KYETUME NIGHTS
The night is in full swing, underneath the stars music can be heard in the distance. The quiet village of Kyetume is alive. Lights beckon, and music moves. Store fronts normally dormant by ten are open and thriving. Exuberant, enthusiastic, excited, enticed Kyetumites have flocked to the commotion. A sheet held up by string and guarded by a lone doorman blocks passage to where large speakers encourage light feet. I enter, unsure what to expect. Dozens of people occupy the area in front of a makeshift stage that was open space between stores just a few hours before. Flags, similar to those used in car lots, hang from the walls. A dj with fairly elaborate sound equipment operates off a generator. Small children dance between the throngs of adults, some pass around a Nile, or a bottle of Waragi. Two young girls dance and sing a popular Ugandan song, one with a soviet star beret, the other clad in denim. They are followed by two men, one dressed like a groom, the other a bride, a woman as a bride, and a man, barely 4ft, also dressed as a bride. They dance, they sing, they do a mock wedding, exaggerating every movement for comedic effect. Suddenly the song stops, a man, larger than life steps into the spot light. Clad in bright yellow and turbin donned he struggles to get out onto the stage. Fabric unravels and stretches out, standing several feet taller than any man could he pulls himself on stage. His face painted white, he dances precariously on stilts to an upbeat Ugandan song. Several people nearby grab my hands and I am pulled into the floor, we dance, we spin, a small child is passed to me and we pretend to tango and dip. The late hours get to me, I am spent, I bid farewell to my dancing companions and walk the dark road back to bed.
Seed and fertilizer distribution organization at a Danish cafe in Masaka, Uganda. This lead me to one of the few resteraunts I had yet to visit. It had been months, I had given up hope of eating chinese food, a luxury I had put behind me, like indoor plumbing, ice cubes, and after my house was hit by lightning, constant electricity. A balcony overlooking part of Masaka was accompanied by hot and sour soup, shredded beef, and an intern from another NGO. Candles illuminated the food, the power was out and limited the options for food and beverages. Dusk is short, day turns to night quicker than I am used to despite being here for three months.
A grassy hill overlooks a different part of town, a symphony of cicadas attempt to drown out the cacophony of the town. A rooftop church in the distance blares music, a man screams in tongues, this is interspersed with prayers in the slowly calming night. Cups bought earlier in the night are filled with a sweet south african drink, life stories and cherished things from home are shared.
I check into a hotel and have my second hot shower in three months. I touch the water before getting in, and step underneath the shower. I understand that I am taking a hot shower, but it is such a foreign concept that my body doesn't not know how to register what is going on at first. It is glorious. Home had running water, but the pumps stopped when the lightning struck. Late night, darkened showers with buckets had dominated the lifestyle I had become accustomed to.
Youth Camp
A long, warm, humid taxi ride home stops five villages past where it should. I had fallen asleep in a mutatu. I arrive early as students setup for the youth camp. Between thirty and fifty youth came to Hope Academy to participate. Boys and girls sign in and are sent to their quarters, or wander the campus until festivities begin. After everyone settles down, Leandrea leads the youth in a serious of games. The first, and a personal favourite once I discovered it in february is the smile game. It is played here a little differently, but the basic premise is the same. In this instance, two teams are trying to make one team. Each team takes turns calling over people to get a key, if the person can go from point a, to team b, grab the key and make it half way back without smiling they get a turn, if they smile, they have to join the opposing team. This proves to be a well received game, young boys and girls jeer, make rude gestures, and beckon to slightly embarassed but enthusiastic members of the opposing team. When this starts to wear thin, a game of modified tag is employed and utter chaos ensues. Everyone is "it". The trick is everyone has a single hand behind their back, and if it gets tagged by anyone else, they are out. The field in front of Hope erupts into youth driven madness, human shields, dodging, even the occasional "you did not get me" which brought me back to my own youth.
Seperated into three teams, each team is responsible for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I came across Ronald Kasimbi, and a few others as he stirred beans in a large pot. Kasimbi is an active member of almost every URF event. Always chipper, always smiling, he has mc'd the international women's day, he's participating in the mini videos for URF, in the youth camp, and many other projects. A campfire is made, and many speeches by teachers and leaders are made in Ugandan.
The weekend is numerous talks on professionalism, alcohol and it's role in Uganda, the importance of education, talks on coming to maturity, and communication skills (hosted by yours truly).
Saturday night the youth showcase their dance, lip-synching, and eating talents. More than 30 youth participated in the talent show, showcasing suprisingly amazing dance moves, crowd moving gestures, and an eating contest involving bread, endizi (bananas), and a boiled egg. 4 boys entered, one boy won.
The youth end their weekend with a dance. A room with barred windows and speakers brought in from who knows where kicks off an enthusiastic event. I end my weekend with a trip to a nearby village for roadside roasted chicken.
Monday.
The aftermath.
It is a day off, I am awoken obscenely early, like always, by the cow who has not been milked, the rooster who does not know when to lay off, and the goat who loves to baa outside my window, just my window, and no other window. I take this as a sign to do my laundry, which I had neglected to do after I realized that the bucket I had picked had a hole. All other buckets were in use, and frusterated that I could not even simply wash my clothes I had left it.
Punk Rock Party with Peace, Prossy, and Patience.
I occupy my day by taking photos of baby animals, which are plentiful, but end it in a grassy field against a tree. The sun is in it's final descent, the warmth overwhelming, but the tragically hip, johnny cash, and creedance clearwater revival help me keep cool. The bugs come out and make my comfortable space unbearable. I move to the cement facade of the house and am joined by various children throughout the night. NOFX with it's upbeat, fast punk sound is most popular, followed by CCR with it's almost gospel beat. Peace, a ten year old girl living here temporarily sits beside me, a black and white striped shirt hangs over her small floral skirt. She excitedly bounces to NOFX's "it's my job to keep punk rock elite" while asking me what "by the cow who has not been milked" means. I ask her why she likes it, she replies in a sing song voice, very child like and innocent, unsure of why she needs a reason "it's gooooooooood". Beck's "the new pollution" comes on, she doesn't know what to do at the start, but the song changes and she starts to head bang in time with the song. Touches of light blue border the darkened sky. Visuals from winamp entrance Peace, she head bangs to NOFX, and the Hip. She touches the screen excitedly as colours swirl in time to the music. Patience, who normally has no patience for me, sits directly in front of me, touching the screen periodically. The battery dies, and the party ends.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Dogs and Cats
A soft mewing can be heard in the distance as the car scrapes it's undersides over rough terrain. There is no reason for the car to have gone so far off the highway, this is proven when it climbs back to the asphalt with nothing accomplished. The mewing has followed. The car stops outside of Uganda Rural Fund's Hope Academy, and the trunk is opened to allow jerry cans of water in. The mewing becomes louder, and the smallest kittens I have ever seen have apparently escaped from their cardboard prison into the trunk. They are put back in their box and the trunk is filled, then closed.
The whining of a small puppy can be heard throughout the evening. Timon is chained behind the kitchen and is sheltered by excess roof metal. Upon arrival Timon was super friendly, I would attempt to play with him, teach him not to bite, and feed him meat when I could.
Animals here are not the same as they are back home. Pets are non-existent. Puppy spas, pet sweaters, cat leashes are unheard of, and utterly laughable. Every animal has a purpose, an important purpose, and that is not to be a loving companion. Goats are eaten, cows provide milk, pigs provide pork, chickens provide eggs and meat, cats kills rodents, and dogs guard property. Dogs are generally not liked in the western sense. There is no companionship, no spoiling the dog. Dogs are kicked, and left alone, and not played with. They are considered mean, but this attitude leads them to be mean. The sad, desperate lonely pleas of the puppy on the property make my heart ache, but I do not have the means, the time, and the long term staying power to give the dog the happy, healthy lifestyle western decandency has told me dog's deserve.
The whining of a small puppy can be heard throughout the evening. Timon is chained behind the kitchen and is sheltered by excess roof metal. Upon arrival Timon was super friendly, I would attempt to play with him, teach him not to bite, and feed him meat when I could.
Animals here are not the same as they are back home. Pets are non-existent. Puppy spas, pet sweaters, cat leashes are unheard of, and utterly laughable. Every animal has a purpose, an important purpose, and that is not to be a loving companion. Goats are eaten, cows provide milk, pigs provide pork, chickens provide eggs and meat, cats kills rodents, and dogs guard property. Dogs are generally not liked in the western sense. There is no companionship, no spoiling the dog. Dogs are kicked, and left alone, and not played with. They are considered mean, but this attitude leads them to be mean. The sad, desperate lonely pleas of the puppy on the property make my heart ache, but I do not have the means, the time, and the long term staying power to give the dog the happy, healthy lifestyle western decandency has told me dog's deserve.
A wooden platform leads to a suprisingly green flowing Nile. Lush foliage on all surround the river while small birds dive in an attempt to find fish.
The Mpambo Multi-versity mini-summit is a luncheon over looking the Nile, it is supposed to be symbolic as the "cradle of civilization". A youth driven meeting, the goal is to discuss the idea of an African language-based school in an attempt to preserve and collect aboriginal people's traditional knowledge.
This was unexpected, and something that is easily relatable to the First Nations people of North America. The major difference between post colonial Uganda, and Canada is that the African people are the majority. Discussions and comparisons between the two cultures were brought up, and the general premise of the school is discussed.
Lunch was an Ox Liver on rice. It tasted similar to game meat from British Columbia.
Blanketed by shadows from various trees that remain nameless for now, the wooden plank that leads to the summit is alive with animals. Monkeys cross the path, darting only when approached, giant spiders hang patiently to the sides, birds of varied colour and species sing while flying from tree to tree.
A commotion stirs the group, Leandrea has fallen to the ground. A seizure immobilizes her as the others try to help. A short time later, she recovers her faculties and is taken to the clinic nearby. She has contracted malaria.
The meeting proceeds, and although the topic, and Leandrea's condition are serious, the situation seems surreal and ridiculous as "I like big butts" and various Will Smith songs blare in the background.
The summit comes to a close and Brendan, Attila and I are the last to leave. A wooden canoe-like boat with a canopy and an outboard motor ferries us across the nile to a small island. On the way the driver spots a Cobra and the boat is pulled around so we can take a closer look. It flows, much like the river, as it swims. Several monitor lizards, and various birds, including the Ibis, and Kingfisher, occupy an island between the shore and the island. The island is an obvious tourist destination. A shop sells various Nile, and Jinja souvenirs. A sign indicates where the Nile starts it's three month journey to the Mediteranean. Water bubbles to the surface in an eddy, five percent of the water supplied to the river comes from underground water sources. The boat is reboarded and driven to the source, a number of buildings visible on the other side of the lake house prisoners. The opposite shore is a fisherman's market.
Ice cold Cokes, hot, humid Jinja air, and warped pool tables in late night darkened bars. The powder used to dry your hands for pool smells of bad soap, and only after my green coated hands have gone through my bead do I see the warning, "Do not rub on face".
photos
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.363651723657433.79688.235272539828686&type=3
The Jinja Market.
Rows of wooden stalls contained in a gated wall, the paths intersect frequently, not unlike a city centre. The ground is muddy from the previous night's short lived rain. People call out to us with stalls of fruit, and vegetables, several men with raw meat hanging from the old wooden planks point to their wares as we walk by. Farther back the food turns to clothes and I stop to find a pair of shorts. Money is pulled out, and items purchased, suddenly we are inundated with offers of shirts, shorts, sunglasses and many other wares. Passing by stalls of tools we move over a row and double back through another section. Dozens of women sit at sewing machines working on any number of different articles. The foot driven machines click, and whir as cloth is pushed through them. The most offsetting part was the confederate flag hanging in the middle of the market. It hung, unexplained, and although curious, I did not question it.
Jinja is currently the tourist destination of Uganda, and with Cairo not being as accessible as it was, it is probably the tourist destination of Africa. Mass produced souvenirs, Mzungu t-shirts, and football jerseys blanket both sides of main street. The closest town to where I am living is home to a single "Mzungu" cafe. The one place anywhere nearby where you can get burgers, or pasta, or just non-Ugandan food that is not groceries. Jinja has dozens.
Attila and I step into an establishment in mid afternoon to play a game of pool. Attila places 500 shillings into the table as I open the metal shutters. Light floods into the dark blue room through metal bars. A child comes to the window, places his hands on the bars and gestures that he is hungry. He yells "Shoot hard, shoot hard, like this!" and gestures with his hands on how to best play. His hands go to his mouth and he says he is hungry. He is given a thousand shillings and leaves promptly. A few minutes go by and the boy is replaced by two more.
I awake early and head to the clinic to keep Leandrea company. She is doing better and in high spirits. We discuss various books and movies. The Hunger Games is supposed to be playing in Kamapala this weekend.
The hostel in Kabale houses one of the most frightening bathrooms, not because of it's cleanliness, but because of the walls themselves. Dripping words in blood red against dark black ask that you "Please keep an open mind" and end with a skull. White dripping handprints coat the ceiling, and the only source of light is a candle, making the images dance and move all on their own.
Lake Bunyoni
A few hours drive through rolling hills dotted with farms, populated by bovines, looks like it was cut right out of British Columbia and dropped into the middle of Africa. The land flattens out, a more prarie look to it, and a small creek has flooded, submerging cars, fences, homes. Those cars luckily not caught in the flood, or coming from elsewhere dodge the large bodies of water that have formed all over.
Bags are hauled down a hill to the lake, vendors sell their wares, mostly clothes and shoes, and locals tend to their boats. The plexiglass canoe like boats with small outboard motors travel across the lake for about twenty minutes. It is Yasin's first boat ride. We pass lush green islands and pull up to a small dock. Forest paths lead up to the reception area. Brick steps, wood planks snake between Eucalyptus and Guava. An open dining area is covered by grass and a conical metal roof. The cloudy sky drizzles slightly, the lake itself is warm to the touch. The dock holds several wooden lounge chairs which wobble precaioursly near the waters edge, the green paint looks to have been peeling for awhile now. A short swim away is a wooden platform afloat on blue barrels. Wasps have attemped to construct a nest underneath, but the bobbing platform slows, and probably halts their work. The platform tilts severly when someone climbs the partially submerged ladder on the side closest to the dock. A straw hut over picnic tables keeps the towels and clothes dry. The paths around the island have an extra earthly, almost fictional feel to them. Attila compares the paths and glens to Hobbit holes and Elven roads, a description that definitely suits the surroundings. As the day cools to evening the fireplace comes to life. It is large enough for a person, but houses only logs and flame. The birds who sang all day switch places with the few birds willing to be heard at night. The cloud cover shifts and lights up half the sky with stars. The cabins have no power, a candle illuminates the room.
The canoe the next morning has spear shaped oars, and 6 wooden school chairs are placed in the middle. The lake is calm. Punishment island is first, pregnant women were sent here, and sometimes single men from nearby would come to their rescue. Island number two is Leper Island, which now houses a primary, and secondary school as well as a church. It is the largest of 29 islands in lake bunyoni, and 1 of 9 occupied islands. Children in bright green and red can be seen at the shore. The mainland comes quick and the canoe plows through tall grass in the water before coming to a full stop. Another canoe lay hidden in the grass and several cows graze in a fenced in area as we climb ashore. The path up the mountain twists, and winds as the lake is left behind. A two hour hike up one side, and down the other leads to a primary school. A group of children follows our group, darting in between trees, giggling, whispering and periodically attempting to hide their pursuit. The destination is a cave that would house those hiding during periods of civil strife. The cave is about 3 feet tall, or waist height for me. I crouch and have to shuffle to fit through the opening. The cave goes about thirty feet back and it immediately warms up as we enter it. Sweat drips off my forehead as we move farther back. Exiting the cave leads us back up the mountain and the children following ask for money as the climb continues. We reach the crest of a valley and stop for lunch. Square lots dot the opposite side, layers and rows of trees crescendo at the top where the mountain meets an overcast sky.
A lone tree rises above the rest, near it is a small village that houses several blacksmiths. A small, grass roof shelter gives shade to two men and a boy. The boy pumps air into the coals to heat up the metal, the two men take the orange glowing iron to hammer, shape and cut scythes, knives, basket making tools and more. An older man with a walking stick asks for food, a small girl nearby plays with a doll made of cabbage and held together with grass, another cries and fights with her older counterpart as she is brought close to us.
Under the open dining area the fire roars again, torrential downpour drowns out the rest of the world, thunder in the distance illuminates the gray afternoon, and sideways sheets of water coat the world in wet.
Jinja Part two
Midnight passes, and night is officially morning, darkness on the streets is only broken by the occasional light outside a business. Children, no older than eight, walk through the streets with small straw brooms sweep debris and garbage into small sacks.
Crisp, post rain night air cools my skin as motorcycles bounce over roads in disrepair. The headlights dance over the potholes as we race through the night.
Kyetume: home
A bird, dark, vibrant, brilliant blue, a blue I have never seen before, swoops beside the battered highway as a semi-truck roars past. I turn my head to avoid the coming gust of wind, the grit and rock rip at my bare arms and cheeks.
Photos http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.401196053236333.87167.235272539828686&type=3
The Mpambo Multi-versity mini-summit is a luncheon over looking the Nile, it is supposed to be symbolic as the "cradle of civilization". A youth driven meeting, the goal is to discuss the idea of an African language-based school in an attempt to preserve and collect aboriginal people's traditional knowledge.
This was unexpected, and something that is easily relatable to the First Nations people of North America. The major difference between post colonial Uganda, and Canada is that the African people are the majority. Discussions and comparisons between the two cultures were brought up, and the general premise of the school is discussed.
Lunch was an Ox Liver on rice. It tasted similar to game meat from British Columbia.
Blanketed by shadows from various trees that remain nameless for now, the wooden plank that leads to the summit is alive with animals. Monkeys cross the path, darting only when approached, giant spiders hang patiently to the sides, birds of varied colour and species sing while flying from tree to tree.
A commotion stirs the group, Leandrea has fallen to the ground. A seizure immobilizes her as the others try to help. A short time later, she recovers her faculties and is taken to the clinic nearby. She has contracted malaria.
The meeting proceeds, and although the topic, and Leandrea's condition are serious, the situation seems surreal and ridiculous as "I like big butts" and various Will Smith songs blare in the background.
The summit comes to a close and Brendan, Attila and I are the last to leave. A wooden canoe-like boat with a canopy and an outboard motor ferries us across the nile to a small island. On the way the driver spots a Cobra and the boat is pulled around so we can take a closer look. It flows, much like the river, as it swims. Several monitor lizards, and various birds, including the Ibis, and Kingfisher, occupy an island between the shore and the island. The island is an obvious tourist destination. A shop sells various Nile, and Jinja souvenirs. A sign indicates where the Nile starts it's three month journey to the Mediteranean. Water bubbles to the surface in an eddy, five percent of the water supplied to the river comes from underground water sources. The boat is reboarded and driven to the source, a number of buildings visible on the other side of the lake house prisoners. The opposite shore is a fisherman's market.
Ice cold Cokes, hot, humid Jinja air, and warped pool tables in late night darkened bars. The powder used to dry your hands for pool smells of bad soap, and only after my green coated hands have gone through my bead do I see the warning, "Do not rub on face".
photos
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.363651723657433.79688.235272539828686&type=3
The Jinja Market.
Rows of wooden stalls contained in a gated wall, the paths intersect frequently, not unlike a city centre. The ground is muddy from the previous night's short lived rain. People call out to us with stalls of fruit, and vegetables, several men with raw meat hanging from the old wooden planks point to their wares as we walk by. Farther back the food turns to clothes and I stop to find a pair of shorts. Money is pulled out, and items purchased, suddenly we are inundated with offers of shirts, shorts, sunglasses and many other wares. Passing by stalls of tools we move over a row and double back through another section. Dozens of women sit at sewing machines working on any number of different articles. The foot driven machines click, and whir as cloth is pushed through them. The most offsetting part was the confederate flag hanging in the middle of the market. It hung, unexplained, and although curious, I did not question it.
Jinja is currently the tourist destination of Uganda, and with Cairo not being as accessible as it was, it is probably the tourist destination of Africa. Mass produced souvenirs, Mzungu t-shirts, and football jerseys blanket both sides of main street. The closest town to where I am living is home to a single "Mzungu" cafe. The one place anywhere nearby where you can get burgers, or pasta, or just non-Ugandan food that is not groceries. Jinja has dozens.
Attila and I step into an establishment in mid afternoon to play a game of pool. Attila places 500 shillings into the table as I open the metal shutters. Light floods into the dark blue room through metal bars. A child comes to the window, places his hands on the bars and gestures that he is hungry. He yells "Shoot hard, shoot hard, like this!" and gestures with his hands on how to best play. His hands go to his mouth and he says he is hungry. He is given a thousand shillings and leaves promptly. A few minutes go by and the boy is replaced by two more.
I awake early and head to the clinic to keep Leandrea company. She is doing better and in high spirits. We discuss various books and movies. The Hunger Games is supposed to be playing in Kamapala this weekend.
The hostel in Kabale houses one of the most frightening bathrooms, not because of it's cleanliness, but because of the walls themselves. Dripping words in blood red against dark black ask that you "Please keep an open mind" and end with a skull. White dripping handprints coat the ceiling, and the only source of light is a candle, making the images dance and move all on their own.
Lake Bunyoni
A few hours drive through rolling hills dotted with farms, populated by bovines, looks like it was cut right out of British Columbia and dropped into the middle of Africa. The land flattens out, a more prarie look to it, and a small creek has flooded, submerging cars, fences, homes. Those cars luckily not caught in the flood, or coming from elsewhere dodge the large bodies of water that have formed all over.
Bags are hauled down a hill to the lake, vendors sell their wares, mostly clothes and shoes, and locals tend to their boats. The plexiglass canoe like boats with small outboard motors travel across the lake for about twenty minutes. It is Yasin's first boat ride. We pass lush green islands and pull up to a small dock. Forest paths lead up to the reception area. Brick steps, wood planks snake between Eucalyptus and Guava. An open dining area is covered by grass and a conical metal roof. The cloudy sky drizzles slightly, the lake itself is warm to the touch. The dock holds several wooden lounge chairs which wobble precaioursly near the waters edge, the green paint looks to have been peeling for awhile now. A short swim away is a wooden platform afloat on blue barrels. Wasps have attemped to construct a nest underneath, but the bobbing platform slows, and probably halts their work. The platform tilts severly when someone climbs the partially submerged ladder on the side closest to the dock. A straw hut over picnic tables keeps the towels and clothes dry. The paths around the island have an extra earthly, almost fictional feel to them. Attila compares the paths and glens to Hobbit holes and Elven roads, a description that definitely suits the surroundings. As the day cools to evening the fireplace comes to life. It is large enough for a person, but houses only logs and flame. The birds who sang all day switch places with the few birds willing to be heard at night. The cloud cover shifts and lights up half the sky with stars. The cabins have no power, a candle illuminates the room.
The canoe the next morning has spear shaped oars, and 6 wooden school chairs are placed in the middle. The lake is calm. Punishment island is first, pregnant women were sent here, and sometimes single men from nearby would come to their rescue. Island number two is Leper Island, which now houses a primary, and secondary school as well as a church. It is the largest of 29 islands in lake bunyoni, and 1 of 9 occupied islands. Children in bright green and red can be seen at the shore. The mainland comes quick and the canoe plows through tall grass in the water before coming to a full stop. Another canoe lay hidden in the grass and several cows graze in a fenced in area as we climb ashore. The path up the mountain twists, and winds as the lake is left behind. A two hour hike up one side, and down the other leads to a primary school. A group of children follows our group, darting in between trees, giggling, whispering and periodically attempting to hide their pursuit. The destination is a cave that would house those hiding during periods of civil strife. The cave is about 3 feet tall, or waist height for me. I crouch and have to shuffle to fit through the opening. The cave goes about thirty feet back and it immediately warms up as we enter it. Sweat drips off my forehead as we move farther back. Exiting the cave leads us back up the mountain and the children following ask for money as the climb continues. We reach the crest of a valley and stop for lunch. Square lots dot the opposite side, layers and rows of trees crescendo at the top where the mountain meets an overcast sky.
A lone tree rises above the rest, near it is a small village that houses several blacksmiths. A small, grass roof shelter gives shade to two men and a boy. The boy pumps air into the coals to heat up the metal, the two men take the orange glowing iron to hammer, shape and cut scythes, knives, basket making tools and more. An older man with a walking stick asks for food, a small girl nearby plays with a doll made of cabbage and held together with grass, another cries and fights with her older counterpart as she is brought close to us.
Under the open dining area the fire roars again, torrential downpour drowns out the rest of the world, thunder in the distance illuminates the gray afternoon, and sideways sheets of water coat the world in wet.
Jinja Part two
Midnight passes, and night is officially morning, darkness on the streets is only broken by the occasional light outside a business. Children, no older than eight, walk through the streets with small straw brooms sweep debris and garbage into small sacks.
Crisp, post rain night air cools my skin as motorcycles bounce over roads in disrepair. The headlights dance over the potholes as we race through the night.
Kyetume: home
A bird, dark, vibrant, brilliant blue, a blue I have never seen before, swoops beside the battered highway as a semi-truck roars past. I turn my head to avoid the coming gust of wind, the grit and rock rip at my bare arms and cheeks.
Photos http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.401196053236333.87167.235272539828686&type=3
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Burning Snakes, Travel
A scared cry echoes in the darkness outside the house. Jaja says something through the window in hurried tones, and Martin and Caroline run outside to see. Jehan and I follow shortly after, someone on the path had killed a snake about the length of my arm. These are apparenty very dangerous. It had been stabbed through it's body with a stick. The group had brought gasoline, ro kerosene and burned the carcass to prevent smaller snakes from coming for the remains.
Yasin came to pick up Roh, Leandrea, Kirsten and myself to take us to Kampala and Jinja. About 80km out of Kampala our rear right tire popped. The tire gets changed and we arrive in Kampala. Traffic is dense, as it is the eve of Easter weekend, and following protests after the banning of a political opposition party. Loud music blares shouting praises to Jesus sounds more like a rock concert than Easter mass.
Kirstin is dropped off, and we start heading towards the taxi stand. The car dies. It seems the battery is dead. While waiting for a battery the group heads up the road to find dinner, and the car starts up again. After a particularly long light we hop in, illegally apparently, and proceed to get food.
As Jinja gets closer, semi-trucks and storage containers are a common sight. Lighting strikes in the distance, and gets louder and bright as we get closer to town.
Yasin came to pick up Roh, Leandrea, Kirsten and myself to take us to Kampala and Jinja. About 80km out of Kampala our rear right tire popped. The tire gets changed and we arrive in Kampala. Traffic is dense, as it is the eve of Easter weekend, and following protests after the banning of a political opposition party. Loud music blares shouting praises to Jesus sounds more like a rock concert than Easter mass.
Kirstin is dropped off, and we start heading towards the taxi stand. The car dies. It seems the battery is dead. While waiting for a battery the group heads up the road to find dinner, and the car starts up again. After a particularly long light we hop in, illegally apparently, and proceed to get food.
As Jinja gets closer, semi-trucks and storage containers are a common sight. Lighting strikes in the distance, and gets louder and bright as we get closer to town.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
I got stuck in Chabacuza and taxis were scarce. An hour goes by and a truck carry cows pulls over and asks where I am going. For the same price as a taxi I sit in the front of a cow carrier with a few others. As we drive by other trucks carrying bovine the driver slows, honks, and flicks his lights in a specific manner. Occasionally cow and truck slogans are yelled out the windows to fellow drivers in the night.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Taxis, Again
"The sign on the side of the taxi says "Licensed to carry 14 passengers"
A late night taxi road home made for a cramped ride when 25 people were in a 15 person van.
There are generally two staff in a 15 person van. The driver, who drives, obviously, as well as a second person who does everything else. Sitting behind the driver, they open the sliding door, organize passengers, look out the window to alert the driver either when to drop off, or pick up passengers, as well as deals with the money. The cabs go over long distances, and like buses in Victoria, the have a start and stop point, and the right cab gets the passenger where they are going. Distance matters, going from Village A to village B costs a certain amount, while A to F costs more. The taxi I take from Kyetume to Masaka generally costs 4000 shilling (I'm being overcharged, but as a mezungu it's to be expected). This is less than 2 dollars for a 40km cab ride. It costs approximately 15,000 shillings to get to Kampala, which is about seven dollars for a 4 hour drive.
When taxis are at over capacity people cram in beside each other, or in some cases sit on top of each other. I had a man behind me standing and leaning over me, while a person in front of me sat on the secondary worker. The problem I have with the taxi is that I am so tall that my head hits the ceiling, and my legs push into the seats in front of me, regardless of how I sit.
Nazareth
Sundays are spent at Nazareth Orphanage, which I've mentioned in earlier posts.
The children vary in age, but are all very excited when we visit. In addition to playing with them, the children are helped with homework, read to, and we play a number of learning, counting, and reading games.
One of the games consists of hiding bottle caps we've collected over the week. When all the bottle caps have been collected the children come to one of us, and count the caps they collected. As we arrived one child approached us excitedly to show the bottle caps she had saved during the week.
The children do not have much, and make do with what they can find. One child found entertainment with a stick and some mud, this I can relate to. Others played with wheels nailed to sticks. One toy was 4 bottle caps, attached with nails like wheels, to a cut up juice containter to make a vehicle attached to a rope. The alphabet poster on the wall has words, and pictures attached to each letter, but shoes is spelled shose.
There is a store affiliated with the orphanage that sells a number of African made products, as well as eggs that are produced at the orphanage by their chicken coop.
I intend on purchasing souvenirs for friends and family here to support the orphanage, for those of you interested in helping out the orphanage and receiving something cool feel free to message me on facebook (Gregory Forsberg) or my email at ( gforsberg@gmail.com)
Photos from this day start here:
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