Blog Updates /

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.