Black and White Photography

Since so many of you humor my dream of someday being a fine arts photographer, I thought you might enjoy seeing a highlight of some of the black and white film that I had developed after last semester of Switzerland, Paris, Amsterdam, Ireland, Egypt, and home. Keep in mind that these are simply scanned negatives at the moment, but I am hoping to get a chance this summer to make many quality prints of these and others (so get your orders in now). Best-case scenario, I return to Washington, move out to Lummi Island, create a darkroom out of the extra bathroom, and print photographs and make pottery whenever the sun goes down, but we’ll see. Enjoy.

Eastern Uganda

As the end of March approaches, thunder and lightning is becoming a daily occurrence. The best thing about the rain is that it cleans the polluted Kampala air. The bad thing about the rain is that with it come more mosquitoes. Though we have all been taking our tablets and sleeping under mosquito nets, two kids in my group have come down with malaria. I, however, have made it 8 weeks in Uganda free of illness. I just hope that I don’t get sick next week when I am supposed to begin my practicum. Best-case scenario, by the end of next week, I will be deep in the Rwenzori Mountains, largest mountain range in Africa, with the World Wildlife Fund (WWF). Otherwise, I am happy to report that the week before last could qualify as one of my best weeks ever. We did so much in such a short period of time that I won’t even attempt to describe everything.

After spending the entire Saturday prior writing one too many papers, I was more than content to leave the chaos of Kampala behind and head to rural Eastern Uganda. The first stop we made was in Mbale, a small town at the base of the foothills of Mt. Elgon National Park on the Kenya border. Uganda’s colonial past was quite evident in this former vacation destination with blooming trees outstretched over the main streets and bordered by colonial buildings overrun by ivy. We spent the evening sitting outside, next to a pool, drinking some beers at what seemed to be the remnants of an old colonial sports club that had turned into an outdoor Ugandan disco. With the music blaring and the girls swimming in the pool combined with the majestic setting, I felt a little like I was in a 90’s rap video. Fortunately, a couple of my friends will be doing their practicum in Mbale, so I look forward to returning for a weekend visit.

After visiting two NGOs and a local government, we left the hot flats and headed up into the foothills for a couple days of trekking. At sunset, after hours of driving and sitting, we hiked at the base of a cliff, which stretched along the top of the outlying hills of the National Park like a protective wall. Looking down onto the plains that continued to the horizon, we could see the farmers’ bush fires glowing orange with smoke billowing into the sky. Our destination was the last of three waterfalls called Sipi Falls. Cascading 97 meters to a pool at the bottom, it was a hypnotizing site for a bunch of sweaty Americans. So, while some others were enjoying the mist from the side, I pretended that one cannot get the chronic disease, bilharzia, from freshwater swimming and spontaneously jumped off one of the boulders to enjoy the cold water. Naturally, I was soon joined by half of the group. When we were finally coaxed out of the water and up the hill to our directors, sweet Miriam shook her head at me and said, “When I saw you jump off that rock, part of me died inside.” They have since forgiven me for my lapse in judgment because the doctors think this particular freshwater stream was not stagnant enough.

During lunch the next day, the owner of the guesthouse we were staying at asked if we would like him to arrange a soccer match with the locals. Thirty minutes later, we were walking through town to the pitch in a procession that was growing exponentially. The pitch was on top of a plateau with the western edge dropping off to the plains below. The organizer of the match became the referee and the coach of both teams and he was not messing around. We played a full 90-minute match, with 11 on a side, free kicks, off sides, and substitutions. Tom, a former college basketball player from Brooklyn, was determined to prove that muzungus were not weak or uncoordinated, so he insisted we play the first half Americans versus Ugandans (with the exception of our driver as the goalie and one skilled local as our support). By the time the game began, all the primary school students were on the sidelines and I was convinced we were going to be humiliated. But to my surprise, we were able to hold our own quite well minus the fact that the ball was usually heading towards our goal.

After playing defense for a while, I moved up and started kicking the ball from half field because their goalie was playing like a midfielder. One shot was so on that one of their defenders ran back and hit the ball out of the goal with his hand, giving us a penalty kick. Tom nominated our Ugandan to shoot for us, which instantly ignited a chorus of protests from the other Ugandan players who all pointed to me and said a bunch of words I didn’t understand intermixed with the word muzungu. So I stepped up to the ball and crushed it past the goalie. After always missing my penalty kicks in high school, what better place to make my first one than in Africa. All the players and onlookers thought it was especially funny seeing a muzungu put his shirt over his head and run down the field with his arms outstretched like a blind bird. It was the most fun that I think I’ve had playing soccer since elementary school. We combined teams for the second half and ended the game in a draw, 3 to 3. I scored a second goal off a header on a cross from the star Ugandan, and the referee later said I was MVP. But the best part about the whole experience was laughing and bonding with local kids our age. It didn’t matter that we were muzungus, they just wanted an excuse to have fun and play a real game.

Next stop was our rural homestay, in the district of Busia, on the southeast border with Kenya. We were all randomly paired with one other classmate to share our experience with someone else. Since my partner Kati, from Tennessee, and I both brought film cameras, only words will be able to describe our time there until I return to the US.

After driving down dirt roads and sometimes paths through groundnuts, maize, and cassava fields, we reached a lonely grove of mango and avocado trees that protected the “compound” of Benedict and Margaret Ogulei. The compound consisted of four mud huts with thatched roofs, a thatched granary, a chicken coup, a goat pen, a thatched pit latrine, and an area designated for bathing. Benedict is one of six brothers that share 20 acres passed down from their father. They accepted us gratefully into their home and gave us so much with so little. Though we only spent three days in Abochet Village, we had too many new experiences, so I will just give you a summary.

In general, the children were either scared stiff when they saw us or followed us all day, but the best part was that they never yelled muzungu. Though they had ripped shirts, dirty dresses, and sometimes swollen bellies, these children seemed to still possess and enjoy the sweet innocence inherent to adolescence, a luxury their tough city counterparts might never get to enjoy. Fifteen of my small host cousins and I played soccer for hours with a ball made of plastic bags; the only thing stopping us from continuing was the welcomed rain.

Our host father took us to what seemed like every home in the village to discuss their subsistence agricultural practices and hardships. The hardest part was breaking it to them that we were just students there to learn and do not currently have the particular skills or knowledge they might desire. Nevertheless, everyone we spoke with thanked us over and over again for just being there. By the end of the second day, everyone knew we were in town and demanded a visit, especially after we attended a funeral with the whole community present.

We spent two nights at the trading center (looked like something out of an old country western movie) with a group of old men who were sharing a clay pot of the local brew. They drank the maize and millet liquid with long reeds as straws, asked us about America, shared stories and traditions, and offered me their brew and their daughters. In general, I think we were both surprised how comfortable the whole situation was. Since they are expecting all of their portraits to be sent to them, I will have some serious photography work to do when I return to the states, a task I will do with pleasure.

Concluding our time in the east, all the students met back up at the home of the parents of our director Miriam. The afternoon was spent reflecting on our experiences, something I find myself still in need of today. In the evening, our directors hired a DJ and invited all the young locals for a night of drinking and dancing under the stars. By midnight, I was the only muzungu left standing with a couple hundred Ugandans, and I can honestly say that the night ranked high on the “Top Ten Dance Parties” list that I have since been inspired to create for my own memory. The whole week was a reminder of why I came to Uganda and how I want to spend the next six weeks, with no regrets.

As with any time spent away from my beloved family, friends, Whatcom County, and San Francisco, I inevitably experience ups and downs, but knowing that you will all be there when I return, keeps me going. Therefore, I miss all of you and look forward to our paths crossing in one of those locations or in another.

Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,

Kibuka

Western Uganda and Rwanda

Ogamba chi? It is Saturday evening and I’m sitting in the living room of my home in Kyebando watching Premiere League football with my two host brothers. Don has been covering his mouth for ten minutes because Arsenal is down one, while Bonnie, a Liverpool fan, is just waiting indifferently for his little brother’s inevitable breakdown. Though I have yet to commit to any one team, I am hoping the baptism will bring about a decision. After the game, we are probably going to go out to the clubs (they always say Kampala has the best night life in East Africa). I will have to find out for myself.

This week and next, we are visiting grassroots organizations in different areas surrounding Kampala. We will have an opportunity to practice different interactive research methods, such as observing and facilitating focus groups, which will prepare us for our practicum. I am beginning to get nervous because by the end of next week, we are supposed to finalize our practicum ideas. On the bright side, I had a meeting with someone from the Ministry of the Environment and they presented me with a possibility if I wanted to work with their Wetlands Department. At this point, I would like to work with communities living in or around protected areas, wetlands or forests. My analysis would focus on the impact of conservation practices on local livelihoods and the implementation of community-based resource management. If I’m lucky, I will get a chance to spend lots of time outside of Kampala, learning how rural Ugandans interact with the environment.

The week before this, we had a group excursion to Western Uganda, the land of milk and honey, and Rwanda. Once we were out of city limits, the smog and dust of Kampala was replaced by rolling hills of green. Since it is no secret that President Museveni (leader since 1986) hails from the west, the roads improved the further we traveled. Our first visit was to one of the eleven UNDP Millennium Villages in all of Africa. Perched high in the hills of Mbrara District, the UN has piloted a 50 million dollar development project, which, if “successful,” is supposed to be mimicked in other villages with similar socio-economic characteristics across Africa. However, I found it hard to imagine that the area we visited reflects the hardships of the average Ugandan. On our way to the next destination, we had lunch in a large field across the road from a small village. We started kicking around the soccer ball I brought, and before we knew it, twenty Ugandan children joined in. When it was time to leave, I picked up the ball and they all got in a huge group to stare me down with pleading eyes. Though I knew when they came to play it would end up being theirs, I was slightly reluctant to give it away because I technically already gave it to my little host brother Jama, but I’ve since bought him another. Later that day, we drove by the same field and they were still playing with the ball. They all did the muzungu dance when we yelled and waved (dance consisting of jumping and waving with both hands when white people show up). I’m sure that ball will get more use than ever.

From the Millennium Village, we broke up into four groups, each of which visited a different refugee resettlement village. Past a beautiful lake, a heard of cows, and children playing, we reached a village of made up of 67 mud huts, many vegetable gardens, and a playground with a large tree occupied by golden finches and their hanging nests. Under the tree, the six of us sat in front of the whole community of 100 percent Hutu Rwandese refugees. Since we were not well informed about the group prior to arriving, it wasn’t until midway through our discussion with them that we realized they have been refugees since the 1994 genocide and they have not returned out of fear of prosecution. With the help of a translator, we asked them questions like what they think of the current Rwandan President and the traditional court system that is being used to prosecute those involved in the genocide? We were all speechless when one of the women in the group asked us what the international community thinks of them? Fortunately, the experience as a whole was very positive.

From Mbarara, we entered Rwanda and headed south through beautiful valleys of tea to reach the capital city of Kigali. Unlike Kampala, it was clear that the government of Rwanda was putting more money into their infrastructure than into their pockets. The boda boda (motorcycle taxis) drivers had helmets for themselves and their passengers, the roads were smooth and pothole free, and pedestrians actually use the zebra crossings. Since we spent less than 48 hours in the country, the extent of our time in Rwanda was spent at the genocide memorial. There is way I can sum up a tragedy so I won’t even try. We saw many things I did not expect to see. One thing I can say is that the students we spoke to said they don’t sell Hotel Rwanda in Rwanda because it fails to convey just how terrible it was. If anyone wants to read more about the genocide, I would suggest, We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families, by Philip Gourevitch. I think we all would have liked to be there longer and we were all glad that we visited the refugee camp before visiting the memorials.

Back in Uganda, we visited Queen Elizabeth National Park. The first day we took a boat ride on the Kazinga Channel, which connects Lake George to Lake Edward, where we saw hippos, water buffalo, crocodile, many birds, and an elephant. Since the boys had our own bungalow a distance from the main hostel, we organized a toga party with charades as entertainment. We were all brightly dressed because everyone wore the Rwandan fabric they bought in the market the day before. It was a risky gathering because the people at the park said we probably shouldn’t be out past 8 pm, but what’s a couple lion going to do with a bunch of muzungus anyway. The next morning at 6, we went on a game drive where we saw the backs of lions hiding in tall grass and some elephants fighting on the road ahead of our van. Leaving the west, we drove through some of the most beautiful parts of Uganda I have seen so far. I can’t wait to return.

When we returned to Kampala, late Saturday evening, a small group of us hurried to the cricket stadium to watch the long awaited UB40 concert (old British reggae band). I met up with my brother Don at the gates and we entered together. The security guards weren’t tearing the tickets but taking them back out front to sell them again, so you can imagine how many people actually showed up.

All in all, Uganda and the Ugandans have been treating me very well. I no longer wear my backpack on my front when entering the chaos of the old taxi park, I’ve taken a couple boda boda rides (even though we are technically not supposed to), and I think all the starches I’m eating might just make this the homestay that fattens me up. I would love to show all of you more pictures of Kampala, but I just haven’t had the guts to take my new camera out on the streets. It is now Sunday evening, and I just spent the day with all my brothers and sisters enjoying the sunshine and watching more football. Until you hear from me again…

Tunaalabagana,

Kibuka

Homestay

Nearly three weeks down, eleven to go. Preferably, I would have started posting during week one when all the culture shocks were fresh and juicy in my head; unfortunately, I’ve failed to discipline myself to recording until two days ago. Hopefully, from here on out I will find the time to give you all something to laugh about.

I’m sure pictures will make more sense than any attempt at a description on my part, but I live in a middle class home in Kyebando (one small step up from a slum), right outside of Kampala, the capital and largest city in Uganda. There are some things I expected about my home and more things I didn’t. For instance, I expected pit latrines and outdoor coal stoves, which they use; however, I didn’t expect my own room, a shower with hot water, and a washing machine. Not to mention, American television stations, a large wall surrounding the compound, a grove of matooke trees (plantains), three cars, and two servants. Uganda is one of the forty least developed countries in the world, so keep in mind that everything is relative. I have six siblings that are eighteen and above, and three siblings under five. My twenty-five year old brother, Bonnie, five year old sister, Nyla, and three year old sister, Hanna, are the only ones still living at home. The rest of the kids are off at boarding school or working abroad, but some of them come home on the weekends and just pop in. Since, in Ugandan culture, the concept of immediate family doesn’t really exist, all the women around the house are my moms and all the children are my brothers and sisters; when in reality, my exact relation is unclear.

In no particular order, my host mother is a Muslim, a widow of thirteen years, a wholesale car parts dealer, a girlfriend to the equivalent of my host dad, and the head of the household. I first met her when my brother Bonnie brought me home from my first day of school. My mom and aunts were sitting in the cooking area on mats preparing dinner. They had just returned from the village where my mom had just finished forty days of mourning for the son she lost in December. For the first day or two, I felt like I was being inspected for impurities. In moments of silence, she would ask random questions like “how much does your mother weigh?” and “what religion do you practice?” I knew the latter would come up eventually because we were warned that Ugandans are very religious, so I calmly stuck to the truth and told her I am a spiritual person, but I don’t practice a religion because my parents chose to allow me to choose a path for myself when I felt ready. She thought that was fairly ludicrous, so she then informed me that I’m old enough now to decide, so I should probably get baptized while I am here in Uganda. It may seem ironic because she is a Muslim, but all of her children are protestant due to their father. So I told her that if I were to make that decision, I would have to do some serious reflecting. Her response was that I should get baptized first, and then I could have all the time in the world to read up on the Bible. She also informed me that there are a lot of things I can’t do in Uganda without a Baptism card. Of course I was interested so I asked, “Like what?” She responded with, “Like what? Well… getting married and receiving the Holy Communion.” At that point, I was shaking in my boots because those were two things on the top of my “Uganda To Do List.” Though these are valid points, plus, she would throw me a party, and there isn’t any place I’d rather give myself to Jesus, I’ve decided to pass on the baptism (at least for a couple months or so).

Once I really turned on the charm and I became more aware of her dry sense of humor, we began to build the mother son connection that I’ve been fortunate enough to create with my past three home-stay mothers (but, it’s pretty easy when you have twenty-one years of practice with my real mom).

My favorite times at home so far are during the electricity blackouts, when everyone in the family sits under the stars around the cooking area until dinner at eleven. My mom will give me tea, fresh mangos, and/or a plate of sugar cane. They all think it is hilarious when I come home from school and practice the Lugandan I’ve learned, “Mussibye mutyanno bannyabo ne bassebo, ensanyuse okukulaba” (Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it’s nice to see you). On Saturday, my mom taught me how African women wash clothes. She was so sure that my hands were going to bleed that, afterwards, she put hydrogen peroxide on my fingers even though they weren’t bleeding. Most nights we eat the same thing (matooke, groundnut sauce, greens, and meat), but last night my host mom made me a special dinner of homemade fries, rice, cabbage, noodles, and curry with goat (lots of starches in this culture because weight reflects social status, so the more the better). Being that I was eating from a platter and not a plate, by the time I was half way done I said, “I think I’ve lost the war.” Fortunately, they didn’t look surprised and my mom even looked pleased. But by far the best bonding moment with my mom was when she gave me my African name. Being her son, I come from the Ndiga (Sheep) clan, the Baganda Kingdom, and my name is Kibuka (Chibuka). Kibuka is a strong warrior god whose weakness is love. She said that in her village, there is a huge tree that marks the spot where his soul still rests. The Sunday after next, we are driving thirty kilometers out of Kampala to her village, where all of her clan (nine siblings with a hundred plus children) still lives.

I’m having a wonderful time, I’m learning a lot, my group is great, my directors are inspiring women, and I have many more stories still to post. I think the description of my family, mostly my mom, is good enough for now.

Until next time, don’t think it hasn’t been charming.

Tunaalabagana,

Kibuka

Away, Home, and Away

Over the last three months I continuously came and went, packed and unpacked, and said hello and fair well; in turn, I have had less time to stop, reflect, and inform all of you of my welfare, and for that I apologize. For the purpose of catching up, here’s what I’ve been up to since you heard from me last.

The conclusion of November coincided with the conclusion of my ISP and my semester in Switzerland. I said goodbye to my group and my host family and departed with my travel companions, Pete and Paul, for Egypt. The seven-day whirlwind immersion was hectic, but completely worth the exhaustion. Highlights include galloping on horseback at the entrance to the Sahara to catch the sunrise over Giza and the pyramids, traveling in a military convoy to Abu Simbal near the border of Sudan, sailing down the Nile in a falucca, being lost and baffled throughout the gigantic festival halls and chambers at Karnack, smoking shesha (hookah) and drinking Egyptian tea at El Fishari’s Café (which has never closed in two centuries) in Khan Al-Khalili bazaar, and standing on the roof of Al-Muayyad Mosque in Islamic Cairo at sunset. All of these experiences were only shared between Pete and myself because Paul’s mom gave him an ultimatum to either stay in Geneva or go on a guided tour on a cruise ship up and down the Nile because she was scared that otherwise, terrorists would blow him up. Because of her, the numerous positive conversations we had with the Muslim youth in hostels and bazaars were twice as gratifying, not to mention that our cultural immersion was a forth of the price. Though I hadn’t thought of spending my vacation in Egypt before they proposed it, the visit brought back childhood fantasies of archeological discovery with Indiana Jones. I am confident that I made the right decision.

Upon return to Geneva, Pete and I slept in the airport before departing to Amsterdam for three days of rest and relaxation. I’m not sure if it was a lack of acclimatization or it was just extremely cold (I think both), but I just remember wanting to be inside every second I was out. We witnessed the evolution of Van Gogh, floated over misty canals, etc. etc. I felt like I was in the San Francisco of Europe, it was very comfortable. After parting ways with Pete, I returned to Switzerland. I popped in for a cup of coffee at my host family’s house before taking a train into the Swiss Alps. I finally got my chance to ski at both Verbier and Zermatt (Matterhorn). Though it seemed more like ice-skating than skiing, the sky was clear and the fondue was phenomenal. I even received numerous rounds of beer from three US Marines who were on leave from Germany. They told me they were study abroad students for a couple hours until their story stopped adding up; it was then that the conversation started to get interesting. After the Alps, I headed south to Florence, Italy, to spend Christmas with the my friends Peter and Jordan of Washington and Peter’s family, who are living the life of Italians for the year. We celebrated Peter’s 21st birthday on Christmas Eve with many glasses of wine and a midnight mass. It was nice to finally see some familiar faces and enjoy a quite European scene before heading back to Geneva and back to America.

I had a wonderful semester in Switzerland. I couldn’t have imagined staying with any other family. My host parents were and will always be great friends and role models that I can only hope to emulate when I have a family of my own. My optimism and understanding of international relations and the international community has grown in ways I am unaware of presently. And finally, I look forward to building upon my new French foundation once I return to USF.

Once back in the Evergreen State, I was promptly comforted with hugs from my parents and headed to Peaceful Valley for New Years with my extended family; Wiebe, Ashley, Antho, Pier, and Richie. I tried to make the most of winter with numerous trips to the powder slopes of Mount Baker with my brothers from other mothers. Since I only had a month to recoup and catch up, I didn’t spend many nights in my own bed and I didn’t get a chance to spend as much time with most of you as I had hoped.

I’ve now been in Uganda for two and a half weeks, but I’m having a hard time finding time to write a post. I know that you all probably want to know how Africa and I are, but I felt the need to wrap up my previous experiences before I began a new blog. So look out, it is coming.

Peace, love, and don’t think it hasn’t been charming,

Max