Saturday, October 10th 2009

Saturday, October 10^th 2009

 

*Note – this blog entry isn’t written too well.  Bogged down with work and just trying to get something down.  I also want to spend more time on my blog entry for Sunday, October 11^th.  It was one of the most shocking, jarring and disturbing days (if not THE MOST) of my life.  My toughest day in Africa yet for sure. 

 

Read up and I hope you learn a fraction of what I did.  Will post it probably 10:00 PM Kamapala time – 3:00 EST).*

           

            Today I woke up at 10:30 (12 hours of sleep…nice) and Emily and Maggie were getting ready to go to the ARA.  Since I didn’t have any plans I decided to join them. 

            Before we left Emily asked me if I could throw her sheet into my laundry pile (which was waiting to be washed by the laundry lady).  I said yes and when I gave the laundry woman my sheet I gave her an additional 2,000 Ush ($1.00) for the extra labor.  When I told Emily I had given the laundry lady more money she was upset because she felt the laundry woman already overcharged me in the first place (10,000 Ush = $5).  My argument was that it’s okay that I overpaid because an extra $1.00 to me was nothing…but that’s a lot of money to the woman.  She thinks that me giving extra money will make the woman reliant on my inflated revenue and ultimately when I return to America it will be harder for her to cope.  I disagreed.

            The argument evolved into this: is it our responsibility, as mzungus with money, to pay a higher fee for all our services (boda boda’s, matatus, laundry, etcetera) since its not a lot of money for us and it’s a lot of money for these people….or by paying more are we perpetuating stereotypes that mzungus are all rich and should be taken advantage of. 

            I argued that while we might be getting taken advantage of – in reality we can afford it, and, ergo, we should pay more money even though its exploitative.  Emily disagreed.  Maggie seemed to jump back and forth.

            THEN we started talking about whether it was right, as volunteers, to go to restaurants where a single meal cost a half a months salary of Emma 40,000 Ush ($20)) – our maintenance person.  I argued that I’d already given up SO much that I deserved to treat myself to a nice meal and a relaxing day at the ARA.  I think we all basically agreed on that point – its hard enough to live in a third world country and there are some basic things we should treat ourselves to in order to make the transition easier.  Emily told me she’s struggled with that for a long time though…like she feels guilty sometimes when she goes and pays 20,000 Ush ($10) for a round of drinks knowing how far that money would go if we gave it to orphans in the COBURAS.  A lot to think about.

            Right after we got to the ARA it started POURING.  We really don’t have much luck with this place.  I did some work…wrote some emails…did some research until 3:00 in the afternoon.  Afterwards we drove home and I changed real quick because Baati and Babsi (friends of Emily and Angelica) promised to take me to the Garden City (the mall in Kampala, not the suburb in NYC, haha) so I could actually get some decent clothes.  When I came to Africa I brought ONE nice shirt and everything else is junky.  I needed clothes so I didn’t look like a homeless person whenever we went out to dinner or to Educate! sponsored events.

            I called Max, my faithful “special hire” (taxi) driver and he picked me up.  On the way to to the mall Max put the fear of god into me.  We discussed boda boda’s and their accident-maligned history.  Max said he never ever rides boda boda’s.  He told me how there is a whole ward in the hospital for boda-related injuries.  He told me his friend that works at the hospital says there is at least one boda-related injury every hour.  He told me he had a friend that had both femur’s broken, a tibia and a shoulder after colliding with another boda).  He told me about two American’s he used to drive – a guy and a girl that were on a boda when it crashed.  The guy was so bad he had to have metal rods inserted into both legs.  The girl was paralyzed from the waist down.  Wow.  Yet again further reinforcement that boda boda’s are dangerous.  I’m sure this was a bit of marketing work on Max’s part…but wow.

            Max also told me that boda boda’s are new to Kampala.  I was very surprised to hear this because they are a major component of the transportation system here.              “How did people get around before boda bodas?  Like, after they get dropped off at the matatu station.”

            “They walked.”

            Hmm…simple enough.

            I got dropped off at Garden City and Baati and Babsi weren’t there yet…so I walked around.  Garden City is the most westernized area of Kampala and a source of great pride to most Ugandans.  I was told I’d “feel like I was in New York” when I was standing in the mall.  Umm…not quite…

            Baati and Babsi finally showed up and took me shopping.  Nothing too crazy.  Afterwards we went out to dinner at an African coffee shop…dessert at Garden City…Bubbles O’Leary…Iguana’s. 

            At the end of the night I had to take a special hire home because Emily DROVE HOME WITHOUT ME.  There were no special hires outside Iguana, and I didn’t want to take a boda…so Baati drove me around until we saw a taxi at a gas station.  There was no one in the car.  We asked the boda boda’s drivers where the cab driver was.

            “He’s sleeping in the back seat.”  They boda drivers told Baati in Lugandan.

            We bartered over prices and settled on 18,000 ($9).  After we’d settled the price Baati left.  I was in a parking lot in the early morning…by myself…and all the sudden I realized I was surrounded by 5 people.  Alarm bells ringing like crazy.  I walked through the circle and sat in the car.

            “Lets go sebbo.”  I yelled.

            He looked around at the boda drivers and finally got in.  Phew.

            On the way home the car started sputtering and shutting off.  After a half a mile the driver pulled over.

            “Whats the problem sebbo?”

            “No gas.”

            Jesus Christ…

            It took a half hour to flag down a boda driver.  The special hire pleaded with the boda driver to go to a gas station, fill a container with gas and drive it back.  An hour later, with the sun peeking over the horizon, we started again.  I finally got home after more than two hours.  It’s a 15 minute drive.

            All you can do is laugh.