Senegal

At 2:30 am the following day, a mere 27 hours after returning home from Sipi, I headed to the Entebbe Airport to catch a 5 am flight to Nairobi en route to visit Katie, one of my closest Princeton friends, in Senegal. Surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for not having gone to sleep I checked in for my flights and arrived smoothly in Nairobi a mere 2 hours later.

Upon arrival I booked it to the Kenya Airways transfer services to get my second boarding pass. As I stood in line for a half an hour I couldn't help but notice the amount of people arguing with the Kenya Airways representatives (apparently the airline had cancelled a flight without informing its passengers) and couldn't help but get annoyed with them as I just needed to get a boarding pass- a two minute long event. Little did I know that I would become one of the causes of annoyance- and a large one at that. When I finally made it to the front of the line I was informed that the airline had decided to give up my seat on the flight to Dakar because they felt like someone "who had been waiting to get to Senegal since Saturday" deserved it more. Enter the daughter my mother raised. Absolutely flabbergasted (and exhausted) I informed George, the poor attendant who happened to call "next," that I was getting on that flight whether he liked it or not. I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that Kenya Airways had no idea who they were messing with. Silly me, I said, I didn't realize airline seats were given on a "first come, first serve" basis and that my trip to the Kenya Airways office and credit card purchase were unnecessary. As time went on my voice got louder and louder and I definitely began to cause a scene (although not as much as the woman sobbing hysterically next to me). Apparently the Kenya Airways transfer desk bares a striking resemblance to the waiting room of a urologist's office.  

Hearing my arguments (as I am sure the entire line of transferring passengers did), a very nice albeit timid gentleman approached me. He introduced himself as Ben, a Ugandan businessman, and explained that the same thing had happened to him. I asked him if he had fought and he asked what the point was. Clearly he was a true African. Being the stubborn American that I am, I refused to accept George's offer of a flight to Ethiopia the next day and continued to scream. To truly prove that I was an American I think I even threatened to sue, arguing that my ticket was a legal contract and Kenya Airways didn't stand a chance. Yes, I may have known this to be a lie but at this point I was desperate. I refused to move and finally somehow got George to get me back on my original flight a half an hour after it was supposed to depart.  I even got Ben on the flight. Score one for American perseverance. 

A full sprint later Ben and I found ourselves at gate 12, ready to board. The attendants obviously had no clue who we were when we arrived despite our pleas but after a brief 5 minute back-and-forth we managed to get some handwritten boarding passes and a clearance to security. Already a half an hour late, we were surprised to find that the flight hadn’t boarded yet, although not that surprised I guess given the previous occurrences of the morning. We happily took our seats in the waiting room and were pleased to see a Kenya Airways representative stand up and address the crowd a mere five minutes later as we thought our bad luck had ended and it was time to board. Not quite. There was no  discussion of boarding. Instead the woman in the red uniform informed the crowd that due to some balancing issues all checked luggage would not be arriving into Dakar until Saturday (five days later). Luckily my knowledge of the character of African travel had caused me to carry-on, however the same could not be said for Ben. Or the three very large Senegalese men who decided to stand up and protest very loudly in French. Not soon after a full riot occurred with the African passengers yelling, running and generally causing chaos in the very small gate. It was at this moment that I started to smile for this is when I truly knew that I LOVE Africa. Anywhere else I would have been horrified and disillusioned but instead I found myself feeling a combination of amused and incredibly happy. There was simply nowhere else I would have rather been. Even when my flight (not full by the way as I had an entire row to myself making me seriously wonder what all the drama was about) took off three hours later after Kenya Airways managed to coax the last three rioters into their seats I wasn’t upset. To me, this was the perfect beginning to the perfect trip.

I was not disappointed when I arrived in Dakar, either. Right on the beach, the city was the perfect antidote to Kampala’s one weakness: being landlocked. Just the smell of the ocean soothed me. Yes, the Hudson River may not be the most charming of all bodies of water but somehow growing up on an island has made me believe that I cannot permanently live in a landlocked nation (or state for that matter). I need some water. Helping my mood was the fact that Katie and I stayed in her friend Amanda, a U.S. State Department employee’s, apartment which was like stepping into a different world with its real mattresses (mine is made of foam), air conditioning and 360 degree shower. Even Katie’s apartment, while more similar to my standard of living, had its own charm as it was a short 2 minute walk fro

m the ocean. The ocean also meant lots of delicious seafood in addition the the incredibly flavorful local fare- another happy surprise and departure from my bland mataoke and stew. My only gripe about it was the expense: Dakar is three times as expensive as Kampala which got old VERY fast. 

In terms of what I did while in the city, unfortunately Katie had to work so I spent most daysfollowing Lonely Planet's suggestions. The first day as riots engulfed the center of the city(what is it with my travel luck?) I headed to a remote beach island on the city outskirts withmy book (picture below). 

The next day (Thanksgiving) I went to Ile de la Goree, a supposed former slave stowaway. While incredibly touristy, the island was absolutely gorgeous and very fun to explore (picture below).

That evening was spent back at Katie's friend Amanda's where we enjoyed a proper Thanksgiving dinner complete with Stove Top stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole and even pumpkin pie. It was scrumptious. 

My final days in Senegal were spent out of Dakar and in the Northern part of the country- first at Lampoul, a sand dune resort in the desert, and then St. Louis, a former colonial haven. Lampoul was absolutely beautiful. Reminiscent of Namibia, the night there included traditional drummers, camel rides and Mauritanian-style tents. While beautiful, I found St. Louis rather depressing as it mostly consisted of rundown colonial buildings and offered a constant reminder of what Westerners have done to Africa: conquered and abandoned it. Still, our "chariot" ride in a horse drawn carriage was fun (minus Katie's allergies) as was the charming hotel we stayed in. I have added some pictures below. 

After the night in St. Louis it was back to Dakar in a seven passenger Peugeot station wagon (the Senegalese version of a bus) and straight to the airport as the time had come for me to return to Kampala. I am happy to report that the flight back was far less eventful than the flight there and I was able to go straight from the airport to the office the next morning. All in all, a fabulous trip. 

Sipi Falls

After a brief day in the office, a delicious pizza dinner with the two other Princeton in Africa fellows in Kampala and a very short night's sleep, I headed out to Mount Elgon National Park at 5 am on Saturday morning to see the notoriously beautiful Sipi Falls. Located right on the Kenyan border, Sipi consists of a series of 4 waterfalls in a row and is rumored to be the most beautiful waterfall in the country (a bold claim considering there are many).

A quick stop at the bus park taught us that the only bus option wasn't leaving for at least an hour (the way Ugandan public transport works is that instead of following a schedule buses and matatus just leave when full which can take several hours, especially when a bus is absolutely empty as this one was) and smelled particularly like urine, so instead we decided to brave the taxi park and take a matatu (a minibus for 14). An hour later (the matatu was almost half full when we got there which looked promising as we were a group of 6 but it still took an hour for another 2 people to get on board) we were on our way.

About 5 hours later we arrived at Crows Nest campsite, a rustic retreat right across from the first fall (view below). A bit overwhelmed by our travels, we decided to take a quick break, eat some of our packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (at least 5 per person are an essential of budget travel) and play a game of Phase 10 (Jeff and Leah's go everywhere card game). We were also joined by a new friend: Triple P (the perfectly proportionate pooch). The smallest puppy I have ever seen yet also the most proportionate as his paws were as small as his shoulders. It truly was bizarre.

After that momentary pause (keep in mind our early start meant that even with a two hour break it still was not even 2 pm) we left our new friend for a little and headed off on a walking tour of the surrounding village. The landscape was absolutely beautiful- everyone kept remarking how great it felt to be in fresh air- but I think we all would agree the highlight of the stroll was when we were approached by a very excited nurse with a three hour old baby. A remarkable sight in itself- especially since the new mother was standing right beside her quietly not at all seeming like she had just given birth- we were especially flabbergasted when the nurse asked us to name the baby. Terror in our eyes we graciously responded that we were honored but thought that the mother should get that privilege. The nurse persisted however so finally we all looked at each other and tentatively offered the name Grace, figuring it kept in line with the Christian nature of the country. There were smiles all around and I guess I can cross "naming another person's child" off my list of things to do in life.

Figuring naming a baby was a great way to end our day, we headed back to the campsite for dinner and a game of Apples to Apples before our exhaustion got the better of us at about 8:30. We are a really exciting bunch. It was up with the sun the next morning as we had a lot of hiking ahead of us. After a breakfast of the biggest chapati I have ever seen, Alex, our friendly guide, led us to the first fall. Definitely the most extraordinary of them all, it was just as beautiful as expected (see picture at top of post). After that hike we explored a bat cave (scary!) and then went for a swim in an ice cold pool (here is Ryan diving in) and chatted with some kids (here is Carrie showing them the pictures she had taken.) As a sidenote, kids here LOVE digital cameras. They eagerly pose for "snaps" and then are incredibly excited, enthralled and mystified to see themselves in the small screen. After our swim the time had come to return to Kampala so back to the campsite we went and a matatu and bus ride later (complete with turkeys this time- maybe for Thanksgiving?) we were back in the big city.

Jinja retreat

I was feeling much much better by Tuesday morning- just in time for my two day workshop on program coordination and quality in Jinja. An annual occurrence, the meeting offers the whole program staff of Plan Uganda (the entire Country Office team with the exception of the secretaries and HR people and those we work most with in the field) the chance to gather and discuss how to make our programs better. Usually held at the Hotel Colline, a small conference joint just off of the main highway where the "best view" rooms overlook the parking lot and not the garbage bins, this year it was held at the Jinja Nile Resort, the swankiest resort in Jinja, and each participant was given his or her own bungalow overlooking the Nile. This decision sparked much controversy in the office as many didn't understand why the organizer felt a "retreat" atmosphere was necessary for total reflection, but not surprisingly I was quite happy with it. While the resort may be next door to the campsite I generally stay at while in Jinja, it literally felt a world away with its king size beds, surround showers and closets. It also is not every day I get to take my morning run along the Nile, watch CNN and take a dip in a resort-sized pool. See view above.

We arrived just as the sun was setting on Monday night and all gathered for a buffet dinner on a balcony overlooking the Nile. Then it was off to bed in preparation for the long day of reflection and wisdom ahead. And a long day it was, although unfortunately not in the way the organizers had hoped. Instead of focusing on how to make things better, the 40 participants complained about Plan's faults and asked for salary increases as they didn't feel there was enough incentive for improvement. I should also mention that Ugandans love to talk so it felt like each person gave a 10 minute speech saying the exact same thing: human resources needs improvement. It really was stimulating, let me tell you. More frustrating than anything, though, was the fact that nothing seemed to be getting accomplished other than a communal dirty laundry airing session. Something I am sure that is not exclusive to Plan Uganda (or maybe even Africa), not capitalizing on the potential for change and positive achievement was beyond aggravating. A sentiment echoed in the eyes of the facilitator, the first day of the retreat suggested that maybe two days of total reflection on how to improve Plan programs was not possible.

The second day wasn't much better as the "action plans" constructed for the major weaknesses in program quality and coordination weren't exactly innovative. That said, plans were actually drafted, recorded by me, and there some good ideas on how to better manage the budget, better plan programs, better monitor and evaluate those programs, better involve and empower community members and work with partners so the workshop wasn't a complete waste. I do however still think the highlight of the day was when in the middle of a presentation about how to better manage our relationships with partner NGOs the microfinance advisor had the group break into a rousing rendition of "if you are happy and you know it." I sincerely hope you all have the opportunity to watch 40 colleagues touch their toes- it really is a priceless image.

Returned from Jinja, absolutely exhausted, just in time for quiz night (literally walked into the pub just as the first questions were being asked) where Baseball and Apple Pie once again came in a formidable 3rd. That warranted a brief trip to Steak Out for rock night, although made it an early night in preparation for my 6 am alarm and weekend's trip to Sipi Falls.

Fairy tales and boils

Lots and lots of traveling and excitement over the past couple of weeks so much to report.

First, Beth's 30th birthday bash on the Hairy Lemon. A Shrek-themed affair, the birthday girl went as Cinderella (dressing as the worker bee for the first half of the party, the princess for the second) while Sarah and I went as her ugly stepsisters. Equipped with our gorgeous outfits from the infamous trip to Owino Market the weekend before, I must say we all looked ravishing (and by ravishing I mean delightfully tacky) in magenta, lilac and kelly green taffeta don't you think? Image on the left is Sarah, worker Beth and me and that below is me, Esmerelda Leah, Princess Beth and Sarah.

The party was a complete success. With the exception of a very sketchy German couple who run a hostel on the Ssese Islands (about 3 hours off the coast of Kampala) and are alarmingly androgynous (the "woman" has a beard while the "man" sports a mullet and more earrings than anyone I have ever seen) everyone came in costume (and I suppose the Germans' daily clothing choices are pretty close to costumes anyway so maybe they can be let off the hook). There were fairy godmothers (both male and female), little red riding hoods (again both male and female), princesses, blind mice, puss 'n' boots and Tarzans everywhere. There was a royal feast of cheese, crackers and a roasted pig in the bar filled with twinkle lights and silver paper stars. People flocked from Kampala, Jinja, Zambia (fresh from the Zambezi) and even another island across the Nile (this group properly celebrating their arrival with Chinese firecrackers) and danced with glowsticks to everything from the Archies to Outkast to the Spice Girls. The power may have been off until a little before midnight (better to dance while a little inebriated anyway), the punch may have tasted like mouthwash and Sarah and my mojitos may have been a bit on the strong side but I only hope my 30th is half as innovative and fun.

The aftermath of the party was not as fun. As I lay on the beach the morning after I began to feel a little sick. Not thinking that it was anything other than the repercussions of the debaucherous night before I didn't even question the large painful red bump growing on my hip that had garnered the attention of my friends. I labelled it a bug bite and laughed with the crowd about my mysterious ailments (huge bruises all over my legs, bug bites, stomach that can't handle local food- really I have been a mess!) When I woke up on Monday morning, however, I felt absolutely awful. My eyes were swollen shut, my head hurt, my body ached, my fever grew and as I walked around my office my co-workers just said "sorry." I decided to go home at lunchtime to try and get myself better as the office was slow and I had a lot to prepare myself for in the coming days and really couldn't afford to be sick.

Re-enter the mysterious bump. Upon further examination, it came to my attention that the bump wasn't a bug bite but instead a boil- a glorified skin infection- and the infection had gotten into my bloodstream. I never would have thought of this but Carrie had just returned from Zanzibar with a severe ear infection and boil in her ear (aren't we a special bunch? some people get malaria- my friends and I get the obscure African illnesses) and the doctor had described similar symptoms. So, much to the envy of basically anyone I told (we are all freakishly obsessed with gross happenings here), I spent the remainder of the afternoon draining my boil with a hot compress, some Neosporin and gauze. I realize that this might sound scary and weird to those in the States but watching the white puss come out was actually one of the cooler things I have ever done. As I said before my standards have changed since living here- the grosser the disease the better. I am always looking to "up" others and think draining a boil trumps a parasite anyday. The large welt left on my hip was not quite as satisfying but not having swollen glands and having another story to enter in the "only in Africa" book certainly was.

Smorgasbord

So it has been about a week since I last posted and so thought I would share some of the random, unrelated events that have happened in the past week or so.

With the Queen's arrival just two weeks away the city is in full CHOGM preparation lock down. Traffic lights have been constructed, dividing lines drawn, sidewalks tarred, roads paved and a new army police force sponsored by the President fully equipped with AK47s and batons freely roam the streets. This is not to say that any traffic laws have actually changed- yes, we may now have medians, lights and stop signs but that certainly doesn't mean are being followed- and the only thing I have seen the SPC (new police) do is hop on the back of pickup trucks and direct cars into one another (three car pile up on the way to work this morning) but at least it all looks professional? So, while the favorite question for all Ugandans may be "are you ready for CHOGM" I think the real question should be "is CHOGM ready for Kampala?"

The past weekend was relatively uneventful. After a third place showing at quiz night (a personal best!) on Thursday night, Baseball and Apple Pie (my team) took it easy on Friday and Saturday nights and just hung out and chatted at Carrie's apartment. Friday night it seemed normal but must admit it was a little bizarre on Saturday as Carrie had left for Zanzibar with her parents and there Jeff, Leah, Ryan and I were relaxing on her porch. Her housemates must love us. The highlight of the weekend was definitely my four hour trip to Owino Market in the rain. Owino is unlike anything I have ever seen. I would have loved to take photos but actually like my digital camera and this is the type of place where it might not have made it home with me. Similar in construction to any other African market (a series of connected wooden, decrepit booths) but on a much larger scale, Owino sells anything and everything. Mostly second-hand Western stuff (think a Wal-Mart sale bin) some of the pieces found there are classic. There were t-shirts proudly boasting "Hitler's World Tour 1939-1945" and "Miami, Florida," a variety of clothing still equipped with "ValueMart $9.99" price tags and, my personal favorite, all sorts of Yankee paraphernalia. I was trekking in the mud, however, with a specific purpose: a ballgown for Bethany's Shrek-themed 30th birthday party at the Hairy Lemon this upcoming weekend for my role as ugly stepsister to the the birthday girl's Cinderella. An old market pro (she had already bought her Cinderella dress (es) earlier in the week and had even already been to the market that very same day!), Bethany guided me and Sarah through the 10+ booths of used prom dresses (sadly enough I actually could have bought my Junior year prom dress... again) to find our costumes. 4 hours of searching later Sarah ended up with a magenta taffeta creation while I found a purple silk skirt/corset top ensemble. Let me tell you- Plot 18A Kyadondo Road is going to look hot. I can hardly wait. Rainy Sunday (first day it has rained all day since I have been here) was spent in bed watching Heroes- my new TV show find. I really am going to miss being able to buy complete seasons of TV shows for $5. They may be bootleg but they are just as entertaining.

Work continues to be sort of slow. No big projects this week so have been doing a lot of other housekeeping (organizing my role as the chairperson of the Princeton Alumni School Committee of Uganda and preparing an alumni team to interview all of the Ugandan applicants this year, catching up on some longlost emails, etc.) while also editing some reports here and there. I also had my first (and second) U.S. embassy trip as I continue to try and change my alien status from "illegal" to "legal." Due to the Ministry bureaucracy, apparently my Visa application has been anything but smooth sailing and they insisted that I supply them with a criminal record form. Impossible to get outside of the country, the closest thing to an actual clearance I guess is a notarized letter from the Embassy. After confirming this with the Consular's office, I headed to the Embassy, letter in hand, at 7:30 on Monday morning. A 5 minute security check later I found myself back in America. From the air conditioning, to the door handles, to the "Men" and Women's" Bathroom signs to the smell of office air while inside the Embassy I felt as though I had just crossed the Atlantic. Ok, I realize this may sound ridiculous to all of you but keep in mind I have been in Africa for the past 5 months. If there are any bathroom signs at all they say "Ssebo" and "Nyabo" (sir and madam in Buganda), we barely have power let alone air conditioning and yes, we have door handles but not the shiny silver ones that dominate American office buildings. I was a happy camper. That is, of course, until the Consular told me that he couldn't notarize my letter because he was not authorized to perform a criminal record check and the letter I had written (a word-for-word translation of what his secretary had told me to write) was not up to par. Instead of allowing me to write a simple sentence ("I, Hilary Stenhouse Robinson, certify that I have never committed a crime") or printing it himself for me to sign, he told me I would have to leave the building and come back the next morning. And just like that I was back in Uganda. When I arrived again, sentence in hand, the following morning at 7:30 I was far less excited about the door handles.

Lots of travel on the horizon. In addition to Beth's party this weekend will be out of the office most of next week- taking pictures in the field for an upcoming publication on Monday and then at a conference for the country program support team in Jinja for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. After that am headed to Sipi Falls (gorgeous series of waterfalls right on the Kenyan border in Mount Elgon National Park) and then am off to Senegal to visit Katie, one of my best friend's from Princeton, and to avoid the house arrest the Queen's visit would put me on. I live up the street from the British High Commissioner (and directly in between his house and the hotel his guests will be staying at) and just one street over from the Queen's hotel so my neighborhood is being quarantined for a week or so and we have all been told to escape if we can. Alas, I will enjoy my Thanksgiving turkey on the beach looking across the Atlantic so I can imagine what you all are doing. After I come back from my inaugural West Africa trip the next weekend is the kayak rodeo (a combination of a scavenger hunt/relay race/game/marathon) in Jinja so most likely will head up there and then will spend my final weekend before heading home for Christmas in Kampala watching the marathon. Where has the time gone?!! How is it already November? Can't believe I am home in 5 weeks. That is less than a summer at camp!

Suggested Africa reading material

Interesting editorial in today's New York Times which feeds into my earlier discussion about international aid: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/02/opinion/02fri1.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

A couple of months ago I read "Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story From Hell on Earth," a book about the experiences of 3 UN workers in Cambodia, Rwanda, Somalia and Haiti during the early to mid '90s. The current "it" book among expats (although it was published more than 3 years ago) and while perhaps a bit overly dramatic at time, I highly recommend reading it to understand what it is like to work in not only a third world country but also a disaster area.

Other good African literature that I have read while here: "Acts of Faith" by Philip Caputo, "The Constant Gardener" by John Le Carre, "Purple Hibiscus" by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories from Rwanda" by Philip Gourevitch and "A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier" by Ishmael Beah. I am working my way through others (with American and classic literature supplements) and will be sure to update this list as the year progresses.

A life more ordinary

Happy Halloween! I realize that my last couple of posts have detailed the "extraordinary" things that I have done over the past couple of months so thought that I would also offer an update on the more "ordinary" day-to-day happenings.

The first quarter of Plan's financial year just came to an end so most recent days at the office have been spent editing grant reports. Not the most fun of all jobs to begin with, it has been exacerbated by the fact that it is clear that the report authors have spent less than an hour filling out their reports. Completely falling in line with my annoyance regarding the African refusal to accept responsibility for anything (why should they spend anytime on the reports when they know that they can just hand them off to me), what aggravates me most is not that I am writing and not editing basically every report that leaves the office but that as a result I have no doubt that the programs are suffering. The reason I don't write the reports to begin with is that while I may have been blessed with a strong writing background I am not an expert on any of the programs Plan supports while the intended writers are. I haven't even seen many of the programs that I have written reports about and so I know that the emotion, passion, fervor and detail I put in is not what it would be if someone very familiar and invested in the program had written it. I then fear that the programs are not getting the attention and praise they deserve which directly defeats the purpose of me being here. It is a huge problem. Luckily the rest of the Country Office team shares my frustrations so we are all working on coming up with the best method to solve the problem (writing workshops have already been held and the writer's capibility doesn't seem to be the issue- instead it seems to be an attitude problem) but in the meantime it is a real shame.

In addition to the reports, I have also been helping my Country Director prepare a presentation about the Empowerment Through Art (ETA) project Plan Uganda initiated last summer to be given at a regional conference in Cairo this week. Piloted in Uganda by a phenomenal woman named Hilary Wallis, ETA teaches people to use art both for therapeutic and communicative purposes. Accompanied by local artist Justin Igala, Hilary visited schools, post test clubs (support clubs for the HIV positive), homes and hospitals equipped with paint, paper and paintbrushes. While many of those reached had never held a paint brush before, the quality of their work is absolutely astounding. The initial paintings were fairly basic (animals, landscapes, etc.), however as time went on issues previously considered taboo such as HIV, abuse and gender inequalities became prominently displayed on each canvas. Drama, dance and song performances were also encouraged and large exhibitions featuring the works created throughout the project were displayed in the project's home district and later a large hotel in Kampala. The project infinitely enriched the lives and boosted the confidence of all the participants while also helping them discuss and come to terms with many of the things negatively affecting their lives. A great success, it is our goal to spread the program throughout Africa and Donal, my Country Director, thought the regional conference the best place to sell it. In fact, there were such high hopes and expectations for the presentation that Donal was selected as the motivational speaker for the entire conference!

Unfortunately, as I am learning is often the case, things did not go as planned. This past week Plan Uganda was lucky enough to host the next slated Prime Minister of Norway, a woman who traveled to Uganda to learn about gender issues in the country and one of our current major focuses. Donal was taking the woman and several other VIP visitors to Kamuli District, about 2 hours away from Kampala and the location one of our field offices, to learn about some of the things Plan does to support gender equity when their van plowed head on into a sedan. The hired van driver had decided to bypass the traffic and drive on the wrong side of the road (completely common here- again going back to my lack of responsibility theory as I am sure the driver wondered why he should have to wait for the 100+ cars in front of him to move) however hadn't properly checked for traffic before doing so. The Norwegians all escaped with minor scrapes and bruises however Donal sustained severe nerve damage to his back and had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital. The driver, while injured, immediately recognized his mistake and ran away (LACK OF RESPONSIBILITY!). We still haven't been able to find him. Luckily Donal was released from the hospital by the end of the day however was put on bed rest and has only come to the office for the first time since the accident (over a week ago) today. Needless to say while the presentation may have made it to Cairo, he did not. He claims to have had it easy though as the occupants of the other car (two Peace Corps volunteers and a pastor) had to be airlifted to Johannesburg due to the extent of their injuries (broken femur, internal bleeding). If that isn't an ad for seatbelts (the van had them, the car did not), I don't know what is.

As a result of Donal's absence, the office has been suspiciously quiet over the past couple of days. Tomorrow I go back to work on reports (full day of reviewing Area Overviews and Updates) which I am actually kind of happy about because I have been kind of (dare I say it) bored. It seems that I either have nothing or everything to do!

Work aside, life has definitely not only become routine but also routine of an old woman. Seriously. With the rare exception of quiz night every other Thursday when I meet friends for dinner at 6:30 and then can be found at the Irish pub from 7:30-10 and maybe 1 other night a week, this is a sample day in the life of Hilary:
6:45: Wake up
7:15: Leave house for work
7:45 Meet the shuttle
8-5:30: At the office
5:30: Get back on the shuttle
6:15-8: Go to the gym (which just started offering jazzercise/step aerobics classes from 7-8 which I am really excited about)
8-9: Eat/cook dinner with my housemates
In bed by 9:30 (Mirror mirror on the wall I am my Mother after all?!)
Repeat.
The sad part is I am still tired most of the time. Must be the altitude or something.

After all of my travels am staying put for a little while. Spent last weekend in Kampala catching up with Paige, who I literally hadn't seen in months, over Ethiopian food on Friday night and then celebrated Jeff's birthday on Saturday with a surprise dinner at Khana Khazana and Halloween party at Katy and Sarah's. Wore a grass skirt and blue dress making me "blue grass," although everyone at the restaurant seemed to think I was a Ugandan dancer and kept trying to get me to put on a show. Halloween really is a lost concept here. I brought a bunch of candy into work today to bring trick-or-treating to Plan, however as I handed out the assorted toffees with a smile and loud "Happy Halloween" mostly I just got "Happy Birthday Hilary!" back. (By the way, I am currently dressed as an American flag- white pants, red and white striped tank top, navy blue cardigan with stars on it- so I really hope that my coworkers don't think I dress like this normally...) Even better, though, were the looks I got when I tried to explain the American version of Halloween with costumes and trick-or-treating. A mixture between amazement, disbelief and general confusion, I definitely have restaked my claim as the office lunatic. Oh well. Guess I will just have to try to convert the masses again on Friday when I go to my next Halloween party.

If you give a mouse a cookie

She is going to want a glass of milk. After my weekend of debauchery at the Hairy Lemon/Jinja, I had tasted the "travel bug" and decided to take up Carrie on her offer to give me a tour of Gulu the next weekend.

Located in the Northern part of the country and home to a large number of internally displaced person camps, Gulu is not a popular vacation spot. In fact, I cannot even begin to tell you how many funny looks I got on the bus ride up when I mentioned that I was going to Gulu on holiday and not for work purposes. Perhaps I should have been thrown off by the fact that despite being the second largest city in the country (behind Kampala, of course) Lonely Planet barely even gives it a paragraph. Nevertheless, I (and Leah) decided to give Carrie, who had spent a significant amount of time in the town over the summer, the benefit of the doubt and trust her assessment of Gulu as "one of her favorite relaxing places on Earth."

Unfortunately office bureaucracy meant that Leah had to cancel on our "girl bonding weekend" (you win, Jeff) but maybe better that way as Carrie and I already had to kick 2 Ugandans out of their seats on the 5:30 am bus because there was no way we were going to stand for the 6 hour trip(going to see Bourne Ultimatum at 9 and having an old school sleepover with 90210 afterwards is maybe not such a good idea before a planned 5 am departure...). 6 hours later- and not even Noon yet- we were in Gulu. We spent the afternoon in the market buying fabric and having new wardrobes constructed for ourselves and then met up with Beth, a friend who lives in Kitgum, for a rice and beans dinner at a local hole-in-the-wall joint. Afterwards we headed to the one pub in town (appropriately called "Da Pub") to watch the Rugby World Cup final between England and South Africa. The good news was that South Africa won, the bad news that not a single tri was scored and the lack of excitement coupled with our early morning wake up call put me in bed shortly after the game's finale.

Sunday was spent eating delicious vegetable sandwiches by a hotel pool before going to get massages (who says the North isn't relaxing?!). Not bad at all. In fact, it would have been the perfect day had it not been for the miserably hot, uncomfortable night of sleep inside (no, not underneath literally inside) a mosquito net in a shared bed. I have never been so sticky in my life, nor so frustrated as I knew that there was no running water and somehow a bucket shower just didn't seem like enough.

On Monday an exhausted Carrie and I said goodbye to Beth, attempted to pick up all of the stuff we had made (about 10% of which was actually ready) and then got on a bus back to Kampala. Again, we were among the last to board the bus (keep in mind African public transport doesn't have a schedule- instead the bus just leaves when all of the seats are full and, often times, when there is no more standing room in the aisle) so were not able to sit next to one another. Instead, the inflatable pillows and iPod came out and we tried to make up for our horrible night of sleep the night before. Things were going well for the first half an hour or so until the bus made its first stop for Uganda's version of fast food: men and women running along side the bus and trying to get the passengers to buy roasted goat meat on a stick, water, grilled cassava, etc. I have become alarmingly used to the smell of goat meat and having greasy sticks by my feet, however discovered a new joy when the man I was sitting next to decided to buy two live chickens to bring home with him. Clearly uncomfortable at the thought of spending the next five hours next to two live clucking chickens, the man looked at me and asked if I was afraid of birds. Forgetting I was in Uganda and figuring that might be an easy way out I said "yes, birds scare me." Now this response pretty much anywhere else in the world would definitely secure some distance between me and the birds however this isn't just anywhere- this is Uganda where people are friendly to the point of danger. The man found it his responsibility to cure my fear of birds and insisted that one of the chickens ride next to my feet. This was even better than the time a woman sat her baby on my lap to take care of because she was too focused on her two other children.

A little over three hours later I had finally gotten used to the chicken pecking at my feet and falling on me every time we hit a pothole or bump (about every 30 seconds) and was just dozing off when I heard what I thought was a gunshot. The horrible smell of burning rubber filled the now lopsided bus and it soon became clear that one of the tires hadn't survived the last pothole (not surprising as the buses generally hit them at 60+ mph). The bus slowly pulled over to the side of the road, opened its doors and turned off. We learned from the man sitting next to Carrie that the same thing had happened on his ride up from Kampala the day before, meaning that it was in fact the spare that had blown and forecasting a long roadside delay. After a severe laughing fit, Carrie and I walked off the bus and sat alongside the road with a variety of other passengers.

About an hour later after it seemed like every man on board the bus had a) stared at the flat tire b) kicked it to make sure it was in fact flat and c) scratched his head we were all encouraged to get back on the bus. A bit curious why this was happening seeing as we still had no spare tire, the man sitting next to me explained that we were just going to go without the tire. It wasn't necessary, he said. At this point alarms are going off in my head as I know that there are at least 2 hours left on the trip, however my newly-acquired African sense of patience (you wouldn't survive here without one) finally got the better of me and I tried to doze off again, pecking chicken at my feet.

Three hours, 52 speed bumps and over 100 potholes later (not exactly sleeping material...) we finally hit the Kampala outskirts. By this point it was 8 pm (8 hours after we had first boarded the bus) and I was rip roaring ready to get off the bus. Too bad it was absolutely pouring, which in Kampala is synonymous with traffic jam, and it took another 2 hours to complete the 15 minute trip into the city. At 10 pm I had had it and, despite the rain, demanded that the bus pull over so I could take a boda the rest of the way. I finally walked in my front door to my housemates anxious for stories as a result of the text messages I had been sending them throughout the journey at 10:30, 10 and 1/2 hours after I left Gulu.

Now I know many of you reading this may think that this would be your worst nightmare and it certainly wasn't a great moment for me; however that said it also proved to me just how African I have become because by the time I got into the shower at 11 I had completely forgotten about my frustrations and was more than ready to hop on the next bus to the North. Sure my weekend of relaxation was dented and all effects of my massage negated, but I am proud of how far I have come in terms of comfort and patience for if I remained calm, cool and collected during that experience than I truly believe I am ready for anything. And they say "African time" is a bad thing...

Eid, Hairy Lemon, Jinja

When it rains it pours. After a 4 month dry spell it seemed Uganda was in need of not one public holiday three weeks ago but two. Luckily the Saudis saw the moon on Thursday night, marking the official end of Ramadan and success of the Muslim version of Groundhog Day as the whole country was on pins and needles until about 9 pm on Thursday when Friday was officially declared a holiday for Eid celebrations. It only seemed fitting to continue the tradition of celebrating public holidays at Steak Out (it was an off-week for quiz night), especially since Thursdays are rock night (think of any classic cheesy '90s song- Avril, Deep Blue Something, etc.) and I am dying to steal the DJ's playlist.

I yet again took advantage of my day off by getting out of Kampala. This time my destination was the Hairy Lemon, an island in the middle of the Nile about 30 minutes away from Jinja. Slightly more difficult to get to than Jinja but also more relaxing and secluded, the Lemon reminds me of a tropical retreat with its palm trees, kayaks and laidback atmosphere. I traveled with Sarah to meet our other housemate Bethany who has been spending a fair amount of time on the island, but was later met by 6 other friends. We spent the night being entertained by a group of rowdy Irishmen attending kayak school (the island is the base of the best kayak school in the area) but also preparing for the next night's festivities in Jinja.

Allow me to explain. Saturday marked the return of a "Jinja celebrity" who had been traveling around East Africa for the past month or so and was the excuse for an all-out blowout on Saturday night at the campsite I had visited a couple of weeks before. So, Saturday day was spent along the shores of the Nile with my book on the Hairy Lemon while Saturday night was spent celebrating said celebrity in Jinja. The party was all it was cracked up to be and more (with the added benefit of the England vs. France Rugby World Cup semifinal in the background) and it was great to catch up with some old Jinja friends as well as make some new ones.

Sunday was spent by the pool and then it was back to Kampala on Sunday night for Chinese food with Sarah and a good night's sleep before my return to real life (and the end to 3 day weeks...)

Beginning of a series of updates

Ok, so I have very much dropped the ball on this whole "blogging" thing recently and since it is a slow day at work thought it about time for an update.

Round 1: Rafting.

Three weeks ago (wow) I spent my first Ugandan national holiday, the country's 45th Independence Day, and first day off of work in a raft on the Nile. Not the most relaxing of all holidays but definitely one of my most fun.

After literally months of anticipation and a couple of celebratory beers at Steak Out the night before, Carrie, Ryan and I boarded the 7:30 am Adrift bus bound for Jinja. Two stops, 15 Danish teenagers and two hours later we found ourselves on the banks of the Nile watching two older gentleman and one bikini-clad woman bungee jumping. After that show came to an end (it was really special let me tell you) and a brief safety talk, we, along with three new Australian friends and a toothless guide named Tutu, were ready to hit the water. The first boat out, "team Tutu" set the pace for a wild day.

I have been fortunate enough to take several whitewater rafting trips (family trip on the Salmon, family trip to Costa Rica, Outward Bound course, etc.) but none come even close to comparing to the Nile. I have never seen water/rapids like this before. I think the real kicker was a rapid called "Big Brother," the second of the Class 5 rapids on the trip, which consists of 4 waves- each one bigger than the next- and is stumbled upon less than a half an hour into the trip. After mastering the first two, I think it is safe to say that all 5 of us on the raft were convinced we were going to be victims of the third and in certain ways we were as our ENTIRE RAFT submerged however somehow the raft made it through without flipping and Tutu just laughed at our lack of faith. Sidenote on Tutu, not only has he been leading trips since the rafting company started 12 years ago, but in addition to the absence of pearly whites he also has a gnarly scar across his face that none of us had the guts to ask him where he got it from. I have no doubt that it comes with a great story, though.

And so went the rest of our day. Only flipping once (and only on a class 3 after we had all stood up to dance for the videographer) I think our raft definitely deserved the prize for "most talented" of the day. Seriously. Between that and the delicious lunch spread (avocado, tomato and cheese sandwiches, some of the freshest pineapple I have ever tasted...) I can hardly wait to get back on the river.

The day didn't end with the last rapid (the notorious "Bad Place") either. Taking full advantage of the promise of all-you-can-drink free beer, team Tutu boarded the bus back to Kampala with a vengeance. Spreading our wings to include a Canadian, Croatian and Brit, the bus ride seemed to fly by in the midst of some very fun conversations (and the Croatian's insisting that we stop at a bar to replenish a beer drought) and stories. Happy with one another's company, after a warm shower at each of our respective houses/hotels/hostels the group met up at one of the "native Kampala-ans'" favorite Indian restaurants (have I mentioned how good the Indian food here is?) to continue the festivities. Unfortunately my 8 am report time to the office the next day cut my night short at the first bar after dinner, but I still managed to have a very fun evening.

I think my favorite part of the whole day was the reminder of some of the amazing people who come through here. Kampala can be a very small city at times so it is always so refreshing to meet new people. What made this group especially great was I completely forgot how bonding of an activity rafting is- and what an eclectic mix of people it can attract. Now if only any of the wayfarers stayed around for longer than 24 hours. Oh well. Guess that just means I will have to get back on the river soon (or try and carry out my new alernative life goal of becoming a raft guide)...

Floods

I have been drowning (yes, very bad pun intended) in emails from the Western World about the floods currently destroying a good third of the country so thought that I would take this opportunity to share with you a piece I wrote yesterday about Plan's intended role in disaster relief:

Unusual heavy rainfall since July 2007 has led to flooding and water logging across a number of districts in eastern and northern Uganda. The rainfall and associated flooding has already affected some 50,000 households, or approximately 300,000 people, and according to weather forecasts the peak of the rains aren’t expected until mid-October.

According to media reports, at least 18 people have died due to the flooding, and tens of thousands displaced. Many homes, which are primarily made with traditional mud bricks, have crumbled in the wet conditions. The displaced have sought shelter with friends and family, or in the internally displaced persons (IDP) camps from which they had only recently returned, or in institutions such as schools and health centers. Official reports say that 174 schools remained closed for the third term and the flooding has forced several roads to close. 65% of families in the affected areas have lost their crops. Sanitation facilities, particularly pit latrines, have been flooded and/or collapsed leading to a greater risk of cholera and dysentery. Malaria cases have increased in affected areas and humanitarian agencies cite $70 million as the figure needed to address the livelihood needs of those affected.

President Yoweri Museveni of the Republic of Uganda recently declared a state of emergency in the northern and eastern parts of the country. This indicates the severity of the situation.

Plan Uganda has been extremely fortunate in that three of the Program Areas, Tororo, Luwero and Kamuli, have not been affected by the floods, and while the fourth Program Area, Kampala, has had some flooding, it is an annual occurrence.

While all current Program Areas have been relatively unaffected by the major floods, Lira District, where it was recently decided that Plan would expand within the next year, is one of the affected regions. A team from the Country Office visited Lira and was able to assess the situation. As of September 24, the floods had impacted 17 of the District’s 19 sub-counties and the affected population was estimated at 76,805. 585 households have been displaced and have moved to trading centers, primary schools, health units and higher grounds for shelter. The collapse of some bridges has meant the opening of new roads which need to be checked for unexploded mines left by LRA rebels. 3,000 schoolchildren need to be relocated to take their examinations. Fields have been waterlogged and food crops damaged. Latrines have collapsed or are overflowing with waste matter and many sources of drinking water, such as wells, springs and boreholes, are contaminated. The cholera cases have not yet been reported but a cholera preparedness plan has been established by the government. An estimated 9,257 elderly and vulnerable individuals, such as young mothers with children and orphans, are still living in IDP camps and are even more vulnerable as food aid has been withdrawn from the camps.

Members of the Country Office team are still in meetings with the District Disaster Management Committee and other stakeholders to evaluate the current resource gaps. The outcomes of the meeting will determine the role Plan will take in the relief response strategy. Before the end of the week we will share a detailed action plan and budget.

To editorialize a bit, while this may be the first time in 20 years that the country has experienced such intense flooding, recent climate change and the end of a predictable rainy season forecast a gloomy future. I must admit I feel more than a little guilty sitting at my desk in Kampala (located in the south central part of the country) with absolutely no comprehension of what it is like in the affected regions. I might as well be in America as it feels like the floods are in another country. In all honesty, part of me wishes that the floods were affecting Kampala and not the north and eastern parts of the country as the residents of those regions have suffered more than enough thanks to the 20 year reign of terror of the LRA rebels. Many of those who lost homes had only just returned from years in IDP camps (peace talks in Sudan between LRA leaders and the Ugandan government over the past year suggest that the reign of terror may be coming to a close) and were looking forward to starting their lives again. Those still left at the IDP camps, or in other words orphans, elderly persons and anyone else who couldn't easily escape the home of the gross violation of human rights that have largely evaded the influence of the international community, were made even more vulnerable as resources once intended solely for them now must be allocated across the region. Further complicating matters is the fact that the government not only has no set infrastructure for a national disaster (Katrina anyone?) but also has no budget for the relief (thank you, CHOGM) so responsibility has pretty much fallen exclusively on the shoulders of NGOs and other private donors leading me to question what exactly it is the government does other than buy flowers for the queen and install faulty traffic lights...

Jinja

After three straight months of Kampala, last weekend I finally managed to break free and travel to Jinja, a town about 2 hours away and, perhaps most famously, the source of the Nile River. After postponing the trip from Friday night to Saturday morning due to a variety of reasons (most notably the South Africa/England rugby game and a previous date I had made to watch it), three friends and I ventured to the infamous taxi park (picture all things chaotic, multiply by 10, add 100 dilapidated minibuses, hundreds of people and several incompetent African drivers and you come close to the state of disarray) at about noon as a classic night of dancing/jumping up and down to popular '90s hits (Chumbawamba, Green Day and Nirvana included) at Bubbles kept us out later than expected the night before. One 2 hour bus ride later- keep in mind African buses are nothing like American buses as not only are they half the size and more reminiscent of an RV with a lot of seats than a coach- in a foldable chair surrounded by random luggage and suitcases I arrived in Jinja ready for the Mexican food my friend had read about in the Lonely Planet. Supremely excited as Mexican is a foregone cuisine in the capital, the four of us attempted to track down the famed Palm Tree guesthouse. A half an hour's walk (and complete tour of the town) later we found ourselves in a little slice of heaven as we explored the grounds of the Palm Tree and suddenly felt as though we had been airlifted to the Caribbean with all of the vegetation, the pool and the general layout of the grounds. Even more exciting was the chalkboard menu featuring enchiladas, fajitas, guacamole, chips, salsa and nachos so we anxiously descended upon the porch only to discover that since it was 3 pm the kitchen had closed for lunch and wasn't going to re-open for dinner until 5:30 pm. Yes we were starving, and yes we were mad but this wasn't going to stop our craving- we simply told the manager that we were happy to wait for the kitchen to re-open. After a somewhat startled look of "you crazy mzungus" (something I have become alarmingly used to), she showed us to a table and we settled into a two and half an hour discussion before the cook came back. After scaring the hostess again with how much food we ordered (one of everything on the menu, please) and spending another hour devouring it, we left paradise three and half hours after our arrival completely satiated and headed for our hostel for a catnap before the night's festivities at Bujagali Falls, home to Level 5 rapids but also more importantly a camp known for its nightlife. We were especially fortunate that it was the birthday of one of the raft guides so festivities were in high gear and it was great to take part in a far more "natural" social scene than that of Kampala and to meet a greater variety of people, both expats and Ugandans.

Sunday was spent enjoying another delicious meal (this time of the Italian variety) and exploring the Source of the Nile, a true geographical gem. Sunday was also the day my three partners in crime decided to adopt a puppy, aptly named Jinja, to take home with them and was when I realized that a monthly trip to Jinja must be in order for the rest of my Ugandan experience. Much more laidback than Kampala, Jinja is a literal fresh breath of air. It is easy and safe to walk around, there is minimal smog and the whole place has a summer camp feel as activities are centered around rafting, kayaking and mountain biking. Next time I go I promise to spend less time eating and more time being active- I don't even know where to begin! I feel incredibly fortunate that Jinja is the only feasible weekend trip for a Kampala resident (bad roads make every other Ugandan destination 4+ hours) and am even happier that I finally discovered it.

Things That I Miss

In keeping with the list theme, thought that I would make a list of the things that I miss most.

1. A nice warm bath with People or US Weekly. Actually feeling clean. Ever.
2. Goat cheese. Actually, any good cheese really.
3. Chicken breasts.
4. Walking around. Kampala is not a walking city and I miss being able to walk anywhere I want to go.
5. Reliable, safe public transportation.
6. Credit cards. Dealing with large amounts of cash can be quite daunting and scary to carry around. It also often has me feeling like a drug dealer.
7. (Relatively) cheap, delicious sushi.
8. Salmon.
9. Embarrassingly enough, Law and Order. I miss being able to turn on a TV and have no control over what is playing.
10. Being able to walk into a supermarket and knowing exactly what they are going to have. The motto here is "if you see it, buy it" because the stock varies day to day and absolutely nothing is guaranteed to be there every time you go to the market.
11. Soups, salads and sandwiches. Lunch here seems to be either a huge, coma-inducing meal or a can of tuna.
12. Diet Coke.

Things I Have and Have Not Gotten Used To

As my three month Ugandan anniversary approaches I thought I might offer a list of things that still surprise me and a list of things that may have once been jarring but now seem normal.

Surprising:

1. The pollution. Smog, dust, exhaust, gas, dirt- you name it, its in the air.

2. The size of portions. On the left, observe a "typical" Ugandan lunch. Actually no, it isn't typical because I managed to talk Mama (my office cook) out of adding rice and potatoes to the plate so imagine this PLUS rice and boiled potatoes. The yellow, mushy stuff is matoake (the Ugandan signature dish consisting of a mashed up banana looking, but not tasting, starch), the purple stuff on top is groundnut sauce, the white chunks in the back are cassava, another Ugandan staple starch, beans are beans and then there are the two chunks of meat which really are mostly just fat and are also the source of the pool of oil you see spread across the plate. And you wonder why I often bring a can of tuna to work.

3. The smells. Burning plastic, mysterious odors- they all still get me.

4. Constantly be called out for being a "mzungu." Whether it is the random strangers who approach me on the street and ask me to pay their school fees, the constant asking of any boda or taxi driver if I want a ride even if I have JUST gotten off of a boda or out of a taxi or even Ugandan friends texting me to ask that I pay for their badminton team's trip to Nairobi, it is quite frustrating that being white here automatically denotes wealth. Yes, I have lead a much more priviledged life than the majority of Ugandans and yes I make more than the average Ugandan, but I still work at an NGO and my stipend really doesn't allow me to sponsor the country. It is especially frustrating because here I am sacrificing a lot of my personal luxuries because of my strong desire to help those not as fortunate as myself, but apparently my brain isn't enough. I guess it is kind of like in New York when you try and give a homeless person a meal voucher and they just look at you like "thanks for nothing." Go figure.

5. The Ugandan lack of the concept of privacy. The Western rituals of queues, knocking before entering and giving one some personal space have yet to enter the country. Most of the time it is humorous (can you imagine if the ruckus if an American mother let her child, without saying boo, climb on a stranger's leg as she was trying to pay her electricity bill which is what happened to me a couple of weeks ago?!) but it does get annoying when you are trying to get out of the grocery store in less than 10 minutes, or when you are convinced that someone is looking over your shoulder at the ATM (being the rude American I am I demand at least a 5 foot radius) or when you are the only one in a movie theater and the person who walks in late decides to sit in the seat directly next to you and not in one of the other 50 empty seats, or when you realize that you really can't ever have a private conversation at the office. Ever.

Normal:

1. Boda riding.

2. Random men carrying AK47s.

3. Being laughed at when trying to speak Luganda.

4. Seeing drunk people at 9 am.

5. Ugandan English. Here are some typical scenarios:

Hilary: Hi

Ugandan: Fine, how are you?

H: Good.

U: Fine, how are you?

Repeat at least twice.

Hilary falls out of her chair. Daisy, Hilary's office mate, "sorry." (Better with voices)

"Nice day!" (this place is Borat's dream)

Hilary: So what did you do this weekend?

Co-worker: I went to the where (awkward palpable pause- but no, you are not supposed to guess- you need to wait for the speaker to answer his/her own question) the supermarket.

Hilary: Oh, what did you need to buy?

Co-worker: I needed some more of the what (again, awkward pause) bread.

As a tribute to all fellow Bruno lovers out there: Hilary climbs onto the back of a boda

Boda driver: We go?

H: We go!

The Goat Races

This past weekend I had opportunity to take part in a once in a lifetime experience: the Royal Ascot Goat Races. Uganda's counterpart to the Royal Ascot Horse Races, the Goat Races are THE social event of the season in Kampala. Scratch that. In all of Uganda. Anyone who is anyone flocks from out of the woodwork for this epic annual event, hat, ball gown, tuxedo or, my personal favorite, wedding dress in tow (see photo), and the day is spent watching a bunch of confused goats be pushed around a ring in the same venue that... wait for it... CHOGM will be held at in a short three months: the Speke Resort Munyonyo. While I will try do so, I must warn that there really are no words to describe this surreal cultural phenomenon.

About a twenty minute ride from town, my friend Sarah and I arrived just in time to grab a burger and beer before the halftime show: an African children's dance troupe followed by the infamous imported Russian dancers. While I certainly wouldn't put it past the event organizers, the dancers actually weren't specifically imported for the event- instead are a fixture at Kampala's newest casino (the city is home to three) and have become the "talk of the town" for their less than stellar faces, bodies and dance moves and bodacious costumes that feature bras, thongs and feathers. After fighting my way through many a Ugandan, mzungu and Indian, I managed to grab a front row seat for the show and the dancers did not disappoint. They were as ugly and untalented as promised and their costumes were straight out of a Las Vegas stripclub. As someone who had been spoken to by a "concerned" Ugandan man previously that morning about the amount of leg I was showing wearing my mid-thigh length Patagonia shorts on my boda ride home from the gym, I could only stomach one act of bras, thongs and Christina Aguilera before retiring to my beer and burger.

After lunch came the races (much more sparsely watched than the dancers- go figure) and like the dancers they were everything I thought they would be and perhaps even more. A complete farce, each of the 8 races was worth a bet as all 10 goats involved were equally clueless and uninterested in running around the artificially constructed ring 3 times. Nevertheless, their pasteurizing was interrupted by a Ugandan man pushing around a large mattress (sponsored by Rwenzori, the Ugandan Poland Spring) on wheels and the goat most frightened by being run over by said contraption won his corporate sponsor 3 million shillings (roughly $1760) and a victory lap around the resort.

I am not sure what my favorite part of the day was (people, dancer or race watching) but all I can say is this: if given the chance, go to a goat race.

CHOGM

Since I have arrived in Kampala I have been flooded with information about CHOGM. For all of my fellow non-Anglophiles out there CHOGM (an acronym- quel surprise!) stands for Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting and is held once a year at a Commonwealth member country. This year Uganda, and Kampala to be more specific, has been graced with the honor of hosting the Queen and her brethren and the country is doing its best to make the mothership proud. Potholes are being filled, flowers planted, hotels by the dozens constructed, and not a day goes by without a CHOGM editorial or article in the paper. For example, today’s headlines, wedged between full page spreads titled “South Africa Gives Uganda Two Black Rhinos” and “Strapless Bra: A Must-Have For Every Woman,” read “36 Immigration Officers Get Security Tactics For CHOGM,” “Hotels Target 6,000 Rooms,” and “Ministry Spends sh1billion TO Boost Tourism.” Billboards featuring pictures of prominent Ugandan leaders and the catchy phrase “I am ready for CHOGM- are you?” line the streets (a catchphrase that has been endlessly mocked by both Ugandans and expats- see photo at left) and the dollar is on a continuous decline as the pound steadily rises. Sure, the new hotels look like they could crumble any moment, the potholes are only chosen on streets that the fortunate few might find themselves on and the flowers have taken much needed money away from the vulnerable poor but anything in the name of the Elizabeth II right? What makes everything better is the urgency involved with the whole process. Keep in mind all of my talk of “African time” and perhaps you will be as surprised as I was to learn that her majesty does not descend until you all are enjoying your decadent meal of turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. That’s right- unlike my fellow Americans I will not be spending the weekend of November 22nd watching a variety of college football games and instead will be trying to get a glimpse of a descendant of the man the pilgrims were escaping (actually I will be on the beaches of Mozambique but you get the picture).

As I have already hinted I believe CHOGM is both good and bad for the country. Considering today's New York Times featured the first two articles about Uganda in nearly 8 months and the articles told the stories of the recent Marburg Virus outbreak and a bus crash over the weekend which killed 72 people, it seems pretty clear that the country can use all of the good publicity it can get. While it is great that it will undoubtedly bring in revenue for the country, I wonder whether all of the hoopla is worth it. Kampala’s infrastructure is shaky to begin and the amount of construction and preparation involved in preparing for the blessed event would be difficult on a stable country so I can’t help but wonder which is going to win: Uganda or CHOGM. If the roundabout at the bottom of my road is any indication, my vote is CHOGM as the two traffic controllers that have tried to turn the circle into square which has caused a constant gridlock state and I can only presume will grow worse as it links town’s four major roads as well as the road to the conference center and meeting point of the heads of government. Ugandans are at best ambivalent towards the whole thing (rumors of a national holiday week in celebration of the festivities has recently raised spirits) as joys of a national pride have been replaced with questions about why only a minimal amount of Ugandans seem to be benefiting from the billions of shillings being taken away from schools, welfare, health care and other government programs and put into flowers alongside the Queen’s path. I can’t help but think that if the government and media put half of the money and focus currently being placed on the meetings into development programs that would last for longer than a week than maybe some of Uganda’s problems could actually be fixed.

Favorite thing about my job

While enjoying some drinks (I found a place in Kampala that knows how to make a dirty martini!) with some friends last night we got into the subject of what our favorite thing about our current life was. Definitely something I would like to document and read later I thought I would share my response with you.

"The fact that it has made me more informed." Let me clarify that statement a bit. Each day since I have been in Uganda in addition to reading the variety of reports that I have edited I have read three newspapers each morning (New Vision, the Ugandan government sponsored daily, the Daily Monitor, an independent Ugandan daily, and The New York Times, online of course). Not to say that I was ignorant in the States, but one of the glories of being an expat is I think you become inherently more observant of both your own country and your surroundings because you have been stripped of your "comfort zone." While in America it is often easy for me to get trapped in my small little world and not question my beliefs because I don't have to, here that isn't really an option. My job is to question programs and regimes and to find ways to make them better so each day I am forced to come up with a million educated responses to questions that would have completely overwhelmed me a year ago. For example, I recently got into a debate with a friend about the superiority of the VSLA model, (Village Savings and Loans Associations) first developed by CARE and as of last year the method supported by Plan in our communities, over the SACCO (Savings and Credit Co-Operative) one, the former choice of Plan and current choice of the likes of Jeffery Sachs' UN Millennium Villages (http://www.unmillenniumproject.org/), as the microfinance regime for the vulnerable poor. It felt like an out of body experience as I argued my points (VSLA doesn't require any minimums in an effort to encourage building the habit of saving- in other words it doesn't matter how much you invest but rather that you understand the importance of saving, sound familiar Princeton Annual Giving office?-, members work with their own assets and not with loan liabilities, members become part of small support groups fostering close, personal ties and a sense of trust that allows more faith in the system, etc.) because never in a million years would I have believed that I would know so much and have such a strong opinion about microfinance schemes. A similar case could be made for pretty much any of the projects I continue to read about because they make me question both why Plan is in the right and why the counter-argument is wrong. As I mentioned before, this curiousity also expands far beyond the work place. I have taken more a vested interest in the U.S. Presidential candidates because I now have much stronger beliefs in what it is I am looking for in my government. I want to know what the Ugandan government is doing to help or harm our programs. I want to know about other issues in the world (one of my companions last night mentioned that she is much more likely to read a book about Hugo Chavez here than at her home in London) because they somehow seem more pertinent to my everyday existence. Somehow since everything here is a challenge and different from my background it makes me more likely to seek new challenges and explore new ideas. I guess you could say that I have officially caught the "expat bug."

A few words about that. I think a common misconception is that the "expat bug" means that someone is inherently dissatisfied, fed up with, or not proud of America- a statement that I wholeheartedly disagree with. If anything, being abroad has made me more proud of being an American because I have quickly come to realize the guarantee of rights afforded to me as a citizen of the U.S. that are not afforded to the majority of the world. Sure I have also perhaps become a bit more critical as I have looked at the country from an outsider's perspective, however I don't think that has anything to do with pride- instead it is all about a heightened focus on how to make it better. I have always been taught to question everything, not take anything at face value without a thorough analysis, and that critics are what make things stronger so I don't understand why that same train of thought doesn't apply to my feelings about my country. No matter how long I stay abroad I will always consider myself an American (and a proud one at that) and not a member of a "lost generation" (a term by the way that had much more to do with World War I than patriotism) so I hope that I can help squash the common misconception of expats as unpatriotic and instead try and prove the opposite: that we are the true patriots trying to spread the real "American dream" to millions of people across the world who are not as lucky to have been born in America as we were.

Change of pace

For a change of pace I thought I might take the focus off of me for a moment and instead turn it to a frequent debate I have been having with others about the nature of international development. Beautifully articulated by Nicholas Kristof in his column in today's New York Times (http://select.nytimes.com/2007/08/09/opinion/09kristof.html?hp), there has been much scholarly debate recently about the positive and negative effects of the large Western presence in third world countries. Kristof focuses on the issue of foreign aid (something which he is obviously a large supporter of), however I believe the arguments extend far beyond money to a matter of principle: is the growing dependence of developing countries on the Western world more helpful or harmful to the countries' well-being?

I haven't developed my own answer to that question yet. I am still absorbing and wrestling arguments with counter-arguments while also trying to do as much first-hand research as possible but thought that I would share some of my thoughts. Since I am not an economist (sorry Aunt Barb) and instead found my academic passion in American history it should not be surprising that I was not as convinced by Kristof's frequent mention of prominent economists' beliefs as I was by an argument involving a comparison between the current post-colonization state of third world countries and the early American republic. First mentioned to me by the Country Director of a very prominent maternal health NGO in Kampala at a casual dinner, the idea is that a little over 200 years ago America was not all that dissimilar to the third world. Having just won our independence from colonial rule, America was forced to start fresh and on its own feet. We didn't rely on forced French, British, or any other European aid- in fact, economic independence was one of the main instigators of the revolution. It may have taken several bumps along the way, including the persecution of an entire race and a war over that wrongful persecution, however here we stand, two centuries later, (arguably) as the world's greatest super power. If the Western world had played a more prominent role in the early Republic (for example, had we lost the War of 1812) would the U.S. be the superpower that it is? We did it on our own, the woman argued, so why can't they? Here is my critique of that argument: first, I truly believe that being in the 21st century is entirely different than being in the 18th century. In the age of globalization the stark contrasts between the haves and have-nots becomes all the more apparent. Next, I think it is important to consider the fact that the majority of new Americans were of Western European descent, meaning that they undoubtedly had the benefit of understanding the infrastructure of how Western Europe was able to be so successful and could therefore translate it to their new nation. Third world residents, on the other hand, do not have that same benefit. If the Native Americans had triumphed over the Europeans than I think the argument would carry more weight. Nevertheless, I do believe that the comparison is worthy of some serious thought and reflection.

Next I would like to examine the "humanitarian" argument. Blame it on my recent fascination with the West Wing and the fact that I have just hit the Kundu crisis (for all those West Wing virgins out there it is a situation very similar to that of Rwanda in 1994 as a massive "ethnic cleansing" genocide takes place) but I also have been thinking a lot of the Western world's obligation to the third world. I mean that is what brought me to Africa in the first place, right? The fact that, for the most part, not only are we responsible for their plight, but also as the world's superpower it is our ethical duty to give back? This is a question that I grapple with on a daily basis and was the subject of my dinner conversation with my roommate last night. I mentioned to her that over the past couple of days I have come to accept the fact that I don't really have a "job description." I mentioned to her that given the variety of the tasks that I am asked to perform it has occurred to me that my main purpose in the office is to serve as a liaison to the Western world. I can read things and translate them into "Western" English. I have been blessed (or cursed depending on how you look at it) with a Western work ethic and that has probably been my roughest challenge while being here- trying not to let my frustrations with the inefficiency of Africans ("Africa time" really is a wonder) overcome my efficiency. Just because a Ugandan woman I deal with cannot multitask does not mean that I can't, or shouldn't. But then the internal debate starts again: if I am in fact just around for my "Western" influence then how are the Ugandans ever going to learn to become "Western"? Are we really teaching them how to be successful in the 21st century or just merely doing the work ourselves? Does that mean we will never leave the third world- or that if we do we will have accomplished nothing? This is where principles come back in. Yes, Kristof is right that we would all buy that extra malaria net for the Grandmother but isn't that different than re-writing a "Ugandan English" email so someone in the Netherlands can properly understand it? I can tell you first hand that I am amazed at the amount that I have been able to accomplish over the past two weeks but also am somewhat alarmed as well because it just goes to show how dependent Ugandans are on Westerners. I am even fortunate in that Plan is stacked with many productive, work-oriented Ugandans so my experience has actually been better than many of my peers, however that just makes me more puzzled and concerned.

As you can see this is a very tricky subject as this is just the tip of the iceberg (or my immediate thoughts). I welcome any and all responses/critiques/opinions of anything that I have said and I urge you all to wrestle with some of the ideas I have been- while often challenging and frustrating, I have also found the internal debate actually quite comforting (although have also figured out that I most likely will never be able to come up with an answer).

"And She's Riding a Boda To Heaven"

Zeppelin may have spoken about buying a "Stairway to Heaven" but I am going to argue that had the song been written in Uganda, the lyrics would have been changed to "and she's riding a Boda to heaven." Allow me to explain.

As I believe I have mentioned before my main method of transport while in the country has been a "boda boda," or a glorified motorcycle taxi. The name originated from a need to transport people across the Kenyan-Ugandan border without necessary paperwork during the reign of Idi Amin. To give you an idea of the kind of English I hear and read everyday, the drivers shouts of "border border" quickly became miscontrued as "boda boda" and so began one of the major forms of transportation within the country. Now onto my story (ies).

Knock on wood I have had great Boda luck while in the country. While definitely the fastest form of transportation (their ability to weave in and out of traffic jams, a very notorious element of Kampala culture, means that even if they weren't the cheapest form of efficient travel I would still potentially consider making them my dominant form of transportation), they are also inarguably the most dangerous as helmets are not involved and there is little protecting you from the combination of crazy boda driving antics, potholes, speed bumps and the horrific driving capabilities of Kampala residents. (Don't worry, Mom, it only gets worse). Nevertheless, as I said, I have had exceptionally good luck.

That was until last Thursday. One of the perks of Plan, my company, is that they offer a free shuttle in the evenings so everyday at 5:15 I can be found in a somewhat sketchy looking white van with all of the other employees who are too low on the totem pole to afford a car singing along to a selection of Dolly Parton, Celine Dion and Kenny Rogers' greatest hits (all Ugandan favorites). After about a half an hour ride the shuttle drops me off at a boda stop that is about a five minute ride from home, I catch a boda, and all is well in the world. That is unless rain is involved. As I think I have mentioned before, it has been exceptionally rainy here for the past week or so and while we may experience an hour or so of sunshine a day that is not enough to dry up the reddish brown puddles that line the streets. But who needs sunshine when you can have a boda rider accomplish the same thing? Long story short, my boda got a little too close to a ten wheeler truck at a roundabout and the contents of said puddle ended up all over me, my white skirt, and my button down shirt, resulting in an emergency shower and me being late to my dinner date.

And again it gets worse. When I woke up the next morning the city was in the middle of one of its torrential downpours. Since they generally only last about an hour or so and riding an open motorcycle in the pouring rain is about as much fun as going to the Dentist (sorry Dr. Grapel), I decided to wait it out. An hour later the rain continued to come down in buckets and I was getting dangerously close to being ridiculously late for work so I put on my rain suit (greatest packing decision ever), packed my clothes in Ziploc bags within a plastic bag within my purse within another plastic bag slid on my rubber moccasins and headed out to partake in my first "quintessentially Ugandan" experience of riding a boda in the rain. After about a 10 minute search I finally tracked down an open bike and off we went on the 7 minute ride to the office.

With the exception of being soaking wet and having to go on a very long, indirect route because of the flooding, everything was going fine until we hit the road my office is on. Forewarned of the massive flooding by the parked trucks and 4 by 4s along the side of the road, my driver decided to nip the problem in the bud and take a "shortcut" along a back road. Not really thinking much of it (as a non-driver I often am amazed at the knowledge Kampala drivers have of back roads in any district), I happily was along for the ride. As we turned a corner reminscent of those at the beginning of Tuxedo Road, I was alarmed to feel my trusty rubber mocs filling with a cold liquid. As I peeked my head out from behind my driver (who had previously been guarding my contacts from the pelting raindrops) I was alarmed to see a literal brown river directly in front of us. Not at all deterred the boda driver plowed on. Slowly the water seeped up past my waist level and suddenly I noticed my weight was no longer on the bike- instead I was merely floating alongside the driver, anxiously grabbing onto his bike that was no longer able to touch the ground, in the flooded street. Being the American Red Cross Level 7 swimmer I am, I was not at all alarmed that the water was neck level and instead simply swam to the end of the monstrous "puddle" and into someone's dry, elevated driveway. The boda driver followed suit, hopped back on his bike, and urged me to do the same. Giving him a look that can only be considered one of concurrent disdain and admiration for his resolve, I couldn't help but smile as his waterlogged bike clearly would not start. He beckoned the guard in the driveway to come help him and I waited for a half an hour in the rain as the two men took the bike apart, poured water out of various parts that I never would have known existed, and finally miraculously got the bike started again. 5 minutes later, and 2 hours after we started the adventure, I was in my office- much to the amusement of my startled co-workers who took equal delight in my rain suit and my wet and muddy self. All I can say is thank goodness for the Ziploc and plastic bags which kept my "work clothes" completely dry and clean. Ziploc, if you ever need an endorsement let me know, and Uganda, stop the ban on plastic bags. They may be horrible for the environment but they are great for wet boda riders.

You would think that that would be enough Boda adventure for two days but no- this was not a case of "third time is the charm." Taking the phrase "get right back on the bike" literally, after a delicious calzone at the NY Kitchen (a little taste of heaven) in the middle of another rainstorm, I left the restaurant and headed directly for the boda stage. After teling the driver where I was headed (the opposite direction from where he was pointing), he swung the boda around and attempted to cross the median. A usually normal occurrence, unfortunately this boda driver was less than qualified to perform such a maneuver and missed the dip in the concrete meant for the bike's tire and instead just plowed into the cement. I guess I should mention at this point that Stuart was behind me on the bike (double boda-ing is a common, cheaper occurrence) and the weight of both of us was too much for the bike to handle. What happened next therefore should not be a surprise as the front tire of the bike lifted off the ground and Stuart and I ended up in a puddle. Luckily there was no damage other than a minor scratch on Stuart's ankle and more reddish brown goo on yet another one of my very few outfits, however going "3 for 3" in the boda disaster race has seriously caused me to try and figure out other modes of transportation- although the combination of my inability to drive a stick shift and the lack of a subway system means my search is probably in vain and instead I should just plan on investing in a helmet and continuing to pray. The devout Christianity of this country is suddenly starting to make a lot of sense...

Now that I have ensured that Mom won't sleep for weeks (a daughter's one and only goal in life), I think I will talk a little bit about my job and the pros and cons of working at a big, established NGO. The biggest pro about it is that you never have to worry about money; the biggest con is that you always have to worry about money. Let me clarify. Much like any other business, Plan is dominated by bureaucracy. The way the organization works is very similar to the food chains I learned about in ninth grade biology. At the top of the chain is International Headquarters ("IH" in acronym-dominated Plan speak), located in Surrey, England, as they basically decide who gets, needs, wants or deserves money. Below them are the National Offices ("NOs"), located in the US, Canada, Japan, Australia, Western Europe, etc., which is where the majority of the money comes from, either from sponsors, grants, organizations like USAID, CIDA, AusAid or other donors. Last come the Country Offices ("COs"), the third world outposts like Plan Uganda, which are the actual recipients of the funds. While this seems like a logical food chain, the problem comes with the fact that IH has recently decided that COs and NOs should not speak to one another and instead everything should go through IH. The result has been a giant game of telephone, as what would have generally been one conversation has been converted into three, and the consequences have been enormous as we have started our new financial year without any funds. Given that our programs clearly need money to be sustained, Plan Uganda has been trying its best to get the necessary funds to the necessary groups however when we haven't received anything other than a promised budget it is incredibly hard to do so. Many of our programs, including legal aid to women, medical care to children and HIV positive pregnant women, and school programs for at-risk children, cannot afford to be stopped and restarted so we have been put in the incredibly tricky position of trying to figure out how to keep these programs going with no guarantee of when we will see actual money. A very frustrating situation, I can't decide which is worse: having the money but not having access to it or not having the money at all.

More pictures to come once the rain stops and I no longer worry about water damage to my camera...