So I left Uganda.

It was so surreal to be driving away from Kampala towards the airport. I hope I appreciated it enough. And saw enough. And experienced enough.

I went to bed last night doubting if I should stay or go. I felt safe in the house where I was staying, but felt weary about venturing in to the city and up country, which is problematic when the prisons I needed to visit are in up country.

I would have stayed if the people that are most important to me would not have wanted me to leave, but it is impossible to stay in a far away country who just experienced terrorist attacks with no internet and limited phone connectivity when your mom and dad are freaking out at home. And it was not just the attacks, many rumors were flying around about other bombs being found before they had exploded. Suspects were arrested, but it still felt unsafe.
I was scared, so I left.

From Monday...

In the name of positiveness, I have decided to write about a few non-bomb related things that have happened recently.

First and most importantly, dresses. Handmade dresses. Thats right. Plural. I will soon be the owner of three handmade dresses made from beautiful African fabric. I already have two in my possession and am just waiting for the third which will be ready on Monday! Last week, I ventured in to a market and found a small dress shop with a wonderful and kind woman who tailors dresses. So in true 'Merican style, I bought three.

Secondly and not so positively, Charles is lost. We cannot find him. He is supposedly at Luzira Upper Prison, but they tell us that he isn't there. We have no clue. I understand how they lose inmates here, but I do not understand how they allow a system where inmates are lost to continue. Let me take this opportunity to explain to you and even demonstrate to you how I understand the admission and records process of Ugandan Prisons.

Paper. Pencil. Chalkboard. Chalk. That is all you need. When there is a new inmate, you write his name, offense and sentence on a new piece of paper and you put it somewhere. Every day the inmates are counted and the numbers are written on the chalkboard. Simple. So how do you find out where a inmate is? Or if he has been relocated? You go to the prison and ask. Don't bother looking online or calling. You'll need to visit the prison yourself and ask them to either go through the pile of papers or to go around to the wards and yell the inmate's name. Practical.

Third, during dinner the electricity came back on! I admit it, I am dependent. I have not suffered from blackberry withdrawal, I can deal without constant internet access, but a whole weekend is too long. I was starting to suffer from anxiety. It is one thing if I could just easily and afford-ably call the important people in my life, but I can't. I am in AFRICA! Also, I know I said I wasn't posting about the attacks, but venturing in to the city to find an internet cafe is not the best idea. But guess what? Now I can boil water quickly. I can see while I am using the toilet. And I can update my blog! From home in my pajamas! It is a beautiful thing. Oh electricity please please continue to provide me with overhead lighting, hot water, and, most importantly, the internet.

Simplicity.

In the name of positiveness, I have decided to post double today and to write about a few non-bomb related things that have happened recently.

First and most importantly, dresses. Handmade dresses. Thats right. Plural. I will soon be the owner of three handmade dresses made from beautiful African fabric. I already have two in my possession and am just waiting for the third which will be ready on Monday! Last week, I ventured in to a market and found a small dress shop with a wonderful and kind woman who tailors dresses. So in true 'Merican style, I bought three.

Secondly and not so positively, Charles is lost. We cannot find him. He is supposedly at Luzira Upper Prison, but they tell us that he isn't there. We have no clue. I understand how they lose inmates here, but I do not understand how they allow a system where inmates are lost to continue.  Let me take this opportunity to explain to you and even demonstrate to you how I understand the admission and records process of Ugandan Prisons.

Paper. Pencil. Chalkboard. Chalk. That is all you need. When there is a new inmate, you write his name, offense and sentence on a new piece of paper and you put it somewhere. Every day the inmates are counted and the numbers are written on the chalkboard. Simple. So how do you find out where a inmate is? Or if he has been relocated? You go to the prison and ask. Don't bother looking online or calling. You'll need to visit the prison yourself and ask them to either go through the pile of papers or to go around to the wards and yell the inmate's name. Practical.


Third, during dinner the electricity came back on! I admit it, I am dependent. I have not suffered from blackberry withdrawal, I can deal without constant internet access, but a whole weekend is too long. I was starting to suffer from anxiety. It is one thing if I could just easily and afford-ably call the important people in my life, but I can't. I am in AFRICA! Also, I know I said I wasn't posting about the attacks, but venturing in to the city to find an internet cafe is not the best idea. But guess what? Now I can boil water quickly. I can see while I am using the toilet. And I can update my blog! From home in my pajamas! It is a beautiful thing. Oh electricity please please continue to provide me with overhead lighting, hot water, and, most importantly, the internet.

last night...

Last night, I walked down the same hill I have walked down everyday since I have arrived in Kampala. I walked with Bea and Jonathan, two constants in my life here. We walked to same bar I have watched every world cup game I have been interested in. I drank a Bell beer Chatted with the waitress who adores me. Smiled at the Ugandans' enthusiasm for football. We watched a messy, yet entertaining game of football and then climber the same hill home.

The electricity at the house has been out all weekend, which is a good enough reason to go straight to bed. I awoke to a knock on my door at 7am like I do every weekday. I answered it, flipped the switch to see that the electricity was still not working. This was a good enough reason for me to crawl back in to bad. I awoke just before nine and was greeted with the news of the bombings.

My first thought was to call my mom. My phone had been off to conserve power so I had received no panicky phone calls from my parents or friends. I immediately called her and could hear the relief in her voice when she answered the phone. I instructed her to call my dad and the Clinton School to let them know I was okay.

I knew I needed to check my email and Facebook to let everyone know I was okay. I knew you'd be worried. But I was a bit anxious about leaving the cozy confines of the APP house. But here I am at an internet cafe in the city center.

It feels as though 64 people did not lose their lives last night in a terrorist attack during an event which was suppose to be celebratory. The matatus still rule the road and I am still called Muzungu. I will still go to Western Uganda tomorrow to complete my last prison visits in Uganda. And I will still be leaving next week.

Yet I am a bit shaken. I have never lived in a city which has been attacked. Ugandans have seen worse, alot worse, and therefore I somehow understand their lack of panic.

Dear Ben and Mark,

It is really fun to write a blog post to both of you because I know you will never read it.

But I just wanted to let you know that every time I see "entry 2" underneath your blog title on someone else's blog list I laugh.

Way to "try" and keep a blog. And yes I know, "Ethiopia won't let you access blogs..."

Love,
Julie

"Have you seen darkness?"

Jonathan asked me that question on the way to "up country" on Monday. We had set out for western Uganda with the objective of visiting four or five prisons. Jonathan is now my research assistant for the remainder of my time in Uganda. He also happens to be from western  Uganda, which was a plus for both of us. It was a plus for me because he knows the area well, along with the local language. It was a plus for both of us because we got to visit his family in his village.

Jonathan's mother and one of his brothers lives in a village outside of a small town or trading center called Lyantonde. They live on a small plot of land that is covered in matoke (banana) trees, avocado trees, coffee plants, tomato vines, and ground nut plants. They live off the land.

Lets just say that his mother and I were amazed by each other. I doubt we could have been much different. The only thing we have in common is our common gender. She is elegantly elderly. In her sixties. She has had nine children. Lost her husband in political conflict. She speaks a language that no one outside of western Uganda knows of or uses. Has lived in a village all her life and does not know how to use a cell phone. She maintains her home singlehandedly by hand. She washes and cooks and farms and peels and sweeps and builds by hand. (I watched her cut the peel off of a bowl full of bananas and could not help but wonder how many hundreds or thousands of bananas she has peeled in her lifetime.)

She muttered "momo" for the first 20 minutes after my arrival, the expression of shock and awe in her language. She asked if my hair would gray with age. I suppose, she was awestruck by its color and texture. And she wondered if my skin was too delicate to use a sponge. She was amazed that I was willing to carry bananas on my head and help load our vehicle with produce to take to town. She mocked my loud American laugh. She did not think I would eat the matoke or beans or ground nuts she offered, but I did and enjoyed them. She giggled when she heard I was 23 and still single and without children.

We could not speak to each other, but she continued to speak to me. Even when Jonathan wasn't around to translate. It must be something that comes with motherhood. She needed to tell me things, my guess is that she wanted to tell me what she thought of me. She would just look at me, and talk for awhile, then smile and laugh. Sometimes it was followed by a hug or a touch on my hand.

We spent Monday night in the village. It was truly dark. I have seen beautiful stars sitting along lakes in Wisconsin and from the hills of Arkansas. But looking at stars from a village miles away from spotlights and cars and cities in Africa is not comparable to stars seen in the most rural of rural Africa. It was darkness at its best, not scary but beautiful and calm.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

I will be boarding a plane for the United States exactly three weeks from today. It is odd to feel like I am going home soon. I have mixed feelings about it.

I am excited. I have missed my friends and family so much. I studied abroad my junior year in college. I was away from home for much longer than 10 weeks, but being in Greece for a semester was an escape from my life in the US. But lets be real, I had nothing to escape from in the US this summer. I truly enjoyed my first year at the Clinton School and feel as though I have met some of my best friends. Who knew I would be excited to return to Little Rock, Arkansas?

I am anxious. For many reasons. I feel like I have been gone for ages. And that I have somehow changed. I have adjusted to Uganda. To Ugandans. To the people I work with and for. It is odd to think that I will have to adjust to my home and my family and best friends.  I am also anxious about my project. I worry that I haven't done enough or that it won't make an impact on this organization that has so much potential. I am sure it is due to fear of failure, but still.

I am sad. I am just starting to feel at home here and now I have to leave. Really. But I suppose most things work this way. You get really good at navigating campus and you graduate. You figure out how to be the best at your job and you are promoted. You realize the value in Social Change class and the semester is over.

I am sentimental. I have decided to make a conscious effort to appreciate the little things that I love about Kampala. The dried jonja (banana) chips. The lingering handshakes. The way they say I look "smart" instead of "nice" or "pretty". The misspelled words on signs that never fail to put a smile on my face. Ugandans' obsession with Obama. The fact that due to my skin tone and alien-like qualities I have the ability to put a smile on a child's face just by waving or saying hello.

I am hopeful. I will miss my access to prisons. They somehow make me hopeful. Hopeful that I have learned of possibilities in prisons. Hopeful for humankind because if mothers can raise children, if inmates can create beautiful things, and if prisoners can praise and preach inside of prison then those of us on the outside should be just as capable if not more.

Mission: Find Charles

I went to Mulago Hospital two days ago to check on Robert and Charles. Robert was there, patiently awaiting our arrival which meant a nice cleaning and a meal.

But Charles' bed was empty. My heart sank. I knew this did not mean he was off getting care, I knew this meant he was discharged. Discharged although he has three skull fractures.

So Jonathan and I are going on a wild goose chase to find him. This will be an adventure. Old Kampala Police Station here we come.

"Today you are African."

That is right folks. And they were talking to me.Super pale and blonde me.

So he might have been a tad intoxicated and overly enthusiastic about the Ghana World Cup game, but still. He told me that I was African. Although I am still mourning the loss of the United States in the World Cup, it was amazing to watch Ghana play tonight in the quarter finals.

It was amazing due to the Ugandan fans of the Ghana team. The Ugandans continuously referred to the Ghanians as "we".

Lets talk about how far away and how different Ghana and Uganda are.

I was planning on telling you how many miles Ghana and Uganda are away from each other, but Google Maps cannot calculate directions between the two capitals of Accra and Kampala. So I do not know. But I do know that they are far.

East Africa and West Africa are not only many miles away, but their cultures, histories, and languages can barely be compared. Most Ugandans will never reach Ghana and most Ghanians will never reach Uganda. Superficially, the only thing that unites them is the color of their skin and the continent they share. Yet all night Ugandans referred  to Ghanians as their brother and fellow African.

I guarantee Americans would not cheer for Mexico or Canada over a European or South American team because they share a continent. So Africans must share something that Americans do not share with our neighbors to the south and north. Something greater than complexion. If I had to guess, it would be respect. Respect built from similar struggles, struggles only understood by Africans.

The Ugandan fans tonight continually said "This is our only chance!" and "If God is African we will win tonight.". Yes, they were merely drunken cheers at a bar in Kampala, but those chants united individuals across an entire continent. A continent proud of the Ghana team regardless of win or loss tonight.

I now believe that it means more to be an African, than to be a member of any country, even a member of the United States.

Finally.

I finally feel comfortable here. I think it is a good thing, but I suppose could also be bad if I feel too comfortable.

For the last month, I have felt like a tourist. Always lost, always being stared at, always having difficulties truly communicating beyond "hello" and "how are you?" with Ugandans.

But I think I get it. I now know how to make Ugandans laugh. They understand my now slower English. I can barter with the rest of them. I traveled alone to three meetings today. And I am having a dress handmade! It is an amazing feeling.

The day I gave a sermon.

Yeah that's right, I gave a sermon. Take a second. Breathe. Pick your jaws off the floor.

I grew up in a very white Episcopalian Church with a very elderly congregation in Central Illinois, it wasn't exactly fun to go to church. This morning myself, the executive director of APP, and his friend were invited to a service at the condemned section (death row) of Luzira Upper Prison. The service was amazing and very fun.

But try to imagine this. Church in prison. Not just that, but in death row. In Uganda. And not to be stereotypical, but these folks aren't just black, they are African. They can dance. And sing. And play the drums. And they know how to praise the Lord!

It is also worth saying that Ugandans are very religious people. Christianity is by far the most popular religion and religion is taken very seriously. With that being said, when one enters prison, or in this case death row, inmates cling to what remains, and for most, that is their religion.

And although I am not religious, the service was moving because I knew it truly meant something to the people in my presence. They weren't there because going to church is the "right" or "proper" or "moral" thing to do, they went to church because they continue to have faith when there are not many reasons to maintain it. They go to church because the pastor is one of the few people who continue to care for them. Church and God has become their salvation.

Going in to the church service I did not know what to expect, besides the fact that I would most likely be asked to say a few words. (Ugandans love speeches.) I prepared myself the night before because I did not feel comfortable reading from the Bible and speaking of God, so I brought the book of poems that David Montieth gave me.

I read a poem that reflected what I have learned in Uganda and Ugandan prisons. I think it went well, that is with the inmates, they were just pleased to listen to a new face from the outside speak to them. It didn't go over so well with the pastor. He later told me that he thought my sermon was missing something. (God) And I told him the truth. He didn't like the truth that much and blamed my whiteness and Americans' love of material things over godly things.

Oh well, you can't win every battle.

The Children of Gulu Prison

As I mentioned before, women prisoners often keep their children with them in prison. The staff's children are also around. Instead of being professional and networking like I am supposed to, we played with the children after the ceremony. Claire gave them chocolates. We jumped around. One boy hit me with a water bottle and ran away. It was a grand time.

She was my favorite. Claire gave her a chocolate and she held it in her hand for about 15 minutes. We figured out that she did not know what candy was. So Claire peeled off the wrapper for her and instructed her to eat it with hand gestures. She was delighted.

This is everyone.

Children here don't necessarily grasp the idea of how posing for a picture. They run around. Or don't stand close enough to one another. Or they all stack up in the middle. Or they are hidden behind one another.

And most in rural Uganda don't speak English. So it is not so easy to explain.

This picture is for my dad, who requested I put more pictures of myself on blog as a way to ensure him I am still alive and in one piece.

Because writing the blog obviously isn't enough. Photographic proof is necessary.

Gulu

Okay, back to prisons.

Yesterday, African Prisons Project celebrated the opening of a health clinic at Gulu Prison. APP sponsored the project and the ceremony was quite lovely.


The best part was the entertainment put on by the inmates. They danced and sang and played drums.

The funniest part was the "guest of honor". Who showed up about 2 hours late. Typical. And fell asleepduring one of the speeched.

The worst part was driving 5 hours there and 5 hours back in the same day. Oh, and Gulu is in Northern Uganda, which the US told me not to visit out of concern for my well-being. (JSN?)

oh Mulago.

Yeah, I went back.

It is just really difficult to say "No, I won't come help you take a dying man to a clinic to get an x-ray" when the hospital doesn't have x-ray films and haven't provided x-rays to a man who obviously has a broken skull and has been in the hospital for a week. This is also the patient who was found on the floor with one arm handcuffed to the bed the other night. No one helped him, none of the other 30 or 40 people in the ward, oh or the nurses.

So we went. And we took Charles to a clinic outside of the hospital to get x-rays of his head, arms, and chest. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong. We couldn't find a wheelchair (in the hospital). We had to convince the guard to un-handcuff him from the bed. We had to put the broken, near-death man in to a private hire (aka taxi). I held him up in the taxi. Mind you, he has plenty of open wounds that have not been attended to. He also continuously smells of urine. It was a lovely trip. ( I wore gloves and had all my vaccines and will also be getting all of the proper health screenings/tests when I get home.)

We arrived to the clinic and tried to convince them to give us a good price because we were doing charity work. They quickly realized that Charlies was a suspect in an attempted murder case and laughed at us. After some convincing and a lovely performance of  mine that included "Who are you to judge this man? Is that not God's role?" (Be impressed), they lowered the price.  A lovely nurse cleaned his wounds on his head and arms that they said were septic.

We then decided that Charles needed a catheter. Guess who was nominated to go buy a catheter? Guess which pharmacy did not have a bag for the end of the catheter? Guess who watched a nurse insert a catheter in to Charles?

Turns out Charles has a broken hand and three skull fractures.

The trip back to Mulago was accented with me leaving Alexander's phone in a taxi, then chasing after the taxi, then tracking down the taxi, and eventually retrieving the phone.

Jonathan and I then cleaned Robert. I was quite proud of myself as I cleaned his wound and handled the awful smell quite well.

The night ended seven hours later with Edith, a nurse who attends to destitute patients at Mulago day in and day out, taking me around to many female patients. It was heartwrenching because everyone needed something and due to my nice clothes and whiteness they assumed that I could help. Therefore, once I spoke to one patient every patient wanted to speak to me. I heard multiple stories of cervical and breast cancer. About the removal of a woman's uterus. And how the radiotherapy machine in the hospital did not work. All I could do was to promise to call Hospice-Africa on their behalf.

We left feeling helpless and productive at the same time, yet the feeling of utter frustration almost caused me to break down. It just cannot be that hard to keep people clean. That is all I am asking at this point. Keep patients clean and perhaps comfortable.

Robert

This is Robert who I talked about in my last post. I think his England hat is pretty fancy, but an American one would definitely be better!

Juxtapositions

Although I am attempting to not compare the United States to Uganda, I cannot help but to note the role I play here in Uganda and how I can never be and will never be a Ugandan, understand what it is to be Ugandan, or truly live in their country as they do. This is due to the color of my skin. The standards and expectations I have due to my culture. The amount of money in mine and my parents' bank accounts.

These facts and the role I play cause many interesting and contradicting juxtapositions in my everyday life.

Last night I went out to dinner with Alexander, his three guests, and our Ugandan friend, Lindsey. The restaurant we selected was an Indian restaurant and was full of non-blacks. I say this because every else I go in Kampala, besides the fancy restaurants in fancy hotels, I am the only non-black person. Seriously. The scene actually made me feel a tad uncomfortable. It felt too posh, which I am not and I did not come to Ugandan to become. Regardless of my discomfort, dinner was tasty and we had a very nice time.

After dinner, we went to Mulago Hospital, the national hospital that is ran by the Ugandan government. One of the other places in Kampala where I feel quite uncomfortable, but for totally different reasons. This seems like and actually is an odd after dinner rendezvous, but over the weekend Alexander and APP received a phone call regarding two patients who needed alot of help and Alexander's guests came to the rescue.

The first patient is Charles. He is an inmate and was somehow badly injured, as in many broken bones and scars all over his head. Up until yesterday he has been handcuffed to his bed in a large ward with many other patients. The other patients were less than thrilled that an inmate was being cared for and expressed that it was probably better we put him outside to die. Regardless of their protests, we cleaned him the best we could. See the hospital had no running water, soap, or rags for us to use, so he essentially received a cold water rub down with an old t-shirt we ripped in to pieces. Charles seemed to have a very bad fever, and also seemed delusional. I am worried that he has an infection that is causing the high fever. We brought him water and put blankets on his bed. It was all we could do.

Then there is Robert. Robert was in a car accident awhile back and had surgery on his pancreas. When the doctors were closing up at the end of surgery they just so happened to forget to take the gauze out of the wound. Sometime after the surgery, the area was infected or something and Robert now has a hole in his stomach near his belly button. I will leave it up to your imagination to imagine what comes out of this hole in his stomach. It was miserable. I could barely stand the smell and the sight of this man who was all skin and bones. Laying naked, letting two strangers clean him. He is slowly dying.

I am not a doctor, but I do know a few things. Patients, human beings, deserve medicine when they are sick. They deserve to be clean and to be helped to the bathroom when they need to go. They deserve somewhere to sleep where there aren't rats and it doesn't reek of urine and feces. They deserve running water. It just shouldn't be so complex, but it somehow is.

So I spent the first part of the night at the nicest restaurant I have been to in a month and the last part in the worst place I have ever been in my life.

 

Note lack of blankets and the patient's medical notes/file taped to the end of his bed.

 

Patients or patients' family members sleeping on the floor.

 

A bloody syringe and blood bag sitting on a shelf in a treatment room.

US vs. Uganda

It is difficult to not continuously compare life in Uganda to life at home in the United States. I compare the two for obvious reasons. Life in the United States is my default. It is what I know and what I am used to. And life in Uganda is unfamiliar and for the first 22 years of my life, unknown, distant and foreign. I try my best to not create a battle between the two completely different societies. It is not only better for my psyche, but better for my experience to not pick a favorite and to not allow my home to win every comparison.

On Friday, myself and a few of my colleagues at APP visited Kigo Women and Men's Prisons. APP is looking to start a reading group in the women's prison so that the women with babies in prison with them can learn to read to their children. The presence of small children in prison is a very foreign concept to me and definitely comes along with many benefits and many disadvantages. The benefits revolve around the basic principle that babies should not be separated from their mothers, yet children living in prison lack adequate nutrition, socialization, and stimulation.

The men's prison is right next door. They were expecting us, but our greeting was far from friendly or welcoming, which is odd in Uganda where welcoming someone is of the utmost importance. We were eventually escorted in to the deputy officer in charge's office. Our interview with him was fruitful, but the tour afterwards was even more informative and even encouraging. Kigo's mens prison is very overcrowded and lacks basic resources many take for granted, such as medicine, bedding, and books, yet they are somehow making the best of what little they do have.

They have converted a dark and meek corner room in to an arts and crafts room, where four inmates and a few staff members teach candle making, tailoring, papier mache, and weaving. Two inmates have founded a primary school and a secondary school where over 100 inmates are working on a daily basis to gain basic education skills for when they are reintegrated with society. The inmates freely grow vegetables in the yard and have been granted the privilege of accessing individual pots and pans to use the vegetables to supplement the maiz and beans they are served three times a day everyday.

At the end of the tour  the headmaster and founder of the primary school, who is also an inmate, came up to me and asked me about prisons in the United States. My default answer to this questions is "veeery different". He craved more information so I stopped and explained how American inmates are kept in cells, their socialization is limited, violence is rampant, and that they are viewed and treated as dangerous. I said that I thought both systems had advantages and disadvantages. He asked if American inmates had beds to sleep in because most Ugandan inmates sleep on blankets on cement. I answered yes.

He paused and in his quiet and kind English said "I'd rather be in prison in Uganda."

The "truth"

On Tuesday, we met with Mission After Custody. They are a non-profit that does great work with ex-inmates and inmates. They work to assist inmates with the reintegration process by providing counseling with the inmate and their community. They are currently building a halfway house, which will be a tremendous help to the ex-inmates. They lack funds, but they do not lack enthusiasm or compassion. This is the Mission After Custody family, plus me!

I am pretty sure they now want a Class 6er to join their efforts next summer. No pressure or anything. They are a worthy organization and definitely need the help. And on top of that, they were the most hospitable people I have met in Uganda and that is saying alot. I was fed alot of food and taken care of very well. We even stopped for food from local vendors after they prepared a meal of irish (potatoes) for me. (Which I ate with my hands!)

That is Ronald. He decided he loved me after I took his picture. He is the son of an inmate and was literally left at the front doors of Mission After Custody. They have been taking care of him ever since. Anyone want to adopt him? Because I do!

After lunch, a tour of the construction area, and alot of lively discussion, we were taken to visit a client of Mission After Custody. To be honest, I didn't get why this man was ever in prison or what his story was. It was very confusing and considering I usually only pick up 80% of what is said, I was very confused and just went with it.

Turns out, this man thinks he is a prophet. Seriously. I know that I am not particularly religious and that perhaps this could bias my perception. But this man thinks he is a PROPHET. He has a staff and bishop outfit. His house was FULL of pictures of Jesus and Mary. It was intense. At one point, he turned to me, stared me in the eyes, and said...

"Sister. Do you believe in the truth is?"

I was scared and confused. I mean first of all, I've never been called sister by anyone besides my actual sister. Secondly, I didn't know what he was talking about and didn't know if I should just go along with the "prophet" or not. So I did what anyone would do, I spinned it and asked him what the truth was. He then stared some more as if I was an idiot or as though he was communicating to God that I need to be directed to hell the moment I die. He never really explained "the truth" to me. I guess I will never know...

I lost flat stanley.

I cannot find him. Well I put a skirt on him so I guess he was a her but now he/she is lost so it doesn't matter.

And the ink ran out on the printer today. Obviously. Maybe I can draw one? I need Becca Swearingen!

I feel as though I am letting First Lady Beebe down.

Hakuna MATATU

Matatus are officially ridiculous. Even though the Lion King takes place in Africa and matatus exist in Africa, they have nothing else in common. (Except for the occasional animal found on a matatu) Trust me, these  awful, smelly, crowded 14 passenger pushes have nothing on Pumba and Timon's song.

On Monday, Godfrey (my research assistant/Uganda navigator/translator/lifesaver) and I traveled to Nakasongola prison. This particular prison is located in Central Uganda, 115 kilometers outside of Kampala. Say the roads were paved and we were driving my Ford Focus, we could reach Nakasongola in an hour. But due to the fact that the roads are not paved and the matatus stop every 10 minutes to either let a passenger off or pick one up, the journey all and all took about 4 hours, each way.

One note on Central Uganda, its terrible. Even the people there said so. It was hot. With no breeze. And no water. (And they said it wouldn't rain again until the end of July...)

The visit at the prison went great. The welfare officer and deputy commissioner were very hospitable and quite friendly. They seem more than willing to partner with NGOs and are eager for assistance. They have even conducted their own needs assessment! It was quite encouraging to see prison officials take interest in the welfare of the inmates and to take the time to listen to the inmates concerns and then document them in way to gain partnerships with NGOs.


The best part of the visit was when they brought in twelve inmates for us to speak with. We were all crammed in to a small room and they didn't understand my "accent". So Godfrey did the talking. They were more than willing to share their thought on the conditions at the prison and the challenges they face. They spoke of their desire for more educational materials to allow for more inmates to teach one another. They told us of the injustices they have faced in the courtroom and with the police. All in all, the conditions of the prison were not the worst I have seen, but their complete lack of water and electricity is a huge problem.

The most shocking thing is still the way prisoners are treated by prison officials. They laugh with one another. And trust one another. Handcuffs seem to be barely used. Godfrey and I were left alone in a room with twelve inmates. (I couldn't have felt more like a minority. Me, the white American woman, with twelve black Ugandan inmates, and my black Ugandan research assistant.)

It was then time to endure another matatu ride to return home. We actually got back on the same matatu we rode there in. Yet this time they crammed the 14 passenger van with about 18 people plus a few babies and some chickens! Yes, chickens! And they were under my seat! Tied up and sqwuakking, I was mortified and very concerned for the safety of my ankles! I tried to conceal my fear, but when they had a slight outburst my instinct was to squeal, immediately and permanently remove my feet from the floor and place them safely on the seat. The Ugandans thought it was quite entertaining and I can say as a matter of fact that I definitely furthered any stereotypes they had of Americans.

Besides the chickens, the overcrowdedness barely effected me because the Ugandans decided it wouldn't be right to crowd/squash the muzungu. So every other row in the van had four individuals squeezed in, while my row only had three people. I cannot decide what to call this. Backwards racism? Positive discrimination? Part of me hated it, but more of me loved having room for my entire bum on the seat.

I think I was called a muzungu 445 times today. Everyone thinks I am inherently rich due to my lack of skin pigment. They are a tad confused. Because I actually do not want to or have the means to buy everything at every market. I do not want fried grasshoppers. Or the milk in a re-used oil cannister. Or the day old crumbly dry taste like cardboard cakes. Or a pair of men's socks. Just saying.