This will probably be my final blog post while I am in Uganda.
The internet has been incredibly slow here lately, so pictures from my source of the Nile/white water rafting/bungee jumping adventure a couple weeks ago will have to wait until I am back on American soil (and American high-speed internet). It was my last exciting sightseeing trip around Uganda, and I had such a great time. I will write an entry about my experience and post photos once I get home.
Yesterday I reluctantly spent the day saying goodbye to all of my friends in the village. I had not at all expected this process to be as difficult as it was. It was the toughest leaving my peer educators. Many of them came by my house to talk individually as I was packing. I had not realized how much of a relationship I have actually formed with some of these kids until I had to tell them goodbye. I think the most dispiriting thing is that I most likely will never see them again; I may travel through Uganda again one day, but the chances of me returning to Kiwangala are slim. And although I have given my email address to many people in the community, I am fully cognizant of the fact that most of them will not have the opportunity to open an email account or pay for the internet time to use it. However, I have wonderful memories of the people I met, so that is what’s most important.
It has been a week of “lasts”—last training with my peer educators, last meal of beans, last taste of street food, last scenic run, last sunrise over the village, and last crowded, hot taxi ride (hooray for that one). The final month here has gone by so quickly, and I can honestly say I am not quite ready to leave. Although I am excited to come home, I will greatly miss my life here. I never imagined it would be this difficult to say goodbye.
So, farewell from Uganda! I am off to Kampala for the weekend to do some craft shopping. I fly home next week and will write more then. I appreciate everyone who has been reading and following my experience. Thank you!
Funny Story:
As I packed my things, I was purging as much as possible to make room in my luggage for souvenirs. All day I had been coming out of my room with exciting gifts for my family (if you consider empty vitamin bottles and pencils exciting). I think my host mother was beginning to feel like she should give me something.
She appeared at my bedroom door with a large metal teapot, saying “From me, to you.” It was a lovely gesture, but all I could think was “Ummm—I am so tight on space that I just spent the last 10 minutes trying to squeeze all of my prescription medications into one pill bottle. Where am I going to put a giant teapot?!?”
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Perspectives on Village Life...revisited
I thought I would share a journal entry I wrote a couple days ago to give everyone some insight into how I am feeling my final few weeks here. I have interjected a few additional comments for the sake of clarity.
Today was a great day! I don’t know if it was a combination of returning from a refreshing vacation in Rwanda, or realizing that I have very little time left in this country so I need to make the most of each day, but this has been one of my favorite days in the village. Not because anything exceptional happened, but because after two months I am finally feeling integrated into the community.
Last night, as I walked home from the taxi, I ran into two of my peer education trainees. We chatted about our respective Easters, and they welcomed me back and said they had missed me and were glad I had returned. As we walked, we passed three more people (I didn’t recognize) who greeted me by name and welcomed me back as well. While walking through town today, I was again greeted by name by several adults and children. I admit, I feel somewhat proud of the fact that I am no longer “Mzungu,” but “Jen” or “Mzungu Jen” at least some of the time. :)
There is a new FSD intern working for another NGO in Kiwangala who arrived a few days ago. I met with her today, as she is having a difficult time adjusting to life in the village and sounds like she is close to jumping on a plane home. Listening to her discuss her struggles makes me so thankful that I am no longer in that place. I tried to reassure her that it does get easier, and I have moved on to a state of actually enjoying village life and seeing the value of this experience (something I don’t think I could have said my first couple weeks here). I know that come mid-May I will be excited to be home, but I am recognizing more and more each day that I will definitely miss aspects of my life here.
This afternoon I was supposed to give a presentation at a school about a 30-40 minute walk up a big hill. When I got up there though, they cancelled on me. I was having such a great day that I didn’t even mind. It actually turned out to be a blessing, because I discovered (maybe due to the elevation) that there was half way decent cell reception there. I was able to talk to my mom for 30 minutes without ever dropping the call…a big accomplishment here.
While I was on the phone I accumulated quite the audience of schoolchildren. They played the “I dare you to touch the white girl” game by coming up behind me and reaching out to poke me, only to shriek and run away when I turned around. Meanwhile, the onlookers just laughed. They made me smile since they continued this process probably 20 times. After I hung up, the entire group followed me to the road, and I could hear them whispering in Lugandan, “That is the Mzungu who runs.” I guess I am gaining quite the reputation.
On the walk back, I stopped and greeted each person I passed. At times I have found this custom to be tedious and even bothersome when I am tired or simply don’t want to speak to every stranger I encounter. However, today I can say I fully appreciated this uniquely Ugandan tradition.
Anyway even though it was just a regular day in the village, I think I will look back at this moment as one of my fondest memories. (As I sit here reflecting on the day, to the sounds of Ugandan radio and the grinding of G-nut paste.)
Today was a great day! I don’t know if it was a combination of returning from a refreshing vacation in Rwanda, or realizing that I have very little time left in this country so I need to make the most of each day, but this has been one of my favorite days in the village. Not because anything exceptional happened, but because after two months I am finally feeling integrated into the community.
Last night, as I walked home from the taxi, I ran into two of my peer education trainees. We chatted about our respective Easters, and they welcomed me back and said they had missed me and were glad I had returned. As we walked, we passed three more people (I didn’t recognize) who greeted me by name and welcomed me back as well. While walking through town today, I was again greeted by name by several adults and children. I admit, I feel somewhat proud of the fact that I am no longer “Mzungu,” but “Jen” or “Mzungu Jen” at least some of the time. :)
There is a new FSD intern working for another NGO in Kiwangala who arrived a few days ago. I met with her today, as she is having a difficult time adjusting to life in the village and sounds like she is close to jumping on a plane home. Listening to her discuss her struggles makes me so thankful that I am no longer in that place. I tried to reassure her that it does get easier, and I have moved on to a state of actually enjoying village life and seeing the value of this experience (something I don’t think I could have said my first couple weeks here). I know that come mid-May I will be excited to be home, but I am recognizing more and more each day that I will definitely miss aspects of my life here.
This afternoon I was supposed to give a presentation at a school about a 30-40 minute walk up a big hill. When I got up there though, they cancelled on me. I was having such a great day that I didn’t even mind. It actually turned out to be a blessing, because I discovered (maybe due to the elevation) that there was half way decent cell reception there. I was able to talk to my mom for 30 minutes without ever dropping the call…a big accomplishment here.
While I was on the phone I accumulated quite the audience of schoolchildren. They played the “I dare you to touch the white girl” game by coming up behind me and reaching out to poke me, only to shriek and run away when I turned around. Meanwhile, the onlookers just laughed. They made me smile since they continued this process probably 20 times. After I hung up, the entire group followed me to the road, and I could hear them whispering in Lugandan, “That is the Mzungu who runs.” I guess I am gaining quite the reputation.
On the walk back, I stopped and greeted each person I passed. At times I have found this custom to be tedious and even bothersome when I am tired or simply don’t want to speak to every stranger I encounter. However, today I can say I fully appreciated this uniquely Ugandan tradition.
Anyway even though it was just a regular day in the village, I think I will look back at this moment as one of my fondest memories. (As I sit here reflecting on the day, to the sounds of Ugandan radio and the grinding of G-nut paste.)
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Dance Party at the UN Compund !!
After spending six hours waiting at the border Saturday morning, we finally received visa clearance. Goma was really interesting to see, although I don’t know that I’d want to live there for very long. It is a bit of a peculiar town, as there are an obscene amount of NGOs primarily due to the UN presence there. Therefore the city is an odd mix of ex-pats, peacekeepers, and the Congolese military.
The city was also covered in lava by the Nyiragongo volcano in 2002, and the evidence is still very visible on the road and storefronts. As you can see from the billowing steam, the volcano may erupt again very soon.
That night, we were invited to meet the Indian men for dinner at their base. When we pulled up to the gate and asked for Sanjeev, the man who let us in replied, “Oh, you are here for party.” I knew from that statement alone that it was going to be a fun night! We walked into the “Officer’s Club” decorated with twinkle lights and steamers hanging from the bamboo “bar.” It was all a rather formal affair; the pilots were dressed in mock turtlenecks and sport coats; we were served cocktails by older Indian waiters wearing very British Army looking uniforms; all to the soundtrack of the 1998 Savage Garden album. Then we moved out to the garden area for the most amazing Indian appetizers, after which came an announcement, “Tonight we have a special treat. There are women here! Please proceed to the dance floor now.” There was a major dance party, including both Indian music and really bad, old, American music. It was there most hilarious dancing experience of my life!
Later I had a long interesting conversation with one of the older pilots. He has been involved with MONUC (the peacekeeping mission) since 2003. It is intriguing to hear such a different perspective on a UN mission. He shared his views on Chapter 6 and Chapter 7 mandates; how things have changed since 2003 with the presence of UNHCR, Amnesty International, etc. and their monitoring systems; and how the bureaucracy of the UN actually plays out for troops on the ground. He was telling me about a 2003 massacre in Bunia and how he had to enforce UN Marshall Law for three months while they waited on reinforcements from France. He also recounted stories of his encounters with the LRA and other rebel militias. It was extremely interesting to hear the military perspective, when my exposure to these topics has only been media related or academic in nature.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Top Gun....Mumbai Style
After Kigali we ventured to Gisenyi, a place that the guidebook describes as, “where rich Rwandans come to play.” The bus ride there alone was worth the trip; it meandered up the mountains and right past Parc National Des Volcans, home to the famous mountain gorillas. We planned to explore this resort town, on the beaches of beautiful Lake Kivu, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of Congo to stay with a friend of one of my fellow interns for a couple days.
While walking down the street in Gisenyi, we were stopped by three Indian men driving a UN Land Cruiser. Somehow mistaking us for fellow UN employees (I don’t think we quite looked the part, but they must have), they offered us a ride to a local restaurant. Apparently they are pilots in the Indian Air Force and are stationed as UN Peacekeepers flying helicopters for a year. They were all wearing Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, and after talking with them for a few minutes, I concluded that they could star in the Indian version of Top Gun. When they dropped us off, I exchanged phone numbers with the Maverick of the trio, and he told me to call him if we needed anything while in the area. I never imagined I actually would.
Flash forward to two hours later when we were denied entry into the DRC. We were told that the border policy recently changed; to get a visa now, one must write an official letter of introduction to the Congolese immigration director (in French by the way), and then wait two days for approval. So, of course, my first thought was to call Sanjeev for help. He arrived and marched us back across the border to make our case in front of the Congolese Border Patrol. Evidently they have not seen the Tom Cruise classic, because Maverick’s powers of persuasion were not well received.
Flash forward to two hours later when we were denied entry into the DRC. We were told that the border policy recently changed; to get a visa now, one must write an official letter of introduction to the Congolese immigration director (in French by the way), and then wait two days for approval. So, of course, my first thought was to call Sanjeev for help. He arrived and marched us back across the border to make our case in front of the Congolese Border Patrol. Evidently they have not seen the Tom Cruise classic, because Maverick’s powers of persuasion were not well received.
After two more failed attempts, we decided to give up for the day and planned to meet the Indians for dinner. Over drinks and Indian ramen noodles (which were delicious), we sat around talking about Top Gun, India, and listening to their war stories.
It was a blast, and yet only a glimpse of things yet to come!
Hope...
It rained much of the time I was in Kigali.
On the taxi ride back from visiting the church memorial, there was a light rainstorm followed by bright sun. It produced the most astounding rainbow I have ever seen. Not only was it a double, but you could see the entire arc of the rainbow. (This picture hardly does it justice.)
I found it to be an appropriate symbol after what I had just witnessed at the church.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
April in Rwanda
I hardly know where to begin…
By a coincidence of timing, I ended up in Rwanda during the Week of Remembrance/Mourning for the 1994 genocide. It was a very strange, yet incredibly interesting time to be in Rwanda.
Before I get into the heavy topic of genocide…a bit about Rwanda. Rwanda is one of the most astonishingly beautiful places I have ever visited. I thought the landscapes of Uganda were beautiful, until I discovered Rwanda. They call Rwanda “the land of a thousand hills,” which is quite the understatement. I think the mountains add to its wonder though.
I took an overnight bus from Kampala to Kigali. When I awoke in the morning, the mist was
settling into the mountain valleys of southern Uganda. It seemed like a scene straight from “Gorillas in the Mist.” As the bus crossed the border, it was surprisingly striking how different these two countries are. For example, at the customs check point they confiscate all plastic bags because they are not allowed in the country for environmental reasons. The infrastructure here is much more developed; the roads are lined and smoothly paved, and there are even well established drainage systems. We drove in on the winding mountain roads, around the terraced hills of crops, and past tens of Rwandans hand picking tea leaves on the tea plantations. It was an amazing bus ride! Every inch of available land is used for agriculture, even grades so steep you wouldn’t think it is possible to cultivate them. As I understand, this was not the case pre-genocide.
When I got to Kigali I was shocked at how different it is than Kampala. At times, it doesn’t feel like you are in Africa anymore. It is a very Westernized city with a significant French influence (which offered some delicious bread and other foods). The first jaw dropping moment occurred when our group was waiting to dart across the street at the earliest gap in traffic, yet instead, the entire line of cars paused to let us pass. How astonishing? Cars actually yield to pedestrians here, unlike in Uganda where they will in fact hit you, even at a crosswalk. The second shocker was the fact that motorcycle taxi drivers wear green vests denoting them as taxis, as well as carry a helmet for both themselves and their passenger. What a novelty; the idea of safety precautions? The third surprise came when we attempted to take a taxi bus and discovered that in the Rwandan system you purchase a ticket for a designated time and the taxi actually leaves on time! (As opposed to waiting two hours for the driver to cram as many bodies as he feasibly can into vehicle before departing.) Sarcasm aside, Kigali was a wonderful city filled with friendly people and great food.
Rwanda is such a beautiful country that it is hard to imagine the gruesome tragedy that occurred here just 15 years ago. In some ways the events of the 1994 genocide seem so far removed from the Kigali of 2009, yet in other ways it seems so recent. As you walk down the street, you know that most people you pass were affected by this terrible event in some way.
Visiting the Kigali Memorial Museum was very powerful. It is interesting to see how a culture frames such a defining piece of its own history. It is quite a different perspective than I have received while studying the genocide in the US; they are very straightforward about it. As I processed it though, I don’t know if there is any other way to manage this kind of pervasive event. Even though most Americans grieved September 11th, only a small percentage of us were personally affected by it. Here, though, pretty much the entire country has a very intimate connection to genocide. Maybe the only real option after something like that is to collectively pick yourself up, move forward, and consciously decide not to be solely defined by one horrific tragedy. Obviously, the aftermath of genocide is much more complex than that, and I am seeing the country 15 years later. But it seemed, from my experiences at least, that Rwandans want to remember and honor those who died mercilessly, yet they do not want to dwell on the history. There was very much a perception of a “new Rwanda,” united under great national pride.
I also visited a church where 10,000 people were massacred. I don’t think a public blog is necessarily the best venue to share details of this experience, but I will be happy to discuss more about it when I get home. It is a strange thing that these sites have become somewhat of a tourist attraction. While it was an incredibly intense experience that will probably forever influence my worldview, it is also the site that bears witness to what horrors humankind is capable of.
We asked a man we passed on the street for directions to the church, and he ended up offering to walk us there and give up a tour. As we parted, he told us that all of his family members had been killed in the genocide. At first I thought, “How unique that this man we happened to encounter on the street had such a powerful story.” However, the more time I spent in Rwanda, the more I came to realize that almost everyone has a story. Rwanda was an experience I will never forget.
By a coincidence of timing, I ended up in Rwanda during the Week of Remembrance/Mourning for the 1994 genocide. It was a very strange, yet incredibly interesting time to be in Rwanda.
Before I get into the heavy topic of genocide…a bit about Rwanda. Rwanda is one of the most astonishingly beautiful places I have ever visited. I thought the landscapes of Uganda were beautiful, until I discovered Rwanda. They call Rwanda “the land of a thousand hills,” which is quite the understatement. I think the mountains add to its wonder though.
I took an overnight bus from Kampala to Kigali. When I awoke in the morning, the mist was
settling into the mountain valleys of southern Uganda. It seemed like a scene straight from “Gorillas in the Mist.” As the bus crossed the border, it was surprisingly striking how different these two countries are. For example, at the customs check point they confiscate all plastic bags because they are not allowed in the country for environmental reasons. The infrastructure here is much more developed; the roads are lined and smoothly paved, and there are even well established drainage systems. We drove in on the winding mountain roads, around the terraced hills of crops, and past tens of Rwandans hand picking tea leaves on the tea plantations. It was an amazing bus ride! Every inch of available land is used for agriculture, even grades so steep you wouldn’t think it is possible to cultivate them. As I understand, this was not the case pre-genocide.
When I got to Kigali I was shocked at how different it is than Kampala. At times, it doesn’t feel like you are in Africa anymore. It is a very Westernized city with a significant French influence (which offered some delicious bread and other foods). The first jaw dropping moment occurred when our group was waiting to dart across the street at the earliest gap in traffic, yet instead, the entire line of cars paused to let us pass. How astonishing? Cars actually yield to pedestrians here, unlike in Uganda where they will in fact hit you, even at a crosswalk. The second shocker was the fact that motorcycle taxi drivers wear green vests denoting them as taxis, as well as carry a helmet for both themselves and their passenger. What a novelty; the idea of safety precautions? The third surprise came when we attempted to take a taxi bus and discovered that in the Rwandan system you purchase a ticket for a designated time and the taxi actually leaves on time! (As opposed to waiting two hours for the driver to cram as many bodies as he feasibly can into vehicle before departing.) Sarcasm aside, Kigali was a wonderful city filled with friendly people and great food.
Rwanda is such a beautiful country that it is hard to imagine the gruesome tragedy that occurred here just 15 years ago. In some ways the events of the 1994 genocide seem so far removed from the Kigali of 2009, yet in other ways it seems so recent. As you walk down the street, you know that most people you pass were affected by this terrible event in some way.
Visiting the Kigali Memorial Museum was very powerful. It is interesting to see how a culture frames such a defining piece of its own history. It is quite a different perspective than I have received while studying the genocide in the US; they are very straightforward about it. As I processed it though, I don’t know if there is any other way to manage this kind of pervasive event. Even though most Americans grieved September 11th, only a small percentage of us were personally affected by it. Here, though, pretty much the entire country has a very intimate connection to genocide. Maybe the only real option after something like that is to collectively pick yourself up, move forward, and consciously decide not to be solely defined by one horrific tragedy. Obviously, the aftermath of genocide is much more complex than that, and I am seeing the country 15 years later. But it seemed, from my experiences at least, that Rwandans want to remember and honor those who died mercilessly, yet they do not want to dwell on the history. There was very much a perception of a “new Rwanda,” united under great national pride.
I also visited a church where 10,000 people were massacred. I don’t think a public blog is necessarily the best venue to share details of this experience, but I will be happy to discuss more about it when I get home. It is a strange thing that these sites have become somewhat of a tourist attraction. While it was an incredibly intense experience that will probably forever influence my worldview, it is also the site that bears witness to what horrors humankind is capable of.
We asked a man we passed on the street for directions to the church, and he ended up offering to walk us there and give up a tour. As we parted, he told us that all of his family members had been killed in the genocide. At first I thought, “How unique that this man we happened to encounter on the street had such a powerful story.” However, the more time I spent in Rwanda, the more I came to realize that almost everyone has a story. Rwanda was an experience I will never forget.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Rainy Season
The rainy season has arrived! It starts raining at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning almost everyday and rains until late morning. Then it continues to rain intermittently the rest of the day. The once orange-dust covered roads have now turned to mud, dotted with pond-like potholes. On a taxi ride one day my window was down and another taxi sped around mine at the exact moment it encountered one of the giant mud filled potholes. Needless to say, I got severely splashed with orange water.
Another day last week JP and I were running in the swamps, and we got a little lost. We happened upon some children eating jack fruit and asked them to lead us back to the main road. When we came to a wide mud bog they agilely leapt from grass heap to grass heap, easily navigating the bog. I, unfortunately, was not so graceful. I miscalculated one of their jumps and landed knee deep in thick, disgusting, dark black, muddy water. I’m sure they had a great story to tell their parents when they got home. “Mom, we meet these Mzungus in the swamp today. We gave them jack fruit, and then one of them managed to cover herself in mud. Mzungus are so bizarre.”
Below is a picture I took in Kampala. The road had a four inch thick layer of mud, and this truck wasn’t going anywhere.
Another day last week JP and I were running in the swamps, and we got a little lost. We happened upon some children eating jack fruit and asked them to lead us back to the main road. When we came to a wide mud bog they agilely leapt from grass heap to grass heap, easily navigating the bog. I, unfortunately, was not so graceful. I miscalculated one of their jumps and landed knee deep in thick, disgusting, dark black, muddy water. I’m sure they had a great story to tell their parents when they got home. “Mom, we meet these Mzungus in the swamp today. We gave them jack fruit, and then one of them managed to cover herself in mud. Mzungus are so bizarre.”
Below is a picture I took in Kampala. The road had a four inch thick layer of mud, and this truck wasn’t going anywhere.
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