Apathy Kills

I’ve been home for nearly a month now, and it’s taken me all of that month to try and sort out my feelings and thoughts about my whirlwind trip to Rwanda. The last two weeks in Africa I spent with my friend Nick; we went to Rwanda and the southernmost part of Uganda, traveling to equatorial rainforests, lakes, and mountains. But the most lasting memory I have of that trip is not getting caught in a rainstorm in a canoe, frantically trying to linearly move across the dimpled lake (but hopelessly moving in circles), nor was it being surrounded by hundreds of monkeys as they bounded tree to tree, frantically trying to escape the eerie pant-hoot of the predator chimpanzee.

No, the most impactful part of the journey was a five minute encounter with a shrunken and frail Rwandan woman. I’ve only told a few people about this; the experience remains reverent in my mind, mostly because I know they won’t fully understand. I barely do.

The trip to Rwanda started off, as most African travels start: late. In countries where time has no conceptual hold, the bus that was supposed to pick us up at midnight didn’t arrive until almost seven am. Nick and I stayed amused ourselves by buzzing his hair and watching the horrified expressions of the night guard as the fluffy red hair drifted past him. When the “plush” bus rolled the sun had started peaking over the hills, Nick was bald, I was tired and grumpy, and we were both hungry. Our reclining seats were backed by stacked luggage, thus not really reclining. Sunlight streamed in through the moth eaten curtains. And believe it or not, this was one of the best bus rides I’d had!

15 hours later the Rwandan hills opened up to one of the one infamous African capital cities: Kigali. The “Land of a 1,000 hills” cradles its capital with grace. No smog hugs the landscape, the streets purified from heaps of trash and beggars, so unlike Uganda. While walking through the main square (this looked like a small city in the US, complete with jumbo-trons!) I turned to Nick.

“Something is wrong- where are all the children?”

“I guess, like, school maybe”. Weird… this was definitely not Uganda.

We left the next day southbound towards Ngyunge National Park. The bus station actually had a schedule and we each got out owe seat- truly luxurious. And as we coasted through the windy hills and pristine countryside, a lecture from one of my professors kept coming to mind. The first day of class this professor had handed everyone a sheet of blank paper and several crayons. She told us to “draw development”. Was it towering skyscrapers? 6 lane highways and fuel efficient cars? A fair judicial system? Or maybe advanced healthcare?

Most of the class drew just that; developed technology, differing symbols of democracy, improved health and sanitation. No answer was wrong of course, but my professor told us to hold on to those pictures and contemplate the different meanings of our drawings throughout the course. Six months later I found myself driving through an “underdeveloped country” that had those 6 lane highways, cleaner streets and a more effective system of waste management than the US. It had flat screen televisions, towering commercial banks, and not a homeless person to be seen. Is THIS truly development I wondered? The world now totes Rwanda as a “developmental success” raising its GDP to new heights. But does anyone remember 1994? Lasting memories of the genocides still haunt the countryside; genocide perpetrators don pale pink jumpsuits to “pay back their country” by farming and such. It’s the most bizarre feeling to drive by the roadside workers and contemplate how many children that man killed. He waves, knowing what you’re wondering.

On our way to the national park Nick and I decided to visit the notorious Gikongoro Memorial, a technical school high in the mountains, encircled by a heavenly halo of clouds. During the genocide, this school was profiteered as the last safe haven for persons fleeing the Hutus. Of course at that point the radio was unknowingly controlled by Hutus and Tutsi traitors, despite their fatherly message, a feat hardly a rarity towards the end of the 100 days of horror. Priests set ablaze their entire congregations, landlords locked their tenants in, uncles and cousins gave away positions of hiding. I watched a video where one interviewed women noted that “95% of people are evil enough to be persuaded to act. You just have to pray your friends and family are part of the other 5%”. This woman had her entire family stuffed down a well.

With no one to trust, nowhere to run, the Tutis fled to the mountain top, crowding into the small classrooms of the technical institute. The entire operation was a trap. French soldiers had surrounded the school, but not to protect the terrified Tutsis. The French were there to “support the majority” to “protect democracy”. In other words, their mission, as stated by the French mission commander was to “secure the way for the Hutus”.

Secure they did. When the Hutus came flocking to the hillside, clubs and machetes wheeling, the French soldiers set up a volleyball court. And listened to the screams. What followed was one of the worst massacres within the genocide. Over 150,000 men, women and children were slaughtered, stuffed into 10 x 10 classrooms.

When reconstruction started, the memorial committee decided that some horrors should never be enclosed in pretty caskets with marble plaques. Some horrors need to be displayed, for the entire world to see. So instead of burying the masses, they preserved the bodies- as is- in lime. Now and forever, the bodies lay frozen in time, the look of terror still stretched on their faces, mother’s still clutching children, and fathers still shielding their families. It’s all there, and always will be, for the world to see.

Visiting the memorial became the most life changing experience I’d ever encountered. Tears flowed as I walked room to room. Somber. Unmoving. There were babies with crushed skulls, thrown against the concrete walls. Children with their thumbs still in their mouths. Dried blood, decayed skin. The peaceful hills cradled its secret well, the warm breeze whisking the rotten smell away, the sun warming the cold rooms. A caretaker took us room to room, until I couldn’t take it anymore. No more rooms I told him, I can’t see anymore.

No, he said, you have to see one more. The door creaked open under his keys, the now familiar smell of rot wafting out. I stepped into the darkened room, my eyes slowly adjusting. When they did though, I wish they hadn’t. An entire room filled with skulls, hundreds even, filled my graze. All were broken, crushed, and smashed. Some still had bits of hair clinging to their surface. They were lined up, neatly, making rows, columns, diagonals, and piles.
I walked outside, completely overcome with emotion. I sat down on the steps, gasping for clean air, my shoulders shaking with emotion. Staring out over the green hills, I cried for the children, the potential untapped that they had held. Why Rwanda? It could have happened anywhere, a classic case of ethnic minority becoming the economic majority. Juxtaposition that with a catalyst of global apathy and…

I felt a tiny, cold hand on my shoulder. Through my tears I saw a tiny Rwandan woman, stooped with age, standing over me. Her eyes were wet too. She had a scarred gash in her shoulder and limped as she knelt next to me. She put her arm around my shaking shoulders and squeezed. She didn’t speak English, and she didn’t need to. I knew what she meant as she leaned over and wiped my tears. We sat like that for some time, the breeze blowing, both shedding tears for those who could no longer.

Hand in hand we walked back to the road, silent, both of us still overcome with emotion. In African culture, holding hands conveys a message of love and respect. Of Friendship. That women, in that one moment, conveyed a lifetime of love, of pain, and healing. Her message, Rwanda’s message, to me and the world was crystal clear.
The genocide was calculated. It was never a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake the United Nations ignored a fax sent by the UN Rwandan Director showing an uncovered cache of machetes. It wasn’t a mistake that the Belgium “Peace Keeping Force” totaled 6 men. It wasn’t a mistake that the French soldiers were playing volleyball.

And you. It isn’t a mistake if you didn’t know about any of this before. You’re the one that turns on MTV instead of the news. You’re the one that pays $7 for Cosmo magazine but won’t buy a true account of a genocide survivor. That little bubble of frivolous fashion and superfluous selfishness is more comforting than the truth. Go ahead; fool yourselves that what you’re doing and buying brings any change to the status quo, that your actions only affect you because apathy kills.

I believe we can only credit the world’s current estate to us, the consumers. So if you want to make a difference, well, start caring for once. Rwanda is in the past, but incidences like Rwanda are still occurring across the globe. Darfur for one. In fifteen years will one of you be touring a genocide memorial for Darfur, and wonder why; why didn’t we do something? Will it be too late? Will the world once again, have to pledge “Never Again”???

Educate yourself. Educate others. We CAN do something.

This is it!

I guess this is it; I leave for home in three days. After 16 weeks, three national parks, two countries, and countless lessons, it’s all over. I’ve lived out of my suitcase, slept on the floor, and taken approximately ten different forms of transportation. I’ve eaten grasshoppers and chicken ovaries. I’ve fetched hundreds of buckets of water, gone a week without showering, and used all of the baby wipes I’ve brought. Sometimes I’ve been really scared; other times I’ve been so unbelievably happy I’ve cried. The people I’ve met along the way have touched my heart forever, the memories I’ve made will last a lifetime. I’ve figured out a lot about myself, life, and love. The one thing I haven’t figured out though is how to leave, or how to say goodbye to the country, people, and friends who’ve changed my life.

Right now I’m sitting next to my best traveling buddy Nick, waiting for our bus to leave Kabale and begin the very long and bumpy ride to Kampala. While the ride is only around 160 miles, it somehow takes a whooping 8 hours of tortuous starting and stopping. At one point, there are these thick speed bumps, placed every 50 feet, for about 5 miles. In the middle of nowhere, you suddenly find yourself flying though midair as the shock-less bus hurtles over them. It’s always a favorite part of the journey. Ladies, if you ever travel to Africa, pack your most intense sports bra; it comes in handy if you don’t want to be smacked in the face by God’s blessing while you travel over the precarious roads.

We’re returning from our whirlwind two week adventure through
Rwanda and southern Uganda. Tents and backpacks heavy, we even cooked our own food at points, shivering over our burnt rice and a pitiful fire. In the equatorial rainforest, it’s the wet season, meaning it rains at least once a day a drizzling cold rain. All of my clothes are varying degrees of dampness, as the persistent cloud cover prevents anything from ever drying.

But Rwanda was amazing. Such a different culture! Within a hundred yards of the Ugandan border, the yelling stopping, men stopped harassing me, and the children beggars disappeared. The smoldering piles of rubbish that decorate the Ugandan roads were absent. I suddenly felt underdressed in my baggy pants and tank top since women and men clicked around in shiny shoes and smart looking clothes. I got on the bus, the conductor actually gave me the correct change back- go figure! There is definitely more to say about that cultural adventure, but the bus is getting bumpier and passengers are gawking at my tiny computer, so it’s probably best to put it away.

I’ll be home in three days; I still can’t believe it.

A Grassroot Christmas :]

While staying in Jinja I’ve become affiliated with Grassroots Uganda, an umbrella organization that partners with beading groups and craft markets here in Uganda in order to export them to a “mzungu market” in America and Europe. The organization maximizes fair trade and empowers many women groups with business development and artistic skills. It transforms the lives of impoverished mothers, allowing them to pay school fees for their children, pay rent on a better home, or pay for medical expenses when they’re sick.

Many of these women are from the war torn northern part of Uganda, often widowed, unskilled from living generations in broken down refugee camps. Other women are HIV positive. Others had the courage to leave an abusive home life. Still others are the only income provider for them and their children.

The women’s creations goes beyond the average paper bead; quite simply, these women rock! I’ve had the pleasure to visit them during work, to see over 72 women feverishly rolling beads, several sewing machines humming, several others pouring water in the tall steamer to tie-dye scarves. It’s an unbelievable sight!

When I was in Northern Uganda, I visited a branch of Grassroots Uganda in Kitgum. These women were the hardest hit in the civil war that ravaged the country for the past 20 years. Every woman in that group was a widow; every woman had lost at least one child, stolen for child soldiering, never to return. One woman in the group was pregnant, and the other women jealously patted and rubbed her stomach. I literally could see the ghosts of war in their eyes. Their beads brought them hope, potential for a better life. There are no trading markets for miles around up north; even so, what Ugandan would buy paper beads? These women truly depend on the foreign market.

Their hard work manifests itself in their wallet. One of the women, Sarah Okello, lives behind me. She’s a widow, from Northern Uganda, and HIV positive. Sarah has two teenage boys and a small adopted girl around 6 years old. She used to rely on the income of her husband, and when he passed from AIDS, Sarah decided she needed to take charge of her and her children’s future. She now owns the duplex I live in, bought with the profits from her bead making. She can now pay for her two boys to go to boarding school and can afford to get her HIV treatment. Oh, the power of beads.

After visiting these women, both in Kitgum and Jinja, I knew I wanted to get involved. I saw the power of fair trade first hand, and I saw the potential market these items could hold. Since then I’ve connected the Magamaga Crafts Association, which holds over 400 members, to the Jinja representative of Grassroots. Currently, this specific group lacks the business skills as well as the thriving market to profit from their art. My hope is that Grassroots will be able to take Magamaga under their wing and begin to improve their situation as they have done for so many other groups.

Beyond that however, I think that all these crafts could hold a huge market in the US, beyond what is currently being sold. I think the younger generation holds more economic power than most credit. If these products could be sold on University campuses, in a local market or popular clothes store, I believe they would not only prosper, but that people would become impassioned with the idea behind the beads. We have so much- why are we cheating the rest of the world out of fair trade?

So on December 19th, my family and I will be hosting a fair trade party to sell these items that these women make. I would invite all of you reading this to please join me in celebrating the true spirit of the holidays; no one needs your purchase more than these women, and in return, you will receive a beautiful handmade item- all the way from Africa! I hope to see many of you there- especially since I haven’t seen all of you in four months!!!!

Green Light, Red Light

Tomorrow is my last day at my internship. I can’t stop crying, unable to come to terms with the very real fact that at best case scenario, I won’t be back in Magamaga for another couple of years. Worst, I may never be back. I may never see Wambi’s cartoon smile or hear Mose’s chuckle. I will never smell the sickly sweet smell of burnt sugar cane or get sticky molasses stuck to my sandals as it drips from the carrier trucks, rumbling down the highway. The view from our SACCO is amazing; miles upon miles of rolling sugar cane, a patchwork of other greens mixed in. And as I stood there today, I started to cry thinking that I may never see this sight with my own eyes again.

I’ve grown to love Baitambogwe and the gentlemen I work with. I’ve learned so unbelievably much, but I feel like I have so much more to accomplish. All I keep thinking is… it’s not time. It’s not time for me to leave them, I still have so much to learn and so much to teach. It seems that just as we got a computer and the electronic files up and running, I’m leaving. Thanks to my friends and family, I am leaving them with prepaid computer classes so they can progress beyond my beginner level of Excel, but regardless, it’s just not my time to leave.
I’m not sure if they need me or I need them.

Today I was talking to Moses about transport money and the prepaid internet I am also giving to the SACCO (there are still a lot of problems in our formatting and formulas, so I’m going to go home and work on them and I want him to have the capital to be able to email the files back and forth). Moses was smiling, so widely you could see his molars. He clasped my hand, hard, shaking repeatedly, telling me how grateful he was at the opportunity to attend computer school. Excitement literally excreted from his persona; the chance to learn for free remains the greatest gift to the Baitambogwe men. I’m so blessed to be able to give it to them. Moses told me this:

“Shalayne, you know there are red lights and green lights. Red lights tell you to stop, but green tells you to go ahead. You’re my green light Shalayne. You’re our green light.”

I left today thinking that all I want to do in life is become someone else’s green light. There are too many red lights to progress here, too many people and institutions and cultural barriers that tell you “no” you can’t achieve your dreams. In America, even as children, we are told we can do anything, be anyone, accomplish anything and everything because the sky is the limit. Limits in Africa though, abound more than opportunities. I’ve asked many Ugandan children and teenagers what they want to be when they grow up. Most just shrug, unknowing perhaps of the possibilities. Some say a farmer, others a taxi driver. No firemen or doctors. I just want to look them in the eye and tell them that they can do anything they dream, but I know as well as they do that unless they were born into a family that can provide a lighted future, their road to success will be halted more often than not by all those “red lights”.

I think we should all try to be a “green light”, even if just to one person.

Death in Africa

How death is perceived and talked about here in Uganda is drastically different from the western culture. It’s not spoken in the same somber tones, and people certainly don’t wear black to burials. It is not appropriate for women to see the dead man, nor is it appropriate for men to shed any tears. Everything is different and I only needed a few encounters with death to tell me that…

This young woman came into our SACCO one day, visibly upset. She quietly cried and rocked as she sat on the bench waiting to be seen by our busy staff. She was alone, and since I wasn’t doing terribly much, I decided to try and approach here.

We did the customary greeting- which I have no idea how to even write out because the syllables here are hardly phonetic. The greeting includes a lot of “mmmm’s” and “eeee’s” that bounces back and forth between the two people for about thirty seconds as its established how the other is, as well as their home and family.

Well the woman said she was “fine” although everyone says they are fine all the time (in fact, you don’t even have to ask someone how they are; they might just say “hello, I am fine”). I proceeded to ask the woman why she was crying, was there anything I could do? It was clear the woman hardly spoke English, but I think I was able to convey my concern.

“I lost my mother” she sniffled. The handkerchief came out of her bosom as she wiped fresh tears. Oh dear, I hardly have any idea how to console someone on this matter in my own culture, let alone this one. I gave her a quick hug and told her I would keep her in my prayers.

After, I went to the market to get some lunch and being the American I am, I decided that maybe food would comfort her. Heck, I didn’t know what else to do. When someone dies at home, everyone makes a casserole. Maybe when people die here you bring bananas. I don’t know, but I thought it worth a shot. So several bananas and some chapatti later, I headed back.

I handed the wrapped food to the young woman, who smiled and thanked me. She looked so cheerful all of sudden! Ah, I thought, the power of food. Thank you American culture. As the woman tore into the chapatti she looked up and told me that she would like me to meet her mother. Would I like to see her?

Well, I wasn’t so sure I could stomach a corpse, not that I had much of a choice as the woman, mouth full of bananas now, grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the SACCO. She directed me back towards the market, as we crouched, running, under the sagging tin roof stopping in front of a dilapidated collection of sticks and propped up rust, sheltering clumps of tomatoes and avocadoes. An old, wrinkled woman lay in the corner, shrouded by shade and wrapped in a tattered shawl, her continence collecting in a pile of wrinkles. “That is my mother” the woman said. Unmoving, the body buzzed with some flies, the rotten smell of the vegetables and fruit and (probably the body I thought) stinging my eyes. Oh gross, I had to get out.

All of sudden, the old woman gave a snort, shuddered, and rolled over. I jumped out of my skin! Pretty sure corpses are not supposed to snore.
Long story short, the woman had “misplaced” her crazy mother not “lost her” as used in my frame of reference. Later, her son had found the crazy bat hiding up in a mango tree. And no, I’m not making this up.

Another time a member of our SACCO passed away in a horrible motorcycle accident leaving behind his three wives and some 18 children. In order to represent the family of Baitambogwe, Moses, Sempa Mohammad, and I got on our rickety bicycles used for field visits, and trucked our way in the rain out to the village of the deceased.

Our journey slowed as we joined the trickled of people heading to the burial, the rain pounding the silty dirt into muddy submission. The wheels sank 4 inches in muck, several people joining the line to make the once small trickle into a pounding procession. The mud churned, I slipped as the Ugandans confidently strolled.

Up ahead I could hear wailing, sobbing, moaning even. Hundreds of people now joined us, all streaming towards the crescendo of sorrow. This was ridiculous, I thought, as I looked around the nearly hundreds of people surrounded me. There is no way this guy new everyone here.

Yet hundreds there were, all dressed in their brightly colored poufy dresses, hair wrapped, children on back. The men walked on, leading the procession. I could hear screaming up ahead, the kind that jerked you awake and split your ear drum open. Several women around me started crying, the terrorizing scream ahead let out a long winded cry.

We finally all emptied out into a circle of huts; looking down on the small crowd I could see were all the noise was coming from: a brightly colored pocket of women stood in the middle of black-clothed men. A circle formed, 3 women sat in the center.

But I shouldn’t say sat, because this woman anything but sitting. Thrashing about as if possessed, they screamed and moaned in a rhythmic manner, clawing at their dresses, flinging their arms about. Their bodies swung back and forth in time to the sobbing. They clutched their hair, almost pulling it out. My skin prickled, their faces contorted. This was insane!

Moses held out his arm, stopping me. I stood questioningly in the mud.

“Women aren’t allowed past this point. You can’t see the body. Just stay here while Sempa and I go bury.”

Stay here with the woman? I looked back; about a hundred women now circled the three main stars (later I found out they were his wives) all pulsing and adding the occasional “OhWEEEE!”

“Can they make an exception?” I whispered to Moses. “I don’t really know if I should stay, I don’t really know what to do”.

“Nonsense, you’ll be fine. Just be sad”. Ok, be sad. Yeah, thanks Moses. I looked around at the group of woman, now singing, pulsing collectively.

Probably the longest ten minutes of my life. None of the women spoke English. I awkwardly stood amongst their sorrow. One of the screamers passed out and had to carried out past me.

Later, Moses explained to me that in the Lusogo culture you are only given one day to grieve; one day to cry, to release all your pain. Because tomorrow, the garden needs to be tended to, the children’s school fees paid for. Often the women lose the only means of support and are left with several children to try and provide for. All of sudden the crazy crying woman didn’t look so crazy after all; I think anyone would have a breakdown of epic proportions if faced with what these women were faced with.

NO NO NO NO! I don’t wanna go!!!

Coming upon the end of my internship leaves me with mixed feelings. I can’t wait to see my family, my friends, my man :] But goodness, I can’t picture not living here. I can’t picture eating home food, or driving in a car, or going to Walmart. It was so easy to adjust here; as if I belonged here my whole life. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes I feel like I fit in more here than I do at home. I love Uganda.

Now I’m going back to a place where no one will understand what I’ve been doing for four months, or worse, they might think it was just “so great” of me to give my time. But it wasn’t, and I know that.

I think going home will be very overwhelming, especially going home during Christmas, the time where Americans ooze selfishness and breed greed wrapped in the warm camouflage of “giving”. It’s all so complicated. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to take it all in, the excessive everything. Too much food, too much activities, too much family feud. Just too much!

I wish we could all live a little more like Africa. I just don’t want to leave. :’(

Besides- it just got to be mango season. Double sad face, because those suckers are AMAZING!

Computer Revolution!

As maybe some of you read- or not, I don’t know- I’m trying to help the management team at my microfinance institution enroll in computer classes. They were able to retain, with their own funds, a second hand computer preinstalled with all the Microsoft programs. Moses, the manager, dreams of being able to convert all the mechanical paperwork into spreadsheets, eliminating numerous mistakes and producing monthly expenditure and income reports at the click of a button.

I REALLY believe that these gentleman have all the necessary tools to make this SACCO amazing; they are the most dedicated and hardworking team I have even had the pleasure of knowing. I’ve learned so incredibly much from working with them, and at my departure, I would love to be able to enable them to further better the institution by helping them with their technological dream.

Here is where you come in:] I found computer classes for $80 in Jinja that would be able to teach all the Microsoft programs and aid in beginning the transition between paper to computer. This money is unheard of to these humble men – it’s about 3 months’ salary to them. What I’m trying to do is pay for the class for the manager and the cashier, who deal with the reports most often.

This would mean the world to them, and me. When I told Moses I was trying to help him pay for the class, he teared up and thanked me. He told me it took him until he was 30 years old to graduate high school because he would only have the funds to pay for one year of schooling at a time. Then he would work for one year, go to school for one year. He told me if he could take that computer class as soon as possible, he would teach the rest of the SACCO board how to also use it and perhaps they could start running computer classes for their members.

Moses has an amazing dream; he’s so brilliantly smart. Please help me help him take this class. I know he’ll do amazing works with this opportunity. Any donation you could make would be immensely appreciated. Thank you all!

Safari Awesomeness

After much lamenting and watching the calendar quickly eat up my remaining time left in Uganda, I decided to dip deeply in my wallet and go on a stereotypical African safari. The whole weekend, which included a game drive, a jungle cruise up the Nile, and rhino tracking, totaled $285- with lodging and all transport included. Quite the steal in hindsight, although handing over roughly close to 600,000 shillings almost caused a small aneurism at the time.

The safari was up in the north western corner of Uganda, miles away from where the Nile begins in journey down south in Jinja and up where it crosses the border into Sudan. The northern land we drove towards turned the landscape from green to yellow. Uganda is incredibly diverse; where the south is wet and lush, the north is dry and grassy. It allows rainforests and savannahs, lions and mountain gorillas, all in the same country. Which is probably why Winston Churchill coined it as the “Pearl of Africa”, something any Ugandan will proudly tell you.

I was about to pop with excitement the whole way up, bouncing in my seat and humming “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” remixed in my own fashion with “Akuna Matata”. Several times I turned to Nick and did the ritual: “Guess what?” What? “WE’RE IN AFRICA!!!” Sometimes moments like these just hit you like that and that’s the only conscious thought that arises, and with all the buzzing anticipation, indeed that was the only clear thought I could form.

The van lurched to a stop several times, allowing various monkeys and baboons to cross the road, sometimes hairy warthogs (hello Pumba!).
Once, there was a Black Mamba in the way- one of the most poisonous snakes in the world. Another time a 3ft lizard darted across; that time, I totally screamed. This was all so surreal!

That night we climbed to the top of the waterfall, where the Nile River gushes through 6ft and zigzags down several gorges, the sheer force of the falls sending mist spraying hundreds of feet in the air as crocodiles snapp at the foamy bottom. We spent the night in thick-skinned tents with a gas lantern flickering and casting shadows. We could hear the snapping and heaving padding of hippos grazing in the campsite; I wanted to go out and see them, but hippos kill more people a year than any other animal- don’t mess with the fat kid’s cake! You step on the grass that hippos planned on eating and you’re dead. So needless to say, me and my full bladder spent the entire night in the tent.

The next morning we headed out before sunrise for our game drive. The gorgeous orange and pink sun glowed over the savanna, kissing the earth and bathing it golden. Giraffes paraded around, picking the little trees clean. Gazzelles and hartbucks galloped around and waterbuffalo mozzied around with little white birds on their head to pick off their bugs.

Our driver’s cell phone clattered and after barked a few directives, he yelled at us to sit down and stay put. I popped my head back into the vehicle none too soon (seeing as I had been sitting on the roof to better see the baby giraffe) as the van lurched forwards at an alarming speed. We reached three other vans, all huddled around the dirt road, the occupants out with their binoculars. A lioness and her two cubs had just passed; we just missed them.

Our driver took one look at our crestfallen faces and told us to buckle up, threw the clutch in, and catapulted that van over the side of the road and into the unpaved wilderness. Over boulders and 6ft tall grasses he sped, daring the lion to run faster than he drove.

And suddenly, there she was. She growled in anger at having her habitat intruded, gathering her stumbling babies under her. The little cubs were so tiny! They could hardly walk in the tall grass and kept tripping over the tumbleweeds at which point the mom would look back and seemingly roll her eyes as she doubled back to push them faster. At one point, little Simba realized there were all these strange creatures looking at him, and he crouched, roaring a tiny roar that only scared the grasshoppers. Exasperated, the lioness shook her head and nudged the little guy forward so hard he did a summersault. So cute!

The definite highlight of the weekend though, was sneaking up behind two gianormous rhinos, watching them graze and turn huffily on us. Sheer terror. That’s what I felt: those things are huge! They’re almost as big as an elephant, only with a pointed horn that looks like it could shish-ka-bob me with an accidental sneeze. Looking angry and shuffling their feet, our guide yelled at us to stand back while calling out to the rhino, trying to calm it. I prepared to run- I wasn’t entirely secure enough to put my faith in a rhino whisperer.

In the end, they calmed down and we were able to get even closer to them, probably about 20 ft away. Rhinos were hunted out of Uganda and are now being bred back into the wild from immigrant rhinos from Kenya and the US. In fact, a Kenyan male and a US female had a baby rhino and the sanctuary named him Obama, which I thought was clever. I’ve never felt much fond feelings for the thick skinned beasts, and I can’t firmly say I now love them, but I at least respect them. It remained a very humbling experience to walk up so close to the animals.

All in all, the weekend was spectacular, money well spent. No matter how long I’ll live, I’ll never forget the smell of rhino breath, or the sound of a hippo crashing into the water. Sometimes I simply can’t believe I’m in Africa, after years of saving and working. I’m just so happy to be here :]

Computer Aid to Africa

This past week I’ve been dedicating every waking hour (and many fitful dreams) to one purpose: helping my SACCO convert their accounting system into the 21st century. I returned the other week to Baitambogwe to find Moses excitedly hooking up an ancient looking monitor to an even older computer system, yellowed with age and neglect. He explained he bought the computer second hand so that the SACCO could convert all of their member files into digital form, rendering more accurate accounting and easier monthly reports.

Sounds like a fantastic idea; what better way to connect the SACCO to better money management than to digitalize their system? Except for one small problem: the overall computer knowledge of the management team is about that of the average American second grader, leaving me with the monumental task of not only converting the files, but educating the SACCO as to how to maintain the records. Some of these men have never used a computer, let alone Microsoft Excel. Moses has taken a few classes, and generally knows his way around computer basics, but he’s completely lost when it comes to entering formulas. In fact, he’s completely lost when it comes to the algebra required!

The one mathematician of the SACCO has never used a computer; the one computer savvy member never graduated 6th grade. And now I’m supposed to change the entire system into a computer format, when I myself, haven’t used Excel since high school. I tried telling them I wasn’t the person to ask, that a large percentage of my computer knowledge consists mainly of instant messaging and uploading pictures…but the message was largely lost and the task of converting the files again fell firmly on my shoulders.

The overwhelming task and the pressure put on me to complete it all before I leave has sent me into fits of stress and tears. I know they’re expecting miracles, a brand new system that flawlessly works and calculates all their figures for them. I know they’re expecting something that will take care of all the mistakes and contradicting paperwork and allow them to run monthly reports at the click of a button. I know they think that I can do all of this (because they’ve told me) but the fact of the matter is I have never accomplished a project of this nature. Me? Accounting? Math? If they only knew I dropped honors pre-calc back in high school, flunked the physics test I prepared for two years for, and passed college algebra only because it was online and open book. My primary interest in microfinance is the human impact, the ability to change lives and empower woman. Hand me a calculator and force me to run the numbers of the business, and I’ll be more than lost.

Not that it would matter anyway; I’m still more qualified than them- scary as that is. I have little over two weeks to convert over 367 files and find a program that can connect each member’s records so that monthly and annual reports can be run without opening 367 different documents. I think Microsoft Access is the best program for this, although my knowledge on this program is even less than Excel. Thankfully, I have my dear step-father toiling over the project back in the states. I figure if I can at least implement a “locked” version of a member’s file, with all the correct calculations, then they can enter the data without me. I’m still unsure how we’ll connect all the files, but I have faith that something will work out.

I’m excited that I’ve been given such an opportunity to help. I really think Baitambogwe can accomplish some amazing things if given the right opportunity. The management team is very empowered to continually progress and better the institution. They all crowd around the computer, eager to learn, as I try to explain how a computer works, what the internet is, or how, when you push the keyboard, the letters show up “like magic” on the screen. They’re so excited! Hopefully I’ll be able to make a lasting impact by aiding them in bettering the SACCO and pushing the institution into the technological age. I feel like I’m giving them the tools to their own future, and to see the excited looks on their faces is truly very rewarding.

My last plea: I’ve decided I would like to give these gentleman a proper education on computers, especially on the accounting programs we’re implementing in the SACCO; Excel, Access, and even Word. It’s very difficult to dedicate my full attention on teaching them the basics when I’m working so hard to educate myself as to what would be the best program for the member’s files. Many of these gentlemen lack the very basic computer skills you and I take for granted; therefore I find myself an inadequate teacher. I have found a computer class in Jinja that teaches basic computer skills, and even more detailed courses on the above programs. The cost for these programs is USD $80.

I’m trying to find the money to be able to send Moses (the manager), the cashier, and the three loan officers to these classes. For them, the money is out of reach and the SACCO simply doesn’t have enough assets to provide them with the training. If anyone is interested in donating towards the cause, please contact me at Shalayne.Pillar@gmail.com or send checks to my family at 11433 E. Ramona Ave. Mesa, AZ 85212. They will ensure the money gets to me; I will pre-pay for the classes and give the management team money for transportation to Jinja.

I hope some of you out there reading this feel the need to help! I think it would truly empower them to succeed and better the SACCO. These men are quite remarkable and would devour the chance to become educated. Thank you!!!!

Penetrating the Impenatrable

Deep in the southwest corner of Uganda, bordering the dark mist of the Congo and the shadows of Rwanda, there’s a forest reminiscent only of Tarzan and Mighty Joe Young: the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. And impenetrable indeed, seeing as getting there took two days and five means of very sketch third-world public transportation to get there. Nothing could have been more trying, stressful, at times dangerous…and yet so unbelievably rewarding.

The forest is known for housing some the world’s last mountain gorillas and tourists flock from around the world to grab one of the prized $500 permits to allow them to track the primates. Unfortunately, I was just about $400 short of obtaining one of those permits so my poor ass decided it would at least be worth it to go and see a rainforest. I mean, I live in the desert; a bonafide rainforest, south of the equator is just too tantalizing to pass up. Little did I know that most of the world travelers who can afford a pass, can also afford a private safari bus that carts them up the mountain in cushy seated jeeps with AC- something else I not afford.

So early Thursday morning (and I do mean early since it was clearly still dark as night), I pealed myself off my all too comfy thin foam mattress to hop on a dirty matatu headed for Kampala. As the sun rose over the rolling green hills, I chugged behind sugar cane trucks that sputtered black smoke. Kampala traffic slowed our trip down considerably; that is until our driver proceeded to go off road around the lines of cars, narrowly squeezing between the stand still traffic and the edge of the cliff, dangerously tilting the entire matatu at a 45 degree angle. The unpaved road jarred the van as we sped past the law abiding cars on the road.

We stopped to fill up with gas as the driver left the van running, lighting a cigarette while leaning against a pole painted with the “no smoking” and “turn off engines” warnings. Images of Hollywood style explosions that catapulted the van sky high imploded in my imagination as the rumbling van gurgled with the injected petrol. Leg one of the journey couldn’t end quick enough for me as I thanked my lucky stars I survived.

The taxi dropped us off at the main park which covered itself in smog, hundreds upon hundreds of matatus squeezed into less than a square mile. It wasn’t more than two minutes of walking through that mess that someone pulled our arms “Where are you going mzungu? Where to?”

Well we wanted to go to Kihihi; from there the plan was to continue on to Bohoma, the district housing Bwindi Park. We thought this plan would be the best, although we were relying completing on our paperbacked guide books that we carried around like Bibles.

So our arm-grabbing leader (who gets paid under the table to direct people to their employers buses) dragged us across the street towards the parked coach buses where in broken English, we figured out that he had taken us to a bus that was indeed going to Kihihi. We overpaid but hardly cared as we sat exasperated in the back of the bus. An hour later it rumbled away from Kampala and towards the west.

Ten hours later, we were still not in Kihihi as the bus headed suspiciously more north than west. Passengers slowly emptied out along the way as Nick and I grew more and more nervous in the back of the bus, sun setting, and having no idea where we were. I had woken up covered in exhaust fumes that seeped through the floor above the emitting pipes. Slightly surprised I hadn’t died of carbon monoxide poisoning, I looked like I had been mining coal- not that Nick told me mind you; he preferred to laugh as I pushed my greasy hair off my sweaty forehead. My eyebrows ashy, my eyes glued shut with soot, I looked a complete, blackened, mess! No amount of babywipes cleared the black gunk out of my pores. Nick roared with laughter as I gave up and resigned to my filthy state. At this point, I just wanted off this stupid bus.

Finally the bus driver pulled up to a dusty town of unpaved roads. The driver got up and gestured to us in the back. “This is not Kihihi”, he yelled (no shit). “But I will give you to my brother. I will give him money. He will bring you to that place”. The driver waved some money and motioned for us to get our bags. We really don’t have too many options so we did as told and grabbed our bulky backpacks from the overhead, stepping down from the shaky bus onto shaky legs. Our next form of transport waited.

A rusty pickup truck jammed with 10 other people, a goat, and about 8 banana stems sat in front of us. I turned to Nick, laughing to keep from pretty much freaking out.

“Seriously? We’re supposed to fit in there?” I looked up towards the mountains, a switchback road barely visible as it disappeared into the golden clouds ahead. The whole truck looked like it was one good speed bump away from falling apart at the hinges, the bed visibly weighed down with the drunken men that now yelled towards us to come over. Nick shrugged and hefted his bag over the edge, pulling me up to the truck. We didn’t really have any choice if we wanted to reach Kihihi before dark.

We found a tiny spot to sit on the edge, our mzungu butts lacking the proper cushion to really make the seat any kind of comfortable. Lurching, the truck sped off. And I do mean sped. Despite the fact that everyone was balancing precariously on the edge of the bed, the driver proceeded to push 50 miles an hour as the truck fishtailed around the bends of the mountainous road. My knuckles were white from gripping the edge and even Nick lost his smile as it became clear this journey just got longer.

The drunken men yelled and jeered the driver to go faster, repeatedly asking our names and being all kinds of obnoxious. One man tried to put his arm around me to “keep me from falling”; another started stroking my leg that was squished against his. His putrid breath washed over me as he reached up to touch my hair, telling me I was beautiful.

“Does she belong to you?” he burped, motioning towards Nick.

Now Nick and I both are in solid relationships and the whole friendship couldn’t be any more platonic, but in the moment, I wasn’t about to protect my boyfriend’s ego at home.

“Yep, I’m his.” I cut in. Nick looked startled and I shot him a look that threatened to kill if he didn’t play along.

“Lucky man you!” Nick received a slap on the back and the once groping hands slowly retreated off of my leg. You don’t mess with another man’s property here, and for once, I was glad to be so protected by the fact that women are bought and sold like livestock.

Two and a half hours later, the sun long since set, the truck stopped. We literally had no idea where we were. They told us it was Kihihi, but how could we know? The unfriendly darkness held no promises of hotels or restaurants, our stomachs grumbling. Bohoma, we were told, was still three hours away. Our only option, other than staying in this darkened town unmarked on any map, was to hire a private taxi to take us to Botogota, a town outside of Bohoma, where in the morning we could then find some way to reach our final destination.

We were tired, hungry, and just a little bit on edge. Neither of us felt safe staying there as our guts warned us of approaching danger; thus the decision was made to hire a ridiculously priced private taxi to take us to Botogota. At least there we knew there were hotels and (fingers crossed) food.

Two hours later (it was now close to midnight) we dragged our swollen butts, bruised from sitting on the truck railing, into a shady little motel called the Pineapple Lodge. The only food they had was cold posho (corn dough) and a bit of meat, which looked like the spinal vertebrae off some underfed cow. I could care less and I completely crashed that night, still hungry.

The next morning Nick arranged two boda drivers to take us the rest of the way up the mountain, which far surpassed as the best form of transportation. Morning mist clung to the mountain as we circled up on increasingly narrower roads, stopping to let herds of cows and goats pass. Power lines ceased to exist as the reception bars on my cell phone diminished and the trees grew thicker. Looking behind I could see the patchwork of farmland covering the mountain. The sunrise beautified the whole picture.

The gratitude I felt at FINALLY reaching Bohoma and the little rest camp that nestled itself at the foot of the forest was indescribable. A taxi, coach bus, truck ride, private hire, and motorcycle ride later we were there. Two days later, the Bwindi rainforest stood before me in all its green glory.

It looked as if someone collected all the green crayons in the world, melted them, and poured the entire lot over the forest, leaving it dripping in the same shade of green that covered every rock and tree. The forest shuddered with life, dampened with daily rainstorms, reeking of adventure and begging to be explored. Whoever said moss only grows on the north side of the tree hasn’t been to Bwindi; great hangings of moss and vines encumbered our hikes as we cowered under the canopy. The sheer amount of life the forest held humbled me.

Indeed, I penetrated the impenetrable.