Inside Kampala

The street outside Mengo Hospital gates

Once I managed to crawl out of my mosquito netting I was in a panic to get outside. It was my first morning in Uganda. The video recorder under arm I stood in awe to savour the sounds and the smells. As the morning rose the scent of charcoal wafted through the air. I heard the Marabou Storks squawking along with other birds unseen. The foliage misted in my eyes as I heard the traffic start.

I’d decided before I’d left to keep in shape I’d run and work the resistance bands. The directions for a short loop were given to me the night before. Glad I took my trail runners.

The road is rugged. Boda-bodas screaming by. The women sit side-saddle. Cars move close to the edge. I scramble for a sidewalk. Non-existent. Pedestrians watch out for traffic. Not the other way around.

The hill came to view. I was already sweating. I paid my “How are you?” respects to everyone I saw. As I started up the hill a driver of a Boda-bodas gave me a thumbs up and cheered me on. I passed other joggers. Not Ugandans.

Once I arrived home for the post-run work-out I was dripping. Welcome to Uganda. Temperature warm. It was only 7 a.m.

The day passed quickly. We’d decided to visit the city centre.

Getting there was interesting. A scenic tour it was not. If I were to retrace my footsteps I wouldn’t know where to start. The five of us had piled into a 12 passenger van. A Ugandan woman who sat beside me weathered a handkerchief to her face. I should of brought one of those I think to myself.

On route to Kampala (chickens on top)

We piled out onto a street. It was busier then I imagined. Crossing the street a challenge. We’d set out for a fabric store. Eventually we found it. We were told the materials were Nigerian. Some in the group were skeptical. I adored the patterns.

Our next challenge was a book store and paints for tomorrow’s Saturday Club. The dawdle around Kampala was full of colour, noisy motorcycles and cars. Street vendors surprisingly sold nick nacks from China. I was keen to experience Ugandan crafts. None to be found.

The banana ladies in downtown Kampala

The banana ladies were vibrant. They graciously walked through the streets with a load on their heads. I would later ask one if I could take her picture close-up. She refused. I discovered afterwards I’d captured her from behind.

We found an Indian restaurant and ate well. I surmised the tastiest Indian food I’ve ever had. Cost to us each in Canadian dollars $15 with leftovers to go.

Darkness soon enveloped the city. A taxi for hire to get us where we needed to go. Four in the back and two in the front. Traffic jams are common. Roadside gutters and deep, deep potholes cause diversions and in the rains stalls. In time we arrived back to Mengo Hospital and Jaajja Qwen’s Guest House. Exhausted. Full of the soot of the city. Population rumoured to be in the two million mark. The first inside of Kampala experience. 
Tomorrow I begin the Uganda Wishes journey. 

Men in Dresses and Hope

Expect the unexpected if you decide to visit Africa. Power outages are frequent and while Africa is caught up globally with an integrated mobile phone market, Internet access can be spotty. I hope to post some videos and audio when the access becomes available to me. Stay tuned!

Entebbe Airport

Welcome to Kampala

When I left Kenya en route to Entebbe and my final destination Kampala, Uganda I couldn’t help but notice the Kenyan men at the Nairobi Airport. Their dress were dresses. Elegant. Gaunt faces, but with intense character. Individuals. I boarded my final flight mulling over the awakening of the new culture I am in.

My arrival in Uganda was greeted with airport signage, “Welcome to the Pearl of Africa.”

When I stopped on the tarmac to fuddle with my camera and take a picture someone came up behind and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They’ll arrest you.”

Promptly the camera was hidden and I proceeded to exit. A VISA is required to enter the country. I had read some Ugandan etiquette before departing Canada. While many speak some English, it’s appropriate to ask “How are you?” before any other request. Deemed rude if you don’t.

I was ushered into Uganda with a smile.

While I sat at the airport waiting for my pick-up there was torrential rain. Warm rain. I got a chuckle when some lizard like creature scurried across the road.

Eventually my fellow Canadians, Martha and Kelly found me. Peter our driver exited to the car with my bags. The three of us yacking up a storm.

I’d been warned about driving in Uganda. They’re on the other side of the road. The honking is frequent and trust in your driver is paramount.

The soil is reddish. The roads full of potholes. The cars old. Motorcycles everywhere. Called Boda Bodas here. I didn’t see any sky scrapers or multi-story dwellings on the way. Lean twos and shanty towns. Colourful people idled about in doorways. My initial observation claims the women of Uganda dress up like they are going out on the town everyday. A show of fashion. Ugandan style.

At Mengo Hosptial I was showed my room and later invited to a rehearsal for what locals refer to as the Bukuli Boys or the African Hearts.

Street boys who have lost their parents to AIDS. Led by Abbey, who formerly survived the same way, they formed a brass band. I later learned they perform at various events to raise money for their school fees.

It was dusk when we arrived. Hilda, also from Canada had a suitcase of gifts for the boys. Out came a new pair of symbols. There were cheers. They’d set up chairs for us in their backyard as guests of honour. Drumsticks were next which their leader, Abbey said were hard to acquire in Africa.

Hilda Delights with the sounds of the African Hearts

But the most cheers came when the toothbrushes and the toothpaste were announced.

I’d brought my son’s elementary school instruments. Collecting dust at home. A recorder, a penny whistler and a harmonica. I don’t think they’d ever heard a harmonica. I demonstrated with laughter and cheers to compliment.

Before dusk the start of rehearsal

Once all the gifts from Canada were announced it was dark. The boys started their practice. Brass instruments with drums and symbols. They are a well rehearsed brass band. The performance included gymnastics, dancing and acrobats from the younger boys. Seventeen of them. All of whom live in a one bedroom house.

We got the tour. No power. The cooking is done outside over a charcoal pit. A large table in the living room for eating. The one bedroom equipped with two bunks beds. Not like we are used to. There are three to each bunk. In the basement, three more of three each. A couple pads in the living room for the leaders.

I was told they afforded one meal a day for the longest time. Some funds from Canada had bought them a water tank to collect the rain water. They have a field to grow some food and now a cow for milk. From their early beginnings they’ve come far. With help from Hilda and her friends and family in Canada, soon they’ll have another cow. And now they can afford up to two meals a day. Not just porridge.

Each boy had greeted us with the most unusual hand shake. Like ours but with a twist. When we went to say goodbye one of the boys come to me. I’d been introduced as Jane Victoria. He remembered me as Victoria. In his broken English he said to me, “Victoria, I will never forget you.”

Their faces lit up with smiles as we left. With a promise of a performance on Wednesday night.

Abbey had hung on to the recorder and playfully sang it to us.

What an absolute delight. My first night in Africa. 

My first experience with hope.

Africa is Awake

It was the music that made me smile. Walking aboard Kenya Airways for the second leg of my trip to Uganda, this one from Amsterdam to Nairobi. Another long one. The music lifted my soul. The tiredness faded.

I was fortunate to have a window seat. The comfort helped the time pass. Another movie. Another attempt to sleep sitting up. Then I was awakened.

The most incredible formation of colours in the sky. We were flying high. The oranges, red, greens and blues lined the distance under the wings and transported my heart. A glimpse upwards and there was a sliver of the moon.

I was over Africa. Kenya. I am in Africa.

With time in Nairobi before my flight to Entebbe I’ve sampled the coffee and bought my first pair of reading glasses.

I couldn’t help pick this book up at the Duty Free. Dead Aid Why Aid is Not Working and How There is Another Way for Africa by Dambisa Moyo.

Uganda Wishes is the hope. The positive enlightment from the Ugandan people for the world.

Reading through the Preface and Forward of this book has my brain cells ticking. There are a lot of stories to tell in Africa.

Africa is awake.

Bike Barges

Didn’t see a single fat person riding a bike in Amsterdam. Had to keep your head up. They’re everywhere. Pretty good at pointing though. Before they get up close to run you over they’ll let you know which way they’re going.

Took a chance on seeing the city on my five hour layover before my flight to Niarobi en route to Entebbe then Kampala, Uganda for the project Uganda Wishes.

There were a few rare occasions when I saw someone sporting a helmet. They must have been tourists.

Too bad I missed the family race by. Mom’s at the middle with one youngin’ on the front handlebars and two I’d say six and eight year olds clutching on to her while standing on the rat trap at the back.

The usual amount of pot aroma flowed through the streets. That’s Amsterdam. Pot pipes in the café windows with subdued patrons.

It’s been 27 years since I hung out for ten days. Holed up at the Hostel, which is still there. Not enough time to check out the Museums. But enough time to feel at home in Amsterdam.

The canals, the boats, the bikes, the handsome dutch men. Dressed with style and tall. I was in ga ga! Kind of ironic I’d watched Sex in the City 2 while in the air.

Wow though. What a touch down. Fall leaves, fresh air, beautiful people and bike barges. Now that’s Amsterdam.

Documenting Hope

How do you suppose that looks?

Tonight I saw a printout of the photograph of the starved child being hounded by a large scavenger bird - the vulture. With text at the bottom denouncing the photographer who took the picture, left the scene and then three months later committed suicide. No word on whether or not the child survived.

The picture is emotional. So were the words a young teenager typed underneath it. Something to the affect of “If you think you’re having a bad day and are upset because you can’t have what you want…”

Don’t quote me as I didn’t write it down word for word. However, I have to say that the intention vibrated into my psyche. 
While the somber emotion viewed in the picture doesn’t necessarily bring hope, the words she attached underneath it all did. Her wish was to find a way to end poverty.

The recital I’ve been rehearsing for Uganda Wishes reverberated in my noggin. I’ve said it over and over again. I want to document the hope, not the doom and the gloom and the despair. But tonight I realized the possibilities of illustrating hope are much bigger. There is inspiration in words. And power in a photograph. Put the two together and there is much, much more.

There is documenting hope.
I'll say it again... stay tuned. 
I leave tomorrow for Uganda.