a day downtown

Yesterday we ventured to downtown Kampala to do some shopping. We wanted to go to Owino market to check it out. Said to be the busiest market in Uganda, a cramped maze of stalls and canopies, a place where one in five people get robbed, we were curious to "experience" Owino.

Isaac and I, along with two female teachers, took bodas downtown. I told my boda driver that we were headed to Owino, because we had been told it was not to be missed.

"People say it is busy, busy, busy," I said. "They say that there are many thieves."

The boda driver laughed. "Ah! The thieves. Yes, many thieves. They can take the watch right off your arm. You must be very cautious."

I left my iPhone at home, and Isaac had our money divided in different zippered pockets in his shorts, with a stash hidden in his zippered belt just in case we did get robbed and needed money to get back home. He carried a backpack, but when we got to Owino he swung it in front of him.

On the boda ride downtown, the predictably unpredictable happened:

• Our friend Ashley's boda was hit by another boda who suddenly jutted out of a driveway. [No concept of "right of way."] He only hit the tire, and no damage was done. Thankfully the usual congestion meant slow speeds and no damage.
• At one point traffic came to a standstill because a truck had scraped into the side of a taxi, pushing it into the side of another taxi. The three vehicles were stuck together, and the passengers were casually climbing out of the windows, scurrying over the hoods and catching bodas to continue their journey. Because the accident had completely plugged traffic, our bodas (joined by a fleet of other bodas) told us to get off so they could walk alongside their motorcycles, push them onto the sidewalk, and walk them past them past the accident. Then they stopped, hopped back on, and motioned for us to do the same and we continued on our way.
• At one intersection my boda was stuck behind two taxis. Being one of the few lights, we were waiting for the light to change. When the light did change, one of the taxi drivers didn't notice and didn't move. My boda driver leaned forward and pounded on the back of the taxi to notify the driver. For some reason watching him reminded me of someone prompting a cow to move forward by tapping its hindquarters. 

Before entering Owino we first had to have our bags checked by armed police officers -- something that, since the terrorist attacks in Kenya, has become standard procedure. It seemed a little odd at Owino, since the market has many entrances and is pretty fluid.

We entered Owino, and it lived up to our expectations. Stacks of clothes, curtains, fabrics, anything and everything. Buckets of thick g-nut sauce and overflowing sacks of beans and spices. The stench of meat hanging in the heat turned my stomach. We had to be careful not to step on people's wares that were spread out on tarps -- from clothing to dried beans. One twelve-year-old vendor was actually lying on his pile of shoes taking a nap. As we journeyed deeper into Owino, the aisles narrowed and we were completely shaded by the vendors' canopies.

The piles of used clothing, with no obvious organization, seemed impossible to sort through. However, in Owino you have dozens of personal stylists who are sizing you up and suggesting pieces that they guess to be your style and know to be your size. Isaac was delighted by the stacks of T-shirts. Back home he makes a game out of finding T-shirts at thrift stores with strange and interesting slogans. He only visited one T-shirt booth and found, according to him, "gems."

Although the vendors were aggressive, they were pretty light-hearted and fun. Girls' blouses were thrown at me, and I was told to "buy them for my husband." At one point someone behind me draped a pair of pants over my shoulder in an effort to entice me to buy them.

One man told me seriously, "Muzungu, I love you for real!" I just laughed and pointed to Isaac. "This one is my husband!" He bounced back, "What about your friend over there?" The female vendor beside him shook her head and laughed.

We didn't stay in Owino long, and I think if we had gone deeper into the market we could have easily gotten lost. As we tried to navigate our way out, the four of us got separated. Vendors shouted unsolicited directions, saying to our friend, "Your muzungu friends are up there waiting for you!"

We left Owino and walked a block away to a "Green Shops" location. I had never been there, but heard from a smartly dressed colleague that the shops have their employees scour Owino for the best clothes and then put them in an organized shop, complete with racks, hangers and changing rooms. They add a few shillings to each item, which still only comes to less than $4 for most items.

On this day, we didn't realize it, but the Green Shops were preparing to set out new stock on Monday. The stock that we could browse through was pretty well picked through and had little selection, but each item was only 1000 shillings (40 cents!). Each of us girls picked up at least one or two items by the end of the day. I got a dress and a belt for a grand total of 80 cents.

There are several Green Shops locations, and a middle-aged man behind us heard us trying to figure out directions to the other stores. He said, "I am going that way -- follow me!" He kindly brought us to four of the five Green Shops locations. After the first shop, it became clear that he was not really "going that way" -- he was escorting us and then patiently waiting for us to shop at each location.

When I thanked him for his kindness, he just smiled and said, "Maybe one day I will need directions and someone will help me!" We did offer to purchase a pair of shorts he had selected at one store (again -- a whopping 40 cents) but other than that he didn't ask for or accept any other tip. When we got to the last location, he just said, "Okay, I will leave you here" and left.

To begin our journey back home we picked up four bodas. Our fleet of bodas started out, but when big drops of rain began to splash down on us they, barking to each other in Luganda, pulled over in unison. In Uganda, it is entirely acceptable to pull over and wait out the rain.

The eight of us stood under an overhang and watched the downpour. We began to talk and joke with the boda drivers and other people finding shelter there.

"Are you born again?" one man asked me.

"Yes, I believe in Jesus," I said.

"You people who are born again, you can only take one woman," he said.

"Yes, that is true."

"Me?" one of the others piped in. "I am extra born again, so I can have more than one!"

My boda driver was a very serious Christian, carrying a worn New Testament in his shirt pocket. He shook his head and laughed at the one who claimed to be "extra" born again. He lamented to me about the many who claim to be Christians but don't follow Christ. He then turned to one of the other boda drivers and said, "This one is a Muslim! You should ask him to accept Jesus!" and then set about trying to convert his friend, preaching at him that Jesus is the only way to everlasting life.

After the rain stopped we piled back on our bodas. I reminded my driver that it was slippery and we should be very careful.

"Yes, you fear wounds," he laughed. "We will go slowly, slowly."

On the way home he decided to teach me some Luganda phrases (which meant quickly saying a phrase and expecting me to be able to repeat it) and inquiring about my family. He was surprised to learn I didn't have any children, and said that he himself had four.

"And now we are finished," he said. "Four is enough. Children, they are expensive, and it is not good to have too many if you cannot care for them."

"Yes," I agreed. "You want to make sure they have good food, and have good education."

He nodded, and I wondered if all those billboards with smiling African doctors or confident business women encouraging Ugandans to find their own "smart family planning solution" were having an effect.

Taken by a friend on another occasion ...
We are getting used to "the new normal" here in Uganda! 

By the time we got home from our adventure, I took a shower (after getting sprayed with mud on the boda ride!) and settled down on the couch to read a book. In a few minutes I had dozed off to sleep. Shopping Kampala had worn me out, I guess!

TIA ... This is Africa!

options

I have joined a "Cheza" class, which is African Zumba. Every Wednesday a few of us muzungu teachers assemble in the cafeteria; we clumsily dance, sweating to keep up with the Ugandan instructor, trying to ignore the fact that we are occasionally being gawked at [laughed at?] by Ugandan staff and sometimes students. [That's the worst -- to have a middle school student say the next day, "Miss, I saw you in the cafeteria dancing!"]

It's a good work-out, and it is a lot of fun.

A few weeks ago I was walking back from Cheza class and started walking alongside Godfrey, one of the local janitorial staff. We started talking and he began asking me about Cheza class and, more generally, muzungu interest in exercise.

"Back home in Canada," I said, "many people want to be skinny, skinny, skinny. Sometimes that is not healthy. But here -- what is it like here, Godfrey? I heard that in Uganda fat is good."

He thought for a moment. "In Uganda here, fat is good. Skinny can also be good. Here, there are options."

Options! That's a nice way to put it!

In downtown Kampala, there is a billboard with a shining, plump African woman smiling and eating fried chicken. The caption reads, "For chicks with big thighs."

Back home, such a slogan would never help you sell fried chicken! And such a woman -- healthy, but "overweight" by North American standards -- would probably never be found on a billboard, especially portrayed in an attractive light.

Here, there are options!

trip to sipi falls

This week is October Break! Wahoo! A week long break from the daily grind.

Even though marking and planning are going to happen over this break, Isaac and I wanted to start the break off with a little getaway. Now that we've settled into our home in Kansanga we've been itching to get out of the city and explore a little.

Now, as a missionary teacher and a full-time student our options are limited by a tight budget. So ... rustic it is!

We decided to go to Sipi Falls, which is just outside of (or just inside of?) Mt. Elgon National Park, which straddles the border between Uganda and Kenya. Two other families from the school decided to go as well.

A few points about our trip in case you, like me, are in Uganda, looking for a cheap getaway, and are having trouble finding accurate information:

• We were told that the trip to Sipi Falls from Kansanga would be 4 to 5 hours. The way there took us 7. We rented an entire matatu (van taxis) for the price of 300,000 shillings. The driver tried to drop us off in Mbale, saying that was the destination agreed upon, but we told him that if he would not be faithful to the agreement we would not pay him the full amount. He begrudgingly agreed and took us to Sipi Falls, after getting lost for over half an hour. The way home from Sipi Falls involved getting a matatu to Mbale (10,000shillings/person) and then a matatu from Mbale to Kansanga (about 240,000). The matatu that picked us from Sipi Falls could not take us directly to Kampala because it wasn't registered to drive that route. The way home took us about 5 or 6 hours.  

• There is a stop along the way where the matatu pulls to the side and you are swarmed by roadside vendors. African fast food! We got dinner on the way home this way, buying chicken on a stick, cold drinks and chipattes for only a few dollars. 
• We stayed at the Crow's Nest. It costs 20,000 shillings ($8) per person per night, and this includes tea, coffee and a banana in the morning. It is rustic (bring your own toilet paper to the latrine, just in case) but fairly clean. Mosquito nets, sheets, pillows (either lumpy or hard as a rock), and blankets are provided. The view is spectacular -- you can see all three waterfalls from your room! There is, surprisingly, hot water that runs from a tank heated by a fire at the top of the hill down to the shower hut. It takes a few minutes to get the hot water flowing, so once it starts if you have a group make sure they shower right after one another. 
• Staying at The Crow's Nest seems to make the hike to the falls much farther. There are other options, such as Lacam Lodge and Sipi River Resort that you can look into. We stopped at one of the lodges to use the washrooms and it is definitely a more luxurious option than the Crow's Nest. 
• One thing we didn't expect: bring a sweater! Although the sun was hot in the morning, it became quite cool in the evenings. 
• Take the time to walk up to the look out looking over the Rift Valley (on The Crow's Nest property, with only a wooden sign saying "Viewpoint" pointing it out). Be warned that some local young men will try to tell you that you need to pay, because you've crossed onto their land. Tell them that your guide at The Crow's Nest told you that you didn't need to pay, and that they should take the issue up with them. 
• We did two guided tours: the hike of the falls (with our group, it took over 4 hours) and the next day we did the coffee making tour (very interesting!) Our guide, George, was from one of the local villages with years of experience in tourism. He was very knowledgeable, sincere, and easy to understand. Each tour is 25,000 ($10) per person, but because we did two we negotiated it down to 20,000 per person (40,000 for both tours). He also didn't make us pay for the children. 
• Children: the kids that came with us were troopers. They are exceptional kids, and even the guide was impressed. However, the coffee tour was a lot more walking than we originally thought and by the end of that (the second day) the kids were starting to reach their limit and there were some meltdowns. Also, the ride to Sipi Falls and back (from Kampala) is another thing to consider if you have a family. 
• Meals at the Crow's Nest: we brought enough food and snacks so that we only had to purchase dinner. Even though the meals are listed individually on the menu, they come in family-style dishes. This was fun, because you got to try a little bit of everything. Ordering one meal per person was WAY too much food and we could not finish it. The next night, when we ordered only 8 meals (instead of 11), we found we got the same amounts of rice, spaghetti, matooke, etc. so once again we were unable to finish it all. 
• One the hike of Sipi Falls, you are able to swim (the water is frigid, but said to be parasite free) so bring swim shorts if you wish. We had a doctor with us, and he swam, so I figure it can't be that bad!



Isaac in the doorway of our room. 

• The people in the region speak local dialects but, as you are close to Kenya, they also speak Swahili. So if you know a few phrases you will certainly meet people along the hikes that you can say hello to! 

All in all, the scenery was spectacular, the hiking was a little rugged (bring good shoes and beware of slippery rocks!), and the accommodations were rustic but hospitable. 

And the grand total for my husband and I to go on a two-night getaway (transportation, accommodations, and food included) came in at a little under 300,000 shillings ($120). Not bad, not bad ...

Our view! 

Our guide and host, George 

Me on the hike. 

Latrine and shower house. 

Coffee! 

George winnowing the coffee beans taken from his garden (his home is in the background)

begging: to give or not to give?

One of the toughest things to deal with here is encounters with beggars -- children and adults alike. Women hold babies that are not their own, children ask for food or money, men with severe physical disabilities sit by the side of their road.

Sometimes kids in the neighbourhood or villages playfully demand, "Muzungu -- give me money!" (or water, or your watch) and it's easy to laugh and say, "I don't think so!" But many others are serious, and it is not a joke.

What should one do? Everything in you feels the need to give something, whether it be food or money. This article sheds light on how giving in to that impulse to hand over something, anything -- can actually be harmful. Generous tourists can unknowingly fuel a vicious criminal system of child trafficking. If you are ever going to travel to the third world (or even parts of the first world!) you should read this!

http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2013/09/giving_money_to_child_beggars_don_t_do_it.html 

visit to mulago hospital

Sharon, the wife of one of the Heritage math teachers, came to Uganda to help serve as a librarian at the school but also came with the distinct desire to become involved in hospital ministry. Since they arrived she has been looking for ways to connect or begin a hospital ministry. This led her to ask her house help, Domilee, about a possible contact with Mulago hospital in Kampala. Domilee responded that several ladies from her Ugandan church would love to be involved and already have a heart for such ministry. Although they can go and pray with patients, they simply do not have the resources to bring care packages, etc.

Domilee and Sharon decided to team up, connecting muzungu (white) women with local women to help minister at Mulago. Sharon and her husband have had people in the States donate money specifically for this purpose, and they have also given quite a bit out of their own pockets. They were able to put together at least 30 care packages, I would guess; crinkled black plastic bags with some essentials that the Ugandan women had suggested. Every care package had at least a bag of sugar, tea, and a bar of soap.

Today was the first time ministering at the hospital. Since it was a maiden voyage, Sharon was looking for several Heritage women to come along. The initial visit would be to see the place, see the needs, talk and pray with patients and speak to staff about the potential of volunteering on a monthly basis. Even though hospitals back in Canada make me a little uncomfortable, I figured I should go as a show of support.

We all met together at Sharon's home at the arranged time: 12:30. The muzungu women were all there promptly, but we ended up waiting around for almost an hour for our Ugandan counterparts. They had to leave church early to come, so when they did arrive they completely outdid us (as Ugandans often do) in their smart outfits compared to our practical "missionary" wear.

All of us -- 7 muzungus and 6 Ugandans -- piled into a matatu, or taxi, and headed to Mulago.  Along the way I learned that Mulago is the "public" hospital in Kampala. It's supposed to be free, but, as the Ugandan women put it, "That means you can sit there for free." To get any services or any medication you must scrape together some of your own cash. When you are in the hospital, it is up to your friends and relatives to feed you, bathe you, change your sheets, etc. While the family system in Uganda is strong, of course there are always those who have no one in their lives and are neglected.

When we pulled into the hospital, we saw another matatu by the doors with a wooden casket strapped on top of it.

We decided to visit one of the adult wards, thinking that the children's wards usually receive more care. We were each paired up with a Ugandan woman; my partner was a soft-spoken, but friendly woman named Annette. Armed with our black plastic bags, we entered the ward.

The ward was divided with men on one side and women on the other. In the centre was the nurse's station. The place was crowded. The walls were dirty. You could see that foam mattresses were sometimes soiled. People were sitting or lying on their hospital beds, eating matooke out of plastic bowls or trying to sleep. Mismatched sheets and blankets -- everything from Cinderella comforters to worn fleece -- covered the beds. Relatives held IV drips, or they were hung by rusty chains dangling from the ceiling. Some patients were lying on thin straw mats on the floor between beds.

I have to say, the family support was impressive. Most patients did have people around caring for and visiting them, and we had even arrived at the tail end of visiting hours. Children cared for sick mothers. Parents were there caring for children. Young men and women cared for sisters, aunts, uncles and grandparents. If there wasn't enough beds for patients, you could imagine where the relatives had to sit or sleep. Sometimes when we approached a raised hospital bed to speak with a patient, one or two relatives would pop out from underneath it where they had been eating or resting on a mat.

Annette and I began going around to pray and talk with people. Annette did most of the talking. Even though I could not understand what was being said in Lugandan, it was obvious that her easy smile and genuine care brought comfort to the patients. She tried to translate occasional bits of information, but her own English was limited. For the most part I smiled (patients seemed surprised to see a muzungu there to visit them), held care packages for her, and laid hands on people while she prayed for them. A few people opted not to be prayed for, so we chatted with them and left a care package; Annette would simply explain to me, "They are not born again." Some patients and their relatives prayed with us in earnest, muttering Amens to Annette's petitions. One young woman, suffering from kidney problems, and her mother were there from Kenya so they did not speak Lugandan. Annette asked me to pray with them in English so that they could understand. I couldn't help but think of my own sister, also a young adult, who was in the hospital for kidney problems just a few years ago.

At one point we came to a small figure on a bed under a sheet. I assumed it was a child -- maybe eleven or twelve years old? She was very weak; her eyes were closed and she only moaned softly, turning her head.

Annette spoke with a female relative standing beside the bed.

"She is suffering from the HIV," Annette told me, motioning to the figure on the bed.

"How old is she?" I asked. Annette looked confused. "How many years?" I repeated.

"Ten years," the translation came back.

"She is ten years old?"

Annette turned back to the woman and corrected her misunderstanding. After a rapid flow of Lugandan back and forth she told me, "No. She has been suffering from HIV for ten years. She is thirty-six years old."

This woman was skeletal. Her face and arms looked like skin stretched over bone. Her hands looked too large for her tiny wrists. I was thankful for the sheet, but even through it I could see that thin legs protruded from hip bones and pelvis. Wilted breasts were the only sign, to me, that she was a woman and not a child.

It was surreal, to hear about AIDS on TV and then to be standing over a woman dying of the disease in a stale hospital ward.

Annette prayed softly over her, even though she did not open her eyes. As we walked away she said, "She is not born again. God help us."

Another pair on our team approached a man lying in his bed with his eyes closed. They tried to gently rouse him, and then realized with a start that he was dead. On our way back out of the ward we saw that the nurses had put a sheet over him.

We passed out the rest of our care packages; by the time we turned to the men's ward, we only had a few left. We prayed and spoke with a few of the male patients and I watched Annette discreetly give each of them a crumpled 1000 shilling bill from her purse (about 40 cents US).

I was humbled at the generosity and ministry of my Ugandan sisters in Christ. I had a package of Gorillos (a corn chip snack, about 20 cents to buy) in my purse that I had been saving for later, since I had skipped lunch. I knew I couldn't leave with it, so I sought out a child I had seen earlier to give it to; for myself, more than anything.

We stopped to give the nurses a gift as well. When Sharon had asked the Ugandan women how we could bless the nurses, they immediately responded: "Towels!" The nurses were happy with their bright, fluffy towels and were encouraged by our conversation and prayers with them.

I thought that I would come home and cry -- because I found the hospital much more upsetting than any of the babies' homes --  but instead it was a strangely numbing experience. An "experience" sounds like such a wrong way to put it. It feels a little pathetic to go there, to be a spectator to suffering, and then be concerned about how it has affected you.

Sickness is always -- at home and abroad -- one of those things where you can only sit with people in their suffering, pray with them, and say sincerely, "I'm sorry."