Tagged: Uganda

Katine.

A rainstorm just began in Kampala. Washing away ash, grit and smog. The orange glare of the wall out of the office window damp. The sound of the rain hitting the cement outside; thick red dust now a paste over the sidewalk.  Went to S.’s work at the Refugee Law Project a few hours ago. There was a beautiful Somalian woman in the doorway, bony face and a purple shawl tightly wrapped behind her ears and over her hair. She stood besides a Congolese man. I briefly spoke in French with him: it’s nice to have proper conversations in a language you feel is shared.

I visited AMREF’s offices yesterday. I’ve been curious to learn more about the Katine project since it was first launched. After all, media and development have never been so connected.

I met with Steve, the Communications Officer, who ran me through some details. I then met Joshua Kyallo, the AMREF Country Director.

We had a brief, but interesting chat. His vision for the Katine project, along with the Guardian’s, is very straightforward: community integration and empowerment in the process of development. The Katine project is also fairly unique in its approach: they are developing five aspects of the village simultaneously. Governance, water, education, livelihood, and health. I remember hearing a lecture from Jeffrey Sachs a year or two ago at the Millennium Development Goals conference. He had done a similar experiment (integrated development) in a village, however, without media coverage like Katine.

There’s a lot of criticism flying about Katine. Sustainability is questionable, though Kyallo emphasized that the village was being equipped with the governing structures necessary to take care of itself in the aftermath. I also previously said the isolation of one village for development might be questionable. However, Rick Davies was kind enough to point out that “The Katine project is focusing on one sub-country (Katine), not one village. There are, I think, about 50 villages within the sub-country. Villages are the smallest administrative unit. Katine sub-county was chosen by AMREF in consultation with local government, because of its relatively greater needs, from amongst all the sub-counties within Soroti district.”

As Kyallo says, there are thousands of ways to go about development projects. Combining the media, an international organization and a whole community is one new, innovative approach. Media has always had a role in development, but this takes it to a new level. It forces the media to put long-term attention on an area of the world the majority of people wouldn’t care about. The Katine website truly personalizes development, and offers what Kyallo calls the “human face.”

Children of Kampala, for Svea.

A good morning in Kampala. A strong, cool breeze has taken away much of the early morning grime and dirt. I managed to jog up and around the orange dirt-stained streets for a while. Last time I went running, in Fort Portal, a 10-year old boy tried to slap my behind as I ran by so I’m now a little nervous around larger groups of schoolchildren, even though they look quite innocent tied up in their blue blazers and black sweaters trying to dodge speedy striped taxis and boda-boda on Kira Rd. on their way to class.

In an attempt to anticipate Svea’s questions: children here – most under 10 years old – head off to school alone in the morning, or in pairs with their brother or sister. Some go on the back of their father’s motorcycle, but most walk or talk the taxi (a small, packed minivan). Everyone goes to school wearing uniforms, there’s no such thing as a regular-dress school. A clean and polished appearance is important. Most children’s backpacks are quite full with schoolbooks and kids take a rare pleasure in sitting down for class (rare in Canada it seems). Many have perfect print writing by the age of 9 and it’s quite impressive to see their memorization skills. I recently had one little girl tell me what a muscle was. That and many have dreams of being doctors or engineers in the future. I’ve never had someone say a writer, or a poet, or an artist yet. Children in Kampala are far less impressed with my white skin then in the rural areas, so I’ve learned that I don’t have to say “I’m fine, how are you!?” back to every child here since most ignore me. Children here often go to class in small cement buildings with freshly scrubbed floors and rickety wooden desks. Black chalkboards on the walls and little thin notebooks similar to those the French want you to buy during your first few years of school, les cahiers. School also seems to last forever, I think many kids get home around 6 or 7 and continue to do homework until bedtime. In the rural areas, where families are mostly working in agriculture, the children are usually helping carry the yellow jerry cans of water back to the house in the morning before school around 7 a.m. and then after school have some chores in the plantations. There’s less resting here then there is for a child in Canada (and definitely no payouts from the government of a 100$ to live a carbon free lifestyle), but kids seems to grow up into fine adults, so there you go.

The ICC.

A very interesting article by Stephanie Nolen on international justice and its effects on Africa, with a focus on Mugabe. A must read.

Fort Portal.

Five a.m. boda-boda ride to the bus station – black sky, no stars (city smog), and no traffic until we’re at the bus station where early morning chaos had already broken between truck drivers, bus drivers, boda-boda drivers, taxi drivers and ticket-sellers. I sit in the bus next to a man half-asleep, head nodding occasionally in slumber, the bus driver bumping my hand fist-to-fist in greeting and a few “Hey, mzungu!” before falling asleep on the grey window pane. The first hour of the ride is bumpy and uncomfortable, but by sunrise we hit smooth cement all the way to Fort Portal. A brief stop for breakfast and my seat neighbor spends a few minutes leaning on my lap while buying chapatti wrapped in blue and red lined school paper and mango juice in a water bottle.

The way into Fort Portal brings a different Uganda – similar to the greenery that became so familiar in Gulu, but which Kampala has none of. We’re surrounded by the perpetually blue shadows of the Rwenzori mountains, the highest mountain chain in Africa; green trees and fields, mais, banana and matoke plantations; hillsides sliced into small square plots of tea leave plantations, dotted across are men pulling burlap sacks full of tea leaves, sweating in hot sunshine under dark wide brimmed hats. On the outer edges of the field, the tea leaves are dry and crisp brown under the sunshine.

The bus parks in the taxi park – typical to every town in Uganda, a concentration of white and blue minivans, private taxis, buses and waiting boda-bodas – and I grab a driver and head up the hill into town. I’m a bit disoriented, and get dropped off in front of what I presume to be the center of Fort Portal. A quick breakfast of chapatti and scrambled eggs at the Rwenzori Traveler Inn and a quick read of the New Vision paper. Scandal over police brutality towards government ministers.

I walk up the hillside and down some of the orange dirt roads branching off the main tarmac ‘highway’. Fort Portal is one of the friendliest towns I’ve visited: the young guys biking around wave friendly hellos, the children scream “Mzungu, how are you, I am fine!” from a mile away, the women tending to washing or selling vegetables on the road side wave and the young teenagers dragging jerry cans of water smile and say a polite good morning. I buy a tomato from an elderly lady wrapped in flower-printed clothes who’s shredding a head of cabbage on a blanket in the shade. A toddler dawdles behind her, and two children, sister carrying a tiny sister with angry eyebrows, emerge from their small house when I walk down the rocky driveway. I buy a tomato and she goes inside to grab me a cup of water to wash it.

I walk back to the tarmac road and farther up the tarmac hill, I find some old stone steps leading up a grassy green hillside with flat trees on an angle and sit under one of them. The breeze is sweet and warm and I can see the Parliament buildings, or, as the two boys sitting behind me say, the “seat of the Toro Kingdom.” Fort Portal is the center of what is known as the Toro Kingdom, an ethnic region of Uganda.

After a quick sleep in the shade, I walk back into town. Some boda-boda drivers offer me a desert of cassava, bean and banana cakes and a ride to Lake Nkuruba. I continue through town, the usual disorganized buildings and small shops. I buy a piece of cloth for a wrap-skirt from a young woman with a kind smile who organizes a boda-boda ride for me to the Rwenzori View Guesthouse. About a 10 minute ride out of town, we pass a pastel white and turquoise candy-like mosque with small green half moon crescents and leave the dusty city behind to rejoin endless green fields. The Guesthouse is off a red dirt road and settled amongst rolling green hills dotted with brown and white cows, goats, dogs and matoke plantations. My little banda has a view of its own miniature jungle and the owner has a small German Shepherd puppy who follows me around the whole afternoon.

Around 5 pm I take a quick walk out of the guesthouse to the surrounding fields. After snapping a few shots upon request of construction workers building a new Minister’s mansion up on the hillside, I head into the bushes and wander through the matoke plantations. Baby goats stumble around with bits of rotting string around their necks. Back at the banda, I drink a glass of red wine and read a strange crime novel as the sun sets over the Rwenzoris and the air turns pinkish in the cool evening. S. joins me as dusk settles in and we eat dinner in the guesthouse. The set-up is awkward: a large round wooden dinner table with all the guests gathered around. To our right sit a newly wed couple, an older guy with a patchy beard and a young girl with wide blue eyes. Both from Texas. Dinner is delicious and the first solid food I’ve eaten in a week (discounting the airplane): leek and carrot soup, sweet tilapia, potatoes and mushroom casserole, green salad with soft avocadoes and warm chocolate tarte for dessert.

I wake up for a sunrise run. Over the pale green and blue hillsides, two children carry bright yellow jerry cans, small shadows in a pink and yellow sky. Early chores that children in Canada would not dream of doing. In the morning we gather for an equally good breakfast – scrambled eggs, toast, butter and cheese, hot coffee with warm milk, mushrooms and tomatoes, sausages – and then head to Lake Nkuruba. An older couple working in Kampala offer us a ride in their 4×4 up to the carter lake – they’re spending a day in retreat and we’re going to sleep and swim for the next 48 hours. The conversation is interesting and S. points out that the older generation of ex-pats working in Uganda often have complaints: the British owner of the guesthouse complained about the lack of punishment for corruption and the state of the Church. This couple criticized the educational system for not being forward-thinking and engaging enough (which we largely agreed with their opinion – S. and our drivers say that the schooling system is largely based on memorization not application). The older woman did say at one point something along the lines of, “what is our position to be talking about this and trying to generate ‘change’?” To which I think most of us will stay quiet, without answer.

We arrive safely after rushing down potholed roads and through more tea plantations. Anastine, the manager of the Lake Nkruba Nature Reserve and Community Campsite, is wonderful. Always smiling and friendly, her little cheerful toddler rushing around slapping any moving insect on the ground or always found trailing behind a young girl sweeping the floors. The campsite is an interesting set-up: it’s owned by the Catholic Church but run by the community who are given shares of the profits. This means guests get fresh milk, vegetables, eggs, meats and fruits every day: in return, we contribute to the harvest salary.

We’re staying in the ‘Lakeside’ banda which is located about 100 m down a hill from the main campsite and right on the edge of Lake Nkuruba. Crystal clear deep green water, the thick tangle of jungle flora, the chattering, fighting and bickering of a dozen colobus monkeys in the trees – quite entertaining to watch until the baby fell 10 m from the sky and caught itself by a tiny hand before hitting the ground. We must of swam a dozen times in the warm water: the lake shore usually empty of people except a few fishermen sitting on their heels waiting for a catch, one early morning fisherman squatting on a sugar-cane raft pulling in fishing nets and a few young boys filling jerry cans for shower water.

The evening we arrive we went for a four-hour hike around Lake Nkuruba to a place called “Top of the World.” Patrick, our guide, answers a million of my questions with patience. We walk through banana and matoke plantations (though they look rough, the leaves are wide and soft and might cover 3/4 of my height, Svea would have marveled at these), past y
ellow flowered acacias and bright red African fire flame trees. Bushes of purple and blue flowers, and through corn fields, past other grassy crater lakes, and through small villages of two or three houses.

Eventually we climb a steep hillside up through another small settlement where a young boy shows us half a dozen puppies sleeping in a dirt hole. Then we hike directly up from their small houses, a steep hillside dotted with goats, to find a view of the Rwenzoris, the Queen Elizabeth National Park, crater lakes; the sound of children’s chatter and African music from radios; a warm breeze and bits of ashes floating from a slash and burn fire.

On the way home we walk through a bigger town where S. buys a sturdy sugar cane stalk. A deep red and yellow sunset – the most beautiful are African – as we near the campsite. A quick swim in cool water, clouds reflected in little ripples and the setting sun slowly sending a dark shade over the lake. Around eight we stumble in the dark up to the main campsite where Anastine is cooking spicy chicken curry, rice, sweet guacamole, warm chapattis and vegetable stew for us, the only guests. Her kitchen: a stout black cast-iron stove with a wood fire underneath and a lantern hanging from the roof casting a dark shadow, a bubbling pot of chicken curry and a toddler half asleep on a chair in the corner.

The evenings in Africa are never silent: at dusk there’s the chant of birds who sing loud and clear and talk to each other through loud echoes, there’s the orchestra-like song of the insects with strange clicking and clanging noises completely unfamiliar, the throaty yell of the bullfrog and, at three a.m., shouts from across the lake shores. When I wake up there’s a young man in a green and pink training jacket standing with a gun near our door – the guard – and the lake has fallen silent again only to be replaced by the noisy colobus.

In the morning, an early morning nude swim and a delicious breakfast, big slices of toast with butter, scrambled eggs, chocolate pancakes and fresh papaya and pineapple, hot Arabic coffee with fresh local milk. I spot a black and white colobus with a thick hairy white beard and tale and a white mowhawk, spiky on its back.

Ugandan Brief II.


Working 9-5 p.m. carries little excitement. But, as my father pointed out, you must try it all to know what you don’t like. Tentatively organizing this Citizen Journalism workshop. Yesterday evening, still the heat – more dry now – and the swirl of red dust, fast-driving taxis and boda-bodas and dangerous road crossings, my workmate, S., took me to Makerere University. My first taxi ride since last year (read: matatu, fast, crowded mini bus used as transport) to an intersection nearby. We criss-crossed between heavy traffic a few intersections. I tend to jump out, startled, into oncoming cars. S. is a little more trustworthy. The markets are out and about: long line of polished men’s leather shoes, groundnuts and cashew bags, MTN card sellers and stationary phone booths manned by a man with a phone, restaurants and bars. Then we enter the university grounds and suddenly the air is still, the traffic is gone and students flood in from all directions. Well-dressed, nice shirts, pressed pants, shiny shoes, small notebooks, an air of importance and studiousness that I miss. I draw parallels between my university and S.’s: his went on strike for two months once in the middle of semester. He condemns his teachers for not caring less about their salary increases and more about the students. Our university is constantly threatening to go on strike, but huge problems would arise if they did a formal, empty all lecture halls strike. S. takes me to the university radio station: there’s a sign on the wall that mocks bullying, there’s another outside that condemns domestic abuse. There are a handful of computers and students. All studying journalism and communications. We sit outside for half an hour in the shade, sitting on some rickety wooden chairs. There’s a breeze and Kampala, there, at that moment, is wonderfully pleasant. The evening setting in, S. telling me about his family and his brothers, a couple sitting on the green grass to the left sharing a blanket, the hum of students in a gym nearby. Eventually J. rolls in, one eye drooping, both asleep, he just woke up from a nap. He’s Kenyan and speaks Swahili and English. I immediately like his demeanor: relaxed, but bright. He shows us the online magazine (The Ivory Post)  he’s started in Uganda – independent of the university of other funding – “I ask my friends for money to fund the next year and we’re good. So I’m always  a year ahead in funding.” Remaining independent is tough, so good for him. He offers me some temporary interning twice a week for two weeks, checking out how the radio station works, editing some articles for the newspaper. After our meeting, S. and I walk down through the messy market and to an ice cream shop, small bowls of cold and delicious lemons and cherries. He puts me in a taxi down Kira. Rd. and I recognize my stop by the red and white sign saying “TOLET” right before the turn to Tuffnell drive. I meet N. at home, a few seconds after dropping my bags, and we do half an hour of Swahili. I learn words and sentences like “bibiyangu” (my friend, which in direct translation means my woman), “Siena naenda kwalala” (Siena is going to sleep), “Siena naenda kwa kula chakula” (Siena is going to eat food), “ngombe pesangapi” (how much for vegetables, “saidie penyako” (help me with your pen). I cut up some cherry tomatoes, red pepper, pickles and cucumber, add vinegar and olive oil for dinner, and fall asleep moments later.

Apac women.

WOUGNET recently visited some of the rural villages in Apac district, Uganda. These areas have very limited access to proper infrastructure, health care, education, Information & Technology (ITC) and agricultural tools and information. While other areas of Uganda are in a similar situation, the ancient cultural and social code of the villages visited have put a heavy strain on women. Men assume the position of “head of family,” make all decisions and can dictate what their wives can or can’t do. Women have to both fulfill domestic duties and work-related duties. In Apac, this means a majority of women are farmers who work in the fields 10-12 hours a day on top of caring for their children, trying to send them to school, cooking, cleaning and washing. A majority of men have refused to help in domestic chores (even as simple as buying soap) and go to the bar to drink all day with the extra money their wives make (they are obligated to hand it over). Check out this, almost humorous, article in today’s New Vision. After reading the research report, it was clear that the women, despite lack of education and connection to urban centers, had a clear idea of what they needed: information on market prices and where to get higher yield seeds, tips for planting and harvesting, how to use fertilizer effectively, information on education and health (what to feed themselves and their kids). It was also obvious that these women are facing obstacles every step of the way. For example, joining a local organization which supplies seeds only happens after they pay several levels of expensive (compared to what they earn) memberships. They ask that they can have the seeds first and pay back the organization after with a portion of the surplus. They can’t. When it comes to women’s rights and equality: a women can throw her husband into jail if he beats her, but she has to pay the 50,000 shillings to get him out of jail (plus, it’s dishonorable to report your husband and would breed more resentment). If a woman is raped, she has to pay every person along the war (police, judge, lawyers) to let her case be heard and processed. I was talking to S. bout this last night and he pointed out that traditionally men have had all the power in Uganda. However, aid organizations have found women more reliable and efficient with aid money and have therefore focused primarily on this gender (that and obvious gender equality problems exist.) However, this has stripped many males in the household of what they see as their duty/right – to assume the position of household head and initiate breadwinning activities or at least feel like they have some control – read input – in these activities. A person writing her thesis on the above research, pointed out that men need to be as involved in women’s group as the women. Itseems that inclusion is one of the remaining options. Obviously a majority of men won’t be enthusiastic about this idea, but some might participate and it could set a precedent. That and educating teenage men on how and why playing equal parts to women is beneficial.

Details: Uganda.

Uganda. Two p.m. on Sunday circling over Entebbe and Lake Victoria. Dipping right down, skimming the lake, and landing without a jolt or bump onto the smooth tarmac. Stepping out into Uganda: the air is the safe, heat, humidity, a cool breeze since it’s “winter” or the rainy season. Lake Victoria, shining, no fishermen this time bobbing in their little wooden canoes. The same “Arrivals” hangar,shoddy and small with strange smells, but charming, because it’s still there. A long wait in line for a VISA, already suspect that I might have to throw a fit to be let into the country, but yet everything passes smoothly. Neither bank machines take my bank card. I walk out into the sunshine after 56 hours of only airports and airplanes and I might as well have been in heaven. I see N., who’s offered to pick me up, he’s wearing a white shirt and around his neck is tied a large shell on a leather string. He hugs me, but can’t wrap his hands around the massive traveling bag clinging onto me. I show him a bag of donations, that I was quite proud to negotiate through, and thank-you J. and M. for very neat donations (and the bag itself, J.). We get into a beat up white car and his friend Hussein sits on the “wrong” side, they drive on the left side of the road, and I’m startled by each passing car for the first few minutes. But, the countryside is the same: ramshackle huts and metal lean-tos, little shops selling all the same things, the color, the confusion, the bed-makers, the furniture makers, the boda-boda drivers, the taxi drivers, the women selling ground nuts and corn from woven baskets, the fancy clothes of all kinds – prom dresses to tuxedos. People’s mannerisms are the same, vastly different from constrained and conservative Denmark, exclamation points at the end of many sentences, hands waving in multiple directions, smiles and greetings. I shake N.’s hand a dozen times, the typical hand-shake, one that I’ll never forget and just comes to mind now, automatically.

In Kampala: it’s a city, dusty, dirty, orange-tinged from red dirt and noisy. But, charming, somehow. We drive up familiar streets, past banks and hotels. Past hotels built for the Queen’s arrival (CHOGM) last year. Down to Kira. Rd where I’m living: around a corner and stopping in front of a tall metal gate. Across the street a small restaurant sells chicken and other types of food, there are a few stores, houses, and a group of men welding metal in the corner. That and the boda-boda drivers who never waste a second to say something that I will find obnoxious, but yet can’t resist saying ‘hi’ because I’d rather be polite than the alternative. After dropping my bags and meeting my new roommates, I head to the supermarket. Groceries are expensive I discover, I spend 50,000 shillings on vegetables, oil and vinegar for salad dressing, two cans of chickpeas, a Heineken, yogurt and eggs.

The next morning I head to my first day of work at WOUGNET. My colleagues are great: very kind people, all from Uganda, smart and sharp. I get a vague idea of what I’ll be doing and then apply for a Citizen Journalism Grant that we’ll be using to host a CJA workshop that I’ll probably organize (this makes me nervous). I head home around 1 pm, to lock out behind Annie, the young lady who comes occasionally to clean-up after us messy beasts – and eat some salad. I head back to work not long after, it’s a 2-minute walk, and sit down for an afternoon of reading a report about Gender Equality (or lack thereof) in rural areas of Apac district (more on this later). In the afternoon I wonder down to the mzungu bar which has wireless (the only reason I can step in there!) and drink a Nile while finishing my article and listening to all types of mzungu music including Coldplay which blares over the sound system. S. joins me later. It’s wonderful to connect with an old friend and soon enough I’m falling off my chair giggling at the idea of him running next to a group of women running like ducks around a track somewhere in India. We catch up – I, of course, have forgotten the content of many of his emails, which I apologize for. He tells me I look different, he looks the same, he’s probably one of the people in Uganda that I will remain in contact with for a long time. Exchanging ideas, borrowing ideas, keeping general tabs on each other. I head home around 11after meeting another one of his brothers and their friends. One of the friends mischievously suggests we should try getting into Southern Sudan (easy for him, nearly impossible for me). I might apply for a VISA when I go up to Gulu next weekend, though I understand I’m going to need an invite from an NGO.

Must get back to work.