Uganda Spring Break 2011

Also known as studying the LRA conflict in Northern Uganda, classes, delicious meals, long bus rides, and a lack of water for bathing

We left Rwanda Tuesday morning, after three days of consistent grey skies, cool weather and don’t let me forget the heavy rains. Of course my laundry was not dry and I slept through two alarms. Leaving me rushing to get to the office, with a suitcase full of wet clothes. We loaded on bus; bags packed high and drove the hilly two and a half hours to the Uganda border. Once reaching the border we physically had to walk from Rwanda to Uganda, across the no-persons land that lies between. We got frisked for weapons, paid 50 dollars, and exchanged money, now a visitor of Uganda for the next twelve days.

Our Group at the Equator 

            Uganda life is freestyle. In Rwanda there is tons of organization, self-discipline and rules; Uganda does not follow the same style. There is garbage piled high on the side of the streets, burn piles in empty lots where all the trash is thrown to be disposed of. These piles are inhabited by small puppies rolling around and scavenging the garbage, and by massive crane like birds who not only look like they could attack at any minute, but if they did you would die from some odd disease they are carrying. Ugandan’s seem more relaxed, more open. This is positive in some cases, but it also means that you get the occasionally kind fellow who wishes to lecture you for hours. There is dust everywhere, and the impression of mass chaos in the driving patterns that frankly is quite organized.

            We arrived in Kampala (the capital city) late Tuesday after thirteen hours of continuous driving. Our restroom was the bushes and termite hills when we stopped to “check the tires” because it is improper to have to ”pee” during a road trip. Wednesday the road trip continued, as we moved North, covering the span of Uganda in five hours and ending in Gulu. Gulu is located in Northern Uganda, where twenty-five years of violence lasted. Just years ago after you crossed the Nile, you were susceptible to rebel attacks, abductions and killings. Northern Uganda is known for Joseph Kony the leader of the Lord Resistance’s Army (LRA) and his army of young abducted children that were trained to kill. The LRA have moved to the Congo so now Gulu is a safe and secure town, full of a lively spirit and questionable sources of water.

            When we arrived there was no power, or water. This trend continued for about three days until we all became greasy enough to cook with. Our showers would tempt us with water, but as soon as you were naked and soapy the water would disappear. After creatively finding ways to bath we were blessed with water. Our hotel sits across the street from a nightclub called Amigos. Where music is blasted until four or five in the morning, followed by the screams and shouts of market vendors. The lack of water and the loud noise seems annoying but it is actually lovely. For me I am comforted, and reminded of my time in Paraguay. It is extraordinary to be at the heartbeat of Northern Ugandan, listening to the Acholi people enjoy life, and as our driver would put it “hunting knowledge from the local people.”

Nile on the Nile

Warthogs, hippos and a fashion statement, oh my!

After visiting an internally displaced person (IDP) camp outside of Gulu, and learning some about the conflict we headed to the safari. We woke early, to head out at six, as we loaded the bus the clubs of Gulu we re still packed with people partying to welcome the morning daybreak. We spent the day driving through Merchenson Falls park. The park is where Teddy Roosevelt hunted for two years, collecting over 2000 specimens for the Smithsonian museum, wiping out many African Elephants for the enjoyment of those museum visitors. Witnessing giraffes, elephants, warthogs, water buffalo, hyenas and various other animals pass our van. Although the first five hours were fascinating, around hour six we all decided we had enough of the dust and deer like creatures that populated the majority of the park. After a ride on the Nile, while drinking Nile Beer we headed back for an early night in our tents cabins and dreamt of hippos.

            Our ongoing joke of the group is that of touristy, safari-trotting people with their neutral colored pants, shirts with too many pockets and sun blocking hats. One member of our group sports this fashion statement commonly, and has always been a sport about putting up with our gentle mocking. Ugandan women who visit the safari are rumored to wear heals and dress up, because the reality of the situation is that you are sitting all day, with no need to lift a finger, unless it is to point at a rare animal. Following this sprit, and always looking for an excuse to dress up, safari came day and I sported high heels, a little black dress, topped off with a borrowed safari shirt, with no less then eight pockets, tied in a fashionable sense. Although I looked out of place, and the jokes were endless and hilarious within our group, it did get a slight bit awkward when I was in large groups of tourists looking like I was ready to go to the club.

 

Kampala, the what? The Capital City

            Kampala is a crazy city, and full of energy. Walking the streets requires you avoid potholes, speeding cars, street vendors, trash and of course the large and ugly birds that eat that trash. It is a city where people go out every night of the week until six in the morning and then go to work. Our stay in Kampala was limited to three nights, many of which I was sick with the stomach flu. Regardless, it was quite an experience. The three big landmarks we decided to see were the craft market, the Gaddaffi Mosque, and the local Market. The craft market was nothing overly exciting, full of traditional touristy African crafts, which are beautiful nonetheless. After buying a new bag and some fabric we headed to the Mosque.

            With my fake Ugandan ray-bans bought off the road and our rented scarfs to appear modest we entered the most beautiful structure in the skyline of Kampala. This massive mosque was fully funded by Gadaffi, who to this day (well maybe it has changed due to current events) pays the electricity, salaries of the security guards and basic maintenance fees. The mosque itself can hold hundreds of people, and is decorated in beautiful mosaics on every surface. It gives a sense of community and calmness. It was the only place in Kampala that I felt everything slow down, and could get a moment of peace.  Although I am not religious there was certain serenity in the whole building, a place where I could be spiritual and appreciate the privilege that I have and my experiences. At the same time the event was temporary, after an hour I was able to strip my sweaty head scarf, return it and walk back into the craziness they call Kampala.

            Myself and three other brave souls headed to the market. This market we had been warned was the craziest we would see in all of East Africa. We removed all our jewelry and hid our money. Before entering we fueled up, on chicken and fries and two bottles of water each. We got our bargaining skills ready, and made a plan if we got lost. It is hard to explain what this market looked or felt like. It was massive, spanning a distance so far I could of spent a week and not seen it all. Everything was crammed packed, piles of clothes, stacks of shoes, and the occasional chicken. Every price was negotiable, and dirt-cheap. We spend three hours losing ourselves in the market. The stacks of used clothes were endless and required an aggressive spirit to find anything worthwhile. The four of us bargained like professionals, utilizing flirtation, stern banter, and teamwork. We all walked with stuffed bags, and a nasty sunburn. I never spent more then three dollars on an item, and found some true gems.  It was this market that made me fall in love with Uganda, I would love to return and spend a week getting lost in the madness of it all.

            We ended the trip by visiting a refugee camp, with 50,000 inhabitants from ten different countries around Africa. We met with a group of twenty Rwandese citizens who after the genocide have refused to return to Rwanda. These are mostly all Hutus, who we can assume participated in the genocide. They are also all genocide deniers, who fear for their lives in Rwanda. It was easy to get angry at this group, as went as far to reject all the facts and claim that it was not actually a genocide against the Tutsi’s but instead against the Hutus. Although this position is clearly false, it was disappointing to see the children growing up in the camp. All these men had stories that promoted fear and division, and these were the stories they were teaching their children.

2500 Kilometers of driving later, a belly full of weeks of delicious food, a few bruises from the roughness of the road, and a fair share of uncomfortable positions in the van; I arrived home. I am spending this last week with my family before starting my month long research project, in which I will be living with friends and dictating my own schedule. The rainy season in Rwanda has begun, along with the start of commemoration for the Genocide. Marking 100 days of a sad and solemn attitude in Rwanda. The country is marked my grey skies, lots of trauma, and horrific memories. The mood has shifted, into something entirely different.

Wiriwe (Good Afternoon)

I love eating Rwandan food, in many ways it is similar to food in Latin America except they don’t force feed you and let you choose your own portion sizes. There is a lot of beans and rice, fresh fruit juices, cooked or steamed green bananas, and at times questionable sources of meat. Regardless my family has stuck me on the rice and beans diet, for the last two weeks this is all we have eaten. I was unsure if it is because it is the easiest to cook, or the fact that from the beginning I have always called rice and beans some of my favorite foods. Regardless, I was curious how this rice and beans were treating my figure. Most Rwandan families do not have scales; instead you rely on the nice men on the corners who charge twenty cents for you to step on their scale. This sounds pretty terrible to most people I imagine, who wants to weigh him or herself on the street in front of anyone. Well I figured why not, the morning crowd had died down slightly and the street seemed relatively empty. I had just paid the man, and stepped on the scale shoes and all when a group of six Rwandan teenage boys came running over. They surrounded me on the scale, eagerly awaiting the scale to spit out my weight. The chatted quickly in Kinyarwanda, about what I can only imagine. As soon as my weight popped up on the screen I hurriedly left, realizing that next time I might try to pick a more deserted street to get weighed on.

Fabric store

It has been a month and a half since I left, and I have learned so much. I have mastered the bucket system to hand wash my clothes, and although I don’t get excited to rise at 5:30 to scrub the red dirt stains out of my pants, I do enjoy watching the sun rise on the ridge.

Rachel, Maggie and I on the Bus

I finally figured out the finesse to get the lock on the main gate open. Our family owns one set of keys for the main door, which is always supposed to remain locked. This means to leave it locked you must first pass through the door, lock it from the other side and then gently toss the keys over the gate. A concept that took me a week or two to get used too, but I now know that when you lose your keys in Rwanda it is best to search the dirt on the inside of the gate.

Rwandan Flag

I have become excellent at my networking. From reading my Kinyarwanda syllabus on the bus or knowing the best series of questions to get people to talk to you. Although a lot of people live in Rwanda it is a pretty small community, it is easy to meet those mover and shakers, and they are more then willing to talk to you.

Maggie and I Learning to Make Baskets

I know never to trust a drink that is not opened directly in front of me. Rwandans are constantly worried someone is going to poison them, so your drink has to ALWAYS come unopened and be opened in front of you with your own supervision.

Learning to make a Basket

Every day Kigali is changing. I have learned that every day a new traffic jam is likely or a new set of construction workers blocking my chosen path. On a daily basis development is happening faster then I can explain. Roads are suddenly paved, the entire downtown was given streetlights within two days, trees are planted, and roundabouts are suddenly created at intersections. The rate of development is incredible.

Our Group with our Host Siblings

I have learned that when a Rwandan exclaims “I am dying” they usually mean they have lots of homework or are going to have to walk a long distance, and it is never life-threatening

Millennium Village

I wanted to explain what my typically day here in Rwanda looks like. I usually get up around 5:30 or 6am. A lot of this depends on my sister and if I have to wash my clothes. I have discovered that if I need to do any sort of washing, I best do it when no one is watching. This way when I am not spending thirty minutes to comprehensively clean every garment I do not get advice from my family members. After taking my bucket bath I usually take tea and a small piece of bread. Then begins the long haul to the road. Upon reaching the road the chance of getting a bus is limited, I am usually trying to catch a bus during rush hour, so I usually catch a ride with someone who is passing by and headed in the right direction. I get rides with people who work for Supreme Court judges, important NGOs, and those from big churches who do there best to convert me in our twenty-minute journey together.

Upon reaching school we spend the day studying Kinyarwanda, listening to lectures, or doing quick field trips to different commissions and art galleries. Each day includes hands on work, and requires a lot of flexibility over the course of our day. In our afternoons we head to cyber cafes, take tea together, explore new parts of the city or get homework done. There is a plethora to things to do on the weekends. One of which is attending lengthy elaborate weddings in Kinyarwanda, in which people dance, drum and make impressively long-winded speeches. Many of us choose to spend one night of the week exploring Kigali nightlife, and seeing the negative results of development being displayed in the form of young Rwandan prostitutes. Another favorite pastime is exploring new markets, trying new restaurants or taking advantage of how easy it is to meet people, and have interesting conversations

Last week we attended the Millennium Village Project. These are the brainchild of Jeffery Sachs and are distributed throughout Africa. There is one that has just been completed in Rwanda, and is no longer receiving funding through the project. We spend the day in the Eastern Providence learning to farm like traditional Rwandans, tasting hot chili peppers that were a mistake to eat. We met women who taught us how to weave baskets, had a picnic with some large critters and drank banana beer with some locals (not something I would recommend, it gave me serious stomach trouble). The highlight of the trip was seeing a three year old, dressed only in lederhosen get drunk of banana beer. Although I do not seriously think that under aged drinking is appropriate, especially at the young age of three it was hard not to laugh. To see the little man, belly out, unable to walk properly and still going strong on the banana beer. It is a clear cultural difference, because all of my host siblings mentioned that they did the same as children. Sources of water were sometimes limited so their parents would give them banana beer or other low-alcoholic beverages.

Drinking Banana Beer

The next three weeks will be finishing up our studies, traveling to Uganda for two weeks and moving out of our host family. Then we begin our month of self-directed research, where we conduct interviews and live together in a house. I am sad that time is passing so quickly here in Rwanda, the experience so far has been amazing! 

Being an Ambassador

What two questions do I get asked most:

1) What do you think of my country?

2) Can you be an ambassador for Rwanda?

Of course without hesitation I let them know they live in a beautiful country, with people that are even more beautiful and resilient then the country itself. But I have been surprised by the ambassador question. Granted a lot of people in the States asked me if I had seen Hotel Rwanda before I came, and were worried for my safety. That is not the reality of the country, and although I passed the hotel that served as the basis of the movie, most Rwandan’s agree that it is an exaggerated version of controversial series of events. I am not surprised that people want to change the international perception of Rwanda, but I am taken aback that it is a universally shared concept. Not one person has forgotten to mention that I should become an ambassador. These words were uttered to me the first night with my host father, by the nice woman Sonya who drove me to school, from the survivors of the genocide, from perpetrators we visited in prison, government representatives and those who were courageous enough to rescue Tutsi’s during the genocide. They all want ambassadors to tell the world how Rwanda is charming, majestic, and transformed.

When I first decided to come to Africa I thought it felt so far away, “across the world.” Being here you see the same type of community, of support and of human interactions that you start to feel like you could be just minutes from your hometown. Kigali still appears to be the safest place I have ever been. People take care of strangers kids, are constantly offering you rides when the bus fails to show, or making sure you get on the right bus in the right direction. There is nothing individualistic about the culture, instead people look out for each other, and take care of one another. I can’t believe how quickly time is passing. I know that I need longer in Rwanda to appreciate the entirety of its beauty, and of course to master the new plumbing.

            As I wonder the streets I feel so at ease, there is always a new adventure. I went to the market in Kimironko last week, and it was better then I could imagine. A Paraguayan or Nicaraguan market is hard to beat, but this just might of succeeded. The market was organized into sections; women and men wondered the aisles with babies tied on their backs, baskets on their head, or large bags to carry their purchases. There was an incredible level of organization and purpose to the whole operation. Everyone had a place to go, or a thing to do, but they did it without rushing, with a sort of grace. Fruits stacked high, electronics lined displays, used kitchen utensils staked to the ceiling, but the most beautiful were the fabrics, rows and rows of beautiful fabrics. As women and men sat in the pathways with there’re sewing machines, waiting for a new order or something new to make. I resisted the urge to buy all the beautiful fabrics, but know that I will go back before I leave to make some serious investments. So if you need some new fabric, or have any special orders let me know!

This week’s educational lesson will be on the Murambi Memorial and women’s association. In class we have been focusing on memory, reconciliation and justice in the last few weeks. Clearly all the trips and homework has kept me from adequately updating my blog. Regardless Rwanda’s process of reconciliation and justice has been a unique one.

We started in Butare at the Murambi memorial. This memorial was built to be a school. Positioned on the top of a gorgeous hill, surrounded by rolling hills, houses and schools the area is pristine. The building with a main building and several separate buildings all dotting the top of the peak. Unfortunately, before the school could open Genocide broke out. Close to 50,000 Tutsi’s to refuge in the buildings from surrounding districts and areas. Initially they felt protected, but soon Hutu perpetrators cut off their water supply, with the intention of making them weak. Two weeks later the Hutu attack came, and after two days of straight grenades, guns and machetes the 50,000 were murdered and thrown into three mass graves. Few survived, in fact only five known survivors have stepped forward to share their stories. On this hill you can visit the site of the massacre known as the Murambi memorial. After the genocide ended the bodies were dug up and preserved with limestone, where you can still see them today. Classroom after classroom is filled with white, ashen bodies, some still sporting clothes, wedding rings, or a baby cupped in their arms. Their facial expressions represent the most unimaginable looks of fear and pain. Although it is easy to lose your self in the experience, and be overwhelmed by the sadness but the location itself is encouraging. From the top of this hill not only is the view incredible you here the mooing of cows across the valley and the giggles and screams of school children playing. You can’t ignore that life has continued in Rwanda, that people still carry around the trauma in those memories, but it is a country that is doing everything possible to heal.

Following the depressing memorial we went to visit a rural women’s association up around the hills of Butare. These are women who survived the genocide, and now are part of a unique organization:

            

After the genocide the surviving women lived in classrooms on the crest of the town. They had orphans and small children with them, but along with killing their families their homes were destroyed. They lived completely hopeless and distraught, without clothes, or food. The wives of those perpetrators that had killed their husbands and families lived on the hill across the way. On the way to the prison to visit their spouses or bring them food, they had to pass in front of these schools were the survivors were still living. These survivors harbored so much hate, resentment and chiefly fear that they would throw stones at the women. When a priest showed up he asked the women what they wanted, and they said two things. The first being clothes and food, and all the practical things necessary to survive. The second was to believe in god again, because they had been completely destroyed, and how could he of let that happen. So it began that a nun would preach to these survivors in the community on Thursday. Soon they discovered that the same nun was preaching to the wives of the perpetrators on Sunday. These survivors could not understand why they preached to these different groups of people the same things. They agreed to begin to try to preach together on the same day. First it was full of hostility, they did not talk, and they did not even want to look at each other. Soon they realized that they had things in common, and that they should help each other. The started an organization called Courage of Survivors in which both the perpetrators and the survivors worked together. In the first year it was re-building that trust, then they began doing microfinance projects of cows, chickens, goats and agriculture. Today they have 1701 members, and are some of the most beautiful strong women I have seen. Today they attend each other’s births, weddings and funerals. They take care of each other, and treat the sick in their community. They have begun micro-grant projects that have helped the community become more developed and determined. If you are interested in learning more about these women, or making a contribution yourself here is a link:

http://www.firstgiving.com/sparkrwanda

I know that these passionate women deserve every penny, and have my full support.

I hope everyone is well and healthy. Miss you all