Out of Uganda

I try to avoid photos in general over here in Uganda. I’m usually in a pretty severe state of dishevelment, which I feel would be best left unrecorded: bird’s nest hair, shiny, shiny face, stained clothing, etc. I’ve specifically worked hard to avoid the ‘white chick posing with many smiling African children’ photo. It’s clichéd and seems forced, no matter how long or how hard the white chick in question has worked with the African children.

I’m a bit of a cynic when it comes to these things, and my time here in Africa has made me think a great deal about the nature of development. It’s a murky issue that only grows in complexity the more I immerse myself in this ‘developing’ community. I’ve read a few books on the issue since I’ve been here, and had many a philosophical conversation with David and other volunteers who have passed through the village. There are lots of questions (what does Africa need, why does Africa need it, who is supposed to help Africa, does Africa even need help, hasn’t foreign aid done more harm than good, aren’t we just so many ineffectual band-aids on a wound that needs to heal internally, and what right do we have to barge in here and insist that we know what’s best anyway?). There are not so many answers.

My discomfort grows when I walk through the village and receive such automatic respect and deference from many of the villagers, not to mention the staff of the school. My skin color apparently acts as a very impressive resume. I wonder why in the world people with so much more experience and wisdom than me follow my suggestions unhesitatingly. Thankfully, this aspect of the experience is diminishing with the time I spend here. The sheen of novelty has faded from Teacher Ruth, and many people now feel comfortable openly laughing at me, especially when I try and join Teacher Nelson’s dance classes. Although, I recently found out that I’m not yet completely out of style. At a workshop attended by a lot of local politicians and head teachers, John Wanda introduced me and asked if I would ever consider living in Uganda permanently. I responded with a smart-ass comment about having to find a husband first, which John took great pleasure in relaying to the whole audience. There was much general merriment and knee-slapping. Somebody didn’t see the humor in the situation though, as two days letter I received a serious application for the position of my spouse. Credentials were listed, contact information was given, and some poetic language was thrown around. It was actually very touching. When I failed to respond, I received a second query. This guy meant business.

“While I appreciate your interest in getting to know me further, I want to make sure that you understand that my comment about finding a husband was a joke. It was not a serious request.”

There’s something I never thought I’d have to write.

Marriage proposals aside, the image of the muzungu in this country leaves me perplexed and a little on edge. I think back to the second P7 debate I ever witnessed: “Foreigners have done more harm than good in Uganda.” I wonder which side I would take if asked to participate in that discussion.

But through all the theoretical intricacies, I know there is one thing I can firmly stand behind: this school and the work it is doing. I sometimes get bogged down in the operational details over here, or frustrated at the hours and hours I spend in unproductive meetings. But then there are moments when the full impact of this institution hits me smack in the face. We have a small team over here right now making a documentary about the school, and I took them to visit some of the students we are sponsoring in Miggade College—a secondary school outside Kampala. These kids all spent several years at Arlington Academy of Hope before taking their Primary Leaving Exam, passing with flying colors, and receiving a full scholarship from donors in the US to attend one of the best secondary schools in Uganda. I’m not all that familiar with these students, as they graduated from the school before I arrived, but when they saw me they literally ran over and engulfed me in giant bear hugs. The girls were all wearing their smart yellow uniforms and wide smiles almost cracked their faces. We sat in the grass and talked about their lives at secondary, and what AAH has done for them.

The bottom line is this: these young women will complete their formal education, and most likely continue on to university, because of Arlington Academy of Hope. Without the opportunities this school presents, the odds were greatly stacked against them even completing primary school, let alone moving on to secondary. But it’s more than that. These young women are confident and outgoing and eager to talk talk talk about their education and what they are learning and what they want to be. They are overflowing with possibility. It is infectious. I imagine coming back here in ten years, and finding the school staffed entirely by its own alumni. I imagine new schools they will open in the area, or clinics, or businesses, or whatever. It is tangible progress that you can grab hold of and give a big hug. You cannot argue with change of this nature.

Besides my interactions with the secondary students, there are plenty of moments in the village that make me halt and laugh with the sheer joy of being involved in such a project. We have just opened a new library at the school, and kids are literally queuing around the block to get their hands on a book. Sure the place looks like a bomb has hit it once they leave, and they always put the books back on the shelves backwards (why? WHY?), but they are practically foaming at the mouth for the love of reading and I can’t think of anything better to get excited about. Kitongo Boniface is a little imp of a child who comes by my office every break and lunch to have some one on one reading time. I’m not going to lie—he’s largely motivated by my impressive sticker collection. But reading is reading, regardless of the motivation. We’re working our way through a donated phonics series, sound by sound, and he gets better every day. When he comes across a word he doesn’t recognize his lips move frantically as he tries to decipher all the possible sounds and blend them into something familiar. He stutters through half the alphabet before looking up at me imploringly for some assistance and it’s all I can do not to dissolve in a fit of giggles or tears.

Nakuti Sarah in P1 is PSYCHED about our Reading Challenge!

Children walk two hours to school and still arrive a half hour early. Children sleep on mud floors and do their homework by lantern light and still have a clean uniform and polished shoes every day. Children come on Saturdays. Children’s parents, who never completed school themselves, sell their last cows to make sure they can pay the parent contribution every term.

Of course, children are children. There’s bickering and hollering and crying and cheating and tricksters and jokers and pranksters and wasted time and lost books and scraped knees and broken chairs and grumpy teachers and stressed cooks and it RAINS every day and the compound becomes a swamp. It wouldn’t be a school without those things. And sometimes I’m mad and sometimes I’m tired and sometimes I disagree with the US Board or the Headmaster or the Program Director and sometimes I have to go home and have a beer. But I’m halfway through my time here, and I feel a small bubble of sadness already growing inside me at the thought of leaving. I can’t speak for the UN or World Bank or IMF or USAID or any of the other countless agencies and organizations speeding along these dusty roads in their shiny pick-ups, but I can speak for Arlington Academy of Hope, and I deem it undeniably worthwhile.

So, here they are; the dreaded ‘white chick with African children’ pictures. Because I’m proud and I’m grateful and they are so darn cute.

I became an inadvertent Pied Piper on a visit to our sister primary school in Bupoto.

Handing out reading challenge packets to some excited P4 students

I have to admit that I didn’t have particularly high expectations for my 24^th birthday celebration. I felt there were a few obstacles to me having the alcohol soaked good time that usually characterizes June 30^th. For example, the fact that I currently live in a rural African village. Here, seventeen men sitting around an earthen pot drinking local brew through reed straws, constitutes a ‘party.’ These parties generally happen every market day, and are usually accompanied by loud, repetitive music that shakes the windows of the Guest House well into the night. I’ve flirted several times with the idea of crashing one of these communal drinking parties. I imagine striding confidently into the little mud hut of a bar, then hearing the ziiiiiiiiip of the music shutting off, as all eyes slowly swivel in my direction. Mouths gape open, a few men drop their straws . . . . Also, I’m fairly sure that the local brew is close to 100% pure alcohol and would probably make me blind. Anyhoo, I decided that it would do nothing positive for my standing in the community to attempt such an infiltration, so that option was out. I contemplated having people over to the Guest House. It probably would have amounted to a few brave souls sitting on our blue plastic chairs out near the trash pit, avoiding the regular chicken/goat/cow/dog visitors and politely declining the warm beer on offer because drinking is only for those crazy dudes with the clay pot.

So, I was stumped. That is, until Ms. Bonita Sen arrived from Washington DC with her apparently endless source of infectious energy and good humor. She’s the first AAH volunteer we’ve had in a long time, and before we had even completed the drive back from the airport we had established that we were going to take all the volunteers out in Mbale for my birthday. And so, Muzungus Gone Wild 2008 was born.

We have a pretty packed Guest House right now, so I posted a little flier letting everyone know about the planned field trip. I’m proud to say the house was abuzz. Talk of strappy tops and high heels began to circulate; concepts I hadn’t considered in months. A rumor spread that someone had a functioning hair straightener. A hair straightener for God’s sake! The night before the ladies began practicing some dance moves that we felt would really enhance our muzunguness for the largely Uganda population we expected to encounter at Club Oasis. Nirav—the sole male resident of the Guest House at the time—cowered quietly in the corner. Bonita introduced the stunningly classy ‘guitar leg,’ which is a two person dance requiring some flexibility. I’ll let you imagine the details.

The big day rolled around, bright and sunny. In the morning I decided to do an 18 kilometer hike, with no sun block or water, in order to achieve the neon red skin coloring that I know brings out my eyes so well. I also thoughtfully left my purse on at such an angle as to tattoo myself with a large, white diagonal stripe across my chest. Who needs jewelry when you can have artful tan lines instead? After recovering from the hike we all packed ridiculous amounts of non-essential items into backpacks, and invaded the next passing matatu. We hit a small snag when one of the tires punctured and we had to sit on the side of the road begging every passing vehicle to use their spare. Apparently matatus operate a sort of informal barter program with their spare tires. The other girls used the time to listen to their ipods and en-trance the locals with some sweet dance moves. David came across me standing under a very dusty bush, rubbing my arms with some dry, dirty leaves. I vaguely remember assuming that the leaves would have some moisture in them that would cool my scorched skin. We established that I seemed to have a mild case of sun stroke/temporary insanity, and he let me chug his entire water bottle. He had already given me his birthday present a few days earlier. He knows that I like to do yoga, but it’s hard when the house is so busy. He went to Mbale and bought the materials to fashion a makeshift yoga mat, cleaned out the store room behind the house, and put in a light to create a little yoga room for me. Now I can do downward facing dog facing large sacks of rice and sugar. Probably one of the most thoughtful presents of all time.

David and Bonita chillin with our broke-ass matatu

We got to Mbale in one piece and located the Kaddo Guest House (for Executive Accommodation). Apparently executives don’t require luxuries like bathroom doors or shower stalls, but do appreciate cable TV. I also appreciate cable TV, and watched the last 30 minutes of the Zorro movie. Is it meant to be a comedy? I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.

The night out was a pretty big success. Our first stop after dinner was the notorious Wimpy Restaurant which has a sort of courtyard-pool hall-amusement park vibe going on out the back. Beer is the main beverage on offer, but if hard liquor is your thing then you have to order it by the bottle. It’s quite efficient actually, if slightly dangerous for undisciplined drinkers like myself. Some of the school and clinic staff came and joined, and at midnight we made our merry way over to the club. Some haggling and frisking and arguing over cameras later we were in. We had a big enough mixed-gender group to form a circle and participate in a good old middle-school style dance moves contest. There was some running-man, and some funky chicken (Ugandan style), although sadly, guitar leg never made an appearance. Our guy friends acted as sentries against the other, creepier men. Women tossed their hair and sang along loudly and guarded the door for each other in the bathroom. I harassed the DJ at ten minute intervals, until my new friend, Simple Freddy, led Bonita and I through a Narnia-like labyrinth of corridors which led straight into his booth. Then I actually flicked through his collection and handed him the CD I wanted him to play. He was very good natured about it, and yelled ‘Happy Birthday Ruth’ over the speaker system a lot. I made frequent return trips to the booth, just because I could.

David and I hanging at Wimpy before the club (exhibit A in the ‘Ruth has an abnormally large head’ debate)

An amazing thing about clubs in Uganda is that they generally have a small restaurant somewhere in the establishment. Several plates of late-night French fries and a few greasy samosas later we were all ready to head back to our guest house. I had the number of the night manager who the day manager had guaranteed would be available at any hour to open the gate for us. It was 4:30am by the time we made it there, and it took three phone calls, but sure enough he begrudgingly opened it up for us. The lingering effects of gin-by-the-bottle bathed the hotel room in a rosy glow, and I slept like a log.

The ladies hanging outside the famed (and grotty) Club Oasis

In terms of a birthday celebration, I was highly satisfied. But it didn’t end there. On Monday morning the entire school sang to me during the morning assembly. If you haven’t ever had Happy Birthday sung to you by 325 Ugandan children, you should try it sometime. They also do the whole ‘how old are you now’ bit, and add in an extra verse, which at first listen sounds like ‘you look like a mango,’ and left me vaguely insulted. Turns out it’s actually ‘you look like an angel,’ which is much better.

Godfrey leads the school in a rousing chorus of ‘You Look Like a Mango.’

Then teacher Godfrey handed me a large pile of packages he’d been holding for the day. My sister Kate, and friends Rebecca, Kristina and Jack get a major shout out for those. I sat at my desk happily for an hour, sorting through my new treasures. My mom and friend Cynthia had already sent stuff with other visitors, so I was loaded. I had a lot of work to do for the rest of the day, so I was running around a bit. I’d occasionally see Bonita slinking around with a quiet little smile on her face, and ran into a few teachers who quickly thrust red envelops behind their backs upon spotting me. Finally I was summoned to the staff room in the middle of the lunch hour, and found everyone assembled around a big white cake with ‘Happy Birth Ruth’ written on it in smeared icing. Everyone sang, and the headmaster placed a white napkin with happy birthday written on it over my head. Ugandan tradition perhaps? I was prepared for the ‘you look like a mango’ bit, and smiled appropriately. Then I received a thick stack of red envelops filled with birthday cards signed by every student in the school.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better birthday celebration that I’ve had in my life. It combined many of my great loves: dancing, alcohol, late-night food, children, and friends. It worries me that I chose to write those loves in that order. Anyway. I’m over five months in now, and still largely avoiding the homesickness demons. It’s times like those that help.

I’ve found myself in some strange situations over the past four months in Uganda. My ‘job’ here has expanded like some wacky accordion, and I currently act as Arlington Academy of Hope’s Volunteer Coordinator and Guest House Manager, US Board Liaison, interim Facilities Manager, and reading teacher. In my efforts to fulfill these roles I’m growing to know the grand spectrum of the Ugandan experience. Sometimes I freeze in the middle of whatever I’m doing, and literally start laughing at the absurdity of it all. I’ve become something of an alien to myself. I imagine my family and friends heading into the summer months of the Northeast United States, and I feel a million miles away.

Trips to Kampala are often the source of strange adventures. In the city there’s a bizarre mingling of Ugandan and Western culture. I sit in Café Pap, sip my cappuccino and watch CNN on the flat screen. As I leave a series of white leaflets, pasted on the back of every street sign catch my eye: “Gain Bums Quick! No side effects!” You can also gain hips, manhood, and just weight in general, if you are so inclined.

Weight gain craziness

Last Tuesday I picked my way through the dark, muddy lanes of Kampala’s busiest market, studiously ignoring the pleas of the fake Levi’s vendors (muzungu—you would look goooooood!), and slapping away their insistent hands when necessary. I was tailing Rashid—AAH’s jovial and tireless driver—on a quest for school saucepans. We passed mountains of wares for sale that defied categorization. Shoes next to matches next to chewing gum next to kettles next to Little Kitty backpacks next to suit jackets next to exercise books next to cigarettes. Stacks of neon pink and green plastic basins rioted as men strolled by with four boxes of toilet paper perched on their heads. With every step the soles of my flip-flops clung stubbornly to the thick clay underfoot, until I was forced to mince around on tip-toe like a demented ballet dancer. The woman manning the saucepan stall gazed at me sardonically as Rashid began negotiating. Her four assistants sat draped over piles of kitchen wares, staring at me and slowly picking their teeth. I had a crumpled piece of paper with some garbled dimensions written on it, and no tape measure. The saucepans were all manufactured by a company called Shmuck. That summed up how I felt quite nicely.

Later that afternoon I stood by the side of a busy highway outside Kampala, waiting for the Bishop of the Mbale Diocese to drive by on his way to the airport. He had to authorize all the bank withdrawals the school needs to make while he’s on his month-long trip to the US. He had already signed everything once, but whaddyaknow, our particular bank requires two signatures. He pulled over, barged into some poor woman’s roadside shop, frantically signed all the checks, and stepped back into his pick-up with a hearty wave. A chorus line of boda-boda drivers lounged listlessly over their motorbike seats, and looked on disinterestedly. I scurried back and gave the checks to Rashid so he could rush them to Mbale and the school could pay its bills.

I stayed in a hotel right along the main street in the city. It’s near the taxi park, and close to restaurants and shops so that I don’t have to travel far for anything when I’m alone at night. The owner knows me, and gives me a discount. The rooms aren’t exactly luxurious, but they’re decent and clean. In four nights spent there I’ve only seen one cockroach. At night the sounds of the busy street filter in, and the repetitive thumping of Ugandan music prevents me from ever really sleeping deeply. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in New York.

In the morning I geared up for the return journey. In the giant taxi park I squirmed my way through the ever-shifting lines of white matatus. The park is a miracle of non-engineering. There are no rows, no parking spots, no apparent rules. There are two exits, and two hundred determined drivers. A friend who lives in Kampala summed up the taxi park operating procedure well: “You look for where there is space, and then you fill it.” Negotiating the chaos requires keen wits and a keener sense of humor. As I paused to orient myself I realized that the matatu behind me had forgotten its handbrake, and I jumped out of the way of its slow rolling path just in time. A young conductor plucked me from the crowd, and deposited me in the back seat of an Mbale-bound taxi, before spending the next half hour doggedly trying to get my phone number. I studied the chintzy watches vendors kept thrusting under my nose, and began my standard pre-departure ‘to pee or not to pee’ battle.

Taxi park craziness

Backseat craziness

An hour into our journey we pulled over at a roadside market. Instantly a swarm of blue-aproned vendors blocked all the light from the windows. The vehicle rocked slightly, and I felt like some world leader being transported through a rioting crowd. Arms appeared through every available window crack, wielding roasted bananas, hunks of charred beef and entire chicken thighs on skewers, bottles of cold water, chapatti bread, and sweets. Sometimes the over-eager vendors wave the items so erratically they actually hit you in the face. It’s cheap, and usually pretty good.

Vendor craziness

The trips to Kampala are hard going sometimes, especially since I’m so often alone. Wandering around those busy streets, I can sometimes feel like an anchorless ship, meandering through some random backwater. But I wouldn’t trade it. As David said, if you really want to get to know a culture you should try and do something mundane, like buying saucepans, rather than a fancy safari or beach vacation. My ‘life experience’ cup overfloweth. And, at the end of it all, I can tumble out of a matatu onto the dusty village road, and display my Kampala treasures to the volunteers (Tupperware! Body wash! Marshmallows!), and it feels good to be home.

It was at some point during Ray’s explanation of the mating behavior of lions that I lost it. Ray was our guide on the two day safari my sister and I recently went on in Tanzania. He was friendly, funny and knowledgeable. He also had an impressive sixth sense when it came to spotting animals, and at one point led us to a sleeping leopard that I swear was invisible to the naked eye. Ray was very animated and liked to talk a lot about animal behavior. Most of his stories revolved around feces and/or sex. I guess those are pretty basic elements of wild animal existence. He spoke very good English, but had a tendency to mispronounce things. Kate became Cat, birds became beds, shock absorbers became sosh absurbers. Kate caught on quickly, and acted as a sort of translator for me. This particular speech about lions was fast and long, and included many comical pronunciation errors. He lost me about half way through, and as he continued I found it harder and harder to repress my laughter. It was like a biology lesson from another dimension. Finally he earnestly uttered something along the lines of “while the female is going through evuolution the spearms from the male must move . . .” I could contain myself no longer. Kate and I both collapsed in laughter. Ray looked on in confusion, or as he would say, he was very surprising at our reaction.

Kate, Ray and I next to the trusty Land Cruiser. I look scrubalicious.

Despite the light communication problems, Ray led us on two gorgeous days of safari. We toured Lake Manyara National Park and the Ngorogoro Crater in his open-topped Land Cruiser. The scenery was stunning, especially in the crater. The rainy season had created a vast savannah of long blonde grass and tall wildflowers. We drove through yellow and purple meadows, under bright blue skies. Zebras and wildebeest came so close to the car we could have touched them. It was sunny and warm the entire time. Since it was just the two of us we could determine the pace of the day, announcing ‘twende’ (lets go) whenever we were ready to move along.

An elephant in the Ngorogoro Crater

We saw monkeys, giraffes, impala, zebra, hippos, rhinos, buffalo, wildebeest, elephants, a leopard, and a lion. Not too shabby, although the lion sighting was slightly disappointing. It was a lone lioness, lounging among the tall yellow flowers, a good distance back from the road. It was difficult to see her clearly. There were several other cars parked along the roadside watching her, and Kate and I joined, poking our heads out through the roof hatch. It was at this moment that my miniscule bladder once again decided to ruin the party. I had to pee. The nearest toilet was at least a half an hour drive away, so it was going to have to be a roadside job. Kate and Ray, god bless them, took this in their stride, and we began to problem-solve. The other vehicles were departing, so that solved the problem of a human seeing me pee. We were still left with the slightly more intimidating possibility that the lion might see me pee and decide to come closer and check me out. The day before Ray had told a comforting story about a woman who was mauled by a lion while she was sitting by the side of the road, waiting for her guide to change a tire. Kate said that we had to drive somewhere else, but I rationalized that I should just pee here because no matter where we went in the park there could be a lion lurking nearby. “Yes, but we know that there’s one here,” she replied. This, to my urine-crazed mind, was a positive point. At least we could keep a close eye on this one. We drove on for about ten seconds, and then I insisted I just get it over with. Kate took up a lookout position out the roof hatch and scanned for approaching lions. I hopped out, left the door open, and prayed. Everything went according to plan, and I was back in the car within thirty seconds. Ray said I had a strong heart. “But a weak bladder,” Kate added. I had to agree.

Incidents of high-risk peeing aside, the vacation was extremely relaxing. After two days of safari we said a sad goodbye to Ray and boarded a little six-seater plane headed for Zanzibar. Actually, that part wasn’t relaxing. The improbability of flight is never more apparent that when you’re sitting in a vehicle roughly the size of a mini-van, feeling every bump and shudder, and staring at the ant-sized people far, far below. Kate and I studiously watched how the pilot controlled the plane, in case we were forced to take over in some sort of emergency scenario. Of course we landed safely, and were efficiently transported to beach resort paradise. It was low season, so the resort was quiet and they upgraded us to a luxury suite. We had a whole house to ourselves, complete with an open-air roof patio with swinging sun beds. The good weather held, and for five days we did nothing except sunbathe, eat, and read. Kate can get through a book a day when she’s in the mood, and I think we read about eight between us over the five days. We gossiped about all the other guests at the resort, played games of scrabble (she’s a goddamn scrabble genius), and carefully monitored each other’s sunburn. It was pretty much perfect.

Sunrise, Zanzibar-style.

My flight back to Uganda was delayed for four hours, it rained torrentially in Kampala, my eight dollar hold-all completely disintegrated in-transit, and the journey back to the village took a total of eight hours in various crammed matatus, but I didn’t care. I feel like my batteries have been re-charged. I’m at the three and a half month mark, and I’m refreshed and ready, and still thrilled to be here.

*Insert cute comment about sisters here*

I got to spend a few days in Kenya during the current school holidays.  I stayed with family friends, Myra and Clive.  They were my parents’ friends back in the good old days when we lived in Kenya, and they have settled there for the foreseeable future.  It was my first time being back in about twelve years, and it was all a bit surreal.  Myra and Clive live in a suburb of Nairobi called Karen, just down the road from our old house.  Karen is kind of muzungu central.  You could almost compare it to Northern Virginia.  It’s got a country club, strip malls, and lots of bored white people.  I fell gratefully into its comfortable arms.  I drank my chai latte at the Java House, took advantage of free wireless internet, browsed in the bookstore, took care of some much needed woman-grooming, and drank a lot of white wine.  Myra and Clive were generous and warm, and three days was enough to relax me completely.

 

Myra does a lot of fundraising work for a non-profit called the Girl Child Network which seeks to nurture the development of young women in Africa through educational initiatives, workshops, camps, etc.  During my stay in Kenya the Girl Child Network (GCN) had partnered with the African Medical Research Foundation (AMREF) to organize a visit to an Internally Displaced Person camp.  These are temporary camps that have been set up for all the people displaced from their homes during the violence surrounding the recent Kenyan presidential election.  AMREF and GCN donated money to assemble ‘dignity kits’ to distribute to young women at the camps.  These kits included a kikhoi wrap, sanitary towels, a toothbrush, soap, underwear, and other basic items.  Myra was going with representatives from both groups to visit one of the camps and help distribute the kits, and I was able to tag along with her.

 

The camp we visited was established in the showground of a town called Nakuru, about two hours outside of Nairobi.  We bounced along a dusty road to a chain-link fence which marked the boundary of the camp.  All along the roadside people had set-up small stalls selling tomatoes and greens and other vegetables.  We found out later that the Red Cross food distribution consists of beans and flour only, so people barter or buy everything else at these stalls.  Once through the fence we drove up a road alongside avenues of tents, stretching as far as the eye could see.  They came in various shades of grey, pitched in neat rows.  On the right there was a single row of tents designated for official use: registration tent, special needs tent, tent distribution tent.  We came to a stop at the crest of a small hill, and sweatily disembarked.  A small crowd had gathered around the bus door to shake our hands and welcome us.  There were some kids, and some shouts of “Muzungu!  How are you,” but overall the people spoke to us in muted tones, matching the colors of their tents and the pale brown dust.  For every person shaking hands with us there was another, keeping a distance, watching us carefully.  I wondered how many buses of well-wishers these people had seen roll through in the last four months. 

 

A Ministry of Health official assigned to the camp took us on a brief tour.  I soon had several children holding onto each arm, some quite insistently.  “He can’t believe you’re real,” a Kenyan lady with the delegation remarked, as one small boy repeatedly pinched the skin of my forearm.  Representatives from both AMREF and the GCN were snapping pictures.  I felt awkward as I tried to disentangle myself from the kids and keep moving.  We saw inside a tent.  I don’t know what I was expecting, I’ve been inside a tent before, but the barrenness of it still shocked me.  Four canvas walls, some blankets, a bucket or two, and five people.  All the residents of the camp have to build their own small fires and cook outside the tent.  We saw a woman preparing the fuel for her fire.  She took the leftover shards of already burnt charcoal, and mixed it with water and dust to make small balls.  She thought it would take about eight to cook a meal.  Myra asked a young woman where she was from, and if she wanted to find a way back there.  “No, I can’t go back there.  I can maybe start somewhere else, but I can’t go back there.”  She has three kids, and she used to run a successful farm.  Now she lives in a tent, her kids are far away with relatives, and she has only what the NGOs see fit to give her.  It was a common theme among the people we talked to—they were scared to go back to the homes they’d been chased from.

 

The NGOs and aid organizations had left their marks everywhere: UN, Red Cross, Rotary International, USAID.  We walked through the camp clinic which sees 250-300 people each day.  They have three nurses and four small exam rooms.  There were USAID stickers on every wall.  I asked the Doctor from the Ministry if USAID was providing funding for the medicine.  “They were for about two months, but there was some problem with mismanagement of funds and they pulled out.”  It was the same story with the clinic vehicle—it was initially funded, but then someone, somewhere, pulled the plug and now they don’t have one.  14,000 people live at this camp, and when one of them is sick enough to need a hospital they have no way of getting there. 

 

After the tour we all piled into a tent where a man was conducting a workshop for HIV-positive camp residents.  As we crowded in the men and women in the workshop began singing a welcome song, and we were shown to the guest of honor seats.  I steeled myself for the traditional ‘introduction and appreciation of visitors,’ which often takes over an hour in the Ugandan setting.  This was a little different though.  A young girl stood up and gave a performance in Swahili.  She seemed to be re-enacting a conversation between a parent and child, possibly warning about HIV.  She was animated and precocious and dressed in a pretty green dress.  Everyone smiled.  Several people who work at the camp spoke.  Each clearly articulated a list of pressing needs.  I’m not talking about requests for a more balanced diet, or furniture, or even a place to cook food that isn’t in the dirt.  They were asking for a single doctor to work at the camp, a single car that could transport emergency cases, basic medicine.  Issues, really, of life and death.  All the women in our delegation had a chance to speak.  Many of them are nurses, or retired nurses.  Most spoke in Swahili, but from those who spoke in English I could pick up common themes: hope, forgiveness, the future.  Monica, a middle-aged nurse in an elegant pink suit and neck-scarf, began to cry as she spoke.  I knew I was going to be asked to speak, but I felt bereft of words in the face of this scene.  What the hell could I say?  I was a glorified tourist, peeking in the tent flaps at people whose lives had been pillaged, whipped away in an afternoon.  I stood up and felt my own voice wavering in my throat, and managed to squeak out a few words of gratitude for being allowed visit the camp. 

As the speeches ended Mercy, the head of the GCN, gave us all about fifteen little metallic badges.  They were in the shape of a person and said “Protect the Children” in Swahili.  She instructed us to find some kids and hand them out.  My heart sank.  Handing out fifteen badges in a camp of 14,000 hungry people seemed like a gesture of magnificent inadequacy.  I pushed through the immediate crush and found a quiet spot outside where a little boy was lying on the ground, his sister sitting calmly beside him.  I knelt down next to her and she shied away, but I held out the badge and she let me gingerly pin it on her shirt.  I looked at the boy who was eerily still, and face down in the dirt.  “Is he ok?” I asked no one in particular.  A passer-by gave him a shake and he sat up, looking dazed, then lay back down.  “He’s sick,” the passer-by informed me.  I hesitated for a moment with my mouth open, but I couldn’t think of anything to do.  I was surrounded by people asking for the badges.  I tried to give them to the youngest kids.  I quickly ran out.  Teenage girls looked at me distastefully and moved on.  Adults wanted the badges, women older than me.  It struck me that this was the biggest loss of all; the loss of the ability to provide for yourself, the loss of independence.  In the camp it didn’t matter if you were intelligent and motivated and responsible because there were no jobs and no money and you couldn’t go home.  So instead you could follow the outsiders who rolled up in their buses and see if they were handing out something that you could use or trade or sell.          

 

We all got back in the bus and rumbled out through the dusty gate.  We drove a respectable distance before pulling over and tucking into our packed lunches, prepared by the Serena Hotel in Nairobi.  There was more food than we could eat. 

 

In the post-visit chatter on the bus I wasn’t sure how to sum it all up.  I’m glad I saw it?  It was very interesting?  I felt like a dumb-ass and an intruder the entire time?  I was hungry and hot and humbled.  I was inadequate.  There’s no tidy ending to the story, just a sense of unease, that I think should be shared by many.

I don’t have TV here, and with the spotty power situation I rarely get to watch my DVDs.  Entertainment has become a delicate balance of reading, crossword puzzles, and insect slaughtering.  Turns out that once you get past your initial fear, the latter can become something of an obsession.  But every Friday afternoon I rest assured that I can sit back, relax, and be entertained.  Because that’s when P6 and P7 have their weekly debate. 

 

If flirted briefly with debating in middle school.  At the tender age of twelve my twin brother and I led opposing debate teams in our bizarre Filipino middle school, where the seventh grade had seven students and the French class had two (100% O’Gara)  One of our first debates was on the morality of euthanasia.  I believe that when I first heard the topic read out I wondered what could be so controversial about the young people on the Asian continent (you know, youth in Asia).  I imagined Chinese kids hanging out after school, playing tag in the yard.  What, exactly, was the issue?  It was a long road to the podium in the school gym, and I can’t even remember if I argued for or against.

 

The P6/P7 debates are definitely more memorable.  The most important thing you need to know is that they follow ‘parliamentary procedure’ in their debates.  I’m not sure exactly what parliament they’re referring to.  I would guess it’s a British base, with about ten layers of Ugandan formality added on top.  All I know is they do not mess around.

 

 

The P6 classroom, ready for the debate.

 

There are no lengthy speeches.  There are main speakers for each side, but once they’ve made their brief opening remarks the floor is open.  The whole system centers around the Chairman.  He sits at the center of a table, at the top of the room, flanked by the secretary and time keeper.  The Chairman decides who talks, and for how long.  Really, you are trying to convince the Chairman of the validity of your point so that he’ll let you continue speaking.  You better thank the Chairman when he lets you speak, and you better address him as Honorable and when your time is up you better ask “Please Honorable Chairman sir, can you add me some three more minutes?” in your politest voice.  Otherwise, he can end you.

 

So far the topics have ranged from the advantages of rural life versus urban, to the slightly awkward motion: “Foreigners have done more harm than good in Uganda.”  I kept a low profile during that one.  Things invariably get heated.  It’s the Chairman’s job to keep order, but if he fails, the crowd will happily step in.  If a speaker steps out of line he or she will likely face a sea of raised hands, and a chorus of voices shouting “Point of order, POINT OF ORDER!”  The Chairman selects a student, who solemnly stands and asks: “Is it right, for my colleague there, to stand and point his finger in the face of the other speaker?  Can we allow it?”  The crowd roars its disapproval, and with a nod the Chairman sends the student with the offending finger back to his seat, shamefaced. 

 

There are several boys in P7 who excel at passionate presentation.  Brian always puts on a good show.  He rises to speak, and stands quietly for a moment, his head down, his palms together and his fingertips pressed to his lips.  He takes a breath, then raises up both his head and arms, and begins his speech, his lively hands punctuating each point.  His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips drawn, almost as if in pain:  “Honorable Chairman Sir, I thank you for allowing me to come and crush the points of my opponent.”

 

Brian gets warmed up to make a point.

 

For the first few debates I was disappointed at the clear dominance of the males in the room.  Few girls dared to stand up and speak, and when they did they were quiet and made their points very quickly.  But last week Timbe Hellen silenced my doubts about the P7 girls’ abilities to stand up for themselves.  I was moving around the class, trying to find a good angle for a photo, when I looked up and found Hellen striding across the front of the room, brandishing a ruler at a surprised looking Emmanuel.  Emmanuel is about seventeen, and about six foot tall, but as Hellen made her advance he turned and cowered behind a nearby chair.  The room erupted in laughter and shrieks of “Order, order.”  The teachers looked on amusedly.  Hellen stood, the top of her ruler inches from Emmanuel’s face as she continued her tirade.  I couldn’t hear a word the girl said, but I’m pretty sure she was winning.

 

Issac and Emmanuel square off.  I was too distracted during the Hellen-ruler siutation to get a photo

 

 

Teacher Godfrey wants to do a debate next week with teacher-student teams.  I told him that I’m game, and have already begun practicing my emphatic hand gestures.  I just hope the motion has nothing to do with youth in Asia . . . . 

          

People who know me well know that I need to pee a lot. I’m convinced that my digestive system bears a striking resemblance to a Brita filter. Matatu rides are the worst. The conditions are designed to aggravate the need to pee: your bladder is squished like every other part of your body, and may have a small child or live animal set on top of it. Every bump in the road increases the pressure. You can’t read because of the bumpiness, and you can’t listen to music because of the continuous rattling of the windows. All that’s left is for you to contemplate the small stream burbling along the side of the road and curse that second cup of coffee you drank before you left the house.

Once you get to Mbale it’s not like you can pop into the nearest McDonalds to use the facilities. Toilets are few and far between. Fortunately all the Ugandans I’ve met are very understanding and very friendly and will try to help you out. On one journey I got to the half-way point and realized that I wasn’t going to make it to Mbale. I got out at a random intersection, with a few small shops lining the road. For a remote part of a remote continent, it’s hard to find a secluded place to pee around here. Everywhere is someone’s backyard or farm, and there’s always at least one person within eyesight. Knowing this, I walked up to one of the small shops and asked the woman behind the counter where I could do a ‘short call’ (their pretty wonderful euphemism for a piss). She summoned a boy who led me though a narrow alley between the shops and into the maze of dwellings behind. It was hard to distinguish where one compound ended and another began, and there were cows and goats and hens wandering freely. The boy led me to a small wooden frame covered with dead banana leaves. Inside there was a deep hole dug into the clay. When it comes down to it, that’s all we need. I gave the boy 500 shillings for his trouble—probably a little excessive, but my relief made me giddy.

A few days later I learned how Ugandan woman approach this problem. I was sitting in a matatu by the side of the busy road connecting Jinga and Mbale. I’d already spent two full hours in the matatu, waiting for it to fill up and leave. About one mile into the journey it became apparent that the driver couldn’t get above second gear. He pulled over and made a phone call, and so we were sitting by the side of the road, waiting for our replacement matatu to come and pick us up. It had rained heavily all afternoon. The fields around us were sodden and the sky was grey. Gradually, every woman in the matatu decided she needed a short call. We were next to a big field, with no coverage from the many passing cars and small houses set back from the road. The women sauntered out into the clearing, their long colorful skirts trailing in the wet grass. One by one they stepped widely, and sank into a deep curtsey, their backs and necks straight. Their skirts billowed out. They kept their gazes high and their arms still as they held the pose. They were like swans, or dancers in some slow-moving Martha Graham piece, silhouetted against the thunder clouds. It was surreal, and it was oddly beautiful, and it was a damn convenient way to pee.

Transportation in Uganda strikes a fine balance between pleasingly convenient, and mind-numbingly frustrating. On different occasions I have been heard to exclaim “That was easy!” and, “Someone please shoot me in the face,” in reference to the same journey between the village and Mbale. This is a journey I make frequently—about once a week. I essentially have one transport option: the matatu. Otherwise known as the minibus, the taxi, or the death machine.

Matutus are standard mini-buses, often white, with loud slogans painted across the top of the wind shield. “God is Able,” the vehicle proudly proclaims as it whizzes by in a cloud of dust. They usually also have the seating capacity painted boldly on the driver’s door: “This vehicle is licensed to carry 14 passengers.” HA. That’s the best joke I’ve heard all year. I believe 27 occupants is the current volunteer matatu-journey record. That doesn’t include chickens.

Each matatu has a driver and a conductor. The conductor’s job is to hustle people into the van, insisting that you attempt to squish your entire body into a space that would be a tight squeeze for my right thigh. Once it’s clear that all the seated passengers are suffering near lung failure from the cramped conditions, he begins slotting in the standing passengers. These are generally men, including the conductor himself, who stoop awkwardly just inside the sliding door, hanging over all the passengers in the front row. As I’ve mentioned before, hygiene is a difficult concept in our circumstances. It’s never easier to appreciate this than when your face is stationed about two inches from the conductor’s gaping armpit. Now Mbale is a market town. People traveling to and fro have stuff with them. Bags, suitcases, jerry cans, live chickens, giant bunches of matoke strapped to the top of the van. Anything’s game. Small children are hoisted around like rag dolls. Impossible is nothing when it comes to matatus and storage capacity.

Beyond the space issue, there are other key factors which make every matatu ride a gamble. Namely, the fact that the dirt road is bumpy as hell, the vehicles are usually in a poor state of repair, and there are no apparent traffic laws in Uganda. I swear, you could drive around for hours without getting a clear sense of which side of the road you’re legally supposed to occupy. The front seat of the matatu is definitely the most spacious, but I avoid it because it gives me too clear a view of the on-coming traffic I often appear to be hurtling towards.

Exchanging matatu stories is a bit of a competitive pastime in the guest house. We try to out-crazy each other. I recently came home with a winner. I was in Mbale late and hoping to get a taxi back to the village. After 5:30pm you’re in the danger zone with taxis in Mbale. There are always too many people and the number of taxis heading out to the boondocks dwindles. At some point it’s elbows out, head down and push your way through, crying babies be dammed. On this day it was already after 6pm, so I was very skeptical. I rounded the corner to the median where all the taxis wait to fill up, and lo and behold one was sitting there, almost full and ready to go. The driver was eager to get me on board but I told him that I had to pick up a box of drinking water to bring back to the village. He said no problem, he’d pick it up for me on the way. Turned out he was both the driver and conductor for this trip. It was a one man show. I was thrilled with myself and ducked into the van. The driver directed me towards the very back seat where a large woman and her son and their fifty pounds of luggage had spread out and were already pulverizing the two poor creatures to their right. I looked awkwardly at the non-existent space I was supposed to maneuver my ass into. Every other passenger followed my gaze. A well-dressed woman sitting in the second row saved me. She looked me up and down and said brusquely, “This one is too big. She will not fit.” I was momentarily offended, but I had to agree. I backed out and the driver raised his eyebrows. “I’m too fat,” I explained, “The lady said.” He laughed and sent a skinny kid in to the slaughter instead. After some interesting gyrations the kid was seated, and I plopped into the seat in front of him. It was one of the seats which can fold up to let passengers in the rows behind pass. The major disadvantage of sitting in one is that it usually means the seat in front of you is also a fold out. This means your knees become the backrest for the person in front of you. You better get your knees in a comfortable position before that person gets settled, because they’re not going anywhere for a while. But I took all this in my stride. I was on a matatu, headed for home.

I first smelled a rat when the driver began the journey by coasting the van down the street in neutral, and then popping the clutch to get the engine to start. It was disconcerting, but definitely not unheard of. I felt better when the driver stopped at a supermarket on the edge of town and picked up a box of water for me. Talk about customer service. The tension rose a little when we pulled over at the entrance to the dirt road and it became clear that the driver was going to try and fit someone else in. We were packed as tightly as I’d ever seen—about 25 of us I’d say. The driver solved this problem by having the extra man climb in through a side window and unapologetically sit on another passenger. A general hubbub started. Everyone was speaking Lugisu, and they didn’t sound happy. Another neutral roll and violent clutch pop, and we were back on the road.

The scenery along the route is beautiful. Flat green fields with a backdrop of giant cliffs. The setting sun was just hitting the rock faces. As we rode through the dusk I was aware of an abnormally high level of chatter in the van. It began to rain. There seemed to be some controversy going on. As it got darker and darker it became very clear. The van did not have headlights.

I need you to understand. We were on a muddy, winding, pot-holed country road, which is treacherous at the best of times. We were in the rain, in the dark, and the driver was shining a goddamned flashlight out the window. There were no streetlights. There was no light spilling from shop fronts or homes along the road. It was cloudy, there wasn’t even moonlight. There was only the frail circle of light coming from the flashlight. Death is never far from my mind during a matatu ride, but this was really pushing the envelope.

As it became fully dark the muted mutterings of the passengers broke out into all-out mutiny. They were speaking Lugisu so I couldn’t understand, but it seemed to amount to a general “Nuh-uh.” The well dressed woman was particularly vocal, leaning back every now and again to update her friend in English: “He’s using one parking light now Betty. He’s going to kill us all.” It was sweaty and pitch black. I could vaguely see the giant matoke leaves outlined against the sky as we trundled along. For the first time since my rafting trip, I muttered a quick prayer. At one point I’m pretty sure I became the topic of conversation. I heard several mentions of “muzungu,” and “kiholo,” (my destination). Later a nice English-speaking man beside me informed me that everyone was worried that the driver wasn’t going to go all the way to Kiholo and was going to drop me in a neighboring village. They were advocating on my behalf. Every so often the driver would pull over to let someone out. He had to give the side door three or four good wallops before it opened, then stand in the driving rain, counting out change to passengers who looked like they were ready to spit in his face. His expression became stonier and stonier as he absorbed the abuse hurled from the passengers.

Finally we reached the village before Kiholo—Bunamubi. This was where I had been warned that he might try and dump me. I had a tirade all prepared in my mind. He’d already risked my life tonight and how dare he leave a young woman to try and negotiate these roads at night alone and if I was raped it would be on his head, and so on. As it turned out, it was wholly unnecessary. One quick enquiry was enough to determine that the driver had every intention of getting me home. He was an eminently decent man in extremely tough circumstances. On the final two kilometers I was the only passenger, and he had me sit up front with him. The engine cut out twice. The first time he determinedly located two men to give us a push, and performed the clutch trick with success. The second time his stony façade finally cracked. He slumped back in his seat, head in his hands, and exclaimed, “Ay, how am I going to survive this night?” Then I climbed out so that he could lift up the passenger seat, because the engine was located beneath it. He poured in a whole bottle of engine oil, we crossed our fingers, and it started on the third try. We were friends by the time we reached the guest house. He dropped me right outside the door, and I said I’d look for him next time I was catching a taxi—provided he fixed his headlights.

On the one hand it was the worst journey of my life. On the other hand, that driver didn’t know his headlights were broken until it was too late, and he went through a personal hell to make sure I reached home safely, with my box of water, all for the equivalent of about $1.50. I can’t really imagine too many bus drivers in America doing the same. Ridiculous brush with death, or amazing customer service? It’s all a question of perspective.

I want to apologize for the lack of pictures on my recent blog posts.  This is due to two major factors:

1.     1.  I dropped my camera and the screen went all funky.  It’s currently back in the US being fixed.  Maybe.

2.     2.  I would love to dash around saving other people’s pictures on my flash drive and post them, but we haven’t had power for two weeks (making laptop use sacred) and when I try to upload pictures onto the blog the internet connection makes me cry.  A woman can only hit ‘retry’ so many times before she becomes violent and weepy.

However, we are on the way to getting internet in the village (huzzah!).  It won’t be fast, but at least I won’t be racing against that damned little clock ticking away as I type.  I will post pictures, even if it takes me all night.  Until then, use your imagination.

I love Bear Grylls, quirky English star of “Man vs. Wild” on the Discovery Channel.  I love his funny accent.  I love his penchant for getting naked on the show.  Mostly, I love his unshakeable schoolboy optimism in the face of adversity.  I like to make fun of his catchphrase: “It’s not ideal.”  Example:

 “Right, I’ve just jumped into this pit of icy water.  I seem to have dislocated my right shoulder, and I’m fairly sure that a killer seal has hold of my left leg.  The bank is too slippery for me to grab a hold of, and I can feel my brain cells shutting down from the cold.  It’s not ideal, but I think I can get through it.”

 If someone created a spectrum to measure adventurousness in humans, Bear Grylls would be at one end, and I’d be pretty darn close to the other.  I wouldn’t be right at the end– I did come to live in rural Africa for a year– but I’d be close.  People generally consider me a city girl.  You know, concrete jungle rather than real jungle.    

 My experience rafting on the Nile River last weekend sort of blew that perception out of the water.  Literally.

 There’s a town at the source of the Nile in central Uganda called Jinga.  According to most guidebooks it is fast becoming the adventure capital of Eastern Africa.  This is mostly because of the crazy-ass white water rafting available on the river.  The dam at the source creates a series of class 3 to class 5 rapids within the first thirty kilometers of the river which are perfect for rafting.  Although, I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘rafting.’  If you’re the sort of person who likes to stay in the raft, then I suggest you find another stretch of river.

 The Canadians talked me into it.  Especially Mackenzie.  He’s the only guy in the group of nursing students we have staying at the guest house right now, and he is gung ho.  He’d be approaching Bear on the spectrum.  We squished into a matatu and all headed down to Jinga last weekend.  We stayed at a beautiful campsite over-looking a set of falls along the river.  They stopped being so pretty when I learned that I was going to be going over them in a rubber dingy the next day.  To compensate for my growing nerves, I drank.  I also met Andrew, an extremely amiable and outgoing American who explained that he was “drinking his way around Africa.”  I liked him immediately, and we decided that he would be in our boat the next day.  It also helped that he was big and strong and had done this sort of thing before.

 The next morning I was definitely hung over, as were Andrew and Mackenzie.  We were committed though, and climbed onto the truck along with 21 other tourists, looking dubiously at the large orange rafts towing behind us.  I was sitting next to an English man named Gary.  He was 60, wore glasses, and looked like I could have broken him over one knee.  Gary only learned to swim last November.  I began to put things in perspective: if Gary could do this, I could.  At the rafting center I drank two large cups of coffee and tried to avoid watching the video of previous rafting trips playing on the TV screens.  The movie-maker had added a jaunty indie-rock soundtrack, but I wasn’t fooled.  Those people looked freakin terrified.                  

 Ruben, the manager of the place, stood up and gave us a sort of rambling introduction to the day.  He was from New Zealand and looked like he drank more than I did the night before.  He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, which I usually appreciate in a person.  But I was freaked out and hanging on his every word, and found his little quips disconcerting.  I also expected a serious training scenario, maybe with some large colorful posters and instructional videos.  I was mistaken.  Ruben informed us that we would get all the safety information we needed on the boat, and told us to go and get our lifejackets.  We must have looked like a herd of nervous sheep, white and bleating, bumping awkwardly into each other as we searched for a life jacket that fit.  A young Ugandan man helped me get strapped into my jacket.  He smiled widely:

 “My name is Joseph.  I’m one of the safety kayakers.  Later today I may save your life.” 

 “Well, uh, thank you in advance,” I responded.

 The whole operation was so low-key.  It turned out Ruben was the guide for our boat, and when we got to the river he nonchalantly instructed us to carry the raft down to the water and jump in.  I grasped my paddle, sat awkwardly on the edge, and listened avidly.  He seriously could have told me to stand on my head and sing Jingle Bells and I would have done it if it meant I wasn’t going to die.  He gave some pretty simple safety instructions and went through some basic commands: forward paddle, back paddle, get down.  It wasn’t rocket science.  Then he told us all to practice falling out of the boat, keeping hold of the rope that ran along the side of the raft.  We all looked at each other awkwardly, and I finally took the plunge.  As I rose to the surface Ruben was looking down at me: “Good, now try actually holding on to the rope.”  Turns out that holding on to a rope is a skill I fundamentally lack.  It was a deficiency that would haunt me for the rest of the day.

 Rafting is not a graceful experience.  I, in particular, struggled with getting myself from the water back into the boat.  Usually I waited until someone was available to grab the shoulders of my life jacket and yank me in.  Several embarrassing things can happen at this moment.  First, your wet, loose shorts can slide down a foot or two and leave you spread-eagled over the side of the raft, basically mooning everyone.  Second, the person pulling you can fall backwards and sit down, leaving your nose planted pretty firmly in his or her crotch.  Third, you can writhe around awkwardly on the raft side and floor for far too long, sustaining several paddle wounds, before you are actually upright.  Combine these three, and as Ruben said: “Some people would pay good money to see this.”

 Simply speaking, the rapids themselves were the most intense things I’ve ever experienced.  The pattern for each was similar.  As we approached all the friendly banter would cease, and Ruben would begin telling us which way to paddle.  We were like a pack of eager boy scouts, paddling our little hearts out.  Once we were on a line that Ruben liked we would paddle straight into the rapid then he would yell ‘get down,” meaning crouch in the center of the boat and hold onto the outside rope.  At this point the raft would start bucking like a bull on speed, large quantities of water would engulf me, and I would scream manically until it was all over.  On our first class 5 rapid we hit the center wave and got caught in this weird surfing limbo on top of it for about thirty seconds.  Huge waves were pouring in on top of us and we were all holding on for dear life.  As Devon succinctly said: “I thought I was going to drown, in the boat.”  Looking at the footage later that night, we saw Ruben waving his paddle around and bouncing on the back of the boat, whooping like some demented cowboy.     

 We had our first flip on a class four rapid called Chop Suey.  I definitely knew the raft was flipping for about five seconds before I was actually in the water, and I also definitely failed to hold onto the rope.  As we went under I felt something connect pretty powerfully with my upper lip, but then I just focused on getting my head above the surface.  The water was churning with waves and bodies, but I managed to get my head above and see that I was reasonably near the raft.  I swam over and grabbed a hold of the elusive rope.  Ruben had already climbed on top and flipped it back over in a matter of seconds.  Andrew climbed in smoothly, and then they set about yanking the rest of us in.  I was a little bruised and battered, but I was exhilarated. 

 In between rapids there were long stretches of calm.  We could jump out and swim, play balancing games, chat.  Andrew and Ruben exchanged humorous rafting stories.  Andrew laughed his big booming laugh and swam around pulling everyone else out of the raft whenever possible.  We had splashing contests with the other boats.  We all got intensely sun burnt, especially our knees.  We all laughed at the Spanish dude who had worn a Speedo rafting (“No nut-huggers allowed,” according to Ruben). 

 Late in the afternoon a dramatic thunderstorm rolled in.  The cold rain pelted the water and everything turned slate grey.  We had one rapid left: a class 5 called “The Bad Place.”  Speaks for itself, really.  To get to this rapid we had to get out and carry the boat overland, past a class 6 rapid that led into The Bad Place.  We all stood on the muddy bank, hunched over and shivering, watching the driving rain and the lightening and the roiling, thundering water.  It looked like the Apocalypse.  I was cold and tired and dehydrated.  Devon was freaked out after the last flip, and didn’t want to get back in the boat.  We all gathered around and persuaded and entreated and implored.  Emotion was high and the setting dramatic.  Even Andrew had stopped laughing.  Ruben had been telling us for the last half hour that his goal was to get us through The Bad Place with no funny business, no flips, no nothing.  Now he stepped it up a notch.  He told Devon that he rarely made promises, but he promised that the raft wasn’t going to flip on this rapid.  She finally agreed to come.  I walked away with the calm certainty that we were going to flip and I was probably going to drown.  I even said a little prayer.  For real.         

 We flipped about twenty seconds after we pushed off from the bank.  The rope wasn’t even a concept in a corner of my mind.  I was gone, sucked away and hurtling along underwater.  My eyes were open but all I could see were brown swirls and bubbles.  I had no idea which way was up, or how to get my head above the water. 

 It was not ideal. 

 Just as a giant bubble of panic rose in my throat my head popped above the surface.  I was immediately confronted by another giant wave and took a shallow breath before my head went under again.  This continued for a few seconds, and in between waves I panted and looked around for somebody, anybody.  I couldn’t see any rafts, and I couldn’t figure out how far downstream I was.  I finally saw a kayaker in the distance plucking Mackenzie out of the water.  I raised an arm and began timidly calling for help.  Think Kate Winslet in Titanic when that one boat comes back and she’s all frozen.  Then I saw another kayaker close-by, and began ineffectively swimming towards him.  He spotted me and paddled over.  I grabbed onto the front of the boat and wrapped my legs around it in yet another awkward rafting position.  I lay back in the water and stared up at the dark grey sky.  I stifled an urge to laugh.  My panting began to subside and I looked up, right into Joseph’s smiling face as he paddled me back to safety.

 “Hey!” I said, “You told me you were going to save my life.” 

 His smile widened.  “And I did,” he said.

 That seriously happened.  Even I wouldn’t make up something that cheesy.  Bear Grylls eat your heart out.