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