me? Did I really influence anybody? Will our work as a team be worth the investment, or will people fall lazy and short of what they themselves want to accomplish? Three weeks is not long at all, and we have huge projects ahead: the construction of 2 classrooms for the school of Sister Ssanyu; a monstrous chicken coop built at Rose & Paul’s Orphange; TYOM is being given funds from the city for a poultry project as thanks to the hard work they do; the back program is flourishing. No time for play!! Time is running out!
“Wanda”—Rwanda—and all that that entails!
After 90 days in Uganda, visitors have to renew their visas—either at the airport for $50 or by leaving and re-entering the country for the same price. Is the first even in the least bit exciting? NO!!! The 4 of us who needed to renew our visas packed our little bags for a trip to Rwanda. Prior to this trip, if you’d asked me who a Hutu or Tutsi was, I’d think you were talking ballet. However, due to a lot of downtime at night, I’ve really picked up my reading career, and I read Left to Tell, a story about a girl in the genocide. Also, I saw Hotel Rwanda. Super good movie. I’ve learned so much. So, my excitement increased about going to learn more about the genocide from the very place it happened.
We got to Kampala, where we would bus from there. However, the 3 p.m. bus we were hoping to catch didn’t exist, and the next bus was at 9 p.m. I slightly dreaded having to pass 6 hours in the bustling city of Kampala… but I should’ve been ELATED, because those 6 hours seriously turned out to be the most fun, most relaxing I’ve had in more than just the 3 months here.
From the bus station, we went to Garden City—the American/European hub in Kampala. Oz. I think I’ve found the place where I belong. Being there was weird, because it is such a nice part of Africa—a mall. A huge mall. After working in rural villages where people eat flour and WATER for their meals, coming here was definitely a guilty pleasure. We went to eat at a restaurant on the roof where I had some pasta called Carbonara (?) for a mere $7. Boo yah! Sooo good, and the restaurant was Africanly elegant—with masks on the wall, a tree in the middle of the room… ha ha It was super cool. THEN… we treated ourselves to the theater where we saw TOY STORY 3!!! For only $4!!!!! A total of 10 of us occupied the theater. Oh my gosh, LOVE that movie! Loved spoiling
myself so simply! I don’t know if my giggling throughout the movie was because of the movie’s humor or the sheer joy of being in a theater. Either way, that $4 was so well spent! We ended our adventures with dessert at New York Kitchen, a li’l restaurant tucked seriously in the corner of the car garage. That hot brownie and cold vanilla ice cream was so well-received!! As we were eating our dessert, we watched curiously 
through the window that viewed a hotel’s pool and deck are. Professional cameras, lighting, dancers, and set-up hinted to us that a music video was being shot; we joked about who the star was. As we watched the scandalacious shooting begin, our curiosity heightened and we asked our waiter who it was. Bebe Cool! We LISTEN to his music! He really is a big star around here, and suddenly we were so giddy with excitement. As we got up to leave, we jokingly did li’l American dance moves. One of the people saw us, and motioned for us to come over. No way!!! Laughing all the way, we went to the movie shoot and MET BEBE COOL!!! Yeah, that’s right! Met him! He was pleasant, and kindly told us to meet his wife, who was there at the shoot. Tiiight. As we started our “8 our bus ride through hell,” our spirits 
were high.
Yeah, the bus ride. To keep it short: crammed, smelly, dusty, left us wondering at which turn of the road our bus would flip… my mind was occupied by Les Miserables, my latest and greatest project. If I weren’t familiar with the story already, I wouldn’t have the endurance to read it all. I fell asleep for some time, then woke up about 3 a.m. to Lauren telling me that we were going to exchange money now—from shillings to francs, our new friendly money. In my incoherent state, I thought [wisely] that even though we were the last off the bus, I should probably take anything valuable with me, just in case anyone trifled through our bags. So I took my passport, camera, wallet, 
flashlight, and book. The bus drove off, and the bus members stood huddled together in front of a building which I soon found to be the Immigration Office. Oh, good thing I grabbed my passport. Ha ha We got our li’l stamp to exit the country, then followed the silent crowd that seemed to instinctively know where to go next. Across a ghetto bridge in the foggy, freezing cold 3 a.m., we shuffled along—laughing at the situation. I was so cold I thought I would FREEZE as we re-boarded the bus and continued on for another hour or so. Luckily, the hotel we stayed at had HOT SHOWERS—a delicacy I have not enjoyed since May 4!!! I was so spoiled, and so dang glad about it!
Being in Rwanda was surreal. I was so surprised how NICE and classy it really was. I guess I expected dirt roads, backwards people… no. They were completely normal, the capital Kigali was calm and just normal—like nothing had happened. Yet as we walked down the street, I couldn’t ignore the fact that on the very road where I was walking people had been murdered—brutally. An unsaid hush covered history. I would say that because of how terrible and somewhat recent the genocide was, talking about it now would be too fresh. Time hadn’t yet made it complete history—it was still almost news. But then I got to thinking… 9/11 happened after the genocide, and it doesn’t affect me every day. Granted, I don’t live in New York—if I did, would the memory of the event haunt me every day? Why did I expect this event, which happened over a decade ago, to be apparent? I just can’t wrap my 
mind around the whole situation. We went to the museum, and holy cow I learned a lot! Not only did it have information on the Rwandan genocide, but genocides I knew nothing about—in Cambodia, other countries I now can’t remember the names of… (I really retain knowledge well…) Events like the genocide aren’t isolated events—they don’t just happen. So many events lead to it, so many signs could be warning signals if heeded.
What I broke it down to was a lack of love among people—a lack of understanding for others. Not just tolerance—tolerance only goes so far. Understanding and love complete. Others blame colonization for separating the tribes. The exhibit definitely did seem to have an underlying agenda—to blame. Blame colonists. Blame international aid for NOT aiding. But I don’t think the fault is rightly put on these sources. The fault really is, sadly, in the people. In the ones who let their hearts become SO corrupted that they were willing and HAPPY to kill neighbors—families; elderly, mothers, fathers, children, friends…. So disgustingly. I wonder how anyone could listen to the radio exciting them to kill people—and not see how demonic that was. But… slowly by slowly you desensitize yourself. You let yourself believe that you have been wronged by these people, so you are doing a good to rid your country of them… sick. 
With our minds heavily absorbed in thoughts, we went to the Hotel Mille Collines, the story of Hotel Rwanda. Again, a touching place to be. The thoughts were much the same as at the museum... as well as how I would feel to be a person hiding Tutsis. I am positive I would, even at the expense of my life. At least I hope that I wouldn’t be so corrupted that I would turn against those who were literally so helplessly victimized by EVERYONE and EVERYTHING they knew.
Returning to the hotel, Pegs (Paige) and I humored ourselves by putting bags on our heads and knocking on the door of the others in our group. We slept for a short night, then awoke at 4 in the blasted morning to go get on the morning bus. My head throbbed from a lack of sleep, and for the first hour on the bus I focused my all on NOT vomiting. Once we crossed the border and were able to get air, I was able to continue reading Les Miserables for the next 4 hours or so of our 9 hour bus ride.
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