First week in Kampala

Each day that passes makes writing this blog post more and more challenging.  How to encapsulate all that the last week has included—it’s too large a task.  I must try to write more often than this, so that I’m not caught in this position again.

I was set to fly from Kenya to Uganda early last Friday morning, but I awoke at about 3am with a strong discomfort in my stomach.  Over the next several hours it developed into a piercing pain, and I found myself running to the bathroom, where I resided for the next several hours.  When the time for our departure to the airport arrived, I knew I could not make it.  As unnerving as the idea of missing my flight was, I was in too much pain and had too constant a need for the toilet to go anywhere.  My future roommate, Shira, encouraged me to call a healthcare consulting alliance to which AJWS offers membership for its volunteers.  I described my symptoms to the nurse who answered, and she insisted I go to the emergency room at Nairobi Hospital.  With the help of the hotel staff and one of the NGO partners staying at the hotel, I managed to get into a taxi and head to the hospital.  I spent nearly five hours in the hospital, having my temperature taking via my armpit, lying on a hospital gurney, and receiving shots for the pain and to settle my stomach in a part of my body that hasn’t been the recipient of an inoculation since I was a toddler.  I asked the doctor who suggested the shots if they used new needles.  She stopped what she was doing and glared at me, stating, “We only use new needles.  We don’t boil our needles.”  I felt embarrassed but still relieved to be so clearly assured that they would only stick me with uncontaminated needles.  Having slept the majority of time my there, I felt a bit faint and achy but pushed myself to return to the hotel, so I could take the final flight of the day with the Uganda-based AJWS representative.  None of the other volunteers, all of whom had eaten at the same restaurant I had the night before, fell sick—it must have been my initiation into the international travelers club in which the rest of the volunteers already have membership. 

When I arrived in Kampala, Flavia met me.  She is an administrator at my placement NGO.  She is one of the warmest, most hospitable, people I have ever met.  She lives next door and has done everything from cook for Shira and me to traipse all over Kampala helping us find clothing, our offices, several country clubs, open markets, cell phones, sim cards, and modems.  

Flavia giving a presentation at our orientation.  She and I are the same height!

The major mode of transportation in Kampala is the public taxi.  There are also plenty of people who walk to their destinations, and there are also the dangerous, quick and cheap boda bodas, which are motorcycles that are most often driven by men without helmets and can be found weaving in between cars and the wrong way down one-way streets.  Public taxis are 16-seater Toyota vans, and Shira and I believe they serve as a testament to the indestructibility of Toyota vehicles, despite the debacles they faced in America this year.  Each taxi boasts both a driver and a conductor.  They work in tandem, soliciting potential passengers at every conceivable moment.  The conductor shouts out the window in lightening speed, akin to an auctioneer’s monologue.  Each passenger pays according to the distance she travels, though most routes are a fixed price (fixed, that is, unless it rains or is exceptionally busy, which allows the conductor to charge much higher prices for his route than usual.  Most routes cost between 300 and 1500 shillings one way, or about $.25 to $1.40 American.  It often feels crammed and usually carries the pungent odor of too many individuals who were just contending with the equatorial sun. 

Trying to acclimate to a semi-normal Ugandan life has been challenging.  We have lost water and power several times, and everything feels simultaneously familiar and foreign.  We have cars; they have cars.  Except their cars travel on the other side of the road, they have no stop signs, lights, or other traffic accident abating mechanisms.  We have cows; they have cows.  Except their cows graze on the curb by my house, in the median of the road, in people's front and backyards... Every day I am so inundated with newness and challenges so that I feel like a week has passed by the time I come home.  There is poverty here I couldn't have fathomed, and there are stories of struggle that are beyond comprehending.  It is overwhelming.

Waiting in the car as the long-horn cattle meander across the road

More ambling cows

And a little brown heifer was winking at me...Oy what a beautiful day in Okla-I mean, Kampala!

I need to write so much more.  I want to describe my job here, as I experienced it last week during an entrepreneurship training for 20 women, ages 18-22 or so, who were all recipients of scholarships that allowed them to attend high school.  I also spent a day at the school the previous AJWS volunteer who worked with my NGO founded, and fell in love with the 60 or so students, ages 8 to 15, that I met there.  I want to share about the unique Ugandan fruits (and the fruits that are familiar but taste very different than their north American counterparts, like oranges and pineapples).  I want to describe the way people react to Shira and me, the “muzungus,” as they (unabashedly and often) call those of us with white skin.  That will all have to wait—after an exhausting day trolling shops in an open air market and buying three work skirts (I also have to describe the way people dress here!) for a total of about $8 and brushing past what must have been at least a third of Kampala’s 3 million person population, I need to get some rest.  Here of some pictures of my humble Ugandan abode.  More tomorrow!

My huge canopied bed, in all it's misquito-netted glory!

Our "compound"

Our unit, which is marked "blue."  The unit upstairs, which is currently inhabited by a lovely Canadian couple, is labeled "beige."  Interesting color selections!

End of Orientation

I am crazy about my cohort of volunteers.  Tomorrow Shira and I depart for Kampala, another volunteer goes to Kisumu, Kenya, and the rest of the team scatters across Nairobi.  We have ventured out of our hotel for two group dinners sponsored by AJWS, a site visit to one of the local NGOs, and two visits to local malls for dinners on our own.  While I have been relieved, given how minimally I’ve traveled the world and my limited knowledge of foreign language, that one of the official languages of both Kenya and Uganda is English, I didn’t realize how diffuse the impact of colonialism would be.  Most visibly, Kenyan roads and cars are set up like their British counterparts—they drive on the left side of the vehicle and the road.  They don’t, however, have traffic lights, and the narrow roads we traversed on our way to YaYa mall seemed to be at full capacity and chaos, with cars careening so close to us as we trudged along the pavement that we often grabbed each other and gasped while or after a mutatu (public taxi/van) drove by, nearly sideswiping one or all of us.  The malls were both very similar to American versions, if not identical other than the people passing through them.  Shira and I split from the group, many of whom were seeking cell phones that she and I will wait to buy until we reach Kampala.  We went to a fruit market to purchase fruits with skins or peels, so we know they weren’t affected by water that would make us sick.  We bought passion fruit (which until now I had thought was the Dole equivalent of Mother’s day for Hallmark—a fabricated juice produced only for the opportunity to sell another product—I was mistaken), which is native to this area and came in small, round, squishy fruits.  We bought an avocado as large as my face.  As we were wondering out loud (though hopefully discretely) at fruits we hadn’t seen before, another patron approached us and explained what some of the unfamiliar varieties were.  He went on to answer all of our questions about the assortment of fruits in the store, even giving us cooking ideas for what looked like a  palm-sized lima bean (to slice it and serve it with cilantro and tomato as a salsa.)  We bought mangos, paw-paw (which we determined was akin to if not the same as papaya), and mini bananas.  We ate dinner all together at a restaurant in the mall that served quesadillas, burgers, and “chips”—which were actually French fries, to an American eye and tastebud, but labeled as the British would. 

The neighborhood surrounding our hotel could almost be in any American city.  It is covered in fancy gated apartment buildings, made of stucco and painted shades of pink and beige.  The elements distinct from the States are nuanced and subtle: scaffolding outside one of these upscale apartments in the midst of construction is made of trees rather than metal; alongside one of the gates sits a furniture shop made of scrap metal walls, and the vibrancy of the vegetation far exceeds the beauty of Kansas City’s untended gardens.  Once we veered off the road and into an NGO’s site, we also saw animals we weren’t used to seeing at our American workplaces—small monkeys!  One of them climbed over the roof as we sat in a circle, talking with the talented, passionate staff team who hosted us at the site of their program for refugee women. 

I need camera advice—I’m not adept at capturing what compels me in a rectangle that anyone else would want replicated.  Here are some of my less unfortunate attempts to document the things I just described:

Over the last few days we’ve been inundated with information.  Our trainers, two representatives from the New York AJWS office and country representatives from Kenya and Uganda, have led us in conversations and workshops across a large gambit of topics.  We’ve discussed how to explain certain tenets of Judaism, security and safety in East Africa, Ugandan politics/history/culture/economy, cultural dos and don’ts, responsible blogging, perspectives with which people volunteer, and many more.  It has been incredibly useful, although a bit philosophical, given that we’re sitting in a room at a hotel, discussing our volunteer placements or Ugandan street venders serving fried grasshoppers from quite a distance.  Yesterday, however, the content of our orientation began to have context: representatives of our NGOs arrived! 

The eight of us are each volunteering for unique organizations, each of which requested a volunteer with a particular set of skills. My organization is represented by two 25-year-old women, who presented on the state of the Ugandan education system and underwent their own inundation from AJWS on Judaism and what they can expect from me, their volunteer.  These two women are the youngest of the NGO partners, and each spoke to their passion for children and the work they do around and in Ugandan schools.  They were both exceptionally warm to and receptive of me, their volunteer.  I am a bit nervous that they see me as more talented than I truly am—but I hope we can find ways for me be supportive of the work the organization has already and continues to excel in accomplishing.  They both happen to be just about my height, which adds a slightly superficial sense that we were meant to work together.  The group of NGO partners and volunteers ate out together at an Ethiopian restaurant here in Nairobi.  I love Ethiopian food, and have eaten such at restaurants in Cambridge and Kansas City.  One of my counterparts at my NGO sat next to me and picked delicately at the platter five of us were sharing.  She hadn’t eaten much Ethiopian (if any at all) and wasn’t sure she liked it…   

The conversation turned political and a bit heated during the meal—one of the NGO partners is a fiery, articulate lawyer from Uganda who spoke sharply about her perspective on the Ugandan election, coming up this March.  I wonder how many such conversations will occur that I’ll be privy to? 

Signing off so I can get a moment of exercise before our final day of orientation begins…tomorrow, Kampala here we come!

10/10/10

It feels like every moment brings a new adventure here—I wonder what will feel momentous after I’ve adjusted to East Africa!  My flights were mostly uneventful, thought I certainly felt the toll of consecutive flights by the end of my 1.5, 9, and 7.5 hour legs.  (WARNING: I tried to upload the pictures I refer to in this blog but my connection is too slow.  I'll edit this post and add them as soon as I am able.)

After switching from a domestic to the international terminal in the Atlanta airport, I wrote myself this note on the back of a receipt, “Something about entering the international terminal—not just the Rosetta Stone booths of the “exotic” destinations (I saw  a flight to Bogata as I searched for my gate)—but the force of diversity.  It feels like a strong gust of anonymity, a recognition that there ARE billions of individuals on this planet, so I’m not only one of millions of Americans, but one of 6 billion residents of our planet.  Just as I embark on this momentous (for me) journey, I feel a remarkable sense of insignificance.  Welcome to the realm of world travel.  While in the terminal, I did my last step of preparation—called my cell phone company and placed my account on hold.  I haven’t been without cell phone service in years…it feels both liberation and lonely.  My mom whispered to me at the Kansas City airport that this may be my last solo journey.  I hope dropping the cell will help my solidify my sense of self.”  My neighbor on the first flight, from Atlanta to Amsterdam, was wearing a Stetson and kept that cowboy hat in his lap all nine hours.  He was headed to Germany to judge a horse show.  Here’s a picture of the first meal Delta/KLM served:

On my flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi I sat next to a German couple who spoke minimal English.  I had purchased a book and a New Yorker magazine in Atlanta, but the handle on bag the bookstore had given me stretched its maximum amount and snapped in my hand just as I settled into my seat.  The German woman immediately rummaged through her purse and produced a canvas bag, which she offered to me.  I was shocked—what generosity!  Here’s a picture of the bag:

I believe it’s promoting a library in Munich.  Later, I asked her if I could borrow a pen, which she didn’t understand.  I tried to squiggle my pinched fingers vigorously, demonstrating what could only be a desperate traveler penning an SOS letter.  I discovered that squiggling hand movement is not universal sign-language for writing utensil.  We worked it out eventually, and I ruled over a couple Sudoku quizzes before falling asleep.  I actually awoke with my left foot just 10 or so inches from my face—I’d kicked up my leg so that my calf rested on my tray table and fell asleep in that awkward position.  I awoke to the most beautiful site out the window: mountain peaks piercing through the clouds.  It’s not the smartest photography move to take a picture out an airplane window, but I tried:

Landing in Nairobi left my heart in my throat.  I wandered along with the crowd down hallway that was much narrower than any American or large European airport. It was lined with shops also much more crammed than spacious American airport stores.  The air was much warmer and thicker than the over-air-conditioned setting in the states.  After showing my passport to a guard and scanning all of my fingers into a small box with a glowing (and slightly ominous) green light, I headed down to baggage claim.  A woman stopped me on the way and asked me my name.  I wasn’t sure what to do or say, so I introduced myself—and it turned out she was also a participant in the American Jewish World Service volunteer corps.  It was pretty fortunate we found each other before leaving baggage claim—just outside were nearly 100 men, all pushed up around a short barrier with signs with the names of their patrons or the hotels for which they worked—but none of them held my name.  If I hadn’t met Ruth, I would have had a difficult time making it to our hotel.  Ruth and I went through the final customs stop together, and the man working the station, smiling a wide grin of braced-teeth, asked us if we knew Barack Obama, and then if we met him. We both mentioned our long-range connections to our president, and he beamed back at us.  Our taxi driver wasted no time asking us the same questions about Obama, and then regaling us with stories about his relationship to Kenya and their current president.  Apparently, the president was the minister of Finance when Obama’s father worked there, and helped get his father a good job.  The driver was certain Obama now holds the Kenyan president in high esteem because of his good treatment of “Obama senior.”    

Our hotel is apparently in a posh neighborhood.  It has a pool and is teeming with guards in green uniforms.  They serve three meals a day and offer glass bottles of coca-cola without corn syrup, a much sweeter variety.  It’s the first hotel I’ve stayed in where my room was outfitted with twin beds, and offered complimentary mosquito nets:

Making my bed included encircling myself with the net:

I slept 12 hours and woke up a little dizzy, but relatively rested.  I took a quick swim at the hotel pool, which filled up over the hour with community residents.  Many of them were men with children, who they were teaching to swim.  Most children seemed to enjoy their lessons, but one young girl howled every time her father let her go.  We had our first orientation session this afternoon.  There are eight of us from the states: two couples traveling together, both spending the better part of this year traveling the world, volunteering and sight-seeing together; the rest of us are single (without travel partners, if not without partners at home) women.   We discovered that in the couples, the women were the instigators of their trips.  An interesting statement, perhaps, about who is drawn to travel…?  All the participants seem wonderful, and we each are so awed by our surroundings.  Can you believe it?  We’re in Kenya! We keep pronouncing to one another.  We walked down the road to a nearby restaurant for dinner.  We passed a group sitting on the side of the road with grills comparable, for me, only to the travel grills people bring when tailgating at Royals and Chiefs games.  They were cooking corn, crouching beside the grill on the ground.  Our meal was served under a tent with Michael Bolten crooning in the background, “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” and covering Otis Reddings’ “Sitting on the dock of the bay.” 

Our group has dispersed for the evening.  I’m sitting on a car in a lounge area at the hotel, with a British group of tourists chatting away behind me. They’re discussing songs they can sing at, I’m presuming, a Methodist Church, since our hotel is Methodist affiliated.  They’re suggesting they do “Joyful, Joyful…” I sort of feel like they’re speaking to me.   I’m tempted to mimic their accents under my breath…

Looking forward to a good night’s sleep and remembering to take pictures tomorrow.  I hope I remember to use bottled water to brush my teeth!  My computer hasn’t switched time, so I know that it’s 1:30pm in Kansas, though it’s 9:30pm here.  Hope my American friends and family are enjoying their auspicious Sundays (it’s 10/10/10!)  Much love….